Nov 10, 2025
“When the cloud weeps, the garden laughs.”
—Rumi, Masnavi, Book V, line 3656.
Aloha mai kākou,
The poetry of rain: thumping on the tin roof, dripping from the gutters, such rhythmic abundance; sometimes too much when rushing and gushing, sometimes too little when we dream of it while the parched land turns yellow and brown with thirst and longing, then green and greener as rainy season comes. The many names of ua, as numerous as the valleys and streams; her personalities and collaborations with wind, stone, sand, and tree; making and remaking the world one drop at a time.
Kēhaulani stands in the ocean at Ke‘ehi and reminds us that we are mostly salt water, we cry and we sweat the ocean. Would that I could be like water, flowing where I’m needed, able to titrate myself into a drop or a mighty wave, able to calibrate and carve mountains, peaks and valleys, able to set and reset and break and nourish and destroy, to cycle and return and ebb tide again and again.
Tears
My tears are not rain
they are the ocean returning to itself,
pulled by the moon of memory.You ask me why I cry
and I tell you —
this is how islands speak
when they remember
they are mostly water.—Teresia Teaiwa, (from her collection Searching for Nei Nim‘anoa, 2000)
A dear friend gave me a ride to the airport this morning; she hosted me in her home, and we caught up about all the things, all the shenanigans, the back stories, the future intentions. We reflected on how Aunty Pua always asked the right provocative but simple questions to help you find your own answer. She was like a misty rain, in the right amount, helping us unfurl our own stories. As the rain comes down, I miss her now, and those conversations. But as friends, we strive to support each other as best as we can, and imitate the rain.
How is your story unfurling these days, what are you grateful for? The other night I was stunned by the illusion created when the moon is rising over the saddle of the Pali Highway in Nu‘uanu. How that pretext and the low dip of the mountain create a kind of forward backdrop for Hina to rise and rise, so huge she was in her supermoon fullness. The moon of memory. She was so bright, her face unblinking and bold and fierce like a massive dinner plate. As I puka’d through the mountain, she became so much smaller, almost as if being swallowed by the night sky. Devoid of context, the framing of Konahuanui and Lanihuli, she was still spectacular but no longer larger than life. Still stunned, I pulled over safely at a lookout and took her photo. Grateful.
Back to the rain. Rain in Hawaiian language has many metaphorical meanings, and while I’m not meaning to invoke all of those sly or romantic references, I do want to celebrate the life giving rhythm of the falling rain and think about what we need to grow, how we can support each other in the times we’re in.
Rain
Rain falls like genealogy —
connecting sky to sea to skin,
naming each drop
for someone who came before.I walk through my inheritance
barefoot,
the ground soft with remembering.—Selina Tusitala Marsh from Fast Talking PI, 2009
Who is your gentle mist, your rain, your Kanilehua, or Ko‘ilipilipi, your ‘Āpuakea, your Līlīlehua that reminds you who you are, who you’ve always been? Who is the backdrop/soft ground that sets the stage for your stunning rise?
What is your inheritance?
Hope you have a wonderful week.
Mahalo,
Dawn
Photo taken 11/7/25 on the Pali Highway