Beginnings

*Eastern terminus of Ceremonial Taos Pueblo racetrack, ca. 1893. Image courtesy of Denver Public Library. Original photo Re-worked by Aztlan Times.*

In order to get prime seating to the annual San Geronimo celebration footraces every September 30th at Taos Pueblo, even if one is local, it’s almost mandatory to wake by 5 am; this in order to give oneself time to become fully awake before navigating the traffic snaking its way towards the Pueblo’s main plaza; doing so also increases the odds of ensuring a position close enough to what’s commonly referred to as “front row” along the racetrack.

If you accomplish this, and, perchance, happen to be standing there with the growing crowd in the silence of the cold dawn light; Pueblo peak dominant on the Northern skyline, majestically observing it all; one will notice, suddenly, out of nowhere, a startling yelp! followed by racers emerging from their underground kivas, single-file, up ladders protruding several rungs out the round roofs of their respective houses, pointed up to the morning sky.

To the North, Hlauuma: their runners coming from the Big Earring, Day, and Knife kivas. To the South, Hlaukwima: its runners coming from the Feather, Water and Old Axe kivas; together, they emerge in air where one can see one’s breath, clad only in breechcloth and daubed with downy feather, while my 7-year-old son and I are layered in jackets and sweaters; he with hot chocolate, and me with coffee.

By now, several hundred people have crammed into the Pueblo’s main plaza, at the point where the racetrack intersects with the ground-floor of two-storied Hlauuma, from out East, about half-mile, where the other end of the track terminates at the edge of the forest.

Turn-of-the-century photos of this event show an assortment of denim, Stetson’s, and woven blankets on a variety of Native Americans, Hispanics, and Anglos. Today, the same crowd essentially exists, save the addition of down-jackets and baseball caps replacing the Stetsons and denim; yet the woven blankets still line the roofs of the first and second-stories of North house, lending a timeless quality to the proceedings.

The race itself is a grueling repetition of, essentially “wind sprints” up and down the nearly half-mile track. By the end, the custodians who line said track; elders and tribal leaders, are pushing the runners along, coaxing them with encouraging words and prodding from branches, as the sun slowly rises and the day unfolds.

And then, suddenly, it’s done; there’s no trophy celebration, no winner, no loser. As the participants quietly and almost surreptitiously disappear among the crowd, they all seem content to have come out and done their duty; and it’s left like that. At the core of this apparent nonchalance is in knowing they’ve contributed to the story of their people and its history; the Northern Tiwa of what’s now called New Mexico.

For, in the coming together of their houses; Winter and Summer, the story of the migration and eventual integration of the latter-arriving Summer, to the initial Winter is re-told, and their combined story perpetuated. However, over the vast expanse of time in which this process has transpired; it’s essentially remained the same; the entire affair being a harvest and Solar-celebration, meant to somewhat coincide with the Autumnal equinox.

What’s important here, though, i.e., what makes the dialectic spin, is the act of running; of intentionally, and ceremonially sacrificing oneself to harsh cold and VO2 max in order to serve a higher purpose; the day’s efforts creating an unbroken chain in a sacred story stretching back in time; rooted in place: these thoughts are the basis of the undertaking, and are what matter most.

This annual reenactment of historical processes also contains a deft blend of the ancient with the present. With the inspiring vista of Taos Pueblo and Pueblo Peak as backdrop to this timeless ritual, it’s hard not to get caught up in the moment, as the energy from the racer’s seeps into the crowd. To some in attendance, it’s a spiritual event, to some, a historical curiosity, and, to others, just a group of guys running a relay-race in a pretty cool environment. It’s these differences in perception which are the focus of our thesis, and what account for the misunderstandings between Pueblo and non-Pueblo beliefs.

Hopi Roots

*Hopi footrace. Re-worked by Aztlan Times*

Almost exactly due West, and roughly 400 miles from Taos Plaza, the Hopi Mesas languish in the Arizona sun. It’s here, between the Grand Canyon, just to the West, and the Rio Grande, further out East, where running was initially incorporated into a ritual/sacred calendar, still practiced today.

Inextricably tied to this cycle was the re-enactment, through ceremony, of the migrations of the ancient Hopi as they emerged from the Grand Canyon and proceeded to split up, venturing off in the four cardinal directions, looking for the place they would eventually call “home.”

