Keys to the Heart: New Mexico, Oaxaca, and the Spaces Between

After a month away, the arc of our travels has closed—New Mexico’s familiar mesas, Minnesota’s lakes, and now back to Oaxaca. We landed safely on August 3rd. The journey began before sunrise in Santa Fe and ended with our neighbor Mayolo’s smile at the airport, ready to welcome us home.

A short hop took us to Dallas, where we changed planes, then crossed the border into Mexico, touching down at 12:15. Mayolo helped hoist our two large suitcases, each packed to the brim with loot from the USA: new clothes, art supplies, medicines, gifts, old photographs, and a few beloved books. Customs took one glance and waved us through.

Oaxaca is our home—of that there is no doubt—but Northern New Mexico also holds a permanent set of keys to our hearts. After so much life, love, and trial in that blessed country of mesas and mountains, it’s embedded in us. In our DNA. When we return, the streets, the food, the mountains, the very air and light feel as familiar as the rooms of an old house.

Amy’s sister arrived from Minnesota during our stay, and the two slipped easily into that rare sisterly rhythm—shopping, swapping stories, and laughing until the air seemed to sparkle. Together, they also visited their father’s gravesite at the National Cemetery in Santa Fe. A veteran of the Korean War, Daniel Cordova´s ashes are interred in the columbarium, a wall of plaques marking niches that hold the remains of those who served. The two daughters placed their hands on the marble plaque bearing his name, feeling the warmth of his presence in that quiet, dignified place.

One morning we drove to Bandelier National Monument, an hour away, where honey-colored cliffs rise in quiet grandeur. From around 1150 to 1550, this canyon sheltered the Ancestral Pueblo people—farmers, builders, artisans—whose dwellings and handprints still cling to the stone. In time, drought and the pull of migration led them away, yet as we walked the winding trails beneath a shifting sky, their spirit seemed to move with us, woven into the land itself.

And then there was the other homecoming—the house I built with my ex-wife Jean three decades ago. To visit that home again is to step into a perfectly preserved chapter of life. Now spectacularly valuable, it sits just fifteen minutes from Santa Fe’s plaza, with six-acre lots, well-spaced neighbors, hushed air, and horses grazing in corrals.

Santa Fe’s summer music scene was in full swing, with free, first-rate performances at least four nights a week. The air at sunset carried that mingling of music and mountain coolness I will never stop loving.

My daughter made a quick trip up from Albuquerque to see me one more time. We both felt grateful to be together, walking the trails of our old homestead, renewing our bonds, then sharing dinner.

Officially, we’d gone north to pare down the “stuff” still in storage—more selling, more giving away. But what remains is the distilled essence of a life, and we wondered if perhaps, someday, a part-time home there might not be impossible.

Back in Oaxaca, life quickly returned to its own tempo. Less than two days after arrival, Amy began feeling unwell—possibly something caught in transit. She waved off my suggestion for a COVID test.

“What good will it do? There’s nothing they can do,” she said.

She’s improving now, and I’m betting on a full recovery soon.

The cornfields around our home stand green and healthy. I’m back to starting my mornings outdoors—tending to the small demands and quiet pleasures that the wet season brings.

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.

The Foreigner with an Old Key

 

Amy and I are about to trade the bougainvillea and brass bands of Oaxaca for the buzzing highways and family hearths of the United States. It’s our annual migration northward—equal parts reunion, obligation, and rediscovery.

We leave our beloved home and two dogs in the care of a capable house sitter—also a friend. Amy will fly first, bound for the green embrace of Minneapolis, where her children and sister await. Then, as she does each summer, she’ll travel to Omaha to teach at a special conference for Native American college students who are themselves becoming teachers. It’s a beautiful tradition—two concentrated days of creativity, mentorship, and cultural exchange. From there, she’ll curve back westward to Santa Fe.

I, meanwhile, will head out at almost the same hour—but in a different direction. Nine days in Mexico City call me like a raucous poem. It’s one of my favorite places to lose myself. I plan to wander with camera in hand, letting the streets speak—finding texture, light, and surprise in the swirl of life. Then north to Santa Fe, where Amy and I will reunite.

With our friend Dorsey (on left) from last years visit.

Santa Fe… always a mixture of memory and mystery. So many chapters of my life unfolded there—children born, a home built, decades of painting, friendships, love, and loss. Now, we mostly return to tend the past. Our storage unit, once packed like an overstuffed closet of old ambitions, has been pared down several times. What remains are mostly artworks—paintings and drawings from across forty years. Some whisper. Others still shout.

