If you were to draw a line that echoes the west of Te-Ika-A-Māui
starting from where we stand here at
Karekare and tracing south along the coast
eventually you would reach Taranaki
I’m trying to reach that sense of being there
and now kneeling in the sand with biting insects
and being intermittently soaked by the incoming tide
Eyes closed this could be anywhere.
(every waterway connects somewhere)
Eyes closed this could be home.
I walk the long way, the dunes way
turning small offerings in my fingertips
one vessel for gratitude, another for reservations
these dunes are made to shift
enabled by their sand binder
pīngao and dune in harmonious relationship
wind through the native dune makers
with leaves that catch wind-blown sand
wind, too, through their greatest threat
the invader grasses imposing stability
on an ecosystem meant to be mobile
I can’t reach the home shores now
so I give my offerings to her
Coast-to-coast, east to west, the motu is all andesite and iron
held together by fish-bones
The sun rises over one fin in Tauranga and sets over the other in Taranaki
and here in Tāmaki we are held in between
we journey to the places our ancestors observed the sun
to see the world as they did this part unchanged
though decades passed between their lifetimes and ours
Tama-Nui-Te-Rā continues his passage every day
as he did before them, as he will after us
a rhythmic anchor mooring us across time and space
Coast-to-coast, west to east, the winds sweep across the islandfish from one fin to the other
and here we are held in between by the roots that bind the shifting dunes
until we can follow their path again
As we learn to hold space for multiplicities, to unlearn thinking in absolutes, we’ve been looking to plants to teach us, just as we’ve been looking to our own roots — tending to them feels like a way towards something we need to find again. A reciprocity, a lost tenderness.
I’ve been gathering plants, and gathering words - layering feels like a comfort, feels like falling into a chant to replace the lines I never learned.
Here, I say where my bones feel at home, and there, I say it again, and again,
and all the while I gather plants and sing to them and simmer them into colours that speak to the whenua
the whenua that I am learning to speak to
and in the gathering time slips
In a then that is also now
Taranaki dragged himself towards the setting sun
away from the centre of the island, carving
surface tension kept by fish-bones
firm beneath the andesite
and came to rest against the edges of Te-Ika-a-Māui
caressed by the hum and swell of the sea
and in a now that is also then
e haere ana hoki au ki te tōwenetanga o te rā
I’ve forgotten all the names for cloud
so when I see that water haze hang low
on the horizon I reach for other words
or korowai, the rain making hukahuka
whatu into the fog fabric
their distinctive plink pink tap in place of a
when that korowai is settled on the shoulders
of a maunga who is ancestor
that sway takes on a different
as we climb up winding pathways
the korowai of cloud disappears
into a rain sheen on our skin
as we ascend, we are swallowed
by the bush, by time itself
but our path is straightforward –
follow the sound of the rush
but this is not the place for mine
so I press my hands against earth
offering something of myself in return
a miromiro appears and I wonder what tohu it brings
are you a scout, and we, the enemy
or do you carry a love charm today?
Māui cannot be concerned with us
but I am learning to listen with my whole body
and my whole body understands this pool is a witness
and this waterfall is time
I sing quietly to the whenua as we resurface
my voice falling in with the miromiro, the stream, our footsteps in the mud –
it is one thing to know of wāhi tapu, tikanga, tohu
it is another to know where and what they are
I sing quietly to the whenua as we resurface
my voice falling in with the miromiro, the stream, our footsteps in the mud –
when we return home, the spume has followed
marking where saltwater meets fresh
we learn that this boundary is only on the surface
it is simply a matter of suspended sediments
until the ebb lays them out for us to find
or one part of ourselves from another
is like delineating saltwater from fresh
The only remains of a farmhouse built here after raupatu are a pair of concrete stairs. The front room held dances and the garden held picnics, ‘the social centre of Ōtūmoetai’. The last man to live in the house requested it be demolished for an archaeological excavation.
