A Doozy

Last week marked the conclusion of my first year being a principal.  People keep asking me, "So how was your first year?  How do you like being a principal?"  And I keep just staring blankly at them, having no idea how to respond to these questions.

It was like nothing I've ever done.  I feel like dough that's been kneaded into a ball, thrown on a cold counter, and rolled out thin.  A bit thinner with each passing day.  I feel like I've been dancing with an angry swarm of bees for 10 months.  Like I got dropkicked into the ocean and have maybe just now started to learn to swim.  I feel like a fierce mother, determined to let nothing harmful near my child.  And like I've ended up in the middle of a cosmic joke; not as the punch line, but definitely part of the comedic plot.

I've never felt this weak before.
I've never felt this strong before.

I learned what if felt like to peel myself up through fatigue and fear and illness and just keep going.  Somewhere amidst that is a strength, I know.  But I also feel like someone has been kicking the shit out of me in a back alley for the better part of a year.  I'm terribly exhausted, but not as scared as I was.

A year ago I ran a half marathon for the second time.  It really didn't go very well.  The first half was fine, and then my iPod unexpectedly died, and my feet hurt, and it was so hard to keep going.  I was in a bad mood and just couldn't find my groove.  During those last six miles, I so appreciated the people cheering on the sidelines.  A mile from the end of the race a man had posted himself to encourage runners.  He was a competitor himself who had finished and jogged back to the 12-mile marker to cheer on the rest of us.  Had you asked me before the race, I would have said that his presence there would be irksome -- he'd finished, he had enough energy to run another mile and then casually hang out.  But I was wrong; that man was the reason I was able to finish the race.  He looked me in the eye, gave me a high five, and told me to keep going, that I would make it.  I held that with me during that final mile.

This year I had everyone telling me I could do it, that I could hang in there, that I could make it to the end of the year.  And I needed every single voice, needed to cling to the belief others had in me.

I think the tough part for me now is that the race is not done.  It's just beginning, and I have to keep running.  In fact, I'm not even sure how long the race is.  When will it stop being uphill?  When will the scenery become welcoming?  When will I hit my stride?  I've been told that at the very least next year will be hell on wheels, too.  And I believe it.

Somewhere in there, though, it's okay.  Because I'm starting to see the change -- in the school, the staff, the kids.  We have so far to go, so very far.  But my dreams for this place are beginning to take root.  This growth is difficult for all of us, and the progress is often subtle and elusive -- but it is there, and I'm determined to cultivate it.  And I'm honored that any number of adults are willing to put their faith in my vision and leap with me.

In the meantime, I'm still waiting for the punch line of this joke I fell into.  I bet it's a doozy.

Setting The Body On Fire

Since I became a principal a few months back, I think it's fair to say that my life is a smidge more stressful than it was before that moment.  Weekly yoga practice notwithstanding, the stress has found all sorts of interesting ways to manifest itself.  Of particular note is the fact that I am now (on and off for the past seven months -- mostly on) hard of hearing.  The stress has created a nearly constant ringing in my right ear that has spontaneously rendered me an old woman.  "Eh, what's that, sonny?"  I've taken to only holding the phone to my left ear and generally making everyone around me repeat themselves, which embarrasses me and frustrates them.  I'd fake it and nod more if I could, but virtually every piece of information communicated to me these days is new, relatively important, and requires my actual understanding.  The smile and nod just won't cut it.  "I'm sorry, say that again..."  This is all fairly amusing to me since parents and colleagues are constantly surprised when I introduce myself as the school's principal: oh, but I'm so very young to be principal, they tell me.

While I could do without the brain ringing, I'm finding that I can't imagine giving this up.  I know that sounds all simple and lovely and romantic, but let me assure you -- it's not.  It's painful and confusing and joyous and unexpected and exhausting and lonely and exhilarating and... it's not simple.  And I do not feel simply about it.  In fact, I find that I narrate my story constantly, as a means of trying to construct an understanding around this new identity and endeavor I've been thrown headlong into.

My weekend yoga practice helps me create the space in my life to do this.  A couple weeks back my instructor was giving a brief lesson at the start of class about Shiva, one of Hindu's three main deities.  Brahma is known as the creator, Vishnu as the preserver.  Shiva is the destroyer.  Destroyers often get a bad rap; "creator" or "preserver" sound so much more appealing.  But destroying can also mean transforming, a way to make way for the new.  My teacher explained it this way: "Shiva set the body on fire to find out what the soul was made of."  And that made so much sense to me.  It describes the way I've felt about this school year.

I don't mean to sound grandiose or dramatic, but so often this year I've felt like I've leapt belly first into a volcano, to be wholly swallowed by the molten ocean within.  My stress accumulates in my joints, I have bags under my eyes, it feels as though my skin will fall off, I can't hear anymore, and I wake up at 3 and 4am in a quandary of puzzlement.  I've set my body on fire.

But I am surely finding out what my soul is made of.  I feel myself shifting and being stretched.  I'm watching as I push people, share my vision, demand more.  And the school begins to reshape itself.  I have such a passionate rage burning in me that I can't sleep because I want it to be the next day so that we can do the next thing.  The next 87 things.  Immediately.  So the school can be better, so the children can be more prepared to face the lives lying in wait for them.  I want it now.  My soul is alight.

Maybe it takes a little destroying to make room for the transformation.  Maybe the pain and discomfort -- and the ringing in my ear -- are worth it, if it means that my soul can learn what it's made of.

This is where I am

Hello again to all seven of you who at one point read my posts regularly.  This is the first moment in many, many months where I have had both the time and wherewithal to write - though I don't know that I have anything significant to say just now...

