Yesterday was Thanksgiving. I didnât have time to post my annual Pilgrimâs Prayer as I was up to my arse in dinner preparation and then a bunch of celebration. Whew! I am grateful.
It was another Thursday and another Thanksgiving holiday in the USA. So the earth has not quite spun off her axis; some of her inhabitants may have but a lot of us are here today so letâs make the most of it.
I have shared the following bit of prose in one form or another for ⌠I donât know⌠decades maybe?
Occasionally I vary the wording but the sentiment is always the same, so without further ado, here we goâŚ
A Pilgrimâs Prayer
Once upon a time â a long, long time ago (before Black Friday) Thanksgiving was a celebration of harvest and a time to give thanks. Hence the name thanksgiving.
I donât think the early pilgrims had a Super Walmart, a Sears or a Best Buy. They had never heard of an indie distributor called Smashwords (yikes, imagine how scary that might have sounded)
Iâm sure they didnât have the www to answer all of you questions or a beastly giant named Amazonâ yet somehow they managed.
Can you imagine having to grow your own food and prepare it without the help of of a search engine like google?
When did they have time? Where did they get their Stove Top stuffing and who canned the yams and plucked the turkeys? How did those crazy pilgrims do it?
I didnât really know any of those pilgrims but I did see a John Wayne movie once. John knew a pilgrim when he saw one. He seemed to know a lot of pilgrims but that was a long time ago too.
I propose we are all pilgrims, each one of us on a journey of sorts. Our own personal pilgrimageâŚ
Arenât we are all looking for something? Be it a quest for self-confirmation, truth, a cure, enrichment, comfort, a friend, a lover, a job, a meal or a place to lay our weary head at the end of another day.
I believe life is a journey, or at least it should be. It would be terrible to think we were just flailing through this experience; killing time on this giant floating gumball while waiting for the next Black Friday specials.
I believe we all have one destination though we travel different roads and I trust that we have choices.
Hopefully we will choose well. On the occasion we do take a wrong turn [and we will from time to time] I pray we have enough sense and humility to stop and seek direction⌠to reassess our route and to be considerate in our voyage.
So hereâs wishing all of you pilgrims a Happy, Happy Thanksgiving from the Hill house and may we all, whatever road weâre on, take time to look ahead, pause and bow our head in thanks.
My personal prayer:
I pray our good seeds of hope, humility, toil and courage produce abundantly; that love and kindness grow wild like the weeds of early spring â fruitful and undeterred. And may our harvest be rich with wisdom and discernment.
Thank you Father, The Creator of all things, for this day and all it holds. Thank you for the days past, and Father forgive me for my wrong turns. Thank you for the day to come and guide me to make better choices. Thank you for all the pilgrims in my life â for those whoâve gone ahead and the ones that come behind and for those who read this prayer. And Thank You Father for the beacon that lights my way.
An old man once told me, âSaint Patrick ran the snakes out of Ireland and now they rule the world.â
I thought I would share that belief along with a little history. Oh, and a little poem.
St. Patrickâs Day, feast day (March 17) of St. Patrick, patron saint of Ireland. Born in Roman Britain in the late 4th century, he was kidnapped at the age of 16 and taken to Ireland as a slave. He escaped but returned about 432 CE to convert the Irish to Christianity. By the time of his death on March 17, 461, he had established monasteries, churches, and schools. Many legends grew up around himâfor example, that he drove the snakes out of Ireland and used the shamrock to explain the Trinity.
Let me first assure you I am not in a funk nor am I suffering from writerâs block.
On the contrary, potential stories abound!! I say potential because none have made it past my imagination.
In the garden, the grocery store, in front of the television or at a restaurantâŚ.
The list goes on forever.
So this morning as I was rocking and sipping my coffee (without spilling a drop), I asked myself,
Self, why havenât you written a damn thing ???No new books, not even a short story⌠Not so much as a blog post since April, and by the way you failed miserably at supporting NPM.
I pondered the question while I kept rocking and sipping, listening to the birds, watching the butterflies in the Mimosa tree and waiting for a response.
Finally self answered. Well, (in no chronological order) letâs see...
You got older and slower so multi-tasking got a little harder.
Not nearly enough candles.
You had a birthday and Motherâs Day that went on for weeks-because you have some awesome ass kids.
