This post is in honor of bookstores. Do you have a favorite bookstore? No, not Amazon (though I love Amazon, too. I sell a lot of books through Amazon, including Kindle editions). But one of those brick and mortar ones where you can spend an entire afternoon sitting in a comfy chair in a corner sampling new authors and poets, or those who are tried and true.

Having moved from Colorado a little over a year ago, I still pine for the bookstore on Pearl Street in downtown Boulder, Colorado, aptly named: Boulder Books. It was the perfect place to spend an afternoon. I preferred the second floor that was full of fiction, poetry and art books and chairs scattered throughout. 

There have been others I have loved over the years. Malaprops in downtown Asheville, NC has a great atmosphere. Highland Books, in my own little town of Brevard, is a haven for book lovers with its helpful staff. And hopefully, I will find more in the years to come. 

The Huffington Post recently came up with 9 of the most amazing bookstores in the world. You can find the article here.  

Another article in the Guardian UK invited readers to enjoy  The World’s 10 Best Bookshops. Photos and story are here. 

I’ve included a few photographs from the articles for your enjoyment. Meanwhile, do you have a favorite bookstore? What is one of your favorite things about it? I’d love to hear from you.

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Author website.

Cairns are something I saw a lot of while living in Colorado, especially on hikes in Rocky Mountain National Park, when above treeline. They mark the way when the trail disappears over solid rock surfaces. They also mark the tops of summits.

To me, cairns are a comforting symbol that let us know that we’re on the right track, that we’ve come to the right place, and that whoever came before us wants to help guide us.

Yesterday, while hiking in the national forest near our home (in North Carolina), my mate and I found three cairns along a mountain stream. They weren’t marking a trail, but were placed, seemingly magically, along and even in the stream bed.

Three, as you know from fairy tales, is a magic number. It means that something is about to happen. Take three wishes, for example. The initiate is given three wishes and this determines their fate. In Jungian thought, threes symbolize transformation. So whenever I see three of something, or get three nudges from the universe that I need to go in another direction, I know something’s going on in a powerful way.

We have also created three cairns at our home, marking the path to our door. We want anyone who visits to know that they’ve come to the right place. The trail, at least for a little while, is this way. Beyond the third cairn, marks the beginning of hospitality. Peace to all who enter here, says the small symbol next to our door.

The stories that we create and share are like cairns. They are like markers we leave behind that show other people the shape that our journeys have taken. Stories, to me, whether they are fiction, nonfiction or somewhere in-between, are sacred beings. They are our way of communicating with our current tribe, our descendants and also our imagination, intuition and spirit, the collective around us.

So if given three wishes, one of them that I offer is this:

 May we all find our creative journey with ease and leave markers along the way for those who follow to make their journey a little easier.

And so it is.

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I’ve had an author website since 2006. Finally this year I had it updated so that it looks more professional. Please check it out and let me know what you think.

Since I think it’s fun to share photographs, I also put up a few small photo albums of my trip to Italy, my time living in Colorado and trips to various places in the southwest, a fan album and a book cover album. 
 

This photo is of me on a street in Florence, Italy. I’m on my way to rent a car to drive to Assisi for an overnight visit and from there I went to Siena for a few days and then to the coastal villages at Cinque Terre.
 

I had dreamed about going to Italy for years. I went there, in part, to do research for Seeking Sara Summers because some of the novel takes place in Italy. I love doing research that involves travel! The novel I’m working on now is set in the Georgia low country, near Savannah, which is a little closer to home. I feel a road trip coming on!
 

If you have a website, let me know the address so I can visit your site. And, like I said before, I’d love to hear what you think of my new design and content.

Onward and upward!

Susan

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In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am reposting a list I shared a few months ago of 100 things (in no particular order) that I am grateful for.

Creating a gratitude list can help return you to a sense of power and possibility. Please feel free to add the things you’re grateful at the comment section at the bottom of the post (or if you are an email subscriber, you can click on the name of the post and it will take you to the blog to comment).

1. my mate
2. my children
3. friends
4. meaningful work
5. laughter
6. community
7. mountain bluebirds
8. coffee shops
9. organic Assam tea
10. road maps
11. wildlife protection
12. trails
13. libraries
14. bookstores
15. artists
16. painters
17. wisdom
18. knowledge
19. potluck dinners
20. National Parks
21. prairie dogs and coyotes
22. good movies
23. elk
24. waterfalls
25. imagination
26. boldness
27. courage
28. people who read books
29. people who read my books
30. discipline
31. joy
32. poetry
33. encouragement
34. mountain ranges
35. good physical health
36. poets
37. dancers
38. integrity
39. sparrows
40. eagles
41. porch swings
42. honor
43. faith
44. resilience
45. kindness
46. authenticity
47. aspiring writers, artists, poets
48. cottonwood trees
49. sparrows
50. shade
51. oak trees
52. all trees
53. extended family
54. unconditional love
55. inspiration
56. strawberries
57. gardens
58. water hoses
59. Pentel mechanical pencils
60. streams
61. rivers
62. oceans
63. mother earth
64. adversity
65. inner work
66. good neighbors
67. surprising moments
68. Pentel pens
69. fresh baked bread
70. blueberries
71. raspberries
72. vegetables
73. art galleries
74. resiliency
75. rain forests
76. vacations
77. a really good joke
78. creativity
79. traveling
80. pets
81. teachers
82. mentors
83. really good books
84. children
85. literary agents
86. Wii sports
87. dreams
88. snow
89. snowshoes
90. snow shovels
91. running water
92. electricity
93. shelter
94. honest politicians
95. really good music
96. spiritual paths
97. sidewalks
98. word processing software
99. time to write
100. hope

What would be on your list?

