A New Book Celebrates the Rich History of the Hawaiian Lei

A pua kenikeni lei.nbsp
A pua kenikeni lei. Photo: Tara Rock

It’s 9:30 a.m. on a sunny day in Honolulu, and Meleana Estes is sitting at her kitchen table, surrounded by flowers. We’re Zooming to discuss her new book, Lei Aloha—a celebration of Hawai‘i’s vibrant lei culture—and the Native Hawaiian stylist and jewelry designer has decided to make a pua kenikeni lei while we chat.

“See these little orange flowers?” she asks me as she holds up a cardboard box filled with bright, gorgeous pua kenikeni blooms. “They were one of my tūtū’s (grandmother’s) signature flowers. She grew them in her backyard. But she made all kinds of lei…she would go to an event and just adorn everyone.” 

A colorful lei assortment at the Honolulu International Airport lei stands. 

Photo: Tara Rock

If you’ve ever stayed in a fancy hotel in Hawai‘i, you, too, were probably adorned with a fragrant lei when you arrived. But as Estes shares in her book, lei (there is no “s” in the Hawaiian language; lei is both singular and plural) are so much more than a beautiful welcome gesture: They are an integral part of Hawaiian culture at large. “Lei are how we haku, or weave, our memories—strings of scent and color that weave our lives together,” she writes in the introduction. “A lei is our ultimate expression of aloha.”  

Meleana Estes with a lei pakalana.

Photo: Tara Rock

Defined as a garland or a wreath made from different elements of nature—including flowers like pua kenikeni, leaves, shells, nuts, feathers, and seeds—lei are as meaningful as they are gorgeous. In “pre-contact” Hawai’i (before the arrival of Captain James Cook put the islands on European explorers’ maps), Ancient Hawaiians wore lei to symbolize different levels of ranking, wisdom, and royalty. But once vacationers started to travel to Hawai‘i by boat, Hawaiians began to greet them with lei—and lei became symbols of the tourism industry as a result. Today, while lei are still given to tourists at fancy hotels, Hawaiians mostly know them as symbols of love and compassion—of aloha—given to people at celebratory events like graduations, weddings, birthdays, or even just because. “Sometimes I make a lei or buy a lei just because it’s pretty, and then I will wind up having dinner that night with someone who needs it,” Estes explains. “It’s one of those energy things where if you’re open to it, it just happens…the right recipient pops up. Giving or receiving a lei is never a bad event.” 

Many Hawaiians also see lei as a celebration of the natural world, or an extension of the ʻāina (land) itself. Hula practitioners, for example, believe that when you wear a lei made from natural elements, you actually become those natural elements. In Lei Aloha, hula dancer Kūha‘oimaikalani “Kūha‘o” Zane explains this idea: “When you are a hula dancer, you are an embodiment of the kuahu, the altar we have in the hālau hula (hula school), so when you’re interacting and performing, you are actually dressing yourself as an offering.” In other words, making or wearing a lei strengthens your connection to nature—because you become nature itself. 

A pā‘ū rider at Merrie Monarch Festival Royal Parade.

Photo: Tara Rock

But for Estes, the art of lei and lei making is and will always be, above all else, a way to carry on the legacy of her late tūtū, Amelia Ana Kā‘opua Bailey. Bailey died in 2012 at age 89 as one of Hawai‘i’s most celebrated lei makers, and Estes credits her with instilling a deep love and respect for the craft into her whole ‘ohana (family). This passed-down knowledge is especially noteworthy because Bailey herself did not get the pleasure of learning how to make lei from her grandparents. She grew up in the 1930s and 40s, during colonial times of Hawaiian oppression, when many aspects of traditional Hawaiian culture were banned. As a result, she only learned how to make lei later in life during the Hawaiian Renaissance in the 1960s, when many Hawaiian arts were re-emerging—which is why she called herself a “Renaissance lei maker.” As Estes so eloquently explains in the introduction, “[My tūtū] did not learn from her kūpuna (grandparents). She was proud that her mo‘opuna (grandchildren) could say that we did.”  

