The air quality is miserable today, smoke so thick the southeast sky is a dirty yellow and the western ridgeline is entirely hidden by a wall of cloudy slate. Breathing is difficult; it’s not safe to be outside without a mask even here at home, for reasons entirely unrelated to the pandemic.
This is not fall as we know it.
Autumn here is supposed to be a time of pure magic, of air impossibly clean and crisp and so clear and cold at dawn that it just hurts to breathe — not much, just enough of a burn to lungs corroded by summer exhaust to remind you that you’re still alive. It’s supposed to a time when the light falls at long, low angles in shades of pure gold and honey and amber, not this cloudy, sickly pale haze. And it’s supposed to be a time of fire as the dance of the leaves, gold and red and copper and bronze shawls and sashes flying in the wind, not the more literal wildfire that consumes everything in its path beneath a deadly particulate pall.
But this is a year of “not supposed to be” across the board now, one of deadly drought and even deadlier pandemic, one in which our supposed “leaders” have all shown themselves for the colonial spoilers they are, ready to profit politically, but entirely unready, and certainly unwilling, to take any responsibility.
The day that the dominant culture still naively expects to change everything is exactly one month off now. Last night’s news has sparked glee among them, but they fail to understand the potential fallout. For those of us whose lives have perforce been informed by a more clear-eyed experience, it’s hard to find any hope now.
And yet, hope still comes on the wings of the sun.
I know, because late yesterday, when the fatigue was settling fully in and I was ready to give up on my work, a small bright butterfly, an undersized mourning cloak in shades of wine and blue and ivory, came fluttering past my face, executing complex loops and spirals upon the breeze with joyous abandon. To me, butterflies have always been, fundamentally, messengers of hope, pollinators, life-renewers, — and, of course, the mourning cloak itself, who carries my late sister’s spirit and whose name she still carries in memory.
If they can survive this terrible miasma of grief and loss, this terrible literal pall of smoke, to thrive and to dance? So can we.
Today’s featured work is the very embodiment of such joy, of such love and strength of spirit and determination too — it’s the dance of a golden spirit, aloft on the wings of the sun. From its description in the Necklaces Gallery here on the site:
Wings of the Sun Necklace
The wings of the sun carry warmth and light to our whole world. Wings brings them to fluttering life with this necklace wrought freehand in the shape of that pollinating messenger of the spirits, Butterfly. Coaxed from sterling silver, her scalloped wings flare wide and graceful, veined with flowing arterial patterns scored freehand amid tiny sacred hoops and edged with images of the rising sun itself. Body and antennae are fully articulated, and at her heart rests a glowing near-orb of fabulously chatoyant tiger’s eye, a rich warm brown banded with fiery gold and nestled in a scalloped bezel. She sits atop flowers of her own via the slider-style bail on the reverse, hand-milled in a looping floral pattern and gently sculpted freehand. The pendant bears a velvety Florentine finish, and hangs from a strand of traditional sterling silver round beads, heavily oxidized and then buffed to a high polish. Pendant is 2.25″ across at the widest point by 2″ high at the highest point; tiger’s eye cabochon is 1/2″ high by 3/8″ across; bead strand hangs 21″ long (dimensions approximate). Coordinates with Solstice Light Butterfly Concha Belt. Close-up view shown below.
Sterling silver; tiger’s eye
$1,500 + shipping, handling, and insurance
This piece may manifest as a small spirit of summer, but it strikes me as perfect for these warm days of early fall, too. Wings and beads together create a cascade of silvery, shimmering light; the body is chatoyant with all the shades of an autumn sun.
And as yesterday’s visitor reminds me, these are, traditionally, days of hope and promise: a last gift before the snow flies, but also a reminder of the beauty that is ours, beneath the miasma from without that would seek to smother our joy. It’s the dance of a spirit as golden as the sun, here to lift our own spirits to the dance, as well.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2020; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
