Primitive Profusion

Now that I am alone in Morocco, I am moving in any direction without restraint. This morning I left Fez to travel south to Merzouga, a famous village on the edge of some great Sahara sand dunes. Before leaving Fez, I looked at a map that indicated a long day’s drive, and thought about stopping along the way. I saw a town called Midelt that interested me, but a travel guide said it was not much of an attraction, and someone advised me to go to Erfoud instead, a tourist town closer to Merzouga.

About an hour south of Fez the countryside became verdant among rolling hills. I tried to make good time and drive at the speed limit along a narrow two-lane highway. The road curved and suddenly I passed a spectacular meadow. In a second, I had to decide either to stay to my schedule and hurry to arrive at my destination before night, or hit the brakes. The poppies in the field made me stop and pull over. There was not a fence, just a steep embankment. I had sandals and shorts on, and stepping over the rocks, I was met by thorny plants and brambles. But the color called me, and no one was around. I only heard a donkey braying in the distance.

I am glad I made the choice to stop and wander in the abandoned farm field covered in poppies and wildflowers. A brook passed through and a small olive orchard stood nearby. The primitive profusion of nature was a kaleidoscope for my enchanted eyes, and I thought how my schedule was of no importance—moreover beauty can be fleeting and memories forever. My feet were cut, but the blood reminded me of the red poppies.

I eventually arrived at Midelt, a scruffy berber town on the route between destinations. Slowing for traffic near a roundabout, a young man ran up to my car and said “Where are you going?” I answered, “Merzouga” and he spoke in English that he had just come from the USA and would I please visit with him. After a short conversation, I decided to stop for the night. He set me up with a clean, comfortable room and breakfast for less than twenty dollars, took me to a local once-weekly souk (market), and then went touring with me into the hillsides. Kassem is a rug trader and goes for three-month treks with camels, visiting berber villages and trading for rugs. I asked him if he had been a goat herder as a child, since I see so many boys doing this along the roads. He said yes, and as I guessed, the sheepherders walk for days with the animals, sleeping on the ground.

At the souk.

In the morning I am going to visit a Kasbah nearby where 120 families reside within the earth walls, then continue to the desert, where a friend of Kassem’s will be waiting for me and will take me by camel into the desert.












This is THE DREAM, and the more I let go into it, the more fantastic is the journey.

Salaam

While still in Paris, the night before leaving, a dreamy transport came over me and a rhapsodic tingling flowed from my feet to my head—and I knew. The certainty came as a surprise because a bomb had recently blasted through the medina in Marrakech, killing tourists. So my spiritual confirmation that I would love Morocco came as relief beforehand.

Heidi of the Mountains and I arrived to the airport in Marrakech, rented our car and set off to find our riad, (hotel in a former home). I am a more experienced traveler and have been to several African countries, including Egypt (see Steven Boone Photos from Around The World), so the dusty, crowded and derelict streets did not startle me, but for my companion, having just come from sophisticated Paris, the scenery was a surprise for her eyes and maybe a bit of a shock. Before long, as we looked about for Riad Nesma, trying to discern where our riad might be, a man on a motorcycle sped up along side our car and speaking in English, asked if we needed help. He directed us to a car park and from there helped us to hire a fellow with a big wheelbarrow to carry our luggage down a narrow street to our hotel. Once we were situated, Abdel stuck to us like glue, offering to take us places. I asked him how much and he said, “No worry, just pay me what you like, and if you don’t like me, do not pay anything.” This was our introduction to Morocco.

The colors, sights and sounds are fantastic. The souks (markets), in Marrakech are a virtual smorgasbord of brightly colored shoes, textiles, sacks of spices, earthenware, aromatic tinctures and creams, mints and foods, decorated furniture and artwork. Nothing is behind glass, rather it is within touch and ready to be handled. Merchants greet you with a smile and are ready to bargain. They are expert at selling, and even though you get something for half price, later you might regret that you paid too much.

This Berber Woman is over ninety years old!

