In September of 2015, I found myself in Great Britain staying with a friend who patiently allowed me to follow her around on her errands and also took me places for sight seeing. I am sure I was overstaying my welcome a bit when a pet sitting job came up across the street and I was volunteered for it. I took that opportunity to start writing.

A piece about a medieval washer woman was roving around in my mind. Boring, eh? Well, it didn’t go far. After that short stint of pet watching (a very large and fun Golden Retriever), I embarked on a 2 week trip to Scotland which included a week at Findhorn to study Native American shamanism (yes, Native American). During that workshop, I was taking a walk around the nearby town of Forres when I bumped into a stone plaque on the edge of the sidewalk. Behind it was a grassy hill. I did not think to take a picture of it because at the time I had no idea how momentous this encounter would be. The plaque told a story about how witches were put inside barrels and thrown down the hill. This was enough to get my imagination flowing. The washer woman was out the window.

I went home and after a month or so I was sitting under some beautiful Ponderosa pines, enjoying a small meadow just below me, when the  story about Bernadette and the killing of her mother downloaded into my head. I sat there amazed as the scenes and action poured in. When it seemed finished I repeated it out loud and it became the first 50 pages of the book.

I continue to look for, and find, inspiration among the trees.