You cannot do this work
If you cannot love deep and in the
Next breath,
Say,
goodbye.
My dear friend Miwa asked me to write an essay with her, a chapter for a book on evaluation. And she wanted to focus on Aunty Pua and Building the Beloved Community. I have here my first draft of my contribution, that we then wove together to create our chapter. I offer you this because I’m stuck–writer’s block, sit for hours, review old poems, notes, conversations with Aunty, the dusty corners of my life, and yet no good poems are leaking out of my pen in this moment. And it grows late. Time passes and doesn’t wait for inspiration. So here we go…
Aloha mai kākou. Aloha amongst all of us, all our kin, the land sea and stars, the rocks and trees, our people past, present and future, our ancestors, gods and guides. Kākou. We are birds of many feathers.
We bring to you with humility and aloha a glimpse of a way of being and relating that comes from one of our elders, Aunty Puanani Burgess. We share with you a bit of her practice of Building Beloved Community, and a reflection on how this building helps us know ourselves and our value, and helps us see and value others, and the world around us. We share this with you because she is not here in person to share herself. But she wanted her teachings and way of coming to the middle to live on, and on. So we go on.
It starts with a circle. Not with your name, or your titles, or anything that helps you prove who you are. No need for that. It starts with your weather, your blue sky, sharing your current state through the sheltering metaphor of winds, rains, currents. Your perspective, your weather is important, valid and true, because it is based on your life experiences. You are the expert in your own story.
How’s your weather? (Breathe, feel, share…)
You continue with Culture in a Bag, bringing artifacts from your own life that help you be seen and known to the group. You bring four objects: something that represents your culture of origin, then something of the culture you now belong to, then an object that represents the culture that you’d like to be a part of. You wrap these objects in a bag of your choosing, something you’d carry sacred objects in. A poi bag. A bag hand-stitched by your grandmother. A grocery sack. You decide. It’s all right.
What would you bring to the circle? (Breathe, feel, share…)
Then, maybe next time we convene the circle, we transition to Guts on the Table, and we lay it all out. We are deep in the circle now. This is ceremony. Now is the time to share your name, your names, the stor(ies) of all your names. And in this, you tell the story of who you are, the dreams your ancestors had for you, that certain movie star your mom liked, that friend of the family who had a deep impact, that mountain ridge where the clouds perched the day you arrived, or the kupuna who knew you were coming. All in a name. And then, tell us the story of your community; your context. The water you’re swimming in, what’s important to you, how you spend your days. And then, maybe it’s hard. It can be challenging, or new.
You have to tell the story of your gift. You have three minutes to tell all your stories, go try.
What’s your gift? (Breathe, feel, sh…)
Aiyah, my GIFT?! Aunty, really? These practices and others, accompanied by many stories and poems, are the beginning touchstones of a lifetime of circles from our dear mentor and friend, Aunty Pua. As a mediator, Buddhist priest, and (perhaps most importantly, according to her) Aunty, her work and drive was to help people come to the middle, to see and be seen by each other, to learn to sit with each other’s stories, the WHOLE story, not just the uwe wale nō, our tale of woe. She wanted to know your weather, your dark days, your shining moments, your blue skies. She was excellent at sitting with folks and deeply listening, coaxing out our gifts with a keen and provoking sense of curiosity, humanity, aloha. To be honest, coming to the middle is a radical act in the world we live in today.
When we see each other first as people, people with a story, a name, weather, history, a tattered and sacred grocery sack, it makes it easier for us to come together around the hard stuff. Or maybe that is the hard stuff. A wall is built stone by stone. In the circle, relationships and empathy are built story by story. They inform what we know of each other and the world. They open pathways to new understandings. They build safety, connection, belonging.
Breathe, feel, share…
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.
Aunty tells a story about a particular boy. One who was not valued in school; no one ever asked what his gift was. However, she did. And though it took a while, in the middle of Tamura’s Store, one day he answered. When he recognized and could articulate his gift, he changed how he saw himself, completely. Once you recognize your own innate gifts, no one can take them away from you. You can never be the same. You then begin to see the gifts of those that came before you, that named you, that gave you culture, pain, potential. And that particular boy? He now asks his son what his gift is. Truly, that will last forever in every successive generation who can ask this new question: What is your gift?
The relationships and stories we build and tell in Building the Beloved Community go deep. Each person shares in the circle, there’s an equity to the practice. Even the “facilitator” shares, there are no observers. The circle and its energy, its ‘ano are created by each member, together, by each story and poem. Some circles last for a short time, some last on and one due to the dynamics of the group. There’s no judgement in the sharing, no comments, advice, critique. Just your time to go as deep as you need to, and then the next person shares in turn.
One of our circles has been meeting for almost five years. We started in the pandemic and then never quit. We have a variety of generations in our circle, at least three. And together, we’ve witnessed births, deaths, transitions. We even witnessed the passing of Aunty Pua, and still we meet. This circle has sustained us. After the first five sessions, we began to take turns facilitating. How terrifying to facilitate Aunty Pua! But she was lovely. We each took our turn, we worked on our principles. We gave each other our gifts. And Aunty enjoyed being able to just facilitate, to be a member, to rest in the shade of the circle.
Breathe, feel, share.
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.
“We say aloha kākou, but it’s the ‘āina, sky, earth, the water, fresh and salty. My question always is, how do they have a seat at the table? How do we see? We go back to them over and over, that space, that tree, that forest, as though they were intimate. We have to remember that the ‘āina is not property. That was the most evil concept that came in, that we can own the earth and transfer at will. We are at a place to turn property back to ‘āina. Taking commodities and seeing them as our kin, our relative, worthy of our attention and respect, and creating spaces where they have a seat at the table…” –Aunty Pua
Aunty often asked us: “Who speaks for the trees? Are we counting what counts?” In her way she understood what our ancestors knew, that there is no hierarchy between human and stone, mountain, land, ocean, fish. We are all part of kākou, us guys. She taught us that everyone wants to be included in the circle. People want to be useful, to have a role, something to contribute to the collective. To be of value. And we have to recognize that the land has that same intrinsic value. When we pass on, we go back to ‘aina. We become mountain, land, ocean. It’s a forever cycle. When something is forever, you never say goodbye.
With a deep and abiding affection for ‘āina, she shared with us what she learned from Aunty Pilahi Paki: Ua mau ke ea o ka ‘āina i ka pono. The life of the land, our land, is perpetuated in HOPE. Yes, righteousness. That’s right. But she emphasized what Aunty Pilahi taught her–that another meaning of pono is hope. “Where does hope lie?” she’d often ask us. Lately she wanted to talk about the concept of “hope-informed care” instead of “trauma-informed care.” She’d ask us: ”Are we telling the whole story? Are we counting what counts?” Finding where our hope lies and inspiring hope-informed care comes when one’s gifts are not just understood, but recognized, articulated, and valued. This kind of validation, this witnessing, can be a healing thing in a world that doesn’t stop to see or gifts, or help us find hope.
Where does hope lie? Breathe, feel, share.
Mahalo to each of you for the gifts you shared without holding back. Aunty pua.
Photo taken 7/20/25 at KEY Project’s Ho‘omau Ko‘olau Fest.