Old church at Trampas, north of Santa Fe.

This time, we’ve planned at least one excursion northward—to Taos. I can already see the long New Mexico sky stretched taut over sagebrush and silence. It will be good to be there again, if only for a moment.

And yet, returning to the U.S. feels stranger each year. America, viewed from afar, seems like a place in costume—trying on identities, discarding norms, reinventing itself anew with each news cycle. From the outside, it can feel surreal. From the inside, I expect it will feel even more so, given my earliest memories of my home country. This time, I arrive not quite as a citizen, but something closer to a visitor. A foreigner with an old key.

Meanwhile, The Weight of Air, my travel memoir, continues to unfold. I’ve reached the halfway point—both in writing and in the journey it chronicles. At this moment in the manuscript, I’m on the cusp of a great leap—from Europe to Africa. From Rome to Nairobi. From the ordered splendor of cathedrals and museums to the raw pulse of red earth, elephants, and the unknown.

Here’s a passage from the upcoming chapter, The Dark Continent:

Before leaving the United States, my mother pleaded, “Please don’t go to Africa—they’ll kill you for your shoes.” Her fear rang with maternal dread, fed by newsreels and phobias. But how could the journey bypass the very cradle of life?

The so-called Dark Continent called out like a siren, and something deep inside answered. It wasn’t a choice, not really. Fate had stirred, and the path opened.

Tucked in my bag was the yellow booklet—stamped with dates and signatures, proof that my body had been armed against yellow fever, typhoid, and whatever else the unknown might deliver. The vast savannas, the promise of wild beasts and red-dust roads, stirred something restless.

To once again be a white pebble on a black sand beach.

Africa promised danger, yes—but also the thrill of raw existence. And I was already leaning forward.

 

Writing this book is a journey in itself—one that runs parallel to these annual migrations of ours. Like any good traveler, I’m packing more than luggage these days. I’m carrying decades, images, voices, and dreams. 

Off we go.

Read more from the memoir: The Weight Of Air

Returning to the Still Life: A Studio Reflection

Lately, I’ve found myself returning to a time-honored tradition in painting: the still life. These quiet compositions—humble, unmoving, ever available—are both easy and challenging. They are always close at hand, requiring no travel, no scheduling, no permission. Just light, form, and attention.

Unlike portrait painting the subject does not move. Light can be controlled. The limitation is that when using food, such as fish, fruit, or vegetables . . . time is against the artist due to spoiling. Same with flowers.

Three small oil paintings emerged recently from our studio, Dos Venados, from this renewed practice—each one a meditation on color, composition, and presence.

The first, Riñon Tomato, Vase & Rose, bursts with energy. A thick yellow rose blossoms from a small blue vase, flanked by two crimson riñon tomatoes—plump and wrinkled like elder hearts. The brushwork swirls with vitality, capturing the tension between delicacy and ripeness. The glass reflects a world within a world.

The second, Mamey and Rose, is quieter, more intimate. A rose, deep pink and velvety, rests beside an open mamey fruit. The earthen pod is shaped like an offering bowl, its curve embracing shadow and light. The rose leans in, almost whispering—a conversation between softness and sustenance.

The third, Tilapia with Lemons, is a nod to classical still life in the tradition of fishmongers and feasts. The silvery tilapia, slick and glistening, lies across a dark plate, accompanied by two whole lemons and one sliced open, its pulp like a sunburst. The turquoise background shimmers with broken strokes, suggesting both water and tablecloth, abstraction and realism.

Each painting, though small in scale, affirms something enduring: the joy of close observation, the dance of brush against canvas, the timeless appeal of the ordinary made luminous. Still lifes remind me that mastery isn’t always about grandeur—it’s about presence. And paint still has the power to stop time.

Here are a few other previous posts about Still Life painting processes:   Still Life 

Contributing Something Meaningful

For nearly four years now, Amy and I have welcomed neighborhood children to our home each Sunday afternoon for free art classes. It began as a modest gesture of goodwill after settling in our village outside Oaxaca. We simply wanted to share the joy of creativity—our small way of contributing something meaningful to our new community.

At first, we weren’t sure how it would go. But the children came. Week after week, they showed up eager to paint, draw, sculpt, and create. We provided all the supplies, refreshments, and a safe, welcoming space. Some of the kids had never held a paintbrush before. Others arrived shy or withdrawn but slowly came alive with each project. It became more than just a class; it became a ritual, a relationship, and at times, a refuge.

