Excerpt from my novel dedicated to Margaret Lillian Rose King, my Mother. ~ by Sherry A King

CR Rozier is the fictional author of When The Extraordinary Becomes The Ordinary. Is she real? As real as I am. I have written her (my alter-ego) into existence to reinterpret my life into a novel with enough twists and turns to hopefully keep you interested enough to soldier on to the end. Her characters, many of whom are various aspects of myself, reflect “what was” and “what could have been” in my younger life, and the true events that took me from Knoxville, TN, to NYC, then on to Nashville and a decade as a recording artist.

CR then reimagines my retreat from the world of Country music to the short-lived cocoon of religion, then on to my pursuit of how and why I became chronically ill. All are woven into the path that finally led me to the realms of consciousness I now access for the information and wisdom needed to not only heal myself, but to also serve others who seek healing for both their body and spirit. The simple answer I sought for many years was revealed by the characters in a novel I never imagined I would write, but through CR Rozier, wrote itself.

Using the rich sound of voices only a few generations removed from the Appalachian Mountains, a story emerges of everyday people who, in tragic circumstances, experience the extraordinary: the existence of life in other realms within multiple dimensions in multiple realities, and the possibility that the distant past can illuminate the purpose for the present. And for those who are willing to suspend their beliefs for even a brief moment, the entry to intuitive psychic connection opens where answers await the asking.

In “Reflections,” CR sets the stage for the reader to expand their perspective that reality is as real as we imagine it to be. For opening the door to imagination is what creates the music that becomes our story.

So, is my novel factual fiction, fantasy, or my own alternate existence? You decide.

I sincerely hope you enjoy this introduction into When The Extraordinary Becomes The Ordinary. Enter now…

Prologue: Reflections by Charlotte Ray (CR) Rozier

Through the open windows I can hear the waves lapping at the shoreline that borders my home. The slow steady rhythm tells me the lake has settled down this evening after the morning storm. But choppy or serene, I never tire of its constancy of purpose.

Distant bursts of pinks and blues hover above the water as the sun throws the last of its rays across the surface and onto the curve of my piano, the black finish soaking up what’s left. I feel its warmth on my face. So delicious. Seeing clearly with the eyes is not as necessary as one would think. Feeling is everything. But I admit to missing the sight of our resident swan gliding along at this time of day, babies bobbing on her wake.

Charlotte Ray Rozier is my name. My name, not connected to another person or pseudonym. Charles Raymond Rozier served me for a time, but I always felt the need to be me, the woman whose reflection I now see in the mirror with ebony skin, and yes, quite a few wrinkles. I have been Charlotte much longer than I was Charles who none of my current acquaintances or close friends ever knew, but who is still a part of my almost 100 years. We simply never know what surprises life has to offer when we’re young, which makes growing older so much fun.

This room is where the magic happens, where words percolate and bubble up to the surface like old songs. I can almost touch the smooth finish of my piano from my chair and imagine the feel of the vibrating strings as they speak through the wood and travel to the wall of books opposite. It’s like a conversation that I’m strategically placed to interpret. It flows through me, back and forth, as I translate the language. But I give myself too much credit. I’m just the scribe. The magic is in the source.

These days, I comfortably recline in my chair. Sitting up requires extra effort that these old bones don’t like anymore, so writing has become a more leisurely pursuit. The frenetic pace of earlier decades has long since relaxed into this perfect setting to allow my imagination to create with no constraint, no pain in my body, just the unfettered flow of words onto the page.

I’m still living the life I envisioned, filling my days with recording the stories that have been gifted to me from that mysterious source. They have made the money I need to live in this beautiful home with my companion of thirty years along with the faithful couple that have made our lives work. They are my family. The books I have written, my other friends, patiently wait on the bookshelf for the next one to be placed beside them with stories of new generations revealed. But my Simon, and Ellie and her husband Max, are in the here and now. They anchor me.