From Marrakech we drove to El Kelaa M’Gouna, a town in “the valley of roses” in the Atlas Mountains. It is an area famous for producing rose water and perfumes. Each year, the first weekend in May, is the Festival of Roses. We have arrived just in time, but the trip from Marrakech took twice as long as I anticipated, especially because of the slow driving along twisting roads over the mountains. Our hotel, called Dar Timitar is owned by two brothers, Ahmed (pronounced Ak-med) and Rachid (Rah-sheed), and sits in a spectacular situation atop a mountain, overlooking the valley and villages below.

Most tourists in Morocco are French, since it is a former colony and French is widely spoken. Ahmed speaks French and Rachid speaks English. They are both hardworking and kind. Rachid becomes our guide for the next three days and we quickly bond as he takes us hiking through fields of roses, over gurgling brooks, among walnut, almond and peach trees, through fields of wheat and barley, and into the Berber villages made of earth. He is a devout Muslim, as are most everyone, and is expert at explaining the Berber culture and traditions. The leisurely walks are wonderful, especially since the roses perfume the air while birds add their songs to the sounds of the water flowing in ditches.

Life is simple and often we see women in the morning and evenings, returning from the fields, bent over, carrying piles of fresh cut alfalfa to feed their animals. Children play, and old men sit by the roadside and daydream. When I meet other men, they tap their heart, shake my hand and say “Salaam”, which means peace is with us.

Today we leave the mountains and begin driving to the sea. Our next stop is the coastal town of Essaouira.

Note: Have arrived in Essaouira after a day of driving. It is a fantastic city on the coast that reminds me of Venice, Italy. Within the walled old town where no cars are allowed, are mazes of narrow walks lined with shops similar to those in Marrakech.  Our room is in Riad Mimouna, built at the ocean edge and the windows open to the west upon the Atlantic sea.

 The Medina of Essaouira is a UNESCO World Heritage Listed city.

The Bewildering Beauty of Paris

There is never any ending to Paris, and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. Paris was always worth it, and you received return for whatever you brought to it… Ernest Hemingway, in A Moveable Feast

To inhale Paris preserves the soul.
Victor Hugo

Paris, France is considered by many to be the most romantic city in the world. Whenever I am here I often see couples stopping to kiss.  On the Pont des Arts Bridge by the Louvre Museum are thousands of love padlocks with the lovers names written on them and locked to the guardrails—the keys tossed away into the Seine River flowing underneath. And this is what Paris does—it fills the soul with intimacy and romance so that you want to throw your life into what Allen Ginsburg calls, “…the bewildering beauty of Paris.”

I am here with Heidi of the Mountains for five days before heading to Morocco. It is my fifth visit to this storied city and so I know the neighborhood of the Latin Quarter where I typically stay. The springtime brings people outdoors, so streets are crowded. To stroll is to smell expensive perfumes, see stylish dress, hear many languages, see wonderment in people’s eyes, and now when the temperature is perfect, see street performers with their song and dance. Occasionally one can stop and listen to the distinctive notes of an accordion player sitting on the curb playing tunes of bygone years, tin cup at his feet.

At the Louvre Museum, as usual, a crush of people ten deep are always crammed in front of the Mona Lisa. I get as much pleasure studying an exquisite early self-portrait by Albrecht Durer, (German, 21 May 1471 – 6 April 1528)—and I do not have to peer over any shoulders.

Yesterday we hiked many miles. From our hotel we walked over the Seine River to the Louvre, strolled into the Jardin Des Tulleries (gardens), continued to the Grand Palais and then followed the paths beside the Seine River to the Eiffel Tower. After four hours, we arrived back to the hotel. Within an hour we were back on the street, taking the Metro Subway to one of my favorite places—the famous Pere Lachaise Cemetery. I have been there several times and could easily spend days photographing among the graves, mausoleums and sepulchers. Among the famous people buried are Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaff, Frédéric Chopin, Honoré de Balzac, and perhaps the most visited grave—Jim Morrison, formerly the lead singer for the Doors.
We were so entranced meandering among the graves that when the bells sounded at closing time we barely noticed. Later, Heidi noticed nobody around us and said "I hope we are not closed in here." I laughed and joked that I would choose which mausoleum to sleep in and she could choose hers. She did not find it funny. In fact, when we arrived at the gate it was locked and we guessed that we might not get out. After a slight panic, we eventually found a guard who stared at us with a disgruntled look and shoved us through a gate onto the street.
On the way back we got lost in the subway and took some wrong trains. But it is not so bad—being lost in Paris.

