The Narrowing Passage

 Seven and a half years ago, while in Luxor, Egypt, I had a medical emergency.

The problem had been building for some time, but I had become accustomed to it and dealt with the symptoms stoically. Prior to Egypt, I had been living in Venice, Italy. My habit was to walk many miles each day, wandering through the spiderweb of narrow passages and across countless footbridges, taking street photographs. I noticed increasing pressure from my bladder and found myself making frequent stops to urinate.

Then, while in Egypt, my Arabic brothers—who are like family to me—wanted to take me out for dinner and a boat ride on the Nile on Christmas Eve. The wives had prepared a wonderful meal, and the boat was ready to cast off, but I was in crisis. I could not urinate. The pain was intense, and I had to decline the invitation and return to my hotel room.

That night was excruciating.

Early the following morning I went to my friend Haggag. He took me into the city, and thankfully we found a urologist in a rather shabby office who nevertheless was kind, competent, and immediately inserted a catheter, allowing my bladder to empty. I don´t speak Arabic, but understood my prostate was enlarged. 

Although I had airline tickets to Ethiopia, I cancelled all my travel plans and returned to the United States with medications, a catheter, and a urine bag strapped to my waist.

Facing the prospect of surgery, I instead tried a course of medication that, within days, greatly relieved my symptoms and gave me back a more or less normal life.

Now the prostate issue has become an intrusion into normal living once again.

I live with discomfort every day. I continue to have annual examinations, usually in the United States, and thankfully there has been no indication of cancer.

Recently, I sought out a highly respected urologist in Oaxaca. After performing a sonogram in his office, he said that my prostate was considerably larger than normal and that he could see stones or calcifications within it. His opinion was that surgery would likely be necessary, though he explained that the stones could complicate the usual approach.

Since then have been a battery of pre-operative tests, all of which suggest that I am healthy enough to proceed if surgery is recommended. A CT scan provided much more detail. Amy and I also met with an internist to review the results. He was bright, kind, and exceptionally helpful. He has shared his evaluation with my urologist, and tomorrow I have another appointment to discuss the findings, review my options, and learn what the next steps might be.

Appreciated throughout this process is the level of attention given.

Because I am not fluent in Spanish, every consultation requires patience. Amy helps, and we often rely on our phones for translation. Yet I never feel rushed. I appreciate not feeling as though I am being squeezed into an artificial fifteen-minute appointment slot while someone watches the clock. The doctors take whatever time is necessary to answer questions and explain what is happening. 

From what I understand so far, the usual possibility is a procedure in which instruments are passed through the penis and up the urethra to remove obstructing prostate tissue and perhaps some of the calcified material. An epidural is administered to numb the lower half of my body—so I would remain awake but feel no pain. That thought is not exactly on my list of favorite experiences, but if it helps restore my quality of life, so be it.

I may still seek a second opinion if possible. I have written to my longtime urologist in Santa Fe, though so far I have not heard back from him.

All things considered, I suspect the total cost may end up being similar whether I pursue treatment here or in the United States. Medicare would cover much of the procedure in America, but there would still be travel expenses, lodging, and various incidentals. Here in Mexico, the operation itself is estimated to cost roughly one-quarter of what the same procedure would cost in the United States.

For now, I am gathering information, asking questions, and taking one step at a time—grateful for competent medical care, grateful for Amy's support, and hopeful that somewhere ahead lies a more comfortable chapter than the one I am currently navigating.

TOP IMAGE: 

"Changing Woman" by Navajo artist, Dennis Jeffy   70 x 70 inches, oil canvas,

collection of Amy Córdova Boone

Beyond Words

Improvements come gradually to our casa here in our village outside Oaxaca, Mexico.

Solar panels on the roof have reduced our gas costs by about seventy-five percent. The tires that once formed steps from the driveway to our front door have been replaced with stone and brick steps that I built myself. A patch of dirt outside the back door has become a patio where we hang laundry. On the rooftop veranda, with its spectacular views, we installed a large shade cover. Trees and shrubs have been planted. And, of course, there is always maintenance.

Our most recent project has been the construction of a stone retaining wall along the driveway. At the entrance, where a large dirt embankment rose as high as seven feet beside the gate, there is now a wall of carefully placed stones capped with brick. It looks far better and gives the entrance a sense of permanence.

