Written by Hawaii Semester Overseas Educator, Fiona
What did you ask of the island?
You asked to explore, both “the outdoors” and within.
You asked not just to see the world, but to be folded up with the mountains and oceans and sun and waves.
You asked for a different form of education.
You asked for a break, a pause, a reset.
You asked to receive, attain, be shown something, perhaps so you could become something.
You asked to be more present.
What are you bringing home?
Your bags are bursting with t-shirts, hoodies, slides, and slippahs. Your water bottles are covered in new stickers. Your wrists and ankles are adorned with shells and stones. Your skin is a novel constellation of cuts from coral, scrapes from lava rocks, red bumps that may or may not be bug bites, vaguely itchy blobs, healing sunburn, unexplained tan lines. A few sea urchin parts made it past the USDA inspection, embedded in your feet. Your nails look great, thank you very much. You seem to have misplaced your tent and sim card, but no worries, you don’t even need them anymore!
After the sight of familiar lands as the plane glides down, the sound and smell of your own winds and rains, the face of the one who picks you up, reunion hugs and tears, dog kisses and cat squooshes… After the dumping of bags, the walk through your room, everything just where you left it – or not – the first night in your own bed… The long shower, the shave of whatever body part(s), the deep clean of your hair… After opening mail, checking messages, calling your manager about getting back on the schedule… You look around and wonder. Is everything back to normal? Given that no one came down with a fever, we sure talked about fever dreams a lot. Which was the fever dream, there or here, then or now?
Everything is the same, but you see with new eyes. After watching the group water run down at Miloli’i, you notice your own tap running freely. After harvesting, washing, grading, and packing vegetables Upcountry, you notice how full your fridge is, how often you casually open it, what you are expecting to find inside. After sleeping wet and mud-stained surrounded by the most peculiar smells, you notice how your room is wow-wow-wee-wow so very nice. After cutting your feet on so many pointy no-nos in the land and sea, you even start to notice the simple presence of flat ground.
You notice your own mood. You witness your joys, sadness, confusion, boredom, indecision, convictions, anxieties, excitement, passions, fears. You notice old habits returning, how you speak and joke and bicker and play, and you wave goodbye to other habits that fell away like worn out crocs (RIP). You notice curiosity and love in the faces of friends and family, how truly happy others are to see you, how much power your presence and absence can impart.
And in the moments in-between, you wonder.
After hula and oli with Ua, you wonder what stories are worth finding, forgetting, remembering, and perpetuating?
After sitting with Khadija, you wonder about walls – especially the invisible kind. Who built them? Were they always there? What purpose do they serve? Or maybe you are just wondering what was in the unnamed liquid we tasted.
After swimming at Ho’opuloa, snorkeling for he’e and mano and humuhumunukunukuapua’a, diving for wana, rock hopping for ‘opihi, throwing net for ‘ōpelu, you wonder what you truly need to care for yourself and those you love?
After re-opening the ‘auwai with Alohi, you wonder why do people blossom and shine, at the risk of getting hurt? And when we are hurt, why try again? How?
You unpack in a few days, already the next class, job, or trip is waiting, and l-i-f-e-g-o-e-s-o-n. Weeks pass, maybe months, and ever so slowly, you start to unpack your most volatile cargo – new ideas, new ways of knowing, new ways of being.
You may have brought home a practice of intention. You choose which direction to point the nose of your canoe. You think about your words, whether to give them breath. You know what you want, and ask for it. You know what you don’t want, and hold boundaries. You have a reason for each action. You see your actions building towards larger outcomes.
You may have brought home selfless kindness, and giving without expectation. You bring a little extra food and drinks for others. You give a few more smiles, supportive words, time out of your day, knowledge. You start to notice others who do the same, and connect with them.
You may have brought home (wait for it, wait for it, cringe with me) a glimmer of aloha spirit. What is that? A blog post sure won’t cover it. We learned aloha is not really hello, and it’s not really goodbye. If you found it, share it. Kōkua.
Ua mau ke ea o ka ʻāina i ka pono
A hui hou – until next time
