Beltane and the Island Moon
Saturday gratefuls: Joe. His toothache. Waimanalo. Those Mountains, steep and creviced, covered in green. Hwy 2. The Beach in Waimanalo. Seoah’s tacos. So good, eaten outside on the patio with the Trades for cooling. Baseball cards and comic books. Sleep lite nights. Notions and fantasias.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Joe and Seoah playing. Mary caring for her friend, Anitha.
Went with Joe to a local side of Honolulu card/comic book shop. A stout Hawai’ian there, no fat and wider than a standard refrigerator, wore a t-shirt: Defend Mauna Kea Protect the Sacred. As a haole, I felt a bit intimidated. I was the only one the store. Joseph, as he said on the way over, fits in here. In that spot, me, not so much.
Two things stood out: the paradox, true of Native Americans across our country, of the righteousness of their injury and the unlikeliness of any good solution to it. And, protect the sacred Mountain. Oh, yeah. I’m down with that big time. Protect Shadow Mountain, Black Mountain, Conifer Mountain, Bergen, Evans, Rosalie, Pikes Peak. Each and every one. Mauna Loa. Kilauea. Haleakala.
Things we used to know as a species. As Wordsworth says: Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
Joe drove us up Hwy 2, away from Honolulu and into these old volcanic Peaks. Mostly east. That wild verdancy of these Islands. Hanging and crawling, moving with the Trade Winds. Creating shade, holding in moisture. My soul moved. Said yes, this place. Yes. This. Place.
I could feel for the first time since I got here two weeks ago, the Islands. Hickam shares climate with Oahu, shares some flora but everything here has a human purpose, contributes to artifice. On the flanks of these pillars of Creation no artifice. Plants and soil, rain and sun. Caressing each other, loving each other. Scrambling over each other.
Through the notch in the Mountains, flanked on either side by crazy green things, joyous green things, and there, cerulean and deep blue, a touch of teal lay the Pacific Ocean. Ocean. Mountains. Mountains. Ocean. Life, sacred life, its homes. Waves beat against the shore as they have done since ancient Water filled those basins we know as the World Ocean.
A primal place. Inside me something let go, a tension loosed. Oh, yes. I remember. Sacred, yes, a good word for this feeling. Sacred. Mauna Kea. The Ocean. These Plants. This small family. Gathered here, one. Humans. Norfolk Pine. Man-of-War. Sand. Lava, old old lava. Guava. Dogs. Sea Turtles. Brazilian Cardinals and Cattle Egrets. All here. Far away from the settled Lands, the Lands, the big Lands. Here, on this Island it is just us. Alive for this brief moment. This wink of an eye.
I belong here. This is my place, too. I’ve known it for a long, long time. Before I was born. To hear the sound of the Waves. To feel the Trade Winds as they pour across this tiny bit of land. To know the Sun as an intimate partner, as we do on Shadow Mountain. My soulmate. This place.
Soulmates are rare. Kate. That land in Andover. Shadow Mountain. Oahu, the neighbor Islands. OK, maybe not so rare. Which is a good thing, no?
This inner fire, a quiet one, fed by the Earth’s mantle, embraces me as nefesh, as Soul. What will happen with this feeling? This time? Unknown.
Let it be known though that this is my home. A place, a sacred place.