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This will subscribe you to all of our newsletters, announcements, and promotional content. For more control over what you subscribe to, head on over to our subscription page. Taking too long? Try again or cancel this request. Buy Locally. In my eyes he was the greatest hero the world had ever seen! I have spoken of the time I realized physical pain. My first realization of the mental pain of sorrow came when I was nine years old.

I had two pet kittens, Catkin and Pussy-willow. Catkin was a little too meek and pink-nosed to suit me, but Pussy-willow was the prettiest, "cutest" little scrap of gray-striped fur ever seen and I loved her passionately. One morning I found her dying of poison. I shall never forget my agony of grief as I watched my little pet's bright eyes glazing, and her tiny paws growing stiff and cold. And I have never laughed with grown-up wisdom at my passionate sorrow over the little death. It was too real, too symbolical! It was the first time I realized death, the first time, since I had become conscious of loving, that anything I loved had left me forever.

At that moment the curse of the race came upon me, "death entered into my world" and I turned my back on the Eden of childhood where everything had seemed everlasting. I was barred out of it forevermore by the fiery sword of that keen and unforgettable pain. We were Presbyterians, and went every Sunday to the old Cavendish Presbyterian Church on the bleak hill. It was never a handsome church, inside or out, but it was beautified in its worshippers' eyes by years of memories and sacred associations. Our pew was by a window and we looked out over the slope of the long western hill and the blue pond down to the curving rim of the sandhills and the fine sweep of the blue Gulf.

There was a big gallery at the back of the church. I always hankered to sit there, principally because I wasn't allowed to, no doubt, another instance of forbidden fruit! Once a year, on Sacrament Sunday, I was permitted to go up there with the other girls, and I considered it a great treat. We could look down over the whole congregation, which always flowered out that day in full bloom of new hats and dresses.

Sacrament Sunday, then, was to us what Easter is to the dwellers in cities. We all had new hats or dresses, sometimes, oh, bliss, we had both! And I very much fear that we thought more about them than we did about the service and what it commemorated. It was rather a long service in those days, and we small fry used to get very tired and rather inclined to envy certain irresponsible folk who went out while the congregation sang "'Twas on that night when doomed to know. Some of my sweetest memories are of the hours spent in that old church with my little mates, with our testaments and lesson sheets held in our cotton-gloved hands.

Saturday night we had been made learn our catechism and our Golden texts and our paraphrases. I always enjoyed reciting those paraphrases, particularly any that had dramatic lines. All through the sermon following I kept repeating them to myself. To this day they give me a mysterious pleasure and a pleasure quite independent of their meaning. So ran the current of my life in childhood, very quiet and simple, you perceive.

Nothing at all exciting about it, nothing that savours of a "career. But life never held for me a dull moment. I had, in my vivid imagination, a passport to the geography of Fairyland. In a twinkling I could — and did — whisk myself into regions of wonderful adventures, unhampered by any restrictions of time or place. Everything was invested with a kind of fairy grace and charm, emanating from my own fancy, the trees that whispered nightly around the old house where I slept, the woodsy nooks I explored, the homestead fields, each individualized by some oddity of fence or shape, the sea whose murmur was never out of my ears — all were radiant with "the glory and the dream.

A little fern growing in the woods, a shallow sheet of June-bells under the firs, moonlight falling on the ivory column of a tall birch, an evening star over the old tamarack on the dyke, shadow-waves rolling over a field of ripe wheat — all gave me "thoughts that lay too deep for tears" and feelings which I had then no vocabulary to express.

It has always seemed to me, ever since early childhood, that, amid all the commonplaces of life, I was very near to a kingdom of ideal beauty. Between it and me hung only a thin veil. I could never draw it quite aside, but sometimes a wind fluttered it and I caught a glimpse of the enchanting realm beyond — only a glimpse — but those glimpses have always made life worth while.

It goes without saying that I was passionately fond of reading. We did not have a great many books in the house, but there were generally plenty of papers and a magazine or two. Grandmother took Godey's Lady's Book. I do not know if I would think much of that magazine now, but then I thought it wonderful, and its monthly advents were epochs to me.

The opening pages were full of fashion plates and were a perpetual joy; I hung over them with delight, and whiled away many an hour choosing what frocks I would have if I could. Those were the days of bangs, bristles, and high-crowned hats, all of which I considered extremely beautiful and meant to have as soon as I was old enough. Beyond the fashion pages came the literary pabulum, short stories and serials, which I devoured ravenously, crying my eyes out in delicious woe over the agonies of the heroines who were all superlatively beautiful and good. Every one in fiction was either black or white in those days.

There were no grays. The villains and villainesses were all neatly labelled and you were sure of your ground. The old method had its merits. Nowadays it is quite hard to tell which is the villain and which the hero. But there was never any doubt in Godey's Lady's Book.

What books we had were well and often read. I had my especial favourites. There were two red-covered volumes of A History of the World , with crudely-coloured pictures, which were a never-failing delight. I fear that, as history, they were rather poor stuff, but as story books they were very interesting. They began with Adam and Eve in Eden, went through "the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome," down to Victoria's reign.

Then there was a missionary book dealing with the Pacific Islands, in which I revelled because it was full of pictures of cannibal chiefs with the most extraordinary hair arrangements. Hans Andersen's Tales were a perennial joy. I always loved fairy tales and delighted in ghost stories. Indeed, to this day I like nothing better than a well-told ghost story, warranted to send a cold creep down your spine. But it must be a real ghost story, mark you. The spook must not turn out a delusion and a snare. I did not have access to many novels. Those were the days when novels were frowned on as reading for children.

Fortunately poetry did not share the ban of novels. Poetry pored over in childhood becomes part of one's nature more thoroughly than that which if first read in mature years can ever do. Its music was woven into my growing soul and has echoed through it, consciously and subconsciously, ever since: "the music of the immortals, of those great, beautiful souls whose passing tread has made of earth holy ground. Then our faithful standbys were Pilgrim's Progress and Talmage's Sermons.

