10 September, 2013
My Hawaiian vacations are not your typical Hawaiian vacation. They are more like dysfunctional family reunions, ones that often bring more angst than relaxation. That is not to say there aren't moments of joy and meaningful connection as well, a re-bonding of sorts with my aging parents, siblings and young nephews. I am glad for this. I also get to reconnect with my best friend from childhood whom I now only see once a year (if that) when these visits or 'vacations' do occur.
When I am here, I become a sounding board for my mother, a baby-sitter for my nephews - although they have made apt and welcome playmates for my son, (for which I am grateful), tour director for the clan, dishwasher, dinner-maker, and most importantly, keeper of the peace.
I call myself an 'erstwhile writer'. While I do not write every day, every so often I feel a compulsion to write, moments of inspiration where what pours forth from my pen (or keyboard) seems to almost write itself. I have asked myself the question, 'Why do I write?' Why does anyone write? Now I realize it is more a purging process, a way to make sense of my thoughts, feelings, observations. To organize, to categorize, and then ultimately to release. I have always loved a sense of order in the universe. It helps me maintain a feeling of control, which always lessens the angst and worrying. Other people keep lists, which I do as well, but writing does it best for me. Sometimes there are just little snippets of observation. Yet for some reason, it brings me great pleasure to put them down on paper. It turns mundane events in my life into poetry and makes me smile...
I now sit in my parents' vast and beautiful living room, wind howling breezily through the little apertures of open windows. The sound of trickling water from last night's rain seeps into my consciousness along with the ginger plants swaying just outside, visible through the giant plates of glass that render the south and eastern walls of the house a giant viewing glass of the lush valley and ocean-line beyond.
Last night I awoke to the sound of rain. I will never get used to the torrential Manoa rains. Even though I grew up with them, for some reason now when I visit I am always startled by their power and drama. Like a million little daggers relentlessly attacking the roof above. They create a chorus with the pebbly sound of water rumbling through the downspouts and off of the gutters just outside my old bedroom window.
When I was a child we had cockroaches. Little baby roaches that would get stuck in the sticky cardboard traps that would line the edges and corners of the kitchen floor. Those have since been eradicated by exterminators, but now there are ants. Not a real problem like the roaches were, but I am once again startled by the fact that they are biting my feet and ankles! I don't ever remember that these tiny black creatures could bite. They don't leave a mark, no visible sign of their silent attack. But they hurt nonetheless, like tiny pin-pricks that come and go as stealthily as they bite. Today they are leaving me alone. Perhaps they now realize I am not a tasty morsel, nor a threat.
So why isn't writing just for myself enough, I wonder. I don't think I'm particularly vain, nor an exhibitionist. In fact, I've always been one to hide from the world, feeling safe in my anonymity. Putting my work 'out there' makes me self-conscious. Yet self-conscious in a way that motivates me to improve. Writing for public consumption helps me fine-tune, sharpen my skills and abilities, helps me find a consistent voice and hopefully one that makes the reader forget about the author and slip seamlessly into my inner dialogue as if it were his or her own. Some write for posterity. But I have to admit to myself, good or bad, whether or not anyone ever reads it, ultimately, writing just makes me happy.
