Frankly, the telephone call at one in the morning should have tipped me off that my day or dentist appointment would hold a glitch.  Yes, one after midnight calling from a restricted number.

If the call to my cell had not been from a restricted number, I might have thought twice about answering.

If the young lady had not sounded so very professional when saying the words ‘to confirm your appointment’ I might not have listened further.

If I did not have an appointment that had not yet been confirmed, the one at eight in the morning for my dental work, I might not have listened.

If the message had not been so well timed with the punch line toward the end of the professional notice, I might not have listened.

If the message was about anything other than an appointment verification for dog poo clearing, I might not have laughed later.  The Dog Poo Company confirming a three in the afternoon schedule to clean up all the dog poo in my yard.

If I had thought it was at all funny in the moment, I might not have dialed in her ear. Next time I will use my megaphone siren.

So I lost sleep, then had to get up and go to the dentist appointment.

Wrong day, right time.

If I had not skipped the Renee Zellweger movie after the holiday dinner the night before in order to get to sleep early enough.

If the appointment did not require rising at four thirty in the morning on the fourth to the shortest day of the year.

If it had not been snowing little icy flakes for three days.

If I had not chosen the wrong door for my drop off and had to cross the icy parking lot to the right building.

If Hubby had not gone on many errands so I had to await his return.

If the staff scheduler, who was willing to work me in the dentist’s schedule, had not said it would take one to three hours to maybe get me in a chair.

If only one person in that waiting room had empathy with my predicament.  You know how it is when a herd of cows are grazing and one falls over dead? Well, maybe you don’t.  The rest of the herd just keeps doing what they were doing even though they lived their entire lives with the now deceased cow. That is how detached a waiting room of patients can act when someone just might get in front of them in schedule, especially if the intruder is there on the wrong day.

If I had not skipped my coffee and breakfast and had to sit there for an hour. 

If I had not arranged my entire day to spend the wrong morning with the dentist.

If hubby were not on three to eleven shift.

If we did not have to do this again the next morning…..

Then perhaps acceptance would be easier to come by.  Right?

My daughter was discussing acceptance with me a few days ago. Just accepting that, for example, the eggs are over hard instead of over easy when over easy and dippy was the way I ordered them. Enjoy and really accept over hard eggs with no runny yolk. Fake it until you make it.

But if one has enough days like this one of being on time for the dentist on the wrong day – and has been served dozens and dozens of over hard eggs in their life, then acceptance is an elusive, difficult choice. Especially when age fifty-three and rising.

Now, my daughter is wise.  But because she is less than half my age she is also still wide-eyed as she teaches me to accept just like I tried to teach her to accept life. I taught her that this too shall pass, that keep it simple silly was the best thing she could do, that when one door closes then another one opens. I taught her that acceptance is a key to all life’s problems.

So now that I am buggered with irritation and racked with should’ve, would’ve, could haves… now she will remind me.  Then one day, when she has had enough over hard eggs with no runny yolk for her toast, and when finally I, on the other hand, have given up entirely in trying to get anything to be my way – especially my eggs – then I will remind her of the ease of a life with complete and total acceptance.

I will remember then the sunshine that does come out of days like this.

If I had not had a morning of being on time for a dentist appointment I did not have then I would not have had a wonderful breakfast with Hubby and his sister, she who rescued me from the dentist office. I would never have had time for five cups of holiday coffee or to enjoy her Christmas tree with all the unique ornaments.

I know I have probably said this far too often, but once again, this blog would not have been so easy to write, if I had been at the dentist on the right day.

Essa Adams is the author of ‘A Breath Floats By‘ a.k.a. penname Thayne Hudson. She writes Women’s Fiction Blog, Pet Skunk Medicine and authors ESSA Natural.

The Fake Ladybug in My Window

Freezing winter short story by the Women’s Fiction blog.

Feel good winter humor, really….A feel-good holiday story. Sort of....

Fake ladybugs are not to be confused with holiday ornaments either.

Did it move just now? The fake ladybug in my office window behind the plastic film? The thing is right in line with my view of the winter snow garden. Really bugging me.

One of those fake ladybugs.  An imported Asian lady beetle, orange-red with nineteen black dots on its back. The kind that pinches hard.  Pees in your mouth vile liquorish poison that makes you wail and spit for ten minutes.

How do they get in your mouth? They drink from water glasses. Crawl into salads, mixing with grape tomatoes quite nicely.

See how they would fit right in?

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My office has wonderful walls of windows, so we purchased an EdenPure Heater, just to keep me warm.  Now our pets sleep in baskets by me where I spin them like rotisserie chickens.

Ask the ladybugs.  Winters are rough in the Great Lakes region. So hubby applied lovely plastic film to the windows to give them one more layer of insulation. Since I refuse to use drapes or blinds because I don’t want to lose my view of the winter garden, the film is a compromise.

