The day of lovers is over, and with it, the first prayerful day of the period much of the dominant culture marks as Lent.
Unlike many from our communities, we are not Catholic, and so we do not observe such holidays in any sort of formal sense. We do, however, recognize the inherent beauty that accompanies them, from the joyous celebration of Fat Tuesday to the solemn observance of Ash Wednesday and the humble asceticism of the whole season that culminates in Easter Sunday. It may not be our tradition, but there is much of value at its core: a tradition grounded in a love so expansive that it demanded self-sacrifice.
Without getting into the theological, doctrinal, or historical weeds that surround Christianity’s marking of Easter, it’s worth noting that one of the many nicknames given for the man/spirit known as Jesus was “The Light.”
The light plays a major role in many of our traditions, as well. It’s true, of course, for indigenous cultures the world over: It could hardly be otherwise, when most of human history has been spent at the mercy of the dark. In this age of technological artifice, we forget just how dark — and more, just how dangerous — the world can be in the hours after dusk and before the dawn.
It should also come as little wonder, then, that so many cultures associate goodness, joy, love itself, with the appearance and existence of the light. The sun becomes our collective Father, husband to Mother Earth; the Moon, our Grandmother; the stars, a variety of celestial spirits, some with the ability to descend to the earth to walk, disguised, among humanity.
In our best moments, our love for each can be charted by the rising and setting of the sun, its light enough to sustain that love through all the darkest hours.
And so, as I was contemplating which among Wings’s past works to feature for this day in particular, a work from some ten years or so ago emerged from the long corridors of memory to present itself — in the light, so to speak.
It was an incredibly simple piece: a necklace that consisted of only a single stone in a spare pendant, suspended from plain sterling silver snake chain.
As is so often the case with the simplest of works, it was also incredibly powerful.
At this remove, we no longer know for sure whether Wings chose the stone first and designed the setting around it, or created the setting and then chose a stone to fit, but I can make a fairly certain guess. Based on the unusual size of the focal cabochon, I suspect that the stunning carnelian cab caught his eye first, and he set about designing a setting that would suit its fiery orb-like glow.
I’ve written here, as part of our past Jewels and Gems series, about carnelian’s properties as a gemstone. In various non-Native traditions, it’s often seen as a woman’s stone, no doubt due to its blood-red color. Ironically, where coral is often associated with young women (menarche), carnelian is, in at least one tradition, linked to feminine aging (menopause): It’s said to be a stone of renewal for women who, in middle age, find their lives turned toward new goals and opportunities. Perhaps the difference between the symbolism for coral and carnelian is the difference between opacity and translucence; perhaps it’s even simpler, the difference between a “stone” that was once a living being of the waters and one that is wholly a product of the earth.
Whatever its genesis, carnelian has always spoken to me of the fierce red fire of the rising and setting high-desert sun, and that alone is enough to speak of new days and new opportunities.
In this work, Wings made that imagery explicitly manifest.
The piece began with the setting: a simple silver backing that extended perhaps an eighth of an inch beyond the bezel that would hold the stone. The bezel itself was low in profile, soldered seamlessly onto the backing to produce the impression of a wholly organic setting. At the top, he soldered a freestanding bail, one sculpted gracefully and fused so completely as to look similarly organic.
At this point, the necklace could very easily have been complete. Wings could have buffed it, set the stone, hung it on the chain, and been done with it. It would have been beautiful.
But it was not complete.
He chose a segment of fine-gauge sterling silver wire — from memory, he believed it to have been half-round wire, but upon inspecting the photo more closely and viewing the ends, it appears to me to have been round wire — and cut it to a length of approximately two inches, perhaps a bit more. He filed the ends down smooth, beveling the edges so that nothing could catch on the wearer’s clothes. Then he carefully set it across the lower edge of the bezel, keeping it centered, and soldered it securely into place.
By itself, without the stone, it probably would have looked a bit strange to anyone else. Nonetheless, he oxidized it and buffed it all to a soft Florentine finish. Then he set the stone.
And a sun was born.
The name escapes me with any certainty now; it might have been either Sunrise or Sunset, but I don’t think so. If memory serves at all, I believe the work’s name was actually Horizon: that line of the earth at which the sun disappears and reappears.
It was a perfect expression of light . . . and of the love of the spirits who sustain us with warmth and light.
It was also a perfect model for how to conduct our own affairs of the heart, a solid, sure, and sustaining love that warms and illuminates.
~ Aji
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