From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe 6: The Journey to Hopi Land and the Meeting with the Kachinas

This article is part of a series dedicated to my encounter with the Sacred Pipe. You can find the previous articles here: From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe: My Path with Tobacco; From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe 2: In the Hands of the Invisible; From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe 3: A Door Gently Opens; From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe 4: When Tobacco Whispers in Your Ear; From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe 5: The Journey of the Sacred Pipe Begins.

The Path that Weaves the Sacred

On the Road to the Land of the Hopis

In the morning, we leave our campsite for a new stage of our journey. The road calls to us. Far from the noisy highways, it becomes a path that gently unfolds beneath our wheels. The dark and imposing pines of Arizona grow scarcer, giving way to a desert immensity—a backdrop where ochre and clay hues blend. The land stretches to infinity, an ocean of dust and light, bathed by a sun that seems to have laid down its brushes there.

A Distant Vision and a Familiar Intuition

The further we go, the more the landscape opens up. In the distance, on the horizon, the mesas appear—those majestic plateaus. They stand like islands of stone above the ocean of dust, a vision both strange and familiar. My heart races. It is not the thrill of a simple discovery, but the deep vibration of a return to something familiar. Then, without warning, a small sign emerges on the side of the road: "Hopi Land". A wave of pure joy and wonder washes over me. Time has stopped. In this precise instant, we have crossed an invisible threshold to enter a world where stones and spirits converse in silence. Here, humans are no longer the masters, but humble guests. Here we are on these sacred lands, with the Hopis.

First Steps on Second Mesa

We settle into the Hopi Cultural Center on Second Mesa, our refuge for the next four nights. The place breathes calm and serenity. Our senses open, attuning to the slow rhythm of this place. The dry heat, the infinite horizon, the inhabited silence... Everything is an invitation to slow down, to listen.

It's here that we have our first encounter. A man, a Navajo, offers the pottery of his wife, Delaine, who is Hopi. On his stall, amidst the jars with geometric patterns, a small clay Pipe immediately catches Martha's eye. Her instinct is infallible. She contemplates it, takes it in her hands, and the dialogue begins. The man tells us about Hopi stories, about the place of the Pipe in their culture. Martha, carried by this invisible connection, acquires the small Pipe.

I ask him if he has any cottonwood, the wood from which Kachinas are sculpted, a wood I am looking for for my companion. He tells me that his friend Richard, who usually sells it, isn't there, but that he might have some at his house. "I'll be here tomorrow or the day after," he promises me. A simple promise, yet one that holds hope: in this world of synchronicity, every meeting is a door to the unexpected.

In the Dance of the Earth

The Niman Ceremony: A Gift from the Spirits

Guided by intuition, we stop at a small souvenir shop run by two women. One of them, lively and direct, asks us questions. "Do you have a guide? What do you want to do?" We tell her that yes, we have a guide for tomorrow. Her next question makes my heart beat faster: "Are you going to Saturday's ceremony?"

"What ceremony?" I ask, barely able to speak.

"Niman, the ceremony of the Kachinas' departure," she replies, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I can't believe it. The alignment of the stars, the synchronicity, the luck. She explains that the ceremony has just been decided, following a particular celestial alignment, and that we will need the permission of the spiritual leader. But, she adds with a smile, our guide is the leader's own brother. The universe is smiling upon us.

The Blessing of the Rain

We continue our walk and meet Gerald, a neighbor, an artisan of breathtakingly beautiful silver jewelry. A conversation begins naturally. He asks us if we have a guide, and we learn that our guide is his godfather. "Are you going to the Niman ceremony?" he asks, like an echo from the shop. He then reveals that he himself is one of the dancers. He tells us about the commitment, the days of fasting before the great ritual, the weight of the masks, and the lack of young people to take over. I learn that in preparation, the men gather every evening in the Kiva, the ceremonial space, to prepare, pray, and smoke the Tobacco. Once again, Tobacco, in its sacred form, is a pillar of a spiritual tradition.

