Rebellious, Juanita pushes back long strands of hair. Her father chugs into the Mazatlan harbor while she scrubs the boat’s galley. Throwing the water overboard, exhaustion clouds her view. Auras of the putas preparing to disembark waver in front of her.
Not soon enough she will be back in the little room off the kitchen at the home of La Currendera. Since her mother’s death she lives and apprentices to the local healer. Her childhood home is now darkened by her father’s drunken binges.
Juanita ties the bow and stern lines to the dock. Jose carefully counts out the money due to each puta. Too young to be called woman they trudge toward the bus stop with weary steps, already tired of the world and its demands.
Jose loves his daughter, yet he lives the life of a reckless bachelor, late nights, crazy parties, morning hangovers. After his wife’s passing Jose numbed his grief with alcohol and woman. Countless days and nights of drinking has become all he knows. A world twisted by grief, and soothed with distilled agave.
He cannot bear to reach out to his daughter. It could shatter him.
Last week Juanita came to him. Pale, twisting her fingers, she said, “Papa may I have Mama’s gold cross? I feel so lonely. If I could wear Mama’s cross it would help me feel closer to her and to you.”
At the time he was annoyed. Glaring at her, his head hammering with the beat of his heart, the effect of his morning tequila had already faded. The pounding headache, cottonmouth and nausea fuel his words. He’d spoken more sharply than intended. He cringes remembering.
“No. It would not be proper for you to wear your mother’s cross. The cross belongs to me. How can you be lonely when you live with La Currandera?”
His coldness takes Juanita’s breath away.
She can remember years when her father’s eyes sparkled like the sun over the ocean. Now his eyes are tinged with yellow. His voice burned dry by tequila, is a parched crackle. The years vibrant with happiness are a forgotten memory.
Juanita tries once more to reach across her loneliness. “Papa,” she says “When I’m with you it feels like you are not here. Your spirit has gone wandering since Mama died. I do not see happiness in your eyes. I miss you. Come back to me Papa. I need you.”
For Jose, buried in the ghosts of the past stained golden by tequila, his thoughts are murky and wet. He can only shake his head and ask, “How are your studies with La Currandera? When will you be able to charge for your services?”
Before she can answer he shakes his head doubtfully, “Will any man want you?” Still wagging his head he asks “Will they want you, after you are called La Currandera? Who will want to marry the apprentice to the healer?”
For the first time in their conversation Jose lifts his eyes to Juanita’s face. He says, “A strange world you’ve chosen.”
Juanita wants to shout, “You talk about my strange world? Your world revolves around prostitution. You poison yourself with tequila. What would Mama say if she could see you now?”
Instead she turns away. Her father’s question lingers, “Will any man want you?”
• • •
At La Currandera’s Juanita learns her belly is filled with miles of sensors. They are her antennae to truth. Her teacher explains, “The belly is the home of wisdom. In the gut lives your truth. To live an authentic life you must unite your mind and heart with your belly.”
She smiles at Juanita’s confusion. Shifting the conversation she says, “What are your dreams? What acts will pull your dreams from the invisible into visible reality?” She smiles and runs a warm hand across Juanita’s shoulders. She says, “My teacher had a saying. ‘If your dreams will not grow corn in everyday life then find a new dream.’ A quaint way of saying; when you marry dreams and acts, if they are not productive in the world, if they do not benefit you and others, you must re-evaluate your priorities and goals.”
Juanita is completely confused. They started talking about the belly, wisdom, connecting the belly with mind and heart. In the blink of an eye they are talking about dreams. She shakes her head. “How can you tell if your dreams are worthwhile?”
La Currandera shrugs. “What does it matter?”
Juanita’s eyes widen in distress. “Didn’t you just say dreams must grow corn?”
Stirring the pot on the stove La Currandera quietly chants a prayer. Finished she claps her hands. Looking at Juanita she inquires, “Have you finished chores?”
Juanita giggles. “Since I have come to live with you people ask me what you teach. They think my time filled with visions and magic. I tell them ‘no’ I clean the floor and find ways to make life run smoothly.”
“Yes,” La Currandera continues to stir the pot of herbs and water that will become a tonic for vitality. She says, “True power is your ability to create goodness, beauty in your life and for others. Go forward with faith in a greater goodness, Juanita. Dreams, acts, faith in goodness these are the words of power that will sculpt your life. In this way all dreams are variations of the one dream of wellness and beauty.”
Walking in the gardens Juanita repeats to herself, “Words of power: with words of power I shape my dreams.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I dream of a life shared with a loving husband and children. I dream of becoming a healer. My acts, that match my dreams, will form my future.”
Beyond the flower garden where La Currandera sits with visitors Juanita stands among the vegetables and herbs. Food as medicine filled with healing power. Pulling weeds from soil wet with the afternoon rain, she plants in her mind and heart, the one dream with infinite variations of beauty.
A small pile of weeds grows by her side. Juanita shifts her weight. Facing a new direction she continues pulling and shaking. The dirt flies free from the roots. She tosses the weed to the pile.
La Currandera does not approve of her father’s demand Juanita crew his boat weekends. She cannot come between Juanita and her father’s authority. Instead she teaches Juanita to cloak herself in prayers and power. Each time Juanita prepares to leave La Currandera she takes her on the journey to gather her power animal for added protection.
Tugging on a weed Juanita says “I rest in a greater good. My acts are the seeds of my dream. The seeds sprout. The Great Spirit decides the color of each flower. What does La Currandera call it? A greater good, united with the Great Spirit, known as Beneficence.”
Later Juanita finishes the chores of the day. She sighs, “Beneficence. I love the word, Beneficence.” Humming while mopping La Currendera’s kitchen floor, the words play over and over; dreams, acts, faith in Beneficence.
As she works her words of power become a magical elixir. They flow down her throat, coating the miles of intestinal sensors. They soothe and strengthen her. She will no longer be defined by her father’s rejection or her mother’s death. She chants, dreams, acts, Faith in Beneficence.