The Returning Rains

It has been almost three weeks since Amy and I left Santa Fe, New Mexico, and returned to our village home on the outskirts of Oaxaca, (Old) Mexico.

When we departed for Santa Fe in early September, the land was parched from drought. I had never seen the weather behave so unpredictably. The farmers had planted their cornfields at the end of June, around the beginning of the rainy season, when the skies ordinarily open and the thirsty earth drinks deeply. Almost overnight, the brown fields turn green, and the countryside undergoes a marvelous transformation.

But this year, toward the end of August, just as the corn was beginning to tassel, the rains stopped.

For nearly a month before we left, I watched the unfolding tragedy. The stalks began to wither, their leaves curling inward, their once-vigorous green turning pale and brittle. Since I have always felt a deep kinship with plant life, my heart ached to see this interruption in the cycle of growth. The farmers had done their part. They had prepared the soil and planted their seeds. But the heavens had withheld their blessing.

Now, as though to make up for lost time, the rains have returned in abundance. The earth is green again, and the hillsides shimmer with new life. But for much of the corn, the reprieve came too late. This year's harvest will be meager. Still, nothing goes entirely to waste. The stalks will be cut and used as fodder for animals.

Nature has its ways of making use of what remains.

Ostensibly, our trip to Santa Fe was to make progress resolving a stubborn wound left from my surgery in Oaxaca on June 24, when two bladder stones were removed and my enlarged prostate was reduced.

In most respects, the operation was successful. But afterward, the abdominal incision began draining fluid from two or three small openings. Since then, I have been changing bandages three times a day. And still it drains.

In Santa Fe, I had a twenty-minute, rather unsatisfactory consultation with a urologist, underwent two urine tests, and spent an hour with my longtime family physician. A sophisticated CT Scan was ordered to determine the source of the mysterious drainage. But the medical system seemed caught in a logjam of scheduling and delays. Before the most important study could be performed, Amy and I had to return home.

It was frustrating, to say the least.

And so, like the cornfields, I found myself waiting for something essential that did not seem to arrive.

Then, at last, this past Friday, a good doctor here in Oaxaca, a specialist in wound care, saw me immediately as a walk-in patient. He opened the wound, cleaned it, and inserted a small tube to probe more deeply. He withdrew a syringe full of clear liquid, which he confidently proclaimed to be urine.

This was potentially the very evidence I had been seeking in Santa Fe, where the expensive imaging study had been ordered to investigate whether my bladder was communicating with the abdominal wound through a fistula—an abnormal passage between two parts of the body.

Yet, the fluid could also have come from a seroma, a pocket of clear fluid that sometimes develops after surgery. Further examination may be necessary to distinguish one from the other. A the moment of discovery I was shocked at the vial he held in his hand and could not formulate any questions. At home, the next day, I sent his office an email with my question, but it is the weekend, so wait for a response tomorrow. 

Today I am undertaking a little experiment of my own. I intend to eat beets and drink beet juice, knowing that their deep red pigment sometimes passes into the urine. If the drainage from my wound subsequently takes on a reddish hue, it might offer another clue that the bladder is communicating with the incision. I will be watching over the next 24 to 36 hours. It is hardly a scientific test, and certainly not conclusive, but after months of uncertainty, I am eager to discover whatever clues my own body might provide.

On Wednesday, I will meet with my original surgeon to determine the way forward.

I want my life back!

There. I have said it.

For months now, an inordinate amount of my attention has been directed toward a small opening in my abdomen. The changing of bandages, the examinations, the questions without answers, the continual vigilance—it all becomes exhausting. There are paintings waiting to be made, words waiting to be written, places to visit, friends to embrace, and the ordinary, marvelous pleasures of being alive.

Yet perhaps the cornfields have something to teach me.

I watched them struggle beneath a merciless sky. I grieved for their interrupted growth. And now, although the harvest will not be what the farmers hoped for, the rains have returned. The earth is drinking again. Life continues its ancient work, sometimes invisibly, sometimes in ways we do not expect.

I have come to understand that healing is not always a straight path toward restoration. Sometimes it is a season of waiting. Sometimes it requires intervention, patience, and the humility to acknowledge that the body has its own mysterious intelligence.

Outside my window, the cornfields are stirring in the rain.

And somewhere within me, I believe, the work of renewal is continuing too.

The Landscape Has a Beating Heart

It has been a few weeks since I have written here. Life took me elsewhere for a while—not far away exactly, but into that strange territory where the body demands attention and the ordinary rhythms of life rearrange themselves around it.

