we have nothing to lose but our chains

Well, it's approaching that time again. A dreaded plane ride back to Hawaii. I stop in Honolulu first then I'm continuing home to Kauai. Gosh, I can't wait to get back but there are no words to express my dislike of planes.

Watching Perlman and Zukerman play the Handel Passacaglia is so inspiring. Their bowing arms are so smooth, so refined. I wish I looked as graceful and determined as they do when they play. They are beautiful musicians.

texas tea

I have decided to maintain a positive attitude in light of everything going on.

I am writing this as a sort of appetizer to whet my writing appetite. I haven't written anything in a few days and I think I need to stretch out my mind a bit. Tonight's menu is no small order: a statement of purpose. Yes, I am finally getting down to the SOP. There has been no reason to wait until now but time is running out. Hopefully the pressure of a deadline will give me some tailwinds to ride on. All one can do right now is let go, trust, and hopefully be carried away on the fancies of language.

The problem lies squarely in adequately marketing oneself. Are car salesmen naturally born with that legendary talent to pursuade, to excite, to incite, or manuver? Perhaps only a few. The others have probably developed that skill over many years of experience.

Well, I have no experience. And yet, I must sell myself for what I am to the admissions committees. I suppose this is one of those rare, rare opportunities to celebrate myself for who I am and the heights to which I hope to aspire. Everyone must begin somewhere. Let us begin at once.

auhea wale oe, maunaloa la?

It's funny. Just as you think people aren't thinking about you they suddenly show up in your life again. As if they knew you were thinking about them.

I like to reflect on this past summer. Granted, I haven't had the full experience of being a real teacher. I taught during the summer. However, if you add up the total minutes of teaching, I taught a few hours more than a normal professor. I also had less time to prepare and more time I had to use. Perhaps I've just seen a different venue of teaching, no less valid than a regular professor. In any case the whole thing has given me plenty to reflect about.

The last day was particularly memorable. I had a recording of Mozart's symphony #25 playing in the minutes before class. As usual, I sat there at the desk with the lights off. Ordinarily the whiteboards behind me would be covered with notes that I would point to and refer to as I lectured. That day they were absolutely blank. Instead I had a page of typed notes on the podium. In the last minutes before class began, I carefully wiped down the boards with cleaner, packed up my markers, and made sure I didn't leave anything behind. I wanted the break to be clean.

The first person to come in was my old room mate's cousin. It was pretty strange. One day after lecture he said, "Hey you lived with so and so right? Yeah I remember you. I stayed with you guys for a few days." I had no idea who this kid was, but he provided sufficient memories for me to believe him. Talk about awkward. Soon, the eldest woman came processing in with her sunglasses on carrying her starbucks cup. The two next people through the door were my favorites. Yes, favorites.

The first is this 30 something year old guy. He's really slick. He is super smart. He'd wear this white hoodie with a pink heart or something on it. The guy is an Asian with a white last name, so it took me forever to put the name to the face. Anyway, he'd always come in saying what work at the hotel was like, what sorts of parties he had been to, and more often than not he'd ask me if I knew one of his friends. But what impressed me the most about him was how he took notes. I required each of them to submit to me a one page weekly reflection on something that they found interesting. This guy just turned in the notes for one day. It was as if he took perfect dictation. Reading them I could recognize my own voice. While some others might see this as uncritical assimilation of the material, I knew that this guy had locked it in his mind. He was the best student in that class, hands down. Everything a teacher could've wanted: clarity, promptness, humility, humor, honesty, engagement, friendliness, etc. he had. I think my main problem with him was his knack to interrupt me during lecture. I could be building up to a certain climax point then he'd stop me and ask a question. I could feel the energy and momentum leave me. But you know what? This was his way of processing information. He needed to talk it through. Besides, with a smile like that and a laugh so infectious how could I be angry? I just took a few seconds after every one of his questions to regroup myself and start building up anew.

Now, his exams were perfect. He did so well that I exempted him from a final project. His writing style wasn't the most elegant but it was eloquent enough. Many minutes were spent trying to decipher his bad handwriting but I am glad that I did. One thing I noticed about students is that they try to imitate you. For example, I remember reading in one of his exams something phrased as if he were trying to turn it in the way I'd say it. I caught it, winced, made a note of it, and gave the exam back. When he saw it he started laughing. "Hey, I tried!" he kidded. Tried he did. When he was being himself he had a real gift of being personal about his writing. He used a lot of "you" statements. Of course, that's one of the first rules of discursive writing: to not drag the reader into your own horizon. Still, I couldn't help but admire the personalism of his work. It was as if he and I were having a conversation about the exam. His writing, where truly his, was as much his own as anything else. Eventually, I'd go on to tell him that therein lies his strength. He's got plenty personality so he doesn't have to copy me or anybody else. "Just be yourself, braddah, and you stay good", I told him. "Ehhh right on, D. Right on" he replied. Yeah, he called me D after I asked him not to call me "Professor".

After him a girl would walk through. This diminutive asian girl that is. Her hair would be up in a bun hastily fastened with a pen. She'd invariably be wearing pink with some black capris. One day I got done with writing on the board super early, so I left the lights off and sat at the back of the classroom against the wall. She was the first to show up. She opened the door and turned right to adjust the air conditioning. "HELLO!" I yelled. She literally jumped and screamed, putting her hand over her chest as she rested her back against the wall. It was too easy to make fun of this girl. She is so quirky. There's something about her that I liked immediately. Maybe because she was so adorably girly. You know, one of those girls which are delightfully clumsy. She isn't stupid, she's just. Her. Anyway, she'd sit next to the man I described above. She also was a diligent note taker and never looked up at me for anything. When I cracked a joke she was the first to get it and she would let out this belly laugh befitting her small stature. I think out of all of the students I warmed up to her first. She was just friendly from the getgo. Sometimes I knew she got spacy but after the first week I knew how to keep her attention.

Her work demonstrated a real curiousity. I mean, every weekly reflection she would mention that she would ask some questions to her coworkers and they'd have a small reflection about it. I think I believe her when she said she did that. Her papers were honest and without superfluous language. They were straightfoward but not boring. In fact, their simplicity yielded a great deal of charm. They betrayed the inner spontinaety of her life. Her bluebook exams were conservative to say the least. They didn't venture into the risque, but they were complete. She had attended a private school for high school and I could tell that through her grammar and sentence structure. She had a highly polished sense of rhetoric manifest in simple everyday language. I don't know how she did it but she was successful. She won me over from the very first reflection, and completely so after the first exam. It wasn't that she wrote blind paraphrases. Rather, I could see her engaging the concepts to the best of her ability. She captured the sense of lectures well while infusing into them a certain freshness that I had been looking for. Above all else her method was paradoxically predictable yet original.

Anyway, most of the class would process in after these two. Again remembering the last day, I could see their faces very clearly. I can even remember how one girl did her hair. She was glowing that day. I began, "Well, today is the end. We've been together for well over a month now. We've seen each other every day during the week. I know it hasn't been easy for you, and it has been equally as difficult for me. I want you all to know that what we've done here, what I have shared with you, what you have shared with me - all of this has been my deepest and most profound privilege." And with that, I began to read by farewell lecture. In the middle, I read a short story I had translated from the German original by Joseph Ratzinger. It was about the role of the theologian in the modern period. After thanking them, I assured them that they would occupy a special place in my life for the rest of my days. I gave my formal farewell.

I then went to every one of them, shaking their hand and placing into their other a piece of folded paper. On it was their name, their grades for the course, and two to three paragraphs in praise of their accomplishments. The closing sentences read simply: "It has been my honor and pleasure to serve as your instructor for the Sociology and Philosophy of Religion course at Chaminade University of Honolulu." The next two sentences changed from student to student, but it essentially wished them luck for the rest of their time at school. I watched as most of them they up off of their desks and through the door. I will never see them again.

In some ways I would be honest in saying that they took a piece of me with them. It was they who saw me at my most valuable. I had to grow up quickly before their eyes. Towards the end of the course I agreed to go to lunch with one of them, under the condition that we went out as friends, not as student and teacher. She was an older woman, so I trusted that she would understand. She told me, "When I first saw you in class I thought, 'Oh no, this guy is a kid. He is going to fall apart.' Lucky for you that never happened. You never came across as nervous. Is that how you always are?" I just smiled and changed the subject. Inside I wanted to shake her and say, "Are you freaking kidding me? You guys almost killed me!!!" Their attention and attentiveness helped develop within me a skill I did not possess before meeting them.

After the last class a handful of us went to Zippy's in Kahala. We spent a few hours there just talking about anything and everything. I really enjoyed those moments. We could be ourselves moreso than in the classroom. After I had dropped them back off at campus I took a drive out to Kailua. A burden was lifted from my shoulders. No more rising at 5AM to make sure lecture would go smoothly. No more stress, per se. But what about this sudden emptiness I feel? Why do I feel an urgency? Why is it that my pulse quickens when I think about not seeing any of them? The short answer: I had come to care about them. After all, they were under my academic care for a "semester". How could I not get attached? Yes, many of the interactions I had there were pretty shallow and school related. Seeing people everyday does something to people. It's a cycle not easily broken.

I can admit to sliding into a small bout of depression after the whole thing was over. On Monday morning I woke up again at dawn but I realized I had nothing to leave for. My leather shoes sat quietly next to the door. I had no need to black slacks for the rest of summer. My aloha shirts hung in the closet unironed. My black portfolio didn't require packing. Everything was at a standstill. What was there left to do? I slept, slept, and slept. I slept all day. At first I thought that it was just me relaxing and being tired. The more I reflected on it I came to realize that I had nothing to do with myself because my identity was that of a teacher without students. Those kids gave my life meaning, no matter how formal or academicly nonpersonal. They were the wind beneath my wings. They stood on my shoulders. Without them, I was no longer suspended in the heights of professional development. Without them, I had no responsibilities for support. It was as if I had ceased to function. But why? It wasn't as if I had been doing it forever. Perhaps that's the point. Even a short while of intensive teaching is enough to leave a profound and indelible imprint on one's spirit.

When I went back home to Kauai I thought of them. Every single one of them. I can remember their fashion and method of writing. I can remember those smirks they had on their faces when they talked crap about me. I can remember the looks on some of their faces when they stared at me. I can see all of that really vividly. Most of all, I can see the relief on their faces when I told them that things would be OK when one of thems screwed up. They were grateful for a second chance. It was my privilege to give many of them second chances.

