Lately, life has been showing me the importance of showing up for myself and for others, even when I feel like a failure. This past weekend, the Universe took the opportunity to hammer the point home even harder. Pleasantly (in retrospect), there is a great story(ies) to accompany the lesson.

When my nephew Isaac was a toddler, he spoke only a few words and responded to most attempts at conversation with him with the words: “Pickle pie!” It was deeply frustrating - but also funny to me and the rest of his family. We have no idea where he got the idea to put those two words together. I am very happy to say that Isaac now speaks in beautiful, complete sentences and is a fine young man these days.

While Isaac was still in his Pickle Pie Stage of Life, as a joke, I decided to create a recipe for an actual Pickle Pie and see how Isaac responded. I called the pie “Isaac’s Famous Pickle Pie.” Isaac actually was delighted with the personal attention (it is hard being a middle child - not the oldest or the baby but a liminal being with an identity of your own to craft).

As I mentioned near the beginning of the year, my sister is having another child. Her due date is coming close, so I have traveled to the state where she lives to provide emotional and practical support (read laundry, dishwashing, cooking, house cleaning).

While we all wait for the baby, my nieces, nephews, and I decided we should have some fun and enter items in the art and baking divisions at a local city fair. For fun, as one of my entries, I decided to enter “Isaac’s Famous Pickle Pie” in the pie category.

Unfortunately, I waited a little too long to bake it (I wanted it to be as fresh as possible for the judges) and garnished/decorated it too warm. As I traveled to the fair to deliver the pie, all of the toppings became runny and/or melted. By the time I arrived at the exhibition hall, the pie was a literal, dripping, hot mess! It, quite frankly, looked terrible. The kind fair volunteers registered the pie and then I apologetically told them that I needed to exit briefly to “clean the pie.” Taking a paper towel, I gingerly scraped all of the toppings off the pie and tried to ensure that the outside of the pie pan also wasn’t too sticky. As far as I was concerned, this version of the pie was an utter failure.

Imagine my shock when I returned to the fair after the judging to discover that my strange pie had won first place! I had to laugh. But this was a powerful lesson to me. I thought the pie was a failure but because I showed up anyway, it won. Had I decided not to show my failure to anyone, that never would have happened. I need to remember this in more areas of my life. All of my life’s successes depend on me showing up, even (maybe especially) when I feel inadequate.

In case I have made you curious about what a pickle pie might be like, I have included my recipe below.

“Isaac’s Famous Pickle Pie” is a novel custard pie with a delightful, quirky pickle crunch in every bite. If you decide to bake it and try it, I hope you enjoy it.

Isaac’s Famous Pickle Pie

Makes two pies

Ingredients:

• 2 cups sweet pickle relish

• 12 fl. oz. evaporated milk

• 1 tsp. vanilla extract

• 1.5 tsp. apple pie spice (cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice)

• 1.5 Tbsp. sweet cream butter

• 1 cup Domino’s golden sugar

• 1 heaping Tbsp. brown sugar

• 2 heaping Tbsp. flour

• 2 eggs

• 2 capfuls of sprinkles

Garnish/decoration:

• Cool Whip

• M&Ms

• Sweet pickles

• Maraschino cherry(ies)

Suggestion: Use M&Ms to make eyes, one maraschino cherry for the nose, and one pickle for the mouth.

Don’t forget to have two pie crusts at the ready.

Instructions:

• Blend all ingredients on low in a blender.

• Evenly divide the blended ingredients between your two pie crusts. Add a few more sprinkles on top of the unbaked pie (the mixture will be runny).

• Bake the pies at 425 degrees Fahrenheit for 15 minutes.

• Lower the heat to 325 degrees Fahrenheit and bake for an additional 30-40 minutes or until the pie centers have set.

• Remove from heat and cool.

• Refrigerate the pies for four hours or overnight.

• Before consuming, garnish with Cool Whip, M&Ms, cherries, and pickles in a design of your choice.

While I still don’t feel that I have an individual photo that captures the concept of latency, recently, I have been thinking about the Lotus and Waterlily Festival that is taking place at Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens in Washington D.C. on July 18th and 19th. As I have contemplated the upcoming festival, it has occurred to me that lotus flowers are a latent life form. They spend a great deal of time forming, knitting together all of their elements in the underworld of the mud and muck of a pond or marsh before finally ascending through the water’s surface to show their beauty to the overworld.

The more I think about it, the more fascinated I am by the idea of the lotus’s secret life before its more visible one. Its latency, if you will.

Then, last Thursday, a botanist friend told me about a place that I had never heard of before. To the best of her knowledge, this place is the only location within an hour-radius where the American lotus grows, and she wanted me to know about it. A number of other rare plants grow there, so the local botanists want the location to be kept hush-hush.

It is a latent (hidden) place where latent flowers grow. I love that idea so much.

After my friend told me about the place, I went to check it out that same day. None of the lotus flowers were open on that day, but there were several ripe buds that looked promising for the near future.

This past weekend, we had temperatures in excess of 100 degrees Fahrenheit, followed by several drenching thunderstorms - the perfect recipe for causing budding lotuses to open. I suspected the budding flowers would be open this morning, so I drove out to the latent location to check. They were! It lightly rained this morning as well, so the flowers and their leaves were extra beautiful with raindrops on them.

I am immensely grateful to my friend for telling me about this place burgeoning with latency. It is very easy to go through life without paying attention to the multitude of miracles surrounding us just beneath the surface of the water and just beyond our line of sight or knowledge. When we take the time to listen, slow down, and really look at the world around us, we find find latent beauty ready to open before us, as soon as the right weather conditions occur.

Then, when I was a teenager, my family began borrowing VHS tapes from the local library, and my family came across a child-friendly production company called Wonderworks Family Movie. The library had almost all of the Wonderworks films, and one of my favorites was an Aussie film titled Clowning Around (followed by Clowning Around 2). The film follows the adventures of an Australian boy named Simon Gunner who wants to become a clown and his reluctant French clown mentor Anatole Tollin. One of my favorite scenes early in the movie is when Anatole asks Sim (yet again) what he is, and Sim says that he wants to be a clown. In response, Anatole waters the plant that Sim is balancing on his head.

Fast forward about twenty-seven years (from my teenage years). It is summer, and I am in the south of France attempting to teach English to the children of a wealthy Russian family - and I hear about a place that sounds magical: Le Moulin Jaune: The Yellow Mill. The location is the “laboratory” of the famous Russian clown Slava Polunin. Although I do not manage to visit The Yellow Mill that summer, the images that I see online stay with me.

Polunin conceives of the clown as being capable of bringing people’s wildest and strangest dreams to life - and this belief permeates the entire Yellow Mill property. Throughout the year, clowns and lovers of beauty and the impossible are invited to visit and contribute to the mystique of the place.

There are many more images and videos of beauty and whimsy from Le Moulin Jaune on the internet, but I’ll let you have the pleasure of discovering their delightfulness for yourself.

For some reason, the clowns that I saw as a youngster, Le Moulin Jaune, and the Old Testament Bible verse “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones” (Proverbs 17:22) all have been on my mind recently. World events have felt especially grim lately, and I have felt the need for levity to keep my own bones from drying out, as it were. I also have been musing about how I would like to visit Le Moulin Jaune but am not sure if I will make it before they close for the autumn this year. And then there was the impact that the clowns that I saw long ago had on my psychological development.

And so all of these elements came together and jelled into a cohesive thought for me: “Why not bring a bit of the beauty of Yellow Mill clowning to your local area, create a beautiful clown memory for some child who is watching a fireman’s parade (just like you did!), and bring laughter and health to the viewers through your funny appearance?”

That is what I did yesterday evening. I registered to participate in the Churchville fire department’s parade and had so much fun that I am already thinking about participating in another parade soon!

Judging from the mirth and laughter along the parade route, I believe I was successful in bringing some momentary joy and a tiny slice of Yellow Mill wonderment to the little village of Churchville.

Then, at the end of the parade, an older woman came up to me and said, “I just have to tell you this! You were the prettiest one in the whole parade!”

I made people laugh, AND they found my costume beautiful. Mission accomplished!💕

But I still hope to meet Slava Polunin someday…

When I was around nine years old, I found a book in my school’s library about some children who formed a club to curb their boredom during summer vacation. They built a clubhouse in a tree all by themselves from wood and carpentry items that they salvaged from the local landfill and from their dads’ scrap materials. They had secret meetings, and they anonymously did good things for the unsuspecting adults of their town. To me, it sounded like the best thing ever.

Unfortunately, I lived way out in the country, and there were no other children around for miles. So, I read about these children who had far more exciting lives than I did and dreamed about being part of a secret club or gang that did good things for other people.

Fast forward to the year 2020 and Covid-19. I found myself stranded in the United States (didn’t want to travel, lest I become stuck somewhere else even more expensive). Right before Covid had “hit,” I had been contemplating joining a local choir for my general well-being and because I enjoy singing with other people more than by myself. With news of the Skagit Valley Chorale’s illnesses and fatalities, I began to slide into a state of despair. In difficult times, singing with others is especially helpful and inspiring. The threat of Covid being passed via singing aerosols took away the safety of that emotional (and spiritual release).

Then, I heard that renowned composer and choral conductor, Eric Whitacre, had agreed to coordinate one more virtual choir. Whitacre is famous for his virtual choirs but had planned to stop after producing Virtual Choir 5 (“Deep Field”). Seeing the need for connection and music in the Time of Covid, he agreed to make Virtual Choir 6 (“Sing Gently”).

