Procrastination  - ah, that lovely tendency to put off today what I could do today! The article I posted under links reminded me of my tendency to postpone things as many days, weeks, months and years as possible - and, how I abhor that tendency in myself ! I always have grander ambitions than I have time or discipline.

  I should study languages - at least, Italian & Latin - I have the books and tapes, but do I ? No, never, enough. I still can't construct a sentence in either language more than "I am Kathy." or Enough! On second thought, skip the "I am Kathy" - and "Enough!" in Italian is "Basta!"

Autodidacticism is an unusually long word for a simple concept. Schools should be the beginning, not the end or limits, of your education. I have only a High School education and less than two years of college. Life always seemed to take precedence over every opportunity to further my formal education, I even sent one of older sisters to college while I was working as a saleswoman!

My parents brought me into the world when they were both in their 40's - it doesn't take complex math to see that they were retiring just as I was leaving High School, also, their marriage was a stormy affair and they separated several times in their lives, the last being the same year I graduated - I had applied to a college and was accepted but declined at the last moment because I felt responsible for my mother, who was moving down to live with my eldest sister - and my  other sister, who had just left the nunnery... What an absolute mess it all was! No surprise, therefore, that I ended up as a saleswoman working two jobs instead of a college student in the fall of 1970.

I, therefore, have struggled to educate myself throughout my life. When I did return to school I found the experience both boring and frustrating. It is easy to obey and respect professors at the age of 21 - at the age of 38, it is not so easy; this simple truth, along with my natural tendency to dislike ALL Authority figures made my 2 year visit to college rather a hellish experience. I also realized that I did not have the time or inclination to continue any further and the exhaustion and long hours finally took their toll and I fell ill for nearly six months. Enough, alas, was enough. So I came home, to stay. I did well while I was there, though. But dealing with both kids as much as 17 years younger than myself and professors proved to be my undoing. I like my privacy and my home far too much and longed, suddenly, for the simple life of housewife.
 So, here I am 56 years old. I am not as educated as I would like.

I have struggled to continue, though.

Leon and I both do NOT have extensive formal educations... and we are both very capable of learning on our own. He tends towards math, computer science and programming, even hardware assembly. I tend towards history, philosophy, mysticism and crafts of all kinds... A great deal of such study is just discipline, a ready library card and a willingness to be curious about just about everything that is both decent and good. A real abiding hunger for knowledge and wisdom are essential because teaching yourself / learning on your own / autodidacticism is never easy.

What amazes me is how the Internet has worked itself into my study patterns and how technology has worked itself into my list of source materials. I don't read as much as I used to - I listen to audio books and podcasts, are two examples of what I mean. I have dictionaries that I hardly ever pick up now, for instance, I have learned that 'cut and paste' is not for children, alone, any more. I studied a little library science while I was going to my local community college and it sharpened my already rather mature research skills.  I have learned how to frame a search parameter on Google so I sooner or later get what I really want instead of what I really don't want.

So why expand my personal wealth of information and knowledge? Notice the words I just used. WEALTH of information, etc. Why write this blog? Why write poems and short stories I don't plan to publish? Why make rugs instead of buying rugs at Walmart ? Why not just go buy a pair of shorts today instead of cutting out a pair and sewing them up?
Why?
                                
 Face it, life without challenges is a boring, repetitive  list of chores, which don't change from one day or one week or one year to another - I found recently such a list - from last year - it would have been the same list of chores if I had written it 10 years ago. I will be making dinners, cleaning cat boxes, taking out the garbage, mowing the lawn, etc, etc. till the day I die. Even our entertainment does not change much over the decades.   My crafts, my creative writings, my studies - my love of books, yarns and threads, beads, poetry, writing... all of these things  - all of these challenges and efforts give meaning to my life, depth & pleasure to my existence - now, you may ask the same question I often ask myself - am I creating any ONE lasting thing that will mark my existence? 
I don't know. Ask me the day after I have died. I will know THEN.
I believe, as I have said many times, in reincarnation. When we go to God at the end our life on earth, I believe He/She asks us several very important questions:

What did you learn while you were on earth?
Whom and what did you love ?
What did you create while you were there?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Autodidacticism

A form exercise I can live with, finally ! I think I will break out the old "Latin Made Easy" text books and start learning a new language - or, a very OLD one !

  This is the last chapter I will post for now.      

    Chapter 3

                      “I hear my Beloved.
                      See how he comes leaping on the mountains,
                      bounding over the hills,
                      My beloved is like a gazelle like a young  stag….”
                   
                      “Come then, my love, my lovely one, come
                      my dove, hiding in the clefts of the rock,
                      in the coverts of the cliff,
                      show me your face,
                      let me hear your voice;
                      for your voice is sweet  and your face beautiful.”
                     
                      What is coming up from the desert
                      like a column of smoke,
                      breathing of myrrh and frankincense
                      and every perfume the merchant knows?
                      See, it is the litter of Solomon.
                      Around it are sixty champions,
                      the flower of the warriors of Israel;
                      All of them skilled swordsmen,
                      Veterans of battle .
                      Each man has his sword at his sword,
                      against the alarms by night.
      
                                  Song of Songs Chapter 2 8-9
                                                Chapter 2 14   Chapter 3 6-8    
                                                                                                                        
           Throughout Siena now there was the scurry of activity as every one prepared for Lord Damien's arrival. There was the constant echo of hammers on the Campo as nails were driven into wood. There would be a handsome platform before the entrance of the city hall painted in bright colors and garlanded with festoons of flags and many flowers. It was prepared so that everyone might watch his first introduction to the city's leaders.
Every family of the merchant and noble classes seemed to have at least one daughter of marriageable age. The homes on his route were preparing for his entrance and garlands and festoons of summer flowers, ribbons and flowing cloth brightened the route. The black and white of the city arms hung from many balconies.  Plans were made to place gatherings of young women dressed in their best gowns on the street corners where they might greet Damien and cast flowers and kisses to the young man as he road to the city center. This was hoped to not only to brighten the streets and add charm and beauty to the occasion but to give the hopeful groom his first look at his perspective brides.  The streets, themselves, were cleaned of any unsightly offal or garbage and though Siena was always a far cleaner city than most cities of it's era and country this too improved the smells of the large enclosed city.  Lastly, Tapestries and banners were hung by the city from every balcony. Every district of the city, competing with the others, demanded and received the right to have representatives present at the welcoming ceremonies. Each district would hang its own banners along the route and at city hall they would be displayed with the black & white so no one district would be recognized before the others, and, so, conflicts would be avoided.
The youngest maiden to be invited was a year younger than Lysandra and was a child by look and action. She was noble and as of yet unpromised, unusual for her class. The oldest were women in their mid thirties who for one reason or the other were not yet wed. There was also many youthful widows not yet dowdy, gray nor wrinkled who would dress in the most beautiful finery, though, they would not stand with the young virgins awaiting his first entrance. It had been decided that it would not be seemly to mix the innocents with their more knowledgable sisters. These older widows were often heard to comment that he might appreciate a more experienced woman of beauty and refinement who had a fortune to add to his own and would bring to a marriage expertise in many areas and the wisdom that only the passage of time could give.

The city desired and managed to show off its virgin jewels to the best advantage for everyone believed that he would desire a young virgin for a wife. Lysandra had been invited to the festivities, but had to decline due to her father's decision.  Her father was actually quite respectable, a member in good standing of the Guilde of Drapers and Fabric Merchants, and, had he been willing to spend a little of his monies the entire family could have attended all the ceremonies and festivities.

Her mother quietly continued to prepare the gown and surcoat. Edmondo took notice several times but never commented.  There were times when he declined confronting his women folk. The garments would not be fine enough to attend any of the functions but they were presentable enough to enable Lysandra to stand in the crowds without too much embarrassment and cheer with the others as the Prince passed. 

The night before the promised arrival Pia whispered in her daughter's ear that she might not be able to attend the ball or any of the other festivities but it would not be polite if she did not welcome the Great Lord as the rest of the city was about to do. She then presented her daughter with the finished wardrobe. Lysandra wept for joy for she had not suspected that her mother was secretly doing such a kindness for her mother had hidden her endeavors even from her . She hugged her mother's neck and thanked her many times.

The morning of Lord Damien's arrival dawned. It was clear and not at all hot, more a spring day than the first day of summer for it was June twenty first the longest day of sun light. Lysandra dressed and with her mother's help combed her hair but refused the makeup her mother offered to apply, for no reason other than she did not think it would improve her looks and might seem false to her Beloved. Somehow, even now, beyond all reason, she seemed to know the unknowable.  She did put a little rouge on her lips, for her mother insisted. Then her mother handed her several small coins to buy a flower or two, or a cooling drink from a vender if she became thirsty.
 "Be careful and come home safe!" she said at last and Lysandra left.

She bought a rose from a street vender if only to carry and admire, never had she been able to be so close to a rose of her very own and she continually placed it under her nose to enjoy it's captivating fragrance.

The cry went up that the retinue of the Prince was now visible from the city gates. Horns sounded at the gate at which he would enter. On the winds horns could be heard to answer and then drums could be detected from a far, and bells- sweet sounding bells sounding like those that noblemen hang from their horses' harnesses. The great city's gates opened when two of the Lord's heralds arrived to announce his arrival. They were cheered as they road towards the center of the city, the Campo.  A short time later, less than an hour, the main gates opened to welcome the  entire retinue. There was a sudden hush as a wave of awareness passed through the crowd and the news spread that the Lord Damien had entered Siena. 

Lysandra was alone in the crowd not too far from her home. She tried to sneak forward. She was so small that most of the crowd towered over her and she feared he would pass by her but she would be unable to see him. She could not join the group of maidens who were better dressed than she; instead, she stood near by silent, excited, and very frightened. A young man saw her flower, smiled kindly and let her stand in front of him. She was not at the curb of the street but she was closer now than she had ever hoped to be. Cries and cheers were heard from afar and the ever-present drums accompanied by the tinkle of many small bells. Lysandra could barely breathe now she was so excited with expectation. The Drummers were the first to turn the corner they were twelve in number and wore fine garments of gold and white with many fine medallions sewn into designs, hand crafted, shining brilliantly.
 
