Monthly Archives: August 2013

Still Waters

On a day when the world lost Seamus Heaney, I could do worse than share with you the very first, beautiful Heaney poem I ever read. I was all of fourteen years old, and absolutely taken with the tremulous anticipation and wariness captured in “Twice Shy”. It has stayed with me through the years and […]

The beauty of imperfection

by Elizabeth Viljoen. I cock my ear at an absence– in the shared voices of blood arrives my need for antediluvian lore. Soft voices of the dead are whispering by the shore that I would question (and for my children’s sake) about crops rotted, river mud glazing the baked clay floor. (from “Gifts of Rain“, by […]

The giving and receiving of belonging

by Jake Belder. Reading Tala Strauss’ recent piece, ‘Longing for a Home’, was a catalyst to once again spending some time dwelling on an idea that I often think about – belonging. I’ve long been intrigued by the idea of belonging. What does it mean to belong, what does it look like to belong? Perhaps […]

A Morning Such As This

by Susan Wingate.  Through a misty morning such as this, crisp as vellum, our sun beheads the horizon, guillotines the crystal mantle. Shards of bloody iodine (against a blue vein of beckoning hope) atomize, mushroom and contract—split seconds —fracture into fractals. Blinded and blinding hands held out in awe, her fingers shutter a phantasm of […]

Tea

by Elizabeth Viljoen. There are too many ways to die and being too small and scared to save the world, I’m offering you a cup of tea, my hand to hold, a hug, a big tree with branches to climb or leaves for shade, a chair when you are tired, or, when you can’t cry, […]

The Art of “Just” Being: The Overachiever’s Lament

by Amy Case.  My husband and I have a phrase that captures a certain approach to life, an attitude and a bad habit: “Earning the right to breathe air.” This is one of our many catch phrases that have grown up in our efforts to communicate often complex emotional states we find ourselves in. My […]

Frank

by Bob Byrd.  When I was in first grade I hated going to school.  I didn’t hate being in school, I hated going to school.  It would be more accurate to say I hated walking to school.  I have no idea how far it was but it felt like ten miles at least.  My mother […]