Testimony

Inspiration for painting art is as broad as the universe. Subjects are endless. Some artists choose to have no subject at all, but let colors and line speak and be interpreted entirely subjectively.

For several years I have made paintings that evoke the most difficult symbol: death. It is the subject behind life that nobody wants to look at. The shadow that lingers in the corners of our consciousness, and for most, the unwelcome guest at the banquet of life.

My most recent painting took great effort emotionally, psychically and on canvas. It came in response to the deluge of horrific information that comes on the newscasts every day, especially with various wars raging in the world. In the painting, death is the ultimate victor, while all the combatants and other actors are decimated.

I usually don’t try and describe symbolism in my paintings . . . but in this instance I will:

Two spectral central figures are toasting with goblets of red wine, oblivious to the chaos and destruction raging around them. They are dressed in black, symbolizing the void, absence of light, mystery, mourning and perhaps comfort. Enigmatically they hold goblets of wine. Red wine represents celebration, opulence, strength, passion, love: it is the blood of life. The glass goblets represent the fragility of the vessel which holds life. 

In art, a skeleton is often used as a symbol of death and mortality. The Latin phrase "Memento Mori" translates to "Remember that you will die," and it's a reminder of the inevitability of death.  One skeleton wears a crown of roses representing the fleeting nature of beauty and life. Here, death is happily taking life that disappears forever. 

In the background are burning cities. Mankind is at war and masses of people are caught in the conflagrations of violence and destruction. They flail helplessly against fate. On the left, a terrorist holding an automatic weapon stands beside death. Bewildered people crowd together, not knowing if they live or die. Fists with swords sweep through the air, while other arms and hands reach toward the sky in anguish. A stunned man gazes next to a death figure on the right. There is no place of safety.

In the midst of death, between the two skeletal figures is a child, looking up in bewilderment. Even children are being swept into the void of death.

The painting came as a response to current events. Our current world is in travail with countless threats to the fabric of existence. 

As an artist, I pictured it. For now, and forever as testimony.

Venetia

To be honest, the skeleton motif took me by surprise here in Mexico and then I stayed with it⏤creating about a dozen paintings so far. Certainly there are those who have followed and collected my artwork over the decades who are bewildered and perplexed by my departure from landscape painting. All I can say is this is Oaxaca, Mexico and I have been influenced and like it. People ask when I will go back to landscapes. I don’t know.

My latest is called Venice Vanitas. It shows that even in one of the most desirable places, Venice, Italy, amidst youth, luxury, pomp, élan, gaiety and romance, death is a commanding presence. 

Everyone is always aware of death on an unconscious level. It is omnipresent. We are born with our days numbered. A germ can take over the body and cause it to fail. Sudden accidents occur. People can even die of melancholy. In the 18th century, death certificates signed by the British clergy listed as many as 41 different causes of death, including 'suffocated by wet nurse or mother'. 

Not that we dwell on all this and live fearfully. That is perhaps why I am bringing death to the fore. As if to say, “I see you, and I am okay with you being always around.”

In the painting Venice Vanitas, a lovely young woman is enjoying a gondola ride on the grand canal. She holds red flowers, symbolizing life. A mask is nearby, symbolizing deception⏤life can be deceiving. The water is flowing life force; bringing us from birth to death and always onward. The bridge is passage from one world to the next. The skeleton gondoleer is death, determining when life will eventually end.

A story:

Once upon a time in Venice, there was a young woman named Venetia. She was known throughout the city for her beauty and her love of life. One sunny day, she decided to take a gondola ride on the grand canal, the main artery of Venice.

As she drifted along the canal, Venetia held in her hand a bouquet of red flowers, symbolizing the beauty and vitality of life. But nearby, a mask lay on the seat, a reminder that life can be deceiving, that appearances can be false.

The water flowed around her, a reminder of the life force that carries us all from birth through death. A bridge she passed often spanned the canal, a symbol of the progress from one world to the next, from the living to the dead.

