We Could Have Spoke Differently

A talented writer invited me to a memoir writing workshop she attends once a week. My friend is my counterpart in spirit. I went for the first time. We drove together and after a few minutes, I pulled up to a stately, landmark hotel in Santa Fe, called La Posada. At the entrance, a valet took my keys and we went inside. The class meets at 9AM. We found our way to a sunny lounge with comfortable furniture and seated ourselves among the other writers—all older women except for a solitary man.
The tutor who runs the class is an animated lady, and offers her service for free. She is an artist as well as writer—like me. Robust and nicely dressed with styled grey hair, she stood the whole time, papers in hand, giving us quick projects and tidbits of information. Occasionally, someone would read what they had wrote.
At one point the group was asked to write about a conversation in life that occurred where something was said, and in hindsight, we see we could have spoke differently. What would we have said?
My friend and I, together on a couch, thought a moment and began writing, not looking at each other. After our ten minutes were concluded, I had written about a time 17 years ago I can hardly forget. Here it is:

Naomi sat next to me as I drove home with her from her doctor's appointment. “Oh Dad, “she blurted out, “I am afraid. Sometimes during class I have the thought that I am going to die!”

Fear flooded my normally intrepid mind. I was 47 years old. “But darling, everyone have thoughts like that sometimes.”

I knew her case was not like everyone else. Naomi had bone cancer that started in her hip. It had metastasized to her lungs, and the doctors shook their heads when they determined the extent of the disease. In fact, they had given her little chance of survival. I could not bear the thought of my 18 year old dying. “Look Naomi, if even one person has survived, then you will too! When those thoughts come, just let them go.” I was grasping for words while reacting to my own fear, unable to process losing her.

It has been fifteen years since Naomi died, and almost up until the day she died, I was unable to visualize or consider her death. Early on, she had come to peace with it and embraced her fate with tenderness and love.

I can see now how I might have reacted differently as she shared her fear with me. When she had told me her frightening thoughts, I could have asked what she thought of death. I might have confessed that I too was afraid. The father that she depended upon for strength, was weak at the knees in the face of our formidable enemy. We needed each other and a greater power to pull us through. How could I tell her, and admit my perplexity and weakness?

I imagine she might have said, “Oh well, we will get through this together. God is with us no matter what!” In fact, later, during a time in her hospital room when I had been pacing the floor, she stopped me and said, “Dad, keep your chin up and take deep breaths!” She was always the cheerleader.

The day in the car when she had confided in me, I had tried being the cheerleader, summoning faith for victory, but truth could have set both of us free.

Naomi wrote continuously in her diaries from the time she was 12. She died at the age of nineteen. Here are two entries from the time of her illness:
Hardship is something that will make us stronger. I don't know if I have complete evidence of this, but I think that in every situation there is good in it.
Show up and be lovingly present, no matter what it looks like out there or inside yourself. Always speak the truth of your heart.
I wrote a book about Naomi and I. It is called A Heart Traced In Sand

At A Threshold

The word portal is at once familiar and mysterious; herein is its charm. When we come to a portal, we are at a threshold. We may be at a doorway that leads from a familiar interior to an outdoors that is limitless and leads to places unknown. Or it may be the reverse, coming from the wild outdoors of bustling streets or primitive forests, to an entrance that welcomes us to the comfort and safety of home. Portals have great variety. In ancient days, most cities were surrounded by walls, and great gates were portals to and from the interior. These days, websites can act as a portal to other domains through links that are gateways. 

I love experiences that are portals. I have been through many gates, and crossed countless thresholds around the world. Many times I have crossed into the unknown and always felt a thrill at the possibility of surprise and learning something new. Portal experiences function this way—taking us from something known into the realm of spirit, where borders are more obscure and our frame of mind shifts to something new. Such an experience can take us into the heart of creation and the center of our own being.

I have a simple example of just such a portal experience. It occurred last October while hiking outside of Vernazza, Italy, one of the five villages of Cinqueterra, on the Italian Riviera. I was with a friend, walking along a narrow dirt trail hugging a mountainside, with the Ligurian Sea just below us. We had followed the path up and down slopes, amid vineyards and flowering shrubs, when we turned and abruptly came to a man sitting on a bench, accordion on his lap with his dog laying on a rug at his feet. He had the look of old world gypsy—dark, with rumpled but stylish clothing, and a little mustache that perched on his upper lip. Wearing eye glasses under black leather cap, and smiling amiably when he saw us, he began playing his red accordion. His dog rolled onto its back, spreading his legs and putting all four feet up in the air, absolutely content and relishing the music on a fine fall day with the sunshine warming the earth.

