WITHIN THE SILENCE OF CHACO

The sun blazed in the New Mexican summer sky, roasting the reddish and golden brown boulders like lumps of pottery in a kiln. My son and I paused in our ascent up a cliff, wedging ourselves into the shadow to take a breather. Certainly August would be the least-advised time to visit Chaco Canyon, but Alex was with us only a short time between spending the summer with his father in Mexico and returning to college in Colorado. We both wanted to make a pilgrimage to the ancient sacred site of the Puebloan people, and this was the time we had. So we were on a mother-son camping trip, in mid-August, in this low valley on a high desert mesa, under a relentless sun.

The air was so dry, we both needed a break to drink and catch our breath, but in fact I absolutely had to stop at that moment. The effects of some medicinal herbs I had taken were making my legs shake – not from the climbing, but from fear. After all, I had dedicated this trip as a pilgrimage, and the sacred plants I had ingested would naturally oblige in purifying me of my internal blockages.

Pushing myself back from the edge, I steadied my quivering body against the smooth rock face. Primordial stone. Alex dangled his legs off the ledge, gazing at the buttes and tan desert that stretched to the horizon. “It’s so beautiful here – and so quiet!” he exclaimed.

Sipping water, I beheld the arid landscape below and silently took stock of my emotional state. It was not like me to be immobilized by fear; on the other hand, here I was, living in the country leading the charge of the War on Terror, and who broadcast daily color-coded “threat alerts”. While James and I did not cower before the Age of Terrorism, this was nonetheless the media-immersion air we were breathing. Even so, what, in this moment, was I afraid of? Are the stone ruins haunted by Hisatsinom ghosts who might seek revenge for being called Anasazi (Navajo for “ancient enemy”)? Am I afraid I might fall into the dusty arroyo 300 feet below? (No, I simply had to place my steps carefully when I climbed.) On the other side of the canyon, rounded sections of the cuesta crouched like tabby cats defining an uneven horizontal line against a deep blue sky. Far in the distance thunderheads began to build. Do I fear getting caught in a thunderstorm? Why do I react as if I think life is scary?

Drawing slow deep breaths and closing my eyes, I grabbed that question to bring with me into meditation. Perhaps in healing my fears, the panic of the country might be palliated.

The prodigious quiet of Chaco Canyon catapulted me into a deep state of stillness. Nestling myself into the cool cleft in the rock, I felt the Earth embrace me. The more I leaned back, the more She enfolded me. Suddenly panic surged up to my throat and my inner voice cried, Mother, Mother, please give me shelter! I’ve been out there in the warrior world in the struggle, la lucha. It’s scary out there! In my mind’s eye cascaded images of the bombing of Baghdad, Somalian refugees starving to death, and shards of glaciers plunging violently into the warming seas.

Yes, yes, I admitted. I wanted to go with Father. He is such a shining star! We have travelled together, seen many places, accomplished so much, invented, created, destroyed, imagined! But He is relentless!

Yes, but this Solar Father is too strong! He blazes and rages and makes the world a desert! He’s too much, too much!

The Earth Mother now spoke gently to me. Relax, she said. It is OK for you to relax. Just lie back, and I will rock you.

The Earth held me and rocked me, literally, within her rocks. The quivering fears inside me unwound and flattened and then melted away. I felt my balance return.

Fortified by her solid presence, I asked, What should I know before re-entering the Father’s world?

There was silence for a long, uncurling moment, and then I heard her voice: Remember, my child, that Father Sky and I are divine partners. You were made from the love between us. If the Warrior gets too big for you, then the Mother in you must get bigger, to match him, to keep the balance. Amidst all the action of the Father’s world, you never leave the immovable of the Mother’s world. You sustain both within you, and the two of us sustain you in this life.
And please, my child, remember to relax. Life is joy. When you forget that, you deny life. You deny your very essence.

