To my Tiwa family, everything means something. Every sign, symbol, occurrence, event, and element in their surroundings has meaning. The wind blows out of the south, that means something. The weather warms up considerably, that means something else. A deer crosses the road in front of your car, that means something. A pebble on the hiking path causes you to trip, there's a message for you from the stone, the old one. The elders in my Tiwa family live in constant interaction with life and all its elements. It's very different from the way most of the rest of us live, which (by contrast) might even be characterized as half-asleep. I count myself among the dozing folks, so it's not a judgment. It's HARD waking up and staying awake to everything, recognizing everything as having some symbolic or sacred importance and honoring that. It takes every ounce of focus, and leaves me almost no time to check my email or fluff and buff so I look presentable, blog, make calls on my cell phone, even just zone out and go stupid for a while. This being aware all the time is exhausting if you're not conditioned to do it. And I'm not conditioned to do it.

For example, I recently caught a bad cold. No big deal, right? You stock up on tissues, get some cold meds at the drugstore, push the fluids, take some naps. You spend your waking time imagining productive uses for the gelatinous stuff you're exporting into the tissues: could be bottled and sold as an industrial lubricant, used for glazing outdoor furniture, road resurfacing, whatever. That's how I do it, anyway, under normal conditions.

But enter my Tiwa dad, who tells me to listen to this invasion of bacteria, viruses, whatever these ornery little buggers are. Which means I'm not supposed to suppress the symptoms, or I won't "hear" what I'm supposed to hear. "You maybe learn something," he says. The maybe part meaning: if I can get past the fact that I'm so stubborn, willful, set in my own ways, generally inept at decoding the Universe, etc. And get this: he has his own health challenges, and yet he sees them as part of his sacred journey. As teachers. Shapers and strengtheners. Challenges not to be overcome, but to be understood and appreciated so that he can receive all the gifts they offer. Life companions, in some cases, sent to him to have a positive effect on his growth and evolution that could not be attained in any other way. This, I think, is faith beyond measure.

So back to the everything-has-meaning thing: let's take another example. It snowed a foot overnight and is still snowing hard today, last day of winter. What does this mean? To me in the mundane world, this means I don't know if I can make it down the mountain and all the way to Denver for a gig tomorrow, even with four-wheel drive and good snow tires and chains. To my Tiwa grandma, this means winter is not ready to give the world over to spring yet. Seems obvious enough, but then I have to report that winter means more than just a season to my Tiwa grandma. It is about growth at a level beneath the conscious, germinating things under the surface, increasing personal wisdom, drawing down and getting still and quiet, gaining strength and tenacity as a result of the physical challenges inherent in winter. And developing certain skills and attributes. If winter is not ready to give the world over to spring yet, then somehow, we haven't quite completed our current tasks. Grandma has a set of stories that are only told in the winter. They contain meaning and lessons so subtle that they can whizz right by you on the tremor in her high-pitched voice and you can miss them. If that happens, you have to wait another cycle around the medicine wheel before you can try again to get their meaning. To the Tiwa, the winter is the perfect and only time for certain lessons. Certain songs, certain rituals, certain stories. If you get a cold and it snows a foot and a half, that means something about your particular journey around this segment of the medicine wheel. If you miss the meaning, you are doomed to repeat the same lesson again and again. And make everyone else immediately around you wait for spring, in some cases. Or fail to grow through the cycle and be stunted, thereby not fulfilling your role in the tribe in a timely way. Think about that in the global sense. Talk about responsibility!

Now, back to the conversation with my dad. The Tiwa consider it rude to be asked a direct question, in most cases. So, I said to my dad, "If you have any ideas about what this cold is trying to teach me, I'd love to hear them." (Because I really wanted to hurry up and get it figured out so I could take a decongestant and some other things so I could stop coughing and sneezing and get some sleep.) To which he replied, "Maybe if I had a cold, I would know. But I don't have a cold. You do."

Time to wake up.

