the Bringer of Happiness

 Time has flown since I last added to this blog, and we are still in the process of learning to live (and die) with COVID. My writing continues to grow and my second manuscript, once entitled The Invisible Woman, has now blossomed into 'the Bringer of Happiness.'

The child of Jesus and Mary Magdalene is different from other people. She time travels forward into other people's bodies.

Sara, whose Aramaic name means ‘the bringer of happiness’ needs to learn how to control her time travel to save a young Cathar girl, Sarah-Marie, from the 13^th Century siege at Montsegur. By rescuing Sarah-Marie, Sara hopes to save the writings of Mary Magdalene. This, she believes is her destiny.

My novels are grouped in a thematic series called Women Unveiled. Each novel can be read separately and are united by a distinctive feminine narrative of experiences within societal boundaries and transitions. The series blends Greek mythology, research and imagination in the telling of (almost true) stories. 

The Bringer of Happiness draws on research of the historical Jesus and Mary Magdalene, who at times are quite different from their biblical personas. It was inspired from my travels to Southern France (steeped in folklore pertaining to Mary Magdalene), and which earlier musings can be found on this blogsite. 

If you would like to pre-order the Bringer of Happiness please sign up to my e-news via my web site kazjoypress.com

This is a DRAFT of the opening chapter. Between now and its release, it may change, but I thought you may like a taster.

Before we begin

I should have assumed with parents known to the world as Mary Magdalene and Jesus Christ, I would be different.

Our individuality emerges at the junction between universality and uniqueness. Our parents guide us to this merge, which is comprised of a multitude of discrete moments existing in a state of perpetual collision, then abandon us to fend for ourselves. This chaos inspires the Moirai - the three sisters of Fate, in their selection of layering yarns to weave the tapestry of our life. Each thread is a moment consisting of options, judgments and tests to ascertain the nature of our identity. The diversity of moments out-number the fleas on a feral Egyptian dog.

Moments are accused of being random. On the contrary, they are passages of time laden with destiny. Moments offer choice; a split decision to avert disaster or create it. A teetering moment hinged on a precipice of uncertainty unfolds in slow motion the devastation of a landslide, or passes in a flicker, barely registering a missed or otherwise lucky opportunity. Moments may strike, leaving bruises in their wake, or cause the merest of ripples. Sneaky moments provide distractions for other moments to creep up unawares. Whatever their guise, never forget moments carry messages from the gods.  

From the myriad moments shaping my life, three are significant. The first announces itself through an idle awakening, as if I am a plump lamb on a rotisserie, heating from pink to brown to charcoal. Swathed within my hammock I watch the ceiling approach. Too close. But it is not the ceiling looming in for a better look. Without forewarning, I float and hover above my fleshy form still encased in my hammock. It is fun. At first, I float out of my body, but later I wake-up in other people. This difference separates me from my peers. I would be the Ulysses of my generation; except I have no generation.

Stories splice moments and memories together providing a sense of cohesion when recalled from the past. Herein lies a subtle nuance of my difference. My stories come from the future. I am a swaddled babe in a hammock and my memories are future moments yet to be lived. It is not remarkable I travel forward in time or inhabit bodies. What is noteworthy is my capacity to remember. This should not be too difficult to accept, being in the year 34 AD, everything lies before me.

My second notable moment is the opposite of my first. I have to hunt it out. It is evasive, secretive, hiding in the shadows. It calls, beckoning me. It is an enigma. When floating, I almost grasp it, yet it belongs to my body, not my spirit. It is my destiny.

As I heed my call and follow my path through wildflowers of choice, I pluck the brightest blooms searching for clues, asking: why am I here? What is my purpose? But everything is ambiguous. I have to live my destiny rather than see it. Which is frustrating, because on one hand, my life seems spontaneous, unique and unrehearsed, and on the other, I feel like I am playing a role and re-enacting a story I once knew but have forgotten. My destiny feels close, but I have chosen weeds. I am looking in the wrong direction.

The Moirai incorporate vibrations in their craft, and their ethereal soundtrack dances me through a labyrinth toward the centre of my being. Arriving at this third moment will reveal my Minotaur and I shall name it. Names are important.

My name is Sara. It is an Aramaic word meaning ‘bringer of happiness.’ Names often inscribe the life purpose of the bearer, and because this is easy to forget due to life’s many distractions, names are a reminder of the responsibilities that lie ahead. My name implies such a role.

                                                           

A singular moment: He is standing at my cradle. He wears leather sandals but prefers barefoot. Sava and Martha sit by the oil lamp sewing. He speaks and my heart melts and lightness spreads through my body. I expel my breath and hold my hands tight. I do not want to fidget. If I move, his words will seep out from under my skin, lost forever. This is the one memory I have of Papa speaking to me. My life on the other hand, is full of moments of Mama.

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