We Return to Beauty: Reflections on Water, Language, and Translation.

Tó niteel. A body of water that is wide. Tó, as in water, as in droplets suspended from piñon and juniper branches after Female Rain has gone by, as in rivulets pulled down the mesa’s face, and now, “the drip” of the Pacific Northwest woods, the curve of the Salmon River, and the western ocean. Niteel, meaning a wide body, a moving body, a body so vast that one can be filled with that deep, knotted feeling of coming face-to-face with something grand, something potentially fearsome. But there’s beauty there, too. The beauty of witnessing natural power. Not power as in domination, but power that is ancestral. This power humbles the human ego and reminds us how small we actually are. Small yet not insignificant. Never insignificant. There is water in us, too. Before birth, in the time when we are formed inside our mothers, we are gifted her water and her mother’s water and her mother’s, all the way back to the first mothers. We are water. The more we recognize this, the more we see ourselves reflected in the natural order, and we begin to see the Earth as another mother. Nihimá Nahasdzáán, we say, our Earth Mother. Niyázhí danidlį́’, we say, we are your precious children. Áshinee’ nihimá, we say, how we’ve longed for you and how we cherish you now, our mother. Love, grand and wide and humbling and potentially fearsome, despite everything, we love.

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In the darkness, we turned onto a dirt road and ascended a hill through the forest. I had driven through Oregon before and visited once or twice for conferences, but never along the coast and never for an extended period. The headlights illuminated trees covered in green vines and everything looked moist. How would I live in this place for a month? The land I knew was the high desert of the four corners. My thoughts stretched back to Diné Bikéyah, back to my family. Whenever we traveled, shimá would often say, “find the water.” Shimá is a formidable woman, and she speaks with a sincere belief in her words. “Wherever you go on this Earth, find any body of water and talk to it. Make an offering. Say a prayer. Ask to be welcomed.” With shimá’s voice assuaging my doubts, I resolved to find the water in the morning.

We climbed the hill, all the while my host keeping a rather quick pace with me holding on to the door, and I remembered a winter with my older brother in Washington when I was a teenager. How he took us into the mountains to collect cedar and how I thought this place of green and water was another world. Back home, we prayed for rain and rejoiced when the monsoons came—after torrential rains, a stream curved down the mesa and into the valley, waking up frogs from their slumber deep in the high desert; late into the night the water rushed by and the frogs sang for the moisture; in the following days, sunflowers would bloom in thick patches all over the valley, and the desert would reawaken in many colors. In my mind, golden petals and an expansive turquoise sky warmed my heart, and I felt like I could do anything, be anywhere, and still rise and be heard.

We reached the top of the hill, and a large house came into view. “I’m sorry about this,” Duncan said. “This will only take a minute and then we can get you settled in.” As I stepped into the night, the ocean sounded from somewhere in the distance. It was an immense sound that stirred something inside me. Shicheii Rex Lee Jim often speaks about the quality of sound to work on the body. When we hear someone crying, remnants of sadness or loss or grief that we’ve also experienced, that continues to dwell in our hearts or in our minds or maybe even along our ribcage, connects with that person’s deeply felt emotion communicated through sound and we share in that moment. We relate to each other. The swell and rush of ocean that first night reached for memories, for moments of its own making inside me. I was amazed and shaken in a good way. Again, shimá’s teaching surfaced—she often reminds me that certain sounds, moments, places, tastes, and people can sometimes impact a person in a deep, profound way. These things encourage us to stop and to reflect. We might cry, letting the thing we’ve latched on to expand within us until we can’t contain it; we might laugh, rejoicing in that feeling of light and warmth; we might even feel the need to shout and make it known that something significant has just taken shape. We can even offer a prayer or a song for that moment and give thanks for the connection that encouraged us to pause and consider carefully the connection. This is called ná’iiłná.

On that hill, in the darkness with stars breathing overhead, the ocean spoke in an ancestral language that my ancestors, and many others, recognized and felt as ná’iiłná. “Wow,” I said, turning toward Duncan where we paused outside his car. “The ocean.” He smiled and talked a bit about how far the ocean was from where we stood and about the Salmon River that returned to the ocean at a point called Three Rocks. After he rushed inside, I stood in the darkness admiring the ocean and the mist in the air. I breathed in deep and stretched and spread my arms wide to take in the sound, the mist, and the moment. Áhaaláanee’, I breathed. For the rest of my time in that place, what I now consider another part of my home and my heart, the ocean remained a constant companion, and I marveled each time we met.

