Accessibe by a single, carved-into-the-mountainside one lane road, sits a monastery-come-multi-family-housing-unit. Magical but off-limit Hippies lived in the thicket valley below down the hundred foot drop bank. My superior imagination heard their laughter and felt their 'ease with the trees' on my daily walk to kindergarten or mass. This - Hawaii's Kalihi Valley - one of many portals to the divine and otherworldly - was my stomping ground.
Decades passed.
Having since shed religion, its hateful doctrines, and sacred Hawaii, fond thoughts of Hawaii and the Hippies flood my consciousness when I came out my gate to find a felled 60 foot fir tree blocking the road from the day before's storm. Upon closer inspection, two trees had fallen.
Phytoncides waft into my nasal passage and cure me of every toxin ever known. I rub the branches of fresh needles across my face aggressively seeking their magic - swimming through the troughs because they invited me. Magic does not discriminate, separate, or refuse - as ever present here as Hawaii.
Mon ami (the incredible being that chooses to share his life with me) and I cleared away all the branches and debris. I cut the trees one the north side of the road to facilitate the backhoe's pushing of the entire tree off the road in one go. An hour later, and one push, and the road was clear - but no less magical.
Rain pelts the metal roof overhead. Gale warnings abound throughout the day. Degrees hover around 38. Perfection. Such is the season of winter, the deep recesses of cold driving all the brave souls deep into the comfort of Self. Such is that place I call home.
