Travel Truly - Be Here. Now. Part 3

We make our way into town, have our picture taken by a charming American tourist in front of Bath Abbey, and then meet Tony who takes us to the ‘Wild Cafe’ for fish & chips, sweet potatoes with mushrooms and root vegetables, goat cheese and fig salad with balsamic vinaigrette, stirring wild appetites in the blood, driving saliva from all corners of the mouth. Tony shows us his house in Bladud Street where we will meet to go to Hedley Hall in a few hours. Lawrence is off to meet a friend he is staying with. 

Daisuke and I take a stroll through the magnificent autumnal beauty of Bath, packed with nostalgia for me, beckoning with novelty to him, producing an enjoyable blend of Pulteney Bridge souvenir shopping, stories of old dates and cameras dropped in the river, memories of pubs crawled through on my ceaseless quest to get through my masters degree, academically and emotionally. We take a long walk to the Royal Crescent, do yoga poses in the giant park before it, witness a hot air balloon getting prepared for take off in Royal Victoria Park opposite the golf course, meet an exuberant dog jumping up to stretch his playful teeth into my face, do some present shopping at Waitrose and have a cup of tea and a caramel square at the cafe next to it. This feels so familiar I am tempted to walk straight back home, review the vocab for tomorrow morning’s consecutive interpreting class, and prepare myself for a bout on the mat with mighty P. 

We meet Lawrence and Tony and drive to Hedley Hall. I spot P.’s bald head through the window and know immediately it is him. Thinner. Paler. But when I stand in front of him, he is still a giant, still mighty if not mightier. Green eyes are blazing brazenly from the depths of his private battlefield. I have envisioned this moment, heard myself ask a dozen times: ‘How hard may I squeeze you?’ ‘Don’t squeeze too hard,’ he answers the question before it is asked. Maybe his powers have been elevated onto yet another plane, and he has already heard me. He does seem to be hovering in the clouds on a carpet of ki at the same time as being here. I double check his feet have not escaped. They haven’t. 

During class, P. teaches newcomers. While I enjoy a rare practice with Andrew Miller, one of my literary heroes, he gets Daisuke involved and throws him on one of the girls’ heads. Later, he takes his hand and tells him straight-faced: ‘You must marry her.’ Then finally, my favorite pirate steals me from my partner. Here I am. On the mat with P. I used to go home bruised and blissed out from tusk to tail after these stormy bouts of rage, rapture, and wicked wizardry. In spite of him feeding me with home made chocolate covered figs and thinking up all kinds of handicaps to make it easier for me to win. This time, the handicap consists of him having to fight another much mightier opponent at the same time, a demon that has his insides in a vise, tightening his grip as we fight. We engage in bouts of pushing hands. ’Something I could enjoy.’ Yes. Every moment of it. And he still blows me away with his sudden bursts of sneaky ki that completely throw me off balance. I half-jokingly counter with ridiculous youthful backbends à la Drunken Master instead of admitting defeat, and draw larger green eyes from him. ‘Come on!’ I silently will him, simultaneously casting the evil eye at the demon wringing his guts, ‘I know you’re really holding the key to the fountain of youth in your shark teeth!’ 

After practice, we go to the pub. On the way, I see P. walking on his own, looking like he is no longer filling his large brown leather jacket - the one I wore last time we met, when I carried enormous chunks of firewood through his woodland like a Clydesdale, sweating happily under his instructions in wintery Bath. I take his arm and hook it into mine. ‘There ARE arms in these sleeves!’ 

At the pub, P. drinks a half of Kingston Press, nursing it forever. ‘I can’t drink anymore.’ But then he proceeds to order a whiskey and sips it to the end, making an inexplicable smile settle deep in my face as if punched into shape by golden liquid. I am star struck and thrilled to talk to Andrew Miller (Ingenious Pain), handsome, with lucid clear eyes that see in the dark like cats' eyes, and manage to perceive a picture of all this nobody else can see until he hurries home and writes it down. Andrew Miller giving me advice on publishing, what an honor. And what bliss! I get to practice aikido with two of my favorite heroes in one night and then have one on my right and the other across from me at the pub. Before we leave I grab P.’s shoulders and knead them gently, caressing precious moments of life, ichidaiji pulsing through my veins on wings of Kingston Press.

We walk back to the church. P.’s work - a church turned community welfare center, full of activities that enrich people’s lives. He points out the sofas, warns us not to sleep on the bean bag as we will not be able to get up, shows us the tea, the kettle, a bag of home made bread. And then we stand outside and part. 

‘See you in Heaven!’ In Heaven? I am not sure I’ll make it there, but I’m in Heaven now, my friend, with your ridiculous green eyes shining a mixture of eternal victory, compulsive mischief, equally compulsive charity, and, yes, love on me right now. See you? I will, yes. 

And so ends the last leg of our journey. After another brief stop in Hannover, and another farewell, Daisuke is moving on to Berlin, Salamanca, Barcelona, to discover new expanses of our richly laden European coffee table. He has been great company, a good sputnik, and, as always, an inspiring fellow student. I for my part am off back to Hawai’i, the country of aloha, to keep growing my new roots among hibiscus petals and night blooming jasmine, to worship Pele, respect Her land, and humbly import the message of ichidaiji. Aloha. Live, friends. Here. And now. 

