Elizabeth Chenevert Stein

…whose gifts of love, humor and honesty inspire me every day.

She taught me so much about living. When I first met her nearly thirty years ago, I was struck by her “anything is possible” attitude, her decisiveness in knowing what she wanted, and her joyful pursuit of making it happen. She was beautiful, exotic, gregarious, and initially, even a little mysterious. What was that accent? European? Latin American? I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she had told me she was a princess from some obscure island kingdom off the coast of Spain or something. Turns out she was from south Louisiana,  brought up amongst the large Chenevert clan in the small town of Napoleonville. If there was such a thing as a Cajun princess, she was it– without a doubt.

New Orleans was the beginning. Our husbands were in law school together at Tulane and we quickly became a foursome. The years spent there with Michael and Elizabeth were as good as it gets.  Everything was so new–the exotic flowers, corner bars, streetcars and smells, the climate, the history. It felt like a foreign country, and we loved it. Exploring this unique place and all of its  food, culture, and traditions created memories–and a lifelong friendship. One particular memory is of a beautiful spring evening when she rushed back from a Good Friday service to prepare an elaborate Sedar dinner, just for the four of us. It was so reflective of her generosity and love, and fitting that she would introduce me to this merging of traditions, she who created her own rules, who relied on her own purpose and intent over convention.

Time moves along, and after law school we moved to different places–yet our lives remained strangely parallel. The babies came along within a few months of each other, first two boys and then a girl for each family. Those young years of small children and then the blur of activity as they’re all growing up didn’t offer us a lot of chances to see one another, but we always kept up and snatched whatever visits and phone calls we could. Then suddenly, in what seemed like a blink, the kids were grown and we moved to Washington, D.C., once again living in close proximity to our dear friends Mike and Elizabeth.

These last few years have been the other bookend of this precious connection. When Elizabeth was diagnosed with cancer, there was the sudden clarity that we didn’t know how much longer we had with each other. It struck me then, and now, that we never know how much time we have with any of our loved ones, but somehow it’s the diagnosis that changes everything, that makes you appreciate every opportunity to enjoy one another, to grasp the moment, do things while you can, to forget the small stuff and laugh as much as possible. Even in the shadow of her illness, we had so much fun together, so much like before. There were lots of long meals, often one of Elizabeth’s unforgettable culinary creations such as corn soup or seafood gumbo, accompanied by plenty of wine and  conversation that made the hours fly by.  After a  New Year’s Eve party at their house one year, when we were too tired to drive back home, we decided to stay over. The next day, our “morning” coffee turned into a kitchen table marathon, where we talked and laughed and enjoyed being with each other until about four o’clock the next afternoon. That’s quality time–and those are the memories.

As Elizabeth moved into her final weeks, she didn’t want to spend a minute in regret. She created an atmosphere of celebration, with a house full of friends, family, food, tears and laughter. As always in life, she said what she meant and what she wanted. She even hosted a quilting bee, soliciting any and all to help her create seven baby blankets as a gift  to her future grandchildren. As the time grew shorter, she brought her circle in, making sure every single person knew that she loved them and that she was at peace with the way things were.

On the day of our last visit with her, as we were joined in  surrounding her by Michael, her children, and her beloved sisters-in-law, she was lying on her back, too weak to sit up, with barely even enough breath to speak.  ”I’m just having so much fun,” she said. “I’m so happy.”

That was Elizabeth, and it is with great love that I dedicate my new book to her, a novella entitled  All the Pieces. (more about the book) She  taught me so much about living–and dying–and living again in the hearts of everyone who knew her.      

Women of Sewanee, ready for the world!

The poster advertising the event read; “JUST BECAUSE SHE’S A SOUTHERN, STAY -AT -HOME -MOM,  DOESN’T MEAN SHE CAN’T WRITE A NOVEL, OR BE A FEMINIST.”  I loved this because it helped me know what I wanted to say to these wonderful young women. I’ve posted my comments below, adapted from a talk for my blog. Hope you enjoy!

