Spiritual Inspiration

Daisy, my Spiritual Mentor

My faith was born under the cherry or apple tree. As a child, Daisy was my teacher. She could teach about God by a smile, the way she held out her hand, how she listened to my stories, by her patience, and by the strength of her character and Spirit.
As a child, I understood nature, sensed how life should be, accepted what it wasn't on most days, placed hope in tomorrow by living today, and trusted my instinct to know right from wrong and direction.
She taught by her compassion and gentleness to judge fairly or not at all, by her tolerance I learned to look for the good in people, and that the best way to teach was by being or reaching for the best within myself. Daisy as my friend, I sensed early on that we are all God's children; that more makes us the same than different and the contents of a person's heart measures Soul and worth.


Excerpt from Dear Daisy

(2/14/2001)

...I do realize that others hold preconceived visions of Justice that may not be my own and realize that some may be disappointed by the terms of this settlement. I chose this path as it reflects another source of my belief structure that guides my life and is based upon influences I hold dear to my heart. How fitting that this personal level of resolution would occur during this month of February as we celebrate our bonds through contributions of Black culture that I lived so closely with and my heart was nurtured by during my early years.

The motto of the National Association of Colored Woman, “Lifting As We Climb” expresses most closely my own beliefs and guides in word what my heart attempts in action for daily living. Perhaps my sharing this additional detail with you will help to further clarify the Justice path I chose.

From Twentieth Century Negro Literature, 1902
“And so lifting as we climb, onward and upward we go, struggling and striving and hoping that the buds and blossoms of our desires will burst into glorious fruition ere long. With courage born of success in the past, with a keen sense of responsibility, which we must continue to assume, we look forward to the future, large with promise and hope. Seeking no favors because of our color or patronage because of our needs, we knock at the bar of justice and ask for an equal chance.”

God be with us on our pathways of Peace and Justice,
Jane


Dedication
This work is dedicated with all my love to Daisy.
Her warmth taught me love, her gift of patience taught me to search my heart for patience with others, her Soul taught me strength equal to compassion, and through her love and guidance I learned to reach for my World.

Every blade of grass has its Angel that bends over and whispers, "Grow, grow." -The Talmud


Dear Daisy,
with all my love,

'Mis Jane

http://www.risingsparrowpress.com/announce.htm

Lake Ontario Shoreline

Lakeview looking North from the Southern Shoreline

For additional Author's Photography, words and picture images.

http://lakeontarioshoreline.blogspot.com/

http://www.risingsparrowpress.com/announce.htm

What Inspires the Writer?

I could also ask, "What inspires the writing? for many times it is hard to separate the writer from the writing.

Many days...times when the writing takes a break or I, the writer do...I look up and there is my proof...at least for me...at least some clue...and I smile for what my heart sees to connect with if only to capture the next word or phrase...

Upstate...Lake Ontario Shoreline view...while sitting on her bank hard not to dream about what sits on the other side; or to notice that cloud mass coming in, or the fog; or the stillness of the Lake as the sun chooses to move on down the horizon; watching for the patterns by day and trying to guess the probability or intensity of the storm by sound or instinct alone by night. Ah, but the Captains and Mariners of old could tell better than I. Then again, I've heard stories told down more than not, saying "The Lake, that one Ontario, storms she can brew more dangerous than the Ocean for the waves she could produce, especially deep middle as she crosses..."

And here I am going on and on telling yet another story...you see it's, well,...hard not to with so much in front of my sight and memory eyes, for each image I have imbedded in heart and most days of my life I have seen them replay.

Hard not to learn the stories, carried down like some daily bread and having the landscape and history remains all around to confirm the telling mostly true. Like the stories of the Ore Beds and the Erie Canal...next town over, due West or South. None have I written, songs that is...but many have been written and sung while traveling along the Erie Canal on boat or cargo barge. http://www.eriecanalcruises.com/index.html

Time has changed...and I suspect maybe the mule, still the landscape much the same, at least that space between the Villages and Towns along her path...but the heart and the words that come to a heart tredgin' on down the Erie Canal on a summer's day...no, not that much has changed at all.

Jane Marla VerDow

Pooh Bear

The next chapter...

Times falling between the living it and the "day job", next chapters and next books competed for my time and begged me to follow.

My Earth walking companion, a true loyal friend, my editor for those spur of the moment read it outloud checks whether happening day or late-early hours of dark; "So Levi,...how's this sound?"...

While I was writing Dear Daisy he had grown to be 14 years old. I could count on him mostly to vote positive, though there were times he yawned or the worst, if I was well into the story and he didn't bother to lift his head off his pillow or doggie bed. Just a look, one eye open...that answered all I had asked. My four paw companion would move on after Dear Daisy was written and bound...a loss I could have lived many more years without feeling....and as I lived it...I couldn't help but notice that his passing...well, let's just say, for all the losses...I have never felt anything to feel more like the end of a chapter.

Levi
"Levi Strauss"; "lit'l Lee"; "Eeyore"


So I swore "never again"...and life answered by pulling me forward...distractions and reminders of reasons why you are here have a funny way of doing that...

Then there came the next dog character...

Bear
and the next story...

so I chose to live it...to follow...just to see where this one would take me.

I stumbled upon this yesterday during my daily research the internet time for publishing; seeing what is rare and old and catching up to the just written new in the literary world. Yes...I am a blog reader, and an internet scanner, but not to confuse you...and mostly to assure myself that I haven't become a modern techie of this century...I settle upon just a few...

Here's one you don't stumble upon everyday...and let me assure you, as a writer, after reading this
I am taking special interest in my box of Crayolas...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/6635575.stm

Janie



"THE OLD GREY DONKEY, Eeyore, stood by himself in a thistly corner of the forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things. Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, "Why?" and sometimes he thought, "Wherefore?" and sometimes he thought, "Inasmuch as which?" -and sometimes he didn't quite know what he was thinking about. So when Winnie-the-Pooh came stumbling along, Eeyore was very glad to be able to stop thinking for a little, in order to say "How do you do?"..."

From Chapter Four, In Which, Eeyore Loses a Tail and Pooh Finds One, The Complete Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh, A.A. Milne with Decorations by Ernest H. Shepard/Winnie-the-Pooh, copyright 1926 by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc./Presentation copyright 1994 by Dutton Children's Books.

The Question and The Answer

If you read through previous posts I’m sure you will see that time traveled from then to now. A gap measured in time more than heart space; filled with footsteps, discovery, explorations, distractions, and survival.

How much space do you need? (and) Fill your space. became the question and the answer that led my way day-to-day and guided me to this next place and time. This now I write of…this today.

As on the walk…integrating what I sensed my instinct with what I already knew and was to still learn on steps ahead until there were none left to take, not much different today than that day and I suspect not much different some near or distant tomorrow.

If challenged, I would have to answer that I’ve been more living the footsteps than actually on paper recording them. Heart moments sometimes are too challenging in the now, more space and time required to avoid flooding pages. Those were the footsteps, if given choice, I would have wished to postpone, better yet never have to take, but life is not designed that way, especially when a heart chooses to love. Letting go of the chapter to write the next can be the greatest challenge of a writer.

To write the next book?

Ah, that’s where the living the story comes in.

The Heart Knows

From somewhere deep within, there was a voice calling me home. I had to listen. When a child of any age hears that voice, there’s no denying it, least not to yourself, especially when the call becomes a whisper.

Jane Marla Ver Dow
Dear Daisy, 2004




Let your heart guide you. It whispers, so listen closely.
~ The Land Before Time

Full Circle

My message to me, the author, I wrote then shared with others, the readers of Dear Daisy…

live your life…be who you are…do not be afraid…have faith…move past…do not let others hold you back or to deliver you where you do not wish to follow…see the mirror God reflects through water…take pleasure in life…have fun…receive God’s abundance…it is all designed for you…become the child you were created to be and are…return to who you once were, the child of hope and dreams…be one with God and Nature…record your footsteps…build your dreams…feed your soul…and live your life through your Spirit, simple...be one with God…sharing God’s abundance through your gifts as given from Heaven…and so you will give back on Earth…feed your timeless eternal soul, preserve and replenish the Earth tho’ life measured in seconds and days…stay true to the discovery…on your path remain...it was designed and written for you.


http://www.risingsparrowpress.com/announce.htm

In Search of Words

Days and Nights In Search of Words

(portions of original draft, written 2002)

I have found in my efforts to write
time passes more quickly when in pursuit of words,
capture even more elusive.

Early rise to catch first movement;
a thought already begun in dreams predawn.
The rush, the passion of the hunt,
some need of the hunter, I’m sure.

Words and time fuse.
Words-abstract and floating,
a moment of hesitation, then stalled,
next to appear on page by limit of hand speed.

How quickly they dodge, get lost, or move on
untrapped, always untamed
to the untrained hunter such as I.

Discipline, more needed I suppose
and time scheduled for just this cause, I am certain.
Still game arrives more spontaneous for me.

