Positive or Negative

People are split whether to be positive or negative about my AI creations. As with anything new and revolutionary, resistance occurs. When automobiles were first introduced, there was resistance from people who were accustomed to horse-drawn carriages. Some considered cars noisy, dangerous, and disruptive to the established way of life. In the early days of the internet, there were concerns about privacy, security, and skepticism about its utility. Some people saw it as a passing fad, while others were worried about the potential negative impacts. When television sets became widely available, there were concerns about the impact on family life, the potential for mindless entertainment, and the fear that it would discourage people from reading. I could go on: vaccines, electricity, personal computers, mobile phones, etc.

I am not replacing my studio art with AI. To explore the vast realm of possibilities generating images using artificial intelligence is but another creative venue. I am experimenting and gaining knowledge, skills, ideas and more. 

As I share images, especially on Facebook, I find there is a split among people  who love or hate it. Some actually like the stuff but on “moral” grounds take issues with it. Oh well, as the saying goes, “To thyself be true.” A big part of myself is adventurer . . .

All of the work shown was produced with AI then hand edited with photoshop.

Living Between Two Worlds

As we moved between two countries, we carried with us a beautiful blend of cultures, traditions, and experiences. We know that home is not confined to a single place; rather, it is a tapestry woven from the threads of the people we love and the memories we hold dear. Our hearts now span across borders, and we find ourselves at ease in both Mexico's vibrant embrace and Santa Fe's familiar allure.

In this journey between places, we've come to realize that we are incredibly fortunate to have the best of both worlds. Mexico, with its soulful and sincere friendships, teaches us the value of human connections and endless possibilities for adventure. On the other hand, Santa Fe and Taos, with their cosmopolitan charm, upscale culture, the beloved landscape with its great vistas and soaring mountains, and many dear relationships, reminds us of our deep roots there and growth that came with years of living.

Home is more than just a physical place; it's a feeling of belonging, love, and nostalgia. For Amy and me, “Old” Mexico and “New” Mexico are home. For four decades we made a beautiful life in Santa Fe, New Mexico, a famous city in the USA on the forefront of creativity and cultural diversity. For some of that time, Amy lived in Taos, the place of her ancestors and rich intersection between Spanish, Native American and Anglo cultures. 

Recently for one month, we embarked on a sojourn from Mexico where we presently live, back to our former home, and the experience was nothing short of marvelous.  Amy also visited her family in Minneapolis-St. Paul. She stayed with her sister and oldest son and spent time with her two sons and four grandchildren. We are fortunate to experience the best of both worlds. 

My daughter Sarah and I

We bought our home near Oaxaca about 3 1/2 years ago. It is the reason we arrived in Mexico. The house is soulful, and called us to purchase it. We soon realized the challenges that come with moving into a foreign culture; especially since we live in a pueblo that is poor by American standards. I could write a book about the experience thus far. 

Living in a country with a language distinct from our mother tongue has presented tests, but also teaches the value of communication beyond words. The warmth of a smile, the laughter shared over a meal, and the genuine care and concern for one another transcend linguistic barriers. In Mexico, we find a place where simplicity and genuine connections hold more significance than material wealth.

Stream in the Rio Grande Gorge, New Mexico

Returning to Santa Fe felt like revisiting the past and reconnecting with old friends. The familiarity of the English language was a comfort, and being surrounded by familiar faces was a heartwarming experience. Our sojourn allowed us to reminisce about the years gone by and cherish our lasting friendships that transcend time and distance. We met with so much kindness and generosity. Further, we brought back to Mexico donated gifts of art materials to share with our neighbor children in our pueblo. 

Amy with neighbor kids

Our story is one of love, appreciation, and the beauty of living between two worlds. While Mexico, our humble and beloved home, provides us with soulful and sincere connections, Santa Fe, our former abode in the wealthy USA, offers us the warmth of familiar faces and a history filled with fond memories. As we continue our journey through life, we carry with us the best of both worlds, forever grateful for the unique and cherished places that have shaped us into who we are today.

