SNAP is not the problem

As a working artist, I've never equated monetary net worth with actual value. I've always recognized that the most impactful, transformative, nourishing experiences, objects, and people, cannot be represented with a dollar value. When I was 20 years old, in the early 1980s, I interned at St. Mark's Poetry Project, in the Bowery in New York City. As a young poet, I saw brilliant poets living the barest of material lives, on so little financial means, so that they would have time to write and contribute to the literary community. Maybe they got a fellowship every once in a while, stretching it out to make it last as long as possible. Maybe they took part-time jobs to cover rent and food. The Lower East Side of Manhattan back in the day was not yet fully gentrified (although the signs were clear and undeniable), and you could still get a relatively cheap apartment. 

This internship, and hanging out in the Bowery, planted seeds in me that would take root and flower over the years to come. It shifted my view of the world, helping me to understand what the artist's life required, as opposed to the dominant culture I had grown up in, which I now would call Colonized Mind. I'm using Colonized as an umbrella term to include patriarchy, capitalism, heteronormativity, racism, ableism, and even the universally lauded American Work Ethic. The poets in the Bowery embodied lifestyles and ethics of resistance to Colonized Mind: Why should we work for you? Why do you get to tell me how to spend my time and what to think? And even You need what we produce, whether you know it or now, and you need to uplift us.

Many years later, children grown, and newly divorced, I moved to Detroit, Michigan, in 2013, to study at the feet of Grace Lee Boggs and other movement and thought leaders, obsessed with questions of how to live in times of intense transformation, and even collapse. At that time we all engaged deeply in the concepts of New Work, New Culture, New Economy, spearheaded by Professor Frithjof Bergmann. These ideas revolved around the fact that our globalized economies, along with the rise of technology, guaranteed that jobs, as we knew them, would be less and less available, such that we had to evolve to figure out what it meant to be human, how we would eat and live, and create new cultures and identities that did not revolve around our former concepts of jobs.

Now, in October 2025, on the brink of the loss of food benefits for 40 million Americans, including me, I reflect, once again, on what it all means. What constitutes work in the 21st century? Whose responsibility is it to feed oneself and loved ones?

In a moment of extreme vulnerability, in the midst of an extreme culture of polarization, I decided to out myself on social media as a SNAP beneficiary. I felt an intense need to do this because of the lies and stereotypes attributed to people like me. Don't make me go through the litany; we've all heard the slurs about poor people throughout our lives. Colonized Mind has trained us to valorize greedy mofos like Zuckerberg and Musk, while demonizing people like me. So I posted: 

 

 

I have been on and off SNAP for a while, some years leaner than others. Even though I'm a Senior Teacher in the Iyengar Yoga tradition, I often teach for free, or less than minimum wage. Since 2013, I have made 2 major moves. In 2003, I helped establish a nonprofit Iyengar Yoga center in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Riverwest Yogashala, and left it in 2012, to pursue my next stage of learning in Detroit. I helped establish a cooperative Iyengar Yoga center in Detroit, and also left it, to move closer to my grandchildren in Hawai`i in 2021, and teach at Iyengar Yoga Silent Dance Center. Admittedly, I've struggled here in Hawai`i, to build a large enough community to fully support me financially. I understand why folks tend not to uproot in their 60s to start all over--it's like trying to replant a mature, fruiting tree in a new land. I have a small cadre of committed students and mentees, and many casual students who occasionally drop in. 

 

Like I've said, deep down, I know we cannot measure our worth in dollars. Professionally, I'm at the top of my game. My skill as a teacher has never been stronger. I do feel assured that the community here in Hawai`i respects, appreciates, and likes me. But that doesn't mean they want to study with me. Why would they want to change teachers and disrupt their weekly schedules, when they are perfectly content where they are? 

 

I regard my yoga practice as my primary art form, as well as my spiritual practice. As such, I never expected nor required it to pay off financially. In addition to teaching locally, I teach for Iyengar Yoga Detroit, run their Teacher Education program, and teach students in Korea. I teach on a sliding scale, and quite a few of my students pay on the lower end, or not at all. I'm completely fine with that, because I don't believe in yoga as a commodity or commercial enterprise.

 

This means I have refined the art of simple living over the years. If you really knew, you might be appalled. I will spare you the details, except to say that the more I honor the gifts of the natural world, by living as conservatively as possible, the more integrated I feel with all of life. Somehow I manage to live an extraordinarily rich life, on very little money. 

 

As you can imagine, I got a lot of traction on the post about being a SNAP user, overwhelmingly positive, but a few strangers decided they needed to scold me and set me straight. I decided not to drain my energy responding to them, but a few allies, also strangers, came out of left field to respond on my behalf. 

 

Most of the attacks were along the lines of "You work to eat. No work, no eat." They reveal what I've come to think of as Plantation Mind. I think of my fellow Koreans, who came by ship in the early 1900s to work the sugar plantations, hungry, starved by the Japanese Empire. They came to make money, full-stop, and they did what was required. The trauma of displacement and backbreaking labor can lead to valorization of one's own trauma, and a reinforcing belief in its inevitability, such that it gets passed from generation to generation. Work your ass off for the master, and master will reward you: this message gets hardwired into generations. The only relief is 4 weeks vacation, and a 401K, for the lucky ones. Until then, the only option is to suffer through it, building resentment and hatred for those of us who refuse to step on the treadmill.

