Story Line for Guided Imagery Exercise
Ouch! I cut myself again. Not too deep, but it stings! The dark red blood dries quickly in the heat of the day. The dirt has stained my hands and nails black in comparison to my deeply tanned skin, making the fresh wound hard to see. There is an art to cutting the reeds of the marsh that I am slowly mastering with the help of the older women. After the reed is collected we use the fresh leaves to weave baskets and mats, and then we dry the straightest of the stems for use in making arrow shafts. It is difficult to dig a notch in the top of the small reed to place the stone arrowhead that will pierce the prey the next time the men go out on the hunt. My stone knife is starting to go dull from prolonged use and my mind keeps wandering from my task. As I look to the blazing yellow sun over the horizon, I can feel its heat start to intensify. The stench of the mud from the drying marsh where the few remaining reeds still grow is everywhere. The smell is like rotting eggs. Warm and slightly acid, it fills my nostrils and lungs and coats my skin and hair. As it gets later in the day everyone moves more slowly. The fresh bright green plants we’re used to seeing emerge from the ground around this time have to yet to appear. Many of the elders who are starting to get worried. The rain came much earlier in the cold months and we weren’t prepared to collect it. Now that we’re ready to grow our crops, the gods won’t send the water. None of us understand why this is happening or what we did to upset them. The sacrifices and ceremonies performed every night do not seem to please them. The rain dances have even become fruitless. Without the water, we are without crops, leaving us hungry.
The sound of gobbling from a nearby group of the turkeys that we keep for their eggs and meat enters my subconscious and I start to think about my empty stomach and long for dinner time. The thought of a warm meal of turkey, oozing with juices with corn mash on the side makes me lose track of what I’m doing and I cut myself again. Darn it! I need to stop drifting off! I have to keep working before the heat slows me down. It’s a race against the day and there are still many tasks that need to be done. Another group of women are using the leaves from my stalk to weave tight baskets and mats for our homes. I learned how to weave baskets when I was child, but now that I am older it is time to pass on the job to the younger girls. The baskets are all so different for the various needs of the village and through experience the patterns and designs are all unique and beautiful.
The drought, and the worry that has come with it, has sent a hush over the land. The talking and playing has slowed. And the wild animals seemed to have disappeared. The men have gone out to search for a new place to grow our crops. We are preparing to do what is needed before the cycle to sow the seeds passes. We depend heavily on corn and beans to provide our daily meals, so we must find another way to grow them before our supplies run out. We have a lot of corn saved in our storage rooms, but with our large community it will run out quicker than we want to think. The yellow sun has passed over us 40 times without any sign of rainfall. The men have also taken the younger boys coming of age to help them gather the safe fruits, berries, and plants to eat. The older men may use one of the bows and arrows I make using the reed stems to catch a wild animal as well. If I have shaped and built it correctly the arrow should fly true and the hunt will be successful.
I finish carefully fitting the final sharp stone into the last reed in my basket as beads of sweat begin to form on my forehead and run down my back and chest. The heat of the day has come and it is time to retreat with the others into the shade. We use this time to grind the stored corn for our next meal. I’m learning how to use a mano and metate made of stone. It is a lot of hard work and can cause lots of pain if one doesn’t take frequent rest breaks. While the women continue to work, the children play their reed flutes, softening the noise of our labors. It helps the time go by and our worries are lifted for a bit. The blistering sun is watching over us high in the sky, the men should be returning soon, I hope with good news. The grinding and scraping of the two stones crumble the colorful corn into flakes. The dry air sucks out the water, making the corn hard to pound. I like to see how many kernels I can get crushed in one long scrape. I get so distracted with counting, I grind my knuckle. The scrapes hurt, but after a while you get used to them and I hardly notice the pain anymore. Eventually it is time for us all to rest. There are bowls of water and baskets of fruit and beans to eat. The women are playing a game with kachinas. The elders are telling our story of creation to the children as they listen intently. I love to hear the tales of the kachinas, the unseen who watch over us. I hope they will help our water return.
I return to work with the mano and metate. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. Stone grinds on stone, seemingly endlessly, as the precious grains slowly crumble. I hope to get better at it soon, so I may be done quicker. The men return just as we finish preparing the meal. They look unhappy in spite of their newly washed faces and bodies. The boys have returned with only a few grains, and some withered fruit, and the men have caught only a few, bone-thin animals. The fruit has begun to dry up, they explain. The grains are turning brown. The game is becoming scarce. They believe that many of the animals have migrated for the season until the regular rains return. The unspoken fears and worries seem to be coming true. We prepare the game and gathered food for our ceremonial feast while the elders talk. They discuss our options for the upcoming, and what seems to be fruitless, year. Although there will not be an immediate decision made, we know that soon we will have to leave in search of a more favorable homestead. I hope that the gods will soon become happy once again and make the rains return, so we may return to our familiar cliff homes.
Tonight, we will prepare for another evening of ceremonial rituals. The ball of fire descends behind our homes. The smoke from the cooking fires curls upward into the evening sky, woodsy and aromatic it mixes with the mouthwatering aroma of the bread baking on the nearby ashes. The evening air is still hot and dry, but now a breeze is gently passes blowing the reeds dance and sigh, and providing a breath of fresh air for us all. We wash with water warmed in jugs set out in the sun. We help each other dress in our sandals and clothing made of leaves, fur, feathers, and hide. We want to make sure we show the highest respect to our gods. Jewelry made of turquoise is worn by everyone and some of the best pieces, as well as turquoise-encrusted jugs and other items are presented to the gods at the kiva. The ceremony is about to begin. I have a feeling that things are going to change soon. I hope for the best.
© Amanda Traina (Author), Louise Wootton (Editor)