I've had a rough year. I know I'm not alone in that, and I'm not asking for pity here, but it needs to be acknowledged. It's been a really tough year. The normal one-thing-and-then-another rhythm of stuff that irks people now and again all happened at once for me this year. And there was more: unimaginably busy schedules with impossible demands, loss of staff to injury, loss of relatives to death, loss of family pets to old age, illness and even an oncoming car. Medical crises in loved ones, and losses there, too. And a couple close calls of my own, both of them arising during trips into remote back country. In late spring, I cracked my head open so severely that I can still trace the softball-shaped rent in my skull and I bear a scar across my forehead from the wound. That one happened ninety miles from the nearest hospital, so we did a field triage and some butterfly sutures, and I lived.

When I was writing WILD SORROW, I marveled at the tenacity, the strength, and the toughness that Jamaica showed as that story unfolded. She suffered an ongoing lack of the normal amenities we all take for granted (like electricity and running water), plus she got beat up, knocked down, smashed into, and broken up. And she just kept going. Even when people around her advised her to slow down, lie down, stop, rest. And I was amazed at the strength I found in her as I wrote. She had grit I didn't even know about, and I like to think I'm the one who created her! I grew to admire Jamaica on a much deeper level than I ever had before. Slowly, over the year I was working on WILD SORROW, Jamaica became my hero. Not just my sleuth. Not just someone I cared about. She became a role model for persistence and bravery in the face of difficult odds. I wanted to be more like her in almost every way.

And then this autumn, without meaning to—that is to say without planning to "camp out" or any of those rugged, outdoorsy things we do that seem fun and exciting—I ended up enduring a lot of the same hardships as my hero did in the book I wrote over two years ago. Just like Jamaica, I went without running water for what seemed like an eternity. The boiler went out and the snows and cold came early, so that meant a wood fire had to be kept constantly burning in the cabin woodstove, or if I had to leave, it meant returning to near-freezing temperatures, pets, and plants. The weather went straight from a rainy, cold, Irish summer to a bitter, white winter and never passed go. A constant snow pack has clung to the ground for two months now, not normal for autumn here.

On Halloween, in the White Mountains of Arizona, back off the grid nearly fifty miles from anywhere, I was brought to my knees by jacking pain that doubled me over and wrung up whatever was inside of me that could be torn loose and expelled. As one doctor put it, "You were vomiting like an animal." Indeed I was. And vomiting blood. The nearest hospital was an hour away over treacherous roads, but my fearless friend, Betsy, got me there. The specialists scratched their heads and ordered more tests, until finally a vascular surgeon read the CT scan and asked for another with a dye injection for contrast. It was he who noted the stranding of infection around my spleen, causing it to enlarge and become inflamed. But no one knows how or why it happened, or what might be done to prevent it happening again. Thus, my spleen came sharply to my attention for the first time in my life and remained in the forefront of my thoughts and feelings for some time.

After a brief recuperative time, I returned home to Colorado and the snows and bitter cold, the broken water line (and thus, no running water), the ailing (if relatively new) boiler, the wood-ravenous woodstove and the daily sponge baths in a scant bowl of water heated with my tea kettle. The weather delayed needed repairs, the pain in my side subsided, re-emerged, and then subsided again, my belly remaining tender for weeks. And a rash of other household systems breakdowns erupted until I started telling people we had the equivalent of the mechanical H1-N1 virus at our place.

It seemed like the day would never come when the water would run through the pipes again and the boiler would fire as backup so I could leave the house safely and return to it reasonably warm. I dreamed of hot showers, of clean laundry, of flushing the toilet at will. One day, Lee Ann, my publicist and friend, said, "You're just like Jamaica in WILD SORROW." And I realized that it was true!

From then on, I started asking myself, "What would Jamaica do?" When my side ached and I felt the pain coming back, I remembered Jamaica holding her broken ribs as she limped to the bathroom, determined to keep her commitment to help the Pueblo women deliver their Christmas baskets. When I couldn't keep food down, I remembered her sipping applesauce and soup out of the good side of her smashed mouth, knowing it would nourish her back to health. And when I wanted to feel self-pity because I hadn't had a hot shower in well more than a week, I remembered Jamaica digging a trench for a latrine near the woods in the cold of winter. And I figured I could hang on a little while longer. Maybe just one more day.

