In this open-air space, the mixed-chorus of birds and frogs serenade, day and night, background music to Palm trees that curve skyward and lift their arms against blue sky, mountains, the blue and white sea. Windows are glass-slatted here and beaded with the moisture which hangs thick in the air, thick as summer dust on the prairie. Sidewalks and stone walls grow every kind of moss imaginable
A bird sings the Cardinal's familiar song and small speckle-necked doves coo in the Hibiscus. Each morning shrill voices of wild roosters awaken us to the new day.
Today I am taking breakfast alone, on the patio. In the morning breeze, Palm branches are wriggling their top-most fronds at me, as if to get my attention. They have it, oh yes they most definitely have it as I sit in the island air, sipping my tea. My God, such beauty everywhere I turn my eyes.
Hawaii, I have heard it said, is the one place that is the farthest from everywhere else in all directions. It feels like that, like being in another world whose time has stretched and slowed. Big Island rests softly upon my spirit, and look, past the tops of those darker trees, the ocean continues to send its waves against the shore, as it has for millions of years, saying: Take a breath; let your eyes take the long focus; relax your shoulders; there is no rush. There may be a plane leaving the island today, but you won't be on it.