Old Ground, New Light

 

Two weeks slipped by since my last post—sunlit and full, with the kind of quiet richness that unfolds when one returns to old ground with new eyes.

After the whirl of Mexico City and the vibrant color of the International Folk Art Market, I laced up my hiking shoes and headed into the high country—the Santa Fe National Forest above town. I hiked with my former wife, Jean, with whom I share a cordial and respectful relationship. We walked among the stately aspens, followed gurgling brooks, and breathed deeply in the crystalline air. The wildflowers were out in force, reminding us both of the beauty that has always encircled this region. Together, we share our daughter Sarah, and many chapters of life. 

Later, I opened our storage unit—an archive of the past. Amy an I have downsized at least five times, so what’s left is either materially valuable or emotionally priceless. Going through the stored relics—paintings, objects, books, memories—I felt pangs of nostalgia. A quiet voice seemed to ask, “Why did you leave?” But life continues to unfold in Oaxaca, and what remains here is simply an earlier verse in a still-unfolding song.

I went down to Albuquerque to visit Sarah, who recently bought her first home. She's still settling in, boxes stacked here and there, a young tree of a life just beginning to root. We only see each other about once a year, so every moment was precious. I helped with the yard work, and we shared meals and conversation that brought us closer.

While I was there, Amy arrived from teaching a workshop in Nebraska. After a couple of days, she and
I drove back to Santa Fe. We put our things down in a home in an old Santa Fe neighborhood, courtesy of the landlord and lady who rented it to me for several years about a decade ago. We are still friends. Amy absolutely loves the place and would move in right away. Whenever I go back, it feels like I never left. 

Menwhile, Jean has generously offered us the home we built together more than thirty years ago, while she is away. It’s a big, quiet, light-filled place nestled outside the center of town on the open high desert plains, where people have horses—filled with the echoes of past seasons. We’re staying here for nine days, until we return to Oaxaca on August 3.

Back in Albuquerque, Amy was interviewed by New Mexico PBS about her work as the preferred illustrator for Rudolfo Anaya, the late literary giant and National Humanities Medal recipient. Her luminous illustrations have become part of his enduring legacy.

Meanwhile, I had my annual physical with my longtime physician—now in his eighties. We both moved like two old guys, chuckling like friends navigating the terrain of aging. Fortunately, nothing much has changed. I’m still going strong enough to hike, photograph, and find joy in the rhythm of daily life.

Friday night, we joined the traditional Santa Fe gallery stroll—an old ritual of openings, reunions, and conversations that stretch across decades. I stopped frequently, bumping into artist friends, trading stories and hugs. It felt good to be back in the thick of it.

Fortunately, we have been in town during the annual Spanish Market, that showcases the fabulous talent of New Mexico Spanish American artists, of which Amy is one by ancestry. Amy's cousin exhibited his craft and the two got to meetup.

Tomorrow, Amy’s sister arrives. From there, more adventures will unfurl—until we make our way home again to Oaxaca.

Two Mexicos, One Vision: Seeing With the Soul’s Eye

New Mexico again—the land of wide skies, long shadows, and a heartbeat that still echoes in my bones. Albuquerque was the first stop: a sweet reunion with my daughter and a night spent under the roof of the house she’s just made her own. A rental car waited at the airport, and soon the familiar road pulled me north to Santa Fe—the City Different, where a great arc of my life has unfolded.

Amy has been with family in Minneapolis–Saint Paul. Tomorrow she flies to Omaha to teach at a university, then makes her way here. Her arrival is on the horizon, and I relish with anticipation the warmth of shared companionship.

Mexico City lingers like a vivid painting—raw, layered, full of movement. The Metro became a kind of subterranean gallery: not easy to navigate, but full of life. Only one wrong turn that took me the wrong direction, which felt more like a curve in the composition than a misstep. Tickets were fifty cents—a small price for immersion. Far preferable to sitting alone in a taxi, removed from the living current.

One morning was devoted to Mercado Jamaica. It was like stepping into a kaleidoscope of scent and color—flowers tumbling from trucks, arrangements rising like offerings, petals underfoot, and fragrance heavy in the air. I wandered with camera in hand, sketching with light. Outside, a colossal mural titled Jamaica Revive—15,000 square feet of vibrant homage to Mother Earth, created in 2013. Street art on that scale always moves me; it’s public and personal at once.

The return flight north was uneventful. A final walk through the Metro tunnels, a last glimpse of the city's pulse, then skyward without delay to this familiar homeland.

Artists at the Folk Art Market

Santa Fe is alive with art just now. I attended an international art  exposition, then yesterday stepped into the great swirl of the International Folk Art Market—a place where the world gathers in handmade offerings. Jewelry, textiles, carvings, masks—each piece a doorway into another culture, another way of seeing. Yet it isn’t only the objects that astonish. It’s the people: radiant in traditional attire, standing with dignity beside their work, bearing stories and spirit.

One could feel it in the air—a deep, unspoken unity. As Bahá’u’lláh wrote, “Let your vision be world-embracing, rather than confined to your own self.” That vision was present in every handshake, every exchange, every smile and eye contact, every photograph.

Amy’s return draws closer. My daughter will visit again. Jean, ever gracious, has offered her home while she travels—a house I once built, thirty years ago. Memory lives in the grain of the wood and the angles of light.

“Make thou every effort to increase the number of thy journeys,” wrote ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, “for travel hath great virtues. The traveler returneth with an enlightened heart and a spiritual mind. He seeth what the others do not see, and he heareth what the others do not hear.”

