Release of Musings
14 Whole Stories by 14 Amazing Authors
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
BOOK REVIEW: DANCING FOR THE DEVIL - by Anny Donewald
Dancing for the Devil: From the Pole to the Pulpit by Anny DonewaldMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
(Reviewer's note: I received, upon request, a complimentary copy of this book from the publisher, Howard Books - a division of Simon & Schuster, in exchange for my honest review. vmls)
Fame... one's own or that of a friend or family... and the price that we are willing to pay to protect that fame, coupled with being sexually abused as a young teen set young Anny Donewald on a course... on a journey... of self-destruction that very nearly claimed her soul forever.
Dancing with the Devil tells the heart-wrenching story of a young woman caught up in the world of drugs, sex trafficking, prostitution and trade and her journey to and through that dark, dangerous world that has claimed literally tens of thousands of lives... many to the point of death and many to a life in which death would have been a welcome release from the hell on Earth they found themselves in.
It begins innocently enough... amateur night at a small time strip club. A few bucks... some free drinks are the 'prize'... and 'stories' to tell your friends later ... just another Saturday night, right?
But, wait... that wasn't the beginning of Anny's long dark night - a night that would last for years. No, for Anny the darkness began the first time she was abused by one of the players on her father's college basketball team.
For far, far too many women, their own journey into darkness began - will begin - the same way. Sexually abused at a young age by, not a stranger, but someone known... someone they are close to. Someone they trusted. And like Anny, their guilt and shame over what had been done to them made their own abuse a secret. One, as Anny says, had to be kept at all costs!
For Anny, that night was the beginning of a nightmare that seemed would never end. Guilt and shame overwhelmed her, robbing her of self-esteem, self-worth... robbing her of hope. And just when Anny feels that everything is lost... that she has used up all her chances at life... she has lost everything and everyone... save one... she ever loved or cared about... and she has finally hit rock bottom... and there is nowhere left to go...
A spark inside Anny refuses to die and a tiny voice inside her... a whimper almost lost in her dark despair... "help me... please!"
And God hears that plea... that tiny prayer... and He answers! God picks up Anny and touches her in such a soul-deep way that only our Creator... our Father... our Healer... our Redeemer... can.
Even after all the things Anny has done... after all the times that she turned away from God... all the times she set aside what she had read in the Bible... been told by friends... the messages she heard in church...
Even after all the times Anny turned her back on God... when she finally called out to Him.... He answered. Without hesitation... without condemnation... without any conditions... God answered Anny.
He lifted her up from the darkness and showed her light. He showed Anny his purpose for her.
That moment marked the beginning of Anny's next journey... one of salvation and redemption... one of hope and a message. A journey that would set her on a path of ministry that would come to touch many, many lives... and bring the message of Christ our savior to other lost souls. A message of love... of hope... of grace and mercy to countless 'lost souls', because this was Anny's calling.
It hasn't been an easy journey and I think Anny would be the first one to tell you that her journey is far from over.
At one point in the book, Anny relates something Jesus said to her. "Don't let people tell you who I am; let me show you who I am."
Anny doesn't tell us who Jesus is. She shows us. Her amazing story... from her 'fall from grace' all those years ago to where she is now... her salvation and redemption... the ministry known as Eve's Angels that she began... is an amazing testimony of God's love and of His grace and mercy.
Anny, through God's grace and with the support and encouragement of her cousin Carrie, tells an amazing, riveting and at times heart-stopping story of her journey through darkness and her divine rescue from the sex industry. Anny's open, frank words lay bare a world of depravity... a world no one wants to acknowledge exists... a world that isn't spoken of in polite company and only obliquely referenced in churches. A world that makes us squirm in our seats and change the television channel.
But more than that, it is a testimony of God's amazing grace and healing... and His unconditional, never-ending, never changing love. It is a reminder that we are all His children and there is nothing we can do... no hole so deep or dark or depraved that we find ourselves in... that He can't lift us out of.
Anny Donewald is living proof of that. She is also proof that the 'cycle' can be broken. That is part of the message of Eve's Angels, the ministry that she founded.
It doesn't matter how you got where you are. God will bring you home.
Dancing With The Devil is one of those rare reads that is hard to put down. It is told in such a compelling manner and voice that one could easily finish the book in a single sitting. I recommend this book without reservation.
Dancing For The Devil should be on everyone's 'must-read' list!
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
(writing under a large mushroom, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest)
View all my reviews
Sunday, November 23, 2014
BOOK REVIEW: WITHIN WET WALLS - by Lily Childs
Within Wet Walls by Lily ChildsMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Lily Childs shows once again why she is the Queen of horror/urban fantasy. Within Wet Walls is a wonderfully crafted story... dark and dripping with erotica... necrotica... fantasy... a thirsting for life at all costs... told only as Lily can. Within Wet Walls is a stunning tapestry of death, desire, drugs and disrepute... woven from the rich fabric of Lily's ever fertile imagination.
