Sunday morning, Hawaii time, which is some other time everywhere else, the rain had stopped, the humidity dropped and the morning sky was the blue of a wildflower petal stretched like a tarp across an endless sky. I had an indulgent morning of yoga and coffee, then we headed for the farmers’ market. The past two Sundays had rained out so it was a treat we were looking forward to.
Our first stop was the balsamic vinegar lady. When we went three weeks before, I bought some of her obscenely expensive bottles of bliss and wanted to thank her. She had told me that she spent weeks perfecting each of her concoctions with dozens going in the bin for each one that made it to her table. I believed her. I tasted a few and my favorite by far is the Habanero coconut lime. My morning tonic:
Fresh squeezed lemon from the tree in the garden, grated ginger, half a teaspoon of turmeric honey paste, a bit of organic apple vinegar and a dash of the Habanero coconut lime. Add warm water. Sip slowly and be grateful that the world allowed you to be a part of it.
Lunch was a falafel sandwich slathered in hummus, cucumbers in yogurt, pink pickled daikon and a slice of spicy pepper, proudly presented by the Lebanese man who hands out tastes to waiting customers while he creates his magic. One sandwich is enough for two and barely leaves room for a scoop of vegan coconut ice cream.
It seems that the volcano is calming down; a few days ago, they closed the ops center up the road from here. It had been filled with military versions of news gathering trucks and ominous-looking unmarked vans, but they removed the “Be prepared to stop” sign and most of the scary vehicles, so we thought it would be all right to go exploring to the south.
Just past the entrance to Leilani Estates, there are signs saying, “Do not stop”, “Keep windows closed”, and “Metal plates ahead”.
It was, literally, metal plates, which appeared to be covering what is left of lava paths running across the road and into the dense vegetation growing close to its edges. There are no signs of lava except for wisps of smoke rising on either side of the road, like the dying embers of a campfire or the ghostly tendrils of dry ice winding their way along the floor of a fun house. We didn’t stop or open our windows.
When you get to the end of route 130, there’s a park where you walk across lava formations to get to the ocean. The undulating rock reaches into the distance, seemingly endless, its random bumps and blobs giving way to elegant swirls and waves, as if a celestial baker had been nipping at the cooking wine and kept nodding off as he attempted to ice the world’s largest chocolate cake.
Only the very brave, or very foolish, would dare to swim there. Watching the surf pound against the black sand and rock as ocean spray wet my lips and lashes assured me of the majestic power of nature. I sat on a rough hewn log expecting to feel humbled. Instead I felt that I was part of something much bigger than myself, an essential part, as if the whole would be less if I wasn’t there. At first it was just an inking, but it grew into something warm and glowing, perhaps the beginning of the internal white light I’ve heard about in guided meditations. I felt centered in the universe, centered in me. I somehow knew that I was exactly where I needed to be.
Perhaps the shattered, scattered pieces of me are coming back together.