Our cell phones vibrate or ding and we ignore everything and everyone else to see what's on the other end. Our walk or run isn't just a walk or a run because we're logging in steps and miles to earn another digital badge. We skip ice cream with the family because we're over our daily calorie count. We binge watch Netflix series so we can finish them before anyone else in our clan.
I like summer because I get to just do things--walk or read a book or take a nap or ride my bike or lay on the hammock and stare up into the sky. One of the first things I did this summer was to take off my FitBit and put it on a shelf. I'd grown tired of counting things in order to get something--steps, time of day, hours allegedly slept--so I got rid of the bait for awhile.
A funny thing happened when I put the FitBit away. I began to care and to not care in just the right proportions. I cared that I was spending time with my dog on a trail, but I didn't care how many steps I got. I cared that it was sunny outside but didn't care what time it was. I cared that I got to sleep in a great bed but didn't care when I got out of it each morning.
And then, just when I thought it was impossible to care and not care any more, I went to Hawaii, where I waved my care/not care freak flag with great joy and abandon. Not that it mattered if no one noticed . . . .
When we left our house at 5:15 a.m. on the first morning of our trip, I could not even fathom what lay before me. I only knew that it would be a long, multi-legged journey and--frankly--I was glad for it. If something is beyond comprehension, it makes sense that it'll take a while to get there. So, I didn't mind the short hop to Denver. Or the four-hour layover. Or the seven-and-a-half hour flight. I mostly didn't mind the molasses-slow line at Hertz, although I confess to wondering what the heck a Nissan Armada was and how on earth I could possibly drive a a car that holds eight people?!
I didn't mind the rain. Or the slow, single highway that doesn't even go all the way around the island. Or the rooster that woke me at 2:15 a.m. on our first night there. And again, at 3:30 and 4. I didn't mind the heat or the humidity. The $9 loaf of bread was a shock, but--hey!--we had to eat, so I didn't mind that either. Plus, the checker said I could get a Safeway card "like that!" so I signed up--even though I usually mind putting another card in my wallet--and saved $31 just like that!
I didn't mind having to work a bit to get to those glorious beaches. And I worked hard not to mind my body in a swimsuit. By Day Two, I truly didn't mind if I walked into a store, my body caked in sand and salt, a baseball cap on my head and my wet suit clinging to my body. I didn't mind that we walked up a mud-covered jungle path, utterly filthy by the end. Or that there were chickens roaming freely in the food shacks. Heck, I didn't even mind going straight from a wet and wild boat ride in the ocean onto a plane, looking like a sunburned hobo.
Magically, all of that not caring somehow made room for more caring. And I cared a great deal about many things on that island. Its ever-changing skies. The way the light transformed the mountains in front of me. The way the rain made new waterfalls appear overnight. I cared deeply for the way the people were open and friendly and unconcerned. The beautiful landscape, the warm ocean waters, the joy of diving into a wave, the pleasure of sharing time with our adult children, who were gape-jawed as well. I cared deeply that my last "event" in Hawaii was skin diving at the same beach where some of Andrea's ashes had been scattered. And I cared that Eric and Allison had found good, good people to have in their lives. Just as I have.
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