about me (10) allergic families (2) book reviews (45) egg free recipes (1) family life (13) Favourite books (1) flash fiction (19) Meg Dunley (1) migraines (3) moved blog (1) novel writing (1) poetry (12) professional writing (1) reflections (15) TAFE time (1) write for money (1) writing exercise (3) writing tips (5) writing workshops (1)
It felt like a real privilege to read Katharine Susannah Prichard's book, Coonardoo which was written way back in 1929. She wrote this book when she went up to the Kimberley's in the North West area of Australia and stayed on a station, Turee. She was enamoured by what she observed as a writer and was inspired to write about this. What is most interesting, I found, was that she writes in the indigenous language. I am not sure if it is actually reflective of the actual dialect of the mob who would have lived there at the time, however, the book is peppered through with the words and sentences, dialogue in the native tongue. I really enjoyed reading the language and there is a glossary at the back to help along if you need. It is a celebration of the traditional peoples. I found it very hard to put this book down, and read it in only a few days.
Coonardoo is a love story between a station owner, Hugh, or Youi as his people know and call him, and Coonardoo. Hugh, being a white fella, and a station owner of Wytaliba, forbids himself to fully give himself over to her. This love that is too strong to bear causes pain for him and for the people on his land. He jeopardises himself, his people, his land and his children (from a white wife who he does marry).
Katharine poses the fantastic concept of love between Aborigines and White people at a time when it was never considered a possibility. She wrote it into a story, put it on paper, took it from the bush, the outback, into the cities. What happened out in the outback, the land that people rarely went to, was fairly unknown in the cities.
Katharine sexualised the beauty of the woman, Coonardoo, the Aboriginal woman who could be lusted after and loved forever. There was public outrage when this book was originally published, mainly because she had exposed the exploitation of black women by white men and "..that she wrote of the love, albeit unacknowledged and twisted in on itself between a white man and an Aboriginal woman.." (Introduction by Drusilla Modjeska, 1990).
I found it to be a great love story, full of love and agony. The restrictions of their separate cultures that both Hugh and Coonardoo imposed on themselves were so wide, that they tore each other apart.
Katharine in her writing shows deep respect for the indigenous people of the time, the role that they played on the stations, the traditions they had and what they had to put up with. In her writing she shows a tenderness and this is then shown through her character of Youi. She shows how she saw poor behaviour from white people in the land through other characters in the novel, in their treatment of the 'gins', as second-class citizens.
Katharine paints a beautiful story also of the land, the time, which spans over three generations, and the many varied season. Her very vivid descriptions bring the reader right into the sparse arid land which is then turn into a lush landscape the minute the drought breaks.
A great read.
I was absolutely blown away by this book. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks is not just a biography, but it is a history of science, a history of a family, a history of racism and most importantly it the history of the HeLa cells and the impact of these on the family from whom they originated from. Rebecca Skloot took some 10 years to write this, and it is incredibly well written. She is very sensitive to all of the issues that are surrounding the history of the HeLa cells, and Henrietta Lacks. It was so beautifully written that I ended the book so overwhelmed, in tears at what Henrietta's family had gone through, at the compassion Rebecca had shown throughout the time she had spent with them to help them learn the true story.
The story begins in 1951 when a poor black woman from Clover, Henrietta Lacks, went to the John Hopkins Hospital, Baltimore for something that she is concerned about (but didn't tell anyone what it was). She was right to be concerned as it turns out to be cervical cancer. The practice back then was for the scientists to use whatever cells they could, whatever tissues they could lay their hands on to try to learn more about the human cells, cancer, treatments, illnesses, etc. So, George Gey and his little team set about putting her cancer cells into culture and seeing what would happen. They didn't think that much would happen as most cells to date had died. These cells kept living and kept reproducing, over and over and over again.
The problems with this whole scientific practice was that they generally focussed taking from the black people, or performing medical testing on black people, and all without asking. It wasn't considered necessary. It also wasn't considered necessary to let the family know that tissues had been taken and what they were used for. The tissue wasn't necessarily thought of as being associated with a person, they were just tissue.
Mary, who worked with George, told Rebecca later that it wasn't until she saw the red nailpolish on Henrietta's toes that she '..nearly fainted. I thought, "Oh jeez, she's a real person."'
