Huliau - The Return Voyage

Today is the eleventh anniversary of the moment that ‘Iokepa accepted his place in the fulfillment of an ancient Hawaiian prophecy. Today marks the anniversary of that day that ‘Iokepa gave away, “Everything I’d worked for all my life” to embrace his, “Walk of faith.”

It feels important to commemorate this personal, passing moment in some way. I will try to do it with words.

On January 30, 1997, ‘Iokepa’s paternal grandmother, great grandmother, and great great grandmother spoke to him across the spiritual divide that many of us see as impenetrable–and delivered the message that turned his life upside down. But the promise of that prophecy is farther-reaching than his one, small life.

“What will happen on the Hawaiian Islands is the stepping stone for cultures around the world to have the opportunity to emulate.” This was a reference to the bedrock teaching of, “Aloha”–that connection to, and responsibility for, every part of creation.

When the kanaka maoli (the original people) reclaim their inherited spiritual gifts, and the cultural strengths they were born to own, they will be the living reminder for that rest of us. Huliau–The Return Voyage retreats are the grass-root spark for that Earth-changing prophecy.

Eleven years ago, today, the grandmothers spoke to ‘Iokepa. Their first words were: “We heard your prayer. We’ve been waiting for you to say it, and you finally said it.”

That prayer (perhaps, his first ever) offered up, nothing-less than his life. “If someone in my family has to die, take my life.” Very simply–with no concept of consequence–it was a full-hearted surrender.

And that is my launching point.

When I was a child–both the youngest sibling and only daughter in our family–I remember a brother who quite regularly twisted my arm behind my back, or bent my wrists until I was forced to my knees, and then demanded: “Do you surrender?’ I suffered physical hardship for my refusal. But it was a point of some pride–how long I could hold out.

It is like that with the concept of surrender in 21st century America. There is surrender–and there is, its opposite–control. They are adversarial. We spend a great part of our human lives (and our national posturing) establishing who’s on top. To surrender, is to lose to someone else who is in control. To control, is to refuse to surrender to: The boss, another nation…my brother.

So, eleven years ago ‘Iokepa surrendered everything: His work, his home, his money, his possessions, his family photographs, the arenas of his greatest competence–and not inconsequentially, his friends. He had offered his life; his ancestors took him up on it; and all kinds of unimaginable doors opened for him. He is not the man he was eleven years ago. He is much more.

In my presence over the past ten years, he has been asked hundreds of times: “Weren’t you afraid?”

He has consistently answered: “Who can say, ‘No’ to his grandmothers? They filled that house with love. I feel it still.” That means something to a Native Hawaiian.

But the point isn’t ‘Iokepa, on his eleventh anniversary. The point is that all of us (or so close to “all” that I’ve given up counting) are afraid. Because in the world we live in, surrender means loss.

I am here to simply observe that there is surrender to greater forces than human ones. The ancient Hawaiians knew it–and they were afraid of nothing. Fear is something that came with colonization. But the kanaka maoli knew–and the prophecy says we will all learn–that the fearful clenched fist and heart refuses the bounty. And the open heart, that fearless surrender to the power of our ancestors’ universal love, is where the true possibilities begin.

It was a beautiful, crisp day on the North Shore of Minnesota. Our hosts led us up one hill and down again. We hiked through the white stuff on the ground, and the white flakes in the air. Because these were exemplary hosts, they had warned us well: “Watch your step; there are are ice patches under the snow.” And we had heeded them well: Up the hill, then down it again.

But within twenty feet of their front door–with Lake Superior rocks clutched firmly in my left hand–I carelessly placed my boot, and the solid earth slid out from under me. I fell hard on the open palm of my straight right arm.

The pain shot up the length of my arm; I couldn’t get myself up. When I was helped to my feet, I started to black out. Our hosts offered the local hospital for an x-ray. But health insurance, for these past ten years, wasn’t factored into the life we led. Eating remained our priority. I demurred.

There was a retreat the next night. I compensated with my left-hand (turning door knobs, using forks and knives) awkward, but possible.

A week later (I was still unable to use my right arm) we were in Rochester, Minnesota for another Return Voyage gathering. Our host, a Research Nurse, offered us a tour of the incredible Mayo Clinic, her employer. Enthusiastically, I hopped up from this laptop computer to go–and the wire that went from computer to wall snagged my ankle.

I fell again–this time forward–again, my opened, right hand took the brunt of the fall. It was excruciating, but I pretended (”Shake it off”) that it was nothing at all. I joined the walk to the Mayo Clinic (in gusting, below zero, wind and snow)–and then through the clinic, craddling my bent right arm in my good left hand. I was in undeniable pain–butI denied it.

I toured this, beyond-magnificent facility, it’s unquestionably first-rate art, and I read about the history of the place: All of it, the bounty of grateful donors. But, I was told, you don’t make it through the doors without health insurance. And a step into their emergency room might produce a $7000 bill.