Heidi of the Mountains is full of wonder, and commented that seeing the grandness all around “sure beats looking at adobe walls.” She wants to stay longer but our course is set, so we go to Morocco tomorrow.

A few days ago a terrorist attack occurred in Marrakech and that is where we go first. Now that the USA killed Osama Bin Laden, I do not know what repercussions may occur. But to live in fear is something impossible for me. It is what terrorists want and we must not give them what they are after. I think that the good people of Morocco will be especially grateful for our arrival.
See my other Paris journals from previous visits: This is Paris,  Cinderella,  Travel Along The River Of Life

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.

Eleven

I have come to believe that I have a mystical relationship with the number eleven. By this I mean that it is not coincidental that this number appears often in my life as a symbol and a sign from the world of Spirit. I have not always thought this way. I first began to notice the frequency of eleven during my daughter Naomi’s illness. She was born on January 11, 1980. Later, my other daughter, Sarah, was born on November 11. While Naomi battled her cancer, I noticed a pattern of occurrences that involved pairs of one. Then, after she died, I noticed examples of eleven playing a key role in my life. For instance, if I parked in a public lot, I would be in spot number 29, or when I was assigned a hotel room it would be suite 353. My assigned seats on airplanes would be numbers equaling eleven. At art festivals, my assignment would be booth number equaling eleven, e.g. booth 65. When I received a new credit card, the expiration date would be 11/11 and the last four digits equal eleven. I began to realize this pattern, and smiled to myself during the occurrences and then thought, “this is Naomi, confirming her presence in my life, and sending a love note.”

I began thinking more deeply, and realized that my nine-digit social security number equals eleven. Two of my three credit cards have the last four digits equaling eleven. My daughter’s birthdays are elevens.  My gallery might call on the eleventh of the month to tell me a painting sold.

It is all too uncanny and I think is beyond coincidence.

I feel very positive about this year 2011, and feel I have a special relationship with it. My daughter’s birthday will be 11/11/2011. There are other important dates as well—1/1/11,  1/11/11 (Naomi’s birthday), and 11/1/11.

In numerology, number eleven is considered the master number. The number carries a vibrational frequency of balance. Number eleven signifies invention, refinement, fulfillment, vision, and congruence in a person. In astrology, the number eleven is considered a magical number that strikes a balance of emotion, thoughts, and spirits.

Number Eleven Pyramids :
1111 x 1111 = 1234321
111 x 111 = 12321
11 x 11 = 121

Here are some other facts about eleven:
A human's eight fingers and two thumbs are used not just for work and play, but also counting. Eleven is the first number that cannot be counted additively on the fingers.
Eleven is the fifth prime number.
100 divided by 9 is 11.11111111111111.........
with an infinite number of 11s.


1) 11:11 x 11:11 = 1234321
2) 111 x 111 = 12321
3) 11 x 11 = 121

September 11 is the 254 day of a year: 2+5+4 = 11

There are 111 days from September 11 to December 31.

Best of April

Now I have posted 260 blogs! These are my best writings from April, going back to 2007:

BELOVED, April 17, 2010
Sometimes the cruelty of this world is dumbfounding and so insulting to our senses that we recoil immediately and simply withdraw. I remember . . . read blog

EVERYTHING IS IN MOTION,  April 05, 2009
We are all travelers. Everything is in motion, even when appearing to be at rest. Time is always . . . read blog

INSPIRATION TO FLY, April 18, 2008
It occasionally happens while I am painting that there is a moment of impasse and I must choose to either continue working in a way I know but that is not proving successful, or else, go into the unknown.  Read blog . . .

RANDOM ACT OF KINDNESS, April 13, 2007
Sometimes while I am outdoors painting, my activity arouses people’s curiosity. In the old quarter of Rutigliano, in a neighborhood of stone streets . . . read blog












NEW! A mosaic of Steven Boone blogs

Reflection From The Bottom Of A Well

In most cases, people see art and respond to the surface, but only briefly. They may even own art, but see it as decoration. Especially, for this sort of public, art is, as Henri Matisse said, “a comfortable armchair which provides rest from physical expectation.”

