The Water

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.

“Really! C’mon!”

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.

The Flow

The whipping winds of yesterday have come to a complete standstill. Nothing moves. I kick off bed sheets in my sleep, as we rest in the thick air of an island petri dish paused in surreal calm.

All is silent but for the faint sound of crickets in the pre-dawn dark, and the occasional rooster ricocheting calls from the tops of motionless trees.

So much can change so quickly, just look at the weather.

In my last posting, I bemoaned a broken water pump at our new abode, while watching trees bent sideways from wild gusts. Within 24 hours, I am in a new setting. Water flows from the tap. The air hangs stagnant.

With the water pump fixed yesterday, I got to do chores. Like four loads of laundry. Three piles of dishes (hot, sudsy water, all the while). I wiped away years of black film from behind the refrigerator. There was even joy in cleaning someone else’s left-behind grime. Because I could. Oh, the delight of running water!

All day I drank glassfuls of precious liquid. Some with lemon. Some with fresh mint. Some glasses, just plain, fresh water.

Now, with the winds so dramatically stilled, this morning’s pregnant pause is full of mystery.

Water still runs from the tap. I have more cleaning plans in store. But then there’s the weather. Sort of solely in charge. We are vulnerable, despite extended forecasts. I am humbled in the mystique of this stillness.

courtesy of Evan Blaser
courtesy of Evan Blaser

Water Crystals

With the sound of waves crashing in the distance – a swell that’s bringing 40 – 50 foot surf to our island – there’s no escaping the reminder of water.

Here, it’s liquid and soupy. Full of forceful currents and foaming with air.

In Sequoia National Park last month, water took the form of crystals. Rock-hard and holographic, snow that’s long-since melted now (still rain dancing for you, California!).

2014-01-23_snow crystals