In August I became a principal.  It was all rather a whirlwind experience.  I was contacted in the last week of July to see whether I might be interested in the position, at which point I met and interviewed with what seemed like 732 different people over the course of two weeks.  Not entirely sure whether I was willing or ready to make the leap, I snuck into the school and walked its empty summer hallways.  And there I thought, that just maybe, this is where I was supposed to be.  In the second week of August I was offered the job, and thus, unceremoniously launched into my new role as principal.

Let me just say this: I knew this job was going to be difficult, and stressful, and crazy.  Turns out I hadn't the slightest idea -- to know a thing abstractly is no comparison to living and breathing it daily.  It's all-consuming and easily the most difficult thing I've ever tried to do.

And yet, I know I made the right decision, and I know this is where I'm supposed to be.

The thing is, I'm beginning to know the children, and I'm beginning to know the staff.  They are so many beautiful people.  The kids ricochet off the walls, sending their fears and insecurities scattering into anyone who happens to be nearby, and this reverberates daily around our building.  Many of them bring with them a sense of noisy desperation to which I am not wholly accustomed.  I ask the most apathetic and aggressive of them to attempt kindness, and they look at me like I'm crazy.  No - they tell me I'm crazy.  "You crazy, Miss."

Perhaps I am.  But then again, so are all the other amazing adults I work with.  They are a team of people who has chosen to work in public education, with disadvantaged and marginalized adolescents.  These adults commit themselves daily to doing right by these kids in the best ways they know how.  And it's such amazingly difficult work, and so they are my heroes.

Last year I seized on this poor woman who came to observe my classes; I insisted that she student teach with me last spring.  She did, and I watched as she fell in love with the children.  I watched her learn how to construct curriculum and how to bring it to life in front of them.  And I watched her anguish every time a student gave up and refused to participate.  Her heart would break for them, and she'd go after these kids with a vengeance.  It was the most beautiful thing.

When I became principal, I asked her to come with me to my school.  She said yes, and I thank God for her every day.  There she is in her classroom giving everything she has -- really, giving so much more than she has -- she's reaching down into and past the depths of herself for the kids.  I sometimes want to apologize to her for bringing her into this crazy place with me, this place that can be so difficult -- it wrenches your heart out without any warning.  It leaves you fried and frazzled and dazed.  And yet she just keeps giving, and so do her fellow teachers.  I am unspeakably grateful.

I am learning what it means to lead adults, to run an organization, to collaborate with countless stakeholders.  I am learning to try to put something into motion, and to screw it up a dozen times over, and try again.  I am learning what it feels like to feel helpless and in letting go, to be open to the newness.  I am learning what it feels like to make thousands of decisions a day.  No.  I mean it.  Thousands.

To the point that I simply cannot decide what to eat by the time I get home, or which shelf the bowls should go on in our new apartment.  I cannot make these decisions.  And so my gorgeous husband has taken care of me -- without complaint, without fuss.  He lets me sob or sleep or walk around like a zombie.  He takes me out when I need to escape, and tucks me in when I need to hide.  For him, too, I thank God every day, every hour.

And so this is the adventure.  This is where I am now.  It is so utterly terrifying, and has so much potential for beauty.  I am hanging on for dear life, knowing that life will carry me along with it.

A Wee Bit Scared

Here is a truth: I am deeply uncomfortable, terrified even, of doing new things.  And I'm not talking here about skydiving or drag racing -- activities that reasonable humans should reasonably fear.  I'm referring to the way my palms sweat and my heart races before I try a new class at the YMCA where I've been a member for six years; the way I consider canceling on friends at the last minute because we're meeting at a place I've never been before; the way I panic and want to crawl out of my skin as I walk into a room full of people I don't know.

My personal response to this has been a strange two-step jig, the steps of which alternate between spending a LOT of time on the safety of my own couch and throwing myself headlong into all the scary.

When Greg and I decided to move to New York City, I was petrified.  And exhilarated.  Mostly petrified.  I was convinced NYC was the final frontier: if I could live here, I could do anything.  Having grown up in a Midwestern suburb, I was certain that if I could learn to navigate the subway, the taxis, the unattainable fashion and coolness, and all the rude New Yorkers, I could conquer anything thereafter.  We drove into the city on July 11, 2005.  Heading south on the FDR Drive, the skyscrapers loomed over us in all their glory and haughty indifference.  I was terrified.  Where would we park?  I mean, where would we park?  Wow, there's NYC, close enough to lean out the car window and touch, but where would we park?  Sheer panic.

Needless to say, we found parking.  And then spent the next six sweaty weeks of summer learning the rhythm of the city, and the following eight years making meaning of its cadence and lyricism.  And though I cannot claim to be a true New Yorker (I think the title is bestowed only after a decade?), I love this city every day, want to drink it in and merge myself into its very concrete fabric.

And yet, I am still scared of all the new things.  Because you know what?  There is no final frontier, for any of us, I think.  The past three years of my life have taught me this -- getting older does not mean that it all gets magically easier or suddenly makes sense; life laughs (at us or with us is debatable), a perpetual surprise around the corner.  I amuse Greg with my attempts to thwart these surprises; I generate endless "if-then" scenarios, hoping to lessen the new and unexpected, and thus the fear.  Sometimes this works, sometimes it does not.

I hate driving.  I cannot predict the road, the other drivers, the sun blinding me in the late afternoon.  I have a recurring dream that I am in a car being driven by no one, that I cannot get to the steering wheel, that the car is loose and on the run.  I get that dreams are symbolic and this dream could be interpreted as having larger symbolic meanings, and blah blah blah.  It's the car, people.  It freaks me out.

