The Wayfarer Vol. 3 Issue 2

The

A Journal of Contemplative Literature

Vol.3 Issue. 2I S S N 2 1 6 9 - 3 1 4 5

Wayfarer

Featuring the poetry of Monika John, Gary Pierluigi, Nicolo Santilli, Hope Hearken, D.L. Collins, Barry Yeoman, and Heloise Jones. Plus 6 questions with author Nora Caron and e Sinners Prayer by Dan Leach.

In the Book SpotlightTo Live in Paradise by Cindi McVey

Cosmos, Mythos & Spiritby Theodore Richards

The Men Died Firstby Sharlene Cochrane

A Compassionate Cynics Guide To Survivalby karuna das

Saving the Worldby Jamie K. Reaser

Creativityby J.K. McDowell

Feature PoetC.M. Rivers

The

A Journal o f Contemplat ive Literature

WayfarerVol. 3 Issue. 2

The environmenTal ColumnSaving the World by Jamie K. reaser 2

The ConTemplaTive ColumnCosmos, mythos, & Spirit by Theodore richards 8

The poetry of monika John 12

The poetry of Gary pierluigi 14

The poetry of nicolo Santilli 15

rag and Bone man by Stephen poleskie 16

The poetry of heloise Jones 18

The poetry of hope hearken 20

The poetry of D.l. Collins 21

The poetry of Barry Yeoman 22

The men Died First by Sharlene Cochrane 24

Feature: The poetry of C.m. rivers 32

a Compassionate Cynics Guide To Survival by Karuna Das 35

6 Questions with nora Caron 44

The CreaTive ColumnCreativity by J.K. mcDowell 46

Bloodroot by Jamie K. reaser 51

The Sinners prayer by Dan leach 54

Book Spotlight To live in paradise 59

contents

A wayfarer is one who chooses to take up a long jour-ney on foot. The journey we chronicle within the jour-nal is that of our path across the inner-landscape of our own being, as we reach for answers to the central questions of our existence. Spirituality is the culmina-tion of the individuals desire to understand the deeper meaning in life. The works found within The Wayfarer are those small truths we gather while traversing the breadth of our days; shared in a belief that through an exchange of insights we help one another move for-ward. The Wayfarer is a quarterly journal distributed by Homebound Publications that explores humanitys ongoing introspective journey.

About Homebound Publications

It is the intention of those at Homebound to revive contemplative storytelling. The stories humanity lives by give both context and perspective to our lives. Some old stories, while well-known to the generations, no longer resonate with the heart of the modern man or address the dilemmas we currently face as individu-als and as a global village. Homebound chooses titles that balance a reverence for the old wisdom; while at the same time presenting new perspectives by which to live.

2014 Homebound Publications All Rights Reserved. All rights to all original artwork, photography and writ-ten works belongs to the respective owners as stated in the attributions. All Rights Reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any means (elec-tronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or other-wise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and publisher. Except for brief quota-tions embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover Photo: Midnight Sun by Josef Stuefer Slickr

Founder and Executive EditorL.M. Browning

Associate Editor & Staff WriterJamie K. Reaser

Staff WriterTheodore Richards

Staff WriterJ.K. McDowell

2 | The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature

Saving the

WorldThe environmenTal ColumnBy Staff Writer Jamie K. Reaser

i have DeCiDeD To STop TrYinG To Save The WorlD.

I couldnt save my mother. she Was diagnosed With breast cancer in January 1990, a year after she had found a lump and Was told that it Was nothing to Worry about. When the doctors changed their minds, they gave her six months. she made it nearly six years be-cause she Was a single parent determined to

get her three daughters through college.She fought the cancer as if embattled in a war with

her own bodyenduring numerous rounds of the self-

inflicted attacks known of chemotherapy and radia-

tion, as well as a bone marrow transplant. and then,

one day, she decided to surrender, to make her peace

with mortality.

a mystic once told me, everything bound by form

must die.

By the time i was in my mid-twenties, Death was a

familiar. he had briefly held my hand when i was six.

he wiped away my tears when pets were buried and

flushed. and, he stood next to me at graveside when

the remains of my grandparents and my mother where

placed deep in the soilsoil which is the dark, dense,

gritty remains of other things that existed some time

ago.

* * * * *

For as long as i can remember, my primary relation-

ship has been with mother earth. in some form or

another, nature has always offered me companion-

ship, instruction, and inspiration. Slugs, ladybugs, and

toads were among my first playmates, and my first

teachers. They continue to crawl around in the cham-

bers of my heart, finding their way into poetry, art,

and particularly good days.

i was still very young when i was told that earth is

sick and, quite possibly, dying. i remember someone

saying that we humans are like a cancer that is slowly

killing her. perhaps, they said, she is terminally ill.

This was before i had befriended Death, and my

response was of deeply-rooted fear and inconsol-

able guilt. i put my metaphoric fists up and became

a fighteran activiston behalf of mother earth. i un-

derstood the prevailing threat to be people. Waging

battles against my own species became the hallmark

of my adolescence. in 1986, i had spent enough time

on the front lines to be named the Youth Conserva-

tionist of the Year by the virginia Wildlife Federation.

Death is an ecological process from which the human

animal is not exempt. in the moment that i accepted

this truth, i also awoke to the humbling realization

that i wasnt put on this planet to be its savior.

a mystic once told me, everything bound by form

must die.

mother earth is destined to pass away. i cant say

how she will die or when, but i do know that she is

subject to the same processes of decay and destruc-

tion as anything else that has taken shape in this

universe. maybe shell be hit by a big comet. maybe

some chemical reaction will cause the atmosphere to

change adversely, or perhaps the sun will burn out

and shell become too frigid for life. maybe human in-

security will foster such poor choices that we blow

her to bits. everything we cherish about this planet

will change and, in time, cease to exit. maybe it will

happen tomorrow. maybe it will happen hundreds of

generations from now.

i have made the conscious decision to stop try-

ing to save the world. To some, this might seem a de-

featist act. after all, it is not uncommon for people

environmenTal Column

The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature | 3

to get depressed and tune out (mentally escape)

when enduring seemingly insurmountable struggle,

to shut down in the face of peril, to become paralytic

as doom approaches.

When threatened:

Fight

Flee

Freeze

We can choose anoth-

er way.

To paraphrase albert ein-

stein, You cant solve a

problem at the level at

which it was created. in

other words:

Selfishness does not re-

solve selfishness.

philosopher arne naess

is quoted as saying, un-

happily, the extensive

moralizing within the

ecological movement has

given the public a false

impression that they are

being asked to make a

sacrificeto show more

responsibility, more con-

cern, and a nicer moral

standard. But all of that

would flow naturally and

easily if the self were wid-

ened and deepened so

that protection of nature

was felt and perceived

as protection of our very

selves.

it sounds glorious to try to save the planetnoble,

coolbut the motivation to protect mother earthpa-

chamamaGaiaTurtle island is often motivated by

the same force that is making her sick, namely the

desire of humans to benefit humans. actions aimed

at saving the planet are largely a quest for human

security, for certainty in a comfortable future. What

is currently regarded as Western Culture sets the

standards for comfortable; high standards that leave

little room for negotiation. Terms like protect, con-

serve and sustain generally mean to prevent loss

and maintain the status quo.

Separation doesnt resolve separation.

The ideologies prominent in western culture largely

perceive humans as separate from the animal king-

dom, and thus not subject

to ecological constraints

- resource limitation, for

example. many environ-

mentalists further the per-

spective that humans are

a part from, rather than a

part of, the natural world

by regarding what people

do and manifest as some-

thing innately obscene.

Beaver dams, bird nests,

and fox dens may have

a mystique about them,

but something human-

fabricated is considered

unnatural, artificial, and

often an assault upon the

earth simply because it is

of human origin.

my adolescent sen-

timents toward people

are so common among

environmentalists that

they function as a green

membership card. many

people committed to sav-

ing the planet have a

distinct distain for their

own species. people are

considered the problem

- a cancer attacking its

mother. The earth would

be better off without us.

