Being there lives

Photo by Fastie Murphree

“Jump and the net will appear.” – Joseph Campbell

Forgive the abrupt note of departure included at the end of my column titled "PO'd" (Sept. 24), where I wrote two sentences announcing the finality of "Being there." A series of letters asking for an explanation made me realize how very “un-being there” that cryptic note was as a close to what’s been a two- and-a-half year intimate relationship.
Deciding to leave my position as lifestyle writer for The Garden Island newspaper was not an easy one. And it’s not one easily explained. Suffice it to say, one must never underestimate the power of a fortune cookie.
It was over 10 years ago I received the fortune: “Discontent is the first step in the progress of a woman or a nation.”
I fastened that little rectangle of white paper with red ink into the drawer of my home office desk – the same desk at which my mother wrote in her journal for 30 years.
Since receiving it, I've allowed discontent to inform rather than intimidate me. It’s like a favorite tee-shirt that suddenly has an invisible burr chaffing the soft skin under your arm; no amount of searching the fabric will reveal where the irritation is hidden.
I came to the office a few Mondays ago knowing I had to “take off the shirt.” I returned home that night to tell my husband I’d quit my job.
Since launching “Being there” in June 2009, you’ve gotten to know me and my family, so as my parting column for The Garden Island, I wrote the following update that the editor chose not to print. For readers interested in past columns here is a link: http://thegardenisland.com/lifestyles/being-there/
It’s been six weeks since my Brazilian mother-in-law moved in with us. It’s going smooth so far and I’ve even learned a few dirty phrases in Portuguese. Boy are Latin insults more descriptive than English; and funnier too.
Remember the feral kittens I trapped at the ceramic studio a few months ago? Well my husband agreed we could adopt all three. Chico, Pablo and Mittens are affectionate juveniles now sharing my dogs’ bed with them. No joke. Lady Bird and Flip (who you’ll recall were adopted from the Kauai Humane Society two years ago) are now foster parents.
Of all the people in my life though, you’ve gotten to know my mom the best. She is not doing well so may I humbly request you stop reading now, bow your head, and send Caroline Woolway the strong pulse of your love. A friend told me that when we think, “I love you” and send it to someone far away, they receive it instantly. So right now, I am bowing my head and sending each of you one big “I love you.”
I hope you felt it.
I can't quite believe I've succumb to blogging. I've often referred to it as "blah blah blahging." I swear on the Bible, (oh yeah, I’m not a Christian, but you already knew that) not to print any first drafts. I can’t promise I won’t tell you a dirty joke though or even translate a few naughty Brazilian phrases.
Again, thanks for following me here and thank you for urging me to continue "Being there."
I would like to send notices of new posts. Please let me know if you do not want to receive them. If you are not on my list and would like to receive notices, e-mail me at pamwoolway@gmail.com

Latest creations

Studio view

Day 1:

I no longer work in the icy confines of a windowless building. It feels pretty damn good to see that in print. My last day at the paper was Sept. 29. My replacement is heart-centered, smart and spirited. It felt divine leaving my beloved lifestyle section in Andrea's able hands.
I was able to have an exit interview with the publisher, my editor and the HR director that completed the experience. I shared my views on the past three years with compassion, blunt honesty and a clear mind.
Next Friday I'll post my first "Being There" column as a blog. I am shifting from bi-weekly to weekly.
Time to walk the dogs.

Cooking Show

Check it out. Kauai Kitchen is a cooking show recently launched for The Garden Island newspaper where I am their Food editor. Thanks, Pam

http://www.kauaiworld.com/the_garden_island_video/#vmix_media_id=5326566

Day of the Dread

Hippy babies are taking over all the funky cafes. Hippy
babies in their patchouli soaked diapers with their natty
dread dolls. Hippy babies with their Buddha bellies
spilling over their hemp diapers; running between your legs
as you walk across the hard wood floor with caramel rivers
of coffee rolling from palm to elbow; scalding your
fingers. Hippy babies bouncing off table legs in striped pants
and polka-dot shirts with tassels snapping in their wake. One hippy
baby shows up and a commune of organic scone-flinging babies is sure
to follow. As the floor blooms with all-natural crumbs, the hippy
babies divine spirits from soymilk stains on the tables. Hippy
babies swing from the philodendra vines, laughing too loud and smiling
at all the seated babies with napkins tucked in their shirts. Hippy
babies drooling 100% organic cookie drool down Bob Marley
T-shirts that cost a dime at the Hippy Baby Boutique. Hippy
babies chanting with bodhi beads and bangles around emaciated
wrists, playing ukuleles and drowning out Greg Brown and Natalie
Merchant in their ganga-stained hippy-baby voices. We ask them
politely, please sit, please clean up after yourself. The hippy
babies won’t have any of it. Who are we to infringe upon their freedom?

Before Seatbelts and Sunscreen

My mother drank Livingston’s screw top wine
in the summer of ’71.
At the bar she was called, “Sweet Caroline,”
Around our campfire she sang Glen Campbell songs.

In the summer of ’71,
we never wore shoes, or combed our hair.
Around our campfire she sang Glen Campbell songs,
sometimes we’d dance outside the bar’s back door,

We never wore shoes, or combed our hair.
In the morning, she’d drink coffee through a straw.
Sometimes we’d dance outside the bar’s back door;
Dad was on another tour in Vietnam.

In the morning she’d drink coffee through a straw;
her hands shook so hard I’d hold the mug.
Dad was on another tour in Vietnam,
but he was there the day medics strapped her up.

Her hands shook hard so I’d hold the mug.
I knew she was sick, but she was always close by.
Dad was there the day medics strapped her up.
Though we never wore shoes or combed our hair.

I knew she was sick, but she was always close by.
She quit drinking and spent most her time with new friends,
Though we never wore shoes or combed our hair.
Strangers told us our own stories through a new lens,

She quit drinking and spent most her time with new friends,
I can still see her cocked smile over the glass.
Strangers told us our own stories through a new lens,
I can hear on the juke her man Johnny Cash.
I can still see her cocked smile over the glass.
She drank Dr. Livingston’s screw top wine.
I can hear on the juke her man Johnny Cash.
At the bar she was called “Sweet Caroline.”

Romantic Suicide

Like her coffee cup forgotten
on the roof of the car,
this monument the moon—
full and pretty, but
does it mean anything besides
a bowl of light in the dark?

Thinning every night
as if to contract from wonder.
What’s the point of it
to us anyway? As if
obsucurity raised hope.
As if the moon too
gratefully acknowledged
what remained of the object world—