And the days stacked together until one of them was full of the sounds of the backhoe digging in the meadow to replace the broken water line. The boiler manages to run after a complete tune-up and a minor investment of funds. And my swollen spleen feels less tender to the touch and more like it's going to make it. And me along with it.

Suddenly, the worst of the crises seems to have passed and I can stop and take a breath. But, like Jamaica, I look around and note the changes. There have been losses that couldn't be mended. Nothing to do but cowgirl up. That's what Jamaica would do.

 

 While author Sandi Ault is avidly researching for her next book, members of the WILD Bunch are offering fun guest blogs on a wide range of subjects. This guest blog is from Gillian Driscol. Our thanks to Gill for providing  us with her account of a road trip to Sandi's WILD Writers Workshop.

 Road Trip by Gillian Driscoll

When I first moved to the west from England 27 years ago (yikes, has it really been almost 30 years!), I became fascinated with stories of the harrowing journeys of the original settlers.  I read book after book, account after account of those marathon meanderings across parched plains, towering mountains, raging rivers and impenetrable canyons.  I was awed at the stamina of those folks, at their determination, at their capacity for winning through and the way they coped with crippling conditions and devastating losses.

I wondered just how they coped on a daily basis, spending hour after hour, day after day, either walking alongside or riding in those covered wagons.  The women especially, with the responsibility of children not to mention giving birth on the go, won my undying admiration.  How did they do that?  How did they survive?

My good friend Sandi and I have been friends and fellow life travelers for many years.  Lately, however, our busy lives have left us little time for chats over tea or even extended phone calls.  Undaunted, we two resourceful Geminis, came up with an answer.  We would take advantage of Sandi's writing class in New Mexico and take a road trip.

As I jumped into my car to drive to Sandi's house, I tried to cheer up my husband, who had a "you're leaving me behind all on my own" look on his face, by chirping brightly "Hey, why don't you take a road trip with your buddies sometime?"   He stared back at me with a look of incomprehension, mumbled something indeterminate and kissed me goodbye.  I guess same sex road trips can't be a guy thing?  Who knew?  

I was excited.  Six hours in a car with my friend meant lots of time to chat and catch up.  I couldn't wait.  I even had a couple of books with me that I wanted to share excerpts from with her.  When I got there, I found she had done the same.  Oh the joys of having a friend on the same wavelength!  We packed the car and set off, immediately tuning into the same spot on the dial.  Let the conversation begin!

The journey passed quickly.  We fixed our families, our health, our futures, our spouses and the world.  How satisfying!  We laughed and came to the brink of tears.  We ate (healthy stuff), drank and gushed about how much we loved the West and the stunning vistas we passed through.  We were so engrossed in our mission to catch up, we only made one potty stop.  

Sandi's workshop was wonderful.  The weather was wonderful.  The company was wonderful.  New Mexico was radiant.

On Sunday morning we slept late and embarked on our journey home.  Now it will probably come as no surprise to female readers that our return trip was not a rerun of the outward leg - it was a continuation.  Far from running out of topics, we had the weekend to process, further thoughts on previously raised issues and more reading to do.  Despite traffic holdups that extended the time by another hour, we never ran out of things to discuss.

Now at last, after all these years, I realized I had my answer to the question of just how those women settlers coped.  They just kept talking with their BFFs!  Every day as they set out on their dangerous journey into unknown territory, they settled into their wagon or strode alongside making sure that a woman friend was nearby.  As they walked they must have reminisced about places and family they had left behind, shared concerns with each other, given advice, offered support and comfort, speculated about the future, laughed and cried.

This is how women cope.  This is how they survive the unthinkable and trudge into the unknown.  With their friends at their sides, women can survive most anything.  As long as we can talk, we can live.

Gillian Driscoll Ph.D. is a writer, spiritual teacher and speaker who enjoys finding surprises in the ordinary stuff of life.

