Dispatch from the Barren Moon

Sacrifice and the Invention of Symbols

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

Listen to an audio of this post here:

I live in spirals, winding and unwinding, contracting and expanding like an accordion wheezing out a jaunty dance tune that turns melancholy mid-step, or a bellows stoking a slow fire that flares to the rooftop, just when you thought it was safe to walk across the coals. They do not travel at the same velocity, these spirals. Sometimes they are steady, and my thoughts, and the outward circumstances of my life, follow predictably like a cart behind a horse, other epochs the horse balks and refuses to go forward, and I, too, become so lethargic I can’t move, a snapping turtle in mud as winter freezes a cattail-fringed pond from the edges in.

Other times—other ages—I spin so quickly I forget I am whirled by a force outside myself, an invisible dance partner, and believe I am dancing solo, that I must make everything happen, without help from humankind or a God, who I don’t really believe in. At the same time, I feel a victim of circumstance, or fate, effect without cause, unable to find a way out of amnesia to the center of the labyrinth. Those times, recent times, I pray for a thread. Yesterday, I found one.

As evidenced in my last few posts, lately I’ve been in one those quickening spirals. To be honest, I’ve been confused about this, because contrary to what I expressed about my mental and emotional states in the last three posts, I am not depressed, or in a sewer of despair, or feeling unworthy and hating myself, all things that I stated or that a reader could logically conclude from the evidence with which they’ve been presented.

I was confused because I did feel compelled to share those things. I’ve been writing long enough to know the difference between feeling I have to share out of soothing my own wounded ego or serving some deeper purpose. There’s a difference between self-serving vulnerability and the kind of vulnerability that is an offering from the heart that reaches out to others who may be in need of knowing they’re not alone. Not to judge the first. Sometimes it’s just really important to be heard. If you’re lucky, you’ll find some people who have been there, and they will receive your broken heart and battered mind without telling you you are self-absorbed, people who know you are in so much pain the best thing to do is just silently love you and not make any suggestions about your poem, aside from maybe considering changing a line break to better emphasize the depths of your despair. I have been blessed to know people like that, and I’m still astonished at their generosity when I had nothing to give except pain. They listened to my tortured verse like priests in a confessional, minus giving me any penances to perform. These were the kind of people who knew how time wore a jagged rock into a smooth stone, people who knew that saying nothing, while listening with their whole hearts, was far more constructive than critique, was a blessing in fact. May we all have such people in our lives.

Back to the source of my confusion. I am not depressed or filled with unworthiness. In fact, I find myself in a rare period of my life when my outer circumstances are mostly in accord with my inner world, which has always been one of my deepest longings, perhaps the deepest. My life is beautiful and good, filled with kiakahi—purpose. Where did these disturbing feelings come from? Was I really going to have to retreat into yet another deep excavation of my wounds? I’d already spent years doing that and the thought of having to do more “inner work” filled me with such dread and weariness, I was praying someone would come and rip off whatever band-aids I had left, no matter how painful. Make it swift and let’s get on with it.

Turns out I didn’t need anyone to rip off any band-aids. I don’t have any lingering wounds, at least not any that aren’t also yours. By that I mean ours, for that’s what I discovered when I followed those dark feelings back to their source. Before I reveal what that was, I want to share with you some events that have led up to this point.

For the past three weeks, I have been dosing myself daily with three botanical medicines:

The first is Wā’wae’iole, the fern of Acceptance in pua’aehuehu (fern medicine). This is the fern of true ho’oponopono, which is not the version adopted by the new age spiritual community with which you may be familiar. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you. Nothing wrong with these words. Go ahead and say them if they help. Much better than cursing someone out—but true ho’oponopono is both simpler and more complex than this popularized formula.

True ho’oponopono brings us into right relationship by enabling us to see the greatest potential of everything we view, including the non-human world and the self, which is why I began taking it. I wanted to access and offer my greatest potential.

