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.