The world is hurting. But we are not lost.
Tomorrow, Aotearoa, New Zealand, celebrates the return of Matariki (Māori for the Pleiades cluster), heralding the start of the Māori New Year.
The mythology behind Matariki is a deeply layered parable for modern times. It describes the famous star cluster as the crushed eyes of Tāwhirimātea (god of storms and winds), who plucked them out in grief and placed them in the heavens as an act of defiance against the separation of his parents, Ranginui (Heaven) and Papatūanuku (Earth). Once blinded, he declared ongoing chaos and destruction as his vengeance.
To me, Tāwhirimātea’s rage speaks to the anguish one feels during times of great injustice and powerlessness. However, within the legend of Matariki is a grounding reminder of the duality in separation that precedes all existence: that when something ends, something new begins. Darkness will transition to light.
That in loss begins a new search.
Mānawatia a Matariki
There’s a place in the sun Volcano Unclimbable portal to a nether valley’s tongue spews blackened bilge screams in filthy song The valley even the demons fear Here is where your lost keys hide The ones you have been turning your house upside down for Inside coat pockets the laundry basket You’ve even sifted your bin outside with a garden rake No, luck But you won’t stop looking In all the places accessible though you know deep down the volcano seethes, moments from erupting. You hear your keys jangle inside a gremlin’s mouth mocking, grinning, inviting. But you go on, searching. With a flashlight strapped to your skull powered by chaotic momentum. Inside out, you churn, Channel your searching for the search without For as long as your keys are lost You are not.