Today and tomorrow mark summer’s end in the old village, a final feast before the people get down to the business of preparing for winter. Summer’s journey is at an end, and she is in the process of handing her bright-green blanket, a bit worn in patches now, over to fall to be restitched and redyed in the golds and reds and browns of autumn.
Of course, on the wider Pueblo lands, winter is already here: It reportedly arrived on the peaks last night, although there’s no clearly visible evidence of snow from down here at their base. Considering the temperatures down here and the clouds masking the summits last night, I have no doubt that it’s true, and the mountainsides this morning are less green and more brown.
And so overnight it becomes time to begin thinking about putting up stores for the season, or at least the modern-day equivalent. But before harvest, the people hold one final celebration of summer’s bounty, one final opportunity to share food with family and friends and to sing and dance to the drum in the warmth of Father Sun.
We take our lessons from our relatives of other clans, those with fur or feathers, four legs or wings. When it comes to feeding their families (and ensuring their collective survival) they know instinctively what to do and when to do it — although it is true that climate change is affecting even that, with seasonal and weather changes causing the animal world visible confusion. They adapt remarkably well, although that task will become increasingly difficult as the changes accelerate. Still, we get to see their lifeways unfold here in real time, and occasionally, we’re lucky enough to be permitted to share in them, if from what they adjudge as a safe distance.
The photo above is of the patriarch of the Bullock’s oriole clan that chose to make its home here with us this summer. And by “with us,” I mean, quite literally, directly overhead. In the warmer months, we eat breakfast outside at the picnic table under the quaking aspens, and after weeks of observing us, they chose to build their nest directly overhead, above the table where we sit. Last week’s photo was of the little ones in the nest, and the parents were willing to let Wings put up a nearby stepladder to get the shot. On that same day, he got the photo above, of the father with a particularly fat caterpillar in his beak, preparatory to converting it into the sort of regurgitated feed that the little ones could digest. He knew he was being photographed, apparently, obligingly turning this way and that on the branch over a period of several minutes while Wings stood below with the camera, taking shot after shot.
From its description in the Wingéd Ones section of the Photography Gallery here on the site:
FEASTING
Providing for the next generation is a daily task, an obligation, hard work, an existential duty. Sometimes, Spirit provides an unexpected bounty. The feathered ones know instinctively; they take a moment to rest and savor their good fortune.
If we are watchful and aware, we may be permitted a moment to enjoy it with them. What nourishes their small bodies nourishes our senses and spirits: the sight of a watchful father, robes gleaming fire-orange in the brilliant sun, amidst the green and gray of the aspen and against a backdrop of clearest blue sky, a caterpillar the color of new grass held firmly in his beak, a natural gift of food for the children Spirit has entrusted to his care.
It’s a duty as sacred as the gathering of food itself: the feed, the feast, the celebration with family, a tangible thanksgiving for the blessings of Spirit.
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Father Oriole is a model for us all. We were privileged to see him and his wife up close and personal this summer, growing from a newly-adult male into the head of a feathered household, and his industriousness and devotion to his family were truly inspiring. He and his mate traded duties throughout each day, and they were fierce in guarding the nest from perceived predators, but what was interesting to me is that they also took time simply to enjoy each other and their life here. They seem to know, on a fundamental level, that while it’s important to work hard and see to one’s responsibilities, it’s also important to celebrate the fruits of that labor.
And that is what the people will do tomorrow. Today is work and spiritual observance; tomorrow is celebration.
I’ve written briefly before about the connection between the Pueblo and San Geronimo (in English, St. Jerome). It’s a relatively new connection in the scheme of things, one rooted in survival. And it’s a different conception of St. Jerome from any you will find anywhere else in the world, because here, he’s been admitted into a much more ancient tradition, given a place at the table not afforded to other outsiders. The feast day bears his name, but he’s only one part, and a newer part, at that.
The children have been practicing now for a week or more for the footraces. Vespers will be held this afternoon at the mission church in the old village, followed by a song to the beat of the hand drums, played by some of the men of the Pueblo. Everyone not of the people will be out of the village well before nightfall, and the women will finish the baking for tomorrow’s feast, while those planning to engage in the day’s activities will put the final touches on their own preparations.
Tomorrow morning, the village will open itself to the public early, with the footraces beginning at 8 AM. It’s a traditional sport among young people of many of our cultures across Indian Country, one that harks back to a much older time, when running was not merely a sport but a life skill needed for individual and collective survival. Wings was a runner in his youth, both at home and at school, and he talks occasionally of how, when the tightened hamstrings and charley horses and shin splints got to be too much, his grandfather would use traditional medicine to heal his legs. The dominant culture is much different now, with children guided into other, more sedentary activities at school and elsewhere, but feast days and ceremonial celebrations allow Indian children the chance to participate in this part of their history.
Throughout the day, artisans will be selling their work in the plaza. The koshare, the sacred clowns, will appear after noon; no one should be misled into believing that their presence is a joke. They may be amusing at a surface level, but their antics communicate weighty lessons indeed, and they carry messages fraught with import. In a matter of hours, the traditional pole climb will occur, to the delight of visitors and tourists. It’s a practice that requires great courage and technical skill; to provide a sense of perspective, here’s the pole from two years ago, the photo taken well after the feast day was over but before the pole was removed for the winter:
It is from that height that the climbers jump, into crystal-clear air and the slanting light of the now-autumn sun. It requires the jumper to have faith in his own abilities, and probably not a little faith in the inherent protection of Spirit, as well.
And after the jump is over, the climbers, and the koshare, and the drummers, and the dancers, and the artists, and the people who yet remain will begin to drift homeward, to their family village houses and homes outside the wall, to feast with their loved ones and celebrate one final expression of thanks to summer and her blessings.
~ Aji
A logistical note: You can read more more about the coming events of today and tomorrow at the bottom of the page here. As always, the same rules of conduct and cultural respect apply, including adhering to the complete prohibition on cell phones, tablets, cameras, sketching, or recording devices and practices of any kind. If you attend, please do so in accordance with all of the rules.
