)
featured writing
featured Writing From: The OHSU Writing Circle for Women Healing from Cancer Knight Cancer Institute Fall 2025
Rebekah clark
Sacrament of Waiting(from the Sacrament of Letting Go by Macrina Wiederkehr)
Waiting to feel better. Waiting for something to “give way.” Keeping a “Vigil of trust.” It must be. It cannot end until it passes, and it cannot pass until its time is up. There is no encyclopedia, actuarial table, book of instructions, operation manual, magic pill, piece of advice, marauder’s map, phone app, family story, wives’ tale or easy fix available, though I am likely not the only person who has been here. It is a painful and lonely process. The poet speaks of the patience of a leafless tree, the color of emptiness; of letting go her colors one by one until none are left to shelter her from the cold. I could hear, in the responses of my fellow writers, that others had glimpsed this as well, knew something of it, and would show me the way if they could; if there were a way, reminding me that I am where I must be; and that the only way out is through, and gently reminding me that whatever it is and wherever it leads, I am not rejected and they walk at my side. I don’t know who I am anymore; I want some of the old me back! I knew what to do as the old me. Didn’t I? Or did the darkness not last so long and I was so grateful it ended I forgot how? No-one would stay in this “Valley of the Shadow” if they could find the exit. I must surrender my need to fix, heal, and end my vigil, and I must become ready to receive; meet, greet, feel, accept, handle, mend, and carefully fold it before I can put it away.
Waiting to feel better. Waiting for something to “give way.” Keeping a “Vigil of trust.” It must be. It cannot end until it passes, and it cannot pass until its time is up. There is no encyclopedia, actuarial table, book of instructions, operation manual, magic pill, piece of advice, marauder’s map, phone app, family story, wives’ tale or easy fix available, though I am likely not the only person who has been here. It is a painful and lonely process. The poet speaks of the patience of a leafless tree, the color of emptiness; of letting go her colors one by one until none are left to shelter her from the cold. I could hear, in the responses of my fellow writers, that others had glimpsed this as well, knew something of it, and would show me the way if they could; if there were a way, reminding me that I am where I must be; and that the only way out is through, and gently reminding me that whatever it is and wherever it leads, I am not rejected and they walk at my side. I don’t know who I am anymore; I want some of the old me back! I knew what to do as the old me. Didn’t I? Or did the darkness not last so long and I was so grateful it ended I forgot how? No-one would stay in this “Valley of the Shadow” if they could find the exit. I must surrender my need to fix, heal, and end my vigil, and I must become ready to receive; meet, greet, feel, accept, handle, mend, and carefully fold it before I can put it away.
Mary Ellen Boles
This body of mine
This body of minethe energizing bunny that keeps on going.neverdo i think of what i love about my body.I know you all understand.We women have a complicated relationship with this physical body.Yet for all this body of mine has been through,it's still here.Still gets out of bed every morning.Still moves through the dayand crawls back into that same bed each night.
I thought losing part of my lungs to cancerwas the end and the many roads that led from there.Yet here i am.and i don't think i love my body enough,don't tell my body how much i appreciate all she's enduredyet keeps going.don't appreciate the strength it's takento get here.
I don't do enough to keep mybody in shape.Mostly i ignore and get through,however as i write this i know i need to pay attention. to cherish this bodyand thank her and listen to her messages.I have followed the path i was raised with.Push through, do what has to be done.Be strong. Ignore.
Now it's time, past time really but can't worry about that now, to listen,to hear what my body needs me to do to ensure strength for the futureendurance for what's to comeacceptance for what is.To acknowledge and love and work those partsto whatever health they can attain.I embark on a journey i have not experienced,one of a different kind of change and recognition.
I thought losing part of my lungs to cancerwas the end and the many roads that led from there.Yet here i am.and i don't think i love my body enough,don't tell my body how much i appreciate all she's enduredyet keeps going.don't appreciate the strength it's takento get here.
I don't do enough to keep mybody in shape.Mostly i ignore and get through,however as i write this i know i need to pay attention. to cherish this bodyand thank her and listen to her messages.I have followed the path i was raised with.Push through, do what has to be done.Be strong. Ignore.
Now it's time, past time really but can't worry about that now, to listen,to hear what my body needs me to do to ensure strength for the futureendurance for what's to comeacceptance for what is.To acknowledge and love and work those partsto whatever health they can attain.I embark on a journey i have not experienced,one of a different kind of change and recognition.
Alaya Barnes
What's Now
Is she dying?What can I do?Where did she go?
She’s been steadyAlways in the same placePredictableBut then her body changedI noticed
She rebuilt her web, more beautiful than beforeThen disappeared
She moltedIs vulnerableShe ate her webRecycled her silkReused the nutrients she created for herself
Still hiding in the rafters
But last night in the darkWeaving, weaving, weavingHer web stronger, more refined, more expansive
She knows what to doNo thoughtAll on her ownIt’s her Nature
What’s nextWhat’s nowShe moves forwardHer rhythmHer knowing
Of restOf spinning silkOf eating the nutrients her own body created for her future selfOf safe harborOf resting in the center of her creationSimply being herselfShe is glorious
I am like herIn my rhythmOf restOf…Am I dying? Where did I go?What can I do?
Of here I amMolted and newVulnerable
Feeding on the creations of my pastSpinning them into what’s nextWhat’s now
*********** Into the Abyss Leaping into the abyssWe can’t with cords attachedWell, we canOf courseWe are free to do it that way
I choose to surrenderTo embraceThe Universe is friendlyI have what I needAnd so do they
It’s not up to me to control my fateOr theirs
I am freeIf I choose itI am free If I allow itI am free
She’s been steadyAlways in the same placePredictableBut then her body changedI noticed
She rebuilt her web, more beautiful than beforeThen disappeared
She moltedIs vulnerableShe ate her webRecycled her silkReused the nutrients she created for herself
Still hiding in the rafters
But last night in the darkWeaving, weaving, weavingHer web stronger, more refined, more expansive
She knows what to doNo thoughtAll on her ownIt’s her Nature
What’s nextWhat’s nowShe moves forwardHer rhythmHer knowing
Of restOf spinning silkOf eating the nutrients her own body created for her future selfOf safe harborOf resting in the center of her creationSimply being herselfShe is glorious
I am like herIn my rhythmOf restOf…Am I dying? Where did I go?What can I do?
Of here I amMolted and newVulnerable
Feeding on the creations of my pastSpinning them into what’s nextWhat’s now
*********** Into the Abyss Leaping into the abyssWe can’t with cords attachedWell, we canOf courseWe are free to do it that way
I choose to surrenderTo embraceThe Universe is friendlyI have what I needAnd so do they
It’s not up to me to control my fateOr theirs
I am freeIf I choose itI am free If I allow itI am free
deb brod
Drawing My Hands
Every day, I draw or paint my hand or hands at least once - about life-sized, and realistically, more or less - in a sketchbook with pages that just fit. Usually I draw with my “usual” hand, sometimes with the other hand, and sometimes I draw with both simultaneously. In various media - graphite, oil pastels, watercolor, water-soluble oil pastels, charcoal, markers, collage…and in all kinds of positions. Sometimes they’re reaching for, or holding things - a seashell, a spring flower, an autumn leaf, a dried rose, a fruit, a twig, a bird, a fish, or a mouse by the tail. And there my hands lie, often wet, muddled, foggy, until they dry and re-emerge on the pages. Sometimes, the hands appear within a loose landscape, water-scape, or sky-scape - day or night - clouds, moon, sun - bleeding sun - often under the influence of red, of my blood, my fearful fire. Today, though, for the first time, I thought, no, I felt: rise up! Rise off the pages, hands!
10/21/25 (after No Kings, Saturday 10/18/25)
********* For Sabrina (3-part, serial haiku)
how far away youare, how many more moon-soaked nights? holding my breath
holding your breath, youpale feather, wishing you close,you water creature
lover of others,dancing with stardust, rising to the occasion
11/4/25
10/21/25 (after No Kings, Saturday 10/18/25)
********* For Sabrina (3-part, serial haiku)
how far away youare, how many more moon-soaked nights? holding my breath
holding your breath, youpale feather, wishing you close,you water creature
lover of others,dancing with stardust, rising to the occasion
11/4/25
mica coffin
Rosary
The rosary I seem to have been praying lately is the rosary of all of the things I haven’t done yet, need to do, feel guilty for not doing, or can’t find the initiative or energy or state of mind needed to start doing. Every day the litany starts all over – call the doctor, call the insurance, call Labcorp, pay a bill, send receipts for reimbursement, buy airplane tickets, call the mechanic, order this, repair that, replace something else. I need to pack this rosary away – all the beads, strung out seemingly to eternity, shouting that I am failing, that I can’t do enough, that I am not enough. Instead, I will say the rosary of what I’ve accomplished – picked tomatoes, dyed a shirt, made ice cream, made a cheesecake, went to a medical appointment, and another, and another. Loved my husband. Loved my children. Loved my grandchildren. Fed them. Texted them. Loved them some more. Today, right now, I will do what I can do. What I have time and strength and energy and care for. I will do what feeds and heals me and those I love and, hopefully, in some small way, the world. I will wear this rosary around my neck, too busy or peaceful or tired to recite it, to worry it. I will wear it and hear it whisper – you are good, you are enough, you are love.
********** Light Shining Through I heard saints described once as people the light shines through. If that’s true, then my Zoom screen is a stained glass window, each square displaying a saint, each square framing a source of light and wisdom and inspiration. I gaze at my laptop screen reverently, honoring how it makes possible this sacrament of authentic communion. When other people talk of Zoom church, they are talking about someplace they go on Sundays. But my cancer groups are a place of worship for me. A place to feel blessed and held and anointed by the love and light and genuineness of so many warrior angels willing to hold whoever shows up in their holiness.
********** Light Shining Through I heard saints described once as people the light shines through. If that’s true, then my Zoom screen is a stained glass window, each square displaying a saint, each square framing a source of light and wisdom and inspiration. I gaze at my laptop screen reverently, honoring how it makes possible this sacrament of authentic communion. When other people talk of Zoom church, they are talking about someplace they go on Sundays. But my cancer groups are a place of worship for me. A place to feel blessed and held and anointed by the love and light and genuineness of so many warrior angels willing to hold whoever shows up in their holiness.
featured Writing From: VISION An in-person Monthly writing devotion Spring 2025
GROUP POEM
WHEN WOMEN CIRCLE
VISION participants ~ Carolyn, Sandi, Beth, Tanya, Nancy, Kitty, Kirstin, Dawn, Peg, Holly, Melinda, Lisa at Kitty's home
When women circle, the golden threads of connection become strong.
When women circle, the mystical wind rustles the leaves, the windchimes and the collective creativity.
When women circle, a rainbow of energy happens, emerges, opening all kinds of colors, doors to our inner selves, connection to everything. Gentle, collective circle wisdom is shared.
When women circle, everything is possible: power, strength, imagination, love, energy.
When women circle, there is outrageous, cleansing laughter and outrageous, cleansing tears. The emotional body is honored, uplifted and rejoiced in.
When women circle, they help heal each other through letting unspoken truths rise to the surface.
When women circle, they heal the planet with their trust, truth, laughter, tears, and vulnerability.
When women circle, intimacy becomes easier as there is no judgement or criticism.
When women circle, there is mirth and laughter.
When women circle, wisdom is shared – so many “aha” moments.
When women circle, there is laughter.
When women circle, there are tears.
