Category: Guest Writers

Breathed By

I just noticed that last week’s title was about breath. We’re doing a lot of breath work in California right now.

I always get excited when I can share my blog space with other artists and writers. Lynnea Paxton-Honn teaches presence and oneness in meditation. An avid horsewoman she bridges the Tao of horse with the Tao of human. Her compassion is boundless, yet she considers herself a student. She joins me today in response to the title of a new song by Shari Anderson, shared on the evening of August 9th at our meeting of the Women Writers of the Well.

Breathed By

Lynnea Paxton-Honn, 8/9/2021

Sitting in meditation

I breathe,

Inhale and exhale,

Stretching exhale into silence,

Jump starting with inhale.

Is it me that is breathing?

And what part of me?

How often do I

Breathe with awareness?

Not near as often

As my body

Breathes me,

As the changing weather,

Changing emotions

Breathe my body,

Lungs attached to

Passing breezes, passing winds.

Only in full conscious awareness

Do I know I breathe

With the cosmos.

When we breathe consciously, of what might we be capable? Life is magical. Even when there is a probable, logical explanation for any given event that happens in this three-dimensional existence, it is always more fun, and many times, more impactful to embrace serendipity and enjoy the magic that unfolds. Breathe with consciousness. Who knows; someone might find the way home.

Nighttime Miracle, based on a true story.

AnaValarie, (remembered lines from Shari’s song: breathes in the light, travels through darkness, breathes out the light.)

A little boy woke up screaming.

As usual, his mother woke, was out of bed, and by his side before she had a chance to breathe out the dream she was in and breathe in the moment. “Shh, shush. It’s only a dream,” she crooned, smoothing the hair off his face.

“No,” he wailed. “Look. There.” He pointed to a shadowy darkness in the corner nearest the closet.

If she squinted, she could almost believe something was there. “Hush, Darling. It’s just a shadow.”

“It’s not. He’s, he’s talking to me. It’s a monster.” He hid his tear-stained face in his pillow. His shoulders shook, his breath labored. Worried that her little one wouldn’t sleep the rest of the night, and quite frankly, neither would she, she said, “This is what we’re gonna do. Sit in my lap.”

The boy climbed out of bed and grabbed her neck. She wrapped him into her arms. “You know how much I love you.”

“Bigger than the Earth? Bigger than forever?”

“Yes. Bigger than all the Earth. Bigger than forever. Let that big love fall right into your lap and hold it there.”

The little boy’s tummy expanded and then tightened as breath filled him with remembered love.

“When you let the air go, blow all that love right into the center of that shadow.” She pointed to the blackness near the closet.

The little boy’s breath whooshed outward as he stared into the shadow, blowing with all his might.

“Let’s keep doing that together; remembering our love, letting it fall into our laps, and then blowing that loving energy right at that monster.”

They hugged each other tightly.

“Stare right into the shadow and think about how much I love you and you love me,” she reminded him.

He nodded.

As they sat together, breathing love into a monster, she felt warmth build between herself and her son. A strong connection had always been there, but she perceived that this was a special moment. She stared at the shadow and pushed that feeling toward it, mother and son breathing in love, breathing out love, sending it to the shadow in the corner by the closet.

The shadow began to quiver.

Must be a trick of the eyes, she thought but she held her concentration, thinking only of the love she had for her son, and offering that love to his monster.

Slowly, a glow of light began around the edges, diffusing its darkness. Suddenly, bright white light flashed in that corner by the closet and disappeared.

She blinked. The corner looked normal again.

“There,” she said, “All gone.”

She couldn’t let on how mystified she felt by what just happened.

“Mom, Mom. It went home. It belongs with angels.”

“Yes. I believe it did,” she replied. She looked into his bright eyes. “That’s what happens when you send monsters love instead of fear. Can you sleep now?”

“Yes,” he said. He climbed off her lap and snuggled into his bed.

His little boy snores greeted her ears by the time she reached his door to return to her own room. What were the chances that someone had flashed car lights in this quiet cul-de-sac at the exact moment a little boy and his mother needed comfort and strength?