if we study it from a distance
if experts confirm a site was occupied
we can omit how it took less than 150 years
between dispossessing a people of their whenua
and wanting to dig their remnants back up
we layer, conceal, excavate, cover and uncover again
cufflinks, a clay pipe, a cartridge
a copper coin made in Taranaki
beneath the artefacts were
layers of midden, charcoal, fire-cracked rock
bone fish hooks and a carved māhē
a hook carved from a grandmother’s jawbone
to raise her stories from the deep
a stone māhē to anchor her net
to cast it wide, to hold us here
I take my place in this cycle with no beginning or end
sifting through layers an archaeologist doesn’t know to look for
come above ground now, take stock
I journey here for the mauri, for the manu, for Mauao
but this time I am here for the plants
I gather them from whenua that sustained my ancestors
but I take only the manuhiri
they have lived here freely long enough
each time I leave this magic place
the place of sleeping tides
I leave with my wairua restored
at the feet of the pou — a gift of feathers, a set of two
and this time, just outside the pā
we begin our hīkoi around Mauao
with a mutual appreciation of the languid
coming to know a place isn’t meant to be swift
if it were, it would be easy to miss
the dozen kāruhiruhi perched on the tangle of Pōhutukawa
resting, heads bowed into necks
if it were, it would be easy to miss
a gift of feathers, a set of two
we pass through the rocks / a gap / a portal
it seems right that I should go first
the beach remains white, grey, turquoise on the other side
but I’m peeling back layers, worlds, all the time
maybe the magic is finding your story is bound to a place you thought you knew well
and that time needn’t be travelled so much as dived into
I sit where the ocean spills in
keeping an eye on the stones incase their holes should reveal something
I watch the shell floor rise with the water
and fall again as it leaves
light passing between one medium and another
is simply a matter of varying density
but it’s as though Papatūānuku breathes to the lilt of the sea
or the ocean swells and recedes with the rise and fall of her ribs
a little further and you can see the rock
where the mauri stone o Takitimu was placed
I learn their names but they are not mine to share
a rock to hold on my tongue instead
I learn this mauri stone anchors me, and all descendants
and joy pours deep into my body
on this shore, I find a shedding,
a gift of feathers, a set of two
He slides up, sleek fur onto the rocks: we wait for him
watch him slick-shake-showoff, flipper scratch, yawn
curl up catlike in the sun, whiskertwitching. We followed
his lazy roll along the currents to find him here, floating
the edges of the maunga where sea meets shore
Being sun-caught has always turned some to stone
patupaiarehe and their kin: maybe that’s why selkie-folk
always come to dance in the moonlight
but this one is firm in his skin, and sun-bathes instead
We wonder at his name, kekeno, whakahao?
Ko wai koe e hoa? Ko wai tō ingoa?
Whakahao, to catch, as in a net: as in a weaving of the
sun’s rays into fish-entangling filaments, as in
squid-trawls that bycatch kekeno kin, as in
a maunga caught on his way through sleeping tides
to stand, for now, seals sleeping at his feet
a grieving maunga called on the patupaiarehe in the night
they braided ropes with their magic for this nameless one
they chanted as he carved out a valley for his heartbreak
they almost, almost, made it out to sea before the sun rose
the patupaiarehe had no choice but to return to the forest
where the shadows would keep them safe
but their final gift was a name for this maunga
who was fixed in place by the dawn
we share an understanding, Mauao and I
I came here to heal long before I knew it was home
before I knew he was my tīpuna maunga
here, I repair and reveal myself over and over again
now as I wind my way around his paths, wrapped in his winds and his wairua
I tell him I am glad we are both still here, that we were held at the shoreline
that we have the chance to know each other
and we have the time to know ourselves
I kneel at this takutai moana where
a maunga received a name where
I found I had a guardian all along
I collect wai from this takutai moana where
my tīpuna were nourished where
and my eyes became fixed on the past
I will simmer gathered plants in this wai
to coax, shift, reveal their colour
I will dye whenu with these colours
to weave myself into place
To whatu, pairs of aho threads are twined around the whenu, a constant exchange of fibres that weave together into a strong but supple cloth.
Whenu, like whenua; and aho, like the threads that connect us to all tūpuna before us and still to come.
When we whatu, we are weaving ourselves into place.
across the whenu we whatu the aho
the weft, the umbilical cord
the thread connecting us to all of our tīpuna
to Papatūānuku and Ranginui
the aho are not singular, a set of two
and the woven piece relies on their relationship
we, too, are woven from many pairs
becoming whole is in the weaving
If you were to draw a line that echoes the east of Te-Ika-A-Māui
starting from Mauao and tracing north along the coast
Eventually you would reach Tāmaki Makaurau
where we stand, again, here
at a distance from things, but also together
together with each other,
together with the plants that grow here
and the waters that flow to here
and the winds that reach here
connecting everything beneath and through them
eyes closed, ankle deep, in the ocean we call home
(every shoreline is connected, here)
eyes closed, ankle deep, we are everywhere at once
