Island Hopping

I’ve been in Hawaii for a bit now.  Three different islands, O’ahu, Maui and the Big Island, visiting family and friends.

Each community is different.

O’ahu

I raised my children in the surf community of the North Shore.  There’s a part of my heart that rests there.  Family.  Both by blood and by choice.  I share histories with many of these people and I feel the warmth of those memories when I see them.   I was privileged enough to have been there during an amazing time and that experience has colored everything afterwards.

Maui

I needn’t go into all the mental and emotional gymnastics I go through when sorting out the experience of being back on this land again.  So I won’t.  This time, though, I had the freedom to sit and leisurely talk with friends and saviors.  Ultimately it uncorked emotions that I didn’t realize were still bottled up.  I felt lighter somehow as a result.

The Big

Back in the lovely folds of the big island of Hawai’i where we are rebuilding our lives.  Luckily I have a friend here from long ago and I’m making new ones.  Madam Pele is active right now at Kilauea.  It seems fitting that as the volcano is creating new land, we are here creating new lives.

Cuba

It has taken me a few days to write down my thoughts on Cuba.  It feels as though I needed time to let my mind slowly adjust to the perceptions of what I experienced so they could settle in and take root.

The land itself reminded me a lot of Hawaii.  Similar landscape; palm trees, greenery, ocean breezes  . . . if it weren’t for the old timey cars and buildings that looked like bomb victims I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.

Society is WAY different though.  There’s a heavy African influence that flavors everything from the colors of clothing to the underlying beats in the music.  The history of slavery and political uprisings have all left an indelible mark on the psyche of the culture.

 I think it’s the level of poverty that hit me hardest.  I never made it out of Havana so I admit my experience is limited BUT the desperation I found within that city was palpable.

We had been fore-armed with a list of items that were most needed by the general population.  Mostly over the counter medications and clothing.  Everyone in our party was well equipped to help out however we could. 

The economy runs on both the CUP (Cuban dollar, pronounced coop) and US dollar.  Most restaurants have both listed but the exchange rate varied.  Also, the government exchange rate for the US dollar into CUP was just about half of what you could get on the black market.  So, the black market is where we went.

That was its own adventure. 

Some of us had taken those bicycle taxi guides to see the city.  We asked about exchanging money so they took us through a couple of alleys.  Into a dilapidated building, down some dark hallways to a room that had cash and cigars.  I felt like I was in a movie; a little nervous but not overly so because I’ve seen my death and this wasn’t it.

One of our guys had brought his bag that contained things like Aspirin, Tylenol and other sundries . . . once he opened his bag to our drivers a swarm of people descended like flies out of nowhere and started digging in . . . soon it was more like a shark feeding frenzy.  I popped out of the melee fearing I might lose an appendage . . .it was only a matter of minutes before the bag was empty . . . the bag itself disappeared when he offered that up to a late arrival.

All in all I felt honored that I had the opportunity to be here at all.  I remain slightly confused by the differences between the “government-owned” businesses and private ones.  Communism in practice seems different than the story I’d been told.  Still, I don’t know much about it.

Also, I’ve decided that I need to go back.  I want to see the rest of the country, not just the city, charming as it may be.  I want to get a better sense of the spirituality I felt.  There seems to be so much more to experience through the lens of this wonderful place. 

Mazunte

It feels so good being back at the ocean. I’ve missed her! The salt in the air, the sand and rocks are all welcome sights. Being here helps me connect to earth on a deep level.

It’s a new moon. It seems the planets are playing a big part in my journey of late. The year of the serpent. Time to shed our old skins and emerge anew, stepping into the best version of who we are. Leaning into our own power. In an obvious way, I’ve been shedding the old me for the last year and a half.

We had this wonderful “eagle’s next” place to stay (although lugging our bags up the stairs was a feat in determination).

