Love Means Masks        

By Virginia Beck

Virginia Beck

February is always a special time. The Waimea Town Celebration, Valentine’s Day and my Ku‘uipo’s birthday (smooches, artist Marty Wessler), — these are all reasons to celebrate aloha, or love.

Hard to believe, year three of the pandemic, as we suffer staggering losses of loved ones to the Omicron virus. It is so sneaky, despite all the testing, it infects many. My housekeeper, my neighbor next door, the one across the street. My BFF’s grandson. No family, no community is untouched. We are all connected.

Life is short enough, and grieving breaks our hearts, again. One more time, our amazing aloha and ‘ohana spirit has everyday heroes quietly stepping up: to pick up the pieces, find the resources, feed the hungry.

What is it about love? So strong, so fragile, it opens our hearts and surges forth to help one another. I have been binge watching After Life, a British series on Netflix. It is not for the faint-hearted, as the humor is bawdy, coarse and vulgar. Different film censorship guidelines, and language is not on the list.

It’s about a gruff, annoying, sarcastic man bitter at losing his wife, and a rough journey through grief. His country village community is tight and gossipy. Hiding his deep love of his wife, drinking and threatening suicide, he slowly understands the kindness of friends. Gradually, he realizes they are all hurting, in different ways. His wife left him an amazing series of videos, coaching him for when she’s gone. So tender. And also incredibly funny! I laughed more than I cried.

Our time together is always so short, too short. Making the most of it is the best we can do.

Volunteering is second nature to us. We are all related in many ways. Probably only 0.2 “degrees of separation.” A deeply woven net of relationships, an entire web of communication, service, compassion and joy. What a privilege it is to live here.

Yet, our amazing community pulls together once again. Opening testing sites on holidays. Working longer hours. Health care facilities and staff are stretched beyond their limits; like elastic bands, they are worn thin. Our Miracle working Department of Health — OMG, overtime to the max.

You can’t complain about waiting in line for two hours, when there are no more tests in the pharmacies, and the whole world is upgrading masks. Omicron virus hits the throat first! You will be totally infected and infectious before it hits your nose.

Health care runs on the thinnest of margins; 2 percent, if that. Most of the inflow goes to pay for the facilities, the staff, the equipment and the supplies. Endless overtime for caregivers burnt and crispy around the edges, but somehow showing up to work.

Unless they have Omicron, tested positive, and then they are out. Short staffed at the hospitals. Our emergency rooms are functional, but cannot run on miracles. We ask too much of them, and the only way we can help them is to vaccinate, boost and mask, and stay out of their way.

Aloha means we take responsibility for our kuleana (responsibilities), and protecting our families is everything.

We can still celebrate, and this will burn itself out. In time for Valentine’s, in time for celebrations, especially the Waimea Town Celebration.

Sometimes aloha means “Pretend you are an adult!” Other times, “Hang loose, and Play safely, with a mask.”

Aloha always finds a way.

• Virginia Beck, NP and Certified Trager® Practitioner, offers Wellness Consultation, Trager Psychophysical Integration and teaches Malama Birth Training classes. She can be reached at 635-5618.