The main force of the Lord's guard then turned the corner and Lysandra, seeing them, cried with surprise as so many had before her. These were knights as few could imagine. Every one of them was tall and strongly built. They wore helms of gold and silver or perhaps a truly fine steel  no courser metal could it be, which glinted in the morning sun when they passed through the streaming beams of sunlight.  The mail they wore was finely designed and seemed to shine or to catch light in a most beautiful manner, refracting it, and breaking it in to rainbow colors as it did so, also their plate armor showed reflections of the crowds and scenery like well burnished mirrors as they road by. Each carried a silver and gold shield with a radiant sun and a cross of red within the sun.  Their armor was hidden, though, for the most part by surcoats of fine white linen, appliquéd with an emblazoned radiant sun and a cross within the center of the sun.  The banners they carried bore the same symbols with words emblazoned above  'Love and Mercy and Sacrifice Divine’ in Latin.  The knights wore mantles with hoods of white pulled down because of the summer heat.  The horses' bells made a song of their own even in this busy city of cheering crowds. The sound was such that it seemed more beautiful then the bells of the Cathedral.  They seemed to Lysandra to be the sweetest sound she had ever heard and she found herself weeping for joy.

There were first fifteen pairs of two knights and then there was a break.  Six knights followed seeming even more beautiful, with finer gear then the earlier knights.  In their midst rode a young man beautiful beyond description. 

Lysandra could not see him, at first, but heard the cries of awe, surprise and praise from the crowd as he turned the corner. He had on the simple gear of his fellow knights but without a helm. There was no crown either. Instead, a simple jewel, a diamond, if color and glint told all, hung upon his forehead from a gold filigree wound around his dark hair. The Diamond caught the light and made it its’ own. Damien was handsome, beautiful, with the deep olive skin of a man who knew the sun at its heights, glorious beyond simple words, brown of hair and eye, not heavily built or particularly wide of shoulder, but, still, a magnificent man.  Neither was he a large man but neither was he effeminate. He wore his manhood as comfortably as he wore his sword.

The crowd fell immediately in love with this great Lord as he rode through the streets of their city for his beauty and grace were apparent to anyone with the eyes to see.   Lysandra watched as he drew near, her heart crying out in her breast for the love it felt. She waited in stunned silence now unconscious of everything even the rose.  Immediately behind Damien to his right, road another man, dressed as a knight wearing a helm and the long mantle of one of his Lord's guard, distinctive only in that he road alone.  Damien waved and seemed to be looking to his right and left, smiling as he passed the maidens. They waved and threw roses and garlands of summer flowers on the ground before his horse's hooves. He smiled kindly and nodded in their direction. Lysandra was now only a few feet from him, for he was nearly opposite of where she stood. She could see the color of his eyes and lips, the shading of his hair, this great and lovely Lord whose beauty was greater than the sun and then she remembered her rose. Her heart felt that it would burst for grief's sake. It knew in a moment, despair and hope. She threw the rose before she realized what she was doing. It was all she could have done. She loved so intensely.

The rose fell to ground immediately before the charger its deep red now blending with the brown of the dusty road. The charger crushed the rose with its hoof.  The scent ascended to greet Damien, he inhaled its fragrance, he hesitated, halted and inhaled again. Yes, it was a Rose of singular beauty, of lovely scent, as no other rose that day had been. It was her Rose, the rose of She who would be his wife. He drew up the reins of his horse and stopped and his surrounding guard also stopped mid stride.

Malachai, his most trusted servant came forward when Damien motioned to him.
"Malachai, she is here! I have smelled her Rose just as the Father promised I would. "
"Lord, we just passed another group of young Ladies..."
"No, she was not one of them.  I think it must have come from my right just this moment, A red Rose. Hurry, Malachai, she is frightened and may flee."
"Aye, Lord."

He dismounted and signaled to several other guards. The three entered the crowd not with swords drawn but removing their helms so they would not seem frightening to the crowd.
"A young woman has just thrown a rose, a single red rose. Will that Lady please come forward..."
He looked at all the finery and all the young ladies a few feet away and thought it might be one of them. People had backed away when they entered the crowd and were now in a semi circle surrounding the knights, Malachai was puzzled at the fear he saw in their eyes, did they not understand who his Lord was?
"Whoever you are, please, do not fear, please, the Lord means you no harm, come forward I beg you, for the Lord Damien wishes to meet you."
Lysandra was intensely frightened for the impossible was happening and she was unprepared. It had been her hope, yet, beyond all hope that he would…

****
A small very petite Girl of not more than fourteen stepped forward from behind a tall man. She looked very frightened and was ready to flee as she walked forward, it was that quiet courage that had made her stand before her rage-filled father, earlier. The crowd parted for her and she stood alone before the great knight.  Lysandra was numb with fright and surprise when she spoke.
"It was I, sir, who just flung a single red rose before Lord Damien's charger. "
There was no lie in her eyes, Malachai smiled and bowed.
"Then, fair lady, the Lord Damien requests that you speak with him immediately.
She is so young, thought Malachai, as he offered the young woman his arm, certainly too young to wed and bed.

They walked to where Damien was now standing, beside his great charger. He had dismounted and waited . His guard of six trusted henchmen also had dismounted and were waiting.
Lysandra stood before Damien. He looked down into her eyes and knew her immediately.  His eyes spoke words to her heart of a love to match her own, no, greater. He took her hand and kissed it.
"It is you, beloved! " he cried with delight. "My Father told me of you!" There was intense joy in this cry as if he had found the most beautiful jewel ever born of the earth.
"Lord Damien?"
He knelt before her.
What is your name, fair Maiden?
"My name is Lysandra.”She answered, bravely.
"Lady Lysandra, I am Lord Damien the son of the Great King of the North, I would ask you to marry me, if you would, for I love you dearly.
Her left hand touched her chest as if in surprise but her woman's heart cried out affirmatively with joy.
"Yes, of course, Lord Damien, for I know you came for me, if my parents will allow me, I will marry you, gladly, for I love you with all my heart and soul!" " Rise, beloved friend!"  she added placing her hand gently on his shoulder it was as if she was giving him accolade, surprising even herself with her familiarity.
"Lady Lysandra, then it is settled!  He rose, took her hand and led her to a lovely mare that had been lead forward for her by Malachai.  He picked her up and she sat on the sidesaddle and grasped the reins.  She had never ridden such a fine horse, in fact she had only ridden a horse once in her previous life.
Lord Damien then turned to the crowd.
"Is there anyone here who knows this maiden's parents?"
A man answered, "I do, Lord."
"Come forward, then." Damien requested.
She recognized her uncle Ralpho .
" Go, Sir, and tell them of my proposal and request of their presence in the city hall within the hour.”
"Ralpho bowed "Aye, Lord, within the hour." Ralpho shook his head and looked in Lysandra's direction with an amazement and disbelief that was obvious. His little niece was such that no one had ever thought she would amount to very much, but no one could have foreseen this turn of events.

