Since my tamariki were little we’d speak daily about the importance of  te taiao.
I talked and walked my way through the seasons with them.
I grew kai for them. Sang them to sleep with waita Māori. Speak what I could.
When I couldn’t find good examples of Southern Hemisphere seasons, I painted our world for them.

I wanted my tamariki to feel connected.
To notice nature.
To feel their place here.

But I also knew that place is more than just land.

It is connection. Relationships. It is people.

I am pakeha, a blend from places over the world, from 5 generations of tupuna who made decisions to settle into a new life here.
Some branches of my family tree are murky and yet to be unraveled. Others tell of rich stories of good relationships with Māori since those early settler days.
But not all settlers were like that.
There were broad choices made by people in power with little honor.
Land taken. People belittled. Sacred ways dismissed. A language repressed.

My heart feels heavy imagining the life of those times, imagining bearing that with my own family. I imagine being moved from a land so loved. Where we grow our food. Where my babies whenua are buried beneath their special tree. I imagine having to hide the ways we heal, how we communicate, our relationship with te taiao. I acknowledge how deeply it would shape everything beyond.

I have been fortunate to be able to study with beautiful Māori teachers who share rongoa mauri, raranga and te reo. It is strikingly apparent how I was welcomed warmly and given so freely this special knowledge of their tupuna, despite all that was repressed.
I cherish this matauranga with much gratitude. It weaves into my life. I share it with my kids.

And I imagine that if I had been the one settling in Aotearoa in those days long ago, I would hope to be one who saw to learn the ways of the people here, to know the plants and the birds and the wind and the sea, and share what I can also, in an exchange of reciprocity, with nature, with people.

So when I had a choice to turn the art for my babies into something to share wider, it felt it right to be in te reo.

To offer little steps toward reviving and unifying what should have never been broken apart in the first place.

It is sensitive, as I feel guilt too. For choices of ancestors I never met. Even for choices of ancestors that were not mine, generically grouped with ones who do harm.

I feel guilt for not being Māori enough to make such things. That I may be seen as culturally appropriating through my offerings. Through using the name Paitu, honoring the name of this awa, my home, as the name for my work.

I hope the true intention is clear.

I am more than pakeha, I am tangata titiri.
Actually, I am more than this: shaped and urged forward by Te Ao Māori,  the beautiful inter-connectedness between people, nature, and spirit.

It flows to me most strongly through Waiata, through Te Taiao, through Raranga, and Wairuatanga.

My babies whakapapa Māori, but so distantly so – their dad, his parents, their parents, did not grow up that way and they’re re-finding their connection.

So I am over here quietly, intentionally, trying to share and grow and unify.
For despite the bloodlines that lead us to this place, my heart lives here.

And from this home, I make and share.
For my tamariki.
For OUR tamariki.
For te taiao.
And for my own heart.

End note:
There’s a certain vulnerability in sharing about ourselves, especially around a sensitive topic. When I studied rongoa mauri, we submitted video assignments, teachings from the rakau / plant for our peers to review. I shared similar sentiments to the article here and had fellow students tell me they watched it over and over, because the acknowledgement felt important. I hope this is heard more strongly than the voices of division, especially in a current climate where views of those in power seek to create distance over strength and unity.