29 Jul The Little Engine That Could. Maybe.
It’s Friday, July 29th, which means it’s the second-to-last day of Sun Dance at Sa’atoy Reservation. Folks are getting happy–but I’ve got to back it up to Thursday, because yesterday was the make-or-break day.
The second day of the Sun Dance, from my perspective, is Hump Day. It’s the day where my body is telling me how tired I am of being in 100-degree weather with no water. I’m wearing accumulated dirt from two or three days and acne is starting to appear. There is an odor that can’t be washed away with moist towlettes. And I’m not sure I really want to be here. The personality is in the house.
The Little Engine That Could–Maybe
Hump Day is always the hardest because you want to believe you can complete the ceremony, but your body might be telling a different story. It’s not physical exhaustion, it’s an emotional one. You’re deep in your own prayers and also you’re “hearing” and being with the prayers of the other dancers. All your pain and fears meet you in the sweat lodge and at the arbor, and you can hear and feel the cacophony of the group. It’s a lot to waft through you. Everything you want for this universe, for your children, for your people is weighing in your heart. Is the Creator hearing the cries of your soul? Is it all in vain?
The Heyoka (I miss Crazy Bull, RIP) comes into the middle of the arbor while we dance with a can of something to drink and pours it in front of our feet–mocking our thirst. Or he eats watermelon in your face. Maybe he pours a bucket of water over your head. (We all like the relief that brings from the heat, but of course he doesn’t choose you.) You try not to engage him, but he wins every time.
In the arbor, where we rest, men and women are separated. We talk to each other and share a rock to put in our mouths to bring back the feeling of wet. Joking re-emerges to lift our spirits, but even at rest in the arbor between dance rounds, you’re still in prayer. Some of your kin are wearing down, becoming irritable and getting snappy. They are thirsty. Drama is going to happen. You’ve been separated from your friends and family for two-and-a-half days, and you need their support. Human will is no good here. You need to be reminded that you are needed and loved and on the right track.
While others rest, you walk out to the tree, touching it in prayer. You hold back your tears, or maybe you let them flow, and you pray for a cosmic strength that melts you into the surrender that this day calls for. You don’t belong to you anymore. You belong to the ceremony, to this universe, to the Creator, to all people and all life. You’re the little engine that could.
It’s raining up in Gallup. While rain can feel good on a hot day, it makes your legs and feet work much harder. You know you have to let go, and as Californian as it may sound, you have to be one with the rain or you will suffer.
By nightfall, you are so weary that compassion fills in the gaps your ego used to occupy and sleep takes over. This is a good thing, because while you sleep, all the Sun Dance medicine, the celestial wisdom of the star nation and the song of the universe, rewrites the story of who you thought you were and you don’t even know it–yet.
99+3/4 There
Friday comes and you know you’re almost home. Laughter is heard again among the dancers. We start talking about what we’re going to drink or eat when we’re done. We are nearly always admonished for this, but it’s too much fun to share the fantasy. We enter a state of Joy. Our elders, John Funmaker, Pablo Lopez, George Martin and Andrea Lopez, are gentle with us in our fragile state of evolution. They guide us into the second half of the dance. The men are piercing today. The women are making flesh offerings and so are the supporters (thank you).
On this third day we’re pliable, more at peace, and while little fires of drama might be bursting around us for those who have not relinquished themselves, no one pays much attention. It’s all part of the ceremony. You are where you are. You experience what you will. It’s all valid.
Day three glides by … you aren’t doing anything any more. You know who you are because you are the collective.
One Mind. One Voice. One Planet.
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