~Jennifer A.

I want that roller-coaster-on-the-down-slope,
caught-in-a-sudden-down-pour-on-a-summer-day,
look-up-in-the-sky-just-in-time-to-catch-a-shooting-star,
win-the-whole-jackpot,
kind of love.

I want that sun-coming-out-just-in-time-to-paint-brilliant-sunset,
first-dripping-bite-into-ripest-nectarine,
intoxicating-inhale-of-fragrant-spring-rose,
cool-breath-of-night-air-washing-over-sleeping-face,
kind of story.

I want that magical-enchanted-firefly-evening,
rhythms-bumpin’-so-loud-it-competes-with-my-heart-to-make-pulse,
first-warm-ray-of-sun-after-winter’s-chill,
wave-crashing-on-your-back-unaware,
kind of kiss.

I want that playful-wind-dancing-’round-my-face,
thunder-rattling-my-bones,
full-moon-illuminating-snowscape-sparkling-like-diamonds,
long-drink-of-cool-water-on-a-scorching-day,
kind of man.

Yeah, I said it
I want it all–
somehow between
a little girl’s faded prince-charming fairy tale
and
a grown woman’s online dating duds
my heart still carries a torch
for what could be
for what might be
for what may be

I’m a hopeful romantic
but I’ve kept it a secret
pretending not to care
pretending not to hope
protecting myself from criticism
protecting myself from disappointment
yet no matter what I tell myself
or anyone else…

I still want that wake-up-to-an-earthquake-the-ground-is-a-tremblin’,
static-electricity-crackling-across-power-lines,
mesmerized-by-the-last-dancing-embers-of-a-cozy-campfire,
hold-on-tight-to-the-kite-string-I-ain’t-EVER-letting-go,
kind of love!

~L. B. Nelson

Warm Sun
Breeze flowing through
Work-worn
Hands clapping
Life-worn thumb harps
Spring in rapid unison;
Fiddle strings stroked
Slowly up,
Slowly down;

Harmonicas inhaled exhaled;
Double-time guitar strings
Pulled then released swiftly in-between
Children chatter, crying, laughter
Flowing through people drumming
Community humming
Swaying their best give-take joy,
Nutrition to all Souls;

Female, Mother, Grandmother, Auntie, Sister, Woman
Sing life stories in ever-changing solos;
Listening eyes of all the ages reflecting acknowledgment;

Old Gourd, aged wooden box, rusty tin can tones
Strung tightly by animal gut strings
Plucked by people-instruments;

Short strokes to the slow fiddle
Double-time drums
Clapping life-worn hands
Perfectly tuned
To the melody of the heart-strummed guitar;

Male, Father, Grandfather, Uncle, Son, Man
Sing life stories in strong harmony
Reverb through any rib cage.

So much more … this head will explode
Or this mind will unlatch from the dock
And float with the bliss of this
Never to return
To Where am I

~Sasha R.

God was in love when He made me. His eyes were focused on something in the distance when His hands slid across clay to form my face. He stared for a long time in that direction, His warm fingers at rest against my rough, wet cheeks. As He pushed at the clay, I could feel a likeness being formed. A gentle frown creased His scarred brow as He corrected inconsistencies, perfected the proportions of eyes to nose, nose to mouth, mouth to chin.

Between two palms He rubbed a line of clay, steaming hot from friction, folded it in half, pressed it flat, then rubbed it round again; three times He did this, tempering and strengthening the rod until it curved in a subtle S.

God spun each rib with a practised hand, easily connecting each of eight to sternum and spine and tethering the floating ribs to harbor. But it was clear from the emptiness of His eyes that building my ribcage was not first in His thoughts that day.

He pulled at the layers of clay clinging to his hands, pushing the excess out of the scars in his hands. He kneaded the cracked and drying clay into a ball of earth between His fingers absent-mindedly. He looked down at it as if for the first time and put it in my ribcage, still warm and soft from His touch.

My belly He churned like whipped cream, and laid down the soft foam over my spine to fill my pelvis. He tucked it up into my ribcage, insulating my heart and lungs on a cushion of stomach and intestines. Sometimes He would become restless and bury His chin in it. We would lay there like that, He strewn across His workbench like a lazy child, and I only alive enough to feel the blush of pleasure from His closeness. Then His focus would return, and the pressure on my stomach would lift, and the starry sensation of being Made would begin again.

Into the back of my skull He carved a cavity and filled it with water. He pulled more of the clay off of his fingers and, finding it dry, dipped it into His mug next to the muddy water bowl. Feeling the hotness of his drink, He looked down to see the lump was stained black and dripping with coffee. Seeing it was good, he set it to float in my skull. With a smirk, He pulled down the back of my head and sealed it without a seam.

Having done all of these things, God decided He was satisfied with His work for now. He took me to His beloved and pushed me into your arms, saying I Was Working And The More I Looked At Her, The More I Thought Of You. And when you smiled down at me, I couldn’t help but laugh at the goofy look on His face, how much He blushed when you called me beautiful, and how He clicked His heels when He thought He was far enough down the hallway that you wouldn’t notice.

