fiction – The Light Behind the Story

My friend Irene immersed in my “Happy Place”

A couple of days ago, while gazing through the depths of nature’s canvas that wraps the cove of a lake, I joke with my friend that I married my husband because of this place. “I can see the joy in your face,” she agreed.

Although I did not marry my husband because of this “happy place,” it quickly became a site of refuge for me. It is a place where the soft sentinels of pines hug a summer home with the scent of comfort. Here, nature offers us her unsalted waters in a basin formed by a ring of small mountains. My favorite way to enjoy it is simply to sit and be still. To surround myself with the songs of the kingfisher and loons; the perfume of pine needles and campfire smoke; and a panoramic wrap of New Hampshire’s beauty that allows the wind to spread the sun across my skin in a way that makes me forget about the burn. It is the setting that inspired my Warriors of Light book series.

This morning, in another town, I sit with technology on my lap inside a home hugged in an acre of hemlocks, oaks, and maples. Here, the sun does not angle beyond the tops of the trees’ canopy to set the water aflame with light before it disappears into the night. Here, Nature’s floor is a patchwork of moss, dandelions, and prunella vulgaris (also known as self-heal or heal-all), instead of the soft throw of pine needles. Yet, it is all a part of Earth’s body.

This morning of July 5th, I find myself thinking about connection as my mind travels back through our shared and divergent origin stories. America’s origin story, for some, began on July 4th. This celebration of independence from another nation. A separation of one group from another in an effort to pursue, “life, liberty, and happiness.” But it did not begin or end here. There is intricate web of light and darkness that weaves back and forth as it goes towards the center and away. If you travel to the furtherest point inward, you get the source of everyone’s collective origin story. The place before separation. Today, we exist somewhere far away, or so we seem to, divided by time and designated spaces formed by different choices and beliefs.

When I think about America’s origin stories, I think of this web. I think about how one group’s pursuit of happiness led to the destruction and enslavement of others. I think about how my happy place is not really mine. Not because it belongs to my mother-in-law, but because long before it was purchased by my husband’s family, it was “Turtle Island.” It was the home of the indigenous peoples before it became this America that is the home where I was born, but not where all of my cells orgininated. I think about a nation made “glorious” with the muscle of enslavement.

And I think about how so often we opt to forget. To make choices that split the web into sectors of partial histories and partial truths. A partial origin story is not whole. There is no wrap of connection. Instead, there are severed lines with polarized ends seeking reunion. Even though our bodies of biology and chemistry, and our essence that abides by the complex, yet simple laws of physics, are constantly trying to remind us that existence is only possible with connection.

There is a reason why joy runs through me in the song of bliss when I sit at the edge of the lake’s body with my feet in the water sunk into the sand. Here, I allow my body to remember the place of its origin. Here, my cells realize that separation is a ruse of defiance as they harmonize to the heartbeat of the mother we all share. And here, my soul expands beyond the orb of Mother Earth to touch its origin, realizing that the origin is already inside of me.

And here, I allow myself to imagine the web repaired and whole, once again.

On the front cover of my metaphysical fantasy book Keys to the Heart, a fire dragon descends to meet a rising water dragon over a hexagram filled with the alchemy of their union.

The front cover of *Keys to the Heart*, designed by Sierra Wheeler

On the back cover of the book, a blurb appears inside a circle of stones. The stones, if you look closely, resemble the heads of dragons. Out of the circle, the tails of the water and fire dragons emerge. The scene wrapping the book tells its origin story.

The back cover of *Keys to the Heart*, designed by Sierra Wheeler

A story inspired, in many ways, by my visit to Arbor Low in Derbyshire, England nearly seven years ago with Sue, Stuart, Deb, and Nick during a Silent Eye outing. Arbor low is a Neolithic henge monument complete with a crown of stones that sits atop a hill that is now owned by a farmer. I sometimes wonder if the caretaker, who charges a mere one pound/person to visit the ancient site, knows how lucky he is to live amongst the dragon stones.

As soon as I exited the car in the lot below the mound, I felt the pull of the stones even though I could not yet see them. Deb and I helped Nick up the crest of the hill, but when we reached the top, I released him to Sue and Stuart. Sue understood how the energy magic consumes me when I visit the ancient landscapes, and here, before me, was a scene of absolute wonder. On the edge of the mound, I stood at the gateway, letting it fill my cells with memories as time slipped through space.

The stones at Arbor low are arranged in a recumbent circle, with two recumbent stones in the center. Some people think the stones once stood, and I saw the center stones as pillars; a doorway to the stars, while the ones on the ring rose up from the mound watching, protecting. The heads like dragons in wait for the Fire and Water to reunite to seed light back into the sacred womb of Earth.

I chose my path by the pull of my cells, taking each turn between the stones as though I were walking through time. “Like a clock.” When I completed the circle of the face, I was filled with a vision of magic that felt so alive I could not contain it. I felt like a lost soul finding home, once again, in the vast sea of the universe.

It was here, in Arbor Low, where I found the essence of the narrative that had been weaving its labyrinth inside of me.

As a writer, I am often asked about my process. Usually I keep the answer simple, “I am not a plotter, I let the story guide me.” The truth is, quite often I cannot explain what I write until I experience it for myself. Images and names will come to me, and sometimes entire scenes, and I will put them on the page only to discover later, why.

Standing at Arbor Low, nearly seven years ago, my body was re-awakened to the alchemical energy of the universe. Here, I experienced the magic of natural forces concentrated in the land. An energy so strong it transcended time and space. Arbor Low, like other ancient sacred sites, is a place where the complex theories of physics and math make sense. It is a place where magic is tangible and achievable without fantasy.

By the end of the day, I understood why I was so driven to write a story about six thirteen-year-olds who were drawn into a mysterious hexagram filled with broken lines of light to save a broken planet and a broken mother. By the end of the day, during which I visited three ancient sites with the Silent Eye group, I felt the wholeness of reunion in away I had never experienced in this lifetime. Inside of me joy danced with sorrow like I had finally come home.

So while I may have written two books, with a third in process, that are in the genre of fantasy, their essence is the magic of life through the lens of my own experiences. I have a feeling this is how many stories arise through us. We may doubt their origins, but the seeds they sow thread truth in an attempt to bring us home to ourselves.