Ua hilo ‘ia i ke aho a ke aloha.

It’s my last night on the island.  This whole week has been spent packing up equipment, kitchenware, instruments, books and my own things, which now sit in my suitcases waiting until morning.  My carry on items still lay sprawled on my desk and dresser, but I have the morning to sort through these things and put them in my bag.  Tomorrow, my ukulele and I will travel for 30 straight hours to get from Kona to Newark, NJ.

But tonight I’m in Wai’aka house.  My home for the past 4.5 months.

I’ve spent each night this week the same way that I spent my first week here, staying up after everyone else is asleep and reading in the living room.  In some ways, it feels like the semester never happened because it’s so quiet and empty here that maybe the students just haven’t arrived yet.  That I’m just waiting to go pick them up from the airport and start hiking and playing ice breakers.  But I can hear the echoes of the semester, too, and I can almost hear the tv turned to Food Network in the back of the house, or someone coughing while they stay up working on a paper, or giggles from behind a closed bedroom door.  The makani shakes the house as it blows over Kohala, giving the impression of footsteps down the hall.  And I know that the semester is actually over.

A strange thing happened after most of the students left to fly home; part of me flew home too.  It has almost been hard to remember that I am on the island still.  Don’t misunderstand, the sun and the beach have been very lovely reminders that I am in the tropics, but without my 16 other pieces…it almost doesn’t matter.

I hope my ‘ohana doesn’t mind, but I am going to share some of the things they have said since leaving, because it is the same message.  (I reformatted some quotes that are from chat conversations.)

“Quiet doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“ps I think about all you guys constantly… still in pretty severe withdrawal. love to you all!”

“If you send anything other than a postcard (like 16 large boxes with breathing holes and perhaps 16 of my dearest friends inside), then you should send it to this DC address.”

“Made it back home, but feels like i am missing something…18 somethings to be exact. Here’s to my `ohana–I love you all ♥”

“I cried so hard last night.  I just can’t imagine my life not at waiaka :(“

“yeah i made it back safe. the culture shock is crazy over here.I miss all yall madly. And look forward to connecting with yall!”

“Ahhh so weird!! But I know what you mean. I can’t believe it all ended so abruptly…”

“Also, I’m sitting in Goldwin Smith right now, and it makes me really really REALLY miss Hawai’i. Not to mention, partying last night without you guys was not even close to fun. Olly, dance party in the fall. Ohana attendance is mandatory.”

“Yeah I feel kinda empty inside.  It’s a strange feeling.”

“Just got home safely, and I hope everyone else traveling has/will also. It’s so strange to be back in the concrete jungle. I feel like a stranger in my own city (hearing the mix of languages and people as soon as I stepped off of the plane was a shock to me though I have lived here most of my life haha). Remember how I said I was gonna get home and cry because I miss everyone? It’s happening. I just wanted to say how awesome it has been living with you guys in such an amazing place. We have seen some awe inspiring sights and met people who are just as inspiring in their dedication to their work. Everyone who I have talked to has felt our energy and I certainly feel it when we all work together (there’s just something beautiful about it I can’t explain). This experience certainly would not have been as special for me as it was if it were not for each and every one of you. I look forward to seeing you all again.”

“I mean I knew it would hurt, but with everyone–little things are the hardest.  Like when ever I hear a Coldplay song, and any of our songs, or the food network, or see an ad for game of thrones, I just remember and then feel so isolated back home like I am on an island now.  I feel bad because I love my family and my home but I feel like I don’t fit anymore.  I don’t know how to explain it.  Like I’ve changed and now I am back in this place that just reminds me how much.”

Trying to describe how this semester has changed me is impossible. I can say that I feel more confident, more comfortable in my own skin, more connected to the ‘aina, and that I understand what I like doing and could do as a career.  But this is only the first level.  This program is not just a time when students come to learn about how to take data in the field or how Hawaiian culture has changed over the past 300 years. There is a deeper connection that is made here.  You bond to your professors so that they are like parents.  You bond to your classmates so they are closer than your own blood and bones.  You bond with the land, and it accepts you as one of its own.  These trees are my kupuna just as much as they are the ancestors of the Polynesians who sailed to the islands in a doubled hulled wa’a.

Being on this program teaches practical things, yes, but somehow it also teaches each individual something about themselves.  Like looking into a mirror and seeing not your reflection, but the reflection of the person within you who is free of insecurities and judgments.  I know more about myself because of being here, on this island, with the people I’ve been here with.  As a student in 2010, I felt as though part of me started waking up when I came here.  As the PA in 2012, I feel a sense of self that I didn’t know a person could feel without a detailed life plan.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I have my ‘ohana behind me.  And that is enough.  Mahalo nui loa.

Ua hilo ‘ia i ke aho a ke aloha.

Direct Translation: Braided with the cords of love.
Meaning: Held in the bonds of affection.

Sonja