The Extraordinary Awakening of Annabel Jones: A Tantric Fairytale

By Andrena Woodhams

When Annabel moves to Vienna to live with a handsome prince, she believes she has fallen into a true-life fairytale. Instead, a tragedy turns her dream into a nightmare.

When a simple eye operation changes how she sees the world, she takes a courageous stand and confronts her greatest fear: sexuality. Her search within reveals

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrena Woodhams
• Release date: Apr 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9780991159949

Book preview

The Extraordinary Awakening of Annabel Jones

A wonderful book that demonstrates the value of the freedom of spirit and mind. Andrena has such clarity of expression and is totally original in her approach. I enjoyed this book from start to finish.

Elizabeth Gage, MBE

A damned good novel, well-written and engaging. It’s written with a real insight into human nature through the eyes of tantric therapy. A therapeutic read I will no doubt read it again.

Malcolm Horsnell, Professor Emeritus, McMaster University

Read this book for a deeper understanding of tantric practice, appreciating it for the love, healing, and deep forgiveness it provides. Superb story, deeper truths.

Andrea Kay O’Loughlin, Teacher

The core theme—the waking-up process of a contemporary woman—is unstinting in accurate descriptions of the intense emotions that accompany such a foray into the deep self.

Constance Walsh, International Consultant

I could not put this book down. Seldom have I come across such a visceral engaging journey.

Lulu Milton, Kundalini Yoga Therapist

Inspiring, uplifting, spiritually insightful.

Ursel Yvonne Barnes, Author of Mood Food

ALSO BY ANDRENA WOODHAMS

The Magical Reality of Annabel Jones

Book II of the Annabel Jones Series

The Extraordinary Awakening of

Annabel Jones

A Tantric Fairytale

Andrena Woodhams

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PUBLISHED BY Yinbound Books

Copyright © 2022 Andrena Woodhams www.andrenawoodhams.com

Originally titled The Extraordinary Ordinary: A Tantric Fairytale

ISBN: 978-0-9911599-4-9

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means except for brief passages quoted in a review, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, which may be obtained through the publisher.

Front cover image: The Kiss by Gustav Klimt

Back cover photo: Carlotta Cardana

Cover and interior design: Arik Shimansky

FOR SHINA

For opening my eyes

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FOR LORRAINE

For helping me see

Teachers open the door, but you must enter it yourself

Chinese Proverb

CONTENTS

OCTOBER Winterfinding

NOVEMBER Winternacht

DECEMBER Yule

JANUARY Disablot

FEBRUARY Imbolc

MARCH Ostara

APRIL Summerfinding

MAY Beltane

Postscript

Bibliography

Inspired by a true story

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OCTOBER

Winterfinding

F

airytales aren’t supposed to end this way, I repeat to myself, as my feet crunch along a leafy pathway that cuts through the Vienna Woods, high in the hillside that cradles the city of Vienna. Summer is gone and the cold Austrian winter will soon be setting in. The branches of chestnut trees groan in the icy air; the wind howls in my ears. I am oblivious to everything around me. I have become numb over the past few months, ever since I learned that Vandana had cancer. She was his wife, my rival in love. I wanted her gone. And now she is.

What did Eugen tell me? Be careful with my thoughts, because they can become reality? What have I done? As I crest the top of the hill, the wind swirls the dried leaves in pirouettes before my eyes. I spot a pile of cut logs and sit down and gaze upon the city that is now my home. On my left, the Danube, a dismal streak of gray in the brown landscape, flows toward the flatlands of Slovakia. On my right, Vienna nestles in the crook of the Danube Canal, steeples and spires emerging from the autumnal backdrop of ochre and brown. If I had binoculars, I could find the church with its onion-domed steeple where Vandana’s funeral is being held. Eugen is there right now, standing dutifully at her casket, head bowed, mourning a woman he never loved. Or so he told me. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

I bury my nose in my scarf, glaring at the city as if my misery is its fault. Six months ago, I left London to come here to marry the man I loved. Instead, I find myself enmeshed in a sticky web of tangled family relationships and now death. I place my head in my hands, wishing I could find the peace of mind I crave. I wish I were somewhere, anywhere but here.