But to see homo sapiens as a part of the earth-

system is to see the anti-human sentiment in the en-

vironmental movement as something akin to an au-

toimmune disorder: self-inflicted dis-ease. in general,

autoimmune disorders dont promote healing, they

debilitate and kill.

Control does not resolve control.

My decision

to stop trying

to save the world

was not defeatist,

it emerged out of

something activated

deep in the chambers

of my heart

something generative.


The quest for security drives people to try to con-

trol their circumstancestheir environment. a sense

of separation from the environment enables the hu-

man ego to foster the belief that is possible to domi-

nate the world.

The health problems that mother earth is now fac-

ing are primarily derived from the human enterprises

efforts to manipulate the environment beyond the en-

vironments ability to adversely impact peoplebuild-

ing permanent structures, managing temperature,

controlling water and food supplies, and redistributing

natural resources through trade and transportation

all on a large scale. Beliefs in permanency and the

ability to command ecological systems are illusional,

yet they serve as the foundations of human progress.

many of the solutions being proposed to address

the environmental crises also arise out of a cosmology

of human-domination of earth systemsgenetic en-

gineering, determining weather patterns, and turning

the atmosphere into a chemistry laboratory. one of

the side effects of our philosophical separation from

the natural world is our ignorance of natural systems

and their functionality. enacting these proposals for

the treatment of mother earth is akin to throwing a

wide range of pharmaceuticals at an ailment without

understanding the consequences the drugs will have

on the human body.

i didnt stop loving my mother when i learned that she

was dying. To the contrary, i took actions to express my

love for her. i was her eldest daughter. When she was

diagnosed with cancer, i was four months away from

finishing college. i gave up my plans to go straight to

graduate school and, instead, moved home to help

her through her treatments. i chose to love her despite

a sense of impending loss, despite the pain that was

sure to come. l chose to honor our relationship and be

in service of something greater than my-self.

environmental activist and Buddhist scholar, Joanna

macy, writes, Were not going to save our world by

sermonizing and preaching to each other. nor will we

save our world out of duty and grim determination, or

by winning an argument and persuading other people

that theyre wrong. We probably can only save our

world through loving it enough.

We are a species that has the capacity to make

choices regarding the evolutionary tra jectory of our

consciousness. What if we didnt use love as a path-

way to security? What if we chose to love this world

while acknowledging that the world as we know it will

end? What if people chose to love this worldinclud-

ing the animal known as homo sapienswithout feel-

ing entitled to something in return?

my decision to stop trying to save the world was not

defeatist, it emerged out of something activated deep

in the chambers of my heartsomething generative. i

asked myself how i wanted to honor my relationship to

mother earth despite her mortality. i questioned who i

wanted to be in relationship to her. i began to explore

what i wanted it to mean to be human. i asked, What

is the most potent essence of humanity?

In Reason for Hope, primatologist Jane Goodall

writes, it is these undeniable qualities of human love

and compassion and self-sacrifice that give me hope

for the future. We are, indeed, often cruel and evil. no-

body can deny this. We gang up on each one another,

we torture each other, with words as well as deeds,

we fight, we kill. But we are also capable of the most

noble, generous, and heroic behavior.

i havent stopped loving mother earth because i re-

alize that she will die someday. To the contrary, my life

has become an expression of my love for her. i have

come home to her by accepting myself and homo sa-

piens as animal, as natural, as an aspect of her and

hard as it may be at timesto try to love every part

of her.

real generosity toward the future lies in giving

all to the present, writes philosopher albert Camus. i

honor the individuals and organizations who actively

participate in the environmental movement, who dili-

gently work to analyze human impacts and develop

options to reduce to size of the human footprint. They

offer us something vital: strategies. Strategy is im-

portant, but it is not enough. in order to be effective,

strategies need to be implemented. implementation is

facilitated by the motivation to implement. Fear has

proven to be a poor motivatora destructive rather

than a generative force. i believe that what we most

need to give to the present are two outgrowths of love:

grief and gratitude.

To grieve is human

it is natural to feel grief when we lose something that

we love. Those who have tended the terminally ill un-

derstand that there is also a pre-grieving process that

can take place when we anticipate loss. Grief cracks

the heart open, making space for compassion, for un-

derstanding, for kinship, for us to claim our humanity.

We, as a species, have not been grieving enough. one

of the characteristics of Western Culture is emotional

adolescence. or, as Jungian psychologist Bill plotkin

would say, pathoadolescencepathologic immatu-

rity. much of todays society has been culturally pro-

grammed not to feelto escape (flee) from feeling

through food, drugs, television, and various electronic

media and gadgetry. embracing our emotions, espe-

cially grief for our mothers ills, provides an opportu-

nity to be fully human, and to initiate society into an

adulthood that has the capacity to nurture self and

other. Through our grief, we can discover our humanity.

Gratitude grows our humanity

Gratitude is defined as the quality of being thankful;

readiness to show appreciation for and to return kind-

ness. Gratitude is powerful medicine. Gratitude enliv-

ens. Gratitude holds space for the generative forces

of wonderment and connection. We can be grateful

for the opportunity to be alive. We can be grateful

for every living creature and life-sustaining process.

From this place of gratitude, we can choose to en-

gage in strategic acts of reciprocityto actively love

life in all its forms and create opportunities for na-

tures regenerative capacities to thrive.

at this point, it is not hard to hear critical voices

saying, Well that all sounds nice, but lets get real.

The hippies had their love fest and then went on to

become self-serving corporate executives.

The love that i am referring to is not an unground-

ed, new age notion rooted in a desire to blissfully

escape from the challenges inherent in the tangible

world. To the contrarythe love that i speak of re-

quires humans to stand firmly and consciously in the

messy thick of it, and to be courageously vulnerable.

We need to learn to let go of our sense of entitlement

to tomorrow, and accept uncertainty and insecurity as

the natural rhythms of life. We need to be brave and

humble enough to let ourselves be cracked open, over

and over again, from the inside-out.

The ideal of warriorship is that the warrior should be

sad and tender, and because of that, the warrior can be

very brave as well, writes Chgyam Trungpa, author of

Shambala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior. What might

become possible if fear-and-guilt motivated activists

transformed themselves into heart-warriors?

in her poem, The Journey, mary oliver speaks to the

process of realizing that that there is only one life that

you can save:

one day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do-

determined to save

the only life you could save.

i have decided to stop trying to save the world. instead, i

have decided to actively love this world while being fully

aware of its temporal limitations, its mortality. loving

this world has not guaranteed my life, but it has given

me inspiration to live. loving this world enables me to

more fully express my human soulmy humanity. This

is what i can save, and this is how i can best serve our

mother in her time of need.

To quote 13th century persian poet, Jalal al-Din muham-

mad rumi, Yesterday i was clever, so i wanted to change

the world. Today i am wise, so i am changing myself.

Jamie K. reaSers writing explores themes at the interface of nature and

human nature. in addition to more than 100 professional publications in the

fields of biology and environmental policy, she is the author of four collec-

tions of poetry and the editor of two anthologies. Jamie currently serves as

an associate editor for The Wayfarer journal and is a member of the interna-

tional league of Conservation Writers.

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ion

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The ConTemplaTive Column

by Staff Writer Theodore Richards

Wheres your mother? my father asked, fumbling With his keys and, more signifi-cantly, his emotions. he couldnt bear to go inside to look for her. so i did. she stood in the kitchen, Weeping, clutching the book.

Cosmos, Mythos, & Spirit Reflections on Spirituality in a Changing World

ConTemplaTive Column


are you having a hard time, mom? i asked.

it was his favorite book, she sobbed, showing me

Sylvester and the magic pebble. i remembered the

book well. it is the story of a donkey, Sylvester, who ac-

cidentally, magically turns himself into a rock, and the

year his parents spend looking for and mourning him

before he finally, miraculously returns. The book had

always made her cry.

i held her for a while,

sharing the unspoken

knowledge that my

brother would not return

like Sylvester. Come on,

i said. lets go.

i wanted to bury the

book with him, she said.

