The Dancing Feather

 

A dancer and ballerina met in a dance company and quickly fell in love. When they danced together it was if a grand drama played out between them, captivating everyone who witnessed their mesmerizing performances.

They lived together in a chalet outside of the town where their company kept its theater. Both loved nature and longed to set their sore feet into the soft earth somewhere far off and secluded. Their housekeeper told them of a place she had visited as a child that was forested and where magical birds sang incredible songs from the tree tops. She had dreamed of it later in life and always when she arrived she was a child again.

So the dancer and ballerina set off to find the woods and venture barefoot into its meadows. They rode their horses all morning and into the afternoon. The air was perfect, the horses strong and they so enjoyed each other that time went by without notice.

Suddenly a light breeze came to ruffle them. A beautiful feather flew by, then came back and flew past again. The horses ears perked up. The feather played in the wind just in front of their surprised eyes. "Let's follow it" cried the ballerina. They galloped after the soaring feather into a deep forest. Of a sudden the feather shot up in the air and disappeared.

The two got off their horses, took off their shoes and sank their feet in the cool grass and earth. "It feels magical here." said the dancer. The fresh scent of earth and forest, the sparkling bird songs, the peaceful quiet that had come over the horses—led them into a happy trance.

They sat by a brook to refresh their feet in the gurgling water. Without speaking, the two sat in reverie. At last, the ballerina looked around and did not know where they were. "How are we going to find our way home?" Her companion was lost in dreaming, and did not answer. A bird flew down and landed on a limb nearby. It cocked it's head to see the ballerina, chirped and flew away. The ballerina followed it as it fluttered into the forest and suddenly faces began appearing from each tree trunk. She grabbed her companions arm. "I see faces in the trees!" The dancer had his eyes closed and was smiling. "Yes, I know. They are the ancestors."

Then one of the tree faces spoke. "We are glad that you two have found us. We know your love of life and dance, and that is why we sent the dancing feather to bring you here. You are now refreshed and though you think you are lost, you are not. You have found magic. By one of your horses you will find a small stone box inlaid with pearl and garnet. Open it and you will find a shell. In the shell is oil. Take this oil on your finger and rub it onto the forehead of your horses. They will take you home." With this, the faces disappeared into the forest.

The day had grown long. The ballerina found the tiny inlaid stone box by one of the horses. She opened it and saw a glistening seashell with oil. Dabbing it on her fingers, she rubbed it on the horses forehead. They shook their manes and danced their hooves on the ground, ready to gallop.

 © Steven Boone 2017 All Rights Reserved

The Lost Archives

A forgotten archive appeared recently on my computer. It was simply titled "Poems" and by chance I found it on one of my backup hard drives. It reminds me of the power words have to heal.

When the folder opened, I discovered my writing from around fourteen years ago. My oldest daughter Naomi died in 1999. She opened and transformed my heart during her struggle with cancer. When she passed away I had become a different person.

A couple years later I regularly wrote poetry to convey my intense feelings.

Here is a sampling of verse that I found in the lost archives:


Nostalgia in a Japanese Garden

In the garden
by the pagoda
a breeze rustles bamboo stalks,
stirs wind chimes.
White blossoms fall
into a dark pond.

When you were here, you
walked slowly on
the stone path,
pointed to glistening goldfish.

The moss has grown
greener since then.


 Nectar

Always a step ahead,
You arrived before me

At the gate. I  hear
hummingbird wings!

There must be nectar nearby.
The scent of jasmine—

Is this a perfumed memory,
Or a vivid hallucination?

A falling leaf reminds me
I am alone in the garden.

As the dazzling light fades, 
The air grows cold.

Barred by my beating heart
From an immutable threshold,

I linger, like some poor dog
Awaiting its master.

Breath 
               
Gathered in your heart
were all the flowers of creation.

With every breath
the angels came
and tended the garden
until its beauty was so great
the world fell away in shame.

Suddenly a fire of longing
came upon you—its
consuming flame leaping forth . . .

You vanished,
leaving only ashes
mingled with
                 the
                   earth.

Broken into One

Along the stream
where we drowned
iris bloom.
(Lovers approach
arm in arm, the sound
of their laughter
mingling with the murmur
of flowing water.)

When we loved, the moon watched
while the scent of pines
dazzled our senses.
Our fierce longing ignited
a flame that sealed our fate.
Throwing ourselves into the water,
we succumbed to the current.
As our bodies dashed
together upon the rocks,
we reached the place
where the ancient songs arise.

(Now embracing,
the lovers listen—
our melody mingles
with the beating
of their hearts.)