Wealdstone is a stately old manor of indeterminate age... weathering through seasons of repute and seasons of disrepute, but one thing remains constant...
The dark secrets that lie within the walls of Wealdstone. The dark, deadly secrets. The creatures... the spirits... that roam the rooms and corridors of the old manor. The beings... living but long dead that become the 'life blood' for those dark secrets whose 'lives' are measured not in hours and days, but seasons... seasons of man.
Beings who 'live' in the exquisiteness of death. Beings who 'taste the terror' of their....
Oh, but let's not be spoiling it here, eh?
No other writer I know holds a candle to Lily when it comes to telling a tale guaranteed to leave one stifling a scream... sleeping, albeit a most restless sleep, with a night light on for nights on end... and the echo of her words remaining long, long after the last page is turned and the cover closed.
Brava, Lily... Brava!
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
(writing under a large mushroom, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest)
View all my reviews
Saturday, September 6, 2014
ACCEPTING THE MOON - A Prequel to MOONRISING Book One by K.S. Haigwood
Synopsis
There is a new Alpha Wolf in town, and she is about to change everything.
Mena had all she wanted in life: a nice house, money, a successful husband who treated her like a queen.
That was, until she found out her marriage was all a lie, and things she never thought could exist, did.
Vampires are real.
Werewolves are real.
And Mena is not human anymore.
Available from the following booksellers -
About
the Author
Ever find it hard to talk about yourself? Yeah, I have that problem, too. I have been married to my soulmate for 8 years, who wouldn't pick up a book unless promised that it was filled with pictures. I have a beautiful 7 year old daughter, Riley, that talks too much and has a very vivid imagination. I have no clue where she got those traits. My step-son, Hayden, is 16 and very into football and hunting. I am a writer of paranormal suspense romance. If you enjoy a great love story with a massive amount of drama about angels, demons, ghosts, vampires, witches and fairy tale creatures brought to life through a twisted mind, then you might just enjoy reading my work.
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Monday, June 2, 2014
Journey's End
~**~
My faults and flaws
leave cracks on the stained-glass image of God that is on my soul. Yet... His beauty... and His truth... remain.
**
Sister Celine...
**
"Veronica, you
cannot think about it in those terms... equating two lives against one life
...and why does the one life have more 'value', to use your word, than
the two? That only feeds a guilt that you have carried for far too
long... a guilt that is not yours. The ordeal you suffered through was
not of your doing.
You were not meant to
die that day, Veronica. And you were not put on this Earth to do
'ordinary'. But… I think that I do not have to tell you this, do I?
And with all which that ordeal took away from you, from it you have gained a
strength... you have gained a courage and a determination to fulfill the
purpose God has for you."
Sister Celine pauses for a moment and then continues in her
French-accented English.
"The guilt that
you still feel is not meant to make you suffer, but to keep you humble.
Can you understand that?
God has forgiven
you... you must believe that, Veronica. You must!"
"I know He has...
I mean... I try to believe...", my voice grows tremulous. “ I want to... I just.."
Pressing my lips tight to hold back the sob rising in my throat, I turn my head
away from Sister Celine, not wanting her to see the tears threatening to spill
over. After a few moments, she reaches out... the weight of her hand on
my shoulder, light as a feather, is reassuring. Turning back to face
her...
"I fear my faith
is not as strong as yours, Sister Celine."
With the echo of my confession hanging in the crisp mid-morning
air, I watch her face, waiting for her measure of what I have just said.
In all the weeks that I have been here at the abbey, this is
the first occasion Sister Celine and I have had to talk to one another.
But despite the fact that we've really only just met, I feel that the sister
knows so much about me. It's as if she has known me for a long, long
time. I feel a connection with her, some common bond I am as yet unaware
of. And, she understands me. It is
very comforting talking to her here now.
"I would
disagree. Your faith is strong, Veronica, I sense that... I see it.
And please... I wish you no offense... but I think that you tend at times to
over-intellectualize it... your faith. I think that as adults, we all do
that. It is not wrong... it is just..." A small frown flits across Sister Celine's
face as she searches for the right word. "... non nécessaire?
Listen to your heart,
Veronica. Listen to it with the faith of a child. And know that our
Father loves you as He loves all of His children. Beyond measure."
*
I stare down at my hands resting in my lap, the silver
infinity ring a reminder of the life I have left behind. I think about what Sister Celine has
said. I can feel the weight of her gaze on me, watching... waiting. But, uncharacteristically for me, no words
will come.
Gradually, I become aware of a sensation... a feeling, but
not... something that I haven't experienced for a long time. And there is
something else... just at the edge of that awareness. I think I have...
"Sister, do you
thi...?" My voice falters as I look up. The space on the
bench beside me is empty, save for the small bunch of winter flowers Sister
Celine had been holding. I stand up and look around the abbey courtyard.
She is gone.
"Sister?
Sister Celine!" I call out, forgetting in the moment a cardinal
rule at the abbey... 'quiet voices'.
