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

The Child’s Gate

Writing has once again claimed most of my time. I love it, though my other loves—painting and photography—wait somewhat forlornly in the wings. There are only so many waking hours in a day, and domestic tasks quietly insist on their share.

After completing The Weight of Air, my travel memoir, (available by donation) another project has taken hold: an autobiography written in prose-poem form. Epic in length, it has already grown beyond 6,000 words and is not yet halfway finished. Most poems average fewer than 300 words, so this one stretches the form considerably.

The work begins with my father and mother—their early lives and eventual meeting in Chicago. Then come my own beginnings: the arrival of my four siblings, the rhythms of our household, my father’s work in social justice, the moves, the schools, the growing up—alongside my mother’s struggles and her efforts to find balance. Graduation follows, then leaving home, mental struggles, and the uncertain steps into adult life.

The writing has now reached the time when my first daughter, Naomi, was born. Soon afterward her mother and I divorced, and her mother had to be institutionalized. The story carries both tenderness and upheaval.

Here is a small section from that writing.

The Child

Strong vowels formed her name:
Naomi.

For a season
three shared one bed.
Her mother’s breast was never far.

Light gathered in her—
blonde hair,
green eyes.

No sooner had she found her steps
than the hand began to draw.

In her father's studio
page after page
flew from her grasp.

At first
only bright scribbles—
then houses, figures,
the sun and rainbows.

A small school stood nearby.
She entered the circle of others.

A few years passed quietly
before the first fracture.

Something within her mother
turned against itself.

Hunger answered,
then denied.
Food taken in,
then cast away.

Voices rose at night.
Rooms held what could not settle.

Then the word was spoken:

Divorce.

It did not rest easily in him.
Yet it was received
as a narrowing path
that might still lead forward.

                _________________________________________________________________________

Writing these memories means experiencing them again. Yet the distance of time allows new insights to appear—quiet understandings that were invisible in the moment.

While completing a section describing Naomi’s early life, I came across a drawing she made when she was about six years old. It is so luminous it might have been made by an angel.

Through a trellised gate covered in flowers we see a young horse resting on a grassy knoll in the near distance. Around the horse’s neck is a red ribbon, the same red ribbon that winds through the flowers climbing the trellis. Behind the animal shines a bright sun, its red rays spreading outward, while a few soft white clouds drift across the sky.

The image suggests a threshold—a passage between the ordinary world and somewhere more protected, more essential. Yet the gate is not forbidding. It is a trellis covered in flowers, an invitation rather than a barrier.

Beyond it rests a young horse entirely at peace in its meadow. The red ribbon circles its neck and winds through the flowers, as if beauty itself has reached outward and gently claimed the creature.

Behind it all shines a bright sun, spreading warmth across the scene. Even the clouds drift without menace.

The drawing suggests that the child understood something wordlessly: that somewhere within her there existed a place no upheaval could reach—tended, flowering, quietly illuminated from within.

Perhaps children know this instinctively—that somewhere within them there is a meadow no storm can reach.

Birthday in a Sea of Gold

Amy and I are the same age for two months each year. She turned seventy-three on March 4th, which means we share that number until May 13th, when I step ahead and become seventy-four.

This year, for her birthday, I made arrangements for us to escape to the Pacific coast, to one of our favorite places a short drive away: Mazunte.

From our home outside Oaxaca City it is about three and a half hours by car along the new highway that crosses the Sierra Madre mountains. It took years to build, carving its way through difficult terrain, and when it finally opened about several years ago it almost immediately began experiencing problems—landslides, boulders tumbling down from above. Even now parts of it feel precarious, and Amy becomes nervous when we pass through the steepest sections.

Still, the alternative is a much longer journey on the old two-lane road, just as dramatic with its endless hairpin turns. So we set off early, trusting the mountain gods to let us pass.

Our destination was a small hotel we have grown to love, Casa Ofelia, sitting quietly on the beach. It is cozy and intimate, with a small swimming pool and broad verandas that look directly out to the sea. Not luxurious in a grand sense, but perfect for us—and surprisingly affordable. Over time it has become our go-to refuge on the coast.

