Haze of Reminiscence

Image by Sabrina B. from Pixabay

The girl always closed her eyes when the Phantom came for her.

When she didn’t see the Cavern walls around her, she could forget that the Horse Trainer may no longer be alive. She could forget that even if he were, the Horse Trainer would not be as she once knew him.

With her eyes shut, she could fall into the fantasy and allow his Phantom to consume her.

When she didn’t see him, his touch went deeper and his smell transported her to the summer she learned what it was to feel joy. The Phantom could have her any way he wanted, so long as her craving was satisfied and the throbbing of her empty space quiet.

It was the only time she felt whole.

In the early weeks, she detested the lessons.

The Sorcerer with his pointer and his easel was a reality she couldn’t deny.

Many weeks passed before she finished the first assignment and gave in to her own pleasure. It was a revelation when the inner fortress she lived in all her life crumbled once she did.

The Sorcerer never had to teach her anything twice after that.

Most of his lectures had little to do with carnal skill.

Her mentor was adamant that seduction must begin in the mind before the body would surrender or the heart would be claimed.

As she listened to him talk about the greatest lovers in history, the girl realized it was the Sorcerer who was seducing her, even if he needed the essence of the Trainer to do so.

She also understood that, for all his knowledge, there was only one truth.

She would never gain mastery over another until she was mistress over herself.

This lesson was the most difficult.

Every time the Phantom came for the girl, her self-command dissolved in the throbbing of her hollow.

She began keeping her eyes open when they made love.

She was frightened the first time she witnessed his surrender. She even had to fight the urge to close her eyes and fall back into fantasy.

Then she became fascinated with his pleasure, exploring ways she could bring him to higher peaks.

The first time her Phantom Lover surrendered to an ecstasy she orchestrated, the thrill spread through her body. That climax was like nothing she dreamed possible, the tingling exploding until both body and mind were shattered.

Then she came back stronger.

Her appetite for lovemaking became insatiable.

The girl and her Phantom Lover made a game out of it, a competition to be the one to bring the other to the edge, only to send them into the abyss and fall in afterwards.

They laughed often, for pleasure was assured.

But the girl couldn’t get enough of that feeling when it was she who brought the Phantom to surrender.

The girl often had to fight to keep her hold on reality when fantasy threatened to intrude.

Sometimes she almost succumbed to the belief the Phantom was the Horse Trainer. When he looked at her a certain way or kissed her with more tenderness than ardor, but especially when he laughed, he was so much like her friend that joy burst inside the girl, and she embraced the Phantom as her beloved.

But waking up to the Sorcerer always reminded her of what she was really doing. 

Finally her loathing disappeared.

As summer drew to a close, she had a sentiment akin to gratitude when she saw the Sorcerer.

Her days transformed along with her nights from the time their arrangement began.

A few weeks after she started going to the Caverns, the girl went for her late afternoon ride, but changed course. Instead of going south through the village or west towards the Ancient Grove, she steered the horse east of the manor and followed the river winding through a young forest.

She didn’t know what compelled her to go to this place where she hadn’t been in years.

She used to come here with the Horse Trainer on those afternoons they weren’t inclined to go to the Abandoned Valley. She hadn’t been back since he was gone.

In these woods, the Trainer had introduced her to the ways of the wanderer.

The unlikely mentorship started because she didn’t believe his stories about stowing away in the lowest reaches of the ships, escaping from angry sheikhs, and traveling across deserts by camel.

She didn’t think such adventures were possible for a penniless vagabond. She remembered how ashamed she’d been when she saw the outrage in his eyes.

The Trainer had noticed and smiled.

“I’m a lot of things,” he’d said. “But I’m no liar. I dare you to find out just how wrong you are, little Miss.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can show you how a man can live off nothing. You just have to be willing to learn.”

During the rest of that summer, she often regretted accepting that challenge.

Those were the only lessons she struggled with in her life.

The Trainer didn’t make it easy for her, and she hated him whenever he laughed at her. But he taught her everything he knew.

He showed her how to make a pole and line to catch fish, how to shoot a rifle, even how to hunt with a knife if that was all she had.

He insisted she skin her own kills and cook the meat in a skillet over a fire, which he also taught her to make.

He instructed her in building a camp when she had something to work with, and even when she had nothing.

It took the entire summer for her to master these strange skills, but these lessons gave her the most gratification of everything she’d ever learned.

She hadn’t thought about that season for years, pushing those days to the furthest recesses of her mind.

But as she cantered the reddish brown steed around the bend of the river, she kept her eye out for their favorite fishing spot.

Their poles were still there.

The long sticks were leaned against the tree, as if they were waiting for them to return and cast their lines.

She dismounted from her horse and picked up the pole she’d struggled to carve until it was right. She bent it slightly and chuckled when the wood split down the middle.

She wasn’t at all surprised when she tried the Trainer’s pole and found it still strong and flexible.

The girl hesitated for just an instant before throwing off her skirts and jacket. Clad in peasant breeches and a blouse, she crouched and clawed through the mud for worms.

Before long, she had her line cast in the river and after an hour, she pulled in her first catch.

Practicing these forgotten skills, the past intertwined with the present to bring her a peace she hadn’t known in too long.

The girl often looked around. The Trainer’s presence so strong she almost expected to find him.

But the memories were enough. 

The Artist Consumed

Image by amurca from Pixabay

I needed to calm myself, to make sense of everything I had heard.

I pulled out my cache of sketches and singled out every one I had done of Woman in those pieces of memory of her that were so vivid, those images etched for eternity into my mind.

I looked through each one, especially of that first night when she was anguished and desperate.

I thought back to that moment when I saw her in the lair of Ella Bandita, the heart of the Wanderer in her hand, while the hearts of all the men she had conquered howled around us.

The raw hunger in her face revealed the kind of desperation that belonged to a predator.

As Woman had taught me that first night, I put my fingers to my throat where my pulse beat in a steady rhythm, and took a few minutes to listen to my heart.

Then I started to draw.

Using the colored pencils Adrianna had given me, I sketched everything that came to mind from Adrianna’s stories - Addie, the Patron’s Daughter, the Noble Son, the Brute, and even the Sorcerer of the Caverns.

All of them were drawn in the backdrop of the fields, the ostentatious Big House, the spartan cabin, the river, and the woods of the Ancient Grove.

I drew the vivid scenes that lingered long after the stories were finished, imagining what they had all been like in that moment.

I imagined the Sorcerer as the cunning manipulator he had to have been, as well as the benevolent mentor to a desperate, young peasant named Addie.

I drew the monstrous behemoth of the Brute with his crude features and cold-blooded gaze.

I drew the haughty and spoiled Patron’s Daughter riding around the fields, with the Noble Son at her side; her expression was smug with a gleam of cruelty in her small, blue eyes as she gloated over Addie with a smirk.

In that sketch, the focus was only on her.

Addie and the Noble Son reduced to blurred, faceless beings, for in this scene, they didn’t matter; the only player who did was the Patron’s Daughter.

I drew a scene at the moment when the Patron’s Daughter spurned a gentleman who had just asked her to marry him. The malicious glee in her face made her radiant while the rejected gentleman was stripped of his dignity, his shoulders fallen and his head bowed low.

Although I had no urge to depict the raunchy intimacies of the Patron’s Daughter with the Brute, I did a close up portrait of her expression in one of those moments.

With the mingling of pain and pleasure, the Patron’s Daughter looked like a patient in an asylum with her face contorted from agony, the glassy eyes, flushed cheeks, and spittle at the corners of her mouth.

Yet she still seemed hungry.

Then I imagined the scene at the river.

I made the figures shadowy as the naked Patron’s Daughter raged over the collapsed form of a sobbing Addie.

Then I drew the Patron’s Daughter and Addie sitting side by side at the river as she confided her reasons for craving the cruelty and humiliation the Brute offered.

There was bewilderment on Addie’s face, but serenity in the Patron’s Daughter.

Then I drew only Addie in various portraits.

I drew her while she toiled in the fields, imagining the tight clamp of her mouth and the bitterness in her eyes.

I drew her while she yearned for the Noble Son, her eyes wide and sparkling from desire, and the dreamy hope that often came with desire.

I sketched her while she grieved and despaired after the Noble Son had gone.

I drew the hatred and envy in Addie as the Patron’s Daughter rode past her, while she toiled in the fields.

I made many likenesses of her, doing the best I could with the homely face and powerful form she described. But I focused mostly on her eyes and the emotions reflected there, her rage, powerlessness, resentment, and that obsession for something better.

I didn’t know if I got her features right, so I concentrated on capturing the essence of an embittered, envious peasant who would have stopped at nothing to escape her miserable fate.

I worked from dawn to dusk, often getting up earlier and staying awake later.

I worked all over the Casa, in the Joy Parlor, in the back patio, the garden during warmer afternoons, and in the theater whenever Adrianna was not there.

Servants, the young courtesans, and a few of the artistic protégées passed me often while I worked. They peered over my shoulder, and made vague expressions of appreciation of the drawings.

I was too consumed with my work to hear or respond, but nobody took offense. Any time I was absorbed in a scene, I couldn’t rest until I was satisfied.

I didn’t stop drawing until I distinguished the story of Addie from the story of Woman.

There was no denying the two women were so much alike.

But their histories were separate, happened at different times, and one didn’t lead to the other.

Finally, I was done.

I made twenty drawings.

When I looked up I had no idea if the darkness was because it was late at night or early in the morning.

4 Things You Can Do Every Day to Get What You Want!

Calling in the year 2014 was the most powerful New Year’s of my life. The Inspire Truth New Year’s was a two-day event, dedicated to healing, magic, the arts, all things creative, and meeting our potential as human beings.  

The New Year’s Eve spectacle took place at the Portland Art Museum, with various dj’s bands, dancers, performers, and all around magic happening on various rooms on 3 floors, and this party went on until 4:30 in the morning.

On the main stage on the top floor, Alex and Allyson Gray, and Eric Nez were the artists who made fresh paintings on either side of a stage as the dancers, performers, djs, and bands changed every hour. There were also at least 1000 people in that room hooting and hollering and dancing, along with loud music. The party was on fire. Their concentration was formidable, and damn, if they didn’t have a fresh work of art done at the end of the night!

At the side edges of the stage, crowds of people watched, enraptured at the artists at work, especially in front of Alex Gray. He was the psychedelic superstar who maps intricate details of the body along with energy centers, and sacred geometry. He is a psychedelic superstar, and it was an honor to watch him work.

The splendor of that night is impossible to describe, just like it was impossible to experience everything offered that night. I had a magical time from beginning to end. Even the Max train ride back to my part of town in the early hours of morning was incredible.

