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featured writing
Writing from: the OHSU Writing Circle for Women Healing from Cancer & from the Writing Circle for adolescent & Young Adults healing from cancer
PROMPT: What would you say at your own celebration of life? What have you learned along the way that you would pass on? What piece of wisdom would you offer up?
Sabrina Norris McDonald
Welcome, Beloveds. Are you all here?Of course, you are.WE are. We have always been here Together. Our individual stories have seemed to carry us far from the roads we thought we would travel. We have come back with adventures, tales, heartbreaks and ruins to share. But even in the tellings they are mere performance. For we were all there together anyway. You think you’ve come here today to say goodbye, but goodbye is just another “hello” For I will be with you always I can hardly wait to be a dragonfly that lights on your toes as you dip them into icy streams on hot summer days. To be the wild rose that sits atop a massive boulder you thought you could never climb. To be the pencil you keep dropping on your clumsy days, laying there on the floor at your feet to remind you to laugh at yourself instead of lapsing into old familiar patterns of frustration. To be the juicy Oregon strawberry that melts in your mouth after another year of waiting for the new harvest. To be the rolling thunder that brings comfort and even excitement on your stormiest nights. To be the bitter medicine you choke down between your squintiest expressions that reminds your magical body that it can heal itself. To be the touch of blue silk that brushes your face as you push through a crowded room. To be your next dog, Oh! What luxury that will be! To be loved and doted on, talked to and cried to all my days, cloaked in the softest of black fur. Wherever you look, I’ll be there, and so will you. Right there together. Always.
(Sabrina wishes to acknowledge the muses/angels/spirits that send the words to her)
Bija Gutoff
Be less afraid, my love. Do not worry what other people think. They are looking at you through the lens of their own gaps and hurts and harms; these have nothing to do with you.
Find quiet places and listen to your own thoughts. Listen to them no matter what they are. They do not have to be noble or exalted. If others fail to provide you with what you need, go and find it or make it yourself.
No matter if you believe in God, the Great Spirit, or any other divine form. You come from life and are made of life. Your body contains actual stardust, elements from the cosmos, the earth, the ocean, the sky. Because you are alive, you are holy.
Therefore, walk tall. Hold your spine straight, and feel the weight of your feet as each of your steps lands on the earth and the gravity receives you. Feel the great magnetic core at the center of our Earth holding you to the land, and the great magnetic core of your heart holding you to your life.
All that matters, my love, is that you live with openness and abundance. Give wildly of yourself to whoever and whatever you love and trust. And guard carefully that which is sacred, quiet, private – it is no one else’s but your own.
What if you knew in advance, my love, that your life was valuable – no, invaluable, beyond measure of value – and that the work of your hands mattered? Could you release yourself from that obsession with counting our merit that steals so much time from our precious days?
If I could teach you one thing, my love, I would teach you this: your life is of the greatest, most holy and precious value, the work of your hands is your expression of that value, and that, to me, you are the greatest gift.
Find quiet places and listen to your own thoughts. Listen to them no matter what they are. They do not have to be noble or exalted. If others fail to provide you with what you need, go and find it or make it yourself.
No matter if you believe in God, the Great Spirit, or any other divine form. You come from life and are made of life. Your body contains actual stardust, elements from the cosmos, the earth, the ocean, the sky. Because you are alive, you are holy.
Therefore, walk tall. Hold your spine straight, and feel the weight of your feet as each of your steps lands on the earth and the gravity receives you. Feel the great magnetic core at the center of our Earth holding you to the land, and the great magnetic core of your heart holding you to your life.
All that matters, my love, is that you live with openness and abundance. Give wildly of yourself to whoever and whatever you love and trust. And guard carefully that which is sacred, quiet, private – it is no one else’s but your own.
What if you knew in advance, my love, that your life was valuable – no, invaluable, beyond measure of value – and that the work of your hands mattered? Could you release yourself from that obsession with counting our merit that steals so much time from our precious days?
If I could teach you one thing, my love, I would teach you this: your life is of the greatest, most holy and precious value, the work of your hands is your expression of that value, and that, to me, you are the greatest gift.