News spread quickly throughout the city that Damien had chosen his bride as he had ridden through the streets. Already many tales were spun exactly how he had managed such a feat, some of them nearly true. Many individuals followed the retinue as it made its way to the great Campo. Damien had not brought any but his guards with him into the city and the retinue was actually smaller then expected. Many servants, carriages and horses had been left some distance away awaiting their Lord's desire, these would come later.
Many dreams both of romantic and financial gain were cast down by this turn of events but truly no hearts had been broken. None but the Draper's daughter had felt the stirrings of love within upon seeing the Lord Damien. The father of many a maiden was disappointed but only because many had hoped that such a liaison would be the making of their financial and political security. To have a daughter married to such a great Lord would mean position and wealth, the respect of all and the opportunity to rule in Siena. Now that the strain of the market place had passed the city immediately with one heart readied itself for its secondary roles of banquet hall and host of a gala festival of love. The City leaders already knew  before Damien and Lysandra dismounted that there was a young maiden chosen and that she was the daughter of a successful, but not particularly wealthy, draper. Though her name was not known but it was believed that her father's name was Edmondo Bonaventura. The spokesmen came forward and lead the two up to the platform a welcoming speech was given and Damien was invited to say a few words. After the words of welcome many gifts were exchanged and a bouquet of roses was presented to Lysandra. 
After a final speech they were invited into the city hall for refreshments and a reception. The cool rooms of the city hall were lovely and quite new. It was a larger building than any in the city except for the Cathedral. There were many lovely paintings on the walls by masters of the art of fresco. It was the center of the city politics and it was a matter of pride that it be beautiful. Florence the Great, competitor and often enemy of Siena might be wealthier but this Hall and the great Cathedral, both, still in the process of being completed, were far more beautiful than any building yet built by Siena's rival or at least the Sienese believed so.
Lysandra for all the heat of a summer mid day seemed to shudder and sway standing next to Damien.  He noticed immediately and bent down slightly.
"Lysandra, are you faint?"
"I am frightened, Lord." she confessed.
"Beloved, please, my name is Damien, for you, always will it be Damien. "
She smiled at his gentle reproach. "Damien, I am afraid my father will not allow me to marry you. "
"Why would he not?"
"I am not worth much, he says, and I have no dowry and I am needed at home to help my mother."
"Is she ill?"
"Oh no, but she works all the time and we have no servants."
"I see. He answered looking into her eyes.”Lysandra, do not worry about not having a dowry none was expected and as for your father's protests they will not last long when I offer him the gold I have brought with me to buy your freedom and so he will be able to hire a replacement for your worthy hands, and lastly, do not worry about your mother. It is in the way of things that daughters must leave their mothers and become adult women in their own right, your mother, though she may never say it, will rejoice that you are to marry. "
"Gold, oh no,  Lord—Damien, I mean- I am not worth gold, my father said so. "
"Lysandra, I know you will not believe this now but you are worth all the gold I brought and much more, besides. Can you not trust your new friend, Damien? All of this was foreseen and prepared for, my gold will silence your father's protests, you will see all is well and our nuptial agreement will be signed by tonight, and in two days you and I will ride away from Siena never to return!"
One of the servants offered them wine and Damien handed her a cup and took one for himself. The hosts were respectful of their need for privacy and were huddled together across the room at a respectful distance.  Only the ever present Malachai was closer standing behind the Prince and Lysandra. Damien turned to her, again,  suddenly and looked into her eyes. He read there, doubt.
"Lysandra, you're not... " Asked Damien sadly, urgently, thinking that she might want to turn away from him.
"Oh, no, Lord, no, yes, No, I mean. She caught her breath and could not seem to agree with herself, shaking her head. "I mean, Damien, I just realized what our love will cost me- everything I have ever known or held dear, My parents, my home, Siena... But, no, Lord Damien, I will not turn away or back down. I loved you when first I heard Lady Guiddi speak of you and your errand. I love you still and I want more than ever to be your wife!"
He smiled and placed his hand on her forearm. "My father chose wisely for me, indeed, you are a very brave and worthy bride, Lysandra, more so then you realize, now drink a little wine, do not stare down at it with such self doubt, it will not bite you!"
She giggled with a shrug.
 "And if it is too strong ask Malachai to fetch a little water to thin it. " he whispered in her ear. 
She nodded and drank a little.  
Malachai walked up behind her with a small pitcher in his hand and poured a little water in her wine. He smiled but said little. She felt as safe in his presence as she did standing beside Damien.
"Thank you, Malachai. " she said using his name for the first time.
The fathers of the city now came and spoke further with Damien but said little to Lysandra. Lysandra was on the peripheral of the crowd feeling very small and forgotten. She was close to Damien but felt unsure and frightened. A voice whispered in her ear and she could feel the breath the knight as he spoke.
 "Lysandra, don't be afraid or cowered by these men go stand beside Damien with confidence. Your Lord and husband- to- be is greater then all of these, go, child!"
"Oh, Malachai ! What have I done?"
"You have agreed to marry a great and blessed Lord, a man of great power and wisdom beyond any other, don't run now, Lady, the love you see in his eyes should reassure you that you are already his ."
She nodded and walked foreword and shouldered her way into the crowd. They gave way to her instantly for their intention had not been conscious. She stood beside her Lord now and the hosts greeted her and asked her name and age and progenitor's history. They accepted her as the Chosen One and a fellow citizen of Siena, an honored city woman who was bringing honor to her city and district and most of all, her family .
Her father  arrived a short time later. Pia, Giovanni and Edoardo were with him all looking a bit dazed and most certainly surprised when they first beheld their little Lysandra standing next to the beautiful and great Lord from the North. As they walked in Damien had turned and whispered something in Lysandra's ear which had caused her to smile. He looked up from her eyes and saw the family standing nearby unannounced and silent, looking out a place. He smiled and nodded in a gracious manner and said something to the others in the room and everyone followed him to greet the family of the Chosen One. He took Lysandra's arm and walked forward to greet them. There was no fear or doubt to betray him. This meeting did not agitate him as it did Lysandra.
It was as if he already knew the outcome, as if his Father had already told him what to expect and say.
Lysandra, though, had many doubts. Indeed, now faced with the stern reality of her family's presence, she believed she would be dragged home to wash the dinner dishes. She was like a dreamer, who faced with the morning light, watches as all of her beautiful dreams fade as the stars do at first light. Her father looked particularly perturbed at being summoned at such a short notice. 'they will take me home and punish me for daring to love such great Lord... it was arrogance to believe that I might deserve such recognition, I shall lose Damien !' She began to visibly shake as she greeted her parents.  She introduced Damien to them and then said courageously. "Father, mother I have accepted Lord Damien's proposal of marriage." she announced the news with more seeming courage than she felt. She longed to be a tortoise who could draw herself up into her shell and not face these terrifying giants. She took a deep breathe and waited for the tirade to come. And then behind her she heard tinkling of mail and the heavy stride of noble knights.  It was Malachai and another knight, dressed in the same livery. They stood behind Damien and herself as guards would with hands on their swords.  Edmondo seeing the men suddenly had a change of heart. Perhaps it was not the swords, instead, the knights had served as a reminder that Lysandra was no longer a defenseless child who could not answer back yet could be intimidated by a harsh word or a daunting look.
"Lord Damien…" "..you summoned us." he said with the most imperceptible bow imaginable.
"I requested your presence, Edmondo Bonaventura, for I have chosen your daughter this day to be my wife."
Edmondo seemed surprised, though, by now it could hardly be so, he was instead in a mode of thought not unlike that at a Fair.  He was acting a part with a desired purpose in mind. He placed his thumbs in his belt, a habit he always indulged in while making a deal.
"Lord, are you sure you want such a child she is so young and neither pretty nor, .." he hesitated for effect  "Nor Wealthy there is no dowry nor political advantage in marrying her, no gain for you, at all, if I may say so."
"I do not desire a dowry and neither do I expect land or political power, I marry Lysandra for herself, for she is her own dowry and her love is my wealth. But you, Edmondo, are to gain from our union, if truth be known . "
Edmondo was now truly surprised,  not theatrically . His jowls lifted upwards in a seeming smile and he nodded, wisely.
"Aye Lord, she has been an indispensable member of my house hold since she was barely weaned. She not only helps her mother but she works frequently in my shop. I value her immeasurably because of all the hard work she does."
The other family members tried not to register any emotion at all but several including Pia felt disdain for her husband's lying tongue.
 "As she rightly should be valued but not only for her work.  I have come into your house and taken your finest jewel to my heart, certainly,  you will never be able to replace Lysandra !"
"Lord." answered the merchant wisely not really understanding the words spoken by the prince.
"To replace this beautiful jewel ,then, or at least to replace her hard working hands, how much do you believe you would need?"
Edmondo rubbed his mostly hairless chin and thought a moment. "Forty thousand in gold, Lord Damien, should be enough for the upkeep of a good maid servant to help my wife in the house."
Damien agreed kindly, nodding, and then patted Lysandra's hand resting on his forearm.  "Yes, but you said she also worked in the store, are you sure, Edmondo Bonaventura ? Certainly you will need help there also as you and your sons go to the great northern fairs or the Middle East to seek new merchandise."
"True Lord, and Lysandra was becoming quite proficient in the shop, double that amount and I will believe we have quoted a reasonable settlement ."
The Prince smiled and agreed . "Done, then, done, Edmondo Bonaventura!"
I have brought just such an amount.  My  knights will go tell the guards to bring it here and by this evening the papers can be signed in this contract and the money deposited safely in your account!"
Edmondo 's eyes grew large but he recovered nicely. He had asked an exorbitant amount, wisely, he thought, that he might negotiate a realistically lower but sufficient amount, instead, he was going to receive what could only be called a King's ransom.
He had, in a few moments, lost a daughter who had never been of much use to him and gained a fortune. He would be able to become an important man, one of the wealthiest in Siena, a place on the city council was not impossible. He would no longer need to work . His name and position would be assured, hell, he thought fiercely, he might stay in the fabric trade and become a Master.
Damien, then,  did an equally surprising thing.
"Lysandra, does this contract meet with your approval and acceptance.  It will not be signed if you do not desire it."
Her father's face turned a livid purple momentarily, stern as steel for all its fleshy softness.
Lysandra was entirely confused and surprised by this moment for never before had she had the least say in her life and she had accepted her role as merchandise, not because it was right but because she knew no other. It was again the loving heart, deep within that spoke in a very certain voice.
"Oh, yes, Lord, I desire more than ever to become your wife."
But deep within she realized, with sorrow, that she had been a thing for her father to sell as he might sell a bolt of silk or dispose of a horse that had outlived it's usefulness. But Damien was not treating her so, not for a moment. She was not merchandise but a human being with a soul and valuable in and of herself, beyond what she could do or what she had accomplished. Every word every gesture even the way he looked straight into her eyes and smiled spoke not of coldness or superiority but of love, the love of a human being for a human being. He acknowledged her soul's worth and committed no sin against it. She could not put any of this into words but she appreciated entirely its underlying truth.
Her mother had said nothing but now she came up to Lysandra.
"Child, you are a woman now ! and so suddenly ! Lysandra, there is so much I have not told you!" She pushed Lysandra's hair from where it had fallen in front of her face, a moment before.
"Mother, it is alright, I am happy ."
Her mother took her into her arms and kissed her on the cheek.
The family was given now glasses of wine and greeted by the city council of nine and the other guests. They showed them great difference for they were now the parents and family of a, now,  Great Lady.
Lysandra had left Damien only for the time she had been in her mother's arms.
She motioned that she wanted to speak to him in a confidential manner and he bent down to hear her.
"Lord...Damien, please may we speak privately, I mean?"
She hardly knew what she really wanted to say, but something deep within was urgently prodding her to demand to do so.
Damien lead her away from the others and with Malachai and the other guard they went down a hall until they came to an open door.
He closed the door. She stood a short distance from him, weeping.
"Lord , Lord you must not allow my father to cheat you, no papers have been signed, you must not pay such a great sum for the likes of me. I am not worth so very much!"
"Are your loyalties already so transferred so quickly, Lysandra, certainly my Father has chosen wisely.."
She barely understood, shaking her head despondently. "Lord, I know not what your father chose me for, but my father is cheating you.  I am not worth so much. And, as for my work, only three weeks ago he said I was not worth so much as a bolt of brocade, I do nothing well and I never did more than sweep up in the shop...I do everything wrong... I never understand things nor do them properly.  I am a fool, Lord Damien, arrogant and terribly unworthy of such a great man as yourself!"
She was weeping and turned away. "I am not worth so much gold. I am nearly fourteen and uneducated.  I am not pretty and my brothers always criticized me for asking questions and for day dreaming."
He took her shoulders and held them tightly.
"Lysandra, no, please, you are wrong, terribly wrong about yourself. I could not quote your worth to me." He looked straight into her eyes.
 "They have lied to you and you have believed them.   Without worth, without value? The orbs hanging in their spheres are not worth one hair on your head. "Wrong minded, a dreamer, lazy, a fool, nay, it is minds like yours, imaginations who have the courage to see in new ways that brings the race its highest pinnacles of art and literature introducing possibilities that would otherwise be lost . Valueless ? never, Beloved, you are beyond value ! I will not allow you to say such cruel things about my dearest friend." "Eighty thousand in gold ? I would pay seven times eighty thousand for you. You are my lovely Rose, my beautiful Gem, a pearl of great worth. I came here knowing already that you awaited my arrival and soon we will ride from this city's gates never to return. Your parents do not know what a jewel, what a lovely child they had been given for safekeeping. But only for safe keeping, Lysandra, not for misuse ! I have come to claim you for my own and I am willing to pay any amount they ask so that I might do so, do you understand, any amount, any… any!" He pulled her to himself and hugged her and she hugged back.
She knew he was not lying. He valued her in a way she could not even imagine for she had not been raised to value herself.
She rested her head against his chest.  She felt an intense love for this man. He was no great and mighty lord to her, no crowned monarch's son; He was Damien, her beloved knight and friend to her heart, a recognized companion, her dear heart's desire. So very human and kind, so very much her beloved!
"Damien, I love you, " she said as the tears faded. "Oh, beloved, that God might fill my heart with love enough that I might believe your kind words so that they may heal my soul, you and only you, Damien, forever!"
“Forever.” He answered back, with a smile.
He held her awhile her head still resting upon his chest. At last, when a few minutes had past he told her to dry her tears for they must return to the other guests. As they left the room he promised they would speak again alone before the day was done.
They walked out of the room, Malachai holding the door for both of them and the two silent guards behind them, walked back to the party. She knew, then, that she was walking into a life of joy and love. He wanted her and did not care about how much it cost to claim he for his wife.
 