A familiar shiver courses down my spine.
A chill has settled over the courtyard again, seeping
through the heavy fabric of the novice's habit I have worn since arriving at
the abbey. More rain is on the way; one
can smell it in the air. I hurry back inside. I have kitchen duty
this week and the lunch hour will soon be upon us.
**
Revelation
**
That evening at dinner I do not see Sister Celine in the
dining hall. When I ask Sister Catherine, seated next to me, about Sister
Celine, recounting our earlier conversation in the courtyard, the room goes
completely still, the soft murmur of many voices fades to silence, and
everyone's eyes rest on me. It is several long moments before I can
speak.
"I'm sorry.
Did I do something wrong?" I cast a worried look at the abbess, who
is seated at the head of the long table. She turns to Sister Abigail and
says something I can't quite make out. The sister stands and leaves the
room. Abbess turns back to me. Her voice is gentle, but firm.
"Come here,
child... sit with me."
Silence hangs over the room as we wait. Sister Abigail
returns shortly and places a large hand-stitched binder on the table in front
of the abbess.
After what seems an eternity, the silence in the room
punctuated only by the soft swish of turning pages and the rustle of old paper,
Abbess stops and removes a small square of paper from one of the pages.
She places the piece of paper on the table's smooth, worn surface and slides it
in front of me. It is a black and white photograph... a very, very old
one... of a young woman in a nun's habit. The woman in the photograph is
Sister Celine. I turn to the abbess, my eyes holding the question that my
lips cannot seem to form.
"This is the
woman you saw today... the woman you spoke with... in the
courtyard?" Abbess says the words very carefully.
"Yes, Abbess, it
is. But... this picture is very old. I do not understand."
"Turn the
photograph over, child."
Turning the small square over, I see that there is writing
on the back... very faded, barely legible, the ink brown with age. I look
up. Abbess' head moves in a slight
nod. I have to squint to read the notation.
"Sister Marie
Celine D'Cambrille... born 23 August, eighteen...."
My voice trails off and I feel my heart catch in my
chest. I look up at the abbess. There is a shadow of sadness in her
grey-blue eyes when she speaks.
"... eighteen
eighty-three." A pause... a sigh as she recites from memory.
"Died 17
May, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and seven."
Tears well up in my eyes as the full import of the day's
events settles in my brain. A dervish of thoughts and emotions swirl
around inside my head... it's too much to process. I am only dimly aware of Abbess helping me up
from the table and leading me out of the dining hall.
~*~
The soft glow of candlelight and the warm, comforting scents
of the chapel bring back the earlier peace I had felt... a peace that had
gradually, over the weeks that I have been here at the abbey, settled over
me. Abbess is seated next to me in the front pew, her gnarled, yet surprisingly
gentle fingers finding comfort in the string of rosary beads as she prays with
me. My own slender fingers have warmed
the amber beads of Mama's rosary as I offer my own prayer to God, seeking His
wisdom and His comfort to calm the turmoil in my mind.
Time is of little consequence, its passage marked only by
the shortening length of the chapel candles and the small ache in my backside
from sitting on the hard wood of the ancient chestnut pews.
"I first saw
Sister Celine when I was just a few years younger than you are now."
The soft contralto of Abbess' voice breaks the silence of
the chapel. I look up at her as she
turns her gaze from the altar to face me.
She continues.
I'm not going to recount Abbess' story here; it would not be
right. Abbess shared something deeply
personal with me. Something for which I am
grateful, in Sister Celine's words... "beyond
measure."
At one point in her narrative, Abbess stopped. She looked up at the statue of the Virgin
Mary. After a few moments, a peacefulness
settled back over her face.
"Heart and head
could not seem to reconcile. You know
that of which I speak, do you not, child?"
I nod slowly. Abbess
reaches out and takes my hands in hers.
"When Sister
Celine came to me that day..."
By the time Abbess is finished, the candles have lost more
of their length. The echo of her words
fades away and silence falls over the chapel once more, broken only by the occasional
sputter of a candle. She takes my hands
for a moment more and then she stands.
"I will leave you
now, child, to your meditations. I hope that
you have..." she stops. A
gentle smile crosses her face.
"Good night,
Veronica. Bless you, child."
"Good night,
Abbess. Thank you. For everything."
~*~
The next morning...
*
The woman in the mirror has a new look in her eyes. The woman looking out from the depths of the ancient
looking-glass is not the same woman who first gazed out of that silvered
surface all that time ago. The woman looking
out now has lost something... something she carried for a long time. She has let it go... left it behind. The woman whose gaze now holds mine through
the centuries-old glass has found something that she lost a long time ago. The woman looking back at me this morning has
reached the end of one journey. The
woman in the mirror has...
It's time.
*
Sitting across from Abbess, I am struck once again at the
gentleness that radiates from her. To look in the depths of her soft
grey-blue eyes, one would not guess at the turmoil and strife that once had
hold of her life, as it did mine. There is a serenity reflected back that
speaks more eloquently than any words possibly could, of the peace and purpose
she has found here at the abbey, this gentle servant of God.