Tears and laughter stitch women together, stitch women together for years and years, for forever, healing years!
When women circle, many of the previously necessary veils come down and we get to lift our faces and our hearts to the sunlight of each other.
When women circle, we sink deep into the sacred silence, allowing our wells to be filled with the power of our gentle and collective wisdom.
Sandi Goodwin
Today
Today I am not an Australian Shepherd,herding and workingToday I am not a puddle on the floor,un-containable and unstableToday I am not slobbering snot and tears,as beforeToday I am a stone-balancer,feeling the art and joy of beingToday I am the stone on top,nothing to upholdnowhere to goStanding on center
******
Clear Blue Sky
To lie beneath this spaceand absorb the clear blue of a clean slatedraws me like oxygen to lungsTo fan away the smog of mistakeand clouds of regretWhat a gift that would be!Like being born anewcalm and clearfresh and unscarredCan I imagine the feeling of hope and promise?Slip it on one leg at a time, like pants?Walk through the world dressed in faith?Should I add shoes of peace and love,feeling each on the soles of my feet like flaps,snug between my toes?Can I top it off with a wide brimmed hat of mercy that keeps mein the shade of forgiveness?I need such an outfit.
Nancy Drury
What do I want?
I want the peace that surpasses all understanding for the whole raging world.I want soft rain for all the too dry, cracked earth.I want food to reach all the people in the world who are starving due to wars or famine.I want homes, safe homes for all the people living on the streets.I want joy and playgrounds, and toys for all the children who live now in insecurity.I want the earth to cool so the storms quiet and the rivers flow easily to the sea.I want free health care for all and a robust public education system.I want a government that cares more about its people than about greed and power.I want community for all the people who are lonely.I want welcoming arms for all the refugees fleeing violence and famine.I want possibility for all the dreams we have in our hearts.I want everyone to know that they matter and that they are perfect just as they are.
*******
Writing excerpt from 4/24/25:
I return to the place of my childhood, my memories popping up when the veil of now drops into the time of then. I feel myself sitting on the front piazza with my parents in the hot and humid air, waiting for a breeze to cool my sticky skin. Then, I run up under the street lights to play hide and seek with the neighborhood kids in the lot where the long moving vans are parked without their cabs. Huge blocks of wood stop them from rolling on top of us. I slip through the gap in the gates as my friends pull it wider for me. No chain locks or barbed wire fences can stop our skinny bodies. We jump from truck top to truck top before we settle down for our nightly game. I hide in a narrow granite ledge by a bricked over, recessed window. I turn my face to the wall so my whiteness will not reflect in the moonlight. I hear my heart beating and my breath quieting as I make myself invisible. Time slows down. I will myself to remember this moment forever.
beth johnson
Long, Long Ago
It was really, really bad! So bad, I’ve never been able to forget about it! You’d think after all these so, so many, many years, I would have forgotten! Well, and forgiven! And I just, just can’t seem to!
It was, so, so bad! This person, well this person, she, she just did this really, really bad, bad thing. Oh, it was such a long, long time ago you know. I should just let it go! You know I should. I should just let it go! You know I should. I should. I should! I just can’t!
You see, we were just kids. Kids, out at the burger joint. Just getting a burger, fries, and a coke. Me and my friend, you see. Just me and my friend. And she, well I just can’t forgive her, this was so, so bad!
I got my order and hers was late. She said she was so, so hungry! Like really, she couldn’t wait! She said she just had to have some of my fries! Before she died of hunger it was so bad!
I told her to wait – her burger was coming. To eat her own and she said she couldn’t wait! Just as her burger and fries were coming, she reached over and ate some of my fries off my plate! She said she was too hungry and just couldn’t wait, as the waitress set down her plate!
It was so, so bad this thing she did so long, long ago! She just couldn’t wait!
It was, so, so bad! This person, well this person, she, she just did this really, really bad, bad thing. Oh, it was such a long, long time ago you know. I should just let it go! You know I should. I should just let it go! You know I should. I should. I should! I just can’t!
You see, we were just kids. Kids, out at the burger joint. Just getting a burger, fries, and a coke. Me and my friend, you see. Just me and my friend. And she, well I just can’t forgive her, this was so, so bad!
I got my order and hers was late. She said she was so, so hungry! Like really, she couldn’t wait! She said she just had to have some of my fries! Before she died of hunger it was so bad!
I told her to wait – her burger was coming. To eat her own and she said she couldn’t wait! Just as her burger and fries were coming, she reached over and ate some of my fries off my plate! She said she was too hungry and just couldn’t wait, as the waitress set down her plate!
It was so, so bad this thing she did so long, long ago! She just couldn’t wait!
tanya prather
Such a coming together is what we came for
Each and every clienthas come into my office and weptTears of fear, disbelief, rage and hopelessness.
Each and every clienthas left my officegrounded, stronger,more settled and less alone
We have been taught for centuries that being strong and firmand resistantis unkind and unbecoming of a woman.
We are doing the work right now,intentionally and collectivelyof holding boundariesthat align with our valuesof engaging in the radical acts ofrest, connection and joyWe are developing our resistanceand practicing our loud and unshakeable"No"
Today there are earthquakeseverywhere we step
Today we are holding our groundbecause when the dust settleswe know we will needto use our "no"in the service of our love.
******** Prompt: Starting here, what do you want to remember?
The delight of laughter bubbling out from my daughters’ bellies full of gleeThe touch of their skin, each and every time,filling me with love and gratitudeTheir delicious unfolding into who they are to bedifferent from meand also, in many ways, the same.Their cries for help or comfortat even the most inconvenient times, a blessinga giftan answer to my deepest prayer:I, unique in all the world,am your mother
This truth unchangeableLet me always remember this,my most precious place in the order of things
Each and every clienthas left my officegrounded, stronger,more settled and less alone
We have been taught for centuries that being strong and firmand resistantis unkind and unbecoming of a woman.
