Intricate and colorful structures stretch out from the walls, like the first page of an expensive pop-up book, filling the air with life. Each story has it’s own space, whakapapa and patience created beauty in each stroke of paint or curve in the wood, waiting for the practiced voices of storytellers that will allow them to dance. I feel overcome by the weight of the care and respect this Hapu has for their history and their people. I wish I could find a way to describe in words what I’ve seen with my eyes, wrap moments like this up into a little box and hand them to others to share. At the same time that I feel frustrated by my inability to accurately describe such beauty, I also feel incredibly lucky to have had experiences where I doubt even the most talented writer could make their reader feel the way I did in that moment. The gift comes from the bond that is shared only between those present, from the feel of the ocean against my hands, and the afternoon sunlight warming my hair, impossible to recreate but cherished in memory.
The beautifully carved women who stand around me all have a story; they all have a name, just like the living, breathing people who sit in this room with me now. All of the women are real people who used to be young, who were born and lived and died, who have grandparents and family and little colorful children rolling around their skirts and arms. Their faces mean things, you study the strong wood lips and you can see confidence, longing, or patience. Perhaps these are only the traits that I match them with, but the point is that each has its place, and they are unique.
Across from me is the panel that represents death; it is where the loved ones are placed during the time of mourning. Above the space where they’ll lay is Maui, the bright trickster that was cunning and daring, and yet even he fell to the clutches of death when the time came. The faces of the people surrounding the area are curved and twisted, writhing in a state of chaos. Anguish breathes from their wide eyes and curling limbs, for they are brave enough to acknowledge the pain that comes from losing a loved one, therefore giving their people permission to grieve passionately.
Behind me is our space. I slept under the artwork that represents northern winds, strangers and friends blowing together to become whanau, to become one. I love that idea so much, Bubba says that once we are here, we are connected, we have protection and faith and this room, this glorious, precious house, can be our church too. People like you, and me, and those that came before and will come later, they can be part of our religion.
Above the heads of Cathy and Zoë is the panel that represents whakapapa. All of these people holding each other up, surrounded by ripples, like dropping a stone into a calm pond and watching the vibrations travel, steady and fluid, continuous and reliable. I love the colors, the strong eyes, the woman who stands to my right with a tired, proud face and thirteen children climbing around her. I close my eyes, and I hear them laughing, I see her arms struggling to cover them all, and I want to know more. More about who she is, and where all of those children went after her, how many families did they create? I want to know more about all of them; I walked in circles yesterday, opening up each stomach to see what their people had left inside. Some of them were empty, or there were family trees, papers, a feather, and once, a sparkling blue stone.
My favorite panel is the one over the door. It represents Te Ao Marama, into the world of light, both the light of the creation myth, and that of knowledge and progress. Steps and vines illustrate the journey we must take, sometimes struggling, sometimes stopping, but always moving. I think the marama, the light, it can be anything you want. Love or solitude, understanding or acceptance, success or happiness, all that matters is that we realize we are climbing. Just like our group that trudged up Mt. Ngarahoe and Kepler track, we do not give up, we don’t back down. Each one of us is similar, one in our search, connected by the eternal instincts of human nature, and all of our stories are waiting to come to alive.
