Running in Ice/ A Load of Wood is a Good Christmas Present.

I will start this week with my winter running schedule. I have taken a couple months off of running, and logging in and putting in miles has decreased to just walking. Usually, during the harvest and into the winter months, much of my life is spent on getting hunkered in for the winter. The cold and the early time change really puts a damper on my body. Waking up from a warm bed into the cold isn’t fun – much shiver factor eeeew.

So I have to start wearing lessĀ  on daily basis to get the body tempered to the insanity of the run…hahaha. Some of you are thinking, he is crazy. Imagine if you were my partner – that’s probably why I’m alone, haha.

I need a couple more loads of wood to feel good about hunkering down for the winter; around these parts, my good friends a load of wood is a damn good Christmas present as well as a mating gift..haha

However the Pueblo mating call will have to wait. I have to prepare for a few more gigs. Denver this week, the 21st in Taos, Santa Fe 22nd and 23rd. Hopefully, in between, I can spend some time with friends. However, after these gigs, I can really have time to myself in the openness of the land, the trails and the cold, coldness.

I’m not gonna participate as much in the dances of the winter season. Mostly it’s because when a relative passes on, you have to respect their passing by mourning for about a year, and it just feels better to lay low until next year.

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headed for the early morning push, join me?

Ask me why I run in such coldness?
I’m gonna be straight up here. I could have lived anywhere in the world – some condo in L.A., a hut in Waimea, or some apartment on the upper west side.
The reality is this: I chose to live where my blood dried as a baby, where I crawled, and where I eventually walked and had the confidence to run and hunt.
I choose here because bone to bone, chest to chest, feet to feet, blood to blood my sword is here, and this is where I will eventually die.The reality of it all is this; it’s not for everyone. I have seen the best people get their asses kicked; a third world living for many. They say it’s a dry res., however, drugs, drinking, abuses are apparent in this small holy land.

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Pushing into and thru the north fields.

How did I make it?
I’ve been asked this many times too. I don’t think the place is done with me, yet some ways, some days I think I made it. I made it still standing on the ground my forefathers set out for me. I was screamed out of the jealousy, the anger and pain to make a life that supports my family, along with many others. I by far am not a rich man, however in the mind and in the heart is where richness dwells telling, saying to me that even another dollar wouldn’t help me if my heart is still in darkness.
History has it that you will and can be beat down by those close’s around you, they, your enemy is closer than you think..

A stones throw is a Bruja watching, conjuring up the devil, destroying her self in her negativity.
A mile down is a blade master waiting to stab you in the back.
To the east is the one you loved selling your soul to the world and still she looks towards you wondering why, why won’t he give in.
On the north-side a blackness births revenge for another on the south-side who pulled a trigger instead of walking away.
Inside the sacredness of the kiva is evil gossip
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Once again I say, “it’s not for everyone,” It’s like we’re in a war with ourselves; Very few have the interests of the people in mind; very few are stable and knowledgeable enough to sit in office and run a society. The devil will makes things beautiful before he reveals his true nature.

I’m not gonna give in however i will choose the best fight because this chosen way is where my blood will dry, with-in all the sadness and fast disappearing goodness…I feel the most alive here in this sinful place, i couldn’t and wouldn’t run away even if I could. The ground between my feet, in a gentle run, makes me come alive. The crisp cold, cold air brings me a breath that only my Grandpa’s can bring. In this place there is no use for the one who gives up. We need people who want to live in the enemy lines of our mind and still dancing, moving the wet cold earth with ancient steps even after days of fighting in the icy mud. We need warriors that can still sing, pull hides, run, plant, harvest; We need warriors! Warrior’s that don’t get drunk every night, warriors who buy food for their families instead of another bag of high; We need warriors who let go of the synthetic plastic drug-filled artificial sensation of being alive,alive.

Any day, any idiot can be addicted. It’s harder to walk away at times but its easier to survive to live another day to contemplate in being the strong, good, powerful Pueblo man.

good food, good run, good run, good sleep, good sleep,
good day, good day, good song, good song, good dance, good dance, good people…

Even with all that has and is thrown at us from the world we are still a MAGIC people; the unstable, stablizing form with songs beers in hand, changing wind patterns with shotguns, making the rain dance with a smell of cheap booze. There is no place to run or a place to hide eventually if we survive our enevitable fate catches up to us all and if were ready we can sit where the elder sits. Our way is dying for sure and there’s nothing we can do about it, as for the chosen ones, we will sing the songs of death and birth, conjure up the spirits of hunters, contemplate spear points flying deep into buffalo,dream with cougar chasing deer into their cold grottoes, with in the stillness and between the tiny silence, is the soft shuffling of feet the run of winter, pushing breath I will be running the old trails – cold, wet, frozen.

The snow falls and brings forth a deathly silence, burying troubles, melting away in the spring, giving birth in the medicine plants.

“Nothing can be done, MERRY CHRISTMAS HO! HO! HO! HEY YA HEY YA; It’s a beautiful, humble, crazy, lovely, dying race.” Some of you might say, “You can’t say that.” However, I chose to live here, i know this place its my back yard, with all its Brujas and Angelitos; this is my world as you see me playing a beautiful flute song on some random stage. If you haven’t lived this pueblo life or understand what happened or refuse to see whats happening to the children of the beautiful corn-flute, It’s just another song of lament on some cd, fantasizing, conjouring about what it used to be like.

We are the last surviving warriors of old who chose to live at this time; the ones that push, twist the fulcrum points of the earth. Without us, everything will die, and we are dying.

There is no place to run away to except into the cold trails of the east and the north, away from all the fake world and all the artifice Indian players in so called media painted in pretty pictures, skinny warriors dancing, filled with feathers; sad to say those men and days are gone. What you will find now is a stoned, fat old guy, drunk, dancing with borrowed moccasins, yet still dancing the dance of old fighting not to loose faith, if we loose faith we die and without our belief we are nothing; we must believe that even a small song a small dance and maybe a small run into the fog will change the course of our world.

maybe…just maybe you know now a little of why I run on the icy trails of winter?

Running gives me a better perspective; I sing songs. I memorize chants. I give my breath to the unknown dying stars, the fading moon, the glory of the fading sun. I feel alive when I face the dying coldness. The cold ground beneath my feet somewhere on the old trails is where the warmness, humbleness of a Pueblo man come to life, where real ideas are birthed; then to sleep the good sleep, the sleep that the body needs to justify regaining strength to face another day.

I’m so alive. Finally my hunger is real – the true hunger for life, the discipline of body and mind, the pueblo warriors way.

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Looming Taos mountain covered in mystery.

Yes a good holiday gift would be a load of wood, staying warm, staying warm, staying warm…

MIRABAL_MAN