Yet, as spectacular as it was to call in the New Year, what made that event powerful were the offerings on New Year’s Day. These events were low-key.

Of course, I was exhausted. I didn’t make it to the Yoga Sun Salutation of doing 108 Sun Salutations to start 2014. After a few hours of sleep, I came for the Ecstatic Dance, and made it to the talk that Alex and Allyson Gray gave on New Year’s Day.

They talked about all kinds of things. But the part of their talk that I have never forgotten was the best, the simplest, and the most elegant advice on resolutions – New Year’s or otherwise – I had ever heard.

“You can have anything you want,” said Alex Gray. “But there are 4 things you must do to make what you want happen.”

So here are their simple, elegant, and effective 4 steps to manifesting anything you desire.

1)    Define your goal/want and write it down. Keep it simple. By doing this, you do this, you take your goal/want out of the ethers of your coulda-shoulda-woulda and make it real. Again, keep it simple. No more than 1 sentence. You only have to do this once per goal/want.

2)   Do something towards that goal/want EVERY SINGLE DAY. You can’t make your goals and manifest your wants if you don’t actively work on them. But some days can be light. For instance, researching something or reading a book that gleans knowledge and helps you gain information about your goal/desire counts.

3)   Before you fall asleep at night, reflect on 3 challenges you met or overcame. 3 things that went well, difficulties overcome, etc. EVERY SINGLE DAY. This doesn’t have to be centered on your goal/desire. This can be about anything. What I like about this step is that it builds empowerment, a belief in yourself, and confidence.

4)   First thing when you wake up in the morning, as soon as you remember to do it, is to think about 3 things you’re grateful for EVERY SINGLE DAY. The gratitude that ends this list and starts the day kicks the brain into a positive thinking mode immediately, and cuts out negativity. It works. Even if I woke up mad or moody, I remembered 3 gratitudes and immediately felt so much better. By the way, this step is the most difficult to remember and the easiest to neglect.

So there you have it. This can be applied to anything. Do these four steps EVERY SINGLE DAY, and achieve all your goals and manifest all your wants. Alex and Allyson Gray swear by it and they have enjoyed a mad level of success.

Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 2 - Riding the Edge of Pain and Pleasure

Photo by Rok Romih from Pexels

To swim in skins is to ride the edge between pleasure and pain. At least it is when the water remains above 50°.

The water is excruciating when we first step in, my swim buddy and I. We wade in to our hips and waist, and wait through the pain until the numbness sets in. It doesn’t help that the day is blowing.  

I don’t know what’s worse, the freeze of the water permeating my legs and belly or the wind cutting into the flesh of my chest and back. 

At last I’m numb enough to thrust my hands in, and the pain resurrects.

I don’t resist the urge to scream and cuss all over again. I swear a lot, hollering at the top of my lungs, during those first moments in the water.

It seems an eternity before my hands get numb enough to step in deeper to my shoulders. The armpits are another area of agony until I acclimate to the cold of the river.

Finally, it’s time for the brain freeze. I dunk and swim on my back for the final torture. With the water in the 50’s, I can still bear to swim with no bathing cap.

Those minutes with my head immersed in the river seem like hours because it hurts like a motherfucker. I feel like my brain is turning to ice from the back of my skull and through my ears.

Again, it seems like forever until my body and brain adjusts to the cold. 

But once I am, bring on the maniac bliss.

That moment when pleasure comes to reconcile with pain is like no other. 

Once that switch is flipped, I remember why I do this.

In that moment, I understand why people are into BDSM. The presence of agony makes ecstasy that much sharper and sweeter.

Coincidentally, my swim buddy is really into kink.

How do I know that?

It’s remarkable the subjects that come up during that hour of rewarming on the beach after the swim. Besides, most people I know in the BDSM community are open about their sexuality, and more comfortable with the subject than we vanilla folks.

I found her when the water was still in the 60’s.

When the river was still in the 60’s, after adjusting to the temp, the water felt nothing but good and refreshing, and I could easily swim for an hour, 1 mile+.

But even when the water was in the 60’s and it was still safe for me to swim solo, I could feel the temperature dropping, and knew I needed to make some new friends.

I joined some wild swimming groups on Facebook. Wild swimming is having a moment due to the pandemic since the public pools in Portland have been shut down for months.

Truly nice folks too, but most of them were straight.

I got it in my head that it would be pretty awesome to find that sweet spot, the intersection between gay lady swimmers (I saw plenty at the pools when they were open) and those who want to get frigid and explore their edges.

So in October, I posted in a couple of lesbian Facebook groups an open invitation to freeze their asses off with me as we acclimated to winter swimming in the Columbia.

As far as the comments were concerned, there was lots of enthusiasm.

“Water is Life! I love swimming, but I need to recover from dental surgery.”

“I’m DEFINITELY interested. But my work schedule is crazy right now!”

“I love this idea! But I can’t join you until the end of the month!”

For all the chatter, the only queer who showed up was the kinky one.

My swim buddy thinks I’m in denial about being vanilla.

“You must like pain some if you’re into this,” she quips. “Because this hurts like hell.”

Not anymore it doesn’t.

I’m giddy riding that edge of pleasure and pain, and the rush is exquisite.

Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

The endorphins pouring from my brain flood my body, the high runs amok like a hyperactive rugrat on the last day of school, drunk with dreams of summer freedom and the pure euphoria of possibility.

On that particular day, the boats go past and the planes fly right over our heads as they always do. It so happens that the beach where we access the river is close to the airport. The sonic roar of the planes add yet another lunatic edge to winter swimming. Even with my head immersed, the muffled growl of aviation sounds through vibration in water.

But the wind is what makes this day stand out, to make a memory forever etched inside my soul. The river is raucous and makes waves to crash over us. It’s hardly with the force of the ocean, but it’s enough to convince me I’m invincible. 

I’m not, of course. But I savor that illusion and leap into the yummy, frolicking with the waves like a clumsy dolphin tripping on magic mushrooms.

“Look at us! We are such bad asses! Oh Hell Fucking YEAH!”

My swim buddy looks as blissed out as I am, but she is a little more measured in her delight. She’s also not as strong a swimmer as I am.

I’ve been swimming since infancy. She didn’t learn until adulthood.

We thrash around and swim for roughly 30-40 minutes. I swim about a ½ mile, but I don’t get too far from my swim buddy. We are there for each other’s safety after all.

At last, it’s time to get out. I’m so numb I can’t feel my body. It’s the closest to an out-of-body experience I’ve ever come as we stagger to our shelter.

We have a grace period of about 10 minutes to get dressed before the chilled blood in our extremities hits our core and our body temperature is officially dropped. 

It’s a wrestling match to get dressed in multiple layers when my hands and fingers don’t work as they usually do. Somehow I manage, and start sipping my HOT tea in an attempt to stave off the shivers.

Nothing compares to being cold from the inside out.

There are not enough layers to give relief, nor enough blankets. I could be prepared for an arctic expedition and I’d still feel like I was freezing as the shivers start. 

The wind makes things even more obnoxious on this day. As much of a struggle to put it up before we got in the river, my swim buddy and I find that the shelter is hopelessly inadequate on this day for rewarming.

What we need is a 3-season tent to give some respite from the elements. Instead, the flaps slap around us, while slivers of sharp wind pierce through us.

It is possible we stayed in the water a little too long.

My shivers quake me to the core. So violent I shake I can barely sip from my thermos.

“Goddammit!!!” 

There’s also lots of swearing as we make our way back to normal body temperature. That takes much longer than it does to get cold.

My swim buddy fares no better as she hunches over, desperate to warm her core.

“I don’t think I want to be friends with you anymore. You make me too cold!”

Of course, she’s only kidding.

Between the cold of my innards, the incessant trembling, and the merciless wind whipping through the shelter, this scene is so unreal I can’t stop laughing. Nor can my swim buddy.

The discomfort is savage. And amazing.

We feel alive.

I savor the wretchedness.

It reminds me of those years I lived in Alaska, and how humbling it is to face the force of nature. It’s a grand awareness to know I’m tiny, insignificant when confronted with something so much greater and stronger than I.

As we always do, my swim buddy and I talk about embarrassing and personal subjects, while shivering and laughing and drinking hot tea.

Today was the most difficult and challenging swim we’ve had thus far as we acclimate to winter swimming.

We snuggle to give each other warmth, yet it still takes 1½ hours before our core body temp is warm enough for us to leave.

As my swim buddy and I go our separate ways, I’m beside myself with elation.

When the temperature of the water is in the 50’s, cold-water swimming is hella fun.

I can’t wait to do that again.

To read Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 1, click HERE.

The Start of Sumptuous Delights

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

The scene that awaited us was like nothing I had ever seen.

I heard the music first.

Then Adrianna opened the double doors leading to the back patio, and the muffled trills and strums of the mandolin exploded into a sprawling echo as we stepped into the sudden chill of winter air.

The speckled pink of the foyer was replicated in the marble floor and pillars of the terrace that faced east.

On this night, how could one believe spring was near?

Snow came down in thick chunks that made a meadow stretching beyond the patio of the Casa, white drifts scattered along the patio edge.

The blanket of snow contained the sights, sounds, and scents within the terrace, so nothing was lost. No thrill of the senses would dissipate.

Any remaining sleepiness I might have had was gone.

The romantic ballad soared through the spacious back patio that stretched under the northern wing of the Casa.

We were spared the hard cold of marble with a trail of thick rugs the color of wine to cushion our feet all the way to where we would dine for the evening.

Adrianna’s household had created a sanctuary of warmth from the tenacious hold of winter at the heart of the patio.

There stood an enormous, open, square fireplace. Iron mesh curtains hung on all sides to contain the flaming spits of wood crackling off a mountain of logs.

Plump chimineas circled from one side of the hearth to the other, and the smaller blazes within made a ring of fire around a sumptuously relaxed haven.

There were plenty of lounging chairs and loveseats, small tables within easy reach, and plenty of pillows and thick fur blankets, anything we could possibly need for our comfort.

As if all this wasn’t enough, a dozen stewards dressed in gray uniforms surrounded the chimineas and the hearth. Half tended to the fires, while the other half slowly waved giant fans into our gathering place.

I finally saw the source of the exquisite music.

Three older girls were seated close together in front of the chimineas opposite the hearth.

Dressed in demure cream-colored gowns, their heads bowed low while their dainty fingers deftly tickled the strings and rode the necks of their mandolins, intent only on the trembling vibrations.

The players were unique in that they were female and quite young.

I had never seen women hired as public musicians, much less girls.

The Wanderer and I glanced at each other.

Could they possibly be under Adrianna’s tutelage?

