Brisa: The Gentle Wind That Found Us

After the mysterious disappearance of our beloved Avión, the house felt hollow—as if a light had gone out and left a quiet, aching space behind. We were still adjusting to that absence when, almost as if by divine choreography, another presence stepped softly into our lives. Her name is now Brisa, but at first she was just a gentle shadow wandering the village streets who looked uncannily like Avión—as if she might be his surviving sister.

A few nights after Avión’s death, we went to the small pizzeria down the road, run by a friend in our little village. A handful of neighbors had gathered for a birthday, the usual warm mix of laughter, candles, and night air. As we sat talking, Amy suddenly rose and walked to a nearby empty table. A dog had caught her attention.

The dog came straight to her—unafraid, deliberate—and sat at her feet. She looked deeply into Amy’s eyes and gently lifted her paw, as if greeting her with a shy “hello.” The resemblance to Avión was startling. The pizzeria owner mentioned that he fed her every night and believed she was homeless. Hearing that struck something tender in both of us. Here was a dog who looked like Avión, who lived like Avión once did, wandering the same streets he used to wander.

That night at home, we talked quietly, both knowing the same thought had taken root:
If we could find her again, and if the stars aligned, we would bring her home.


Two days later, on our way into town for a dinner engagement, we kept a watchful eye on every dog along the roadside. Once, we even stopped to check on a dog in the shadows—many look similar here—but it wasn’t her. After dinner, we drove home in the dark. Near the pizzeria we searched the corners and doorways, but there was no sign of her.

Then, just beyond the local gas station, Amy suddenly shouted, “There she is!”

She was lying quietly by the curb, as if waiting for whatever came next.

I pulled over. Amy climbed into the back seat, and I lifted the surprisingly calm, gentle dog and placed her on Amy’s lap. She did not resist. In fact, she seemed relieved.

Getting vaccinated at home

Back at home, Mali—our xolo dog—and Oso, the neighbor dog, rushed to meet her with a burst of excitement. Brisa held her ground with quiet strength. She has street wisdom in her bones, the kind that comes from surviving by instinct and confidence.

Now she has had her vaccinations, is wormed, and will soon be spayed. And she has a name: Brisa, meaning gentle breeze. And that is exactly what she is—a soft, steady, calming presence moving through our lives just when we needed it.

Avión took over a year to be unafraid. Brisa is affectionate and composed from the start. She quickly learned the safety of the indoors, though she also races joyfully around the yard with Mali and Oso. When I enter a room where she is resting, she thumps her tail with a warm, welcoming rhythm. She gives both Amy and me an abundance of love, as if making up for lost time.



She isn’t a replacement for Avión—nothing could be.
But life has a mysterious way of balancing its losses.

Sometimes, when one door closes painfully, another opens with gentle paws and an offered hand—reminding us that love, in all its forms, finds its way back to us.

Ears Spread Like Wings

Last Monday, we woke to a shock that still hasn’t settled in our hearts—we found Avión mysteriously dead. This, the morning after joyfully writing about our dogs in last week’s blog.

As always, Amy prepared breakfast for MaliNalli and Avión—they eat when we do. Mali, who sleeps indoors, was already waiting by her bowl. But Avión, our faithful watchdog who slept on the front porch, didn’t appear. He always came running. This time he didn’t come at all.

After a few uneasy minutes, our neighbor’s dog, Oso, showed up for his usual treat… but still no Avión.

Then I heard Amy cry out from the front, “He is dead! Avión is dead!”
My heart dropped. She had found him lying just outside our front gate.

Moments later, Oso seemed to reveal what might have happened. He trotted to a small opening in the fence on the steep hill beside our driveway and pushed his head under the chain-link. Avión was a master escape artist—our little Houdini—forever squeezing through tiny gaps to patrol the perimeter. It seems he may have tried slipping through that opening, become caught, and strangled.

I lifted him gently and laid him on our front porch table.

Amy sobbed. We ran our hands over his stiff body—no wounds, no bruises, no sign of violence. His tongue protruded slightly. We kept asking ourselves how this could have happened. Maybe someone found him earlier and moved him. Maybe something else occurred. Life in our village holds both kindness and cruelty; we’ve seen both.