Henrietta, a young mother of 5 children with one daughter in home for the insane, died from a very aggressive form of cervical cancer. Her family moved on, well, the children were too young to know, and her husband, Day, knowing not what else to do, moved on.
Rebecca, after stumbling on the very important HeLa cells in high school, then goes on to spend years researching to find who is the person behind the cells that became the immortal cells, HeLa. This person is Henrietta Lacks, a fact which is known in the science word, however, in the Lacks family, their understanding of the immortality of the cells is confusing, how the world got to have the cells, a part of their mother, is beyond them and why people are getting to make money out of their mother's cells when they are dirt poor and uneducated, unable to get their own medical treatment is infuriating.
Rebecca has to work through many hurdles, calm many family members, educate the children of Henrietta, Deborah, Lawrence, Zakariyya (born Joseph) and Sonny (who are old enough to be her mother) (Elsie died), track down the white land-owning relatives from whom the Lacks family takes its name and spend many, many hours trawling through medical files to get to the bottom of it all. Through it, the family learns who their mother, grandmother, cousin, sister and Aunt are, and relations between all begin to calm down. The world slowly begins to learn the truth behind the most important cells in medical.
It is a fantastic exploration of the ethics of medical science as it covers such an extensive period of time (from the 1950's right through to the present time). Rebecca puts the human, the person back into the centre of the picture of science, to ensure that we don't forget that consent, asking is so important.
There are many gruelling finds along the way, many that have been righted. Science has come a long, long way. Now I know that Henrietta Lacks has been a very big part of it.
I give this book all 5 stars as it truly deserves the lot.
There is now The Henrietta Lack Foundation to help educate & provide health care to those who really need it.
If you want to read about the Lacks Family and they have a beautiful picture of their mother's cells in fluorescent as well as her all dressed up. The cell picture may be the one that Sonny was given when he first saw the picture of what the cells looked like.
Alex Miller Inspiration:
‘Something of great importance to me happened two nights ago.’
I lay, spent on the cold concrete floor of the laundry. There was nothing left to me. It was as though I had been hooked up to machines that had sucked the living daylights out of me. Nothing to even cry with, nothing to move with. My mouth was wretchedly dry, parched, but my tongue would not move to help itself. The files in my brain had become de-fragmented and nobody had set the program to clean it up. They were no longer linking to each other, nothing made sense any more.
I slowly blinked. I could feel the crepe paper lids unfolding, the steely gaze that I had fixed on the fur ball under the washing machine slowly closing. I let the heavy eyelids that didn't even seem to belong to me any more to stay shut. There was nothing more to see other than fur balls and dust particles.
In the darkness I began to see the light. The clarity of the last two days slowly dawned on me. It was going to take an eternity to live with. There was nothing left for me here. In one small moment, everything in my life had changed forever.
Two words, "He's gone."
I hadn't understood at first, I was in the middle of a phone call, cooking dinner, signing papers. Everything was busy, important. Nothing was busy or important now. Everything was gone.
Justin had looked at me with a sneer, realising that I hadn't understood, ready to lay blame on me, angry, or was he upset, I don't know, "He's topped himself, you idiot! You! Too freakin' busy again! Not looking again! You didn't care anyway! Always doin' you're own thing."
The ice moved through me rapidly, starting at my heart where he had stabbed me until I was standing stone cold, as ice, nothing, lost everything.
"I'm gone. We, we are nothing. He was what held us, but now...", I can now see that Justin was broken. Then I just thought he was trying to kill me too. My tongue was frozen. The blood had stopped moving in my body. I had not imagined a life beyond ours. Our life of screaming at each other and pretending that we hadn't, ignoring each other, but existing together, insulting each other with a compliment in disguise: the charade. I thought that it was working. Pass the salt, dear - why the hell did you do have to pass it that way to me! The man I had known for more than half of my lifetime, the man who was more than half of me, turned and walked away. I still could not move or speak. I was still frozen.
Could I have another go?
Couldn't I try again to hug him one more time each day?
Could I try to say that I love him? I know I do, did, but I didn't say it.
Why couldn't I turn back time?
I don't know how I came to be on the cold laundry floor. I don't know how long I was there. Day came and finished. Darkness fell. Light came and was sucked away again into the depth of darkness again. The stillness became my comfort, silence my friend. Now as it was light again, and clarity, reality had dawned, my body slowly began to move. I needed to move to a new world, a new life, a new beginning.