Pilgrim's Progress was read and re-read with never-failing delight. I am proud of this; but I am not quite so proud of the fact that I found just as much delight in reading Talmage's Sermons. That was Talmage's palmy day. All the travelling colporteurs carried his books, and a new volume of Talmage's meant then to us pretty much what a "bestseller" does now. I cannot claim that it was the religion that attracted me, though at that age I liked the Talmage brand much; it was the anecdotes and the vivid, dramatic word-pictures. His sermons were as interesting as fiction.

I am sure I couldn't read them with any patience now; but I owe Talmage a very real debt of thanks for pleasure given to a child craving the vividness of life. I shall never forget that book. It belonged to a type now vanished from the earth — fortunately — but much in vogue at that time. It was the biography of a child who at five years became converted, grew very ill soon afterward, lived a marvellously patient and saintly life for several years, and died, after great sufferings, at the age of ten. I must have read that book a hundred times if I did once.

I don't think it had a good effect on me. For one thing it discouraged me horribly. Anzonetta was so hopelessly perfect that I felt it was no use to try to imitate her. Yet I did try. She never seemed by any chance to use the ordinary language of childhood at all. She invariably responded to any remark, if it were only "How are you to-day, Anzonetta?

Anzonetta was a perfect hymnal. She died to a hymn, her last, faintly-whispered utterance being "Hark, they whisper, angels say, Sister spirit, come away. I had a wholesome conviction that I should be laughed at, and moreover, I doubted being understood. But I did my best; I wrote hymn after hymn in my little diary, and patterned the style of my entries after Anzonetta's remarks.

I only thought I ought to. I was, in reality, very well contented with my own world, and my own little life full of cabbages and kings. I have written at length about the incidents and environment of my childhood because they had a marked influence on the development of my literary gift. A different environment would have given it a different bias. Were it not for those Cavendish years, I do not think Anne of Green Gables would ever have been written.

When I am asked "When did you begin to write? To write has always been my central purpose around which every effort and hope and ambition of my life has grouped itself. I was an indefatigable little scribbler, and stacks of manuscripts, long ago reduced to ashes, alas, bore testimony to the same.

I wrote about all the little incidents of my existence. I wrote descriptions of my favourite haunts, biographies of my many cats, histories of visits, and school affairs, and even critical reviews of the books I had read. One wonderful day, when I was nine years old, I discovered that I could write poetry. I had been reading Thomson's Seasons , of which a little black, curly-covered atrociously printed copy had fallen into my hands.

So I composed a "poem" called "Autumn" in blank verse in imitation thereof. I wrote it, I remember, on the back of one of the long red "letter bills" then used in the postal service. It was seldom easy for me to get all the paper I wanted, and those blessed old letter bills were positive boons. Grandfather kept the post office, and three times a week a discarded "letter bill" came my grateful way. The Government was not so economical then as now, at least in the matter of letter bills; they were then half a yard long. As for "Autumn," I remember only the opening lines: "Now autumn comes, laden with peach and pear; The sportsman's horn is heard throughout the land, And the poor partridge, fluttering, falls dead.

But in those glorious days my imagination refused to be hampered by facts. Thomson had sportsman's horns and so forth; therefore I must have them too. Father came to see me the very day I wrote it, and I proudly read it to him. He remarked unenthusiastically that "it didn't sound much like poetry. Once I had found out that I could write poetry I overflowed into verse over everything. I wrote in rhyme after that, though, having concluded that it was because "Autumn" did not rhyme that Father thought it wasn't poetry.

I wrote yards of verses about flowers and months and trees and stars and sunsets. A school chum of mine, Alma M—, had also a knack of writing rhyme. She and I had a habit, no doubt, a reprehensible one, of getting out together on the old side bench at school, and writing "po'try" on our slates, when the master fondly supposed we were sharpening our intellects on fractions. We began by first writing acrostics on our names; then we wrote poems addressed to each other in which we praised each other fulsomely; finally, one day, we agreed to write up in stirring rhyme all our teachers, including the master himself.

We filled our slates; two verses were devoted to each teacher, and the two concerning the reigning pedagogue were very sarcastic effusions dealing with some of his flirtations with the Cavendish belles. Alma and I were gleefully comparing our productions when the master himself, who had been standing before us but with his back toward us, hearing a class, suddenly wheeled about and took my slate out of my paralyzed hand.

I stood up, firmly believing that the end of all things was at hand. Why he did not read it I do not know, it may be he had a dim suspicion what it was and wanted to save his dignity. Whatever his reason, he handed the slate back to me in silence, and I sat down with a gasp, sweeping off the accusing words as I did so lest he might change his mind. Alma and I were so badly scared that we gave up at once and forever the stolen delight of writing poetry in company on the side bench! I remember — who could ever forget it?

I was about twelve and I had a stack of poems written out and hidden jealously from all eyes, for I was very sensitive in regard to my scribblings and could not bear the thought of having them seen and laughed at. Nevertheless, I wanted to know what others would think of them, not from vanity, but from a strong desire to find out if an impartial judge would see any merit in them.

So I employed a little ruse to find out. It all seems very funny to me now, and a little pitiful; but then it seemed to me that I was at the bar of judgment for all time. It would be too much to say that, had the verdict been unfavourable, I would have forever surrendered my dreams, but they would certainly have been frosted for a time. A lady was visiting us who was something of a singer. One evening I timidly asked her if she had ever heard a song called "Evening Dreams.

It is not now extant, and I can remember the first two verses only. I suppose that they were indelibly impressed on my memory by the fact that the visitor asked me if I knew any of the words of the "song. Also, a child of twelve would have a long "past" to live over! I finished up with a positive gasp, but the visitor was busy with her fancy work, and did not notice my pallor and general shakiness. For I was pale, it was a moment of awful import to me. She placidly said that she had never heard the song, but "the words were very pretty.

