A TIME TO EMBRACE

To all the family and friends whose lives I've been lucky to be a part of, thank you for being a part of mine. In these upside down times, with frequent storms, calm seas, cloudy skies and brilliant glimpses of the sun, I've been so happy to have had you just a phone call away. Sometimes just a plane ride away. Those times with you were the best.

Through all the times we've partied into the night, crossed swords at times, commiserated and consoled each other, through the sticky days of summer weddings by the lake and the winter mornings we've been buried under a foot of snow, I've valued each and everyone of you. I just wanted to be sure you knew all that.

It's been a long time since I posted on the blog and I've missed it even as I pushed away nagging thoughts urging me to get posting. But here we are.

The last many months have skittered by as I immersed myself in my new book. First I had to nail down the story, which was as ephemeral and capricious as the ghosts I was trying to herd. It's like trying to pin an eel to a rock. When I finally got them all lined up I opened negotiations, in two-way conversations with them, trying to persuade them to be the characters I wanted them to be. They were not having it. No amount of begging, cajoling and temper tantrums worked. They stood their ground. Who would think that those flimsy creatures could be so darn stubborn? One said I made him sound like a girl. So I gave him some muscle, a commanding voice, and Old Spice. He didn't like the way he smelled so we finally settled on Bay Rhum instead. Another one, a girl, wanted to join the Civil War. I pointed out that a young woman of her class, would never entertain such a thought! So she blew up a wagon load of ammo just to prove I was wrong. But the short, silky underwear had to Go. I insisted. At least wear a corset and some long stockings. . . I pleaded. That never happened either. "We weren't all sappy Southern Belles, Ginny. The concepts you people have! Lord have Mercy."

And that was before Sadie Jones, the old wrinkled Gullah cook, root doctor and clairvoyant denizen of the plantation took the reins and gave me a foothold for the  beginning of the story. "My boy's comin' home! Mah milk's a rising!" She said. "Dat means he's comin' home." 

The youngest son of the plantation, a Lieutenant Commander in the Confederate navy was coming home. And Sadie, his old wet-nurse, was the only one who knew. She was, at that time, about 65 years old and I had no idea how I was going to reconcile the idea of her lactating with THAT. But there was no point in arguing with her.

Finally, I had to lose my control issues and let them tell the story their way. They like the title. WHEN THE SOUTH WIND BLOWS. Which is a good thing because I have no intention of changing it. At least until a publisher thinks differently.

I hope you'll love it and ask you to hold good thoughts around it as I embed myself in the arduous hunt for a publisher.

2019 is two weeks away. I hope it's a wonderful year for you and me and all those we love. And maybe especially for all those we don't love quite so much . . . Let's all hold good thoughts around that. Love changes everything. 2019 in numerology, is the Number 3. Which is the number of love. So, I wish you all a lovely Christmas and a very happy and fulfilling New Year.

And to those people we've loved so much, who are no longer with us, we'll never forget you. We'll always love you. Until we meet again.

  

Goodbye Old Year!

Hello My friends,

I've been gone from the blog for a long time.

The reason is, a ton of research, and some related travel, on my new book that has taken up all my writing time. And a pea brain that can contain just so much - and can't concentrate on more than one thing at a time. But I couldn't let the Old Year slip away without reaching out to all of you with a hug.

I've thought of all of us this difficult year, embroiled in our country's poisonous politics, our differing political points of view, and how that has hurt so many of our friendships. All I can say is that I got just as hot-headed as some of you thinking about how RIGHT I was! And at times, although I never forgot that you and others have a God-given right to your own opinions, I may have forgotten my manners and become too - vociferous. I am so sorry if  my, at times, RIGHT opinion hurt any of you. Can we still be friends?

In light of our sometimes difficult times with each other, I thought the subject matter of the following blog would be appropriate:

Miss Kitty wants you to know that the old year is not ending well for her. In fact she feels quite sick about the whole thing. The reason? There is a man in her bathroom. In protest, she refuses to use her box, preferring instead, my guest bathroom mat. This is to show me that this situation has to END. She says she should have joined The Women's March'. I agree. No one protests with as much indignation as Miss K.

"I mean, how can you allow this to happen, Ginny?" she glared at me. "You clearly do not appreciate my sensitive personality or my dislike of intruders - Especially into my bathroom, which I thought was exclusively  Yours and Mine. And now this . . . you're a great disappointment to me," she sighed.  

I tried pacifying her with extra cat cookies, which caused her to forget her manners completely and spit. Gone was the sensitive personality. "I feel betrayed," she muttered. "Don't think you can get around me with cookies. I'm hurt." And with that, she retired to her perch on the love seat by the window so that she could watch (with a great deal of snooty disdain) the comings and goings of 'males' in and out of our bathroom.  

