I looked into her eyes and told her, “I once broke my leg pretty badly—my thigh bone was shattered in about forty pieces—so I know what pain feels like. And this feels just as real to me. Do you understand?”
She nodded in a way that showed she understood. “Pain and suffering are a part of everyone’s life. They just take different forms.”
“Do you believe you can help me find whatever it is I’m looking for?” I asked, an edge of desperation in my voice.
“If I didn’t believe I could help, we wouldn’t be here,” she answered before turning and continuing her steady, limping gait up the trail.
AS WE ROSE UP OUT OF THE FOREST, the trees thinned out; the moss and leaves beneath our feet gave way to reddish brown earth, which turned to mud as a torrential rain came and passed quickly. I slipped now and then. Mama Chia, though slow paced, was sure-footed. Finally, just when I thought she had forgotten my plea, she spoke.
“Dan, have you ever considered that no one person could ever create a building? No matter how smart, how strong, a single individual may be, he can’t make a building without the combined efforts of architects, contractors, laborers, accountants, manufacturers, truckers, chemists, and hundreds more. No one is smarter than all of us.”
“But what does that have to do with—”
“For example, take Socrates,” she continued. “He possesses many talents, but he understood that he could not force-feed your psyche. He could only teach you what you had ears to hear or eyes to see.
“When Socrates wrote to me, he predicted to me that you’d be hard on yourself—that you got excitable—and that now and then I might have to calm you down.” She turned back, smiling, before she continued her slow climb. “He also told of the seeds he had sown within your mind and heart. I’m here to nourish them—to help them quicken and grow.
“Socrates helped you clear away some of your deepest illusions. He could not awaken you—you weren’t yet ready—but he did make you aware that you were sleeping, and revealed to you an array of possibilities, a preview of coming attractions. He established a foundation so that now, even if you can’t always hear, you’re at least willing to listen. If he hadn’t done his work well, you would never have found me.”
“But I didn’t find you. You found me.”
“No matter how strange the circumstances of our meeting, I don’t believe it would have happened had you not been ready. That’s how these things work. I might not have chosen to work with you; you might not have come to the party. Who can say?”
We stopped briefly to survey the view as we entered the highlands, not far from the base of the rocky peak. Green treetops stretched almost as far as I could see. The moist, humid air dampened my arms and forehead. As I wiped the moisture from my brow, Mama Chia put her arm on my shoulder and said, “In any event, here we are—and we’re all in training together. I can help you turn your experience into lessons, and your lessons into wisdom. For now, I can only encourage you to trust the process of your life, and to remember the law of faith … .”
“Like believing in God?” I asked.
“Faith has little to do with belief,” she answered. “Faith is the courage to live your life as if everything that happens does so for your highest good and learning. Like it or not.”
She stopped, and knelt down next to a yellow flower, growing up through a small crack in a large stone. “Our lives are like this flower. We appear so fragile, and yet, when we meet obstacles, we push through them, always growing toward the Light.”
I touched the yellow petals. “But flowers grow slowly. I don’t feel I have that much time. I feel like I should do something now, like it can’t wait any longer.”
“Flowers grow in their own good time. It’s not easy, seeing the path twist and disappear ahead, knowing it’s a long climb. You want to act because that’s what you have been trained to do. But first understand.”
“Understanding without acting does nothing,” I said.
“Yet acting without understanding may create even more problems. Sometimes you need to simply relax into life, and to trust.” She took a deep breath. “No matter how pressing life may feel at times, Dan, there’s no need to rush, and nowhere to rush to. You have plenty of time to accomplish what you wish.”
“This life?”
“Or the next.”
“I’d like to start a little sooner than that,” I said. “I have an ache inside—maybe it’s a message from my Basic Self—and it’s prodding me to get on with it. Whatever ‘it’ is.”
Mama Chia stopped again and looked at me. “In the darkest, most chaotic times—when things fall apart—such times often mark quickening as your mind readies itself to make a leap. When you feel like you’re going nowhere, stagnating, even slipping backward—your soul is only backing up to get a running start.”
“You really believe this?”
“What I believe isn’t the point. You have to go beyond belief to direct experience. Consider it for yourself. Look at your life deeply, right now. Ask your inner knower; your Basic Self knows —it has already told me that you’re about to make the leap—maybe not today, or tomorrow, but soon enough. And just as Socrates prepared you for me, I’ll do my part to get you ready for the next step.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple; just not easy. But it could be far easier if you weren’t still stuck in your drama, so serious. You’re like a gnat on a TV screen, Dan—all you see is a bunch of dots. Open your eyes! There is a bigger picture. Each of us has our role to play. You are playing your part to perfection. And when the time is right, you’ll not only find your purpose; you’ll realize you never lost it. You’re searching for your path in life even as you walk upon it. For now, fully embrace all three selves. Let them work together in harmony and cooperation, your head in the clouds and your feet on the ground.”
