Pita King.

Ngāti Wkakaue/Whakatōhea/Ngai Tūhoe

Growing up as a whāngai to my grandmother, I don’t recall her or our elders speaking directly about Matariki – not in a way that I recognised or remembered as such. But there were rhythms, customs, and gatherings that aligned with the maramataka Māori, even if we didn’t call them Matariki at the time.

I remember clearly how our whānau would gather at the marae. They spoke about the season’s harvest – what grew well, what didn’t thrive – and then turned their minds to the next planting cycle. These hui always happened in winter, once the harvest had ended. Looking back, I now believe this was our way of marking the Māori New Year, even if the word Matariki wasn’t spoken.

I always knew the sky, the land, and the waters were connected – that the Māori calendar was shaped by these natural forces. Winter was a time when not much grew. It was cold and quiet. Most of our food was stored underground in rua kai. We had three pits, each covered with half-cut tin tanks and layered with fern to preserve our crops.

Although my grandmother came from Waiotahe, we lived in Rotorua. Our shed was always full – dried pipi, cockles, mussels, fish, and corn. And when we travelled home, it was often in service of her deep Ringatū faith.

It wasn’t until later in life that I came to understand the deeper meaning of Matariki. It was my wife Nancy’s niece who brought the kōrero to our many whānau gatherings. Her name is Dr Pauline Harris.

Dr Harris is a senior lecturer at Te Herenga Waka | Victoria University of Wellington, chairperson of the Society for Māori Astronomy Research and Traditions, and a member of the government’s Matariki Advisory Group. Through her, we’ve come to appreciate the true kaupapa of Matariki—not just the stars, but the stories, the connections, the remembering.

Matariki is a time for reflection, remembrance, and renewal. A time for whānau to gather, to remember our departed, to share kai, and to look ahead. It’s also a time to give back to Papatūānuku – to plant something, to care for our environment, to rebalance.

For us, Ngāti Whakaue, we open our Matariki with acknowledgment of our dearly departed. We greet those who have gathered, and we recite the names of our whānau who have passed in the past year. In 2024, we lost our last 28th Māori Battalion soldier, Koro Bom, who passed away in November. He and my mother had travelled to Italy earlier that year, accompanied by members of our Ngāti Whakaue kapa haka group. Their journey was one of remembrance and deep wairua.

That is why, when I say my pepeha, I include these words:
"Uru atu ki ngā pērā o Papatūānuku, ō wāhine horohau."
Return to the folds of Papatūānuku, to the breath of the ancestresses.

Ka mate ahau ka hoki ahau ki te kainga.

Kua whetūrangitia koe — kua hoki koe ki te kahui o Matariki.