PROMPT: The Song "New Shoes" by Paolo Nutini
Adrienne STRUBB
I’ve resisted owning Crocs during these 39.9 years. My feet are already taking up space as a size 12. Why would I want them to look even clunkier? Crocs aren’t chic or slim, and I can’t imagine running from a bear in them. Clearly, I’ve had time to talk myself out of getting them. But lately…lately, I’ve noticed that I’m in need of easier things. I’ve been using DoorDash on the weekends following my chemo to make getting food easier. I take my puppy to my brother’s home with his fenced back yard and children to exhaust her when walking her seems too much. I’ve been leaning on family and friends to help me in ways I hadn’t before, simply because my energy is quite finite these days. I’m in need of an easy, durable shoe to slide on and off quickly when I need to take my puppy out on a short potty outing. What a transition to realize I now need to surround myself with ease. As it seems that new shoes are on the horizon, I hate to admit to my younger self that Crocs are looking like the perfect new shoe.
Juliana Person
All throughout my elementary school years, and middle school, and even into high school we had a tradition in our family: singing in new pairs of shoes. We’d all gather in the living room. Whoever got the new pair of shoes would put them on, and then they’d walk around the outside boarder of the living room rug while the rest of us sang the new shoes song.
There goes the kidWalking down the streetWith her new shoes on her feetSometimes fastAnd sometimes slowHappy on her way she goes
At sometimes fast we’d run, with the rug almost sliding out from under us against the wood floor as we careened around each corner. At sometimes slow we’d walk in slow motion, trying to be as slow as humanly possible without falling over
It was definitely silly, but we took this tradition very seriously for a very long time. New shoes simply could not be worn outside the house until they had been properly sung in. My sister is at a sleepover when I want to wear new shoes? Better wait util she’s back and we can sing those shoes in as a family and choose a different pair for today!
The tradition started to break down when we moved to Southern CA. I was 17. My sister was 15 and my brother was 12. We were all at an age where a new shoes song seemed overly corny and in a new place it was easy to drop old routines.
Every once in a while though, the new shoes song gets a reprise. If my family happens to all be together in one place and someone mentions getting a new pair of shoes, nostalgia will take over! Put them on! Put them on! With lots of eyerolling and laughter the new shoes will come out and get inaugurated into use with our whole family singing together, “there goes the kid…” Even though the youngest “kid” is now in his 30s, the shoe song never fails to bring back happy childhood memories.
There goes the kidWalking down the streetWith her new shoes on her feetSometimes fastAnd sometimes slowHappy on her way she goes
At sometimes fast we’d run, with the rug almost sliding out from under us against the wood floor as we careened around each corner. At sometimes slow we’d walk in slow motion, trying to be as slow as humanly possible without falling over
It was definitely silly, but we took this tradition very seriously for a very long time. New shoes simply could not be worn outside the house until they had been properly sung in. My sister is at a sleepover when I want to wear new shoes? Better wait util she’s back and we can sing those shoes in as a family and choose a different pair for today!
The tradition started to break down when we moved to Southern CA. I was 17. My sister was 15 and my brother was 12. We were all at an age where a new shoes song seemed overly corny and in a new place it was easy to drop old routines.
Every once in a while though, the new shoes song gets a reprise. If my family happens to all be together in one place and someone mentions getting a new pair of shoes, nostalgia will take over! Put them on! Put them on! With lots of eyerolling and laughter the new shoes will come out and get inaugurated into use with our whole family singing together, “there goes the kid…” Even though the youngest “kid” is now in his 30s, the shoe song never fails to bring back happy childhood memories.
Writing From: The Women's
Thursday Morning On-Line Circle
Spring 2023
Lynn Sherman
A Writer's Blessing
The world needs youAnd your holy shadow.
Being human calls us allTo sit in circle with bothThe sacred fireAnd the dancing imagesProjected into the night.
Let us listen to the storytellers That are willingTo talk of good and evil In new ways.
We are all heroes whether we know it or not, With Angels watching usFrom our couches and CloudsGathering above our heads.
Hold your penAnd dive into the fiercenessOf feminineTruth-telling;
Let the Moon’s dreamingLift your eyes to another perspectiveThat calls outTo profound optimismRooted inLife’s quirky passage. June 1, 2023
Being human calls us allTo sit in circle with bothThe sacred fireAnd the dancing imagesProjected into the night.
Let us listen to the storytellers That are willingTo talk of good and evil In new ways.