Travel Truly - Be Here. Now. Part 2

We part grateful, especially for our teacher’s life, and the way he enriches ours. We see him and his entourage off at Schipol airport, and our Dutch friends take Toyo, our international appendage, my Shosenji dojo buddy Daisuke, and me to the train we have to catch. The three of us spend a few hours wandering about the mesmerizing streets of Amsterdam, which seem to constantly change, blurring, and re-crystalizing, separating, shifting, and reattaching - I’m sure! - yet thankfully, they always magically spout us back out at Centraal Station in the end. Finally, our team breaks up again - Toyo going back to his psychology Ph.D. in Barcelona, Daisuke and I moving on to Hannover. Europe is a coffee table, its islands of treats connected by low budget flies and Intercity ants. Daisuke is just back from a yoga trip to India, traveling, broadening his horizon. I am going home to see my family, facilitating his journey, offering to guide him through a new expanse of coffee table - full of ice cream, Bahlsen cookies, and home made nut cake. 

When we arrive, my grandpa greets us with a blue hand. As I hug my grandparents, I scold them teasingly: ‘Have you two been at it again?’ and my friend from the far East notices quickly how in this house, almost every line contains a joke or two. 

Over the next few days we listen to my grandpa’s hand, blue and swollen from blood being drawn, dancing across the piano like a ballerina, evoking the sweet romance and slapstick comedy of silent movies. We eat my grandma’s scrumptious home made meals and cakes, drink coffee, witness my grandpa’s balloon creations, chew, talk, listen, translate back and forth, laugh. We visit my aunt and feast on Egyptian dishes whose names we’ve never heard, 5 choices of dessert, make attempts to re-create the Japanese tea ceremony. I play nose whistle duets with my father, who has driven here especially from Poland so we can be together. Traditional German canons, Mozart, Strauss’s Blue Danube Waltz. We listen to my father’s violin play, visit my mothers old town apartment, share visions of her new country home. We cycle along the Lake, walk through the empty vastness of a sunny autumn day at the Baroque Gardens, grace statues and fountains, flower beds and bins with yoga poses, walk through crisp cold nights with cans of Hefeweizen in our hands, past the fish of the forest and the lions of the lake. We stroll through the city center with my mother and beautiful sister, posing with Friedrich Schiller and Martin Luther, buying souvenirs at the 1 Euro shop, eating sausages at Bratwursglöckle and buying fish sandwiches at Nordsee for later. 

Hannover is a sparkling expanse of the European coffee table. But another is beckoning, off the continent, decked with tea, scones, clotted cream, and jam. P. is just around the corner. How could I pass by without visiting? Daisuke, a true traveler and fellow student on the path of ichidaiji greets the idea with ‘Let’s go.’ So as I sit in front of my computer for an hour, our trip grows a new leg. 

Another evening train, another airport. In the morning, fluorescent bars fluttering at the back of our eyeballs, we hover over to the airline desk. We find out our tickets have been cancelled due to late booking and buy the only tickets available, which take us to London Stansted instead of Bristol. It sounds close enough. When we arrive we message Lawrence. 

We call him Bond and turn him into legend. Not only because he bears a slight resemblance with Daniel Craig but also because he is everywhere - always - and we are grateful for a coherent plot of entertainment throughout our lengthy trip. We beg him to save us and pick us up from the airport. He informs us that we are at the other side of the country. The plot thickens. We imagine him with a Bond girl, her hair sandstone gold like the buildings of Bath, sipping martinis in a subterranean Roman jacuzzi as he types his message. Bond does not disappoint. He has the answer, instructs us to take the National Coach - affordable and fast - at about ₤ 40 each it only takes about 5 hours to reach Bath. We’re on. 

Eating Boost bars and crisps and sipping apple tango from a Stansted vending machine, we watch velvety morning mist turn silky and lift, giving way to a splendid day of honeysuckle sunshine brightening lush green grass, rolling hills, hazelnut colored rabbits frolicking in due-decked meadows, little rows of chimneys on homes, quaint, and charming square figures squatting along the roads, docile and useful like the sheep dotting the pastures between them. A different island, a different world. An old home. What I eat in the morning is called a continental breakfast here, although I allow myself to gorge on sausages, bacon, fried eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, hash browns, baked beans, and toast while here - the British morning’s tested way of dragging the farmer into the field, the tourist into town, and the pub crawler out of of his hangover.

We change busses at London Heathrow. Another 2 1/2 hours, and we arrive in Bath, waiting for Bond. It was probably a good Bond girl. Or a bad one, and he had to kill her, which caused unforeseen complications and cost time. That must be it. Will he arrive in an amphibian vehicle hiding its fins in sports car camou? Send a Limousine and have us brought to a secret mansion in the country? Is he already at the heart of his mission stealing a miracle drug to save P. from a bunch of dangerous dealers at Southampton port? Our imagination is so thrilled with his secret quests, we spot him about 3 times before the actual Lawrence walks across the street, apologizes for being late, and greets us warmly, reinstating his actual personality through the coat of fiction we have thrown on him: lover of aikido and shiatsu, classical guitar player, upholder of friendship and loyalty, facilitator of complicated friends’ visits across countries, supplier of information and rental cars in strange cities.

Travel Truly - Be Here. Now. Part 1

On October 3rd, I travel from Hilo to Amsterdam. I board at 8.35 in the morning. 4 planes, a couple movies, a sleeping pill, some written pages, and a few chapters of the Shark Dialogues later I’m on the other side of the world - 12 hours time difference exactly. I don’t even have to change my watch. As I wrap my cashmere shawl around me a little tighter and watch green pastures and chewing cows through the train windows on my way from Schipol to Rosendaal, I remember waking up with warm trade winds on my skin, sunbeams hitting me through palm fronds, and am amazed. Traveling has become so easy. 

