He puko'a kani 'aina: Nene and 'Alala

"...Insights come in a flash. Your internalization of the information can take as long as you need. If someone is pushing you for an answer or an action NOW, that should be a red flag to slow down and evaluate the intent and scope of the ask. Because it IS an ask. Your permission is required. Don’t give it without understanding. Mars-Chiron can set us on the back foot, wanting to find balance immediately. First find solid ground (information) on which to settle..." - Satori

Nene Photographed by Joel Sartore

There was hail -- pellets of frozen rain that fall in showers from cumulonimbus clouds--  hitting the metal and plastic roof. Still dark the mid-October morning pelted me with the reasons that fed the origins for believing it was time to head for home. Head for the islands where Nene and `Alala prevail despite the odds against them. Sheltered against the frozen rain inside the small room Pete built using the east-facing wall of the large two-car garage electricity courses through the thick extension cords: lights flick on, heat radiates from the heaters, the small screen of the HP laptop brings virtual reality to my present. The warmth from the thick red fleece robe and mouse-nibbled wool socks encase me as I turn the large burner on outside. I squeeze under the eaves and wait for the water to come to a boil to make peppermint tea with honey. I hybridize life on the borders here in the woods and dive into the metaphor and the reality of life from a small golden wagon.

A myth is in the making, slowly telling a version of our journey. One version of the story is put here to record our forward-backward-slowly unfurling process. Head for the islands where Nene and 'Alala prevail despite the odds against them. The myth waits like the coyote who met Pete on the road yesterday. Unlike the neighbors' dogs, Coyote does not bark and Coyote does not run when the long lean old man breaks the boundary of his territory. It is not dark yet, both predators walk the same path. The Coyote eventually makes the next move. It is myth calling for its place. We will move from these woods soon; these woods where our black cat and familiar, JOTS, was taken by Coyote. It was a courtesy call of sorts, a recognition. Pete knew the sign.  I hear the story secondhand but I am moved.

Our friend Teri sent us the picture above,  'Alala, the Hawaiian Crow along with the recording of the voice of the nearly-extinct family of Raven. I wrote back and said, "'Alala weaves in and out of my medicine stories (myth)." The Joy Weed Journal is the story that called up the memory of 'Alala. It was a small, possible connection. Easily unrecognized to the uninitiated. A mutant memory. But for a myth-maker, THAT is cause for connection. I wrote the word, the bird, into the medicine and drank it down to make solid ground.

Nene and The Woman Colored Pencil and Ink Drawing by Yvonne Mokihana Calizar

"She couldn't remember when there were many people to talk with. There was Ma, but she'd been gone -- what? She'd been gone nearly thirty years; they meet in dreams.

"Such deep and complex thoughts," Nene considered the responsibility.
"The woman came that way as a girl. Don't expect her be different. Realize. She doesn't let on to many people." 'Alala had a spirit, and voice, that would appear at critical times. This was as it should be for birds who live at the edges of time.

Nene found the woman when both were well past their bloodmoon times. They were aged and broken in ways easily seen: hinges held the goose together at critical junctions. A mask filtered the toxic air for the woman. Well enough, mostly." - from Myth Still Growing (that story with no set title)

The hail has passed, the rain left pools at the mouth of the downspout at the garage's corner, in front of the hale's (that's Hawaiian pronounced ha-lay with an accent on the 'ha') roof line, and at the edges of the vardo. Pete slept with the burgundy curtain shielding him from the porch light I left ablaze. More rain fell. The olive oil outside is solid. Temperatures are falling. This wet season brings winter. The season we had hoped to avoid is here. We are still here. The myth still grows.