A low, deep knell rings out from the city far below, followed by another bell, then another, and soon the cacophony of metallic sounds makes me lift my head. Wearily, I brush a few leaves from my pants and start down the path toward the city. I hate myself for coming to Vienna, for leaving behind my career and everything for which I had worked so hard.

All because a restlessness inside me whispers that something is missing in my life. This feeling has been insistent, pushing me to achieve, prodding me to succeed. The best marks at school, the top university. It launched me into television, moved me to London, and brought me here to pursue a relationship I should have known couldn’t work. I’ve been running. Always running. Until now.

By the time I arrive home, it is almost dark. The cobblestone streets are filled with bicycles and buses and clattering trams. The smell of firewood is in the air; sidewalk vendors sell roasted chestnuts and soft rounds of hash browns grilled over a coal fire. Bland comfort food for a bland, comfortable life in a bland, comfortable city in middle Europe. It is autumn which means it is time to eat pumpkin goulash and wild mushrooms and drink the season’s new wines. This is done now, just as it has been done for centuries. Everything in Austria is predictable, and that is how the Austrians like it.

And why I don’t. Vienna feels dead, stagnant, heavy. I complain to Eugen that the city feels like a straitjacket. Try being an aristocrat, he answered, it’s worse. That is why he married an exotic Indian student when he was young. Vandana. Just the thought of her name makes my stomach tighten.

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I cross a cobblestone square, cut through a passageway that makes me feel as if I’m walking through a mini cathedral, bypass a crowd of tourists ogling through the windows of the Café Central, and I’m home. Pushing open a heavy green door, I walk through a massive entrance flanked by two Atlas figures shouldering ornate masonry.

The four-hundred-year-old building, with its faded ochre façade and rows of windows, overlooks the courtyard in stately boredom. As I walk through the door, a vast marbled room—the entire ground floor of the palace—envelops me as if I’m an inconsequential ant. On either side of the grand staircase, somber family busts and massive oil paintings line the walls. The door behind me closes with a thud, and I take the steps two at a time, my feet clattering on the stone floor, and unlock the door to our apartment.

Compared with the heaviness outside, the contemporary interior exudes openness and luxury. Soaring white walls, polished parquet floors, massive rooms with high ceilings and arched windows greet me as I walk inside. The combination of Old World with a tasteful modern conversion is breathtaking. At the end of the foyer, a fire burns in the fireplace; a glass vase bursting with branches of bright red berries rests on the marble mantelpiece. As I drop my keys on the mahogany table in the entrance hall, I hear the delicate click of claws on the floor. Within seconds, a white cat with cream-colored ears and paws pads into view.

Minou! I pull off my shoes and sit down to scratch my cat’s chin, smiling as I feel her raspy sandpaper tongue on my hand. Jobs and countries have come and gone, but my cat has been an anchor for sixteen years. Minou tells me about her day in sporadic purrs, gives her ruff a few determined licks, then pads down the steps toward the kitchen, where an empty food bowl waits. Knowing I won’t get any rest until she’s fed, I follow her into the drawing room.

And stop. On every surface is chaos. On the floor, on tops of tables, in open cupboards, and in drawers left ajar lie piles of books, stacks of papers, brochures, videos, and boxes full of folders. In the corner, Eugen’s empire secretaire overflows with business cards, receipts, and flyaway scraps of goodness knows what. A half-open suitcase lies on the floor, spewing a rainbow of Izod shirts, a pair of jogging shoes, a bundle of colorful silk ties that snake like miniature Chinese dragons in every direction. Shoes tumble along the corridor leading to our bedroom. I don’t understand it. Eugen believes in traveling light, and he rarely ever checks a suitcase. But since Vandana became ill, he is incapable of throwing anything away.