BE

Be a falcon
on the wrist of God
excellent in the art
of conquest.

Be a whale
swimming in the primeval ocean
sifting mysteries from
fathomless deep.

Be the wind
soaring above mountains
gathering perfume from the fields,
caressing lovers embracing.

Be a rainbow
that blesses the darkening day
like a necklace of pearls
worn by the bride of the sun.

Be a tree
reaching to heaven
while rooted in one place
a thousand years.

Be a thought
that precedes birth
dancing on the shore of dawn.

Be an emblem
of God’s remembrance
shining light in
deep dark eternity.



 © Steven Boone 2002 -2017 All Rights Reserved

Conquer Mountains

These days I arise before dawn for breakfast. After the sun touches the horizon, nothing passes my lips until night comes. No food or water. The Baha'i fast occurs from March 2 - 20th annually. This is the 46th year for me of observing it.

I always lose some mental quickness and feel cold more readily. Sensitivity to light, sound, smells etc. increases. I get tired during the day and yet thrive on the changes. My mind might complain but my heart and spirit rejoice. The grace and bounties of God come to refresh and renew my being. I do not need to use my mouth.

Instead of craving food, I crave the experience of sacrifice that brings the reward of Spirit.
In a way, during this period I am entering a prison. I realize I am at a disadvantage physically. But also know what I gain, and that imprisonment is temporary. When the fast ends, I have become so accustomed to renunciation during the day that when I see a water fountain, my first response is abstinence. Then I realize I am free, and the enjoyment is heightened. Same with eating. . . it becomes special again.

Meanwhile, I am stronger internally and feel I can conquer mountains.

Echoing Within

The sensory experiences of the Pacific Ocean have come with me 3000 miles (4800 km) from Puerto Lopez, Ecuador to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Though I live in a mountain city far from the sea, I can hear and feel the ocean echoing within. On the coast, the sights and sounds were just outside my door. It was hot, so barely anything buffered my skin from the outside influences. I frequently jumped into the surging waves. Eight days of beach life passed in steady cadence with surging waves pounding upon the shore.

Pacific Coast, Ecuador.

The six weeks in Mexico and Ecuador were all I could have hoped for. Yesterday, at my gallery a woman asked if I had been afraid in Mexico. "No," I replied, "I was afraid before I left!" I was told it would be dangerous, that violence was rampant. The warnings caused apprehension that sought to take hold and create an insurmountable barrier.

Cobbled street, San Miguel De Allende, Mexico

After arriving in Guanajuato City, Mexico, my fears were quickly dispelled. The alarming reports were slanted and not conveying everything true. Yes, I was a "Norte Americano" and a gringo who did not speak Spanish. Yet, I felt accepted and even honored. I made paintings and did street photography, took Spanish lessons and respected the different culture. I wandered about for many hours, walking great distances.

All the while I was in Mexico and Ecuador, so many things could have been bad but were not. The worst experience I had was my own fault.

There is much talk these days of building walls between peoples of neighboring countries. It may be a short term solution, but as the world advances to maturity, the walls will come down and bridges will be built instead.

Where The Heart Is

“Home is where the heart is.” 

Sometimes when I am traveling across the world, I find myself in an exotic place that so captivates me I begin thinking that it has my heart, and why not move to this enchanting place? It has happened several times in Venice, Italy. And in Paris, France, in Luxor, Egypt, Chiang Mai, Thailand, Srinagar in Kashmir, India. Now on my most recent sojourn, I fell for San Miguel de Allende in Mexico, and several locales in Ecuador. 

For the past week I have been staying along the coast of Ecuador. Life is peaceful, the ocean perfect, cost of living low. At The Hosteria Oceanic, in Puerto Lopez, for some reason, I have been the only guest! The staff like me because after all, it is a hotel and people should be here. The manager came yesterday to invite me to go with his family to Los Frailes, about twenty minutes drive. It is reputed to be the most beautiful beach in Ecuador. I had just had a big dose of sun the day before and was recovering so declined to be on a beach for hours, but was touched at his kind offer.

At Oceanic practically everything is to myself; swimming pool, dining area, wide expanse of pristine Pacific coast. I have daily room service, fresh linens, delicious breakfast . . . and at night I find I like eating dinner here too. The cabana is roomy and I have made it my impromptu studio. Just yesterday I was resting on the bed with the french doors open to a breeze. I had finished a painting and was gazing outside past a dangling hammock. I realized I had made a studio and could live like this for about half the cost back home.

