Tsé Daa’ Kaan, NM
Being shaken awake before sunrise, I can still hear my cheii’s voice calling out, “Get up! The sheep are on their way to the grazing fields.” I would jump up half asleep, grabbing a piece of hot ash bread with peanut butter and my gallon jug of water, running out into the dark morning with the sunrise not far behind. I’d meet my siblings and cousins, all of us rushing to catch up with the herd. Back then, our family compound was alive with livestock sheep, horses, and cattle and with that came responsibility, movement, and purpose. I mainly tended the sheep, walking them all day across the land north of Shiprock toward Chimney Rock, where our summer sheep camp stood. That camp was more than a place it was built on family, love, teamwork, and duty. We climbed mesas, laughed, talked, and worked together. Life felt whole. The land felt alive. It seemed like everything the grass, the plants, even the birds and bees moved in rhythm with us.
Then everything changed. When my cheii passed on, something deeper than routine was lost. The corral at home emptied. The movement between summer and winter camps stopped. The care, the discipline, and the heart that held everything together disappeared. Without that leadership and connection, the livestock slowly faded, and with them, that sense of unity. They say when the one who gives their heart and soul to the animals is gone, the animals know and they follow. What was once a lively, connected way of life became quiet. The dream of that life still comes back to me sometimes, like a memory trying to wake me up again. It reminds me of a time when we lived fully in the present, when family came together through shared responsibility, and when we truly saw and heard one another.
— Sarah Tsosie, Tsé Daa’ Kaan, May 2026