If, you’ve stumbled by here and have no idea what Write on Wednesday is, WOW is an online writing group open from Monday to Friday. A weekly creativity fix that allows writers to share their words and receive support, encouragement and feedback from other writers. Some writers have ongoing pieces and characters they’ve been working on, others use the weekly prompts to flex and exercise their creative muscle.
This week's prompt for Write on Wednesday is this sentence from Alex Miller provided by Jennifer at A Sampler. The instructions are: "..it’s a great opener, but if you want to incorporate into your piece, that’s fine too. Set your timer for 5 minutes or write about 500 words. If you’re looking for specific feedback, please let us know. Otherwise – enjoy the writing"
Alex Miller Inspiration
‘Something of great importance to me happened two nights ago.’
Join in if you would like by visiting Jennifer's Blog
Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave comments...
Who were you at high school? The cool kid, the shy kid, the nerdy one, the anxious one, the one that flitted between types, the one that didn't care?
We were all someone at high school, and it is such an awkward stage of life where we are all just trying to find our little way in life, our place, where the heck do we fit in with it all - but then, so is everyone else. Everyone else seems so sure of themselves, when you don't, and they have things that you don't . Their lunches contain weird and unusual foods, or just plain and simple foods, when you have the weird and unusual. The disparities of us as individuals all come out at this time and we just want to fit in or we just want to stand out.
I was lucky enough to win tickets to the advance screening of the 21 Jump St movie on Monday and it got me thinking about the whole notion of going back to high school and how our old versions of ourselves would be seen as now.
I was a nerd at high school. I had hand made or hand me down clothes (or they came from the op shop, Venture or Fosseys - does anyone remember those shops?) and my family recycled everything (literally), made everything, we had to work in and around the house and the only holidays that we went on were camps. I still carried a lunch box when everyone else was carrying a paper bag or buying lunch orders. I wore glasses ("Four Eyes"). I had a school bag that wasn't standard issue, it was an ex-army one that I had drawn on and sewn patches on from Aussie Disposals.
In the eighties that was really uncool.
Now it would be seen as cool (well at least in my suburb it would).
The world at some stage between the eighties and now turned upside down and the uncool became ok. I just peaked too early.
I spent the whole of my high school years sitting on the edge of friendship circles as I didn't really fit to any mould that had been pre-set in anyone's head. They liked me (I knew that), but given that I was a bit freaky and weird (I had no TV for instance to add to the other odd things which meant I couldn't converse about whatever the pop culture was - and still can't recall back to the "good-ol'-days"), the girls couldn't work out which group I should belong to, so I drifted between a few. I luckily had a couple of good friends who stuck by me and my social disabilities, my awkwardness, even seeming to enjoy my seemingly weirdness (one great friend remarked one day that she loved how my house always smelt of food, and that our afternoon tea was great because there were jars of dried fruit and nuts open to eat).
How would I go now? I don't know. Times have changed so much. Now it is more ok for people to be different. There is more expression of individuality. There is more openness and discussion about difference. Ok for some people to not have a TV (or not to watch it - but then is it ok not to have a computer?).
People in high school will always feel awkward or socially disabled for some reason or another. Perhaps that is a true reflection of our community - the haves and the have nots.
Every since I can remember, I couldn't understand why people saw others as different to themselves. As far as I knew, we were all the same in the end.
Henry Reynold's book Why Weren't We Told is about the discovery process that he went through (and I subsequently did too) as to how the older generation in Australia had grown up with different baggage that over the generations we have slowly been able to let go of.
Historian from Tasmania, Henry spent time living in England before returning to Australia to live in Townsville in the 60's (and I believe still does). He was confronted by the racism that was right in front of him and was accepted as ok. He took it on as something he needed to learn more about, to understand. In doing so, he became friends with Eddie Mabo (of the Land Title Case), learnt about injustice towards Aboriginal children and had to rethink his idea of Australia's supposed peaceful and heroic history.
Henry explores the history, the true history of Australia. He doesn't glorify either side, the English or Aboriginal side, he just tries to get to the bottom of a lot of the untold, accepted or hidden stories. The outcome is a sad story of many lost lives, of murder, of trusts and betrayals and of genocide. I found it shocking and moving. It is the history lesson that I was never taught and that should be taught to all Australian's.
