Library in Time

Library in Time

It’s story time and the little ones gather around her knee

On a soft pink rug for rugged knees in tattered jeans from too much playing at

escapist art.

The setting where we venture in some wild adventure into the land of man or animal or Buddha, maybe it was Geisha then,
or an Amethyst with a name

in the windowsill, or in the wood, or in the box, or in the wardrobe, it matters not

who knows, as our minds wander in the morning sun, warmed by the fire
of lost boys,
or girls or puppy breath,
what’s next and then

the plot we know not.

This one stands for majesty, an oak of understanding or

Was it sparkle pump in the profile then, no

the Buddha girl with curly peppered hair who said a circle of friend, just one, with a little help from that book of music.

Oh how they mingle in the windowsill, branches touching in some unspoken meaningful array of

Cobwebs hanging on a wing touched by Oklahoma, no

A tortoise shell, I’ll tell you.

This one stands for then and that one stands for now passing on the mystery to some future girl of tiny gifts in a tiny town invited.

To gaze at a windowsill in wonder, swaying pines, newspaper clad artifacts, and handmade cloaks in closets above a green box of mementos more

I gather you.

The singing trunks in guitar tunes in the wind of my imagination singing Wagon Wheel over air plants two and two in blue clouds on glass.

Tears marching under the palm of that angel, little tyrants hell bent on a sugar compost high.

Oh and that one with football shoulders playing scrabble carrying dust to the sea anemone to the left of the quartz, or quarterback or

Was it a tick filled skull.

Ouch that hurts.

Dusting things with watered down resin.

I’ll carry that with me forever and you have a peach seed in your pocket now,

How did the story go tell me? Shhh. Let the windowsill speak of the circle of elders watching above a gnomes home in June.

Whistle whistle.
Girl in the Tree.
I’ll be there but I might not be me

Sporting gray buns smelling like bay leaves
medicine smoke come
healing, loving,
healing, loving,
tall time tales.

Rocking back and forth in a fork of solace mountain where we met in apple picking days stacked on the shelf,

telling the children that never came to some
same seen Library
I died before the guests arrived.

– Tanyalibrary in time


Shulamit’s Dream and Synchronicity

It was with bittersweet emotions that I found myself listening to Dr. Erel Shalit’s (2012) The Cycle of Life, hearing his words “only a candle that you never light will never burn out,” on the very day I was informed that he had passed away. His work here, his opus, is like the acorn planted in Shulamit’s dream. “Like the oak whose roots extend into the mineral realm, the self is rooted in the chemical elements of the body and extends in a psychological sense, into infinite heights and depths (Williamson, 1986, p. 1),” the seeds he has planted will continue to grow and extend branches far into the future. It was Shulamit’s dream realization that “sixty to seventy-year-old trees, planted meticulously,” had “no flowering” and “almost no branches (Shalit, 2012, p. 176)” that prompted her to plant an acorn. She had done her work meticulously, and psyche informs her it is now time to let go, disseminate her wisdom that will last beyond her mortal life into the future.
The oak tree sapling selected by Shulamit, and the acorn seed, are apt symbols for meeting the quest of the Senex/Crone. John Williamson (1986) says the oak tree was associated with the World Tree and axis mundi (center of the world), and “it’s commanding presence made it the most widely worshipped of trees.” He explains the oak was made into pews, bridges, barrels, thrones, ships, coffins and such, “like the disseminated divine matter of creation stories, the oak’s substance became the raw material for every kind of human fabrication (p.1).” Druids consider the oak sacred, and they “marked the cyclical demise of spring time’s Oak King, who was succeeded by autumn’s Holly King, by the burning of oak logs at midsummer (Williamson, 1986, p. 58ff).” In addition, the symbol of the oak as phallus and the acorn as a “maternal vessel…suggesting an inner feminine dimension (Williamson, 1986, p. 1),” coincides with Shulamit’s individuation process. The culmination of her life work being a conjunction between her feminine aspects and animus (masculine soul), she becomes whole or her most authentic self.
Dr. Shalit (2012) discusses reflexio, a “turning inward that can be driven by the soul’s quest for meaning in our advanced age.” Oak as symbol of birth in the spring, death in the fall, and rebirth the following spring coincides with the transition Shulamit is facing as she enters her later years, which will culminate into the end of her life. This turning inward toward the depths mirrors the planting of the acorn in the deep earth, a burial with the promise of new life.
Bright, B. (2012). Interview with Dr. Erel Shalit on The Cycle of Life. Depth Psychology Alliance. DepthInsights011212.mp4
Shalit, E. (2011). The cycle of life: Themes and tales of the journey. Carmel, CA: Fisher King Press
Williamson, J. (1986). The oak king, the holly king, and the unicorn. NY. Retrieved from

Black Bear Synchronicity, Part V


Part V of A Story in Parts. A True Story.

