From WOW Writes Group - MARCH & APRIL
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by Tiffany Dugan
He passed me like a blur, down the aisle, past the bread. I didn’t think of him until I saw him again near the eggs, a brown coat hunched over the cheese. A baseball cap sheltering his face. I wondered if he was shaking inside, standing there, hidden from the chill of the refrigerated section. I wouldn’t have paid him much mind if I wasn’t eager to check the price of the hummus that sat in tubs above where he stood. I waited. I stared down at my shoes and noticed his, a tattered pair, just like mine.
Robert was one of seven children, six girls and him. He was smack in the middle. He slept on the floor in the hall to give the girls the room. He didn’t want to be like the girls. He wanted to be like his father, a man of something.
Then, when he was ten, his father ran off with his mother’s sister. They never spoke of them again.
They went as a fatherless family to church, the one across the street. One day his mother told him to stay there. She said it was best if he was around men. So, he stayed and learned and eventually became a priest. He liked it there. He liked being among men.
Robert sat in the entryway, loosened his barely tied shoes, and slipped his feet out, one by one. He noticed a hole in one of the socks. He thought he should go upstairs and find a pair that didn’t need mending but let the thought pass. He rubbed his sock covered foot as if it would make the hole feel better for being there. He gave his other foot a pat, then put both feet on the ground and pushed himself up and off the bench.
He took the sack of groceries and went into the kitchen. He pulled the milk out and put it in the refrigerator and decided he wanted a cup of tea, so he took it out again. He put the kettle on to boil and pulled the red box of Barry’s tea from the shelf. Brother Dan always put the tea boxes back even when they were empty. Robert was happy to find two tea bags still in the box.
“Hello, Brother Robert.” He heard the greeting before he saw him.
“Hello, Brother Dan. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, that would be nice.” He pulled a chair up to the table and sat. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Half past ten.”
Brother Dan looked at the clock as if to watch the secondhand tick by.
“I’m preparing a cheese sandwich. Would you like one as well, Brother?”
Dan’s eyes stayed on the clock. Robert wondered how long the silence would last.
Dan had gotten more confused lately and sometimes yelled at things that were not there. Robert watched him and remembered how quick he used to be. How he wrote and delivered beautiful sermons to full pews. Everyone paid attention, even those who rarely came to church.
The tea kettle whistled. Robert turned to the stove and poured two cups of tea with a splash of milk in each. He turned back and placed a cup in front of Brother Dan. Together they sat and watched the hands of the clock turn slowly.
Expect what may be impossible
by Lisa
I see a world that is cold
So cold that it is hard to breath
I see a world that lost
Lost everything that it had.
I see my world upside down
I wish I knew how to make it right
Side up again
I see strong take advantage
Of the ones they think are weak
Not important
Not human enough
But I had a dream,
and in the dream
Were two towers
One was black with a person
In black who was going as a speed of
Lighten up ward
The other tower was white
And a person dressed in all white
Was doing the same as the other tower
But in my dream, as fast as the black tower raises
The white tower was going faster and faster
And the black one could not keep it.
I felt in the end that as fast as evil is on high
Goodness will outdo evil.
And evil will not outdo good
In this dream, I became afraid
But toward the end of my dream before I awoke
I had so much peace. A kind of peace that I can’t explain.
Goodness always wins.
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By Curry Ander
What are you experiencing of the terrible?
Shock, still shocked. How can I still be shocked. It’s every day, every relentless day after day. People are dying because of it, though I’m safe and warm and loved here in my cabin cave.
It’s going on out there, and sometimes I let it in here, but I slam the door. Go away. I want life back.
What TO DO!? I feel that my prayers are not enough, Rallies? Phone calls,
Blowing in the wind.
Blowing in the wind.
I only have enough energy, and power, to keep myself from going crazy crying.
What am I seeing of the Possible, of the Beautiful
Spring is here!
My dogs are crazy needing outside and so do I.
So lucky to live here and BE in paradise for walking/hiking.
So lucky to have a community of wonderfuls right on my little dead end dirt road.
So lucky to be alive, finding ways of coping that are now in full tilt boogey (they used to be a fall back but are now front and center).
So lucky to feel gratitude down to my toes.
So grateful for all of you.
Be here now.
Writing #3. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times
How do I let myself cry the tears of knowing how they suffer now
Without going into the water with them too
How do I take my empathy into the world now in chaos, shattered in form from what I know it was, to the new reality that is naked and shivering.
I go to the hilltop.
Up the dirt road.
Up the rooty trail,
Take a right to the granite bench with Burt’s first ever seal carving
Up to the rock where I pray, holding my hands out to the sun...or the rain,
Giving and receiving, knowing and wondering, but sure of my words
They are of gratitude, always.
The sun shines through the branches in columns
My buddy Brady stands by my side in canine solidarity
We look at each other when I stop praying, and we know it is done.
The words have been said, and the magic of the place has found the sweet spot
It always does.
I can despair so deeply into my heart and bones
But up on the granite rock I find my footing
The empathy that was so raw and crying just a few minutes ago in front of the news
Is gone for now.
I am coping, at least for now.
The muddy path slips me back down to the dirt road,
The open space before me that leads to home, to the womb of my safety.
If I can hold on to the power of the hill just awhile longer, I will be OK.
If I cannot, and the hurt of the world comes back into my heart,
I will be OK.
What is this life but a temporary foray into consciousness, embodiment, and I must have chosen this terrible time. I must need to witness the horror of it, to keep myself from going into anger and hate.
I can go up my hill when I need it.
How lucky am I.
It’s right HERE, up there and in here in my heart.
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by Felicia Clark
I’ve been raging lately. My Aries femininity is on fire and can only be quelled with the ocean’s waves or the rushing rivers. I have unleashed my volcanic ash on two men who felt they could control a situation or that I owed them something. But I owe them nothing, and I know that now. I didn’t always though.
I published my first book at the worst time to celebrate. A country crumbling to depression, no longer recognizing itself in the mirror.
I’m more alive than ever, giving myself mirror talks, reflecting back to my image that I am worthy and deserving to live my dreams. Etching my words onto the trees of yesterday was my eternal mark to the rest of the world that I was here.
No matter what happens to this country or to me or to my loved ones, I was here—we were here. We had a voice that shook the egos of fragile, privileged, unfit, emotional men and the glass ceilings of their mansions built on hills of lies overlooking the waves of vast hypocrisy.
I was here, and I left my rage behind, bound and pressed for flipping through—in libraries, bookstores, friend’s bookshelves, neighborhood gatherings, and visits to the beach. They scattered along the highways on our drives to the border. One last trail of breadcrumbs that our freedom existed.