Tag Archives: spirituality

4 Ways Journaling Heals

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light in darkness

With the first anniversary of the Highway 530 Mudslide looming ever closer, emotions are intense.

Words are powerful and can help us deal with emotions. This is why keeping a journal can be a healing process. By writing down the feelings we are experiencing, we can begin to deal with them rather than allowing them to eat away at us on the inside.

This can be especially true of grief. In your journal:

  1. Write a story about the person you lost
  2. Describe a happy memory with that person
  3. Write a conversation you wish you could have with that person. Try to include what you think they would tell you
  4. Describe your feelings
  5. List two ways you can honor the memory of your loved one

No matter how dark

Another way journaling can help us heal is to reduce negative self-talk, increase positive self-talk and help us recognize achievements.

  1. Write down the negative self-talk. (ie: I’m not pretty enough, I’m not smart enough, and so on)
  2. Now write down five positive things about yourself ( ie: I’m a good person, I help others, I do my job well, Yesterday I phoned my parents because they like hearing from me, I like my hair (or whatever physical attribute you think is positive) and so on.
  3. Write down two ways you will use to improve yourself. Make these very specific and have a deadline for implementing or achieving. Do not use such things as I will lose ten pounds this month. Instead list it like this: I will make three healthy dinners this week. I will not eat bread for five days. I will read one book every month.
  4. On a clean page, at the end of the deadline, write down what you achieved, why you didn’t achieve the entire goal and how you intend to approach it now. BE SURE to INCLUDE ANY progress toward your goal, such as: I fixed two healthy dinners this week. I failed to schedule in enough time to fix the third dinner. This week I will write up my menu for three healthy dinners, go shopping for the ingredients at least the day before the dinner, and I will put the dinners on my daily schedule.

Memories capture moments in our hearts. By briefly recalling a memory, we can help heal ourselves.  When you journal, you can capture your impression of the moment. The way your heart lifted when you watched the sunset; the way the brownie your sister made melted on your tongue; the sweet chocolate taste that flooded your mouth; or the warmth you felt when your spouse embraced you. Life can be rough at times and being able to return to a journal, leaf through it and recall these moments in poignant detail has the ability to pull our souls up from the darkest times, if only for a moment. Just remember:

imagequote sunsets prepare for new day

Journaling helps in the healing process.

  1. We can capture a moment in time; how we saw and felt at that moment
  2. We can release negative emotions in a healthy manner and brainstorm better ways to handle situations
  3. We can increase positive emotions on a daily basis or whenever we need to
  4. We can accept our grief, validate our feeling of grief, and begin the process of healing.

One last word: I am NOT a psychiatrist, psychologist, therapist, medical doctor or other professional helper. This article is NOT medical advice or even professional advice. I am an author and have found ways to use writing to deal with emotion.

If you are feeling angry, depressed, unable to motivate, suicidal, or any strong negative emotion that lingers, PLEASE contact a professional. Depression is a common illness. It appears in many disguises such as a shortness of temper, a feeling of not wanting to get out of bed, a feeling that life isn’t worth it, not having an appetite, wanting to sleep a lot. It comes to all of us, just like the flu, at various times in our lives. It is a normal feeling, just like when a cold attacks you. However if it won’t go away, just like if that cold or flu lingers, you need professional help to rid yourself of the illness. DO NOT hesitate.

One of my favorite actors was Robyn Williams. But, Robyn Williams was unable to seek help to get through a particularly rough spot in his life, and a bright light left our world with his suicide. Do not remove your bright light. Believe me, you DESERVE help, even if you don’t think so right now.

Are you depressed?

If you identify with several of the following signs and symptoms, and they just won’t go away, you may be suffering from clinical depression.

  • you can’t sleep or you sleep too much
  • you can’t concentrate or find that previously easy tasks are now difficult
  • you feel hopeless and helpless
  • you can’t control your negative thoughts, no matter how much you try
  • you have lost your appetite or you can’t stop eating
  • you are much more irritable, short-tempered, or aggressive than usual
  • you’re consuming more alcohol than normal or engaging in other reckless behavior
  • you have thoughts that life is not worth living (seek help immediately if this is the case)

To read more about depression:  http://www.theguardian.com/science/brain-flapping/2014/aug/12/robin-williams-suicide-and-depression-are-not-selfish

 

Through The Fires of Hell

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Every story that I tell is rooted deep in my soul. I pull them from the years of growing up with the cramps of hunger and the queasy feeling of never knowing when the next meal or the next blow will come. I rip the scent of blood and the fingernails-on-chalkboard screams of pain from memories that no number of years can ever smother.

But story roots grow deeper than the darkness; deeper and wider than the despair. The smile of being able to share food scavenged from the railroad yards with neighbors who are hungry, too; the heart-wrenching sweetness of a guitar played late at night; the wonder of a wild flower pushing up through concrete and blooming in the shadows of crumbling brick buildings–these, too, are the roots of my stories.

These are not my stories, but the stories of many. I have the obligation to give voice to the voiceless; to hear and tell the stories not yet told.

And so it is with Hard Road Home. Though my coming of age novel is fiction, what Cas Redner goes through is real. It is that reality that nurtured this novel. It is a novel of loss, pain, betrayal of the worst kind; yet it is triumph and love of the highest degree.

Kahlil Gibran once wrote: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

In every story I write this is an underlying theme: the very things that cause great sorrow, also prepare us to face horrendous obstacles with courage. It is those obstacles that allow us to grow into our deepest selves.

It is through the fires of hell that we find our way to heaven.

Hard Road Home 2 14 Collage

http://www.amazon.com/Hard-Road-Home-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00TLCRUFQ

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THE GIFT (A #CHRISTMAS STORY)

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old dog

THE GIFT

By Aya Walksfar

Sixty-eight-year old Marybelle Brown pushed the rattling grocery cart filled with plastic bags of aluminum cans through the square next to the #Seattle Aquarium. That summer vendors had hawked sparkling necklaces and handmade toys and flamboyant scarves. Now it lay beneath the full moon, deserted except for a few pigeons huddled on a low wall near the water. Moving slowly so she wouldn’t disturb their rest, she made her way over and leaned against the cold concrete. She’d always loved Puget Sound. The gentle lap of the waves soothed her.

After a few minutes, she turned her cart and headed across the empty space. In the center stood a twelve-foot tall #Christmas tree. Red and green lights twinkled amid the plastic ornaments and glittering tinsel. Marybelle gazed up at it, at the star blazing white on the top. At last, she sighed in contentment and moved on.

fuzzy xmas tree

Today had been a wonderful Christmas Eve. She’d found three partially eaten cheeseburgers in one of McDonald’s trashcans. They were stashed in the ragged canvas shoulder bag along with French fries from a dumpster and two, whole pieces of cod from Ivar’s trash. A smile sat lightly on her cracked and chapped lips. Tonight she would feast! She patted the side of the shoulder bag and felt the bottle of Starbucks mocha and the bottle of Arrowhead water that a kind man had given to her with a smile and a Merry Christmas. Yes, tonight she would feast.