On my bed, at night, I sought him
whom my heart loves.
I sought but did not find him.
So I will rise and go through the city;
in the streets and squares
I will seek him whom my heart loves,
.... I sought him but did not find him.
Chapters 3 :1-2 Song of Songs

May was fading and June was soon to arrive. Ah, Sweet June, Summer would be born in its warm heart ! May and June were always Lysandra’s favorite months. Already fresh vegetables and herbs were arriving from the nearby farms and many flowers and early roses were in bloom. Every day it seemed a little warmer.

Lysandra was sweeping the floor of her father's store when one of the wealthier customers entered . She was a matron with two young daughters both less than three years older than Lysandra.
They were both very pretty, far prettier than Lysandra, or, at least, Lysandra thought so.
"Well, Signore Bonaventura have you heard the news ?"
"News? " "What news, Signora Guddi?" her father asked.
"It was announced this morning- a great Lord from the North, Prince Damien by name will be visiting Siena in three weeks time, by the end of June, that is- and he says that he has heard of the beauty and intelligence of our Sienese Maidens and he wishes to find a wife by mid summer. He has sent with his messengers a cask of gold to pay for the city's expenses and up keep while we host himself and his knights. "
Signore Bonaventura immediately realized what this news implied for his business.
"Wonderful! Wonderful! " "You will be wanting new gowns for Ladies Dia and Marie."
"And for myself it will not do for Signora Guddi to escort her daughters in rags ."
Her father nodded with excited greed. "Of course, Signora only the best for the Ladies Guddi ."
He pulled out his loveliest silks and brocades and soon enough fabric for three gowns was chosen and sent to dress makers.
Lysandra watched the sale while seeming to sweep but really going not much of anywhere. She had not moved in fifteen minutes. Instead, she had listened to the news about the Great Lord Damien in rapt silence. A Lord..a prince... Damien .... in her imagination she could see him. Something stirred deep within she could not have explained even if she had tried, it was as if a door opened. Somehow, an awareness, her heart told her it was for her that Damien would come, for he loved her; she must prepare herself to meet him, she must have a new gown and surcoat with which to meet her future husband, she must comb her hair, she thought, and prepare to become his wife! But then another inward voice spoke condemning her foolishness, "Don't be silly child." it seemed to say " Prince Damien will want a beautiful, intelligent woman and you are just an ugly, unimportant girl of no significance at all !' 'You are not tall or rich nor blond nor hardly a woman.' 'You are a silly little, girl, why would a great Lord, a prince of the distant north, come for you when he has the city's wealthiest and most beautiful women to choose from ?' This second inward voice was so cruel, for it sounded like her father, that it brought tears to the surface and she swept up the dust with eyes blurry from them, using a piece of metal as a shovel pushing the dust forward so she might dispose of it.
'It could be!" She wanted to cry out " It could be!'
Her father’s stern voice interrupted her inward dialog.
"Come on, Girl, work! You aren't worth a bolt of cheap wool, child, you are lazy !"
Work, Work! " he cried, clapping his hands after Lady Guddi had departed.

She answered him meekly in barely a whisper and said that she was sorry and then pulled out a rag from a cupboard and began to dust.

But, somehow, Lord Damien, the great Lord of the North filled her mind and heart and she thought of little else. She could almost see him in her always busy imagination. He was tall and very handsome with a wonderful, kind smile. He was gentle and would kiss her hand. Kneeling, he would ask for her hand in marriage. He would present her with a lovely rose and compare her smile to it. She loved Damien with a fervent love, a love which would never die nor grow old, she loved him! She must be his wife, or die of a great sorrow.

She worked in the store until it was time to help her mother in the kitchen. She was very tired when she started up the stairs. Her surcoat of faded blue linen was very dirty and dusty. She went to change it . It was a clear beautiful day outside and she longed to go sit out under a tree and smell the warm spring breezes and watch the small clouds sail by. To just not have to work all day, to have nothing to do but just to be, to relax, rest, enjoy the life and its sweetness without always working and striving! She did nothing but work. She wondered what it would feel like, just to be, to do needlework under a tree, like other girls are allowed to do.

But even as dreams of resting assailed her she began beating the eggs and measuring the flour. She began to tell her mother the news about Lord Damien without seeming to be excited or urgent and she mentioned that she would like to see this great Lord Prince, could she not have a new gown, she asked, after all, she added she had nothing new in a very long time.

Her mother smiled and nodded

"Ah, the shoemaker’s children have no shoes, Lysia, always has it been that way ! I'll talk to your father. It will be a wise investment. You are just a likely to be picked as the next and it won't do for a merchant of your father's standing in the city not to be represented."

She smiled and patted her daughter on her back as Lysandra broke the eggs and slowly added them to the flour.

Lysandra smiled and gave her mother a peck on the cheek and thanked her. She would be prepared for Damien after all! Her heart wanted to sing. She made herself a promise, Tomorrow she would rise early and clean her father's stock room. It need sweeping and dusting badly. Her father had complained of it many times during the day. And, now, she saw a chance to please him . Perhaps he would allow her to have a gown, or, perhaps, yes, he would tell her he loved her and would thank her for all her hard work. She imagined him hugging her and thanking her. Her heart, so starved for simple gratitude swelled at the thought that she might finally please her parents.

The next morning she rose very early and dressed hurriedly. Neither her father nor brothers were in the store, yet. It was another wonderful day and she opened several shutters to let in the morning light and air. The Storeroom was behind the main fabric racks. Its' door being on the far side when the store was entered from the family's quarters.

It was always dark in there and though it had windows of real glass these were very high and had never been opened in Lysandra's memory or lifetime. Most of the bolts were still wrapped and were long, heavy tubes of fabric of wound round cores of wood. Suspended from frames they were nearly impossible for any but two grown men to move. Others were resting on long bins of wood. Above each was a list of colors and types of fabric, even places or origin. They were still wrapped with burlap, dark gray and browns, and were stained with the pale dust of the road, in many cases for they were not opened until it was necessary to do so. She tried to move several, often she had seen the men move them causally as if they weighed nothing but none of the bolts, even the skinniest, would not budge for her. Neither could she reach any but the first two shelves without the help of a ladder.

She fetched a candle and an armful of rags. She could not use water on the shelves for fear of staining the fine fabrics instead she would dust every thing with dry rags, pushing all the dirt to the floor where she latter sweep it up. Some of the lower shelves were less dusty and she decided to start at the top. She raised the candle and began to climb carefully the tall ladder. It was very dusty and she would sneeze every so often. She did her best though and dusted the highest four shelves than moved the ladder and did the same with the rest of the long room's shelves. She also dusted under the suspended bolts. When she descended this first time she noticed that wax had dripped down on one of the open bolts. She cried out but knew nothing could be done. She would tell her father and hope he would forgive her for such carelessness. She then fetched several large towels and carefully covered any uncovered fabric as she continued. It must have been the fine silk he sold yesterday, to Signora Guiddi. Certainly, Papa would understand that she had not meant to damage anything! It was then when she was about half done with her labors that Giovanni found her. There were puffs of dust on the floor and clinging to the towels covering the bolts. Lysandra, also was covered with dust particles of different sizes.

"What are you doing, Lysandra?" he asked.

"Papa complained that the store room was dusty so I wanted to surprise him."

"How did you get to the top shelves ?"

"I climbed on them, I couldn't move the big bolts, though, Giovanni could you help me ? " She inquired, begging.

" It doesn't surprise me, Lysia, you are far too small. It usually takes two of us to move the bolts that come over the sea. The folded stock usually comes from up north and is easier to move."

"It really won't be that bad under them, Lysia, why don't you just finish up, the store will be opening soon." he advised her.

Lysandra wanted to do a through job but accepted her brother's advice with disappointment.

"It rarely was that bad under things, Giovanni ." she agreed though wishing that he would help her do what she herself could not do alone.

"I wouldn't think so, hurry up now." He walked back out and did his early morning chores, awning now and again as he worked.

One hour later when the store was already open she was nearly done and was proceeding to finish the lowest shelves. She uncovered the stained bolt with a whimper. It was the most beautiful scarlet and gold brocade she had ever seen in her entire life. It broke her heart to see the damage but she could not have helped it. She just had not foreseen the damage of using a candle in such a closed in space. She released a deeply felt sigh. A fear crept in. She hoped her father would understand.
A moment latter he walked in.
"What are you doing, young one?" he asked.
"Are you hiding something?" he demanded as she stepped between him and the bolt out of fear.
"Oh, no, father ... I was cleaning...” she stammered, bravely. “Some wax dripped on this bolt. I was wondering how to remove it .” The last little bit was a lie for she knew better but she was now very frightened, her heart was brave but her youth made all the adults around her, giants to fear and respect.

He looked down at the damage with an expert's knowledge.
"It can't be removed, just leave it. I wont be able to sell a good meter of it either, perhaps more, God know how many layers have been stained! I wish you would leave good enough alone and not fool with things you know nothing about !" He was now irritated and his voice betrayed him as he spoke to his youngest.
It was as if a sword went through Lysandra's heart.
"But, papa, you said yesterday that you wished someone would get ...get... get off.... their big butts and do some cleaning. “
He slapped her face, not hard, but it was a slap.
How many times do I need to tell you not to speak so ? " “I meant your brothers you are too young to be doing this kind of work, child, now look at what you have done! "
"But, papa, I did do it !" She whispered with emphasis, rubbing her right cheek.
"Don't talk back to me, young one, you also stained a good bolt of brocade worth more than you will ever be worth yourself ! This fabric comes from Cathay and is irreplaceable – and now with that prince fellow coming to town I will need every bolt of fine fabric I have in stock!

