Story Diary.) Words of Hope . . .

      I've recently been thinking about continuing my book: A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE: A Rain of Booklight; a Book about Books; I realized that I had only written and posted them here on this Blog site and that I needed to collect them into a manuscript; so that is what I've doing for the last two days.

     But as I was working away I wondered why I had bothered writing all this ‘Book about Books’ stuff anyway:  nobody would ever read it!  (My irrational fear of approaching publishers has been growing lately, rather than shrinking!)

      Then yesterday evening a dear friend of mine, Ray, texted me that he had just finished reading all the poems for this proposed book, which I had sent him over two months ago, and what he shared encouraged and comforted me . . . for I know that Ray only writes circumspectly, truthfully, and is careful with his praise of anything I've written:  so that when he does write a kindly critique I can be assured of its veracity!

     ‘. . . I really loved the ‘A BOOK IS LIKE...’ poems . . . quite amazing wee things!’  

     I’d been seriously thinking that I must have been crazy to write over 40 poems on the same theme!! ...When I asked him if people would get sick of so many poems with the same opening line . . . ‘A book is like...’ ...he said:

    ‘I thought they were all quite different and unique so that makes them good.

    Then after Ray texted the above he reminded me of 'The Bookmark Project' idea....I had almost forgotten it!  I must give it some more thought. He wrote:

   And if they are printed on bookmarks then it’s a good thing that there are so many, like ‘collectors’ things!’

    Just a few words of hope . . .  and a little bit of encouragement go a long way!   J

                                                          *

Story: 15. ) The Geocache Books & the Story Behind the Waterfall / from A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE...

(The following story about another aspect of BOOKS and their likenesses is from the imaginative memoir THE LIGHT TREE JOURNAL; Portrait of a Lost Star; (an unpublished manuscript.) The tale has been adapted, and abridged; and it is included in this collection of sketches and short stories to stretch the mind and open up creative ideas of what we can do to bring ourselves joy by giving it away.)  

  

 The Geocache Books--- & the Story Behind the Waterfall

   Tired but somehow rejuvenated after their long trek a small group of trampers discover the unofficial track along the upper edge of the river pool leading to the falls. But only one of them has gone further and pushed through the overhanging dense bushes, and discovered the way to enter the cave behind the waterfall; he seemed not to mind getting wet. Once he was well into the cave he brought out a small torch and started to explore.

   He nearly missed finding it. Debris had fallen in upon the small niche in the rock wall at the back of the cave, and had all but buried it. He caught the glint of something red in the beam of his torch. He brushed away the loose earth and pebbles and uncovered a small plastic container with a red lid. In the natural light, near the mouth of the cave he opened it and examined its unusual contents. On top of a small pile of objects was a note, written on a piece of blue card. It read simply:

                    ‘Take whatever you like from me.”

   There was a pause in time. As a space had opened up within him as he remembered something and perceived the glory within the words. While looking through the items a strange sensitivity enveloped him, and he touched the things in it more tenderly. Beneath a few childish trinkets was a pile of tiny handmade booklets. There were seven in all. When he came to the last he opened it. Its relevant title intrigued him ‘The Story behind the Waterfall.’ He looked, but there appeared to be no author; no name or address was given anywhere. Written on the first page of the booklet, which was all handwritten, was just one sentence – ‘Eureka! YOU ARE AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW!’ After that a kind of letter followed…and beyond that a blank page…and then what looked like a story. He read the letter; and in a hidden sense the person who had written it.

     ‘To the Finder---to you, who are loved. Here you stand gazing at the transcendence of water---falling---in the place where rainbows have their end, and where they live and dream their dreams in the flying spray. You were drawn here. And you wanted to go as close as you could. As you got near, you discovered the way over the slippery rocks and in through the bushes into this secret cave, where you now stand hidden behind the veil of the waterfall---its bridal mystery about to be revealed to you. You sense something; were you here before? You look around. Then searching you found this thing of nought, this foolish thing; this small hidden chest.   

   You opened it. Inside is this strange little book you hold; it’s for you: it tells you the story behind the waterfall. Now you will know what it means and why you are here. Take it with you. Share the story with others. Be a joyous fall of water yourself, as you come to know how truly you are loved and infinitely understood in all gentleness ;  there’s no fear in love . . .’

