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Writing Wendl...

I really did want to write a light-hearted tale in case this one turns out to be my last novel (assuming it yet becomes a novel), but it's headed currently toward the shadows. I thought I knew Wendl Von Trier pretty well, having trekked with him through my previous book, The Winged Child .   There, Wendl presents as an elusive solitary, moving above all worldly fray while at the same time nudging events and characters toward a satisfactory conclusion. Sharp and intimidating on the outside and tender and motherly on the inside. A friend to the world, something of a trickster, but in all things working for good outcomes.  That is how I saw Wendl VonTrier. A  púka, mischievous, but essentially harmless, even benevolent, capable of presenting in whatever form or gender the moment required. Wendl seemed the ideal candidate to carry readers off into the literary sunset in good spirits after an exhilarating romp through a fantastical fiction. But all along, it seems, there were depths to

Life is...

Life is irrepressible, and the smaller it's form, the more tenaciously it holds onto being. The recent snowfall had only hours before begun to retreat from our little tsubo niwa when the Ceratodon purpureus at the foot of a little Abies grandis began to green up and thrust their brilliant red sporophytes toward the sun. Only a couple of centimeters in that direction was the best they could manage, but that's high enough to fling the spores where they need to go.

Don't be too impressed with my Latin labeling here. Fire Moss is the only moss whose Latin name I know. I promise to learn more. We have two wee trees in the garden, a blue spruce (Picea pungens) and the Grand Fir (Abies grandis) whose trunk you can glimpse in the picture. Those two are the only conifers I know by their proper botanical names, which makes me unduly eager to hide my ignorance behind them.

Henry's books.


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