Yesterday I got in.
There is a stream that runs in our front yard. I’m guessing the path it traces is ancient and natural, but during plantation days in Hawaii this waterway was used for pineapple farming. A small concrete structure remains where once the flow was diverted, though today it gushes free.
We’ve lived in this place for four months but I’ve only looked at the waterfall from the short cliff above. Sunlight will sparkle down upon the bubbling through lacey leaves in the sheltering tree limbs. A mossy stone slab at the waterfall’s base has whispered that it makes a perfect seat.
The Bohemian has climbed down to explore. Jeb and his teenage friends have looked for prawns (and found them). Even Mae, our Labrador, has sniffed out an easy way to grip a path along the slippery rocks to sniff the effervescence misting from the chute.
I don’t know what’s kept me. But yesterday I got in.
It was our usual morning lap in our front yard- the Bohemian, our dog Mae, some simple stick tossing and dewy grass around our gum boots. We wandered to the water and I found my familiar gazing place. But this time something shifted. Maybe it was the towering bamboo, the clacking wood and shimmying leaves in the breeze. In some old, familiar, natural, earthly impulse it all came clear.
“Let’s get in,” I said to the Bohemian with an excited grin.
He smiled at me, “Nah.”
“No, really! Let’s just get in.”
It seemed so plainly simple. If not now, when was I going to slip into the liquid? Was I waiting for a planned event? A time when I brought towels? A bathing suit? Did I need to make an appointment?
It was a Sunday morning with sunlight and a gurgling stream in our front yard. I’d never dipped a toe in for four months. That seemed ridiculous. Now was the time.
“I’m going in.”
I slid off my boots, stripped down and slipped in. Amazing!
I found a spot on the mossy rocks and sat, back and shoulders underneath the cascading jet. It felt so good I was overflowing with the desire to have everyone I knew live this feeling. I looked up at the Bohemian smiling down at me from what was once my old gazing spot.
“You’ve got to get in here.”
“Ahh…” he shook his head.
He paused, then reached for the first button of his shirt. Yes! My heart flushed with joy.
And he did get in. And he did feel the energizing blessing of that flow.
And after we’d both been christened, we were standing on the mossy rock, rivulets rolling down our skin. We rested in each other’s arms, held by the earth, my ear on the Bohemian’s slippery chest.
The sound of the water rippled. The wind moved tree leaves. The scent of damp earth and sun-dried grass hung on the banks around us.
We were spinning through space. Grounded.
I found her eighteen years ago in a small shop in Kathmandu, Nepal. I wrapped her hefty weight in thick cloth and carefully transported her in my backpack on my return flight back to the States.
She’s occupied various corners and shelves of every home I’ve occupied since. Her expression, no matter the environment, always the same: ever-present, content, gracious.
Inspiration for the morning.