The Man in the Maze

One of the most powerful symbols to the Piipash (Maricopa) and  O’Odham (Pima) tribes of Arizona is the motif of “the man in the maze” The motif can best be described as a circular maze pattern, in which a small figure is standing at the opening of the maze. 

The significance of this symbol begins with firstly knowing the story in which the pattern was created. The man in the maze symbolizes the journey of life. Like all mazes, it takes time to figure out how to get to the center. The twists and turns and dead ends one face in the maze is what our people believes tells the truth about life. We are all the man in the maze, as we travel through life, face adversaries and hardships, but beauty too. It is said that if one is lucky to make it to the center of the maze then one will know their true purpose in this life. For it can be said that finding purpose in the meaning of life is a question raised since man could contemplate. But this symbol to me, is a constant reminder that we all travel the journey of life, but in the end, we all find the meaning of our lives. 

As I look down at my hands, I see my mother’s hands. It is a daily reminder of her, but to my dismay a constant reminder that she is no longer here.  I think of how we used to hold our hands out, side by side, looking at how we were blessed to have the same beautiful hands. Soft, with long fingers. Her hands always knew what hard work was:  to think that all her life she was good at taking care of a home. She often told me that making bread was fundamental to woman’s upbringing in my tribe, Piipash or Maricopa in English. My mom was full blooded Piipash, made of generations of my ancestors, completely untouched from any other people than their own.  She grew up in the 7^th District of the Gila River Indian Community. 

Now that she is gone, and I am left with only my hands as a constant reminder of her, I realized that perhaps it is left up to me to keep not only her memory, but the other elders and teachers who blessed me with their knowledge and stories alive for future generations.  As I grow older and people leave, I realize that though I am not ready, it’s up to me to help my people’s culture, one story at a time. I take comfort in standing as her daughter with her beautiful name giving me strength and the same delicate and magical hands. 

Our hands were made for jewelry. I always admired my mother’s jewelry. I loved looking at her wedding rings and often prayed that I too would find a man as wonderful as my father. I loved watching her make tortillas or frybread, her dark caramel fingers filled with dough, she massaged the bread with skill and ease. She told me tortillas are essential in feeding a lot of people. She made so many that her fingertips were burnt off from decades of flipping tortillas on a scalding hot comal nearly every day. In fact, she told me once that when she was getting fingerprinted for a job, there was little or no fingerprint left on her “flipping fingers.” With that I laugh and remember a meme that rings true to my culture, “If she has to use a fork to flip the tortilla, she is too young for you bro!” 

Mom’s hands were always adorned with rings. 3 rings to be exact. Besides her wedding bands, she loved a silver and amethyst ring for purple was her favorite color. The last ring actually was never the same per week, for she had a collection of jewelry that was divine and blessed with many articles of jewelry from our tribe, and the beautiful silversmithing of the Navajo and Pueblo tribes. She never removed her rings, except to maybe make bread but she was never without her rings. 

I have taken after her with an affinity for jewelry which from the moment I was a child I have saved nearly every article of jewelry ever gifted to me. Much of it came from my parents, but my mother of course without a doubt spoiled me immensely with jewelry of all kinds, knowing very well that I would always treasure and keep my jewels no matter how fine or inexpensive, every piece of jewelry I have offers a fond memory.

I have long toiled over the loss of my mother and find solace in my memories of her but moreover I am glad that she left me some very special pieces that belonged to her for many years. We were very close and when I would come home to Arizona, from Sweden, I would never bring any jewelry because I knew I could always borrow Mom’s. 

When I was 19 years old, I was gifted a very special ring, It was given to me along with an eagle plume from a lovely woman named, Helena Rock. It was the year I became Miss Gila River; our tribal cultural beauty pageant. I remember that she gave me the ring from her own hand, and put it in mine and told me to wear it in good health and that it would protect me. I looked down at the ring and it was a beautiful sterling silver ring with the “Man in the Maze,” symbol. It had a single small vibrant turquoise stone in the center. The circular shape of the maze is almost dome like, kind of like an old-fashioned model of a UFO, and on the underside of the ring is engraved: “Mike Chee, Navajo.” It is common that silversmiths often signed their name or symbol on their creations. It is beautiful and it is powerful.

It was my first ring with a tribal motif and I was touched by the gesture of the gift. From the moment I received it, I never took it off and have been wearing it for nearly 22 years. It has been with me through some of the most challenging moments in my life. This philosophy is fundamental to my belief system, and it was the belief in the symbol that led me to accept responsibility as a cultural matriarch of my immediate family.

