7/9/91, Big Island At least I am consistent as to when I wake up. 7:30 AM and my biorhythm is kicking me out of bed and to the curb. Meanwhile, Marilyn snores deeply. I like the stillness of the house. Yesterday we stopped up by to see Ed and Nina’s Victorian house that they built from scratch, called Toad Hall, a monstrosity that has them asking why did I build this house? Ed loves it. He says the only way he can stay retired is to be here in Hawaii working on the house. He was a labor lawyer. The good fight.
Soon it will be the seventh hour of the 11th day of the seventh month, the belief in the promise of sanctuary: pu’uhonua. And a total eclipse of the sun. Big juju.
In the City of Refuge, I find promise of sanctuary. Oleg writes that Texas is like the southern Ukraine and how he misses me. Yesterday the air was gray with volcanic ash. Returning to the sanctuary, I am reminded again of what I thought I wanted so desperately was like volcanic ash. How I desperately plunged into the sea in order to overcome the vestiges of another man—was it five years ago? Was it Geoff ? How they all break my heart, but this time it’s not my heart that’s broken, oddly enough. Just the residual flotsam and jetsam of another relationship ended. Can you ever separate the two?
In Pu’uohounua a honaunau, the City, or rather Place of Refuge, you were not even allowed to cast your shadow on the outer wall if you were a commoner. I’ve done much more than that, I’ve swum pass the mouth of the tiny harbor where the kapu God warns of eminent death to all who approach. Kumulipo, the creation chant at the altar of the high chief. I leave a coral rock wrapped up in a ti leaf. This place, keone’ele, is called the Royal Landing. The ki’i god marks the channel of Honaunau Bay.
It is said the heiao still holds the bones of 23 chiefs. Mana is spiritual power. And lele is a raised platform. People came here to be absorbed by the kahuna pule. In the game of Konane, a Hawaiian cross between checkers and chess, the object of the game is to make the last move. Sort of like getting the last word in edgewise during a heated argument. Yesterday, the volcano was active.
Kapu breakers included those who escaped the fury of battle. The fragrant pandanus, the screwpine, the walking tree, neither palm nor pine, stands tall on its roots, the tree of life, the nui coconut’s leaves clatter, a staccato, and the ohia, the first tree to grow on new lava, greet us. Both ends of the wall reach for the sea, it is both a barrier and a link, separating the royalty from the commoners.
But it joined people together in the belief that there was hope for life in that place set apart by the wall, the pu’uhonua, But the heiao, not the wall, gave sanctuary. Mana, or spiritual power was thought to have remained in the bones of chiefs. But King Kamehameha II abolished the old religion in 1811. Still, people believe. Offerings of poi, rice, fish, leis.
Instinctively I entered the sanctuary from the south, from the seawall and approached the correct heiao where the sanctuary is given, wrapping a ti leaf around the coral rock and offering it to the right altar—because it felt right. I feel like I’ve passed the test.
Hours later, when I read the guidebook, I discovered that I had done everything in the right sequence. I didn’t think of it, it just happened that way. Am I a noncombatant in a time of battle, a defeated warrior or a kapu breaker?
I’ve been here twice now, given a second chance at life. What secret laws have I broken now? Seeking a new life here? What have I done? And I offended the guards, will the lava flow? Will the tidal waves ravage the coast, will the sun fall from the sky? When I leave this place, will all be forgiven?
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