A name of her own

I wrote this article in 2004 for the now historic(no longer in print) "Hawaii Island Journal" a wonderful small press that covered Hawaii Island news with heart. I lived on Oahu at the time and wrote a twice a month column "Makua O`o." This was the first place I shared the teachings of an elder in training, and it was such a fun way to share my delight for small and naturally occurring miracles. "Notice" would be one of the o`o I might have been focused on when I wrote it. Maybe, some other ...

I found this file as I sat doing 'ole day activities ... cleaning and weeding through a hundred files that need to be culled or stored somewhere else. When I opened it I was surprised. You lose track of what you write, and then there they are ... those words. What is particularly sweet is to read this story and appreciate it as history. That mango tree "Tutu Abuela" ... my old family tree is no longer. In my memory she remains, and I'm happy to store her there. Delete? No, not yet.

And yes, that is my full name given me at birth.

A name of her own
By Yvonne Mokihana Calizar

When it rains hard sheets of water drum dense summoning the wind. Together they make quiet a racket, pocking up the stiff dried dirt making thick mud soup where the eaves are without gutters. I love the rain almost as much as the trees and croton hedges love the wetness. I know they lap up the liquid like any child would a favorite smoothie or icy drink on a hot Kuli`ou`ou afternoon. Tutu Abuela our mango tree is an old friend to both the rain and the winds. Thanks to the reoccurring cycles of air, wind and rain, she has set her roots deeply, spread wide her branches and in her lifetime buckets of mele mango have ripened and fed family and friends. If there is culture in my life Tutu has been present through all of culture’s time. She has seen the home place large and open with a grassy lawn cut into baseball diamonds for home-style neighborhood games. When there were dogs on this kuleana we kept them on chains wound around her trunk. She was accommodating. I wonder whether the old wounds I find deep at Tutu’s base are a memory of those chains. I was unconscious of the special place this tree would play in my lifetime when we had a huge front yard and kept our dogs chained. Small was my awareness that a tree would play such a consistent role of nourishment for me.

Until recently our mango tree was without a name. She was my ‘mother’s mango’ tree to many of us and I realize I would call her that as a way of keeping Ma close to me. To say she was my mother’s made me feel un-alone. Visitors to our place have easily felt my mother’s energy. For years I have asked my mother to guide my choices when the decisions I have to make seemed impossible. Living in ‘her’ house meant living with her spirit, her ways of seeing things, and her beliefs. A subtle and important change has happened to me because I have given our mango tree a name of her own. Tutu Abuela. Both words mean the same thing in English. They mean ‘grandmother.’ But to me the importance of a Hawaiian-Spanish name like Tutu Abuela means I have made room for the missing “me.” Calizar, my family name is a Filipino name with strong links to the blood of the Spanish. It is an uncommon name and with it comes a mystery that I hope to understand. Sometimes bits, bites or chunks of our history and our culture are shut in rooms without keys. I know almost nothing about my family in the Philippines, but sense that it is time to live my life with that family present more often. I’ve begun making room for that piece of me.

It began with the rainy season. Caring for a mango tree means different things. I rake the fallen leaves, sorting out the little rocks that get caught in my rake as I gather up the thick curved leaf fingers into piles. We’ve kept Tutu fat – she is nearly as wide as she is tall and that means the clothes lines that stand beneath her now brace one of her heavy limbs to the south. Our back yard is one-quarter mango tree so her presence is legion. You cannot NOT see her. The shoots along her limbs have grown thick as well creating a virtual mango forest within one old tree. The leaves catch rainfall and funnel water into the craggily, cracked valleys of the mango tree. Over the years, without noticing, these pockets of water have become drinking fountains for mosquitoes, ants and families of other crawling critter. Tutu developed crotch-rot of the worse kind. It’s funny how my attention to others –other people’s mango tree’s, other people’s ways of living with or without trees—had distracted me from the disease living right under my nose. I was busy amplifying my righteous attitude about my neighbor’s decisions to cut their trees and did not see that large wounds were steadily wearing into the heart of the matron mango. Ants had moved dirt into the weakened joints of the low growing tree creating soft spots that would eventually split the fifty-year old in two.