 

However Plantation Mind is survival mentality based on individual effort and sacrifice. It doesn't consider underlying systems of exploitation. Plantation labor in Hawai`i was basically indentured servitude, because slavery had been outlawed, but cheap or free labor was required for profit. Plantation owners recruited laborers from around the world, the more desperate, the better for their bottom line. Who are the real exploiters? 

 

Corporate welfare remains invisible and unspoken. We ignore the preposterous, expanding wealth gap. We've long stopped complaining about the regressive tax codes, which let millionaires and billionaires keep growing their wealth, instead of sharing it with the rest of us. You see, low-income folks like me are not the problem.

 

Do I like depending on the federal government for food assistance? No, it makes me squirm and hold my nose. I also hate paying taxes that fund an out of control military industrial complex, responsible for multiple genocides, including the current one in Gaza. I hate the fact that I drive on government roads, depend on government funded healthcare, eat food from farms surviving on government subsidies. We live in times of collapse, but until it all collapses and something new birthed from the ashes, we are stuck with what we've got.

 

My critics want me to feel shame, and to apologize for accepting government aid. But my tiny aid package is not even a drop in the bucket of the aid that Musk, Zuckerberg, and the other tech and defense industries receive. Let's not even look at the BILLIONS to Israel, and the 300 million dollar demolition of the White House East Wing for a disastrous ballroom. Yeah, the ballroom is being privately funded, but take a minute to ponder why these businesses might be shelling out money to the president. Hmmmf?

 

Please, let's not attack the poor. We're the last to blame for the collapse of our nation. We're not poor because of bad planning, laziness, self-indulgence, or stupidity. We're impoverished by the exploitative system of capitalism, which requires a massive underclass. 

 

In my case, I choose to live on very little money, because I refuse to compromise my ethics to serve a master I do not believe in. I choose to devote myself to meaningful work that benefits the community, whether it pays or not. I choose to spend time caring for my grandchildren, raising money for mutual aid in Palestine, and providing yoga therapy for people even if they do not have the means to pay me. I choose to devote myself to `āina and akua, knowing there will not be financial gain. Because of these choices, I rarely eat out, never shop, attend only free cultural events, and share, share, share, as much as possible in cultivating beloved communities of mutual aid.

 

In my heart I truly believe I am putting in, giving back, and investing more than I take. I'm not the only one. Most impoverished people are caring for little ones, or kūpuna, or people with disabilities. Most impoverished people are working the jobs no one else wants to, and getting paid way too little. The poor  keep the system afloat, while the rich keep stealing more and more. Instead of attacking the poor, we should be uplifting them, while making the wealthy pay up! 

 

I wish none of this needed to be explained. Personally, I never learned any of this in school, or from my immigrant parents. I had to teach myself well into adulthood, while shedding the layers of Colonized Mind. It takes time, and I can't blame those who are only looking at the individual and not the system, because that's definitely how I was brought up. Don't look at the man behind the curtain! But until and unless we all see the bigger picture, we cannot rise up together. We cannot dismantle the massive edifices of injustice. We cannot create the society that we all long to live in, where we all have decent housing, food, healthcare, and education. Where keiki and kūpuna are treasured and cared for. Where `āina is beloved as the basis for all life. May it be so.

 

A Rite of Passage: Embracing the Crone

I have always wanted to be old. I have been waiting all my life to become old.

I did not find youth easy. Perhaps I was born old. Until society succeeded in cowing me, I was a rageful child. I didn't fit it, but I learned to suppress my weirdnesses and assimilate. I was born restless and agitated, but I didn't find the words for my rage until I was much older, in my 20s, and more fully in my 30s and 40s. I still cultivate sacred rage as a kind of superpower. Sacred rage emerges from insight, seeing through things, finding truth that contradicts what we've been told.

One thing I was taught, by everyone--my mother and her sisters, by both mainstream and alternative media, by society and across cultures--is that women depreciate in value as we age. By all means possible, we should strive to be young. Facial creams, hair dyes, plastic surgery, lying about our age, special wardrobes....all become necessary to prevent the ravages of aging. 

Is it any wonder that so many women struggle painfully with perimenopause and menopause? The end of our childbearing years throws us, according to the model of the triune goddesses, from maiden, to mother, to, finally, crone.

We don't even like the word crone. Western culture tends to characterize crones as kin to witches and evil stepmothers. European fairy tales and Disney sure don't help. But we must reclaim the status, magic, power, and majesty of the crone. 

This doesn't happen overnight. The power of the crone begins decades earlier. It started, for me, with my pregnancies and childbirths, embracing the power of motherhood, and learning to trust my own body. It ripened further as my relationship to menstruation evolved, from shame and denial, to honoring it. 

Iyengar Yoga practice taught me how to befriend my period. Counterculturally, I learned to honor it as a time of introspection and rest, and to allow and encourage the flow, instead of suppressing it. I learned to read the discomforts--of cramps, headaches, or crankiness--as messages from my body to change my behavior and prioritize my well-being. I learned how to support the hormonal changes, and encourage my uterus to expel its lining, instead of fighting against the physiology, or simply medicating my discomfort. Learning the menstrual practice profoundly shaped how I would experience perimenopause.

