Psychometry is the ability to detect information by touching an inanimate object. It is telepathy by way of something real. Tangible. Held.

The things we touch are infused with our energy, to greater or lesser extent.

For example, a toothbrush does not bear tremendous resonance. When we are brushing our teeth, we are putting our energy towards cleaning the mouth.

However, when we are engaged in a more intentional act, such as weaving a lei, the infusion is profound. We are steeping our hearts and prayers alongside botanical essences. Together, they speak with clarity + precision. And though they may not be spoken aloud, they are highly audible to the open, receptive heart.

I believe psychometry is why we become so attached to the items of loved ones who have passed. Everything they touched – everything they wore in their mundane routines – carries stories.

The more prevalent + frequently used an item was, the more potent + solid the information becomes. As if it were a DNA strand that existed outside the body to be passed down to the next generation.

So to be a descendant of that person – that item – is to carry that strand of DNA. The more time spent with it, the more unraveled + understood it becomes.

~*~

I remember going through my grandmother’s jewelry with my sister after she passed. Of course I wanted to take it all, and of course I knew I could not.

It wasn’t that I wanted all her jewelry, it was that I wanted to hear more of her stories. It felt as if the more of her I had around me, the less real it might be that she was not here anymore.

I am not a woman who has jewelry in rotation. I revel in becoming the altar. Not for mindless accessories, but for ornaments of lineage.

In the ~2 years since I have acquired many of my gramma’s items, I have maybe taken off the gold hoops a handful of times – maybe.

The dainty gold necklace – never.

The copper cuff – that is what leads us to this moment with this page.

~*~

It was the endless summer. I was mostly unemployed – working part-time hours at a cafe – and had no plan. I was free. I knew it could not last forever, therefore I was going to savor every moment and receive every thread of magic that appeared as I stepped along this path.

Though mostly jobless, I was very busy on Maui. Learning, volunteering, gardening, barista-ing, babysitting, yoga-ing, ʻsurfing’, if you could call it that. I was finally doing all the things I neglected to pursue in my very serious, very responsible, very rigidly routined life.

A friend from Australia was visiting / returning home, and she’d mentioned a group of her friends were planning to kayak the Nā Pali coast. There was a last minute cancellation – one of their crew got sick – so she asked if I wanted to join.

This was something way out of my comfort zone, but something within whispered I must.

I have always silently envied those so comfortably literate in the ocean’s language. Reading currents, winds, swells. And, beyond that, their ability to unabashedly enter the surging force and ride it.

I look out toward the horizon and see freedom + depth. Curiosity, wonder. A mystic womb. Shamanic healer. I stand before her humbly and, admittedly, with great fear.

This invitation felt like an opportunity to work toward transcending that. These were all people well-versed and comfortable. The only true fear I was confronted with were the self-imposed prison bars of the psyche.

A few hours after receiving Sylvia’s offer, I was on a plane to Kauaʻi and greeted at the airport by one familiar face and three brand new ones.

It was equally baffling + nerve-quelling to see how this group prepared for three days of camping. I was highly satisfied with my jar of peanut butter and some apples to live on, whereas this group was planning substantial meals for each day. It feels important to note they also had watercolor paints.

I was highly entertained by Santiago in particular – his careful combing through WalMart leaving no aisle unturned, prepared + ready for any and all imagined, possible, and / or real scenarios that might unfold in seventy-two hours’ time.

The buzz of anticipation that evening was palpable. I did not know what to expect, but I knew I would not be the same when it was all said and done.

~*~

We woke up to stars sustained in their reflection over the Wailua River. We hoped to set out from Hāʻena with the sunrise.

I can still see Pedro and Papi Chulo among cascades of splashing water as they frantically sprinted toward Noah and I as we *attempted* to launch our kayak into an unexpectedly turbulent shorebreak. I had one job and epically failed, which resulted in an overturned vessel. Crisis was mostly averted as we pushed out to sea following the wake of a dolphin pod waving a friendly good morning.

After a few hours of enchantment along the coast, we arrived at Kalalau and set up camp. Home for the foreseeable future. And it was then that time stood still.

Time

stood

s t i l l.

The second day there, sights were set on Honopū. We all knew the history, and, consequently, present-day energy of the valley. An ancient burial site for royalty.

Kapu. Not allowed. No boats or kayaks may land. Only humble feet.

Once again, I felt outside of my comfort zone. The heightened sensitivity was extreme, especially rounding that corner in the water. To learn about what has happened there, at that particular point, makes me understand why.

To step foot onto that beach felt like stepping back in time. There was a deep reverence as well as an uninhibited joy. An elation toward the simplicity of being alive.

We ran toward the famed arch and stepped along the stream toward the waterfall. It was absolutely gushing that day. So much power penetrated down the cliffside.

We spent many hours there, threading in + out of our own worlds and the world we were creating together – all eight of us. Worlds of past and present.

We held our hands toward the sun and watched sand seep through our fingers. No one tried to catch it or steal more of it. We were deeply present with it as it slipped by.

Half of us ran down the beach to swim back to Kalalau. Jonathan pointed to the copper cuff hugging my wrist. “Does that ever fall off?” My great grandmother, Ruth’s, bracelet. Engraved on the inside were the words WISH IT in all caps. One of my favorite stories to wear. A symbol of hope. Her great granddaughter wearing it, perhaps evidence that some wishes of hers in fact came true.

“Nope,” I answered with a hint of arrogant pride. “I swim with it, surf with it, run with it. It’s never fallen off.” I shared how it was Ruth’s, and how I love wearing these heirlooms.

It could not have been fifteen minutes later that it slipped off onto the shore. I gasped and everyone stopped. “My bracelet!!” Now we were all on our hands and knees. My stomach sank and churned, but not for long. Someone found it, and we all kind of looked at each other with an eyebrow raised. That was weird. Then we swam home.

~*~

The next morning, I woke up before the rest of camp and felt the overwhelming need to be alone. I walked up the beach in search of solitude. Somewhere I could just be with the place and listen.

Dragonflies hummed and danced around my head. Hello, ancestors.

After many minutes of silent reverie, I began chanting profusely. E Ho Mai and Nā ʻAumākua. Over and over and over again.

E ho mai ka ʻike (Grant us wisdom)

E ho mai ka ikaika (Grant us strength)

E ho mai ke akamai (Grant us intelligence)

E ho mai ka mao popopono (Grant us understanding)

E ho mai ka ʻike pāpālua (Grant us insight)

E ho mai ka mana (Grant us power)

I cleansed myself in the water. With gratitude, renewal, and praise. Something was born again. Something was remembered.

That day was particularly beautiful. This third day with Kalalau as home. (I hear a highly alchemical component here.) A moʻolelo for another time.

The next day – the fourth and final – we began journeying back to ʻthe real world’. En route to Polihale, we stopped at Miloliʻi for lunch and shelling. Everyone dispersed in their own directions. The August heat was threatening. Cat naps were necessary.

A couple hours later we landed at Polis awaiting our grand chariot to whisk us back to Wailua.

While in the van, Pablo called out from the way back seat, “Guys, look what I found in the water! It’s two pieces of a bracelet, and on the inside, it says WISH IT.”

~*~

While I miss this story pressed against me – this adornment of the altar – I understand its message for me.

I understand the teaching in the wreckage. Its destiny to remain with me, albeit transformed.

And while I could type it out here and explicitly state it, the art of symbolism is psychometry.

It is the words that are not spoken aloud.

It is the telepathy between hearts.