Pinnacle Luncheon

Sewanee Women’s Center, April 15, 2013

Thank you for the opportunity to come speak to you today. For a few weeks now I’ve been trying to get my head around what I should do with this unique opportunity to speak to a group of young women and men at the threshold of their launch. Whether or not you’re a senior, you are now enjoying a most unique and precious time of your life where you’ve reached a point of maturity, and readiness, to try out who and how you want to be in the world. Enjoy where you are.

I was delighted to see myself designated as a feminist.

“Wow!” I thought. “They see me as a femininst!  So what do they mean by that?”

In my day it meant that we were determined to do everything a man could do. We could graduate at the head of our class, be doctors, lawyers, CEO’s, etc. We could do everything they’d been doing for generations, in fact….I do believe that many women had convinced themselves that they could BE men. But that’s another talk. I am not, and never was, any of those things.  My sense is that things have evolved, which is why I was really interested in finding out what feminism means to those of you born in the early nineties.   So, I asked some of you.

What does that mean, to be a feminist? Here are some of the answers I got.

–Being a feminist means you can’t choose to be a stay at home mom. Choosing to have babies and be the primary caregiver over going out and developing a “career” is simply, not cool.

–A feminist rejects Christianity. The patriarchal values of the traditional church is just too repressive, and a woman caring about gender issues should never acquiesce to that.

–The “southern” woman is the antithesis of a feminist, the “southern” woman, I suppose, being thought of as traditional, self sacrificing, obliging, non assertive, unwilling to put herself forward, to challenge herself or pursue intellectual goals.

These stereotypes were surprising to me, given that I am southern, a stay at home mom, and I literally wrote a book on feminist Christianity…Prayers and Seven Contemplations of the Sacred Mother, available on Amazon! It’s a study of Mary, the Mother of Christ as a symbol of the Sacred Feminine in Western Christianity, presented in essays and meditations.

But that’s actually another talk as well… and I’m going to try to the best of my ability to go against my tendencies to skip around and stick to this one. Since you have honored me as being a feminist, the best way for me to talk to you about that, is to explain what that means to me, and how it relates to my journey since the time I stood in your shoes–and what it might mean for you and your choices as you move forward from this place.

For this purpose I’d like to put forward that “feminism” means—having the courage to seek out the most authentic you, and doing to work to build your life around that. That means claiming your gifts, your skills and your power to make choices. But most importantly, to do all of that, you have to know yourself. By the way, I believe this definition of feminism is every bit as appropriate to men as well as women. Whether male or female, a truly balanced human being is one who honors the whole of themselves and others, regardless of externally imposed gender associations, such as the “Mr Moms” of the world, who are willing to let their partners be the wage earners of the family, or the artist or musician or volunteer worker, who chooses an inner calling over income potential or societal norms. These are all feminists, those who believe that a whole world is made of individuals seeking wholeness within themselves, one person at a time.

So what does that mean? “Who am I?” Is there anything more basic to being human than the quest for the answer to that question? That’s a course that lasts a lifetime, but to help us in our exploration here, I’d like to refer to a book written in 1994 by Mary Pipher, PhD, entitled Reviving Ophelia/Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls. You are, of course, beyond adolescence, but you’ll see why this fits our discussion. Dr. Pipher’s thesis demonstrates the dangers our culture imposes on the lives of adolescent girls, with consequences reaching well beyond those formative years and often, for a lifetime. She describes how the typical pre-adolescent girl’s sense of self and wholeness gives ways to these cultural pressures, taking away the confidence and self awareness so necessary to achieving our heart’s desires.  

As an exercise, I’d like to invite all of you to think back to your pre- adolescent self, under the assumption that it was a time when you knew yourself very well, a time before the culture told you that you needed to worry about your looks, the opposite sex, your weight, pleasing others, fitting in, being liked. What did that “you” want to be when she grew up?

Seven Years Old

When I was this age, I wanted to write stories. I wanted to be an “arthur” my mother tells me.  And I did write stories, and I observed and watched the world around me with an avid curiosity. I read lots of books, spent a lot of time playing , either alone in my room or outside, running around the neighborhood, the woods and the valley with the neighborhood gang.

Fifteen

Here I am at fifteen.  You can see the difference. My aunt had told me always to stand sideways when having your picture taken because it made you look slimmer. I look suspicious and uncomfortable. The light in that seven year old’s eyes has dimmed. I have to be very careful of my hair so it hangs just so. Hair was a big deal in the seventies.  I wrote poetry that was dark and tortured, never dreaming of showing it to anyone.