I admit I may not be the average 62 year-old. I began a practice of yoga 35 years ago, so by the time I stopped menstruating at age 50, I had 20 years of practice under my belt. This practice includes lots of time upside down, promoting circulation, physiological health, and hormonal balance. For me, perimenopause was not that eventful. Yes, I had irregular periods, erratic flow, and some very heavy sheddings, including a few embarrassing episodes of bleeding through my clothes. But to me, these were relatively minor inconveniences. 

Except for a year after college, before my first child was born, my work schedule was always variable. I chose not to work a 40-hour, 9-5 job, and instead, chose the flexibility of independent contracting, as a working artist, and later, as an Iyengar Yoga instructor. After my divorce, at age 49, when I became financially independent, I accepted that economic uncertainty, including periods of poverty, was the price I paid for flexibility. 

I had time to take care of myself. As a young mother, by the time I reached perimenopause, my 3 children were all grown and out of the house. Leaving my marriage, I also freed myself from householding and "wifing." I had earned my freedom, and shed the constraints associated with caregiving and householding. Of course I also lost my privileges, but I had long renounced most of them anyway.

Some of the struggles associated with menopause and perimenopause didn't pertain to me. Sleepless? Turn on a lamp and read a book. Tired in the middle of the day? Take a nap. Hot flash? Throw off the covers. Don't get me wrong, I still had plenty of obligations. Nevertheless I structured my life such that I could prioritize my own well-being.

I do recognize that I've lost some strength in my bones and muscles. Yesterday my 8 and 6 year-old grandkids and I put on an entire show to the soundtrack of K-Pop Demon Hunters. I was exhausted because I starred in the show, along with 8 year-old Coco, and she made me be in every dance. Afterwards, I laid down on the floor and said, "OK, let's rest." Of course my grandkids were not having it, nor needing rest. 

For the first 7 years after my last menstrual cycle, I had very few symptoms of menopause. In 2020-2021 (remember the COVID-19 lockdown?) my body went through a whole litany of injuries, no doubt exacerbated by stress: plantar fascitis, sacral instability, hip pain, sciatica, knee pain, and hamstring injuries. Each injury taught me more than any seminar could, on how to heal myself. I did manage to heal from all these conditions, and it made me a better, more compassionate and effective teacher.

I believe I had accrued enough strength pre-cronehood to carry me through some years post-menopause without much fuss. But the conditions of COVID weakened me overall and allowed anatomical imbalances to arise. I learned from these injuries that I need to emphasize strength-building and stabilizing as I age.

Most of all I recognize cronehood as the most incredibly rich and rewarding stage of my life. I tell younger friends: Your 30s are better than your 20s. Your 40s will be better than your 30s. Your 50s even better, and the 60s are the best of all. Beyond my 60s, I continue to expect the best.

Why do I celebrate cronehood? Because I have no fucks to give anymore. On TikTok or Instagram you can find @justbeingmelani and join her We Do Not Care Club for menopausal and perimenopausal women. Here I found soul sisters to laugh with for hours! But it's not light humor. This is powerful, subversive humor, declaring that the patriarchy no longer has any hold on us. The pressures of society--to be beautiful, young, polite, self-sacrificing, submissive, and more--have become utterly insignificant. That is the true beauty of cronehood.

 

 

 

 

Korean in Hawai`i

 Part I

I walk to the beach before the sun rises. As soon as the darkness has lifted enough for me to see the numbers on the combination gate lock, I am off. I am fortunate to live a few steps from the beach, in a house owned by a nonprofit, where I am the resident caretaker.

I survey the flowers and fruit underfoot. They reveal how long it’s been since I came here, on mornings when I don’t have to rush off. If it’s been more than 1-2 days, I see a lot of dried, crushed orange pua kou, and bruised white fruit. If I came the day before, just a handful of new flowers have fallen.

I face northeast, where the sun will soon rise. Beyond the horizon, 4000 miles away, lies Japan, and further east, Korea, where my family came from, and where I was born. The waters touch all the coasts, and the tradewinds come from the northeast. Recently, an earthquake off the coast of Russia, near the Aleutian Islands archipelago, set off a tsunami warning here in Hawai`i. It sent waves from the epicenter across the Pacific Ocean, to Japan, Korea, and onward to the Midway atoll and the Hawaiian islands, reminding us that we are all connected. Below the sea, the tectonic plates grind, slide, and collide, creating disruptions big and small on the surface of the earth, and in the oceans.

I stood on a friend’s rooftop after the tsunami warning sirens went off, looking through binoculars in the direction of Russia, to see if a wave could be spotted. Fortunately for us in Hawai`i, the god Kanaloa absorbed much of the strength of the waves deep into the ocean, and besides one hotel with a minor flood in Hilo, we were once again spared. Our frail and foolish species got yet another chance to survive.

The next day I went to the beach by my house to kilo, observe any effects and changes. I noticed much more sticks and rocks on the shore than usual, and the sand felt heavier and denser underfoot. The ocean was more tumultuous than usual, the tide a bit higher, and the waves more chaotic and rough. I dove in, and the water seemed more cloudy, with more sticks and other “stuff” than usual. 

What had the 8.8 earthquake shaken up? What came loose to float to the shore in Waimānalo? What messages, what wisdom, what stories? What was stirred up from the depths of the cold water of the Aleutians, that was sent in successive waves to my shore?