So I’d recently moved to Black Bear, and it was my first time coming home after a good rain. I saw the water on the bridge, watched the pickup truck tool across, and down the hill to the bridge I went, driving right across. The men on the other side were waving their arms and when I got across, they told me never to do that again. Explained the “orange rock,” to me. If you can’t see the orange rock, it’s not safe to cross. They told me, “you took the cake.” (You can look at the river video I posted earlier of the bridge, and see, there was no orange rock visible on the opposite bank, so looks can be deceiving. That bridge was down under a good ways. And that is why I stopped and made the video, instead of driving across.)

I had no idea, just followed the truck, but as I soon learned, trucks had a different marker for safe crossing. The orange rock was for cars, and I should feel lucky to have made it across. I also learned that getting the brakes wet like that will rust them up and cost some money afterwards, and driving too fast on the dirt road will cost some new struts and you’ll have to wash the car pretty often.

So I’d asked, “What are you guys doing out here?” And they’d replied,

“Making sure no one gets in that doesn’t belong.”

They went on to tell me what a good community we were, and they liked to keep everyone safe.

I learned it was true, since during the flood ins, it was often necessary to help one another out. Somebody had bread that someone else needed, someone knew how to work on things that might go broken during the flood, a plumber, an electrician. I usually had a freezer full of Girl Scout cookies, and so we made do, and checked on one another. Course, Bob had a plane or helicopter or something up at his end, if we found ourselves in dire straits with a real emergency. That was the rumor, though I never saw it lift off a single time. We had cards for playing and decks for sitting and chatting too.

That’s when I first heard about it, why they liked to guard the bridge before a flood in. Once you’re in, you’re in for a good while, and we don’t want anyone stuck on the wrong side that doesn’t belong.

I once knew the names of the victims in the tragic Black Bear Crossing story, but time and distance prevent me from recalling them now. That can all be verified later.

From what I do recall, as I received the story, a divorced woman was living in her home at Black Bear Crossing and on this evening, she and her new beau were at the house.

Her ex-husband had hidden himself in the surrounding woods, and laid in wait for her return home and the cover of darkness, before entering the home and confronting the couple with a gun.

There is more to the story regarding the altercation, but I do not now recall the details.

To the best of my memory, the woman’s ex-husband shot his former wife, taking her life. The woman’s boyfriend struggling with the ex-husband for the gun, shot the ex-husband, killing him.

The woman or her boyfriend one, had called 9-1-1 and when the police finally arrived, the boyfriend exited the home carrying the gun, and was shot and killed by the responding officer.

Of course, there was an investigation and speculation regarding how such a tragedy could transpire. The officer had claimed it was so dark, visibility was poor.

And the bridge was closed while the police searched the woods in case there’d been an accomplice, and as I said, the woods connect to the national forest up the mountain… so folks at home stayed at home behind closed doors. And those away had to stay away.

As I’ve mentioned, to be sure, it really is very dark in Black Bear Crossing of a night.

So, the first time I had occasion to be visiting the new residents of the home where the tragedy had taken place, and they were a kindhearted couple, they made sure to tell me two things. One, they’d had just a few things happen that had them wondering if they had guests, the smell of a sweet perfume for instance… but for the most part, the visitor was a kind, warm person, if there was a visitor, and they weren’t bothered about it. They told me all about putting in the pellet stove, and then they made sure to point out to me the house had motion sensor lighting. And, the motion sensor lighting was already there when they moved in. They didn’t go into any detail to explain the information to me. But I understood it to mean they questioned the details of the triple homicide. And many other folks did too. Since I had on occasion left the motion sensor lights off at home, and had to stumble up the porch steps and struggle in the dark to unlock the door, it didn’t necessarily point to foul play to me.

But it did cause one to walk a little more reverently on a summer evening passing by that way, and it did add to the mystery that flowed with the river. You never knew what might wash up, carried in by the river. I’ve seen all sorts of things, large and small, including a deck, lawn chairs, a toilet and a sofa.

I don’t much like bringing up such a sad tragedy… but you can trust that I have my reasons for doing so.

“Don’t go home alone.”

Brenda and Tanya
Black Bear Crossing

Sacred Tricky Crow Leveling Plain Speak

Sacred Tricky Crow

Sacred Tricky Crow Leveling Plain-speak

(A story within a story within a story for times when you can no longer tell up from down, times like these.)