She bent her head back and gazed upward. Stars flung across the black heavens. Some people likened the stars to diamonds on black velvet, but she knew better. The stars were all the souls who had gone ahead, smiling down on those they’d left behind. Someday when it was time for her to leave this bent and painful body, she’d fly up there and be with them. Her momma and granny would be waiting. She wondered if the critters she had nursed would be there. Of course, they would! Her granny had told her that the souls of animals always went to the Bright Place because they lived as God intended.

She shuffled along. Time to get to her spot under the viaduct. Thick blackberry bushes hid the hole she’d dug out up against where the concrete met the earth. It had taken her a long time to make a roomy depression in that hard ground with a broken shovel. Hidden at the far back of the hole were all of her most precious belongings, safe from discovery by others, safe from the rain.

She crossed the quiet street and the cart jarred over the trolley tracks. Where cars parked during the day was mostly deserted now and filled with deeper shadows. The fat round concrete pillars that held up the overhead roadway too often hid bad things. She veered away, cornering her eye so she could keep watch while she passed.

As Marybelle came abreast of one spot of darkness a darker shadow moved within it. Her heart leaped into her throat. Her chest constricted with panic and squeezed the breath from her lungs. There! Who’s there? Her feet froze as her mind shouted, “Run!”

Just as her feet started to move, a whimper floated out of that darkness. The loneliness in that small sound dragged at her heart. “Leave, Marybelle. You can’t help whoever it is.”

In spite of herself, her hands left the cart and her feet shuffled toward the darkness. Her heart galloped like a crazed horse. “ Oh, Lord, I feel like my heart’s gonna bust.”

As she drew closer, a stray beam of moonlight shone against the pillar. Crumpled at the base of that cylinder of concrete lay a black dog. It lifted forlorn eyes to her face. The very tip of its tail tapped the ground twice then stopped like that was all the energy the poor thing had.

In her mind the years fell away and she once again saw her momma open the door of their tiny apartment. “Oh, Marybelle, you can’t help every critter you see,” her momma’s gentle hands tending to Marybelle’s latest rescue belied her words. Momma and granny had always tried to save the animals she dragged home–starved and beaten and broken.

She edged closer and the dog cringed, trying to melt into the ground. She knew the feeling. Carefully, she lowered herself to her achy knees. Never looking directly at the dog, she held out a hand. “It’s alright. I know just how you feel.” The dog’s body relaxed and it stretched its black nose toward her hand. “That’s it, little one. Come on over to Marybelle.”

She slid her shoulder bag to the ground then dug around until her hand touched the wrapping of one of the half-eaten burgers. Eyes still averted, she held a small bite on the palm of her outstretched hand. The dog sniffed the air and gave an anxious whine. “I know. It’s scary, but honestly, this is for you.”

The cold seeped through the three pairs of thin pants and chilled her arthritic knees. Still, she knelt there, hand out in offering. The dog stretched its neck toward the food. It crept one step, two steps. Now Marybelle could see the ribs jutting out under the patchy hide.

“Poor thing,” she crooned.

The dog trembled as it came close enough to snatch the food. It took the rest of the burger for the poor thing to creep close enough for Marybelle to put her arms around it. The dog was big, bigger than her German Shepherd had been. She felt the resistance of its stiff body, but kept humming and stroking one hand down its thin side. At last, the tension drained from it and it nestled against her chest.

After a while, she gave its sharp nose a kiss. “Gotta git up, little girl. My knees don’t like this kneeling.” She pulled a ragged wool scarf from around her neck and made the dog a soft collar and leash.

At her hideaway, Marybelle laid out the sleeping bag that a young, white girl had given her that past fall. She never carried this precious gift for fear of it being taken from her. But every night since early fall she’d blessed that child, and wished her well as she fell asleep. The dog immediately curled up on one side, the shivers wracking its body subsiding.

She sat next to the dog and lit the stub of a candle she’d found and saved for a special occasion. This surely was a most special occasion. “We’re safe here, Dog. With all the blackberry bushes around us and being way up under here, no one wants to crawl this far back.” She draped the two blankets she had scrounged from a Goodwill donation box around her shoulders and over Dog’s back.

From her handbag, she took the food and set it on the sleeping bag in front of them. She filled her dented quart pot with the bottled water and set it in front of Dog. She raised her head and drank deeply as Marybelle opened the bottle of Starbucks Mocha Coffee drink. She tapped the bottle against the pot rim. “Here’s to our friendship, Dog.”

Carefully, she divided the hamburgers, the fries, the fish: half for her, half for dog. Dog quickly ate her half, but sat politely, not begging for Marybelle’s food. She took all but one piece of the fish and laid it in front of the gray muzzle. “Merry Christmas, Dog.”

Dog cocked her head and fixed her clouded eyes on the old woman. “Go on, Dog. An old woman like me don’t need so much food. Probably would make me sick to eat all of that. This piece of fish’ll do me just fine.”

Feast over she stuffed the trash in the paper bag and set it to one side. She lay down and Dog cuddled against her chest. With the blankets spread over the two of them and the sleeping bag zipped she draped a sleep heavy arm over the old dog’s side. “This has been a lovely Christmas Eve, Dog. Thank you.”

Singing woke Marybelle. Beautiful singing that called to her. She opened her eyes and got to her feet. Dog leaned her head against Marybelle’s leg. A bridge lay before them. Dog looked up with cataract whitened eyes and whined. She took a step toward the bridge and twisted her gray muzzle over her shoulder as if to say, “Come on.”

The bridge shone like a golden light lit it from within. Marybelle shivered. Fear rose up and wrapped chains around her legs. Dog padded back to her side. She pushed her cold black nose against the palm of Marybelle’s hand and gazed up at her. “Oh, Dog, I know you wanna go that way, but I…I can’t.”

Dog sat next to Marybelle’s leg and sighed. She rubbed the old dog’s grizzled fur and knelt in front of her. Staring into the dog’s dimmed eyes, she cradled the gray muzzle between her knarled and arthritis twisted hands. “I know you want to go that way. And…and it’s probably a good place, Dog. But, I…” she inhaled a deep breath and let it ease from her. “I know it’s a good place, Dog. I can feel it; like I know you can, too. But, I don’t deserve to go there.”

Dog flicked out a warm wet tongue and licked the tears that traced the lines of Marybelle’s weathered face. She pressed her face against Dog’s then kissed her muzzle and stood up. She took a half step away from Dog.

Courage gathered like a tattered garment, she looked into Dog’s eyes. “I can’t go there, Dog. I haven’t been a good person. There’s things…” she glanced away and swallowed the lump in her throat. When she looked back, she blinked away the tears. “There’s things I’ve done; things I’ve said that were wrong. I’ve…I’ve hurt people. Over there,” she raised a thin arm and waved toward the shining bridge. “Over there is for good people, people like you, Dog. Go on. You deserve to be there.” She turned and moved away from the dog.