The trio was extremely talented, yet also extremely awkward. The girls lacked the beauty and poise one would expect from an apprentice training in the pleasure arts.

Seated closer to the fireplace, and facing us, two comely young women stood up from their divans as we approached.

Dressed in diaphanous gowns that seemed to float about them, they were definitely courtesan protégées. Both smiled winsomely as we approached.

We followed Adrianna into the circle, and warmth enveloped me like a heavy blanket. Heat flowed to us in gentle waves from the steady back and forth of the giant fans of the stewards.

Adrianna’s protégées flanked her on each side.

“May I present Celia and Astrid to you? These are the most gifted protégées I’ve had in a long time.”

Following a wave of her mentor’s hand, Celia came forward.

A beauty with thick, coppery hair, she had a wide, generous mouth, long limbs, and a slender figure. The filmy red gold fabric of her gown drifted around her.

I was startled when she stepped close to the Wanderer and boldly kissed his cheek. Yet he returned the intimate greeting, while her lips lingered longer than was necessary.

I stiffened when she turned towards me.

Celia kept a polite distance and smiled, her tone as warm as the fires around us when she spoke.

“It is my privilege to make your acquaintance, Sir Shepherd.”

Then Adrianna beckoned Astrid.

Her allure was subtle in contrast to the blatant sensuality of Celia.

With her pale brown hair, powdery skin, and delicate hands, Astrid had a saintly air more than a harlot’s, even while dressed in sheer watery green that revealed hints of the petite figure underneath.

With a bravado that was surprising in one who appeared so fragile, Astrid came to me with an outstretched hand.

Her confidence was so absolute I gripped her palm without thinking.

“I’m honored to meet you, Sir Shepherd.”

She had a sweet voice, Astrid did. Everything about her was so angelic, her presence in this Casa was bizarre.

“Neither of you need address me as ‘sir.’ It’s strange.”

“Mi’Lady insists we address you with honor,” Celia replied.

“We appreciate the compliment,” the Wanderer added. “But I agree with Shepherd. It doesn’t feel right.”

Adrianna shrugged.

“As you gentlemen wish. We only want you to feel at ease.”

Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 1

So my latest hobby is wild winter swimming. The Rona pandemic has a lot to do with that. But I think Wim Hof may also be partly to blame.

Then there is the endorphin rush. That definitely keeps me hooked. Fortunately, the high of happy hormones hits while swimming, and that matters a lot.

Right now, the water hurts bad. So bad.

Because all the pools are shut down in Oregon, as well as most of the dance events that have kept me sane, I started swimming in the lakes and rivers in the middle of summer.

That got interrupted with the fires that gave Portland the distinction of the worst air quality in the country. After the air was breathable again, I went back to swimming at the end of September with the intention to see how far I could go into winter swimming.

So far, so good. 

I go swimming in the Columbia River that cuts the border between Washington and Oregon. The water was just under 41° the last time I went swimming. With water that cold, the best I can hope for is numbness that makes the brief swim tolerable. 

The water is supposed to be between 40-41° today and just over 41° tomorrow.

As I write this, it’s New Year’s Eve and I have yet to do my dip.

I’ll probably go right after writing this draft because I’ll be too f*cking cold when I’m done, and will need a couple of hours to rewarm.

I’ll also go again on New Year’s Day to start out 2021 with a fresh freezing baptism to christen and cleanse myself.

I like to approach certain occasions with rituals. Rituals add richness and depth to the mundane; I would even say they add meaning.  

But back to winter swimming because this is not a blog about New Year’s resolutions.

By wild winter swimming, I refer to swimming in “the skins” as people say in the wild swimming world. I wear a bathing suit, bathing cap, goggles, and water shoes.

Thus far, I have not utilized neoprene to protect me from the cold.

Although I must admit I’m tempted to get gloves because the water really hurts my hands. Dunking my hands is the worst part. It’s harder than walking in the water to my waist, and it’s harder than fully dunking and swimming.

Unfortunately, the hands are a vital source of information. Through the hands and fingers, I can determine how cold it is. The basic test is tapping thumb to each of the fingers for dexterity.

Once the cold is too much, one can’t do that – and it’s definitely time to get out of the water ASAP. I don’t go that far. I get out once my hands start feeling stiff. I don’t think it’s wise to push it beyond being able to touch my fingers at all.

It’s too easy to stay in too long.  

My sense of time – which is excellent in normal conditions – goes awry in the cold water. 10 minutes often feels like half that much.

And believe it or not, once the endorphins hit, I want to stay in that freezing water.  

One day, I stayed in a little too long and my lips were blue for about 15 minutes while rewarming.

I only need to go once a week to keep my body acclimated to the cold. And sometimes, once a week is all I can manage. I have to go today (December 31st) if I want to stay acclimated because it’s been a week since the last time I went.

It’s an incredible way to cleanse off the chaos of this past year. 

But why am I doing this?

1) I actually enjoy feeling a little uncomfortable. My life is soft, so filled with comfort and convenience – even now, with the pandemic. There is something about subjecting myself to the elements and the brutality of nature that puts the edge back in.

2) And there’s the pandemic. This is what the Rona has brought me to after the entire world has been shut down. Most of my favorite things to do – like Ecstatic Dance, Contact Improv, and travel – are off the table until Covid-19 is under control. So I started swimming in the middle of summer, and got a wild hair to see how far I could take it into the winter 

3) That endorphin rush I mentioned earlier. The mental health benefits can’t be beat because they are immediate. It is absolutely impossible to feel mad, sad, or scared once I step into that water. I’m too busy screaming and cussing as the cold cuts right through me as I make my way in to feel anything else. Everything disappears but the present moment. There’s no room for depression, anxiety, rage, or sorrow.

4) It’s pretty damn good for the physical health too. First, cold water builds up brown fat. The cold transforms white fat to brown fat. Brown fat can be used for heat, energy, and our metabolism. Wim Hof has an exceptionally high amount of brown fat in his system. Second, cold water helps build up the immune system – again pandemic! – which protects us from all the usual viruses including the Rona.

5) I love me a good challenge! I question my sanity every time I go into that water, because it’s so harsh. It makes me feel invincible and I feel like a bad ass every time I do it. Isn’t building confidence and a sense of self good for psychological well-being?

6) Because there’s not much else to do.  All the pools are closed in Multnomah County. All the swimmers hit the rivers and lakes this summer. Many have continued into winter with their wetsuits and neoprene.

But bad asses swim in our skins. Again refer to #5 above.

These are the ways the Rona has forced me to grow.

Cage Escape Quest Dragons Home

Image by Gerhard G. from Pixabay

Cage

Escape

Quest

Dragons

Home

This is the “Inverted C.”

I learned this basic story structure about twenty years ago during a 9-month Writers Workshop at the University of Washington in Seattle.

I really, truly desperately wanted to become a novelist, and I had no idea how to get started.

Being a voracious reader of novels did not make me adept at writing them.

The Inverted C is very similar to the Joseph Campbell’s narrative structure that is known as the Hero’s Journey.

I like the Inverted C because it is simple and flexible.

However, if anybody struggles with a Quest cursed with a sagging middle, the Hero’s Journey would help to flesh out the meat of the story.

The Inverted C is perfect for beginners.

Over the years, I’ve shared this in 5-10 minutes with friends who were natural writers, but didn’t know what to do when it came to structuring a story.

When it comes to the Inverted C:

1. The arc of the entire novel is to fit the curve of the Inverted C;

2. Every chapter is to be structured on the Inverted C;

3. Every character should have an inverted C storyline, even the minor players.

For the purposes of simplicity, I’ll stick with the protagonist.

Cage:  This is where the Protagonist begins.

The Cage could be attractive, the protagonist a Lucky Dude who has everything – beautiful and loving wife/girlfriend (or both), exciting career, beautiful home, Master of the Universe status, etc.

Or the cage could be the prison of misery. A Wretched Dude has a broken spirit, broken bank, addiction, depression, despair, etc.

Escape:  Enter the Intruder and the Protagonist leaves the Cage.

The Intruder can be a friend or a foe. A murderer could kill the Lucky Dude’s beautiful wife/girlfriend (or both), and the character is now kicked out of his Cage of a wonderful life.

Or Wretched Dude could be visited by an angel or a demon (or both) and be challenged to change, heal, grow, or perish. Thus Wretched Dude leaves his miserable life to start the Quest.

Quest: What does Protagonist want?

What does Protagonist yearn for?

No Longer Lucky Dude wants vengeance for his dead and beautiful wife/girlfriend (or both). So he has to find the killer, find why the killer chose him and his loved ones, figure out the best revenge for killer, and meet all kinds of characters along the way, one of whom is a Comely Lady Cop.

Wretched But Wanting a Better Life Dude yearns for wholeness, healing, abundance, and redemption. Wretched Dude is in a battle against himself and his inner demons that lead him to make such bad decisions. He still meets friends and foes along the way, those who would help him grow and heal, and those who would keep him stuck, addicted, and toxic. These adventures and journeys make up the bulk of the novel story.

Dragons: The moment of truth.

Challenges/confrontations lead to the Crucial Choice.

Not Lucky Dude finds the killer of his wife/girlfriend (or both), and they battle. He has his chance to torture and kill the killer, and avenge her death (or their deaths). But he has met the Comely Lady Cop is on his tail, knowing that he is on the killer’s tail. Does he let Comely Lady Cop bring killer to justice or does he take it in his own hands?

Not So Wretched Dude has conquered his addictions and is feeling renewed hope in life. He goes to a party to celebrate his acceptance into school, but there are cocaine and a Hooker there. The Hooker’s Pimp is a dealer and it is her job to get Not So Wretched Dude back into his addictions. She pressures him to snort and swallow. Wretched Dude feels an uprising of his self-loathing and takes that silver straw to snort. But then he thinks of all he could have ahead of him. Does he give in to habit and the temptation of his weaknesses, or does he choose redemption and the unknown of a sweeter life?

Home: The destination at the end of the Quest.

Back to the original Cage, on to an open wide Vista, or descending into a deeper and darker Cage.

Has the protagonist changed? Or did the protagonist remain the same?

What did the protagonist learn? Did the protagonist find liberation or did the protagonist die?

Home can be anything from a happy ending to the abyss of despair to emptiness.

Lucky Dude could become Transcendent Dude if he forgives killer enough and chooses a second chance at joy and love with Comely Lady Cop. Or Lucky Dude could become Convict Dude in the Cage of prison by killing killer and getting caught by Comely Lady Cop who lives by her Cop-ly duties even with a man she’s fallen in love with.