To this day I still think of them. Is it unhealthy? Perhaps. I wonder if they ever think of me, too.

I suppose that there's a little light at the end of this story. Those two best students I mentioned earlier keep in regular contact with me. Speaking to the both of them tonight moved me to write this short reflection. How blessed I have been to have had them both as students and as friends. To know that I mattered enough for them to contact me and keep in contact is deeply validating on a personal level. I am most grateful for having been entrusted the duty to their education. What is more, I am humbled by the entire prospect of education. Teaching will probably change my life in ways I never knew anything could change me. Thanks be to God.

Five years and five days ago to the day I met this guy at a conference in Washington, DC. I don't remember his name, just his face and the fact that he was from Chicago. I had taken off my glasses and placed them on the table as I usually do when eating with a friend. He picked them up and put them on. I hate when people do that. But he continued and talked about how he does it because he wonders what kinds of things I've seen through the lenses. He told me about somebody - it could've been himself, I don't remember - who collects old glasses because somehow the physical spectacles have captured within them traces of that person's experiences.

Over the past month or so almost everybody with which I come into regular contact has talked about trading places with me for a day. It is slightly creepy, although I suspect that this is due to the wildly addicting interview thingie on facebook. Nevertheless, this topic has been on my mind.

I wonder what it'd be like to see the world with somebody else's eyes. Very rarely to we see things as they are. I think that's why so many people have the sensation of visions or ghosts. They're just "fillers" that our mind generates, taking cues from external stimuli. For the record, I believe that there do exists ghosts, demons, and other "supernatural" presences in our world. Explaining something with a crude scientific appeal never diminishes the actual mystery of such a contact.

Anyway, I wonder if a tree looks the same to me as it does to someone else. I say this both on the physical level and the experiential level. For example, when I see a tree I see, well, a tree. I could begin to describe the tree to the best of my ability. The other person would probably concur. But there's no real way to validate our shared and common experience of said tree, for all we're exchanging is spoken and heard word which lack content in themselves. The exchange thus isn't about the actual appearance of the tree, just those qualities to which we have ascribed descriptors.

On the other level, when I see trees I immediately think of trees at home. You know, Hawaii trees. The ones with a thin skin for bark. The different shades of green. And in a special way, I think of how these qualities influence how I will interact with such a tree. No doubt I will never try to climb a tree with a slimy skin. In like manner, I know a lychee tree is perfect for climbing and hiding. A papaya tree, not so much. In other words, my vision of the tree is framed by my natural inclination towards utility towards trees. Now, of course trees exist without utility. In fact, should I die at this instant, every tree would continue to exist because they have no causal relationship with my existance.

I guess the real question I have is what level of power these preconceptions have to taint our knowledge of a thing. When I look into the sky I can say, "The clouds today will bring us lots of fish. Let's get our poles." The person next to me might say, "I see traces of upper atmospheric turbulence." Another person in our group might say, "I see a dog!", while another may say, "I see nothing at all." We're all looking at the same physical thing - or at least our current understanding of vision implies we do. And yet, we see very different things, perhaps because clouds in themselves don't furnish us with a prima facie interpretation. Instead, we impose our view of the world onto other things infront of us. There is no way around this.

If there is objective reality at all, will trading places with somebody else make it all the more clear? Will we be able to point to common references from either body? I am tempted to somehow get into somebody's body at this very moment. The thought of what I might see from the eyes of another is terrifyingly beautiful.

Raymond Fonsèque

It's always interesting to see how my desk changes from day to day, week to week. Just now I was captured by its own dynamic movement (dynamischen Hinbewegung). In a matter of minutes, the classic texts and current scholarship of moral theology were evacuated to make way for a new set of books: hydrology, charts of maximum sustainable yeilds for Hawai'i aquifers, scales for water price adjustment, figures for tourism, and above all, accounts of Native Hawaiian water rights and its place in pre-contact Hawaiian society. Stradding these two worlds feels a bit awkward right now, but it's gotta be gone.

I am not pleased with the progress of my thesis. I hope to finish 30 pages by next week Monday on material that I am not conversant on. We'll see how that goes. After that it'll be back to moral theology and finalizing my own translations of Aquinas and Scotus from Latin. After that, I will have to have my translations of Pinckaers' "Le sources de la morale chretienne" approved. It is a seminal work which encorporates moral theology, especially the virtues, with spirituality. I will propose a three-staged program of moral development which runs in parallel with, and in some cases contributes to, the great mystical tradition of spiritual growth as described in distinct stages, terminating with the illuminative stage.

On top of that, I have not finished my SOP. I actually texted one of my former professors in Honolulu. I told him that I was having an incredible bout of academic self-doubt. He actually called me not too long ago but I was preparing for my class coming up at 2. It feels good to have solid connections with people from the past. I am sure that he'll be most helpful in helping me lift out those things which make me unique as a scholar. I can't do that alone. For all I know I am as generic as some other twentysomething guy from off the street.

I still can't wait to get home. I am listening to "Koke'e" recorded by Maunalua. Growing up I absolutely detested this song. It is trite. It talks about climbing to the top of Koke'e and seeing the mist which encircles everything. It's a fast song but it seems to want to portray some sense of beauty about Koke'e. And so? Yeah, I've hiked to the top. Probably over 1,500 times. Yeah, I've see the mist. I've tasted it, too. For these reasons I thought the song was dragging out an otherwise powerful but mundane experience that is a part of everyday life. But now that I am not there to climb to Koke'e, to smell the ferns, to taste the sweet dewy fog, and feel the coolness of its airs, I can't help but smile when I hear this song. It isn't like actually being there. I think of it more as an appetizer of the day when I go to Kaua'i for the twilight of my life, and as the song says, "never more to say goodbye."

diet coke and pretzels

"So what have you learned so far?", asked the most important of my college mentors during a visit to Chaminade campus two years ago. "Wait, don't tell me: you feel like a stupid fuckhead and you can't get enough stationary." I literally sat there with my mouth open. How'd he know? "Don't worry, we all have been there and done that. Especially about the stationary bit. That part goes away. The stupid fuckhead part stays with you forever."

I began to tell him that he's right. I couldn't get enough stationary. "I feel the need to buy massive containers..." he interrupted, "for every single piece of paper you own right? You want cases for flash cards, filing trays for all of your shit." Again I was speechless. "But go on", he said with that Bronx smirk. What he was saying was true. I had bought all sorts of things to keep myself organized. I had notepads and tablets. I didn't know what I would do with all of them. He interrupted again, "You should've gone into sociology like I told you. Next time you come back let's do a field sample and write an analysis of first year graduate students. I know you suck at the quantitative side of the field. That's nothing a few good slaps won't fix. Learn to add, you religious motherfucker you."

That was him. He was so incisive with his language. Not everybody could approach him to have a conversation. He wasn't harsh to everyone - only the ones he cared about. But his stature is intimidating. At a little over 6' tall, with far inset italian eyes that looked through every shred of your own self pride, this guy was a tough man. Sure he could be compassionate when he wanted to. Those days were few and far in between. If you were there to talk shop you talked shop. If you were there to talk about life and feelings you talked about life and feelings. This guy have pretty good advice. We shared many of the same experiences growing up especially family dynamics. I think he knew where I was coming from. To a certain extent I knew where he was coming from too.

"So what's this about the stupid fuckhead part?" I asked. "Yes, you're a stupid fuckhead." I looked at him for just that moment. He looked back with that cold dead glance. "Well, what the fuck do you want me to say? Hold your hand tell and tell you that you're brilliant, tell you good job, give you a fucking gold star on your bluebook? You're old enough to figure shit out. And stop giving me that fucking sad puppy look, you prick." Did I mention that this guy cussed a lot for a professor and a Brother, no less?

At that time I couldn't restrain the thoughts in my head. I told him that as much as I learned I felt like I was getting dumb. Dumb and dumber. As if I felt myself losing my brain. That I was scared. At that moment he softened up. "You know what your problem is? You're transitioning to actually using your brain for the first time in your life. Knowing what I know now I can tell you all day about the things I don't know about. That's a side effect of learning. You become aware of the fact that you don't know about things which you previously didn't know existed. You and I belong to a small group which entertains thoughts most other people will never have. I say that you get a life and get used to it. It never goes away. It never goes away. It never goes away." You always knew when he meant something because he repeated it three times.

Was it true what he said? At first I didn't get it. Only now do I start to really appreciate that as fully as I should. Of course I knew and know I don't know everything. But I didn't know how that squared with the feeling of utter inadequacy. I know I'll never know anything about physics other than the two courses I took in college. If I had the mind for it I would've liked to be a physicist. If his thesis is right I feel so inadequate because I know there is a whole new world that is inaccessible to me and will always be inaccessible to me. Compared to what I know right now and what I hope to know or what I know is possible to know, my knowledge really is just a grain of sand in the ocean of infinite knowledge.

So what now? Hell if I know. But I thank him for bringing that to my attention. Thank you, my dear friend. Thank you for awakening that within me. Thank you, where ever you may be.

kaua i ka holoholo ka'a 'oni ana ka huila lawe a lilo

An old friend recently found me on myspace. Yes, myspace. I mean who uses myspace anymore? That is so late 1990's, so early 2000's, so high schoolish. For some reason it was myspace. Anyway, there is this quote that he put in his profile: The happiest people don't necessarily have the best of everything. They just make the best of everything they have.

Knowing him I know that it isn't simply a quote he thought was thoughtful or deep. He lives by words like that. Such a simple person, true to himself. For as long as I've known him he's been one of the happiest people. He isn't happy because of what he has or what he has done but because of who he is. What a beautiful way of seeing the world. What a beautiful man.

I have been so anxious about the application process. This is the last sort of degree I can get. I am ready to get out of school and start working. This past summer reconnected me on so many levels to the community at home. For the first time in a very very long time I was amongst fellow kamaaina and kanaka maoli. You can tell who they are. They have a sunny soul. You can't help but be drawn to people so grounded both in the land and in their genealogy. Whenever I start to feel stressed out I think of the real ho'onalu attitude of those I know back home. I think that is what I miss about people at home. No matter what happens they know things will be ok. They've got their spirit and family. Nothing can seriously harm them.

