Lost in the Moment
There’s a picture of me as a young boy, standing in a baseball field at dusk. I was about 11-years-old, wearing gray sweatpants and a blue-collared shirt. I had a clean haircut, almost a flat top, the style a remnant of a late summer buzz cut.
It was September, and though you might think I was there to play baseball, it was for something far from the sport; not to mention I wasn’t much of a sporting youth.
I was there in that field on a blanket, clapping my hands, waiting for the burning of Zozobra.
At the time, a mariachi band was playing, and they had introduced the members of the Fiestas de Santa Fe court, those elected to portray our city’s Spanish forefather, Don Diego de Vargas, his queen, and their men and ladies in waiting.
I was standing and clapping and shouting “¡Qué viva!” after each person was announced, soaking in my New Mexican pride. The announcer said the burning of Zozobra was only moments away. That was when my aunt had captured the photo of me, forever stuck in the magic of that moment.
The burning of the 50-foot effigy was, and still is quite a sight to see. When the stadium goes dark, the howls from the crowd, and the puppet itself begins. Ghosts arrive to light bonfires and a fire dancer appears out of nowhere and taunts the puppet as she prepares to light the Old Man Gloom aflame.
For someone not from Santa Fe, this spectacle must look like some pagan ritual at 7,000 feet.
And it is, but it has changed. It’s more theatrical now. There’s a soundtrack and more dancers. You have to buy tickets and the crowd is more subdued.
It’s not like the days of my youth, when the community flooded the ballpark, paid $5 and made a picnic out of it, and then, once night fell, the beer cans cracked open and the joints of marijuana lit up.
But it’s that moment, the one in the picture I described, that ignites me. It’s the wonder, the awe, the magic. Those moments in time are what bring me to the page as a writer. I look for those times when the world stops for a second and when there is clarity in the mystery.
This year, the 97th burning of the puppet that kicks off Las Fiestas, I watched from my computer. Although I streamed the event versus being right there in person, I couldn’t help but feel that connection to the younger version of myself. The one that was there for the magic, the one who had committed long ago that his job, no matter how difficult it would be, was to remember moments like those and never let them go.
IMAGE COURTESY OF KIWANIS CLUB OF SANTA FE