We are doing the work right now,intentionally and collectivelyof holding boundariesthat align with our valuesof engaging in the radical acts ofrest, connection and joyWe are developing our resistanceand practicing our loud and unshakeable"No"
Today there are earthquakeseverywhere we step
Today we are holding our groundbecause when the dust settleswe know we will needto use our "no"in the service of our love.
******** Prompt: Starting here, what do you want to remember?
The delight of laughter bubbling out from my daughters’ bellies full of gleeThe touch of their skin, each and every time,filling me with love and gratitudeTheir delicious unfolding into who they are to bedifferent from meand also, in many ways, the same.Their cries for help or comfortat even the most inconvenient times, a blessinga giftan answer to my deepest prayer:I, unique in all the world,am your mother
This truth unchangeableLet me always remember this,my most precious place in the order of things
Carolyn Goolsby
Prompt: I Have Been a Thousand Different Women by Emory Hall
Although usually filled with Kindness, Grace, Wisdom, and Infinite Patience, recently I have been a holy terror. I have been the proverbial girl with the curl right in the middle of her forehead.
Over the last few months, I have wrestled with my own resistance and obnoxiousness. My spiritual studies have come down hard on releasing resistance. That’s your only problem- resistance! All you have to do is release it, the teachings admonish.
My response is that of a three-year-old I met 50 years ago. Frequently, this kid was in trouble, and when confronted, he would tilt his head to look at the towering adult trying to correct him. With a fierce gleam in his eye, he would crow, I laugh in the face of danger!
When confronted with my own resistance, my back bristles and my resistance flares up two or three times its normal awfulness. I shriek in my three-year-old voice at my Wise, Spiritual Teachers, I laugh in the face of danger!
I clutch my resistance like a protective teddy bear.
You can imagine my tremendous relief yesterday when a woman announced, There is Joy in resistance!
It popped the bubble that held my resistance to my resistance.
Will my Kindness, Grace and Infinite Patience partnered with my resistance serve as rivers of Wisdom to take me to the Sea?
Over the last few months, I have wrestled with my own resistance and obnoxiousness. My spiritual studies have come down hard on releasing resistance. That’s your only problem- resistance! All you have to do is release it, the teachings admonish.
My response is that of a three-year-old I met 50 years ago. Frequently, this kid was in trouble, and when confronted, he would tilt his head to look at the towering adult trying to correct him. With a fierce gleam in his eye, he would crow, I laugh in the face of danger!
When confronted with my own resistance, my back bristles and my resistance flares up two or three times its normal awfulness. I shriek in my three-year-old voice at my Wise, Spiritual Teachers, I laugh in the face of danger!
I clutch my resistance like a protective teddy bear.
You can imagine my tremendous relief yesterday when a woman announced, There is Joy in resistance!
It popped the bubble that held my resistance to my resistance.
Will my Kindness, Grace and Infinite Patience partnered with my resistance serve as rivers of Wisdom to take me to the Sea?
Peg brady
The Universe Hums
Folded papercreates origami shapes,invisible at first,but with time,dedication,structure appears.
Forces press,Storms hover, lingering for days,sometimes years.Yet, when the torrent ceases,standing drenched, shivering, afraid,a door opens,resilience beckoning,we bend,wordlessly,no language provided,until deep listening,speaking truth,discovering our tribe, illuminates the inner universe we inhabit.
A hovel, called home,slowly transforms into a palace,a retreat from the world where we lounge on chaises and pillows,silk curtains swaying,we sip tea, needlepoint, write poetry,recognizing there is no emptiness,in a universe that humslike bees diligently working to support their queen.
As our regal nature emerges,we discern that we are simultaneously the queen andthe hive supporting us.
Forces press,Storms hover, lingering for days,sometimes years.Yet, when the torrent ceases,standing drenched, shivering, afraid,a door opens,resilience beckoning,we bend,wordlessly,no language provided,until deep listening,speaking truth,discovering our tribe, illuminates the inner universe we inhabit.
A hovel, called home,slowly transforms into a palace,a retreat from the world where we lounge on chaises and pillows,silk curtains swaying,we sip tea, needlepoint, write poetry,recognizing there is no emptiness,in a universe that humslike bees diligently working to support their queen.
As our regal nature emerges,we discern that we are simultaneously the queen andthe hive supporting us.
Holly Blakeslee
IS NOSTALGIA GRIEF?*
They are not married,though they dance together, gracefulbird call and waterfallnotes spilling over each other, intertwined. Nostalgia, buzzing blue bygoneswithin the soul-self, a sibilant songa lonely bugle call, Taps, a lullaby -a ringing of weathered bells. Nostalgia takes hold of one in a soft fist,a tender palm - the hand already holding pain.Nostalgia is a well-worn shoe which pincheswhen worn too long, when worn diffidently. Nostalgia reminds one - a chiming songsoft colors swirling at duskNostalgia is a gift - time held within timequiet corners of moments, of years. Nostalgia has the melancholy habit ofinviting itself in - an intimate intrusiona resurrection, a call of remembrance -…particularly when one is not looking. For nostalgia is an instrument of the heartA tome made of dusty memoriesChapters of one’s joys, of one’s griefsgently bookmarked by tears. Ah, to float along its melodies, freeof the pain of grievingreveling in the joyful times…notAll that is lost, All who are gone. Grief and nostalgia…companions of the elderly,residing within those deepest shadows of soul-self.Longing and loving. Sorrow and sunshine.A lifetime tapestry, weaving, until Last Call, untilLights Out. (*a friend asked)
******
Prompt: Rumi. Imagine removing barriers that stand in your way to creativity.
