Rhena Writes

Tag: travel

  • Keeping the home fires burning

    The deal around this house is that if the temperatures go into the fifties or above, we don’t have a fire in the wood stove. Sadly, today is one such day. I’m still sitting next to the stove even though it’s little more than an empty metal box right now because it’s still a comfy spot, just not quite as cozy as it is when there’s a hot glow emanated from the box.

    The fire is one of the ways that I get myself through the winter, especially in these fewer and fewer minutes of sunlight each day. I know. In this day and age, what’s the problem? We have plenty of indoor electric lighting and, yes, I do turn on many lights during the dark evenings, but somehow the glow of the fire just heals me right up. It sparks something primal and constant in me. It serves as a reminder that my ancestors made it through winters with little more than such a fire.

    The fire is also deeply satisfying because it’s something that I have to build and tend to: splitting kindling, carrying in wood from the stacks outside, making the fire starters. I couldn’t explain how to take care of the fire to someone else, it’s just becoming the second nature that arrives only with much attention and experimentation. Knowing what piece of wood needs to go on next, whether the damper needs to be opened or the embers merely stirred up. Yes, the smoke alarm went off as recently as the last week when I wasn’t being attentive enough but even those moments are becoming fewer and further between. There’s even work for the kids: stacking wood, unloading it, checking the moisture levels. And it’s particularly satisfying when one of them curls up for a nap on the nearby couch, stands in front of the box to warm his hands, or just stares into the flames. Yes, much of the time, they’d still choose looking at a screen (they are human children, after all) but I know that at least having the option of resting their eyes on the fire through the winter months kindles something in their imaginations. I’m guess anyway. And I’m projecting. I know that glow of the fire does something that no screen can do.

    Last week, we heard a strange noise which inspired me to call the company that installed and maintains our wood stove. I call it a company, but it’s a guy and a few employees. Anyway, it turns out that the owner has the same stove model that we have. So on the phone, he was leading me through some options of what the noise might have been and then told me how to remove a part of our pipe in order to take some pictures. Once I sent him the pictures, he said we could go ahead and start having fires again as everything was in working order.

    But two things happened in the course of that morning. The first was that I was able to get the pictures he needed. It feels quite good to be able to take care of things around my own house. The other thing that felt nice was just to have a chat with someone knowledgeable about these sorts of things. We swapped a few stories about our wood stoves and it was just, well, pleasant.

    I know that maybe that doesn’t sound like much, but I’m a stay at home mom. Many of my days, most of my social interaction is with my husband and kids. And while I do actually love my alone time and wouldn’t have it other way, that’s not to say that I don’t enjoy the occasional chat especially one that is about something else I enjoy. Namely: owning, using, and learning about this wood stove.

    I feel competent (in fire building, in home owning, in creating a homey atmosphere for my kids). I feel connected (to both ancestors and other people who are excited about things like wood stoves). I feel cozy and even creative. I get to use my body to build fires but I also use my brain.

    This post is not some sort of an advertisement for wood stoves (even the high efficiency ones like ours). What I’m trying to do here is to examine the things that bring me joy, to break them apart into their component parts so that I might more clearly feel that joy not just when I’m sitting in front of my wood stove. But in every moment. In every breath.

  • To Bike or Not to Bike?

    It’s a sunny, 60ish day here just outside of our Nation’s Capitol: a perfect day for a short, easy bike ride up to my local library. I’ve recently fallen in love with my library as a space to write and read surrounded by books and people who, for the most part, seem to also be readers and writers. Mostly, I’ve been driving up there but a few times recently, I’ve enjoyed the ride. So after checking the weather forecast for this week, I’d earmarked today as a day to ride. I loaded up my lunch, my notebooks, and books into my panniers and set off, helmeted and ready for the two miles or so.

    I live right next to a very busy highway that varies from 6 to 8 lanes. The library is on the other side of this road so I have to cross it at some point to get there. Lately, I’ve been using an unmarked crosswalk without a signal. Early enough in the day, there’s been a long enough break in the traffic that it’s a very lowrisk crossing.