   The letter ended here; but as though the writer had not finished it.

   He closed the little book. He held it and felt the surface of its cover. He turned it over in his hands awhile, staring at it; it was beautifully made; ‘…there’s no fear in love…perfect love casts out fear.’ Suddenly he spoke the words; and unknowingly, waited; but no shallow glibness came to annul the fleeting surge through his brain that had come as he had read, and now again as he spoke: the light had not been rejected by his inner being. He opened the book, further opened in himself, and he turned the pages until he came to the story…and he began to read with new clarity.

                                   ‘The Story Behind the Waterfall  

   ‘From beneath the dark Unknown a spring arose---hidden from the beginning of the world the source of its surging power. Bubbling up from the depths it broke through the skin of the earth, piercing through it at even its densest point. Then, overflowing its place, it left its pool and ran through a channel, then down through valley after valley building up its strength as the land which held it descended. More and more the water joyed as the valleys of sorrow deepened.

   After a great lowering distance through a wide plain it flowed; and on level land, it slowed its pace; till it had no power, and came to its end. With no fall, it seemed to die.

   The Earth reached out to help and opened her mouth; in her fearsome shaking there was a sudden dropping away; and a precipice was left; a sheer rock wall down to a new Land below. In its ever instantaneous response the water tumbled down the precipice. In joy, it fell. And it fell continuously. And great was the power in its falling.

   As the water poured from so great a height, it gathered more strength and energy than ever it did along the simple trials of its ordinary course---for then, only newly narrowing down, it had only slowly descended; and in shallow decendings gathered only little power.

   As great as its fall is the might of its power---giving, giving, giving. In its continuous falling it was surrendering all and never failing to receive an abundance more! For the more it fell, the more it was given. The more it poured, the more it received. And the greater its bursting joy, and power, and light!

   Those who saw and understood the joy awoke. And as many waterfalls themselves, poured out a mighty stream, that turned the tide of turgid human thought---bound by weary custom and age-old blind convention---those flat sluggish harbours of backwards living---and brought about Life’s promised filling in this the secret hour of a hidden world’s awaking.’

                                                           *

   There the story ended. And the book closed. The man, strangely moved, put it in the breast-pocket of his jacket; he would keep it. He understood something of the shadow of its meaning; and treasured it. He replaced the Geocache* container in its small niche at the back of the cave for others to find. Six little booklets were left. Each one written he felt, for the next six finders. Every searching heart unique, each would have their own story. …If, that is, they were brave, or foolish enough to look.

                                                            *

* www.geocaching.com

Story: 14. ) The Box Book

from new manuscript of short stories about books:
A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE…

          My days are short of breath---

          If knowledge not taken out

          The book of the world within me

          Was removed---and space made there

          Through the striking through---

          The crossing out---

          Gone from earth pinned pages

          My story opens out---in another place---

          Nothing there---to hinder breath

          The lifeless hollow taken: the heart’s filled

          With living story—but touch it and it---

          Vanishes---the un-thing is there is joy!

The Box Book

    It didn’t come without some waiting space inside; each star-dip, each seren-dip-(ity) glimpse or event; it would be noticed only if there was some corresponding lowering thing inside underneath. You had only to be mildly aware, and not obsessed about it. Open, and not looking for it. But joys in life are not too few for those who believe in the impossible and have faith in their being loved . . . That was the key which opened every one of them: knowing you were known, kindly, and remembering you were thought of, lovingly. If the very hairs of your head were all numbered, how could you not believe your every footstep took you in the right direction: your needs being understood? Unending delight awaits those who dare to believe.

   The day was drizzly and cloudy. White skies and colourless surroundings. Not a promising day for anything in the least bit, delightful. My errand at the end of a busy shopping day was to find a book, for a sibling’s birthday gift.

   The city bookshop was crowded: it was a pleasant place to be in and meander through on such a miserable day. People were everywhere engrossed, standing about reading potential purchases. It wasn't long before I chanced on a likely looking book edge. And I pulled it out. It was near the end of a tightly compacted shelf. I looked at the front cover. Perfect! A quick precursory glance at the back revealed all I needed to know and I knew it was just the right thing! I queued up to await my turn at the counter and bought The Unlikely Voyage of JACK de CROW; A. J. Mackinnon; (published by Black Inc., Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd; Collingwood VIC, Australia; 2009; 2014.) The true and hilarious story, of an unlikely sailing voyage from North Wales to the Black Sea in a Mirror sailing dinghy: eleven feet long, and four feet wide! Just the thing for a nautical brother!

