Amethyst Review

The Light in Me

Content Warning: contains brief description of CSA.

Sangha

I feel the heat as I step through the inner door.  Even before I roll out my mat, I’m perspiring.  I lie down on my mat, following the lead of other participants who are already there.  I wonder how on earth I’m going to actually get through a physically challenging practice in this heat.

The class begins.  Soft music floats through the air from a small Bluetooth speaker the instructor has set in a corner.  I do my best to follow the instructions offered by the soothing voice of the young, dark haired, female, leading the class: arms by my side, palms facing up, legs extended out to each corner of the mat.  I try to relax my body.  I close my eyes inviting ease to come to my toes, my ankles, up through each leg.  I work to relax my pelvis, my abdomen, my back, and my chest. I encourage my shoulders to come down away from my ears, relaxing my throat, my tongue, and my jaw.  I notice and release the muscles in my cheeks, behind each eye, through my forehead, and in my scalp. Around me, through soft eyes, I notice the filtered pink glow of the Himalayan salt rock walls.  Closing my eyes, I feel the peace of that soft light fill my mind, my body and my soul.

The class continues with some gentle stretching and poses that are familiar from my video sessions; Child’s Pose, Happy Baby, Downward Dog, Low Lunge.  We come up to standing.  I sweep my arms up over my head, take a deep breath in, looking up towards the sky, and exhale as I fold forward, into myself, looking deep into my core, the essence of my true being.  We move into Sun Salutations and the pace picks up.  Then the Warrior Poses, I, II, and III, Extended Side Angle, Revolved Side Angle.  Finally – the peak pose: Half Moon.

This is a challenging class. Sweat pours from my forehead, pools between my breasts, streams down my belly, and my back, but I make it through.  Finally, the instructor slows us down, guiding the class through some gentle stretching: Butterfly pose, Lord of the Half Fish twist, a supine twist, which led to a glorious and well-earned Savasana.

We lie on our backs, feet and legs falling open, arms by our side, palms facing up, eyes closed.  “Allow your practice to integrate,” says the young instructor, “let go of thoughts, let go of ‘to do’ lists.  That will all be there for you after the class is over.  For now, just be with your breath.”

I feel the other students around me.  I hear their breath; long quiet inhales – breathing in peace; long extended exhales.  Breath that fills the room with a softness, a gentle trust that melds this room of individuals together, seeming to provide a oneness that maintains identity, yet offers unity.  The breath of these people I barely know, yet in this moment, I feel a profound connection to, fills the room with a silence so deep, I am wrapped and swaddled in comfort.

Lying there I am physically drained, yet I want more.  I want to do it again.  This is a comfort that I have not felt, ever before, but know I want to feel again, and again. This comfort brings a clarity of mind, a softness of heart, and a wholeness of soul.  I would like to stay here forever, but all too quickly back come the relentless thoughts; “I am not enough, I will never amount to anything, I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m a pretender, a faker, a lost cause.”

Yet another voice, quieter, deeper inside that I have to listen for intently, says, “Keep trying, don’t give up.  Follow your heart, there’s more for you in this life, and you deserve to have it.  Keep practicing, keep learning.  This can help. Yoga can help.”  I haven’t heard this voice before. The serenity that the practice has awakened in me seems to have given me the ability to quiet the negative natter and give rise to something more positive.

“Begin to wiggle your fingers and wiggle your toes.  Make circles with your ankles and your wrists,” the instructor pauses, giving us time to make those tiny movements. After a few moments she continues on, “Pull your knees into to your chest, and rock from side to side. When you are ready, come up to sitting.”

Slowly, people begin to sit up.  Some rolling to their right side, assuming a fetal position before pressing themselves upright.  Others rock and roll forward, up and into Sukhasana.  I take my time, rolling over to one side, finally sitting up, crossed legged.

Sitting on her own mat at the front of the class, the instructor faces us.  She stretches her arms out to each side and says, “Inhale as you reach your arms up over your head.”  We follow her direction.  “Exhale as you bring your hands down to heart centre.” She brings her hands down in front of her heart in a prayer gesture and the class follows her lead.  Bowing her head, she says, “The light in me sees and honours the light in you. Namaste.”

The Rosswyne

I grew up in a family of four.  My father was a high school teacher.  He taught English and History.  Before I was born he was hired as principal of a small high school in Orono, Ontario.  That’s where I was born, in July of 1956.  My mother graduated from the University of Toronto with a degree in social work.  She worked in that role for a few years, but with various moves for my father’s teaching career, I think she quickly fell into the role of housewife. I also think that is probably the way my father wanted things to be: he was the breadwinner, king of his castle, the male peacock strutting his bold feathered plumage.  My brother was born when I turned seven.

We had a cruiser when I was little.  It slept the three of us, my mother, my father, and me. It probably would have allowed for at least one more person, if not two, but we rarely had visitors.  Looking back, I see that friends and even other family members were kept at arm’s length.  We didn’t have overnight visitors and the atmosphere when we had visitors for a few hours was very prim and proper – everything in its place.  My brother and I, once he was born and grew older, were expected to be on our best behaviour.  We were the children of a high school principal, after all.  No hanky-panky for us.

We docked the cruiser at Gore’s Landing, Harris’ Marina.  Our boat, the Rosswyne, was our summer vacation home on water.  We travelled the Trent Water system in her, staying overnight in places like Peterborough, Bobcaygeon and Fenelon Falls.

I don’t recall when my parents first purchased that boat.  Did they get it after I was born, or was it already a part of their lives when I entered the scene?  I don’t know.

My First Memory of Abuse

There’s a window in front of the Captain’s seat in our big boat.  Under the window is a shelf I am sitting on.  I like to sit up on the shelf.  I can see out the big window.  Today it’s a lot of fun to sit up here because Mommy is washing the drapes.  There are hooks that slide on the track. I’m pushing them back and forth on the track and I like how they slide from one side to the other.

It’s warm today and Daddy has stopped the boat out in the middle of the big lake.  I don’t have a diaper on because Mommy wants me to pee in the potty.  Mommy is down inside the boat making me and Daddy sandwiches for lunch.  Daddy is sitting in his Captain’s chair.  I’m pushing the hooks back and forth, laughing, but something makes me stop.  I feel rubbing between my legs, where I go pee-pee.. It’s a funny feeling.  I guess I kind of like the feeling, but I don’t know why.  I turn and look back at Daddy.  He has his hand between my legs.  He smiles at me and puts his finger up to his mouth, “Shh.”

I turn back and keep sliding the hooks.  I don’t like this feeling anymore.

Learning Self-Love – Ahimsa

As I look back over my life, I see the path I have taken to get to where I am today.  That path continues to evolve as it unfurls ahead of me.  I can see that there is still plenty of path ahead.  And in it lie twists and turns, rocks and boulders, valleys and mountains to climb, but I realize now that I must take this journey one step at a time, feeling each foot as it sinks into the earth, heel to toe, heel to toe. 

As I immersed myself in the practice of yoga and began to teach it, I wanted to know more about the centuries old tradition of spiritual health.  Slowly, I started to gather and digest information; reading books, articles, searching the internet.  I had only touched on the eight limbs of yoga in my yoga instructor certification, and had not realized the importance of bringing the practices and philosophy into my life.  There is so much more to yoga than first meets the eye.

The very foundation of yoga philosophy is the first yama, ‘ahimsa’, translated as nonviolence. Even more precisely, it means, do no harm. Do no harm towards others, no harm towards nature, and first and foremost – do no harm towards yourself.  You cannot be kind and caring, loving and nurturing towards others, until you can be all of those things towards yourself.  I was anything but kind, caring, nurturing, and non-violent towards myself.

It was during the pandemic that I slowly began to realize the self-harm I was doing. This slow process began when I first started to talk about my drinking habit with the therapist I was seeing at that time.  She had suggestions such as, “Just throw out all the booze in your home.”

I couldn’t do that, but I knew she had a point. I did it my way.  The process was slow.  That process wound its way through three years, and even today, it continues.  Sometimes along the journey, the process would stop to take a break.  My drinking would increase again, and then the process would heave a huge sigh, and say, “okay, get on your way again”, and I would cut back further.  Currently, I rarely have a glass of wine, and when I do, it is one glass, and a small glass at that.  Otherwise, I start to feel the numbing effect of the alcohol begin to wash through my blood.  It is a warmth, a tingling, and a buzz that starts to creep in to my muscles, invading my soul, clouding my brain, and stealing my ability to see life with clarity.

The self-compassion I am learning to give myself began on my yoga mat.  It began as instructors encouraged loving kindness during the class, “Every day is different.  One day a pose may be easy, another day, impossible to do. Some days balance may be excellent, other days, you may not have balance to save your soul. There may be times when you feel strong enough to do one-hundred chaturangas.  At other times you find your strength only in Savasana.  Know that change is the only constant in this world.  There is no ‘perfect’, there is only practice.”

So here I am, still practicing today.  Finding new ways to be kind, loving, and generous, towards myself, which allows me to show compassion towards others, bringing non-violence into my life, and theirs.  Finding the light in me, where I could never find it before.

Roxanna Gumiela is a grandmother, mother, wife, and in retirement, a trauma informed yoga instructor, and writer. Before retiring Roxanna worked in the field of early childhood education and family social services. She is a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, and writes about her journey to wellness which incorporates the practice of yoga and mental health therapy.

