The Returning Rains

It has been almost three weeks since Amy and I left Santa Fe, New Mexico, and returned to our village home on the outskirts of Oaxaca, (Old) Mexico.

When we departed for Santa Fe in early September, the land was parched from drought. I had never seen the weather behave so unpredictably. The farmers had planted their cornfields at the end of June, around the beginning of the rainy season, when the skies ordinarily open and the thirsty earth drinks deeply. Almost overnight, the brown fields turn green, and the countryside undergoes a marvelous transformation.

But this year, toward the end of August, just as the corn was beginning to tassel, the rains stopped.

For nearly a month before we left, I watched the unfolding tragedy. The stalks began to wither, their leaves curling inward, their once-vigorous green turning pale and brittle. Since I have always felt a deep kinship with plant life, my heart ached to see this interruption in the cycle of growth. The farmers had done their part. They had prepared the soil and planted their seeds. But the heavens had withheld their blessing.

Now, as though to make up for lost time, the rains have returned in abundance. The earth is green again, and the hillsides shimmer with new life. But for much of the corn, the reprieve came too late. This year's harvest will be meager. Still, nothing goes entirely to waste. The stalks will be cut and used as fodder for animals.

Nature has its ways of making use of what remains.

Ostensibly, our trip to Santa Fe was to make progress resolving a stubborn wound left from my surgery in Oaxaca on June 24, when two bladder stones were removed and my enlarged prostate was reduced.

In most respects, the operation was successful. But afterward, the abdominal incision began draining fluid from two or three small openings. Since then, I have been changing bandages three times a day. And still it drains.

In Santa Fe, I had a twenty-minute, rather unsatisfactory consultation with a urologist, underwent two urine tests, and spent an hour with my longtime family physician. A sophisticated CT Scan was ordered to determine the source of the mysterious drainage. But the medical system seemed caught in a logjam of scheduling and delays. Before the most important study could be performed, Amy and I had to return home.

It was frustrating, to say the least.

And so, like the cornfields, I found myself waiting for something essential that did not seem to arrive.

Then, at last, this past Friday, a good doctor here in Oaxaca, a specialist in wound care, saw me immediately as a walk-in patient. He opened the wound, cleaned it, and inserted a small tube to probe more deeply. He withdrew a syringe full of clear liquid, which he confidently proclaimed to be urine.

This was potentially the very evidence I had been seeking in Santa Fe, where the expensive imaging study had been ordered to investigate whether my bladder was communicating with the abdominal wound through a fistula—an abnormal passage between two parts of the body.

Yet, the fluid could also have come from a seroma, a pocket of clear fluid that sometimes develops after surgery. Further examination may be necessary to distinguish one from the other. A the moment of discovery I was shocked at the vial he held in his hand and could not formulate any questions. At home, the next day, I sent his office an email with my question, but it is the weekend, so wait for a response tomorrow. 

Today I am undertaking a little experiment of my own. I intend to eat beets and drink beet juice, knowing that their deep red pigment sometimes passes into the urine. If the drainage from my wound subsequently takes on a reddish hue, it might offer another clue that the bladder is communicating with the incision. I will be watching over the next 24 to 36 hours. It is hardly a scientific test, and certainly not conclusive, but after months of uncertainty, I am eager to discover whatever clues my own body might provide.

On Wednesday, I will meet with my original surgeon to determine the way forward.

I want my life back!

There. I have said it.

For months now, an inordinate amount of my attention has been directed toward a small opening in my abdomen. The changing of bandages, the examinations, the questions without answers, the continual vigilance—it all becomes exhausting. There are paintings waiting to be made, words waiting to be written, places to visit, friends to embrace, and the ordinary, marvelous pleasures of being alive.

Yet perhaps the cornfields have something to teach me.

I watched them struggle beneath a merciless sky. I grieved for their interrupted growth. And now, although the harvest will not be what the farmers hoped for, the rains have returned. The earth is drinking again. Life continues its ancient work, sometimes invisibly, sometimes in ways we do not expect.

I have come to understand that healing is not always a straight path toward restoration. Sometimes it is a season of waiting. Sometimes it requires intervention, patience, and the humility to acknowledge that the body has its own mysterious intelligence.

Outside my window, the cornfields are stirring in the rain.

And somewhere within me, I believe, the work of renewal is continuing too.