So–I strolled through this iconic, celebrated, medical clinic that employs 30,000–clutching an arm I thought was broken, and there was no one to help me. ‘Iokepa and I whispered behind the exhibits–well-aware of this medical irony.

The Return Voyage retreat that night was fabulous: Wonderful people. If there reside in Minnesota, folks who are less than gracious, warm, and welcoming, ‘Iokepa and I have not yet encountered them in our two weeks in Minnesota. And as an aside, this is the birth place of other fine and celebrated people: Judy Garland, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Big Al Frankin, Robert Bly, Charles Lindbergh, Prince, Warren Burger, Bob Dylan, Sinclair Lewis, Jessica Lange, Walter Mondale, Hubert Humphrey, Ethan and Joel Coen, Loni Anderson, and naturally, Garrison Keilor.

The morning after that retreat–before we left for our last Minnesota gathering in Winona, on the shores of the fabulous, frozen Mississippi River–I relented. I asked our Nurse host to check my arm for a break. She did. It was not broken. But clearly my wrist needed to be imobilized. Her employer–the Mayo Clinic–wasn’t her choice. She called her husband, a Physician’s Assistant, at the Migrant Health Service, and asked him to help out.

On our way out of town we stopped at this miraculous place. (Three members of the staff had attended the Return Voyage gathering the evening before.) We were ushered in, along with the migrant farm workers and families who dotted the waiting room, and treated like family.

Since ‘Iokepa’s grandmothers are adamant that: “There is no such thing as a coincidence,” we were, and we remain certain, that all of it was about bringing us to this very clinic. Here’s the evidence.

The waiting room conversation was titillating, compelling, faith-filled. The treatment was exemplary: No red tape, no bureaucratic burden. The psychological pain was removed, and only the small, physical pain remained.

In Rochester, Minnesota, at the home of the most powerful medical complex on earth–I was treated in the tiny, sparkling, human-scaled, heartfelt, Migrant Health Clinic. I was fitted with my choice of state-of-the-art wrist and arm braces. But the story gets even more ironic.

Mike McMullin–the Physician’s Assistant and our retreat host–told us this: “Here is a perfect story for you two.

“Yesterday, Cathy and I went to the Mayo Clinic’s warehouse. It’s enormous. They send supplies to Third World countries. While we were leaving the warehouse, someone shouted to us: ‘Here. Take a box of these wrist braces, we have too many.’

“And that is the reason we have wrist braces for your arm today.”

Our road atlas has two full page maps of Minnesota: one south, and one north. But the top of that northern map stops short of a chunk of Minnesota that wraps still further north (and east) around the largest lake on earth: Lake Superior. We were required to look elsewhere on the page to find an insert that continued up the state’s North Shore to Canada.

That is where we’ve spent this past week. About a quarter of a map inch from the Canadian border, in the winter wonderland of Hovland. Imagine a Native Hawaiian experiencing nightly saunas, followed by dips in the icy waters of Lake Superior, and you begin to picture how powerfully different–yet, remarkably, the same this week has been.

Lake Superior has 2,730 miles of shoreline. It covers 31,280 square miles. At its deepest, it is 1,333 feet–over a quarter of a mile deep. Sitting on its shoreline, watching waves crash against the rocks–it felt an awful lot like an ocean. We saw(exotic to our Island eyes) bald eagles soaring, heard coyotes howling–and we enjoyed a silence and a communion with water, earth, and element that was familiar to our Island life. True, the water was fresh–not salinated; and these were eagles–not our albatross. But the place exuded a spiritual power that was kindred, and very soothing.

Grand Portage Indian Reservation, home to the Ojibwe, straddles the U.S. and Canadian national borders.

“My friends want to know,” Bob Swanson, Ojibwe elder and poet, asked ‘Iokepa this week: ‘What’s an indigenous Hawaiian doing so far inland?’”

‘Iokepa answered: “I’m retracing the steps of my ancestors.”

For thousands of years, kanaka maoli (aboriginal Hawaiians) sailed both oceans in their sophisticated canoes–and integrated into the indigenous culture up and down the Americas . “There is a kinship,” ‘Iokepa said. “What we see in one another is familiar, and yet we’re eager to learn what is different.” These people were not strangers to ‘Iokepa.

So when three Ojibwe natives honored our Return Voyage retreat at Hovland, a few non-verbal similarities surfaced. When ‘Iokepa spoke to the largely non-indigenous gathering, Bob Swanson consistently lowered his eyes to the floor. Afterwards, several other participants remarked, “I thought Bob was sleeping.”

But the thought never crossed either of our minds.

We felt the depth of Bob’s listening and focus. He looked at the floor (as I sometimes do when ‘Iokepa is speaking) to screen out all other sensory distraction, and to truly listen. It’s the indigenous way.

Still later, one woman observed: “The Native Americans don’t meet your eyes when they speak.”