Wretched Dude could become Healer Dude if he says no to cocaine and the Hooker, goes on to school, and becomes a therapist. Or Wretched Dude could become Homeless Dude because he succumbs, and goes down the spiral until he loses absolutely everything.

If every chapter and every character has the story curved on an Inverted C, and you’re golden.

This works for short stories, novellas, plays, screenplays, novels, and it would probably work well with poems too.

This is a structure, not a formula.

And it is ancient.

Myths and fairy tales are structured along the Inverted C.

Even Pulp Fiction was told along the Inverted C. Every character in that crazy movie had an Inverted C storyline that was spliced up and rearranged.

Hope this helps. Thank you for reading and happy writing!

The Shepherd Starts to Share...Finally

Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

Adrianna, please understand that Woman whom I loved was never Ella Bandita.

As I said at the beginning, she didn’t become that monster until later.

Over the years, I’ve wondered what my life would have been like if I had made different choices on that fateful night.

Here, Adrianna, you’ve already asked me about this sketch of Woman with blood on her face and holding my littlest lamb.

That is the first of many I drew of her, of us, and of that time in my life.

But what might have been if I had chosen to move on through the night once I realized where I was, in the Abandoned Valley and Ancient Grove of the Sorcerer of the Caverns?

What if I had left rather than stay the night with my flock after I knew I was in dangerous territory?

And what if I had stayed frozen when I woke up in the middle of that night to a young woman screaming from deep inside the Ancient Grove?

Or even if I had chosen to ignore that raging despair, rather than follow the wailing into the trees where I saw her for the first time?

Everything about that scene was bizarre.

A highborn young lady, dressed in elegant finery, pounding her fists against a large granite boulder and screaming for the Sorcerer, as blood covered the lower half of her face and stained her beaded, pale blue gown.

She was so caught up in her anguish, she didn’t notice the Sorcerer floating across the clearing from the trees opposite me until he turned her around and slapped her face.

I did not grow up amongst violent people.

I was so shocked I flinched, while the girl with the bloody face spat at the Sorcerer.

Their ensuing argument made no sense to me at the time, but I could tell that something between them had gone horribly wrong.

“Why did you bring my father into this?” the girl shouted.

“Because I can’t bring it back to life!” the Sorcerer snarled.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your heart. Don’t you remember the request you made about your heart?”

The bloody girl froze. Her fury suddenly gone as confusion shifted to understanding, and finally dismay.

“If you can bring my heart back to life, then you must, Sorcerer. Please. I’m begging you.”

Her pleading fell on deaf ears.

The Sorcerer of the Caverns laughed as he shook her off and turned his back.

But he had finally met his match in this one.

After centuries of preying on the hearts and dreams of young girls and virgin women so he would never die, I was there to witness his fall when the Sorcerer’s last conquest destroyed him.

The Sorcerer waved his hand over the giant boulder the girl had pounded on, which moved to reveal the entry to his underground Caverns.

But the girl with the bloody face grew eerily calm. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a small satchel.

With a pinch of dust from that pouch, she used the Sorcerer’s magic against him and turned him into a slug.

Then she stomped the slug to death.

What would my life have been if I had not seen any of that?

Would I have fallen in love with a robust, country girl with rosy cheeks and a cheerful laugh?

Would I have given up the roaming ways of a Shepherd and settled down to the hard-working farmer’s life?

Would I have had children?

Would I have been happy?

Either way, my time would likely have been more peaceful.

But I didn’t make those other choices. The choices I made that night cast my fate for the rest of my life.

I tried to flee the scene without being detected, but it was no use.

The girl with the bloody face heard me running through the trees, and followed. She caught up with me easily because my small flock had scattered during the night, and I lost precious time gathering them.

I tried to pass myself off as a Shepherd coming through on an overnight run, one who hadn’t seen anything extraordinary.

Of course, she didn’t believe me.

I could feel the tremor of fright in my throat every time I spoke, and my attempts to act casual failed pitifully.

The sketch of her holding my lamb by the throat was the moment she accused me of lying.

I was only nineteen years old that night. Still a boy, not yet a man.

The girl before me was my age, but she had already crossed the threshold into womanhood.

Almost Lovely, Defiant Bride

The Sorcerer held the vial up to the candle, satisfied with how much essence had been drawn from the crude peasant blouse. 

He’d kept it for years before boiling it down. 

Glimpsing at the cauldron, he was satisfied that not even a shred of the garment remained. He had extracted every last drop. 

The Sorcerer swirled the liquid, admiring its hue. Even after several years, the essence of that young man still retained the dark red of virility.  

He knew she would come. 

Yet the sound of her first step gratified. Her gait whispered down the spiraling tunnel. 

The Sorcerer didn’t move, relishing a mounting excitement he hadn’t known in a long time, waiting for the daughter of the village Patron to appear in his Caverns.

She was almost lovely, a bride presenting herself on her wedding night. 

The gown she wore was simple. Pure white muslin with a plunging heart-shaped neckline, the bodice hugging her torso and hips, skirts swelling to her ankles, sleeves flaring from elbow to wrist. 

Her golden hair was braided into a long rope falling to her waist. 

Her only jewelry was the crystal stargaze hung from a silver chain resting above the modest swell of her breasts. 

She stood before him with her shoulders back and head high. Her demeanor was proud, giving the Sorcerer pause before he greeted her.

“I see you didn’t take long to decide.”

“I will accept your offer,” she said.  “But you must agree to one request.”

“Go on.” 

“Before I lay with you, I want you to take my heart.”

The Sorcerer didn’t answer right away.

He stroked his beard peering at her hands; the traitor of nerves. He looked for clenched fists or twitching fingers, and saw her palms lying at her sides, naturally draped in the folds of her skirts. 

“That’s not the way I do things,” he said. “I always take the heart after-”

“Then I will lay with you until I learn every secret you could possibly teach me,” she said, waiting two beats before concluding. 

“And I am sure I will pleasure you greatly.”

This he hadn’t expected. 

The promise made the blood rush in his veins with a quickening he hadn’t had in too long to remember. 

But there was no mistaking her defiance. 

The Sorcerer looked into her eyes, noticing for the first time how blue and clear they were. Their depths were pure ice as she gazed at him, waiting for his answer with a touch of disdain. 

The girl no longer had the despair that sent her to the river, ready to toss her life away.    

The Sorcerer hesitated, uneasy with the sudden change in her. 

Then an image of the girl riding a stallion burst into his mind. 

Legs gripping flanks, her figure formed with the soft curves of a woman and the hard muscles of a peasant. 

She had a sinewy grace unique to a woman, especially when she rode, her body moving in harmony with the beast. 

Years would pass before she learned everything he knew. 

She would belong to him.

“I think we’ve come to an understanding,” he said, holding out his hand.

****

The girl stared into the long white palm of the Sorcerer, bony fingers reaching for her. 

The clutch inside her chest was excruciating. 

An impulse came over her urging her to run up the spiral before the Sorcerer could lock her in the Caverns, and she nearly gave in to the call of fear. 

Then the scent of lilies wafted in her nostrils, the melodious voice of her mother singing in her mind.

“I will be with you always.”

And the girl knew her heart was safe as she placed her hand in his. 

The Sorcerer reached inside the neck of his robes and pulled out his own stargaze. But the only colors were blue and white once the candles’ flame touched the crystal facets. 

The essence swirled around her, making the girl shiver. She tried to pull her hand back, but the Sorcerer kept his hold on her.

“Push out your breath,” he said.

She had no choice. 

The air was drawn out of her when the Sorcerer inhaled long and deep, and he didn’t stop until she was drained.

Otherwise the girl felt nothing when she gave up her heart.

Only the emptiness remained inside her once it was gone, along with a gnawing similar to the one that consumed her when she’d feasted with the Sorcerer two days before. 

She blinked and her hand dropped to her side. 

When she looked again, her heart rested in the hand of the Sorcerer, motionless and silent. 

For once, the girl found the lifelessness of her heart reassuring.

How Can Writers Get Out of Their Heads and Into Their Bodies? DANCE!

I’m really surprised I’ve never written anything about Ecstatic Dance.

I love to write and I love to dance. Dance is good for my writing, so one would think that it would be a natural marriage.

In truth, writing about dancing is extremely awkward for me.

I have loved dancing for a long time - all of it, partner dancing, dance orgies in clubs, getting down to live music. There truly is nothing sweeter than getting a groove on with a live band; in and of itself, that is ecstatic.

During the time I lived in Juneau, Alaska, I got really lucky with the bands who lived and played there. They really savored the high that comes with a rhythm that got people on the dance floor to shake it.

It was communion of sorts - a better, cleaner high than anything found in a bottle.

Dance is healing for many reasons, but what really sets it apart for me is that dance creates joy. Ecstatic dance is not the same as dancing in a nightclub or to a band.

I’ve also heard it called “Dance Church,” which makes sense to me because movement is a powerful way to worship.

Ecstatic Dance is a practice.

The dancers are always barefoot, usually sober, and they are expected to be. The dance sets range from 1-2 hours that follows a wave or a double wave.

The two pioneers whose work evolved into Ecstatic Dance are the late Gabrielle Roth and her 5 rhythms (New York), and Vinn Marti and his Soul Motion (Portland, OR).

In a 5 rhythms set, the rhythms of Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical, and Stillness happen in sequence to make a Wave.

In Soul Motion, each dancer moves through 4 relational landscapes – Dance Intimate where we move alone, Dance Communion where we move with a partner, Dance Community where we move with everyone, and Dance Infinity where we move our practice to everyday life.

Most Ecstatic Dance communities combine these two approaches, and the experience is powerful.

I have felt everything from irritation to exaltation to ordinariness to exhaustion to euphoria depending on my mood, my openness, and how deeply I connect with the music, with myself, and/or with others during the dance.

During a typically good set, I go into bliss. Often, I savor a tingling along my skin that is similar to a full-body orgasm.

There have been times I’ve almost walked out because I was in a bad mood and NOT feeling it. Then a song transported me. Or I made eye contact with another dancer and started a wordless conversation which brought me into the practice. Then I fully arrived and let go into dance.

During the closing circle of my first Ecstatic Dance, a young woman described the feeling of her soul leaving her body during the set.

Wow. I can’t say I’ve had that happen.

But my experiences have been enough to satisfy.

Is Ecstatic Dance a hippie-dippie thing to do? Well, yeah. It is. Yet people from all walks and all ages come to dance every week.

Regulars include an old man well into his 80’s. His range of motion is very limited, but he moves with what he’s got. Sometimes he’s dancing using a walker. Yet the radiance on his face inspires me every time I see him.