I suppose if Tutu Abuela was one of a forest of wild mangoes the rot would continue and eventually the ants and their families would take the tree down. The kupuna would become a nurse log for keiki, creating a fertile place for seeds dropped by a bird to set roots and sprout. Portions of the once-strong mango might be vital enough to retain the identity as bearer of perfect fruit. But the chance that all traces of mango would disappear would be as likely as any. Tutu Abuela is not a wild mango growing in a lost and isolated tropical paradise. She is a mango tree with a name of her own, and she is part of me. We have begun tending to the puka in her heart, and with tender words spoken as we cut the rot from her she continues her place in my culture. My family knows that I ask her questions and listen as she answers. My family knows that she is important to the health of this place and that means she is important to my health.

Parts of our culture will be subject to crotch-rot and invasive bugs – over-stimulation, fear based beliefs and tending to other’s business rather than our own among them. My relationship to my culture is a living and changing business. It’s definitely my own business, and may seem odd to those who observe me at it. But, the truth I learn by cultivating a love for things over which I have seemingly unquestionable power is: if I neglect or take this love for granted I will never know how valuable a story ‘She who has a name of her own’ has to share. It is raining steadily and by the morning Tutu Abuela’s pockets will overflow with water. We’ll need to remember to clean her wounds. A small thing. A good thing.

'OLE DAYS of the Hawaiian Moon Calendar: Wednes through Saturday

'Ole days of rest, review and repair begin today. No new posts till Sunday. Take care out there.
A hui hou, Mokihana and Pete

Passing the bowl: tradition and value

Makua O`o is an active, living description of a human being involved in living with purpose and in pono (in harmony with all). I'm perched on the futon looking at these pictures asking them to give me inspiration to express something that is more than just 'talking into a fan.' I'm digging into my na`au (my gut) to put something ... a word picture that will aid me in acknowledging my value, my contribution.

Sometimes I lose touch with the purpose for being here...distracted by the challenges, obsessed with the countless adjustments, saddened by loss. I forget that ALL the discomfort of a twenty-four hour experience with multiple chemical sensitivities also includes beautiful times, exquisite moments and examples of humility and laughter.

The photos look back at me and I am reminded of the legacy of a culture that believes in working hands. The pohaku ku`ai (the poi pounding stone) my son carries, I passed to him from his Tutu Kane (grand father). I have used the pohaku to carry many stories shared with me in communities throughout the islands and the continental America. I carried the legacy of connectedness, my son took the pohaku back to the lo`i kalo (taro patches) and used the pohaku to make poi.

The calabash ... the koa bowl is similar though not the same bowl, that I too carried to communities as I gathered stories, listened to them shared from the heart. My mother first owned our family calabash. She kept it in her home. I took it out and opened doors she might never had thought to enter. That bowl ... our family bowl was passed to my son. When it was time for him to make a trip to Aotearoa (New Zealand) to learn and share traditional healing practices, a gift was necessary. "Special treasures are being taken over there, Mom." He told me this over the phone. "Well, you have the most treasure possession in your hands now." "I know," he said. "You ask, say your prayers and see whether the bowl is the gift to take with you. You'll get the answer." "Thanks Mom."

My cousin RosalynnMokihana passed into spirit earlier this month. When she passed a legacy of culture and tradition passed to me because we shared the value of the name. We carry the "Mokihana" name and I honor it as I also honor the bowl and the pohaku. Kanaka Maoli (the original people) of the islands called Hawaii, have a memory and a responsibility to sustain the culture. Layered over with systems and practices of hewa (wrong doings) and occupation, the island culture has been Touristized and Adapted. It's difficult to find the soul of the culture ... and to be truthful the real stuff has been hidden on purpose until time and education filled the hearts, minds and souls of the young; until the Makua remembered the faded dreams of value. Slowly, and now steadily the value builds.

I treasure my name as I treasure the life-times of those who have gone before me. I am the fourth Mokihana in my family line ... My life has taken me far from the island, and challenged me to survive and to transcend the very toxins and toxic ideas and chemicals that have sickened thousands before me. In the comfort of a tiny home on wheels parked thousands of miles away from the sands of my birth, I peck away at words that will not simply be idle chatter. I blog, I draw inspiration from many sources, and the name works beautifully...as a whole. I know how much work comes with that name, and rest during the 'Ole cycles of the moon.

I value the legacy of storytellers ... my father, my mother ... who birthed this round-bodied physical me. The ability to paint word pictures with the voice has been a treasured gift in our family. The gift of gab ... yes, and more. The time that is now offers me access to a whirl of readers, and a potential collective ready to make decisions based on a different truth. Words have power and I respect them. It must be enough for me to do my best and not ... wait for praise because someone values them, too.

