Sparks

In 1990, I moved to the Big Island of Hawaiʻi, called in a way that remains inexplicable.  What called me was Pele’s volcanic landscape, the Song carried by the winds of her sister, Laka, and the sage advice and wisdom of Uncle George Napope, Master Kumu Hulu, who became my 'hanai' father, father of the heart. Every day, ancient whispers seemed to tell me stories of times long past. Apparitions, temporal anomalies, and doors that refused to  stay locked were normal.

April 17, 1991. Friday morning, my partner and I flew to Oahu for a business meeting, and finishing early we decided to transform the necessary trip into a weekend of fun, exploration and discovery. It was the perfect opportunity to venture to the north side of the island to visit the Hawaiian Cultural Center, a place close friends had described with such enthusiasm that we felt like we were making a pilgrimage.

The Center itself was a testament to Hawaiian heritage, with its traditional architecture and carefully preserved artifacts. That afternoon, we settled into the IMAX theatre, not knowing we were about to experience something that would in many ways, forever remain unexplained. The film we watched was a masterful chronicle of the Polynesian's voyage to Hawaiʻi, bringing to life the courage, skill, and profound spiritual connection that guided these ancient wayfarers across vast expanses of ocean. As the credits began to roll, something extraordinary happened. A melody unlike anything I'd ever heard before filled the theatre – a song that seemed to emerge from a place I couldn't identify. The music, feeling made of starlight and sea spray, of ancient chants and timeless wisdom caused tears to begin streaming down my face. Not the quiet tears of sentiment, but the profound, uncontrollable flow that comes when something touches the deepest parts of your soul.

Around us, the theatre steadily emptied, and I watched in disbelief as people casually gathered their belongings and walked away. How could they leave? Didn't they feel the power of this music that seemed to speak directly to the spirit? The song filled every corner of the space, yet others moved without a care, apparently unmoved by its transcendent beauty. The music matched the film yet didn't, leaving me with the sense that I'd been on a journey making connections that felt both ancient and new. Just as the final notes faded into silence, Time seemed to stand still, and I remained rooted to my seat, completely immersed in the experience.

The Return

For years, the only thing uniting my children was the inability to figure out what I was doing with my life. The reality of my NDE flew in the face of the religious beliefs I'd raised them to believe were true, my blindly following the faith of my father. Five years later, it didn't help that I was living on a rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean because I 'had' to. Two and a half months later, during summer vacation, we got up to catch an early flight to Oahu. My hope was that visiting the cultural center, watching the IMAX film and hearing the music might help them understand why I had to be in Hawaiʻi. It was also my intention to write down the words.

As we sat in the theatre, engrossed in the epic tale, my daughter kept turning to me and asking, "So, when's the music coming on?"

"Soon," I replied, "It is at the end."

Suddenly, the credits were rolling, the screen went black, the lights came up, and the Hawaiian usher announced, "Thank you for sharing our adventure. Please exit through the doorways to your right."

Looking at me more than slightly askance, my kids spoke in unison, "So... Mom?"

Unable to figure out why they'd edit the song out of the film, I headed left instead of right, planting myself in front of the young man I'd met before, asking, "Why on earth did they edit the music out of the film?"

Looking at me curiously, he asked, "What music?"

Wrong answer.

"Oh no, no, no. I was here with my husband on April 17, and there was the most amazing music playing for the last few minutes of the film and through the credits. It was wonderful. It was magical."

Kids being kids, they were getting embarrassed, taking the posture of parentally induced mortification that only teenagers can. I didn't care, and tearfully said, "Listen, the music is  the only reason we flew over from the Big Island and drove all the way out here today. I wanted my children to hear the music."

This young man began to look at me differently, and said, "I remember you. I could not figure out what was wrong with you that day."

"Nothing was wrong," I replied, "that everything was right. It was the music."

"Ma'am, I do not know what to say except to tell you that I was on the production crew of this film. There was never any music at the end."

Seeing the look on my face he held up his hand, and said, "But I am sure you heard music. But that music must have been just for you." No doubt my kids were thinking, "Oh, no. Here we go again."

Thanking him, I raced to a pay phone, where I placed a collect call to my husband who was in Chicago. Once he came on the line, I simply said, "Tell me what happened the day we were at the IMAX."

"What do you mean?" he queried.

"No. We can't play 'Twenty Questions.' Please, just tell me what you remember."

