using the arrow buttons.
by clicking on the page.
the page around when zoomed in by dragging it.
the zoom using the slider when zoomed-in.
by clicking on the zoomed-in page.
by entering text in the search field, and select "This Issue" or "All Issues"
by clicking on thumbnails to select pages, and then press the print button.
displays sections with thumbnails and descriptions.
displays a slider of thumbnails. Click on a page to jump.
allows you to browse the full archive.
about your subscription?
Lions Roar : March 2014
Traditionally, islanders consider her a transformative fig- ure who wields the dual powers of creation (island build- ing) and destruction (home and landscape demolition). She hurls fire into water, spewing love and jealous anger in pro- tection of her sacred land. For me, Pelé exemplifies a radiant female force of nature that blends polarities. I seek her guid- ance in my quest to reconcile the lighter aspects of the world with its darker shadow elements. My excitement grows. I squeeze Phil’s sinewy fingers and run my hand through his curly hair. “It’s incredible here, isn’t it?” I whisper. “I can’t wait to get to Volcano House.” In Volcanoes National Park, I plan to study Pelé’s handiwork and tempera- ment, to harness her creativity so I can awaken more enlight- ened parts of myself in the coming year. Phil grins, crinkling his eyes. “Tomorrow night at Volcano House will be awesome.” As darkness descends over the dozens of scattered tents and vehicles dotting the campsite, we discuss our upcoming wed- ding and Philip’s future medical-career possibilities on the Big Island. He unzips the entry flap of the nylon tent, nodding hello to other campers. We crawl inside and pull off our shoes, emp- tying streams of sand onto the floor. In no time, our thoughts about Pelé’s transformative powers tumble out. We discuss how her firestorms decimated vegetation and then midwifed the birth of brilliant new spectrums of scarlet, yellow, and purple species of plant and animal life. How her explosions sculpted lush islands and reshaped the park’s jagged coastline. Slipping into our sleeping bags, we celebrate the thought that our presence on the island draws us into Pelé’s self- perpetuating cycle of physical and spiritual regeneration. She is the progenitor of this splendor that regales all living creatures in her court—including a pair of lovers on this Wednesday night, the twenty-third of April, 1980. Outside our tent, a restless wind roars through the giant iron- wood trees. Sounds of thunderous waves hammer the rocks. Before closing my eyes, I whisper to Phil that I feel Pelé has beckoned me here and I’m counting the minutes until we reach Volcano House the next day. He kisses me goodnight. In blissful fatigue, we surrender our awe to the night. In the distance, Pelé sleeps. TRAPPED IN A LUMINOUS orange cave, I rouse from slumber. Threads of orange daylight filter into my mucus- filled eyes. I feel pudding-thick blood clots slither down my cheeks into my mouth. The saline taste forces a gag. I choke down the stench of erupting vomit. Instantaneously, the contents of my bowels and bladder surge onto the floor of the cave. I heave torrents. Animal sounds of my retch- ing echo through the cave. The avalanche of vomit mixes in a sea of body fluids that gush around me. Where am I? In a haze, I recall pitching the tent with Philip the day before. Or was it two days ago? A lucid part of me takes con- trol. I am... in a tent camping on the Big Island of Hawaii. My head explodes with pain that radiates through every nerve of my body. My heart pounding, I reach for my head to soothe the agony. Withdrawing my fingers, I see they are bathed in the crimson of fresh blood. I turn to awaken Philip. He is still beside me in his sleep- ing bag. I urgently need his physician’s skills. I lunge toward him desperately and cry, “Philip, wake up, wake up, I’m hurt, I’m bleeding, I’m sick.” I heave, tears leak from my eyes. “Phil... wake up.” I grope through the orange folds of the collapsed tent that entombs us. “Give me your hand, Phil.” I extend a bloody hand to reach the flesh of his palm. He is inert. A prism of light pours into the tent as I hear what I think is Phil’s voice. I say, “Phil, I’m thirsty, please help me.” Instead I hear, “What’s your name... phone number for a family member... who did this to you?” I rattle off my name and my parents’ phone number in Illinois. “Judy, try to stay awake—rescue is here,” says a male voice. On April 25, 1980, Honolulu newspapers deliver these headlines: “Honolulu Doctor Slain,” “Two Beaten at Park.” The papers say the park had a history of thrill beatings, but no current suspects. A passerby walking his dog in the late afternoon had found us as I struggled, murmuring Phil’s name, to free myself from the collapsed tent. Later that week, Phil’s corpse is slipped into a black nylon bag and shipped to his family in Queens, New York. Because of the shortage of neurosurgeons on the Big Approaching the hospital bed, my parents wear worried eyes and crumpled clothes. I vaguely hear a nurse explain my physical losses. My father’s voice quivers in response: “Are they permanent?” SHAMBHALA SUN MARCH 2014 60