Sisterchicks Do the Hula (17 page)

What was that verse in Psalm 100? Something about “bring a
gift of laughter.” That’s what I’m bringing to You today, Lord, because You have filled me with such joy!

The shore looked different from this vantage point in the water, not the same as when we were in the catamaran. I felt like a mermaid, popping my head up to see the stretch of white sand dotted with people. Beyond the sand was a gathering of trees at Kapiolani Park. Rising behind the trees,
mauka
, were the hills that lined a broad, green valley. I floated on my back, watching a flock of fluffy clouds hop over the hills like spring lambs out for a frolic while the trade winds tried to herd them back out to sea.

In all the world there can’t be a more beautiful place than right here, right now
.

Slowly puttering my way toward shore on the tail of a frothy wave, I rose and shook the salt water from my ears and hair. I could feel Emilee doing itty-bitty flip-flops as I strode back to my towel.

“Hey, little surfer girl,” Laurie greeted me and handed me a towel to dry my face. “I saw you out there splashing around. Looked like you were having fun.”

“It was delicious! This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. The water is so warm.”

“I know. Hey, don’t lie down yet. I fixed your spot. Now you can lie on your stomach. I hollowed out a little dip so Emilee can burrow in the sand.”

“You’re too good to me, Laurie.”

“I try.”

After slathering myself with more sunscreen, I nestled in my custom-designed space and kept telling Laurie how beautiful the water was.

“You know,” she said. “I think God must really enjoy the way you appreciate His creation so much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Even in college you were always noticing the moon or the shape of a certain leaf. You appreciate the beauty of creation more than anyone I know. I thought of that the other evening when you read that verse about inviting God to enjoy His creation.”

“Oh, right. In Psalm 104.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, because I know what it’s like to enjoy something I’ve created.”

“Like your photos,” I said.

“Exactly. But what would it be like for the thing that was created to turn around and express mutual enjoyment of the moment to the Creator?”

I wasn’t sure I followed her.

“Think of all the criticism God must hear every day. But not from you, Hope. Every day I hear you express awe and delight for everything around you that He created. You are enjoying His work of art right alongside Him, yet you are part of that work of art. Can you imagine how that must make Him feel?”

I couldn’t.

“I think I understand something I never understood before.”

“What’s that?” The revelations seemed to be coming at Laurie so quickly I couldn’t even try to keep up.

“I think I understand how deeply the Creator must love the parts of His creation that love Him back.”

“Laurie, you definitely are getting wise in your old age.”

She didn’t respond. She seemed deep in thought.

I closed my eyes and settled in for a little snooze. I slept so soundly that when I woke, I told Laurie she should patent her sand-belly bed and find a way to sell it to pregnant women who had a hard time getting comfortable enough to fall asleep.

“The sand might get a little messy,” she said. “But aside from that, sure. Why not?”

“What was that Hawaiian oven Amy told us about last night?”

“The imu?”

“Yes. You could call your invention the imu and sell it to people on the islands who have beach houses because they’re used to a lot of sand everywhere, right?”

“Hope, they use an imu to roast little piggies.”

“Oh, that’s right. Never mind.”

Deciding we were done roasting our thoroughly salted little piggies in the hot sand, Laurie and I returned our beach equipment to the “dude” at the surf shack and headed back to our room. But we got sidetracked when we saw the Saturday market at Kapiolani Park across the street from the beach.

From a distance, it appeared similar to flea markets I’d frequented in Connecticut, with two notable differences. First, the
ever-present trade winds kept the tarp flaps in motion. It looked like the blue sheets were cooling themselves and their shelterees with languid fanning motions. That did not happen at New England flea markets. The summer air sits upon my corner of the world like a fat and sassy cat who only occasionally flicks its tail to give the impression of some movement. I much preferred the island breezes.

The second difference was the types of items sold. Aside from the usual T-shirts, candles, and handmade silver jewelry, this outdoor market carried things I’d never seen sold at home. One booth offered wind chimes made of coconut shells. Another carried polished gourds and teakwood salad bowls. We passed a booth that sold lava stones and shark teeth. These two items were wrapped with braided twine, and a sign promised increased energy flow to the
kapu
regions of the brain when worn around the forehead.

Laurie and I kept walking.

The booth that caught our attention was one where an artist sat doing calligraphy. His gray-streaked hair swirled down his back in one long tendril, like a tornado. He appeared to be in his fifties, but his skin looked as though it was already in its eighties.

Hanging from a Peg-Board behind him were dozens of names written in rainbow-colored calligraphy. All the names were in Hawaiian. A list hung nearby showing the English and Hawaiian versions of names.

“There’s your name,” Laurie said.

Hope was “Mana’olana,” Laurie was “Lali,” Emilee Rose was “Emele? Loke,” and Darren was “Kaleni.”

“I wonder if all my girls are listed.” Laurie scanned the list.

“Any name you want in calligraphy, I can do it,” the artist said. “English, Japanese, Hawaiian … doesn’t matter.”

Laurie wrote down her daughters’ names, and he went to work on the three masterpieces.

I didn’t bother to have him write out my sons’ names in Hawaiian, English, or Japanese because I knew they weren’t likely to be impressed with such a souvenir.

The artist worked swiftly and skillfully. He spoke each of the names aloud before touching the brush to the paper.

“I love the way the Hawaiian language sounds,” I said to Laurie. “I wish we had asked Kapuna Kalala to teach us more Hawaiian words when we were making the leis.”

“Kapuna Kalala?” The artist looked up from his work. “She is highly honored in this area. There aren’t many
kapunas
left.”

“Isn’t
Kapuna
her first name?” I asked.

