My Life As a Leaf

The other day I was thumbing through the latest issue of Southwestern Art magazine when I noticed an advertisement for a bronze sculpture. The sculpture looked interesting, so I paused to have a closer look. The ad showed three men sitting beneath a monumental bronze of a canoe, with Daniel Boone in the bow and a Native American man paddling in the stern. The ad included the following text, “Near the end of his life, Daniel Boone was quoted as saying, ‘My life was like a leaf on a stream.’” I nearly shouted out loud, “Hey, wait a minute, that’s my saying.”

Many years ago, I decided that I had very little control over my fate, and that the title of my autobiography, should it ever merit writing, would be, My Life As A Leaf. The title refers to the feeling that my life has generally taken a course similar to that of a leaf which has fallen into a stream. I am carried along by this uncontrollable force, which sends me tumbling over rocks, swirling in eddies and bouncing from shore to shore, with no ability to stop or even slow the process. It didn’t take long to realize that Dan must have had the thought before I did. Well, okay, it took a little longer than I care to admit, but I eventually arrived at the appropriate conclusion.

I often feel the pull of the current as I go about my daily routine, trying to convince myself that I have some measure of control over what happens. The pull reminds me that I actually have no authority at all. That point was reinforced late one evening as I jogged along the Bluff bench road and had a large truck fly past me. Since the road is narrow, the truck came fairly close and I began thinking how lucky I was to have avoided a collision with that large mass of steal and rubber. Almost immediately after my close encounter, I noticed a stinkbug with his back side sticking up in the air.

The truck had obviously affected the bug as well. In response, it simply stuck its fanny in the air; apparently thinking that the truck would notice and be sure to leave it alone. I am confident that I have engaged in similarly vain attempts to protect myself against forces that are about to impact me. Although I generally don’t stick my rear in the air, like my friend the stinkbug, I have often failed to understand the magnitude of things that have just entered my life.

One such thing was making the decision to move back to Utah. At the time, I had no idea that I was destined to become an “Indian trader” in Bluff. That was one of those parts of the stream that sent me uncontrollably tumbling and swirling for a long time. Having grown up in this area, I thought I had a pretty good grasp on its land and people. In fact, I had none. As it turned out, it is the people of this land who have had the greatest impact on me.

On many occasions these people of the Desert Southwest have shown me new and unexpected ways to look at things. When my daughter Dacia was young, my Hopi friend Stewart periodically invited us to the kachina dances at Moenkopi. I tried to accept Stewart’s hospitality whenever possible, and would take Dacia, a bag of flour and a box of oranges to the ceremonies.

On our first kachina adventure, Dacia and I got up early and arrived at the old village about sunrise for the bean dance. Stewart ushered us into his grandmother’s home to meet the family. His grandmother was of advanced age, as was the village. The Hopi villages are some of the oldest continuously inhabited settlements in the United States, and are a testament to the tenacity of the Hopi people. Stewart’s grandmother lived in a single room, with a wood burning stove in the center and the table, bed and other furnishing neatly placed around the interior. When I stepped into the room, I immediately noticed that there was no running water, and no bathroom facilities. Poverty, was my first thought. A short while later Stewart took us outside and showed us a tree with a metal pipe sticking out of it. Water flowed freely from the pipe. It appeared that the tube had been stuck into a spring and that over many years the tree had grown around the outlet. Stewart, however, explained that the tree was the village’s water source, and that although he was unsure how it worked, he and the other members of the community were happy to have the water giving tree.

We returned to his grandmother’s home for the start of the ceremony, and I began to notice more about the people and the structure. I realized that this little room was built of love, and had virtually everything the old woman needed. I noticed melons under the bed, and a curtain hung for those moments when she needed privacy. I also noticed that the woman’s children and grandchildren exuded love and tenderness for her. I began to see that my initial evaluation had been terribly wrong, and that this woman lived in a state of extreme wealth; wealth that we as part of the Anglo culture frequently fail to understand in our quest to accumulate more and more material things.

As the dance began, one of Stewart’s aunts asked to hold Dacia. I of course agreed, because I sensed the kindness and gentleness in the family. Dacia looked a little concerned as she sat there watching the mudheads spill out of the kiva. I reassured her that everything was okay, and she snuggled down into the woman’s lap. I believe that is as content and happy as I have ever seen her. As the dance progressed, I remember feeling the warmth of the old woman’s family around me. I also remember feeling that I had stepped back in time a century or two, and was experiencing something important, something large.

The flow in that part of my stream was cool, comfortable and serene, and I felt fully satisfied as I bobbed along. It was then that I realized just how happy you can be with a few melons under the bed and a family to care for you. I knew that something significant had passed overhead that I didn’t fully understand; much like the truck passing over the stinkbug.

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