But it’s the paintings that upset me the most. Large, unframed oil canvases lean like dominoes against the wall. Eugen must have pulled them out before he left for the funeral. Vandana’s art. I try to shield my eyes, but it’s no good; the textured layers of red and black and gold beckon, willing me to stare right at them. The writhing figures are as provocative as Gustav Klimt’s blatantly sensual canvases which I saw at the Belvedere Palace when I first arrived in Vienna. His most famous, The Kiss, I could bear, but his others—society femme fatales in billowing silk gowns, naked mermaids with creamy breasts, mythological figures in flowing mosaic robes and long trellised hair— were so erotic that I had to leave the room. Sexuality. Shadow. Death. The Viennese are obsessed with these three things. I shudder as I turn the canvases against the wall, nudge the shoes out of the way and wander into the kitchen. At least this is one place where Eugen’s mess hasn’t dared to encroach. Filling up Minou’s foodbowl and then placing it on the floor, I try to forget my irritation by stroking her while she eats.

You weren’t at the funeral.

At the sound of Eugen’s icy tone, a cacophony of emotions explodes in my chest. I look up and see his large frame leaning against the doorway. I get up faster than I should have and feel the room tilting toward me. Eugen reaches out to steady me, but instead of taking his hand, I place mine against the wall and look down, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

I try to make my voice normal. I couldn’t go. I just couldn’t.

He crosses his arms. As my future wife, you should have been there. What will my family think?

I look away, not wanting to catch his eyes. I couldn’t attend the funeral of your ex-wife. I can’t pretend to cry.

You never cry anyway.

I get up and walk to the refrigerator, brushing the cat fur from my legs with short, irritated strokes. I’ve cried enough to fill the Danube Canal over the past few months, but he doesn’t know that. London, Geneva, Brussels, Milan—he’s been away on business since our troubles began. Meanwhile, I’m living in a city where I know no one, ostracized by his family, ignored by his friends. I grind my teeth together, trying to keep the words from spilling out, but it doesn’t work.

Can you cry? I ask, as I take a bottle of wine from the fridge. You didn’t love her, either. I saw it. You weren’t around to watch her die. I bang the refrigerator door shut to emphasize my point. Not even five minutes and we’re at it again. As a peace-making gesture, I offer him some, but he dismisses it with a shake of his head. Pouring myself a large glass, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Why are we hurting each other like this? I’m just as taken by him as when we first met a year ago. He was everything I’d always wanted in a man.

It was his eyes that first captivated me: sparkling blue behind small round wire frames. I loved his eyes; I was always removing his glasses so that I could have a better look at them. They comforted me, smiled at me, crinkled when he laughed, which was most of the time. His aquiline features were set off by a shock of black hair and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.

Nearly fifty, Eugen had made a name for himself in the financial world by tracking money laundering in Austrian banks, one of the drawbacks Austria has to contend with as the closest Western European country to the East. Mafia pressure led Eugen to hold his interviews incognito, so it was a scoop to get him to talk on my television program. When I gave him the mandatory handshake in the studio, it was all I could do to keep my knees from collapsing beneath me. I don’t remember what he said during my interview. All I knew was that after all those years of searching, I had found him at last.

The memory makes me take a step toward him. I didn’t mean that.

Eugen fiddles with a cufflink. It’s called duty, he answers. You’ll have to get used to it. You Americans never understand protocol. There are certain things you have to do when you belong to an old Austrian family.

I bang my glass on the counter louder than I intend. Your family hated Vandana! They only accepted her once they knew she was going to die. No wonder Catholics love martyrs. The dead are safe. And they don’t tell secrets.

After a moment of shocked silence, Eugen’s mouth starts to twitch, as if he is trying to hold something back, but then he gives up and bursts into laughter.

Not bad! You managed to insult my family and my country’s religion, generalizing and judging all in one sentence. That’s good. Very good. He picks up the wine bottle and pours himself a glass, smiling to himself.

