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| clifftop Walpi, built around 1300 |
Faron Sulu, Namingha is his Hopi name (which means Little Corn), is of Tewa descent living at First Mesa on Hopi lands. He enjoys sharing his reflections on Hopi and life.
Listen
There is the distant drum
Echoing along the mesa edge.
The dancer will be coming.
The life of the Hopi;
with their prayer and their songs.
Along comes "Namingha."
A part of way that Hopi is.
In the kiva the dancers line,
their heart beat-beating
in time with the drums.
"Namingha" comes with songs.
No question - no answers.
Only my rhythm that plays
along with the darkness and the "stars" in the night.
Tomorrow still holds another day
that only time and God can unfold.
Cliffs
Across I stand and see
Faces of mesa cliffs
Each face has their own song
They sing in turn
Loloma* they sing
Qua-qua* they sing
All is one.
*loloma means good
*qua-qua is male way of saying thank you
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| buffalo dancer pencil drawing |
Horizon
Run my daughter
Run my son
Go and run across the vastness of Mother Earth
run beneath the vastness of Mother Earth
Go and bless Her and Him
For another new day
Be one with you
Be one with Yours
Old One
At dawn he makes way down mesa cliffs
At dusk he makes way up mesa step
Morning take him to his destination
We children frolic along mesa tops
Evening brings him up mesa steps
Loloma he sings
Qua-Qua he sings
It's good to be alive
Us
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| pencil drawing of Hummingbird Katsina on top of a kiva |
Not flesh of my flesh
Nor bone of my bone
But still miracuously my own
Never forget for a single minute
You didn't grow under my heart
But in it.
Essay:
Fall View from First Mesa
By Sandra Cosentino
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| San Francisco Peaks 80 miles distant from Hopi. |
Dust devil, swirling track of wind, ripples the calm surface of this sandy xeriscape with its tan color dotted with scattered green splotches of the small, scraggly shrubs and widely spaced junipers. A harsh landscape--most people would observe--with no flowing water, yet a promised land to the devout Hopis still growing corn here in the sand after more than 1,000 years.
Cloud shadows sporadically dot the land--cumulus stair steps of precious moisture hang scattered over the Hopi buttes and mesas. Birthed from the distant sacred peaks now covered with a moist umbrella breathing out white clouds that seem to wing out from the center.
A flat-topped line of mesas rise above the desert plain etched with sheer cliff edges. Wind, cooled now by fall, presses against my skin, carrying bits of sand, cools the hot glare of sun on rocky cliff. Soaring ravens are a constant companion of these mesa tops; they startle you as pop up over the edge seemingly out of nowhere. Wind-riding masters and master tricksters, ravens love letting us humans know they are observing us (or is it mocking us?).
I look out toward old Walpi sitting on a sheer edged peninsula of white sandstone across its narrow neck of a land bridge and feel a quiet so deep. Mud plastered buildings rise up and seem to be formed from the cliff itself. They speak of a long ago time. I too feel an inner quiet that seems to connect me to a sense of a life way that allows its inhabitants time to be in the flow of each moment. So unlike our disjointed modern world life way with our body in one place, our mind cranking forward, nerves on alert waiting to breath. No time.
But today for me is timeless, yet another gift of being here in this land of the Hopi.
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| Hopi heirloom corn, dry-farmed. Photo by Sandra Cosentino. |
Written Feb. 22, 2006 based on notes from previous fall I made while quietly sitting alone deeply observing and just being. As I sat there, Faron came by and gifted me with his poems to share with you. Asquali (female way to say thank you.)
