The afore-mentioned coconut. May, 2021.I’m chomping on the residual grit of raw coconut meat like gum while I wait on hold with the company that manages my 401k. I left my job with no other options on tap, and I’m trying to sort out some finance stuff. I’m trying to be responsible.
But I’m not thinking about my future or even my past as they drudge up active and old accounts attached to my social security number. Accounts where I’ve hidden away a percentage of each paycheck for the last decade, like a worried squirrel afraid it won’t have enough food for winter. Accounts that will dictate when I can retire, translating the effort of working since the age of 14 into USD.
But the future is the farthest thing from my mind at this moment.
I am anchored in the present, in the very now-ness of being. In Hawaii, tasting the coconut that was scavenged and cracked open last night. That was unlocked from its shell with the tip of a butter knife like an oyster. The coconut that grew on the same land where I am now. That digested vitamin D from the same sun I feel on my face while I’m removing dead palms from its base. The same trade winds that rustle its palms rustle my hair as I sit on the porch. Waiting for a customer service rep who said the birds here sound different than the ones they have there.
I’ve always loved coconut. As a kid, I’d sneak open the kitchen cupboard where my mom kept the baking supplies, shaking clumps of sweetened shreds into my hand. Rolling up the bag and replacing the blue rubber band borrowed from a long-ago eaten bunch of broccoli or asparagus. Crunching grated coconut between my teeth hours later while mimicking the moves of Mario as I punched buttons (A-B-A-B) and he punched bricks.
I never had any hesitance picking from the option of spinning slices in the display case on a diner counter. Cherry, apple, blueberry, pecan... I’d settle for any of them when paired with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. But coconut custard pie... it doesn’t need rescuing with any sides. It is its own cherry on top, the top shelf of desserts. If one ended up in our fridge after a cookout, I’d cut myself smaller and smaller slivers as the pie disappeared. The foil pan gleaming like a time-lapse of the moon phases every time I opened the fridge door.
I recently discovered that placing coconut milk in the fridge for a few hours turns it into whipped cream. If I had known this as a child, I wouldn’t have emptied Reddi Whip bottles into the back of my mouth. I would have much preferred the coconut version.
A coconut will take root not long after it falls. If you don’t remove it right away, a ‘keiki’ (baby) tree will start growing in that spot. My friend says if you remove it right after it sprouts, its insides will be the equivalent of coconut-flavored cotton candy, spongy and sweet. Angel food cake — another childhood favorite — comes to mind. My taste buds explode at the same time my mind does. I need to experience this delicacy. We grab the machete and go on a hunt.
We find two, but both are moldy inside. So we walk the perimeter of the property, scouting a few hiding trees. We weave our way through a tangle of jungle to find more. A short tree has dropped four. None have sprouted yet, but these are good for water and meat.
We each carry one back to the front yard. She kneels in front of them in a long white skirt, whispering a few words of thanks. Then she raises the blade over her head and comes down hard, straight through the middle. Then another whack, and another. She looks like a warrior princess slaying a dragon, like so many fantasy movies of my youth. But this is Hawaii on a Wednesday evening, and there's no Netflix in sight.
It’s now the following day, and I’m on hold with a financial services rep about my retirement plan. He returns and asks me a slew of questions I’m not sure I have the answers to. Questions about what risk level I’m comfortable with. About desired market values. About what age I anticipate retiring. I am trying to stay with him.
When he asks how financially secure I feel right now, I ask him to explain what he means by that. He defines a spectrum in terms of assets and liquidity and income and...
I am not listening. I'm grinding coconut meat between my molars, staring out into my yard, counting coconuts on the tree.
Credits
Accompanying music:Â Soul Alphabet by Colleen
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