Am I Sisyphus with his rock - straining and toiling and pushing the heavy idea, the creative part of self, the totality of experience needing expression to the top, to the very pinnacle? To have it rest there a moment, huge and teetering. And as I turn away, thinking it is done, I have done it - there it goes, it rolls all the way back down. Gone, while I rest. Or am I Vincent in his small room in France, in Arles, creating, making beauty, capturing light onto canvas, living in and for my art? Some of the time…and then I fall into madness, falling over and over again. My spirit dark, my juices dried, no art being made, only the swirling madness. Or - am I just myself, a woman in her sixth decade, who has been enamored of the written word her entire life, who learned to read at five years old? Who has been a writer since childhood and who can at last rest against the rock, brush in hand, recording with words what wants and needs expressing from her soul. Drawn, expressed, recorded.Gathering it all together, my garland of words, making a creative whole at last.
Am I Sisyphus with his rock - straining and toiling and pushing the heavy idea, the creative part of self, the totality of experience needing expression to the top, to the very pinnacle? To have it rest there a moment, huge and teetering. And as I turn away, thinking it is done, I have done it - there it goes, it rolls all the way back down. Gone, while I rest. Or am I Vincent in his small room in France, in Arles, creating, making beauty, capturing light onto canvas, living in and for my art? Some of the time…and then I fall into madness, falling over and over again. My spirit dark, my juices dried, no art being made, only the swirling madness. Or - am I just myself, a woman in her sixth decade, who has been enamored of the written word her entire life, who learned to read at five years old? Who has been a writer since childhood and who can at last rest against the rock, brush in hand, recording with words what wants and needs expressing from her soul. Drawn, expressed, recorded.Gathering it all together, my garland of words, making a creative whole at last.
writing from center: A thursday morning writing devotion fall 2024
Helen Kerner
Ripe with god
I want to tell you something.
Listen
Carefully:
do not fear the darkness, explore it.
In the dark is where I found myself,
my real self after ripening for years.
It does take years to ripen
and in the dark is best.
I want to tell you something.
Listen
Carefully:
it is no longer a secret
but I don’t reveal it to just anyone.
You I trust, believe me!
It’s not easy, me revealing me.
I’ve been afraid all my life,
but in the dark, I’ve ripened.
And realized I really am of god!
I beg your pardon? You don’t believe me?
But it’s true. Just like you!
Ripe.
A fruit so sweet the taste will likely kill.
I wanted to tell you that in confidence, but now I’m not afraid anymore.
Tell anyone you want.
We are all the same
ripe with god.
Holly blakeslee
One Woman's Heart of Truth
It has taken nearly six decades of time for me to find my own truth. Actually - I am just now, at 62, finding it still. The truth of my story, my beliefs, how I give and receive love, my compassion and empathy. The old "who I am." I realized this year that I have known how to feel sorry for myself for all these decades - but I have yet to know what it is to feel compassion for Self. Feel deep, and true, and understanding compassion for my own self. Compassion, not sympathy. It was a moment of epiphany for me.
Many times I have stood on the threshold of my truth and begun to glimpse my truest self; I have felt a firm - yet still tentative - foothold in the doorway before the portal once again squeezes shut. Writing to my truth feels nearly insurmountable when I face it head-on.
As a girl and woman born and raised in a society and culture that so very often and in so many subtle and not-so-subtle ways negates the truth of women, of a woman, it is particularly challenging. A girl and a woman are meant to think of others, to help others, to nurture others. We are not trained in this way to nurture our own selves, our own souls.
And the gaslighting! Now that I truly understand the definition of this, what it means, bottom line - one is made to question one's own memory, one's reality - well, is this not questioning one's own truth? How in the world can one know what that truth is? Being gaslit from birth by my father, then by most of society, and on into my 40's by my significant other - it can cause a person, this woman, to question, perhaps, her very heart.
Some days - some days a heart may weigh heavy, nearly a stone.
Some days a heart floats, a balloon riding the currents.
Some days the heart is soft & tender - a cushion stuck with pins.
And some day this heart may feel the wholeness of life...all of the souls...all of the things.
I will continue to stand upon the threshold, and knock against the door that was placed against me.
barbara woehle
Open
Moonlight trickled into the kitchen
splitting the table in half.
Part of me was afraid.
Impossible! Look the other way!
But another part said,
Wow! What's this about?
I walked to the full beam
of moonlight.
It met me, moving into my heart.
I felt my heart cracking
and was afraid,
but stood still
choosing to trust the light.
My heart cracked open
and my whole Being
was filled with light.
My whole Being was light.
My whole light was Being.
Some say
I should have opted out.
Although I still run into
that old version of myself-
the one who can be a pill-
I know
what I know
and I smile.
Thanks to the moonlight
in the kitchen
splitting the table
and my heart
wide open.
deborah colette murphy
My Harvest
It was a brilliant fall harvest time.
Pumpkins were on the doorstep, leaves were tumbling down. My son was born on October 22, a harvest, MY HARVEST, “fruit of my womb.”
It was the fruition of the love that my husband and I shared.
He was born at home in this little house, down a dirt road in the woods of southern Oregon.
He was born in a simple log pole bed that I still sleep in.
I wound up having a whole team of midwives at the birth because, at that time, the insurance companies were “cracking down” on home births.
They wanted women to go to a clinic or to a hospital.
That circle of women had worked together as midwifery teams for years; they came to my house to be together one more time.
I remember how the crows cawed and how the golden leaves were dropping and fluttering down to the ground.
It has been decades, but that glorious autumn is still vibrant. I can close my eyes and remember that day, that night, although I might not remember last week.
It was a harvest of my body, a harvest of my soul… such a gift…
carolyn goolsby
Self Love?
At first glance, I feel like an armadillo, a porcupine, a sea urchin.
And then I remember yesterday.
I arrive home from the grocery store feeling haggard and ungrounded. I open the trunk to unload the four bags of groceries. I pick up the first bag and turn around to start up the front steps.