At the sudden sight of the old-world gypsy and his dog, and the sound of the first notes of the accordion, I was entering a portal. A realm of wonder and enchantment opened before me. My breathing became deeper and I felt rested and gay. Although in a foreign land on foreign soil, an ancient recognition stirred in my breast. I had stepped through the portal and was in wonderment, spellbound by magic. We stood near and listened to the music, and I made a film with my camera video.

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.

Enough To Fill Volumes

At the Banteay Srey Butterfly Centre, near Siem Reap, Cambodia

I had not intended to leave the United States in mid-September and travel around the world, but this is what happened. Yes, for certain I knew I would go to live in Venice, Italy where I stayed five weeks, and maybe visit India and Thailand.
On November 2, I was in Varanasi, India and by the end of the month living in Chiang Mai, Thailand. In Thailand I realized I could only legally stay 30 days and began imagining where my footsteps might wander next. I chose the neighboring country of Cambodia and a visit to the famous Angkor Wat Temples. I only stayed one wonderful week, and circumstances brought me to Bali, Indonesia. By then I knew I would continue circling the globe east back to the USA. From Bali I went to New Zealand—and then my mother died and I hurried back to attend her memorial in Santa Barbara, California.

Over the course of 119 days, I made 25 paintings, shot thousands of photographs, wrote 17 blogs and made scores of journal entries, traveled by boat, train, car, rickshaw, bus, airplane and foot. The experiences are enough to fill volumes and will be woven into my future like so many brightly colored and various threads woven into a composition of exceptional fabric.

Now, my traveling is inward, into stillness, psychology, spirit.

A Reborn Creation

Heart rending apathy struck me during the week after the memorial for my mother, when I slept in my parents home in Santa Barbara. Apathy is such a strange word to associate with my life. It strikes me as not hot and not cold, in which case, as the Bible has said, God will spew the person out of His mouth as tasteless. "So then because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of my mouth.” -Revelation 3:16

I remember sitting in the comfortable living room, amid all the familiar furnishings and feeling no creative passion or eagerness—just a dull pain. This, after I had just circled the globe on a remarkable journey full of creativity. To invent passion seemed pointless, so I made an analogy that I was a sailor who found himself unexpectedly in the doldrums: no wind to fill his sails. The only thing to do was wait.

Now that I am back in Santa Fe, the feelings continue, but I am getting perspective and it is positive. An estate has been given to me in exchange for watching a cat. It is spacious, very private, full of character and history. The furnishings are artful, well made, and wonderful books fill shelves to overflowing. A perfect place to do nothing. Especially as winter draws to an end.

I am now of the opinion that I am like a field that after many seasons of productivity has become tired and depleted and needs rest. A wise farmer plows a crop back into the soil, and leaves it fallow for a season. It is dormant.

Another biblical metaphor: “Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it abides alone: but if it dies, it brings forth much fruit.” John 12:24

I am not to be the same person. I have felt a dying, and and it is as a husk that must be broken for the heart of a regenerated creation to break free and emerge from ground. In time, my paintings will come forth with new vision and vigor, writings will arrive with fresh voice, photographs will be fine tuned and shared. Spirit will have fashioned a reborn creation.

Hidden Oasis

After some searching, a friend and I arrived by car to a hidden oasis in the mountains above the serene southern California town of Ojai, where hiking, spiritual retreats, fruit orchards, as well as a farmers' market on Sundays contribute to the city's self-styled nickname of "Shangri-La" referencing the natural beauty of this health-and-spirituality-focused region. The place, ( it does not want to be named in social media), has hot springs, and it is rather hidden. We had to ask directions several times and almost gave up looking. Its sign had fallen down and when we pulled in to the parking lot a smiling young man came out of a trailer and said yes, we had arrived.

I had not seen my friend in decades. She learned I was in Southern California and contacted me about meeting. We had determined Ojai, because I remember when my parents lived there, and wanted to revisit. After a cup of coffee and conversation, we had re-established our friendship and were on our way.

The oasis usually charges $20.00 for two hours, but waived the fee because my Mom had just died. An agreement form must be signed when entering the property and when I learned photography is not allowed I was baffled. The young man said that the hot springs are “clothing optional.” My friend and I looked at each other and grinned. Neither of us had brought swim suits and were not prepared to get naked. As we started down the trail, I was wondering to myself if I would go nude or not.

The day was balmy and warm. We had picked from a basket of free fruit and sipped free filtered water and I was being transported back to my days of being a hippie, when I had visited and lived in Ojai. A happy wave of nostalgia took me to carefree youthful days being a wandering nature lover with long hair and eyes of wonderment, mind full of poetry, and heart of song.

