 | Chapter One The wide-bodied jet picked up speed and Lindy sighed as the wheels left the tarmac. Heading off to Cornwall might have been a bit rash but once Lindy set her mind on something she did it. What’s the worst thing that could happen? When her mother had passed away she inherited her Great Aunt Emmaline’s dilapidated old cottage on the southern coast of England. She wondered how quickly she could sell it and use the money to support her “nasty habit”, as her mother had called it—her writing habit. Sure, she wrote her romances on the spicy side but didn’t people in love have sex—lots of it? Once the plane reached cruising altitude Lindy let out the breath she hadn’t remembered holding. Flying over the Atlantic, she was looking forward to some time away—time away from grieving over her mother’s death and time away from seeing her ex-boyfriend Stephen with his perpetually happy fiancée. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time finding another woman. Knowing Stephen he probably had been seeing Rachel long before he and Lindy had split up. Forget it. This is a new beginning, an adventure! Lindy lifted the tiny window shade and let the sun blind her. For the first time in months she was excited about something. She loved to discover new places. She knew there was a story in each and every one of them. She would clean up the old place, relax a little—maybe even start a new novel just as soon as she finished the current one. A summer by the sea might be just the break she needed. Lindy had never met Emmaline but had read some of the letters she had sent to her mother. Her mom had promised they would visit one day but the plans were lost in years of pain, promises and disappointment. The documents from the attorney contained her only real link to her deceased aunt. A note in a spidery hand in the margin read, “This house is magical. Open your eyes and allow it in. Do not be afraid of whatever it brings you.” Lindy’s natural cynicism reared up and she scoffed at the silly note but her romantic nature overruled it and she shivered, suddenly very afraid indeed. * * * * * The taxi dropped her at the top of the road. The Italianate structure had been somewhat of an amusement when it had been built over one hundred years ago. Emmaline’s father had been a sea captain and had traveled the world. The house was a combination of all the beautiful places he had seen, mashed together in a gingerbread confection of wood, slate, copper and glass. Quite unusual compared to the drab stone boxes that lined the beaches of Cornwall. The weather-beaten gate swung softly in the breeze, its rusty hinges begging for oil. The pampas grass in the dunes waved a welcoming hello. Lindy pulled the pointless shrug closer around her shoulders. It is almost June for crying out loud! Why is it so cold? Her carry-on slipped off her shoulder as she dragged her suitcase behind her down the twisted walk. She could just see the gabled roof rising high into the pale sky above the sea grass and she smiled when she noted the widow’s walk at the top. Well that was a familiar sign of home. Her parents’ home in New England had boasted one of the most intricately wrought walks in the area. When Lindy was a young girl she would wait until everyone was asleep and she would carefully climb the attic steps and crawl though the cupola window. Standing at the wrought-iron rail, she would look out at the water, pretending that she was waiting for a handsome sea captain to return to her. She made up glorious stories in her head using scenarios from the constant stream of romance novels she’d read. If her parents had known she was up there she would have been punished. But she loved to daydream and the romance novels she sneaked in to her room would have only added to her punishment. Her rather patrician parents, a couple of academics, would not have understood. After her father had passed away, her mother became lost in memories and Lindy had the freedom she had always craved. One day while visiting her mom in the hospital, she told her the story about the widow’s walk and how she had recently been writing stories of her own. Her mother had smiled and said, “Such a dreamer, Lindy.” She would not accept the fact that her daughter was a writer. What she wrote didn’t count, she had said, published or not. Lindy’s heels wobbled in the worn grooves of the rotting timbers that lined the path to the door and she cursed at her choice of shoes. Why do I always insist on dressing for the occasion? In her mind this was a romantic adventure. Her flowing sundress and strappy sandals added to the magic of the day. Who knew what she might find in this place? As she reached the front steps to the porch her mouth fell open. The wooden screen door hung haphazardly on a single nail, flapping in the breeze. She wasn’t sure how she would maneuver the decaying steps to the door without falling through the boards. The attorney had said the house needed some work but this was worse than she