Out Planting

In the before times, my moku was dense with Pūhala. They create long lau with razor sharp niho along each side and down their spine. As the leaves turn brown, they fall and can be collected and prepared for weaving. Skilled weavers made priceless items like mats that rolled out over the floors of family rooms, over generations, carrying a moʻolelo to be stewarded over time.

A stranger might disregard these ancestors as ʻrubbish plantsʻ, fast growing with their formidable teeth and habitat welcoming of pests. They might see a hale moena as a fun addition to their vacation rental to pick up at the next trip to CostPlus WorldMarket and the craft of weaving as a hobby for retirees in ‘the islands’.

But what they wouldnʻt see is that this tree takes many years to produce lau fit for weaving. That the trees take care and regular upkeep, and that each lau has to be prepared individually. That people can tell when a tree already has someone looking after it, just by the way it is kept. And that when well cared for, each weaver could have enough materials for all their needs with one single tree.

They wouldnʻt see that this skill of weaving is passed down from generation to generation, taking a lifetime or more to understand and perfect. They wouldnʻt recognize the discerning eye of a kumu that may never reveal all that they know, or that they will carefully choose who will receive the gift of their ʻike, and when.

Iʻm on the lele home, just about to land in Honolulu and feeling the shift of homecoming as a familiar pang of comfort and grief.

Sometimes when Iʻm away, people talk to me about home, like they understand culture as part of the $39.99 tropical woven mat bin or sunglass section of Walmart.

I am often mistaken for the Pūhala found in other places, mass produced after the spines and niho have been removed or reproduced to grow without them, or houseplants that set up the boho chic vibe of the Well. Perceived and understood as material for a placemat for the seasonal office party or a funny hat to wear during someone’s high school spirit week.

But my lau are still Hawaiian. They cut deep, drawing blood and tearing the skin of the careless. Settlers found it easier to remove us altogether, to start from scratch and plant more palatable trees, rather than to work with or around us. It was easier to not be burdened by the sharp, snagging lessons of dedication, of what it takes to weave a relationship over distance, over lifetimes, to pass it down with care, to have faith in it, and to learn from it.

Nearby, there are Pūhala that hold the moʻolelo of the time before, the time before the hala were taken from this ‘āina.

When I moved home, I asked a new tree to grow, and planted with it the womb that had carried my grown and deceased children, as an offering of faith in what we were building together.

Aunty told me that the age of five is the time when she will be ready to work with her lau. Will I know exactly when that is, ready? How does she know?

When I went into the store to buy some lau for practice ulana, she shook her head and told me No, not those ones. Those arenʻt from here. None of them were. So she gestured to me to follow her. From behind the counter, she pulled a small roll, pushed them toward me and said here, practice with these.

I’m slowly learning to think like a weaver, although my 50 year old fingers and eyes feel like almost five year old fingers and observations. But im practicing with faith, unwavering devotion, and patience as I receive what is ready to be revealed to me.

Puna paia 'ala i ka hala

Puna, with walls fragrant with pandanus blossoms

- ʻŌlelo Noʻeau 2749