But to me it was the sweetest morsel of commendation that had ever fallen to my lot, or that ever has fallen since, for that matter. Nothing has ever surpassed that delicious moment. I ran out of the house — it wasn't big enough to contain my joy, I must have all outdoors for that — and danced down the lane under the birches in a frenzy of delight, hugging to my heart the remembrance of those words.

Perhaps it was this that encouraged me sometime during the following winter to write out my "Evening Dreams" very painstakingly — on both sides of the paper, alas! The idea of being paid for them never entered my head. Indeed, I am not at all sure that I knew at that time that people were ever paid for writing. At least, my early dreams of literary fame were untainted by any mercenary speculations. He sent the verses back, although I had not "enclosed a stamp" for the purpose, being in blissful ignorance of any such requirement.

My aspirations were nipped in the bud for a time. It was a year before I recovered from the blow. Then I essayed a more modest flight. I copied out my "Evening Dreams" again and sent them to the Charlottetown Examiner. I felt quite sure it would print them, for it often printed verses which I thought, and, for that matter, still think, were no better than mine. For a week I dreamed delicious dreams of seeing my verses in the Poet's Corner, with my name appended thereto. When the Examiner came, I opened it with tremulous eagerness.

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There was not a sign of an evening dream about it! I drained the cup of failure to the very dregs. It seems very amusing to me now, but it was horribly real and tragic to me then. I was crushed in the very dust of humiliation and I had no hope of rising again. I burned my "Evening Dreams," and, although I continued to write because I couldn't help it, I sent no more poems to the editors.

Poems, however, were not all I wrote. Very soon after I began to write verses I also began to write stories.


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I remember only that it was a very tragic plot, and the heroines were all drowned while bathing on Cavendish sandshore! Oh, it was very sad! It was the first, and probably the last, time that Janie and Amanda attempted fiction, but I had already quite a library of stories in which almost everyone died.

A certain lugubrious yarn, "My Graves," was my masterpiece. It was a long tale of the peregrinations of a Methodist minister's wife, who buried a child in every circuit to which she went. The oldest was buried in Newfoundland, the last in Vancouver, and all Canada between was dotted with those graves. I wrote the story in the first person, described the children, pictured out their death beds, and detailed their tombstones and epitaphs.

Then there was "This History of Flossy Brighteyes," the biography of a doll. I couldn't kill a doll, but I dragged her through every other tribulation. However, I allowed her to have a happy old age with a good little girl who loved her for the dangers she had passed and overlooked her consequent lack of beauty.

Nowadays, my reviewers say that my forte is humour. Well, there was not much humour in those early tales, at least, it was not intended there should be. Perhaps I worked all the tragedy out of my system in them, and left an unimpeded current of humour. I think it was my love of the dramatic that urged me to so much infanticide. In real life I couldn't have hurt a fly, and the thought that superfluous kittens had to be drowned was torture to me.

But in my stories battle, murder and sudden death were the order of the day. When I was fifteen I had my first ride on a railway train, and it was a long one. I went with Grandfather Montgomery to Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, where Father had married again and was then living. I spent a year in Prince Albert and attended the High School there. It was now three years since I had suffered so much mortification over "Evening Dreams. I wrote up the old Cape Leforce legend in rhyme and sent it down home to the Patriot , no more of the Examiner for me! Four weeks passed.

One afternoon Father came in with a copy of the Patriot. My verses were in it! It was the first sweet bubble on the cup of success and of course it intoxicated me. There were some fearful printers' errors in the poem which fairly made the flesh creep on my bones, but it was my poem, and in a real newspaper! The moment we see our first darling brain-child arrayed in black type is never to be forgotten.

It has in it some of the wonderful awe and delight that comes to a mother when she looks for the first time on the face of her first born. During that winter I had other verses and articles printed. A story I had written in a prize competition was published in the Montreal Witness , and a descriptive article on Saskatchewan was printed in the Prince Albert Times , and copied and commented on favourably by several Winnipeg papers.

After several effusions on "June" and kindred subjects appeared in that long-suffering Patriot , I was beginning to plume myself on being quite a literary person. But the demon of filthy lucre was creeping into my heart. I wrote a story and sent it to the New York Sun , because I had been told that it paid for articles; and the New York Sun sent it back to me. I flinched, as from a slap in the face, but went on writing. You see I had learned the first, last, and middle lesson — "Never give up! In the fall of I went to Charlottetown, and attended the Prince of Wales College that winter studying for a teacher's license.

I was still sending away things and getting them back. But one day I went into the Charlottetown post office and got a thin letter with the address of an American magazine in the corner. In it was a brief note accepting a poem, "Only a Violet. I kept one myself and gave the other to a friend, and those magazines, with their vapid little stories, were the first tangible recompense my pen brought me.

It is my dearest ambition. I wrote a good deal and learned a good deal, but still my stuff came back, except from two periodicals the editors of which evidently thought that literature was its own reward, and quite independent of monetary considerations. I often wonder that I did not give up in utter discouragement. At first I used to feel dreadfully hurt when a story or poem over which I had laboured and agonized came back, with one of those icy little rejection slips. Tears of disappointment would come in spite of myself, as I crept away to hide the poor, crimpled manuscript in the depths of my trunk.

But after a while I got hardened to it and did not mind. I only set my teeth and said "I will succeed. I never told my ambitions and efforts and failures to any one. Down, deep down, under all discouragement and rebuff, I knew I would "arrive" some day. In the autumn of I went to Halifax and spent the winter taking a selected course in English literature at Dalhousie College. Through the winter came a "Big Week" for me. On Monday I received a letter from Golden Days , a Philadelphia juvenile, accepting a short story I had sent there and enclosing a cheque for five dollars.

It was the first money my pen had ever earned; I did not squander it in riotous living, neither did I invest it in necessary boots and gloves. I went up town and bought five volumes of poetry with it — Tennyson, Byron, Milton, Longfellow, Whittier. I wanted something I could keep for ever in memory of having "arrived. On Saturday the Youth's Companion sent me a cheque for twelve dollars for a poem. I really felt quite bloated with so much wealth. Never in my life, before or since have I been so rich! After my Dalhousie winter I taught school for two more years.

