A Mexican Home

It all seems a dream. About six months ago, I saw a Mexican home listed for sale online. It is on the outskirts of Oaxaca, Mexico. The pictures showed a house Amy and I loved. Furthermore, the price is about 1/4th the cost of a similar home in Santa Fe. We both feel the situation in America is getting too weird, and for the same amount of money, we could live much more lavishly somewhere else. 

Now we are in Oaxaca for a week. Our first visit was to see THE HOUSE. It is as described on the website. Three bedrooms, two studios, two bathrooms, chefs kitchen, plenty of nooks, crannies and storage, extensive grounds with exotic plants and drip irrigation . . . we feel it is for us. The house was built by a socially conscious German couple, who hired the same architect that designed for Lila Downs, a world famous Mexican-American singer who has a home in Oaxaca. When the owner's partner died, she returned to Germany and left the house with a caretaker. 

Amy and I both agree that love surrounds this place and is evident in the fabric of its life. The German woman worked passionately to help rural cooperatives get on their feet. An indigenous caretaker is in the house, and is from an agricultural collective a few hours away that grows coffee, vanilla beans and spices. 

The property is perfect for two artists. We need to make big adjustments to leave our home country but in the end it's worth it. The village is called San Pedro Ixtalahuaca—about 1/2 hour drive from Oaxaca. 

Nothing around but a church, school, and a few tiny shops. 

The house and land is ringing our bell. Now to decide.

(Note: Since writing this post, amy and I have bought the home and are preparing to move there.)

Facebook

It has been 13 years since I joined Facebook and began sharing my stories, thoughts, artwork and photography. In the beginning, I thought to use social media as a platform to further my art career and share my creativity to a broad audience in cyberspace. I still use Facebook primarily to share my art, photography, and some writing.

I enjoy seeing what other creatives are up to, as well as friends and families spread across the globe. On occasion, I have been in a foreign country and met a FB friend in person for the first time.

I notice since the the last US election, much of Facebook has been commandeered by special interests intent on spreading covert messages in graphic ways. Now, with another election coming up shortly here in America, the garbage being posted by folks is loathsome. People are revealing extreme polarization and prejudice. It most likely has been fomented purposefully.

Often I have been inclined to call out fake news, or correct improprieties. But there is so much of it. In all these years, I almost never unfriended or blocked people. Now I have begun to purge a bit. Not much, because I like to get a big picture of the world, not one that is merely a mirror of my own thoughts and feelings.

Tender Loving Care

Corn is one of the most venerated of plants in the world. Especially, in Native American culture it plays a central role. “Corn, also called Indian corn or maize, is a cereal plant of the grass family (Poaceae) with edible grain. The domesticated crop originated in the Americas and is one of the most widely distributed of the world’s food crops. Corn is used as livestock feed, as human food, as biofuel, and as raw material in industry. In the United States the colorful variegated strains known as Indian corn are traditionally used in autumn harvest decorations.” —britannica.com 

One of my earliest memories is when as a child of two years, my parents would take a drive out of Chicago on Sunday afternoon. I was in the backseat, peering out the window as they drove into farmlands, through corn fields. For a little child, the corn stood immensely tall, in closely knit rows—plant after plant as far as the eye could see. 

About one year ago, during Santa Fe’s Summer Bandstand, (now cancelled) a Native American artist from Taos performed. Robert Mirabal is well known and well liked. He is a grammy award winning performer, though for the last number of years he has mostly stayed close to home on Taos Pueblo. Anyway, I had a small group of high school friends visiting town and after a social gathering with pizza at the Boone Gallery, we walked out onto the plaza to hear music. 

Usually when Robert plays at the end of August, it rains. Last year was no different, with rain coming midway after the concert started. For us Santa Feans, who live in arid high-desert mountains, rain is a good thing anytime. It is as if Robert brings good fortune with him. He talked about his culture and the world and at one point, stepped into the crowd with a big bowl of native corn kernels, giving them away. Amy and I took a palmful.

This spring, we planted a small garden in our front yard, including our blue corn kernels. Blue corn was developed by Hopi Indians of the American southwest. 

Our plants grew, with tender loving care, and Amy and I marveled, watching the tender green stalks shoot upward and make tassels, that pollinated from its neighbors. Soon we had corn “ears”. 

“We must send Robert pictures”, I commented to Amy one day. 

A small cob Amy made into a bird. 

