Memories often pass like waves of the ocean—some crash loud and sudden, others lap soft and slow against the shore. Although we are often taught to perceive time as a linear concept, many cultures, such as in Hawaii, understand time that time does not move in a straight line. Although a tricky concept to get at first, understanding this nuance with time has helped me appreciate moments in life more fully and perform my ceremonies with a fuller presence.
T.S. Eliot, in Burnt Norton, wrote:
“Time present and time past, Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.”
As I mentioned this sentiment is something I try to carry into ceremony. In Hawaiian, we say: I ka wā ma mua, ka wā ma hope—“the future is in the past.” It reminds us that time is layered. Our ancestors are behind us, guiding us forward. What’s coming has already been seeded in what has come before.
Each ceremony I’m a part of makes me reflect on endings and how they shed light on beginnings. A chapter closes, and suddenly the prologue takes on new meaning. We re-read the start with the ending in mind. Was it always headed this way? Did we know? Or do we only now begin to understand?
In the light of the beginning, I am writing the ends. In the shadow of the end, I am re-seeing the beginnings.
Ceremony, at its best, honors the full circle. It reminds us that time is not a line but a spiral. That when we gather with intention—to vow, to release, to celebrate—we’re not just marking a moment, we’re connecting to every moment that led us here and every one that will follow.
And in that circling, we’re given the chance to become more than just observers of time—we become stewards of it. It is only through our own personal growth and intentional work that we are able to transform into the ancestors we need, to embody their love, and to become a totem for our children.