My frown wavers. I take it I was being spiritually incorrect again?

He throws me one of those naughty smiles. Not my Annabel. Never.

I smile in spite of myself. The tightness eases from my shoulders as I hold out my glass for Eugen to fill. How lucky I am. Whereas I frighten most men, Eugen thinks I’m funny. He takes the glass, places it on the countertop, and pulls me toward him. I relax against his chest, enjoying a brief respite from the torturous feelings that have been haunting me.

Annabel. We didn’t do anything wrong.

I knew better! I answer. I encouraged you to leave her. Eugen’s chest tightens. "How many times do I have to say this? I

would have left Vandana anyway. It was only a matter of time."

I pushed you to do it. My eyes catch his, begging him to understand. I can’t lie to myself anymore. I used every one of my feminine wiles to get her out of your life. I want to cover my face in shame. I don’t need you to tell me I was wrong. I know I was.

Let me go over this one last time, he says. "When we met in London a year ago, my marriage was already over. Vandana was living here until she could find another place to stay. You and I fell in love,

I invited you to live with me, which meant you had to quit your job and Vandana had to leave. It was messy, but what else could we do?"

We put her in a mental institution, I whisper.

He closes his eyes, as if to block my words. Vandana’s admittance to Steinhof was going to be temporary. How could I know that she had cancer? No one did until it was too late. For a few minutes, we are quiet. His embrace feels safe, a refuge where I can forget the big, bad world. Why do you insist on taking the blame for this?

When I don’t answer, he exhales. We will get through this. He places his hands on my shoulders and begins to massage them. Soon I feel an inner whoosh, as if a dam has broken, and the tension I’ve been carrying inside of me begins to drain toward my feet.

He maneuvers my shoulders as if he can shake my worries off. I don’t understand why you don’t do something to relax, like yoga.

I jog.

Not the same thing. Yoga is a way of doing inner work, not just exercise.

You always talk about inner work, I say. It’s too New Age for me.

This only makes Eugen laugh. It’s been around longer than that. He points to the bookcase in the hall. "Socrates, for a start. The unexamined life is not worth living. Or what about the inscription on the Temple of Delphi? Know Thyself."

I harrumph.

"OK, what about this: Understand this if nothing else: spiritual freedom and oneness with the Tao are not randomly bestowed gifts, but the rewards of conscious self-transformation and self-evolution. The Hua Hu Ching."

Why is that important?

Well, he says, tapping my shoulders with the sides of his hands. Tingles of electricity race up and down my arms. Let’s see. It allows you to feel centered. Makes you feel safe. It leads to happiness. Diminishes fear. Reduces stress. Increases tolerance and compassion. Improves your health. Makes you sleep better. Need any more reasons?

Mmmmm, is all I say. His massage has done wonders. I move my shoulders, enjoying the openness at the back of my heart. But I was taught that we are what we do.

Eugen smiles. You might find that’s not exactly true. You’re much more than that. If you don’t believe me, visit the newspaper vendor on the Graben.

A smile spreads across my face. Herr Dietmayer? I love his shop!

Eugen looks impressed. I’m glad you’ve discovered him. Karl Dietmayer is a walking dictionary of spiritual wisdom.

I give him a dubious look, but underneath I feel a tug inside me, wondering if he isn’t right. Eugen knows about things I have never dared to look into. Meditation. Yoga. Things far away from the fast- paced, stressful life of a television presenter. The moment beckons, asking me to trust again—to trust life, to trust love. Then I remember Vandana. She trusted Eugen—she even married him—and look what happened to her. I remember her death, I remember my guilt, and with that, my mind closes shop with a bang.

I’ve got to get my life in order. My brain grinds through my to-do list for next week. Then a red light flashes in my mind’s eye and a reminder flag starts frantically waving. I forgot. Max and I are doing a package tomorrow.

Eugen straightens up. Again?

