Last week I was in Hawaii at Kalani Oceanside Retreat on the Big Island. It rained a lot. In fact, in rained non-stop for the first 48 hours I was there and then started again several hours later and continued for another day and a half. After that there were intermittent showers and an abundance of gray sky. I did get to see the sun, but it was not one of the main attractions of my week.

As the rain pounded my cottage on Day 2 I felt compelled to sit, stare out the window, and watch the wind and water sweep across the land. I decided to meditate on the element in front of me. “OK Rain, I’ve traveled thousands of miles to come to this beautiful island and I think you are here to teach me something. I am open to knowing what that is.” The answer I received was, “Listen.”

I spent the next five days doing just that. I walked in the rain until I was soaked to the bone and listened to the squish of water in my boots. I participated in an intimate Kirtan and listened intently to the quiet call of each chant. I had a massage with Jared and listened to my body say “Ah, thank you”. I took a yoga class and listened to my Higher Self say, “Hold that pose. Don’t think you have to push any further.” I ran along the coast and listened to the roar of the Pacific waves, talked with my friend Deborah and listened to the newly found strength in her voice, watched night fall and listened as the frogs sang their song, and shared three, delicious, vegetarian meals each day with retreat volunteers and staff and listened as they told tales of the fire goddess Pele who rules Hawaii’s volcanoes, and the magic that could be found all over the island.

I had many vivid dreams that week. On my last night I had a dream about a large, dark woman in a beautiful, black and white, floral print headdress and matching gown sitting at a desk writing a letter. I recognized her as the mother of a friend. She did not turn to look at me as I approached, but I knew that she was aware of my presence. She continued to write and I felt a deep sadness coming from her. “Where is my son?” she asked. I saw her son running around New York City, in a suit and tie, acting very important and ignoring his mother’s cry. I then saw a small, yellow-domed apartment complex snuggled between many tall office buildings. As I looked at the building from above I knew that the woman writing the letter and asking for her son lived there. As I realized that, the building imploded. I was startled by what seemed to be a horrible disaster and found myself searching the rubble for my friend’s mother. I found her lying on the ground, bloodied, wearing the same clothes as in the first scene, her head turned away from me, and asking the same question, “Where is my son?” Again, I saw her son rushing through the streets of New York City, dressed in a suit and tie, this time being pursued by several armed men (also in suits and ties). The sense of danger grew as the scene unfolded and I was aware once more that my friend, in his frantic state, could not hear the call of his mother and never would if he continued to run around around the way he always did. I then saw myself sitting on a throne, dressed in a robe that was very much like that of the mother. My friend appeared, dark and naked. He crawled into my lap and I wrapped my arms around him as he wept and wept and wept.

I woke, breathing heavily, sweating and feeling incredibly sad. What did it mean? The scenes haunted me all day and I prayed for the meaning of the dream (all meanings of it) to be revealed.

Hours later I was on a plane heading back to the Mainland. As I sat, I reflected on the art of listening and my intense dream. Meaning began to emerge. The mother in my dream seemed to be the Earth or Nature beckoning to me. Was I going to ignore the call?

Images of my life in New York surfaced. “How am I living my life there? Am I truly happy and thriving in the way I want to be?” I asked myself. “Is it time to look for a new place to live outside of the city that I’ve called home for almost 19 years?”

I thought about what it would take to move to a quieter place, to live closer to Nature, to have a car again (it’s been 16 years!), to not ride the subways, to be away from my incredible family of friends. How many times over the past 10 years have I said I wanted to leave New York and live by the beach? I squirmed in my seat. My palms started to sweat. My heart beat faster. “I can’t think about that right now,” I heard myself say.

To distract myself I opened the book that I took with me to Hawaii, but never read, Paulo Coehlo’s
The Devil and Miss Prym. On page 34 (hardback copy) I came across the following passage:

“She had just realized there were two things that prevent us from achieving our dreams: believing them to be impossible or seeing those dreams made possible by some sudden turn of the wheel of fortune, when you least expected it. For at that moment, all our fears suddenly surface: the fear of setting off along a road heading who knows where, the fear of a life full of new challenges, the fear of losing forever everything that is familiar.
People want to change everything and, at the same time, want it all to remain the same.”

I slammed the book shut, clutched my hands to my belly, drew a sharp breath, and closed my eyes. After a few minutes I opened the book and read those words again: “…setting off along a road heading who knows where, the fear of a life full of new challenges, the fear of losing forever everything that is familiar.”

It’s time to leave New York.

Peace!

Joe