You'd think I was running a house of ill-repute. Best Little Cat House on the Lake, or something. . . All I did, in fact, was to allow in a small, ferral male cat, to give him some shelter on these very cold nights. It's not as though he's a stranger, either. He's been coming around for dinner Al Fresco for several years years now and has never been inside. But 'Al Fresco' has just become ridiculously freezing around here. 

I tried to explain all this and asked her to be hospitable and kind to the poor shivering little cat and she just stared me down. Then she said, "What'll you give me?"
"What do you want?" I asked, getting a little ticked off with this catitude. 
"Vanilla Ice Cream. I might reconsider if you would put some of that Ben and Jerry's in my bowl."
"Will you share with our guest?" I asked, trying for a modicum of civility out of this cat.
"No."
Stand Off.
"What if I squirt some of that canned cream on top of it?" I caved.
"Ok," she yawned, and began to purr to show me I was forgiven.

Yup. To Forgive is Devine. Let's send the Old Year packing with all our 'errs' eat ice cream and resolve to be even more devine and fabulous than we usually are.

I wish you all a Devine New Year, Happiness, and most of all, I wish you Love.

Back in early 2018, with some pieces of my new book and lots of love.e,
Ginny 
 

"So this is Christmas. . ."

So this is Christmas. . .

I'll spend this morning digging out from under the leftover wrapping paper, the botched bows, and stepped on boxes; and maybe I'll find Miss Kitty underneath it all, draped in scrunched-up ribbons or sitting in a box under the dining room table. I can't figure out whether she wants to be someone's present or is in disguise, hiding from Mr. Grey, a young ferral cat who comes for breakfast every morning. Three years into this relationship with him, she's still suspicious of his intentions. I've tried to tell her he's only interested in food, but I can see her rolling her eyes and then I get this hooded stare, that I've become accustomed to, that says, 'Don't you know anything?' 

She imagines he can walk through glass. I've also told her they lock people up, and cats too, for all I know, for that sort of thinking, and that only ghosts can walk through glass. She says she's scared of ghosts and please stop that talk! Then I get the look that says, 'Ghosts! And you think I'm the one that should be locked up??' and positions herself where she can keep an eye on all the doors and windows. Or from under the wrapping paper or a pot plant that barely covers her bulk. Which is substantial in the winter. She's sprouting enough fur to stuff a small mattress, which luckily, will stay attached to her until spring. If she doesn't get too close to the fire place.

But all in all I think she's quite pleased with the way things are shaping up in these days before Christmas. Visions of sugar plums dancing through her head are probably rampant. Or, in her world, it's probably roast bird and sausage stuffing. And any day now, she's going to be all over me, buttering me up with purrs and promises to be a loving and sweet kitty, in anticipation of all of the above. She's such ham! 

Actually, there's nobody more honest than a cat. They know what they want and they know how and when to get it.

Miss Kitty lives in the moment. And I hope that, this Christmas, you and I will too. I hope you'll enjoy the moments of sparkle, the angel or star at the top of your tree, the sugary smells of cookies baking, the sweet tones of caroling in packed grocery stores and the crackle of wrapping paper as children tear open their presents. And as we sit down to Christmas dinner I hope we all spend a moment thinking of others who cannot be with us on this Christmas Day. My list lights up with the names of old friends, people who are watching down from Heaven, soldiers in the field and sailors on our ships at sea. My country too, ranks high on that list. 

Let's surround ourselves and our thoughts with the light and peace of Christmas and just for a moment, include everyone we know in that light: Friends and relatives, long forgotten people who made a difference, and everyone everywhere who isn't as happy or as fortunate as we are in this moment. And then let's move that light and peace forward through all the moments of the New Year.

"Can we eat now?"  

That Cat!

Merry Christmas, everyone! And to my dear friends who are celebrating Hannuka and their own special end of year events, be Happy and Live in the Moment with us. 

  

Introducing with love " . . . as it is in Heaven."

The children and I, their caretakers and other young-at-heart adults who told their stories, 

are thrilled to introduce  

". . .  as it is in Heaven"

When we were young, you and I, we knew things that other people didn't. We could sometimes see things others couldn't and we chatted to people who chatted back; people who no one could hear but us.

This is a compilation of stories drawn from many people, but mostly the very young who still remember where they came from, and the friends and animals they've left behind for a lifetime on earth. 

They tell about the sights and sounds of a place where the colors are exquisite, the trees greener than green and where the seas are the deepest blue.They talk of light that is soft and vibrant, grasses that have a musical sound. And they speak about people they know - on The Other Side. They talk about thought transference, of speaking without words and they remember that they could fly. 

The book begins with the story of a new-born, now middle-aged man who vividly remembers the day he was born and its events.

He arrived in shock and then panic sets in.  

"Where am I?HOLY s- what is this place? Everything's moving and . . . tilting. . . I feel like I'm being lifted. . .YIKES! They're rotating me! Whoa! What's going on?  Helloo! Can anyone hear me?

