Jennifer Brookins

Author of Tharon Ann, Living Under the Weavers Hut, and India with Backpack and a Prayer

About Jen

Author and poet Jennifer Brookins is a former Broadway and television actress living in Princeton, New Jersey with her husband, musician Doug Brookins. They frequently travel to India, and based upon their experiences, she wrote India with Backpack and a Prayer - the sequel to her first book Tharon Ann. She is also the author of Living Under the Weaver's Hut - an illustrated book of poetry.

A Memoir


A beautiful story of bravery, tragedy, independence

Tharon Ann, by author Jennifer Brookins is a wonderful read! A young woman begins her journey to chase her dreams from the Deep South to Hollywood, enduring a number of difficulties and overcoming the hardships of single motherhood to a wonderful ending and to the lovely woman known to us today. She teaches us to reach for our dreams, and though life sometimes seems senseless, in the long run good things do come. I highly recommend this book to anyone that loves biographies or for just a delightful read. Check this out!” 

-C.C. Cole

Click here to read more reviews of Tharon Ann

An Illustrated Book of Poetry



“Lyrical and deeply moving. These poems speak of the soul’s journey back to its Source. Love, longing, loneliness, joy. These are things we all share throughout our journeys through this life and beyond.”

Ginny Byham

Click here to read more reviews of Living Under the Weaver’s Hut

A Spiritual Journey

India with Backpack and a Prayer

A deeply affecting travelog of a spiritual life

“I loved this book, the intimacy, the sense of the spiritual world close by, the interiority of the poetry, and most of all, the mystery of her four adept friends. Highly recommended.”


Click here to read more reviews of India with Backpack and a Prayer


doubters only believe what they see … you know the type dark sunglasses at night for a better view. Oh Weaver, guard my arrested heart

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I bow to you winter moon mosaicthat all starsin heavenly darkness lay their heads to restanother rising sunwraps her dreamy arms around our landfrom ho-hum

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walk with me this afternoonno particular plan just fresh mountain airwild roses gone wild; nest where mockingbirds had babieswhen breathless we stop and watch clouds

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sometimes I face the sunother times the amber glow of dawnseeding earth with prayer in the chill of early dayI wrap your essence around my

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I hear winter rain falling as wild mountain roses it’s you hiding behind the moon if you stay away my heart will turn into shards

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I got up early this morning when darkness still covered the land; just had a feeling the stars would still be shining. Not good to

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Jennifer Brookins, author page

5 days 22 hours ago

Is it any wonder they call this land of Saints in Punjab the Jewel of India. This evening, Baba Ji told us a story about the rainbird to illustrate a point he's trying to make. It will not drink from other sources except the swati drop. When thirsty, it prays to God. Because of Lord's kindness, it rains. Rainbird quenches its thirst by drinking the rare swati drop. Although swati drop is rainwater, when the rainbird drinks it quenches its thirst. If a jackal drinks the same swati drop, it becomes mad. The same drop falling into a banana's young folded leaf is transformed into camphor. When it falls into a shell on the seashore, it becomes a pearl. The swati raindrop is one. If it falls into different hearts, it has different affects. In the same way the teachings of the Saints, like the swati drop, creates deep impact on some; little affect on others, and no affect at all on some. The Mystics teach not to waste our lives by considering it to be so cheap.

Jennifer Brookins, author page

6 days 22 hours ago

I watch ribbons of lemony sunshine through my window. They dance and twirl with faeries on patches of melted snow hanging on in morning’s garden; daydreams tucked here and there for treasure hunts. Summer last, I buried a seashell near the old sun dial for tomorrow’s child to find, hold up to its ear, and hear the magic in ocean’s roar.

Jennifer Brookins, author page

1 week 21 hours ago

How complete the black walnut tree is within itself yet it needs earth, sky, wind and rain � each separate yet dependent upon the other. If only I could walk through a field of sunflowers one more time if for no other reason than to tell them how much they mean to me.

Jennifer Brookins, author page

3 weeks 6 days ago

No one spoke English in the small hotel we called home for several months in Spain. My X-husband worked early morn til late night on a film while I nervously awaited our first baby. During the day, I often sat in an outdoor cafe and struggled through, “How to speak Spanish and Not Embarrass Yourself,” as I swilled a pitcher of sangria. Every afternoon, life shut down for siesta but by then I’d taken a cab home. We went to bed early as he was due on the set good to go by 6 am - a location shoot on the outskirts of Madrid.

A night never passed that an Italian movie star couple in the apartment directly above us and didn’t have a knock-down drag out fight; chairs thrown at each other, lamps broken, curses in Italian. The next morning as I waited for a cab, I noticed them in the lobby arm in arm. He pinched her behind and she, hands all over him, laughed and cooed in Italian. I think these fights accelerated the passion that inevitably followed. In a week their film was completed and thank god ... they checked out.

Every Sunday we went to the bullfights. Once when a bull jumped over the rail in the fourth row where we sat, I almost had heart failure. To me killing for any sport is savage … my Spanish friends argued the point. Bulls are very smart but all odds are against him. My first son was born in Madrid with a Spanish-American passport. Two weeks later I flew back to New York with him but ....that's another story. excerpt from memoir "Tharon Ann
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Jennifer Brookins, author page

4 weeks 1 day ago

Oh spring, there is no symmetry without you.You rest on your lovely pregnant haunch as winter chills linger past their prime. Truth be told, Sweet William is yet to spread under the shade tree out back; and blue flowered Periwinkle hesitant to leave earth’s birthing room. Be with me in all fullness; I yearn to feel your generous bounce of morning air against my cheek.

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