Month: October 2016

I knew it. I knew that once I was home, I would miss the mountains so badly that it would eat away at me, little by little, each day. Maybe not to the point of being noticeable at first. Lately, I’ve been so busy with a job that I’m in love with, seeing old friends, and running around in the Florida Sunshine to keep my mind off what I’m missing. But late at night, when I’m fast asleep, I dream of it. I dream of the cool mountain breeze, I dream of the people that I met, and the life-changing experiences that I had. The ones that took so much out of me, that that they stole a piece of my heart that I fear I may never have back. How do you consider yourself whole again, once you’ve left bits and pieces of yourself around the world?

By day, I have an amazing job that makes me feel wonderful inside; I have a beautiful office with a view of the water. I get to dress up like the business woman I’ve always dreamed of being, in my don’t-mess-with-me heels, and my let’s-make-a-deal suit. By day, I’m Arielle the Marketing Specialist, working for a company I whole-heartedly believe in, with a team that feels like home. I do what I love, I love what I do, and I get to sit at my desk and create to my heart’s content. But by night…

In my dreams, I go back. In my dreams, I’m eating a Subway sandwich on the banks of my beautiful, peaceful, crystal-clear Jenny Lake. In my dreams, I’m leaning out the window of a muddy red jeep, pushing back tree branches because the road is so narrow that one inch over, and we’re running into trees and bushes and leaving the kinds of dents and scratches that you really can’t explain to Dad. In my dreams, I’m carrying a pail out to the well to hand-crank the pump, and fill it up with water. In my dreams, I’m driving down the endless stretch of Grey’s River Road, and leaning out the window to watch the dust fly into the air, clouding so thick that it chokes you. I see myself grabbing the “Oh dear Lord Handle” and leaning out the window nervously from 8,000 feet up the edge of a mountain, exploring those hardcore trails with nothing between us and the ground because, guardrails? Them’s for sissies. I see myself shirking the seatbelt, because to hell with safety. If we’re going tumbling over the side of that mountain, what good will it do us, anyway?

I see myself climbing up Intermittent Spring, and, I won’t pretend to be a hero…I never did make it to the top, because, well, baby steps. But I made it far enough to raise eyebrows, and that’s good enough for me. I made it far enough to have a “special spot” that was a little cut out rock oasis, with a natural rock shaped like a seat, where only those brave enough (me) could go and sit and ponder life, as you watch one of only three springs in the WORLD do its intermittin’ thang.

I see myself running into the wide open spaces. Then I see myself being out of breath of course, because, well, altitude. I see myself stopping and lying back on the grass, and wincing with pain because of course I just sat right down on a thistle. Then I see myself leaning back on my tattered backpack, staring up at the early morning sky and listening to a hawk’s cry overhead.

Yes, I’m fickle, and let’s just get that bit of truth out of the way. I like what I like, I love what I love, and I won’t who I don’t. I want security, but I crave my independence. I want to be loved, but I want to be free. I want to be protected, but I want to fight for myself. In public, I will probably never say a word. But in my heart, I’m wild and untamed, and that will never change. I will always go with what my heart tells me, no matter what words may fall out of the mouths of those who try to caution me. This I know, and in my experience it’s always brought me more good than harm. So still, I go with it.

I always thought that one day, I’d tell my side of the story of what happened that summer. I sat back and watched as I was called names, and blasted publicly all over social media because I had the strength to leave a bad situation that manifested out of necessity. Truth be told, I’ve been through worse, felt more deeply, and still, I keep going. And that’s just it: that’s all there is to tell. Some say I snuck out. That may be so. I had a boyfriend, and it wasn’t right. So one day, while he was at work, I took the car, rented my own, hopped a plane, and found my way back home. Call it what you will. I call it the beginning of everything.

I fell in love with so many people, places, and things that summer. And like many other rare experiences I hold close to my heart, I will never, ever scrape the memories of that summer from my soul. Why would I want to, anyway? I’ve lived. And that, in and of itself, is a precious gift.

It was author Lisa Cron that once said, “Storytelling trumps beautiful writing, every time.” For this reason, I gave Sarah Rayne’s The Bell Tower five blazing stars. Which is not to say that Rayne’s writing wasn’t beautiful, intriguing, and utterly absorbing, because it was. However, there were a few inconsistencies throughout the novel, and let’s just say, the punishment never fit the crime. But hey, when was there ever a Gothic novel in the history of existence that didn’t involve bawdy, over-dramatized terror, and salacious horror? And as far as over-dramatized, the plot fell just below my, “I can’t take this, but I love it” line.

The Bell Tower is the sixth, and Dear Lord please not the last, book in Sarah Rayne’s Michael Flint/Nell West Haunted House Mystery series. The novel opens with a revival of the Revels, an ancient monastic tradition in a small village on the Dorset coast. After a hundred years has passed, all that remains of the original monastery is an ancient, Gothic, and all-out creepy bell tower, home to the equally ancient, massive, and of course “dead” bell. The tower is situated near the creatively-named “Cliff House,” a dilapidated mansion situated on, well, a cliff. We find our heroine and her dashing, Oxford don hero preparing to travel for a long weekend of festivities filled with music, dancing, and, of course, ancient murder mysteries and madness, that, of course, somehow has direct ties back to (where else?) Nell West’s very own home and antique shop.

The tone throughout the novel was suspenseful throughout, without being too-over-the-top, and when any terrifying situation came to its horrific conclusion it was more like, “gee, well… that escalated quickly.” But the story kept me engrossed, fascinated, and I read it in less than twenty-four hours, and for that reason, I fell in love with this novel despite its few and far-between flaws. Isn’t that what true love is all about?