ROAD TO HANA
There’s a sweetness in the breeze that blows from ocean to shore,
That’s wafted halfway ’round the world, but not been breathed before;
And it mingles with the fragrance of the fruit and flowers there;
And stirs them with a rich perfume that brushes back your hair.
And I’m glad to be with you on the road to Hana,
To see the joy and beauty on your face.
The destination is a journey – a path and not a place.
And being last is how you win the race!
There’s a garden made for you and me to taste, to laugh and love.
With banana bread, like manna bread, raining from above.
And I joined you, like a vision, swimming in a secret pool,
Where pilgrims are refreshed, and lovers linger in the cool.
There’s a pebble plucked from paradise, the far forbidden shore.
From a raven black, exotic beach to just outside our door.
Through the dying leaves of autumn in the bitter winter snow
It’s humbly there beneath our feet as we come and go.
And as we come and as we go we’re on the road to Hana.
I see the joy and beauty on your face.
Our destination is a journey, a path and not a place.
And being last is how we’ll win the race.
And being last is how we’ll win the race!
Comment:
This song is about driving along the road to Hana in Maui. The way is marked by glorious sights of sea, massive waves, soaring spray, coastline, mountains, rainbows, salty air, verdant hills carved by cascading waterfalls, adventure, restfulness, exercise, and exotic beaches.
Faye and I took our time on this road, mystified at those drivers who rushed by, hurrying past the magnificent splendors. We let them all pass us by as we poked along, drinking in every sight, basking in spectacular beauty, savoring the aromas. And being last of all, taking our sweet time, that is how we won the race that day, the competition to see who could enjoy the wonders of God the most.
There is now a small volcanic rock in the garden of our pergola, a stone we secreted away from the black beach that day – that exotic, unimaginable shore that appears like a stolen scene from paradise.
At times it seems sad to me that the little round pebble sits in the withered leaves of autumn. After all, it was born in a garden of surreal, unfading greenery and opulent fruitfulness. The bitter snows cover this rock at times and this too seems ironic, as it was forged in the flaming mountains of the ring of fire in the tropics and would have soaked in warmest waves until it was someday ground to beautiful sand.
And yet, as I step over it respectfully each morning, with wonderful memories swirling like waves, I like to imagine that it does not begrudge its state. Just maybe it is happy in its humble resting spot to bring a bit of paradise to us, to remind us that on our journey of life, we are in some way still every day on that road to Hana. Hana, of course, is heaven.
