Tuesday, December 27, 2022

TIA ROSA"S CANDLE: A STORY OF LOVE AND LIGHT IN THE BUSTLE OF CHRISTMAS

    
"SO MUCH LIGHT FROM JUST ONE LITTLE CANDLE."


                                                         

                  TIA ROSA'S CANDLE: A Christmas Miracle

                                            By Phaedra Greenwood 


The power had been out all night and the white breath of winter had

 frosted all the windows with delicate scrolls and swirls. Leandra

 hurried into her jeans and T-shirt. She had to catch her parents

before they left the house.

        “Good morning, Dad,” she said as she slipped into her chair at

 the kitchen table. Her black-eyed handsome father ruffled her hair.

     “Morning, hita. Better fill up on my pancakes.” He flipped a

 couple onto her plate.

        Her mother plunked the syrup down in front of her father. 

“What happened to the headlight on your truck?”

        He sat down and dug into his stack of pancakes. “I hit a

 Christmas tree.”

        “What! And you didn't bring it home?”

        “I wasn't quick enough. When traffic stopped at the blinking

 light this tree rolled out of the bed of someone's truck right into

 my bumper. Some guy pulled over behind me, tossed the tree in his

 trunk and tore off.”

        “That's the Christmas spirit or you,” her mother said.

        Leandra wiped her mouth. “Dad, can you take me to San

 Cristobal today? I need to deliver a present to Tia Rosa.” She had

 made a rainbow-colored candle in school.

        Her dad frowned. “Why do you call her tia? She's not your 

aunt.”

        “Everyone calls her that. When I was in grade school she came 

to all our classes and told stories. She's out of firewood. Could we

 take her some?”

        Her mom and dad exchanged a look.

        Her mom shook her head. “We don't know her. She's not from

 here. Why should we help her?”

        “Mom! She's 82 years old. She's all alone. And it's Christmas.”

        Her dad said, “I was going for another load of wood before the

 next storm blocks the road. But now I have to drive into town and

 get that headlight fixed.”

        Leandra looked up at her elegant mother who was wearing her

leather coat and a sparkling Christmas pin on her lapel. Her mother

held up both hands. “I have too many errands, and I have to deliver

presents, too.”

        Leandra ran outside to her brother who was scraping the frost

 from the windshield of his black Trans Am. “Gilbert, will you take

 me to San Cristobal today?”

        “Me? Tonight is Christmas Eve. I've got some heavy shopping

 to do at Wal-Mart. Feed the pony, will you? I gotta run.”

        “I will if you let me ride him.”

        “He's too wild for you, pipsqueak. Maybe next year when you're

 15.”

        Gilbert's car disappeared down the driveway in a cloud of

 exhaust before Leandra could launch a snowball at him.

                                                    * * *         

    Late afternoon, and still no one had come home. The cookies

were all baked, the presents wrapped and set under the tree. For two

 hours Leandra had been watching a pile of navy blue clouds roll in

 from the west. The temperature was dropping fast and the radio was

 predicting 10 inches of snow. She thought of Tia Rosa as she had

 last seen her, wrapped in her red wool shawl, her face pale, huddled

 in an armchair beside the cold stove. She had been sick for several

 days. When Leandra tried to call her the phone rang into the silence.

        The girl pulled on her warm down jacket, wool mittens and a

 furry hat and went out to pace up and down on the porch. “Tia Rosa

 will think I've forgotten her. Gotta get going. Gotta go.”

        Gilbert's pony whinnied and trotted up to the gate. She could see

herself riding five miles over the mesa through the National Forest to

 San Cristobal. “Okay for you, Buddy,” she called. “Tonight

 you're going to earn your oats.”

         She stowed Tia Rosa's candle and some homemade biscochitos

 in her backpack, snagged a packet of matches—just in case—and

 left a note for her parents. She lured Buddy with a can of oats and

 got the bridle on him, but he wouldn't hold still for the saddle. She

 eased the reins over his neck, climbed up on the fence and slipped 

 on his back.