"So...?"
She leaves the question unfinished, the corner of her mouth turning up into a
tiny smile. Abbess knows, without having
to ask, the reason for my early morning visit to her office.
I hesitate, not because I am uncertain of the words I am
about to speak, but because I have waited for... and searched for... so long...
the answers that I have found here, and I am still a bit disbelieving that I
have finally reached journey's end. My hesitation now is not one of
uncertainty, but a moment of reflection.
The moment passes.
"I'm ready to go
home now, Abbess."
**
Reunited
**
It is with no small amount of sadness that I close the abbey
gate, the sisters' final 'good-byes'
still ringing in my ears.
It's time.
Time to go home.
Time to return to my life... and my wife.
Time to return to the purpose God has given me.
"Keep them safe,
Father."
I look heavenward once more and then begin walking down the
long graveled path to the main road where the car service will be waiting for
me.
My journey back to America has begun.
~*~
Leaving the arrivals lounge, my only baggage the large
carry-on slung over my shoulder, I make my way across the concourse toward the
taxi stands outside the terminal entrance. Even though I've already been
through three international airports and a train station, I still find myself a
little disoriented at everything around me. Life was so simple back at
the abbey. Unhurried... uncrowded... uncomplicated... peaceful.
But... for better or for worse, this is my world.
*
I see her... across the concourse, scanning the crowd, and
for a moment I am frozen in place.
A myriad of thoughts swirl in my head... "She's here! She came for me...
my soul mate and my forever!" And on top of that thought... "I'm not ready... I thought I had
another 3,000 miles... I don't know what to say... it's been so long... what if
she is mad at me for being gone so long... what if...how do I...what... I... ?"
And for one mad moment, I consider bolting.
And then, as if an invisible force were suddenly at work,
the space between the two of us clears of other travelers and it is only she
and I standing across the broad expanse of the concourse from each other.
Our eyes meet.
And time stands still.
*
I feel the measured beat of my heart... each exhalation of
air from my lungs... as I begin to slowly walk toward her, the tempo rising as
each step brings me nearer to my inamorata. After perhaps half a dozen
steps, my brain gives up any pretext at proper comportment - surrendering to
the heart - and I break into a run, the carry-on sliding off my shoulder and
falling to the floor. The yards
separating the two of us disappear in a blur.
And then... I am in her arms and like the ocean surf, the
wave of emotions that has been building crashes over me and all the words that I
wanted to say are washed away.
"Me segurar... me segurar... me segurar.... eu
te amo... eu te amo... eu te amo... eu te amo..."
*
I don't know how long the two of us stood there - again,
time is of no consequence; it simply exists.
We stand, arms around one another, locked in embrace, two hearts beating
against each other... two hearts beating as one heart... with a rhythm, that
like the snowflakes of winter, is unmatched anywhere else in the entire universe.
I finally notice the large overnight bag Tina has slung over
her shoulder. I step back.
"You're going
somewhere?" I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice,
but don't quite succeed. Only a very cruel God would reunite me with my 'forever' and then take her away so
soon. In the next moment however, my fears are banished.
"We are, baby
girl!" Tina emphasizes the "we"
and that smile I know so well lights up my honey's face.
"We are?"
My heartbeat does a little sprint. I am
thrilled, but more than a little curious, having expected only to return home
and not leave our condo for several days. Except perhaps for more food or
wine.
"I wanted to give
you something, Roni. I thought and
thought and thought... we have been apart for so long... eternities, it seems...
I thought... what can I do to show you how very much I love you? Something, perhaps, that you have not had
since you were a little girl? " Tina reaches in her purse and
rummages around for a moment, then pulls out a small object and holds it out to
me.
For several moments I can only stare at it, seeing but not
comprehending. The object is familiar.
I look up at her.
"Are those the
keys to the beach house my parents had when I was a little girl?" Mama and I had been back only a couple of
times after Papa left us. The memories
then had been too painful... too bright.
Tina nods.
"I don't
understand... I thought... how did you...?"
Tina smiles and reaches out, pressing two
perfectly-manicured fingers gently against my lips.
"Time enough for questions later, baby girl... we've got a
sunrise to catch!"
~*~
Less than thirty minutes later, the charter pilot receives
final clearance from the tower and the Cessna 400 begins to roll, the runway
lights flashing by faster and faster as the nimble aircraft reaches for take-off
speed.
Moments after that, I feel that familiar little flutter in
my tummy and we are 'wings up'!
~*~
An almost imperceptible lightening of the sky on the far
horizon signals the breaking dawn of a new day, the thin line of scattering
clouds a promise of the glorious sunrise to follow.
We walk hand-in-hand - oh, how I have missed this; the simple act of holding hands - across the expanse of deserted beach, the cool, dry sand shifting beneath our bare feet as we make our way toward the ever-moving edge of the incoming tide.
