Mystery

"The world is incomprehensible. We won't ever understand it; we won't ever unravel its secrets. Thus we must treat the world as it is: a sheer mystery." Carlos Castaneda (25 December 1925 – 27 April 1998)

"The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery." Francis Bacon (28 October 1909 – 28 April 1992)

I rejoice in mystery because it holds possibility and surprise. The best way to embrace mystery is simply to not expect knowing the future, but simply let it unfold and watch. I know this practice goes against the teachings of most people . . . and that is to plan, plan, plan—so as to not be surprised by future events but rather to control the outcome.

Before I set out to travel around the world in 2008, I began anticipating the adventure. I told people that I wanted to disappear into the matrix of the world. One morning I awoke from a dream with a sentence I had heard fresh in my mind, (See my earlier blog, Grand Confusion). A voice had spoken for me to hear, and said, “The vessel he entered was a grand confusion between his world and the world outside of him.” I knew that “vessel” symbolized my being contained in travel, and furthermore the sentence referred to mind, because of the term “confusion.” I liked the thought of a “grand confusion” where the boundaries between my inner and outer worlds dissolved. This is the way I traveled and found many incredible experiences with people and places across the globe.
Yesterday, Heidi of the Mountains came to visit me, and in the late afternoon, as the sun was going down and the air chilled, we took a walk. I am new to this neighborhood and find that I like being elevated on a hillside so that I can easily see sunsets. As we began our sojourn, I noticed the western atmosphere changing, and the familiar colors of sunset coming on, but then, I made the mistake of slipping outside of mystery. After observing the sky, I confirmed mentally that this would be an ordinary sunset and not to expect any great surprise. We walked further, and the sky became more dramatic. Soon, I was giving myself entirely over to the mystery unfolding, and as darkness encroached and daylight ebbed away, the sky performed miraculous displays of color and it was if a great, unseen hand was painting a masterpiece before my astonished eyes. Without knowing what to expect from one moment to the next I frequently stopped walking to click pictures of the fabulous sight.

Surprise and Mystery

Recently, I went into the gallery that represents my work here in Santa Fe. The sales lady greeted me, and then she said, “Oh Steven, I need to ask you questions about a painting of yours." We walked into the room where my large mixed-media work, called Flying, hangs on a wall. This piece has been in the gallery a short while, and because I have been out of town, the saleswoman had not had an opportunity to speak with me about it. “People have made comments about this work . . . please tell me about the figure in the background.” Immediately I felt curious about what people had to say, so asked, “What comments have you heard?” She answered, “They like the piece very much but find the man in the background disturbing; threatening—as if he will do harm to the young woman.” Then she added, “One woman said she would buy it if not for the man in the background.”

I felt incredulous, and aghast. “That is a complete surprise” I said, “because the figure in back is my daughter! There are two separate images in this work, from two different days of photography. I put them together digitally.”

She said, “Someone said the mask is disturbing.”

“She is wearing a mask from Thailand.” I said.

I could not help but feel flustered and also miffed. The work has always delighted me and furthermore, I never intended anything threatening.

A couple years ago I spent time taking photos of models in my studio and had them play with cloths of white fabric as I snapped portraits. The images were made more dramatic because the studio was draped in black cloth . . . even the floor. So when the models moved about under my narrow skylight, I got dramatic pictures.

I put the two figures together in order to add surprise and mystery to the sensual scene, and make it more enigmatic.

How often is art like a Rorschach test for the viewer? Almost always.

To see more of my artwork, go to Steven Boone Fine Art

Stopped In My Tracks

"As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness." Thoreau

Henry David Thoreau (born David Henry Thoreau; July 12, 1817 – May 6, 1862) famously wrote observations of life while living next to a pond. There is no pond near my current home in Santa Fe, but there are beautiful views, it is clean, quiet, and spacious enough, and I am in a good part of town, near the art galleries. I do not have Walden Pond, but just a short walk down a hill from my house is the Santa Fe River. “River” is a misnomer, because usually there is only a trickling stream of water that runs from a reservoir at the base of the mountains nestled by the city. Stone walls have been built alongside it in the event of an unlikely flood, but for much of the way, it is easy to walk by the stream and hop across with a couple jumps over rocks. Intermittent paths allow people to hike and enjoy the ecosystem.

While in my new home only a few days, life along the river has already captured me. I have not been able to resist taking long moments to look at the dazzling display of fall color occurring now. Especially the old cottonwood trees with their thick, gnarly trunks that twist upward and lift big branches full with displays of golden leaves.

During early morning and late afternoon, sunlight slants obliquely through the garnished trees, and I have been stopped in my tracks to be gathered into the sublime scenery. Leaving the street to clamber down embankments, I pause beside the stream and occasionally hear cars pass by, or see someone through the thickets. When a breeze blows, yellow-sheened leaves are shaken loose and drift lazily to earth, rustling as they brush against limbs and brambles and finally come to rest. Include the gurgling of a brook, bird songs, far-off dog barks and children’s laughter, the smell of water and freshly rotting leaves, dappled light and invigorating fluctuations of warm and cool temperatures in the sun or shade—and then I understand why Thoreau was inspired to write his book about the poetry of a pond.




 

"Aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something. "
Henry David Thoreau

The Smallest Grain Of Sand

Life is so phenomenal that everything, even the smallest grain of sand, tells a story that can unfold into a book. I have been walking on a beach at dawn every morning and find poetry there.

At night a window in my bedroom stays open, and the air temperature is cool, almost cold when an alarm wakens me at 6:15 AM. My bed is warm and so it is an effort to leave the comfort of sleep and languid rest. But the earth is steadily turning and does not wait even a second in its course. My goal is to be at the beach at sunrise, so I hasten to jump up and get dressed, then drive ten minutes to the ocean. Along the way, I notice how few people are to be seen, but there are always early birds that are up and about before dawn. This morning, when I reached the shore, I was the only one on the beach, except for Heidi of the Mountains who was with me.