Lately I find myself in a sort of life review. But instead of remembering the mistakes or heartbreaks of my considerable years, I see those events as adding to my life. All the rabbit trails off my path–and there were many–now seem more amusing than traumatic, happier than sad, best understood as what needed to take place instead of just being random mistakes. Oh, how age changes one’s perspective.

I often think my life has simply been one long-running dream populated with people I’ve encountered but don’t consciously remember. Perhaps they are my inspiration, muses unknown to me until I need them. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. My characters belong to the reader, not the writer. And whoever they are will live on through the words I string together on each page in yet another adventure that I can have without ever leaving my comfortable studio. These days, that’s a blessing. And who’s to say what is fantasy and what is real? Reality doesn’t always fit within a clear definition. Maybe I’ll stick with fantasy. It’s served me well so far. But every word I’ve written feels real and true even to this day.

Dreaming or awake, we create from what we know, taking our experiences and placing them inside another’s perspective. Long ago I found a way to transport myself into someone else’s story, then another story, and another. And in some miraculous occurrence, maybe I lived those stories in another time and place. I can smell the smells, remember the families, taste his kiss, feel the heartbreak. Whether or not the memories are real, again, doesn’t matter for we create our stories as we live them, don’t we.

I have been interested of late in researching my genealogy, and I did find a Rosier family spelled with an ‘s’ instead of a ‘z’ in East Tennessee where many of my stories situate themselves. Odd how if one searches long enough, an answer can often be found that fits nicely in our narrative. But my life has played out in the Midwest, the heartland, nowhere close to the Appalachian Mountains where my characters live today as vividly as when I set them to paper. While the Mind Mapping chip has been a writer’s leg-up, that gadget blurs the line between what may be true or factual and a prolific imagination. And this is where the controversy lies.

Because Mind Mapping allows me to create almost more quickly than I think, who’s to say my novels are fiction? Maybe they are actual memories lodged in my DNA. And again, perhaps it really doesn’t matter. When we finally reach the collective nexus and accept the nature of reality as our own creation, I suppose all previous bets are off anyway. We will then be in the true land of the Divine, the God Consciousness of which we are all a part. These days in 2052, more folks certainly subscribe to that notion than not. Perhaps this present life is only an aspect of my ‘cosmic’ self. After all, it was only 25 years or so ago that off-planet beings introduced themselves to humanity. So maybe…just maybe…I did live those lives that have somehow broken through from other realms to say, “Hey! We’re here! We’re alive! We are real!”

As night falls, I trust that the stars will come into focus as the backdrop to the full moon. I can’t feel, smell, or touch them, but I believe what my eyes told me when they were sharper. It’s all real in this present moment. And I can enjoy the beauty and wonder of infinite worlds other than this earth through my imagination.

I also know deep within my soul that the infinite eternal is not ‘out there’ but here inside me where I draw from the well of words that bring my stories into the now, as real to me as the fingers on my hands when they touch the black and white keys on my piano.

An old melody, perhaps now too long forgotten, is trying to resurface. The melody feels like it’s peeping around a corner, too shy to show itself. Maybe I never heard it outside my mind. Maybe I created it along with my characters. Odd that I can still craft an entire book but seem to remember very little about my last meal. But melodies are more permanent. They lodge themselves in the cells of the brain becoming hints or breadcrumbs to follow to find the conclusion. A chapter in a book that was carefully closed but with no ending. Hanging out there like words in an unfinished sentence. “And then she…” what? I still don’t know the ‘what,’ and until I pass over into the mysterious realm of Spirit, I suppose I will never know if there’s a difference between the real and the imagined. And that’s delicious too.

What is that song…the one from an Appalachian poet. What is her name? Truly. Truly Elise Frazier. I wrote a short story from a narrative of hers that somehow found its way to me many years ago. A historian–if I remember correctly–tracked her down in the late 1800’s and notated the song as she sang it. How wonderful that it was written down to be enjoyed even now. And how lucky to have been that man listening to the authenticity in her voice as she sang her family’s story. Truly Frazier was able to make her people real and true and beautiful for later generations who yearned to connect with the mystery of her cove in the mountains.