And, so, from the outset, movement is essential to the Hopi story. Somewhere along the way, though, running, in a somewhat extreme form, was incorporated into the ritual. While in Asia, yoga and martial arts were further developing as systems of connecting mind and body, in the Southwest of America, running was also accomplishing this through extended peregrinations to find the sacred spot; the aforementioned “home.”

That fact made one wonder why martial arts and yoga have become so popular in America, yet the widespread practice and dissemination of Native American Running is only practiced by a small percentage of a minuscule portion of the national population; essentially the Pueblos of Arizona and New Mexico, and various indigenous Plains peoples?

At the heart of the cryptic nature of Pueblo running is a purposeful intent on keeping its tenets insular; being part of sacred ritual, it was closely guarded and generally only orally transmitted and practiced with essential clan or Kiva members. The strongest runners were entrusted with a heavy burden, and, correspondingly, this group was rather elite from the outset; for not only would one need the natural physical stamina necessary to complete the up-to 100-mile runs, one would also have to embody the specific traits of humility and selflessness necessary on a daily-basis, in order to represent the people to the end of bringing precipitation.

The chances of this occurring are predicated on the focused breathing of the runner and the atmospheric conditions in their immediate area; prompted by imagining their part in encouraging rain clouds to form and deposit moisture on one’s fields, and to their communities, in general. The nature of this type of focused mindset, enacted to the end of working with the natural world, is not only Native American, but rings true for archaic global shamanic culture, as well; natural forces, spirits, deities, genies, angels and demons, and how one both summons and repels them, have always been part and parcel of the human spiritual toolbox.

To that end, Santa Clara Pueblo (Tewa) member, Author, and University of New Mexico Professor, Gregory Cajete reminds us in his ground-breaking work, Native Science: Natural Laws of Independence:

“To the modern mind, the idea that running can produce rain seems, at the very least, far-fetched. Yet some of the most relevant scientific discoveries of our time teach us to expect the unexpected. The Butterfly Effect may be called chance, but it is really the cumulative influence of a small change in a system. It may be an increase or decrease of temperature in a weather pattern, an individual such as Gandhi taking a stand against oppression, or a native prayer, song, dance, or ritual to bring rain to a parched land. In the world of chaos, anything is possible. Chaos theory shows that everything is related, everything has an effect, and that even small things have an influence. In a post-modern society ruled by an obsession with control, we as individuals may feel powerless, but each of us may subtly influence the course of any situation, including those that seem to be the most intractable. Human "butterfly power" resides in our ability to create.”

It’s telling that in order to describe how the act of running can possibly produce rain, Cajete borrow a term from 20th century science for describing ancient Native American processes. And, while it might seem far-fetched to offer the act of running as means for producing rain, or describing how on earth it relates to Edward Lorenz’s groundbreaking 1963 report Deterministic Nonperiodic Flow – the source of the term “butterfly effect,” it’s easy to understand what Lorenz’s thesis essentially states is that small changes in weather patterns can cause large differences over time; and, it’s within this world of unseen unpredictability and chance where individual intention might take seed and germinate.

However, even though modern science has labeled this timeless process of interconnectedness chaos theory, Cajete lets us know this sort of interconnection is merely the way reality has worked (and currently does) in Pueblo culture; the natural world’s forces laid bare through identifying their part in a holistic scheme which connects, literally, the sub-atomic earthly realm, to the milky way: there’s not a lot of darkness and mystery therein, however, there is a sound basis for one to operate within this framework if there is diligent work to that end.

Place Naming and Boundless Time

*Rio Grande flowing through Albuquerque*

However, the act of creation for Native Americans can take many forms aside from potentially affecting the weather. Expertly describing one of these personalized rituals in his groundbreaking book Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language Among the Western Apache, author Keith Basso details the process of place-making, as told him over several decades by the Cibecue Apache of Arizona. However, what Basso makes evident from the outset, is that place-making doesn't require advanced psychic capabilities, or detailed training. It's a common response to common curiosities - what happened here? Who was involved? What was it like? Why should it matter?

Deftly incorporating examples from outside the Native American paradigm to show how place-naming is a pervasive human characteristic; regardless of culture, Basso demonstrates this point by way of a conversation between two of the greatest theoretical physicists of our time:

“Consider in this regard the remarks of Niels Bohr, the great theoretical physicist, while speaking in June of 1924 with Werner Heisenberg at Kronberg Castle in Denmark, Bohr's homeland:

Isn't it strange how this castle changes as soon as one imagines that Hamlet lived here? As scientists we believe that a castle consists only of stones and admire the way the architect put them together. The stone, the green roof with its patina, the wood carvings in the church, constitute the whole castle. None of this should be changed by the fact that Hamlet lived here, and yet it is changed completely. Suddenly the walls and ramparts speak a different language. The courtyard becomes an entire world, a dark corner reminds us of the darkness of the human soul, we hear Hamlet's "to be or not to be? Yet all we really know is that his name appears in a thirteenth century chronicle. No one can prove he really lived here. But everyone knows the questions Shakespeare had him ask, the human depths he was made to reveal, and so he too had to be found on a place on earth, here in Kronberg. And once we know that - Kronberg becomes a quite different castle for us.”