"Are you talking about the music?" he asked.

"Yes, I am. What can you tell me about the music?"

As he proceeded to recount the experience, relief flooded my heart. I wasn't losing my mind.

"The kids and I flew to Oahu today and here at the Center. We just saw the IMAX film and there was no music at the end. In fact, the usher was same guy, and he remembered me, and he told us there was never any music at the end."

He was as perplexed as I was.

A Cosmic Co-Incident

The word 'starfire' haunted me for weeks, and I was unable to surrender the experience as just another mystery. It felt like my world was turning inside out, again, only this time it was faster. I felt sick thinking about what I'd gone through for the last four years, the struggle to reclaim my body, and remember the Pattern. Now this. It was unfathomable to me that something so clear and beautiful that resonated every cell in my being could have never have been there.

Two days later I was at a beach party celebrating the 25th-wedding anniversary of dear friends Barry and Gloria Blum. This party brought about the third auspicious meeting with friends of theirs they'd introduced to me some weeks before, Leonard and Barbara Laskow. Leonard was—still is—a physician whose focus was and remains the healing power of love. That day we sat together and I shared the experience with him. Given what had occurred during each of our previous encounters, he listened carefully. When I finished he said, "Lynnclaire, hypnosis can help you remember the words, and there's only one person I'd trust to hypnotize you. He's a psychologist on Maui, a dear friend named Irv Katz."

"I have to meet him. Can we call him? I can fly over to Maui any time."

"No, you don't need to go to Maui. He's not there."

"When will be be back? Where is he?"

Laughing he turned, pointed and said, "He's the guy sitting on the red cooler!"

An hour later, we arranged to meet the following afternoon for a session. The following is the only memory I have of that meeting: Entering the room, Leonard was there with his wife, and asked if it was okay with me that they acted as witnesses. Of course it was. Irv then went on to explain how hypnosis works, sharing that he'd be inducing a state of consciousness, a deep relaxation. He shared how all he would be doing was helping me  focus my attention on the day I heard the music. The intention was to help me access that time, and to remember the words. The next thing I remember is being out of my body, wondering if anyone knew where I was. Given a recent experience with Leonard, I suspected he knew that I was stuck in the silence, hanging out in the north-eastern corner of the room.

Suddenly back in my body, opening my eyes it felt like they'd just reappeared. Clearly, something had occurred and had a serious impact. Yet, I was clueless and remembered nothing about the two hours that passed save observing from the corner. "What happened? Did I remember? Do you have the recording? Did I actually hear a song about starfire?"

The answer was yes to all three, but hearing that I'd sang the song retrieving both the lyrics, the melody and rhythm was horrifying. I cannot sing. When I was able to speak, while the words came out of my mouth, it felt like my soul was begging, "Please, play it for me. Please."

More than three decades later my memories of that day are lucid. Leaning forward, Irv ignored my plea and asked if I knew where I'd been. So, they did know I was 'gone'. I looked at Leonard and knew he was not surprised by my answer. The reason being something similar had happened during our second meeting. It was then that Irv told me he had something important to tell me. "You need to know your husband didn't hear the music. He heard an echo." This stunning assertion shocked me, but almost in a conscious stream of thought, I heard the young usher saying it was for me. This made Irv's statement make sense. Irv then told me he'd play me what they had.

Listening, I heard words I didn't remember him saying, then he gently counted and asked me to remember the day I was at the Cultural Center and heard the music.

Then all sounds on the tape suddenly stopped, and Irv turned it off.

"What? That's all you got?"

They then shared how the moment my mouth opened, before saying a word, both recording devices failed. They put me on hold, and replaced batteries but they still didn't work. Neither wanted to talk about what they'd heard, and while grateful for the attempt, it was devastating to once again be forced to live in the unknown, forgetting, after making a vow to remember. My only comfort was knowing that at least the words were real. I did hear a song. This was yet another lesson in non-attachment, surrendering the idea that there had to be a particular outcome.

A Wake-Up Call

For years I've gotten what I've come to know as 'Cosmic Wake-up Calls'. Inevitably, this alarm goes off at the same time, 03:33, and that night was no exception. All of a sudden I found myself sitting up, wide awake, and hearing what sounded like a prelude to the music in my head. Knowing that every word was about to play, I flew to my computer to write them down. The minute I had them on paper, without giving any thought to the time, I picked up the phone and called Irv at his hotel. The instant he picked up the phone, I realized what I had done and started apologizing, only to have him stop me, telling me was awake and expecting my call!

