I lie back upon the moss-soft grass, close enough to feel the steady pulse of the warm earth beneath. I stare deep and deep into the lazuli sky. From the east, a wave of light buckles across the dome of blue, leaving behind it radiating streaks of pink. Following the wave fly clouds of creamy white, the soothing shade of mother’s milk. The clouds begin to roil, bubbling over to fill the sky. Their creamy color brightens to a blinding white, then undulates between the two colors. As the wave of light ebbs to the west, it casts a shine on the cream and white, sprinkling them with sparkling hues of pink and blue. The sky forms an opalescent cabochon, a heavenly jewel of hope placed by God as a promise ring on this earthen finger of the Milky Way.
Cynthia Pitman, author of poetry collections The White Room, Blood Orange, Breathe, and Broken, has been published in Amethyst Review, Spirit Fire Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Third Wednesday (One Sentence Poem Contest finalist), Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art (Pushcart Prize nominee), and other journals, and in Vita Brevis Press anthologies Pain and Renewal, Brought to Sight & Swept Away, Nothing Divine Dies, and What is All This Sweet Work?
At Ch'ing Ch'ung Daoist Temple San Francisco, California
we stack oranges on offering plates without regard for seismic code.
What's tumbled and fallen for millennia in China, still falls here: quiet quake of chrysanthemum petals, sudden scatter of sandalwood ash, aftershocked tears of the living lighting joss sticks for ancestors whose photos line the walls.
Easy to see here how quickly everything we love goes up in smoke— our major fault being (not the San Andreas) but our shakiness at remembering the fragility of it all, how each tectonic tick of time clocking out from under us is groundbreaking news.
Perhaps this is why the white-haired grandmother prays daily to deities who protect the home, offers tea to many-armed Guan Yin who holds five-thousand years of history in place.
Home, temple, shrine, what she bows to now is change, the oldest tradition— its myriad ups and downs not at all unlike this city undulating like a dragon, good fortune that refuses to hold still.
Daniel Skach-Mills’s poems have appeared in Sojourners, Soul Forte, The Christian Science Monitor, Sufi (Featured Poet), Braided Way, Open Spaces, and Kosmos Journal. His book, The Hut Beneath the Pine: Tea Poems was a 2012 Oregon Book Award finalist. In 2018, The Beyond Within: The Downtown Dao of Lan Su Chinese Garden was a finalist in The Body, Mind, Spirit Book Awards, and The National Indie Excellence Awards. A former Trappist monk, Daniel lives with his husband in Portland, Oregon, where he served fifteen years as a docent for Lan Su Chinese Garden.
No wonder the Virgin Mary looks somber. It’s not just her solemn baby, but sad saints
in shadows deep in the galleries—George martyred by what looks like a baseball bat,
Tecla struggling at the stake. They’re like us, aren’t they? Given what they can bear,
then given more. Gentle, tender, Mary averts her gaze. Fissures in marble break
her body as if she’s made of sirloin, rib roast, top round chine. Caryatids hoist cornices,
prop up architraves. Stone bodies wait, heads lopped, hands serene on their shining knees.
Barbara Daniels’ Talk to the Lioness was published by Casa de Cinco Hermanas. Her other books and chapbooks include Rose Fever, Moon Kitchen, Black Sails, and Quinn & Marie. Her poetry has appeared in Main Street Rag, Free State Review, Ghost City, Permafrost, Philadelphia Stories, and elsewhere. She received four fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.
His eyes and lips shut as if in soundless sleep silent as the snow that embroiders the old oak leaves covering the ground and spreads a cloth across his lap as he cradles a nest of frost as if fledglings lie underneath protected from the cold protected by the unheard hum of Om and the strength of his presence beyond the permanence of stone.
Janet Krauss, who has two books of poetry published, Borrowed Scenery, Yuganta Press, and Through the Trees of Autumn, Spartina Press, has recently retired from teaching English at Fairfield University. Her mission is to help and guide Bridgeport’s young children through her teaching creative writing, leading book clubs and reading to and engaging a kindergarten class. As a poet, she co-directs the poetry program of the Black Rock Art Guild.
In my book, Hummingbird: Messages from My Ancestors,a memoir with writing and reflection promptslast year, I discuss how if we pay attention we can get messages from those who have passed. My book was written during the pandemic’s lockdown when every day a hummingbird visited me outside my writing studio. I came to understand that it was my grandmother visiting who died when I was ten. She was my caretaker when my immigrant parents went to work during the day. She was also my inspiration to be a writer.
Many of us over fifty seem to have more interest in connecting with those on the other side to garner wisdom, especially during such turbulent times.
It’s been said that those who were close to you before they died commonly send messages in the form of spirit guides. Hummingbirds, in particular, resonate at a high vibration, which makes them more connected to the great beyond…they can be referred to as messengers from the heavens because they often show up when people grieve the loss of a loved one.