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It begins in the body. I close my eyes and focus on the movement of air into breath. How the air felt cool on my skin and then through my nose and down past my throat, into the darkness that cradles my ribs, my lungs, my heart, and then back out through my mouth. They say the First World was a red mass covered in darkness, too. Perhaps we emerged from the red heart of our mother and that ancestral darkness, the first darkness, and through her breath we arrived in this Glittering World. Ah yes, the breath. Shicheii Rex has written that the word dził (mountain) has connection to the word dzi’ (breath) and looking toward the Cascade Head or Sea Mountain further down the river, I begin to understand why. The mountain has worn the mist all morning. Like the breath fogging from the mouth on a cool morning, the mist floats in the mountain’s forested canopy. A relative once told me that áhí was the Holy People preparing the Earth for the transition from summer to winter and from winter to spring. Another relative said that in the fog our departed ancestors return to check on us. I like to think that all of this is true. So, I take a deep breath, and I hope this place will know me like Diné Bikéyah knows me, and I ask that the mountain’s stability, even in the tumult of a stormy sea, becomes a part of me. I ask that the fog calm my mind and my spirit. Shisalįį’. It becomes a part of me.

On the rocky shore of the Salmon River, I made an offering to the water, the mountain, and the fog. It was my last few months of being thirty years old and still, I felt as though I knew very little. Shits’íís tahdii ditódí, my spirit was still new and soft and delicate. At a gathering to celebrate my graduation from my doctoral program, shicheii Ben Lee said this about himself in a story from his earlier years, and I’ve thought about this often. In Diné thought, knowledge acquisition, whether through stories or songs or prayers, happens when the person hoping to receive the knowledge is ready for it. The feeling isn’t I have a right to this knowledge because I am human and I have a right to everything, but rather I ask to be ready to receive this knowledge so I can learn to be a human living a healthy life and, in that way, I can also help others. For several years, I was steeped in the language and processes of academia. In the beginning, it was all very exciting and I felt fortunate to be admitted in those spaces, but inside, what I knew from home in Diné Bikéyah and the knowledge presented in classes and the way each university I attended was structured felt disconnected. It was lonely, too.

In my student years, my dreams were replete with what I imagined was happening at home—shimá tending her garden and talking to the plants; my brothers going up the mountain to haul wood for the winter time; shicheii Richard driving in his truck to another ceremony to sing and pray for another person’s healing; my grandparents enjoying their morning coffee together; shicheii reading the newspaper to shimásání; a relative’s horses running through the fields; the way the moon rose over the mesa; the body of yikáísdahí sprawled across the night sky. Even now, on my travels for conferences and writing gigs, I dream of home and carry the stories inside. If I’m lucky and circumstances align, either shimá or my auntie will travel to meet me wherever I am. But mostly, the stories of home keep me company and remind me that I am never alone.

There are many aspects of our lives in this contemporary society that urges us forward and silos our existence. We are trained to rush and rush and rush with little thought or care for the small, quiet moments that can make life more beautiful. Our days are parceled into linear time with the clock ticking down hours and minutes and seconds. In the momentum of linear time, we learn to view our existence through the distorted lens of progress, in which we must always be producing something, working on something, and always advancing. To be still is viewed as lazy or complacent. The trappings of linear time and progress lend themselves to the idea of purpose—how we exist to accomplish something, whether that’s attaining some kind of physical object or setting out to reach some end result. The focus here is still rooted in progression and production. Prior to the colonization of what is now the US empire, local temporalities were varied and intertwined with Indigenous epistemologies of the region that demonstrated other ways of existing and relating to the world. In Diné thought, time can be perceived through several significant movements that exist in the natural order of the world. The cyclical movement of the sun is called shábike’ehgo, or according to the sun’s travel, and the way light shifts through the seasons dictates experiences of time. As the seasons change, so does the light. Shorter days toward fall and winter means more rest and allows for more stories to be shared. Even the animals recognize the dwindling light as a signal to hibernate and restore themselves. Adhering to the movement of the light as a marker of time disrupts linearity and its byproduct of progress to make space for rest and reflection. We align ourselves with the light and in doing so, we experience the world with an intentionality that positions humanity within the natural order and allows us to see the earth as a relative.

To recognize that kinship extends beyond our human-to-human relations is to expand our capacity for care. If we called the Earth shimá (my mother), and we truly believed in that connection, we would take more care to defend her and to love her. Kinship, however, is much more than simply recognizing a connection to the land. It is the accumulation and consistency of our everyday actions as we make decisions that consider our health is tied to the health of the land. Kinship is our deliberate choice to reaffirm our intimate connections by treating our relatives with respect, care, and love. Through kinship, we choose to honor our relations, and we are chosen in return. Once that belonging is established, our existence becomes more than progress and purpose, but about love.

At the place where the Salmon River joins the ocean, near a place called Three Rocks, I expected their reunion to be louder, like a waterfall. Instead, the river quietly streams into the ocean. There is no rushing of water. No roaring declaration. Just their ancestral agreement. As I move toward the end of my prayer and make an offering of corn pollen, I think about all the ways I’ve known water. There are many spiritual names for tó—one describes the way sunlight shines off the water’s surface; another speaks about the power of water to carve the Earth; others extol the water’s depth; yet another mentions the water’s long life. This recognition of the significance of water’s many attributes is just one way that we continuously create relationality and kinship with the water. In Diné culture, we call this k’é. Shimá’s words ring true: wherever we go on this Earth, we sing songs, voice prayers, and call the true names of things. We choose to relate to the place and by so doing, we are chosen in return.