When I opened my eyes, Alex was on a nearby crag peering through the magnifying glass of his Swiss army knife at the grain of the ruddy sandstone. My patient son. His sinewy body and blond-tipped tousled brown hair belied the hours he had spent in the waves, surfing in Mexico. For all his youthful energy, he nonetheless exuded calm, like wild horses standing in a corral even though they could jump the fence if they wanted to. Watching my young man, a river of love arose from my womb, enrapturing my heart, and rippled toward him, enveloping him in an aura of shimmering light . . . the same quality of maternal love that had just encircled me. He had been born of my womb, just as humanity had been born from the womb of the Earth.

He nodded, and we began picking our way up the stone cliff. I placed each step deliberately, without fear. When we reached the crest of the cuesta, a hot puff of wind hit us as it rolled across the expanse of mesa. Below us we could see the string of excavated sites and some rubble mounds still unexplored by archaeologists.

Present-day Hopi clans call Chaco Canyon Yupköyvi, “the place beyond the horizon”, and consider it their ancestral gathering place. Beginning in the 800’s CE, the Chacoan people began laying stones to construct their Great Houses which stood several stories high and contained hundreds of rooms. The wood beams (vigas and latillas) used in construction were from an estimated 200,000 trees carried (without pack animals!) from the Chuska Mountains 45 miles (72 kilometers) away. They also constructed smaller houses, roads, earthworks, and shrines. Pueblo Bonito, the largest Great House, is built in the shape of a half-circle, leading me to wonder where the other half of the circle might lie. It had up to 800 rooms and nearly 30 kivas! Evidence indicates that a lone Ponderosa pine had towered above the central plaza – even in this high desert stood the world tree! An axis mundi in Chaco Canyon? The previous day, when Alex and I were crawling around the site, it became obvious to me what archaeologists themselves had concluded: Yupköyvi was not a population center but a pilgrimage destination. The majority of the rooms lacked windows and fireboxes. In addition, many nonlocal items have been found there: turquoise (from south of Santa Fe but apparently worked into exquisite pieces at Chaco Canyon), copper bells (from western Mexico), and seashells and scarlet macaw feathers (from Yucatán). Given the arid soil conditions of Chaco Canyon (past wetter times notwithstanding), food staples – even corn – had to be imported into the canyon.

The reluctance of researchers to accept that “primitive” people would go to such lengths for ceremonial purposes is understandable. Why situate a city in such a desolate stretch of desert? Why would ancient people walk great distances to visit a rather unremarkable landscape? Where did all the labor come from for the large structures? For me, comparable questions could be asked about the thousands of people that annually erect Black Rock City in the Nevada desert for the Burning Man gathering, or the modern polluted cities that spend billions building infrastructure to attract world athletes for the Olympic Games. These modern pilgrims come for something more than trade or tourism; they follow a basic human need for inner fulfillment.

When I had sat above the presently roofless Great Kiva at Pueblo Bonito, I looked into the round pit with several rows of wall benches carved into the earth, imagining the ceremonies that must have taken place underground. There, completely embedded in the Earth Mother, hundreds of people chanting would have saturated the place with sound . . . or perhaps they sat together engulfed in shared silence. Appreciating the power of ritual as I do, I was awestruck by the spiritual technology of the ancestral Puebloans.

Furthermore, Yupköyvi has revealed many astronomical alignments; structural features and petroglyphs coincide with solar and lunar risings during equinoxes and solstices, and eclipses, planets, stars, and even a supernova are recorded in the rocks. Buildings were strictly placed according to the four directions, and from the air, straight lines can be drawn from certain Chaco constructions to buttes, cairns (rock piles), and shrines, such as the one atop Chimney Rock, 360 miles (580 kilometers) away in Colorado. Clearly the Chacoan people understood sacred geography, and applied it to enhance the ritualistic power of the place.

