Category: The World

Exploring Deepavali Through The Firework Maker’s Daughter

I glanced around me – it was Deepavali, and all of us children, parents, and grandparents at the  party, looked delighted. Who wouldn’t be? Many of us were clutching sparklers, and watching the tiny stars produced by them in awe. The beautiful fountain pot spouted its joy towards the world a few feet away, and the oohs-and-aaahs were enough to melt hearts. Deepavali fireworks, especially in the US, are not exactly spectacular, but it is joyful all the same. 

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Watching fireworks has always been magical. The little sparks ignite something else altogether in our spirits.  Watching everyone around me, I could well imagine the children of ancient China watching in wonder as the first gunpowder produced magical effects. Or the hobbits as they all watched Gandalf’s spectacular fireworks in Hobbiton. Every time we go to DisneyLand, waiting for the fireworks in the cold, with thousands of people, it is magical. 

I was so glad to have an equally delightful book  to read that week-end, The Firework Maker’s Daughter – By Philip Pullman.

The Firework Maker’s Daughter – By Philip Pullman

A delightful tale of adventure, replete with a plucky heroine (Lila), a hero (Chulak) with gumption, and a talking elephant (Hamlet, who is in love with the elephant at the zoo, named Frangipani). 

In the Firework Maker’s Daughter, the firework maker, Lalchand’s daughter, Lila, wants more than anything to become a fireworks maker. At a young age, Lila invented Tumbling Demons & Shimmering Coins.

“My father won’t tell me the final secret of fireworks-making, “ said Lila. “I’ve learned all there is to know about flyaway powder and thunder grains, and scorpion oil and spark repellant, and glimmer juice and salts-of-shadow, but there’s something else I need to know, and he won’t tell me.” 

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But of course, the poor girl is not allowed to become a firework maker, for her father intends to get her married off. So, with the help of the white, talking elephant, Hamlet and his keeper, Chulak, she takes off to find the secrets of firework making all the same.

It is a whimsical book, and the descriptions of the fireworks in the end makes for a marvelous read.

If only the joys of learning to do these things (like making fireworks), were still available to us, instead of being locked behind factory doors, how wonderful it would be.  As I remembered all the different types of fireworks – the ones that burst into a thousand patterns in the sky, the ones that take their time like a rocket lift-off, the spinning chakras, the little pops of bursting noises, the ‘Lakshmi bombs’ ( the loud bombs), and the serial-wallahs,(the strings of explosive that went off for minutes at a time) – the imagination took off with the fireworks too.  How could it not? How inventive these firework makers must be.

I sat down willing to write about the marvelous joys of fireworks, but came up wanting. How can you capture the soaring of the heart in words? How can show  feel a definite lifting of the spirits when only you can feel it?

Numinous Navarathris

Navarathri

The Navarathri season is behind us. That is to say, the garba dances, the spontaneous bursting into carnatic music, classical dancers getting their Vijayadashami classes, the crowded shamiyana’s with pujo crowds, the golu hoppers, and the first wave of festive wear for the fall season is all behind us. The statues that got to come out and get put on display are all wrapped up, and put away in their cozy confines for another year.

There are many golu aspirants who raise the bar every time. One particular household we enjoy has a side-show gleaming with inventive playfulness. In every golu display there are stories jostling on the orderly steps waiting to be told, but skipped over – possibly waiting for the next year. For there is too much going on for dolls and their stories to be told and listened to. I can imagine and appreciate the whimsical nature of life wanting to be preserved as tradition. Then again, for a country such as India, there is rarely the time for slow pursuits such as mythical story telling sessions over long evenings these days. What was earmarked for that, has morphed into rushed sessions, oodles of food, music and dance bursting at every corner, and like life itself the dolls with the good stories sit quietly – watching, waiting their turn. Ready to amuse, educate and entertain if asked, but purely on stand-by.

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The Golu Tradition

Golu – as the tradition of the display of dolls is known, is rumored to have started in the 14th Century during the height of the Vijayanagara empire. The royal families of the era particularly around the Thanjavur region were taken in by the opportunity to display their dolls, host gatherings, etc. Slowly, they had musicians and dancers from the local temples over for performances, and it became a time when children were initiated into the Arts. Vijayadashami  became a day of artistic beginnings and blessings. 