Ah yes…now I can see the notes of the melody play in my mind. When I make my way to the piano and sit down, it will show itself like an old quilt, comforting and warm as I play it once again. These old fingers are perhaps a bit slower, but they still know their way around the piano keys. My ancient voice, however, is now a poor substitute for what I hear in my head.  

Oh, how I love to lose myself in a song, surrendering to the trance-like feeling that allows the music to flow. It’s the same feeling that hints at yet another story with new characters and all the emotions that make us human and carry with them that which informs how we navigate our lives. The path is never set in stone but is fluid like a river spilling its banks to create new rivulets, openings to steer our boat this way or that. And the wisdom of my years tells me if needed, we can change course. We can turn the boat around. We can even choose a different boat with each voyage. The possibilities are endless.

I suppose I will never know if there’s a point where we step from the real into the imagined. And that’s delicious too. Eternal surprise is a gift for the writer. It’s only when we refuse to change that the words stop flowing. I once read, “If we don’t open our eyes to what’s really going on in our inner world, how can we ever change our outer world? For change requires an understanding of what to change in the first place.” And I wholeheartedly agree.

Yes, it’s time for another trip. I feel it in my old, aching bones as I slowly walk to the piano and fidget on the bench to find the best spot. As I touch the keys, my fingers settle in the correct position to play in the correct key. I remember the introduction now, and the melody begins. Join me as I sing the next story into existence.

Sweet Lillian’s Fields 

(Words and music by Truly Elise Frazier,1878; researched and notated by unknown; music adaptation by AR Pritchard, 2024)

Every mornin’ I still hear John callin,’
Callin’ my name through the mist and the rain.
“Lilly, come here!  See the sun on the mountain.
How it shines down on our valley below!
We’ve planted our crops. We’ll raise up our family.
It’s just come to me what these hills they will be
 
Sweet Lillian’s Fields, Sweet Lillian’s Fields,
Cause you are the reason God gave me to live! 
We’ll love each other between these green hills.
Yes, that’s where we’ll live, in Sweet Lillian’s Fields.”
 
John Jr. came first, then Jack came soon after.
Annie arrived on a cold winter’s morn.
Then we welcomed our Truly. I thought she was stillborn
‘Til I saw those dark eyes open up and looked ‘round
At all of her family, and with ‘nary a sound, 
I swear that sweet baby smiled at me and John said,
 
“It’s Sweet Lillian’s Fields, Sweet Lillian’s Fields,
God gave us this place where these children will live. 
We’ll love each other between these green hills.
Yes, this is our home in Sweet Lillian’s Fields.”
 
The years passed on quickly, and soon all our children 
Married and built their own cabins and started to  
Raise their own families. And Lord, our green valley 
Soon was a place that so many called home.
They came to these mountains and worked in these fields.
So many died here, but many more lived!
 
In Sweet Lillian’s Fields, Sweet Lillian’s Fields,
In these great mountains we loved and we lived.
We helped each other through laughter and tears
By God’s own sweet grace in Sweet Lillian’s Fields. 
 
The day came I heard my ol’ John take his last breath.
His heart just gave out when he laid down to rest.
Before his eyes closed, he called out, “Sweet Lilly
Set here and speak of ol’ times I forgot 
When my hands built this cabin and worked all the crops,
And tell me, Sweet Lilly, how we loved through it all 
 
In Sweet Lillian’s Fields, Sweet Lillian’s Fields.
You were the reason God gave me to live! 
We’ve loved each other between these green hills.
Now bury me here, and I’ll love you still.” 
 
Early this mornin’’ I heard my John callin,’
Callin’ my name through the mist and the rain. 
“Lilly, rise up! Meet the sun on the mountain!
It’s time now to rest in Sweet Lillian’s Fields.”