Reynold's also highlights how much we as a people of Australia are much better at tolerating, respecting and reconciling than we ever were before. I found it an important point to make and to keep these things in mind so as not to feel weary.
After traveling through Australia in 2010 for 9 months, visiting some communities and meeting many more Indigenous people, I had come home feeling perplexed and angry about the way white Australia treated (mistreated) the traditional owners of our land: the language, the infrastructure, the policies and general patronising. I felt very little hope at that stage for the repair, reconciliation between the general white Australia and the Indigenous community that most people never see or hear.
A good friend of mine could see me struggling with this and recommended that I read this book to help my understanding of the history, Indigenous people and people who still call Indigenous people atrocious names - and think it's ok - the racist people of our country.
After reading Henry Reynolds book, Why Weren't We Told, I can now see we (Australia) is actually with hope and that we have to live with that. Things are going to get better and it starts with each of us taking the time.
Worth a read? You bet!!
OK I am the first one to say, exercise does not come easily to me. There you are, I have said it, it is out there, big and bold.
I am an Endomorph (or maybe a Mesomorph - I can't decide and it probably doesn't matter) according to Dr Sheldon (ie look at a cake and put on weight because I accidentally ate the whole thing and am to sluggish to be bothered exercising) and my 6 foot 2 husband is an Ecomorph (ie skinny as a bean pole with the metabolism of a rocket)
So, obviously my husband and the offspring that have taken on his traits do not see the need to get out there and exercise (characteristics of an ectomorph are: fast metabolism, naturally thin or wiry, find it hard to gain weight, naturally lower in strength levels, often higher in energy levels and tend to be over-active - Fitness Friday: Knowing Your Body Type).
I also, with my body type have a tendency not jump up and "get out there" (naturally overweight, gain fat easily, find it difficult to lose the fat, larger around the waist, possibly sensitive to the carbohydrates - particularly processed and refined carbs, slow metabolism, body shape is more rounded or pear shaped, often has reasonable strength levels - Fitness Friday: Knowing Your Body Type). Wow! If only I had known all of that when I was so much younger, I would have understood myself as a teenager!
What do they say? Opposites attract? We are the opposites and neither of us have ever, I repeat, ever done exercise as a regular thing. I have had a dawning, a moment, a realisation now that I am, ahem, a little over the other side of young that I no longer have a choice. My body is SCREAMING at me to exercise. It needs my attention. I can kid myself no longer that a little bit here and there will be enough. I do know that when we travelled for 9 months putting a tent up and down every other day and moving boxes in and out of a trailer and onto the roof of the truck, I was the fittest I had EVER been two years ago. My body thanked me then.
My greatest difficult with exercise is always myself. I stop myself. I think I am too tired to go. I come up with the excuses and reasons before I have even started. This year I had made a goal that I would exercise 3 times a week and thought that this would help. It is now March and for the first 2 months nothing really happened.
I spoke with a friend about it and she told me that I really had to make a regular time to exercise (apparently this is what people do - who knew). So I looked at all of the classes that looked really good and highlighted them. I would be going out every night. Already I had set it up to fail. I didn't get to anything. On a Monday morning a friend dragged me along to a yoga class. It was great to stretch out my poor old twisted up muscles. I booked in for the term, that was a good regular thing. Two weeks in I didn't feel like it was enough.
On Sunday afternoon, my listless moment of the week, I grabbed my swimmers, goggles and towel and walked out the door with no takers. Thirty laps later I felt great. That is what exercise does. It makes you feel great. I promised myself there and then that those 3 times a week were a must (not to include the yoga as that wasn't cardio). So now I have committed Tuesday and Thursday mornings to cardio exercise and accomplished my first week and promised myself not to allow anything to get in the way of it from here. I have even "booked" it into my diary.
I swam, I rode and I walked really fast. I did my mini triathlon. Yippee!
I pushed those arthritic joints to their maximum and I didn't die, I didn't even get a migraine (double yipee), I might even live a little longer.
Bonuses were that I had endorphins buzzing around me, I wasn't nearly as tired at night as I thought I would be, I smiled more, I saw more of the world because I was riding and walking in it, I had time to think, and I felt the sun on me. I am sure there are even more than that, but even with those, that is enough for me to keep it up!
