This week, the world hesitates on the threshold of the warm seasons, the one marking the line between Spring and Summer. In years past (perhaps permanently past now), we would long since have been well into the heat of the year by now, the warmth driven on the furious Spring winds that refuse to release their hold.
Still, we’ve had snow here as late as June tenth — an example of the existential extremes offered up by this harshly beautiful land.
This year, though, our patterns are very different.
Oh, last year was much like this one, but then it was still possible to hold out hope that it was a one-off, an outlier. Repeating this year, with greater intensity, seems a harbinger of a new and divergent pattern, proof of change already transforming, an omen of change yet to come.
We can no longer depend on our usual planting and growing seasons; a new and tightly-compressed evolution is required of us. First comes recognition; then acceptance; then adaptation.
We are scrambling to adapt.
Thus far, we have been fortunate — one might even say blessed. Our new weather patterns, with a Spring far too warm and with monsoonal rains not normally bestowed until August, are fostering early and abundant growth. This week’s irrigation, not yet complete, has built upon the rains’ foundation, and the hay is now knee-high and more. The corn we planted a few weeks ago is already sprouting; the beans and squash, other vegetables and herbs, will not be far behind. If we are mindful and the weather cooperates, we’ll have fresh produce to eat much sooner than normal. And our young birch and maple, my two signs of the lands of my home, are flourishing, lush and green and healthy.
Part of it is that our new weather patterns continue to manifest in particularly helpful ways. Night rains are nearly unheard-of here; it’s a phenomenon reserved mostly for mid- to late afternoon, and the sun is usually shining brightly again before it retires for the night. The winds normally begin to rise about mid-morning, peak in the afternoon, and taper off around dusk. But this season, we’ve had rains overnight, sometimes all night, reminding me again of home; our winds, not nearly as fierce and furious as usual, have often blown at night more than in the light of day. Together, the two elements have worked to save the topsoil and nurture new growth.
Accordingly, we’ve also had more nighttime thunder than usual. Rarely has it been too loud or too close; mostly, it’s been low deep rumbles that vibrate the very earth in their sonic embrace. It seems that Thunderbird is pleased, comfortable, content mostly to speak occasionally, perhaps to sing, but with no inclination to toss lightning-tipped arrows in fits of anger.
It’s never wise to challenge the Thunder Beings, of course, whether they take the form of our Thunderbird or some other. They wield incredible power of the sort that, unchecked, has the ability to destroy everything in its path. Fortunately for us, they’re usually content to play the occasional game of celestial stickball, a pastime echoed in what we earth-bound beings know as lacrosse and its variants. Hawk, of course, found his wings clipped, so to speak, for spending too much time playing with the Thunderbirds and neglecting his own duties. For us, however, exchanges with Thunderbird usually involve offerings of respect and gratitude, nothing more.
As important as Thunderbird’s own habits are to survival in this land, it’s no surprise that he (or, in some traditions, she) should find form and expression in the art of the people. Wings has created only a couple of incarnations of her: one large silver pendant in a classic Southwestern style, many years ago; and the one shown here today, around 2008 or so.
In this iteration, she is truly unique, yet her shape hints at Deco and post-Deco styling from the early-middle part of the last century. The graceful, elongated feathers of her downward-sloping wings; the classically pointed tailfeathers; the head turned to her left: all are reminiscent of iconic Southwest Native Thunderbird imagery of the ’30s, ’40s, and ’50s.
[It is a white man’s myth, by the way, that any rendering of Thunderbird must include a head pointed to the left. Genuine Native Thunderbirds vary in posture and profile and affect according to specific cultural tradition and the vision of the artist; no more, no less. I once had a white man insist to all his fellow white tourists that you could tell that a specific piece was genuine because a Thunderbird must always face left, while another piece could not possibly be authentic because it faced right. I set that straight, politely but firmly and rapidly.]
In this instance, of course, Wings’s work meets even patently false notions of “authenticity.” But that’s the least of it.
When Wings created this piece, which I watched take shape under his hands and tools, he built around the stone you see in the photo. It’s just possible that the stone is Royston turquoise, from Nevada, but I doubt it. It truly was that deep, brilliant emerald green that it appears to be in the photo, and the warm golden and coppery browns of the matrix are likewise true to life. I think it’s likely that it’s Manassa turquoise, from Colorado — a type of turquoise known specifically for its deep green stone and sunny golden matrices. He gave the pendant a sturdy bail, and strung it on a strand of green turquoise beads, but the stone in the pendant was always the focus.
When I look at it, I see our world.
Turtle Island, North America, Indian Country . . . amidst the deep green of the ocean on all sides.
It’s a map of our world, one carried by the Bringer of Rain herself.
And perhaps that’s something to keep in mind: Thunderbird may have arrived early this year, but she keeps the map of the world inscribed on her heart. Our Bringer of the Summer Storms may have begun delivering them two months sooner than our usual season, but still, she has brought them.
We can adapt to make use of her gift.
~ 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.
