There’s more than an inch of new snow on the ground, with more adding itself every moment. It doesn’t feel like much of a storm with such tiny, fragile flakes, yet it’s driving in hard and steady from the east. The mountains have vanished behind its veil; earth and sky are the same dove-white color.
It’s such a welcome relief to see snow falling from the sky, collecting on the ground, that it’s enough to make one weep.
We went to Santa Fe yesterday to take care of some business and pick up some needed supplies. When we left, it was warm already enough that I only carried my jacket; my freshly-oiled boots sank into the mud as I walked to the carport. It’s been mud for what feels like an eternity: temperatures nearing (and yesterday, apparently, surpassing) 50; green shoots trying to poke through the brown muck; trees valiantly straining to bud out. The level of snow on the peaks is what I would expect of May, not January.
Yesterday’s trip only reinforced those fears, since all of the visible peaks from here to Santa Fe were the same. A drive to Santa Fe this time of year should be something requiring prayers for a clear road through the canyon; the ground should be blanketed in white. Instead, it was virtually entirely brown . . . and green. Only the north-facing slopes bore any trace amounts of snow worth remarking.
It makes the upcoming seasons a frightening prospect.
I’m told that we’ve averaged, in recent years, somewhere around 2/3 of what is regarded as our area’s “normal” snowpack, which means that the melt, the runoff the provides much of our organic irrigation for the entire region has been effectively reduced by 1/3 purely via decreased snowfall. If things don’t change, and soon, this year’s melt will be much worse yet.
And so precipitation of any sort becomes a blessing of existential proportions — a still small sign of staving off apocalypse for yet another day, week, month, perhaps year.
It’s also a reminder that, to some degree, at least, we will have no choice but to return to the old ways. Probably to a very significant degree, and sooner rather than later. We discussed this yesterday, during our drive. I said that I had always assumed that the truly apocalyptic effects of climate change, the kind that raze entire societies wholesale, would occur after we were gone. Looking at the dearth of snow on the peaks, including the visible ski runs, I’m no longer confident that it will miss us.
We both come from backgrounds that did not depend entirely on modern amenities for survival. It’s not unknown to us to cope without such basics as electricity or running water. Between us, we have a collection of practical life skills that would ensure existence, even if uncomfortable and wholly inconvenient by contemporary standards. But the issue of resource scarcity remains, and chief among them, in a place like this, is water.
And so, on a silent morning when the whole world is white, it seems a good time to reinforce the efforts whatever spirits of water and wind and sky combine to produce the precipitation that our own little corner of that world so badly needs. More, a reminder of the old ways of interacting with those forces and their fruits, ways that are more laborious, yes, but also more harmonious, taking only what is needed without increasing the load on those resources or magnifying their consumption.
Water in a jar.
Most obviously, of course, is the method of going for water, as the people indigenous to this place used to do (and some still do) daily. Women bore the large ollas, water jars made of the local micaceous clay, upon their heads. It was a daily practice of balance, of the tension between and successful navigation of natural supply and demand, literally walked daily by the most skilled of experts. Those who perform a modern version usually do it with buckets and pails, carried by handles. The relative ease makes it perhaps easier to treat the water as simply a commodity — spilled, more can easily be obtained and carried, provided that the supply is there. The old way required greater focus, greater practice, and greater respect for the scarcity and difficulty of obtaining it in the first place.
There is, of course, the passive option: rain barrels. For years, we’ve had several set up around the land, used to help irrigate it, to nourish the plants and the gardens. They collect snow, too, which often freezes solid; upon melting, it is returned to the land. From I read, it appears that more people are now beginning to use rain barrels regularly. I wonder if they realize that there will likely come a day when they will also have to learn how to go for water.
I’ve written about it before — many times, in fact. For peoples in desert climates, it’s a necessity. It’s a fundamental element of existence here, which perhaps explains why water in its myriad forms is a central motif in os much of Wings’s work. Today’s featured piece, pictured above and below, is no exception. From its description in the Necklaces Gallery:
A ribbon of rain drizzles into a little earthen jar in the shape of a traditional clay olla. It’s the freshest water possible, a gift from the sky to sustain the people. Here, it’s manifest in a piece of ribbon turquoise, a brilliant sky-blue river across a teardrop of earth-toned host rock. Hand-stamped flowing designs evoking traditional pottery patterns mark the reverse. The jar’s lid is a tiny piece of emerald-green malachite; a little water leaks from the bottom to form individual silver droplets. The pendant hangs from beads hand-strung over sterling silver wire: Florentine-finish silver beads flank the pendant itself, backed by copper-colored trade-style beads over the main part of the strand; at either end are two pearlized gray beads finished by a single onyx bead at each finding. Strand is 17″; pendant, including bail, hangs 2.5″ (dimensions approximate). Reverse shown below.
Sterling silver; ribbon turquoise; malachite; trade-style beads; onyx beads
$625 + shipping, handling, and insurance
Coordinates with Warm Blue Rain earrings and Cloudburst earrings.
On this morning, the droplets at the pendant’s base, like the soft gray pearl beads that hold its bail, remind me of nothing so much as the small but steady snowflakes descending from a similarly pearlized sky.
It’s the same blessing, only clad in winter’s blanket.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owners.