When we came to a split in the path, one sign pointed to the hot springs and another to a bridge across a creek. I asked my friend where to go and she chose the springs. So off we went. When we arrived, there were some people bathing in the pools, with swim suits on. The property only allows a limited number of visitors at two hour intervals. We found our place in pools surrounded by rock. I undressed down to my underwear and she just went in with clothes on and soon was floating on her back with a big smile on her face. A sense of calm and happiness quickly came over both of us. I contemplated all the fantastic experiences of the last four months traveling around the world, and concluded that life itself is a journey of surprising circumstances and experiences.

Turn Around

New Zealand wild beauty

Here I am, back in the United States of America for the first time since September 12 of last year. Following the scenario that seems sketched out for my life, THE DREAM has surprised me again and put me on a stage with a strange set and I have to improvise my part.

In New Zealand I had spent ten days on the south island and was preparing to go to the north island and explore further, making paintings, writing, and producing photographs when my mother died suddenly. I had been feeling strange for about week—bewilderment and tinges of grief after being adrift for so long, and then the news arrived to complicate my inner life further. Perhaps I had been unconsciously anticipating the death, knowing it would happen soon. My mother and I always affirmed our bond with each other by ending our conversations with statements of love and affection.

I felt better after determining to go back for the memorial. Yes, I would not be visiting the spectacular north island and doing what I had planned, but I would be going “home” and getting closure, bonding and celebrating with others my mother's life.

The home of my parents in Santa Barbara, California, USA

I have been alone in the home of my parents for several days. My sister arrived last night and a brother is to arrive today. Another brother is already living in Santa Barbara, and one brother is not coming—he lives in New York state. I have had continued feelings of being adrift and not knowing the future or being excited about it. But I am working at improving. There are reasons for everything that I feel, going back over the years and now with the loss of my mother. But yesterday I realized I could turn around the feelings of grief that are associated with loss. It takes willpower but I am doing it consciously—celebrating instead of grieving.

An "angel" cloud that formed over the house, the second night

That Night She Died

Chloris Boone, about 21 years old

I hope she does not die while I am in foreign lands. This thought occurred several times before leaving the United States last September. My mother had escaped death before, astonishing even seasoned workers in the hospice field. At one point I had been called to her side by both her caregivers who were certain she was dying, and after flying from New Mexico to California and arriving at her side, that evening she beat me at a game of cards. My brother and sister who live nearby shook their heads at her turn around but did not put it past her. I stayed another seven days, waiting for her to die, but she was phenomenal. Her neighbor arrived with a fresh bag of books from the library, which she finished in no time, (with speed-reading skill), and we watched music videos together and listened to her favorite rock groups—The Eagles, and The Band. When I left, I swore I would not be jumping on an airplane every several months when an alarm went off.

About the time I arrived in New Zealand from Bali, Indonesia, I was four months into travel and began having morbid feelings but could not decipher them. Perhaps I had become too unsettled from travel around the globe. Maybe I was not prepared to go home and start hustling for income. Had I not resolved the hurt from divorce a year earlier? 
 

With her five children

New Zealand's beauty and majesty entranced me and I threw myself into it, yet could not shake feelings of sadness. Then came a message from one of the caretakers that Mom's heart was failing and to please call. I spoke with my mother and she sounded far away and muffled. She wanted to know where I was. The next day I called again and she sounded much better, even accusing me of being narcissistic like my father and reminding me of the fable of the young man who fell in love with his image reflected in a pond. After I took exception and remarked I am quite aware of my flaws, she apologized and asked when would I go home to people who love me and want to see me. That night she died.

Her body has already been cremated. I am cutting short my time in New Zealand to go to Santa Barbara where my siblings have scheduled a memorial. I feel better now. My last ticket is to go home—not to mine, but to where my father and mother lived contentedly for 35 years.

More writing about Chloris and her home:

Private Sanctuary Of Love 

The Jig  

Created With Loving Care  

 

Chloris Boone,  08/26/1932 - 01/21/2016

New Zealand, South Island

Awakenings and Little Deaths

Since September of last year, I have traveled eastward through nineteen time zones. In New Zealand, I am 21 hours ahead of myself were I to be at home in the USA. When I communicate with people there, they are in yesterday and I am in tomorrow.

After so many exotic sights and sounds, foreign experiences, awakenings and little deaths, I am transformed and don't know how I will pick up where I left off once home. I want to continue sharing what I have seen and experienced. Fortunately, all the paintings I have sent back to the USA arrived safely from Italy, India and Thailand, and I have with me the others made in Cambodia and Bali. The photos I have spent countless hours creating are on my laptop and backed up on an extra hard drive. So far so good.

After densely populated Bali, there is more solitude in New Zealand, even though it is summer tourist season. Nature has greater contrasts here and it is more of a struggle for inhabitants to exist year around. Days are gorgeous now, easy to enjoy, and the sun does not set until two hours before midnight. In the winter, days can be seven hours shorter. New Zealand has glaciers, as well as volcanoes.

