Don't tell anyone...

Around the table a new group of acquaintances discuss the recent Molokai gossip. An unpopular man from the west-end was found semi-conscious in a pool of blood. He was placed in a helicopter headed to the nearest functioning hospital off-island. Even before his body had left the ground folks began to satisfy their curiosity of events by making up their own stories.

“He was shot,” they say.
“No, his wife pushed him off the roof.”
“He jumped after finding out his wife was having an affair.”

Even at this small gathering of people I can see the roots of some good rumors taking hold.

Interspersed between tales of this man’s recent demise they bemoan the difficulty of the rumor-mill that is the reality of living on a small island. After three hours of listening to them discuss the woes of who said what about who and who about what one of them turns their attention to me.

“Wait,” he says, “We have all been talking about ourselves and yet we know nothing about you.”

Six hungry faces stare at me hungrily.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“How did you come to live on this island? What were you running away from?” they probe.
“Well, it’s a long story,” I begin “And I don’t tell a lot of people. But I know I can trust you all.” Their faces glow in anticipation.
“One word,” I hint, “Mafia.”

Living on a small island means that nothing you say or do is in confidence. Even the things you don’t do or say are subjected to public opinion as one woman tells me, “I stopped going to parties because I didn’t want to get so misconstrued by everyone. Next thing I know I have a new diagnosis in the community as an Agoraphobic (someone who never leaves the house). “
Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

I’ve decided that if people are going to spread rumors about me then I want them to be good ones… hence the mafia story. I am also working other avenues… maybe some scandal regarding me being a serial killer.

You see, when you live on a small island, especially on Molokai, and ESPECIALLY on the West End, there is very little that changes. Locals fight to keep things the same, and then create drama, adventure and intrigue as naturally as the sea creates the shoreline.

I want to make it clear that I am not complaining about my new acquaintances’ ability to gossip. I quite like it… to a point. The characters of their sagas have as little to do with me as I have to do with the sheep herding practices on New Zealand and yet… It feels good to be around a group of highly animated folks discussing such trivial things that have nothing to do with me. I don't have television you see and so have spent way too much time in my little hobbit hole (the caretaker cottage) thinking and am in dire need of something or someone to bring me out of this self-obsessed state.

I indulge myself in the stories, and place as much attention to them being truth as I would in believing the reality of a sitcom. It’s still good entertainment though, no? And maybe by adding some red herrings about myself into the mix I can stir things up to the point where we will all get so sick and confused of the gossip and start talking about the things that are real… like the Venus star arriving as the first light in the sunset sky.

“What are your secrets?” he asks.
“I’d rather put my hand in a bee hive,” I think to myself.
But instead I say, “Don’t tell anyone… but I used to…”

You fill in the rest.

I Love This Island

I love this island.

I love how it reminds me of everything I cherish about Africa, with its dry western hills of brush, and pock marked roads. On an evening walk you almost expect to be confronted by a lion’s roar or a giraffe galloping across your path.

I love this island and its night sky; staring up into the heavens and becoming lost in the magic of shooting stars so clear and bright it looks like the fourth of July in the middle of June.

I love this island with its long white beaches filled with seashell treasures that collect on my bookshelf. Little piles of white, orange, purples and pink.

My papayas grow tall and green along side the small sprouts of kale, arugula, beets, peas and carrots. The red dirt almost vibrant in contrast to the fresh leaves it gives way to.

Days quickly flow into months as marked by another full moon and I wonder if there was ever a time in my life I felt as connected to the ground, to the earth, water and sky around me.

Was there ever a time I felt so connected to myself?
What a gift. What a precious gift.

From Blue to Green

All around me I am being confronted with the fragility of the human body. Everyday a friend comes to tell me of another family member with cancer, another stroke, another baseball to the eye. Sometimes the sadness of it and my inability to help them rolls me up into an angry little bowl of frustration. Can we really be this susceptible to injury and disease? My own body struggles to fight a virus and fails, leaving me aching in bed, sad and blue, unable to get out into the garden and take care of all the green that is just as fragile as my own human form.

I gaze out at my browning Carissa plants and am reminded of the Pygmies (also known as the forest people) of Africa.
They classify the death of a loved one in three phases; “dead”, “completely/absolutely dead”, and finally “dead forever.” “Dead forever” being the stage when the pygmies would throw themselves onto the ground with demonstrative wailing and flailing of arms followed by three months of mourning including dancing, singing until dawn and offerings of bananas to the sacred Molimo instrument.
Looking at the brown twigs that line my drive, I hate to admit it, but someone better find me a Molimo.
Fragile little things, the Carissa and I…

When feeling powerless over your universe I always find it helpful to take one area of your life and become overly obsessive about it. In doing so one can hopefully dive into a fantasy of imagined control. (Oh, sweet delusion, you are my friend.)

In lieu of the increased cases of illness around me and in me I turned my focus to health and wellness.
My obsession? My diet. Not like a loose weight diet. More of a cleanse, clear, feel better, gain superpowers (with which to heal all mankind) kind of diet.

Over the past week there have been many failed attempts at this shift ranging from saying goodbye to coffee to doing a lemonade fast. All attempts put me in place of sheer despair and drained my essence like a Gelfling from the Dark Crystal.

(Note: If you have no frame of reference for the above metaphor please rent The Dark Crystal because I can think of no better analogy for the complete dilapidation of my spirit and life force caused by the cessation of caffeine and food products)

So I decided that instead of restricting my diet I would simply begin adding more healthy components. And this has worked wonders. I feel like ME again!!!!

Secret of my success?
It’s called a Green Smoothie my friends and though superpowers have not fully manifested themselves, I have no doubt that within a short time I will be X-men, Heroes, Marvel Comics material.

Simply place green leafy things in a blender, add frozen fruit and water, hit chop, pour, slurp and whabam! You are on your way to happy wellness.

A few days into this Green Extravaganza it rained for nearly 12 hours. This is unheard of during the summer months on the west end of Molokai. As my body was finally feeling better I went out into the garden to work and enjoyed the cool drops falling on my skin as if I too were a plant in need of a good watering.

Then this morning, after blending my Green Drink of All Goodness and rejoicing in my restored wellness and health, I happened to pass the Carissa plants. Wouldn’t you know it?? They are only “completely/absolutely dead” and some you could even go as far as to call just “dead.” Put the Molimo back on the shelf and peel yourself a banana kids, it’s a Molokai Miracle.
How can this be???

I have two hypotheses.
One: The Carissa plants need more water to be green just as I needed more green to be me.
Two: I now have magical powers and bringing plants back from “forever dead” status is only the beginning.

I increased the sprinkler times on my completely dead plants only as an act of precaution.
You see, I am convinced that I am magical and have the power with which to heal life forms, not only those of the leafy variety, but also those of my friends and their families and beyond. Any requests loved ones?

(Oh sweet delusions! What would I do without you?)

Letting Go, Goodbyes and Other things that are hard to do...

I don't understand.
My Carissa plants are dying.
They are getting water, they are getting sun, they have everything they need and yet... they wilt, they tilt, they brown and crumble.
"Sometimes plants just die," Boots tells me.

But why?
Surely there was something I could have done differently?
Surely I have made some grievous error that I must amend!
Or, is he right?
Maybe sometimes, things just die,
and it has nothing to do with me at all.

The other day the pool turned green.
This is a most feared experience of all caretakers..
I weeped, I cried, I shouted.
I called friends from far and wide for support
What had I done to deserve this?
Hadn't I given it everything it ever wanted and this is how it repays me?
"Sometimes it just happens and we don't know why. It's a mystery," the Captain states.

Boots jumps into his car.
His brown guitar case next to his packed bag in the back seat.
Cowboy hat sits passenger.
He's shirtless and beautiful and I can see the excitement of upcoming adventure shine through those blue eyes.
They are getting ready to fly far, far, away.
"Do you think we will ever see each other again?" he asks.
"I don't know," I say.
He drives off and I walk back down the road lying to myself about how "fine" I am. "Perfectly fine," I think.
Just wish I had some whiskey lying around in the rafters to swallow this big lump in my throat.

"Funny how love comes and goes," she says.
Staring out across the ocean I understand.
Love is the tide in the sea and we are the shore.
We are not the sculpting it. It is sculpting us.
And I feel powerless again...

Plants are going to die, pools are going to turn green, friends will leave.
And though whiskey does solve a number of problems these are not any of them.
Sometimes you have to let go, say goodbye and then get on with the shovelling, the scrubbing or the sobbing as the case may be.


