Everyday Truth of a Rainbow Woman

By Janet L. Furst

In e-mails to her daughter, Grace explores her feelings of fear and love, the preciousness and tensions in her relationshipsparticularly with her husbandand her place within the cultural traditions of Appalachia. She writes of everyday happenings as well as happenings in past lives of herself and her family. Resolution comes in a way that she does not anticipate.

From Kirkus Reviews

In this debut novel, a middle-aged woman explores past lives and present tensions in emails to her daughter.

I was Sha Li, a priestess of the highest order, a worshipper of Kuan Yin, goddess of compassion and mercy. So begins the first of many notes, via email, that Grace Heronheart drafted (and mostly sent) to Alyce, her college-aged, eldest daughter, just after Grace quit her 20-year job as a school psychologist in rural West Virginia. After noting that our families probably think that I lost my marbles, Grace tells Alyce that shes actually finding my rainbow colored, multifaceted marbles by pursing her dream of being a writer. She provides her daughter with everyday-life updates, particularly regarding Alyces disapproving father; she also shares the story of her past incarnation as the aforementioned Sha Li, a secondary wife of a Chinese warrior. She tells tales of other past lives, such as Zete, a dark-skinned tribal prophetess, and Mourning Dove, a Native American who fell in love with a trapper. Along the way, Grace details the roles that Alyce and the rest of her present-day family played in these past existences. By novels end, she tells her daughter that shes come to the conclusion that I only write my own script. I cannot write anyone elses, and embarks on a new adventure, and a new beginning. First-time author Furst has written an engaging tale of midlife awakening that reads like a memoir, even as it skillfully deploys past-life metaphors. Graces missives combine the relatable tone of a typical email from a mom (such as when she applauds Alyces choice in boyfriend) with striking tableaux of imagined lives. Sha Lis tale is particularly poignant and reminiscent of the works of Amy Tan and Jung Chang. Its rather ambitious to cover three past lives and a conflict-ridden present, however, and the P.S. about Graces modern-day decision comes as a rather abrupt bombshell. Overall, though, Furst effectively sketches a character that lives out her assertion that sanctuary can be found in all my rainbow stories.

A memorable depiction of an emerging writer exploring the many prisms of her voice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Feb 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504347082

Janet L. Furst

Janet L. Furst is the author of Everyday Truth of a Rainbow Woman, prequel to the Cabin Lessons series, and Cabin Lessons: A River, Book I. A mother and grandmother, she lives with her partner in southern West Virginia and writes for self-understanding.

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Copyright © 2016 Janet Furst.

Cover photo provided by Dr. Clinton Curtis.

Author photo provided by Elaine Wine.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5043-4706-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4707-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4708-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015920478

Balboa Press rev. date: 2/10/2016

Contents

September 2002

Fall 1999

Spring

Summer

Fall

Winter

Spring

Summer

Fall

Winter

Fall

September 2002

For my daughters and son.

September 2002

The jeep drove itself. As it descended the steep road to the river, I felt my body relaxing. The air seemed lighter.

The red truck was parked in front of the old bat-and-board cabin. The river rushed over the sandstone boulders, murmuring over the generator's purr. The cabin door was closed, and all seemed quiet within. I wondered if he could be showering. I waited outside. Surely he had heard my jeep and would come out of the cabin. I walked to the side of the river and sat on a flat rock. Time passed. The generator hummed. No one came.

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Success is ...

feeling good about yourself,

being happy where you are in life,

being at peace with others,

and looking forward to the challenges and rewards of each new day.

Fall 1999

My dear daughter,

You can either choose to believe that I truly lived this life and that this tale is my own and a foundation of my being, or you can choose to believe that I am imagining and creating a fanciful story. Either way, my story must be told, as there is truth in the telling.

I was Sha Li, a priestess of the highest order, a worshipper of Kuan Yin, goddess of compassion and mercy. My dwelling was in the middle of an elegant garden with many exotic flowers. Colors of magenta, gold, sky blue, and lush greens surrounded me and filled the air with a richness that I can still smell today when I close my eyes for remembering. My hut, with its thatched roof and bamboo siding, was swept clean every day by my precious servant and companion, Lilliani. My two black-eyed children ran and played in the garden every day, teasing the gardener, Holwai, as he dug in the rich soil and weeded out the unwanted thorns and thistles.

