Kava in a coconut cup

Okay universe, I give up, I get that life is magical and that my  notion of a Newtonian sense of reality is simply, well, wrong.

Let’s re-wind to December and January.   Each Wednesday as the Hawaiian Sun was sinking over the sea, my friend Jenn would pick me up on her amazing scooter and we would breezily slide down the Red Road to Kalapana, the Kava Bar where Hawaiian men’s voices were raised to the Ukulele, where coconut shell cups of Kava were raised by our sun soaked hands, and where Jenn and I saw the  last rays of sun as it set over lava fields.   As  the sun sank into the waves and kava sank in our stomach’s Pele’s lava’s glow intensified and traversed the volcano toward the sea we sat by,  the very same volcano that had shut down the red road at the spot we now gathered at, some forty years prior.  We were literally sipping and sitting at the end of the red road running from two towns that had been covered by lava in the last fifty years, a twelve mile reprieve of lava flow, well at least for now…..

Those Wednesday nights at the Kava Bar were full of song, and talk, and beauty and soul. The Kava is the drink of the Shaman, the Kahuna of Hawaii even to this day.  It is not merely a beverage, it is a sacred rite and is credited for bringing one’s mental clarity and soulful presence into view.  It is the drink of reconciliation, communication, treaty making, and communing with community.   It is grown on three places on earth, one being the rainy side of Hawaii.

To commemorate these weekly kava adventures, my friend Jenn and I have committed to continue our Wednesday night  at the Kalapana Kava bar despite the fact we have flown back to our not so sun soaked spots back home.  We have committed to continuing our Wednesday nights at the Kava bar by talking over skype from our north American mainland perches from Vancouver, Canada to New Mexico communing: minus the kava, minus the lava, minus the tropical breeze….

Kava Bar Kalapana

Finca Vigia

Hemingway's writing tower

Hemingway with Fidel

My Heart Will Go On lyrics
Songwriters: Horner, James; Jennings, Will;

Every night in my dreams
I see you, I feel you
That is how I know you go on

Far across the distance
And spaces between us
You have come to show you go on

Near, far, wherever you are
I believe that the heart does go on
Once more you open the door
And you’re here in my heart
And my heart will go on and on

Love can touch us one time
And last for a lifetime
And never let go till we’re gone

I awoke with the recognition that I had been back on the farm.   The horses, the donkeys, zebras, camels, goats, the peacocks, the endless people and buildings and barns.  The dream had been lengthy and epic and I awoke with the sense that I had just been walking  on wet kentucky farmland.

But my outstretched arms were grabbing at high altitude air.   My husband Henrique had been very much alive in the dream had been gone for several years now.   Had it been a visitation dream?  I wasn’t sure.  I walked downstairs and headed for the teapot, filling it with water and waiting for the sound of boiling water.

I read and wrote for a couple of hours and returned to the teapot for reinforcement and noticed two calls had come in the last hour unnoticed as the ringer was in the off position.   I listened to the message.   It was the sound of a kind woman, somehow in need of new dog training and exercise.   I rarely walked dogs, it had been the bedrock of my early days as a trainer, but agility, scent, and basic obedience work had superseded my repertoire.

I called the woman.  She had a large dog, a young jubilant dog in need of exercise and training.  She was flexible and easy to talk to.   I liked her and the sound of the dog.   We made arrangements for a training plan.  ”what is his name” I queried…..”Hemingway”, came the answer.

Pregnant pause.

It was yet another tilt your head back and laugh kind of days.   “Really, I love that name.” I finally responded.  My former husband knew Hemingway, in fact we had visited his former home in Cuba.  Finca Vigia was a beautiful building, a home constructed in 1886 just ten miles from Havanna proper.   Henrique had interviewed Hemingway here amidst his high tower where he stood and wrote due to an injury he has sustained on one of his elaborate hunting trips.

Monday will be the beginning of a five day journey with  another Hemingway.   My Hemingway is four legged but is up for an adventure and I am sure it will be an epic adventure minus the bullfights, the big guns, and Spanish American War scenery, but that will be fine.

I salute Hemingway and dear, dear Henrique who seems to hover nearby and smile over me in my dreams and in my days.

