Angels and Ants

 I thought about ants. They work so hard and industriously, making kingdoms on earth. In New Mexico, USA they seemed innocent enough, even noble, crawling busily over the high desert floor. At the time, I had traveled much and made art for over thirty years. Deep down I felt like stopping everything to simply become an observer. Watch ants work every day. Meditate.

Almost two decades ago, after my oldest daughter died, a poem came to me and included ants as a metaphor for elemental spirits of the world:

Angels and Ants

My pen tries to speak,

but the language it has learned 

is too sublime

for mere scratchings.

You taught me a new tongue—

the expressions of angels.

Alas, an ocean is between us 

which cannot be passed.

Wandering alone in a daze

I am left with the ants 

traveling over the dust of this world.

Amy and I have been living in Oaxaca, Mexico now for almost a year. For the first time in my life my home is in a place without winter. We grow flowers year around. The nearby plant nursery always welcomes us with myriad colors, exotic trees and shrubs and prices a fraction of what we would pay in the USA. Blooming rose shrubs cost 1.50 USD. Our eyes are dazzled and we make sure to smell them, to be certain of fragrance. 

Destroyed jasmine plants

I planted seven roses, caring for them, watching them slowly take hold and grow new leaves. Suddenly they were almost wiped out. By ants. Not just the roses, but many other of our trees, vegetables, and shrubs were being decimated. The jasmine plants in pots by our back door were denuded. By day I could not see much activity, but at night, by flashlight I saw legions of ants in long lines carrying cut leaves to their holes in the ground. 

The old lady, matriarch of the family who owns the nursery, when asked what could be done about ants, looked us steady in the eye and said, “kill them”.

I dug up my roses and put them in pots, then took them to my roof patio where they have revived and are producing marvelous blooms. Meanwhile, sadly I have had to declare war on the ants.

I have had to ask, plants or ants? 

Phoenix Rising

 Lluvia is the Spanish word for rain. Now that the wet season has come to Oaxaca, the rain falls most days—and it is sweet. The dry, brown landscape so brittle, hears the thunder and opens its arms to embrace the downpour. The earth has softened and breathed again, changing from brown to green.

    

Typically, the rain arrives with the clouds that roll in during late afternoon and evening. Temperatures are cooler, and water cleanses all it touches. I like it. The sun always come out again but the earth is rejuvenated and never gets bone dry. Plants that I thought were dead are showing verdure and unique beauty. It is like a phoenix rising from ashes.

THE PHOENIX

By Hafiz

My phoenix long ago secured 

   His nest in sky-vault's cope; 

In the body's cage immured, 

   He is weary of life's hope. 

Round and round this heap of ashes 

   Now flies the bird amain, 

But in that odorous niche of heaven 

   Nestles the bird again. 

Once flies he upward, he will perch 

   On Tuba's golden bough: 

His home is on that fruited arch 

   Which cools the blest below. 

If over this world of ours 

   His wings my phoenix spread, 

How gracious falls on land and sea 

   The soul-refreshing shade! 

Either world inhabits he, 

   Sees oft below him planets roll; 

His body is all of air compact, 

   Of Allah's love his soul.

Plants Communicate

Our little garden is teaching me. It talks and I listen and hear. Plants communicate.

For years I cultivated the earth where I lived. Then, after the death of my oldest daughter, Naomi, I lost interest in many things, divorced, and began years of traveling alone. I did not feel attached to places or things. 

Now, only in the last two years have I begun gardening again—albeit on a small scale. Amy and I share the enjoyment.

The goal in gardening is to bring a plant to fruition. That may be for flowers, vegetables or fruit. Some public gardens are decorative, with full time staff and entry fees, others are on family farms. 

I have begun longing for a life where most of my time is spent communing with nature. Cultivating, listening, then responding appropriately.

Unless native and wild, plants need tender care from beginning to end. The soil must be fertile and able to hold moisture and convey nutrients to the roots that feed the stems, shoots and leaves. Proper light is necessary for photosynthesis. Too much sunlight and heat can damage some plants. A gardener has to watch carefully . . . the plants show what they need by the way they grow. 

Pumpkin growing on a vine

People need similar loving care from beginning to end. 

Like plants, people need from the beginning shelter from storm and drought, loving nutrients to the roots, appropriate sunlight of guidance and education, space and training . . . states of being that promote growth and fruition. Contrast that to conditions too often seen in our world of humanity; barren circumstances, neglect, no “sunlight”, pests and attackers. 

Our problems are mostly of our own making. 

Lettuce and spinach under shade tent

When will our society become the beautiful garden it is meant to be?

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

Plans for the Future

It was an intangible experience when my oldest daughter Naomi, who left this world twenty years ago, came to me while I was resting to give me the encouraging message that my youngest daughter and only surviving child, Sarah, would recover from the coronavirus. 

Although I heard no words in my ear and did not see a doctor’s report, my deepest self knew what I was being told was as true as could be. Six days later Sarah texted me that she had recovered. This is the finest springtime gift I can imagine. 

A few days ago, I wore shorts and went outdoors barefoot for the first time since last autumn. One of my happiest delights is getting my hands in the earth and coming up with wriggling worms. Years ago, I traded one of my paintings for a barrel of worms that was delivered to my home so that I could have the best compost for my garden. 

The seedlings I put in the ground a month ago are coming up as plants. Here in the high desert of Santa Fe, the earth usually is rocky so it has to be amended. The worms make the best  compost from vegetable scraps we throw into a pit.

We have some flower pots with blooming plants that have only begun flourishing. Our lilac shrubs have begun perfuming the air at our back door.

The other incredible sight is seeing the seedlings of elm trees falling through the air. It can be like a snow storm—blanketing the earth. 

