I was a Jewish woman, living a wonderful, professional life in a progressive Northwestern city – Portland. I’d been rearing two bright and loving teenage sons since they’d been toddlers, alone. We lived in a fabulous glass-walled, hilltop home with views of the distant mountains by day, the shimmering city lights at night. I was a writer, a workshop teacher, a good friend, a responsible daughter. My home was filled with laughter, fine food, better books, and antiques I’d collected over thirty years. I wasn’t looking to change my life. I knew I was blessed.
I took an impromptu winter vacation to Hawai‘i – a reward to myself for three years work on a just completed manuscript – and a rare break from the boys. I was looking for sun, respite, and solitude. I was led instead to ‘Iokepa Hanalei ‘Īmaikalani, a powerful, silver-haired, brown-skinned kanaka maoli (aboriginal Hawaiian) who spoke regularly with his long dead grandmothers – and in the blink of an eye, my life was transformed.
A year later: I had no home, no books, no money, no career, and no friends nearby. I lived like the stranger I was, in Hawai‘i. I slept in tents on public beaches, often illegally. I owned and carried no more than would fit into an aging Toyota Camry. I often went hungry.
When I left Portland, I left a trail of friends and family who feared I’d stepped off the deep edge of Middle Earth. They were not far from the mark.
Their fears, I now know, weren’t solely for my physical well-being. It was my dependence they grieved – my sacrifice of self for a powerful man’s journey.
I spent the next year fulfilling their worst fears. I went on vacation for a week and I stayed for a lifetime.
. . .
He was moved to offer a prayer. “God, I’ve gotten to do a lot of things in my life that most men never get to do. I’ve gone at high speeds, traveled Europe, had homes, cars, wonderful children – my life has been amazing. If anyone in my family has to pass, I ask that you take me.”
Later, he explained the impulse to me. “It was about surrender.”
At the moment he offered himself, he felt an enormous weight settle on his shoulders, unbudging for two days.
On January 30, 1997, in a modest suburban Seattle house, at exactly seven in the evening: ‘Iokepa saw and heard his paternal grandmother, great grandmother, and great great grandmother appear before him and hand him his ‘destiny’ and, not inconsequentially, ‘the destiny of the Hawaiian people.’
For an hour and a half, they spoke. “Like I speak to you now,” he said. They alluded, first, to his words, “I ask that you take me.”
“We were waiting for you to say what you said. The timing is perfect.”
The weight lifted from his shoulders.
They revealed a thousand-year-old prophecy, and the part he had agreed to play. They catalogued every significant event since childhood that had prepared him for what was then asked.
“We remind you of the promises you made to the Creator. You are a voice that will be heard – a voice your people have been waiting to hear. You will help return the land and the culture to the people.
“In every culture on Earth, God gave keys to survival. What will happen on the Hawaiian Islands will be an example for all the peoples on Earth – an opportunity for them to emulate.”
Much later, ‘Iokepa told me and others: “My grandmothers are your grandmothers. People don’t know what they’re capable of.”
There would be ten years of preparation – the required readying of the prophet. Afterwards, the ancient prophecy would unfold.
The grandmothers continued.
”You are being sent as a child, with nothing to unlearn. Once you have heard all the lies, you will know the truth. But you must give up everything you love.”
Within two weeks, he had given the house to a girlfriend. To friends and family he gifted the seven cars; the multi-million dollar contract he tore up unsigned. He signed his power of attorney over to his sister Puanani, told her to give away every cent: no savings, no investments, no credit cards.
“What kind of man could say, ‘No!’ to his grandmothers?” ‘Iokepa asked me. He truly could not imagine. Perhaps, only a native Hawaiian could.
…On February 12, 1997 he landed on O‘ahu. I met him ten months later.
. . .
Kanaka maoli do not ask one another: “How much Hawaiian are you?” You either have the blood and carry the lives of your ancestors inscribed in your DNA or you do not. Being born on the Hawaiian Islands does not make you kanaka maoli – nor does dying here. Those who are born on the Islands or immigrate there are still malihini – guests. We are blessed however, because for 13,000 years the people of Lāhui have welcomed guests to their Islands with, the ancestors said: “Open hands, open arms, and open hearts.” They celebrated their connection to every living thing – no less to their fellow man.
Hawai‘i is the most isolated archipelago on this planet. Three-thousand miles from any large land mass, the nearest connection was direct: to the Creator and to the Creator’s creation in its infinite manifestation.
Those connections were neither invented nor idealized. The ancients could not imagine not being one with their Creator, their ancestors, and all elements of nature. Now, we struggle to imagine that we are.
Aloha, then, meant just one thing: “In the presence of God, in every breath.” As a greeting, it was an acknowledgment of the soul.
That is the culture ‘Iokepa and his kindred celebrate. A people put on Earth to teach the rest of the world aloha. To teach the rest of us what it is that we have forgotten.
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