The Landscape Has a Beating Heart

It has been a few weeks since I have written here. Life took me elsewhere for a while—not far away exactly, but into that strange territory where the body demands attention and the ordinary rhythms of life rearrange themselves around it.

Amy and I arrived from Oaxaca on September 2, returning once again to our beloved New Mexico. Very dear friends had offered us the use of a wonderful guest house on their beautiful property, along with a car. Such generosity is humbling. We flew into Albuquerque, took the Rail Runner train north through the familiar and wonderful landscape, and were met at the station in Santa Fe.

Almost immediately, the medical journey began.

My first appointment was September 4. I had come north primarily because of a lingering complication from the prostate and bladder-stone surgery I underwent in Oaxaca in June. Although the surgery itself brought significant improvement, the abdominal incision stubbornly continued to drain. Tests in Oaxaca had revealed a small tract extending inward from the wound—though without demonstrating a direct connection to the bladder. Here in Santa Fe, more tests, consultations, urine studies and discussions followed.

There have been suspicions and possibilities, but not yet a final answer.

That uncertainty has probably been one of the most difficult parts. The mind wants a name for things. It wants a diagnosis, a map, a destination and preferably a road sign telling us how many miles remain. The body, meanwhile, follows another calendar.

I have thought often of Maya, that ancient idea of the veil of appearances—the world as we perceive and construct it, rather than necessarily as it is. During these weeks I have had to learn how easily fear can become its own reality. A sensation appears, the mind seizes upon it, and before long an entire story has been written about what it might mean. I have had to practice stepping back from that story: observing what is actually happening, attending to what needs attention, and allowing the rest to remain unknown.

Perhaps this too is part of healing—not only the closing of a wound, but learning to see through the veil a little more clearly. To live with uncertainty and trust the body to do some of its ancient work without the mind continually standing over it demanding an explanation. Yet the wound continuing its weeping for almost three months and not a single definitive answer . . . well I have had to wonder, “What is my body is up to?”

Fortunately, something encouraging has been happening while all this investigation continues: I seem to be getting better.

The wound has been contracting. The drainage has diminished. Pain is negligible. I have had no fever or redness, my energy is good, and I am urinating well. Amy, who has watched all of this closely and perhaps sometimes sees more clearly than I do, keeps telling me, “You are healing. It just needs more time.”

Perhaps she is right.

My preoccupation with the physical problem also led me to visit my psychologist while here. Months of surgery, recovery, uncertainty and watching the body closely can tilt the inner scales. I wanted help restoring some balance—not by pretending that nothing was wrong, but by learning not to give the problem dominion over every hour of the day.

There is the body, and there is the mind watching the body. And then, somewhere deeper still, there is the soul watching them both.

I have been spending each day taking time for prayer. In particular, I have been saying the Bahá’í Long Healing Prayer every day. Its words move through the different chambers of illness and healing until healing itself seems larger than simply repairing flesh. I do not know what form the answer to a prayer will take. I only know that saying it changes the atmosphere within me.

Meanwhile, Santa Fe has been Santa Fe.

We love this place. So many years of our lives are woven into northern New Mexico that returning does not quite feel like visiting. Dear friends are here, and we have been fortunate to spend time with some of them. Old conversations resume. Familiar roads bend around familiar hills. The sky performs its immense daily theater above us.

We drove north to Taos, where something wonderful is unfolding for Amy. The Millicent Rogers Museum has expressed interest in adding some of her artwork to its permanent collection. For an artist whose work rises so deeply from the indigenous traditions, stories and spirit of this region, the possibility feels especially meaningful.

While there, we also visited a dear friend who is homebound and fighting cancer. There are moments when all our smaller concerns become quiet in the presence of another person's struggle. Friendship then requires very little ceremony. One simply arrives. We sit together. We share whatever light the day has given.

And outside the window is New Mexico.

The landscape has a beating heart, and somehow its rhythm is synchronized with our own. The mountains, piñon and juniper, the enormous blue sky, the adobe colors of the earth, the scents—all of it still speaks to something deep within us. Oaxaca is our home now, but New Mexico remains in our blood.

Of course, there is also our storage unit.

Every time we return, the steel door is opened with the irrational optimism of a prospector entering a gold mine. Surely this time all those paintings, photographs, furniture and accumulated valuables will miraculously transform themselves into a fortune.

