“… aa’de’h, ha ho dil ya, bi’ daa de. Tsin, t’iis, noseel,i’ be’ ya’ bi’ne’ es tsi jinni’. Da’ hoodi dsi, da hodi’ zhoosh go’ da hode’ knii’de’e’ daa’ ho,l dziil’ jinni.”
“… on the cusp of creation, trees, and all that takes root ties down the undulating restlessness of the Mother. stillness with prayers, that is the wisdom and strength of grandparents …”
– Moses T. Yazzie Sr. (1981)
It begins with the wrist, then the elbow, the shoulder and eventually the whole body. These are the movements; the dance of creation to the blank space of the canvas—a ritual to each beginning as new images take form. Some call it a battle with a blank space, others call it negotiations and worshipping. I call it a dance.
Today I take charcoal in hand and contemplate the clean virginal surface of the canvas. I take my stance as a fencer might when facing a mirror. Yes. Today I envision a tree. Not just any tree. The trees that I grew up among. The trees that welcome me home as they line the dirt avenues to my sheep camp each week. The Juniper and the Piñon pine. We are taught at an early age that these are our grandparents and thus treat them as such.
My own grandmother, at the foot of one such tree, placed a pinch of corn pollen at its roots and called her “ Shi’ Masaani’.” My grandmother. Into and through this tree she released her prayer for us all. That was my introduction to our relationship to all that we walk among—a blessing into the roots, onto the trunks and the branches out into the great Mystery. An early morning ritual that stayed with me.
I make my mark on the clean surface of the canvas. Marring it, never to go back. The natural movements of a sacred yearning and good music sets the tempo into that great vision quest, again.
I slash the whiteness with conscious and deliberate movements—a cavalier swashbuckling of sorts. The eroding charcoal stick in hand like a sword in the hands of Errol Flynn. I sail into the highness of that deep ocean where the muses lie. My sails set, mates waiting. The slight unevenness of my wood studio floor that beckons all spheres to roll into one corner mimics the calmness of the sea.
I have been painting various trees in various poses haloed by the late light. As I age into my elder hood and wisdom that denied me too long, I begin to really see my trees beyond botanical facts of science. I try not to mix facts with art. It only confuses me. I see my tree as an anchor, such as the one that gave a trunk to make my cradleboard and whose limbs I climbed out on and read, saw, awoke. The tree that gave me protection and knowledge. I visit that tree often. G,aad, (Juniper), Cha’ol,(Piñon).
As a child, I cared for my family’s herd of sheep and that kept me out among my trees a lot. I sat in its trunk, huddled beneath it and chewed on its gum and ate of its nut and berries. I learned to see each tree differently as one would of people. Each has its own identity in scarring; its configurations and locations. I gave some names of passed elders, though I was not allowed to utter the names out loud. I kept it just inside the threshold of my lips, the strong and sacred names.
Juniper and piñon trees, I sat in their thick canopy and read many classics. I sat and forgot all else. I sat as the goats found an opening in the cornfield fence. Many times and many places I left books wrapped in burlap tied onto its branches. In every direction where the flock may go, I had a library tree. It is embraced and held by the grandparents for all times. I never collected all those books from the Branch Libraries.
There are trees that still bear the scarring of our initials and symbols. My sweet memories of childhood still bundled in the crooks of its branches..
Every ceremony and observance requires boughs from the trees and realignments of our eternal ties. Blessed cornmeal is sprinkled on it, blood is spilled on it, smoke and aroma are taken from it. These dusty green royalties of the Upper Sonoran truly are the barometer of our spiritual and biological health, I was always told.
I approach the white space now crisscrossed with black marks, a gesture of a grandfather. Over the charcoal, I draw in the details in deep purple or opaque red. The image of another of the many grandparents emerge.
Let the great prayer and “Hozho ji’” chant begin. A visual chant of syllables in lines and dots. A dance at the foot of the Sacred Mountain. Sailing into the ancient dry seas of the mind’s eye.