Every email and video recording from Whitacre began with two words: “Hey Gang!” It seems that there are others (many others!) in the world with the same hunger that I have to be part of a good club or gang, as, in the end, 17,572 singers from 129 countries submitted videos to be part of Whitacre’s “Virtual Gang 6.” It was one of the most special experiences of my life.

And I seem to keep stumbling into gangs/clubs - and don’t know it until I am in them.

Around a year ago, I was talked into coming to paint with a bi-weekly portrait painting group. I had rarely attempted to paint people before, so it was a real psychological stretch to try it. But attempting to paint or draw a live model has been an unexpectedly enriching experience, and I have even come to enjoy the challenge of trying to capture a person’s essence in only three hours.

A couple of weeks ago, the leader of the portrait group sent out his customary reminder email and began it with, “Gang, we're on for Wednesday at 1 at the usual place…”

Gang! I thought to myself. Here I am in another gang! How about that!

Maybe my childhood self didn’t get to fulfill her club and gang member inclinations, but, if my mid-life destiny is to continually find myself in arts-related gangs, that definitely is a fate I can handle.

When I visited Bonfire Books & Yarnery about a month ago, my eyes were captivated by a colorful book with the words BIG MAGIC written emphatically in capital letters. I read the blurb on the back of the book and thought that it sounded good - but I didn’t want to purchase the book (budget constraints in a time of high gas prices). So, I checked my local library to see if they had a copy. Much to my joy, they did.

BIG MAGIC is one of the most invigorating books on the creative impulse and process that I have read thus far. Gilbert writes with a throbbing energy that surges ever forward, and the book feels like an extended conversation with her regarding creativity. Almost everything that she had to say resonated with me, but, what grabbed my attention the most, was how she wrote about ideas.

Gilbert posits that ideas are living entities journeying through the universe looking for a willing receiver who will catch them and bring them into tangible forms to share with others. The concept made the breath catch in my throat at first - and I thought that regarding ideas as living beings was taking it a bit too far. But, the longer I read, the more I agreed with Gilbert.

Gilbert shares an anecdote from her own life where she was working on a novel about a spinster from Minnesota who is sent to work in the Amazon jungle. Due to life circumstances, Gilbert shelved the novel for a while. When she returned to work on the novel, she found that the flow of inspiration for it had dried up, and she literally no longer could write the book.

A few years later, her friend Ann Patchett released a novel with an almost identical plot line. As it happens, Gilbert first met Patchett around the time that she shelved this novel. She suggests that, somehow, the idea leapt from her to Patchett, because it knew that Patchett was open to receiving it and bringing it to life, while Gilbert had decided to ignore it. Gilbert had never told Patchett about the novel that she had shelved, so how else could it have happened? This is the essence of the BIG MAGIC that Gilbert discusses throughout her book.

As I pondered this, I remembered that something similar had happened to Charles Darwin. For over twenty years, Darwin had been studying different species, and his observations of finches (and other species) on the Galapagos Islands had led him to conclude that species are not fixed but evolve over time through natural selection. But Darwin was a careful scientist and did not want to publish his findings until he was certain that he could produce a cogent and valid argument for his conclusions.

Then came Alfred Russel Wallace. Wallace was considerably less educated than Darwin and had been collecting specimens for less time than Darwin had. But, he had noticed the same thing: one could see species changing as they adapted to their environments.

Wallace’s observations and correspondence with Darwin were the necessary “kick in the pants” to publish/make the idea tangible that Darwin needed. He and Wallace then co-authored a paper on natural selection that they submitted to the Linnean Society.

After reading what Gilbert said, I wondered to myself: did the idea get tired of Darwin’s cautiousness and decide also to visit someone with less timidity surrounding publishing? I don’t know. But, I like to imagine that this is what happened.

I currently have an idea for a painting series that first visted me earlier this year - but I have not yet fully brought it to life. I hesitate to outline its specifics here, lest it decides that one of my readers is a more vigorous host and takes off with one of you! 😊

So, I am speaking to you, beautiful idea who has come to visit. Stay with me yet a little longer, and I will make you visible to the world. I promise.

And, to anyone reading this who has creative ideas that they have been procrastinating on making happen: stop hesitating, nurture your ideas, and give them space to speak and to be embodied in the world. If you don’t, they will find someone else who will do it for them.

P.S. In case you were wondering about Ann Patchett's magical book, it is titled State of Wonder. I found a copy at the library and am reading it this weekend. 😊

Around a month ago, I participated in an indie bookshop crawl in the the long valley where I live and discovered a charming bookshop, Bonfire Bookstore and Yarnery, in Woodstock, Virginia, that I absolutely loved (Part of the appeal was a secret wardrobe leading to the children’s section. No idea where they got that idea from!). As part of the crawl, if you visited at least seven bookshops on the list, you could check the box of your favorite bookshop and be entered in a drawing for a basket or tote of goodies from that shop.

The last bookshop that I stopped at was Winchester Book Gallery - and it was my least favorite bookshop. While the selection of books was good, it just wasn’t as cozy as Bonfire Bookstore. I handed in my book crawl sheet at Winchester Book Gallery because they were my final stop. On the sheet, I checked the box for Bonfire Bookstore, so I would be entered in their shop’s drawing.

Through a clerical error, I was accidentally entered in Winchester’s drawing. When they excitedly emailed me to say that I had won their prize, I actually groaned. I emailed back thanking them but said there must have been some mistake. Unfortunately, since the winner for Bonfire Bookstore had already been notified, the error could not be rectified.

So, I traveled 2.5 hours north to collect my prize from my least favorite bookstore. When I arrived, the employee who was working had not been told anything about the book crawl and had no idea where my prize was. I told her I would sit and wait while she phoned a manager.

As it turned out, no prize had been assembled, and the employee hurried around grabbing what felt like eight random books and stuffing them into a bookstore bag. I was really not impressed.

Since I already was a bit out of sorts because of the whole situation, it is perhaps unsurprising that I was less than enthused about the book prize that they hurriedly cobbled together - until I looked more closely at the books. These were advance reading copies and proof copies! None of the books that they gave me are available to the general public yet. This actually is pretty cool! I like having something that no one else has.

I have not yet read all of the books but have just finished the one with the cover blurb that interested me the most: Love at Least. The novel is an English translation by Kamil Spychalski of Yukiko Motoya’s Japanese novel Ikiteru Dake de, Ai. For what it’s worth, while I was reading it, the novel felt to me as if it would work better as a film script than as a novel. And then I Googled it and discovered that it was made into a film in 2018. I guess someone agreed/agrees with me! 😊

Despite the fact that it is reminiscent of a film script, Love at Least drew me in early on with a description of how the protagonist was watching a TV show that was doing a deep dive on Katsushika Hokusai’s Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji. The protagonist says,

They had just started on that painting you see in every textbook: the raging wave mid-surge— woomph!— thrusting its talons into the air about Mount Fuji. The program used modern technology to analyze this image from every angle, eventually ending up with a photograph taken at a shutter speed of one five-thousandth of a second that miraculously matched Hokusai’s composition to a T.

She goes on to say more, but, in case any of my readers are interested in reading the book, I won’t quote anything further. Anyway, for me, these were probably the most precious two sentences in the book because they resonated with an experience that I had eight summers ago.

For my annual summer vacation, I had opted to visit Tokyo, Japan. When I realized that Hokusai had painted (Note: he actually block printed it. But, since I began with a quotation identifying the work as a painting, I’ll continue calling it that in this article - for the sake of continuity.) his famous Under the Wave off Kanagawa at a beach outside Tokyo (reachable via train), I had to go see the scene for myself.

Like the TV show that the protagonist of Love at Least was watching, I hoped to capture a photograph of Mount Fuji framed by a wave - just as Hokusai had done in his painting. Unfortunately, the day that I visited Kanagawa the humidity was high and the air was hazy. The frequently elusive Mount Fuji was nowhere to be seen. Although I was disappointed, that did not keep me from dancing on the beach in joy and amazement at being there.

Without the vision of Mount Fuji in the distance to distract me, I was able to focus on the waves themselves. And what I saw and heard gave me the shivers - in a good way.

As the protagonist in Love at Least says, in Hokusai’s painting, you see “…the raging wave mid-surge— woomph!— thrusting its talons into the air about Mount Fuji.” That description is EXACTLY what every wave that surges in (they don’t roll in as do waves at many other beaches) does at Kanagawa. They make a roaring/growling noise as they surge forward (maybe because of the specific composition of the sand). Then, they stop for fractions of a second (maybe the one five-thousandth of a second that the protagonist says) and appear to froth suspended in the air. Because you are mesmerized by the suspension, the sudden WOOMPH! as the waves wallop the sand catches you off-guard every time. It did me anyway! The waves are not large, but they make up for it in their noise and ferosity. The description of the frothy fringes of the waves as “talons” is apt, because the waves are almost cat-like in their pouncing on the beach.

What Hokusai captures in his Under the Wave off Kanagawa is that exceedingly brief moment when the wave(s) froth - right before the WOOMPH! How he managed to capture such a delicate and ephemeral moment before photographs existed in Japan is a testament to many hours of observation and his particular artistic skill. I remain in awe.

Had I never visited this beach in Japan and seen and heard the waves in person, I probably would still appreciate Hokusai’s depiction of the wave and find it pretty. But it is so much more than that! I am glad to have experienced a taste of what Hokusai heard and saw - and will have to return on a day when I can actually see Mount Fuji in the curve of a wave as he did. I think I might faint with delight.

Okay, so I lied about not quoting anything else from the novel. Near the end of the book is a very dramatic scene that I will not spoil by describing it. But, the protagonist says this to her lover: “I want to feel like we’ve connected for a moment, even if it’s one five-thousandth of a second.” I felt that.