She’d only gone a few steps before she felt the cold nose against her dangling hand. She squatted next to the dog. “Oh, Dog.” She buried her face in the brittle black fur. When she lifted her face, she hugged the dog and stood. “Looks like you aren’t going to go, if I don’t.” Heart pounding, she gave a slight nod as if confirming her own decision. “I’ll go with you, Dog, because you deserve to be over there.”

Dog pressed tight against her leg as they walked onto the glowing bridge. The golden light enveloped them, warmed them.

Halfway across the bridge Marybelle stopped and gazed over the railing. Below, a broad, placid river flowed. As they drew nearer to the far side, a beautiful meadow ablaze with blue and yellow and orange flowers rolled out as far as she could see. Her eyes rounded.

When they reached the end of the bridge, a melodic voice spoke. “I see you’ve helped her to Cross, Dog. I knew you could. Well done.”

Marybelle raised her eyes and gazed into the milk chocolate face and dark chocolate eyes. “Momma?”

The woman spread her arms and Marybelle ran into them.

The End

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PHOTO CREDITS: Old dog–Anne Lowe    Christmas tree–Anna Langova  (all-free-download.com)

2 GREAT REASONS TO GET INVOLVED

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2 GREAT REASONS TO GET INVOLVED

1.  Become part of something great that will last for decades and bring positive changes to thousands of lives.

2.  Do something that will make you feel great. There is nothing as good as feeling that I have participated in a project that will have positive ripple effects for many years to come.

Unity Church in Lynnwood DSC01692

It isn’t often that ordinary people have the opportunity to become part of something truly great. I was gifted such an opportunity this past Saturday.

Barb Keogan, the administrator of the Unity Church in Lynnwood, made me aware that Tanzania needs a children’s hospital. Now, most of the time when I hear something like that I know there is nothing I can do that will affect the situation. It’s too big; costs too much; is too far away. In short, it’s frustrating and depressing; however, in the same breath that Barb told me about the situation, she presented a way for me to make a difference.

The Unity Church in Lynnwood is holding an auction on October 25, 2014, at the church. The money raised will help them send a Humanitarian Outreach Team to Tanzania to labor (literally) in the building of a birthing center. They will partner with the International Health Partners of Tanzania headed by Mary Ellen Kitundu, President, Dr. Denny Lofstrom, Vice-President, and his wife, Paula Lofstrom.

If you would like to attend the auction purchase your tickets NOW! Tickets MUST be purchased by October 18, 2014! You can purchase the tickets by going to the Unity Church in Lynnwood 16727 Alderwood Mall Parkway or call 425-741-7172. Tickets cost $35. Silent Auction opens at 6 p.m. Live auction follows.

To learn more about this project go to   http://www.ihptz.org/Zinga_Project.htm

This project will eventually encompass a Maternity Complex and Hostel, an Orphanage (for children whose mothers die in childbirth–not uncommon in Tanzania), a Pediatric Ward, a Laboratory, a Birthing Center and Neonatal Nursery, an Xray, a Maternal Child Health Center and a Laundry.

For those of us in the United States, a laundry may seem rather mundane; however, in places such as Zinga, a laundry is essential! In the words of IHPTZ:  “No hospital can function without a Laundry. Lots of small hospitals or dispensaries wash clothes by hand on a cement slab outside. Some even hang the laundry on bushes or trees. We feel that a laundry with hot water and good facilities is essential for the prevention of the transferring of infections especially with newborns and children.”

For a variety of reasons, volunteering in #Tanzania is not an option for me, so I asked Barb if donating some autographed novels for the auction would be helpful. She said yes and so…..

We met at Barb’s house on Saturday afternoon for a lovely homemade meatloaf dinner. As we waited for dinner to finish cooking, we visited. I took the opportunity to ask Barb a few questions about her church.

I asked: “Why is your church doing this outreach work?”

Barb said: “Our philosophy behind outreach is to do something to help make someone else’s life better.”

I asked: “Do you do other outreach projects?”

Barb said: “We ‘adopted two schools’ in Everett, members of our church help at food banks, and volunteer at a number of other places.”

Always curious about motivations (after all I am a #crimefiction author!) I asked: “Does your church take these opportunities to evangelize?”

Barb said: “Our church respects other religions. Someone else’s religion is as important as ours. We don’t evangelize.”

After dinner, I sat down with Barb and autographed six #murder #mystery novels to donate to the auction on the 25th of October.

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DSC01719

Though I cannot change the entire world, I cannot stop the crazy wars, I cannot rescue all the animals and people who need to be rescued—I CAN do this small thing. I can weigh in on the side of positive change. I can become a small part of a great vision. If every person did one small thing to make our world a better place for all people and all living creatures, how great would be the changes we would wrought!

Come and be a part of positive change! Join Barb and the Unity Church in Lynnwood in helping to build a Birthing Center in Zinga, Tanzania! Buy your tickets NOW at the Unity Church in Lynnwood 16727 Alderwood Mall Parkway or call 425-741-7172. Tickets cost $35.

If you can’t attend the auction, you can donate money to the Humanitarian Outreach Team. Call Barb at 425-741-7172 to find out how.

Don’t miss future posts. CLICK and FOLLOW!

To purchase your copy of the books I donated for the auction go to:  http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

 

 

 

MEET THREE REMARKABLE WOMEN

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I have known many remarkable women in my life, starting with my mother and grandmother. Grandmother was a spiritual woman who reached out and touched lives; my mother rescued animals. As an author, I write about remarkable women.

These past few months, I have had the privilege to work with three women much like my grandmother and my mother: my adopted sister, Lois, a very spiritual Native American woman; and Shari Bond and Jackie Glover of Cross Creek Alpaca Rescue. Lois was friends with an 84-year-old man, Walter, who had 58 alpacas when he went into the hospital. Since Walter didn’t have any family close-by, Lois became his patient advocate as well as cooking him meals as he couldn’t always eat the hospital food, and taking over the care of his 58 alpacas. At 76-years old, my sister is a tiny woman, barely five-foot tall and weighing around a hundred pounds. loisThe schedule she took on was grueling.

One afternoon when my wife, Deva, and I had gone to Sedro Woolley to visit Lois we finally realized the extent of the project she had taken upon herself:

Walter was not coming home. Ever. His alpacas had not been sheared in two years; DSC01136(note the excessively heavy fiber on this animal. Poor animal had no way to cool off and the excess fiber hid the fact that they had been starving) they had not been getting enough to eat; and they had several other health issues. And they all needed rehomed ASAP! As Lois researched finding homes she met despair. The alpaca industry in the United States was in a many-years-long slump; alpacas flooded the market; there were no homes available. Several people suggested that she load the animals up and truck them to auction to be sold off as dog food on the hoof. DSC01105 (note the bare pasture. All that grew there was inedible weeds) Other people suggested that she have all of the animals euthanized. My sister was devastated. And exhausted from months of caring for the animals and months of running back and forth to help feed and take care of her friend, Walter.

