I burrowed in.
I went into my cabin snuggled among Pines and hardwoods, in the Appalachian Mountains of Pennsylvania, in January, where it then proceeded to snow for days, no weeks, on end, and I became essentially snowbound.
I didn’t see people for long stretches of time. What a relief! Instead, I walked the land, whether plowing through drifts or on top of ice crust. All with my companion Hank, a Bichon/poodle/Chihuahua mix, who seems to have been recruited to be my emotional support dog. I was so lonely at the cabin after my husband Terry died in ‘23, I prayed for a little dog that I would be able to travel with. Two months later, Hank showed up, as a stray, basically on my daughters’ doorstep in Albuquerque.
Kismet.
Since my husband’s death I have been on a solo recovery mission, and the two months in the cabin has been good for that. Healing. Recovering my severed self.
Who am I? Without being part of a “team?” And, what is my purpose?
Many widows and widowers do not make it through to the answer to that question. It is that formidable of a journey. Essentially you have moved from being, “We are one!—to being, I am 1/2!” And the 1/2 is unfamiliar even to yourself. It’s just confusing.
Well, I spent the winter months of ‘25 in Clearfield County, PA, the place of my birth, ruminating upon my life. What was it about growing up in this small town that still rings true? After all these years of living elsewhere, mostly in larger towns and cities—what is it about this new/old visitation on the land of my birth that has meaning to my life now? Let’s begin with the awakening.
The origin of this Substack, Human Writes, coincides with my awakening. As, did many who write here including Illustrious journalists, like Alex Berenson, although despised and rejected by his former New York Times colleagues, I sense, he was welcomed by the Substack audience who wanted the “disinformation” that he had to offer!
There are the likes of Margaret Anna Alice, and Kathleen Devanney; Mary Poindexter McLaughlin; Trish Wood, Sasha Latypova, and Katherine Watt. All my heros. So many great writers. And, leaders.
I am in awe of them. My stack is perhaps different than those of the aforementioned. They all are doing such great analysis. Such beautiful work!
What I do is called Holy Writing. And that might sound pretentious. But, it’s not. It is a term coined by my writing professor friend who “taught” Holy Writing to her students at Messiah College. And it’s a way of talking about the Divine/human collaboration in writing, planning, working. I guess inspired could be another word.
As a writer, I often plan, and must plan my work, but this space, Substack, is secured for the Holy to come through. And, that means, whatever needs to be said, for me and for anyone, who reads it, will be what makes it to the page. It is the only place like it. The only conduit that serves.
My life, during this chaos time, like many of you, is akin to being a pinball bounced about, flippered up into the fray, and falling, unpredictably down to the next whack, which may send it to great heights, or out the funnel to nowhere
This writing is what comes through while the ball is in play. However fleeting.
Today, the Holy Writing is about Spring. The icicles dripped into sparkling cascading crystals above my cabin windows for weeks, but they are now melting. The fields once endlessly white due to daily winds piling up drifts, are now, through warmer temps, revealing last fall’s brown grasses.
It is time to come out of hibernation. But, just like for bears, it is disorientating.
Something has been gestating for about 6 weeks. It is a creative project. It may be time to allow it to quicken as the season heats up. Bears have their cubs during hibernation and come out to romp in the Spring.
I have made mention of this project very obliquely in articles and comments, as I have toyed with the idea over several months. It really came to me two years into the pandemic. And it is one of those delectable downloads one gets and cannot let it slip away but at the same time it’s too massive to begin!
This happens with artists, being visited by the muse, that is. I love the story told by Elizabeth Gilbert about how she had a download about a plot for a novel where a woman travels to the Amazon jungle in search of a miraculous tree with extraordinary healing properties. As the story goes, Elizabeth never put the pedal to the metal. But, her colleague and friend, Ann Patchett, did and she wrote, State of Wonder.
Gilbert said she believed the transference of the idea happened when upon meeting up with Ann, they kissed and woosh the idea rushed into Ann! Of course, no one was aware of it at that time. But, later when Elizabeth learned that her friend had written a book about the very same plot, she decided that is when the idea left her and became Ann’s! Elizabeth believes that an idea wants to be born. If you get the idea and you are not prepared to do it, no worries, someone else will!
I have an idea for the Epic Musical of our Time. And, if I don’t write it someone else will. But, the fact of the matter is, I indeed, want to write it in collaboration with a collection of writers.
Here is the Elevator Pitch:
We live in a time of profound change—political chaos, shifting energies, and whispers of the Age of Aquarius, ascension to the 5th dimension, and the end of the Kali Yuga. It feels like something new is yearning to be born. But what? And more importantly, who will write this new story?
Our Community Arts Project—Sophia’s Field, asks this question: What does it mean to be human? And others: Why are we here? What is our purpose? How can we reclaim our sovereignty as individuals and as a collective?
Through open discussions, creative workshops, and shared experiences, we’ll weave together diverse perspectives and insights.
But we won’t stop there. We'll transform this living conversation into the soul of a musical—a dynamic, immersive performance that brings this new story to life through music, art, and storytelling. It will be a celebration of possibility, a vision of a world where we live as sovereign beings, aligned with our purpose and in harmony with the Earth.
Join us to dream, to create, and to manifest a new reality—together. 🎶✨
I gave this pitch in written form to the Arlington Institute in Berkely Springs, WVA, last week. I am not asking for money, a grant, or really anything. I am just putting it out there to see if there is any traction for such an endeavor. To see if this idea is meant to be born.
And now I am putting it out here.
Springtime will come to me and Hank in March, in full force in Brookline MA, a community of Boston. This idea could blossom there.
If I have the will, the health, and the belief in the Divine in human nature, then I may have a hand in shepherding this.
And I hope to hear from you. Wanna play?
I see this project stretching over a few years. 2, actually. But, It took Lin-Manuel Miranda 7 years to write Hamilton, so maybe more.
Ok. That made me pretty nervous writing this. But, the time has come…I think!
Perhaps naming it the EPIC musical of our time is what’s got me sweating. How about:
There Once was a Little Musical:)
Anyway
The Play, as they say, Is the THING!
My book, “It isn’t the Taj”, was birthed on an island in the middle of the mighty Niagara river back in 1973. It’s almost done. And so, given the lapse of time, am I.
The book wrote itself, but only in a half-hearted way. The first 25,000 words were dynamite, but then it ended as quickly as it started. Everything that needed to be said was said. Anything else added would just be tapioca pudding inside a Boston cream pie. It wouldn't belong there.
And so it sits in my computer. More than once over this span of time I had forgotten how good it was. I would stumble upon it, reread it, laugh myself silly, and then neatly tuck it away for another decade or so. Maybe that was the sole purpose of it’s existence.
Don’t let that happen with your dream. Find the authors. Find the musicians. Find the spark. And write.
It's time, Elle, it's time.