A man I shall simply call Jim, met me during a presentation I made of photographs from my journey around the world (see: Journey Around The World ). He was fascinated with the experience and also wanted to see my artwork. I told him where my gallery is and he visited it on his own. Later, my gallery informed me that a person had greatly admired one of my pieces. It is a large 60” high x 90” wide mixed-media diptyche; meaning two images are placed side by side to make one. I placed an image of a young Spanish woman holding flowers and seated in a window, next to a scene of the ruined interior of an abandoned home. Moreover, the gallery told me that the man had, “spent hours” looking at this piece and wanted to buy it as soon as his finances would allow. Later, I learned that it was Jim who liked the piece. Subsequently, he visited frequently, and once brought a psychologist friend with him to analyze the art.

Soon afterward, by chance, I met Jim again and took the opportunity to invite him to visit my studio. A few days ago he came, and I found great pleasure in his visit. He is the rare person who goes so deeply into art that he is transported, and can express his thoughts about the experience. He helped me see into my own unconscious. In particular, we looked at a work, (seen above), that is similar and smaller than the one at my gallery. During our conversation, he noticed I had incorporated bits of masking tape. “It shows fragility, like it is holding together something that is falling apart.” Immediately I knew he had expressed what my true intent had been, but he was able to make it literal. “The work has a strong contrast . . . she is so strong, and clean, amidst the ruins and decay all around her. A strong figure in a world falling apart. The red clothes she wears signifies sexuality and fertility.” “Yes,” I agreed, “the art would be too depressing if she wore black.” “And what do you make of the drips?” I asked. Immediately he responded, “They are like tears.” Again, he had discerned my unconscious motive in the drips of paint.

When Jim spoke he gestured and moved back and forth in front of the art, sometimes pausing to peer deeply, his face almost brushing the surface, as if looking for a reflection from the bottom of a well. As he spoke his voice became passionate and I could see his excitement and yearning to discover. “This needs to be seen” he said.

When Jim left my studio, I was surprised how he had so thoroughly explored my artwork, and shared insights that had illumined my own mind.


See more of the art of Steven Boone

Absurdity

Of all animals, only human beings can be absurd. Other animals can act playfully, but not go beyond that into absurdity.

Absurdity is the parallel of rational thought, inverted. For instance, rational thought dictates being careful against self-injury while handling a gun. Absurdity is when an artist, in this case Chris Burden (born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1946), creates an art performance where he shoots himself in the arm. Rational thought says that when we wait for a person to arrive and they do not, we get up and leave. In the famous play by Samuel Beckett (13 April 1906 – 22 December 1989), called Waiting for Godot, two men wait endlessly and in vain for a vague person named Godot to arrive, and from the beginning it seems absurd. Yet, this play was voted "the most significant English language play of the 20th century".

There is use for the absurd. It can jog our minds to question our reality, and so keep us from falling into dogma. Comics use absurdity to make us laugh at life. We assume that we must take everything seriously, especially our selves, but absurdity says laugh at yourself!

In fact, people who take themselves too seriously risk becoming an absurd cartoon. Witness some of the tyrannical rulers in the middle east, who hold on to power at all cost and erect monuments to themselves, thinking themselves as gods worthy of universal admiration. They only see what they want to see, and when someone says, as in the Hans Christian Anderson (Danish, April 2, 1805 – August 4, 1875) story, The Emperors New Clothes, “but you are wearing no clothes”, the person is sent to jail or killed. So, this "absurdity" is only found among human beings, and it is like living in illusion. So many people live in illusion—and not another species of animal does that.

Artists can poke fun at absurdity and in fact that is part of their job. They work with materials to create realities that are mere illusion. The Mona Lisa, by Leonardo DaVinci (Italian, April 15, 1452 – May 2, 1519) is a painting, but her smile is so real. Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 5 October 1881 – 8 April 1973) makes a portrait and the woman has both eyes on one side of her head . . . this is absurd, but makes us think, what is real? Could a woman in a dream have two eyes on one side of her head? After all, dreams can be real too, since this is where we reside for about a third of our lives.