It’s just a news story. Despite myself, excitement creeps into my voice. It’s a pleasure working with him.

It should be. He’s one of Vienna’s rising stars. Eugen walks over to pour himself another glass of wine. You see a lot of him. My mind ignores his last statement. Of course I see Max when Eugen is gone. He is my lifeline. I open the cutlery drawer as a hint for Eugen to set the table for dinner, but he ignores it.

Tomorrow’s a national holiday, he muses. I wonder what Max is up to. He glances in my direction. Be careful with that man, my love.

But you introduced him to me!

Because you were looking for work, and I admire his. He wipes his hands on a dishtowel. But there is something about that man I don’t trust.

After dinner, we get ready for bed. Trying to remove my contact lenses with my toothbrush in my mouth, I mentally scribble contact lens solution on my growing list of things not to forget. In bed, I curl up next to Eugen. My brain, however, is elsewhere. It continues to check things off my list, trying not to forget hairspray and face powder and the million and one things I’ve got to bring with me for tomorrow’s shoot. Eugen turns off the light. As I close my eyes, willing my mind to stop spinning, the tips of Eugen’s fingers caress my shoulder.

My mind screeches to a halt, leaving a strange inner vacuum echoing in my brain. Vandana’s funeral was today. Against my will, the muscles in my lower back tighten as his fingers work their way toward my breast.

My arm slides over my chest in one quick movement. Not tonight.

For a moment he does nothing. Then I hear the bed creak as he props his head against his hand. I turn to face him. The light from the moon shines on his face. I see hurt and concern in his eyes.

Is everything OK? he asks.

I don’t know, I answer. Ever since Vandana’s death ... My voice trails. Talking about sex is never easy. I open my mouth once or twice, but my jaw feels stuck, as if someone has wrapped tape around it. It’s just sometimes I think sex is stupid.

Eugen throws his head back and laughs. Sex isn’t stupid! You may be stupid, but sex isn’t stupid. He caresses my cheek with a finger when he sees the hurt look on my face. I was quoting Rajneesh.

I frown, still smarting from his words. Who’s Rajneesh?

Otherwise known as Osho. He was a rebel Indian guru who got himself into a pickle when his ashram moved to Oregon in the seventies. He sees my eyes starting to glaze, so he changes tack. He confronted a lot of issues that most people try to avoid, like sexuality and anger. He taught that nothing is negative. Anger and sex are just what they are: anger and sex. It’s our relationship to these things that is the problem. He slides onto his side and opens his arms, inviting me toward him.

Relieved to have been let off the hook, I snuggle against him. I guess I’ll have to add him to the list of spiritual masters I need to study.

He brushes the hair away from my face and kisses my forehead. Don’t bother. He might be a challenge. But I can tell you why I used to think sex was stupid.

I look up, relieved. You think sex is stupid, too?

He smiles. I used to. It’s not easy for us, for men. Just think. We derive pleasure from the same organ through which we pee. He waits for me to laugh, and when I do, he adds, Remember, God has a great sense of humor.

I don’t know how Eugen has done it. What could have been an embarrassing moment has become a tender one. It’s moments like these when I remember why I fell in love with him. I lean over and give him a kiss. Then, wrapped in each other’s arms, we fall asleep.

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The next morning, I am infused with an excitement I haven’t felt in a long time. I kiss Eugen; shower and change; gulp down a cup of tea; grab my fleece, hat, gloves, and reporter bag; and tear out the door, my boots squeaking as I skip down the stairs. The first package I had filmed with Max was last week, which was to describe the importance of Austrian National Day. October 26th is the anniversary of the day in 1955 that Austria was declared a permanently neutral nation. In doing so, the Allied forces, including the Soviet Army, which had occupied this country since the end of the war, left Austrian borders.

I’ve never lived in a country that was on the losing side of World War Two. The USA was on the right side of the war. We fought for principles like justice and freedom, and we won against the bad guys. But Max kept hammering into me that no country should think of itself as a good guy, especially Austria.

