IN THE ABSENCE OF CEREMONY A QUIETER DRUM

For as long as I can remember, the Pueblo dances have been part of my life. From my first childhood trips to the Puye Cliffs ceremonial — held in Santa Clara Pueblo’s ancestral stronghold until the early 1980s — and the annual August feast day celebrated in honor of the Pueblo’s eponymous patron saint into the present day, the dances have remained a central source of my cultural and spiritual connection to the Tewa people. As physical interpretations of Pueblo religion, philosophy and sacred knowledge, the traditional Pueblo dances provide not only a feast for the eyes but also nourishment for the spirit and sustenance for the soul. As threads in the continuum of Pueblo culture they bind us to the ancestral world while inspiring in us the strength to persevere in the here and now.

I have often pondered the history and origin of the dances and their songs and how their complex choreography and nature-based lyrics convey some of the Tewa experience. On occasion I’ve wondered what life would be like if the sacred drums were brought to stillness, the ancient verse to silence, the dances pushed into memory — a notion I quickly dismissed as an impossibility.

Sadly, the arrival of COVID-19 in March 2020, and its subsequent limitations on social gatherings, brought tangible closings to these ponderings as the impossible became possible and the possible became reality: None of New Mexico’s Pueblos has held its respective calendric dances since last spring. (And, as of of press time, no public dances have been scheduled at any of the Pueblos this summer.)

Hence, until drum shadows rise and fall once more against smooth adobe walls, my dance recollections must suffice to keep me tethered to the living-prayer realm of the Tewa universe. Thankfully my reservoir of dance memories is full: memories of rising at first light to dress in my finely woven white wool manta, fringed shawl and buckskin moccasins; of walking from my grandparents’ home on the northern edge of the Pueblo to the winter kiva near the river's eastern banks, along the way passing curtains and fountains of wild roses, blooming prickly pear cactus and small groves of fruiting peach and plum trees; of joining the other dancers there to receive the morning prayer; of fastening my tablita (painted wood headdress worn by the female dancers) and macaw-feather bustles into place; of walking into the morning under cloud-veiled skies; of feeling the breeze catch the fringes of my shawl; of taking my designated position within the two rows of dancers; of waiting for the first drumbeat to sound and the first words of the song to be sung; of setting my well-practiced steps into motion; of hearing my moccasins meet the soft earth beneath me; of moving in perfect time with the other dancers; of being part of a collective prayer that has endured for thousands of years. Remembering the dances also brings to mind those who came before me: my ancestors who were brought into being by the Creator so long ago; who carved life from this high-desert land; who protected the Tewa traditions and way of life to ensure our survival through millennia.

I take comfort in knowing the drums will sound again and our beloved dances will return. But for now, I wait: for the gentle movements of the pollinating Butterfly; for the promise of the Harvest; for the gifts of the Corn; for the life force of the Deer; for the protection of the great Buffalo — these are the things that have long sustained the Tewa people, and that will keep our story moving forward for another thousand years. My grandmother used to say that we are never without the drum for we carry it within us. “Your heartbeat is your drum,” she would say. “It’s a quieter drum, but it’s your drum. Listen to your drum — that’s what will keep you strong, no matter what comes.”

Rosemary Diaz is a freelance writer based in Santa Fe. She dedicates this story to the memory of her cousin Ethel Vigil of Santa Clara Pueblo, who passed away in March from complications of COVID-19. Ethel danced many times over the years, always with grace of step, goodness of heart and generosity of spirit — the same qualities she gifted to those fortunate enough to know her.