The problem with this bug-thing staring in at me is that hubby is very protective of the plastic film. The technique is in the airlock. He spends the winter accusing me of pushing stacks of books, the lamp shade, and my purse into the film but these do leave dents. I cannot deny evidence.

One must understand the dynamics of our relationship, of him bringing me sustenance of coffee, c ocoa and soup while I create my prose in the frozen office. Autumn onward, I would don gloves, many sweaters with hoods, scarves, jackets, then coats and boots, frozen fingers typing numbly.

Stubborn me with my walls of vintage windows on my vintage office-porch I would not change for the world, freezing to death.  Like the bug.

Fake ladybugs are not to be confused with holiday ornaments either.

What a lovely winter garden though. Birds, wildlife, a tiny lacy cedar tree tipped in ice beads dancing beneath the grey skeleton of the high bush cranberry. I love my trees. My blue wind chimes.

Hubby loves me. So he contours the film, trims the edges within a sixteenth of an inch from the two-sided tape so I never know it is there. Then he uses hair dryer heat to coax the film to completely disappear as it spreads tighter and tighter.

Who would mess with the airlock? Not me. I’m not even touching it.

But the poor fake ladybug got caught between the windows and the plastic film.

Day before yesterday, the bug was lively. Being the coldest day of the year, I felt sorry for it, doubting its survival for more than a few more hours.  I know, I am a heartless fake ladybug hater. That evening when I turned out the lights, I do not remember noticing Fake Ladybug. She had probably frozen to death quite painlessly… right?

She? Yes, she. Aren’t all ladybugs feminine in fairytales?

Yesterday was more spring-like. Fake Ladybug was not flying around but she was still there, behind the plastic, mulling how to escape her winter wonderland aquarium. Then she disappeared for several hours. Before I turned off the lights, I checked for Fakie and she was not between the windows, not in cracks as far as I could see.

Fakie? Yes, Fakie. Just as Gracie is a cutesy name for Grace. Fakie. Using ‘ladybug’ in her name is too good for her.

Gracie, still as a nailhead on the iced windowsill.

Today I come in here to work, five essays exploding in my mind. There is Fakie, still as a nailhead on the white windowsill, staring at me through the plastic film. Eh.

I’m trying to work. And she is either dead or dying.

To my defense, these fake ladybugs can live through the winter. They hide in our insulated homes – all of us – between the drywall and outside wall, then come out in droves in the spring.

Summers they spend in alfalfa fields and when that is harvested, they fly into communities like yours to bite  – or pinch – you and your children, stick in your fresh deck stain, pee on your windows, until they settle down and crawl into your house to stink and hibernate – those that are not rolled into the bales to be fed to the poor cows. I wonder if the cows can taste that poisonous vile they spray. Uck.

To my defense, some environmentalist from some agricultural improvement agency decided the United States farmers would be better off with these cold-weather resistant Asian lady beetles instead of old tried-and-true, gentle North American ladybugs who die off in the winter, it seems, and were a bit more sluggish in cold summers ( huh? ) when they were supposed to be eating aphids, I guess, and they say our native ladybugs were not as aggressive on the aphids.

Please. Have you ever seen the close-up images of what North American ladybugs do to a smorgasbord of aphids?

To my defense, once upon a time I always scooped them up to take them outside and make a nice plot of leaves and stones for them to live under far from the house, just like I do for the mice.

To my defense, I used to take my hanging lamps apart to get the fake ladybugs out before they fried their little feet on the bulbs. And when they fry they stink too.

Then one day, hubby got out the shop vac. Who would win? Me, the defender, or him, the warrior?

But too many times the nasty creatures got in my salad.

Sagie, I should have video taped him after he ate the fake ladybug.

Once my pet skunk  tried to eat one and vomited around the house ten times over, me following with paper towels and the vinegar spray bottle while he squeaked and spit and gagged all over the hardwood floors. You laugh, but it could well be your dogs and cats eating them.

Oh!! Then I drank one of those poisonous devil bugs, so drank ipecac as a chaser to get it out of me.

I let hubby shop vac a gallon of them a week from there on out.

I couldn’t watch, couldn’t stand to hear their little screams as they were suctioned at high power into blackness like a tornado before one is in the center. Could not imagine their little faces when they were left in the stillness of the contractor strength garbage bag he dumped them into everyday.

But within a few weeks of hubby shop vacuuming fake Asian ladybugs, we had no more. And spring after spring our droves were lessened until we gave a sigh.

But now I am staring at Gracie…. I mean Fakie. And I think she was in a different position a few minutes ago. She could still be alive in there.

Not to be confused with iced berries.

But where would I keep her? What could I possibly do with her? A pet? Humor me. But fake ladybugs are not pet material.