Church

Greetings to the god of breezy mornings,
to the god of green parakeets conversant in the trees,
the god of colored light through windows
that stirs what lives in human bodies.
Homage to the god of storms in the afternoon,
the eye-chastising lightning
and thunder too large for ears,
the god of streams rampant down hills
and heavy fabric of the air.
Blessings to the god of cracked and patterned tiles,
of old doors carved in low relief
and narrow streets 
with traffic that isn’t ruled by electric grids
but blood as it coils and lashes.
Praise to the god of outdoor markets,
of sharp-eyed discernment and counting change,
of palping avocados to probe their character
and excitement of mangoes next to chilis next to uchuvas.
Admiration to the god of small animals,
of butterflies with scenes of mystery on their wings,
of large spiders in airy houses of lace,
the gleaming slinky great-tailed grackle
and kiskadees plumed in sunlight,
the god of ant caravans down sidewalks transporting leaf pieces
and spoon-fingered geckos crossing ceilings.
Thanks to the god of busy street corners,                          
of being lost to yourself and found to yourself in crowds,
of people hurrying to stop and gossip,
the god of here and there among the throng
someone known years ago to have died
and glimpsed now in another life,
the god of lottery tickets to do things differently,
not of new beginnings but the original one still going on.

Peter Cashorali is a neurodiverse queer psychotherapist, formerly working in HIV/AIDS and community mental health, currently in private practice in Portland and Los Angeles.

Another Visitor	

What is there to offer up
to the thing I sense each night 
behind me? I can never tell 

if it’s standing, or floating,
in a state of being as a sphere 
of light, or cloud, 
		    a pinpoint, 

at peace in a corner or raging
by my deaf ear, or peeking 
from some ripped 
dimensional current, brushing  
alongside my aura. Curious 
as I may be, is it necessary 
to speak my query? 
		       Must I ask

it out loud? Or her, or him, or them, 
or through its legion, or God, 
or god, or G_d, and is once enough? 

Is it lost, passing through,
ignoring me, simply unaware 
of my presence?  
  Might it think I am 

the stalking one, always present, 
sitting around and in the way,
as it tries concentrating, as it paces, 
stepping around my form.

Larry D. Thacker’s poetry and fiction can be found in over 200 journals and anthologies, including Spillway, Poetry South, The Lake, The American Journal of Poetry, and Valparaiso. His books include four full poetry collections, two chapbooks, as well as the folk history, Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia. His collections of short fiction include Working it Off in Labor County and Labor Days, Labor Nights, as well as a co-authored short story collection, Everyday, Monsters. His newest poetry collection is entitled New Red Words. Visit his website at: www.larrydthacker.com

The Pond

The lily pads sway in a casual way. The beavers 
build their burrows. We humans live in similar 
states of being. We are akin to plants and animals. 
For example, at times, like the toad or bird, we
can be heard crying out. The trees are said to have 
consciousness. They too know pain. And perhaps 

the universe also suffers to some degree. And yet,
everything holds together. The pond teams with 
life despite its murkiness. We humans also persist 
in the darkness. We are not left without comfort. 
The sun is ever present no matter the weather. And 
a force flows through all of creation; we thus know 

God’s love despite our fallen nature. And because 
we too are imbued with the Spirit, we can offer 
others hope, even in this divided world. The pond 
in time will cease to exist. Reeds and bracken will 
fill in its aspect. We also change form upon leaving 
this life; we will enter completely the eternal light. 

Laurie Didesch is the author of 50+ published poems. Her work has appeared in literary journals and anthologies such as Ibbetson Street, Stone Poetry Quarterly, The Loch Raven Review, The Raven’s Perch, Bronze Bird Review, Adanna Journal, and more. She has won several awards for her work including most recently The Rockford Review’s Poetry Prize. She has also served on the editorial staff of various literary journals. For the past decade, Laurie has worked for a museum researching and writing art panels. She lives in Illinois with her husband and three cats. They look forward to moving to a farmette in the near future.

Rooted in Grace

I’ve forgiven my neighbor who honky-tonked
his house with neon lights that shine in my 
bedroom window. I smile and mean it at 
the other neighbor who, each day,  waylays
me at my mailbox and details her latest ailment. 

I’ve forgiven my mother for the pills
and razor blades, for my love not being enough
to make her want to stay. I’m even learning 
to forgive myself for needing more than
she could ever give. 

I’m grateful for the rude man in line at the
pharmacy who showed me how not to be
and for the neighbor boy who showed me how
by digging five holes in my garden for
new azaleas and only accepting a brownie in return.

I planted a tree, then two, then three in
hopes of learning the wisdom of bending
in storms, accepting loss, and standing brave
before winter’s damp chill.

Dianne Mason is a college English teacher who lives in Matthews, NC. Her poems have appeared in Broad River Review, The Main Street Rag, County Lines: A Literary Journal among others. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and was a finalist in the 2024 and 2025 Ron Rash Poetry Award Contest.