I have just read a fictional but realistic account of Dutch sailor Mathys Conradtsen traveling to Hawai’i on the Silver Coin in 1834. The ‘Sandwich Islands’ had been discovered by Captain Cook 56 years earlier. Men slept in bunks below deck full of fleas, 2 ft away from the next man, unable to sit up, in total darkness. They spent their days in a stinking rut, repairing sails, ropes, rigging, standing watch aloft the mast, its height towering over the sway of the ship, stamp sized from above, augmenting their nausea. Suffering from malnutrition, dehydration, bad hygiene, diarrhea and a host of other diseases, dying or throwing themselves into the sea. Catching and disemboweling sperm whales, diving into their heads, melting their precious blubber and storing it in barrels called hogsheads. Eating the same things every day if they were lucky enough to have food, worms squirming in their bread, rats swimming in their water. Slitting the veins of the newly dead and squeezing out mice to quench their thirst. Having their ship smashed by a mad whale. Escaping on life boats, cursed with survival, eating their shipmates and arriving at their destination labeled cannibals. 

At Rosendaal station, my host family and friends greet me with warm hugs and shower me with pity for having had to suffer through such an endless ordeal of a journey. I smile, knowing better, and happy to see them. 

I’m here to accompany my aikido teacher Katsuyuki Shimamoto and interpret for him at a seminar he will teach over the next 4 days, in Uiden, Zevenbergen, and Mechelen, Belgium. My teacher has been through a rougher ride than me, having recovered only recently from stomach cancer surgery. Really, he is still not supposed to exercise, but here he is, ready to teach his annual seminar and add a new Belgian location to the menu. At our first dinner together since August - Chinese takeaway at our host teacher’s house - it is a truly smile-inducing experience to see him eat a whole plate full of food and go back for seconds. He takes this social opportunity to introduce us - the disciples gathered around him, thirsty for his teachings after dinner - to the theme of this year’s seminar: 一大事 ichidaiji. 

The word consists of three characters: ‘one’, ‘big’, and ‘thing/issue’. If the first two are combined, they mean ‘major’ or ‘top’. If the second two are combined, they mean ‘important’. In this way, many interpretations and layers of meaning can be gathered from the term if one thinks about all the possibilities it offers. Conventionally, the word has an everyday meaning and a Buddhist interpretation. In its everyday meaning, it refers to a major tragedy like cancer, or a tsunami. Its Buddhist meaning is the Buddha’s  manifestation on earth to save all living things. The major issue. The one important thing. My teacher says he has finally arrived at his own idea about the essence of ichidaiji. 

‘Think about it’, he says. ‘There is air for us to breathe. Water to drink. Food to eat. People who have poured the efforts of their own lives into giving birth to us, raising us, educating us, feeding us. There are a million incredible factors that make our life possible. This life we have, here and now, is the most important thing. Honor its every moment with the right effort: good posture, calm mind, all-seeing eyes, welcoming others into your heart and sphere, and creating harmonious exchange. Life is ichidaiji. Consider everything you do with it ichidaiji. Give each moment your best.’ 

This is the lesson he has brought with him this time, no doubt influenced by his recent bout with cancer, a serious issue that could be called ‘ichidaiji’ in everyday Japanese. But he has found a different meaning in it and blessed us with its power. 

His lesson gives us the necessary attitude to spend a magic five days in Holland and Belgium with our fellow disciples who have once again come together from multiple countries including Poland, Israel, and Spain, to learn how to lead better lives and be better people. Through four days of aikido, dancing, breathing, intertwining, and flying around different dojos, and an additional day of sightseeing, fry feasting, waffle wielding, chocolate chomping and beer boozing in Antwerp, Belgium, we truly connect and give each other our best, getting the best out of it. Making every moment count, we celebrate life, love undug and hearts emptied in the grip of a moment, the sweeping power of a breath, the singing voice of inevitability, the musubi of the senses and the mind. 

I am also pleased to run into Lawrence on the third day of the seminar, a fellow member of the brethren once gathered around P. in Bath. We met at an aikido seminar in Israel last spring and talked at a party. We found out we had both lived in Bath. Then P.‘s name was mentioned, and we fell through the cracks of first small talk into something closer to an ancient friendship. Once again, we talk about P., ichidaiji on our mind. About Bath. Lawrence has his contact in his phone. Offers help. We see the reflection of necessity and excitement in each other’s eyes. With his spy skills, Lawrence finds out quickly that the Bath aikido brothers practice at Hedley Hall on Thursday nights, and that P. can still be found there. A plan is spawned.  

Sweet, Fragrant Trade Winds

One more Saturday market, and I’m off to the Netherlands and Belgium to interpret Zen priest and aikido master Katsuyuki Shimamoto’s teachings to his European followers. I look forward to this new adventure but I will miss the market. The Saturday market at S.P.A.C.E. is a weekly highlight for many people in Puna, including both guests and vendors, and before I miss it for two weeks in a row, I would like to pay tribute to it.

