Life in the Balance

In the heartland of Mexico, where azure skies stretch over vast, rolling fields, a way of life has been intricately woven with the golden threads of corn. Our village of San Pedro Ixtlahuaca is on the outskirts of a worldwide cultural capital: Oaxaca. Our home is surrounded by corn fields that are planted in the beginning of the wet season that lasts from June through September. For generations, small farmers have depended on planting their corn crops, nurturing them with dedication. These farmers, often with weathered hands and faces etched with stories of perseverance, understand the dance between the heavens and their fields. Their hopes, dreams, and sustenance spring from the corn they sow. Yet, if the rains prove unkind during the critical growing season, these dreams are shattered, leaving behind daunting uncertainty. 

This year all looked good and I could look out over the green rows of corn and breathe in the vibrancy. Two companions of corn are sown among the corn⏤pole beans and squash. 

Then in mid September the rains stopped prematurely. It did not take long for the stalks to begin to wither. Unfortunately, now there is not much to harvest, and most of the fields will be fed to cattle. 

The delicate balance upon which the lives of our neighbor farmers depend is fragile. The rhythm of their existence is dictated by the capriciousness of nature, specifically the rainfall during the growing season. If rains prove to be scant, the corn crops suffer. The once vibrant emerald green fields wither under the scorching sun, and the once-promising stalks stand stunted, bearing the weight of dashed hopes. In these moments, the very essence of life as they know it hangs in the balance. 

In rural landscapes of Mexico, small-scale agriculture is not merely a livelihood; it is a heritage passed down through generations. Families rise with the sun, hands calloused from tending the soil, planting the seeds of their hopes within the nurturing earth. Among these seeds, maíz holds a special place. It is not just a crop; it is a cultural icon, a symbol of resilience, and source of sustenance. In the fields, the very essence of Mexican identity is rooted.

Not long ago, before climate change, more fields existed. Now, with all the uncertainty, land is being sold in lots, called “lotes.” As Amy and I drive to town, we see a plenitude of signs vending lots for sale. Already numerous lots have been sold around us. 

Small farmers, with unwavering spirit and deep connection to the land, continue to plant their seeds, nurturing the fragile promise of a better tomorrow. But, perhaps new techniques are needed to continue production of the sacred maíz. Hope must be found, rising like a resilient sprout through the hardened cracks in the parched Tierra Madre, our mother, the Earth.

Keeper of the Key

"Keeper of the Key, acrylic on canvas, 40 x 70 cm

Amy´s newest painting from our studio in San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, Mexico, outside Oaxaca.
In her own words:

The seated figure holds a key that invites one to explore the inner self. Like Turtle, her Mother, she is still and yet clearly present. Her garment of blossoming beauty represents the bounty of La Madre Tierra and a tribute to growing things.
She is grounded as the result of life’s long journey. Like Mother Turtle, she waits and watches in silence. She, like ourselves, always will remain , the Ancient Child, born from life giving waters, the splendor of moonlight and the magical realms of spirit, of which…we ALL possess the key to journey within.
Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent reminds us that though we may be surrounded by forces we cannot comprehend…fear will not be our response. 

Many years ago, I wrote the text for a children’s book I called, “The Turtle’s Daughters”. I created it as a pageant piece for a grand elementary school event in St. Paul , Mn. The event was sponsored by Art Start/ Art Scraps of St. Paul, an amazing non profit that brings art experiences to underprivileged communities. Several artists were hired to  work within the schools to help the children create images and objects which would be part of our procession. On an overcast Saturday afternoon, over 1000 children and families participated along the banks of the mighty Mississippi river. We honored Turtle Island (Our Earth) and her lovely water daughters, the great rivers of our planet. I read my story, accompanied by a Native American elder who softly played his flute, which mesmerized the atmosphere allowing the story to come alive.

Children of many cultures from several city schools came together to march with their creations in a marvelous parade. Some performed my tale as a dance, complete with a moving gossamer blue river made from yards of fabric. Many groups carried handmade animal banners, large painted cardboard deer and buffalo. Children carried puppets: flocks of papier-maché  birds, turtles , frogs, and many more creatures. 

Our purpose? A call to grownups to wake up, see, and acknowledge that “progress and profit” should NOT be our main goal, as human “Beings.” Together, we must work as one to protect the fragile beauty of Turtle Island, and of those of fur, feather, and fin, who have no voice…  whose survival also depends on the well being of our sacred planet.  