The Novel: When The Extraordinary Becomes The Ordinary

“If we don’t open our eyes to what’s really going on in our inner world, how can we ever change our outer world? For change requires an understanding of what to change in the first place.” SA King

Chapter 1

Echoes of The Cove

A breeze from the open window carried a slice of the low setting sun, shooting it across the face of the woman as she settled onto the piano bench. She felt the need to collaborate with her instrument, to place her hands on the keys and make them speak. What drove this need was in her DNA. It was simply who she was.

Just as she raised her hands to move toward the keyboard, a tiny puff of air grazed her ear as if someone whispered a secret in her hair. “What was that?” she wondered aloud as she instinctively reached to smooth back a long strand that had fallen on her face. She touched her cheek, closing her eyes as if remembering a long-ago lover’s kiss and lingered there. A sharp intake of breath brought her back as she tossed her silver hair to refocus her attention. She closed her eyes and instantly framed her new composition as to key, tempo, and mood. Gracefully lowering her hands to the keyboard, she began to play.

The rich black mirror finish of the opened keyboard lid reflected her fingers as they slowly danced across the keys in a steady pattern, like the calming repeated rhythm of ocean waves gently finding their destination. The curve of the grand piano echoed the shoreline, its tightly strung harp the unseen force that created the wavelike motion. The repetition of the melodic phrase was enticing, like being drawn into a familiar story.

This doesn’t feel new. It’s like a beginning with no end, flowing forever forward. “Déjà vu on the piano, the kind that makes you shiver,” she said aloud. A nervous giggle caught in her throat as she felt a chill.

On this day she played not from her usual reading of black notes printed on paper, but freely, intuitively from the deep well of inspiration known to her since childhood. But this melody was different. Haunting, almost other-worldly. It had a life of its own as if it sprang whole into her mind. Was it a memory of a tune she had heard before? Puzzled, she paused, then continued playing. A curious feeling came over her, shooting through her body, like being held in a dream by a lover just out of focus and yearning to see his face.

Just before the sun dipped below the horizon, a whirl of dust particles danced in the last of the sunlight flickering across her hands, adding to the mesmerizing effect of the descending hazy twilight. She closed her eyes and continued to play, becoming one with the music and caressing the keys as if they were alive. Her left hand played a heavier bass line lending a distinct, underlying support to the right hand’s melody. The interweaving patterns like a timeless musical tapestry that the woman increasingly felt was borrowed rather than created. This is not from me.

On she played, as if guided into a dream-like state. Over and over, she repeated the same notes as if her piano had been taken over and was playing on its own. The bass line grew more intense. Celia could feel it booming in her body, as her right hand struggled to counter the pounding of its forward motion, alive and unstoppable. Her hands were on the keyboard, but the keys no longer felt firm under her fingers. They felt alive with purpose. Her trance deepened.

As the room became somewhat out of focus, her present life began to recede as if she had taken a step back to watch as an observer. With closed eyes, she allowed the music to lead her to what felt like a doorway. Open the door. She didn’t know what was beyond the door, but it didn’t matter. Only the forward movement of the music mattered.

Her surroundings faded. A startlingly familiar intense passion, one beyond all reason, began to stir in her, drawing her like a magnet deeper and deeper into a dream-like state. The music continued, reverberating through her as if she was one with her instrument, riding the vibration of the strings to an unknown destination.

With a jolt, the piano vanished! The woman was no longer in the room but speeding through forest shadows, her hands holding fast to the mane of an enormous black stallion, hooves pounding. Confused and terrified, her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath to scream, but no sound would come. She had to go where he would take her, through a stand of trees with limbs jutted out in their path whipping past her face, adding to her terror. She struggled to stay astride. She tried to scream but choked from the force of the wind. As her mind struggled to grasp what was happening, she realized there was nothing between her and the horse’s back, no reins to guide him. She felt the powerful forward motion of the animal beneath her, felt the sweat on his back between her legs, every muscle working in concert to bring her to…what?