Anniversary of Transcendence

Today is the anniversary of the transcendence into the immortal spiritual realm of my oldest daughter. It was July 5, 1999, when Naomi, then 19, winged her way out of her physical cage. Before she left to soar with utmost freedom and happiness in the heavenly realms, she kissed this life farewell with tenderness and love. One of the last things she said was, “I love my body, it has been so good to me.” 

I knelt by her side as she lay dying, and with tears in my eyes told her I loved her and was proud of her. She managed to turn her head to look at me tenderly and say, “I love you too; times two!”

When we first learned Naomi had a vicious cancer in her hip and had little chance of survival, I began taking notes and writing, thinking her story would be a remarkable miracle of recovery and celebration of faith. She made a recovery of sorts and gave us hope she might survive. But this was only to grant her more time to gain greater powers of soul, for the Hand of the Creator was training her to be one of His great angels. Many pains, hardships, disappointments and cruelties came to her and she met them as obstacles to overcome. In the process I stood by her side in anguish, but also in awe and utmost respect, noting everything. 

Fortunately, Naomi was a keen observer from an early age. She began writing in diaries at the age of nine years old. She continued until her death, and all the books are safely stored away. I used her words often while writing her story, then in 2001, published A Heart Traced In Sand, Reflections on a Daughter’s Struggle for Life. It won two awards and has touched the hearts of many.

Now, 19 years after the print edition, the digital edition is available. (Come to think of it, 19 is  appropriate . . . a sacred number and also marks her duration on earth.) The digital edition, $3.95, is accessible as an EPUB—readable on many devices, and also as a pdf. It includes many links that reveal special pictures and documents that are not included in the print version, $14.95.

EPUB introductory price of 3.95 with 30% going to Miracles From Maggie, a charity for families dealing with childhood cancer.

Go to: A Heart Traced In Sand

Tell Her I Love Her

Today I wish I could call my mother and say hello, and tell her I love her. She is gone. I write now, and I realize she has only stepped ahead, joining my father, and my daughter Naomi. I have an impression of her great happiness . . . and this is what I can look forward to when I cross the threshold of this world to join them in the next.

I could have asked her much more about herself while she was alive. I know her childhood was eventful and traumatic—she was put in foster homes twice. 

Mother never spoke resentfully of her childhood, rather in a matter-of-fact way, and with some happiness. I long for more stories and facts. 

Thankfully, I have many wonderful memories of life with her. She bore five children and I am the oldest. For some reason, it is all flooding back . . . today is Mother’s Day.

I send her love and a bouquet of celestial flowers.

For more:

That Night She Died

A Reason To Celebrate

"Santa Fe Winter" oil on board, 6 x 6 inches, by Steven Boone

It is nice to have a reason to celebrate during the darkest days of the year. Amy has a stack of presents wrapped and ready to send to her sons and their families. I used to do that at Christmas but stopped years ago. My children became adults, I became single and my parents died. My religion is Baha’i and it has its own holy days.

Hand painted gourd by Amy Cordova y Boone

Neither of my parents had a religion. Growing up, my family always observed gift giving traditions but not the religious practice or commemoration. We were poor and lived in a tenement building in Chicago. My father worked several jobs to support his wife and five children. When Christmas came around, my mother would make popcorn chains to decorate the tree. Gifts were meager. But Santa Claus would show up at the door Christmas morning.

Ralph Caprio was the best friend of our family. A few years younger than my dad, he always worked alongside my father professionally. He came from Italian immigrants who were close knit. A confirmed bachelor, he loved us Boone kids. I can remember on Christmas morning a knock at the door. My father answered and there he stood, arms full of gifts. “Ralph!” All the children shouted, and he came inside beaming with gladness and basking in warmth. His presents were always the best—better than my parents could afford. For years he was the Santa Claus in our house at Christmas.

My father has passed away, but Ralph will see another Christmas day this year in Chicago. About ten years ago he began going by the name Raff. I am forever grateful for his generous presence from the beginning of my life. Happy holidays Raff!