This young human spirit, new born and disoriented, is upset. He still remembers the place he's come from and has no immediate memory of where he is, or how he got to be in this room full of people, some with pointed white-winged hats on their heads and horned rimmed glasses. . . The whole transition from an adult human spirit to a helpless new born human baby with no idea of where he is, no speech (he'll soon find out) and sluggishly slow movement, is horrifying to him.  

If you believe that we are spiritual beings who have incarnated on earth to live in human bodies and to learn lessons from being human, then it's not difficult to to understand how young children, very recently removed from that place many of us call "Heaven", still remember it and the way things are there.

I wanted to know more. I wanted to know what they remember. So, I launched my own expedition into a world I'd wanted to explore for a long time. The fascinating world of per-existence. I planned the route, took a few wrong turns, and finally, pulling all my resources together I steamed into the project.

The journey began on the back roads of very early childhood memories, my own combined with my fellow travelers, who were the newest arrivals here on earth, concentrating on children who were 3 to 5 years old. I chose this group largely for communication reasons because it's the time when they are beginning to find their way around the language, can express themselves reasonably well and mostly, love to talk. It is also that purest of times before their minds have become cluttered with a lot of outside information.Their friendships are limited and their opinions are their own. And ABC's and 123's haven't begun to complicate things. I especially chose this group because they haven't begun to fabricate stories.

What I found out is that children get this stuff. Take the little girl, close to death who told her nurse, "I won't see you in the morning, because I'll be an angel tomorrow." How did she know? Or the baby who introduced himself to his mother before birth in a dream. What about the prophetic dream of a sad little girl, full of waving golden grasses and a little boy who loved her. Or the loving conversations between a child and a long-gone grandparent.

The book is the end result of over two years of work collecting the accounts of children and the adults who care for them, and who, in some cases remember their own invisible friends. To this bonanza of information I have added some of my own insights and observations, some drawn from my own experiences with pre-existence.

I hope you'll enjoy the book. Enjoy the stories, some of them are heart-warming, some funny and some sad but they all make you think - What If?

At the moment ". . . as it is in Heaven" can be purchased on my Amazon page:
Amazon.com/Ginny Brock ". . .as it is in Heaven" I can also be found at Createspace.com with reference to Ginny Brock and it will be on Kindle e-books within the week. I'm told.

I look forward to your feedback. Fall is coming. Soon the hills here in Virginia will be alive with color. We can feel it in the air. . . What fun! 

  

The Mountains Hold Secrets - and Spirits

Appalachia is so much more than it's glorious mountains, so much more than its trails where hikers scurry like ants for the sunlit peaks that reach for the sky. It is so much more than sweeping valleys, where daisies and jonquils bounce into spring, declaring their unabashed joy to be alive.

Deer trails crisscross the landscape, and on either side of those trails, Appalachia's woodlands, 'lovely, dark and deep' shelter the secrets of the mountains, hiding the human dramas, the back porches of small cabins where moonshine stills abound, and the rutted roads that jolt and bump bright yellow buses that carry the children to school.

There are spirits in these mountains, animal and human. Were you ever in any doubt? And in the spirit of this blog, of looking beyond the realms of possibilities, here's something you'll enjoy!


In her new book, "Them That Go", my friend, and fellow author Becky Mushko, has captured that spirit that lives deep inside the mountains and the people who live there.

One of those people is Annie Caldwell who rides the bus to school everyday, over 15 miles of rocky, winding roads. She sits in the back because she's different. She isn't like the others. She isn't like one of the stereotypes that go to her High School. She isn't vivacious and pretty like Loniss, the flirtatious cheerleader, or clever like Bert the nerd, who isn't like Lucas, the handsome quarterback who loves the cheerleader, or Sarenda Lovejoy, a free-spirited hippy child. And she is nothing like the girl who spouts the bible to put people in their places. Annie is different.

Her best friend is Aunt Lulie who happened to be born at midnight in these hills where it is well-known that if a baby is born at midnight, she will have second sight and will be able to see and talk to spirits. It's even more auspicious if that baby happens to be the first born girl. Many thought of Lulie as a witch with her long grey hair and missing teeth. But Annie loved her. Her kinship with Lulie is deep on many levels, including the fact that she is able to hear and speak to animals.

She has known that animals can speak for a long time. Ever since Rhody, the cow, began to tell her things that nobody else knew. Then one day, it was discovered that all the laying hens were missing; and Annie was the only one who knew where they were. She knew because one of the hens told her that they had been stolen by Silas Mosby. When the hens were found (In a shed on Silas's property) the hell fire and damnation preacher Elder Stoutmire, was summoned to exorcise the demons out of Annie.

