Aloha

Today is the first day in three weeks that my foot gash hasn’t seeped.

It happened in Maui, the day after we arrived – my son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter.

We three ladies strolled along the beach that morning. I flew into the water on the pretext of being eager to sample the inviting ocean, but really, I had to pee.

Whomp! I scissor kicked over a hidden lava rock and sliced the sole of my foot from the tip of my great toe, across the metatarsal pad and into my arch. It’s as if an orange peeler has taken a wedge out of my foot, I thought ruefully, remembering how in the sixties, Joe the Gadget Man from the Nock and Kirby’s hardware store had demonstrated the tool on Aussie television.

Vermillion streamed everywhere. Couldn’t stem the flow. Red streaks covered the outdoor shower like fast flowing lava. Couldn’t rinse the blood off the concrete. I asked my daughter-in-law to do it after she delivered an inch-thick wad of paper napkins. My son arrived, armed with a pack of Band-Aids, enough to slow the stream until, holding onto his arm, I could limp back to the condo – a gorgeous place, seven floors up with a sweeping view of the pools, palm trees, exotic gingers, hibiscus and the stunning ocean beyond.

Superglue liquid bandage – stings like a . . . – stings horribly, Steri-strips, non-stick pads, tape. Foot elevation.

How mean the ocean was to me! What ever happened to my sacred relationship, my connection forged years ago on the Sydney beaches? I tried to meditate. All that came to me was to slow down. Really? I couldn’t do much else, gimpy and needing to keep my foot elevated. Really?

A couple of days later, I braved the pool, delighting in the playtime with my granddaughter and her parents. Enchanting child. Loving, devoted parents. One heck of a lucky grandmother and mother! I had applied a waterproof bandage that got waterlogged, macerating the already messy wound. No worries. I was spending time with my family in paradise, sipping a mai tai by the poolside, listening to the singer crooning Hawaiian standards – nostalgic and hokie, but strangely satisfying and endearing. My granddaughter and I swayed to “Blue Hawaii,” “I Love You More Today than Yesterday,” and “Tiny Bubbles.” It was perfection!

I meditated again – and again. The ocean remained silent. Was it mad at me? What had I done? I’d soiled it with my pee and didn’t ask its permission to enter. Okay ocean. I apologize.

Crimson daybreak on the sixth morning found me by the ocean once more, meditating. Pink tinged surf, the mischievous coming and going of the swells, the perfectly comfortable, just right temperature of the wind’s breath. This time I fell into Mother Ocean’s rhythm and settled. Connect with everything, she said, not just people. I knew exactly what she meant. The tears streamed. I opened my eyes and watched a humpback whale breaching in my direct line of sight. My tears flowed again and my body vibrated with the confirmation. Return to me and stay in touch with me, even when you are away. Yes, and have respect.  

Aloha and mahalo to my son, his wife and my dear granddaughter. Aloha and mahalo to the tropical ocean, my beloved portal to the sacred. With each step I feel a twinge in my sole and my soul remembers.

P52 Week 51 & 52 -- The Beginning and The End

The Project 52 has come to a close. I am proud to have persevered to the end.

I am grateful to have shared this ambitious project with my incredibly talented daughter, Stephanie. Her photographs each week have touched me. They have rattled my creative cage.

I am grateful for the feedback I’ve received from friends and family who have read my posts. Thank you for taking the time to read and to let me know your thoughts. I have learned from your comments. I have grown by sharing in the worldwide community that has spanned the United States, my Aussie youth, and my Hungarian roots. 

I am grateful to have had the opportunity to hone my writing craft. Coming to a blank page every week has been daunting and sobering. I have rather startled myself that I been able to come up with a composition each week.

I am grateful to have learned a huge lesson: I could not have done P52 alone. I had to be accountable to Stephanie. I had to come through for her each and every week. Lord knows I’ve left so many projects undone for want of that reckoning.

I am fortunate to have that kind of support with my writing. Stephanie has kept me honest with the P52 project. My two stalwart writing buddies, Jack and Anne, have kept my nose to the grindstone of my memoir project for the past five years. Thank you! And for over two and a half years, Dave, teacher extraordinaire, mentor and partner, has received my emails tabulating my weekly writing progress. Thank you!

I don’t know how the blog will transform in 2016. Steph and I have bandied about some ideas. For now, I celebrate our achievement. Thank you, dear daughter, for throwing out the challenge. It has been my honor and privilege to embark on, to persevere, and to complete this epic odyssey with you. Two years ago you threw down the gauntlet for me to join you on the grueling climb to Mailbox Peak. Then last year you came up with the idea for us to do the Project 52. I shudder to think what you’ll suggest next . . .

P52 Week 50 -- Holding On -- Photographer's Choice

With my first stirrings this pre-dawn morning, the concept of holding on flooded my consciousness. Do I hold onto things too long or rather, do I let go of them too soon? As another year draws to a close, I thought it a fitting subject to ponder.

Today, I made a run to Goodwill. I unloaded three boxes of clothes that I haven’t worn for years, and a couple of sacks of paperbacks that I’ll never read. I’ve switched almost exclusively to library ebooks and audiobooks. The paring down was way overdue and I have a whole garage and office yet to clean out, but at least I’ve begun.

The impetus for the Goodwill excursion was to unload a nest of end tables that my late husband and I bought at a garage sale so many years ago, and that I have never, never liked. It’s early American and it’s my least favorite furniture style. I have tolerated the visual blight in my living room for almost twenty years.

A year ago I began the much needed rework of my dowdy townhouse. I repainted, re-carpeted, and had built-in bookshelves fashioned around my fireplace. I replaced the worn couch and frayed chairs.

“When are you getting rid of that nest of tables that you don’t like?” my son asked a few weeks ago. A day later he emailed me some links to furniture sites and asked me to choose end tables. This Christmas, he and my daughter-in-law gifted me with two stylish end tables that matched my new decor. Beautiful!

What a pleasure it was to load that dratted nest of tables into my car and to dump them at Goodwill. Good riddance!

Why does it take someone else’s initiative – my son’s – for me to mobilize and let go of what I don’t want?

On the other hand, why am I so quick to get away from activities that fill my soul? Why do I minimize my meditation time? Why do I merely glance at a gorgeous sunrise like the one that graced me this morning? Why didn’t I hold onto its luminous glow, and fully drink in its beauty?

Why do I hold onto superfluous, dreary dross for years and allow what is meaningful to slip through my fingers?

As I approach the New Year, I don’t want resolutions, but rather my desire is to notice and decide what I want to dwell on, and what I want to let go of.

I like how Kenny Rogers puts it so succinctly his classic song, “The Gambler”:

You’ve got to know when to hold ’em

Know when to fold ’em

I’m glad I held onto this morning’s pre-dawn musings.

My wish for all of us in the coming year is that we’ll know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em. Happy 2016!