Mostly they stare back at us gently, reminding of other lifetimes lived.

We move a few things around, rediscover something we had forgotten, wonder why on earth we saved something else, close the door again, and leave our treasure patiently waiting for its next opportunity to make us rich.

We also spent time in Albuquerque with my daughter Sarah. Seeing her always seems to reaffirm something that needs no explanation—the abiding love between us, strengthened rather than diminished by the years and the distances that sometimes separate us. While there, I was also able to hand-deliver a print of one of my Vanitas paintings, *Sandia Man*, to a collector: a skeleton in a blue denim shirt and rumpled hat, seated at a table contentedly eating watermelon. It was a pleasure not simply to deliver the work, but to spend time together. I have always loved those moments when a piece of art leaves my hands and enters someone else's life.

And now our time here is almost finished.

In four days Amy and I will begin the journey south again. Oaxaca awaits us. Our house awaits us. Our animals await us. Friends await us. The familiar mountains and villages and brilliant Mexican light await us.

My medical story, however, will travel with me. There are still questions to be answered and another important study ahead. Healing does not observe national borders.

Perhaps that is one of the lessons of these strange months. I have spent much of my life traveling toward something—the next country, the next painting, the next love, the next revelation. Now the journey has become quieter and more intimate.

For the moment, I am being asked to inhabit the mystery of my own body.

To care for it without fearing it.

To seek answers without demanding them.

To remain attentive to the practical things—doctors, tests, medicines, wounds—while remembering that another kind of medicine is always available: friendship, beauty, laughter, love and prayer.

Soon the suitcases will be packed again.

Amy and I will turn south toward our Mexico home.

And the healing saga will continue.

The Quiet Companion

Looking back to the moment of truth in the doctor’s office here in Oaxaca, Mexico, I can only say that the hand of fate was upon me.

The verdict came after a brief examination and a sonogram of my prostate: surgery.

I had resisted that word ever since the problem was first diagnosed nearly eight years ago. The risks seemed too great. If medication could keep me going, then so be it. But time has its own plans. The sonogram revealed something new—two stones in my bladder. The pain and discomfort had become impossible to ignore. It was crunch time.

On a deeper level, I liked the doctor immediately. A urologist in his mid-thirties, he possessed the quiet confidence and reassuring manner I needed. His credentials were excellent, and his referrals glowing. I asked a few more questions, and each answer strengthened my confidence. Before I knew it, a surgery date had been set, and I wired the money from the United States.

There was something else.

As the day of surgery approached and apprehension quietly grew, I experienced something difficult to explain. It was as though a spirit drew near—not with words or visions, but with a calm assurance that settled over me. The fear did not disappear, but it no longer held the upper hand. I accepted that whatever lay ahead, I would not face it alone.

That quiet encounter confirmed what my heart was already telling me: stay grounded in Mexico and trust.

The operation lasted a little over two hours. The enlarged portion of my prostate was removed through the urethra, leaving the outer capsule intact. The two bladder stones were removed through a small incision in my abdomen.

The first night was the hardest. My bladder was continually flushed with saline, and the urine flowing through the catheter was filled with blood. There was pain, discomfort, and very little sleep.

Amy received a surprise of her own. Shortly after the surgery she was informed that she would be staying with me overnight. In Mexico, it is customary for a family member to remain with the patient around the clock. She hadn’t come prepared and endured a restless night in an uncomfortable chair. Yet her presence comforted me, and afterward I could appreciate the wisdom of the tradition. Hospitals can be lonely places. I never felt alone.

Our dear neighbors, Marta and Mayolo, have been with us every step of the journey. They are deeply embedded in the fabric of our lives, offering support and love each step of the way.

Now, four days later, I am slowly recovering. A catheter still protrudes from my body and drains into a bag that must be emptied with surprising frequency. I take my medications faithfully, drink more water than I ever imagined possible, and patiently wait for my body to heal. Blood still mixes with the urine, but each day there is a little less. In another week the catheter will be removed, and, I hope, a new chapter will begin.

I have nothing but praise for the surgical team, the nurses, and the remarkable little boutique hospital where I was treated. With only five patient rooms, it felt less like an institution and more like a place where people genuinely cared.

