It was a normal Saturday at the beach this morning. I know that it’s the middle of March. I know that many people are still in wool hats and gloves. I know that some are just starting to open up the windows at the first slight temperature rise as if to beg spring to enter further into their lives. I know people get eager early when you have been inside for five months (or outside freezing for 5 months.) I did grow up in Nebraska, after all. I know that when the first warm breeze hits your face you close your eyes, lift your head, and breathe it in as deeply as you can.
But here, where it is always warm, often sunny, and where there is beauty everywhere, it’s become normal. When Lincoln was down at the water he started yelling, “Mama! FISH! Black and grey and yellow and white!” It seemed a little excessive, and we almost didn’t look, even after Lincoln’s excitement. You know where else I can find fish? Anywhere in this giant ocean that surrounds me.
But later Joe went to look, and found them, for some reason marooned on this one tiny piece of coral, skirting around the edges to the other side whenever anyone would come near, having nothing else close enough where they could flee. Astonishing, that a piece of coral the size of my head could be a safe haven to six or seven tiny little lives.
You know what else is normal here? Spear fisherman bringing in their octopi catch. The kids all gathered around, and I talked to Lincoln about when I had seen an octopus up on the North Shore rocks, and together we counted the tendrils and reminded each other that ‘octopus’ is ‘tako’ in Japanese.
When we moved into our house, we had all the little annoyances a new house brings. The tiny step downstairs that we always forgot was there. The inexplicable fact that our six room house has four outside doors.
But the most notable thing was that the previous owners had grown 11 foot bushes in front of our window; the one that looks out across the volcanic plain and beyond to where the curve of the Pali Highway can be seen at night by the row of lights that hugs the mountain’s edge.
And the owners had grown bushes in front of it, so that was all we could see out of our beautiful window. The very first day we cut them all down, hacking, clearing, pulling, keeping an extremely interested Lincoln out of the way. It took all day, and we still speak of the previous owners with astonishment; that they could be more satisfied with that leafy view in front of them instead of the beauty beyond their fence.
We’ve mentioned it to several people who have lived here longer than we have, and all of them have said the same thing: you get used to it. Somehow, you get used to the towering mountains that once housed fire from the earth’s core, somehow, you almost don’t even look when six little fish pop in and out of a stray piece of coral. And somehow getting some privacy for your front window becomes more important then what’s beyond your window.
It is so easy to get used to beauty. Delicate, irreplaceable snowflakes, falling from the sky. Fiery leaves that cover entire valleys. Enormous skies where you can watch the sunsets sprawl across the horizon.
Don’t miss those things, because my place doesn’t have them.
Julianne says
I want a like button. 🙂
dananicoleboyer@gmail.com says
Just use the Facebook one. 😉
Anonymous says
I like that Dana, well written and even I can understand it. Would like to be at the water with the boys. Love to all the family. Grandpa
dananicoleboyer@gmail.com says
The water is a great place to be. 🙂 Love you too!