He’s waiting for me!

Who’s waiting? was the echo in her mind.

Amid her panic, she suddenly felt an intense rush of all-consuming love, but the pain in her tortured muscles from the punishing ride quickly brought her back to her dire circumstances. Tree branches flew past, barely missing her, forcing her to lie as flat to the horse as possible to avoid being swept to the ground. She screamed, pleading for the stallion to stop, but he knew where he was going. He had been there many times before. Then, as if finally responding to a silent command, the horse’s wild gallop slowed. The woman felt as if her heart was going to leap from her heaving chest from the terrifying ride, but her focus began to shift from survival to relief as the horse came to a full stop. Thoughts sprang from nowhere.

He knows my secret.

She said aloud, “What secret?”

Her breath caught in her throat. He’s waiting for me!

“Who? Who’s waiting? What is this place?!” she asked. The answering voice in her head was gone.

She looked around her. Nothing was familiar. She noticed her hands, still grasping the horse’s mane, were those of a very young woman. Draped over the back of the horse was a long skirt. These aren’t my clothes. The long hair tumbling about her shoulders was a coppery dark auburn. This is not me! She closed her eyes, shook her head, and looked again. Startled by a loud rustling, several birds flew away from the overhead canopy of trees. Then out of the nearby bushes came a bear cub, sniffing the air, followed by a loud warning growl from his mama.

I must get out of here…now!

As if understanding her unsaid words, the horse lurched into a trot. They emerged from the forest into a softly flowing meadow, the waves of grass calmly rolling to their destination. The woman began to settle herself enough to notice the towering mountains all around her, creating a kind of sheltering cove. With the blinding speed of a movie on fast forward, she saw the entire settlement of some 500 souls as they went about their lives. The cabins were scattered over miles of a lush, green valley. Women carried water from icy mountain springs as men put away horses and plows after tilling the rich, black earth. Children played as their mothers called, “Come wash for supper!”

The movie-like vision stopped, and she could now feel the slow rhythm of the mountain cove. The ability to receive this download, this ‘knowing,’ wasn’t new to the young girl. But the 21st century buried self was struggling to emerge and make sense of this place she was hurled into with no warning. Nothing except the surety of the horse’s footing as he carried her through the settlement felt real.

The people she encountered seemed not to notice that the young woman was an intruder who had been thrust into their lives. A few waved as she and her horse trotted past as if they knew her well. Her presence was welcomed and known in this valley. These were her people, and among them was her family. Her mind began to accept that she lived in a cabin with her mother and father. The families of her sister and brothers lived close by. And to all she encountered, she was merely riding her beloved black stallion on a beautiful fall evening.

As they turned toward home, dusk settled on the mountains as the sun slipped behind them casting shadows on the gently sloping meadows below. Memories of her life as a young woman in this time flooded her with the certainty that she had been here before, was supposed to be here now. Her life and the piano with which she began the journey faded with the sun, forgotten. She was now fully in the cove.

She rode along singing her songs of the bear and the deer, the raccoon and salamander, and creatures rarely seen who claimed the land as their own. She sang of the wisdom of the mighty Cherokee who had hunted game in the cove for a thousand years, always respectful of the mountains who offered them sustenance. She sang of the swirling wind that blew the red, gold, and orange leaves of autumn from the trees along the lane to live again in the rich soil under the plow. And she somehow knew she would not be forgotten. Generations to come would hear her songs now echoing among the cabins in the cove—songs of the majestic mountains and the beautiful land nestled between.

Unbeknownst to the young woman, hidden in the songs she sang was a wave of sound weaving its way to a realm beyond time like a tether, calling out to her future self, “Join me. I hold the key you are searching for. In my sorrow, you will find your answer.” One spirit, two lives bound together in an endless loop of searching to fulfill a passion neither would find in their physical worlds but was waiting in the place beyond death.