Soft Portals in the Oncology Ward

there is a door 
into the lion’s den
where Daniel lolls with the tamed beast
rests his head on the heart

               of a king and hears 
               the beat, beat, beat of other tomorrows

there is a candle in a prison cell
that lights itself when the guards have passed
making theater on the wall 
the prisoners watch the shadows

               the outline of someone’s mother, stirring soup
               someone’s lover, dancing

there is a hammock in the whale’s belly
strung between two ribs 
Jonah and Pinocchio rest and sway 
with the ocean’s rhythm, swapping tales 

               that time my nose grew,  just from telling a few fibs
               the day God gave me an ultimatum

there is a fig tree growing in Gaza
sweet orbs of nourishment  
hang from tender branches 
as hellfire falls from the sky

               hope seeps from root to root
               tree to tree: this too shall pass

there is a pillar of salt with my name on it
looking back never served a wife
crossing the desert of her life
better to stumble forward 

               weave myself a life-size basket 
               and slip into the river

Joanell Serra is a bicoastal writer with work published in numerous journals and anthologies. Her books include the novel The Vines We Planted and (Her)oics Anthology, a collection of women’s essays. (Regal House Publishing.) She is also the interview editor at River Heron Review. Serra received her MFA from Randolph College in 2025.

Undoer of Knots
 
Late afternoon, a seethe of thundercloud
voids out the ridge. He thumbs his rosary.
He used to yearn for how four drinks allowed
a now without a past: no weight, no shroud.
 
They seemed to solve the ancient mystery
of time most sorrowful. But four drinks bleed
to more. The storm winds bend the backyard tree.
The first thick raindrops fall. Dark glass indeed.
His prayer searches out the deepest need.
Lady, undo the knot of history.

Steven Knepper edits New Verse Review: A Journal of Lyric and Narrative Poetry. His poems have appeared recently in 32 Poems, THINK, Pulsebeat, Talk to Me in Long Lines, The Brazen Head, and elsewhere.

Some Other Ways to Live

Live like your mother didn’t die young and as if your father
bought you a horse when you were ten. Leave a little sadness
in your pocket so you can feel the sorrow of others and lean in
to help, if help is possible. Live with infinite bursts of gratitude
for the bees in the sage bush, the spider web glittering silver
between tree branches, the gleam on the body of the horse in the field,
the bean soup bubbling into fragrant steam, the dog asleep on the rug
Live as if the country is not at war with itself, as if balance is not far off.
Live knowing that, right now, people all over the world are helping each other—
to plow a field, catch a calf, fix a roof, bury a child, bake the bread,
learn the music, sing the harmony. How they light many lamps
at nightfall, how they stoke the fires of justice, of dedication,
of courage, and persistence, the fires of hope and guidance,
the fires we can almost see from here. 

Lisa Zimmerman’s poetry collections include How the Garden Looks from Here (Violet Reed Haas Poetry Award) The Light at the Edge of Everything (Anhinga Press) and Sainted (Main Street Rag). Her poetry and fiction have appeared in SWWIM Every Day, Apple Valley Review, Cave Wall, Poet Lore, Vox Populi, Ghost Parachute, and many other journals. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net, five times for the Pushcart Prize, and included in the 2020 Best Small Fictions anthology. She is a Professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of Northern Colorado.

The Telescope

Bethany J. Riddle is a writer, poet, and educator living in the Pacific Northwest. Her poetry has been published in multiple journals including Amethyst Review, Macrame Literary Journal, Four Tulips, Sublimation and is upcoming at The Prose Poem where two of her poems were shortlisted for the 2025 Spring Short Competition. She has an educational background in Journalism and Teaching, spending 10+ years in the classroom as an English and History teacher. You can find her at https://substack.com/@bethanyjriddle and Instagram@bethanyjriddle.

The Blue Thread

Blue is a primary color,
it is the root of all the others.

It is the blue thread apart from the others
on the tallit, the shawl, the string

amidst the fringes, the string
that bestows nobility on the Jew.

Entranced as he chants, the Jew
feels the blessing of his tradition,

The Book, the language, a tradition
that teaches Tikun Olam--to repair

the world, to reach out, heal, repair
whatever it means to help others.

Janet Krauss enjoyed teaching English at St. Basil Seminary for 29 years and Fairfield University for 39 years. She continues to mentor students. lead a poetry discussion at the Wilton Library, participate in the CT. Poetry Society Workshop and other poetry groups. She is the Poetry Program Director of the Black Rock Guild. She has 2 books of poetry: Borrowed Scenery (Yuganta Press) and Through the Trees of Autumn (Spartina Press). She is a widely published poet and many of her poems have been published in Amethyst Review and her haiku in Cold Moon Journal.