Matariki, Tikanga, and My Brain’s Love-Hate Relationship with Rules
Beth and her Koro.
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Tikanga confuses me.
Not like, at a theoretical level. I understand why it exists and how it has come to be. If you want I can recite the evolving sociological aspects of tikanga and the impacts on our understanding of it post-colonisation. I can philosophise about how, as a social structure, it seems best placed to respond to some of our greatest welfare and governance issues.
But that wouldn’t make it less confusing. My brain likes lists, subsets and categories. Even though I know that tikanga is more than a list of things you can and cannot do, tikanga is heart and community and is interpreted differently from hapū to hapū marae to marae. I know the easy stuff, like not passing food over someone’s head or sitting on the dining room table (rules that I think could be a part of any non-Western culture). Tikanga is wondrously complex and nuanced, yet its lack of immutability raises questions my brain doesn’t know how to answer. I’m not sure if this makes me a bad Māori. I guess I’ll decide when someone writes a checklist about it.
You can imagine how perplexed I feel about Matariki.
Don’t get me wrong—I love my culture. I love feeling the hand of my tipuna on my shoulder, guiding me on my path through life. It feels wrong to say that colonisation took things from us because you can’t steal culture, heritage, and the stories my Koro used to tell by the fireplace.
Although I guess, in a way, you can.
If I had those stories and had been gifted that knowledge, I could make my own lists. In this magical dream world of attainable standards, I would know everything there is to know about Māoritanga and the way the world works.
My Koro died when I was little from a treatable disease a tauiwi Pakehā doctor didn’t diagnose until it was too late. He never had the chance to properly tell me our stories; just like many of us, I don’t live near my Marae. The distance between me and my turangawaewae feels greater than the eight hours it takes to make the drive.
I know enough about Matariki to know what it should mean. I watch the kid's television shows on Māori+ (Island of Mystery, what a slay) and read poetry by Jessica Hinerangi Thompson Carr, but it feels like something big is missing. Like it should be more than just knowing the story of why we look to the stars flickering in the sky and welcome in the new year. I made a list of what each star means (pōhutakawa is my favourite). But it feels strange. Reclaiming my culture and the stories I always hungered for should bring joy, instead it feels a little like being in constant mourning. Like my journey through Te Ao Māori is an elegy for all that could have been.
In moments like this, I so desperately wish for my Koro to be here. He was my connection to my culture and community. I remember wanting to visit his grave last Matariki. “Do you know the tikanga for visiting a Māori graveyard?” a well-meaning friend asked. “Of course I do”, I said. I didn’t know. And I couldn’t find any lists online. So I didn’t go.
This year, I’m not even in the country. I’m on the other side of the world, almost 19,878 kilometres away. I realised quickly that you can’t even see the stars of Matariki during spring in Europe. They call them the Pleiades and entwine the stars with a different pantheon of Gods. Instead, I am thousands of kilometres from my Marae, can’t yet sing the waiata (I think I’m doing everyone a favour there), and they don’t sell kumara at the market down the road (I’m not sure I like the texture of kumara anyways). But I’ve realised that maybe my koro wouldn’t mind if I got a few things wrong. If I focus on celebrating in my own way, wherever I am. I’ll make a list of the things that remind me of him: his favourite meal, the way he used to laugh, and the stories he told, even if I only remember fragments.
Because in the end, tikanga is more than a list of dos and don'ts—it's a living, breathing connection to our tipuna, culture, and communities. It’s about heart, intention, and the ways we carry our heritage forward, even when we’re far from home. Te Ao Pākehā is defined by the need for structure and rules; any success or passion can only grow by meeting these straw man standards. But a good friend once reminded me that in Te Ao Māori, everything I am is inherited from my tipuna. My passions, my courage and my faults. Even though I navigate my own path through life, by acknowledging that connection, I do far greater justice to my community than the rules I have convinced myself define my right to be Māori.
So, maybe I’ll let go of the need to get everything right and focus on what I know: that my connection to my culture isn’t about following a set of rules but about the love and respect I carry for those who came before me. That’s something no list could ever capture.