While author Sandi Ault is working on the next WILD Mystery, guest blogger Patricia Smith Wood provided this WILD Blog:

Those of you who met Sandi Ault at a conference, a book signing, or taking classes from her already know what a gracious person she is. In addition to that, I can tell you from my own experience that she is also very generous with her help and friendship.

My husband and I recently attended an Amateur Radio conference in Estes Park, Colorado, and I had the pleasure of spending a couple of enchanting hours with our favorite writer. When she picked me up at our hotel, I was so excited to see her I completely missed the fact that she had a wolf in the back of her SUV!

Tiwa is not a small animal. Since writers are supposed to be observant, I should have seen him. Okay, so apparently I'm not observant.  Sandi let me get settled and buckle my seatbelt before she casually mentioned she had brought her furry friend. I looked over my shoulder and there was the most magnificent creature standing quietly in the cargo area. Naturally I wanted to hug him, but as we know from Sandi's descriptions of Mountain in her Wild Series, wolves are shy and don't make friends with humans all that easily. I was content just to see him and watch the interaction between Sandi and her friend.

Sandi took me on a beautiful back road winding through the mountain, and we circumvented the traffic in downtown Estes Park. Our destination was the Celtic Cottage, an interesting building located at the river's edge which houses the charming collectables shop of Sandra Patterson-Slaydon. It's filled with every imaginable trinket from Ireland and Scotland. Our purpose there was not to shop, but to spend an hour with Sandra, the owner.

Sandi explained that Sandra designed the building and had it built to house both her shop and her living quarters. Her husband was on duty in the shop and he alerted Sandra that she had company. We were invited to ascend the tiny spiral staircase leading to the family's home. It was like being in a lighthouse. The absolute best use of space was incorporated into this structure. We emerged into a tiny, cozy living room and met one of Sandra's Scottie dogs

Sandi told me that Sandra was also a writer, and I looked forward to getting to know her. We chatted about her recently completed book, and I found out it was a mystery with elements of the Arthurian legend. We prevailed upon Sandra to read her first chapter and I was enthralled. It has all the elements I love in a mystery --- humor, imagination, a great setting, and a wonderfully eccentric protagonist.

Next, they asked me to read some of my book, and although I was nervous, I did it. I welcomed their comments and suggestions, and felt the same type of warm encouragement that my writers group back home gives. I came away with renewed determination to make the book the best it can be.

The afternoon passed by so quickly and it was time to leave. Tiwa was waiting for us in Sandi's SUV, and we knew he was anxious for our return. We drove around Estes Park and Sandi pointed out the book store where she debuts her books. Three generations of women have run the store which was originally built as the family home in 1898. If you ever have an opportunity to visit Estes Park, grab it. I want to go back to spend time just walking around town and exploring the many shops and restaurants. And I want to visit the Celtic Cottage again with time to explore all the treasures to be found there.

Sandi returned me to my hotel and we promised to meet again at the writing seminar she's presenting in Santa Fe this August. I'm looking forward to that class because I know how much she shares with her writers. If you ever have the chance to take a class from Sandi Ault, do it. I plan to bring several friends with me to the Santa Fe event, and I know we will all take valuable information back with us.

Patricia Smith Wood is the author of THE EASTER EGG MURDER and also a blogger on her own site. Visit Pat's own blog at Savannah Scotts at Wordpress

I just came out of an extended period in what my staff (The Pack) refers to as "Black Ops." My pack, my friends, and my family all know that when I am on deadline for a book, I don't answer the phone, I don't open my email (I have most of email forwarded to one of The Pack), and—except to make sure my wolf Tiwa gets a little exercise—I definitely don't leave the house unless I'm out of coffee or toilet paper. I hole up with my laptop and write, write, write, write, write. I do almost nothing else. I recently emerged from my cave, having completed the manuscript for the fourth WILD Mystery, WILD PENANCE. When I did, I had a little trouble adjusting to sunlight, conversing with other human beings, and convincing my friends and neighbors that I hadn't died.