thought. Leaving her suitcases on the walk, she removed her heels and carefully stepped near the outside edges of the planks until she reached the porch. The skeleton key slid into the keyhole and turned around and around in circles. Shoulder against the jamb, she rested her hip against the door and gave it a shove as she turned the knob. Screaming with years of neglect, the door moved slowly until it caught momentum and then flung Lindy roughly into the main foyer. She landed square on her bottom. Dress around her hips and legs in the air, Lindy lay on the smooth tiled floor and laughed. Quite the welcome, that! The soft chuckle floated through the air and Lindy froze. A man stood in the open doorway, his gaze travelling the length of her exposed pale legs. Lindy was sure her telltale blush showed her embarrassment as she yanked at the fabric bunched around her thighs. “I beg your pardon, miss.” His tone was as formal as his words. “I saw you struggling with your bags and just thought I might lend a hand.” Lindy looked at the well-tanned hand reaching out to her as if it were a snake. The light-golden fuzz on his knuckles and strong-looking fingers made her want to take it but she was hesitant. Looking up, she smiled warmly to try to excuse her poor manners. His grin was wide—bright teeth and sensual lips, the warmth of it reaching his sparkling eyes. A mane of sandy hair lightened by the sun framed his face, not quite reaching to his broad shoulders. Lindy thought she must be describing a hero in her head but this guy was seriously hot. When she looked into his eyes she shivered. Blue-green like the sea outside the door and for a moment, she thought she saw the whole world floating within them. Taking his hand, Lindy stood beside him. “Thank you. Much obliged,” she said politely. “Ah—an American.” Lindy thought she picked up some smugness in his voice. “Why is it you Brits always seem to say ‘American’ with such disdain?” she asked with equal smugness. “Why is it you Americans are so paranoid?” he replied, laughing. “Captain Thomas Phillips at your service.” “Well, pardon me. Miss Lindy—Belinda Ann Reddington—of America,” she added caustically. “Well Miss Belinda Ann Reddington of America, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He took her outstretched hand, effortlessly pulling her up from the floor. Lindy saw the corded muscles in his forearm bunching under the tanned skin. He was saying something and she looked back into those ocean-deep eyes. “Looks like you have your work cut out for you here.” “Yes, it certainly does,” Lindy sighed, the dejection filling her heart as she turned slowly in a circle. “Would you like me to stay until you have taken a walk-through?” “No! I mean no thank you. I can manage.” “Of course, strong woman and all.” She might have mistaken the disdain but his patronizing tone rang clear as a bell. “Well, strike two for me. Nothing wrong with self-reliance, Captain.” “Tom will do—Lindy.” Was it the familiar way he used her nickname that made her tremble or the gleam in his eyes as he said it? Lindy looked at him intently, wondering what his story was, her mind writing him a steamy history with a girl in every port. The sudden flutter of wings startled them both as the blackbird swooped through the foyer and quickly headed back out the broken window. Lindy squealed and without thought grabbed on to Tom, pressing her face into his broad, welcoming chest. His faded t-shirt was soft on her cheek and she took a deep breath. He smelled fresh and clean, like a green forest after a summer rain, making her want to snuggle even closer before realizing what she was doing. “Umm, oh sorry,” she said, extricating herself from his arms that had snaked protectively around her shoulders. “I don’t like things that flutter about.” “Not a problem, I assure you.” He let his arm drop slowly, sliding his hand down her back, lightly brushing the curve of her hip. His fingers were warm on her skin through the thin material of her dress and Lindy shivered inside, enjoying his touch. Lowering her eyes in embarrassment, Lindy couldn’t help but notice the tightening fabric at Tom’s crotch. It would seem he liked feeling her as well. “If you’re sure I can’t be of assistance?” Tom raised a brow, the low tone of his voice like warm honey trickling down her spine. “No thanks. I’ll be fine.” Lindy tried to keep her voice from quavering as she put a little distance between them. What is wrong with me? It must be jet lag or dehydration or not having had sex in far too long! “If you look just down the beach to the south, you’ll see my place. The one with the Siren masthead hanging from the eaves. Can’t miss it—if you need anything... Widow's Walk was previously published by Ellora's Cave |
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 What is going on you ask? Life is busy as ever. So many twists and turns, but after a brief holiday back home, I am rested and refreshed. Ready for new adventures and anxious to tie up some loose ends.
