Ode to Auku’u
Auku’u,
Black-crowned night heron,
guardian of death’s gate,
out of the long grass you stride
toward the sun sizzling neon pink
on the horizon. Freeze
when you see me. Turn one eye my way-
blood-red and beady.
Soon the sun will be gone,
swallowed by the other side of the world,
the one we can’t see
that is also spinning.
Teach me how to stalk
my shadows, how to
dream my way through the dark
and follow signs beyond human words.
All day you wait and no one sees you
at the edge of watering holes,
and when you take
that one step out
of the long grass
fish splinter in all directions,
pool again at your feet,
all flutter and translucence.
Your beak
cracks the water,
breaks the mirror,
but you don’t need to see
yourself to hunt
and the fish on the other side
you swallow alive become
part of your electricity,
swimming in the dark
as if nothing has changed.
When it’s time to die
we are always ready,
even when we think
we’re not.
Hello Readers,
I began this week’s letter with a poem to auku’u, the black-crowned night heron in Hawaiian. This magnificent bird is one I encountered in person during the ceremony you’ll be reading about soon in my book, Piko: a Return to the Dreaming. It’s an aumakua, a guardian or ancestral spirit in animal form, who signals an end is near.
In Hawaiian tradition, and others, the west is associated with death in all its forms; the east, where the sun rises, with beginnings. In a strange reversal, this past week I moved from Puna, on the east side of Moku o Keawe, to Kona, on the west side. It feels like a reversal because Puna for me, is the place where I go to die to some part of myself, while the west on this island feels like rebirth. I would say that pattern holds true for me in other places. I am more attuned to sunset than sunrise. Something comes alive in me at night.
In Puna, whose name means “spring” I soaked in thermal waters heated by Pele for eight months. As the ninth month quickened I moved west, so here in the place of death is where I will give birth to whatever I gestated in those holy waters.
I am still processing my experience there and don’t quite have words for it yet, and may never. Some things are not meant to be revealed. I just know I’m changed, and trust the changes will guide me to the next leaping off place.
In the meantime, here is a Hawaiian story about how the first Hawaiians were born from kalo, or taro. It is a story of death and rebirth and seems fitting for this moment. I hope you find nourishment here, and that your own journeys through life continue to bear fruit in mysterious ways.
The Birth of Haloa
Before humans came to the Hawaiian Islands the land was ruled by fire and water, sun and wind. Humuhumunukunukuapua`a in the reefs could speak to i’iwi birds high up the mountains singing in the ohia lehua. Waterfalls cycled all the wisdom of Earth downslope into roots who sent it back up to the sky through trees.
Wakea, Father Sky, and Papa, Mother Earth, had a beautiful daughter named Ho’ohokulani, whose name meant The Making of Stars in the Heavens. Just saying it you could feel her beauty. Wake fell in love with her, and in time he and his daughter, The Making of Stars in Heaven, conceived a child. The family waited patiently for the birth.
The baby was a boy, stillborn. They named him Haloa, meaning long, eternal breath. When the kupuna saw him they said, “He looks like a root,” so they wrapped his body in kapa cloth, placed him in a woven lauhala basket and buried his bones in the aina.
Ho’ohokulani grieved. Her tears watered her son’s grave. She watched when a sprout pushed its way up through the mound of earth. She watched when sprout reached toward light as a green shoot. Watching the stem grow heart-shaped leaves made her weep. This plant had never lived on earth before. It was something new, strong and tender. She named the leaves: lau kapalili, tremble leaf; and lau kapalala, broad leaf. The center of each leaf a cup filled with teardrops.
She watched when the plant swelled underground and began to divide itself. The people fed themselves on the roots, kalo was born. Ho’ohokulani carefully broke the stem off the taro and replanted it in the mud. Another plant grew.
Ho’ohokulani conceived again and this time gave birth to a living son she also named Haloa. She started calling her first son Haloa Naka so as not confuse anyone. Haloa Naka became the respected elder brother to Haloa, who became the first Hawaiian. All children after that were given names like we have today, but they were known first as keiki o ka ‘aina, children of the land.
Some still remember that people and nature were born from the same parents at the beginning of time, but many have forgotten. In the beginning, the common people were known as maka’ainana, the eyes of the land. The Hawaiians have a saying: E malama pono i ka’ aina. Take good care of the Earth. Life depends on us as much as we depend on it. It’s said if there’s no poi for the table, Haloa will die.
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Kõ aloha la ea
Concentrate on love by way of the light,
Jen