Mechia and Toizi loved to hide among the plants and find a soft spot of earth to spin their tops that had been carved as heart-gifts from the wood of a yew tree by Holwai for my son and daughter. The river flowed nearby, blue green with tall, thick rushes and cattails on each bank. My children and I seldom left the safety of our fenced-in enclosure. Lilliani and Holwai walked out through the iron-rod gate every day to bring back buckets of the pure river water to be blessed by Kuan Yin for our daily baths and drinking. I treasured the few times I was allowed to rest by the water's edge, mesmerized by the flowing waters. These excursions meant that I was carried on strong hemp-woven cloths with long poles held up by four strong eunuchs from my father's house. A thin, turquoise cloth formed a ceiling. I had been taught to be humble and soft-spoken as a girl-child, always to keep my head bowed and never look another human being in the eye.

I wanted to peek out through the silken curtains to see what was causing the noisy commotion on the streets, but I knew that was forbidden, so I never once looked out. I heard the shouts and chatter of the villagers and the barking of their dogs, remembering Lilliani's stories of the bustling marketplace. Only when we reached the river and our own secluded enclave was I lowered to the ground and carried to a grassy spot where I sat on a silken blanket to watch the waters flow. My children loved this peaceful place and splashed the water all around so that the mist would spray on my face, and I would breathe in the damp air.

Followers of our goddess came to me for sacred ceremony. Only the women came. We gathered and exchanged sacred herbs. Softly and with few words, the women spoke of what troubled their souls. We would burn the healing herbs in the golden bowl of my altar, offering prayers and petitions to the goddess, that she might ease my sisters' pain.

My children spoke little to me. They laughed and listened to my stories, gesturing for more before Lilliani would lead them to their separate living quarters.

The only man that I saw in those days was the gardener, whose skin had grown tough and wrinkled in the many afternoon suns of his long life. Although the laws forbade that I speak with him, Holwai's faithful presence gave me a sense of security and order. The beauty of his flowering creations cradled me with calm.

My father no longer visited my dwelling. My husband had many wives and was fighting in the war over the mystic, gray mountain ranges. I had no way of knowing how far away he was, if I would ever see him again, or whether he lived or had died.

I had only my children and my trusted Lilliani, who had been given to me as a gift when I was eleven, when my blood first spilled between my legs. She had been stolen from a clan that had been attacked by my father and my husband. Though Lilliani did not know her age, we knew that both of our conceptions were near the time of the Dragon Year, which meant that we would see many changes. Every day, she attended my morning bath, filling my blue porcelain bowl with fresh water and rubbing the stubs of my feet with an almond-colored oil made from the vine of trailing kudzu, which covered one side of my dwelling. She claimed that her grandmother-of-grandmothers first learned to make the soothing ointment and that her mother had passed the teaching on to her; both had memorized the beautiful, mournful, single-tone chants to our Lady Kuan.

My daughter, I am sorry to have been called away from telling my story, but I picked a bushel basket full of yellow tomatoes, my favorite, and a couple of fat, green zucchinis from our garden. I cut up some of the tomatoes for a zucchini casserole with cheddar cheese melted on top and stewed the rest for creamed tomatoes over biscuits. The sauce is yellow and delicious. Your father sat at his customary place at the table while I ate on the back porch.

Now I am back in front of the computer ready to reflect on Sha Li once again. Bur first I must tell you about Toizi. His pathway is important to you.

What a headstrong boy! Once a year on a full moon, the soldiers from my father's house would come to my dwelling and collect Toizi to be instructed in the ways of the warrior. Each time, I would eagerly await his return, when the soldiers would bring him back to me on the next full moon. At age thirteen, he would be taken from me to reside with the warrior clan. Upon leaving, he was not to look upon his mother again. I prayed for the courage to sustain myself during this leave taking and beyond. I had to be grateful for the time that we had.

I trusted Holwai to impart the ancient knowledge. As he worked his garden magic, he would tell my children the ways of the ancients. One day as I embroidered under the shade of the Tree of Life, I watched as Holwai asked the children to throw a stone into the water and watch the circles of waves flow outward from the splash. Mechia tossed her stone into the waters and watched the ripples flow gracefully outward. Toizi lifted a boulder larger than a hornet's nest and hurled it into the pond. The boulder hit the water with a huge splash, radiating large waves over the banks of the pond and into the flowerbeds. Holwai gazed at the water and the children. He explained that each of their lives were like the rocks they threw, that their pathways on this earth created waves, and that they must be mindful of their thoughts and actions, as these would form a circle of waves out into the world.

