As I sat on the ragged purple rocks, watching black waterbirds spread their wings and a seal peek above the waves, I realized that if the ocean were drained away, the placid blue landscape would give way to a network of chasms into which one could fall and never be found. Is not the mystery of God the same? If we were given liberty to step into His divine mind, we would find ourselves overwhelmed, terrified, struck with a wonder too great to bear within our weak human flesh. And so those chasms remain hidden. Just as the tide recedes, revealing only a fragment of what lies beneath the surface, so too does God reveal only fragments of His mystery to us, one gift at a time.

Here in this place so far from home, God has allowed the tide to recede until I am, at times, almost overwhelmed, terrified, struck with uncontainable wonder. His ways are indeed mysterious; I never could have guessed that my life would unfold as it has. With every beautiful relationship I have formed, every light-soaked day by the ocean, He has proven to me that an oasis in the desert does exist. I know the desert will come again, as it must if my roots are to continue pushing down in faith, but growth happens here too, in the oasis. My leaves have unfurled, my flowers blossomed, as they never have before. And when the tide encroaches again, my roots will drink deep from that lush crown given me by God.

You may never see that soul again, but it doesn’t matter. Two souls colliding in the dark cosmos, a brief but brilliant spark, speak a word: love is light. Existence, the cold void, is relieved by the light. Yes, the light must be, or we cannot survive. Burn, then, in the moment, because that spark will speak, to you, to him, to her: You are loved.

From afar, the rock formation rising from the ocean was indeed a rugged, beautiful thing, enough to draw me across the beach and climb up its back, but not until I reached the top did I realize just how beautiful. Settling onto a little elbow jutting out over the water, I looked down and saw beneath my perch a sight that could have been tropical: gray-amber kelp blooming from the submerged rocks, swishing languidly back and forth in the translucent turquoise tide. I could see the seabed below, perhaps ten feet down.

As I began thumbing my red crystal beads, I wondered how to enter into the Sorrowful Mysteries whilst immersed in such dazzling creation.

Jesus’s words came to mind: I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.

And I suddenly understood. He had suffered the lash, the thorns, the cross, the desolation, to give me this spectacular day. I don’t mean the transitory beauty, because even an atheist could appreciate this view. No, beauty becomes that much sweeter when faith is present, because one realizes that everything beautiful on earth is a gift of Love and merely a foretaste of Heaven. Life abundant flows from this world into the next.

I pass through smatterings of wet leaves as I wend my way though the streets to that enchanting place called a library. Someone is barbecuing sausages on this crisp fall afternoon—I can almost taste the sweet maple flavor. And despite the drizzle, expensive dogs are out walking their owners: brindles, poodles, basset hounds. Ah, give me a shaggy mutt, I think, even as I smile at whomever I pass.

But the library—yes, the library. Here we are.

Enthroned on a slope, it rises from among elderly trees with Pride and Prejudice-style beauty. Its body is patchwork stone, its crown pale green slate. And it boasts tall windows. For a little while, I can pretend this is not 2014.

Inside, I experience a microcosmic thrill compared to what Belle must have felt in those airy spaces of the Beast’s book collection. These coffered ceilings are not quite as high, but still impressive, and the woodwork dark. I sit at a long, lamplit table where I lay my laptop, and I can’t help but be encouraged by the many published books surrounding me.

On my right is a yawning fireplace—yawning like the carved lion’s head presiding above it. The grate holds birch logs that will not be set ablaze when winter seizes the island; display only, I am told. A pity, I think. What marvelous memories might have been made between two souls chatting over cocoa?

But solace in the chill may be found in gazing out the lofty panes to watch snowflakes cascading from Heaven—God decorating His creation with delicate icing that melts on the tongue.

Here, in the silence between a million pages, I hope to birth a second fruit—a new story, God willing. I’ve been told that more than one historical figure came to Nahant to spin stories, and it’s no mystery as to why: they were bewitched, forced by the sheer nature of the island’s rugged beaches, lush foliage, and serpentine roads to write. It is impossible not to love this place, and a wondrous place to fall in love. Yes, I do believe it is.

Upstairs, there is a creaking wooden staircase that beckons to a low door in the shadows. I confess, I turned the knob, but to no avail. Whatever secrets lie beyond belong to a key I do not carry. Enough secrets on this side, though, to satiate a hungry mind; there are shelves upon shelves loaded with truths and falsehoods and everything in between. Bare lightbulbs illuminate the aisles. Which book to lay my hand upon? Another confession I must make: I will not be renting books here. This library is solely a haven where I can escape the organs within an ordinary home: broom and pan, dishes, spray bottles. Here, locked in the curious balance between sunlight and gloom, I can be an 18th century authoress, pinion poised above parchment. And then I tune into that incessant clicking sound and realize that I am indeed prisoner to the 21st century. Funny that this laptop should release me into other worlds, even as it chains me to this one.

I am rambling, but this must be somewhat impossible to avoid while one is sitting in a place where stories dwell.

Nahant is as lovely as I remember, if not more lovely. Since my arrival, almost every day has been blue, sometimes tufted with benign clouds. There is a bench overlooking the nearby beach that I like to occupy in the mornings, letting myself be lulled by the sun and the cries of the gulls as I pray. Later, when the light is falling behind the sea, you can descend to investigate the sand at low tide. If you’re feeling childlike, you might pitch a handful to watch it shatter midair. Against the backdrop of a salmon-colored sunset, you will always find sailboats, rolling gently. And when it is dark, you might see the twinkling lights of a cruise ship passing by.

