Zuni Girl with Jar (Curtis, Edward S., 1868-1952, photographer. c1903) source: Library of Congress

Pilgrimage to Zuni

By Natasha Shealy | Sedona.biz

Two hundred twenty miles northeast of Sedona along I-40 toward Albuquerque, on the western edge of New Mexico, lies the ancient and mystical town of Zuni.

John, Olivia, and I set out in my diesel rig early one morning on our pilgrimage to Zuni from Cottonwood, Arizona.  Our goal: to pay our respects to the statue of the patron saint, Santo Nino de Zuni.

The Zuni, or Ashiwi, are an ancient Native American tribe.  They have their own language unrelated to any other Pueblo tribes, and they are deeply religious; believing that all things share a common spirit.

More than 300 years ago the Zuni took part in a Pueblo uprising, known as the Pueblo Revolt of 1680, against the religiously repressive Spanish colonists who had established New Mexico as a province in 1598

Santo Nino is a baby Jesus statue stolen from the Nuestra Señora de Candelaria Church before it was burnt to the ground by the Zuni people during the Pueblo Revolt. Thereafter, Santo Nino de Zuni came to live with the Zuni people, and still does. I was fascinated by such a strange story, and wondered why generations of Zuni women watched over a crumbling Catholic relic with such adoration and commitment. 

Gallup, NM (outside Zuni)

We were somewhere in between Winslow and Zuni when we eyed ensuing monsoon clouds.  Thunderbolts cracked the sky, knocking out fat droplets onto the windshield of the car. I closed the sun roof, and watched our sentences get sparse.  It was like the exterior terrain was taking over the inside of my car, and stealing the words out of our mouths. My sister, Olivia, rested her head against the back window and watched the show.

We passed over a few silly little railroad crossings.  Only an hour and a half to the Santo Nino de Zuni, only an hour and a half to the Saint who divinely fulfills promises to its pilgrims.  We turned off at the Witch Well Bar and drove the last leg of our pilgrimage.  Apparently people walk, cycle and sometimes crawl to Zuni, bearing gifts for Santo Nino and believing that a great sacrifice on their part will ensure reciprocation.

Zuni Pueblo (1879) source: US National Archives

We passed Downe Yalanne Sacred Mountain as the sun set golden on parts of stone.  Dusk was coming, and we had had a full day. My eyes grew tired as we parked.
 
The Santo Nino resides in an eleven room house in the middle of town.  Missy Yasattie greeted us from inside her pueblo. I inched into the room, immediately noticing six sofas and numerous pieces of religious artwork on the walls.

I knew that the Santo Nino was at the far end of the room standing within a glass case, but I felt like I was not supposed to look at him yet, like my eyes would be staring too hard, too rudely.  We later learned that, in Zuni, it is illegal to photograph sacred sites.  I made my way over in a general circular fashion, eventually getting really close to look at the oddness of a figure dressed in a pink organza gown.

The fact that people had left Him gifts, prayers and photographs in hopes of having prayers answered touched me. 

While John, Olivia, and Missy were talking in the background, I rested my eyes. It seemed okay. I was a weary pilgrim.  Missy was telling Olivia and John that the Santo Nino is also known as the mother and daughter of the sun, that the Zuni had found him in a dress, and thought he was a she. I asked her if the Santo Nino de Zuni caused conflict due to its triumvirate identity.  Since Zunis believe that all things share a common spirit, she said there was no conflict whatsoever. She went on to say that she always stayed with the Saint, and would put him in his own room at night.

Then my wrist started twitching. I thought that I needed to stretch, and raised my arms out to the side of me and placed them again on my chest. Then my wrist started twitching again. Pretty soon it started jerking. I wondered if my subconscious had created this to entertain myself, but dismissed that as too complex, as I removed the sand cast butterfly maiden bracelet from my wrist. No! No damn it! The bracelet is too precious!

I put the bracelet back on my wrist. But it began to ache like someone had given me a rug burn. I quickly crossed the room and dramatically put the bracelet on Olivia's arm, telling her she could never give it back to me ever, that if she had to get rid of it she was to mail it directly to the Santo Nino de Zuni.

It was getting late, and we had long drive back to Cottonwood.  As we were getting into the car, Missy came out and asked us if we wanted to stay for supper.  We obliged immediately, throwing linear caution to the wind.

The family ushered us into the kitchen where they were heating up some lamb stew in a microwave. Missy’s husband passed out a round of RC cola and we sat sipping from our cans quietly as the microwave made its slow rotations around and around, nuking the traditional lamb stew served at dances. We all seemed okay not saying a word. I appreciated the silence after such a long, full day.

After dinner, we stepped back out into the parking lot around eleven at night and began our journey home, thankful for the gift that Santo Nino had given us that day.

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