Even further west, as the waves keep traveling, lies Mexico, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea, and Southwest Asia. The waters are universal, and eternal. What began as a cloud transforms into rain, which falls onto land and water, then evaporates back into the atmosphere. If only I could travel, like the seas, like plastic bottles filled with rice and lentils, to the other side of the world. If only I could float into Gaza, like the food aid the Egyptians have sent via the waves of the Mediterranean. 

Here in Hawai`i, I pray to all the ancestors. Preparing for sunrise, I chant Aloha e to akua, aumakua, ali`i, kupuna, makua, and lehulehu. God, the ancestors, the chiefs, elders, family, and everyone else. I chant the sun up, e ala e. I ask for guidance from above, e ho mai. I sing several verses of Arirang, in tribute to my homeland across the ocean.

I bring flowers and fruit to the ocean. Just as humans weep tears, trees weep flowers. When they can no longer support the blossoms, when they have served their functions to attract pollinators, it is time for them to move on, and the mother trees loosen them such that the wind floats them to the ground. In a day or two they will dry out, turn papery frail, and get crumbled into the sand. Before they dry out, I gather them in the pocket of my hoodie, to offer one more day of life, of beauty, of service.

A large log has settled on the shoreline and I squat on top of it as I chant and pray. I release blossoms and pray to the Most High, to Universal Spirit, Ultimate Consciousness, and to all the gods and goddesses who will hear me. I pray for Gaza, I pray for my children and grandchildren, I pray for loved ones far and near, and anyone who needs prayers. I pray for wisdom, protection, guidance, and healing. I weep salty tears into the ocean, and toss the tears of the trees into the waves. We all weep for the earth, for all our relations. We weep as a form of release, in grief and praise and gratitude. We weep to let go, to hold space and make more space.

At the HTMC clubhouse where I live, we have frequent visitors, public events, and overnight guests, but I’m the sole resident. A friend asks me, “Do you ever feel scared or lonely at the house?” She’s always lived in cities, and semi-rural life on the remote windward side of the island seems risky to her.

“No,” I answer without hesitation. I wonder why I feel so safe here? The reasons come to me right away. I’m not alone. I am surrounded by so much life, all my relations.

To my northwest, lies the mountain I regard as my Grandmother. Her Hawaiian name is Pu`uokona, part of the Kuli`ou`ou range of the Ko`olau Mountains. She is broad and green, with strong sharp ridges. To my east is the mountain I regard as my Grandfather. He is more stony and steep. They surround me, from the west to the east, wrapping me like an embrace. More immediately, three mature Hau trees provide shade, rising above the arbor, and dropping blossoms for me everyday. I pick them up and place them in a saucer of water on the table. Multiple palms and coconut trees surround the house, along with la`i, pua melia, pua kalaunu, naupaka, and so much more.

Multigenerations of mynah birds live in the coconut tree by the kitchen door. Occasionally I find an eggshell or an old nest on the nearby steps. A grand old mango tree abides in the mauka ewa corner. I devote myself to her, and leave offerings, and fertilize her with my own body, via buckets of diluted urine. She blesses me with gorgeous, unbelievably sweet Hayden mangos, more than I can eat, which I share with neighbors, friends, and family.

As an act of devotion to the abundance of the `āina, I’ve become a lei-maker, and all proceeds go to distribute water and food in Gaza, through Wai Nau Aloha Water Project. As a lei-maker I’ve become even more intimate with the `āina, learning the names, rhythms, textures, and qualities of the plants that surround me.

Multiple generations of chickens come by here. I call the hens Lulu, and the roosters Pepe. I tell them I will not force them to leave, but they have to fend for themselves, I will not feed them, and I cannot protect them. Pepe comes around occasionally, but makes the rounds to all the houses around here. This morning, way too early, I had to yell, “Pepe, scat!” out the window when he was crowing too close to my bedroom. He quickly scurried over the fence into the neighbor’s yard.

The mynahs are Mimi, the geckos are Gigi, and the pigeons are Dudu. The two feral cats who visit are trying to ingratiate themselves to me but I give them the cold shoulder. 

This is just a sliver of all the living beings I share this land with, the beings that allow me to be part of their world.

 

[Upcoming: Part II, Becoming Kama`āina]

Greetings from the Clubhouse

(originally published in March 2025 HTMC Newsletter, as the resident caretaker at the house owned by the nonprofit HTMC1910.org)

I wake every morning with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and joy. I am so deeply honored to be entrusted with this opportunity as your clubhouse resident caretaker.

I spent my elementary school years here on O`ahu, in the 1960s-70s, before our family moved away to Buffalo, New York (brrrr!), where my father was a professor of Physiology at University of Buffalo (SUNY-Buffalo). On Turtle Island, I’ve lived in New York, Tennessee, Wisconsin, and most recently, Detroit, Michigan. I came back to Hawai`i in 2021, so I could be closer to my son, daughter-in-law, and their children in Ewa Beach, and also to be closer to my daughter and son-in-law in Kea`au, Hawai`i island.

Above photo: Peggy with granddaughter, Coco Malie

Since my return to my childhood home, I’ve been striving to reintegrate to this special place. I’ve been educating myself on Hawaiian history, cultural wisdom, and spirituality that I never really learned as a child. Hiking is one of the activities I love, because it viscerally reconnects me to the `aina. With every footfall, I communicate with the life around me, receiving grace, and valuable information, if I am paying attention.