Amy and I arrived from Oaxaca on September 2, returning once again to our beloved New Mexico. Very dear friends had offered us the use of a wonderful guest house on their beautiful property, along with a car. Such generosity is humbling. We flew into Albuquerque, took the Rail Runner train north through the familiar and wonderful landscape, and were met at the station in Santa Fe.

Almost immediately, the medical journey began.

My first appointment was September 4. I had come north primarily because of a lingering complication from the prostate and bladder-stone surgery I underwent in Oaxaca in June. Although the surgery itself brought significant improvement, the abdominal incision stubbornly continued to drain. Tests in Oaxaca had revealed a small tract extending inward from the wound—though without demonstrating a direct connection to the bladder. Here in Santa Fe, more tests, consultations, urine studies and discussions followed.

There have been suspicions and possibilities, but not yet a final answer.

That uncertainty has probably been one of the most difficult parts. The mind wants a name for things. It wants a diagnosis, a map, a destination and preferably a road sign telling us how many miles remain. The body, meanwhile, follows another calendar.

I have thought often of Maya, that ancient idea of the veil of appearances—the world as we perceive and construct it, rather than necessarily as it is. During these weeks I have had to learn how easily fear can become its own reality. A sensation appears, the mind seizes upon it, and before long an entire story has been written about what it might mean. I have had to practice stepping back from that story: observing what is actually happening, attending to what needs attention, and allowing the rest to remain unknown.

Perhaps this too is part of healing—not only the closing of a wound, but learning to see through the veil a little more clearly. To live with uncertainty and trust the body to do some of its ancient work without the mind continually standing over it demanding an explanation. Yet the wound continuing its weeping for almost three months and not a single definitive answer . . . well I have had to wonder, “What is my body is up to?”

Fortunately, something encouraging has been happening while all this investigation continues: I seem to be getting better.

The wound has been contracting. The drainage has diminished. Pain is negligible. I have had no fever or redness, my energy is good, and I am urinating well. Amy, who has watched all of this closely and perhaps sometimes sees more clearly than I do, keeps telling me, “You are healing. It just needs more time.”

Perhaps she is right.

My preoccupation with the physical problem also led me to visit my psychologist while here. Months of surgery, recovery, uncertainty and watching the body closely can tilt the inner scales. I wanted help restoring some balance—not by pretending that nothing was wrong, but by learning not to give the problem dominion over every hour of the day.

There is the body, and there is the mind watching the body. And then, somewhere deeper still, there is the soul watching them both.

I have been spending each day taking time for prayer. In particular, I have been saying the Bahá’í Long Healing Prayer every day. Its words move through the different chambers of illness and healing until healing itself seems larger than simply repairing flesh. I do not know what form the answer to a prayer will take. I only know that saying it changes the atmosphere within me.

Meanwhile, Santa Fe has been Santa Fe.

We love this place. So many years of our lives are woven into northern New Mexico that returning does not quite feel like visiting. Dear friends are here, and we have been fortunate to spend time with some of them. Old conversations resume. Familiar roads bend around familiar hills. The sky performs its immense daily theater above us.

We drove north to Taos, where something wonderful is unfolding for Amy. The Millicent Rogers Museum has expressed interest in adding some of her artwork to its permanent collection. For an artist whose work rises so deeply from the indigenous traditions, stories and spirit of this region, the possibility feels especially meaningful.

While there, we also visited a dear friend who is homebound and fighting cancer. There are moments when all our smaller concerns become quiet in the presence of another person's struggle. Friendship then requires very little ceremony. One simply arrives. We sit together. We share whatever light the day has given.

And outside the window is New Mexico.

The landscape has a beating heart, and somehow its rhythm is synchronized with our own. The mountains, piñon and juniper, the enormous blue sky, the adobe colors of the earth, the scents—all of it still speaks to something deep within us. Oaxaca is our home now, but New Mexico remains in our blood.

Of course, there is also our storage unit.

Every time we return, the steel door is opened with the irrational optimism of a prospector entering a gold mine. Surely this time all those paintings, photographs, furniture and accumulated valuables will miraculously transform themselves into a fortune.

Mostly they stare back at us gently, reminding of other lifetimes lived.

We move a few things around, rediscover something we had forgotten, wonder why on earth we saved something else, close the door again, and leave our treasure patiently waiting for its next opportunity to make us rich.

We also spent time in Albuquerque with my daughter Sarah. Seeing her always seems to reaffirm something that needs no explanation—the abiding love between us, strengthened rather than diminished by the years and the distances that sometimes separate us. While there, I was also able to hand-deliver a print of one of my Vanitas paintings, *Sandia Man*, to a collector: a skeleton in a blue denim shirt and rumpled hat, seated at a table contentedly eating watermelon. It was a pleasure not simply to deliver the work, but to spend time together. I have always loved those moments when a piece of art leaves my hands and enters someone else's life.

