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.