Another is a young woman with cerebral palsy, who is confined to a wheelchair. But she dances from her wheelchair, and she has her share of dance partners.

One handsome man I’ve seen for years seemed so closed off when he first came, and he’s opened up so much. I don’t know these people by name.

We meet on the dance floor and that’s how I know them. It’s kind of magical, really.

I heard about Ecstatic Dance from a guy I met at Hippie Hot Springs. We fell into a spontaneous dance on New Year’s. And it struck me how present he was and the lovely sensation of being pushed to the edge.

I mentioned that to him the next day at breakfast. He nodded and told me he went to Ecstatic Dance every Sunday, and that’s why. He said he started this after his divorce, and made all his new friends through that community.

I had just moved to Portland, and he told me where I could find all this marvelous information of ecstatic dances in the area. I got on it and went the following week. I loved it immediately.

Then I didn’t go again for 6 months. I don’t really know why. I think the intimacy and intensity of it both intrigued and frightened me. I guess I couldn’t handle so much of that at the time.

So what does any of this have to do with being a writer?

Besides an experience that gives me something to write about, very little. But Ecstatic Dance has a lot of value for a group of people who live inside their heads all the time.

Writers need nourishment. We need practices outside of writing to keep us healthy and balanced. Ecstatic Dance brings me into my body.

It also moves energy within and through me, which keeps the channels open for inspiration and creativity.

On an emotional and psychological level, dance brings me community when I feel lonely, solace when I feel sad and angry, and expression when I feel overwhelmed with celebration and joy.

On a pragmatic level, I’ve also gotten some gorgeous ideas for stories and blog posts, and solved plot snafus where I was stuck while dancing.

Dancing clears the mind, opens the heart, and supports the body. Dance is great therapy, and what doesn’t need that?

So find an ecstatic dance in your area. Google “Ecstatic Dance,” “Dance Church,” “5 Rhythms,” or “Soul Motion.”

If your area doesn’t have anything, you can always take your shoes off, play your favorite jams, and dance like an idiot in your living room. Or kitchen. Or bedroom. Location hardly matters.

So get out of your head and into your body. The muses will bless you, and your writing will thank you.

You Can Have Whatever You Want

Image by jinsoo jang from Pixabay

“Your face is so ugly, it’s beautiful.” 

She stiffened when she heard that voice. 

The baritone rang even deeper and those words echoed around her. 

Then she remembered the last moment before she fell into the river and opened her eyes. 

The Sorcerer sat on a massive chair. A throne carved from gold and cushioned with blood red velvet. He was watching her, a smile in the wizened shadows of his face. 

The girl shuddered and looked away, but all she saw was stone and fire. 

The walls were black and gleaming from the light of torches. 

Her flesh prickled and her stomach was in knots when she realized the Sorcerer had her. She must be in the Caverns.

She pulled herself up. She rested on a sofa that matched the Sorcerer’s throne, made of gold and velvet pillows the shade of blood. 

The girl closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly, trying to quell the panic rising inside her. 

There had to be a way out. 

The Sorcerer couldn’t force her to stay. That she knew from the stories she heard. 

She opened her eyes and searched among the walls for hidden corridors, darker spaces that would take her back to the world outside. 

When her gaze brushed over the Sorcerer, one finger pointed over her head. 

The girl followed his lead and gasped when she saw what rose above her.

She was at the bottom of a tunnel carved deep in the earth. 

The descent of black stone glistened from the torches spiraling with the staircase falling into the Caverns. 

But it was the colors that riveted her. 

Thousands of crystals were embedded in the tunnel walls, and the light from the torches bounced off the facets and set their essence free.

The colors made the most of their captive freedom. 

The essence of the crystals swirled in an orgy of coupling and rebirth, a vivid provocation dancing and whirling in the empty space. 

Every shade of the spectrum came together and apart, transformed into other hues, their progeny bouncing off the walls before rising to the bright blue sky. 

The girl stared into the cyclone of color. Her terror on waking lifted and was gone.

“Go on, Miss,” the Sorcerer said. “Go on up the stairs until you find one you like. You can take it as a gift.”

Without looking at him, she drifted from the sofa to climb the staircase. 

She’d never felt so light in her life, her feet seemingly hovering above the steps. She caressed the wall, hand trailing behind her, scarcely touching the cool stone, her fingertips gliding over the mounds of crystals. 

Then her fingers clung. 

At first, she struggled to go on. She was halfway up the spiral, her gaze fixed on the circle of blue above her. She would be free if she could get to where the sky was infinite. 

She pulled harder and the stone surrendered. 

The girl stared into her hand at a crystal shaped like a star with eight tiers stretching around her palm. 

Then she waved it before the nearest torch, and the crystal exploded a whirlwind of color. The vivid cyclone took her breath away and surrounded her with a disconnected rainbow.

“Excellent choice! Nobody has ever taken a stargaze before.”

The girl started when she heard the voice. 

She couldn’t remember where she was. 

Looking down, she saw a kindly old man smiling at her from the bottom of the steps.

“You must be hungry,” he called. “Why don’t you come down, get something to eat?”

The girl blinked slowly, tempted to let her eyes rest from the heaviness of her lids. 

This must be a dream. She must be immersed in a beautiful vision. She heard a faint voice inside imploring her to beware and to keep going up the stairs. 

But she had no desire to obey. 

She rubbed her hand over her belly. She was more than hungry; she was empty. 

And the old man seemed so gentle.

“I would love something to eat,” she answered.  “Thank you.”

Her host snapped his fingers. 

Of course this was a dream. 

It was impossible that shadows could pour from the walls, carrying heavy golden platters and piling them on the round table. 

The wood was dark and the girl suspected the table was carved from the trees in the Ancient Grove. 

She floated down the spiral like a specter while a feast fit for a banquet of kings was readied just for her. 

Her nostrils fluttered from the aromas rising to meet her, savory, pungent, bitter, sweet, spice, hints of the flavors to come. 

The girl took her seat, her eyes wide looking up the mountain of platters towering over her. 

Closest to her were the desserts, fragile cake layers held together with ribbons of silken frosting, steam rising from soufflés, while berries of blue, black and red bulged from the delicate confection of mousse, making a perfect marriage of sweet and tart. 

This wasn’t a mere supper. This was a festival of the senses.

“Go on,” the old man murmured. “You can have whatever you want. As much as you want.”

Scaring the Devil of Conceit

Image by Sammy-Williams from Pixabay

Three days of snow covered the village, draping the roofs and windows with blazing white. Flaky chunks fell from the sky on the night for stories, but the children still came. 

The older boys helped the Bard’s grandson plow a path to the cabin.  He had grown much since the previous summer. He was thin and lanky, with limbs now longer than he was accustomed. 

The doors and windows of the cabin glowed from the fire built up in the hearth. 

The Bard was in his place, his silhouette black against the crackling tongues of flame shooting up behind him. 

The heat soothed the young until the room grew crowded with them sitting, lying, and leaning against each other for comfort and the cabin became hotter than summer, their sweat gluing them to each other. 

But tonight the young would bear with the heat. 

They were more excited than usual for this night’s tale.

The week before, his own grandson challenged the Bard that Ella Bandita was not truly a seductress, but a vicious trickster. 

The Bard sighed and was silent for a few minutes. Then he promised to prove the seductive prowess of the Thief of Hearts the following week.     

His grandson was laughing when he entered the cabin with his friends. 

The boys remembered to stop in the cold storage shed and brought with them bags of nuts, frozen berries, ground spices, dried herbs, and jars of mushrooms preserved from summer and autumn. 

The Bard watched the boy pull two large skillets down from the hearth and three village girls approaching him before he got to work. The Bard didn’t hear their talk, but he frowned when he saw his grandson’s eyes glint and his mouth curve in a smirking grin. 

The boy glanced at his grandfather and flushed. With more warmth in his smile, he told the girls he had to get supper ready. 

Reluctantly they walked away. 

The Bard shook his head. 

Girls liked that boy more than was good for him and he was becoming precocious, arrogant even. 

The Bard hoped tonight’s tale would scare the devil of conceit out of his grandson.

A few minutes later, he caught the scent of garlic and cayenne and smiled. 

If nothing else, his grandson had a nice touch when it came to cooking. The hash would be spicy tonight, perfect for winter and warming the blood. 

The children rumbled, impatient to hear tonight’s story. 

The Bard stared into the sea of young faces.

“Things change when one crosses the line between countries,” he began. 

“Our neighbors are different on the other side of No Man’s Land, the woods that separate us from the nation to the west. Their language is not ours, their customs aren’t the same, and their society is more intricate.”

“Here, one is either Patron or peasant. To be Patron is to be noble; to be peasant is to be humble. But there, the highborn are ranked by title, and to come from humble origins is to be less than common.”

“Such a society is cruel, often mercenary, and always lacking in heart. Such a society is a rich hunting ground for Ella Bandita.” 

The Bard paused for a moment before he began his tale.

“He was the most unscrupulous Rogue in the capital city. He liked to seduce in extremes, virgin daughters or wanton wives were his favorites…”

*****

The inferno had fallen to burning crumbles by the time the Bard brought his story to the end.  The room was comfortably warm and the village young were quiet, transfixed by the black silhouette sitting in perfect stillness.

“Life is a funny business,” he said.  “One man’s doom is another man’s redemption.

“The Marquis and his daughter didn’t leave the estate for days, terrified of the ruin facing them once they left the sanctuary of the house.  But society came to them when his closest neighbor and another gentleman came to the house with the Rogue’s steed.  They claimed they had found the horse running wild in the trees where they had been hunting.”

“Before the Marquis could say a word, his neighbor said the Rogue had been missing for days, and rumor had it that Ella Bandita had gotten to him.  Since it was well known the Rogue was courting his daughter, he expressed concern and sympathy for their suffering.  How the Marquis must have felt in that moment!  He recovered enough to say they’d been very distressed he hadn’t come to call in the last few days, and that he was about make inquiries about him.

“The Marquis suggested the rumor may be false, yet it was proven true when the Rogue was found the next day with the same glazed eyes and slack jaw as her other conquests.  But he claimed he spent three days and nights with the notorious seductress before she stole his heart.”

The Bard’s voice was smooth and clear, just as it had been at the beginning of his tale.  He lit a candle and illuminated his face.  His black eyes swept across his young audience before settling on his grandson.  He was satisfied to see the boy’s face was slightly pale. 

“This was a thrilling tale to be certain, but I hope all of you understand not only is it cruel, it is foolish to abuse the gift of love.”

The boy met his grandfather’s gaze and nodded.  The Bard was pleased, relieved to see his grandson understood.

“Follow your heart,” he said.  “Remember it’s the most precious part of you.  Follow your heart and you will always do right in life.”

