Ritual Rain in Kapalakiko

I know this to be true: It never rains on hula night.
Don't ask me how. Just take me at my word. I know a lot of strange things and that which I don't know is rarely filled in with inaccuracies; hyperbole for sure, but never lies.


It may rain day of. It may rain after I get home. It may even rain during class, but it's never rained going to class or coming home - until last Wednesday.

As I was driving to class in the rain I thought 'this has got to be a sign.' Turns out it was.

Last class Kumu talked about (and I'm paraphrasing, not using his words exactly) that we've kind of found ourselves in a hula rut. Week after week we follow the same pattern; we go to class, warm up, dance, have table time, dance and then we go home. We have become lazy about showing up on time. We aren't fully present while in class.

What was once ritual has become routine.

I totally agree. Sometimes I miss class because I have a legitimate reason - I'm away for work or Hubby has a deadline on a story he has to get out and can't watch the kiddies. Sometimes I don't have a good excuse and just feel like playing hooky or watching The Middle. Sometimes my absence falls into a gray area of legitimate. I spend so much time at work and sometimes have overnight trips that I feel guilty for not spending enough time with my kids. Hubby says it's fine and I should go to class, but sometimes I just can't tear myself away from my babies.

Missing class hurts. It hurts me because I miss out on a night of practice, a night of instruction, a night of spending time with a great group of people I wouldn't ever have gotten to know were it not for hula. Not going to class hurts the rest of the class as well. I notice when people are missing. I'm sad when people leave. We need to be able to feed off of each other and dance as one. We can't do that when parts of us are missing. Going to class to learn from Kumu doesn't just make us better dancers. It makes us stronger as a class.

It's something I've come to count on. It's something I've come to crave. There's an intangible "something" I miss when I'm not in class.

Last Wednesday's rain washed away the routine and gave us the opportunity to start anew.

Going forward I'm excited to be able to say "it never rains on hula night, except for that one time . . . . "

The Kaona of Rain

It rained last night. 

I can't verify it, but in my head it's only rained twice on hula night. The first time it rained, Kumu gathered everyone and spoke about how we had turned the ritual of hula into a routine. That we had become lazy and needed to remember why we dance. We needed to remember to be present, both physically and mentally or spiritually. That class stayed with me. I think about it frequently.

Like I said, it was raining that night. The rain was washing away the malaise our class was experiencing as a whole, giving us a new chance to reconnect with hula, and each other in class; a clean puka to dance in.

That was the last time it rained on hula night, until last night.

It poured on the way to hula. I knew it meant something. Just like last time, it was a sign, an `ōuli if you will. Something was being washed away, making room for something new.

We're getting ready for a Ho'ike Nui 'Elua. 

Four years ago at this time we were preparing for Ho'ike Nui `Ekahi. It was an amazing experience to dance with so many of my hula brothers and sisters. But most of the time I was really disappointed in myself. I was in the back rows for most of the pieces we danced. I knew it was because I wasn't giving my hula dancing the respect it deserved. I wasn't practicing enough. I was getting by. I was disappointed not with the spot that Kumu had given me, but rather because I knew I wasn't doing my best. I knew I could do better but I wasn't doing it.

Last night's rain reminded me to dance harder, practice more. Last night's rain reminded me that I feel great when I dance well. I feel great when I practice. Dancing doesn't come naturally to me. I know that I struggle with learning a dance. I know I'm stronger at memorizing chants and pules than I am at picking up a new dance. But when I do get it, when I do nail that particular move, my dancing changes. I'm happier. I'm more confident. I don't throw anyone off.

It took the rain to remind me that I can do this. I just have to do it.

Booger-head Boyfriend.

Yesterday I told Little Miss the story of my first boyfriend --

I was about 4 years old. I went to Sunday School at St. Paul's Lutheran Church in Long Beach. We went every Sunday, rain or shine until I was in the 3rd grade. Then we started going to Bethany (every sunday, rain or shine). Anyhow, when I was 4 my boyfriend was named Rocky and he was in my Sunday School class. Our teacher was named Peggy and she had big ankles and her slip was usually slipping down an inch or two below the length of her dress. Rocky had a little bit of a speech impediment and called her Piggy.

One day during Circle Time we were all standing in a circle (hence the name) and holding hands and singing "Jesus loves the little Children. All the Children of the World. Red and Yellow, Black and White, they are precious in his site. Jesus loves the little Children of the World" You know the song. Well, maybe you don't but anyways, right in the beginning of the second verse "Jesus died for all the Children . . . .", Rocky wiped his nose on my arm. I kept trying to position my arm so that he would wipe his nose on his arm but he wouldn't budge. On my arm his boogers went. That was the end of him.