A Heartbeat

Hawaii is about 2,300 miles at a distance now but just a heartbeat away in our mind and heart. This is what experiences do when they enter our psyche. They abolish time and space and become immortal, i.e. they live forever in the vault of memory. Now I am very happy to have the last three weeks immortalized within. 

As Seals & Crofts sang in their song, “We may never pass this way again.”

My earthly existence has not been all roses. But I know that when I fully experience life unfiltered, even when it feels unbearable, it is better.

We are writing the book of our lives as we go along.

When we landed in Los Angeles friends took us in. We toured around together and visited the famous Laurel Canyon—of movie, artist and musician fame. Then lunch on Sunset Blvd, and an afternoon at the Getty Museum.

Now we are in Santa Barbara. My two brothers live here. The town has many memories for me. I lived here at one time, and my parents had a home in Santa Barbara for thirty years. My daughter spent some of the last months of her life here—with me beside her.

Today after a family breakfast we went lawn bowling, then I took Amy to see the home my parents lived in. It is close to the Old Mission, so we visited, then walked to the rose garden across the way. Remarkable that roses are blooming. The most fragrant we decided upon was called Peace. 

Meanwhile back in Santa Fe it is snowing. We will be there tomorrow. 

I have to learn to live with shoes on my feet again. 

One Teardrop

Last night as I was meditating before bed, something unusual happened.

I am in Denver, Colorado for an art show. My hotel is quite comfortable and a block away from the festival grounds. Sitting on a couch in a dark room, I had been quieting my mind but had been thinking of various situations present in my life. One in particular has occupied my thoughts—the extreme conditions of an Egyptian family I am friends with. (See: Inshallah)

Strangely, as I sat still and upright, a teardrop formed in my right eye. Slowly my eye brimmed and the drop flowed down my cheek. I wondered where it came from.

Retracing my thoughts, I realized I had remembered Amira, the oldest daughter of Hagag. I had worked hard to collect some money for her college, which is an impossible dream for any of the five children. Amira, eighteen, is a pure soul, shy yet intelligent and strong.

The family has many pressing needs. It has been decided to use any money to help her mother with urgent eye surgery. The first installment of funds has been delivered. The family will be relieved that Edleah will have her eyesight protected. But I know too that Amira sleeps on the hard earth at the feet of her brothers and sister every night.

The tear that fell down my face was her tear, the one she would never show her family.

Inshallah

“Inshallah.” This is what Amira said the last time I spoke with her and asked if she wanted to go to college. Her father, my friend Hagag, had handed her the telephone. I sensed that she deeply would like to go on with higher education, but is also aware of her family’s needs. They share a difficult life in Luxor, Egypt with deep bonds of love.

Inshallah means “God willing” or “if God wills it.” It is an Arabic language expression. When I am in Egypt I hear it used frequently, and also, alhamd lilah which means “thanks be to God.”

I have raised money for Amira to go to college. Perhaps it was simple minded of me to offer to help in this way without consulting in depth with Hagag. The family has so many pressing needs. The oldest son had to go into the army after graduation since no money existed for college. He is out now, after serving two years. There are four other children. Amira, the oldest daughter, is about to take college qualifying exams.

Iyah, the youngest daughter, Edleah and Amira

Hagag has a spinal disk problem and needs surgery. He is almost disabled and has trouble doing work on his tiny plot of land along the Nile River. Edleah, the mother, has eye problems. Add to this that the refrigerator is broken and they have no money to fix it or buy a new one. The entire family lives on about two dollars a day—yet if you were to arrive at their home they would welcome you to sit and serve you tea with the utmost kindness.

The last several times I have spoken with Hagag about money and college for Amira, he has sounded unhappy. “Edleah needs eye surgery. The doctor said it is very important.”

