A question of balance

I can't decide, tonight, whether eating a handful of cashews dipped into those little packs of Nutella they send you as samples in the mail is creative genius, or desperation.  Probably a mix of both.So much of life seems to balance on the point of a needle.

I attended an event the other night, where the speaker was a prominent women CEO, talking about women in leadership. It was a small group, and many of the questions focused on that elusive work-life balance and an equal role for the genders: Was it achievable? Or is it, as many people argue, a pipe dream?  I was curious about her answer to that, too.  I think I've done my share -- way, way more than my share -- of cooking, laundry, grocery shopping, all those tasks that typically fall to women -- and yet, have done it along with a full-time job.  Heck, I did it working full time while completing my MBA in the evenings and writing a textbook.

The answer was a little unexpected.  The CEO -- along with a second woman CEO, also speaking -- argued that it was less about gender and more about two things: 1) finding a way to work it out that fits your life and relationship and 2) understanding that people use different languages and then learning to understand those languages.  When her husband told her he wouldn't do the laundry, cooking, groceries, etc., she said, fine -- I am hiring a full-time housekeeper.  She outsourced, because she could. But it was a balance that worked for them, together. Balance is what you make it.  There isn't a formula.

I work at a post-secondary institution that just experienced a tragedy.  A student -- an outwardly successful, smart, well-balanced student, just accepted to law school -- went on a rampage and (allegedly, at this point) murdered five fellow students. The point is, balance can be deceptive, and it's fragile.

So, these days I am thinking a lot about balance. Most of us wobble, and that's OK.  We just have to make sure we are like those toys I remember being advertised years ago:

Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down. 

We all need a safety net of friends, and family.  I guess my point it that very few of us can achieve balance alone, and it has to be a balance that works for you.

The Nutella awaits.

Black Sand & Witches Brew

Today was the road to Hana.  We checked the weather radar, and nothing but a wee bit of cloud was showing on a road that the guidebook describes as having "a lot"of rain. So off we went, top down, sun pouring in, through Paia, past the beach where the windsurfers hang out, and onto the road to Hana.

If you haven't been on the road to Hana, it's a narrow road that twists like a Cirque du Soleil contortionist through the rainforest, sprinkled amply with one-lane bridges and hairpin turns -- also waterfalls, lots of trees with red flowers, and stunning views from where the road snakes along a cliff top, with nothing between you and a sheer several-hundred-feet drop than a piece of metal guardrail.

We stopped at this waterfall -- and were glad we did, when a massive truck hauling a trailer tried to navigate the hairpin turn and just barely made it. I couldn't imagine trying to pass that thing head on, on a road that would barely pass for one lane at home.  Barely.

This one was taken from the side of the road, one foot on the guardrail.  Stunning view, but that tree was growing off the side of a cliff.

Then, of course, there was the convertible.  Top down, this is the road for it because you never go over 20 miles an hour. We got stuck in a convoy of jeeps -- four in a row, being driven by who I swear were close relations to the Duck Dynasty stars -- beards, paunches, tattoos, headscarves. (Look for us looking scared between the third and fourth Jeeps, where we somehow ended up, in a future episode....Duck Dynasty Does Maui).

We turned off to see the Keanau peninsula, a witches cauldron of sharp lava rocks and pounding surf -- spectacular despite the sign that said "beware of death or severe injury". Apparently the surf can get pretty aggressive here.

Then we made it to the black sand beach.  This beach isn't recommended for swimming because of the strong currents, but lots of people were swimming and body surfing here. 

There is a path that runs up the side of the black sand beach and up onto the cliffs.  This has great views of the cliffs, a blowhole, and some rock arches with the waves pounding them. And then...you get to an amazing black sand beach.  No one is crazy enough to swim here, another cauldron of sharp rocks and crashing water. The waves come pounding through at an angle and there must be riptides and deadly cross currents.  Tons of black boulders sit on the sand.  But man, does it make a gorgeous photo:

It takes just under two hours to drive from Hana to Paia, a distance of about 45 miles. We didn't quite make it back to the hotel before sunset, but stopped at the side of the road to catch the last few rays on a somewhat more serene beach:

Tomorrow

This morning, the quality of the light was different.  Grey and leaden, the sky hung heavily over the ocean.  Not the perfect morning for a tropical vacation.

I remembered that the last time we were here, someone mentioned that weather could be quite localized; if it were raining in one place, often a few miles down the road there would be sun.