For years I have not had an appetite for ownership. All I want is inner peace and freedom to be anywhere I want, but not permanently. When I was in San Miguel De Allende and found myself seriously thinking of moving there while continuing my art path, I stopped myself. 

“Home is where the heart is.” 

 My heart goes with me wherever I am.

Without A Map

“When the baby looks around him

It's such a sight to see


He shares a simple secret


With the wise man


He's a stranger in a strange land” -Leon Russell

Sometimes the best experiences happen for me when I am lost. 

The other day I set out walking in a new direction from my apartment in Cuenca, Ecuador. Usually I head toward the city center with its bustling streets, shops, cafes, grand cathedrals, and corner parks. This time I went in another direction. I went exploring—like Columbus when he set out to navigate the Atlantic Ocean without a map. He charted a course as he sailed.

Cemetery, San Miguel De Allende, Mexico

 The streets were mostly residential and rather unremarkable. Traffic whizzed by in each direction. I came to a corner and spotted a high wall that seemed to go an entire block. In the middle stood a tall gate. On either side were stalls selling flowers. I guessed it was cemetery. I like visiting graveyards in foreign lands. A few weeks ago I ambled about for more than hour in Nuestra Señora del Cementerio de Guadalupe in San Miguel De Allende, Mexico. It was divided between a large part for Mexican interments and a smaller closed area for mostly American ex-patriots. Now I had found a vast, much larger burial ground with three times as many graves. It is called, Cementerio Patrimonial De Cuenca. 

Tombs, Cuenca, Ecuador

  As in Mexico, most of the crypts are stacked in cells of concrete, in blocks perhaps fifteen feet high and hundreds of feet long. Sometimes there are two levels and stairs to reach the top. Each burial site is marked and decorated in front, often with a glass pane protecting the contents. It is by far neater and more orderly than the Mexican graveyard.

I am fascinated by what remains after a person dies, and how they are remembered with fondness. I lost my daughter when she was nineteen and had to find a spot to bury her. She lays at rest in Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. A simple grave marker of marble is decorated with roses and bears her name, dates of birth and death, and the inscription Blessed By The Glory Of God. 

 

As I walked slowly and thoughtfully, sometimes I would stop to take a picture. Turning a corner, to my surprise often a vista of tombs would spread before me. And almost nobody was there but me and some attendants working the grounds. The air was perfect on my skin and blue sky with occasionally fluffy clouds overhead. I could almost hear myself think.

To my surprise, at one point I found a block of grave cells slightly smaller and noticed they were for the pequeños niños, little children. Stuffed toys were seen in many with endearing notes. Some didn't have date of birth, only death.

An old horse drawn hearse. Cuenca Cemetery.

In the afternoon, I set off in the familiar direction of downtown but angled onto a street I had not been. A long wall two stories high without windows had a small single entrance. A couple were coming out the door. They looked like tourists. I stopped and peeked past the threshold. It seemed the museum was full of religious objects. I was not sure I wanted to pay for entry. It was cloudy and about to rain. Perhaps because I was exploring and not in a rush, I entered. 

Staging of a nun, at work with textiles.

  Immediately I began relishing the place—formerly called Convent of the Immaculate Conception, begun in the year 1599. There are two stories surrounding an inner courtyard open to the sky above. The second floor has an open hall with railing that goes completely around the courtyard and you can look down upon it, with the trees, shrubs and flowers and tidy order of it all. The wood floors and stairs are smooth and polished from wear, as well as the stone floors on the ground level. I imagined all the feet that tread there, and the footsteps of the nuns and sisters. So much devotion had occurred in the spot that I felt blessed being there, as if absorbing spiritual vibrations where the closely knit devotees of Christ for hundreds of years dwelled their hours, years and sometimes, lives. I imagined their tight bound community and the rituals they obeyed in sisterhood. 

San Rafael and Tobias sculptures

The collections are made up of 64 paintings of religious themes and about 250 religious and costumed sculptures, as well as toys, furniture and handicrafts. What particularly struck me were incredible sculptures depicting saints. Made by mostly anonymous artisans, they all had great feeling and conveyed a master touch to bring out devotion in the viewer. A few were playful. Some figures were wood, others fired clay and painted to be lifelike. They might even have human hair and glass eyes.

By the time I left, I had gone slowly throughout the former convent, and taken many pictures. Fully satisfied, I made it home before the rain.

In The Current

I am an artist and particularly notice patterns and textures of life. I can feel blessed and happy even in poor, chaotic environments that would make someone else frustrated and angry. My eyes delight in discolored and cracking walls with paint splatters and drips, graffiti, derelict doorways, shadows and stark light, crowded busses and trains—all hold fascination for me. 