Over the past month, my waffle vending business has brought me a pile of wealth. The crumpled dollar notes that land in the hand-tailored pockets of my white apron as customers stop by, attracted by the fragrance of fresh waffles, are of course a welcome pocket money, but I am referring to a different kind of wealth. Three markets have passed, and I have been able to exchange my waffles against: 

• a karuna massage
• a bunch of bananas and two heads of lettuce
• an energy/ body healing session
• heaps of great conversation
• many new acquaintances
• an acro-yoga class
• a sachet of raw ulu powder

and

• a postcard sized art print showing a shark eating a snapper while being groomed by three little cleaner fish: ‘Life from Life’.

The title of this postcard that is now gracing my desk, motivating me as I write, is in fact a great summary of what I want to say about the Saturday market. 

In this world most of us blog readers and writers inhabit, we are used to buying things with money, and selling things for money. I am not about to discuss the benefits and drawbacks of money here, but fact is that when selling low-priced goods, the money we receive from somebody does not tell us much about the buyer’s personality. Of course the transaction can become more personal as the waffle bakes and conversation starts to flow. We may also deduce certain aspects of the buyer’s personality from their choice of product. People who buy waffles like a nice leisurely breakfast. They appreciate sensual pleasure. They like it sweet, warm, and fluffy - or sometimes crunchy. Some of them like to chat, some prefer to walk. My personal market research has already taught me to distinguish wheat-free sugar-free waffle buyers from classic waffle buyers based on their looks in 90% of cases. 

But back to the point: compared to exchanging a product against money, trading a product for another product or service feels much closer to actually communicating with somebody. While I specialize in entertainment (Captain Ladle), making things sweet, warm, and fluffy for people (waffles), and promoting the localvore mentality (toppings made with fruit grown on Bellyacres), other market vendors specialize in healing (massages/ energy healing), providing food (bananas, lettuce), or making the world more beautiful (art). By trading products and services at the market, we get a glimpse of each other’s personalities. We give a piece of ourselves to somebody else and in turn receive a piece of them. Let me quote one of my favorite sources - Wikipedia, a website based on the free trade of knowledge - on the history of trade: ‘Trade originated with the start of communication in prehistoric times’. 

I am the last person to reject the achievements of the modern world - I have composed odes to modern drugs for saving my life, and sung hymns of gratefulness to the simple pleasure of sitting on a clean heated toilet seat as blizzards were howling cacophonies of frost outside. But this back-to-the-roots experience of trading one thing for another instead of relying on money for every single transaction of goods and services has been a very charming experience for me. 

While I am full of appreciation for the wonders of modern civilization, I believe it is still an asset to know about our human beginnings. It can remind us of some things that are easy to forget leading the life we lead. In many ways, we have improved life, in others we have digressed from what is important. Innovative efforts and inventions represent genuine human needs and longings, but in a world dominated by such a high degree of specialization, a world in which people are so used to buying things for money that they cannot understand, let alone make, most of the objects they use in their daily lives (Can you make a pen? A kitchen knife? Cornflakes? Do you know how a computer works?), experiencing the intrinsic nature of trade is a welcome reminder that in order to thrive, we need to communicate. We need to make an effort and fulfill our innate mission to make whatever we happen to have access to available to our fellow human beings. If it wasn’t for others, would you have the house you live in? The clothes you’re wearing? The food you’re eating? 

The S.P.A.C.E. market is the epitome of an important principle that can help us lead more fulfilling lives and help others do the same. People in Puna are great at this. Classes (yoga, fitness, juggling, circus arts etc.) are offered free of charge - small donations suggested at most. People are interested most of all in your presence. In your energy. In sharing. In creating a scene and making something happen. In Hawaii, they call this ‘Aloha Spirit’. 

Carrying a couple of waffles over to the energy healing table, I take in their aroma and realize: these are just another form of energy. Food is a form of energy. Massage is a form of energy. Money is a form of energy. In Japanese, energy is called 気 ki. It has another connotation connected with the basic power of life, similar to the Hawaiian ‘ha’ (essence/breath of life), which, according to folk etymology, is exchanged in the greeting ‘aloha’ (alo = presence/ front/ face). Ki is the energy we learn to use and control in aikido. Ki is the energy we exchange with our partner during practice. Ki is the power we try to channel with the single purpose of creating harmony. This is what my master Katsuyuki Shimamoto has to say about the subject: 

‘The Japanese word 和不同 wafudō, written with the characters ‘harmony’, ‘not’, and  ‘same’ expresses that harmony does not equal sameness. On the contrary, for the concept of harmony to exist, it takes multiple factors, multiple forces, multiple notes. When we try to create harmony with our partner, we do not try to become the same person. We respect each other, including all our differences, and try to complement each other in the most harmonious way, bringing out each other’s best. 

Let me give you an example of harmony. In Japan, we have a type of dish called ‘和え物’ (aemono), written with the characters for ‘harmony’ and ‘thing’. Aemono usually combines two ingredients. Often, one of the ingredients alone would not taste good: it may be too bitter, too oily, or too dry. But combined with the other, its best flavors are brought to the fore, while its negative components exert a positive influence upon the first ingredient and bring out its most delicious flavors. If you eat a plain waffle, it is usually too dry. If you eat only butter, it is too oily. But when you spread butter on a warm waffle, the waffle sucks up the oiliness of the butter, the butter moistens the dryness of the waffle, and the result is perfect harmony.*

So how can we create harmony? Remember that what goes around comes around. You need to focus on what you send out. Whatever exchange you engage in, both you and your partner should enjoy it. Being the host, it is your task to create a pleasant, harmonious setting for you and your partner to converse in. When inviting your partner into your sphere, focus your efforts on inviting and sustaining a sincere, fruitful and harmonious conversation. Communicate from the heart. 

