Tuesday, May 10, 2016

WHISPERS OF ANCIENT SOULS By Shayna Matthews

WHISPERS OF ANCIENT SOULS BY SHAYNA MATTHEWS


The Ancient Ones taken by Shayna Matthews.


“You have a very old soul…it’s ancient. Every time I see you, I look in your eyes and wonder what it is you’re searching for.” These were the words of a dear family friend, directed at me. I was in my early teens at the time, and his comment startled me. It isn’t often, after all, that someone tells a fifteen year old they have an ancient soul. I still contemplate the shrewd observation of that friend, and I can only ascertain that he saw something beyond the normal struggles of teenage angst. I wish I would have thought to question him further about what it was. What on earth did he see in me to voice such a strange observation? Whatever it was, I took it as a compliment then as I do now.

Maybe some of us are meant to search for things we are not even consciously aware of. Of course, if we are searching for something we don’t even realize we are looking for, how do we know when we’ve found it? Beats me.

And what of the word “ancient”? My friend specifically chose that word, but why? I like that word, ancient. I like it a lot. The word itself is shrouded in mystery, leaving us to ponder the unknown. ‘Ancient’ is history, and what is history? A plethora of stories…real stories pieced together from the lives of those who came before us. Granted, piecing together life-stories, or ancient history, largely depends upon remnants of fact dependent upon word of mouth, and we all know what happens when we play whisper-down-the-lane. Still, the stories are in the wind…waiting for the right searcher to wander along and find it.

When I finally decided to listen to the whispers in my ear, I laid aside my own reservations and put pen to paper. I knew nothing of what I wanted to write, but characters appeared like visceral specters before my eyes. No, not characters...people. They took my hand with a wink and a promise, drawing me into the past. I knew as long as I kept my mind open, they would reveal their story to me. It was THE ONE: the thing I was searching for. It seems to me now, a few years later, that this sweeping tale I am now weaving with words was, perhaps, biding its time. As years wore on, and the decades faded into the span of a century, the story waited...searching. Searching for an ancient soul, one who would listen. One who would hear. One who would write.

My husband and I took a trip to the American Southwest a few years ago, where we retraced footsteps of ancestors. We chased them down on horseback through the deserts in Arizona, scaled terrifying wooden ladders up sheer cliffs, drifted down the Colorado through rugged canyons, and visited their homesteads, cabins and ruins.

Chasing the trails of my characters' heroes... this is the last remaining bunkhouse standing from the Hashknife Outfit.


I remember standing on the rim of a canyon, carved by a chocolate-milk river far below, and noticed a cairn only a few feet away. Now I do not know the truth of the myth, but it's said that these little stone stacks are the result of soul-searchers passing by. A stone is conspicuously placed on top of another, and as the next person passes by, another stone is added. It is accompanied by a silent prayer to the ones who came before. I added a pebble to the top of the tower, and sent a voiceless prayer to the four winds. As I did so, I felt something stir around me. Raising my arms to the sun, I embraced the breeze, and I heard them whisper. This is what I was searching for; the release of secrets locked deep within, the secrets of a place I had never been, but knew infinitely well. I found the soul of the American West, or perhaps it found me.

The author, Shayna, in Natural Bridges, Utah. A cairn is shown in the foreground.

Scenes-visions if you will-flashed through my thoughts for the remainder of that journey, and my characters and I have not been silenced since.

We have a fantastic connection now, my characters and I. They are unveiling their stories to me, and it is only when I forget to listen that I flounder. I want to write a different scene, take the story a different way. They laugh, fold their arms across their chest, and shake their heads. "Amateur," they say. "She thinks she's writing this book." We argue; I delete, write, rewrite and delete again, over and over until I scream for mercy, and in the end beg them to guide me back to the right path. And so it goes.

Now, even though I found something already, I'm still searching, for I believe the heart of an adventurer will always do so without fail. But now I can look back on that anguished girl of fifteen as she contemplates her friend's observation, and smile. I have the unfailing love and support of a wonderful man who owns my heart, and a beautiful little boy whose smile lights up the darkest of days. Thanks to whatever (dare I say, Whomever?) it was that took hold of me on the top of that cliff somewhere between Arizona and Utah, I have a firm toehold on the journey chosen to be my path of success...writing western stories from the heart within my ancient soul.

50 foot wooden ladder we climbed to reach the top of a cliff dwelling.


Perhaps, everyone is searching for something, whether they know it or not. Sometimes, the answer is right there in your ear, whispered on the wind. You need only summon the courage to listen.

What are you searching for? Have you found it, yet?