August 20, 2017

Inspired by a dream, a poem, a song and a riot.

Next day far from Charlottesville on the late night news.

Crow sauntered off the front walkway…
a red envelope with a raised gold letter left in his wake.

“Supreme Man Kind,” a song.

From Solomon to Ward all the way to Jay Z,
Sometimes a song wants a song you see.

Waddlin, swagger or stuntin all work.
Inoculated from the snakes and the fakes but not perps.
But this bird knows his rhymes and jingles and fees.
My religion was born in the dark, briny sea.

Come on over to San Quentin I’ll tell you a plan,
Thirteen minutes of time can really change a man.

Colors don’t matter I’ll say it again,
Chasing Jacuba to the cave with his devils and friends.
A trick is a trick no matter the hour.
He’s got science and math and a cult like power.

Slaves up buttercup,
But you can’t tell them the facts,
I’m a privileged Crow client
And you’ve got my back.

Pop and circumstance, funk and some blues,
A Crow and a story, a rap that rings true
to white lies, whatever it takes, ah now, we’ve lost the tune, tune, tune…

snap my fingers, shake a feather, as above so below,
Mecca or Paradise on the road to Cairo.
A bird had a dream, for a pretty penny.
Who’s paying who, henny penny henny penny.
It’s the same evermore, quoth the Bird,
Guess my name and skin a hare from right to left ear.

A book and a number, paper to pen. As without, and so within.

Dear Hue Man,

Music Myth Maker, sweet good god.

I’ll be sending my original in voice. Remit to source.

Thank you later,
Mr. Crow
Los Angeles


Black Bear Crossing Synchronicity, Part IV


Part IV of A Story in Parts. All true.

I haven’t seen Brenda since that year, though we did have conversation after that day. We had said all there was to say about it at the time, and afterwards, our conversations were not about anything of such consequence. Our lives were intricately entwined only briefly.

Brenda was the first to leave Black Bear Crossing. No one knew she was leaving. She just left one day and never came back.

I took care of some things afterwards. Found a retirement home for her old dog, so she could live out her life happy and free on a big ole farm. But that’s a different story.

From time to time I’ll read a story about living life on a river. River life has a mysterious quality all its own from the start.

But Black Bear Crossing, being on the river bend, is practically surrounded by the river on all sides, excepting the narrow spot where the bridge crosses.

Of course, when the bridge floods, Black Bear Crossing is like an island to itself. Islands have their own mystique about them.

Being on an island with no entry or exit is pretty peaceful, restive, removed from the usual chaos of town living. People pay good money to spend a week so removed from civilization. Yet, seclusion of this sort has its dangers, the living treacherous beyond that of tree-lined sidewalks and golden streetlights, with unexpected mishaps.

For one thing, it’s very dark at night. Pitch black, as it’s said. In fact it’s so dark, and absent any light pollution, I was able to see the giant fireballs flying across my front lawn in the wee morning hours from what I believe were the Leonids, fireballs like I’ve never seen anywhere else before or since.

And so, most folks in Black Bear have the motion sensor lighting outside their homes to avoid stumbling over a stone, or for illuminating the keyhole to unlock the door, and for catching sight of a bobcat or black bear, a hare or a fawn, the occasional fox and the wily raccoon.

I had the motion sensors. One in front facing the driveway, one in back that shone beyond the deck into the sloping woods that led down to the river, and a corner light shining out into the garden.

So when I sent a message out to Brenda this year (2017), having not spoken to her or seen her since she left Black Bear in the 90’s, (20 years!) I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t beat around any bushes, and got straight to the point, much like our conversation all those years ago. “I’ve been asked by a friend to write about my anomalous experiences, and I wanted to include our experience in Black Bear all those years ago. Do you remember?”

She replied, “I was just thinking about you and your daughter last night. My memories are still very vivid of that time and I remember your kindness even with all you were going through.”

She gave me her number so we can speak, and I can hear the story from her perspective. I haven’t called yet. That was in January. I need to call. I will call before I formally write. I need to hear the rest of the story, ask the questions I was too frightened to ask at the time.

It’s time.

But I also wanted to give a telling of my own account, prior to hearing any other details or perspectives. Things come to mind in the telling.

I was never afraid in Black Bear Crossing, in spite of the darkness, the tragedy or the tales. I loved the sound of the river running, the cool night air, and the living greens that sheltered the wildlife.

I always felt safely held there.

Brenda and Tanya
Black Bear Crossing

A photo of Brenda, much like I remember her.

Black Bear Crossing Synchronicity, Part III


Part III of A Story in Parts. A True Story.