Work harder at play?
or Play harder at work?
True Writer, the real one would only know.

Always in thought or pursuit of
the words. Serious, maybe not.

Or, me merely a daydreamer
and words interrupt
trying to find their place in an otherwise perfect fog.

If only my mind could focus
on one story, even one thought.
Then again maybe or maybe not.

For all stories must be told
and nice to know that my mind has full supply.
The gift of a full life; many stories to tell.
The promise-a mind that refuses to unwind
and a heart that beats on in pace as best it can
with my desire.

Guide thy Hand, Mind, and Heart
And may abstract transform to concrete
In this time and the next
‘Tho long ago I lost track of time.

-Janie

Written in some hour between one dawn and starlit dawn of another
but I haven’t a clue the hour and wish not to be exact.

Seasons of a writer's heart

And so, I opened my heart to my heart’s desire, to write.

Honoring those who were teaching me by their example;
their stories of seasons of living

then life-death and choice each step along the path…

And my own life, teaching me, too…

Truth of transitions...
keep it simple and if it is not an absolute “yes” then it is a definite “no”,
and “follow your heart”.

Two lines came to mind.

Peace be my winter. I pray. I hope.
I write somehow to make it so.


Then these words came next…in a time of heart then locked between Winter and Spring.
Much like the Winter-Spring of this season change of 2007,
in a place along the Southern Shoreline of Lake Ontario.


Written April, 2005

(an excerpt attached here...)


Peace Be My Winter

Peace be my winter
The one today.
Even more so
that one tomorrow.

I do wish for gentle snows to fall
Enough to cover.
Quiet, break silence
footsteps crunching the frozen
Just enough to tell me life is still
Around me.

Seasons told by trees and color of land,
Birds flocking and overhead skies,
The waves or none like glass
Early morning or nights
on Lake Ontario.

Thaws to new beginnings
Buds bloom apple and peach
the locals call favorite
Mine, too.

Leave buds of Maple and Oak
One day just popping
On some schedule,
secret, mystery to all
save One and Mother.

If I noticed.

(Summer season omitted here)

The reds of Maples
And the Sycamores
That’s how Upstate
called home is known
In times, named Autumn.

(and some of Autumn lost here on page as well)

Sleep or wake dream
My Soul at home
Snuggled in
under blanket of comfort,
in a place called home.

Next Season or Next Place to be...
Along the southern Shoreline of Lake Ontario.

-Janie

April Poetry Month

Never claim to be a poet...some say my words sometimes are.

Not so much by any of the poems I have written; More by the way some of my stories read.

April is the Month of Poetry, so the Publishing and Literary world has named.

I dabble with words, form words into the shape of poems...to call them one...

Rhyme or no rhyme but usually a reason attached.

I wrote this April, 2005 in memory of family passing...


One Day in April

I watched an Eagle fly
Heard the story told, too
Standing on ground
Opened for Family
Soul hallowed

And as I stood there
Peaceful
at Lakeview
Sun up, breeze down
My heart filled
at peace
looking up to blue and cloud

I noticed
Solo bird in flight
I listened
To the telling of the Eagle
the Story and the Promise

And in that moment
I remembered
Why I came
What needed to be done
That only I
One
Came to do

This moment of time
These footsteps
Mine
For then and them
of same
Now and times still to come

This expanded moment
I remembered
Same Lake
View
Different day
same message

Returned now
This day
There overhead
Another gone
Not really I know
Just different
than days before had been

I watched
her flight
A pass over the sweet cherry trees
Wing dip "Hello"
"I made it"
"I’m There"

I smile
As I watch
Her flight
So free
My heart secure
For she remembers me

For a moment
my Spirit soars with her
No burden
No care

I come back
to ground
to walk my path
To where
Somewhere
Close
Or an unknown Far

All I know for sure
In this place
Near same Lake
That day before
This day now
My message still comes the same
Record your footsteps

And so
Until my flight
Some day an Eagle be
I shall become
With wings
On way back Home
To same shoreline
With this same Lakeview

-Janie


Once again I was reminded...the storyteller.
The reason I came.

Life stories, this day, question awakened standing upon name ground.
All the while searching for my purpose, I was living it and if time was kind each next day and energy enough…conserved while the living it…and life days long, many, enough or too few...a storyteller.

Kin-ship Readers

(A story in honor and memory of my Aunt on her Birthday)

Dear Daisy,
Had every intention sending a note earlier…unexpectedly, my energy was pulled to Aunt Mabel’s medical; a life-death thing. Ended up sharing days leading up to her birthday with her in hospital. Discharged back to her nursing home room Thursday only to be rushed back to hospital the next Monday evening facing emergency surgery. Very poor prognosis; she was told by surgeon if she lived, post surgery long term colon bag likely and 2-6 months on ventilator best case scenario. She had shared with me during one of my visits in the hospital the week before that she was already tired of too many months in a wheelchair unable to walk. Looking back maybe she knew then what was around the next bend. Her spirits were up and she talked about birthdays and good times with her roommate friend at the home. How you remember her is exactly who she was even those final two weeks, and especially the final days.

Mom, Dad, Nancy and I were with her in the ER when they told her the news. I was so proud of my family, her family that night. Mabel amazed me beyond belief. I suppose having to walk through this path once before this year with Uncle Eli (November thru February) gave us all the strength. Mom and Dad especially grew through all this being there every step with Eli and it was so apparent their growth now standing with steadfast love and support/nurturing Mabel and her choice.

This time around Mabel was blessed with excellent doctors and nurses. Mabel listened to every word, every detail medical presented, asked really good questions, then made her choice within five minutes and never wavered. Nancy and I were alone with her about fifteen minutes later in ER and we both agree looking back that the radiating aura surrounding her that we both witnessed; her attitude, words she spoke, confidence, conviction (true to her character as you know), something greater than Mabel and us was around. There was no doubt that this was to be her time.

Nancy and I agree we both sensed Grandpa there with Mabel as she made her decision. Who Mabel sensed or how much support she felt from them or us I can’t tell you. She never said. No need really. That she was supported was all that mattered. Her calmness and serenity told me all I needed to reassure my heart and calm my mind. There were too many signs, too many factors and coincidences that are unexplainable by any other means to not sense this as truth. It was eerie being in my space on my side standing there while time marched on and facts came in as our family There and my family here united hearts to support her.

Minutes after she made her choice her conversation to the two of us seemed “out of place”. To Nancy, “Your glasses are really tiny. Can you see out of them?” Nancy answered and smiled but I could tell she wondered why that question and especially why this time looking at her would Mabel notice such a fine detail when all just moments before had been such a massive life-altering choice.

We all just moved on to small talk, making sure she was as comfortable as possible, taking turns sitting with her, then letting her have some time alone. She wanted us to go home, get some sleep. Sleep wouldn’t come easy that night we all knew that so we huddled together in the waiting area and checked in on her from time to time. Well past midnight Mom and Dad drove home. Nancy stayed the night. I returned home to make sure Levi was taken care of and safe and returned to the hospital first thing that same morning.

Staff kept her surgery options open for the next 24 hours. Mabel was aware that each hour she waited reduced her medial chances of pulling through the surgery. Next morning, same choice. She wanted to get back “home” to her roommate and friend, Edna.

That night I went back down to nursing home to spend a couple hours. She was alone with Edna, Mabel watching TV, clicker by her side. I noticed once again that aura all around her. Given the choice, Edna had decided to stay in their room and face this together with her “best friend”. Memories flooded my mind as I sat in Mabel’s recliner looking at the TV and talking some. On my Dad's side, for all purposes in my life she had served the role of my grandmother, assuming the role at age 16 by raising the five younger children when her mother died. Sitting there with her just being, took me back to all the times when I was little when she’d babysit me and we’d watch together Petticoat Junction and The Jackie Gleason Show.

Thirty minutes into watching the show flashing on the screen I wake up to the fact that Mabel is watching an education-medical channel. I ask her if she’s really watching this show or what. Her response, “I always watch this show.” I say, “But Mabel you just came from a hospital.” Her response, “I love this show. I watch it ‘cause I might learn something.” Blew me away. One to three days from the end of her life and she knows it and she “may learn something.”

Wow!!!! So, need I say we watched how a surrogate mother was carrying a baby and the delivery…and I smiled.


That night I wrote this to remember this night and all the others I had spent with Aunt Mabel:

And so, I opened my eyes to the mysteries unfolding.
Connecting with people and the moment now
Trying to understand where I (we) had been
Recognizing that so much was changing
and had changed.

You moving on.
Me here to remain.
For now.
-Janie



Calling arrangements were made for immediate family that Saturday. Funeral arrangements were made for Sunday at the nursing home so her friends back at “home” could attend.

Mabel had given me a shoebox of odds and ends years back (1977). Such a mixture of odds and ends, mostly papers I had no idea what to do with any of it at the time. When I asked she told me that I’d “know what to do with someday”. I did as I was told and all these years all items have stayed right where she packed them in that shoebox. The morning of her calling hours I received first word…the message came from There. As I was attempting to write a piece for her funeral the next day, I struggled being more drawn to the shoebox.