Today I hiked to the foot of a glacier and was lucky to hear and see an avalanche. Flowers bloomed and made a carpet at my feet, the mountains capped with snow and ice soared above and waterfalls cascaded off shear rock cliffs. Wisps of clouds gathered to play around the peaks. I took off layers of clothes along the way . . . but never ended up as naked as in Bali!

Beautiful Purpose

Fallen plumeria blossom

Bali throws flower petals at my feet everywhere every day. When I step outside, fresh plumeria blossoms adorn my path. Arriving at my car, they are on the windshield. It is beautiful and I have experienced it in other tropical places such as Hawaii. The blessing is compounded in Bali because blossoms are ubiquitous to the island.

Balinese people make offerings every day and leave them all around and on the ground too.  It is called canang sari. Canang means beautiful purpose and sari means essence. A small tray made of woven palm leaves is filled with different colored flowers, with perhaps some food, incense, and even money. The whole arrangement is specific and includes careful placement as to direction of each object. It is time consuming to prepare each day and I have seen a woman at my hotel here in Ubud spend hours carefully preparing scores of trays to be placed in many places each day. People all over Bali spend countless hours in this daily ritual of prayer offering. To walk anywhere in the street is to see canang sari on the ground in front of businesses, at temples and homes, adorning sculptures and shrines; everywhere. This morning I walked to my car and the vehicle next to mine had a freshly made canang sari offering sitting at a place of prominence on the dashboard.

Balinese girl, adding fresh offerings midday on a sidewalk in front of an establishment or home

On a sculpture of Ganesha

At first, I took note and simply stepped around the little baskets, but now I am also honoring their meaning and absorbing the blessings. It is respectful. I feel blessed.
Read more here: Offering 

On the pavement

Offering flowers being sold at market.

Early morning, on a car dashboard!

On a sculpture of a praying man.

I love the term canang sari, beautiful purpose—essence! Something to meditate upon. The Balinese do each day, and then spend time and resource manifesting it.

A Life Of Its Own

Traveling in THE DREAM has a life of its own. All experiences are essential and woven together, and cannot be labeled or isolated by the dreamer. They unfurl like a flag in the wind, ceaselessly changing shape. When I arrived in Sanur, Bali, I spent the first night in a hotel near the airport, since my arrival from Cambodia was after midnight. The next day a short taxi ride brought me to a homestay I had booked in Sanur, in a densely populated neighborhood not far from the beach. The hostess from Finland met me, along with the Balinese owner of the house who lived with his family in the rear. Cia, the Finnish woman showed me around and I put my things down in my room. Immediately, I felt a bit sick to my stomach, and when alone, went in the bathroom and vomited. I realized that something was amiss. The room was windowless, and had a shallow light, peculiar smells were in the air, the furnishings were worn and drab, and I felt unsettled.

Cia is a short woman and underweight. She drinks and smokes, and I soon learned that she is battling lymphoma cancer and has large tumors on her neck. Her mind is bright, and she smiles readily, but there is a darkness settled around her. I discovered that she cannot eat because it causes her pain, but drinks beer and smokes cigarettes.

I never had the thought of leaving, and spent seven days with her. I didn't feel comfortable in my physical circumstance, but I am not physical. THE DREAM brought me to Cia, and I came to appreciate her and could relate with her because I lost my Naomi to cancer and walked with her for two years through the valley of the shadow of death. Cia has been living in Bali for five years and has a wealth of knowledge about the island and its culture. She speaks at least four languages, is an ardent animal lover and takes care of them wherever she finds they need help. Three cats and a dog have found her and stayed to live with her. She is pragmatic and accepts her condition in a matter-of-fact way.

One night at dinner she mentioned she was trying to make a doctor's appointment for the next day. I told her I would go with her so she would have company and not feel alone. Her eyes opened wide and she stared at me and said, “But you are on vacation, you don't want to do that!” I looked back straight in her eyes and said, “Yes, I do.” Her jaw dropped, and looking even more intensely into my face she said, “I believe you.” And then she started to cry, and apologized. Later I told her that the two years I spent in close communion with Naomi, by her side through all her medical treatments and living with her in foreign cities, was the best time of my life. “We were burning the candle at both ends.” I said.

I left Cia a couple days ago and THE DREAM put everything in place for me. I found a lady from Bali who is renting me her car. Anne, a young woman from Finland who is a friend of Cia's has given me the keys to her bamboo house up the coast in a place that Cia wrote on her list of places for me to visit. I am now in the bamboo house, making paintings, visiting nearby villages, swimming in the sea, taking photographs, and continuing creatively.

Cia said, “There is a reason we met.” We will meet again. I left a few of my things with her so must return before leaving for New Zealand in about a week.