Rain Showers and Shower Trees

It may be snowing elsewhere in the Northern Hemisphere, but here in Hawaii we are being deluged with chilly rain. On Sunday we had some sort of melted blizzard that threatened to beat down the world to death. The mountainsides were draped in thunder-rumbling clouds. Even now, it is raining again, and the sky feels like a heavy cold blanket. It surprises me how green the earth can be when the air is this gray. 

The seasons here are strange. We are in the midst of our Rainy Season, as contrasted with the rest of the year which I suppose we call the Non-Rainy Season, because it definitely isn't dry. But there are other seasons as well, and they don't line up all in a row like spring, summer, fall, winter. We have Mango Season, Plumeria Season, Whale Season, and the various fluctuations of Tourist Season which lasts all year long. February is apparently the flowering season for this tree:

I'm not the best at recognizing the true names of all the tropical plants around here, but I'm thinking that this is what people call a Yellow Shower Tree, especially since it looks similar to the trees in this blog post. 

We have Pink Shower Trees as well, which always make me think of Bridal Showers. But I assume the name comes from the fact that the flowers shower the ground like rain, like snow. 

The photos almost portray how very Yellow these flowers are. They are as brilliant as sunshine. So bold, they cry out to everyone who passes to just look. Look at their definition of color against the sky, against the ground. I never realized how vibrant actual, natural color could be until I moved here.

At Sea with the Humpbacks

"Exultation is the going of an inland soul to sea..." or so says that sober-silent friend of ours, Emily Dickinson. And when one is asked to play chaperone to a group of children hungry for the sea and the salt spray and adventure, one must say a definite yes. 

And so that was that. A boat, a multitude of bright blues, and the purest air ever breathed at noontime. And this for our front yard, this I would be happy to call my welcome mat:

The boat, a catamaran with sails, was laid with a tight trampoline in the bow. Here is where the children - and eventually a circle of youth-renewed women whose more cautious children went below decks to become dry - balanced, their hands grasping the ropes, their faces forward with wind-pressed smiles, their feet swinging free into the salt-air with every swell of the sea.

And if that wasn't enough, there were the whales, the humpbacks, who rose and fell, dipping themselves into the air like toddlers dipping their feet into a pool. Like icebergs, these whales show only a fraction of themselves above the surface, yet we know that their giant bodies are there at home under the waves. They spout their fish-eaten breath into the air and sink back down, only to wave a fingertip fin at all us spectators, only to gradually raise a fingerprint tail gracefully as they dive.

I soon discovered that whales are more photo-shy than even I am. And to catch on film a breach, a whale lifting itself completely out of the water, is to near the impossible. So I gave myself up to mental photography, taking with my eyes the pictures of humpbacks side-by-side, of the baby whale learning to jump, of pectorals and dorsals and flukes stretched at the sky.

I will not lie, for my heart was heavy that day. I crept often to the bow of the boat, inching as close as I could to the sea - if only to touch with my toes the liquid air of home - only to be called back again by the crew. Silly of them, really. As close as I wanted to be, I would not have fallen in. And if I had? It is but the sea, this straining, striving, struggling mass of energy that our very lives are balanced on. It is just like our every day, this life, this sea. We are afloat for today, rising and falling on the hourly swells. We do not drown. Not now.

Knowing Goodness

I am lying down feeling the cold of the night which hasn't worn off even though noon approaches. A break between lessons - those children with still-growing fingers attempting gymnastics on the keys. I am warm when they tell me their stories, when they smile at a piece played well. But my feet are still cold, and my heart is tired, and the tea's caffeine didn't fix everything. I need to get ready for the rest of the day's lessons, but I drag on. I pick up a book (a pleasant procrastination). 

One Thousand Gifts ~ Ann Voskamp:

reminds me to be thankful for God's goodness

to know the particulars of God's gifts to me

to cast away ingratitude, the urge to recognize the cold rather than the warmth

I am happy about:

sweaters and windows that let in light and not cold and the prospect of espresso in the morning and music theory and quiet times and busy times and the last three hundred pages of Monte Cristo and the freedom of Fridays and afternoons watching whales and friendship and people who care when they aren't told to and even almost this disquietude thinking have I done enough worthwhile today.