I live in Sweden and I returned home for my visit in the Spring of 2023, and it was quite emotional, as COVID-19, kept me from the states. For years I was unable to take the risk of traveling home. So, after nearly 3 years, I returned home to Gila Crossing Village in the shadow of the Estrella and South Mountains. Komatke is my valley and nook in the world.

With me, I also carried emotional baggage. I felt that I needed to unload in my homelands. Unlike in Sweden I could be free to pray and worship in my ancestral home. I felt as if my ancestors heard my prayers and purged me of the burdens of my heart and soul. 

The morning after my arrival I was shocked to see that snow was on the Estrella Mountains. This rarely happened anymore and to see snow on my sacred mountain was a sign from my creator that my prayers were heard. I stood in front of the mountains and wept. It was so special that my sister wrote on her Facebook status: “I know my sister is truly home because she brought the snow with her from Sweden.”

I heard a voice inside that told me that I was ready to take my place as a steward of our family’s stories and the knowledge of the Piipash.

As I lifted my hands to accept the responsibility, my man in the maze ring was glimmering in the sunrise, and I knew at that moment that it was time to give the ring to someone new. My heart told me that the strength of the ring was needed now. 

I am blessed with many nieces; however, it is the nieces of my second eldest sister who I have coddled the most. I love them as my own, and they amaze and honor me always by telling me that they look to me to navigate the questions about our culture.

No niece of mine, however, was ever ready to receive my ring. But I decided that my sister’s eldest daughter, Frankie, was the one who would truly honor the legacy of my ring. My inner voice told me she needed the strength of this ring. For it would bind me to her for all time. She would carry the knowledge and message of this ring now. She was ready.

She cried as I gave her the ring. I told her that it was time she had it. That I was instilling my love and protection, my guidance and knowledge which she would in many years, pass the ring down to another she will teach when I am no longer alive. For as long as she wore the ring it would be as if I was always holding her hand.

It fits her beautiful hands perfectly and she told me she never takes it off. It makes me feel so happy inside she wears it, just as I did.

However, something spectacular and uncanny happened after I gave Frankie the ring, 

My father has a very hard time letting my mother’s belonging go in the Piipash tradition. For in our tradition, one’s belongings often are buried with them unless given specifically. I too face the dilemma of not having the strength to be rid of her things. So, my father keeps them in which he feels that when he leaves this world, he will bring her things with him. So, for now, he takes comfort in keeping her things.

My mother collected and hoarded every kind of jewelry. It didn’t matter, as long as it was pretty she loved it. I suppose that is where I get it from.

I was sitting with Dad after breakfast one morning and he brought out one of Mom’s older jewelry boxes. It was a box in which she kept most of her oldest jewelry. Much of it was tribal jewelry made of silver. I was sad to see that many of the silver pieces were tarnished and neglected so I decided to polish all of her things clean. Mom loved keeping even the broken jewels in which I knew she probably intended to have repaired. She had little velvet jewelry bags stuffed with jewels, some pieces I had never seen before. I loved the task of polishing it for her. I often did that when she was alive too. 

It took over an hour to polish all of the items, and just when I thought I polished every last piece I felt something in the bottom of one of the velvet bags. As I poured the contents from the bag in my palm to my surprise a tarnished silver ring fell out. As I turned the ring over, I gasped in shock to discover that my mother had the EXACT “man in the maze” ring as I did! As I turned it over, I saw on the underside, “Mike Chee, Navajo” 

It was the same ring! I began to weep uncontrollably for this was beyond coincidence, beyond explanation that how my mother unknowingly had the same ring in her collection! 

I saw it as a sign from her that I was meant to keep the ring, but this time to wear it with her power and protection.

 I was Karen now, no longer a little girl, and this was a gift from the afterlife. It is a miracle that I have the ring back, but this time from my mother, and on the beautiful hand of my niece is my ring. This symbol of our love and tribalism, and forever binding us spiritually.

Who could’ve known the true magic of this ring. It defines logic but miracles can never be rationalized or easily categorized. 

As I relate this story, I look down at my hands, see my mother in them, and with that the “man in the maze” guiding me and comforting me in life until I give it to my own child. Magic hands, magic rings, and the love of your mother will always defy a rational explanation. Now that ring is back on my finger: shining and guiding me for all time until it goes to another.