And now our time here is almost finished.

In four days Amy and I will begin the journey south again. Oaxaca awaits us. Our house awaits us. Our animals await us. Friends await us. The familiar mountains and villages and brilliant Mexican light await us.

My medical story, however, will travel with me. There are still questions to be answered and another important study ahead. Healing does not observe national borders.

Perhaps that is one of the lessons of these strange months. I have spent much of my life traveling toward something—the next country, the next painting, the next love, the next revelation. Now the journey has become quieter and more intimate.

For the moment, I am being asked to inhabit the mystery of my own body.

To care for it without fearing it.

To seek answers without demanding them.

To remain attentive to the practical things—doctors, tests, medicines, wounds—while remembering that another kind of medicine is always available: friendship, beauty, laughter, love and prayer.

Soon the suitcases will be packed again.

Amy and I will turn south toward our Mexico home.

And the healing saga will continue.

Dreaming Awake

On June 24, I went into a hospital in Oaxaca for prostate surgery and the removal of two bladder stones. The surgery appears to have been successful. The prostate problems that had caused so much pain and discomfort have been greatly relieved. The stones (which I had no idea were rattling around inside of me) are gone, though my bladder has been through a lot.
I am grateful for improvements in my quality of life.

But sixty-seven days later, I am still in a strange place. The incision below my navel that was made to remove the stones continues to weep fluid, and there is pain. I need to change bandages three times a day. There have been various explanations, but no clear answer. Next week, in Santa Fe, I will seek a second opinion.

So I find myself in what feels like a kind of no-man’s land: no longer truly ill, but not yet well.

And strangely, this has brought me back to something I experienced while traveling around the world in 2008.

Somewhere along that journey, I came to a perception that felt profoundly true:

I am dreaming awake.

Not that the world isn’t real. It is completely real while we are here. Love is real. Pain is real. Beauty is real. Loss is real.

And yet this life is only a blink of the eye. The soul is eternal.

Everything matters.

And nothing matters.

That realization gave me a remarkable calm. I could let the dream unfold without constantly demanding that it be different. My task was simply to live fully and observe as if I was a witness. When we are dreaming, events have a life of their own. We surf the “big wave,” and it is best to enjoy every moment.

It is easy to observe the dream when it is beautiful.

It is harder when the dream hurts.

My body has become mysterious to me. Something was removed. Something was released. Yet a wound remains open.

I don’t believe my psychological history caused my prostate problems or bladder stones. But I do wonder what meaning I might find in the experience. The prostate, bladder, sexuality, release, the wound that will not close—touch places in the psyche that I have been exploring for years, especially as I write my autobiography.

Perhaps the question isn’t Why did this happen to me?

Perhaps it is:

Can I remain wide awake inside the dream when the dream has become difficult?

We will be in Santa Fe soon, for three weeks. First off, I will be seeing my urologist for a second opinion, and I have an appointment with my longtime psychologist as well. I want to approach this from every level: physical, psychological, spiritual.

Jim Morrison wrote:

“Strange days have found us

And through their strange hours

We linger alone

Bodies confused…”

Yes.

Bodies confused.

And perhaps this is simply another chapter in the dream.

The Wanderer has traveled far.

Now he has been asked to stop.

To wait.

To heal.

To remain awake.

Something Has Shifted.

I hesitate to say this too loudly, having learned during the past fifty-some days how unpredictable healing can be. But the incision below my navel is hurting less. The strange “wound weeping” that has required me to change the bandage three times a day seems finally to be diminishing. I am not healed. But I think I have turned a corner.

At almost the same moment, another long travail came to its end. I wrote the final lines of the epic life-poem that has occupied me for almost a year. It comes after the completion of my travel memoir, The Weight of Air.

Needless to say, painting, which has been my passion and given meaning to my life for many decades, bowed for a time to another creative pursuit—the making of words. I could not have planned it, but the current was so strong. And here we are.

Perhaps I have reached toward a wholeness I have yearned for deep down, a culmination of myriad forces. And being broken contributes to the deeper narrative. It is humbling. I look at the world around me in all its magnificence and see that the realm of man is broken too. The news is almost insufferable. The earth itself is warming before our eyes.

The poem began as an idea to write with a biblical voice: a third-person chronicle beginning before my birth, written in canticles, looking back across the whole territory of my life. The narrator who had been following the Wanderer through the decades, writing this blog, arrives at the man sitting at his desk in Oaxaca.