A lone gull flies overhead, its single 'caw' a protest over the invasion of humans at this early hour.
I rest into Tina's comforting warmth, wrapping my arms around her slender waist and tilting my head against her shoulder. She leans down and I feel her lips brush across the top of my head. Drawing in a deep breath, I let it out slowly, enveloped by the calming scents of my inamorata and the ocean.
We walk hand-in-hand - oh, how I have missed this; the simple act of holding hands - across the expanse of deserted beach, the cool, dry sand shifting beneath our bare feet as we make our way toward the ever-moving edge of the incoming tide.
A lone gull flies overhead, its single 'caw' a protest over the invasion of humans at this early hour.
I rest into Tina's comforting warmth, wrapping my arms around her slender waist and tilting my head against her shoulder. She leans down and I feel her lips brush across the top of my head. Drawing in a deep breath, I let it out slowly, enveloped by the calming scents of my inamorata and the ocean.
We cast our gaze to the east... and wait.
*
The sun - that golden orb of life to this big blue spinning
marble in space called Earth - is not yet half above the horizon when a flock
of seagulls swoops down low over the waves in front of us, catching their wings
in the first rays of the sun's warmth. The scene before my eyes is so
breathtaking I half expect a Max Richter or Hans Zimmer orchestral to rise up
in the background.
*
Overwhelmed, I can only look up at the woman I love with all
my heart and soul. A hundred thoughts, a thousand thoughts... ten
thousand... swirl around my brain. All
the things I want to say to her... everything she means to me. I want to
say those three words that have never... not for one single second... left my
heart. I want to say "I love
you!", but the lump in my throat will let no sound escape and I cannot
seem to swallow it away.
Tina looks back at me with her beautiful hazel eyes... with the little flecks of gold... those eyes I drown in over and over and over... and her perfect coral pink lips curve into a smile that melts my heart every time.
She says two words.
Tina looks back at me with her beautiful hazel eyes... with the little flecks of gold... those eyes I drown in over and over and over... and her perfect coral pink lips curve into a smile that melts my heart every time.
She says two words.
Two words only.
Two words that say everything.
Two words that mean every thing to me.
"I know."
Two words that say everything.
Two words that mean every thing to me.
"I know."
~finis~
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
29 May 2014
(Writing under a large mushroom, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest)
Monday, February 17, 2014
LILY CHILDS' FEBRUARY FEMMES FATALES - AN ANTHOLOGY
I am both pleased and thrilled to bring you some very exciting news. Magenta Shaman author Lily Childs, the brainchild and driving force behind Lily Childs' Feardom and co-editor of Thrillers, Killers 'n Chillers has compiled some of the best dark fiction from the ladies of her February Femmes Fatales and released what is sure to be the 'talk' of 2014 when it comes to horror and urban fantasy -
- an anthology in e-book and trade paperback.
Do you like your horror so dark, dripping and visceral that you almost dread to turn the next page, and your telltale heart beats ever faster as your eyes devour the words in front of you? I'll bet no pansy-assed crime is going to do it for you, right? It's got to be so treacherous, gritty and suspenseful that you bite your nails to the quick, leaving little red smears on the pages. Noir, you say? Noir so steamy and sultry, a cold shower's the only thing to cool you down and save a 'not-in-the-mood' spouse/partner from a 'ravishing'? Or, is it ravaging?
You're in luck! My dear friend and mentor, as well as the 'grande dame' of horror and urban fantasy, Lily Childs, has released a new anthology, featuring dark fiction and poetry by twenty-plus of the premier female writers of the genre today.
Dark dames? Here's twenty-three to thrill and chill you...
Where can I buy this nightmare-inducing, burn-candles-long-into-the-night book, you ask?
Psssst! *whispers* Come 'ere... *steps in to alley*
You look a decent sort... I suppose I can tell you.... as long as you spread it around, right then?
Lily's February Femmes Fatales is on all Amazon platforms. Here are the main ones are:
Kindle version:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/February-Femmes-Fatales-Lily-Childs-ebook/dp/B00I8AHW2I
http://www.amazon.com/February-Femmes-Fatales-Lily-Childs-ebook/dp/B00I8AHW2I
http://www.amazon.co.uk/February-Femmes-Fatales-Lily-Childs-ebook/dp/B00I8AHW2I
http://www.amazon.com/February-Femmes-Fatales-Lily-Childs-ebook/dp/B00I8AHW2I
Paperback:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/February-Femmes-Fatales-Lily-Childs/dp/1494731878/
http://www.amazon.com/February-Femmes-Fatales-Lily-Childs/dp/1494731878/
http://www.amazon.co.uk/February-Femmes-Fatales-Lily-Childs/dp/1494731878/
http://www.amazon.com/February-Femmes-Fatales-Lily-Childs/dp/1494731878/
Now... you'll keep your word, right? Tell all your friends. And... it wouldn't go unnoticed if you wanted to leave a few words on Amazon about the book. Doesn't have to be a huge review, but it goes without saying... "I liked it." isn't likely to get you a plate of cookies.
