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The Lost City: An Epic YA Fantasy Novel

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Jack Borden

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“The cold buried deep inside the bones of her hands, her feet, her head, her back…everywhere. Viola felt old, chilled, and exflunctified. She brushed away her snow-white hair and with gnarled fingers tried tucking it under the black, lacy, silk nightcap that her great niece Annie had sewn for her. Each day, her clothes consisted of a long, white, embroidered nightgown, and a soft, warm, lavender sontag with the hair brooch secured upon her left shoulder. The few pleasures she had since she could no longer see were those of having mail or newspaper stories read to her by relatives who took turns caring for her. She could not tolerate people or activity. Food and drink were tasteless. Although the family made many attempts at a tray of concoctions for her each day, she had just quit eating. She remained closed in her bedroom in this dizzy age, propped in bed, eyes shut with her memories. “Who knew I would live this long?”

EducationPrinciplesRootsMental HealthSelf DiscoveryAfrican AmericanServantCivil WarUnjustOutspoken
Book:The Viola Factor
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“This journey has taught me that we are, in essence, already whole. It is our limited perception which keeps us from experiencing this wholeness. As we expand and unify our perception, with the help of the Resonance Alchemy processes and Sacred Syllables, we re-member the greater wholeness that we are, and have been all along. In reclaiming our wholeness, we reclaim our sovereignty, the Divine One that is the core and essence of our being.”

Self DiscoveryMind Body SpiritMeditation PracticeInner AlchemySacred SyllablesSpiritual NonfictionConsciousness WorkGentle Guidance
Book:Resonance Alchemy: Awakening the Tree of Life
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“Author's Prayer If I speak for the dead, I must leave this animal of my body, I must write the same poem over and over for the empty page is a white flag of their surrender. If I speak of them, I must walk on the edge of myself, I must live as a blind man who runs through the rooms without touching the furniture. Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking "What year is it?" I can dance in my sleep and laugh in front of the mirror. Even sleep is a prayer, Lord, I will praise your madness, and in a language not mine, speak of music that wakes us, music in which we move. For whatever I say is a kind of petition and the darkest days must I praise.”

Poetry
Book:Dancing in Odessa
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