Hemingway reclining with a cohiba cigar a la Henrique

Hemingway

February 2, 2011 was ground hog’s day as well as a couple of other notable holidays I was soon to learn about.   I awoke, placed my Chanupah (native american ceremonial pipe)  in my car along with my dry-cleaning, athletic  bag, and books to study later in the day.  My Chanupah would be traveling with me to Death Valley for my upcoming Vision Quest in March.   It had become clogged and needed repair.    My all- wheel -drive car safely transported along the dirt roads that I live off, undulating, curving, and passing by juniper, pinion, mesas, adobe houses, and coyote fencing and blue mountain ridges in the distance.   Just as I pulled onto the macadam, my cell phone rang.   It was a  medicine woman I knew offering me sacred Kinnick-Kinnick (a mixture of Bear Berry, Mullen, Red willow bark, osha root, and yerba Santa) which is  used as a traditional ceremonial smoking mix.   I told her that I would love to have some sacred Kinnick-kinnick, and that it was funny that she had called as my Chanupah (sacred pipe) was in the car for me for a ride to a local Lakota Sundancer who I was hoping would help me to fix it.  The stem had become clogged.

The medicine woman urged me to come to her home so that she could fix it, and so I did noting that her timing was impeccable as I had not yet turned in the opposite direction.   I reached her home where she and another medicine woman was by chance as her schedule had changed last minute.    They both looked over my chanupah.  ”Ernest” as was the pipes name,  was dissected, cleaned, and clogged and prepared for smoking.

We held a sacred circle, sharing each others thoughts and observations.   I spoke of some challenges I was dealing with and these wise women gave me their love and instruction, and then we shared the chanupah, left hand outstretched, smoke billowing from the sacred chamber.  They suggested I relinquish all that does not serve me, to retain the lessons of life’s challenges, and to understand that I am a woman of authority.

We discussed the significance our spontaneous gathering on this the second of February, the mid point between the winter and spring soltices, a day of great significance and power.   The ancient celtic people celebrated this day with fire and festival and called this day  Brigid; the wicca held this day a day of initiation calling the day Imbolc. *

For their generosity I offered to take one of their dogs for a jog.  I went out into the cold with female dog jogging at my side. She was young and inexperienced, often running behind me, or switching sides with the leash pulling me in awkward motion.  Over time our dance improved and  a large red tailed hawk came and circled overhead staying with us for several minutes.    We continued down the dirt roads meandering by cholla,  desert grasses, desert jays, and heard the  high cawing ravens  under the blue and graying sky.   Within forty minutes we had finished our jog.   I had my iPhone and earphones plugged in, grateful for the distracting music for the remainder of our one mile walk.

I checked my emails.  There was one email from a lovely woman who had performed my marriage ceremony asking when I was available and if I was ever in her neighborhood.    I had been jogging and was now walking in her neighborhood.  I leaned my head back and laughed at the sky.

I continued on my walk with the dog  to the house.  Just before I reached the door, my iPhone chimed a new email.   It was from my ex.  He was  far, far away in the city of our honeymoon and had just been to a museum that we had visited some 9 years previously suddenly realizing he had been there before.   He said he was staying directly across the street.   I smiled at the synchronicity.

I thought of the intentions I had just sent to my vision quest leader:

*(Wickpedia states: Imbolc as one of four “fire festivals”, which make up half of the eight holidays (or “sabbats”), of the wheel of the year. Imbolc is defined as a cross-quarter day, midway between the winter solstice (Yule) and the spring equinox (Ostara). The precise astrological midpoint in the Northern hemisphere is when the sun reaches fifteen degrees of Aquarius. In the Southern hemisphere, if celebrated as the beginning of local Spring, the date is the midpoint of Leo. Sometimes the festival is referred to as “Brigid”.)

Waimea looking toward Sea

Facing Backwards, I see the past, our nation, lost our– sovereignty gone, our lands gone– all traded for the promise of progress what would they say….what can we say?  Facing the future I see hope, hope that we will survive hope that we will prosper hope that once again we will reap the blessings of they magical land for without hope i cannot live  Remember the past but do not dwell there: face the future where all our hopes stand.  Cry for the gods, cry for the people, cry for the land that was taken away and in yet you will find Hawaii    (from Israel “iz Kamakawiwio ‘ole—album Facing Future)

I awoke uncharacteristically early,at 5am, and couldn’t get back into sweep slumber.   I  turned on the television and watched a film entitled Princess Ka’iulani.

Princess Ka'iulani

The princess  was Hawaii’s last princess  who died in the aftermath of Hawaii’s  fall from Independence.   The film concludes that she died from a broken heart due to her country’s loss of sovereignty.    Others attribute her death to a cold she got while swimming on the big island of Hawaii followed  by taking a horse back ride in the mountains of Hawai’i Island during a rain storm.  She came down with pneumonia and died at the age of 23.

Her journey from Hawaii’s black shores to mountain ridges took me back to my last journey on the big Island of Hawaii– to Waimea –a ranching community in the  Kohala  Mountains of the Big Island some 2,600 feet above sea level.    Waimea is where some 10,000 Hawaiians once lived and farmed the land.  By 1820 their numbers had dwindled to a mere 2,000.     Waimea is where  I supposed the princess had taken her fateful horse ride.   Waimea’s tall  pine trees stand, with the verdant pastures, overlooking the ocean some sixty kilometers away.

It was new years day.  I  had stopped at mile marker 51 which seemed poetic as I had just reached  51  just two days previous.   There, in the rain, three noble horses trotted toward me, one, then another, the most timid coming up last accepting my outstretched hands.   I faced my past as I stroked their soft muzzles, thinking back to the green fescue fields of my horse farm in Kentucky.

New year’s day morning I had walked along the sacred shores of the Waipi’o Valley just an hours drive away.  Waipi’o Valley is  nestled at the end of route 240, cliffs look down upon the  Lo’i and Taro fields of the few family farms that remain there.   The history is obscured by the harrowing descent of the road best traversed on foot and by the tidal waves that washed away much of the evidence of its profound spiritual history.

My sneakers slid on the steep road from the early morning showers.  It was a long and precipitous walk, each step bringing me closer to the verdant valley floor bringing the horses, stream, black shores closer to me still.    Waipi’o has been called the Valley of the Kings. Waipi’o  was the home to the ancient royal Hawaiian chiefs as well as several heiau (temples) and pu’uhonua or place of refuge.  The tsunami of 1946 washed away most of the homes that stood there,  but surprisingly  the violent waves did not destroy the now well hidden temples.  The large expanse of black sand beach is where I imagined the princess had taken her last swim.

I walked for an hour passing grazing horses, poi and taro patches, trees, vines and flowers bursting forth in all directions.   As I reached the valley floor, I walked under the huge canopy of trees along the volcanic soil to the black beach.  A few local surfers had made the descent before me in their four wheel drive vehicles and were bringing in the new years day with grace, harmony, and waves.   A fire was burning surrounded by large lava rocks.     I sat and took in the surfers and the surf and gazed at the enormous waterfall in the distance, water cascading in torrents, down, down the cliffs of Hawi toward the green ground below.   Black and Green and Blue.

I continued to walk under the trees, on their dead balsam paths below the pines.   Signs and large volcanic rock marked sacred burial grounds that  hold  ancient  bones.

This hallowed area of Hawaii is the Hawaii  that Princess Ka’iulani sought to protect from the greedy and disruptive grasps of capitalism–a Hawaii where native peole farmed and still farm  their ancient Tarot while guarding  the pine groves, and sacred graves, waterfalls, and black pristine beaches.     In Waipi’o I saw  the past while I faced forward into the future of 2012……

The heart of the Waipi'o Valley

Jen on her scooter going down the Red Road sporting Pele t-shirt

A month ago I was milling about the Farmer’s Market in Kalapana.  It was a Wednesday night and the sun had set over the lava fields and the ocean that still roared in the not so far distance.  The lull of the ukelele and the Uncle’s band’s rising chorus did nothing to dispel the magic of the sultry breeze.   The kava juice I was sipping from a coconut shell was having its way with me and added to the allure of this most   festive if not magical night.   My friend Jen and I took to talking to an artist from Hollywood, a former scenic painter who had taken this bohemian end of the island and claimed it as his home.  He had some painted t-shirts for sale.  They proclaimed  Pele on their backside, with Nike on the front.  I liked his  t-shirts,  typically sported Nike official sports ware, but somewhere within resisted purchasing a custom made t-shirt emblazoned with Nike across its front.

And so I told the artist what my father had always said.  ”i’m not paying izod to advertise their shirts.  They should pay me!”  And so he avoided the alligator t-shirts.

“Nike is a Greek Goddess, just as Pele is the Hawaiian Goddess of the Volcano” the artist defended.   How had this bit of information eluded me all these years?  Nike is the Greek goddess of Victory.  Hmmmmmm.  I am half Greek, maybe that was why I leaned toward Nike ware………  And so my friend Jen and I now have matching Nike/Pele T-shirts, one which you can see on her scooter shot  (as seen above with the small letters PELE) as she speeds down the Kalapana highway (aka red road) keeping the Greek/Hawaain Goddess alive in my absence.

But even as my feet have left the Great Green island, so my spirit has remained.  Pele sends me her motivational goddess energy even here among the desert crags of New Mexico as only a molton  lava can… finding the little fissures and cracks in which to slide…

And so on  Friday, when  I misplaced my running/biking glasses and so I drove down to the sporting goods store.   I spoke with a saleswoman about sunglasses, running, swimming/biking, all those aerobic activities I enjoy.   She handed me her card.  She is a triathlete who coaches women and puts together training program.  I had been feeling the allure of returning to my sprint triathlon past.   No longer are the 1/2 marathon’s pulling me forward, too long, too hard on the body….but sprint triathlon’s are great cross training with a mere 3.1 mile run/12-15 mile bike, and 16 lengths in the pool.  Why not.

I told her I was interested in working with her.  And then she let it drop that she had just qualified for the Kona Ironman slated for October.   Wow.   I remembered seeing some of the iron men athletes biking in the aftermath of the competition when I made it to Kona for the first time last October.    I left the store, and headed home.  Once home, I made my way into the kitchen and there lying in plain sight were my misplaced sunglasses on the kitchen table.  I had spend one full half hour frantically searching for them before giving up and heading to the store.   Hmmmmm.   Was this the handiwork of the dynamic duo Pele and Nike?

On Saturday, during a break for a weekend seminar,  i made my way to the fashion TJMAX in search of an insulated lunch box. I didn’t find a lunch box but I did find   two horrible bags of “KONA coffee” (I failed to recognize it was chocolate macadamia nut flavored, ughhhh) and the perfect colored Yoga Mat.   When I hit the registers the label came into view.  Wai Lana Yoga and Pilate Mat.   I laughed audibly.  Wai Lana was the name my Hawaiian studies instructor at the retreat center in Hawaii.  The photo on the yoga mat featured Wai Lana as an Hawaiian Goddess standing on one leg stretching outward toward the Hawaiian Ocean with leas on ankles, headband, and dangling down from her neck.   I had to laugh, here was a Pele stylized Nike.  The perfect mat for me!

The next day I met with my new Kona bound triathlete coach.    She filmed me on the treadmill, pointed out some key flaws and some areas of strength, had me do some planks on the yoga balls, jump rope for the first time since grade school (its much harder now), and set out a month long training plan.   Since then I’ve biked and run.

No doubt, the five weeks at sea level have set me and my mitochrondia back from our previous 7000 feet above sea level fitness level.  Truth is, I’m at the bottom of the hill.   But then again, I’ve walked up an ever higher hill.  14,000 foot Mauna Kea, little over a month ago, I made the summitt up the nations highest volcano, climbing up through the clouds and up the peak.  It was a steady uphill climb which I was reminded of last week when my friend Patty sent me a photo of my ascent from a distance (see below).

So, being the Greek gal that I am, I embrace the Nike styled climb toward victory. I aspire to take flight and grow wings.   One step in front of the other, with the help of my friends here on land, and the Goddesses of Greece and Hawaii.   You don’t have to be the FTD man to hold flowers and take flight……………………you just have to have an affinity for the Goddess Nike and sport the leas of Madame Pele.

climbing mauna kea that's me second to last

wai lana pulling a pose

Nike, Greek Goddess of Victory, she's lost her head but not her nerve