The Canyon Was Serene

Amelia Begay, Weaver

The Canyon was Serene

Tonight as the bright moon fills the bed, I am certain I can’t
rise and face the dawn. These dreams of Chinle and the mountains
urge me to drive back to the rez. My family knows why I left.
But my husband’s gentle horses must wonder where he went.
Since it happened, there has been no way to weave
this loneliness and the quiet nights into that calm state
called beauty. Hózhó. Maybe it doesn’t exist.
These days it makes me sad and jealous

that some Navajos really live by hózhóójí. Yes, I am jealous
of how the old ways actually work for them. They wake, rise,
and pray each morning knowing they are blessed. For me,
the beauty way is abstract most of the time. At dawn,
I rush out and drive to work, instead of saying a praying
outside. They say we should weave these ancient ways into
our daily lives. Do you remember the horses

his mother gave at our wedding? They’re traditional people,
and brought horses to my family. Such strong and exquisite
animals. We heard people were jealous, but we dismissed it.
Back then, I rode horses for hours, and used to weave
until sunset each day. Once we went camping in Canyon
De Chelly. The moonrise was so bright, we could see tiny birds
in the brush. The four-wheel drive got stuck in the sand,
and two guys helped push it out. That night the beauty

of the old canyon, the moon, and the surprise rescue proved
that the beauty the elders speak of, does exist. Late that
night a small herd of wild horses came to our camp.
They circled and sniffed the worn-out four-wheel drive.
It smelled of gas and sweat. The canyon was serene.
It’s easy to be jealous of the people who live there.
How much more substantial the sunrise blessings seem there.
During those summers not long ago, it was easy to weave

that story and many others like it into my rugs. Back then
I used to weave and pray, weave and sing. The rhythm of the
batten comb meant that beauty was taking form. Nights like
that and his low laughter made my rugs rise evenly in warm
delicate designs. Once I wove the colors of his horses
into a saddle blanket. He teased me and said my brother was
jealous because I had not made him one. Sometimes memories
of his riding songs drive


me to tears. Whatever happened to that saddle blanket?
Once on a drive to Albuquerque, the long, red mesas
and smooth cliffs showed me how to weave them into a rug.
I was so happy. Here I was sometimes frustrated and jealous
of older weavers who seem to live and breathe designs.
I learned that beauty can’t be forced. It comes on its own.
It’s like the silky sheen of horses on cool summer mornings.
It’s like the small breezes; the sway and rise

of an appaloosa’s back. Back then, we drove the sheep home
in the pure beauty of Chinle valley twilight. Will I ever
weave like that again? Our fine horses and tender love caused
jealousy. He’s gone. From his grave, my tears rise.



Luci Tappahonso 1999