Now this message,

“Don’t go home alone,”

was not meant for me.

While I don’t recall where I was or what I was doing the first few times I heard the “thought,” I distinctly recall driving past Brenda’s house, which was something I did often since her house was along the way to my own, and I would hear via thought,

“Don’t go home alone.”

Only I didn’t just hear the words via thought.

The thought was accompanied by an urge to go to Brenda, and TELL HER in person,

“Don’t go home alone.”

You can imagine my internal reaction. At first, I just felt as though some random thought had popped in, and I shook it off and went on my way.

As the days passed though, I continued to hear the thought, and the urge prompting me to say the words to Brenda, was getting stronger.

I would hear it,
accompanied by the urging, driving home past her house, outside with the dog in front of the dark portal into the red barn, an unnerving ominousness.

The thought did occur to me, that perhaps I was losing my mind. It had been a tragic year. I asked myself, isn’t this how it starts? A voice becomes ever more insistent…

“Don’t go home alone.”

“Don’t go home alone.”


Now would be a good time to tell you, Brenda and I were not friends. We were not even acquaintances.

We knew “of” one another, but did not know each other personally. We never visited. What we knew of one another was perhaps, that we had nothing in common, at least of an outward nature. My only connection with Brenda, was that I would pick up her two children on my way by her house in the winter time, to drive them along with my own daughter to the bus stop to get the bus for school. It was a long walk for them otherwise. The bus driver was too afraid to drive the school bus across the bridge, so I would meet her some ways up Zion Church Road at the church parking lot, where she could turn the bus around and head back to school.

Brenda’s two children would come up to my house to visit on occasion, and I’d taken them trick or treating, so I can say that I knew Brenda’s children, but not Brenda. I was very fond of these children, and worried about their well-being as I would for my own daughter.

But, no way was I going to go up to Brenda, a complete stranger, and say to her,


How could I explain myself?

And so I continued to ignore the command and refused to deliver the message…

for two long weeks.

Brenda and Tanya
Black Bear Crossing

Black Bear Crossing Synchronicity, Part II

A Story in Parts. A True Story.

“Don’t go home alone.”

I cannot specifically recall the first occasion the message, “Don’t go home alone,” came to me. It began as something mild, barely felt, like a passing thought. It was easy to disregard.

To be sure, the land holds memories, has a trauma history that it tends, and a protective reach, if you believe in such things.

My home was further along the Indian Camp Trail, while Brenda’s home was nearer the “T” and thus, next to the home where the triple death happened some years before our time at the Black Bear Crossing.

I dare say at that time, no one living on this bend of the Seven Bends of the Shenandoah River was unaware of its history.

Sometime after I’d purchased my own home there, in children’s whispers, I was informed of the tragedy. Then, I’d hear it again from adults in the community from time to time, some who had been around, others passing on their knowledge.

A low water bridge is the only exit or entrance to Black Bear, and any time the Valley gets two inches of rain or more, the river is going to rise, the bridge is going to disappear under the current, and no one is going in or getting out…at least not without a risky hike across the mountain through wild parts of the national forest. I never attempted the hike myself. I do not own a gun.

When the bridge floods, the men stand guard a time as the water rises, making sure no one gets in that doesn’t belong.

Making sure no one gets in that doesn’t belong.

This was the occasion that prompted the bridge guards to tell the story, and caution me.

Prior to my purchase, I had been informed the bridge might flood once every few years during a week long rain, be covered a couple days, but that it was a rare event and didn’t seem to trouble the residents of the community. “They’re a good group of people, they look out for one another.”

I heard the story from adults at my first “flood in,” just after crossing the water covered bridge where I’d be on “holiday” for the next two weeks, as I wouldn’t dare cross back over until the river had its fill.

“Don’t go home alone.”

Part II of A Story in Parts, A True Story.

Brenda and Tanya
Black Bear Crossing

Black Bear Crossing Synchronicity, Part I


Encouraged by my friend to tell the story:

A story in parts. A true story.

The year may have been 1997, or 1998. This is a test telling, and the specifics can be confirmed later.

I had recently returned from the tunnel with the bright, white light at the end. I shot through it at breakneck speed, feet first, roaring like the finest locomotive, clanging, head banging, roughed up yet lightning smooth. I did not return by that same route. The return route included an encounter, an experience, a wandering of sorts, an observation, a question and a concern, before “snap,” I was back, pulling the oxygen mask from my mouth and nose, facing them, eyes to eyes to eyes, seeing their deep fear, hearing it in their quivering, anxious voices. I am apologizing. I am wondering…

“Don’t go home alone.”