I whipped out my laptop and Googled the weather.  A satellite image popped up and sure enough, only a few spots on the island were getting rain.  We considered our options: stay here, read, and probably get increasingly on each others' nerves, or head out in search of brighter skies. "And rainbows!" I chirp, probably annoyingly.  We packed a snack and headed out.

About three miles down the road, the rain stopped and the sun came out. In fact, by the time we made it down to Makena Beach, about an hour down the road, it looked like this:

I hadn't been overly optimistic about hitting ninety-three degrees and blazing sun, so had dressed in white jeans and a long sleeve top, making me look like a crazy person walking down the beach.  Even worse, as I walked along the surf, an extra-strong wave came along, soaking me to the hips.  I tried evasive tactics and ended up falling down the sand dune I tried to climb to get away from the next rush of surf.  If you've ever had to wear wet jeans you will know how terrible this feels -- now, add abut a cup of ultra-fine sand and rub it in well to every possible surface so you feel like human sandpaper.

Hubby complained I was grumpy, an accurate description, if not one to mollify me in any way.  Like, not at all. "You'll dry off soon", he mumbled encouragingly, and then had one of his fantastic ideas. "You'll dry off even faster if we have the top down!"

Great.  Gritty, grumpy,  and damp, I'm now about to get jet-dried courtesy of our Mustang convertible rental. On our way back to the hotel, I do spot a rainbow, and I do dry off.  And tomorrow -- well, it's another day.

The Wife

It's vacation, and I've been going through the books I brought with me (two) at a fast clip.  I started and finished one on the plane here, actually, and have just finished the second (The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles and Left Neglected, respectively).  Which meant that today I had to go to the bookstore.

We located the nearest Barnes and Noble (Bonus!  An in-house Starbucks) and I browsed through the stacks.  I always find it hard to select a book -- this one looks too superficial, that one looks like too much of an emotional commitment, will I look like I want to be my niece/nephew if I read that one, I've already read that one, you get the picture. But I noticed a trend:  The Time Traveller's Wife, The Tiger's Wife, The Paris Wife, The Traitor's Wife...what is it about wives?  And why can't they use their own names? If someone wrote a book about me, would they call it The Professor's Wife?

Has anyone else noticed this?

And so, I did what any other sane person would do.  I Googled it.  I came up with posts such as the ten worst wives or girlfriends in literature (both Lady MacBeth from MacBeth and Gertrude from Hamlet make the list, BTW, for any Shakespearean fanatics out there), old wives tales, and the wives behind Russian literary geniuses.  And yes, it turns out others have noticed.  There is even a book club, called the Literary Wives, who read only books with "Wives" in the title. They won't run short anytime soon.

I was starting to feel as if husbands were getting a bit of a short shrift here, and so went to an online bookstore and put "husband" as the search term.  Turns out, most books with "husband" in the title are self-help books:  "Bringing Out the Best in Your Husband"or "How to Raise a Husband".

Hmmmm.

So -- wives are mysterious, compelling subjects for literature, but husbands -- well, if you've got one, you might need a self-help book?  It might help explain the divorce rate, if nothing else.

Tundra to Tropics

The miracle of modern air travel is something that often fails to amaze me, involving as it often does late or broken equipment, surly agents, and a lack of creature comforts including enough space to stretch one's legs.  I can't really blame the surly agents, as they have to deal with, well, people like us -- people who want first class for the price of economy, more elbow room, and have too much carry on luggage.

But yesterday the miracle was top of mind as we left Calgary, which has been in the iron grip of a nasty winter since late October, and landed seven hours later on a tropical island in the middle of the Pacific. From frozen tundra to tropics in seven hours!

The thought, "Why don't we do this more often?" was quickly followed by, "Why isn't this mandatory?"  because as I took off my outerwear outside for the first time in seven months I felt like I might, possibly, become human again. There are advantages to being an ice princess, but most of us are more likely to be ice hags, wailing with the stridency of a banshee about the long winter.

Just imagine -- moving from snow -- and more snow -- and ice (in early April!) to this:

Or this:

Viewed this way, air travel should be a tax-deductible medical expense. We actually bought a blue-light lamp this year, to try to prevent SAD (for those who don't live in #alwayswinterneverChristmas, SAD is Seasonal Affective Disorder, a seasonal clinical depression that starts in the fall and goes until the day gets longer -- and warmer -- in the spring).  Another reason the Canadian government should finally annex Turks and Caicos, as they been begging us to do for years.  It would be like stocking up with flu vaccinations.