Every encounter should be a pleasant exchange.’

And this, I believe, is the beauty of the Saturday market. This is exactly what we do. Trade. Communication. Aloha spirit. Exchange of ki. We bring our individual flavors together to enrich each other’s lives and create harmony. 

Helping spread Katsuyuki Shimamoto’s message in Europe and absorbing more of it myself over the next two weeks, I will have all the more energy to share with you the next time I get to  enjoy the harmonious flavor concoction of the Saturday market. Thank you for trading. 

*slightly altered by the editor due to the unfamiliar examples from Japanese cuisine used in the original ;)

The Birth of Captain Ladle

It was Friday afternoon, and I was making marmalade, when Iman Lizarazu, our February neighbor, came a-running and announced, panic-stricken, that there was an emergency at her house and I had to come over immediately. A quick glance at the clock told me it was 15.15 h. There was a crackling energy in the air, as if Mme. Pele was getting ready to lift our posterieurs onto glowing fountains of lava and transform them into caramelized crusts of human ham unless we cooperated. I was not sure in what, but the emergency seemed to have something to do with it. I turned off the fire and bade the bright green, yellow and orange citrus carcasses strewn about my jungle hut farewell as I stormed out the door, running after Iman. A few large strides brought me to the scene of the emergency. 

It was bad. The New Eccentrics were squeezing out whole battalions of oranges that had been apprehended at the citrus orchard. Tom Renegade was slicing open large cans of pineapple juice, and Iman grimaced at me, bloodthirsty groves distorting the edges of her wicked smile as she flashed the centerpiece of the emergency at me. Its golden-brown body was catching beams of sunlight, throwing them into my eyes like blinding daggers. Bright inspiration dazzled me like divine light, and sharp blades pierced me with diabolical cruelty. When my violated pupils regained their bearings, I recognized a large bottle of the finest Kill-Devil. 

Staring into the golden eye of the afternoon, a frown of dark, manly acceptance spread across my brow. I knew I had to tackle this demon before I could finish my marmalade. Eric and Aileen arrived out of breath, defusing my stare. They must have heard the echo of Iman’s demonic laughter as she had flashed the rum at me and understood their cue. In no time, the citrus blood was blended with pineapple juice and rum, and we were assembled around the table, toasting to this special occasion whose exhilarating name hit my ears for the first time just before our glasses erupted in suspense filled crystal dissonance, the opening chorus for ‘Aloha Friday’. It begins at 15.15 hours on a Friday, drags people away from work, and celebrates the coming of the imminent weekend. 

Sucking down the first sweet and spicy mouthful of Bumbo, I could feel the drink’s tentacles grab hold of my tongue and palate, work their way down my throat and clutch onto my soul with their titillating suction cups, sending shocks of intoxicating pleasure through my bones. Aloha Friday it was, I had to acknowledge, and there was no return. 

I labored to pace myself as I relished each sip with the sweet pain of half-fulfilled desire, and the knowledge that, once it was fulfilled, new temptations would start tugging at my soul. I bit the corner of my lip - a secret gesture I exchanged with my Bumbo to let it mingle with my blood - when an intense source of power hovering at about a saber’s length away across the table lifted my gaze, and my eyes met Sarah’s. Sarah was one of the two New Eccentrics, lover of costumes and textiles; merrymaker, beauty-tailor, and seamstress by trade. Our stares latched onto each other. As a command issued to our souls by the same captain congealed between us, her long, black hair flew back as if punched by a gust of wind, and for an instant, I seemed to detect the redness of glowing lava in her pupils. We held our gaze as our eyes grew cooler. The force of inspiration had unbound our bodies to serve its cause. We took a simultaneous breath that brought me images of a somewhat elegantly staggering pirate. ‘Do you want a costume?’ she asked. A costume. Naturally. I wanted nothing more than a costume. 

In a whip’s crack, I was wearing baggy green trousers with my striped shirt, a red sash was tied around my waist, a velvet jacket with gold buttons and laced, trumpet-shaped sleeves longer than my arms flew onto my trunk, and a juggling hat was outfitted with a hatband to speak of this Pirate’s vaudeville connections. The images in my head grew stronger. In fact by now the captain who had snuck into our souls was walking freely about my blood vessels: staggering, yet balanced. Camp, yet handsome. Sheepish, yet always superior. As he sailed his ship through every capillary in my body, humming a gay little tune sure of his pending victory, my eyes were lined with coal, a wild, asymmetrical mustache sprouted on my upper lip, and a patch was painted round my left eye. 

Sarah finished her work, and for a moment I sat frozen in place, intoxicated and numb, knowing the Captain was about to burst out of me, but unable to unleash him. He was holding me in a trance, and I had no choice but to wait for his next instructions. ‘Who am I? What is my name?’ he taunted me with a riddle. The renegade residence turned into a blur, but then a canon was fired in the recesses of my ancestral memory, and out of the rum colored haze rose the clear outline of a ladle. Without my doing, my right sleeve turned its opening towards me, and I saw that it was empty but for a fountain of thick, gushing blood that threatened to erupt in my face. My heart skipped a beat and I grimaced, but my possessed sleeve wasted no time and reached across the room for the ladle. As soon as it grabbed hold of it, the wound was sealed, and my lost arm replaced. Into the expanse of calm that followed, he asked again: ‘Who am I?’ and a sheepish, yet confident smile lifted the corners of my mustache. I knew the answer now. Raising my new right hand to hush the crowd, I introduced myself to the party: ‘I am Captain Ladle!’