You had Covid twiceâŚ
Your oldest brother died and it is still a painful and fresh woundâŚ
Remember a large portion oflast year was consumed when the home had to be gutted and restored due to the flood after the freeze. And the fishing shack had to have all of the pipes replaceddue to the same freeze.
The economy has put a strain on your finances so youâve had to seriously reconstruct your retirement- and even put the fishing shack up for sale.
You chose to spend a significant amount of time mentoring and advocating for others because you know how it can beâŚ
You spend a lot of time âworkingâ at the pond and in the yard and gardens. But honestly you âmeanderâ as much as you work.
Your dog died and you got a new kittenâŚ.
After listening to self for a minute, I said Oookay, and I didnât feel too bad.
But then the selfish self had to wonder⌠am I still relevant? Not that I base my self worth on my writing but⌠you know.
So I typed my name and search-engined myself.
Great. At least I still appear in the www sphere.
But I found a piece of me in a place I had not heard of.
If you donât hear much from me it is safe to assume I am probably wandering in the woods or on the beach or working on a story even if it is in my head.
Every young girl has dreams. Some dream of being a supermodel or a nurse, a doctor or a fireman, a teacher, a writer or a rock star. Savannah Dawn has dreams too. But she mostly dreams of a life without nightmares.
A few Clips from Chapter 1
My name is Savannah Dawn and I was named for the place of my conception, whatever that means. Iâll be eleven years old come next March. I love to swim and I hate school. I guess thatâs all I know to say about myself except sometimes I see things⌠like in a dream.
đŹ
The dreams used to bother me but they donât anymore. When I was younger I would wake up crying in the middle of the night – Mama would bring me a glass of milk and sit beside me in the dark. Iâd tell her what I saw and sheâd say, âtheyâre just nightmares honey; nothing but unconsecrated visions.â
As I got older I felt like Mama didnât want to hear about the things that troubled my slumber. A few times it seemed to rile her so I learned to stay quiet and get my own milk.
đŹ
Preacher Zeb calls them revelations and says I shouldnât tell a soul about what I see except him. Zeb is an ex-Marine and a retired pastor. He was also my papaâs best friend. Last summer he baptized me in the Neches River with only God as our witness. We made a pinky swear to keep it secret. A pinky swear ainât like a promise to God â itâs a promise not to tell Mama. She would have had a fit knowing I washed my sins in dirty water not to mention I nearly drowned while waiting on the Holy Spirit.
My sister got the spirit once at The First Assembly of God in downtown Trinity. She was sitting on the front pew making goo-goo eyes at Brother Tim when all of a sudden she went limp as a dish rag. The brother hollered âhallelujahâ and flew down from the pulpit. He smacked her on the forehead then Jodi jumped up and started shaking all over and everybody went crazy.
It took me a minute to realize what was going on; it took Mama about a minute and a half.
Jodi said she felt like a movie star when the whole congregation wanted to touch her. She done it so folks would think she was special, thatâs what she said. I always thought she was special so I didnât care one way or the other but it sure was funny watching her dance around with her hands in the air shouting, âalley baba â naba -naba daba- daba doo.â She was doing a different dance after we got home and Mama whipped her for blaspheming the Holy Ghost.
I donât like referring to the Lordâs essence as a ghost. Mama says theyâre the same thing but I know sheâs never seen either one or she wouldnât say that. I also know spirits donât always live in a body; some of them live in drinks of alcoholâŚ.
ITâS JUST A SMALL BROWN wicker basket, not built to hold much –
and a bit tattered from over handling. Itâs beautiful warm browns have dulled and faded with age on the outside –
but inside the natural luster still shines.
Itâs top is held in place by make-do leather ties because the first woody hasps were worn in two –
and now dangle loosely, without purpose.
What hands made the airy coffer? I wonder as I stroke the thin smooth fibers. Was it one as handsome as the tight weaves frayed by time?
Though dust has long since claimed his finger prints – I know that he was a weaver; I imagine that he was a dream weaver⌠Diligently intertwining each cane thread with my hopes in mindâŚ
A place to store my breathing dreams so that they could be kept safe and close at hand, amassed in a beautiful fibrous reminder. A quaint little chest of hope I will one day hand down to a child, a grandchild or perhaps even a great grandchild – when I have used up its contents.