It rained last night and this morning the  darkened dawn sky had a stormy countenance. As the sun rose the clouds seemed to blow away while the sky lightened with rosy hues. The sound of the rhythmic pounding of waves and rolling surf cast its ancient oceanic spell, and the cold wind played all around, carrying smells of salt and brine. Seagulls soared about, crying out their salutation to the new day. Each moment as sun light increased, vivid warm hues reflected off the clouds and sea. When the sun ascended above the horizon and continued climbing, the stark brightness took over—and the magic of dawn receded.

It is incredible that every sunrise and sunset is different and unique, depending on the conditions that exist at the time.

Everything anticipates the cycles of sunlight and darkness. When it is dark, we eagerly anticipate a new dawn, and during the day, we hurry to accomplish as much as possible before sundown and the blanket of shadows comes across the earth to bring the inky stains of night.

The shifting sands, changing light, ebb and flow of life and death . . . all remind me that transformation is certain, physical existence is in flux, and human intellect cannot contain the mysteries of eternal creation. What is the power that holds nature together so perfectly and with such grandeur?

236 Weeks In A Row

 

I have posted 236 blogs. That is 236 weeks in a row without fail; over four years. Somehow, the writing that began as a curiosity became a practice and a discipline.

Usually my subject begins appearing to me during the week. It might be a recent intriguing occurrence, an observation of a place, a memory, or a creative spark. Then, I have a bit of time to sit with the idea and turn it around in my mind and emotions. Very seldom, but occasionally, I come up empty and must scramble for a subject.

Today, I had nothing. I am living with my parents in Santa Barbara for a couple weeks. I easily adjust to being with them in their small home. My father is grateful that I will be by his side when he has an operation in a few days. In the morning we have breakfast together and read the newspapers. Then my father goes to his office and my mother does a couple chores and reads books. I work on my laptop or help with a task. My mother cooks soup and we sit down for lunch. After lunch we take a nap and my father and I rise after an hour and go to work. My mother stays in bed longer—3 PM (she gets up at 5 AM each day.) Then she has a cup of coffee and reads, and makes dinner at 6PM. My father returns to walk the old dog, and we gather for dinner. My father retires about 8 PM, my mother reads until 10, and I continue projects from my computer, i.e. working on photographs, websites, correspondence etc. Eventually I might read, and then go to bed.

Heidi of the Mountains is coming to Santa Barbara. She will be here for five days and fly back to New Mexico. I will drive to arrive in Santa Fe at the beginning of November.

While on my brother-in-law’s motorboat today, we watched seals climb up on a bobbing red buoy to flop down and lean against each other and relax.

Photos from The Grand Canyon

Here are some photos from the Grand Canyon, taken between October 15-18.






This photo was taken along the Kaibab Trail, off the South Rim .

The Kaibab Trail offers incredible views and steep drop-offs.

The ever changing light brings different moods . . .

To see all 25 photos, go to: Steven Boone's Grand Canyon

Grand Canyon

 The last time I visited the Grand Canyon I was a brash and eager young man, footloose and on the road with a friend. We arrived and were struck with the magnitude of what lie before us,  then promptly set off to hike the famous Bright Angel trail that winds like a snake from the rim down the steep canyon walls to the river below. It was summer and although we were young and healthy, we were also naïve to think we could easily face off against nature at its grandest and swagger away. The temperature rose above 100 degrees Fahrenheit and our exertion eventually tired us so that we had to pull up short of the river and turn around. When we arrived back at the rim, we had met our limit and were bent-over exhausted.

In fact, many hikers overestimate their fitness level, become dehydrated and confused, and must be rescued. The Park Service, in an attempt to discourage hikers from feats which are beyond their abilities, now posts a picture at several trailheads of an attractive and fit young man with the caption, "Every year we rescue hundreds of people from the Canyon; most of them look like him".

Now, forty years later, I have arrived at the Grand Canyon once again; and appreciate it more. Such beauty and grandeur! It is 280 miles long, and the average width is 10 miles. Standing at the rim you see a spectacular panorama of sky and earth, with the canyon walls dropping a mile to the Colorado River below. And the colors make artists drool. Changing weather and light adds to the drama.

I hiked the Kaibab trail yesterday. It drops from the rim and winds down the steep canyon walls, eventually to end at the river. That would be a nine mile round trip so I only went part way, for six miles, stopping frequently to photograph. Perhaps because it is cooler in the fall and I am more prepared with snacks and power drinks, I endured the rigors better than when I was young. Sure, I am sore today, but will be back again and again. After traveling around the world, I can say this place, practically in my backyard, is one of the most grand and beautiful places on earth.

Look for photographs soon.

Every Leaf Speaks Bliss

"Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree."
Emily Bronte (30 July 1818 – 19 December 1848)

The changing of season is nature in its most visible period of transition. Especially Autumn. Amid  colder temperatures and shorter days, leaves change colors while the bloom of summer withers and fades to rust. It is a time of departure and animals know that they must prepare for harsher days of winter, so they bulk up and gather nuts and seeds to hibernate under the snow.
There are many theories of how weather affects human emotions. (To learn more go to: Theories on How Weather Affects Human Emotions.)

This fall I have been particularly moody with temperatures dropping and sunshine dwindling. There is much to love about cool, brisk days with fantastic leaf displays, and I have made gorgeous hikes with Heidi of the Mountains, both in Colorado and here in the mountains of Santa Fe. That said, today is the beginning of 20 days of homelessness for me. The casita I have been renting is part of a larger estate that is being sold, so I have to go. I found another place but cannot move until November 1.

Flux, creativity and wandering are all part of the THE DREAM that is my life. Possessions do not burden me. I plan to live in my studio a few days. It has a bathroom but no kitchen or shower, and not much living space. I bought a rocking chair so I can sit and read at night. In a few days I will drive my van to California, stopping to hike and paint at the Grand Canyon along the way. Adagio Gallery in Palm Desert California represents my artwork and I need to deliver new pieces and pick up items that have not sold.  From there I will drive three hours north to Santa Barbara where my parents live. Eventually the road will bring me back here to Santa Fe, and a new home.

As promised, I have posted some photos from Kashmir.

I continue to work on a small website to show the handmade goods . . . that will come soon.