        Her heart skipped faster as he danced sideways and tossed his

 head, then broke into a trot. He cantered twice around the corral and

 halted as she pulled in the reins.

        “Gilbert will kill me,” she muttered as she patted the pony's

 neck and unlatched the gate. “But what if Tia Rosa is feeling

 worse? What if she's …?

        She swallowed hard and shook off the thought as she followed

 the old wagon road up the hill. The setting sun rimmed the lavender

 mountains with fire. When she looked back from the top of the mesa

 she could see the solid outline of the adobe church, Our Lady of the 

Sorrows, down in the village, the tin roof white with snow and a row

of farolitos along the outside wall already glowing with candles. 

Inside they would be decorating the altar with red poinsettias, getting

 ready for midnight Mass.

        From the top of the mesa, she thought she heard the bells of San

 Geronimo Church at Taos Pueblo. She paused for a moment to

 watch black plumes of smoke from the Christmas Eve bonfires

 rolling toward the sky. Soon the men would carry the Virgin on her

 platform around the Pueblo, in her shining white dress under the 

billowing canopy. Leandra could almost hear the insistent beat of the

 drums, the sharp gunshots, and smell the pungent piñon smoke.

 

        Half an hour later the snow began to fall with a hissing spit;

 little balls of corn snow danced off her sleeves. The wind picked up;

 her teeth chattered and the knot in her stomach grew into a large,

 black fist as darkness closed around her. No lights were visible 

anywhere; even the mountains seemed to have been swallowed by

 the storm.

     This is dumb, she thought. I should turn back. I could be riding in

 circles.

        A long shadow crossed the snow ahead of her. The hair on the

 back of her neck rose. Coyote? She had often heard their wild

 howling in the hills at dawn. Her dad said they could bring down a

 wounded deer. But they'd never attack a human? Would they?

        Buddy's ears twitched; he stopped short. “What is it?” she

 whispered, straining to see through the inky darkness. The pony

 nickered, backed with nervous steps and pawed the snow. She

gripped him with her knees and clung to his mane. If she lost her seat

now she'd be lost for sure.

        From some uncertain place beyond the trees came a loud, 

tortured scream. Buddy leapt into the air as if he had been shot.

 Leandra flew off and landed in the snow. “Buddy! Come back!

 Come back!” she called as he disappeared into the shadows.

        She sat still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. She knew that

 weird scream, though she'd never heard it before. Her dad had

 described it to her—a cry higher and longer and more shrill than any

 coyote—the scream of a mountain lion.

        Madre de Dios,” she whispered. Her heart was beating so loud

 she clutched her fists to her chest, imagining a flying fury of teeth

 and claws knocking her flat. The wind blasted her left cheek. A

 violent shiver ran through her. What could save her? Her fingers

 brushed the strap of her pack. Tia Rosa's candle! She tugged off her

 mittens, opened her pack. She seized the candle, tore off the

 wrapping paper and plunked it upright in the snow.

        With shaking hands she struck her flimsy matches one after

 another. And watched them fizzle. Only one left. She thought of her

 mom and dad, worried, waiting. Maybe even looking for her. She

 thought of Tia Rosa. Hot tears streaked her face. Would they find 

her on Christmas Day, a dark lump among the trees, drifted over with

 snow?

        “Dear Lord, help me!” she prayed. “Help!”

        The wind died to a strange stillness. With trembling  fingers she

 scratched the last match. A spurt of orange flame. She  touched it to

 the wick. It caught, snapped and flared, then and settled to a steady

 glow.

          She drew a long breath and let it out. “Thanks,” she said softly.

“Thank you.”