Three items in that shoebox Grandpa, from There let me know to put in the casket with Mabel. I guess he or she or both of them plan to go fishing in Canada with his Canadian Fishing License dated, May 23, 1964, a Canadian Fishing Guide (1964), and his glasses. I didn’t ask why. I just listened and tried my best to get the message right. (Grandpa died the year, 1964)

Back in June, 2004 I had given her a signed gift copy of Dear Daisy. It had been my gift to her and I wanted it to remain with her. Forever. She and Daisy always had a special bond and the book kept that connection of sharing the farm and life there together each summer. Then the question for calling hours, how to arrange, what page should the book be open to, and where to place the items from Grandpa. Nancy suggested Dear Daisy open to my childhood pictures page. Reading the words I had written on that page about childhood, all seemed fitting for this moment witnessing Mabel’s trust and openness to explore the next.

“Childhood is nothing more than, absolutely nothing less than, the courage to discover for the first time with innocence and openness, the faith and passion to explore the next, and the inner wisdom to sense the value of each moment along the path.”
-Janie


I didn’t realize until I opened the glass case of Grandpa at the casket to place it near my book how the green interior of his case matched the book hardcover exact. Looked really nice. Classy even. Mabel was absolutely by far the most beautiful person I have ever seen laid out. Radiating youth, though her age nearing mid eighties; total peace, and I swear she was smiling, natural, not placed there. As for Grandpa, I don’t know, lost his glasses and needed his old pair to read my book? He and God only know. All I know for sure is I felt I was and had been a part of this story that connected our lives.


“Asleep, awake, by night or day, the friends I seek are seeking me. No wind can drive my baroque astray, nor change the tide of destiny. The stars come nightly to the sky, the tidal wave unto the sea. Nor time, nor space, nor deep nor height, can keep my own away from me.”
John Burroughs


“And I will be with you forever, and ever, until the End, and then forever more.”
-God (as written and interpreted by the child, Janie)

Professional Reviews

Dear Daisy, a book read over and over by readers, and many shared awakening, transformative moments and stories. Many told of second, then third time readings. Many described that with each read, new experience or insight was gained.

Professional Reviewers? Rising Sparrow Press originally limited the number to a handful of copies mailed for professional reviews. This by Publishing standards is extremely conservative. I knew this.
At a later date the list was expanded by 6 additional copies, all tailored to highly specific niche markets. All review copies were author signed and sent to reviewers in the self-publishing and specific niche market venues; each one down a path focusing on social issues. Reviewers? Not one answered. Not one review, good or bad.

Then, and especially now, I wonder if any read the first line, or sentence, or paragraph.Reading bits and pieces at best, how much of the story, the message contained would be missed through casual glance at a cover? Bound traditional, void of a paper dustcover with photo enhanced quality, not modern eye accepted or valued. Prejudice is like that, depth lost. The feel of the book, the texture of life lost and the people’s stories there bound, the Souls underneath are missed in the speed of a modern scan reading moment.

Reviewers, so many today caught in the manufacturing, book printing and distribution; a market-sales world design.A book’s life based upon shelf life days, weeks, a few short months at best for a “best seller”.Investment is based upon how quick the dump, the unload, the sale. Literature for future generations…? I am not wise enough to venture the guess.

Perhaps, more time may tell what books will some later date be rebound, reprinted, and will rekindle the spark of a reader’s enthusiasm and interest.

Self-publishers, dedicated to written word and story, I sense will preserve the tradition of bringing variety to book shelves. Perhaps not all books will be judged by an end market sales value. I hope…for the expanded moment told by journalists and the storytellers of times and places, and the validity of our historical accounts and records hang in the balance. Yes, as a writer I do feel editing and publishing may very well edit away or block the truth and stories of our times if we only write with the final sale our sole purpose.

As the Author of Dear Daisy, hand signed copies floating somewhere…or sitting on some reviewer's personal library shelf…or used to create someone’s social program…or re-gifted as someone’s Christmas present…I wonder…and…I smile, knowing someday those copies will reappear. My only hope…that future holders and distributors will sign the book to the next, and then the next so that the trail can be read…and valued. As a book collector, I love to find old books and I can sense the hands that have held and the path such books traveled...fascinating to see the signature and date trail. As the Author, I would hope this path for Dear Daisy.

A few early sales to coworkers...their stories revealed that a few had family living in Puerto Rico, Canada, and China…so just for the fun of it, I signed a handful of books as gifts to send offshore just to see where Daisy would travel. Someday…maybe two hundred years from now, those copies will resurface…and I can’t wait to see where Daisy’s flight pattern traveled.

As Publisher, the investment in obtaining reviews I would question for future books, especially my own, those similar in written design to Dear Daisy. A self-help, a murder mystery, or an in vogue romance novel…maybe reviews would serve such a book’s purpose.

In hindsight, often the best sight, the professional review path just wasn’t the path for Dear Daisy. In hindsight, I trust my readers more than I wish to donate to reviewer collections.

Dear Daisy in New Orleans

March is Small Press Month.

March, 2006 while researching the internet for marketing ideas...I stumbled upon a need.
The aftermath of the devastating floods (storm: Katrina) that struck the southern states had destroyed books and the libraries. A donation path had been established for New Orleans.

As Publisher of Dear Daisy to honor Small Press Month; to honor Daisy's southern state's need, in memory of Daisy, a letter and package was mailed:

Attn: Rica A Trigs, Public Relations
New Orleans Public Library
219 Loyola Avenue
New Orleans, LA 70112

Re: Gift copies of Dear Daisy
Restocking New Orleans Public Library Project
March 2006

Gift given (6) copies of Dear Daisy (hardcover) : In Memory of Daisy

Publisher: Rising Sparrow Press
Author: Jane Marla VerDow
Book Dedication: Daisy

Library of Congress Cataloging Number: 2004091496
Ver Dow, Jane Marla
Dear Daisy : a novel / Jane Marla Ver Dow
First Printing June 2004
Hardcover 384 pages
ISBN 1-932878-03-3
1. Spiritual – Nonfiction. 1. Title.
$27.95


Best Regards from Rising Sparrow Press
and Author, Jane Marla VerDow.

Please find enclosed six copies (6) of Dear Daisy ©2004.

May the bookshelves of the New Orleans Library Restocking Project be blessed.

Sincerely,

Jane Marla VerDow

A Child's Promise

Once upon a time…a little one made a promise to her dear friend, Daisy.

What started out as sending my beets to Africa to feed all the starving children…

imagination and add a few more years being frustrated with the world’s ways,

now a book to sell in my hands, seemed only one thing to do.

Either find a way to send beets to Africa or maybe a better way to feed children could be the book Daisy had helped me to create.

After I finished writing Dear Daisy, waiting for her return, now days away, the storyline of the promise I had made in one passing moment as a child resurfaced from memory.
Heart felt as only a child’s heart knows truth and sincerity,
and any child knows what keeping promises means…
once you say “cross my heart”
there isn’t much that can later be said or undone to change what comes next.

In this moment I didn’t wish to hope for THAT…
June 2004, was too good a day to hope for anything but good ahead on an open road.
From years long gone, I had remembered my word. From the depths of my soul, I answered, "I just have to”.

Total coincidence, the first morning of my search (Oprah’s Angel Network) I discovered Sparrow Village. The name drew me to look. I link clicked and next I knew I was in Africa.
Daisy assured me this was no coincidence and to follow my heart.

I emailed a friend, one knowing me more than most, and family, I asked them, too.
“Check out this website.” I copied the link of their site into the email body.

Friends and family responded, “Perfect fit. The name, the cause, the location. It has you and Daisy written all over it; taking care of sparrows.”

So, on http://www.risingsparrowpress.com/ , the official site to announce Dear Daisy and Rising Sparrow Press I set my intentions to living true to my promise.

Every book sold June, 2004 through December 31, 2004
A donation (8%) will be sent in Daisy’s name
to the children and families served by Sparrow Village.

I linked to their official website.

http://www.sparrowvillage.org/


Rest assured, the world is still filled with promise and God is still watching out for sparrows.

And when you see a sparrow on your path…

Well, you know...Follow Your Heart

May your path be blessed.

Sincerely,

Jane Marla VerDow
(Dear Daisy, 2004)


Every year I, the author; I, the publisher; I, the child
renew this promise to Daisy and to the sparrows.

Of Three Hearts

As I took first steps Publishing I reviewed previous steps I had taken, my words as written in Dear Daisy. My heart-mind was uncertain and conflict between head and heart caused my steps to be more determined.

Which path the author, I would consent to follow; my personal heart, loyalty to Daisy and her peaceful resolution and teaching ways; and the publisher’s dream to distribute the message of this book to its rightful audience, to propel energy and to profit against debt and investment?