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Díí bee adeehodilzindoo. By these things, you will know yourself. A Diné maxim that stipulates knowing the self is essential for connecting with others. The more we come to know ourselves, the more we recognize our humanity. Only then can we recognize the humanity in others.

 Each time I enter a space, especially a space in which I’ve been invited to share stories, I begin with who I am. Áshįįhí nishłį, I am Salt clan. This is my mother’s clan and her mother’s and her mother’s, going back thousands of years to the first mothers. I’ve been told that Áshįįhí people are an expressive people, often prone to strong emotions like anger, sadness, and joy. Indeed, the Áshįįhí women in my life can be fiery just as they can be joyful. Numerous times I’ve caught myself amidst a rush of emotion and I think about shimá and my aunties and my grandma. If one of my brothers is around, they’ll make a comment like “you sound like mom” or “okay, mom.” This, I think, is a compliment and a sign of affection and even love. To be like my mother and my grandmother is to be resolute in my belief. To be like my mother is to be unwavering in the face of adversity; to rise and meet the challenges with a steady heart and steady mind. To be like my grandmother is to love deeply and genuinely; to welcome my relatives and say, “how are you? How can I care for you? Sit and rest awhile. Tell me stories.” To be like the generations of Áshįįhí people in my lineage is to survive and thrive beyond genocide and the continued colonization of our bodies and our homelands. So, I proudly and fiercely, and with deep gratitude, proclaim áshįįhí nishłį.

Shimá often reminds me that it isn’t enough to simply write about certain concepts or topics from Diné thought, but to actually live it. How can one write about relationality or with relationality in mind if one doesn’t get to know the land? How can one write about the land without getting to know its language and history and how the original people relate to the land there? How can one write about the land without enjoying the warmth of the sun, or the cool touch of the ocean, or the hwoosh of the wind through the treetops? How can one write about environmentalism without truly loving and relating to the land? To believe in the stories I tell is to draw that belief from experience and the relationship I’ve built with the topic/object/place at hand. That belief doesn’t have to come from the immediate moment either. It can be remembered.

During my time in Oregon, I was fortunate to have shimá visit me for several days. Although shimá may not describe herself in this way, she is a gifted storyteller and historian. Driving through our community, she can recount the family history of whoever we pass and the history of certain places. Our drives are filled with stories, which aren’t always chronological because our experiences of time aren’t linear and seldom are we existing in a moment without our minds remembering another moment or another story. Even in Oregon, driving along the coast from Cascade Head up to Astoria and then back down to Portland before returning to the coast again, shimá told stories and she related to the place. Together, laughing and wondering and even growing misty eyed thinking about my grandparents, we came to know the place. Together, we felt the cool waters, walked in the shadows of the tallest trees we’ve ever seen, enjoyed meals in the company of locals and visitors alike, made kin with Duncan and Melany, and shared our voices with the land that gave us breath.

A River Joining the Sea

In the horizon, in that delicate moment

where sun meets ocean, in the yellow

light of their meeting, I speak a prayer.

Clouds sit low, each curve gleams.

Where the blue language of water,

rain, and ocean resides, only Nihotsoi

brushed with pollen and sacred names.

The ocean stirs memories, pulling

from that deep place, where songs

seed and take shape. How it streams

from my throat, a river joining the sea,

I’m stricken by its motion, its spiral.

A blue heron takes flight, disappearing

into that place, where light scatters

and each word spoken, cradled

in abalone shell. I sing a prayer.

My voice is only one voice, only human,

but the ocean knows me, the rise

and roll of songs asking for rain,

asking to be whole, to heal these wounds,

even ones that can’t be seen.

We can be beautiful again.

In the spray, in froth and foam,

Tóyisdzáán answers.

The last of the light dips

beneath the surface, and everything

is blue once again.

I wrote this poem in honor of a magnificent sunset. At the place where the Salmon River rejoins the ocean, where Three Rocks rise from the waves, me and Shimá walked along the beach. As we walked, the light turned a brilliant yellow and everything glowed with this light. The moment was so beautiful. We stood in the evening light and let it soak into our skin. I thought about the songs and prayers that mention this light and how there are various forms of light that offer healing. I thought about how I saw the land in shades of greens and blues, but that moment was swathed in yellow. I thought about a song, so I let it peal from my throat. I thought about voice and how the human voice, also the human breath, intertwines with the natural voice. I thought about all these things, and they moved me.

            It is difficult to translate that experience into words. Even a photograph doesn’t accurately depict the immense feelings of that moment. In Diné thought, there are many teachings about language and translation that stipulates the role of the storyteller. When a baby is born, they are presented to the fire by a relative that is highly esteemed in the eyes of the family. This relative speaks good intentions for the baby. Bá yáti’. The baby is spoken for, not only by relatives, but also by the land itself. The fire recognizes the baby and so does the land witnessing this rite. The hope is that the baby will grow into their voice and in turn, speak for others in a positive way. As a storyteller working with ancestral narratives and more contemporary tellings, a part of my role is to translate in the literal sense, as in the translation of language, and in the perceptual sense, as in translation of experience.