Guiding the gondola stood the Grim Reaper, a reminder that death is always with us, determining when our time on earth will come to an end.

Despite the reminder of death, Venetia was not afraid. She knew that life was meant to be lived to the fullest, and she was determined to enjoy every moment of it. She smiled at the skeleton behind her, knowing that one day they would meet again, but for now, she was content to enjoy the beauty of Venice and the joy of being alive.

As the gondola glided along the canal, Venetia breathed in the salty sea air and felt the warmth of the sun on her face. She knew that life was fleeting, but she also knew that it was beautiful, and that she would always cherish the memories of this moment. And so she continued to smile, holding her bouquet of red flowers, enjoying the ride, and living her life to the fullest.

Summoned to a Reckoning

Vanitas, Noche Encantada, oil on linen, 30 x 40 inches (completed 12/25/2022)

In my recent painting, streaking comets represent the brevity of life. Clouds drifting past the half full moon indicate mystery, and how light of knowledge is obscured. The skeleton blowing the trumpet makes an announcement of death. Two other skeletons dance happily. They are dead and testify happiness exists in the next world too. The lone skeleton on the right is the observer representing reflection. The church setting is from where I live in Oaxaca, Mexico. It is the Santo Domingo church⏤centerpiece of the city. A church represents devotion, spirituality, the connection between earth and heaven.

Lastly, at the foot of the trumpet player, a dog, man’s loyal companion, is looking on with great attention. The breed is xoloitzcuintli. Amy and I have one. “According to Aztec belief, the Xoloitzcuintle dog, whose history dates 3,500 years, was created by Xolotl, god of death, to protect the living and guide the souls of the deceased through Mictlán, the underworld or the city of the dead. The most important function that the Xoloitzcuintles were believed to fulfill was to help the souls cross a deep and mighty river that crosses the Mictlán.” ⏤Mexico Daily Post (see an article for more about Xoloitzcuintles)

“O Son of Being! Bring thyself to account each day ere thou art summoned to a reckoning; for death, unheralded, shall come upon thee and thou shalt be called to give account for thy deeds.”  —The Hidden Words of Baha’u'llah”

Last night was New Years Eve. I walked out on our roof veranda just at midnight as the valley where our house in the village of San Pedro Ixtlahuaca shook with reverberations.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2023

A Way of Life

A painting that began 23 years ago has been completed. July 5, 1999 my oldest daughter died of cancer at the age of nineteen. Numerous times through the years I thought to do a symbolic painting expressing the grief inside and transition which occurred. And yet, something held me back. My life as an artist has been for the most part painting landscapes.  

Amy and I moved to Oaxaca, Mexico one year ago. For months I did not paint, mostly because we were settling into our home. When I began making art again, everything depicted figures from life down here. And then the “muerto” or death symbols, which are widely accepted in Mexico as themes for remembrance of the departed became a staple of my paintings. 

"Watermelon Man," oil on canvas, 24 x 28 inches

When I finished my painting of a skeleton man eating watermelon, I began gathering ideas for the next work. A mural downtown caught my eye. It included a crowd of people, with a man carrying somebody on his back. That gave me an idea to have death carrying someone.

I researched for pictures of a grown person carrying a child. 

When I began my painting, I quickly realized it was autobiographical. 

To begin, it brought up strong emotions of darkness and grief. My artist wife Amy had trouble painting in our studio with my dark artwork next to her. The war in Ukraine had begun and so had the period of Bahaí fasting we observe. Nineteen days of no food or water from sunrise to sunset. This is my last year⏤after having practiced the annual event fifty years⏤those over 70 are not bound by it. I have dedicated my efforts to the people of Ukraine.

I am pleased to have made another “memento mori” work. It reminds us of the ever presence of death and its inevitability. Down here in Mexico it is a way of life. 

