The Hula Part One 1961 Waikiki Beach, Hawaii

 

Part One

I’m in awe of the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows of St. Augustine Catholic Church in Waikiki Beach. The dappled rays of light, mixed with the remaining incense from a recent mass, add to the church’s otherworldly aura.

Outside, it’s a beautiful, sunny Saturday afternoon. Inside St. Augustine, it’s confession day. Coming through the dim light, you can hear a subdued murmur drifting between the pews as the faithful move along the beads of the Rosary, asking for forgiveness and forging promises for tomorrow. As I sit awaiting my turn in the ‘booth,’ I race through my week of sins. This mental race turns into a significant internal debate about what a sin is, how big it is, and whether I have enough sins. The thought of penance, all those Hail Marys, and Our Fathers could fuel the debate to the lighter side of sin. But, from my limited fourteen years of experience, I know that if there is not a significant number of sins, the shadowed profile on the other side of the screen will say, “My child, it’s a sin not to confess all your sins.” Oy vay, as my uncle Jake would say, but what does he know about confessing? He’s Jewish; he knows guilt. I’m talking Catholic shame. The stress of confessing is overwhelming as the wait continues.

Finally, my penance has been paid, and my soul is cleansed for at least another week. I pick up my step as I head for the exit and what awaits me. St. Augustine has one of the most magnificent views of Waikiki Beach. When I pull open the enormous double wooded doors, I am stunned by the sunlight and the sheer beauty of God’s best work, the vibrant blue Pacific Ocean. I have two sidewalks, four lanes of traffic, and one hundred steps before I’m ankle-deep in an earthly heaven with sand between my toes. The last of Saturday confession is always late afternoon, just as the sky’s colors stretch to work themselves up for another technicolor sunset. I knew the walk home, along the beach, would leave me breathless. This walk with this view always takes my breath away, and I am happy to donate it to the universe in thanks to such beauty.

The same recurring thought follows me as I leave the church. Why do I have to go into a booth to confess my sins to a priest? I would gladly sit myself down right here on this beach and talk to God, one-on-one, without a middleman. It would be my honor to confess my sins directly. Instead of penitence, I would reflect on my sins and perhaps contemplate why I did what I did and why I didn’t do what I should have done. At fourteen, I’m old enough to know the difference. And I would do this with a happy, full, unstressed heart.

As all these revelations swirl in my head, I can hear the rhythmic sounds of drums, ukuleles, and soft voices singing and chanting in the distance…No, it isn’t judgment day. It’s cocktail hour at the Queen Surf Hotel down the beach by Diamond Head. In my mind, I can envision the dancers with their waist-length raven color hair, in their grass skirts and leis, swaying to the music like majestic palm trees in a tropical breeze. I am captivated by the rhythm of the music and transported back to this morning. Honey Ho (yes, Don Ho’s mother) teaches a hula class every Saturday morning in Kapiolani Park. Honey Ho will teach hula to whoever shows up. And I always show up – up early and in the front line. Now, on the beach, I can close my eyes and imagine the story they are telling at the Queen Surf cocktail hour.

All hulas tell a story. Stories of love, winning battles, good fishing, all the parts that make up daily life. The most beautiful hulas are the dances to the Hawaiian Gods: Pele, the Goddess of Fire. Lono, the God of prosperity, wind, and rain, and Kane, the creator. The rhythm of the hula speaks to the soul, and the story tells of gratitude, faith, and courage. Can you imagine dancing for God? My mind is racing. Maybe Honey Ho will help me create a hula. I would perform the hula after I softly whispered my sins. The dance being a quest for forgiveness and a mahalo (thank you) from a grateful heart. I would come here, instead of the church, every Saturday at this time and dance as the sun begins its journey west and my sins are swept out to sea. Just God and me on the beach. No booth, no screen, no stress. Just joy and contentment.

The joy and contentment followed me for the remainder of the walk home. With each step, my commitment to banish the confessional from my Saturday afternoon became more of a reality as my resolve was firmly planted in the sand. The late afternoon sun followed beside me, and the music from the Queen Surf slowly drifted out to sea for its rondeau with the sun and the horizon. The light at this time of day is magical. It illuminates the ocean’s magnificent blue palette, the dark, rustic green of Diamond Head, and the miles of endless white sand beach. It is spellbinding. The entire day reminded me of a favorite verse from an old black-and-white movie…

Where I come from, no one knows…Where I am going, everything goes…The wind blows…The sea flows… And God knows.

To Be Continued…