Sharing Ha

I am tone deaf. This is a problem as I sit surrounded by the voices of adolescent sister angels. I desperately try to blend my off-pitched voice with the harmony of their voices in unison. We, the heavenly daughters of the Olympus Stake, have been chosen to sing truths to the women of the world in the approaching young women’s conference and the idea of singing to these women makes my voice dig new holes into the abyss of my throat. I have heard sounds come from me that would make any small child cry and wonder what world they had been born into. I am completely out of my element and discomfort envelopes me. Then she walks out. Her hair is the color of blazing cinnamon, short, and cut sharply in every direction. Sister Webb is an ironclad woman who demands with her very essence that we rise above the primary choir that we are and learn how to pronounce our sounds like the real choir we will be when she’s done with us. Like a great general instilling spirit in her troops she will teach us the importance of our calling, how our voices will need to reach the souls of each woman who listens to us. Each week we met with her she presented us with a gift that grounded us in the understanding of what our voices in unison will have to communicate with the Souls of the children of God.

. . .

Kane, the God who presides over Hawaiian deities, desired to construct a chief to rule over all other creatures of the earth. He called to his brothers and sisters, gods and goddesses alike, to search the world for the perfect material in which to make this special being. The Gods searched the land and I imagine they pondered, drew up ideas of the perfect being and tingled in aspiration of the new birth.

. . .

We sit in a small humble blue satin shadowed living room that belongs to Karen who is not only my mother’s friend, but my confidante as well. I am sharing time and space with both priestesses of my childhood. This is just one of those unexpected meetings we’ve had this summer, all by chance. Here we talk of men, women, the world, and spiritual matters. Today our attention is not set on fictional men who lay on paper beckoning us to forget our known reality. No, today we whisper truths more sacred than butter and toast. We’ve landed on the topic of salvation and the gift of the atonement. And these pillars of women, with experience and curves to prove it, tell me of how I can be whole again. We touch upon those sacred disappointments in life that are often too harmful to try to remember fully. Like arguments with spouses and trials they wish they could have experienced for their children. How those moments in life where the beautiful could not be appreciated without the horrible pains of mortality. Our heartstrings vibrate to the same melody of the spirit. I already have my own testimony of the atonement; I’ve experienced his mercy and found joy in the healing process. But I can’t help but wonder how their stories of encouragement will guide my through the next phase of my life. I feel each set back they conquered, was a step they took not only for themselves, but also for their posterity, for me. There is nothing more beautiful and pure than atonement.

. . .

They searched every element to find the right material to make the new chief creation from. In the end they choose red mud that passed from his sisters hands to his and moistly fell through the cracks in his hands and fingers. They discovered this rust paste of earth flesh on the foam edged cliffs that extended their grasp to the crisp new horizon of sea.

. . .

I stand lazily applying the charred stick of ebony to the weighted Stonehenge paper in front of me. I’m going through the motions—my arm moves with my eyes but its not connected to the part of me that truly creates. The stick timidly meets the surface and barely skims it; my mark has no feeling as I anticipate standing for the next two and half hours to complete this work. I groan. Kate approaches, my strong fearsome leader of an art teacher who walked into my life with the power of a wave and continues to splash around the ideas and actions of my art. One hard purposeful step at a time she walks my way. There’s disappointment on her face when she sees the lack of charcoal on my paper, there should be great areas of contrast and variations in tone. She chants, “Be Aggressive. B-E aggressive.” It’s our motto for our figure drawing class. She sees my stillborn—breathless drawing and knows she’ll have to teach by example. Hastily she grabs the stick from my hand and attacks the paper, and it doesn’t shy away from her in pain, but embraces the rough action she inflicts upon it. The page is now covered with marks; in only a minute she has done what I have been attempting to do in thirty.

“See Alex?” she says. “Be aggressive. Attack that ‘precious’ piece of daunting paper”. “ Oh,” I say in awe. “I can do that, Kate. I can feel the contours as well—watch.”

Now that I’ve seen what can be done, I’ve caught her virus of rage and I must have my chance to make my mark upon it. I eagerly grasp the charcoal and follow her example. The figure on the page is loose and gestural; my hands feel the blank spaces of the paper with the aggression she has graced me with. I’ve become greedy with possibilities, for metamorphosis into life. She walks back again and this time she’s pleased.

“Look. Do you see, Alex, how your first impression was right? That line is a reflection of the fact that you trusted your instincts.”

I’ve heard it so many times before—that the first gut reaction never fails you. That first line somehow always finds its way onto the page when the meticulous manner of getting everything right has faded and been forgotten. She had helped me construct drawing after drawing and expand my vocabulary of line and confidence.

. . .

Kane constructed and molded, built what would be limbs into proportion and rounded curves until the inanimate man lay flat and untouched by the impression of life. He bent and into his nostrils he sent hopes of love and pains of expectation. This breath formed the first Ha. The Ha traveled through his limp body taking any space it could like a child in a mother’s womb. This first Ha woke the man from his dormant stage and a contraction of life began to flow through the veins of the world simultaneously. The core began to pump and furnish the land with a pulse of fresh elements. The expansion like yeast overcame the body of the first man and slowly he withdrew the pollutants of humanity’s first breath—aloha he uttered.

. . .

Sister web shared an important part of her with us in those two months of practice, for three-hour intervals every Sunday. The sound of her voice flowed through our rib cages leaving drops of true cosmic divinity. She sang to us an ancient song from the Hawaiian Islands and I was completely overwhelmed with how much of herself she gave to us. The aging of the events shared with me the insight that she had no choice but to invoke in us a sense of urgency. And what better way to do this then to give a piece of your soul to a room of young girls? I learned in these intimate settings the power and myth held in the word “aloha” as we prepared to sing to a world of women about our Savior. As she sang to us, she shared with us Ha and expected us to give it back as well. A-L-O-H-A. Uttered from our lips with lack of conviction and courage would eventually take root and expand and our voices would become strong and penetrate with importance as we began to learn of the weight a word takes when uttered into existence. She shared with us the importance of this story because it held meaning for what we needed to convey. She was the choir director for the General Young Women meeting and I, completely tone deaf, had been chosen to take part in grasping a piece of her Ha.
To share Ha is something not of this world it was first given to man by the gods and we must continue to share this Ha that links us as a human family. When you say Aloha you share Ha. You physically give your Ha to another person. This Ha, this little section of your existence, then travels through your parted lips and attaches itself to the essence of another’s being. A connection forms between the two, which is as strong as blood ties between sisters. These women I’ve encountered have taught me by the stories of their lives. The wisdom of their womanhood is given to me by their examples and actions. It’s as if I’m a blow up doll taking shape and expanding the edges of my seams with each exhale of Ha they bestow upon me. These ethereal women brought forth the foundation of my being much like Kane did for the first man. They nursed my infant earth flesh and modeled and shaped my foundation so that I might to begin upon the path of solid ground that leads to joy. I’ve taken from their existence—Karen’s strength, Kate’s aggression for life, Sister Web’s love for people, and my mother’s wisdom. Ha is not easily forgotten when you share in its cycle. Their Ha will forever lead me to do my best and I will continue to share their Ha as well as my own with the women I encounter in my life.