Not Hopelessly Bad

 I keep a little book next to my bed. It's called "Just For Today". It's been there since 1984, when I first received it from my OA sponsor. Most 12-Steppers are familiar with this little book, no bigger than a wallet. I open it most mornings. Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I don't open it by design. There are days I don't want to be inspired. I just want to wallow a bit more in the mire. Silly, but that's how it is. Today, after a long, stubborn dry-spell, I opened my eyes, and saw the little book.  I reached over and picked it up and flipped through to today's date:

September 5th - 

"We find that we suffer from a disease, not a moral dilemma. We were critically ill, not hopelessly bad."

We were critically ill, not hopelessly bad. That stung a bit. Actually, it stung a lot. Because it so targeted the major thing that has transpired in our universe this past few weeks, culminating in a heartbreaking result. The end of the journey on this earth for someone very much loved, and far, far too young, who just couldn't see his way out of the mire. 

It's not a new story. It's not one that so many are not familiar with, or one that hasn't touched so many lives leaving a wake of sadness. But we move on from here. The ones who remain. The ones left behind to pick up the pieces. We know the facts, but we will speak of the happy times, the joys, the laughter. The anger may come; the whys, the hows, the questions. But for now, we concentrate on putting a balm of love over the hurts of the questions we cannot find the answers for. We recognize that there is no more pain, no more hurting, no more struggle for the one that went on a different journey. We also recognize that those that had to say goodbye will continue to struggle. Because we love. Not just in the best of times, but ten times more in the worst of times. 

Let's talk about the guy who threw dummies in the street, gave girls dog jerky treats and told them it was beef jerky, slid down roof rafters, defied every hunting safety rule, led snipe hunting expeditions at the river, couldn't really tell a joke to save his life, but laughed at them himself, narked on a closet smoker to her kids, came unannounced through the kitchen back door and got his ass handed back to him by a very protective border collie, sat outside of a family tent while lullabyes were being sung, and then asked for requests every night of the camping trip thereafter, smack talked a good game during annual Turkey Bowl tourneys, drove jetski boats into river weeds, chased girls with frogs. Years and years of joys. Years and years of laughter. Years and years of frustrations of childhood, to adolescence, to adulthood.

                                                                Turkey Bowl - 2012
 

When we all lived under the same roof for a short time after we moved back from South Dakota, I did the cooking and took the kids to their sports practices. Of the four adults under the Smith roof, I was the stay-at-home parent for the six months we lived under their umbrella of grace. Branden was the eldest kid in the house, he was a freshman in high school at the time. Sometimes, while I was prepping lunches, or dinners, Branden would come up behind me and tug on the back of my shirt. He didn't say anything, it was just a kind of "drive by" notification that he was there, home from school, safe.

Last Monday night, I felt him leave for the last time. I was standing outside his hospital room, looking into the window as his mother and cousin sat by his side and his younger brother stood next to his bed. Charlie was sitting behind me, next to his middle brother, his father, and his step-mom. At a moment when the doctor had just told the family that he really wasn't "in there" anymore and they would have to make the decision to let him go, I felt a very distinct tug on the back of my shirt. I turned around because I thought it was Charlie. But he tilted his head and looked at me quizzically. I shook my head and turned back toward the window to his room, and I knew it was him. I knew he came and tugged on the back of my shirt. Maybe to say goodbye. Maybe to let me know he was safe now. 

I haven't shared that with anyone but Charlie. But it has been very much on my mind this past week. Mostly because Nancy's best friend Joan, when we all gathered at Nan's house in the following days, brought up the subject of beliefs and "visits" from loved ones who have passed on. I'm not one to believe in a heaven or nirvana. But I do believe that loved ones visit. Yet, I couldn't speak of it just then. I didn't feel it was the time or place to say what I had experienced just a few hours before. I will. In a few days, I think. When my friend and I are alone. I will share with her that I really believed it was that mischievous boy of hers giving me one last shirt tug as he went off to his next journey.

