My brother came to us in an airplane when he was one and I was two. He left Guatemala and traveled in the night sky across jungles and sea with a woman from the agency who soothed him over the noise of the engines. They landed on U.S. soil and he was delivered—small, malnourished, with big round eyes—into the arms of our expectant family.
It’s fitting that his new life with us began at night under the stars, because my brother is Mayan, descended from that proud, ancient civilization who looked upward to the constellations. They followed the movement of the planets and the path of the sun, plotted courses, predicted events, developed a calendar. Makes me wonder: could they have read in a comet’s tail how far away their sons and daughters would end up, or what their fortunes would be?
Almost at once this new child pulled on our senses. Our family was the earth and he was the moon, spinning a lonely orbit around us. We navigated our relationship with him by what we could see—his blazing harvest light, his fragile slivers in the dead of winter, his total eclipses in the spring without warning—and what we could feel in the dark emotional tides that swept us under. I don’t doubt that he came here trailing the spirit of a Mayan ancestor, a young male warrior who beat a fierce drum, spilled blood into the fire, scattered broken vessels in the dust…calling him, calling him back to the jungle.
My parents were so young, and my sister and I too little to understand. There was no manual: “How to Raise a Child Who Travels with an Ancestral Warrior.”
My connection to my brother was strung with worry. I was afraid we would lose him in crowded places and I panicked whenever he was out of my sight. He tended to wander, but I would yank him back. I was furious with my parents; weren’t they paying attention? He needed to be safe or I was a ball of anxiety. Our birthdays are next to each other in December, and we share an astrological sign, and yet my brother’s life—despite my vigilance, despite our astral similarities—took a drastically different turn from mine. There was no way I could stop it, no way to yank him back. I know now that our paths are made up of choices, but even choices feel foreordained at times. How else do we learn what we came here to learn. How else do we break free.
For a long time he must have questioned why he was here, and not back there where he was born. He named his first daughter after his birth mother. He started calling himself by his Latino middle name, closer to his roots than his Caucasian first name. He tattooed art and symbols on his body. Not much is known about his birth father or other siblings, but perhaps his laugh was like theirs, or the way he raises his eyebrows. I am sure his ability to tinker with things came from the same advanced minds who understood math and numbers before anyone else in the Western hemisphere. This complex human being, my brother, tugged backward, pulled forward, spinning, spinning, spinning.
When I vacation in Mexico, I see him everywhere in the stoic eyes and high cheekbones of the people who trim the hedges and sweep the walkways, in the young man at dinner who pours my water. We agree this is the game of tourism. But I know—and they know—that they come from greatness.
I went to Chichen Itza once, one of the major Mayan ruins. We stood across from a temple as our guide clapped her hands and a surreal sound came back at us; she said the Mayans built it so that the echo would sound like birds chirping. We climbed to the top of the tallest pyramid into the thick air above the tree tops, then inched our way down the steps, slippery as ice from the treading of innumerable feet. Everywhere the temples and monuments were hacked free from strangling green; carved faces in the limestone stared back at us. We looked out over a large cenote, a deep well into which young females were sacrificed for their power and strength. A snake, coiled on a rock, napped in the shade of a palm leaf. The place was alive, moving. The earth shifted underfoot; the air rang with birds and monkeys and insects. A child with a mischievous face hid behind a stone wall, then ran with tinkling laughter—the ghost of a child from long ago, I imagined.
I wanted to connect it to my brother, that aliveness, but it took years, many long years, before I could start to see, and before he could as well.
I don’t know why I’m writing about this now, except that something feels as if it’s come full circle. We are all grown, my sister and brother and I—even my parents. In the perfect vision that hindsight gives us, no one was right and no one was wrong. We simply carried ourselves heavily on, until the load became lighter. Yes, that’s probably what it is: a lightness that comes with perspective and knowing that you have survived and being able to speak about it with love for those who were there.
My brother is lighter. The jungles of his life have often overgrown him, but he has cut himself free time and again. The eyes of his beautiful children hold glints of his lineage. He makes fervent music and cooks giant feasts and cheers on the Broncos and smiles with genuine happiness. He has made peace with the warrior ancestor and the beating drum; he has told him, “I am all right. You can rest.”
And even though my brother is firmly of the earth now, he still looks up, still searches with his telescope trying to find his place in the night sky.
I hope it is clear to him:
You are a child of the universe,
No less than the trees and the stars;
You have a right to be here.
– from Max Ehrmann’s “Desiderata”
Reblogged this on Surrender of the Hopeful and commented:
I am lost in words. This is “beautifully written.”