Captain Ladle spent the remaining hours of Aloha Friday ladling his hosts’ delicious food into his greedy mouth and leaving its remains to rot in his tache, swashbuckling, fighting duels, and ladling out generous amounts of sailors’ yarn over a continuing flow of Bumbo. He was telling the New Eccentrics about Purple Dolphin Night, one of his favorite events through the centuries, and relishing the memory of sucking on the Purple Dolphin’s nose, thus exchanging a piece of his human soul against the Dolphin’s sonar sense that consequently sent him on one of this most illuminating adventures. ‘Shiver me timbers!’ he was saying, when, as if on cue, John came in, wearing a total of 7 purple dolphins on his body, 2 on his hat, and 5 on his T-shirt. 

John, the vegetarian, brought some tragic news: cutting back some branches that had encroached upon his living space with a large pair of garden scissors, Emilia, the kitchen cat had jumped between the blades as they snapped shut, and he had cut off part of her tail. Robin was now nursing her back to health. As he re-lived the event, all 7 dolphins shivered on his body, and water rose to his eyes. ‘All right, matey, we’ve got dolphin meat on the menu tonight. Join us?’ said one of the men, and the rest of them roared with laughter, sending John and his dolphins back out into the jungle with its wicked laws and its bloody encounters. 

At the end of the evening, loaded to the gunwalls, Captain Ladle staggered out into the night and left. When I woke up the next morning, he was gone except for a residue of nasty bristle on my upper lip, sullied with the remains of last night’s dinner. Disgusted, I washed his traces off my body but extracted a prayer from my heart to thank him for letting me experience the dimensions of his mind, fight with his prowess, and tell his tales, stories that had originated in times and places unbeknownst to me but for his lively memories that had unwound from beneath a filthy mustache, fueled by barrels of bumbo. 

I returned to make the bed. When I finished, a bulge remained under the sheets, and I sighed, knowing what it was before I exhumed the invasive object: Ladle had spent the night. Of course. The irresistible bugger. Forever sheepish, yet forever superior. Inspecting the ladle, I found traces of congealed blood around its handle, the hardened remains of our ghastly union. Images of forensic scientists’ rapid computer analyses flashed through my mind, but finding myself in the jungle, I ended the subject with another sigh, water, and a sponge, and stuck Ladle in the drying rack. 

The same afternoon, John came over to the jungle hut, and we chatted about this and that as he doodled on a piece of paper. John is a skilled artist who has decorated many a dwelling in this settlement with pictures of dolphins, juggling clubs, and other beautiful creatures. I was baking my 5th batch of waffles, still in the experimenting stage, and outlined my idea for a Saturday market waffle business. John encouraged me. After a while, he excused himself, wanting to check on Emilia. I gave him some waffles to take home, bade him farewell and proceeded to tidying up the table. 

I was about to throw out a sheet of paper when John’s drawing hit me in the heart like the point of a dagger. There was Captain Ladle, grinning at me sheepishly from his superior position at the center of the picture. He was raising his ladle in a pose of victory, waffle batter dripping from its edges, some of it sullying his tache. He was standing on a waffle-shaped island, his left foot elevated on the edge of a giant treasure chest filled to the brim with a golden load of the finest waffles. His elbow rested nonchalantly on the thigh of his elevated leg. Had it not been for his sheepishness, he would have looked smug. The drawing was lined with exotic fruit trees bearing oranges, papayas, and strawberry guavas, and its title was written in large block letters across the top and bottom: Captain Ladle’s Waffle Island. 

For now, me hearties, we have arrived at the end of the tale, but the end, let me tell you, is only the beginning. Find out for yourself. Captain Ladle’s golden booty will be ladled out every Saturday at S.P.A.C.E. market. Ladle ho! Heave to! 

Jungle Jabber

I am back in Hawai’i. Back on the Big Island, back in Puna. I am back at Bellyacres, our little community in Seaview. The sky displays varying spectacles: perfect bright blue domes, towers of white clouds interspersed with shocks of dazzling sunlight, grey squadrons of indefinable dark matter bringing almost daily showers of heavy rain, and often, rainbows. Rainbows also grace our outdoor showers in the morning when we rinse dream-soaked sweat off our tanned bodies, surrounded by large leaves, and squinting up through the giant palm fronds above to evaluate today’s weather prospects. The sea is a vibrant turquoise-green flaunting wild waves and white cusps of froth, filled with coral reefs and all shapes and colors of fish darting through them. The chickens give us eggs. The trees give us kumquats, avocados, breadfruit, coconuts, and other nutritious treasures.The two horses greet us as they chip away at their daily task of keeping the grass short and providing the ‘black gold’ that helps plants grow on the hard, volcanic matter we live on. The moon, the stars, and the milky way brighten the darkness of our nights.

Paradise? Yes. And yet, the jungle is forever rough around the edges. It is not like in the city, where everything is custom-tailored to human life. We need to rinse every little cut in our skin with hydrogen peroxide for fear of infection. We have to keep weeding and chopping away at the tentacles of the jungle as they constantly try to claim back the small islands we have carved out for ourselves. We have to keep jungle dwellers in check who will always regard every place they can physically reach as theirs. Rats, cockroaches, spiders, ants and geckos are daily visitors. We have to keep cleaning as dirt gets carried in from the moderately tamed road-free wilderness around us. Harvesting and processing fruit is work. We need to watch our resources carefully. Short power cuts are a regular occurrence, although they can usually be fixed with ease. We need to keep our water clean by adding monthly doses of hydrogen peroxide and sodium bicarbonate, occasionally cleaning the whole tank, or ordering additional water if rain catchment does not provide enough. We use large electrical appliances during the day, when it is sunny. Today, we vacuum, tomorrow we do the laundry. 

Next to the Ocean and the Jungle, Pele, the Goddess of the Volcano, the powerful, lava-spewing personification of heat, passion, and volatility, seems to be another factor that exerts a major influence on life here on the Island. I am finding it difficult to develop a structure. In the city, it is easy. You visit scheduled events, work according to deadlines, check your diary daily, keep your promises and appointments. I have never found this difficult. Here, on the other hand, even writing a coherent sentence is a major challenge. Trying to identify material for my first Hawai’ian blog, I spent hours recounting the events of my first week here, and felt overwhelmed after I had written ten pages and was still nowhere near the end. 

Days seem like weeks, and my arrogant preconception that life in the middle of nowhere might be boring was crushed as soon as I awoke and found that at least 5 corners I had meticulously cleaned the day before were now once again covered with the expansive artistic creations of local spiders. I had to readjust my thinking. It was not that I was living in the middle of nowhere. I was living in the middle of everything. As I reached under a bathroom shelf to clean it, I held a live gecko in my hand. Startled by the sudden sensation of another living being touching my skin I dropped him and watched his sides flaring in and out like a heartbeat, as if telling me: ‘You’d better get used to OUR rhythm. I for my part ain’t goin’ anywhere, bro.’ ‘Fair enough,’ I replied and helped the little creature outside, returning him to the cruel indifference of its native Jungle, moving on to the next shelf that needed cleaning. 

While struggling to establish a productive structure within this new rhythm, looking back at last week’s events results in a more promising picture. I did in fact manage to attend several scheduled events, I worked according to deadlines, and I even brought Captain Ladle’s Waffle Island back to the Saturday market without skipping a beat. I had planned to allow myself a few days of rest before resuming the waffle business, but as I was greeted with bright eyes and salivating anticipation at the prospects of more Saturday waffles, I was flattered into a new bout of Ladling without letting a single week pass waffle-free. Thank you my faithful fans. You are the soul of my motivation. 

Recounting the events of my first week back during this writing marathon whose finish line I can just barely make out now, I realized that not only each day, but each single event here deserves the space of an entire blog. I have therefore decided to postpone any detailed descriptions, including Captain Ladle’s comeback to the market, to the following weekly blogs, and limit myself to providing a brief overview this time.

During my first week back, I:

• attended the weekly campfire meeting held to discuss any issues in the community
• scheduled new aikido (Thursday 6-7 pm) and swing dance (Friday 7.30-9 pm) classes at S.P.A.C.E. for this month
• devised a delightful way of using chopped kumquats and tangerine juice as part of a salad dressing
• attended a potluck birthday party with a fully lei-ed out birthday girl, a view of the ocean, paper lanterns, a camp fire, tail-wagging dogs, and dancing green fairy lights
• harvested avocados, strawberry guavas, kumquats, lemons, tangerines, and pomelos
• attended the Wednesday morning aikido class with Barbara Klein in Hilo
• Saw a monk seal sleeping at Richardson’s beach 
• compiled a shopping list for the week and did the corresponding shopping in Hilo
• heard two fruit names for the first time in my life: ‘eggfruit’ and ‘jackfruit’
• spotted a large black pig digging by the side of the road
• attended juggling night with hat and clubs
• was invited to an orgasm workshop
• drove the car a few times (need some practice to get back into the driving business)
• went swimming at the warm ponds, did yoga on the lawn
• Cooked a load of citrus-kumquat marmalade for this week’s waffle topping
• taught an aikido class
• spotted a dead black pig by the side of the road
• attended a fitness class at S.P.A.C.E. that forced me to take up the hula hoop
• taught a swing dance class
• completed a proofreading project for a Japanese market research company centered on a fragrance-free CHANEL whitening cream for Japanese women
• Sold waffles at the Saturday market at S.P.A.C.E.
• did some brainstorming and sent off the first ideas for a comedy writing project
• visited ‘Vacation Land’ and the ‘Champaign Ponds’
• got a slight sunburn on my back
• attended the Sunday night potluck

While it is still difficult to detect much structure in this potpourri of activities, there are several scheduled events that will form constant pillars of my routine here at Bellyacres, several empty spaces that will be filled in gradually with more scheduled events, regular writing, work, and practice, and enough variables to guarantee a constant influx of adventure. I look forward to introducing more of these daily wonders, stories, and oscillating facets of weird and wonderful to you each week. For now, however, I have reached the finish line and am quite out of breath. Mahalo and Aloha, my friends.

Aloha, Rising Sun

A typhoon is raging outside on my last day in Japan, crippling umbrellas, keeping school children at home, turning the many rivers of Osaka into beautiful monsters, flexing and stretching their muscly bodies higher up the shores, racing towards the sea. Last time I left Japan, falling cherry blossoms accompanied my departure. This time, torrential rains and wild winds are caressing sun-burned shoulders and sweat-soaked hair, announcing the beginning of autumn. Even a thin sheet was too much cover till last night, when I lay down to welcome a dream, and realized I needed a futon. 