Gazing ahead, she added, “We certainly have work to do together, you and I. We’re going to prepare you the same way we’re climbing this mountain—one step at a time.” At that, she turned and continued upward. I felt encouraged by her words, but my body, feeling the exertion, was growing weary. Yet Mama Chia somehow limped on and on.
“Where exactly are we going, anyway?” I asked, panting.
“To the top.”
“And what are we going to do when we get there?”
“You’ll find that out when we arrive,” she said, heading up the rocky trail.
The hike soon became steeper, like an endless stairway. The air grew thinner and our breathing more labored with each step as we climbed toward the peak of Kamakau, almost five thousand feet high.
TWO HOURS LATER, just before dusk, we reached the peak and stepped at last onto level ground. With a wave of her hand, Mama Chia directed my eyes to an incredible panorama of the island of Molokai. Turning slowly around, I gazed out over the expanse of lush green forest at the sea. The edge of the sky was ablaze with color as the setting sun painted the clouds red, purple, orange, and pink.
“Well, here we are,” I said with a sigh.
“Yes, here we are,” she echoed, still gazing at the setting sun.
“Now that we’re here, what are we going to do?”
“Gather some wood. We’ll camp nearby tonight. I know a spot. Tomorrow, we reach our destination.” She pointed toward the eastern tip of the island.
She led me to a small waterfall, where we drank deeply of the sparkling water, rich with minerals. Nearby stood a rock overhang that would shelter us in case of sudden rain. Glad to rest my wobbling legs, I swung Mama Chia’s pack off my shoulders. I had no idea how this elderly woman, smaller than I but heavier, limping along mile after mile of rugged terrain, could sustain this kind of effort.
We made a fire big enough to heat some rocks and bury them with foil-wrapped yams. Served with some raw vegetables, the yams tasted as delectable as any meal I’d ever eaten.
We made our beds of a thick moss, and put some small branches in the fire—n
ot for warmth, but for the glow, and the comforting crackle.
As we settled in for the night and lay gazing up through the palm fronds into endless space, I said, “Ever since I was floating out there—on the surfboard—I’ve been thinking a lot about death. A few nights ago, the face of an old friend appeared to me. He was a student at Oberlin, so young and full of life. Then he was diagnosed with a terminal illness. He told me that he prayed a lot. But he died just the same.”
“Our prayers are always answered,” said Mama Chia. “But sometimes God says no.”
“Why would God say no?”
“Why does a loving parent say no? Sometimes children’s wants run counter to their needs. People turn to God when their foundations are shaking, only to discover it is God who’s shaking them. The conscious mind cannot always foresee what is for the highest good.”
“Easy for you to say—”
“Not so easy, but this is how I live … .” She was silent for a time, but then I heard her voice again: “As a young girl … when I first met the man you call Socrates—my body was slim and supple and full of life. Now I have physical challenges—painful at times, but every challenge has brought hidden gifts, though I didn’t always appreciate them at the time. One gift is deeper compassion. For someone else, the gift might be greater sensitivity to the body, or a stronger motivation to take better care of oneself, or to relax and play more.”
“Discomfort is one way our Basic Self gets our attention.”
“It sure works for me,” I said, gazing into the fire.
“Yes, but I don’t recommend it as a habit,” she added. “Although pain may serve as a wake-up call, it’s usually the Basic Self’s second-to-last resort. It only sends harsh messages when the gentler ones—your intuitions and dreams—have been ignored.”
“What’s the Basic Self’s last resort?”
“Death,” she said. “And it happens, in one form or the other, to many who were unable or unwilling to listen. Basic Selves, like children, are loyal and not easily alienated. They may receive a lot of abuse. But when they’ve had enough …”
She didn’t need to finish her sentence. In the silence, I asked, “If the Basic Self is in charge of the body, it can cause or cure any disease, right?”
“Under the right circumstances, if it’s permitted within the destiny of that individual, yes.”
“Then medicines don’t really matter.”
“Medicines are one way to assist the Basic Self—they’re a gift from the natural world,” she said, reaching up and plucking a seedpod from a nearby bush. Opening the pod, she showed me the small seeds, and said, “Basic Selves, as you’ve experienced, have a close connection to the natural world; each plant and herb carries specific messages and energies that the Basic Self understands. So does each color, or aroma, or sound. Or dance, for that matter.
