From the opening lines, this beautifully written historical novel effortlessly transports the reader into the very real world of the 'forgotten' 17th century composer, Stradella, and his relationship with the vividly imagined fictional protagonist, Donatella. Read more ...
Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass. ~ Anton Chekhov
The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin
Welcome! I hope you enjoy your stroll along my appointed sands!
Emily Dickinson wrote ...
The moon is distant from the sea and yet with amber hands she leads him, docile as a boy, along appointed sands.
I can visualize her taking a break from late night writing, looking out of her bedroom window beyond swaying branches and sliding clouds at that moody orb begging to be personified. She sees his face but also his soul illuminating her own. There's supremacy in his position, suspended between heaven and earth, offering her some influence too, at least with words.
She has never seen the sea, yet is well versed in waves and tides and depths and even foreign shores. She might really be alone but for the companions her musings make, such so-called isolation filled by a myriad of encounters in a life traversed though not traveled, only seeming to stand still if the movement of her poetry isn't considered.
It's amazing where her imagination takes her and also what it brings her, a window not only for looking through but opening.
Opening. Eyes seeing more than meet them. A heart loving beyond reason. An intellect curious for more than it can get hold of. A soul reaching into the memory of every-where-and-time. Opening.
A spider's web sparkles with dew to strangle a fly, the wind blows to caress the trees and bring them down, water washes what it can also drowned, snow blankets the spring that wants to rise up.
A writer finds her voice in silence, sails away without leaving port, realizes she may never return, cries without tears, and smiles without anyone to appreciate how wise she looks when she does. She thinks and therefore is, falters and therefore isn't, feels her destiny so it only matters that she keeps on writing.
The window is wide open and she leans out as far as possible without falling into the prickly bushes below.
Because even in retreat she needs to let her spirit go, telling stories she feels compelled to tell, into the past as if it was the future, studying like a scholar and imagining like a fool, taking chances without risking anything, looking up for something to show her the way of shining on her own appointed sands.