            Although the language I use most is English, I consider my primary language to be Diné bizaad, my ancestral language. Before I was born, during the time I was immersed in my mother’s water, she spoke to me in our language. She spoke her hopes and dreams in a language that has its origin in the previous worlds before rising to greet the dawn in this Glittering World. She first taught me prayer in our language. This carried over to my work in storytelling. My incorporation of Diné bizaad into my writing began as a wish to connect more with my late grandmother. Shimásání was a gentle, compassionate, and nurturing woman. She always wore a matching skirt and blouse with her hair neatly pinned in place. Much of my dearest memories of her stem from her kitchen—her brown hands shaping tortillas in front of her stove, a steaming cup of tea or coffee raised to her lips, how she listened intently as shicheii read and explained the news to her from the newspaper, her designated spot beside shicheii at the kitchen table, her feeding and cleaning us grandkids in an old high chair shicheii made, the crossword puzzles she enjoyed doing, and her preparing glass jars of suntea. She was my first poetry teacher. In the evenings, we walked down the dirt road from our homestead to the main county road for exercise. She would make observations as we went. She had a knack for imitating bird sounds. A lot of her phrases and the way she constructed sentences were poems without trying to be poems. The language of poetry was innate for her.

            In one of my poems, I attempted to translate a moment of sitting with shimásání on her front porch. It was dusk. The distant headlights of cars made their way along the base of the mesa toward the east. Shimásání wondered where everyone was rushing off to that late in the day. Perhaps they were on their way home from work. Perhaps they were feeling lucky, so they were off to the casino. In her later years, as her memory dwindled, she sat on that porch a lot and wondered at the comings and goings of people. That evening, the moon rose above the mesa, and it resembled a bowl. Shimásání held her thumb upside down to the sky and said in Diné bizaad, “when the moon resembles the white of your thumbnail, that means it’s holding moisture. Maybe snow is on the way. If not, maybe rain.” A few days later, it rained and how I thought shimásání knows everything as I enjoyed the sprinkles.

Later, after I drafted a poem in honor of this moment and in honor of shimásání, I read the poem to her. We were seated in her living room. My mom silently observed from the dining table. When I was finished, shimásání sat in the quiet, thinking about the language. “Nizhóní,” she said. Beautiful. She always led with praise. She was quiet again before she asked a follow-up question. She wondered about the line:

chahałheeł

biyi’dę́ę́’

  dah naa’eełgo

      tł’éhonaa’éí

   dah yiitą́go

which I translated into English as:

within

hallowed darkness,

    a crescent moon

floats

Why had I chosen to describe the darkness as a liquid? Shimásání asked the one question, but the observation she was making carried with it a whole series of unspoken questions and concerns. What did it mean for the moon to float inside the darkness as though it were a body of water? What did it mean to assume the moon could only float through the supposed property of the darkness as a liquid? Didn’t the moon have its own agency as an entity that imbued it with the capacity to float on its own terms? What does it mean for the only mentioned property of the darkness to be an element we wouldn’t normally prescribe to darkness? What did it mean to reconstitute a Diné perspective of darkness into something more recognizable for a non-Diné reader/perspective? How is metaphor functioning here? Thinking back on the moment, these are the questions that reside within shimásání’s observation. She was very wise, indeed.

            Translation is a difficult process that carries with it many elements to consider. When I’ve asked about the meaning of certain phrases from songs and prayers, shicheii Richard has instructed me: biyi’dóó níníł’į. To look inside a song or a prayer or a phrase or even a specific word like chahałheeł can be a lengthy process. It could even take years or even a lifetime to reach an understanding. Looking with the eyes is not enough. What is meant by looking is to build a relationship with the word(s). What stories is the word(s) associated with? What songs? What prayers? What other terms is the word(s) paired with? How do you currently understand the word(s) at your present capacity of understanding? Whenever I write a poem and attempt a translation, I do my best to look inside the words at hand. Many times, I fall short of my own expectations, and maybe even the reader’s expectations, but I persist using what I know and by asking questions. What follows is an abbreviated look inside these poetic lines.