Among the petroglyphs that Alex and I had observed carved into the canyon walls, the spiral wound most persistently through my imagination. My field guide of Southwestern rock art identified it as a symbol of migration. But it felt like something more . . . The spiral twisted round and round like a whirlpool boring into neighboring realms, the center point that connected the dimensions. From its center of gravity it drew in the pilgrims, and they came from the four directions to this sacred place. Yupköyvi was the axis mundi, the cosmic axis, the world pillar for the ancients of this region, it seemed to me. Here at Chaco Canyon my prayers could easily travel the road between heaven and earth, as could visions and blessings from the gods and goddesses.

These many thoughts turned in my mind as Alex and I hiked above the canyon. We walked silently, battered by a scorching sun and steady drafts of parched air. I had brought an umbrella in case of rain, so he and I took turns shielding ourselves from the sun, but now and again gusts of hot wind collapsed the parasol. Even though my forehead was sweating, it dried before it could soak my hatband. I trudged on, reminded of how hardship is part of pilgrimage. Alex understood this, too, and seemed to relish the challenge.

Native Americans created a culture that flowed in parallel with Nature. Western civilization, on the other hand, built itself up from the mind. I realize that many native peoples disdain Whites making generalized statements about them, and while I recognize the distinctive clans and tribes of the Americas, I find they share more fundamental similarities than differences. A 19th century Englishman and Spaniard are very different, but they both would believe in a God in Heaven and think that time progressed from yesterday to today to tomorrow. Unlike the European, the American Indian would instead conceptualize a Great Spirit present in every creature, plant, rock, breeze, and so forth, and think of time as cyclical rather than linear.

Living in New Mexico, where centuries of tradition had people praying over the land, had more strongly cultivated in me the desire to pray over the land. It was as if the Earth was used to the practice of reciprocity and cooperation – ayni is what Freddy Viracocha had called it in Perú – and I should comply with the local custom. Fine with me. Whereas my scientific mind told me that the sun’s light would automatically increase after the winter solstice, it also made perfect sense to me that we should “chant the sun back” on that date, or beckon it with luminarias (huge bonfires) as the residents of Taos Pueblo did – and still do – at that time of year. In the Western mythos, Creation happened once, a long time ago. In the South and North American Indian mythos, Creation happened, and then it came around again and again, and not only that: we all have a part to play in the ongoing process of creation.

Faced with such a responsibility – to keep Creation happening – Native Americans had to align themselves with the forces of Nature, or else let the consequences of their sense of separation rain down upon themselves and their clan. American Indian author Paula Gunn Allen says in The Sacred Hoop that traditional Indian systems were based on cooperation, harmony, balance, kinship, and respect. “They did not rely on external social institutions such as schools, court, and prisons, kings, or other political rulers, but rather on internal institutions such as spirit-messengers, guides, teachers, or mentors; on tradition, ritual, dream and vision; on personal inclination … and leadership of those who had demonstrated competence with the foregoing characteristics.

“Thus to traditional American Indians, social and personal life is governed by internal rather than external factors, and systems based on spiritual orders rather than material ones are necessarily heavily oriented toward internal governing mechanisms.” [The Sacred Hoop, p. 206]

Because Native American clans and tribes counted on every member to fulfill their personal destiny in harmony with the greater good, they sought to identify the strengths of each child and develop them. Both males and females could apprentice as shamans, according to their talents and sensitivities. I imagined ceremonies in the Great Kiva led by priestesses as well as priests. Indeed the predominant year-round population of Yupköyvi would have been these medicine women and medicine men who aided the spiritual practices of the visitors.

For millennia the Americas have hosted a people whose paradigm was one of balance and interrelatedness. “Mitakuye Owasin” (“All my relations!”) is a Dakota (Sioux) expression that extends kinship to everything, affirming that everything is connected. In Native American culture, the Feminine – and specifically the archetype of the Grandmother – provided the guiding principles for the society. In the Iroquois federal system, the Council of Matrons held executive power. The village, tribal, and confederate councils, in addition to the men’s and women’s councils, could make decisions as long as they were in alignment with those of the Council of Matrons. The Iroquois (Haudenosaunee) formed a confederacy in eastern North America consisting of the Mohawk, Onondaga, Oneida, Cayuga, Seneca, and Tuscarora tribes. English colonists took their inspiration from the Iroquois League when formulating the American federal government; unfortunately they skipped over the role of women and crones in the system. How different would the United States be if the Grandmother Council had the last word in policy-making?

