As we enter the waning days of August, the time my own people call the Ricing Moon, we find ourselves coming to the end of the summer gathering season.
In truth, all of summer is gathering season, all across Indian Country: It is the time the powwow circuit comes alive, when children are out of school and able to travel; for some peoples to the north, it is the season of Sundance; for others all across Turtle Island, it is a time of ceremony and feasting, of coming together as community and clan for purposes sacred and mundane.
Here at Red Willow, the last feast days open to the public occurred nearly a month ago, toward the end of July; the next major public gathering will be the Feast of San Geronimo on the last two days of September. There have been smaller gatherings in the meantime, but much of August is devoted to preparation for the private sacred events of the next fortnight or so: a gathering of sorts that is for The People only, the village and all else closed entirely to the outside world.
Even so, this remains a season for the gathering of other spirits.
Yesterday saw a coming together of celestial spirits in a way that is viewed very differently (or rather, in some instances, not viewed at all) by indigenous cultures compared to the outside world. The eclipse brought together sun and moon in a proximity that cause, for a moment, a small death of the sun. The moon sat the death watch, then midwifed its rebirth in a spectacular show of light and shadow.
Here, those were not the only sky spirits to gather in this place.
Come afternoon, we were blessed with the return of the rain — a gift that continued well into the evening, halting for a time and then resuming overnight. The rain arrived not by itself, but in the company of the storm, elemental warriors fully armed for the battle. Thunder joined them, and lightning, too, one single sharp sky-to-earth bolt cracking directly over the center of Pueblo Peak, another, like a curved bow, arcing just over the highway and our north field. They gave way momentarily, to a pale half-rainbow before the storm resumed in earnest.
But it was not only the spirits of the heavens themselves who made their way to this place. Other beings that we associate with the sky — the wingéd ones — seemed called to gather here, as well. Occasionally, of course, the two are one and the same: avian clouds, from hummingbirds to Thunder Beings.
At dawn, the Northern harrier made her presence known, rising up off the ground behind the nearest stand of red willow to soar past at low altitude, a track that took her halfway between where I stood and the front of the house, only a few yards to either side of her. From the northeast field, a Northern flicker called insistently; later, a pair of tiny hummingbirds spiraled in a competitive dance over the feeder.
But it was the Bluebird Clan who appeared en masse, slightly ahead of their usual arrival, and in full force. here have been years when only one or two pairs have joined us at summer’s end. Last year changed all that; as we were at work in the earliest stages of building our house (still under construction), the whole clan descended, making themselves at home upon the stakes and posts that cornered our foundation. North, East, South, West: Over the waning days of summer last year, they gathered to make each cardinal point their own. It felt like a blessing of our home at its inception. We nicknamed the structure Bluebird House, and the turquoise window- and doorsills will be the deep turquoise of the mountain bluebird’s wings.
But in the moments before the eclipse began — just before, as our peoples are inclined to do, we ceded the outdoors to the elemental powers in favor of quiet and prayer— yesterday’s visitors, at least one of them, had a more direct gift to bestow. As I wrote here yesterday:
And as I went about my work, a bluebird flew just barely overhead alongside me, headed northward, when it suddenly noticed me, wheeled in midair, and returned to alight upon the fence where I stood, some mere two or three feet away. It settled onto the wood, turned its face directly toward mine, looked directly into my eyes, and began to speak. I don’t know what it said, but its message will come clear when the time is right; of that I have no doubt. After speaking directly to me for a few moments, it lifted its wings slightly, stood, wheeled again, and continued on its northward journey.
It returned to join its kin soon after, trading its earlier, less comfortable perch on the narrow edge of the fence for a loftier, more stable position atop the tallest pole.
Our gathering of aerial spirits was not over. Near dusk, a sudden upflight of giant wings took me by surprise as I filled the dogs’ water dish. Just to my right, in the field by the studio wall, a raptor soared straight up from the ground. It was the return, about three months early, of my beloved red-tailed hawk, still dressed for summer in mostly white robes that she will trade for rusty red when the snow flies. She flew not more than a couple of arms’-length distant, low and slow and as aware of my presence as I was of hers, tipping her wings as she climbed gradually to sail above the fenceline up toward the cottonwood trees on the other side of the road. She has become my avatar, my touchstone, my totem, as my people would say; she and I have an understanding, and we greet each other every year when she returns.
There were also the rare darner and a monarch or two yesterday, but the rain sent them darting for cover. After the storm, I thought our gathering of spirits of air and sky would be over.
I was wrong.
Just before dawn this morning, as the first of the clouds slowly began to part, making way for the first rays of Father Sun newly reborn, they revealed one final celestial being: the Morning Star. No, I have no photos of her; it was unusual for me to be abroad quite so early, world more dark than light. But she showed herself, high in the heavens to the perfect cardinal point of the East, shimmering like the brightest of diamonds in the still-dusky sky. She would preside over a day that saw a gathering of a different sort here: our crew, along with representatives of two other crews, all working in tandem with us on the house, amid much joking and laughter and generosity of spirit.
This particular gathering season will soon draw to a close, but this year, we come together beneath the shadow of a midwife moon and in the light of a newborn sun, to greet a new world with it.
~ Aji
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