Beautiful – the piece and your sentiment. Somehow the wording of the NatGeo ad resounds here – ‘Sometimes we must leave, in order to arrive. Sometimes you have to be apart, to know you belong together’. God bless both of you and I hope you find peace – in being apart and together.
Beautifully written!
“No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should” Beautifully written Amanda. Thank you
Yes, the next line is equally powerful. Thank you for sharing.
Devoted family is priceless.
Just popped over to Freshly Pressed and found your piece–such stunning writing. As someone who is writing a memoir I find it especially powerful and evocative. Your musings are especially musical, rhythmic and strong.
Blogging from Ecuador,
Kathy
Best of luck with your memoir. It’s a challenging process to uncover the layers, but a worthy undertaking.
Beautiful! This brought tears to my eyes. Thank you so much for sharing 🙂
Very nice
Beautifully written!
That, ladies and gentlemen, is writing. I follow enthusiastically!
Wow, this is beyond beautiful! So much power in your words. thank you.
Lovely storytelling. And very glad it has a happy ending. A worthy addition to Freshly Pressed. Congratulations.
I can feel the tugging of your heart in this tribute. Moving. Full of love and spirit.
Very beautifully written! A lovely experience you share with us.. Thank you 🙂 And indeed the universe is made up of these tiny little stories rather than just atoms!
This is a beautiful tribute to your brother and indigeneity. I can imagine for many indigenous children adopted into families outside their culture and for those amazing families that adopt, this story will resonate.
I hope so. Thank you.
Thanks for sharing this intimate piece. Family is complicated but beautiful. I have two half-brothers, but they are as much a part of me as they would be if “whole.” It’s a wonderful mystery of being human that children from all over the world can grow up loving each other as siblings, that despite our cultural gifts, we are all the same family.
Well said. Thank you.
Reblogged this on john bogle.
What a beautiful story!
Reblogged this on O Hay, Stranger. and commented:
You are a child of the universe,
No less than the trees and the stars;
You have a right to be here.
Beautifully written.
A wonderful story, beautifully written.
This blog post shines from my feed like a star in the night sky! To quote mrayis – a devastatingly beautiful piece. Just wow and thank you.
love it!
http://www.fashionforlunch.net
Cool story
It’s a beautiful and solemn thought that the natural places of the earth – jungles, deserts, landscapes – are the same as they have always been. Cities may be built, civilisations may expand then perish, but the natural places are the same as they were thousands of years ago.
I feel you have captured this sense of continuity in your post. Some things never change.
Beautiful.
I love that quote from Ehrmann. In fact, it is my signature of my personal email. I enjoyed reading your blog. It has both an urgency to be heard and understood, but it flowed musically. Nice voice.
I come back to “Desiderata” often. Glad to know others out there get it!
can’t wait for more posts! When will you update your interesting blog?
nice !
A simple wow factor… I am gonna share it on my FB page right away….
Reblogged this on angelalynsmiles's Blog and commented:
This is beautiful ! It’s amazing what we learn and how we mature with our thoughts!
This was so good, I came back to read it again. It has stayed with me. Congratulations on being Freshly Pressed and thanks for sharing this post.
I must say, lovely though!
It is not my belief but beautifully said!
This is beautiful.
Reblogged this on Wreck This Blog 😉 and commented:
I just read this and thought it was so beautiful that I want to share it with you.
i like this photo..
Reblogged this on butterflykissesbyru and commented:
So beautiful. Almost mystical
ur blog is fantastic…!!
i juss started writing..need ur views as it will boost my writing zeal..:)
i hope u will pay a visit 🙂
http://myfreshhopes.wordpress.com/2014/03/08/so-now-that-you-are-ruined-how-do-you-help-you/
Keep writing…even when you feel you have nothing to say. Mine the depths. And yes, I will pay a visit to your blog.
Utterly beautiful.
What an awesome story! http://Www.candystilettos.com
Poetic. A brief glimpse of truth and knowledge. May you find the strength to look again soon.
Reblogged this on Apps Lotus's Blog.
Reblogged this on farooqnoori and commented:
Nice
Reblogged this on Recent Top News.
Very beautiful!
One word: Talent!
Family matters are the best ans worst we can never hide.
We may be shattered apart from hating and frustrations but this are memories we keep and look up.
Reblogged this on klgonzin.
Beautiful!
This is a beautiful story. Thanks for sharing. And the verses at the end are lovely!
That’s so great! thank you for sharing