And here, I live in a place where people line up to watch the sun sink below the sea. Every evening they come. 

Because it is beautiful, because it is worth it to see the good things. 

Abandoned to the Beautiful Commonplace

Orchids, to my mind, shout out the words: "rare beauty." But in fact, there are over 20,000 species of orchids all over the world. They are commonplace, like mornings and mourning doves, like acne and aching. But they are still beautiful. 

The Beautiful Commonplace. 

Rarity has nothing to do with it. So how come I am always surprised when faced with the beautiful? I confess, I am afraid. Afraid it will not last.

I fear. Abandonment. 

I am afraid to be left behind ... again. Intentionally and unintentionally, it has happened. People disappoint, let you down, leave. It feels like the world is full of 50-50s. There's a chance you might be happy, if the stars align in your favor, but then again, you might not be. 

This life of fear has a dual nature. On the one hand, when a hint of happiness springs from nothing, I act impulsively, casting caution to the wind, because this happiness doesn't have much of a chance at long-lasting. On the other hand and at the same time, I hide away my soul in a casket of self-protection, clutching the violets of my fears - a pre-death arrangement.

And then the world collides. A wife dies, too young. A child lives most days in a frozen-hearted hospital. The money runs out, and keeps running out. A country goes to war. A marriage collapses. A car breaks down. Heartbreak is commonplace. There are other people with eyes-closed fear. We, together, are each alone.

How do we escape this "labyrinth of suffering"? How do we lose our pity-focus on self? How do we find the beautiful, how do we appreciate it in spite of ourselves? 

Then I remember: we are not the only ones abandoned, the only ones alive in the midst of death. Jesus on the cross. Abandoned by His closest friends. Abandoned by His own Father. Crying out, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?"

And yet, He was not alone, not forsaken, forever. He is risen. In communion with the Father, in communion with us. Our own abandonment by this world brings us closer to Him, makes us more alike. We have nothing to fear when He has conquered this death, and He will never abandon us.

I abandon. Fear.

I hold. The Beautiful Commonplace. 

Hiking Sleeping Giant

Hiking can be so exhilarating, relaxing, strenuous, and fun, all at the same time! We recently went on a hike I had never done before. There was a new discovery at every turn in the path ... incredible panoramas of the island ... stately trees ... deep peaceful breaths. 

The hike: Sleeping Giant, otherwise known as Nounou Mountain.

photo courtesy Wikipedia

The beginning of the trail traverses a Norfolk pine forest. Quiet and cool, the regal trees towered above us.

The trail itself is like other Hawaiian trails: red dirt that gets very slippery in the rain, tree roots forming natural steps.

The Giant's Toenails (leaves from the Koa trees, I believe):

The goal: make it to the top of the cliff alive.

Okay, so it wasn't that scary. Besides, this view is the reward:

We Can Be

We can be cold here, like we want to be. We can climb a rain-battered tree halfway before sliding back to the ground. We can balance on wooden swings and look from the sand to the sea to the sky and not feel lost at all. We can be wet. We can talk about a cozy coffee house three thousand miles away, the one with the fireplace and the window seat, and we feel warm just talking about it. Almost.

We can go anywhere, here. 

The Descendants in Hawaii

Some of you may remember my pathetic attempt at locating the elusive Johnny Depp a couple of summers ago during the filming of Pirates 4. The temporary residence of movie makers and actors is actually a common occurrence in the islands, and you never know who you could run into. Like Pierce Brosnan bicycling down the street. To be honest though, I think of actors as just normal people. No big deal. But spotting them can be a little fun. Makes for a good story anyway. 

The same summer, George Clooney was here filming "The Descendants," which was just recently released in theaters. And one afternoon, he was in my neighborhood, filming. He was in a Jeep with a dashboard hula girl repeatedly driving around the round-about - clogging traffic, I might add. And as for the evidence:

That was the best photo I could take with my cell phone, but oh well. It's him. I promise.

"The Descendants" was partly filmed at a cottage on Hanalei Bay, and in the evening, sometimes they would light up the street with their huge movie lights, and again, traffic would be clogged. 

And this is the view:

Rather beautiful, don't you think? I haven't seen "The Descendants" film yet, but I feel blessed to live in such a gorgeous atmosphere. It's better than a movie set.