Just the day before, I had taken all three dogs for a walk. Everything had been normal. And the night before, I had written about him and Mali—about Mali’s new portrait and Avión’s shy, soulful presence.

Today our hearts are heavy. We called him Avión—“airplane” in Spanish—because of the two big ears he stretched out like wings. He was our adopted “boy,” full of love, vulnerability, and quiet devotion. We rescued him as a terrified street puppy, and over time he became part of our family.

I posted a short tribute on Facebook yesterday. More than two thousand people responded. Their kindness helps, but the silence he has left behind is immense.

Life here in the village is raw and unpredictable. One moment everything is ordinary—the next, the world tilts. Losing Avión has reminded us, painfully, how fragile the beings we love truly are. But it has also reminded us of something deeper: that love, once given, does not end. It remains, like a quiet flame, illuminating even the darkest corners of our days.

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Do animals continue on?

In the hours after burying him, I found myself asking a question I’ve never felt so urgently: Does a creature like Avión continue on in some way, as human souls do?
Across spiritual traditions, there are gentle yet meaningful hints that the answer may be yes.

In the Bahá’í writings, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá describes the animal kingdom as a sign of God’s perfection—beings who feel love, joy, loyalty, and sorrow. Creation, He says, does not simply vanish but transforms, and nothing that reflects divine qualities is lost.

The Hebrew scriptures remind us that humans and animals “share the same breath,” and humbly admit that no one truly knows the path of an animal’s spirit. Christian mystics wrote that animals return to the embrace of the One who fashioned them, because love is never wasted. Islam teaches that all creatures are “communities like you,” and that all will be gathered to God.
Eastern traditions speak openly of the continuity of animal consciousness beyond physical life.

And then there are the countless individuals who, in moments near death or deep vision, have spoken of meeting beloved animals again—whole, luminous, and free of fear.

I do not pretend to know the architecture of the next world. But I know this: Avión lived with love, and love is never extinguished. Whatever spark animated his gentle eyes and anxious heart came from a divine source. And what comes from that source, I believe, returns to it.

If there is a meadow of light in the next world, may he be running there now—ears spread like wings, finally free.

Here is our Xolo dog Mali and Avión (gold color) adopted from the street, during a happy time:  

The Thrill of Reinvention

Once again, the work has taken a turn—into a new series of colorful expressionist pieces. Throughout more than forty years of creating, I have rarely stayed in one lane. Galleries often encourage artists to find a niche and repeat what sells. I have never been comfortable with that. Landscape painting brought my greatest commercial success, yet I have continually wandered into new territories: abstraction, mixed-media, and even my HangUps series with faces suspended on clotheslines. With our move in 2019 to Oaxaca, Mexico, a group of paintings emerged from our Dos Venados studio: Memento Mori paintings of symbolic skeletons, honoring the Dia de Muertos motif.

Reinvention keeps the work alive.

This new chapter begins with pure abstraction:

Antes del Nombre, Oil on canvas, 70 x 80 cm

Fauve Mujer, Oil on canvas, 100 x 80 cm

I lay down color and motion without a plan, letting the paint lead. After that foundation is alive on the canvas, I look for what wants to emerge. In the first two paintings, that became luminous female portraits. I created them first using AI as a reference, then translated and transformed them in paint over the loose, expressive ground. They are larger than life, born from imagination and guided by technology, yet made human by the hand.

Sandia, Oil on canvas, 25 x 25 cm

Today, I shifted scale. Once the abstract background had dried, I set up a simple still life of a slice of watermelon on a plate. Working from a familiar, realistic subject sparked a different energy. A dialogue unfolded between the bold underpainting and the object before me. In the end, both voices found harmony: the grounded and the mysterious, the seen and the unforeseen.

The pleasure lies in not knowing exactly where the next brushstroke will lead. That is the freedom I have always trusted.