Inside Your Darkest Everything

It started a couple of years ago when I made an oil painting of a young Frida Kahlo,_(Mexican,-6 July 1907 – 13 July 1954)with a skeleton whispering in her ear and wrapping his arm around her shoulder. I copied her own self-portrait⏤her first of many, then added a skeleton and a quote of hers: “I want to be inside your darkest everything.” I have tried my hand at painting skeletons and find that I like it. 

Amy and I have lived in our home in Oaxaca, Mexico going on one year. There are many festivities during the year, but undoubtedly the biggest, most famous, is Dia de Muertos, or Day of the Dead, that occurs at the beginning of February. Significantly it is time for prayer and remembrance of friends and family members who have died. Its universally observed in Mexico, but also regions with large Mexican populations. In Oaxaca, skeletons and skulls are widely depicted as emblems of death and afterlife, and can be seen year around on walls.

This past year, as Dia de Muertos approached, I had an idea for a painting with skulls. With a bit of trepidation I began work on it. After overcoming some negative emotions, I continued until it was finished. Standing back, I liked it very much and determined not to sell it. It is called "Memento Mori", meaning an object serving as a warning or reminder of death, such as a skull.

My neighbor Mayolo stepped into the picture when he made a fantastic tin frame for me, complete with skulls, crossbones and roses. 

Recently Mayolo made another masterpiece frame for my next muerto painting. It has sculptures and engravings⏤ with incredible filigree work in tin. At the top are two miniature violins with exquisite detail.

It seems I am in a process of making a series of muerto paintings.

The one to the left is my latest and almost finished. Many ideas come to me. 

Twenty one years ago my daughter died of cancer. It has taken me this long to make a painting that includes death as protagonist.

A Shooting Star

 

The mid wife looked up at me from where my newborn child lay and asked, “Do you want to cut the cord?” It was a special moment in the living room of our little house. The doctor stood nearby and my tired but happy wife lay on her back with the baby on her stomach.

Doctor, at birth of Naomi

Morning light streamed in the bank of windows nearby. I took the scissors offered me and cut the cord—separating mother and child. About a foot of cord stayed attached to my daughter’s navel. I hardly could take my eyes off her, marveling at her perfection. The day: January 11, 1980. 

Newborn

Tomorrow would be her 41st birthday. Naomi died when she was but nineteen.

There are countless mysteries in life, and most of them will not be unravelled. I will have many questions when I cross over to the other side to reunite with Naomi and my ancestors. Then, as I stand in the light of truth and divine love, understanding will be given.

Colored pencil drawing Naomi made hours after learning of her cancer

One mystery that haunts me is the dream I had when Naomi was 12. I woke up with a feeling of extreme sadness and dread and then wrote the details down. It was a marvelous dream in all respect—full of awesome symbols of power and beauty—yet in the end the death of a child occurred. I could not understand its importance and even went to a psychologist to unravel the meaning. I made a painting using its images. Then, when Naomi was diagnosed with terminal cancer at age 17, I thought about the dream again. 

I will carry this mystery with me until the end of my days.

In the dream, which occurs at dusk, after witnessing an amazing flock of birds fly by, I ask for a sign and it is given immediately—a shooting star racing through the evening atmosphere, fiery, fast and bright—just above barren winter tree tops. More events unfold, before the sudden surprise ending that left me gasping when I awoke.

And so too, Naomi’s life was short and bright, for especially in the two years of her struggle at the end, she incandescently shed light as her life burned up. 

I am filled with a wonderful sense of happiness. It is an indescribable sense of utmost freedom and joy. When I am in touch with it I just think, Oh, God, thank you for this beautiful body and life. I have learned how to use THANK YOU throughout everything.
  —Naomi, age 18

The book I wrote about Naomi is available in print and digital edition: A Heart Traced In Sand

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

A Letter To Your Future Self

Have you ever written a letter to your future self? Then sealed it and put a date on it—not to be opened until then?