Photo: Tara Rock

And did they ever. Estes’ book—which she co-wrote with local author Jennifer Fiedler—is sprinkled with anecdotes about watching her grandmother work her lei magic. (In Hawaiian culture, most learning is done by simply watching.) She writes about her grandmother showing up to events and lunches with armfuls of lei, and really going all out on Thanksgiving. “We lived on Kaua‘i and my tūtū was on O‘ahu, and every Thanksgiving, she would come over to our house on Kaua‘i and just go to work with her lei,” Estes recalls during our chat. “She’d make lei po‘o (head lei) for her four daughters-in-law, my mom, and her six granddaughters (including me), and string pua kenikeni for her four sons, my dad, and her two grandsons, and then we’d have lei for the table, and lei for pictures…there were lei everywhere. That was her way of showing aloha. And now we all have that in us, too. People tell us all the time: ‘You’re just like your tūtū.’” 

Today, Estes’ brothers on Kaua‘i still grow their pua kenikeni trees in their tūtū’s honor, and Estes says she thinks of her tūtū whenever she makes or wears a lei; it’s how she keeps her alive. “I used to watch her get dressed, and she’d put on her mu‘u, and then her lei at the end…there was a real regalness to that. We’re so blessed to grow up with these traditions in Hawai‘i, and now I’m so grateful to carry them on, too.” 

Keiki having just performed in the Pipe Masters opening ceremony, taking their lei out for a quick surf on their alai‘a boards.

Photo: Tara Rock

These days, lei culture in Hawai‘i is thriving. Estes points to her 2008 wedding as a prime example of its recent rise: “When I got married, I didn’t even wear a lei po‘o, but now everyone wears a lei po‘o. Lei culture is so prolific now—and that’s why I wanted to write this book,” she says. “I wanted to show how it’s so celebrated.” To get in on the celebration yourself, consider these tips from Estes—whether you’re traveling to Hawai‘i or weaving its lessons into your own life at home:  

If you’re going to Hawai‘i…

Take a lei class

Estes started teaching workshops around the islands in 2015 (which is what led her to publish her book) and highly recommends taking one if you’re traveling to the archipelago. While she doesn’t have a set schedule at the moment (contact her for private sessions), many hotels offer lei-making classes, as do cultural centers like the Royal Hawaiian Center in Honolulu. “You’ll learn so many lessons about Hawai‘i through the lei,” Estes explains. “It’s the whole idea of understanding where something comes from: Lei come from this place. From Hawai‘i. From our home. And Hawaiians are the ones teaching you this—that’s important! You can see a lei on Instagram, but it also has to be understood. And once you understand, you will be more conscious of the way you buy and treat lei.” 

When someone gives you a lei, treat it with love and respect—and do not ever throw it away in the trash

Rather, cut the string, take the natural elements off, and find a place to give them back to nature, like a nearby park or underneath a beautiful tree. It’s all about the full-circle moment here: “It starts from the soil, then you wear it, and then it goes back to the soil,” explains Estes. Returning your lei back to the land continues the cycle of aloha in your lei. 

If you’re weaving lei lessons into your own life at home:

Cultivate a relationship with the land around you

Hawaiians have a saying: “Take care of the land, and the land will take care of you.” This is especially important in lei culture, as many of the trees that provide flowers for lei need TLC to grow, Estes explains—but it also applies no matter where you are. When you think of your relationship with the land as reciprocal, you will be more inspired to treat it with respect, because you know it’ll have your back in return. (Earth Day is every day!)

Set an intention before you begin new projects 

In her chapter about hula, Estes interviews kumu hula (hula teacher) Māpuana de Silva, who explains that she asks her students to be sure they are in the right frame of mind before they make their lei: “So often, people just focus on what they’re doing, the task itself, and not on what their intention is, what their mindset is, what they feel, how they’ve prepared their bodies to do that work.” The lesson? Whenever you begin an important task, like cooking a meal or writing an essay or even making your own lei, stop and be sure you’re going in with a good intention—because that intention will go into the end result. Once you do that, everything will be golden.