Skin Deep

I’ve gotten used to lizards keeping me company while I do yoga out on the lanai despite my onetime herpetophobia. They are a fact of life in Hawaii. I figured I’d have to make peace with them if I want to live here. And so I did. This morning a particularly aggressive one took a stroll across my yoga mat. I realized his pointy snout was drawing him toward my cup of papaya juice. I know from seeing their little faces leering down at me from the papaya trees that it’s a favorite. So I shooed him away and put my cup on the table, safely out of reach of pointed tongues.

But the other day, I was doing my usual morning yoga, reveling in the sunshine and fresh, clear air, when I noticed a lizard had attached herself to one of the wooden uprights on the deck. Following my movements, she arched her long spine, stretched her chin past her knee toward her foot and then started chewing on her toes.

I can’t do that. But I felt oddly flattered.

I went back to my practice, stretching and toning and finding four dimensional balance, listening to the gentle birdsong in the background, feeling the breeze on my skin, its heat equatorial with an undertone of cool.

Then I noticed lady lizard’s skin was turning pale. Fascinated, I gave up all pretense of downward dog, forgot about chattarunga, and stared, gape-mouthed, as she shrugged her narrow shoulders and removed her face.

yoga lizard

Ah. Molting. I hadn’t realized lizards do that. And as I digested that idea, I started to wonder why I’d never seen any discarded lizard suits draped over the lower branches of the potocarpus hedge.

She was quick to answer that question as I watched her slowly eat said skin. She opened her eyes wide in a “yummy” gesture and grinned at me, a wisp of papery epidermis dangling from her lower lip until, with a quick whip of her narrow tongue, she licked it off.

As I sat enthralled, Dear Abby popped into my head.

Dear Abby

Granted, my little friend was taking this concept rather literally, but the idea has been going through my head. I realized that we had not lived here quite long enough for life to become normal when we returned to Japan where we had lived for so long that it felt normal even though it wasn’t. And then, at long last, we came back here, where things were no longer the normal we hadn’t ever gotten used to in the first place.

I would like for our life here to be part of who we will become, or better yet, who we are becoming. I feel pretty sure it will, assuming a lot of things it is not safe to assume. I’ve always enjoyed the unpredictability of life, the tantalizing spice of the unknowable. But under all of that, it feels like we’re living on a veneer of thin ice, ice that shouldn’t exist in a tropical setting. It wouldn’t take much to upset the papaya cart and leave all of us climbing out of our skin.

Still, despite our worries and fears, when the evening sunset casts its pink glow across the pineapple patch and the purple-red leaves of the ti trees, there’s a sense of magic in the air. While the world is toddling its way into an uncertain future, I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be. 

Me pineapple

 

Sobgiggle

It’s almost impossible to write when my emotions are turned inside out. While the world is percolating with disease and bitterness, there is no sweeter air than the air I am breathing this moment. The setting sun casts a pink glow on the pineapple fronds I see in my very own garden while birds chant their contentment.

This morning, I lay on my yoga mat with my eyes closed feeling calm and composed. When I opened them, my breath was sucked out of my lungs and up into a sky so clear and blue that I let out a sound I had never made before. At that moment, I realized I had invented a new emotion, a joy so pure that it nearly lifted me off my mat. But it was a joy blended with a sorrow so profound that it could have sucked me down through my mat into the depths of the ancient volcano that pulses and breathes beneath us.

I had created a sobgiggle.

Learning to live with joy is just as hard as learning to live with grief but it is a learning process that gives form and meaning to life. I am grateful for it.

Quarantine: Day 1

At long and weary last, we are home. We managed to unpack most of the junk we dragged back with us. I went through all the mail, ending up with three piles: stuff I have to do something about, stuff I will consider doing something about, and credit card applications. The latter was by far the largest.

Now I’m wide awake at 1:30 am. I went to bed at a reasonable time but had a horrible dream. We were back in Tokyo, sharing a shabby apartment with two guys; one had a horse head. A horrific car crash had triggered a second wave of virus outbreak. Sirens wailed outside and when I tried to see what was happening, a tsunami crashed into the building.

A word to the wise: Don’t watch a documentary about the 1348 outbreak of bubonic plague before bed when you’re jet lagged and feeling just a little guilty that quarantine is a pleasure.