Looking at the situation in another way it can appear stagnant. Take my own family for example. True people of the land. Dey try foa talk lai dis all da time. Dey no ken talk english good kine so nobody take em for real lai dat. As how. As how I had grow up talking. When I stay at home as as ok lai dat. Ho brah, ho dis, ho dat. Ho, we go ova hea, ova dea. Ho, you know what her had say? Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas. It is unfortunate that Hawaii creole is equated to low intelligence. Some of the most intelligent people I know speak only "pidgin". Indeed, my most heartfelt conversations are only in pidgin. But when I olelo haole, speak English, my family can't understand me. It used to frustrate me because I felt they needed to know that there was a bigger world out there which demanded proper grammar. The key insight: If we cannot speak on our own terms in our own home, where else are we to carry on the kamaaina lifestyle? If we cannot be ourselves - simple, bare, uneducated as some will say - when will we be ourselves? Let's keep the Hawaii in Hawaii.

My mother barely graduated high school. My aunt graduated from UH. My uncle has a high school diploma. My grandfather had a third grade education. My grandmother graduated from high school. Despite their deficiencies they are the most intelligent people I know. Why? Because at the end of the day they use their educational sets in the best way they can. So what if they haven't all gone to college? They've been educated in their own way. It is an education that I have also learned from them, too. When I told them that I would be going to graduate school in Berkeley one of them replied, "You no stay pau yet? Why, you had fail?" I replied, "No, I never fail. As for people who go to school after college." Another one then said, "Why you gotta do that for? Stay home with us. Come, make money. Make yourself useful. I don't know what 'graduate school' means. I don't know where Berkeley is either. But Dus, I know as nothing compared to what we do ova hea." And you know what? Both of them were right. What I do here is absolutely nothing to the sorts of things I do at home.

My mother has always taught me about how to properly respect the forest. We'd go up into the kuahiwinuis to pick traditional flora - palapalai, ohi'a lehua, maile, and of course, mokihana berries. Most of all, she taught me how to ask permission from the forest and to take only what I needed. She taught me how to leave ho'okupu in thanksgiving. Same with my uncle. Ho'opuku to the ocean for giving us fish. He showed me how to read the bird piles, how listen to the ocean, how to look at the surface of the water to see small fish. It was here that he introduced me to ho'ailona. Ever since then I knew the land would provide for me if I was humble enough to slow down, show respect, and know that I was at the mercy of creation.

Right now the family is struggling with money problems. On top of that there is plenty of family drama. A few years ago my aunty and uncle had almost hanai this one girl. She always came around and being only a year younger than me she'd tell me about some of the school gossip. Cute girl. So we took her into the family and she was always around. A couple of years ago she got hapai from some guy. When her daughter was born she asked my uncle and aunty to be godparents. They were happy to do that. Then about a year ago she got hapai again from another guy. At this point, the family wasn't ready to take another godchild on. Every time I went home I saw these three people in my living room. No blood relations. They were just there. Now the girl wants to go and meet new people. My aunty and uncle can't "control" her any more. All kinds of drama. I won't be sucked into it. My mother and I knew this day would come so we aren't shocked. Yet this situation has caused a certain divide in the family. All kine pilikia going on.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that no local family is perfect. Lots of drug abuse, lots of unwanted children. Alcoholism. Homicide. Suicide. Obesity. Depression. But for all of this they still hold true to what they are: proud sons and daughters of Hawaii. They never forget where they come from. I count myself blessed to me a part of that.

If I should fail at getting into a PhD program, if I should fail at school, at academic success, I know that I have a culture which would affirm me, challenge me, and force me to grow in ways that I am not at the present moment. I have a love/hate relationship with my culture. We have so many problems but even more blessings. At this point in my life I want to do something different than our traditional ways of living: I don't like the idea of going home and fishing for a living. I don't like the idea of growing my own food. I love the idea of reading and doing theology. But sometimes life doesn't work out that way.

At this point it is important to remember who I am. I am kamaaina. I am a Kauai boy, sprouted from humble roots. I know the land and the land knows me. I have seen the beauty of the islands and its pitfalls. The blood that flows through me is the same blood that my ancestors have shed toiling in the fields, clinging to mountains, collecting from the sea. I am part of them and they are a part of me. I may never amount to anything significant in my life. Indeed, I am certain of that. But I will always carry with me the pride to know that I have been formed by a worldview which encourages me to make the best of what I have, to be grateful for what has been given me, to make things a little better than what it was before I came across it.

In short, these are the kamaaina and kanaka maoli virtues. We practice these virtues because it brings us to our own integral flourishing. In practicing these virtues we recognize that we are really connected to one another - historically, aesthetically, culturally, and in spirit. We are all united in something greater than ourselves. It is the land, the air, the water which brings us together and sustains us. How I have come to miss the islands!

pokarekare ana

The people in darkness have seen a great light...
- Is 9:2

Last night I drove to SFO over the San Rafael Bridge then over Golden Gate Bridge because the Bay Bridge is currently down for repair. As I approached the Golden Gate, traffic was heavier than I've ever seen it. It literally took me twelve minutes to go across the span - twelve minutes which remain to me until now. The setting: sunset. The sky was a turning a deep pink. To my left I could see the city lights just turning on and the dark bay. To my right I could see the sun setting over a thick bank of fog. I drove over the bridge and saw the two massive cables rise on either side of me. It was as if the bridge's cables were like two giant arms outstretched to embrace me.

Suddenly I flashed back a few years ago. I remember when me and my four other classmates were asked, "Are you ready to open your arms to others as Jesus opened his arms on the cross for you?" We replied in unison, "We are, with the help of God."

I thought about that just at that moment. I couldn't hold back the tears. I wept openly as people drove in their lanes. I can't describe what happen. But I have made peace with God. I could feel it, know it, and "be" with it.

I've been going through a pretty dark period in my spiritual life. There have been times where I haven't loved as I was supposed to. Thoughts creeped in there that shouldn't have. In short, I failed to live up to my promise. At times I didn't know what was going on and everything was a blur. A darkness came onto me and took away my vision. Things looked pretty bleak. The weird thing is that I didn't tell anybody about this, save one person. Some knew something was going on but I kept it inside. The last time I told a group of friends about my spiritual crisis they got really concerned. There was no need to worry this time, though I was in a profound spiritual privation. That changed last night, as I have said. I can feel the grace within me again. Everywhere I see I see the presence of God. It is as if the fog has been lifted, as if the light has come to shine in the darkness. I've come to trust, to let go, to love more freely.

Today I went to Mass for the first time in a long time. I had stayed away because I was quite angry with God, the Church, and myself. But today I couldn't help but feel so energized as I approached our Risen Lord in the Eucharist. He abides in me as I abide in him. So what does this imply on a practical level? Well, I should return to being more "me". It's not that I've had a mask on. But I have purposely kept my self away from most people.

If there is one thing I like about myself it is my sense of hope. I usually describe it as optimism around people who will react more positively to that word but what I really mean is hope. Hope is seeing the light when nobody else sees it. Hope is looking for the good in others even if they don't appear to be good. Hope is loving fully and completely, even if that isn't reciprocated. And above all, hope is one of those things which propagate from person to person. When you're around a person who has hope you can't help but somehow feel hopeful too, even if just for a little bit. I can admit that some of my hope was dormant over the past few weeks, but it is back again, stronger than ever.

So back to the original question: Am I ready to open my arms to others as Jesus opened his arms on the cross for me? If opening my arms to others means that I will accept people for who they are although they could care less about me, if opening my arms means loving more unconditionally, if it means to see with eyes anew, to embrace without fear of being hurt - in short, to love fully as a Christian, then yes, I am ready to begin again. I don't anticipate being perfect. Nobody ever is. But what is divine about second chances - or third chances all the way to hundreth chances - is an undying hope in the other. A friend, a family member, an acquaintence - all children of God who will hurt and be hurt. That is certainly no excuse to give up.

Yes, to live in the virtue of true hope: that is my vocation.

l'arbre de Vie

It's interesting for me to see where my impulses lead me from day to day, week to week. I am in an extrodinarily "musical" mode right now. To the right of me is a pile of my favorite recordings: Brahms sonatas, Beethoven Quartets, Saint-Saens concerti, Mozart piano music, and the like. For me listening to these recordings is like dropping in with old friends. So many places and people are associated with these pieces, not to mention the emotions which come back to me. Through it all, I am never surprised at what happens to be when I listen to Bach.

Bach, that grandaddy of us all. For the longest time it was he alone that I thought was worthy to carry the title "composer". His works in the minor key have a certain weightiness and depth to them. If somebody were to ask me what my single favorite piece of music is I would hesitate a bit, then answer: Bach's "Double" violin concerto in d minor BWV 1043, for two violins and orchestra. It's a pretty famous piece in three unique movements of vivace, largo ma non tanto, and allegro. I grew up listening to the now famous Itzhak Perlman and Isaac Stern recording, and in due time I learned the piece myself measure by measure, line by line, movement by movement. Unlike most people I learned the middle movement first, then the third, and finally, the first. I couldn't understand why. The first seemed to be technically the easiest of the three movements. It was mostly in odd positions with that monstrosity near the middle which could only be done in second position. But heck I didn't question. It was a privilege playing that thing and I remember coming home from lessons excited to practice until I was half deaf in my left ear.

In 2007 I was blessed to give a concert of this concerto with one of my friends in three public performances. The experience was cathartic. I had so much energy invested in the concerto that the performances left me really tired. After all, how is one to express one's interest for a piece that has been such an integral part of one's life for so long? How could one do justice to the music of Bach? Somehow we did it. We practiced weekly like crazy, coming up with common fingerings and bowings. The other violinist played the second violin part, which is traditionally known as the test of bow arm agility. I played the first which has been regarded as one of the more challenging pieces in baroque repretoire because of its seemingly mild pyrotechnics which require great precision if the line is to stand out. Somehow we had to bring those two elements together without saying a word to one another.