Words written to children (Dear Daisy):

To the “other children” if I could have spoken to them, I would have told them the secret I’ve learned through my experiences with this time called life and to travel a wilderness. It’s all in the step and mostly in the fact that you step but also take time to rest if only for a minute. It doesn’t matter if you can’t feel the ground or have no idea where you’re going. Your feet know the way and your heart is your compass. Follow your heart and build your dreams.

Excerpt from a letter I composed on my Justice pathway in honor of my mentor, Daisy.
(Dear Daisy)

The motto of the National Association of Colored Woman, “Lifting As We Climb” expresses most closely my own beliefs and guides in word what my heart attempts in action for daily living. Perhaps my sharing this additional detail with you will help to further clarify the Justice path I chose.

From Twentieth Century Negro Literature, 1902
“And so lifting as we climb, onward and upward we go, struggling and striving and hoping that the buds and blossoms of our desires will burst into glorious fruition ere long.With courage born of success in the past, with a keen sense of responsibility, which we must continue to assume, we look forward to the future, large with promise and hope. Seeking no favors because of our color or patronage because of our needs, we knock at the bar of justice and ask for an equal chance.”

God be with us on our pathways of Peace and Justice,
Jane


“First, is the dangers of futility; the belief there is nothing one man or one woman can do against the enormous array of the world’s ills –against misery and ignorance, injustice and violence.Yet many of the world’s great movements, of thought and action, have flowed from the work of a single man.”
Senator Robert F. Kennedy (June 6, 1966)


The Author, the loyal friend, and the Publisher, all, consented that a portion of Dear Daisy would be donated. My thank-you to Daisy for being my loyal friend, on Earth and from Heaven.

The dream: to sow seeds to the wind; to let Daisy fly and travel the globe. My heart, all of my heart was drawn to the wonder, and then I wrote this Author letter on the website I created, www.RisingSparrowPress.com

Author's Letter

Welcome.
I hope you enjoy the feel of this website. I hope it feels like
home.

Some say one always knows what they want to be when they
grow up. Truth told, I always knew. At least on some level.
There are the stories my sister could tell of me taking all of the
Little Golden Books in our house and printing my name on
the front inside cover. Those same storybooks now are part of
my home library.

Maybe it was more obvious than I knew when I would write
and hand my work to anyone to read just to watch them read,
seeing their face change, knowing where they were and what I
had written that could alter their expression. Connection.

I never spent a single second or stamp sending in any of my
words to Publishing Houses.That was part of the vision I had.
Back when. Not sending in any of my work, that is. To be
censored or edited or rejected was not part of the plan.

Researching traditional marketing pathways I soon found
myself discontent with modern ways. Too many authors sound
the same. Especially the "how to" books. Too much sales focus
and not enough of anything else. I was searching for my voice.
I love authors who have their own.

You see, I knew the greats that I loved back when I was
dreaming this dream to author made their own path. There was
something pioneering, adventurous, even daring about writing
words and finding a path for words to travel.

So here I am. Writing and finding that pathway.

My dream now? That someone two hundred years from now
will find a copy of my work and it will still hold value.


Jane Marla Ver Dow



“Occasionally in life there are those moments of unutterable fulfillment which cannot be completely explained by those symbols called words. Their meanings can only be articulated by the inaudible language of the heart.”
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., (Noble Lecture, December 11, 1964)

Paths to Walk/Flight Patterns

To my dear friend, Daisy...

words written and the spaces between…the song that came into my heart.

That “what if” space I returned to and there she told me her dreams; her thoughts and wishes, at least some.

The sparrow. Wings to fly…designed for, and the song of the sparrow; what defines the sparrow a sparrow from an eagle or a turkey vulture.

One sparrow, another...God knows each one unique. I am not wise enough…nor is any other.

Daisy understood. I, a child, asked more than any adult would have dared to ask and she answered. From her space she answered. She always did.

From my space I, a child, spoke back to her from my heart…my actions. My smile. My simple ways answered her heart back. I always will.


And so I, the child, the author, the publisher had set out on a path...and released Dear Daisy.
One path, by ground. Another, a path of flight...


"One doesn't discover new lands without first consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time."
Andre Gide, Fr. novelist


"When you get to the end of all the light you know and it's time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught how to fly."
Edward Teller

My Youngest Reader

“I think, at a child’s birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift would be curiosity.”
-First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt


As promised yesterday I’ll now tell you the story of my youngest reader as first told to me by his mother.

Seems the copy of Dear Daisy that she had purchased went missing, only to appear in her 3 year old son’s hands. At first, no reason to think this strange or out of the ordinary, after all, little ones do have a tendency to pick up things around the house, that is until they come of the age where one would wish they would… But, I digress.

Seems this pattern continued. Not an issue until she wished to sit down with her copy to read. She asked for her book. In his 3 year old way he made it clear the answer was, “no”. Reasoning with him that he could have the book back but that at this time she wished to sit and read her book, his answer remained the same, this time “my book” being the answer.

From what I’ve shared so far…one would have the picture formed in mind that the book stayed missing each time, stashed someplace only he knew it to be. Well…that is part of the picture, and my first image as I listened to her storyline.

Seems not that the book was missing…hard to miss an object that the child insisted on carrying around the house with him, even taking the book with him in the car. Following him and watching, the mother discovered that those times when he wasn’t carrying the book, he was putting it in his bedroom closet. Knowing his age she thought it best to continue going about their days without pressing the issue.

Cleaning one Saturday morning, she ventured down the hall towards his bedroom. On a cleaning mission, she glanced in noticing he was sitting on his closet floor, holding the book open, reading his book. She then shared with me that her son of three was not a child prodigy capable of reading at advanced levels, in fact he was delayed in speech, barely, if ever speaking. Their origin language is Spanish, and growing up in an English-speaking neighborhood, she felt maybe his speaking delay was confusion over which language he should speak.

Curious what he was doing, and to ask the obvious question, she went into his bedroom only to find that he wasn’t reading. He was listening, or so it appeared from the look in his eyes and the tilt of his head. The little one, a nonreader was holding the book upside down. These things a mother would notice.

Still, she asked her question. “What you reading?” “My book,” his answer. With that answered, she went back to cleaning the house. Moments later she realized that her son was talking to someone, so she went back into his room. “Who you talking to?” “The kid,” his answer as he pointed.

Imaginary friends, weren’t they always the best? I’ll admit that was where my mind thought her storyline would end.

She went on to tell me that the next day she heard her son for the first time speak his own name. Actually, the way she told the story, he declared, “MY NAME IS….” (“MY NAME” said in Spanish”)

His companion and “imaginary friend” not imaginary in any conceivable way to this child playing, sitting, and walking beside, also had a name.

The next week his Grandmother went to a party and brought home balloons tied to a weight rock. The 3 year old passed up the balloons but insisted on the rock weight. The storyteller told me the rock was the same color as “my book”. Now, I, and maybe you, also would think this just coincidence.

The storyteller went on to tell me that she overheard her son talking to his imaginary friend the next few days, and his side of the conversation suggested that he was knowing the storyline I had written in Dear Daisy. The book was being read to him. The story, she had not been reading to him. The story, that he insisted his imaginary friend was reading to him…

I wrote to a friend telling the short email version of this story. I also filled her in on this little boy’s mother who is very open to her son’s mystical mind and ways. In this email I wrote, “The stones may just start talking.”

A Publisher's Path

Daily on the publishing path I searched both the author and publisher within how to stay true to my writer’s heart and purpose; how to honor Daisy; how to stay true to the voice of children; what niche to follow for sales; and was Dear Daisy a book that could be confined to a niche?

The sparrow There reading beside me here I sensed as I read from Dear Daisy.

Dear Daisy….
I can only hope the seeds that I plant will inspire others to plant their own dreams. I intend to keep planting seeds as long as I’m here on this big ol’ Earth. I guess once a farmer always a farmer on some level. That’s what the work I’ve been doing and getting looks like to me, planting seeds. That seems pretty appropriate for Springtime, wouldn’t you say, Daisy?

Mis’ Jane

Easter was early that year. Palm Sunday, 2001 I went to Church. The sermon was the story of betrayal, otherwise known as the Easter story (my interpretation). Told there, the story of the donkey, the beginning hints of betrayal yet to occur, the hope for the end of the story of salvation and triumph, and the “stones that wouldn’t be silenced”.

Dear Daisy…
That touched me. Think about it Daisy, even if the people were silenced, the stones would speak.
The service also spoke out for justice and mission for programs sprouting to help the youths of today face the violence on their streets and within their schools. My mind, my ears, my heart hears and feels the stones talking. Can you hear the stones, Daisy?

Columbine, then school after school added to the nightmare list. Just goes to show what people, even kids will do when there doesn’t seem to be a next town to walk to. That is a hopeless, lonely place in a human heart. I know that feeling but fortunately for me and for others, walking to the next town was always possible on some level. We, as the adults, need to teach kids about all these towns to walk to because they are stuck in the middle and they may overlook that “next towns” exist. I was blessed to have a vivid imagination, plenty of walking space, a sense of humor, a creative mystery-solving mind. I taught myself to have an outgoing nature, seeking out people to talk and walk with. I taught myself how to walk. I never stopped believing in “next towns”.