But I keep driving, and trying some of the other scary things, too.  And not all of them work out, really.  Not infrequently I just end up in a ball sobbing, sorry to say.  (Do your ears water when you cry?  Because mine do.)  Sometimes scary just keeps being scary, and it bites you in the ass a little.  Regroup on the couch.  And then back at it again.  What else is there to do but to try again?  One can't stay on the couch forever, right?

Last night, my banjo and I went to my first official banjo lesson.  Panic, panic.  But the evening was lovely.  The trees were lush from rain, the breeze drifted by, toying with my long summertime skirt.  And as I crossed over the highway on a footpath, I felt my internal scale tip away from terror and toward something like joy.  This new thing might just be okay.

Turns out the lessons were rescheduled for next week, unbeknownst to me.  Banjo and I trekked back home, back to face the scary again next week, together.

Running in the Rain

I ran eight miles in the rain this morning.  Today marked my last long run to train for my second half-marathon, next Saturday.  The weather forecast predicted rain and thunderstorms likely for the whole day, so when I woke up and there was a small break in the rain, I figured I better just go for it.  The sky was only just spitting for the first mile, and then the sprinkle gradually increased into a shower over the next few miles, but by then I was warm and oddly happy to be accompanied by the rain.  In fact, around mile six I realized that the rain had momentarily let up and I was surprised to find myself feeling as though I'd been abandoned by a friend.

When I first started running several years ago, I refused to run anywhere but on a treadmill.  I think it felt safe; I was in a controlled environment, I could stop whenever I wanted to.  Gradually I began to run in the park, but never by myself -- it seemed too daunting somehow.  Slowly I learned to run alone and to venture beyond the familiarity of the park (a couple weeks ago I even ran the 10 miles from my apartment in Brooklyn to Columbus Circle in Manhattan solo!).  But I've never willingly run in the rain.  I've seen other people run in the rain and thought, Hey, there goes a dedicated runner.  That looks awful.  Today though, I shunned the indoor track and joined the ranks of the badass rain runners.

A couple nights ago I listened to presentations by a few organizations that help at-risk kids succeed.  One of these was Row New York, a group that "empowers young people from New York City's under-resourced communities to build strength, gain confidence, and pursue excellence through the unique sport of rowing."  The speaker talked about how rowing teaches young people endurance and dedication; they row when they're tired, when it's cold, when it's pouring down rain.  While she spoke, I thought about how important this is, and how hard it is to teach young people this, or to learn it yourself.

This week in school I spoke to one of the 11th graders who had just done miserably on his neuroscience test.  He told me he understood the material, but just hadn't studied enough, explaining that he was bad at studying.  When I offered to go over some study techniques with him, he said he knew how to study, but was just too lazy to do it.  "What happens when you need to study for tests in college?" I asked.  "Oh, I'll study in college!"  To which I replied, "You won't be able to unless you build your study muscle now."  "There's a study muscle?"  "Yes, of course there is," I lied.  But it wasn't really a lie.  I talked to him about how it's important to build endurance, that it doesn't happen all at once.

I think about this a lot when a child who has not regularly engaged in school decides he wants to really be a student.  The turn away from apathy and self-doubt is such a beautiful moment, and in some ways often feels like it should be the end the long battle, but really it's just the beginning of an even longer one.  These students start out at a sprint, and soon tire, wanting once again to give up.  They don't know what it feels like to be a student -- to push themselves, to stay in class all day long, to complete a project, to care enough to ask for help, to keep working.  It's so exhausting, and they have no previous training or experience.  They just want to poof! be academically successful.  Asking them to be a full-time student all at once is akin to suggesting that a person merely stop loafing about and run a marathon, now, today, no running experience needed.  It's not possible, not sustainable.  In reality, these kids must commit to a long-term and arduous journey.

Last year I was scared to run the half-marathon.  I didn't know if I could do it.  Literally.  I didn't know if my body would take me 13.1 miles -- I had never done it before.  After the race was over, I was relieved and joyous, and proud of myself.  But it dawned on me that the race was not what I was most proud of; I was most proud of my training.  It turned out that the race was the easy part, full of celebration and fanfare; the 10 weeks of non-stop, grueling running leading up to the race was what had made me strong.  Every day that I did not want to run but did anyway -- that was what taught me something about myself.  That's why the little milestones and personal celebrations are so important, they're the only thing that can keep us going.

Last night I went to see one of my girls in her first full-on roller derby bout.  She was amazing.  All the girls were amazing.  These girls train several times a week.  They're badass chicas, proudly showing off bruises like war wounds.  They speed around the track, falling hard and getting right back up again.  I am so impressed by their spirit and want to be one of their teammates.

This student of mine, she checks in with me a couple times a day at school.  She comes for a hug and a laugh, and for me to remind her that she is strong enough to keep going and conquer her school projects.  I remind her that if she can do it with a pair of roller skates on a track, she can push herself to excel in school, too.  She tells me she wants to be strong like me, but what she doesn't understand is that I want to be strong like her.  I want to push myself to do the next difficult thing, to get up again when I've been knocked down and hurt or discouraged or when I am lost.  That girl in her roller skates, she teaches me to be a strong woman.

In Case You Forget What a Pomegranate Looks Like

The last month and a half has been particularly busy for me at work.  On more than one occasion I found myself blankly staring at someone who'd just asked me a question and then explaining, "I'm sorry.  My brain has fallen out of my ears.  Could you say that again?"  My seniors were finishing their calculus graduation requirements and panels, I took on increased administrative roles for the second half of the school year, and the term ended, which means grading projects and writing narrative reports to the kids.  Anyway, my brain was falling out of my ears a lot.