Lois was so busy giving that she forgot to ask others for help. Fortunately, when Deva understood the overwhelming scope of the project, she volunteered to help with the animals. That night, Deva went online and found the Cross Creek Alpaca Rescue.  http://www.facebook.com/foralpacas  She immediately contacted Shari Bond. Shari quickly responded. So began Deva and my months’ long journey in helping Lois and the alpacas.

At first, Walter’s son–a grown man who lives out of state–blocked all attempts to rehome the alpacas, mistakenly believing that each animal was worth thousands of dollars. Lois finally found a way around that. First big hurdle in the way of rehoming the alpacas had been crossed!

The next issue: the alpacas, which had been badly neglected and starved until my sister took over their care, and some had health issues, could not be transported before they were sheared or the combination of poor condition and heat while un-sheared could kill them.

Anyone who meets Lois recognizes the goodness within her. Andre, who had been friends with Walter and knew Lois stepped in and paid for the shearing. 140525_0001  (these wonderful men knew Lois and came to help. Andre paid for the shearing–in blue shirt–as well as physically helped during the shearing. Note the gentleness of the man kneeling on the floor, comforting the baby alpaca during its first shearing) 140525_0009One more hurdle crossed!

If you have ever tried to place even one animal in an ethical manner, you know that the long process of finding potential homes, screening potential adopters and finalizing the adoption can take weeks. With an animal species that is over-abundant this process can take months of hard work.

Shari and her business partner, Jackie Glover, began the process of finding suitable placements. Some of those who came forward–good people wanting to help–didn’t know anything about alpacas and their needs. Many had inappropriate fencing, such as barbed wire; others wanted to run alpacas and inappropriate livestock together which can result in the alpacas being seriously injured. Others simply didn’t know what they would be getting into until Shari and Jackie explained about the needs and requirements for alpacas. The pool of potential homes shrunk quickly.  DSC01109

Meanwhile, back at the ranch….

Working herself into exhaustion and with limited income of her own, Lois searched for ways to pay people to help with the physical care of the animals; pay vet bills, and buy good hay. None of which comes cheap. She found some help she could afford by having garage sales and selling other items.

Deva and I began purchasing good hay from Dayville Hay in Snohomish and transporting it to the ranch. A small item off Lois’ list.

Next hurdle….

Intact male alpacas, unless they are intended for breeding purposes, are trouble. They argue and sometimes injure each other, and, in general, are more difficult to manage. In a poor alpaca economy intact males were definitely not a moving item. Gelding would cost $200 per animal. There was no money for gelding.

Shari and Jackie, got busy. They contacted Chuckanut Vet Hospital in Mount Vernon and found a compassionate vet who offered his services for the price of the supplies needed for each gelding. With 18 males the cost was still significant. Shari and Jackie got busy fundraising.

Meanwhile back at the ranch…..

Walter died. The ranch, which had been up for sale, now faced either a quick sale or a foreclosure. The animals had to be moved, and moved soon!

The gelding took place, but people who wanted alpacas were still scarce. One alpaca, Sammi, died after the gelding from pneumonia.

The alpacas were down to mere days before they had to be vacated.

Commitments made months earlier, before their involvement with these alpacas, claimed large portions of Shari and Jackie’s time. Tensions rose. Two of the placed alpacas literally dropped dead in their new home. All placements had to be put on hold until a necropsy could determine why these alpacas died.

The clock ticked inexorably forward, greedily consuming the hours, the days left.

The necropsy exposed disturbing medical facts. Blood tests had to be performed on all the alpacas at the ranch. Again, Shari contracted with the vet and Oregon State University to have blood drawn and tested. Days ticked by as we waited for the results.

Finally, the results green flagged the rehoming project. Another hurdle faced and overcome!DSC01128  (I only have photos of the alpacas before shearing. Isn’t this one a beauty?)

At last, we were down to eleven males and six females. But we only had days left. Shari and Jackie hustled. They shuffled the alpacas at their ranch, and at foster placements. They found new foster homes. And they decided that the three elderly (18-year-old) females would come home to live with them for the remainder of their lives. Lady Jane and her two cronies would not have to move ever again.

Shari and Jackie’s truck couldn’t haul their large trailer full of alpacas a hundred and fifty miles.

The hard deadline of Monday evening loomed ahead of us. Deva phoned Shari and volunteered to use our diesel truck to pull the large trailer.

Friday came. Deva finished work, went to a physical therapy appointment, we filled our cooler with juices and waters, and started south to pick up the big trailer at Cross Creek Ranch.

Friday night, Interstate 5 traffic between Darrington, Washington and Tenino, Washington sucks rotten lemons! We finally arrived and hooked up the trailer. Last minute discussions about meeting times concluded, we headed home.

Meanwhile back at the ranch….

The 13-year-old male, Leonardo, who had been a bag of walking bones, went down and wouldn’t stand up. Frantic phone calls ensued. Shari arranged an emergency call to the vet to see Leonardo.

Saturday morning. We arrive at the ranch. Leonardo is down in the pasture. Shari, Deva and I go over to see him. He finally gets up, one hind foot not touching the ground, back legs trembly weak, spine hunched in pain, eyes sunk from dehydration. It looks like we’ll lose Leonardo. A pall hangs over us as we wait with Lois for the vet to arrive.

The vet arrives. Checks Leonardo’s heart, lungs, gut sounds. Stands up and gives us the news: Leonardo can be saved!

A shot of Banamine for pain and instructions to Shari for rehydration, thiamine shots, internal parasite eradication, pain management and further care. Great news, but now we have to regroup.

Santiago DSC01121 (lush grass outside the fence next to the busy road shows how barren the pasture is), one of the eleven males, cannot be with the other males as he attacks them. The plan had been for Shari to haul Santiago on her smaller trailer while Deva hauled the other ten males on the large trailer. Now, Leonardo needs to be hauled on the smaller trailer.

It wouldn’t be so difficult, but Shari had months ago arranged for a gelding clinic at OSU for fifteen alpacas that she committed to hauling to the clinic. They have to arrive early morning on Tuesday. She has to pick them up at various locations around the state, and get them there. She had planned to use Sunday and Monday to gather the alpacas. Now, she had to adjust her extremely tight schedule. Leonardo needed her help.

Deva and Shari decided on a plan: Leonardo would ride in Shari’s trailer and Deva would haul the other nine males. Sunday Shari would return to pick up Santiago and Deva would haul the six females.

Night had fallen by the time, Deva drove into Centralia and the home for the last of the five males on the trailer. Shari, Jackie and a man with a headlamp met us at the driveway and directed us into a dark pasture. In an adjoining pasture, horses pressed against the fence, curious about the commotion in the field next to them. We unloaded the animals and headed out, leaving Shari and Jackie still talking to the man about the alpacas.

One in the morning, we arrived home. Our dogs tell us just what they think about our hauling in so late at night. I wonder as I toss and turn how Shari and Jackie do this day after day. How do they drive for hours on traffic clogged roads, deal with sick, neglected and sometimes brutalized animals; and drop into bed only to do it again and again? I can’t help but admire them.