In many of the homes we visit, we hear stories of the dolls being passed down from generation to generation. One friend told me that her vegetable set came from her great grandmother – handed down to her grandmother, who brought it to the US in the 60’s, and then passed it to her mother and how she plans to give it to her own daughter one day. I peered at the misshapen vegetables and felt a stirring for why the tradition appeals to so many. There were no perfectly preserved, larger models there. The vegetables had warped surfaces much like the farmers of the time might have produced them, and an artist had rendered them with the best clays and paints available to them. The greens were greener than the vegetables could achieve, and the reds made them look like they were blushing. Very fetching.

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Why tradition settled on 9 days for Navarathri, I am not sure. But I presume it had something to do with the agricultural cycles of the time. A lull in the work periods between harvest and planting cycles when the plants were at their strongest, and therefore a time for a bit of fun.

What I Wish It Could Be

As a child, I longed to take the golu dolls down from their shelves to play with. But of course, we weren’t allowed to do so. My own grandmother had given them to my mother. It seemed so pointless to have this many dolls all sitting there, waiting to be played with, but out of reach. This many stories waiting to be enacted. We were only ever to touch them the day they were taken out, or the day they were wrapped back in old newspaper and stowed away. A touch of pathos about the way they’d have to nestle back into the wooden crates in the old garden shed about them.

It has been a dear wish of mine to one day make a puppet based theatrical show of this. You know – properly make the dolls come alive, hop off their little shelves, and have them enact their stories. Vishnu’s avatars don’t need another year of standing there – they need to be out there telling you how much one ought to be doing in the face of evil vying and holding power. So what if you have to impersonate half a lion or a fish or turtle for noble purposes? That would be an apt election-time story wouldn’t it?

Make a funny skit or two about how the demon Ghatodgajjan ate his way through the season, or the din to wake Ravana’s brother, Kumbhakarna from his 6-month slumber to fight the war in the Ramayana. Enact the wars with paper mache swords, and bubblegum shaped missiles that could be eaten afterward. That would be cool.

A silly song about the cricket playing Ganesha statues maybe?

Wrap the session with all the Lakshmis being totally brave, daring, intelligent and charming. That would be brilliant.

Exploring Happiness: Is It in Our Genes?

In what was an intriguing chat with the son last evening, we poked around the ethics of genetic modification. Apparently, that had been an area of discussion in their classroom, and the son was keen – the novelty of a discussion with multiple viewpoints at that age is amazing. I smiled and listened to him talk offering a question here, a hum there, an insight elsewhere.

“What do you want to do with human-beings if we are smarter?” I asked him.

“We could fly.”

“Cool! But then what?”

I took a deep breath and said as casually as I could. “Everyone wants to be smarter, for things to come more easily to them. So we wouldn’t have to spend so much time figuring things out. But – the thing is, if everything came easily, we would not know what to do with all the time we have on our hands. What do they say? An empty mind is a devil’s workshop? I don’t know – I think it could lead to more mental health issues – what do you think?”

He pondered this for a while, and said it was an intriguing thought. 

Who Survives?

It reminded me of another chat the husband and I had a few months ago – on the larger theme of the future of humanity. With smarter, faster, stronger, what would happen to humans? The husband took a moment to gather his thoughts, and said, “Well – it will come back to good old basics then, wouldn’t it? Survival of the fittest. Those humans who can learn to be peaceful with themselves will ultimately win out – that is the strain that will survive.”

I was impressed – yes, no matter what we had, it ultimately came down to temperament, attitude, and the ability to be happy, didn’t it?

Generosity by Richard Powers: The Happiness Gene

Incidentally the book I am currently reading: Generosity by Richard Powers, talks about a variation of this: The Happiness Gene.

The story tries to figure out the reason for Thassa’s happiness. Thassadit Amswar is a refugee who has fled the Algiers region. Her brother is still under house arrest in a totalitarian regime, her parents are dead after years in which they were stuck in the midst of a civil war that raged around them, and any which way you look at it, she should be morose, sad – not chirpy, cheerful, and full of light.

