What propelled me to be an author

Photographed by Jordie Hennigar

"There are always windy whispers feathering against our ears.

They are voices from nature's higher realm, 

up in the sky with its wide-perceiving eye, 

voicing its guidance below to reach us. 

To expel messages for us to hear 

and follow their rhythms for our highest good. 

 They are faint as the softest touch, 

but they are a calling awaiting an answer from us—to connect. 

With the firm intention to listen, 

the whispers grow into volumes large enough 

to pound within our hearts 

and to the collection of our most present thoughts."

What made me decide to publish and become an author?

It was an invisible push that extended like roots digging deep even into my dreams. It began as a whisper gently wisping through the canal of my ears. Inspired by the events in my surroundings relating in the moments to what was occurring within me personally, I wrote feverishly. 

These writings held against my heart, privately, along with my yogic journey. 

As time moved forward, I felt the inkling to share a piece here and there accompanied by beautiful imagery on my social media platforms. Comments then arose, favouring words from others in the direction of the poem or message that I wrote. 

As compliments continued to blossom, they proposed that I write a book. At that time, I was smitten enough to just absorb their lovely likeness to what I scribbled. 

And then, something leaped upon my lap, igniting my insides and propelling the idea of making a book. 

After sharing one of my poems, the day after I was gathered into a local women's circle filled with good friends and acquaintances. As we commenced, one by one, we shared our intent and the offering we had for the altar. 

Suddenly, one of the women's offerings was a poem that reached inside of her, a message that felt to be the most aligning theme for the state of her life. She read the lines out loud for all of us to hear—it was my poem!

Photographed by Jordie Hennigar

I heard whispers...

I heard whispers gaining strength, compelling me more, as I sat on the computer scrolling, all to find that a mutual friend had published her own work. I searched for her publisher, scoped through the press' website, and found myself in front of Microsoft Word, binding all of the pieces I had at that moment into a document. I suddenly rocketed it into the press application form. 

In less than 24 hours, they gave word back. Words of acceptance and adoration for what I vaguely put together. All fuelling my core. 

A meeting was held with an offer of a contract I wasn't ready for financially. So I waited. Like a swell migrating from the middle of the ocean to faraway shores, time was truly a virtue. 

Two years passed by. 24 months, 104.28 weeks, and 734 days washed by. All with an anticipating mind to have this come alive. 

As I took a means to move across Canada to the farthest point of Vancouver Island at the beginning of the pandemic. I was overwhelmed by a loud calling in the ethers to catapult me to finally sign the contract. 

These callings were strong echoes, vibrating through all areas of my being. These calls hijacking my dreams with clear, unknown feminine voices. 

Similar to sirens, they lured me in, and in a short few days as I slowly settled into the West Coast, I reached back across the waters to my publisher, who without hesitation welcomed me in. 

She noted that she waited for me, waiting for this book to be brought alive, gasping for vital air at the water's surface. 

Within rapid streams of minutes, I signed the contract to find myself a new role: an author.