Lizard

Through the miracle of the flying sardine can, otherwise know as Hawaiian Airlines, the mouse is back on the Big Island. There is much to do. Several months worth of cat hair beg to be swept under the rugs, spiders encouraged to take up residence elsewhere. The cats have marked their protest to my absence in my bed; much laundry has been done. I work my attack on the invasion of tropical weeds marching toward the house, a stoic terracotta army uniformed in shades of green. From under the wilting tomato vines a village of disease-ridden snails have been unceremoniously evicted. Lizards leer at me, papaya juice dripping from their chins as they feast on my bounty, perched on branches just out of reach.

This morning, while attempting to free the compost barrel from the clutches of a particularly vicious strain of crabgrass, a lizard leapt from among some palm fronds and landed on my calf, startling us both. But its touch was not the slimy pointy slithersome horror I had expected. Instead, it was gentle, soft, like the brush of the tip of a cat’s tail or the fingertips of a very young baby. I had expected to suffer an embolism but instead felt warmth, release, comfort.

I didn’t expect to be gone so long, didn’t know I would be back so soon. And yet, here I am, and in that one moment I realized I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Aloha, Hawaii. I missed you.

The Case of the Three Rascals

While the mouse is back in Tokyo seemingly until the end of time, we are pleased and proud to welcome Leah and Mick for a bit of intrigue on the Big Island.

It was a dark and stormy night on quiet Kala Street.  In one quiet house, three lonely kitties were twiddling their paws.  Mom and dad were nowhere to be found and those other two folks had already left after some furious butt-smacks, chest cuddles and snack throwing. What’s a bored cat to do for entertainment?

These three fur balls knew just what to do. Working in stealth mode, they reconnoitered the guest room where rested an intriguing pile of boxes.

“Boxes!  We we LOVE boxes! Yeah! Let’s climb and roll and try to topple them.”

And they did, which meant that the very biggest box, the one that had come a mere day or two after mom and dad has left, was now exposed. It was a big box, a heavyish box.  And currently unopened. 

But not for long.

It’ll never be known whether it was a team effort or a solo pursuit, but eventually a bit of the tape was off.  Then some more.  The box had already been a bit crushed so eventually “some kitty” worked its way in. Could it be Twitch?  She’s small but mighty. George is the obvious culprit but he’s lots of meow and less action. Our bets are on Monkey-boy. Wiry, attentive. Who will know?

That other guy came in last night (his gal friend was at class so he was working solo) and saw that the box was more mashed in and more open. “All right, you rascally kitties, I’ll just close the door to this room,” he said, twisting his mustache in an I’m-the-boss-of-you fashion.

This morning that gal was at the house, too, and after curtains were moved and windows opened, butts-smacked, smelly cheese strip provided in teeny bits to Ms. Twitch and Monkey-boy fell off the couch yet again (much to his chagrin), she opened the guest room, knowing that Ms. Twitch likes to curl up on “her” chair in the afternoons. 

The box was open, mostly! Not wanting to snoop but thinking, “Lord what have they got into now?” She crept closer, lifted the lid, removed the mass of packing paper, and spied the evidence.  Suddenly the missed meals, the perplexity of why the cats weren’t eating was clear……

…… they were helping themselves, albeit just a little, to a large bag of cat food that mom must have ordered just before she left. A wee hole had been nibbled into the bag and the evidence of kibbley bits in the box was proof enough. The guy and gal decided that checking for paw prints or sniffing kitty breath wasn’t needed.  If not guilty by action they were all guilty by association. Fortunately the plastic container of treats had yet to be discovered, as we all know that a mere twisty lid and a cover won’t stop the treat-thief-trio!

Suffice to say that now empty box is in the garage. The bag with a hole in it has been taped and now lives with the other bag of cat food that arrived yesterday (yes, two big bags now!) AND now three containers of treats– these are all making a home for themselves on the dryer. 

The moral of this little story is when bored, a cat will find a way to amuse itself. 

Insurance

Sometimes you find yourself wandering along a beach, marveling at the beauty all around you and then life comes at you with a whoosh and suddenly you find yourself standing on the opposite shore scratching your head and wondering how you got there.

Literally.

