November’s end.
The skies are blue and utterly cloudless; the air is warm, albeit with a rising chill wind now. This should be early winter here, and instead it feels like spring.
Yes, I know what we all learned in colonial schools, that there is The One True Way of reckoning seasons, and that “winter” does not begin until the late morning of December 21st. But the older I get, the more I learn toward my childhood understanding of the passage of time, one that comported with “meteorological seasons,” in which what we think of as “winter” begins on December first. [And in truth, it’s not even that so much as it is an understanding that runs deeper than blood and bone of how season and time actually work, especially in a place such as this: Conditions, more than conceptual categorization, are are truly determinative of the seasons now.]
But by any measure, this day is still allegedly fall. It doesn’t feel like it.
Here at Red Willow, we have been witness to the effects of colonialism-driven climate change for years, but there is a feeling, inescapable now, that those effects are snowballing in ways that have long since passed any sort of tipping point. That’s not to say that some of them cannot be reversed, over the long term and even, in some cases, over far shorter ones, too. It’s certainly not to say that the land, earth and sky, air and water, cannot be rescued and reclaimed, for we already know that it can — just as we know that the surest, the most efficient and effective way of accomplishing that is via the #LandBack movement that returns stolen land to the Indigenous peoples who already steward more than eighty percent of the world’s biological diversity. These are not theories or guesses or hopes; these are known facts . . . which the colonial world stubbornly resists acknowledging, never mind heeding.
But one thing these past two years of pandemic have shown us is that our peoples remain strong and resilient in the face of existential threat. We should not have to be, of course, but we are also immensely practical when it comes to dealing with what is over what ifs. It’s a lesson, perhaps, learned in part from the land itself: The Earth is a resilient spirit, too, and she and her children have long since learned the power of adaptation and evolution in the service of survival. But perhaps the Earth learns from us, as well?
Because she is unquestionably sentient, strategic and analytical, and she is in the fight of her life now.
Today’s featured images are a pair, and clearly of a piece with each other. They were shot from the same vantage point and at the same time of day (early morning, as the sun rose over the ridgeline). They were also, I believe, shot in the same year (which would have been the winter of 2005 or perhaps 2006, most likely). Wings captured both on film, and when placed side by side, they made for a striking similarity, and just as striking a contrast. I suspect they were taken only a day or two apart, actually; back then, snow this time of year was common, and of course, at this elevation, the weather can go from abundant sun to dangerous storm in a matter of hours, even minutes.
What I’ve always loved about both of these shots is the effect of the rising winter sun on the walls of the old village: It turns them a perfect pale rose-gold, simultaneously cool and yet somehow warm and inviting, too, as though the light upon the adobe implies a powerful fire within. And it does, mostly; these ancient homes of more than a thousand years standing are still inhabited, even through the deep cold dark of winter at nearly eight thousand feet.
And the wintry nature of the season is clear in both images, despite the clear lack of any snow above. It is perhaps not obvious to anyone not from here, aside from the glimpse in the lower left corner of a tree reduced to skeletal limbs, pale gold in the light. But the angle of sun and shadow, the particular tint it lends the walls, and the deepening blues of the evergreens on the mountain behind all give away both season and time of day to those who know how to read such elements. It’s the season of the frost and the fire, of those first dustings of white that lead to deeper, more consequential snows, and of the warming light on the outer walls, an echo of the blazing home fires within.