Nature always plans for the future.

My Whole Life

 

Golden Path, oil on linen, 24x18 inches 

"How long did it take you to paint that?" I have heard this question many times from people as they stand next to me gazing at one of my paintings. It happened again today at an art festival in Denver, Colorado. Two young women were in my booth looking at the paintings. Pointing to a piece, one asked the question.

Years ago, I would recoil and think that since the price is apparent, I would be telling how much I make per hour, which might seem like alot if taken by itself. But what about all the failed attempts, the schooling and experimentation, the hours of promotion and gallery work, etc.? So much more is behind the scenes that is included in the price.

After more thinking about what really is in each painting, I began responding, "It took me my whole life to paint it." And it is true. I find that when people hear this, they have a glimmer of recognition, and after a brief shock, enjoy the answer. "Why yes, of course," I hear them reply with satisfaction.

For more art: Steven Boone

A Thousand Words

Along the way in writing a blog each week, while creating 407 postings, there have been days when no subject readily arrived in my mind. This problem doesn't occur while traveling in new lands amid exotic adventures; then, it is easy to find conversation. But I am not always on the go in this fashion.

This morning I arrived at my art gallery early, planning to write something, but without a clue. The ground is moist from an evening shower, the air is fragrant, and the sun shines through the morning clouds on a beautiful spring day. I turned my back on work and walked, noticing fresh leaves budding forth, and the flowers that are celebrating a new season of generation. It is enough this morning to simply share some pictures. After all, one picture is worth a thousand words.

 

 

Delirium

All it takes is one look to cause brief delirium. I am talking about tulips, and the effect they have on an innocent eye. Okay, maybe I am too sensitive, especially since I am an artist and get easily intoxicated by color. But tulips have that WOW factor.

I was driving somewhere the other day and while rounding a bend in the road, a mass of tulips stood bright and gay in the traffic median and captured my attention. Just two weeks ago the area was bare, and I thought, how did they know to bloom? Flowers hold intelligence in their essence. The tulips bloomed in unison, not haphazardly.

I wonder how anyone disbelieves in God. Intelligence is everywhere and our minds are constantly busy deciphering it. We are continually dumbfounded by our surroundings, and only little by little unravel the mysteries to get at truth and discover the verities. In short, everything that exists has been created with intelligence. And when we consider the infinite vastness of space, as well as turning inward to see intelligence inside atoms, it is enough to make a being fall to his knees and bow his head before The One Who Is The Supreme Creator. (Also see my earlier blog: A Marvel)

While I was traveling in Europe, in Venice, Italy, I met a French woman and we became great friends. She is a professor of art and I am an artist, so despite some language barriers, we hit it off. I went to visit her in France, and then she came to Spain to visit me while I lived there. She is an intellectual and has written books about art. Her mind is keen and loves to engage in philosophy and psychology. While I believe in God, she is an avowed atheist and said that man creates God because man needs something to believe in. One morning when we were together, I spoke aloud and gave thanks for the beautiful day. She said, “Steven, you must thank yourself. You give the day to yourself.” I chuckled and then felt slightly inflamed. “How can you say that?” I retorted. “I did not create the sun that shines upon the earth. And I have not created the day in which I participate as witness and small actor on the stage.”

Baha’u’llah, speaking as the tongue of God said:

O CHILDREN OF THE DIVINE AND INVISIBLE ESSENCE!
Ye shall be hindered from loving Me and souls shall be perturbed as they make mention of Me. For minds cannot grasp Me nor hearts contain Me.



In five days I leave for Paris, France and my French friend said she will come see me. My dear "Heidi of the Mountains" said she must come too because she has to be near me and can't stand a whole month apart. After five days in Paris, we go to Morocco. Heidi stays until May 13 and I continue for another two weeks, going on to Barcelona, Spain, and then back home to Santa Fe.

A Dazzling Celebration

Lately, when I wake in the morning, often I feel like I need help facing the day, so I say a prayer for assistance. Then, more often than not, little struggles ensue throughout the sunlight hours. It is not physical, since I almost never fall sick and I am in good health. But emotionally, when I face tasks, I am soon encumbered by disinterest. I wonder if I have been spoiled by my year of living dangerously, trekking with abandon across the globe on adventure after adventure. Also, the USA is not the same as when I left, and I feel life is collapsed inward. The economy is in shambles . . . and I have no income, so to speak. I am considering selling my possessions again, and moving to Asia, where I have friends and I can live for a fraction of the cost I am faced with now.
This morning I took a walk and flowers are in bloom everywhere. Flowers struggle too! First they must emerge from their dark, hard surroundings underground in their shell. Then they need sunlight, water and nutrients to feed their roots. They must not be stepped on or crushed. They are on a mission to grow to their full potential and create the flowers that make seeds that insure the survival of the species. They struggle against elemental opposition and when they succeed and bloom, a dazzling celebration ensues.
So too, must we as human beings, struggle against everything that would keep us from blooming, so that we may reach our potential and display to the world our own accomplishment of intelligence, talent, and virtue. The difference for us is that we can have a long life of blooming, and human blooming can occur under almost any circumstance. Sometimes, nobility is most pronounced under cruel circumstances. I think of my precious Naomi, when she was in pain and slowly dying. It drove me crazy with distress too watch, and although it was not my custom, sometimes I would leave her for a few moments and smoke a cigarette to relax and distract myself. I prayed all the time for her healing, but conditions worsened. Anyway, once, when I returned to Naomi’s side, she knew I had gone out to smoke, and she gently chided me, saying, “Dad, if you are anxious, just pray. We are stronger when we are happy.” In moments like those, I knew Naomi was so much more than her withering body . . . she was blooming like the fairest rose and nothing would fade its magnificent splendor.