Lately I have been preparing my book, A Heart Traced In Sand, Reflections on a Daughter's Struggle for Life, in order for it to be available as an ebook. The ebook will have easy links that will go to web pages containing images from Naomi’s journals, her affirmation pages, photos of her life etc. The black and white illustrations in the original will be viewable in color.

I have been going through photo albums, journals, mementos, her Make-A-Wish chronicles . . . gathering pictures and words. It has been poignant to say the least, even though I have previously seen most of the material. `

Tucked away in a photo album, I came across a small monogrammed envelope. It said, open in 0002. It is now 2020. I opened it, dated 5-5-1996. Then it says: I am 16. 

From the first sentence of this note written 26 years ago, I knew Naomi had written to her future self. She died three years later from cancer with the unopened envelope tucked away among her treasured photos.

Here are her words:

Fists Against The Wall

Last weekend was the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, the notorious German concentration camp in Poland where in just two years over 1 million innocent people were put to death: men, women and children. The anniversary comes and goes each year and there are memorial events at the former killing grounds that attract fewer and fewer survivors and many visitors. For some reason, this year I began reviewing more about what happened. In high school, during a period when I read dense and important world literature, I also read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, by William Shirer, (1245 pages). It is mostly forgotten in my mind after 50 years. 

Amy saw that I was studying and getting emotional about what had happened. She pulled a book off of her bookshelf, a small hardback. Saying nothing, she put it on my dresser. Within a day I had begun reading Night, by Elie Wiesel (September 30, 1928 – July 2, 2016). "In Night," Wiesel said, "I wanted to show the end, the finality of the event. Everything came to an end—man, history, literature, religion, God. There was nothing left. And yet we begin again with night.” ( In the above picture, he is in the second row, seventh from left.)

Simultaneously I looked online at pictures of the holocaust and the Nazi perpetrators. Photos of mothers and children being herded off boxcars to take them to the gas chambers, of skeletal forced laborers in horrid conditions, of despicable ghettos imprisoning isolated Jewish populations before being wiped out. I found myself getting angry and researching what became of the Nazi commanders, then seeing them hanged and thinking, “It serves you right.”

A page from Naomi's journal

“Auschwitz is outside of us, but it is all around us, in the air. The plague has died away, but the infection still lingers and it would be foolish to deny it. Rejection of human solidarity, obtuse and cynical indifference to the suffering of others, abdication of the intellect and of moral sense to the principle of authority, and above all, at the root of everything, a sweeping tide of cowardice, a colossal cowardice which masks itself as warring virtue, love of country and faith in an idea.” 

― Primo Levi, (Italian, 31 July 1919 – 11 April 1987)  Auschwitz survivor

I grew up in a non-religious household. No mention was made of God or religion. My father worked hard as a social engineer, alongside Robert Kennedy and Sergeant Shriver. HIs time was spent constructing solutions to injustice and implementing them. Once when a teen-ager and I had recently found God, he quoted Karl Marx to me: “Religion is the opiate of the masses.” I took exception, noting all the good that has come from Christian charity and the spread of principles of equality and love.

At nineteen I became a Baha’i, a religion teaching the essential worth of all religions, and the unity and equality of all people. Established by Baháʼu'lláh , (Persian, November 12, 1817 – May 29, 1892) in 1863, it initially grew in Persia and parts of the Middle East, where it has faced ongoing persecution since its inception. 

A beloved Baha’i prayer by Abdul-Baha, the son of Baha’u’llah includes the exhortation, “I will not dwell on the unpleasant things of life, nor will I let trouble harass me .” But what if life itself is cataclysmic without hope? What if there is no pleasantness to enjoy? 