Things at eSb keep me busy, especially now that we are featuring so many exciting new voices, but Academic Research is well on its way to completion. Speaking of eSensual Books, it seems that some of the content we are producing is just on the right side of too naughty. Although we are not shy, this creates many issues with servers and credit card processors, not to mention the adult filters on Audible and Amazon. But not to fear! Jezebel, Essemoh and the rest of the gang at the Manor are headed to Patreon! @Club _eSensual is an intimate spot where you will be able to interact with your favorite voices and find others that share similar interests. An up close and personal journey through the most pleasure you can stand. Wont you stop by and have a drink, a chat, and maybe an orgasm or two? We think you will find our rewards are very generous. New and exclusive content updated regularly. We are very excited to offer this new opportunity to share our craft with others and most of all, have more fun getting to know our listeners! Check out the @Club_eSensual page for all the exciting details and consider supporting the naughty side of eSensual. Things remain the same at eSensual Books and we are busier than ever, so, never fear, we are not going anywhere. Stop by and check out the hot new titles available for #Masturbation May! Thank you for your continued support. You can’t go home again…
I have used the phrase many times in the past. You have probably read it here before! Recently, as I have traveled quite a bit and it is always a difficult transition back the normalcy of life, and in the past, as I remembered times gone by. Although memories remain, things can’t ever be the same, but then it never really can be the same, only similar, if it is passed. I am headed back ‘home’ to where I grew up, a friend called to say my childhood home is on the market and he was going to set us an appointment. I was excited, preparing for the flood of memories that was sure to remind me of the good ‘ole days. As I checked the real estate website, I noted it was already under contract, so barring a pleading “I used to live here” chances are good I won’t get in. I checked the images available and was surprised that although many changes and updates had been made, I could still recognize the place through the eyes of memory. Yet, something seemed wrong. and I couldn’t put my finger on it… I counted again and realized that my bedroom was gone! Somewhere along the way a wall had been knocked down to enlarge the master and with it went my space, my sanctuary. The cocoon where I spent hours reading and dreaming and yakking about boys. I was despondent, how could they take that from me. I grew up in that room, became a woman, an adult and moved away from there- out on my own. I laughed, I cried, I loved, and lost, all while living in that room. Well, at least I no longer had interest in going in to the old house. I couldn’t now. Home is a word that means a lot of things. It is a place that lives inside us all. A place where we feel safe and comfortable. It is a feeling. And I know when I get back to this town, my best friend will be waiting. He has offered me sanctuary in his home and even though I’ve only been to this place a few times, he is the one that spent many hours in the room that no longer exists. The one that simply sat beside me as I cried about boys, the one that told me I had spinach in my teeth or I shouldn’t wear ‘that’. The one after 40 plus years is still sitting beside me listening to me and realizing things don’t change much after all. I have lived in many houses and many places. I am a nomad of sorts, and the benefit of that is, I am comfortable in most places. I can always find home in the smallest of comforts. The familiarity of a warm hug or the whiff of a long-forgotten scent, but nothing is more comforting than the home of being with my son, the home of my beloved’s arms, the home of my friend’s laughter, the home of my memories. The home that resides deep inside of me. Where I am residing in the States, is a place I live, but I do not refer to it as home. It is more of rest stop along the way to somewhere else. A place to refuel and stretch out the kinks before travelling down the road again. I can’t imagine that I will ever stay still for long, but if I do, it will be not because of the new house I have bought, but because I am finally home. Soon.  ‘Music is my life,’ the image hanging on my son’s wall reads. A man after my own heart. I have always been a music lover. Starting with The Monkees and David Cassidy, when I was small, then moving on to show tunes and the incredible Barbra Streisand, my 40-year love affair with Rod Stewart, leading to the Rock of the 70’s and the hair bands and phenomena that was the 80’s. Throw in the blues, jazz, Broadway and some country and we are only just beginning.