More: Steven Boone Fine Art

Also: https://stevenboone.myportfolio.com

Danger, Beauty, and the Human Form

What art awakens in us, and how it matters

Amedeo Modigliani, Nu Couché (Reclining Nude) 1917

When I posted on Facebook an AI-generated image of a young woman, bare to the waist, it was simply a piece of art to me: expressionist in style, mysterious, tender, and beautiful. I hesitated only because the figure was nude. Soon after it appeared online, a dear Bahá’í friend wrote to say she felt uneasy. The figure, she thought, looked too young, and she worried it might play into unhealthy fantasies. She admitted it was first and foremost a visceral reaction — a gut feeling that told her something wasn’t right. Her heart objected. 

Part of her unease, I realized later after speaking with my wife, was not only about nudity but about youth. To her eye, the figure suggested someone underaged — and in our world, with its painful revelations of exploitation and abuse, that association carries enormous weight. I did not see the figure that way. To me, she appeared simply as a young woman with a slight, undeveloped frame — diminutive breasts, yes, but nothing childlike. Casual, unposed, and not voyeuristic. Yet my friend felt something different: a suggestion of underage vulnerability, and in our cultural moment that alone can feel troubling. The same image, then, lived in two realities at once — one of quiet beauty, the other of potential harm.

That set me thinking. As an artist, I know the human body has always been at the center of art. Michelangelo’s David towers over Florence in his colossal nakedness, admired for centuries as the pinnacle of beauty and strength. At the Academia Gallery, when people stand before the 17-foot-high, perfectly proportioned figure, genitals at eye level, many gasp, their eyes widen, and I daresay pulses quicken. Each time I’ve stood there, I’ve seen eyes widen, smiles flicker, and even laughter rise — the shared astonishment of being so publicly, so unabashedly face-to-face with the naked male form. It is a delight to witness, and it always makes me smile.

Amedeo Modigliani, scandalous in his day, painted nudes with such frankness (including pubic hair) that they shocked Parisian audiences — though today they are celebrated as masterpieces. His 1917 Paris exhibition, which included Nu Couché (Reclining Nude) was even shut down by the police for being too provocative. (Nu Couché sold at auction in 2015 for 170,400,000. dollars.) 

And then came Auguste Rodin, pushing the boundaries even further into raw physicality. His Iris, Messagère des Dieux (c. 1895) stunned viewers with its bold fragmentation — a headless, airborne female torso, legs spread in unapologetic display. To some it was obscene, to others a daring hymn to vitality and raw power. I love the piece because it feels like a direct invitation to unite in the matrix, to celebrate the generative force of Mother Earth herself. Today it is recognized as one of Rodin’s most radical and compelling works, proof that provocation and beauty can be inseparable.

It seems every era has its thresholds of comfort, and what unsettles one may inspire awe in another. It is the same old tension: one person sees beauty, another sees danger.

Memoir Writing - The Weight Of Air

Painting on the island of Kauaʻi, Hawaii, 2001

For four decades, my workdays were mostly spent with paint and brush, shaping canvases into worlds of light and form. Lately, that has shifted. My hours are given to words, to chiseling memory into narrative. A little guilt has crept in—I haven’t been producing much artwork. But writing, I’ve discovered, is equally creative. It is painting with sentences instead of brushstrokes, summoning images from the palette of experience.

The project at hand is my travel memoir, The Weight of Air. Its backbone is the year 2008, when for twelve months I circled the globe, living in 25 countries. Every moment seemed to demand documentation. I carried cameras, sketchbooks, and at first, even an easel and art supplies. I painted, photographed, and wrote—laying down a trail of evidence that life had shifted irrevocably. Those blog posts from the road became seeds, waiting until now to be pressed into the soil of a fuller story.

Route across the globe, Jan. 2008 -  Jan. 2009

The journey was transformative. Early along the way I stumbled into a mental and spiritual state I came to call The Dream. It was more than just heightened awareness; it was a trust, a surrender, an embrace of mystery. In that current, I felt carried, as though the world itself were the author and I merely a willing participant.