    I’d pulled over to rest on a curb and to wait for an opening in the traffic when I saw the markings on the asphalt on the roadway in front of me. Blue and orange spray painted circles dotted the intersection. They might as well have been hieroglyphics. I did not understand them. But I did know why they were there.

    On Sunday evening, driving back from a family visit, there was an unusual amount of traffic along our residential streets. I conjectured that something was going on one of the arterial roads that was pushing traffic onto these side streets. Sure enough, after I pulled into our driveway, I went out to the highway to see the blue and red lights of emergency vehicles circling around. Eventually, two neighbors passing by informed me that a driver had hit a pedestrian and the roads were closed.

    So here I was staring at the orange and blue circles that meant something specific to someone about the events of Sunday evening. All they meant to me as I sat on my bike waiting for an opening in the traffic was that a person had been hit along this road. Again.

    The police would report that it was a 13 year old girl attempting to cross the highway who was in critical condition at an area hospital. This information was repeated by local news outlets. However, I heard from a reliable source that a teenage boy (a student at the nearby high school) had been hit by a car on Sunday evening along the same highway. So either the victim was misidentified or two people were hit by drivers along the same highway the same night. As unlikely as it might be, the latter isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility. In the last four months, drivers have hit three other people in a slightly more than one square mile area. All three were killed.

    On the side of this highway, waiting for a break in the traffic, I wonder whether the drivers are thinking about the young person who was struck at this intersection like I am. I know that crossing this road is the most dangerous part of my ride to the library. I consider walking my bike up to a marked crosswalk with a signal, but both of those are a distance to walk especially pushing a bike on the narrow sidewalks. And then I have to consider my ride back home.

    So I climb off my bike and turn it around. As I’m riding back to my house, I consider whether or not I should just drive up to the library. Even if it is safer, I don’t really want to be another driver on the road. I’m lucky. I have a nice, safe house with most of what I need (other than, of course, the community of people at the library). I don’t have to go anywhere and even though I really could use the exercise and fresh air and human interaction, I have to weigh those benefits against the stress of trying to walk or bike safely within this infrastructure built for cars.

    Here I am, back at my house, having chosen the “not to bike” option. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sad and disappointed. How I’d rather be at sitting at the library seeing those increasingly familiar faces, writing about something more joyful than drivers killing and maiming people, my neighbors. But this is what’s on my heart. And it’s honest. So at least there’s that.

  • Summer break begins

    It feels like this is the first day of summer break even though the kids have been off for school for a couple of days and even though summer doesn’t officially begin until tomorrow. I think it’s because my husband is off of work today. And this time last year, I was dealing with a new cancer diagnosis. I was so consumed by all of the appointments and details, getting through each day, I was barely aware of the seasons changing. It was a hard time.

    This summer, I’ve been able to look a little bit further forward, planning outings, swimming, taking advantage of farmer’s markets and other simple things that I completely missed last year. I started to try to plan today with my kids, going out to a museum. I was surprised that it was the kids who put the kibosh on that plan. They wanted to laze around a bit, read and maybe go up to swim at the neighborhood pool, enjoy what their own house and backyard have to offer. I realize now that part of me was feeling so guilty about all that I couldn’t do with them last summer and I was kicking off this summer by trying to compensate. As always, I over shot. Thankfully, my kids pulled me back.

    In myriad subtle ways and just in their being, they remind me that we can all be content with what’s right in front of us. We have already been given so much, there’s no need to keep striving for more beyond that.

    So instead of hoping on the metro somewhere else, my son and I made oatmeal raisin cookies. When he was first in kindergarten, I used to make them about once a week. He loved these cookies. It was such a simple pleasure and he acted as if he was starving in the desert and these were actual mana. Today is the first time he’s actually made them with me. I’m shocked by how capable he is, and how much he seems to enjoy my company. And I didn’t need to go even outside of my front door for these experiences and lessons.

  • The impossible chocolate bar.

    Daily writing prompt
    Describe your dream chocolate bar.
    View all responses

    I am a study in contrasts. Or perhaps extremes is the word I mean.

