Now that I have seen 57 winters, I know I have fewer winters to feel. I feel more connected than ever before to that ground that holds my umbilical cord, as well as my childrens’. I can never sever my tether there … and here.
Every week I see my mother’s face, and upon her face, all will read clearly, “I am happy, my son, I am light of grief seeing you here again.” She feeds me. She shuffles on arthritic ankles mixing dough there in her kitchen, the kitchen that rung with her silvery laughter. She speaks of time past when my father lived and we as children filled the valley with voices, ringing in laughter, in songs and mostly the lone call into the valley, calling the sheep dogs.
Stories of long nights of winter games and stories. Now she tells stories of one of my clan aunts going bonkers. Her peers are going, and going; I treasure every moment with her presence in joy and pain. Now it’s mostly body parts going. Mostly joints. I try to feel her pain. I would carry part of it if I could. She makes me her beautiful and innocent child again. The infant carried far into Tsegi Canyon in a cradleboard precariously perched in paternal grasp. My father on a ceremonial healing call as a medicine man of great respect at a youthful age. Riding upon that subconscious faith, being carried into mystery. Forever that faith remains in my heart. Not only upon that passage, but also in the hearts of all who feel comfort of the soil; of our mother.
Every week I point my hood ornament east out to the land that holds that trust for me. Two hours away off of U.S. 160, I have a four-mile dirt driveway. I need that contact that fleshes me raw again. That land that I must deserve and respect. The land’s respect and blessing I must earn. Seeing her beautiful smile melts away the loneliness she knows all too well. I don’t mind even when repeats stories of long ago. I pray for her every morning.
My younger brother Dan lives with her and tries to keep the sheep camp going—trying hard to keep the heart of the land beating. I salute him each week. He is a rough, tough creampuff. He needs a girlfriend who is tough like him. He trains wild ponies and subscribes to the Sun Reader literary periodical; his face reflects unspoken dialogue profound with this land that dances with light. Always.
Each week, I get my respite in gratitude with that journey. One or two nights, I stay close to my origin. I pray there among the solar spikes. It seems that heaven is truly accessible there. It is. Stars overlap in the nocturnal stories. Shooting stars seem to oblige brother coyote’s call. Owl announces its presences calming the vibration of beautiful silence. Like a mother’s goodnight kiss. No Kafka dreams. A child, I heard Dean Martin’s gin-laced and soothing love lullabies as reassuring. Everything is alright. Just tired dreams. As I aged, I embrace every “White Shell Woman” moment. Empowered by maternal presence, always. I am always blessed. (Perhaps that accounts for my beautiful and highly intellectual girlfriend, Frances.)
I am both blessed and cursed by my profound respect, by beauty so unconventional and never superficial.
Such is the night sky I breathe in again, the early calls of Steller’s jays announcing their annoyances and natures own cuckoo, as ironic as it seems.
I go home each week to regenerate. Often I ask myself each morning, “Why am I anywhere else but here.” There, among the thickets of juniper and pinyon, I find serenity, I find my roots, I revisit defeated demons.
Now I see this land as the part of “Na has dzaan , Shi’ma,” My Mother, the Earth. I am at home everywhere on earth, because, I know the very ground that holds my Life link. Now, my mother’s beaming face, etched deep in laughter, reflects the love my mother holds for me always.
