Coming Home
Written January 1, 2016
I spent the night at home last night for the first time in 9 months. Home is the lava flow that covered up Kalapana village in the early 90’s on the Big Island of Hawai’i.
I drove up with about 45 minutes of sunlight left.
First I walked around and looked at all my plants. I was sad to see the two native ohia trees had died, happy to see the mimosa, the kamani, the kukui and the fig trees I had planted were all hanging in there. My volunteer avocado tree grew so much, from 6 ft. to way over my head — 8 ft.? 9 ft.? The mango and monkey pod look healthy and bigger too. The garden has a lot of lush growth, Mexican oregano and Okinawan spinach spreading out all over. The last volunteer papaya from a clump that had sprouted in 2009 is gone now. A lilikoi volunteer is going crazy, and I saw one green passion fruit on it. I found a volunteer tomato and ate one perfect cherry tomato.
Then I opened the door to the 12 x 12 shed I live in. Not too much rat poop, but some. I tried my lights — not working. I went and filled up the batteries in my solar system. It took over 3 gallons of water, they were so dried out. The neighbor that was looking after them has been in a lot of pain. There are signs that his cancer might be back. I hope not, I love him so much. In any case, I don’t have any electricity for now, which means my only internet access is through my phone for now. I turned off my phone to save the battery for later.
As I watched the sun set, and the clouds turn color, I felt expansive and at peace. There is a special energy on the lava flow, it’s so quiet, and the sky is so big. I swept up the signs of my rat visitors and took all of my bedding out of plastic bags and laid it on the car I’m borrowing to air out.
By then the sun had gone completely down, and I sat on my front porch and watched the stars get closer to the horizon. When I stood up and moved out into the yard a little later, my heart was pierced by the brilliance of the stars. I had forgotten how bright and colorful they are in places with little light pollution…more accurately, I had remembered with my intellect that they were bright, but my eyes and heart had forgotten what it felt like to bathe in their sparkling light. I picked out Orion and Gemini, Cassiopeia and the North Star. I saw the dust of the Milky Way and did my best to fathom that each speck was a star, that I was looking at the side of a spiral from the inside. I looked for the Big Dipper and Little Dipper, and wasn’t sure I found them. I tried to pick out the band in which the constellations of the zodiac turn, and failed yet again even though I’ve been trying to figure it out the last 9 years I’ve lived here. I marveled once again at the first astronomers who figured out the orbit of the planets just by observation; after 9 years of looking, I’ve just barely acquainted myself with the stars of our universe we can see from Earth.
At some point, I noticed I could hear the waves of the ocean crashing against the cliffs in the distance. As I turned my head to listen more closely, a perfect firework flowered right in front of my eyes, and I grinned in delight.
I saw two spots of clouds glowing over the cliff to the west, and I said hello to the lava, and wondered whether the origin of the flow was the glow to the left, and the breakout was the glow to the right, or vice-versa, and resolved to look it up today on usgs.gov. Either way, looks like this flow will miss me, whether it heads towards town to the north or the ocean to the south. I sang a chant to Pele, and felt chills all through my body.
I discovered there are some new dogs in the neighborhood. They got into quite the conversation, and I was reminded of 101 Dalmations. I listened, wondering if I would ever understand what they were saying. I was eating some canned salmon that I had from the last summer I spent in Alaska, and I thought perhaps the dog closest to me had smelled it, been alerted to the presence of a new intruder, and was letting all the other dogs know. I dipped my hand in the water catchment, and felt that it was completely full.
It gets dark here around 6 or 6:30 pm in winter; I’m guessing I was in bed by 8 or 8:30. I drifted off listening to the sounds of firecrackers and fireworks, grateful that I didn’t have electricity my first night home. It felt so wholesome to be in bed in a room with no glowing lights from a microwave or computer, no hum of a fridge, no noise of a heater. My sleep was so restful. I woke up once about an hour before dawn to go pee; the half-moon was high in the sky, and I gloried in the brightness of the moonlight, grateful I got to see both the stars and the moonlight in the same night.
I woke up to a clear sunny day and buttery clouds. Soon I’ll go poop in a bucket. I feel a warm glow in my chest and in my belly, a feeling of deep contentment and gratitude to be home. While I was gone, I didn’t allow myself to think about home too much because of the torture an elevated homesickness brings. It’s now, upon returning, that I can allow myself to feel how much I missed it. This life would not be for everyone, and yet it is perfect for me. I am so grateful to be home. I am so grateful to be home.
