Farewell to Colorado

As I sit waiting at my gate in Denver International Airport, the bright winter solstice sunlight heats me through the wall of windows. I've got a one-way ticket home to the Big Island, and in a few months, I'll embark on my next adventure--destinations TBD, COVID circumstances permitting. 

Today, I'm running on four hours of sleep and a morning coffee delivered by my dear friend Claire. This feels like the first time I've been able to truly pause in weeks. It feels like a good opportunity for some reflection. As I prepared to leave Colorado indefinitely, there were a host of hurdles to clear, large and small, some planned and some unanticipated. But finally, everything that needed to happen before I go has happened. And though I'm still experiencing a mild anxiety hangover (What have I forgotten to take care of? Will I regret the things I couldn’t fit in my suitcase? Where the hell is my passport?), I'm ready to be on my way.

It feels surreal to be closing this chapter in my life, in ways I haven't given myself much time to process. After eight years in Colorado, I'm leaving as a different person than the 22-year-old fresh grad who plopped down in Boulder in 2013 with a full Subaru and not a lot of plans.

 In the intervening years, I held three positions at Easton Training Center, contributing to its growth and evolution as it contributed to mine. I made so many deep, enriching connections, learning how to recognize and nurture the relationships that bring me joy and strength. I experienced deep love and caught some tough lessons. I became a homeowner and a landlord. I grew into myself—developing a self-assuredness that feels so damn good and a self-awareness that occasionally doesn’t. But I’m using that. And I’m doing my best to live my values, be better than yesterday, and have so much fun. 

The pandemic era gave me a lot to think about. Staring our collective mortality, the disintegration of our society, and the mounting instability of our climate in the face for the last two years has been kind of awful, but in some important ways, it’s been good for me. It’s been a catalyst for a pretty drastic course shift—because if not now, when? I asked myself, “If I died today, what exactly would be a bummer about that?” I concluded that I’ve been putting off my decade-long aspirations to travel extensively. And if I’m not intentional about pursuing the life I want, I’m going to suddenly wake up old and full of regret. Or possibly, I’ll die young, and you’ll have to do the regretting for me. And none of us want that. 

So as I fly west, chasing a few hours of extra sunshine on the shortest day of the year, I’m looking forward to this next season of my life. For the first time in a long time, the near future is pretty unclear and unplanned. I’m sad to be parting with people whom I love so much. But as I jet high above the places that have grown so familiar, I feel grounded and grateful, and I’m ready to keep on becoming me. 

Winter Winds

My sister Yuki lifts the lowest wire of the fence, and Piko squirms under first, leaving tufts of his white fur snagged in the barbs. Mom goes next, I follow her, and Yuki comes last, each of us barrel rolling beneath the fence and into the rolling pasture land beyond it. The wind whips our hair into our faces, and the thick, uneven grass looks golden-green in the late afternoon light. Piko is already bounding toward the hill, ecstatic. He knows where we’re going, and pauses occasionally to make sure we are following.

How to be Happy in 2014: The Happiness Recipe

My goal in writing this blog is to document and share the things that make my life worth living. Enjoying every day is more than just a slogan and a title, it's a philosophy and a lifestyle. I believe that approaching every day with the intention of having a good time and appreciating what's awesome is the best way to ensure that you will be happy and fulfilled in your life. There's more to it than that, though. It's also about what I like to call the "Happiness Recipe." This is the list of ingredients which, when combined, are necessary and sufficient to create that feeling of completeness and euphoria that we all seek. The name is maybe a little corny, but you can call it whatever you want. What matters is that when used correctly, this could be the key to loving your life.

This was a particularly happy day.

In a New Context

I've long been a believer in the value of bringing old and new things together. Juxtaposing an element from the past with one from the present has the effect of highlighting the qualities of both, and in my opinion, makes for a deeper experience. I love cities that exhibit the influences of multiple generations of architectural style. Seeing hundred-year-old masonry beside modern marvels of steel and sheet glass is a reminder of the many types and expressions of beauty.

Enjoying a familiar relationship in a novel context is one of my favorite variations of this theme. In college I always loved taking the train up to Boston to spend my fall break with Sachi H. We've known each other for most of our lives, but I felt as though visiting her at school and having adventures in the city together added another nuance to our friendship. From these visits, I concluded that having an old friend by your side as you explore a new place really enriches the experience. I think this is partly because you have common ground from which to evaluate the things you see and do, but it's probably mostly because when you enjoy someone's company, any time spent with them will feel like time well-spent.

Plus, sometimes you go out and get tattoos because you're 19 and you can.

I've been doing a good deal of this melding of old and new since moving to Boulder last month. Relocating is easy when you already have friends in the area, and I'm lucky enough to have a handful--both from Hawaii and from the University of Virginia. As it happens, all of my U.Va. friends who have ended up in Colorado were members of the Virginia Alpine Ski and Snowboard Team (VASST) with me. (I think this is not exactly a coincidence, and anyone who enjoys downhill snow sports but also lives in Virginia will probably agree.) One of these friends is Rachel, a skier who was once the president of our illustrious organization.
 

Rachel mixing up some deliciousness.

Over the weekend, I went over to Rachel's apartment on the other side of Boulder, and we spent the evening cooking dinner together and talking about our Colorado lives and the latest news from our college friends (P.S., heard about that fire at ski house, guys... glad everybody's okay). The menu for the evening was orange-carrot soup made by Rachel, and stuffed zucchini boats made by me. The rest of this post is an Eats for Sachi-style instructional from a recipe originally published here.

On Giving Thanks

Admittedly, it’s a little late for a Thanksgiving post. But honestly, every day should be a day for being thankful, so you should read this anyway.

Fresh tracks

Saturday:
I love looking out the window of a plane and taking in the landscape below.  I'm twenty-two now, but I press my face to the cold double plastic like a child, because no matter how many times I fly, it's still fascinating to see everything in miniature. Sometimes I glimpse clumps of carefully diagrammed neighborhoods, dotted with trees that belong in an architect's model. Later it's miles of patchwork farmland. From above, the fields are sharply demarcated by their varying hues of green and brown. I've always presumed that this is because of different crops and phases of growing and harvest, but I can't be sure. My favorites are the circular fields that interrupt the monotony of right angles. They look friendly and out of place. I tried to paint it once, but my watercolor skills weren't up to the task.

I can't resist smiling as we float over mountain tops, the sun glancing across the first snow I've seen since the wintery mixes of spring in Washington, D.C. But this is snow of an entirely different sort. It cloaks the crumpled skin of the earth in brightness, and I imagine crunching through it and leaving deep footprints in its pristine surface. As we cross a mountain range, I pick out the slopes I think I could snowboard down, and nod respectfully to the ones I know would kill me.

As we reach the edge of the bare, rugged wilderness, I pick out the houses at the far edges of towns, and wonder what the people living in them feel when they turn their backs to civilization to look out on the vast emptiness that blooms from their back yards. Are they ever overwhelmed? As we begin our descent, the buildings huddle closer together, drawing each other near. I see baseball fields in clumps of threes and fours, home plates at the center, and I strain without luck to see the tiny players rounding the bases. Lower still, I watch the ebb and flow of traffic. Where are you headed, little car, on this bright, blue Saturday? Have you driven from your doll house to the farmers market, today just a thumbnail cluster of tent canopies? Do you see me up here in the sky?

We land with a rumble of tires on asphalt. Maybe it's the soy latte I had in Phoenix, but I'm feeling a little giddy. Here I am, Colorado! Let's have an adventure.