Here I am around the time of my college graduation, dreamy eyed with hope and possibility.

Launching

By this time, I’d backed way down from my desire to be a writer. I didn’t see how anyone could ever write a whole book, a whole novel, especially me. Why?

I don’t know, it just seemed somehow beyond me, something someone else could do, but not me. Something in between that bright eyed and bushy headed seven year old and the furtive, tentative teenager had gotten it’s hold on me and not let go in time for me to claim my authentic desire to create stories. But I liked books so much, I decided the next best thing to being a writer was to be a librarian! And so I was off to grad school to get my Master’s in Library Science. Fortunately, that’s not the end of the story. Library Science is a great degree, and could be a great choice for many of you. It served me well during the years when my husband was in law school and I was the one working. But it didn’t take me very long to realize that it wasn’t going to work as a default career, just because I didn’t believe in myself as a writer at that point. Thus the journey continued.

The things that spoke to us as preadolescence, while perhaps not being a literal reflection of what we are meant to do, such as being a writer, are golden nuggets of information about our authentic selves.

Here is Emma at ten years old. She wanted to be on Broadway at that age, and still loves to perform.  Mallory wanted to be a professional athlete, Hanna a marine biologist, Lillie Belle an explorer and Emmy an inventor. Elizabeth wanted to be in the military because she saw a television commercial that showed someone on an obstacle course. 

Hopefully, reflecting on your androgonous ten year old self will give you valuable insight into finding your true place in the world, whether or not it’s a literal realization. The inventor becomes an artist, the marine biologist leads outdoor adventures, the  professional athlete is an integral team player on a business team, the explorer travels to foreign countries setting up non -profits, and the one who wanted an obstacle course? She’s headed for teaching.  

 All right, suppose you feel you have a very solid sense of who is the real you, but the culture tells you it isn’t practical, it doesn’t make enough money, or the job market for that particular field doesn’t look good. That’s where the courage comes in.  I was not yet at the point in my journey to claim my desire or abilities as a writer, but being a firm believer in the adage that the journey is the destination, and that all things have their purpose, I don’t regret the years spent working up to it.  I learned a lot in graduate school, and not just about library science, either.  For one thing, I had a good lesson in choosing a life partner, which beginning at your stage in life, is increasingly a hot topic, if and when, and more importantly…who.

There’s a book you all need to know about, written by Sheryl Sandburg, COO of Facebook and released just last month. If you haven’t heard of it yet, you will soon. Lean In; Women, Work and the Will to Lead

Read it and join the buzz. Here’s what she says …

“I truly believe that the single most important career decision that a woman makes is whether she will have a life partner and who that partner is.  I don’t know of one woman in a leadership position whose life partner is not fully—and I mean fully—supportive of her career. No exceptions. “

I’m wondering how that sits with some of you. Does this sort of advice from one of Forbes 100 Most Powerful Women surprise you?  Are many of you conditioned to believe that whatever you achieve, it will be your own grit and determination that gets you there? Or say you realize your calling is to do something that generates little or no income—such as many careers in the arts, nonprofit work, starting your own business, or raising your own children. Consider this one carefully before you assume that your partner, whoever he or she might be, will automatically be on board with the authentic you.

 If love is the glue that holds you together, consider that you need more than glue to build something. Whether it be the other sex, or same sex, there are the considerations of income potential of either or both partners, the desire to create a family, etc. that have huge impact on how you will spend the days, weeks and months of the years to come.

So back to my personal journey….I have to admit I just got plain lucky. Don’t think I knew any of this when I was your age, but I ultimately chose a life partner that was fully behind my choice not to have a job outside the home, which is something I didn’t really plan. But once the first child came along, I realized that job spoke to my authentic self more than any other at that time in my life, and it’s something that takes a great deal of support, both economically and emotionally.

Along the way I discovered another passion that gave me much needed mental and emotional support and that was teaching yoga. So over the last several years, as my children went through their teens and beyond, I finally was ready to move in with myself, so to speak.   Still a wife, mother and daughter, now well into middle age with almost no income whatsoever, I was truly beginning to live a life that was mine. And I think, for me, that’s what being a feminist is about. Lucky? Yes indeed, I was lucky to have made the right choices, for me.