Apparently around 1600 CE, when the warriors had gotten the upper hand, the women of the tribe repudiated lovemaking and childbearing, proclaiming they would produce no more potential warriors (i.e. children) until the decision to go to war rested with the mothers. A sex boycott! Aristophanes explored the concept in his comedy Lysistrata. Unlike the fictitious Greek play, however, the Iroquois women won in reality. The power to declare war, name chiefs, and determine use of the land was then firmly anchored in the Council of Matrons, according to the Iroquois Constitution (also called the White Roots of Peace). Peace did prevail, and Indian anthropologist D’Arcy McNickle states that 70% of American tribes were pacifist. [The Sacred Hoop, p. 266]. The tribes he cites based themselves on “feminine” values. In point of fact, paltry evidence of warfare or violence has been found in Chaco Canyon. [In Search of Chaco, p. 128]

Centuries of the White Man’s religion and colonialism have undermined tribal women’s status to the point that many Native American tribes are now predominantly patriarchal in nature. Such a philosophical conquest would have been deemed necessary by European invaders offended by “feminine-valued” Indian customs, such as honoring many gods (instead of monotheism), sharing land (instead of owning private property), universal social responsibility (instead of class privilege), respect for the Earth (instead of exploitation), and the politically powerful Grandmother Councils. Especially repugnant was the free and easy sexuality of the American “savages”. A wide diversity of sexual expression was accepted, to the extent that gays and lesbians (“Two-Spirits”) were honored and likely to become spiritual leaders (shamans/winkte/lhamana), effeminate men played the roles of women, and dykes (for example, women who excelled at the bow and arrow) could become warriors. With the Conquest, Allen asserts, “Virtually all customary sexual customs among the tribes were changed – including marital, premarital, homosexual, and ritual sexual practices, along with childhood and adult indulgence in open sexuality, common in many tribes.

“Colonization means the loss not only of language and the power of self-government but also of ritual status of all women and those males labeled “deviant” by the white Christian colonizers.”

Women were not allowed in the kivas at Taos Pueblo, and I wondered if women had always been excluded from that aspect of ceremonial life there or if this was a patriarchal overlay.

Paula Gunn Allen, speaking for Native American feminists, writes: “So we acknowledge that the violation of the Mothers’ and Grandmothers’ laws of kinship, respect, balance, and harmony brings about social, planetary, and personal illness and that healing is a matter of restoring the balance within ourselves and our communities. To this restoration of balance, of health, and wellness (wealth) we contribute our energies. For we are engaged in the work of reclaiming our minds, our gods, and our traditions. The sacred hoop cannot be restored unless and until its sacred center is recognized.”

Venus and her Lover's spotlight on the Goddess’ image and its message of balance were sinking their roots into American soil. Despite the dominator empire running amuck in the United States, the partnership culture of the first Americans inspirited our vision.

Through stony terrain the colors of terra-cotta and amber and buckskin and ashes, Alex and I ascended the geological record until we reached the mesa top and trekked through low scrub brush and cactus. Our destination was an excavated site that had a kiva. Out of respect for the prohibitions of the native peoples and the National Park Service, I would not presume to enter the thousand-year-old ceremonial grounds of the principal Great Houses, but here in the backcountry of Chaco Canyon, it was from the land that I would request permission. So finally Alex and I stood at the entrance of the site, asking the spirits of the place if we could enter. As I felt a yielding in the space, I stepped down into the kiva. This excavated kiva had long ago lost its roof, so we stood under the arching blue sky.

