The last of the winter holidays (in popular culture terms, at least) is here: Valentine’s Day, the Day of Lovers. I’ve often wondered how much of the day’s selection was driven by a desire to brighten the still-short days of midwinter, to provide a turning and a tipping point by which those unmoved by pre-Lenten revelry could mark the start of their own journey along winter’s downward to slope to a warmer season.
Of course, in the most fundamental symbolic sense, it’s easy to see how the imagery of late winter moving into spring, of transformation and renewal, of fertility and birth and rebirth, all become inextricably intertwined with motifs of love, particularly romantic love. None of these symbols depends entirely on any of the others for its existence, yet they are all related in various ways that are more or less universal to human existence. And because of the seeming universality of such symbolism — symbolism, I might add, that is grounded directly in empirical experience and scientific fact, in the very processes of life itself — it should come as no surprise that some indigenous cultures have chosen this small but transformational spirit to represent that which we call “love.”
As I noted here more than a year ago, it’s rooted in process: Dragonflies and damselflies grow to maturity through a process known as “partial metamorphosis,” transforming from naiads, or water nymphs, into the quick and graceful creatures of the air to which we are accustomed. But for the peoples native to this broader part of the land mass we collectively call Turtle Island, they also share a transformative nature of a different sort:
A common symbol found in jewelry half a millennium ago (and since) was a Sacred Directions pattern (usually four), a cross of sorts. When the Europeans invaded, with their swords and their own crosses, one of their first orders of business was, of course, conversion (right after theft, spiced with some rape and pillage and murder, of course). And conversion provided for all sorts of useful results: It would wipe out the old spiritual traditions, true (or so they hoped), but it would also impose their own particular caste and class systems upon the indigenous population, providing an effective means to keep our ancestors “in their place” — which is to say, subjugated. More, a refusal to convert would provide a useful pretext for carrying out genocidal campaigns. After all, colonial settlement is much less fraught with guilt when there are fewer reminders that one is squatting on someone else’s land.
And so conversion efforts proceeded apace with the institutionalization of the rest of the colonial framework. In some areas, even agreeing to conversion was insufficient: The Church’s representatives demanded the unequivocal surrender and destruction of all sacred objects and symbolic reminders of the old ways.
What to do? With at least one symbol, the answer presented itself in the form of Dragonfly.
The old sign of the Sacred Directions was retained, but altered: the southern spoke elongated to create, instead of a cross of equal spokes, a crucifix of the European Church. A second horizontal spoke was added near the center, just beneath the original.
What did it create? Dragonfly.
And what, in that sense, did Dragonfly represent?
The Six Directions, of course: Dragonfly can, under his or her own power, fly forward; backward; upward; downward; sideward to the left; and sideward to the right. North; South; East; West; and depending on the tradition, Above and Below, or Outward and Inward.
Dragonfly appears; the spiritual tradition is saved, and so are The People.
And sometimes, as shown just above, even the cross can be coaxed into a more obvious sign of love, what is now a very old traditional pattern in this place.
But back to the romantic air of the day: We’ve explored this concept here before, of Dragonfly’s role as a symbol of love:
Perhaps Dragonfly’s most popular symbolic association in Native traditions is as a signifier of love — global, universal love, as for humankind, true, but especially as a symbol of romantic love.
The link probably lies, in part, with the same connotations involved in its connection to water: Desert peoples possess a profound appreciation of and respect for water and the role it plays in ensuring the growth of crops and a good harvest. Water is life. Water is thus, naturally, linked to concepts of fertility: it keeps the soil fallow, allowing seeds to take root; it nourishes the seedlings, helping them grow into adult plants; it ensures an abundant harvest, which in turn ensures that the people will survive another winter. More children will be conceived and born, and with each generation, the cycle of planting and tending and harvesting, and feeding will begin anew.
And thus the people survive.
Romantic love is essential to that survival; it’s something to be honored.
Dragonfly does that.
It may also have something to do with observing Dragonfly’s own mating habits. Wings captured the image at the beginning of this piece last summer, on our pond, two symbols of love joining their bodies, and in so doing, creating their own larger image of a heart
. Look closely at that photo. The turquoise one is holding onto the blade of grass for balance, but it’s the way he holds it that interests me: like a Native man holding a traditional flute. And, indeed, the flute carries both romantic significance and fertility symbolism in multiple Native cultures: the courting flutes of the Northern Plains peoples (and many years ago, I gave Wings a Sioux-style sandhill crane flute, handcrafted by a Comanche master flute-maker, as a gift); the flute-player imagery associated with planting, fertility, and romance among Southwestern peoples, embodied in the now iconic image appropriated by American pop culture, Ko’ko’pe’li. Flute imager appears on ancient petroglyphs and pictures in stone all over New Mexico. Wings himself plays the Native flute expertly.
The Flute Player has put in an appearance here recently, too: Only last Thursday, we looked at his image and role in both the season and the symbolism associated with romantic love.
