Here and Now

I've been sharing posts about our travels, drawing upon the notes I scribbled into my journal, and little by little, I'll get through the trip. But on this bright October morning I want to write a few words about here and now.I want to write about here and now because there is a humming chorus of bees in the orchard, and the macadamia trees are in blossom, dangles of pink, intoxicatingly fragrant. Monarch butterflies, presumably on their way to Mexico, have discovered that this is a very pleasant place to linger. I see them flitting about, alighting on the blossoms, opening their wings, pausing for a nectar sip, and taking off again, like golden wishes a'flutter in a blue sky. It's a day that is glaringly bright, and it dazzles me, seeming somehow surreal, or even psychedelic.We've had friends visiting–they left a little while ago–and while they were here, Donna and I walked into the macadamia orchard through a narrow path, and it was as if we had entered a cathedral, leaves and blooms and branches filtering the sunlight like stained glass, and we heard that thrumming buzz of the bees all around us, as much a pulse as a sound, like the music of the cosmos, or its heartbeat.

Then we wandered to the citrus grove by the fence and gathered a few ripe grapefruit that had been dislodged from the trees by yesterday's wind. They are comically large, and my bag was soon heavy, and I'll squeeze them later for their tart, refreshing juice.

As I approached the house, I heard the ding of a text message, and it was my friend Barbara saying hello from Manhattan, where, she says, it is "global-warmingly hot" and she's going to see Michael Moore's last show, craving some hope and humor in lieu of her daily cry, and I know exactly what she means.

But I'm also struck by how incongruous and amazing it is that I am standing on the dirt in Gaviota with a sack of grapefruit in my hands, having real time contact with someone about to enter a theater on Broadway, and I'm buoyed a bit by the knowledge that we are going through this moment in history together, and that wonders do abound, and there is so much hope and possibility in the spacious and gracious implausibility of it all.