Several times, recently, I’ve been asked: “Why not share some pictures of your son on Facebook?” While I had in the past and still might do so on an infrequent occasion, I simply don’t wish to share my daily life with the entire world. To be a “friend” on social media means that we could have some things in common, might follow each other due to career paths, special interest groups, etc. But truth be told, a small percentage are people I truly know, are related to, or trust with my most precious treasure, my family.
 
I love this life, the diverse concepts, and the interesting people in it. It’s fun to connect! We can learn a thing or two about and from each other. But I’m not going to splatter much news on the internet about my family, or when I or my son sneezes.
 
Here’s something that humorously puts it into perspective. A friend shared the following with me, so I’m sharing it with you in the rare case you haven’t already seen it. Things posted on social media have a way of circulating in ways of which you might not even be aware – so, be wary! I’ve discovered some of my own author profile pictures having been unknowingly copied and used for certain non-writing advertising sites in other countries. (Regarding our children, we should be especially vigilant). So here I am sharing this popular short passage for which I don’t even know whom to give proper credit. I thank the “nameless” author for proving my point.

Jesus knew beforehand of Judas Iscariot’s betrayal, expected it, even waited for it, yet he still washes the man’s feet. Washing of feet was an act of servitude provided as an example to us of acceptance, of humility, of love, of forgiveness. I am both baffled and intrigued by the role of Judas – also, of how Christians view him. Most would say that Judas was possessed, for we are told the devil entered him, and lost forever. But Jesus, a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, in a single moment would be betrayed by ALL, washes the feet of the one people blame the most for perfidy.

Iscariot, indeed, had a weakness for silver. The treasurer for the disciples, he pilfered along the way. Jesus knew this, yet kept him as overseer of the money bag. Why?

My thought is that somebody had to play the role of Judas. If not Judas, then somebody else had to fulfill the prophecy of the messiah, his torture, his death, his resurrection – salvation, the avenue intended for every soul’s ultimate deliverance unto God. Maybe there’s a wider spot of clemency for the one chosen to fulfill an ugly yet necessary role.

Many would say that Judas was beyond help, uncaring, unfeeling and consumed with sinful nature. Yet after realizing what he had done, that is, was paid to identify his master to the Roman soldiers via the Sanhedrin by poetically placing a kiss on his cheek, scripture (Matthew 27:5) says that he threw down the pieces of silver he received as payment for the dirty deed, and went out and hanged himself. Does that sound like somebody who was uncaring and unfeeling?

The end appears hopeless. Judas hung himself – an act of desperation. And after the body had fried in the hot Jerusalem sun, bloated from bacterial gases, it fell to the ground and erupted. It’s a messy, distorted picture. It appears like he got what he deserved and this was his entrance to hell.

But who would really know, except God, if Judas Iscariot, an unconditionally loved child of God, in his last remorseful breath, had cried out in his weakened constitution, “Forgive me. Forgive me.” In that private, desperate moment, between him and his maker, who could honestly say?

Forgiveness driven or regret driven…is there even a difference?

“Break the ballerina,” I have deliberated. I want to be reconstructed, transformed into another kind of dancer – that of flamenco. I want to learn, I want to be of that world.

Flamenco is something that has always drawn my attention, yet I've never had ample time or opportunity to pursue studying it—and unless you’re born into it flamenco is a type of study. It’s like learning a new language, a new culture. Serious students only, for flamenco is far too complex and challenging for the easy going. In many ways, I find flamenco more difficult than ballet or any other form of dance I've carried out. It requires absolute immersion physically, mentally, and spiritually. I don’t know whether it’s where I am in life today or if the timing is suddenly just ripe, but I am shifting things around to make room to absorb and to learn, to train. I can tell in my heart of hearts that there is no turning back for me. I've caught the “flamenco bug” and I’m in the midst of a new and lasting love affair.

Currently, I am dancing with Pasión Flamenca under the direction of Lucia Andronescu. A good fit for me in both style and method, I am receiving superb technique training along with continual performance experience. I began this particular journey about two months ago.

One day, I will look back at the progression, my metamorphosis from one kind of dancer into another. Flamenco is truth by fire, a matchless, mystical pilgrimage that, in a strange way, provides a sense of balance for this spiritually attuned dancer/novelist.

