Living Between Two Worlds

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

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

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

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

My daughter Sarah and I

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

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

Stream in the Rio Grande Gorge, New Mexico

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

Amy with neighbor kids

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

Two Doves

 

We all knew it was a message of love coming from heaven above. A once in a lifetime display never to be seen again. It’s been nineteen years since it happened but is still mentioned and makes me think how SPIRIT can use all creation to communicate to humans. Moreover, beings in the next world can give us physical signs that write indelible language upon our souls.

Someone recently read my memoir of my daughter Naomi called, A Heart Traced In Sand, Reflections On A Daughter’s Struggle For Life, and he mentioned the event. The story concludes the book. It demonstrates how life is interwoven through many realms; visible and invisible.

Naomi died of cancer in 1999 at age nineteen after a heroic battle to stay in the world she loved. One year later a group of devoted friends gathered at our home to remember her life. A woman who had been Naomi’s teacher brought materials to make a cord that we all could hold. Small pouches holding sacred objects like rose petals and each person’s note to Naomi were tied to the cord. We all went outside to a lawn and garden then stood together in a circle holding the cord and our prayer bags. One by one we read our remembrance and prayer. The sky had been cloudy and now it rained lightly in a mist. This was unusual because we had been in a drought. A dazzling rainbow appeared beside us. When the last person had read, we all stood together in unity. Suddenly two doves appeared directly above our circle, hovered for a second then dove spiraling downward so closely that their wings almost touched. Down they flew with rapidly beating wings and in perfect precision flew upward again, only to spiral down in place and rise again. The beating wings and precision of their spirals was joyous. It was apparent they came to bring a message of love to us. Then they flew away. One young person burst out, exclaiming, “I hope she keeps sending us messages like that, letting us know everything is okay!”

A Thousand Candles

 

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Edleah and Hagag. 2017

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

Women, on bread baking day.

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

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

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

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

Looking Into A Face

What is more magical than looking into a face? A sunrise has its charms, as does the flaming spectacle at the end of day. Changing clouds, dark forests, mossy rock and gurgling brook all entice. Microscopic life viewed under microscopes and galaxies seen through telescopes put us in awe. But none of these express as much as a human face.

A face is a poem, a book, a treatise. It speaks every language and conveys in every language. It dances, groans, howls, cries, kisses, laughs . . . it is sympathetic or remote, suspicious or loving.

We can tell the passage of time in a face. Yet eyes do not age . . . they retain their features.

In my photographic pursuits I am attracted to making images that capture faces. Wherever I am in the world I look for the human face to tell its story.

The desert or mountain is splendid, as are the cities and villages, but it is a face that goes with the location that is most expressive.

God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.  —William Shakespeare

The Whole Picture

Self-Portrait, Berlin 2008. Oil on linen, 24x18 inches.

Lately, I have spent time meditating on my life. It is amazing that our minds hold so much information . . . and we are only able to access bits of it through memory. Why do some episodes stand out more clearly than others? I am depending on long-term memory when I look back at the beginning of my life. The complexity is unfathomable. I imagine that every smell, touch, sound or even ray of light is encoded in my brain, yet I only access a fraction. Before I learned language, I was gathering information from my mother and father and surroundings. Has this formed me into who I am? Of course, my unique biology, what I am genetically, influences the way in which I perceive. I am of a sensitive nature, and learn especially through sensory experience.
So far, I have gone through my memories from birth to the beginning of college. I am trying to see who I am by looking at the movie of my life . . . and watching myself from the beginning. I don't want to censor anything either . . . but see the whole picture as it has emerged. I am an artist, and as I see the artwork that has been created thus far, I can take my brush in hand, and then more confidently paint the future as it is meant to be.