The horse veered off the lane and again found his stride as he carried the young woman across the valley into the forest, beside streams and rushing rivers as if racing with the swift currents of pure, cold mountain water. Together they smelled the crisp air of the evening, and listened to the cicada chorus rise and fall, and rise again. The stallion’s hooves found the path, their path, and he breathed with her…but this breath was not the animal’s. It was slow, steady, and not labored from running. This was another presence, suddenly surrounding her. He knew her. She could feel him. Who’s there? But only the sound of galloping hooves answered in the clear mountain air.

As the proud stallion slowly came to rest in a clearing illumined by a full moon, an overwhelming feeling of protection and endless love enveloped her. In her mind she heard a chorus of familiar voices–as alive as the animal beneath her–speak as one. “All is as it should be.” These were the souls who had chosen to guard her, calm her fears, and guide her when asked. But on this evening, one presence stood apart from the whole. His ghostly embrace was intimate and caressed her in a way that made her heart race.

I have called you here through the music that carries us through time and beyond. It is the eternal thread that connects us, all of us, as we journey together. Remember who the horse is. He is your guide on a path now destined. You must continue on this path to bring about future events that will shape generations who follow. Remember–what is to come is of your own choosing. Let the music carry you forward.

“Who are you?” she said. “Where are you? I want to see you!” The horse snorted and gently pawed the ground as if to say, Listen!

The voice continued speaking of times she knew nothing of. People long dead, or not yet born. Places they had lived in the past or would live in the future. Together. Always together. A never-ending story of life after life after life. She heard him say aloud, “Call me The Traveler.”

She felt his warm breath in her long auburn hair.

“I am with you in the life you left behind. You know me as a trusted friend who loves you very much. Just know that no matter what happens, I will never leave you. And remember–no one can truly hurt you.”

“Who are you speaking of?”

“Stay near Wahya. He is with you for a purpose. He will protect you. I make you this promise, the child will be born.”

“Child?” My baby!

With a sudden download of memories, she understood what The Traveler was saying. Someone in the cove wished her harm. Someone was trying to prevent her baby from being born.  Suddenly she remembered drinking in the deep dark eyes as they devoured her in the twilight shadows, his copper skin and long black hair falling on her face. Wahya, The Wolf. Wahya loved her. Yes, he would protect her.

“But who is it that wants to do us harm? Have I done something to cause this hatred? Please! Tell me!” But The Traveler’s presence began to fade into the chorus of ‘others’ as they backed away.

“Wait! Don’t leave! Don’t leave me here alone. I’m afraid. I…we can’t survive without you. Come back! Come back!!” she screamed.

Without warning, the young woman was wrenched from the cove as if sucked by a vacuum, thrown forward in time, and slammed onto the piano bench. Disoriented and stunned, she opened her eyes to see only the curved raised lid of the grand piano. Gone was the cove, her horse, and the young body free of pain. She was old once again.

The woman began to pound the piano keys in an attempt to recreate the music that she desperately hoped would transport her once again to the cove, to again feel the love of Wahya and the protection of The Traveler. But she was unable to open the passage back.

She fell into a deep well of depression, not able to reconcile where she had been with the mundane life she had come back to. Time would pass and she would fully accept what had happened to her, but in this moment she felt an overwhelming yearning for the cove and a passion she didn’t know existed outside of her music. The piano, the horse, and The Traveler– now intertwined in her story–remained separate as well, each playing a distinct part in a journey she was unaware of before now. Eventually she would be comforted by the inner knowing that all were one, somehow connected by a melody that would lead to her truth being told. But all she felt now was a dark hole in her heart that no amount of music could fill.

In her despair, she cried out for resolution. Touching the piano keys kept her tethered in some mysterious way to the great stallion and their journey together. And somewhere outside of time she heard a distant voice speak. “Don’t resist this feeling, this moment. Play it through to the end.” But there was no end. Only the waves of grass gently rolling to the forest’s edge where their journey began.

end of excerpt