A Prayer For Hawai'i

Yesterday we closed on the sale of our house in Hawaii. It’s been on the market, sitting mostly empty, for close to a year now. It makes me happy to think that another family will be moving into it soon and I hope they find it as much of a peaceful haven as Patrick and I have these last five years. 

As we lovingly release this house into the arms of its new owners, it’s got me thinking about sense of place and how the homes we create shelter us through so many life events. 

The poem below was shared by one of my writing teachers in my “Wild Writing” practice this week and the piece I wrote in response to it is below. It’s a prayer, of sorts, to our home on the Big Island and to the island itself and how this place - both our home and the Big Island - have held me during the years we lived there.  

 As you read it, I encourage you to think about the places and spaces in your own life that have supported you and been integral parts of your life journey. How might you pay your own homage to them this month?

Prayer

By Natalie Toledo 

For my grandmother’s wheelchair,
for my friend Candida’s green mangoes.
For houses made of brick,
their damp vermillion.
For the gray slats of my cradle,
for spiny cacti
growing on the walls.
For the jicalpextles my mother
got from other people’s weddings.
For those days when the sun burnished my hair
And my smile was the blinding bright of a salt crust.
For the photographs stuck to a piece of cardboard,
their swift migration to our family altar.
For the petate and its map of urine stains,
for the twisted trees upon the rippled water.
For all that I made into a life.
I sing.

And my response to the poem…

A Prayer for Hawai’i

 For the heavy Kohala rains that come beating down on our tin roof in the middle of the night, waking me from dream states and feeling oddly comforting and cozy over time as I became accustomed to their sudden arrivals and loud, intense presence.  

For the brilliant rainbows that pop up out of nowhere… and fade just as quickly. Reminders of impermanence and invitations to savor each moment.

For long walks along the ocean, looking down from the cliffs at the waves crashing up on the rocks and feeling the wind whipping through my hair. The aliveness of this place, this island, coarsing through me. Birds soaring above my head, their song always a constant in the background.

For the way our home has sheltered and held me through so much. What does “so much” even mean? Cancer diagnosis, IVF cycles and failures, grief, loss, the death of my first poet, dreams coming alive and then dying.

I remember sitting at our mango wood dining room table staring out at the ocean when my oncologist called that early December afternoon, just weeks after my biopsy came back positive. “I would recommend watching and waiting for now. It’s stage two and seems localized. I hope that puts your mind at ease. Which it did.

For the time we had there with our three dogs. Driving through Colorado snowstorms in early January so we could fly direct from Denver to Kona and have them all with us. Watching their faces come alive with joy as they woke up that first morning and ran around their new three acre yard.

For the time Trek had there before he died in our arms on that early, sunny May iSaturday afternoon. Now buried on Inhabit land under the big boulder down near the sacred temple site with those pristine ocean views. I can still envision him running joyfully on that land, his black and white ears flapping in the wind.

For the time to rest and heal. After cycles of IVF. After infusions these last two years. Feeling deeply held by the island and the warmth of the home we’d created there.  

For precious visits from family and friends. Some planned, some not. Always a gift to share time with people we loved in a place we loved (and still do).

For early morning birdsong that awakened me at 5 am. Meditation and qi gong and opening my eyes to the sunrise. Feeling the chi around and within me. Connecting, deepening… healing.

For my heart that broke open, again and again there. Hearing the news of Myra’s death. Getting disappointing news that our embryo hadn’t successfully implanted. waking early that mid-May morning to a bright red pool of blood on our wood living room floor and knowing, deep in my gut, that that was the day we would say goodbye to Trek. A dog I couldn’t imagine life without – we’d been thorough so much together. And then the painful decision to let go of our dream. The retreat center we’d envisioned that now, if we’d been able to build it, would be sitting empty for who knows how long. 

 For new friendships made that continue to deepen and grow. I remember so many trips in the beginning when I felt this deep well of loneliness, only to witness that transmute into beautiful connections made over time.

For that moment, driving up the coast towards home on a clear, sunny day… when I looked in the rearview mirror, caught my reflection, and saw something I hadn’t before. A woman whose courage was admirable. A woman who’d endured many losses but kept getting up and dusting herself off, determined to learn and grow from her grief and to flourish. A shining example of resilience. I could taste the salty tears streaming down my face that day. A smile on my face as I looked in the mirror again and said “Yes, I see you now.

For the joys and the sorrows, the stress and the ease, the healing and the journey during the years we’ve spent in Hawaii.  My heart is grateful for it all and what this place – the island, our home, the ocean,  our friends and neighbors here – have given me.