The second is Hāpu’u i’i, the fern of Preservation. I began taking this medicinal because a clairvoyant kūpuna colleague told me the reason I was so drained after giving massages was because I was taking on my clients’ energy and giving them mine in a noble, if misguided attempt to heal them. In pua’aehuehu, Preservation helps with the establishment and maintenance of boundaries. I began taking it along with Wā’wae’iole, asking for its assistance in helping me discern and maintain my energetic boundaries.

The third is ‘ahinahina, wormwood, the botanical of mystics, who in the Hawaiian tradition are differentiated from shamans by their ability to, in the immortal words of Ke’oni Hanalei of Pōhala Hawaiian Botanicals, “get shit done.” Mystics access other dimensions, but are effective in the material world. Shamans not so much. In fact, shamans often need mystics to translate for them, a fact that explains why I get along so well with people my culture labels mentally ill. I began taking it before I went to bed because I wanted to remember my dreams. I felt like they had messages for me that would help me better navigate the waking world.

Within the name of this third botanical, lives the name of a goddess—Hina, the Hawaiian moon goddess and the first expression of feminine energy. I knew a bit about Hina, but today in a workshop on symbols and the needed shift into the feminine with Ke’oni of Pōhala, all the lights came on after hearing him tell and reflect on how Hina has affected, and is still affecting, the path of the organic human, meaning you and me, beings constructed of spirals and carbon, living in time and space like it’s not a total miracle.

I am going to tell you Hina’s story, but first I want to tell you what I realized through hearing it. Those feelings of rejection, abandonment, self-hatred, and unworthiness I shared in the past three posts are not mine. They are deep, subconscious feelings rippling through the collective. With the assistance of Hapu’u i’i, I was able to discern where my energetic boundary was dissolving into the collective, impregnating me with all the confusion, fear, and hopelessness, of people who have not processed the traumatic aftershocks of a cataclysm so archaic, we have no conscious record of it. What I thought were my personal feelings, was a transpersonal process working through me. In other words, I was channeling feelings in the collective in my own voice, which makes me an oracle, which is my greatest potential, something I’ve always resisted saying because it sounded too woo woo and couldn’t be backed up scientifically, but what else is all this writing, the kind I’m doing at least, but channeling? Very little of it comes through mental processes. Yes, I have prepared myself through years of developing a craft, and I have acquired a treasure trove of knowledge through study that provides me with fascinating data and images, but basically I just sit down and write. There is very little thinking involved, both before I begin and during the process. I do this without a net, definitely not with an outline. My experience of writing is that the words come from a source outside myself, yet somehow I sound like myself. How can this be, and why have I resisted naming it?

Visions of women being burned at the stake rise up in my inner eye, witches dragged from their herb-strewn cottages by the ankles; defiled temples, raped priestesses. I’m not saying these things happened to me in a past life, though my body carries this story. This legacy runs deep through our DNA as ancestral memory. What I am saying, is that these violent acts did happen, to many women, healers and oracles, physical embodiments of the feminine who have been punished simply for being in female bodies, because we fear the feminine so much. From the story I’m about to tell you, you’l see that this fear has been at the core of human culture going back to the beginning of written history, and beyond that to the beginning of Earth itself. That’s why I’ve been afraid of claiming I am an oracle.

Everyone has the potential to channel. Anyone can be an oracle. All it requires is letting go of the lie that we own any of the thoughts that pass through our minds, the houses we live in, the shiny cars and jewels, all your treasured possessions including your own body. Yes, your body does not belong to you, which doesn’t mean you don’t have the right to declare its boundaries. When you do, and they become so well-crafted they’re like a handwoven basket that can carry water, you’ll be able to understand your part in life’s rich pageant, and you’ll play that part with enjoyment, knowing it’s just a role, and that you will give your body back to the stars when they call. Possession is the oldest lie we’re still telling, maybe the first. Notice I didn’t say the oldest lie we’ve been told. That would imply passivity, when in fact we made the choice to lie to ourselves. But don’t go beating up on us. We did it because we were afraid, so afraid we forgot what happened to us and buried those memories so deep underground we needed the ocean to combust to remember them.