It took me about seven years to write ANGEL, and then began another phase of the journey, launching the book and taking it out into the world. I’ve learned so much about putting myself out there and being vulnerable to how the world sees me, and my work. The process has taught me that not everyone has to like my book for me to know, in my heart, that it’s from me, it’s the real thing, it’s what I have to give. That makes me feel okay about it, no matter how many I sell, or what the reviews say.

As you move into your life, hopefully willing to ask the questions and do the work of connecting, or reconnecting to the YOU that might have been sidetracked over the last few years, I encourage you  go deep, to seek what is real, and to live and be that which brings you joy.

I’ll end with a quote from Joseph Campbell;

“The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.”

Thank you! 

]]> http://maryekingsley.com/2013/04/22/being-you/feed/ 0 http://maryekingsley.com/2013/03/20/farm-journal-spring/ http://maryekingsley.com/2013/03/20/farm-journal-spring/#comments Wed, 20 Mar 2013 16:32:01 +0000 admin http://maryekingsley.com/?p=2150

Ready for Spring at Three Graces

It’s been teasing us for a while now. The daffodil shoots were up by the first of February, but then winter decided to stick around, and they had to hide their happy yellow heads for another six weeks. They’re finally out, but we had snow as recently as last week and it’s been cold and windy ever since, so everything else is still in hiding.

The weather itself, however, is now irrelevant. The Vernal Equinox occured at 7:02 this morning, when the northern hemisphere began its tilt towards the sun, signaling longer days and warming temperatures. Those late bloomers will be showing up all over the place here shortly. Spring is official!

It’s our first here on at Three Graces Farm, so I’m looking forward to the surprises that await. In the meantime, a new fence is going up in the back yard next week. The old one has that charming, weathered look that I love, but  it’s also collapsing.  Skye, our new eighty pound rescue pooch, could probably knock it down by barking at it. There will be an entry gate to the vegetable garden going in along the east side of the yard, and to the west–blueberries! My friend Robyn is coming the first week in April, bringing her amazing garden artist’s eye to help me with the flowers and perennials.

The next big project is to get the hen house ready for the chicks that are arriving in May. Right now they are nothing more than a gleam in the old rooster’s eye, but that’s okay. We need the time to convert that elegantly shabby toolshed out back into a warm, cozy and coyote- proof haven for six gorgeous, feathered girls. Our reward will be fresh eggs every day! We’re hoping that they’ll be joined by a few of their guinea hen cousins, who’ll earn their keep around the place by eating their weight in garden pests and ticks.

Also on the horizon is the arrival of several honeybee hives. Dave, the local apiarian, will bring them over when the weather gets warm and get them all set up for us. All we have to do is let them “bee” here (ha ha) and enjoy the gallon of honey they’ll produce if they’re happy.

Spring is always about new things, so in addition to all the beginnings at Three Graces Farm, I’m excited to announce my latest work. My new novella, All the Pieces, will be making it’s appearance on Amazon Kindle in a few week’s time.  Stay tuned for more details. Between the dogs, chicks, honeybees and flowers,  I’ll be keeping you posted!

Matthew and Mary Crawley looking concerned about their future.

know anything about Sunday’s final episode of Downton Abbey, Season 3. I will keep the details vague anyway to protect the innocent. In terms of TV land, the rest of us woke up to a whole new world this morning, and as I was struggling to come to terms, I was reminded of Elisabeth Kubler Ross’s Five Stages of Grief.

First there is denial. They did NOT do that to us! I went to bed in such a state that I tossed and turned all night long, thinking surely it was only a bad PBS dream, something akin to Laura Linney having bad hair or missing a front tooth. It simply could not be so! But alas, at the dawn of day, hundreds of Facebook posts and comments had confirmed the worst.  As I began my personal journey of processing the truth, I become aware that I have moved to the second stage, which is anger.