We can do that, i

said. its oK.

and we got in the car

for the first time since my

brother was born thirty-

seven years before, a

family of threeto bury

my brother and his favor-

ite book.

* * * * *

Books had always been

important for us. not

only for my mother (a

reading teacher) and me

(a writer) but for my fa-

ther and brother as well. i

can see now, as a parent,

how stories become the

stuff that brings a world

into being, the stuff that

brings the individual into

community. There was a

little bit of Sylvester with

my brother alwaysit

made sense to bury the

book with him. Books allow for the emerging interior

self to connect to the broader world through spacein

broadening ones sense of possibility and interrelated-

nessand time, in connecting us to the stories of the

past.

even before there were books, human beings told

stories. Before we spent our evenings around the light

of the television, we sat around the fire. and wenot

a box with a screentold the stories. Storytelling was

among the earliest art forms and, like all art forms, was

participatory. The story comes into being not when the

writer puts it on paper, but in the space in between

reader and writer, between the teller and the listener.

The participatory imagination of the audience co-

creates it. and together,

worlds are created. The

oldest stories are stories

of creation, stories that

always end with the lis-

tener; for a creation sto-

ry tells us not only about

the cosmos beyond, but

the cosmos within us, not

only tells us the history of

our world, but how we fit

in it.

Telling stories, as

much as anything else,

makes us human. it is our

especially human way of

making a world.

* * * * *

There are no spiritual

traditions i know of that

do not revolve around

stories. Students of re-

ligion and converts so

often start in the wrong

place, with philosophies

and theologies, or worse,

lists of rules. if you want

to understand a spiritual

tradition, the place to

go is the story. For in the

story, the hardest ques-

tions are asked: Who am

i? Why am i here? Where

are we going?

and stories, like faith traditions, are alive. We like to

think of them as being one thing, written down at some

point and never changing. But the truth is that what it

means to be a Christian or a Jew or a Buddhist or a

hindu has been changing throughout history, and is al-

left: photo by Chinni Wong (Flickr Creative Commons)

Cosmos, Mythos, & Spirit Reflections on Spirituality in a Changing World

These special stories

are called myths.

Sadly, weve turned

that word into an insult.

It has become something

like a synonym for a lie.

But myths are simply stories

that tell us something

more important,

more essential

than mere facts.

They give us a sense

of who we are

and our place in the cosmos.


ways contextual. The apparent solidity of the written

word belies the fact that the story evolves, too, even

when the words on the page do not change. For con-

texts change, and with them interpretations.

if we want to understand the hebrew Bible, for in-

stance, we are better off looking at the exodus story

than merely the Ten Commandments. in either case,

there is a complex set of contexts the help bring the

texts to life. Scholars can help us come to understand

the historical context, of course. But it is the participa-

tion by the reader in the text that truly brings it to life:

The captivity in Babylon has more meaning, and even

new meaning, through the eyes of those in captivity,

the migrants and the incarcerated; american Chris-

tianity only truly could understand the exodus story

through the eyes of Black america, a people who be-

came a people in their yearning to be free.

These special stories are called myths. Sadly,

weve turned that word into an insult. it has become

something like a synonym for a lie. But myths are sim-

ply stories that tell us something more important, more

essential than mere facts. They give us a sense of who

we are and our place in the cosmos. They allow us to

grapple with truths that are paradoxical and that arent

necessarily a matter of knowing information. another

way of putting it is to say that the myth is the primary

way that a culture conveys a cosmology. and a cos-

mology is not merely about the universe out there; it is

about the universe within. it links individual and whole.

The question we all have, i suspect, is not so much

about what happens to us after we die but whether or

not we are alone in the universe. are we participat-

ing in a community or not? are we essentially inter-

connected or isolated? if we are alone, no afterlife we

seek after would be worth much; for me, even a blink of

an eye with the possibility of true communion with oth-

ers would be preferable to such an eternity. and we are

brought together by the story, the fabric of our social,

cultural, and spiritual ecology.

* * * * *

We are in trouble just now, writes Thomas Berry, be-

cause we do not have a good story. Berry is writing

about industrial civilization and the story we havetold

through the mechanisms of consumer capitalismthat

teaches us that our world is a collection of objects to

be exploited. it is the story that tells us we are funda-

mentally alone, and in competition with one another, the

story that we become who we are based on what we

can buy. and the trouble he refers to is the imminent

ecological, planetary collapse due to our overconsump-

tion.

There is no more important work than re-imagining

this story. and it is work that requires not merely the

mind, but the whole self. it requires not merely an indi-

vidual, but an entire culture. The new story will be more

tapestry than a single cloth, more library than single

text.

To bring forth a new myth requires work that is deep

and hard. We must get outside and get our hands dirty

to re-embed in the earth; we must explore our interior

lives and do the soul-work that brings about the deep-

est insights; we must engage the old story with critical

consciousness to become, in the Gramscian sense, phi-

losophers for the people; we must sing and dance and

play and explore.

my suspicion is that the new story must come from

the margins, from those who havent been served by

the story we have now. This was an insight that Jesus

seems to have had. he didnt seek out the temple priests

or the Greek elites or roman power; rather, he went to

To bring forth a new myth requires work that is deep and hard. We must get outside

and get our hands dirty to re-embed in the earth; we must explore our interior lives

and do the soul-work that brings about the deepest insights; we must engage the old

story with critical consciousness to become, in the Gramscian sense, philosophers for

the people; we must sing and dance and play and explore.

TheoDore riCharDS is a poet, writer, and religious philosopher. he has received de-grees from various institutions, including the university of Chicago and The California institute of integral Studies, but has learned just as much from practicing the mar-tial art of Bagua; from traveling, working or studying all over the world; and from the youth he has worked with on the South Side of Chicago, harlem, the South Bronx, and oakland. he is the author of handprints on the Womb, a collection of poetry; Cosmoso-phia: Cosmology, Mysticism, and the Birth of a New Myth, recipient of the independent publisher awards Gold medal in religion and the nautilus Book awards Gold medal; the novel The Crucifixion, recipient of the independent publisher awards bronze medal; and Creatively Maladjusted: The Wisdom Education Movement Manifesto, which radically re-imagines education. Theodore richards is the founder of The Chicago Wisdom project and teaches world religions at The new Seminary. he lives in Chicago with his wife and daughters. his next novel, The Conversions, will be released in october

those who were, as he was, at the margins of society.

There was a wisdom from those margins that could not

be found at the centers of power. indeed, in todays world

this would mean turning away from the university and

looking to the streets, away from Wall Street and toward

the shanty towns outside the centers of capitalist power.

it means turning to what martin luther King, Jr called

the creatively maladjusted, those who do not adapt to

an insane world and instead attempt to re-imagine it. it

is the kind of wisdom that the Trickster Tales teach us:

that there is an insanity in the work of building human

civilization, and to appear mad in the face of it is a deep-

er wisdom than conforming to it.

But those at the margins, of course, are taught that

they are there because of their own deficiencies. Choic-

es is a word we will here over and over again in our

poor schools, the schools that send more of our youth to

prison than collegeas if life were so simple, as if mere

individual choices determine our fate and there is not

a whole universe of other choices conspiring to affect

us as well. This is the deficit narrative. The reclamation

of the narrative is the counter-narrative. This must be a

central aspect of any worthwhile educational program

for the marginalized. it was what Jesus and Chuang Tzu

and Baal Shem Tov, to name a few, offered: a narrative

that challenges the one we have been given.

it is easy to see, i think, how a counter-narrative might

be useful for the oppressed. But we must come to terms

with the fact that the condescending term at-risk, ap-

plied most to black and brown youth, applies to all of us.

We are an at-risk species on an at-risk planet. our work,

our great work, is to tell a new story for us all. anything

less is the rearrangement of deckchairs on this planetary

Titanic.

