Where the Light Comes From
FRIDAY, APRIL 2, 2021 — I began writing this piece last month on the day my granddaughter was born.
The sun rises over Haleakala, February 19, 2021.
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FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 2021, KIHEI, MAUI — The ocean glows from the inside out this time of day, way before dawn, like a Vermeer painting. I don’t know how it does that. Where does the light come from? It’s quiet here at the beach this morning except for the whoosh of the waves on the sand, and the bubbling staccato c-c-c-coo of the Hawaiian zebra dove, the one that my sister says that when you hear it, you know exactly where you are in the world.
I am still here, on Maui and not in the Pacific Northwest where you, Zelda, my granddaughter, will be born today. You will come into the world during a global pandemic, a difficult time in our history charactered by uncertainty, unrest, and so much suffering. But you, my granddaughter, are a bright light, good news, and you come during a hopeful time, as people start to get vaccinated, and the dream to gather with family and friends again feels like something that will actually happen.
The smell of rain still lingers this morning, and the sand on the dunes above the beach is clumpy and wet from last night’s shower. I remove my slippers. (That’s what we call flip-flops here on the island.) My bare feet sink into the wet sand as I walk along the dunes above the beach for a while before making my way down to the water.
I look down at my phone to see if there is any news. I’m anxious to hear. Distracted while I walk, I nearly trip over a large sea turtle resting in the sand. I look up. There are five of them, all very large, in a row along the beach! The sight of turtles never gets old, no matter how many times you get to see them. Whenever I see one of my watery reptile friends, she reminds me to take my time and rest when I need to. I’ve needed lots of rest in recent days.
Five sea turtles in a row.
The sky to the east turns a firey orange-red, silhouetting tall palm trees. The rise of the sun is a bugle call for the turtles to one by one make their way back to the sea. They are big and slow, yes, but they are steady like the stories go, not stopping. I watch as waddles turn to graceful glides when they reach water.
The sun is up now, and I continue on to the end of the beach where the historic loko i’a, fish pond, is still located. Ancient Hawaiians, who subsisted on food from the ocean, studied the moon, tides, and currents in order to engineer these rock walls in the water. Little gates allow small fish to swim in, then grow till harvest time. The Ancients knew how to allow Mother Earth to provide for them with grace and ease. The loko i’a reminds me that I too can engineer a life of grace and ease.
Loko i’a
“Don’t work harder,” I heard author Anne Lamott say in an interview recently. She was talking about the creative process.
“Resist less.”
I take a selfie with the loko i’a before standing to walk back. I look out at the horizon and gasp audibly as I witness the closest humpback whale breach that I have ever experienced. This is a gift, just as you are, Zelda. I see the entire event, from nose-out-of-water to splash-finale. This whale is jumping for joy knowing you are on your way! Even with my nearsighted eyes, I could see the spots on the side of its body, just like in those iconic National Geographic photos.
As I bask in the beauty of what I have just witnessed, I receive a text that you were born a little earlier, just as the turtles were returning to the sea at dawn. Mother and baby: healthy and happy.
Grandmommy: elated.
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Two days later, Zelda, you came home from the hospital.
Your parents put you on your big brother’s four-year-old lap. He smiled and clapped his hands above your little body.
“What name is her?” your brother Henry asked.
Your eyes were closed. Occasionally, a little baby moan or sigh would leave your lungs.
“ZEL-da,” your mom answered from behind the camera. Your mom took pictures and videos of you and your brother as he smiled and clapped some more. So much delight!
“She has elephant jammies,” your brother said.
He touched a green elephant on your sleeve.
“Awww,” he said, pitch rising. “Look at her little arms!”
“GEN-tle,” your mom instructed.
Your brother obeyed. He gently patted your belly then looked up and smiled some more.
“Put your hand next to her hand,” your dad told him.
Everyone in the room spoke quietly and moved mindfully. This was a precious moment to grasp and remember.
“My hand is bigger,” your brother said.
Everyone in the room looked and saw that this was true.
“She has elephant jammies,” your big brother repeated, only this time it was more of a song than a statement.
I wasn’t there in the room with you that day, but I watched this on camera. I longed to reach through the screen and cradle the back of your fragile head in the crook of my elbow, rock you, and look into your eyes.
The day will come.
The day will come when I will get to meet you in person and I can see your eyes, and your full head of hair, your little hands, and your jammies.
And on that day, we will know for certain where the Light comes from.