                                                          Branden and Grandpa Ken - 2009

The last things I said to him were that I was sorry that my dog bit his ass (which caused his cousin Scotty to laugh out loud and say' "He deserved it. Dog was doing his job."), and that I hope his Grandpa Ken, his Uncle JoJo, and his best friend Colt were somewhere in the Great Beyond to greet him. I know it was Branden tugging on my shirt. I know he was saying he was finally home, safe.

Rest easy now, Branden. 

The Fragrance of the Flower

"The fragrance of the flower lasts long after the blossom has closed."

She's gone.  Her longtime partner TQ posted on her Facebook page this morning. First and foremost, my heart hurts for TQ and Bon's 'ohana, and though we do not know each other, I send them all the aloha I can send across the miles. The girl fought hard. Like the true tita she IS. She fought hard, but that fucking cancer wins again.  There is some poignancy in that last sentence. I NEVER ONCE in almost twenty years knew Bonnie to use colorful language. I, however, have a language palette that spans the rainbow. But she never made me feel the need to apologize for it and in fact, she laughed at my sometimes "explosive" tirades in describing, well...lolo people and their lolo doings. She was quite adept at allowing people to be their authentic selves. I loved that about her. So I'm saying it again..that fucking cancer. 

Always the good ones. Always the kind ones. Always the ones who do their absolute best to live every moment in the positive. She'd laugh if I said; "You know, Tita...it makes you want to be a jerk.  They seem to last forever." But her response would be; "Nah nah nah, Pua. Because then you'd be surrounded by jerks all the time."  That was Bonnie. Glass was always full. There was nothing in life that a paddle in the Hudson couldn't make right.  Nothing.

I "met" her through my blog. I'd been writing for a couple of years by the time she first commented on my page in 2004 or 2005.  Then, one day, after I'd posted an entry about living and going to school in Waipahu on O'ahu, she commented that even though she now lived in New York, she considered Hawai'i her "home".  She loved the islands, as I do. But the kicker is, she lived in Aiea when she lived "back home". Her dad was a teacher at my Junior High.  We had the same "haunts" as kids, though she was a good decade or so younger than me.  Things didn't change much along that stretch of Farrington Highway in the 70's.  

We would often comment back and forth on our respective blogs, or write each other emails long before the "cool kids" started moving to MySpace and Facebook.  It was always an easy groove.  I would live vicariously through her FROGMA blog, and in her love of the eastern waterways as she kayaked with her friends who were also members of the Sebago Canoe Club.  I marveled at her stunning photographs of NYC, the burroughs, her tiny garden that brought her such delights. She would write comments that made me feel I was a good mom, even if I blogged that my world seemed to be falling apart. Our worlds were vastly different, but we had a common goal to bring smiles in an otherwise difficult world.  

Oh, the food!  Bonnie, like myself, love all things island cookery. I don't know how she did it, but she could replicate local dishes like a master chef.  She'd post pics of her bodega treasures and garden delights she grew herself in her tiny dirt allotment, that she took home and turned into wondrous culinary magic for dinner.  We shared a love of SPAM. And yes, she did ask me if I missed it when I stopped eating meat, and she sent me a drawing she made of a SPAM Musubi on a ti leaf. Always a smile and a giggle from Bonnie. In return, since I'm not the talented artist she was, I sent her a box of treats from my favorite Portugese bakery here in California; Porto's.  She was smitten. When she texted to thank me, we went seamlessly into a soliloquy about childhood treats at Napleon's Bakery and Zippy's back home.  Waimalu Mall, the one-stop treat explosion where if you saved your lunch quarters for two or three days, you could score some yums from more than one shop.  Ahhh the "Hanabata Dayz".  More laughter.