In those two years I wrote scores of stories, generally for Sunday School publications and juvenile periodicals. The following entry from my journal refers to this period: I have grubbed away industriously all this summer and ground out stories and verses on days so hot that I feared my very marrow would melt and my gray matter be hopelessly sizzled up. But oh, I love my work! I love spinning stories, and I love to sit by the window of my room and shape some 'airy fairy' fancy into verse. I have got on well this summer and added several new journals to my list.

They are a varied assortment, and their separate tastes all have to be catered to. I write a great many juvenile stories. I like doing these, but I should like it better if I didn't have to drag a 'moral' into most of them. They won't sell without it, as a rule. So in the moral must go, broad or subtle, as suits the fibre of the particular editor I have in view. The kind of juvenile story I like best to write — and read, too, for the matter of that — is a good, jolly one, "art for art's sake," or rather "fun for fun's sake," with no insidious moral hidden away in it like a pill in a spoonful of jam!

It was not always hot weather when I was writing. During one of those winters of school teaching I boarded in a very cold farmhouse. In the evenings, after a day of strenuous school work, I would be too tired to write. So I religiously arose an hour earlier in the mornings for that purpose. For five months I got up at six o'clock and dressed by lamplight. The fires would not yet be on, of course, and the house would be very cold. But I would put on a heavy coat, sit on my feet to keep them from freezing and with fingers so cramped that I could scarcely hold the pen, I would write my "stunt" for the day.

Sometimes it would be a poem in which I would carol blithely of blue skies and rippling brooks and flowery meads! Then I would thaw out my hands, eat breakfast and go to school. When people say to me, as they occasionally do, "Oh, how I envy you your gift, how I wish I could write as you do," I am inclined to wonder, with some inward amusement, how much they would have envied me on those dark, cold, winter mornings of my apprenticeship. Grandfather died in and Grandmother was left alone in the old homestead.

So I gave up teaching and stayed home with her. By I was beginning to make a "livable" income for myself by my pen, though that did not mean everything I wrote was accepted on its first journey. Far from it. Nine out of ten manuscripts came back to me. But I sent them out over and over again, and eventually they found resting places. Another extract from my journal may serve as a sort of milestone to show how far I had travelled.

March 21, Munsey's came to-day with my poem "Comparisons" in it, illustrated. It really looked nice. I've been quite in luck of late, for several new and good magazines have opened their portals to this poor wandering sheepkin of thorny literary ways. I feel that I am improving and developing in regard to my verses. I suppose it would be strange if I did not, considering how hard I study and work.

Every now and then I write a poem which serves as a sort of landmark to emphasize my progress. I know, by looking back, that I could not have written it six months, or a year, or four years ago, any more than I could have made a garment the material of which was still unwoven. I wrote two poems this week. A year ago, I could not have written them, but now they come easily and naturally.

This encourages me to hope that in the future I may achieve something worth while. I never expect to be famous. I merely want to have a recognized place among good workers in my chosen profession. That, I honestly believe, is happiness, and the harder to win the sweeter and more lasting when won. In the fall of I went again to Halifax and worked for the winter on the staff of the Daily Echo , the evening edition of the Chronicle. A series of extracts from my journal will tell the tale of that experience with sufficient fulness.

The paper is gone to press and the extra proofs have not yet begun to come down. Overhead, in the composing room, they are rolling machines and making a diabolical noise. Outside of the window the engine exhaust is puffing furiously. In the inner office two reporters are having a wrangle. And here sit I — the Echo proof-reader and general handy-man. Quite a 'presto change' from last entry! I'm a newspaper woman! Sounds nice? Yes, and the reality is very nice, too. Being of the earth, it is earthy, and has its drawbacks. Life in a newspaper office isn't all 'beer and skittles' any more than anywhere else.

But on the whole it is not a bad life at all! I rather like proof-reading, although it is tedious. The headlines and editorials are my worst thorns in the flesh. Headlines have a natural tendency to depravity, and the editor-in-chief has a ghastly habit of making puns over which I am apt to come to grief.

In spite of all my care 'errors will creep in' and then there is the mischief to pay. When I have nightmares now they are of headlines wildly askew and editorials hopelessly hocussed, which an infuriated chief is flourishing in my face. The paper goes to press at 2. On Saturdays the Echo has a lot of extra stuff, a page of 'society letters' among the rest. It usually falls to my lot to edit these.

Can't say I fancy the job much, but the only thing I positively abhor is 'faking' a society letter. This is one of the tricks of newspaperdom. When a society letter fails to turn up from a certain place — say from Windsor — in due time, the news editor slaps a Windsor Weekly down before me and says blandly, 'fake up a society letter from that, Miss Montgomery. Then I go carefully over the columns of the weekly, clip out all the available personals and news items, about weddings, and engagements, and teas, etc.

I used to include funerals, too, but I found the news editor blue-pencilled them. Evidently funerals have no place in society. Then I write a column or so of giddy paragraphs for Monday's Echo. I call it "Around the Tea-Table," and sign it "Cynthia. I don't know that all the Haligonian washerwomen live around it, but certainly a good percentage of them must, for the yard is a network of lines from which sundry and divers garments are always streaming gaily to the breezes.

On the ground and over the roof cats are prowling continually, and when they fight, the walls resound with their howls. Most of them are lank, starved-looking beasties enough, but there is one lovely gray fellow who basks on a window sill opposite me and looks so much like 'Daffy' that, when I look at him, I could squeeze out a homesick tear if I were not afraid that would wash a clean spot on my grimy face. This office is really the worst place for getting dirty I ever was in. November 18, Have had a difficult time trying to arrange for enough spare minutes to do some writing.