~L. B. Nelson

one brown onion,
raw cut of the dice;
contact of the pile tossed
produces sizzling juice,
bubbling and spitting;
a hot-oil crescendo short-lived,
barely contained in the skillet.
Carmelized morsels singed;
a few burnt black, tastier still.

~Katie Gordon

I see you sitting in front of me
Tears pouring out
Your heart on your sleeve
Some days, you say,
I just can’t make it through
And I smile and nod
And say, I believe in you

How much faith I have in you
So little in return for me
Too often I fail to see
The resemblance
Between You and what I do

I come to You
The Great Counselor
Pouring out my own heart
And hope You will come near to me
Feeling so alone
So lost and afraid
So little confidence in my own abilities

I don’t let You see
I don’t let You in
How could I be
Someone You could love
Someone in whom You believe

Yet You tell me
You are for me
Always have been, always will be
Cheering me on from the start
Loving me, believing in me
More than any person ever has
You long to fill up my heart

So fill my heart with the faith and assurance
So much more than what I feel for these
What You feel for me
Is more than I can imagine
More than I can ever dream

So I will stop crying out for more
Because You are more than enough
Let me see a glimpse of Your heart
As my own swells with love for others
Let it overflow with the love You have for me
Your love, Your faith, Your belief in me
Will never cease

Help me embrace this faith
Help me turn to You again and again
So easy to forget
So quick to turn away
How often I feel so much less than
Yet You lift me up again
Reminding me Your love has no limits
No conditions, no end

I know the darkest secrets I hide
No more or less than anyone else
Yet I can step out and see
The greatness in him
The possibilities in her
The loving heart no coldness could kill
The warrior underneath the wounds
Even in the face of anger and bitterness
My love and confidence in them, undeterred

What I know of love
Is only a glimmer of what You feel
A Perfect Father’s compassion and grace
Help me trust You
Help me take it on faith
Because I am so weak
So prone to believe the lies
I get so caught up in fear
The rules of this world
How much I lack, how little I truly deserve
But Your love covers me, comforts me and draws me close

And it is more than I can understand
More than I can ever imagine

So much more than I can imagine
Someday I will see
Someday I will know
And Your love for me will make me whole

~L. B. Nelson

An immense, fully plump, deepest blue-red, stop-and-stare Peonie;
it had finished it’s slow, relentless, blooming transition,
making the grandest debut.
These sweet flowers become most fragile;
their torn tissue petals
eventually falling this way, that way.
Strength slowly ebbs.
This one filled my out-stretched hand completely.
People did stop and stare.
While gazing, they stopped and seemed smaller for a moment.
This One came home with me from the flower shop.
It received tender care in the hospice of my worship.

~L. B. Nelson

A note written at the request of Paulo Coehlo.  He wanted to know if I believed in Angels

I believe in Angels.

Angels can be as big as a planet or as small as a microscopic speck of dust.
Angels can speak through a ray of sun,
which then, can speak through the sparkles of the leaves of trees.
Angels can blend through the colors of this world
and also, touch through the aroma of nature.

Illuminations occur through the eyes of children,
Also, throughout numerous interactions in my life,
with the homeless, suffering, mentally ill.
Angels reveal themselves through the eyes of passers-by.

When death is eminent, Angels arrive in gently unyielding force;
especially when friends and family are in disarray, and faith is fragile.

Angels ride on the notes of music and swim around in the soul.
A breeze caresses and how can that not be,
at one time, or possibly another, a sweep of an angel’s wing.
Angels need not have wings, but some most certainly do …

One can ramble on and on and on about Angels …
they are born from the inhaling and exhaling of God … just for us (I’d like to think) …

My Angel’s name is … MERCY.
No doubt that I am surrounded by all sorts at all times.
But, the main one who is there for me always is MERCY.
I believe this for the simple reason that I often sing a quiet, little tune to myself. … “mercy, mercy, mercy…. Mercy meee…oh mercy mercy MERCY, yes MERRRR- CEEEEE” ….
Like a lullaby / chant. … and my body gently rocks.
It is sung in the line at the grocery store; it is sung throughout a rigorous day at work;
and it is sung while riding through the L.A. traffic.
It is sung while looking into my daughter’s eyes;
it is sung while all understanding is blurred.
It is simple, and it is a miracle.  My Angel is my song …
and the song flows through this life…

That is an exhalation for you, Paulo Coehlo with regards to angels, and whoever else may read this.

Again … one could ramble on and on and on about Angels… most likely for an eternity…

~Jennifer A.

The first thing people ask me about when I suggest they schedule intentional writing time into their weekly schedule is, “What do I do if I get all settled in my sacred writing space and I draw a total blank/have nothing to write about?”

Here are a few ideas I have come up with that help me:

• Running list of topics: this is a list I keep, either hand-written or saved as a doc on my computer, of all the things I think I should like to write about…baking with my Grandma, God, my latest culinary creations, the joy of Aunting, and so on.  This way, when I sit down for my intentional writing time, I have a few ideas to look over and usually something will pop out at me according to my mood, to my current circumstances, and to what is fresh in my mind at that moment.