Over the years, we celebrated their milestones and mourned their struggles. We laughed, got our hands dirty in paint, baked cookies, told stories. There were difficult moments, too—times when boundaries were tested or our trust was shaken. But we always came back to the table, ready to continue.

This last Sunday, the table remained empty.

Amy prepared everything as she always does, with care and hope. But no one came.
We knew this day might come. The group has gradually dwindled. The children are growing up, moving into adolescence and its distractions. Some families have moved away, others are preoccupied with school, work, or simply life. It is a natural turning of the page.

Still, it is bittersweet. Our Sundays have been marked by the joy of shared creativity, and now, that rhythm has quieted. But we do not feel regret. We feel gratitude. We gave what we could, wholeheartedly. And we received so much in return—smiles, trust, unexpected gifts of warm tortillas, and the quiet reward of seeing imagination flourish in a child’s hands.

Service doesn’t always come with ceremony or closure. Often, it ends not with a farewell, but with an absence. And that’s okay. The door is still open. Should any of the children wander back, they will find the table ready, the paints and brushes available, and our hearts open.

Whatever happens next, this chapter has been a blessing. We carry its memories like colorful alebrijes—imperfect, vibrant, full of spirit—and remain grateful for the chance to have served. 

Declarations

Some cities whisper. Oaxaca shouts, sings, sometimes howls—and always colorfully.


For Amy and me, living just outside the city, each visit into Centro is a pilgrimage of sorts. We go not just for errands or events, but to listen. And in Oaxaca, the walls themselves have voices.



As artists, we’re always alert to surface and form. But what we find here, plastered on stucco walls and colonial façades, often stops us in our tracks. Layers of ink and wheatpaste. Stencils. Murals. Figures rising from concrete like visions.




Each outing brings fresh revelations—new works that seem to have appeared overnight. Some playful, others raw and urgent.



It’s graffiti, yes—but also graphic art of the highest order. A street-level gallery where the curators are anonymous and the exhibitions impermanent. One recurring theme we encounter is muerto—death—rendered in countless forms. Skulls, skeletons, saints of bone, eyes empty yet watching. These images, scattered across walls like quiet prophets, evoke the tradition of memento mori, reminding us of life’s fragility. They feel intimate, woven into daily life with reverence and wry humor. In Oaxaca, death is not hidden away—it dances in the open. And in that dance, something beautiful and brave emerges.

What makes the street art unforgettable is not just its aesthetic force, but its message. These aren’t just images—they’re declarations. Cries for justice. Invocations of history. Reminders of who was here first. We’ve seen faces of missing women, rendered with haunting beauty. Or portraits of Zapotec elders crowned with radiance, gazing back with dignity and warning. Even amid bright color and clever design, a fierce heart pulses underneath.

The other day, we wandered in again—my birthday, a soft afternoon. We strolled arm in arm past street musicians performing in the Zócalo, the notes of marimba and flute riding the air like butterflies. Turning down a side street, a new piece caught our eye: A slumped man, vomiting a stream not of bile, but of broken red hearts—a raw and graphic metaphor for emotional wreckage that often underlies or results from substance abuse. On his back, the phrase “Clavado en el alcohol” translates to “Nailed in alcohol” or “Stuck in alcohol”—evoking the sense of being trapped, impaled, or immobilized by addiction. A powerful play on words, conjuring both emotional and physical torment. Love, connection, heartbreak—all purged, splattered on the pavement. The hearts form a kind of visual trail; like blood drops, pointing to pain that’s been internalized too long. A street-level elegy for the many who suffer silently, and a visual cry that addiction is as much about sorrow as it is about substance. The figure is ghostlike, almost already fading, as if to say: “This is what remains when you drown your heart.”

Graffiti street art from Oaxaca—both poetic and painful.

We come in like this several times a week. The rhythm of our lives has syncopated with the city’s—market to plaza, plaza to gallery, gallery to wall. And always, the walls speak.
For two lifelong creators, there’s a special satisfaction in this: not only seeing art but being surprised by it. Art that isn’t for sale. Art that risks being torn down. Art that endures in the face of erasure. And somehow, that makes it stronger.

In Oaxaca, the city doesn’t just show you its soul. It paints it—again and again—right in front of you.

Oaxaca’s Living Walls

Every time my wife and I make the 40-minute drive from our quiet village into the vibrant heart of Oaxaca, I feel a shift—as though I’m stepping from one world into another. The journey is familiar, but what awaits is never the same.