These are some of the things the Mea Ne’e have been telling me. The Mea Ne’e are our ancestors in case you’re wondering, plasmic beings who came to Earth to create the perfect conditions for life by giving us water. And they are still here. The Mea Ne’e are not just in the water, they are water. Ironically, I opened up my channel to them attempting to write an essay to submit to a magazine I really want to publish my work. I should have known from the get-go this wasn’t going to work by the words “call for submissions,” announcing they were open to receive new writers. Even though I was trying to force myself into submission to win the approval of these editors, it didn’t work. My channel disobeyed and came up with some terrible drivel. Thankfully, I abandoned the attempt when I realized this. Meanwhile, I kept writing, and once I’d abandoned my attempt to submit, was gifted ten handwritten pages from the Mea Ne’e. I will share those words in the next post. Meanwhile, let’s hear the story I promised.

The Story of Hina

Hina, by Herb Kaiwanui Kane

Hinaikamālama, She Who Encircles Light, was originally from a planet called Nudu Mūt. This planet became corrupt because those in power believed they should keep divine wisdom and knowledge to themselves. Hina disagreed. She was for full disclosure.

For this, she was banished. The corrupt and powerful rulers of Nudu Mūt sent her into the atmosphere.

Now it’s not known if it’s a consequence of her banishment, or just a coincidence, but after Hina was sent out into space, a planet, known in various traditions as Nibiru, Planet X, or Rakeesh, collided with Nudu Mūt. It shattered. Hina landed on a fragment drifting after the impact, what we know now as the moon. This moon had a gravitational force. She began to use it to design her new home.

Hina wasn’t lonely on the moon, but she did care about life. Watching a larger remnant of Nudu Mūt spin by, she devised a plan to restore life to this new planet named Kī, our Earth.

In order for life to exist, an atmosphere was needed. Hina called in the Mea Ne’e, and they began to design this atmosphere by shapeshifting into water. Hina’s own home remained barren. Why?

Hina knew that if she created an atmosphere for the moon, the gravitational pull needed for life to exist on Earth would not be possible. The moon was the perfect size and distance from Earth to enable gravity to hold water to its surface. If she changed one thing, the water would slide right off and there would be no Amazon forest, or Pacific redwoods, no whales singing ancient songs from the stars, no thundering herds of caribou on the tundra, no emperor penguins on polar ice, no birds calling up the sun, no humans to praise all this beauty. She chose to sacrifice an atmosphere on her home so that Earth could have one. She gave us the perfect conditions for life to flourish. We are here today because of Hina’s choice.

They say she wasn’t resentful. Instead she devised a way to communicate all the divine wisdom denied lesser humans by the corrupt politicians of Nudu Mūt. She was able to remember this knowledge as a clear and uncorrupt channel because those who had banished her had allowed her to bring two plants with her into exile, wauke, paper mulberry, and ‘ahinahina, wormwood. She wove herself a wormwood crown and resumed the cosmic downloads, tapping them into the kapa, bark cloth she made from wauke, in a visual language that could be understood by any with the eyes to see, despite what language they spoke. These were the first symbols, and Hina’s choice to offer Earth the perfect conditions for life she could have kept for herself, the first sacrifice. Ever since then, the feminine has been associated with sacrifice, which didn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. Like I said, they say Hina is happy on the barren moon tapping her symbols into kapa she sends down to us in the form of clouds. Many find fulfillment in serving others to this day. Sacrifice is only a problem when it isn’t a choice.

And another problem, even worse, is we’ve been holding her responsible for something she didn’t do all these eons. Hina did not cause the impact that destroyed Nudu Mūt, in fact, some say it was caused by her banishment.

Imagine how terrifying it must have been for any survivors, if there even were any. Let’s say there were no survivors and the souls of those who died from the impact shot from their bodies, floating in shock and terror above the remnants of Nudu Mūt, and this new satellite, the moon. They became ghosts who continue to haunt us, blaming Hina for the loss of our original home, our lives, and all we loved. We are living out their legacy to this day, fearing the feminine, when in fact, Hina, its first expression, sacrificed her own home so life could be reborn, Kī resuscitated to become this very planet we call Earth in English.