I could not write in the evenings, I was always too tired. Besides, I had to keep my buttons sewed on and my stockings darned. Then I reverted to my old practice, and tried getting up at six in the morning. But it did not work, as of yore. I could never get to bed as early as I could when I was a country 'schoolma'am' and I found it impossible to do without a certain amount of sleep.

There was only one alternative. Hitherto, I had thought that undisturbed solitude was necessary that the fire of genius might burn and even the fire for pot-boiling. I must be alone, and the room must be quiet. I could never have even imagined that I could possibly write anything in a newspaper office, with rolls of proof shooting down every ten minutes, people coming and conversing, telephones ringing, and machines being thumped and dragged overhead. I would have laughed at the idea, yea, I would have laughed it to scorn.

But the impossible has happened. I am of one mind with the Irishman who said you could get used to anything, even to being hanged! All my spare time here I write, and not such bad stuff either, since the Delineator , the Smart Set and Ainslies' have taken some of it. I have grown accustomed to stopping in the middle of a paragraph to interview a prowling caller, and to pausing in full career after an elusive rhyme, to read a lot of proof, and snarled-up copy.

One of the "etcs. It makes my soul cringe. It is bad enough to have your flesh cringe, but when it strikes into your soul it gets on your spiritual nerves terribly. We are giving all the firms who advertise with us a free "write-up" of their holiday goods, and I have to visit all the stores, interview the proprietors, and crystallize my information into two "sticks" of copy. From three to five every afternoon I potter around the business blocks until my nose is purple with the cold and my fingers numb from much scribbling of notes.

Wednesday, December 12, It is an ill wind that blows no good and my disagreeable assignment has blown me some. The other evening I went in to write up the Bon Marche, which sets up to be the millinery establishment of Halifax, and I found the proprietor very genial. He said he was delighted that the Echo had sent a lady, and by way of encouraging it not to weary in well doing he would send me up one of the new walking hats if I gave the Bon Marche a good write-up.

I rather thought he was only joking, but sure enough, when the write-up came out yesterday, up came the hat, and a very pretty one it is too. Thursday, December 20, All the odd jobs that go a-begging in this office are handed over to the present scribe. The very queerest one up to date came yesterday. The compositors were setting up, for the weekly edition, a story called 'A Royal Betrothal,' taken from an English paper, and when about half through they lost the copy.

Maimonides (1138—1204)

Whereupon the news-editor requested me to go and write an 'end' for the story. At first I did not think I could. What was set up of the story was not enough to give me any insight into the solution of the plot. Moreover, my knowledge of royal love affairs is limited, and I have not been accustomed to write with flippant levity of kings and queens. However, I fell to work and somehow got it done. To-day it came out, and as yet nobody has guessed where the 'seam' comes in. If the original author ever beholds it, I wonder what he will think. I may remark, in passing, that more than ten years afterward I came across a copy of the original story in an old scrapbook, and was much amused to discover that the author's development of the plot was about as different from mine as anything could possibly be.

Thursday, December 27th, Christmas is over. I had been rather dreading it, for I had been expecting to feel very much the stranger in a strange land. But, as usual, anticipation was discounted by realization. I had a very pleasant time although not, of course, so wildly exhilarating as to endanger life, limb or nerves, which was, no doubt, just as well. I had a holiday, the first since coming here, and so was haunted all day by the impression that it was Sunday.

Feeling is the right brain accessing the unknown. It deals with things beyond the five senses and logic. Emotion has as its foundation, desire. That clouds judgment. Just experience the emotion. Afterwards, when you are calm and can access the feeling without it being colored by emotion, then use your left brain and see intuition behind the appearances so you can embrace the lesson. If we are tangled up in emotions, we may miss the core lesson and then we have to create a similar circumstance later.

To change our emotions, we need to alter our perception. It works in reverse too, because altering emotion causes altered perception. The two work hand-in-hand. It is necessary for the sake of clarity to explain the different meanings of the word love: Divine love is a state of being that remains when all fear is removed. Love can also be the desire to include, which makes it an emotion.

Love can also be a vibration in the cells that resonates with the intent of the universe. And the intent of the universe is to include all of creation within itself. Divine love is unconditional. Simply remove all fear by seeing behind the appearances and the filter obstructing love will be removed. Sentimental love is a joyous emotion that results from believing that another completes us. Consequently, in his or her presence we experience wholeness. It is a false sense of wholeness, but it can elicit joy.

That explains why some people feel they have no identity away from the union as a couple. The same feeling of joy that results from sentimental love, can be developed within ourselves by balancing our emotional aspects. Unlike divine love, the compassionate response to another changes as perception alters, taking on different forms along the rungs of enlightenment. The following list of body parts and symptoms will assist us in recognizing the areas of our lives that are out of balance when symptoms manifest.

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Breath indicates our ability to express ourselves in life. Frequently, people place the boulder on themselves. The breath is expressing our life force, so asthma patients have life-force problems. Often they were stifled from expressing as children. Babies and toddlers know the big picture of who they are, so they may experience tremendous frustration over being trapped in a physical body, unable to express the glory of their true identity.

It is helpful to assist children to find safe avenues to explore their gifts and talents. When the life force becomes suppressed, the exhaling process becomes difficult, as is the case with asthma. The fluids of our body have to do with emotions. Blood , in particular, is the equivalent of love. The ability to love is very important.

If we deliberately withhold love we find constriction in our arteries. Hardened arteries mean hardened emotions and condition of love. The heart has to do with giving love. Drawing love from the limitless supply of the universe it should flow out through our heart.

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If we close our heart because of fear or from not being fully present in our body, then we begin to give energy from our life force center. This depletes us. In order to insulate ourselves from this drain of energy, a layer of fat could build up around the solar plexus stomach area. Light workers frequently have this layer of fat as an attempt to protect their energy source. People who suffered childhood abuse may use fat to insulate themselves from other people. It is important to live fully in the body.

Many people have suffered childhood sexual abuse and learned to leave the body when things got unpleasant. Soft tissues and ligaments reflect attitudes. Is our attitude positive? Do we frequently complain? The joints have to do with how flexible we are. The soft tissues control the joints, so they are affected too.