Holwai touched Mechia and Toizi softly on the tops of their heads and whispered that they could create waves of anger or waves of peace.

Children, you---and you alone---will make that choice.

Mechia smiled and patted Holwai's arm. Toizi stood up abruptly and threw a rock savagely over the dwelling. A soft cry was heard from where the rock landed. Mechia ran to find the source of the cry and discovered Lilliani with a bowl of freshly hulled peas spilled on the ground. The rock had hit her on the forearm. Mechia leaned into Lilliani to comfort her. Toizi ran off in the opposite direction. I knew that Holwai would talk to him later.

Each time that Toizi returned from his father's house, he became more unpredictable. He was confused by the conflicting messages. The strict, unyielding regimen of the warriors pulled him one way. Holwai, Lilliani, and I, with our love for Kuan Yin, perhaps caused this imbalance with our stories and daily rituals. Somehow we could not stop the telling and waited patiently for Toizi to find his heart song.

Darling! How was your weekend? I'm glad Kate visited, and you showed her the campus and took her to a soccer game. She drove a long way to see you. I hope your quiz in world religions went well this morning. I like the topic you chose for the paper in that class. Keep me informed. Maybe I can assist you over e-mail. I can be your editor. I loved doing that with your music paper. Your sister loved that paper so much that she pasted it on her biology notebook cover, with summer photographs of the two of you. That paper brought back memories of your camp experiences together. When I read your essay, I could close my eyes and picture you playing your flute by the campfire with the campers listening intently.

Your dad's knee surgery went well. Soon he will be back outside, cutting firewood and cleaning out the garden.

Anyhow, back to the story about Sha Li and Toizi. I want to tell you more about Mechia. You will recognize her.

Mechia, my heart child, was the cause of my humiliation and isolation. Because of my fallen status as a noblewoman, Mechia's feet were not bound. My father and husband decreed that no girl-child of mine was worthy or deserving of such high honor. Mechia grew peasant feet. Although I knew her actions would not be approved in my husband's courtyard, I laughed as she ran freely through the gardens. She ran, strong and agile as a gazelle, leaping over the bushes. Once she climbed to the uppermost branches of a poplar while playing a chase game with her brother. Toizi was furious with his sister as he scowled from the ground, unwilling to climb the tree. I understood that his fury was toward himself for being afraid to reach such heights. His sister's courage was a mirror reflecting his own fears. Mechia merely climbed back to the earth, rolled on the ground, and disappeared among Holwai's patch of towering sunflowers, feed for the birds that visited our glorious garden.

Lilliani had used her inherent gifts as a midwife at Mechia's birth. Lilliani had rubbed my loins with sunflower oil in preparation for the arrival of my daughter and sang beautiful chants throughout the misty morning. Mechia simply slipped from within me and greeted the world with wonderment and mystery. She instinctively felt the spirit of every flower and plant. She spoke with the birds and small animals that shared our habitation. Although sadness sometimes enveloped me in its dark cloud, Mechia was a ray of sunshine and peace that could penetrate even the grayest horizon. Her soaring spirit was a golden thread that tied us all---Holwai, Lilliani, Toizi, and myself---together in our sphere of quiet solitude.

Dear Alyce,

Just think. In two more weeks you will have fall break. I look forward to seeing you. How is your biology experiment going? Your study design is creative. Let me know which organism grows the fastest: the one that hears Bach Inventions twenty-four hours a day or the one that is allowed to grow in silence. I'm glad your professor liked your idea.

Enjoy your walk to the Susquehanna River. Susquehanna. Have you found out what that name means yet? I want to know.

Speaking of words, I have been thinking of the words of a chant that we sang. Lilliani and I.

We sang it every morning and every evening. Upon waking, Lilliani and I would go out by the eastern gate of the garden, a short distance from my hut. I walked slowly. Lilliani was patient and tempered her steps to match mine. We were careful to be quiet so we could listen to the coos of the mourning doves. Sometimes Toizi would follow us, noisily ambushing our every step. We understood his need for attention and to witness our morning ceremonies, even though he intentionally created a disturbance with his fidgeting and chattering. We knew that he drew from the well of wholeness as we chanted our prayers of gratitude to Kuan Yin for Her bountiful compassion and grace.