What?

He then told me that he'd left a posthypnotic suggestion; that I wake up, hear the words, write them down, and call him!

The words still bring a deep measure of comfort and meaning to me and perhaps they will to you as well.

Harmony & Melody

The hardest part of remembering the words was my inability to fully recall—much less play—the music. This is why every time I feel called to share the story and the words, I've issued an open invitation to those who are musically inclined to write a score. Years ago a friend of mathematician Saul-Paul Sirag did so, but sadly, his beautiful composition has been lost over time.

In 2015, I was in Israel for five months, many of the sweetest hours spent with Eliezar and Noa Botzer and their young family. Orthodox in the Breslov tradition, Eliezar lived and expressed the harmony of the Breslov tradition with his body, heart, attitude and spirit. His priorities were crystal clear: to love and protect his family; his country; and honouring all that is Divine to serve with joy, living every moment of life as intensely as he humanly could. An extraordinary musician, with a sound uniquely his own, his message was always one of love, and he loved the dynamic link he found connected his passion with mine; form, sound, light, time culminating in Joy and the Dance of life.

One evening we were in the upstairs studio of his home, located near the beach in Tel Aviv. It was an evening of dialogue with a small group of friends, and somehow we began talking about the connection between Hebrew and Hawaiʻi. It was an echo of talks I'd had decades before with Uncle George Naope who took me to two standing stones, telling me that if I sang the correct song while passing between them that I would step from the Big Island onto the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee. That evening I shared the story, 'Embers of Starfire', wondering if something I felt made sense to them. It was the 9th word in the song—'Hawaii'. Something inside of me always felt it was a cosmic linguistic 'twist', indicating something beyond a name or the place I lived. In the Hawaiian language hawaiʻi means the breath of life. Curiously, Hebrew for breath is 'Hava'. Eliezar asked me if I could print it out and read it to them, surprised when I told him a printer wasn't necessary as the words were carved on my heart. When I finished, Eliezar was the first to speak, saying, "It's time to breathe new life into these words." All agreed to meet the following day to record whatever wanted to emerge.

This story, and the remarkable soundtrack that emerged that day is shared today from the space of loss and grief, that runs over a river joy and love. Sensing that we are wending our way towards an existential storm, 2025, I was stunned to learn that my friend Eliezar died in a car accident on December 20, 2024. Only 43 years old, he was and remains a. beloved son, brother, husband, father, grandfather and friend. His presence is sorely missed but the indelible mark he made on the life of everyone he touched can never be erased.

Eliezar, I was blessed to know you. All who hear this music will feel your true essence resonating through every note.

Embers of Starfire

As teachers and healers we’ve been called by Hawai’i,
Our light giving life to the shared vision we see,
For we are the strands of an ancient heirloom tapestry,
Woven, designed and preserved in the Light of Eternity.

For we are remnants of fire, guided to a safe place,
Our being fully known in this sacred space,
Called here together, Family drawn from afar,
Shielding a spark of memory,
Embers from our island home upon a distant star.

Threads all unique, smooth, rich, subtle, some bright,
Yet woven together we reflect only the light.
Liquid silver the fabric, stardust blown on the breeze,
Spirits blanket the Earth to now heal with ease.

For we are remnants of fire, guided to a safe place,
Our being fully known in this sacred space,
Called here together, Family drawn from afar,
Shielding a spark of memory,
Embers from our island home upon a distant star.

Memories locked in the shadow, obscured for so long,
From darkness we’re released, keys turned in dream & song.
Gliding a ribbon of stars we pressed toward the dawn,
Grasping a sliver of knowing, our light burning strong.

For we are remnants of fire, guided to a safe place,
Our being fully known in this sacred space,
Called here together, Family drawn from afar,
Shielding a spark of memory,
Embers from our island home upon a distant star.

Called home for reunion, each remembered once more,
Our shared vision recalled, the brilliant flame fully restored.
Ascend from these islands, empowered by this sacred space,
Lifting a torch of remembrance we light the world with grace.

For we are remnants of fire, guided to a safe place,
Our being fully known in this sacred space,
Called here together, Family drawn from afar,
Shielding a spark of memory,
Embers from our island home upon a distant star.

Remembered, not written, by Lynnclaire