I have a new friend, Hazem, who is Egyptian and speaks fluent English. He has a daughter attending college in the USA. We have not met personally, but were introduced through someone I know in Santa Fe. I needed someone who speaks Arabic to talk more in depth with Hagag. Hazem has now personally met Hagag and the family. He reports that Hagag insists that the most pressing emergency is saving the mother’s eyesight.

Edleah and the youngest child, Bilal   (December 2017)

Look how much clearer Bilal's eyes are . . .

I have prayed about what to do. The surgery is a little more expensive than the year of college. But I also learned that college is not as expensive as thought. Public institutions are quite cheap. It is the room and board that adds up—but that can be alleviated by sharing.

At this point, it is me saying inshallah . . .

A Thousand Candles

 

Amira seemed timid and mysterious during my first visits to her home in Luxor several years ago. After all, I was a stranger from America who did not share her Egyptian life or speak her language. What might I be thinking of her poor, humble earth home and impoverished family? Her father, Hagag, and I were becoming friends. Each day I walked on the dusty dirt road along the Nile River to be with him, his wife Edleah and five children.

Mother, grandmother and daughter—Amira. Three year ago in 2014.

Bilal, the youngest, age 3, often ran around with nothing on but a t-shirt. He sparkled like a gem—full of happy exuberance, whether playing with cats, racing about the compound, or being at my side. His mother was amused when he scolded her to go away so that he could have me for himself as playmate.

Mohammed, the oldest son, took me on a sojourn to a nearby village. I sat atop the family donkey while he walked beside. He spoke enough English to allow us to converse. Amira had just reached the age to cover her head with a scarf. She could only glance at me shyly in passing. Nubi, the next oldest boy seemed shy and aloof. Iyah, the youngest girl was bubbly and playful, her reddish-brown curly hair pulled back and tied behind her head. She looked curiously at me while smiling in delight.

I came to know and love the entire family, and the grandmother too.

Three years later, last December, I arrived again in Luxor and stayed for three weeks. Mohammed had gone into the army. He could not avoid it since the family had no money for college. He returned home for a week while I visited. In the army he earns one dollar per day and must pay for his uniform and shoes. The family cannot afford it, but pays for his bus trips home and back to his army post. He only has a few months of his two year service left. After that he said, “I want to work and help my family.”


My time in Luxor was split between my friend Hagag’s family and my other Egyptian friend Abul’ Ezz and his big family. Hagag is poorer than Ezz, but by American standards they both are quite poor. Yet such heart in these people! I feel humble in their presence.

Edleah and Hagag. 2017

Hagag is a farmer with a tiny plot of greens. He has a bad back that needs surgery but labors on. The children have grown and with this visit opened up to me. Bilal wanted to be sure he was not asleep if I were coming. Iyah made drawings—including my portrait. Nubi gave me rides on the donkey cart if I was going on to Ezz’s home. Amira stopped her studies to look deeply into my eyes and speak a little in English.

Women, on bread baking day.

I always had my camera and the families accepted my picture taking.

Amira is coming of age, finishing secondary school. She is bright, honest and pure hearted. Her hope is to attend college and study business or accounting. But it is impossible for the family to afford.

All four children sleep in one small room. Amira’s bed is a straw mat spread upon the hard earth floor. The others sleep togerther on cushions on simple divans. Perhaps Amira sleeps on the earth because of her age—because she is a young woman. There is no complaint in her.

I told Amira I would be sure she can go to college. Her heart soared and it was as if a thousand candles lit within her breast. Such a smile of gratitude. I imagine her at college, ardent in her studies, sharing a room with another student, and with a bed to sleep in.

Deep To My Soul

I am glad I had my paints, camera and pen along with me. Oh, and my laptop. Two pair of shoes was enough. So was two pair of pants, four shirts, socks and underwear. I used the umbrella in Venice a few times. Never wore the shorts and decided to leave them in Egypt.

Everything fit in a medium size suitcase and carry-on with wheels. I never needed anything more and came home without a pair of shoes I gave away, and also left shorts, and shirts behind. The special item I brought back is the Jellabiya, (man’s gown) that was made for me in Egypt.