Children of our culture today are very enclosed in their environments, long hours of structured activities and “work”, and absolutely every moment of their day is routine or a competition with their peers or with some standardized statistic. Every piece of their lives is a measure of their “self” against something.

Today I write; hearing the sparrow sitting There knowing we are always a child, regardless of how old we grow.

Today, first days of Spring I planted seeds on my path and I wonder what seeds will sprout;
I wonder, too from days long ago planted which survived the cold of a Northern winter.

Tomorrow…I’ll share the story of my youngest “reader” and the story of the day the stones talked.

Art and other what ifs

"Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep."
Scott Adams, Cartoonist Dilbert


So by the experience of writing the editorial to support and advocate for the sparrow…I learned lessons of editing as the world teaches editing.

True…for some writings omitting words or editing that alters words and corrects words, the writing becomes distinct in content. Message contained in said space.

More true, when I searched my heart and listened to my readers, I discovered the power of words and sequence. It was here that readers gave me feedback that I had heart connected…with one book they could sense my voice there, and when not.

Therefore, some of the best editing takes away the voice of the author, the heart message, the writer’s intent…the purpose of the work…

I also know to be true, by writing Dear Daisy…often what is not written holds the greatest power…the space…that “what if” place…

Daisy taught me unconditional love through words, mostly through her heart expression, sharing time with me, and allowing me to grow in that “what if” place…

I had been the guest writer in a paper section. I was the author of Dear Daisy. By this I made my distinction.

As the parent of Dear Daisy I loved my child, perfect through my eyes just as it was created. No, there would be no changes, no second editions nor editing of words and I would support its full development and whisper the supportive words, “grow, grow” to become the gift it was designed to be. Holding Dear Daisy I felt closer to a truth God the creator already knew; a seed created perfect in it’s own image, compared only to its own purpose, and each seed grows as designed.

Perhaps any other author would have…

Still Art is created by artists; visions reflected, crafted not manufactured. Perhaps that is why Art is created in the first place and solves the mystery of how it survives time. Art is created through artists and visual art sometimes rests even on canvas flawed or despite imperfect strokes, still beauty is found there.

The written word in print less kind, one space for each letter or word. Still, words together the blending appears, and beauty in the perfect, no maybe also the slip can tell more. Through the eye of the beholder, certainly that would explain how I felt, senses and heart the moment I first held Dear Daisy.

Reading I discovered deeper meaning than even I was aware of during times when I wrote the words and stories. From first to final word Dear Daisy was a process unfolding.

Self-publishing would provide the canvass that I could display my works over time, as my words and I evolved. Rising Sparrow Press would provide the pathway to sow. The passion of this belief led me to continue creating and reaching and growing.

Perhaps another publisher would have…

First weeks…

Readers held Dear Daisy in their hands and I took pause when they revealed what page they were on, what story or mystery drew them to question. I waited for the children on that road to reveal their voices, their songs, and the echoes of their hearts. Reader reviews came and somehow, I, this child with “a communication problem” had connected. This truth was a mystery, in part even to me. No two readers of Dear Daisy talked with me about their experience reading this book the same.

As weeks turned to months…

As the author the numbers of readers that shared with me their first experience, then second, and some third or more readings of this same, Dear Daisy book humbled me. I was awed by this and mystified by this power of word Art.

It was this language of heart I most wanted to leave behind as my personal and creative legacy. Language songs playing on the hearts and minds of people, some who crossed my path, yet so many others I would never physically meet yet somehow through my words shared there could be the possibility of an opening being created to cross on some spiritual journey.This was the dream of my heart, mirroring the legacy my heart was drawn to create. Readers of Dear Daisy gave account after account that I was truly accomplishing step-by-step, word-by-word something mystical that they, too were drawn towards. I was humbled to be part of the legacy of ordinary folk facing and sorting ordinary daily living. I sensed connection to each life facing extraordinary challenges that anyone who has ever lived or ever will live face, surviving and growing and taking steps to move on.

So by this truth as shared with me the author, yes, I will claim artistic rights and privilege not as an excuse nor justification for flaws but rather, as proof that not all perfectly written is Art and not all imperfection should be stroked or edited away.


Writing time was pulling at my heart, publishing and distributing Dear Daisy needed time, and events happening in life could not be ignored. I couldn’t help once again feeling as if the next book was being told to me first hand to be recorded for some later printing while I struggled to interpret distractions and obstacles in my life and in the life of others where I served as witness.

In hindsight taking my time revealed more of my own mystery unfolding and what I learned gave me more than even I would have imagined. I learned yet another truth: Editing takes away the texture, true both in writing and in life.



“Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
Margery Williams, from The Velveteen Rabbit

Editing

The paper arrived on time the morning the editorial was to appear.

My name and the picture of myself I recognized. The article as it appeared I did not. At least I didn’t recognize what was written as mine.

Sentences I had written were there, most of them, just none of them in the order that I had written them.

My first reaction? “That’s odd.”

I had no connection to what I had written. As time passed and I re-read, I connected less and less.

When I went into work that morning, many approached. Others contacted through email or phone.

These were their comments:
"Did you change your work to write an editorial?'
"The editorial was not your voice."
"I didn't recognize the writing as yours. Somebody else wrote it."
"Bland. I got nothing out of it. I know how you write. Always a strong and deliberate message."
"This wasn't your style. I couldn't hear your voice. Your voice always comes through when you write."

Now I understood my first reaction.

I then was left with the dilemma; do I tell readers approaching me the truth? It truly was not the work I had submitted.
I settled for saying it was the edited version of what had been submitted.

Each then questioned why the work of a "guest essayist" would have an editor. They believed those columns were written by people of the community and the opinions written as authored, not as edited.

I had no answer for their mental quandary.

As an author and publisher, I knew the power of changing key words such as nouns to direct attention to one, then another. Creates direction of blame and tension. Greater power comes with altering message by adjusting the order the reader is exposed to thoughts. I knew this and had been told by readers that I can be most effective with this to convey heart language people can connect with as they read and ponder what they have just read. Never has my work been described as bland.

This experience was my formal education on the power of editing.

My mission was for the children silenced on their road. The edited version…the children’s voices...lost.

I sent an email to the editor and senior editor of the paper stating what my readers had shared with me of their reactions. My final question?

What was altered of the message of the “Guest Essayist” and what outcome will this action have on the growth and development of our community or contribute to blocking the path to peaceful resolution and healing?

Promise Kept to a Fallen Sparrow

Opportunity to live true to my promise came June, 2004.

A school violence/bullying article appeared in the local paper. I wrote the reporter/columnist and senior editor and mailed a gift copy of Dear Daisy to introduce myself and to explain my interest in the topic.

Though word count exceeds printability as an editorial for your newspaper it is my understanding that longer editorials/topic comments are featured in the Speaking Out Section.
I am familiar with the case reported and am aware of the multiple efforts of the family to seek help and resolution. Over the course of similar time frame, I have been aware of other cases of similar circumstance and pattern occurring within our local schools. The numbers “unreported” publicly, suffered silently by children and families represent the voices still waiting to be heard. No doubt, the great works and words of (Reporter/Columnist) to seek truth and to shed light on patterns of behavior have given us opportunity to challenge systems that fail and will serve as a catalyst and platform for these children seeking voice. On behalf of those children may I say, "thank-you".

Dear Daisy was written as my personal account and to serve justice pathways, a voice for children. Bullying can have dire consequences and it is not just a kid’s game. I offer a gift copy in hopes that it will shed light on violence patterns, systemic responses, efforts to silence victims, and mostly to assist children speaking out against the attacks and violence to speak their truth of how systems charged with managing groups and Institutions continue to fail.

I look forward to all of your future articles and follow-thru efforts working to speak out against violence among and against children. May our community not fall back asleep before constructive efforts to resolve for our children can take root.

Sincerely,
Jane Marla Ver Dow


Editorial as written by author to newspaper

Not Just Kids Play
“Bullying can have dire consequences for children”(Santiago)
June 25, 2004 in the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle nudged us awake. Though our emotional shock is focused on the attack(s) may we remember that failure to provide, failure to act is an equal atrocity under terms of child abuse laws. As I read her article I noted: 2nd grade to fifth grade (time), multiple attacks (events to document), progressive violence (pattern), children reporting and demonstrating symptoms (victim voices), adults knowing (witness), policies written (criteria). What proof of circumstance are we looking for or who’s voice are we waiting to hear before action can lead towards a path to peaceful resolution?

With tax dollars and school budgets always in the news, number of school days strategically calculated to collect Monies, have we fallen into the psychological trap of previous Institution failures? Are we still viewing children as property? If Mandatory Reporting Laws hold Professionals accountable to be the watchdogs of family violence and abuse, does not the same spirit of the law apply when violence has been discovered or reported within their Halls or on property?

