Academic literature on the topic 'Ka mua ka muri'

Ka pū te ruha, ka hao te rangatahi — The old fishing net is replaced by the new fishing net. This whakatauki reminds us that our rangatahi, our young people, as our next generation, are the ones that will take the lead. The following kōrero emerged from the rangatahi panel which Tiana and Lily were part of at the NZAP’s Te Ipu Taiao Climate Crucible hui in March 2021. We received much feedback and gratitude around the indigenous perspective that each young person brought with regard to the current climate crisis, and so we asked them if they would be interested in a follow up interview that could be published. As Aotearoa’s next generation, we were interested to further explore their experiences and feelings as indigenous rangatahi living in Te Ao Hurihuri, our ever changing world. Ka pū te ruha, ka hao te rangatahi. He whakamaumaharatanga mai tā tēnei whakataukī ko ā tātau rangatahi, ā tātau taiohi, te reanga whai muri mai, ngā kaitātaki mō apōpō. I puta mai ngā kōrero e whai ake nei i te rōpū rangatahi i roto nei a Tiana rāua ko Riri i te hui a Te Ipu Taiao Climate Crucible hui a NZAP i te marama o Poutū-te-rangi 2021. Tino koa, tino maha ngā kōrero a ngā taiohi i whakahokia mai e whakaputa ana i ō rātau tirohanga mō te āhuarangi mōrearea ōnaianei. Nā tēnei ka pātaihia rātau mena ka aro ake rātau ki ētahi uiuinga, ka tāia nei pea ā tōna wā. Nā te mea ko rātau te reanga e piki ake ana, e tino kaikā ana mātau ki te whai haere i ō rātau wheako me ō rātau whakaaro — ngā taiohi tangata whenua e noho ana i roto i tēnei Ao Hurihuri, tō tātau ao e kore nei e mutu te hurihuri.

The emotional and environmental impact of transitioning from a nappy-free culture to a society dependent on disposable nappies comes at a cost. After a seven-month “baby observation” travelling through Asia, my hypothesis is that the traditional indigenous method of managing the baby’s elimination enhances attunement, bonding, and attachment, and when the child feels held in mind by the mother in this way he is more emotionally regulated and somatically connected. However, the exponential use of disposable nappies may be our blind spot where neither the dangers to the psychological and physical health of the future generation, nor to the planet, are being held in mind. Waitara He utu ka tau ki te taha kare-ā-roto, taha pūtaiao mai i te whakawhitinga i tētahi ahurei kope pātea ki tētahi hapori whakamau kope whiu. I muri mai i te mātakitakinga kōhungahunga i te haerērētanga i Āhia, e whakapae ana au nā te tikanga whakahaere whakaputa para a te kōhungahunga ka hōhonu kē ake te piri te pirihonga, ā, inā rongo te tamaiti i te pēnei o tōna mau ki tōna whāea ka mauri tau ake te atoato. Heoi anō, ko te mahi tautokonga mau kope whiu pea tō tātou whakapuranga kanohi inā te kore e whakaaro ake ki ngā tūpatonga ki te oranga hinengaro oranga tinana ki ngā rēanga o anamata, tae atu hoki ki a Papatuanuku.

This article, originally presented in the context of and following a dance performance, discusses how the author, also the choreographer/performer and a dance therapist, works with movement and meaning as part of the therapeutic journey. Following some discussion about dance, the language of dance, and dance therapy, the article presents the view that the concept of relinquishment, as represented by the title of the paper, is intrinsically linked to the concept of home, and that, without recognising the significance of relinquishment, we cannot fully know or understand the concept of “home”. Both the dance work, represented in pictures in the text, and the paper itself explicate this link between home and relinquishment: presenting the idea that by recognising and embracing relinquishment we come closer to knowing wholeness and wellness. The article also describes how the performed dance My House Burned Down can be interpreted as a therapeutic process and, as such, can be seen to move through struggle to a new perspective on presently held ideas about ‘home,’ ‘self’ and the capacity and potential of one’s self. Ko tēnei tuhinga, taketake ake i whakaatuhia i roto i te horopaki whakaari kanikani, ā, whai muri mai i matapakihia i pēhea tā te kaituhi, me te kaiwhakarite/kaikanikani me tētahi kaiwhakaora kaikanikani, whakamahi i ngā oreorehanga me ngā tikanga hai haerenga whakaora. I muri i tētahi matapakinga kanikani, ko te reo kanikani, me te whakaoranga kanikani, ka whakaatuhia e te tuhinga te aroro tuku, e ai ki tā te ingoa o te pepa, e mau pū ana ki te aroro mō kāinga , ā, inā kore e mōhio i te takenui o te tuku, kāre tātou e mōhio whānui, e mātau rānei ki te aroro o “kāinga”. Takirua ko te mahi kanikani whakaahuahia nei i roto i ngā whakaata kei roto i te kupu, me te tuhinga tonu e whakamārama ana i tē hononga o te kāinga me te tuku: he whakaaturanga i te ariā mā te kitenga, tauawhinga tukunga ka tata atu tātou ki te mōhiotanga o te kotahitanga me te oranga. Ka whakaahuahia anō hoki e te tuhinga me pēhea te whakaaritanga kanikani I Wera Taku Whare e taea ai te kī he takinga oranga ā, ka kitea te wheta ki tētahi tirohanga hou tae atu hoki te tētahi whakaarohanga hurihanga.