Oh, the four paintings I sent from Italy and two from Egypt arrived safely by courier. No equipment damaged, over 1,800 photos safely stored, and some foreign money in my pocket for souvenir.
The damage that occurred was in my body when I took a flu medication in Luxor and it wreaked havoc on my urinary system which is already slowing down because it is over six decades old. I had to come home sooner than expected. That was the biggest of the problems that arrived. All part of THE DREAM.

Friendships and bonds deepened. With my brother Wade and his family in Washington DC, with Cristiana in Venice, Italy, Fred the hotelier in Paris, and my Egyptian brothers, Hagag and Abu’l Ezz in Luxor, Egypt along with their families.

 

Perhaps I left a footprint behind in the places I sojourned. A memory that I was there.  My friends remember me, and cried when I left them. They went deep to my soul as well.

Brotherly Love

Abu'l Ezz, myself and Hagag

The homes of my Egyptian brothers are made of humble materials: mostly earth and some wood. Even the floors are dirt, so when one of the family sweep, they are sweeping clean the bare earth. Doors and windows almost always are open. Animals come in and out—pigeons that peck crumbs and are cared for, and cats. Cows, rabbits, ducks, turkeys and chickens—all part of the household. Flies too. One was on Abu’l Ezz’s nose when I took a family portrait. I noticed a dark spot on his face. He was stoically bearing a fly on the bridge of his nose between his eyes while keeping still for the picture. It was easy to remove in photoshop.

I enjoy being, “part of the family.” At times I have thought while sitting with my friends, that I have never been more comfortable. Nothing is elegant or fancy. No cars, and the barest of furnishngs. Children come and go, pigeons flutter around and walk at my feet, I hear the cow and eat delicious cheese from it's milk. I am always offered tea. My refrigerator stays well stocked because I am asked to eat with the families so often and they send food home with me.

Abu'l Ezz and Family

One evening I arrived at Ezz’s place for dinner and he insisted I take off my shoes to rest myself on the divan and stretch out. Then he noticed how dusty they had become so he called his youngest daughter Amira to come and clean them. She did so with good nature.

When I go shopping with Hagag he never accepts commission for food or cloth. That would raise the price. I pay Egyptian prices and have saved a lot letting him go ahead of me. How could I make money off of you, he asks, you are my brother! 

Hagag and his Family

When I go somewhere, one of my brothers is with me as guardian and helpmate. Hagag even walks me home, to be sure there are no hassles. When I am with Ezz, he sends his son to fetch the Mercedes to give me a ride home. It is an inside joke . . . but I am just fine with laying back in the cool night air and letting the boy drive the donkey ahead.

With the coming of winter, air goes from hot to cool more rapidly and many people are sick with a cold or cough. It happened to me. Hagag insisted I go to a doctor. So I went. Both Ezz and Hagag went with me at night and stayed by my side.

They are taking me on a boating for Christmas. It is not their holiday. Both are Muslim, but care so much for me that they want me to celebrate the big American holiday. The true gift they bring me is brotherly love.

Nebbia

In the early evening, my brother and I walked up to the long line of people at the Icelandair ticket desk at Dulles International Airport outside of Washington DC. He glanced above the counter and noticed a sign with a number that said "flight cancelled". "Is that your flight?" While I stood at the end of the line with my luggage, I checked my itinerary. It was.

My brother Wade and family

 I was heading off to Paris after visiting with him and his family for a few days. I only had a short while in Paris before I was to arrive in Venice, Italy for a month. Venice beckoned me with its season of "nebbia" or fog. Now, I was in another kind of fog.

My brother went to watch at the ticket counter and reported back that people were being re-routed and given hotel rooms for the night. We hugged goodbye.

By the time I arrived at the desk, the agent was obviously frustrated and edgy. She gave me a flight on Air France for the following evening—24 hours later. With a hotel and meal vouchers. I felt at a loss, as if in a muddle. The path in front of me became more obscure that evening as I checked online and could not locate my itinerary. I tried calling Icelandair. The calls kept dropping. When I reached a bot, it said 80 people were in front of me. It was around midnight. I hung up and crashed.