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For example, in the past, prior to a seminar I would receive the topic but no specific information on the forthcoming lecture. The skin reflects how we interface with the world. When the skin is irritated, it is because we perceive the world as abrasive or hostile. If a boil develops, that means a specific area of our life is like a sore. Bones indicate what we inherited from our parents and ancestors, or what we received from genetic memory and early social conditioning. If it is on the left side of the body, it has to do with our feminine aspects, or with female relationships in our life.

Problems on the right side of the body reflect the masculine part of ourselves, or our masculine relationships. A virus is the result of being invaded — our boundaries have broken down. The first and foremost sacred space for us is our body and we honor ourselves by establishing healthy boundaries and maintaining it. Fungus tends to come when we have abandoned ourselves, bacteria invades when deliberate hostile influences are entering our boundaries and viruses are the result of others being allowed to use and abuse us.

The head signals thoughts and ideals — the way we think life ought to be. The face has to do with what we are presenting to the world. As a result, acne may develop. If we have negative thoughts, resentment, and feelings of being inadequate, mucous will develop in the sinuses. Phlegm , the fluid in the throat , is also an indication of negative emotions. Headaches often constitute repression of memories. They can also signify a conflict between the left and right brains.

For example, our right brain knows that we are all-powerful beings — that every one of us is a consciousness superimposed over All That Is. If the left brain opposes it, we develop a headache. When we protect our boundaries, yet realize that we cannot control the behavior of others, this heals.

The thyroid is where we suppress anger at not being heard. Teeth and their roots are connected to bones, therefore, they indicate conflicts with parental figures or societal attitudes. Teeth have to do with how palatable parental teachings were. If we cannot accept a life situation, our teeth may become hypersensitive. Teeth also pertain to the need for aggression. Problems with gums indicate something we cannot swallow in life.

It is stuck and bothering us, so it becomes an abscess in the mouth. The neck is where thoughts and ideals meet — reflecting the way life is for us. Light workers often have neck problems because the way they would like life to be and the way life appears, is at variance. That conflict meets in the neck. This indicates a dramatic conflict between ideal and reality and an inability to embrace the folly of mankind. If we can start to see the perfection underlying all things, by looking at the larger picture, this conflict goes away.

The shoulders , arms and hands reflect that which is done to us or that which we are doing to another. The hands indicate the present moment. Arms mean it may be less obvious or more under the surface. Shoulders indicate that we have been trying to push it into the past. If our feelings were hurt today, it manifests in the fingers. If we are still hurting over something that happened last week, it will possibly manifest in the arm , up toward the elbow. If there are issues from our childhood or from past relationships that we suppress, we find that in the shoulders or back. Specific areas of the hands indicate different things.

The top joint or section of the fingers has to do with ideals and the mental. The middle joint has to do with emotional issues. The lower joint has to do with the physical body. For example, when someone is hostile towards our spiritual beliefs and makes fun of a sacred object or a spiritual book we hold dear, we may develop a problem with the top joint of the finger. If someone makes fun of our intellect or our ability to solve problems, it also manifests in the top joint. One young woman who had developed a huge tumor in the brain came to me. The area below the shoulders down to the hips has to do with our desires and passion and our self-expression of the things we love to do.

Liver problems indicate anger. Kidney problems indicate fear. Sacrum problems indicate that we feel unsupported. The hip area is where we balance between how we desire to live and how we are actually living. For example, a man wants to be an artist but his parents forced him to become a lawyer. Therefore, he develops problems in the hips.

The pubis bone can lock in the front. It locks when our sexuality is being drained. For example, when a young boy is expected to be the man in the family, he may start to shield his masculinity because he feels his energy being drained. If a woman is abused sexually, the pubis will lock. Sexual organs relate to our ability to be active in reproduction. Legs reflect how we are moving forward through life. The man who becomes a lawyer instead of an artist may also be prone to hurting his legs.

Since his artistic talent is part of his feminine side, and the masculine is crowding it out, it will likely manifest in his left leg. Knees reflect our flexibility towards what is happening to us. For example, a woman may have a sore right knee when she is being inflexible with her husband. Problems with the feet indicate how we are moving through life in the present moment. He may have a car accident and jam the bones of his masculine foot , because his life is jammed from moving forward at this time.

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Our feminine energies include: intuition, the creative process, receiving of non cognitive information, giving birth to, nurturing. Our masculine energies include: the intellect, assertiveness, achieving, setting boundaries, and action. The emotional-magnetic aspect is feminine and it includes our sub-personalities. This is the horizontal alignment. The mental-electrical aspect is masculine and it includes our three minds. This is the vertical alignment.

When the horizontal and vertical alignments are in balance, they intersect through the heart. The heart is the place of the interaction between feeling and cognition. This is an important step because when this alignment takes place, alchemical changes in the body are set in motion that are essential for ascension.

The seeming split of the masculine and feminine energies not only exists between feeling vs cognition, but also between our left and right brain hemispheres. The right brain is feminine and the left brain is masculine. For ascension, we need to energetically merge the masculine and feminine.

This means getting our left and right brains working together. When they are balanced, we activate God-mind. Why ascension has become easy. Density, death and the spirals of awareness. Cooperating with life and the anatomy of change. Cosmic pole reversal. Resistance to life and soul force. Illusion, disease, and choosing death or immortality. Chakras and phases of ego identification.

Unified chakras and the luminous cocoon. Eighth and nineth chakra opening in mastery, the tenth Lahun chakra and the pranic tube. The eleventh and twelfth chakra in God Consciousness, the four directions and the four lower bodies. An additional assistance to overcoming the past is utilizing the breath. The breath is very sacred because it is where spirit and matter meet. For most of us, our past is complex so we may need to devote several days to this exercise, or spread it out over several weeks, releasing it bit by bit. However, before we can release the past, we need to embrace it, which means going through the steps of recapitulation.

