Once again, it rained all night.
The rains are three months early, arriving under cover of night instead of their usual mid-afternoon.
The water is such a blessing here that we cannot afford to be anything other than grateful, and yet . . . we know, more than ever, that we must not take this gift for granted. It is not, after all, something that we would normally be given at this time, and it’s incumbent upon us to recognize that its arrival now is the product of the increasingly painful labor of Mother Earth, pain that we humans have inflicted upon her directly through our carelessness and greed.
It also requires some adaptability.
Fewer than two weeks ago, I planted our corn. On the same day, Wings planted several other types of seeds, and together we placed the beans into the earth. The corn sprouted yesterday, green shoots suddenly breaching the barrier of the soil, reaching sunward some two or three inches. With monsoonal weather patterns this early and extreme, our challenge will be to keep them (and all of our other crops) growing safely into fruition.
Because if there’s one thing the spirits teach us constantly, it’s that balance is required in all things. Our peoples have always known that it is possible to have too much of a good thing. Even water. There’s a reason that the concept of tipping points evoke images of balance: Once past that invisible boundary, things can veer out of control with astonishing rapidity. Ask anyone who’s ever been caught in a flash flood.
Since we humans have created this mess, it’s up to us to put in the effort to manage the consequences. We’ve known for years that this was coming, and, indeed, by last year, we were already recognizing the new patterns and the ways that our work here would have to change in order to adapt safely. Earlier and increasingly staggered planting seasons; changes to irrigation practices; in some instances, changes to what we plant and where. There will be, of course, much trial and error, and from this point forward, the only constant will be the need for change, since we now know that climate change will only accelerate.
On Wednesday, we looked at the motif of rain as tears and tears as rain: expressions of emotion, of love, even, from the heart, whether from the human heart or the heart of Mother Earth. I tend to think of our recent out-of-season rains as just that: Mother Earth weeping for her children, in love and sadness alike.
But our peoples have always appreciated these tears, this gift, in ways that have been lost to the larger culture. Here in this corner of the world, the rains are called, summoned, in and by the personification of spirits whose task it is to bring them to people. At Hopi, perhaps the most famous of the Pueblo cultures (and certainly the most famous for their katsinam), the Longhairs play this specific role. From this Longhair’s description, as it appears in our Katsinam Gallery:
Master carver Josh Aragon (Hopi/Laguna) coaxes the Longhair from this slender piece of cottonwood root. Carved in the traditional fashion, the katsina is hand-carved and then hand-painted with a variety of natural dyes, in patterns reflecting his role in Pueblo life as the Bringer of Rain. His blanket tells a story of daily life, with thunderheads scudding across the sky over the traditional Pueblo home, pine ladder propped against one wall. Stands 13.75″ from bottom of base to tip of feather (dimensions approximate). Front shown at top; reverse shown immediately above; below, a close-up of the detailed artwork on the blanket.
Cottonwood root; natural-dye paints
$585 + shipping, handling, and insurance
Requires special handling; extra shipping charges apply
The description, however, doesn’t begin to tell the story. We did that separately, in a post that appeared here last December:
The photos at top and [center] demonstrate the visual relevance of the term “Longhair”: You can clearly see the spirit being’s long, straight locks cascading down its back, enfolding its shoulders like a second blanket; and, in the front, its beard falling from the chin of its case mask. It’s Native hair in its most basic, iconic form, long and luxuriant.
Here, it has specialized symbolic significance, as well.
We talk a lot here about the challenges of living in this arid high-desert climate. It’s a daily striving for survival, one that, in human terms, is as old as time itself. In places like Hopi, it’s especially acute: At an elevation of roughly 5,000 feet, Hopi regularly averages summer temperatures in the 90s, yet the entire area gets fewer than ten inches of annual rainfall, on average.
To call rain a blessing is a masterpiece of understatement.
And this is the Longhair’s role. He is a Bringer of Rain, and, indeed, his long locks symbolize the blessed water cascading from the sky.
In Josh’s version, his identity is buttressed by the traditional symbols carved and painted on his blanket, many in cool green and blue shades the color of water.
Look at the photo at the top, showing the front of the Longhair: On the front of his robe, Father Sun peers out above stormclouds gathering in a monsoonal sky; traditional thunderhead symbols accent his sash. On the reverse, shown [at center] and in close-up, [immediately above], the thunderheads on his sash are visible, flanking a single falling-rain symbol rendered in traditional colors. The stormy sky encircles the whole blanket, great pregnant clouds towering over the ancient roofs of the Pueblo itself.
In Josh’s vision, Longhair wraps himself in the tears of the sky, then brings them to the people to share their blessing.
While we now have to adapt to new patterns, new timetables, new ways of living that accommodate the changes we have wrought and wrung by force from earth and sky themselves, the rains remain a gift.
And for that, we give thanks.
~ 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 owner.