The view was worth it though.  Opening my eyes from the tranquility of sleep, I stepped onto the large balcony to take in the view.  Past the jungle, where humidity remained as a haze, the sun rose slowly over the ocean.  Like a celestial eye, the bright orange sliver of it peeked over the horizon, swelling to a white hot orb.  This had become a daily practice.  Squirrels squeaking, birds singing and the somewhat Jurassic sound of the chachalacas created a beautiful morning song as the perfect backdrop.

The feeling of the land is palpable here, even the rocks seem to vibrate with energy.

Mazunte is another puebla de magico, curiously I didn’t know that when I made plans to come here.  

Other areas close by, San Agustinillo and Zipolite, were equally sweet.  Spending the day on the beach in San Agustinillo was gloriously relaxing.  Drinking water out of ice cold coconuts was a treat, then watching the sunset in Zipolite . . . . all of it .  . . . it’s hard to describe.  It feels like a time slip between Panama’, my youth in California, my ages in Hawaii . . . all meld with the present moment.  All of those times are different notes plucked from the same guitar creating an ethereal song in my head.

Tepoztlán

Arriving on the first full moon of the year felt as though I was emerging into 2025 as a different person.  I had just experienced an intense Temazcal in SMA that left me with the sensation of having been reborn into a new life.  It felt transformative; a punctuation mark to a shift unfolding within me.

It makes me wonder how universal this shift might be.  I can’t imagine I’m the only one feeling it.  It’s been slowly seeping into my consciousness for a while now.  Every step I take brings me a little closer to seeing it clearly. I wonder if Tepoztlán is another step towards that clarity, it being one of the “Pueblas de Magica” (cities of magic) in Mexico.  So far I have not been disappointed in any that I’ve visited and Tepoztlán is no exception.

The town is quaint and brightly colored as most places in Mexico are.  We visited some cute little churches and an old convent.  I learned that the word “convent” didn’t mean it housed nuns, it was a gathering place of sorts.  It was a place that welcomed travelers, there was even an infirmary there.  The word “convent” became “convention center” in later usage.

There are mountains here that rise out of the ground like petrified prehistoric trees.  One of them is locally known as a place where UFO’s land.  (We didn’t see any.)

There’s a sacred pyramid atop one of them and we made the grueling climb to go see it.  It was glorious and Juaquin, our guide, explained a lot of the symbolism carved into its interior sides.

The overall feeling of the place is what made the biggest impression. As I shed layers of unnecessary attitudes and beliefs, I am in a constant state of awe. There are so many places and people that are wondrous and magical.

Planets Aligned

Jan 25th the planets aligned.

It’s funny how things work out.  We were scheduled to go on an all day tour to various places around Oaxaca.  Going on the tour meant that we wouldn’t be back in time to attend a sound healing ceremony that was hosted by our friend Ernesto Olmos.

As luck would have it, we couldn’t get a taxi to take us to the meeting place of the tour . . . so we had to reschedule.  

Meaning . . . . we were able to attend the sound healing.

Ernesto Olmos is of Zapotec lineage.  He’s an artist, a musician and a healer who has spent his life in those pursuits.  His handmade drums and flutes are imbued with his artistic style and healer spirit.

I wore this amazing necklace that Amber had given me.  It was full of shells and crystals.  I don’t wear it often but since the planets were aligning, I thought it was the perfect time to do so.

The sound healing itself was amazing.  Between the traditional instruments and Ernesto’s clear, strong voice it was easy for me to drop into a deep meditation.

I felt as though my entire being became liquid, water that held my physical shape but lacked opacity and was a clear aqua.  Then huge, glorious wings sprouted from my back, they also had the same liquidity. I could feel them as they spread out, sloughing off their previous containment.

There were many stages of this in my mind.  The planets, the necklace, smell of copal, Ernesto’s voice, drums and instruments all formed a vortex swirling round and round. That magnetic ladder pulled me up and into another dimension.  

I won’t go into all of it here because I’m still processing and integrating it. Suffice it to say, I was deep in the meditation.

Afterwards, during the friendly banter, Ernesto apologized for setting my hair on fire.

