Pikoness- Our Burial Ceremony on Moku Honu
Pikoness- Our Burial Ceremony on Moku Honu
It was time to let go, time to hold on, and time to remember. We sat on the hillside, surrounded by the forest, and proceeded to do what our ancestors before us have done for centuries- to bury our child’s piko into the Earth. It was a bittersweet experience, because I was planning to bury it in Hawaii, and not in a faraway land. However, a new ‘aina called out to us, the land of the ancients, and it asked us to plant our roots in the mist of its rolling hills.
The Gingko (Gingko biloba) was our sapling of choice. It is a grand tree that can grow to over 100 feet tall, and its fossils have been dated back 270 million years ago. My child’s fascination with all things prehistoric extended to this tree that outlived the dinosaurs.
Also known as the Maidenhair Tree, its leaves are used in herbal medicine to help improve symptoms associated with memory, concentration, depression, dizziness, and tinnitus due to conditions like dementia and menopause. Source: Ginkgo (Ginkgo Biloba) Herbal Monograph - Brett Elliott
We imagined Gingko providing a nurturing shade to the dry hillside, respite from the heat for the grazing animals, a cool sanctuary for my child to play with toy dinosaurs, and a canopy to sit under while we kahu (steward) the land.
Most importantly, this tree would belong to my child and my child alone. Anyone who wanted to use its medicinal leaves, would need to ask permission.
My child gently placed the piko into the soil. My eyes swelled with tears and my heart swelled with gratitude. The piko is the umbilical cord of my baby. It was the life sustaining connection between me and my child in the womb. Finalizing the journey to “cut the cord” was a surreal experience.
The piko is the residence of mana (power) and holds a spiritual significance in our Hawaiian culture. Its connection to the land holds the wisdom, knowledge, understanding, and awareness of our inheritance and purpose here on Earth.
I was aware that this ceremony would bind my child forever to this land. I choked back the grief of a mother holding space for a child in a tumultuous world. In her article, Kūkaniloko: What It Means to Be the Piko of Oʻahu, Martha Noyes asks the question, “What life does knowledge have in the absence of spirit?” Source: What It Means to Be the Piko of O’ahu | The STONE COMPASS
Many questions crossed my mind as I gazed at the surrounding valley. Would my child grow as big and strong as this Gingko tree? How many placenta ceremonies were held here in the Appalachian Mountains? Is it inevitable that this land will be forgotten or desecrated long after we’re gone, or will someone like our family settle here to reconnect their own piko to this valley?
Let us continue as a community to hold these important ceremonies that give so much benefit to the emotional and physical well-being of mothers and babies. It is our piko that connects us, cradles us, and strengthens us. Hold on to your piko.