* * * * *

We made it to the cemetery, and i stammered through

the eulogy. my brother had little patience for intellec-

tual and spiritual laziness and preferred to face the

unknown with honest unknowing. Telling people what

they want to hear makes a lot of money in the pulpit,

but to honor my brother i had to tell another story: that

life is hard, and short; even the luckiest among us gets

a mere blink of an eye and cannot avoid suffering. it is

funny that the stories of so many of our great spiritual

iconsJesus and the Buddha, for exampleare stories

of this encounter with suffering, and yet our religions so

often seek to avoid its reality.

i held my mother as she placed the book in my

brothers grave. his sons stood uncomprehendingly

in the face of eternity. it was autumn. For a moment,

in the stillness of the cemetery, i could feel the move-

ment of seasons. off in the distance there was a high

school. my brother had played football there once in

high school, my mother said.

like the seasons, stories bring us into participation

with the cosmos. We will all die. my brothers ashes

were placed in the earth like the bodies of his ances-

tors.

and like the seasons, stories come back. The spirits

of our ancestors live on in story. They do not remain

static. We can participate with stories, change them.

They are there to serve us now and in the future. it mat-

ters less if Jesus said exactly the words written down

in the Bible than how those words come alive for us,

make our lives meaningful, and, of course, what we do

with those words. Words make worlds. and the mythol-

ogy of my brother can be the way he remains with his

sons in some small way.


Stardust and peace by monika John

my mind is joined

to victim and violator,

to conquerors greed

and insights of Sufi saints.

my feet tread on dust

of blood drenched battle fields

and of the one

who walked in palestine.

my lungs fill with air

expelled in Genghis Khans curses

and the sanctified breath

of abraham.

i am no more than stardust,

a fleeting spark in space,

yet i abide eternally unchanging

in all embracing peace.

one people by monika John

pilgrims always meet again,

oceans and mountains

mere trifles in their journey.

They are drawn together

by the finer stuff

that makes toy puzzles

out of continents.

Driven by an inner calling

they circle the globe

weaving common threads

of one people, one planet.

until then i practice.... by monika John

Since i am still learning

that all beings are my Self

i practice tolerance.

Till i know for certain

that there is nothing to attain

i practice patience.

as long as i cannot love

without conditions

i practice loyalty.

While i yet wonder

if all actions are just and fair

i practice forgiveness.

until ultimate Truth

dawns on me wholly

i need to practice virtues. .

But the day i hold in my hand

the one perfect rose

i need not count its petals.

poems by moniKa John, writer, attorney

and world traveler living in Washington

State. her writings have appeared in vari-

ous journals and magazines in the uSa and

uK: most recently Buddhist Poetry Review,

Light of Consciousness Magazine, Urthona

UK, Penwood Review, Presence International

Magazine, Anthology on Tagore, UK, Fun-

gi and Quiet Shorts Magazine, Sathya Sai

Magazine, Scheherazades Bequest. | photo

right: prayer Wheel michael Bay Flickr Cre-

ative Commons


To Kill a mockingbird by Gary pierluigi

it was the world i lived in.

i thought people like atticus Finch

existed, and of course there was that

homemade apple pie.

in the moonlight i crept from yard to

yard eating over ripe tomatoes.

i sometimes cracked pumpkins over

my knee.

i was in awe that atticus read to his

little girl at night while she sat on his lap.

and answered questions.

in the darkness i urinated on an

assortment of vegetables, carving my

initials onto each and every one, and

would sometimes lay on my back looking

up at the stars, willing into existence

a father like atticus Finch.

Since first being published in Quills, Gary has been

published in numerous poetry journals, including

Cv2, Queens Quarterly, On Spec, Filling Station, The

Dalhousie Review, The Nashwaak Review, Grain, and

Misunderstandings Magazine. he was short listed for

the CBC 2006 literary awards in the poetry catego-

ry, a finalist in the lit pop awards and received an

honorable mention in The ontario poetry Societys

open heart Contest. his first poetry book,* over

the edge, has been published by Serengeti press.

his first novel, abraham man, is currently being re-

vised.


Dreams by nicolo Santilli

we long for the realms of luminous beauty

where beauty dances on the swaying grass

with immortal love and sorrow

and we would follow the spirit path

glimmering through ageless forests

surrounded by creatures

alight on the transparent wings

of dreamspells

and soft desires

so that each glimpse would be a prize

and if a spirit should follow us back

we should have to see the familiar world

to which we returned

through their startled eyes

as infinitely deep and dear

or dreary with empty dreaming

Sacrifices by nicolo Santilli

a saint sees the sacrifices

that lie under every paving stone

and in every mouthful of food

how a world of suffering

is condensed into every tear

and thousands died

that one may smile

and a million curses

had to be overcome

that we might love

and pledge our hearts

beyond the raging field

of desire

nicolo Santilli is a philosopher and poet, residing

in Berkeley, Ca. | photo by ladyDragonflyCC on

Flickr


BY STephen poleSKie

We lived in the third floor apartment. my father had been left the build-ing by his mother, and We could

rent out the rooms on the second floor to lodgers for more money. the space on the ground floor, Which had been my grandmothers shop until she died, and her third husband ran off With Whatever money Was left in the bank, Was rented to mickey the barber.

From the window of the

bedroom i shared with my un-

cle edward, i could see Grove

Street. The two rear windows

in our kitchen had a view of

our small yard, in the center

of which stood the tiny spruce

tree my father had planted

the day i was born. i would

come back years later to find

it higher than the house; and

still later gone, cut down by

the new owners to make way

for a clothesline. a picket fence

separated one side of the yard

from the sidewalk and street.

The back border was formed

by a row of chicken coops and

a garage. a high wire fence ran down the other side, di-

i could see him now.

The old man had

stopped on the

corner and was just

sitting silently on

his wagon, waiting.

my heart was

pounding with fear.

i had never seen

the rag and bone

mans eyes look

so beady, so full of evil.

he took out a

red handkerchief

was this the signal?

viding us from the people next door. Their house was

as tall as ours, so i could see nothing out that way but

a wall. as work at the local coal mine was slow, most

of the bars on Grove Street had closed, the one un-

derneath the neighbors be-

ing one of the few remain-

ing. its sign, which was lit

up at night, cast a red glow

on the walls my bedroom.

in the morning huge trucks

would come by and wake

me up with a great racket,

as they unloaded barrels of

beer that were rolled down

a ramp into the bars cold

cellar.

mostly, i stayed in my

room all day and watched

the activity on Grove Street

out the window. i dont re-

member going down to

the street much until i was

at least three years old, al-

though i must have. i had

long hair, which my moth-

er set in curls. people who

didnt know me used to say:

oh what a beautiful girl!

Then my sister was born,

and i was changed back

into a boy. i had my hair

cut downstairs at mickeys.

i remember crying because

i was afraid it was going to

hurt. my mother said: if you

dont stop crying, i am going to give you to the rag and

bone man.

R a g a n d


i dont know why he was called the rag and bone

man, probably because he dressed in rags. i do re-

member he had a horse and wagon. my mother was

always threatening to give me to the rag and bone

man if i didnt do something or othergo to sleep, eat

my dinner, wash my hands. This made me feel espe-

cially worthless, as everything else she didnt want she

sold to the rag and bone man; rusty pots and pans,

broken sewing machines, anything that had outlived

its usefulness. Was i not even worth as much as my

mothers junk? i wondered. now my father, who had

never been home much anyway, had gone off to fight

in the war, leaving me here with mother, and my baby

sister, who always cried to get everything she wanted

given to her.

Before my mother had begun her threats i had

waited in excitement for the rag and bone man to ap-

pear, listening to the bellow of his horn as he made his

way down Grove Street. Warm days found me hanging

out my window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the trea-

sures he had stowed in his cart. on those infrequent

days when mother, or the lady from downstairs, would

rush out with some small item to sell and the rag and

bone man would stop on our corner, my eyes would

enjoy a special treat as they inventoried the contents

of his rickety cart.

now i no longer waited for the rag and bone man

with pleasure but with fear. Was today the day he

would come for me? had my mother made some se-

cret pact with the gnarled old man to take me away as

a punishment for something she perceived i had done

wrong? at the first sound of his horn i interrupted my

play and took flight, diving under the spruce trees, and

then crawling behind the peonies.

