Rolling clouds of blankness obscures the past, parting sporatically, seemingly without rhyme or reason
{although Freud would dispute that}
to reveal images blurred by shadows of regret, loss, or yearning.
But those vistas shape the inner landscape of our soul and of our mind.
Angels of lightning and storm,
these memories fly from our past to sweep over our heads and under our radar to propel us along paths we only partially understand.
We dream, awake, and forget.
But not so our unconscious mind.
It remembers, murmuring to take this road and not another.
We think we choose rationally.
But do we?
What is illusion, what is sure in the actions we take?
Doubts sleep, love burns, and fears howl. There is no refuge for the storms in our soul.
We hear in the voices of the wind the lost dreams of childhood.
If we are fortunate, those voices lead us back onto the path we only thought we had lost.
If we are brave, we will walk it anew with wiser heads.
All of which leads me back to those bleak Detroit winter days as my mother opened a world of wonder as I lay shivering under my blankets,
the coughing from my double pneumonia growing worse and worse.
I think I know why I wrote down those tales she told me, filtered through my own memories and imagination.
It is my kiss to the winds to her spirit and to her love.
But I believe it is also my desire to spin my own tales told in the darkness of the written page, to open the healing world of wonder to some other soul in the cold.
I wrote THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS to be read aloud, so it is fitting that it is now an audio book.
Here are the first few words of my tale:
THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS
CHAPTER ONE
THE TURQUOISE WOMAN
"Keep me away from the wisdom that does not cry,
the philosophy that does not laugh, and the greatness
that does not bow before children."
- Kahlil Gibran.
The face of shadows gazed down upon the young bear from a bright full moon. Hers was a face that few had seen and fewer still had lived to describe.
THE TURQUOISE WOMAN
"Keep me away from the wisdom that does not cry,
the philosophy that does not laugh, and the greatness
that does not bow before children."
- Kahlil Gibran.
The face of shadows gazed down upon the young bear from a bright full moon. Hers was a face that few had seen and fewer still had lived to describe.
Her ghostly features were terrible and beautiful beyond any singing of them. A haunted melancholy clung to them.
Like a windmill, her memory slowly turned through the fleeting lives that had been born upon her shores to walk prayer-soft across her grass only to fade away into the blood-rimmed eye of the sunset.









































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