Today’s featured masterwork is one that embodies this threshold moment that straddles seasons, all the stark contrasting colors and elemental beauty of weather and light. From its description in the Necklaces Gallery here on the site:
Fall: Early Frost and Sunset Fire Necklace
The light of a high-desert autumn sets the land aflame amid the chill dance of Fall: early frost and sunset fire. Wings calls to the circle leaf and flame, frost and light, with this extraordinary necklace, a medicine shield manifest in the shades of season and time, wrought as a tribute to the winds and the Sacred Directions. The pendant, large and protective as any true warrior’s shield, is hand-wrought of heavy eighteen-gauge sterling silver, all solidity and substance, yet scalloped freehand with an edge of fantastic delicacy. It’s set with nine spectacular stones: At the cardinal directions sit four large teardrops of stunningly webbed Red Creek jasper in all the shades of autumn leaves, crimson and gold, bronze and hints of remnant green; at the ordinal points, four smaller Red Creek jasper teardrops in beautifully marbled hues; at the center, a single incredible square of agatized ocean jasper, lacy bands of frost tracing a path across the last of the earth’s green. Between the cabochons, solitary fall wildflowers bloom, traces of frost falling around them. The pendant hangs from a simple flared bail stamped freehand in an Eye of Spirit motif formed of single stamps, conjoined, in a radiant design of sunrise over clouds. Strung through the bail is dazzling strand of beads in natural materials, each one selected and matched for color: large rounds of ocean jasper in greens and rusts and pearly whites extending into similarly-sized Red Creek jasper spheres, each segment separated by single beads of faceted high-grade gray moonstone; lengths of medium-sized golden fossilized coral, Red Creek jasper, ocean jasper, and scarlet red-willow wood spheres, with more icy gray moonstone rondels as separators; then segments of frosty matte sardonyx and tiny round ocean jasper anchors, separated by sterling silver doughnut rondels. Beads are strung over extra-sturdy tri-ply foxtail made of heavy nylon, specially treated and encased in metal, then silver-plated for color matching; findings are sturdy sterling silver assemblies. Pendant including bail hangs 6.75″, 6.25″ excluding bail, and is 6.5″ across at the widest point; the bail is .5″ long by 9/16″ across at the widest point; center cabochon is 7/8″ square; cardinal cabochons are 2″ long by 3/4″ across at the widest point; ordinal cabochons are 1.5″ long by 5/8″ across; bead strand is 22″ long, excluding findings. [All dimensions approximate.] Designed jointly by Wings and Aji; fourth in The Four Seasons Series. Close-up view of pendant shown below.
Sterling silver (setting and findings);
Red Creek jasper; agatized ocean jasper (pendant cabochons); tri-ply silver-plated foxtail (to hold beads);
Red Creek jasper; ocean jasper; red willow wood; gray moonstone; fossilized coral; sardonyx; sterling silver (beads)
$2,000 plus shipping, handling, and insurance
As the description notes, this work is the fourth in Wings’s limited signature series of necklaces entitled The Four Seasons: each its own interpretation of and tribute to the time of year it represents, each wrought in a similar style, one that honors the winds and the sacred directions and the powers of protection and medicine while preserving its own unique identity and spirit.
And of them all, this is the one that most feels like true armor: a shield, one that imbues its wearer with medicine as surely as it defends against the forces of danger without.
In this place, those dangers can include earth and sky, but where once the worry was exposure to bitter cold and snows measured in feet, now the greater worry is that there will be no snow at all.
As you can see, this second photo was shot from the same spot, albeit at a distance rather than in close-up, and the angles of light and shadow show that it was taken at the same time of day: early morning, just after the sun has gained the ridgeline, lighting up the walls in a way that evokes the spirit of the fabled Cities of Gold the invaders mistakenly thought they had found.
But what this image also shows is something far more valuable than gold will ever be: snow, and in a decent amount for a small passing storm. No, this was not one measured in multiple feet, but it as more than a dusting, enough to deposit an unbroken blanket across every bare surface on the slopes, while leaving several inches on each roof and parapet, too.
It’s the image at the top with a little magic added, a little medicine, a little of what keeps our small world here not merely alive but thriving. And it’s precisely that medicine we are missing now. All we have had thus far this season is what the work at the center delivers: the early frost amid a sunset fire of foliage and light.
These days, even the foliage is denied us; it’s all gone, with no snow to replace it for beauty. The branches are skeletal, bare and gray now; there is far too much red-brown earth showing through the stands of evergreen that once blanketed the slopes. The only frost is the rime around the edges of the troughs in the morning; the only fire, the ones in our woodstoves that keep the chill north wind at bay.
But fall is not yet over, and winter here is long. Ancestral memory is long, too, and so is the persistence it has taught our peoples.
And so is hope. We have hope, we have prayer, we have the work. And we still have the possibility of magic and medicine: of the frost and the fire, for a world reclaimed and renewed.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2021; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