Pick one relationship, and start with your head completely turned to the right. Place your tongue as far back behind your upper teeth as you can. As you turn your head degrees to the left, blow out a negative aspect associated with that person. At the end of this step your head will be turned all the way to the left.

As you move your head from the left to the right, inhale a positive insight you have gained about yourself as a result of that person. Identify another negative aspect of that relationship and repeat the process. Continue until there is nothing negative left to breathe out. We know we are finished when there is no emotional charge in us when thinking of this person. For example, if we had a relationship with a partner who insulted and falsely accused us, and we felt we had to constantly defend ourselves, this would wear us down. Then one day we may have blown up in anger and terminated the relationship.

Begin by turning your head all the way to the right and then exhale, releasing the frustration of continually having to defend yourself as you move your head to the left. Then inhale the insight you learned: a luminous being of light with a consciousness as vast as the cosmos, has nothing to defend because we are innocently having a human experience. During the next exhale, release the judgment surrounding the outburst of anger. Continue this exercise until every issue surrounding this relationship is cleared.

Start a campfire, then position your body so you are facing the south and feed them, one-by-one into the fire. As you physically release the stick, release the person or event — including your pain and emotional attachment to it — and allow Spirit to transmute it. Envision smoke carrying it away.

The people who are closest to us: our spouses, partners, immediate family, bosses, co-workers and friends, have contracts to push us into growth. People who are petty tyrants are gifts in disguise. It was preferred that the person be in a position of control over a portion of his life and they be exposed to him or her on a regular basis. Why are petty tyrants important? It takes practice to develop the ability to remain centered, and petty tyrants want to pull us out of our center.

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The petty tyrants will remain in our lives until we learn to release the past. Since these people are in our homes and work places, they are of extreme value in keeping our skills honed and to help us live impeccably every moment. In this regard, they prepare us for the unpredictable and the unpredictable prepares us for the unknown. When we become God-realized we no longer need petty tyrants in our life, but until then, it is wise to recognize their value.

They will take any measures necessary to succeed, even unethical and unlawful acts, including physical violence. The woman had befriended the alleged perpetrator and wanted to stay in friendship with him in hopes of discovering a clue that could lead to legal prosecution. The man was a sorcerer and had managed to cover his tracks and read her thoughts, while masking his own. Dealing with these tyrants can be life threatening because they are ruthless and you could be killed. These are the ones who use verbal abuse to attack at mental and emotional levels.

For example, two men are competitive in business and one gains a seeming advantage. The subordinate man may start rumors in an attempt to ruin the other. The third category of tyrants is unintegrated. They are the ones who present a friendly face yet perform incredibly hostile acts. They are generally steeped in fear. These people will be nice one minute and attack with rage the next. Their anger is like a disease that goes into remission until it thinks it is safe to come out. This type of tyrant is commonly found in the workplace and intimate relationships.

The fourth category of tyrants is the chronic naggers. This type of person is frequently found among family members and intimate relationships. It comes in the form of identity labels and world views. It comes from our parents, society, and the culture we live in—the country, continent and the era. Within the social structure we have many groups telling us what to think and how to act: teachers, the media; entertainment industry; medical profession; financial institutions; scientists; governments; and religious organizations.

It is important to release the social beliefs we accept as truth and begin to access truth independently. When we overcome these limitations, we are operating from a position of an observer, and this yields strength. Labels are limitations. If we place labels on ourselves, others will believe them, and eventually, that is what we become.

The goal is to erase all personal identity. These labels include: I am a teacher, a healer, educated, the provider for my family, a conservative, a hippie, female, an American, human, or from a particular star family. For us to have any kind of persona is counter-productive. It pulls us back into ego. The goal is to retain personal awareness, but no labels.

Identity labels dictate a specific definition and role for the one who possesses them. It is a trap because people define themselves and others by these definitions. They think they know who we are, and oftentimes, even expect us to remain in that role. In this way labels become our prison bars.

A lot of energy is wasted trying to find our identity by comparing ourselves with others. For example, he is a male; therefore, I am a female. As Light workers, we need to diligently remove labels so we can shed the illusion of self-importance. This requires watching every step we take to see where our beliefs are stemming from. So where did the feeling of inappropriateness come from? Did it stem from the label that you are a teacher and there is a certain protocol that should be followed?

When we become the All That Is, it is inclusive in nature. We become all things to all people as it fits the divine purpose. We may choose to wear different masks for different people. At that point, we stop taking things personally. Erasing personal identity means we no longer define ourselves as anything. We are no longer encumbered by the weight of self-reflection, which is part of self-importance. When we eliminate identities and selfreflection, we become fluid and energy becomes more available to us. Eliminating the labels enables us to access pure feeling and this enables us to access information from the unknown.

The world view says: we cannot build a flying machine; we cannot energetically heal ourselves; we cannot have world peace; and we cannot use the full capacity of our brain. It also dictates that one person is better than, or more important than, another. In accepting world views, we are taking things at face value. This is arrogance because the majority of existence lies within the unknowable. World views are overcome by not-doing. That means stepping out of the experience and observing it. We accomplish this by soaring above the situation so we can see the larger picture, like the perspective of the eagle flying high to assess all possibilities from all angles.

Initially it is a form of stalling that gives us time to become clear and safeguard the impeccability of our actions. It can be used to step out of a rut. For example, your grandfather is continually combative and rude to you, and over the years he has grown to expect you to be rude in return. Instead of reacting, just observe.

If you choose to engage at all, let it be the unexpected. Give him a big hug and walk out the door. He will wonder all day about your response. Or, your mother routinely nags to draw you into an argument. A crucial time to utilize not-doing is when we are in battle. In a state of emergency or surprise, the tendency is to lose our objectivity and fall back on old habits, yet that will only perpetuate past patterns.

