That’s how it’s said here, changes of tense notwithstanding. In some sense, it’s perhaps a subconscious recognition of the role that natural forces play in the dynamics of daily existence, from warming and melt and flow to simple gravity. The dominant culture calls it “physics”; we call it “life.”
Still, whatever the label, however understood, there are forces of nature, elemental powers that remain eminently predictable, if a little more irregular now than in the past. The result of Spring runoff is one of them.
We explored the phenomenon a bit yesterday, the metamorphosis of melt and what it means for those of us who live in this high desert place, but through the lens of art in three silvery dimensions. Today, we examine it from a more esoteric, less dimensionally corporeal form, but no less tangible for all that: You may not be able to put your arms around it, to hold it in your hands in the usual sense, but it can be seen and heard and felt and smelled and tasted.
The title’s locution is also a nod to water’s inherent power, a recognition that it is stronger than we. Yes, we can harness its force, direct its path, at least if we are careful. But thinking of its arrival as “the water came” is also an implicit acknowledgment that, to a not-insignificant degree, water (like all of nature) does what it will.
There is, of course, water in the river at the old village virtually all the time, in one form or another. In the winter, there’s often a veneer of ice on the top — or there used to be; now, with the warming of the climate as a whole, that’s less often the case in a significant way. The water level is also lower, and its pace much calmer, for much of the year, save for two exceptions: the monsoon season of late Summer, of course, when a cloudburst can send it boiling nearly over its banks for brief periods; and now, in Spring, when the melting snowpack atop and amid the peaks sends the current crashing down the river’s bends.
When the water comes, it’s also a sign of other markers to come, or already underway: the end of the winter ceremonials and the Pueblo’s reopening to the public during normal visiting hours, heralding the beginning of the new year’s tourist season; and perhaps more traditionally significant, of the time of Spring cleaning of the communal spaces. It’s the time that the men join forces to clean the ditches, to clear out the overgrowth from the riverbanks, to ready the land itself for all that will be needed for the coming months. It’s an old tradition, one that is continually renewed each year.
As is visible in the photo, some small changes have been made to the tradition over time. The wooden foot bridge is now buttressed at either end by mortar that is more concrete than clay, and more such outcroppings shore up selected parts of the riverbank itself. Out of the field of vision, behind the point where the photograph was taken, the dirt road now spans the river via a basic bridge, one bolstered with enough modernity to bear the weight of regular vehicle traffic safely. Still, the footbridge is the main traverse connecting the buildings of North House and South House, of providing access for those on the south side to the plaza and church. And that bridge remains solidly wood, the planks repaired and replaced as needed, but the materials used fundamentally unchanged.
It’s comforting, in a sense, to know that some things will not change, not least because there is no need for them to change. The footbridge is perfectly serviceable, and fits organically within the old village’s traditional culture. For vehicles, the other bridge provides a way around; those who live on that side are not forced to leave contemporarily efficient modes of transportation behind at the main gate, yet there is no need to bring that much modernity into the heart of the village itself, the river that still provides the water for all who live there.
And the traditions are like the water itself: In their time, they come.
~ Aji
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