She wanted to stamp her feet and scream at him "I did it ! I did a good job too, but for one mistake, why can you see the mistake but none all the good I do ? " But she said nothing, she had been taught to respect her elders.

She hung her head instead and swallowed fighting back the tears of rage her young heart felt. Further argument would only cause her further pain she knew, so she acted like she was afraid when what she really was was profoundly indigent.
Her father now calmer took the candle from her hand .
"Go help your mother, Lysandra, she has been wondering all morning exactly where you had gotten off to, she had to make breakfast without you !" he ordered.
Not only was she in trouble for staining the bolt of fabric but also for neglecting her kitchen duties, why did nothing ever go the way she thought it should? She would have to apologize to her mother, also.
"But, Papa, I want to work with you !" She cried.
She felt such conflicting emotions in that moment.
No words came and she stood there another few minutes as if frozen in place. He had turned to look at the stain, muttering something about needing every meter of fabric in his stock just now and once again, picking at the wax with his fingernail.
He turned back to her.
"I told you to go help your mother are you just going to stand there all day or are you going to do what I tell you ?" his voice was loud again and very harsh in the confined space around them. He seemed so very tall to her and threatening.
She nodded still holding back tears of rage and disappointment. All her father could see though was his precious fabric and the stain of wax. His daughter was as nothing to him. She was inconsequential to him.

He was still looking down at the stain when she turned and ran up the stairs.

She did not dry her tears until she reached the kitchen. She apologized to her mother for being neglectful of her duties and began washing dishes.

That evening she helped finished washing the dishes. She went to her room and the tears she had held back so very long came as a flood. They had begged release so very long. She did what she always did when she was in distress she turned to God and prayed to Him .

'Oh God' she thought as she prayed 'Please, hear my prayer, let my cry come to you, for you are my Father and I am your child ! Please, Father, please !" Help my family, help me, why can there never be happiness and love ?" Oh God, tell daddy that I am sorry !' She could no longer hold back the tears.
Her prayers never seemed to sound like prayers at church. She always spoke to God as if he was in the room sitting before her on his throne of Gold smiling at her. She loved God very much but she was also angry at him a little for all the pain and disappointment in her life. Her parents seemed always mean and too busy and so very distant. She felt isolated and alone. She had never played with the other girls in childhood and had no true friends even now, as she was reaching her youth.
She felt like they really did not care about her and that she could die and they would not miss her. She longed to be loved and cared about- to be truly loved and to be free, completely free !

Before twilight came she rose and went for a walk. This time it was not to the public gardens but the great Duomo that was her destination. The streets were full of people, children playing, men and women strolling in the cooling air... She looked to the west the sun was still high but it would take her awhile to get where she was going and she wondered if she would have any time once she got there. She entered the cathedral and blessed herself with holy water. A small square of fabric would serve her as a veil. She walked quietly, respectfully towards the great altar. It was very beautiful. Gold, silver, jewels, bronze, all glittered with the golden jewel light streaming through the stained glass windows. Mosaics and paintings told many stories even to the most unlettered and above it all stood a great cross with the dead savior permanently froze at the moment of his death. On his right side were Mother Mary and his left, good Saint John. The great cross always caused Lysandra to cry for grief's sake, why did Jesus have to die so cruelly? Why did God want him to die? Jesus had never done anything wrong, not like Lysandra had! She had been raised from infancy with all the stories of Christ and Mary's life ingrained in her soul. But never had any story every dealt with why Jesus died, except, to say he died to save mankind from their sins because God could not forgive them with Jesus' blood being poured out ... This made no sense to Lysandra but there was no one to answer a question that she was not supposed to be asking. She wondered if God was not like her father, she could imagine her father valuing blood more than love. She felt sincere pity for the dead savior and wished she could have been there to wipe his face as Veronica was said to have done. She felt unworthy of his terrible sacrifice, his immeasurable goodness and suffering.

'Don't do it for me, dear Jesus!' she wanted to cry out, 'I'm not worth it I am nothing compared to you!' 'Please, good sir, live, don't die like this!' but she did not dare. She would be in great trouble if she dared say a word of what was in her heart to say.

She looked up at the great marble altar ingrained with gold designs, the lovely candles of fine scented beeswax, the reliquary on either side of the tabernacle of gold, the fine linens and beautiful laces all enchanted her heart. It was a glorious work of art! It seemed as a bit of heaven was revealed here in this beautiful building with its design of black and white bands, all of its paintings, for there were many pictures of the Virgin and Child, the virgin's breast exposed as if Jesus was going to drink his full in just a moment, many saints both statues and paintings all graced the walls of the huge church. They were like familiar old friends and she had to sometimes remind herself not to take them for granted. She would purposely stare at a painting trying to see it with what she called 'new eyes'.

She silenced her thoughts and knelt down.

'God', she prayed with a fierceness which caused her to almost speak aloud, 'Please help me, I need you! You are my God , I your child, why don't you answer me, where are you, my Father ? Don't you care about me ? I'm never good enough, God, no matter how hard I try, I make mistakes. Give me, wisdom, Father, understanding of why things are the way they are, Cleanse me Father! Oh come, Damien! Come for your bride ! She awaits you with sighs of longing.' 'Come, beloved, come to my arms, I want none other than you !'

She blushed and hung her head where did that last thought come from? Damien come for her? Her? She shook her head sorrowfully. 'Damien, please come!' She whispered, looking up at the great altar again. 'I await you!'
Yes. Damien. come my beloved.

Was it proper to pray like this? Her heart spoke fervent passionate words quite unlike the emotionless monotones of Georgian chant or the Latin Mass which always seemed so alien, so mysterious, yet, so familiar to her young ears. The words in her heart were almost violent in their urgency and they caused her to sway a little, they were the words of a lover.

'I am so very unhappy, God, please help my family, help me, I try so very hard to help but never see any result. It is as if they look right through me. Am I as worthless and ugly as they say I am, am I of no account? Father God, I love you and Jesus! ' she whispered in her heart.

All of this did not seem like proper prayers at all. She rose and walked awhile looking at the mosaics, statues and paintings. It was time to run home before the sun set. It all seemed crowded and overwhelming to the child's senses. The roses seemed closer to God, sometimes, than all these man made artifacts, but, then, that wasn't a proper thought either, for the sacrament was hidden behind the golden tabernacle door in the church, hidden away so that only the priests might see the Divine bread. Was not the sacrament Christ's body and blood?

What was God was like? Was He like her father, disapproving, stern, unforgiving; so he could not forgive mankind but had to drink of Jesus' blood before he could do so? The great Emperor of the world on a golden throne ready to send some men and women to hell and others, to heaven? Or was he loving, caring and forgiving, valuing all men and women as his children, hating no one, rejecting no one – a kind father, at the gate of heaven, welcoming even the lost sons and daughters, home after their long sojourn on Earth? She did not Know. Nothing she experienced in her life or in her world seemed to reflect the kind of loving Father that Jesus described. But a great deal of her life reflected back to her child's awareness the terrifying aspect of the Divine Judge, the stern, unforgiving Father who would exile her from his sight forever if she committed a mortal sin . Yet, somehow, she wanted, longed for the loving God and the universe made for love's sake that her heart and imagination told her should exist. All of these thoughts were not spoke, even to herself, not, yet, at least. They were, instead, secrets only her heart and spirit knew. She feared speaking of them for she feared they were evil thoughts to harbor within and that they must be hidden from all,especially, her parents and the priests and nuns.

When she arrived home her father called her to his office. Her mother was already there. There was strain again and anger she could taste its bitterness as she entered the room. It was as if the room vibrated with their pent up rage towards one another.

"Lysandra, your mother has told me you wish to have a gown prepared for the arrival of this Damien fellow. "

She stood there frightened as any might be before the great lords of the Inquisition.

"Yes, Papa. I would like to go to the festivities - to see him."

He was pacing. Her mother stood a few feet away from Lysandra, her face betraying anger and tears.

"You are too young, Lysandra, this prince fellow is going to be interested in only the wealthiest and best born - and the prettiest ladies, you are no lady, you are the daughter of a middle class draper. You need to face the fact, child, that you are never going to be attractive and I certainly am not wealthy! It would be a waste of money and time for you to go to a ball or be in any of the ceremonies. I'm not made of money, you know, when are you and your mother going to understand that?”

He glanced over to Pia, who only dared to stare back at him with angry defiance. He had stopped pacing and was looking directly at her.

“It would be a waste of silver to pay a seamstress to do the work." he muttered.

Her mother interrupted, "I'd do the work, Edmondo, my God, half of the clothes we wear come from my needle, already. "

"No. It would be a waste of good fabric." Edmondo frowned, severely.

Lysandra was standing before him without a word but it seemed to him that she was staring straight at him with open defiance. She was not feeling submissive and small in that second. Something else was born in her heart- hate. He did not know that he stood between her and her Beloved. She, of all his daughters had always seemed to him somehow braver, stronger than himself, not always, but sometimes he would see something in her, he could not name. He wanted to scream at her and assert his authority over her, again, but could not find a good reason for doing so. Her face betrayed no emotion, her eyes, though, could burn through lead, he thought.

"Lysandra will not be taken to any of the festivities it is a waste of money. No prince worth his name will be interested in our daughter, Pia.”

"Father, please, it could happen. I am small and not very pretty but Lord Damien might… fall in love with me. "

She almost whispered the words, her throat too tight to speak loudly – not in fear but defiance.

Her father took a step towards her. She did not cower this time. She stood her ground. This was not damaged fabric, this was her love for Damien.

"Stay home, young lady, and help your mother around the house. This is the last time I want to hear about you attending any of the functions!" his voice was stern and as cold hearted as a winter's morning. It reminded Lysandra of the cold peaks of the distant Alps that her brothers had once described to her.

"0,Yes, father, thank you." she muttered with a slight curtsy as if he was the Lord he fancied himself to be – she did not mean it, though. She was angry, hurt, yes, but, also, angry.

She did not meet his eyes again but she had learned to hate him in that moment. She curtsied, again, and excused herself for her parents were evidently finished with her.

