Happy Aloha Friday!
Some roads are so familiar they feel like old friends. I traveled one last week, back to a place I hadn't seen in decades. The route was the same—bridges, towns, winding stretches of memory—but the destination held something new: a gathering of people I once knew deeply, now shaped by time.
There's a strange comfort in seeing someone after twenty years and realizing they're still them. The laugh, the posture, the way they greet you—it's all there, just softened or sharpened by life. We hugged, we smiled, we tried to catch up. But the math never works. Too many stories, too little time.
We came together to honor a mentor whose quiet wisdom changed the course of many lives. His teachings were radical, his presence grounding. The course that linked us was called Architecture of the Sacred, but what really bound us was the way he taught us to see—to listen, to build, to believe in the sacredness of space and story.
Later, I watched my kids explore a space we built decades ago. Their hands on the same plaster, their feet on the same slate. It was surreal. Worlds colliding. Memory made tangible.
And as I watched them—curious, gentle, wide-eyed—I realized something. Back then, we built this place with youthful conviction, raw creativity, and a longing for meaning. We didn't know what we were doing, not really. But we did it anyway. And now, here were my children, tracing the contours of that effort with fresh hands and open hearts. It felt like a blessing. A quiet affirmation that what we built mattered—and still does.
I left energized and drained. Excited and perplexed. Satisfied—and also not. Pine Lake again in my rear-view. But what the ceremony sparked was a collective desire to make this a recurring thing. To celebrate regularly. To drive awareness back to the university that this kind of immersive, hippy, experimental learning works. It has a timeless impact. And it should be embraced.
I got a call from Peter yesterday—the first step toward re-establishing our relationship after so many years. He'd said he was going to text, but he called instead. Perfect timing. Between meetings, my phone happened to be face up. Silent, but I saw the area code. I knew it was him.
We talked for about twenty minutes—an extension of our interaction at Pine Lake. It was easy. Simple. Exciting. We have started down the path toward continuing an open dialogue, with solidified plans to come in the next few months. A hike!
By putting these things down in writing, I'm solidifying them for myself.
This week's newsletter might be too sappy for some. Maybe too personal. But if there's any message, it's this:
The sacred lives in the showing up. In the quiet timing of a phone call. In the embrace that revives a faded memory. In the spaces we build—and rebuild—together.
T.S. Eliot wrote, "We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."
I know, to my core, that this quote embodies what happened last weekend—and what happened long before. The end of our time in college. The final June building the cob house. I faintly recall the pangs of longing as I hopped in my car two decades ago, Pine Lake in my rear-view. I might've had delusions of grandeur about keeping in touch with everyone. And for a time, I did.
But that ending launched a beginning. And now, it feels like that beginning has just conveniently ended—making space for a new start. A chance to continue what we left behind, with new conviction, new wisdom, fresh eyes, open ears, and most of all, a wide open heart.
Mahalo for listening!