In Diné epistemology, chahałheeł (darkness) has different meanings and symbolisms. Instead of a binary, elements in Diné thought are more complimentary, often working in tandem to produce motion or healing. In addition, many elements can have an outer and inner form. A direct translation of chahałheeł would need to consider the folding motion present in the root -heeł. Added to that is the principle of sacredness that positions the darkness as a primordial and protective entity. A darkness that is folding or covering. A sacred darkness that is folding or covering. A sacred darkness that offers protection in its folding or covering. Something like that. Biyi’dę́ę́’ is from within. The speaker recognizes the darkness has a depth and within that body an observation is made. Dah naa’eełgo could be “as it floats.” The feeling in dah is above or not on the Earth’s surface, naa is movement, eeł is the water aspect, and go positions the word as active or ongoing. What is being observed is an object lifted away from the Earth’s surface and moving in a liquid body, as in how a boat might bob on the water’s surface. The “floating” isn’t solely due to the object’s own properties but the object being acted upon by the liquid. Tł’éhonaa’éí is one word for moon. Tł’é is night, ho could be environment or an expanse, naa is movement, and I think éí could suggest being as in “it is” or “that one” or referencing the object. Some Diné folks would also reference this word as moon bearer. The idea here is that the moon is carried through the night by someone. I won’t go into detail here. Those stories are for Diné only. Dah yiitą́go is referencing the active phases of the moon entering what we consider a crescent shape. Again, dah is above or not on the Earth’s surface, I think yii could mean inside of something, tą́ feels like a motion meaning backward or to go back, and go is active or ongoing. What is being described in this word is the fullness of the moon being drawn back into itself to form a crescent. How beautiful and active and curious and meditative our ancestral language. With this in mind, another translation of the lines in Diné bizaad to English could be:

sacred folding darkness offering protection

within its depth, within its body

    as it lifts from the Earth’s surface

        moon-carried-in-the-sky

    as this body recedes into itself

Even this modified translation falls short in many ways. I’ve not yet figured out the feeling or meaning in the chaha in chahałheeł, which also resides in the word for shadow or shade house as chaha’oh. Perhaps I’ll come to know this word more as I step further into old age. Perhaps I’ll understand more after living with this word. After all, the essence of saad (as in word, language, voice, and expression) is są́’ or old age, meaning the function of language is to support longevity so we can step into old age. That’s what shicheii Rex Lee Jim says, and I believe him.

            I wrote the longer poem titled “Dah Yiitą́ Bee Haniih” or “Remembering a Crescent Moon” at the latter end of 2021. Shibízhí Esther Belin asked for some poems for a special issue of Poetry Magazine, which was published in July/August 2022. Since then, I’ve read this poem in many places and for varied audiences. Shimásání passed away in that time, too. On days when I miss shimásání and I wish I could talk with her and share some coffee and stories again, I sit with this poem and I remember.

            Just like stories have the tendency to change over time, so do memories and intentions. I couldn’t tell you why exactly I chose to render the translation how it originally appeared, but I can make some observations from my current mind. First, I am not a poet. Sometimes I arrange words in ways that could be considered poems, and I engage with poems from a Diné perspective utilizing Diné logics, but I am not a poet. The tradition I work within is older than contemporary understandings of poetry, which I think mostly stems from Euro-western traditions that dictate formalistic parameters that I’ve not been formally trained in. Even in experimenting or resisting those parameters, the Euro-western tradition serves as a basis. I consider myself a storyteller because I’ve taken on a responsibility of relearning ancestral stories to inform my work and my life. This is important work that deals with cultural continuity and Diné lifeways. It is central. However, this doesn’t mean that the expectations of what language should be or do within the realm of contemporary poetics doesn’t impede on my work. Often, the little voices that say “it should be this way” or “poetry should be like this” or “concision, concision, concision” interrupt the flow of my work and it can be difficult to stick with Diné thought. Perhaps I bent toward those voices to whittle the English translation down to palatable lines for a non-Diné reader. Perhaps I wanted to only show a basic understanding of the concepts behind the lines in Diné bizaad to safeguard the deeper meaning for my people. I’m not quite sure. Now, writing these thoughts out, I hope these reflections support my fellow Diné storytellers working to understand and to build relationships with our ancestral language.

            The other mechanism at work in this translation is metaphor. According to the Academy of American Poets website: “Metaphor comes from the Greek word metaphora meaning ‘a transfer’ in the sense of carrying over, altering, or changing the essence of one word to a different word.” This involves the likening of two things that aren’t literally the same to create an image or representation. Again, I’m not a poet, so this could be false. Already there is a disconnect here. In unpacking the word “chahałheeł,” we come to understand that this word depicts a sacred darkness that is folding or covering. It is in motion. Chahałheeł also has its own materiality as outlined in stories, songs, and prayers, but I won’t share those here. It has a body and a sentience. In writing an observation that the moon floats within that darkness likens that body to a liquid, which doesn’t quite make sense in a Diné context. I could have described the position of the moon with the word “si’ą,” meaning “it sits” and suggests a solid surface or material upon which it rests, but that would have taken away the suspended feeling and “airiness” of the floating moon. In my mind, the moon was suspended within the darkness, not because the darkness itself has any likeness to water causing the moon to float, but considering the agency and power of the moon to levitate on its own terms. The intention wasn’t to “transfer” nor transform the qualities of the darkness to water, but to create a representation that suited the moon as an entity in motion. Within a Diné context, the logic of metaphor fails here. Within a Diné context, the darkness remains the darkness, and the moon remains the moon. However, I don’t consider this failure to be absolute or defining in anyway, but rather a lesson in language and a spirited reminder of where I was at that point in my comprehension. Only after we’re further along in the journey and we’ve had time to sit with our words, can we begin to truly see.