Kashmir

During my ‘round the world odyssey, I stumbled into Kashmir, India by chance, or rather, as I prefer to look at fate; THE DREAM took me there. Kashmir is located in the northwest region of the Indian subcontinent. It is in a valley at the foot of the Great Himalayas and its civilization hearkens back millennium. In succession, the official religions have been Hinduism, Buddhism, and eventually Islam.  Most often, people have coexisted peacefully. Various nations have prized it and in recent history, Pakistan, India, and the People’s Republic of China have all claimed administration rights. Most of the people in Kashmir would like to have their own country and be autonomous. Now, India is the primary ruler and have troops stationed as occupying “peacekeepers”. It is a tense peace, and lately trouble has been brewing with frequent protests and killings of civilians by soldiers. That said, it remains one of the most beautiful places on earth.

I had not been in India more than two days when a man I met in New Delhi took me into his office and said emphatically that New Delhi was not a nice place to be and I should go to Kashmir. “I can arrange your travel and you can live on a houseboat with your own servant on a beautiful lake at the foot of the Himalayan Mountains. It is quiet, the nature is beautiful and you can do many things, like trek and visit the towns.” Then he told me the price, which was quite cheap. I had only had time to see the Baha’i temple in New Delhi and now my new friend was adamant that I leave immediately. It felt like a whirlwind had settled upon me, but I sensed something extraordinary so let THE DREAM do the talking. That afternoon I was flying to the city Srinagar in Kashmir. When I arrived, the man’s brother, Ash, packed me into his car and drove me to Dal Lake, where we were then rowed to my houseboat and I was introduced to my servant, Monsoor.

From the first, Dal Lake enchanted me. It is pristine and sparsely populated. Water lilies drift casually on its surface, amid reflections of snow capped mountains. The longer I stayed, the more local people I met, and especially vendors who paddled up to my dock and showed me their wares. A fellow called Mr. Wonderful The Flowerman arrived regularly, selling huge bouquets of chrysanthemum’s, dahlia’s and other brightly colored flowers.

As I bought things, I was also invited to special occasions, and at a wedding became the de-facto photographer, even gaining privileged entrance into the bride’s quarter to photograph her amid her retinue. October-November is the wedding time in that area, so sometimes weddings occur twice or three times a day during those weekends.

I have so much to tell about my experiences at Dal Lake and hope to go back to see my friends, but must wait for the right time. Meanwhile, I have been doing business with a dear man named Gul who sends me handmade embroidered leather and suede purses, leather and sheepskin gloves and hats, and embroidered sheepskin coats and jackets. The business I give him helps entire families survive. In the next few days, I will post a special look at his goods, and more photos from Kashmir, so watch for it.

Read about my journey to Kashmir: My Astonished Eyes.
More Kashmir: Surprises
See more artistic photography from Africa and India.

The Dharma Bums

Yesterday, I paid a visit to Santa Fe’s most famous used bookstore. Since I am not one to turn on the television except to watch the news, I need to read. Nikolas Potter Bookseller sits quietly off the quaint downtown plaza. It is in an old home, with a small garden in front and along the front walkway a sign warns you to be aware that bees are buzzing about. Yesterday I arrived in the late afternoon and was gratified to see the front door open, so climbed the few short stairs and went inside.

Used bookstores all have an aura of intellectual refinement and usually a musty air of old paper and used items. In this store, the books are crammed along every possible surface, from top to bottom. The walking spaces are narrow and the place feels tight and intimate. Labels mark sections of the shelves; poetry, art, technical, mystery, etc. I sort of knew what I wanted and so browsed to the literature section to look for a novel or maybe a memoir. Eventually I found The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain, and pulled it off the shelf. After browsing some more, I came to a Jack Kerouac book, The Dharma Bums and after glancing through the pages knew the book was resonating with me, so I had to decide which to keep. Both authors are famous individualists and known for breaking ground as authors. This day, Kerouac won out and I left Twain for another time.

I like Kerouac’s free, direct style of prose. He wrote in a manner that has been described as poetic jazz, blowing the words onto a sheet of paper like a sax player blowing into the night. I feel a kinship to him because he had little care for possessions and traveled freely across the land collecting experience and deepening his soul in the process. His most famous book is On The Road. He had an uncanny ability to transform seemingly everyday events into sacred moments of beauty. Kerouac took the risk of writing with little censorship and believed ‘first thought, best thought.’

Here are some Jack Kerouac quotes:
"The best teacher is experience and not through someone's distorted point of view". On the Road

"Down on the lake, rosy reflections of celestial vapor appeared, and I said, "God, I love you" and looked to the sky and really meant it. "I have fallen in love with you, God. Take care of us all, one way or the other." To the children and the innocent it's all the same. The Dharma Bums

"Houses are full of things that gather dust"

"Life must be rich and full of loving--it's no good otherwise, no good at all, for anyone."
Kerouac: Selected Letters: Volume 1 1940-1956

"I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet,
concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree
In North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that
Nothing Ever Happened, so don't worry. It's all like a dream.
Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don't know it because of our thinking-minds.
But in our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright
forever and forever and forever. Close your eyes, let your hands
and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence
inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson
you forgot, which was taught in immense milky way soft cloud innumerable worlds
long ago and not even at all. It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity.
It is perfect. We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do
with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere:
Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. That which passes into everything is one thing.
It's a dream already ended. There's nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be glad about.
I know this from staring at mountains months on end. They never show any expression,
they are like empty space. Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away?
Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space, which is the one universal essence
of mind, the vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, will never crumble away because
it was never born."
Selected Letters 1957-1969 and is a letter he wrote to his first wife, Edie in 1957.
The Portable Jack Kerouac

"Don't use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry."

See some of my recent photographs posted to Facebook: Colorado Sojourn

Witnessing The Sudden Change

The adventure to Colorado began in earnest when my partner, Heidi of the Mountains, and I pulled off the road between Albuquerque and Durango to rest a moment and pee. A spectacular profusion of chamisa bush bloomed bright yellow in the late afternoon light, and as I exclaimed aloud in delight and dropped my zipper behind a tall bush, a distinct warning sounded. I looked to my side and barely a couple steps away a rattlesnake stood coiled, rattling its tail and staring at me. I remained relaxed, then after finishing my routine, I thanked the creature for the heads-up alert and left.