When a conductor steps in to conduct a large group she steps into a singular place: a nodal point, that carries with it many unconscious expectations that need decoding in order to understand what is happening. This paper gives an impression of my experience of conducting large groups in Finland. It has been written in close cooperation with Aila Kauranen, a Finnish group psychotherapist. I paid 10 visits to Finland: one to the Arctic Circle and nine to Helsinki. On two occasions, after a regular pattern of visiting every six months, the expected return invitation did not arrive. Both times this break occurred I felt it as a painful shock. It led me into some deep thinking about why this had happened. After studying Finland’s history and connecting my experience to the events both in and around the group, I realised that the unexpected and sudden breaks in continuity were perhaps the only way in which those associated with the workshops could let me know something of the deep social trauma they carried. Waitara Inā hīkoi he kaitaki ki te taki ropū matarahi, ka hīkoi ia ki tētahi tūnga takitahi: he pūpeka, kawenga wawata o te mano mauri moe e mate pukuana kia mōhio ai he aha te aha. Mai i tēnei tuhinga ka hoatu he hāraunga o aku wheako taki rōpū matarahi i Hinerangi. He mea tuhi i raro i te mahitahitanga ki a Aila Kauranen, he kaiwhakaora hinengaro rōpū Hinerangi. Tekau ngā wāhanga i haere au ki Hinerangi: kotahi ki te Awhio Raki e iwa ki Heretiniki. E rua ngā wā, i muri mai o te haerenga ia ono marama, kāre i puta mai te pōhiri hoki atu. Ia wā i whātia, tino kaha te taunga hihiko pōuri ki ahua. Ka huri ki te whaiwhakaaro hōhōnu mō tēnei take. I te mutunga o te whai mātauranga mō te whakapapa o Hinerangi me te whakahāngaitanga atu i aku wheako i waenga i te rōpū, ka kite au ko ngā whatinga whakahaere ohotata, ohorere hoki, te momo whakamōhio mai a ngā tāngata o nga rōpū awheawhe rā i te taumaha o te mamae e maua ana e rātou.

For many years my practice of psychotherapy has been informed by two papers written nearly 60 years ago by Donald Winnicott: “The Capacity to be Alone” in 1958 and “The True and False Self” in 1960. I often find myself sitting with the experience of someone searching in me for themselves, sometimes insisting that I explain how they should be in the world, as if I am supposed to know who they are better than them; sometimes there is a sense of seduction associated with this experience. Recently I connected with a quote from Uri Bronfenbrenner: “In order to develop normally, a child requires progressively more complex joint activity with one or more adults who have an irrational emotional relationship with the child. Somebody’s got to be crazy about that kid. That’s number one. First, last, and always”. In this paper I consider how my patients have taught me both how to be alone with them and also be crazy about them, so they can grow themselves. Whakarāpopotonga Kua hia tau au e huri ana ki ngā whakaakoranga mai o ngā tuhinga e rua ā Tānara Winikoti i tuhia e ono tekau tau ki muri: “Te Kaha ki te Tūtahanga” i te tau 1958 me “Te Tuakiri Pono te Tuakiri Hewa” i te tau 1960. He wā anō ka puta ake he hau pēnei i te mea e kimi haere ana he tangata i a ia i roto i a hau, ka tohe mai hoki māku e whakamārama atu me pēhea tōnā āhua i roto i te ao i runga i te whakaaro he mōhio ake au i a rātau ko wai rātau; i ētahi wā puta mai ai he āhua hīanga. I kō tata tonu ake nei ka tūpono au ki tētahi kīanga a Uri Porohenaperena: “E whanake maori ai, me āta whakaraupapa kia piki haere ake te uaua o ngā tākarotahi a te tamaiti me tētahi pakeke, ētahi pākeke he heahea noa iho nei te whakapiri ki te tamaiti. Me piripono tonu he tangata ki taua tamaiti. Koinā te tuatahi. Tuatahi, tuamutunga, ākē ākē”. I roto i tēnei tuhinga ka whakaarohia ake e au te whakaakohanga mai a āku tūroro me pēhea te noho tūtāhanga i ō rātau taha i tua atu i te noho kaingākau ki a rātau kia kaha ai rātau ki te whakatipu ake i a rātau anō.