This perception—more than perception really, more like a state of being—opened me to deeper engagement with the world around me. Barriers fell, just as in real life dreaming. It is said that to understand mysterious, indecipherable happenings in dreams, one must become what it is that must be understood. For instance if being trampled by an elephant, to become the elephant as well as the one trampled. So I was unafraid, because I was everything happening all at once.

Section from the current chapter, called Northward to Hanoi. Part 1

"Within a day, a cabin had been booked on a Chinese junk, a flat-bottomed sailing vessel now outfitted as a floating hotel, yet still bearing the elegant lines and fan-shaped sails of another age.

What happens to time and space in dreams? It seems youthfulness exists in dreaming because events occur that are not bound by physical law. All sorts of fantastic actions and experiences occur in dreams, and the occurrences are effortlessly woven together into a symphony of events. 

So it was in Hanoi: guided by THE DREAM itself, within two days of arrival I was carried out upon a Chinese junk with eight fellow travelers and five crew, moving almost without sound across the mirrored waters of Halong Bay—a UNESCO World Heritage Site."

Old ladies, near Hoi An, Vietnam

Now, nearing the end of the memoir, I find myself in Vietnam once again—at least in memory, shaping it into words. Soon the path bends toward Malaysia, then Australia and New Zealand. Within three weeks, the odyssey will be complete on the page, though its reverberations still echo daily. At last I will hold the memoir as a complete volume.

I have been an artist all my life, but this work reminds me that creativity wears many guises. Whether on canvas or in prose, it is the same impulse: to bear witness, to shape experience into something that can be shared, something that endures.

The Long Thirst, the Sudden Song

Having lived most of my life in North America where four distinct seasons mark the year, I am still adjusting to the rhythm of only two in Mexico. Amy and I have been here over six years now, and while I’ve grown accustomed to the shift, it never quite feels natural. We are nearing September, which means the rainy season is winding down. Soon, the long dry months—about eight of them—will return.

The change is stark. The fields that now glow with vibrant green will fade to brown. Some trees shed their leaves, and the ground turns brittle, reduced to dust in the wind.

I have always been a “plant person,” like my mother before me. Trees, flowers, green things in general speak to my soul. By the end of the dry season, many of the plants around our home—each one I know personally—seem on the verge of death. Though I water what I can, most rely on the drip system. Still, by late May, just when I find myself whispering prayers to stave off their passing, a few stubborn buds appear—miraculously. I scratch my head and wonder, where did they find the strength?

Then the rains come. At first scattered storms, and then, finally, a rhythm. Plants rejoice, bursting forth with such abandon that I spend my days cutting grass and brush, trying to keep up. Sometimes I imagine those first fragile buds are the plants calling out for the rains—and nature, listening, answers.

Now, the cornfields surrounding our village stand tall and healthy. If the skies grant just a few more generous rains, they’ll yield a good crop. But if the drought lingers year after year, the harvest suffers, and families sell their land for home lots. Already, the edges of our village are filling with new houses.

Landscape. 4 min. video

We prefer, for as long as possible, to be surrounded by nature.

Keys to the Heart: New Mexico, Oaxaca, and the Spaces Between

After a month away, the arc of our travels has closed—New Mexico’s familiar mesas, Minnesota’s lakes, and now back to Oaxaca. We landed safely on August 3rd. The journey began before sunrise in Santa Fe and ended with our neighbor Mayolo’s smile at the airport, ready to welcome us home.

A short hop took us to Dallas, where we changed planes, then crossed the border into Mexico, touching down at 12:15. Mayolo helped hoist our two large suitcases, each packed to the brim with loot from the USA: new clothes, art supplies, medicines, gifts, old photographs, and a few beloved books. Customs took one glance and waved us through.

Oaxaca is our home—of that there is no doubt—but Northern New Mexico also holds a permanent set of keys to our hearts. After so much life, love, and trial in that blessed country of mesas and mountains, it’s embedded in us. In our DNA. When we return, the streets, the food, the mountains, the very air and light feel as familiar as the rooms of an old house.