Back in 2009, Averie had an opportunity to interview for an internship at SNL.  When I mentioned this to our dear friends Marc and Jess, they didn't hesitate to invite us to stay with them. Not only that, they hosted a weekend BBQ at their lovely home and invited all of the friends I had only known in the Blogosphere, but had never met in 3D.  Bonnie was on the list, but was going to be visiting family in Pennsylvania that week, so it was a missed opportunity we both lamented. She LOVED seeing the pictures of our gathering at the East Meadow B & B, otherwise known as Jess & Marc's. She was overjoyed for me that I got to meet Jase, Patrick, Deidre, Rob, Marc & Jess.  "Next time..." we said to each other.  Actually it was more like "Bumbye..." which would be the way Aieans and Waipahu-ites would say "Next time..."  We giggled.  

Sadly, Bumbye for us would never come. But in between, we continued joyful interactions with loving stories of "home".  I would text her to tell her how much I loved her photos and how they made me feel like I was actually walking around New York with her. Her account of her 9/11 experience literally gave me chicken skin. She would text me about something I'd posted with regard to the kids and their love of books and how whenever she'd see something at her work (Scholastic Publishing) it would remind her of something they were reading and that would make her smile. When Charlie and I were in Hawai'i a few years ago for our friends' delayed Honeymoon adventure and we ran into a very fun couple at Turtle Bay, I posted a picture. Almost instantly, Bonnie texted me and said; "HEY!  Those are my New York friends Camilla and Stephen!  No way!"  Yes, way.  She would be cheering on Averie, Caris, and Bryson's victories from the sidelines, as if she herself was a proud Aunty.  And really, in local-style, she was. So many great stories and life experiences. So close, but so far.

Charlie and I were in Mexico between Christmas and New Year. While cuddling up under comfies watching movies on December 29th, I got a ping on my phone. It was Bonnie. She said she hadn't made an announcement yet, but she wanted to tell me personally, and not on Facebook. Treatments for her cancer were not going in the direction they hoped.  Her dad and her partner TQ were there helping her get her things in order. We texted back and forth for awhile.  I was grateful it wasn't by voice so that she couldn't see or hear me crying.  Charlie sat next to me and rubbed my shoulder as I relayed to him what Bonnie was saying to me.  In the end, as usual, she remained upbeat. I told her that I was going to be a "Bonnie" and stay positive.  

She sent me a photo of a drawing she'd done of our favorite shave ice stand in Haleiwa; Aoki's.  Years and years ago, we talked about how people always go to Matsumoto's, but locals would go to Aoki's.  They made their own syrups.  When we'd heard a rumor going around a few years back that Aoki's was closing after 4 generations, she'd drawn this picture.  While she and her dad were going through her things, she found it and thought of me.  She asked me if I wanted it.  I told her that I would be honored.  It would be matted and framed with Aloha, and I would be proud to have it on my wall.  Right next to my Bonnie-rendered SPAM Musubi that she knew I went 'aihue from her blog.  She said that would make her so happy and that I should watch for it in the mail.

Looking back, I know what a gift it was to talk with her that night, as we anticipated the bringing in of a new year. She didn't have to reach out, but she did. It was so very Bonnie. Loving, inclusive, courageous. Especially knowing what she knew would be the inevitable outcome that I wanted to deny. Perhaps if we do not say the things, the monster cannot find us. She continued and we talked for awhile. We expressed our love for one another; my admiration for her, her wish that she could continue to follow our adventure in retirement to Mexico.  How happy she was that we could realize a longtime dream. How much joy it brought her to watch Kili play frisbee with Charlie on the beach that very morning. I told her I carry her with me there, so she's already with us. Finally, she said it was time for bed; "so sleepy".  

I wished her all my love and aloha and refused to say goodbye.  "Me kealoha pumehana. We will say; 'A hui ho!', Tita.  Never, ever goodbye.'" 