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It is said that our ancestors were overcome with emotion when they came upon Tsoodził, the southern sacred mountain, the turquoise mountain. As they walked the long-distance home from Hweeldí, the concentration camp where they were held captive for four years at the hands of the US settler state, the mountain rose from the land in the distance and the people rejoiced and called out. With each step their strength grew and grew until they were back within the boundaries of our mountains. Many elders say it was our ancestors belief in the prayers and songs and ceremonies that gave them the strength to persist despite the atrocities of the settler state. I wrote this poem in honor of that belief, which we still hold within us today.

beautiful mountain

dził nizhóní bilatahdí

áhí yiildoh

the peak obscured

in dense whorls

like mountain smoke

dził nizhóní exhales

east, toward the sun’s

turquoise hooghan

east, toward each voice

and song and prayer

the breath an offering

to nihik’éí: you have

my heart, always

a rhythm of pulse

and dził biyiin sounds

along each ridge

muted in the still blue

of dawn, in the voice

of dólii that stirs

the bluing fields

a return to nihodeetłizh

before the strife

dził nizhóní kneels

below yoołgai ts’aa’

how the name dził

cradles the breath

and how we go on

and on and on

into futures

into worlds

but always the mountain

dził nizhóní bilatahdí

áhí yiildoh

Biyi’dóó níníł’į. Looking inside this poem means seeing a majestic mountain shrouded in fog. In my mind, I can see the mountain top covered in pristine snow and its blue face emanating a resolute calm. The mountain does not bend. It doesn’t move. For thousands of years, in many lifetimes, and for many years after we have moved on to wherever it is we go, the mountain remains.

            Mountains have always held a special place in my worldview. During my travels, I orient myself in relation to the nearest mountain or the nearest body of water. I’ve noticed this is the case for many Diné folks. Mountains continue to appear in my work, as well. Central to my writing practice is leaning into the reverberations that continuously make themselves known. To see is to pay attention. To see is to open the self to the mysterious inner workings of this life. During my time at Cascade Head, the mountain was a silent guardian. The mountain by the sea became my guiding beacon. Even now, as I travel and continue to weave my life into being, the mountain by the sea stands tall and resolute in my memory. I can see them now. White Shell Mountain, Turquoise Mountain, Abalone Shell Mountain, Black Jet Mountain, Soft Goods Mountain, Hard Goods Mountain, and the Mountain by the Sea. The first light of each new day touches these mountains. Their peaks shine and the light extends to cover the whole mountain and the whole land. The light grows in me too.

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 Walking along the Salmon River, my footprints become visible in the wet sand. Each step I’ve taken a small indent in the shore. Further down, the steps of birds appear as scratches. Eventually, our paths cross and it is evident that all manner of people seek the shore. Perhaps it is the cool breath of water. It could also be the calm of the current. Whatever the reason, at the shore we congregate. Too soon, the tide spills onto the sand, moving to fill the spaces and it is as though the river’s edge had always been undisturbed. The river moves and I continue on.

            Seeing my footprints reminded me of the sacred footprints in ceremony, in which a mosaic of a corn plant is created with ground corn. With my family, I’ve stepped within this portraiture many times. As we step, we think positive things. As we step, we carry the well wishes of those we love and that have loved us in return. We step with the understanding that our lifelines, a term shicheii Richard uses to describe the path we journey in life, are woven from the hopes and prayers and good intentions of dear ones. This doesn’t necessarily mean that there won’t be struggle or obstructions. After all, mechanisms of harmony and balance that underly core Diné beliefs also holds space for adversities. What matters most is that we don’t make this journey alone. Neither do we make this journey dependent only on human-to-human relationships. In Diné thought, the elements that compose the world are recognized as People such as Niłch’ih Dine’é (Wind People), Nanise’ Dine’é (Plant People), Sǫ’ Dine’é (Star People), etc. Even the way we classify ourselves as Nihookáá Dine’é (Earth Surface People) carries with it the term People instead of the separate category of Human. We are all People.

            The word “human” has its roots in the Latin humanus meaning “of man, human.” This identifier has also been linked to concepts like civilization, in which humans are seen as the pinnacle of “complex” societies and the most advanced. As such, beings that weren’t classified as human weren’t seen as equal. Historically, this has led to stratified racial hierarchies that privileged certain groups above others. At one time, anyone that was considered not white wasn’t recognized as human. The prescription of humanity has a weighted history and continues to divorce our existence from other sentient beings that share this planet. In choosing to align my perspective with ancestral Diné knowledges that recognizes the basis of existence as personhood, I choose to see the world as sentient and living by which my relationship with the places I inhabit changes. I do my best to not limit this relationality to places within Diné Bikéyah (the Navajo homeland) but to recognize that each place I step into deserves the same kind of respect.