(Wisdom Sits in Places, Basso pgs. 4-5.)

The difference, however, between Bohr’s and Heisenberg’s Danish example of the imaginative process applied to Kronberg, compared to its Native American counterpart, is that in Native American place-making, a series of maps have been laid out over time, and are currently in use in the present to guide one through moral decisions; detailing struggles and victories of the past with lessons in the immediate. Inspiration is built into the landscape; perpetually animate; from antiquity, till now.

However, the spirit imbuing Hamlet’s Kronberg Castle in Bohr’s scenario; particularly regarding the impressionistic aspect of the endeavor; when, in the mind’s eye, one can see the actions of the past, and use these to influence and inform the mind of the present; is, in fact, a process which mirrors the Native American concept of time, which, unlike its Western counterpart, isn't limited to linear movement, i.e., elapsing in a straight line from the past to the present, on to some unknown future point; but, rather, is more like the infinity symbol; where past and future are available in the present in a constant loop.

And, so, with the concepts of butterfly power and place-naming operating in their infinite loop of time, we shall now proceed to connect these further to the source of their respective powers; the imagination. To accomplish this, though, we shall have to incorporate the present global reality into the equation; for the country of the past is by no means the country of the present, at least in regard to topography and humanity’s effect.

It's A Small World: The Imagination Is Your Passport

Wassily Kandinsky, *Several Circles,* 1926.

In 1967, Harvard Social Psychologist Stanley Milgram found himself consumed with an unresolved hypothesis circulating in the sociological community of the day; which was, essentially, that the world, viewed as an enormous network of social acquaintances, was in a certain sense "small." That is, any one person in the world could be reached through a network of friends in only a few steps. It was called the small world problem, after the cocktail party banter in which two strangers discover that they have a mutual acquaintance and remind each other what a "small world" it is. This idea of an interconnected world suggested to Milgram and the paper’s co-author, Jeffrey Travers, that:

“social networks are in some way tightly woven, full of unexpected strands linking individuals seemingly far removed from one another in physical or social space.”

(An Experiential Study of the Small World Problem. Travers and Milgram, p. 426)

However, Milgram knew the cocktail party observation wasn't quite the whole story. He understood only a small fraction of people in the world can possibly have mutual acquaintances, and furthermore, that they run into said acquaintances with surprising regularity, closing the loop in a way...what Milgram wanted to show was when, “I don't know someone who knows you, I still know someone, who knows someone, who knows someone who does know you.”

Ultimately, Milgram realized the real question was; how many someones are in the chain?

Social network showing “clustering,” the tendency of two individuals who share a mutual friend to be friends themselves. The middle character, “Ego” has six friends who are friends with at least one other .

To resolve this, he came up with an innovative message-passing technique still known as the small world method, wherein he gave letters to a few hundred, randomly selected people from Boston and Omaha, Nebraska.

The letters were to be sent to a single target person, with an unusual rule attached: recipients could only send their letter on to somebody whom they knew on a first-name basis. If they knew the target person, they could send it to them directly. But if they didn't, and it was extremely unlikely that they would, they were to send it to someone they did know who they thought were somehow closer to the target.

At the conclusion of the process, Milgram asked participants how many ‘associations’ they thought it would take to get a letter from one place to the other, they typically estimated it in the hundreds. The result was more like six - an outcome so surprising at the time, it led to the phrase six degrees of separation.

A couple decades later, the results of Milgram’s study became the title of John Guare’s 1990 Play and subsequent film of the same name (as well as the basis for digital social networking); however, anyone who’s seen either the film or the play knows the six degrees concept itself is only a portion of its fabric; the essential element alluded to in Guare’s work is the imagination.

To that end, the hyper-informed and tightly-wound character of Ouisa (deftly played by the inimitable Stockard Channing), delivers the key monologue in said play, wherein the ‘six degrees’ concept is introduced.

