Aroha and the Making of All Things

At the very beginning of all things, at the making, there was a word, and that word was the making.  It has echoed through eternity, across the vast reaches of space and time, and it will echo ever more, until the end of all things and the making renewed.  It will outlast us all, for it is us, and we are it, yet it will endure and we shall not.  This is its story.

On the morning, as the sun rose for the very first, it warmed the ground and the air began to move.  The air, that had until this time been still, felt the life within and it smiled to know that it could now move.  So it did.  It travelled across the land, rushing through the tree tops, moving bough, branch, and leaf, it raced across the plains of grass and of sand, it rose up and up over the mighty peaks of mountains, and it plunged down into valleys.  Joyous was the air that was now the wind, and it exalted in its new found freedom.  As it raced across the oceans, ripples become waves that became great swells and they heard the wind cry out to them, "Aroha!"

At the edge of the shore, where land and sea meet in their eternal duel, the swell washed and became waves that plundered the beaches, and smashed themselves hard against the rocks.  Great plumes of spray flew up high, catching the rays of sun, turning into droplets of gold, only to fall like rain, and to begin the cycle over again.  The water that had been flat and calm until the wind had begun to blow now rejoiced in its new found excitement and it raged on, pounding and throwing itself against the land.  "Aroha!" it cried, "Aroha!" it roared, for aroha it was.

The mighty eagles rose up high on the currents of air that now flowed where before there had been none.  Wings spread wide, they soared and glided, they gained height so that the trees of the forests below were nothing except a small green patch and soon faded from sight, so high that the peaks of the tallest mountains, coated in the glistening white that sparkled and dazzled like millions of tiny diamonds, were far below the reach of their powerful talons.  As they soared on the air, stretching and arcing their wings, twisting, rising, and falling at will, the noise of the wind could be heard to whisper, "Ar-oh-a", and in response the eagles cried out "Aroha!  Aroha!"

In the forests down below, the wind rushed and the trees swayed.  "We are flexible", they said, "you cannot break us, you shall never break us", and they stood in defiance of the air that had become the wind.  The wind only laughed for it knew that its power was unlimited, that one day it would have to blow harder and bring change, but until then, it was content to blow as it did that first day.  The leaves of the branches rustled with the breeze as they swayed and moved, and danced this way and that.  "Aroha, aroha, aroha!" the trees too were alive.

Under the dense green canopy of the trees, in those places where light found a way to break through, the deer sprang forth, the squirrels scampered up the trunks of the trees, and the wolves ran in mighty packs, barking and yelping in the fun of the day.  In the fragile leap of the deer jumping clear across a stream, in the scurry of the squirrel along the branch of the tree, in the playful rough and tumble of the wolves, there could be heard the same words over and over and over.  "Aroha!  We are alive."

Under the surface of the ocean, giant schools of fish formed and moved in a swirling, colossal, dark mass as one.  Dolphins exploded into the air, twisting and turning, squealing and whistling with the delight and the play, and to tell each other what they must.  With power and grace came the sharks to watch the commotion, to beat their mighty fins, and slid through the water with grace and poise and all that saw them revelled in their beauty.  From the depths of the oceans, huge beasts rose and broke the surface, rising clear, to suck in new air and life, to slap a fin and splash back down.  The ocean was a heaving frenzy of life and in every slap, squeal and whistle, and movement of fin, the same word could be heard.  "Aroha."

Sitting on a rock on the beach, a pair of eyes looked upon all that was good that day.  With each beat of his heart, the boy heard the same word over and again, as he would for ever more, "Aroha", it said.  The wind too heard the beating of that heart, so strong and true, and came to see for itself the boy on the rock to whom it belonged.  The wind, that had now travelled around the world brought with it a scent from far off places, and it blew the scent over the boy.  The boy looked up and smiled, he did not need to hear the words that the wind spoke to him, because his heart had already told him the story of how it was, how it is, and how it would be.  The boy rose to his feet and took one last look out across the ocean.  "Aroha.  I am coming.  Wait for me."  He knew that she would always be waiting, like he, for the right time, the right place, and for the right moment in which they would again find the other.  And when they did, the making would start anew, for the making would always begin and end with aroha, because that is all there has ever been and all there ever will be.  It was true then, it is true now, and it will be true for ever more.  Love.

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The Māori were the first people of New Zealand and aroha is their word for love.  If you sit quietly, you can hear it whispered to you on the breeze, calling to your heart, telling you of your dreams, and of the path that is your own to walk.