Amy’s sister arrived from Minnesota during our stay, and the two slipped easily into that rare sisterly rhythm—shopping, swapping stories, and laughing until the air seemed to sparkle. Together, they also visited their father’s gravesite at the National Cemetery in Santa Fe. A veteran of the Korean War, Daniel Cordova´s ashes are interred in the columbarium, a wall of plaques marking niches that hold the remains of those who served. The two daughters placed their hands on the marble plaque bearing his name, feeling the warmth of his presence in that quiet, dignified place.

One morning we drove to Bandelier National Monument, an hour away, where honey-colored cliffs rise in quiet grandeur. From around 1150 to 1550, this canyon sheltered the Ancestral Pueblo people—farmers, builders, artisans—whose dwellings and handprints still cling to the stone. In time, drought and the pull of migration led them away, yet as we walked the winding trails beneath a shifting sky, their spirit seemed to move with us, woven into the land itself.

And then there was the other homecoming—the house I built with my ex-wife Jean three decades ago. To visit that home again is to step into a perfectly preserved chapter of life. Now spectacularly valuable, it sits just fifteen minutes from Santa Fe’s plaza, with six-acre lots, well-spaced neighbors, hushed air, and horses grazing in corrals.

Santa Fe’s summer music scene was in full swing, with free, first-rate performances at least four nights a week. The air at sunset carried that mingling of music and mountain coolness I will never stop loving.

My daughter made a quick trip up from Albuquerque to see me one more time. We both felt grateful to be together, walking the trails of our old homestead, renewing our bonds, then sharing dinner.

Officially, we’d gone north to pare down the “stuff” still in storage—more selling, more giving away. But what remains is the distilled essence of a life, and we wondered if perhaps, someday, a part-time home there might not be impossible.

Back in Oaxaca, life quickly returned to its own tempo. Less than two days after arrival, Amy began feeling unwell—possibly something caught in transit. She waved off my suggestion for a COVID test.

“What good will it do? There’s nothing they can do,” she said.

She’s improving now, and I’m betting on a full recovery soon.

The cornfields around our home stand green and healthy. I’m back to starting my mornings outdoors—tending to the small demands and quiet pleasures that the wet season brings.

Old Ground, New Light

 

Two weeks slipped by since my last post—sunlit and full, with the kind of quiet richness that unfolds when one returns to old ground with new eyes.

After the whirl of Mexico City and the vibrant color of the International Folk Art Market, I laced up my hiking shoes and headed into the high country—the Santa Fe National Forest above town. I hiked with my former wife, Jean, with whom I share a cordial and respectful relationship. We walked among the stately aspens, followed gurgling brooks, and breathed deeply in the crystalline air. The wildflowers were out in force, reminding us both of the beauty that has always encircled this region. Together, we share our daughter Sarah, and many chapters of life. 

Later, I opened our storage unit—an archive of the past. Amy an I have downsized at least five times, so what’s left is either materially valuable or emotionally priceless. Going through the stored relics—paintings, objects, books, memories—I felt pangs of nostalgia. A quiet voice seemed to ask, “Why did you leave?” But life continues to unfold in Oaxaca, and what remains here is simply an earlier verse in a still-unfolding song.

I went down to Albuquerque to visit Sarah, who recently bought her first home. She's still settling in, boxes stacked here and there, a young tree of a life just beginning to root. We only see each other about once a year, so every moment was precious. I helped with the yard work, and we shared meals and conversation that brought us closer.

While I was there, Amy arrived from teaching a workshop in Nebraska. After a couple of days, she and
I drove back to Santa Fe. We put our things down in a home in an old Santa Fe neighborhood, courtesy of the landlord and lady who rented it to me for several years about a decade ago. We are still friends. Amy absolutely loves the place and would move in right away. Whenever I go back, it feels like I never left. 

Menwhile, Jean has generously offered us the home we built together more than thirty years ago, while she is away. It’s a big, quiet, light-filled place nestled outside the center of town on the open high desert plains, where people have horses—filled with the echoes of past seasons. We’re staying here for nine days, until we return to Oaxaca on August 3.

Back in Albuquerque, Amy was interviewed by New Mexico PBS about her work as the preferred illustrator for Rudolfo Anaya, the late literary giant and National Humanities Medal recipient. Her luminous illustrations have become part of his enduring legacy.