Sunday morning arrived with brilliant blue skies and a friendly sun smiling upon us. Shari phoned. Leonardo had not pooped yet that morning. She could not leave until he did. Leonardo had been so dehydrated that one of the concerns was that his intestines would be clogged and that he could bloat. Pooping was an important medical sign…for better or for worse. Finally, Leonardo pooped, and we all rejoiced! Funny how something like that can bring such happiness.

Accidents all over the place on I-5 between Tenino and Bow, Washington, but Shari finally drove in through the ranch gates. Great news as she steps from her truck: Leonardo is doing well, eating, drinking, relaxing in the sun with his new bud next door.

The six females ran into the big trailer like they knew they were heading some place good. Shari haltered and led Santiago into her trailer. Good-byes were said. Lois, after caring for the alpacas for so long had a few tears in her eyes, but they were happy tears. The animals were finally safe.

If you would like to donate to a wonderful cause and help animals that desperately need you, contact Shari Bond at Cross Creek Alpaca Rescue.

FRIEND the alpacas! https://www.facebook.com/foralpacas

For VENDOR space at the Cross Creek Alpaca Rescue Bazaar contact Shari at ccar.crosscreek@gmail.com

Or, attend the bazaar, enjoy touring the rescue ranch while drinking cider and munching homemade treats! 10:00-4:00pm, Saturday, October 25th, 4225 Military Rd SE, Tenino, WA

To learn more about these wonderful people and their adorable rescued alpacas, go to http://www.crosscreekalpacarescue.org

A few more photos (pre-shearing. For more recent photos, visit Shari Bond’s facebook site: https://www.facebook.com/foralpacas) DSC01149  Many of these animals had been award-winning fiber producers.    DSC01120  Franz, the last baby born before the rescue.                                           DSC01107 Note the uncomfortably thick fiber on this poor animal. And the weather was in the 80 to 90 degree range!

DSC01108  They need YOUR help! Will you help them? If you can help in any way–providing a permanent home, providing foster care, sending the money to feed one of them for six months or a year–please do so! Contact Shari Bond  ccar.crosscreek@gmail.com

Don’t miss future posts. CLICK and FOLLOW!

To connect with Aya, FRIEND her on facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

 

 

AMONG THE SACRED ANCIENTS

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AMONG THE SACRED ANCIENTS: Jaz Wheeler’s Journey Among the #California #Redwoods

Dark settled its shawl over the redwood forest as I drove into Hidden Springs Campground. My headlights picked out cars and tents and RVs as I wound my way along the curvy asphalt to my reserved spot.

Redwood sentinels stood guard at the entrance as I pulled onto the leveled area and shut off my bike. Quiet embraced me. Exhausted, I flipped out my bedroll and lay down. The next thing I knew, birds chirped in the bushes as the sun filtered through the trees. DSC01223

After a quick breakfast of granola bar and bottled water, I stuffed my bedroll in the bear proof box, snapped a small padlock on it then hopped on my bike.

Those years ago, after Alicia was lost and even after I left Hawk Hill and Hopewell Farm, playing tourist was far from my mind. The redwoods had started the healing of my wounded soul, but I hadn’t been ready to take side trips to places like the Drive-Thru Tree at Myers Flat. DSC01205

And, I’d never seen a two-story tree house! DSC01215

I learned a little more about the majestic redwoods.  Drive thru shrine water stats

When I entered the gift shop, this little guy greeted me. By the time I left, he’d worked so hard to make tourists feel welcome that he was simply exhausted. shop dog at drive thru tree

For the rest of the day, I wandered among the ancient giants, drifting from one grove to another, beginning with the Founder’s Grove then on up to the Rockefeller Forest where the Giant Tree and the Tall Tree resided. DSC01239 DSC01238

When I entered Rockefeller Forest, I entered a sacred time and place.

person among giants

Like my heart, the Forest held light and shadows and jagged memories.

DSC01292

Eventually, the passing of the hours forced me to return to my campsite.

evening comes in forest

 

For more photos from Jaz’s exploration of the Redwood Forest, go to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar

Don’t miss the rest of Jaz’s journey. Enter your email address and FOLLOW!

To learn more about Jaz Wheeler, read Run or Die. http://www.amazon.com/Run-Die-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00KV8BK5A

 

 

SOUTH TO ANCIENT FORESTS

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I’m Jaz Wheeler and I’m a private investigator. The small town of Darrington, Washington lies five miles east from my land. When the Highway 530 Mudslide swept away the tiny community of Hazel/Steelhead Lane at a bit after ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, I was away from home. IMG_0051

When I returned to Darrington that evening, via the 85 mile roundabout way along Highway 20, I stepped off my V-Strom 650 and into chaos and fear and ten thousand other emotions all running in fifth and overdrive.

For the next few weeks, I did anything and everything. I inventoried donations, I bagged groceries, I handed out gas cards, I registered volunteers and did a multitude of other various tasks alongside of neighbors I hadn’t met in all the years that I had lived up here. Long days and short nights were the order for all of us with that certain knowledge that the only news we’d be getting from that mud and debris field would be of death and loss.

I watched the town cry and hug and support each other, and they gave just as freely to me as to those people they had known all their lives. Humbled and uplifted by the strength and courage I saw every day, I slogged on to the end.

All but one victim was finally found. The road reopened on a limited basis with one way traffic.road open one way

I packed my bags and headed south. I needed to get away from all the reminders of sorrow and loss and clear my head. The only place I knew to do that was the California Redwoods.

Friday the 13th, I idled slowly between the walls of pushed back mud slopes, down the roughed up asphalt of Highway 530 then kept on driving.IMG_0016

With single-minded determination, I rode Interstate 5, dodging kamikaze drivers and hardly stopping long enough for bathroom breaks. The cool wind blew cobwebs of sadness out of my mind. The first night I stayed in an easily accessible Motel 6. Nothing to shout about, but a shower and a bed for the night and a nearby restaurant for breakfast.

The next morning a gray sky greeted me as I hiked a leg over the V-Strom’s seat. I didn’t linger that day, either, preferring to push toward the redwood forests. I entered Gasquet, California that evening.

I’d first discovered the redwoods the spring after I lost Alicia. Grandmother Pearl sent me south along Highway 101 to Hopewell Farm and my destiny, though I didn’t know it at the time. I just knew I hurt so bad that even breathing without Alicia in the world seemed wrong and painful. Not really wanting to meet someone new, I camped out in Jedidiah Smith Park near Gasquet in northern California then spent several more days in various redwood forest campsites I found along the way. Sleeping on damp ground felt preferable to meeting Alicia’s Aunt Aretha.

Though I didn’t realize it, my healing started there, among those giant, silent Ancients.  If I hadn’t taken the time to linger among them, back then, I would never have stayed on Hopewell Farm. And…I would not be writing this journal.