Right in front of my face is a white rose.
As I turn, I am surprised by this rose inches from my face. I am lost in the beauty of the bloom…fragrant, soft petals, beautifully arranged in shades of white and shadow, with the slightest hint of pink. The rose so perfectly placed on the arbor at my eye level greets me with a Love and Joy so loud… I cannot turn away.
Another moment-
inner nagging rages in my head day after day: If you don’t clip those old bachelor button flowers, they’ll go to seed!
I glance out the window into the golden September sunshine. I watch a small bird, balanced on a sunflower leaf…he joyfully eats bachelor button seeds… as if the sunflower leaf and bachelor button seeds are placed perfectly there for him. All is in its right place.
I wonder, is this proof that we live in a Loving Universe? Are things exactly how they are supposed to be?
At our house, we have a wild rambling garden boiling over with flowers and greenery. We are delighted when our new neighbors (not so new anymore) appreciate the out-of-control perennial sweet peas that bubble over the property line.
Those sweet peas have rioted for years now, and for the first time this year I notice pigeons stopping on the warm sidewalk, like blue collar workers stopping for a beer after a hard day in the factory. They devour dry sweet pea seeds that have exploded onto the sidewalk.
Have you ever looked at a pigeon? Some people call them flying rats.
But when I really look at them, I notice they are exquisitely designed.
Their markings are unique, as if each one were hand painted.
In flight, their wings angle in perfect origami fold.
As they glide through the air, their beauty shouts,
There is no mistake here!
Sometimes I wonder if the Universe is trying to reach out and bathe us with Love and Beauty in every moment. Am I soaking it in?
Featured Writing From: The OHSU Writing Circle for Women Healing from Cancer Knight Cancer Institute
The following excerpt from Poet Joy Harjo prompted the writing from these four women in the Tuesday morning OHSU Writing Circle (Summer 2024):
"This morning, I realized that I am in a period that was called by the Spanish mystic and poet St. John of the Cross the "dark night of the soul." It's a period of purification by trial. I have been dealing with losses of family members, by death or betrayal, a fractured foot, and am reviewing the path of my life and figuring out the direction from here as I make friends with death. When you get to my age, you do that, or you run scared. I don't sense that I'm going any time soon; there's still too much left for me to do. Yet, death is ever present. It's an essential part of life in this realm. Other realms have different laws. As with any difficulty I go out by the river or into the trees to find a place for my soul to rest. I turn to the story with gratitude, for the spiritual illumination that can be found as the tale unwinds. It occurs to me that this country is also in a "dark night of the soul," with the question being, will we choose compassionate ideas and laws, and leaders who serve and are fit for the job, or will we choose dictatorial pawns who assume authority for self-gain, and wish to oppress and police citizens to enslave them to a false story. And this earth too is also in the place of challenge and shift, another level of the "dark night of the soul." Will there still be trees and rivers when we are through with our buying and selling? I turn East to begin the day and take in breath. I give it back with prayer for my family, even those who mean to harm, knowing that we are all family: these lands, these communities, this earth. I turn back to tend the story with the words, images, and music I have been given and know that even the hardest parts of loss and heartbreak are what shines the soul and opens the door to understanding, to love.
~Joy Harjo
Lori Ann Johnson
The dark night of the soul – I feel I have been in this space since January of 2022. A purification by trial. Giving up alcohol – a literal purification for my body. To release the poisons and toxins I freely ingested. To let my organs breathe. To rid my cells of the burden of digesting and integrating a substance they had no use for. To let the crutch of escape go. To provide some freedom, some space to figure out what life could be like without a drink in my hand.
And then the trial continued.
A diagnosis. An awakening. An opportunity to reevaluate what it means to be me, what the true essence of my hopes conveyed. A distillation of myself, shedding what no longer served, focusing on what did. A purification of a different sort.
And now, what about now? Am I out of the dark night of the soul? Am I lingering too long – the years of the dark night so familiar I’m not sure how to see the light again? Does it pass? Do I wake up one morning, shake my hands of it all and the release washes over me? Will the door to understanding and love open? Will I be brave enough to walk through it? Will I recognize it? This purification, this distillation – what will be left? Will the losses pile up so high that there will no longer be room to see my way out? Will I find joy and laughter and let the sun shine in? Can I feel I am deserving, worthy of all that light? Can it shine on me without me looking away, seeking the comfort of the dark?
I pray that I can. My earnest wish is to feel that deep joy in my heart, that wonder at life, that awe of what is possible. That I can crawl out from under the dark blanket, pull my shoulders back, face the light with hope and love and joy. That I will allow myself to feel love, to be loved, to absorb the goodness of understanding. I pray that those days are in my future. I pray that it might start tomorrow. I pray I find what I am seeking.
Mary Ellen Boles
How to make friends with death
while sending out prayers for this life.
How to hold such a dichotomy
in sacred space and love.
How to recognize the dark night of the soul
that walks beside us
while we greet each day
with light and love and hope.
How to reconcile the trials and losses
of home and health and beloveds
yet still find our way
to the wilds the earth offers.
How to pray with forgiveness in the forefront
with heart open to share
the trees and the green and the brilliance
of sunshine that bursts from each blossom.
How to stay grounded, connected to each other,
intimate with ourselves
in the face of despair and destruction,
the loss of our humanity.
How to live fully, to welcome our
companions of grief and laughter.
How to set a place
at the table for death.
Sally Rudolph
I flirt with the dark night of the soul all of the time, if not in my mind, then certainly within my body. I wake up in the morning, see the sun, and consider finding a hole to climb into.
“What makes me feel so heavy?” I wonder.
“Why is it so hard to make things happen?”
“Why so sluggish Sally Jean?”
And yet, just the other day, after a fabulous dip and float on the Mollala River, the afternoon sun making everything dreamy, my brother asked me why I got sick. He asked what the doctors thought.