As I reflect on these past few days, I keep returning to that quiet presence that met me before the operation. Some may call it intuition, others grace, and still others simply the workings of the mind under stress. I only know that it gave me confidence when I needed it most. I have learned over the years to trust such moments. They have appeared before at important crossroads in my life, and once again they carried me safely across.

Healing, I am discovering, is not only a matter of the body. It is also an act of trust.

The Narrowing Passage

 Seven and a half years ago, while in Luxor, Egypt, I had a medical emergency.

The problem had been building for some time, but I had become accustomed to it and dealt with the symptoms stoically. Prior to Egypt, I had been living in Venice, Italy. My habit was to walk many miles each day, wandering through the spiderweb of narrow passages and across countless footbridges, taking street photographs. I noticed increasing pressure from my bladder and found myself making frequent stops to urinate.

Then, while in Egypt, my Arabic brothers—who are like family to me—wanted to take me out for dinner and a boat ride on the Nile on Christmas Eve. The wives had prepared a wonderful meal, and the boat was ready to cast off, but I was in crisis. I could not urinate. The pain was intense, and I had to decline the invitation and return to my hotel room.

That night was excruciating.

Early the following morning I went to my friend Haggag. He took me into the city, and thankfully we found a urologist in a rather shabby office who nevertheless was kind, competent, and immediately inserted a catheter, allowing my bladder to empty. I don´t speak Arabic, but understood my prostate was enlarged. 

Although I had airline tickets to Ethiopia, I cancelled all my travel plans and returned to the United States with medications, a catheter, and a urine bag strapped to my waist.

Facing the prospect of surgery, I instead tried a course of medication that, within days, greatly relieved my symptoms and gave me back a more or less normal life.

Now the prostate issue has become an intrusion into normal living once again.

I live with discomfort every day. I continue to have annual examinations, usually in the United States, and thankfully there has been no indication of cancer.

Recently, I sought out a highly respected urologist in Oaxaca. After performing a sonogram in his office, he said that my prostate was considerably larger than normal and that he could see stones or calcifications within it. His opinion was that surgery would likely be necessary, though he explained that the stones could complicate the usual approach.

Since then have been a battery of pre-operative tests, all of which suggest that I am healthy enough to proceed if surgery is recommended. A CT scan provided much more detail. Amy and I also met with an internist to review the results. He was bright, kind, and exceptionally helpful. He has shared his evaluation with my urologist, and tomorrow I have another appointment to discuss the findings, review my options, and learn what the next steps might be.

Appreciated throughout this process is the level of attention given.

Because I am not fluent in Spanish, every consultation requires patience. Amy helps, and we often rely on our phones for translation. Yet I never feel rushed. I appreciate not feeling as though I am being squeezed into an artificial fifteen-minute appointment slot while someone watches the clock. The doctors take whatever time is necessary to answer questions and explain what is happening. 

From what I understand so far, the usual possibility is a procedure in which instruments are passed through the penis and up the urethra to remove obstructing prostate tissue and perhaps some of the calcified material. An epidural is administered to numb the lower half of my body—so I would remain awake but feel no pain. That thought is not exactly on my list of favorite experiences, but if it helps restore my quality of life, so be it.

I may still seek a second opinion if possible. I have written to my longtime urologist in Santa Fe, though so far I have not heard back from him.

All things considered, I suspect the total cost may end up being similar whether I pursue treatment here or in the United States. Medicare would cover much of the procedure in America, but there would still be travel expenses, lodging, and various incidentals. Here in Mexico, the operation itself is estimated to cost roughly one-quarter of what the same procedure would cost in the United States.

For now, I am gathering information, asking questions, and taking one step at a time—grateful for competent medical care, grateful for Amy's support, and hopeful that somewhere ahead lies a more comfortable chapter than the one I am currently navigating.

TOP IMAGE: 

"Changing Woman" by Navajo artist, Dennis Jeffy   70 x 70 inches, oil canvas,

collection of Amy Córdova Boone

The Thrill of Reinvention

Once again, the work has taken a turn—into a new series of colorful expressionist pieces. Throughout more than forty years of creating, I have rarely stayed in one lane. Galleries often encourage artists to find a niche and repeat what sells. I have never been comfortable with that. Landscape painting brought my greatest commercial success, yet I have continually wandered into new territories: abstraction, mixed-media, and even my HangUps series with faces suspended on clotheslines. With our move in 2019 to Oaxaca, Mexico, a group of paintings emerged from our Dos Venados studio: Memento Mori paintings of symbolic skeletons, honoring the Dia de Muertos motif.