She left the room too upset even to cry. Her mother was still fighting the decision the last words she heard her mother say were stinging yet kind, "You are a fool Edmondo, a fool, Lysandra is nearly fourteen and she has as much a chance as any. Some of your precious silk, a little makeup, a little work on her hair and she would be as pretty as any other maiden that is going to attend, husband, think about it – one of our daughters married that well, could mean nothing but good for your business!”

"Silence, wife, you are the fool ..a waste of good silk would be anything she wore…"

Lysandra could bear no more, she turned and walked hurriedly away before she could hear any more of her father's rebuttal, she knew an argument stewing when she heard one. It could go on for hours. She fled again to her room and sat on her bed, a single candle lighting her thoughts. She could not even bring the tears she felt to the surface, she would not be prepared.

Damien, the Great Lord of the North, the Great King's son would come and choose some lovely, rich girl for his wife but she would never love Damien as intensely as Lysandra would.

She would probably be in the usual gown of stained white and surcoat of old, faded blue making gravies and sweeping the floor, washing dishes or clothes ... He would not even see her, or her, him. Her one chance to see him to let him know that she loved him would pass fleetingly by, never to happen. He would leave with his new wife and never know of the draper's daughter who loved him the first time she heard his name.

Their love would never be, it would die before it was ever born!

'Oh, God...' she whispered as she fell back on the bed 'This can not be, no love is unworthy, God, you must not permit this, Father, I will never be able to love you again if you do.'

No, no she must not say such terrible things to God. It was a sin. She laid her face on the palms of her hands and shook with misery. They were not pretty hands nor the hands of a fine lady, they seemed raw and bruised to her, no, not a fine lady's hands at all. The finger nails were all short with chipped jagged edges due in part to her labors but also to her habit of chewing on them when ever she was frightened. They were not even fourteen-year-old hands. There were pinpricks on the fingertips and a cut or two from kitchen carelessness. Why she wondered did she think that some great and blessed Lord would deem her a worthy recipient of his love? Her father was right, never, never could never it happen – such things happened on in the tales that her mother used to tell her while they sewed, together.

It was now after dark, she took off her surcoat and gown and blew out her candle. She lay in bed a long time in her chemise and thought about Damien, falling asleep only when she heard a distant church bell chime what seemed many times.

The next morning slipped by with the usual chores. At midday meal her father seemed lighthearted. He was grinning. Their confrontation the night before already forgotten,or, at least, passed off as insignificant.

"You should see it, Pia, my entire stock of fine fabrics disappearing even the velvet despite the heat: Satins, silks, brocades. I'll need to send the boys back East sooner than I thought. Perhaps, I'll go this time as soon as this Damien fellow leaves with his new bride. I've made a year's profit in a week !"

Her mother looked in Lysandra's direct with a frown and a small nod of compassion. The words they were both thinking but not expressing would have gotten both of them in trouble. And there was a silent mutual agreement not to bother.

"I wonder who is making all these gowns, Edmondo , they certainly don't have much time !"

Edmondo grunted. "Probably every nun and housewife for miles around- every child girl with two hands and two eyes, no doubt! Why don't you and Lysandra see if you hire yourselves, out, you could do some extra work just until the prince comes ."

Her mother frowned "No, Edmondo, I do too much as it is and my hands hurt when I do too much fine work."

"But, Pia, you could make a bit extra, a bit extra” He rubbed his fingers together in the age-old gesture. he urged.

"No, husband, we have more than enough to do already. "

This was the one aspect of their lives where her mother had some say.

He frowned but said nothing more about the possibility that they both sew. Pia loved money just as much, if not more than Edmondo but she seemed to have limits as to how far she would go to make more of it. Her mother loved her after a fashion, Lysandra thought. The reason her mother forced her to work so hard was that she was needed around the house, they had no servants.

Her mother asked her to pass the beans and bread to her, which she did.

"Lysandra, eat!" she demanded, loudly, causing the girl to nearly jump. But Lysandra had no desire for food, no real hunger for that matter. There was a deep pain in her soul and life hardly seemed worth the bother, suddenly. She knew she would never greet Damien now and nothing else mattered. She would die soon after he left. Her heart was already breaking in her breast, without him, nothing held her to earth.

The next two weeks passed by without incident. Pia had taken some of fabric she had stored away for herself and her daughter and she cut out a new surcoat for Lysandra. It was a deep blue linen like the sky early in the morning after sunrise. She then prepared and repaired one of her daughter's best gowns. She had a plan of her own, but she doubted in her heart- wasn't all a meaningless cruelty, she wondered, to build up the girl's hopes when she hadn't a chance? At least, though, her daughter would see the Great Lord Prince.

She was a good girl and deserved that much.

Her father had nothing but praises for the Great Lord Damien as the weeks passed, his wisdom, goodness and knowledge were praised. As were his looks though no one, including her father, had the slightest idea what he looked like. He had chosen Siena as the city to look for his bride that was enough to cause Edmondo to sing his praises.

                                           THE AMETHYST ROSE
                             
                        I am black but lovely, daughters of  Jerusalem,
                        ... take no notice of my swarthiness,
                        it is the sun that has burned me.
                        My mother's sons turned their anger on me,
                        they made me look after the vineyards.
                        Had I only looked after my own!
                                     Song of Songs Chapter 1, 5-6


    
                                                      CHAPTER 1

     Lysandra, the youngest child of a large family, had once been told that her name was not Italian, but Greek. She then asked where Greece might be and if she might ever visit it. The answer devastated her for her mother said that it was across the wide, dark sea and she was a silly girl and silly girls could never travel so far. Her mother then told her to go back to her dish washing and stop being so irritating.
 "Go to Greece !" the woman repeated with a wag of her head and a loud Humph  "Really, Lysandra, where do you get your ideas !
Lysandra was nearly fourteen, now and still wondered about Greece. She was the last of the Bonaventuras to be carried by her mother, who was now an aging, well ripened Italian matron wide of hip and large of breast  and several of Lysandra's sisters and brothers had not survived infancy. She always wondered what they would have been like if they had.
 Small always for her age they had feared for her survival, also, and they never seemed to tire of reminding her of how difficult her birth had been and what an inconvenience it had been to every one, particularly, her mother. The doctor had said that it the child might die or the mother might live or neither of them might live, she was always told.
 
Lysandra had dark features and eyes of deep, darkest brown, her coloring being more that of the south of Italy then the pale beauty of Siena, though both of her parents were from Siena. Her lips were narrow but well shaped and she tended to smile more than frown if she was allowed to express herself. Her hair, indeed, shined with hidden light when exposed to the sun and seemed to be a mixture of several shades from almost black to a medium red.

Lysandra was a little like that, herself, there was hidden light in the girl that manifested it self at the most peculiar times. She had an imagination that could paint universes if she unleashed it. She had interests far beyond what she should and asked far too many questions if she was going to seem a properly demure and innocent girl-woman.

She also wanted to be helpful and useful, though, sometimes, not quite in the same manner her father wanted her to be. She was constantly wandering into his shop. She loved the fabrics he sold in the shop- there were satins, brocades, damask, the humbler wools woven in their own city, cottons from the Middle East and India and fine linens from various lands, all of which fascinated her. She never tired looking at the fine linen used by the Church for its purificators and corporals. She wondered if she might, after she grew up, work with her father in his shop.

She wanted to very much. She would love to learn to weave and do fine needlework, even learn to make laces, that wonderful new art that she had seen in the market place just last fall. She was his youngest, would he not need her help in the distant future after her brothers married? She would work very hard and try very hard to please him she promised herself and no one else in particular.
She did everything she was told and hoped that perhaps someday they might turn to her and say 'You are an idea daughter you have worked very hard and you have obeyed us in everything now it is time for you to graduate to greater things...' She wanted her father to want her to work with him in the shop to see how clever she was, how intelligent and knowledgeable she was, perhaps this was her greatest fault, her desire that others might recognize in her some goodness and intelligence. Oh! That he might hold her hand and pat it 'you are a golden child, a good daughter I thank you for all you have done! ' She would thank him with a blush and a smile perhaps she would hug him then and he would hug back and later tell his friends what a fine daughter he had!
But then reality came and slammed against her fantasy's heart. 'Oh, my,' she thought,' he might not say all that!' The pot she was scrubbing had been burnt on the bottom and she could not dislodge all the burnt remains and she scrubbed and scrubbed though only her hands seemed to be getting scrubbed by all her effort.
The kitchen was dark this time of day for it was nearly dinner and the sun was in the west- while the only windows in the room were opened to the east.
 "Lysandra, come here and stir the sauce!" her mother commanded.
"Lysia, I just don't know about you, you will never amount to anything!" her mother added.”You were daydreaming again.   I had to call you twice before you heard me."
Lysandra hung her head "Sorry, Mama. "
"Hurry up, now , dry your hands and get over here it will burn if it's not stirred."
"Yes, Mama."
"Did you get the knives on the table?"
"Yes, Mama." she answered. The sauce was thickening slowly.
"And the water?"
"Yes, Mama."
Her mother was almost finished cutting the bread. She rubbed her hands on her apron and then handed the bread platter to Lysandra. "Go call your father, I'll pour the sauce over the pork , go now and make sure Giovanni and Edoardo hear, too !" She shooed her daughter away checking the sauce for lumps before pouring it over the cut of pork.
Lysandra was already tired. Her feet always hurt this time of day and her legs pleaded to be relieved, more than anything she just wanted to sit down and relax a little.
She ran down the stairs that separated the kitchen from her father's office.  Her father was at his desk reading a letter from a distant place. She did not know where. She waited a moment until he looked up for he could not have mistaken the sound of her feet on the stairs above. He often told her how loud she was as she ran down them and said she must act lady like if she was ever going to be married. She was no beauty, he would say and would have to manifest virtues other than voice and form in any man would want to marry such an ugly duckling.