My passion for dreamwork arose from discovering the power of dreams as a multi-level spiritual process within me and others in 1985 when I joined a group of therapists meeting regularly to explore our dreams. For several years we laughed and cried together as we discovered new insights, challenges, affirmations, and healing. I was inspired by a “big dream” of my own about embarking on a journey of the soul. I studied to learn more about dreams and began leading workshops, seeing with awe how dreams opened windows into everyone’s inner experience, from post-trauma nightmares to perceptive feedback on personal issues to unforgettable mystical visions. I learned to ask simple questions of dreamers and I take continuing delight in seeing the “Aha” in the eyes of clients, students, and colleagues as they make connections and discover new perspectives. From the beginning of psychotherapy, dreamwork in one form or another has been of its essence. Waitara I pupū ake taku ngākaunui ki te whakarehu i te kitenga i te awe o te moemoeā pēnei ki tētahi paparanga hātepe wairua i roto i a au me ētahi atu, i te tau 1985, i tōku piringa ki tētahi rōpū kaihaumanu tūtakitaki ai ki te hōpara i ā mātou moemoeā. He maha ngā tau kata tahi, tangi tahi ai mātou ia wā kitea he tirohanga hou, he takinga, he whakakoihanga, he tumahuhanga. Whakahiringa ngākauhia ahau i tētahi pekerangi nui āku. Ka whakawhānuihia ake e au aku akoranga mō tēnei mea te moemoeā ka tīmata ki te taki awheawhe me te kite kaiora i te mahi a te moemoeā ki te whakatuwhera huarahi wheako whakaroto o te katoa, mai i ngā kuku i muri pāmamae ki ngā whakautu hōhonu whakapā ki ngā take whearo ki ngā kitenga māminga. I mōhio au kia noho mahuki ngā pātai, ā, e haere tonu ana te harikoa ki te kite i te taka o te māramatanga ki ngā kanohi o ngā kiritaki, ākonga me ngā hoamahi ia wā puta mai ngā hononga me ngā kitenga hou. Mai i te tīmatanga o te whakaoranga hinengaro, ko te whakarehu me ōna āhua tōna iho.