Some years ago I made a series of paintings called Hangups. The idea came to me as a funny vision from out of the blue that occurred while I was driving home one day. I saw a face hanging on a clothesline, just like it were laundry. Amused, I could have dismissed the thought, but I am an artist and the vision was so original I knew I had to make a painting of it. Eventually, I made over thirty, and published a book too (view here). People either love them or hate them, and there is no middle ground. This is the way good art is . . .  it has effect, for if it only inspires ambivalence, then it it is more suited to go in the trashcan.

My Hangups are outwardly absurd, but reflect the absurdity that is parallel to reality. For instance, often people think they are immune to life’s disorders and especially, want immunity to death. But mortality has a way of chasing us like a shadow. When we get sick, or feel heartache, or see death, then we are shocked out of our illusion of safety. In my painting called “Pecking Order”, seen below, I push this to an absurd extreme.

If a person is too serious, these paintings are frightful and insulting, but on the other hand, look closely at “reality” and we can see the absurdity that runs so closely alongside of it.

The Fast

This is the last day of my annual period of fasting. The discipline requires that I give up food and water between sunrise and sunset from March 2-20. It is a requirement of Bahai’s, with exclusion allowed for sick people, travelers of long distances, nursing mothers, those under 15 or over 70 years of age. I have followed the prescription for decades, and always been true, except once—the year my dear Naomi died and then, the most precious of my life had gone away and I did not have strength.

Fasting has been practiced for thousands of years, and is especially common as a spiritual exercise in many religions. Scientific studies have shown that there are also physical benefits that include reducing risk of diabetes, heart disease, and cancer. Fasting also promotes weight loss, reduces immune disorders, and slows the aging process—increasing life span. It will produce favorable change in cholesterol.

Each year, as the time of fasting approaches, I begin to eagerly anticipate it. I am happy, and also feel slight trepidation, knowing I will be tested. I wake before dawn and eat . . . my body still drowsy and not ready for food—so I must assert command to change for the sake of devotion. As the day progresses I experience weakness and loss of concentration, and this is because of lack of glucose and protein. Tasks become more difficult and I realize I am multi-tasking because I am simultaneously active with my affairs and also fasting. I get moody and perhaps even cranky as time goes on, and must adopt a sense of equanimity, a virtue useful to all rational thought. When my hunger and thirst press upon me and I know how easy it is to eat or drink and relieve my suffering, instead, I practice will power and patience. Nineteen days is a hefty duration and this deepens all the positive lessons.

These are some of the virtues found in fasting: patience, moderation, temperance, fortitude, will power, devotion, ability to sacrifice, forbearance, bravery, commitment, creativity, detachment, discretion, enthusiasm, flexibility, love, grace, tolerance, honor, integrity, loyalty, perseverance, resourcefulness, simplicity, sincerity, trust. Add to the spiritual virtues the physical benefits of better health and longer life and we can see why fasting is an ancient and common global practice.
Here is a wonderful and in-depth article on fasting: The Ultimate Guide to Intermittent Fasting

Kaleidoscope World

Do you ever ponder infinity, or do you just think, why bother, it is impossible to comprehend. Human beings like to measure. They create units for everything. Time and space is broken down into discernable increments in order that we may manage our environment. Society is based on common assumptions of the physical world. When we make an appointment, we are agreed when the both of us will arrive. When we figure how far to drive from here to there, we can gather how long it will take.
I am not entirely comfortable living within these man-made articles. Rather, I like to lose boundaries and flow in the infinite.

The other day, my girlfriend and I had a deep conversation about our relationship and she confided that she worried that in my traveling I could forget her. I know what she means because I have confided that when I go on trips, I like to “disappear into the matrix”. I lose a sense of self, flowing and melding with my immediate universe. It is difficult to describe the freedom and élan I sense. Barriers fall so that I am not “the other”, but have become “disappeared”. Then, I am not of a particular race, creed, economic position, nationality, or anything separate, but more like a pulse from the sun or moon or from the middle of the earth. It is a meditation of sorts and a forgetting of past, and an exquisite openness to the miraculous present, while trusting that the future will take care of itself. Heidi of the Mountains demands that I always remember her and not lose track for even a minute. The closer we become, the more I realize my wandering days might become circumscribed. Fortunately, she is as adventurous as me, so we can explore together. Yet, the wind has no partner, and I like to be the wind over the earth; unconstrained and even capricious. I like surprise to the extent that I am a surprise to myself.