Reminds me of when my daughter kept a slew of horned tomato worms from my garden for pets. But that is another story. Or is it? She, too, named them. Wouldn’t let me toss them in the coffee can of turpentine. Yes, that is what old-time gardeners did with tomato worms, we didn’t want to squish them… it was too gross. Couldn’t let them loose in the woods… they would fly back as a moth and recycle. Tough I should have because they reincarnate as good moths that pollinate vegetable plants.  But what is more vicious to tomato plants than horned worms, I ask?  as I transgress…..

So how do I explain the hole in the plastic film to hubby? Took him hours to contour the film to the window so I would forget it was there.

I can’t stand it. I can tape the hole with clear duct tape. If you don’t know it yet, clear duct tape and plastic wireties really are a woman’s best friend. If you take nothing from this blog, that is what I bestow on you and your life from here on out. May you be blessed with an abundance of clear duct tape and your plastic wireties be all sizes and colours.

Fakie is so still.

I just took out the tiny knife I use for graphics. Sliced a tiny opening, like surgery on Grey’s Anatomy. Put the end of the knife through the narrow hole to pull Fakie out.

And she took off running the other way.

I sliced the hole larger to stop her, but she has quite a bit of life left even if she gave up flying.

I wanted to slice the entire bottom edge of the film along the sill to stop her. I wanted to. But that would be a lot of explaining to do.

I know you wanted me to save her. But get a grip, will you. This is not Tinker Bell. We’re talking Fakie, the fake Asian lady beetle that pees in your mouth when you try to eat her, bites you when you mow the lawn, stinks up the insulation between your walls. Has no natural predators in North America. Apparently not even the freezing winters of the Great Lakes.

So just get a grip.

Gracie freezing in the shade.

There she is. Hiding around the corner of the window, a little alcove only Fakie can fit into. I feel bad now. At least before I bothered her, Fakie was sunning herself on the windowsill. Now she is plastered to a piece of metal in the shade.

Okay, I need advice here. What would you do? And don’t tell me to spray bug poison through the hole to put her out of her misery. Really, what would you do?

Hours later… Fakie is on the move…. waddles past the slice in the film, to the other side of my window. I try to pull the plastic loose on the other side of the window but hubby has it down to a science, there is no place for leverage without cutting in.

Wait, Fakie comes back by the hole. Thinking fast, I stick the curved end of my bifocals through and scoop her out the hole. She falls on her back on my open journal. Did I mention they spray that noxious poison too and stink up your stuff and hands and when you are trying to get them out of your hair, they spray so you need to shampoo three times? I forgot they do this. My journal, windowsill and bifocals now need washed.

Fakie is playing dead. I forgot they do this too. With no natural predators, one would think that they would not need to play dead here in North America. Do you suppose it will take a few more generations, or could they be thousands of years here before they lose the natural instinct to play dead? I do know they will become even more cold resistant. Good to know for managing winter happy aphids in the winter garden here in the Great Lakes region.

What to do with her? I never did decide. No, I’m not keeping her in a jar until Spring. Get a grip.

I let her fall onto a soft tissue, then tuck her into an old envelope from my office trash basket, fold the envelope securely so she will not get out. Put her into the trash right on top so I can think about what to do with her. Don’t worry, I won’t leave her there. She wanted to hibernate in peace and warmth anyway. While I think where she will hibernate, I will write my next essay.

Obnoxious little fake ladybug.

Read Gracie’s Freezing Little Sister next. Oh yes, and hubby’s response to the airlock issue.

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Essa Adams is the author of a spiritual fiction romance novel.   A Breath Floats By: An Illusion for the Soul. Penname Thayne Hudson.  “What would you do if you realized you married your best friend’s soulmate?”   Yes, attitude and all, she is a writer of spirituality, really. Excerpts and Chapter One are at ESSA Books.

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She also writes essays on her pet skunks and other fur children, both in blogs and her book, Skunk Medicine: There’s A Skunk In the House! and Other Tail-raising Stories. Pet skunks and Newfoundland dog excerpts are at ESSA Books.

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This blog is entitled ” Women’s Fiction ” because it is about life as a woman. ‘Write what you know.’  ‘Make sure you have suffered enough first.’ Myths, dense observations and the lies we have been told.

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© Copyright December 2008.

Contact author for details on permission to reprint.

ESSA Books

Turquoise Autumn

November 9, 2009

autumnThe startling turquoise of the sky behind russet and golden leaves made me think of my mother the moment I opened my eyes this morning.

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Mom has been gone for over a decade but the colours of autumn always bring the best of memories.  These colours were of the favorite dress I ever had.  She sewed the dresses like crazy to be done for holiday, one for her, one for me, one for my sister.  The material was crisp, medium plaid with azure and turquoise running with rust, bark, golds, maple, wheat colours.  I think she thought that plaid the loveliest material ever too.

Autumn means to me, Mom at her finest.  She was a vivacious, wild card, yet Martha Stewart-type.  A wild card, period.  Ask the family.  But she was down-to-earth.  The farmer heritage ran through-and-through.