Hawaiian navigators oriented themselves without instruments by using a system based upon knowing where they came from and by having faith in the words of their ancestors. As a Hawaiian artist, I am embarking on a journey in which I orient myself in much the same way. When translated from our language, "ka wa ma mua" literally means "the time in front." However, in Hawaiian thinking, it describes the time that came before this time in which we live. In the same vein, "ka wa ma hope" literally means "the time in back" or from a Hawaiian perspective, the time which follows this time in which we live. "It is as if the Hawaiian stands firmly in the present, with his back to the future, and his eyes fixed upon the past, seeking historical answers for present-day dilemmas." (Kameʻeleihiwa, 1992) We Hawaiians view the world looking to that time that came before us because it is rich in knowledge. Looking to my ancestors and knowing the history of our people strongly influences how I view the world and contributes greatly to the forming of my relationship with it. I look to the past also to learn more about my Hawaiian identity. As a Hawaiian in today's world, I realize that part of the process requires that I engage in the task of decolonizing my mind. My thesis exhibition is an attempt to express through imagery one aspect of this decolonization. It is only one part of the process and one avenue of many through which an artist can express resistance to further erosion of our life ways. Looking to the past, recognizing that I was raised as a colonized person is one step towards better understanding the importance of my Hawaiian identity. Awareness of this part of my past is another step in the process of decolonization.
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We have not yet emerged into a post-COVID world. The future is fluid and unknown. As the Academy morphs under pressure, as design practitioners and educators attempt to respond to the shifting world – in the M?ori language, Te Ao Hurihuri – how might we manage such changes? There is an indigenous precedent of drawing upon the past to assist with present and future states – as the proverb ka mua ka muri indicates, ‘travelling backwards into the future,’ viewing the past spread out behind us, as we move into the unknown. Indigenous academics often draw inspiration from extant traditional viewpoints, reframing them as methodologies, and drawing on metaphor to shape solutions. Some of these frameworks, such as Te Whare Tapa Wh?, developed as a health-based model, have been adapted for educational purposes. Many examples of metaphor drawn from indigenous ways of thinking have also been adapted as design or designrelated methodologies. What is it about the power of metaphor, particularly indigenous ways of seeing, that might offer solutions for both student and teacher? One developing propositional model uses the Pacific voyager as exemplar for the student. Hohl cites Polynesian navigation an inspirational metaphor, where “navigating the vast Pacific Ocean without instruments, only using the sun, moon, stars, swells, clouds and birds as orienting cues to travel vast distances between Polynesian islands.”1 However, in these uncertain times, it becomes just as relevant for the academic staff member. As Reilly notes, using this analogy to situate two cultures working as one: “like two canoes, lashed together to achieve greater stability in the open seas … we must work together to ensure our ship keeps pointing towards calmer waters and to a future that benefits subsequent generations.”2 The goal in formulating this framework has been to extract guiding principles and construct a useful, applicable structure by drawing from research on two existing models based in Samoan and Hawaiian worldviews, synthesised via related M?ori concepts. Just as we expect our students to stretch their imaginations and challenge themselves, we the educators might also find courage in the face of the unknown, drawing strength from indigenous storytelling. Hohl describes the advantages of examining this approach: “People living on islands are highly aware of the limitedness of their resources, the precarious balance of their natural environment and the long wearing negative effects of unsustainable actions … from experience and observing the consequences of actions in a limited and confined environment necessarily lead to a sustainable culture in order for such a society to survive.”3 Calculated risks must be undertaken to navigate this space, as shown in this waka-navigator framework, adapted for potential use in a collaborative, studio-style classroom model. 1 Michael Hohl, “Living in Cybernetics: Polynesian Voyaging and Ecological Literacy as Models for design education, Kybernetes 44, 8/9 (October 2015). https://doi.org/ 10.1108/K-11-2014-0236. 2 Michael P.J Reilly, “A Stranger to the Islands: Voice, Place and the Self in Indigenous Studies” (Inaugural Professorial Lecture, University of Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand, 2009). http://hdl.handle.net/10523/5183 3 Hohl, “Living in Cybernetics”.

Ka matakitaki iho au ki te riu o Waikato Ano nei hei kapo kau ake maaku Ki te kapu o taku ringa, The words above are from the poem Māori King Tawhiao wrote expressing his love for his homelands of the Waikato and the region known today as the King Country. The words translate to: “I look down on the valley of Waikato, As though to hold it in the hollow of my hand.” Now imagine a large-scale photograph depicting a close-up frame of cupped hands trying to hold something carefully. The words above inform Professor Tom Roa and Dr. Rodrigo Hill’s current research project titled Te Nehenehenui - The Ancient Enduring Beauty in the Great Forest of the King Country. With this project still in its early stages the research team will present past collaborations which they will show leads into new ideas and discussions about photography, wānanga, and place representation. They focus on Māori King Tawhiao’s finding refuge in Te Nehenehenui, later called the King Country in his honour. He led many of his Waikato people into this refuge as a result of the British Invasion and confiscation of their Waikato lands in the latter part of the nineteenth century. The love of and for those lands prompted him to compose his ‘maioha’ - this poem painting a word-picture of these spaces which their photography humbly aims to portray. The project advances the use of wānanga (forums and meetings through which knowledge is discussed and passed on) and other reflective practices, engaging with mana whenua and providing a thread which will guide the construction of the photographic images. The name Te Nehenhenui was conceptualised by Polynesian ancestors who travelled from Tahiti and were impressed with the beauty of the land and the vast verdant forests of the King Country territories in the North Island of Aotearoa New Zealand. The origins of the name and further relevant historical accounts have been introduced and discussed by Professor Tom Roa (Ngāti Apakura, Ngāti Hinewai), Shane Te Ruki (Ngāti Unu, Ngāti Kahu) and Doug Ruki (Ngāti Te Puta I Te Muri, Ngāti Te Kanawa, Ngāti Peehi) in the TVNZ Waka Huia documentary series. The documentary provides a compelling account of the origins of the name Te Nehenehenui, thus informing this project’s core ideas and objectives. The research fuses wānanga, that is Mātauranga Māori, and photographic research approaches in novel ways. It highlights the importance of local Waikato-Maniapoto cosmological narratives and Māori understandings of place in their intersecting with the Western discipline of photography. This practice-led research focuses on photography and offers innovative forms of critical analysis and academic argumentation by constructing, curating, and presenting the photographic work as a public gallery exhibition. For this edition of the LINK Conference, the research team will present early collaborations and current research developments exploring place-making and wānanga as both methodology and photography practice.