We are all heroes whether we know it or not, With Angels watching usFrom our couches and CloudsGathering above our heads.
Hold your penAnd dive into the fiercenessOf feminineTruth-telling;
Let the Moon’s dreamingLift your eyes to another perspectiveThat calls outTo profound optimismRooted inLife’s quirky passage. June 1, 2023
holly Blakeslee
Birthday Dream
Somewhere in the spacebetween sleep and waking -where remembrances live -where long-gone friends, whereparents and old lovers reside -This is where, if one can grasp it -Essence becomes Manifestation.
In this place filled with voicesa place saturated with murky eventswhere bits of entire chapters,voluminous tomes, unfold -I find myself, oftentimes,the main player upon this celestial stage.
Less often, only at the peripherywaiting in the wingsa spectator to my own story.
I love these twilight times -truly - they are ever more real to me…as the decades pass.
Their coded messagesbecoming clearer as each year passesas my hair color transforms to grey, to whiteas my sight and hearing becomeless trustworthy, immeasurably fading…
In this twilit placeof shadow & light,of joy & sorrowI reside, floating in slumber,Free of all ailment, with no restraint.
This cloudy dreaming, it isglorious! it is beautiful…it is realityto my soul, slumberingsomewhere in this landbetween sleep and waking.
My birthday dream.
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023
Carolyn goolsby
COVID Inspired Wisdom Reflections
I am wrestling with smallness and largeness. COVID, the tiny virus that is currently reforming our entire culture, is playing in my body right now.
Insidious, creeping through every body symptom, tap, tap tap! Tapping on every system - asking can I lodge here? Or perhaps here?
Alexander the Great, great conqueror of cultures was toppled by a virus, the tiniest living organism. This fragmented piece of life brought the great man down.
What drives us? Is it largeness or smallness?
Is it power or powerlessness?
Is it darkness or light?
Surely it must be the dance between the two. That’s where aliveness lives - that’s where the snake moves.
Stop-Listen-Respond / stop - listen - respond.
Put your left foot in, take your left foot out,
Put your right hand in and shake it all about.
We are not dead and we are not alive.
We are living - we are dying - we are being reborn
constantly - Are we doing this with conscious awareness or have we succumbed to the illusions that dance to their own music?
Take a moment to stop, listen, respond.
Let the music of Life carry you through the highs and the lows.
Let the music hold you and rock you
With Beauty, Wisdom, and Guidance.
I am wrestling with smallness and largeness. COVID, the tiny virus that is currently reforming our entire culture, is playing in my body right now.
Insidious, creeping through every body symptom, tap, tap tap! Tapping on every system - asking can I lodge here? Or perhaps here?
Alexander the Great, great conqueror of cultures was toppled by a virus, the tiniest living organism. This fragmented piece of life brought the great man down.
What drives us? Is it largeness or smallness?
Is it power or powerlessness?
Is it darkness or light?
Surely it must be the dance between the two. That’s where aliveness lives - that’s where the snake moves.
Stop-Listen-Respond / stop - listen - respond.
Put your left foot in, take your left foot out,
Put your right hand in and shake it all about.
We are not dead and we are not alive.
We are living - we are dying - we are being reborn
constantly - Are we doing this with conscious awareness or have we succumbed to the illusions that dance to their own music?
Take a moment to stop, listen, respond.
Let the music of Life carry you through the highs and the lows.
Let the music hold you and rock you
With Beauty, Wisdom, and Guidance.
nancy Drury
Red Dust
There is reddish dust in the air from all the feet trodding the serpentine paths of the County Fair in Veneta. We all wind the paths, a wave of red clay dust covered feet, a snake of humans in all skins and paints and tattoos. Feathered headdresses wave more dust into the air as the parade with trumpets, clowns and stilt walkers passes.
On the hottest, driest Fair weekends, you can see the dust motes thick in the reddish air. People wet cowboy red bandannas and cover their children’s mouths and then their own. The dust sinks into the pores, so the people are one with the dust of the forest floor. The crews come with water sprayers to tamp down the dust, but it doesn’t last long. The dust wants to dance with the people, to laugh in their throats.
“Dust thou art and dust thou shalt return” is no longer a negative, just a truth. The dust travels into our bodies to be one with us. It becomes part of the universal force where we are all connected. Dust is alive.
