by Dan Millman
“Yes,” I said. “You, too.”
Mama Chia knelt, Japanese style, on a cushion in front of me, and gazed directly into my eyes. “I feel I’ve come to know you well these past few days.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” I replied. “You amaze me! Socrates sure knows how to pick friends.” I smiled.
“Yes, he does,” she added. I guessed she was referring to me.
“You know, it’s strange—we’ve only known each other for a few weeks, but it feels like so much longer.”
“Like a time warp,” she said.
“Yes, exactly—and it’s going to take some time for me to take in all that I’ve learned,” I told her.
She paused for a moment, then said, “Perhaps that’s what life is for—giving us time to take in what we learn.”
We sat quietly for a while, enjoying the serenity of her house and the pleasure of each other’s company. I was suddenly moved to tell her, “I feel so grateful to you, Mama Chia.”
“Grateful to me?” She laughed, apparently thinking this humorous, or even absurd. “I’m happy for you; gratitude is a good, wholesome feeling. But when you’re thirsty and someone gives you water, are you grateful to the glass, or to the person who gave you the water?”
“To the person,” I answered.
“I am only the glass,” she said. “Send your gratitude to the Source.”
“I will, Mama Chia, but I also appreciate the glass.”
We shared a laugh, and then her smile faded slightly.
“There’s something I feel I should tell you, Dan, just in case … .” She hesitated for a moment. “I have trouble with blood clots—a high risk of strokes. The last one gave me this limp, this shaky hand, and some sight loss in one eye. The next one, if it happens, will be fatal.”
She said all this matter-of-factly. I felt a shock pass through my whole body. “The doctor who originally diagnosed it,” she continued, “and the specialist who offered the same diagnosis, said I could function normally—except for the usual cautions—but that my life expectancy at this point is very tenuous. There’s not much they can do—they give me some medicine, but …”
She sat still, as I absorbed this. I stared into her eyes, to the floor, and into her eyes again. “Did those ‘usual cautions’ the doctors told you include not pushing yourself to your limits on endurance hikes?”
Mama Chia smiled at me with compassion. “You understand why I didn’t tell you before.”
“Yes—because I would never have gone.” Feelings of anger, concern, sorrow, fear, tenderness, betrayal, and guilt washed over me.
A heavy silence settled on the room. “You said the next stroke would be fatal. Don’t you mean might be fatal?”
She hesitated, then said, “I sense I’ll be dying soon. I can feel it. I just don’t know exactly when.”
“Is there anything I can do?” I finally asked.
“I’ll let you know,” she said with a comforting smile.
“With everything you know—all your rapport with your Basic Self—can’t you heal yourself?”
“I’ve asked myself that question many times. I do what I can; the rest is up to God. There are some things one must accept. All the positive thinking in the world will not grow back a missing leg; my problem is like that.”
“That friend I told you about—the one who died,” I reminded her. “When he first found out he was ill, he felt all those things people feel in his situation—the shock, the denial, the anger, and, finally, the acceptance. Well, it seemed to me that he had an opportunity either to conquer the illness—to commit all his time, energy, and will to healing—or, to accept on the deepest level that he was going to die, surrender, make peace with the world, take care of business, and somehow use it for his evolution. But he never did … .” I thought about him and a sadness settled over me before I continued, “He did what I imagine most people do. He wobbled with halfhearted efforts, never really fighting death or accepting it, until the end. I was … disappointed in him.” It was the first time I had ever shared that feeling with anyone.
Mama Chia nodded slowly. “I’ve seen people completely surrender to death, and in that surrender, they were healed. In my own case, I will fight for my life even as I accept my death. In the meantime, I’m going to live—really live—until I die. Whether it’s today, tomorrow, next month, or next year. That’s all anyone can do.”
She looked at me, and I think she could sense how much I wanted to help her. “There are no guarantees in this life, Dan. We live the best way we know how. I listen to and trust the messages from my Basic Self. But sometimes, in spite of everything—” She finished her sentence with a shrug.
“How do you deal with that—with knowing that at any time …”
“I don’t fear death; I understand it far too well. But I do love life. And the more I laugh, and the more I play like a child, the more energy my Basic Self gives me to keep right on dancing.” She squeezed both my hands. “You’ve given me some fun and some laughs these last few days.”
My eyes started to sting. I embraced her and she welcomed it.
“Come on,” she offered, “I’ll walk you home.”
“No,” I said quickly. “I mean—I can find my way. You get some rest.”
“That sounds appealing,” she said, stretching and yawning.
As I turned to go, she called to me and said, “Now that you mention it, there is something you can do for me.”
“Name it.”
“I have some errands to run, people to see. You can assist me, if you like—carry my extra pack, that sort of thing. You doing anything tomorrow?”
“I’ll check my appointment book,” I said, happy for the invitation.
