Guest Post: Making Magic Wasn’t Easy by Dr. Kathy Martone

Welcome to TRB Lounge!

Today, we are featuring Dr. Kathy Martone, author of Victorian Songlight: The Birthings Of Magic & Mystery to share a guest post.

About The Author

Kathy Martone

Dr. Kathy Martone is currently an author and artist living in a small Victorian town in the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. Before retiring, and moving from Denver, CO to Eureka Springs, AR in 2015, she was a Jungian psychologist in private practice specializing in dream work, women’s spirituality and shamanic journeys. The magical world of dreams has fascinated and intrigued Kathy for as long as she can remember. Inspired by a dream in 2005, she began making velvet tapestries imprinted with the image of one of her own dream figures and embellished with ribbons, rhinestones, feathers, glass beads, Swarovski crystals, antique jewelry and semi-precious stones.  Dr. Martone’s work has been displayed in galleries in Denver, Colorado  as well as in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

In 2006 Dr. Martone self-published her first book titled, Sacred Wounds: A Love Story.  Essays and short stories written by Dr. Martone have been published in eMerge, an online magazine published by The Writer’s Colony at Dairy Hollow.  In addition, some of her writings have also appeared in two anthologies titled Dairy Hollow Echo and Not Dead Yet 2.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Email 

Making Magic Wasn’t Easy

It was August 1991 and the hot Arkansas sun beat down on my bare arms.  The summer dress I wore hung loosely from my shoulders, allowing my wet skin to breathe in the intense heat.  I watched as rivulets of perspiration traced a path down my arms, weaving a pattern among my girlish freckles, remnants from a childhood I’d rather not remember.  Standing only yards away from the Little Rock train station, I heard the familiar sounds of rumbling wheels, banging boxcars, screeching brakes, and lonesome shrieking whistles.

I stood in front of the Victory House, about as far north on Victory Street as one could go before falling off into the tangled spaghetti tracks of the rail yard.  Although a block away, I could still smell the odors of diesel oil and creosote hanging in the stillness of the sweltering summer air.  Looking up the three flights of narrow cement steps, I took in the sight of my Victorian masterpiece, so aptly named.  I clutched the black iron railing in my right hand and paused just long enough to remember how proud I was to be the owner of this historic landmark.  Hundreds of people’s life stories had been told and retold inside those 90-year-old walls.  Countless paths of healing had been explored, some with great success, others not so fortunate.  But most people reported an exquisite sense of peace and well-being after spending time inside the hallowed walls of this Healing Center.  Because I was the owner and practicing psychologist, people usually credited me with astounding success.  But it wasn’t easy.

I had just returned from Dr. Glenn’s office and my Radix Bodywork session. As I dragged my feet up the red brick steps to Linda and Austen’s office in their suburban Conway home, I felt an overpowering sense of dread.  I stopped for a moment on the front porch to take a deep breath as I remembered how painful my last session had been.  Taking a long look at the cascading ivy that tumbled off the porch and covered most of the lawn, I could smell the delicious fragrance of the thick white Gardenia blossoms that dotted the bushes next to the porch like so many clusters of perfume-drenched clouds, drunk on their own elixir.  I opened the front door, hearing the familiar creak of the hinges as Linda met me with open arms and a warm, inviting embrace.

Lying on a green mat in the middle of the hardwood floor, I began stretching my body into yoga-like positions to loosen my muscles, then slowly merged into the breathing exercises designed to carry me into the deepest recesses of my mind.  Soon a series of cartoon-like figures materialized inside my head.  A tall, dark man appeared first, etched in red.  Initially, he seemed to carry a red cane.  I could scarcely breathe as I watched this walking stick turn into an erect penis, which he rubbed over the naked body of a little girl.  Then the image folded up like a paper fan, transformed into a vertical black line in my field of vision.  A little girl’s voice spoke out:  “Bad boy!  You were not supposed to come out.”  Next, the chubby fingers of a child’s right hand emerged, holding a key.  She reached over and locked the black line, as if it were a door.

Months later, the dreams began – strange images of a small hysterical child, hurling herself against the fiery red, burning walls of a pit, desperately wanting out.  “We have to know,” she said.  “We have to let the secret out in order for me to be freed.  Please, please help me!”  I had no idea that the life I had been living was about to crumble like so many pieces of stale bread.

In 1992, I began working with a new therapist who encouraged me to continue with my daily, hours-long meditations.  I continued to have really vivid dreams that pointed toward childhood sexual, physical, and emotional abuse.  Previously, I had had no memories of any sexual abuse and this new information drew me to my knees and set me on a path of considerable pain and suffering. 

Prior to this time, I knew little about shamanism but I was about to be educated when I picked up a book titled “Healing and Wholeness” by John Sanford.  In this text, Sanford discusses what is known as a spirit spouse.  “Quite often the shaman acquired a tutelary spirit, a particular spiritual being who became his instructor….In shamanesses, the tutelary spirit was always masculine, and was like her celestial husband.”

It was not long before I began doing shamanic journeys where I encountered a magnificent spirit or ghost whose name was Grandfather.  He stood about 10 feet tall and had massive golden eyes like ferris wheels right in the middle of his large white face.  He wore long ivory robes with golden threads and eventually he became my spirit spouse, the impact of which would change my life forever.  We spent long hours over many years engrossed in deep telepathic debates in which he drew forth many unknown truths about my own life and that of the cosmic universe surrounding us.  I recorded our many conversations in a journal and these records became the basis for my novel, Victorian Songlight.

About The Book

Victorian Songlight: The Birthings Of Magic & Mystery

The birth of a magical child at the time of the Devil Moon sets the stage for heartache and misery, magic and supernatural love. Beset by unrelenting obstacles and bestowed with remarkable psychic gifts, Kate is often accompanied by fantastical black ravens who carry her through time and space. A well known legend in the Ozark Mountain countryside where Kate lives, Grandfather is a ghost with large golden eyes who frequently rides on the back of Pegasus, another Ozarkian legend. Victorian Songlight is a tale of redemption and renewal, death and rebirth, triumph over darkness. But most importantly, it is a love story. Alone and utterly forsaken, adrift on treacherous waters, Kate meets Grandfather for the second time in her life and they become lovers fulfilling a prophecy at the moment of her birth.

You can find Victorian Songlight here:
Amazon | Goodreads | Barnes & Nobel

If you are an author and wish to be interviewed or if you are a publicist and want to get your author interviewed on TRB, then please get in touch through direct e-mail:

I love reading your comments, so please go ahead...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.