Sastun: My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer

we had our share of arguments. The added stress of my absences made it
worse. There were times when he lost heart and I was absolutely exhausted
from working full steam at two households.
I felt as if I lived a double life and the transition from one environment
to the other was overwhelming. No sooner would I lay my head down on a
freshly laundered pillowcase and feel the cool night air move through our
open thatch than my mind would leap back to my hammock in Don Elijio’s
cramped and stifling cement house.
Greg would patiently listen to my worries and triumphs at Don Elijio’s:
the backbreaking work, the patients’ stories, the marvelous tales of healing
plants. Rehashing my San Antonio days out of context gave me a sharply
different perspective. I’d remember, again, how important it was for me to
continue my work with Don Elijio. Speaking about Don Elijio also helped
me come to terms with the extent of my involvement with him and my evergrowing
love and respect. The venting allowed me to readjust to life on our
homestead and the embrace of Greg’s arms.
I always came back to the farm caked with mud and covered with bug
bites. Greg often joked about burning my clothes and shoes while I was
showering for the first time in days. Then I’d climb into bed, naively
thinking that a hot, soapy wash in the new shower that Greg had installed
had killed off the jungle critters. But the ticks were embedded in my skin
and the chiggers jumped from my body to Greg’s. My condition couldn’t be
helped. It was part of my life in San Antonio to dig in the earth and pull out
roots and collect leaves that were infested with biting ants and insects.
Once I had a run-in with a toxic caterpillar. I was on a mountain looking
for plants with Don Elijio when I closed my palm around its hundreds of
tiny, poisonous hairs coated with noxious toxins. Don Elijio rushed to my
side when he heard me moan. He grumbled, “Very bad, very bad,” while
pointing to the furry, elongated creature responsible.
“Does it kill people?” I asked, between gulping sobs.
“Sometimes. But there is no cure, only prayer and time.”
My palm felt like it had been plunged into the red hot core of fire. I
couldn’t pull it away from the flame; the excruciating pain felt as if it was
consuming my hand. Don Elijio sat me down under a shady tree. He gently
held my wrists, blew on my fiery palm, and whispered Mayan prayers.
I held my throbbing arm to my chest and let the tears flow freely as Don
Elijio and I made our way down the mountainside. By himself he carried