I don't think that I could have read this book on a better day in my life. I read the entire book in a day (except for the first 20 pages which I read when I crawled into bed and promptly fell asleep) as I needed to finish it for book club last night, and it was a wonderful book to read in one hit. It is a really long time since I have sat down and read an entire book in one go (I have kids for those who are wondering). This is not the reason, however, as to why it was a great day to read Julian Barnes' "The Sense of an Ending" on Wednesday.
On Tuesday at my Wednesday writing group (which has suddenly turned into a Tuesday writing group due to my tutor's Masters lectures) we were talking about a character being developed in writing by the choices and decisions they make, and the consequences of these and did various exercises around this.
This book is a brilliant example of this character development.
Julian Barnes shows us over this novel the character of Anthony, the main protagonist, by letting us hear how he wrangles through life with the consequences of the decisions he made in adolescence, and the damage that is left for him to try to understand what happened. It does take him a lifetime to learn about himself and those who he was entangled with to be ready to hear and to understand. Tony, or Anthony, grapples with memory, as he remembers his adolescence as it was, or was it?
Me reading with my many tags of his brilliant lines
Definitely a book I would recommend. A most enjoyable thought provoking read of memory, aging, identity, relationships, letting go and holding on, and adolescence and young adulthood and the behaviours that surround those years.
I want to share with you some of my favourite lines from this book - some of those lovely coloured flags that I stuck on!
"And there was no arguing against 'feelings', because women were experts in them, men coarse beginners. So 'It doesn't feel right' had far more persuasive force and irrefutability than any appeal to church doctrine or a mother's advice" pg 23
"Some Englishman once said that is long dull meal with pudding served first." pg 54
"Have you noticed how, when you talk to some like a solicitor, after a while you stop sounding like yourself and end up sounding like them." pg 68
"The more you learn, the less you fear. 'Learn' not in the sense of academic study, but in the practical understanding of life." pg 82
"Margaret used to say that women often made the mistake of of keeping their hair in the style they adopted when they were at their most attractive. They hung on long after it became inappropriate, all because they were afraid of the the big cut." pg 91
"I remember a period in late adolescence when my mind would make itself drunk with images of adventurousness." pg 93
"Compliments of the seasons to you, and may the the acid rain fall on your joint and anointed heads." pg 97
Concerning character development, whether characters develop over time: "Our attitudes and opinions change, we develop new habits and eccentricities; but that something different, more like decoration." pg 193
"May you be ordinary, as the poet once wished the new-born baby." pg 144
This is not the kind of book I would have necessarily picked up given the choice, however, it was on our book club list so, being an obedient reader, I have read it. We only have one copy between us as it was deemed quite difficult to get hold of so there was pressure to read to pass on. That all being said, now having read it, I immensely enjoyed it.
It is a truly remarkable life story of a strong and determined woman (I could also call her a tom-boy, remarkable, goer and incredibly driven). The main thrust of the book focuses on her adventurous drive from Melbourne to Monte Carlo in 1933, staying in London and all of the races and rallies she participated in, to her eventual return to Melbourne in 1946.
Joan had come from a privileged family who put her in good stead for her life, opening doors for her, especially in a time where women did not have as many opportunities. She was one who knew how to make the most of each situation, and it was this that enabled her to spend so much time, devote her time to racing cars in rallies throughout Europe, even when the Nazi's had begun their assault on Germany and surrounding countries.
"..Not being one for not taking advantage of a favourable situation..." pg 240 re: getting pistons made for her Fiat at Specialloid during the war when there were no pistons available when she was working for de Havillands.
This book is an incredible snapshot of a strong and feisty woman's view of life between 1933 and 1946 whilst she was living in London. She tells the story to David Price of the races, rallies, co-drivers and cars, but reading between the lines, one is able to hear how times were for the people, how times changed so rapidly, how she was affected and how they were affected.
She shows an incredible insight to what was about to happen, and being a woman, not afraid to speak up and ask questions. On meeting Herr Huhnlein at the Donington Grand Prix in 1938 and seeing their Mercedes on the stand at the The London Motor Show, she questioned him about the rear platform on the car.
"..he told me that it was to mount the machine gun or an anti-aircraft gun..."
She questioned him further about this.
"...We are not fighting you..."
He laughed it off and she tried to persist, however Lord Howe hushed her, embarrassed at her persisting. She wondered why England did not see and learn from what they had seen. pg 212
It is a story of the difference of the rights that women have from then to now in that she documents it by telling David what she was able to do and not able to do. For a woman to compete in a man's sport was remarkable and to do well at it, even more so. Joan was very proud of her driving abilities and I got the feeling that she thought she had been overlooked either due to being a woman, or due to the car that she had been given to drive (sponsored).