She sat on her bed and replayed the event. She was not aware of hearing a car’s engine roar to life, or tires against the gravely road, but…she shrugged. Snuggling under her own covers, she lay content that for this night, something happened that made life a little easier and a little more magical. 

Just Breathe

I present two offerings this week.

The first is by Lyla Fain, a poet who through her writing constantly pushes to see beyond Self, thereby teaching us to do so as well. It only takes a moment to calm down and see through another’s eyes, to see through one’s heart.

Life Time, by Lyla Fain: Meditation response, Women Writers of the Well, 8/4/21

Breath in love. 

Breath out love. 

Damn. 

That truck guy 

cut in front of my car. 

Now I’ve waited 

five minutes 

of my life 

in line 

to get my prescription, 

which I prepaid 

for faster service. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

Oh, 

the sign 

on the back bumper 

says, Vietnam Vet. 

I’m totally against armed conflict, handgun to military weapon, 

having read, “The Red Badge of Courage” in high school 

and still grieving 

my brother, David’s, 

death, 

while at work, 

shot and killed by a robber. 

World conflict continues. 

Breath in love. 

Feel so relieved 

this veteran survived that war 

alive. 

Breath out love.

Such a calming thought 

to let go of my anger. 

All it takes is a moment, as Lyla reminds us. Breath is life.

The second offering was inspired by Nadia Colburn’s class 31+ Days Meditation and Writing Course. The prompt was from Marie Howe’s poem, “The Gate,” and the line “This is what you’ve been waiting for – this.” Nadia asked, “What is this ness?” The word bank she offered was: sheet, water, gate, sandwich. In this class, we have 10 minutes to synthesize and then write, but really, she expects open-heart writing. A memory popped up for me.

This is what you’ve been waiting for…  AnaValarie Singer, 8/8/21

The evening my father died

my sister and I waited,

watching him breathe.

In, out, pause…in, out, pause.

The room at Kit Carson

was calm and quiet

like my father’s breath. 

We dared not touch him.

Those that had come earlier

in sobbing regret, held his hand,

stroked his cheek.

He rallied,

fighting a body that no longer wished to carry him.

We had a pact, the three of us.

None of that.

We sat calmly,

Quietly chatting, playing cards, telling

stupid silly stories,

packed peanut butter and pickle sandwiches

in case the wait was long.

We were ready.

Except, it just didn’t feel right

to eat in front of someone who

could no longer enjoy sandwiches.

A nurse stepped in.

We are fine, we said.

Glancing at my father’s peaceful form,

she stepped to his side to check on him

then gently rubbed his left ear.

My sister and I stared at each other.

“This is comforting,” whispered the nurse

as she smiled at him.

He did not rally to her touch.

This is what we were waiting for,

that small reassurance that all was well,

even as he stood before that last gate.

She smoothed the sheet over him.

Ready to leave, she stopped when

my sister said,

“How long?”

The nurse nodded.

“Not long now,”

and then somehow

knowing our need for

a short break,  “You

have plenty of time to stretch

and get some water,”

she gifted us Time.

We followed her,

leaving my father to his walk

while we took ours.

Mid-way around the darkened hospital corridors

I saw a light to my left.

When I looked, a voice said,

“Now. You need to return now.”

I touched my sister’s arm softly,

“It’s time.”

Miraculously, she didn’t question.

I could not have said more anyway.

We retraced our steps to the

chairs by his bed.

My father’s breathing had slowed

alarmingly.

My sister, playful spirit,

began to count,

sixteen between, twenty, twenty-two

twenty-five.

The rest between each breath stretching

mile by mile.

She winked at me.

“He’s playing the game.”

“What?” I said.

“Look, he’s so happy when he can make

the between space last

longer and longer.”

A quick glance at her watch, “Thirty-five.”

My father’s lips curled into a definite smile.

The in-between seconds increased until

the space stretched to infinity.

My father’s expression

was full, triumphant, elation.

He had walked beyond this world.

His beauty was beyond reckoning.

It was his final gift for

his beloved daughters.