Spring and autumn are the best seasons in Japan. The best seasons to be here, the best seasons to leave. With an appetite. Cherry blossoms and autumn leaves. Warm relief from cold winters, cool relief from hot summers. Pink cupcakes decorated with salty cherry blossoms and stone-baked sweet potatoes. Transitions that remind us: life is beautiful because we are mortal. Because time passes and things change. I look up to the Rain and the River, the Wind and the Falling Leaves to help me through my own transition.

I’m going to Hawaii. Tomorrow morning, when the Typhoon gets tired, I will sing Her a lullaby and watch Her breath grow calm as I ride the bus to Kansai Airport. My song will contain words like ‘Mahalo’ and ‘Aloha’, and its melody will be reminiscent of splashing waves at Kehena beach, nocturnal koki frog cacophonies, crackling camp fires, holy shark skin drumbeats, and the laughter of dolphins. It will calm me, too, as it is always painful and a little disconcerting to pull your roots out of a place that has turned into a home, a garden that has nurtured your soul, and a family that has helped you grow into what you are. It will remind me that I’m going to another place that will do just that, another place that has Gods to turn to, seasons to live through, gardens to grow in, and a family to welcome me. 

People are irreplaceable. Every single one of them. But the kind of self that grieves separation can be replaced with one that turns such pain into gratefulness and sends all love it feels to those who created it, preparing to accommodate new love, embrace new beauty, and grow new roots. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you. This is why I feel attracted to Zen and Aikido, two paths born in Japan that have turned my initially unbearable stay here into one of the most fruitful stretches of my life. Both are systems that help develop the self through diligent daily efforts. 

One of the irreplaceable human beings I am leaving behind here is my teacher S., master of zen and aikido. He was recently diagnosed with cancer and had to have two thirds of his stomach removed. This was a more painful reminder of the seasons described by the Buddha: Birth, Disease, Old Age, and Death. And of another transition: the path knowledge, skill, and experience take as they are transferred from teacher to student. 

Talking about his own teachers, S. said a lot of the time we don’t realize how important something is to us until it’s gone. He reminded us to express gratefulness while we could and added: ‘There is a saying that goes Alive yet dead, dead yet alive. If you do not respect each passing moment with gratefulness and effort, your life is no more meaningful than death. But as my teacher’s spirit is still with me, and his teachings manifest themselves in my daily actions, I feel that he is still alive, even though he passed away many years ago.’  

Another important teacher of mine, P., who is much younger than S. and taught me the same discipline years ago in another place I called home, another garden from whose earth I extracted my roots, was attacked by the same demon and is still wrestling with its grip. In his case, the monster is inoperable. His reaction: he has started the ‘P. Death Sweepstakes’ in which he asks people to pay £ 2 and guess how many more months he has to live. Half of it goes to charity, half is the prize. He has penned a poem: 

There was an old man with a cancer,
Who had finally found all the answers,
To those riddles of old,
In the depth of our souls,
But he died before he could…aaagghhh

And he says the good thing about it all is that facing death has only made him realize that all he wants to do is keep doing what he has been doing all along. 

Watching my teachers look at Death like I am looking at the Falling Rain, watching them walk their paths unflinchingly in the open-jawed face of the ugliest monster, watching them maintain their gratefulness, diligence, kindness, and humor makes my breath quicken and my feet hurt. I have to run at the speed of light, and my feet need to grow by several lightyears to fill their shoes and help continue the efforts of their lives. They have transcendental skills in seed planting and root growing while I am still a toddler. I need to catch up. 

But my only hope to achieve this is to keep following their teachings with love and gratefulness while patiently adding the odd pieces that make my life mine and myself me. S. says while it is necessary to follow the old ways, we also have the responsibility to create our own. Once we have learned to walk steadfastly no matter what obstacles we encounter, we will leave a path behind that others can walk.

So what are the old ways my teachers have passed on to me through Aikido? 

Bow humbly. Keep your center. Initiate movement from your center. Be grateful. Connect seamlessly through touch. Blend and unite with your partner. Maintain good posture. Turn around a stable axis. To have somebody agree with you, start with love and acceptance whatever his stance, then grab his center with yours and make him spin with you around your core. Move together. Seek and create harmony. Work on improving your character in the presence and proximity of others, in cooperation with others. Test and polish yourself as part of a group. Send each other flying. Take pain gratefully from those who inflict it to help you grow. Keep moving. Move together to accomplish the same goal. Harmony. Bow humbly. 

These are the things I am taking with me. These will be my offerings to Pele and my new family. These will be the first paving stones on my Hawaiian path. 

S. says aikido in its most polished form becomes a dance. Dance is another center around whose strong attraction my existence has increasingly begun to orbit during my past few years in Japan. But this passion was initiated by another teacher: an American who is waiting for me in Hawaii. Our next dance will be dedicated to P. and S., two teachers who will stand at the end of everything I write as I strive with all my heart to honor the seasons, to keep the cycle moving and the core still, to live in the true sense of the word and never let them die. 

But before I get to dance on the pumping bloodstreams of Pele lit up by the countless stars over Puna, I have a Typhoon to put to sleep. It’s time to start singing my lullaby and send off a farewell letter to the Rising Sun, written with all my love and gratefulness. Aloha Rising Sun! 

P.S. May you shine on generations to come.