The week between Christmas and New Year’s is prime time for “What was the most memorable?” discussions. Family gatherings often come first, but then other unique holiday events are remembered.
Mine was 20 years ago, in Santa Fe, a magical place anytime, but even more on Christmas Eve.
We’d placed dozens of luminarias (candles placed in sand in brown paper bags) on rooftops, porches, the walkway of a friend’s grand old Victorian house, then lit them for a fairy book grandeur. We’d strolled Canyon Road with a merry crowd, singing carols and enjoying hot spiced cider.
Now was time for the real celebration, Christmas Eve services at the pueblos.
First to Acoma, Sky City, southwest of Albuquerque, where hundreds of golden luminarias lit the way across the dark valley and the winding road to the mesa, with the midnight sky a star-dazzled canopy.
There was no electricity on the mesa, but thousands of luminarias outlined village roofs and walls, all lighting paths leading to the magnificent adobe church built in 1625, the center of people’s lives for more than three and a half centuries.
The sanctuary, with its soaring ceiling, was dimly lit, for only a few worshipers had brought candles, but that enhanced the hushed reverence. A group of traditional Indian dancers danced before El Santo Niño, lying in a bower of branches and candles at the altar. Four butterfly dancers came, their gossamer wings of rose, blue and green barely seen in the faint light, mesmerizing against the low pulsating beat of the drums.
The Indians brought symbols of what they hoped the new year would bring, and they quietly held small baskets with those symbols — toy automobile, finely crafted little clay horses and cows, paper money, a lottery ticket, and perhaps most poignant, a piece of paper with one word: “job.”
Dancers left, but the standing crowd remained, reverent and silent, to pay homage to the Christ child. The pueblo’s governor played “Silent Night” on his harmonica, and no cathedral choir could have presented a more powerful tribute. No seats, no heat, no service, a little candlelight, and unforgettable.
Laguna pueblo church could be our next stop, the driver suggested, to a stony silence from the back seat trio. We were eager to get to Santa Domingo. But drivers rule.
We bumped around on a rocky road without finding the church. Finally we just parked, when, to our amazement and joy, 18 deer dancers materialized next to us, their bells and rattles leading us up to the church.
Two large Christmas trees ablaze with colored lights flanked the altar, and around the walls, the Stations of the Cross were represented by paintings of oversized pots in authentic brown and white designs.
To see so many deer dancers at one time, in such an intimate setting, was unbelievable. The historic dancing and music were marvelous, the kind of experience you expect never to have again.
It was after 3 a.m. as we finally headed to Santa Domingo, the night even colder and stars even brighter. The church welcomed us with a façade ablaze with twinkling lights with a cross, two shimmering angels and horses painted on the façade. We arrived as a multitude, buffalo dancers, buffalo maidens, deer, antelope and mountain sheep dancers, and all the singers and drummers swept out of the church, trailed by so many Native Americans and white visitors that it didn’t seem possible they could all fit.
We went in to see the Holy Child and leave a gift, and our 4:30 a.m. weariness must have been evident, for the Indian men overseeing the church generously urged us to come eat. The table, at least 25 feet long, covered with all sorts of homemade delicacies, and our spirits were revived.
Our luck went with us to Cochiti. When we arrived, the buffalo dancers entered the church. Another beautifully executed religious performance, an awesome pairing of native tradition within a Christian framework. We marveled then, and ever, at the memory.
Leaving the church Christmas morning, the rising sun was a glorious tribute to our Holy Night — rare and unforgettable. Any month, any year, will have a tough time surpassing this extraordinary memory.
Joanne Ditmer has been writing on environmental and urban issues for The Post since 1962.
