Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Wellington connections
Wellington Journal 6/27/05
Well, here it is the end of the journey, at least almost. The last night in Wellington before we head out tomorrow evening. Even though my mind tells me it’s Sunday night I’m still confused because my body is so used to being in California that even though I’ve had a week to get used to New Zealand and being on the other side of the world, it still feels strange. Cindi left this afternoon, and we went back to the park and the Parade restaurant in Oriental Bay where we went to first day we were here, as well as Te Papa. I think it’s time to go home as the money is definitely running out. But I have loved it here…the weather, the people, the lifestyle, everything. Even took pictures of the houses in Hutt Valley where I want to buy a house.
It has been wonderful spending this time with my son, just like we used to when he was little. How do you get to know a nine year old after so much time has passed you by? Living in the same house is easy to keep out the little intimacies, the ay to day interior life of a little boy that I find I know little about. It was a time for connections and time for realizing that the world is getting smaller and smaller. When I went to Japan and Europe it seemed so difficult to travel; changing money was different, calling home was crazy; and now we sound as if we’re 600 miles away instead of six thousand. And the fact that Maori look like family has something to do with it too. We could pass for locals; I see my grandmother’s face in so many elders; my cousins on the streets and in the marae.
The stories were amazing--- Rosie’s life as a Maori exile--- all those miles away in Australia as the world passes her by. What does it mean to be Maori? Do you look like one? Do you speak the language? Do you know the songs? What does it mean to be Indian? Living the ceremonies? Speaking the language? What is the trick the trickster possesses? To ride us of our identity or keep our identity moving between the lines and between ourselves? Rosie speaks what she calls “old Maori” and sings “old Maori” songs. She grew up attending meetings and getting dragged along from place to place with her mom and Nan. Is that Maori? Does she cease to be Maori because she lives with the aborigines in Australia? If the people leave the nation, does the nation continue as a nation or does it exist in the physical, the mental, or the emotional?
No tattoos this time; hopefully we’ll catch up to Inia Taylor in San Francisco next month. There will be opportunities for further exchange.
Oceans of stars
And shells set upon sand
Brought from another place to this
We are a people of movement,
Of breath,
Of the changing winds from the south
In place to place.
Across deserts,
Forests of pure green and light so pure it could blind even the
Ones who cannot see beyond
Their dreams of dying
And killing the ones
Which they cannot control.
Where do we go in our dreams?
When the dreams become scattered upon
The four winds of home
And of desire?
What will become of the ones
Spread on stars and water
That spreads across in circles
Of light and air
Which move upon the backs
Of the ancestors and those
Who will be born
Into the future of
Shells and sand brought
Forth from a place
Unlike this one we call home?
Who will speak for the ones
Who cannot speak their tears
Of hope, of love, of loss,
Of the children born upon
the land that has been brought
Here from somewhere else?
Looking to the eyes
Of the ones we know
In our hearts but
Have never met,
The words fly forth upon the breath
Of the four winds of creation, nurturing
The flames that live on
In our hearts,
In our minds,
In the mouths of children
Not yet born
Upon the four winds
That call us
Home.
6/26/05
For Roseanna Salomona
Well, here it is the end of the journey, at least almost. The last night in Wellington before we head out tomorrow evening. Even though my mind tells me it’s Sunday night I’m still confused because my body is so used to being in California that even though I’ve had a week to get used to New Zealand and being on the other side of the world, it still feels strange. Cindi left this afternoon, and we went back to the park and the Parade restaurant in Oriental Bay where we went to first day we were here, as well as Te Papa. I think it’s time to go home as the money is definitely running out. But I have loved it here…the weather, the people, the lifestyle, everything. Even took pictures of the houses in Hutt Valley where I want to buy a house.
It has been wonderful spending this time with my son, just like we used to when he was little. How do you get to know a nine year old after so much time has passed you by? Living in the same house is easy to keep out the little intimacies, the ay to day interior life of a little boy that I find I know little about. It was a time for connections and time for realizing that the world is getting smaller and smaller. When I went to Japan and Europe it seemed so difficult to travel; changing money was different, calling home was crazy; and now we sound as if we’re 600 miles away instead of six thousand. And the fact that Maori look like family has something to do with it too. We could pass for locals; I see my grandmother’s face in so many elders; my cousins on the streets and in the marae.
The stories were amazing--- Rosie’s life as a Maori exile--- all those miles away in Australia as the world passes her by. What does it mean to be Maori? Do you look like one? Do you speak the language? Do you know the songs? What does it mean to be Indian? Living the ceremonies? Speaking the language? What is the trick the trickster possesses? To ride us of our identity or keep our identity moving between the lines and between ourselves? Rosie speaks what she calls “old Maori” and sings “old Maori” songs. She grew up attending meetings and getting dragged along from place to place with her mom and Nan. Is that Maori? Does she cease to be Maori because she lives with the aborigines in Australia? If the people leave the nation, does the nation continue as a nation or does it exist in the physical, the mental, or the emotional?
No tattoos this time; hopefully we’ll catch up to Inia Taylor in San Francisco next month. There will be opportunities for further exchange.
Oceans of stars
And shells set upon sand
Brought from another place to this
We are a people of movement,
Of breath,
Of the changing winds from the south
In place to place.
Across deserts,
Forests of pure green and light so pure it could blind even the
Ones who cannot see beyond
Their dreams of dying
And killing the ones
Which they cannot control.
Where do we go in our dreams?
When the dreams become scattered upon
The four winds of home
And of desire?
What will become of the ones
Spread on stars and water
That spreads across in circles
Of light and air
Which move upon the backs
Of the ancestors and those
Who will be born
Into the future of
Shells and sand brought
Forth from a place
Unlike this one we call home?
Who will speak for the ones
Who cannot speak their tears
Of hope, of love, of loss,
Of the children born upon
the land that has been brought
Here from somewhere else?
Looking to the eyes
Of the ones we know
In our hearts but
Have never met,
The words fly forth upon the breath
Of the four winds of creation, nurturing
The flames that live on
In our hearts,
In our minds,
In the mouths of children
Not yet born
Upon the four winds
That call us
Home.
6/26/05
For Roseanna Salomona
Monday, June 27, 2005
Carolyn's New Blog!
This post begins Carolyn Dunn's new blog for her personal website. Look for posts when Carolyn returns from New Zealand.