She never stopped harvesting.  Rhubarb, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, peaches, apples, grapes.  The vegetable garden, her gardens.  I think an acre with everything consolidated.thruautumn

The best ever, I think, was Mom stealing walnuts from the farmer.  Well, the tree did stand by the road.  The walnuts did fall in the middle of the road.  They did stay there for days on end after they fell.

But every year we stole them.  She rushed in with the back of the car right by those walnuts.  Hurry Hurry.  Out we would jump, us two girls, sometimes our cousins or a friend.  We would throw the walnuts into a box in the trunk and she sped us away.  Us innocent children fearing arrest.

Did I say she was a wild card?  She was a light.  In those moments, she was a light.

Every year we dumped walnuts from the farmer’s tree on our driveway.  She would drive over and over them, crushing off the shells.  Then she wore gloves as she cracked them with a hammer and brick, and we dug the walnut meats out with darning needles.  Glass jars of walnuts were on our shelf all winter.

You know what that meant.  The first batch was chocolate walnut fudge and buttered popcorn.  The beginning of the holiday spree.   Like I said, a wild Martha Stewart, never-ending of baking and decorating.  Those were Mom’s good days.

Rake and pumpkins laying on wine barrelTurquoise autumn sky.  Dad hauling huge pumpkins to the front yard that she had milk-fed.  Time to deal with the chickens before winter.  Pruning grapes, digging bulbs.  She could wear long sleeves again, she hated short sleeves anyway.  The last chance to get out and see some friends before winter snows kept her in the county.

But mostly, it was all about that dress.

Essa Adams

Essayist, writer, novelist.

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A Breath Floats By: An Illusion for the Soul

Mature women in women's fiction.

Dreamwork or dream interpretationDreamwork compared to dream interpretation is very personal.

You are best to not slack on giving your own personal dream understanding the utmost priority, versus giving over your discernment to another who is dream analyzing, especially when they are using the new dream software or dream dictionary.

It’s all in the dream understanding.  There are so many avenues in sacred dreamland.  And dreamland is sacred, a time to converse with our support system.  A time to visit our friends who we never are able to speak with, some who we no longer know where they are.  A time to visit those who crossed over.  To solve issues we face.  To explore our awareness of a coming change in life.

I am a dream intuitive and dream guide.  I also do my share of dreamwork traveling, another avenue altogether.  Always have done so.  I deal with the sacred dreamland and enough dreamwork to occupy me day and night.

I am Essa aka Thayne Hudson.  As a new age writer, I play with the words about ‘the breath that floats by odor from dreamland sent’ — the first line of James Russell Lowell’s poem which my dream psychic novel is based on.  I don’t want to smell the odor of cigarette smoke or lilac perfume or spray starch from a white shirt or anything that tells me I am not really alone when it seems I am.  God only gives us what we can handle, right.  Right.  And I don’t want ghosts or spirits to deal with, please.  I’ll just do the dreams.

Yes, like the woman in my novel, I do work the dreamland.  Sometimes it is tiring.  When I awaken I know I have been somewhere but cannot usually make a connection where I traveled.

What is dreamwork for one is not dreamwork for another.

Some of us do dreamwork in order to remember and fix a problem.  Others dreamwork because they are born to carry messages.  Still this all comes back to dream interpretation and perspective.  This is why I seldom like to really give a dream interpretation though I do share what I feel is best.

For me, I feel waves and flashes all day of the memories I cannot touch, they are so fleeting I cannot give the full dream memory a single world to evaluate.  And when I close my weary eyes at night the memory of the dream floods back like another life.  But the deal is I cannot attempt to remember.  I must simply float away with the dream from where I left off.  If I open my eyes or try to remember, the dream is gone again and I still have not one word to give it a face or place in the waking world.

Leaves me thinking of Demi More in Passion of Mind (2000) when she lives one life by day and when she sleeps her soul lives the other life.  There is no rest.  She does not know if there is a real life and a dream life, to her they are both real, very real.  At least she remembered her dreams.  Was she traveling or not?  I won’t ruin the movie, it is a must see if you are into metaphysical and new age and reincarnation romances, fiction or nonfiction, and soul mates and soul groups and parapsychology.  Takes one to know one.

I know I have traveled when asleep.  Traveled to sit in someone’s kitchen while their terminally ill husband tried something hopeful I told them about that might help their recovery because I was concerned about them, and I know I was there though I was asleep in my bed.  I have been asleep in my bed but traveled to bring a basket of offerings to a person on their deathbed.  Traveled to check on my family when concerned.  To visit loved ones when I could not see them again.  To find my daughter when she was gone from me.  Traveled to a soul mate who is living in a different dimension right now.

This is all dreamwork of a different meaning, the traveling to do for.

