The Book of Ours ~ An Invitation to Revelation
A new offering for paid subscribers...
Dear Friends,
One of the unintended consequences of being a suppressed artist and active mystic for decades is that I have a vast treasury of writings, musings, stories, poems, and notes I’ve saved over the years. Some of these works and fragments are in my multitudinous journals, some are on my phone or in my computer files. Of course, a lot of it is private and will remain that way, but some of it was written and created to be received, seen, shared.
These fragments haven’t seen the light of day because I either got discouraged, or lost the thread of inspiration. For various reasons—some logical and some emotional—I walked away; sometimes I even knew as I was doing it that I was abandoning something precious—a tender story, a glimpse of truth, a remembrance…I have whole stories and poems and even near-books sitting on the hard drive or the cloud or the closet, waiting to be tended, edited, brushed off and revealed.
I bet many of you can identify. How many books and poems are out there waiting to be shared? Have you hidden your most intimate thoughts? Your prescious visions and dreams? Have you convinced yourself that the world isn’t ready or isn’t worthy? We will look back on these times when we hid our truest selves from the world and see them as dark times, indeed.
The idea of releasing these fragments into the world dawned on me recently…as soon as it did, I realized how urgently I needed this kind of creative outlet! From an esoteric standpoint, I believe the act of revelation this would entail could repair the internal rupture my self-suppression has caused. I am the one—ultimately—who silenced myself. My inner critic was the culprit. Bless her heart, she was just trying to protect me—from ridicule, scorn, persecution…all very REAL threats in these times and for my ancestors, especially the women. Opening this channel to receive MORE requires me first to clear out what came through previously and became stuck, blocked; whatever is between me, my channels, and my Higher Self. I want to get the whole of my being on board to be a clear and confident channel for Spirit—nothing less.
Starting now, my behind-the-paywall offering will be a behind-the-scenes look at the inner workings and musings of this woman’s life and creativity. It will be a space for the raw material, the marginalia and the unfinished business I have in abundance in the form of writings, notes, and scraps. This space will be for paid subscribers. I will continue to publish finished pieces of writing and essays and poems as usual in my main newsletter, but for those who want the deeper cuts, join me in the inner sanctum.
Here in this virtual Book of Ours (more on this below), I will liberate myself from the tyranny of completing and polishing pieces. I will loosen the hold the inner critic has on my work. I will play, dance, and sketch. And I will surely make mistakes publicly. Egads! My hope in doing this is that the voice of Spirit and Inspiration that has flowed through me will finally reach the places and people it was meant to reach; and that it will inspire others—especially women—to open their hearts and release the beauty that they may be keeping hidden from an unkind or harsh world. I think things have changed! The world is ready for our process, our explorations and our musings—ESPECIALLY those that are HEARTFELT, ESPECIALLY if we do it TOGETHER.
Prelude to the Decision
Over the last few years my relationship to making art and putting it out into the world has changed drastically. Some of this has been a result of self-healing and integration; some of it has come with the gifts of aging; some of it has come with more wisdom about what the world needs; and some of it is the inspiration of my beloved. Ari has been the greatest creative activator of my life. He’s done it by setting an example and also by believing in me like no one has before.
A breakthrough happened for me last year when Ari encouraged me to go back to the book I’d been working on for a decade. He recognized what I couldn’t see—not getting this book done and into the world was blocking ALL my writing.
I had shared an early draft of this book with a mentor who was also a character in the book. I expected him to love it; to be thrilled with the portrayal of our beautiful and complex relationship. I expected him to celebrate with me. Instead, he was furious—I now see he was scared of what it might reveal—and he commanded me to “put it in the bottom drawer of your dresser and never show it to anyone.” At that time, I was susceptible to this kind of intimidation because of my own inner critics. I did what he said—literally—and it sat there for six years until Ari helped me rescue and resuscitate it. That book is Tenacious Magic, which is now being readied for publication.