But Annie knew what she knew. She continued talking to woodland animals and, more importantly, to the pets around the neighborhood who seem to know Everything. She took it all in stride, vowing never to tell another soul what she knew.

Until that became impossible, when Annie finds herself embroiled in the tangled mess of murder.


This is Becky Mushko at her best. Superbly written, "Them That Go"  is set in Appalachia in the 1970's. She has lit a torch and shone a light through the woodlands and valleys of the mountains exposing the illiteracy, poverty and the joy that coexists in 'them thar hills.' It's a telescope into the often stereotyped secretive existence of a musical people, sometimes gun-toting, hard-drinking, bible bashing folk we hardly know.

In my opinion it's a valuable learning tool as we, so many of us transplanted from other places, try to get a handle on the people who live around us. Our neighbors, who are so like us in so many ways. Except for Annie who is 'different'.

Becky will be presenting her book at The Franklin Co. Library on March 22nd at 6:00 p.m. and at the West Lake Library on April 14th at 2:00 p.m. I hope you'll be there, and I hope you'll share this blog with your own friends and neighbors. The book is a treat!

More 'beyonds the bounds of known possibilities soon'! Take care.

Old Spirits Young Spirits

Last week, I read a piece of my new book to my Lake Writer's Group. Testing the waters, if you will and asking for their feed back. They're very good at this sort of stuff, and it takes a brave soul to put him or herself out there with something for them to critique, let me tell you.

The group is made up of writers of every genre you can imagine, and conducted by smart people from many walks of life. English teachers (Yikes!) lawyers, doctors, world travelers, spies, I think, - or maybe they're just rehearsing the next scene in their next thriller. I'm pretty sure there are no murderers among us, but if you go by their murder mysteries, you might scratch your head and say, "Hmmmm. . ." She knows a little too much about poisons if you ask me. But don't tell her I said so.

And then there's me. I see dead people. So I write about what I know. Isn't that what they tell you to do? Yes. So, my genre concerns itself with the Afterlife; and in this newest attempt of mine at the next Great American Non-fiction Book, I'm talking about Pre-existence. So much fun! And there's a lot of head-scratching going on around the table, believe me.

My fellow writers, nice people, everyone of them, give my readings a lot of lee way. They're mostly still trying to figure what the heck I'm talking about, but they're great listeners and very polite about the ghosts I pull out at the Friday morning group.

Case in point: Last week the piece of the new book I read to them dealt with Old Spirits and Young Spirits. "So, what's an Old Spirit?" Someone asked. "Compared to a Young Spirit". The answer caught me off-guard, and my answer was painfully inarticulate as I groped for words that made sense and soon realized I was making very little sense.

Let me try again. To put it in context, the opening chapter of my new book begins with the birth and shocking arrival of a Young Human Spirit. He has no idea where he is or how he got here. Memories of the place he came from, clear at first, begin to fade with the sudden and horrific realization that he has reincarnated on earth.What was he thinking!

"Where am I? Holy sh. . . what is this place? Woah! Everything's upside down! Yikes! What's happening? Heeelp! Can anyone hear me?" 

A Young spirit is not young in years as we understand time in the 3rd. Dimension (Where we live). He's young in that he hasn't been on earth many times, and maybe not at all, so he has little or no experience with what it's like here. No wonder he was yelling for help. He usually comes here to learn, in what may be the original 'School of Hard Knocks', where we earn extra points for our spiritual and human evolution. A Young spirit is either going to remember nothing about anything when he arrives, or he is going to be mightily confused. As this one was.

An Old spirit on the other hand, is one who has been around this block many times over the eons. He's not phased (fazed?) by it. He probably napped the whole time he was in the womb because he knew where he was going and what he'd signed up for. Even if it was a very difficult life - as they sometimes are for Old spirits. They sign up because of their experience, and they sign up to teach and to enlighten the rest of us. They arrive on earth with everything under control, ready to take this life in stride.

It's strange, but the very people who aggravate or concern us the most may be Old Spirits with lessons to teach. Or a child who is born a cripple, what is she teaching? A young man with aids ... We've got so much to learn.

I believe that young or old, our spirits have all been around since time began. Some of them just take their time getting down here. That's my take.

An old friend of mine passed away not long ago, and a very neat thing happened while I was out walking the morning after he died. It was a warm day and my shirt was sticking to to me. My mind was in neutral, not thinking, not even noticing much, when a sudden gust of warm air blew past me. I stopped in my tracks and had the clearest impression of my friend arriving at his destination. The light around him was misty, opaque as I watched him step onto a platform or concourse or something. I saw him reach out to someone, a young man, I think, who was there to meet him. Although he was bedridden in his last days, he was walking strongly, smiling and was obviously pleased to be there. Taking it all in stride. I think he was an Old spirit.

We should post a quiz  on FB : Are You A Young Spirit or an Old Spirit? Click here to find out.

Take care, See you next time.