Music – Soundtrack to Life

Do songs or melodies stick in your head? Like me, and my good friend Danae, do you find comfort or inspiration in them? Danae C. Little, author of Grant Us Mercy, an inspirational tale about survival after an apocalypse, shares my blog space this week. An amazing, empathetic person she is always willing to give any help she can. In our group, Women Writers of the Well, she leads the rest of us towards becoming published authors. As a teacher, she leads softly, but determined that we have success.

She has had several bestseller titles. You can see her collection of work on her Amazon author’s page:

https://www.amazon.com/Danae-C-Little

She wrote this piece during our group meeting last Monday and when I asked her to share it, she agreed. I am elated to share her words with you.

Music – Soundtrack to Life, by Danae C. Little

Music is our soundtrack to life. Oftentimes I wake with a song in my head. The melody strumming forth, the words repeating like a stuck needle. In those moments between sleep and wake, I swear I actually hear the song as if I’m being serenaded until the notes fade out as I open my eyes.

I find that these mornings when I wake with my own soundtrack, my life follows the tune, my perception shifts towards the song’s meaning. 

Music has always been an important part of my life, drawing on emotion, deepening moments, and pushing back depressing thoughts. I used to sing my way through the day as a child, much to my brother’s dismay, who would repeatedly ask my mom to make the tone deaf girl stop. 

I was tone deaf. I’ve had three surgeries on my ears, two of them major leaving me mostly deaf on one side. It never stopped me from enjoying music though.

I spent my childhood, before the self-conscious years of adolescence, performing in church musicals. Then came my years of silence, years of only freeing my voice when I was alone.

When I became a mom, something shifted and released, freeing my voice once more. It started with softly sung lullabies to soothe my infant, turning into silly songs to make my toddler laugh, and now we sing popular songs together while smiling at each other.

I had missed singing, but I’m back, and maybe not even as tone deaf. At least, my son never complains about me being off key. Now, if I’m feeling down, I’ll find my favorite artist on YouTube and belt out the lyrics. It always lifts my spirits.

So, I’ve decided to choose my own soundtrack for life. What will yours be?

Fumble – Part Three

(Author’s Note: I want to start this last installment with the words of two writers I admire. Their words speak to me.). 

David Roddy co-writes the podcast “Worker’s Cauldron” with Mercedas Castillo. He advocates for the marginalized and homeless. The “Worker’s Cauldron” originally called “Sh!t Gets Weird” focuses on “the cultural politics of the paranormal.” Each program is a lesson about history you probably did not learn in school, at least not here in the United States. You can catch the podcast at: https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/the-workers-cauldron. 

David states: 

The most dangerous person is one who never questions the efficacy of his or her hard work to overcome adversity, who doesn’t take into account circumstance, outside help, or sheer luck. It is dangerous to disconnect racial disadvantages, disadvantages that are especially hard for those who are single mothers. A person is doomed to callousness and a heartless inconsideration of others as long as they idealize that hard work is the sole cause of success. 

The other is poet Lyla Osmundsen, a member of the Women Writers of the Well. At our Monday evening meeting, she responded to the prompt: “Have I invented the world I see?” Vibrant with emotion, shining Love with the heart of an angel, Lyla wrote from the core of her being, which she does – always. She completed the first two lines during our meeting and read them to us. I was so touched I asked if she could complete it to add to this blog entry. Thankfully, she agreed. Her book is available at: Wa(o)ndering to Poetry (9781717396556): Osmundsen, Lyla Fain: Books 

Have I Invented the World I See? – Lyla Osmundsen, 3/10/21

Does my anger vibrate in unison

with the anger of others,

causing volcanic eruptions of

daily gun violence?

Does my careless waste

of food

constitute a crime

against a starving individual?

Does stuffing my house

with thoughtless trifle

transform into the tragedy

of a child with no home?

Lyla asked the hard questions of herself. Those of us that hear her words, in turn ask them of ourselves. What are the ramifications of our emotions, our patterns, our wants and desires? We all need to ask, “What world have I created?” Is it the one we want to see?