I don't remember seeing him at church or sunday school very much after that. I think I avoided him. Other people's boogers are super gross.

The Pregnancy Posts

So my sweet baby Little Mister is almost a year old. Here are some myspace musings about my pregnancy with him.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007
It’s a smelly smell that smells smelly
So now that I'm with child, pregnant, knocked-up, stuffed, whatever ,that's me . . .I can smell everything.
I hate the bus in the morning. There are these three guys who get on who smell like garlic, cigarettes and no shower. Whereever I'm sitting they have to sit next to me. there's also "perfume sprayed on her clothes and in her hair" lady, "too much cologne and not enough shower" man, and my favorite "hard boiled eggs and breathmints" girl. ew.Things also taste funny. Yesterday the sour cream and onion Lays I tried tasted just like swimming pool water.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Pregnancy is making me mean
Today muni was crowded. I had to wait forever for the L. I had the smarts to take whatever train to West P. and then wait for the L so most of the train ride wasn't so bad. However, when I got on the L it was super crowded. I unbuttoned my jacket, stuck my pregnant belly out as far as I could and no one gave me a seat. In fact, most of the other Sunset residents on the train closed their eyes and pretended I wasn't there. I decided to choose a target. I saw a 20 year old girl who I thought had a strong back and should give me her seat. I stood right beside her and stared at her. I didn't take my eyes off of her. Then she turned up her ipod and closed her eyes. I moved closer to the point where everytime the train jerked, my belly hit her shoulder. I wish it would have hit her head, but my belly isn't that big yet. Then I got a seat, perpendicular to her. I positioned my feet and my backpack so she had to really squirm to get out of her seat. When she did, I moved my foot a little bit and tripped her. She didn't fall. She just stumbled for half a second. After I did it, I didn't exactly feel bad, but I did notice how mean pregnancy is making me.Does this make me a bad person?

Monday, January 21, 2008
These things are good: ice cream and cake, a ride on a harley, seeing monkeys in the trees, the rain on my tongue, and the sun shining on my face.
These things are a drag: dust in my hair, holes in my shoes, no money in my pocket, and the sun shining on my face.

Sunday, March 02, 2008
The Baby and My Butt
When the baby hiccups, I feel it in my butt. It's like he's tapping me from inside my butt. Stop it.

Monday, March 10, 2008
My baby is not Oaklandish
Lemme start out by saying -- Baby is still tucked away safely inside me with no plans on his part to come out early.Last night I had to go to Labor and Delivery. Blood pressure stuff. No baby yet. After I had blood drawn and been checked out, but before the results came back, the doctor came in and said they were going to admit me for observation, bring my bp down, control my pre-eclampsia and such, and then decide if they needed to induce me. Then she said something really ugly. She said that there was a nursing shortage and I might have to be transported to Oakland. The first thing out of my mouth was "My baby will not be born in Oakland." Tom agreed, whole heartedly. We were prepared to tell the nursing staff that if they didn't get me a bed in the SF hospital, we were going home. Tom and I are proud San Francisco transplants full of that San Francisco zeal that most of you understand. Our daughter is native, our son will be also.
update - the baby was born 2 days later, in San Francisco.

Monday, March 17, 2008
Little Mister Update
Hello Everybody,Just thought I’d give everyone a little update aboutour little man. Seems naming him after Odysseus, themighty King of Ithaca is fitting. He is certainly ona little journey, trying to get home.Little Mister was born on Wednesday, 3/12 at6pm. He had a pretty rocky start, but is on his wayto getting better.To date, at 5 days old our little boy has endured a blood transfusion, chest x-rays, and EEG, ultrasounds, spinal tap, numerous blood draws. He’s been on and off supplemental oxygen more times than I can count and his newest battle that he needs to conquer is having seizures. Jury is still out on what’s causing those.The good thing is that to look at him, he looks like anormal 5 day old little boy. He’s eating, crying, protesting when being prodded, making all those sweet little baby noises and grunts that babies make. The doctors are pleased with his progress, but perplexed at some of the difficulties he’s having. However, we are encouraged as we keep hearing the medical staffusing words like "cautiously optimistic". Funny thing is that at only 6.7 pounds, he’s a giant in the NICU as all of the babies he shares his wingwith were born at somewhere between 27 and 33 weeks. All of his little friends in the NICU can’t be more than 4 pounds. They are so tiny. He’s the only term baby there. All of the parents of all the babies are so nice. It’s nice to have them to talk to. I know I can’t complain as much as they have a right to as their babies have much longer journeys than mine does. Some of them have been there for over a month, still eat from tubes and can’t breathe on their own. I can’t imagine having to go through what they do.We spend our days at the hospital after we drop Little Miss off at school, and our nights are spent wherever the baby needs us. Mostly I come home for a little while to hang out w/ Little Miss, then Hubby drives me back to the hospital to stay in the NICU’s parent room, which consists of a fold-out couch and the worst shower in the world. Tonight I’m treating myself and staying at home, getting a decent meal and shower and hanging outwith Little Miss. I think I’ll even have a beer. It’s been about 9 months since I’ve been able to enjoy one.No ETA on when little Mister will be coming home.Keep us in your thoughts and prayers, light a candle,chant, send extra aloha spirit, what every you do,please do it.Thanks,Andrea

