Almost thirty years ago, I sat in the Howard Johnson's in Fairfield, California, my attention split between my deep-fried golden clam roll and my journal. I had just come from a therapy session in Pleasant Hill where old beliefs about my self had been rousted from their cozy beds, the covers thrown aside. "I don't have the old and I don't have the new," I wrote. "Who am I?" I knew I would never be able to squeeze the old self-definitions back into their boxes but new ones eluded me like glittering ghosts.

That memory visits me this week for a reason. I've left my home in Sacramento and am happily based in the Pocket area with my dear friends, Lauren and Michael, until I fly to my new home in Maui two weeks from now. In the meantime, I'm averaging saying "goodbye to 1.2 persons per day and wrestling with the inevitable grief that comes with leaving my habitat of 38 years.

"You must be so excited!" my comrades say as we settle in over coffee or tea for a farewell chat. 
Then I must break the bad news.
"Well, actually, I'm feeling kind of depressed."
"You are?" No one wants to hear that grief is a side-effect of moving to paradise.
But I am blessed with friends who do understand. No one pulls out the pom-poms and attempts to cheerlead.
Other days I impart different, but still unsettling news: "I'm scared."

And some days the sun breaks over the West Maui mountains and I chatter happily about my home in Ha'iku where "famers-turned-hippies, old-time locals, Maui business owners, wealthy mainlanders and computer commuters" all share the "wet, green and quiet" of this rural town

So I don't have the old (which I dearly love) and I don't have the new (to which I am powerfully drawn), but unlike the person of three decades ago, I do know who I am: a woman on the edge of evolution--sometimes sad, sometimes scared, sometimes elated--but deeply in love with her own evolving journey.

With Aloha,