Monthly Reflections: Notice Yourself, Noticing Nature

As the seasons change, let’s reflect on what we learn about ourselves from our place in nature and how we see it.

The big rental house was quiet, and the pool abandoned. The Hawaiian heat had sent most of our party off to darkened rooms for a late afternoon nap. 

But I was wide awake, and curious about something we’d learned the day before. I walked barefoot over tough monkey grass down the path to the beach. The bay curved around me in both directions, a small strip of manicured yellow sand, oddly unremarkable. 

Maui had thus far proven oddly unremarkable. 

“Paved paradise, and put up a parking lot.” The lyrics to Joni Mitchel’s minor-key song, Big Yellow Taxi, rang in my ears every time we drove along the wide black highways of Maui, past gated communities and strip malls, to visit mega resorts for our lunches, dinners and entertainment. 

Don’t get me wrong, Maui was still very lovely. It still had lush, green parts, and well-trodden mud-red roads leading along black lava coasts dotted with signs explaining the view, or the natural habitat.

Besides, recently separated, I was glad to be included on the trip with my aunt and uncle’s family. I was glad to have anyone to travel with at all, and a free place to stay at that. 

It’s just— this wasn’t quite what I’d pictured when I’d pictured the land of Haiawatha, wild and free, home of volcanoes and pure goddess power. But then again, the on-eggshells-woman, endlessly apologizing for mysterious sins I couldn’t remember committing against my ex, wasn’t exactly the woman I’d once pictured for myself, either. Where had her volcanic goddess power gone?

When I reached the beach in front of our rental, it was shaded from the early afternoon sun, and the waves were gentle. I waded into the dark water, the small pebbles rough underfoot. It was warm, and as soon as I left the shore behind, all thoughts of malls and asphalt faded away. It was just me and the South Pacific and the big horizon.

The day before, our group had gone on a whale watching tour. This was, after all, the season of birthing among the Humpback whales. Each year they gathered here from December to April to mate and give birth in the warm, calm waters of Maalaea Bay. From the whale watch boat we’d seen several, playing and flipping tails, not so far from where I now stood in the ocean. 

On an impulse, I ducked under and opened my eyes, peering through the murky salt seas as far as I could, half hoping I would see the Humpbacks. Seaweeds, swift moving schools of tiny fish, and a bottom of gently rocking sand was all I could see. I swam a bit further, eyes still wide, searching. And then I stopped, my every hair on end.

That sound.

An achingly sad whale song came through the water like a haunting, beautiful operetta, if it were only heard through its echo. Another animal, with a voice like a horn, filled in from behind, a round sound, brassy and rich. In answer, another offered sing-song trills, like violins layered on top. Then the sad voice came again behind, soft and wavering.

Bright, warm bubbles of happiness burst from my chest, and my pulse kicked up. This was something so rare and pure I could hardly believe it. I closed my eyes, listening as their layered songs shifted and curled, one over the other, back and forth. Any sense of myself dissolved into the water. I was nothing more than an ear for this beautiful noise.

The song grew louder, and my eyes flew open again. Were the whales coming to me? It felt as if I could reach through the cloudy water and touch them. But even as I lifted my arm, I knew I could not. They were close but out of reach. 

My heart pounded as my lungs ran low. Surfacing for breath, I looked around to see if anyone else was here, if anyone else had witnessed this wild magic. But I was alone on the whole beach. 

I plunged under again, and listened for as long as I could. Again my body dissolved, and I was at one with the water, the whales, the very atoms of the earth.

For the better part of an hour, I bobbed above the water only for air before ducking back to listen. Eventually my cousin’s boyfriend came down from the house and asked what I was doing.

“Listening to the whales,” I said, still breathless with amazement. “Want to come in?”

He did not. Perhaps the murky, shadowed water deterred him, that or his already complete pre-dinner shower. Perhaps to him it was just some animals, making noise.

Eventually, the pool at our house grew crowded again, and loud, and the sun started to fade in the sky. I left my whales and rejoined the party. 

For the rest of that week, any time I felt alone, I waded into the soft rush of the bay and plunged under, sitting in the sand for as long as my breath would hold. I wanted to be close to the whales, to feel the wilds of Maui within me for as long as I could.

The day we left, I sank into the water for a final concerto. For a time, the whales were silent. Disappointed, I wondered if they had left Maui before us, moving on to their next migratory home.

At least I had heard them at all, I consoled myself, swimming for the surface.

Then, just before I broke through to air, I heard them, quiet at first, but growing louder. Their haunting song picked up, dancing lightly all around me, a celebration.

A light in my chest grew with the sound. I vowed I’d remember this. I’d keep these wilds alive within me, forever. I might not be able to un-pave paradise, but I knew now, that underneath the surface, paradise was still there for anyone who might tune in.

Reflection Guide: Noticing Yourself, Noticing Nature

For this month’s reflection, recall a moment when you experienced a shift in nature that made a memorable impact on you.

There is a link between our external experience and our inward experience, and often, powerful experiences of nature illuminate our interconnectedness with the natural world in ways that help us to better understand ourselves as well.

Interoception is the sense of the internal state of our body. It involves turning inwards to become aware of bodily sensations such as heartbeat, respiration, hunger, thirst, temperature, and other internal processes. It also allows us to notice the physical sensations of our feelings, like a tight stomach when we’re nervous, or the warm glow we may feel radiating from our chest when we’re happy or feeling affection. It is the perception of signals arising from within the body, allowing us to understand and interpret our own condition. 

When someone is attuned to their interoceptive sensations, they become more aware of how their body responds to different environmental stimuli such as temperature, humidity, terrain, and natural elements like sunlight, wind, and water. This heightened awareness fosters a deeper connection with the environment and nature, as individuals become more mindful of how their bodies interact with and are influenced by their surroundings.

This awareness can also facilitate a sense of connectedness with the natural world, fostering feelings of empathy and harmony with other living beings and the ecosystem as a whole. This deeper connection to nature can promote well-being, reduce stress, and encourage a more sustainable and environmentally conscious lifestyle.

For me, the sense of closeness with the Humpback whales linked to the distance I felt from the sterile tourism we humans have built on top of wild Maui. It also linked to my sense of distance from my own wildness and power, one which I was only just beginning to regain after getting separated from my ex. The whales showed me that even in a place where we humans have tamed the environment, wildness can still exist. My own freedom and power was still underneath the version of me that evolved during my marriage.

When we use our interoception to explore our role within powerful natural events, it may offer new insights into our beliefs, hopes, dreams and fears— and often comes with the kinds of lessons that only spring from something as ancestral and timeless as the earth. 

Journal exercise:

What moments do you remember when nature impacted you powerfully? Perhaps you were caught in a passing storm. Perhaps you noticed a bud beginning to form or a plant starting to peek through the ground. 

What happened? What sights, sounds, and smells did you notice? 

How did it make you feel? 

Did it relate to anything in your life in any way? 

Allow yourself to write about this experience for 5 minutes, without editing. Just write intuitively and creatively, with no stopping. After you describe what happened and what you experienced and felt, explore why this moment felt meaningful to you. How did it related to your life, your place in nature, and your own life seasons?

Happy (Northern Hemisphere) Spring

-Marisol