“Okay,” she responded. “See you then. And, Dan, please, don’t be troubled by this.” Then, with a little wave, she turned away. I walked slowly down her front steps to find the path back to my cabin. As I headed down through the trees, I wondered if I would ever feel the way she did—helping others just for the love of it, with no thought of myself. Then something else occurred to me. Was it possible that Socrates sent me here not only to receive her help but to somehow help her as well? It struck me once again: He worked at a service station—a service station.
By the time I got back to the cabin, I realized two things: first, that Socrates had sent me here to learn how to serve; second, that I had great debts to repay.
THE NEXT MORNING, bright and early, I heard the loud chirp of a bird right in my ear and felt a tiny weight on my chest. I opened my eyes cautiously and saw Redbird, Mama Chia’s friend, the ’apapane bird. “Hello, Redbird,” I said quietly, not moving. He just tilted his head, gave another chirp, and flew out the window.
“I see the early bird got here before me,” said Mama Chia as she entered, gesturing toward a tree just outside, where he was singing.
“I’m ready to go,” I said, tying my shoes, remembering that I’d promised myself not to act gloomy and maudlin around her. “What’s first?”
“Breakfast.” She handed me some fresh bread, still warm.
“Thanks!” I said, sitting on the bed and munching. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, does this cabin belong to you?”
“It was a gift; Sachi’s father built it a few years ago.”
“Pretty nice gift,” I said with my mouth full.
“He’s a pretty nice guy.”
“So when do I meet him?”
“He’s away, working on a building job. There’s not much construction on Molokai these days, so when an opportunity comes up …” She shrugged.
“Where’s Sachi been?”
“She ought to arrive any minute now. I said she could come along.”
“Good; I’ve developed a real fondness for that little lady.”
Sachi walked in, blushing as she heard this.
Mama Chia picked up one backpack and pointed to the one I was to carry. I reached down. “Whoa, this is heavy,” I said. “Is it full of roc
ks, or what?”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” she said. “I wanted to bring Fuji and Mitsu some choice stones—for their rock garden. And the exercise will do you good.”
“If it gets too heavy for you, I can carry it,” Sachi volunteered with a dimpled smile.
“If it gets too heavy, you can carry me.” I grinned back, and turned to Mama Chia. “Isn’t Fuji the photographer you told me about? Didn’t he and his wife just have a baby?”
“Yes. Now he does landscape gardening—works at Molokai Ranch. Very handy with tools.”
FUJI AND MITSU greeted us with warmth and courtesy and introduced us to their infant son, Toby, who was unimpressed, and sound asleep. “He arrived only a few weeks ago, with Mama Chia’s help,” Fuji announced.
“The same is true of me. I hope his trip here was easier than mine,” I said, grinning at Mama Chia and slipping the rock-filled pack off my back. I placed it on the porch with a thud.
“Rocks for your garden,” Mama Chia explained to Fuji while I stretched my arms and shoulders. Then she offered, mostly for my benefit, “If they aren’t exactly what you want, we’ll be glad to take them back.”
One look at my expression and they all laughed.
Their cabin was filled with bric-a-brac and memorabilia, neatly arranged on many shelves. I also noticed beautiful photos of the surf and trees and sky—probably taken by Fuji. Surrounded by trees on every side, with hanging plants decorating the walls, it was a beautiful house, a happy house. We heard the squalls of the baby, waking up hungry.
While Mama Chia attended to Mitsu and her newborn son, Fuji offered to give us a tour of the garden. “Mitsu and Fuji have a beautiful garden,” Sachi said enthusiastically.
And so they did: cabbages, cornstalks, rows of beans, and squash. I saw taro root greens sticking up through the soil. Bordering the garden on one side was an avocado tree, and, standing sentry on the other, a fig tree. “We have good potatoes, too,” Fuji said proudly.
I could feel nature spirits all over the place; my Basic Self, I noted, was speaking to me more clearly lately—or maybe I was just listening better.
After our tour, we sat on the porch and talked about landscaping, photography, and other things, until Mama Chia emerged.
When we said good-bye, Fuji made a point of shaking my hand. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, Dan, please ask.”
“Thank you,” I said, genuinely liking this man, but not expecting to see him again. “My best to your family.”
Mitsu waved from the house, her baby at her breast, and we turned down toward the road.
“We’re going to town,” Mama Chia told me. “I borrow Fuji’s pickup when he doesn’t need it.”
She squeezed herself behind the wheel of his little truck and moved the seat back so she could breathe. I slid into the passenger side; Sachi hippity-hopped onto the back of the truck. “Hold on for dear life!” Mama Chia yelled out to Sachi, who squealed with delight as we bumped down the dirt and gravel road, to the two-lane main highway.
“Going to town,” I thought. “What a phrase.” I hadn’t seen much of civilization since I walked down that beach toward Makapuu Point, weeks ago.