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The snow-capped Rocky Mountains surround me like ancient grandparents who want to tell me their stories and pass their wisdom on to me. There are no fresh words to describe this level of jaw-dropping beauty. Majestic, timeless, awesome, are overused. Yet every time I sit and witness this scene, I feel refreshed, renewed.

So if these mountains could talk, what would they say to artists today? Somehow, I imagine their lessons would be about authenticity. You cannot look at these mountains and not feel their “being”ness. They are solid, dependable and real.

I think artists are called upon to be authentic, too. We are called upon to be observers and witnesses to our surroundings and to report back to society through our writings, paintings, sculptures, poems, and more. And I truly believe that the more real and solid we are, the more effective and inspiring our work will be to others.

Perhaps these mountains would also teach us how to be unwavering in our belief of ourselves and encourage us to call upon all our strength to do the work that’s involved in fulfilling our purpose on this planet. Perhaps they would tell us to rest in the majestic, awesome, timelessness within, and connect to our own “being”ness.

Geologists tell us that this is the second set of mountains to form in this place. The peaks of the current Rockies, soaring up to 14,000 feet and higher, were created from the remains of the ancestral Rockies from millennia before. So, too, it seems that artists today stand on the shoulders of every artist who came before us. Not only the Michelangelo’s and Jane Austin’s, but those who did their art faithfully and honestly and were perhaps not remembered for it. Indeed, we all stand on the shoulders of giants.

So when I stand on the magnificent Rockies, I am reminded and re-inspired to do my work, sand grain by sand grain, my piece of moving humanity forward by being an artist. Make sure you do yours, as well.

P.S. My first novel, Seeking Sara Summers , is available on Kindle, as well as iBooks and Barnes and Noble (on the Nook).

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I have a T-shirt given to me by my partner-in-life as a joke that has Elk-a-holic printed on the front. Until two years ago, I never knew this about myself, but it turns out that I can sit for hours and watch elk graze and chew and wander from one side of the meadow to the other. I guess this use of precious time is a bit excessive in our fast-paced, driven world, but something about seeing them in their natural environment gives me a sense of peace.

I never gave elk a thought until I moved to Colorado. Of course that’s probably because I had never crossed paths with an elk before coming here. But now I see them all the time, sometimes hundreds at a time.

To support my elk-a-holism, I have attended nature talks on elk behavior and been the recipient of all sorts of trivia facts about elk. For instance, did you know the antlers of a bull elk can hold up to ten bowling balls on each side? Of course it concerns me how experts know this.

In the service of my addiction, I have also been reprimanded by a park ranger when I got a little too close in my viewing practices. (My closest scrape with law enforcement so far.)

Not to mention that one of my fondest memories to date is of having to stop for an impromptu elk herd crossing while hiking.

Perhaps we all have things we could learn from the “wild” among us. In my more philosophical moments, I wonder if elk have entered my consciousness because they have something to teach me about how to be in the present moment. As far as I know, elk don’t dwell on the past or question themselves about their future. They don’t have an agenda to make money or strive for excellence. Nor do they worry about gas prices or the crisis on Wall Street or how the current election will turn out.  They simple are…elk.

It is the beginning of elk rut season in the Rocky Mountains. During the September-October mating season, bull elk stage their own passion play of sorts. The characteristic rutting call of bulls can be heard from just before dusk to dawn.

Bulls have various levels of experience in herding. Some are “studs” and others are wannabes. The stud is the bull that is clearly in command. There may be other competitors nearby, but they can’t compete with the mature bull’s display of antlers and his bellowing bugle. This swashbuckler gathers and cloisters his cows with apparent ease.

Often, one or two other bulls stand on the sidelines, watching with obvious frustration. Even those who have managed to corner a cow or two are forced to watch helplessly as their prospects evade them and run toward a growing assembly of cows, yearlings and calves which have gathered near another bull. A bull with broken antlers or half a rack is not uncommon — the result of competitive battles between bulls.

The territory these alpha males vie for is not on Wall Street, Main Street, or any street at all. These non-partisan battles play out in the sacred forests and meadows of the Rocky Mountains.

This ritual reminds me of American politics. How, you might ask? On the nightly news we watch the opponents square off to see who has the biggest, strongest rack and the biggest herd. They bugle their policies and the reasons they should reign supreme. Like the bull elk, they gather their herd and do whatever they have to do to protect their territory. Swashbucklers, indeed!

