The Space Between
By Meré Tari-Sovick
As I sit before this picnic table—a cherished family heirloom, I am struck by how the objects we hold close can anchor us to our deepest selves. This tablecloth, with its shimmering orange and blue stripes, is more than a mere length of fabric. It is a vessel. While it superficially suggests endless summer evenings and backyard picnics, it carries the weight of my first experiences as a young mother and the symbol of my unfolding identity. I focus on this object because it sits at the center of the narrative I want to tell: a story of my ties to the universe, my vanua (land/place), and my ancestors.
In my Sia Raga culture, to be Melanesian is to be a "placeperson." Our identity is not something we carry independently; it grows from the soil. We do not just inhabit the land; we are of it. Just as the tablecloth connects me to my past, the cup of ginger and lemon tea beside me evokes my student days in Aotearoa. Each sip draws me deeper into the intersection of time, place, and identity. In the cool evening, the scented steam rises in a delicate dance of comfort. I hold the cup in my hands and feel the heat penetrate my deep brown skin—a skin that is itself a map of the vanua, dark and rich like the earth of my home, anchoring me in this transitional moment. The wind and the warmth symbolize the balance between what is and what might be.
I realize it is time to record my story, a voyage through the liminal zone between time and place. How does the passage of years and the influence of geography shape our understanding of ourselves? My journey crosses the Pacific, the largest body of water on Earth, stretching from Sia Raga, my native island in the northern province of Vanuatu, to Bainbridge Island in Washington State. I sit now on the ancestral territory of the Suquamish People, the "People of Clear Salt Water," connected to my home by the same vast ocean that cradles all "placepersons.”
In this contemplation, I delve into my frame of reference: my Sia Raga culture’s epistemology of time and place. I am threading together the strands of my life, from the woman I was before motherhood to the person I am becoming now as a "pre-empty nester." As I sit here, I hear my grandmother’s voice encouraging me to just sit and listen. It is a lesson in a self-aware, introspective mindset, one too often disregarded in today’s "microwave" society, where time is divided into pressing, linear tasks.
In my Sia Raga culture, time is not a series of isolated events; it is relational. It connects every facet of existence. This stands in stark contrast to the Western perspective that separates data and divides hours. My understanding of time allows mere objects like a tablecloth or a cup of tea to provide profound comfort, for they are not just things; they are relationships. My deep brown skin acts as the bridge between these worlds, carrying the warmth of the tea and the memory of the tropical sun even here in the Pacific Northwest, reminding me that a "placeperson" carries their land within their very cells.
I put my notepad down and begin to type. On my laptop screen, I see the delicate, fading hues of the evening sun reflected behind me. The screen wobbles slightly with each keystroke. My notebook's spiral shines in the last of the light, the wire coil moving with every note I’ve etched. I observe how light and shadow interact, my breathing matching the night’s constant hum. My "True North" is this epistemology—my truth—and the location that gives my life meaning is place. Even as I move through these global spaces, my True North remains the vanua where I was born, the land that claims me as its own.
To find the balance required to finish this story, I must look at the wood beneath me. This picnic table and bench were handmade by my twenty-four-year-old son to assist with our significant move, our downsizing. I haven't hugged him since May, but his work sits here with me. This table is more than a place for dinner; it embodies a cultural continuity, linking my son to the wisdom and artistry of his late great-grandfather. It is a manifestation of tavalu—the duality where the physical craft of the present meets the spiritual legacy of the past.
Our relationships are not explained by time; rather, time gives our ancestors' stories context. These narratives are ingrained in our very cells, as deep as the pigment of our skin. In this period of transition, I want to create new stories that find clarity while healing old wounds. I see the knowledge of my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother in the leaves, the trees, and the great blue Pacific.
In navigating the spaces between, from the cherished tablecloth to the handmade table, from Sia Raga to the Pacific Northwest; I have come to appreciate the intricate weave of identity. This journey underscores the importance of bridging the linear with the relational. Acknowledging the duality of my life has molded my understanding of the Sia Raga cosmology: that all things consist of two sides, tavalu. Whether it is the two islands I call home or the two sides of my history, they are not separate. In the end, our narratives act as the bridge, reminding us that time is not just a clock, but a return to our vanua—the place that tells us who we are, where we come from, and why we belong to the earth.
