Maui Wowie

Everymorning I wake up, stretch my aching arms and legs, and suck a salty fresh cloud of air through my nostrols which immediately snaps me out of my sleepy trance and into an alternative reality. In this alternative reality my backyard is made up of the monstrously calm pacific ocean. Guava fruits hanging from the tree are just an arm stretch away. Easterly tradewinds quench my body's thirst for redemption from the humid sunshade. I then shoo away a mosquito harvesting my epidermis and listen to my stomach tell me that I should follow suit.

At the table, Cliff and Randall from L.A. exhange carbon dioxide for oxygen with the rich red and green tea and ginger plants that guard the wind from tearing our words apart as we converse about the upcoming day's labor in paradise. Baba Ram Dass and Dassi Ma join us and we share jokes, our excitement about Obama's recent speech with the Arab world, and the Orlando Magic's sorry defeat in game 1 against the L.A. Lakers (it is here that Randall shows no mercy as he rubs my Eastern conference wounds raw).

I am then sent away to the remote jungles of the northern shore where I meet Niola and her 15 cats. They equip me with a rusty machete as my mission is to cut down copious amounts of native Hawai'ian flowers including the heliconias, ginger plants, and bamboo foliage that stand 15 ft tall held up by thick and heavy trunks.

After my battles with the tropic forest my body needs moisture and I quickly search for the nearest neighborhood public pool to recharge my vitals. This pool happens to reside amongst rocks and sand fed by a natural waterfall. My day seems complete until a tourist captures my soul in his camera and I turn bellyup in the water. After he loses interest I regain feeling in my bones and wiggle around to explore the snakeless rockfilled freshwater and shower under the sun soaked falls.

My adventures continue as we wait in darkness for Ty Burhoe (the accomplished tabla master, protege of the great Zakir Hussain) and his slew of Odissi dancers to grace us with their own grace on stage. Our musical itches are scratched as a masterful blend of ancient Indian and modern Japanese dance and song nestle themselves in our sensory lobes. We are rolling deep with my parent's satsang and they accept me as one of their own, providing me with knowledge, lessons, connections, and fierce grace. I can only imagine the experiences to come, but Cliff assures me that even that is an impossible task.