I am at a point on this trip beyond the point of forgetting what day of the week it is.  I have “detached” from my normal daily routines to the point that trying to recall my former, pre-sabbatical, daily routine feels like trying to remember what I had to eat for dinner last week.  Number one, I can’t remember; number two, it doesn’t matter.  Philosophically, I think I am at that point where I understand in a concrete way the rather abstract notion that to not make a choice is to make a choice.  If you are still following me, not having a daily routine has become my new daily routine. 

Yesterday, we walked several miles along the beach on football field expanses of hard-packed, brown sand, climbed stairs to rocky overlooks and padded through dense brush, all before noon.  The beach was 150 yards from our camper van site, a little hole in the wall “kiwi” park we liked so much we stayed an extra night.  On the 8 or so mile walk, we saw maybe six people and about the same number of seals.  We also saw the famous Moeraki boulders, giant rocks eroded in perfect spheres tossed on the beach like marbles left behind by giants.  They don’t exist anywhere else in the world.

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Later that evening, we walked out to a lighthouse hoping to see the rare penguins return to their private beach after a day of fishing.  We were too early and had to leave to make our dinner reservation – the only one we have made on this trip – at Fleur’s Place.  See Melissa’s last post for more about Fleur. 

The next morning, Gertie, our camper van, safely transported us to Dunedin, a town of about 150,000 people where Melissa reconnected with a high school friend, Sandra, who kindly fixed us lunch.  Afterwards, we strolled through the botanical gardens, stopping at a café on the way back to Sandra’s house.  That night, parked in a less glamorous camper van site – the urban sites are worth avoiding if possible – I realized something odd.  Sandra’s house was the first house I had set foot in, in two months.

We’ve christened our camper van Gertie or Lady Gertrude because she may look like a Winnebago, but she’s made by Mercedes.  After almost two weeks, I have discovered most of her secrets, and, as such, have grown quite fond of this house on wheels.  I am not sure Melissa, who has not driven Gertie, fully appreciates the girth of our genteel lady.  Yesterday, on the way to Sandra’s, Melissa shouted, “No, you missed the turn; pull a Ueey.” Lady G does not pull Ueeys.  She also finds it challenging to pull into parking spaces at grocery stores, another fact that often escapes Melissa’s attention.  Even if I manage to get the big lady between the lines, the odds of her getting out without clipping something are not good.

In pondering the differences between this life and my life in Seattle, I have had a few simple, but profound epiphanies. 

Epiphany number one: I could not do this trip with any other person on the planet except Melissa.  We know each other that well.  It’s not all sunshine and roses, but most of the time it is, and the times when she is hangry or I am annoyed are shared, like a shared psychosis, only in a good way.  There is Melissa.  There is me, and there is us.  I like all three. 

Epiphany number two:  There are things in our environment that steal some of our happiness without us even noticing it.  Two nights ago we camped at Lake Tekapo, a certified dark sky reserve.  I got up at 1:00 am to go to the bathroom.  Yes, I could have gone in the camper van, but I am still recovering from the urine on the floor of the shower situation. Besides, it was a nice night.  The moment I opened the door of the van, I stood completely still craning my neck to look up.  The Milky Way galaxy extended like a vapor ribbon in an arc from horizon to dark horizon.  In the middle of this gauze of stars, the Southern Cross burned brilliantly.  Pinpricks of light sparkled in a half-dome of glittering glory.  Light pollution is not toxic, and I understand the necessity of streetlights in a city, but I pay a price.  

Today we drove from Dunedin on the beginning of what is called the Southern Scenic Route.  The coastline undulates between flat sandy beach to magnificently carved cliffs and caves.  We stopped to walk to tunnel beach, an area that looks like the California coast about 60 million years ago.  Rolling hills with sheep grazing suddenly slice off into precipices hundreds of feet high.  Pacific ocean rollers crash on the cliffs sending spumes rocketing skyward.  A huge jetty protrudes into the ocean.  Its top still rounded and green.  It’s smooth brown sides shaved and carved by the tides. So much of New Zealand feels like watching the earth in its adolescence.  Its adult features only just emerging from beneath its juvenile innocence.  

I thought that being on this sabbatical would help me learn to be still, to quiet my mind and be in the moment.  I thought I would achieve this by being more diligent and consistent in meditating each day. I have not meditated once on this journey, at least not the way I did in Seattle, sitting quietly with my eyes closed. Yet I have rarely felt more in the moment, more still, more connected to an essential goodness in all things.  I am sure being with the woman I love in a place that defines beauty has much to do with my state of mind.  We are both free of the anxieties of work.  But Seattle is a beautiful place and Melissa and I are together there as well as here, and while work adds anxiety, it also provides a sense of purpose and meaning.  Yet, somehow, this environment makes it so much easier to see goodness in all things. 

This afternoon we stopped in Brighton, a small coastal town with a huge beach, about twelve streets, a convenience store, a gas station and a café.  One of the owners seeing the two of us typing away on our computers couldn’t help but have a little fun with us.  Him: you know the Internet is ten dollars per hour.  Melissa and me simultaneously: seriously.  Him: nah.  Something about being in a place of happiness draws other people to you.  Later that same day, in another small town, we ducked into a grocery store to get food for dinner.  Melissa started a conversation with an older gentleman who not only selected the Cabernet for our dinner, but spoke so lovingly about a particular apple only grown in the south island that we bought several.  Before leaving, he opened a bag of candies he was purchasing so Melissa could try one. 

Epiphany number three: we have within us, every single one of us, the power to reflect the irresistible beauty of creation.  For me, the challenge is whether I have the courage to believe that even when this incredible sabbatical ends.