When I have taken the dusty lid off one last time and felt deep into the corners to make certain I havenât left any ideas untouched… I imagine when I offer it up to him (or her) they will look at me like Iâm crazy (and I may well be) then theyâll tear the lid off, expecting to find a treasure of sorts before saying with disappointment,
âItâs just an empty old basket.â
It is then I will share with them the wishes and ideas that were stored and later born of that basket.
How they were kept safe till I could see them come to fruition. And one more time I will imagine the handsome dark skinned man who meticulously weaved the wonderful piece⌠a place to store my dreams because dreams need room to breathe.
Then I will show them how to place their own aspirations into the old auburn chest with caution to keep them safe, to nurture their hopes and give them time to mature. And if my last wish were to come true I will see them realize the birth of their visions.
*I adore woven baskets and this bit of prose was inspired by one of my favorites.
Did you know it was a woman named Rita Toews who started the Read an Ebook Week? Yep.
Read an Ebook Week brings together ebook retailers, publishers, authors, device-makers and untold thousands of readers who join in this international literary event.
For one week only, publishers and authors offer thousands of original ebooks for free and at deep discounts to encourage book lovers around the globe to give ebooks a try.
Admittedly I have not given Smashwords the proper time and care I should have – because to tell the truth they were a great help to me years ago when I went independent.
I hope to remedy my negligence now by actively participating in Read an Ebook Week.
For this week (March 07-13) the price of my titles at Smashwords have been deeply discounted with a price range of $1.99 to $0.00.
Every young girl has dreams. Some dream of being a supermodel or a nurse, a doctor or a fireman, a teacher, a writer or a rock star. Savannah Dawn has dreams too. But she mostly dreams of a life without nightmares.
Chapter 1
My name is Savannah Dawn and I was named for the place of my conception, whatever that means. Iâll be eleven years old come next March. I love to swim and I hate school. I guess thatâs all I know to say about myself except sometimes I see things⌠like in a dream. Not the stuff most folks talk about. Iâve never dreamed of falling off a cliff or being naked in public and besides those things arenât scary. As a matter of fact I think dreams like that are silly. There arenât any cliffs around here and the only time I take my clothes off is to bathe and then I put them right back on.
The dreams used to bother me but they donât anymore. When I was younger I would wake up crying in the middle of the night.
Mama would bring me a glass of milk and sit beside me in the dark. Iâd tell her what I saw and sheâd say, âtheyâre just nightmares honey; nothing but unconsecrated visions.â
As I got older I felt like Mama didnât want to hear about the things that troubled my slumber. A few times it seemed to rile her so I learned to stay quiet and get my own milk. When she mentioned it to the doctor I told him I didnât see things anymore. But I did.
Most times what I dream comes to pass but every so often it doesnât and thatâs a good thing. It gets tiresome seeing all the sorrow in peoples past and the tragedy some are headed for. Too bad I never saw what lay in store for Papa; it would have saved us all a heap of sorrow.
Preacher Zeb calls them revelations and says I shouldnât tell a soul about what I see except him. Zeb is an ex-Marine and a retired pastor. He was also my papaâs best friend. Last summer he baptized me in the Neches River with only God as our witness. We made a pinky swear to keep it secret. A pinky swear ainât like a promise to God â itâs a promise not to tell Mama. She would have had a fit knowing I washed my sins in dirty water not to mention I nearly drowned while waiting on the Holy Spirit.
My sister got the spirit once at The First Assembly of God in downtown Trinity. She was sitting on the front pew making goo-goo eyes at Brother Tim when all of a sudden she went limp as a dish rag. The brother hollered âhallelujahâ and flew down from the pulpit. He smacked her on the forehead then Jodi jumped up and started shaking all over and everybody went crazy.
It took me a minute to realize what was going on; it took Mama about a minute and a half.
Jodi said she felt like a movie star when the whole congregation wanted to touch her. She done it so folks would think she was special, thatâs what she said. I always thought she was special so I didnât care one way or the other but it sure was funny watching her dance around with her hands in the air shouting, alley baba – naba -naba daba- daba doo. She was doing a different dance after we got home and Mama whipped her for blaspheming the Holy Ghost.
I donât like referring to the Lordâs essence as a ghost. Mama says theyâre the same thing but I know sheâs never seen either one or she wouldnât say that. I also know spirits donât always live in a body; some of them live in drinks of alcohol….
The Real Janna Hill in 