Faron Sulu, Namingha is his Hopi name (which means Little Corn), is of Tewa descent living at First Mesa on Hopi lands. He enjoys sharing his reflections on Hopi and life. Below are some of his poems:
There is the distant drum
Along comes “Namingha.”
“Namingha” comes with songs.
Across I stand and see
*loloma means good
Run my daughter
For another new day
At dawn he makes way down mesa cliffs
Not flesh of my flesh
Fall View from First Mesa
by Sandra Cosentino
A sun shimmering day stretches before me in the vastness of high desert that is Hopi land. More than 80 miles away, yet clearly dominating the horizon at almost 13,000 feet in height, are the San Franciso Peaks which the Hopi call Nukatakaovi. This is the sacred homeland of their helper spirits, the Katsinas. The deep blue basalt flow of Mt. Eldon, a companion peak reaching 10,000 feet, represents an ear of corn laying down next to the high Holy Peaks. Floating mirage-like, distant, they compell the eyes to notice.
Dust devil, swirling track of wind, ripples the calm surface of this sandy xeriscape with its tan color dotted with scattered green splotches of the small, scraggly shrubs and widely spaced junipers. A harsh landscape–most people would observe–with no flowing water, yet a promised land to the devout Hopis still growing corn here in the sand after more than 1,000 years.
Cloud shadows sporadically dot the land–cumulus stair steps of precious moisture hang scattered over the Hopi buttes and mesas. Birthed from the distant sacred peaks now covered with a moist umbrella breathing out white clouds that seem to wing out from the center.
A flat-topped line of mesas rise above the desert plain etched with sheer cliff edges. Wind, cooled now by fall, presses against my skin, carrying bits of sand, cools the hot glare of sun on rocky cliff. Soaring ravens are a constant companion of these mesa tops; they startle you as pop up over the edge seemingly out of nowhere. Wind-riding masters and master tricksters, ravens love letting us humans know they are observing us (or is it mocking us?).
I look out toward old Walpi sitting on a sheer edged peninsula of white sandstone across its narrow neck of a land bridge and feel a quiet so deep. Mud plastered buildings rise up and seem to be formed from the cliff itself. They speak of a long ago time. I too feel an inner quiet that seems to connect me to a sense of a life way that allows its inhabitants time to be in the flow of each moment. So unlike our disjointed modern world life way with our body in one place, our mind cranking forward, nerves on alert waiting to breath. No time.
But today for me is timeless, yet another gift of being here in this land of the Hopi.
Written Feb. 22, 2006 based on notes from previous fall I made while quietly sitting alone deeply observing and just being. As I sat there, Faron came by and gifted me with his poems to share with you. Asquali (female way to say thank you.)