To live, a human needs water, food, and shelter. These are not privileges. These are necessities. According to most articles that I read, the top four reasons for homelessness are: lack of affordable housing, unemployment, poverty, and low wages. Contrary to popular belief, more than one third of people who are homeless are not jobless. They work long hours, sometimes more than one job, even more than two or three jobs at a time. Housing is too expensive and there aren’t enough developments to house all the people that need housing. Even if there were, the average wages for the average worker cannot cover mortgages, or even skyrocketing rental costs.  

The housing problem compounded in California when yearly firestorms became the norm, forcing people to leave established living accommodations. As a teacher, I worked with families displaced by fire. Some lived out of their cars, more fortunate ones found safety with family or friends. Others, unable to find work in California, left the state, abandoning their old lives entirely. These were the lucky people.

The rest careened into homelessness and took to the streets, or the edges of parks, or under overpasses of highways. People of small towns and rural areas, areas with limited job availability especially develop an attitude of looking down on the displaced citizens that hover in their areas. The typical response I heard was that the hardworking taxpayer shouldn’t have to subsidize lazy vagrants.   

Then Covid-19 hit. Stimulus packages were not enough and came too late. Workplaces were shut down, people lost their businesses, mortgage holders weren’t compassionate enough because their own livelihood was compromised. Homelessness was no longer an issue of “you just have to work hard.” I wonder, do those angry people bemoaning their taxes still feel the same? Are some of them now living on the edges of society, possibly still working hard, still paying taxes, living under makeshift tents on the edges of town?

Covid-19 gave most of us time to realize our good fortune is largely due to luck. Having or not having is often a matter of who you know. It’s almost always a matter of what color am I?

As early as the 1970’s Federal investment in housing was threatened. In the 1980’s there was already an unwarranted number of families with children considered homeless. In 2008, financial crises created foreclosures forcing people to give up their homes and take rentals instead. Unfortunately, affordable and safe rental construction could not meet the demand of displaced homeowners. Rents rose, but working class wages did not. By the time Covid-19 was a pandemic, rents were too high for most people working full time year round as minimum wage workers. According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics in a survey completed in 2019, 82.3 million workers 16 years and older, represent well over half (58.1 percent) of all wage and salary workers in the United States. These are people struggling to maintain shelter. Six percent of white households are extremely low-income renters. (2,3,4)

For people of color, the statistics are bleak. “Twenty percent of Black households, 17 percent of American Indian or Alaska Native households, 15 percent of Hispanic households, and 10 percent of Asian households (compared to the white households), are extremely low-income renters and are often locked out of affordable housing due to systemic and structural racism and decades of racist policies.” (1)

I think about other single mothers like myself. What are those statistics?  Over 85% of homeless families are headed by women, specifically, by single women with children, and domestic violence is a principal cause of homelessness among single mother families. (5) 

Reading a statistic such as this raises the ugly face of my own fear. My fear was real. I was afraid of homelessness, however, that fear was as irrational then as it is now. I always had people who cared for me. I had places I could go. I am white. Job opportunities, even in this rural area, were presented to me, largely because of who my family knew. There was no way I would find myself on the street.

Even now, as a retired person living on barely adequate retirement wages, when the fear stops me in my tracks, the truth is – I remember that money is adequate. I have shelter. I have water. I have food.  

I will never know who that huddled person in front of Starbucks was. I didn’t stop to ask their story. Where was that person’s luck? Did my callousness leak some of it away? Were they as terrified of me, as I was of them? Were they huddled under the mound of clothing in defense and shame? Could I have alleviated part of that shame for one transitory moment if I had stopped to smile, at the very least? Could that one moment have made all the difference in the world for that one person?

December 31, 2019 was a lost opportunity. Today, as I rewrite this article, terror washes over me again as I remember being a single mother of two very young children. My heart crumbles as I remember the person I left behind at Starbucks. Before my fingers touched the keyboard, I sat on my bed sobbing. I lived on the brink of disaster, that person lives the disaster.

I have to own that terror and let it go. I also have to own the pride that covered it up and made me callous. Yes, I worked hard, but I was fortunate. I was presented with opportunities that I was in a position to grab; opportunities that a great many of us don’t have.