The streets are alive with the activities of man and I jump in the current, taking my photos, making paintings and drawings and constantly being inspired.  

When I arrived in Quito, Ecuador from Mexico, I had to adjust to cloudy weather and very high elevation. Ecuador is home to some of the highest volcanoes and mountain peaks in the world. Quito, the capital, has an altitude of around 9,000 feet, (3,000m). My first experiences were gritty and I was a bit dismayed. But probably tired from travel and needing to adjust. As I dug deeper, more gems appeared from the rough. The historical center is captivating with centuries old architecture, massive basilicas and cobbled streets crammed with shops. I melded in and took street photos. 

A man at Catholic mass, listening to singing.

A great museum experience was Capilla del Hombre (Chapel of Man), devoted to the work one artist: Oswaldo Guayasamin,  (July 6, 1919 – March 10, 1999). master painter and sculptor of Quechua and Mestizo heritage and Native of Quito. 

I did not paint while in Quito for I was in a hotel room and stayed five days. Now I am in Cuenca and will be in the south of Ecuador for about two weeks so will resume painting. Need to find an art supply store first!











See Steven Boone art

No Hay Problema

Television has disappeared from my life entirely in Mexico and I don't miss it. Time is spent being creative—painting, shooting street photography and processing the pictures, studying Spanish, writing, doing inner practices that are transforming. 

If I want news, I go online and read the New York Times.

The local produce is great. For breakfast, eggs, bacon and toast with fresh coffee. Usually no lunch, maybe a pastry with coffee after nap, and dinner is whatever I pick up fresh during the day.

I went out for “desayuno”, breakfast, today for the first time in over two weeks. The little restaurant across the street beckoned me and I had huevos rancheros, toast and coffee. Then I came back to my apartment and did laundry in the kitchen sink. No hay problema. 

The weather has been sublime, and each day as I walk the city streets the air touches me with gentle warmth as slight breezes play. I love the light. Especially splashed across the brightly colored walls and cobbled walks and streets.

Today is Saturday. Yesterday I stopped painting since I leave on Monday for Ecuador and the panels need to dry, which takes a few days. I have more time to walk about. This morning I found arts & crafts fairs, street festivals, farmers markets with live musicians . . . so much going on and people in festive moods. I bought a hand made leather journal with blank pages to write my “notes to God”. I had the good fortune to purchase it from the man who made it. It is leather and embossed with stylized dancing figures. My current one began September 8, 2009. It is a little red leather bound book with strap. Just for inner talk with God. Other journals are for anything.

At the farmers market all sorts of fresh organic foods were being offered, along with native home made Mexican cuisine, hand made salsas, jams, breads, and such.

Back at the apartment, I got into a text conversation with Therese at my gallery. At that moment, a woman was considering purchasing a painting. We typed a couple texts about price and shipping, and then the woman bought the painting. Satisfying, especially since in Santa Fe it is the slowest tourist part of the year and the Boone Gallery is only open part time. Also because the painting was made during my stay in Venice, Italy, last year. This confirms for me that I am blessed to be able to go anywhere and paint the scenery. People enjoy this.

Venice painting

A nap, then out on the streets again—walking for miles. I have become familiar with and know major landmarks like Plaza Principal at the city heart where the big “Templo” stands. I try to walk places I have not been. This afternoon I found a marvelous old church, Templo de San Juan de Dios. The place was empty and I had it to myself. Light was pouring in from stained glass windows high above, casting soft glowing colors on the warm white walls. Jesus figures, created lovingly and given great feeling were there, along with Mary sculptures. The floors under the humble wooden pews are marble and decorative. I lingered, shot photos and felt holiness.

Later, on the street again, aroma from a shop selling rotisserie roasted chickens over wood fire stopped me. For about $2.50 I bought half a chicken, with roasted potatoes and green chile thrown in for good measure. I tied the bag to my belt and walked on. At Plaza Principal, great festivities were in swing. Mariachi musicians, balloon sellers, children playing, a clydesdale horse, and a donkey decorated with flowers. Flower garlands were popular with the females who put them on their heads with smiles and laughter. Muy bonita! 

Flower garlands, waiting to crown a head.

As I was heading home, a little girl was suddenly by my side. Her poor peasant family was at the curb. She pointed to my bag of chicken and sheepishly held out her hand. No hay problema. I gave her part of my supper. 

And that is the way of life down here in Mexico.