Max had to explain a lot of things about the war to me that I had never read in history books. In Austria and Germany, the last days of the war before the Allied troops arrived were chaos. Tens of thousands of prisoners, recently released from concentration camps, wandered through the land like hordes of savages, fighting over food and pillaging and killing any SS or Nazis they could find. There was no food, medicine, or clothing. All systems had broken down. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children festered in dirt and disease while unimaginable violence prevailed.

The pandemonium was so great that the Allies realized they had to let go of who was to blame and focus on bringing about peace. It was decided that rather than punishing Austria, it would be treated as the first victim of Nazi aggression. It wasn’t that the Allies were ignorant—it was well known that many of the fiercest Nazis were Austrian. But it was an intentional blindness. Germans were treated as the aggressors, Austrians the victims. Consequently, the world sees Austria as a victim, rather than an aggressor, in the war.

I’ve been told Austria is an Eastern European country at heart. There’s something to that. Of all the countries that were liberated by the Russians, only Austria managed to negotiate its freedom. It took ten years and a promise of perpetual neutrality, but Soviet troops finally departed Vienna on this day over fifty years ago. No wonder the Austrians celebrate the day.

I push open the front door and walk through the courtyard as the main gate creaks open. As soon as I step outside into the sunshine, I hear a melodic clip-clop on the cobblestones. I step back, flattening myself against the wall, as I see a shiny carriage drawn by a pair of black horses approaching. The owner, dressed in a natty dark green cape and bowler, tips his cap as it passes by.

Unlike Vienna’s murky World War Two past, its Austro-Hungarian empirical history is a bestseller. Thousands of tourists come here to ride in horse-drawn four-wheeled carriages called Fiaker, contemplate life over an Einspänner coffee with whipped cream in one of its dozens of cafés, meander through its museums, or spend a long evening drinking wine in one of the many local vineyards that surround the city. This is not a place for those looking toward the future, but for those who want to wallow in the past. No matter what occurs in the world, it will happen later here.

Whether you like the past or not, Vienna is a beautiful city. The roofs are drenched with a golden glow; birdsong merges with the sound of clattering hooves. Blinking in the sunlight, I turn up the graceful arc of the pedestrian Graben Street—Graben means trench in German—and peer into the newspaper stand that Eugen mentioned last night.

Like the hundreds of stores in Vienna, the Trafik is a hole in the wall, only a door’s breadth wide and barely long enough for two or three people to stand inside. A bell tinkles as I open the door, and a muted aria from Tosca wafts toward me. I flatten against the wall as a customer walks out, whistling with the music. Music is always on everyone’s minds here. Even taxi drivers discuss the latest opera as if it were a television series.

Although the shop is crammed with newspapers and magazines, the atmosphere is congenial and warm. Other Trafiks smell of stale tobacco, but everything in this one seems different, more alive. I breathe in the rich smell of orange and bergamot, appreciating the tea candle burner I see the owner has placed in the corner. No wonder it was written up as the most popular Trafik in Vienna.

Herr Dietmayer beams when he sees me. "Guten Morgen! He pulls a copy of my favorite newspaper down from the wall. Have you slept with a hanger in your mouth? I haven’t seen you smile like that since you came to Vienna. He scratches his head. When was that, four months ago?"

Six, I answer, blowing on my hands to warm them.

The Trafikant—Herr Dietmayer told me that’s what his job is called—nods. What has caused this sudden happiness?

I’m working today. Like you.

He raises his eyebrows. Most people here wouldn’t dream of working on a public holiday. They think work is punishment.

I drop my bag on the floor. I love working. It makes me feel worthwhile. As if I’m helping make the world a better place. Silly, huh?

He shakes his head. When you stop thinking you make a difference, a part of you begins to die. And then you become like the many walking dead that I see on the streets around here. He folds the newspaper and gives it to me with a smile.

"What