    I enjoy an Aero bar. Which is a bit confounding as it’s the pockets of air — the absence of chocolate — that make it appealing to me. Or perhaps it’s the combination of that which is there and that which is not that makes it unique.

    Or that here, in the States, it’s hard to come by British candy bars. Perhaps it’s that the Aero bar is a treat here in the land of Hershey and Mars.

    Certainly, my other favorite chocolate (are we meant to just describe one?) is the chocolates that I’ve only had from Narita Airport. And these Royce chocolates aren’t airy at all. They are dense and rich and I can’t really eat more than one or two in a sitting. OK, who am I kidding? I could eat an entire box but I restrain myself because I know it won’t be until another trip through Japan that I’ll be able to enjoy them again. (Needless to say, these chocolates, are, like most things these days readily available on-line, but I choose to ignore this ready availability. Convenience kills flavor and my enjoyment. This is about the dream chocolate bar and I prefer to live in the fantasy.) They are a velvety smooth ganache. Simple and elegant.

    They are, in other words, at the other end of the spectrum from the Aero bar.

    Would it be possible to combine these two into one chocolate bar? The pockets of air with the heavy denseness of the Royce chocolates? Perhaps.

    Or perhaps the idea behind a dream is that it is imagining the impossible. Perhaps having conceived of the idea of the dream chocolate bar is as good as having experienced it.

    ***********************

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • “Having it all” means being present to myself…

    Daily writing prompt
    What does “having it all” mean to you? Is it attainable?
    View all responses

    … in each and every moment.

    Is it attainable? With a lot of work, absolutely.

    I feel as though I have a lot of distractions away from myself, a lot of competing demands, a lot of voices telling me what I should be doing, attaining, being, thinking, making, taking, giving, living, watching, fearing, hearing, seeing, feeling, having, owning, buying and all the rest of it. The work of it is learning to say no to those demands. And figuring out how to say yes to myself.

    For me, this has required a lot of grace extended towards myself. It has meant allowing myself to be who I am without judgement. I try to practice this presence to myself every day. I fail a lot.

    When I go for a walk. I try to just go for a walk. I pull myself back to myself again and again. This is hard for me to do because my mind is continually scanning for what might be coming next even on a walk around my own neighborhood.

    But I pull my attention back to myself again and again as I walk.

    The other day. I saw a bird in front of my house. It had something in its beak. Maybe it was going to take it back to build its nest.

    If I had not been in a mode of slowing down, I think I would have missed seeing that bird. And then I would not have had that bird in my mind as I sat down to write this post.

    If I had not slowed down to observe the bird, would the bird still exist? Would it still have built its nest if I hadn’t seen in? Probably.

    But I will never know.

    And so I’m glad that I slowed down, that I came back to myself to observe the bird, building its home. Now the bird lives in my head.

    And on this post.

    And this is what I mean by having it all.

    ************************

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post about daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Surviving extremes with koselig, sabai, and balance.

    Daily writing prompt
    How do you feel about cold weather?
    View all responses

    I love cold weather. No. That’s not right. I love the feeling of being warm and cozy, which is only possible with cold weather.

    When I was teaching English in Thailand, I’d try to explain what it was like where I’d been living in the United States. I had recently graduated from the University of Wisconsin at Madison which is, well, cold. I studied Thai language for a semester or two and for some reason language classes are often first thing in the morning. I tried to describe trudging up Bascom Hill in the snow and ice to make it to Thai class on time. I wore heavy boots and multiple layers, a scarf wrapped up all the way around my face so that only my eyes were visible. I’d describe to my students how my breath would condense on my eyelashes and scarf and then freeze. Entering the warmth of the language building, it would all instantly melt, leaving my face, scarf, and hat slightly damp.

    Sometimes, as I was describing this to them, a slight breeze might cut through the tropical heat of the open air classrooms. Sabai. Sabai. A study in contrasts.

    Here are the two languages I’ve felt pulled to learn more about recently: Thai and Norwegian. Perhaps my ancestors are trying to tell me something. Maybe they’re warring it out, both trying to make claim space on my tongue, in my brain. It doesn’t bother me. There’s room for both and all.