Certainly there were those in the concentration camps who had seen their loved ones marched to the gas chambers, had felt the sting of smoke in their eyes from the furnaces incinerating bodies, and lived without hope in wretched unthinkable existence. Some, like Job’s wife might have thought “Curse God and die!” They are forgiven. Wiesel himself, after surviving the death camp spoke in an interview: “Some people who read my first book, Night, they were convinced that I broke with the faith and broke with God. Not at all. I never divorced God. It is because I believed in God that I was angry at God, and still am. The tragedy of the believer, it is deeper than the tragedy of the non-believer.” (See https://onbeing.org/programs/elie-wiesel-the-tragedy-of-the-believer/ )

When my beloved daughter Naomi fell victim to cancer at seventeen, I had to watch her endure her own holocaust. Dreadful pain spread itself in her body. Doctors said she had little chance to live and she began torturous chemotherapy treatments, locked away from the world at large. Many times, during my own “dark night of the soul,” I found myself thinking, beseeching, how could a loving God allow this? Alone, I beat my fists against the wall and wailed. 

Naomi had to meet her own point of no return. Many times in fact. Did she not wonder perhaps if God had forgotten her? She once said, “I hope not to die a slow, painful death.” But that is exactly what God had in store for her. That was her fate. She fought hard for life, weeding out any semblance of negative thinking that might interfere with her healing. Yet the slow, inexorable death march toward the gas chamber continued. At one point, exhausted, she sought to take her life and be done with it. Like in the Jimi Hendrix song, Castles Made of Sand, where he sings: 

There was a young girl, whose heart was a frown,

'Cause she was crippled for life, and she couldn't speak a sound

And she wished and prayed she could stop living,

So she decided to die

She drew her wheel chair to the edge of the shore, and to her legs she smiled

"You won't hurt me no more"

But then a sight she'd never seen made her jump and say

"Look, a golden winged ship is passing my way"

And it really didn't have to stop, it just kept on going.

And so castles made of sand

Slips into the sea, eventually . . .

One fateful evening in Santa Barbara, California, Naomi swallowed pills, arrived to a lonely beach and walked into the Pacific Ocean to drown. She was saved when she saw a stranger walking and her conscience would not allow her to take her life in front of an innocent person.

She went on to live another seven months before dying at home with peace in her heart. Just before, she had a dream of being on a blissful cruise. In feeble handwriting she managed to write it down on a scrap of paper.

A number of times during the ordeal I found myself down on knees praying fervently for help. I could see the innocents being herded toward the ovens, clutching their little ones and asked, “Please help.” Several times the veils parted and to my surprise I saw angels, in complete tranquility, smiling. Over in a flash, I thought, “but how could you be smiling?” 

After Naomi died, we bathed and dressed her in her bed and put a ring on her finger. It is part of the Baha’i ceremony for the deceased. The ring says: “I came forth from God, and return unto Him, detached from all save Him, holding fast to His Name, the Merciful, the Compassionate”. 

And this is my belief, that this life is a sort of veil and it is lifted when we die.

For those millions who died during the holocaust, the experience was inscrutable. 

Death reaches us all. Some are born and live but a few moments, others longer, but in eternity, this life is but a blink of the eye for everyone.

On that glad night,

in secret, for no one saw me,


nor did I look at anything,


with no other light or guide


than the one that burned in my heart.

This guided me


more surely than the light of noon


to where he was awaiting me


— him I knew so well —


there in a place where no one appeared. 

Excerpt:

ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS, 16th Century

The Dark Night of the Soul

White Rabbit

 

At 86 years old, Polly's energy arrived in short bursts and then would fly away like a bird that longed to break free from an old cage. It would come back but fly away again. Her habit was to take lunch at noon, then promptly go nap. In sleep or in visions as she lay on her bed in the afternoons, vivid wonders came regularly—vanquishing the thinnest of veils between worlds.

