Tonight was not one for quickly slipping into sleep, instead the night has drawn me up and out of bed. The moon tattoos still do that for me. Earlier in the evening I was filled with excitement about how to fill Red Hibiscus and Dragon Wings: what stories could be collected, written? what people could I interview or share as regular forms of the language of story. My list of people I want to interview includes people I know. Among the people on my list of people I thought to interview was slack key guitarist George Kahumoku, Jr. George Kahumoku is a man my husband, Pete, and I came to know when we lived and worked at the Westin Maui hotel in Ka'anapali, Maui. George and his son Keoki were two of the first people Pete and I met the first night we arrived to begin a new life. George was singing and playing guitar the night we arrived. We were in one of the Westin Maui restaurants waiting for my new boss to join us for dinner. I was a recently returned kama'aina (local person) back in the Islands after living more than twenty years in Washington state. The job I was starting would put me in touch with the entire staff and management of the Westin, more than 350 people. I was hired to be the hotel's training manager. It was a most auspicious and lucky night for Pete and me because though we did not know it, we would begin our new life together on Maui met by one of the finest characters and storytellers of Hawaii. A man of generosity and curiosity. George Kahumoku, Jr. is a showman, teacher, slack key guitar master, farmer, kupuna, and powerful example of aloha. The call of Hina, the moon, woke me to show me that an interview with George and something more had already been done. I woke hungry, poured hot water into my small stainless steel pan and added rolled oats and raisins. When the oatmeal was pau, I added a spoonful of coconut oil, generous sprinkle of cinnamon and went to the frig for the home-made sesame seed milk. While I sat to eat it, I Googled "George Kahumoku, Jr.". The link below took me to a Kickstarter project that was successfully funded in July, 2012. The first few minutes of a documentary about George was my reason for not going to sleep, yet. Mahalo to David Barry for producing this film of a man who is definitely filled with seeds of aloha and has planted those seeds wherever he is. Link below to watch a segment of "George Kahumoku, Jr. Seeds of Aloha" http://www.makaistudios.com/SeedsOfAloha/SeedsOfAlohaFirstAct.mov
Hawaiian was once spoken by all ethnic groups born in Hawai’i. Immigrants often spoke a broken form of the Hawaiian language called pa‘i‘ai. When the Kingdom of Hawai‘i was overthrown, Hawaiian was banned in the schools and most of the Hawaiian vocabulary of pa‘i‘ai was replaced with English words. As a result of the ban on Hawaiian, Hawaiian children and other non-Anglo-American children in Hawai‘i adopted pa‘i‘ai as their own language between 1900 and 1920. Except for the tiny and isolated island of Ni‘ihau and with a few children raised by their native speaking grandparents, Hawaiian children born after 1920 could not speak Hawaiian fluently. Their language and that of other local people became pa‘i‘ai, popularly called Pidgin in Hawai‘i and Hawai‘i Creole English by linguists. You might think sixty-five years is enough to finally and surely come out from hiding. I say as much to myself, so it would not be too much to believe you'd think so, too. Sadly, the truth is I continue to hide from time to time and have come to appreciate the wisdom behind making safe places to refuel, shed tears and shed skin that no longer fits.It is important to know when it better to retreat. Here is a story, a short one about retreat ...
MOON TATTOOS
By Yvonne Mokihana Calizar
Copyright, 2012
The shadows always intrigued her, even as a girl-child the patterns that happened onto her skin caused something different. Through the screened window the moon did not ask permission to tattoo her. While everyone else slept, this child made room for the moon and the shadows and grew the voice.
The wind's silent breezes changed the markings that floated onto her small brown arms. In the night 'brown' might have been any number of colors. The ink of moon's stains were always the same and wore itself on all pallets. But, it was the wind that made the tattooed dancers sway and change shape like hula changed the bodies of her aunties when they moved. She watched and let the shapes bathe their way into her blood, carried as messengers to the place where memories swam.
The snoring was such wonderful company for the shadows dancing now across her skin, on the tops of the pillowcases, and the pune'e filled with the rising and falling of sleeping bodies. When the moon bright light filled the night, her thoughts quieted. She rested that part of herself and came loose. No one watched her. No one wondered out loud why she never talked. And, the shadows loved the way she could be still while all the night through her smile was broad across her full face.
"Will she remember," the Silence asked as all there watched her. No voices necessary, among the Shadowed Ones, the Wind teased the etched patterns.
"Her comfort with the moon will be constant, but words will distract her from time to time," the Wind knew of such things and gathered himself into a gust.
"When there is no light for shadows she will find the light that lives just under her skin," the Moon whispered. "Then, her distractions will play with her broad face and tickle smiles and laughter from her."
As if to shake them from their speculations, the pune'e rocked with thunder, sending the quiet away like flies from a pot of stew. The girl laughed out loud with a sound unfamiliar to the family sleeping. Roused from sleep the man lifted his face from his pillowed nest, "Baby girl?" Pretending to be fast asleep, she pulled her thumb back to her mouth and kept her secrets.
I have always loved the word. See. P. Ah. Not quite new and nearly old the shades of sepia help me remember the nature of memory can be not so much black and white, nor brilliant colors or profuse fragrances. So, to begin the musings here at Hibiscus Hedge and Dragon Wings, there is a hedge where memories are sepia.
Hibiscus is one of the few tropical flowers without a powerful perfume. If at all, the scent is mute and the beauty of the blossom is a day long life. As my life led me back and forth, or ke'ia i kela from here to there, and away from my Hibiscus Islands I have become overly-sensitive to perfume and must avoid them. 'Aue, life is funny!
My world as a sensitive has opened up lines to stories unimaginable. Time has been generous, and I give thanks for the new day and new opportunity. The internet, a miracle. Blogs, amazing. Social networking, still something I must explore with more willingness. My world has expanded to include the first new computer in a decade; I work from her now. Adjusting slowly to a larger screen and a big box of a processor I navigate new territory. It scares me for a time, and then I allow for change.
With this new computer I explore a new blogging platform and move from the blogspots where dozens of stories and shares have come from my heart onto the page. I practice new language by using this Weebly World. There is so much to learn and so many stories to tell.
I am imagining ways to craft a place here where my stories, and hand-made books will be available for sale ... a book store tucked inside the hedge but no longer secreted away! I think I am too old for keeping secrets.
This is a first communique, and an INVITATION to make your way into the Hibiscus Hedge where I hope you'll find the nourishing waters stories to enliven your dragon wings at any age!
|
RSS Feed