Rochi has had an ear problem for months now. We saw five different doctors in Hawaii and nobody could fix it. All along we’ve been paying cash for these services because we can’t even apply for insurance until open enrollment in November. That insurance doesn’t take effect until January, and when/if we finally do get it, the monthly premiums cost as much as our Tokyo rent used to cost except that rent did not also demand deductibles and co-pays and other fancy words that boil down to “shut up and do as you’re told.” Until then, I had been feeling smug that I had bought a house and, for the first time in my life, was not paying rent. Lesson learned.

The last doctor we saw said we’d done everything we could do at the clinic level. The next step would be a CT. Without insurance, the test alone would cost at least two months’ rent. She told us point blank that we’d be better off coming back to Japan.

So that’s what we did. We arrived on a Tuesday night. By Wednesday lunch time, he had insurance, we had seen doctors and been given medication. Total cost: about $50. A week later we spent a full day at the hospital, he had multiple examinations, two CT scans and prescription medications. Bill for the day: almost $200.

As we were riding the shiny new escalator toward the exit from the clean, modern hospital, we were both doing the math in our heads. In the States, that day alone would have cost us two trips to Japan, flying business class and staying in fancy hotels, maybe even a Rolex or two. Or about 2.5 years’ rent.

In the United States, people die, they DIE, because they’re afraid to go to the doctor. It’s not the pain that is so scary, it’s the bills that arrive weeks later, unexplained but final. Thou shalt pay. End of story. They even send email with the heading, “Great news! You have a new e-document.” I understand these documents are sent by computers but at some point, some actual semi-human organism must have written those words with that intended purpose. “Great news! You’re still sick and now you owe a bazillion dollars! Yay!” This is cruelty that borders on sadism. But the real irony, and the ultimate insult, is that there is nobody to explain and nobody to blame. You can call every number they give you, but everyone you speak to will tell you the same thing: “We don’t make the rules. We just send the bills.” I keep hearing voices in my head saying, “I’m not responsible. I was just following orders.” Where have we heard that before?

I have even sensed an undertone of, “You should be grateful you got to see a doctor at all.”

Really?

Are we talking about the same United States? The land of the free, where we have a right to the pursuit of happiness but not to basic healthcare? Is this the same home of flag-wavers who claim a love of God and equality for all but run for cover when we talk about universal health coverage? I thought we were talking about the United States where we have indoor plumbing and clean running water and safe food and cell phones and WiFi and Sunday football. But I guess these pleasures don’t extend to anyone who is running a temperature.

It seems fundamentally wrong that we have so many basic freedoms, things we take for granted, when millions of people around the world go without milk or shoes or education. We complain about slow Internet while people in our own country, maybe even next door, die of a simple infection they can not afford to treat.

We are lucky. We had the Japan option. But what happens to people who don’t? Not for the first time, I am ashamed of the country I represent.

Keonepoko

Kahakai Boulevard follows a straight line from Route 130, just past the traffic circle, until it drops into the ocean, except that there is a dogleg in the road about halfway down. The Hawaiian Shores subdivision, where we live, starts just after the dogleg. Nestled behind the dog’s knee is Keonepoko Elementary School. When we first got here, I could barely read the sign, much less remember the name.

Honestly, it seems like every other word in Hawaiian starts with a K. After all, there are only seven consonants in Hawaiian (H, K, L, M, N, P, W), so there was bound to be some doubling up. When people ask me what something is called or the name of a building, I say, “I’m not sure, but I think it starts with a K.” It’s gotten to be an inside joke I have with myself, and it makes me giggle every time. I’ve gotten used to the odd glances that earns me.

Giving directions to our house, I used to tell people just to stay on Kahakai Boulevard, past Ke…Ke…the elementary school.

When it came time to vote, I was instructed to report to the Keonepoko Elemenatary school cafeteria, and when a friend asked me where I’d voted, I said, “Ke…Ke…the elementary school in the neighborhood.”

But I’m making progress. Each year, KTA supermarket does a school donations program. If you buy certain products, the store makes a donation to the school of your choice.

When this happened last year, the cashier asked me which school I wanted my donation to go to. I searched my memory for the name of the elementary school but all I could come up with is that it started with K. So I giggled and said, “You choose.”

Yesterday at KTA, the cashier scanned my hunk of cheddar and jar of mayonnaise and asked, “Which school do you want your donation to go to?”