The key here, though, is to bear in mind that it’s through the use of Ouisa’s imagination that the concept is brought to life:

“Everybody in this world is separated by only six other people. Six degrees of separation. Between us and everybody else on this planet. The President of the United States. a gondolier in Venice...It's not just the big names. It's anyone. A native in a rain forest. A Tierra Del Fuegan. An Eskimo. I am bound to everyone on this planet by a trail of six people. It's a profound thought."

More importantly than this close interconnection, though; this, six degrees separating us…are the ways in which we decipher and make use of this closeness, primarily in how one utilizes the imaginative process to deal with both chaos and control.

This crucial theme of chaos/control is demonstrated in Guare’s original stage production by means of a large double-sided painting by Russian artist Wassily Kandinsky, hanging over the stage, unpredictably revolving between, on one side, classical and well-ordered forms and images; and, the other, in an abstract, geometric, and thoroughly-modern form.

The painting is a device with which Guare demonstrates how life is a constant exercise of trying to maintain control and simultaneously deal with chaos. He wants us to know in this modern era, we've somehow insulated ourselves from the natural order of things, and in doing so have limited our ways of coping with reality. This, the play tells us, is mostly due to intellectual and existential paralysis, as Guare has the character of Paul tell us:

“Paralysis may indeed, thanks to Chekhov and Samuel Beckett, be the great modern theme. The extraordinary last lines of Waiting for Godot - "Let's Go." "Yes, let's go." Stage Directions: They do not move.”

Wassily Kandinsky, *Composition VII.* 1913.

However, tied to this state of paralysis (or, perhaps, because of it?) is the bigger crisis of our ability to imagine and create on our own.

Once again, Paul tells us:

“The imagination has been so debased that imagination - being imaginative - rather than being the lynchpin of our existence now stands as a synonym for something outside ourselves like science fiction or some new use for tangerine slices on raw pork chops - what an imaginative summer recipe – and Star Wars! So imaginative! And Star Trek - So imaginative! And Lord of the Rings -all those dwarves -so imaginative - The imagination has moved out of the realm of being our link - our most personal link, with our inner lives and the world outside that world- this world we share. What is schizophrenia but a horrifying state where what's in here doesn't match up with what's out there? Why has the imagination become a synonym for style? I believe that the imagination is the passport we create to take us into the real world. I believe that the imagination is another phrase for what is most uniquely us.”

Through his character of Paul, who, so intricately and entertainingly details our deficiencies regarding the collective use of our inherent imaginative capacity, Guare reminds us that intellectual paralysis also affects said process. However, it’s important to note that this particular sort of paralysis is a modern construct; perhaps a by-product of a particular philosophy, religion, or other alienating modern ideology; completely divorced from the natural order of things.

This drastic change in the use of imagination was primarily brought about by the industrial revolution and the contrast in the pace of life it brought about, making leisure time a much-valued commodity: a situation further compounded by the affiliated loss of mental space needed to process the overwhelming flow of data coming our respective ways. In the grand timeline of humankind, this state of acceleration occupies but a fraction. Yet, if we contrast the relatively small time-frame of the post-modern-industrial tragedy against the bedrock of the concept of “home,” as introduced earlier by the Hopi, it should be evident the latter is the norm, the former, anomalous.

Also, the focus of Milgram’s study differs vastly from Hopi philosophy in the essential regard it posits all as separate and independent of one another; oftentimes topical acquaintances the only connective tissue. Invariably, the closest Travers and Milgram and their small world come to overlapping with Hopi (Pueblo) thought, is in the identifying of the unexpected strands linking individuals seemingly far removed from one another in physical or social space.

Yet, while these links of unexpected strands may seem mysterious; bafflingly distant from one another from the Occidental perspective, as demonstrated via the small world problem; in the Hopi and Pueblo scheme, where all is indivisible and connected by the fabric of time and space, then these strands change from being unexpected to somewhat predictable. That is, if the small changes made possible by the butterfly effect to one’s world can be imagined; constructed from mythic mapping, and co-crafted by a vast trove of individuals past and present; directly connected to one, then the degrees of separation are zero.

Additionally, these aforementioned unexpected strands also present the problem of ‘unpredictability’ as demonstrated in Guare’s Six Degrees theme of chaos/control; i.e., the small world six degrees of connection we have with anyone else on this planet, also carries the potentiality of being harmful or destructive. It is through the interplay of the polarity of extremes; the (perceived) potentially beneficial and harmful interactions we all face, wherein we each establish our limits and boundaries and develop our respective referential framework of morals, where we live out our individual existences.

