Everything I Need 

By Eveline Ramaekers

“I don’t care if I have to sleep on the beach for a week, I’m going!”, I joke to my partner.

Enough money has suddenly come in for me to attend a live event at Villa Ahmyo in Kona, something I’ve been wanting to do for years. So, I register for Masters Circle, book the flights and pay for a rental car. 

“I’ll figure out accommodation later,” I think. But that doesn’t happen, and as the departure date arrives, I find myself embarking on a trip to Hawaii with no place to stay. It looks as though my joke might turn out to have been a prediction.

“Well,” I reassure myself, “it’s a tropical island, so I won’t freeze at night. I can sleep on the beach in the afternoon and spend nights in the rental car.” Sounds like a plan, but when push comes to shove, I lose my nerve and accept help – in the form of sleeping spaces – offered to me by others.

Yet, while I appreciate their kindness, something about it just doesn’t feel quite right. I’m in someone else’s space, leaning on the energies of others instead of really allowing my own energies to serve me, and it makes me feel sort of indebted, as if I must return the favor in some way. I don’t particularly care for this feeling, especially after having recently done Adamus’s I Am Debt Free.

So, after having spent the first couple of nights in different places, I work up the courage to return to my original plan of sleeping in the car. It makes sense, because Adamus’ homework after the first day of the workshop is to ‘do something radical,’ as he has identified the common energy of the group: I Am Radical.*

That afternoon, I make my way to the only beach in the area that, instead of black boulders and coarse, volcanic sand, actually has nice, fairly soft grass, beautiful trees offering shade and even a community garden. I curl up beneath one of the trees. The breeze caresses my arm; two little birds land on my hip. Finally, it’s just Me.

After dozing for an hour or two, I sit up and my eye catches a beautiful woman playing on the beach with her partner and her equally beautiful two little girls. I enjoy the sight of them for a while, their energies so radiant that the whole scene has an almost other-worldly quality to it.

When they walk over to the community garden to harvest something, I strike up a conversation. The woman very kindly shows me some edible herbs and fruits to pick, a welcome addition to my modest rations.

I’m feeling a bit out of sorts that afternoon and apologize to her for not being the most engaged conversationalist. The woman ‘happens’ to be a healer and offers to help. Now I know that someone else can’t heal me, but I also know that I can show up for myself seemingly in the form of this other person and heal myself. So, I say “Yes, please” and the woman sets to work. Her youngest daughter eagerly joins in and gives me little hugs and toddler-kisses.

I cannot say whether the woman’s gentle ministrations actually help. For me, the real healing comes from the fact that these people grant me their time, attention, and loving kindness, without ever having met me before and without asking for anything in return. Love 2.0? It certainly feels like it.

The sun is about to set, and more people gather on the beach to watch this spectacle of light and color. 

And then the rain comes. Tropical and warm, but nevertheless very wet. Belongings are swiftly gathered up as people head back to the small parking lot. Children are strapped into car seats, trunks are slammed shut, and one by one the cars pull out and drive off. 

I’m the only one left behind. In my rental car. It’s 7pm, and it’s dark.

Sometime during the night, I wake up. The reclined driver’s seat and the rolled-up towel ‘pillow’ only offer moderate comfort. And I have to pee. There’s nothing for it but squatting behind the car, which I feel a little guilty about on this beautiful island, but I don’t really see any other options out there in the middle of the night.

Back in the car, I feed myself a handful of nuts and close my eyes again. It’s a full moon. The hours slowly tick by.*

After eleven hours of darkness and solitude, dawn breaks and I decide to get going. Oddly, the thought “Now I have to return to the noise” briefly goes through my mind. 

A look at various B&B websites before coming to Hawaii had shown me that there is an open access pool nearby, with showers and toilets, so I head that way. Having gratefully made use of both the pool and showers, I show up at day 2 of the workshop refreshed and ready to immerse myself in whatever Adamus has to offer.

During his discussions with audience members, my sleeping-in-the-car story comes up and before I’ve even finished speaking, at least three more people have offered me a place to stay. After the session, another Shaumbra gently asks if I even have enough money to pay for food that week. I pull a face that’s supposed to mean something like: “Sort of but not really…”

Without hesitating, this angel in human form proceeds to get out their wallet, saying: “Here, I’ll give you what I have. Don’t worry about paying it back, I don’t need it. A couple of years ago, when I needed help, someone was there for me. I’m just glad I can pay it forward now.”

To my surprise and overwhelming gratitude, I’m suddenly holding not one but two(!) 100-dollar bills in my hands. My practical worries for the remainder of my stay vanish instantly, without an ounce of effort on my part. 

