I joined millions of other people stepping outside to watch the solar eclipse as it swept across the Americas this week. I chose an underpopulated rural park and shared a celebrative picnic luncheon beforehand with a friend. It really was the perfect viewing spot beside a sparkling lake, surrounded by budding trees and tilled pastures with an occasional fisherman stopping by to cast a line into the water. We raised our glasses to view the phenomenon and yes, it was stunning.
Just as impressive, however, was the impact that the eclipse had on the surrounding wildlife. When only a third of the sun was covered, I noticed that the birds had stopped singing. It was what my protagonist, Remy Lane, noticed in The Sacred Stones, “Songbirds fell silent as if holding their breath in the timeless vignette.” Redwing blackbirds dotting the fields, ducks paddling on the lake, and sparrows fluttering in the trees all grew still. Even the robins gave up their normal land patrol where they endlessly strut about seeking out territorial invaders and worms. Utter calm. Then, hundreds of crickets began chirping and frogs bellowing in a raucous chorus around the lake. This was mid-afternoon. Half of the sun was still visible, yet they sensed the change. I’ve read that bats will fly out of caves en masse, owls will begin hooting, and dogs will howl when an eclipse occurs – even when they are not on the direct path (i.e., there is still sunlight present). Amazing. Yet all we humans managed to do was oooh and ahhh, taking pictures with our cell phones – like anyone who saw the eclipse will ever forget how it looked. Once again, I am utterly impressed by wildlife which is so beautifully in tune with the universe. What a shame we’ve lost that nurturing connection in our rush toward progress. St. Patrick’s Day rolls around this weekend and thoughts of all things Irish reminds me of an inexplicable event that occurred when I was in Ireland. My daughter was heading into college that fall, and our summer trip was her reward for graduating with honors and celebrating her acceptance into a stellar women’s college.
It was our first trip abroad. I was driving on the opposite side of rural roads that held no signage whatsoever while she was relying on a wonky GPS unit that failed more than it succeeded. We were often lost, always happy, and overwhelmed with a mixture of excitement and stress. Fans of all things ancient, we decided to find the oldest ringed high crosses in Ireland located outside of Ahenny, County Tipperary. The 8th century crosses are beautifully carved with geometric shapes; stunning relics standing within a tiny cemetery surrounded by cow pastures and farm fields. We waved to the cows as we crossed the open meadow, dropped a donation into a tiny collection box posted on the cemetery gate, and spent the next hour spellbound by history. What I hadn’t told my daughter was that I slipped when leaving our B&B that morning and had somehow injured my knee. I hid my limp from her because it was only the second day of a two-week vacation. We were in trouble. I was the only licensed driver and pressing the gas/brake pedals was cringeworthy. Walking was riddled with pain. While she took photos -- including the one posted below -- I leaned my hand against a high cross to get weight off my screaming knee, wondering how we could possibly continue our journey without a miracle in hand. And it happened: A miracle that is. When I stood upright and stepped away from the capped cross, there was absolutely no pain in my knee joint. I was perfectly fine. I spent the next twelve days climbing over stone stacked walls, hiking out to megalithic burial sites, hopping up spiral stone steps to reach the top of castle spires, and trekking down steep footpaths to the coast in search of selkies. Always perfectly fine. On St. Patrick’s Day, I urge you to raise a glass (preferably of Guinness) and toast this miracle of Ireland’s high cross. A touch of the unexplained, but some things in life should remain a mystery. “When it comes to writing, the journey is the point; the product isn’t.”
Those sage words were spoken by the multi-published author Julianna Holmes on her podcast. The statement stopped me in my tracks. I admit it: Up until that moment, I had always focused on the product. That is, getting my novels published and having my series appear in bookstores, shelved in libraries, and sold with online retailers. I mean, that’s the point of writing, isn’t it? Well, no. Once I embraced Julianna’s words, I pivoted and concentrated on the actual journey. The first thing I realized is that a writer probably shouldn’t travel alone. Up until then, I’d been working solo on my mystery series for about ten years while also working full time. It was a very personal, private undertaking. So, why not open my manuscripts to others? Inviting people to join me in my journey has allowed me to embrace creative writers, join critique clubs, work with copy editors, and connect with beta readers. Their shared stories and genuine feedback have been incredibly refreshing while having a profound impact on my writing. I’ve found it’s delightful to belong to an ever-expanding group of talented, humorous, challenging, and caring individuals who all contribute to “the product.” One day, my community will also include agents, content editors, book cover designers, and publishers who will add more exciting new tools to my travel bag as I continue to grow as a writer. But I’m not worried about when that day arrives. Recognizing that the journey is the point of writing made room for both humility and humor in my life. It allows me to remain a lifelong apprentice to the craft and to belong to a wonderful community of readers and writers. It has been a lovely, freeing notion. He’s back – the hawk, that is. Last January I wrote about a hawk that appeared in my backyard…
