What's over there?

I went whale watching yesterday, and on the drive home I thought about poetry. I thought about the Romantic poets and their sublime vision of nature. I thought about grown men and women who discovered the magestic cliffs and mountains, fields of flowers and brilliant moonlight for the first time, over and over, with pen and ink. They were like children, fascinated and thrilled by the petal of a flower or the flutter of a bird's wings.

I watched two massive humpback whales let out their breath in spontaneous gysers and peek their gracefully arched backs out of the surface of the ocean, then disappear again into their private world. I have lived on this island for three years, and it felt like I was spying on an eccentric neighbour peeking out her curtains. Undoubtedly she knew I was there. I was nature's paparazzi.

So I was like a child too yesterday. My cell phone was out of service, I couldn't smoke, I'd brought a giant bag of junk food to keep me happy during the 3 hour boat ride. I innocently let a grown-up drive me around and show me the sights. And yet, though I experienced new sights over and over that afternoon, I missed those butterflies ever-present in my young belly. Why? When I saw tremendous sea lions sunning themselves on a tiny rocky island, covering its entire surface with their bulky mass I was thrilled, but not fluttery. When I took pictures of a bald eagle taking flight off a barren tree next to three seals who sat casually as though they'd just had a visitor for afternoon tea, I was smiling, but I didn't want to jump and shreak like I did when I was small and saw a puppy. Why?

On the drive back I watched the thick treeline whiz by like I did on trips from long ago. Suddenly a thought came to me. I was missing imagination. I used to stare through those trees and imagine all the bears and deer and secret forest tribes too smart to be discovered. When I was on that boat, I didn't imagine where that whale went or what she saw once she dipped under the surface. I didn't imagine where that eagle took flight to, or what conversation he had with those seals before he left. I didn't imagine the family structures of those sea lions so lazy on the surface, but most likely so exciting beneath their flabby disposition. Imagination is the food of belly butterflies.

So in order to get those feelings mastered by the Romantic poets, driving their creativity to create sublime poetry, I need to reclaim my imagination. I need to break through the thick green line of that fantastical forest whizzing by and rediscover what is lurking within. Where does the whale go? Wherever the writer's belly butterflies lead it.