Running Barefoot

“The Hopi actually have an interesting legend about how they came to be on this land.”

“The Hopi?” I questioned blankly.

“The Hopi Indians occupy a section of land here in the four corners area, mostly in the high desert of northeast Arizona, surrounded on all sides by the Navajo Nation. The Hopi are pacifists – in fact Hopi means ‘the peaceful and wise people.’ This story kind of illustrates that quality of humble acceptance that is traditionally Hopi. Anyway, the Hopi say that back when the first humans crawled up from the underworld into this world, mockingbird met them with several ears of corn in all different sizes and colors laid out before him. Mockingbird told them that each tribe or family must pick an ear of corn. The ear of corn would tell them their destiny – for instance, the Navajo were said to have picked the yellow corn which meant they would have great enjoyment but a short life.”

Samuel stopped talking at this point and glanced at me ruefully. “I haven’t necessarily had great enjoyment in my life, so I’m hoping the other half of the Navajo destiny won’t apply either.

“So all the tribes started grabbing the corn. The Utes took the flint corn and the Comanche took the red corn. The Hopi stood by and watched everyone grabbing and jostling for the best ear of corn, but they didn’t take any. Finally, there was only the short blue corn left – the piece nobody else wanted. The short blue corn predicted a destiny of hard work and toil, but also predicted long, full lives. The Hopi leader picked up the blue corn and accepted this destiny for his people, and they wandered around looking for a place to live. Eventually, they came to the three mesas in the desert. The God of death, Masauwu, owned the land. He said they could stay. The Hopi looked around them and said life will be difficult here, but nobody else will want this land, so no one will try to take our land away.”

I laughed out loud at that. “I guess that’s looking at the bright side of things.”

“Well, they had it mostly right. The Hopi were farmers and because they actually came up with successful methods to grow crops in this environment, they were constantly being raided by surrounding Ute, Apache and Navajo tribes who wanted their corn.”

“So nobody wanted their land, but they wanted their crops?”

“Pretty much.”

We drove in silence for many miles more, each of us lost in reflection.

“I like how you know not only your history, but the history of other tribes. You are like my own personal guide of all that is Native American.”

“You’ll find that most of the legends among Native Americans are variations of the same stories. We might tell them a little differently, or have our own slant on things, but they’re all similar, especially among tribes that occupy the same geographic area. The Hopi share a lot of religious similarities with the Navajo. Each tribe is big on religious ceremonies. Both religions center around harmony, of things being in balance, and the importance of having a good heart, which mostly comes from being at peace with the people and circumstances in your life.”

“Hozho,” I remembered aloud.

Samuel gaped at me and then nodded his head. “Yeah, hozho. How did you know that word?”

“I remember talking about harmony with you a long time ago. I’ve thought about it many times since. I even wrote hozho on my Wall of Words.

“Imagine that - a little girl from Levan, Utah with a Navajo word written on her wall.”

“Imagine that,” I agreed. “So Samuel?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you found it?”

“What?”

“Harmony, balance, hozho….whatever you want to call it. Since you’ve been gone all these years, have you found it?’

Samuel looked at me for a moment and then returned his gaze to the road. “It’s an ongoing thing, Josie. You don’t just find it and keep it. Just like maintaining balance on a bike – one little thing can start you wobbling. But I learned that a big part of harmony for me is having a purpose. I also had to let go of a lot of anger and sadness. When I met you all those years ago, I was filled with anger. I started changing when my heart started to soften.”

“What softened your heart?” I asked softly.

“Good music and a friend.”

I felt my eyes burn a little and turned from him, blinking quickly to lap up the sting of tears. “Music has incredible power.”

“So does friendship,” he supplied frankly.

“You were every bit as good a friend to me,” I responded quickly.

“No I wasn’t. Not even close. But as nasty and mean as I often was, you never held a grudge. I could never figure you out. You just seemed to love me no matter what. I didn’t understand that kind of love. Then I had an experience that taught me. You know I took my dad’s scriptures with me when I left for the Marine corp. I’d read them a little. I’d flipped through them, reading this and that, starting and stopping. I don’t think I ever told you about the experience I had. It might be in one of those letters I brought over.

“I was in the middle of Afghanistan in an area where we believed a large group of Taliban fighters had hunkered down. There was one guy in particular that we really wanted bad. Rumors of Osama himself were rampant. I’d been sent on ahead with another sniper – we’re always sent out in pairs – to scout out an area thought to overlook a possible opening to a series of caves the terrorists were supposedly using as a hidey hole. I’d been battened down on my belly, looking through my scope for hours on end for three days. I was exhausted and irritable, and I wanted to blow up the whole God-forsaken country and just go home.”