The whole set up reminded me of one of Rumi’s sayings that have been making its way around the instagram world: something to the effect of:

When the world around you is dark, you could very well be the light.

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In any case, somehow Thassa’s ability to be happy attracts attention – first from local friends, then a policeman, a local news report diagnoses her as having ‘Hyperthymia’ – a condition of overwhelming happiness, and goes on to attract those who want to auction and buy her eggs, decode her DNA, figure out the happiness gene. She finds herself unmoored by how people feel bad because she is happy, and having to navigate the horrors of fame.

In Essence

  • Is there a genetic component to being happy?
  • If so, can that be picked and chosen for our offspring in the not-so-distant future?
  • What issues would that create for mankind? For just as sure as we are of creating solutions, so too can we be sure for creating problems for ourselves, isn’t it?

Stories Meant for the King

The husband was narrating life in his humble abode as a child to the children. “My ‘room’ ” he said, picking the quotes like the children do, “was under the steel cot. I was the Hero there. If my brother decided to join – then We Were Heroes There, or We Were Devils There. But it was all good fun.’ 

The children guffawed with laughter. This narrative was a familiar one, and I smiled. I remembered those steel cots. Appalling things they were – with steel rods painted dark green with apparently no aesthetic appeal. They were sturdy – I’d grant you that. They were the mainstay in almost every middle class home in India in the 80’s. As children, we had stress tested them by leaping on to them from cliffs on high cupboards, using them as rafts from oceans of swirling creatures below etc, and they did not break. Steel, you know? 

How we carve out space for ourselves when there isn’t any can be a problem. But children seem to find solutions to this problem in the most creative manners possible. 

The husband’s abode growing up was a small house – children did not have separate rooms. “Just the reality!” he shrugged when the children looked at him surprised. 

“Under the bed is a spacious place for a small boy, you know?” he said.

The daughter and son exchanged glances.

The daughter said, “We love having our room!”

“Decorated just the way we want too!” said the son.

“Our room under the bed was too – we had cobwebs in the east-facing courtyards, and well, lizards on the south-facing side. Beat that!” said the husband to his awed audience. 

Raja Kadhais : Stories meant for the King

The husband was reminiscing about his ‘room’ under the steel cot, “In there we listened to all sorts of ‘Tea’ (teenage slang for hot-off-the-stove spicy news). Things we should not be listening to. Things that we should, we ignored of course. Your grandmother was particularly adept at noticing when one ear would dance for the juicy tales. I tell you, she could see the ears squirm, and she would send us out to play  – “This isn’t for you – Raja Kadhai. (Meaning stories meant for the King )” she’d say. Well, she didn’t receive the memo about my kingdom under the bed I suppose! Anyway, those Raja Kadhais were the best!” said the husband grinning from ear to ear. 

I always like the way the daughter finds her space wherever we travel. In the cramped space of a car, she’d make her ‘room’. In a shared hotel room, she’d put up a sheet like a tent and make her ‘castle’. Her ‘room’ is not always a room, but she manages to make it so. Her space.

When AirPods Snuffed out Stories Meant for the King

That day, though, I was annoyed at her for not listening in. Here we were discussing things that would’ve been amazing for her to know, and she had plugged her ears in with noise-canceling headphones, pulled a blanket in the back-seat and gone on to tune us all out. Raja Kadhais, Tea – nothing. 

“Is this how life is going to be with these blasted devices? In one room, yet so far away?”I ranted to the husband later.  

“Leave her be! She is a teenager, and teenagers require space.” he said, taking his daughter’s side (as usual).

I rolled my eyes at this. “Isn’t receiving this kind of input critical while growing up. How many stories we’d heard in this manner? Not explicitly told to us, but enough to give us an idea of the world around us.” 

“They’ll find ways to get it – social media?”

“Instead of stories from adults in hushed tones?” 

Imagine my surprise then when I saw these Japanese headphones that promised to pop the bubble of silence : Popping the bubble of noise canceling headphones. These headphones are supposed to let background noise in, so we can still receive sensory information.

I admit, I rolled my eyes like a teenager at this. Really – all this progress. I wonder when we reach a point of diminishing returns and have to return to the tried and tested good old fashioned ways. You know? Go back to fiddling the knob on the rusty old radio with one channel to tune into.

