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Dias de Muertos....
I assume there was something being done to my kernal last night--I couldn't post this.
*********
In Memory of Friends Gone Ahead
Part of Samhain is thinking back over the past year, and trying to let go of the pain of lost loved ones. I've done my best.
It’s been months since you left, Barbara, and I have to admit I tried not to dwell too much on that, because I knew the next step in grieving is anger—and I didn’t want to be angry at one of the sunniest souls I ever had the privilege to know. I was finally living north again. That meant we could start up the writing group we’d talked about. That meant I could finally drag you out—and be dragged out—for lunch. It meant you could kibbutz on planning a party for the World Fantasy Convention when it hits town in 2006.
It meant so many things, Barbara. And you’re not going to be here for any of it.
Oh, I believe in the next step—in fact, I’m one of those crazy believers in reincarnation. I suspect we knew each other before, and we’ll recognize each other again, if only as souls full of life and love. But I grieve that you’re not here NOW—that we can’t get older and sassier together. That we can’t laugh about Personal Summers, and that you aren’t here to get excited with me about the screwball supernatural caper novel I’m cooking up. That I can’t tell you how much fun your new mystery is, and see how the hair dye episode turns out in Book Two. That I can’t thank you for listening, and encouraging, and believing in me when I’d stopped believing in myself.
We tried to share our grief in a service to celebrate all you gave to us. We tried again at ConMisterio. Meschke and I swapped remembrances with a group of people who had loved and appreciated you—or who had admired you, and now won’t have the chance to enjoy the champagne of your smile.
Third time around for me, and I still can’t stop tears. But I need to say thank you for teaching me many things—the last time, through a training tape I’d never seen. I just paused to hear your voice again, one of your great stories...and you taught me something else about life, and about writing, just in a few words and a few dashed lines.
You were the best cheerleader around. I’ll do my best to keep up the tradition.
Large swathes of the world celebrate All Hallows Eve as the threshold of All Saints and All Souls days. Our pagan ancestors called this time of year Samhain. It was the Feast of the Dead, the eve of the New Year to come, and a time of reflection. We looked back over the year and tried to come to terms with the central fact of life we have no control over—death. The walls of the world grew thin, and we felt the spirits of those on the other plane, and knew that they walked among us, beside us every day. Our ancestors remembered those they loved who were far away, and tried to ease the loss in their hearts. The Yule was just around the corner, and the Sun would return soon.
It was a cycle. Rebirth was promised. And as long as we remembered our dead, they lived. It was simple, and it holds truth today.
It’s like riding a bicycle, Barbara. Writing...loving...life. Thank you for sharing the journey. There’s an ofrenda in my heart, and you are there.
We remember. Walk in brightness.
http://www.livejournal.com/users/alfreda89/73337.html
I was not doing very well when we lost Andre Norton to the next plane. I’d remembered to send her a letter and some seeds, to try and encourage her for spring. I’d sent along the latest Alfreda short story, because she loved the character and wanted another book about her. I contributed to a group of female writers who decided it was time to honor the writing women who gave us roots—Andre first among equals. She had time to enjoy that big bouquet, and smell its sweet fragrance, before she went gently down the Last Path.
I wasn’t privileged to meet Andre, although I exchanged some letters and phone calls with her. She always kept an eye out for the younger writers (good heavens, we were all youngsters to her.) She would write to tell us she liked our work—heady stuff for neophytes in the field! She would notice if we disappeared, and write to ask if there would be other works—and if not, had we thought about trying to get reprinted there, and she’d just happened to mention the books to the publisher...
She understood disappointment, and dreams deferred. She knew the top of the profession, and had the rug pulled out from under her many times. She built her dream of High Halleck—and had to dismantle it.