He had set out to render his life in third person, as the chroniclers of old;
Standing apart from the days to see them whole, offering them as witness.
Now he turned to face the work itself—the canticle beneath his hand;
Understanding writing was no mere record, but the journey’s final country.

—From The Canticle of the Open Horizon, last canto of Under the Brilliant Star

Yet the poem cannot end as life ends, for the hand that wrote it lives still.

My body, meanwhile, has literally been weeping through the incision meant to heal me. Three layers of dissolvable stitches have been rejected. For fifty days I have wanted my body simply to close itself and become whole again. Meanwhile spending almost a year writing a life in which the wounds, ruptures, deaths, departures, and failures cannot be removed without destroying the meaning of the whole story.

The manuscript is not finished. There are words to reconsider, proofs to read, illustrations to make, pages to design. And my body is not finished with its own work either. This morning there is still a bandage below my navel. But I have not needed pain relief as before, and there is less weeping from the wound.

Something has shifted.

The poem has reached its horizon. The body seems to be finding its way toward healing. And I am still here, curious about what waits beyond the next rise.

Chin Up

It has been forty days since my prostate and bladder surgery.

I approached the operation with more than a little dread, but there really wasn’t much choice. In the end, several significant problems were resolved, for which I am deeply grateful.

Still, the procedure itself was no small matter. There was gouging of tissue, suctioning and flushing, slicing and stitching. I remained awake throughout, thanks to an epidural that numbed the lower half of my body.

At seventy-four, recovery has been slower than I imagined.

The greatest frustration is that the incision made to remove the bladder stones has not healed as expected. By now I had hoped it would have closed in the first ten days, yet it continues to weep—a mixture of plasma and a small amount of blood. Suture reactions—where the body mounts an exaggerated response and tries to push the suture out or forms a small inflammatory nodule—occur in perhaps 1–5% of patients, depending on the type of suture material, the location of the surgery, and the person’s immune response.

Three times a day I change the bandage, and each time it is soaked. It remains tender and painful—24 hours a day.

My dear neighbor Marta, a retired nurse who has watched over me with remarkable kindness, does not believe I have an infection. I have no fever, no spreading redness, no foul odor at the wound, and no pus—only the persistent drainage and localized tenderness. Her calm confidence has been reassuring.

On Tuesday I return to the surgeon. I hope for encouraging news.

The emotional side of recovery has surprised me almost as much as the physical.

Throughout my life I have usually possessed an inner resilience—a kind of flame that continued to burn, even through illness and adversity, waiting only for the chance to blaze again. This time has been different. There have been moments when uncertainty has settled over me, and I have found myself wondering when that old vitality will return.

Healing, I am learning, does not always proceed at the same pace in every part of the body—or of the spirit.

Yet the blessings continue to outweigh the setbacks.

I have Amy beside me. I have Marta’s experienced care. I have good physicians. I have friends who write and call. I have faith.

And I have Naomi’s voice, still echoing after all these years.

“Chin up!”

I can almost hear her saying it. 

The Healing Has Begun

After ten days of considerable discomfort following surgery on both my enlarged prostate and my bladder, the catheter is finally gone and I am beginning to feel better. During the operation, the enlarged portion of my prostate was removed through the urethra, while two large bladder stones were removed through a separate incision in my abdomen. For ten days, until last Friday, a catheter extended from my bladder, through my penis, into a urine collection bag that captured astonishing amounts of water tinged with blood. Thankfully, that chapter is now behind me.

My visit with the doctor was brief but encouraging. He was pleased with my progress, though he gently scolded me for being too active. He was dismayed that I had driven Amy and me to the appointment. Amy doesn't drive in the city, so I took the wheel. I admit it wasn't easy, but I tried to minimize every unnecessary movement.

The truth is, I remain weak and live with a constant low-grade ache. Blood still appears in my urine, and the surgical areas remain tender. But something remarkable has happened: my urinary stream is back to what I remember from earlier in life.

Even more significant, a major pain that had plagued me for many months has completely disappeared.

The doctor told me that this was the most difficult operation he and his team had undertaken in their careers. During the surgery, they discovered pus within my prostate. I had long suspected there was an infection, but I never knew exactly what it was. Looking back, it may explain the chronic pain around my anus and the radiating pain into my penis—both of which have now disappeared.

Now I find myself seeing life with fresh eyes and a grateful heart. I regret that I cannot yet care for my garden as I would like, but tomorrow a laborer will come to help. For now, healing itself is my work.

I am deeply grateful for Amy, for our dear neighbors Mayolo and Marta, and for the wonderful care I received from my doctor and his staff. I could not have asked for kinder companions along this road.

Healing, I am discovering, is not only a matter of the body. It is also an act of trust. And now, at long last, the healing has begun. 

