Dead and brown outside, but my body feels so clean inside. Hawaii is such a contrast of counting down the days until I can go home and pure love for getting my hands dirty. I kind of hate it here, in the way I always hate travelling; “introverted homebody” should be my middle name. The more I accept my dread of the next 47 days, the more I fall into the sweating and weeding and deep down exhaustion. Strangely enough, I love the manual labor. Seriously, I was kind of bummed to stop weeding tonight.
All I want to do is farm and write. Tomorrow, we are going into Honolulu and I’m absolutely dreading it, but I’ll do it anyways because I know that I need to make the most of my time in Hawaii. “Will I ever come back?” is the mantra that keeps playing over and over in my head, like the chants we did in our morning meditation.
Just 2 days of this lifestyle and I’m ready to live this way forever: meditation and yoga in the morning followed by 3 hours of farming with a 5 hour break before another 2 hours of farming. Yoga, farm, nap, farm, write, sleep, repeat. Just don’t make me go to Honolulu. Please.
As I watch the sun go down behind the kind of clouds Pillsbury would make, I start to feel such gratitude for where I am and what’s to come in these next 6 ½ weeks. The opening of my soul has begun and it’s powerful. No more stickiness in my belly. No more fatigue. No more mindless eating. In my discomfort I’m filling up on knowledge that what I’m doing with my time actually matters to the survival of humanity.
I’ve travelled enough to know that this is how it works: the beginning is awful--all I want to do is go home and drink my fermenting kombucha--but as time goes on, I grow from being so far out of my comfort zone. It pushes me to find more of myself in the way that only those once-in-a-lifetime teachers can.
So bring on the growing and the misery that holds it’s hand. I’m ready for you and everything you have to teach me about the way I want to live my life.