Meanwhile, I had my annual physical with my longtime physician—now in his eighties. We both moved like two old guys, chuckling like friends navigating the terrain of aging. Fortunately, nothing much has changed. I’m still going strong enough to hike, photograph, and find joy in the rhythm of daily life.

Friday night, we joined the traditional Santa Fe gallery stroll—an old ritual of openings, reunions, and conversations that stretch across decades. I stopped frequently, bumping into artist friends, trading stories and hugs. It felt good to be back in the thick of it.

Fortunately, we have been in town during the annual Spanish Market, that showcases the fabulous talent of New Mexico Spanish American artists, of which Amy is one by ancestry. Amy's cousin exhibited his craft and the two got to meetup.

Tomorrow, Amy’s sister arrives. From there, more adventures will unfurl—until we make our way home again to Oaxaca.

Two Mexicos, One Vision: Seeing With the Soul’s Eye

New Mexico again—the land of wide skies, long shadows, and a heartbeat that still echoes in my bones. Albuquerque was the first stop: a sweet reunion with my daughter and a night spent under the roof of the house she’s just made her own. A rental car waited at the airport, and soon the familiar road pulled me north to Santa Fe—the City Different, where a great arc of my life has unfolded.

Amy has been with family in Minneapolis–Saint Paul. Tomorrow she flies to Omaha to teach at a university, then makes her way here. Her arrival is on the horizon, and I relish with anticipation the warmth of shared companionship.

Mexico City lingers like a vivid painting—raw, layered, full of movement. The Metro became a kind of subterranean gallery: not easy to navigate, but full of life. Only one wrong turn that took me the wrong direction, which felt more like a curve in the composition than a misstep. Tickets were fifty cents—a small price for immersion. Far preferable to sitting alone in a taxi, removed from the living current.

One morning was devoted to Mercado Jamaica. It was like stepping into a kaleidoscope of scent and color—flowers tumbling from trucks, arrangements rising like offerings, petals underfoot, and fragrance heavy in the air. I wandered with camera in hand, sketching with light. Outside, a colossal mural titled Jamaica Revive—15,000 square feet of vibrant homage to Mother Earth, created in 2013. Street art on that scale always moves me; it’s public and personal at once.

The return flight north was uneventful. A final walk through the Metro tunnels, a last glimpse of the city's pulse, then skyward without delay to this familiar homeland.

Artists at the Folk Art Market

Santa Fe is alive with art just now. I attended an international art  exposition, then yesterday stepped into the great swirl of the International Folk Art Market—a place where the world gathers in handmade offerings. Jewelry, textiles, carvings, masks—each piece a doorway into another culture, another way of seeing. Yet it isn’t only the objects that astonish. It’s the people: radiant in traditional attire, standing with dignity beside their work, bearing stories and spirit.

One could feel it in the air—a deep, unspoken unity. As Bahá’u’lláh wrote, “Let your vision be world-embracing, rather than confined to your own self.” That vision was present in every handshake, every exchange, every smile and eye contact, every photograph.

Amy’s return draws closer. My daughter will visit again. Jean, ever gracious, has offered her home while she travels—a house I once built, thirty years ago. Memory lives in the grain of the wood and the angles of light.

“Make thou every effort to increase the number of thy journeys,” wrote ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, “for travel hath great virtues. The traveler returneth with an enlightened heart and a spiritual mind. He seeth what the others do not see, and he heareth what the others do not hear.”

Lost and Found in Mexico City

From rogue taxis to Diego’s grave, tracing art, memory, and spirit through Roma Norte

Plaza Río de Janeiro

Amy and I parted ways on Monday, June 30, under the bright sun of Oaxaca. She flew north to Minneapolis–Saint Paul, where her son Esau welcomed her with open arms. Her other son, Jess, and sister, Carrie, are close by—family warmth to soften the distance between Minnesota and Oaxaca.