And even now, remembering the conversation, I feel the heat of my soul blast through the dark night.
“Let me tell you why I think I got sick,” I said to him.
“Let me tell you what I have done to heal in mind and body.”
“Let me tell you why I am still alive.”
And he listened, because I spoke from a place of heat; a conviction and energy so steady and strong that it had to be felt.
That’s the kind of stuff that balances the Universe - that puts the dark night behind us so that we can live out in the sunshine.
Like a dreamy day on the river, dipping and floating in the afternoon sun.
Avena Ward
Who are we that you should be mindful of us, that you care for us? We creatures that arise from dirt? We so often push each other’s buttons in our haste to pursue our own survival.
Fear. Fear of losing. Fear of failing. Fear of dying. These fears run our days and disturb our nights when we should be dreaming of a future. These fears push us to compete and convict others of taking more than their share. They push us to our limits. They push earth to her limits.
Do we not know we are part of the dream? The dream that is created by our collective thoughts, our creative impulses? We can choose. We can hold space for each other and encourage thoughtfulness, fruitfulness, generosity of spirit. Or we can stoke the fires that leave some out in the cold, reinforce the nightmares where a few party on the graves of the many.
Reach out your hand. Touch mine. Feel the life force that connects us. Look through my eyes as I seek yours to see my own reflection. No matter the distortion.
Let us walk together to the water. Let us bathe our fevered bodies, asking to be reborn in a cooler, calmer world. Where we are mindful of our own oneness with the earth, the animals and plants, the trees and the clouds.
Let us be guided to a new vision. A beautiful vision where we start each day with a song of joy and end it with a prayer of thanks. And one in which the time between is filled with trust in the goodness of the Source of All our Beings.
Featured Writing From: Words for Healing, Legacy Cancer Center 1st & 3rd Fridays, Writing Circle for Men & women Healing from Cancer
Karen Beall
Thinking
I’m trying not to think of the lists in my head and on my phone - those tasks that make each day full and busy, but make my life a series of steps that I check off, rather than deeply appreciate. Instead, I think of the tops of the trees waving outside my window, their brilliant orange leaves fluttering toward the ground, their skeletons starting to show now as they slowly get undressed for winter. I’m thinking of the blue sky and sunshine that wait outside, though it’s a muted version of the cornflower blue of summer, a distant remnant of the past season’s lush rays. I want to appreciate the extravagant flowers of summer, but also the bare limbs; the splendor of soaring eagles and also the fearlessness of cawing black crows. I want to appreciate the striations of blue and green as I float in a tropical sea, but also the mighty waves that I can only watch, as they crash on rocks and spew up blowholes.
I’m thinking how this time last year, my life fell apart, and how now, I am gluing it back together, trying to learn how to appreciate every moment. I’m thinking of all I have learned, the people I have met, the friendships that have grown, the understanding that I am not immortal. I’ve spent my life worrying about other people’s health and safety, believing I could out-exercise mortality, that serious illness couldn’t catch me if I kept moving. I was wrong.
Perhaps if it isn’t my undoing, I may someday see cancer as a gift disguised as a misfortune, a bend in the path I was following or a spur to a deeper life that I don’t quite feel yet, but might, if only I can open my heart to see the ordinary as extraordinary. I’m not certain that everything will be all right, but I know spring blooms will follow the desolate winter days. I know the waves will keep washing the shore in an endless loop. I know blooms will eventually emerge in volcanic ash and I know the universe extends further than my logical human mind will ever comprehend. Perhaps that is all the certainty I will ever have, as close to all right as I will ever get.
Sandi Meyer
crowd, a mood
I’m nervous. I know I can nail the first two songs, but I might try too hard on the ones I’m afraid of and end up yelling instead of singing. The crowd is small, but I am so grateful for this chance to be on stage, even if I’m still wearing the drains from my surgery underneath my fancy dress. Suzi and Ray are up front and center with a sign they hold up that says “Sandi Meyer Fan Club.” Fellow performers from the class are also in the supportive audience. And importantly, my son has shown up - which is never a given.
I have thought of doing this throughout the past few years - but who had time? I am my most authentic in song or dance. Now, with my recent diagnosis, and questionable life span, I am incredulous that I could only find time to sing when things were not going well. How could I have wasted those years being the inauthentic salesman, the surprised recipient of hidden talents that assumed no room for passion? I sing, I do my own little medley, and the response is overwhelming. I’m where I belong.
I have thought of doing this throughout the past few years - but who had time? I am my most authentic in song or dance. Now, with my recent diagnosis, and questionable life span, I am incredulous that I could only find time to sing when things were not going well. How could I have wasted those years being the inauthentic salesman, the surprised recipient of hidden talents that assumed no room for passion? I sing, I do my own little medley, and the response is overwhelming. I’m where I belong.
Kathleen E. Casey
Tending Grief
It was, yes, the deepest part of night. Yes. When everything lies
fragile and impermanent.
There was yes, there was a swarm of bitter air, a salt crawling in the throat, the lungs.
Yes, it stung.
Yes.
I knew it then. Felt it creep.
A wire of fog.
A tide.
The moon a fractured spine.
Ebbing phosphorescence.
Dark now smeared along the shore.
Waves.
Flood.
Drought.
A desolate.
Yes. Winter's stones.
Fire on skin. Running wild.
The voices of the dead.
I twist to stamp it out.
Conjure lakes, rivers, mountain peaks.
Swallowtails. A peony.
The desert's bleak, indifferent eye
cracks a whip against the sky.
A bloom of tears.
Now a clanging now a name now nameless now.
Feckless rites.
Cries.
To sleep. Dark thrumming. Dark.
Ancient skin galloping a storm.
Yes.
The sea siphons light, devours breath, dissolves the bone,
plasters nouns on every thing.