Different Demons

 Back in May, our across the street neighbor sold his house for an insane amount of money and moved to Idaho (no comment). The gentleman who bought the house was reportedly overjoyed because he had been looking in this neighborhood for quite some time for a house.....for his daughter.  M'kay, that's nice. I live in my parent's first home. Two of my neighbors to the right of us are also the grown children of their parents who first owned the homes they live in, and the same with another neighbor across the street.  But I digress.  The purchaser told the realtor (who is also a neighbor) that he was looking for a "Leave it to Beaver" type neighborhood where his daughter and her husband could raise their children and get that old "Mayberry RFD" feel.  M'kay, I guess my parents kind of thought of this neighborhood that way 48 years ago. So, great!  We're getting new neighbors!  I thought.  That was 6 months ago.  There are still no new neighbors. The house remains empty.  

We have now taken to calling this house "The Winchester Mystery House".  If you know, you know.  If you don't, read up.  This house has been worked on DAILY for six months, non-stop.  Now, let me just say that our former neighbor, the previous owner of the house left that house in turn-key condition.  I actually LOVED the house and everything he and his wife did to it.  It had beautiful wood flooring, gorgeous kitchen, big, open living room - dining room floor plan. HUGE backyard.  He even built the kitchen AROUND his grandmother's vintage O'Keefe & Merritt gas stove, which was something of great pride to him. So it really did make us wonder WTF was going on over there.  Why so much construction? Why the daily crews of workers for a turn-key home supposedly purchased for a young family? When was this new family moving in? As the months dragged on, and no one moved in, we began to think that maybe this guy was just a flipper.  I mean WHY would you want to demolish this?...

Last Friday, I walked down the hall to my office as usual (that commute is brutal), opened the window shade and surveyed yet ANOTHER work crew, sat down at my desk and started another typical work day.  I heard a familiar voice at the front door calling; "Helloooo...anybody home?" I went to the door to find my former neighbor.  He was visiting a friend down the road and dropped by to see how the new residents were settling in to their new home.  I laughed as I regaled him with all the happenings and informed him that there is STILL no one living there.  However, we do see the man who bought the house quite often as he's here daily checking on the work. I made him laugh in return when I told him that we were now calling his former home the "Winchester Mystery House" (heretofore to be referred to as WMH) and since he knew exactly what I was talking about, and he's quite the gun enthusiast and hunter, he said "Well, I thought I took all those 'demons' with me when I left." He then told me that the neighbor directly across the street from that house (kitty-corner from us) sold their house for another INSANE amount of cash, and that the guy that bought the WMH also made an offer on that house when it came up for sale.  He said; "They kinda told him to stuff it."  So then I told him that just made me think that we might not be so far off the mark in thinking this guy was just a flipper.

Then my former neighbor said something that I'm not sure is intriguing or creepy. "You know, this guy is major rich." He then pointed off into the distance at a building in the commercial area near our neighborhood. "You see that building? He owns it. He also owns the entire top floor. And he told me when he was looking at our house that he could see this neighborhood, more specifically YOUR house, because of the Italian cypress trees lining your backyard wall."  

This is the view of what he's talking about from my front porch...

And this is a close-up...

Ummm...ok.  So he sits up in his ivory tower and wants to rule over all he surveys?  WTAF!  We continue our conversation and I tell my former neighbor that I have actually been quite sad that no one has moved in, that they have gutted that beautiful house, and that I wished I had the money to do just a FRACTION of what this guy has done AND pay people to do it for me. So basically, I admit to him, I'm super jealous. He just lamented that he didn't take his grandmother's vintage stove with him. "The intact milk glass salt and pepper shakers alone were worth a lot of money."  I suddenly put a little bit into perspective, quelled my jealousy talk, and felt bad for him...for a minute. Dude made bank on that house and built a new house in Idaho (no comment). So sympathy waned quickly.  I'm going to hell.

I asked him about his new life in his new state and if he was happy with his decision.  Of course, he was.  I asked him about his wife, his dogs, his dad (who lived in the house before him...it's a thing in this neighborhood).  All was well in Boise.  He left his greetings for Charlie, I asked him to deliver our regards to his wife and his dad, and we said our goodbyes and good lucks.