At four AM I woke and tried calling again. 60 people in front of me. I lay in bed listening to the announcements and music. 52, 48, 37, 22, 18, 11, 4 . . . voila a human voice! Air France out! British Air in!

Hotel Saint Andre Des Arts, lobby

 
The next day I arrived in Paris, delayed by about thirty hours. I took the metro railway from the airport and arrived at Hotel Saint Andre Des Arts, a place I have stayed before. In the lobby I was greeted by Fred, the desk manager who remembered me warmly. The fog receded.

I had planned to go to Versailles, the former seat of political power in the Kingdom of France from 1682, when King Louis XIV reigned. Now I lacked time, having two days instead of three. So I did what I love best: wandered the city and made street photographs.

Now I am in Venice. My apartment is in a lively central neighborhood, close to the famous Rialto Bridge that spans the Grand Canal.

My second night here was Friday. I fell asleep but was wakened by lively people walking on the pavement below my window. Weekend nights produce more revelers into the early morning hours. I could not fall back to sleep. Eventually I moved to a small bedroom in the apartment rear and flopped onto a tiny bed.

At eight in the morning I was wakened by a text alert. It was my friend Cristiana: "Nebbia right now."

What a happy surprise so soon!

Light In The Dark

Santa Fe Plaza, first night of Christmas lights

Last night I went to some art openings with Therese. There were four or five but we selected two photo exhibits. As we drove, she became excited at the Christmas lights around town. “I just love Christmas!” she said with a voice brimming with enthusiasm. I felt surprise.

We parked near a gallery, began walking arm-in-arm in the cold night air, and I volunteered a memory. “I was only four or five years old. Our family lived in a suburb of Chicago. I remember my mother bundling me up one cold night and taking me downtown on the train. It was only about a half-hour ride. We arrived among the tall buildings, and walked on the snowy sidewalks, holding hands. There were throngs of people and I sensed excitement and gaiety. We stopped in front of the big department store windows. They positively glowed with Christmas activity and carefully constructed holiday scenes; life sized Santa Clauses', elves that moved, realistic reindeer, indoor snow—with snow-dust that glistened and gleamed. Big train sets with moving trains. Colorful dolls all fancy and made up. Animals I had never seen; penguins and unicorns. Mother and I pressed our faces up to the glass and marveled. What I remember most was the light, creativity, cold night and loving warmth of my mother. It was special; just the two of us.”

The photo exhibit at Verve Gallery was remarkable. We found the subject matter to our liking. The photographer, Beth Moon, travels the world finding the oldest most wonderful trees with character and photographs them at night. She chooses specimens that are in places free of light pollution. Then carefully waits for conditions that allow for photos that show the trees with the backdrop of millions of stars.

Santa Fe Plaza, beginning of Christmas season

Everyone likes light in the dark; just like Christmas.

The Jig

A few days ago, I received a phone call from one of my mother's caretakers who sounded urgent and exhorted me to think of going straightaway to her side at her home in Santa Barbara, California; although I live 900 miles away in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Immediately I became troubled and doubtful. My mother has had close brushes with death in the past. How could I be sure of the right time to be with her when she passed away? I asked the other caretaker as well, who concurred that my Mom had suddenly declined and might be on the way out. She suffered irregular heart beats, and her body was retaining fluids, although medication helped somewhat. She was on oxygen as well. I explained that I could not be going back and forth, but that I would come if the opinion was that I might not see her again.

 

I booked a one-way ticket, not knowing the course of future events. In one day, I arrived at my mother's side. She was sitting in her favorite chair at the dining table, next to a big picture window where she can watch the birds in her yard. Beautiful roses were in vases on the table, fresh from her garden. We hugged and she said, "Steven, I am so glad you came!" By the evening, we were playing gin rummy—and she beat me.

Sometimes, her sentences wander off into nonsense, but most of the time, her mind works normal.