…I stared outside. To my amazement, a mature hawk stared back at me. The hefty predator was patrolling my backyard in search of a morning snack. It was shocking on two levels. First, I’ve never seen a hawk in the backyard. We’ve lots of small birds that are fed seed daily but not the big hunters. Second, he was walking on the ground. I’ve only see hawks soaring across the sky, perched on telephone poles, or silhouetted on a weather-beaten farm fence which can sometimes still be found in the countryside; not strutting across a clipped lawn. The hawk disappeared later that day. I may have seen him circling over nearby fields throughout the year but never again in my backyard. He must have checked his 2024 appointment calendar because he landed on my lawn right on schedule: January 1st. There is no denying that he is impressive. Foreboding. The sparrows are packed into surrounding bushes, silent and trembling. The mourning doves pulled up stakes and waddled down the block. The cardinal grabbed his mate and took off for the nearby Dennys. The hawk just sits there: Watching. Waiting. The online psychics claim: When you have a close hawk sighting, it's a sign from the spirit realm that you are ready to take on a larger, more powerful expansion and vision of your world. The hawk symbolizes a need to start looking forward, envisioning your path ahead, and perhaps preparing for a greater role in life. Again, like my protagonist, Remy Lane, I don’t need the stars or psychics to tell me when to stop or when to go, but a swift kick in the butt is always appreciated. Recently retired, I find that it is all too easy to sit down and not move forward. Fortunately, I have a hawk who swoops in once a year to remind me that I am meant to be doing much more. It’s time to take on a fresh challenge. Lying down, the Inspector sought oblivion, an escape from the dirt and crime he faced daily. Instead, he was plagued with a half-witted dream. The cosmos wept tears wrung from the stars. Icy pellets of light, melted by moonbeams. He stood at cliff’s edge, the sea pounding furiously below. The barren branches of a hawthorn tree loomed over him, backlit by the stars. Its sparse leaves fell at his feet, the fading foliage etched with words. He gathered the leaves, arranging their gibberish into sentences, desperate to read their secret. A sudden foul wind snatched at his shabby collection, lifting leaves from the ground, swirling their sentiments around his feet before casting the leaves out to sea – knowledge lost. Pressing his meager harvest between the pages of a book, Tremaine hugged the text to his chest before the next gale could carry it away. The rains came. The galaxy grieved a deluge. Excerpt from The Tide Turns It has been raining all day. At times, a deluge. While so many other places around the globe have been suffering from torrential rain and severe floods, my backyard is parched. Local weathermen predict rain in their questionable forecasts only to have it disappear before a drop of water reaches the ground. It has been a harsh summer everywhere as global warming takes its toll, punishing us for our arrogance.
People in China, India, and Australia have come to loath the sound of rain given their devastating floods. I’ve flung open my windows, willing to tolerate the chill just to hear the sound of raindrops. One woman’s curse is another woman’s blessing. I doubt we will ever recapture that healthy balance in nature again given global warming. I find the overarching ramifications unbearably depressing. Watching today’s rain. I just wish it could wash away the foolishness of mankind so that we could collaboratively strive to retain what exists in nature, perhaps recapture some of what we have already lost, and protect it all for future children. Holy wells are a key feature in The Sacred Stones. There were once thousands of these sacred sites throughout the U.K. The natural springs were contained by stone structures built by pagans who believed that water had healing powers. Their steadfast popularity led the early Roman Church to embrace the watery temples, attributing the shrines to Christian saints in their drive to convert pagans. If that didn’t work, the sites were destroyed. This habit harkens back to Sterling Rosemont’s observation: What the Church couldn’t explain, it buried.
Most holy wells are small and subject to neglect, making an accurate count sketchy at best. It is often easier to spot the accompanying cloutie tree decked with cloth tokens and trinkets left by travelers who still hope for a touch of magic to heal the wounds they’ve gathered in life. Inspiration for The Sacred Stones sprung from a medieval holy well I visited while in Cornwall. The Dupath Well (as in Dean Dickie Dupath, one of our four seminarians) features a fascinating and unusually large structure over the sacred pool. This pre-Christian shrine still exists on a working farm. It captures the magic and mysticism embraced by Celts, Picts, and Romans seeking cures from holy water. They abandoned the pasture and trekked into the bordering woodland. Rays of light pierced the dense canopy, illuminating white-barked trees, and casting elongated shadows. The poplar forest was ancient. The air, laden with a primal atmosphere. Songbirds fell silent as if holding their breath in the timeless vignette. The intruders grew pensive, and their earlier frivolity fled back to the sunny meadow. Excerpt from The Sacred Stones I stepped into this jaw-dropping scene when traveling through Wales. We were quite lost – something that frequently happens when I travel. I drove along narrow rural roads bound by 9’ tall hedgerows with rare sightings of cottages, no signage, and inadequate GPS. Stumbling into the village of Nevern, we crossed a humpback stone bridge and parked beside a church. My daughter needed to recalibrate our GPS. I needed to calm my nerves. After admiring a meandering stream and a flock of chubby sheep, I walked past the churchyard’s stone wall. Such walls always make me wonder what is on the other side. This time my curiosity led us into a 10th century kirk. Tangled vines gusseted crumbling headstones. The forgotten names of the dead illuminated by translucent rays of light that barely scaled the surrounding walls. An avenue of 700-year-old yew trees cast spidery branches across the canopy, blotting out the sky and aging the air itself. And, yes, the birds were silent. We grew pensive. Ambling through the cemetery we discovered the ancient stones decorated with 5th century Latin script and Irish Ogham carvings. Then we admired a finely carved 10th century cross with chiseled knotwork, ringwork, and elaborate geometric patterns. There was no need for GPS in that timeless vignette.
Ironic that we stumbled upon this hallowed ground quite by accident. I can only recommend that everyone gets lost in their travels. |
Welcome!This blog is where I post my inspirations for each book in the Remy Lane Mystery series as well as behind-the-scenes tips, pics, and other tidbits. Feel free to click 'Read More' for in-depth posts. Archives
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