“No, it’s a title. A kapuna is a wise, elderly Hawaiian woman of distinction.”

“Well, she certainly is all of that,” Laurie said.

“Did the kapuna come near to you when she was teaching you?” he asked.

“She got very close to Hope when we were about to leave,” Laurie said. “She said a prayer over Hope and Emilee Rose.”

He dipped his head toward my middle. “Emilee Rose?”

I nodded, touching my tummy. “I’d like you to make a
name sign for Emilee, when you’ve finished with the ones for Laurie’s girls.”

Undeterred from his previous question, in spite of a new order, he asked again, “Did she come near to you? Did she breathe on you?”

“Yes. When she hugged me and said aloha, it was like she was breathing over me.”

He nodded the sort of slow head bob that comes when a person is contemplating a deep truth before speaking.

We waited to hear what he had to say.

D
o you know the meaning of the word
aloha?”
the artist asked Laurie and me. The trade winds rippled across the blue tarp that covered his humble art studio.

“Doesn’t it mean, ‘hello,’ ‘good-bye,’ or ‘love’?” Laurie asked.

He nodded. “But do you know where the word comes from?”

“No.”

I was curious but at the same time slightly on guard for clever, flea-market tactics. I was prepared to turn down anything he tried to sell us beyond the few pieces we had ordered. But he seemed more bent on imparting knowledge to us than making another buck.

“
Alo
means ‘presence’ or literally, ‘in the face.’
Ha
means ‘breath’ or ‘spirit.’ So,
aloha
means ‘to breathe into the face or share spirit with another.’ ”

“Hope, that’s what you’ve been saying it feels like when the island breezes come rushing at us—like the wind is breathing over us.”

“People who share aloha are those who draw close to another,” the artist said. “They come close enough to trust another with the essence of who they are, close enough to breathe in your face. That’s why I asked if Kapuna Kalala breathed on you.” A slow grin elevated the wrinkles in his face. “She gave you her aloha.”

“That’s quite a bit more than hello, good-bye, or I love you,” Laurie said quietly.

“Although, in some ways, it seems to include all of that at once,” I said.

The artist tapped his forehead. “The ancient Hawaiians used to go forehead to forehead when they greeted each other. Some of my Hawaiian friends who live on Molokai greet me that way when I see them.”

Laurie and I looked at each other hesitantly. I hoped she didn’t feel the compunction to try out this technique, because it had been a long time since I’d brushed my teeth that morning.

She suppressed a chuckle. “You would have to be pretty comfortable with a person before you could go forehead to forehead when you greeted them.”

“That’s right,” he said, returning to his craft. “I have read that King Kamehameha the Great, on his deathbed, went forehead to forehead with George Vancouver and breathed his aloha on him.”

“Who was Vancouver?” Laurie asked.

“An explorer who originally sailed with Captain Cook when they stumbled on these islands in the late 1700s. Cook was killed on the Big Island, you know. Vancouver returned three times. Not all the Caucasians who came here were haoles.”

“Haole,” I repeated. “No breath.”

He looked up, surprised. “That’s right. With aloha, you can trust your spirit or breath to another. With a haole, there is no breath.”

I started to cry. I could say it was hormones that pushed the big, globby tears to the surface, but I think it was something else. Something deeper and truer.

Laurie patted my arm tenderly. “You okay?”

I nodded and stepped away from the booth, sopping up the tears with the edge of my beach towel.

When I returned, I asked Laurie, “Doesn’t it seem like you’ve heard this before? Like the faint memory of a story or a dream?”

“Which part?” she asked.

“The breathing on someone part. The aloha. It’s such a beautiful image, but I can’t quite figure out why it seems so familiar.”

As I tried to put my memories and tear ducts back in working order, Laurie paid for the art, praising the artist warmly. I bought Emilee’s name in calligraphy, and Laurie bought two of the premade framed pictures of the word
aloha
calligraphied in shades of deep ocean blue.

“Our souvenirs,” she said. “So we can remember this.”

I didn’t think I’d need calligraphy to remind me of anything about this trip. Especially the word
aloha
. But I appreciated Laurie’s kindness and told her so.

As we strolled through the park, many of the vendors were taking down their stalls and calling it a day.

“Did I ever tell you that my mom came here in the fifties?” Laurie asked. “Her parents brought the family here for vacation soon after Hawai’i became a state. She said it was a pity because you and I wouldn’t find any of the ‘old’ Hawai’i left. I think she’s wrong. I think it’s extraordinary the way we’ve been exposed to such a blending of the old and the new.”

“I know. I wonder if most tourists have similar experiences, or if God is doing something for the two of us.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. But the whole ‘unforced rhythm of grace’ concept with the hula and the kapuna with the leis, and now the meaning of
aloha …
”

“I think all of it is to prepare you to be a graceful, loving mama this second time around.”

I was surprised that Laurie thought all the lessons applied to me. “I was thinking it was all about you doing something with your art. I mean, think of that man back there with his calligraphy. What a unique talent. Yet he’s using it. And I’m glad he is.”

Laurie stopped in front of a tie-dyed T-shirt booth and wagged her finger at me. “No, you don’t. Stop right there. It’s
one thing for you to talk me into getting up on a surfboard, but I’m not ready to start selling my art at a flea market.”

“Who said anything about flea markets?”

“You did.”

“I was only trying to say that … never mind.” I had the same feeling inside that I get when I’m at church and the pastor is preaching an especially convicting sermon. I tend to look around and think of how the other people in the pews really should be paying attention to his words.

“Go ahead. What were you trying to say?” Laurie’s expression softened.

“I shouldn’t be projecting all this on you. All I’m saying is that your photos are wonderful. You should do something with them.”