You'd think the story would be over, wouldn't you?  But no.  This week, painters arrived. So Charlie and I figured this was the last of it. After this house is painted, that means the new folks will be enjoying Thanksgiving in their new house, right?  Well, they did indeed paint the house (white on white), AND THEN, they painted the roof!  You heard me. They literally got up on the roof and painted it BLACK. They painted the shingled roof of a Southern California house BLACK!  I wasn't sure of what I was seeing, so I got out my camera and took a picture. Then I got on the phone and texted my sister Loke, because my brother-in-law Phil is in Roofing.  "Is this a thing?" I asked her. "Is painting your roof a thing?"  She said it was becoming a thing...but it's a stupid thing. They are asking to bake themselves in the heat of summer. Their AC, if they have one, is going to work extra hard because their attic and roof space is going to be an oven, and they are shortening the life of their shingles. 

Who does this?

Now it's done.  Right?  New owners are moving in, probably this weekend. Right?  But wait! There's more!  This morning, large equipment started showing up and going into the back yard.  Mini-cats, water trucks, large dump truck. OMG, the beeping. THE BEEPING! I stepped out onto the porch to check things out, and it appears that they are now landscaping the backyard. The neighbor behind them, with whom they share a back wall, stepped out of the house in her jammies to see what all the noise was.  I could tell she was annoyed and I felt bad for her. For a minute. She was the realtor who sold the house to this guy. Sympathy waned. I'm going to hell.

To sum it up, the story isn't over. Much like the demons that haunted Sarah Winchester, this effing house is haunting me every damn day as I sit at my desk and observe. Also, even though I've seen this supposed "daughter" who is the recipient of Daddy Gotbucks gift only once, I won't be hurrying over to bring a welcome to the neighborhood housewarming gift. I guess I hoped that they would just move in right after the house was bought and like other folks start fixing it up, little by little, the way they wanted to, over time. You know, like everyone else in the neighborhood.  Work for it. Sweat equity. Not have it handed to them on the proverbial silver platter. Isn't that the "Leave it to Beaver/Mayberry RFD" way?  Doesn't matter. I'm not June Cleaver and I'm not Aunt Bea. No homemade jam or cookies will be crossing this street.  I'm definitely going to hell.

The Gift of "Late on Purpose"

 

In 1992, about two months after my Jackie-mom passed away, I received a sympathy card from a friend. It began; "Dear Pua, this is late on purpose..." and it went on to explain their own experiencewith the aftermath of the passing of a loved one.  This wise friend said that during her own grief journey, there was a time that came between 5 weeks to 2 months after, that felt like a void, or a vacuum.  A place where time seemed to either stand petrifyingly still, or just drag into minutes that felt like days.  A place where you weren't really sure how to identify the aftermath of the avalanche of feelings you had just experienced in the days and weeks that passed, but you settled on numbness. Sometimes, you felt devastatingly alone. 

The "must do's", and "time is of the essence" things had been ticked off the list. The initial shock had passed. Friends and family had been called. The services had been dealt with and the loved one's desires for their aftercare had been arranged. The arrivals of flowers, meals, and cards slowly waned or had now ceased. Cherished possessions had been dispersed to friends and loved ones as instructed. You walked through the spaces in the home where they once walked.  You touched the things that they once touched. You remember a moment, a memory, a scent, a sound. But they are not there. They are not there, and you still talk to them as if they are.  And now comes the numbing void.

She said she remembered thinking that she wished there was some sort of sign during that strange period of in-between, where you just needed a push to get from one stage of grief to the next. You could call it a kick in the butt, or a hug from afar. She just wished it came. And she decided then and there, that she would remember this for when someone she knew had a loss. She decided she was going to be the "Late on Purpose" person. 

