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

Peace And Understanding

During my marriage, we had a wonderful cat named Misha.  At the time Misha arrived at our house, our other pets were two Australian Shepherds, Sophie and Chaco. When the kitten was set on the floor,  immediately the two dogs charged and I feared it would be torn to bits in a flash. But remarkably, Misha did not know it was a cat, assumed it was among family, and did not flinch before the snarling dogs but purred a hello. This flabbergasted the dogs and they pulled up short of chomping down on the little creature. After that, all was well.
Another episode with a dangerous dog occurred when I was teen and delivering newspapers on my paper route. I had stepped in front of a home and thrown the paper when a German Shepherd suddenly attacked me. He charged, teeth bared and growling. For some reason, my reaction was perfect composure, and when the dog clamped it’s teeth over my arm I was calm and did not flinch. This reaction disarmed the beast and we both stood together, the dog with its mouth fastened over my wrist, while I was waiting to see what it would do next. He let go.
Another time, I was a student in College and during the summer had moved from Baltimore to a rural town called Hagerstown, in Maryland. I had gone there to support the tiny Baha'i community. I went to a realtor to find an apartment. This man owned many properties in town and because I was poor, he took me to a ramshackle house in the most impoverished district. In fact, the house was a former slave home in an area of dark people. He was nervous while unlocking the front door, and I could tell he was anxious for my safety, but also greedy to get the rent. The building was extremely run down and missing floorboards in some places. But I enjoyed the light, and had the whole house for only a trifle rent. The home was not on a street, but rather a back alley. One night, I had been walking alone on a street and had just turned to go up the alley when I was accosted by two youth. They stopped me and asked for some change—a quarter to be exact. I had a quarter in my pocket, but knew I was about to be robbed, so I said “no”. The two wedged me between them and while one repeated his demand, the other pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and clicked open the blade—and it flashed under the streetlight. From my head to my feet I felt a perfect tranquility, and then turned and walked away untouched into the dark alley. Something told me they would not kill me for the quarter, so I did not look back, but walked slowly to my house.
In this world, too often we see each other as adversaries. Muslims are adversaries of Christians, Republicans hate Democrats, rich people disdain poor, English soccer fans hate German soccer fans . . . etc. etc. For humans, these barriers are constructs and to release them can lead to peace and understanding.

Cradle Of Civilization

One day, while on African safari in Tanzania, we had been on a grueling, bone-rattling, and dusty journey over the Serengeti Plain, and our excursion vehicle rolled to a stop near the boundary of the wildlife reserve. Everyone poured out to stretch legs and look around the barren landscape. Immediately I spotted a small group of Masai women gathered under the shade of a lone tree nearby. The sight seemed incredible since civilization was nowhere to be found in the area; no roads, homes, village, utilities . . . and I wondered how these females were here, in the middle of nowhere with no men in sight.

Our group had made previous stops where Masai were near, and I had noticed everyone stayed together and would not approach the Africans. It seemed as if an invisible boundary existed that could not be crossed. The tourists were on a mission to see exotic game animals, not people. However, the Masai drew me like a magnet—even more than the lions or elephants, and so I approached them. This day, I walked straight into the group of ladies. They welcomed me with smiles and I smiled back. The women were of different ages, including grandmothers and younger ones with babies in slings around their shoulders. Soon I motioned that I would like to take pictures and they smiled okay, so I snapped some shots. What was remarkable was how everyone maintained an unflappable equanimity and graciousness. I felt welcomed by strangers. Before going back to join the safari group, I spontaneously leaned over and gave a kiss to one of the woman . . . and that brought giggles and laughter from all.

I imagine that the Masai people are older than Christianity or Judaism. Not far from where our truck stopped is Olduvai Gorge, also called the “Cradle of Civilization”, where fossil remains of earliest man were found by anthropologists in 1931. It is believed man emerged 5-7 million years ago.

When I was among the Masai, I always felt a peacefulness that was special, distinct from the frenzy of the world. They seemed calm, fearless, and curious. Sure, they had great adversity living in unforgiving environs, but a nobility inside of them transcended their outer circumstances. I found I could not simply look at them from afar, but always had to step toward them, perhaps shyly, but lovingly and with eagerness to learn.