This is where Diego Vásquez enters the story.

A friend from the States recommended him. He lives in our village and had done work for her before. They had become friends.

Diego and I are about the same age. When we first met, he looked deeply into my eyes with a steady gaze. His eyes seemed to penetrate mine—as if sizing me up, but also revealing something of himself. The moment transcended words.

I speak only a little Spanish, and he speaks no English, yet we have become friends. He is always amiable, always ready with a smile.

Together with his helper, he did excellent work building the muro de piedra—the stone wall.

Years ago, I owned a masonry business in the United States, so I helped design the structure and checked on the progress often. As they worked beneath the blazing Oaxaca sun, Amy and I brought them cold drinks. There were always smiles and words of appreciation, even if we did not fully understand each other’s language.

One day the helper arrived with a gift for us—a stuffed squirrel—"ardilla." It now sits on our front porch.

Yesterday, Saturday, Diego stopped by to pick up a few tools he had left behind. Before leaving, he asked if I would be going to church in the village on Sunday.

In my broken Spanish, I replied, “No. God is in our house.”

He looked at me for a moment, smiled somewhat quizzically, and then departed with a grin.

I smiled too.

The Fabric of Fate

We met at a Compassionate Friends gathering— a once weekly session for parents who had lost children to death. The year was 2000. Her daughter had been five years old when the child´s father accidentally ran her over in the driveway. My daughter Naomi had died, age nineteen, in 1999 after a two year struggle with cancer.

The group formed a small circle of perhaps six or seven people, with some occasionally dropping away and new parents arriving. We all carried the sadness of the greatest loss.

I did not know then that our paths would eventually merge many years later. And now, in 2026, as I write an autobiography, I recall how fate wove the fabric of our lives into a single cloth.

I live in Mexico now, but my friend still lives in Santa Fe, where I lived for over forty years. We remain Facebook friends, and when I could no longer recall certain details from an important time we spent together in Italy and India, we spoke over the phone.

Through those conversations I have been able to gather the important strands of our shared experiences and shape them into scenes that now belong to the epic prose poem I am writing, The Canticle of the Wanderer. The work is now nearly 50,000 words in length and about three-quarters complete. A typical published poetry collection is often only 5,000 to 15,000 words.

The poem has crossed from expression into world-building—a lifetime’s evolving consciousness given form.

Perhaps I am simply an aging artist attempting to gather the scattered fragments of an entire life into one coherent song before time disappears.

The writing is in the third person. The Holy Bible is a primary influence, shaping both the sound of the language and the intent of the heart.

Eventually, the work will appear on Substack, available by subscription. Contact me for more information.

Here is a recent canto honoring the time my friend and I traveled together. This follows a previous canto describing our meeting in Italy.

The Canticle of the Mother River and the Sacrifice of Light

Being the Record of the Burning Shore, the Ash of the Innocent, and the Salmon Shroud 

I

They left the land of composed memory, where stone is disciplined into beauty;

And stepped into the city of the three million, where the senses find no shield.

The cool silence of the sestiere exchanged for the roar of the ancient hive;

Where dung and incense, refuse and roses, are woven in a seamless garment.

II

Crossing at the cusp of Diwali, when ten thousand lamps defy the darkness of the world;

Each small flame an act of defiance against chaos and death and the ignorance of the age.

The marigolds floated upon the river and were worn as garlands around the necks of the faithful;

Fireworks blasted so loud that the very heavens seemed to answer with their own thunder.

III

At the height of the day, when the sun stood sentinel over the river, the companion knelt;

Clad in a sari of the bazaar, she fashioned a design of colored powders and flowers upon the roof.

A quiet offering for Lakshmi, laid upon the tile to welcome beauty and blessing into the house;

While below, the Ganges shimmered in the heat, holding the twin mysteries of bather and pyre.

IV

From that hour, the keepers of the house and the men of the street looked upon her differently;

No longer a stranger passing through the dust, but a soul who had offered respect to the deep.

For the people of the river recognize the heart that bows before their ancient mysteries;

And the gates of the city opened wider for those who brought flowers to the threshold.

