On Hope (and Landslides).

I do this thing. 

I tell the universe to send me things. I say, “Universe, send me butterflies.” Or, “Send me elephants.” Or, “Send me owls.” 

I know what you’re thinking. “I didn’t know she was crazy; what made her fall off the deep end?”

Lots of things. Lots and lots of things. 

But that’s not the point. This is between me and the universe. 

So the universe. I tell it that I need to feel like I’m looked after. I tell it that I need to know it’s going to be okay. So I ask for these symbols, these random signs to come into my line of vision as a reminder that I’m held. 

The universe ignores me when I ask for it. It says, “Self-soothe yourself, you don’t need us to make you trust.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay universe, whatever.” 

When I forget about it, it will send me what I’m asking for, like the time it sent me elephants in the most kismet of ways. But I’ll still ask for butterflies from time to time. The validation needed at times is continuous, but it has been weeks since I’ve asked. I let go. 

When the mountainside collapsed and rumbled, sitting in its mucky, wet saturation on this little island in the middle of the Pacific, it fell onto and enveloped the road which connects me to work, to friends, to surf. To sanctuary. To routine. I look at the highway heading east, realizing that the rest of the island still at my finger tips. But then I look over my shoulder. Back at the mud, back at what’s on the other side of the mud, back at the place where my heart lives. Back in Hanalei. Wainiha. Haena. 

There are people on the other side of the mud who sat in feet of water, to their chests, for days and days in April of 2018.  The people who have just started to come up for air. Breathe in through both nostrils. Exhaling like they mean it, but not completely. An exhale cut short before reaching emptiness from the nightmares of water rushing. These people who have grown up in the water, but fear the downpours of rain, the flashes of lightening, the rumble of thunder. The rushing. The sense of comfort in the water at sea level, the fear of it falling from above. They have seen this all before. Post traumatic stress runs rampant. The eyes might be sealed shut when the sun goes down during stormy nights, but the body knows. 

And now they face the mud. Less fluid. It does not rise, and it does not fall. It sits. It sits and does not move. Now it’s the barricade to connection. 

And it’s the barricade to my soul. Their souls. The island’s soul. She does not sing. She screams.

We each sit with a certain amount of uncertainty fatigue after years of digging into our resiliency bucket. The flood. The pandemic. More flooding. More disasters. We are tired. We can’t take anymore. The uncertainty seems unbearable. Why can’t we catch a break? 

So I was folding towels in my garage, thinking heavily about the people on the other side of the mud, the small businesses, the families, my friends.  I hear something hit the window, trying to escape a different way out.

A butterfly.

What? Where did he come from? What’s he doing here? I didn’t know Hawaii had butterflies. I have been asking for butterflies. 

My ears get hot. My fingers tingle. Breathing shallow.

The universe, man. I guess everything is going to be okay in the end.

“Thank you, I said. “Thank you for looking after me. Thank you for looking after them. Thank you for looking after us.”

We will get through this. This I know for sure. Just ask the butterfly.