Writing is a sacred ceremony.
It requires a sacred space.
In my little home in Wellington, New Zealand, I have transformed a room in my house into a writing haven – it is my ‘sacred space’ for writing and escaping to another world.
This is where my five senses come alive to get me into the ‘writing zone.’
That’s what my room is to me. I would go to this room so often during summer and write. It is well positioned away from my main living and bedrooms. It is a sacred cave. There is a writing ritual according to Zen Habits as I’ve discovered from trying to establish writing routines. It requires certain elements to be positioned well for me to get the words to paper. It also has to do with a certain pen of mine. I cannot write without this special pen!
Once the elements of the rituals are in place, the ideas and the juice of words flow. Getting lost in the fantasy world, making the connections to aspirations, engaging in the lift to sacredness, the deep appreciation and gratitude of what we take for granted, always sets my mindset to another level. It is exhilarating and satisfying. It can be hours before I can re-emerge into reality. I have come to engage in this sacred ceremony by blogging every so often when I feel like it is time to connect to what I call Lumete as my home. When I am deeply homesick. It is my form of self-care to say the least.
I miss these times where I was able to do this. I have lived in Dunedin for the last five years. It will be my home for the next three years as I have embarked on a PhD journey based on an infectious disease called scrub typhus in Oceania. The doctoral degree will require me to submit a thesis of 100,000 words from the University of Otago.
I read about this beautiful piece of home reflections from E-Tangata – the author Lauren Keenan invites us the readers into her space of “Home and harakeke” in New Plymouth, New Zealand. I felt transported with her as she posed the question – how do you truthfully write about home? All her published books were based on locations and places where she had lived. She emphasised things looked different from far away – even the places we know well. And she had forgotten the harakeke flowers!
I had forgotten about the pandanus plants! They had lined up the Witnimbo, Nembagahu, Sawoho and Lumete’s coastlines in Vanuatu and have been the faithful source of mum’s traditional mat weavings through the years. I remembered mum and I used to harvest the pandanus leaves from the tall trees, chop some branches off and collect the reddish-orange coloured fruits that looked like a bed of honeybees to decorate our kitchen dining space with. Then she would re-plant the young ones in new spaces, along the coast as a fence line to protect the soil from getting washed away into the ocean. Mum also harvested some parts of the tree for medicinal purposes. It is one botanical wonder with these pandanus plants!
Even the birds of paradise plants (Strelizia reginae) by Dad’s little Lumete Beach Bungalows on our Denemus land lit up our nakamal or tribal home. The steps leading up to where my late nephew Paul Race Isno laid in peace from my sister Jean’s miscarriage in 2016 had been landscaped with the birds of paradise plants by Dad. He used to prune their thick growths which looked like young banana plants with lateral sprouts. When the birds of paradise plants bloom, it feels like it is Christmas all year round no matter the weather. It took away all our broken-ness and the trauma of losing our family’s first grandson and nephew. The deep red and orange flowers – of tangerines against the glow of tropical sunsets by the Nembagahu boulder – brought calmness and peace. The flamboyant, colourful and exotic looking plants with striking bird-like orange, yellow or white flowers, and narrow paddled-shaped leaves have always been a symbol of hope for us at our nakamal of Denemus.
Abroad, I am re-imagining these tropical images of being home. In the tropics. Where the temperatures would soar. When the waves would splash on Lumete beach. Where the seashells would wash up on the beach. Where the gentle breeze would sway the monstera, the chain of hearts with the hoya plants among the thick bushes of the birds of paradise plants. Where the grasshoppers and crickets would jump from one plant to the next in the thick bush of the birds of paradise plants. Where the coral reefs would be dying from constant erosion from the swollen rivers after the regular rainstorms in South West Bay. All to remind us there is life and homes to maintain in-between these plants and the coral reefs. To remind us we are all part of the ecosystem requiring balance.
Living overseas and travelling abroad has heightened and increased my learnings. It has broaden my mind and enriched my life is many ways. I have become more tolerant and respectful of other cultures and religions and collaborated with many international networks I have built through the decades. I have acknowledged spirituality in a renewed sense. Rituals, more importantly, like setting aside time for writing and blogging. I have learnt to write better to contribute to cultural conservation where I can. There is an important part of home – of the Denemus tribe, the land and ocean of Lumete along with the coastlines – that always stays with me. These are resources that I am responsible for and must maintain their livelihoods for the next generations.
The author Lauren Keenan concluded about the place in your head that fractures from the place as it really exists, and nothing but going back can help you reconcile those two parts. I feel like that. I am like that. Torn between these worlds. but its ok. Because it is still home. Even if you need to go there to remind yourself how to properly describe the the pandanus and the birds of paradise flowers.
The girl who is building a museum 