 

Gratitude

 

This last week has been a whirlwind of happy circumstances. After announcing that Amy and I will be  closing our gallery, our collectors stepped in to buy art. Four paintings are going to Rising Fawn, Georgia, two to Fort Collins, Colorado, one to Glenwood Springs Co., one to Las Cruces New Mexico, and three go to Kerrville, Texas. 

  

Paintings go to two homes in Santa Fe. Collectors from Albuquerque, NM bought one and a collector from Edmond Oklahoma bought one. 

We are grateful for all the sales during the pandemic. Many businesses have been severely impacted; including our gallery. 

We had planned to close when our rent was scheduled to increase drastically beginning in 2021. Then we decided to quit early, and now we are going month-to-month, with the probability of shuttering by the end of the year.

Now we know we can for sure make virtual sales.

Call It Flux

The Boone Gallery, where Amy and I have exclusively shown our art, is closing. The covid-19 pandemic is forcing us to close earlier than we planned. 

We have some remorse, but both of us know changes occur in life and we must adapt. I call it flux, and have been in relationship with it for as long as I can remember.

Beginning in a few days—Wednesday, August 12, we are auctioning art.

Before our artwork goes elsewhere, we are offering it directly to the public and collectors at a discount. It is an opportunity to benefit both us and everyone else. 

To preview, click here: AUCTION

For further information, go to boonegallery.com or stevenboone.com

Remember to check it out and begin bidding on Wednesday, Aug. 12

Zombies

To outward seeming, the woman seems normal enough. She works as a salesperson in the little import shop across the hall from our gallery. Amy has had a few exchanges with her and knows she is a big supporter of the current president. At one point she told Amy if she wasn’t a supporter that they could not be “friends”.

Our gallery has been closed mostly, because the pandemic and state and local regulations have almost completely curtailed foot traffic. Non-the-less, we have had some sales and been opening at greatly reduced hours.

The other day, I had just opened and the lady saw me. We smiled and she stopped at my door for a moment of small talk. But when the topic turned to covid-19 she became very dark and animated. She began coaching me fervently that the disease was politically planned by people involved in pedophilia. That the numbers were fake and really, very few people die from it—that it is the same as the flu. I explained I had just read an article in the New York Times about how the virus has gone into the heart of the Amazon, and is killing tens of thousands there, especially indigenous people. “Well hydroxychloroquine is readily available and cures it.” Before I could talk she went on to say that certain people don’t want the cure to be known. Then with a glare she said, “They also eat babies.” When I looked aghast she said,  “You can only understand all this if your higher chakra is open!” With that she turned and left me speechless.

For the next hour I felt slightly sick.

Is this the new “normal?”

I have been through many upheavals in society and travelled around the world, but it seems these days, dark forces are coming forward like never before and claiming people —making them into zombies.

A Remarkable Road

In the United States of America, Colorado and New Mexico border each other. I like to think of them as “cousins”. The two states share qualities and each is unique. So when folks from Colorado want to make a quick vacation, they often come to New Mexico, and especially Santa Fe. I have sold much of my art to people from Colorado. In fact, I just finished two large paintings for a physician couple (he is a high-school friend) that live in Snowmass, near Aspen. Now due to the pandemic, my art gallery is practically shut down  so I decided to hand deliver the art and make a 5 day mini-vacation with Amy. 

My van transports artwork, but also can be used as a glorified tent! 

Our first sojourn, we drove three hours north to the magical town of Crestone, Colorado. I have been numerous times and like it enough that I wanted Amy to visit. The Crestone area, with only a few hundred habitants, is a spiritual center with several world religions represented, including: a Hindu temple, a Zen center, Carmelite monastery, several Tibetan Buddhist centers, and miscellaneous New Age happenings. The bed&breakfast was perfect, and we enjoyed being at the foot of 14,000 foot mountains in absolute quiet.

The next day we continued north and climbed uphill to stop at Independence Pass,12,095 ft. the second highest paved Colorado state highway and closed during winter. We arrived at Snowmass late afternoon and my friend Russell gave us a quick tour of the area, which is especially famous for world-class skiing, but also expensive homes. Russell is a pediatrician who now sees patients mostly remotely, using Zoom. HIs wife Mary is an epidemiologist. They both love the paintings that newly adorn the walls of their home. We shared dinner on their deck which has grand views all around the valley and mountains nearby. I have another painting to make for them—which will go in their Virginia home. 