V

Each morning before the dawn he went to the foot of Assi Ghat among the worshipers;

Where young men swung lamps and blew conch shells in the ceremony of the river's greeting.

Flames wheeled through the dawn while the Ganges gathered the prayers of the living and the dead;

And the sun rose over the opposite bank, casting its first light upon the bathers in the holy water.

VI

He raised his lens to a holy man and took the image without the asking of permission;

When he returned to the shelter, the pictures of the morning had vanished from the glass.

For in the city of Shiva, nothing is owned, and every image is but a borrowed shadow;

And he said: Lord, accept my loss as a sacrifice, a tithe paid to your holiness.

VII

Then came the night of the softly flowing mother, when they rowed upon the Ganges;

He and the companion Celeste, carrying the small vessel of a fifteen-year grief.

The ashes of the child, a daughter of five years, were released into the matrix of the water;

Mixing with the prayers of the living near the pyres that burn without end.

VIII

They stood as the Witness while the heavy weight of the departed was given to the river;

Watching the small leaf-boats of fire drift toward the sea like wandering stars.

In that place, the conversation between the dead and the living never falls into silence;

For the Ganges washes the sin from the mortal and sets the spirit free from the wheel.

IX

On the day that followed, the companion wrote the air with salmon-colored cloth;

She moved like a poem upon the high steps, an unfurling butterfly beneath the sun.

She lay down as a corpse in a shroud, then rose to fling the rose petals high;

Like teardrops of blood falling upon the stone, a sacred theater for the mesmerized eye.

X

He made friends with a young man who drove a rickshaw through sixteen hours of the day;

Supporting his wife and two boys by the labor of his legs and the strength of his back.

Yet always he greeted the traveler with a smile and looked him in the eye and asked:

Are you happy? — and the question rang in the chest long after the city had fallen behind.

XI

The marigolds gathered in heaps, and the thunder of the fireworks shook the earth;

Until the time of departure came, and the rickshaw moved toward the iron rails.

Celeste vanished into the distance, and the Wanderer turned his face toward the desert;
Where the camels gather in the dust of Pushkar, and the next portal waited to open. 

Between Two Homes

It is easy for Amy and me to move between Oaxaca, Mexico, and Santa Fe, New Mexico. We love both places deeply. Oaxaca is our home now—it has broadened our perspectives on life in ways we could never have imagined. But Santa Fe—and Taos as well—live somewhere deeper, woven into our bones. They are part of our story.

After so many years of adventure, commitment, and growth, there is a particular pleasure in returning. Not just seeing again, but recognizing—landscapes, faces, rhythms that once shaped us.

For the past few years, we’ve been fortunate to stay in the house I built long ago with my former wife, Jean. She travels now, and we care for the place. I know every inch of it. We lived there for twenty-five years. Walking through its rooms is like moving through layers of time.

Spring has arrived. Flowers are just beginning to show themselves. The air is brisk, clean, and invigorating. I find myself breathing more deeply here.




We’ve seen dear friends, as we always do. Familiar laughter returns easily.

We opened our storage unit, and our belongings seemed almost to greet us—old companions asking, “What next?” Most of it is artwork, with a scattering of personal items. Pieces of a life lived in many chapters.

We are releasing artworks from our Santa Fe years. To view, click HERE.

Another bonus from the storage unit is the discovery and unfolding of exceptional quilts Amy made in the late 1980's. They formed the basis of a traveling museum show and appeared in venues across the midwest, including the Field Museum in Chicago. She won a National Endowment of the Arts award for the work. Many are available for purchase now. click HERE.

We drove up to Taos along that spectacular route tracing the Rio Grande and passing the great Gorge. The land was as powerful as ever. Taos, in its quiet beauty, moved Amy to tears. We saw friends there too, the kind who make time feel less linear and more like a circle.

Saturday, we drove out to the small village of Cerrillos for the annual Turquoise Trail Pack Burro Race. It was joyful, unpretentious, and full of life. Many of the animals are rescues, now cared for by people who clearly love them. There was laughter everywhere—good, simple happiness.

And soon, we will return to Oaxaca. We leave next Sunday, May 10.

There is no sense of leaving one place behind for another. Instead, it feels like stepping between two homes—each offering something essential, each reminding us of who we have been, and who we continue to become. And somehow, in going back and forth, we never really leave home at all.