With practice, not-doing leads to an inner stillness that slows mental activity and eventually helps stop the internal dialogue. Internal dialogue is the thoughts that maintain and reaffirm our world views. That is the commentator. A master has no conditioned view of the world because he has stepped out of it. He has become humble enough to acknowledge that the majority of the universe is incomprehensible.

He is open to new truths and questions everything: Who says we will catch a cold by going outside in the winter without a coat? Does fire have to be hot? Does water have to flow downhill? Does gravity have a constant hold on me? If we go outside in the winter without a coat and do catch a cold, it happened because we believed it would. It strengthened that belief when we stepped outside and opposed the cold, rather than letting it flow through us. People are addicted to the need to know. Society places a lot of pressure on us to know what is going on daily in the entire world, since it is readily available via satellite dishes and the Internet.

The problem is that mainstream media sources are only feeding us more limited programming. Remember, all knowledge is within us. So take the information you receive even this information and discern for yourself what resonates as truth. I will ask to receive it soon, and when I have the answer, I will tell you. As a matter of fact, we reach a stage in the ascension process where Spirit clears the majority of knowledge and education we thought we had.

We enter a state of knowing without thinking when we activate God-mind. Then we know what we need to at the right moment. At that point we have been set free from the pressure to know and the need to be right about everything. The higher bodies after God Consciousness. The assemblage point and shapeshifting. Interpreting emotions, feelings of fear and anxiety during transfiguration. Loss of identity. Entering ascended mastery. Love, praise and gratitude. Bringing the body into immortality. Fear is the opposite of love. Love is the highest vibration in the universe. The distortion of fear is what gives the appearance that one part of life is more valid than another, that which we define as good or evil.

Our fears originate from incorrect perceptions perpetuated by social conditioning from the past. In fact, fears are emotions that masquerade as feelings. When we learn to see correctly, it releases the belief system associated with the fear and it dissolves. When we know that we are the One expressing as many, it becomes clear that for us to fear another is to fear ourselves. To become uncontrollable, we have to release our fears and expectations. We have to cease to need and know our being is our sustenance.

When viewed from a higher perspective, all fears are irrational because love is all there is and all distortions are but an illusion. The illusions are in place due to a peculiarity of perception. We see life upside down, the same way that images register on the retina. A fear is a universal truth turned upside down, and to conquer it, we merely need to turn it right side up. The maniac and I are One expressing as two individuals. For me to fear this maniac, I literally have to fear myself. For me to heal the maniac, I have to heal myself. Removing fear is important because fear causes our energy lines to bend inward and that deprives us of power.

Power is present when our energy lines flow outward. When we release fear, we automatically become the vibration of love. This allows the life force center to move up to the heart chakra and radiate love in all directions. At this point, we grasp the value of all beings and pour forth our love indiscriminately, regardless as to whether he or she is playing the role of light or undeveloped light.

One thing to be aware of is that the fear we are experiencing may not have originated from within us. It could be stemming from an outside source and we may be giving that vibration a home. Then ask for the lesson as to why you allowed outside negativity to reside within you. The biggest fear most beings have is death, yet death is perpetuated by our thoughts. It is the creation of the surface mind that has spread through mass hypnosis, until the majority believes it to be real.

Eternal life is intended now, not after we die. If we move into ascension our cells will become quickened and flooded with Spirit. This is the second birth that is referred to in the Holy Bible. We have made it a reoccurring part of life by our limiting thoughts and imperfection. Nothing in the universe is guilty of a wrongful act because everything is, and always has been, in divine order. If we see with limited vision, it causes a constriction in the etheric body and the energy becomes blocked. As a result, we have to create similar circumstances over and over, until we see clearly.

We can think of death as a force that rolls against the sphere of light that surrounds the body. Mystical traditions called this force the Tumbler. When we are in harmony with all life, the Tumbler has a hard time causing aging and decay and death. Our sphere remains strong when it is constantly being fed by all of life, then the Tumbler cannot wear it down.

If our sphere is weak, it cracks and folds upon itself, resembling the shape of an embryo, and we die. After death our life force stays in the sphere of light anywhere from hours and the spirit lingers near the body. When it completely crumbles and all life force leaves, the spirit moves through to the third and fourth overtones of the fourth dimension. The sometimes subtle tyranny our parents hold over us needs to be severed. As an infant, we make the mistake of equating them with God.

That means we cannot depend on God to love us unconditionally. This sets the stage for competition because we are afraid of not being good enough. Another fallacy we bought into is that our body should look a certain way. For example, we may think our stomach is too big. Who told us it is better to have a flat stomach? Who set these guidelines? Learn to love and honor every piece of the body.

It is the temple that houses the soul. It is sacred and perfect—just the way it is.


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The concept of not measuring up is an illusion given by those who wish to control us. Not one of us has been short changed. Our Higher Self gave us exactly what we need to fulfill our destiny. It is due to a lack of understanding how we manifest abundance. People who behave selfishly and with greed think they have to grab from others because nobody else is going to take care of them.

They are overlooking the fact that they are in charge of their own sustenance. We manifest continually, whether consciously or unconsciously. The preferred method is to do it consciously. Unaware people manifest by default and their limiting thoughts and dysfunctional pieces create a seeming lack of abundance. Perception attracts a similar vibration. Therefore, what we believe occurs.

That is the basis of faith: a mindset reproduces itself — the sixth Creational Power. Perfect creation is accomplished through the heart, using love. Thoughts fall into the reservoir of the heart and act upon the substance of things hoped for. The substance of things hoped for is a delicate energy that is everywhere in existence, even in what we call the Void.

Emotion fuels manifestation. If our perception is one of victimhood, the emotion it creates is I need help or to be fixed. Give that you may get: If you hoard money, you dam up the flow. Give money to the beggar in the street; a flower for a co-worker; a candle for yourself. As you give, the Infinite has to give too and it opens the sluices of supply. Is it worth it to us? Love is inclusive, so if we pretend money is love, it ripples outward until it includes all of creation. It is a law that multiplies. Sowing and reaping: There is always the option of working an extra job.