King Arthur, I summon thee
To return with Merlin in tow.
Come to our aid and see
Earth destroying itself as we go.
So much has happened since you went away
And promised to return.
Now is the day!
We evolved and made great strides to learn
That we really know nothing at all.
–Deborah A. Bowman, poem and design
Panoramic view from Castillo del Morro in Santiago de Cuba
It was I who was filled with doubt…
I, who never thought there was a route
That would negate…
The reason for the season.
And yet it happened
Or tried to happen.
I lost the rapture.
I lost my way…
I let the pain of loss
Toss me into self-imposed exile.
I would withdraw; I would defile
The reason for the season.
It started with my antique nativity scene.
Just one decoration to calm me.
One reason for the season as balm.
The birth of life in the face of death.
But somehow, unwillingly, the rest
Of my meagre symbols just followed.
A top hat, a woolen scarf, a carrot for a nose,
But it was the coal-filled eyes and etched smile
That reached into my cold heart and rose
Like a beacon of light through the darkened miles,
Bringing warmth to my emptiness.
Something thawed or I was left in awe
Of the reason for the season.
It was so much greater than all my pain!
My boycott faded like snow emerging from the rain,
Soft white petals of cleansing snowflakes.
A whisper of breath through a shadowy room;
Bright white candles to dispel the gloom,
A reason for the season.
And suddenly I knew he was with the angels
And watching me caress the snowmen
As I had touched his cold hand for the last time.
The widow smiled through her tears
And tucked away her anger and fear.
I will never be alone
For there are many reasons
… For the season.
It was a year ago…
But just as poignant today.
Never let go of the reason for the season.
—Poem and final photo by Deborah A. Bowman
Phoebe Snow (born Phoebe Ann Laub; July 17, 1950 – April 26, 2011 was an American singer, songwriter, and guitarist, best known for her 1975 song “Poetry Man”. She was described by The New York Times as a “contralto grounded in a bluesy growl and capable of sweeping over four octaves.” Professional life It was […]
Great research and blog on Phoebe Snow! Check it out!
“Where You Write” is just as important as what you write and to whom, but must we always share?
Perhaps, perhaps; yet there are some words only meant for the crisp, clean page that holds the coveted position in a comfortable room, only for you–Dear Diary; Dear Journal, “Hi, there!”
My eyes drift shut for just a moment; dawn has not yet arrived…
I inhale all my other senses in a deep breath–a taste of energy in total silence, a hint of chill, the heady smell of fresh shellac, easily survived…
The scent of raw, lightly treated wood beams, an arched ceiling, floors with a dab of shiny gloss, immaculate…
It calms my mind and thrills my spirit because I know I can write anything here or even write nothing at all, but the dilemma … to share or retract?
Is everything set up in order on the familiar desk? Yes…
Do I lift the proverbial quill or pen, tap softly on muted keys or simply rest?
But where will the story go if I don’t rush, rush, rush to complete the piece?
Will another writer jot down these stories and give it release?
To spread the full wings of creativity
Where stories are possible; the paranormal in true believability…
To dwell for a brief moment in a time continuum…
Deep poignant thoughts are challenged or read in awe or disgust, hardly humdrum…
If I can see, feel, visualize, live so very much in my own mind
Is it my duty to share my words with all humankind?
A conundrum, ta’ be sure, giving and receiving inspiration
Through rigorous thought, tears, laughter, perspiration…
But do I dare? My Journal, a constant companion; My Diary, dear old friend…
Will people understand my thoughts and or even care in the end?
by Deborah A Bowman
This book is now available on amazon.com in Large Print, too!
Click on the cover, at the bottom of the page on a tablet, or top of right sidebar if a desktop. All formats, including Kindle, available on amazon. I am going to be doing an auditory version as well. A sequel, I hope, by spring 2020.
If anyone would like a free Kindle copy to do a beta reading, contact me on firstname.lastname@example.org
A short taste of Annie’s story:
Annie lived a long time ago, the mid-17th century, in fact. Even though I didn’t become acquainted with her until late in the 20th century.
I was attending the Advanced Hypnotherapist Certification Course offered by The National Guild of Hypnotists. Annie came to me in a past-life regression, or rather I should say, I became Annie.
The class exercise began as something quite different, and the results were totally unexpected by the small, close-knit group I had been studying with for months. I’m sure the Professor was surprised as well; but then again, perhaps not. As a practicing Hypnotherapist for years, maybe he had seen this sort of thing many times before.
I had agreed to a class demonstration in “age” regression to help me cope with extreme claustrophobia. I had timidly admitted to my Professor and fellow classmates that my older brothers had locked me in closets as a child, especially the small wooden closet beneath the stairs where even a child could not stand upright. The darkness was oppressive, overwhelming—thick enough to take your breath away. Ah, the tribulations of a younger girl to two boys with active imaginations in an old restructured log house that lent itself well to ships’ brigs, castle dungeons, and secret passageways!
When the Professor attempted to take me back to these early memories under hypnosis, however, I flew right past them and WHAM!—like hitting a brick wall—I was in someone else’s body, crushed in a pitch-black hole, surrounded by wood and earth. At first, I thought I was buried alive in a coffin. Then I realized I was practically doubled in half with my knees pushing the air out of my lungs in a space half-again too small for me under rough wooden planks.