That’s what I want out of life too: those momentary sparks of electricity that make me know that I am connected with Something or Someone, and, for a moment, to know in my innermost being that I belong in this cosmic dance known as the Universe.

Was the split-second when I found out I had won the wrong bookstore’s prize annoying? Yes, it was.

Was it the right prize for me? As it turns out, yes.

The spark of realization took some time to ignite, but I believe now that the Universe laughed and sent my name to the “wrong” bookstore’s list because It knew that I needed a reminder of Hokusai, the waves, and the experiences that I had there - a nudge to remember how a mere fraction of a second can make an enormous difference both for a painting and in a person’s life.

What is in the other proofs and advance copies that the Universe wants me to know about? I don’t know yet. But, I am sure I will learn in due course.

For the moment, I am grateful for the “mistake” that brought Hokusai’s painting back into my consciousness.

“Weird is the point. Wonder is the destination.” - The Looking Glass

My sense of being an outsider began early. When I was in first grade, the girls in my grade at the very conservative parochial school that I attended told me that I was going to hell because I did not wear a head covering like they did and because I wore floral instead of solid-colored dresses.

When I went home crying, my mom called the school and relayed to my teacher what had been said on the playground. The girls were made to apologize for hurting my feelings (a forced apology is never a great way to earn the affection of your peers) - but they were not required to retract their belief in my eternal doom. And, I attended that same school for the next nine years, until I was permitted to complete my high school coursework at home.

Eternal… Perhaps this traumatic formative experience connected with ideas of eternity is partially why, when I heard of an immersive art exhibition in Santa Fe, New Mexico, called The House of Eternal Return, designed by an art collab named Meow Wolf, I very much wanted to go.

I had just finished an arduous, year-long stint at Innisfree Village and desperately wanted what Julia Cameron calls an Artist Date in her book The Artist’s Way. Meow Wolf’s The House of Eternal Return sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

The immersive art exhibition was indeed exactly what I needed to boot me out of my post-Innisfree doldrums, and I stayed for three hours. I had so much fun looking at and trying everything out.

As I walked through the exhibit, I marveled at the creativity and wished that someone would invite me to collaborate on a project like this. I read all about the artists on the placards in one area of the building and realized that they all belonged to the same creative community, and they basically were a bunch of friends who had come together to build this feast for the eyes and soul. Since I wasn’t part of their friend group, and they didn’t know me from Adam, my odds of them ever asking to collaborate with me on a work of art for their exhibition were pretty much zero. I sighed inwardly. Oh well.

When I returned to Virginia after traveling to New Mexico, I learned that the only immersive art exhibition in Virginia (which is located near me!) had started hosting free community days. Needless to say, I began attending every free day that I could.

The immersive art museum near me is called The Looking Glass, and they strive to create an otherworldly atmosphere similar to that of Meow Wolf. They recently have created a virtual experience as well that can be enjoyed by anyone with internet access who contributes a donation of at least $4.

There also is a dark, calm area in The Looking Glass where you can rest on oversized beanbags and listen to soothing sounds. Probably needless to say, I love pretty much everything about The Looking Glass.

As with Meow Wolf, when The Looking Glass opened, I read the bios of all of the contributing artists. I was in awe of their artist statements, and I really liked their work. Again, I felt a twinge of sadness and wondered how one went about getting an immersive art space to ask one to collaborate and to contribute art to the exhibition.

Then, about a month ago, THIS appeared on The Looking Glass’s Facebook page:

I went bug-eyed and immediately emailed to ask for more details. But, my emails failed to deliver for three days. Finally, I commented on their Facebook page and said that I was interested in more information, but my emails were failing to reach them. Could they message me on Facebook instead? They responded the following day with an apology: the wrong email address was included in the ad. It should have ended with .org instead of .com. Now with the correct email address in hand/on screen, I emailed again, was successful in receiving the info, met the creative director who told me that another artist that I know (Gincy Plummer) already is working on a painting behind one of the doors, and I submitted two proposals for the Behind the Doors project.

This week, I received a beautiful email rejecting my proposals for Behind the Doors. I say that it was beautiful because, immediately following the rejection were these words:

…but we would LOVE to collaborate with you in another area of the museum. Would you be open to doing a similar concept, but towards the entrance of the exhibit? We've been hoping to fill in the area just inside the mirror door entrance, and I think some combination of your proposals would be a great fit (plus it would have more depth and room than the doors would allow for). Our budget is still $—, so we can discuss the scope of what feels fair to you. I've attached an image and a video of the area we'd like to fill below. The main area of focus is the metal garage door, but I'm open to expanding the vision into that hall area and/or ceiling. Let me know what you think!

Would I be open? WOULD I BE OPEN?! What kind of question is that? Yes! A thousand times YES!

So… I think the weird outsiders have befriended me, another weird outsider. And now I get to be part of an immersive art friend group, just like the one that I originally envied at Meow Wolf years ago.

And, who knows? Maybe the wolves that meow will befriend me eventually too. They have been known to visit The Looking Glass in the past… It could totally happen!

For now, I will enjoy being in The Looking Glass’s artist circle, and I am looking forward to creating and helping to install my contribution to the museum.

And you, beautiful reader: come visit The Looking Glass offline or online, enjoy the weirdness, embrace the wonder - and feel like less of an outsider and more like a normal human being trying to find delight in this absurd world that we live in.

The treasure was hidden by a mysterious gentleman who calls himself HCharles Beil (I am uncertain that this is his real name. I suspect that it is only a persona that he has crafted for online use.). In any case, he says that he was an archeologist /historian/ghost town/ship-wreck-discoverer in his younger years and amassed a sizeable collection of old coins and gems, some of which are rather valuable. Now approaching old age, Mr. Beil has set out to put the treasure back into the ground, while also allowing others the thrill of the chase for treasure.

Currently, he has hidden two treasures in Virginia; one was hidden in the early spring of 2012, and the other was hidden only last year. I have been looking for his 2012 treasure for the past six years. The only clues that he has given thus far for this treasure is a puzzling video on YouTube titled The Virginia Cache. The images in the video show scenes that range from Otter Creek Recreation Area to Rockbridge, Virginia. A map with few visible words also is shown in the video. There are, however, two letters visible: “NA.” A town in Rockbridge County is called Buena Vista, so some have wondered whether the “NA” might be the tail end of the word “BUENA.” If that is the case, the search area includes the town of Buena Vista.

At the very end of the video, Mr. Beil enigmatically states that he has hidden this treasure “…in a very distinctive place.” I and many other treasure seekers have racked our brains trying to think what distinctive place Mr. Beil is referring to. Despite ferreting out many interesting landmarks that I would consider “very distinctive,” I have not found the treasure that Mr. Beil hid. But maybe someday…

My five favorite places that I have searched thus far are either beautiful in some way or have a wonderful story/history associated with them. Without further ado, here are my top five favorite distinctive places.

1. Natural Bridge State Park

   

   Natural Bridge definitely is THE most distinctive place that I have searched. If Mr. Beil hid the treasure here, he hid it before it became a state park (in 2016).

   While I have not found the Beil treasure there, I have been privileged to see a mysterious engraving that appeared in the park sometime in 2012. To this day, no one knows who carved the engraving.

The engraving features lines from a Walking Song:

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I.
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon and East of the Sun.

Needless to say, since the words appeared in the stone the same year that Mr. Beil hid his first Virginia treasure, I have wondered if he is the unknown engraver. But, as of yet, with the treasure unfound, no one knows.

2. The Coffee Pot

The coffee pot and mug between Lexington and Buena Vista certainly are very distinctive. But, I did not see Beil’s treasure. There are, however, two geocaches hidden in the hollows of two rocks right in front of the coffee pot - which is pretty cool. 😊

3. Crystal Springs (Locher Tract)

I really wanted the treasure to be hidden here because of the beautiful legend associated with Crystal Springs. In case the image is too fuzzy for you to make out, I have re-typed the legend below:

AS THE LEGEND GOES:

A few hundred feet past the big gate going into the Locher Tract, a spring bubbles forth on the right. According to legend, there was an Indian Warrior who loved a maiden from a hostile tribe. As a sign of his devotion, he gave her a brilliant transparent gem which his people had brought from beyond the Father of Waters. The girl wore this gem entwined in her necklace of beads. One evening, as she waited for her love by the spring, a jealous brave from her own tribe found her there and snatched away the jewel. She caught his hand, recovered the crystal, and threw it behind her into the water.

The beautiful gem sank to the bottom where it dissolved, giving the spring its purity and sparkle.

4. Remnants of the “railroad that never was”

When I heard about the stone culverts and abandoned trestles of the railroad that never materialized, I had to go check them out to see if the treasure was inside or nearby one of them.

5. The Ottie Cline Powell Gravesite (Pera Road, not Bluff Mountain)

The story of Little Ottie Cline Powell is a tragic one (which you can read, if you choose to click the link). Ottie was a four-year-old child who froze to death on Bluff Mountain one winter night long ago. Appalachian Trail hikers say that they can still sense his ghost on Bluff Mountain. Given Mr. Beil’s affinity for ghosts and ghost towns, I thought this site might appeal to him.

So, there you have it - my top five. And, as my laptop battery is about to die, that is (mostly) all for now.

But, I would like to say this: even without finding the alleged treasure, being prompted to explore these beautiful and historic sites and actively think about the world around me perhaps is the best treasure of all. It is great to get outside and to engage with the natural world. I highly recommend it.