Shicheii Rex has spoken about this relationality as an understanding present within the Diné word for land—kéyah. The word literally means ké as in a person’s foot and yah as in the space below. Kéyah doesn’t simply mean land, as in a space to be owned or utilized for something, but rather each space we step into deserves our respect. The idea here is that wherever we go, we have a responsibility to that place and to the people that reside there. Wherever we go, we find the water and make an offering. Wherever we go, we ask to be welcomed, and we do so knowing that we will care for that place and speak up for it and defend it.

Release the Blessing

for the water and the salmon

On the river, gliding along its form

from belly button to mouth, eagles

call to each other, white heads

shrouded in dense green, far off

in the sun’s arc.

Shimá holds her necklace, each earth

offering sprayed with sea, long ways

from Navajo country, she said

water has a feeling, when angered

she spits and foams.

Untie your pollen, release the blessing

in golden flecks, where the water

spirit shines, speak many names

for each blue space, blue words

join gravity pulling west.

Water floods the boat, frothing white

at our feet, oil spreads a rainbow

waxed in chemicals, forever sounds

like an eerie silence, where salmon

refuse petrol and drown.

The river’s blue desire for blue

down mountain slopes, bend river

into ocean, carry our relatives

home, waves sing into each cell

tumbling from one ruin to another.

Watch close the water, always

carry stories in white shell, restory

this life near the shore, release

the blessing into bluing light.

I am a person of the high desert. Although my community is called Tsétah Tó Ák’olí, meaning Water Flowing Among the Rocks, these days water is scarce. In high school, I was fortunate enough to work at my community senior center during the summer break. While I served food, or played cards, or helped with an aerobics exercise, the elders shared stories. Often, they reminisced about summers where the rain was plenty and the valley where we all lived bloomed with wildflowers. How the cheii’s (grandfathers), in their youth, herded sheep and cattle in the remote places on hot days and cooled off in ponds and the lake that was more present in those days. How the másánis (grandmothers) as young women set up their looms in the shade outside and wove alongside mothers and aunties and sisters. They recalled winters where the snow was up to their waists and how their parents would herd the sheep and cattle in front of their wagons to break up the snow. The runoff from the spring melt would replenish the river and the valley would be green. Now, the land is mostly dry, and the Plant People have followed the rain elsewhere.

            At Cascade Head, the moisture was everywhere. In the mornings, I stepped onto the porch with my coffee and enjoyed the drip of the surrounding forest. Nearby, the ocean called come down the hill, desert heart; dip your feet and calm your mind. Most days, I eventually acquiesced and watched the sun set over the Pacific. Other times, the fog rolled in, and I would wrap myself in a blanket and read near the huge living room windows overlooking the pasture leading down to the Salmon River. In its many forms, the moisture was everywhere.

            The poem “Release the Blessing” was written for the river times. Considering a central experience on the Oregon coast is crabbing, it only made sense to get out on the river and fish for Dungeness Crab, or what the locals call “Dungies.” Gliding along the river in a small boat, I helped Duncan search the water for crabs skittering along the rocky bottom. The water is a clear greenish-blue, so spotting a crab is relatively easy. This day, the river was more crowded than I had seen it in my daily walks from the cabin. We went slowly over the river. As I scanned the water, I noticed certain areas were murkier than others. In one spot, oil was spread out in a distorted rainbow that tinted the water’s surface in its sickly colors. Whether the oil came from the boat we rode in or another boat nearby, I’m not quite sure. As a Diné storyteller that does my best to live by the teachings I’ve picked up from relatives and mentors, the irony of the moment was clear. While we fished for our sustenance, all the while offering thanks and positive thoughts, still the river was being polluted. The image of oil in the river stayed with me long after, so I wrote a poem.

            On the beach, shimá enjoyed the warmth of a bonfire with Melanie and friends. I joined the group after my work was done helping to hoist nets from the river’s depth with crabs tangled in its mesh. Around the fire, we shared stories and laughter. The plan was to roast hot dogs for dinner. Later, Duncan approached and proclaimed that he had caught a crab the size of a dinner plate. He held the gigantic crab in his hand with the pincers facing away from him. He showed my mother and me the imprint of a giraffe on the crab’s back and how to tell if the crab was male or female. In the excitement of the moment, I agreed to take a picture with the crab, but when it came down to a hand off, the crab reached around and grabbed my finger in its pincer. I yelped and shook my hand. The crab held on like a bull rider trying to outlast the clock. After the crab fell to the sand stunned, I nursed my cut finger. For weeks after, my finger and my fingernail would bear the mark of the crab. Thinking back on it, perhaps the crab demanded recompense for the river and all that we took from her while offering oil in return. Perhaps the crab didn’t appreciate being treated like a trophy for a picture. I’m not sure. Still, we enjoyed the river, the beach, the company, and we continued to make our offerings and ask that we learn from our mistakes.