I remember very clearly our rehearsals. We practiced in the chapel at school. It's a rather large round building with a piano to the left next to the altar. Looking straight ahead we could see just about half of Diamond head through these huge sliding glass doors. We'd agree to meet when I got out of meetings, more or less at 5PM. We'd practice til 9. Those four hours flew by like no other. We played our selves out and disagreed a great deal. The other violinist and I seemed to have fundamental disagreements on the nature of baroque music: she claimed that the line should increase in volume proportionate to higher pitches while I maintained the opposite. She had no problem using vibrato in her solo sections while I decided to be a bit more spare with ornamentation. I began my trills on the note above the written one while she began as written. Most of all we had a different sense of timing. Being the romantic she is she'd slow down at the end of phrases which drove me insane. We sometimes relied on the metronome but that would never work out. It was a fun and frustrating experience. Near the end the discussions were tiring, so I just went along with what she wanted. I didn't care any more. To my surprise she took notice of this, backed down, and was adamant that my viewpoint was the right one. Now that is something I couldn't have planned.

After we worked out our issues I informed the conductor and his assistant that we would be ready to practice with the full orchestra. I suggested that only the principals meet for the first time so there would be greater transparency of thought and playing. He utterly rejected my thesis. That's not the kind of situation you can argue in. So we showed up one night, stood up there between the concertmaster and the conductor and had a go. It was pretty awful. As first violinist I technically had more control over the speed and pacing than the conductor, which in principle was anachronistic to the Bach we were performing. Things weren't working out at all. The concertmaster (my teacher) even went as far as to suggest that he and I write a jazz percussion part out for the concerto. He said it was creative. I knew he knew we had some serious tempo issues as a group.

After a month the whole thing began coming together. We all learned to communicate with one another. The bass lines finally figured out that they were the steam behind this huge locomotive, something which I thought was evident from the very get go. Two weeks before the first performance we gave it a run through. It was pretty damn good if I can say so myself. There were some intonation issues between me and the rest of the first violinists. Later we found out that I sounded a bit sharper when I turned my back to them. It was an illusion of their highly gifted ears. They had to somehow ignore my sound yet be aware of what I was doing. And with that we were ready to hit the road.

As I mentioned, there were three performances. The first was at this retirement home in Punahou. We had played there before. The audience there is always appreciative especially if they know the musician is young. So here it was, my solo debut. No friends were there, neither was my family. It was strangely lonely that night. My mother had called me about a half hour before the concert and began to argue with me over something about my father. I told her that what ever was going on it wasn't my fault and that I can't be the vent for her right now - I'm about to play a freaking solo against an orchestra. She didn't know what that meant and went on anyway. I turned off my phone, threw it in the case, and let go of that. I remember sitting in the musician's area quickly converted from a chapel. For some reason I am beginning to realize I remember what I see at moments like these. But in any case, I could see the side of Maryknoll school. I could see gray lockers and ti leaves and torch gingers. Before I knew it they announced my name. I grabbed my partner by the hand and came out of the door, took a bow, and put the bow to the string. The rest happened so quickly after that. I can hardly remember what it was like. I do remember standing there awkwardly as the second violins began their ascending scale which sounds much like the beginning of that old cartoon "Inspector Gadget". After I began I remember feeling abnormally powerful. I had stepped into the "zone".

The very last few measures of the concerto is this descending scale in thirds down to the D above middle C. We held that note longer than I would've ever dreamed of doing it, but hey, people expect that kind of ending. Somebody presented me with a lei and a bouquet. Instead of walking back through the doors I came from, I walked straight out the doors. Something said to me, "just walk and keep walking." And there I was, out in Honolulu traffic with a plumeria lei, a black aloha shirt and slacks, violin in hand. What the hell was I doing? It beat the shit out of me. A walk around the block was in order. I didn't want anyone to steal my instrument so I unbuttoned the top three buttons of my shirt and slid my instrument in there. I held the bow against the back of my arm. The moon was out that night. I could see Tantalus in the distance bathed with a soft glow. The walk toward Makiki was a bit of a victory lap - again, a lonely one.

Somebody had sent me a youtube clip of the performance the following week. I sent it to my mother so she could see what was going on. We had another performance coming up in a few days. And wouldn't you know it, she and a few family members said they'd be there. This venue was perhaps the most impressive. It is Paliku theatre in Kaneohe. The acoustics there are pretty spectacular. The soloists had their own dressing room. I could see and hear what was going on on the stage via closed circuit TV in my room. At the prearranged time the same process: I took my partner by the hand, bowed, and played. This time I was nervous. I actually knew people there. Two friends had come, one of whom meant a lot to me. Well, they both did but the girl even moreso. And no, it wasn't because she was a girl. My mother, her sister and husband, and another relative came too. I was shocked that they would fly to Oahu just for this.

Halfway through the middle movement I began to lose feeling in my left hand. The fingers kinda flopped there like fish out of water. I was still playing in tune and with good tone but the tactile experience was weird. During my rests I stopped and massaged my hands. The conductor gave me this really concerned look but I smiled. I couldn't figure out what was going on. Fatigue? No way. My hands knew this piece inside and out. Nervousness? I wasn't shaking any more. But as I continued to rub my hands I found that the warmth was helping. Between the second and third movements I whispered to the other violinist, "Is it me or is it super cold in here?" She said she was losing feeling too. Nevertheless we plowed through. What a relief.

And so what's the overarching theme here? I miss the music scene. A prodigy or well known professional I am most definately not. Am I good? Meh. I think I kinda suck. But apparently good enough to others. I miss that rush of performing. I miss putting on concert clothes, getting into my car, and driving to the venue. Most of all, I miss mingling with the audience when its all over. They'll tell you all sorts of stories, what the piece said to them, and sometimes but not very often they'll ask your age and side you a small envelope with a decent amount of cash in it. Gigging life was pretty similar, minus the mingling. We'd play at events and had to provide atmosphere. We were paid with bank checks. And for the polar opposite of these two venues, Mariachi was perhaps the most fun of all. We carried the life of the party, made fools of ourselves, and took requests - all in Spanish. We had to sing although I can't carry a tune if my life depended on it. We did our best and ended quite successfully almost 100% of the time. Oh gosh, except this one gig at a nightclub in Aiea. That was a disaster.

I miss my musician friends. They were neat people with interesting stories. Come to think about it, I miss music, period. Luckily life comes in full circle. Again, though thousands of miles away from my musical community I am brought back to those faces and notes through my recordings. I feel closer to them somehow. It is one big musical communion.

Youtube has an audio-only clip of the concerto I played. It is that recording which I know so well played by Perlman and Stern.

Here is the first movement. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vesrqFeq9rU
Just listen to how heavy that sounds. You can hear the basses bouncing up and down in the foundation. It's just...heavy. I'm not talking about emotionally taxing. I'm talking about the creation of a physical weightiness, like Atlas or seeing a huge machine slowly coming to life. When the solo violins enter they do so in a mock canon fashion. Their melodies interweave creating a tension resolved only at the very end.

Here is the second movement. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axFUvA_he-o
Absolutely stunning. The melodies arch and embrace. At once the voices are separated yet comingled. At any one time one violin tries to move beyond the single line, only to be pulled back by the other. As the movement develops it seems as if the two violins realize that their strength lies in their relation to each other. Out of everything Bach wrote I think this really is the pinnacle of his art. No joke. It is my favorite movement to play, hands down.

And here is the third movement. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6gOeE5QTXk
This one is such a rollercoaster. The two violins chase each other in an almost exact fuge only a half bar long. They never quite catch up to each other except in the final tutti. Of the three movements this is the most difficult to get in sych with the orchestra. The bass is playing this syncopated obbligato and the higher strings' beats fall on those penultimate to mine. There is so much complexity here. I am positive that one could spent at least five years analyzing this one movement.

And there it is. The source and summit of my life in three movements.

cont'd.

So I gave in and replaced the Obligatos with Dominants - Silver wound G, aluminum wound D and A. I vaguely remember using a silver wound D a long time ago and felt that the aluminum was just as good if not better for a lower price. The cost of today's musical homecoming: only about $43, taxes included.

I just strung them up about twenty minutes ago. And let them settle for a second or two before playing them. They sound great. The response is immediate and I feel much better about the whole thing.

So there's this girl that works at the shop. I don't know her name, but she's this petite, quiet, and kind girl. She's got this plain jane thing going on for her and it fits her perfectly. I approached the counter and said, "Hey, long time no see. The obligatos aren't cutting it for me." She looked so shocked. I know it's a popular string but it was true. After looking over their price list I decided to be conservative and stick with the Dominant choice although it was tempting to try the Visions. She probably thinks I have issues, especially for a switch from Obligatos to Dominants, from silver wound strings to aluminum ones. She probably thinks I am a crazy person. Poor girl.

picky picky

So here's a post solely for myself and the extremely curious. Although there are some people who read this and don't post replies (lurkers), this one should be even more incomprehensible to others than previous posts.

I'm traditionally a Pirastro guy. I use their Eudoxa strings for the G, D, and A strings. They're made with braided sheep intestine wound with silver and aluminum. For the E string I use either a Pirastro gold label (medium, loop end) or a Goldbrokat 26 gauge. This violin is pretty sensitive to the tension on the E string. It does not tolerate excessive tension nor does it speak properly with too loose a string. I am currently finding that the Goldbrokat is giving me the best sound. It is a neutral yet sweet string - not too bright and with just enough edge to make the sound interesting, especially in first position. Higher positions require less bow pressure otherwise I can star to hear the high partials and harmonics distort. What I like about the Goldbrokat is how it sounds when open. It's got that nutty and dry sound like a gut one.

But anyway, as I said, I am a Pirastro guy. I absolutely love the Olivs but they're expensive. The Evah Pirazzis seem to be extremely popular but their high tension doesn't mesh with my violin. The Eudoxas offer a compromise: medium tension, medium voice. However, I am hesitant to use them at this time of the year given the humidity fluctuation. Gut is still an organic material which expands and contracts when it absorbs ambient moisture in the room. Consider the fact that the player breathes close to the strings, adding a constant variable source of less dissipated moisture. I suppose one could hold his or her breath while playing gut strings but that would be no fun.

My instrument isn't a particularly valuable one nor is it cheap. The guy who made it is currently selling his other violins for $15,000. I play on a bow I bought myself for graduation for about $4,000. Together these two things are the most valuable things I own and will own for a long time. They were big investments and I trust that they will be lifelong friends. To be technical about it, the violin was gifted to me by somebody who believed in my musical abilities in 2003. I was intending to purchase a violin by a contemporary maker and had plans to pay him bit by bit over a few years. Luckily I met the right person at the right time and it was mine to own without having spent a single penny. The bow is a different story on the other hand. That put a hole in my bank account but I needed it. All that to say that the instrument isn't some cheapie that doesn't notice changes in strings. Not to brag about it, but my instrument pretty much rocks. If it could speak it would say, "Excuse me, I'm kind of a big deal!"

