Whispers Throughout Time

A classic pen, beautifully handwritten pages—a peaceful journaling setting. (CCO)

As far back as I can remember, I have carried sacred stories within me. Entrusted with whispers throughout time, meant to be kept safe and shared only when the time is right, is a gift I do not take lightly. 

When it is time to shine a light in these otherwise dark places, I share these visions, not exclusively by the pen. I often paint or express myself through music. At other times, these lost stories lay dormant, wafting in and out of my dreams, not always in my conscious awareness but dwelling in the realm of the knowing field.

There are many opportunities for singing. I sing to trees, birds, squirrels, and just about anything or anyone who will listen. Of course, I do not need, want, or expect applause, but I have and still experience a lifetime of performance. This presents itself in many forms—voice, trumpet, cello, piano, and various other instruments. And, of course, the written word.

I fell in love with harmony at a young age. I spent hours experimenting on our trusty upright piano. I convinced one of my many sisters to sing the melody of the latest song I learned in our youth choir while I sang the harmony. At first, she wasn’t thrilled, but in time, we sang at her urging.

There was a time in my childhood when we had a pink hairdryer. It was the kind that had a bubble cap that filled up with hot air from a hose in the back. I felt so special when I got to dry my hair that way. I soon realized that the hairdryer had its own pitch, a humming sound that I used as the root chord of my improvised songs. Of course, my mother was unaware of the need for me to harmonize with the hairdryer, and she never asked questions.

My life shifted dramatically after I got my first trumpet. Ask the cows across the road. They were a fine audience, discovered only when my family protested because of my continuous desire to play.

In addition to music, I also created and hand-wrote my own books. It was a fun project, as I had complete creative control over my work. To this day, I love that. It’s not that I reject good, healthy feedback; I am quite rooted in my thoughts and words. They are always wanting to flee from my heart, head, and soul onto the page.

I used to write multiple blogs weekly, sharing them with the world—for those meant to see. For many years, the most challenging part of that exercise was not having access to adequate internet. Sometimes, it would take three hours to upload one photo. Other times, I had to surrender and either abandon the blog or post it without a picture. That was a creativity killer.

I was so grateful when I gained access to satellite internet, followed by broadband. It was like emerging from a hundred-year sleep. I realized that I clenched my teeth every time I uploaded a blog or clicked on a video that was longer than 5 seconds. I had to train myself to believe and remember that I could complete tasks like most people in the modern world. I am grateful for that.

Then, a strange thing happened. When I was in the final phases of publishing my latest book, The Crows’ Path, I encountered massive conflicts and issues with AI. I wasn’t expecting this to happen on the level it did. However, it was what it was. I am not going into details, but I can say this experience, this loss of control, was traumatic on some level. 

Fortunately, over time, my professional editing apps and other places where it was behaving aggressively became manageable. I now enjoy (okay, accept) these programs, which were clearly in experimental mode, making changes without my direction or approval.

That is behind me now. I have learned to utilize AI in an administrative capacity rather than being forced to do so in my creative actions. This is where I am unhappy with the direction of AI in creative fields. I am aware that books can be written by AI in less than ten minutes. 

I suppose for truly skilled artists, this development diminishes the desire or need to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing or obtain a performance degree at a notable music conservatory. Why bother when you can get AI to do it for you? It sort of takes the fun away from the gift. Where is the motivation to sharpen your skills and tap into your expressive genius? And then there is the reality that teachers are also replaceable.

My response to the latest turn of events for creatives was to withdraw. Yet, I did not stop creating, quite the opposite. However, I have not been comfortable with just throwing my work out there—copyrighted or not—for the taking. I have already had two of my books hijacked and sold in India and China without my knowledge or permission.

It feels like one’s soul is gobbled up by an unseen brain, waiting and lurking in the shadows. With so much at risk, I have held my work close to my heart. I enjoy and rely on my rich and meaningful experiences. I hike, swim, play music, paint, forage for wild plants. I am still me.

Then, I was and am beyond disillusioned with the incredible darkness and division that grips society on multiple levels. Brother against brother, sister against sister, neighbor against neighbor—it breaks one’s heart if it is not what you seek. I am an observer, not a reactor. I view, through my eyes, what is unfolding. If you read my historical work, you know I see through the cracks. I shine a light where it has been shrouded in darkness. I am about the truth, which cannot be hidden forever.

I live in the woods, which is a huge bonus. I have almost always been here. I am most comfortable amongst trees and wild things. I would not have it any other way, but now, I am certain that life anywhere but the woods is impossible for me. It is the way it is.

So, this blog serves as an explanation for my absence. Yes, it’s true. I have been nestled deep in the woods where I can still breathe, where I gather fallen rose petals to sweeten my tea, answer the call of the Phoebe, and wait to see this year’s kits from the beautiful foxes that live nearby.

I look up at the smoke-filled skies and pray that the fires will stop burning long enough for us to breathe freely, even for a week. I wonder why this continues, but I know that questioning means receiving multiple answers that disagree with one another. When was the last time information was expressed uniformly? Where does it come from?

I have become more accustomed to following my intuition than I imagined possible. As I always say, follow your inner compass. Mine is well-worn, but it still works. We do know our way in the dark or when the path becomes overgrown with vines and craggy edges lined with perilous rocks. We have been here before; it’s just a matter of self-trust and knowing.

Be kind to each other, even if you aren’t on the same side. Put your differences aside and view others as allies, or at the very least, as non-enemies. Is this possible? And while we are here, I would like to remind you to acknowledge that which you do know. You can think for yourself. Shake off the doubt and reach deeply within. You are in there. I know it. And yes, in the meantime, I am back.