Some authors know right away in what genre they’ll write and the audience for whom they’ll work hard to prepare manuscripts. I admire those authors who stick with one heading, for I've always had trouble classifying my writing…a little this, a little that. When a particular interview gave me fodder for a little on-the-spot transformation (talk about impromptu), what I had planned to say was never said, yet the things I hadn't planned to say seemed to have already been spoken.

“What do you write?” the inquirer asked.

Something more categorically concrete should have come out of my mouth, such as romance, or political intrigue, or fantasy, but before I could formulate those thoughts the answer readily answered for me. It was already there. “I write forgiveness.”

“What does that mean? Who do you write for?”

Forgiveness literature is something that spans across all of humanity, regardless of where we tread in life. In that sense, I suppose I write for everyone. At the same time, I don’t think I write for everyone. My books wouldn't appeal to someone, say, who only wants fiction like their eggs, light and fluffy—not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Whatever the genre, the common thread for my writing is forgiveness. Forgiveness brings healing. That’s my focal point. There is much in this world that is broken. I don’t know why but I see it so much of the time, awareness that things, situations, people are hurting or distressed. Things need fixed. Forgiveness is like a fragrant balm that lingers, constantly reminding me that without it there would be no classification. Without it I’m not sure I’d write romance, or political intrigue, or fantasy, or anything at all. I write forgiveness fiction. The rest works itself out.

Newly released, my latest novel from the Hearts in Africa series. Now available on Amazon.

"Sometimes people ask God to join them in what they are doing, rather than joining God in what He is doing. Emotional tension already high, Nick and Claire are jostled by circumstances as they struggle between human understanding, desire, and the will of God. In the end, they realize that He had their best interests in mind all along. From the wilderness of Washington State, straight to the heart of the Maasai in Tanzania, onto the spice island of Zanzibar and around again, the path of faith and the outcome of their relationship are ultimately made clear in a whirlwind of adventure, trials, and enduring love. Uniquely sweet, Carry My Heart is a memorable missionary romance." ~ CPP

I grew up in a seaside village of the Pacific Northwest. It’s a place that I adore, a region endearing to my heart. While I toured the world, I always returned to what I call “home.” But I've been living away now for a long time. Seems I've been trying to get back, relocate, forever. Even visits don’t come as often as they should, and I miss my family and friends I grew up with, a concentration of the few people I trust in life.

Often, I catch myself daydreaming of being a stone’s throw away to longtime loved ones once again, never missing birthdays or holidays. Island living: residing in a cottage tucked away somewhere in a village that serves as a quiet refuge for deep thinkers. But when it’s time to come out of hiding and pay respect to society, a short stroll to the artsy town’s main street would do it. Donning a windbreaker, smelling the salt in the air, the seaweed, fish, and creosote, I’d take a brisk jaunt down the wharf to have coffee (where everybody knows your name) and reclaim my small-town-girl identity.

I’d comb the beach until an extended wave catches me by surprise, then I’d welcome it as it caresses my ankles with frigid indigo laps. Eat plump berries from the roadside stands, smiling at the stains left on my fingers. Relish the rugged outdoors that furnishes a person with a sense of hardiness and satisfaction. Only a phone call joins family and friends on chilly days in rooms made warm by boisterous laughter. I want it all back, all of us together again. It could not be beat, my little daytime fantasy.

Several times now, I've had to cancel flights home by unforeseen circumstances. This week I should have departed for the Seattle airport. Instead of filling the role as guest to family I’m visitor to disappointment. But then it dawned on me, an epiphany. In a blink, nine years have passed while residing in the Southeast. Where did the time go? Has it really been that long? I realized how much I've come to anticipate the bloom of dogwoods, fragrant hanging honeysuckle, and the vibrant and unruly kudzu. Okra prepared in any fashion. Red cardinals and mourning doves mingling daily. Tepid humidity that makes one’s skin glow. Symphonic storms, labyrinth of tributaries, low-lying hills and curving roads. I've recently reentered the arts realm and have networked with several dancers and dance companies. Familiarity makes one feel less a stranger. I've made new friends to trust. Besides all of that, my son was born and raised here. This is home to him. I've come to realize that East Tennessee has become home for me, too.

Nothing compares to being with or near family, nor can anything replace that. I don’t have extended family here in Knoxville and that makes me sad. But circumstances have played out making East Tennessee home – a home for which my heart has opened…a region I’m in love with, proud of, and if ever a trip away, eager to return to its embrace.