Just sayin....
What's that you say? Do I have a story? I am both thrilled and honoured to have been asked to contribute a story for Lily's anthology. Thank you for asking. Would you like a little peek at Soul Taker? *opens trenchcoat*
I've already burnt through several candles - for some reason, I can't read this stuff in the light of day; it's got to be in that dark, silvery time between the witching hour and the pre-dawn - and more than once awoken my inamorata, having given myself a fright over reading these femmes fatales dark offerings.
Well, I'm off to the apothecary for some herbed candles... it's going to be a long night.
~*~
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
16 February 2014
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Ghosts of Christmases Past
***
A friend recently posted on Facebook, as part of her Christmas
message, to “not look back on Christmases
past”. I can, to a degree, appreciate such a sentiment. After all,
not everyone’s “ghosts of Christmases past” are pleasant or welcome memories.
We all have ghosts. Anyone who says they don’t is in a
state of denial deeper than an ocean. If one has a past, then at some
point, their future will be inhabited by those ghosts. And, like a
recalcitrant child, putting off dealing with them is not going to bring about a
positive change in their behaviour.
Ghosts cannot change… it is not their nature.
My friend’s post brought to mind some of my own ghosts of
Christmases past, some of which cannot be dismissed as nothing more than the
product of a bout of gastric upset brought on by a bit of undercooked mutton or
half digested potato, if you’ll pardon my rather clumsy attempt to paraphrase
Mr. Dickens.
***
“Past is prologue.”
I was four years old when I first heard that phrase. It is
from a Russian proverb and part of a lesson taught me by my grandmother on my
mother’s side, Nana Marie, whose namesake I am proud to be. I can still
remember sitting in Mama’s parlour on a damp, chilly winter’s afternoon, surrounded
by the smells of lavender, lemon, Nana Marie’s liniment and the warm scent of
her carefully prepared tea. There were many afternoons such as this.
The lesson that particular day was, once again, on the past and
the future; how one shapes the other but is not a final determination of the
outcome of the latter. Nana Marie, in her strong, slightly rough voice –
as Mama would say, Nana Marie was a bit too fond of her Russian cigarets
(forbidden inside Mama’s home, I might add) – expounded on the past and the future
with some regularity, as if it were more important than almost anything else,
to understand. And, as I would come to learn, it was.
From a very young age, I learned many important things… from
Mama and Papa, and especially, from Nana Marie. I learned that as
resolute as the past was, so it was that the future was equally fragile.
The past is a portent of one possible future. How well we understand our actions, and their
consequences, in the present… which will be tomorrow’s past… can give us the
opportunity to play a far greater role in our future than one who simply
accepts that the past has set their future… “le
destin est le destin, et ne peut être modifié”.
But, I digress. This post is supposed to be about
Christmases past.
***
I have many happy memories of Christmases from my childhood,
although not all were as such. My sixth Christmas was one such happy one,
when my wish for all things Hello Kitty was granted, after some considerable
expenditure of time and effort by Papa.
My tenth Christmas, while tempered with the absence of my
father, was not as somber as one might have thought, given the
circumstances. Papa, you see, had left us on the eve of my tenth
birthday, leaving behind two broken hearts with only the meager comfort of a small
note left, expressing his sorrow at leaving… abandoning… his family. I
think that particular Christmas was made tolerable, in no small measure by my
mother’s resolute strength and determination, of course, but also by the fact
that we were both still in a stage of denial, believing that any day, despite
any evidence to support such a belief, that Papa would walk through the door
and our world would once again be whole.
It would be fifteen years before Papa would walk through the
door of a room I occupied and two and a half years after the passing of my
mother.
In the intervening years, denial finally gave way to acceptance
and we both moved on, hearts still bruised but determined that there was a life
out there for us that past defeats should not… and would not… diminish.
My eighteenth Christmas, and sophomore year in college, would
find me with my second lover, Annabeth Harrington, my Psych professor from
freshman year. Fueled by an almost insatiable lust for one another, we
were both still basking in the glow and the memories of a dinner we had
attended some months earlier at the White House. Yes, college life was
everything… and more… that I had hoped and dreamed it would be. .
That year, however, would be the last “joyous” holiday season for a while.
*
Not long after the beginning of my senior year and only days
before my twentieth birthday, my past caught up with me. To be more
precise, a rather hastily ‘dispatched’
boyfriend – “beard” really, but that
is a story for another day - from my senior year of high school… whom the years
since had turned into a raging psychopath… kidnapped me, and together with his
equally psychotic “girlfriend” spent
the next six months raping, brutalizing and torturing me to such an extent, it
would have made the Marquis de Sade vomit on his bedclothes.
Needless to say, Christmas that year was not celebrated.
Not in the customary manner, at least. By December of that year, I was
having great difficulty keeping track of time and days passing and really could
not have told you with any degree of certainty, the month, let alone date or
day of the week. By December of that year, I scarcely knew night from
day. I suspect, though I try not to dwell on the thought; that Brad and
Natasha “celebrated” Christmas in a
manner befitting two sick, depraved minds.