I, meanwhile, came to Mexico City and find myself tucked into a quiet apartment in Roma Norte. A pleasant surprise. Tree-lined streets, bohemian cafés, artful storefronts. It feels safe, relaxed, alive. The kind of place where time breathes a little easier. And an artist fits in naturally.

Each day, I set out with camera in hand. I visited the Museo Soumaya—its silver, twisting architecture always catches the light just right, like a seashell turned toward the sun. Built by Carlos Slim and named after his late wife, the museum is a monument to both love and wealth. The collection isn’t quite world-class, but it’s deep, eclectic, and free to all. I admire that—art offered without charge, a gift from one of the world’s richest men to the people of Mexico.

I went looking for a street I remembered—lined with wedding and quinceañera dress shops. I didn’t find it, but I did stumble upon Plaza Río de Janeiro, with its cheerful fountains and a hulking bronze copy of Michelangelo’s David. Mexico City has a way of giving you what you didn’t know you needed.

Later, I did find the wedding district, tucked in a gritty part of town—rows of shops bursting with ruffled dreams: gowns for little girls, glittering tiaras, satin shoes no bigger than your hand. The shopkeepers were kind. I wandered timidly, a gringo in a bastion of Mexican culture—but left feeling part of something grand, and with some fine photos.

Next day, the metro dropped me too far from the Panteón de Dolores, so I caught a taxi the rest of the way. There was no entry fee, but most of the cemetery was closed to the public—only the Rotonda de las Personas Ilustres was open. Photography was limited to handheld devices, a gesture of reverence. Inside the rotunda, I stood beside Diego Rivera’s grave. The great muralist rests among kindred spirits—writers, painters, musicians, and revolutionaries. The Rotonda is a place where Mexico honors its luminaries—those who shaped the nation’s art, identity, and soul. It’s fitting that Diego lies there, surrounded by a chorus of voices that once stirred the heart of Mexico.

Rivera Grave, front and back

That very afternoon, as if guided by some invisible thread, I found myself face-to-face with Las Dos Fridas at the Museo de Arte Moderno. Kahlo’s most famous painting—created after her agonizing breakup with Diego—is raw, haunting, and unforgettable. Two versions of Frida sit side by side, hearts exposed, one bleeding onto a white dress. The work is both deeply personal and universally human—a portrait of love, loss, and fractured identity. Frida and Diego, both in one day. Icons in the annals of art, heroes in the heart of Mexico. Soulmates, despite it all—and now, both immortalized not just in memory and museums, but on Mexican currency as well. 

Uber has been a comfort—clean, efficient, secure. I used it a couple of times without fuss. But then came the lesson: I had trouble locating a ride, and instead flagged down a rogue taxi. The driver refused cash, overcharged my card, and disappeared without giving a receipt. I called the credit card company and filed a dispute. No harm in the end, but I’m too old for this kind of robbery. Still, the city teaches—even in irritation.

"The Two Fridas," 1939, oil on canvas, by Frida Kahlo

The day held these highlights, yet I came home shaken. The taxi incident had rattled me. And the next day, July 5, was tender. It’s Naomi’s birthday in heaven. I spent the day quietly—sweeping, cooking, walking to the market. Praying. Tuning inward.

Health slows me—prostate issues bring discomfort and shadows of worry—but I press on, grateful for each step, each glimpse of the dream unfolding.

More and more, I long to surrender completely to spirit. To let go of striving. To live inside peace, with equanimity, and give myself entirely to God.

Street Art

Everywhere I walk, the walls speak. Mexico City’s street art is bold, defiant, and alive—murals, stencils, and graffiti bursting with color and voice. I’ve taken scores of photos, drawn to the visual symphony unfolding on every corner. Torn posters layered one over another become accidental masterpieces—an abstract collage of texture, pigment, and time. It's as if the city itself is constantly repainting its soul in public.

"Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central,"  Diego Rivera, 50 feet wide

Today, Sunday, with camera slung over my shoulder, I walked to the Centro Médico metro station, descended into the city's undercurrent, and boarded a train—intending Bellas Artes but momentarily spirited in the wrong direction. A swift correction, and soon I emerged into the heart of Centro, where broad pedestrian promenades unfolded beneath towering architecture and a blue Mexico City sky. I returned to the Museo Mural Diego Rivera, drawn again to “Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central”—that dense dream of Mexican history and myth. It held me, as always, in its spell. Along the way and all the way back, I made photographs—faces, shadows, signs, surprises—collecting fragments of the city's restless poetry.