My daughter Sarah was concerned enough that she has also arrived to pay last respects . . . but maybe my mother will be doing the jig next. She barely walks, but I don't put it past her to dance at her own funeral.

Scattering The Grains

“You should go see your mother!”

I took my wife's advice and have driven 931 miles, (1,498 Km) from Santa Fe, New Mexico to Santa Barbara, California. When I left, the temperatures were very cold and snow was on the ground. Arriving in southern California, I could drive with the windows down.

It is always familiar coming to Santa Barbara, but this time, something felt missing. As I came to my parents neighborhood, I realized my father is not to be seen again. He died last February 26. I also have strong memories of my daughter Naomi while she lived the last months of her life here. It is strange that these two intimate ingredients of my Santa Barbara associations are missing. Nonetheless, my mother welcomed me heartily and with gratitude. I spent Christmas with her.

My younger brother Brent lives nearby my mother. He lives alone with his dog, Purdy. I made a painting of Purdy, who in animal years, is 105. She still can hop into Brent's car and sit on his lap when he drives.

I don't know why, but I have been feeling like I want to hold onto something in life, but nothing satisfies my longing . . . it all is like shifting sand and wind is blowing over everything, scattering the grains into oblivion.

Brothers Of The Nile

Karnak Temple

I am now a “brother” of the Nile. It feels as though this grand, lengthy and luxurious river is a vein in my own body. It will always share its life with mine. 

By now, I am quite familiar with Luxor, a major Egyptian city that straddles both sides of the river, and the home of many important historical sites from ancient civilization. I have visited most of the key locations, and especially like Karnak (founded 3200 BC), with its massive ramparts, scores of tremendous columns, inscrutable, exotic hieroglyphics carved in its walls, granite floors, and immense totemic sculptures of human forms and guardian beasts. Over thirty Pharaohs contributed to its formation over scores of generations. It is the second largest ancient religious site in the world, after Angkor Wat Temple in Cambodia. 

On my first visit in 2008, I made friends with the captain of a felucca, a traditional sailboat now used primarily to take tourists on Nile River sailing jaunts. Abul Ez and I became friends and I often visited with him and his family in their humble home of earth on the West Bank of the Nile at Luxor. After a week, when I left to continue my world travel, he said, “Do not forget me and my family!”

During the years since then, I often thought of Ez, his family, Egypt and the Nile—so I returned. I did not seek Ez immediately, since I needed some time to unwind from a busy two days in Cairo, and Egypt is very hot and I am easily drained of energy while outdoors during most sunlight hours. So, I avoided the extremes and stayed indoors working on writing, painting and correspondence. Then, as I suspected, it was easy finding Ez, especially with the photo I brought with me to the West Bank. 

When we arrived at his home in the early evening, it felt familiar. I brought gifts to his wife and children and once everyone got over the surprise of my visit after six years, we settled into a happy feeling. I took note of how the four children had grown and also, the new addition of one boy, Yusef. As we sat in his tiny front room of earth and he smoked flavored tobacco in his water pipe, he smiled at me and said, “This is your home!”

Since my last visit, Ez has traded his felucca for a motorboat with canopy that seats a dozen people. He has more business, since he can quickly and easily ferry local people across the river and back. He has a motorbike, and now there is a television in his house. Otherwise, he looks much the same and has hardly aged . . . being robust and with vigor. The family still live humbly. Today at lunch, the meal was so delicious, and a flavorful soup was spicy and my nose began to run. I asked for tissue, but there was none in his home, so his wife tore a cotton rag and this is what I used for my nose. I am so comfortable here, and he reminds me that we are brothers, and I feel the same.

A Wind Came

Among the myriad memories of my youth, some episodes stand out more than others. When I was 13, I was with friends playing basketball at the outdoor court at our local playground, when, from outside the fence my mother appeared and began yelling, “Steven, Steven! It is your birthday!” We all had forgotten. My mother was aghast that she had not remembered. But in the grand scheme of things, it is just another day.