There were niches in the kiva walls, and one became the place to set an altar. Setting down my backpack to pull out my mesa cloths, I laid out our offerings: local corn meal and tobacco, coca leaves and water from the ruins of Sacsayhuamán in Perú, sand from the beach at the sacred palm grove in Puerto Rico, and seeds from Hawai’i. I lit a bundle of sage, blowing on the fragrant smudge stick until it billowed smoke. Alex and I stood facing each other.

“I brought this condor feather from Perú,” I said, showing him the rounded black feather wrapped in beaded woven cords dangling a chacana cross pendant, crystal, and small speckled piece of granite from Machu Picchu. “From the Land of the Condor to the Land of the Eagle, may the balance be restored.”

Then I fanned the sage smoke up, down, and around Alex’s tall body, saying, “With this smoke may your mind, heart, and actions be purified. We come to this place with clean intentions.” Then Alex did the same for me.

Next we called in the powers of the directions. “Let’s see, where’s north?” I wondered aloud.

Ramses laughed. “Mom, here’s one place you can’t go wrong. Just line yourself up with the square walls over there.”

Of course. As I peeked over the circular stone walls of the kiva, the four directions were clearly discernible. Standing in the center next to Alex, I began. “We humbly call in the Powers of the East, the yellow dawn, inspiration for our learning, fresh ideas. Thank you, Eagle Spirit, for showing us how to see far, how to understand. East Wind, please cleanse our consciousness.” My son and I tossed cornmeal and tobacco into the wind.

Turning sunwise, I proclaimed, “Welcome, Powers of the South, trust and innocence. Grant us your protection. Stoke the fire in our bellies, the passion for our work, and the sacred sexuality message of Venus and her Lover. We honor the tropics for being home to us. Thank you, Spirits of the South.” Sprinkling our offerings, we turned to the western horizon.

“We invoke the Powers of the West, the fluid, blue sea that receives the sun at the end of the day. We thank our friends the dolphins for all they have taught us. We also honor the bear who knows how to withdraw in winter to nurture new life and new ideas. Teach us to go with the flow, Spirits of the West.” Our cornmeal and tobacco took flight on a current of air, and we stepped to face the north.

      “We call in the Powers of the North, the green Earth we both love, the dark of night where we can cultivate wisdom. We honor the buffalo who once roamed this land freely, and the people of this land who kept right relationship with the White Buffalo Woman. We ask for support for our missions and thank you for the abundance we have enjoyed so far. Thank you, Powers of the North.”

      After flinging our offerings to the north, we called in the Great Above, the Great Below, finally ending at the center. Then we separated. Alex would do his devotions; I needed to focus on my own.

Circumambulating the interior of the kiva, my spiral path led me to the center where I sat down and crossed my legs. In recognition of the ancestral Pueblo people and of our home here in the Southwest, I poured the water on the sandy ground, and placed the coca leaves and sacred palm grove sand, mentally connecting these holy places I had known. No sooner had I closed my eyes than a forceful energy leapt from the Earth, up through my yoni, and all the way to my skull. My head filled with a high pitched sound. Not unpleasant at all, it was like two flutes of different tones trilling a soprano song of the Earth. In reality the song was familiar to me, because when sun’s first light had cleared the cliff walls of Chaco Canyon and shone into my eyes this morning, I was awakened to this penetrating resonance. Just now someone had turned the volume way up. Already familiar with the Taos Hum, I thought: this must be the tone of Chaco. It was all the more strange because outwardly my ears were hearing an overwhelming silence. Outside of me I could tell was absolute noiselessness.

Right after that, the wind stopped. It no longer fluttered the brim of my hat nor brushed against the hairs of my arms. Eyes still closed, I sat suspended in a realm of quiet tranquility. No thoughts, no time, no mind. For how long, I do not know.