Many more of my world photos are at Graphixshoot

People Of Color

Lately, I have been pondering the nature of prejudice. Here in the USA, we immediately think of racial bias. But prejudice comes in many shades. It can be nationalistic, religious, have to do with class and status, or intellect . . . the list goes on and on. What is sure is that prejudice diminishes life. Why? Because prejudice is a judgment or opinion formed before the facts are known and in most cases, these opinions are founded on suspicion, intolerance, and irrational hatred that resists alteration or enlightenment. Life, to me, is all about change, growth, flux, alteration, mystery, and surprise—in short, it cannot be contained by small minds with petty judgments.

When I set out upon my travels, I begin by looking forward to meeting the world in all of its diversity. I forget the color of my skin, my nationality, my religious affiliation . . . in short I abandon all that sets me apart from the matrix of where I am going, and then my eyes are open like a child's—full of wonder and awe at what is before me. Remarkable things happen this way. Doors open and miracles are plenty. Ecstasy demands abandonment. This is esoteric, but think of the mother’s love for her child. It is ecstatic in the moments of complete abandonment to the relationship.

I find it humorous and pathetic the attempts to define race. We all share the same genetic background and are of the same substance. Terms like “people of color” are particularly stupid. I am an artist and observe that everyone is colored. The term “colored people” is a silly contrivance. Melatonin produces the color we see in each other, and it also controls the amount of ultra-violet rays from the sun that enters our bodies. It is totally neutral and has nothing to do with intelligence or character.

I have painted people of various skin tones and find that I use the same colors, but in different proportions. If you look closely at the two portraits I include here, you will see that the two people share some colors. 

Nobody is black or white and everyone is colored. Many years from now, this need to define race will be gone, and all that will remain is the human family. For now, it is fun seeing the differences. When I first arrived in Nairobi, Kenya, from Rome, Italy, my initial impression was shock at witnessing a drab, dilapidated city, since I had come from one of the most culturally iconic and artistically dazzling places in the world. My eyes hurt, until I became entranced by all the dark skinned people who offered a beauty I had not seen before in such a grand way. From then on, my vision was not so much on the material surroundings as upon the people. Love allowed beautiful experiences to unfold. Prejudice would have killed my time in Africa. I am so glad that it did not—the ecstasy was waiting for me to experience.

Plenty To Write About

 “Have you thought of writing your memoir?” Several people who have watched my life unfold have put this question to me. There is plenty to write about.  I could make a book out of just the year 2008, when I traveled around the world and lived in nineteen countries.
It strikes me that there has been so much contrast in my life. I come from a family of contradictions. My father is the product of an upper-class southern household, and went on to the highest echelons of education and career. My mother’s history involves broken childhood homes, poverty, and little education after high school. The two conceived five children in eight years. I am the first-born.  From this crowded scenario, I have found that in adult life, I prefer solitude, or at least anonymity in crowded places.
My first wife had no material wealth when we met.  Several years into our marriage, after our daughter Naomi was born, she revealed mental instability, divorced me and was institutionalized.
My second wife was born into wealth and it only increased with time. We share a beautiful daughter and our marriage lasted 21 years. After my first daughter died when she was nineteen, our marriage became seriously undone. After divorce, I took my year to travel around the world and live as a homeless vagabond, experiencing the basics of earthly existence and living in what I call THE DREAM, in flux. 
A question I am pondering is how truthful to be in divulging my life story. Do I describe growing up in a household without religion and my teenage years as a hippie? Do I tell of my first sexual experience that happened to be with my girlfriend and her girlfriend both? Do I include my times in jail? Hitchhiking experiences from coast to coast? Religious conversion to the Baha'i Faith is easy to tell, but not so easy is my subsequent mental breakdown and three days in a psycho ward. This was after graduating Art College and driving across the USA in my car with four other Baha’ís, visiting Indian reservations and transfixed by conversations about extra-terrestrials, the Urantia book, and Baha’i writings. Do I tell of visions I have had in prayer—of vibrating light coming through walls and then entering my body and causing me to smell roses?
The common advise in writing a memoir is to follow a time line moving forward. Another encouragement is to “go deep” in the emotional experiences, and to write what is hard to write. It is said that those parts can be what readers remember and value most because they reveal inner struggle. Especially, reveal changes in life . . . and for this I have had plenty to speak of.