   The day was clearing. The sun managing to show itself, a little. Patches of blue were peeping through; just big enough, as my Welsh Granny would say, ‘to make a sailor, a pair of new trousers.’

   I sauntered down the drying street, replete and blithe my errands all complete; and wondering if I shouldn’t try and find the car now and go home. I turned down a side street, off the main one, vaguely walking car-ward.

  At a leisurely pace, I passed a few smaller shops; eventually stopping in front of one which intrigued me…an antique-cum-secondhand shop. I had no idea that there was one down this little street. Or that I was on my own unlikely voyage to my next of port call in the land of my dreams…all leading me to what I didn’t know I had need of.

  But I wasn't looking. I didn’t even feel the least bit alert or ‘connected.’ No hidden wonderings as to whether any internal windows, were open or closed. Being ever glued to the Rock like a limpet (the secret) I was always ‘there;’ without trying. Any beginnings of caterpillar-thoughts sensing wings and trying take-off by themselves went on unbeknownst in me.                                     I stood outside the shop, in a bit of a daze; to tell the truth. Then, strangely drawn, I went inside. It was full of the usual interesting things: dark furniture, bric-a-brac, china, and brass, and cabinets of glass things, and tables laden with all sorts of peculiar curios. I wandered around briefly then found myself staring at a writing table with an oil lamp and marble inkwell on it, with little white cards in front of them. There were a few ancient looking books on it, too; and one, sitting by itself, with its own tiny note. I didn’t look at that, only at the book. Suddenly I felt a rush of joy! It was a dusty copy of The Old Curiosity Shop, by Charles Dickens. Its brown cover embossed with gold leaf in an attractive Victorian border design. I was amazed. It was the last one I had been waiting for, in order to complete a matching set of his complete works. (…None of which I had read, I am ashamed to admit; I had them on a decorative shelf in the lounge; because they looked beautiful. I guess I am obsessed with books. I guess, too, that I lived on too distant a planet where sensitive sensibilities were only jarred by the characters in Dickens world.) …I didn’t think any further. I just picked the book up and took it to the front of the shop to pay for it; making sure not to look at the price on the card: assumptions of affluence possessed me at times, when I must have a thing that was ‘truly’ beautiful. (Fortunately, in this instance, it was not too expensive!)

  I walked out of the shop oblivious to all else, happy with my latest treasure. A fleeting impression, as I had been handed my wrapped book, passed me by but forgot to stop to look at itself and I went on briskly homeward.

   The precious book was duly dusted as soon as I got home and put on the shelf with its compatriots.

   What is not clear is why I never looked inside it. But life worked with closed windows, as well as open ones; as I was soon to rediscover.

   I was between books. I had just finished editing one work and was ‘casting about in my mind’ for what to write next. …I never thought about, a publisher. Mentally the whole process of approaching one was too much of an ordeal for me and I did all that I could to suppress every thought of it. Time went by. I grew desperate. What was next? If I could find something ‘quick,’ to busy myself with, it would be easier to quash the dreaded thought.

  While it is not monstrous for normal people to find themselves book-projectless, it is for me. It is like there is this huge open space ever before me that needs exploring and I have to have some subject to do it with; any subject will do. (‘BOOKS’ was my current one.) But it was possible to infuse any subject with breath because it was in me and that, not of myself. Any three notes of music would do it, they could be turned into a song; any four points of the compass could lead to the Land.   

  With determination I turned to practical matters: to allow the caterpillar-thoughts underneath to find their own wings, and lead me to where they will; as they always did. And wrapped and packaged, ready to send my brother, the JACK de CROW voyaging book was sent off, and with a hurried handwritten message… ’In memory of our father, who had us build a kit-set Mirror sailing dinghy with him, in the garage, when we were children; and who taught us how to sail on the Milford Haven (Wales;) and on throughout the world.’ I knew the book had been especially pointed out to me; out of the thousands in the shop: for he would love it: we were all known and loved; and all the time so.