In the end, despite the difficulty and pain of it all,
new plants will arrive,
the pool may mysteriously turn clear,
and I'll be glad I loved while I had the chance.

Just wish I could skip over all this hard part.

Hookers and Strokers

I'm sure I've had pain like this before. I'm sure of it… I just can't remember when. I mean my toes hurt all the way to my ear lobes. The backs of my legs are covered in bruises as if I'd been pole dancing all night. My arms hang from my side like two giant cement blocks that make it difficult to even write. I am feeling muscles in my back expand, contract and convulse to the point that I fear at any moment I will metamorphesize into The Incredible Hulk.
The cause of all this pain?
Don't tell my parents.
I've started hookin'
Hookin' and strokin'.

It's not as bad as it sounds.

Three weeks ago I joined the outrigger canoe paddle team and three times a week I meet with five other ladies and our coach Joshy for run, paddle, hook and stroke.

Given my primordial fear of getting kicked off the team (post trauma from being an exceptionally clumsy adolescent) I have been pushing myself beyond the confines of my previously identified "woosie" self and hence here I sit on a Friday night with aches all the way down to my mitochondria.

If you have ever gazed at the beautiful paddlers out on the ocean, gracefully floating above the water, paddles in sync, moving along effortlessly you would never guess that they are using every muscle they have.

I am learning this, the hard way.
"You are going to have huge arms Casselle but you wont get anywhere unless you use your legs!" our coach Joshy yells at me. "Twist, push it forward, extend, stab and pull, in together, out together, long and hard Gangey, long and hard! Dig! Dig! Dig!"

Don’t even get me started on "changes." Basically your worst nightmare. Pulling yourself out of the water into a moving canoe by "hooking" (hookin') your leg over the rim and throwing the rest of your body over and immediately begin strokin' (paddling). Sound difficult? Well, it is, hence multiple back of leg bruising situation.

Also learned important lesson regarding appropriate clothing for paddling. Unless you want everyone to see your private parts be sure to wear tight fitting swim wear as the force of the water will take anything less clear to your ankles thereby extending the sexual innuendos of hookin' and strokin' pole dancing analogy.

Right now we are at the beginning of our training which means it is only going to get harder, which means… more pain.

If I am going to avoid Popeye arms I will have to figure out what my coach is yelling about regarding the whole twist, pull, dig, stab rigmoral.

He calls us his "Gangey (Gang-e)."
"In together, out together Gangey"
"Good job Gangey"
"Long and hard Gangey."

I've never been part of a "gang" before much less a "Gangey." And I have to admit it feels pretty cool. Especially to be part of a gang of super strong intense beautiful Hawaiian women

This is why I keep going back despite the aches. I keep going back for the Gangey. That and the ocean and the amazing rush you get when you're stroking in sync, you feel the wave underneath you, you catch it and it pushes you forward gracefully onward.

Constant Companion

Here is the picture that I will paint for you:
Me, in pajamas, old man slippers, crazy bed head, sun rising behind me as I go stumbling down the driveway to the main house where I take my morning coffee. Look a little closer and you will see a small white cat following closely at my heels. Her light yellow markings set off the translucent green in her eyes and she begins to tell me all about the previous night's adventures.

Meet Haole, my constant companion, my new best friend, and the only thing to talk to on the west end that is not a figment of my own imagination.

I think Haole must wait in the Kiawe forest for me every morning. I picture her squatting there among the grass and the thorns, those intense eyes of hers watching my cottage door for any movement. Her timing is impeccable. It seems that she knows better than I when I will be waking up.

As she narrates her evening's escapades I go about the morning chores; dumping the compost, checking on the papaya, sweeping, etc. She is up for anything and will not let me perform any of these tasks in isolation. As I boil water for coffee she winds herself in and out of my legs, patiently waiting for the moment when we will sit down (my coffee and journal to my right and she to my left) and take in the morning.

Haole cat is a staple of Paradise. She has adopted Miller Molokai as her own home and will take in any guest as her new owner for the week. This is quite charming I believe and many guests find her to be a highlight of their stay.