One prayer has been especially meaningful to me during these days:

"Thy name is my healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy. Nearness to Thee is my hope, and love for Thee is my companion. Thy mercy to me is my healing and my succor in both this world and the world to come. Thou, verily, art the All-Bountiful, the All-Knowing, the All-Wise."   —Baha'u'llah

A Visit from the Village Veterinarian

Life in our small village near Oaxaca has its rhythms, and our two dogs, MaliNalli and Avión, are very much a part of that. MaliNalli, our sleek xoloitzquintle, is ever the graceful companion, while Avión, our sweet rescue from the streets, still carries a bit of his past with him. It took a long time for Avión to settle in—over a year of patience and reassurance before he began to trust us. Even now, he can be suspicious, but he’s protective of us and his buddy MaliNalli.

 

A few days ago, we noticed something off with Avión. He seemed to be in pain, limping and showing signs of abrasions on his underside. It looked like he might have gotten into a scuffle. By the next morning, his pain had worsened, and we knew we had to do something. We called the village veterinarian for the first time.

In the afternoon, a fine old gentleman, Dr. Mario Ruiz, arrived on his motorcycle, making his rounds. He was calm, professional, and kind. After examining Avión, he confirmed that the wounds were likely from a fight and that infection had set in. With a steady hand, he administered two injections and applied a healing powder to Avión’s belly. The cost for his services was incredibly reasonable—600 pesos (around 31 USD). He promised to return the next day, Sunday, for another injection, instructing us to give Avion a bath before his arrival.

In our quiet corner of the world, it’s reassuring to know we have such care close by, and we’re grateful for the tenderness shown to our beloved Avión. This morning we bathed him. I had to drag him into the bathroom. With tail between his legs, he whimpered and was rigid with fear, but when the warm water ran over him he relaxed. We were able to get him washed. 

He’s recovering now, resting a bit more. Hopefully, slowly regaining his strength. 

Small moments like these remind us of the community we’ve built here—both human and animal—and how we all look after one another in this shared life.

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

 

Angels Are Among Us

Angels are among us. Celestial beings with greater powers and insights than ours watch over us, pray for us and when given permission, assist us. Some people can see them. They can be felt, and even heard. Several times after my daughter died I heard her voice. I did not imagine but rather heard her voice and knew it was her.

These higher beings could easily show us much more, but generally, they do not interfere with our lives, since we are developing into higher beings ourselves and need to struggle. We cannot have answers and insights just gifted to us constantly. We must earn our way forward through our own resources.

Almost always angels arrive with peace, love and joy. When my daughter was dying, I was visited and witnessed smiles and felt gifts of deep love. Later I would be upset and wonder how the higher beings could be smiling at me while I cried in despair for help. 

Angels have a different perspective on suffering and tribulation. They see it as progress and when they witness a human suffer and go forward toward the light, they smile knowing the soul is growing like a young plant grows—drawing toward the sun and growing deep roots that will hold it from being blown away in storms. 

I wrote an article in 2002, after Naomi died:

The Smiling Angel

My twelve-year-old daughter Naomi startled me one day when she confided that she felt something scary following her. Seeking to bolster her confidence, I suggested turning around to face whatever it was. Five years later, we both came face to face with a monster that had been creeping up on her: we learned she was in the grip of a bone cancer that was spreading rapidly through her body. A track and field runner in high school, now Naomi teetered on the brink of death. This time she counseled me, saying, “Keep your chin up, Dad, and take deep breaths.”

While in public I tried my best to follow her advice, delivered like a true athlete, in private I fell on my knees and prayed for her protection and healing. During my prayers one day, I felt the presence of angels in the room; welcoming it as a sign my plea was heard, I gained faith that Naomi’s life would be spared. She also prayed, and wrote in her journal, “I know I am surrounded by spirits, and that is the feeling of the Lord.”

Initially it seemed that our prayers were being answered. Amidst the support of loved ones and a team of doctors, Naomi’s illness retreated. She spoke of her life-threatening illness as an opportunity and said, “Hardships can make us stronger. Every situation has some good in it.” Our family relaxed as she graduated from high school and made plans for college. But our faith was dealt a terrible blow when follow-up scans showed the cancer had come back and Naomi would have to face the prospect of dying painfully. With great valor she wrote a note to herself: “Show up and be lovingly present, no matter what it looks like out there or inside yourself. Always speak the truth of your heart.”

One night I fell on my knees tearfully begging God to spare my beloved daughter. As I finished praying, a smiling angel came to me with great compassion and love, as if to acknowledge that once again my prayers were heard. But my thankfulness quickly turned to anger. Furious at being helpless, I could not fathom how the angel could be smiling while I was so miserable.

