The Heart of Everything
Achik’ Ajkeem
The narrow earthen street was a crowded confusion of colors and smells. I was walking slowly, breathing slowly, as if in a dream, trying to take it all in. There was scarcely space for my feet to move, so I let my eyes linger on each sight as I made my way through the sprawling market that had taken over the street like vibrant tenacious wildflowers. There were paintings the likes of which I had never seen – women who were the wind met flocks of varicolored birds and water met the earth in a single canvas. I saw strange fruits and exotic flowers, dried tamales, and fresh corn tortillas that made my mouth water. The air was rich with a hot wet sweetness. My greedy eyes hungered for more. Jade jewelry and onyx figurines sat next to ancient-looking pottery arrayed on a vivid woven tapestry at the feet of a woman looking as ancient as the pottery. Her skin was umber and weathered. It told the story of long days laboring under the sun. She had a certain somber joy about her, as if life had taught her many lessons, as if she knew something I didn’t. This whole place was beating with a pulse that knew something I didn’t. Something Secret.
As I continued on, I noticed that either side of the street was an alternating series of concrete houses and interwoven alleyways that seemed to lead nowhere, disappearing into shadow, leaving me with the hint of other dimensions. What is this place?
“¿Maximón?” Inquired a voice I could not discern.
I looked around. There he was, the owner of the voice, not more than ten years old, not more than four feet tall, standing square in front of me. “¿Quieres ver el Maximón, no?” He insisted with a smile.
“Uh, s í,” I said, having no idea what I was agreeing to. What is el Maximón? I didn’t have time to think about it. The boy darted off into the nearest alleyway. Startled, but intrigued, I ran after him, past home after concrete home while everyone stared at our game of chase. He’s fast. He turned a corner up ahead. I thought I might lose him. Just as I rounded the corner, my heart pounding, disappointed and tired, I saw him. He was waiting for me outside a doorway holding out his hand. Panting, hands on my knees, I attempted to reclaim my breath.
“Está aquí.” He said, pointing to the doorway, then once again held out his little hand.
Oh, right. I straightened myself up from my pitiful crumpled state, reached into my pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill, placing it in his hand. “Gracias,” I spluttered. His eyes grew wide as his grin. Before I could ask anything else, he was off, vanishing into one of those alternate realities. I stood outside the doorway, utterly bewildered and estranged. What have I gotten myself into this time? I looked up at a golden cloudless sky – brilliant – and bated my breath. Only one way to find out. I walked inside.
The scene was incredulous. In the very center of the back wall stood what, or rather, who, was unmistakably el Maximón. El Gran Maximón, in all his glory, was a three-foot-tall wooden statue robed in layers of colorful cloth. He was adorned with scarves, a tie, a black suede cowboy hat with yet another scarf secured to the back so it draped over his shoulders, a regal cape – and a lit cigar protruding from his timbered lips. There were dozens of candles lit at his feet. Also – packs of cigarettes, rum and tequila, chocolate, coins and bills of various unknown origin, mysterious bundles and packages, flower petals, incense and people praying. One woman was hunched over on her knees, sobbing and speaking rapidly in Spanish and some language I could not understand. She would switch between the two erratically, and I could not follow. I only knew that she was praying for her son. I noticed the couple in the corner to my left, obviously tourists, taking pictures and murmuring to one another. Something about how sad it was.
Suddenly, I became acutely aware that I was being watched. To my right, at first barely seen through the thick haze of incense and smoke, sitting alert in a wicker chair, was a severe-looking man staring right at me. This was clearly Maximón’s keeper. Disconcerted, I returned my gaze to Maximón, pretending to be more interested than I really was in this absurd deity. But as I watched him, the sun’s rays creeping from outside the clouded room shifted, creating shadows that danced across his carved amber face. He came alive. I grew flushed and dizzy. Losing my balance, I swayed; losing touch with reality, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into darkness, certain I would fall through the concrete floor.
“Maya.”
Who said my name? I tried to open my eyes; only darkness. I can’t feel my body. What’s happening?
“Maya!”
I awoke from the dream in a cold sweat.
~ ~ ~
Ninwari
Gabriel’s eyes were fixed on me, wide and penetrating, as if scanning for trauma. “Are you okay?” He implored, the picture of concern. His face, ordinarily a sun-kissed placid pool – calm, collected, and adorably contemplative – was pallid, disheveled, robbed of its quietude. His mouth, forgotten, hung open as a broken hinge. I was lost somewhere in the rift between his lips. “Maya, are you okay?” They spoke.
“Oh,” he broke the spell, “um, yes.” My limbs lay limp in my own bath of sweat. “Yes, I’m fine,” I managed. I think. Language seemed a challenging barrier.
“You were having a fit. You kept saying Masheemone, Masheemone. What happened?” He continued, exasperated, faltering, “And what is Masheemone?”
“Fue una sueño,” my mouth worded without instruction.
“What?” His face contorted further, eyes squinched up, brows forced together, nose shriveled in confusion.
“It was only a dream,” I corrected, regaining my faculties. Deep breaths. My mouth tasted of smoke. I could still smell the copal burning; still feel the keeper’s eyes on me. I had been in Guatemala.
“It was nothing,” I said, looking past him now, watching the neon numbers change on our nightstand’s digital clock – 3:00 A.M. My body ached, longing for deep restorative slumber.
“It wasn’t nothing,” he insisted, “dreams are messages of spirit, and that was no ordinary dream, love.”
“We’re all dreaming,” I said, stretching out my sore appendages as the feeling had finally returned to them. I let out a sigh. “Some dreams are just more vivid than others.” I started to roll on my side to face away from him, wishing darkness to return. He grabbed my arm—
“Hey, I’m talking to you. Don’t turn away from me. Don’t shut me out. I’m important, too.” His deep, sweet avocado honey eyes begged to be considered; though, as if I had not noticed them, “share with me. Please,” he said.
Sometimes we have no choice but to empathize with the ones we love, and so “Dreams are our way of interpreting reality,” I began, “whether we’re asleep or awake they serve the same purpose, nevermind that sleeping and waking aren’t always what they seem; they are fluid states.”
“My dream,” I continued, pulling the tousled covers back over my body and curling up on my side, placing Max’s arm around my warmed middle, “was a call to awaken, to wake up from my dreams in the shadow where I’ve been sleeping and hiding from life. My dream let me know that I am seen; I am found. And I can no longer deny that. I have to wake up.”
~ ~ ~
Tz'utujil (a Mayan dialect):
Achik’ Ajkeem means "Dream Weaver."
Ninwari means "I am asleep."
Achik’ Ajkeem
The narrow earthen street was a crowded confusion of colors and smells. I was walking slowly, breathing slowly, as if in a dream, trying to take it all in. There was scarcely space for my feet to move, so I let my eyes linger on each sight as I made my way through the sprawling market that had taken over the street like vibrant tenacious wildflowers. There were paintings the likes of which I had never seen – women who were the wind met flocks of varicolored birds and water met the earth in a single canvas. I saw strange fruits and exotic flowers, dried tamales, and fresh corn tortillas that made my mouth water. The air was rich with a hot wet sweetness. My greedy eyes hungered for more. Jade jewelry and onyx figurines sat next to ancient-looking pottery arrayed on a vivid woven tapestry at the feet of a woman looking as ancient as the pottery. Her skin was umber and weathered. It told the story of long days laboring under the sun. She had a certain somber joy about her, as if life had taught her many lessons, as if she knew something I didn’t. This whole place was beating with a pulse that knew something I didn’t. Something Secret.
As I continued on, I noticed that either side of the street was an alternating series of concrete houses and interwoven alleyways that seemed to lead nowhere, disappearing into shadow, leaving me with the hint of other dimensions. What is this place?
“¿Maximón?” Inquired a voice I could not discern.
I looked around. There he was, the owner of the voice, not more than ten years old, not more than four feet tall, standing square in front of me. “¿Quieres ver el Maximón, no?” He insisted with a smile.
“Uh, s í,” I said, having no idea what I was agreeing to. What is el Maximón? I didn’t have time to think about it. The boy darted off into the nearest alleyway. Startled, but intrigued, I ran after him, past home after concrete home while everyone stared at our game of chase. He’s fast. He turned a corner up ahead. I thought I might lose him. Just as I rounded the corner, my heart pounding, disappointed and tired, I saw him. He was waiting for me outside a doorway holding out his hand. Panting, hands on my knees, I attempted to reclaim my breath.
“Está aquí.” He said, pointing to the doorway, then once again held out his little hand.
Oh, right. I straightened myself up from my pitiful crumpled state, reached into my pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill, placing it in his hand. “Gracias,” I spluttered. His eyes grew wide as his grin. Before I could ask anything else, he was off, vanishing into one of those alternate realities. I stood outside the doorway, utterly bewildered and estranged. What have I gotten myself into this time? I looked up at a golden cloudless sky – brilliant – and bated my breath. Only one way to find out. I walked inside.
The scene was incredulous. In the very center of the back wall stood what, or rather, who, was unmistakably el Maximón. El Gran Maximón, in all his glory, was a three-foot-tall wooden statue robed in layers of colorful cloth. He was adorned with scarves, a tie, a black suede cowboy hat with yet another scarf secured to the back so it draped over his shoulders, a regal cape – and a lit cigar protruding from his timbered lips. There were dozens of candles lit at his feet. Also – packs of cigarettes, rum and tequila, chocolate, coins and bills of various unknown origin, mysterious bundles and packages, flower petals, incense and people praying. One woman was hunched over on her knees, sobbing and speaking rapidly in Spanish and some language I could not understand. She would switch between the two erratically, and I could not follow. I only knew that she was praying for her son. I noticed the couple in the corner to my left, obviously tourists, taking pictures and murmuring to one another. Something about how sad it was.
Suddenly, I became acutely aware that I was being watched. To my right, at first barely seen through the thick haze of incense and smoke, sitting alert in a wicker chair, was a severe-looking man staring right at me. This was clearly Maximón’s keeper. Disconcerted, I returned my gaze to Maximón, pretending to be more interested than I really was in this absurd deity. But as I watched him, the sun’s rays creeping from outside the clouded room shifted, creating shadows that danced across his carved amber face. He came alive. I grew flushed and dizzy. Losing my balance, I swayed; losing touch with reality, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into darkness, certain I would fall through the concrete floor.
“Maya.”
Who said my name? I tried to open my eyes; only darkness. I can’t feel my body. What’s happening?
“Maya!”
I awoke from the dream in a cold sweat.
~ ~ ~
Ninwari
Gabriel’s eyes were fixed on me, wide and penetrating, as if scanning for trauma. “Are you okay?” He implored, the picture of concern. His face, ordinarily a sun-kissed placid pool – calm, collected, and adorably contemplative – was pallid, disheveled, robbed of its quietude. His mouth, forgotten, hung open as a broken hinge. I was lost somewhere in the rift between his lips. “Maya, are you okay?” They spoke.
“Oh,” he broke the spell, “um, yes.” My limbs lay limp in my own bath of sweat. “Yes, I’m fine,” I managed. I think. Language seemed a challenging barrier.
“You were having a fit. You kept saying Masheemone, Masheemone. What happened?” He continued, exasperated, faltering, “And what is Masheemone?”
“Fue una sueño,” my mouth worded without instruction.
“What?” His face contorted further, eyes squinched up, brows forced together, nose shriveled in confusion.
“It was only a dream,” I corrected, regaining my faculties. Deep breaths. My mouth tasted of smoke. I could still smell the copal burning; still feel the keeper’s eyes on me. I had been in Guatemala.
“It was nothing,” I said, looking past him now, watching the neon numbers change on our nightstand’s digital clock – 3:00 A.M. My body ached, longing for deep restorative slumber.
“It wasn’t nothing,” he insisted, “dreams are messages of spirit, and that was no ordinary dream, love.”
“We’re all dreaming,” I said, stretching out my sore appendages as the feeling had finally returned to them. I let out a sigh. “Some dreams are just more vivid than others.” I started to roll on my side to face away from him, wishing darkness to return. He grabbed my arm—
“Hey, I’m talking to you. Don’t turn away from me. Don’t shut me out. I’m important, too.” His deep, sweet avocado honey eyes begged to be considered; though, as if I had not noticed them, “share with me. Please,” he said.
Sometimes we have no choice but to empathize with the ones we love, and so “Dreams are our way of interpreting reality,” I began, “whether we’re asleep or awake they serve the same purpose, nevermind that sleeping and waking aren’t always what they seem; they are fluid states.”
“My dream,” I continued, pulling the tousled covers back over my body and curling up on my side, placing Max’s arm around my warmed middle, “was a call to awaken, to wake up from my dreams in the shadow where I’ve been sleeping and hiding from life. My dream let me know that I am seen; I am found. And I can no longer deny that. I have to wake up.”
~ ~ ~
Tz'utujil (a Mayan dialect):
Achik’ Ajkeem means "Dream Weaver."
Ninwari means "I am asleep."