From past experience, I judged that the fantastic changing of the color of aspen tree leaves would begin the second week of September. Here in Santa Fe, because we are further south, the change is usually first week of October. The “quaking” aspen is Colorado’s state tree and the name is ubiquitous and used for towns, hotels, restaurants and more. Aspen leaves turn golden yellow when conditions are right—shorter days and cooler temperatures—and can be seen en-masse on mountain sides since they grow in clusters, sharing their root systems. The display is only one week long, and it is difficult to pinpoint start and finish times. I felt crestfallen discovering that most of the trees were green when Heidi of the Mountains and I arrived in Ouray, sometimes called the “Switzerland of America”. I kept wondering how I could have misjudged the seasonal change, but determined to enjoy the moments anyway and said to myself “what you see is what you get!” I produced a painting in the countryside and made the aspen trees golden rather than the green that I saw.

The day I painted, we hiked and took a trip to Telluride where a blues festival was happening for several days. The town is in a fantastic setting and has good shopping and easy access to fun outdoors activities.

On Saturday, Heidi of the Mountains and I rented a jeep and headed to stark and unforgiving territory, on roads only accessible by all-terrain vehicles. Surprise! As we left town, whole hillsides had turned golden; seemingly overnight. In the morning light, it seemed as if nature had flipped a switch and turned on the color. The natural performance dazzled the senses and confounded the mind. Witnessing the sudden change turned my disappointment into joy and came as a gift: to be amidst the change as it occurred. Our jeep took us to dramatic places above 12,000 feet altitude, and along the way, the aspens blazed upward until they reached the end of their climatic comfort zone and where only fir trees grew. Higher up, in tundra regions, only small plants existed among the rock.

At times, the roads were so rocky and broken that the jeep rolled wildly from side to side as we inched our way along. Drop-offs were steep and perilously close to the narrow trails. Heidi of the Mountains insisted several times that I stop to let her walk rather than be in the jeep. We became lost a couple times but the views were so fantastic, I hardly cared. At the end of the day, we chose a route home that proved to be perilous and although I tried to assure Heidi of the Mountains that I would not let anything happen to her, she broke down crying. When we made it to the smooth highway, she was mad at me, but I could only say, “Look, Stevie has brought you back safe and sound! He won't let anything bad happen to Heidi of the Mountains.”

Our last day was spent hiking near Silverton. I returned to the same trail I had been on three weeks earlier with my ex-wife Jean and daughter Sarah. It is a hard hike from 9000 feet up to a lake basin area over 12,000 feet. Now, the aspen trees blazed gold colors along our mountain trek and when Heidi of the Mountains and I at last, with sore and trembling legs, gasping and out of breath, reached the top of our climb, an exquisite pristine and incredibly blue lake in a lovely basin surrounded by peaks dazzled our eyes. That evening we finally reached home at 11:30 PM exhausted but satisfied that we had experienced the fantastic.

I took many photos on this trip, and will share them after I have sorted and processed the best.

The Burning Of Old Man Gloom

In Santa Fe every year at the beginning of Fiesta, people converge to an open field to watch the burning of Zozobra, also known as “Old Man Gloom”.

Zozobra is a hideous but harmless fifty-foot bogeyman marionette. He is a toothless, empty-headed facade. He has no guts and doesn't have a leg to stand on. He is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. He never wins. He moans and groans, rolls his eyes and twists his head. His mouth gapes and chomps. His arms flail about in frustration. Every year we do him in. We string him up and burn him down in ablaze of fireworks. At last, he is gone, taking with him all our troubles for another whole year. Santa Fe celebrates another victory. Viva la Fiesta! - A.W. Denninger

It is a tradition that is both a family event and a raucous frenzy. To gain entry into the field, people must pay a small admission that goes to charity, and have their bags checked for contraband, like guns or alcohol. Zozobra can be seen standing on a hill above the field. He is dressed the same every year, stands fifty feet high and stuffed with paper. His eyes are big and green, he has fat lips, his head swivels and his arms move, and he looks dapper and grotesque.

I had not been to a Zozobra burning in years. As night fell, live music rolled out over the crowd and when the field lights turned off, the big puppet began slowly moving—as if drowsily awaking from a long time of dreaming. Cries of “burn him!” arose, and an official announcer arrived to say Zozobra, Old Man Gloom, is sentenced to death so that Santa Fe can officially begin the Fiesta festival, and therefore, the time of his burning is to commence immediately. The crowd erupts as a fire dancer dressed in a flowing red gown appears at the base of the effigy and begins her hypnotic dance. Rhythmic music plays and more dancers appear, some twirling flaming rods. Fireworks go off and Zozobra begins flailing his arms, rolling his eyes, wagging his head and groaning. Some people in the crowd scream as if they are in primal scream therapy . . . especially piercing are the screams of teen-aged girls. The groaning of Zozobra is actually a carefully orchestrated and traditional performance by a “groaner” who, like the Wizard Of Oz, is backstage, behind a curtain, but his voice is amplified through rock concert speakers so that the ground shakes. More fireworks go off, perilously close to Zozobra who moans with each conflagration. The fire dancer prances at his feet and the crowd anticipation and frenzy grows. Parents lift their children to their shoulders so that they can see. All of a sudden it seems Old Man Gloom is lighting up from inside. His big, green eyes roll, his arms flail and his head bursts into flames. He wails loudly as the crowd cheers, and then the rest of his body catches fire. Fireworks blaze all around him and then suddenly, he disappears in smoke and flame. The last of the fireworks go off and Zozobra has been reduced to a smoldering bonfire where once a fifty foot tall structure stood. It is fantastic, and the crowd disperses into the night.

Zozobra has burned 86 times now . . . but he will be back next year.

The burning marks the end of gloom and the beginning of Santa Fe Fiesta, the oldest continual community celebration in America. During the next three days are festivities and parades, dance and music, plenty of food and drink, and an art fair.

Places Unimagined

“What difference does it make how much you have? What you do not have amounts to much more.” Seneca, (5 BC - 65 AD) Roman dramatist, philosopher, & politician

When death comes, it is most important to have loved well, experienced much and gained wisdom. Possessions, no matter how great, will account for nothing, except as they are given away to others. Our bodies will return to dust and be gathered into mother earth again. So why do people obsess over things?