Months later Naomi passed away, but my dismay at the helplessness I felt during the smiling angel’s visit stayed with me. Only recently, after an interlude of several years, have I made peace with it. Had I been able to listen, the angel would have told me: “We have been watching over you and are touched by your love for your daughter. Death cannot sever the bond you both have together. We see that your heart aches for the terrible events that have befallen her, but don’t dwell on the darkness. If it were possible to step back and notice how she meets her hardships, you too could not help but smile. Look at how she treasures life while battling the pain of her illness. Each day she puts her trust in God, sees beyond her grief, and holds her heart open. She is a ray of light in the darkness. God is pleased with your lovely Naomi and is protecting her. Rest assured that she will abide in eternal happiness.”

Now, as I continue to heal the pain of losing my daughter, a smile will cross my face. Feeling Naomi’s spirit, I know she is indeed at peace and happy. I can then hold my chin up, take deep breaths and pay close attention as she directs my heart to cherish all of life as a gift.

My book about Naomi: A Heart Traced in Sand

Be Lovingly Present

During my recent trip around the world I had nothing more personal to me than three little framed photographs I always kept near. The portraits are of `Abdu’l-Bahá, Naomi Boone, and Paramahansa Yogananda. All three are abiding now in the angelic realm.

 `Abdu’l-Bahá (Persian/Arabic 23 May 1844 – 28 November 1921) was the son of Bahá'u'lláh ("Glory of God"; 12 November 1817– 29 May 1892) , the founder of the Bahá'í Faith. Naomi Boone (Jan. 11 1980 – July 5, 1999) is my oldest daughter who died of cancer when she was nineteen. Paramahansa Yogananda (Bengali, 5 January 1893– 7 March 1952) was an Indian yogi and guru.

I am especially privileged to have been with Naomi and walked by her side in this world. I wrote a book about our journey together (A Heart Traced In Sand) and used her own writings to reveal her soul. Naomi started writing in diaries at the age of twelve. In addition she left volumes of drawings, paintings, some sculptures, and scribbled affirmations she made during her sufferings. At one point in her last diary, she was upset that she was getting worse, not improving. As she vented, she had the thought that someone would be reading her words after she died. She hated the notion because it was fatalistic. She wrote that she would rather burn her diary. I am glad she did not.

Naomi suffered tremendously before dying, but strove not to let it show. An active athlete in High School, she was on the track and field and cross-country running teams. She was in the Ski club, German Club and went to Germany. She began having difficulty with her leg, and we discovered she had bone cancer. The cancer had metastasized to her lungs as well. The tumor in her hip was very large and expanding—fracturing her bone. The treatments were horrendous. Her hair fell out, she was on crutches, was isolated for spells in hospital rooms . . . constantly hooked up to machines. Meanwhile she was attempting to finish high school between treatments, and applied to college.
She underwent a bone marrow transplant—doses of chemotherapy so high it destroyed her bone marrow. It also destroyed her immune system. Once when she sneezed, her nose bled and would not stop bleeding for three days. A specialist had to be called to constrict the blood vessels in her nose. She was given back stem cells that had been harvested from her earlier, and her bone marrow revived. She was accepted to an art college, and graduated high school.

All along, she fought hard and made every effort to live normally, even taking a job. The cancer retreated but came back and killed her. She had said that she did not want to die a slow agonizing death, but this is what happened. Her leg was terribly swollen, she could not feel her foot, was in intense pain, nauseous, and suffocated to death when her lungs filled with fluid. Yet, just the day before, she managed to say to someone massaging her, “I love my body, it has been so good to me.”

Remarkably, Naomi seldom complained and actually was more concerned for those around her. I barely left her side for two years. After she died, someone said we were like twin flames, and I know that is right.

My life has not been gentle since my father died two years ago, then my wife and I divorced, my first wife died, and then my mother passed away. I have felt sorrow, loneliness, pathos and more. Yet, I have not been blind to the good that occurs and my many fortunes and blessings.

I take solace in her words, and when I feel tired, or that life is unjust, or empty, I remember them. I have taken sentences from her writings, some just before she died, and written them here:

Healing! Loving! Knowing! Wishing! Hoping! Being! Enjoying! Living! Mending! Giving! Praying! Sending! Shining! These gifts of life are what make it possible to fight so hard to keep it.

This world is so full of opportunities that one can hardly keep up with them all. Life is so beautiful, I cherish it and want to be able to see every part of it.

I want to show God that I have learned much and feel I deserve acres of life to unfold for me. I love this life and I want to be here for as long as God allows. I trust that God knows my love for life and the happiness it gives me.

