Hula and ‘Ori Journey

I’ve been dancing hula since I was five years old, but I never really thought of myself as a hula dancer. As a kid, I was terrified of competition and performing. As an adult, voyaging took priority. Hula was always there, but I never fully committed to it.

Coming back to hula this year has felt different.

Part of it is that I’m learning choreography much faster than I used to. Maybe it’s because I have a stronger understanding of ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi now. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent more time listening to mele and stories. Whatever the reason, the dances seem to settle into me differently.

Part of it is also that for the first I couldnt physically dance...a knee injury, anemia, my body suddenly had limits and gave me a new appreciation for movement. Hula wasn’t something I could take for granted.

Over the past nine weeks I’ve learned nearly nine dances between my former hālau, my current hālau, and my ʻOri Tahiti classes. What has surprised me most isn’t the choreography—it’s the emotions.

The longing to return home.

The turbulence and tenderness of love.

The feeling of being cherished.

The ache of separation.

The joy of reunion.

These songs are hitting me in a way they never did before. I don’t think it’s because the songs changed. I think it’s because I did.

When I dance hula, I feel like a steward. My kumu entrusts me with these motions, these stories, these emotions. Many of the mele were composed long before I was born. My job is to care for them, to listen deeply, and to become one link in a much longer chain.

ʻOri Tahiti feels different.

I’m still finding the words for it, but if hula has taught me how to listen—to my kumu, to my kūpuna, to the dancers around me, to move together as one—then ʻOri Tahiti is teaching me how to be seen.

And that is both terrifying and exciting.

Hula asks me to mālama something larger than myself.

ʻOri Tahiti asks me to let more of myself become visible.

Right now, I think I need both.