We’re told by philosophers to “live one day at a time.” To not worry about the future nor think about the past. These admonishments ring true, but that’s not how we humans seem to be wired.
I often hear family and friends reminisce: “remember when we…,” and “I wish we still could…”
Conversely, I hear, “In a few years, I’m afraid I won’t be able to….” Or “what will happen if…?” Continue reading
“In fact, if you could forget mortality, and that is less easy here than in most places . . . you could really believe that stories change you, enliven you, even send you off: off to a different world; off from your troubles and problems; off to a place where you don’t feel your age, or arthritic pain, or the devil chasing you from behind.”
“Okay, Granny, okay!” I interrupt, “I believe you!” My Great Gran, 94 years old, or as she says, 94 and ½ friggin’ years, begins this lecture to me almost every time I visit her.
When I write I become a svelte, long-lashed, long-haired, long-legged young gypsy.
Well, less gypsy, more fortune teller/spiritualist.
When Julie opened the cover of the ancient book in the attic, the first page glowed opal, and letters began to float off the page, circling her like fairy dust. (Part I, The Ancient Book)
Julie should have been afraid, closed the book, and raced down the narrow ladder, quickly closing that attic ceiling door.
But instead her body relaxed as dozens of those letters surrounded her and buzzed like happy bees. The sweet soft buzzzzzz turned to whisperings from Spirits long gone and still here. Continue reading
The book lay unopened for centuries. Julie didn’t know that, of course, when she clambered up Auntie Murphy’s attic steps to see how bad it was going to be.
Auntie’s will had been read just yesterday, and she’d left Julie everything in her 180-year-old house – the house she’d lived in, as well as her mother, and her grandmother, and her ….
When the attic door above Julie creaked open, she released a nervous exhale. Continue reading
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