In a few days, on July 9, I’ll leave Mexico City and fly to Albuquerque. There, I’ll spend the night with my beloved daughter Sarah—always a joy and a grounding presence. The next morning, I’ll head to Santa Fe, where I’ll settle in for a few weeks of quiet living and renewal. Amy will meet me there, and before long, we’ll journey back together to our sweet Oaxacan home—where life is unhurried, and the dream continues.

The Foreigner with an Old Key

 

Amy and I are about to trade the bougainvillea and brass bands of Oaxaca for the buzzing highways and family hearths of the United States. It’s our annual migration northward—equal parts reunion, obligation, and rediscovery.

We leave our beloved home and two dogs in the care of a capable house sitter—also a friend. Amy will fly first, bound for the green embrace of Minneapolis, where her children and sister await. Then, as she does each summer, she’ll travel to Omaha to teach at a special conference for Native American college students who are themselves becoming teachers. It’s a beautiful tradition—two concentrated days of creativity, mentorship, and cultural exchange. From there, she’ll curve back westward to Santa Fe.

I, meanwhile, will head out at almost the same hour—but in a different direction. Nine days in Mexico City call me like a raucous poem. It’s one of my favorite places to lose myself. I plan to wander with camera in hand, letting the streets speak—finding texture, light, and surprise in the swirl of life. Then north to Santa Fe, where Amy and I will reunite.

With our friend Dorsey (on left) from last years visit.

Santa Fe… always a mixture of memory and mystery. So many chapters of my life unfolded there—children born, a home built, decades of painting, friendships, love, and loss. Now, we mostly return to tend the past. Our storage unit, once packed like an overstuffed closet of old ambitions, has been pared down several times. What remains are mostly artworks—paintings and drawings from across forty years. Some whisper. Others still shout.

Old church at Trampas, north of Santa Fe.

This time, we’ve planned at least one excursion northward—to Taos. I can already see the long New Mexico sky stretched taut over sagebrush and silence. It will be good to be there again, if only for a moment.

And yet, returning to the U.S. feels stranger each year. America, viewed from afar, seems like a place in costume—trying on identities, discarding norms, reinventing itself anew with each news cycle. From the outside, it can feel surreal. From the inside, I expect it will feel even more so, given my earliest memories of my home country. This time, I arrive not quite as a citizen, but something closer to a visitor. A foreigner with an old key.

Meanwhile, The Weight of Air, my travel memoir, continues to unfold. I’ve reached the halfway point—both in writing and in the journey it chronicles. At this moment in the manuscript, I’m on the cusp of a great leap—from Europe to Africa. From Rome to Nairobi. From the ordered splendor of cathedrals and museums to the raw pulse of red earth, elephants, and the unknown.

Here’s a passage from the upcoming chapter, The Dark Continent:

Before leaving the United States, my mother pleaded, “Please don’t go to Africa—they’ll kill you for your shoes.” Her fear rang with maternal dread, fed by newsreels and phobias. But how could the journey bypass the very cradle of life?

The so-called Dark Continent called out like a siren, and something deep inside answered. It wasn’t a choice, not really. Fate had stirred, and the path opened.

Tucked in my bag was the yellow booklet—stamped with dates and signatures, proof that my body had been armed against yellow fever, typhoid, and whatever else the unknown might deliver. The vast savannas, the promise of wild beasts and red-dust roads, stirred something restless.

To once again be a white pebble on a black sand beach.

Africa promised danger, yes—but also the thrill of raw existence. And I was already leaning forward.

 

Writing this book is a journey in itself—one that runs parallel to these annual migrations of ours. Like any good traveler, I’m packing more than luggage these days. I’m carrying decades, images, voices, and dreams. 

Off we go.

Read more from the memoir: The Weight Of Air