Two days ago I discovered a quiet road that winds along a treacherously rocky shoreline. Stately houses stand guard above, looking out to sea as if awaiting the return of a wartime ship. One house looks out with blank eyes—the windows smoky, the green shutters weathered—and the lawn is prisoner to ferns and deadfall, an impenetrable tangle. It looks as if it could belong to an old hag that the island children fear to disturb.

I return from my explorations to a humble house where I make myself busy. I love the view from the kitchen window. A retinue of smaller trees cluster around a massive exotic-looking weeping tree—the kind you would expect to find baboons perched in. I like to keep the window open, welcoming in the fresh breeze, the sunlight, and the chittering of birds. A few trees on Nahant are turning a delicious red foreign to the prairies I come from, but most leaves are telling me summer is not quite over. I believe them. On this island, it feels as if summer could last forever.

I never expected to find myself living on a little island called Nahant. You may find this strange, but my story begins in Spain.

If you have read The Harbour, found under Short Works on my site, you know that I walked the Camino de Santiago in May 2014. On this pilgrimage, I met a seminarian whom I forged a beautiful friendship with in the few days that we spent together—walking, talking, and praying—and when it came time to part ways, he invited me to come visit him in Boston, Massachusetts.

I flew to Boston in August. My friend picked me up that night and drove me out across the black ocean to the mile-by-mile island called Nahant. I was to stay with friends of his. My first night there was grace-filled. I discovered that the house is consecrated to Mary, she who I had consecrated myself to only days before. And I felt instant kinship with the family. When I settled into bed, my soul was at rest.

Next morning I awoke far too early, but could not fall asleep again. I decided to walk to the ocean. In the golden light, with the smell of the ocean in the air, my heart was sighing; I knew there was something special about this place. And when I sat on a bench above the shell-strewn beach, God swooped in and overwhelmed me with the sense that, as He blesses me in profound ways (such as with the Camino and a subsequent trip to Boston), an exciting story is unfolding. I figure He knows nothing less would satisfy this writer’s heart.

By week’s end, I had discerned to return to Nahant. I will be living with this family for a time, keeping house, exploring, writing. I imagine I will take my laptop to the various points on the island and type away in the breeze, multicolored sailboats and Boston’s towers on the horizon.

Tomorrow, I fly.

For the past week, it looks like I have not been receiving emails to my new email address: author@denisemallett.com

So, if you have tried to contact me via that address (which includes the contact form on my site), you can try again using that same address. Hopefully we have the problem solved. Thank you!

The inspiration for The Tree lives in a dream. I suppose that sounds epic, right? Calm yourself—I wouldn’t call the dream epic, although you may or may not agree that there was something vaguely special about it.

I was flying. Not in a plane, mind you. Just me and the pale blue sky, and the air around me motionless, as if holding its breath (in hindsight, I think it was). I was flying over a rugged mountain range. Below me, I spied a village, nestled among the snowy peaks; as I descended toward it, I realized there was a stone wall enclosing the cottages. And planted in an alcove in the wall was a tree, only a little taller than myself—nothing epic, much like the dream itself. Its fruit resembled peaches. (I will tell you a secret: the book was named The Peach Tree for a few years before I decided to go with something nonspecific and perhaps a bit classier.) I landed there in the alcove, pausing to take in the village. It was almost surreal in its silence, in its utter emptiness. I saw not a soul, not even a misty face at the window. A thread of disquiet wound itself around me as I reached to pick a fruit. It was soft on my palms, and large enough that both hands were required to hold it. When I bit into it, two things happened: I decided it was far too watery to be delicious—and from the cottages came flooding the villagers, freed from hiding by my appetite. Hearing their voices raised in alarm, I knew I had done something wrong. I dropped the fruit and flew up, up, up before they could nab me and do Heaven-knows-what to me.

This dream was enough to set my wheels turning; the next morning I sat down to begin writing a story.

Funny thing is, the biggest bump in the road did not come in the early stages when I was still discovering my style, but only this past spring (2014). Only days before sending the PDF off to be printed by Staples and distributed to reviewers, I stumbled across a hole that forced me to delve in and edit parts I had thought I was through with, never to touch again.

I’ve loved and hated this book. I hated it then.

I spent many a meal in April with my head in my hands, my eyes literally burning with the mental power I was calling upon to find the answer—even as I knew it could not be me but God who must fill the hole. I cried out to Him—inwardly and outwardly. I wanted to know why, after every other hole He had filled, why was He abandoning me now? I didn’t sleep much; my journal was steadily filling with nonsensical notes. I continued to interrupt my dad during his blog-writing to ask his advice. He offered glimpses of hope—I grabbed them, scrawled some more in my journal, spilled a few more tears . . . and finally realized that I was that artist who cannot stop herself from overworking her painting. In the end, what is left but mud? I quieted myself. And the dust settled.

I had fried my eyes for nothing, really. I had been trying to tie all the strings together, and when I paused to take a breath, God said, “No, tie these two together. Good. Now tie these two together. Good. Step back. You see? Your shoes are tied now—but not tied together. You can walk. This story can and will walk.”

Some beautiful fruit came from that experience—a twist in the plot, as well as my fortified trust in God’s ways. I’m telling you now: I know who wrote The Tree. It wasn’t me. I pray that, by the time you close the covers on the book, you will wholeheartedly agree.

Christmas always seems to come out of nowhere, right? Which is why I highly recommend you order now. =) My publisher is offering a New Release Special: Buy 2, get 1 free! Also, for a limited time only, shipping per book is only $7.00! Our big loss is your gain! Ending September 30th, 2014. And by the way—all online orders over $75.00 get FREE SHIPPING anywhere in North America!

Please help spread the word about The Tree via Facebook. (I’ll admit, Facebook is gonna take some getting used to—I’ve resisted it all these years, you see. But as the last three popes have said—the media is a means to evangelize!)

Peace,
Denise