“In truth, it is the opposite,” I answered. “They read you quickly. If there is deep within you, they recognize it immediately–and if there is not, they see that too. They look deeply–and they often leave me feeling known.“

But that requires patience. We must learn to sit easily with a silence that many of us refuse to allow. The indigenous are not afraid of silence. They listen to it deeply–for the answers to their prayers.

‘Iokepa typically looks into the eyes of men and women–and occasionally, they say that they feel vulnerable and exposed. But that’s far less for what he sees–and far more, for how harshly we often judge ourselves.

Say the word, “Spiritual,” and a death-like solemnity settles over a crowd. Watch a gathering of good folks work overtime to know. or feel, or say the “right” thing. I have watched triathlon athletes compete–swimming, biking, running. It looked no less intense, serious, or competitive than when I watch spiritual seekers attack their goal.

Return Voyage suggests: Lighten up. And yesterday in Detroit, Michigan, twenty-three people gathered at a retreat and laughed–alot.

When I introduced ‘Iokepa, and I said: “Almost eleven years ago, ‘Iokepa took this walk of faith. In two weeks, he gave away a great deal of money, a house on a lake…and seven cars and a hot rod (which I think is obscene).”

‘Iokepa leaped in and said: “I loved those cars.”

Over the raucous laughter. I heard, “How human…”

Later I told the story about how long it took me, the week ‘Iokepa and I first met, for him to teach me a very simple notion. ‘Iokepa asked me repeatedly at the time: “What’s your tool?” The prescribed answer was: “To ask, and then to get quiet and listen.” And it wasn’t until the last night–New Year’s Eve 1997–that I nailed that simple answer.

Well, at this gathering ten years later, in Detroit, I flubbed the answer. And while I blushed. ‘Iokepa interjected: “Did you see that recent news story about the man that taught his turtle to roll over and shake hands. It took him ten years…” Everyone laughed and loved it. ‘Iokepa reached over and gave my arm an affectionate squeeze.

Many spiritual teachers arrive at our door with “The Answer.” Many spiritual seekers expect or demand that answer for the price of admission. Rigid instruction: The one way, the one place, the one teacher who can make us right.

But it is so much easier. Return Voyage conversations are thus: We share our experience, and in our experience, perhaps you might find something that touches your heart.

In truth, it can not be so serious.  Spirituality is human. Humans are full of foibles.  Human foibles are funny.

‘Iokepa says: “Humor and spirituality are inseparable. Laughter is a huge part of life–the relief it gives us.”

So, in Detroit, two nights ago, ‘Iokepa chose to end the gathering like this. “Do you have a song? Do you have a dance?”

There is no teacher, no healer, no guru on this earth who can tell you what to sing…or how to dance.

The place: Cleveland Heights, Ohio. The setting: A huge table topped with clams casino, prosciutto, “Grandma Antonette’s” incredible pasta sauce, a beautiful feta-topped salad–and champagne. The gathering: One old friend, and many strangers. They were scientists, medical researchers, writers, accomplished and serious artists. The time: One night after the Iowa caucus.

In sum: This was a group of serious intellectuals of a decidedly, Democratic Party bent.

Sally began the conversation with: “Is Return Voyage political?”

I answered, “Naturally there are elements of the Native Hawaiian experience that are political, and there are sovereignty groups that addresss them. However, Return Voyage is about finding common ground, identifying the cultural and spiritual strengths all humans share.”

Sally turned her back, looked at her other neighbor, and talked about Obama.  She never looked back.

I confess to a distinct  empathy for Sally. I have been a political reporter and war correspondent for much of my life–and I continued to be a political junkie long after.

Naturally, in these ten years living on Hawaiian beaches with ‘Iokepa–with absolutely no predictable source of income–all money that found us went towards food, never for that indulgence…a New York Times.  My addiction to news took a decided hit.  But on that night in Cleveland Heights–with ‘Iokepa to my right, and the party, lively and loud,  busily dissecting the relative strengths of Obama, Clinton or Edwards–I felt that old zest returning like an alcoholic taking a single sip.

And yet  my husband, articulate and charismatic at any gathering, sat silent–stoic as a Buddha.  I dove in. Yet the water felt different than it would have before these years immersed in Native Hawaiian culture. The words felt predictable and shallow–though clearly these people were anything but.

And finally, with the unlikely turn of conversation to an American political issue–Creationism versus Evolution–’Iokepa entered the fray and the table made way. ‘ He simply refused that dichotomy.  He insisted that other people’s questions too often define our choices–and we must not allow it.  Our choices are wider and deeper than the political pundits, the journalists, and the intellectuals allow.

‘Iokepa sat silently to make clear that we cannot be drawn into someone else’s, “Reality,” unless we allow it. We must define our own.

So:  Return Voyage is not political. The Native Hawaiian people were not political. They were deeply spiritual–deeply connected to the web that is creation. They knew their part in it.  They knew their strengths.  And perhaps the next time someone tells us that the solutions to the world’s problems come only through our politicians and our political process, we might find the strength, the imagination, and the insight to find a different answer deep within ourselves.

No one can take away our freedom–we can only choose to give it away.