She had lost her dear husband years ago, and resided alone. Her son lived a thousand miles away. A few close friends visited regularly, bringing her books to read, and sometimes playing a game of cards. Recently in her dreams at night, and regularly in reverie as she rested in the afternoons, a lively and animated little vision would occur. The same four characters would arrive: a white rabbit, an angelic girl dressed in white, and two ballet dancers—male and female. Usually the rabbit appeared first, then the child angel with the dancers.

When Polly was six years old her parents brought a white rabbit home for their daughter, and her father made a cage where it lived in the backyard. It ate greens and carrots and was content, especially when allowed out to hop around the yard. Polly loved to stroke its long ears and feel its twitching nose on her tender fingers. It was so long ago! Whatever happened to it? She could not remember. 

Her mother was an ardent lover of ballet and often booked seats whenever a ballet group came to town. Polly had many fantastic youthful memories of blissful nights seated next to her mother and father, watching famous dance companies. She had seen some of the greats perform; including Rudolf Nureyev and Nadia Nerina. Now, the pas de deux ballet memories came through the mist like whirling dervishes arriving from afar to entrance her mind and lift her heart. 

A tragedy had occurred in her home when Polly was just thirteen. Her best friend visited after school. The two were playing jacks on the hardwood living room floor. Polly got up to get a glass of water and when she came back her friend was choking. Mother was summoned as the girl was turning blue in the face and not able to breathe. Frantically, mouth to mouth resuscitation was attempted but the child expired. Minutes later, the girls father rushed through the front door and gave out a wail of grief seeing his lifeless daughter in Polly's mother's arms. An autopsy revealed that the poor girl had one of the jacks lodged in her windpipe. For many years afterward at random moments of work or play, Polly sometimes fleetingly glimpsed her friend—as if she was not gone at all, but just transparent.

The foliage on the trees outside the living room window were changing colors. The days became shorter and the air chilled. Polly felt a tinge of remorse anticipating the cold coming. One day, she sat in her rocking chair, gazing for hours at the leaves falling, before suddenly getting up.  She went to the refrigerator and pulled out a pot of soup and heated it for lunch. She ate slowly, put the dishes in the sink and feeling tired, went to her bedroom. Outside, the sky was overcast, with bits of sunlight puncturing the clouds. Kicking off her slippers, she laid down in bed and felt her energy gather like a bird and fly out the window. She followed it. It flew and careened past the trees to a field not far away that was bordered by woods. Suddenly on her feet at the edge of a meadow, something white caught her eye. Rabbit stood at attention, one eye cocked toward her, watching, ears standing straight up. With a little hop, he was in the woods. Suddenly, by Polly's side the girl angel appeared and took her hand, pulling her to follow the rabbit. A path became apparent. Rabbit ran ahead. Polly heard footsteps and holding to the angels hand, she looked back to see two dancers, man and woman, in ballet costume coming up fast behind them. Rabbit hopped to the right. Everyone followed and entered a tunnel of earth and vines. It became dark but smelled wonderful. Polly squeezed tight the child-angels's hand who squeezed back and in a second, the darkness gave way to light as they entered a plush theater. Light dazzled from spectacular chandeliers hanging above. Rabbit disappeared. 

The dancers bounded past. An orchestra was tuning and a ballet company waited onstage for the arrival of the two celebrated dancers. Finely dressed people were arriving. The child-angel leaned softly and whispered in Polly's ear, “Look down there darling!” She gestured toward the front row. A lovely couple seated in the middle turned, and beaming with smiles beckoned to Polly. Her parents had an empty seat next to them and waved excitedly for Polly to come join them. Suddenly, Polly's energy came back to her, as if she was not 86 years old but 16. Joyfully she rushed down the aisle to join them. 

Nora, 80, Polly's neighbor, knocked but got no answer. The morning paper was at the doorstep and it was almost noon. She took the extra key Polly had given her and unlocked the door. “Polly, are you all right?” The home was silent. Nora went to the bedroom and opened the door. Polly's hands were folded on her chest and she lay with closed eyes, not breathing. Nora walked to her side and looked close. Polly seemed to be smiling but she was certainly dead. Nora peered tenderly at her friend. "OH! You rascal!” was all she could say.