So, on this June day, I again sought the healing of the Ancients as I shut down my bike and stepped onto the soft floor of the forest. Nearby a stream tumbled lazily over rocks, chuckling along its way. Filtered sunlight drifted through the green canopy far overhead. So far overhead that I had to bend nearly double backwards to glimpse the intertwining branches. That night I flipped my bedroll out and shut my eyes as the true darkness closed in.DSC01227

The next morning the chill dampness had me wishing for the warmth of a hotel room and a hot cup of coffee. I rolled up my sleeping bag and lashed it on my bike. Highway 199 from Gasquet to Crescent City is a winding, narrow ribbon with hairpin curves and uneven surface and trees that stuck their roots out to the edge of the road.Tree toes in road

It woke me up.

 

Wednesday Jaz’s journey continues. CLICK and FOLLOW so you don’t miss the rest of the journey.

To read about how Jaz became a private investigator, get your copy of Run or Die go to  http://amazon.com/Run-Die-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00KV8BK5A

 

MAKA INA (MOTHER EARTH)

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I am going on a much needed vacation, but wanted to leave something for all of my wonderful readers. I will return in a couple of weeks. Until then, enjoy this story.

“Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it.

Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves.

All things are bound together. All things connect.

–Chief Seattle

MAKA INA (MOTHER EARTH)

June 25

I have to get back to the ranch. Grandmother is probably worried sick. Two weeks ago–it doesn’t seem that long–mom and grandmother sent me here to Bald Peak. “I have watched you,” grandmother said, “for many days. You’re here. You’re there. You can’t sit still. You don’t sleep well.”

When I looked at her, startled, she nodded. “Yes, I awakened a number of nights  when I heard something disturbing the horses. I watched from the window until you returned.”

“I don’t know what it is , grandmother. These dreams, I can’t recall except to feel there’s  something I have to do.” I glanced away from her black eyes, staring out towards the mountains  that rose up from the back of our pasture and towered above the small patch of woods.

Mom walked into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. She waited quietly to see if grandmother had anything to say. While the quiet stretched on, we all  sipped our coffee.

This was how I’d grown up. My friends thought we were weird. Whenever  their parents were quiet they were either mad or ignoring the kids. Only Angie, my Quaker  friend, understood the concept of waiting for the spirit to speak.

Finally mom spoke. “The  ancestor whose name you carry was very traditional. As a young person she spent many days in the mountains, fasting and praying, looking for her spirit help.”

Downing the last dregs of coffee, I studied the grounds at the bottom of the cup. My  heart pounded from excitement or fear or maybe a bit of both. “ I ‘ll be ready to leave in the  morning.”

The next morning as I finished cinching up Star Dancer’s saddle, grandmother handed me  her eagle prayer feather. “It is good you are following the path of our ancestors, but there is a sadness in me. Last night I dreamed.”

“What did you dream, Grandmother?”

“You called to me. I could see you and hear you, yet when I spoke to you, you did not  see me nor did you hear my voice. I wanted to reach out and let you know I was there, but  something was between us. I couldn’t touch you.” Grandmother shook her head as if to shake the dream from her mind. “Remember, little one, no matter where you are, I am with you.”

Putting my arms around her thin shoulders, I was poignantly aware of grandmother’s  eighty-five years. “I will remember.”

Mom hugged me. Holding my shoulders, she stared into my eyes. “We are proud of you. Your father, I am sure, smiles from the Other Side. Even though he was white, he understood the ways of our people and honored them.”

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Turning from them, I swung up into the saddle.

Ten days into the fast, my prayers were answered. I didn’t understand the vision, but then I didn’t expect to. Like the stories of our people, there were layers of understandings which could take years to realize. On the eleventh day, I rested and ate. On that night the quakes began.

***

Today is the fifth day from the start of the quakes and the first day that the only thing shaking is my hands. I am scribbling this all down in my dairy. Coming from an oral tradition, I wonder why I have such a compulsion to write. Grandmother said writing is just another canoe to carry important things forward into the future.

Star Dancer is saddled up. As soon as full daylight comes, I’ll douse this campfire and head home. I pray mom and grandmother are alright.

June 27

This is the second night I have been forced to make camp. Large sections of the trail have vanished beneath rock slides; chasms have opened up where once there was solid ground. Huge trees resemble a handful of toothpicks tossed down by some giant. .

I guess we were lucky to escape the chain of worldwide natural catastrophes for as long as we did. For the past year, seems like every time we turned on the news, there was another earthquake or volcano or tidal wave wiping out entire cities.

June 30

I almost wish Star Dancer and I had not made it home. It has taken all day to dig mom and grandmother from the ruins of the house. They must have been singing as they crossed over to the Other Side. Their hands still held their drums.

Tomorrow I will bury them beneath the arms of the old cedar. Grandmother told me Grandmother Cedar is over a thousand years old, according to the history handed down from her great-grandmother. How it managed to stay rooted amid all of this devastation is beyond my understanding. But then how the old cedar managed to evade the logger’s chainsaws that clear-cut so much of this area has always seemed a mystery and a miracle to me, too.

June 31

It is finished. I pray I did the ceremony right. Every time I faltered, I heard grandmother, “When you do ceremony with a good heart, the spirits can forgive mistakes.” They must because my Spirit Helper stayed with me from just before dawn when I began digging the graves until I placed the last shovelful of dirt on the mound above mom. Later this summer, I’ll ask one of our medicine people to come and make things right.

Lying here, staring up at that sky full of stars, I hear mom and grandmother singing their songs. It’s been there all day, at the edge of my hearing. Tonight, with a coyote’s song echoing from the hills every now and then, their drumming and their voices sound clearer.

July 1

The radio is smashed beyond use. Mom and grandmother’s songs have left. Even the wind has deserted this place.

Far Runner, grandmother’s Indian pony, returned early this morning. Except for a few scratches, she’s fine. With some tugging and sweating I cleared enough of the tack shop rubble to get to another saddle and some saddlebags. With enough salvageable supplies to last a couple of weeks, I’ll head out to the Rez. It’s only twenty miles, but who knows what condition the roads are in. Mom’s cousin Annie will want to know what’s happened.

Today, for the first time that I can ever recall, I found myself wishing we had some neighbors closer than the Rez. Everything I think seems to lead to thoughts of mom or grandmother. Like the neighbor thing: soon as I thought it’d be nice to have nearer ones, I remembered grandmother saying, “I’m glad the folks nearest us is our own people. I sure dread the day this land gets crowded and white folks are sitting on our doorstep. “ She’d shaken her head at her self. “ I try not to feel so. Meetin’ your father helped me to see white folks in a different way. But, them boardin’ school teachers poundin’ on us Indian children for speakin’ our own language…” Her voice had trailed off.

July 5

They’re gone! I can’t believe everyone on the Rez is gone. Granted it is–was a small reservation, but everyone, dead!   Their bodies look like they have lain out in the summer sun for months. My Spirit Helper led me to Cousin Annie. If I hadn’t known her so well, I would not have recognized her body.

I don’t get it. Oh, there seems to be logical explanations for everyone who is dead–trees and houses falling down; cars crumpled together, obviously thrown out of control by the quake; explosions from ruptured propane tanks; fires. But how can a whole place be wiped out like this?

Was this then the meaning behind the raging fires in my vision? In part of the vision, there was an emptiness on the land and fires everywhere. Was that great emptiness this loss of family and friends?