“What?” I asked incredulously, my hands shot up to my head to feel around, suddenly aware of the unmistakable smell of burnt hair.

“Yes,” he said, “one of my flutes has a flame in it. When I came to you a gust of wind picked up a ball of flame and it shot into your hair.”

My probing fingers found the area of singe.

“You didn’t feel me putting it out?” He asked.

“No,” I answered still feeling out the damage.

He continued, “I think it was getting rid of ancestral trauma.”

I was busy smelling my hair and judging whether or not I needed to see someone with scissors. I decided it wasn’t too bad and couldn’t help but laugh.

(By the way, the last photo of all the planets was taken by the James Webb telescope)

Getting sketchy again

It amazes me how often the fire reminds me of itself.  Today I am working on a painting inspired by the full moon last night.  One of the elements in this painting is the face of a jaguar, maybe a panther, I’m not totally sure but regardless; I used to have a sketchbook that contained drawings of different cat expressions . . . . gone.

The thought of it reminded me of countless sketchbooks I had filled over the years.  Some with pages of notes and designs, others with sketches of trees and nature  . . . still more with ideas of compositions.  The memory of them, then the realization of the loss of them hit me with a thudded blow to my gut.

I voiced these feelings to a friend of mine.  After listening for a bit she asked if she could throw in her two cents.

Of course I said, “yes”.

“You need to just move forward,” was her advice.

I wanted to rail against that completely and take a big gulp from the well of self-pity. At very least, the petulant child in me wanted to complain and plead my case about how I was entitled to some measure of sympathy. 

Ultimately though, I know she’s right.

Slowly the sobering realization dawned on me that none of those drawings were all that great.  Mostly they were ideas quickly jotted down.  I don’t think anyone other than myself could have ever deciphered them.

As is the case with most of us, I’ve suffered a boat load of losses.  Each one seems devastating at the time but the reality is that life goes on.  Sometimes leaving scars that eventually fade, sometimes gaping wounds that need outside help to heal.

I acknowledge that I didn’t refer to those sketchbooks that often.  So how important were they really?  The pang of their loss subsided.

I realize now I need to create my current thoughts in sketch form again.

Hopefully, with more attention to detail but not so much that they become precious.  I don’t want to attach any value to them so that losing them will be nothing more than a fading mosquito bite.  That’s the thought that catches in my throat a little.  How do I move forward?  How do I enjoy the magic that surrounds us and remain aloof?  How do I care without attachment?

I guess that’s a question for a longer day with worse weather or maybe I’ll ruminate on it in my next meditation.

Día de los Muertos, Oaxaca, Mex

Being back in Mexico is feeling like a “home away from home” . . . . the smells, the bright colors and warm smiles, its all so lovely, AND (as a bonus) my Spanish is slowly improving. My daughter took me to an area in Ciudad de Mexico where large alebrijes lined the street. “Alebrijes” are wonderfully strange, brightly painted animal sculptures that have blossomed in popularity since the mid 1940’s. Originally conceptualized by artist Pedro Linares who said these wild creatures appeared to him while unconscious during an illness.

Last year I was in Sayulita, Mexico for Día de los Muertos. This stunning celebration touched me in a profound way that’s hard to explain. I kept hearing that to experience it fully, I needed to go to Oaxaca.

If you’re not familiar with “Dia de los Muertos”, in Mexico they believe the veil between this world and the next is thinnest on Nov 1st and 2nd.  Deceased relatives find their way to this world with the scent of flowers leading the way.  Getting together with loved ones that have passed results in this multi-day celebration.

Before getting into the amazing experience of the celebration, I have to mention the “colectivo” taxis because it was the first time I’d experienced them.  They are kind of a hybrid between a bus and an uber.  A placard on their windshield displays which direction they’re headed so we hailed one going towards the center of town and got in.  Further down the road it stopped to let another gentleman get in.  This really surprised me because I wasn’t expecting it.  Along the way we picked up two more passengers and, even though they didn’t know each other, they squished into the front passenger seat. I have since found out that these exist in lots of other places, it was just new to me.