My twenty-first Christmas, and my first one with my now wife,
Christina Anne, was not the festive occasion it might otherwise have been if
the preceding fifteen months had been different. Tina tried… she tried so
hard that first year… to bring back some degree of normalcy to my life. But when one has nightmares even in broad
daylight and wakes up in the middle of the night… every night… screaming in
such agony as only a soul tortured beyond it limits can…
It was not a good time for either of us and more than once I,
and I’m sure Tina must have as well – even her compassion had to have its
limits, questioned God’s wisdom in putting Tina in my path on that fateful day
in September of 2006. That was the day I
boarded a plane with a bellyful of booze, a pocketful of pills and a one-way
ticket to St Louis
Weeks later, boarding a plane in Boston
***
They say that time heals all wounds, but that isn’t true… not
completely.
It is love that heals.
Time is a construct of man… an arbitrary measurement of the
progression and passing of one’s life from this existence to the next.
But, love…
Love is the ‘life’
that our Creator breathes into our souls.
Love heals.
Love healed me, for the most part anyway, and brought two souls
closer and closer with each passing day and the good memories began to outweigh
and out measure the bad. Christmas would once again become a time to not
only celebrate our Savior, but to also celebrate family and friends and the
future.
The past could not be forgotten, but it also could not set in
stone, the future. Not if we didn’t want
it to.
***
Christmas 2008 – Candy Canes
and Bittersweet Memories
My mother, from whom I had been estranged since shortly before
my seventeenth birthday, when she discovered I was a lesbian and disowned me,
passed away in March of 2008 after a long battle with breast cancer.
Christmas that year was the first year that I did not hold out, as I had for
the last six years, a tiny flicker of hope that she and I would reconcile and
put the past behind us and that Mama would at last accept me… accept who and
what I was.
Christmas that year was bittersweet.
Tina’s mother – her parents had come out from back East to join
us for the holidays that year – finally and fully accepted me and asked if I
wouldn’t call her “Mother Shaw”
instead of the formerly and formally imposed appellation of “Mrs. Shaw”.
I cried… I cried tears of joy.
And… I cried tears of sorrow. My future mother-in-law had
finally accepted me, but...
My own mother had passed away several months before, having
never accepted who I was and now she never would.
Christmas that year was bittersweet.
***
2010 – A Year of
Reconciliations
We all have milestones in our lives… some might say millstones,
the weight of some of those events a burden on our shoulders, growing heavier
as the years bring us ever closer to the day that we shed these all too fragile
mortal coils and transcend to wherever it is our own personal belief system
portends. We all have events in our
lives that shape and celebrate our life; events that are not always of our own
choosing, but nevertheless an important and integral part of our journey.
March of 2010 brought me back once more to the tall, white
Vermont marble marker; the symbol of the final resting place of my mother’s
physical form – her soul and spirit, I knew, were now in Heaven and she was
free of pain and all of the other burdens our corporeal forms are afflicted
with.
Unlike the previous two years, however; I was not dreading this
visit. While “happy” or “excited” might not be the customary
emotions one feels when paying their respects to a loved one lost, I was
both. I had finally – with the help and guidance of a truly amazing
friend - reconciled with my mother. I had at last opened my heart and
found something lost a long time ago.
I had rediscovered an eternal truth about mothers and
daughters. The love of a mother is eternal and neither time nor
circumstance can ever change that or take it away. I had forgotten this a
long time ago. I had grown selfish and buried that truth away. I
had become a martyr to my own fears and uncertainties. I had come to enjoy too much the role of “poor little Veronica.”
But Regan changed that. She taught me how to bring myself
back. I reconciled with my mother and to this day, I talk to her up in
Heaven… every day, without fail.
I’m sorry… I’m digressing again. Next thing you know, I
will be talking about cupcake recipes… chocolate cupcake recipes.
Where were we… ?
***
March 25, 2010.
Tina and Ali have already gone back to the hotel and Julie, the
family attorney, and I are preparing to leave as well. The weather is
growing worse, the rain coming down harder.
I am chilled to the bone, but do not want to leave. Mama and I say
our tearful good-byes and I make my way back to the car, where Julie is waiting…
when it happens.
A man approaches the car. He calls my name.
Something shifts in my brain… and time stands still. The thunder in my
ears is not from the weather, but the sound of a million thoughts and images
crashing and swirling in my brain… a dervish of emotions that, mercifully,
overload my brain and I crash.
The last time I saw or spoke to my father was the evening before
the eve of my tenth birthday… 14 years, six months, and 8 days ago. And,
in those 5,303 days, I never… not once… hated my father for what he had to done
to my mother and me. Not once! I felt a lot of things, a lot of emotions,
but hate was never one.
Until now… until that day in the cemetery, on the second
anniversary of my mother’s passing, when my father walked back into my
life. On that day…
On that day… I hated my father. I hated him with a passion!
