Christmas Eve at Taos Pueblo

Christmas Eve at Taos Pueblo has been part of our family tradition for many years. This ancient drama of fire and ice, the procession of the Madonna, is a heady combination of Hispanic Catholic and pagan ritual. It might be the only place you’ll ever see a rifle in church. I’ve heard that the presence of four riflemen at the head of the procession symbolizes how the Conquistadors forced the Indians to build a church and attend services at the point of a rifle. But gradually, the Indians incorporated the strange new religion into their own world. They are true to their original beliefs that revolve around secret teachings in the underground kivas, but many of them are also Catholic.
We follow a winding back road into the Pueblo and park in a snowy field beside dozens of other cars, hoping we’ll be able to get out again. This year the roads to the Pueblo are clear, but last year, stepping out of the car, we were up to our calves in snow. The sun drops out of sight as we head for the Pueblo. Above the trees we see a plume of dark smoke and then the dancing tips of orange flames. One of the bonfires is already burning. Ahead of us strides a man in a black top hat and black frock coat. I’m wearing my L.L. Bean blanket coat with the silver buttons and bear motif, my neck warmed by a lavender scarf. We cross the Rio Pueblo, which is almost frozen over, and emerge from the trees into a wide dirt plaza already crowded with people. Here we greet old friends with hugs and grins and, “How are the children?” They are also dressed in various costumes, some in fur hats and Pendleton coats, others in plaid capes or more practical down jackets. Beside the bonfire, a man in a black cowboy hat with a dark poncho tossed across his shoulder strikes a pose.
The tallest bonfire is about twenty-five feet. One of the Indians has climbed to the top to light it. The bonfires are made of split piñon wood stacked like Lincoln logs. We stroll to the end of the plaza and look back at the scene, the ground streaked with snow, three bonfires in orange bloom, curling with beige plumes smoke that unfurl all over the Pueblo. At the west end is the white, adobe church, Saint Jerome chapel with stepped walls and three crosses. The steps are illuminated by farolitos—candles set in sand inside paper bags. The north side of the Pueblo on our right rises five stories high, framed by massive Pueblo Peak. On the flat rooftops or leaning against wooden ladders, the Indians are watching the proceedings.
Two young men appear in regular dress bearing fiery torches over eight feet long, strips of piñon lashed together. The four riflemen assemble. The one with the white blanket draped around his shoulders is grinning at the others. The Pueblo police wave us back. A rifle goes off with a sharp report. We startle, clutch each other and laugh low in our throats. It begins.
The church bells Clang! Clang! The big drum goes Boom-Boom Boom-Boom, Boom-boom Boom-boom! Our feet can’t resist the rhythm. Behind the riflemen come the elders in striped blankets, chanting in deep voices, then the young women and little girls who trot back and forth in a line and hurry to keep up. And here’s the Madonna or Corn Mother under her billowing canopy, dressed in her gleaming winter whites. Behind the Madonna come the Priest and the congregation singing a Christian hymn. Then all the members of St. Jerome’s parade past, their heads high. Many visitors join in at the end of the procession. Rifles pop in the distance. A plane winks overhead. Across the frozen river, fireworks flare. I wonder what this looks like to foreign visitors who have never seen it before?
We are all engulfed by smoke that carries the smart scent of pine pitch. I cough and cover my face with my fuzzy scarf, which fogs up my glasses. But in the center of the left lens is a single, round hole the size of my eye. Through it I watch the black silhouettes of visitors gathered around a distant bonfire. They are circled by a rainbow of light, the rest of the setting obscured by smoke. I’m enjoying the novelty of this when the procession returns on a loop back to the church. We join in and follow. Too soon the ceremony is over. People gather around the bonfires, grinning like children, eyes bright with pleasure, mouths open, whooping and shouting when the tower of wood collapses in a shower of sparks. They duck, but no one moves back.
We thread our way down a narrow alley between the dark adobe walls of the Pueblo to visit friends. We step into a small, spare room lit only by lanterns and candles on the mantle. The walls are whitewashed and luminous. It’s like being inside an egg. We are welcomed with hugs and invitations to join them for chilie. Are we coming to the Deer Dance tomorrow?
We sink into an old leather couch in front of the tall, narrow fireplace. The opening is shaped like the door of a church. Three logs are stacked on end. My Indian friend points to an oak log that has been burning for hours. “I used to think, Wood is wood, just burn it! But it all burns differently,” she says. “We used to call oak ‘honeymoon wood’ because it burns all night and leaves hot coals in the morning. Some people started to notice that everything on earth is alive. Maybe the earth itself. We said, ‘Of course the earth is alive. That’s why we dance to it, sing to it.’”
Inside these strong, thick walls that have protected the people for a thousand years, as I sit and watch the oak burn a deep stillness rises from below, up through me. In spite of all the turmoil in the world, I feel safe here, one with the Earth and stars, with fire and ice. Part of something mysterious, ever changing, and always the same.
Blessings on you native people in your struggle to preserve your truth, your way of life. Gratitude and love. And a prosperous New Year.