I am almost recovered (although I wish I wasn’t) from my time in the lush clutches of the Hawaiian state. This adventure back to the garden island was met with some hesitation as the last time I was there, I was downing two Xanax after our engine exploded and our plane tilted towards to its side with a morbid view of my turquoise grave below. And although we survived the near death (perhaps slightly embellished via the pills and my irrational fear of flying) experience on our honeymoon, I think a subconscious part of me felt it best to avoid lush, garden island adventures.
As serendipity would have it, the hubs’ family came into some time at a condo on the island and we decided it would be a good opportunity for the kids and us to spend quality time outside the sunny state we grace 365 days a year.
After an awkwardly spent evening in one full size bed with the family of four listening to gunshots outside our “hotel” room, we boarded a plane and left our sunny drought ridden state. The first few days in Kauai I told the hubs how “I could never live here” for this reason or that. How “I prefer Maui” in my most privileged middle class erudite way. How people must go “crazy here because there’s nothing to do.” Day three into four I fully drank the kool aid and tried to convince the hubs that we should “move here instead of San Diego and start a lavender farm and live off that fatta’ the land.”
Why the change of heart? He asked suspiciously.
I had no idea.
It wasn’t until I actually got back to the mainland and saw my overstuffed house, my dependence on grocery stores, and my time spent in the swagger wagon, that I realized a piece of my soul was fed during that trip. I was in my element surrounded by peace, like minded barefoot hippies, a breeze to make one clean, and food meant for sustenance rather than indulgence. It was my place. My soul away from home. My dying place and place of rebirth all at the same time.
Since I have reentered mainland routine I have pushed back against just a few things, chaos being one of them. I am constrained by the maximizer schedule I keep and try to maintain weekly. I am constrained by the amount of cement in my backyard. I am constrained by the material possessions I surround myself with for visceral memories or simply just convenience.
It isn’t entirely clear where I am going to go from here, but a slow and steady path is forming for me to follow….as evidenced by the eight baby chicks I have living in the garage right now.
Forgive me for my existential privileged middle class voice, but know it comes from a place of reflection, sincerity, and lower class roots...Also just a tish of wine since it’s been a long few days at the office.