        She stood up, holding the candle above her. The glow seemed to

 expand with an overwhelming radiance that dispelled all the

 shadows as far as she could see. How could so much light come

 from one little candle? Dumb with wonderment, she followed

 Buddy's deep tracks. Behind a big cedar tree he stood waiting with a

 drooping head and apologetic look. She caught his reins and led him

 toward a pinpoint of yellow light that shone from a distant hillside in

 San Cristobal.


                                                * * *


        As she swung open the door, Tia Rosa's face lit up in a beautiful

 smile. “Thank God you're safe! I saw your light 10 minutes ago. I

 knew it was you.”

        Leandra handed her the glowing candle. “Merry Christmas, Tia

 Rosa.”

        The old woman wrapped one fleshy arm around Leandra and

 kissed her cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. For the brave journey. For

 being part of my life. Come in. I made hot chocolate. Your mom is

 on her way over to get you. Buddy can stay overnight in the shed.”


        Cuddling her mug of hot chocolate, Leandra snuggled into the

 sagging couch beside the old woman. “It was a miracle,” she said. 

As Leandra told her story Tia Rosa's blue eyes sparkled, the cat

purred in Leandra's lap and the chairs and table leaned in close to

 hear every word.

        When she had finished, Leandra blinked and sat up straight. She

 pointed to the snapping fire in the wood stove. “Tia, I thought you

 were out of wood.”

        The old woman got up to shove another piñon log in the 

dancing flames, then sank back on the couch. “I had a miracle, too. A

 man stopped by with such a heavy load of wood, he said he was 

afraid it would break the axle of his truck. He asked if he could leave

 half of it with me. He told me to use as much as I needed. While he 

stacked the wood, he told me a funny story about how he ran into a

Christmas tree.”

        Leandra squeezed Tia Rosa's wrinkled hand. “That was my

 dad.”

        Tia Rosa laughed with delight. “When your mother called to see

 if you were here, she invited me to join your wonderful family for

 Christmas dinner.”

        “Perfect! Mom is a great cook. I want you to meet my family.

 Tell them a Christmas story.”

        “I know just the one,” Tia Rosa said.

        Leandra sighed and wriggled her toes. In the golden glow of the

 candle, everything from the old three-legged wood stove to the

 steaming cups in their hands seemed transfigured with beauty and

 grace. 

        Tia Rosa stroked back a glossy strand of Leandra's hair. “So

 much light,” she said, “from just one little candle.”

 

                                                        +

Monday, October 19, 2020

HYDROGLYPHICS: Water in Motion




                        HYDROGLYPHICS:

            REFLECTIONS ON THE SACRED






Is all water sacred? Here in Taos, New Mexico where we maintain a 400-year-old system of acequias to water our crops and replenish our aquifers, many people consider water sacred: Taos Pueblo and our Hispano population, many of whom says, "No agua, no vida," (No water, no life.) And "La vida es sagrada," (Life is sacred).

In times of crisis we try to pull together, to honor the sacred, to care for the land, the animals, and all living creatures. Now, in the midst of a global pandemic, deep into megadrought, with the wildlands on fire and smoke smothering our valley, we pray for rain. We send up prayers for all people to come together and help one another, to honor life. 

Shawn Nevins and I published Hydroglyphics: Reflections on the Sacred, a book of his poetry and my photos, in 2019. Shawn lives in the Bay Area and I live in Taos, New Mexico. I had planned to have a book reading and signing for us both in Taos in June, but then Covid 19 struck and we were in lockdown. So our mutual artistic effort was never celebrated. This pandemic may not be over soon, so I plan to invite Shawn to join me in an online reading sponsored by SOMOS (Society of the Muse of the Southwest) where we can share our efforts with the public.

I will post the date as soon as we have it set. 

Hope to see you there!

Meanwhile, you can preview our book in my video.