As any wise person knows, eating delicious food is one of the best ways to cope with overwhelming amounts of work.  One of my recurring foods of choice this winter has been loads of pomegranate seeds.  They are like edible candy rubies, and I'm obsessed with them.  While it can be fun to pluck out and consume one seed at a time, this is only an option for those with really nothing better to do with three hours of their life, as my best friend and I did during high school performances as we waited backstage for our next scene.  As evidenced by the brain falling out of ears, I don't have that sort of luxury in my schedule lately.  Instead, I follow Alton Brown's magical method to retrieve all the seeds post-haste: score the pomegranate, submerge in a bowl of water for 10 minutes, then rip the fruit open in the water and simply sweep the seeds away from the membrane.  The seeds will sink to the bottom while the membrane floats to the top.  Voilà!  You have a bowl of pomegranate seeds piled high, ready to munch on to your heart's content.

So there I was a few weeks ago after work one day, in the produce section of the grocery store.  Having consumed several pomegranates in the previous weeks, I thought to myself Ooh, I want a pomegranate!  And then I did the blank stare at all of the fruit.  And I thought I can't remember what a pomegranate looks like...maybe sort of like an orange?  If I see one I'll probably recognize it.  At which point I began to slowly spin around, like a person lost in a crowd, looking for something that might remind me that it was a pomegranate.  Yup, that's how far gone my brain was.  And it was not until the next morning when I'd had a decent night's sleep that I actually managed to remember what one looks like.

But amidst having so much to do that my brain periodically stopped working, I was, as always struck by the joy that it is to work with young people.  Teenagers, specifically.  They're just kind of wonderful.  A few highlights:

1) A couple weeks ago one of my seniors turned in his project to me, and as he turned to go he asked if he could do anything for me.  This took me off guard; I thanked him and told him I'd let him know if anything came up.  The next day I gave up my classroom to a teacher who really needed one and planned to move into an office.  But, the office was full of shelves and files that needed to be moved in order for a desk that I didn't yet have to fit.  I panicked a little, feeling a bit lost and displaced.  On this particular Friday after school I was stuck for hours doing some admin work, only to be informed by someone walking by that, unbeknownst to me, my office was being set up by this same student and my friend whose office I was moving into.  They worked for hours clearing out all the old junk, finding me a desk and computer, and setting the whole thing up.  I was incredibly touched.

2) Last week another teacher and I were in the hall talking to a group of kids between classes.  After chatting a bit we reminded them it was time for their next class.  They all drifted off except for one 11th grader who stubbornly refused.  He's new to the school and not yet convinced that this whole academic thing is for him.  This other teacher and I were unsuccessfully trying to convince him to be on his way when one of his classmates showed up and gently took him by the arm, saying, "Come on.  It's time to go."  He resisted, saying that he didn't want to go, to which she casually replied, "I know, none of us want to go, but here we go anyway."  And without another word, he went off to class with her.  He's on the margins, at risk of not engaging as a full time student; she saw this and simply drew him into the fold.  Beautiful.

3) A few days ago, one of the boys I'm close with showed up in my office during first period asking if I had any candy.  I teased him for not saying hello or asking how I was and only wanting candy.  To which he said, "It's because I'm angry!"  And then he launched into a long story about how his friend at a neighboring school had been jumped by a bunch of seniors at that school, and now this friend wanted him to come over to the school that afternoon and beat these kids up.  Now, this young man is definitely a fighter.  He lives in a tough neighborhood and fights people frequently, but this was not a neighborhood issue.  And, for the past year and a half, he and I have been working on providing him with non-violent responses he can fall back on when he's upset or in a tight spot.  I reminded him of this and told him that's why he'd shown up in my office: he didn't want to fight, but didn't know how to tell his friend that.  Then we talked about how you could still be a good and loyal friend even if you didn't fight to defend your friend's honor.  This, however, goes against everything he has lived for 15 years.  He decided to step out into the hall and call his friend: "Yo man, I'm down wit you, I'm just not down wit you like dat.  Naw, I can't fight."  Um, yeah, I literally did a happy dance.

Teens in our society are cast as lazy, disrespectful, dishonest almost-people.  And unfortunately, many schools and teachers also seem to see their students as a sort of enemy to be battled, or at least to put up with, each day.  This is really too bad, because teenagers are just young people trying to figure it all out.  And who of us isn't?  I surely am.  The older I get, the more I am convinced that adults don't really have anything figured out, we're just better at faking it.

These kids are vulnerable by definition: they are in flux and constant chaos and will reach out to most anyone or anything that will provide them with a bit of attention and direction.  We need to be there for them because far too many pointless and destructive forces will happily guide them if we don't.  And more importantly, we're totally missing out if we write them off.  When they know they are loved, even teenage children are warm and giving, and most always quirky and unexpectedly hilarious despite themselves.

Okay.  I'm off my soapbox.  There it is over there and I'm not on it any more.

After the pomegranate incident, my friend JD gave me this, explaining, "In case you forget what a pomegranate looks like again."  Thank goodness for the children, and for good friends.

Pele on the Shore

This is a bit of a departure from my usual posts.  It's a piece of fiction, which is a first for me, and it's rather longer than my typical posts.  You are officially forewarned.

In August I got the chance to visit a good friend in Hawaii; she lives here in Brooklyn, but she was staying with her grandma on the Big Island for the summer.  I thought our week together would be lovely and scenic, but I was completely unprepared for the magic that would meet us there in that place.  Anyway, our week-long trip touring this little big island and the people we encountered on our journey inspired this story.  I hope you enjoy it.

PELE ON THE SHORE

Story by Sarah and JD

Written by Sarah

Photos by JD

It should have been a dark and stormy night, but it wasn’t.  In fact the night was clear and peaceful.  Or would have been without these dammed koki frogs’ incessant chirping echoing across the landscape.  It sounded as if every Hilo resident were receiving a text message at the same moment and continuously, the froggy notifications all layered on top of one another, announcing themselves into dawn.