I buried Cousin Annie. The rest of them, I prayed for and left where they lay. I sang for Cousin Annie then I sang for the rest of the Rez. I can’t do any more. Perhaps their spirits will still be able to find rest.

My heart is so heavy I want to lay down with Cousin Annie, but my Spirit Helper is nipping at me, refusing to let me even stop here for the night.  The full moon casts a shimmering, magical light over the devastated land. As I mount up to leave, beauty and sorrow envelope me as fog envelopes the marshlands.

July 18

Been moving steadily since I left the Rez. Have yet to encounter another living two-legged though I have spotted a hawk, a pair of eagles and a wolf. The wolf  must have come down from Canada.

I feel so tired yet each time I consider lying down to let my soul wander away, my Spirit Helper nips me as a sheepdog might nip its’ charges to force them to keep moving. I’d think I was dreaming such attacks except for the red marks on the back of my legs and sometimes on my arms. Grandmother never warned me that spirit helpers could be so downright annoying.

August 1

Today I crossed what was left of Snoqualamie Pass on the remnants of I-90. I left Far Runner’s tack lying next to the remains of a farm house. She continues to follow as closely as if she were still tied to us. I don’t blame her. If it weren’t for my Spirit Helper, the aloneness would probably immobilize me. Towns, suburbs, houses out in the middle of farmland shaken into rubble. Roadways crumpled like discarded paper balls. Not a living two-legged in sight. Why was I spared?

I’ll head for Seattle. Surely out of all of those thousands, there will be living people there.

August 6

If anyone had told me last summer that it would take five days to make one day’s mileage from the summit of the Pass to Seattle, I would have laughed. Star Dancer and I have been known to easily make twice that distance in a day’s ride.

Last summer seems a century away. Craters, mud slides, rock avalanches, patches of forest still smoldering from fires. Now this. A huge wave must have come in and slapped Seattle like some monstrous hand, carelessly sweeping large parts of it out to sea. Is anyone alive besides me?

August 12

Scavenging has become a way of life and ignoring dead bodies, a habit. At last I know with certainty that it was not metaphorical fires of which my vision spoke. It was this. Seattle’s skyline is bright not with neon but with orange-red-blue flames shooting two to three stories high from busted gas lines. Safe up here on this hill looking down on the city from beneath a surviving magnolia and several short-needled pines, I feel a profound sense of loneliness.

Today would have been grandmother’s eighty-sixth birthday. Taking out my hand drum I couldn’t decide whether to sing sorrow or celebration. Surely, mom and grandmother are better off not seeing this. I sang both.

September 5

In some ways I dread continuing this journey. I don’t know exactly where I am going. Just a generally southern direction. I dread the full understanding of my vision that I fear awaits me further on this sojourn. Yet there is a part of me that can’t forget the memory of hope I felt during my vision. There was that terrible sorrow binding my heart as I first came back into myself up there on Bald Peak , my face awash with my tears; but, there was also a lifting of my heart, a sense of wonder and a –joy–for lack of a better word. I must go on. Even if I would stop, Spirit Helper would not allow it. To what tomorrow is she guiding me?

September 9

Seattle was a graveyard. Portland, or what was left of it, wasn’t any better. Fact is, this is the best I’ve seen since leaving Bald Peak. Southern Oregon has always been a beautiful place, except of course, for the highways and cities. Well, it doesn’t seem like human ugliness is going to be a problem for long.

I passed a Fred Meyers. Grass and dandelions have already pushed up through the asphalt of the parking lot. Part of the outside walls have tumbled down, not really noteworthy except for the amount of moss covering the bricks left standing and the sapling already twelve or more feet high and easily several inches in diameter growing on the inside of what had once been the bakery.

Brush and saplings seem to be sprouting up overnight, growing at an amazing pace. It’s like Mother Earth is in a hurry to reclaim her body. Farmlands have become semi-wilderness. I wonder what’s happened to the livestock and domestic animals? Come to think of it: I haven’t seen many animal corpses. Mostly dogs with their people or animals trapped in man-made structures.

September 15

Using the binoculars I scavenged from REI in Seattle, over the past few days I’ve spotted several horses, a couple of domestic cats near the rubble of an apartment complex, cougar sign, a glimpse of a black bear and some raccoons sleeping in a cedar tree. Funny, I don’t feel quite so alone now.

October 2

Hello world! This is the day of my birth nineteen years ago. I feel like I’m thirty! The weather is a bit warmer than usual for this time of year, but then maybe it’s just one of those years. The earth seems to have settled back down. Since Bald Peak, I have not encountered any more natural disasters.

Of course, I don’t know what’s happening anywhere else. None of the radios I’ve found work. As for humans, forget it. All the ones I’ve met look like they’ve been dead fifteen or twenty years. Bones in clothes or at best, mummified skin and rotted rags. Cities overrun by trees and brush; grass and weed shattered sidewalks.   I don’t get this. It feels like that old sci-fi show the “Twilight Zone”. If it wasn’t for this diary and my vision on Bald Peak, I would think I was crazy and all of this happened years instead of months ago.

November 1

Crescent City, California looks nothing like it did when mom brought me here for my fifteenth birthday. Back then we camped among the redwoods for two weeks. We stopped at the Safeway I’m sitting here looking at now.

***

Had to pull blackberry vines off the front so I could enter. Lined up on the shelves, canned food sported discolored labels. Some crumbled away as I touched them, like really old paper.

Found an intact mirror in what used to be an employee’s lounge. Now, I know. I don’t understand. But I know. Took the picture of mom I snapped on her thirty-second birthday from my wallet. It felt old, fragile. Holding it next to my face, I stared in the mirror. Everyone used to tell me I was the spitting image of mom. With crow’s feet around my eyes and that grey streak like mom had running down the middle of my head, I can clearly see mom in my face.

In a crazy way, it’s beginning to make sense. Mom used to always kid me about wearing clothes and shoes out overnight. Maybe that’s partly the reason it never occurred to me before now how often I’ve had to replace the man-made materials I’m wearing while the natural cotton and leather items are still okay.

Manmade–that seems to be the key.

December 30

I loved the redwoods from the moment I first saw them with mom. Grandmother said my great-great grandmother had some California Indian–Klamath–in her and that’s why I felt so at home among these giants.

I continue to age quickly. Star Dancer and Far Runner have matured to the five-year olds that they are. From all appearances, it is only humankind and their constructions that age rapidly in this new world. Even the trees and vines that are taking over the cities, though they grow very fast, they don’t seem old.

January 3

I’ve made my last camp here on this bluff overlooking the steel blue Pacific foaming against the black grained sands below. Redwoods tower above and around me, embracing me. The mild weather continues. I enjoy the seals barking from the island that stands out a bit from the shore. Seagulls glide and argue. Their raucous voices harmonize well with the ocean. Deer slip through the early evening shadows, barely cracking a twig. The birds keep the days from being silent.

My Spirit Helper has led me here to this place in my vision.

