The traditional latilla fencing that is a hallmark of this place is regarded by most as a barrier — a blockade, to keep out what is undesirable. And so it is, in its most basic functional sense.
But like nearly everything here, it holds, contains, encompasses its opposite. And so while it functions to keep out certain things, by its very nature, it works to let others in. What excludes Coyote and Bear and even, to a degree, the prying eyes of man nevertheless welcomes the light of Father Sun into the circle of that which it protects.
And, like the best in the symbolism and stories of our peoples, it does so in a mediating fashion: not too much, not too little; careful, circumspect, in keeping with its purpose and in harmony with the world in which it stands.
Of course, this is really true only of those made the old way, by hand and of natural piñon poles, like the one shown above. The commercial versions are everywhere now: mass-produced, with treated wood shorn and sanded free of every burr and bit of bark, cut to exacting lengths and sculpted to precise widths that will allow them to fit together nearly as tightly as a set of tongue-and-groove planks. They’re plain, wholly lacking in identity or character, and while they fulfill, admirably, their best-known function of keeping out, they fail utterly at their other role of allowing in.
The fence above was built by hand by Wings and a friend. Our names are inscribed beneath the anchor posts. It blocks the strongest of the afternoon sun and the harshest of the spring winds from damaging the main garden, one of the larger blue spruce trees, the wild strawberry patch, and the resting places of some of our animals. At the same time, the notches and gaps and interstices allow enough sun and light to fall upon all of them to ensure warmth, and growth, and a certain contentment for everything that lies beneath. Less barrier than filter, each slender lodge pole works individually and in concert to act as a filter, mediating between the elements and those objects that, in the proper proportions, they will nourish and help to thrive.
In the process, of course, they alter the very backdrop of the landscape. The evening these photos were taken (all within minutes of each other, from slightly varying vantage points), the sky eventually became a spectacle of fire, clouds of passionate flame meeting, merging, melding, then retreating to begin a dance anew. In the sunset’s earliest stages, however, the colors were paler, sedate shades, more fox trot than flamenco. Ice cream shades of pale yellow, peach, coral, lavender. Beautiful, certainly, but in light of the skies to which we’re accustomed (and, indeed, into which this one would itself evolve), nothing unusual.
Until Wings captured the image above. What was merely a lovely watercolor sky in gentle romantic shades suddenly became something simultaneously more subtle and exceedingly more striking. The shadowy silhouettes of each wooden lodge-pole sentry, of varying heights and builds but all standing straight and ready, looked for all the world like a phalanx of piñon warriors protecting encircling the warmly glowing cloud lovers in the western sky.
Moments pass, though, and the image changes. Up close, the sentries take on a new identity and the sky itself boils over into scarlet flame behind them.
Growing up in an industrial area, one where Art Deco representations of those industries’ own cathedrals held sway, this image reminds me of old propaganda art: paintings of smokestacks pumping out fog and fumes against a molten sky, visual hymns to the gods of commerce and industry whose artifice has since been stripped away to reveal the dangerously superstitious idolatry that animated them. From that vantage point, it’s intimidating and not a little frightening, but perhaps a necessary reminder of what comes out of the crass pursuit of crass commercialism and conspicuous consumption, of an overweening and overwhelming love of profit: a world out of balance, a life out of harmony.
Still, that’s only one glimpse, and truth be told, the lesser one by far. If I stop and look at it — really look — the industrial mists fall away and I see something far more ancient: every nick and notch in the wood, every tiny splinter in silhouette against a sky that I know from the evidence of my own eyes is truly the color of fire. It’s a reminder that we need not focus on the dangers of artificial constructs, but instead enjoy the safety of the natural world that surrounds us every day.
Step back, and the picture changes yet again: a broader panorama that integrates the colors, the shapes, the symbolism into a greater harmonious whole.
From a slight distance, the flames calm and recede, merging together into divine brushstrokes simultaneously intense and serene, as Father Sun completes his journey and his final dance before retiring for the night. The tree whose life his light supports joins the latillas in standing sentry, bearing silent witness to his journey’s end for yet another day.
Together they will stand, silent, throughout the night, filtering the moonlight as dawn approaches. And when Father Sun again journeys to the west, they will mediate once again between our world and his fiery dance of light, translating it into final rays of warmth before dark descends again.
~ 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.
