Mahealani was brilliant in the early morning sky. By the clock on the computer it was 3:30. My internal moon calendar was as full as Hina was bright. There were emotions that needed to be tended, and a shift in perspective required. In addition to being minutely attuned to the effects of the Heavens in relation to planting, harvesting and fishing, the ancient and traditional practices of Na Po Mahina (the nights of the moon) are a personal tool of alignment and access the spiritual clockwork as surely as a sextant connects the dots for navigation. This morning, I woke to old symptoms of physical and spiritual distress wanting to be realigned and released. The seasons are shifting here in the woods in maritime Pacific Northwestern America. The seasons are also shifting in Na Po Mahina, as Makahiki approaches. For someone like me who crosses time to make sense of things, I must depend on my navigational skills to build time bridges back and forth, criss-crossing ke'ia and kela (here and there) for the stars that matter. So many billions of lights out there, which are the meaningful ones, that's the key.
I woke to Mahina's bright reflection jittery but knowing I could find my grounding cord if I simply did not let the disarray of energy dramatize a signal. JOTS my cat is often a messenger, and this morning she was just that. Back from a night of hunting, the bright Mahealani moon is as much a spotlight on her movements as it is an aide to her pursuits. She knows when it's time to settle in, curl up and enjoy the dark shelter of a warm pillow. Each time she returns I give thanks that she made it through a time. We chatted, cuddled and soon the ball of black furr was sound asleep. Alone with the early morning Full Moon, I went to the sacred writing space where I go to write story with two others. Seven months ago I wished for a space to write with others. Slowly I put my wish into a bowl of intensions and nurtured the wish. This morning, I reread the piece of writing I did over the week-end, read the responses to the writing, and also read the work of my two writing partners. During the months of writing together we have created safe space to become lazer writers. The kind of story-maker, story-teller that cuts through without marring the landscape of internal and external muscles; the muscles that sometimes pretty up a rendering. What I needed was all there for me in that small and sacred space where story comforts the storyteller.
Each of us had written about the same 'tickle line' and crafted story that mended and criss-crossed time. None of us are younger than 60 so we are a ripe-fruit bunch, all women. I wrote about the gift of accepting the life that is the one I live, now. The tools of stars, sky and moon found their way into the words that bridged my rebellion with this morning comfort. Through the writing I find there are bits I miss or mis-read in my past and wish to amend with the Universe and my relations. I wish for things that cannot be, but I wish them anyway. The symptoms of feeling out-of-sorts, I accept as one more version of a story that might just want to be cast again: throw the Runes again, and see what comes. In safe spaces, even a grand ship, an ocean crossing wa'a can tether sails ripped by the winds and after repair the journey continues.
I wish that I had been schooled firsthand in the traditional practices, but I was schooled in other things and they help me find my way anyway. While fishing for a way to continue inspite of my lack, I found two old Maui storytellers with stories to tell. I link to their mo'olelo below. Uncle Charlie Maxwell, I had opportunity to meet and be with when Pete and I lived in Iao Valley. Lyons Naone III, I don't know. both have firsthand practices to share. Maybe there's something worth your further exploration.
LINK TO "Uncle Charlie" Maxwell's website here:
LINK TO Lyons Naone III's reprinted articles here: