I know it has been rather bloggy lately with all these entries after something of a drought, but this needed to be talked about. Keith and I were in my little garden study this morning, growly with each other because we have at least four days of content we’re trying to fit into a three-day programme next week. Suddenly, a knock on the door: Rob, telling us that there was a whale in the sea. Now, Rob is notorious for saying, excitedly, “Look! Right now! Look! No whales again!” And you find yourself looking out the window, to see the no-whales. So I was doubtful. “A real whale?” I asked. “Swimming between us and Kapiti,” he told us. “Everyone’s lined up on the beach to watch.”
And so we rushed out of the writing room, not growly anymore. There, on a perfectly flat azure sea, was what looked for all the world like quite a big log. I admit that I wondered whether Rob was pulling our leg again. But no, there were dozens of people on the shore, watching the log excitedly. And then the log blew, plumes of sea water spraying into the air.
We stood there, the three of us with a wandering Perry, on my
front porch in the dazzling warm sunlight, sharing the binoculars and the camera. Everyone was perfectly him or herself: Rob paged through a cooking magazine and glanced up to see a tail or head; Keith struggled to figure out what kind of whale it was, muttering under his breath (“yes, it’s a Southern Right Whale, look at its head. But no, do they have a dorsil fin? Too big to be an orca.”); I stood there feeling delighted, eyes glued to the whale, and tried to think of the words and pictures to tell you all about it here. Then, onto the sea, a surfer began to paddle; our friend John was heading out to the whale to get a close up view. And then the delighted laughter of children as the kids’ school rushed down onto the field next to our house. Now the whale had a sound track; whenever she blew or pushed head or fin or tail into the air, there were delighted sounds of children. People pulled their cars over and got out to watch, came out and stood on porches and roofs, stopped walking their dogs or jogging or talking with friends and all turned and faced the sea, eyes fixed on a mother and her baby slowly moving down the coast.Very often, you read about tragedy bringing neighbours together. You hear about people striking up conversations after a terrorist attack, after an earthquake, after a fire. Here, though, the village stopped to watch something so beautiful and noble and, in some ways, so ordinary. From my perch on a hill over the village, I looked out ove
r friends and neighbours and school children and felt a surge of connection with them all. “We are the luckiest people in the world!” I wanted to yell. “Do you know how lucky we are, to be here in the sunshine with each other? Do you know how lucky we are, to be living on the edge of the sea, on the edge of the world? Do you know how lucky we are, to be graced with the presence of a mammal so large, so beautiful, so much like us and so wildly different?”I did not say those things. I stood and held myself tightly, worried just a little that in the sun and the sea and the whales and all the love around me, I might melt into the golden air and drift off over the water.
Click here for a little newspaper piece about the whales.
1 comment:
I think it’s wonderful you saw a mother whale and her baby, and from your front porch no less! But even more than that, I think it’s wonderful you were amazed at seeing them and the way they brought your neighbors together on the beach.
To be amazed, to experience the wide-eyed wonder and delight of it all, that is the true gift here. To take time from everyday concerns and become totally absorbed in the beauty of the moment, that’s an appreciation of life that forever changes our experience of the world.
Some scenes are deeply imprinted on my mind with their grandeur. Standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon in Colorado. The first time I saw a South African giraffe in the wild. Looking at Saturn and her rings through a telescope when I was a teenager. These are impressive scenes in my mind. They are so deep that, years later, their memory still elicits, not only the mental image, but also the feelings I experienced at the time.
But recently I had an experience that changes my perception of what it takes to be amazed. One morning a few weeks ago I walked the few blocks from the bus to the building I work in, and as I was riding the elevator up to my floor, I noticed a praying mantis on my pant leg, brilliant green against the dark brown of the fabric. I occasionally see praying mantis around here in August, moving slowly like living twigs, which is what their appearance mimics, like this one: http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/enlarge/praying-mantis_image.html The ones I usually come across have been 4 to 6 inch adults, but this one was a tiny version only an inch long, the details of its head, body and legs in striking and adorable miniature.
I carefully scooped it off my pants, and it sat still in my palm. I lifted it up to get a better look, and it turned its head completely around to look up at me (yes, they can do that!) I held it close and there we were, face to face, only a couple of inches apart, looking at each other across an evolutionary chasm, but sharing the same moment in time. I stared at it for a while, totally focused, completely amazed at this creature and our common experience. It was too wonderful to keep to myself so I found a few colleagues to show it to, and then went outside to release it into the shelter of some bushes.
The feeling of wonder remained long after. The sense of delight and amazement carried me through the day, displacing some of the routine and humdrum that might have otherwise been there. I’d like to think that such experiences not only make the world a better place but also make me a better person in it.
So let’s be amazed. Let’s look for the moments that are special and the scenes that delight us, and share these feelings with those around us. These experiences are what make life special. It’s amazing!
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