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.