  He was a small short man with a large belly growing now as he entered middle age.  There was only a little hair on his head, similar to what the monks of Saint Benedict wore on purpose. It surrounded a round circle atop his head the same color as his face. His face was fleshy and ruddy by nature.  The ruddiness always increasing to an frightful level when he was angry or upset, as when he argued with his wife, Pia. He was, as many were, unwashed most of the time and his hair was greasy and smelly. Lysandra felt an intense disgust sometimes when she watched him eat and often she could not touch her plate. Sometimes when he scrutinized her for some reason she wanted to tell him to go away. She, though, denied this dislike and could not admit that Edmondo Bonaventura had no beauty either inwardly or outwardly, loving none, but his money and himself.  Lysandra feared, loved and hated her father in equal amounts. She wanted, though, above everything to please him for he was her father. 
"Father, mother says dinner is ready, please come."
He folded the letter and put it away and then rose.
"Have you told your brothers ?" he asked.
"No, papa ." she answered.
"Well do so immediately." he ordered "And be quick about it."

Lysandra ran down the stairs that separated their living quarters from the store proper. There were several small windows at each landing and she sometimes had the urge to stop and look out into the larger world but remembered her father had said quickly.  Siena was, in the year 1345, a busy, populated, truly urban, city. Sienese held themselves as equal with Florentines and Mantuans. She was willing to fight for her honor or for the outlying towns she claimed as her own. It was not a large city, though, and it was oddly designed and quite lovely, truly a masterpiece of Italian urban design. Lysandra's family lived on the street famous for its fabric merchants and though her father was not the wealthiest of the merchants he was successful and they were never in need and were considered by many of their equals well off. Siena was at its zenith of power and prestige in these first fifty years of the fourteenth century though no one could have suspected so. History had some surprises in store for the city and for the rest of Europe, some of which were very unpleasant, indeed.

Lysandra had been given her unusual name by her father who after having a successful business trip to the orient returned the week Lysandra was to be baptized. He, in a rather uncharacteristic, expansive and joyful frame of mind said he rather liked the name and it was appropriate that his last daughter be named something truly unique.   Rarely, now, did he travel so far away but he sent his sons to Alexandria or Athens and once a year they all went north to the great fairs of France.

Edoardo was working over a particularly large ledger when she burst in on him through a door. Giovanni was straightening a bolt of fine silk of a brilliant purple hue. She loved vivid colors and cried with amazement when she saw the silk's color. Only the bright Sienese sky and the church of the Virgin seemed to be as beautiful as her father's store. The store, full as it was of all manner of treasures, seemed to her beautiful a treasure house of fabrics and smells from distant lands and mysterious worlds, even its fragrance was unique more like a church's than a house's.
"Giovanni, Edoardo, dinner's ready." she announced saying no more but turning and running up the stairs.
Edoardo shook his head.
"She is like a little bird twittering on a tree branch. I do honestly doubt that there is a thought in her head. It is going to be difficult finding a husband for that one, Giovanni! "
Giovanni frowned and wanted to defend his sister, she had a great deal in her head, he knew, for he would sometimes sit and talk with her. He had relented after she begged him to teach her how to sign her name and how to read, if only a little. He had gotten bored with the lessons; she had not, and had begged off of them assuring her he was just too busy.  She was probably smarter than most anyone else in the family. All of this was their secret.

But rarely did the younger of the two brothers speak his mind so he just nodded, mumbled something and returned the bolt to its proper place. Both brothers had stayed when all the others had fled either to the monastery or nunnery or a marriage bed... or, of course, an early grave. Sometimes it seemed to Giovanni that Edoardo was truly his brother and friend, other times, Edoardo seemed cold to him and without love. Giovanni was an earnest, mostly patient, loving man unwilling or unable, perhaps, to escape the confines of his family responsibilities. He, should, at twenty-three consider marriage but he never seemed ready and he watched as his life sped by him barely more than endured, patiently.  
Only Lysandra was still young enough to be considered a child or 'at home ' they were men. Edoardo being more like his father and Giovanni, at least, in some subtle ways, more like their mother.
Edoardo closed the great ledger with a slam and Giovanni went and latched the door of the shop.

Dinner was always the most important meal of the day though Edmondo was known to be stingy at times, he would call it 'wise' or 'judicious', his table was always laid with only the best of everything. He loved good rich cuts of meat with plenty of fat and gravy that he ate with great relish and enthusiasm. Sometimes, he would allow the gravy to trickle down his chin. There were always some vegetables also though it was Pia who would most often eat those.  Lysandra would have to be told almost every meal to eat more meat. Did she not seem to understand it was good for her. She wondered why she disliked the red meats so intensely. Pork was all right the way her mother would fix it with herbs and gravy but beef upset her stomach and lamb though it had a wonderful taste was too greasy and anyway, lambs were too pretty to eat.  She ate the meat this night without a fuss and listened with interest to her their conversation.
"There is talk of bad storms up north this year, papa, " Giovanni said " And a cold snap in England which destroyed crops and livestock."
"I have heard that myself but that should not deter us from the fairs in France, Giovanni, It is nearly summer now and people will buy all the more if it has been a depressing winter."
"But will the expense not eat our profits?" protested Giovanni.
"I don't think, so." answered Edoardo. " More than likely the wealthy have not felt the effects of the weather and it's they who buy our silks, not the poor."
"I agree.  Anyway we can't do without new stock and we are nearly out of some of the better wools." said Edmondo between bites. "It is worth the risk ."
Neither son seemed perfectly excited about the long trip ahead but it was Giovanni who seemed to have the most reservations. Their primary source of wools and linens were in France. It was to Greece and the Middle East they turned to for the silks, the finest linens, and the Brocades. The Heathen Mohammedans had little sense when it came to religion but it was by the efforts of their merchants that the silks and brocades came over the Silk Road from mysterious Cathay. The competition for the finest fabrics was fierce and the merchants of Siena were at a disadvantage. Venezia was fiercely protective of its advantage for it was married to the sea with large fleets of it's own. Firenza was competitive with Siena for other reasons.   Giovanni had a talent though for picking the most stylish fashions and bringing them home safely to sell to Siena's wealthiest Ladies and Merchants. The Great Cathedral, alone, often paid for the trip. They always wanted another brocade vestment or new linen surplus for the bishop. The clerics dressed as richly as any wealthy woman and several of them favored the shop of the Bonventuras.
The men talked about all these things. It would not be time to set out on the trip for another month. Giovanni did not say so but he dreaded the sea trip ahead they first went across the sea to Marseilles, and though it was relatively a short trip he invariably became ill much to the amusement of the other two men. Only he shared with Lysandra and she often feared for his well being when he traveled. He had shown her kindness at times and had taught her much, but lately he refused to teach her anymore 'After all, Lysia, you are just a girl, you don't need anything but to sew and cook. ' he had said. He did not know how cruel he had been and Lysandra had forgiven him but she longed to learn more.
 
When Lysandra finished washing the dishes she excused herself and ran out the house. It was still early on a warm spring afternoon and the sun would not set for quite awhile. She walked down streets that were very familiar to her. She longed for flowers and green things and there were several places nearby to find such delights without straying too far from home. There was a great need to talk to God also. Her parents might be arguing soon as they frequently did and she longed for stillness, for,  when they argued,  it seemed that the very air became turbulent with their words. Her mother seemed to understand better than her father that young girls, just before they become women, needed time alone and though there was always a great deal to do Pia allowed her some freedom only demanding in her harsh Italian way to be careful and let no one touch her. Some girls might already be married at her age her mother invariably warned her. But Lysandra was not ready for marriage and neither was her father ready to announce a dowry for his youngest, and so, she could still wander the busy streets like a child she truly was.

There was an open garden area not a great distance from her house. It was past the main gates and available for every one to enjoy. Wild roses hung from its walls and bushes stood full of early blooms. Late May and early June was when the earliest Roses would bloom in Siena and these hanging from their great vines were the first of the season, well scented and lovely to behold. She pulled one down and submerged her nose within its center. It was a wondrous scent full of taste and feeling, it made her dizzy and excited all at once her heart that felt like it wanted to dance. Her mind wanted to say words praising such perfection but no word could come 'Oh lovely, lovely! ' She cried in a whisper. She swayed under the rose's effects. Such beauty captured her spirit always pulling her back for another glimpse of it. She loved beauty as others loved money or power. She was, without ever realizing it, a lovely, refined soul who hated ugliness and coarseness of all kinds. She, though, recognized none of this herself. She was Lysandra Bonaventura and she was nearly fourteen and the Roses in this garden were lovely. She sat down near them and breathed in their perfume. She could not wait too long nor delay. She could stay only a while then she would need run home.  If she stayed too long and drew attention to her absence her parents would abject to the time she 'wasted' they would say again that she was a dreamer how would never amount to anything because she did not keep her feet on the ground. Tonight, sadly, she would not be able to go to Duomo to pray.
Evening bells were chiming as she walked up the stairs and entered the kitchen there was a tension in the air, a palpable anger that immediately informed her that there had been an argument while she had been away. Her throat tightened and her stomach hurt with the tension. A fear deep down which she could not name accosted her. She talked to her mother who was in another room doing some hand sewing trying to cheer her up and to draw attention from the pain she knew her mother was feeling.

Lysandra always felt lonely there never seemed to be anyone to talk to, no one to care about her and her interests. How she longed to share with others the beauty of the rose or the color of the evening sky. She never seemed to matter. It seemed that she could die and no one would notice. Even her mother never seemed really pay attention to her when she tried to talk. Her brothers were too old and even Giovanni had turned away and lost interest in her and her father was cold ,distant and foreboding, entirely frightening, the monarch of their small house.

When she finally went to bed she cried into her pillow so no one would hear. She, at last, turned it over and fell asleep on the dry side.  Every day was as this day had been except during the winter when she was more apt to be present during her parent's argument. When her father was gone on some long trip and her mother and she would embroider until there was no longer light to work by. There would be fairy tales told as they worked and her mother always seemed warmer and happier when there was no husband to please. Could things ever be different she wondered. Her world was a cold alien place and she longed to escape it. She went to bed hungry night after night starving for love, thirsty for beauty, grace and affection ---starving, most of all, for the sublime. She was like a small flower that, if it did not, somehow, receive the light of the sun, would never bloom.  For her the world was a bleak inhospitable place, except for the roses, yes, The Roses!

