I had intended to wake on the first day home and robustly jump out of bed and take a hike up the mountain.
But instead, I woke slowly. Put on a soft, flowy dress.
It was raining outside. And a cool 69 degrees.
I started unpacking slowly. Putting books, socks, plug converters back in place. Sorting the laundry. Reading and disposing of the mail. Stacking the New Zealand chocolate into the cupboard for gifts and chocolate-craving moments. I called my mom. I moved all of my work outside. Thunder crashed and lightning lit the distant sky.
It seems unusual to have morning thunder and lightning.
In Ha'apai Tonga, our fale had one huge window space--it was covered only with a screen. The other windows were screens with crank flats to curtail the breeze. But we essentially lived and ate outside everyday.
One breezy night, the wind rushed through our fale throughout the night. It woke me up each time, but it wasn't a bother to be awakened by a tropical breeze. It felt more like a gift.
And here I sit. 9:00 o'clock has turned into 2:00 o'clock in the afternoon. A breeze has kicked up. I hear it as much as I feel it. It has a voice.
I get up to pull a few weeds in the rain-soaked garden. I walk through the strawberry patch and pick five beautiful berries. I marvel at the color--a combination of pinks and reds that can only be called "strawberry." I walk through the tomato patch and marvel at the height they have reached. I'm amazed at all the chiles hanging low on the chili plants.
I answer texts and emails. I catch up on my One Line A Day book. I contemplate what I'll have for lunch, wash the lettuce I am so grateful for, and that Tony got out of the house today to grocery shop.
I am loving this day.
So much that when Tony asks if I want to accompany him on his bike ride, I respond, "No thanks," for I cannot break the spell of an ordinary day.
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