The drive went smoothly and before long we were settled in, breathing the salt air.

Whenever we arrive, the meeting of sea and land begins working on us almost immediately. Something in the body relaxes. The rhythm of the waves begins to wash through the mind.

The beach in front of the hotel is usually empty. Only at sunset do small groups wander down to watch the sun slip into the Pacific. It is always a quiet ceremony. The colors shift dramatically, the sea turning shades of aqua beneath the descending orb as it changes from gold to deep red before disappearing. For a few minutes everyone grows still. Happiness fills the air. It feels almost sacred.

The days hovered in the mid-eighties, the nights in the seventies, with a steady breeze moving through everything.

Mazunte itself remains a delight. The town is relaxed, easygoing, and perfect for people-watching. Many of the visitors are young travelers from around the world, drifting through with a distinctly counter-cultural spirit. Amy remarked more than once about how much skin some of the women were willing to display—so scantily dressed they seemed almost part of the beach itself. Outside our hotel at a nearby trail that ends at the beach, a sign reads, No Nudism."

We also discovered a few restaurants we had somehow overlooked on previous visits—simple places along the shore serving fresh fish and shrimp dinners that tasted even better with sand still on our feet.

Swimming in the ocean directly in front of the hotel isn’t possible. The currents there are simply too strong. But just a few minutes away by car there are calmer stretches where I can plunge into the surf, which gives me enormous pleasure. Amy prefers to watch from under a rented umbrella, content and amused.

4 minute video

The three days and nights passed in a seamless, tranquil way. By the end we both felt renewed. More than once we looked at each other and said how grateful we were to have made the journey.

The drive home was uneventful—no landslides, no falling rocks.

When we arrived back at the house our two dogs greeted us with great enthusiasm, along with Jo, our trusted house-sitter who had kept everything running smoothly in our absence.

And just like that, another small chapter of life had unfolded—sea air, sunsets, and the quiet joy of celebrating Amy.

Muro Vivo—Living Walls

Mexico has been at the center of major international headlines recently after the government carried out an operation that resulted in the death of Nemesio Oseguera Cervantes, known as “El Mencho,” leader of the Jalisco New Generation Cartel — one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the country. Assisted by the CIA in the United States, an ambush was accomplished and El Mencho was killed, along with others on both sides. The immediate result was celebration but also a wave of violence that swept across Mexico. The images of burning vehicles were rather gruesome.

Since then, numerous of our friends and loved ones have been calling us, asking, Are you safe? Are you okay?

We are. Thank God we are well — safe and living our ordinary, creative life in our home outside Oaxaca City, in a region still regarded as calm and secure. Life here remains grounded in daily rhythms, the friendliness of neighbors, and the simple joy of sunrise light on the mountains.

We are even planning a short trip to the coast for a special celebration. Before making any definite plans, we asked a neighbor who runs a coffee cooperative near the Pacific and travels often along the new highway whether it feels peaceful. He checked with his daughter, who lives close to our favorite beach town — and the word was reassuring: the road is calm, the coast is peaceful.

In other news, this past week my neighbor Mayolo came over for a painting session with me. We set up a still life of sunflowers in a vase, with an alebrije set next to it. Over the course of two session we painted side by side. Very enjoyable and Mayolo, a creative person who makes the frames for many of our paintings, was very appreciative of the opportunity to paint together. 

And yes, my creative currents continue to pull me in new directions. I completed a short video titled Muro Vivo, or “Living Wall.” For years, I’ve photographed street art all over Oaxaca. In this new piece, an AI animation platform was used to bring those images to subtle movement, like walls awakening with breath — a little magic and a little experiment.

Meanwhile, Amy paints steadily, losing and finding herself in color and shape every day.

So — despite unsettling news and distant violence, life goes on here. We are safe. We are creative. We are grateful for friends near and far who care. And through it all, the sunflowers still turn toward the light.