--- Several comments -
This is the story that I named my blog after, yes, you are right. Very perceptive I must say !! I don't think it is a full length novel - more like a novella - I suspect it is about 100 pages long when written in full. I wanted to hearken back to the stories of Italy my mother told me. What people call fairy stories are often folk tales from Italy - not all of them - but, Cinderella, definitely is. Southern Italians are great story tellers and many of their stories are very ancient myths updated after Christianity moved into Italy. I would sit with my mother after I finished my homework and beg for stories of Italy - I would thread her needles & endlessly pick her small scissor off the floor and watch her bead or embroider, and, no, we did not have a T.V. until about 1966; I think we had one in my childhood but it must have broken down and we never replace it. I would also like to add that this is not polished - not as perfected and sublime as it should be. I have not even shared it with the few friends I have I shared my work, with over the years!
It is one of 6 chapters I wrote sometime in the past 20 years - I need to do some further research before moving on in the story - this is one time when I actually know where the story is going!  I need to know what people would be studying in 1345, what was known and unknown, the state of Italian literature in the pre-dawn of the Renaissance, what Siena looked like in that era, etc... it is a very great challenge to weed the last 700 years out of one's mind. I know it is a fairy-tale but I like to be exact even when it doesn't matter! --KM

For a short time I posted on a group website but decided it really wasn't the wisest thing to do - I find, that most of the time, I am completely out of step with my fellow women. It is as if some horrid karma pursues me when it comes to my fellow women, something, I do not understand; but it is very true and I finally realized I was irritating & annoying them more than I was helping, so, I left them, behind. '
Tis for the best, I suspect.

(You do not need to hit me over the head with a baseball bat to get my attention, folks, well, you do, but only once or twice at the very most !!!)

I did realize that I enjoyed posting my poetry and short stories... and, from time to time, here, I will do so. My interests are many - I love science - and mysticism and spirituality; love literature and movies; crafts and needlework of all kinds: I even sew, tat, knit and well, you know about my crochet work, already. ( I am going to be making my summer shorts this week.) I will, though, from time to time post some of my favorite form of creativity, my writings - my 'words' as I always call them - even little snippets from my novels - just for the fun of it. It does not matter if no one but  me reads them - or, God forbid, enjoy, them - It matters only that I create what is in my heart to create.Most people have a blog devoted to just one thing, but my interests are too varied for that.

As you see the picture beside this is the "Fool" from the Grail Tarot - He sets off on a long journey, know not where he is going but seeing his objective - the Holy Grail, above. His first challenge is walking across a great gulf - a canyon, perhaps, on the edge of the sword. He must not fear the fall that could happen so easily, he must not sway too much to one side, but keep his balance between contraries. He wears the simple garb of a pilgrim or traveler, no cape, no pack of food, candles and extra clothes, even. He is assuredly, alone and not even a horse or a mule accompanies him. This is the challenge of the spiritual seeker. Keep your eyes on the prize and sway not from the path. This is a suitable card for this lovely spring morning.

My lilacs are all in bloom this week and yesterday was the 28th???? anniversary of Mt. St. Helen's eruption, I can't get over that fact. I've never gone on a visit to the mountain, perhaps I will do so once I reach my final weight and can climb on the back of our motorcycle.

It is amazing how quickly our lives flash by us - and how difficult it is to accomplish any lasting thing, in each life - it is the challenge of life that I love best. Trying to create something - anything that will outlast me! 

I am even doing research on how to start a compost heap this year, so now my garbage is going to be turning into good soil - that all started because Leon opened the bin and complained because King County wants us to put kitchen waste into the garden waste recycle bin - it is a disgusting smell, I admit that... but, well...They are the bosses and they wanted me to do it.. so, to please both King county and my beloved I begin a compost heap. Next thing you know  I may reopen my herb garden soil and start growing herbs, again  - what about some posts about herbs and all the wonderful things I am use them, for?

OHHHH - keep an eye out for recipes. I finally caught on I could have a recipe function and I just need to start posting - I have some truly wonderful recipes - some from my mother's Italian roots & times, some I created, some from friends, books and magazines. So keep any eye out.

I'm sewing strips of old sheets to make rag rugs, tonight - our old rugs are beginning to fall apart and, well, its time for them to be retired to that great rug heaven up in the sky. I think tomorrow I will take some pictures of what I am doing and post them, also, with some explanation about the process and even several patterns that I have used for years. I have a few new ways of making rugs. also - and, may attempt one of them - my old standby is, of course, crocheted rag rugs, which last many years even with cats in the House.

 One of the problems with hand crocheted rugs is that they stretch and can easily trip a person walking quickly - recently, I decided to experiment with a heavier rug and I am now crocheting two strands of 1-in. Cloth together and it is far heavier and stable.. it makes for some interesting color patterns, also. I truly enjoy the process of making this sort of household item.. it's not that I can't afford rugs or even carpets, but I like making most anything of cloth, fabric, yarn or thread so this is just another interesting item to make. 
I am even considering dying some of the fabric that is rather dull in color - mostly beige... most of my sheets tend to be very pale colors -- even thinking doing some experimentation with the dying process a little like hand-painting yarns - or perhaps I will just do it on the stove the way I normally do .
I am also typing up the notes to my novel, - slowly, I admit. I have perhaps years of work ahead, but it is interesting work, but difficult... many things I had forgotten, now completely surprise me in both their complexity and depth - and some things make me shake my head and wonder what I was drinking that day ... ! (On second thought, never mention drinking to an Italian on a diet - I haven't had a glass of wine with my pasta in months!)

It is always so with my passionate love of writing. I wish I was more skilled but even if I never publish, at least, I enjoy the work ! What is really sad, though, are the times when the notes make no sense or contradict the plot so far. "Well, that's a good line, too back I can't use it..." is a reoccurring line of thought this week...  I also need to research early printing methods, weaving in the Middle Ages, Horses and the distilling process ... and I need to have a clearer idea about the general plan of the castle... I am always amazed about the Castle in Harry Potter, because I have been trying to design Luecadia for a decade and still have some problems with its general architecture. This may all sound like hard work but I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't enjoy it  -  I suspect, before this process of organization is finished I will be writing the entire thing over again. I understand J.R.R. Tolkien did rewrote several times - and he was a university professor, so I need not be embarrassed.

The hat and scarf are done... bought the yarn Sunday and finished the set Monday Afternoon, not bad if I may brag a wee bit - Leon did most of the hat and I finished it with a little edging. I'd take a picture but my study is even more a wreck than usually and I'd have to take them off the line and put them on a table in an artistic manner so not to embarrass myself before you all - maybe tomorrow morning before I wrap them? We will give it to our dear friend tomorrow and say fare-thee-well.
I went to Ross for less and took advantage of the over 55 Tuesday discount - the sales lady even said I didn't look 55 - as you know, I am 56 going on 57 this summer. We poor females - I look in the mirror and only see imperfections and aging skin... others see something totally different and my husband only sees the woman he married 32 years ago and loves, still. My measurements are not obeying the rules of the modern fashion universe and parts of me are size 18 and other parts are medium - about a size 12/14.. my waist is still 39 and so is my bust is sort(of) 39 and so are my hips. I am a smoke stack ?????
I can't find pants to fit me quite right, again, its the waist which isn't keeping up with the rest of me...
On the more serious side, I must find time to write more... I don't know how or when. I feel that I am juggling all these balls in the air and about half of them keep falling to the ground. I am suffering from insomnia for some reason and must find a way to overcome that problem - right now  I am using simple herbs I don't approve of stronger drugs.
 I also will soon pull out my summer clothes. I don't expect many of them to fit nicely - I've lost 50 lbs since I put them away, when I do that, I will decide what I can make and what I will buy. I haven't been a fan of shorts for decades so I will buy some Capri pants for the warmest days - that means the sewing machine comes out and gets used. I also have another plan.. to make covers for the Boeing Surplus tables - bought that fabric last week and its time to do it.

Speaking of Crocheting - I am dreaming of new sweaters & tops to make once I know what my final shape is ... OH MY ... lusting after beautiful threads and yarns ... fingers itching .. dreaming of new things to make. OH MY .......
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Star Trek, the Original show - just for the fun of it,They now have many of the original shows on the Net at the site I linked to above.  I admit it : it's not great by our standards, today, we've all been spoiled by later classics like Babylon 5 (a personal favorite) and Firefly -- but without Star Trek- Classic, would Science Fiction as a Genre ever become main stream? I think not. I remember what it was like to hide my science fiction novels & comics from my parents and my mom begging me to read something other than that low-class junk !  And, yes,  Our computers, cell Phones, Blue Tooth, and monitors are more advanced, than they could have imagined in the 1960s and we aren't any where near the 23nd. century  - but the show  is real science fiction, great fun and sometimes, very funny and not always unintentionally funny, either, so enjoy !  (And, darn, people they did try to give us a optimistic view of the future!) I love B-5 and Firefly but the pessimism of this era is annoying sometimes, more honest, I admit, but annoying.

That is what a novel looks like before it hammered, worked, battered and generally written into prose. Writing is a form of personal torture and something of both delight and horror goes into the making of any work of art; Bits and pieces, all written, most in long hand or by hand, some typed and printed are all I have to show for decades of work. It may or may never coalesce into a finished work. This is what the Struggles of nearly 30 years - My 30 years of writing have become, a group of note books and folders in a basket. There is a reason why writers seem like crazy people. They are.  I can't seem to shut up, the words keep pouring out of my soul or mind, mattering on your world-view, or, as Hamlet said : "words, words, words...."

Where exactly does creativity come from, what makes us obsessed with words? And obsession is a good word for what occurs. It is an unrealistic obsession, also, terrifying. Can one be addicted to words?

I am forcing myself to return to it. I must:  The passage of years scares me. I could live to be hundred or die tomorrow of a heart attack or accident. No one is immortal. My time of endings will come and it is only a matter of time. I am nearly 57 years old. Its time to get it done. I need to see it finished even if I, alone, read it. I have some friends who, if they are willing I will share it with when it is, at last done.  Sometimes, in my more sullen moments I want to forget I ever started it. But I can't. It means something to me. It fuels something that I can not name. I am not sure I will ever finish it. But, yes, I must try. Will I ever publish?  No, I don't think so. I am not good enough a writer to do so. Sad, but true. The honest truth of the matter, and, no, I wasn't lying before (my husband teases about my habitual phraselogy) , is that very few novels that are written are ever published and often the bad is published because it will sell and the masterpieces are thrown into drawers because they are never sent to publishers or are sent and rejected. Modern Publishing is a lottery, I understand, not from personal experience, but from what I have read.

I don't like rejection. I have had more than enough of it in my life and I could not bear my no