I can’t recall much of the music of the 90’s. I married, my son was born, and although I sang to him constantly, I had little time to discover any music that wasn’t involved with a Disney movie. Throughout his youth, we had Music Monday. Each Monday night, a different type of music serenaded our dinner. I thought it would open up a new world for him and in many ways, it did. A musician and songwriter, he has taught himself to play several instruments and although I cannot take any credit really, I like to think somehow, I helped. It was in his teen years that he had chosen his own style. We went through the classic rock phase together, but then he moved on to alternative, death metal, and screamo, leaving me behind in the dust. I tried to appreciate it, but it just wasn’t my thing. I often use lyrics to reply to difficult questions and nothing cheers me more than belting out a few show tunes when I am down, but I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. I felt like a Parent—and not the cool one: turn that crazy music down! Then came Rock Band and Guitar Hero. A frustrated singer, who couldn’t carry a tune, I was thrilled when he handed me a mic and asked me to sing. In front of his friends…. I couldn’t believe my luck. Many of the songs were unfamiliar, but I found that I enjoyed them. That perhaps I had not given his taste a chance. To this day, I thank him repeatedly for giving me back the music. Sometimes we get so caught up in life, we forget to live. Forget who we are. My son has reminded me on many occasions, and now that he is no longer a child, I am free to make my own choices. Yet, I still find new music every day from him And I still play Rock Band from time to time. Recently, he played Sounds of Silence, a remake of the original, by Disturbed. I was prepared to hate it, after all who could possibly do better than the haunting Simon and Garfunkel version? Remarkably, I was moved to tears by the rendition. The power and angst of the deep raspy voice of David Draiman, created a version that may or may not be better, but was certainly different. Instead of observing the loneliness, this version puts you right in the thick of it. Powerful. This made me think about audio in general and how so much of what I do revolves around sound. How words can change so many things. Maybe a text message is misread without the intent or inflection involved. An email carries a tone, but what if it is misinterpreted? Even a voicemail can be a monotone response or rushed message. Just because we know what and how we are saying it, doesn’t mean anyone else does. But an audio recording allows you to use your voice to create worlds, moments, pleasure. Audio Books that are well acted can carry you away to another place. Sound effects in a movie can make or break the box office. Audio Erotica can create a very real role play experience putting you in the moment with another and Directed Erotic Visualisation© can carry you right over the edge of ecstasy with words only. When I need the quiet, I visit my aunt who lives out in the country. The sounds of silence always amaze me. The air buzzes with the high-pitched frequency of quiet only broken by an owl occasionally hooting in the trees or the clip clop of horse’s hooves on the road. So, is silence, silent at all? We can use our voices to create or destroy. The power of words can be intensified or softened, by a simple change in tone. We can remain silent or speak up and be heard. And thankfully, we can sing. It doesn’t matter whether you can carry a tune or sound like a frog in a tin bucket, turn it up, roll down the windows and sing like no one’s listening. It will help you embrace the silence when you find it. And when you do find it, take a moment, and listen: it is quite a beautiful song.  Now, I’m a romantic, I love candy and flowers as much as the next gal. I do believe that given a greeting card has surpassed the $5.00 mark that perhaps the commercialism has gotten a tad out of control. Besides, I like to be treated as though every day is Valentine’s Day. It is after all the sentiment behind the gift that counts. That being said, I think it is a good day to remember our love in whatever form it takes. Men sometimes need a push to be romantic- sometimes not, so don’t get in a huff- but if they are not normally romantic perhaps after years of practicing, if only one day a year, they will eventually get the hint. It is said, that along with being a Christian Martyr, St Valentine performed weddings for those couples that could not be married in the church. While he was in prison he healed his jailor’s daughter and before he died he sent a note signed, Your Valentine. Sweet, perhaps, but how did we get from there to here. It wasn’t until the 14th century that courtly love became prevalent and Valentine’s Day was recognized as a time for romantic love. By the 18th century gifts were regularly exchanged. A popular custom was the giving of keys as a symbol of unlocking the heart of your beloved. In Wales, they have created a similar day: St Dwynwen’s Day celebrates true love on January 25. Again, the legend is murky. Dwynwen falls in love with a handsome young man named, Maelon, but rejects his advances. Her father will not allow the marriage so she prays to forget he ever existed. An angel turns Maelon into a block of ice. Dwynwen is devastated and prays again asking for three things: that Maelon be thawed, that she, through God will be the patron saint of all true loves; and that she never marry. She then retreats to the west coast of Anglesey to set up a convent. There are some remnants there today, along with a cross erected by Queen Victoria and a well that lovers visit every year. It is said that if the fish appear when you are standing there, it is true love. Traditionally Welsh love Spoons are given as a gift. Whichever country I spend Valentine’s Day in you can be sure will be making a big deal out of the holidays. After all, romance writers and comedians come up with scores of great materials from one day out of the year, so, if nothing else, I can look at it as research. Times are difficult for many right now and the world is in a spin, I propose another holiday: Love your Neighbor day or some facsimile thereof. Perhaps it sounds naïve, but it would make the world a much better place if we could just try to get along. It started in school, the damn Valentine box attached to your desk, some got many others only a few. Prejudice based on the things that only a young child would understand. Gone are those days, so don’t be afraid to let someone know you care. Whether you receive few or many, my wishes are for you to enjoy the day with someone that you love, in whatever form it takes.  Although I haven't been here much, I have been busy. Here is an update on how I've been spending much of my time.