Time travel of one sort, I guess it is, and traveling is all a real part of our lives now, and perhaps always has been.  Some embrace and some do not want to know or enact the travel.  Just like I don’t want to smell the odor from dreamland sent, meaning the ghosts or spirits I cannot see.  And I don’t want to see them either, no I do not.

Hopefully not confusing —

Now to travel when asleep, that is not the same as the dream travel.   The travel when asleep dreamwork is like a little errand and then one comes back to the body.  The dream travel dreamwork is a story, a life, a job almost.  I must sleep to go to my job.  I must connect.  And the dreams are not always for me though they do help me grow spiritually.

Then there is the dreamwork that people want to do do offer themselves a greater spiritual perspective, to explore their souls, their soul contracts, their past lives, their present lives.

So I do a bit of the dream travel.  I also make a few connections by dream traveling when aspeel to help people who need some extra connection.  And I do a lot of the dreamwork guidance that helps people do their own dreamwork.  A dream counselor of sorts.  I usually find the people I work with would like to use my experience as a flower essence consultant too.  Flower essences help people tap into their dream work and dream understanding for their own dream interpretation.

And that is what I do.

I work with many clients who are terminally ill, and I work with people just exploring their lives to the fullest extent of their ability…. people facing life challenges with all avenues we are given spiritually, emotionally and physically.  I love my work.

When I finally gave into the dreamwork —

One day I realized I sometimes seemed to be connecting with the dreams and needs of other people… their answers for their concerns and puzzle pieces of life were being given – gifted – to me.  I was then able to connect their dreams with the answers.  I could help others in this way, simply because I just knew something I didn’t really know.  That is a dream intuitive, to just know.  Like a psychic.  Only a dream psychic.

Who were these people I was dreaming for then?  Were they part of my soul group, a widely diverse group?

I knew the person when they came to me.  I just knew.  The meaning of their dreams were apparent to me, I could if only I would interpret the dream though I prefer to guide them to answers or to assure them if that is what is needed.

My assurance is not just the ‘oh, it will all work out.’  Instead, I can tell them what they have going for them and tell them when I am given a piece of knowledge they do not need to continue to search for and they can rest.

I am in awe of the dreams and connections of others.  Their dreams are so beautifully astounding!

No, I don’t get that much rest.  I am awakened at all hours with the piece of someone’s puzzle.  But at least it is not a ghost or an odor from dreamland like my character faces in A Breath Floats By.  I’ll let her deal with those.  We all need to know what would happen if I were to smell the odor or feel the hair prickle on my neck.  I yell and order them out of my life.  Yes, I prefer the dream connection.

I asked myself, ‘Shouldn’t I just be a new age writer? Just play with concepts and words?  Be a holistic guide, a flower essence therapist?’  ‘Am I supposed to be doing this? Getting involved with other people on such an intimate level, spending so much of my time on the issues and challenges of other people?’  ‘Should I not be distanced from other people?’

Then when I was forty-something and literally nearly asleep, the question about dreamwork vs. dream interpretation was answered.

I am not overly involved.  I am doing this for other people.  Like a nurse is doing her work for others, a fireman, a policeman, a teacher, a social worker, a home builder, a designer, a cook, a wine maker, a real estate salesperson, a gardener, a farmer.  They give their days and nights willingly to help others, to do for them, to become intimately involved if only for a few minutes.  And I am able to do the same.

That was when I knew I was all right.  I finally opened the door to my dreamwork of helping others with their dreamwork.  I don’t give people all their answers.  I offer dream guidance for them to do dream work in their own dream understanding.   I decided to be hospitable.  To entertain through conversation, to open the door to what I had to offer and not hide in the back of the house.

I just decided to open the door.

It was not that I thought the people with the dreams were not all right.  I thought I was not all right.  I thought I was lacking in ability to offer a real value, I thought I was overly involved, that perhaps I was overstepping into their life and leaving something out of mine.

But this gift of understanding dreams, it is open to share and now I do.

Fear?

The dreaming woman in the reincarnation romance – new age novel, A Breath Floats By: An Illusion for the Soul….. she brings her dream intuitive gift to the 21st century and is asked to share her life with others, but she is afraid because she must often commune with spirits who have something to share.  She is frightened of the odor of dreamland sent – that is the second line of the poem by James Russell Lowell.  She is so terrified and she will not fulfill her sacred contract yet again.  It has cost her too many lifetimes of persecution and loss, horrifying circumstances that leave her quaking at the prospect of being ‘found guilty’ again.

Is this what I, as a writer, am afraid is a possibility for me?  To be found out by those who will judge or not accept me or even persecute me or torture me and kill my body?

I must admit I do have concerns and fears.  But I am in the new era, the more accepting, less fearful era now.  I can be open now, surround myself with the few who know and love me wholly.   I am okay.  What I am gifted to offer is all right, it is good.  Very good.  There were dreamers in the Bible.  Now that was dreamwork!