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/infinite-scroll/popping-the-bubble-of-noise-cancelling-headphones

Which of the current technology trends do you think will bear the test of time? I thought noise-canceling headphones were the thing – but apparently not.

Books that Challenge Perception

A Stranger to Ourselves  – Unsettled Minds and the Stories that Make Us – by Rachel Aviv. 

I opened the door and welcomed the girls in. I had clutched in my hands the book , A Stranger to Ourselves  – Unsettled Minds and the Stories that Make Us – by Rachel Aviv. 

The daughter and her friend had completely different greetings – but the tones were likable enough, and I smiled broadly.

“So, whatchu reading now?”

“Ooh! That sounds heavy Aunty!” 

I told them. 

This book outlines the lives of six different people across different cultures and timelines, and their struggle with mental health.

Given all of our advances in health, mental health still has a long way to go. The unseen frontiers of the power of our minds, the terrifying depths to which it can plumb us, the giddying heights to which it can make us soar, the ruts from which no tow truck could extricate us – they are all true.

We chatted about this-and-that and other book recommendations.

“Oh Aunty! You should totally read Piranesi!” said the daughter’s friend, her eyes widening when she realized that I’d taken her suggestion and read a teenage angst novel. “You like mythology – well, I don’t want to give too much away – but you’ll like it.”

Piranesi – By Suzanna Clark

Piranesi is a book that I found vague and disconcerting in the beginning. Then, a book I wondered about long after I’d finished reading it. What did it mean exactly? The premise is that a person is stuck in an alternate reality – a large palace-like place with corridors lined with statues, flooding basements where the ocean tides creep in, and large, open spaces in which to ponder life about. But that is it. There are no other creatures – save a visiting raven or two – and one other person called the ‘Other’.

How to make sense of a reality like that?

I read these two books together a few months earlier. I had them jotted down somewhere to be written about. Given the flurry of posts and things to write about, I thought I would leave these out.

But I found that I couldn’t.

For these books both lodged themselves for different reasons. 

Piranesi makes one think of all the palaces we construct in our minds – which ones are escapable from? Which ones serve as prisons?

Stranger to Ourselves makes one wonder about what a narrow path normalcy is. 

“I think, therefore I am.”

– Rene Descartes

The next time I saw the girls together, I asked them what they thought of the books, and we went on to have an inspired discussion on how our thoughts shape our reality and so on.

Books References:

  • Piranesi – Suzanne Clark &
  • Strangers to ourselves – Unsettled Minds and the Stories that make us – Rachel Aviv

Hum of Chitter-Chatter

I’d had a trying sort of morning – my attempts at speaking had come to nought. I was speaking English, folks around me were not. I asked for chips, they told me it was several hours for nightfall. I asked for honey, I was given a shrug and a look reserved for the village fool. I left the chips and honey – life is great without chips and honey, thank you.

So, I veered off civilization and went off to moon in the woods.

It isn’t often that we stop to revel in the orchestras of everyday life. That morning I did. When I did, I found myself transported. I had rarely seen this many hummingbirds together in one place and the noises they were making chittering together was music. What were they saying to one another? Were they discussing plans for the day? 

I smiled and reluctantly moved on – human beings had meetings of their own didn’t they? 

A few days later, I stopped listening to the chatter of the crickets starting up in the evening, even as the sun dipped into the horizon bathing the skies in robes of pink and orange. The deer grazing glowed, the blackbirds fluttered while singing, but the crickets were the loudest of them all. Enough to make you stop and wonder what they must all be saying to one another.

I exchanged glances with the son who’s come on a stroll with me, and we headed back musing.

Later we had a frenzy of celebrations planned – gatherings and people. I stopped to listen to the chatter around me. It was a feeling – not voices that I heard. It was a festive occasion, so all I heard was a pleasant hum – interest, friendship, camaraderie, laughter. 

What is it about communication that enthralls us so much? I remember reading a short story by Louisa May Alcott a while  ago in which a young girl acquired the ability to understand animals and birds for a short period of time. She is baffled to realize that they can actually communicate amongst themselves as well as amongst other species. A woodpecker could talk to a squirrel and understand each other perfectly. So, they could unite and we wouldn’t have a clue.