Suddenly, a light rain begins to fall, with an almost supernatural gentleness. Without a word, Gerald steps out, and we follow him into the drops, as if called by an invisible breath. He looks into our eyes, his words growing more intimate. "It's a good omen," he tells us, "a sign that the spirits hear what we are talking about." He encourages us, with a serene conviction, to speak to his godfather, our guide, about our wish to attend the ceremony the next day.

A Gift from the Spirits

That evening, back in our room, I see Martha, hunched over her phone, typing a message with the concentration of an orchestra conductor. Her sense of organization is unparalleled; she weaves connections, plans, and arranges things in the shadows, with a discretion and efficiency that never ceases to amaze me. Suddenly, she looks up, a smile on her lips.

She announces that we have been granted permission for the Niman ceremony on Saturday morning. I look up at the sky, my heart overflowing with gratitude for the Creator, the Spirits, and the Kachinas. This journey is a pilgrimage, where every step, every encounter, every word exchanged is an offering.

A Guide and an Ancient Wisdom

The next morning, our guide arrives in a tired old car, but with a smile that lights up the landscape. His welcome is frank and warm, despite an accent so thick that I tell myself the challenge of understanding will be great. He offers us a simple, profound wisdom: "For the Hopis, visitors are like clouds. They only pass through, but just as clouds bring rain, visitors are respected, honored, and welcomed, for they carry a part of the world that comes to meet them."

We get in, and he drives us through the different Hopi villages, revealing their stories, their secrets. He plants stories like one plants seeds. We walk together, gather medicinal plants, and he explains their uses and virtues. It is a moment of simple exchange, but one imbued with a rare depth.

Gaze from the Summit

When the Earth Whispers

During our stay, worlds overlap. This trip, which was initially supposed to lead us to the annual "Pipe Keepers" gathering in Pipestone, Minnesota, took a completely different path. Most of the elders were unable to travel, so Zoom conferences were organized so they could share their wisdom. Martha, as the coordinator of these events, participates in these virtual meetings from our room. I attend some of these virtual encounters, absorbing the wisdom of the elders, listening to their relationship with the Sacred Pipe. And yet, at the same time, my feet are treading this Hopi land that has so often called to me.

Sometimes, I leave the room and slip outside, to connect with the Earth. My steps mingle with those of generations past. I imagine the feet of Grandmother Medicine Song when she was just a little girl, treading this same soil. I feel the memory in every grain of sand, the wisdom buried in every stone. It is a deep connection, an invisible whisper that fills me with immense gratitude.

The Storyteller and the House on the Mesa

It is there that I cross paths again with the man at the pottery stall, the one who had sold the Pipe to Martha and from whom I had asked for cottonwood. I approach him and see him in conversation with another man. When I arrive, he looks at me with a smile and says: "I was just talking about you. This is Richard, he's the one who sells the cottonwood." I smile, aware that the path is opening once again. Every encounter is a thread in the invisible fabric of destiny.

Richard is a poem. He is not Hopi, but of South American origin. One day, tired of his life, he left everything behind to come and serve the Hopis. He harvests cottonwood for the artisans who carve the Kachinas, a humble job he performs while living in his car. But above all, Richard is a storyteller who transports you through his words.

One evening, I invite him to pray with me. Together, we offer our prayers to the Earth Mother. In the gratitude of the moment, he tells me about his friend Sonia, a woman who owns a house in Walpi, a village perched on First Mesa, one of the oldest villages in North America. Walpi is more than a place; it is the heart of the Hopi tradition, a living village where time has stood still. Richard tells me that he wants me to meet Sonia the next day, so she can show me her house.

The Day of Fasting and Encounters

The next day, Friday, is my last day in Hopi land. I began my fast the day before to prepare for the Niman ceremony. Martha is absorbed in her Zoom meetings, and I walk around, meeting people, hearing stories.