THE TOWN OF KAUNAKAKAI, on the southern side of the island, reminded me of a false-front Hollywood set—a three-block-long commercial section, with buildings of wood, brick, and faded paint. A sign at the outskirts read “POP. 2,200.” A wharf extended far out into the harbor of this seaside town.
Mama Chia went into a store to shop. I waited outside with Sachi, now entranced by a gift shop window display next door. As we stood there, I glanced over at four Hawaiian boys in their late teens as they approached and stopped next to us. Ignoring my Basic Self’s “something is wrong here” feeling, I didn’t pay much attention to the youths, until one of them suddenly turned and snatched the flower out of Sachi’s hair.
She turned to them and said indignantly, “Give me that!”
Ignoring her, he started to pull off the petals, one by one. “She do love me, she don’t love me, she do, she don’t …”
Another boy said, “Who cares—she ain’ big enough to do nothin’ but—”
“Come one, give me the flower,” I said, in a show of bravado. Or stupidity. They turned and glared at me; now I’d done it.
“You want dis flowa?” said the biggest of the boys, six inches taller and about a hundred pounds heavier than I, with a beer belly and, I suspected, some muscle under his flabby bulk. “Why don’ you take it?” he challenged, grinning at his friends.
As the other young toughs surrounded me, Beer Belly suggested, “Maybe you wanna wear it?”
“Nah,” said another punk. “He ain’ no queer; I think she his girlfren’,” he said, jerking his head toward Sachi, now embarrassed, and a little afraid.
“Just give me the flower,” I commanded—a big mistake.
Beer Belly stepped up and shoved me backward. “Why don’ you take it from me, haole,” he spit.
I grabbed his wrist with one hand, and tried to get the flower. He threw it away and took a swing at me.
The blow glanced off my scalp as I hurried to avoid it. I didn’t want to hit this guy; I just wanted to get Sachi out of there. But it had gone too far. I shoved him with all my might. He stepped backward, tripped on a beer can, and fell awkwardly. One of his friends laughed. He came up furious, mad enough to kill, and fully capable of it. But just then, the storekeeper ran out in time to save my skin.
“Hey! You boys!” he yelled as if he knew them. “No fighting around here if you want to come back, you hear?”
Beer Belly stopped, looked at the storekeeper, then glared and pointed at me. With his finger jabbing the air like a knife, he said, “Next time, bro’, you dead meat.”
They sauntered off. “You just made a bad enemy,” the storekeeper said to me. “What were you fighting over?”
“This,” I answered, picking up the flower and blowing it off. “Thanks for chasing them off.”
Shaking his head, the storekeeper went back inside, muttering, “Crazy tourists.”
As Sachi came over and touched my arm, I realized I was shaking.
“Are you all right?” she said.
“I’m fine,” I answered, but I knew that was only partly true. My Conscious Self had stayed cool, but my Basic Self was shaken up. Ever since I was a little boy, I’d been told, “Never fight! Never fight!” by an idealistic mother in a not-so-idealistic world. I had no brothers, and I just didn’t know how to cope with physical confrontations. I wished Socrates had taught me some of his martial arts.
“I’ll be okay,” I repeated. “How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess,” she said.
I handed her the flower. “Here—nearly as good as new.”
“Thanks.” She smiled, then her smile faded as she watched the rowdy gang walking away. “I’ve seen them before, they’re just bullies. Let’s go inside. I think Mama Chia’s done.”
AS I CARRIED THE GROCERIES to the truck, I looked around for those boys and resolved that I would learn how to defend myself, and protect others, if necessary. The world could be a dangerous place, and people weren’t always peaceful. If it wasn’t a street punk, it might be someone else; I couldn’t ignore this area of my life. If that storekeeper hadn’t come out … I vowed never to let something like this happen again.
“You two have a good time?” Mama Chia asked as we got into the truck.
“Sure,” I said, giving Sachi a look. “I even got to make some new friends.”
“That’s good,” she said, smiling. “After we put away these groceries, I’m going to introduce you to some special people.”
“That’s nice,” I said automatically, not having the faintest notion about who they might be.
BY LATE AFTERNOON, our errands complete, we returned Fuji’s truck. Sachi hopped out of the back and, with a “See you later,” took off with a running start, up the dirt road.
“The keys are in the truck,�
�� Mama Chia called to Fuji with a wave of her hand, and we started up the path to her cabin. I insisted on carrying most of the groceries—three large bags—but left Mama Chia with one small bag. “I don’t see why I have to carry this bag,” she whined loudly. “After all, I am an important kahuna shaman and your elder—and you could easily have carried this in your teeth, or between your legs.”
“You’re right,” I said, shifting the middle bag so I could see over it. “I am truly a lazy person, but I know you’ll free me from my slothful ways.”