So I’ve been missing home a lot these days. “Home,” as in….those blue ridge mountains of the Carolinas—and the small group of beautiful, quirky cooks I call kin. It seems everywhere I turn lately I am reminded of something I miss about that majestic mountain valley. Pumpkin coffee emerging at the island 711…is not exactly Mountain Java’s cup o’ joe. Holiday lights strung along the palm tree lanes of Waikiki—smell nothing like pine to me, and frequenting the ONE pumpkin patch on the west side of da ‘aina just doesn’t feel quite right in my spaghetti strap sundress at a toasty 85 degrees.
Yes, I love, love, love my island ohana and community, but how very much do I ache for my family….extending all the way up to ma mere in Virginia, and that peaceful farmhouse that was my haven for so long. On days when I get more wistful, I have chosen to fight, to pick the present—and to peer through eyes of gratitude at this paradise---my place. I still miss the tea kettle whistling, the call of the contra with my feet tapping and skirt swirling, tinkling, elfin giggles of two pretty princess nieces as they scribble the sidewalks with chalk—and mostly their loving earth goddess mama, my picture of who I pray I can mirror more each day.
This mindset was mine as I walked the streets of Waikiki this last week…*the STREETS, not the CORNER, mind you….and I saw something catch my eye…yes, she WAS on the corner, in fact though...
A crappy, old, stringless, guitar was laying on the edging outskirts of an impromptu “garage sale.” She wasn’t pretty, and she certainly wasn’t useful at present…tossed aside in the hopes that some schmuck would come and actually put down some dough for the delight of taking this hunk of junk home. *Allow me to introduce myself….
And allow me to introduce her: my kika~
Over the course of the next two months, I am going to be loving her, getting to know her, cleaning her up, taking care of her, and making her sing, one day at a time. Yesterday, I took her to the "spa"….she has been exfoliated and buffed…and I can already tell she felt more beautiful--with each passing stroke of the sandpaper…she knows she has been seen—the potential—is present, and we go~
In two months it is Christmas. My gift to her is renewed life, and a new voice. My gift to me is a renewed voice—IN my new life. A thankful trill coming from the depths of a heart reminded--I am a woman most blessed...alone or surrounded with sisters...still or swaying amid a party of people...most blessed, indeed.
Mahalo, Kika Belle, I see you.