© 2016 Steven Boone ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

When Summer Passes Away

A girl paddling on Lake Dal, Kashmir, India

During my daughter Naomi's eighteenth year, death was encroaching upon her so forcefully that she despaired thinking of her future. She wrote in her journal that she wanted to do volunteer work, but had a superstition that she would die when her work was accomplished. 

Naomi sensed her life was drastically condensed—shortened by her cancer. Nagging suspicions plagued her and she hated them. Death continually whispered into her ear, “Darling, you're life is ending! You only have weeks and months to live, not years and decades.” She found herself wary of accomplishing goals because her purpose would be fulfilled and life would abruptly end.

This is how death, when it touches us—not as an abstract thought but as an dominating force, can play with the mind.

Death signifies ending. When summer passes away, plant life goes dormant. When a bird dies, its song ends and it falls to earth. Nations and people expire, species go extinct; even great powers like stars in heaven die. Once the purpose for life has been realized, death is sure to come. 

Is anything eternal? Does anything exist that does not die? For this we must go beyond the material worlds. We must touch God, the Uncreated Creator of All. His unborn, undying Spirit inhabits and informs the spiritual realm. What lives there by His grace and love is preserved from decay and death. Naomi knew this and wrote, “I want God to know that my life is in His hands and I know this. If He decides it is my time to leave, well then that is His choice. What I want God to know is that I truly love this earth.”

Naomi Boone, 1/11/1980 - 7/5/1999

Be thou watchful, and strengthen the things which remain, that are ready to die; for I have not found thy works perfect before god. The Bible, Reveleation 3:2

To read my book about Naomi, go to: A Heart Traced In Sand

All Things Will Pass

Backyard of my parents former home, Santa Barbara, California

There is so much that I want to give you. You know Steven, when you turn to God, you find riches beyond measure. All things will pass, even earth and heaven, but God is forever. This is a message I received when my mother's spirit visited me today at her former home in Santa Barbara, California. 

I arrived here to gather with siblings as we sell off the remnants of my parent's estate before selling the house. I see so many familiar objects; tableware, furniture, books, kitchenware, clothing, tools, and hundreds of healthy potted plants around the housed . . . I am reminded of my parents lives. 

People lined up early to burst through the gate at 9 AM and begin sifting through things, gathering armfuls. With glee they collect for a fraction of the original cost or value. The house is emptying. Tomorrow it will be over and what is left will be donated. The money collected will go toward fixing the house to sell.

My father died a couple years ago. He was not a materialist and took after his hero, Mahatma Gandhi of India, who cared not for riches but was passionate about social justice. He left little in the way of things, but bequeathed a grand legacy of a lifetime of activism on behalf of poor and oppressed people. (See a tribute).

My mother died some months ago. She was highly intellectual, wrote, made art, and loved to garden until she became too feeble. Her great pleasure was nature. So it made me happy to see the joy in people as they bought almost all of her beautiful plants, still bursting with life and happily thriving in decorated pots. 

I had the thought that eventually we all end up in graves and our things are passed on or discarded. What we take with us is what we have accomplished in our life and our soul. Nothing else.

A Gift

It feels as though I am on auto pilot; that is, going forward but not driving. I am surprised that nothing particularly excites me and I am not impelled by strong inner urges. As if I am in hibernation and though winter is ending, a sign hangs outside my den that says, “do not disturb.” I wonder at the reasons, which are many, and because I feel uncomfortable in what seems to be a malaise of sorrow, I try and “heal”.

Without inspiration, I wait. I fear I am losing time doing nothing. Yet, I have always resisted dogmatic action, so perhaps a gift is being given to me—even though I feel it is a plague.


All this points to transformation. Thankfully, being an artist and philosopher, I know a bigger hand is active in creating my life. Every great work of art includes shadow. Novels and paintings both need dark elements to play against the light.

