Louisa and Lewis- Special


I wrote this in honor of two of my favorite childhood authors. I’d forgotten they share a birthday today! Louisa May Alcott and C.S. Lewis have inspired and enriched me. Happy Birthday to them!

Louisa May woke up and yawned. She was in her favorite closet hideaway. It was her secret spot of the week. She’d gone there to daydream and ended up sleeping without a mention of unconscious adventure.

“Lousia!” called her mother. “Remember we’ve got visitors this afternoon!”

She sat up and yawned. How tiresome. But she went in her bedroom that she shared with her sister and got ready. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and tidied her thick braids. An hour later she was playing with a child from the visiting family. They’d come all the way from Ireland and their last name was Hamilton. She enjoyed talking to the boy that was six years older than her. He was thirteen and his name was Thomas.

Even though he was older they got along. He seemed to enjoy her games and all she had to show him. She thought perhaps- since he was close to leaving childhood behind- that he liked sharing hers. At any rate she showed him her closet hideaway and they went and hid in one of the wardrobes.

“Let’s have an adventure,” she urged.

“All right,” said the boy.

“But you have to make a pact,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“You have to agree that from now on, wardrobes are the actually the doorways to the lands of Goodness and Peril,” she whispered, her voice deepening in portent. They’d already both discussed their love of the allegory, ‘The Pilgram’s Progress’ and these two lands sounded like locations from there.

“The Lands of Goodness and Peril,” he agreed.

“This knowledge will pass down,” she said in the same deep voice.

“It will pass down,” he repeated.

“To our children’s children…” she went on.

“Wait a minute,” said the boy, “What if one of us has no children?”

“Then the other must pass it for both,” she rumbled.

“The other one of us must pass down for both,” he repeated.

She didn’t tell Thomas that the back of the wardrobe was actually missing. Behind it were bundles of white sheets- waiting to be laundered. The two of them climbed through the wardrobe and fell on the heaps of white material as if they were the snowy expanse of the Alps.

“This is the snowy expanse of the Alps,” she informed him.

They regained their feet and a bitterly cold wind cut through them with a stinging wall of snow in their faces till they could hardly see.

“These Alps must be in the Land of Peril,” Thomas yelled to be heard over the wind.

“Of course!” she shouted back, “Everyone knows you have to pass through Peril before you can reach Goodness!”

“We’ll never make it! If the cold doesn’t get us, we’ll fall off these cliffs!”

“Nay, my friend- if thou but doth follow me I knoweth a secret trail!”

“Are we in Bible times that you’re talking like that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They didn’t speak English in the Bible! Don’t you know anything?”

“I know more than you- I’m older!”

“Wait! There it is- The Staircase of Altitude!”

“Let me go first!”

“Nay, you can’t climb that way- down the middle of the Staircase- you’ll cause an avalanche. On the outer edge is the only way!”

All throughout the day they faced the Basement of Despair, the Woods of Horrible Wailing and last they met and conquered the Seven Kittens of Rage. At the end of their time of adventuring they were both tired and her braids were messy again.

“But we never reached the Land of Goodness!” he said.

“Yes we did though!” she cried. “Goodness is always just over your right shoulder. Along with mercy it follows us all the days of our life!”

13-year-old Thomas stood tall and smiled at her.

“You’re the most seasoned adventurer I’ve ever traveled with,” he said. “Perhaps one day I’ll name my child after you. She’ll be called little Louisa.”

“No, never that- but remember when we passed through Despair and saw the Flower Bower? You must name her Florence, after that!”

He held out a hand. Behind them his parents were calling- it was time to go.

“Thank you, Louisa. I’ll never forget you.”

“Or our pact?”

“Certainly not!”

“Perhaps we’ll meet again, in another wardrobe someday!” she said.

“Or perhaps one of our grandchildren will travel there!”

“Good day, Traveler! And fare well!”

The End.


I Poemed My Story


Where Did They Go?

In the Moor there is a door;

            Tall tree stump stood of ancient wood;

            The hillside all around it speaks,

            The wind sings and calls and creaks;

            The breeze that draws all Moordyms home,

            To castle, Moor and earthen dome;


            Beware new child- it will sing to you,

            Tell you of vapors, mists and dew;

            Of grasses that wave in a curvaceous flood,

            And passions exact in the Moordym blood;

            Come home and sleep on an herb-filled bed,

            Blue night shines Moor stars overhead;


            And you will understand,

            Lured by clouds dropped near to hand;

            Call of scent and fog and bush,

            Secrets deep in the morning hush;

            Wander on fields destiny kissed,       

            To disappear like a Moordym mist.


No Matter What Poem


All the good there is

Was created by One

He looked around at all He made

He let evil grow too

He gave humankind a choice

Then He said one thing to do.


Everything I just said

Is considered by some to be

Just an opinion I have.

A belief structure I cling to

Attending the church of the naivete.

Yet there’s a glue that holds me here.


The One that made everything

Is very big and hard to see

with little eyes.