The students answered my call that day. They became “Child Warriors of the Healing Earth”. Although, I never submitted my story for publication, I have never forgotten the power and beauty of that somewhat rainy day moment in time.

Nothing could have stopped us.

The memory lives with me still. Every now and then, I add another voice through my imagery to make that story live on.

Bendito Sea

For more artwork: Amy Córdova Boone

 

Have The Life That Is Waiting

 The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek. ― Joseph Campbell

Outside my back door is a small shady glade with canna lilies ten feet tall. They are always blooming. The place is so magical that it instantly claims my sense of place and time. When I arrive there, no matter what I’ve been thinking or doing, I am transported to the “here and now”. 

I am living with the earth. Every day roaming on the property, planting, pulling weeds, tending, cutting grass, observing. Secretly, I think I have wanted to do this for a long time but was not in the right place and time of life. Even so, today I confided to Amy that I feared losing my creative edge; after all, I am an artist. “Don’t worry,” she said, “ that won’t happen.”
For the time being, photography has taken precedence over painting. This has happened in the past particularly when I have been traveling extensively. Being out and about exploring, it is easy to have my camera at hand. My artistic eye for subject matter and composition guides my hand. 

Meanwhile, adventures continue. We went to a birthday party with food, drink, orchestra and forty dancers in traditional costumes. And as a backdrop to the events were wall murals painted by art students that copied Amy’s illustrations from the book Dreamcarver.

At Dainzú site

San Jerónimo Tlacochahuaya

We took a hike with a group that explored the ancient ruins of Dainzú, a Zapotec archaeological site first occupied 700-600 BC. Then sauntered through fields of agave (used to produce mezcal spirits—takes about twenty years before the plants are ready) until we reached a village, San Jerónimo Tlacochahuaya, that is home to a gem of a church. The construction of this work dates from the middle of the 16th century and its creators were Dominican friars. We could not go inside, but the doors were open and let enough light in that I could stand and marvel at the wall and ceiling decorations and sacred paintings and sculptures.

Our Mexican friends Mayolo and Marta went with us to the village of Tlacolula de Matamoros which has a thriving Sunday market that we wandered through. I bought a watering can hand made from tin, some herbal medicine and sundries, while Amy bought handmade aprons and some organic foods to take home. We visited the village church: the spectacular Capilla del Señor de Tlacolula (16th century), also known as the Chapel of the Martyrs. It is completely covered with polychrome stucco and mirrors, and contains a series of statues of the most macabre martyrs (crucified, beheaded, stabbed, with an ax to the head ...). Precious wrought iron gates stand amid the baroque interior.

Church at Tlacolula

No sooner had we begun the forty-five minute drive back to Oaxaca than we encountered stalled traffic on the highway. Mayolo got out and hiked to a police car only to find that protestors had closed the highway. This is the second time Amy and I have had the bad luck to encounter such civil disobedience. 
It would be a three hour wait! We turned around and went to Mitla, a nearby town famous for an archaeological zone—one of the most important in the state of Oaxaca . It was inhabited by the Zapotecs after the fall of Monte Albán and later occupied by the Mixtecs. In this archaeological zone, the mosaic frets stand out, as well as the presence of thousands of carved pieces. “Mitla comes from Mictlan, a word of Nahuatl origin that means 'place of the dead’, and in Zapotec it is known as Liobaa, “house of tombs”. At the fall of Monte Albán, around AD 750, Mitla was one of the cities in which the political and religious power of the Zapotecs of the Central Valleys was concentrated until the arrival of the Spanish. “ —Arqueologiamexicana

At last, we headed home, this time without delay.

 We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us. ― Joseph Campbell

The Earth Is One

 It is a rite of passage each year in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The second weekend in July brings artisans from all over the globe together for an extravaganza of popular, of-the-people art: the International Folk Art Market.

People come from far and wide converge on the grounds of Santa Fe's Folk Art Museum. I love most having the unique opportunity to see artists from places I might never visit, dressed in their native costumes and gathered in one place amidst all of their artwork. Tents shelter everyone from the sun.

 

I ask people and they are usually delighted and honored when I take their photograph. Then I see what Baha'u'llah meant when he said, The earth is one country, and mankind its citizens.

Songs Of The Spirit

Caye Caulker, Belize

When I leave the United States in a few weeks, it will be an inner journey as well. Landscapes, peoples, climates and customs will differ as I visit France, Italy, Egypt and other parts of Africa. Like in a dream, fantastic surprises will come. A kaleidoscope spinning produces new chance combinations of light, shape and color. So will be my experiences. What paths to follow?