The Makua O`o is a man or a woman who is given a few basic life tools to learn life. The tools are useful for any number of tasks, and will sustain a lifetime of use. The discovery of living will not pass to those in a rush to finish. Life will end soon enough. What this Makua is learning is to value the tools as useful, if I use them ... every day; know where they are when I need them; care for them when not in use. Then, when it's time to pass one or two or three of the o'o to a Makua down the line ... aue (alas) I will know where to find them.

Aloha, Mokihana

STARRY, STARRY NIGHT: Know that wisdom is found in many places … SOFTEN THE GROUND OF YOUR BEING

As I lay there in the dark, gazing at the starry starry night immersed in soul-stirring music, I started a journey of recovery from a serious illness. And realized that the stars, be they out there or in here; are all part of me. They are me...

http://www.wellnessoptions.ca/html/1/011/1_i11_1_main.html

I come less frequently to this place on the page, this blog "Makua O`o" but am probably more connected to the wisdom of the cosmic connections than at any time in my near 62 years. Cosmic art: Astrology and Akashic Record Readings, life on the Ledge in the Woods in the VardoForTwo, and the recent passing of the other Mokihana have softened me up.

Trying to make sense of the changes that take place with me means I 'search' for the meaning and look for answers deep and wide. My o'o ... the digging sticks get heavy use, they break from use and then as I write this I remember that I have left my stick covered in the back of the car for weeks now. Then, the wind came yesterday and stirred things up. A south blowing wind brought the stories of distant places, the energy of things/people/places in between. The barometic pressure rose sky high and the ions energized this place on the ledge. Last night, or probably very early in the morning, the winds must have moved on ... perhaps to the eastern part of the continent to join the winds mounting forces as "Hurricane Bill"? Out of a deep sleep I felt the shift. It's part of the package that comes from being multiple chemical sensitive; I feel things accutely. Like the kitty I notice the winds coming, and when they pull out so does my energy.

The quote that opens this post is from the emagazine WellnessOptions. I starting searching for an article I remembered reading that described the 'science' behind emotional shifts triggered by barometic pressure. I found that article at Wellness Options and read through it. My brain fed on the information ... satisfied with the reasoning, I turned to another tab on the page and found an Editorial entitled "Starry, starry night ..." This is what makes the internet such a farmer's market for me. The food that feeds my curious nature can find what is needed if I am open to discover it.

The Ledge in the Woods where we live today is a haven of darkness at night. A couple human generated lights cast the artificial glow into the night sky, and yet with small effect we are able to view and expose our whole selves to the magic of connectedness to STAR DUST. I grew up on Oahu in the Hawaiian Island archipelago at a time when roads were coral chunks and dirt. The street lights were few, and one car traveling the valley road echoed against the Kuliouou valley walls. If we chose to we could be with stars at night. Life there has changed as it has changed across the Earth. Stimulation of every manner turns all beings to a near steady on-position, deep dark sleep becomes a rarity and in the process we age more quickly ... restoration and rejuvenation not possible without darkness.

A strange, frightening experiment is taking place in Seattle, Wa. neighborhoods. The city has begun replacing the old street lights with high-efficiency LED bulbs. There's a very real price we pay for the cost of efficacy and this street light example is one more worth knowing about. Here's a clip from the the article, "Kill the lights," in Seattle's Stranger Newspaper . Read the whole article if it peaks your interest in the value of a good night's sleep and a body that knows it needs star light not 'blue LED':

The problem with the new lights isn't just aesthetic. According to Dr. David Avery—a professor of behavioral sciences and light therapy at the University of Washington and the region's leading researcher on the impact of light on human chemistry—the LED lights could interfere with human biorhythms. Certain photoreceptors in the eye's retina react to cooler colors of the light spectrum, sending a signal to the brain that the sun is up. When humans see the blue light, our bodies think it's daytime. "The sensitivity to these cells for the blue and greenish color makes perfect sense, because the sky is blue. So for millions of years, life has evolved with this 24-hour rhythm of blue light being very prominent for part of the day and then darkness," he says. "This is kind of a conductor of a circadian symphony in the brain and body."

