Feeling Fate, A Memoir of Love, Intuition and Spirit, by Joni Sensel
Hello Readers,
Thank you for visiting The Cozy Book Blog by Diane-Lyn. I am thrilled to present a sneak preview of an intriguing soon-to-be released memoir – Feeling Fate by Joni Sensel. Enjoy the information, summary and excerpt below. Many thanks to Jackie Karneth at Books Forward for the invite. Thanks again for stopping in! Best, Diane-Lyn
Synopsis of Feeling Fate:
Intimate memoir reveals how a premonition of a loved one’s death led one woman to cherish their time together more fully
Joni Sensel’s true story of numinous experiences gives meaning to the unknown
SEATTLE, Washington – From nearly the start of their fairy-tale romance, Joni Sensel knew she would lose the man whose love changed her life. A dark premonition had warned her. Though she kept this secret in their short time together, upon his death she’s compelled to share it in a letter addressed to his spirit.
In “Feeling Fate” (She Writes Press, April 26, 2022) Sensel defends the insights of the heart regarding love, intuition, hints of an afterlife, and other experiences that defy logical explanation.
A grief memoir with a paranormal twist, “Feeling Fate” explores how Sensel’s dark intuition magnified her love and gratitude for her partner before her premonition came true. Torn between faith and skepticism after the loss, Sensel is nearly undone by her grief—until further uncanny experiences help her defeat despair and find meaning in the irrational insights of the heart.
An intimate and soulful read with some playful humor, Sensel proves that sharing our spiritual and intuitive experiences can lead us to a more fulfilling, joyous understanding of life and love.
Excerpt from Feeling Fate:
Excerpt from “Feeling Fate” by Joni Sensel
My dearest Tony,
You’d been gone a couple of hours, but your body was still here. All six-foot-two of you
stretched out on the living room floor on the sheet the paramedics had used to carry you
downstairs. They’d banged your big feet and shoulders against the wall and balustrade. As I
followed them, I’d looked away. Pretended not to hear that clunking. Now I was crouched on the
step stool in the kitchen, clutching my robe around me and trying not to see your husk from the
corner of my eye. Your essence clung more to the kitchen cabinets you’d installed, the slate
gray appliances we’d picked out together, the wood grain flooring you’d removed and replaced.
But it’s a small house we shared, so your face loomed pale in my peripheral vision.
I hunkered over my knees, my position upright but fetal. I needed to be close to the floor.
Where it’s hard to fall down. The floor your body was laid out on. It kept us together. I
considered slipping down to the cold laminate and curling into myself there. Its chill seemed
inviting. But I didn’t want to make the volunteer EMTs, mostly strangers, any more
uncomfortable than they already looked.
They’d tried hard. For an hour. After my own thirty minutes of CPR on your chest. They
were kind. Several lingered until Mom or the medical examiner could arrive so I didn’t have to
wait by myself. You were gone. In the meantime, I had to make myself small, low to the ground,
so the Universe wouldn’t notice me there. It had made a bargain with me, and the price had
come due, but the real pain hadn’t hit yet. If I stayed small, maybe I could keep the pain smaller,
too.
Mom and Dad arrived, sliding open the door. A puff of cold came in with them, the air
chilled by the two feet of snow on the ground. I looked up but stayed down, my wrists pressed to
my chest.
Mom bent toward me. “I’m so sorry, honey.” She probably put an arm around me. I don’t
remember.
Tears choked my voice. “I’ve always known I wouldn’t have him for long.”
She straightened. “How did you know?”
She probably expected to hear of some illness, some diagnosis you’d had. There hadn’t
been one. The paramedics had not wanted to believe the bottle of aspirin in the kitchen
windowsill was there for our two arthritic dogs, not so you could thin your blood or treat splitting
headaches. They asked over and over when I told them the truth.
Their persistence stirred a childhood wound—aspirin and I have an ugly history—but I
understood why they kept asking. Nobody likes the grim fact that a strong, athletic man of fifty-
nine might die in his sleep, without the slightest warning, at 4:45 in the morning. Your only
health complaints were knees worn down by football and an old shoulder injury stirred by the
lifting you’d done to single-handedly build dormers onto our house. You didn’t even carry the
typical American’s spare twenty pounds. We’d pumped iron at our local gym twelve hours
earlier. We’d made love in front of the fire before heading upstairs to bed.
But when Mom asked how I knew our time would be short, I shrugged through my tears.
“I don’t know. Pre-birth contract?” The truth was too complicated to push out while weeping.
So I’m telling you instead, sweetheart. We never talked about this, though it was on my
mind often. I tried once to share this secret. But my bargain with the Universe was hard to bring
up. It seemed presumptuous to suggest I’d made a divine bargain for you as though you had no
say in our love. You were too self-possessed, too powerful a man for me to claim such a thing.
Even if I knew it was true.
More importantly, I was afraid to give my intuition weight. To put it in words. If I never
said what I knew, maybe it wouldn’t come true. Better yet, perhaps I was wrong, a kook for
believing divine forces made bargains.
Your death three years later confirmed my worst fears . . . while sliding rebar into the
intuitions that form my spiritual faith. I’m put in the strange position of having lost the one thing
in my life—you—that had convinced me of a benevolent Universe of wonder and love. And yet
your loss and our fairy-tale romance are also my best proof of spiritual truths—a capital-I
Infinite, divine forces of fate. If I’m to survive, I have to cling to that rebar. Searing or not, it
reminds me that a grander reality exists. My heart knew the truth, and I have to keep trusting it.
Through and beyond the despair of my grief.
I can no longer touch you or smell your scent on your pillow. My intuition, that most
maligned of the senses, is the only one I can lean on to keep your love close. As far as I know,
there were no other secrets between us. Please let me share this one with you now: all the hints
that accumulated on my big premonition, like coral building a reef. They added up to my
knowing. You gave me evidence you knew it, too, which kept us honeymooning for nearly four
years. That internal wisdom deserves to be honored. I have to explain what my heart knew, and
how.
About the Author:
Joni Sensel is a certified Grief Educator and the author of more than a dozen
books, including the memoir, Feeling Fate (April 2022), which Kirkus called, “A poignant,
engaging guide to healing that’s infused with valuable insights into dealing with grief.” She lives
in the Pacific Northwest. Learn more at https://www.jonisensel.com/
Click Amazon to purchase. Note that this is an affiliate link, which only means that when you click the link and make a purchase, I receive a tiny commission at no additional cost to you. Happy shopping!