All the World’s a Trail, and We, Merely Runners

Like the Hopi, the Walatowa people of Jemez Pueblo, just Northwest of Albuquerque, New Mexico, are recognized as prolific runners. Situated high in the Jemez Mountains of New Mexico, their stunning land offers the dual benefits of altitude and varied terrain; not to mention breathtaking beauty which also serves as backdrop to a storied running tradition.

Perhaps the most recognized contemporary Jemez runner is Steve Gachupin, who burst onto the Southwestern racing scene in 1966 at the Denver Marathon. The 5”3, 120-pound Gachupin had not previously run a marathon, and was unsure of the protocol regarding hydration and nutrition; as a result, he denied water or food throughout the course of the race.

Despite these massive challenges, however, Gachupin finished second that day -- in 90-degree heat, though, and suffering from dehydration and exhaustion. He also ran the race in a pair of Converse high-tops. He followed this up by winning the Pike’s Peak Marathon; in the process setting a long-held record at this second oldest, and, perhaps most-grueling, Marathon in the U.S., with a 7,815 ft. elevation gain that takes Runners up to the 13.1-mile turn-around point at 14,115 feet.

The sheer improbability of these victories obviously garnered attention, and at the post-race interview, a curious media probed Gachupin about his running, who succinctly replied to their queries by stating, “I run to bring honor to my village.” His brief response was not offered glibly, but was merely the standard response, not just for Gachupin, but for other Pueblo racers across time. It echoed the tenets of Pueblo belief which bind daily life; the main point being the collective is primary, individual secondary, i.e., nothing individual is done without support of the community.

For, the bond between individual and community also contains the unbroken oral tradition of myth-based history. It’s here where images, introduced through story, are present in geological features both universal, e.g., the sun, wind, moon, sky; or, perhaps exclusive to a particular geographical area (Mt. Blanca, sacred to the Diné, or Navajo; the Blue Lake of the Northern Tiwa of Taos; Mt. Taylor – sacred to the Zuñi and surrounding Pueblos), might assist the Native American runner in finding inspiration via the symbols and geography surrounding them.

Perhaps the mindset of the young Gachupin can be somewhat understood by this quote from Matthew Sakiestewa Gilbert, in his 2018 book Hopi Runners: Crossing the Terrain Between Indian and American, wherein he relates a personal story regarding a Run he’d gone on with one of the Hopi interviewees for his book:

“Shortly after we approached the last quarter-mile of our run, I asked Victor one final question. “So when you run back home, how many miles do you usually cover?” I thought perhaps he would say five, eight, or even ten miles. I wanted a figure, something to gauge what we had just done to the distance he normally covers at Ho’ atvela. And I wanted to know how my running compared to Victor’s daily jaunts. But he gave me an answer that I did not expect. He smiled, chuckled a bit, and said to me, “Oh, you know, to the fence and back.”

The concise, yet vague answer Gilbert received summarizes our main point here, i.e., that the motivation for Native American running is oftentimes more about an experience than a duty, or an exercise. A sense of wanderlust underlies traditional running. It is unconcerned with time splits or mileage.

*Zuni ceremonial runner, ca. 1921. Image courtesy of Smithsonian Institution, National Museum of the American Indian. Re-worked by Aztlan Times.*

The attitude of “to the fence and back,” is part of not only a Native American mindset, but of ancient mind, as well: its motivations at the root of the enterprise, its rhythms connected to the seasons and path of the sun and moon, rather than to what our minds might force us to do in the name of “exercise.” It’s a common way of making sense of our surroundings via immersion, utilizing all our senses in the process. It is also the concept of time that factors prominently into Pueblo running. Yet, not so much in the sense of keeping track of how fast one is, but in connecting to the past and other locales in the immediate area by use of the imagination in the midst of the act of running.

Describing his mindset when running, Gachupin says, “I always like to run alone and think about life, and all the people at Jemez and everywhere.” Further showing how his particular mindset is prime example of “thinking globally and acting locally,” he adds that while on a run he, “especially feels connected to other people out running…and that joins those other runners with me and my village.”

And, so, with just a few snippets of information regarding Pueblo running, Gachupin addresses two of the aforementioned pillars of our thesis – mainly that imagination and inter-connection are essential components of Pueblo running.