It was after “the blood transfusion.” Three pints. I was still adjusting, transitioning, melding…the strangers blood with my own, up close and personal. Strange, new tastes in foods, and sudden repulsion in the presence of some of my favorites…and the compromises, who would win out, how could we find a way, who is this stranger within, who are you, who were you? The smell of the juicy steak, now rotten, like death on a platter. The rejuvenating cells coursing through my body, making repairs in places, medicine never before known, new habits, and the weakening, the alterations, things dying and being replaced by someone else’s things, some better some worse, it’s how it must be. I am no longer who I once was, and yet I am still here.

“Don’t go home alone.”

I cannot tell you how much of the change was by the blood or by the light.

The feeling of suffocation, the urgency, time is being wasted, the realization, in the blink of an eye, I can’t catch my breath, the heaviness of this earthbound body, just like that, death comes. I’m so angry. I never knew how close it walks beside me, how thin the veil. Who gave you permission to save me?

“Don’t go home alone.”

Part I of A Story in Parts, with permission.

Brenda and Tanya
Black Bear Crossing

Last Words

Last Words I have been privileged to witness:

“Baby Girl, if you hadn’t woke me up, I don’t think I would’ve woke up.”

“I’m not feeling so well, I think I’ll just go on out to the car.”

“I’m going home today.”

“Wven I see him, I tell him, you guhd girl.”

“Will you miss me when I leave in June?” “No.” “Oh come on, you know you’re going to miss me.” “No I won’t, either, cuz I won’t be here.”


“Mommy’s going to be okay.”

“I do wish you would just listen to Sarah Palin.”

“Oh Lord. Be with me.”

“I put on my new watch today because I’m going home.”


“She’s with me all the time now, and she won’t leave.”


“Did you see her?”

“Catch you on the flip side.”

“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.”

“I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“I’m just tired now, so very tired.”

“I think I’d rather go with that one there.” (pointing to the ceiling)

“I see it.”

“When you get married for real, you can wear this ring.” (removing her wedding ring)

“He’s sitting in the chair over there, waiting for me.”

“The doctor said I’m going to be just fine.”

“Tell my babies I love them.”

“Who is that man over there?”

“The little baby is crying over there. Go pick him up and bring him to me.”

“You’re an angel, aren’t you?”

“Thank you.”

“Turn around. I want to see your angel wings.”

“I’m going to take a long nap.”

“It will be better in the morning.”


“I just saw my Mommy. She told me she loves me. But, she was always deaf and mute. Her smile was beautiful. I’ve never heard her voice before.”


Paranthropology, An Anthropological Approach to the Paranormal; Guest Edited by Mark A. Schroll, PhD

Volume 8, Issue 1 includes my commentary, “Catalysts that Initiate Embodied Knowing,” beginning page 56.

Free Download and Print Copies Available for $7.71.


Editor’s Introduction: Revisiting Cultural Evolution and Technological Evolution in Consciousness Studies – Mark A. Schroll

A Quest for a Temple to Sleep In – Sarah Janes

The Big Dream and Archaeo-Geo-Neuro-Pharmaco-Parapsychological Theories – David Luke

Odin: Wandering Shaman Seeking Truth – Mark A. Schroll

Commentary: Dreams, Drugs and the Engines of Creativity – Ryan Hurd

Nature Awareness and Psychedelics: Report and Commentary on a Presentation by Ralph Metzner and Kathleen Harrison – Heather Walker

REVIEW: Dr. Strange: A Cinematic Journey into the Multiverse and Otherworldly Realities – Mark A. Schroll

REVIEW: Cultural Perspectives on Mental Wellbeing: Spiritual Interpretations of Symptoms in Medical Practices by Natalie Tobert – Teresa McLaren

Revisiting the Meaning of Chief Seattle’s Speech – Mark A. Schroll

The Meaning of the Cover Design: Envisioning a Cosmic Archetypal Model of Personality – Mark A. Schroll

The Meaning of the Hourglass Symbol – Regina U. Hess

The Archetypal Cauldron: A Clinical Application of the Anti-Hero in Transpersonal Art Therapy and the Hebraic Lore of the Golem – Claire Polansky

Catalysts that Initiate Embodied Knowing: Reflection on Individuation, Synchronicity and Ritual Space – Tanya Hurst

Reply to Tanya Hurst & Wendy E. Cousins – Claire Polansky

Commentary: Reflections on the Supernatural and its Relation to Spiritual Emergency/Emergence – Claire Polansky

Escaping the Night of the Living Dead: Toward a Transpersonal Ecosophy – Mark A. Schroll