After painting/supervising in the hot sun for three hours yesterday morning, I took a break to grab lunch at a lovely Salvadoran restaurant called Gloria’s Pupuseria. I was exhausted and sat mindlessly staring into space while I waited for my food to arrive. A friend of mine and his daughter also had chosen to grab lunch at Gloria’s yesterday, and they said hello and goodbye as they exited the restaurant. I had never met my friend’s grown daughter but immediately noticed that she was wearing a Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt.

“Strawberry Shortcake!” I said, looking admiringly at her shirt.

“Oh…” She responded, also looking at her shirt.

I was so exhausted at that point I could not produce any further words and simply awkwardly smiled. Thankfully, my friend rescued both of us by announcing that they were going to go get ice cream. 😆

Strawberry Shortcake… That was my mom’s nickname for me when I was very young. I have always been short (my younger siblings both had outgrown me by the time I was six years old), and my mom made that a special thing. All of my nightgowns and pajamas featured Strawberry Shortcake, and my mom baked a strawberry shortcake for my fourth birthday. I was Strawberry Shortcake on the inside and outside.

Strawberry was kind to her core, had lots of friends, and they always were doing fun things like having picnics and tea parties. I longed also to have lots of friends with whom to plan and do things. But, since we lived far out in the country with no other neighbors nearby, that is something that never happened for me. In a way, I always felt a bit bereft of my true Strawberry Shortcake destiny.

So, when I saw my friend’s daughter’s t-shirt, these bittersweet memories revisited me. Of course, it would be awkward to tell someone that one has just met these sorts of things (and it would be quite weird). Silently smiling is also strange - but hopefully at least a little less so.

After having lunch, I felt somewhat revived and returned to apply more paint to the mural for a couple more hours - until a cloudburst happened and chased me away. After that, I decided it was time to pack in the painting for the day and prepare for my next destination: Rapunzel’s Coffee and Books.

For the past twenty-four years, Rapunzel’s has been a magical place full of the scent of coffee and old books and the sound of music. A little over a week ago, the management sent out a surprise, sad announcement:

The Rapunzel’s fairy tale is coming to a close.

Once upon a time, there were no music venues in Nelson County. There were no coffee shops. There were very few public places for people to gather, other than a couple of restaurants with bars. The story of Rapunzel’s Coffee & Books began in the late 90s with a couple of social gatherings in an empty space, featuring nothing more than a pot of coffee and a few friends who sat down and played music together. Those gatherings, driven by word of mouth alone, were standing-room-only events. Those gatherings proved how hungry we were for a sense of connection and entertainment in our rural county and set us on a quest to meet that need.

The pot of coffee became an espresso machine. The empty space became a coffee shop and a bookstore. The group of friends jamming together became thousands of performances, countless open mics and open jams on a stage that hosted every kind of music and performance art. Our quest found its true mission in the creation of a nonprofit organization dedicated to providing a performance space and training ground for up-and-coming artists.

We’ve been on this quest for 24 years, and during that time we’ve seen people meet at Rapunzel’s, get married, and bring their children back. We’ve seen kids who performed on our stage for the very first time go on to successful music careers. We’ve even seen one of those kids who grew up here take on the quest of keeping Rapunzel’s going. (Thank you, Katherine!)

Rapunzel’s has met the needs of so many people for so long, but the one thing it has never been able to provide is a sustainable paycheck for its management. It has always been a labor of love. During our time here, the social landscape of Nelson County has changed. With the growth of a tourism-based economy feeding live music at countless wineries, breweries and gathering spots, there is no longer quite the same need that existed when we opened our doors in December 2001. It’s time for all of us to move on to our Happily Ever After.

Rapunzel’s last show—our “Happily Ever After” party—will be Saturday, April 25. Please join us in celebrating the conclusion of our epic fairy tale with the Quintessential Quartet and the Dwight Spencer Trio. And if you can’t make it to the show, please share your Rapunzel’s story in the comments, and be with us in spirit.

With love and gratitude,

The Taylor family, Katherine Turner, and the Rapunzel’s Board of Directors

I was immensely saddened to hear this, but I understood the decision. No matter how good an idea is, if it is not financially viable, it cannot continue. But, at least we had Rapunzel’s for twenty-four years.

Since yesterday was the final concert at Rapunzel’s I arrived early to take as many photos as possible, to sear the place in my visual memory (and to give me a record to look back at, should I forget).

The final concert at Rapunzel’s was as magical as I thought it would be, and I sat and soaked it in as long as I could. It seemed that everyone else there felt the same. We didn’t want to leave. The concert was scheduled to last from 8-10 p.m. But the audience asked the band for encore selections, and they played until 10:30 p.m.

After the concert ended, I sat for about 10 minutes, enjoying just a little more of Rapunzel’s warm ambiance. Then, I stood up to find someone. I did not know exactly who I was looking for, but I hoped to locate them.

Despite having attended shows at Rapunzel’s over the years, I was unclear exactly who the owners were. But, I was desperately curious to learn what was going to happen to Rapunzel’s after the lights went out last night. So, I quietly meandered through the crowd, looking for someone who might have the answers to my questions.

My answers came from a solid-looking woman with long, flowing, golden hair - and she found me - not the other way around! She bounced over to me and said, “Thank you for coming! I didn’t know that you come here! I am so glad to know that this place has meant so much to so many various people over the years!” I squinted at her. She looked vaguely familiar, but my mind struggled to place her. I definitely recognized the facial shape and that long, flowing hair. But… GLASSES! She was not wearing her glasses! This was Sarah, the administrative assistant from the Rockfish Valley Community Center! Whenever I saw her there, she appeared very serious and not very fun-loving. But, this evening, she bubbled and her face positively shone. I was in shock.

“I’m Rapunzel!” She told me.

My mouth dropped. “Of course! Your hair! OF COURSE you are Rapunzel!” I still could not believe it. “So… Wait.” I said. “You are Sarah TAYLOR - of the Taylor family that owns Rapunzel’s?”

“Yes!” She told me. “I am Sarah Taylor, and my family and I own Rapunzel’s.”

She was exactly who I was looking for, and I had already known her for years. I just had not known that she was connected with Rapunzel’s - even though she IS Rapunzel.

I told Sarah/Rapunzel how much I loved the ambiance of the venue with its soft, colorful, twinkly lighting, the comfortable seating, the delicious coffee, and the bookstore.

“Yes,” She said smiling from ear to ear. “I made this place the type of spot that I would want to hang out.”

We chatted a bit more and then I asked my burning question: what was going to happen to Rapunzel’s after the lights went out that night.

“Well,” Sarah told me. “My dad has ALS, and his health has been steadily worsening over the last few years. At the moment, we are taking it a day at a time. We have no plans to sell the building, as of yet. But, that may happen in the future. The building was built in the 1920s as a fruit packing shed and later was a hardware store. Because of its age, it needs a lot of work. There is no plumb line or level surface in this building.” She laughed. “To meet modern standards, a lot would need to happen. But, who knows? Maybe an avid renovator will come along and decide that it is worth it to them to redo the place. Or, maybe a future developer will decide it isn’t worth fixing everything and demolish the building. At the moment, Rapunzel’s future is unknown.”

I nodded in understanding. While I would hate to see the Rapunzel’s building go, if it came to that, atrophy and time happen to all things on this earth.

“Even if it is demolished,” Sarah said, “We built many beautiful memories here, and those will always last.”

I nodded in agreement. The mythos of Rapunzel’s will always stand in our memories.

As I drove home last evening, I thought about the day and mulled the new information that I was still digesting. I contemplated Strawberry Shortcake and Rapunzel and how we all construct our personal myths and identities from the stories that others tell about us - and some that we tell ourselves.

I am not convinced that I am an authentic Strawberry Shortcake despite my mother’s enthusiasm for the character, but I am immensely pleased to know a real-life Rapunzel who embraced her personal myth and set out an elaborately embellished book for residents of Nelson County, Virginia, and beyond to come, join in, and help write a beautiful fairytale.

For the past six years, I have been chasing an elusive treasure hidden in Virginia by an eccentric historian/archeologist. While I have not found the treasure (yet!), I have learned that there is an excessive number of fun, historical places in Virginia. I will write about all of the ones that I have encountered thus far in my search for the treasure (and include photos) in my next Substack article [POSTPONED. I still intend to write about the places soon but not in the very next article.] This article is about something different. It is about the fact that, sometimes, when you are out searching for something (whether it is treasure or miracles to benefit your life), YOU become the miracle in someone else’s life.

And so it happened that, this past weekend, I was in southwest Virginia searching for the treasure yet again. Whenever I have a fresh idea for where it could be (it allegedly is hidden in “a very distinctive place” in southwest Virginia), I take off down the road to see if my idea is correct. This weekend, my focus was on the Old Virginia Brick Mine near Slaty Gap, Virginia. The mine is located all the way at the end of Rt. 812/Hercules Road in Snowden/Buena Vista (Google Maps accepts both locations as addresses for Hercules Road).

I had a grand time wandering among the ruins of the slate/brick mines and even sliding into a few dank, former conveyor belt passages underground - but would recommend that you go with friends, if you decide to explore the area, as it can be dangerous. I was pleased to escape without encountering any rattlesnakes or angry yellow jackets at close range.

One of my favorite parts of searching for the treasure in this location was seeing the warm ray of sun (pictured at the top of this post) that poured through a mine vent around noon. Shortly after I passed the shaft-light, I heard swift, four-footed movement in the almost total darkness. Since I was uncertain what was down there with me, I left prematurely. But I would like to return to resume my search there at another time.

After exiting the mine, I thought I would take a look at the cemetery that allegedly is somewhere nearby - but I could not find it. (Another circumstance necessitating a return trip to the area!)

Having exhausted myself and finding my desired search areas limited by knowledge and wildlife circumstances for the moment, I decided to head out. I felt that I had engaged in enough mischief for the day, although the miracle/magic of finding the treasure had not yet happened for me.