There is reddish dust in the air from all the feet trodding the serpentine paths of the County Fair in Veneta. We all wind the paths, a wave of red clay dust covered feet, a snake of humans in all skins and paints and tattoos. Feathered headdresses wave more dust into the air as the parade with trumpets, clowns and stilt walkers passes.
On the hottest, driest Fair weekends, you can see the dust motes thick in the reddish air. People wet cowboy red bandannas and cover their children’s mouths and then their own. The dust sinks into the pores, so the people are one with the dust of the forest floor. The crews come with water sprayers to tamp down the dust, but it doesn’t last long. The dust wants to dance with the people, to laugh in their throats.
“Dust thou art and dust thou shalt return” is no longer a negative, just a truth. The dust travels into our bodies to be one with us. It becomes part of the universal force where we are all connected. Dust is alive.
Jillean johnson
Self Portrait
I am a knife-edge-walker.a death doulaI straddle here and thereI seek out the razor-sharp edgesBe careful don't slipOr go ahead, slip away,let the river carry you.
It is your fear that keeps you smallthere is no balanceonly balancing.So teeter away on that knife's edge,that space between trapezes where falling is always on the tableFalling is always on the table.Falling is always.If we are not too afraid to allow it.
And so I don't tell you I love you because the words would feel forced.And so I do tell you I love you because you are a piece of my heart walking in the world.And in spite of your sunshiney soul, you will suffer, you will be wounded.And so I do tell you I love you even as I fear for your life,that they won't understand,that their fear will make them act out of anger and spiteand they will spew violence over you.And there is no one more authentic than you.You are you.You live on the razor sharp edgeand you dance there.
Perhaps I have taught you something.
And you, Mama, I love you too. And the knife's edge I walk with you is the straddling of anger and vulnerability.How to hold on to my compassionate self when anger and grief swell up with such force.Alok says compassion even when we don't understand.Maybe I have found a new mantra.Ours is not always to understand.
I am a knife-edge-walker.a death doulaI straddle here and thereI seek out the razor-sharp edgesBe careful don't slipOr go ahead, slip away,let the river carry you.
It is your fear that keeps you smallthere is no balanceonly balancing.So teeter away on that knife's edge,that space between trapezes where falling is always on the tableFalling is always on the table.Falling is always.If we are not too afraid to allow it.
And so I don't tell you I love you because the words would feel forced.And so I do tell you I love you because you are a piece of my heart walking in the world.And in spite of your sunshiney soul, you will suffer, you will be wounded.And so I do tell you I love you even as I fear for your life,that they won't understand,that their fear will make them act out of anger and spiteand they will spew violence over you.And there is no one more authentic than you.You are you.You live on the razor sharp edgeand you dance there.
Perhaps I have taught you something.
And you, Mama, I love you too. And the knife's edge I walk with you is the straddling of anger and vulnerability.How to hold on to my compassionate self when anger and grief swell up with such force.Alok says compassion even when we don't understand.Maybe I have found a new mantra.Ours is not always to understand.
muffet feddo
The Loon
The anthem of the evening loonBeckons me to the side of the lake,And calls me to climb into the canoe.Delicately, I make my way through the water,Edging ever so slightly closer,Fearful that I might scare the beautiful creature away.To whom does the ghostly song call besides me?My soul hears and responds. As if turning homewardI inch, pulled by the invisible lineThat joins me to him.The keening of his callLands deeply within,Marking me as his.It feels naturalThat I am the object of his choosing.Or, perhaps, I only imagine it so.My stroke quietly quickensAs I rush to find him.The sad notes slip across the surface of the lakeTelling me that he is searching for me too.
The anthem of the evening loonBeckons me to the side of the lake,And calls me to climb into the canoe.Delicately, I make my way through the water,Edging ever so slightly closer,Fearful that I might scare the beautiful creature away.To whom does the ghostly song call besides me?My soul hears and responds. As if turning homewardI inch, pulled by the invisible lineThat joins me to him.The keening of his callLands deeply within,Marking me as his.It feels naturalThat I am the object of his choosing.Or, perhaps, I only imagine it so.My stroke quietly quickensAs I rush to find him.The sad notes slip across the surface of the lakeTelling me that he is searching for me too.