In the future, will I find, at the very least, the courage to smile if I have nothing else to give? I need to look behind the pride that covers my near miss and move forward one encounter, one opportunity, one story at a time.

Works Cited

Aurand, Andrew, Dan Emmanuel, Dan Threet, Ikra Rafi, and Diane Yentel. 2020. “The Gap: A Shortage of Affordable Homes,” p.13. Washington, DC: National Low Income Housing Coalition. https://reports.nlihc.org/sites/default/files/gap/Gap-Report_2020.pdf.

 Chetty, Raj, Nathaniel Hendren, and Lawrence Katz. 2016. “The Effects of Exposure to Better Neighborhoods on Children: New Evidence from the Moving to Opportunity Project.” American

Economic Review 106 (4). https://scholar.harvard.edu/hendren/publications/effects-exposure-better-neighborhoods-children-new-evidence-moving-opportunity.

Gowan, Peter and Ryan Cooper. 2017. “Social Housing in the United States,” p.1. Washington, DC: People’s Policy Project. https://www.peoplespolicyproject.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/SocialHousing.pdf.

Family Homelessness Facts

Tiny Balls of Light

I am delighted to share my blog space again, with another writer from Women Writers at the Well, Dianne Chapman McCleery. She is a talented essayist, and her fiction always explores the depths of relationship no matter the era. Usually, her stories have a western theme, such as her novelette, Seeking Solace, about a woman who lost her significant other, her trusted horse, and her peace of mind all at once. I will post a link to this book at the bottom of this offering. 

Lately she has been shining as a flash fiction writer. Flash fiction stories are the same as any story be it in short story form, novel, or any designation in between. The difference is they are typically only 100 to 1000 words long.  This story is 183 words, yet it is perfectly delightful and paints a full picture. You will not be able to forget it after you read it because it will have touched your heart, which most of her stories do. 

This was prompted by our opening meditation on April 12, 2021. I was so enchanted I wrote to her afterward (we are still meeting on Zoom) and asked, “Please, please, please, may I share this?” Immediately, she responded, “Yes.” Thank you, Dianne!

She presents to you:

Tiny Balls of Light – Dianne Chapman McCleery

For as long as she could remember, they were there, tiny balls of light, sometimes so many she couldn’t count them, but at least one kept her company at all times.

If she were sad, many showed up, tickling her so the sadness couldn’t stay. If she were happy, usually three would circle around her, joining in her joy.

As she grew old enough to go to school, they hid in her backpack, snuck into her desk, and at recess hid under her hair.

For some reason, she knew never to mention them to others. Somehow, she knew that not everyone, maybe no one, had balls of light as friends.

She grew older, wiser, and surprisingly, happier. Eventually, her thoughts and her gaze turned to boys. She held herself apart, never really knowing how to interact with other girls, much less boys. Then one day in English class, sitting behind Brian, Brian of the blue eyes and friendly smile, she saw a tiny ball of light peek over his collar and disappear again. She realized that finally she  might have found a friend.

The Promise of Spring

Here in Northern California the angle of the sun speaks Spring, but at this moment, it is only a promise, not reality. I want to nurture plants, sit in the sun, and enjoy time spent outdoors. The weather is capricious, and it is too cold. Outside my backdoor, the temperature gauge reads 36ºF. Winter’s wood smoke hangs in the air. Cats snuggle on chairs and the back of the couch.

Yesterday, a cold wind roared through the valley and slammed tree branches with their fragile buds against my windows, ratcheting a level of anxiety I could barely contain. My friendly, Yellow Warbler, Jenn, did not come to visit.

Yet Spring’s promise compels me.

Those wiser than I am remind me again and again, “Be patient. It is not yet time.”

Monday night, during a meeting of the Women Writers at the Well, one of our prompts was “The Promise of Spring.” A perfect antidote to this malaise of waiting, my sister writers poured out their hearts during ten, intense minutes of recording an inspiration based on that prompt. Then we read our offerings to each other. Marilyn Crnich Nutter, scholar and author of “On the Path of Sophia – A Catholic Woman’s Journey to Wholeness,” a brilliant book speaking to anyone’s spiritual journey no matter the path, offered this and touched all of us.