As I bounced along Rt. 812/Hercules Road (it is full of potholes) in my car, I spied a young family ahead of me who had just crossed the road at the Appalachian Trail crossing point. The young mother feebly stuck her thumb in my direction (she didn’t seem to believe that I would stop), and I stopped and turned on my four-way lights.

“Hi!” I said to the mother, her husband, and their toddler. “How can I help you?”

“We are section hiking the Appalachian Trail and need to get back to our vehicle at Punchbowl Mountain Overlook.” Said the mother. “We thought we would be able to find water along the trail back to Punchbowl, but we just passed some hikers who said that all of the water along the trail up to Punchbowl has dried up. In order to have water today, we have to refill now - five gallons of water. We can switch off carrying the water, but our son who will also need to be carried much of the way weighs around 30 pounds. If we have to do that, it will be a very long day [it would have taken them around 12 hours]. Could you take me (if that is more comfortable for you) or my husband back to the overlook to get our vehicle? That would help us so much!”

I quickly sized up the situation and saw that they were in need of miracle, so they wouldn’t have to hike basically straight up the mountain with so much weight and feel dead by the end of the day. I could perform this miracle. On the Appalachian Trail, they have a name for people like me who do this: Trail Angels. And Trail Angels perform Trail Magic. I was pleased to be their angelic magician.

Plus, the husband looked pretty harmless to me.

“Sure!” I told her. “I’m fine with taking your husband back up to the overlook. Just give me a minute to clean out my front seat.”

“Thank you so much!” She said. “You have no idea how grateful we are.”

Having experienced some significant miracles and magic in my own life, I did have at least a little bit of an idea. But I just smiled and told her they were most welcome.

I had a nice chat with the husband while we rode up to the Blue Ridge Parkway to get their vehicle. He told me that his trail name is Panda, and I managed to infect him with the desire to go treasure hunting - especially for the There’s Treasure Inside treasure that is hidden on the Appalachian Trail.

I don’t know that I will ever see Panda and his family again, but I hope that all of the miracles that they encounter on the AT will inspire them to be miracle workers in others’ lives too.

And really, who actually needs a dusty old treasure (though I do plan to keep looking for it anyway!) when the world is full of magicians and miracle workers who may appear at anytime to give you what you need? ❤️

Although the eastern whip-poor-will population is in decline, there is one place nearby that I consistently have been able to hear them at dusk and just before sunrise (their usual active times): the Coal Road near Lyndhurst, Virginia. With its large number of pull-offs for dispersed, primitive camping, the Coal Road is a favorite haunt of mine when I need some peace and quiet to be with my own thoughts. I went up there last night and enjoyed a tranquil evening.

And I received a gift that I never have been given before: a whip-poor-will came out at midnight (Yes, I checked my clock to see what time it was!) and sang for a while. We are only two days past full moon and the night light illuminated the forest well - perfect for hunting or calling for a mate.

This morning, I realized that it is Good Friday, and a poem connecting the midnight whip-poor-will with the Christian resurrection began hatching itself in my brain. So, I typed it all out a few moments ago. Some of the imagery is rooted in reality and some of it is fictional/metaphorical.

Enjoy! And a contemplative Good Friday and Happy Easter to you.

The Whip-Poor-Will Sings at Midnight

She hears a whip-poor-will singing at midnight. 

Covered in her own blood in the darkness, 

She marvels as the treetops fill with song-light 

And though the Bird is hidden from her eyesight

And her life is full of grief and starkness

Yet, she knows the Whip-poor-will sings at midnight.

Tree-nailed, covered in blood in the harsh sunlight

She sees Christ - crucified by hearts’ hardness -

And marvels as His treetop fills with song-light. (1)

And now the Holy Ghost with feathers so bright (2)

Hovers over us with wings of softness. (3)

She sings a song of comfort in the midnight.

Without the red blood Christ shed to make us white - (4)

No wing-filled songs of guileless artlessness

No marvel of a Christ-tree filled with song-light.

And although I may bemoan my current plight,

Wish for escape from earth’s bleak wilderness - 

I hear the Whip-poor-will singing at midnight 

And marvel as the treetops fill with song-light.

(1) Zephaniah 3:17, God rejoices over His people with singing.

(2) Inspired by line 14 of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “God’s Grandeur”

(3) Luke 13:34, God is compared to a mother hen.

(4) Isaiah 1:18, I John 1:7

Something that is becoming more and more real to me this year, is the importance of keeping a playful spirit and being prepared for miracles and magic to enter your life. If you are not prepared mentally, it is difficult for you to receive the good things that God/the Universe would like to give you.

A few years ago, I wrote the poem below (with somewhat ponderous epigraphs):

Mt. Sinai Laundromat

“And the LORD said unto Moses, Go unto the people, and sanctify them today and 
tomorrow, and let them wash their clothes, And be ready against the third day: for 
the third day the LORD will come down in the sight of all the people upon mount Sinai.” 
-The Bible, Exodus 19:10-11 KJV

“Nothing left to do/When you know that you've been taken/Nothing left to do/When you're begging for a crumb/Nothing left to do/When you've got to go on waiting/Waiting for the miracle to come.” -Leonard Cohen, “Waiting for the Miracle”

"We're having good clean fun,"
I smirk to the young African-American woman 
at the laundromat with me on a Sunday morning. 
Her silvery tinkle of laughter in response to my 
bad joke calls me to a transgressive worship, 
contrasting with the heavy gongs of traditional 
church bells summoning me to a confining pew.
I am more holy here with these “unbelievers,” 
washing their clothing for a new week ahead, 
than I ever was at church - awkwardly trying to 
sing hymns and not blurt the wrong notes, 
attempting not to offend other churchgoers.
I feel as the newly free Israelites must have felt 
in the wilderness around Mt. Sinai when Moses 
told them to wash their clothing because God 
would soon descend. Here we are, reprobates 
and misfits: washing our clothes on a Sunday 
(of all days). Still, we have cleansed our garments 
and are ready, waiting for the miracles to come.

Among other things, this poem communicates the importance of preparing for miracles in our lives and suggests that they will not happen, if we have not made ourselves ready to receive them.

Related to preparing ourselves for miraculous/magical events, a few months ago now, I came across Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen’s motivational book The Aladdin Factor: How to Ask for What You Want - and Get It. I was fascinated by the many anecdotes that I found inside of people asking for what they wanted and getting it almost immediately. It is as if the Universe honors the act of us daring to put our desires out there.

One section of anecdotes recounted how one person attended a class on achieving goals where the instructor told them to think of the most outlandish thing that they wanted most and write that down. By the next class, the person had received exactly what he had written that he wanted - and so had most of the other people in the class. I was astonished at the power of recording desires in words.

And I started to ask myself what the most outlandish thing was that I wanted but thought I was unlikely to achieve or find. As I thought about it, I realized that what I want most right now at this point in my life is a quiet but large house to live in that has an art studio on the top floor and a library somewhere in the house. So, I wrote all of that down.

But then I started thinking. What good does it do if I write these words down but no one ever sees them? How will I find such a house without going through a long hassle with a realtor (which I prefer not to do)?

I was not sure where to place the words for an apt person to spot them.

Then, I visited a local art gallery and discovered a VERY interesting notice board tucked back in a corner of the basement level. The board has two columns for leaving notes; one is labelled WANTED and the other is labelled OFFERED. That’s when it struck me: I could leave my words here. An artist is likely to know if another artist has a house like the one that I want.

And so, in very tiny letters, I mischievously wrote out my wish and added it to the WANTED side.

I want the impossible. :) Looking for a house with a library and an art studio. If you know of someone selling a house of such a description, please contact me (contact info below). Thank you! :)

One month later, I received an email saying that someone had seen my note on the board and had a house to sell that had an art studio and a library. (!)

The house also is large as I had hoped it would be (4,800 sq. ft.), and the price is very reasonable. I’m purposely being a bit vague on here, as I hope no one else swoops in and buys the place yet.

Naturally, I want to see the property before I commit for certain, and the owner herself is showing me around the place on March 13th. I am really looking forward to it, as it turns out that the art studio belonged to her late father. I hope that I like the house and the town where it is located.

In any case, whether or not I decide to go with the first art studio + library house that has shown up, this whole experience has taught me a valuable lesson: go ahead and ask God/the Universe for what you want/feel you need. You just might get it all - even if you think what you are asking for is impossible. And it might be even better than you imagined…

When I was very young and my family was quite poor, my dad was a welder who made service calls to clients whenever they had various welding needs come up. But, because he had little money, he could not afford a good pick-up truck for his service calls. Instead, he often ran them in a rusted-out Chevy pick-up that my granddad owned.

This Chevy was so old and in such disrepair that it had to be started on a hill, nose facing downhill. Whoever last used the vehicle (my dad, his brothers, or my grandad) would place large, wooden blocks in front of each wheel before parking it on the hill (the brakes also were failing). Then, when they came back to use the truck, they first had to start the truck, leave the driver’s side door open, swiftly remove the blocks from around the truck wheels, then run alongside the truck and leap inside the truck cab. The truck, as it coasted down the hill, usually then coughed fully to life, and they could drive it.

I usually did not accompany my dad on his service calls. But, every now and then, when my mom had had enough of being alone in a house trailer with three children aged three and under, he would take three-year-old me along with him to narrow down the number of fractious ankle-biters to only two.

“Hop in!” I remember him saying to me. And I would timidly climb into (what felt like to me) the enormous Chevy cab.

I remember the splutter of the keys in the ignition and my terror as I waited in the cab as my dad removed the blocks from the wheels, and I hoped the truck wouldn’t drive off down the hill before he jumped inside. But he always managed the jump.