That is when the "late on purpose" note arrives.  That is when, of all times, it was needed most.  That late on purpose lifeline saved me.  I was the mother of three very young children aged 6, 4, and 2.  Losing my mother at that time of my life was one of the most devastating and life-changing events that I had ever been through. I was there, in the aftermath, all the "urgent" things had been done. I was in what I called my "zombie phase".  Not here, not there, just functioning by rote because I had to. And out of the blue, when I thought I just couldn't face another day despite the fact I had the most supportive husband one could possibly be fortunate enough to have, this one very significant sympathy card arrived. In her wisdom, my friend reminded me that yes, there is something beyond that numbing void. That only when it is darkest, can we see the stars. "Go out and look at the stars, Pua".  So I did.  I still do. 

"Late on Purpose" was something that salvaged my broken heart then. But more than that, it became something that I felt was important that I pay forward. It was the absolute right thing to do.  For years now, when I send a sympathy card, it has always been a "Late on Purpose" card, sharing with the recipient the same loving gift my dear friend gave to me all those years ago. When my wise friend herself passed away, the woman who bestowed that generosity and kindness upon me all those years ago, I did the only appropriate thing. I sent that "LOP" card to her daughter, who said that was exactly the kind of thing her mother would do, and thanked me for sharing that with her.

It is only March, and I have already sent two LOPs.  To be honest, I'm so utterly devastated myself by the loss of one so dear to me, that I too, am struggling.  I'm standing in that weird in between place again. That numbing void. It feels larger, multiplied by the empathy I feel for someone whose loss of this dear one makes indulging in my grief seem selfish. And yet, it is real and painful and I know that for my own sanity, I need to acknowledge it.  So, I acknowledge it when I put pen to card and write those words "Dear Friend, this is late on purpose". When I do, I feel just a little bit of my own grief moving in the same way I hope the recipient's grief will move.  That we, both of us, can just take another step forward away from the numbing void.  One step toward healing for me while I write. One step away from grief for them while they read.

Tonight, I will go outside and look at the stars.

Plan Z

 

"The timing isn't right."

"Something better will come along."

"God has a better plan for you."

"It wasn't meant to be."

The list goes on and on of all the things people have said to us to try to comfort us as pretty much everything has gone pear-shaped with regard to the house, Mexico, the Mexico house, moving, etc.  I've been living on pins and needles for almost 3 months. I'm over it. I pretty much feel like throwing in the towel.

The truth is, I'm really not ready to talk about it much right now.  But it really all comes back to nothing is ever easy.  NOTHING.  Even the word "easy" has absolutely no place in our lives.  Just once...just one damn time, I wish one thing we try to do wasn't met with one road block after another.

I'm tired. I'm sad. I'm depressed. Stick a fork in me. You know the rest.

Today is bad.  I hope tomorrow will be better. But I'm not holding my breath.  Right now, I'm in "fuck it" mode.

So, fuck it.  I guess that's Plan F.

The Presence of Breath

             "Hawaiian Mother and Child" by Jim Stickley, Hawaii Kai 1970

I have been awake since 2:30 am today.  Usually, when I wake, I listen for two things; the breathing sounds of my husband, and the breathing sounds of my dog.  I usually hear Charlie first, and if I do, then I do not move one iota.  Because if I do, then Kili will hear that I am awake and he will start the "Oh good! Finally you're awake and we can start the day!" process.  Which will then wake up my sleeping husband.This morning however, as luck would have it, Charlie was also awake, as was Kili.  So here we were, the three of us lying in the darkness trying to decide whether to just get out of bed. I went first....straight to my computer.

You see, this day is the anniversary of the day I first became a mother.  I've been thinking about it quite a lot this past week. That hasn't been easy. It's been a pretty rough week for me.  In fact, the last two weeks have been positively grueling emotionally, mentally, and physically.  In between that trifecta of going through the motions, have been the little vignettes of thoughts falling upon my brain to remind me of Averie's upcoming birthday. What to say that hasn't already been said?  How to impart to my child the weight and merit of her place in my heart, in my life, in the depth of my soul. 