When I was writing Tenacious Magic, and even before the writing when I was being visited by the spirit of Katherine Mansfield, one of the books I bought online was The Scrapbook of Katherine Mansfield. After she died at the age of 34, her husband posthumously published her scrapbooks…journals, letters, clippings. These scrapbooks contain everything from character sketches and stories she never had time to write, to shopping lists and accountings of the spending of her meager allowance, to her deepest heart’s longings, dreams, and spiritual insights. I LOVED diving into these scrapbooks.
John Middleton Murry, her husband, received harsh criticism for this decision to publish his famous wife’s journals. I admit, reading them sometimes feels a little voyeuristic—like stealing a sister’s diary while she’s out. But, I realized (and Katherine so much as told me) it was ultimately good that he did. Katherine wrote many wonderful stories and is an important literary figure of the Modernist movement. But, for me as a woman and writer, it has been these glimpses into her private life and process that have made her REAL for me; relatable and fascinating. There are lines and passages in the Scrapbooks that sparkle with aliveness and wit. They aren’t contained within the structure of a well-edited story, but they SAY so much. Real life often happens in the marginalia!
It makes me think also of the Books of Hours many women used during the Middle Ages to keep record of their prayers…and their secrets. Paper was extremely rare, and these little books were often given to women as wedding presents. Many surviving example are highly personalized and annotated with dates, initials, and cryptic notes the women jotted in there to keep their memories…to record the details of their lives, which were already marginalized.
Recently, a friend and reader sent me a private note to thank me for some vulnerable writing I’d done. She gave me a great acknowledgment—one that made me feel truly seen. She said, “Thanks for never holding back.” I proceed with this Book of Ours in the spirit of courage and on behalf of all the books of hours and untold stories held in too long. The main way Spirit moves THROUGH me to touch others in this world is through writing. I don’t think it’s my job to edit Spirit :)
It’s become clear to me that one of the ways we are going to survive and cooperate with the forces of evolution through this transitional time is TO MAKE ART. I spend time thinking about the secret and private artworks and masterpieces hidden in journals and basements and studios. I think about my own treasure trove of pieces deemed by some internalized patriarchal critic to be not good enough. I want to read and see this art. More than that, I want more people to consider themselves artists…creatives. I want the flow of creativity itself to be untapped, unclogged, unstoppable. Let’s release the pieces! Let ‘em fly.
Have you also heard the call? Gotten the message? Received the transmission? Felt the activation? Let me know!
The First Book of Hours Offering
One of the gems I came across as I was looking through old files, was a novella I wrote in 2017, mostly on my phone, mostly during long subway commutes in NYC. It’s called House of the Spirit Moon and it’s a magical-mystical tale in the style of the magical realists I adore like Borges and Italo Calvino; and American absurdists such as Kurt Vonnegut, Richard Brautigan, and Tom Robbins. I like this story. It’s quirky, mysterious and a little out-of-the-box for me.
My first paid post in the Book of Hours will be the continuation of this chapter of House of the Spirit Moon. If you like it, consider subscribing or upgrading your subscription for more. I will be releasing it chapter-by-chapter in the coming weeks along with other unpublished poems and musings.
House of the Spirit Moon ~ Chapter 1: Won’t You Come In?
I came into some money when my great aunt died. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to put a downpayment on a small house. Through the fall, I used my weekends to leave the city and explore the countryside. I saw dozens of places—out of the way, dilapidated, tiny, neglected. Apparently, I had the kind of money that got you a fixer-upper. Feeling disappointed by the prospects, I put the search on hold through the winter.
One house stuck with me through the cold winter months; working its way into my dreams and daydreams. It was big, cold, empty…you might even say, creepy. The real estate agent called it House of the Spirit Moon. That seemed like a pretentious name for what was essentially an old farmhouse, but she insisted on using it in all her correspondence. Eventually, the confusion of calling it anything else flattened my resistance and I began to refer to it simply as Spirit Moon.