 

 



Water is Life: HYDROGLYPHICS: GEOMETRIC PATTERNS IN SACRED WATER

Water is Life: HYDROGLYPHICS: GEOMETRIC PATTERNS IN SACRED WATER

Friday, February 9, 2018

REAL RAIN



REMINISCING ABOUT “REAL RAIN”



The “Remarkable” Water Outlook for 2018 – from The Taos News

According to the Natural Resources Conservation Service, there is “little chance of recovering snowpack for the coming year.” As of Feb. 1, snowpack stands at eighteen percent of normal. At this time last year, the snowpack stood at 158 percent of normal. Historically, large wildfires tend to occur in drought years that follow several wet seasons.



I remember real rain. Not the western “monsoon” you can see rolling in from a hundred miles away that gives you time to grab your laundry off the line. Not the huge gusts of wind that sway the young cottonwood trees, drum rolls of thunder and explosions of light that jolt your racing heart. A wild laugh and you're scrambling for shelter. A violent downpour with bouncing hail. A flash flood in the river. Then clearing. The sweet pungent smell of wet sage. Fifteen minutes and it's gone. Storms you can drive out of on the way to town. A regular blessing. Amen.

Connecticut rain precipitates, a cold mist on your cheek, then a grey drizzle from a laden sky. A methodical rain that soaks every pore in the thick, black earth, down through the roots and drives the earthworms out. A melancholy rain that patters on the shingles like a lullaby. A gurgle in the drainpipe, greenhouse gloom, the dampened dusk beneath the trees. The whizzz of water under the tires, the red streaks of light on the tarmac at night. The way rain clings to the holes in the screen. The wet smell of rust. A ubiquitous rain that spatters the night. Starts and fades. And starts over at dawn. Rain that soaks your shoes, drips off your umbrella into your collar. Rain that chills the air and freshens the lawn to an impossible green. On the broken sidewalk, red buds of the maple in pools of April rain. A robust, romantic spring.

Rain in Detroit from a leaden sky. (Motown gets more rain than Seattle.) Sullen rain. Stubborn rain. Brown roiling water sloshing the curb into the storm drain. Buses rolling by, splashing your legs with a muddy spray. Cursing and shivering. Sentenced to forever without pardon or grace. Day after day. Cold. Brown. Grey.


North Carolina rain that slicks the beaches; traces of foam along the tideline. Glimmers that rustle in the tilting leaves, dancing gentle down. Shining slickers hanging from wall hooks, dripping on the library floor. Racks of soaked umbrellas folded like bat wings. And one outrageous supercell night, exploding like bombs right overhead. Punishing. Personal. Vindictive. Chasing us all to the same bed. Parents and teens, dog and cat, cringing together under the quilt. By those million-megawatt flashes, the children's pale cheeks. Eyes like tunnels. Dilated circles staring at us. Our nervous laughter. Hugging, clutching. Our hearts double-tripping. Can lightning burst right through the roof? It can't. (I hope it can't.) But we'd never been caught in a hurricane. What did we know about rain?

Sunday, November 6, 2016

STANDING ROCK PROTEST OF THE OIL PIPELINE



                     THE "WATER IS LIFE" BATTLE





HOW CAN YOU HELP THE PROTESTERS AT STANDING ROCK IN NORTH DAKOTA?

1. ASK for the Army Corps of Engineers' permit for the Dakota Access Pipeline to be rescinded.

2. CALL: The White House: (202) 456-1111 or (202) 456-1414

Army Corps of Engineers: (202) 761-5903

North Dakota Governor Jack Dalrymple: (701) 328-2200


3. E-MAIL your Congressional representatives and Senators.


4. SIGN the White House petition: bit.ly/StandingRockWH


4. SUPPORT the Sacred Stone Camp


Contribute to Legal Defense Fund: http://fundrazr.com/d19fAf

Contribute via gofundme: http://bit.ly/FundStandingRock


5. JOIN events in your area: bit.ly/NoDAPLEvents


6. SPREAD the word. Over 200 nations demand that Dakota Access Pipeline must be stopped, Standing Rock Sioux must be heard and the United States treaties with them must be honored.