I don’t know if there are people anywhere any longer, but it’s nice to know that the wild ones and at least some of the domestic four-leggeds have survived. A semi-feral orange tabby followed me from the old camp near the remains of a ranger station to this camp. When I catch fish, I throw the heads back away from the fire. I sit quietly when she darts out and snatches them. I know it’s a she since I’ve seen a couple of half-grown kittens with her. When she gets the food far enough away, they come out and help her eat it.

Last night I returned to camp late. South of me is an area that has returned to lush grassland. Star Dancer and Far Runner run free in that grassland now. I had to let them go. The sunset of my life is upon me.

I carefully wrap my diary in oiled leather and stash it within a hole in  Grandmother Redwood. Settled with my back against the rough bark of the ancient Redwood, I pick up my hand drum, the one Grandmother helped me make. As I stroke it, I wonder if anyone else is alive, and if someone, someday, might find my words.

The End

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AN UNEXPECTED HONOR

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The Lighthouse Award

I’d like to thank #AllisonBruning at  http://www.allisonbruning.blogspot.com for nominating me for The Lighthouse Award. Never heard of it, but love what it stands for: #bloggers who like to help people! It always feels so good to be recognized.

There are gifts given to every person. How we use those gifts determines what kind of human we become. Writing is one of my gifts. For me, writing is about helping others: it provides mental relaxation, adds to knowledge, highlights important issues, provides role models and most of all, gives us hope.

Another gift is my love for Mother Earth. In 1996, my wife and I purchased 12 acres of abused farmland that we named Wild Haven. What had once been forested wetlands had fifty or so years before been logged, the pathways of water changed and made into farmland. The farmland was then abused by overuse and negligence. By the time we bought it invasive weeds controlled eleven acres of the 12. Bodies of dead animals and birds lay scattered like discarded rubbish. The people that had owned it loved to kill, not to eat but to destroy. Not even a bird flew over the land until our medicine man came and cleansed it. The first bird to return was a hummingbird. Now we host 68 different species of birds over the course of a year’s time as well as a number of mammals such as coyote, fox, rabbit, possum, raccoon, deer, an occasional cougar, and a black bear who loves our fall apples. Three species of salmon now call our creek a pathway to spawning grounds. In 2001 the National Wildlife Federation certified our farm was Wildlife Habitat. In 2002, we have won a county award for Wildlife Farm of the Year. In 2003, we won the Washington State Award for #Wildlife Small Farm of the Year. #Conservation is the gift we give to the generations yet to come. What kind of world will we hand on?

Gnarly apple tree To see more photos of Wild Haven, go to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar  Look at Jaz Wheeler’s Farm board.

The third gift I have been graced with is the ability to look at writing of others and see where I can suggest changes that will make it stronger, clearer. I don’t do the polish editing like my wonderful editor, Lee Hargroder Porche, but what I call developmental editing. I help clarify timelines, pick up on dialog that isn’t realistic and other details that can make an author’s work a bit more real.

The Lighthouse Award requires that a blogger:

• Display the Award Certificate on your blog.
• Write a post and link back to the blogger that nominated you.
• Inform your nominees of their award nominations.
• Share three ways that you like to help others.
• Nominate as many bloggers as you like.
When I think about all the people who #blog and who make helping others a large part of their lives, there are too many to list. But here are some that I nominate for The Lighthouse Award:
#RubyStandingDeer at http://www.rubystandingdeer.com  whose Native American series is a spiritual journey
#ErikaSzabo at  http://www.authorerikamszabo.com who tirelessly worked to bring to us the Read for Animals book and event
#WiseandWildWomen at http://wildandwisewomen.com whose entire goal is the uplifting of women
#JenWilliams at with http://myraysoflight.wordpress.com who constantly brings forth issues we need to consider
#JumbledWriter at  http://www.jumbledwriter.com whose blog and subjects are all about conversations that help people consider timely issues
Please visit these wonderful blogs. You’ll be glad that you did! Be sure to CLICK and FOLLOW so you don’t miss new posts!
To share in the conversations, join Aya on http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar
To check out Aya’s latest works go to http://www.facebook.com/AyaWalksfarAuthor
To see some really cool photos click over to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar

AFTERMATH OF #ADDICTION!

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I write about #strongwomen, women who make tough decisions and strive to positively impact their world. Today I have the honor of an #interview with Sandra Shrewsbury, #author of Outside the Addiction and Aftermath of an Addiction. In these books, Ms. Shrewsbury captures the lives of strong women who survive the devastation that addiction brings to families.

In these two heartbreaking novels, Ms. Shrewsbury takes us from the depths of despair to the heights of triumph. In OUTSIDE THE ADDICTION, she leads us on a journey through a mother’s nightmare.

Susan Green is a single mother raising three children. She has had it rough… But, always managed… Until now.Susan’s daughter, Tina, has been acting strange. She has always been a very calm child, then one day she begins acting out.  Is it drugs?

As she delves into the strange behavior of her daughter, Susan discovers more than she ever wanted to know.

Susan’s life changes, and not for the better. Faced with a demon she can’t control, how can she fight for a life that’s not hers to control? Can Susan save her daughter?

Cover of Outside an Addiction

In Ms. Shrewsbury’s second book, Aftermath of an Addiction, she draws us into the world of Susan’s granddaughter, Kelly, and the pain of living with an addicted parent. Read how one child survived THE AFTERMATH OF AN ADDICTION

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AFTERMATH OF AN ADDICTION: TEASER: 

The words were enough to send a cold chill of terror down my spine. Our lives had been irrevocably destroyed; we would never see our angels again.   Tears pricked my eyes but I forced them back and shook my head. No. I never thought this day would come. The day when justice would not prevail, the day my daughter would destroy our lives once more. How do I tell them that she is fighting me for full custody of them? “Dammit,” I muttered, frustration beginning to peak. The real question is will she win? I had to look out for their best interests. And I am determined to do whatever it takes to make sure my grandchildren are happy, to keep them safe. She cannot win this battle. I don’t know why she bothered; she hadn’t shown any concern over these children for years now. My mind was racing and plagued by the fear of something terrible happening to them if she did get them back.

Ms. Shrewsbury has always loved reading from a wide range of genres, though her favorites have been romance, paranormal/supernatural and non-fiction. Over the years, she realized the power of the written world to bring hope to others. As a nurse with ten years experience, and through her many connections with others, she saw the heartbreak of addiction, the devastation to families, and realized she needed to tell those stories.
Sandra Shrewsbury brings to us two outstanding testimonies of the human spirit.

If you have ever had your life touched by addiction, you need to read these two books.

Sandra hails from West Virginia where she currently lives with her family.

Sandra runs a facebook page where she often posts interviews of authors, reviews of books and more information about her own work. Visit Sandra at  https://www.facebook.com/SandraShrewsbury.Author

OUTSIDE THE ADDICTION  BUY HERE

http://www.amazon.com/Outside-Addiction-A-Mothers-Story-ebook/dp/B00ERYQ5RM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1394149161&sr=8-1&keywords=sandra+shrewsbu

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