We live during the information age yet fail to communicate at basic core levels and fail to read current events beyond the front page. Before we as a community engage in the old divisive battle, the traditional taking up of sides with efforts to victimize the victim and block learning, structure, support and assistance to all victim(s), could we see clearly that children on both sides of this conflict are victims with needs. In our attempts to come to a place of mental acceptance and clarity or to find our comfort distance the question always surfaces just before our judgment: why this child? The answer: because one was in crisis and needed to be heard and the other child was the only one listening.

It is time to ask questions and to seek answers. Are we in a situation of “good” people caught too late asking the “right” questions? Has the “common sense” management and education of children lost its place buried within the collection of statistics? Did denial set-in? Denial will not reach truth, yet truth will rise. It is time for adult ears to listen. Children are screaming “ENOUGH!” Paper programs and flush money will not solve this. One Institution cannot do this alone.

We question why now at the close of this school year would this information rise to our consciousness? Summer vacations are in our hearts. This year closes and we put things away. Next year gives us hope to start over. Maybe the answer is simple. Summer is the time of growth.

Grow we must for the seed that has been planted is the seed of self-contempt, isolated and vulnerable pathways, self-defeating choices, and could at any moment manifest to retaliatory-justice seeking explosions. It is the seed of destruction of the good works we do, the means to the end once again out of balance with false promises to those investing in our education missions and believing in the foundation stones laid by family. If we open our hearts summer can be a time to reflect, to see the contrast reality between light and shadow. It is time to choose wiser the seed we plant.

While Rochester slept, the Supreme Court has already spoken. Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor provides perspective under Title IX and defines the burden of responsibility to provide safe and equal access to our publicly supported Institutions and Programs. How will Rochester interpret? How will our community meet this challenge?

Before we drift back to sleep dreams may we open our eyes and ears to realize that this is not an isolated event reported one day in a newspaper, our newspaper. Bullying is real and children are unprepared to face this alone or to resolve what society creates on pathways where justice is denied. We all are invested in the outcome. By what higher standards will we each hold ourselves accountable? Time will tell the story. While time passes and the Summer Sun provides its light may we reflect upon this question: Are we so concerned with how our Institutions look to a community that we fail to wonder how we appear to our children?

Jane Marla Ver Dow
Author, Dear Daisy, Rising Sparrow Press

First Reviews

Searching for paths to sow Dear Daisy was literally feeling my way in a publishing world I knew nothing of firsthand. I read and searched and researched but most of all I spent time in reflection of what my heart mission would be and remain. At times this appeared in contrast to how the World said it should be. Each footstep, I introduced Dear Daisy to those on my path and awaited reactions and responses while I walked the road ahead.

Readers held Dear Daisy in their hands and I took pause when they revealed what page they were on, what story or mystery drew them to question. I waited for the children on that road to reveal their voices, their songs, and the echoes of their hearts.

Reader reviews came and somehow, I had connected. This truth was a mystery, in part even to me. It was this language of heart I most wanted to further explore.

Initial reactions of readers closest to me?

Immediate family was very supportive of my writing.
Mom “never before stayed up to read, any book” …alone in the darkness of night to catch a glimpse of light or enlightenment…an understanding of someone she thought she knew…all these years….
Dad couldn’t have been more of a father in that moment. Marketing…“you’ve just got to…the world needs this message…”
Sister…“I grew up with you… shared memories. I never knew you. Now I do.”
Her favorites: the Epistle…and the Lakeshore story.
Aunt: “Your grandfather would be very proud.”

Stories of locals who purchased the book?

Never did I anticipate hearing this next (ironic really) Spiritual based…Golden Rule…“I haven’t finished reading it yet. My book was stolen by…”

I joked that my promotion would have to include I had in fact increased the local crime rates. Theft was not my intention yet pride flooded my heart each time I heard their confessions.

Some readers…opened and discovered themselves or at least a part of themselves they had never taken enough time, became silent enough or quiet enough to read. Then again maybe it was a sense of contentment and the quiet time sitting there under the trees with Daisy and a young child who never quite grew beyond those moments regardless of how many days passed in between. Was it such moments and permission to be in such moments that the reader’s child decided to tag along?

Older weekly “church-going” Christian readers surprised me speaking out against their “modern” religious experiences.
One said, “I go to the place where we worship money. Building a building that no one seems to know why we are building or what the building will serve. Still mission money, money we have promised to aide others is behind schedule.”

I sent a gift copy to my advocate friend (support against violence in churches).

Dear James Evinger,

…It is true. I have written my book, Dear Daisy and forged the path to self publish. I chose the self-publishing route because I’ve always admired those of our history that delivered the message of their times despite “commercialism” and “limits”. I guess I am a rebel. I admit it.

Rising Sparrow Press was officially born December 2003 and now web site can be found at http://www.risingsparrowpress.com/.

I am in process of writing a second book, Rising Sparrow, a sequel to Dear Daisy. Still writing, far from final editing stage. Some of my writing is “too mystical” at times even for me and though true to my experiences, much of the World would believe it to be fiction. So I may have to write a third book, the true mystical stories of my life, label it “fiction” and call it, (“_________”).

(Of course the publisher in me edited out the title on this blog!!!!)

…I anticipate in the very near future expanding the web site writing on topics to promote nonviolent resolution pathways and to serve justice, speaking out about our times, and also to serve my passions for history and exploring the voice of ordinary day-to-day folk. I know I am a storyteller at heart and most wish to find my path to this mission.

…Hope you enjoy Dear Daisy. Once again, thank-you for being there when the World was throwing mud.

Keep in touch.

Jane Ver Dow


His response and review?

“I’m writing to thank you for the copy of Dear Daisy. It’s amazing and profoundly written. Thank you for your courage and the risk you took to create it. (But that is you, isn’t it!)
It’s direct, honest, truthful, personal, and always looks at the larger principles. It’s engaging and thoughtful, and so it has taken me awhile to complete it- I’d put it down because it forced my own reflections. May God’s Spirit continue to guide you.”

James Evinger


Honored and humbled would be the words my heart defined for my confused mind. This level of support I simply was not prepared to receive. It was this language of heart I most wished to leave behind as my personal legacy.

As for the fallen sparrow?
I had made a promise as we read Dear Daisy together, him There, me here…
I would not ignore nor turn my back on sparrows needing voice. Their song, his song would be heard.

the sparrow song

Having already read the story through rewrites and edits and mostly having lived the story one too many times, I chose the first hours of the next few days delivering and mailing gift signed copies to a select few. During this window from delivery to formal copyright date, I returned to my prepublication list and materials created for promotion that I had written waiting her arrival. Narrowing my niche,uncertain this being “the first” what my niche was, I selected a couple dozen reviewers. Heart open, I sent them on their path.

The transition from the withdrawn, quiet life of an author to the active, competitive-driven world of the publisher took energy and adjustment time. I had preplanned. I had pre-selected. I had created promo materials before I ever felt Dear Daisy in my hands. Transition from author to publisher, first steps had been taken.

Content I had done all that could be done in these first hours, proud and at peace,I sat down to breathe, book in hand, and cracked the cover of Dear Daisy with the intent to read the story I had written.
An author, first book…heart open to explore what pages had transformed to become, now bound between hardcover. Discovery, exploration, touching land…all of this I felt…


Still…Life does not stop for this. Life has a way of not allowing itself to be edited out. I can’t tell you what page I was on when the phone rang. I can tell you not more than one-third way through I learned that where the author ends a book is often times not where the story chooses to end. A sparrow, one close to my heart, too overcome and challenged by this world, had fallen to the ground. Disbelief how life had written this epilogue chapter...days later I returned and continued to read the story I had written sensing this sparrow reading by my side. The author’s copy of Dear Daisy will forever hold my tears.

My dream in my hands

The first hours after Dear Daisy had arrived by tractor trailer the driver and I unloaded the pallet, literally pushed the pallet up the driveway hill, or tried to…the trucking company had not supplied motorized transferring equipment…manual labor was how it happened to unfold. I shared the laugh with him, the driver, how Daisy must be laughing from heaven watching this story and our efforts…how true then our shared path of labor…now her watching from above knowing full well my determined little mind and heart. He stayed for the process of unloading then I alone completed the task of stack storing each box in safe place inside. The time: just over two hours.

Exhausted, I once again lifted the flap of the test-confirmation box. I held her, my book, I guess just to confirm the reality that in fact she had arrived. Holding and reading the cover, part of me questioned if in fact my eyes were being truthful. I questioned how this could be, my name where the author's name should be. I traced the letters forming my name and held the hardbound book, sensing the texture. My hands and my eyes still with some level of disbelief, I placed my copy of my book on my wooden desk to sit and take it all in, or maybe to catch my breath. Both I am now certain true.