The seasoned Hypnotherapist handled it all so skillfully, so carefully, as he calmed me and allowed me to look beyond the enclosure to see what was happening. I was hidden beneath the floor of a tiny cabin for safekeeping from a group of soldiers (thumping boots above my head) by a Priest (Father Ian or was it Reverend John?) and his house-woman (housekeeper) Hannah.
My mind seemed to separate as I remained “Debbie” within the confines of my mental self, but I seemed to know these people intimately on some other plane of existence deeply embedded in my subconscious. Under hypnosis, this other self was surfacing and taking over. One part of my new self knew him as Reverend John; a more significant part called him Father Ian. Months later I would learn the reason for this duality—a little secret I shouldn’t have known.
I felt the rough homespun against my skin of a plain lace-up gown. It was tight around my neck with long sleeves and a heavy full skirt. I immediately sensed what I looked like—short in stature, stocky limbs, chubby cheeks, light eyes, and wispy reddish brown hair, so fine it barely covered my pale scalp. Not that it mattered since all women and girls wore white-trimmed caps that covered the entire head and tied neatly beneath the chin, but somehow the laces of my cap were always undone and that was frowned upon. Was I a woman or a child? It seemed I was both, but then again, neither. I was different.
My hands and feet were either oddly shaped or I had limited use of them. I stumbled and limped when I walked, especially in the ill-fitting shoes I wore, and I had to concentrate to use my hands and stubby fingers to grind herbs into poultices, salves, and medicinal teas as Granny had taught me. “Who was Granny?”
Granny told me I was a beautiful sprite like one of the faeries from our native Highlands. She described my eyes as filled with light and love for all creation. She said my special healing gift and my ability to communicate with animals and ethereal spirits came from the auld country.
People laughed at my dwarfed appearance and my sluggish way of talking. I laughed at myself too, except when wee bairns [Scottish Gaelic for “babies or children”] threw rocks and clods of dirt at me or the good-people of the village shielded themselves from the evil eye when I passed near them. They kept their distance when I entered one of the small hovels to help the sick and dying. I did not understand why everyone was afraid of me.
My conscious mind of the late-1990s, however, realized that Annie was mentally slow, stunted in growth, and lacking in social and emotional development. At first, I thought she had Down’s syndrome, a birth defect which retards growth and mental acuity, but I would soon learn the true story of Annie’s life.
She was so innocent and childlike. Surprisingly, from memory or perhaps precognition, she knew intricate rituals and formulae for medicines and potions using flowers, herbs, and roots, including the recognition, cultivation, and harvesting of the plants. She talked to the animals, creatures, and faeries of the forest, which she called “her friends or little people” and communed with the gods and goddesses of the spirit world. I was confused by Annie, but couldn’t help loving this precious soul who seemed to be me. I wondered, “Did Annie live in a fantasy world or suffer from hallucinations? Was she Schizophrenic?”
In reality, Annie couldn’t read or write, nor could she tie a simple bow, but the young woman/child was an incredible savant, reciting songs, rhymes, recipes, and medicinal incantations from her Granny’s Grimoire [Old French, but used globally for “Wise Woman’s Book.”] She was a natural healer, blessed with a special gift from the Spiritual Universe.
I instantly became protective of this little imp inside of me—for I was now a part of her; and she, a part of me. I may have come out of the hypnosis session with marked relief from claustrophobia—I could finally ride in an elevator—but more importantly I had been given a mission and crusade. I wanted to know why Annie was deformed and ridiculed. Mostly, I wanted to know if Annie had truly lived.
She seemed so real. Later, I verified facts through research that I had learned only through hypnosis, and many of these facts were 100-percent accurate. Spooky, yes, but oh so compelling!
Hence, began a quest that has spanned years and opened the floodgates of my repressed subconscious memories. I made amazing discoveries about a time in American history that many generations have tried to eradicate or conceal. I was fascinated, appalled, shocked!
This Foreword is my story; the book that follows is “Annie’s Story,” written from dreams, visions, online and textbook resources, travel to Massachusetts and Nova Scotia, research of the time period and the theory of past lives. I have given myself the freedom to tell the story as historical fiction, using as much factual information as is available. Some historic events and characters have been fictionalized to present the storyline as my imagination perceived it.
I never found conclusive evidence that Annie lived, but I did find evidence that she could have lived and an explanation for her existence being cleansed from all church and legal records. I also suspect that I may have discovered factual information that ties her lineage to one of the most disturbing and inhuman times associated with the British Colonies in North America.
Nameless, lonely graves are scattered throughout the empty fields and forests of New England. I believe I was once Annie, and she is in one of those unmarked burial plots. She lies hidden beneath the soil of an infamous hill. I shudder and will not pen its name.
This story of love and faith, coupled with the treatment of different people (now called “special” people) begs to be told. “Annie’s Story” is about an unusual girl coming-of-age in Colonial America, who is “Blessed with a Gift.”
Deborah A. Bowman, Author