Charlie and I have always worked so hard at not taking for granted that each one of those three that we are responsible for bringing into this world know unequivocally what they mean to us. I remember once many years ago, Charlie having a conversation with his father about one of his sisters.  He asked his father if he ever told his sister that he loved her. I knew the question arose because Charlie said his father didn't know how to say those words. That he had never said them to Charlie. That Charlie never heard him say those words to his mother.  His father scoffed and said; "No. But I don't need to. She knows."  We both were saddened by that answer. We weren't even parents yet, but later that night, we had a long talk about how, when we had children, they would never question our love for them.  They would always know. We would always say the words; often and with meaning. 

As I danced with these thoughts, it dawned on me that this year has been a year of struggle for everyone.  The entire world is upside down and topsy turvy.  Everyone is doing their best to just get from one day to another.  And I went right back to this morning and the daily routine of listening for the breath sounds of my beloveds.  The kukui (light) went on....

Averie Joy Maikalima O Makua, you have been the absolute definition of ALOHA during this past challenging year.  It sounds so very trite to the malihini ear. As if we're all attending some touristy kitchy luau in Waikiki. But I think you, more than anyone, will appreciate what comes from my heart to you.  ALO (presence) HA (breath) literally means "The Presence of Breath" or "The Breath of Life".

That is how you have handled everything that has come your way this past year; good, bad, ugly, beautiful.  You have done it with an enormous amount of grace, class, integrity, soul, and an endless depth of character that makes me cringe at my own faults and foibles.  

Your presence of breath, your breath of life, your true and noble Aloha may just seem to be a second skin to you.  But to those who are witnessing it from the outside looking in (because really, that's all any of us has been able to do this year) it is a litmus test for what humanity can and should be. From your volunteering, to your standing up for those less fortunate.  From giving your voice to the voiceless, to trying to represent those who have not been represented.  Even in your darkest hours, when you were trying to understand the reason for the knives in your back when you should have been receiving accolades, you stood head high.  Yes, you had your moments, but you took those deep breaths and propelled forward, always forward. Only one way to go; IMUA. You give of yourself when you are pained physically and when your body wants you to stop. You give of yourself monetarily when the country we live in praises selfishness and capitalism.  You give of yourself creatively to bring truth where history would rather leave the coffin nailed shut.  The presence of breath. The breath of life.  That is you. That is the depth of you.

From this mother's heart, I send YOU all the Aloha, in celebration of all the Aloha you've gifted to this world.

Hau'oli la Hanau kaikamahine.  Aloha wau ia oe. 

Mommy

                                         

Forward Momentum

 

This last trip to Mexico was a pretty good one.  We ended up finding a house we really liked, and it was even better that my sister and brother-in-law were there to see it with us.  Mixed in with the margarita-drinking fun, we fell into another "Serendipity Place" south of the border.

We got a lot of very good information, some sound advice, and on our own, we have done quite a lot of research.  So, when we saw this house, we both knew it was exactly what we wanted.  Location, price, all the amenities on our checklist, check, check, check.  Intent to Purchase Agreement drawn up and signed, and a good faith deposit check delivered.  We have two months to work out the lease details, and make a solid offer agreeable to the seller.  Even better, the seller is not in a big hurry to sell or move, as she's building another house in the same neighborhood, just three doors down from the house she wants to sell.  So, she needs a place to live until her new house is finished, which is expected to be in the spring next year.  It all just seemed to fall into place.

Yes, there is still much to do and yes, things could go pear-shaped. But we're used to stuff like that.  What will be will be. We will work through whatever comes our way.  I do know however, that Mexico is definitely where we'd like to be, and that house is definitely the house we could happily live in for the rest of our lives, in a place we've loved for decades.

More to come as we move toward the goal.  Mexico 2021.