Still, my terror did not subside. The floorboard of the truck was significantly rusted through, and I could see the road whizzing by under us as we noisily traveled to whomever had requested my dad’s handyman services. Being very young and learning about the world, I had minimal sense of my true size and was convinced that I would fall through the cracks.

This sense that I might fall through literal and metaphorical holes and cracks in life is one that I struggled against as a young human.

In my childhood, another place that became significant to me and reinforced the sense of potentially falling through crevices was my grandfather’s empty poultry house. Earlier this winter, I wrote a poem about that particular trepidation:

As a child, I had a fear

Of slatted things.

The long slatted platforms

In my grandfather’s

Chicken house where the

Hens clucked and clustered

While the roosters stomped

Out their dominance with

Crowing, “Er, er, er, er, er! I’m

The biggest rooster here!”

The same slats across which

We children playfully ran after the hens

And roosters had been shuttled

Away in crates to their foreordained

Slaughter. Though I ran, I felt certain

That I would fall through the slats -

So I ran faster still, laughing in defiance

At my perceived possible demise.

As my sense of self and spatial

Awareness grew, I knew that I could

Not fall through the slats - my body

Was too large to fit. And my mind was

Growing as well, until I knew the whole

Universe was inside me,* and nothing

And no one could make me

Fall through the slats of time and reality

And be lost, for I both was and belonged

To time and to the universe itself.

*idea gently borrowed from a Hindu legend of Krishna

When this year began, I thought I had a good idea of where I was going this year: more art, more poetry, more doing things that I love and seeing where that took me. But, last week, I learned that my forty-year-old sister is having a baby. My sister already has four children and recovering from birth always takes a long time for her. In the past, my mom always looked after my sister and her children during the birth and recovery process. But, our mother died four years ago. My youngest brother lives near my sister, but he and his wife have three children of their own, and their oldest child is scheduled for her facial restructuring/cleft palate surgery right around my sister’s due date. What to do?

As the only single sibling with no child-rearing complications of my own, it is obvious that I am the best candidate to go support my sister. I am good at taking care of people and anticipating their needs, but I am sad that I may need to let my artistic life fall through the cracks yet again. It seems that something always comes up.

And yet, maybe this is how it needs to be.

A few of my nieces and nephews have artistic leanings as well. Maybe they need someone like me to be there in this time of transition for their whole family, and the Universe knows this?

Maybe the art won’t fall through the cracks but instead will grow larger and larger until it makes up the whole Universe for all of us.

For now, I am in the dangerous truck on the hill. Life has yelled, “Hop in!” I am in for the journey, and, while I have had concerns about the holes in the floorboard and the road-worthiness of this vehicle before, I will try to enjoy the scary view and see where the ride takes me.

Dostoevsky and I go reasonably far back. I first encountered his writing when I was eighteen years old and found his Crime and Punishment in a thrift store for 25 cents. It was one of the first psychological novels that I read and highly influenced the shape of my psyche as a young adult. I found myself completely understanding the motivations of a murderer and that shook me to my core. I had been raised in a very black and white religious environment where sin (which murder certainly is) and even any hint of sinning were scrupulously avoided (Or so I thought. I would later discover that this actually was not the case. A topic for a future post, perhaps…). And so the idea that I could comprehend why someone did something so heinous seared and permanently scarred my soul with the knowledge that, given the right conditions, I was capable of or even could commit such an atrocity: a circumstance that I had never before considered for myself. But, as I would learn as I grew older, that appears to be the state of humankind. We can rise above that possibility of committing atrocities, but it seems to be our default mode.

I also am impressed with Dostoevsky as a human being and not merely with his writing. When he was twenty-seven years old, he faced a firing squad because he had dared to participate in the activities of the liberal Petrashevsky Circle. At the last moment, his life was spared, and he was instead sent to a labor camp in Siberia. Although he was not above the usual occasional human grumblings about difficulties that he encountered in life, overall, ever after that time, he lived in a spirit of gratefulness for the fact that he even was alive. As he wrote to his brother only hours after he was supposed to have been executed,

Brother! I’m not despondent and I haven’t lost heart. Life is everywhere, life is in us ourselves, not outside. There will be people by my side, and to be a human being among people and to remain one forever, no matter in what circumstances, not to grow despondent and not to lose heart — that’s what life is all about, that’s its task. I have come to recognize that. The idea has entered my flesh and blood… The head that created, lived the higher life of art, that recognized and grew accustomed to the higher demands of the spirit, that head has already been cut from my shoulders… But there remain in me a heart and the same flesh and blood that can also love, and suffer, and pity, and remember, and that’s life, too!

Because of my love for Dostoevsky, when I visited St. Petersburg, Russia, I made sure to find the places that he mentions in his novels, since most of them are in St. Petersburg. I was especially keen to find Sennaya Ploshchad (Сенна́я пло́щадь), the former Haymarket Square which is made much of in Crime and Punishment. I found it with no great difficulty, as it is very near the metro stop named (you guessed it!) Sennaya Ploshchad. Today, Sennaya Ploshchad mainly is a covered market with anything you could possibly wish to buy: fresh produce, clothing, construction tools - you will find it all there. I did not detect any of the seedy activity there that Dostoevsky described from long ago - just everyday Russians going about their shopping, looking for a bargain.

One of Dostoevsky’s St. Petersburg homes also has been made into a museum, so I naturally had to see that. While few of Dostoevsky’s personal possessions have survived, the museum did manage to acquire one of his hats which they proudly display under a glass dome. All of the other furnishings in the house are from the time period when Dostoevsky lived, but he may or may not have owned the precise items.

As a city, St. Petersburg itself is proud that Dostoevsky lived there and extensively described parts of the city in his novels. Allusions to him abound, and one such allusion is a restaurant named The Idiot (after the novel, of course). Naturally, I frequented the place as much as possible. I especially like the homage that they include to Dostoevsky in the menu: “Feodor Dostoevskiy Restaurant ‘Idiot,’ 1996- our days. We tried to do justice to the time, the place, the Writer and the History.” I’d say that they do a reasonably good job.

A peculiarity of the place is that they offer a complimentary shot of vodka along with every order. I always poured the vodka into my coffee - only learning years later that coffee with vodka is the recipe for a Black Russian - though that typically is served over ice, rather than hot.

The restaurant also houses a poignant work of art, which I love. I would sip my boozy coffee and ponder the painting’s meaning in the warmth of the restaurant on frozen, St. Petersburg, winter nights. The work features a somber background with a man who has sunk to his knees in despair in the middle ground. One of his hands both holds his hat on his head and pulls it downward concealing his face. His other hand hangs clenched at his side. In the foreground stands an angel who is anguishedly reaching for a hand attached to a being (Celestial or human? It is left to the imagination.) just off canvas. Regrettably, I was unable to learn the name of the artist, as my servers did not know the artist’s name. But, the painting was an artifact of beauty that, in ways that I can’t quite explain, helped me to weather the cold of the St. Petersburg winter.

Lately, it has felt as if there is a lot of ugliness in the world, but I remind myself that this was true in Dostoevsky’s time too. And yet, he wrote, “Beauty will save the world.” While it may seem naïve and idiotic to believe such a thing in times of horrific events, we must believe it. If we do not believe, like Rodion Raskolnikov, we will find ourselves committing acts of ugliness because we have forgotten that beauty and behaving beautifully will ultimately save us.

And, recently, life has been bringing stories of people to me that remind me that beauty brings salvation for humanity.

A couple of weeks ago, I met artist Aleona/Elena Isakova, and she affirmed for me that beauty has the power to save us from our worst selves. The beauty that Isakova brings to the world is through fashion, and she is an inspiring woman. Here you can read her full story of how she had almost nothing, but God has provided for her every step of the way.

Last week, I learned of a college administrator who hiked the Appalachian Trail when she was 60 years old. Before she began her hike, she came across a Navajo prayer:

In beauty may I walk
All day long may I walk
Through the returning seasons may I walk
Beautifully will I possess again
Beautifully birds,
Beautifully joyful birds
On the trail marked with pollen may I walk
With grasshoppers about my feet may I walk
With dew about my feet may I walk
With beauty may I walk
With beauty before me may I walk
With beauty behind me may I walk
With beauty above me may I walk
With beauty all around me may I walk
In old age, wandering on a trail of beauty, lively, may I walk
In old age, wandering on a trail of beauty, living again, may I walk
It is finished in beauty.
It is finished in beauty.

As she walked the trail, every day, before she began hiking, she would repeat this prayer to herself. Her daily prayer made me smile. Another kindred spirit. I wonder how many of us there are…

The prayer of my heartbeat is similar.

Look for the beauty.

Look for the beauty.

It will be finished in beauty.

It will be finished in beauty.

Beauty will save the world.

Beauty will save the world.

I first became seriously interested in the Parthenon by accident when I took an Ancient Art History class as an undergraduate. The professors co-teaching the class required us to write a 5,000-word essay on an ancient building, and I planned to write mine on the Pantheon in Rome. I was intrigued by the building’s oculus and wanted an excuse to research and learn everything there was to know about it.

Then, one day halfway through the semester, our professors said that we were going to go around the room and say what we intended to write about. But, when it was my turn to say what I intended to research, I could not for the life of me think of the word “Pantheon.” Instead, I heard the word “Parthenon” exit my lips. The professors wrote “Parthenon” down as my topic, and I was stuck with it - because I was too bashful to correct my error.

