It was Wendy’s Idea

Wendy says it was my idea.  I’m sure it was hers.

Well, anyway, I guess I should introduce myself.  I am her ER doc friend, Elizabeth, and I live in a fabulous, mid 20th century house in a suburb of Big Stone Gap (aka a rural area of Lee County).  So, Wendy occasionally does writing workshops.  And ONE of us suggested that my place would be IDEAL for such an activity. *coughWendycough*

JaneJetsonWhen we moved into this house, the woman who built it had just died and her children were selling it.  Some things had been redecorated, but mostly not.  It still had the original drapes in the living room, the original flocked wallpaper in the entry hall.  It has a white bath, a pink bath and a green half-bath.  It has steel cabinets in the kitchen.  It has a ceiling light in the breakfast area that looks to me like something Jane Jetson would wear on her head!

It is surrounded by several hundred acres of cow pasture and hayfields.  There is a small community behind my 5 acres, with modest homes and double wide trailers, whose inhabitants come out of the woodwork on their ATVs with the first hint of pretty weather. (Our road is gravel, so not much actual traffic!)frontyard

The garden was started by Frona, 60 years ago.  She planned the layout and planted the perennials.  Every year is a journey of discovery with new flowers that must have been dormant in the previous years and with the plants I have added.

sunflowers

So, if you are interested in writing, Wendy is ready to mentor you at this workshop.  There are beds and sofas for you to sleep on and we are excited about sharing our little corner of Eden with you.

You can contact us through the Tales of the Lonesome Pine Bookstore Facebook page for more information.  You can see pictures of my place on my Facebook page, Elizabeth Cooperstein, in Big Stone Gap, VA.

Jane

Calm Amid the Craziness

Jack’s guest blog from Istanbul –

Istanbul is a city of 22 million people, and most of them seemed to be in the Spice Market and Topkapi Palace the same days we were. On day  three amid jostling crowds, avoiding shopkeepers accosting in six languages, dodging buses and taxis as they honked insults while dueling for supremacy on the narrow Old City streets, we booked tickets to see the Whirling Dervishes.

Not knowing quite what to expect, we arrived at what appeared to be a sophisticated ‘theater in the round,’ complete with colored lights and set in an old mosque. My heart sank as I got the feeling that we were in for a typical ‘folklorique’ experience. When the four musicians appeared, dressed in identical costumes and playing tambur, whistle, psaltery and various drums, my first impression seemed correct, but as the music started I realized that this sounded like the real thing–a strange alternating major and minor key piece based on an oddly exotic scale.

Gradually the music set a mood. Then the dervishes appeared and the audience—until then restless and clearly waiting for something to happen—settled in as, without leaving our seats, we were moved to another place. A feeling not unlike the gathered silence of a Quaker Meeting enveloped the space as these five men in high hats and white garments inclined their heads, raised their hands (left palm down, right palm up) and took turns to lead the others in their ancient stately whirling dance of Sufi worship.

Seemingly oblivious to the 200 or so observers in the circle of tiered seats around them, they whirled, white coats billowing, with eyes half closed, whispering the words of prayer. It was elegant, dignified, reverent.

When it was all over we wandered back to our hotel through jostling crowds, city traffic and accosting stall keepers. But we couldn’t get the image of the dervishes out of our thoughts. A sense of calm suffused the night.

Cynically, Wendy and I joked that these men got up this morning and went to their jobs as taxi drivers, stall keepers, and tourist boat operators–but so what if they did? Calm is calm, worship is worship, and moments of honesty about loving God in a busy life are worth clinging to.

dervishes