And so, when it comes to pieces that suit this day in particular, the Day of Lovers, one item in Wings’s current body of work springs first and foremost to mind: the version of Dragonfly in the image at the top of this post. From its description in the Necklaces Gallery here on the site, shown in another view here:
Messenger of Dawn Necklace
Sometimes, a piece of art transcends its intended purpose, becoming so much more than its basic function and the sum of its parts that it qualifies as a masterwork, a perfect melding of symbol and spirit. So it is with this necklace, a manifestation of Dragonfly: water spirit, protector, symbol of love, messenger of the spirits. Handcrafted of finely stamped sterling silver half-round wire, his shimmery wings textured by countless strikes of a tiny jeweler’s hammer, he arrives dressed in the colors of the Pueblo dawn. His body is formed from delicate rose quartz cabochons: seven of them, a number sacred to many peoples, and stones that some other traditions regard as the mineral embodiment of the qualities of peace and universal love. His amber eyes blaze with the fiery glow of the rising sun; he carries a glowing copper serpent on his back, traversing his wings (image shown below). He hangs from a hand-strung necklace of square-cut leopard-skin jasper beads in warm shades of rose and brick red and taupe and gray, tying all the hues together. The strand is backed by a series of copper-colored trade-style beads terminating in a small series of old natural green turquoise “doughnut” beads with their own copper matrix. The dragonfly pendant is 2-5/8″ long from antennae to base and 2-7/16″ wide across the wingspan; the strand of beads is 17″ (dimensions approximate).
Sterling silver; rose quartz; amber; copper;leopard-skin jasper beads; trade-style beads; green turquoise beads
$1,500 + shipping, handling, and insurance
Most fundamentally, of course, it is the aspect of Dragonfly’s identity as symbol of love that makes this work call to me on this day. In that sense, the materials he chose to create it would not matter; any stones would do. But we have come to identify certain hues with Valentine’s Day: reds and pinks and purples and all the gradations and variations among and between. And so a piece formed of the gentle softness of rose quartz and the warm fire of amber, strung on beads mysteriously aswirl in shades of rose and brick and mauve, seems to belong to this day in particular, one that manifests love immanently, and likewise expresses its surface trappings outwardly.
And so this is a piece that, to me, embodies the very identity of romantic love . . . and yet, it does much more. As I wrote of Dragonfly here last year, at a time when we were entering the downward slope of a different season, walking a path headed instead toward shorter days and colder weather:
They are also, of course, messengers, according to the old ways: Their unique abilities in flight make them the perfect emissaries between this mortal plane and the world of the spirits, between oblivious and recalcitrant humans and the older, wiser, more powerful beings who sometimes need to command our attention and deliver a message.
The dragonfly is not bound by the usual laws of physics insofar as they apply to most forms of flight; it is are capable of far more than forward movement, including no movement at all, when need be. It can move in any of six directions in the space of a wing’s beat: forward, backward, left, right, up down. For peoples whose traditions recognize Six Sacred Directions as do some here in this broader region, it’s understandable how such beings would come to be seen as Spirit’s own emissaries. More, they can hover in place, a talent needed if one is to deliver a message (and perhaps await a response). Eagle carries our prayers to Spirit but does so in forward-only flight, on wings of astonishing size and power and with the ability to dive and strike without warning, an intimidating force and presence. Dragonfly is less imposing, less likely to cause alarm, although no less powerful in its own particular way.
But what message? I have found myself asking that as they dart past, joining me in walking the land, stopping to hover as we eat lunch outside beneath the aspens.
Perhaps it’s to be found in their other symbolism. When dragonflies mate, they do so in a manner and form that produces, from their conjoined bodies, the shape of an inverted heart. It’s purely practical, an evolutionary development that permits them to reproduce while holding safely to the stalk of a plant or a blade of grass. Still, there’s no mistaking the imagery that our human eyes see immediately — an image that no doubt played a role in their other ancient association, with romantic love.
Romantic love is, of course, a driving force in our human world, one that we seem to seek unendingly and that some of us are fortunate enough to find. It’s a gift, a blessing, one for which I am grateful every moment of every day.
But there are other kinds of love. We tend to forget that the blessings we enjoy — the dragonflies themselves, the waters, beauty, life — all of the gifts of Spirit are likewise expressions of love for us, flawed and fragile creatures that we humans are. And that is, perhaps, the message these emissaries bring on this August day: We are given much in the small things, the ordinary things, the things of our daily lives. Rather than waste a moment in melancholy, in regret that they will soon exchange their presence for the things of the cold season, today is the time for living fully in these small and significant expressions of love.
At a time when the world is weary of winter, when we all look forward to the light of longer days and the warmth of stronger suns, it’s a useful message to keep in mind. We have the love of the spirits to sustain us — and with the warmer winds Dragonfly will return, soon enough.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2016; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owners.