Monday, March 24, 2008
Yay. Little Mister is Home.
Hooray! Little Mister is home. He came home Saturday afternoon. No more full night’s sleep for me. A small price to pay for having my boy at home. My little night-owl is just perfect and I’m so happy he’s home. We have drs. visits about once a week for a few months, another EEG is in his future, and possibly another MRI. He’s got meds to take every night for until, well, the giant bottle we got runs out. But he’s home. Yay. He’s home

Gifts - and making Martin Luther a little pissed about those darn donuts.

Last Sunday was Pentecost. Hubby, Kiddies and I went to Church. We didn't go because it was Pentecost, we just went, and then realized "Hey, it's Pentecost. We picked a good day to go to Church."

If you're not familiar with what Pentecost is, click here. OK, yes, it's a link to the wikipedia's Pentecost page, but it explains Pentecost in a nutshell without sounding all preachy and stuff.

Anyhow, this day is frequently referred to as the Birthday of the Church. What do we get on our birthdays? Cake, yes. And what else? That's right, presents. Yay presents.

I grew up in the church. When I was a kid we went to church every sunday, rain or shine, sick or well. We weren't allowed to spend the night at our friends' houses on saturdays because we had to go to church on Sunday. We couldn't stay up and watch Fantasy Island because it was on too late and wouldn't be able to get a good night's sleep to be awake for church. We also had to go to 8am church. My mom didn't want to go to 10:30 church because she said too much of the day was gone. When we started going to Bethany, my two oldest sisters either said they had to work, or they didn't live with us anymore, and they stopped going. My sister who is just older than me and I still went every Sunday. They would make us go to Sunday School while they went out to breakfast. We were always late to Sunday School, and sometimes we'd skip it because we spent too long sneaking over to St. Cyprians across the street to get doughnuts, and yes, we spent all our offering money at the Catholic Church getting doughnuts. I asked my mom once (only once) why she and my dad didn't have to go to adult sunday school while we went to regular sunday school. She said they didn't need to go. As I got older I realized it was probably one of the only times during the week they got to spend alone together. With 4 kids, they probably didn't get to spend much time without a kid around. But still, they should have gone if they were going to make us go.

Anyhow, back to the presents.

Growing up I was taught that God gives us gifts, special talents. These gifts serve two purposes. One - they serve as proof that God exists, Two - using these gifts praises God.

Growing up I was always really pissed off that I didn't have a gift. I don't play any musical instrument with any particular skill - I used to play the flute and I strum on the ukulele a little bit but I'm no Herbie Mann or Jake Shimabukuro. I like to cook, but I'm not the best cook ever. I can sing without breaking glasses or making dogs howl but I won't be making any gold records. I can hula dance, but most of the people I dance with are way better than me. I can acquit myself well on many things, but I wouldn't say that any of these things are my gifts.
The pastor on Sunday talked about a type of gift I hadn't realized. It falls under the first category of gifts - they serve as proof that God exists. He said that anyone can learn how to play the piano and they can become quite proficient if they practice for 6 hours every day.  Anyone can accomplish just about whatever they set their minds on. It doesn't mean that that one thing is their gift.  It just means they practice a lot. That's not to say it can't be their gift, it just means that it might not necessarily be their gift.
A gift, he said, can be sprung upon you at any time in the form of showing courage at a time when it is really needed or having the gift of debating someone when you aren't really known for making great arguments.

So, I'm still waiting for mine. Maybe I have it already and I'm too stupid to see it. Maybe it's just germinating inside me and it'll pop out of the soil soon. Maybe it'll be sprung upon me at a time when I need it most.
I'm cool to wait. I'm paid by the hour.