Reinvention keeps the work alive.

This new chapter begins with pure abstraction:

Antes del Nombre, Oil on canvas, 70 x 80 cm

Fauve Mujer, Oil on canvas, 100 x 80 cm

I lay down color and motion without a plan, letting the paint lead. After that foundation is alive on the canvas, I look for what wants to emerge. In the first two paintings, that became luminous female portraits. I created them first using AI as a reference, then translated and transformed them in paint over the loose, expressive ground. They are larger than life, born from imagination and guided by technology, yet made human by the hand.

Sandia, Oil on canvas, 25 x 25 cm

Today, I shifted scale. Once the abstract background had dried, I set up a simple still life of a slice of watermelon on a plate. Working from a familiar, realistic subject sparked a different energy. A dialogue unfolded between the bold underpainting and the object before me. In the end, both voices found harmony: the grounded and the mysterious, the seen and the unforeseen.

The pleasure lies in not knowing exactly where the next brushstroke will lead. That is the freedom I have always trusted.

More: Steven Boone Fine Art

Also: https://stevenboone.myportfolio.com

The Long Thirst, the Sudden Song

Having lived most of my life in North America where four distinct seasons mark the year, I am still adjusting to the rhythm of only two in Mexico. Amy and I have been here over six years now, and while I’ve grown accustomed to the shift, it never quite feels natural. We are nearing September, which means the rainy season is winding down. Soon, the long dry months—about eight of them—will return.

The change is stark. The fields that now glow with vibrant green will fade to brown. Some trees shed their leaves, and the ground turns brittle, reduced to dust in the wind.

I have always been a “plant person,” like my mother before me. Trees, flowers, green things in general speak to my soul. By the end of the dry season, many of the plants around our home—each one I know personally—seem on the verge of death. Though I water what I can, most rely on the drip system. Still, by late May, just when I find myself whispering prayers to stave off their passing, a few stubborn buds appear—miraculously. I scratch my head and wonder, where did they find the strength?

Then the rains come. At first scattered storms, and then, finally, a rhythm. Plants rejoice, bursting forth with such abandon that I spend my days cutting grass and brush, trying to keep up. Sometimes I imagine those first fragile buds are the plants calling out for the rains—and nature, listening, answers.

Now, the cornfields surrounding our village stand tall and healthy. If the skies grant just a few more generous rains, they’ll yield a good crop. But if the drought lingers year after year, the harvest suffers, and families sell their land for home lots. Already, the edges of our village are filling with new houses.

Landscape. 4 min. video

We prefer, for as long as possible, to be surrounded by nature.

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. 

An Immersive Cultural Experience

Visiting Abastos Market in Oaxaca, Mexico is a grand adventure⏤an immersive experience in the heart of local culture. As one of the largest and busiest markets in the region, it bursts with vibrant colors, scents, and sounds. Mostly sheltered, taking up about four city blocks, the air is filled with the rich aromas of freshly ground chilies, spices, grilled meats, fish, flowers and herbs. Stalls overflow with everything from handwoven textiles and pottery to exotic fruits and traditional Oaxacan foods like mole, tlayudas, and chapulines (grasshoppers). All types of hardware, household items, clothing, shoes and hats, are sold. The energy is palpable, as vendors call out their offerings, and shoppers negotiate prices. It’s a bustling hub of life, offering a true taste of Oaxacan tradition.

Woman selling fried chapulines, or grasshoppers

Amy especially is entranced, stopping often to inspect goods. I stroll through, taking pictures and enjoying the bustling atmosphere. We like to stop along the way for a cool chocolate shake made by a specialty chocolate shop called Mayordomo. Here is a six minute video of the market experience, with music:

Big Mexican markets are sensorial delights of sight, sound, textures, smells . . . . the total package. Our little village, San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, outside Oaxaca city, has its own Tuesday market, where vendors sell fruits and vegetables, homemade foods, flowers, garden plants and other items. Each week I buy fresh cut flowers, fruits and vegetables. 

Our home always is adorned with beautiful flowers.

