What the body remembers

A Ko‘olau wau ‘ike i ka ua
E kokolo a lepo mai ana e ka ua
E ka‘i kū ana ka‘i mai ana e ka ua

E nū mai ana ka ua i ke kuahiwi
E po‘i ana e ka ua me he nalu
E puka, e puka mai ana ka ua

Weli, ke one i ka heli ‘ia e ka ua
Holowai nā kahawai
Koke wale nā pali
Hae e ka wai ka ilina he ‘īlio
He ‘īlio hae ke nahu nei

From Ko‘olau, I watch with the rain
It comes with swirling dust
The rain passed in columns, it passed by

The rain roars in the mountain
It sounds like the roar of the surf
It smites, it smites, now the land

The sands were pelted by the rain
The creek beds filled, water ran down
It poured down the hillsides
The waters became angry and raged like a dog
The dog rages, he bites to be free

We just came through a ginormous storm. It’s been a long time since the wind and rain were that heavy, that hard. It reminded me of A Ko‘olau wau ‘ike i ka ua, one of the foundational hula for many hālau. When you dance this mele, you become the storm.

This mele tells the story of Hi‘iaka passing through Ko‘olaupoko, where I live today. In it, the rain falls so hard it roars like surf. It smites the land. It rages like a chained dog gnawing to be free.

That is what this storm felt like.

From where I live, I can look out and up to Konahuanui, the tallest peak in the Ko‘olau range. But for days the sky was low and close. It erupted. The wind felt like howling fingers trying to tear the roof from our house. The walls shook. My windows were closed, but still the rain came in. Drops of water everywhere. It was practically raining inside the house.

How did you fare?

Maybe this isn’t very profound. We all went through that storm. But it’s funny: I was trying to figure out what to write, and nothing came. I have a headache. I’m moving. I have so many things on my to-do list. I’m feeling the eerie quiet, the literal calm after the storm, after days of screaming wind. Even this morning, I woke to strong gusts shaking the house around me. The rain didn’t stop until after midday.

But Sundays are the day I write.

Tonight, I went looking through old records and notes and emails for inspiration. I found some cool things, but no spark. I thought maybe I would write about the storm and see whether any of Aunty Pua’s favorite poets, or mine, had something to say about weather like this. Storms are great metaphors, right? Nothing. (Though I did discover a new poet, David Whyte.)

Then it came to me: A Ko‘olau wau.

I remembered learning this dance in hula. And then I remembered what it felt like to grow up in the shade of the Ko‘olau mountains looming over us in Kāne‘ohe, green knuckles reaching toward the sky. That was the backdrop of my young life. I remembered hurricane ‘Iniki and what it was like with my ‘ohana to sit in our boarded up house and wait for the storm to come. The anticipation. And then, the recent storm, raging like a rabid dog trying to break free,

Having lived through this weekend’s storm, I feel the gravity of this mele differently now. I understand its truth in my body. That is what the storm felt like. No other poem I reached for could have come close.

If I ever dance that mele again, I will know more fully what it is asking the body to remember.

I hope you fared well. And I hope you can stay steady, with more wild weather heading our way again this week. Now that we’re through the storm, what’s your blue sky moment?

Aloha nui,
Dawn

Hazy photo of Ko‘olau waterfalls taken during another storm, 12/25/19