I came down from Alaska for some much needed R and R; I couldn’t remember the last time I had taken a vacation from full-time detective work.  Alaska had been wearing on me.  My face was starting to look weather-worn and leathery, tanned from so many hours’ exposure to the elements.  I always thought of my hair as brown, but these days my reflection told the truth of it: it had been going white for months, even years.  Worse still, the left side of my neck had developed a semi-permanent cramp so painful it felt like Death himself was pinching me with the vice grip of his bony fingers.  For a couple of weeks I hadn’t been able to turn my head to the right without a searing pain streaking down my right side.  It was time for a break, and the Big Island had called my name.

So there I was settling into the warm August night when my cell phone perked up.  I had set it down on a table somewhere to my right, so I had to grope around with my hand to find it—either that or rotate my entire body.  I half hoped I would miss the call altogether, but my fingers stumbled across the phone on the fourth ring, and I answered.  The broad on the other end was more than a little frantic: she needed a private eye and she thought I was the man for the job.  I tried to explain to her that I was on break, off the clock, but something in her voice convinced me she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

 

I made my way to the local kava joint she’d described.  The atmosphere inside the place was mellow and it seemed clear that most of the patrons had been there for hours, enjoying one coconut shell after the next of the Hawaiian “root beer.”  Locals and tourists mingled, half of both groups wearing Hawaiian floral shirts, the tourists more easily identified by their deep-lobster hue.  The moment she walked through the door the bar fell silent.  Every eye turned to take her in; this was no ordinary dame.  She was a tall creature of beauty: a young woman with smooth bronze skin and black hair that flowed into eternity.  Her eyes glowed, embers in her flawless face; she was a goddess on earth.

I did a quick check to make certain my jaw wasn’t resting on my knees and stood to shake her hand.  It was only then that I noticed the distraught look etched about her face.

“Joe?” she asked, and I nodded in affirmation.  “My name is Paulani.  Thank you so much for meeting me at this late hour.  I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

“What can I do for you, Ma’am?”

She looked a bit abashed as she explained.  “Well you see, I’ve lost something.  And so far no one has been able to help me locate it.”

I assured her that I’ve found many an item, though the going might be slow here in Hawaii, as it was unfamiliar territory.  “What is it you’ve lost?”

“My invisible cow,” she told me, her tone as serious as the sunburn the haole sitting in the corner had acquired that day.  “She’s been lost for several weeks now, and could be anywhere on the island at this point.  I attempted to find her using all the traditional methods--I’m sure you’re familiar with these, so I won’t bore you with the details--but I’ve run out of ideas.  Joe, won’t you please find her for me?”

I checked the jaw-on-knees situation once more, waiting for a suitable response to come to me.  When none did, I found myself telling her I’d take the job and do my best not to let her down.  She wrapped her arms about my neck for the briefest of moments and said she’d be in contact.  And then she was gone.  I could still feel the warmth of her arms ablaze about my neck, sending chills down my spine and almost making me forget the incessant cramp that had plagued me of late.  Truth be told, though I hadn’t the foggiest idea of how to begin, I knew then and there that I’d search to the ends of the earth if it made this dame happy.  How hard could it be to find an invisible cow?

At dawn I set out for the south side of the island in my none too sturdy rent-a-Jeep.  As I drove, the lush jungle gave way to vast expanses of barren lava fields.  I considered the life of an invisible cow and where such a creature might go wandering given a bit of freedom.  I’d heard interesting things about the Kilauea volcano and figured an invisible cow might have heard the same.  It was as good a starting place as any.

I arrived at Kilauea’s crater and was approached by a park ranger, indicated by an official badge pinned to his Hawaiian shirt.  He remarked that I looked a little lost and asked if he could be of help.

Dubiously, I explained, “I’m looking for an invisible cow.  Have you seen one?  I don’t have an accurate description because the cow is…well, invisible.”

“Oh, sure,” he replied amiably.

Shocked, I asked when he had seen it.  “Now, let me think here.  Ah yes, I saw one five years ago.  Another three years ago.  Two of them together once seven years ago.  Now, that’s a rarity, two together.  And another four years ago.  None recently, though, I’m afraid.”

“I see.  Thank you for your help.”

“Oh yeah, no problem,” he replied.  “Enjoy your time here at Kilauea.  Pele was sure serious when she made this one.”  Noting my baffled expression, he continued.  “Ya know, Pele is the Hawaiian goddess of fire and volcanoes.  She’s responsible for the continual creation and destruction of the island.  It’s said that when we tick her off she lets us know by the eruption of one of her volcanoes.  She’s a serious lady, not to be trifled with.”

I peered past the park ranger into the volcano crater that lay before me, and I had no doubt that he was right.  If this here crater, miles wide, was created because this Pele dame was a little cranky, I hoped not to cross paths with her.  Plus, I reminded myself, I had an invisible cow to find.  The glow of Paulani’s eyes came to mind then, and I almost thought that I could see her peering out at me from across the crater.  With that image playing about my mind, I started off.

A fern-dominated rainforest perimetered the crater.  I noticed an area of crushed vegetation to the right of the trail.  I knew better than to turn my head in that direction, so I shuffled my whole self to the right for a better view.  A frightened cow, even an invisible one, could have stamped down the plants in this manner, so I foraged ahead into the jungle along this trampled path.  Around me launched ferns, and these were no dainty ferns; they were fern trees, Jurassic and enormous.  Violet fiddleheads unraveled and gave the distinct impression that come nightfall they would gladly feed on anyone foolish enough to still be walking among them.  I pressed on, thankful for the sunlight.  On and on I went with only the mosquitoes and moss to keep me company until the forest abruptly ended and I was spit out into the lava field that was Kilauea’s crater.

