With the anniversary of my husband’s death on the horizon, I have found myself needing to surrender like never before. Almost a year has passed, and at times I feel like I am no better off than I was in the days just after. Conceptually I know that there is no set amount of time I will feel lost and alone. There is no date on the calendar I can circle and schedule my rebirth into a way of life free of the burden and worry of unexpected pain. I know this grief will be like a partner, present in my life, yet with its own agenda. In this way, it’s almost as though my relationship with my grief is the most prominent relationship in my life. I am learning to get to know my grief, to dance with it, to understand it, and to let it live, not unlike getting to know a new love or a newborn child.
Both my boys’ names were chosen long before their conception. Orlando was named after my husband’s dear friend, who passed away and left a lasting impression on his heart. Another man who left an impression on my husband and I would be the namesake of our second son, Eddie.
In Hawaii, the story of Eddie Aikau is the stuff of legend. A pillar of sacrifice, compassion, and kuleana, or responsibility, Eddie’s story lives in the hearts of all who hear it. Growing up here, he was almost a mythical figure. As a kid, dreaming of being a cool surfer girl, I would see pictures of him riding the iconic waves of the North Shore of Oahu and be transported into a vision of what could be. The tagline on seemingly every bumper sticker or store window in the state evokes a sense of possibility, potential, and duty. “Eddie Would Go” imparts more wisdom than the virtues of self-discipline. It isn’t just about personal achievement. It means something more profound, more significant, and more divine. The essence of Eddie Aikau and his legacy is in personal sacrifice. In doing what you know needs to be done in service of others.
If you don’t know the story of Eddie’s fateful voyage, I suggest you watch the ESPN documentary on his life. This documentary, narrated by Josh Brolin, made my husband fall in love with his story. He was moved to tears by the native Hawaiian big wave surfer who saved countless lives as a lifeguard at Waimea Bay. Joe believed Eddie Aikau to be a Buddha, an embodiment of compassion and service. He fell in love with the story of the man who paddled for help on his surfboard when the rest of the crew of the voyaging canoe Hokule’a was stranded in a storm. The crew was found and rescued after hours at sea, but Eddie was never seen again. It is believed that he remains a guardian angel of the waters of Hawaii, taking care of those who are in need of help.
The night my son Eddie was born, my husband took our older son for a walk. They often rode scooters around the marina where we lived to see the boats and catch the sea lions snoozing on the docks. When they got back, they told me the sweetest story of synchronicity. Joe lived in synchronicity, he always had tales of how perfectly the universe arranges itself for our amazement, and this story was exactly that. As the sun set, they met a couple we were familiar with as neighborly acquaintances. Joe explained to them I was in labor, and we were going to name the boy Eddie. “Like Eddie Aikau?” our neighbor asked.
“The same,” Joe replied. The story that followed was nothing short of remarkable.
This neighbor was a long-distance swimmer. She told Joe about her first trip to Hawaii when she went out for a swim, looked up, and couldn’t see land. She described the dialogue in her head and the inevitable fear she was trying not to let overcome her. She told him how in her confusion, she was surprised when a nice man on a surfboard showed up and pointed her in the right direction. “Land is that way,” he said. She explained to Joe how relieved she was but also surprised to see a surfer out there. Usually, surfers would be close to where the waves are breaking. What was he doing so far out? She told Joe that it was only a few days later when she saw a picture of Eddie Aikau and realized that was the man she saw in the water.
Space, time, and thought are not the separate things they seem. We weave through them, phasing in and out of distant realities and lifetimes like rainbows. We meet people; they change our lives. Then with our lives changed, we mirror those lessons outward into infinity and influence countless others. Life is a beautiful concert of a vast intelligence we can never hope to comprehend. But I no longer want to comprehend it. Life is to be lived, and living is defined by death. We come, and then we go. And while it can be very painful, there is so much beauty to behold. We are born, and then we die, but in between those two extremes, we talk, hug, play, cry, work, dream, and love.