Some Native Americans believe that the presence of hummingbirds brings unconditional love and harmony. The Aztecs viewed hummingbirds as brave courageous fighters. They also believed them to be immortal, connecting us with our ancestors. The fact is that, whenever one appears, it’s sometimes viewed as a visitation from an ancestor or a manifestation of a dead person’s spirit.
I believe that when a loved one passes, a part of us dies along with them. My father died when I was thirty-seven, which was more than thirty years ago. I still think of him every day, and wish he could share in my joy as a grandmother of six. Silverman, et al, (1992), says that in interviewing children between the ages of 6-17 who had lost a parent, she found that their experience was that their parent still existed inside of them or in the world.
While this may cause some cognitive dissonance, it might account for why sometimes children have a hard time explaining what they’re feeling at this very difficult time. After losing a parent, some children felt their parent was communicating with them in a benevolent way that reflected the parent’s status as spirits.
Like my hummingbird visit, one child saw flashing colored lights in his bedroom at night and said that he liked to think it was his mother trying to get in touch with him. For many children, this helped to temper the pain, while still communicating with them did the same thing. Silverman suggests that therapists should encourage the connection rather than discourage it.
When we die, we transcend the human experience of consciousness. In fact, Dr. Peter Fenwick (2009) believes that consciousness persists after death and if this is indeed the case, then it would seem to follow that we can communicate with the departed.
Dr. Cedrin Johnson (2024) whose mother-in-law passed believes he saw her soul leave her body. He also believes that people die and afterwards, the spirits communicate across the veil. The point is that the departed are not really in the faraway place that we might think they’re in. He concludes that while death might be the end of a person’s life, but not necessarily the end of the relationship. He continues to receive downloads from others who have passed, as have I have I over the years.
Some ways to connect with the departed:
Create a home altar with artifacts from the deceased.
Do a 15-minute meditation.
Do a grounding exercise.
Focus on being mindful and grateful.
Pay attention to messages (in the form of flashing lights, symbols and impressions)
Channel through automatic writing by connecting with someone who has departed.
In conclusion, connecting with our ancestors may take regular practice. It also involves being alert and present to any signals that arrive. If we pay attention, then magic will happen. Basically, signs and messages transform us and take us from one state of being to another. They can also bring us from the darkness to the light.
Remember to always thank your ancestor for showing up. This is the way we honor and show love to those on the other side.
Johnson, C., PhD. (2024). “I saw her soul leave her body.” Medium. May 5.
Silverman, P. Nickman, S and W. Worden. (1992). ”Detachment revisited: a child’s reconstruction of a dead parent.” Journal of Orthopsychiatry. Vol 62. Issue 4. Pp. 494-503.
Diana Raab, MFA, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, workshop leader, thought-leader and award-winning author of fourteen books. Her work has been widely published and anthologized. She frequently speaks and writes on writing for healing and transformation. Her latest book is Hummingbird: Messages from My Ancestors, A memoir with reflection and writing prompts (Modern History Press, 2024). Raab writes for Psychology Today, The Wisdom Daily, The Good Men Project, Thrive Global, and is a guest writer for many others. Visit her at: https:/www.dianaraab.com. Raab lives in Southern California.
When I read the poet’s words: One must mourn things daily I knew one must praise what one mourns daily, our task to continue to love what has loved us, not to fold and stash in an attic corner where one seldom goes, not to forget, nor replace as if assuming this moment is all there is – Now being only one portion of the vastness that holds us.
Andrea Potos is the author of several poetry collections, most recently HER Joy Becomes (Fernwood Press), and Two Emilys (Kelsay Books). A new collections The Presence of One Word is forthcoming from Fernwood in fall of 2025. andreapotos.com
A Map to Mercy by Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew (Orison, 2025)
Reviewed by Lory Widmer Hess
Finding a way into prayer has not been easy for me. I find myself questioning whether I’m doing it right, what it’s really for, whether it’s worth the time, what I’m getting out of it. Of course, all this questioning gets in the way of prayer … or does it? Maybe, if I would sit honestly with my questions, I might be shown a different kind of answer than the one I’m pressing for, a way to sidestep my spinning thoughts and see things in another light. Maybe the desire to pray, even a thwarted desire, is itself enough of a prayer, to start with.
That kind of desire is beautifully described by the writer Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew in her newly published A Map to Mercy, winner of the Orison Chapbook Prize. It starts with the memory of a dream, in which she experienced an indescribable sensation of sinking into peace, along with a solemn announcement of death. Seeking to experience that peace again, and wrestling with the necessary sacrifice, led her along a twisting path, full of questions and thwartings and obstacles and revelations. It led her to explore ancient forms of prayer, while stubbornly asserting her right to be who she is in the postmodern world. And as we walk with her along this path, we may find our very own individual way to be both ourselves and part of a greater whole, to connect ourselves with sacred realms without losing the value of our particular personhood, in the spirit of freedom and joy.