I have found that in the last few years of my life, especially as I have become a vagabond world traveler, I do not care to be in relationship with physical ownership. Rather, what I crave is freedom of movement. If the wind calls me, I must move with it and go where it blows. For some, this might be reason to say Steven Boone is irresponsible. He does not want to take charge of things and be “responsible”. But that is not entirely true, for it is because of philosophy that I am this way. I think that everything material is ephemeral and transient—only Spirit is eternal and breaks every barrier, including death.

These days, when I need to be in one place for any length of time, I find a furnished dwelling that I can inhabit and then easily leave. I wonder, will there come a time when I will want ownership and have a house with a garden, and collect things? Then I will make my surroundings my own. For now, I do not want title because it requires caretaking. In short, to be like the wind is to travel without care over the wide terrain and go places unimagined.

“The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.”
The Bible, John (ch. III, v. 8)

Soon my six month lease at my casita in Santa Fe will be finished. I can either stay or move, and because I am an artist, I can move anywhere I want and continue working. I feel a surprise is close at hand, and might take me somewhere remote. For now, the next few weeks will be the most colorful of the year and this artist has plenty of inspiration close at hand to keep him busy.

Nature's Peace

"Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”  John Muir

“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.” Edward Abbey

My daughter Sarah, my ex-wife Jean, and I went for a four-day excursion to Silverton Colorado. Silverton only has about 500 residents, but swells with visitors in the summer because of its spectacular surroundings. It has been called “A gritty little mining town with Victorian pretensions.” The elevation, 9305 feet, makes it one of the highest towns in the United States. Originally it was founded during a gold rush, when silver and gold was being mined in the late nineteenth century.

The first day, we drove up to Animus Fork, to the ruins of old mines and miners structures. While Jean and Sarah hiked, I made a painting of an abandoned house with the mountains in the background. In the evening, we went to a restaurant, then came home and played cards. The next day, we hiked a rigorous trail up into the mountains to Ice Lake, a climb of about 3.5 miles from an elevation of about 9,900 feet to 12,000. We started late, and about half way up, hikers were already descending to return to town. Some people are hard-core hikers and even ultra-fit enthusiasts—and its always amusing to find that we are huffing and puffing and stopping to get our breath, when one of these people casually jogs past us. Our efforts were rewarded by late summer colors, wildflowers, mushroom varieties and astonishing mountains, but we were quite sore when we got back.

The other highlight of our trip was a jeep trip high in the mountains on roads only passable in all-terrain vehicles. The day went like this:
Sarah is the last one up in the morning, and when we arrive at the Jeep rental the time is 10:30.  Jim, the owner,  is a rough-cut mountain man who begins gruff but warms up as we go along. He tells us we have to wait until 1 PM to contract a half-day rental and have to return at 5. We look a little disappointed and he says okay, he can give us a new jeep that seats four, with a hardtop (good for rain) and he doesn’t care if we get back late. He plots out a course for us that includes going over mountaintops, visiting Lake City and Colorado’s 2nd largest lake, and then looping back over Engineers Pass and back into Silverton. Clouds are gathering and I ask him if he thinks it will rain, and he looks out the window and says, “Yes, I am pretty good at guessing the weather.” In fact, it did not rain that day. Jim gives me a lesson operating the four-wheel drive gears, and the most difficult part is that I have to have the jeep in neutral and rolling slowly to get into 4 wheel drive low-gear for steep terrain. Well, how am I supposed to be in neutral and rolling up hill when I shift in the mountains? He seems satisfied I will figure it out and then we say good-bye.

We take off driving the Alpine Loop and arrive at our first steep ascent, called Cinnamon Pass. I manage to jam the gears into 4 wheel low and begin the slow treacherous crawl upward over boulders and ravines. For those of us used to driving on smooth roadways, off-road mountain climbing in a vehicle on old mule paths is an extreme adventure. At times, you find your heart in your throat. Jean kept both her hands grasped firmly on the handle jutting from the dashboard . . . a well-placed jeep accoutrement. Occasionally vehicles could be seen coming the other way, but the right-of-way belonged to the vehicle climbing. It could be difficult passing because few places are wide enough to allow it.

At the top of Cinnamon Pass we are astonished at the view from near 13,000 feet in the tundra setting. I get excited and sprint a short ways to a rocky knoll to take pictures but immediately become out of breath and gasp for air. Soon, as we continue the course, Sarah asks to drive . . .  I agree and let her take the wheel—unless we come to extreme driving conditions. She does fine, and I am proud when other toughened drivers pass and notice a beautiful young woman at the wheel of the jeep on the hard mountain roads.

We are continually amazed at the settings we are in. Late summer wildflowers are in bloom and we see marmots, a furry mammal that looks like a prairie dog but is more related to squirrels.

After driving about 3 ½ hours, we arrive in Lake City and stop to rest and eat. Jean is told of a nearby hiking trail and we find it, then hike to a waterfall in the forest. I imagine that in a few weeks the Aspen trees will be golden and shimmering, and determine to come back then. Sarah and Jean take their shoes off and put their feet in the ice-cold mountain stream, giggling and laughing. We revel in the sound of the gushing, splashing water and pristine mountain surroundings. On the way back, Sarah collects wild raspberries. They taste very tart and fruity.

I am a bit concerned about time, and do not want to drive on off-road trails in the dark, so we forge onward along steep narrow passes that hug the mountain side with steep drop offs to oblivion. Switchbacks can be so severe that the jeep is barely able to make the sharp turn. The late afternoon light makes the mountains even more beautiful and we stop frequently to revel, despite the time. Near Engineers Pass we turn a corner and suddenly come to a big flock of grazing sheep. The scene is almost incongruous in such a harsh setting, but about 800 sheep are meandering over the mountain, grazing on the rich fauna. No shepherd is in sight, only two big Great Pyrenees dogs and their pup. The sound of “baaah, baaah” is everywhere.



When we come to Engineers Pass, at 12,800 feet the panorama is breathtaking. We can see mountains and valleys in almost every direction. The light seems to hang in the fresh, summit air. I feel like I am in heaven.