Behind me the forest had vanished, and in every direction there was only lava.  The landscape looked as if a city’s worth of asphalt had been dumped in this spot and then disrupted by a series of earthquakes.  Here smooth, there in a pile of its own rubble, the lava dominated.  I walked for an hour, for days; I walked across this lava field for a lifetime.  I didn’t see a single invisible cow, much less Paulani’s.  As I reached my third lifetime in the lava field, I began to feel fatigued and deciding to rest, I lied down.  Around my head gusts of steam escaped from underground vents and I could feel Pele below me, rumbling, watching, breathing.  In the depths of this place, she churned and waited.  I fell asleep to her rhythm.

As I descended into sleep I felt the nerves and muscles of my neck relax, and I could turn my head to the right.  It was here that I saw the invisible cow.

“Don’t mean to disturb you, but I’ve never seen something invisible,” I told the cow.

“Most people aren’t open to the idea,” she replied.  “There’s so much to be seen, if one cares to see it.”  This seemed logical enough, so I nodded.  “Joe,” she said kindly, “it’s time for you to get going.  Enjoy the ocean.”

I wanted to ask her to come with me, but then the waves were crashing before me and the cow was nowhere to be seen.  I heard a “mooo” to my right and turned that way, causing my neck to clench up and spasm.  Cursing under my breath, I slowly straightened back around and read the sign before me: “South Point.”  I didn’t understand: last I knew I was sitting in a lava crater, and now the ocean was before me.  Had that been Paulani’s cow in my dream?

Gazing out into the horizon, it occurred to me that between where I stood and Antarctica only this ocean existed.  I felt Alaska pulling me from behind, and the snowy tundra of Antarctica pulling me forward, and so I plopped myself down to feel more securely fastened to this island and its southern-most tip.  The bluest waters I had ever seen swelled and dissipated all around me, beckoning the island to crumble and join their watery depths.

I knew I had to get out of here before those depths called to me, too.  Not sure how I’d got here in the first place, I wasn’t any more sure how to get out.  I wandered up the path, the ocean and its salty sirens at my back, and headed for the road.  I didn’t remember parking my rent-a-Jeep there, but here it was waiting for me.  I drove aimlessly, looking for a place where I might get a cup of coffee and some food in my belly.  A bit down the road I saw a sign for the Aloha Diner, and pulled into the dusty parking lot.

Inside the diner, I slid into a booth, the heavy floral fabric worn and cracked in places by years of use.  A waitress appeared.  “Here for some coffee, right?  And maybe a bite to eat?  No problem honey, hang tight.”  I opened my mouth to respond, but she was gone before I had a chance to speak.  That was fine just by me since I had enough to puzzle through for one moment.  For example, how long had it been since I met Paulani in that kava bar?  A day, a year?  And just exactly what sort of fool was I to think I could find an invisible cow?  Yet, the park ranger had seen them.  I was pretty sure I’d even spoken with Paulani’s cow today, I reminded myself.  Or had that been a dream?  It hadn’t seemed like a dream.  And further, what sort of a place goes from jungle to lava field to ocean in the same breath?  Certainly no place I’d ever seen.  This island was its own enigma, and I had a feeling that’s exactly the way this Pele dame liked it.

The waitress returned and unceremoniously set in front of me a cup of coffee and a plate with a few boiled potatoes.  Inspecting one of the slender potatoes, I was taken aback by its inside: it was violet.  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I called after her, “I think there’s something wrong with this potato.  It’s purple.”

She tilted her head and then smirked, laughing suddenly as if I had made a funny joke.  “I like those Japanese sweet potatoes, too,” she said.  “Purple as can be and just as delicious.”  Smiling at me, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

I drank my coffee and ate my purple sweet potatoes, sans salt, pepper, butter.  They were the perfect purple food.  The diner was mostly empty, a few folks peacefully eating meals.  The only exception to the quiet was a man exclaiming loudly into his cell phone while pacing up and down the aisle between the booths and barstools.  Strapped to the front of his chest in a carrier case was a baby who for all the world seemed content to be the second-hand recipient of the man’s overbearing phone conversation.  Every once in a while the man would stop mid-stride and say something even more emphatically, and then resume his walking once again.  I hunkered down and tried to make myself oblivious to his raucous prattle.  Eventually I realized that the man had finished his call.  I glanced up and saw that he was standing directly in front of my booth, his strapped-in progeny hanging, eyes fixed on me.

“Not from around here?” the man inquired.  The baby gurgled.

“No sir.  Just passing through.  Thought I’d try these fancy purple potatoes.”  Unbidden, he settled into the seat across from me, just barely enough room for himself and his kid to squeeze in.  It was clear he had something he wanted to tell me, and I had half a mind to ask if he’d be more comfortable calling my cell, but I thought better of it.

“Friend, whatever you’re looking for,” he started in, “you’re not going to find it here.”  The baby’s head bobbled up and down, as if in agreement.  “You should continue on, go Kona-side.”

“You may well be right,” I replied, “but how do you know what I’m looking for?”  It’s unlike me to solicit the help of others’ in my investigations, but nothing about the day seemed put together quite right, so I thought: what the hell.  “In fact,” I said to him, “what I’m trying to find can’t even be seen, so I’m not certain to know it even if I’ve found it.  Any advice there?” 

The man held out his left index finger and the baby gripped it.  With his right hand the man absentmindedly stroked the child’s head, back to front, following the slight silken hair that grew there.  “This is about a woman, yeah?  Friend, no one sits in a diner like this with a look on his face like you have unless a woman is involved.  And of course you can’t see it.”

Nonplussed, I stared blankly at him.