“Keonpoko,” I said, without skipping a beat, and the cashier nodded like that was the most natural thing in the world.

She’ll never know what a stellar moment that was for me.

Subdivision

I have always sworn that I would never live in anything called a ‘unit’. The whole idea gives me the willies. It evokes images of a Bladerunner world where robots live in beehive cells, all mindlessly doing the same jobs and eating the same food and pooping the same color. So it came as a great surprise when I found myself living in Hawaiian Shores Recreational Estates, which is the name of our subdivision, another term that makes the tiny hairs on my knuckles stand on end. But everything around here is a subdivision; most of them are called ‘estates’. Next to us is Nanawale Estates and just down the road is Leilani Estates. You may have heard of that. It was in the news a bit last year.

I would prefer to call these developments ‘neighborhoods’ but that, alas, is not how it’s done. Fortunately, the ‘estates’ part is just a marketing ploy. There are no estates, just ordinary plots of land topped with ordinary houses. Lawns are optional; we have crushed lava rock. Not one house on our street looks like ours and we have the only white picket fence in the whole…neighborhood…development…division…area.

It’s nice in Hawaiian Shores. We have a community association that has laid out rules for peaceful neighborly coexistence, including a ban on farm animals and rusting vehicles in the front yard. We get home mail service, clean water, road maintenance and access to community facilities. The association office is in a park just a few blocks away. There are tennis courts, a baseball field, a playground, barbecue facilities and a pool. Nice, right?

Having lived here for a year already, I was also surprised to discover that there’s another park a few blocks in the opposite direction. It has a smoothly mown lawn and palm trees but is otherwise deserted. The story goes that 30 years ago, this area was being developed by none other than Pan Am, who thought it would be nice to have two community centers, one with a small pool for kids and another with a larger one for grown-ups. But before they could get all that done, the company went belly-up and the grown-up facilities never officially opened. They sat there, nearly finished, while the tennis nets rotted away to nothing and a papaya tree took root in the empty pool. The impressive wooden structure one assumes is a picnic area is now suffering the ravages of hungry termites. The metal light fixtures that may once have held fluorescent bulbs are rusted away, hardly distinguishable from the wood they’re mounted on. Abandoned bird’s nests peek out from the rafters.

But as serendipity goes, this leaves us with a rather delightful space for an exercise class. I’ve been a few times now. It’s all retired people. (Who else has time for such things at 10:00 on a weekday?) One gentle spirit peers out from her wrinkled face as she does the exercises seated in a folding lawn chair; she told me she was with the occupation forces in Japan in 1947.

I know from many years of experience at gyms and the dojo that a great deal of community spirit can be generated among strangers by sweating together. We roll out our mats and the indomitable Suzan Thompson puts us through our paces. With 25 years of experience teaching fitness at a YMCA, she is a combination of drill sergeant and caring elementary school gym teacher with a smile that can bounce you right into next Thursday. Her occasional off-color jokes motivate us to keep moving as we struggle against our middle aged flab. Today she had us doing glute exercises designed to ‘turn those flapjacks back into juicy orbs’.

Years ago we used to joke that Hawaii was the 48th prefecture, so we have often wondered why there aren’t more Japanese people around here. Susan mentioned that there used to be quite a few Japanese in the class but they’re all gone. They had bought their Hawaiian homes in the 80’s, back when Japan had more money than it knew what to do with, and had since ‘aged out’, gotten too tired to shuttle back and forth, too tired to tend their gardens. I read just recently that Japan doesn’t have the immigration problems the US is dealing with so poorly, mostly because Japan is dying, both literally and figuratively it would seem.

I looked at the slowly disintegrating, never-quite-happened community center and wonder what might have been. Images flitted through my head: A balding Japanese man in an aloha shirt grilling tiny strips of meat, lanky Pan Am stewardesses draped over lounge chairs sipping martinis through red painted lips. And then a fly nibbled at my calf, dragging me back to the present, the pulsing music, my sweaty classmates, Susan’s voice thundering over a background of twittering birds and swaying palm trees. As the aloha shirt and painted lips fade into a past long forgotten, I realize I am glad to be where I am, and who I am, and living in the here and now, even if it is a subdivision.