I am chi. I am full of the life force, full of the flowers, trees, the smell of lavender and roses, the feeling of the wind blowing against my face as I run, and the wonder when I go snorkeling and see the other world! That is only a little bit of what the life force is. I am chi, that life force.

It seems there is no way of knowing that everything will be okay. The only thing I can do is trust in God and the power I have within.

Sometimes I am afraid that I might die. It is not that I am afraid of going somewhere else, it is that I don't want to and I am not ready to leave this world. It is not death I fear, It is losing life and people.

As of now, I let go of my fears and troubles. In their place I let God do the work. I let light and energy, wholesomeness and happiness enter my soul. I know everything will be alright because God is with me no matter what.

I am filled with a wonderful sense of happiness. It is an indescribable sense of utmost freedom and joy. When I am in touch with it I just think, Oh, God, thank you for this beautiful body and life. I have learned how to use THANK YOU throughout everything.

Everything is important and nothing is important; everything is illusion back to God. Everything is already accomplished; you just have to bring your consciousness to it: Divine order is always in place. There is no place to go and nothing to do.

In every heart there is a deep sorrow, one that edges in like a whisper on a cold night. The delicacy of a person who is outwardly strong is as delicate as a rose before a frost inwardly.

May I be protected from internal and external harm. May I be healthy and strong,
 May I be happy and at peace.
May I care for myself joyfully.

God is with me, I just need to give it all to Him.

Hardship is something that will make us stronger. I don't know if I have complete evidence of this, but I think that in every situation there is good in it.

Show up and be lovingly present, no matter what it looks like out there or inside yourself. Always speak the truth of your heart.

Dear God, I want to tell you that I am thankful for my remarkable body. The joy in my soul has helped my body know how strong it actually is.

 

 

Private Sanctuary Of Love

“Nothing do I perceive, but I perceive God within it, God before it, and God after it.” -Baha'u'llah, (Persian,  November 12 1817 – May 29 1892)

I stayed in a spare bedroom while I visited my mother in her home in Santa Barbara, California. She is weak with a slowly failing body, but her spirit is strong. Her caregivers, noticing a sudden decline, urged me to visit—yet, what was to be my final farewell trip across state borders to her bedside was nothing of the sort. She revived, was glad to see me, and we took advantage of the visit to reaffirm our eternal bond. My trip lasted one week.

Simultaneously with my mother's precarious condition, I have another serious issue pressing upon me, so I am compelled to pray far more than usual. Twice a day for a month now, I have been reciting The Long Healing Prayer of Baha'u'llah. Although the pain is not taken from me, I find my mind shifting enough that I clearly see the difference between temporal and eternal. My strength is in the eternal . . . where the discerning mind sees reality.

My last day in Santa Barbara, the weather was perfect—balmy, sunny and serene, with slight caressing breezes. My mother's home is on a corner lot, and surrounded by an immense hedge so that it is completely private. Birds are always present at the feeders, the grass is green and kept trim, and a lovely rose garden holds eighty bushes that bloom most of the year. It was my custom to walk around outdoors and pray, and as I did, the fragrance of jasmine and orange blossoms filled the air. The beautiful roses bloomed beside me, and I heard birds singing. The great trees sheltered me from above and as I concentrated on the Creator,  I felt I was in a private sanctuary of Love.

Candle Burning At Both Ends

Heidi Of The Mountains took off to Mexico for a week with a few girlfriends, and now it is my turn. 

San Francisco is just a few hours away by air and it holds special significance as being where I spent the last months of my oldest daughter's life with her. After Naomi's death in 1999, I would go back every spring and find the same places that now hold her footprint and summon my memory. I stay in the same hotel—The Seal Rock Inn, by Sutro Park, and it feels like home. Golden Gate Park is nearby, and I know it like the back of my hand. Each morning I go to a coffee house that is a local landmark, along Ocean Beach. I may stop and watch the surfers in wet suits, some of them kite surfing. 

Sutro Park, looking down to Ocean Beach

The Thinker, at Legion Of Honor Museum

Windmill in the Golden Gate Park

As usual, I will go across the Golden Gate Bridge, driving north to Sausalito and then over to the redwood forests. I like to go to Muir Beach, where Naomi and I visited, and I set up my easel and make a painting on the hillside by the coast, where I can look out over wildflowers to the little cove and see the Pacific Ocean waves frothing white as they churn toward the shore.

I always go to art museums, and check out the current exhibitions. And there is a sushi restaurant I always return to, and the Japanese chef is at the bar . . . it is a family business . . . and I notice how everything is the same; the wooden tables, the view to the street, the sushi bar with it's delicacies in view, and the same guy, aging little by little, year by year, but cordial and smiling as ever.

