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Saturday
Nov012008
What the Fishes Saw
November 1, 2008
It was one of those days with prospects in it that make you grit your teeth, just to get started. When rolling out of bed feels like moving in slow motion.
One of those mornings when you hold the baby and hold the baby, and oh gosh he's just so fussy, and the dishes are piling up and the kids are outside in their underwear again, playing in the sand pile, pretending not to hear you when you call them in.
It was one of those mornings when everyone needs to get ready to go into town to do some errands, town being forty-five minutes away on a drive that curls your toes every time; the potholes, the narrow misses, the cows stepping out in front of the car.
It was one of those mornings when for the life of you, you can't get anyone ready in time to leave so that you won't hit the market in the heat of the day.
It was one of those days when the thought of wrapping the baby onto you like a wonderfully efficient body-heater makes you have to grit your teeth again to force yourself to do it. You tell yourself to get up and go, to be an adult, to get it done.
It was one of those days when you hit everything at the wrong time, so that everyone is prematurely hungry, thirsty, and tired. You walk in the market with the heat draping itself around your shoulders, pressing down on your head, slumping you and making you dull and dusty.
Your children grow flushed and cranky. You eat food, but it is too spicy for the kids. The baby fusses.
It was one of those days when the amount of time and energy it takes to get simple things done like groceries and kids' clothes bought, the time, the dusty time- it seems to spin out in front of you in a never ending loop. You will always be tired and in the midday sun.
It was one of those days when the kids fight in the backseat of the car during the entire ride home, when your husband is exhausted and you start to make dinner but then just ask him to finish because it is too late and the baby is wailing and you really want to just put him down and walk away but that is generally frowned upon. The house is still close with the heat.
And all your efforts all day, all the smiling and kindness wear on you, making grooves that are good but not exciting, brave but not sparkling.
And then the tides turn a bit.
Before, when you turn into your tiny jungle road it feels remarkably like home. Your neighbors are in their coconut trees, harvesting young coconuts, and they ask if you would like any. The climber nimbly heads back up and chops a few down for you, then makes sure that he tells your husband that one of them is "only for your wife." You drink the coconut water and feel refreshed.
The children go to sleep. The baby finally drops off. You want to go for a swim in the darkness, but it's not safe to go alone. You ask a friend to come over and do her reading on your porch, so that you and your husband can go together.
It's dark and you cling to him as you walk. You can see the milky way, thousands of stars, and one star falls as you step onto the sand. The ocean is different at night. It is huge and you can't see where it is-the line of sky is gone--there is a solid inky black sheet, everywhere you look. The white breakers are like a roaring mouth to you, and you hesitate before walking in.
But it's warm and glassy and you aren't as afraid now. Suddenly your husband yelps as he drags his hand through the water and at first you think he has been bitten, but then you see what he sees. Thousands of sparks, like the sparks that shoot up when you throw a giant log on a bonfire. They trail after his hand, they are all around you. It is phosphorescent algae, lights and lights in the dark water. They glow as you move, and there are millions of them.
Now you are laughing and making huge arcs with your hands, lights trailing after, both of you have turned into children again, and there are stars above you, stars beneath you, stars all around you. When your husband swims away from you, under the water, you see the angel's wings that his arms make; he is glowing as he moves through the dark. When he stands up, there are stars in his dreadlocks, clinging to his beard, running off of his skin.
You stay as long as you dare, before you head back home to the kids, thanking God inside and out loud, glad for this cooling, for this beauty, so much beauty, so much of what you need, above, below, and all around.
One of those mornings when you hold the baby and hold the baby, and oh gosh he's just so fussy, and the dishes are piling up and the kids are outside in their underwear again, playing in the sand pile, pretending not to hear you when you call them in.
It was one of those mornings when everyone needs to get ready to go into town to do some errands, town being forty-five minutes away on a drive that curls your toes every time; the potholes, the narrow misses, the cows stepping out in front of the car.
It was one of those mornings when for the life of you, you can't get anyone ready in time to leave so that you won't hit the market in the heat of the day.