   Time went whizzing by. Sunlight streamed through the lounge window; pointing out the undusted book shelf; it almost glittered in the light. Not in three weeks had I noticed that shelf. And now, not because I thought I should do some housework---unfortunately, that had an extremely low profile in my obsessive life with words---but because it suddenly struck me---and a window creaked open somewhere---that I had never looked inside the book. My inner space, grown huge and yearning, enough, my monstrous longing to the fore I made a ‘beeline’ for the bookshelf, and took down the forgotten treasure.

   It was a box. There were only the first three pages inside it, and under those, a hollow. The cut-out book contained no story but a parcel; a story of another kind. There, inside the book, wrapped in a scrap of tissue paper, turned sand-coloured through age was a tiny model of a two masted sailing ship, rigged like a brigantine. But the masts were broken. My mind instantly made up its ‘probable story.’ It was someone’s treasure; but no time to mend it it is concealed; to keep it safe; or so as not to be found out!

   In the same instant, I knew my next writing project. And my huge waiting exploring-space was filled, and satisfied. After all these years I still had not fully recorded what happened following my unlikely but terribly true sailing tragedy and adventure in West Africa, and the Caribbean. And yet how vividly it all came back to me now! It could help to tell, the complete story, tell the whole truth; and perhaps, even to myself, more than to anyone else. Who better to tell a story than the one to whom it belongs: the one who needs to hear it!

   Suddenly I remembered that nice woman at the counter, in the antique shop. No wonder she had smiled at me in that sweet way, as she had handed it to me and asked if I had seen the note? She knew I didn’t know! ...And I didn’t need to know; until I was prepared to hear…! Oh, I think we run away from ourselves more than from any other person on Earth!

   I looked at it squarely. What if I hadn't wanted a particular book ‘to complete a set;’ or turned down that particular street; or gone into that shop I‘d never noticed before; or passed that particular table, in that particular part of the shop; or made sure that I didn’t look at the little white card (I’m sure it said what it actually was!) …I wouldn't now have the confidence…and the joy…to attempt a writing task I had been putting off for years!

                                                                   *

Story: 7. ) Tree Reading / from A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE: A Rain of Booklight

Tree Reading

   I watch my daughter disappear with a book and climb up into our huge liquid amber tree; it is a time of difficulty for her in her life and she chooses this way to deal with it. It works well. I go into the house immediately to give her privacy and space; and to make her, a favourite meal and a chocolate cake.

   While I am in the kitchen cooking I remember my own childhood, and I am taken back in time to when I dreamed that I could do the same thing with my worries and just climb a big oak tree and sit in its comfortable fork and read away my cares. Unfortunately, we did not have any big trees in our suburban garden so I had to make one up.

   My childhood was almost entirely composed of daydreams and the writing of stories in my head. But if I could have remembered one of my stories of reading in a tree it would have gone rather like this:

THEY WOULD NOT KNOW I WAS HERE, either the little people or the humans who tended me. I was safe. No one could possibly know where flight had taken me, or where I was, or that I could be in a tree.
   I am caught up from the earth. I am high up in an emerald world. This is my fortress. From my window all things look balanced and I wonder that I did not come here sooner.   The realm below is pieced in segments like an orange. They do not know it. They do not have eyes to SEE. They are not even peeled. How do they expect to know anything? Crawling through the segments they are like grubs. Like caterpillars. They do not hear their wings deep inside them waiting to be born. They do not have ears to HEAR.
   All my pain comes out. It is running in streams down the tree. I am crying but no one sees. They have not known how to look above themselves, or how to find the way to touch this far. Their windows are pallid. They are covered. I cry for them.   I am my book. My book is me. I have learned to read myself. That is why I hear and see; the peel is gone.
   I sing and the sun reaches down from above. I stretch my wings and they are resplendent with light. This green world fills me with many books inside my head. This tree is a book. It slumbers through the day but it is full of stories. Where will I fly to next?

  

   My daughter is eating chocolate cake now. She half smiles at me. We are comrades in arms, her and me. Together we can take on the world. Perhaps one day they will open their eyes and SEE; for in hearing their wings will come out and take them to where we've been.  

   It is our childhood that is the time for unlimited possibilities; sad if we have lost it.  

   ‘A little child shall lead them.’

