Nochebuena

First some terms.

Nochebuena is Spanish for “good night,” as in the night Jesus was born.

Farolito means “little lantern,” the small sand filled paper bags containing votive candles. In Santa Fe they appear all over during Christmas, lining the tops of the adobe walls and roofs. The effect is magical. In contemporary life, the votive candles sometimes give way to electric ones—either wired or battery operated. These are sneeringly called “electrolitos” by the traditonalists. Electrolitos may be frowned upon, but they are certainly more practical. Up high on the walls of tall buildings, they glow, night after night in a way that hand-lit ones can’t—especially this year, when December 24th welcomed a drenching rain.

Luminaria--“light” in Spanish--refers to the small bonfires lit all over town on Nochebuena. They signify the light that guided the holy family on their journey to find shelter. Sometimes, they are built in threes—signal fires to light the way of the three wise men.

There’s a little confusion about terms here. Outside of Northern New Mexico, people call farolitos luminarias. Santa Feans will insist, heatedly, that this is wrong. But they both mean “light.” So is this really a hill to die on? At Christmastime?

It’s dangerous to build up a lot of hope and anticipation about something. I know this. But I did it anyway, regarding the Farolito Walk up Canyon Road on Nochebuena. I had been reading, and dreaming, about it for years. It is one of Santa Fe’s most cherished traditions, and I was determined to do it on our first year here—virus and rainstorm be damned. We had raincoats. We were vaccinated, boosted, and had both just recovered from our very one personal cases of Covid. If ever we were bullet-proof, this was the time.

Driving into town, I considered how this experience might not measure up to the dream in my head. Things go wrong; it’s hard to park; the crowds are a hassle; the lights are not as beautiful as the ones in your mind’s eye. We did not know what to expect, especially this year, as Omicron raged. Would the earlier driving rain, which soaked the farolito bags and put out their candles, extinguish the spirit of the Farolito Walk?

It was magical. Lights glowed everywhere: farolitos--both electric and real; ristras with tiny red lights twinkling in them; colored lights strung in trees. Music filled the air—a delightful, unexpected mix of traditional carols, jazz, Dixieland, country, reggae, African drumming. Every few steps we’d come upon another band or combo, set up in a courtyard or nook, with people gathered around to listen and appreciate. The crowds were upbeat and festive—dressed in costumes and festooned with lighted hats, jewelry, and accessories. We saw the Farolito Lady, a fixture on this night. Wearing hundreds of tiny lighted farolitos on her dress and hat, she strolls up the road greeting people, handing candy to children, and posing for selfies.

Canyon Road was pretty crowded, but not uncomfortably so. Some of the galleries were open and offered free hot chocolate or cider. People criss-crossed the street, greeting one another, calling Merry Christmas—so happy to be back, as the pandemic shut down this event last year. The mood was festive and interactive; proud Santa Feans sharing this longtime tradition with other locals, and with the tourists. We are something in between—newbies, I guess.

At the top, where Canyon Road intersects with Acequia Madre, we turned and headed down this residential street. Acequia Madre means “mother ditch.” This was an innovation brought to Native peoples by Spanish conquerers—a form of irrigation that channeled precious, life-giving water from rivers and streams into villages throughout the west. They brought readily accessible water for drinking, washing and cooking to people who had previously had to haul it over long distances. Acequia madres changed lives. They were an engineering feat that took on mystical overtones---the life-giving sustenance of the mother ditch was the literal and symbolic center of many villages. Annual community cleanings took place to keep the acequia madres in good working order; people composed and sang “songs of the acequias” to express their gratitude for these symbolic centers of their lives. High in the mountains of New Mexico, beyond the reach of modern water systems, acequia madres continue to serve that function today.

Acequia Madre road, just south of Canyon Road, is one of my favorite places in all of Santa Fe. It’s a traditional eastside neighborhood, with its own ancient mother ditch. The road is lined with trees and long adobe walls that give way to courtyards you can peek into. A lot of these homes have been in families for generations. They have had rooms added on to accommodate the growth of the family (difficult permitting processes notwithstanding); they stretch and ramble in crazy ways as a result.

Tonight, Acequia Madre is much quieter and darker than Canyon Road, but it is lit by thousands of farolitos. Some residents had built luminarias at the ends of their driveways—a prayer to the original holy family; but really, more of an invitation to passersby to drop by and visit. Each traveler is met with a warm “Merry Christmas”; this night, the talk is of the rain, and the challenges it brought to lighting a fire. One man swore his luminaria, crackling and popping in the wet, was the result of “Christmas magic.” A man on my right responded, “Oh, I didn’t know you had to use the magic kind of pinon.” “Well, there’s your problem,” responded the successful luminaria builder, smiling over his crackling flames.

A man walked by with his big, fat bulldog on leash—the dog had an umbrella clamped between its teeth. The pair became minor celebrities, greeting people and posing for pictures. And it was a funny sight. The dog gazed balefully—and patiently-- at everyone who wanted their moment, and their photo. The owner shrugged “I can’t get him to give it up.” Which is the definition of “bulldog,” isn’t it?

A few yards down the road, at Acequia Madre Elementary School, hundreds of farolitos had been laid out in curving patterns. A family with young children was there, the kids laughing and shouting and running through the lines of the farolitos, arms outstretched like they were airplanes. We made our way past. The laughter of the children receded, giving way to a hushed darkness. People strolled, gazed at the lights, and murmured greetings as they passed.

I looked at them, my fellow travelers on this earth ship. What does this mean to you, I wondered, this darkness lit by the hand of humans? Is Nochebuena the night a baby was born to bring light to the world? Is it a time when people respond to the primal call of darkness, banding together for warmth on this near-longest night of the year? Is what I see the simple miracle of human companionship? Is tonight a night to tell a virus: you will not win; we will overcome you and reclaim our lives?

Gazing at the people, and the dark, and the light, I think: it doesn’t matter. Tonight is, indeed, a good night.