Small bugs circled my blinking eyelids as i peered

through the picket fence. The rag and bone mans once

cheerful horn had become a mournful dirge, a sound i

STephen poleSKie is an artist and writer. his writing

has appeared in journals both here and abroad and in

the anthology The Book of Love, (W.W. norton) and been

nominated for a pushcart prize. he has published seven

novels. his artworks are in the collections of numerous

museums, including the moma, and the metropolitan mu-

seum. he has taught at The School of visual arts, nYC,

the university of California, Berkeley, and Cornell uni-

versity. poleskie lives in ithaca, nY. website: www.Ste-

phenpoleskie.com

remembered from my aunt Beatrices funeral, the day i

learned what to be dead meant. The horse and wagon

was in front of our house now, but i wouldnt see the rag

and bone man until he passed the corner. i squatted low-

er in the flowers, making sure i had a clear path to the

chicken coop. i planned my escaperun across the open

yard, jump onto the water barrel, scramble on the coop,

then over the garage roof, and get away by the back al-

ley. my grandma lived at the end of the alley. She baked

me cookies when i went to visit her, and would never al-

low me to be taken away by a rag and bone man.

i could see him now. The old man had stopped on the

corner and was just sitting silently on his wagon, wait-

ing. my heart was pounding with fear. i had never seen

the rag and bone mans eyes look so beady, so full of evil.

he took out a red handkerchiefwas this the signal? i

prepared to flee. But my mother did not come down. The

old man blew his nose in the handkerchief, and then put

it back in his pocket.

Giddy up! he growled, giving his horse a crack with

the reins.

Still crouched in my hiding place, i felt a sense of re-

lief come over me. i listened to the bellow of his horn,

and the clip-clop of hoofs, as the rag and bone man

slowly disappeared down Grove Street.

B o n e M a n


The altar of Birds by heloise Jones

i.

i looked to the dawn sky over the bay,

saw the coral sheets i knew colored

the sand, the water, the homefronts.

When i finally stood at the pink tinted shore,

trails of fire-edged clouds above,

i stood at the altar of Birds.

hundreds in flight, set for flats and shallows,

gathering by tribe. heron, ibis, pelican,

seagull, darter, duck. a roseate spoonbill,

a rose on stilts. an osprey, a tiny fish

in its talons. Far from shore,

black shadows of longnecked bodies

sprinkled like crooked flowers. Then, water

lightens to the color of sky. The slap of

big wings, throaty murmurs, aaahhs,

soft clicks and loud squawks.

of all, the gulls scream for the sun. rip the air.

only quiet when the glowing orb frees

the horizon, sprays a rippled copper path

across the bay, assures of another day.

later, theyll forget mornings promise.

Their voices will rise, wail as the fireball drops,

the sky flares, warning of a sun

nearly gone, lost below the tree line.

marvel the mullet, i say. how they throw

themselves where gills dont work. leap

where air means death. and yet, they fly.

airborne, again and again and again.

im reminded of a time we

walked a great distance into the Gulf.

The tide at our hips. a sea warm as bathwater.

people shrunk to mere dots, specks on shore.

at our knees, fish as long as my thigh

chased fish as big as my hand. Then, fish

large as a lifeboat cruised a prairie of

seaweed, stalking, maybe me.

i live where birds cover marsh trees like blossoms.

palms rustle like mountain streams.

The stillness of egrets and herons hold space.

Where pelicans glide in formation, wingtips on water,

baby dolphins flip, and spindly legs

reach shyly from a shell in my hand.

Where rainbowed butterflies of miniature mussels

join conch, all peachy and buttery cream,

buried in crude on the ocean floor, in waters

Corexit swirls with blood

like plastics taint the pacific.

ii.

i hold a tiny, dried corpse of a horseshoe crab.

The shell paper-thin, the legs perfectly curled,

its blue blood long gone. i think

of the time 22 miles out to sea,

at the Gulf Stream in the atlantic.

The singular, giant dolphin. The singular bird

as i stood at the stern of a boat, tipped

my dads ashes into deepest water,

watched tiny pieces of bones & ash

bloom as tall and big as he was

when i was a little girl.

i celebrate the horseshoes slip

past human dominion, its march through

the rise and demise of epochs and species,

carrying copper-laced blood as expensive

as gold. i know ill search for them in

lifetimes hence when i return, walk the shores

once more, pray at the altar of Birds.

heloiSe JoneS lives in St. petersburg, Florida after

decades in the mountains of new mexico and north

Carolina. Though she's a town dweller, she finds the

sacred in the wonder and rhythms of nature. She's

always loved birds. a Thomas Wolfe Fiction prize fi-

nalist, her publications include a contributing essay

in the bestselling book, 'What i Wish for You' by patti

Digh. www.heloisejones.com

Phot

o

Jam

ie K

. Rea

ser


89+ by hope hearken

red eyes in leaves

statues of dead trees

and azazel stood up

mountains blackened

my son was still gone

had never been home

earth jumped it's axis

and i didn't know exodus

demons sank islands

erupted volcanoes

exploded the sun

paused bible time

and my growth line

i knew i was alone

knew i was burning

but i couldn't wake

till god spoke

i remember everything

even the dragon's sting

monsters at my window

voices in the shadows

crucifix held to my chest

running in the street

this was my test

till god spoke

hope hearKen has previously published po-

etry under the name hope houghton. however,

a shift in ideals has caused her to take up the

name hope hearken. hope includes now her

Christian beliefs and her love of God in her po-

etry. Follow her on Facebook. | photo by: Foto-

Katolik Flickr Creative Commons


Waiting by D.l. Collins

Sometimes wading looks like waiting

as we sense the approach of storm

long before dark clouds appear.

When waves churn deeper water

our waiting looks like wading,

or a cry of alarm, or a search for a foothold,

or a feeling of foolishness, or a sink

into drunkenness, or a call to war,

or jealousy, or self-righteousness, or pain.

rarely, like a song, our wading

becomes a miraculous, light step

over dangerous sea.

She Was not a Bird by D.l. Collins

She was not a bird

who would stay still for no reason.

it was hard to tell if she was aware of you

while she sat on a twig, chirping

or made the nest tight for her babies.

always grateful for the morning,

she could spend hours upon

hours telling a story about the sky;

she would forget to eat and drink

so lost she became in the glory of it.

now she sits and quietly

ignores the clouds that gather.

no longer looking out,

she does not attempt to recite the colors

that are there for the taking.

even as she recedes,

there is something

in the shadow of her glances,

a look like she has heard a fair weather report

from some far-off place.

D.l. CollinS lives and works in the Detroit area. after a record-breaking winter freeze in the midwest,

she gazes at greening plants and trees as if they were a new invention. She anticipates basking in the

glowing light that appears in michigan in June and watching fire flies rise from the lawn when the sun is

only just sinking at ten oclock in the evening.


The hiGhWaY by Barry Yeoman

the constant

groaning

of diesel

from

route 70

below

the underpass

down the road

we

desperately

hope for

something

anything

beyond this

gasoline and rust

we have

barricaded

our hearts

with ashes

one can spend

a lifetime

dreaming

of eternity

we sit

and wait

but

cannot sleep

till

our pockets

of thought

are emptied

the

highway

continues always

like

an endless

evacuation

BarrY Yeoman was educated at Bowling Green

State university, the university of Cincinnati,

and The mcGregor School of antioch university,

in creative writing, world classics and the hu-

manities. he is originally from Springfield, ohio

and lives currently in london, ohio. his work has

appeared in Red Booth Review, and is forthcom-

ing in Futures Trading, Danse Macabre, and Har-

bingers Asylum.