Everything Is Part Of Everything

Life cannot be held, only experienced. To try and hold it is when we realize it is but a dream. When we believe we are in possession of something, in fact, this is illusion too, for nothing can truly be possessed, everything is part of everything else and is continually transforming and subject to external forces beyond personality.

When I lost my eldest daughter at age nineteen, after watching her suffer for two years while receiving the most skilled treatments and care, is when I truly became detached from holding on to anything of this world. Nobody can hold on to their most precious possession—their mortal frame, and I saw how much she loved hers and tried to keep it.

Certainly since her passing, from her vantage point of pure spirit in divine love within illimitable space, she has guided me to experience the world fully without fear, knowing it is a dream unfolding.

The traveling I am doing is full of dream sequences, beginning this year in September, living in Venice, Italy. My apartment was above a little stone bridge that spanned a canal that gondolas passed beneath each day. Nearby was a campo over a thousand years old. I like to paint, take photographs and write each day. After six weeks in Venice, THE DREAM took me to Cinqueterra on the Mediterranean coast, with its five magical villages hugging the steep, rocky shore, almost falling into the sea. From there, Florence, the birthplace of the Renaissance and high art, where my apartment sat steps away from Michelangelo’s marble sculpture masterpiece, David. Each day, the DREAM wind blew me through the fabled streets, until one day it took me to Rome—the eternal city where it is said all roads lead. I have been there many times before and it reawakened an awe of human ingenuity and achievement, with its vast architectural wonders from the time of empire. I heard through the ages the echo of horses hooves as they pulled gladiator carts, and listened to stringed instruments play in markets bustling with commerce just outside marbled churches filled with masterpieces of art. In Rome I relished a stunning art exhibition by a contemporary artist who filled me with inspiration to carry into my own work.

From Rome, into the sky again to land six hours later in New Delhi, India and then to arrive in Varanasi, one of the oldest living cities on earth. Cows roam the streets amid the crush of people, with bodies arriving every day from all parts of the globe to be burned on cremation pyres that are always blazing. The ashes thrown into the sacred Ganges River mean that salvation is assured for the believers. I floated on the Ganges in a boat to watch candles lit and placed in baskets to drift on the water, and experienced the thunder of explosions marking the Diwali Festival. THE DREAM introduced bacteria into my body and intestinal illness, as it happened before when I visited India. I continued painting, but spent more time with photography, taking some powerful images, especially with an American friend who modeled in flowing cloth on temple steps overlooking the Ganges.

Almost in a daze of altered perception, a train ride of twenty hours brought me to the heart of the continent, to Pushkar, the home of the only Brahma temple in India, where I arrived at the beginning of a famous once yearly festival. Thousands of camels were brought there to be traded and sold, with gorgeous horses, tents, festivities and excitement. THE DREAM introduced a young boy to my side one morning to take me to his family who live in tents on a hilltop. The man is a maker of folk instruments, and he and his wife sang and made music for me. We become friends, and THE DREAM brought money to them through one my friends on Facebook who took compassion on their difficult life of extreme poverty.
I am in other worlds, and far from the events of America and other places where news of violence and political intrigue comes to me in bits and pieces.

Now I am in northern Thailand, and do not see camels but plenty of monks in flowing saffron robes amid ornate Buddhist temples with soaring spires above intricate gabled roofs and dragons guarding the doors. My stomach ailments have mostly gone away, and each day is exploration, photography, and either painting or writing. THE DREAM has brought me together after seven years with Thai friends from the past. Our lives are woven in DREAM.

As THE DREAM continues unfolding, I wonder where it goes and where it leads. Soon it will lead to Cambodia but after that, I do not have a clear picture of what lays ahead. Perhaps the misty mountaintop needs time for the the wind to blow away the shrouding haze—and reveal itself entirely in glory.