It turned out to be a fortuitous “mistake,” as I eventually had the opportunity to visit the ruins of the actual Parthenon in Athens but somehow was unable to locate the Pantheon when I visited Rome. (I blame the summer heat! It was a scorching day in July, and I was discombobulated.) I had no such difficulties in well-sign-posted Athens, and found the Parthenon situated high on a hill with no problem.

Something that I found extremely interesting while toiling up the hill to the ruins of the Parthenon was how slippery the hill is, as it is made of solid marble. It then occurred to me: processions to the temple of Athena were slow out of reverence but also out of necessity. If one tries to ascend the slope swiftly, one quickly falls flat on their face. Thus the hill itself demands a reverential pace.

A few years after visting the real Parthenon in Athens and a couple of months before Covid-19 changed the world as we know it, I was back in America. I was tired of sitting still in my bucolic little hometown and was spoiling for an adventure. It was then that I remembered my undergraduate research on the Parthenon: I had learned that Nashville, Tennessee, has a full-scale replica of the Parthenon that is not in ruins. For reasons that I can’t fully explain, I needed to see it.

My mother probably worried about her seemingly insane daughter as I explained to her that I needed to leave the house at 2:30 a.m. the next morning and drive 15 hours roundtrip (~1,022 miles) to see the Parthenon. Nonetheless, she did not try to talk me out of it.

Burning with ambition, I barely slept that night and bundled myself into the car early the next morning. I was going to see a complete Parthenon, not just some ruins scattered over the ground.

When I finally arrived in Nashville 7.5 hours later, I was pretty shattered but still running on adrenaline. I found a free parking spot in Centennial Park and walked over to the Parthenon.

The highlight of seeing the replica of the Parthenon, without a doubt, was the 42-foot tall, golden statue of Athena at the temple’s center. Such a statue would once have stood in the Parthenon in Athens, Greece. But, since the temple now is in ruins, all of its ancient grandeur has fled. Nashville’s Parthenon brings home the awe that ancient worshippers must have felt in the temple. The lifesize replica of Greece’s goddess of war is MASSIVE and fear-instilling.

After being over-awed by this Greek temple in the Bible Belt of America, I sat in the park for half an hour, pondering the contradictions inherent in the country of my birth.

Then I hopped back into my car and drove 7.5 hours back to Virginia.

This solo trip was a crazy, crazy thing to do, and it remains one of my favorite memories.

Sometimes when you are feeling “stuck” intellectually or creatively, the best thing to do is an activity that those around you might not quite understand. Stepping outside of your regular routine jostles the brain cells into new patterns and helps your mind shift beyond your usual perspective.

If you feel like you are slogging through the January blahs, try doing or seeing something new to you this week. Anything. It doesn’t need to be as ridiculous as driving 15 hours on a whim (though it can be!), but it will shake up your thinking and increase your sense of well-being. Give it a try! ❤️

This morning, I popped into a tiny, country grocery store near me and saw a new chocolate bar that I had never noticed before. It is called Magic.

I stood and looked at it for a moment, contemplating its gifting potential, when the thought suddenly came to me - why don't you buy it for yourself? Far too often, I buy shiny things for other people but not for myself.

I smiled to myself. Yes. This magic is for me.

I searched the shelves for a price and did not see one.

No matter, I shrugged to myself. How expensive can a chocolate bar be?

I proceeded to the checkout to purchase the chocolate, and, much to my shocked delight, learned the Magic was much less expensive than I had supposed. I remarked on this to the cashier.

“This a new chocolate bar,” he said. “It is so new that it isn't in our system yet. So, I charged you less than it probably will eventually cost to make sure that I didn't overcharge you.”

“Thank you!” I said. “That's amazing! I’ll take it! Happy New Year!”

As I was walking out the door, I thought to myself. Whoa… What a powerful metaphor for the coming year. I found Magic in the grocery aisles, and it cost far less than I expected.

And, the story of this Magic is not only for me; I believe it is for you too.

My blessing for you in the year ahead: may you find new Magic that hasn’t even been programmed into the System in your mundane and daily activities. And may the Magic take less from you than you expected and give you more joy than anticipated.

In the words of the label on the back of my magical chocolate bar, “Magic is asking for the moon and finding the stars ✳️🌙✳️ a glimmer of something greater ✳️🌙✳️.” Wishing you every glimmer there is. ✨

Happy New Year!

Also assisting this textual earworm in persisting is a song that I frequently listened to as a child: “He Owns the Cattle on a Thousand Hills.” The song adds some words which were helpful in shaping my general mindset of abundance in the world:

Wonderful riches more than tongue can tell,
He is my Father so they're mine as well;
He owns the cattle on a thousand hills,
I know that He will care for me.

Since the text is derived from the KJV and, therefore, a time and place when masculine pronouns frequently were used to refer to all of an entity (e.g., all of humanity), “He” here refers to the all-gender-encompassing deity who rules over the universe.

Possibly because of this song, I have, for all of my life that I can remember, had a difficult time really regarding myself as poor (though some certainly would think [have thought] of me in that way); my Father owns EVERYTHING and even controls the hearts of earthly kings. I am among the richest people in the world because I know this.

But here is the thing: God is not only my Father; He (using this pronoun to stay consistent with the previous words) is the Father of everyone who finds themselves on this earth. We all are stinking rich, but many people don’t know it - and, to be fair, some of God’s children hoard resources and don’t share them. But, God has made the earth to abundantly produce more than enough for all of us.

I was re-impressed with this sense when I inadvertently packed apples with a church last Saturday. How do you inadvertently pack apples you ask? I’ll explain. I was at the local community center and saw a church’s flyer for special events every Saturday in December. The flyer indicated that they were going to sing Christmas Carols last Saturday. I love to sing and thought I would pop along and lend my voice. But, when I arrived, I learned that the previous Saturday’s event (packing apples for the local food pantry) had been cancelled because there had been a snow/ice storm. They would be packing apples instead of singing that day. They would sing carols the following Saturday. While I was surprised, I decided to stay and help pack apples - and come back the next Saturday (yesterday) and sing.

I am very glad that I stayed to pack apples.

A representative for the Society of St. Andrew was there, and he spoke with us briefly about how their society practices the ancient practice of gleaning; they contact farms about picking up the leftovers/ “undesirable produce” in fields and orchards after the harvest season has passed and then partner with organizations (such as churches) to package the produce and distribute it to those who may need it. The orchard that provided the apples that we packed was Dickie Brothers Orchard. The representative said that this orchard also said to come back next year to glean their leftover sweet potatoes because they would simply have to plow them under otherwise. They also suggested gleaning chestnuts at another local orchard.

I was amazed at all of the abundance available, if one only asks. Some work has to be done to receive these blessings from the earth, but there is so much available.

After listening to the rep, we all went outside to the parking lot to pack apples.

After all of the apples were packed, there was a small-ish pile of apples with spots or bruises that we did not deem presentable enough to pack. BUT, if you gently cut out the inedible places, the apples were still wonderful to eat fresh or baked. We all went home with a bag or two of apples. I baked my small bag (I did not take many, since I am only one small person) and warmed them up for a snack throughout the week.

I may have smiled an inordinate amount as I enjoyed the apples this week. I was expecting singing instead of apples, but God knew I needed apples and a reminder of the abundance in the universe instead.

As the week progressed, I received further reminders of abundance in the world. A friend re-posted this post from Humans of New York on Facebook. I was especially struck by the last three sentences in the post: “I think it challenged this whole scarcity mindset, and it proved that even in the darkest times we will always have enough. It’s been my experience that when people see just how much stuff there is, the less likely they are to hoard everything. And the more faith they have in, like, their fellow man.”

And then last night, the local rescue mission posted this (screenshot below) on Facebook:

So, today, I want to reaffirm for you that the world is full of abundance, and you too are rich beyond measure. But, sometimes the wealth that you receive may be unexpected: you may expect music and get apples instead. And that may be exactly what your Father knows you need. ❤️

In my last post, I mentioned that one of my travels involved a rather unpleasant surprise and that I would write about it soon. Soon is today.

In the spring of 2013, I took a suspension from my PhD studies (a thing that you actually can do at UK universities) because I needed to make more money in order to pay tuition fees to actually stay enrolled and finish the PhD. I needed a job that would make a reasonably large amount of money quickly, so I began searching for private English teaching roles in the Middle East, since they generally pay extremely well.

Much to my delight, I received an invitation to interview for a position to tutor the youngest members of the Jordanian royal family. The children’s parents and grandparents were in London at the time, so I flew from the United States to London for my interview with them.

Since I had very little money at the time, paying my airfare to fly over for the interview depleted most of my already meagre savings. And, of course, once I was there, I needed somewhere to sleep, but London lodging is notoriously expensive. I found a place in a hostel in a room with 32 bunks (the beds were stacked in towers of four high each). I was thankful to find a topmost bunk where I could enjoy a little privacy high above most of the others in the room. Despite the high number of people sleeping in the room, it turned out to be relatively quiet at night. (Or, maybe I was jetlagged to the extent that I would have slept through anything. I’m unclear on that point.)

I arrived in London mid-afternoon and was due to meet the family at one of their London apartments later that evening. Even though I was tired, I was buzzing with adrenaline. I had chosen a nice dress to wear to meet the family but wanted to iron it before stepping out. Unfortunately, the hostel’s iron was old and apparently stuck on one setting. I set the iron down on the skirt of the dress and immediately withdrew it when I heard a sizzling sound. Too late. Much to my dismay, I discovered that the iron had melted a good-size hole in the fabric, and my chosen garment now was permanently unusable. I sadly chucked it into the rubbish bin that sat nearby and went to dig through my suitcase to find something else acceptable to wear.

The family had sent me the address of the place where they were staying, and, not wanting to be late, I left my hostel early to make sure I knew where I was going. I located the building and then wandered around the neighborhood until it was time to make my appearance.

