Hineraumati & Hinetakurua

Duality & Sisterhood

My best friend and I walked through a reserved part of the ngāhere, just outside of Dannevirke. We’ve been close since childhood—we’re also cousins. She has rich black hair and gold almond eyes. We share mothers, and our friendship has ebbed and flowed over the years like the awa.

At one point during our walk, we began speaking in te reo Māori, making observations about the different rākau (trees), and wondering what the name of the stream we sat beside might be. As we passed a pā harakeke (flax plantation) flushed with sunset pinks, I pictured our tūpuna (ancestors) in their early twenties walking through the same ngāhere (forest), recounting stories, and feeling the whenua (land) beneath their feet.

We had both recently moved to new towns—me to Whanganui, her to Dannevirke. Weeks earlier, I

was feeling unsure about the arrival of Matariki mō Puanga. For me, Puanga stirs an urge to connect that resides deep in my puku—in my pūmanawa (intuitive centre/stomach), ngākau manawa (heart/chest), and whatumanawa (spiritual heart). Being away from my houkainga, I wondered how I could still contribute and honour the link between Pūanga and my tūpuna. 

Surely, I thought, there must be other Māori who feel this way too.

So, I went to New World, bought kai, and held a hautapu (ceremony honouring Pūanga mē Matariki) on the lawn with a dog I was looking after. I learned karakia and sang waiata as best I could. I thought: surely, my tūpuna wouldn’t judge me if I was flat. I planted seeds of intention. I honoured my ancestors. I showed gratitude to those in my life.

This year was my favourite Pūanga yet. It was my friend who encouraged me to celebrate in a way that felt right.

We sat by a spot where someone had made a fairy garden beside the awa. Above it, a highway buzzed with traffic. But in the high rākau, a tūī sang.

A great leader once told me: “We restore the mauri of a place when we visit it—and, at the same time, the whenua restores ours.” She had observed a 300% rise in birdlife after opening an area to mana whenua for just one year.

Matariki mō Puanga also marks the journey of Tamanui-te-rā to his wife, Hinetakurua. In Māori cosmology, Hinetakurua is the Winter maiden and the personification of the Takurua star, Sirius, that we see shining brightly in the mornings. 

We spoke of her and her sister, Hineraumati. Everyone loves Hineraumati—she’s warm and bright. She represents aliveness and growth. Long afternoons. Laughter.

But what about Hinetakurua?

She is reflective—like the glistening of the awa, the sparkle of frost on the grass.

She reminds us to look after ourselves. To keep warm.

She is a cup of tea by the fire with your favourite book.

She calls us inward—to pause, to reflect, to ready ourselves for what’s next.

“He rite koe ki a Hinetakurua,” I said. (You are like Hinetakurua.)

“He rite koe ki a Hineraumati,” she replied. (You are like Hineraumati.)

I think we all carry aspects of both—Hinetakurua and Hineraumati—Seasons of outward expression, and seasons of inner reflection. In our cosmology, they are sisters and we need both in order to have balance.  

I wanted to write about this kōrero because the richness of our cosmology, pūrākau (stories), tohu (signs), and important time-markers is that they are alive. They exist above us, below us, within us, and outside of us. Reflected in seasonal markers, tohu, and our relationships.

I’ve been blessed to be temporarily living at Pīwaiwaka Farm as part of a work exchange.

Here, I’ve felt the presence of Hinetakurua, in the crisp mornings, and noticed the bright shimmer of takurua (Sirius) right before the rising of Tamanui-te-rā (Sun). The last Summer vegetables have been cleared from the maara kai, and the beds are now covered—sleeping, until warmth returns.

Some trees appear lifeless. But underground, an entire network of organisms are alive, doing incredible things unseen.

“The trees have survived many seasons,” my friend at the farm told me, looking out at the frost.“ They’ve shed many leaves so new ones can grow.”

This is the season of winter—Puanga, Hinetakurua.

Of clearing.

Of rest.

Of gratitude.

Of patient growth—not always visible, but slowly, quietly taking root.

One of my bosses sighed, “This is the relief of winter.” A calm presence—where we can simply breathe.

In a world that demands constant productivity, slowing down to notice the tohu can feel like resistance. Aligning myself with the indicators of my tūpuna has enriched my wellbeing, and soothed the corners of my heart.

I hope you, too, begin to see the seeds of your dreams blooming. 

And honour the duality within you.

Te Haunui Art