Season Four? No way am I watching–ever again! After that cheap shot? I won’t take that kind of emotional manipulation! Julian Fellowes can take his Earl Grey tea and shove it! What do we care about those people anyway? They’re way too rich for their own good. But wait, here comes the bargaining stage. Really now, if you just take that last thirty seconds of Season 3, Episode 7–especially that one shot, you know which one I mean–and throw it out,  I’ll come back. Go ahead, admit it was a mistake, a hasty, ill conceived notion, an artistic burp, as it were. Out of delicacy, I will refrain from using the better word.

Of course, that’s absurd. It has  happened. It’s done now and there is no going back. Thus, I move into the fourth stage of grief, which is depression.  Though I will avoid specifics for the sake of our friends still living in that other land, let me say that there is a deep, genuine sadness over the state of affairs at the big house. Yet one question looms most heavily-Who are we going to look at next season? Oh, how we will miss those baby blues!

We must move on. No doubt there will be support groups, message boards, and to help us remember those happier times, there will always be reruns. Eventually, perhaps some sooner than others, we will move on to the next and final phase of our grief journey–acceptance. This is not a place where we forget, but rather,  where we can remember the good, and move on with courage and anticipation into the next season. There is hope! We can help ourselves and each other reach this place with a simple, daily reminder–PEOPLE! IT’S A TV SHOW!  Thank you.

The Threshold

What does Punxsutawney Phil have to do with the Catholic Church, a Pagan Goddess, and an Irish Abbess who later became a Saint? We all know the groundhog from Pennsylvania who comes forth on February 2nd  and predicts the onset of spring, if not so precisely, then at least in terms of sooner or later. It makes perfect sense that the date is what is known as a cross quarter day,  half way between the Winter Solstice on Dec. 21st and the Vernal Equinox on March 21st. The Catholic Church recognizes it as the festival day of Candlemas, when the return of light with the lengthening of days is acknowledged by the blessing of candles. As with Groundhog’s Day, the weather on Candlemas was believed to be an indication of spring’s onset, winter’s end being delayed if the day was sunny and bright.

Pre-Christian Celtic tradition brings us Brigid, whose was said to be born on February 1st, her birth taking place over a threshold. Fittingly, she became the patroness of transitions, literally from winter to spring but symbolically in all aspects of nature, life and the human experience. She also represents fire and light, another connection to the tradtions of Candlemas, and is seen as the protector of home and hearth, patroness of the arts, particularly poetry, animal husbandry and childbirth!

After Catholicism took hold in Great Britain, the figure of Brigid is integrated into church lore through Brigid of Kildare, an Irish Christian nun with many of the same characteristics as her mythological counterpart, and who later became one of the three patron saints of Ireland along with Patrick and Columba. Her mythological goddess qualities translate seamlessly into a saint who performed miracles, particularly around births and healings,  and is the subject of many Irish legends today. One such story tells of when St. Brigid went to a wealthy lord  to ask for land to build a convent. The lord thought it was a ridiculous request and refused, but Brigid had faith that God would help. “If I spread my cloak upon the ground, will you give me all of the land that it covers?” she asked. The lord considered this nothing more than a joke, seeing that the cloak was very small, and so he agreed.   When Brigid spread her cloak on the ground, it  began to grow, and before their very eyes spread further and further until it covered many acres of land. The lord then recognized that Brigid was blessed by God, and not only gave her the land but became a Christian and a patron of the poor.

The thread weaving all of this together, of course, is that we have now crossed the half way mark to spring. Even as brutally cold and windy as it was yesterday, I was surprised by some tiny green shoots coming up in the front yard, and I noticed that it’s not so dark at 5:30 anymore. Sooner or later, spring will come– but it doesn’t take a groundhog to tell us that.

The Farmhouse at Three Graces Farm

Martha Custis Peter, George Washington's step-grandaughter, once lived in the house.

The original house dates back to the late 18th century, and was once the summer home of George Washington’s step grandaughter, Martha Parke Custis and her husband, Thomas Peter, both of whom are buried in the historic Montevideo family cemetery nearby.

The Potomac Hunt departing from neighboring Montevideo Estate, Thanksgiving Day, 2012

Their son, John Parke Custis Peter, was the owner of the Seneca Mill, which is the source of the distinctive rose colored sandstone used in building our very own kitchen hearth, as well as the exterior of the Smithsonian Castle on the National Mall in Washington, DC.

