Aaron Junnila

Mrs. Gardener

English 10 H / Period 4

22 January 2018

Deep Inside

The heart is one of the most important parts of the human body. This vital organ pumps blood and

supplies oxygen and nutrients to the tissues. The heart helps keep us alive and provides essential elements

to our livelihood and well-being, Although our brain and nerve system control and coordinate everything

in our bodies, many associate, and often perceive, that it is actually the heart that feels love, happiness,

and loss. It may seem merely poetic to view the heart as an organ capable of emotions and an intelligence

all its own, yet there are findings that show just that. David Paterson, Ph.D., a professor at Oxford

University, straddles the two areas of the brain and the heart in his article, ​Modern Research Reveals Your

Heart Does Have a Mind of Its Own.​ His work shows that your brain is ​not​ the sole source of your

emotions, but indeed, your heart and brain work ​together ​in producing emotions.

Your heart actually contains neurons, similar to those in your brain, and your heart and brain are closely

connected, creating a symbiotic emotional whole. ​When your heart receives signals from the brain via the

sympathetic nerves, it pumps faster. And when it receives signals through the parasympathetic nerves, it

slows down.

It makes sense then, that someone who is encountering uncertainty, awe, or excitement, may say that their

heart has, ‘skipped a beat,’ or that they felt as if their heart, ‘beat out of their chest.’ I believe these

findings to be true. I have had the unfortunate experience of feeling the devastation of loss. It remains to

be one of the strongest emotions I have ever felt. My warm blood suddenly felt as if it were running cold
through my veins. There had been a tremendous loss in my family, and I was certain that my heart was

going to implode in my chest.

“Every little thing, is gonna be alright.” Bob Marley’s soulful, optimistic voice, floated up and

then away, as if the melody itself realized it’s lyrics in that particular instance were inaccurate, and

respectfully disappeared high into the night sky. We were making our way back from my great

grandmother’s, my ‘​Tutu’s​,’ funeral, in Kahului, Maui. Contrary to what the profound Mr. Marley was

singing, everything was not alright at that moment. We had been saying our goodbyes: singing, chanting,

praying, strewing leis, and saying ​‘Aloha oe​,’ ‘until we meet again,’ to my great grandmother, Lily

Kahele Kulani Aiwohi. She had 9 children, 44 grandchildren, 91 great-grandchildren, and 12

great-great-children when she passed. My grandfather, Casey Aiwohi, was sitting next to me in my

Uncle’s truck, his hand resting softly on my knee. I looked to him for reassurance, for clarity, after all, he

has been my​ pohaku​, my ‘rock,’ since before I can remember. I am his only grandson, and we are

extremely close. Instead of seeing the powerful, larger-than-life man that I am used to seeing looking

knowingly back at me, I saw the profile of a different man. A broken man. His face was wet with tears

that were silently streaking down his cheeks, his gaze not looking at me, but up, longingly to the stars, as

if he were beckoning for an explanation that he knew in his heart, would not come. My heart sank into my

stomach. There is something very profound in feeling someone else’s pain. In that moment I realized that

heartbreak is like having a dagger driven into you heart. How does one ever possibly recover from that

level of loss, that level of pain? It was if I could feel my grandfather’s heart grow stiff in despair, and to

this day I swear I heard it shatter into a million pieces. The saying, “I can feel your pain,” had never rang

so true. I had never lost a loved one before. I realized that if you love someone unconditionally, in

entirety, ‘with all of your heart,’ you will inevitably feel the loss of them with that same level of devotion.

These emotions come hand in hand within our hearts. We cannot have or feel one, without someday,

experiencing the other.

