Prosaic Ma'alaea

December 6th, 2014, 9am

Something about the shimmer in the ocean this morning. Something familiar. Compelling, beckoning. I would look away, and then look back at it after a little while, and see the shimmer still there. A voice, of sorts. But not a human one; or even humane—projecting, that is, my consciousness onto it. It was—is—objectively, organic.

What was—or what felt—familiar, was the sensation that one day I shall return to all that.

I’ve said this time and again, here and there… whether from out of the blue or from a place of intentionality. It is, after all, something approaching, with each passing day, and even each passing hour, minute, second. I am not afraid of it, but I’ve been getting this odd feeling of curiosity about it, in a way that I never did so before.

The sand undulates before my eyes. Grains of it adorn my knees and shins, as this element compels, always, kneeling. It all is permanent impermanence. Wading in the shallows I feel strands and tendrils of slick seaweed so then I know that there are honu nearby, or will be, at any rate, when the time for feeding arrives.

It is the time of the full moon as well. Last night, it was Mahealani. My dreams were occupied by the sounds of my parents’ voices, the waking memory of which has drifted slowly away with the years, but in the dream came back with calm clarity. And then…

…I awoke into a strange place, bemoaning my aloneness.

But soon I shook off my solipsistic self-pity, put myself in gear, launching silently into a new day, still in the darkness of dawn. My automobile’s headlights askew but showing the road ahead with sufficient fidelity. Found my way to this beach, and waited for the shimmering.

And when I saw it, again, was reassured.

Sanna, Christine, David Wade and Shu said thanks.

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Lloyd Nebres

I lived in a village and homestead set aside for people of Hawaiian ancestry. I am not Hawaiian but had been adopted into the culture—to my profound gratitude.

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