Here at the clubhouse, I am learning the plant and animal life, as well as cycles of the moon and stars. I call the house “Anole Mansion,” in honor of the lizards that call the building home! Here in rural Waimanalo, it’s impossible to totally separate human and more-than-human life. Sure, I have to clean up after the brown and speckled anole and occasional green gecko, but they also help me by keeping the insect population down.

I’m getting to know the plants and trees, when, where, and how much to water. I’m harvesting rainwater from the barrel, and integrating the plants I brought over. I look forward to more gardening, food growing, composting, and eating from the land.

In my first days, I reached a deal with the ants, by warding them off with a vinegar and water spray. They have every right to live outside, but I’ve been firm with them about not settling indoors. I talk to the rooster and the mynah and pigeons. I’m trying to talk the rooster into waiting at least until 5am to start crowing, and encouraging the pigeons to find other places to roost besides our roof eaves.

On mornings when I don’t have to rush off to teach a class at Iyengar Yoga Silent Dance Center in Ka’imuki, or accompany my 2 year-old grandson to `ohana preschool, I walk to the beach to watch the sunrise. I oli and pule, incorporating both Hawaiian and Korean traditions. In the early morning, the moon is often visible, and I’m learning mahina teachings and culture. I’m familiarizing myself with the neighborhood and other sunrise rituals. We nod our good mornings, and sometimes pause to chat.

I’m enjoying getting to know some of you who drop by the house. This is an opportunity to connect beyond the large group settings and events of HTMC. Please take advantage of this wonderful setting, enjoy the beach, and our showers. Feel free to use the kitchen.

I know this is going to be a transformative year for me at LPMC. I’m extremely disturbed by the violence in the world, especially in Gaza, but also in Syria, Congo, Sudan, Ukraine, as well as the assaults on our rights and basic needs in the USA. I take every opportunity to speak out against injustice, and I hope you do too. At the same time, I receive deep nourishment and protection from the `āina. My soul is replenished every day by the mountains, oceans, winds, rains, and more. Every day I receive an enormous dose of awe.

I look forward to communicating with the HTMC community regularly and will write again soon.

With much aloha,

Peggy Gwi-Seok Hong

(A note on my name: Many of my friends know me as Gwi-Seok, which rhymes with “Lisa.” However, since moving back to Hawai`i and meeting so many new folks, it’s been easier for many to remember “Peggy.” I will answer to either, no offense taken.)

Yogāsanas for Spinal Health

Everywhere we go, we encounter folks with back pain. It seems to be a hallmark of this time and place. I have also experienced back pain on and off over the years, but these days, hardly ever. If I do throw something out, get a catch, wake up with a twinge, jam my sacrum, or pull a muscle, I put everything on hold until I work that kink out. 

One of my quirky, outrageous rules is: I tolerate pain for only one day. In other words, the next day, it'd better be gone! How do I make this happen? I am extremely blessed to have studied Iyengar Yoga therapeutics with some of the best teachers in the world. Over the years I've developed quite an extensive therapeutic repertoire, and am grateful to hundreds of students who've helped me hone my knowledge and skills. I'm also grateful to my own body for teaching me how to heal myself. I've personally experienced neck and shoulder pain, knee pain, menstrual and menopausal issues, low back pain, sacral instability, groin pain, hip pain, plantar fascitis, sciatica, sprained ankles, and more! Each time, I've had to figure out how to heal myself. I've had lots of assistance and guidance from Senior Iyengar Yoga Teachers, especially Lois Steinberg, as well as peers and colleagues. I also embrace the spirit of experimentation and improvisation to figure out what works on a given day.

I published the following Low Back Health sequence back in 2021 in Iyengar Yoga Detroit Collective's Wellness 'Zine. I'm republishing the photos now because several people in recent weeks and months have talked to me about their intermittent or chronic back pain. I invite anyone who is experiencing back pain to try these poses out. They can all be done at home with simple props. Look around your home and find what you can use. Improvise and modify as needed. Every pose should feel wonderful. If it doesn't, come out of the pose and modify it. If you cannot find a modification that brings relief, consult a CIYT. Do this sequence as often as you like, even daily, and please let me know it goes.

 1. Low back Śavāsana

 

Lie on your back and rest your calves on a chair seat. This helps lengthen the buttocks away from the waist so that the sacrum and low back widen and the back muscles can soften and spread. If you wish, you can even lay a bolster across your abdomen and ask a helper to put plate weights (25 lbs) or sandbags on it. This will further relax the low back muscles. Stay for 5 minutes minimum, or as long as you wish.

2. Pavanmuktanāsana

  

Have 2 chairs facing each other, and lay an 8-fold sticky mat over them. Stack 2 bolsters or thick pillows/cushions on them, staggered. Place a block on the end so that the top bolster stays level. Support the head with a blanket. The hips should be higher than the knees, so that the front groins can soften, you can easily fold forward, and lengthen the trunk. This pose further brings quietness and ease while allowing the low back to keep spreading. Stay 5 minutes or longer.