Eventually, we arrive back in Silverton at about 6:30. The owner’s wife checks in the vehicle and I tell her we had a great time.

“Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!” William Butler Yeats

A Marvel

During my years of University study I took a course in philosophy, and I remember a day in class when the professor became quite animated during a treatise on whether God exists or not. He held up a diagram of the human eye and explained that such a complex invention begged certainty that only God could create such a marvel. I agree.

The human eye is enormously complicated and efficient in receiving raw data. About 40 components make up the system, including retina, pupil, iris, cornea, lens and optic nerve. The retina for instance, has approximately 137 million special cells that respond to light and send messages to the brain. The light impressions are translated into electric impulses and sent to the brain via the optic nerve. Then, the visual cortex interprets the pulses to color, contrast, depth, etc., which allows us to see “pictures” of our world. The eye captures so much information that the brain can interpret up to 1.5 million pulse messages a milli-second. No computer even comes close.

If anything were to go even slightly wrong in the creation of eyes, they would fail. Yet time and again, since the beginning of human life, mankind has been given the incredible gift of sight. It does not happen by accident, but rather by plan. If we think fairly about this one aspect of the human creation, we must admit that a Creator devised and implements it. Furthermore, all the best minds of humanity could not replace a single eye . . . the most we have been able to do in an empty eye socket is put in a glass orb that has no power of sight whatsoever. No, only God can create eyes. It cannot be “accidental” or by “chance”.

“To suppose that the eye, with all its inimitable contrivances for adjusting the focus to different distances, for admitting different amounts of light, and for the correction of spherical and chromatic aberration, could have formed by natural selection, seems, I freely confess, absurd in the highest degree possible.” Charles Darwin, Origin of Species

Worth A Thousand Words

It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words, and a Native American proverb says, “It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story”. Every painting contains stories, and that is the beauty of art—that we can look, and if the artist has been masterful and we are awake to the moment of observance and communion, stories can unfold.
There is a story behind my recent piece, called The Gypsy. It begins when I was visiting my friend Carol, who lives in a tiny mountain village, Darrical, in the region of Spain called Andalusia. Carol is Scottish by birth, but has lived in Spain for years with her German, accordion playing husband, Rolf. They lived a vagabond existence on a boat for years before finding their place in the almost deserted village of Darrical. While I was staying with Carol and Rolf, I met Pepa, a young woman artist who spoke English. Immediately I was struck with her “Spanish” looks—dark hair that flowed in wild rivulets around her broad face, olive skin, sparkling eyes, and an almost fierce proud beauty to her.
Soon we were friends and I wanted her to model for me, for photography, which she gladly agreed to. I told her I wanted her to dress in traditional Spanish garb and she found some dresses that worked, and we took her guitar for additional flavor.

Darrical has many homes that have been abandoned and are in various states of ruin. At one time the government planned to create a dam in the valley and made people move out of their homes before the water rose and flooded them . . . but the dam was never built and the homes remained abandoned. I wandered in and around these places, letting them tell me their stories and feeling the passage of time. Pepa and I spent hours exploring the village ruins and I took hundreds of pictures of her.
Now the pictures are available in my archives and I have begun using them in my artwork. I have developed a method of making mixed-media art that combines digital photography and painting. First I begin with an image I like, and then work on it in Photoshop, sometimes adding layers of abstract nuance. Next it is printed on canvas and stretched onto stretcher bars, like a painting. Then I coat it and paint on it as my imagination inspires me. In the end, a final finish unites all the layers and the art goes to my gallery. The new works are not the landscape painting I am known for, yet, I believe in the old Chinese saying “Perseverance furthers” and by nature I am an adventurer and like to experiment in my art.
Click to see more Steven Boone artwork

Gifts

Life is a gift, and every being is special and unique. Simply meditating on this can bring awareness of God. Each person carries gifts to share with the world, and although outer wealth varies considerably, I think that the richest people are those that abundantly share the gifts of their talents and innate abilities. A Navajo Indian saying goes, “A person may be lacking in hard and soft goods, but if he has a song, he is not poor.”

Each day I am aware of the gifts that come to me, and often hear myself saying aloud, “Thank you!” When I go to art openings at many of the local galleries on Friday evenings, I am able to stroll through rooms full of incredible artwork, made by the artists that have consecrated themselves to producing dazzling objects that broaden our appreciation and awareness of life and its possibilities. The crowds mingle merrily, partaking of refreshments provided by other people who also serve up their unique talents as organizers and brokers for the artists. Last Friday, after going to the openings, I went with a friend to an evening ballet performance at The Lensic, a stately performing arts theater downtown—made from the able vision of an architect and the skilled hands of craftspeople. To watch the dancers move beautifully and with élan to fulfill the inspiration of choreographers is sometimes breathtaking. Other talent comes in to play as well, such as set designers, lighting technicians, musicians and composers. All this genius consecrated to make the magic of a performance. This is true wealth.

Yesterday afternoon I received a rub down from a friend who is skilled in massage. I felt blessed receiving his loving touch that healed the soreness in my body and reinvigorated my tissues, muscles and bones. In the quiet of our communion, I could listen to the song of the birds outside, sharing their melodies with creation. Then, in the evening, I went with a friend to see a movie called Inception, a sci-fi thriller based on a concept of psychic espionage, directed by Christopher Nolan, starring Leonardo Di Caprio. This film is the result of a huge collaboration of talent among a myriad of individuals, culminating in my being able to buy a ticket, walk into the dark hall of a theater, choose a comfortable seat and let myself drift into a fantasy world that looks and feels real—sometimes more than “normal” life, and then while experiencing this alter-reality, receive the gifts of beauty, excitement, knowledge, and inspiration that are gathered inside.

Today, as is my habit on Sunday mornings, I went to a nearby store that serves refreshments and sells newspapers and magazines. I bought the Sunday edition of the New York Times, and then sat on the patio under a clear morning sky, in the shade of an umbrella with flowers blooming all around, to read leisurely, drink a cup of coffee and munch a pastry. The New York Times is substantial, and it takes me all week to read the Sunday paper since it includes many special sections. Here again, I appreciate the work of many, from designers to editors, journalists and photographers—all sharing their carefully crafted gifts.

