Morning bike ride

In Hawaii the sun is libertine

she kisses everyone-

the relentless roosters

The copious coconut trees

The brown-backed surfers

And me.

In Hawaii the sun makes the warm cloudy mist rise from the ground

Here the morning mist is the gloomy cold gripping greedily to car exhaust.

My skin is not kissed but freeze-dried

A brief stripe of warmth intermingles with the cold breeze.  Car exhaust?  Or the last fighting gust of summer?

Or perhaps my imagination.

The sun has given me the cold shoulder.

I look up

And realize

The sun has a different job here.

She is an artist

Who has painted the mountain with her morning light

Until it glows with pride in a hundred shades of orange and yellow.

I forgive you, Fall.

Missing Grandpa Floyd

It was a perfect day outside, but I was wishing it would rain, just so I could know that at least the sky was crying with me.  The world seemed too happy, and I felt so sad.

I pedaled slowly and mechanically down the normally beautiful bike path, reflecting on the phone call I had received minutes before.  I had grabbed my things and raced out of my office before the tears came. I knew what my brother had called to say before he made it past an overly optimistic “Hello”: Grandpa had passed away.

I had a lot of time to think about him on my hour-long bike ride home.

One of my earliest memories is exploring the wonderland that was his farm.  There was an adventure around every corner: a piglet to hold close, a calf to lick my fingers, a giant peacock to trail for stray feathers.   Then there was his noisy, busy dairy, where I could always find him in his coveralls and cowboy hat putting in another full day’s work for the cows who knew him perhaps as well as we did.

As I grew older, I wandered the farm less and found myself visiting inside the old house more.  Both Grandpa and Grandma were always interested in my life.  They were always sincerely and immensely proud of me for what I understand now to be trivial accomplishments.  After Grandma passed away, our family would spend Christmas Eve evening singing and playing instruments and sharing our annual “talent show” with Grandpa in his living room.  He would read us the Christmas story from the Bible and share his most heartfelt gratitude for the birth of Jesus Christ.  Christ and Grandpa had a very close relationship. 

He encouraged me to serve an LDS church mission, and sent notes of encouragement during my 18 months there via my mom.  When I returned, I sat beside his leather rocking chair and held his hand while we talked about the people of Lithuania and my experiences serving them. 

When I got engaged, he had me sit beside his chair again, this time to give me his advice and his blessing for the decision I’d made to marry Kendon.  He wasn’t able to fly across the ocean for the wedding a few months later, but I could feel him thinking of me, proud of me for choosing eternity.

I was never too old to deserve the words, “There’s a special girl,” in his gruff farmer’s voice every time he saw me.  I was never too old for a whiskery kiss on the cheek and a giant hug.  Nor was I ever too mature to be shown his favorite “toys” each time I visited: from stuffed mice that jumped out of boxes to “baby rattlesnakes” in manila envelopes. None of his nine children or 61 grandchildren or 46 great-grandchildren or 6 great-great-grandchildren ever grew too old for these treasured experiences.

I thought about how much I’ve changed since those carefree days of wandering the farm.  Then again, at the end of the day, change is the only thing that’s inevitable.  Today change is causing me pain.  It’s taken away the greatest man I’ve ever known. But yesterday a change in his health was causing him pain.  For years change has been taking away his loved ones. Today change is giving him freedom.  It’s giving him health. It’s giving him back my grandmother, his mother and father, the bride that made him a young widower, and countless more friends and family members whose obituaries he’s been reading for far too many years. 

So the question is, will I let this new change go to waste in my life?  Or will I remember and revere him by applying the many lessons he’s taught me over the years?  Will I see the value and potential of every soul and love each person unconditionally?  Will I maintain an eternal perspective in the face of life’s greatest challenges?  Will I contribute every gift God has given me to every person I meet until I can no longer hear or speak or stand?

I made a resolve on that bike ride home to ask myself what Grandpa would do; to be the type of woman he would have me to be.  And then the cool autumn breeze gave me a big hug, the sun gave me a reassuring smile, and I wiped my tears away.  Everything is beautiful. Including change.

Yesterday a great man passed away. The greatest I have ever known. 

Thanks for changing me, Grandpa.

A ride down memory lane

I rode my beach cruiser for the last time.

I took my usual route, riding past Kekela Beach Park, where Kendon and I went on our first beach walk as a married couple.

There was the beachside mansion, with its weed-covered tennis courts, broken windows, and chipped paint. I used to think it was haunted. I later found out an old woman lives there who is simply lonely and eccentric.

The sea breeze hit my nose again as I glided past Pounder's Beach, where Kendon and I spent our first Christmas afternoon building a snowman... out of sand.

There was the otai stand, where a kind local family sells carved wooden art and tapa mats and, most of all, delicious, refreshing, otai on Fridays and Saturdays. Perfect for date night.

I passed the dirt road I used to run down in my single days. Eventually it can take you to a beautiful waterfall perfect for a hot day, but follow it a different direction and it leads to the most blissful banyan tree, which stretches its strong arms down a cliff and invites passersby to climb up, up, up.

I smelled barbecue wafting from one of the houses nearby -- probably for a plate lunch sale later -- and remembered all the times I've had plate lunches at the cafe up the road. My friend Jon once challenged me that I couldn't eat an entire pancake platter from there. He said he would pay for breakfast if I could. Four 12-inch pancakes churned in my belly for hours.... but they were so deliciously free.

I rode past the Polynesian Cultural Center, watching dancers in costume race by the back fence to perform in the daily canoe show. When I worked here, I would delight in walking out of my small gift shop and yelling, "Aloha!" with a shaka to Japanese high school groups. Their response was always an enthusiastic "Arohaaaaa!!" that never failed to make my day. Later I would see a prophet of God -- Thomas S. Monson -- pay a visit here. I would surprise Kendon with a Haunted Lagoon ride here during Halloween. And I would sit in awe every time I saw the night show -- a classic tale of the soul of man and land; of the "Ha: Breath of Life" that lives in all of us.

I approached campus and memories flooded from all sides. Here I gained a new sense of confidence; made friends that changed my life; had teachers that changed my perspective; held my dream job; received a bachelor's degree; and learned to understand Aloha.

In the distance I saw the Laie Temple. On the hill behind it, I sought shelter when a tsunami threatened to overtake our little town. My house never floated away (though I was prepared with my camera to document this), but I did manage one of my best sunburns after that long day of waiting. The temple resting beneath bears perhaps the greatest significance of all the structures in this diverse little town. Here I held hands with my best friend and listened to the words that made him my husband -- my eternal best friend. I cried as it occurred to me that our relationship literally had God's stamp of approval.

I thought of these things on my last bike ride. I looked down at Mufi, the rusting, turquoise beach cruiser, gripped his sticky handle bars, and said one last thank you for all the rides.

Then, under the weight of all the memories, I biffed it. For the first time ever, my feet slipped off the pedals and I bruised my knee in a mad attempt not to crash. I took it as a sign. It's time to move on, I thought. Time to make new memories. Time to ride a new bike past new landscapes.

As I arrived at this new epiphany, I also arrived at the house of Mufi's new owner. I handed him over to Megumi, who gave me a big "arigato" smile that made everything OK. It was time for her to discover Laie by beach cruiser.

Goodbye Laie.

Hello fresh start.