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Your Life, Your Story

There are days in our lives when it feels as if nothing is ever going to work out.  Sometimes, those days stretch into weeks or even months and the feeling becomes inescapable.  It seems as though there is no way out of the darkness that threatens to consume you, to overwhelm you, and to take you down to the bottom of the abyss from which there is no return.  When these times come upon us, and they surely will, just as the sun rises and sets each day, it is easy to despair, to blame ill-luck and bad fortune for all that has befallen you.  How is it then, that you can deal with the bleakness of these situations, how can you keep your head above the waters that threaten to engulf you?

The other day a thought occurred to me.  What if you were to imagine your life story as a novel that had already been written?  A stranger wanders over to a table in a cafe and picks up your book.  They leaf through the pages idly, stopping randomly at a certain point.  That point is now.  At this one point in the story, they know nothing of your past and nothing of your future.  All that they will know of your story is from the letters that they read, those words, lines and paragraphs that describe all that is happening right now.  The stranger in the cafe begins to read.  What will they find?  Who is the main character of your story? What type of story will they believe that they are reading - action, thriller, horror, adventure, romance, or tragedy?

This is exactly what is happening now, when you look at your own situation.  You are reading the chapter that concerns all that is occurring in the present moment.  Unlike the mysterious reader in the cafe, you already know the past, you understand perfectly all of those things, those actions, the decisions, those strange quirks and twists of fate, that brought you to where you are now and that made you into the person that you have become.  Only, just like our reader, you also do not know how the story is going to unfold, you can not know what the future holds in store for you.  If you could, would you even want to flick to the end, to read those last few lines, to discover how your story ends?

Life is like this.  You are here and it is now.  Ahead of you lies many more sentences that you must write.  How your story will unfold is not yet defined.  You hold the pen poised above the paper. The shapes that it makes are your own to make, those shapes create the letters that form the story.  There will be influences and occurrences that are out of your control, but all of these will be necessary to help you, to move the story forward.  Like now, as I write, thoughts come unbidden to my mind, that influence the direction of my writing.  So too will it be with your life, with the events that are yet to come.  You will subtly, subconsciously alter the fabric of the story, bend it to your will, to try to make it flow the way that you wish.  I know this to be true because it is exactly what I have done. I created my own situation through subconscious thought, through positioning myself so that I was more able to take the opportunities that came my way.  I was not aware of it until after, but when I looked back, it was obvious that that is what I had been doing.  I could not alter the events ahead of me, but I could ensure that I was in the best possible situation to take advantage of what came my way.  And in so doing, to reach out for my dreams.  Those events would have come to me, come at me, and perhaps I would not have been able to react in the same way.  I see this as the definition of fortune.  Fortune is the ability to see and to grasp opportunity.  No one, and I mean this truly, no one is born unlucky, no one sits with a dark cloud above their head.  That cloud is of your own making, the way that you view life.  And if you were the creator, so too can you be the destroyer.  You hold the key and you hold the power over it.  The choice is yours and yours alone.

I thought the other day about a very dark chapter in my own life, a time when I was utterly lost, when I could not see any way out of the black that had consumed me.  I was in despair.  Everything that I had cherished and loved was taken from me.  I didn't see it coming and it left me in a state of shock.  In this moment of my life, I thought I was cursed, I believed more than ever that nothing ever worked out for me, that I was unlucky, that there was little point in continuing.  Every night I went to bed, I did not want to wake up because I knew that when I did, the reality of my situation would dawn on my all over again, and it would take me down further.  Had I been in a cafe and picked up my own life story and begun reading at this point, I would have wondered how such a thing could have happened, why someone with a good heart, who always tried so hard for others, could have befallen such a disaster.  And probably, because I'm a sucker for an underdog story, I would want the foolish boy who believed so much in the promise of love, to succeed, to find his way out and to have a happy ending.  I needed that dark chapter of my life, as much as I need the light.  That particular chapter was necessary to bring me to here and to now.  All of these years later, my life has turned into a voyage of discovery and adventure.  I'm still looking for that happiness that can only be found in love, but as surely as eggs are eggs, I don't want my ending to come just yet.  I still have so much to do, so much more to write and so many stories to tell my children.   

And so do you.  There are pages upon pages of blank whiteness ahead of you.  What is behind is gone.  It is done.  Now, here you stand.  At your feet lie a shield and a sword, all around you are the sounds and sights of the raging battle that is life.  It is your decision on whether you fight for the life that you want, whether you raise your shield to ward off the blows that will surely come, whether your swing your sword to strike down your enemies that will try to stop you.  Write you own story.  Don't get caught up in the past, don't think about now.  Instead, look to your future, decide what it is that you want, picture where you wish to go, and then fight for it.  Each strike of the enemy parried by your shield forms a letter, each swing of the sword creates the sentence.  Your story, your book, your ending.  You are not defined by who you are now, you are defined by who you will become and the writing of that story is in your own hands.  So, go write it.

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