Link  to paintings by Steven Boone

Travel Is Surprise

A great joy of travel is surprise. For instance when I decided I wanted to visit Egypt, it was not long after 911. Several of the terrorists who hijacked the jet planes and flew them into the world trade towers were Egyptian. There was some hysteria about flying in airplanes, let alone going to Egypt. Thoughts came to mind that as an obvious American I might be kidnapped, tortured etc. I decided to go anyway because it is practically the cradle of the world. Surprise! Great kindness and appreciation awaited. Strangers on bicycles would wave as they passed by on the street, shouting in English, “Welcome to Egypt.” Now, when people ask what is my favorite place of all the countries I have traveled, Egypt is with a couple others at the top. I still have friends in Luxor who are like family.

Father and son musicians, Guanajuato City, Mexico

"The Note" 16x12 inches, oil on board

I am at present in Mexico, a country that has had bad publicity up north. President elect Trump has promised to wall off the entire border. Names have been called. Some people, including a Mexican friend, advised not to visit for fear of harm.

In Guanajuato City and now San Miguel De Allende I have met with nothing but warmth, good will and welcome. The cities remind me of Spain, especially Granada where I have lived. People are earthy, and of practical nature. They seem genuinely interested in me, and want me to like their homeland.

In Rio De Janeiro, Brazil, I had the trust and surprise thing going, but several times as I wandered the streets, locals would grab my arm and tell me it was dangerous to walk about as I was. So far in Mexico, at least in the towns I have lived, I can step in THE DREAM safely.

 

 

Typical street, San Miguel De Allende, Mexico

Heart Connected To Place

 

I am among Mexicans now. Each day I walk the cobbled streets and walkways of Guanajuato City where I am living. All manner of people greet me and I find if I make eye contact and smile even a little, a warm acknowledgement occurs with reciprocation.

The narrow passages wind about, and when I stop to buy meat at a carniceria (butcher shop), stop in a farmacia for personal incidentals, buy fruit or vegetables at a stand or pick up bread at a paneria, I get by with the little Spanish I know. If I don't understand the exact amount I owe, I reach in my pocket and pull out my change and they take the coins needed and wave me off with a smile.
Everything is cheaper than in the USA.

Tonight, Saturday, I wandered into the city centre (about a ten minute walk) and found street performers, happy crowds of families, all types of people, and roving groups of singers dressed in spectacular costumes with instruments entertaining groups of spectators, getting them to join in singing familiar songs.

I am quickly coming under the spell of this vibrant city. The quicker I assimilate into the culture, the happier I am. I don't like playing “tourist.”

Today I started a painting of a Mexican man leaning against a wall, wearing a broad brimmed hat, looking down at a paper in his hand. A flower pot with blooming plants is next to him and doorway behind. I have made my kitchen into an impromptu studio—it has a big table, is spacious with large windows lending plenty of light.

I am indulging my passion for street photography. Setting forth walking, sometimes for hours I disappear into the path ahead, rambling, only aware of light, texture, sound, the motions of people and the congruence of forms. It is easy to slip into THE DREAM. I am not aware of myself as separate; I am what I see as boundaries disappear. I enjoy taking my chances with odd pictures and look for poignant fleeting images that come and go quickly.

Sometimes I am surrounded by people with cameras, often smartphones attached to the end of sticks so they can take "selfies." I have no interest in this and I do not try and take great tourist pictures. There are photographers with much better equipment and more camera knowledge than I who will always do better. What I bring is my own way of seeing, and a heart connected to place.

Being in THE HEART

In the past I have been able to venture into foreign lands and get lost in the culture and landscape. I want to continue being a free spirit as I travel south in a few days to Mexico and then further to Ecuador. To be free means abandoning an identity that tethers me to a race, nationality, gender or any other limitation of circumstance. It means being in THE HEART, pulsing in rhythm with the beat of wherever I find myself. And I like finding myself in unexpected places. 

So many experiences come to mind. Some I call THE DREAM, because they take me into enchantment. For instance walking across Piazza del Popolo in Rome and having an epiphany of time and place as I stepped over cobblestones under the Egyptian obelisk of Ramesses II from Heliopolis. Or riding a camel at the foot of the pyramids in Giza, Egypt and nothing could tell me I was not a nomad of ancient days. Pressing flesh with Masai tribes people, we smiled together as I experienced their Africa. Living in a houseboat floating on a lake bestrewn with water lilies at the foot of the Himalaya Mountains in Kashmir, India, or getting lost in the great cities of the world, roaming the streets and taking photos in chance places with unexpected outcomes keeps me in THE DREAM.

When I leave the USA I hope to accept bewilderment and then discover life is wonderment when surrendered to SPIRIT.