The only problem is that Haole believes she is truly an equal member of the place. She helps herself to any food that might be laying about; a bowl of fresh popcorn, a loaf of bread, some marinating shrimp. This then leads to me yelling and making strange noises with which to scare her from the counters. To these sounds she will only glance at me confusedly as if to say: "What is it dearie? Are you having a fit? Come here and share some of this delicious shrimp I found. That will set you right!"

(Haole speaks in a British accent by the way)

There is also one other problem with Haole. She likes to give me presents. These presents come in the form of beautifully colored aviary creatures which she brings into the house and proceeds to tease and torture at my feet before beheading them. Many a morning you could sit outside the glass doors and watch the pandemonium that ensues; me with tears in my eyes, screaming, chasing Haole, Haole chasing bird with feline intensity, bird flying wildly into the walls only to be stunned and recaptured, me finally giving up, sobbing at the true reality of nature, trying not to notice Haole gulping down brightly colored feathers. She looks up at me proudly; "Now that was a jolly good show, mum. I quite enjoyed the part when you tossed the bird into the wall. Shall we have another go?"

One time I was able to save the bird and it found its way into a tree. But a few minutes later Haole brought it back to me in her mouth. She meows incessantly until I look. "Let us do it again!" she says excitedly.

I don't think she is bad cat. I really do think she wants to please me. She stares at me sometimes as if she is pondering what she can do to make me happy. Unfortunately there is much lost in translation between our two worlds. I can so easily miss-perceive her behavior as an act of defiance or cruelty when truly her instinct is good natured. Isn't this true about all our companionships, even inner-species ones? If only we can take the time to have a little understanding for those closest to us. For now, the closest one to me is Haole. Literally and figuratively, she is sitting on my lap as I write this, staring at my fingers typing.
"I do like the part about the bird!" she says. "Speaking of birds…"
Oh Haole!

Barking Deer by my Bedside

I awoke before dawn to strange noises outside my bedroom windows.
My heart was already pounding as if my body had heard the sounds before my mind could even get involved. All my senses sharpened on the footsteps that surrounded my little cottage and my eyes attempted to make sense of the silvery figures that floated ethereally in the moonlight. Terrorists? Ghosts? Reindeer? Reindeer Ghost terrorists???

The full moon still lit up the sky despite it nearing 5am and bathed my back yard in a glow that made the coats and antlers of my guests all the more haunting. The westerly wall of my room, made up primarily with windows, allowed me a unique opportunity to spy on my visitors. From the shadows of my room they could not see me and as the creatures came into focus my rapid heartbeat became one of excitement rather than fear. Only feet from me I was watching a huge herd of barking deer feasting, existing together without the knowledge of human presence.

Though my instinct was to frighten them away to prevent any more of their carnage fest on what remained of my grass, garden and sprinklers, I stopped myself.
I became aware, this feeling, unmistakable, that they belonged here far more than I. And that they were not the ones disturbing my sleep or my naupaka plants but that I was the one in the way of their nightly travels through the land. So sure I was of this that I half expected them to walk straight through my walls and stand inquisitively at my bedside, munching on my bedspread.

I couldn't breathe and dared not move. I sat there entranced with their different shapes, from fawn to buck, and listened to their intimate conversations attempting to translate the barks, grunts and gurgles into something I could understand.

As I waited for the sun to rise and as my night visitors dispersed to greener pastures I was struck by the magic and the mystery of the morning and of all that surrounds me here.

I've been trying to figure things out you see. Miller Molokai has brought me a lot of new challenges and I am in a state of constantly trying to manage it all; the pool pump, the sprinklers, the fertilizer, the bug control, weeds, etc. This coupled with a natural tendency to reduce anxiety through organization has led to a life where the enchantment of everyday things is chopped up, dissolved, and diffused so that I make order, so that I may neatly fold it into a box and place a label on it.

It is as if, by putting a label on something, we can then imagine some sort of control over it. I see myself do this not only with the objects around Miller Molokai but in my new friendships as well.

I rob myself of the enchantment that is inherit in all that surrounds me when I attempt to "make sense of it." It becomes lost when our human mind tries to find order to the seeming chaos. There is something miraculous in letting life and all it brings to offer (be it new relationships or creatures of the night) unfold from the box and go undefined.

The barking deer woke me up this morning.
They woke me up to the absolute bliss of living in a mysterious and magical world.