14 comments:

  1. Shayna, I love your thoughts on this subject. Your introspection makes me wonder about and examine my own ideas and feelings about this subject. I knew I wanted to write from the time I was able to make letters--in fact, I got into a LOT of trouble for writing in the front of my books. My parents finally got the bright idea of teaching me how to print my name, and letting me put my name in the front of my books. That satisfied me...for a while. LOL

    When I told them I wanted to write--for real--when I was in my late teens, they both asked "What will you do for a living?" I realize now that during that time period, women's choices were so limited--secretary, teacher, or nurse--those were the main occupations. And though women had stepped up during WWII and done things that were not part of the traditional mold, all the more reason for everyone to "go back to the way it should be"--and they were certainly of that mindset.

    It took a long time for me to be in a position where I COULD write--and stop being a secretary. But I always knew what I wanted to do.

    Excellent post!
    Cheryl

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    1. Thank you so much, Cheryl! I consider it a powerful thing, a written piece inspiring another to examine their own ideas and feelings. It doesn't get much better than that. When I was young, elementary school age, I scrimped and saved to purchase a book on how to write books. It finally fell apart from wear...so yes, I know what you mean by wanting to write at such a tender age. I also suffered discouragement through my school years - guidance counselers meant to steer a pupil in their fields of interest didn't like the idea of my wanting to be a writer at all. Apparently, the Ancient Ones know better. ;-)

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  2. You have my respect for climbing that dang ladder. What in heaven's name got into you? (Don't get used to obtaining my respect, BTW. You won't see it again for eons, Ancient Soul.)

    I wish I had your talent for metaphor. You just might become an author yet. ;-)

    I'd give you a hug, but people would talk. Oh, what the heck: {{HUG}}

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    1. A lovely compliment, a hug and respect? From you? All in one day?? I'm speechless! ;-) As far as what got into me with that dang 50' ladder? - Spite. Pure and unadulterated spite. My husband laughed and stated that I would "never" climb that thing. Therefore, I climbed that $#%#$%# ladder. I only regret not strapping the camera to my back as I climbed. It was foolish to leave him below me with the camera while I climbed. Grrr.

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  3. Shayna,

    Wonderfully expressed!

    You darn right we are all searching, ESPECIALLY writers!

    The land I live on has the ghosts of Black Kettle, Tierra Blanca, Kit Carson, Bat Masterson, Explorers, Pioneers, Apaches, Comanche, Kiowa, and Cheyenne. I hear them moaning in the wind and expressing their anger in the many storms that cross the open prairie and sweep up onto Greenhorn Mountain.

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    1. Charlie! Thank you! I'm so glad you stopped by. I doubt our searching will ever end, nor, do I feel I would want it to do so. The journey is the best part, anyway. Your description of the land you live on, the moaning on the wind, their anger through the storms, it reminds me a little of The Lonesome Gods - one of my favorite novels. Truly, you live in a very special place--the kind of place I visit in my dreams every day. I hope someday soon, I get back out there to hear what they have to say.

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  4. Beautifully stated, Shayna. I'm glad your search is turning out successfully!

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    1. Hello Tracy! Thank you so much! I wish you the best in your own search, may you find continued success within your own story.

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  5. Wonderful post, Shayna. I've heard the whispers as well. It can take awhile to shape them into something coherent. I love the cairns. I never thought of them as soul markers as they have a practical use of offering a direction (they helped my dad and I when we hiked to The Wave in northern AZ) but I like your description better. :-)

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    1. Hello Kristy, thank you! I believe, if memory serves, that it was something I read in The Lonesome Gods that mentioned the spiritualism behind the cairns, though I have stumbled across mention of it in several places. Trail markers makes sense now, of course, (especially if you're out on those trails!) but I still go for the idea of them as soul markers. I have to look up The Wave in AZ. - I would love to hear that story sometime. :-)

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  6. Great post, Shayna. I think writers tap into something far larger than any one of us...all of the stories of the universe. Glad your characters found you.

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    1. Keena, hello! Thank you for stopping by. I agree, we seem to have an added sense for, as you said, tapping into something larger than ourselves. I often wonder where some of my scenes come from. I had no conscious vision of writing them, and yet there they are in black and white, as though someone was whispering their version of the truth into my ear.

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  7. Well thought out, and brave. Sharing journeys can be scary, but to not share is worse. Your characters know what they are doing. Keep listening and we can finally hear what they want to share.

    Thank you. Doris

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  8. Shayna, so snjoyed your post. Some people--non-writers for sure--would say anyone who thinks and feels the vibes as you and several of us do are out to lunch. But we authors know better for sure. I especially enjoy doing, seeing or saying something and have that felling of utter deja vu. Then I get a special sly smirk and let the feelings go through me. What an experience you had out there. I've been once and have to go again. So much to see in our beautiful land. Thanks for sharing your thoughts and feelings.

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