As soon as I begin walking the streets, camera in hand, I am abundantly rewarded. The city is a gallery without walls, alive with bold graphics, murals, stencils, and wheatpaste posters. They cling to crumbling facades, dance across doors and down alleyways, and transform the mundane into something mythic. These artworks appear suddenly and disappear just as quickly—painted over, torn down, or slowly erased by sun and time. And yet, there’s always something new rising in their place.

Much of this visual feast comes from a collective known as Subterráneos, whose work pulses with the spirit of the streets—defiant, poetic, urgent. Their imagery ranges from fierce political commentary to whimsical dreamscapes, often interwoven with indigenous symbolism, social critique, or surreal humor. They are part of a larger movement here in Oaxaca, where art and activism blend seamlessly into the public sphere.

As a photographer and artist, I feel compelled to document it—not only as an evolving cultural record, but as a living dialogue between the city and its inhabitants. I often find the most striking moments when people unknowingly pass in front of the murals—when the layers of street life and street art converge. A child skipping by a giant jaguar, an old man leaning in the shadow of a painted skeleton, a woman adjusting her shawl beneath a towering goddess.

Video. About 3 1/2 minutes.

These are chance encounters, but they feel like small, sacred alignments. The kind that remind me why I keep coming back—with fresh eyes, an open heart, and my camera ready.

Sense of Gratitude

My wife Amy and I try to make the journey from our village into Oaxaca whenever events of deep cultural meaning unfold. These are times when the city reveals its soul—rituals layered with history, symbolism, and reverence. I come with my camera, ready to bear witness.

On Good Friday, we stood quietly among the crowd gathered for the Procesión del Silencio. The streets were full, yet hushed. The procession began late—the priest was delayed—but no one complained. Participants stood motionless, their black and white garments a testament to mourning and devotion. The statue of the Virgin waited too, crowned and serene, above a bed of flowers.

Nothing began until the priest finished his sermon at the steps of the Templo de la Preciosa Sangre de Cristo, a baroque church in the heart of Oaxaca’s historic center. Only then did the ancient ritual unfold—a tradition that has taken root here since colonial times and is based on Holy Week observances from Seville, Spain.

Standard bearers stepped forward, holding aloft banners richly embellished with sacred icons. Various parishes had offered their most venerated images and relics for the occasion, each one reverently borne on the shoulders of men. The weight of the divine—honored with every careful step.

Then came a procession of men wearing only loincloths and hoods, penitentes, their faces hidden, their bodies straining under immense wooden crosses. The timbers scraped loudly against the pavement, a visceral soundtrack to the unspoken agony and devotion representatively etched into each step they took. The sound echoed through the silence—raw, ancient, unforgettable.

There was no music. Only the sound of footsteps, the rustling of lace veils, the scraping of wood, and the unspoken language of shared faith.

In moments like this, Amy and I feel a deep sense of gratitude. Though we are transplanted Americans, we are welcomed here—not as strangers, but as neighbors. And in the silence of this sacred procession, we felt it again: the quiet power of belonging.

⸻

For those unfamiliar with this powerful tradition, the Procesión del Silencio is a Catholic ritual that dramatizes the sorrow of the Virgin Mary, La Dolorosa; following the crucifixion of Christ. It originated in Spain and was brought to Latin America during the colonial period, becoming a central part of Holy Week in many cities, including Oaxaca. The silence is a symbol of mourning, penitence, and reverence.

Umbral—Threshold of Time

Umbral (50 x 40 cm), captures a native Oaxaqueña standing at the threshold of a weathered wooden doorway with deep turquoise trim. The vibrant hues of the wall—burnt ochre, orange, and crimson—frame her presence, contrasting with her humble yet striking attire. She wears a simple white blouse and a richly textured yellow skirt, cinched with a red woven sash. Barefoot, she exudes quiet strength, her expression introspective as she gazes into the distance. The impasto brushstrokes imbue the scene with movement, light, and raw emotion. 

The painting is from our studio in Oaxaca, called Dos Venados, or Two Deer. Amy and I live on Cuatro Venados Road, which goes from our village up into the mountains, and ends at a Eco-resort, called Cuatro Venados. The scene from Oaxaca is timeless, despite modernization that has occurred here.

She stands at the doorway, poised between past and future. The sun-soaked wall exudes warmth, yet her shadow lingers cool on the stone. In her silence, a story—of resilience, of waiting, of belonging.

Meanwhile, my writing continues for The Weight of Air⏤the story of a one year journey around the world in 2008. So many indelible, phenomenal occurrences and adventures to draw from. Documented in a timeline of travel blogs right here on My Fairy-Tale Life. 

See Substack: Notes from the Edge: Glimpses of the Dreaming Matrix. 

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