Friday, October 26, 2018

Nemo Hadeist'ii' Tree of Life

Nemo Hadeist'ii' Tree of Life (24.5" x 17" - approx. 64 wefts/inch)
In 2012, the Navajo Nation Museum, in collaboration with Lucas Films, dubbed its first movie into Navajo. In 2016, they partnered with Disney to dub Finding Nemo into Navajo.

For both films, they used Navajo-speaking voice actors. In anticipation of the release of Nemo Hadeist'ii' (Finding Nemo), I watched Youtube videos, especially clips of one of the younger voice actors, Quinton Kien, who played the voice of Nemo. I can't find any of those videos now, but click here to be linked to a news story.

These movies are so fun to watch! We have DVD copies of them both. You should be able to purchase them through the Navajo Nation Museum gift shop, but I didn't call them to verify, so don't be mad if they yell at you when you call to ask. #badjoke

When both films were released, they had screenings in various places, and as is always the case, Navajos showed up! I know, one of the main intents behind this project was to encourage or inspire young people to want to learn Dinebizaad (the Navajo language), which is great. I'm sure these movies are doing this. But what really tugged at my heart strings was a story I heard from a friend of a family who brought a grandmother to one of these screenings. This grandmother, a Navajo speaker, sat in the theater seats with her grandchildren and their parents, and laughed and engaged along with everyone else.

When I heard this story, I imagined my own great-grandmother, who only spoke Navajo. She and I conversed in fragments and gestures. So much of what we wanted to share or say to one another fell to the floor and was swept up as fine jagged-edged particles with the desert sand. There was always so much sand.

Although I visited with her, I could never have the blessing of knowing her. Now and then, my cousin (who was my same age and a fluent Navajo speaker) would drop by while I was visiting. I really did envy the free-flowing two-way exchange of banter and story that took place. Even though that wasn't me, I was grateful for my great-grandmother and for my cousin, that their relationship existed. How wonderful for them both.

So, some of us don't have the blessing of being able to converse with our elders because of a language barrier. But if I was ever lucky enough to even just share a movie with my great-grandmother and have us both experience the same story together, it's a small-ish thing some would say, but it's one that I would be willing to travel back in time for. I don't even know if she liked movies, but she might have if there were some in her language.

For this textile, as an homage of sorts to the Nemo Hadeist'ii' film, I thought I'd adapt the Tree of Life design by setting it underwater in the world of Nemo. Some key features of the Tree of Life design are the Navajo wedding basket with a corn stalk growing out of it and birds. These are meant to represent positivity, progression in life and spirit, as well as symbolize the interrelationships or connections between human beings and our world and universe.

For my Nemo version, I chose to color the wedding basket a coral color, as that is Nemo's home. From this, springs forth some anemone and seaweed. Swimming around the seaweed are: Dory, Pearl (squid), Marlin (Nemo's dad), Nemo, Gill, and Peach (starfish). Swimming on the outskirts facing alternating directions and serving as my design's side borders are light gray jellyfish.

I started this textile two years ago and put it aside (while I wove other projects) for a long while before returning to it. It was a fun piece, and I'm so happy it's finally finished. I'm absolutely in love with the background "teal" color I used for the ocean. For my yarn, I used yarn I purchased from Burnham Trading Post. Thank you for reading & come back again.

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Hozho



Hózhó (17" x 14" - approx 64 wefts/inch)

When I was slightly older than a newborn, my parents were driving to my grandma's. Somehow, the vehicle slid off the road, and when it was all over, my baby self was the only thing no longer in the cab of the truck. They found me a distance away, still snug in my cradleboard, the triangle "feet" of my cradleboard stuck solid into the snow.

I might have made up the snow. But we slid off the road.

I don't think I made up the snow.


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I've heard this story a few times growing up, and each time I think, "Wow. If I hadn't been swaddled and secured into a cradleboard. . ."