I suppose there are other authors out there who don't go without sleep for days at a time, don't work until dawn because nights are quieter, or possibly don't even sweat the last few weeks before their deadlines. I am not among that group, and don't expect I ever will be. I'm too much of a perfectionist about my writing, too exhaustive in my research, too convinced there is a better way to say it, and too addicted to the revision process. I can't let that baby go until I am certain it is as good as I can possibly make it.

So I admit it. Just kill me now.

But I'm also thinking there might be a few other authors out there who-like me-struggle just a wee teensy bit with the curve of touring, promoting, researching, and writing such that completing a good book every year can't be done without a modicum of self-torture, a long stretch of sleep deprivation, too much caffeine, and total withdrawal from all distractions in the home stretch. If you are one of these, or even if you are aspiring to be an author and want a picture of what it looks like for the crazy ones like me, here's a little list I put together from my own true life experiences on The Dead Line. See if you recognize yourself.

YOU MIGHT BE AN AUTHOR ON THE DEAD LINE IF:

• Out of desperation, you decide that you have to do some laundry. You gather up the heap of clothes you've worn for the last month and start feeding from the pile into the washer. As you do, you notice that the only things there are workout clothes and jammies.
• Everyone you know is afraid to call you before noon.
• You talk to yourself because you are your only companion. You answer yourself, too.
• You haven't seen fresh food of any kind in weeks. In lieu of milk, you open an old can of coconut milk you found in the back of a cupboard so you can put some in your coffee and over your raisin bran. You decide you can make it like that another week.
• Also, the once-plentiful supply of canned goods you kept in the pantry for snowstorms and power outages have dwindled down to a jar of pickles and some green chili jelly, and you figure you can have those with crackers for a day or so rather then drive up the mountain to the store and lose writing time.
• Your wolf tends to gain weight during the home stretch because you hike him less and less. You tend to lose weight because there is no food in the house. And the wolf's kibble is starting to look appealing as a potential crunchy snack while you're working.
• You get in your car and forget where to put the ignition key because it's been so long since you've driven.
• You finally run up the mountain to the store one morning after an all-nighter because, more than anything, you're out of coffee. You encounter a neighbor who asks repeatedly if you are all right. You tell him you are, but when you get back to your car with your groceries, you notice that you forgot to change before you went out, and under your coat, you're wearing your flannel pajama bottoms and your fuzzy slippers. Driving home, it also occurs to you that you haven't brushed your hair in days.
• Your thesaurus and dictionary are showing serious thumb-wear.
• You haven't picked up the mail from the stand of boxes down at the bottom of the road in so long that you forgot which mailbox is yours. You have to try your key in five or six of them before you find your own.
• When you do locate your mailbox, you discover that the post office has put a slip on top of the ponderous pile indicating that if you don't start picking up your mail regularly, they are going to start returning it. The note also kindly suggests that if you are going to be away for an extended period of time, you should put your mail delivery on hold.
• When you bring the mail home, you put it on the kitchen table and figure you'll open it later. After two months, you can't even see the kitchen table underneath all the mail.
• The UPS and FedEx guys wouldn't know you in street clothes because you always answer the door in jammies.
• Your social life suffers from months-long lapses without any human contact. When you finally see your friends again, you don't recognize them at first. And they don't recognize you
• You can't remember what it felt like to go to lunch, see a movie, watch television, read the newspaper.
• The only time you see your family is during your tour events in the cities where they live.

So that's a little snapshot of what it looks like when I'm on the Dead Line. Now that I'm no longer in black ops, I'm going to take a good look around and see what I've missed during my long hibernation. Might get my hair cut, maybe a pedicure, see a friend for lunch, try to catch up on some sleep. I've got about four days to do that, during which I also need to go through all this mail. Then I start the month-long tour for the book I wrote during the hibernation before this last one.

Okay, I know there's probably a better way to do this. As soon as I touch bases with all my friends and family, go through all this mail, get a couple nights' sleep, and finish my tour, I'm going to try to figure it out. In the meantime, I have to laugh at myself and my curious process while on the Dead Line. Hope you got a giggle out of it, too.