eSensual Books Celebrate 2017 with 7 Million Orgasms and counting! Erotic Audio specialists eSensual Books have closed out 2016 with record success. With better than 50% growth, year on year, since their launch in 2013, they have consistently been ahead of the wave of the latest audio trends. eSb Director Essemoh Teepee, says, “The erotic audio sector is continuing to grow at a steady pace and will soon be a real competitor in the “Sex Tech” and what we at eSensual term, the "Virtual Intimacy" market. We are pleased to be ahead of the curve again on this one and we are ready to fill the need for more quality erotic audio products.” Directed Erotic Visualisation©: the mainstay of their business, was created in 2009 by Essemoh Teepee and has more than 3 million audios downloaded to date. eSensual Books is now the exclusive publisher of over 200 titles distributed internationally across multiple platforms, and that number is growing daily. Genevieve Ash, Executive Director, attributes their success to their loyal customer base. “It is virtual reality without the goggles", she says. “Once you feel the power—and pleasure, of really experiencing any fantasy you desire, it is difficult to resist.” “DEV is only the ‘tip of the iceberg’,’’ says Essemoh Teepee. “If there is a way to give people pleasure through the spoken word, we are going to find it. The thing that makes Directed Erotic Visualisation uniquely different from other audio products is the intimacy, the up close and personal connection, which is created between the narrator and the listener through quality scripts and expert narration.” New for 2017 is their Intimacy Hub. The Hub will offer their current Sexual Health and Wellbeing lines, including ED and Sexual Surrogacy products along with a wealth of sex positive information. Under development is 'The Pink Pill Project', a Libido Enhancer for women without the risk of side effects associated with the alternative. eSb are adding new voices and products to their line up and the response has been an enthusiastic, yes! With the recent addition of Gaelforce Audio they are offering pleasure to a whole new wave of satisfied listeners. They state their goal is "To curate the ‘best of the best’ in erotic audio and make it accessible across the demographic". You can find out more about Directed Erotic Visualisation© and all of eSensual Books products at their website: www.esensualbooks.co.uk. Contact: info@esensualbooks.co.uk  I recently had some minor surgery that made it impossible for me to bear weight on one leg for a solid month. I have had a few occasions where friends and family have taken me out and offered to push me around in the wheelchair. Getting out of the house was a relief and spending 3 hours in a book store a real pleasure, but I hadn’t thought about the way people would look at me. I appear to be a healthy woman. There is no cast. I struggled a little pushing myself down the aisles, but people immediately gave way to let me pass. I imagined counting their own blessings as I slid by.
When checking out, I noted the cashier spoke to my son, rather than me. Offered to help fill out the form for a discount card. All very kind attention paid to someone who obviously might need assistance, so, I was grateful for the help. The thing that struck me though--beyond the furtive glances and outright stares, was the tone of voice being used. As if I were a young child with a teacher. Or an elderly patient that was confused. I suppose it was just out of consideration, in case, but while I understood it, I was offended too. This made me wonder if I had not done the same thing before. If it was a natural reaction for most, certainly in my generation, and why we never considered how condescending it might seem. Politically Correct phrases and descriptions are changing every day. I just had a conversation where I chose a PC phrase and was told it was no longer PC. How do we keep up? What is best the best way to not offend someone? Personally, I think it is a bit out of hand. Now before you attack me, let me make it perfectly clear: I believe that we are all human beings and should be kind to one another regardless of: INSERT SENSITVE ISSUE HERE. We try so hard to not say the wrong thing that we are not saying the right thing either. Why can’t we interact human to human? Why can’t we empathize with those around us whether there is an obvious ‘issue” or not. The current state of politics in the US has put everyone on guard and the progress we have strived for is at risk of being reversed, which is terrible, but even worse is the way people are turning against one another. I have had friends say they wish they had my life—although, I can’t complain, I am not sure why—but as I have said before, we truly have no idea what others are going through. Even when we ask, we don’t always get the truth. I have had little interaction with family and friends since the surgery