    For a while, I lived in Minnesota, which has an outsized Norwegian influence. It makes sense, the climates are somewhat similar. As much as I love both places, it’s mostly because of the summers if I’m honest. Like I said, I enjoy the feeling of “koselig” in cold weather. And I like to knit. I enjoy a steady fire, warm drinks. Candlelight. But it’s also easy to forget that what comes with the cold and koselig is the dark. There are times in both places — Minnesota and Norway — where there’s almost no sunlight for long stretches at a time. It’s hard. Really, really hard.

    But so is the heat of Thailand, sometimes. And the flooding.

    So I guess it makes sense that I live at a latitude somewhere between those two extremes now — not too far from the latitude where I was born. And perhaps pleasing to the ancestors on both sides.

    ***************

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post about daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!

  • Writing this post is one small improvement I’m making in my life.

    Daily writing prompt
    What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?
    View all responses

    An underground lagoon of water inside a cave. On hot days, it is cooling. On cold ones, it’s a hot spring. Either way, it is eternally refreshed by a constant stream of clean, fresh water. High above the pool, there is a space in the rock ceiling through which sun and moon light alternating stream through. The sunlight feeds the mosses and ferns that grow on rock outcroppings on the walls.

    This cave can be accessed from a tunnel. But at first, the tunnel was very small. I’ve had to dig out the tunnel bit by bit to get to the pool. I shoveled and scraped a little bit here and there, carried out the dirt and stones back out of the back of the tunnel. I had to carry it some distance from the entrance lest it built up too high and the whole thing caved in. One day, I could finally see the pool clearly. And so I kept going. Each day, the work of widening the tunnel and carrying out the garbage became easier and easier. I could even say that I enjoyed it a bit, even though it was work.

    Finally, I could reach the pool. I swam and rested. I drank the clear water. I floated and let the water hold me. It flowed around me. I could stay in here forever. But I won’t.

    The world above would miss me if I stayed here.

    And in any case, the pool is infinite, ubiquitous, ever-present. All the work I put in wasn’t for nothing, after all.

    When I started writing this blog, I didn’t set out to write every day. Even once I found the daily prompts (or they found me, perhaps?), I didn’t set a goal to respond to them every day. And yet, here I am, having just posted to this blog fifty days in a row. I didn’t ever set this as a goal. Still, it feels like something of a milestone which, in turn, feels like an appropriate moment for reflection.

    Or not.

    I had this sort of idea in the back of my head that at some point, maybe today, I’d write a “what I learned from blogging for fifty days in a row” post. Or “what happened when I blogged daily.” Or “the benefits of posting everyday.” My understanding is that those are very SEO friendly terms … or something. (The word “understanding” is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.)

    But none of this has been about pleasing any other person (much less an algorithm, search engine, or even, I’m sorry to say, readers). It’s been about me. Making myself content. Giving myself space. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s been about digging towards that pool of my own creativity. And there’s still possibility there.

    So. Will I be back tomorrow?

    I really don’t know. Because the other thing this has been about has been to give myself permission to just be in each moment, to do the things that feel most nourishing to me, to always look for opportunities to extend myself grace. Who knows what tomorrow’s daily prompt will bring?

    I’m just focused on the grace, the space, the nourishment of this moment, this breath.

    ***************

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. 

  • Celebrate this breath. And then the next.

    Daily writing prompt
    What is your favorite holiday? Why is it your favorite?
    View all responses

    The trunks of banana trees, sliced into thick rounds, make for the perfect floating lantern. The bigger ones can be loaded up with flowers, incense, a candle, coins, and candy, (along with any manner of spiritual detritus that one might want to send away) and still remain buoyant once they are placed on the surface of the water. These gifts are for the Water Goddess. Children wait further down river to retrieve the money and sweets perhaps in her stead. My guess is that witnessing the joy and exuberance the children experience in the water is the real gift to the Goddess. Well, it was a gift to me anyway when I got to partake in Loy Krathong in my father’s hometown many years ago.

