tradition, tradition

We awakened on Christmas Eve morning to a winter wonderland. By noon the snow had completely disappeared, the sun was shining and temps were pushing 50 degrees. This mild December is a bit scary but we're loving it! Ron and I sat out on the second floor deck and ate lunch in the lovely hot sun. In late afternoon I drove to Taos Pueblo for the traditional Christmas Eve event. He couldn't go because of a weak back that is painful when he stands for too long - and there's lots of standing around. But we hadn't gone in recent years and I wanted to connect again with a kind of inexplicable energy that emanates from that place at this time of year.  The event itself, held at dusk, is a mixture of Catholicism, Indian traditions, paganism. After evening vespers at the San Geronimo church there is a night procession around the plaza marked by blazing luminarias (big bonfires). Four strong men hold aloft a pedestal holding a statue of Mary, dressed in her best laces and satins, and men at the front of the procession shoot rifles in the air to celebrate the birth of Jesus. In this way they slowly make their way around the village plaza. What I describe next is out of order but I hope you get the gist of it.

 
The Pueblo buildings (1,000 years old) glowed in the lowering sun. Cedar and pinon smoke drifted fragrantly up from 1,000 year old chimneys. Sacred Taos Mountain was wreathed in a smoke ring cloud with a domed snow peak sticking up out of it - against a clear cobalt blue sky. This Christmas Eve Taos Pueblo tradition allows visitors and they were arriving in droves. Spread out over the village plazas were stacks of pitch wood in varying dramatic heights. Each family builds one that will burn brightly and warm the cold night air. I was told once that there is a friendly competition to achieve the highest and brightest of all luminarias. Surely this one would be the winner.

The plaza is bisected by the Rio Pueblo (the only source of water for the village). Luminarias burn on both sides. Normally photography is not allowed at the Pueblo during dances, feast days and other traditional events, but in the past it was allowed on Christmas Eve. So I strolled along with my smallest Canon. However, in a short time I began to feel uncomfortable about continuing to photograph so I stopped to ask three different residents if it was allowed. Two said yes, one said "sure, if you want to take the chance" and added, "but don't let them see you".  As someone in love with my camera and also respectful of the Taos Pueblo people and their rules, I stowed the camera permanently. And remembered what Tony Reyna - an elder of the village (around 90 years old by now) told me 24 years ago when, as a tourist, I went into his shop to buy film for my camera:  you're a writer, you don't need film - the pictures are in your head. At the very moment I was remembering his words, he walked by leaning on the arm of a younger man. He is still a tall, handsome, imposing figure.

This ritual symbolism and Indian/Hispanic tradition always evokes strong emotion within me. I've never been able to explain why. It isn't just about being far away from my family at this time of year. It's that when the fires are blazing in the night, the rifles shooting, the lace clad statue of the Virgin passing with her simple white canvas canopy blowing in the wind, I get all teary eyed. I'm not religious, I'm not an Indian, I had no connections to the southwest until I first saw it in 1986. Go figure. But it happened again and I arrived home with a red nose and puffy eyes. A glass of Prosecco, a bowl of cioppino and a sympathetic ear fixed me up.

On Christmas afternoon (another mild day) I headed back to the Pueblo for the Matachines dance. Northern New Mexico is the only place in the country where this dance is performed. It's a sort of mysterious amalgam of cultures and religions. I've written articles about it but no one ever tells the same story and, frankly, I have no idea of what it's all about. I think they want it that way. I met up with a couple of friends and  inhaled deeply the sunny cedar smoke from the pueblo chimneys. I feel so lucky to be living here.

how many rising
clouds collapse and fall on
this moonlit mountain
                         Basho