Fashion Magazines

I went to Safeway to pick up cat food and a prescription. The line at the pharmacy was longer than I expected, so I picked up the closest reading material -- a fashion magazine. This is what I learned: 1) It's okay to change your birth name if you beg your parents long enough; 2) babies need $36 silver slippers and a faux fur when they go out at night; 3) reality TV shows are the best place to tell your spouse you are not in love so you can both be happier a lot quicker; 4) Rudy Huxtable has never been on drugs; and 5) I need a new filmy, polk-a-dotted, black dress for my spring collection. Wow! I gave myself one big, fat pat on the back for getting something right -- I'm definitely living "in the world" and not "of the world."

The Lord Looks On the Heart

The Bible is the bestselling book of all time. Today in church we learned about 1 Samuel 16:7 from a group of Seminary kids who had to answer the question: "If God looked into my heart, what would He see?" Some of them answered, "Love, understanding, and courage." But one boy said God would just see "a stupid kid." He went on to say that through the encouragement of others and through prayer, he finally realized that if God looked into his heart, He would actually see a young man who wants to do good. I appreciated his honesty. Sometimes it feels like we're all a bunch of "stupid kids" trying to figure things out in this world. And when it comes right down to it, it is the love we have for one another that keeps us going. It takes great courage to be understanding and forgiving, to forget our personal struggles and keep moving ahead as a "light unto the world."

Singin' in the Rain

The rain came fast and hard today. I was on my way out the door to run errands when it hit. I had a Wal-Mart bag full of returns in one hand and my planner, purse, keys and sunglasses in the other. I didn't want to look for my umbrella, so I grabbed a K-Mart bag out of the pantry with my pinkie and slung it over my head a la mother's rain bonnet. As soon as I opened the screen door, the wind whipped the bag out of my hand and the water pouring out of the rain gutter soaked my head. I let out a scream and ran down the stairs where the waterfall flowing off the deck soaked my back. I threw everything into the front seat of the car and cursed the day I moved to Hawaii where nothing is ever dry and the mildew grows like flowers.

The potholes on my dirt lane were filled with brown mud. I looked over at the construction site in my front yard and realized how sad it all looked uninhabited and surrounded by boards, paint and sawhorses.

When I pulled out into the street, I noticed a woman in her late forties riding a bicycle. She certainly wasn't hurrying with her head ducked down trying to shield herself from the rain. Far from it! She was dressed in a brown, canvas safari hat, huge sunglasses, a rust-colored tank top and shorts. She was slowly zig-zagging down the street like a little girl singing to herself. And she had a huge grin on her face -- enjoying every last raindrop with complete abandon!

Angle of Repose

My favorite books is Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner. It is the story of an elderly, disabled professor who is researching the lives of his grandparents in order to understand their relationship. His grandmother is an educated easterner, while his grandfather is a mining engineer who dreams of pioneering the West. Their story is one of conflict and compromise that ultimately settles into a situation they can both live with. At times heartbreaking, it is a realistic portrayal of the challenges of raising a family, earning a living, and loving a spouse.

When I think of the "angle of repose," I imagine a pile of loose rocks and sticks tumbling down a sandstone hillside. The rocks may roll or ricochet, the sticks break in two or somersault end over end. Perhaps they run over each other or get caught in a crack or on a ledge. But eventually, the debris reaches a point of rest. All of the individual pieces are positioned in a mosaic of equilibrium.

Does this angle even exist in human relationships? Or are we in a constant state of flux? How do we work from within the debris to create a comfortable repose?

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Just a funny side note: For some reason, my kids and I were talking about what we want to have in our coffins when we are buried. I mentioned that I would like a good book in case I get bored. "Better tell us which one you want, Mom!" Without even thinking about what I was saying, I told them, "The Angle of Repose." No pun intended.

Writing, Riding, and Righting

I ride my bike at least ten miles a day. I haven't been able to do this for the past year and a half, so it feels especially good now. Riding helps me clear my head, strengthens my muscles, and, hopefully, helps me shed a few pounds every month. And I get to see the island!

I also try to write every day. Writing helps me figure out what I'm thinking. It shows me the things that my mind and heart dwell on.

Together, riding and writing, help me "right" myself. Physical strength and mental strength help me deal with everything the day has to offer. Without it, I feel a little tilted to one side.

Beach Books

I clean books every day and ship them to cities all over the world. Sometimes a book has a thin line of sand in the crease of the cover -- then I know it's been to the beach. Lucky book. It's been on vacation! Of course, whoever dragged it across the Pacific Ocean didn't have room to cart it back home after shopping for macadamia nuts and T-shirts. I wonder if it's actually been read or if it just rode along to the bay packed in a straw basket with the towels and water bottles. I see a lot of bikini-clad women reading Janet Evanovich and Danielle Steele. But I don't sell their books. There aren't too many tourists reading Wallace Stegner or John Steinbeck. So, I'm impressed when I clean a sandy book by James Michener ("Hawaii") or Gabriel Garcia Marquez ("Love in the Time of Cholera"). And I'm glad I can send it off to someone who might just actually read it.

Flying over Wailua Beach

I live five minutes from Wailua Beach where the para-sailers have been flying and floating over the choppy waves this week. I want to do it. My sister and I used to fly bat kites at Crockett Elementary School during the summer. I wanted to be the kite. I wanted to look down over the playground and hover in a free-float with the wind whipping through my hair. So, when I wait at the stoplight at the bottom of Kuamo'o Road and watch the striped parachutes criss-cross above the ocean, I feel brave. I want to forget that I'm forty-five and scared of falling and grab the ends of the strings and let the wind pull me across the surf.