3.  Adho Mukha Śvanāsana with traction

 

Here, a yoga strap is secured to a doorknob, then circling the top of the thighs while the heels move back toward the door. The arms reach forward onto a chair seat so that the spine can fully lengthen. Notice the angle between the trunk and the legs is wider than 90°, to facilitate full spinal length. Stay 2-3+ minutes, repeating as desired.

4. Chaturangāsana 

 

 

Use an open backed chair or stool, or even an ottoman, plus a second chair or support for the arms and head. Use padding as needed on the chair seat. Lay the entire trunk on the chair and allow the knees to hover off the floor. You should feel the entire back become level and spread wide. Stay 5 minutes or longer.

 

5. Prone low back Śavāsana 

 

 

 

Lie face down on a bolster, 4-5 stacked blankets, or a thick cushion. See that the forehead is supported, with blankets or whatever is needed, or turn the head to the side, as shown above. The whole trunk is supported, but the tailbone angles downward, so that the buttocks lengthen away from the waist and the low back spreads.

 

Note that weights (plate weights or sandbags) can be used in any of the poses, except Adho Mukha Śvanāsana. The weights will intensify the effects of the poses and help the muscles to relax. The amount of weight depends on your body type: thicker, denser, muscular bodies will need more weight.

 

There are many more go-to poses for back pain, but these are some of the most effective, and simplest to do at home. The key is repetition. Let us continue learning and healing, now and forever more. 

 

 

 

Like a Bird On a Wire: Balancing On My Money Path

 When I left my marriage in 2010, I wanted nothing to do with our marital assets. Even though I knew in my bones that half of it belonged to me, I still felt it carried a ton of karma that I didn’t want to be responsible for managing. Most of the disagreements in our married life stemmed from money: He felt we needed more, and I felt that the price of accruing wealth was not worth it, to put it mildly.

My ex-husband and I met at Columbia University, in the early 1980s. He had just graduated and I had just started at Barnard College. The Columbia University Glee Club brought us together. It was much more than a choir; it was, and probably still is, an entire social ecosystem. Lots of alum hung out with us, attending rehearsals and drinking afterwards. Technically a men’s choir, they recruited women to sing first tenor, since it’s a range accessible to altos, and difficult to fill with men alone. 

For me at that stage of my life, I enjoyed all the male energy. In retrospect, this era represented the apex of my white supremacist patriarchal heteronormative colonial era. Our family had left Hawai`i 6 years earlier, and I was still busily trying to assimilate to white culture. My first semester of college, I signed up for “Lit Hum,” a class in literary classics, which at that time was 100% European. I also signed up for Calculus, having internalized the pressure to potentially follow a pre-med track.

I had a great time, singing Mozart and Bach as well as the standard rah-rah college repertoire and drinking songs. I felt uncomfortable with the Korean students, who felt too nerdy for me. Having grown up in Asian-dominant Hawai`i, all the mainland Asians I had met seemed awkward and uncool to me. At the same time, I was being tokenized and exoticized in white culture, without having the language to conceptualize it or name it.

All of this to say, when I married my husband at the sweet young age of 22, in 1985, I had no idea how my future self might evolve. Several times my higher self sent red flags, and I attempted to break off the engagement, only to return to what felt like my destiny. My hesitation at the time had mostly to do with gender roles, and my deeply held belief that I was never meant to be a wife, that I was not wife material, and that I needed more space. Mostly that revolved around my art, which at that time was poetry and creative writing, which I believed required full-time devotion and autonomy.

We had one child, then another, then another. My body blossomed into motherhood over and over, and would have kept on going if we did not exercise great care. My partner and I were equally committed to our children, and neither one of us would have accepted separation from them. 

When my ex-husband and I first got together, he was considering law school, to become a labor lawyer. He was the grandson of working class immigrants from Poland and Italy, and first generation college. He still identified strongly with the working class and wanted to defend it. However, over the years, upper class white society welcomed him with open arms, plus he had major law school loans to pay off. After some years of practicing corporate law, even after loans were paid off, he felt compelled to stay, make partner, get bonuses, and embrace all the rest of the golden shackles.

All this while, scales fell from my eyes. I became more and more politically aware. After 9/11, no holds were barred. I began getting involved with electoral politics, which evolved into anti-war activism, then further into anti-racism work. The web of oppression became obvious to me, and I could see all the tentacles of the capitalist heteronormative white supremacist patriarchy, which became increasingly intolerable. I questioned our wealth, while acknowledging how I and our children had benefited from it. The children got to go to private school and the colleges of their choice, and I attended grad school and got my MFA in poetry and fiction. I held part-time jobs for my own fulfillment, but our household did not require my income, and I had time to pursue writing, dance, and offer many hours of unpaid community work.

But I could see that my husband suffered. He experienced physical and emotional wear and tear, including depression and chest pains, and many other symptoms. I wracked my brain to come up with creative solutions to alleviate his stress, including options for me to generate more income for the family, and to radically pare down our living expenses. Nevertheless, he felt obliged to persist in his chosen path. He deeply and truly believed it was absolutely necessary and nonnegotiable.

Over the years we increasingly drifted apart emotionally, intellectually, and socially. People who met us separately did not realize we were a couple—we were so different from each other.

After all our children left for college, I suggested to my husband that we turn our 5 bedroom house into a cooperative project. I had a friend in grad school who sought housing, and it felt only right to share our resources. I also suggested that we sell our house in our racist, white neighborhood, and move to an area with more people of color. I felt the blood on our hands, having “succeeded” in white supremacist racist patriarchy, and I yearned to make reparations for the wealth we had built. 

