Earth Angels
This is a shout out to all my Earth Angels out there…
(you may or may not know who you are)
To the surfers in the lineup that regard water’s conductivity.
To the homies that honor the compelling prompt to reach out right when I need it most.
To the ohana that unconditionally supports my passions, believes in my dreams, and trusts that I’ll be alright whenever I cast off or set flight.
To my boyfriend, who’s a kind and honest reflection, who still loves me regardless of how ridiculously hard I dance (by myself), and who’s familiarity the moment we met still confounds me.
And to all the strangers whose good deeds, courageous leaps, and heart-centered actions ripple through the collective field, subtly influencing my life for the better.
I had a professor in college that introduced me to a poem. The last verse of that poem is etched into the cellular matrix of my being. I’ve recited it more than I’ve said my own name. It’s more or less become my mantra.
One day, towards the end of my last semester at Humboldt State University, I approached my professor and informed him of my intention to leave school a few weeks early, skip graduation, and drive up to Alaska for a seasonal job. He offered me his approval on the spot— as did all my other professors. This one particular professor, however, made sure I knew I’d be a fool if I didn’t go, giving me that last little nudge of support to follow my inspiration, regardless of reason.
Eight months later I was sitting on the floor of a ferry, floating down the Yangtze River Gorge just a few days after the Chinese New Year. My traveling sisters and I were too stubborn to be corralled into a cabin, like all the other’s that could actually afford it. We wanted to sit in circles with the women and play cards with the old men and spit sunflower seed hulls towards the towering limestone walls with the kids. We wanted to be immersed, not segregated.
Immersion came at the cost of thwarted verbal communication. Even our most intentionally articulated attempts at Mandarin were met with shrugged shoulders and raised eyebrows. Sometimes the listener would cock their head to the side as if we had uttered an offense. But most of the time they responded with smirk of amusement.
So, on our first of three nights afloat, as first class passengers took leave to their cabins and second class ticket holders retreated to their common rooms, we scavenged to find an open space on the floor. We were either shoo-ed away or sternly barked at. All the “desired” spaces were claimed— and probably had been since the moment foot passengers stormed the ship. As usual, we strained to comprehend the subtleties of social cultural hierarchy customs.
Just when we were about to shrug our own shoulders and drink beer with bearded men all night long, a handsomely dressed gentleman caught eyes with my sister and waved us in his direction. He has kind eyes, she reassured us. So we cautiously followed the suited fellow as he guided us to an inconspicuous, warmly lit, carpeted stairwell between the lobby and cafeteria. Families and solo pilgrims and even a few monks were already tucked into nearly every nook and cranny, but up at the top landing there was just enough space for the three of us. The fellow swept his right hand toward the open corner, joined his hands in prayer position, then took a bow and disappeared.
Yesterday morning my sister messaged me as the sun was setting on her Israeli horizons. After traveling in China and Nepal and India together, she’ll always be Didi to me (sister in Nepalese and Hindi). Before that we attended university together, where we met freshman year in the dorms. But our connection seems to stem from shared experiences far before this lifetime. We get each other. We exchange information beyond the form of words. We engage with a transparency that translates truth and reveals forgotten realities.
Our comfort with vulnerability accelerated the conversation straight to the core of our current condition. Ya… I’m not great either. Turns out we both had been experiencing a wave of self-doubt over the past week, both feeling unsure and a bit down and overall dull. We usually have a pretty good sense of one another, she confirmed. Acknowledging the truth to one another was a liberation from isolation; we felt seen and understood and accepted and could relax into our shared reality. And from that grounding point of presence, we were able to move forward with the reinforcement of interconnectedness.
We exchanged insight and a few eternal truths. We reminded each other of the wisdoms we’d gleaned upon the paths that guided us through the Himalayas. I wished her xīn nián kuài lè, “Happy New Year” in Mandarin, and expressed that not only had I been thinking a ton about her in lieu of the lunar new year, but also had been praying for a friend.
I don’t know why people show up in our lives at just the right time to deliver just the right message. I don’t know why I sometimes I feel called to check in on a particular person. But I do know that my life is enhanced (and truths about my very nature are revealed) with each serendipitous interaction. There’s something about seeing and being seen that fosters a shared understanding. And that shared understanding is fertile ground for beauty to blossom— bearing all its pure and piercing potential.
Beauty is what makes our ears ring, our hearts burn, our senses ignite. It’s what erupts from the depths of our layered lives. It’s the revelation of what’s really real— a magnetic propensity for life on earth.
The responsibility
Of love realized and beauty
Seen burns in a burning angel
Real beyond flower or stone.
— Kenneth Rexroth