It was a beautiful touching story, for it helped me laugh once again at our own follies. It would serve us right if that was truly the case – too smart for our own good, but all the time being pitied by the wiser creatures of the Earth. Between all the languages we’ve managed to create as humans, it is truly humbling if that were the case. (No mishaps with honey and chips I assume.) 

It also made me stop and wonder what animals hear when they us jabbering. Many times on my walks, I come across people talking shop – serious talks on finance, technology trends (I live in the Bay Area – it is a way of life – you can’t throw a stone in any which direction without someone yelping ‘AI’ – whether as an expletive or not), movies, music, other people, offices, sports, etc.

What must they make of it? I wonder.

Navigating Life With the Power of Stories

Ooh! That’s a good one!

Read it!

Hmm..must check that one out.

Whadiddesey?

Predictable! 

I was enjoying the narrative voice in my brain as I jotted down the titles almost as much as the commentary given by the folks themselves. It had been so long since we sat in a room where everyone introduced themselves with their names and their childhood favorite book. 

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As I went over the list I was writing, I wondered what those authors would feel when they heard about the kind of influence they had on children, now adults, decades later. Many of the authors we mentioned in our room were no more. Yet. Their words lived on, the worlds they created lived on, and the memories associated with these words and worlds lived on. One person said of their book that it saved them. The escape into the book saved them as a child. 

Isn’t that marvelous?

Our Fascination with Stories

I understood again our fascination with words, stories, images – in a confusing world, they provide guidance. In a fast evolving world with its revolving door of trends and gadgets, books provide continuum. 

To make sense of the world around us using stories is in itself an evolutionary gift. One that whales possess and possibly elephants too. Many creatures pass down knowledge needed to survive – are they in the form of stories? We do not know. We might soon enough. I read this article in which AI was able to decode sperm whale language. 

NPR: AI to decode Sperm Whale Language

Quote from Cosmos by Carl Sagan:

Some whale sounds are called songs, but we are still ignorant of their true nature and meaning. They range over a broad band of frequencies, down to well below the lowest sound the human ear can detect. A typical whale song lasts for perhaps 15 minutes; the longest about an hour. Often it is repeated, identically beat for beat, measure for measure, note for note. 

Very often, the members of the group will sing the same song together. By some mutual consensus, some collaborative song-writing, the piece changes month by month, slowly and predictably. These vocalizations are complex. If the songs of the humpback whale are enunciated as a tonal language, the total information content, the number of bits of information in such songs, is some 10 to the power of 6 bits, about the same as the information content of the Iliad or the Odyssey.

I would love to hear and understand the generational wisdom that these large benevolent creatures have for living in the oceans. The ever changing oceans must be a rich source of material. 

Through our words, and the stories of our lives, we help make sense of the world around us. We figure out what our heart desires, what our morals are, the choices we must make, the work we must do, the characters we want to become. 

Becoming is a Messy Business

So what are the stories we tell ourselves, and those close to us? How do those reminiscences help? I remember laughing at a statement I heard once – “avan oru padiccha muttaal  -அவன் ஒரு படிச்ச முட்டாள் ” which loosely translates to: “He is an educated fool.”, and it stuck with me. How often the growth that has to happen at critical moments in our life does not happen, and we are left dealing with the repercussions of this missed growth? The right book, the right story at the right time.

Becoming is a messy business, and yet as long as we have a sense of working towards who we are becoming, we can continue growing. 

In all these millennia, there does not seem to be a better teacher than stories. Small everyday stories of normal people navigating life in this balancing act of the universe.

Your Favorite Stories

“What about you? What was your favorite book as a child?”

I was somewhat surprised my turn had come this quickly, but I rallied, “The Magic Faraway Tree by Enid Blyton. We had this 90 foot eucalyptus tree near our home. It was so tall, more than half of it was obscured in the clouds, and it was very easy to imagine that high up in the clouds were revolving worlds – a new one every few days.” I said to a titter of polite murmurs. 

The remaining folks went on with their favorite books. In describing the old tree near our childhood home and all those rainy days spent reading my favorite books, I found myself smiling a small smile. 

This would be a nice thing to share with the children and ask after their favorite books. 

