E kuʻu mauna, to my dear mountain,
- I pray that you are guarded and protected. I pray that our collective prayers shelter you, cloaking you in a shield of aloha, surrounding you and embracing you like Kūkahauʻula does your slopes everyday, adorning you in shades of pink.
- I pray that you are seen, truly seen, not as a “site” and not as “contested space” or the location of conflict. I pray that you are seen for all that you are: the ancestor, the guide, the piko of our existence, our connection.
- I pray that our grandchildren live in a time when the mere suggestion of construction on your slopes is tossed aside immediately, deemed impossible, and when no one—no matter their background, their ethnicity, or their place of origin—can deny your sacredness.
- I pray that every koa tree planted on your slopes extends roots into the earth that can hold you, comfort you, embrace you from the inside, reassuring you that we are here.
- I pray that our children grow up sitting in your shade ready to hear all of your stories. I pray they talk with you daily, sharing their triumphs and fears. I pray that they recognize themselves in your colors: in the deep reds of morning, in the dark browns of a cloudy afternoon, in your black silhouette against a moon-lit sky.
- I pray that you not have to endure any more pain, that not one more structure is built on your slopes, digging into your skin, scarring your soul. I pray that you not have to suffer or carry the weight of any more greed. I pray that you are freed of any and all expectation.
- I pray that you are allowed to breathe. I pray that you are no longer smothered by dreams of conquest, by foreign ambitions, by false notions of human superiority. I pray that you are given space to heal.
- I pray that you show us how to continue standing despite all obstacles. I pray that you continue to teach us how to be better, how to expand the reach of our aloha from every summit to the bottom of every ocean, encompassing all, reaching all, hoping for all, and loving all.
- I pray that your waters are kept clear, that they are kept clean. I pray that they wash you, cleanse you, provide surfaces and ripples for reflection. I pray that they remind us that we are all water: made up of water, flowing like water, evolving like water, relentless like water.
- I pray that you teach those who do not yet understand you. I pray that you show them how to live for something greater than themselves, how to kneel in reverence of sources they cannot see, how to honor space for the relationships they hold, and how to love you.
- I pray that everyone knows your stories. I pray that your groves are seen as housing histories, you hillsides as holding deities, your every stone as welcoming dreams. I pray that we continue to create stories with you, at your side, walking the world—no matter where we may be—with you in our hearts.
- I pray that you know how much you are loved. I pray that you hear all the voices coming from around the world, voices being carried by waves and winds to greet you, to honor you, to speak to and of your brilliance.
Let these prayers be heard. Let them them lifted. Let them find you.
ʻĀmama, ua noa.