The Book Is Beginning

Gathering In The Cabin

“It is such an iconic fieldstone fireplace with a huge thick mantle that was once the plank of a ship. So that piece of wood has made some amazing journeys of its own.”
The picture above is of a sunset on Saddleback Island in Maine. While our story is set in a cottage with an interior more like that of an Indian house except for the fireplace, the surroundings are remarkably like what you see here.

The fireplace in my cottage was a symbol, visualized till now merely as a glowing fire casting its warm glow from a niche in the northern wall. These lines suddenly gave shape and form to the niche, the kunda in which the hearthfire burned.

This picture has led me to seek my path back to this iconic fictional cottage/lodge/cabin depending on where you stand and view it. It’s been several months since I felt the end of the book. We typically write the end before we work on the body of the story. As with everything I will ever write, the end is an unresolved cadence tinged with mystery, hope, poignancy, promise and the copper-pink of a Maine dawn - or any dawn for that matter. The circles on the hearthrug have fanned themselves outward to gather afresh at the shore beholding the row of pines. And they will move northwestwards, hug their favorite trees and disperse.
We are starting, let the first guest enter!

Where did it all start? First there was a tree that could have been birch or beech. As the locale opened itself to me through lucid dreams, the trees seemed to move within reach and reveal their details. There were indeed birch and beech trees, each distinctive in its pre-fall clothing. It was September and soon the colors of rust and flame would transform that copse into a beacon when it caught the sunbeams. But there was one special tree standing a little alone from the others, part of the circle but playing a distinctive role. It was a beautiful old elm that had escaped the elm disease that often swept through that area of Maine and brought down many members of the clan. And they were in awe of it.
To the south of this copse was the edge of the bay. The coastline curved away to the west and then meandered on in twists and turns.
The most enduring impression of this spot was of the sun setting over one of those indentations, sinking its orange bulk into the bay. But on this important occasion we were celebrating the hour before the sunset - by welcoming a group of guests to spend a night with us by the Hearthfire.

Footnote 1: Picture courtesy Kim Raikes, taken by her.

Footnote 2: This was written on 20th June 2018. Time and place have lost all the meanings we once ascribed to them. The apparent "timelessness" of a story that brought together unlikely seekers in an unlikely space, seems to have found its relevance now. There's a good chance I could actually complete it now as the events will no longer seem implausible.

Footnote 3: "The Book Is Ending" was written several months prior to this. They will now coalesce into a whole that one may not have visioned at that time

The Book Is Ending

Before The Dawn

I realized on seeing Mary’s photo of the dawn breaking over the bay right outside her home, that I somehow needed to write the last chapter of the book as I have written the first one. It attaches a destination to our journey, to the leg of our Imramma* that we fortuitously gather together on. Any book starts somewhere and ends somewhere. It is a snapshot(well a video clip?) of part of a story, because the story has no beginning and no end. So between the covers of the book opens a portal through which the reader and the travelers have a conversation. Like an accordion fanning out its bellows and pouring forth a melody that we dance to.

After a vigorous start, the book has been teasing me since the stars uncannily brought the wrong end of both our countries(the ones involved in the storyline) together in a Dance Macabre in November 2016. Morning Pages wound themselves down and fizzled out and so did the momentum on writing A Night’s Tale evaporate with a groan of sorts. Fortunately the winter just past has been unusually enriching and eventful. The fruits I gathered are crushed against one another in an overfull basket. They demand that I spill them out and serve them up as salads and juices and rich fruit cakes. And I am so tired all I’ve been able to do is stuff them, basket and all into the fridge and stare at them with weary longing.

So here’s where Mary’s picture helps. It is a snapshot of a journey completed. A culmination as dawn breaks. And a homecoming. The culmination enfolds within it all the pages of that travelogue. And Mary’s picture conveys it with a sense of revelation and peace. Each of the guests around the hearth-fire that night weave their tales together. Each of the guests has arrived from somewhere as the evening commences. As we stare in wonder at the dawn that Kim and Leon call us out to see and save in our memories before the moment passes into a different moment, we each experience a personal homecoming. We each have traveled “home“ a little altered. And we are lucky to share that moment, transcending the barriers of space and time. Because the special place we shared in that cozy room over hot chocolate and fellowship has no limits of time and space. We have come that much closer to finding ourselves and finding one another and we celebrate that moment with our shared salutation to the dawn.

And the fruits crushed against one another in the chill confines of the fridge are asking to be released. The offering will be nothing like I planned. Perhaps closer to mulled wine. Perhaps worth the winter’s hibernation as I serve it up a day or two shy of spring?

PS The picture belongs to Kim’s daughter Mary. Please refrain (no I don’t need to say this) from posting it anywhere. This vision was shared by parents and daughter and it feels like nature painted the moment and Mary preserved it just for my inspiration and delight. The picture captures everything the book wants to express. Bless you and thank you Mary. maybe the characters in the book decide to fall in a heap and sleep in celebration rather than get on their vehicles and head back to where they came from?

*It is said that crossing deep waters, on a spiritual pilgrimage, is a  journey of the soul back to ones divine self.  The ancient Celtics identified this as an Imramma.  When one stands at the edge of the sea where land and waters joins together the  boundaries of two worlds align and one can slip through the mystical doorway that eludes most humans.* Footnote: this was written in Jan' 2017 and is being shared three and a half years later on this space. My Maine connection was fortuitous and triggered the completion and writing of another book - The Quadrant by Kim Ridenour Raikes - that had been 34 years in the making finally found its channel and poured itself out to the world. Maybe I'm not doing that badly, maybe that's the way time moves when the locale is Maine. I'm also pretty sure that the moment I finish it I will find myself physically in Maine - if Maine and I are still around.