According to Avery, "Theoretically, if someone has one of these LEDs or a blue light outside their window, it could fool the eyes and the brain into thinking that the sun is still up, so the melatonin hormone might not rise normally and sleep might be disrupted." Incandescent lights, the standard bulb in homes, are on the red end of the spectrum. (You may think of them as being white, but they're not.) Shifting the city's primary outdoor lighting to blue-hued LEDS, Avery adds, "would be a major change in terms of our environment." Studies suggest that people exposed to daylight at the wrong hours, like those who work night shift, have more health problems such as high blood pressure and obesity, Avery says.

Engage in good health practices … CARE...Grieving

We received the email from my cousin Koa last night ... a family message to let us know the time and details of the memorial service for his elder sister Mokihana. It was one of the last things Pete did before coming to bed, and just one more reminder that our dear friend and cousin had indeed passed from that familiar body I have known all my life. The email stayed on the page as Pete stepped from the Vardo to brush his teeth and do going to bed things. I re-read the message, hearing Koa's organized voice modulated and even explaining what will happen, why it was happening and when it would all take place. He anticipated questions with answers and in true fashion ended with "If you don't already have a job, please call or email us ... thanks for everyone's willingess to jump right in." A voice mail with this same cousin's voice was on my cellphone when we drove into town where cellphone service happens. The same modulated voice with the message of Mokihana's passing was there, too. It's all too real, all true and of course, we have known the cancer was wide-spread and Mokihana's ika was spent.

If there is anything of value in pecking at keys that form words I hope to find it as I go along. Grief is physical, I tire from the work that is required to feel the sorrow and the gladness in all its modulations. Pete and I grieve differently, I notice how the stages of grief pitch up into the stage of anger as we pick at each other as if the fighting will make the other loss less important. A distraction? Maybe, or just a human condition that allows us to move through. As I hung over the edge of the futon reading and re-reading that email my mind bargained with my body: "If I get on a plane, arrange for oxygen, get a ...." Anything to make it possible for me to travel once more and arrive at a place that is already a proven no-go ... the bargaining just won't work. Travel back home is not a healthy choice for me or Pete. We have made those trips and know we do not have the health to do it again ... not now. This is the truth and it saddens us.

This is grief work.

Before we fall to sleep Pete talks about Mokihana again. He tries to remember the very first time he worked on her old Papakolea house: her sink was not working. It was the first of many other fix-it times for him in her houses. He would come to know my cousin and island family would become more and more real because of it. I recall the times of knowing when we were girls, teenagers, young women. We have know each other for a lifetime. Pete and I-- two old dears who create a life not familiar to our family back in Hawaii, grieve the loss of a cousin and grieve the reality that we will not be at that memorial gathering. The comfort and consolation that might come from the stories and energy must come in different ways for us. We have created rituals here and that is good.

The process moves in whirling ways. Current sadness passes and then there is a blast of radio from the outside kitchen ... a snip from the Newport California Jazz Festival "I'll take you there ..." the Staple Sisters. "I love that song!" Pete says through the window in the front door. Yah, there you go. Maybe a Sunday drive will take us into town where cellphone service happens. Maybe I will call family and talk for awhile. Maybe. I'll take you there.

LISTEN WITH YOUR WHOLE BODY ... listen respectfully

The wind has brought cool air and a shower of rain to the Ledge and most of the area between Seattle and the peninsula upon which we live. If you shared this morning with us you would hear the high treetop choir of wind sweeping Makani, a sound that is deeper and fully than the ringing within my me. It's very cool on my feet as I peck away on the keys, this old laptop is now sharing space with the toaster oven and the kettle burner. Adjustments to our living are sometimes simple ... when my opu rumbles for a bit of a snack I easily reach for the dish of freshly picked strawberries, warm the kettle for a third cup of tea or toast a slice of bread just a step away.

We enjoyed a full day after the 4th of July and languished in the tiredness of travelling the night before. To celebrate we left the Ledge, expecting the bombs bursting in the air from fireworks in the neighborhood. Rather than sealing up the Vardo against the sound and smoke we packed up Scout with food and drink and drove along the canal shore roads of the Kitsap Peninsula. The day was pleasant, we listened to each other, told stories of places and people from our pasts and road with an easy pace. When our route took us to Kingston we paid our fare ... increasingly more money as the summer sets in and boarded the ferry Puyallup heading for Edmonds. I choose to ride the ferry from the small comforting space of the car rather than climb the stairs to be with the other riders and the smells that taint. Pete and I were parked in the lane near the rails on the car deck, a perfect spot to lean over and enjoy the ride and feel the incredible gentle ride across Puget Sound. The captain of this ferry was sure and slow about his or her departure from the docks. The movement was nearly undiscerned ... we were out and cutting waves before we knew. We ride ferries often in this life we live from the Ledge. This ride was one of the most gentle of rides in many years. We huddled together and enjoyed the company and the warmth of a summer afternoon.