“Tell me this: did you decide yet whether you love her?”  He smiled broadly and opened his mouth as if to continue, but his phone rang.  The baby shrugged at me sympathetically as the man answered his cell and proceeded to carry on vigorously about wind speeds and generators.  It seemed that was my cue to leave, so I slapped some money on the table and slid myself out of the booth, out the door, and back to my Jeep.

I found a seaside shack down the road and rented a room for the night.  Groggily I thought about what the guy had said.  I was in search of a cow, not a woman.  Yet it was true that Paulani hadn’t been far from my thoughts since the moment I’d laid eyes on her, and every bit of this island brought her to mind.  Did I love her?  How the hell was I supposed to know?  Knowing that seemed more difficult than spotting an invisible cow.  My thoughts slowed and ran into one another, indistinct.  I slept a dreamless sleep.

The next day I continued driving around the island toward Kona.  The sky was so blue it was cliché, but I’d never met a cliché I’d liked half as much.  I pulled over to take in the view.  Sitting on the hood of my Jeep I watched the clouds.  The right side of my neck twanged at me, helping me decide that the clouds above and to the left were the best ones to watch anyway.  Normal clouds move in a single direction across the sky, or sit lazily, but these clouds swirled about one another in the sky in every direction at once.  They play and dance like giddy lovers.

Realizing I had just thought that, I rolled my eyes at myself, and knew it was past time to carry on my way.

Back on the road, the vegetation became increasingly sparse and the road became bumpy and bumpier.  I tried to navigate the potholes and lava mini-craters, but the road got so bumpy it made crunchy peanut butter seem smooth.  I was convinced pieces of the Jeep were being ripped from the underside by the road, but no sooner had I thought this than a zebra on the side of the road caught my eye.  It watched me drive by, unconcerned.  What is this place?  Had I stumbled into a wilderness petting zoo?  I shook my head in disbelief, only then to see a donkey and next a long-horned cow.  The road jostled me along, and by the time I crossed paths with the bison I wasn’t even surprised.  I didn’t feel like anything could surprise me at this point: not a unicorn, not even an invisible cow.

The road eventually mellowed out somewhat, much to my neck and the Jeep’s relief.  Since my brush with near-death-by-bump had passed, I got a chance to remember that I was no closer to finding Paulani’s cow than I had been back in that kava joint.  Near Kona I thought I’d sort out my thoughts and take the moment to stretch my legs.  I wound my way down toward the shore and parked, took my shoes off, cuffed my pants and walked along the beach in the direction of nothing in particular.  In the distance I saw what looked like a man and his pet headed my way.  As they approached I saw that the man’s pet was a sea turtle and he was talking excitedly to it.  The man was barefoot, wearing hot pink stretch pants and a loose tank top.  His hair was a dingy blond mop that bounced about wildly as he gesticulated.

The pair neared where I stood and the man greeted me with the enthusiasm of a long-lost friend.  “Hello!  How are you?”  Eyebrows raised, I made to respond, when the sea turtle chimed in.

“Don’t be rude, Troy,” the turtle chastised.  Can’t you see the poor man is looking for something and has gotten himself lost?  Sir, how might we be of service?”  I stared at the turtle, mouth agape.  At this point I wasn’t sure whether I was more surprised that the turtle could talk, or that I would still be surprised at a talking turtle here on Pele’s crazy island.  Not to mention the fact that I seemed to have an “I’m lost and looking for something” tattoo on my forehead that was invisible only to me.

Troy gripped my shoulders, his hair jolting back and forth as he exclaimed, “Excuse my insensitivity.  Of course you’re upset.”  He then placed a hand on my cheek, holding it there for a beat, our faces now only six or seven inches apart.  He removed his hand and I looked down at the sea turtle to ask whether they’d seen any invisible cows recently.  Both Troy and the turtle took a deep breath in and began jabbering at once.  There were enough words for at least five people coming from just the two of them and they both shook animatedly with each new syllable.  From what I could make out, they had seen at least one invisible cow in the past week, or maybe month, and it had not been friendly to them: something about flying cow patties.

After I’d gleaned as much as I thought I could from their high-speed verbal volley, I finally interjected, “Which way did it go?”

Miraculously, they both stopped momentarily and then agreed in unison: “Counter-clockwise,” to which I think I twitched a little in confusion.  “You know,” the turtle explained slowly as if to a very young child, “the opposite way that the hands on a clock go…counter-clockwise?”

While I understand the concept of counter-clockwise, from where and towards what were not clear to me.  What was clear to me was that I wasn’t likely to get any more clarity from the likes of these fellows.  I thanked them and continued along the beach, listening to the boisterous laughter of the two companions in my retreat.

I set myself down on a large lava boulder and stared out into the waves crashing toward me.  Pondering my newest lead, I figured that counter-clockwise from here would be back down toward South Point.  But I’d just come from there and wasn’t keen on retracing my steps just yet.  And what if this dung-chucking invisible cow wasn’t even Paulani’s?  The ranger said he’d seen two together once, which meant that at least two of the creatures inhabited the island.

I let my eyelids close for a moment and listened to the surf, wishing I could speak its salty language.  In spite of--or perhaps because of--all its inexplicable mystery, the Big Island was starting to grow on me.

Just then I heard something to my right coming my direction.  Remembering to be gentle with my neck, I shifted my whole body to the right and squinted, peering into the distance.  In the dusk, a woman was walking toward me; strong with flowing hair, I could have sworn it was Paulani.  As she got nearer, though, the woman’s shape shifted into than of an old woman, gray hair and spindly brown arms.  Nonetheless, she walked with surprising confidence and grace, as if she were born of the sand.