Lost and Found in Mexico City

From rogue taxis to Diego’s grave, tracing art, memory, and spirit through Roma Norte

Plaza Río de Janeiro

Amy and I parted ways on Monday, June 30, under the bright sun of Oaxaca. She flew north to Minneapolis–Saint Paul, where her son Esau welcomed her with open arms. Her other son, Jess, and sister, Carrie, are close by—family warmth to soften the distance between Minnesota and Oaxaca.

I, meanwhile, came to Mexico City and find myself tucked into a quiet apartment in Roma Norte. A pleasant surprise. Tree-lined streets, bohemian cafés, artful storefronts. It feels safe, relaxed, alive. The kind of place where time breathes a little easier. And an artist fits in naturally.

Each day, I set out with camera in hand. I visited the Museo Soumaya—its silver, twisting architecture always catches the light just right, like a seashell turned toward the sun. Built by Carlos Slim and named after his late wife, the museum is a monument to both love and wealth. The collection isn’t quite world-class, but it’s deep, eclectic, and free to all. I admire that—art offered without charge, a gift from one of the world’s richest men to the people of Mexico.

I went looking for a street I remembered—lined with wedding and quinceañera dress shops. I didn’t find it, but I did stumble upon Plaza Río de Janeiro, with its cheerful fountains and a hulking bronze copy of Michelangelo’s David. Mexico City has a way of giving you what you didn’t know you needed.

Later, I did find the wedding district, tucked in a gritty part of town—rows of shops bursting with ruffled dreams: gowns for little girls, glittering tiaras, satin shoes no bigger than your hand. The shopkeepers were kind. I wandered timidly, a gringo in a bastion of Mexican culture—but left feeling part of something grand, and with some fine photos.

Next day, the metro dropped me too far from the Panteón de Dolores, so I caught a taxi the rest of the way. There was no entry fee, but most of the cemetery was closed to the public—only the Rotonda de las Personas Ilustres was open. Photography was limited to handheld devices, a gesture of reverence. Inside the rotunda, I stood beside Diego Rivera’s grave. The great muralist rests among kindred spirits—writers, painters, musicians, and revolutionaries. The Rotonda is a place where Mexico honors its luminaries—those who shaped the nation’s art, identity, and soul. It’s fitting that Diego lies there, surrounded by a chorus of voices that once stirred the heart of Mexico.

Rivera Grave, front and back

That very afternoon, as if guided by some invisible thread, I found myself face-to-face with Las Dos Fridas at the Museo de Arte Moderno. Kahlo’s most famous painting—created after her agonizing breakup with Diego—is raw, haunting, and unforgettable. Two versions of Frida sit side by side, hearts exposed, one bleeding onto a white dress. The work is both deeply personal and universally human—a portrait of love, loss, and fractured identity. Frida and Diego, both in one day. Icons in the annals of art, heroes in the heart of Mexico. Soulmates, despite it all—and now, both immortalized not just in memory and museums, but on Mexican currency as well. 

Uber has been a comfort—clean, efficient, secure. I used it a couple of times without fuss. But then came the lesson: I had trouble locating a ride, and instead flagged down a rogue taxi. The driver refused cash, overcharged my card, and disappeared without giving a receipt. I called the credit card company and filed a dispute. No harm in the end, but I’m too old for this kind of robbery. Still, the city teaches—even in irritation.

"The Two Fridas," 1939, oil on canvas, by Frida Kahlo

The day held these highlights, yet I came home shaken. The taxi incident had rattled me. And the next day, July 5, was tender. It’s Naomi’s birthday in heaven. I spent the day quietly—sweeping, cooking, walking to the market. Praying. Tuning inward.

Health slows me—prostate issues bring discomfort and shadows of worry—but I press on, grateful for each step, each glimpse of the dream unfolding.

More and more, I long to surrender completely to spirit. To let go of striving. To live inside peace, with equanimity, and give myself entirely to God.

Street Art

Everywhere I walk, the walls speak. Mexico City’s street art is bold, defiant, and alive—murals, stencils, and graffiti bursting with color and voice. I’ve taken scores of photos, drawn to the visual symphony unfolding on every corner. Torn posters layered one over another become accidental masterpieces—an abstract collage of texture, pigment, and time. It's as if the city itself is constantly repainting its soul in public.

"Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central,"  Diego Rivera, 50 feet wide

Today, Sunday, with camera slung over my shoulder, I walked to the Centro Médico metro station, descended into the city's undercurrent, and boarded a train—intending Bellas Artes but momentarily spirited in the wrong direction. A swift correction, and soon I emerged into the heart of Centro, where broad pedestrian promenades unfolded beneath towering architecture and a blue Mexico City sky. I returned to the Museo Mural Diego Rivera, drawn again to “Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central”—that dense dream of Mexican history and myth. It held me, as always, in its spell. Along the way and all the way back, I made photographs—faces, shadows, signs, surprises—collecting fragments of the city's restless poetry.

In a few days, on July 9, I’ll leave Mexico City and fly to Albuquerque. There, I’ll spend the night with my beloved daughter Sarah—always a joy and a grounding presence. The next morning, I’ll head to Santa Fe, where I’ll settle in for a few weeks of quiet living and renewal. Amy will meet me there, and before long, we’ll journey back together to our sweet Oaxacan home—where life is unhurried, and the dream continues.