Tomorrow night I go to a ballet, Madame Butterfly, by Giacomo Puccini at the Santa Fe Opera. An entire book could be written about just this one composer and the gifts of endowment that he shared with the world.

I know that most of the world’s people live without the plethora of opportunity and culture that I appreciate. Yet they find their own songs to sing. And so, I leave you with a photograph to look at carefully. This blind man was alone on a street in Hanoi, Vietnam, when I snapped his picture. He played his song on a homemade flute, and around his neck were many more flutes, strung from a cord. I suppose if you asked him, “How is life?” He would respond, “Good! As long as I have my song, I am not poor.”

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.

The Idea Has Disappeared

When I opened the door to my studio today and looked at my painting on the easel, I knew I was not done. It is hard to say when a piece of artwork is done, and there is a danger in overworking something. Winston Churchill said, "When you get a thing the way you want it, leave it alone."

The famous French painter, Georges Braque said, "The painting is finished when the idea has disappeared."

I think I am done with this still-life. The cherries are shriveled and I have eaten an apple.

Art Mirrors Life

Art mirrors life, and, in the words of the great British sculptor Henry Moore, “enlarges existence into something more significant than everyday life, giving some importance to it, a monumentality and grandeur.”

I love being in the company of artists, and these days I have been blessed spending time with an artist friend from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, who is visiting Santa Fe. Sarah and I have spent hours together going to galleries, discussing philosophy, writing poetry, painting and drawing, and last night attending a world premiere of an opera, called Life Is A Dream, by Lewis Spratlan at The Santa Fe Opera.
Sarah is a painter, so I invited her to work with me in my studio. We decided to make a still life painting. First we needed objects to paint. I suggested a pretty green vase and an arrangement of fruit. The vase was already in my studio and I cut some flowers from my yard to go in it. Next we went together to a grocery store to select vegetables or fruit. I am always interested in green or red peppers because they can grow in fantastic shapes and have bright, pure color. Eggplant is dazzling to look at for its burnished purple hues. At last we settled on apples and cherries.

In the studio, we arranged the objects. I enjoyed how easily Sarah and I came to a quick and deft solution to a pleasing arrangement—it only took minutes and without fuss. I lent her supplies and an easel, turned on music, and then we began. Our efforts took two days and we had great fun together amidst laughter and tears.

The painting process has correlation to life and meaning, so here is the story: The beginning is concept, to get a mental picture of something, even vague, that is the intention to pursue. Once I had created my intention, I made the still life arrangement that would be my inspiration to work from. I knew that I wanted to honor the objects with a realistic portrayal, and not something abstract. Standing a few feet away from the tableau, I thought of the proportions and carefully made a drawing. The foundation of art is important, because everything that happens afterward is affected. After I was satisfied with the foundation, I began laying in the oil color, using my palette knife to apply the paint directly. Most artists paint with brushes and only use the palette knife to mix paints, but I have developed a technique using the palette knife. It is very pleasurable to gaze at pure oil colors on a palette, and then mix them to get more colors. It is an art in itself and some artists, such as Pierre Bonnard, Claude Monet, and Mark Rothko, are known for their great sense of color, while other artists, like Michelangelo, Paul Cezanne, and Andrew Wyeth, are famous for being superb draftsmen.
The trick in painting is to create a visual symphony that uses just the right structure, tonality and timbre to produce the greatest effect. Of course colors affect our emotions, so the artist uses color to great affect. The important thing is clarity, so that the original inspiration speaks eloquently. So much can go wrong. Colors can become muddied, the drawing might be bad, proportions look awkward . . .  in short it takes great practice and a good helping of talent to accomplish art. Only a few make it to the professional level.

As I worked on my still life, I became frustrated with the background, so at one point, scraped it out and tried something new. This is an important lesson: if something is not going well, even if you have invested in it, be prepared to change course to get to something better. When I destroyed the dark background I had painted and began laying in lighter tones, the whole painting seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and speak to me, saying, this is better and now I am happy. And this is what art is about—adaptability, creative pursuit and change.

Any great work of art... revives and re-adapts time and space, and the measure of its success is the extent to which it makes you an inhabitant of that world - the extent to which it invites you in and lets you breathe its strange, special air.  ~Leonard Bernstein, What Makes Opera Grand?

Crested Butte Sojourn

The season of wildflowers is magical and short in the high mountain regions of Colorado. I wavered before driving 5 ½ hours to Crested Butte. I was there only three weeks ago to paint, hike, photograph, and see the beginning of summer. The wildflowers were coming out, but had not reached their peak of performance and array. I am glad the universe called me to make the effort and return for the full symphony.

This time, I did not bring my painting gear but only a bike and my camera. The rugged scenery and spectacular vistas kept me outside all day, and in the evening I could find a spot to pull my vehicle aside, take the bike out, spread a bedroll and go to sleep.

I like the little town of Crested Butte. It has an old west feel and is very laid back. It caters to lovers of the great outdoors and has an ambiance that appeals to mountain enthusiasts. I arrived during the Wildflower Festival, and also The Rocky Mountain Plein Air Painters National Show.