Later I returned, curiosity overtaking all other emotions, my fingers opened the front cover to glance at the flyleaf, color perfect as I, the publisher had chosen that winter day in February. Next, the title page, there written, Dear Daisy. Page turn one more, the copyright page. True there my publishing name appeared. Reading eyes still truth blurred, my eyes focused as I read the dedication page.

Dedication

This work is dedicated with all my love to Daisy.

Her warmth taught me love, her gift of
patience taught me to search my heart for
patience with others, her Soul taught me
strength equal to compassion, and through
her love and guidance I learned to reach for
my World.


Every blade of grass has its Angel
that bends over and whispers,
“Grow, grow.”
-The Talmud


How true…"grow, grow" …what I once felt, today, I felt once more…

Birth Announcement

Dear Daisy

Arrived: 9 AM April 29, 2004
Weighing: 1842 lbs.
Thought Conceived: Upstate New York
(December 1999)
Printed: BookMasters, Mansfield, Ohio
(February 25, 2004)
Under Crescent Moon and Venus Star
Bound and Delivered: Mercury Retrograde
Bound: Grand Rapids, Michigan

Delivery:
Stork #1 R & L Transit
Stork #2 Yellow Transportation
Birth Path: Grand Rapids, Michigan
Wilmington, Ohio
Greenville, Georgia
Rochester, New York

Arrived Under Last Degrees of Mercury
Retrograde as Moon enters earth sign
Virgo “the maiden holding wheat,
separating grain from chaff”

Proud Parents
Author : Jane Marla Ver Dow (Earth)
Editor: Candaisy “Daisy” (Heaven)
Publisher: Rising Sparrow Press
Est. December 22, 2003


http://www.risingsparrowpress.com/announce.htm

http://www.risingsparrowpress.com/order.htm

The Road Not Taken

From outside Cleveland to well near Columbus I daydreamed a new storyline. Maybe Fiction next time.

Storytellers and apprentices, legends that come down through time, how this could be, yet is. I guess this only natural having caught the radio signal out of Canada as I passed Erie heading toward Cleveland this early morning;The Passion of Christ, religion, movie release day, and such. This Canadian station and voice was critical of the film and especially its Director. I understood their reasoning. The movie I knew I had no desire to go see and knew I never would.

Staying on the road despite the time and distance growing, my mind found to wander, coming back only to check my speed or notice a landmark.The weather warm and sunny on this snow free day, my path was clear and it was so hard to believe we were in the heart of winter. An open road, my words sitting next to me on route to become a book, me an author, a publishing company established. All of it, including this day, seemed a dream.

This stretch of road through Ohio I had driven before on my way to Indianapolis. I knew the road, each curve, each city, each suburb. Years had passed, too many to comprehend. One of those moments when time seems frozen yet one is only too aware of the space and experiences in between. Age has a funny way of creeping on, passing unaware until time comes back around a second time in the same place.

The drive of days before felt old, still the adventure this day felt new. Felt same...I remembered nearly twenty years earlier as I drove off on adventure to attend graduate school in Indianapolis. Same road, exact exit, once I stood broken down waiting, then moved on to there. Now same road, exact exit this time I turned there. Let my mind sort through the time passed and experiences caught in between while my heart...once more chose...



The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And I looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Sow Seed to the Wind

My words, a common voice on a road traveled, a road called life. One voice echoed through a canyon while another wrote a solitary account; a life story written. No more, but absolutely no less. Record my footsteps and release those words to a path; that was my heart mission.

So not knowing where I was on this path, having just a memory of what had been and what I could dream tomorrow to be, all I knew was the feeling of the moment…

Perhaps another author would have…

Reflecting on the seed now planting, the seed planted yet time needed for harvest, and what Rising Sparrow Press would sow…

The final words of Dear Daisy were written still it would take another six months before Rising Sparrow Press would be born, December 22, 2003. Rising Sparrow Press didn’t feel like a small step. That step felt like I was defining myself, bringing Dear Daisy out from the safety of my home and heart for the World to judge. Self-publishing would provide my path to bring forth my words, my message, and to overcome societal limits and prejudices. Creating Rising Sparrow Press to publish Dear Daisy meant recreating myself, searching and walking a pathway totally foreign.

Spring this year would hold meaning. I needed to believe once more in the hope of Spring. Summer would follow Spring and the first days of Summer had always been mine to believe in Sun and Daisy’s return. Publication date was set; June, 2004.

Money sacrificed aside from daily struggles and living needs while writing and collating Dear Daisy, as Spring approached one prematurely warm winter day in February (Ash Wednesday) I drove Dear Daisy to Ohio to the printing press.

Driving, miles stacked against me, I daydreamed each mile of the road to Ohio and each mile of my return home remembering where I had been and dreaming visions of where I was hoping the road would take me.

First miles it was fresh in my mind of the times of reaching out, finding the courage and committing the time and heart to the day-to-day steps required to write Dear Daisy. I knew nothing about writing, still I had written, covered pages with words and my name would appear on the cover as author.

Then establishing Rising Sparrow Press. The fact that I knew nothing of the book printing process save creating margins and legible copy was just the tip of my naivety. The expansive publishing world; rules, system conformities, steps required from this office then the next, of course money all slowed my pace, hiking the mountain with my well-worn sneakers, day by day checking my progress and my supplies. Somehow, my to-do-list became more manageable with hours of reading and studying and perhaps it was my naivety that assisted my willingness to take each next step.

Time was on my side as each step required investment, especially the ISBN registration through Bowker’s and the printing. I knew I wanted to create future writings. I had five books already started, one, a children’s book featuring Levi and this alone I could envision a future series. Seemed reasonable to not limit myself to a package of ten ISBN when I was certain there could reasonably be a number eleven. Nine hundred dollars later and paperwork filed in hand I held proof that Dear Daisy as a book had secure place.

Perhaps any other publisher would have…

Small steps I took with much time between each for sleep and balance practice. My first words I had found and my first steps now would come together. I thought, how true the first time; how true this time. Remembering that once I had mastered first words and first steps to gain mobility, surely with time, patience, and practice I could do it again. Mobility-Stability, just takes courage, time, and tries. My words were already on paper, waiting to be printed and released. Surely, just a step, one step at a time couldn’t be that big a deal.

Each step took patience. Most days I balanced my fear of progress against my fear of being held back by a World demanding conformity. My desire to break from conformity surfaced again and again. The old way, the way of grit and Spirit of writers I admired; self-publishers that came before me. I had read of Mark Twain’s path and envisioned first printing presses that released Ben Franklin’s words. Revolutionary and independent in thought, that appealed to me.

Reliving yet one more time, a death, that's how I'd describe writing as I sensed the last words finding place on paper. Ending the book, leaving Daisy or sensing her leaving me, that was the feeling I struggled against. Still I sensed this time coming and when it appeared I just knew, much like the first time, time was moving on. So, heart giving in to time and unknown tomorrows, I let go and redirected my focus, though blurred by tears.

Birthing gave way to a mother's heart holding on too tight, I guess that's how I’d describe leaving my baby behind in the hands of the stranger, printer. Collated pages to become a book,
now in the hands of others. Truly a bittersweet life moment.

Fear came not knowing where the pathway of publishing would take me. My heart, I knew, was not prepared for a business failure and definitely not another dead-end. With so much invested I discarded such thoughts. I chose instead to believe in new beginnings. Still, it would take standing on what felt to be the edge of a cliff, closing my eyes, and a leap of faith, totally a leap of faith.


“A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”
-William Shedd

"To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn’t really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done."
-John Steinbeck


Self Published Author

And so…I, one voice,
searched for simply a way to say
and to write
my heart.

To be in the end I,
name, Author?
Maybe –I Am.

Hearts finding connection,
time and wind carried pages
someday tell.

Publisher?
Find the Heart Land fertile.
Cultivate the path for my words,
Sun to find.
Sow my seed to the wind.


Jane Marla Ver Dow
Rising Sparrow

Janie

Dear Daisy… a book that would present truth of the moment, raw presentation without pretense and with no apology.


I loved cartoons (I still do) and my little dog that followed me on adventure after adventure. My first doggie, Gretzels had really short legs (she was a “hot-dog” doggie) so keeping up with me wasn’t always in her plans. Gretzels died when I was 3. She sleeps on the East side of the outdoors stone fireplace that my Dad built. There were some birds that didn’t make it from a nest I found ‘bout that same time, so they’re planted behind the fireplace. I usetuh pick my Mom’s pansies and put them on their graves but I never told nobody ‘cept Sandy, the puppy that came to live with us.

I was the second youngest in the second wave, largest and last group of kids born on my Dad’s side of the family. My sister was the first-born. By the time I was two and three I used to work picking stones with Grandpa and my Dad and one time I was working so hard I hit Grandpa in the head flinging rocks backwards over my head from the wagon to the rock pile at the woods edge. He said some “extra words” then laughed realizing it was just me. He bought me my trike when I was four. He died when I was five years old, three months after my Grandma on my Mom’s side passed. My other two Grandparents I only knew by passed down family pictures and stories that family would tell of their lives.