and am wondering if it is holiday busyness or just being uncomfortable with being out with a wheelchair or walker. As the Holiday season draws closer, we are reminded that for a few weeks’ people make the effort to be a little kinder to friend and stranger alike. Mostly because it makes us feel good even if we must fake it, till we make it. It makes us feel better about ourselves because we want to care about others. So, let’s see if we can keep it going all through the year. It will be a win-win situation and most people would rather you make the effort at all than worry that you might say the wrong thing, the wrong way. I happen to celebrate Christmas. The meanings have changed of over the years, but for me it is a time of love and peace and magic. You can wish me a “whatever you want’ and I won’t be offended, I’ll be pleased that you wished me anything. And I in turn will say thank you for another wonderful year. I wish you and your loved ones an incredible holiday season filled with love and peace and a New Year of happiness.  Giving thanks. A simple effort often made complicated by our seemingly never ending need for more. The way the negative tries to crush the positive. And what of being grateful for the negative? The things that make us stronger. Give us hope for the future and propel us to strive for more, for better. And so, the cycle begins again…
I know I have much to be thankful for. Even during the darkest moments, I have been aware that still, I am so very fortunate. A roof, a meal, a healthy child. Family and friends that love me and I love in return. Doing what I love. Travel. The list is endless if you think about it. And although there are things that I wish were different and times where I am a whinging, ungrateful and selfish brat, it is usually a passing glance that comes and goes. Yes, it creeps back, but if I use all the good to block it then it becomes more manageable. It is in our nature to be dissatisfied, it is what keeps us moving forward. You cannot understand, the joy without the pain, the hunger without be satiated, the loss without having loved. Another birthday lining my face, but I am glad to celebrate another year when some I know did not get that privilege. The extra pounds that creep in from having an endless supply of food, that so many are denied. The aches and pains that remind me of all the wonderful adventures I have lived. Winnie the Pooh says it quite nicely, ‘how wonderful I have something that makes saying goodbye so difficult.’ So, we too, need to look on the bright side more often. Being grateful and acknowledging it, is a sure way to bring peace and joy to the dark times. Growing up in the US, Thanksgiving was always a special time. While much of the joy came from football and parades and too much stuffing, it was the joy of family and friends that made it special. When you look back and see those that are now missing from that table, you realize the true importance of not only being grateful for those in your life, but, also, for never missing an opportunity to tell them how much their presence in it means. People change, grow apart or simply fade away, but they all touch our lives in some way and I believe are put on our path for a reason. Maybe their time with us is just a moment or a season or a lifetime, but it is a sad regret to look back and think they might have been happier to know how much they truly meant to us. ‘I love you’ is carelessly tossed about today, but unlike the Eskimos who have many words for snow, we use one word to describe intensity of feeling in its many forms. Unless you are a wordsmith who enjoys crafting lyrical prose, I love you, you’re special to me, I value our friendship- are all good options. Although, today it will more than likely be an emoji, a photo or a 9 second video! I have had the opportunity to spend a couple of my Thanksgivings in the UK sharing the feast with those who do not celebrate this holiday. While it seemed strange at first, given the reason for the holiday, I realized that being thankful is something we all can do. Even if a small can of pumpkin cost £6! But I had pumpkin pie as I have for many, many years, so I was grateful…see how easy it is! And I have gained other holidays, too. Ones that were not familiar to me: Bonfire night, St David’s Day, Boxing Day, St Dwynwen’s and Miner’s fortnight. New experiences, new traditions. New memories. Different faces at a different table, but home and family nonetheless. The year has flown by and soon it will be Christmas and the start of a New Year. I am not big on the whole resolution thing, but perhaps I will resolve to be more thankful next year. Ah, but why wait for January 1st, I think today is a fine day to give it a shot, don’t you?  Where has 2016 gone? Jack Frost will soon be blowing in and if the cool fall in the UK is any indication, it is going to be a cold winter! October and the heat is already on.