    The paper lanterns, the ones that float upward into the sky are lifted by the heat of the candle inside. They cannot bear the weight of so many offerings, but wishes and blessings in the form of words can be written on the paper before launching them into the night sky. And the hope, of course, is that they do not land in a dry patch of forest or a thatch rooftop and cause a fire. Unlikely, of course, as this of Loy Krathong is celebrated at the end of rainy season in Thailand while everything is still wet.

    During the day, there are performances, dancing and singing, likely a parade. There is a fair, too, with food and vendors.

    Or at least, that was what I remember from the year that I got to celebrate Loy Krathong in Thailand. The floating lanterns — both in the sky and on the river — are beautiful. I think now the whole thing would be considered very instragram-able. I feel lucky to have been able to partake before instagram, to have the memory of launching my own floating lantern into the river that used to come all the way up to the very back door of where my grandparents lived. I can’t really say why it’s important to me or significant that my memories of this holiday are from before Instagram but somehow it is.

    One year, as a child growing up in DC, we went down to float lanterns on the reflecting pool between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. Of course, they weren’t carried away on the current. That we had to retrieve them made the purpose of the ritual — to send away our bad luck — a little less poignant. And it was much colder in DC in November than in Thailand. Trust me: no children were wading into the reflecting pool to retrieve floating coins and candy. Still, it was lovely. And perhaps, in retrospect, it brought home to me the sacrifices that immigrant communities make especially when attempting to hold on to something of our ancestral homes.

    One of the things I love most about holidays like Loy Krathong is that they are tied to the seasons and the earth. Although I haven’t really lived in a culture that celebrates it as its own holiday, I love winter solstice. I love summer solstice too. Many years ago, I visited Norway in June. The long hours of sunlight were beautiful. (And, also, yes, at times a little eerie and disconcerting.) On the flip side, every year, I find winter solstice unexpectedly cozy. Something inside of me (maybe my Norwegian ancestry?) wants me to acknowledge each of these special dates, turning points on our solar calendars. Is it possible to celebrate a holiday alone or is this something that must be done communally?

    This question of what is my favorite holiday called forth these vivid memories of the few times I got to celebrate Loy Krathong. Still, I didn’t get to writing this blog post until rather late in the day compared to when I usually respond the daily prompt. My normal routine was disrupted by a doctor’s appointment and other parenting and household tasks in addition to the fatigue of radiation that I’m still experiencing. I’m glad that in between these chores, I had the memories of lanterns, bobbing along the river current and floating on the night air, to call upon. At the same time, I cannot say that Loy Krathong is my favorite holiday. Certainly, some of my favorite holiday memories are of this festival of water and light, but I do not celebrate this regularly enough in my current life to call it my favorite.

    And I feel this ambiguity particularly on a day like today when I was busy but also very much felt like a patient, very much still in the midst of dealing with cancer. A blood draw. Drugs. Pain. Fatigue. I’m painting a miserable picture here. But that’s not my intent. Or it’s only part of my intent. Because in between these moments of being poked and prodded and even within the pain and discomfort, I have to find a reason and a way to celebrate. I cannot wait for the full moon of the twelfth lunar month. I cannot wait for summer solstice. I cannot even wait for this weekend. I have to find the holiday, the reason to celebrate in each moment. Each breath. And so I do.

  • Yes. I’ve been camping.

    Daily writing prompt
    Have you ever been camping?
    View all responses

    … and I’d do it again, but only if my kids really wanted to go camping with me. I enjoy the comforts of my bed, a nearby bathroom and toilet, the climate control, the absence of bugs.

    Don’t get me wrong, there are certain things about camping that I still really enjoy: the simplicity, all the little gadgets and gear, a camp fire, setting up a little patch of space to make it your own, even if it’s just as big as a sleeping bag, the night sky.

    I mentioned before that I went to some very bougie schools. One of them had an outdoor education program on a few acres of land next to Shenandoah National Park. It was pretty bare bones: platform tents with cots, outhouses, a basic shower house. But there was a fully functional kitchen and a classroom building both of which had electricity and running water. Each year, we’d go stay there for up to a week with our classmates and teachers. I spent a few summers there working as a counselor.