This is what happened in 56 hours: I packed and drove from Santa Fe, New Mexico to Crested Butte, Colorado in about 5 ½ hours. Drove through town and into the mountains to Lake Irwin. The official campsite spaces were all taken, so I drove off to an undesignated area nearby and pulled my van into a spot under trees. Got on my bike and rode trails, huffing and puffing with exertion, getting out of breath with my heart thumping in my throat, sweated, and stopped frequently to be amazed at the natural splendor and photograph it. Incredibly, on a remote mountain trail, I ran into a friend from Santa Fe whom I had not seen in a couple years, (of all places!). As the sun sinks behind the mountain peaks, I cycle back downhill without crashing, make a small campfire, cook a can of soup, get smoke in my eyes, crawl in the back of my van and look at photographs on my laptop, settle down in the darkness, give thanks to God and go to sleep. Wake up, drive into town and have coffee, go to some shops and sell some leather bags I receive regularly from Kashmir, India, drive to Slate Creek and slowly follow a dirt road along the river, stopping occasionally. Find a pullout by the river and go for a short hike, getting my feet wet and making a recording with my iphone’s recorder of the stream’s song. Go back to town for supplies. Take a short nap in my hot van. Find a mountain bike trail on the outskirt of town and ride. Drink the fresh air, smell the fragrance, get sweaty, dirty, scratched, and bitten by horseflies, wave and say hello to other enthusiasts, stop frequently to lay my bike down and trudge through the fields to photograph. Get sunburned, and finally exhausted, and very thirsty. Ride the bike back to my van, drive back into town, find a cafe, eat a salad and drink a lot of water. Drive back to 
Slate Creek and pull off the road to camp in a place where others are doing the same. Work on my laptop and lay down to sleep . . . but cannot because of the young party-people nearby who are having fun around their campfire. Put on my earphones and listen to white-noise recording on my iphone. Sleep. Wake up cold, eat some milk and cereal, then drive back into town in my dusty van, realizing I am dirty, unshaven, and have not brushed my teeth (forgot my toothbrush). Have coffee, sell some leather purses, and drive 5 ½ hours home to Santa Fe. Hallelujah!
See some pictures of my Crested Butte Sojourn!

The Great Scheme Of Things

Some people believe in God and others do not, and those in between are called agnostics. It is understandable that there is great difficulty attaining 100% consensus of belief in God, for the finite mind cannot grasp the infinite nor can a cup contain an ocean; and many of us have to grasp something in order to believe in it. Furthermore, this world is beautiful but also violent, with merciless atrocities that occur naturally and by the hand of man. This further confuses people who cannot stomach the thought of a beneficent Creator making such a mess and watching his creatures struggle in it for the sake of progress to a better life later.

When I was growing up, our household was without religion. My parents never spoke of God, and religion was something my friends knew about but not me. In some cases they endured the religion that was foisted upon them. Our household was liberal and a place for free thought. As the years went by, many of my friends came to enjoy our house as a haven of sociability. As I entered my teen years and my mind expanded, I asked my parents about their belief in God. My father said he did not believe, and since he was a passionate social activist, went so far as to quote Karl Marx, who said, “Religion is the opiate of the masses.” My mother said, “I am an agnostic.” Since I did not know what that meant, she went on to inform me that God may exist, but we cannot know for sure, so we allow that He might be present.

My youthful spirit searched for the truth independently during the beginning of my college years. Of course, I wondered more deeply what life was about and how I came to exist, and what my purpose might be. The first holy book I read, the Bhagavad-Gita, I found by chance while browsing in the university library. Glancing through the pages, something drew me, and I read it in entirety. Soon thereafter, I began a three-day fast, and pondered deeply whether God existed. The main question that excited my imagination and soul: “How did intelligent life and ordered existence throughout the universe come to be?” I could only conclude that a higher intelligence, God, made creation, of which I am part. Funny, but the next question that plagued my youthful mind for the next couple days was, “Can there be more than one God?” Perhaps I wrestled with the thought of one Being, dominant over all. But finally, I arrived at closure when I realized that God must be All-Powerful, and if there were two Gods then neither would be All-Powerful. There can only be one God. Shortly thereafter, I found the Baha’i Faith, and joined.

Over the years, my parents have changed. My father does not mention God or religion, but I suspect he has gone from being atheist to agnostic. My mother has developed a deeply personal relationship with God. She does not belong to a church, but in almost all her conversations she praises God, the Creator. Every day she speaks of “the wonderful world we live in.” I went to live with them in the spring, to help them with aging issues, and slept in a small anteroom near their own bedrooms. They would retire about the same time each night, my father closing his bedroom door and turning on his white-noise sound machine, and my mother would arrive in her bed, then promptly begin speaking out loud, (I could hear her), having a personal conversation with God. Typically, she praises His creation: the beautiful green grass, flowers, magnificent trees, the order in nature, sunlight, air and temperature, earth, soil, micro-organisms . . . and she thanks Him for her body and holding her place in the great scheme of things.

Live Life Fully

For a lover, the greatest torment is separation from his love. It can be an agonizing pain if the goal of one’s longing is removed and becomes inaccessible. Perhaps this is why religions preach detachment as a means to happiness. If we cease to want, then neither do we lack. If we are near God, the All-Knowing, the Protecting, All-Bountiful, then we should be happy all the time, regardless of our outer circumstances. The difficulty is that we are part of the wondrous and terrible wheel of life and death, the Matrix of being. In Hindu scripture it is named the cause of suffering. We are told everything physical is fleeting and must end in death—leading to transformation and rebirth. Only the spiritual is changeless and imperishable. Yet, in this world, the physical is the vehicle for all our learning, our joy, satisfaction, jubilation, achievement and growth.

I learned how crushing this lesson could be when my beloved daughter Naomi became ill with cancer and two years later died. The anniversary of her death is tomorrow, July 5. She died in 1999 at the age of nineteen. How could I be detached from her? If I were a saint maybe I could stand back and say calmly, the Hand of God is at work and she is being transformed and taken by Him to a better place. The fact is, my heart was broken a thousand times by the demolition of her body which she loved so much and tried desperately to save, and after we buried her I cried every day for six years. Granted, I know she became a radiant light during her calamity and is now among the chosen in paradise, yet I will never “get over” the loss of her here, in this physical world. Is it because I am not detached?

In the Baha’i historical record is a transcendent figure named Nabil. He was the close, devoted follower of the prophet Baha’u’llah and wrote the definitive history of the Baha’i revelation, called The Dawn-Breakers. At the time of Baha’u’llah’s death, Nabil became so distraught that he walked into the ocean and drowned himself. He could not be detached from his beloved or live in this world without Him. The pain was unbearable. I understand, although I also know this life is but the time of a blink of an eye in eternity and soon enough this dream will vanish and everlasting union will prevail.

From the other side, I often hear Naomi’s voice telling me to live life fully and appreciate its great beauty.  Soon enough it will be over, but now, love life and be glad for it.

To learn more about Naomi Boone and her life go to the website: A Heart Traced In Sand, Reflections On A Daughter's Struggle For Life