When I arrived, the family’s cook and housekeeper welcomed me in. I spoke with my future tutees for a few moments and thought that they seemed sweet. After I had sat waiting for about 30 minutes, the housekeeper came to tell me that, unfortunately, the children’s mother had other plans that evening and would not be able to meet with me after all. She would contact me in the morning and arrange a new place and time to see me.

I left in a mixture of confusion and amusement. I had heard of the very wealthy doing things like this but this was my first time experiencing such a callous disregard for someone’s time. (With my Swiss-German genetics, disrespecting someone’s time nears blasphemous behavior.)

The next morning, I waited to hear from the children’s mother. Finally, mid-morning, I heard from her. She asked to meet me at the Patisserie Valerie near where they were staying. Five minutes later, she asked to change it to Starbucks. Not being a Londoner, I had no idea where this Starbucks was but did not want to be late. I hailed a London Black Cab, gave the address to the cabbie, and he swiftly drove me there.

The meeting at Starbucks was a strange combination of stress and informality. The children’s grandparents attended the meeting/interview as well because they frequently spent time with the children while their mother traveled for her royal duties. They seemed surprised that I was studying for a PhD, and the children’s grandmother told me that she too was studying for her terminal degree. Something that the family was keen to emphasize to me was that these were not ordinary children and must be treated with the utmost care and respect. There is more that I could say about our time together, but, for the sake of discretion, I will abstain. In any case, the meeting went well, and the children’s mother verbally confirmed that they were extending an offer of employment to me. I would be flying with them to Jordan within the week.

The next day, the employment agency that the family was working through sent me my employment contract, I signed it, and I waited for my plane tickets to arrive via email. But I did not hear anything for two days. Finally, I contacted the agency to enquire whether it would be appropriate for me to contact the family and ask about the scheduled flights. That was when the agency chose to tell me. Someone who previously had worked for the family as a tutor had contacted the family shortly after my interview and asked to return. The relationship had been an amicable one, so the family granted their request.

I wrote to the mother of the family stating what I had learned from the agency, and she responded with an email thanking me for “understanding their position.” I did not understand.

What I did understand was, since I had spent most of my funds on flying to London for the interview, I had mainly two choices: 1) go back to the USA and admit defeat or 2) stay in England and try to find another job (but not necessarily in England). I opted to stay in England. The place where I knew the most people was Durham, so I headed North via an inexpensive (but long) MegaBus ride.

As it happened, before I suspended my PhD studies, a few of my friends had told me about a project they were about to start which they simply titled Number 25. Number 25 is the number of a house near the Durham University Main Library, and my friends planned for the home to be an intentional community. As a part of their intentional community, they maintained a spare bedroom where homeless people could sleep. I quickly wrote to my friend Mim who lived at Number 25 and asked if their bed was available. She happily wrote back and said that it was. My gratefulness knew no bounds.

I spent some of the happiest six weeks of my life at Number 25 as we all lived and worked together in community. We took turns cooking meals, cleaning the house, and doing laundry. An important part of living at Number 25 was rising at 6 a.m. every day to read scripture together around the kitchen table and to pray for one another before heading off for the day.

Number 25 also always was full of creativity and music. In my previous post, I mentioned listening to Sondre Lerche’s “Surprise” on repeat and that came about because of the house playlist at Number 25 (some of his music was on the list). Other artists on the house list that I enjoyed were Paper Bird and Ingrid Michaelson. The creativity of the house came out in the kitchen, in various writings, and in works of art placed throughout the home.

While having a job offer rescinded three days before you are supposed to fly out to it is not ideal, being surrounded by the love of friends helped to cushion the harshness for me. Though I felt like a fragile paper bird at the time, being surrounded by kindness and creativity helped me to internalize the lyrics of the song that my friend Mim loved to play on repeat in the house:

Let go of fear
And what’s happened to you
Don’t worry your mind is a river
Humming silver
Never repeating
There is grace and there is motion
In the ocean
Turning, yearning and free ("As I Am," Paper Bird)

Because I landed in a community, even though something unpleasant had happened to me, I could let go of my fear of what was next and go with the flow.

I wish that for you today. In the midst of any hardships that might come your way, may your wings carry you just long enough to find a nest of warmth and kindness where you can rest and recover for your next flight.

P.S. Mim later wrote a wonderful book titled Living Together: Searching for Community in a Fractured World where she talks about the Number 25 experiment and other communities. Highly recommended!

“Give me your hand,” Rakesh said.

I looked at him in surprise but obediently allowed him to take my palm and scrutinize it.

After a few minutes, he looked up and bemusedly said, “Well, you’re not a gypsy.” He stared off into space. “I know that I am a gypsy. I can see it in my palm. But you are not a gypsy.”

It was my turn to be bemused.

I knew nothing about palmistry and had met Rakesh Bhanot only the day before. That morning, we were the first English teachers to make our way to breakfast on the second day of teaching English for the St. Petersburg, Russia-based Nordic School summer camp at Kiljava Resort in Nurmijärvi, Finland. (Yes, the Russians were having an English language camp in Finland. This was before the war.)

As we sat waiting for the other English teachers to arrive, Rakesh shared that he had taught English all over the world, and I mentioned that I had managed to visit 37 countries thus far and hoped to see more of the world too. It was this comment that prompted Rakesh to request to see my hand.

While I also did not necessarily consider myself to be a gypsy, I did think of myself as an adept traveler who could roll with almost anything (good or bad) that came along. So, I was a bit taken aback to (more or less) have my experiences immediately dismissed based upon what someone thought my hand told them.

But, as I thought about it, I realized that, for twenty-five years of my life, “traveler” or “gypsy” is not how I would have characterized myself either. Perhaps those sentiments somehow embedded themselves in the lines of my palm? I was a serious young woman with ascetic tendencies who mostly lived in her head; my body was merely a transport system for taking my brain places, and I seldom traveled far from home. Most of my “journeys” took place inside my mind.

It was not until I moved to England at the age of twenty-five and all of Europe was only a Ryanair/easyJet/Wizzair flight away that I frequently began to visit other countries - because I could do so very cheaply. And when I moved to Moscow, Russia, (before the war) air travel remained easily accessible, and I traveled at the drop of a hat. I did not know if I ever would have those opportunities again, and I was determined to make the most of them.

But, it was not until I made a solo trip to Budapest (partially inspired by George Ezra’s song😊) that I really saw myself as a successful traveler. A friend commented on Facebook that I was “one brave traveler!” and the words resonated with me. I had become really good at this travel thing and genuinely enjoyed it.

So, was Rakesh right that I am not a gypsy? Yes and no. Past Cheyenne certainly was not, but present and future Cheyenne enjoys travel and new experiences. I probably wouldn’t use the word “gypsy” to describe myself (it’s not a word that I particularly care for, though I understand what Rakesh meant by it), but it is true that my life continues to involve travel and delicious (and not so delicious) surprises at times.

I will leave you with a song that I heard and subsequently played on repeat for days during one of my travels when I had a rather unpleasant surprise (which I will write about soon): “To Be Surprised” by Sondre Lerche from Dan in Real Life.

Dear readers, may most of your surprises be pleasant ones. And never be afraid to evolve into a “gypsy” if the time and place calls for it. 😊 ❤️

The Dalai Lama recommends visiting a place that you have never been before at least once per year, and I aim to take his advice - often visiting more than one place that is new to me per year. 😊 Visiting a new place does something for a person mentally. For myself, I find that I feel more creative after seeing something new or after being exposed to ideas and world views that are different from mine. Knowing this about myself is what inspired me to make a pilgrimage to The Palace of Gold in Moundsville, West Virginia, USA, a couple of years ago.

The Palace of Gold is maintained by The International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON) more commonly known as Hare Krishna. This particular palace was built to honor Srila Prabhupada/His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, and it is situated in the mountains in a place that the Swami and his devotees named New Vrindaban. Work on the palace began in 1973, and the workers were devotees/followers of Swami Prabhupada. None of them had specific training in building or architecture, but, somehow, they all managed to work together and craft a magnificent palace. According to the Palace of Gold website, “How it came about may seem hard to understand; after all, how could these inexperienced devotees build something that surpassed their own expectations? A spiritual force was certainly involved, and those who worked on it were aware that they were but instruments in the hands of God.”

Although I am not a Hare Krishna adherent, I enjoyed my tour of the magnificent palace and could see the love and care poured into every detail of the palace’s fabric. Photos of the palace interior are not allowed during tours, but the management of The Palace of Gold has uploaded some wonderful indoor photos to The Palace of Gold TripAdvisor page (and I can confirm that the photos are accurate). Interestingly enough, the aging tour guides are some of the first devotees of Swami Prabhupada who came to New Vrindaban.

Even though photos of the inside of the palace technically are not allowed, I sneaked a few.

After my tour, I enjoyed a walk around the palace grounds and noted the historical marker.

On August 28, 2019, the United States added The Palace of Gold to the National Register of Historic Places.

One of my favorite places at New Vrindaban is the Rose Garden surrounding the palace. The garden has many benches and tables where visitors can sit, relax, and contemplate the beauty of the roses.

Visiting the palace was spiritually and emotionally stimulating, and I left with a complementary copy of the Bhagavad Gita.

While my excursion to the Palace of Gold did not inspire me to join ISKCON, it did re-impress on my mind that most religions deliberately create places of beauty where one can take time away to meditate and to consider one’s spiritual state. Encountering beauty appears to serve as a prerequisite for meeting God and/or ascending to a higher spiritual state. And that knowledge is very inspiring to me for my own spiritual life.