Simplicity

I am returning from the Painted Desert that covers the northeastern corner of Arizona, northwards into Utah, and east into southern Colorado and New Mexico.  My mom and I spent time in the Sedona/Flagstaff area, Grand Canyon, and in the Navajo Nation, considering the beauty and simplicity of a way of life that is thousands of years old and was more advanced than anything Americans can currently imagine.

In reading about and experiencing the architecture and habits of these ancient people, I felt something akin to shame about certain mindsets I have: indulgence, ambition, grubbing for things I think I deserve, part-time belief in something greater than myself.  The Navajo and Hopi were (and are) whole people.  I am sure at least some of them want nice homes and nice cars, but they are content with the modest things they do have.  No longer are they innovators in building and design.  There are tires on their roofs to keep the shingles from peeling away in the wind.  Their cars are old and often have body damage.  Their clothes are simple and their hospitals are mobile homes grouped together.  They are proud of who they are, helping each other, speaking respectfully to the tourists who come to see the remains of the architectural marvels built by their ancestors.  They speak Navajo between themselves, pronouncing beautiful, dignified words I get lost in.  They have faces that are both strong and resigned, and if you look into their eyes,  you can almost see the mountains that are their lives.  I feel blessed to have been allowed to witness a thumbnail sketch of the vastness that is the Navajo, a people the American government was determined to wipe out.  Though they eke out a living selling jewelry and playing flute music available on cd and working at gas stations and breaking horses, nothing can defeat them.  Their spirituality transcends anything life can deal them, and they live it all the time, not just for an hour on Sunday.

I don't really know what determines who is in and who is out; the gene pool, the financial markets, the presence or absence of addictions, the presence or absence of confidence and self-knowledge all contribute.  Respect is another matter, however, and is something that can be given, recognized, and returned regardless of any other barrier.  It is universally needed, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral.  The Navajo reminded me of its importance, and the ease with which it can be given, through nothing more than a smile.

"Our hero is home!!" was written on the back of the maroon ellipse of a minivan parked in the bike lane, with all the other shitty cars that take over the bike lane every morning for swim practice.  Like they own the world.  But it was written in yellow (both my fave color and that famous hue of remembrance of absent military personnel) and had smiley faces all around it.  He made it home.  Thank You.  Please help him, and his family, with what happens next.

How would I feel if my boys were taken from me and sent to fight a war I completely oppose in a place that was home to millions of people who want to eradicate America altogether against an enemy that was entrenched and guerrilla?  I would never get over it, never be able to stop thinking about it.  And if they came home physically safe, that would be a miracle.  And what if they weren't okay mentally or emotionally?  My guess is that they wouldn't be.  The randomness of the violence there would be too much to bear, and something inside them would break.  Children are so fragile anyway, such lovers, such givers, such beautiful souls.  I don't know how they would survive without being hollowed out completely.  If they still had any intact self left, they might try to end things for themselves by wading, arms spread, into the line of fire  so the pain would be over and they wouldn't have to bring it all home with them, to relive for the rest of their tenure on this mortal coil.  It is heartbreaking how wrong war is, and how as I type those words, they fall as a tiny drop in an ocean of tears already shed over it.  Thus is the collective mourning of the soul of humanity, a lament the stars can hear.