Braucher/Braucherei

Pronouced brow-her. German word meaning need. Research will tell you the superficial meaning is folk medicine. Those who practice this so called folk medicine will tell you it is a way of life. Handing down its traditions for generations.

It is the art of using hebology, reflexology, bone manipulation, chants, poems, songs, and prayers to heal. With roots deep in history and faith. Invoking the Holy Trinity. It is about fulfilling the need for wellbeing. A need as old as time.

Those who practice this art form live it and breathe it. It is second nature for them. It is who they are. History has taught them to hide it. That it is witchcraft. Magic. Superstitous nonesense. Hocus pocus. Forcing it to become a dying art. But it cannot suppress a persons need or belief they can heal themselves and others. Those who can perform, will.

I find it fasinating!

Writing is hard in Spring

The weather gets nice and all writing is pushed aside. Time to let the sun rejuvenate. Go for a long walk. Put air in the tires of those stored bicycles. Plan some outdoor activity that gives you joy. Winters strong hold is gone. Summer is coming. Writing can wait.

When you are a writer, though, writing never waits. Never. I find my mind always writes. Just not on paper. I write while watching birds exhilarated displays. I note characters that emerge and beg to come alive in a book someday. I notice intricate details. My mind refreshed and opened. Constantly storing words and images

So, embrace these days. Even if they feel squandered. They will make better writing days ahead!

Cow Bells

Photo by Jan Koetsier on Pexels.com

This week my cousin shared a story. While visiting my grandmother’s farm she rang a bell she found. Mid-day. Grandma only rang the bell when it was time to milk the cows. Early morning and just before sunset. The confused cows came running. My grandmother gave my cousin a scolding she never forgot.

Everything has its time. (Ecclesiastes 3)

Timing is everything.

Only a Short Time

I attended a funeral last week. The man died days short of reaching 94 years old. I sat contemplating all this man must have seen and done. All I have seen and done. How a lifetime becomes brief.

We are born reaching, striving, learning, obtaining. Moving forward to an unknown future. At first our family helps us stand, walk and point us in a direction. Others do as well. But we desire to break free. Do things on our own. Go our own way. Until we find ourselves, in our old age, sitting and contemplating about the things we have seen and done. Turning back, not looking forward. Hoping everyone you have known will remember you long after death. Asking yourself, will they cherish that which you have accomplished?

This man’s funeral, small as it was, came and went. As many do. Just as his life has. Just as yours and mine will. Just like the characters in my novel. Despite our best intentions and wishes we have no control on this outcome.

I have found, through research for my historical fiction, that men and women alike desire to be remembered. Even their loved ones desire that the deceased is not forgotten. That is one reason there are so many huge tombstones. May, also, explain why there is more personal characterization in a library book than a museum. Especially if the book is written by a relative. But it is the past.

The elderly man’s funeral I attended was graced by his grandson’s tribute to his character. He expressed valued memories. He insured that his grandfather will not be forgotten any time soon.

That is all we ask for. That is all I ask for. That is all I hope for when I write. That the life given will not quickly fade away.

Writing Retreats

I don’t know if my title needs an exclamation point or a question. This was my year to explore the possibilities of writing retreats. Perhaps, even attend one. But, due to an unforeseen pandemic, they are hard to find. Thus, a question mark may be more appropriate.

So, I have been thinking of doing a personal writing retreat. Setting time aside. Making a space (outside of my writing space) to write. Planning activities that promote clarity of mind and creativity. I think this is doable.

The thing it lacks is community. So, is there pod casts out there I can add? Virtual classes to stimulate the mind? Sure there are. But which ones would be best?

What would you suggest? How would you go about making a personal writing retreat?

The (Big) Morley Mine

On the Raton Pass

Out exploring today. Actually looking for the Old Raton Pass Road. Richens Lacey (Uncle Dick) Wootton’s toll road. It amazes me that such a historical figure is barely mentioned. What amazes me more is that such a huge mine like the Morley Mine also is barely mentioned. There is nothing in the area of Raton Pass to entice a person to stop and learn more.

We per chance noticed a church steeple and decided to investigate. All roads were gated. Paddle locked. Blocking exploration.

With curiosity yanking on our brain we stopped close to were we first saw it. Along US highway 25. A huge pull off. Why there was no information plaque is beyond me. While my husband took pictures I tried to do internet research. No service. Curiosity had to wait.

So, I marked the spot on BaseMap. That way I could search in more detail once internet was available.

Turns out it was one of the largest coal mines. Over 11,000,000 tons of coal taken from the mine between 1878-1956. But not any information available nearby to make you stop and learn. A very interesting find.

Morley Mine, Colorado

Simpler Times

Oh, to go back in time. To our simple youthful selfs. Especially in times like these where the days news makes you shake your head.

The following is an excerpt from my book “Essence Survives.”

The shoe box barely gets a sidewise glance. No time to lace up boots. A smile creases and pronounces Elizabeth’s high cheek bones. “I’m off to the garden,” she announces. There is no one paying attention. The cool dirt pathway invigorates her feet. The wind lifts hair off her back as she skips. An excitable giggle exudes. Outdoor love overpowers the task ahead. Feeling the autumnal sun drench body and soul. Autumnal. Such a fancy word for autumn. Just one of the many recent onslaught word gains. Too many to recite presently. In preparation for a possibly Journey to America. Never knowing when such a word may prove to be useful, but she relishes the knowledge. Her current favorite being bucolic. Meaning country life. Yes bucolic! Where Elizabeth can be free to go barefoot.

“Bucolic is country,” Elizabeth starts singing, “and country is free to roam. Without shoes, if you please,” twirling, arms outspread, “to dig your toes in the dirt while you pluck potatoes,” she voices. Long brown hair strands follow her to a stop. The momentum continues draping hair across her face. A quick toss, into the wind, places it back where it belongs. On her shoulders and down past her hips. “Bucolic is country and country is for me.”

Travel

The recommendation is no unnecessary travel due to a virus. Yet, people cannot abide.

Presently I sit in my truck. Sandhill Cranes, snow geese and other waterfowl grace my view in a large pond between the rising sun and myself. A gorgeous day!

Also, there are people. Many people. Talking and moving about. Disturbing the nature sounds and distracting from the view. Especially since I am a people watcher. I am not bemoaning their obvious reason for bombarding this pond. No. I know that they need to be out and about.

People cannot stay cooped up.

Where I am is where others want to be. Anywhere but home. Doing something that requires little thought. Enjoying this God given country.

Many needing this therapeutic oasis. Their sanity depends on this escape. Many travel to view my view.

HOLIDAYS!

What makes our holidays?

If you had to choose one, just one, thing that makes the holiday for you, what would it be?

There are plenty of choices. Visiting family and friends. Christmas music. Festive lights and displays. Baked goodies. But to pick just one that signifies the holiday for you can be challenging.

For me it is sugar cookies. One sugar cookie can conjure up memories stored a lifetime. Many holidays that have come and gone all return with the first bite.

So sometimes we must ask ourselves one question that brings to mind a memory that can be written for all to see, feel, smell, touch, taste and even hear.

So, what makes the holidays for you?