The Night For Stories

Illustration Artwork by BANE (Dennis McElroy)

Under a violet dusk, the village young filed into the cabin that sat at the edge of the forest, deep green leaves of summer fluttering in the breeze. 

The Bard came home from the woods with his grandson as the children were settling down. 

His hands boasted the marks of time. 

One of these made a cradle for the small hand of the boy, which the old man held with great tenderness. In the other, he carried a basket filled with gifts found in the trees. 

The woods had been generous with its abundance; mushrooms, berries, nuts, herbs. 

The Bard would fry up a savory hash that night while he talked, sharing a tiny feast with his tiny audience before they went home to bed. 

Nobody knew better than he how to forage in the woods, and he was already passing his knowledge to his grandson.

A thrill of excitement crackled through the cabin when the Bard and his grandson walked in. 

The children would make their way home in the light of moon and stars. But even if night were black as pitch, they wouldn’t mind. 

The last day of the week had come to an end and now was the night for stories. 

They piled the leaves, sticks, and logs in the massive hearth the way the Bard taught them. The older boys blew the sparks in the logs, their cheeks bellowing to hurry the blaze. 

The Bard never began until it was an inferno. 

His love of heat was legendary.

He had built this cabin as a young man, and the villagers who had been alive during that time said his home had started with the fireplace. 

They said he needed almost ten years to finish his cabin because of that massive hearth. 

He allowed himself one indulgence in life and he wanted it to be special. 

The only stones the Bard laid for his fireplace were favorites he found on his walks. He explored for years, his black eyes searching for ones with the unique patterns and subtle hues of earth - deep gray, pale green, earthy red, and soft pink. These stones were layered to make the back wall of the cabin, the deep pit stretching wide and tall with iron mesh to contain the spits of flaming wood. 

His hearth was his masterpiece. 

During this time, the Bard had fallen in love, gotten married, and had a child. 

His wife was a hearty soul and their daughter had an independent spirit even as an infant. They were content to live in a canvas tent held from ropes tied amongst the trees until the log cabin was built around his fireplace. 

He told stories to his family every night, talking in front of the blaze burning at his back. 

He drew the notice of other villagers, fascinated by the spectacle of a family gathered around a fireplace in the open air, and they would stroll by the unfinished cabin with lingering glances. 

One relaxed evening in early winter, the small family invited their neighbors to join them. 

That would become the night the villagers came to hear the Bard. After the cabin was built, the parents listened from the outside while their young gathered inside. 

As the years passed, only the children came.     

They seemed to come every week no matter the weather or the event. 

They came the night after his daughter married and left home. 

They came after he was widowed, the Bard assuring the children they were more than welcome. 

Many in the village shook their heads and marveled at the strength of his will. The old man kept to his routine, lending a hand to the projects of his neighbors, using hard labor to relieve himself from mourning. 

A year later, the Bard thought his heart would perish, grateful his wife didn’t live to suffer the killing of their daughter and her husband by a band of thieves. 

He could not escape the anguish which coursed through his veins whenever he thought of their last moments, but he kept his demons to himself. 

The cutthroats had at least spared the life of his grandson. 

But his innocence was assaulted by night terrors that pulled him screaming from his sleep, his dark eyes vacant and staring into nothing. 

The boy was four years old when he came to live with his grandfather. 

The Bard was determined to redeem his grandson from the torment of his soul, casting his own grief aside to care for a child who needed him desperately. 

It was a year before the boy’s nightmares stopped. 

Light slowly returned to his eyes and he was finally able to see the world he was living in, a world made of nothing but love. 

Through it all, the children always arrived at his cabin every week on the night for stories. 

The Bard was forever thankful, their presence bringing a harmony that was lacking until his grandson was healed. 

Fire climbed the mountain of logs and the youngest moved to sit with the little boy with large black eyes, the same as his grandfather.

Hope Before The Fall

Image by Larisa Koshkina from Pixabay

She saw the dust on her night table the moment she came back to her room. 

Her maid must have found the pouch in her skirts and taken it out for her. 

The pouch was worn and the leather dull under the flame of her night lamp. 

The dust was an unwelcome reminder. 

The girl had forgotten about the Sorcerer, as if the interlude of the past months had never been. 

She buried the pouch again in the pocket of her gown and dropped to her bed. 

Then she pulled her necklace off, her palm guarding the crystal stargaze from the light. This keepsake didn’t disturb her so much, the stargaze a talisman of the moment her destiny changed. 

The silver links of the chain were cool, trailing down her arm while she traced the crystal tiers with her fingertip.

Tonight, supper had been long. 

She and her father talked well past dessert, just as they had the night before. She was still uncomfortable around him, and the Patron was hardly more at ease than she. 

But he was persistent, skillful in preventing the awkward pauses which might have dammed the flow of conversation. 

The topic tonight had been safe, her father discussed the season, confiding that he was thinking about adding to his estate with one in the southeast.

“Properties like this rarely come to purchase,” he said. “However, his son is frivolous and prefers city life.”

“But it’s far from here. How can you watch over both?”

“It would be foolish of me to attempt it,” the Patron replied. “Frankly, I think this would be ideal for you.”

The girl said nothing, just set down her fork and stared at him.

“The estate’s small,” he continued. “But the soil is so rich you could grow just about anything. There’s also a nice copse of woods, perfect for riding and hunting.”

“It’s a long distance.” 

“Yes, but not so much I couldn’t guide you through any concerns until you were ready to run it on your own. That shouldn’t take long. You’re very capable.”

“You would need at least one full day’s travel if you run the horses hard. But more likely it’s a two day journey.”

“And that would serve you well, don’t you think?” The Patron spoke softly, eyeing her with raised brows. “Are you really so attached here?”

The girl chortled before she could stop herself, glancing to the attendants just as their eyes flicked to each other.

“No, Papa. Of course I’m not.”

They sipped their wine without speaking for a few minutes.

“Good society there from what I’ve heard,” the Patron mused. “The people are said to be quite eccentric, but charming.”

“You don’t think they’d wonder about an unmarried woman as one of their Patrons?”

“You would be properly introduced, so what is there to suspect?”   

The girl scarcely tasted the last bites of dessert, her mind digesting her father’s plan. 

As one of the most respected Patrons on the continent, an introduction from him would be invaluable. 

And although he hadn’t said so, she suspected the people there had heard nothing about her. At least not yet they hadn’t.

“I must admit this sounds intriguing, Papa. But scandal can travel to great lengths.” 

“How unfortunate it is that you’re right,” the Patron said, glaring at the servants until they began to fidget. “Really, the consequences for gossip can never be severe enough.”

His tone was mild, but the faces of their attendants paled. 

The girl suppressed the urge to chuckle, the thought crossing her mind that such restraint might kill the Cook.

“Thank you, Papa. I’ll think about it.”  

The girl still couldn’t believe how quickly everything had changed. 

When she opened her eyes just before the lunch hour, the smiling warmth of her maid was the first she saw before the servant wished her a good day. 

The stable hands had been deferential when she came to the barn, her favorite steed ready for her. 

She hadn’t gone to the village yet to see how she fared with the merchants, but she was certain they would be courteous when she did. 

Just like that, her ostracism lifted as word spread that the Patron was speaking to her again. 

Yet the girl knew she would always be marked. 

Her father’s suggestion was really too wonderful, and she needn’t worry about the taint spreading any farther.

The girl sighed, turning her head to see the candle melt dripping from the night lamps to the floor. 

Startled, she looked out the window and saw the moon at its peak in the sky.  She must have fallen into a daze. 

The hour was much later than she thought. 

But on this night, she was in her room, instead of the Caverns. The blessed relief made her fall back on her bed.  

She could feel the soft wool of her nightclothes, laid out over the quilts. 

Still dressed in her dinner gown with tiny beads embroidered in the pale blue silk, the girl tried to muster the strength to get up and change. 

Instead she picked up her baby blanket, now a throw in the middle of her bed. Deep green with yellow stitching, it was the only splash of color in a sea of creamy quilts. 

Her mother had knit the blanket in the early days of her pregnancy, leaving behind the only gift the girl had from her.

“For my little one, with love,” her mother had stitched more than twenty years ago.   

The girl caressed the words, the sun yellow thread bright amidst the forest green. Then she smiled and closed her eyes.

“Thank you, Mama,” she murmured.     

Running HOT and COLD

Image by Jonny Lindner from Pixabay

Submerge.

Can you feel it?

Does the tingle flush heat tickle thousands of teases along your flesh?

Yes?

Good.

Now come up for air. Face to the sky, breathe and hold space until warmth becomes hot, so hot. The heat inside rises above your usual climate.

Time to get cold.

The frigid air startles when you come out of the hot soak.

You know that’s nothing as you rush to the plunge that makes you shriek.

You force yourself to go under.

Only your face comes free.

This plunge is cold, so cold.

Your breath comes in short gasps and the freeze holds you hostage.

You count quickly and hope time will pass swiftly.

Then something shifts.

You stop fighting it.

You stop hating it.

Cold becomes comfortable.

The chill is now a thrill.

Your mind floats to the ethers and expands to infinity.

You could stay there in stillness forever, you think.

Then the chill hints of kill, well not really kill, but the cold has penetrated you.

It’s time to get warm.

The air affects you not as you run back to the hot.

Submerge again.

So the tingle flush heat tickles thousands of teases along your skin, more vivid, more intense.

You savor that warmth flooding your bones through your flesh.

You breathe slowly and wait for the heat to become hot, so hot…

Doesn’t that sound fabulous?

Soaking hot and plunging cold is even better when you actually do it.

I learned about this incredible practice at Hippie Hot Springs, one of my favorite places in the whole wide world.

At Hippie Hot Springs, all your needs are met through no exertion on your part. There are 3 meals a day served at the same time every day. Food is served buffet style. When you’re finished, you drop your dirty utensils in the appropriate bins after dumping your leftovers in the compost.

And that’s it. Besides keeping your cabin tidy, there are no chores, leaving you free to soak, sauna, and show up on time to eat.

But the quartet of pools with increasing temperatures, with a cold plunge at the end of the deck are high on my priorities. The hottest pool can get up to 112°F or as low as 106°F. Most of the time, the HOT pool hovers between 108°-110°F.

The cold plunge is a small wooden tub and the temperature varies. The water is not freezing, but after heating up in the HOT pool, it sure feels like it.

This is not for the faint of heart. But if you want to clear your lymph and purge the ICK of life out of you, go at least 7 rounds between the HOT and COLD.

The recommended times vary, but it comes down to 2:1 ratio of hot to cold, or half the time you spend in the hot, spend in the cold.