Excitement and Spectacle

The Guelaguetza festival in Oaxaca, Mexico, is an exhilarating experience and a fantastic photographic opportunity. This major annual event showcases the rich cultural diversity of Oaxaca's eight regions through traditional music, dance, food, and artisanal crafts. The festivities span about two weeks at the end of July, featuring numerous activities. My wife Amy and I particularly enjoy the massive “calenda,” or parade, that winds through the streets of Oaxaca Centro.

Unfortunately, we missed the first of the two big parades last weekend. As we prepared to drive from our village into town yesterday, clouds began to gather, and a light sprinkle of rain fell. This being our wet season, I wondered if the parade would be drenched.

Despite the weather, we decided to go. The parade was scheduled to start at 5 PM, so we left around 4, planning to arrive at our viewing spot fifteen minutes before the swirling dancers, brass and percussion bands, puppets, and other participants would pass by. It continued to drizzle as we drove, and approaching the Centro district, we got stuck in a traffic jam, barely inching forward. Meanwhile, the parade had already begun. Amy suggested we turn back, thinking it might be a wasted effort. However, we had come this far, so we decided to stay in the slow-moving lines of cars, our windshield wipers slowly slapping time. I resolved to head to where the parade would finish since we would miss the start. The route spans about a mile.

The unusual amount of traffic puzzled us until we realized it must be due to the festival. To our dismay, the police had blocked off some streets as we arrived. Nevertheless, I managed to navigate us to the area where the parade would end. The streets were extremely crowded, making parking a challenge. Eventually, I turned up a little cobblestone street. By this time, dusk was approaching, and the sky was overcast. As I drove slowly forward, I hit an unseen hole. Crunch! The car lurched with a terrible noise. This was worse than the usual for the often rough streets and sidewalks. We parked about twenty feet further along. I was upset, Amy was disheartened, and it was still sprinkling. But we needed to find the parade.

We walked about five blocks, sometimes sharing our one umbrella. The rain wasn't heavy, so I accepted getting slightly wet. A huge crowd had gathered at the corner where the parade would soon arrive and make a turn. We could get no closer than about four people back, blocked by a solid mass of humanity. Both sides of the festive streets were filled with families, some children perched atop their father's shoulders. Plenty of umbrellas were open and held aloft.

When the parade arrived, the atmosphere exploded with jubilation. Fireworks burst overhead, bands played energetically, dancers swirled in native costumes, and women with long black braids danced gracefully. Revelers shouted, "¡Viva Oaxaca!" Candy was thrown into the crowd. From behind people, I could barely see, and Amy even less, but the excitement and spectacle were palpable. Looking behind us, an old woman, much shorter than Amy looked helplessly. And there were more people behind her. We stayed for about twenty minutes before deciding to leave.

One of our favorite restaurants was nearby, so we ended up there for dinner before heading home. Thankfully, our car seemed to have weathered the hit. In the end, we felt peculiarly satisfied and agreed that next year, we would arrive much earlier.

Vibrant Culture of Oaxaca

Living in our rural village of San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, my wife Amy and I are privileged to experience the vibrant culture of nearby Oaxaca in its most authentic form. Every July, we eagerly anticipate the Guelaguetza festivities, an annual festival celebrated in Oaxaca, Mexico, that showcases the rich cultural diversity of the region. Here are the key aspects of the Guelaguetza festivities:

1. Timing and Location: The festival takes place on the last two Mondays of July in Oaxaca City and surrounding areas. The main events are held at the Guelaguetza Auditorium on Cerro del Fortín, a hill overlooking the city.

2. Cultural Significance: "Guelaguetza" means "offering" or "reciprocal exchange of gifts" in Zapotec, reflecting the festival's emphasis on community sharing and mutual interdependence.

3. Historical Roots: The festival has origins dating back over 3,000 years, initially as a celebration of the Oaxacan corn goddess. It later incorporated Catholic elements after Spanish colonization.

4. Regional Representation: Delegations from Oaxaca's eight culturally diverse regions participate, showcasing their unique traditions.

5. Performances: The festival features traditional dances, music, and costumes specific to each region. Performers often distribute gifts to the audience, such as fruit, baskets, candy, or local goods.

6. Parades: Colorful parades called "calendas" are an integral part of the festivities, featuring dancers, singers, and musicians.

