Imagine a group of small children on a nature walk. They have dirt on their knees and smiles on their faces. They repeat words as their educator calls them out. Lāʻau. Tree. Manu. Bird. Ua. Rain. Keiki. Children.

When they arrive back at the centre, they see some older kids rinsing sticky hands from weaving ti leaves. The keiki admire the twisted green bracelets and the long, trailing lei. From inside the hālau, they hear snippets of all the learning in progress. The stamp and swish of feet from the studio. The whir of sewing machines from the costume room and the tuning of instruments from the music room. The call-and-response from the language lab. The click of keys and ringing phones from the office. 

One day soon, the keiki will be able to weave their own lei. It will be their hands that plant the kalo. Their hands that twist the strands of dovetail shells. Their hands that roll freshly fried malasadas in sugar. 

And maybe, one day in the future, it will be one of them leading new keiki on the nature walk. Maybe one of them will take the place at the front of the class, passing on well-earned, ancestral knowledge. Maybe a pair of their hands will pound the pahu drum, low and steady, the same beat that has guided us for centuries.

For this to happen, the keiki will need books to read and songs to sing. They will need drums, fabric, shells, greenery, gourds. They will need clean water and nourishing food. But most of all, they will need teachers to learn from and a place for all of them to meet. 

Itʻs our dream to give it to them.