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| “Love is like oxygen.” That’s a song title. “Lift us up where we belong.” Another one. Lyrics by Joe Cocker—a man who knows the difference between groveling around down on the ground and soaring like a kite-flying or motor-propelled man through a gorge in France. We all dive. We all soar. Some tread lightly in a straight line, while others thrash around like a caged pony—“Where’s the door!?” “Open the gate!” “Turn on the lights!” There’s room for all of us, but it takes a wide mind to grasp the inconsistencies of humans. I like to watch nature. There’s a lot to be learned in there. Today the weather changed its path from easterly trade winds and warm balmy temperatures to low wet clouds pouring in from the southwest like gray cat paws unfurling across the central valley. In every direction moisture wept into the air and covered the land. Temperatures dropped into the 60s and we all got to don our cozy sweatshirts and rubber clogs. Atop Haleakala rivers of Pele’s tears traveled down the slopes of her mountain cheeks spreading water to pasture and forest below. All of Maui turned the color of innocent green. Fresh. New beginning. Sprouts of life that had been germinating during the drought. My grass seed took root along with the French lavender and ferns I’d planted on the black lava rock wall. The Belladonna I started in a pot some months ago is now 5 feet tall and about to let the first of its blossoms burst open in a red and golden extravaganza. In every direction, rainbows incessantly burst across the sky wherever the morning sun lands on a squall of heaven’s moisture. Up here on the mountain, clouds touch the ground like a London fog, turning everything on across these hillsides into a stage set where the light, filmy and diffused follows a troupe of ballerinas as they whirl through “The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.” Up here were I belong, on one of the highest plateaus in Kula, where the top of the mountain is a stone’s-throw away and the activity of the business of living is somewhere below, up here I can watch nature. My grandson likes to come up here with me. We watched an owl the other day. He didn’t mind us watching him. He flew ever so deliberately across our path of vision then dove into the field below, into a sprawl of untamed land across the gulch, and captured his prey. Ever since then, Max (he’s two year’s old) has been asking to see the owl again. I’ve told him he’ll see him again when he least expects it, and for now we go to Border’s Books and hang out in the children’s section where there is a marvelous book, oversized to keep the attention of babies, with paintings of an owl. That seems to help. Max wants to fly. I can understand that. One good thing about saving the front cover of the Guardian for my own musings is that I get to write whatever is up for me. Right now, this year, it’s about finding the patience and the love to endure whatever challenges come along. So I’m sharing these things with you, hoping you’ll get a glimpse of some high-flying thrills that keep the motors greased, the mind clear and the heart open. It’s all called art. It’s about reframing the moment so it can be shaped into something more beautiful and life-giving. This year, I wrote “Up where we belong” on the cusp between Thanksgiving and Christmas. On Thanksgiving my family got together and had a toast to the matters of gratitude—a function of the heart. And on Christmas Eve, I’m sure we’ll toast to another noble ideal because we know the joy that comes from being “Up where we belong.” Then, as the year unfolds, we’ll do our best to remember that there’s oxygen in love—and that we can accomplish anything we believe in by staying “Up where we belong.” That is, if we let our minds and hearts merge, and we remember that this spin through time on planet earth is ever-changing and full of wondrous gloriousness. What else to say? Enjoy the Guardian. Enjoy your life. Live up to your potential. Have courage. Love one another. See you next year! |
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