The tapestry of what it all means

can’t be judged until the whole picture

is clarified and seen.


As children we waited for more

We were thirsty to see it all.

When we get old we’re waiting

For Heaven and home.

We want to go back to that safe place

In our Father’s arms.


I can’t doubt Him now.

No matter how scary the storms are.

I’ve been held by Him, and taught.

He encouraged me and comforted me.

He answered my questions too.

God- yes, Jesus was my friend and I’m not ashamed

To say His name.









A beautiful baby girl will soon be in my daughter’s arms. A few months later, my other daughter will give me a baby to hold as well!


And tonight, before they went to bed, two sweet little boys- aged 4 and 3, gave me hugs.


How very, very blessed I am!




Rain fills a puddle you say.

Like tears in an empty heart.

But how did the heart get that way?

It gave its love away.

Poured it out on children’s heads.

And navigated a lifetime with God.

He had so much to say.

And love like an empty bowl,

Waits for payback to come and stay,

Remembering the children at play,

And their voices.

So the rain comes along.

Unconcerned with all of that.

It’s cool and clean and waters the edges.

Gentle pattering like moments past.

It’s not tears you see in my imperfect heart.

It’s the rain that falls from Heaven-

Like the many gifts He imparts-

To me.

Set Your Foot in My Moor


I’m having a good time with the setting of my NaNoWriMo novel this month. It’s set in a Moor, or an upland or a heath. Aren’t those terrific words? When I first started writing, I had types of settings. I used to say, ‘Okay, I’ve written a forest book. I’ve written a desert book. Now I should write a… book set in the mountains!’ It reminds me of when my kids were young. With my artist daughter, Disney themes were never a question when planning for her birthday. She wanted a ‘Gold’ birthday or a ‘Wolf’ birthday. It was simple, but actually we brought out so much from those simplistic basics. The gold birthday had an Autumn theme, with golden food and drink and even games. The ‘Wolf’ birthday? Totally cool.

And now here I am again. I’ve written the beach, and the mountain, the forest, and the desert. I’ve written underground. And now, for some glorious reason- sigh of contentment, I have the Moor.

Not THE Moors though. Those are in England. The Hound of the Baskervilles is still roaming around there. Dicken is riding his wooley pony and taming squirrels into his pocket. Heights are still wuthering.

My moor is probably some sort of non-magic Fantasy genre of a novel. The reason I won’t borrow Great Britain’s Moors? Because I want to make this setting my own.


I took this picture a while ago, while I was on a walk around Snoqualmie. My wuthering Mt. Si!

I’m Impressed With… Me


I’ve done it. So far anyway. I’ve actually managed to begin a new story just a day after I finished the previous one. Truly my blah blah instinct amazes me.

I love writing the way I write. I love not having a plan. I think for five minutes on the drive over to the write-in, considering story ideas like one ponders what they’d like to have for a snack.

Beaches? City-scape? Romance or Fantasy?

I’m surprised at what comes out. What’s the matter with me, I’ve asked myself several times.

So this new story. It’s set in a wilderness, like a Moor. I’m not sure if it’s set on this planet or not yet. I need the Fantasy genre right now until my setting comes to life.

Here’s a brief excerpt:

‘A vivid memory flashed into his mind. He saw the ominous low-rolling fields stretched out in all directions, except for a distant circle of green rising up to a little hill. In the center the hilltop was overlooked by a single tree- its wide branches spread out on either side like an upside-down bowl. The earth was black and barren, as if fire had swept across the plains. Straggling ropes of thin stems lay all in one direction- pointing to the horizon as if the beleaguered sky was to blame.

            Moordym Downs was a world unto itself. Rising up out of the stretches of windswept landscape- as if every small boulder for miles around had come and leapt up onto each other’s shoulders to build the walls, was a solid lump of a castle. Other buildings connected to it, some tall townhouses, some mercantile, some rugged stone barns, and some derelict.

            People actually lived there, he thought; like they wanted to.

            He shook his head.’



(Picture of Frog from Pioneer Coffee, Staring AT Me and Wondering When I’m going to get started)

I’m trying. Really. There’s a Kabillion rambling, simple, fluffy words inside of me. And NaNoWriMo-  or if you don’t know it, National Novel Writing Month- has so few rules! Just turn off the cranky inner editor, and dive in. Write 50,000 novelicious words by the end of the month. You can’t just go on with your current Work In Progress though.

And therein we have our problem. My mind is richly full with the end of my previous story. I’m infatuated with it. That guy in my story is just so cool. He’s just been through one heck of an adventure.

No. I’m not doing it. I’m not setting my WIP aside and starting some new story. If I try I don’t like those people. They’re insipid. They’re annoying like character pests.

So they, and anyone else who’s listening to this diatribe, will just have to wait.

Tonight, I’ve got an appointment. I’m hanging out with the cool guys. I’m going to finish it.

I’ll start NaNoWriMo a little late this year, folks. But I hope I can do it. Fifty thousand words in twenty something days? I’ll keep you posted.