I saw a big fat dandelion patch and went to work. Grabbing the first one, I felt the tough thick leaves and pulled; with a quick snap they tore off in one go, leaving the long tap root in the earth. “Ah shoots! I thought. “I gotta get the rest.” My fingernails dug around the mole uaua, stuck firm. Digging into the soft dark soil, I put down the weeds in my other hand and tugged firmly, until it finally released. In Koholālele, even the weeds have deep roots.
We were there to visit, and it was spring solstice. The sun was peeking through the hazy clouds, and would burn them off by afternoon. The air was bright and the dense pua kala patch waved stiff, prickly leaves in the muggy air. Sweat dripped as we all bent to our tasks, and it struck me that it’s been too long since my hands touched dirt.
The first time I was down in Koholālele was a little over 11 years ago. I had met some awesome folks in my last job at KKV and they were just starting something in their community. It was a budding thing then, there was a guerrilla garden. They had taken over a patch of land in an important but nearly forgotten area, and were bringing it to life by restoring the memories and stories and relationships of this place. By touching the dirt, rooting down. As I worked, I remembered my first time on this land in the shade of ironwood and eucalyptus trees, pulling weeds and planting ‘ōlena with Grammie and my friends.
Now, the landscape is different. Abandoned land once shaded by eucalyptus and ironwood is being transformed; the canopy feels a bit more familiar, a bit more native. Hala, ‘ulu, kukui, niu, all established or coming up. Surviving drought. Reviving soil, hands down. Hands down to the earth, committed, working together, welcoming. No holding back. That’s what is rebuilding this place, and its people. Stone. Stories. Ancestors.
“They said nothing would grow in this acidic eucalyptus soil,” No‘eau will tell you, as you’re surrounded by bushy ‘ulu trees.
The story has grown so much that others tell it now. Others carry the mo‘olelo on, and on, and the crew has grown. To create a place where people can live and thrive for generations is not easy. But it’s everything. It takes heart and soul, and sacrifice, so much sacrifice. It takes commitment, generational, and an ancestral memory that travels back and forward in time. It transcends time.
We begin to clap and chant as Lucon and Ryan carry ceremonial ‘awa and water down as offerings. Just as the rain has come down in the past weeks, abundance begets abundance.
Later, when I was returning home, I could tell the social media algorithm had been doing its job. Paying ‘tention. A post popped up on my phone: dirt under your fingernails from gardening is stronger than a prescription anti-depressant.
You mean, ‘āina heals? I send this post to my friend Haley. Hours before, we were all pulling weeds from the pua kala patch. Now I’m sitting on the plane, and there’s dark dirt lodged under my fingernails, deep in my soul. Her response pings back: “We are winning!”
And it strikes me that this is the work of nohopapa. To cultivate your soil together with the next generation, and with the ones that came before you. To sit with the trees as they weather drought. To sit in ceremony and call the rain, and to celebrate growth when the rains finally come. To invite others in to join and be part of the story, to rediscover their connection to ‘āina. To do our best to thrive in this generation, like the generations before and those that will come after us.
Amama, ua noa!
Here’s a poem that Aunty Pua wrote for the huiMAU crew for the last session of the cohort we did with their awesome crew in 2020.
You cannot do this work
If you cannot love deep and in the
Next breath,
Say,
goodbye.Building Beloved Community is Forever
You carry the meaning of names, community and gifts,
Wherever you roam. And like that first kiss of sweet rain that delights with a touch of cool
And a smell like no other.You carry and hold close, the whole intimacy of stone, story, ancestors, new born life, from 10,000 villages, salt, seeds being planted, giving life.
And you never say goodbye.
Mahalo to each of you for the gifts you shared without holding back. Aunty pua.
Sunday, June 14, 2020
Photo taken 4/17/24 at Koholālele.