I survived the recent birthday and celebrated in style! A trip to Buckingham Palace was a dream come true--though meeting the Queen is still firmly on my bucket list as she was not there. The first thing I did while rounding the corner near St James Park was look to the sky. The Palace flies a standard Union Jack when the Queen is not in residence and the Royal Standard when she is. My heart sank a little when I saw the Union flag, but just walking the halls of history was more than enough for a first visit. The immensity of this experience struck me the moment I stepped through the doors of the palace. Tears sprang to my eyes immediately as the history, pageantry and romance all combined to hit me head on. I ascended the grand staircase to the ballroom imagining I was meeting the Queen for a Royal Ball. The fact that one of my favorite walking shoes had separated from the sole before I arrived and was now held together with some large rubber bands, did not deter me from exuding what I had hoped appeared as regal charm. How many had walked this very same path as I trod now? How many whispered conversations, important deals and horrible secrets had been spoken in these rooms? And how many had been born, died and lived between these royal walls.So many possibilities swirled through the air. Ghosts of the past floating on the glittering dust trails in the afternoon sun. 90 years of the Queen’s fashion was the special exhibit lining the ballrooms and was a feast for the eyes-even if a little claustrophobic-- as the many visitors all jostled for a closer look. The exquisite detail on both Her Majesty’s wedding and coronation gowns were a highlight, but it was fascinating to watch the way she not only kept up with the changing silhouettes through the decades, but also wore them all effortlessly with style and class. Many commented that now, at 90 years old, she looks better than ever and I have a tendency to agree! Although I planned to cap off the day with Tea in the garden, the lovely café I had been expecting was more of cafeteria line to feed and water the masses, so I passed. Ah, reality never seems to creep back in slowly… Buckingham Palace is only open to the public for a couple months out of the year, so I am grateful the timing worked this trip. If you have an opportunity to visit, it is well worth the trip and the reasonable price of admission goes toward restoring and maintaining the stately residence. The final room on the tour was the Throne Room. I stood there thinking of all the Kings and Queens that had sat in that same spot- some of the older thrones still visible on the outskirts of the room- and was reminded of the dreams of a little girl wishing to be a princess. I may be past my princess prime, but that hasn’t appealed in decades anyway, I still have time and now I am going for Empress. I think it suits me much better :-)  The turning leaves and crisp breezes usher in a time to reflect. The old fades away like the vibrant autumn colours of the Bittersweet vine and with it comes the hope, that someday soon, spring will poke its fragile head up through the barren ground again. September, the month of my birth brings even more time for reflection. The melancholy moments of reliving the past. The people, places, and memories that have somehow collided to make me who I am today. The youth so carelessly spent: omnipotent and fearless, grabbing the best of what I thought life should be, the middle years of anxious busyness, child rearing, and playing the role of adult-- and now that what some might call ‘the golden years’ loom large in the not too distant future, what will change? What have I learned about life? Do I have regrets? Is it ever too late to start again- to move closer to my genuine self? And what of the physicality of it all? It seems that my ‘20 something’ year old self is still trapped inside this ‘50 something’ year old body. A body once taken for granted as I climbed and raced and gave in to all the pleasures life could offer. A body, that I now work so hard to try and make it come close to doing what it once had. Don’t misunderstand, I am grateful for each passing year. The strands of silver and gold laced through my red hair are simply natures highlights, the lines that crinkle near my eyes a reminder of all the laughter I have shared, but in my soul I now know things that I could not have known in my youth. Important things. Things that only experience can teach us. As the clock moves forward, so does my ability to better understand the world around me. To understand what is worth focusing on and what is not worth fretting about. People come and go, families break apart and come together once again, true friends remain over decades while the acquaintances ebb and flow, yet, each one creates a small place inside us where the memory remains. Each giving or taking a little bit of our past that shapes the future. Sometimes I lament the crime of not knowing these things sooner. The wish that I had seized more of life…If I’d only known. But, then I again realize that none of it would be true because I would not be the same person I am now. I no longer covet the life that did not turn out as planned. The phrases “be careful what you wish for” and ‘aren’t you glad some things did not turn out as hoped for’ now remind me that it was perfect as it was. As it should have been. No, my life is not perfect. Some would say, far from it, but I now choose the simple things, the important things to gauge my success. And while I have so much to be grateful for, I have always been a little greedy. Always reaching for just a little more. One more adventure. Stepping outside the norm. Not quite satisfied. Searching. As if the ever elusive brass ring is not meant to be caught, simply to be reached for. A leg up to the next level. The climb. Moving forward. Continuing to live, grow, love. I look forward to the years ahead. Along with the gentle nudges that help me to understand what needs to be gracefully surrendered, I will continue to strive for what can be accomplished regardless of age, propriety or physicality. Transforming my reality once again to encompass the peace, the knowledge, the knowing. What is it that I know? Probably not much, however, the one thing that has always been certain and will always be true in my soul, is that in the end, love is what truly matters. What always remains. It is eternal and I believe the only thing we take with us when we leave this life. So, love each other and yourself, laugh until you see wrinkles, make more memories and know that if your life is not exactly how you thought it would be, keep living anyway, you may just catch that brass ring after all. |
AuthorGenevieve Ash writer of Categories
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