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When I was slightly older than a newborn, my parents were driving to my grandma's. My mom had just picked up my father from jail. Before this, in some alcohol- and jealosy-fueled rage, he set our home on fire. He set our home in the city on fire while we were sleeping next door at our neighbor's because she knew he'd been drinking heavily and was all too familiar with what that led to. When he found we weren't home, it led to his setting any nearby thing that would light onto the burners and turning up the heat.

I know I'm mixing stories together.

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What I learned about trauma and memory is sometimes, the person who has undergone trauma experiences every painful thing as a sort of soup. All the messy parts from long ago and just yesterday simmer alongside one another with no real order, getting more and more stirred and melded together each time they're regurgitated by the post-traumatized brain. Which is why I don't blame anyone for leaving out the left out parts of the early story version. Sometimes, it's the only way the story can be told or heard until it's ready to be told or heard another way.

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My young mother was exhausted and hurt and fearful.

On this drive, with me sleeping soundly in her lap, she told my father of the things that needed to change or she would leave. He pressed the gas hard, gripped the steering wheel harder. He rolled us off the road, and after they found me a distance away safe in my cradleboard with the triangle feet stuck solid in the ice, 

she stayed.

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It was difficult for me to feel at home anywhere after that.

We lived several places--with shimasani, in the basement of my uncle's, in a hogan at my nalii's, and finally into our own home again, which we outgrew almost as soon as we moved in.

I think about those first years living with shimasani. But now instead of focusing on my pre-school self, I try to feel what my mom was feeling, carrying more than her share of the work of raising three children under the age of three. What I learn by doing this (and I'm being kind to myself in saying it this way) is that I was too hard on her.

Hózhó (17" x 14" - approx 64 wefts/inch)
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"As humans we straddle the border between health and sickness, good and evil, happiness and sadness. According to hózhó, the purpose of life is to achieve balance, in a continual cycle of gaining and retaining harmony."

~unknown

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This weaving had me thinking of what hózhó looks like, in particular, as it pertains to the individual and to the family.

It had me revisiting the moments of my life that I have yet to make peace with and do things like list for myself those factors that I had no control over and own those elements that I did, and also know that how well I did or didn't handle things was largely due to how equipped I was at the time.

It had me tell myself that maybe I'll never gain peace over everything, but that didn't mean I couldn't still move forward. It had me allowing myself a dose of anger to be kept, and in doing so, allowed me to rid myself of way more, making space in me to fill with hopefully goodness.

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Hózhó is recognition of the healing/destructive power that is you--ownership of how your words and actions create your part of this world we all share. It is starting anew each day with a more grown perspective that builds upon the previous day.

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Which brings me to my post script.

I love my father. This and these are moments my parents have moved past and grew from. The ideal for everyone would have been that our safe place did not ever become a place flooded with disharmony. But things did, and as they stand now, my father is 40 years more settled and more patient and more kind. He laughs easier, at himself and everyone else. He isn't just dad anymore, but also grandpa, and his children and grandchildren are lucky to have him.

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

Water Is Life

To 'Ei 'Iina (13 1/2" x 10" - approx 64 wefts/inch)
I heard an elder speak once on why, traditionally, running peoples pray when we run.

Water is everywhere, he says.
Water is found in liquid and solid form,
in and above the ground, in the plants, in the animals, in the air.

Water is in us and all around us.

And when we speak and think harmonious words and thoughts, the surrounding water hears and feels that harmony.

And when we speak and think disharmonious words and thoughts, the water also hears and feels that disharmony.
To 'Ei 'Iina (13 1/2" x 10" - approx 64 wefts/inch)





This is our power,
this knowledge that when we run,
our feet move across
as much earth as as our feet move across,

that when we run and pray, the vessel that houses our wishes and gratitudes connects with more than when we sit or kneel

that when we run, our lungs take in and expel
air--part water molecules--H20 times two, times three, times four.

Creators, pray.