The heat of my hatred could have turned forests to ash. The heat of my
hatred for the man whom I had once loved more than anything else in this world,
besides my mother, could have burnt the sun to a cinder!
That day, I told my father that I hated him and that I would
never forgive him for what he had done to Mama and me. I told him that I
never wanted to see or hear from him again… ever! I told him to get in
his car and drive away. I told him to drive
so fucking far away that I never crossed his mind again!
*
But… hate cannot survive where there is love. And I did
still love my father. And suddenly the realization hit me… I was going to
lose my father again! I had already lost my mother and now I was going to
lose Papa as well! Again!
I could not let that happen. I would not let that happen!
And so began the long, painful process toward
reconciliation. A tentative letter sent. The anger was still there
and I wanted… I needed… answers, but more than that, I needed my father.
*
Fast forward a few months...
***
Christmas 2010
Tina had been hiding something from me for months. I told her, more than once, that her little ‘subterfuge’ was futile, because I would
find it eventually. Each time, Tina
just smiled and walked away. I spent
weeks… months… searching every square inch… every nook and cranny… of our condo
for the Christmas gift she had hidden away.
I even went to her office in the downtown Justice Building
By mid-morning Christmas Day, the stack of brightly-wrapped
gifts… save for one each for my inamorata and myself, which would be unwrapped
that evening… that had been artistically ensconced under the eight-foot Noble
the night before was now transformed into a sea of clothes, books and jewelry
on the sofa and the thick, white Barbara Barry area rug was covered with bows,
ribbons and wads of wrapping paper. A
cup of freshly-brewed Ethiopian Sidamo sat before me on the coffee table,
ignored as I buried my nose in a first edition (UK
So engrossed in the book was I that the telephone, on the end
table beside me, had rung several times before the sound registered. I reached for the handset, only to have it
jerked from my outstretched fingers by Tina.
I looked up.
“It’s probably just work,” Tina stammered, a flush
rising on her slender neck.
“You’re not going in? Today?” I could
hear the disappointment in my voice, mirrored, no doubt, in my eyes as I stared
up at her.
“No, no, no… of course not,
baby girl. I promise!”
The sincerity in her voice was unmistakable and mollified, I
returned to Thoreau. So wrapped up in
the book was I that I was only dimly aware of the sound of the doorbell several
minutes later. Moments after that…
“Feliz Natal, minha
princesinha!”
I looked up… the book fell from my lap… I shrieked!
“PAPA!!!”
To this day, Tina swears that my feet never touched the floor. She says that I literally flew over the
coffee table, across the living room and into the arms of my father, without
once letting my bare feet touch the floor.
All I remember is that one moment I was sitting on the sofa and the next
moment my 5’ 3” body was firmly attached to my father’s chest, my arms tightly
wrapped around his neck, the scent of Old Spice and cherry pipe tobacco
caressing my nostrils, laughing and crying at the same time and trying to talk
through the tears of joy…
“Papa ... Eu te amo ... Eu te
amo ... Eu te amo ... Papa ... Papa ... oh, eu te amo tanto!”
It was several minutes before I calmed down enough to detach
myself. When I finally did loosen my
grip and Papa lowered me to the floor – Papa stands at 6’ 6” – I looked up and
saw that his dark eyes, like mine, were bright with tears. In that moment I felt such a rush of love for
my father that it left me light-headed and I felt faint.
Over the next three days, the only time I let Papa leave my side
was when he slept – there was no question of him staying in a hotel - and when
he was in the bathroom. Well, I take
that back. I did watch him shave… just
as I did when I was a little girl, except I didn’t stand on the toilet this
time.
And twice during Papa’s stay, Tina had to drag me out of the
guest bedroom at three in morning, where she found me sitting in the big,
wooden rocking chair… watching Papa sleep and offering a silent prayer to God,
thanking Him for bringing my father back to me.
*
This is one Christmas past that I will always look back upon. A father and daughter were reunited. How could I not look back?
***
And so it is…
I live with these ghosts of Christmases past. Some are
good. Some are not as welcome as others,
but I have found something else out.
They are all necessary.
Past is prologue.
*
To truly and deeply love, one must remember and accept this…
Just as the Earth accepts that the rain will always follow the sun;
so it is that sorrow will always follow joy.
And when sorrow, like the rain, has had its season… joy, like
the sun, will return.
I think it was C.S. Lewis who once said…
“The pain now is part of the
happiness then.”
I believe… no, I know this…
The pain then is part of the happiness now. But…
Love will always conquer pain.
Because it isn’t time alone that heals. Time without love
is only the ticking of a clock on the mantle. A reminder that something
needs done… that something awaits.
Love heals.
Love grows.
Love endures.
Love is eternal.
***
Merry Christmas to all.
I wish you peace and good health.
I wish you success in all you endeavour.
I wish for your ghosts to not be too restless.
I wish you love.
Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
25 December 2013
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