S

erge

Bys

tro F

lickr

The Men Died Firstby Sharlene Cochrane

in my family, the men died first; the women carried on. Women in three consecutive generations faced the death of their husbands from early, unexpected illness. necessity shaped their response as they became family matriarchs, resourceful, resilient, and alone.


i. Bina rykena voogd (1847-1924)

abe o. voogd (1847-1882)

Bina rykena voogd sat beside the bed where her hus-

band of eleven years lay, his weak form covered with

blankets and the multi-

colored quilt they re-

ceived at their wedding.

holding his hand tightly,

she bowed her head, his

faint, uneven breathing

in her ear as she held

back tears. it all hap-

pened so suddenly; this

illness, the quick de-

cline, and now, sitting

in the bedroom, a cold

wind blowing outside,

her dear abe, so close to

death. This was not their

plan, their vision for

their life together. She

kept up constant prayer,

repeating fearfully,

please dont die; weve

struggled so much, and

have such happiness

now with our young and

growing family.

abe and Bina each ex-

perienced the long jour-

ney to the united States

by ship. abe traveled

from the ostfriesland

region of northern Ger-

many, and at nineteen,

the oldest of five chil-

dren, he helped his fam-

ily make the overland

trip by train to illinois.

There they lived for six

years within the grow-

ing ostfriesen commu-

nity there, and journeyed by train to Cedar Falls and by

wagon twenty miles further west, finding rich, rolling

farm land near other German settlers in north central

iowa.

Bina remembered the ship that brought her and her

parents from hannover, Germany, and the train to iowa

as well. She often said she never wanted to take such

a long, exhausting trip again. The voogd and rykena

families each farmed land near highway 20, between

parkersburg and ap-

lington, two tiny towns

serving the growing

number of iowa farms.

Bina often thought

about how much life

improved once they

settled in iowa. The

farm was hard work

every day, but she

loved the green fields,

the wild prairies, and

the beautiful flow-

ers. They had many

friends, and families

helped each other

with harvesting corn,

building barns, and

preparing and storing

food. Through these

events and gather-

ings she came to know

abe, a handsome man

and hard worker. af-

ter a short courtship

he asked her to marry

him, and she eagerly

agreed.

They began mar-

ried life on a small

farm near their fami-

lies. They spent long

hours working their

farm, and Bina gave

birth to four sons: olt-

man, now ten, richard

eight, five year-old

Dick, and abe, carry-

ing her husbands name, recently turned one. The boys

were a handful, especially the younger ones; still they

...Bina accepted that her dream with Abe

of a family farm where they would

support themselves and raise their

children was not possible. She made

a decision that changed her life

and the trajectory of her childrens

own dreams.

___________________________________________________________Left: Kate Mereand-Sinha Flickr Creative Commons


would learn to do their farm chores, and promised to

be a big help once they grew older.

Sitting at his bedside as she carefully watched her

husband, Bina tried not to imagine what she would

have to do to take care of her family without abe. it

was more than she could bear. Their four little boys,

without a father. The family without abe to farm the

land, protect them, and help these boys grow up. abes

favorite brother John lived on the next farm, with a

growing family of his own, and constantly talked about

moving on to minnesota. abes other two living sib-

lings were on the farm with their aging parents. There

wasnt room, and the boys werent old enough to help.

She would have to stay and make their farm succeed;

if not, what else could she do?

Despite Binas tears and prayers, abe voogd died

march 10, 1882, at the age of 34. Bina, also 34, now

faced all the realities she had not wanted to consider.

Family members reached out to help, and neighbors

were sympathetic to Binas plight. Within a few months,

however, Bina accepted that her dream with abe of a

family farm where they would support themselves and

raise their children was not possible. She made a de-

cision that changed her life and the tra jectory of her

childrens own dreams.

having expected to be a farm wife in a role she

knew well, she sold their farm, left her familiar world,

and settled in the nearby town of aplington. She pur-

chased a modest house, and rented rooms to boarders

to make ends meet.

Bina, the sole support of her growing family, focused

her time and energy on the lives of her four sons. She

stayed connected to her ostfriesen roots, continuing

to speak German, and even listing the boys in the iowa

State census of 1885 with their ostfriesen names: olt-

man, rike (richard), Dirk (Dick), and ebe (abe). She

also made sure the boys attended the small public

school in aplington. each of the brothers took advan-

tage of the opportunities for education and leadership

in their small town, and developed a profession or a

business, while maintaining a close relationship with

their mother. as the brothers became productive town

members, Bina left the demanding boarding house

role, supported by her sons.

oltman, the old est of the four voogd brothers,

managed The aplington news, the weekly newspaper,

while his brother Dick attended the university of iowa

law School. When Dick graduated and began his law

practice, oltman stayed at the newspaper, eventually

purchasing it. he married, and with his wife and four

children lived next door to Bina.

Dick served as one of the two lawyers in apling-

ton, and also served as mayor for ten years. Both Dick

and abe, the youngest brother, continued to live with

their mother at various times during these years. abe

managed the local grain elevator, and worked in other

sales positions in the town.

at the age of 15, seven years after his father died,

richard started a merchandise business, a small store

on aplingtons block-long main street. richards store

expanded to a larger storefront, advertising general

merchandise and millenary. he also bought and sold

property, establishing with a colleague the Tiedens

and voogd real estate office. he married Bena Weiss

when he was twenty, and they had three children. The

family lived in a substantial home in town, near his

mother.

in her later years, Bina lived with her son abe and

his wife. Called Grandma voogd by all, she remained

the head of the family, overseeing the activities and

enterprises of her sons. She never married again and

lived more than forty years without her husband abe,

before she died in 1924.

ii. Bena Weiss voogd (1874-1942)

richard a. voogd (1874-1921)

Bena Weiss voogd, Binas daughter-in-law, sat with her

desk full of papers, and tried to take in their message.

The family real estate business lost money again.

The lands that seemed so lucrative a few years ago

produced less now, and the situation worsened each

year. Somehow the death of her husband richard had

opened up a hornets nest of bad financial news. We

were doing so well! What are we going to do now? she

kept repeating to herself in disbelief.

Bena married richard voogd at a time of great

promise for both of their families.

like the voogds, Benas parents came from Ger-

many in the 1860s, settled for a while in illinois, where

Bena was born, and then moved on to iowa. after de-

veloping a successful farm, the family moved to town

in 1889, where her father Fred Weiss ran a grain, coal

and implement business. he also served on the city


council and the township board of trustees and had

a small real estate business. it was a happy time for

Bena, including a wonderful trip with her father to the

1893 Worlds Fair in Chicago. She treasured the two

beautiful glass goblets they bought there, with dark

red borders and their names painted on the glass.

Bena and richards marriage the year after that trip

celebrated the coming together of two of the towns

leading families.

not all was happy, however; difficult times ar-

rived more than once. Their beautiful baby girl Beulah

passed away when she was only two. With their son

Fred only six, Benas parents living next door offered

the young family support. Bena especially valued her

fathers energetic and positive attitude. Then, seven

years later, her father died of a heart attack, while on

a real estate business trip in minnesota. he seemed

so vibrant, even at 62, and traveled regularly. now

a grieving Bena waited, while richard and her uncle

made the railroad trip north to retrieve the body. Those

were the hardest years.

Benas attention wandered from the piles of finan-

cial documents on the desk to other memories of her

married life. Their two-story, beautiful home provided

space for their family and they often welcomed visi-

tors. Sometimes richard drank a little too much, like

the time he was driving their new car and ran it right

into their garage door. one Christmas, he caused a bit

of a scene, and wrote a letter of apology to son Fred,

away at business school, for ruining the holiday. But

that didnt happen very often, and he carefully moni-

tored his financial affairs, so they continued to live

comfortably.

richard sold his general store in 1913, and concen-

trated on real estate, which continued to support them

well; in fact, he was able to buy a farm in the name of

each of their children, for future security. She laughed

when he wrote to Fred at business school urging him

to be careful with his spending, so typical of richards

attitude: i hope you willget the habit of taking care

of your money as i told you before, every successful

man absolutely has to learn this lesson. The sooner the

better. money is a mans best friend. (richard to Fred,

February 17, 1917)

Their three children, Fred, Beulah (named after little

Beulah who died) and edward, grew up strong, bright,

and healthy. Fred succeeded at business school, and

richards connections with the owner of the bank in

austinville led to Freds job there as a bank clerk. That

same summer Fred married neva Stockdale, and they

began life together, living with nevas brother on a

farm at the southern edge of town. Beulah excelled

in school, and eagerly planned on attending college,

while ed cared less for school, spending time with

friends as a gregarious, busy young man.