That night, we slept in our van, nestled in the forest by a stream. Then left for our next destination; Glenwood Springs, located at the confluence of the Roaring Fork River and the Colorado River, threading together the Roaring Fork Valley and a series of smaller towns up and down the Colorado River. Amy and I have new friends living there who invited us to stay. They bought a painting from me last winter. Our initial meeting is a special story! They live on a thousand acre ranch in superb settings. We all shared meals and good conversation, getting to know one another better. We slept in our van by a pond the first night, and then in a cabin on the property high up a mountainside the next. Aspen trees are everywhere around and we hope to return in the fall when they turn golden.

After fond farewells, we left to go to Crested Butte, our last stop before returning home. 

The GPS took us on a remarkable road that was unpaved much of the way, meandering at the foot of towering mountains a winding over hill and dale through aspen forests and along streams and rivers. It started lightly raining as we approached Crested Butte—and that is OK since the region has been in a drought which has contributed to a big die-off of fir trees.

I have been to Crested Butte many times and enjoy its frontier vibe. It is a destination for skiing, mountain biking, and a variety of other outdoor activities. Amy has never been. We stayed in a hotel I like at the foot of a ski area. That night, after dinner in town, as we drove back to our hotel, a marvelous rainbow unfurled itself before our astonished eyes. One end was at the top of Mt. Crested Butte! 

The next morning we drove along the Slate River nearby and stopped to wade in a crystal clear stream. After coffee at a great little local bistro, we made our five hour journey home. Along the way we stopped occasionally. I got a great photo of a rainstorm, sweeping across the plains at the borderline.

A good sojourn for five days!

Anniversary of Transcendence

Today is the anniversary of the transcendence into the immortal spiritual realm of my oldest daughter. It was July 5, 1999, when Naomi, then 19, winged her way out of her physical cage. Before she left to soar with utmost freedom and happiness in the heavenly realms, she kissed this life farewell with tenderness and love. One of the last things she said was, “I love my body, it has been so good to me.” 

I knelt by her side as she lay dying, and with tears in my eyes told her I loved her and was proud of her. She managed to turn her head to look at me tenderly and say, “I love you too; times two!”

When we first learned Naomi had a vicious cancer in her hip and had little chance of survival, I began taking notes and writing, thinking her story would be a remarkable miracle of recovery and celebration of faith. She made a recovery of sorts and gave us hope she might survive. But this was only to grant her more time to gain greater powers of soul, for the Hand of the Creator was training her to be one of His great angels. Many pains, hardships, disappointments and cruelties came to her and she met them as obstacles to overcome. In the process I stood by her side in anguish, but also in awe and utmost respect, noting everything. 

Fortunately, Naomi was a keen observer from an early age. She began writing in diaries at the age of nine years old. She continued until her death, and all the books are safely stored away. I used her words often while writing her story, then in 2001, published A Heart Traced In Sand, Reflections on a Daughter’s Struggle for Life. It won two awards and has touched the hearts of many.

Now, 19 years after the print edition, the digital edition is available. (Come to think of it, 19 is  appropriate . . . a sacred number and also marks her duration on earth.) The digital edition, $3.95, is accessible as an EPUB—readable on many devices, and also as a pdf. It includes many links that reveal special pictures and documents that are not included in the print version, $14.95.

EPUB introductory price of 3.95 with 30% going to Miracles From Maggie, a charity for families dealing with childhood cancer.

Go to: A Heart Traced In Sand

Plants Communicate

Our little garden is teaching me. It talks and I listen and hear. Plants communicate.

For years I cultivated the earth where I lived. Then, after the death of my oldest daughter, Naomi, I lost interest in many things, divorced, and began years of traveling alone. I did not feel attached to places or things. 

Now, only in the last two years have I begun gardening again—albeit on a small scale. Amy and I share the enjoyment.

The goal in gardening is to bring a plant to fruition. That may be for flowers, vegetables or fruit. Some public gardens are decorative, with full time staff and entry fees, others are on family farms. 

I have begun longing for a life where most of my time is spent communing with nature. Cultivating, listening, then responding appropriately.

Unless native and wild, plants need tender care from beginning to end. The soil must be fertile and able to hold moisture and convey nutrients to the roots that feed the stems, shoots and leaves. Proper light is necessary for photosynthesis. Too much sunlight and heat can damage some plants. A gardener has to watch carefully . . . the plants show what they need by the way they grow. 

Pumpkin growing on a vine

People need similar loving care from beginning to end. 