And I believe I have lived this before, over and over again.  And I am surrounded by those who support me.  Because…..

…..sometimes a breath floats by me, an odor from Dreamland sent, which makes the ghost seem nigh me of a something that came and went… of a life lived somewhere, I know not, in what diviner sphere.  A something too vague, could I name it, for others to know:  As though I had lived it and dreamed it, as though I had acted and schemed it long ago.

James Russell Lowell’s reincarnation story in the poem The Twilight is about those who supported him and longed for him.  The romance of life, the connections we are embraced with when we think we are alone and the person of our soul memory comes to speak to us in the sleeping dream.

Who whispers to you?  To me?  That is the romance of life.

What work do our dreams bring to our life?  What gifts do our dreams bring forward into our living and waking work?  That is the love of life.  God is love and in this we are kept connected.  Sacred dreamland.

Sacred dreamland brings forward stories we are to write, longings we are to search out.  That is the romance of life really.  The dreamwork.

I am a dream guide, a dream intuitive.

I do not believe in free dream interpretations.  Do not believe dream interpretations serve you best.  You need to open more fully to find your own answers.  You need to do the dreamwork for yourself.  I can guide you to do this if you are feeling sort of lost in your process.

I share my time and energy with you, you share yours with me through a payment of $50 for the first contacts to get your work started and $10 each one thereafter.

The flower essence consultations for dreamwork has a similar set price.  Please visit the site for more information.

These services I offer are more of a guidance and hope service.

  • I will work closely with you
  • listen to your dreamwork
  • guide you with suggestions to get closer to your own dream understanding, your personal dream interpretation
  • send you personal messages just written for you
  • articles I have written
  • suggest methods for finding your answers
  • tell you where I think you can make changes in touching your dreams in a closer reality
  • and I may have a dream message to share with you at some point.  We won’t bet on it, but I may already be waiting for you to bring your information to me because I have a piece of your puzzle.

That is dreamwork guidance.

My promise —

  • Whatever you share with me will not be analyzed by a dream analysis or dream interpretation software program.
  • Your conversation via email with me will be a person-to-person exploring of your dreamwork as I support you in many ways to find your answers.

Please email with your dream then and we shall see where it takes us. Whether you are using flower essences for your dreamwork or not, you can use the email contact on my flower essences website.

Once you email your dream I will send you the email link to send me the payment for the service I offer.  There is no set amount, whatever you choose to send will be accepted and we will begin.

If you would like to work through your dreams using flower essence therapy for dreamwork, please read more at that website, see below.

Thank you for considering.

Essa Adams

Please use the email contact at my flower essences website.  Thanks!

Flower Essences and Your Dreamwork

Dream psychic - dream book - metaphysical fiction

Dream psychic - dream book - metaphysical fiction

ESSA Books – Dream Psychic – Dream Book

All humor aside….no really….

Gracie's sister is running from plastic to window. 'Help me help me.'

Gracie's sister is running from plastic to window. 'Help me help me.'

The life principle of this winter story is respect in marriage.

Relationships aside, Gracie is about respect for nature and balance with our God-given environment. 

ENTER THE CONTEST FOR A NOVEL — Read Gracie – The Freezing Fake Ladybug. Our January Contest Feature Story to win a novel.

First the marriage.

I read all creative writing to hubby. He at least smiles. Yes, I warned him.

Before I ever hit the punchline, first me then his window of plastic film started to get the I-know-what-you-did-to-my-airlock look.

Holiday spirit, zip. He ripped off a foot of duct tape. The hole is an inch, geez.

Phoebe, little sister of Gracie the fake ladybug.

Phoebe, little sister of Gracie the fake ladybug.

Humour aside, his especially, Gracie’s sister is in there now. I can’t go in after her. Huh-uh.

The FAKE Ladybug in My Window

Christmas short story by the Women’s Fiction blog.

Feel good holiday humor, really….

Fake ladybugs are not to be confused with holiday ornaments either.

Fake ladybugs are not to be confused with holiday ornaments either.

Did it move just now? The fake ladybug in my office window behind the plastic film? The thing is right in line with my view of the winter snow garden. Really bugging me.

One of those fake ladybugs.  An imported Asian lady beetle, orange-red with nineteen black dots on its back. The kind that bites hard.  Pees in your mouth this liquorish poison that makes you wail and spit for ten minutes.

How do they get in your mouth? They drink from water glasses. Crawl into salads, mixing with slivered carrots and tomatoes quite nicely.

See how they would fit right in?

See how they would fit right in?

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My office has wonderful walls of windows, so we purchased an EdenPure Heater like the one on Paul Harvey, just to keep me warm.  I love mine more than Paul loves his. Then hubby bought me a radiant Heat Dish.   Now our pets sleep in baskets by me where I spin them like rotisserie chickens.

