Aaah, the rites of Spring! Yaa’ Daa’n. This is the time of year when smiling hearts blossom everywhere it seems. I used to see it in the early thunderheads looming high above the parched grounds of the government boarding school compound. There seemed to be newness even in the gray geometry we called home away from our sheep camp homes. Like the towering promise of moisture far above, my spirit would rise out of the pit, because summer break was not too far ahead. In this I saw the promise of the victory of surviving another school year. I looked forward each year to my heart’s guidance towards something greater. In the lengthy lull between sand storms, everything took on a brightness of color and texture that the hard Spring wind provided. The rains in the following moon lightened those palettes further.
The first Rainbow arches across the valley and the highlands between Black Mesa and (Naa’ tsis, aan) Navajo Mountain. My horizons were connected and all was accessible. The sounds of Robins and other migrators gave music to the land—the land of my first memories. It is my prayers into this land that allow me a sense of home anywhere in the world.
Spring is the Eastern direction in our Dineh’ cosmology. The light of White Shell direction. The doorway into the Ho’ ghaan. It is the direction of First Birth.
The looming clouds bring out the songs hibernating in the secrets of winter. Spring break did not yet exist and was not needed because there was already a pause, a turn at the corner. It was in the brilliance of the early light and even in the geometry of my dreamscape—a calming edge to the otherwise cruel B.I.A. experience. My youthful body revealed new and subtle shadows beneath dry brown cheapness. (Daa’n) Spring.
These words I cast, past the barbed hurricane fencing into the young piñon trees in the distance—prayers as a cosmic and spiritual sign of life being lived as Dineh’, even in a brutal institution.
Daa’n
Shi’ T,aa’ Hodi’ yin dine’e’ Ha’yool, K,aal, bi’yaa’ji’
(My Eternal blessings, To the ears of the Holy People,
Onto the edge of Dawn)
Hozho’ Ni’xhii’ na’ xhaii’, Na’ho’ dliid, bi’t,aa de’
(Passage of Winter in Beauty,
From the patterns of the thawing Snow)
N’ch,ii tso’ naa dis’ zin, N’ch,ii Naa’ iish ni’
(I place my prayer, I place my offering)
Ho’zho’ Daa’n na’ haas Dlii’, Na’ ho’ tsoo’
(In Beauty, The colors of her Love returns)
Ni’ hi’ je’, Bii’ n’deez din go’ ii’na’ na’ ne’l dti’ doh’
(With the light and guidance of this color, may I lead life)
Hozho’ K,di’d diil ye’l, Hozho’ Na’haas dzaan bi’ n’diil ye’l
(In beauty I will plant again the seeds,
Into the Earth, I will reach with Love)
Ii’na’ Yaa’ t,eel n’di’ ga’l. Ha’k,aaz n’di’ ga’l
(Our Sheepskin beddings of Life I shake anew,
I shake the cold of Winter away)
Aan’didii’ K,aas ni xhii’ d’tsiis do’ ni xhii’ so’di’zin
(Stretch again my body, my heart, My Prayers)
Ho’zho’ Na’ haas dlii’
(All is Restored in Beauty and Harmony)
Pictures of blossoming beauties in flowers and baby animals appeared on all printed materials, it seemed. The cryptic and recurring image at the time of bunnies and colored eggs covered another story of cruelty.
Being separated from our families deprived us of the gentleness that was supposed to keep us warm. The boarding school experience took on a softer edge as the warmth of April thawed the ice of winter, within and without.
April, T,aa’Ch’ill, as is its given name, is the Moon of the Stirrings within the Earth. Ceremonies and social observations of another season are announced by the first audible thunder. The Spirit of the Northern Wind loosens its grip. The warm song of awakening animals echoes among the canyon walls and across sage flats. At home, the lambing season takes up much time. All my early lambs are Aries and therein lay the problem.
As a child of 11 I knew my songs, my stories and the signs of Earth awakening: Earth’s tattered blanket of ice lifts into mist. Ravens plant their false onions. Ravens taunt. Robins blush and the textured songs of Cicadas emanate from every sage clump.
The aroma of the cliffrose blooming tints the mesa ever so slightly. In the quietness of the shepherd’s solitude, the Earth has a song upon the early breeze. It is a season of her new voice, her new songs. Matters held in apprehension and heaviness when exposed to the Spring Light, seem possible to get past. They have passed like the celebration of the Baby’s First laugh, to offer it strength and gratitude. It was a quiet celebration of survival for us … and a fresh start.
Aaah, the rites of Spring.
