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.