Inspirations: Archives

The fact that this is a true story is un-important. The fact that I not only remember it many years later, and it continues to re-affirm and re-create an inner compassionate space, is its vitality. Once upon a time, twenty years ago, my newly wed husband and I flew off to Hawaii to escape over-amped L.A. lives. We decided going native a more enticing idea than staying in a chi-chi hotel. This reasoning found us on a steep hillside looking for hidden bungalows, not only remote, but bathroom-less. Unbeknownst to us, we had not left our ‘big-city-selves’ behind yet. We were irritated, even uppity of spirit, which we expressed as we tried to find the office and someone to speak to. We called out, we knocked, we stood crankier by the L.A. minute. Finally a very large Samoan man, rose from his hidden bed, and slowly padded our way. I thought, ‘Oh great—slow, sleepy and dumb. What were we thinking to come here?’ He stood passively, silent, waiting. Allan asked, “Do you have a night’s rental?’ “Yes.” “Can we see it?” “Yes.” Beat… beat…. beat… “Is it far?’ “You should drive.” We took that to mean, ‘you out of shape, Haoles.’ Is there a key?” “No.” Keyless and clueless, we get in the car, in a dialogue as funky as the dirt path. “Can you believe that guy?” “What a slob.” “And my, God, so slow.” “Maybe his brains were in his feet?” Hopeless!” With that attitude, you don’t think we were going to see the hidden, romantic hideaway we had envisioned? What we find is a childhood version of a tree house on stilts, with light shining through the walls. Because we remain on a hard-drive L.A. chich, we decide it is not for us. We return to the… Read more »