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It’s been 27 years since ‘Iokepa surrendered a life of work, play, and abundant comfort. That many years since he’s swapped all that might be measured by a bank account, personal ambition, or the accumulation of possession for the intangible goal of faith in his ancient Native Hawaiian culture.
Change is inevitable, whether we welcome it - or vigorously oppose it. 'Iokepa and I have attempted for these past twenty years to actively surrender to those forces. We look for guidance, and try not to let our whims impede the larger purposes. It's not always easy. We're human and the temptation to impose our own will is so very...enticing. I smile as I write those words, because I'm reminded of an acquaintance on our most recent tour saying: "I may not always be right, but I am always certain."
In these nineteen years together, 'Iokepa and I have made a practice of crossing the Pacific Ocean twice annually. It's something we do alone as a couple. We fly to the continent to speak the words of the Native Hawaiian ancestors - and after some months, we fly back home. We visit with our family and friends in both places, but we don't cross the Pacific Ocean with them. Yet, there seems to have been an omnipresent someone who has shadowed our airplane's jet trail over these many years. Madi Kertonegoro is an accomplished visual artist from the Island of Bali.
A dear friend, who graciously hosts us when our work takes us to New York City, posed this semi-sardonic question. She'd read our post announcing that - after eighteen years sleeping in tents, car seats, and rapidly shifting house-sits - we'd been gifted a home of our own. Her question prodded me. Clearlywe owe our readers a bit more of the story. Snug in an actual "home of our own" (and no, we neither own it, nor do we pay the expenses involved in owning); we have been gifted its permanence and its comforts. We chose it, no strings attached.
'Iokepa and I have been gratified by the considerable response to the "Add Your Voice to the Cry for Freedom" essay that precedes this one on this page. From just one of our supporters in faraway Virginia: "My eyes were filled with tears as I read the Ever Changing Page account of 'Iokepa at the hearings. It surely feels as if the tide is starting to turn. What an amazing and intense time. I was picturing and feeling 'Iokepa... broadcasting out from within as he stood before the Hawaiians gathered at the hearing. How empowering. It is really happening. It touches a cry deep place within me. I am looking forward to watching this all unfold. The U.S. government is facing way more than they realize. The light is overcoming the dark."
We flew from Kaua'i to Seattle on December 27. On December 28, we had an incredibly glamorous Grandmothers Whisper book event in a hair salon! The following day, we claimed our parked Camry and winter clothes from a friend's home within site of Mt. Rainier - and just three days ago we began our cross-country drive for the eleventh time in just over four years. We have only six nights to make the crossing East.
There is nothing more humbling (or exciting) than attendance, in one short and compressed week at: the international Book Expo of America; the Jewish Book Council's kick-off of their nationwide authors' tour; the Flying Eagle Woman's Fund annualcelebration of women who have powerfully contributed to justice for indigenouspeoples. Nothing at all like the week that 'Iokepa and I (and the book, Grandmothers Whisper) just experienced.
This is the story of trust, faith, and the powerful support that accrues when we agree to use our unique gifts, our best natures, and take the path ofgreatest good--to fulfill our life's purpose. Every one of us has one. Our task, really, is to find it--and then, fearlessly, to live it. For thirteen years now, 'Iokepa Hanalei 'Imaikalani has actively reclaimed his aboriginal Hawaiian history, language and culture. He has (at his ancestors' insistence) carried not a scrap of paper that might confuse his native identity with an American one. That has meant, of course, he carries no American driver's license, uses no social security number.
Our dear friends, Diane and Bill, were married thirty-some years ago by a Presbyterian minister in Indianapolis. It was in all ways a family-sanctioned, conventional, and presumably very lovely wedding. Over these many years the couple's spiritual practices unavoidably evolved. From a stalwart adherent of the traditional Episcopal church in Virginia, Diane studied, searched, and found her way to ordination as a Universal Worship minister herself.
'Iokepa and I have spent the last week in the Florida home of a bright, sweet, and talented young man. ("Young," now defined, as somewhere between the ages of our four children.) He was a stranger, and he opened his home to us.
So, the Return Voyage metaphor turns literal today. This enormous expanse of continental United States lay now between 'Iokepa, me--and home. Two twelve-hour days of driving--from Baltimore to Urbana, Illinois, and from there to Mitchell, South Dakota--are under our belts and we are exhausted. But three more days of strenuous drive lay ahead of us.
I wonder aloud: "Is ritual, removed from the context of community, a distortion of the purpose of ritual?" Jews require a minyon--a community of ten--for most prayer and ritual. Kanaka Maoli gather into a communal circle for ho'oponopono.
Return Voyage spent the last week visiting, at the edge of the Everglades, in southernmost Florida. We were privileged to hike throughout this remarkable and exotic landscape, for the first time in our longish lives. In these past days, we saw all manner of bird life: Cormorant, Grey Heron, Peacock in the wild, Anhinga (a species I'd neither sighted, nor pronounced before then). I was pecked by a Pelican--nothing personal--he was after the fish in my bucket. For the nature-absorbed and absorbing Hawaiian by my side: There were all manner of mangrove, fern, and unusual growing trees and plants to commune with.
I will not belabor this. I will simply try to explain. This promised, "Ever Changing Page" has been unchanging for more than two full weeks. And like a kid who has missed the deadline for her term paper--"The dog ate it." "It was lost in the mail."--I feel more than a bit chagrined to be offering excuses. There really are none.
We are in Southwestern, Virginia, and for me--who reared young sons in Roanoke from 1986 to 1994--it is a coming home. Nowhere are people more compassionate, less likely to erect barriers to intimacy--or more falsely maligned--than in the heart of the old Confederacy. I was guilty of just such regional accusations and stereotypes--until I lived here. My small family came to depend on the kindness of total strangers in those vulnerable years, and we were never disappointed. I yearned to bring 'Iokepa "home" with me. He (with his long silver hair and his brown aboriginal face) has yet to meet a stranger here.