We have all passed through many languages, and many languages have passed through us. All of them are shadows of the symbols Hina sends us through rainclouds. Some, like Hawaiian, still carry the sound of thunder and water flowing into all its forms. Some, like my tongue, are more abstract and guttural, words used to control and continue the distortions that keep us in endless cycles of war. No wonder we feel unworthy of this life we’ve been given.

Hina knows that life moves in spirals. She continues to reach out to us with the moon’s gravitational pull, calling to us through tides that also move our inner waters. Hina remembers how the Mea Ne’e flowed down to Kī, and how our glorious human bodies formed around their spirals. Hina is the one who told you to hold a seashell to your ear and hear the spirals within the spirals. We may have forgotten so much, but all the wisdom we need to remember, the truth of who we are, thanks to Hina, has been preserved in symbols. Look at the walls of Egyptian tombs. Climb the steps of a Mayan temple. Or stand in the rain and let it completely soak you. The barrier of your skin is just a temporary illusion. In the end, we are water, just as we were at the beginning.

I thought of a poem by Hafez while writing this. Sometimes a 14th century Persian mystic is the only one with the proper instructions on how to be a proper human. It’s one a lot of my friends know by heart, those people who listened to me without judgment when I needed to know I was worthy of love. It’s a simple poem. Maybe you could learn it, too.

The small man
Builds cages for everyone
He knows.
While the sage,
Who has to duck his head
When the moon is low,
Keeps dropping keys all night long
For the
Beautiful
Rowdy
Prisoners.

— Hafez

Those symbols, accessible as raindrops, are the keys. Alas, most of us today are not beautiful, rowdy prisoners. Most don't even know we are prisoners, unless we are in a literal jail cell. Most of us believe the ugly distortions that govern our modern lives are the truth, and have given away our power to them. Maybe that makes us a little bit ugly, but that doesn't mean we can’t become beautiful. All it takes is the eyes to see the jail door has always been open.

We made the chains. For most of us there is no jailor besides ourselves. And Hina has never stopped sending us keys. All we have to do is pick them up, walk out of the prisons, and begin enjoying our lives, which is always possible. Children always find a way to play, even in refugee camps. It will take courage, but I believe in our hearts.

So this is where what I thought were my own feelings of unworthiness led me. I was not spiraling out of control, I was spiraling into the truth, and now I have spun this story for you. Tell me, what are you going to do with it?

I will be enjoying my life. Will you join me?

Hapu’u 'i’i fern getting ready to unfurl, photo by author

I want to thank the ferns, Wā’wae’iole and Hāpu’u i’i, for enabling me to finally discern my own boundaries and differentiate between my personal emotions and those of the collective. Thank you for escorting me into a wider orbit where I can spiral into the next expression of my greatest potential. I don’t know if I’ll ever get there, but I do know I am on the path, which in my case is made by spinning, not walking, to playfully misquote one of my favorite poets, Antonio Machado. “Traveler there is no path/ The path is made by walking.”

And thank you ‘ahinahina for aligning me with Hina, the light in the night sky who has grounded me in my dreams these past few weeks. Hina, may you bless my hands with your wisdom as I translate your story onto this keyboard. May all who read or hear it, be blessed by these words and become a blessing for others, a cause not an effect. It is time for what’s been hidden to become conscious.

Kō aloha lā ea

Concentrate on love by way of the light

Resources

Portal to access the paradigm shifting ike (wisdom) of Ke’oni Hanalei and the Mū Hawaiians at: Pōhala Hawaiian Botanicals or follow him in Instagram at @pohala_hawaiian_botanicals.

Angels Knocking on the Tavern Door: Thirty Poems by Hafez, trans. Robert Bly

Sensitive Chaos: The Creation of Flowing Forms in Water and Air, by Theodor Schwenck

Piko: A Return to the Dreaming, by Jennifer Lighty

"Jennifer Lighty is the real thing and has done us a great service with Piko. A modern woman working intuitively to contact mythic ground. Her language is fresh and imaginative, her intention five fathoms deep. I'm so glad she exists, and that she has turned some of her life's work into a gift that we can cradle in our hands and feel the benefit."

—Martin Shaw author of Bardskull