Here Now

Turtle at sunset in Kihei.

KIHEI, HI, MAY 2022 — Sea turtles are so wise. They go slow on land, and then glide quickly and effortlessly in the water. They don’t struggle. They know just where to go, returning night after night, year after year, to the same spots on the beach. They remind me to slow down, and to not get so worked up about things.

Sometimes I forget.

As I walk by a napping turtle, she seems to whisper to me, “You’re tired, dear, I can tell. Go rest now. It’s good.”

Turtles show me how to follow the sun, my instincts, and the cycles of each day. They encourage me to find my own pace, slow or quick.

Turtles carry their homes with them, we learned this as children, which means they are home everywhere they go. I love that idea.

I came to Maui because I needed a home base during the pandemic. I sold my home of 25 years just three years after I became my husband’s caregiver, and just a year and half after he died. That Pacific Northwest house, surrounded by evergreens, with its river-rock lined woodstove and large cedar front porch, was, indeed, my perfect home. Until it wasn’t. Then, I handed over the keys to the new owners only six months before the novel coronavirus baffled doctors in Wuhan, and at that time, I had hoped that, like the turtle, I would find home anywhere I went. I let go of more than half my worldly possessions so I could travel light. The stuff, I knew, was not home.

Of course, just like everyone around the globe, the pandemic changed the trajectory of my life, almost in the same way my husband’s disease did a few years prior. My plans were to live houseless for a while, travel, walk the trails, write, sleep, couch-surf, take time to cry and figure things out. Those plans came to a halt.

Then, in February of 2021, the month my second grandchild was to be born, I woke abruptly in the middle of night. I got up, grabbed my journal and started writing.

Sometimes you have to lose your mind to find out who you are.

I didn’t make that up. I heard meditation teacher Tara Brach say it recently, and it stuck with me.

Angel slap. Keep writing.

Robyn, you have more letting go to do.

More? How could there possibly be more? I have given up everything. I have given up my teaching career, my musical life, house. My identity as a creative career woman and responsible citizen.

Ego. Desires. Sense of identity.

One of the most powerful spiritual teachings out there says that resistance to uncomfortable truths or pain causes more pain.

Plans.

Plans. I struggled to let go of my plans to fly to the mainland to be there for my daughter at the birth of my granddaughter. Covid kept me away. I decided to quit fighting myself, quit trying to figure out a way to make it work, and stay put on the island with the turtles for a while longer.

My sister opened her condo to me, and I bought an electric piano.

“You bought a piano? Does this mean you’re staying?” my island friends asked.

“Well,” I responded. “It means I’m here now.”

My island friends and family are used to me coming and going. I spent some time each winter here after Bill died, needing the nurturing of the sun and Mother Ocean. I always stayed with one of my siblings, then left again for the long glorious summer days in the Pacific Northwest. But this time I decided to do my part for the common good, and I took a job as a Covid case investigator and contact tracer for the state of Hawaii in March of 2021. The community welcomed me. The job came to me effortlessly, with a sense of purpose and a bit of money. It seemed meant to be.

And because Hawaii has had one of the lowest death-per-capita from Covid rates of all the states, it is clear that what we investigators did, and are still doing, has saved lives.

When vaccines became available, I finally made it to the mainland to meet the newest baby and play with the grandkids. At that time, I also emptied out my storage unit and released my remaining worldly goods.

More letting go.

Back on Maui, I have been performing music again, at the Unity church (they have lovingly welcomed me into their fold) and at a gorgeous art gallery in Lahaina. I have moved what few things I kept to my small bedroom in my sister’s condo. I have an address, and a library card. I have my guitar and electric piano, a few books, my laptop, and a small island-appropriate wardrobe. The necessities.

“So, Maui is your permanent home now?” my island friends ask.

Permanent? We all know there’s no such thing as permanent, right? and that’s the reason life and time are so precious.

“Well,” I respond. “I’m here now.”

I used to think of the turtle’s shell as her home, the one she carries with her, like a pilgrim’s backpack. Now, I like to think that the turtle’s home is the whole dang ocean.