At some point I found myself taking a deep breath and realizing that a breeze was caressing my face. Reluctant to open my eyes, I rested in the arms of Yupköyvi as the spirit of the place infused my body with its energy, and on some unconscious level, its knowledge. At long last, I bowed in gratitude and stood up. White puffy clouds were sailing grandly over the khaki-colored mesa. The soaring blue of the sky crowned the Earth. Alex stood by our altar, and I joined him there.

Standing face to face, I said, “Alex, I want to thank you for coming to me in this life, for being my son, for gladdening my soul the way you do. Thank you for choosing to serve the Earth. We are support for one another in that way. I love you and appreciate who you are more than words can express.”

With his steady brown eyes gazing into mine, he said, “I feel the same way about you, and I’m so glad you’re my mom.”

Tears began to moisten my eyes as a riot of emotions collided in my heart. Alex was brimming with the idealism of youth, undaunted by the enormity of the planetary crisis that his generation faced. He keenly followed the latest in environmental news, challenging himself to think outside the box for solutions. At his age I had been idealistic, too, but humanity had more time then . . . and look where we had gotten . . . Would he be able to fulfill his dreams? Would he be able to make a home, have a family, live safely . . . survive at all?

Alex spoke. “You know I feel I have an important mission. I want to integrate a consciousness of sustainability into our culture, and that includes social justice and peace as much as environmental protection. I want you to know that what you and JB have done with Venus and her Lover is just as important a mission, I think; it’s just another aspect of sustainability. They all add up to a whole.

Growing up in our family taught me to believe in my dreams. Thanks for that, Mom.”

Tears filled my eyes. How I will miss him when he’s away! He pulled me into a hug, and I rested my head against his beating heart. How did my little boy grow into such a tall man, and wise beyond his years?

The ancient stones who had witnessed the long history of Chaco Canyon now received the enfolded love of mother and son, both declared servants of our Great Mother Gaia. With that soulful embrace we concluded our ceremony, and then walked in search of shade to eat our picnic, since we were both hungry.

As we hiked away from the kiva, Alex said to me, “Did you notice when the wind stopped? That was so weird – it just stopped.”

Glaring at him for this confirmation of my experience, I answered, “Yes, I noticed! What an energy this place has!”

Myth and ritual are portals for us into the Great Mystery, which is where we reside and of which we are made. Joseph Campbell recognized religion as identification with the Divine, which would naturally open up into the Infinite. If instead a mythological character that represents the All (such as Yahweh) defined himself to the point of being finite, Campbell warned that consequently you have “mythology as petrafact, something dead and not working”, and you end up with a “religion of worship”. [Mythos, The Spirit Land, videocassette] For Campbell, the personal experience of mystical transcendence was key for a living mythos. My encounter with ultimate silence and timelessness in Chaco Canyon was venturing a toe into the ever-flowing waters of the Great Mystery, which could have passed me by had I entered with an agenda or dogma. As Roger Weir says about mythic action, “You don’t miss because you don’t aim.”

Frank Waters, a novelist of the early 20th-century Taos art colony, wrote, “We have yet to fully realize that the physical and psychical realms are two aspects of one transcendental unity.” [Cuchama and Sacred Mountains, p. xxvi] Native American culture understands that dance, drumming, vision quest, and other ceremonial actions encourage direct experience with Nature and the supernatural. To the mechanistic, reductionist mind, somehow humanity exists outside of Nature and certainly has nothing to do with the supernatural. The ancestral Puebloan people did not agree. So important was it to them that they constructed an elaborate city at Yupköyvi, where people could come to heal, to integrate with their community, to receive visions, to meet themselves multidimensionally, and to have first-hand experience with an infinite Universe of power.

“Myth and ritual are wings of the bird of spirit . . .” says Paula Gunn Allen in Grandmothers of the Light. As we integrate the holistic vision of Native American spirituality, as we understand that we are all relatives – humans, animals, plants, rocks, water, and many more – then we as Earth citizens may soar on the wings of spirit, and take our place as members of (to mock an Indian stereotype . . .) one heap big Universe.