It sounds insane to deliberately mess with your body temperature like that, doesn’t it? But this is incredibly good for you.

Dilating and constricting your blood vessels is amazing for the circulation of your blood and your lymphatic fluid.

Our lymphatic system, which removes bacteria and other foreign invaders our bodies don’t need, plays a vital role in our immunity. Yet lymph doesn’t have the strength of the heart behind it, thus moves at a slug’s pace on its own. Exercise moves lymphatic fluid to the nodes.

And so does running hot and cold.

Even though I know how healthy and euphoric this is, this practice never ceases to daunt me. I cringe every time.

I’ve been known to do a couple of partial rounds to warm up before going into the official 7 rounds. You can break down the time however you like, but I’m fond of 2 minutes of hot to 1 minute of cold.

This is approximate, because I’m hardly working with a timer. I’m counting in my head. But the bottom line is to stay in each temperature as long as you can until you feel uncomfortable.

It’s hard to believe.

But once I get used to it, I find myself CRAVING the COLD.

I even move my limbs so that there isn’t a part of me that isn’t chilled. The bliss of that moment when the freeze becomes pleasurable is impossible to truly describe.

Sometimes I stay longer than the allotted time until the cold starts to hurt.

Then it’s time to get back in the HOT. Every time the heat rushes in, my skin comes alive in a whole new way.

By the way, don’t forget to stay hydrated. That is really, really important.

Then it’s back to the COLD.

If you want to go more than 7 rounds, go for it. Cautiously, of course.

This isn’t just good for the body. You are also creating an altered state of consciousness with this practice.

It is an ultimate natural high. The more rounds you take on, the deeper the dive. I’ve reached the edge of delirium more than once.

Then the bell rang and it was time to eat.

Don’t ignore that call. Eating and drinking is good after doing something like this.

But can you imagine feeling depressed, angry, anxious, hopeless, sad, or lonely after a practice of running HOT and COLD?

For me, that isn’t possible.

Physically, I feel so alive every time I do this. And mentally, I’m so deep in the peace, there’s no room for anything else.

This also works with sauna and steam.

So give HOT and COLD a try. You’ll feel incredible.

Becoming a Wolf

Image by 272447 from Pixabay

The Youngest had to look twice to make certain his eyes didn’t deceive him. 

But the pack of wolves was still there, tearing into the belly of a stag, too intent to hear his approach.

He hated this time of year. 

Hunting season always started with the first snow. 

The frost crunching under the hooves of his mare irritated him further into a foul humor. The trees were naked of leaves, but his eye caught the berries still hanging from the bushes. 

The Youngest resisted the urge to dismount and gather them, for he could only imagine the scorn of his father if he came back with frozen blueberries. 

His brothers were just like the old man, big men who loved the hunt. 

Their father taught them everything he knew about the sport, and the son who returned with the largest buck or the most kills was the one he treated with respect. 

His three older brothers were ruthless as they competed for his approval. Every winter, they slaughtered enough meat to feed their wives, children, parents, and him for a year. 

The Youngest never stood a chance keeping pace with them. 

He loathed hunting and always had. 

He didn’t have the predatory instincts of his brothers and his wiry frame couldn’t withstand the sharp cold. 

Hunting season was especially bitter because the old man never acknowledged what he did from spring until autumn. 

The Youngest had a way with the soil of the high hills, always yielding more crops than other farmers in this harsh climate. 

In the growing season, he was appreciated until the leaves dropped and the first snow fell. 

Then his father’s pride would end. 

In the winter, the Youngest was berated every day for coming back with nothing. 

But the old man insisted he hunt.  

He dared not defy his father’s wishes. 

This would probably be his last winter. 

Illness made his body weaker and his temper meaner every year, but it was the longing in the old man’s eyes that hurt the Youngest the most. He would give anything for his father to be strong enough to hunt in his place. 

But that was impossible.   

He was staring at the frozen bushes of berries when he found the pack. 

It was early afternoon, the sun dim behind the clouds already gathering for the next storm. He considered going home early and warming himself at the hearth. 

But his father would scold him if he came back too soon. 

Fighting off his resentment, the Youngest sighed, the crisp air stinging inside his nose when he breathed in. 

Then he tensed, suddenly alert. He inhaled again slower and deeper, making certain he hadn’t imagined the smell of blood. 

There was a fresh kill nearby and he hadn’t heard any shots. 

Peering through the trees, he spotted three wolves feasting on the stag. 

Before he knew what he was doing, the Youngest had unsheathed his rifle. 

Sweat broke out along his brow and he had to force his hands to stop shaking. 

Just once, he could come home with something, the remains of the stag and the hide of a wolf. 

He tucked the rifle under his shoulder, observing the pack before he took aim. 

He learned from his father that it was best to shoot the leader first.  Picking the largest gray, the Youngest peered down the sights and steadied his aim.

But the fourth wolf came out of nowhere, the impact knocking him off his horse. 

The Youngest barely heard the blast shot towards the sky, the wind blown out of him when he hit the ground. 

Then all he saw was a mass of fur as black as midnight, his rifle thrown from his hands.   

The weight of the animal bore down on his chest, the Youngest crippled with terror staring into its teeth. 

Lips quivered around those sharp points, blinding white against the fur.  But he gripped the neck and pushed the predator away before its fangs snapped above his throat. 

The Youngest wanted to scream, but his voice hardly made a whisper. 

He couldn’t move, trapped in the ferocity of a lupine glare. He stared at his reflection in the depths of those black eyes. 

Then a memory burst in his mind of a Shepherd and a talking wolf. His terror was gone, replaced with confusion.

“What in the name of…” he murmured, then in a clear voice. “What are you doing?”

The Youngest wondered if the Wolf recognized him as well.

The Wolf was suddenly off his chest, a low growl muffled in the back of his throat.

The Youngest sat up, dazed and staring at the Wolf trotting for his gun.

The Wolf turned and met his gaze again, black eyes almost invisible against his coat.

Then he picked up the rifle, clutching the barrel between his jaws, and sprinted through the trees.

Didjeridu Magic - Now There is Something to Write About!

InDidjInUs2019

It was love at first sight. Or first sound, really. The first time I heard the primal drone of a didjeridu, I was at Esalen in Big Sur. The Wednesday night jam was a weekly event amongst the tubs where the spa was enclosed.

The sacrifice in the view of the cliffs over the Pacific Ocean were more than compensated for with incredible acoustics.

Somehow a didjeridu, a saxophone, and a trumpet made an effective and peculiar trio. But it was the didjeridu that did it for me. The mysterious tones of the didjeridu played into the amplifier of a clawfoot tub soared through the chamber, and I was hooked.

InDidjInUs 2019 - Ondrej Smeykal

That was before the didj player did his rounds for a sound healing up our chakras. I had never experienced music that could be felt, physically felt as the musician played it around me.

Then I was really hooked.

Every time a didjeridu was played, I got excited.

The best New Year’s Eve I ever had, a didj was played as we approached midnight. Even though the headlining band was playing on the top floor, I knew I was in the right place to call in the New Year.

InDidjInUs 2019 - Lewis Burns on didj with dancer Adam and singer Jamie

I especially love to dance to the didj. That tone brings out something buried deep in me. I move in a more thorough, embodied way that gets to all my parts. It’s catharsis in its purest form.

Beloved is one of the more beloved music festivals around Oregon, focusing on sacred music and higher consciousness. It’s lush and decadent, and very Arabian Nights with its exotic trappings. I went one year and had tickets to go to the next.

Then I heard about InDidjInUs a few years ago.

I couldn’t believe there was a gathering centered around the didjeridu. The thought of 4 days of non-stop didjeridu music made my mouth water.

Everybody loves Mama Emma!

The website and Facebook page was so vague, yet so specific, I wondered if it was only for didjeridu players, not didjeridu listeners or didjeridu dancers.

It also seemed that there was some kind of struggle going on about the values of this gathering. One man made very clear that they were not about a typical “festival” party atmosphere, and they’d appreciate it if the festival partiers would go to Beloved instead.

Beloved was on the same weekend.

I asked on the Facebook page if dancing listeners were able to come, or if this was only for didjeridu musicians. Ycats (Stacy spelled backwards) answered that a dancing audience was most welcome.

I didn’t hesitate. I gave away my tickets to Beloved and went to InDidjInus. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.

That first InDidjInUs, I went to sleep and woke up to the vibrating drones of didj being played somewhere near. My energy field shifted during that time, and my time there was a profound experience in healing.

I knew I loved didjeridu in music. I had no idea how diverse didjeridu could be when it came to making music.

But one of the most surprising benefits to making such a sudden switch was the genuine sense of community that InDidjInUs provided.

A lot of festivals focus on “community” and “tribe” and “getting woke” and whatever else you can think of that sounds transcendent and cool.

But this group really embodies the essence of community - with the good and the bad, especially when it comes to figuring out conflicts and the fallout that entails. Most of these people I only see once a year in the community that gathers for InDidjInUs.

I just finished my 5th InDidjInUs, and this year was the best one yet. Again, I was in need of healing. Having space when I needed it, and community when I needed connection was crucial, and then there were the various jams going on as well as the stage performances.

Anyway, I included some short clips of the amazing and gorgeous music I enjoyed this past weekend.

And if that’s not something worth writing about, I don’t know what is.

3 Ways to Love Yourself AND Get Past Writer's Block!

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

I started writing for Medium a couple of days ago because:

1) I can get paid and I like getting paid and,

2) I have the freedom to write about anything and everything I want, and… still get paid. Which I like. A lot.

I can’t do that on this blog because everything I’ve read about blogging recommends getting specific in my topics.

Besides it’s evolved to cover writing prompts, novel excerpts, and resurfacing my On the Road journal sent to my friends when I was on my DIY booktour/roadtrip.

In other words, this blog is all things Indie Author oriented, and that can be very limiting.

Then it occurred to me that the article I wrote this morning could be useful to writers for writer’s block.

The article was originally titled: 3 Ways to Self-Love After a Breakup – Or for any other reason you feel like dog s***.

Since love and creativity draw from the same well, it made sense to include it here.

Besides writers have relationships and go through breakups, and one of the unfortunate side effects of that is…writer’s block.

So here is that list of some of my favorite self-love, self-care, feel-goodies that have been very effective at getting me out of my funk…and out of writer’s block.

By the way, these tips work for everything – not just breakups and writer’s block.

1. DANCE

I mean dance your butt off for at least 1 hour. This to me is the most powerful of everything I recommend.

Dance, besides being really good for your body, releases those endorphins that make you feel all is right in the world.