Ask the ladybugs.  Winters are rough in the Great Lakes region. So he applied lovely plastic film to the windows to give them one more layer of insulation. Since I refuse to use drapes or blinds because I don’t want to lose my view of the winter garden, the film is a compromise.

The problem with this bug-thing staring in at me is that hubby is very protective of the film. The technique is in the airlock. So he spends the rest of the winter accusing me of pushing stacks of books, the lamp shade, and my purse into the film which does leave dents. I cannot deny evidence.

One must understand the dynamics of our relationship, of him bringing me sustenance while I create my prose in the office. Autumn onward, I would don gloves, many sweaters with hoods, scarves, jackets, then coats and boots, frozen fingers typing numbly.

Stubborn me with my walls of vintage windows on my vintage office-porch I would not change for the world, freezing to death.

fotolia_1964785_xs-up-cottage-gardenWhat a lovely winter garden though. Birds, wildlife, a tiny lacy cedar tree tipped in ice beads dancing beneath the grey skeleton of the high bush cranberry. I love my trees. My blue wind chimes.

Hubby loves me. So he contours the film, trims the edges within a sixteenth of an inch from the two-sided tape so I never know it is there. Then he uses hair dryer heat to coax the film to completely disappear as it spreads tighter and tighter.

Who would mess with the airlock? Not me. I’m not even touching it.

But the poor fake ladybug got caught between the windows and the plastic film.

Day before yesterday, the bug was lively. Being the coldest day of the year, I felt sorry for it, doubting its survival for more than a few more hours.  I know, I am a heartless fake ladybug hater. That evening when I turned out the lights, I do not remember noticing Fake Ladybug. She had probably frozen to death quite painlessly… right?

She? Yes, she. All ladybugs are feminine in fairytales.

Yesterday was more spring-like. Fake Ladybug was not flying around but she was still there, behind the plastic, mulling how to escape her winter wonderland aquarium. Then she disappeared for several hours. Before I turned off the lights, I checked for Fakie and she was not between the windows, not in cracks as far as I could see.

Fakie? Yes, Fakie. Just as Gracie is a cutesy name for Grace. Fakie. Using ‘ladybug’ in her name is too good for her.

Gracie, still as a nailhead on the iced windowsill.

Gracie, still as a nailhead on the iced windowsill.

Today I come in here to work, five essays exploding in my mind. There is Fakie, still as a nailhead on the white windowsill, staring at me through the plastic film. Eh.

I’m trying to work. And she is either dead or dying.

To my defense, these fake ladybugs can live through the winter. They hide in our insulated homes – all of us – between the drywall and outside wall, then come out in droves in the spring.

Summers they spend in alfalfa fields and when that is harvested, they fly into communities like yours to bite you and your children, stick in your fresh deck stain, pee on your windows, until they settle down and crawl into your house to stink and hibernate – those that are not rolled into the bales to be fed to the poor cows. I wonder if the cows can taste that poisonous vile they spray. Uck.

To my defense, some environmentalist from some agricultural improvement agency decided the United States farmers would be better off with these cold-weather resistant Asian lady beetles instead of old tried-and-true, gentle North American ladybugs who die off in the winter, it seems, and were a bit more sluggish in cold summers ( huh? ) when they were supposed to be eating aphids, I guess, and they say our native ladybugs were not as aggressive on the aphids.

Please. Have you ever seen the close-up images of what North American ladybugs do to a smorgasbord of aphids?

To my defense, once upon a time I always scooped them up to take them outside and make a nice plot of leaves and stones for them to live under far from the house, just like I do for the mice.

To my defense, I used to take my hanging lamps apart to get the fake ladybugs out before they fried their little feet on the bulbs. And when they fry they stink too.

Then one day, hubby got out the shop vac. Who would win? Me, the defender, or him, the warrior?

But too many times the nasty creatures got in my salad.

Sagie, I should have video taped him after he ate the fake ladybug.

Sagie, I should have video taped him after he ate the fake ladybug.

Once my pet skunk  tried to eat one and vomited around the house ten times over, me following with paper towels and the vinegar spray bottle while he squeaked and spit and gagged all over the hardwood floors. You laugh, but it could well be your dogs and cats eating them.

Oh!! Then I drank one of those poisonous devil bugs, so drank ipecac as a chaser to get it out of me.

I let hubby shop vac a gallon of them a week from there on out.

I couldn’t watch, couldn’t stand to hear their little screams as they were suctioned at high power into blackness like a tornado before one is in the center. Could not imagine their little faces when they were left in the stillness of the contractor strength garbage bag he dumped them into everyday.

But within a few weeks of hubby shop vacuuming fake Asian ladybugs, we had no more. And spring after spring our droves were lessened until we gave a sigh.

But now I am staring at Gracie…. I mean Fakie. And I think she was in a different position a few minutes ago. She could still be alive in there.

Not to be confused with iced berries.

Not to be confused with iced berries.

