Seasons come and seasons pass.  With all the seasons comes opportunity.  Many folks think of seasons in terms of time passing as in growing old.  One of the greatest opportunities to come with seasons is the choosing.  Making a choice is an action I relish.  It is an action that’s taken awhile to discover and learn to appreciate. 

As a young filmmaker, one of my first opportunities to actually make a film came about working with some other Indians as new to the craft as I was.  With our enthusiasm undaunted by our limited experience and skill we persisted and made a film series for television called, The Real People.  These were some of the first films about Indians and made by Indians in the U.S. who actually had “professional” film training. In that series was an episode titled, Season of Grandmothers.  It’s this chosen title that today reminds me as I grow older, how I’ve gained such a tremendous gift because so many people have helped me appreciate how to savor the season where I find myself. 

In today’s age of fast technology, slowing down is becoming more complicated or it appears that way. A tribal elder of mine and I were once speeding north along a stretch of smooth highway heading across the broad plains of Wyoming.  “Where you going so fast?” he asked and then added, “Slow down. We haven’t been here in a long time.  Let’s take a good look.  See how beautiful it is.” 

Slowing down the car and puzzled by his comment I responded, “A long time?  We’ve never been up here before.”  He gazed out over the rolling expanse taking it all in and then replied, “You haven’t been listening.” And he began telling me stories of our people’s travels over these lands that we were now crossing. 

Mile after mile, story after story, his voice bringing alive a picture of me and my people making our way, unhurried because we only had to be exactly where we were in that incredible moment.  It was an epic travelogue! Immense in its antiquity and detailed with place names in our language for particular features of the land like waterways, mountains and valleys. I could begin to see and to understand why my sense of time up to now was so incomplete. 

After a couple hundred miles past, he paused and as he looked away from the long horizon I could feel him stare at me as I drove.  I imagined him smiling as I heard what he said next.  “You see why some of our old people seem to act like they do?  They never want to do anything too quickly.  It can be frustrating because they look like they’re stuck in the past somewhere.  They’re the real Indians. They’ve been here for so long and they remember and don’t forget.” His eyes were on the vision in front of him and he no longer needed to look at me.  He knew he had me as he laughed and said, “Dinosaur blood!  That’s what does it; mixed with whatever other blood they got flowing through them.”

Grandmother’s and Grandfather’s, Season after Season, that’s what I have.  I remember to re-mem-ber and am thankful that these members are all the parts of me.  Yes, I am grateful for all who are past.  Yes, for every person up to the moment who has graced my life with their presence as I see them.

Oh the multitude, the numberless, the many arriving into my life that I might gain this insight that humans are linked inexplicably, intricately designed to share the magnitude of Creation, vast beyond any single person or creature.  A long, long line, I see them, the members, as I remember them, one after another:  Life with no end. 

Photo by Deborah Littlebird, courtesy of Hamaatsa.

One of the gifts listening to stories offers, is learning to savor insights that come only through listening to a story told many times.  Sometimes especially over time, the tellers change and although the story told is relatively the same, a teller’s personal experiences always brings new insights and for the listener: a possibility of renewed interest.  This can then develop over a period not only of time but as it then becomes a process maturing as interest grows. 

It’s always been fascinating for me, when the opportunity to listen to older Native Elders sharing stories has come along because it’s a chance to hear and listen in a way that is impossible to duplicate or re-in-act. 

When I was a young boy, I remember listening to songs being shared among family members: two older men who were in-laws by relationship and several other relations who happened to be present on that particular evening.  At the end of one especially vivid song filled with a lot of Keres language (many songs are simply sounds without distinct words), one of the men asked the one leading the song to describe a word that was used.  It was a rare moment.  Most often no questions are asked and people come to understand things over time.  In this case, the singer repeated the word. The man asking simply nodded yes and with everyone’s focused attention upon the singer, he spoke. “Thay-we-yah-nhi. It’s blessing.  It’s the blessing that comes even without asking. Blessed because that one has been gifted by The One Who Blesses.”  When I heard the words I could see it.  The blessing that comes without asking. The vision of that word phrase stayed with me from that early time and I watch for it even now.     

My sheep camp days, growing up with my Ba-bah and Nun-nah (gramma and grampa), helped me to greatly maintain this kind of watchfulness. Looking back, I now see my grandparents had that attentiveness because someone had helped them.  And in this simple act we all helped one another.  They both enjoyed great humility and this gave them a deep broad sense of humor.  Also, their teasing and joking helped me to become easily accepting and forgiving and hold no grudges. It provided an early confidence in learning to like people.

Grampa, probably because he had more chances to interact with other people, had a direct open way about him when meeting new people.  I witnessed it many times.  Gramma’s way was more quietly accepting and courteous.  Years later when I was attending art school in Santa Fe, I came back to the Rez to visit them at their sheep camp bringing with me one of my art teachers.  What I distinctly remember from that visit was seeing my grampa’s interaction with this adult person who was a stranger to him and also “a white man.” Grampa seldom used English to communicate or maybe I was seldom present when he did.  I found it interesting and intriguing to hear him conversing with my teacher in a relaxed, gentle manner with his sparse use of words foreign to him and yet making himself understood in how he felt.  After that first visit, my teacher enjoyed driving me out to visit on a regular basis and everyone became better acquainted.

Once I was no longer in school and visiting Ba-bah and Nun-nah more and more by myself, driving my own car, I was surprised when one day, my grampa asked me about my teacher.  Speaking to me in our language he asked, “Cum-meh-eht-huu, So-kee-nee, Jim?”  It was a simple inquiry meaning, “And how about my friend, Jim?” However it was the intonation of his voice that alerted me to what the words conveyed.  So-kee-nee means friend in my Keres language.  Nun-nah had used the word with the fuller intention of friend, indicating he was choosing to befriend this individual, Jim.  

In seemingly casual instances like this is where much can be gleaned from what I refer to as tribal orality and the slow story.  Friend, friendship and relation, relationship all refer to and acknowledge a similar meaning in our English language because they are close to being the same.  In the use of So-kee-nee as Grampa spoke it, there is an oral tradition cultural difference. 

Word value could be what this is called.  Often when people speak in whatever language they grow up with, they become conditioned to using certain words or phrases to describe actions that require fuller attention.  In order to be realized a certain disregard takes place.  When this happens people easily slip into becoming unaware of a deeper sense of living being made available.  It appears that as daily living requires a faster pace to maintain, the human sensibility to felt relationship diminishes.  This is my perception in observations I’ve come to be aware of as a tribal person growing up in an American society that moves faster and faster each day.