In the center of town we attended an Aztec ceremony with Ernesto Olmos, a friend of a friend.  He makes his own traditional instruments and used them in the ceremony. He also had a variety of other instruments including a rain stick and tortoise shells.  I didn’t understand a lot of it but the smell of the burning copal was different and familiar at the same time.  I closed my eyes because the smoke became thick.  As the beating of the drums grew they led my heart and soul to a different place altogether.  I could almost feel the wind over low hills with agave and desert brush whistling in response.  Within his song I could hear the voices of many ancestors join him.  He had a male dancer wearing a jaguar mask and bells on his ankles.  His head and body movements visually melded him into an actual animal. The experience conjured images of my own ancestors and relatives.

After the ceremony we walked around town. If I could paint a picture of the night with words I would start with the bright orange of marigolds.  It would include the Catrina’s, the calaca painted faces. It would somehow describe the cacophony of salsa bands, pops of fireworks, brass horns and laughter.  It would taste like spiced coffee and clean Mezcal. It would smell of sulphur, flowers and midnight street tacos. Mostly it would feel like a celebration, a reminder that this life isn’t just the surface of what we see everyday. It includes our ancestors and magic. 

Kyoto, Osaka and Tokyo

Japan had never called to me.  For reasons that escape me, I didn’t long to witness it’s beauty or feel the elegance of it’s grace in the rain.

But here I am.

I am humbled and in awe with the tenacity of this culture. It is so deeply rooted that for thousands of years it has honored itself with a commitment to it’s preservation.

One of our first days in the country we visited Mount Inari just outside of Kyoto. We did the long hike up the mountain, passed through the ten thousand vermilion torii gates and made it to the Fushini Inari Shrine at the top.  It was a beautiful climb that wound through a wooded forest with smaller temples along the way. Built in 711 and, having been uninterruptedly maintained since, this Shinto temple to the god of rice has withstood the test of time.

Riding the Shinkansen (bullet train) to get from Osaka to Tokyo it was easy to forget that we were traveling at speeds of up to 200 mph. That is, until you looked out the windows at anything close to the track. We passed beautiful landscapes and mountains and countryside that made me want to come back and explore the country itself and not just visit the big cities. Working on expanding my Japanese beyond a few simple phrases would be my goal prior to that particular trip.

I found myself looking up a lot. The straight lines of the buildings cross hatched with windows as they receded upwards were fascinating. Amongst those high rises were the remnants of bygone era structures with flared roof corners. One building had curious mirrored angles with a large chunk missing from a corner that revealed plants and trees. It was a beautiful contrast of organic meets urban. Curiously, my camera never seems to capture the wonder that my physical eye records. Despite that, I took a lot of “building” photos. I never looked up like this when I was in New York, I had been warned that doing so would signal I was a tourist and therefore, a pick pocket target. Here, in Tokyo, I felt safe.

We visited the TeamLab museum; eight rooms of an all immersive art experience. (Right up my alley.). Walking through water, laying on mirrored floors while gazing into a galaxy of flowers, and the infinity rooms of lights blurred the lines of reality and dreams. I HIGHLY recommend it!

There are a myriad of trains and bus lines that started feeling familiar. Each subway station had their own jingle as we pulled away which made me smile. Walking, taxi’s and ubers were the best way to see the individual neighborhoods and explore the random parks we encountered.

We also experienced an earthquake. The news said it was a 4.2 but it must not have been that close because my internal earthquake gauge only sensed it as a 3.4. (insert smiley face here). The years I spent in California honed that particular skill.

So amidst packs of teenagers in their school uniforms,

field trips of children all wearing the same colored ball caps . . .

countless vending machines where you can get anything from beer to award winning pastries . . .

and ubiquitous bidet’s . . .

I found myself in a state of constant wonder. Who knew that going to 7-11 could be an exciting dinner excursion?