But she trusted us to carry on, and to write wonderful stories for the youth of tomorrow. To cherish the bits and pieces that once made up High Halleck. She entrusted me with the brooms of a sixth generation Welsh witch (the poor soul had one of those moments we look at with disbelief. Her children were Christian, and the heirlooms of the Old Religion meant nothing to them. She and her husband were very disappointed.) I have Martha Adler’s brooms still wrapped in their mailing box, ready (when the room is finally finished) to be hung safely on the wall. Allie would have cherished them, and so will I.
That tiny spinster librarian wrote with such fierceness, such Truth, that for many years no one knew she was female. Andre didn’t have much use for laying out sex scenes in front of the children, or language so foul she knew the imitators would get their mouths washed out with soap. But she didn’t flinch from what a story needed. Now, new readers sometimes think her books quaint, retreads of bestsellers.
Ah, no....the bestsellers were the retreads. She’d pioneer something, and a clever imitator would hit the big time with it. But she kept writing. She kept teaching us, by word and deed, now it should be done...and occasionally, how we shouldn’t do it!
Her heart was as large as it was gracious, and she never lost her enthusiasm for new ideas, new stories, new works of beauty, whether words or beads. Even as she dealt with reoccurring problems with her health, she managed to write an introduction to the omnibus edition of the books of Alfreda Golden-Tongue. The publisher was messing around and dragging heels terribly, but I think Andre was confident it would happen eventually. And she wanted to make sure she got that introduction to me.
Thank you, dear heart. When the time comes, and I think it’s coming soon, that intro will go where it belongs.
I have no doubt Andre waits for us in the light. I pray we never fail her charge. She was a follower of the Son, not the Mother, but she knew and respected the old religion, and the lessons it taught all who were paying attention.
The Lord bless you, Andre. Blessed Be.
*********
And now, after looking back, I will take a moment to look ahead, and see if the Universe has any hints or advice for me. And then, sleep, deserved and hoped-for...
Bright Blessings as Dias de Muertos begins.
Blessed Be.
*********
And for a touch of divination on New Year's Eve, we have The Queen of Coins, the Lightning-struck Tower, and the Ace of Coins.
Good heavens. Talk about "Seeking direction and inspiration on New Year's Eve"...
*********
*********
In Memory of Friends Gone Ahead
Part of Samhain is thinking back over the past year, and trying to let go of the pain of lost loved ones. I've done my best.
It’s been months since you left, Barbara, and I have to admit I tried not to dwell too much on that, because I knew the next step in grieving is anger—and I didn’t want to be angry at one of the sunniest souls I ever had the privilege to know. I was finally living north again. That meant we could start up the writing group we’d talked about. That meant I could finally drag you out—and be dragged out—for lunch. It meant you could kibbutz on planning a party for the World Fantasy Convention when it hits town in 2006.
It meant so many things, Barbara. And you’re not going to be here for any of it.
Oh, I believe in the next step—in fact, I’m one of those crazy believers in reincarnation. I suspect we knew each other before, and we’ll recognize each other again, if only as souls full of life and love. But I grieve that you’re not here NOW—that we can’t get older and sassier together. That we can’t laugh about Personal Summers, and that you aren’t here to get excited with me about the screwball supernatural caper novel I’m cooking up. That I can’t tell you how much fun your new mystery is, and see how the hair dye episode turns out in Book Two. That I can’t thank you for listening, and encouraging, and believing in me when I’d stopped believing in myself.
We tried to share our grief in a service to celebrate all you gave to us. We tried again at ConMisterio. Meschke and I swapped remembrances with a group of people who had loved and appreciated you—or who had admired you, and now won’t have the chance to enjoy the champagne of your smile.
Third time around for me, and I still can’t stop tears. But I need to say thank you for teaching me many things—the last time, through a training tape I’d never seen. I just paused to hear your voice again, one of your great stories...and you taught me something else about life, and about writing, just in a few words and a few dashed lines.
You were the best cheerleader around. I’ll do my best to keep up the tradition.
