Pilina

 The Secret of Snow is a story about the Sami. Written in Swedish by a woman of Sami descent, the book was translated from Swedish into English by a woman trained in translations, specializing in the Scandinavian languages. 

"The Sami people, the Indigenous inhabitants of northern Scandinavia, have retained elements of their pre-colonial, matriarchal traditions despite centuries of Norse, Christian, and state oppression." - Medium

I've read and then re-read the concluding chapters of Tina Harneck's novel and found in her telling, and the translation of Alice Menzies voices and characters who have lifted the kaumaha -- the shame and deep grief, that I had carried as a Hawaiian woman. Born on O'ahu in 1947, the journeys shared in a book about people of the snow could have been those of my ancestors.

This is a post that will need time to tell. 

Pilini refers to enduring relationship, associations, connections. I began with the title but no content. Today, I sit in the small Clinton Library and make small marks to hold a space for what is connecting. The wild fire smoke is difficult for me today. The cool, and air conditioned environment here allows me to practice seeing through my new Progressive lenses, and feel the new frames on my bridgeless nose. They feel different. The clarity of my new prescription is such a joy. Wow. Nice. 

Perhaps more will come ... 

Wayfinders Ball

 Waking to the murky sunlight I know the fires continue. Just after sunset I walked to my garden, grateful to feel the coolness rising from the ground. I took a broad stance and began “to activate the diety of abundance and peace—ho’olono. (Mahalo Manu Aluli Meyer… see her book Ho’opono). 

Looking up and out I chanted E Lono e. Calling to the diety, the elemental power of the atmosphere. A part of me was calling for his life giving rain; though all generated forecasts predict none. 

As I sit to compose this mo’olelo I feel the activation through the simple and beautiful activity of watering my Scarlet Runner Beans, the U’ala who spread like green eel through the flower beds of Calendulas and big drooping Borage. The giant Sunflower is folding in while smaller blooms peek from the stock. 

We have been rewarded for the nightly slug vigilance with my first ever garden grown green cabbage, Do delicious. 

The air quality is poor and my watering was a conscious effort to care for the flowers, Fig and vegetables while aware to avoid too much exposure. 

I am a Wayfinder, after all. Born of the ocean, I reflect on the stories of a brother who grew up in Niu Valley just one valley Honolulu side of Kuliouou where I grew as a girl. Nainoa Thompson’s kuleana was and is that of Wayfinder; first he had to remember what that meant.

For this reason he was given a father, a friend and the last remaining navigator of stars to help him see Tahiti. Nainoa Thompson found Tahiti by watering his garden: he remembered how intelligent his body memory is and eventually with his kupunas help sailed the way finders ball— the waters of this island earth.

Facts are not necessarily the truth and yet there is a place for what appears real. This morning’s episode in mo’o making is a benchmark. I have a hunch about the meaningfulness of this mo’olelo. I wish to give it water.

Moisture in a time of austerity. E Lono E. E Lono noho I ka Wai… I begin with this like a coral polyp begins a 🪸 reef. 

The very long road

The wild fires continue. Normally, a lake is a natural deterrent or buffer to fire, but today the large burn jumped Lake Chelan and is now the biggest wild fire on the continent. I write to create mo'olelo story to make sense of facts and any good storyteller knows facts are not the same as truth. 

Only a few days ago a grandmother, a tutu, held her mo'opuna a little girl the color of deep and thoroughly infused coffee beans. The little girl was not slight, but rather a sturdy and muscular two year old who will turn three weeks before her tutu turns seventy-nine. Hair the color of golden 'olena on fire spread across the crown of the muscular coffee bean girl. Her breath was slow, deep and quiet. She was deeply asleep after one of the many adventures she, her brother, her dad, her Tutu Pete and her tutu now enfolding her had enjoyed. Was it the kite-flying adventure? Or the day at the Tonka Truck Park? Maybe it was the day she scaled the blue slide and found eagle feathers on the beach? Who can remember exactly. No matter, the fact was the mo'o slept now and was pa'a like a limpet to her tutu's shoulder.

