a grey silent sunday

The quiet fog enshrouds the city with cold wet arms.

We stay within our shells so as not to be touched by its penetrating fingers.

But it seeps through the cracks in the doors and comes creeping with the soul unwelcome and unwanted.

We fall back. We dive for cover. We turn away.

But it enters and stills and freezes our hearts and forces us to turn inward and see the ugliness we hide within.

We move, but the sinister air does not allow escape.

Fires will not burn it.

Lights will be dimmed by it.

Hearts are melting under it pressing weight.

We cannot escape the mirror it brings, for our hearts and souls are exposed to its intemperate gaze.

Look within.

Look within.

Confront the ugly creature within your soul.

Stand up to the darkness you alone can control.

Sear it and blind it with red hot tears and pulsing blood.

For you are exposed and you must deal with the nakedness of your flesh.

You must see the blackness of your inner being.

For only then will the light prevail.


My mood is as grey as the sky and I question.

I reflect upon my life, my friends, my lovers, my very purpose in being here.  As the time flows on, there seems to be no real purpose to my life.  No real goal.  No consuming passion.  We are born. We travel through.  We die.

I question whether that is really all there is and that we are fools only when we consider there might be any other purpose. If we add the possibility of a God, Goddess, or Being orchestrating all this, our will is unimportant.  The Shakespeares and Mozarts and kings and Picassos have been chosen and their scripts are written with a careful hand.  How dare we think we can intrude upon that grandiose plot with our little lives. The guru who meditates all his life to reach nirvana seems no more strange under those circumstances than the success or goal oriented person striving to somehow “improve” the world.

We take up space. We do our job. We bear our children, We sweat and weep and strainfrom the burden of living, only to die and become fodder for another beginning.

One must ask why we cherish so highly this temporal thing we call life. Why do we make such a simple task so complex?  Why not accept the parameters and scale and just move from day to day and deal with what comes to each of us? Why do we, as humans, bring complexity to our lives with emotions and self doubt? Is that why so many seek solace in a belief in the Almighty or Jesus or Buddha or Mohammed? Are we always searching for that perfect union which only comes with death?  A cynic would laugh at such serious struggle and point out the futility of the search, for the map is there and each of us just paws to be moved around the game board at the appropriate pace. Why fight?  Why search?  Why struggle?  Silent resignation should be the key action plan.


The second book in the Journey series is DEIRDRE, who was born to Zarda at the end of Book one.

I based the story of the Irish legend, a tragic heroine. She is known by the epithet “Deirdre of the Sorrows” and her story is part of the Ulster Cycle, the best-known stories of preChristian Ireland.

In Legend Deirdre was the daughter of the royal storyteller. Before she was born, the chief Druid of the king of Ulster, prophesied that she would grow up to be very beautiful, kings and lords would go to war over her, much blood would be shed, and Ulster’s three greatest warriors would be forced into exile for her sake.

Many urged the storyteller to kill the baby, but the king decided to keep the child for himself. He took Deidre away from her family and had her brought up in seclusion by a poet and wise woman (Zarda in my book).  The king planned to marry Dierdre when she was old enough. As a young girl, she lived in isolation.  One day Dierdre tells Zarda that she would love a man with hair the color of a raven, skin as white as snow and cheeks as red as blood.

Zarda tells her she is describing Naoise, a handsome young warrior, hunter and singer at the king’s court.  Deirdre meets Naoise and they fall in love.  They flee to the desert and live a happy life.

The King hunts them down. Zarda tells the king Deirdre has grown ugly. The King sends a spy to find that Deirdre is indeed most beautiful. The king attacks the place where Naoise and Deirdre live and kills Naoise and takes Deirdre as his wife. Of course the story has an unhappy ending and Deirdre dies.

My tale will be somewhat different, but the bones will be the same.

Look for DIERDRE in 2020.

Unknown parts of us

After reading THE COUNTRY DIARY OF AN EDWARDIAN LADY, I was struck again with the unknown parts of us. The parts we choose not to share. Edith Holden kept the diary for herself, had no children, and died suddenly at the age of 49. Now she lives again through a work which will touch thousands of people. Each of us need to do something, if we can, and no fritter away time on seemingly useless tasks.  We never know who we will touch or how we will be received, but the touching and the doing become the important ingredients of life.

A new day dawning!

There have been quite a few changes in my life since ZARDA was published in 2016. Three years.  In that time, I have moved, had several painful medical events and gone on a campaign to stick to a budget, both with time and money.

Last November I moved to a retirement community.  It has definitely been an adjustment, but I feel I am on the recovery.  January through April I was still dealing with my health.  May I started exercising and dancing again.  Twelve residents joined me to dance at the 94th anniversary celebration, which was a hit for both the audience and the dancers. My energy was zapped, though and I took time to recuperate.

Zarda was never far from my mind.  This past week I reintroduced Zarda to the Hotel, have looked back at Book 2, DIERDRE, which is half way finished. Dierdre will meet the world in 2020.  I will start sharing bits and pieces soon.

Thank you for being patient.  I am back.