“Healing is a great mystery, even for today’s physicians; we are still discovering nature’s laws of balance. But as we get in closer touch with our Basic Selves and the subtle forces at work, we will see more ‘miracles.’”
“Most physicians tend to rely on their Conscious Selves, on their minds rather than on their intuitions, don’t they?”
“It’s not a matter of trusting the Basic Self or the Conscious Self,” she replied. “It’s a matter of trusting both—each at the appropriate time. The Arabs have a saying: ‘Trust in God, but tie your camel.’ It’s important to trust the Basic Self to heal a cut, for example, but the Conscious Self reminds us to use a bandage.
“If you overeat junk food, smoke cigarettes, drink too much alcohol, or use other drugs—if you exhaust yourself, or hold in your emotions—you make it harder for the Basic Self to do its job and maintain a strong immune system; it can’t always heal without the cooperation of the Conscious Self; it can only send painful body messages to get your attention. Prayer alone may not be enough; also do what you can to assist. Francis Cardinal Spellman once said, ‘Pray as if everything depended on God, and work as if everything depended on man.’”
I watched Mama Chia with growing admiration and wonder. “Mama Chia, how do you know so much? Where did you learn all these things?”
She said nothing at first. I glanced over at her in the firelight, thinking she had fallen asleep. But her eyes were wide open, as if staring into another world. Finally, she answered, “I’ll think on it tonight. Perhaps I’ll tell you some of my story tomorrow. We still have a long hike ahead.” With that, she turned on her side and went quickly to sleep. I lay awake a while before joining her, staring at the dying embers of the fire.
CHAPTER 9
A Well - Rounded Woman
God comforts the disturbed
and disturbs the comfortable.
—Unknown
IN THE MORNING, a refreshing shower under the waterfall helped clear the stiffness from my legs, back, and shoulders. Though I hadn’t regained my full strength, the simple diet and outdoor exercise brought renewed vitality.
After a small breakfast of papaya, banana, and water from the falls, we continued along the range of volcanic rock that burst from the sea a million years before, breathing to the rhythm of our footsteps. Mama Chia must have known this range intimately; she seemed instinctively to know the correct path at every turn.
As we walked, I once again asked her to tell me about her life.
“I don’t usually talk much about my life,” she began. “But I feel it’s important for you to know a little.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m not certain, but I trust my instincts.”
“Well, you have my attention,” I said, walking closely behind her on the narrowing trail.
She began: “I was born here, on Molokai, in 1882. My father was part Hawaiian and part Japanese, the same as my mother. Like this island, I have a rich heritage. Nonetheless, as a young girl I felt fatigued most of the time, and had many allergies and illnesses. I was confined to bed much of the time and couldn’t attend school regularly.
“My father would sit at my bedside and tell me stories. He told me of great women, like Queen Kaahumanu, who helped open Hawaii to Christianity, and Harriet Tubman, once a slave in America, who escaped but returned many times to the South at great risk to bring many of her people to freedom. His stories gave me hope that I, too, might grow into someone more than I was, despite my early infirmities. Years later, author Jack London echoed my father’s encouragement when he wrote, ‘Life is not always a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.’
“I suppose I played my hand as well as I could,” she continued, taking some macadamia nuts out of her pack and giving me a handful. “When I was seven, my parents heard about a kahuna kupua—a shaman—named Papa Kahili. A powerful healer, he was revered by those who knew him, and his reputation grew among those who understood the ancient ways.
“As devout Christians, my parents mistrusted those who spoke of nature spirits. But finally, because I was growing weaker and no one else had been able to help me, their love overcame their fears and they asked Papa Kahili to see me.
“The first time we met, he offered no medicines—nor any of the ceremonial magic that my parents had expected. He just spoke with me quietly. I felt that he really cared about me. That day, though I didn’t know it, my healing had begun.
“Later, he brought herbal medicines, and spoke of many things—of the healing power inside me. He told me inspiring stories, painting beautiful pictures in my mind. Papa Kahili took me on many journeys, and each time I returned, I was stronger. But he told my parents, and me as well, that I would never bear children. This dark prediction troubled my parents more than it did me. At that age, bearing children was not foremost on my mind. And besides, we did not believe that any man could know the future.”
“Did your parents ever accept him?” I asked.
“Months later, yes. They would call him a ‘priest of God,’ and they liked how he never took credit for my improvement, but said it was the
Holy Spirit that guided and worked through him. He was part of the secret history, like the underground spring that gives life to fields of flowers. The history books would never tell of him; yet, in our smaller world, he was one of the greatest of men.