"..I think we were cheated out of the Ladies Cup, because they cut out some events on the flat, where our nimble little excelled..." pg 192.
Joan returned to Melbourne, unhappily with her mother, to live in her eyes an unremarkable life for the last half of her life. In reality it was anything but unremarkable, it was just not racing cars.
I had thought this was going to be a dry, motoring autobiography (I have never in my life read one of these), but I was drawn into Joan's life. A woman who would do anything to get what she wanted in a time when the world was in turmoil, when women did not have the same choices that we do now. I found it a very interesting book, even the car bits, but probably most especially the social observations that she made.
I am joining in with Lillie McFerrin's Five Sentence Fiction this week and the word for inspiration is 'Enchanted'. Pop over to Lillie's blog to see the other people who are writing and join in!
Amelia grabbed the tatty calico bag and raced out the door, flinging it behind her, shouting abstract words that were not strung together, something about shops, milk and breadrolls, to the kids as they sat at the long wooden table eating their muesli. She hadn't washed her face, done her hair or thought about what she was wearing, she had just fallen into the closest clothes to her bedside when her youngest tapped her on the shoulder at 7.30. Feeling pleased with herself at the bulging bag of pumpkin seeded rye bagels, she walked against the oncoming tide of train users. Amelia allowed herself to look up to the eyes of the fragrant suited young man, swallowed his smile and sucked in his aroma. She walked through the tide of fragrance, the smell of freedom and she was lost.
This week's Write on Wednesday exercise is about "Small Expectations": imagining myself as tiny as my thumb, where would I live, what would I do? Pop over to Ink Paper Pen if you would like to join in with the Write on Wednesday exercise this week. The link on it will be open until the end of Friday.
I stretched out my curled up body from of the warmth of my home. The sweet smell of the surrounding nectar was calling me as was the birdsong. It must be morning time. That rumble in my tummy was becoming tremulous and threatening to rock me out of my rather precarious home. I needed food now. I crawled out of my gum nut, shaking off the old seeds, grabbing what I could to pop them in my mouth. They were hard to chew, and made me thirsty, but kept the hunger away for a while. I saw a drop of dew on a nearby leaf and sucked it up to quench my thirsty while I looked around for my friends.
"Sssoo, ssweety, you're awake again?" It was Silver, the slippery tiger snake, startling me as he stared at me with his hungry eyes. I stood very tall. I felt very tall now as I was as tall as the largest gum leaf on my tree but still I picked up my pronged stick that lay near my gum nut and held out in front of me with all my might.
"What do you want, Silver?" I shouted using my loudest, fiercest voice.
"He's mine, Silver, lay off, ha haaa haaa" In swooped my friend, Cassandra the Kookaburra, "Hungry, Gerry? Let's go grab some tucker! Jump on."
I jumped on her back and clutched at a any feathers I could so that I didn't fall off as she took off, swooping here and there, up and down, in and out of the trees, down into the grass, over the billabong. My legs flew out behind me as my body bounced along. I loved flying with Cassie. I wanted wings like Cassandra so that I could go wherever I wanted, escape from the Silver and Rascal the red-back spider. Oh, to glide through the air, up to the top of the trees, out the end of the earth and back again, to the stars and the moon, out the best of the nectar, the sweetest pieces of food, to find other friends to play with, oh, I wanted to fly so badly.
I stretched my arms out to feel what it felt like to fly, flapping them just like Cassandra did. Cassandra's body kept moving away from me, I was flying! I was in the air and flying! I flapped harder and harder but I was going down, down to the ground, to the thick, thick grass, where Silver's friends lived.
"Help, HELP, HELP! CASSANDRA!!!"
I felt a whoosh beneath me as the beige and blue feathers came from behind me and collected me just before I landed.
"Why did you let go Gerry?" She called as she made for the nearest tree to land, clearly shaken.
"I'm sorry, Cassi, I'm sorry. I just want to be like you." I buried my face in her back and cried as she carried me to safety.
"You're safe now Gerry." Cassi soothed, "You don't need to be like me, you are your own self and that self is wonderful." Cassi wrapped her wings around me as we perched up high in the trees overlooking the grasslands, safe.