Today is Sunday, the day I always post to My Fairy-Tale Life. It also happens to be my birthday. Yesterday, Heidi Of The Mountains planned to take me out to dinner, so we dressed up and went downtown. She said she had to make a quick stop at one of our friend’s home, because she had left something there. We pulled up to the house and I recognized a couple artists I know, getting out of a car. I thought, what a coincidence! We parked and we headed to the house, I noticed they had greeting cards in hand, but it took me a few minutes to begin realizing what was happening. Then, at the door, with friends inside all smiling at me, I knew Heidi had arranged a surprise party. The evening was fantastic and when it came time for the cake, I sat at the table and a chorus of song broke out. The candles were lit, and I made my wish and leaned over to blow them out, but, at the same moment, a wind came through the window and began blowing them out before me, so that they were easy to get out all at once.

Maybe I should not say what I wished for, but I am sixty now, and have had some aches in my body that bother me. Heidi is eleven years younger, but she too has some aches . . . so I wished for good health for both of us in the coming year, and prosperity. When the wind began blowing out the candles before me, and made it easy to get them all out, I thought, “This is Naomi, in spirit, making the wind blow.” And I believe my wishes will come true.

The Great Scheme Of Things

Some people believe in God and others do not, and those in between are called agnostics. It is understandable that there is great difficulty attaining 100% consensus of belief in God, for the finite mind cannot grasp the infinite nor can a cup contain an ocean; and many of us have to grasp something in order to believe in it. Furthermore, this world is beautiful but also violent, with merciless atrocities that occur naturally and by the hand of man. This further confuses people who cannot stomach the thought of a beneficent Creator making such a mess and watching his creatures struggle in it for the sake of progress to a better life later.

When I was growing up, our household was without religion. My parents never spoke of God, and religion was something my friends knew about but not me. In some cases they endured the religion that was foisted upon them. Our household was liberal and a place for free thought. As the years went by, many of my friends came to enjoy our house as a haven of sociability. As I entered my teen years and my mind expanded, I asked my parents about their belief in God. My father said he did not believe, and since he was a passionate social activist, went so far as to quote Karl Marx, who said, “Religion is the opiate of the masses.” My mother said, “I am an agnostic.” Since I did not know what that meant, she went on to inform me that God may exist, but we cannot know for sure, so we allow that He might be present.

My youthful spirit searched for the truth independently during the beginning of my college years. Of course, I wondered more deeply what life was about and how I came to exist, and what my purpose might be. The first holy book I read, the Bhagavad-Gita, I found by chance while browsing in the university library. Glancing through the pages, something drew me, and I read it in entirety. Soon thereafter, I began a three-day fast, and pondered deeply whether God existed. The main question that excited my imagination and soul: “How did intelligent life and ordered existence throughout the universe come to be?” I could only conclude that a higher intelligence, God, made creation, of which I am part. Funny, but the next question that plagued my youthful mind for the next couple days was, “Can there be more than one God?” Perhaps I wrestled with the thought of one Being, dominant over all. But finally, I arrived at closure when I realized that God must be All-Powerful, and if there were two Gods then neither would be All-Powerful. There can only be one God. Shortly thereafter, I found the Baha’i Faith, and joined.

Over the years, my parents have changed. My father does not mention God or religion, but I suspect he has gone from being atheist to agnostic. My mother has developed a deeply personal relationship with God. She does not belong to a church, but in almost all her conversations she praises God, the Creator. Every day she speaks of “the wonderful world we live in.” I went to live with them in the spring, to help them with aging issues, and slept in a small anteroom near their own bedrooms. They would retire about the same time each night, my father closing his bedroom door and turning on his white-noise sound machine, and my mother would arrive in her bed, then promptly begin speaking out loud, (I could hear her), having a personal conversation with God. Typically, she praises His creation: the beautiful green grass, flowers, magnificent trees, the order in nature, sunlight, air and temperature, earth, soil, micro-organisms . . . and she thanks Him for her body and holding her place in the great scheme of things.