I go outside and see Richard in the parking lot, behind his stall, in deep conversation with a woman and a man. It's Sonia and Ron. They wave for me to join them. The connection with Sonia is immediate. We chat, share photos, and she tells me about her family and her house. She explains that the ceremony preparations prevent us from visiting her house this time, but that there will be a next time. The door to her house remains closed, but the bond we are weaving encourages me to go further. I look at her and ask if she would agree to teach me a few words in Hopi once I return to France. She accepts, and my heart soars. It is a wish I have carried for so long.

I then ask Sonia if there is a place where Martha and I could hold a ceremony. Ron points us to a spot where they used to have their sweat lodge, at the foot of First Mesa.

A Moment of Grace and Sharing

At the end of the day, Sonia drives us to the foot of First Mesa. The air becomes charged with a sacred silence, and we choose the spot that feels right, on this land that holds the prayers of entire generations. It is here that we prepare for our third Sacred Pipe ceremony together. Every ritual with Martha is a new teaching. This time, she reveals to me the secret of a first breath: how to awaken a pipe and whisper to the spirits who will choose to reside within it.

We take out the drums, and Martha respectfully places her small Hopi Pipe down. In her movements, there is infinite intention. She is not simply seeking to initiate it, but to give it life. In this moment, I feel an immense gratitude. She offers me more than words; she transmits a legacy to me, guiding me like a big sister, with a gentleness that touches me deeply.

Our prayers rise, carried by the deep sound of the drums. The day ends in a profound joy, a serenity woven by the thread of our shared moments. It is not just a moment of grace; it is the birth of an unbreakable bond between our souls, sealed by the earth, the wind, and the breath of our ancestors.

Where the Sky Meets the Earth

The Niman Ceremony: A Dance in the Rain

Our wake-up call is at 4:30 a.m. In the still-deep darkness, the excitement is immense. An invisible force pushes us in silence towards the village of Shungopovi, the birthplace of the ceremony. Out of respect for this place and its guardians, I will not reveal the details of this sacred ritual. I will simply say that I was overwhelmed by a simple beauty, a gentleness and a purity that moved me to tears. It was a song for the world, a prayer for our Earth Mother, for our brothers and sisters, a whisper of the soul that rose to the sky.

As Grandmother Medicine Song so often taught me, the dancers sang and danced their praise to the Creator, thus honoring the role entrusted to them in the Hopi creation story. When the first dance comes to an end, the leader takes out his Pipe and blows the smoke onto each Kachina. A scent of Tobacco reaches me. Not the unpleasant smell of a cigarette, but the pure and sacred fragrance of Medicine Tobacco that carries the prayers and the right energy of this sacred plant.

And as if in answer to our prayers, at the end of this first dance, the rain fell. It was not a simple meteorological phenomenon, but a sign, the blessing of the spirits that told us they had heard.

After the dance, we were invited to share a meal in the homes of the villagers. Seated at their tables, we exchanged words and smiles, listened to their stories, as if we were part of a rediscovered family. This simple communion was the ultimate gift from the Hopi land. Then, the road called us again. It was time to say goodbye, with a heart that was both full and already nostalgic, and Martha got back behind the wheel. Miles awaited us for our next stop: the Medicine Wheel in Wyoming.

From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe

This journey into the silence of stones and the presence of the Kachinas has deeply touched me. I learned that wisdom is not found in noise, but in the whisper of the earth. It was a new and essential step on the path that led me from the cigarette to the sacred pipe. But it was only the beginning, for a greater mystery awaited me, in the immensity of the mountains, amidst those sacred rocks. The path unfolds infinitely, and the signs continue to reveal themselves.

TO BE CONTINUED...

I invite you to reread the previous articles in this series, and to share your experience, your feelings, your own path in the comments. Together, we weave the sacred web of connection and transformation.

 From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe: My Path with Tobacco; From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe 2: In the Hands of the Invisible; From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe 3: A Door Gently Opens; From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe 4: When Tobacco Whispers in Your Ear; From the Cigarette to the Sacred Pipe 5: The Journey of the Sacred Pipe Begins.

To Go Further

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May this path be a prayer, and may each step be an offering on the sacred way.