Shaken, Soaked, Left Out In The Sun

Physically undamaged, mentally unmoored

Nobody told me there'd be days like these. Strange days, indeed. Most peculiar, mama.

—John Lennon
***

The thing about earthquakes is, they're loud.

If it goes on long enough, the sound blots out everything, even the shaking. And you just hold on, wishing for it to stop.

Or, maybe that's just me.

Last Monday there was just such a quake here on the Big Island, and as tropical island experiences go, I give it a 2/10—too loud, too scary, do not recommend.

Having ridden out a 7.1 earthquake in San Francisco in 1989, I *may* have convinced myself at some point that anything less would be completely manageable. And yes, I *do* get tired of being wrong all the time, thanks for asking.

Anyhoo, that was Monday morning.

(Def not on Twitter at 3:30 a.m.,
but appreciate the thought.)

By Tuesday evening we had regained our equilibrium, just in time for things to get damp.

To be clear, only the outside things got damp—but they got really, really damp. I'm not sure exactly how much rain we got here at Singing Whale Farm, but reports along the Hāmākua Coast said from 3-6 inches. I have no trouble believing that. The water bucket out front was overflowing by Wednesday morning, and the catchment barrels were much heavier than the day before. I know this because I moved one of them, and—damn. Water isn't just wet, it's heavy.

Related: The thing about relentless rain on a metal roof is, it's loud. 

"Nice place you got here."

If it goes on long enough, the noise wakes you up countless times throughout the night, and you just lay there hoping the water doesn't invite itself in to have a look around. 

Pretty sure that's not just me.

***

Since our arrival on Hawaii Island:

• Kīlauea has sprung to life like a magma jack-in-the-box
• The earth has quaked multiple times (including m3.8 just this morning)
• The rain has been an exuberant, repeat visitor

A pessimist might think their new home was trying to kill them—but not us!

We prefer to think of it as a huge, wet puppy, giddy with excitement to see us! Sure, it'll probably knock us down and get muddy pawprints everywhere and pee all over the place...but c'mon—it's a puppy!

(Are we really *this* weird? Maybe {nods slowly} may be.)

I'm in a rainbow state of mind

As a counterpoint to a week of ruckus, I'd be remiss not to mention the regular appearance of jaw-dropping rainbows practically in our back yard. They pop up like peaceful fireworks—all the color but none of the commotion—and each one has caused us to stop and stare in wonder.

They're a reminder that beauty and bedlam don't exist side by side—rather, they overlap with casual precision.

Recent events helpfully reaffirmed what we already knew—that there are downsides even in paradise and...there's no such thing as paradise.

There's only the place we are—and what we make of it while we're there.