“Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.” Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
Well, I got home a few nights ago. For those of you who live on Kauai, you know the feeling, when you walk out of the airport into this incredible place. I usually come in at night, slipping into the most comfortable bathrobe ever invented. Once home, it takes me about five minutes to put everything away and then the dance of love begins, at least for me.
Before I go any further, I owe some of you a techno-apology. When you go to the blog and not the Facebook page, you have the option of receiving emails each time a new story is posted. If you are reading this story on Facebook, I recommend you do that, if you actually give a shit. I was positive this system broke down weeks ago, but I suspect everyone assumed I just quit writing. Finally, I got it fixed and some of you have received about a dozen emails from my blog. I apologize for the screw up, but, sorry, I haven’t quit writing just yet.
Now, back to being away from home then returning. First of all, I had a magical time being away. I got to spend precious, private time with my fifteen year old grandson and if that was all, it would have been plenty. After all, he has been my muse from day one, Halloween night, 2011, when I dared to write the first words of my life story to him.
On top of that, the love of my life traveled there, something incredibly special. As new as it is, there is a feeling of complete comfort, absent an ounce of pretense or artifice. It is two people, who have their own separate histories, magically coming together, exuding a comfort and familiarity that defies time.
My son and daughter-in-law have created a storybook life for themselves and I have shared in its growth since they met in college, thirty years ago. They both work at home for large companies, each with an office of their own. They talk about their schedules in such a matter of fact way, which is to be expected, because it’s their lives. They are busy and very well organized, telling each other the times of their respective calls and synching them up each day. If you think I have some smart ass judgments about modernity, you got the wrong guy.
They were incredibly generous and didn’t seem to tire from my presence, sitting around with nothing much to do. At my son’s urging, this was the longest amount of time I have ever spent with them and it was great. In the past, I always felt rushed to do whatever it was I thought I needed to do on a visit.
I have already written about my experiences there and I am not about to do any more of that. I am home and life has been waiting for me to return. I find myself in the midst of yet another career, one for which I have no experience, the story of my life.
I know I have mentioned it before. In fact, the accidental photo above is the one I will use to introduce myself. Unbelievably, I have been hired by the County to write stories about some of their people and what they’re doing, while doing it in whatever you call my style of writing.
I told my brother what I’d be doing and he had a good laugh. Over the years, he has been challenged to tell people what his younger sibling was doing. I have led an interesting life and don’t appear to be done living it just yet. Every now and then, I catch myself and attempt to inventory my past, which is ridiculous, unless I stop to take notes and check dates. Sometimes, I’ll be engaged in a conversation about some obscure subject and realize, wait, I was involved with that, too.
I have lived a slow cooked life, one that is on a continuous low flame, gently stirred and seasoned with all sorts of experiences. Of course, the trick is to keep your fucken mouth shut and just do what you do. What am I supposed to do? Brag about my life and being nearly 79 years old, as if it is anything other than dumb luck. So, I pretend like I am just an ordinary guy, regardless of age or experience, which is clearly the truth. There are too many people walking around like they’ve got some kind of edge and they can go fuck themselves.
I certainly don’t write, feeling I have a kind of advantage, because of it. Honestly, it is quite the opposite. I do this thing for all of us and there is nothing heroic about it, trust me. I do this writing business with a sense of gratitude and humility. Sometimes, I think to myself if I don’t write about all this stuff who the hell else is going to do it?
Man, life is a tricky business. Just today, I was talking to a friend about my “Fiddy Fiddy Theory of Life”. I learned this as a young man. When my marriage imploded, I vilified my wife, feeling victimized, as a way to justify its demise. It took time and years of therapy to own my half. I think it is convenient for most of us to find someone or some circumstance to blame for whatever has befallen us. Victimhood is most unattractive.
I think the rest of my life has been a rebound from that misplaced responsibility. I have tried to own my fiddy and keep a good heart. For better or worse, this is my life, with no regrets, because that is simply wasted energy. Undoing what has been done is a quick study in futility. Forgiveness is the only way out of that morass. For so many of us, our past becomes this burden we carry. While we can’t change it, we can change our grip on it. A fist in impenetrable, but an open hand allows the light to shine through.
I don’t know what any of this has to do with my returning from my vacation in Amerika. Leaving my Kauai womb and venturing out into a much busier world, filled with endless distractions, often feeling like I’m running after myself. I love being back here and the wholeness it fills me with.
I hope you have enjoyed traveling with me.