But where would I keep her? What could I possibly do with her? A pet? Humor me. But fake ladybugs are not pet material.

Reminds me of when my daughter kept a slew of horned tomato worms from my garden for pets. But that is another story. Or is it? She, too, named them. Wouldn’t let me toss them in the coffee can of turpentine. Yes, that is what old-time gardeners did with tomato worms, we didn’t want to squish them… it was too gross. Couldn’t let them loose in the woods… they would fly back as a moth and recycle. Tough I should have because they reincarnate as good moths that pollinate vegetable plants.  But what is more vicious to tomato plants than horned worms, I ask?  as I transgress…..

So how do I explain the hole in the plastic film to hubby? Took him hours to contour the film to the window so I would forget it was there.

I can’t stand it. I can tape the hole with clear duct tape. If you don’t know it yet, clear duct tape and plastic wireties really are a woman’s best friend. If you take nothing from this blog, that is what I bestow on you and your life from here on out. May you be blessed with an abundance of clear duct tape and your plastic wireties be all sizes and colours.

Fakie is so still.

I just took out the tiny knife I use for graphics. Sliced a tiny opening, like surgery on Grey’s Anatomy. Put the end of the knife through the narrow hole to pull Fakie out.

And she took off running the other way.

I sliced the hole larger to stop her, but she has quite a bit of life left even if she gave up flying.

I wanted to slice the entire bottom edge of the film along the sill to stop her. I wanted to. But that would be a lot of explaining to do.

I know you wanted me to save her. But get a grip, will you. This is not Tinker Bell. We’re talking Fakie, the fake Asian lady beetle that pees in your mouth when you try to eat her, bites you when you mow the lawn, stinks up the insulation between your walls. Has no natural predators in North America. Apparently not even the freezing winters of the Great Lakes.

So just get a grip.

Gracie freezing in the shade.

Gracie freezing in the shade.

There she is. Hiding around the corner of the window, a little alcove only Fakie can fit into. I feel bad now. At least before I bothered her, Fakie was sunning herself on the windowsill. Now she is plastered to a piece of metal in the shade.

Okay, I need advice here. What would you do? And don’t tell me to spray bug poison through the hole to put her out of her misery. Really, what would you do?

Hours later… Fakie is on the move…. waddles past the slice in the film, to the other side of my window. I try to pull the plastic loose on the other side of the window but hubby has it down to a science, there is no place for leverage without cutting in.

Wait, Fakie comes back by the hole. Thinking fast, I stick the curved end of my bifocals through and scoop her out the hole. She falls on her back on my open journal. Did I mention they spray that noxious poison too and stink up your stuff and hands and when you are trying to get them out of your hair, they spray so you need to shampoo three times? I forgot they do this. My journal, windowsill and bifocals now need washed.

Fakie is playing dead. I forgot they do this too. With no natural predators, one would think that they would not need to play dead here in North America. Do you suppose it will take a few more generations, or could they be thousands of years here before they lose the natural instinct to play dead? I do know they will become even more cold resistant. Good to know for managing winter happy aphids in the winter garden here in the Great Lakes region.

What to do with her? I never did decide. No, I’m not keeping her in a jar until Spring. Get a grip.

I let her fall onto a soft tissue, then tuck her into an old envelope from my office trash basket, fold the envelope securely so she will not get out. Put her into the trash right on top so I can think about what to do with her. Don’t worry, I won’t leave her there. She wanted to hibernate in peace and warmth anyway. While I think where she will hibernate, I will write my next essay.

Obnoxious little fake ladybug.

Read Gracie’s Freezing Little Sister next. Oh yes, and hubby’s response to the airlock issue.

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WIN A BOOK EACH MONTH — Please, use comments to tell me what part of Gracie was fictional. From those guessing correctly, one will be chosen to win the book of their choice. Either A Breath Floats By or Skunk Medicine.  Use the poll on upper right for possible answers. Then write your answer in the comments area for this post / story.  Good luck to you.

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a-breath-floats-by-big-title-13jpg-180x260Essa Adams is the author of a spiritual fiction romance novel.   A Breath Floats By: An Illusion for the Soul. Penname Thayne Hudson.  Yes, attitude and all, she is a writer of spirituality, really. Excerpts and Chapter One are at ESSA Books.

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skunk-medicine-small2She also writes essays on her pet skunks and other fur children, both in blogs and her book, Skunk Medicine: There’s A Skunk In the House! and Other Tail-raising Stories. Pet skunks and Newfoundland dog excerpts are at ESSA Books.

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a_kv_113371This blog is entitled ” Women’s Fiction ” because it is about life as a woman. ‘Write what you know.’  ‘Make sure you have suffered enough first.’ Even though most of each story is my nonfiction contribution to life, there is always a part that’s not very true at all.   May you smile with me. Essa

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© Copyright December 2008.

Contact author for details on permission to reprint.

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