Jarrett Andrew candidly shares her struggle, her questions and doubts and frustrations, in a way that removes all the preciousness and bleached-out piety from her discussion of prayer. The title refers to her choice of a word to return to in contemplative practice, symbolizing her intention to allow the presence and action of the divine within, setting aside other thoughts for the time being. She didn’t at first want to use a word at all, nor did she like the one that kept whispering to her. “Mercy” smacked to her of helplessness, of grovelling and condescension. It sounded like the “sorry remnant of a theology I’d discarded ages ago,” a patriarchial power structure that had done nothing but harm to our planet, and that continued to oppress anyone who fell outside the categories of dominance. Letting “mercy” in seemed an admission of defeat.
But grappling with the word leads her, and the reader, toward a valuable insight: prayer might be less about demanding what we want, and more about how we deal with the realities we don’t want. “In prayer I see my habitual grasping after significance, anything, and know this to be the least of my flaws…All my relentless thoughts present the perfect opportunity to choose, again and again. I choose quiet. I choose patience and deliberation and receptivity. I choose life.”
To what shall we choose to surrender? We can all think of times when we submitted to something out of convenience or fear or inattention, and found ourselves diminished and frustrated, dropped into a hole where further struggle only seemed to push us deeper. How and when can surrender actually enlarge us and set us free? As she moves back and forth between considerations of ancient practices and ordinary, everyday experience, between the wise words of sages and monks and the messy lessons of life lived with her wife and daughter, Jarrett Andrew admits she still loses the way. But then, she comes back to the essence: “And while I get confused about it, endlessly confused, love—that searing silence which is love—is my God. Prayer is how I remember. Mercy is how I bow down.”
I find it consoling to know that such an articulate writer and teacher of spiritual memoir admits to getting confused, and needs constant reorientation. After reading A Map to Mercy I was left wondering what my own map would look like, where it would take me, what I would find. I was newly inspired to take up the path of prayer without pre-existing assumptions, simply trusting that the divine world wants me to be my fullest self, and will show me how if I allow it.
In the end, the word “mercy” opens up new meaning for Jarrett Andrew; the mysterious tug of something unwanted can indeed turn out to be a pointer toward our deepest desire. And this word, or any word, can be both of the greatest significance and of no significance at all. What matters, she concludes, are the bonds with one another that are also our union with ultimate mystery.
Each of us has our way of walking toward that knowledge. Here is one writer’s way, one very human and relatable way, which could open up new and different perspectives for each reader. This small book has huge vistas inside it, much like contemplative practice itself. Why not open it, and see what you find there?
Lory Widmer Hess grew up near Seattle and now lives in Switzerland, where she works with adults with developmental challenges. Trained as a spiritual director, she companions individuals in their spiritual journey and leads online groups in the practice of Sacred Reading. Her writing has been published in Amethyst Review and other magazines and journals, including Parabola, Vita Poetica, Anglican Theological Review, Pensive,and Motherwell. She is the author of When Fragments Make a Whole: A Personal Journey Through Healing Stories in the Bible (Floris Books, 2024). Find her online at enterenchanted.com.
She holds the mirror to my lips: thin breath Confirms I’m still alive. But still, it’s time. My rings she slips off first, symbolic death Of love’s earth ancestry. Then clothes, poor mime, Thin skin and bones’ old structures shedding touch. She tugs from brain cells pressed-flower scents, long past Their sweet stage. Deaf to death, my ears still clutch Sung music I once wrote. But no forms last, Eyes blind with clearer vision. Out she pours Life’s box of paradox: doubt’s faith, love’s hate, Virtue’s redemption, history’s settled scores. Will’s exiled shadow, clarified through fate, Just flashed past “me.” Soul sloughs this universe, My spirit kissing Death goodbye. Good nurse.
Beth Houston has taught writing at ten universities and colleges in California and Florida. She has published a couple hundred poems in dozens of literary journals. She edits the Extreme formal poetry anthologies (Rhizome Press). http://www.bethhouston.com
Stephen C. Curro hails from Windsor, Colorado, where he works as a high school paraprofessional. He has previously published fiction and poetry with The Fifth Di…, Scifaikuest and Daily Science Fiction, among other venues. When he isn’t writing or working, he enjoys scuba diving, collecting fossils and watching bad monster movies. You can keep up with his shenanigans at http://www.stephenccurro.com.
I woke wanting to remember but could not except in gold-gray flashes. Throughout the day it would return when I was driving or when my hands
were full and I could not jot down the image. Later I made time to write but the fragment vanished at the touch of my attention though I sensed it still
like the scent of the sea through an open window. Even now it goes and returns, like the sensation of hearing her voice, a brightness
on the line where sky and ocean meet. It rises and falls as if it sews a world where it cannot stay to a world where I can’t go.
It’s difficult to see in all that light.
Rose Strode is a poet, essayist, rehabilitator of overgrown gardens, and naturalist. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Wild Roof, Hare’s Paw, New Ohio Review, Terrain.org, and The Ecopoetry Anthology: Volume II from Trinity University Press. When not writing or helping others with their writing she wanders around in the woods with her dog. Read more of her work at rosestrode.com
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