I sent it through FedEx about ten months ago for its yearly checkup with its maker. I had Pirastro Obligato strings on it at the time. When I got it back the same Obligatos were on the violin and still sounded decent. At the same time I had received a free set of Evah Pirazzi strings compliments of the manufacturer in thanks for a review I wrote for them. I don't know why I took off the Obligatos and put the Pirazzis on, but I did. It was terrible. I didn't want to buy new strings so I just dealt with it until summer, when I had the cash to buy the much cheaper Thomastik Dominant strings in Hawaii. They were purchased as an interim set as the humidity of Hawaii both tarnishes the strings as well as makes me sweat, which corrodes the windings and causes string failure. I had planned to buy a new set of Obligatos when I reached Berkeley.

Three weeks ago I bought a new set of Obligatos and kept my Goldbrokat E. As soon as I put them on I realized how much better I liked the Dominants. My complaint about the Dominants was that they sounded too bright to the point of sounding superficial and "edgy". The A was fine and had a beautiful bel canto quality in the upper positions - fifth and above. The D was pretty excellent too and held up to heavy bow pressure. But the G was just awful. It never developed a full voice and sounded like a raspy whisper. At the time I changed the strings I had been preparing a Mozart duo in G Major. The strings fit the piece well. The sound was bright, cheery, accessible and golden. When I try to play the Mozart with the Obligatos I don't get that effect unless I push down hard. This causes all sorts of tension in my left forearm so my articulation suffers. When I think about it its clear that my bowing is compensating by using the upper half of the bow with plenty of pressure on the side of the forefinger. I can tell these accomodations don't work for the violin because many passages sound "choked". Indeed, I am not pleased with the sound. I haven't been excited to practice since the new strings and things must sound awful.

So the point? I am interested in going back to the Dominants but spending $60 on the Obligatos makes me want to give them even more of a chance. I can't waste that much money. On the other hand, I am very unhappy with the current playing arrangement. These strings would work well for stuff like Brahms or Beethoven or perhaps second fiddle in French impressionistic quartets. Problem is, that's not what I am doing right now. I am playing for myself, for fun, pieces of the high classical period. Haydn through Mozart. It is so difficult to get a lightness of tone with strings that demand heavy bow pressure. On top of that, the strings seem to want to play in notes by themselves. I mean that the difference between a G and a G# is pretty drastic. In the style of Mozart the leading tone is always played a bit sharp. For example, the Duo is in G Major. The leading tone is F# when in the major key. I haven't been able to raise that F# high enough to make my cadences more musical. It sounds like I am in D major or something which is so annoying. Again, maybe that would fly for Romantic literature but for Classical and Baroque (the mood I am currently in) that will not do.

The point: Man, remember that Dominants work for Mozart, Obligatos for post 1800. Obligato response is slow, Dominant is quick. Obligato has depth, Dominant has joy. Obligato is expensive, Dominant is cheap. Obligato bad, Dominant good. Simple as that, right? The interesting insight is that the Obligatos sound decent when the humidity goes below 70%. Otherwise the violin sounds like it's being played underwater. It's got no zest. It just sounds tired.

I guess it'll just have to be a snap decision: either keep the Obligatos because it is economically prudent or change to Dominants and preserve my love for the art. We shall see. I am more than willing to not eat through the weekend just so I can sound good again. Maybe I'll want to practice things other than scales at five minute intervals. Maybe I'll be able to go and start playing pieces all the way through again instead if "scrippa scrippa, screech screech, woo woo." I am sure that my neighbors will appreciate that most of all.

I'll be gone in a day or two

Well, I just turned in my transcript requests on campus. We'll see how long it takes for them to get around to it. Quite frankly I am surprised about one or two of the places I decided to apply to. We'll see what happens. I need to finish my statement of purpose tonight. Speaking of which, something really interesting has happened. One of my former professors has asked me to write a letter of reference/recommendation on his behalf to the Rank and Tenure Committee at the school. His instructions were simple: let them know what I have done for you. At first it seemed simple enough but on second or third thought it was clear to me that this would take some time. It isn't that he hasn't done a lot for me. Quite the opposite. The letter that I would want to send to the Committee would show them very concisely that this guy cares about his kids. After all he has done for me I don't want to let him down. If the Rank and Tenure Committee has half a brain they'd let this guy in. I can't think of anybody more worthy of tenure. But still, what a trip. Talk about role reversal. I guess today is the day to write both the statement of purpose and this tenure letter. Gosh. It reminds me of that one song currently popular on KCCN FM 100 in Hawaii: write me a letter and put your picture in it too.

A former classmate sent me an email last night that I wasn't quite prepared to read. She and her partner are considering adopting. I didn't know how to react: it was the greatest idea I've ever heard anybody say regarding children. I can't believe it. I honestly back her up 100%. For some reason it just "clicked" in my mind. Now she and I aren't close friends but I we're pretty familiar with one another. Her aptitude in interpersonal relationships is unmatched. Let me put it this way: I would want her to adopt me. She has a heart of gold. I am praying that this works out for her and her partner. That child will be blessed beyond measure. I think I feel this way because I trust her sense of love. She is so grounded, so real. She isn't exactly quixotic but her personality lends to a general feeling of optimism. In short: I am terribly excited for her and her partner. Words cannot begin to express the joy within me right now. These women have my unconditional support. They will love the child with an even greater love than they have already given to me.

On another subject, it's been rather cold in Berkeley recently. I wake up at 7 in the morning shivering. It's exactly the opposite of my one and a half years in the dorms. We were way up the hill in the Kaimuki campus (or St. Louis heights if you want to be technical). The view from my room was spectacular. It was of the end of Waikiki. To the far right I could see the dome of the Stan Sheriff center, aka Mecca. Mind you, these were the days where I'd wear green even if I wasn't able to go to the UH Wahine Volleyball games myself. Anyway, to the far left I could see Diamond Head. The view, of course, came with a price. There were few windows that opened. It would get super hot during the day. Nobody seemed to have enough fans to keep cool. It just so happened that the other side of the dorm was very cold. We'd make friends with the person across the hallway and have them keep their door open so the breeze would come through. In exchange they saw out of our window and got a bit of our view.

One of the girls who lived across from me was this girl from Michigan. She was rather...well endowed. She knew it but she didn't show it off. One day I was sitting at my desk reading. I look to the left and see her putting her laundry away while standing in her underwear. I said, "Hey man, why is your door open?" She replied, "Ah, fuck it. I don't mind you seeing me like this" and continued folding her laundry. I kinda sat there stunned and started to zone out while still looking at her. After a few moments I noticed that she was looking at me back. "See? My side has a different kind if view", she joked. I think I blushed and went over and sat on her bed and talked to her. It was one of those awkward bonding experiences. After all, here I was wearing my scapular and there she was half naked. It's funny how the Berkeley cold will remind me of things like this. But I think I'd rather be sweating than shivering. I never thought I'd say that.

Last night my mother and I had a talk about my return home in December. I think I am leaving Oakland on December 22nd. I'll be spending all of my time on Kauai and probably leave on the second week of January. It's time to start thinking about what I'm gonna be doing while at home. One thing is for sure: I plan to be pretty inconspicuous. No doubt I'll be fishing, planting, cooking, swimming, eating, talking, laughing, drinking, sleeping, reading, wii-ing, so on and so forth. I just don't know what I'll do with my time. After losing eight friends to Holiday season car accidents I think I'll stay away from the road as much as possible.

So what is there to look forward to? I want to see my nieces and nephews. Mass at 6:45AM. Sunday brunches. Family dinners in the garage by the grill. Beers and fishing. Going to my grandparents grave. Being in the mountains, smelling Koke'e. Running into old friends. Hiding from relatives. Early sunrise over the ocean horizon. Still, dewy nights. The rain. Dancing. Cleaning the yard. Being on the ocean from sunrise to sunset. Eating at Sueoka's. Eating at Hamura's. Eating at Ishihara's. Eating everywhere, actually. Waimea river. Nawiliwili Borders. Da Imu Hut teri burgers. Wailua river valley. Old orchestra friends. Kilauea lighthouse. Kalalau hike. Freshly pounded poi. Kalua. Poipu. Waialeale. KULOLO. E nani Kaua'i - ka i'ini pau'ole. Ai, a ka makemake.

Outside one of our windows there is a BIG pua kenikeni tree. Now if you know me you know that I love that flower. It is beautiful and smells heavenly. I planted that tree a few years ago. After the first two years it wasn't giving any flower so my mother wanted to cut it down. I of course refused, but she did anyway. I came home one day and the little shrub was gone. Heartbroken doesn't even begin to describe it. Perhaps she didn't pull out the roots because a few months after that it grew back. She wanted to cut it down again but I made sure she didn't get her hands on it. The same thing happened. No flowers. I told her to just be patient, to trust that tree is waiting to bloom at just the right time. My mother is notoriously impatient with things she can't understand. By the time I knew it I had to go to college. I made my mom promise she wouldn't touch the tree otherwise I'd be pretty upset. She held through. For the three years I was in college I'd come home and inspect the plant. It grew alright but still no flower. In 2007 I made the move to Berkeley. It wasn't until 2008 that I got a phone call from my mom - the tree had bloomed. I was ecstatic.

I couldn't understand why that tree waited for me to leave before it bloomed. Maybe it was shy. Maybe it knew that I'd appreciate it all the more when I did come back home. If that is the case that tree is wise indeed. I came home for Christmas and saw all of these little white and yellow flowers everywhere. I picked them and brought them into the house. They were as fragrant as ever. The tree seems to operate on its own time too. Traditionally the flowers open in the very early morning at night when the dew is thick. At this point they are a very pure white and tight flower. As the sun rises the flowers incrementally turn a shade of yellow, then to a dark orange at the end of the day. The weird thing about our tree is that the buds seem to open in the evening. They stay open all night and remain white until sunrise. In this way they either open extremely open or extremely late depending on how you look at it. The result is the same though: these flowers maintain their whiteness longer and thus last longer when made into lei or left around. Even as it blooms in success it does so on its own terms. All for the better.

