her. Perhaps a fancy mirror? A hairbrush? She had to admit that while she had no use for a mirror and in fact felt very uncomfortable gazing into one, she liked the bilagaana brushes.
Elizabeth was back, slightly out of breath and holding a rolled-up piece of paper in her hands. She knelt down and unrolled it in front of Serena.
“Since your blanket is a work of art, it seemed only right to offer you a piece of mine in return.”
The paper had colors on it. After a few minutes of looking at it, Serena realized what it was: a representation of the cliffs near the Ojo del Gallo. The bilagaana woman had almost captured the colors of the rock…but who could ever capture the colors of those rocks? It was interesting, though, and even a little shocking. Presumably this was a part of a ceremony and here the little bilagaana was trading it?
She remained silent as she looked at the painting.
It was hard for Elizabeth not to receive a reaction and she rushed into the quiet between them. “I go out as often as possible to paint the cliffs.” The Navajo woman had a frown on her face. Maybe she didn’t like the painting? Elizabeth rushed in again to apologize. “I know I haven’t gotten the colors right…or the blue of the sky.”
“You do this often? It is an everyday thing, not part of a ceremony?”
Elizabeth was puzzled for a moment. And then she remembered something the post commander’s wife had told her. The Navajo had medicine men who painted with sand as part of their curing ceremonies.
“Oh no, this is nothing very special. Well, it is special to me, but not religious. Although”—Elizabeth hesitated—“I never thought of this before, but I do feel closer to God out by the cliffs than I do at services sometimes.”
Serena knew a bit about what the bilagaana called religion. They seemed to be a very odd people, these “new People.” They had one God and they only thought about him, it seemed, on one day of the week. And here was one of their women, who had considerable power if she could capture the cliffs as well as she had. And yet she seemed to have no sense of this power. But she felt very good about what the bilagaana woman had done: she had regarded her weaving in a way no other bilagaana had: as work done by an equal.
“I would like you to have the blanket as a gift,” she said.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Elizabeth protested.
Serena pulled back into herself. Really, these people were like children, impulsive and impolite.
Elizabeth felt the distance between them instantly. She knelt there quietly and rolled up her painting.
“I would like to accept your gift,” she said after a moment.
Serena smiled at her and folding the blanket carefully, handed it to Elizabeth.
“And I would like to give you a gift,” Elizabeth said, praying that she was doing the right thing. “I would like you to have this, if you like it. From one artist to another?”
Serena nodded and placed the rolled-up painting in her carrying bag. “Thank you.”
“My name is Elizabeth Woolcott. Mrs. Woolcott,” said Elizabeth, holding out her hand.
The first and most important thing to know about a person for the Diné was the name of her clan. With a Diné woman, Serena would have shared that. But she knew that to the bilagaana , names were important, and so she gave the name she had been called by Mexicans. “And I am Serena,” she said with a smile. “I am married to Manuelito’s nephew.” She did not reach out her hand, so Elizabeth just let her own fall to her side.
“Does your husband race today?” Serena asked.
“Oh no, he is a little too old for horse racing. There he is, over there.”
Serena saw a gray-haired, heavy-set officer. She was surprised and felt sorry for the young woman. She was probably considered pretty by the bilagaana , and here she was, married to a man much older. It happened among the Diné sometimes, it was true, but she had always felt sorry for those women.
“Is
Elizabeth was back, slightly out of breath and holding a rolled-up piece of paper in her hands. She knelt down and unrolled it in front of Serena.
“Since your blanket is a work of art, it seemed only right to offer you a piece of mine in return.”
The paper had colors on it. After a few minutes of looking at it, Serena realized what it was: a representation of the cliffs near the Ojo del Gallo. The bilagaana woman had almost captured the colors of the rock…but who could ever capture the colors of those rocks? It was interesting, though, and even a little shocking. Presumably this was a part of a ceremony and here the little bilagaana was trading it?
She remained silent as she looked at the painting.
It was hard for Elizabeth not to receive a reaction and she rushed into the quiet between them. “I go out as often as possible to paint the cliffs.” The Navajo woman had a frown on her face. Maybe she didn’t like the painting? Elizabeth rushed in again to apologize. “I know I haven’t gotten the colors right…or the blue of the sky.”
“You do this often? It is an everyday thing, not part of a ceremony?”
Elizabeth was puzzled for a moment. And then she remembered something the post commander’s wife had told her. The Navajo had medicine men who painted with sand as part of their curing ceremonies.
“Oh no, this is nothing very special. Well, it is special to me, but not religious. Although”—Elizabeth hesitated—“I never thought of this before, but I do feel closer to God out by the cliffs than I do at services sometimes.”
Serena knew a bit about what the bilagaana called religion. They seemed to be a very odd people, these “new People.” They had one God and they only thought about him, it seemed, on one day of the week. And here was one of their women, who had considerable power if she could capture the cliffs as well as she had. And yet she seemed to have no sense of this power. But she felt very good about what the bilagaana woman had done: she had regarded her weaving in a way no other bilagaana had: as work done by an equal.
“I would like you to have the blanket as a gift,” she said.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Elizabeth protested.
Serena pulled back into herself. Really, these people were like children, impulsive and impolite.
Elizabeth felt the distance between them instantly. She knelt there quietly and rolled up her painting.
“I would like to accept your gift,” she said after a moment.
Serena smiled at her and folding the blanket carefully, handed it to Elizabeth.
“And I would like to give you a gift,” Elizabeth said, praying that she was doing the right thing. “I would like you to have this, if you like it. From one artist to another?”
Serena nodded and placed the rolled-up painting in her carrying bag. “Thank you.”
“My name is Elizabeth Woolcott. Mrs. Woolcott,” said Elizabeth, holding out her hand.
The first and most important thing to know about a person for the Diné was the name of her clan. With a Diné woman, Serena would have shared that. But she knew that to the bilagaana , names were important, and so she gave the name she had been called by Mexicans. “And I am Serena,” she said with a smile. “I am married to Manuelito’s nephew.” She did not reach out her hand, so Elizabeth just let her own fall to her side.
“Does your husband race today?” Serena asked.
“Oh no, he is a little too old for horse racing. There he is, over there.”
Serena saw a gray-haired, heavy-set officer. She was surprised and felt sorry for the young woman. She was probably considered pretty by the bilagaana , and here she was, married to a man much older. It happened among the Diné sometimes, it was true, but she had always felt sorry for those women.
“Is
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