Indie Author News recently interviewed me, and one question in particular elicited gratitude--and respect. Alan Kealey asked,

Who are your favorite writers, your favorite books...? My response:

Maya Angelou will always hold a very special place in my heart, because she gave me permission to write about the struggles that I had held secretly within my soul. She opened the doors behind which sexual abuse and domestic violence thrive, and with her courage she paved a path of monumental change. Though I was not fortunate to meet her, she will always be my mentor.

Poet Mary Oliver’s verses speak to my soul. Her ponderings draw me into mystery, where I am brought to a deeper level of understanding. Inevitably, her choice of words guides my own. For instance, this comment left me speechless: “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” How extraordinary!

Oriah Mountain Dreamer’s writing is of similar quality to that of Mary Oliver—it is honest, pure, loving, and transformative. She knows pain and sorrow and yet has found joy. She is like the sister I have never met, a friend who by her life teaches me how to live.

In addition the works of the authors mentioned above, though, there are many others that are part of my life. Viktor E. Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s Hymn of the Universe, are just a few that crowd my bookcases and my dreams.
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I feel very indebted to the writers mentioned above, but I also feel a kinship--almost as though they are part of my family. Isn't this true for all of us? Don't we read for that sense of connection? And, when we discover that another has traveled a similar path as we, isn't it then that we become friends? 

There is a reason a person writes; I try to find that reason. I want to know the person sitting at his or her desk, and when I discover the author's heartbeat between the lines of prose, I join them on their journey.

Fifty years ago I attended a small community college in the deserts of California. Last week I returned to guest teach a psychology class.
Looking out over the sea of beautiful young faces, I recalled my early college years--the commute from the farm, the new friends next to me...and my dreams. 

When I was a freshman in college, I wanted to become a medical doctor and travel the world helping those most in need. I could not have imagined the life that actually unfolded for me. I was young--naïve, and did not know life's complexities.

My presentation began with a discussion about secrets, about how we hide our traumas deep within our hearts. We want others to see us as perfect, and so we smile when we are actually distraught. To illustrate my point, I introduced them to two students--one wealthy one not, one light one dark. Each young woman had became pregnant while attending the prestigious college at which I worked. Neither student sought help; neither student shared their secret--one of an abusive boyfriend, the other of rape.

One had her baby alone and nearly died; the infant did not survive. The other student gave her baby away to someone who did not know of the rape. Both had secrets that had gone awry.

Think about your secrets; we all have them, we all try to ignore them, we all pretend they don't exist. And yet we judge others for theirs--when the terror becomes public. What if our secrets--of rape, of an unwanted pregnancy, of incest, of domestic violence.....were exposed? Would we still point our finger at someone else?

Two young women multiplied by thousands experience violence every year. Most keep this experience a secret. Why?

Why did I stay in an unhealthy relationship for so many years? Why did I keep it a secret?

The simple answer is--"I" was not there. "I" had died inside; "I" was a mannequin going through the motions of life. The complicated answer is I was afraid--of my former spouse, of what the church-you-society would think, of whether or not I could support my children, I was afraid of life.

It was when I began writing my book, that I was guided through the corridors of my heart, which I had sealed decades before. The years of abuse were long past and in tow—its numbness, and so it was that tears and gasps came and went--because they could.

The dramas that once controlled my life and held me captive are no more; and, the person I was decades ago lives only in ashen memories. But I wonder....about you, and you, the 1.3 million women who are victims of physical assault by their intimate partner each year--do you feel safe to share your secret?

Mark your calendar for a .99 Kindle Book Sale.

September 12-13-14 the Kindle version of Letting Go Into Perfect Love, Discovering the Extraordinary After Abuse will be on sale for 99cents.

The reviews are excellent, the buzz is "must read" "riveting" "inspirational". Check out the Amazon page for full reviews.

by Gwendolyn Plano

My friend and colleague, Fran Kramer, has worked with dream interpretation for 40 years. She holds multiple academic degrees and is trained and certified by the Edgar Cayce Institute for Intuitive Studies. Fran uses intuition to heal, problem solve and create.

When Fran invited me to submit a reflection for her blog, I considered it an honor. The following is what I submitted: 

From: The Healing Dream Garden, posted August 7, 2014

I grew up on a small farm in southern California, surrounded by cotton fields and grazing cattle. We were isolated from much of the world; but, the arid landscape was fertile ground for dreams. Once tucked into bed and sound asleep, I traveled–to far off lands. I knew I would someday leave the farm; because, I saw that it would be so–through my dreams.

When I got married, though, my nighttime reveries of soaring high into the clouds and traveling to one continent after another, changed. In fact, my dreams terrified me so much that I did not want to sleep. I would awaken with heart pounding, terror gripping—to images of a baby dying in my stalled car. I would frantically try to revive the child and then rouse fearfully from my bed. Visions of a shriveled, lifeless toddler haunted me night after night. And in each episode, I was desperately trying to save the child. I did not know what these dreams meant at the time; but, I worried about my children. Were the dreams about one of them?

Two years ago I began writing my memoir, Letting Go into Perfect Love. In preparation, I re-read my old journals and walked through the years. I had forgotten about my night terrors until seeing them chronicled in my notes. What had perplexed me in years past was now very clear.

For more than two decades I was in an abusive marriage. I lived afraid of mistakes, of saying the wrong thing, of being me. Joy was transient or not at all. I effectively hid from life, behind a closeted door of shame.

My dreams during this unwholesome marriage were about me, and more specifically, my lifeless inner child.

Through repetitive dreams, my subconscious was trying to get my attention. But, I could not hear its speech; because, my intuitive creative child lay lifeless in my nocturnal arms. With time and much counseling, though, this precious part of me revived and through her playful interjections, she helped me piece together a life that is once again mine.

Fran's Reflection on my Repetative Dream

With horrific dreams my experience has been that we tend to want to find the meaning outside of ourselves, or take them to be literally true as you did when the dream made you worry about your children. That is why as a starter to working on most dreams, I often like to use the classic dreamwork method taught by Fritz Perls that everything in the dream is part of yourself. It is the quickest and one of the most effective ways of getting to the primary message. I also believe, along with Edgar Cayce, that dreams can have many levels of meanings so the dream could have been making a comment on possible concerns you had for your children at that time, too.  If it was my dream and I had kids, I think that would be the case for me.