Toizi loved the statue of Kuan Yin that we carried to the gate. The dragon on which She rode fascinated him. Lilliani allowed him to roughly toy with the statue, knowing that was his way of allowing Her energy to enter him.

My son walked back more quietly than he had come. Lilliani chanted softly until we neared our dwelling. I concentrated on my small steps, hoping not to stumble on the tree roots as I had done many times before.

He would run off to watch Holwai as he worked and to tease his sister. Lilliani and I would do our daily chores. She carried her yoked buckets across her shoulders to the river for water for the cooking and washing for the day. On some days she brought a basket of robes and would scrub and rinse our clothes in the rushing waters. Mechia would follow Lilliani and splash in the river; or she would sit by my side as I made preparations for a visit from one of the women. I carefully dried the herbs to use to heal or offer to Kuan Yin. I blessed special rocks or clothes for later ceremonial use. Each day, I petitioned for the spirit of Kuan Yin to fill my children and heal their hurts and humiliations.

Our days flowed by. Seldom did outsiders bother us. We knew of the distant battles and of the warring factions. We strove to keep our space as centered and peaceful as we were able. I prayed that telling my stories would serve to teach my children about this world and beyond in preparation for what was to come. I silently sensed that our days of serenity would come to a close. Toizi would state his wish to leave, wanting to know more about the outer world, and sometimes threaten to leave our enclave. To calm his restless spirit, I sat on my bench beside him and told him of the magic mockingbird in the forest who had been caught in the hunter's snare.

As the story goes, the trapped mockingbird sang his beautiful songs mournfully. A little boy who had been berry picking in the forest heard its sorrowful lament. Walking toward the sounds, he discovered the bird and carefully released it. The bird flew to the top of the tree toward freedom, paused for a moment, and then flew back, landing on the ground beside the boy's bare feet. Thanking the boy for his freedom, the mockingbird told him that, for his good deed, he would be granted a wish. Well, the boy thought about his life with his mother and father, sisters and brothers, and their tiny hut by the woodland. He thought of their garden plot and the clear river flowing nearby. I have nothing to ask; I am happy with my life were the boy's words. Toizi would moan when he heard them.

As you say, said the mockingbird as he flew among the tree branches.

The boy walked the path to his hut, taking the berries to his mother. As his family sat on mats eating bowls of rice, he told them about his adventure and the bird's generous offer. His mother rose from her mat, screaming. How could you have not wished for a bigger house for us? We work hard every day and eat mostly rice. Our clothes are tattered. Go back immediately and ask that bird that we be made warlord and lady so that we do not have to work so hard and so that we can eat well and wear new clothing.

The boy walked into the forest, searching for the bird. On a poplar limb, the bird was singing. Please make my parents warlord and lady, the boy said, feeling a sense of shame for their greed.

As you say, cried the bird as he flew up into the branches of the poplar tree.

Slowly the boy followed the path to his home. Upon reaching the clearing, he wiped his eyes. His hut was gone. In its place was a manor of river stone. His father was standing on the outer porch. When he saw his son, he cried out, Why did you not ask for us to be made emperor and empress? Go right back into the forest and ask that we be made emperor and empress.

The boy bowed his head and walked back into the forest. The bird was still singing on the poplar limb. Please make my parents emperor and empress, the boy requested, full of shame.

As you say, said the bird as he flew up into the higher branches.

Again the boy walked the mountain path to the clearing and wiped his eyes. The manor was gone. In its place was a palace of gold and silver. His brothers and sisters were playing in the royal gardens. Upon seeing their brother, they scolded, Why did you wish for us to live in a palace? Go back to that bird and make us as gods.

The boy groaned and wearily headed back into the dark woods. The bird was waiting, happily singing on a branch. Please make us as gods, said the boy in a soft voice.

As you say, said the bird as he flew to the very top of the poplar tree.

The boy walked the familiar path and looked into the clearing. The hut stood as before with his mother weeding in the garden, his father tending the goats, and his sisters and brothers swimming in the river. The boy ran to the river, tore off his robes, and joyfully jumped in to join in the fun.

Toizi would yawn and then ask, May we go to the river tomorrow? Toizi was truly his father's son. Perhaps beneath the surface his father had a gentle heart as well, but because of his fear and rage, his father's heart was hidden. I hoped that someday my husband would find his heart.

Glimmers of Toizi's heart reflected through the sunshine. He worked hard to keep it hidden, but I could see it clearly. His heart was pure. Beneath all the rubble, I tried to keep it pure. As his age of manhood approached, I found myself less influential on his life and character, and him more in command and accepting of his destiny.