Poli and her Tutu Mokihana had begun this nap on the pretty orange patchwork quilt spread across the shady grass on Ke Kuapa. A pillow and long cushion was her bed. At first the warm of the day was enough to keep her comfortable but as time progressed and more shade cooled the day, the old stars and sun blanket was needed. I spread it across her and eventually crawled on the quilt, and shared the blanket. We both slept. Cradled by Papa the earth was solid and supportive, I let go. I relaxed. 

At some point the little girl woke, I felt her stir and look up from her place beside me, she blinked to determine her surroundings. She was not at home, but the trees -- Cedar, Alder, all the rest and her tutu were there. She was not frightened. That was reassuring. Eventually, or perhaps on another of those napping times, Poli and I were seated in the old lawn chair and it was then I felt the recalibration of my heart as the slow, deep beating of my two year old mo'opuna's heart beat and mine wove time.

We are old. 

We come from a lineage of ancient knowing.

Before there are memories born from thinking them, we know who we are and who fed us.

The experiences of being with my grand-daughter, her brother, and her father were the lived experiences which remind me, reconnect me with the grist of meaning that is aloha. An intelligence which feeds me love at all levels. This intelligence is not easily described, so the venue of blogging has its limitations. But, the truth is greater than that, and even as I view the big screen and type at the library seated in an air conditioned room to make the fact of wild fire smoke less problematic, I can stretch the facts ... blur them so I document a story. Invite meaning into a summertime in 2026. 

Poli will not remember it this way, but she may smile at some point decades from today. A shady spot on a place somewhere in her future may pluck at some muscle in her shoulder. Or perhaps her birth mark will pulse with something familiar. It's a very long road we are given, and the way is varied and bumpy and beautiful and brilliant like 'olena on fire. 

Next to me, two men talk about the huge wild fire burning in Chelan. "Something is not right," one of them says. 'Auwe! You and your brother were born with the genes of storyteller. Sniff out the truth even when others give you facts. Know the difference. Tell your stories. Listen to others. It's a very long road. 

You are strong, and kind.

Purple Rage

 I shall wear purple when I’m an old woman 

Why wait! I was born purple and the forceps were cold and the lights so damnably bright. 

No warm tender brown hands held me. I was born purple strangled before birth no dream of wearing purple.

I shall wear purple when I’m an old woman. 

Why wait! My tiny lungs want to scream from the place where EA was truly a sovereign domain.

I shall wear purple when I’m an old woman.

Why wait! The incubator was science replacing Aloha. Keeping a palm sized female alive after the Kamakaze bombed paradise hoping to rid the planet of Haole.

Ha! Ole. No moa breath. 

I was born purple knowing being alive, breathing without science was gonna be hell.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple.

Vestiges of my mo’olelo left memory in my tonsils and butterfly gland. Gill slits behind my ears reminding me of an ancient protocol.

When I am an old woman I Will remember who I am. At first purple called to me like a promise of … something 

Something warm. 

Something real.

Something welcoming.

An angry baby girl more fish than mammal the purple fish screamed for the promise of EA for her tutu, 

her grandmother who never got to speak all her pieces,

for the Queen Lili'u e who told her people to put the rifles down, 

for the brother she would have who led patrols in army fatigues again and again in wars against people who looked JUST LIKE US because he thought it his duty, 

for the father who rode steel caterpillar scraping aina again and again because it was a pay check but there was no ear protection so his blood burst in his brain. Primo and cheap wine calmed the demons but turned him ugly. He was lucky he was deaf  not dead. Or what?

When I am an old woman I will write poetry in the dark nights of my soul seated under a purple tent.

I 'ue.

I rip open my heart, put both my hands around her warm we are both.

I whale becoming like kohola, ancient mammal sea being.

I hu the sorrow and the night hears my voice becoming stars. 

I stand, shiver and lie prostrate from the effects of chemicals sprayed to keep a lawn tidy surprised to be alive my gift on America’s birthday.

PURPLE RAGE. A different version of Hoagie Carmichael's Deep Purple, in his Stardust, my Poppa Honey's favorite mele. 

I am an old woman raging!

