“In every moment there is such richness,” Gabriel said to me, “if you only look for it.”
We were walking away from the health food store in Kapa’a, a small city on the north coast of Kauai. The sun was playing in the Hawaii sky, a bit less brutally than the days before. I was still new to the island then, still new to the earth, and in Gabriel I sensed a certain kinship: he shared in my sister’s massage therapy class, and through the course of such spiritual transformations, became like a brother to her; so angel-named Gabriel, in an appropriate sense, was (is) my metaphysical brother. And he wore a heavy burden on his peaceful shoulders, that afternoon of July 7, 2009. Gabe was leaving that night.
And we walked the brief way through the small traffic-choked city to the beach, ahead of my older sister and his younger brother and so many other friends, feeling the ground with each step. The dependable perfect tropical air had extra weight that day, the gravity around my briefly known friend bending the light around him, electrons scattering in clouds of mourning. I felt a tug to console to help to say something but all there was to do was to listen; I had not lived enough then to offer anything but theory. And so he said to me those words above, and I drank them in, and indeed, I saw that there was richness in every single instance, in all reality, rhyme.
Soon we were on the beach, half a dozen friends playing in the sand, ukelele and grass whistles. I high-fived Morgan who first gave me the suggestion of teaching English abroad, which brought me to Czech and to Korea, sharing the flow of life with family and friends, and Gabe was so present he was nearly absent, meditation blending in with the landscape. Soon, we all piled into my sister’s rusted diesel Benz and saw Gabe off at the airport, his absence an immediate presence. In him I saw something of Atticus Finch, a modern man, someone in touch with himself, aware of his life, of his function.
Two weeks later, I wrote this, one of my first poems:
New
I sit at this bar and at
the precipice of my adult life.
Within me I can feel the joy and
The sorrows, the subtle
melancholies
of the past
four, eight,
twenty-two years
It, my experience within life, it about to
Change in fundamental ways, or,
rather,
it already has.
I look back at my graduation,
my college experience,
and feel bittersweet joy of times well-had
but know, now, increasingly distant
from the vista of this island I
see my past, in the Middle West of the United States,
Of a painful, privileged childhood that
Grew into something else.
I know that I will miss those who
I have taken for granted
and held so dear.
Family and the friends who have become
as such,
those intersection that have fostered
my narrative.
I am simply confused,
or, rather,
more properly ignorant,
not knowing of what I should even
seek to know.
A figure entering again and for
the first time,
into a darkened room.
Or as structural metaphors go,
perhaps I am emerging from
Plato’s cave, and my discomfort
draws from my eyes’ adjusting
to the light.
Through all this, I hold close
to the notion that as long
as I stay present and survive
I will construct a new set
of norms and habits,
lost in some place I do not yet know,
gradually adjusting,
without realizing it.
I re-discovered this poem a week ago while unpacking my journals for Maria, a gentle soul and close friend. I am leaving Korea in three weeks. In 20 days I’ll be flying to Lanzhou, Northwest China. I’ll be leaving behind a neighborhood (and city) that has opened itself up to me, friends that have become family, students that are treasures, and a beautiful, remarkable young woman — all this society and security that has grown with me. I wish I would have learned the language more, I wish I would have seen more of the country, I wish I would have saved more money. But I did not. And now, this. A dark drop (or eight) of fear has entered my pool of tranquility, and even in a lotus pose, I have trouble finding peace.
Fat snowflakes fall outside my window; Mozart, again, comforts my soul. So much to do: buying gear for the trip, collecting visas, making packing lists. I look around at my room and see what it is I need to send home, what objects need to be saved, and there are not many, mainly gifts from adventures here, a sumo t-shirt for my brother, pieces of the Great Wall for my family, a personalized pen that my student gave me for my birthday, evidence that I have made meaningful connections here, that I have done well.
My heart hurts. I have these errands to run, but I feel like I am moving in slow motion: if I do not stay still to feel my pain, I will not digest it, my understanding will not become wisdom. Previous heartbreak has taught me that I cannot run from pain, that indeed to run is to flee myself. I must be like this snow before me, this great teacher soon to melt; I must cleanse myself of myself. I taste deeply the sweet sadness of this melancholic moment, I let my heart beat out these few words.
Oh, SuperForest, you have shaped me more than you know (or maybe you do). I am leaving all this loving safety to throw myself at the world, to unite my passions, to live the life that I have imagined. I will feel this pain now, I will let it clear me out. I trust this is the function of my truth.
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