The current dwelling goes back to 1820, and  in the years before Emancipation,  a crawl space under one of the rooms, accessible only by a tiny hatch door in the floor, is said to have been a hiding place for travelers along the Underground Railroad.

During the Civil War, the house was in a critical spot for two key events. It is situated in between where Lee invaded Maryland at White’s Ferry in 1862,  culminating in The Battle of Antietam and where J.E.B.Stuart crossed the Potomac at Rowser’s Ford on his famous Ride to Gettysburg in 1863. Because of the shallowness of the Potomac at White’s Ford and Rowser’s Ford, and the strategic importance of the C&O Canal, there were 20,000 Union Troops stationed and at least 7 skirmishes between confederate and union troops in and around the area.

Our kitchen hearth is made of stone from the Seneca Quarry, also the material used for construction of the Smithsonian Castle and the C&O Aqueducts.

Literally generations of families have inhabited these very walls, walked these creaky pine floors, lived their day by day joys and sadness, births, deaths, illness, celebrations, the years rolling on one by one. The people come and go as they pass through this world  (though we hear stories of some lingering unseen and in between …more on our ghost later) but the house remains to greet each sunrise and sunset long past them all. It’s our time to be here, it seems, and during our stay we intend to fill it with as many joy filled days as possible, with gatherings of family, friends, pets, wonderful food, holidays, seasons of light and bounty and days of creative work and rest. It has already welcomed us all so generously, and we are in awe that our journey has led us here, to this old farmhouse–a place of such warmth, history and spirit.

Future USAF Pararescueman Robert Cameron Kingsley and his parents on the day of his departure to Lackland AFB

“So That Others May Live” is their motto. “But I want YOU to live!” says the mom in me. “Please…go get a nice, safe job sitting behind a computer somewhere. Use that amazing, creative, college educated mind of yours instead of risking your life!” But logic, reason and maternal anxiety have little sway in matters of the heart. As the months went by, all hopes of this being an adventurous whim or a passing phase began to give way to a growing sense of pride that our son, who could literally do anything he wanted with his life, would choose to serve in such a demanding and selfless way.

Living under our roof for most of the past year, we observed  the mental discipline and physical challenges (not to mention the paperwork!) that brought him to the very beginning of the journey which began for him on New Year’s Day. Having passed a very high standard of qualifications, he embarks upon a training program that lasts nearly two years, if he first makes it through a rigorous post-basic military training indoctrination course which the vast majority of Airmen PJ candidates (80-90%) will not successfully complete. The honor of Pararescueman is bestowed upon the very fewest–the strongest, most resilient, courageous and disciplined of young men. We are so proud of his desire to be one of those few.

As we drove him to his send- off the other day, I sat in the back with both my arms around him, reflecting on the years of caring for him, the concern for his health, safety, comfort and well being. And here I was passing him into the hands of those who will take him to the very limits of human capability. He will be made cold, wet, hungry, sleepless, exhausted. He will be brought to the brink of drowning, he will jump out of airplanes and be trained to land in hostile territory, he will march to the point of collapse, carrying a weight on his back equal to and greater than that of the men and women he’s being asked to rescue, those of future disasters, calamities  and emergencies that require the assistance of these young men that are asked to become superhuman for these times…So That Others May Live. If it’s a mother’s first task to care for her young, I suppose it’s a harsh reality that the next task is to let them go, even into the face of danger and uncertainty. There’s no use in asking why.

“But Mom, you always told me to go play outside!” he says. So be careful about telling your kids to do something, especially the part about following their dreams. They just might do it.

