Blog Whā: Ghost Lines: KUPU Writers’ Retreat, Lake Ōkataina, 2025
nō ahau
here
no fear
care
Kei ōku waewae e tū ana—my feet planted
no fear
care
nō ahau
Ka rere ōku whakaaro ki wawata—my thoughts flow to my dreams
nō ahau
no fear
Mā ahau e arahi kō ōku wawata—my dreams will guide me
nō ahau
Matariki Bennett’s workshop was my introduction to poetry as performance, a transformative experience where, under her kind yet fierce guidance, the poem above slipped from my fingers to paper. She radiates confidence that fills a room, grounded in her wairua. I was grateful she was my first interaction at this retreat, opening creative space and allowing us to sit with kupu.
Matariki was joined by Hira Nathan, The Mindful Māori, whose honesty quietly humbled me. Only later did I realise one of his books, Whakawhetai, was already waiting for me at home—a gentle reminder of the connections we make, even before we form them in person. One key message from his kōrero stayed with me: ‘Pair a habit with a habit.’ This advice has woven itself into my daily life.
Given I arrived late and my time was brief, with only a day’s grace and distant distractions pulling me home, I sat contemplative, observing more than participating. Surrounded by writers, poets, performers, ngā Mindful Māori, and reo speakers, I felt a deep sense of gratitude as KUPU facilitators openly shared their mātauranga with unapologetic conviction. This experience reminded me of the importance of being present, even briefly, and welcoming learnings that feed my wairua.
In thinking about ngā wāhine toa Qiane Matata-Sipu and Nadine Hura, the kuaka comes to mind: the manu, a treasured taonga that never rests, constantly journeying. Their stories and presence remind me of the reasons we carry on as wāhine Māori—mothers, daughters, sisters, mokopuna and everything in between. It is our collective journey, much like the kuaka, which for Māori are a symbol of purpose and resilience.
Before I left, I was privileged to sit with Hēmi Kelly. His wairua speaks a thousand words before he does, and when he does speak, it is with such gentleness and wisdom; every word feels like a download from ngā tūpuna. One pātai he posed—‘He aha te rere kē tangi o te pūrakau i te pakiwaitara?’—lingers with me, encouraging me to examine the stories I tell and how I honour my own legacy.
A fleeting comment at the wānanga by a non-Māori writer noted how important it is for writers to have an agent for advocacy and support. As I looked around at all the amazing tangata in the room, I smiled, thinking we already have agents: our tūpuna, who guide us without the 20 per cent agent’s fee. My biggest takeaway from the retreat is simple yet powerful: if there’s a book you want to read and it hasn’t been written yet, write it. A wero to all writers, especially Māori—don’t wait; write the book you want to read. Our stories matter. Mauri ora.
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