It was one of those days when the thought of wrapping the baby onto you like a wonderfully efficient body-heater makes you have to grit your teeth again to force yourself to do it. You tell yourself to get up and go, to be an adult, to get it done.
It was one of those days when you hit everything at the wrong time, so that everyone is prematurely hungry, thirsty, and tired. You walk in the market with the heat draping itself around your shoulders, pressing down on your head, slumping you and making you dull and dusty.
Your children grow flushed and cranky. You eat food, but it is too spicy for the kids. The baby fusses.
It was one of those days when the amount of time and energy it takes to get simple things done like groceries and kids' clothes bought, the time, the dusty time- it seems to spin out in front of you in a never ending loop. You will always be tired and in the midday sun.
It was one of those days when the kids fight in the backseat of the car during the entire ride home, when your husband is exhausted and you start to make dinner but then just ask him to finish because it is too late and the baby is wailing and you really want to just put him down and walk away but that is generally frowned upon. The house is still close with the heat.
And all your efforts all day, all the smiling and kindness wear on you, making grooves that are good but not exciting, brave but not sparkling.
And then the tides turn a bit.
Before, when you turn into your tiny jungle road it feels remarkably like home. Your neighbors are in their coconut trees, harvesting young coconuts, and they ask if you would like any. The climber nimbly heads back up and chops a few down for you, then makes sure that he tells your husband that one of them is "only for your wife." You drink the coconut water and feel refreshed.
The children go to sleep. The baby finally drops off. You want to go for a swim in the darkness, but it's not safe to go alone. You ask a friend to come over and do her reading on your porch, so that you and your husband can go together.
It's dark and you cling to him as you walk. You can see the milky way, thousands of stars, and one star falls as you step onto the sand. The ocean is different at night. It is huge and you can't see where it is-the line of sky is gone--there is a solid inky black sheet, everywhere you look. The white breakers are like a roaring mouth to you, and you hesitate before walking in.
But it's warm and glassy and you aren't as afraid now. Suddenly your husband yelps as he drags his hand through the water and at first you think he has been bitten, but then you see what he sees. Thousands of sparks, like the sparks that shoot up when you throw a giant log on a bonfire. They trail after his hand, they are all around you. It is phosphorescent algae, lights and lights in the dark water. They glow as you move, and there are millions of them.
Now you are laughing and making huge arcs with your hands, lights trailing after, both of you have turned into children again, and there are stars above you, stars beneath you, stars all around you. When your husband swims away from you, under the water, you see the angel's wings that his arms make; he is glowing as he moves through the dark. When he stands up, there are stars in his dreadlocks, clinging to his beard, running off of his skin.
You stay as long as you dare, before you head back home to the kids, thanking God inside and out loud, glad for this cooling, for this beauty, so much beauty, so much of what you need, above, below, and all around.
in Wonderful
Wonderful 
Reader Comments (24)
I was simply sitting at my little desk in my little room in my little house in Sydney at 9.30 on a Saturday night, when I suddenly felt a load fall from my shoulders, and water tickling my toes. When I looked down I saw that an Arabian sea was rushing into the room, under the door, seeping along the wool carpet and up the four smooth walls. I heard a hissing and then a sizzling, the lights turned off,and there I was. There I was, sitting at my little desk in the dark, without the four smooth walls, without the carpet, without the desk-lamp. There I was swimming through another woman's glowing sea. It was your sea dear Rae, you conjured it up from a grain of sand and a drop of water and sent it to me. I think you may have also sent it to other women in other rooms all around the world.
Thank you.
I can't take the heat...can only imagine how much hotter it is there in India.
You are dealing with a lot..new baby who is gassy/fussy...new country...though exciting still not home....things will change--that is certain...so hang in there.
Your night time swim in the ocean sounds wonderful though I'd be fearful of going in--I don't like being in the ocean in daylight let alone at night...but then I'd have missed the brilliant light display--it sounds surreal. The ocean is awesome on its own--but as you described it with the lights--incredible!
What a wonderful way of writing you have! I truly felt I was living through your awful day with you, feeling that oppressive heat and hearing the baby cry: I was so relieved when 'the tides turned'. What a beautiful beautiful ending to your day! God is so good, isn't He?
