My Aspen is in South America, as most of you know; She is my hero, a hero of my making, forged from raw earth, trails pounded by deer, prayers wrapped in corn husk, out of fear that is thrown away with every inch of soil removed to bury the dead, hammered out with yards of disappointment into a golden Goddess, and her beauty makes longed-hair-cloud-maker-Kachinas jealous that she is not one of them.
Don’t mess with a woman that hummingbirds follow and get their hearts broken wondering, wishing why, why, why, she isn’t a flower,
I have seen fellows spend their last dime to hold on to her for one more moment as she walks away into the corners of another heart.
Per our last conversation, I can feel and hear her transformations, massive bounds and leaps.
Grande metamorphosis that can easily escape you like water trying to grasp on to them.
Much like me at that age, I was in love with love and in love with my simple life; I still am pretty hopeless when the wild is in full-bloom in the spring time after a long winter. Everything is a potential moment of heart interaction, from the sunset-landscape in the sea of sage, to the morning dew, that is how life should be.
Aspen has traveled seen things that I probably will never touch and for sure what 95% of the pueblo people will never ever get to see…
There is one life and one love. If you don’t kick it first in the ass and tame it down, it is obliged to kick you in your pathetic ass.
Love only loves what it loves – itself. You must show up to the disappointments and the bad taste you get when the acids of failure fall upon us. In time, as years go by with shiny scars, you realize that love has always carried you through all the unforgiving miles of a fiery hell road without shoes.
I don’t believe in Karma. I don’t believe in forgiveness of the soul. We are human. We will hurt and will get hurt and suffer on our knees. Only then can we learn what life and love is about, and those entities don’t give a shit who you are as long as you show up with baggage to let go. That is how the heart finds emancipation.
You can never ask enough. When it comes to love and life, it will lift you to the heavens and it will ask you to crawl scarring your arms with hot-cigarette lighters and needles, dying.
I am in love now with life and life is a brutal partner although with love, life seems like a breeze into eternity. MIRABAL
The sun is beautiful and fierce. My heart and mind are beautiful and fierce. I find comfort in the moon; I sing to the moon. I see my sisters’ twinkling eyes in the stars, I hear their giggles and sighs coming from the mountains. Walking on the small trail, next to tall stalks of ripened corn and wilted tassels, I feel safe and comforted. Their long, green arms reach out to my heart; do not worry they tell me, just keep walking.
I still hear the buzzing of insects, which I always mistake for a group of noisy pueblo women, laughing and gossiping. I miss them, I miss my family, and I miss New Mexican food. I miss the smell of the Pueblo during spring; including the gross-smelling-tiny purple flowers that cover the dry, dormant fields. I am thankful that most houses are made with adobe, because when it rains, I can close my eyes, and pretend that I am home, smelling the damp adobe structures becoming, darkend by rain.
I tie up my hair in a paw-stee, put my turquoise earrings on, and notice how the beautiful, brown shades of my skin match ever so perfectly. I attract attention, people know I am of an indigenous culture, but have no clue where I am from. The majority of people think I am Peruvian, some think I look Argentinean. I never brag, but if I do, I reveal my true identity as I sing a Taos Pueblo round dance sung under the full moon, or as I get down low, hands in the chocolate soil, and work like a Pueblo woman. ASPEN MIRABAL