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Blog

Something Like Fruit

Hillary Jo Foreman

I took lessons at the YMCA pool when I was a child, like everyone else, but I did not learn to swim. I had my dog paddle reprimanded. Learned to blow bubbles by ruffling my lips, horse-like, on the water’s surface. But I’d not been taught the necessary rhythm of breath in the water—out through your nose underneath; above, a quick gasp back in.

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My Mother of Dragons

Cathy Warner

My mother has constructed a giant dragon in her backyard. She’s carted yards of dirt in her wheelbarrow to build up the body that stretches the width of her house. With a pickaxe and shovel, she’s chopped chunks of crusty clay from her property and arranged the pieces in a scaly spine running the length of the dragon’s back.

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Poetry and Home

Christine Boyka Kluge

When I moved, after living for decades in one house, one of the first things I did was create a bedroom like a seaside sanctuary in shades of green and blue and sand. This is my serene thinking place, with late afternoon’s gold light streaming through the rippling, grey-green curtains. Next, I liberated my poetry books from their boxes and relocated them to alphabetical places of honor on shelves in my room and the connecting hallway.  I needed their silent wisdom, their beauty, their bright light and deep shadows to surround me. They flicker alive as each day’s changing light passes over them.

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Within Our Power

Marlena Graves

Two weeks ago, I answered the phone. It’s close to 10 pm.

He is calling me up to talk politics again. ‘He’ being a family member. In our conversation where I can barely get a word in edgewise, I hear that I am a communist and a socialist and that an “illegal alien murdered Mollie Tibbetts.” I respond by telling him that her own family members didn’t want her death politicized. “Moreover, her father thanked the Latino community for their “support,” I say.

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The Tether

William Coleman

They said of Daedalus he remade life so well, people chained his statues to the floor, lest they wander, lest, like some inhabitants of another west world, they get ideas of their own making.

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Unseen Worlds

Jayne English

Starman floats, beyond Earth and Moon, toward Mars. Some know the unseen worlds of code that land the boosters in reverse, and propel Starman to explore. We watch the rocket fly, cheer Starman from our screens, and yards, and office windows. There are those who know the code to spin the world, Musk, Mozart, Einstein, Dickinson, Tolkien.

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What if Icarus Isn’t Dead?

Jean Hoefling

We all remember the Greek myth, the Fall of Icarus, in which Daedalus the inventor crafted two sets of wings out of beeswax and bird feathers so that he and his son, Icarus, could escape the labyrinth where the hideous Minotaur lurked. In the story’s tragic climax, Icarus’s flimsy wings melt and the impetuous kid plunges to his death in the Aegean Sea because he disregarded his father’s cautions not to fly too near the sun. What to say? It was Daedalus’s fault in the first place, for designing a labyrinth so ingenious that even he couldn’t figure out how to get out of it.

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Erasmus and the Value of Unity

Joy and Matthew Steem

“How could protestors claim to be true to the Bible, Jesus and the Holy Spirit yet violate and ignore the Bible’s, Jesus’ and the Spirit’s call to unity and concord.”

Recently I’ve been reading a smallish but most assuredly meaty book on Erasmus. It’s timely – quite wise people generally are always that – and it has me thinking about the trouble of protest and criticism and resulting schisms. And how bad a schism is if it happens.

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No Gift to Bring: Notes from Puerto Rico

Brent Schnipke

On November 30th, I departed Ohio with a group of 20 others for the island of Puerto Rico. It wasn’t a place I expected to find myself. I’m a medical student and in the middle of interview season for residency, which is a process that has been consuming most of my thoughts and energy for the past several months. On a Sunday morning about a month prior, my pastor announced the trip and asked for volunteers to go, and I was immediately weighted with the need to participate.

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Edge of Night

Jayne English

We followed Frodo and Sam as they traveled to the depths of Mordor, treading “through shadows to the edge of night.” We saw them persevere through battles with barrow-wights, orcs, Nazgul, and sometimes with the dark side of those who went with them to guard and guide them. Throughout the trials of their journey to Mount Doom, they showed us a paradox that balanced on the edge of a knife: not giving up looks a whole lot like giving up.

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That Time Does Not Run Backward

Jean Hoefling

Particle physicist Brian Cox claims that actual time travel is now pretty much a sure thing. To simplify, it seems all we have to do is tinker a bit with Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity and it’s a relative cinch to play time forward. The past is a different story; apparently the theory doesn’t work so well in reverse, which implies you can’t journey back to your senior prom and be even cooler than you already were that night.

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The End of the Story

William Coleman

Eliot said the truth is that the end's in our beginning. A hundred years before he said so, a handful of paragraphs into Dickens' most enduring Christmas story, the narrator plants a seed that holds the whole of Dickens's book. Scrooge, it's said, is "solitary as an oyster." Time's sand famously intrudes. By stave two, Scrooge is undergoing "the strangest agitation." By stave five, The End of It, the pearl is made complete.

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The Grammar of Complicity

Howard Schaap

Silence is complicity, I realize that. Sometimes, however, as a white man, silence is all you feel you can manage.  (I don’t mean to use the language of management, it just seems to happen; and by “you,” the presumptive collective, I mean “I”). Silence, I tell myself, is better than __________.  Better than “I don’t know” or “I’m sorry,” both lines containing politics: “I.” Maybe “I am the problem,” but even that—.

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Book Review: Wendell Berry and the Given Life

Guest Blogger

Conventional wisdom suggests that reading to your children benefits them in myriad ways: it stimulates language and learning centers of the brain, creates a bond between parents and children, and emphasizes the value of books and reading. I recently learned that this practice is beneficial from birth, even before the infant can truly discriminate sounds. Further, it doesn't matter so much what you read, because just the act of reading aloud works on the areas of bonding and stimulates brain development. Given this, I made an unconventional choice while reading to my three-week old son, choosing portions of Wendell Berry and the Given Life, the recent book by Ragan Sutterfield. Choosing to read aloud forced me, as one might expect, to go a little slower, but I'm not sure that Berry (or Sutterfield) would recommend anything less.

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Give Me One Day

Jean Hoefling

Give me this one warm, sappy, Thomas Kinkade kind of day; one moment of respite from the bombardment of strident media voices that blast endlessly about everything that’s apparently wrong with this country, and instead, let me ponder the outdated notion that there might be something right with it. Let me relish the unassuming arrival and the fragrant, cinnamon-scented lingering of this very special American day, and do it without guilt. Give me Thanksgiving Day. 

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