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What was your favorite book as a child?

Nyctinasty Flowers’ Lessons

I could barely stay indoors. You see? The day had started off with a mild drizzle. After what felt like months of sunshine, a little bit of moisture felt amazing. I stood outside peering up at the clouds – in itself a rarity now given how parched things get during Californian summers in the Bay Area. Even with summer flowers blooming and vegetable gardens flourishing, I yearn for the simple pleasures of marvelous sunsets, clouds, a pattering of rain, some breeze.

That is perhaps one of the things I miss most about the Nilgiris – the western ghats in South India where the rain drops and eucalytpus provided the backdrop for magic and mysticism. The rains, the clouds, the winds – how in one day you can experience so many different climes and you have to be prepared for it all, and still go about your day.

Nature is Transformative

That evening I said, “Well – come on then! “  hustling everyone out to see the glorious sunset. The clouds had scattered during the course of the day, but there were enough of them still there –  enough to provide crepuscular glory with the rays of the setting sun. Some clouds looked like an artists reluctant brush stroke jostling right alongside the weightier ones. How every evening a different painting is rolled out to us continues to be a source of wonder.

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Art is transformative – so is nature.

It transforms ordinary days into extraordinary ones.

It assures you that normal is numinous.

Nyctinasty flowers

That evening, I took in the deer grazing near the river banks, the rising full-moon swollen, resplendent and beautiful against the setting sun orangish-red and bright. I don’t have to be a naturalist to know that the birds felt it, the deer felt it, the frisky fox felt it, the fish in the river felt it, the  flowers felt it. I stopped to admire everything – especially those that are classified as nyctinasty flowers :nyctinasty flowers like the evening primroses or gardenias  close up for the night. They show you the importance of closing and resting in order to bloom and spready one’s beauty for the next day.

If ever there is an appointment to keep, it is with nature in those moments in the golden hour when all the world is settling in for a quieter pace.

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Sunrises and Sunsets: An Opacarophile’s Notes of Magic

Every time we go on vacation, I proclaim proudly the first night, “I am going to go for a sunrise walk in the morning. Do not look for me!”

It is old hat by now. The children and the husband exchange amused looks and say, “Sure! Of course!” Followed by a chortle of such mirth that it should offend me. But vacations and all that – I let it slide. You see? I am rather a slow starter in the mornings. The caffeine tries, the shower tries, the folks around me try. But it takes a good hour or so before the spirit can rise and shine and birds chirping can become song to my ears and all that.

This time though, I surprised everyone including myself.

I set off on my sunrise, sunset and starry strolls every day I was there. It was marvelous – one morning, I sat trying to discern all the hues and colors in the sunrise, the shapes of the clouds, the fast disappearing mists that were clinging not a moment ago, making way for the humid day ahead of us.

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I could hear my heart rise in song without emitting a single chirp – trying to keep in tune with the little palm warblers, and the mynahs reminding me of a silly rhyme we would chant as school children, giggling ourselves silly every time.

One for success

Two for a toy

Three for a boy (giggle, giggle)

Four for a girl (giggle, giggle)

Five for a letter (we were in a boarding school)

Six for something (can’t remember)

Seven for a secret (Secret Seven By Enid Blyton must’ve inspired that one!)

And on and on, it would go.

I smiled thinking of that rhyme – something I hadn’t chanted in three decades, and yet, it came to me that morning looking at the little birds hopping about the island. The brain really is marvelous. Scents, images, words, phrases can all evoke associative memory – it truly is powerful.

Taking in the slow way in which the island is drenched in its beauty, I walked back to our cozy lodgings, feeling very smug, and proclaiming that all those who missed the sunrise .. well, missed the sunrise.

“The sun will rise again tomorrow, Mother.” the children chorused looking gobsmacked that I had taken a sunrise stroll. 

I somehow managed a sunrise stroll every day that we were there. On the last day, the husband joined me, and the island, to show us how special that was, even greeted us with a rainbow by the Buddha statue overlooking the ocean.

We were quiet for sometime wondering how a simple play of light and moisture can produce something as beautiful as that. Even the birds seemed to have fallen silent. Then the birds chirped, and the husband chattered again. 