Then, without warning, richard became seriously ill

and lay bedridden for a month. The doctor called his

condition, embulis, (likely pulmonary embolism, or a

blood clot that lodged in his lung), and despite con-

tinuous medical care, richard died on July 24, 1921, a

steamy, hot, terrifying day. he was 47 years old.

Bena knew their son Fred, married and working,

could be a great help. But Beulah was 16 and edward

only 13so many financial needs, college expectations,

and pressures to keep up the house and business. like

her mother-in-law before her, Bena looked for the way

to support her children while facing new and unset-

tling challenges. Fortunately, richards brother Dick

became the legal counsel for the business, and her son

Fred, as she had expected, took over many daily re-

sponsibilities. She hoped they could count on richards

business to continue to support her family. if so, they

would manage.

The year after richard died, however, the familys

fortunes began to change. Benas tax returns from 1922

and 1923 showed yearly losses of $2000. 1924 returns

improved, yet still showed a loss, and again in 1925, the

losses amounted to $2000. in addition, richards es-

tate remained unsettled, leaving questions about what

taxes to pay. The lands managed by the business of-

fered little security.

after many long discussions, Bena, Dick and Fred

decided that a trip was necessary to see these lands in

person and determine what recourse to follow-to sell,

rent, or continue to own the farms. This would be a

major undertaking, as the lands included farms in min-

nesota, South and north Dakota, and even a farm in

Saskatchewan. Fred arranged for his brother edward

to go along, and uncle Dick went, bringing his legal

experience. Freds best friend and brother-in-law, Bob

Stockdale, who had his own farm, joined the travelers.

They set out in august 1925, Fred driving his 1922 Buick,

going all the way to Canada, in an effort to resolve

several of the unsettled land transactions.


Bena faced this loss of income and status amidst the

increasingly depressed national farm economy. The real

estate business gradually closed. The only farmland still

in the family were the local holdings richard had pur-

chased earlier for the children, which offered some finan-

cial security. Bena continued to live in the family home,

in a modest fashion, staying active in church and main-

taining a strong hold on her children as they became

adults. Cared

for by daughter

Beulah, moth-

er voogd re-

mained in her

home until she

died in 1942,

t w e n t y - o n e

years after rich-

ards death.

iii. neva

S t o c k d a l e

voogd (1893-

1984)

Fred r.

voogd (1896-

1936)

neva Stockdale

and Fred voogd

became high

school sweet-

hearts. neva,

three years old-

er, grew up on a

large farm four

miles west of

aplington, while

Fred lived in town. They attended the same presbyterian

Church and new two-story high school. They socialized

with a shared group of friends, attending occasional

movies in near-by parkersburg and band concerts in ap-

lington every Saturday night, when the farmers came to

town. after she graduated in 1912, a member of the first

high school graduating class in aplington, neva helped

on her familys farm, and remained a part of this social

scene. During those years the two began to court.

neva hoped that once some of her five younger sib-

lings got old enough to work the farm, she could go to

college. Fred enrolled at iowa State Teachers College

immediately following his graduation and quickly de-

cided this school was not for him. in 1916, he enrolled

at the Business School in Cedar rapids; the same year

neva was finally able to start college. Fred advocated

for her to attend Cornell College in mt. vernon, only

twelve miles from his school, and neva agreed. Their

informal dat-

ing in apling-

ton became

a more estab-

lished court-

ship while

they were at

school, with

Fred traveling

by streetcar

most Fridays

to visit neva.

Fred com-

pleted his

schooling the

next year and

began his job

at the austin-

ville Bank, two

miles from

the Stockdale

farm. he saw

no reason for

neva to con-

tinue with

college, al-

though neva

held back.

even though

she admitted her grades needed improvement, she

was having a great time at Cornell, making many

friends, and she preferred to continue.

late that same spring, however, nevas parents

called her home. Gladys, her oldest brothers wife,

was bedridden with illness following the birth of their

first child. Following weeks of suffering and uncertain-

ty, Gladys died, and the family needed neva to stay

with brother ray and the new baby. once she was

home, it was clear to neva that she would not be re-

Women became matriarchs in the Voogd family in three consecutive

generations. While the details

of their lives varied, critical factors led to this identity....


turning to school, and on a brilliantly sunny, hot July 24,

1917 Fred and neva married.

The couple spent their first two years of married life

with ray. neva wrote in response to her sister-in-laws

death, it certainly is a blessed thing that one doesnt

know whats before themit seems hard to think its

for the best but we know it must bei always think of

Someday Well understand. (neva to Fred, 3/31/17)

This was a reference to the Bible verse from John 13:7:

Jesus answered and said unto him, what i do Thou

knowest not now; But Thou shalt know hereafter. This

deep religious belief gave her reassurance in the midst

of such losses.

after living at rays for two years, Fred and neva

moved to their own home, a block from Freds moth-

er, Bena. neva focused on raising their sons Kenneth,

born in 1921, and richard, born three years later. Fred

stopped each afternoon at his mothers house on the

way home from the bank. The family continued to at-

tend Saturday night band concerts, family activities,

and the presbyterian Church. on alternate Sundays

they would visit nevas mother on the farm and Freds

mother a block away.

after 1921, when his father richard died, Fred took

on responsibility for the real estate business and its de-

clining income. probate issues continued, as well as dis-

couraging financial losses each year. he took the road

trip to Canada in 1925, assessing the land potential

of various farms, time away from his young sons and

neva, who he addressed in his letters as Dearie. in

1934, while these probate and income issues continued,

his uncle Dick, legal counsel for his mothers estate,

died. Fred faced further financial and legal burdens.

neva knew that Fred sometimes suffered from stom-

ach pains or bowel problems. She remembered his re-

assurances, after the travelers left for Canada, that he

bought some magnesia and take a dose, my bowels

are in better shape than before, so dont worry. (Fred

to neva, august 9, 1925) however, early in the summer

of 1936, at the age of 40, Fred became suddenly and

seriously ill, with painful abdominal cramps. alarmed

and fearful, neva drove him to the hospital in Waverly,

thirty miles away. The doctor insisted Fred stay for ob-

servation, and told neva to go home, get some rest,

and return the next day. She assumed that meant Fred

would improve, and reluctantly left the hospital. instead,

she learned the next morning that Fred had died dur-

ing the night: June 21, 1936. The death certificate read

perforated gastric ulcer, peritonitis and neutropenia

a massive infection in his abdominal cavity.

neva, with 15 and 12 year old sons, faced a broken

heart and an unsure future. She built her life around

Fred and the family they created together. Financial

support for neva came in part from her mothers farm

income, and from her mother-in-laws help in erasing

the mortgage she and Fred owed on their home. She

and her sons could stay where they were and maintain

much of their daily life among family and friends.

at the same time, the loss continued to take an emo-

tional toll. neva tried to hold on to her faith that there

is a reason for each death, even if we dont know what

it is. as a poem she wrote at Christmas time that very

hard year suggested, Xmas 1936 reinforced her belief

that there are reasons for the deaths that come and

that Fred would want them to be happy:

But God Knows what is Best for all

and its not for us to say

Just who should be the ones to go

or who the ones to stay!

So now een tho were lonely

We Know that Daddy dear

Would want us to be happy

and wish others Christmas Cheer!!

Two years later, near the anniversary of Freds death,

neva reflected with more subdued sadness. She ques-

tioned the belief that God determines who dies and al-

ways for some good reason. Spring 1936, described a

yucca plant growing near the house, which the family

watched throughout the spring for its first blooms. But

as the flowers opened:

how could we know

What their message was to be?

When the first white bell unfolded -

Daddy wasnt there - to see!

But how could we have known

What their message was to be?