Is there good news regarding this seemingly endless posturing? I venture to say, yes. As political ads endlessly stream by, we need to remember that these battles are merely seasonal. In a few months our urban landscape will again be quiet as we watch and wait for the result of this productive season.

Since living in Colorado the last two years, I have spotted a total of 20 coyotes. Some have been within Rocky Mountain National Park, others on the outskirts of our suburban neighborhood in Fort Collins where they’re so close, we can actually hear them yip at night. 

They are beautiful animals known for their cleverness and resiliency. To their credit, they have learned to adapt to an ever more human-populated landscape. Coyotes have been spotted in Central Park in New York City and one reportedly walked into a Quizno’s in Chicago. They are masters at adapting to a world that increasingly sees no value in them.

Sometimes I wonder if artists—whether writers, painters, dancers or practitioners of other art forms—are in the same predicament. At times it feels like we live on the outskirts of society, doing whatever we have to do to survive. We give piano lessons, teach creative writing at community colleges, freelance edit other people’s manuscripts, and perhaps go on the lecture circuit, when really all we want to do is let our creativity roam wild, and have it be appreciated, protected and valued.

As it is now, artists need to be clever and cunning about whom we share our creations with, especially when they are just starting out and too young to be released into the world.

Predators lurk in writer’s groups, in art departments and in publishing houses. Some of them well-meaning, yet biting in their criticism, inadvertently destroying the vulnerable and the weak. Or perhaps we are guilty of killing off our own babies because they are not good enough or because we are afraid of the criticism we might receive.

Artists must learn to be resilient, cunning and clever. We must keep both eyes open, to avoid the inevitable dangers, as we roam this wild urban landscape. As we continue to cultivate these traits, I hope that we, too, will thrive like the coyotes.

Sometimes we can feel like we are just surviving, not thriving. Like we live in an inhospitable environment that almost seems to delight in thwarting our efforts to thrive. Let me share a quick story about the tenacity of wildflowers and what we can learn from them.

The Rocky Mountains are called the backbone of the country. They arch their peaks over 14,000 feet into the air. Trail Ridge Road traverses this exquisite landscape. It is the highest paved road in the United States, with more than eight miles lying above 11,000′ and a maximum elevation of 12,183′. At its highest, the air is thin and fresh and the scenery is literally jaw-dropping. This magical place defies superlatives.

The road is open from June to September. Last winter this area received 23 feet of snow, with drifts up to 30 feet. It took 6 weeks of plowing the snow before the road could open. But even in summer this road can be an adventure. I have driven it in mid-June and in the span of five minutes the weather changed from intense thunder and lightning, to hail, and then snow! The alpine tundra, above tree line, and where this road takes you, is a wild and wonderful place.

In the midst of this “wild”ness are wildflowers. Startling and breathtaking in their ability to survive in such harsh conditions, they are a perfect example of tenacity. Buried under snow for most of the year, they rush toward life in the 4-6 weeks they have every summer to fulfill their purpose. Every single bloom is a miracle.

Perhaps we can learn something from the tenacity of these alpine wildflowers. A lot of us go through life simply trying to survive. Many of us are buried under with work and perhaps the heavy responsibility of supporting ourselves and others, or trying to make a difference in a world that can be indifferent. Yet, like the wildflowers, we must claim the tenacity that we each possess. We must rush toward life, and move beyond surviving to thriving.

To me, heading to the Rocky Mountains is a spiritual experience. A cathedral of peaks tower over us mere mortals; peaks snow-covered except for the short summer months. Moraine Park (elevation 8,000+ ft.) is the valley that runs through Rocky Mountain National Park. This valley is often full of elk herds, except for the summer when they, like lots of humans, head for higher ground and cooler temperatures.

Moraine Park also has a meander running through it. A zigzagging snake of water carrying snow-melt from the high peaks that eventually ends up in the reservoirs that feed the plains below. It is a magical place. To meander along the meander is to imitate the water leaving its impression upon the land and to imagine the force and determination the water has taken to follow its course and fulfill its purpose in the big scheme of things.

Until I lived in Colorado, I didn’t realize that the word meander was not only a verb, but a noun. (Okay, so I’ve led a sheltered “city” life and have no excuse.)

If you look up the definition of meander at Dictionary.com, it reads like the definition of a single individual’s life journey.

1. to proceed by or take a winding or indirect course

2. to wander aimlessly; ramble

–verb (used with object)

3. Surveying. to define the margin of (a body of water) with a meander line.

–noun

4. Usually, meanders. turnings or windings; a winding path or course.

5. a circuitous movement or journey.  

We don’t always know where we’ll end up, but we’re on a journey, nonetheless. And perhaps we take a winding or indirect course to where we’re going (most of us do). Or perhaps we even wander aimlessly and ramble. (Yes, I’m guilty of this, as well.) But in the big scheme of things, I believe we have a purpose and any route we take to fulfill it works out in the end.