All my suggestions were rebuffed. My soul cried out for liberation. I had to leave, but I did not want to leave with the tainted, blood-soaked money. I decided to move to Detroit, to learn at the feet of Grace Lee Boggs and others, to build intentional community there. I needed a chance to walk the talk, to go beyond the books I’d been reading, the discussions I’d been having, to really figure out how to live a just, equitable, anti-racist, anti-capitalist life.

I didn’t want to come in as a philanthropist— fuck that capitalist shit. My husband and I had already been giving 10-20% of our income away every year to causes we both supported. But I wanted to participate more fully as a comrade, as a member of the community. I wanted to be with the people, not “serve” from the refuge of a comfortable house in a white neighborhood. Doing that would only perpetuate the very systems I recognized as violent and oppressive. 

At the time I could not fathom a way to keep my wealth, maintain my ethics, and be a member of the community. Since then I’ve learned about spend-down foundations, and Resource Generation, which embrace ways of using wealth for social good while ending intergenerational hoarding.

If I had to do it all over again, I might have kept my 50%, formed a spend-down foundation, and made a plan to dissolve the funds in 10 years, while supporting certain individuals and groups. But I remain torn about the decisions I made. If I had moved to Detroit with access to hundreds of thousands of dollars, wouldn’t I have felt obliged to buy a house for the intentional community we were intently forming? Wouldn’t I feel obliged to finance the repairs to the house? How would I feel holding back? Would I have kept my wealth a secret (ie “Anonymous donor”)? If so, how would that sit in my body? I met so many people and projects in Detroit deserving financial support. How and why would I hold back? How would I live with that? 

This is why wealth remains concentrated in exclusive neighborhoods and social circles: so that we don’t have to make such decisions. So we don’t have to look our friends and neighbors in the eye, when we choose to hold back, or lie. 

Of course, these are ego decisions. Basically I’m kicking the can down the road. My ex-husband and my children will have to figure out what to do with the money. One could certainly argue that all money is tainted, that it is all blood money, built on oppression of other living beings, including the earth. Many assert that money is only energy, and we choose how we direct the energy. That argument feels specious and abstract to me. We are, after all, embodied beings living in the prakrti (matter) of the physical world. As sovereign beings, we choose how energy is generated and distributed. 

The money weighs on me whether or not I hold it. Because I carry no wealth, I depend on the state. I receive SNAP benefits and Medicaid. I pay for my poverty with my health. For instance I cannot afford regular sessions of acupuncture and bodywork. I long ago stopped buying exclusively organic foods, and I rarely eat out. My gifts to family and friends are almost always homemade. My living choices are humble and limited, and I depend on the generosity and prosperity of other individuals and organizations for housing.

One could argue I’m slumming. Pretending to be poor when I’m rich. I remain absolutely privileged in terms of class, education, and other resources, that I cannot dismantle even if I tried.

In retrospect, I think I could have managed my wealth in an ethical way if I had had the inner clarity and conviction. At the time I did not have any examples or role models. Everyone in my circles fell into one of these economic categories:

• generationally impoverished due to racism, ableism, and the ravages of capitalism and limited access to education and opportunities
• temporarily low-income as recent college graduates 
• voluntarily low-income as artists/activists etc
• middle class and barely making ends meet
• coming from generational wealth but without full access
• upper-middle or upper class, and living in a secure, comfortable bubble

Now I would add the category:

• access to wealth and on an active path of redistribution and reparation

To my comrades in this new category, I’m wondering:

• Who holds the pursestrings to your wealth?
• Is there a time you foresee when the wealth has been fully redistributed? What are the criteria for defining this moment in the future?
• How do you plan to financially support yourself and/or your loved ones when this time comes? 
• How do you build solidarity with your community when there are extreme imbalances of financial capacity? 
• What do you experience in your body as you walk your money path?

I believe that in 2010-2012, while I was deciding on my financial future, that any plan to keep the money would have made me physically ill. We have a family history of auto-immune conditions. My auto-immunity shows up as allergies, asthma, and in the past, eczema, digestive issues, and weight loss. In retrospect, my body instructed me to walk away from the money. I definitely think I would not have been able to hoard the money while living in Detroit. Had I skipped my Detroit years and come straight to Hawai`i, I could have spent half of it on a condo unit and given half of it away, and receive lots of ego strokes and support for being smart and generous with my money. But I would not have skipped my Detroit years for anything. My 9 years in Detroit will always shine as some of the most formative, challenging, enriching years of my entire life. If I had the money today, I’d still give it away to my people in Detroit. I owe everything to them, and always will.

Detroit taught me to live with the contradictions. I wrestle constantly with my hypocrisies. If only I believed in ethical capitalism, but I don’t and never will. Sacrificing my wealth may mean my life is shortened by 5, 10 years or more. I accept this, and I hope my loved ones also accept this. I don’t claim to be correct or righteous. Lots of people have told me I’m stupid or short-sighted, or irresponsible, for my financial decisions. I walk the path I have chosen and created, for better or worse, rightly or wrongly, selfishly or unselfishly, what do I know? Like a bird on a wire, sings Leonard Cohen, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way, to be free. 