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An opacarophile is a lover of sunrises and sunsets

A solist is one who loves events of the sun (sunrise, sunset, eclipse) etc

A heliophile is who loves the sun

A photophile is a lover of light

I feel the importance of this quote – for both sunset and sunrises

“Never waste any amount of time doing anything important when there is a sunset outside that you should be sitting under.” – C Joybell.C

Ooh! The 🐟🐠 O’opu Alamo’o 🐟🐠 & 🌴🎋 The Ohia Lehua 🌴🎋

Shoshin in Hawaii

Friends and regular readers of the blog know the immense peace and satisfaction I derive from the creatures around us. Creatures whose different characteristics serve them well. Some that evolution has equipped them with in order to live and thrive. Patience, perseverance, the ability to soar high while zoning on in the details when required, the ability to look out for one another as a group – as geese do on their long flights, or pelicans on their migrations. To work and play like dolphins and squirrels.

I could go on and on.

Going to a different ecosystem makes us sit up and take notice of all the things that are special to that place. Polynesian islands, or any islands, for that matter have this ethereal quality to their beauty. It is in the tropical colors, the unique flowers that greet us almost as soon as we land in the airports (plumeria in the case of Hawaii), the scents of the island – at once putting a great distance between the mainland and the islands. Floating by themselves in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, these islands, have been written about, explored almost completely, and still holds enough wonder and astonishment for the traveler with shoshin in their eyes.

Shoshin: is a Japanese concept that roughly translates to a Beginner’s Mind, meaning a mindset in which one is eager to explore, learn and stay curious in the world around you.

🐟🐠 O’opu Fish : Stellar Climbers 🐟🐠

Who knew that the humble o’opu fish would take me into streams of new words like: diadromous, anadromous, euryhaline?

Take for instance the o’opu fish. As far as fish go, they are fish enough – they have fins, they swim, and they can fix you with a glassy stare. But then, just when you’re ready to classify them with thousands of other fish in the oceans, they surprise you. They are not just fish in the ocean.

They are also fish in the freshwater streams in Hawaii.

Belonging to a small group of fish with this capability, they are known as diadromous fish – meaning they are comfortable in both saltwater oceans and freshwater rivers and streams. The O’opu aren’t just diadromous fish, they are also anadromous  ( the more famous anadromous are the salmon) – meaning they swim upwards to the fresh waters to breed their young.

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The O’opu fish have the remarkable ability to adapt to different salinities in water conditions. They also, and this is where I stood transfixed, can scale waterfalls of 400 feet upwards – we saw the waterfall they go upstream of (Akaka Falls) from a distance, and it took my eyes a few seconds to take the height of the waters in.  These little goby fish, manage to scale these falls by sticking to the slippery rocks faces behind the waterfalls, in order to lay their eggs and ensure the next generation of  ‘O’opu ‘alamo’o are born.

Now, I am not sure how different this is from, say: a gobi desert dweller living and thriving in the tropical rainforests of the amazon, but it seems like a pretty good comparison to make.

🌴🎋 Ohia Lehua Trees : The Resilient Pioneers 🌴🎋

The next day, we found ourselves huffing and puffing up a small-ish hill to take in the crater of the Hawaiian volcanoes national park. (It is not a steep climb if you’re wondering). As a small group of tourists jostled around the forest ranger to listen to her talk about the volcanic national park, another unlikely specimen grabbed our attention. The short, stubby, but thoroughly resilient Ohia Lehua trees. These trees are apparently the first ones to seed life post a volcanic event. Given that volcanic ash can be quite the problem to a breather,  if you’re wondering how the little trees breathed, it is because they have the unique ability to close their  stomata for up to two weeks.

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Quote from the website:

https://www.usgs.gov/observatories/hvo/news/volcano-watch-lava-loving-ohia-lehua-a-pioneer-plant-peril

The tree has a superior capacity for extending its roots vertically and can grow efficiently in cracks and fissures. ‘Ōhi‘a also have the capability to close their stomata, or breathing pores, so the trees can “hold their breath” when toxic volcanic gases are blown their way.

The Ohia Lehua trees and the O’opu Alamo’o fish are the stuff of Hawaiian legends.

Nature truly is a wonder marvel!

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