But… I succumb to the lure of a proper bed and accept one of the offers of a place to stay that night. And once again, while I appreciate the kindness, it’s just not quite right. In fact, I suddenly realize how much I had enjoyed the solitude of the night in the car. So, while I appreciate the bed, the shower, and the company at breakfast that this person offers, I’ve made my decision: tonight, I’m going back to the car and the beach.

This time it’s different. The fear of the first night alone in the car is gone. I know what to expect now. I have consciously and deliberately sought out the solitude. Eleven hours of darkness, with nothing to do, no one to speak with, and only the moonlight and the nightly sounds of the island for company. It feels like a cleansing of the soul, even though my body is protesting somewhat because of the physical discomfort.

Now is also the first time that I notice the color of the fancy leather seats. They’re crimson red.

As soon as the first light is visible in the sky, I decide to leave. I am feeling a bit yucky now after spending another clammy, tropical night in a car, without access to a proper bathroom. A ten- minute drive through a mesmerizing, quiet landscape takes me to a nearby beach where access to the water is supposed to be easier. Nevertheless, it’s another black rock beach, and a sign tells me that parking here costs five dollars a day.

What to do? Ironically, I only carry a credit card and two 100-dollar bills. Is anyone even there yet to accept the money?

Yes, there is. Underneath a market stall type canopy, with so many possessions gathered around him that you’d think he lived there, sits a man. Think: Morgan Freeman playing God in Bruce Almighty, but with the stature of a round, happy Buddha. Oh, and without the neat, white suit. Really without anything, it seems. Maybe underwear, I think. I hope. I don’t check.

“How can I pay you for parking here? I don’t have any change.”

“Honey, it’s alright. You’ve come such a long way; you just go and have a swim now and enjoy yourself.”

I thank the man but still feel a little uncomfortable about the situation. At this point in serious need of a bath, however, I place my dress and towel on a black rock, take a couple of deep breaths, and plunge into the sea.

Gently floating and paddling around in the water, I allow the ocean to wash the night in the car off of me. And slowly, one by one, all the miracles I’d been granted go through my mind. Everything I’d needed had somehow found its way to me: showers, toilets, a pool, money, food, and very kind, loving people. And of course: two long nights of free parking.

I decide to climb back onto the shore and pay the friendly man at the parking lot with the only thing that feels appropriate after receiving all these kindnesses: a 100-dollar bill.

Then I linger for a moment and ask if he knows any public showers nearby so that I can rinse off the salty water. Turns out the Morgan Freeman/Buddha man owns a private shower just a few yards up the hill. He hands me the key.

It’s not much more than a corrugated iron ‘shed,’ but the water is cool, I’m clean, and suddenly I burst out laughing. It’s not even 7am and here I am naked in somebody’s shower-shack on Hawaii, rolling green-and-black hills in front of me, and the vast blue ocean behind me. I am the most abundant person on the planet, because I have my Self, and a renewed, deeply rooted faith that I am always taken care of, if I can just… allow.

I reappear from the shower freshened up and in a clean dress. The man hands me a mug of coffee. “Keep the mug,” he adds. I thank him and pour the coffee into my thermos. I don’t really like coffee but dare not insult him by refusing it. The mug finds a place in one of the car doors.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again sometime,” I say. The Morgen Freeman/Buddha-man laughs.

My stomach tells me it’s in need of a good breakfast, so I head over to a nearby sandwich shop I’d discovered earlier that week. As I wait for my order, – to which I’d added a two-dollar tip – a woman comes in. She walks over to me. “Do you know if the coffee is any good here? I could really use a good cup of coffee, but the prices seem a bit high here.”

I hesitate. “I don’t drink coffee, so I can’t say if it’s good. I do, however, know someone who has a generous amount of free coffee in her thermos. Keep an eye on my order for me, would you? I’ll go get it.” The woman, very happy with the free and apparently good-tasting coffee, thanks me and gives me two dollars. Funny how these things happen.

I enjoy the final day of the workshop with all the wisdom, humor and generosity that Adamus, Geoffrey and the other Shaumbra have to offer.

During the talent night I tell them the remainder of my story, as I have told it to you now, and I sing a song: Lullaby, by Sleeping At Last – a song about moonlight and new adventures.

And then it’s time to catch my flight home. Again, long hours in the semi-dark, this time without the solitude but – happily – with toilets. 

Everything I need is here.

Oh, and the color of the mug the man at the beach gave me? Crimson red.

Mahalo.