"Listen with heart and soul to the songs of the spirit, and treasure them as thine own eyes." —Baha'u'llah

Paris

Before I left home on my first circle of the globe, I had a dream where I heard a pronouncement spoken into my left ear: "The vessel he entered was a grand confusion between his world, and the world outside him." I awoke immediately, contemplating the prophecy concerning my upcoming sojourn yet puzzling over the words.

Granada, Spain

The strange divination proved true. From the start, beginning with my arrival in the all black community of Dangriga, Belize, I felt as if I stepped into DREAMING. My province became unknown and surprises occurred with each hour and day. All became a grand confusion between my world and the world outside. Borders fell. I happily abandoned former identifications, such as nationality, race, social stature, religion, etc. Oneness prevailed.

I came to call it THE DREAM.

The Worn Tracks Of Common Man

It seems ages ago that I left the United States. I wonder if I have died and entered a dream landscape that has turned generations of pages. First, the land of the Pharoahs and pyramids put a spell on me, and now Morocco with its Kasbahs, and life straddling the old world and modernity. Arab societies are culturally quite different from America—mosques replace churches and the call to prayer wails out from loudspeakers at regular intervals throughout the lands. Most women are covered in dress from head to foot, and in Morocco, often it is the way females play in the ocean at beaches; covered in clothing. 

An Egyptian family, Luxor, gypt

I often as not find I cannot speak with people because of language barriers. In Egypt it is Arabic that is spoken and in Morocco, Arabic and French. Since I speak neither, hand motions and charade is the best understood language.

Mostly, I have not sought to buffer myself with exclusivity but walk the worn tracks of common man. I get lost, and chance sometimes is not in my favor. Perspective and consciousness is everything. I replace frustration with wonder, fear with trust, bewilderment with amazement. Because I do not have barriers of belief or feelings of superiority and privilege, the world is open and I pulsate with life on many levels. Being open to roaming and surprise, I have found myself in places where I was asked into family homes. In Egypt among the earthen homes on back roads, I was made to feel like a brother—part of the family, with a place of honor at the table. Yes, the table was a simple piece of wood with short legs brought out and set on the dirt with a straw mat to sit on, but I felt perfectly comfortable and the food was delicious, and freshly prepared. Animals roamed about, children came and went, and the simple life satisfied my spirit and calmed me.

Where but in Morocco could I live in a city of blue? Chefchaouen is such a city. Built on the peaks and hillsides of the Riff Mountains, the moorish architecture is clustered amid narrow passageways that weave throughout the town. The walls and doorways are a traditional blue color. I found myself walking through the village as if in a dream of azure. When I painted, I had fewer colors on my palette—blue predominates.

Now I am in Assilah, along the Atlantic coast and have been here before. I like the relaxed atmosphere and the old medina that is perched along a seawall. It is known for an art festival each summer, and many of the walls are hand painted with artwork. I feel at home.

Everything Is In Motion

We are all travelers. All is in motion, even when appearing to be at rest. Time is always moving and everything is related to time, so everything moves, becoming “older” with each moment. Furthermore, our world and all its parts are in constant rotation: the earth is rotating on its axis, and orbiting the sun, which is in a galaxy revolving in the universe, which is in revolution of another universe; and so on.
These thoughts arrived last night when I was at a party and people asked me about how it feels now that I have stopped traveling. Really, we are always traveling, and my trip around the world is but a small step in the grander scheme of motion. Moreover, I am comfortable knowing that the flux of my travel never ends, and that my perception of the moment is most important. Quality moments depend on awareness, and the love found when one's being is commingled with the surroundings; not resisting, but surrendering and engaged.

Another question I am often asked is, “What was the best place?” That is another matter for analysis, because it depends on what I have just discussed, which is quality moments. If I am always engaged and having good quality moments, why should I deconstruct the whole experience and break it apart so that I then label segments in a sliding scale of bad to good? No, I prefer to keep my experience intact as a living whole that is entirely inter-related and inter-dependant. Of course, some memories are stronger, like when I first saw an elephant roam into my view at the Serengeti in Africa. That is a bigger impression than waiting to board an airplane in Bangkok, because boarding airplanes is something I have done many times and includes long waits in a static environment. But somehow, the two experiences do not exclude each other. If I were a Masai tribesman who had grown up among elephants, then the airport experience might be more memorable.