The more your cut loose, the more you shake it, the more likely you’ll get to bliss. And you want to get to bliss when you feel like dog s***.

The easiest is to dance in your living room or any other space where you can let go to your favorite playlist of beloved dance songs. And if you don’t have one, make one. Make several.                     

**My personal recommendations to include in your dance playlist songs that are dominated by percussion/drumming and/or didgeridoo. There is something cathartic about dancing to those instruments that is truly transformative.          

If you live in an urban area or artsy town that has an Ecstatic Dance – also called 5 Rhythms or Soul Motion – I strongly recommend you start going on the regular. Ecstatic dance sets, if done right, are created to move energy and generate emotional release.

Another option is if there is a lot of live music – go out and dance in a crowd. I’m not quick to recommend dance nightclubs because the darkness and the vibe often make me feel alienated and alone in a crowd.

On the other hand, I’ve had some great dance offs in nightclubs. I guess it depends on what your jam is. If that works for you, go for it.

But you may have to wait until happier and healthier times to do that.

In these days of the Coronavirus, it’s best to stick to outdoor dance parties or your living room.         

2. Hiking or Walking

What this really comes down to is get outside and move your body.

Ideally, you live someplace close to lots of beauty of forests, streams, and waterfalls. If you can, get out in that beautiful nature and allow it to heal your heart and so

If you can’t, find the prettiest neighborhood in your town with lots of trees and flowers and bushes and plants and walk around.

Hikes naturally take longer; but if you’re neighborhood walking, go for at least 45 minutes.

Do not stroll, walk briskly with long strides and swinging arms and breathe deeply through your nose to take in all the scents.

3. Shaking

Now, it’s time to get a little freaky because this practice makes you look crazy to the casual observer.

That said, it’s worth it. 

To deliberately shake your body is amazing therapy.

Everything we experience is stored in our bodies - everything from the beautiful to the ugly.

But the ugly adds up. By literally shaking every part of your body, you’re shaking it OUT OF YOU.

It works even better if you speak gibberish afterwards – sounds that make no sense and form no coherent words for a minute or two.

This is the part that makes you look insane. But it works.

This was a crucial practice after my breakup.

I went through a period of feeling numb and disconnected. 

I became acutely aware of this when I went to a Tantra Festival where everybody else was in a warm, touchy-feely, happy space and I wasn’t.

Things shifted after one workshop, when the facilitator started the dance practice with a several minutes of shaking followed by gibberish.

That one practice alone made me feel alive again.

Below is a video that shows a basic shaking practice that isn’t too mortifying (although the narrator does a little gibberish towards the end).

Go ahead and cut more loose and find other Youtube videos for some ideas. Be sure to put “shaking practice” in your search.

So now you have a few of my secrets.

Now that you’ve physically processed your “stuff,” put your butt to the chair and start writing!

The Camel Who Passed Through the Eye of the Needle - On the Road #31

Image byManuela_BurkhalterfromPixabay

This particular letter from my email journal of the DIY booktour/roadtrip in 2005/2006 has nothing to do with that trip. Right after I had landed in Santa Cruz, my godfather, Bill Demetree, passed away. He was a very pivotal figure in my life, so much that I was compelled to write about him to my community in Juneau, Alaska who had never known him. Same thing with Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans in the fall of 2005, I felt like a piece of my soul had broken off. Anybody who cares to read about that, click HERE.

Other than that, enjoy this ode to one of the great humans of my life, who inspired me to always remember the high road in the decisions I make in my life.

Hey y'all, 

I remember a few years ago, in that first year after 9/11, when many were paralyzed by fear of travel and becoming the tragic victim of a terrorist attack. Of course, the press did their part in to keep it that way, and a friend of my mother's came straight out and said it.

"I'm tired of being scared."

"Don't be afraid of life," said Mr. Bill Demetree in his usual, soft-spoken way. 

Isn't it funny how the truly wise man gives himself such a quiet presentation?

The world lost a great man today.

It seems like on my epic booktour/roadtrip, even death is a part of the journey...

I've been struggling to find the right way to describe Mr. Demetree. He was one of those old family friends - only by lack of blood are not a member of the family - who are so close. 

He was extremely supportive and loyal to my mother during some of the worst times of her life – the divorce from my father, the years she took care of Mimi (my grandmother) after her stroke, and of course, these last ten years after my mother's aneurysm.

Mr. and Mrs. Demetree were always there. 

Mr. Demetree prayed every day for Mom during the weeks she had been in a coma for weeks. We didn't know if she would live, die, or suffer some awful purgatory between life and death.

Mr. and Mrs. Demetree were there with us regularly, at the hospital. My memories of that time are unclear, but I’m pretty sure he kept vigil with us on the day of her surgery.

In these times when there are many who speak of doing the right thing, Mr. Demetree was the man who actually did.

Deeply religious in his Catholic faith, and with an integrity not even the devil himself could question, we felt confident that the spiritual connections of Mr. Demetree would carry some weight.

He was in business with my father and grandfather, and later my brother. Oddly enough, I think it was through business that Mr. Demetree came into our lives. Yet beyond business, he was also a friend. 

Anybody who knows the men in my family would agree that they made strange bedfellows to be sure.

But one thing that struck me about Mr. Demetree was the balance he managed between standing up for his beliefs, speaking out for doing what's right, alongside an attitude of non-judgment for those who listened to his advice, yet did not take it. He maintained his relationships with those who chose to live differently than he. 

The roles he played - business partner, friend, and even counselor, he was a man who led through action not word, always setting the highest example of dignity, honor, and integrity.

There's a saying that they don't make them like that, anymore...and frankly why the hell not? 

Those of us who had the privilege of knowing Mr. Demetree...let those seeds planted by his example grow in our minds, hearts, and souls. 

Let us become better people for the experience of having known a such a splendid human being. 

"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to get into heaven." 

Said by: Jesus Christ, Source: The Bible. I don't know which book or verse, but I remember that adage clearly from memories of Catholic School.

Personally, I always thought that was harsh. But if there is a rich man who will, that man is Mr. Demetree. 

It has been many years since I've considered myself a Catholic, but I have never considered Mr. Demetree to be anyone other than my Godfather.

He will be missed. 

Montgomery  

PS.  And yes, I'll be there for the funeral.

The Exile of the Lone Wolf

Image by นัธทวัฒน์ วสันต์กนกพัชร from Pixabay

“She stole my heart!” the Wolf shouted.  “And look at me!”

“Are you now going to insist it was your heart you followed into the tavern?”

The contempt in the Shepherd’s voice was more than the Wolf could bear. 

He looked at him and saw deceit, suddenly hating the Shepherd as much as he hated Ella Bandita. 

The Wolf stared at his throat and lunged, jaws snapping. 

But the Shepherd was swift, throwing himself aside in time to evade him. 

The Wolf hit the ground hard, shock numbing his limbs. 

His fur stood on end, his snarl echoed in the air only to fall silent when he spun around. 

The Shepherd was back on his feet, rifle in hand. 

One finger was on the trigger and one eye stared down the foresight, piercing through the madness. 

His rage deserted the Wolf.

“Oh no…oh no…oh no…” he moaned.  “Please forgive me.  I am so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” the Shepherd said. 

“I don’t know what came over me.  I would never hurt you.” 

“You already have and I want you to leave.”

The thought of being alone again raised a swell of panic inside the Wolf. 

He cowered, but the Shepherd kept his rifle aimed on him. 

For the first time since the Wolf met him, the Shepherd looked his age, timelessness falling off him like a moth-eaten cloak.

“I’m not joking,” he said. “Get away from me or I’ll kill you.”

The Wolf ran. 

He fled across the fields, going deep into the woods so he wouldn’t be seen. 

But he still watched the Shepherd from the trees. 

His head rested on his bent knees, his arms wrapped around his legs. He rocked back and forth, his shoulders shaking as only a man weeping could do. 

His posture didn’t change for hours. 

The Wolf whimpered through the vigil, but was strangely reassured when the Shepherd didn’t leave.

As night fell, the throbbing grew worse in his hollow. 

The Wolf resisted the howl building inside him, for he dared not disturb the Shepherd. 

Instead, he ran. 

But there was no escape from his aloneness. 

The night was interminable, the worst he endured in three years and the Wolf despaired the darkness would ever end. 

When the horizon streaked with rose, he caught the aroma of smoke. 

The Wolf knew the Shepherd must be up, preparing his meals for morning and afternoon, enough to sustain him for a long journey.  

Without thinking, the Wolf followed the scent of frying venison, what was left of the deer they killed a couple of weeks ago. 

The Shepherd turned when the snap of a branch gave him away. 

Shame flooded through the Wolf at his appearance. 

He’d never seen the Shepherd so haggard. The lines on his face had deepened overnight and his eyelids were swollen. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Please let me come back,” the Wolf begged. “I swear it will never happen again.”

“I can’t. Not after an attack like that.” 

“Ella Bandita has destroyed many lives. Does she have to ruin our friendship as well?”

The Wolf knew that was the worst thing he could have said when the Shepherd stared hard at him, his brows drawn together.

“All this was your doing,” he said. “If you refuse to admit that, you have nothing left to say to me.”

“I’m sorry! Surely you must know that.”

“Of course I do. And I’ve already forgiven you for yesterday.”

“Then let me come back,” the Wolf begged. “You know I can’t bear to be alone.”

The Shepherd sighed and closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, the Wolf saw no hostility in his regard, only sadness. Somehow, that made him feel worse.    

“You need to make peace with that fear,” the Shepherd finally spoke. “How can you if you stay with me? You have so much to learn.”

“Like what?” the Wolf muttered.

“Ironically enough, the same lesson Ella Bandita taught me. For all your talk about following your heart, have you ever listened to it?”  

His head jerked up and the Wolf was unable to stop himself from baring his teeth. 

His fury was sudden, the growl stirring in his belly before he could stop it. He managed to restrain himself enough to grow quiet. 

But the Shepherd stared at him and slowly raised his brows.

“Or,” he said. “You could just learn how to be a wolf. You certainly have that nature and you may be this animal for the rest of your life.”

“What do you expect?” the Wolf snapped. “What you just asked of me is impossible.”

“That’s not true,” the Shepherd replied. “Because your heart is always a part of you.” 

The Wolf was reminded of the last dream he had about his grandfather and started to cry. He couldn’t feel the tears streaming down his face through the fur, which made him sob even harder. 

The Shepherd stroked his back and scratched behind his ears, murmuring soft words of comfort. But the kindness only added to his sorrow.

“I don’t think I can do this,” the Wolf wept. “I’m terrified, Shepherd.”

“I know you are. Just listen to your heart and you’ll never be afraid again.”