Return to The Land of Enchantment

Amy and I are preparing to fly north—to “New” Mexico—from our home in “Old” Mexico.

There is unfinished business waiting for us in Santa Fe. Artwork of ours still held there, personal belongings of value, threads not yet fully gathered. These things call us back, but so do the people. My daughter in Albuquerque, dear friends, familiar faces and places that still live somewhere inside us.

And beyond all that, there is the simple happiness of returning to a place we loved for so long.

This visit will be shorter than most—just two weeks—but the days will be full. The lilacs are blooming in Santa Fe now, and the spring air carries that unmistakable sweetness. I look forward to standing again beneath the vast Southwestern sky, breathing in the high desert air, feeling that spaciousness that once shaped so much of my life.

We will be staying in the home I built years ago with my former wife, Jean, who will be away in Europe. Returning there will no doubt stir its own quiet reflections—another layer of time folding back upon itself.

And so, once more, we travel north—carrying the past, meeting the present, and remaining open to whatever waits for us there.

Rhythm of Two Seasons

After more than five years living in southern Mexico, in the village of San Pedro Ixtlahuaca near Oaxaca, I have grown accustomed to the rhythm of two seasons: dry and wet. Even so, the dry season still weighs on me, much like the bitter cold once did in the northern places I came from.

This year, some welcome rain has arrived earlier than usual, ahead of its typical entrance in June.

With the rain, the long-suffering plant life begins to stir awake. The ground remains mostly brown for now, but soon it will turn green. And with that, my daily yard work will grow from a modest twenty minutes to nearly an hour.

The images are a few photographs of the colorful flowers blooming around our home just now.

"In the garden of Thine heart, plant naught but the rose of love."

—Bahaú´llah

After The Drought

Each year, when May approaches the land is parched from seven months of drought. It is astonishing that despite this, bougainvillea bloom, and an assortment of other plants manage to flower and leaf. Yesterday we had a hard rain, and it was blissful. Also unusual. It is the earliest downpour of this sort we have seen at our pueblo outside Oaxaca since we moved here five and a half years ago.

To our delight, we have recently met several Americans, only to discover they live right here in our village. And they are artists! Both about our age. A poet who is also a translator and is dual citizen, and an accomplished musician who has travelled the world, composing and performing. This feels like a small miracle. We recently celebrated with a party at our home. The two had never met, and we had never met the poet. Now, suddenly, our little circle is widening — an artist colony of sorts. Who would have imagined?

Writing is taking almost all my time these days. I am obsessed. After completing my travel memoir, The Weight of Air, (available by donation for download,) I have begun an epic prose poem of my entire life. The first forty-eight years must be drawn from memory, but fortunately, since 2006 I have written weekly posts here on My Fairy-Tale Life. They have become a kind of archive — a well I can return to — where moments already captured can now be distilled into poetry.

I have also chosen to write in two distinct voices: one modern, spare, and direct; the other more biblical in tone, expansive and lyrical. My method has become this: I write first in the modern cadence, then work with Google Gemini to help render it into the more biblical voice. What comes back is often surprisingly beautiful — a kind of echo, but different orchestration— which I then shape further. And it happens almost instantaneously. A remarkable tool.

Here is a sample of the work flow. A section inspired by the time after Naomi died when my youngest daughter Sarah had begun studies at Columbia College in Chicago, majoring in dance:

In Chicago
the younger daughter flourished.
The city of broad shoulders
received her dancing steps.

Her life opened
with courage and joy.
And the father
felt gratitude rise
like music.

For the child who
had endured sorrow
now walked
with lightness
and hope.

Here is the biblical styled verse:

In Chicago, the younger daughter flourished, and her dancing steps were sure;

The city of broad shoulders received her, and her life opened with the courage of the morning.

The father felt gratitude rise as a song, for the child who had endured the valley of shadow

Now walked in the joy of her own soul, a testament to the resilience of the living.

They both work in there own way. 

At this point, over 24,000 words have been set down. And about 11,000 more to come.
An average poem is 300 words.

While the writing continues, my old muse, painting, stands to the side, asking "Please don't forget me!"

Steven Boone Artwork