“‎You can clutch the past so tightly to your chest that it leaves your arms too full to embrace the present.” ~ Jan Glidewell

 “One must simply take the days of their lives as they happen. If you spend time worrying over what is to come, which may or may not happen, then you will only be wasting precious days you will wish in the future you could have cherished a bit longer.”  ~ R.J. Gonzales, Mundahlia

The wish to purge my life of anything unused seems to have grown. In fact, the older I get the stronger the desire. With a fresh new season finally here, so is my amped version of “spring cleaning.” Some might already call me a sort of minimalist. I dislike untidiness. I have but a few boxes of keepsakes. Mostly, I don’t like to hang onto things – unless they’re books – and I don’t care for storage. Yet I could stand to give away more: items that swallow up space and weigh a person down. I’m fond of space. Minimalism is not completely what I’m living, but it’s something I fancy.

These days I find I’m reflecting much about certain friends from way back when, a painter and a musician, each successful in their chosen field, who had married and chose an uncluttered life. Instead of getting swept up in accessible opulence they held simplicity in high esteem. I truly valued visits and dinners at their place, not only for their exuberant friendship but for their lifestyle that left an impression on me.

With unencumbered style, these friends of mine enjoyed a unique yet modest home, along with a small selection of fine things, each item carefully chosen and having its proper place. Everything had a purpose and if something lost its purpose they got rid of it. Even their studios accommodating artwork and instruments reflected organization and tidiness. I suppose the only lavishness rested in the privacy they held behind a tree-lined buffer. For other than a few rows of fruit trees, a path through the forest, and a small yet lush vegetable garden, the spread of acreage was untamed, tucked away from the public, and magnificent.

My mind churns today as I think about them, my minimalist friends. I should have followed their example a little more closely over the years. But, if I can start at one little corner and work my way out, perhaps I can achieve what’s true to my inner nature. The prime notion here is that bigger isn't better and accumulation of “stuff” isn't all that important. People are. Relationships, events, making memories…taking pleasure in the moment, in the satisfaction of just existing. Spring has arrived. Enjoy the simplicity.

Dorian Gray, led by his vanity into insatiable lust for pleasure, much later recognizes how depraved he had become. Pleasure did not his happiness make, so he goes to a priest and begs for help in a 2009 movie remake of the classic. The priest, unfamiliar with the depth of this man’s sin, in turn, gives him a trained response. In Dorian’s profound misery the priest’s pat answer wasn’t enough, because his soul was rotten to the core. He’d done despicable things. Help. Me. Gray beseeched. The priest glanced away, lacking the words to bring solace to a devastated individual desperate for a chance at good.

“Speak, man! Do something,” I retorted to the out-of-touch priest. I implored that if I have ear to a broken soul bleeding sorrows, those words already burning in my heart would trickle from my tongue and propel a dark character to light.
 
Not for the sensitive viewer, this particular film is full of unsavory, hard to
swallow scenes. But I must say that the pivotal point of Dorian Gray would not have been as powerful had I not witnessed them. It fed my compassion for the desperate seeker.

A fascinating novel set in the Amazon prompted my four-star rating on Goodreads. Until I read the gripping sentiment at the end. I then upgraded it to the maximum five-star reader evaluation.

“And you will be my best friend, too—as long as we see each other with our hearts,” a character said.
 
My first thought was, Oh, that’s beautiful. My second thought was, Ouch.
 
What a rare and sacred thing to truly see with our hearts; and how easy it is to stop seeing.
 
While I don’t follow celebrities I happened to notice a recent headline about two actors divorcing. This struck me with certain sadness because I remember years ago sitting in my dermatologist’s waiting room
equipped with television, and the male actor on interview made such a spectacle of having been smitten with—yes, the love of his life, his forever after, happiness always gal. What happened? What happens to so many, too
many?
 
They stop seeing each other with their hearts.

One of the reasons I love writing romance is that although you must have conflict in the plot, the relationship has a “happily ever after.” A “happy for now” (HFN) is acceptable in the genre, but just about everybody experiences a HFN sometime in their life. What’s stronger and notable: to realize an unending future in an equally meshed heart-seeing embrace; hearts that not only become one but remain one.