Maybe that's how some people are, too. Right now I am thinking of two guy friends. One of them is in Japan, the other is somewhere on the East coast. It took me to be away them only to come back and find them in full bloom. They're still blooming on their own terms even against conventional wisdom. What is more, I am glad that I had enough patience not to cut them down before they had the chance. I am glad that I stayed the course with them when nobody else would. They are taking off in their personal and professional lives. One of them has just begun his own family. He has a beautiful daughter. The other, well, is living his dream of being a computer nerd. In both instances I am constantly reminded of the power of the human spirit to overcome early disasters and disappointments only to arise again fuller and stronger than ever before. I am so proud of them.

Rahner

Karl Rahner has a beautiful image for the end of life. He speaks about the freedom of trusting in the mystery. We will plunge into the unknown. Then, "out of the darkness the face of Christ will appear."

That moment of trust in providence is central for Rahner's eschatology. Even more interestingly, I am now confronted with a similar opportunity. All I can do is trust, fully and completely. I am somehow reminded of the peace prayer of St. Francis.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace
Where there is hatred, let me sow love
where there is injury, pardon
where there is doubt, faith
where there is despair, hope
where there is darkness, light
where there is sadness, joy

O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console
to be understood as to understand
to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life

the lean, mean, green string bean.

Last night after the fifth round of drinks at Jupiter the waitress told us that they were closing up. We had a really good time last night. Lots of laugh with plenty of singing. Toward the end we started singing Catholic hymns like "One bread, one body", "Pan de Vida", "On Eagle's Wings", "Though the Mountains May Fall", and of course, "Hail Holy Queen" - Sister Act style. At first it was pretty awkward but we really got into it. Earlier three of us had been singing the chorus from Beethoven's symphony 9, but more than half couldn't join us because they knew the melody and not the German lyrics. But most of all I had a good conversation with a friend I haven't seen in forever. We exchanged some thoughts, shared ideas, and thought about a friend that just left for heaven. I am happy to be closer to her again.

Anyway, as we all went out separate ways one of my friends who lives a couple of doors up the street from me and I continued to hang out. First we spoke on my porch but soon moved to his place when he said he was cold. He wanted to continue drinking - who am I to refuse? At that point I was getting pretty tired so I drank a little more than half of the li hing mui daquiri he had made for me. I sat there in the common dining area and could see his housemates in the other room through the french doors. I asked him, "How are your housemates? Cool or what?" He replied, "Yeah, they're pretty cool. Sometimes I see them do really jacked up things but I have to stop and remember: they're still kids. So when I see them as kids they do some pretty amazing things." Somehow I was blown away by that.

Just then a whole line of them came into the dining area to meet me. I stood up and shook their hands and tried to remember their names. One of them told my friend, "I wasn't feeling what you cooked for dinner tonight. It was funky." My friend just laughed and told her that he appreciates her honesty. All I could do was smile at that potentially awkward but real conversation. The other people there was asking me what I do, what I study, where I am from. Now, my friend likes to point things up a bit. He made it sound as if I was somebody important but I quickly dispelled that with a veritable cornucopia of swear words. They got the picture. I learned that two of them are roughly my age. After what must've been ten minutes of talking they all retired to their rooms for the night.

That experience shook me up. I was confronted with the thought of being "old". Looking at those guys I saw peers, not kids. Granted, my friend is a bit older than me. I mentioned this to him very briefly - that is, how awkward it is to feel old. He said, "You're not chronologically much older than they are. You need to understand that you have a maturity they don't have just yet." I couldn't think of a reply at the time. He was right. I knew it. Hearing him say that made me want to fight it. I'm 23 - still a kid. I don't think I have come to terms with the fact that people are younger than me in a role I still feel like I occupy. It's been such a wake up call. Nor has this been the first time this has come up.

So I just kinda sat there, speechless. It's so hard to think about growing up. Wait, actually no. It's easy to grow up but it's hard for me to accept the fact that others think that I am "old". In this way alone I never want to grow up. Here I was, sitting at this gigantic table with my daquiri, while the others were in the living room playing. I wanted to play too. But it wasn't my place to do that. Instead I had a formal relationship to them as if I was alien to my own kind. Here I was, wanting to be with my peers. And for the first time I saw who my peer was: the other graduate student. How unfair. I'm not trying to say that I am eons ahead of them. No. Quite the contrary. I have plenty of respect for those undergraduates, which is precisely why I wanted to talk to them. At the same time that sort of dynamic was really interesting. I didn't have to want to get to know them. It just happened, albeit on a superficial level. Yikes.

I don't know if I'll ever get used to this sort of thing. That scares me.

ringrazia tutti degli auguri fatti in questa giornata

Now that the emotionalism of last night has passed, I think I can look at things a bit more objectively. Not to say that I recant everything that has been said. On the contrary, I can only affirm what is written below with perhaps now more a nuanced reasoning.

For my reflection today I'd like to call to mind two things: silver and gold and the death of a bird.

One of the things the Sacred Hearts Nuns (SS.CC.) would tell the small children when I went to visit them was a short rhyme that could be sung: Make new friends and keep the old; one is silver and the other gold. At first I was struck by how simplistic that sounded even for a child. I think I've come to a greater appreciation of that a few years after I've heard it. If we are to take it seriously the little rhyme offers really good advice. So often we're tempted to move on too quickly for newer and bluer waters that we forget where we have come from. In these instances we forget that those who have loved us to that point still stand on the seashore of destiny awaiting our return one day.

Am I wrong to assume that in some deep way we miss other people even if we forget about them? Am I delusional? Evidence suggests that I am. It is easy to forget and move on. I can't tell you the names of every friend I've had in my lifetime. Indeed, it seems that we know people for a short time then move on in the beautiful pilgrimage of life. But deep in the depths of our heart are we to deny that we could have carried on so far without the love and aid of others to whom we owe a certain debt of gratitude? Would a simple memory be too much a price to ask of those who opened themselves to us in friendship? Certainly not.

I suppose the real question is how we are to remember them. While clinging to people never dones anybody good - unless this is a life partner - what is the appropriate response to friendship? Alas, it isn't as if there were some chart somewhere which correlates the quality of friendship to the quantity of adherance. I think this is really the crux of the matter. Having established that it is good, beneficial, and right to think about them after they've left our lives, perhaps the question becomes: what does this imply? What does this look like? And how are we to place judgments on something which exists between two people at the same time though neither will probably feel quite exactly the same way about the other? Is it simply enough to think about this person from time to time? Maybe it is. After all, that is what pictures on desks are for. But there's something really shallow about that.

Maybe friendship has meant to me something quite simple: no matter where you are, if you remember me or not, or even if you don't want to have anything to do with me, I am thinking of you always and want the best for you. I might choose to express this through an email, a facebook post, or I might even keep it to myself. Something can remain firm though: that people may come and go but the love will remain. In this way, friendship remains forever.

Of course I won't tell any of my friends that to their face. I'd like to think they'd know what it means for me to call them friend. Some will be oblivious. That's ok. The plurality of the meanings of "friendship" only show the remarkable layers of human consciousness.

At this moment I am thinking of my dear, dear friend in Amsterdam - Marie Louise. Talk about a person grounded in herself. She was so confident, so svelte. Her sense of curiousity is something I miss.

Second, about a bird dying.

In my last semester of studies at Chaminade University, I would often leave campus for lunch somewhere. Sometimes I'd head to Zippy's or Likelike. This way was a particularly good day. I don't remember why, but I felt the need to celebrate alone. I pulled out of Chaminade's driveway onto Waialae, then down Kapiolani. Little Village was my designated celebration spot. The waitresses there know me quite well. It was as if I needed to be known by somebody but not take a friend with me. But anyway, I remember sitting in traffic at the intersection of Kapiolani and Ward, right next to the Blaisedell center on the right. I could see the marquis for upcoming events. To my left a new building was being constructed. The minutes passed and I withdrew into my own world. The song "Trate Olvidarte" was playing on my ipod broadcasting to my car's radio. Suddenly I saw a small group of birds fly from the right to the left. They passed pretty close to the road face. Just then traffic started to flow. All of them made it except one - he had been clipped in the wing by a motorcycle. He laid there with his wings outstretched on the road.

Now, I began to feel pity and wanted to get out and help it. But what was I to do? My light could've turned green at any time. Instead I sat there looking at it. It tried to get up but it couldn't. It rested its beak on the pavement, blinked, then turned its head to the side. I saw that cars were coming and I couldn't watch so I turned away. Forgive me for anthromorphizing but I thought I saw the little bird give up. It pained me for the remainder of the week. I couldn't eat any orange chicken. I had just seen a little bird die. Here he was, flying along with his friends, and wham. Death. I don't think I've ever recovered from seeing that. Yes, I have seen actual people die. But I don't think I've experienced that sense of resign that I saw in that bird that day.

All sorts of problems have been plaguing me with regards to PhD applications. I don't really feel that I am altogether qualified for doctoral work. Then again, I don't know what a really qualified person would look like. Many of the PhD students I meet here are pretty flighty and quite frankly not that bright. I mean they're bright but not in the way that I thought PhD students were to be. I am not putting down my colleagues. Rather, I am beginning to attack my assumptions of what the doctoral level is all about.

As I might've mentioned somewhere, education wasn't a top priority in my household. A simple high school diploma was enough. Every once in a while I met people with a BA or BS and held them in very high regard. It wasn't until I was 17 that I met an academic PhD. Jimmy Christiana. He blew my mind. He had done graduate work at Columbia and Harvard terminating with a PhD at Cal under Robert Bellah, the now famous sociologist. For as long as I've known him, Jimmy has always amazed me with the breadth of his knowledge of just about everything. It surprised me to see how much faith he had in me even if he gave me a super hard time about everything all the time. Most of all Jimmy instilled within me a love of knowing. As my sociology and philosophy professor, he taught me how to make key distinctions in arguments. And what is more, he was always careful to remind me that there are always different levels to thought which don't all converge on the same strata. In short, the man taught me how to think more efficiently. After reading my posts that's hard to tell right? It comes out when it wants to come out. Soon after that I met other key figures. Two of my theology professors guided me into the tradition. They introduced me to the major concepts that I had known about only superficially prior to that. I think their contribution to my life is a love of the tradition itself. I am happy to call these two men my friends today. I couldn't thank them enough.