This was the end of his twelfth year. The next full moon was the time of his manhood. The soldiers would come for him. I would prepare him, the others, and myself as best I could. My heart trembled at the thought. I had been there. I knew where he was to go.

I had lived in the main house. After the birth of Toizi, a difficult and tumultuous birth, I remained in the courtroom near my husband and his elder wives. Sompay was the oldest wife. She strove to keep the patriarchy in place and to maintain her position in the patriarchy. A tall woman with big bones and dark eyes, she wore a false smile with a set of false teeth. She used her riches to buy my son's attention, buying him trinkets of toy weapons and ostentatious clothing. She did the same for our husband. She entertained my son by teaching him to trap moles and giving him dangerous fireworks for toys. I knew to stay as far from her as possible and to keep my children as far from her as I could. Her energy pulled me downward. I knew that she had suffered much, yet I could not allow myself to be victimized by her falseness.

Mechia was not my husband's. He pretended not to know. His pride and honor could not allow him to acknowledge the truth. Yet I knew that my removal to this isolated enclave was my punishment---that and the dishonoring of my daughter. Sompay and my husband said that I was sent from the main house because I bore a mere daughter. I knew that they knew the real reason. The unspoken is the truest. My lover was cast out forever. That is another story. I wondered if I would ever see him again and yet knew that he lives forever in my dreams and memories. Lilliani and I felt in our hearts that he lived deep in the forest, although there was no logic to our knowing.

At the time of our New Year's, Toizi could see the fireworks over the distant mountains. He would complain that he wanted to be there. Lilliani, Mechia, Toizi, and I would lie down on a blanket on the grass on the side of a hill and watch as splashes of color dazzled our senses, listening to the sounds of rockets exploding into the night sky. Holwai stood off by himself, silently observing not the fireworks but our little gathering on the blanket. The warm evening air and the feeling of contentment emanating from my children filled my being with peace, and sleepiness came over me. I lay down and drifted off into a misty state.

The subtle sounds and smells of the mountainside entered my dream, and I saw him walking toward me. He was tall and strong. The rope marks on his forearm had healed over, leaving thick, clean scars. The sight of the scars made me cry out softly. Lilliani gazed at me to see what was wrong. I looked up at her and smiled, then was called back to my dream.

His name meant beloved protector in his native tongue. I had called him my beloved in the language of my ancestors. I saw myself calling out his name. He kept walking toward me. On his back was a yoke with two buckets, one on each side. He now stood directly in front of me and nodded without talking. His eyes met mine. Their darkness was like looking into a deep well of water. I saw my reflection in the dark waters of the well of his eyes. He bent over and lowered the buckets into a stream. Each bucket was filled with mountain spring water. Leaning over and cupping my hands, I brought the water to my lips. As I tasted it, I heard a cry. I awoke to the chatter and exclamations of my children.

The fireworks were over and had filled their spirits with jubilation. I smiled at them yet strove to hang on to the wisp of memory of my dream. I let the memory of him stay with me during our quiet and slow stroll down the mountainside. My mind was in a daze and I was not paying attention to the pathway. I was grateful that he had come to me. I stumbled and fell. Toizi laughed at my clumsiness. Lilliani and Mechia each came quietly, silently lending their support to my unsteady gait. Linked arm in arm, we walked to our huts.

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Spring

My feet had been bound when I was young, though I had no memory of the binding. Perhaps the memory was there and I chose not to retrieve it. Children bury the memory of great pain deeply. As adults, we excavate the mine of our memory to remove the blockages that keep us from becoming the sparkling jewel that is our true essence.

Now you understand, dear daughter, why I love to walk. Yesterday, your dad and I walked two miles up and down the road. He is trying to lose weight. Three of the dogs followed us. When you come home for break, let's take the path to the top of the mountain. That is my favorite walk.

Last weekend, your sister and I went to the top. Shanti ran, and I walked. All the cattle were in the meadow, including one big black bull that kept bellowing at us. We entered the meadow from the top. I tore my jacket crawling under the barbed wire fence and did not care. The view was panoramic. We sat on a tree root and watched the mountaintops and the cloudy sky. Then Shanti ran back down. Our distance runner. Fourth-place winner in the state meet and most beautiful when running down a mountain. I enjoyed a slow descent and watched three young deer jump effortlessly over a pasture