You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Blogs’ category.

We give thanks for the daily gift of Warming and pray to remain open to its life-bestowing nurturance—Within it we thrive and share with others.

Happy Thanksgiving

At 7 A. M., I awoke with this reassuring dream:

“Will we see Jesus when we cross over to the other side?” I asked a venerable old priest.

Laughter crinkled his sagging jowls as he said, ”Of course, we will!” His mirth touched me deeply.

And I still feel his mirth as I write this blog, an antidote to last night’s soft fall after using the bedside commode. Accustomed to shutting its lid and standing up at the same time, I lost my balance, the bed catching my upper body, my sandaled feet scrambling to maintain my awkward position lest I slip onto the floor. Long moments of helplessness passed until I edged my way atop the bed, then shuddered. Sleep came immediately.

The dream snippet afforded me a window into my psyche, filled with the presence of a venerable old priest who has companioned me throughout my life. Again, he responds to a critical question, one often in my awareness as I move through suffering related to aging and living with terminal illness, the experience of most seniors I have known.

Too often the dregs of illness have eclipsed my imagination of its vision of eternal life, my symptoms holding me hostage. Like siroccos or hot dust-laden winds, hopelessness blinds and suffocates—Nothing lives.

In such circumstances, my venerable old priest appears bridging the chasm that separates me from the Sacred. He knows of my communion with Jesus, the Christ, critical for maintaining sanity in the midst of diminishment. In a time unknown to me, all this shall pass. 

Some exquisiteness ennobles. Some exquisiteness draws blood. Such was my experience reading The Words I Never Wrote, (2020), the historical novel written by Jane Thyme.

The enigmatic title speaks to the estrangement of two sisters, inseparable and gifted artists as they grew up on their British estate at Birnham Park. Vaguely aware of Germany’s 1936 rearmament in defiance of the Treaty of Versailles, one sister follows her industrialist husband to Berlin, while the other relocates to Paris to advance her career in journalism. Their exchange of letters abruptly stops the following year.

To unravel this estrangement becomes the self-appointed task of a photographer, in present time, who happens upon the unfinished manuscript of a novel wedged in the case of an antique Underwood typewriter; such comprises the first half of The Words I Never Wrote.

Upon its yellowing pages unfold juxtapositions that craze spirit: the sisters’ divergent lifestyles with consequent distancing, the underbelly of Nazi Germany’s heinousness and opulence, prickly fears of arrests and the underground, burgeoning law codes and the impossibility of observing them, Hitler and his henchmen attending the Berlin Philharmonic, slave labor cultivating choice foods for Nazi tables, the torture and random abuse of lawbreakers requiring medical care—And so much more. So violently did the sensuousness of the images suck me within the story line that I had to put the book down.

Yet, the preciseness of these images, especially, the formal gardens having gone to seed, the estates along the Wanasee River, the outdoors in all seasons, the allied bombings of Berlin and consequent mayhem, lovemaking and separations, contributed an almost lyrical dimension to this novel. As a writer, I often stopped over an exceptionally well-worded phrase and relished its afterglow. 

A workout, yes, but The Words I Never Wrote left its mark—exquisite is its end.

Available on Amazon

%d bloggers like this: