Celebrations of the season began way before Christmas as I know it now. Before the lighted trees, gifts and Santa Claus. There were times remembered in events and emotions. There was a sense of holiness that comes with the hibernations of animals and the loss of warmth, as the world became more surreal suspended farther from the Sun.
The short days and long story-filled nights in low voices gave a reason to go inward to seek out those gems hibernating within us. The season when we open those bundles of carefully wrapped songs and stories of the animals. It is a season of souls seeking warmth in the coziness of families and clans. The sound of “Ya’ ateeh,” is more engaging in its tenderness and honesty. The season is accompanied by a constant fragrance of cedar, sage and coffee. This was the season that gave me much joy in anticipation of something miraculous. It is a time of that sense of magic.
In my own private world, I tracked and followed the sheep trail. Being momentarily confused and lost in the swirling blizzard, I stumbled through the clutching sagebrushes and Gambel oaks. I was dressed in a heavy navy pea coat and shoes bundled in burlap coated in goat fat.
The dogs stay close to my feet. The goats are wary. But, I am aware that we are in the season of the retelling of the great stories of creation and Coyote’s role within it. Those stories were our entertainment. Our self-explanations and origins to the rhythms of very ancient songs. I sat with my reverences for the blanketing of Mother Earth and Father Time in deep silence.
When the first snowfall covers the ground, we prepare for winter games, namely Kesh Je’ (Shoe Game). When the sun seeks a path farther and farther south, low voices, course from summer’s night ceremonies, begin to reverberate animal songs. The songs of the first inhabitants of the Fourth World. It is said that in order not to offend them, we voice their songs and stories while they hibernate safe from our human versions. It is in that time between the first snow and the first audible thunder of spring that we can mimic them
I had an Uncle Jack who was a preacher of some Christian denomination, I don’t recall which. He arrived around what we came to know as Christmas Day and brought all sorts of goodies in the form of clothing to food and toys, which included boxes of crayons and coloring books. Coloring books where I colored outside the line and loved it. He brought around reading materials which I devoured word by word, picture by picture.
That awoke my creative and imaginary spirit. Everyone should have an Uncle Jack— as a child.
His appearance always announced something good was happening. Later, in my adult years, his appearance meant a funeral. How things shift. I eulogized him at his funeral a few years back.
The soft quietness of this season allowed my senses to participate in an intense clarity. Days spent walking after the flock in the snow out among the beautiful red-rock mesa and grey alluvial clay fields gifted me a palette.
The “drabness” of the warmer seasons seems overwhelmed by the activities honoring the sleeping beasts. The land has a new coat. The air is frigid, as my breath is visible. Magic happens in this season. I spend a great deal of time within, exploring the chambers of thoughts and wishes. I have seen a few pictures of the Yule situations, but they did not stay with me. I was too busy helping prepare for feasts and games. Words were few and voices low as the elders rested their voices for all-night songs. It was days of suspended drama ready to happen. I loved being a part of it. Hauling wood, digging out Yucca roots and fashioning them into a ball to hide in the Shoe Game.
My old uncle, Ben Tallman came about on some evenings and sat around telling childhood stories of his. Ben maintained a sheep camp a few miles north of ours. He had stories to grow hair on a young boy’s face.
On the eve of the Sun’s journey back, the elders and families arrived in wagons with their precious to bet with. Outbuildings were erected for the games and storytelling. Our sheep camp rung in gleeful sounds of everything alive.
There is a birthing of a story, a birthing of strength and hope. It was a time to be alive, and still is. Hozho’go’ Ni’ Xhee’ n’dado Xhaa’. (Have the happiest of the New Year.) Ao’.