A wave snakes in to pummel us again.
ted healy
Beyond the Veil
This is it—I’ve crossed the threshold into the unknown. The transition feels oddly familiar, like a long-awaited reunion. I sense connection, not through sight or sound, but as an ethereal energy. Depak Chopra’s wisdom echoes: We are all energy, intertwined in the cosmic dance.Yet, amidst this ethereal existence, I hear the trees weep. Their silent cries echo across dimensions. A forest fire rages in the Amazon, fueled by human greed. Acres vanish, sacrificed for mining. The Earth mourns.And then, there you are—my faithful feline companion, Friday. Your presence transcends time. I hoped to feel you again, and here you are, brushing against my soul.Mary, too, whispers her story. The baby pilot whale, lost in the abyss, a casualty of reckless sonar. We tried to save her, but the ocean swallowed her cries. Mary, your compassion still resonates.Bobby, my half-brother, a fleeting memory. You left too soon, a casualty of another’s recklessness. Yet, in your playful moments, you etched love into my heart. Thank you.Howie, the name that defied convention. In Switzerland’s linguistic blend, it stuck. You, who yearned for a daughter, missed the chance to meet her. Korsakoff syndrome stole your clarity, but your legacy lives on.And Dad, your presence lingers. I’ve treaded a different path, not scaling ad-world heights, but weaving kindness into existence. Mistakes? Yes, they shaped me—human frailty etched in stardust.Beyond the veil, I find solace. We are energy, memories, and whispers—a symphony of imperfections. And perhaps, in this cosmic tapestry, to err is not just human; it’s our shared melody.
Allison Victor
If I had only one more day...
If I had only one more day...
I'd write thank you notes
to all those I didn't
say it enough to
I'd apologize to my heirs
for not organizing & getting
rid of enough junk
I'd probably write a will in
case I hadn't done that
yet
I'd fill my senses with delight
because I don't imagine
I'll get that in the next life
I'd walk next to beautiful flowers
inhaling their beauty
while embracing my sensation of breath
I'd give away
give away my art
dance in a circle with
precious loved ones
I'd practice letting go
practice loving
appreciating
I'd say things that
so far have been left unsaid
give, thank, applaud
exhale
Maybe a party
a special gathering
in a beautiful place
with delicious
food near water
maybe we'd all
cuddle around a campfire
and sing corny songs
or Leonard Cohen songs
I'd promise to watch over
everyone as I merge
into the beyond
Hopefully there would be
laughter & joy & sweetness
as we would give all there is
to give...to lighten
our journeys forward
Featured Writing From: The Elemental Self: A Day-long Writing & Art Retreat with Lisa Kagan & Dawn Thompson & Geography of the Wild Heart, A weekly Creative (writing & Art-making) retreat series with Lisa Kagan & Margaret Hartsook Fall 2023
tanya prather
So many messages to soften the wolf, to hold back the anger and the rage, that instead we taste metal, the blood in our mouths that comes from biting our tongues. We turn that wild wolf internally. We gnaw at our own insides, chewing away what is not accepted, what is not tolerated in females, what is a lightning rod for criticism and shame. What if instead we allowed the wild wolf inside to do what it is called to do from the depths of our being: protect us, free us, connect us to the wildness, the elemental, the sacred? What if the softening was toward us as well. The blessing, the benefit that comes from softening into love for ourselves.
Rosemary reed
Who is listening?As I sat by the river that day, I listened to the movement of the water over rocks.My soul was moved by that universal flow.The voice of my heart in response spoke of peace and delight.Who is listening as my heart sings? Who is listening to every song and cry?Look around. We are surrounded by others, by nature, by the responses of our own body.The trees and branches may sway at the very moment of your heart’s delight, a smile from a stranger as you shine the peace from within.There is always a listener, your subtle companion of the heart.
Amy laing
My work is to fall in love with existence. My work is to love my body as if it belonged to someone I care about very much. My work is to allow my wings to burst achingly slowly, excruciatingly, bit by bit through the tight gravelly muscles of my back, to free themselves from the constraints of what has been and to blaze forward into what can possibly be. My job is to bloom, to grow great with possibility, pregnant with the future and what it may hold. Beautiful, painful, glorious and agonizing. The process of giving birth to myself happens when it happens – I burst open and can no longer hide what’s there – on display for anyone to witness, but particularly for me. To learn to know myself. My work is to peel away the layers of whatever is not my true self and emerge naked, vulnerable and real. My work is to embrace these wings, such as they are, and take flight without knowing what I will see on my journey, and with no destination in mind. I will soar on the high wild breeze, spread my tender wings, and learn to trust that wherever I go is where I was meant to be. A bird, a butterfly, a dandelion seed, a phoenix, a hummingbird. I am any of them or all at once – it doesn’t matter. I have erupted into flight and my work is to fly.
Kirstin lichtfield
Getting My Voice Back It’s been a long road, this naggy throat ridiculousness that began as a cold weeks ago, and made me cough embarrassingly for as many weeks, and stole my regular voice. Even singing along with the radio felt like a wash; I didn’t even want to hear myself. The month has been exciting but overwhelming, so many twists and turns. Getting my voice back became its own project, its own animal, a task side-by-side with everything else flung my way from far and wide. But it’s coming back, I’m turning back into me, or at least sounding like me. I like to think that maybe this raspy scratchy sound was like grit that needed to rise then sink to the bottom of the pan of gold, leaving the newer shinier me behind to move forward. I quieted myself more these weeks, but I saved my strength for the really important words, the gold in the pan, the finely aged wine, the best of me that I can offer the world.
Featured Writing from: The OHSU Writing Circles
for Women Healing from Cancer & the aya Cancer Circle
Knight Cancer Institute
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.
Featured Writing From: writing from center: A thursday morning writing devotion 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.