• Quotes: check out a list of quotes; sometimes something profound someone else has to say will inspire a thought, a reflection, or maybe even a full-blown poem or story!

• Media: sometimes I have left a movie theater only to go straight to my car and wildly scribble down some poem or piece of a poem on whatever napkin, envelope, or receipt I can find in my glove-box; sometimes a song or melody will so move me; other times a news report or article will ignite some impassioned response.  Any of these things can be fodder for your craft!

• The Idea Bucket: this is one of my favorites!  During the first group session of each ITWOW cycle, I have group members write down topics, ideas, phrases, etc on colorful index cards.  Then we fold them up and put them into my shiny, turquoise, little metal bucket.  Each week when we sit down for our quite writing time, if ever a womyn gets stuck not knowing what to write, she can draw a card from the bucket–it may be one of her own, or it may be someone else’s–and hopefully an idea light turns on!

Homework: this week, make yourself a topics resource list: include words, phrases, quotes, news articles, movies, songs, memories that you think you’d like to write about.  Jot down a thought or half-thought about some of these things; write down why that item matters to you.  You could even print them out, cut out each one, fold them, and toss them into some sort of container to make your own Idea Bucket.  Some examples to get you started:

• People, grandparents, mother, father, mom, dad, family, friends, lovers, son, daughter, sister, brother,
• Rain, drip, pour, scent, dew, soil, earth, moss, fog, mist,
• Ocean, tide, current, wave, crashing, sand,
• Trail, path, journey, travel,
• Storm, thunder, wind, breeze, moon, stars, night, dark, dawn, light
• alone, together, apart, close, connected, detached
• community, conscious, relevant, activism, social justice, politics,
• love, passion, fire, desire, lust, pain, hurt, disappointment, heartbeat
• hello, goodbye, at first sight, parting, leaving, returning, going home, coming home, away…

And a sample quote for you:

What are the words you do not yet have?  What do you need to say?…There are so many silences to be broken.
~Audre Lorde

~T. R.

I hurried into a religious bookstore one day anxious to pick up a book previously ordered.  Old-time church hymns played on overhead speakers.  As I waited in line a nearby magazine caught my eye, the caption reading, “Woman of the Year.”

My eyes traveling upwards saw a blond woman with long softly curled hair, pictured in a white skirt and blouse.  The blouse buttoned to the neck with a long bow draping over a pink brocaded vest.  Continuing further up the page I saw the title: VIRTUE.

The choir hymns droned on, their words echoing in my mind like indigestion repeating.  The walls seemed to narrow, the air diminished as the room for self-expression evaporated.  I choked attempting to swallow this standard of womanhood for myself.  Each breath became progressively more suffocating, evoking memories of agonizing contortions in appearance and belief to gain acceptance into this fellowship of women, thus pronouncing me valid for relationship with men.

I handed my money to the woman at the register as she smiled warmly yet seemingly vacantly of any inkling that womanhood could be anything more that what she had been told.  I groped for the door and gasped fresh air as oxygen once again filled my lungs.

Sitting inside my car I gazed out through the window trying to name my sadness.  Noticing a nearby tree I got lost in its configuration of branches.  Each branch was different from another.  Some branches were thick and sturdy, some thin and willowy, each were free to grow in its own direction, unique and distinct, yet still very much a branch.

When realizing women have shared this same freedom I understood my grief.  As I drove away I thought, nothing is more stultifying to genuine feminine expression and growth than a superimposed standard of womanliness.

~Jennifer A.

I am a creative writer.  I cannot crank out a quality piece on demand (although how many times I’ve wished I could for those special occasions and dear people).  I write when the poem comes.  When I am moved, so shall I type.

Sound familiar?

Learning to be a disciplined creative writer can be an extremely challenging endeavor.  When I begin a new session of ITWOW workshops and inform the womyn that we will begin each group with a quiet writing time, I’m often met with deer-in-the-headlights kind of looks of panic.

It’s definitely not the easiest thing to learn to make intentional space for writing.  There’s always a question of, “Where to fit it in my busy schedule?”  Or the pressure to perform, “What if I set aside this sacred hour to write and NOTHING HAPPENS?!”  More often than not, the time and space for creativity is the very first thing to get nixed from our overloaded calendars.  But I promise you this: when you make a commitment to show up at your journal, your notebook, your keyboard to write, the words will come.  Slowly at first probably; but they will come.

Homework: pencil in 30-45 minutes of sacred, uninterruptable, quiet time for writing this week; try to do this every week this month.  Get out of your home, away from the call of laundry, dishes, bills, and settle in a place that exudes creative vibes.  Try a coffee shop or bookstore (preferably an indie one); park it at an art gallery space; spread out a blanket in a park; sit by the seaside; hike into the woods and pull up a rock; whatever moves you, go there and write!