Large swathes of the world celebrate All Hallows Eve as the threshold of All Saints and All Souls days. Our pagan ancestors called this time of year Samhain. It was the Feast of the Dead, the eve of the New Year to come, and a time of reflection. We looked back over the year and tried to come to terms with the central fact of life we have no control over—death. The walls of the world grew thin, and we felt the spirits of those on the other plane, and knew that they walked among us, beside us every day. Our ancestors remembered those they loved who were far away, and tried to ease the loss in their hearts. The Yule was just around the corner, and the Sun would return soon.
It was a cycle. Rebirth was promised. And as long as we remembered our dead, they lived. It was simple, and it holds truth today.
It’s like riding a bicycle, Barbara. Writing...loving...life. Thank you for sharing the journey. There’s an ofrenda in my heart, and you are there.
We remember. Walk in brightness.
http://www.livejournal.com/users/alfreda89/73337.html
I was not doing very well when we lost Andre Norton to the next plane. I’d remembered to send her a letter and some seeds, to try and encourage her for spring. I’d sent along the latest Alfreda short story, because she loved the character and wanted another book about her. I contributed to a group of female writers who decided it was time to honor the writing women who gave us roots—Andre first among equals. She had time to enjoy that big bouquet, and smell its sweet fragrance, before she went gently down the Last Path.
I wasn’t privileged to meet Andre, although I exchanged some letters and phone calls with her. She always kept an eye out for the younger writers (good heavens, we were all youngsters to her.) She would write to tell us she liked our work—heady stuff for neophytes in the field! She would notice if we disappeared, and write to ask if there would be other works—and if not, had we thought about trying to get reprinted there, and she’d just happened to mention the books to the publisher...
She understood disappointment, and dreams deferred. She knew the top of the profession, and had the rug pulled out from under her many times. She built her dream of High Halleck—and had to dismantle it.
But she trusted us to carry on, and to write wonderful stories for the youth of tomorrow. To cherish the bits and pieces that once made up High Halleck. She entrusted me with the brooms of a sixth generation Welsh witch (the poor soul had one of those moments we look at with disbelief. Her children were Christian, and the heirlooms of the Old Religion meant nothing to them. She and her husband were very disappointed.) I have Martha Adler’s brooms still wrapped in their mailing box, ready (when the room is finally finished) to be hung safely on the wall. Allie would have cherished them, and so will I.
That tiny spinster librarian wrote with such fierceness, such Truth, that for many years no one knew she was female. Andre didn’t have much use for laying out sex scenes in front of the children, or language so foul she knew the imitators would get their mouths washed out with soap. But she didn’t flinch from what a story needed. Now, new readers sometimes think her books quaint, retreads of bestsellers.
Ah, no....the bestsellers were the retreads. She’d pioneer something, and a clever imitator would hit the big time with it. But she kept writing. She kept teaching us, by word and deed, now it should be done...and occasionally, how we shouldn’t do it!
Her heart was as large as it was gracious, and she never lost her enthusiasm for new ideas, new stories, new works of beauty, whether words or beads. Even as she dealt with reoccurring problems with her health, she managed to write an introduction to the omnibus edition of the books of Alfreda Golden-Tongue. The publisher was messing around and dragging heels terribly, but I think Andre was confident it would happen eventually. And she wanted to make sure she got that introduction to me.
Thank you, dear heart. When the time comes, and I think it’s coming soon, that intro will go where it belongs.
I have no doubt Andre waits for us in the light. I pray we never fail her charge. She was a follower of the Son, not the Mother, but she knew and respected the old religion, and the lessons it taught all who were paying attention.
The Lord bless you, Andre. Blessed Be.
*********
And now, after looking back, I will take a moment to look ahead, and see if the Universe has any hints or advice for me. And then, sleep, deserved and hoped-for...
Bright Blessings as Dias de Muertos begins.
Blessed Be.
*********
And for a touch of divination on New Year's Eve, we have The Queen of Coins, the Lightning-struck Tower, and the Ace of Coins.
Good heavens. Talk about "Seeking direction and inspiration on New Year's Eve"...
*********