    Once, much later on, I went camping for one night with a group of friends. It was much more rustic than that. We basically carried some blankets and beer through a stream and into the woods not too far from where some of them lived. It was nice, but in the morning, I was aching and sore, maybe even slightly feverish. One of the friends we were with had spent a good portion of time living in a jungle in Southeast Asia. He was a refugee and his life was less “camping” and more “surviving” and I assume that this version of staying out overnight in the forest probably looked pretty cushy from his point of view. My whole body ached. “You’re not used to this,” he said by way of explanation as to why I felt sick. And he was right.

    The one time I had come even close to the way he had lived in the jungle, I went to visit an army camp in the jungle on the Thai-Burmese border. For me, the hike up the mountain was difficult. At the top, there were a few bamboo and wood buildings, similar to the ones in the refugee camp where I’d been teaching. I was given a room to myself while the soldiers shared a communal one. I was the only woman at the base at the time. Tired from the walk, I slept well even with just the bare-bones accommodations of a few blankets on the floor. But that wasn’t really camping.

    I’ve taken my kids car camping. They enjoy all the coziness of sleeping together in a family tent where they can explore the myriad zippers and pockets, consider how best to set up their own spaces. And the s’mores too. One time, my daughter carried around the bag of marshmallows the whole time, as if it was a comforting stuffed animal. I think she was rather shocked when we eventually ripped open the bag and roasted the contents over the fire.

    No matter how flat the ground, it always seemed like the few times we went camping with the kids, we’d end up having shifted, rolled, and slid through the night. I felt like the princess and the pea, only it would be a rock or two that I inevitable end up on top of and would feel even through the camping mats. I suppose that enough of these sore and achy mornings and the idea of camping has lost its appeal. Or maybe I am a bit of a princess.

    Over the past year, I’ve had many nights when aches and pains from chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation have disrupted my sleep. I’ve been grateful to have a bathroom (and painkillers) so close by. I spent a small fortune on various pillows and bedding in different shapes and sizes for maximum nighttime comfort. So for right now, I’m glad I’m not sleeping on a forest floor.

    But maybe, JUST maybe… I can begin to imagine a time when my body feels well enough that sleeping directly under the stars, even with a rock in my back, will be all the comfort it needs.

  • Hawai’i

    Daily writing prompt
    What place in the world do you never want to visit? Why?
    View all responses

    Here are a few paragraphs from an essay I wrote (and didn’t publish) a few years ago:

    I am not immune to the romance and draw of travel. In fact, I spent a fair portion of my twenties moving from place to place, exploring a few different countries and towns. My husband and I recently calculated that we had one year that we travelled twice internationally (Norway and Japan) and at least three or four domestic trips, all with our two kids, one of whom was preschool-aged. But in recent years, I’ve grown a bit more wary of travel and, perhaps, a little embarrassed at how thoughtlessly I travelled in my earlier years. Of course, I grew and changed as a result of traveling. I’m possibly even a better person because I travelled (there’s no way to know, obviously, as there’s only one of me and no telling how I would have turned out had I not travelled). But the question that I am really considering is this: were the people and places I visited better people and places as a result of my having been there? I’m having my doubts. At the very least, the carbon impact of the flights, cars, and even boats that I used to get places is irreversible. (The trains I travelled on feel not only more charming but less polluting per mile travelled.)