 

Lei for Liberation

I became mildly obsessed with making lei po`o after taking workshops with Honolulu Parks and Recreation with master lei maker Kumu Cynthia Hopkins, and others. It’s a sensual, meditative body and mind immersive experience. Over this past month, I’ve been making several each week, experimenting, learning, and giving them away.

As a budding lei maker, I’m relating much more deeply with the `āina, paying closer attention than ever, to the plant life around me, even along the sides of the road. I’m in deeper communication with the plants, thinking of how Queen Lili`uokalani would bow to the flowers in her garden and ask permission of them before picking. For the most part, the trees seem to love the attention, and happy to let go of their blossoms, so that they can redirect their energy, as long as I do not overpick. I only take what I need, and snip strategically so as not to cause harm.  Foraging for lei material has made me appreciate every part of the plants, and stages of growth, from the sweet little closed buds, to the shapes, textures, and sizes of the leaves. As I walk through the garden, I imagine combinations of colors, fragrances, and textures. I especially love the sprays of palm flowers before they bloom, and hinahina (Spanish moss, Pele’s Hair) that grows draped on trees and fences. I never paid much attention to these humble plants before I started making lei.

Making lei is an act of devotion to `āina, a practice of malāma `āina, and aloha `āina. For me it’s a practice of decolonizing and reindigenizing. I am not indigenous to the land I currently inhabit, but taking care of my immediate surroundings reconnects me to my own ancestry. My friend Schantell, from Wai`anae, but living in Michigan, makes lei there, using anything and everything available to her, from maple leaves, to oaks, to flowering plants. I realize that we can create ephemeral beauty out of anything. We just have to open our eyes and our senses and our imaginations.
 

My friend used to have a job selling lei to tourists in Waikiki, and they frequently encountered tourists who simply could not fathom why they would spend money on something that would die. Fresh lei are created to bring us intense joy and pleasure for a short time, then return to the earth, to nourish the next generation. As a death-phobic, capitalist society, we want a big bang for our buck, and that includes posterity. Just look at all those tech bros obsessed with longevity. But instead, lei teach us to let go, to move on, to decompose, with grace and dignity, happy to nourish future life.

As I was creating lei after lei, friends started asking me if I planned to sell them. As it turns out, I inherited my mother’s “maker” genes, and I’m pretty good at handwork, and have an eye for combination. I’m learning that a beautiful lei po`o has rhythm, breath, repetition, as well as color, pattern, and even a feeling of narrative. Each lei is singing a song, telling a story. The unique combination of elements in each lei make it a living being. I'm even tempted to name it. When the lei is complete, it requires admiration, photos, adoration. I wet it, gently wrap it in a towel, put it in the fridge overnight, then wake up in the morning remembering the lei and wanting to look at it and touch it again.

Despite compliments received, I really did not want to sell any lei. I did not want to turn a passion into a pressured, perfectionist obligation. Plus it didn’t feel quite right to try to profit from the generosity and gifts of the `āina, especially since I’m a settler, and not native to the land. Every day, Hi`iaka presents us with overwhelming and abundant beauty. At my residence alone, we have huge, overflowing kalauna (crown flower) trees, pua melia (plumeria), mangos, noni, and much more.

However, I received a message as I was driving across the island one day. As a resident of Waimānalo, I cross the island and the truly magnificent Ko`olau mountains several times a week. To tell you the truth, it feels very kapu to make this crossing. I think of the days before the highways, when kānaka had to cross by foot or horseback. How forbidding the mountains and valleys are, how dangerous, and how sacred. I recognize the controversial history of interstate H-3, and the desecration of sacred sites I am driving over. As I make this crossing, I turn off the radio, I take a soft, slow breath, and do my best to center myself. I chant to the mountains, and pray, asking for guidance, and wisdom, and protection. I offer myself as a servant to the `āina. As I drove home one evening, the message came all at once, with great clarity: make lei to support Palestine. At that moment, Lei Po`o for Palestine was birthed. The purpose is to sell the lei, on a sliding scale donation basis, to raise money for the Wai Nau Aloha Water Project. Also, the Ko`olaus helped me realize I didn’t have to make the lei alone, but rather as a hui, inviting others to participate.

Our little hui met this weekend for the first time, and we created 3 lei po`o, 1 pua melia lei ā`ī, and 8 kalauna lei ā`ī! Amazing, beautiful work. The next day I made 2 more lei po`o. Make sure to check out our photo gallery. It feels pono to share the abundance of Hawai`i with the people of Palestine, 2 million of whom are still in Gaza, after 19 months of devastation, and now, out and out starvation. Hawai`i and Palestine, and for that matter, Korea, share similar histories of illegal occupation. As we yell, FREE PALESTINE, we also demand rights, reparations, demilitarization, and landback to Kanaka Māoli, and reunification of the Korean peninsula. The Wai Nau Aloha Water Project has been providing direct food and water aid on the ground in Gaza, by Palestinian relatives of a Honolulu resident.

If this story resonates with you, and you would like to support the people of Palestine, while acquiring a beautiful, custom-made lei (of any sort), please message @lei4palestine on Instagram, or email or text me directly. Suggested donation is $50-100+.

Free Hawai`i, Free Palestine, Free Korea! From the abundance of the island, with eternally bountiful aloha.