Emotional Sobriety

Decades ago I found my way into an AlAnon meeting. I was lost but sure there was another alcoholic in my life cresting havoc. I went for the wrong reason but have returned for the right ones.

I’m 78 years old and damaged very early by the effects of the family disease of alcoholism. I returned to face-to-face meetings a bit over one year ago. Living with MCS which was the “gift” of Uber sensitivities on multiple fronts has been the experience of deeply diving and uncovering generational damage with no tools to heal. No conscious tools that is! Unconsciously my Ancestors’ patience waited like sentient and ancient seeds sensing when the conditions for bursting through those miraculous seed coats— there is a name but it won’t come to my brain now.

Like tincturing La’au a conductor needs to loosen the mana in the weed, plant leaf, root to make medicine. Alcohol ironically has been what I’ve used to make what my origin herbal teacher taught. That plant medicine has been my remedy for almost 20 years.

Slowly I am adapting the remedy and began asking for alternatives: glycerin instead of alcohol slowly replaces some of my plant medicine.

My AlAnon program grows stronger as I keep the focus on me. I learned about Emotional Sobriety in the AlAnon “big book”…How Alanon Works. “What the fuck is that?”

I asked at my home group in person??? I had no idea what a vitally important question that would be. Not picking up the emotional rage, drama, indignation, martyrdom, blame that has been my bottle since birth (nearly) is the hardest practice of my life. 

But it’s the most important practice to becoming the best me without excess pride, smugness or martyrdom. I find myself race toward the old habits like an addiction or alcoholic. And, one event, one day at a time I slow down PAUSE… postponing action until spirit enters. It’s my “way back to groovy” as author Deborah Ellis says in my new favorite “Reparenting old people’s book” Outsmarters.

That's my ROPB (Reparenting Old People's Booklist!) stacked on my grandson's sleeping bag that we keep here on our island (Whidbey) when he and our Super 'Ohana come to visit from their island (Maui).

Books have always been my highway to groovy, That's the thing about being human: we are each seeded with Ola… life spirit and it’s finding the light tucked inside us that makes life delicious and hopeful. Your/my soul can fill up and burst out like Scarlet Runner Beans in goat poop perfectly composted when conditions are right!

I’m a Scarlet Runner Bean learning emotional sobriety!

E Ola 

Lokahi

 Three characters have come together. Within me, I recognize

1. Tea Pot Monk, Rivera Sun’s kitchen monk from The Way Between has made his way to me. My Chinese ancestors, those wondrously unknown but marked within me lead me away from war (in all ways). Food, tea, nourishment.

2. Mo’okiha of Moku’ula you are the Kanaka ‘aumakua for whom I am named. I have grown into my kuleana. I am responsible for keeping water clean. In all ways.

3. Azar. Another Rivera Sun gift. The way between is AZAR. I am one: a Calizar.

Triangulation Lokahi Equals 

I am found.

A garden room

 We have a beautiful summer garden, once a circle I have a feeling she needed to be squared up this year. Almost counter-intuitively, or maybe it was just one more very male or organizing itches I needed to see corners or lines to a life that is changing yet again.

Together a project like this garden needed the muscle and skill set my husband has spent a lifetime doing. He’s very intimate with a shovel and being on his knees to set and lay block. There were days of manual work to turn a wintered circle into a fat square.

My part would follow though participation is something Pete always calls for; to an extent. The planning of what to plant, into what the plants or seeds would go is my part. 

The separation is therapeutic. We live in 64 square feet, a garden becomes a third room (we have the Quonset for many uses, but the vardo is bedroom and main living space.) I’m pecking at letters in the dark outside at just after last light. We’ve pitched our summer tent…the purple tent, and she is another room for us expanding the breathing space and making room for serenity and PAUSE (pray, and, use, spiritual energy) before saying or doing something I will regret when life isn’t going my way. 

The garden is planted, growing and wonderful. She has a frame made of recycled chicken wire, old garden shed parts, green twine woven like netting over branches of Alder and Cedar prunings. There are two gate one small one fat. 

Nature, Aina and this quote from Aunty Lynette Paglinawan keep us stitched together when we aren’t 

“Aloha is the bottom line.”