    Let us take a closer look at the example of Hawaii. In July of 2021, a former Hawaii state representative Kaniela Ing tweeted, “Stop coming to Hawaii. They are treating us like second class citizens.” According to an August 13, 2021 article in SF Gate by Libby Leonard, locals on Maui were facing water rationing and shortages due to water supplies being diverted to support tourists who were traveling to the islands in numbers which exceeded those pre-pandemic. I observed out-spoken indigenous Hawaiian activists on twitter asking mainlanders to stop visiting as those who live on the islands were facing both water shortages, which in turn impacts food security, as well as housing shortages. Of course, the response from many is that tourism brings in money and creates jobs. According to the Hawai’i Tourism Authority’s website, visitor spending in Hawaii in 2019 amounted to $17.75 billion and typically accounts for approximately a quarter of the state’s economy. But what is the trade-off between dollars and quality of life for the local people? In the same SF Gate article Napua-onalani Hu-eu, a Hawaiian activist and kalo (also called taro) farmer indicates that before water was being diverted away from farming, “much of Hawaii’s food was grown in east Maui.” Today, 90% of the food on the island is imported. Former Representative Ing also tweeted, “Tourism is a servants’ prison that keeps local people in a permanent underclass, in our own home. It’s a system that literally only works when the people who play here are richer than us who live and work here.” 

    I went to Hawaii about twenty years ago, before I’d taken the time to inform myself about the dynamics of the tourism industry there. It was beautiful and relaxing and I felt at home, in a way. Primarily, this is because being a multiracial-Asian person is not unusual there — or at least it’s not as unusual as in other places. When you’ve spent most of your life feeling like a bit of an odd duck because of the way you look, it’s very comforting to be amongst people who look like you, even if it’s just surface interactions.

    Still, my comfort is not a good enough reason to go back and visit when the indigenous folks there have asked that we not and when the dollars I would spend there wouldn’t necessarily be going to support and help locals.

    This daily writing prompt came at just the right time for me, as I’m currently reading the last few pages of issue #119 of Bamboo Ridge, Journal of Hawai’i Literature and Arts. This issue is titled, Kipuka: Finding Refuge in Times of Change and was published in 2021. From the introduction:

    “When volcanoes erupt, variances in topography create kipuka, islands of turf untouched by the flow of lava. While Pele’s fiery rivers caress its borders, its plants and seeds remain. It watches lava cool, then blacken. It witnesses pahoehoe break down into rich volcanic soil. And when the time comes, it seeds its surroundings, sets free former boundaries as genesis and legacy join. Na kipuka preserve and regenerate. They survive and persist. They anchor and hold life, ensuring in the end that nothing is forgotten.”

    While I was going through chemotherapy last year, I was often exhausted but paradoxically, I also experienced a bit of insomnia. This was possibly due to the steroids I’d been prescribed to help with the nausea. Regardless of the reasons, I often found myself awake late at night. This can sometimes be a lonely time, vulnerably time. I suppose it’s possible that it was in this state that I reached out on line. I don’t remember what I searched for specifically, but I found Bamboo Ridge on the other end of the line I’d cast out. In a flurry, I ordered six of their volumes and promptly fell asleep. Since then, I’ve read two of the six that I’d ordered.

    I’m not going to say that I feel as though I’ve vacationed in Hawai’i each time I’ve read one, because it’s something much deeper than what I could have experienced in a few weeks in a resort. I feel like I’ve come to know and connect to the parts of Hawai’i that the tourism industry ignores or, worse, feeds off of.

    I visited Pearl Harbor when I went to Hawai’i. The way that it’s set up now, for tourists and visitors, it feels as though Pearl Harbor is some sort of historical past. That it actually doesn’t exist in the present. In his three poems, Lee A. Tonouchi, brings the reader into Hawai’i’s militarized present.

    I’m sitting here typing, trying to figure out how to finish this post in a meaningful way. But the truth is that I’m in the midst of radiation treatment which has made me very fatigued. And I just took one of my anti-cancer medications that, if I don’t time it out, causes waves of nausea. Even if I wanted to travel somewhere like Hawaii, even if locals had not requested that tourists not visit, my body is currently demanding that I stay home. So I’ll retire to the couch to finish the last pages of this issue of Bamboo Ridge which I ordered in the lonely dark of the night. And art, words, poems, and stories will distract me and, yes, in a way transport me right when I need it. And for that I am grateful.

    *********************

    If you enjoyed what you’ve read here, please check out other posts. Likes, shares, and reposts help get my writing out to where it needs to be. I’m also grateful for financial support. Even though I post about daily, I only send out a once a week summary email to subscribers. Thank you!