My sister and I can remember the trips my Grandpa would take us on to the next town for ice cream sundaes. They served “pig’s dinners”. Your imagination is right on target. I loved my Grandpa. He was tall, an old-fashioned, private man with a distance unique to him. Everyday he wore blue jean coveralls. On the cold days of season change he wore his blue jean frock or during winter his Carhart chore coat that would hang on the hook in the kitchen waiting for him.

I loved living so close to him. I made several daily trips, crossed the street alone when I was old enough, and always managed to make it just in time to eat a cookie or two at break time with him. Some lunches I ate over there. His favorite lunchtime sandwiches were Limburger Cheese and Mustard-Sliced Onion. Those weren’t my favorite sandwiches. I would go outside to play in the yard or on the farm shortly after eating ‘cause Grandpa always had to take a five-minute nap after lunch. I remember he had a strange watch. Everything he ever did, especially if someone else was involved doing it with him or if he needed to talk us into doing the work in the first place, if it meant waiting for him, no matter what he used to say, “It’ll only take five minutes.” His other famous line was, “hustle up”. I caught on real fast. We would all just smile and go about doing whatever, knowing full well the truth.

“Wolf” my Grandpa’s dog, was a huge Black German Shepherd and extremely loyal to his owner. He looked like a wolf, especially his eyes. Wolf let me ride him around the yard at my Grandpa’s when I was real little. He was like riding a horse. No way my feet could touch the ground. I mostly just hung on, fell off, and ended up hugging him ‘round his big ol’ neck. I knew others were cautious around him, but as for me, I just loved him and he loved me.

My Grandpa baked the bread for the family. My Grandma on that side died when she was 40. Later years, by the time I came ‘round, we had bread delivered to his house about once a week. The man who used to drive the “Bread Truck” was absolutely terrified of Wolf. “Red” (his nic-name ‘cause his hair was so Red) had good reason. Wolf had been known to bite people who pressed the wrong way and warned off every stranger. My job during bread delivery time was to watch for the bread truck and Red so that I could “be in charge of” Wolf. Delivery time was predictable, always right after lunch, just after the radio broadcast farm report, ‘bout the listening time for radio celebrity, Paul Harvey on WHAM (famous for closing each day’s commentary with, “…and now, for the rest of the story.”), and always during Grandpa’s five-minute nap.

Wolf would walk right by my side to the truck, not more than inches between his fur coat and my hand stretched out to the side over my head to reach his back. I’d talk to Red from the first step of his van-truck while he put together the order from the list and while he’d get some free samples of cookies or cakes that were sitting in trays and hand them to me with the bread. I’d be sure to say "thank-you" and we’d say good-byes or usually by this time my Grandpa would come out to talk. Wolf by my side, I’d walk to the backdoor to put the bread on the kitchen table then come right back out ‘cause I could read Wolf the whole time he was walking with me. He wanted to stay with Grandpa, back watching Red.

Wolf never changed his stance as the weeks became years even though I tried to build a relationship between him and the bread man by sharing my share of the free samples with him. Red was a real nice man. I never sensed anything Wolf should be concerned with, but this was just Wolf’s way. Wolf didn’t buy it. He didn’t trust anyone that didn’t live there. Wolf did like the treats, though. Wolf died when I was 4. I helped Grandpa plant him under the apple tree.

We had chickens in the chicken shed and one to three cows in the barn. I loved the cows and we even had a calf once. When I finally figured out why we really had cows I gave up eating hamburgers for a while. The final straw that gave the truth away was the trips to our “meat locker” at the Cold Storage uptown. Our locker was upstairs so we had to walk the icy stairs with crates of package wrapped meat, my cows, the ones that disappeared overnight and even in the middle of summer never did you go to the meat locker without your winter coat and mittens. Lighting was terrible, about a 30 watter covered with frost and ice, just ready to blow. Dad always carried a flashlight and we always made sure someone stayed in the car just in case “the door locked behind us.”

I ate the chickens though and didn’t mind none carrying all them chickens, package wrapped to the Cold Storage. I hated them chickens. It was my job to collect the eggs or at least to help collect the eggs. They’d all act like they were moving to the side of the shed, talkin’ the whole time ‘munst themselves. Then turn your eyes (I never turned my back on them) and next thing you’d know they’d all be sneakin’ up on yuh and crowdin’ the door so you were trapped. I got the eggs. Never had to use none them eggs, but I would’a if I had’a in self-defense.

I also had a pet skunk. He stayed outdoors. He came ‘round one year and must have thought he was a cat ‘cause he ate with them and stayed with them. He usetuh follow me ‘round everywhere jus’ like the cats. My Mom and Dad tol’ me “watch out” ‘cause he may have Rabies or somethin’ or he may spray me with somethin’ but he never did. He lived there with my cats in the barn for the whole summer so he didn’t have no Rabies. I think he was just an old man skunk.

Winter meant rest from work, go to school, stay home from school with ear infections and high fevers, go back to school and be bored. I had favorite storybooks and knew them by heart and read my favorite, Curious George, but I was anything but a bookworm. Home time was cartoons, Romper Room, Captain Kangaroo, and late afternoon the Mickey Mouse Club and I Love Lucy. I loved nighttime TV shows and I made up every excuse to watch my favorites. Bedtime was late by kid standards so I never missed Red Skelton, Andy Griffith with Barney, Gunsmoke, or the Ed Sullivan Show. I loved to watch any old silent black n’ white comedy ever made, Laurel and Hardy and the Ma and Pa Kettle movies, topping the list. I loved The Three Stooges, not for the hitting and violence, ‘cause of their stupidity.

School was boring. The way I looked at it, I already knew enough words. In fact I knew many more than they taught in school, some I wasn’t sp’osed to use, and I could count cookies and even do some math countin’ in my head. Time passed and so did I.



“It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look. To affect the quality of the day – that is the highest of arts.”
Henry David Thoreau

Miz Jane

December 3, 1999 I wrote my first letter to Daisy.It had been more than thirty years since I consciously thought about Daisy more than just in passing from time to time.The letters just started flowing naturally one winter night. In this moment of midlife loneliness and losses, I guess it really was logical that Daisy would be the one I would turn to when I needed to convey my deepest thoughts and feelings.

I wrote to Daisy...

It struck me as I read the letter to Daisy back to myself that I had signed my name “Janie”. Daisy never called me “Janie”. That was my White World nickname. This name I hated when I was young because I thought it made me sound little, like it was a baby’s name, and I certainly didn’t need any more reminders I was little. Now that I’m older and trying to forget how to count passed 39, “Janie” seems just fine.

Daisy knew me as “Miss Jane” or if written in spoken language, “Mis’ Jane” with the s heard more like a z held in sound waves more like zzzzz. Daisy either held the “z” sound this long or my young ears just loved the sound of Daisy speakin’ my name so much my ear drums wouldn’t let go. Truth told, I’m sure it was some of both.

“See yuh next break time, Daisy.” This always played in my mind long before I had the words. “Bye, Daisy” was about the most I’d say. You’d say, “Bye, Mis’ Jane.” Most times we jus’ said, “Time tuh gits back tuh work” and then we did. No need for G’byes”. Besides, “Bye” meant we were moving apart in space, to the next row or tree, but we could still see eachother working. “Bye” didn’t mean that our talkin’ was done for very long.

Bye, Daisy
Mis’ Jane

Songs of the Orchard

The beginning….
Songs of the orchard played in my mind as words appeared on paper.
I thought of Daisy and her home with Jim…

Nearing the ending…
At the depth of my heart I knew the Truth of my singing the folk songs in the orchards with the wind…

As I wrote…
Songs of days long ago lived then gone, never outgrown, continued to play in my head and I hummed along as words appeared on paper…



Songs of the orchard…closest I’ve ever found to poetry; truly, the inspiration for such…
words playing on canvas.

Winds blow then fade. One moment of time changes the world, or at least our perception.

There standing, sitting, being, holding her space-filling her space; Daisy.
Learned lesson, the one that came to me just watching Daisy, no words; she needed none:
Just hold your space-fill your space. Her message, so clear to me now.


So truth told, I learned about blank space in writing from her, and from holding my space while the winds did their own game. Filled in the space between with orchard songs. Daisy by nature didn’t use many words. The gaps between allowed me to just be, there with her.

So I learned most about words by time spent in listening and waiting. Let them be. Give them space and respect. Honor the life rhythm of each and every. Together, they find their own place and share.

Blank space in writing is where you, the reader comes…to sit and be.

Blank space, that’s where all the “what ifs” live.





From somewhere deep within, there was a voice calling me home. I had to listen. When a child of any age hears that voice, there’s no denying it, least not to yourself, especially when the call becomes a whisper.
Jane Marla Ver Dow
Dear Daisy, 2004



Let your heart guide you. It whispers, so listen closely.
~ The Land Before Time