                                                                 *

Writing Saga # 35 / Diary Extract for Thursday, 11th December, 2014

Much has been happening lately, so I’m reassessing where I am at with my new writing projects …I find reducing my ‘writing-work-thoughts’ down to a list helps me to sort myself out! J Here’s my list:

1)      PROJECT ONE:  I’m currently working on the "book about books,” A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE; A Rain of Booklight. I have nearly finished the poetry section of this book: Parts 1 & 2, and I am just beginning Part 3; the prose section: anecdotes of personal thoughts on the vast subject of "books." So far I have written four anecdotes:  (1.) Compassion; (2.) Tortoise & Hare Reading (3.) Winnie the Pooh at Sea! And (4.) A String of Red Beads (which is an extract from my book, THE LIGHT TREE JOURNAL.)  Today I have made a tentative list of twenty-five titles of proposed anecdotes for this section of the book. I look forward to writing these; and at the rate of one per day, hopefully; interspersed with other writing projects, perhaps. I enjoy the brief bursts of creativity in short piece writing work; and the sense of accomplishing a thing complete in itself is rewarding, too. 

2)      PROJECT TWO:  I am also currently working on the next “cameo” of the novel STORYCHASER; Sketchbook of Solitude; I have written it, but not posted it here yet; I feel I have more editing work to do on it first. This is a work being written entirely by faith; i.e. not really knowing what I am going to write before I write it. It is a very exciting form of writing; and one I am used to. I find I can truly flow in it. But it does require great self discipline: I have to overcome ‘the initial niggle’ that I can’t do it; but that, soon disappears as I set my fingers over the keys and just write what comes without thinking too hard. I actually spent most of 2012 and 2013 writing this way; and completed a kind of spiritual memoir titled: THE LIGHT TREE JOURNAL; a Twelve Month Story-Journal; Portrait of a Lost Star.

3)      PROJECT THREE:  I have recently had someone inquiring about my sailing adventures…my five year stint afloat…having no home other than a succession of three small yachts…suggesting that I should write more on this; and very kindly encouraging me to do so.  I have only written briefly on this period of my life, mainly in THE SHIPWRECK STORY; a single chapter extract from DAWNING… my autobiography. So I spent a little time the other day, making notes…starting a list of all the things I can remember of this highly adventurous but often traumatic time, with a view to writing it up in a form suitable for serializing in a magazine. At the moment I don’t really want to think of turning it into a full length book…too many other projects!! J

Story: 2. ) Tortoise & Hare Reading / from A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE: A Rain of Booklight; A book about books...

Tortoise & Hare Reading

 I find I read very slowly. So I have not read many books in my life. Unconsciously, perhaps, I am studying every sentence. Being a writer, I cannot seem to read anything written, without putting it through a microscope and examining its every facet. It annoys my family, somewhat . . . “Are you still reading that book?” “You’re not still on the same page are you?!” “How can you imagine you’re not mentally deficient?!!” J But wherever there’s writing I have to stare-read it; cereal packets at the breakfast table have had to be replaced by plastic containers.
  I fall in love with the book I am reading. In the long period of its closeness to me, its depths are mined, its writer found perceptive, and the content of its message distilled to its intrinsic essence in my delicious love affair with words. But it is all because I am such a slow reader. 
  Books change me. If one hasn't then I must have read it too quickly. So I read it again. What’s the point of a book, if it doesn’t make me a better person? And how can it do that, unless I have been inwardly challenged? Having had to struggle through bits I at first wanted to reject?

  And, to a lesser extent, as a writer, reading teaches me how to write. So what is the point of a book, if it hasn't increased my vocabulary, stunned me with the beauty of its word-patterns, and filled me with a fresh appreciation of the English language.

  Words are powerful things to me; living things. Let them get into my core and I am extended to deal with them: elasticated; made more flexible to take in more challenges to my own, potentially unlimited personhood. Books are chisels. They chip away at the old bits of me, making me new. Books stretch my horizons. Spin me into new orbits. Lead me into ever expanding spheres of living.

  And as to the question of velocity . . . If ‘a good read’ can be judged by the speed at which one devours it, then I am a tortoise; but wasn't it the tortoise, which beat the hare and won the race?

  At the end of the day it is not how many books I have read that makes me new, but the content I digested that made me less narrow and more fully 'me,' or who I am when light entered.

                                                   

                                                                   *

 - extract from, A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE; A Rain of Booklight;  Judith Evans Deverell.