I tried to forget about it. I told myself it was impractical, illogical, insane for a single woman with a cat to consider such a money pit. But, something about it felt familiar—like a memory of an old photograph. I couldn’t shake it. Spirit Moon kept me warm through the long, lonely winter. I told myself I’d go back and see it once the weather turned.
One morning stepping out of my apartment building into the brilliant sunshine, I felt the arrival of spring. The trees were still leafless, but the quality of the light and the smell of earth told me something was pushing up, renewal was eminent. I also felt ready for a new beginning and called the real estate agent.
"I'd like to see a house again,” I said after we exchanged some pleasantries.
"Which house?"
"Spirit Moon.”
“House of the Spirit Moon?” She was a stickler for details.
“Yes.”
She was quiet for a minute. I imagined she was searching her files, “I’m sorry. That’s no longer possible."
My heart sank. As usual, I'd held on too long to the past, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Well, if you have something else in the area, I’ve decided to start looking again…"
She laughed and stopped me, "Oh no! I only mean it's not possible to see it as it was then."
“Excuse me? I don't understand.”
“You can see it, but it’s changed completely since fall—haven’t you?”
I considered the question, “I guess I have.”
“The house I can show you now will be different. It’s growing, you see. I’m happy to show you that.” I wasn't sure how to answer. Sensing my hesitation she pushed on, "Meet me there on Saturday at six." She hung up before I could ask any more questions; leaving me in a state of curiosity for the rest of the morning.
“Why do I feel nervous?” I asked Matilda, the cat, who was watching me closely, probably wanting a second breakfast. I was in the habit of talking aloud to her. Not so unusual, but I was also in the habit of imagining her response.
“Change always makes you nervous.” Matilda tells it like it is.
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On Saturday at a quarter to six I drove through the waning light towards Spirit Moon. Rolling fields gave way to deeper, denser stands of trees and eventually dark woods. Following the navigation system, I made a final turn onto the long dirt road at the end of which stood Spirit Moon. As the car rolled over the gravel, I felt myself moving farther away from civilization. My body responded by relaxing and even perking up. I felt for the first time in a while, a delicious sense of anticipation. The phrase, "a new beginning," came to mind and I smiled. I felt a long-forgotten creative pulse.
The gravel road ended and the navigation froze at the same moment. Not sure how to proceed, I got out of the car to look around. My ears filled with the deafening silence. I pulled out my phone to call the agent, then remembered I had no service. Just as I was about to give up, I spotted two matted tracks of grass off to the right; an indication that other cars had been here before, but not many. I rolled forward with trepidation, making a sweeping curve through the tall grass. Ahead of me stood the house. I recognized it at once, though she was right…something about it was different.
What struck me again was how familiar it felt. Once or twice in my life it had happened that I'd met a person who instantly felt to me like family. But, I'd never experienced that sensation with a place, an inanimate object. That was the thing...it didn't seem to be inanimate. This house was alive.
As I parked the car and stepped out my senses heightened. My heart beat strongly. I felt the golden rays of the setting sun and heard the sound of a thousand crickets. I also felt I was being watched.
"Hi!" My agent called to me from the front seat of her parked car, "So, what do you think?"
"Is the owner here?" I said finding it hard to take my eyes off of the windows upstairs. I half expected to see myself looking out at us.
She laughed as if I'd made a joke, "Let's take a look."
As I followed her to the door she rattled off facts about the land, the area, the house's history. I heard none of it. I was trying to keep my feet on the ground. My head was filled with a tremendous buzzing sound, energy, and seemed to be expanding from the inside out. I was entering a state of heightened awareness. The house seemed to demand it.
We stopped at the door and she handed me the key, "You try," she said.
I opened the door easily with a quick twist of the wrist and a push and stepped into the dark foyer.
She stood expectantly on the porch, "Now invite me in," she said playfully.
"Won't you come in, please," I said awkwardly. She stepped across the threshold.
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