Like plants, people need from the beginning shelter from storm and drought, loving nutrients to the roots, appropriate sunlight of guidance and education, space and training . . . states of being that promote growth and fruition. Contrast that to conditions too often seen in our world of humanity; barren circumstances, neglect, no “sunlight”, pests and attackers. 

Our problems are mostly of our own making. 

Lettuce and spinach under shade tent

When will our society become the beautiful garden it is meant to be?

Be One

“Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.” 

-Marcus Aurelius

I go to my health club spa four days a week and swim for exercise. There are two pools; one indoor and the other outdoors. It’s so good to swim outdoors on a hot day.

Recently I ran into a friend in the locker room and briefly talked about the current state of world affairs. He said, “Wow, it is like when we had three historic upheavals going all at once: the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic, world war I, and the stock market crash before the great depression.”

Certainly this time is unlike any I have lived in my sixty + years on earth.

The worldwide pandemic binds all humanity in a common struggle, but differing beliefs and opinions drive us apart. Everywhere people shout—usually past each other.

Our highest leaders are most often ineffectual egocentric windbags.  Not just in America.

Corruption and suffering are seen almost everywhere.

On Facebook, I do not “unfriend” or block people who have different opinions than me, so I see massive enmity. I notice a huge war of words and accusations being waged and much of it is hurtful. Like two sides engaged in primal screaming.

I posted online that I would not be engaging negatively, but rather, staying cosmically unified with all humanity . . . and for this I got support but also a lot of blowback. 

So, I will take my stand for virtue, for that is what is lacking in all this mess. Lack of virtue is the root cause of disease in the world; and that includes the coronavirus, global warming, racial hatred, excesses of wealth and poverty . . . you name it. 

There are so many virtues to acquire why bother with anything else? Here are some, and their opposites:

Justice — corruption

Charity — stealing

Mending — neglect

Kindness — hatred, hostility

Courtesy — disrespect

Unity — division

Bravery — cowardice

Quality — inferiority

Sobriety — drunkeness

Moral — immoral

Loving — hateful

Temperance — excess

Wisdom — thoughtlessness

Enlightenment — stupidity

The list goes on—hundreds! 

So this is the real work . . . 

“Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.” 

-Marcus Aurelius

x

Jumping Into The Ocean Of Life

Thank God my father, Richard Boone (March 29, 1927 – February 26, 2014) had absolutely no prejudice. In fact he worked for social justice his entire life. Often he brought home people of different races—many worked with him in “the struggle”. 

One summer (I was about 10 yrs.) when we lived on Long Island, outside New York City, he brought two youngsters to join our already large family. They were of Puerto Rican ancestry and lived in the Spanish Harlem ghetto in the city. He got them off the hot, crime filled streets and gave them a home away from home with us. Some years later during high-school, he sent me off to work on the Navajo Indian Reservation. I also worked in the projects for awhile in the ghetto areas of Washington DC; again, during a summer recess from high school. I loved the diversity that he fought for.

I decided to take a year to go around the world in 2008, and to begin in Belize, the only English language country in Central America. I chose a black community to make my home for awhile. I remember thinking that I wanted to know how it felt to be a minority. I had not had the experience. So I chose Dangriga, a coastal town settled before 1832 by Garinagu—Black Caribs. I made friends and began entering a state of mind I came to call DREAMING. I lived and experienced in a wide open state and did not judge what was happening to me—the moments were all infinite and woven in the eternal. I lost my little self by jumping into the ocean of life and “drowning”—and then becoming the ocean itself. 

Hugh, Dangriga, Belize

Palace or shack, it was all the same to me: EXPERIENCE.

When I told my mother that I was going to Africa, she pleaded with me; “Oh Steven, please don’t go there, they will rob you for your shoes.” I knew I had to go to the mother continent. 

I arrived in Egypt. People had warned me not to go since several of the attackers that flew airplanes into the World Trade Center seven years earlier were from Egypt. I immediately came to love the people and for the most part they loved me back though I am not muslim.

Kenya, 2008

I went to Nairobi, Kenya and reveled being a white speck in a sea of black humanity. Then on to Tanzania and safari in the Serengeti. But it was not elephants, zebra and lions that gave me the most pleasure during that sojourn. It was the Masai people I met along the way. My fellow travelers stayed apart but I was drawn like a magnet to meet them .

“The world is one country and mankind its citizens.”  —Baha’u’llah

More about Richard W. Boone

and obituaries in his honor