I didn't have time to write over the weekend, because I was having too much fun snorkeling in the ocean, and camping in the hills.
Staying up late laughing because we kept forgetting what we were just saying. And spending hours discussing what our goals were, or what our hearts were telling us.
Sitting in silence and watching the whole of the ocean before us crash at our feet.
Then, poof, Sunday came and everyone left.
I came home that night and the silence was truly defining. The noise of nothing. I not only had no one to see to at present but no one I could see to in the future either.
The juxtaposition of the two realities I moved through, in the span of hours, felt shocking, uncomfortable, and raw. I hadn't realized how wholly I had fallen into being with someone every waking moment of the day, and how different that was from what I had been doing here.
It was like being pushed off and out to the sea all over again.
I was reminded of a quote my friend Olivia sent over when I first arrived:
"We grieve the loves we’ve lost. We grieve our abilities vanishing through illness or age. We grieve the loss of faith in our religion. We grieve our children leaving home. We grieve the paths we didn’t walk. We grieve the family we never had. We grieve the suffering of the planet. But while grief may look like an expression of pain that serves no purpose, it is actually the soul’s acknowledgment of what we value. Grief is the honour we pay to that which is dear to us. And it is only through the connection to what we cherish that we can know how to move forward. In this way, grief is motion." — Toko-pa Turner
Looking back now, I can see how the first days here were swallowed by grief. Grief in losing my summertime in Portland, and grief for the experiences that I was missing, grief for putting my relationship on hold to pursue something else.
But now, a new grief has set in. A grief for friendships that were too fleeting. A grief for a Hawaii experience like I had thought, hoped, imagined it would be before I came here. A grief for missed chances and things left unsaid.
But grief is motion. I can see that when I look at the me-of-a-month-ago, so I can have hope for me-now and what the future can hold.
I can hope this grief is like acclimating — so that when my mom and Alex both leave that grief isn’t wholly consuming. I can hope this grief propels me to maintain not only these friendships but my ones at home as well. And I can hope this grief gets me out to see more, do more, meet more people, to become a co-creator rather than a bystander in my own experience.
So, I'm beginning to find my stride here, again, starting in the same way — frying my egg in the morning, meditating, listening again. Coming back to this reality, step-by-step, a little more each day.