I have a piece of Pele in my house. It’s a large lava rock that was too tenacious to be removed when they were building the house. So the house was built around it, and they left the rock in the corner as an accent piece.
To me, it’s become so normal to have this rock inside the house. But inevitably when someone comes over, they exclaim, “There’s a lava rock in here!” And then I ruminate again about the impermanent and willful volcanic nature of the Big Island and how in so many ways, you can never separate the outdoors from the indoors here. At home, most people would rather be on their lānais than inside, and at any given moment, there is probably a gecko in your house.
After a long day of weekend work in February, I came to this beach to finish a good adventure book, sit in silence, watch the sunset, and be nowhere but here. If you were to look at the pictures in my phone since I moved to the Big Island, you might come to the conclusion that I spend a significant amount of my free time observing the sun as it sets over the Pacific. There’s no such thing as watching too many sunsets.
I read the last few pages of my book and sighed with the satisfaction and wistfulness of completing a good story for the second time. And then I stood, taking in this moment quietly, with reverence for the way land builds itself; for the way the haze accents the big orange ball of a sun; for the way the wind, currents, sun, moon, and earth make the lucid ephemeral curvature of the waves; for the way the world keeps on spinning to create moments like this.