Winter Hunt & Lines on My Face

 

Icy cold winds and my steps are a meditation with every crunch of ice. The frost utters my name and in every breath I exhale it drops heavy to the ground. My limbs are not as limber as they once were; my body barely moving like a machine and my movement is not wasted in the cold. Fingers numb and toes feel the bitter sub-zero temperature of the ever-present frigid earth.

Hunting in the dark, snowy afternoon every day and my thought is always, "I hope that buck doesn't pop out now as I go home with the setting sun."

"Face me now," is what the bold deer says to me, however, I let him go till tomorrow and my love for the hunt will always call me the Pueblo man that I am.

It gets bitter cold in the wilds of the Taos mountains and it's definitely not for everyone. Getting caught in a northern wind with icy cold thoughts forcing you down is insane and yet it's still the Pueblo way of life.

Hunting is also the Pueblo way of life, not like farming, however, it's still another aspect of our culture. The lines of my face show both of those endeavors. One day these ways of Pueblo life will be a memory and so will it be a memory when these muscles and bones worked hand in hand with the mind and the options of the heart.

To be Puebloan is to be mystical in your strength and to be strong in your secrets and to be boastful in your stories, songs and dance.

Morning before the hunt

You mustn't be afraid of the cold. He gives names to us and tells me that I am still alive and kicking. The cold doesn't care if you're rich or poor; it doesn't care where you come from, it just tells you that you are in my hyperborean world and in my space you will walk - wandering in my numbing thoughts, circled with barely moving ice-escapades and you will suffer and your tears will become icicles. The cold is not for the weak.

My thoughts of the Buck warm me and I smile and my heart goes to the ones I love. I will hunt tomorrow. It  keeps me fresh and it also humbles me because greedy hunters are not praised at the edge of Mother Earth's gifts when all is done and the primordial elder deer journey judges you.

Stay warm my lovelies and feed your friends and family warm stews and soups and talk about life and the hunt. Make stories that will be heard in frosty grottos of the wintery snake as he lies warm in his scale skin of knowledge.

My Cave

Happy holidays. My gift to you are my stories.

Love you all.

Your hunter,

Mirabal