The point? I've felt like that bird on the roadway recently. I was resigned. I was injured and inert. It was time to give up because there was no hope. But I can imagine seeing me from the outside - would I not be troubled to see "me" give up? Of course. After all they've invested in me, I owe it to both them and myself to try. So I might fail. So what? I am no stranger to failure.

And so, I've formally resumed my application process. I have three distinguished faculty who are willing to write letters on my behalf. Two of them are well established in their fields - one in theological ethics and the other in systematic theology. The third is still establishing her place in the community. She is astronomical and it'll happen soon. I am confident in my letter writers. They are seasoned academics who give a lot of thought to everything. All I should do is trust that they know what they're doing because they have chosen to put their names behind mine. And you know what? To have six people behind me on this pursuit is amazing. That is over 100 years of combined theological experience. Who am I to disagree, the lowly thinker that I am?

le tired

Last night I knew I was going for a drive today. I didn't quite know where - Sacramento? Boring. Lake Tahoe? Kinda far. Los Angeles? Tempting but irresponsible. Reno? I'd lose all of my money. Santa Cruz has always been a safe bet, so I left Berkeley at 9:25 this morning and hit the highway.

I made my way down and stopped in Santa Clara first, checked things around there. Continuing along, I stopped at Office Max at the north end of Santa Cruz. This dickhead pulled up to me and said, "Nice turn signal!" I didn't realize I forgot to turn it on. He gave me the bird as he drove off to the right - without his turn signal. Douchebag. I wasn't aware that Santa Cruz had a large houseless problem. There were people sitting everywhere. Anyway, funnel cake was calling my name but the lack of street parking and the $20/day parking lot prevented that from happening. Instead I just drove around back streets checking out the homes and businesses down there. Looks like a great place to live.

Just then, something in me said "Drive, drive further!" Long story short: I ended up in Big Sur, 70 something miles away. Of course I got out and did little things along the way including a visit to Monterey and Carmel Valley. If there is one place I could live in California it would be Carmel Valley. It is so beautiful and quaint. Gas is cheaper there too. A dilapidated truck pulled up next to my car as I filled up. How it rolled is a mystery. That car was totaled and I could see the corresponding emotions on his face. Poor guy.

Surprisingly Big Sur wasn't too foggy today. The first time I had seen the cliffs was about five years ago when I drove up with friends in a red Miata from North Los Angeles. My friends told me that there is fog that is up to 1000' thick up the sides of the mountains so we might not see anything. Luckily it was very clear that time. Today wasn't too bad either. I pulled over onto the shoulder, took a quick snapshot at Bixby Bridge, and kept going. Only a gas indicator light could've ruined my quest...and it did.

On the way back I stopped at San Jose, Santa Clara University and Palo Alto. I don't think I like that area too much. Being back on Stanford's campus was pretty neat. It's amazing how everything yet nothing changes there. I then came back on the other side of the bay on the 101, through the city, over the bridge and back home. It was one big tiring loop, but worth it nonetheless.

goldberg variations

Tonight I as walked along the seashore I couldn't help but wonder what was in that black water. The thought had been planted in my head through the words of a friend; the subsequent introspection a lonely one. It was as if anything could've been out there. What potential look like without act? What does a visible infinity look like? Where can I see such unconcentrated mass without form? The ocean.

Perhaps we can see out there the seeds of new actions, new experiences, and new thoughts. It has come to symbolize the untamed fringes which border our aspirations. It cannot be harnessed, nor can it be ignored to its own devices. But most of all it is ever changing yet the same. As we may or may not step in the same river twice, we certainly may or may not observe the same ocean again. Its presence remains constant correlative to its change. I think that permanent dynamicism of the whole thing is so beautiful.

It lends to a series of paradoxes. Perhaps the ocean is something that is better described and not defined. I don't think I've quite processed the whole experience quite yet but what I saw tonight blew my mind. I couldn't exactly express what was going on and I still can't. Perhaps the whole thing should be passed over in silence until it has been adequately digested.

Anyway, later I began to think about the problem of metaphysics. It is self-evident that many things get lost in modernity and the new worldviews which arise from it. One of the things which has been passed over, ignored, or discarded is metaphysics. Pluralism in its purest sense seems to severely berate the prospect of metaphysics. At its core, modernism is a post-metaphysical enterprise to begin with. If we take seriously those things which divide us as more immediate and valuable than those things which unite us, metaphysics becomes an obstacle to seeing the facts of the visible world head-on. When seen in this way, metaphysical projects become an oppressive cover for an articulation of the prejudices of the "institution", what ever that may be or how ever that may be defined. In its essense, metaphysics betrays the spontinaeity of authentic human living; it is but a historical roadbump to the aspirations of humanity.

But what happens when we remove metaphysics from ethics? In short, chaos. We can no longer qualify our thoughts as based on some objective reality. An immanentist view of the world can be beneficial for many reflections, but it cannot provide protection from social constructs insituted solely for the control of others. No doubt metaphysics has been used as such in the past and can still be manipulated today. Yet, metaphysics offers the possibility of overlapping spheres of consensus which trace their roots to a nebula of ethical principles in proximity.

Metaphysics is not without its problems. As the fonts of first principles, it is unaccessible to human knowledge in any direct state. Just as we cannot conceive of "one" as a singularity in itself without recourse to the phantasms of "one" of a thing, so too we cannot understand metaphysics without reference to some discreet formulation or description thereof. Here, at the end of metaphysics, the narrative of the interpreting community specifies the principles of metaphysics in secondary processions.

Some have made the case that metaphysics and a narrative tradition clash. It is understood that the following bifurcation is necessary, not a contingency of reason: maximalist/universalist - minimalist/particularist. This suggests that we can frame our ethical warrants either in "thick" form, that is, a set of highly specified precepts, laws, and general ideas toward the ethical life which reflect relevancy for the society in question - or we can spread this "thin" and speak in generalities which cover the most bases for the greatest majority of people, who will then go on to specify them themselves for the benefit of their community.

What I react to is not so much this distinction, which I believe in essence is a good one. Rather, I react to the proported incommensurability of the two. I react for two reasons. First, the general limits of metaphysics, and second, the notion of communitarian cosmology.

First, as I have said, metaphysics itself cannot specify what is to hold true for all people at all times in all places. In fact, our understanding of ethics seems to imply a communal reflection which preceeds action but proceeds from principle. In other words, metaphysics derrives syllogisms which end in action. Middle terms here are not the value of the logic; true action is.

Second, where metaphysics and narratives meet, it is possible to see a new reflection of sorts in development. This interface, usually obfuscated from public view and entrusted to higher academics and intellectuals, is where the real rubber meets the road. The result is a cosmology which though in itself cannot bear to impress onto the community nevertheless undergirds what ever duties which have been established or promulgated, namely, in law.

Thus, I understand metaphysics and narrative to be interdependent and not exclusive. There is no such thing as pure metaphysic nor is there such a thing as pure culture or narrative. The relation between both is not linear nor measurable. Rather, one continually transforms the other, deeply and completely. This cannot be understood as a chronological phenomenon, although the logic of exchange could be reduced. What is going on is a dynamic indwelling. We cannot pour two equal parts of water together and claim that one part has subsumed the other. Rather, we say that the two join together are now a one and only singularity of truth, the absolute of which can be determined by an attempt to separate them. Quite impossible, to be sure. And yet, we know conceptually that one begins somewhere and the other begins another. But at this level the interface as been broken. There is only one singularity. There is only one substance, one essence. And for our purposes, the boundaries of metaphysics have been both subsumed and exalted by a narrative tradition - and vice versa.

This theory assumes much and claims little. Given this fact, to accept it would seem elementary but would be sufficiently contrary to our current understanding of the fonts and roots of ethical discourse. If I were able to pull this off it might earn me a pretty penny or two.

And see? All of this goes back to my experience of the ocean. A single drop within the ocean is absurd; only in isolation can be name it as such. But once it is taken out of the ocean, do we ascribe the name of "ocean" to that single drop? Of course not. Likewise, when we remove metaphysics from the narrative or the narrative from the metaphysics, ought we to call that a sufficient ocean of ethical warrant in itself? Our rationality seems to imply that we cannot.

Who ever knew staring at a glass of water for a few minutes encouraged new grounds for reflection?

estrellita

Over the past 24 hours I've come to realize how much I really miss home. Although there are often references to home on xanga and in random conversations, I can't express how much more I would prefer to be bored at home than to be having fun here. There is a difference of atmosphere. The land is alive there. You can feel it beneath you. Even the ocean speaks. Everything is so alive and vibrant. Now that we have entered Fall in California the trees are starting to turn red and leaves are falling. I remember the first time I experienced fall in Potomac, Maryland. The trees looked so unhappy and sad. Although we have more evergreens here, seeing once lush trees turn into large brambles for a few months at a time is quite sad. When Spring comes around suddenly I feel livlier, happier, and fuller. I hadn't realized it before but it's due in large part to the presence of leaves on the trees. What can I say? Green makes me happy and whole.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about the Brothers and Fathers at the Mother House. I miss them. Many of them are private, solitary individuals. But most of them are extreme extroverts with incredible people skills. Their joke repretoire is amazing. And best of all, they aren't afraid to hug. Yes, they give great hugs. Dinner at the House is something that can't be missed - the same priest cooks every day. He'll always announce that dinner is ready and lead us in prayer. He'll then thrust a plate into my hands and shove me toward the food. We'll all sit there talking, politicking, talking smack about the Bishop and his phony ways. Somebody will tell a story about their former classmate - an archbishop at this place, a professor at some university, or about the Fathers and Brothers who have since gone to their rest. There are few moments of genuine camaraderie like that left. Of course not everybody gets along, but in general it's a swell time. There's always ice cream to finish. Then after dinner everybody goes to bed, except me and my closest friend there.

I spoke briefly about my drives in the previous post. This priest likes those drives too. He didn't realize their value until I left for Berkeley and I wasn't around to drive any more. On skype I'll get messages like, "I miss our midnight trips to McDonald's for our french fries and ice cream cones" or "Be sure to send me some of those almond candies from San Francisco!" Those messages make me smile. I wish I were there right now, with them. They're eating dinner at this very hour, unless they've gone out for their periodic Friday treat at a restaurant in town or in the surrounding neighborhood.

