One late August morning, I found myself on a rugged dirt road on the east side of San Pedro Mesa, high above the Sanchez Reservoir. I was with a man I had met not two hours before. I had set up this appointment with him to discuss the concerns involving the feral and abandoned horses that roamed this part of the San Luis Valley. We met in a public place, made our introductions, climbed into his truck and took off into the valley. At first, the man had been cautious and reluctant to speak with me, dancing around with questions. He was trying to figure out what my motives were. I know I wasn’t who he expected to meet. He knew I was a college student and an artist so he probably thought that I was some young, tree hugging radical. I soon set his mind at ease. I was not out to interfere or romanticize the “wild” horses. My concern was with the impact the horses were having on the environment in this remote area of the Valley.
For the first two hours, we drove through remote parts of the valley impacted by the horses. Then we arrived at the east edge of San Pedro Mesa. He stopped his truck and said to me, “I want to share something with you”. I nodded and looked out over the reservoir. On the far side were five small groups of feral horses. Maybe six to eight in each group. They were grazing a little way off the shoreline. I stepped out of his truck. It was a beautiful morning. The air was cool and still. The sun was warm and it was so quiet, so peaceful. I stood there taking in the amazing view of water, land and mountains.
He came around to where I was standing and opened the back door of his truck’s cab. He reached in and removed a leather wrap from the back seat. I love the feel and smell of leather and this leather looked so soft and velvety. I wanted to reach out and touch it but I held back the urge. I wasn’t going to ask. I had just met the guy. That would be weird. So, I turned my attention back to the scene before me.
He was quiet for a few moments, as if he were gathering his thoughts. I looked back at him and saw that he was slowly, delicately unfolding the wrap. I instinctively knew that what was inside was precious to him. He unfolded the last flap and there, laying on the soft leather was a native American flute. It was made of a light-colored wood with a beautifully carved bird set close to the mouth piece. There were seven little red and yellow pouches attached along the base of the flute, sewn to look like birds and decorated with brightly colored beads. He began to speak, still gazing down at the flute in his hands. “This flute was gifted to my daughter by a Shaman”. He looked up at me and continued, “It’s carved from a rare and sacred wood. My daughter never played it. She said it was not meant for her music. It was meant for mine”. He nodded, “So, I learned how to play”. He lifted the flute from the leather, then placed the wrap back in his truck and shut the door.
Holding the flute with his right hand, he ran his left hand along the line of little birds dangling from its base. “In my family, we have seven special prayers. Each of these little birds holds one of these seven prayers”. He paused and a big grin spread across his face. With a wink, he said, “That’s why there are seven birds.” That broke through the seriousness of the moment and I laughed.
He turned to face the water far below and spread his hand out over the expanse. “In the morning, we lift our flute to the east and through its music, release our prayers to Mother Earth.” He turned and spread his hand to the west, “And as the sunsets, we lift our flute to the west and welcome the return of our prayers”. Then he shrugged and with a smile said, “Sometimes they are answered . . . many times, they are not.” He looked down to the reservoir where the horses were grazing. I could tell he was contemplating something. Feeling a brief moment of panic, I thought, “Oh boy, this might be weird.” Something unusual was about to go down.
He lifted the flute to his lips and began to play. The sound was clear and hauntingly beautiful. I thought “Ok, this is awkward.” I turned and fixed my gaze on the horses below, my arms crossed over my chest, my mind racing. Then something happened. As the music drifted through the air, out over the expanse of water and land, the horses began to stir. I watched as they lifted their heads to the sound of the flute. Then, they began to walk, slowly, moving as if to the rhythm of the music. I felt a deep peace settle over me, calming my thoughts and easing my discomfort. I knew this is the way it should be.
A slight breeze began to blow. At first it felt like a puff of breath in my face, ruffling my bangs and moving my hair off my shoulders. Something inside me said, “This is much bigger than you expected. Are you ready for this?” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. Like the breeze, I let the music flow over me, through me, preparing me for the task set before me, if I was willing to take it. The thought was overwhelming, yet I felt at peace. I stood there with my eyes closed, lost in the experience and the sound of the flute.
Then he put his hand on my shoulder and the music slipped away. “Did you see the horses begin to move”? he asked. I nodded and glanced in his direction. He had a puzzled look on his face. It was then that I realized that I had been crying. Tears had been silently rolling down my cheeks. Embarrassed, I turned to wipe them from my face. When I looked back at him, he smiled. Then pointing two fingers from himself to me and then back to himself, he said, “You know this . . . this meeting between the two of us, it’s not by chance. You have a deep connection to Mother Earth. You understand her. You honor her. This is why you are here. This is why we met.” There was a brief pause and then he continued, “I think you have been struggling with something. I believe you have been searching for your voice. Mija, this is what you were meant to do. You were chosen to do this. Now, you have to decide if you want it.”
A wave of emotion hit me. God, I hate to cry. I dashed the cursed tears away and looked out over the reservoir. The horses were at the water’s edge, drinking, their tails swishing flies away. Gaining control of my emotions, I looked back at the man and said, “I don’t know if I can. I don’t even know what this is.” He smiled at me and replied, “You will Mija, you will. Trust your instincts. Listen to that voice.”
I gave him a reluctant smile and looked away. I felt like I was about to jump off a cliff. I’m not afraid of much but I do have an aversion to heights. Like a child resigned to doing something they don’t want to do, I dropped my head and slumped my shoulders. My arms hung loose at my side. Looking at my feet and shook my head. Damnit! I knew he was right but did I really want to do this? How much energy was this going to take? Drawing in another deep breath, I sighed. What’s the harm in trying? It’ll be an adventure. I lifted my head, squared my shoulders and looked up at the man standing beside me. With a slight smile I said, “OK. Let’s do this.” He laughed and replied, “Good! Come on, lets get out of here.” We climbed back into his truck and headed off the mesa on that rugged dirt road.
In the past few years, many things have changed my personal perspective and my life’s direction. That August morning changed the direction of my work and my perspective as an artist. I won’t say I’ve been “chosen” for anything but the man was correct when he said this is what I was meant to do. Something changed in me that day. Once I made the decision to take on this project, it ignited a passion inside of me that I’d been searching for. It opened my mind and spirit to a new way of thinking about my art. Blending research and writing with my art has inspired new concepts. It transformed the way I design and develop my compositions and changed the way I approach each painting. I have found my voice, thanks to the man with the flute.
***
Susan Andrews lives in Colorado Springs. She is a graduate of Pikes Peak Community College and is currently working on a BFA with a concentration in painting at Adams State University, Alamosa.
