Saturday, December 26, 2009
December 24
When I was out on the pueblo I was surprised that the rituals didn't have much of an effect on me. It was wonderful to see and to learn, but there was no response on an emotional level. I sat next to a small child at dinner, waiting for the Kachinas to arrive. Suddenly alert he turned to me and said "Did you hear bells? I think the Kachinas draw near..." The Kachinas are a trinity. They are the mountain spirits who live on the sacred mountain. They love, protect and guide the people. They are also the dancers, who don masks and prepare themselves spiritually to be a host for the mountain spirits. It is not dance as we know it, it is movement and the generation of energy. It is prayer in motion. The third aspect of kachina are the dolls. One man explained "You have the Jesus Kachina in your churches..." A sacred symbol that teaches and reminds us of a sacred story.
This year, when I saw the priest at our local Orthodox Church address the children as Saint Nicholas, I thought, "he is the Saint Nicholas kachina". A grandfather himself, he spoke with them so tenderly that he truly did allow them to encounter the spirit of the great saint. A few weeks later I attended the Christmas pageant at a local church. It was a very beautiful celebration. Mary was played by a young mother who had given birth only six weeks before. As she sat on the altar, beaming down on her new born son, we were all witness to the great love a mother feels for her child. The lights were dimmed and the congregation sang Silent Night. My eyes filled with tears at the beauty of this simple scene and I remembered the depth of love I had experienced when my own child was born—that love so unfathomably deep that we are transformed in a moment. That love that burns so bright and with such ferocity that we would willingly surrender our own life so our child would not be harmed. This story and pageant were so simple, yet more powerful than the greatest homilies I've ever heard. This is what we celebrate at Christmas—the mystery of that love, embodied in a new born child. One of the things parents say is that they are surprised not only by the depth of love they feel for their child, but by the depth of love that young children feel for us.
I believe in that love. I believe in a force so mysterious that a universe came forth from it and that this force is love.
And I believe in the great healing stories of my people, the stories we tell year after year. The stories we hear for the first time before we are old enough to remember them in words. We remember them in the same way. They evoke emotions which we cannot put words too, but which are strong and important. No matter how much I learned about the people of the pueblos, I would never have the advantage of the child who, in complete belief, whispers to a stranger "do you hear bells? I think the kachinas draw near..." The mountain spirits are in his heart, they are rooted in his soul. But Saint Nicholas is rooted in mine. I thank and bless the people who allowed themselves to be vessels this season so the spirit of Christmas could come through them. The kindly priest, the young mother and her beautiful baby, the deer dancers in my woods—they were all vessels for spirit. They were all kachinas.
Merry Christmas. Amen.
This year, when I saw the priest at our local Orthodox Church address the children as Saint Nicholas, I thought, "he is the Saint Nicholas kachina". A grandfather himself, he spoke with them so tenderly that he truly did allow them to encounter the spirit of the great saint. A few weeks later I attended the Christmas pageant at a local church. It was a very beautiful celebration. Mary was played by a young mother who had given birth only six weeks before. As she sat on the altar, beaming down on her new born son, we were all witness to the great love a mother feels for her child. The lights were dimmed and the congregation sang Silent Night. My eyes filled with tears at the beauty of this simple scene and I remembered the depth of love I had experienced when my own child was born—that love so unfathomably deep that we are transformed in a moment. That love that burns so bright and with such ferocity that we would willingly surrender our own life so our child would not be harmed. This story and pageant were so simple, yet more powerful than the greatest homilies I've ever heard. This is what we celebrate at Christmas—the mystery of that love, embodied in a new born child. One of the things parents say is that they are surprised not only by the depth of love they feel for their child, but by the depth of love that young children feel for us.
I believe in that love. I believe in a force so mysterious that a universe came forth from it and that this force is love.
And I believe in the great healing stories of my people, the stories we tell year after year. The stories we hear for the first time before we are old enough to remember them in words. We remember them in the same way. They evoke emotions which we cannot put words too, but which are strong and important. No matter how much I learned about the people of the pueblos, I would never have the advantage of the child who, in complete belief, whispers to a stranger "do you hear bells? I think the kachinas draw near..." The mountain spirits are in his heart, they are rooted in his soul. But Saint Nicholas is rooted in mine. I thank and bless the people who allowed themselves to be vessels this season so the spirit of Christmas could come through them. The kindly priest, the young mother and her beautiful baby, the deer dancers in my woods—they were all vessels for spirit. They were all kachinas.
Merry Christmas. Amen.
December 22
One last luminaria was still lit in my yard as I sat down to write this. I woke twice in the night. The candles were still glowing in the night, under the stars. In the pale light, before the sun rises, the luminaria cast a golden light against the blue of the snow. I walked back along the path to the woods with the now silent dog. The luminaria still lined the trail where the horn dancers emerged from the forest on the longest night. This short trail led out to the stone wall, which I stepped over, to follow the path I walked on the eve of the solstice.
All around, in the wood behind my house, the snow was still undisturbed, except for my footprints. As I turned to head up to a formation of rocks called "The Three Kings, I looked down at my feet, and saw hoof prints in the show, along with my own prints from a day and a half earlier. The deer had walked in my footprints. Or else, I had walked their trail, unknowingly, on the eve of the solstice.
I'm sure the last luminaria has sputtered out now. I don't need to go see it.
All around, in the wood behind my house, the snow was still undisturbed, except for my footprints. As I turned to head up to a formation of rocks called "The Three Kings, I looked down at my feet, and saw hoof prints in the show, along with my own prints from a day and a half earlier. The deer had walked in my footprints. Or else, I had walked their trail, unknowingly, on the eve of the solstice.
I'm sure the last luminaria has sputtered out now. I don't need to go see it.
Monday, December 21, 2009
December 21 Welcome Yule
Earth has tilted on her axis and we have turned back to light!
Hip Hip Hooray!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
December 21 THE CELEBRATION
We will be celebrating
The Winter Solstice
on Monday the 21st!!!!!
Dancers and Musicians please arrive between 5:30 and 5:45 PM
Please gather at 6:30 for the Horn Dance.
Park in my neighbor John's driveway. Go up the CENTER driveway and stay left in to his driveway.
Welcome Yule! Super Solstice! DO NOT call me before noon. I will be busy.
December 20
On Midwinter's Eve, the longest night
The balances tips, we turn to light
The new moon smiles and the stars delight
In the mystery of it all.
On Midsummer's Eve I wrote this lyric:
On Midsummer's Eve, the shortest night
A field of fireflies invite
Us all to share in their delight
At the mystery of it all.
The balances tips, we turn to light
The new moon smiles and the stars delight
In the mystery of it all.
On Midsummer's Eve I wrote this lyric:
On Midsummer's Eve, the shortest night
A field of fireflies invite
Us all to share in their delight
At the mystery of it all.
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