**** 

Shimá has always been an avid reader. As a young girl, she would carry a book with her and read whenever she could. To the dismay of my grandmother, who wanted only to impart what she considered womanly knowledge of home and childcare, shimá preferred to spend her time with stories. Those books expanded her world. Even now, wherever we travel as a family, shimá will pick up local newspapers and books about the area. Within the first day of being in a new place, shimá will know more about the goings on and the history than the average visitor and maybe even more than some locals. It was shimá that read the Grand Ronde’s tribal newspaper Smoke Signals and learned of their celebration to honor their plankhouse—achaf-hammi.

Although I thought it was a long shot, I reached out to the contact person listed in the newspaper announcement. His name was Bobby. Later, I would find out that he was the plankhouse steward, on staff at the Chachalu Museum, and a renowned artist, among other pivotal roles within his community. He confirmed that I could attend achaf-hammi’s birthday celebration. The plankhouse is a huge structure that rests atop a hill. In his opening remarks, Bobby noted that the placement of the plankhouse was no coincidence. There had a been a sign to build the plankhouse in that specific location, and the tribe wanted to send a message to the military fort down the road: “You failed, and we’re still here. We’ll always be here.” Like many tribal communities in the occupied territory of what is now the United States, the Grand Ronde had endured violence at the hands of the settler state. There was forced removal, broken treaties, disbandment, and still, the tribal nations banded together and formed the Confederated Tribes of the Grand Ronde. The plankhouse is a testament to their strength, persistence, and their continued hope for the future.

When I drove up to the plankhouse, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. There were lots of vehicles parked all along the hill. It reminded me of a tribal fair. I followed the crowd and made my way up the hill. Since I didn’t know anyone and the newspaper announcement didn’t show Bobby’s picture, I did what I would normally do at any ceremony back in Diné bikéyah—ask a sáanii (matriarch) in charge of the food. Near where I stood at the entrance, a woman was greeting people, handing out refreshments, answering questions, and every now and then, she would glance in my direction. I worked up the courage and approached her. She quickly became a friendly face and would later check in with me as the ceremony lasted late into the night. Her name was Tammy.

After I introduced myself and explained I was there with Bobby’s permission, she pointed him out across the two big fires in the center of the plankhouse. It might have been my imagination, but I felt many curious eyes follow as I made my way across. Bobby shook my hand, and we chatted for a bit. I explained that I was in the area for a writer’s residency and that I wanted to find community while I was there. He explained that it was customary for visitors to share something with everyone in the plankhouse and he asked if I would be comfortable sharing a poem. Instead, I offered a song. In ceremonies back home, there was space held for family members and other guests to share songs that would add further blessings to the rite. He said he would signal me when it was my turn to share. Although I agreed to share, I was still nervous. The plankhouse was much larger than the hogans where our ceremonies were held and there must have been over one hundred people in attendance.

Again, not quite sure what to do, I followed Diné protocol and found a seat closer to the doorway, as is customary for guests at Diné ceremonies. From the circular doorway, there is a small area that remains level with the outside before descending into stairs and seating around two big fires. On either side of where I sat, two older women watched over the activities taking place lower down. Gradually, these sáanii took interest in who I was and started conversation. Soon enough, we laughed, and it felt comfortable asking them about what to expect and the protocol. It was like being at a summer ceremony where large crowds of family and friends gathered. It felt like home.

After a shared meal of salmon, wild rice, stew, and other delicious foods, Bobby and more singers approached the fire and the ceremony began. I won’t share what specifically took place here. Some things are meant only for that moment and this story, isn’t only mine to tell. Late into the night, the people sang and prayed. Late into the night, the people converged energies. Powerful voices that sounded like the sea rose with the embers from the fires. When the ceremony was complete in the early morning hours, we stepped out of the plankhouse and we were greeted by the fog. I wrote a poem in celebration of this experience and the people at Grand Ronde that hold a special place in my story.

We Return to Beauty

In celebration of achaf-hammi

In the plank house, song and prayer whirl

like water, their ancestral power streams

from mouths that know thirst, that longing

for life. Down the West Coast, into the heart

of this country, lineages were severed,

connections lost and worlds unrooted.

We know this terrifying story. Yet our lives

unfurl from ceremony, and each word

passed down or recovered, to meet us here.

Ancestors and holy ones meet us, how they

say my child, my dear one in words older

than this English tongue, murmurings rise

from empty spaces in this cedar house, in canoes,

in our homes, in the brush of waves

on the shore. They’ve never left us.

We step inside ceremony, converge

around the fire, and offer ourselves

to the cycle—the rotation of constellations

circling the north star, the blending of seasons,

and each motion toward old age. Áhaalaanee’

Within this creation story, we rejoice

in the growing light of another day, urging

each other on, hearts racing and romping.

Each day, we live this way, always

song and prayer, always joy,

always our vision for the next generation.

As we leave this sacred place, fog settles

the earth, and we return to beauty.