There's something about BLACK. You feel hidden away in it. - Georgia O'Keeffe
Have you ever walked on a black sand beach? Our family did just that when we first traveled to Hawaii several years ago.
Today, I went back.
Because Punalu’u, the most famous black sand beach on the Big Island is a sight to behold.
Because there's nothing like it in the world.
And because I need to do penance.
Mother Pele, I have sinned. I took not just a handful of black sand, but a huge lava rock from this very beach on that first visit.
I know what you are thinking. I can hear you loud and clear. You are raising your eyebrows and shaking your head and asking, Why?
Well, at the time, I didn't know. Only after it had sat on a side table back home on the mainland did I learn that taking any of the sand away was kapu, forbidden, and that bad luck would come upon its purloiner. According to legend, the Hawaiian goddess Pele viewed these rocks as her 'children,' and she would punish anyone who took them away from her.
Never doubt the legends of the jungle, a native-born Hawaiian kama`aina admonished us. I had to do something to deflect any forthcoming misfortune.
I know. I'm ashamed. I shouldn't have and I'm very sorry.
In a most ungallant decision ever, I hastily set my lava rock outside on the ledge of the fence farthest from our house, facing the neighbor's, and abandoned it there.
So near the shore, Hubby and I sat on the sand, the way children or old people do. Endangered hawksbill and large, green honu turtles were basking in the sun. A crab ran sideways at my feet. Sitting there, I contemplated how the black sand formed after a millennia or more of the rough surf pounding on the spilled, bubbling molten lava flow from the active Mauna Loa and Kilauea volcanoes.
There it sat. In the rain and the mist and the dirt and the hot sun and the wind.
Day after day.
All those years.
All that time.
And now? It had evolved into the most glorious, glistening ebony color blanketing the shore.
I just wanted to touch it one more time, so I cupped a handful. How mysteriously poetic its black color was! It felt cool in my hands. I sifted the sand, unwilling to be held, and with absent fingers, let it spill freely.
As I timidly stared underfoot at the pitch-black granules glistening in the sunlight, I whispered, E kala mai i a`u. Forgive me, I'm sorry. With that, my hope was that all would be right with the world and between Pele and me.
My footsteps were dragging as we left. Black sand gave way to shallow water, then finally to waves cascading toward the shore.
Today, I went back.
Because Punalu’u, the most famous black sand beach on the Big Island is a sight to behold.
Because there's nothing like it in the world.
And because I need to do penance.
Mother Pele, I have sinned. I took not just a handful of black sand, but a huge lava rock from this very beach on that first visit.
I know what you are thinking. I can hear you loud and clear. You are raising your eyebrows and shaking your head and asking, Why?
Well, at the time, I didn't know. Only after it had sat on a side table back home on the mainland did I learn that taking any of the sand away was kapu, forbidden, and that bad luck would come upon its purloiner. According to legend, the Hawaiian goddess Pele viewed these rocks as her 'children,' and she would punish anyone who took them away from her.
Never doubt the legends of the jungle, a native-born Hawaiian kama`aina admonished us. I had to do something to deflect any forthcoming misfortune.
I know. I'm ashamed. I shouldn't have and I'm very sorry.
In a most ungallant decision ever, I hastily set my lava rock outside on the ledge of the fence farthest from our house, facing the neighbor's, and abandoned it there.
So near the shore, Hubby and I sat on the sand, the way children or old people do. Endangered hawksbill and large, green honu turtles were basking in the sun. A crab ran sideways at my feet. Sitting there, I contemplated how the black sand formed after a millennia or more of the rough surf pounding on the spilled, bubbling molten lava flow from the active Mauna Loa and Kilauea volcanoes.
There it sat. In the rain and the mist and the dirt and the hot sun and the wind.
Day after day.
All those years.
All that time.
And now? It had evolved into the most glorious, glistening ebony color blanketing the shore.
I just wanted to touch it one more time, so I cupped a handful. How mysteriously poetic its black color was! It felt cool in my hands. I sifted the sand, unwilling to be held, and with absent fingers, let it spill freely.
As I timidly stared underfoot at the pitch-black granules glistening in the sunlight, I whispered, E kala mai i a`u. Forgive me, I'm sorry. With that, my hope was that all would be right with the world and between Pele and me.
My footsteps were dragging as we left. Black sand gave way to shallow water, then finally to waves cascading toward the shore.
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