The places music can take you: as you’re floating in a tin can

I am not a music person in the way my sons and husband are music people. My oldest son still keeps his DJ name even as he creeps towards 30. He gets music. It comes off of his fingers like electricity. He studies music. Breaks them down into heartbeats and melds them together constantly. My youngest has adopted his father’s taste for music, Beatles, Bee Gees, Bowie. He does not have the wide range of genres that his older brother has. He just knows what he likes: albums from the 70s and 80s that he still plays on his record player. His Instagram name is Major_Tomathy.

Another thing about my youngest son. I hate the name Tom, even if we gave it to him. I was guilted into it by a dying man, my father-in-law. Still, my son claims the name Tom even though we have always called him by his Hawaiian name, Kalamapono or Pono.

Then David Bowie dies and he is what is on my Spotify discover feed so as I am desperately trying to prepare my paper for a symposium I am doing early next week, I go to Starbucks, put my earbuds in, turn on my Spotify and start to type. David Bowie’s Space Oddity comes on and when David Bowie is in my ear, the way the one guitar starts so soft that I am forced to turn my music up, “Ground control to Major Tom” almost robotic until he harmonizes with himself, starts counting, “may God’s love be with you” and then this psychedelic music, a dirge really.

After 18 years, I understand why my son keeps his English name despite all of my ranting and bitching. Bowie is a major reader, like Pono. I wonder if he knows that? I see the person “Tom” strives to be, his homage in his Instagram name. Somehow with the death of David Bowie and with the slow, dreamy music blasting in my ear, I realize I learned something new about my son in a weird way and I recognize now that I think his “spaceship knows which way to go” – I know he will go. I feel it with every pore in my body, but though he will be far, there’s nothing I can do

but trust he will be fine, because he is Major Tom, but he is also Pono.



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After graduating with my Ed.D (doctorate in professional practice in education) degree, I took advantage of my mo’o story and practiced it on the road. This is my first conference in Sydney Australia in October of 2014. I went by myself, but on my 12-hour trek to the Rocks, I was able to scope out places that I would later take Ken to in 2015.

A new school year

Summer has sadly come to an end. I swear it was just Christmas! The boys spent their summer learning about voyaging and all of the things that go along with it. Isaac worked hard all summer teaching summer school and renovating the kitchen at school. 

Kaipo is excited for third grade. He will be in Miss Hishinuma’s class with ten old classmates and one new one. He knows the work is gonna be tough but he’s ready. 

Kamaehu is going to be in Ms. Fields’ class for third grade. He has familiar faces and his best friend from last year in his class. He is super excited for his new Hawaiian Language kumu. 

Isaac is starting his senior year. It’s going to be  crazy busy and hard but he is motivated as heck to get it over with and graduate! 

Another Wedding Story


This is our last wedding for a while unless for some reason pigs fly and my brother Jae gets married. Maybe the next one will be Becky. But this past Sunday, May 24, 2015, Keahi and Jenna got married at Hapuna Prince. They did this all by themselves, from financing to creating the decorations – everything! These two have been together since high school and we know that they have many adventures ahead.

So the story: Isaac and Pomai’s wedding was about the golf ball that didn’t hit anyone but came down the aisle. With Keahi’s wedding, two things happened. I set one of the tables on fire and on the way home my car died while I was driving it. The table had lanterns with open lattices and when we lit the candle, we put the lantern back in the center of the table but when we went away, the moss and burlap around the candle was too close and it caught on fire. We just used the linen napkin to put it out and I had to grab the wreath and lantern on the grass where Ken put it out. Luckily, the wedding party wasn’t there yet and the staff came and reset the table. For the car, as we were in Kaumana, I shifted to low down the hill when the car started beeping and I had no power steering going down the hill, but I was able to get control of the car and stop on the side. Daysia called Ken who was in front to turn around, he started the car again and we drove home.

How is the story connected to the marriage? In both instances this weekend, when emergencies happened, staying calm meant that no one got hurt and there was no damage at the end. That’s what I want for this marriage, that when difficulties come up, and they will, logic and calm will be the way to deal with these things.

Aloha kekahi i kekahi.

Jack Prelutsky: Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face


Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you’d be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face!

Naomi Shihab Nye: Trying to Name What Doesn’t Change


Roselva says the only thing that doesn’t change

is train tracks. She’s sure of it.
The train changes, or the weeds that grow up spidery
by the side, but not the tracks.
I’ve watched one for three years, she says,
and it doesn’t curve, doesn’t break, doesn’t grow.
Peter isn’t sure. He saw an abandoned track
near Sabinas, Mexico, and says a track without a train
is a changed track. The metal wasn’t shiny anymore.
The wood was split and some of the ties were gone.
Every Tuesday on Morales Street
butchers crack the necks of a hundred hens.
The widow in the tilted house
spices her soup with cinnamon.
Ask her what doesn’t change.
Stars explode.
The rose curls up as if there is fire in the petals.
The cat who knew me is buried under the bush.
The train whistle still wails its ancient sound
but when it goes away, shrinking back
from the walls of the brain,
it takes something different with it every time.

Poetry Month 2015 Day 1: Mākua version

April is poetry month. It’s the only one I try to blog consistently for and I missed the first day already because I was in Hauʻula. Well better late than never. I am trying to put 2 up. Makua version and Keiki version.

This is from Austin Kleon who does blackout poetry from newspapers. Itʻs called What Your Days Look Like. Itʻs simple, but I thought this is how we should start the month.