[I've never commented before, but have been reading your blog for a few months. and love it.]
That is a most excellent post. Absolutely wonderful. I was swept away too, like Eleanor.
Grace, and Mercy, and Peace. These are the miracles that are necessary, yet He also provides beauty and even the wonder to appreciate it. Thank you for not only having the eyes to see, but also for taking the time to share.
This is so beautiful. You write incredibly well. I'm going back to read it again.
your words bring healing. the undertones of His words are always present in your writing.
thank you for sharing your life (even the broken bits) with us. you are a beautiful woman with a beautiful family.
This is just lovely.
I am so glad you went for your swim. Sometimes I wonder how many of the beautiful gifts God gives us are not received because we were just too tired, cranky, sick or anxious to seek them out.
Thank you for sharing such a majestic and private moment with us.
...and all is right again. Amen.
That was simply lovely... What a magical turn to the day...
Ooooh, how lovely. It was worth the rest of the day just to get to that. I saw phosphorescence once, in California, and it was amazing. And it sounds all the more amazing after a day like that, and in India no less. I remember night swims in the ocean in Thailand, so lovely to float in the warm sea and feel warm breezes and gaze into a warm sky. I love you all and miss you. Thanks for sharing your day with me.
My whole family joined you for your swim as I read them your post through tears on a small island in new zealand. You will finish your novel one day, I will be first in line to buy it. Until then, Breathe, Be, and live the book unfolding in your every moment. My gratitude to you for sharing your life on the web.
....and in 12 days you get Matty.
I am so happy for your posts Rae, they make me feel less far away from you. Like we just spoke or something.
I am so jealous that Matty gets to go and see you all. However, so excited for him that he gets to go and see you all.
Hope you are well, give all the muffins I love a big hug from me.
i would definitely snatch up your book!
Beautiful Rae. Thanks
You came to mind this week here in Texas. I was in one of our northern very rural and agricultural towns. I'd lost my patient and was hanging around a little motel where we had put up the patient waiting for patient to return. It smelled so good in the lobby, all the Indian spices. It was so hot and at first I thought it was just me all in a fuss. Then I noticed their indoor thermometer which read 90F. It was in the 50's out side. I turned around to the owner and said gee you guys keep it warm in here. He just smiled. I realized he was making it as much like home as possible this time of year. I immediately thought of you and couldn't help but smile back at him with understanding.
There was also a precious 13 month old that I wanted to put the squeeze on but grandad had a tight hold on her. :)
Such a small world these days.
I loved this post. Thank you!
I love reading your writing. It is like a good book that I cannot wait to pick up again. Thank you for sharing. I hear you on those hard days but the water must have been amazing. Take care.
This is beautiful.
I first heard of you from my sister and have been hooked since. You have a beautiful way of writing and a wonderful way of conveying the true feelings of hard things in life and fallen-ness of our world, and yet the beauty and hope that exists at the same time. Thanks for writing and sharing with us.
The night swim sounds simply magical. God has made such a delightful place for us live.
I love the way you describe such sharp contrasts...how life can seem so mundane, yet when we tap into God He can transform it instantly into such amazement and awe. Your description of the little sea stars reminds me of His love...it's all around us and yet we fail to see it so many times even though it's right there in front of us for the taking. This is beautiful writing Rae, simply stunning.
Rae, Thanks for the lovely post. It was very poignant. What a way with words you have. Thanks.
Journey mama,
you've done it again. Taken me from the glow of the computer screen into your world for a few moments, and the comfort of knowing other moms struggle with the daily pouring out that is mothering alongside of the astounding beauty of unexpected moments.
How do you do that?
How do you take simple words and string them together in such a way as to make me forget everything but the next word?
How do you manage, even when writing about the hard, the real, and the mundane, to send me from my desk with a smile on my face and a deeper awareness of joy?
Thank you for the time you take to do it. I don't miss you nearly as much when I have these words of yours to read every day or two.
Thanks Rae-Rae,
I've been day dreaming about the phosphorescence in the waves by night. Glad for the blessed refreshment for you. Is that about the best or what?
Thanks for sharing, spreading the wonder.
I love you.