Like any other family they have their problems. Many of them. People have done bad things throughout the years. And yet, I have personally only seen the greatness of their work. Two of the best priests I've ever known are of the same Order. Such selfless men filled with love for their churchgoers, can only inspire others to do likewise. We all have our gifts and burdens. Those men are no exception.

If there's one thing I treasure it's my memories. Every single one of them. From growing up in the love of my beloved family to a spontaneous trip for a burger with an amazing friend last night, every memory I possess is a testament to the wonderful people that have been set in my life. The reflection of Hunter the other day brought me back to the immediacy of childhood where I wasn't so caught up with "tomorrow". Looking back on those simpler but perhaps more difficult times, I can see that life has generally gone well. I've lost friends and family to death, to distance, and to neglect and hurt feelings. Regardless of what might've happened, I am happy to carry them with me forever. I'm afraid to lose those memories. I don't keep a journal or take many pictures any more. My greatest fear is losing the mental capacity to retain my thoughts and memories. That would kill me.

A few years ago, a famous ex-Jesuit lay dying with a brain tumor next to his wife, whom he had married only a few years earlier. He recited that beautiful prayer written by St. Ignatius of Loyola:

Take Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will, all that I have and possess. Thou hast given all to me. To Thee, O lord, I return it. All is Thine, dispose of it wholly according to Thy will. Give me Thy love and thy grace, for this is sufficient for me.

I don't think I have enough courage to face illness as that man did. To trust like that - that is divine.

Earlier in my faith life I was essentially unmovable. Put in Christian terms: I was on "fire". I could feel the presence of God where ever I went. I felt an internal beauty within my soul. I was so sure of the afterlife, the promise of eternal happiness with God and those who had come and gone before me. Now things are a bit more subtle. I miss that relationship with God.

But anyway...

I remember as a very small child waking up in the absurd hours of the morning to get into the car with my mom and drive to the other side of the island to watch the sugar cane burn. It was an impressive sight - at first a thin ribbon of orange, then a large blaze which spewed up tremendous amounts of smoke and ash. It was still dark at the time so it was slightly terrifying for me. We'd sit there drinking cokes and eating these candy bars called "Good News". To be honest those are one of the few memories I had with my mother growing up. Almost every time I drink coke I think about sitting there and watching those cane fires on the horizon. I miss those days.

So what am I to do? I must first and foremost remember that memories are being made today. Sometimes I decline offers from friends to hang out because I am busy reading. Quite frankly, I read constantly. I love reading. It makes me feel like I am in the presence of those thinkers. For example, today we were reading Jean Porter in class. I couldn't help but feel like she was somehow there. I suppose the trick is to recognize that there are different types of knowing. I need more feeling-knowing. Just a moment ago I got a text from Sarah. I can't think of any other friend right now that I love more than Sarah. I am not quite sure if she'd say the same thing but that's ok. She has made such an impact on my life for the better. I've never had a more vibrant, open, and honest friendship. And to think that we're separated by thousands of miles. All that to say that Sarah really gets me. She knows how I feel-know. I think she feel-knows, too. But where to find people like that? They are few and far in between. All the more reason to treasure them when they pop up in life.

I could turn inward. I could put myself in that holy place again if I really tried and just relied on grace. But I'm not looking for that either. I could turn outward. I could bring myself to constantly be around others. But I'm not looking for that either. I suppose in this situation the best answer would be balance. I need to get to Mass more often, see people that have been wanting to see me sooner. Most of all I should remember that this life is the only one I get. In that case, I should never let the memories of yesterday prevent tomorrow's memories of today.

come on eileen

I was invited to a small party tonight - one that ended badly, by the way. There were a few minutes between my arrival and the beginning of the party so I stole a car and drove to Outback. It was one of those parties with wine and cheese, no real food except for pasta - and this was on my mind as I ordered.

The lounge area is almost always open. Tonight they were pretty busy. Only two stalls were open, and of the two one was on the end and had terrible amounts of passing foot traffic. The other was pretty messy. I sat there anyway, facing the TV. Football was on. I don't really care for football but sometimes I can get into it. Florida State was playing against someone else, I don't remember who.

And so, I sat there, eating my chowder, watching the game. Behind me was a small party of five people. One of the men there was speaking in such a loud voice that it caught my attention because it was as if he intended me to hear. He addressed his father across the table: "Dad, you know what I'm doing this weekend? I'm adding something to my resume. Guess what it is?" His dad replied, "I don't know, your mother and I have been clueless as to what you're up to next!" "Well", he began slowly, "I'm going to be marrying two of my friends at a bar during halftime. I've known them for about seven years now." Dad replied, "What the fuck are you talking about?" in a muttled English accent. "Yeah, it's real easy to marry people nowadays. You just get online, search around, sign some papers, and you're a minister. These two folks have been married for five years so I'm just renewing their vows. I've even got a little speech prepared. Being a minister doesn't seem that hard to do."

There it hit me: no wonder the priesthood gets such little respect. People just think doing ministry is that simple. Marrying people. Funerals. Baptisms. You know, all of that holy shit. Or, as one of my priest friends says, "All we seem to do these days is hatch, match, and dispatch."

Anyway, that was my random moment today.

Tonight after I dropped a friend off at home I took a short drive around Berkeley. Many people were dressed up in costumes at many of the houses. They were laughing, having a good time, and chilling. I then realized that I miss being an undergraduate.

Thoughts came streaming back to me. Memories and faces, places and events all seemed more immanent to me than at any other time. I remember those stupid late nights poring over exams, recycling of pizza coupons, the copious amounts of alcohol. But what I really value most was the sense of community that was at school. Granted the formation wasn't automatic. But it was natural. Once we had some ideas about the body politic after sizing each other up we were inseparable. People had a place to belong, to grow, to be challenged, and to be loved. There was plenty of room enough for everyone. Nobody spent a lonely night unless they didn't reach out. Indeed, I treasured some of my undergraduate loneliness.

Every week at night I'd have the same ritual: Walk the four blocks to my parking garage, put the key into the ignition, and begin the drive down Kalakaua avenue. I'd drive through Kahala and get into the freeway and drive into Hawaii Kai. I'd come down through Waimanalo and stop at Kailua beach and sit there. Now, there's a Burger King on Kalaheo avenue in Aikahi park. For some reason, the coke there is delicious. I'd continue into Kaneohe then back through the h3 tunnel and into town. I'd be exhausted at the end of the drive, but the memories I have of the full moon over the Ko'olau mountains are irreplacable. Sometimes I'd continue all the way to the north shore and watch the sunrise. Such freedom, such beauty!

I also remember the uncertainty of those times. Where would I end up after graduation? Would I be at home working or would I go on to school? I didn't know what was going to happen to me. In any case I wasn't looking forward to breaking ways with my community. I knew they had to leave too. My closest friends were getting married or otherwise moving on. How I wish I could've just stopped everything at the time! Too much change too quickly. Sadly I haven't heard from a number of them since we've parted. I suppose that is to be expected.

One of the things I miss is having a car of my own. I could do anything, anything I wanted. I could drive down the street to Ward Center. I could go and get some Chinese good in Aiea. I could drive to the end of the road near Kaena point, sit on the beach, and just "be". Friends would often ask to come along, but I had to deny them: this was sacred time with me and God. On other nights, we would bring food down to the houseless persons in A'ala park or at Ala Moana. There we met the face of Jesus the Christ. It was there that I knew that this was the sort of thing that felt right to do with my time. As others partied, a handful of us chose to practice social justice, to empower the weaker, and to love the forgotten. I have kept in touch with a couple of my dear friends from the streets. If only they could see Berkeley and San Francisco... I think that some of them would be happy that I am here. My heart is with them.

There is a famous motto in the Catholic Church: Aedificabo in Caritate - I will build in love. Now, the word aedificabo here is a word with some play. Like in English, we can speak of physical building, like "I will build a house" - aedificabo domum. We can also speak of an edification of a person: to be built up in courage or temperance. Aedificabo in Caritate signifies these two things. I will build homes and people in the spirit of love. I think that's the problem with the current understanding of development theory. There is no place for love.

Perhaps that's why I want to study the theological implications for human development. This goes all the way back to how the person is to relate to her or his possessions and what impact they have on the quality of life. But there are deeper questions to be asked these days. How does poverty skew my strive towards excellence? Can I ever be so poor as to lose sight of the fact that I am called towards a greater goodness? Does my condition as a person on the streets preclude me from happiness? Our experiences with the poor show us that these are not rhetorical but conditional answers. The first rule of ministry: never go alone. As we are told by the Ancient philosophers, the human is a rational social animal. If I could change the motto it would be Aedificabimus in Caritate: - Let us build in love.

How do we empower those who do not see the value to their lives to begin with? Of course that is the million dollar question for those who care about such issues. At is nexus, the journey begins with love. To bring someone to their fullest being I must first love them. This love is to be freely given, never selfish nor contrived. That would be pride or bribery. Rather, one must learn to love for the good and the benefit of the other. We know that this sort of love is possible because we believe that the fullest expression of love is Jesus Christ crucified. This has profound implications on a cosmic level: Even though God spared the life Isaac for the sake of Abraham, God did not spare himself the grief of losing his only Son. That in itself is worth thinking about. What a merciful God.

Is the homeless issue in Hawaii a problem? You bet. We have been given a new command: love one another as I have loved you. Would this not imply that we sacrifice of ourselves what we spare to others? Is each person ready to examine her or his conscience and give for the good of his sister or brother? Do we realize that our own wellbeing is caught up in the wellbeing of the least fortunate? And most critically, can we ask these questions without turning them into empty phrases of false religious piety? That in itself is the question. Religion has been silent on many things it should not be. Religion must not be mute to the real issues and problems of the day. A religious life which is Sunday-based is at once an offense against God and an offense against the neighbor. How would we feel if people cared about us only on a predetermined day in the week? Ludicrous.

All this to say that although I was born on Kauai I really "grew up" on Oahu. I was confronted there with many issues Kauai has lived without. I have extended my sense of community to different relationships. I expect that the same will continue until I die.

Like the other post, I digress again. Come to think about it I don't think I had one single point for this entry. I guess none of them do. There's something I love about raw, unedited thought only filtered through memory and the physical act of typing. It is a stream of consciousness, but perhaps it would be even better so as a stream of conscienceness. This conscientization, this growing awareness of everything that is, seen and unseen, is the doorway to a love which is both honorable to our deepest selves and to the heart of God.