7. Food and Drink: The festival celebrates Oaxacan cuisine, including specialties like mole and mezcal.

8. Artisanal Crafts: A market (mercado) showcases handmade items from Oaxaca, including traditional apparel and crafts.

9. Additional Events: The celebration includes side events such as the performance of "Princess Donaji," an epic pre-Hispanic theatrical presentation.

10. Tourist Attraction: While the Guelaguetza has become a significant tourist draw, it remains deeply important for preserving and celebrating the indigenous cultures of Oaxaca.

Friday we went to watch some street festivities. Marching brass and percussion bands filled the air with lively rhythms, creating an infectious energy that reverberates through the streets. Costumed dancers marched and danced, carrying icons. The crowds are mostly Mexican natives with a good dose of tourists mixed in. 

We are both stimulated by cultural extravaganzas. I am a photographer as well as painter so try and angle for the best photos. Amy is an artist too, and quite good recording moments on her iPhone. 

The dancers are a sight to behold. Adorned in native costumes, they step and twirl with grace and precision, their movements telling stories passed down through generations. Each region of Oaxaca showcases its unique heritage through these performances, from the vibrant dresses of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec to the feathered headdresses of the Mixtec dancers. The vivid colors and intricate designs of their costumes are mesmerizing, a testament to the rich cultural tapestry of our region. Often women dance and twirl with baskets of flowers or fruit on their head. 

As the sun sets, festivities take on a magical glow. Street vendors offer an array of delicious Oaxacan treats, from tlayudas to chapulines, and we indulge in these local delicacies while soaking in the festive atmosphere. A sense of community is overwhelming, as locals and visitors alike come together to celebrate and honor Oaxaca's heritage.

Driving back to San Pedro Ixtlahuaca, we felt a deep sense of satisfaction, joy and pride. Guelaguetza is more than just a festival; it is a celebration of life, culture, and unity. It reminds us of the beauty of our traditions and the importance of coming together as a community.

Every year, this journey reaffirms our love for Oaxaca and its vibrant culture. We return home with hearts full of memories, eagerly awaiting the next Guelaguetza and the joy it will undoubtedly bring.

I will be sharing more, as the main, big parades have not begun yet. 

And So We Are Home.

My heart ached for the land in Oaxaca as we said our goodbyes to return to the USA for a month. The dry season seemed to be hanging on forever. I have a deep relationship with the plants and earth around our home. They seemed alive only by a miracle. I should have faith by now in the ancient cycles.

When we returned a few days ago, I saw everything turned green, and the neighbor plowed his corn field. Little green corn shoots are coming up. The rains are here for our wet season.

The trip to Santa Fe started a little rocky. When we went to the airport, protestors had closed the road into and out of the area, essentially shutting down operations. We had to go back home and try again the next day. After considerable doubtfulness, we embarked on the same flight we were supposed to take the previous day. Our neighbor Mayolo graciously was our driver. 

For ten days Amy visited Minneapolis where her sister, two sons and her grandchildren live. Here in Mexico, she sometimes is sad that she is so far away from them. I saw my beloved daughter, Sarah, twice: for a hike in the mountains in Santa Fe, and visiting her in Albuquerque where she lives and works.

Home in Santa Fe I built 28 years ago. My ex-wife still lives there. 

We accomplished a main objective of our trip⏤to downsize our storage unit and somehow condense our already concentrated possessions to a smaller, less expensive holding unit. We wish we could keep historical and highly sentimental belongings and keep our loved books in a second home. But real estate prices in Santa Fe were one of the reasons we left in the first place. If anything, they are more inflated now.

Santa Fe Cathedral in the heart of the city.

Our trip home went smoothly. The route is Santa Fe to Dallas, a few hour layover, and directly on to Oaxaca. Just before boarding in Dallas, I heard somebody call Amy’s name over the loudspeaker. She did not hear it. I told her, yes, you are being called. I hoped the full flight was not an issue . . . but we were being bumped up to 1st class. And that is how we returned.

View from our roof, after a recent rain.

Mayolo, Marta and their granddaughter Frida picked us up in our car and brought us home. Our house sitter had taken excellent care of our property and two dogs. I had expected a rush of gladness and excitement when our Xolo dog Malli greeted us. But she actually barked and ran away afraid. Within minutes all was well and tails wagged furiously and with plenty of kisses.

And so we are home.