When I observe fashion, style, business, the structures of society, I can see the inventive usefulness that is purported, and yet I do not want to be embroiled in temporal intrigues. I can appreciate the adventures, and understand that I take my part, but my philosophy is that it is all part of what I call THE DREAM. Civilization and the external cosmos are like a grand kaleidoscope. A kaleidoscope is a circle of mirrors containing loose, colored objects such as beads or pebbles and bits of glass. As the viewer looks into one end, light entering the other end creates a colorful pattern, due to the reflection off the mirrors. Turning the object mixes the ingredients and causes an almost endless display of effects. It is a bit of a dream. And this is how I see the events of life unfolding. Endless, surprising pictures unfold from the bits of life colliding, shaping, destroying and reformulating to become new phenomenon. And do you think there is an observer? In a sense, we are all observers, but can see so little of the miraculous, breathtaking pictures that unfold. We partake of an infinitesimal fraction of the spectrum. Of course, the less we think of the infinite, the bigger even small things become, and people can have heated arguments over mundane trivia.

The kaleidoscope turns moment by moment, always changing, producing new arrangements for us to ponder and explore. This earthly consciousness and viewing  is what Buddhist’s call Saṃsāra. The word has its origin in ancient India, to refer to the physical world, or family, or the universe. In modern parlance, saṃsāra refers to a place, set of objects and possessions, but originally, the word referred to a process of continuous pursuit or flow of life. In accordance with the literal meaning, the word should either refer to a continuous stream of consciousness, or the continuous but random drift of passions, desires, emotions, and experiences. This turning of a wheel, producing new and different effects, is like the kaleidoscope. I see it as dream. The great unchanging reality is the core, the axis upon which everything revolves. The axis is reality; everything else is but a dream.

Love

What is the essence of love? It must be attraction, a desire to mingle and share with another. If that does not exist, then love does not. In the human realm, there are famous romantic love stories of intense attraction, e.g. Romeo and Juliet, Cleopatra and Mark Antony, Orpheus and Eurydice, Layla and Majnun. In all these tales, one lover is willing to offer everything for the other.

Love can also be for truth, or for an ideal. It can be so strong as to cause great sacrifice. A scientist on the trail of discovery can face scathing ridicule, a solider on the battlefield will give his life, and an innocent bystander will jump in front of an onrushing train to save a stranger. We know love when it inspires sacrifice.

Sacrifice is the vital expression of love. If there is a relationship without sacrifice, it is shallow. We know parental love because the mother and father offer themselves in sacrifice to their children until the child can stand on his own.

The Taj Mahal is a love monument, built by Shah Jahan in India in honor of his deceased wife Mumtaz. It took great effort over twenty years to complete. Using white marble and precious inlay, 20,000 workers and 1000 elephants labored twenty years to bring the architecture to fruition. It is among the wonders of the world, and shares with them a foundation in love.

Everyone enjoys being loved. Especially since we know we are valued when we receive a sacrificial offering. For a lover to receive flowers, or a child to receive the gift of time and wisdom from a volunteer tutor; the essence is attraction, thoughtfulness and offering. When I travel in Asia, small shrines laden with gifts are a ubiquitous sight in homes and businesses. Usually, a small Buddha sculpture or Hindu deity is surrounded by flowers, incense, and fruit, and sometimes even soda pop and cigarettes . . . all tokens of sacrifice.


At present, many Baha’i’s, myself included, are fasting, and this is a show of love. From sunrise to sunset we abstain from food or water for nineteen days, between March 2-20 annually. It is difficult and painful to go without sustenance, but sacrifice is easy when one is in love. For true lovers, pain is sweet. And really, God cares not for material things, but He wants what our hearts can give and blesses us in the giving.