Council of Elders · by Jack M. Zimmerman & Virginia Coyle
I think his name was Joe—or something equally simple. He was part Hispanic and part Native American. His grandfather, his father’s father, was full-blooded and a member of the Pueblo’s Council of Elders. Joe had left the Pueblo as a child with his Hispanic mother and had come back during the Depression, when he was twenty, to further his education in the old ways.
Shortly after Joe’s return, the Federal Government made an important proposal to the Pueblo People concerning a land trade and mineral rights. The elders called a council to decide what to do and Joe’s grandfather invited him to join the circle as a witness.
Joe waited for the men to enter the kiva before he climbed down the ladder, carrying his rolled-up blanket. He found a place behind his grandfather near the ledge cut into the curved adobe wall that supported clay pots, drums, and bundles of dried blue corn. A fire burned in the pit at the center of the hard dirt floor. The traditional large reflecting stone sat on one side of the fire opposite the sipapu, which represented the opening in the earth through which the First People arrived from the Underworld.
“In council one listens in the silences between the words with the ears of a rabbit.”
The elders sat quietly for several minutes, while Joe listened expectantly for the start of the discussion. Then the Pueblo leader unwrapped a blue and white bundle and took out what looked like a pipe stem. It was about a foot and a half long and had feathers and strands of turquoise tied to one end; the other end was wrapped in leather. Although he had never actually seen it before, Joe knew it was the tribal “talking stick” that was used only for important councils. The leader held the stick gently in his hands for a moment and then told the story of how Deer learned to run like tumbleweed chased by the dry desert wind. Joe dimly remembered the story from his childhood in the Pueblo.
When the leader finished, he passed the talking stick to the elder on his left, who told a story Joe had never heard before about the ancestors who had built the Pueblo. And so it went, each of the old men adding his tale to the circle, as if he were placing a precious log on the ceremonial fire. Part of Joe became a child again, enthralled with the stories that had defined and sustained his people for generations. The other part grew increasingly confused and restless. When are they going to start discussing the Government's proposal, this part of Joe wondered. Although the stories touched something deep in him, four hours had passed and the proposal had not been mentioned even once.
When the talking stick returned to the leader, Joe sat up very straight in order not to miss a word of the discussion he assumed would follow. But the leader slowly laid the stick down on the blu and white cloth and closed his eyes. All the others did the same. The only sound was the soft crackling of the fire.
In the quiet of the kiva with the elders, Joe remembered the sounds of drumming and singing from his childhood—and he continued to wonder when they would start debating the proposal. After a very long half hour, all the elders stirred at once, as if by silent prearrangement, and looked into each other’s eyes, slowly and deliberately. No words were exchanged. There was no debate. Then to Joe’s amazement, the men stretched their limbs, immobile all those hours, got to their feet, and filed out of the kiva without saying a word. Joe waited until everyone had left and then hurried to catch up with his grandfather.
“The way the men listened and spoke, each contributing their part to the truth of the whole circle, struck him as nothing short of miraculous.”
“What’s going on?” he blurted out, a little out of breath. The old man stifled a smile and kept on walking. “I thought the council was going to take up the proposal,” Joe continued in confusion.
“We did,” his grandfather said in a quiet voice.
“I didn’t hear any debate—and I certainly didn’t hear any decision,” Joe responded, still mystified.
“Then you weren’t listening,” his grandfather answered, and lost his battle with the smile. “In council one listens in the silences between the words with the ears of a rabbit.”
“You mean the council actually took up the proposal and reached a decision?”
“Yes.”
“In the silence?”
“And in the stories,” his grandfather added, laughing. Joe suddenly understood what had happened. At that moment he glimpsed the magic of council and felt his connection to what had happened in the kiva. The way the men listened and spoke, each contributing their part to the truth of the whole circle, struck him as nothing short of miraculous.