ANGEL

It’s been a year since my first novel, Angel, came forth into the world. It had been a long road, beginning with a flicker of a thought darting across my mind, something like –now there’s an idea!–followed by the crystal clear voice in my head that I knew to be hers, and that she wanted her story told. I did my best to convince her that there wasn’t much use in my doing it. After all, I was very busy with my real life, three teenagers and all of that, and I really had no idea how to write a whole novel. Short stories, poems, and essays I could handle, but a novel was simply more than I could muster.  Funny thing was, she wouldn’t leave me alone. Quite frankly, she was a nag. She kept talking to me, and following me around. I kept writing down what she said, just to humor her, you know. Okay, I hear you, but don’t get yourself to thinking this is going anywhere!  She went everywhere with me– to the grocery store, to pick up kids from hither and yon, on long walks, to yoga class, teacher trainings, vacations, retreats, to the mountains and the shores. I thought for sure I’d shirked her when we made a six hundred mile move and I ignored her for the better part of a year. But lo and behold, she was waiting for me on the other end, not so patiently, perhaps. But she was certainly persistent. You again! I said, finally settling down enough to realize in all of these scribblings, there was a story, that story that had first streaked across the sky in front of me like a shooting star and was taking shape despite my remonstrations.

But what was next, other than the desk drawer? Enter deus ex machina Renni Browne, whom I had the vast good fortune to meet through a mutual friend. This friend  insisted I share my bare- bones- only attempts at a novel with Renni, who, as a seasoned, professional editor, heard Angel’s voice as well and encouraged me to continue. With the kids all grown up now and my  relatively unattached status in a new community, I finally let go and dove into the book full on.  I worked with Renni on the manuscript for over two years. People often ask if it was hard, putting my story out for constant feedback, critique and revision. My answer is that no, it was an exhilarating experience, like a part of me that had been starved was suddenly being fed, or a nagging itch finally getting that long, delicious, satisfying scratch.

I had been well warned, however that the writing of the book is only the beginning. Thanks to all of the talented, creative and professional people at The Editorial Department who were willing to join me in this whole new world of 21st century publishing, a world that is new to everyone involved, the end product, the actual book, Angel, is a joy to behold. Beautiful to look at, to hold, and as so many of its many readers have told me over the past year, (over one hundred thousand downloaded from Amazon!) a genuine pleasure to read, the Angel that began in my head and heart as that little voice that wanted to be heard, that story that wanted to be told, has blessed my life tremendously. Thanks to my whole team who’ve worked so closely with me over the last year and a half, and of course, my readers. Thank you, ANGEL and  Happy Birthday!

P.S. Look for a new work coming up in the new year, All the Pieces, a Kindle Single!

Lighting the morning fire at Three Graces Farm

Everything else can begin from there, feeding the animals, fixing breakfast, sitting down to assess the day and begin. I’m reminded of the summer our family spent doing volunteer work in a village in Tanzania. The women living in the little huts all around us would be up before daybreak, getting the fire going out in the yard so they could heat water, cook, and clean. There was a saying amongst them that if you didn’t get up and get the fire going, your children would starve. Fortunately, my grown children don’t depend on me to light that fire every morning, but the saying is true as it pertains to the offspring of my  creative energy, stories that are waiting to be told.  There is a creative fire that must be ignited, tended and stoked on a regular basis.  I just found ample fuel for that fire, as I was fortunate to be able to travel to north Georgia this past weekend for the Dahlonega Literary Festival.  It was an inspiration not only to meet other authors, but also to spend time lingering over a meal or at various book tables, talking to them about their writing, their publication and marketing experiences and how all of this fits into their daily lives.

Downtown Dahlonega

A highlight of the weekend was participating as a panelist in a discussion of “Appalachia in Fact and Fiction,” along with first novelists Ann Hite, author of Ghost on Black Mountain and Katherine Scott Crawford, who wrote Keowee Valley.  Also on the panel were humorist Nick Wynne and novelist Walton Young.  Though I’ve known her from social media as a fellow first novelist, I finally got to meet in person Kimberly Brock, author of The River Witch.  We had a wonderful time getting to know Janie Demsey Watts, writer of Moon Over Taylor Ridge and Dr. Janet Page, author of 365 Days to I Do, and their husbands, Steve and Jim.  I was especially fortunate to share a wonderful lunch with Jackie K. Cooper, memoir writer, movie reviewer and book reviewer for  The Huffington Post, and his wife, Terry, both of whom are not only warm, wonderful people, but also inspiring in their life work and experience.  And so, after such an enriching weekend, meeting and sharing with all of these talented folks in the lovely setting of Dahlonega, I return to Three Graces Farm with my creative fire kindled anew, aiming to keep the wood stove stoked and the inspiration well fed.