That tall stem pointing, up to heaven

Was all that we could see!

april 29, 1938


neva never fully said goodbye to Fred. She kept his

coats and straw hats in the closet upstairs, and saved his

bureau contents as they were when he died. She began

to save other kinds of items, stacking church programs,

magazines, and newspapers in piles in the living room

and bedroom. her sons married, served in the army, and

moved to new communities, while her saving practices

expanded.

By the time neva died, almost 50 years after Fred,

each room overflowed with saved objects and papers.

She no longer allowed anyone to come into her house;

visitors could only join her on the screened-in front

porch. She still took flowers from her garden to church

every Sunday. She visited family living nearby, and vol-

unteered with her sister hazel at the town library. But

no one went in the house, where neva shuffled about

through the pathways in each room, holding on to her

Dearie, Fred.

iv.

Growing up, the only story i knew about these three

generations was that my grandfather Fred died when

my father was twelve. no details, no back story, and only

a few hints about how strong Grandma voogd was,

raising four boys, and a photo of mother voogd at a

holiday dinner in her home, surrounded by family mem-

bers.

Whenever we visited Grandma neva, we stayed with

her younger sister, hazel, who lived in a two-story frame

house on main Street. hazel never married and was ac-

tive in the library, and her home was the gathering place

for the various family members. We always stopped in

Des moines on our family visits, where Freds sister Beu-

lah lived. She was a teacher for many years, and having

waited until her mother passed on to marry, became a

widow a few short years later.

These women shaped my ideas about gender. They

lived independently in their own houses. They traveled

to visit us and took trips to several western states. Their

lives included friends, work or volunteer activities, and

few interactions with men, other than their brothers. i

loved these women, admired them, and wanted to be like

them. To find out that my great grandmother Bena and

Great-great Grandmother Bina also had this experience,

also lived independently and well, never remarrying and

living close to their children, made my lived experi-

ence part of a constant thread. That strong character

and commitment to carrying on came through gen-

erations, not only the generation i knew and loved.

i didnt see the possible shadow sides of their life.

neva continued to function in the world after Fred

died, volunteering at the small local library her sister

hazel and other members of the Womens Club began,

making floral arrangements from her garden for Sun-

day church services, and traveling to visit her sons

families. after she died we finally went into nevas

house. We found the pathways through the house, the

piles of newspapers on every surface, Freds clothes

in the closet, 50 years later. her outward expression

was independent, managing well. however her home

became a lonely place, overflowing with saved stuff

and she allowed no one to visit her. her independence

and individual life had its compromises.

at the same time, i slowly learned of troubling

attitudes toward the earlier womens life choices; a

reminder of the way in which our choices may pro-

duce both strength and sorrow. Bina, Grandmother

voogd, raised four boys who became successful

members of the community. The whispers criticized

how demanding she was, perhaps how her strength

to carry on meant pressure and expectations on her

children that led them to do what they did, whether

they wanted to or not. her son richard opened a store

when he was 15how did that come about? perhaps

he found satisfaction in that step; or did he want to go

to school like his brother Dick, or farm nearby, rather

than buy and sell farms? Was his occasional drinking

connected to the pressure he experienced, his own

unfulfilled dreams, or his loss of a father when he was

only eight? Did his drinking contribute to a thread of

alcohol abuse in future generations?

Bena, mother voogd, also required much from

her children. her son Fred stopped at her home every

day after work, before returning home to his wife and

children. neva hinted more than once that she was

unhappy about that. Beulah lived with and took care

of her mother, delaying her own marriage until after

she was forty. She never had children, and her hus-

band (like her brother and father) died young, within

a short time after their delayed marriage. perhaps

Beulah chose that delay, accepting the expectation

that she should not marry while her mother needed

her.


Sharlene vooGD CoChrane grew up in nebraska,

but always felt i was from iowa. She teaches in the

self-designed masters degree at lesley university,

and is currently writing a series of stories based on a

collection of her iowa grandmothers letters. She also

facilitates Courage and renewal retreats for educators

and recently published Courage in the academy: Sus-

taining the heart of College and university Faculty in

the Journal of Faculty Development.

The place where these women lived, the land and

farms of north central iowa, played a role in their abil-

ity to survive. Bina had the resources to change her

life because she and husband abe had a farm that

provided her with funds to move to town and estab-

lish a boarding house. Bena and her husband richard

started with a small store in town that served primarily

farmers, and then a real estate business that provided

well for them for many years, mostly by buying and

selling farmland. nevas mother and the resources of

her familys farm supported her after Fred died. each

was in some way dependent on the land to provide

their financial stability.

The network of families, especially women, that

existed in each generation offered critical additional

support. The voogds came from ostfreisland as an ex-

tended family, and interacted and traveled with others

from their home country. They farmed in an area where

many of their fellow immigrants settled. While they

lived far from everything they had known, they were

also part of a stream of immigrants from that area,

and experienced a shared culture. While Bina moved

to town and left the farm life she knew, she moved to

aplington, four miles away, and stayed in contact with

those around her. She lived alone, yet had siblings and

other women she knew and could depend on for sup-

port, advice, and understanding.

Bena also had friends and links to immigrant fami-

lies of her mother and father, and was part of the voogd

extended family. Though her financial status declined

in the years following richards death, her links within

the community and the church continued. her children

were older, too, so her needs for support differed from

her mother-in-law with her young boys. Benas chil-

dren, especially her daughter Beulah, became part of

her support network.

neva, the most fragile of these women, depended

heavily on the women around her. her sister hazel

was an important support, living two blocks away, and

serving as the center of family gatherings and interac-

tions. With five brothers, all married and with children

of their own, the family connections and interconnec-

tions within the town and nearby farms provided child-

care, travel companions, and help with typical auto

and house problems. While her quirky ways tended

toward isolation, the family as a whole served to keep

her connected.

i tended to romanticize my grandmother neva

and grand-aunts hazel, and Beulah, imagining them

as happy, independent, and capable. While they were

all of that, at some level, each of them, and i have no

doubt Bena and Bina as well, had their share of lone-

liness, heartbreak, fear of the future, and challenges

around children, finances, and managing in difficult

circumstances.

Women became matriarchs in the voogd family

in three consecutive generations. While the details of

their lives varied, critical factors led to this identity;

most importantly, each faced the death of her hus-

band from early, unexpected illness. unlike many wid-

owed women of their times, they each chose not to

marry again. Their situations offered limited options,

often disrupting the lives the family had known. They

exhibited independence, resourcefulness, and, espe-

cially with Grandma voogd and mother voogd, an un-

bending will. They also counted upon their children as

they aged, and created expectations that shaped the

childrens experiences as well. and sometimes grief

and loneliness continued, as each woman carried on

for her children, while holding on to what she could of

an earlier time.


Feature poetC.m. rivers

Compass by C.m. rivers

how do we become so fenced in,

afraid, mean-spirited?

Why not instead leave a trail

of breadcrumbs along the hedgerow.

Some acts of heroism are so quiet

no one sees. let them go.

Someone doesnt always need to know.

You are the keeper of the knowing,

and that can be enough.

Before you stow fragments of your life

in a shoebox in the closet,

you may want to reconsider

the heart compass,

study the topography of spirit

and the surrounding earthworks,

look where lines are drawn

between what others claim as truth

and what you, yourself, have chosen.

Watch how i behave.

See how i welcome silence?

There were days when i, too,

fled from it,

days like smoldering cellos,

days that came down along the coast.

i would put myself in the silence,

as a trial, then run away pleading.

prophecies might be foretold

in mirrors and temples.

So be a little less organized,

let things clutter up.

Dust and muck are a part of it.

See the mountains?

Fling yourself out the window,

swing yourself across

the peaks and valleys,

back to where your journey began.

Knapsack by C.m. rivers

its a shame

i dont have the patience to garden,

my mother being who she was,

doing what she did with sunflowers

and lemon balm.

and with me being who i am-

a fine cook responsible

for so many glowing embers,

so many bubbling broths.

The memory of her is light enough

to take with me wherever i go,

propelled

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The Wayfarer Vol. 3 Issue 2