Maui retrospective: Small

My Date and I spent last week in Maui, the Pacific crashing on the rocks below us each day, humpbacks breaching right and left in the channel between us in Napili and the dark island of Molokai, and a blicky February in The Beav a marginal memory.

But I feel small — because we spent a day at Haleakalā National Park.

Let me put it succinctly. Haleakalā is where you go if, like an insignificant flake of human lava dust, you want to stand in the palm of time.

And we all need to do THAT once and awhile, don’t we?

Just sayin’ that looking into a (kind of) volcanic crater puts a few musty things into perspective. 

First, we humans are small peanuts in the large scheme of things. Duh. Sure, we can slap together 

skyscrapers and nuclear warheads, but over thousands of year, only the forces of nature can create an enduring, mystical, other-worldly environment like Haleakalā — so large the island of Manhattan would fit comfortably in its crater. Think about that, NYC.

And mysticism itself: I am drawn to the early Hawaiians who believed Haleakalā would protect the

remains of their dearly departed AND the future integrity of their children. (Of course, the latter was

achieved by depositing umbilical cords into select pockets of the crater so rats wouldn’t make off with them. Because if THAT happened, your child would most certainly be consigned to a life of thievery. Think about that for a moment.) 

So back to mysticism: As I watched Haleakala’s micro-weather world suck in marine cloud banks, swirl them around its ageless peaks, then gently kiss them away — sometimes in a matter of minutes — I realized I am small. . . but also with the potential to be mighty.

Like Haleakela.

Postscript: I am back. Thanks to a meet-up with an old high school friend a couple of weeks of ago. She published a book about three years ago -- and then stopped writing.  We got to talking about that phenomenon: We-loved-to-write-but-then-stopped-writing-wondered-why-we-stopped-writing-made-a-few-fitful-starts-writing-then-stopped-writing-then-wonderered-why. . . well, you get the picture.

The truthful answer is a cheesy one: Life happens. . . aging parents, kids in town, grandkids in town, new friends, new adventures -- and unfortunately we forget. . . and neglect. . . to share (whether you want to hear about or not.)  

But the itch to write is back  (if I don't kill my aging MacBook in the meantime).  And next time -- we're going over the top -- of Maui.

La passeggietta

In Italy, la passeggiata is a time-honored tradition -- a moment in the early evening, before dinner, when entire towns and neighborhoods turn out for a leisurely stroll around a favorite piazza. Old friendships are renewed, new romances revealed, community re-forged under the waning light of another work day.

Maui is not to be out done. It has its own de facto passeggiata -- except it's in the morning and typically involves iPods,  electronic step counters, day-glo sports bras and paper cups full of venti-iced-skinny-hazelnut-macchiatos-sugar-free-syrup-extra-shot-light-ice-no-whip. (HuffPost gets the assist on this one since I can barely get out "Americano black" when under the influence of Starbucks.)

And, oh, I'd wager most of us are on vacation instead of just getting off work. (There IS a difference, you know.) Here are a few of my favorite Maui-style passeggiettas:



Along the Kapalua coastal trail, you can scramble across lunar-inspired lava formations while keeping an eye out for whales. . .

Or watch death-defying family portraits. . .



A moment after the photo was taken, the family was washed out to sea.

Not really. Just the photographers.

Or, let's face it, you can just enjoy how freakin' beautiful it is.



A walk along the Kaanapali beaches allows you a glimpse into West Maui resort life. It appears to involve swans.

And flamingos.

And a Hobbit.



But I think my favorite was. . . well, I'm not sure it had an "official" name so let's give it one: The Kind-of-in-between-Lahaina-and-Kaanapali-Passeggieta. Running parallel to the Honoapiilani Highway, this paved pathway right up against the water captures pieces of everyday life along the Maui coast -- say, like

fishing. . .



rowing. . .



and cemeteries. . .



That's right. Cemeteries.

Maui has a thing for tucking away cemeteries in some of the most surprising places around the island. This one, Hanakao'o Cemetery, is plunked down next to a parking lot, small park and the main highway. It's an immigrant cemetery, primarily Japanese, I think -- a silent monument, rising in weeds and red dirt, to men, women and families who came to paradise from Japan -- and China, the Philippines, Korea and Europe -- to work in Maui's sugar cane and pineapple fields starting in the mid-1800s. The "newest" head stone I saw at Hanakao'o was dated 1941.

The sugar cane and pineapples are largely gone now, but the cemeteries remain. A visit to Professor Google, and I discover there's very little history about them. And I find this a bit bittersweet.Until we wander through the cemetery.

Although Hanakao'o appears to be largely abandoned, we find small remembrances from families here and there: A fresh saucer of sake, a tangle of leis and, on occasion, potted plants left reverently at a beloved ancestor's grave.



And so I take heart. Someone still remembers Hanakao'o.

Out of office

It's Friday morning on the island of Maui. And it's raining.

No matter. The air is warm, still fat from last night's storm. It smells of the Pacific and plumeria.

A lone whale and her calf are waking, stragglers in their species' epic migration north to Alaska for the summer. They roll and spout in the near surf, playfully slapping the water with their pectoral fins, nudging each other awake to begin their long exodus.

If it wasn't for that damn Alaskan krill we feed on all summer, we'd stay here, in the shadow of Molokai, they seem to say.

Me too.

And I don't need no stinkin' krill.