Our destination was Everett, a town we have known for decades. The old mill town is home to friends we have loved for a long time. They have housed us during hard times and kept our best interests close as life has cycled up and down. We do the same for them and without doubt that caring sustains a friendship and we listen to each others tales, laugh at our moibles and those of other humans we know. There on the sidewalk of the old mill town our friends joined me, their masked and sensitive old pal who cannot be inside their house. We chatted, gossiped and laughed. Desserts on small white dishes were served and for that I lowered my mask, until the rockets and fireworks of the city's annual display filled the sky. It was a surreal experience. When the smoke had reached the point where my tolerance meters read "Enough" I said, "I've gotta go into the car." My friend and I did a modified hug ... knowing the hair spray and scent she wore (she had been to the parade and taken herself outside for the day) would not be approachable. I stayed up wind from her as we talked. "I'll tell Pete you're heading in." Compromises and adjustments are made all the time. Life is like that. These friends have made hundreds of adjustments for us when we lived with them as a place of refuge. Sometimes they don't adjust to my needs. Then, it's up to me to adjust. Masks work, meditations that include the rings of protection and mindfullness help. I listen to my body, hold my face in a comforting image and remind her ... "It's all right dear soul," when the requirements of one more adjustment must be made. "Stay, still ... all is well." I waved a good-bye from the air conditioned safety of Scout and watched the fireworks. America. The anthem of which is filled with 'rockets red glare and the bombs bursting in air ..." It's an odd legacy of warfare bred into the fibers of a nation that makes for a perilous flight. Maybe just as Anna Paint suggested, "If Pete Seger's This Land is My Land was America's anthem things could be different ..." I listened with that thought as she said it. It resonated gently with me. Sitting in the car that July 4th night, I wished something like that would truly be the way America listened to it's birth lullaby. Perhaps the First People would wish something different again. I listen to the treetops sing and don't reach a word ...

Keep a keen sense of observation … NOTICE

Summer has found itself comfortable here on The Ledge. Simple things take place at the moment, appreciating the cycles of life through the observation of the Moon Calendar I take time to notice. The past four days of the Hawaiian Moon Calendar (check out the sidebar for more on the Hawaiian Moon Calendar) were the 'ole days ... times when Pete and I restore and slow even more. Living on the Ledge in the Woods is priming us for a life more in sync with natural patterns. Pete and our friend "Anna Paint" who shares her land with us are playing Scrabble. It's a routine the two old dears engage in to pass time companionably, and in the process something happens with the synapses in their brains. Across the strawberry fields I hear them in Scrabble conversation ... not hearing them exactly I simply notice they are engaged.

The mid-morning sky is delicious ... clear, and exquisite a background to the tall rising firs growing slowly around the Vardo. Our lives include many journeys; some extensive and repetitive others tiny and almost unnoticed. With the challenges of living with a long-term and surprising illness like chemical sensitivities and environment illness the quiet moments and still times need a different sort of attention. Without the cloak of defensiveness I notice my body is disoriented: like at night when the light of sun, street lights that are completely void here, and the empty night sky. It is so completely dark within the walls of our Vardo I seek the flannel curtain and draw it back just a bit to give me perspective. Claustrophophia? Perhaps, or maybe a bread crumb ... simply reaching for the bread crumb in my familiar fairy tale of a transforming life.

An update and seven-day report on Bounce and Shaking. It really works wonders. It's fun, moves lymph like the massages that I've not been able to have for years and I had a chance to share the simple jirations with our MCS Seattle friends. So, early this week in a North Seattle Park three friends and I did the Bounce and Shake moves. Two minutes of movement and goofiness. And then stillness, notice the tingling. "That's the lymph moving!" "That's amazing. That's all it takes?" "I believe so." "Wow." The 'ole days of the moon happen approximately ever 2-3 weeks and are a perfect time to restore and attend to the maintainence I lose track of for any number of reasons. I notice the small routine fits gently into my day without extreme, adds a quality of goodness that I can feel and is easily shared with friends.

Lovely morning.