She continued toward me until she was close enough to touch.  We stared at one another for several long moments; it was relaxed and comfortable, with none of the apprehension or anxiety that comes with spending an awkward silence with a stranger.  She smelled of earth and ash, soil and fire.  Reaching her left hand out, she cupped my neck.  I braced myself for the complaint my strained nerves would surely give, but her hand was heated and relaxed the muscles of my neck, releasing the tension they had been storing.  I turned my head to the right, without pain.  She nodded at me in acknowledgment.

“Joe,” she said, her wizened hand still on my neck, “did I ever tell you that you have the most beautiful blue eyes?  They sparkle like the ocean, like ice crystals I’ve only ever imagined.”  She moved her hand up and began toying with my hair, wrapping one of my curls tightly about her smallest finger.  Still caressing my hair, she moved her wrinkled face near my ear and whispered, “What is it that you want to ask me?”

“I…” I started, but didn’t know where to go with it.  She waited patiently as I formed my thought.  While she waited I felt myself growing old with her, our bodies becoming timeless, unto the ends of the earth.  Then just as suddenly we traveled back in time once again and became youths together, and I remembered the clouds from earlier in the day, how they danced together.  Finally, I opened my mouth to speak and we returned to our proper selves.  “I don’t understand this island,” I said.  “And why would Pele want to keep destroying such a beautiful place?  Who’s that vindictive?”

She smiled at me knowingly then, and all the years of the world were in her face.  “Pele doesn’t want to destroy the island.  She wants it to live forever.  The ocean, as beautiful as it is, eats away at the land every moment of every day.  Only Pele’s volcanic offerings can create the new earth that allows Hawaii to live.  Only her destruction can bring life.”  She disentangled her hand from my hair, cupped my face in her hands, and kissed me lightly on my chin.  And with that she left, continuing her stroll along the shore.  I watched her go, feeling both fulfilled and painfully alone.

I dragged myself from the beach then, and went to find somewhere to crash for the night.  I grabbed a burger at a local fast food place and checked myself into a dimly lit roadside motel.  I was out before my head hit the pillow.

The next morning I arose early and continued on my way.  Detouring from the far north side of the island, I opted to take the mountainous Saddle Road, which cut back across to the Hilo side.

Driving in my Jeep from west to east, I ascended into the mountains, and the arid climate of Kona fell away behind me, replaced by a cool and heavy fog.  A yellow road sign kept appearing: “Hill Blocks View.”  No kidding, I thought.  But in places it was actually quite difficult to see and I thought to myself, man this hill really is blocking my view.  And then I chuckled in spite of myself: hill blocks view.  I continued past Mauna Kea and watched as the grassy hills reached up to kiss the expanse of sky, the two forever reaching out to one another.  At one point pine trees towered from the ground on my left, and at the same moment a man-sized cactus squatted on the right hand side of the road.  Evergreens and cacti, allied here in this one spot…only in Hawaii.

Back in Hilo, I did something I’d rarely done before in my career: I admitted that I was momentarily stalled in my investigation.  I phoned Paulani using the number she’d given me, and asked her to meet me.  She gave me intricate directions to a set of tidal pools near Hilo.  I drove to where she had instructed, parked the Jeep, and headed off in the direction she’d indicated.  As I walked the path, the ocean lay to my left, surrounded on the island side by masses of lava boulders.  To my right was an Iron Tree forest, and in front of me the path suddenly gave way to a freshwater stream.  Following Paulani’s directions, I carried on through the stream, immersing myself at first to my calves, then thighs, and eventually it splashed about my waist as I trekked forth.  Not another living soul was in sight; it was only this winding watery pathway and me.

Eventually I arrived at the collection of tide pools.  Hardened lava protected from the ever-persistent crash of the sea’s waves, splashing happily without rest.  Settling onto one of the lava expanses, I noted the clarity of the water, as if it weren’t even there.  Just below the water’s invisible surface lived a collection of spiny sea urchins.  They stared back at me, apparently as amused to see me as I was them.

I was so wrapped up in my sea urchin tête-à-tête that I never heard Paulani approach; she was simply standing beside me.  If I thought I had remembered her beauty, I was mistaken.  The woman before me was radiant beyond my wildest dreams, emanating warmth and fire.  I stood to greet her, not really sure what else a man in my position should do.

“Ma’am,” I began, “I’m devastated to say that I don’t know my next step.  I’ve been all over this island, and I haven’t been able to track down your invisible cow.  I’m not sure what to make of it.”

She laughed suddenly and said, “Don’t be silly, Joe.  My cow returned to me yesterday; she’s right here.”  With that, Paulani casually motioned to her left, at nothing.  But, at that moment, as if to dissuade my disbelief, a distinctly content “MOOOOO” emerged precisely from that apparently empty location.  I smiled, knowing that owner and invisible cow had indeed been reunited.  “More importantly, what did you think of this Big Island of ours?”

I thought for a moment, realizing suddenly that this was the important question, and my answer would be everything.  “You know, Ma’am, I can’t truly explain it, but I think I’m in love…with the island, that is.  I’m not rightly sure I can go back home to Alaska, I think this might be it for me.  I know this sounds ridiculous, but I think this island stole my heart, Paulani.  Do you mind if I call you that?”

“Actually, call me by my given name.  Pele,” she said with a sly smile.  My chin dropped to my knees once again, but I knew in fact that this was her, standing here before me.  “Joe, that was all I ever wanted, for you to know this place, to know me.  I wanted you to see it and experience its magic.  And yes, maybe to love it.”  With that she placed her mouth firmly on mine and laid a smoldering kiss on me.  And then she smiled at me, and turned to go.  As I watched her disappear into the distance, I could hear a faint but happy “moooo” following behind her.

 THE END