The hills along the Pacific Ocean near Muir Beach

When Naomi was with me, we were like candles burning at both ends. Each day we sought magic and healing, and though she was dying, I could see how she relished the moments she had left. For me, always next to her, every moment had a special poignancy, so when I go back, now, years later, the poignancy comes from touching familiar places that summon all my feeling from memories.

A Gathering Of Men

“What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.” Aristotle

This weekend I took it upon myself to join a gathering of men, mostly strangers to me, gathered in the remote seclusion of a pine forest, far from civilization. New Mexico Mens Wellness is an organic, from-the-ground-up organization devoted to mens wellness that has been active about twenty-five years. The main yearly event is in the fall, attended by about 100 men. The summer gathering is much smaller. I attended the big gathering once, in 2006. The theme for this summer’s conference was Intuition and Inspiration.

I only knew a few of the guys, but it did not matter because this was a time for male bonding and everyone would leave as friends. Without women around, men could relax without feeling competitive, or bound by a partner, and simply turn to each other in brotherhood and accord. I felt immediately at home in the forest, prepared to sleep in my van two nights.

I suppose a gathering of women would be similarly supportive and bonding, but they might need more comfort. It rained hard twice and none of the men complained, although two guys had their tent flooded while they were away hiking and had to leave a night early because their sleeping bags were soaked. The firewood was always covered so we always had a campfire lit at the center of our morning and evening circle gatherings where main topics were discussed and each man had an opportunity to talk. When someone had something to contribute, he picked up a special, sacred “talking stick”, and while he spoke everyone else listened. Then, he would place the stick down to signal that he was finished and someone else could pick the stick up. Serious discussion ensued and we also shared jokes, ribbing and laughter, musical recitations, singing, poetry, prayer, introspection and observation, and great appreciation of nature. Although women were not physically at hand, they were present in spirit because every man had deep relationship with females. The women could let their men go to this gathering knowing that it was good for them and they would come back home refreshed and stronger.

During an afternoon practice, the group became silent and each man went into his own inner space to be quiet. One by one, sacred sage smoke was waved around each body, using an eagle feather, and a prayer scarf given as a gift before the man was led to walk alone into the forest and find a special spot to stop and ponder in solitude. Everyone was directed to walk as though giving light to the earth with each step. As I stepped peacefully forth under a blue sky in the balmy air, all of nature seemed happy and whole. The earth underfoot was soft from moisture and covered with pine needles. I noticed delicate flowers and wild grasses, feeling my way among shrubs spread loosely under the tall trees. Before long, I had found my spot and sat down under a pine, near a young scrub oak tree. A flat rock with a delicate pattern of lichen spread on its hard surface was partly buried in the ground in front of me. I reveled that the plant was living not in ground, but thriving on the unyielding, barren surface. A slight breeze blew the nearby green oak leaves in unison, making a rippling chorus of light. I dug my fingers under the matted pine needles to feel the cool soil, and scooped up a handful to smell the pungent earthy fragrance. On the same ground were deer droppings, and I picked them up and crushed them in my fingers. What appeared was the same plant matter that was all around me. The deer are composed of the same elements as the forest.

As I pondered my inner life, I realized I have strength and happiness, but also pain and sorrow always within. This proves the manifest direct relationship of mental and physical forces—and I know something of the origins. For instance, I have always had throat issues, and this I trace back to a frightening dream I had as a small child. In the dream, I was laying sweetly on my back, in bed under the eaves of an attic, beside an open window with lace curtains. A gentle breeze swayed the fine lace and wafted across my peaceful body. In this idyllic setting, a beautiful woman appeared next to my bed, dressed in fine cloth that also swayed gently in the breeze. She leaned over me as if to plant a kiss on my forehead. Then her hands reached my neck and she began strangling me. I awoke, and tried to scream but could not move because I was so paralyzed with fear. When at last my body recovered, I leapt out of bed and raced screaming to my parent’s bedroom. And also of course, the loss of Naomi will always be an inner wound. I realize these issues are “scars”, and might always be with me. They are indelible elements informing my life—part of the unique assemblage that I am.

One of the men, Michael Schvarzkopf wrote a poem during one of his meditations. I was struck with it and include a selection of it here:

My heart sees deeper than my eyes
My eyes can see into your soul if you let me

How can my heart see?
We know it’s as true
As my heart knows . . .
How can this be?

Intuition may be the truest knowledge
Ritual, our greatest tool
Heart our best guide
And mystery is our greatest hope


I managed to get away for a couple of hours and make a painting, and include it here.