 My Tutu was the mother of nine kind, generous, and resilient children. My grandpa and his

siblings were born in a time of oppression following a near genocide of their people. It was an uncertain

and unsettling time being a Hawaiian, living in Hawaii, as ironic as that may seem. Most Hawaiians lived

in poverty, and all of them were forced to give up their language, their customs; their culture. It was said

that many Hawaiians had died of ‘broken hearts,’ felt as if they had, ‘daggers through their hearts,’ after

the illegal overthrow of the Hawaiian Kingdom in 1893. The first Queen, and the last monarch, Queen

Liliʻuokalani, had been falsely imprisoned, and following that, all the remaining rights and land

ownership of her beloved people were lost. Many years later, her people downtrodden still, my Tutu

refused to be broken. Within the walls of their small, dirt-floor house in Wailuku, Hawaii, she instilled in

her children the ancient Hawaiian ways. She told them the stories of how our people came to be, and how

they would continue to endure. She spoke to the importance of building and nurturing their spirit, and

most importantly, their hearts. My grandfather passed these beliefs down to his daughter (my mom),

Tanya Aiwohi, and now she has to me. It is common to hear of having a ‘healthy heart,’ usually meaning

making good food choices and exercising. A healthy heart in Hawaiian culture means to have a heart that

is pure, sound; in balance with one’s ohana, family, and to be in harmony with the natural world. My Tutu

would say that there are many things in life that can be taken from you, but what you have in your heart,

that’s yours to keep.

“Your heart is a sacred shelter of safety, that no amount of will, force, or oppression can ever take

from you”

My love for my culture is more vast than Kanaloa’s (God of the oceans) oceans, and

reaches higher than Pele’s (Goddess of fire/volcanoes) throne. Just as the ocean waves roll in and out,

pushing and pulling, so too are the “strings” of our hearts, by the ones we love. The ocean has always

been a part of my life, being surrounded by it has always made me feel safe. Whether it be surfing, boogie

boarding, or bodyboarding, I am in the water whenever possible. The water represents the flowing of life
as a whole. Water is essential to our survival as humans. For me, this is true physically and emotionally.

The reassuring push and pull of water that I have known since I was an infant, soothes and calms me. My

grandfather calls me, ​keiki o ka nalu​, ‘child of the waves.’ The ocean is more than just water. If you have

known the ocean’s touch for long enough you will know that the water has a soul within. A heart and

soul. Her essence, ​her intrinsic nature, has indispensable qualities similar to the human heart, supplying us

with those much needed elements and nutrients, that help us live. ​That heart and soul connects each and

every one of us. As much happiness that the ocean brings, I can also equate the loss of my Tutu, my level

of sadness, to ​a giant wave holding me down at the bottom of the ocean. Water too then, could be like a

dagger through one’s heart. As I stated before, ​we cannot have or feel one, without someday,

experiencing the other.

“Your heart will always be full in the care and life of our ohana,” my grandpa says to me.

“Remember that we came from warriors. Our lineage goes back to King Kamehameha I. Our blood is

Kahuna. Kahuna’s hearts were sound. They were filled with not only strength and power, but compassion

and love. No one else had achieved that balance. It was up to the Kahuna to teach that. And our Kupuna

Aiwohi did that, and well.”

I close my eyes and continue to listen to my grandfather ​‘talk story​,’ share oral stories, with me. I

open them so I can catch up to mirror his finger placement on my own ukulele. He is teaching me how to

play, just as his mother, my Tutu, taught him, and I will teach my own children someday. My

grandfather's fingers move gracefully and swiftly, like a concentrated dancer, across the strings of the Koa

wood instrument. I have found that music is like a cure for sadness. Hawaiian melodies float whimsically

through the air, yet they linger above us, respectfully staying put, as their presence is perfect for this

moment. I know now that the heart heals, the heart mends, the heart endures. The gaping wound left by

the the dagger that had been driven into our hearts from the passing of my Tutu, has now become more of

a bruise. They say that the heart is only as big as one’s fist. Yet when I say in this moment, that my heart
is full, to keep in perspective, my heart would have to be much more in correlation to the size of my entire

being. And I’m not done growing, nor done attempting to fill my heart up all the more, just yet!