Gachupin also says that when he runs, he “prays in his own way,” using his imagination to conjure a world he knows well through memory, and by drawing on those elements, is able to use their symbols as inspiration in the moment. Through the lens of this sort of endeavor, one can see the inter-connectedness of everything. Yet, rather than this being some magical or fantastical experience, the Runner knows this is merely the way things are, and that fact alone is inspirational.

In other words, this sort of motivation is timeless and accessible to anyone with a good heart and imagination. That it’s a staple of Native American Running doesn’t make it exclusive to them; they’ve merely refined the philosophy and process over time with dedication and heart in a timeless dance with mother earth. The intention of keeping the practice alive through time is what has allowed its perpetuation, and makes it unique.

We aren’t suggesting one assume they’re ‘Native American’, and appropriate selective parts of that culture, but merely to admire the philosophy and spirit of their ancient ways, here in their place of inception and continued practice: America. For, their core concepts are not particularly mystifying, nor limited to one area or peoples, but, essentially, it all comes down to breathing and feet moving over earth.

We are, however, suggesting that one approach this subject with open heart and mind in order to determine what is there of value for one, if anything. Essentially, it is up to the individual regarding how much belief one has in any given philosophy, circumstance, or situation at any given time, this, obviously, is no different.

Conclusion: Chaos/Control and Soen Nakagawa's Endless Universe Mandala

So, what we're saying, is that the act of going on a run isn't solely a mundane experience. It doesn't have to be all drudgery, or something we loathe. It can be a space where one riddles things out, finds motivation, connects to a part of the world not always present; creates images, situations, songs, prayers. It's a space that's extremely personal, and therefore very sacred; and, the more one explores this country, the more it reveals itself.

The Zen Monk, Soen Nakagawa, who was a key figure in the transmission of Zen to the U.S. in the mid-twentieth century explains this place like this:

“When we talk about the spiritual realm, we may feel that it is a place where we go after we die. Most people think that we live in the actual world while we are alive, and that after we take the last breath we somehow wander into a vague realm of the spirit. It is a great mistake to see two separate realms. Instead, where we live is in fact the spiritual realm, a realm of many billion worlds, which goes beyond three, four, even infinite dimensions. Then the danger is that we might think that this is a realm that is empty and boundless. Watch out! It's all manifested right here at this moment. It is alive and kicking!”

So, in the act of running we can work with this manifest energy of countless worlds and dimensions through our breath and imagination. Not to conquer it, nor submit to it; but to work with it in a reciprocal relationship.

Your breath is your currency in this exchange, the path your feet dance upon the earth, your own particular path. If you’re an accomplished runner, you’re aware of the sense of dedication it takes; year-in, year-out, to actually go out and do those miles; in any weather, whether you want to or not. What we would add, is that in addition to mastering breath and stride, one must also be consistently inspired to cultivate their craft.

Here’s the trick, though: it’s through the use of the imagination where one might also use its processes for self-delusion. This is usually accomplished by getting caught up in the moment; forgetting crucial running fundamentals by being in one’s head too much; in the process throwing one’s center out of balance, opening the door for injury or some other folly. It’s through the process of focusing too intently on either the self, or the external world, where the interaction ceases to function.

Our point is that the imagination is that coping device which can inspire by connecting one to external forces to the end of internal motivation. And, so, when we talk about Native American running, let's not think of Native Americans as this "other" than us. Rather, let's try to understand the complex, yet completely accessible worlds they've explored through their actions, accessible at any given moment in the present and future.

Bibliography

Basso, Keith. Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language Among the Western Apache. University of New Mexico Press. 1996.

Cajete, Gregory. Native Science: Natural Laws of Interdependence. Clear Light Publishers. 2016.

Collier, Brian S. To Bring Honor to My Village: Steve Gachupin and the Community Ceremony of Jemez Running and the Pike’s Peak Marathon. Journal of the West, Fall 2007. Vol. 46, No. 4.

Gilbert, Matthew Sakiestewa. Hopi Runners: Crossing the Terrain Between Indian and American. University Press of Kansas, 2018.

Lorenz, Edward N. Deterministic Nonperiodic Flow, Journal of the Atmospheric Sciences, Volume 20, March 1963.

Shimano, Eido Tai, presented with an Introduction by, Tanahashi, Kazuaki and Roko Sherry Chayat, compiled and translated by, Endless Vow: The Zen Path of Soen Nakagawa. Shambhala, Boston and London, 1996.

Travers, Jeffrey and Milgram, Stanley. An Experimental Study of the Small World Problem: Sociometry, Vol. 32, No. 4 (Dec., 1969), pp. 425-443

Windways