The Promise of Spring

Marilyn Crnich Nutter, 3/22/2021

Winter lags on and on, or so it seems.  Like the song says, “Funny, that rainy day is here,” the Winter of our lives comes all too quickly and memories enter in, which we cannot relive in flesh but only in thought, snap shots held close in hopes that time will somehow go backwards and we are there again with loved ones long gone and babies now grown.

So, in the Winter we wait, for Spring comes in ways we least expect.  Hugs from grandchildren, a husband’s sweet recollections of our first meeting, laughing about past events that make us blush with embarrassment—how much of life we lived, and loved, and worked, and made those memories that keep us warm while waiting for spring blossoms to come once again.

Thank you, Marilyn, for allowing me to share this here.

I offer a humble wish:

The Promise of Spring

AnaValarie – 3/22/2021

Promise of Spring – 

Sing.

This time of year quickens our mood, sends our souls to the stars, and makes laughter bubble up over the tiniest act of silliness.

I will bury a sliver of Spring in my heart where it will prick the oppressing heat of Summer into a remembering that when the sun sets, the cool of night will be delicious.

I want that sliver to itch when the leaves fall, reminding me that here there is also joyous color.

Let that sliver of Spring ache during the cold, harsh dark of Winter when I miss a warm touch most of all. Remind me that Spring is just under the surface, waiting to sprout into a rush of glory.

Promise of Spring – sing.

Sing to me

Of Love.

Dear Readers,

May Spring quicken your mood; send your soul to the stars, and make laughter bubble up over the tiniest act of silliness.

Peace be yours,

AV Singer

A Love Letter

A dear friend and fellow author invited her readers to join her this February for a self-love fest. She inquired, “Have you ever written yourself a love letter, addressed to you, as you are?”

No. No, I haven’t. What would that feel like?

Last night, as I was lying in bed planning today, I thought, “I am going to do it. I am going to write a love letter to myself.”

It sounded so simple last night as I was nodding to the world around me and slipping into dreamland. But this morning I wonder, “How should I address myself?” Should I start out with “Dear Valarie,” the name most people use when they refer to me? Perhaps I would use the name my father wanted to give me, “Dear AnaValarie,” or the name on my birth certificate, Valarie Jane. Maybe I should simply use “Ana,” which at least one friend uses. I could address myself as AV, which is the pseudonym I use as a fiction writer, but then it occurred to me, “How can I write a love letter to someone whose name I don’t even know?”

So, I started listening to self-talk. This is a mistake. I assure you. Forget the self-talk. It will not get you near enough to love to pen a letter, especially when you are two days into foregoing coffee due to the multiple requests of body and spirit screaming “Enough.”

I am left with nowhere to go except to the computer for research, something every writer spends hours doing. I looked up my various names. The name Valarie, spelled multiple ways including the way I spell it, has a couple of meanings: In French it means STRENGTH, in Latin it means BRAVE.

A writer with the handle Nisse mjukr offered a definition in The Urban Dictionary on February 4, 2010. This writer defines Valarie as: Brave. Strong heart. Heroine of the people; She who walks with steadfast surety. (She is) the female form of eternal innocence battling eternal evil…born from a seemingly ‘other-worldliness’ who takes to battle the evil ones who recognize and fear her powerful seeing of the good and the evil in others…

…strong heart, steadfast surety, innocence, ‘other-worldliness….” Hmmm. Is that who I am? This writer goes on to say that: Valarie is one who refuses to be victimized and confronts injustice…she uses her gifts to protect others who are unknowingly, or deny being, the victims of lies and injustice. Others less hardy will avoid her with the fear of being targeted by the corruption that she takes to battle, but when in dire need will seek her wisdom, and guidance as she lovingly gathers them under her protective wings. She carries great strength and inner beauty even as she mourns the human/earth condition. Valarie will lead us to the truth.

Oh! Well, in that case, maybe I do deserve a love letter. I wonder, what does Ana mean?

In Spanish it means gracious and merciful. It has a similar meaning in Chinese. In the Urban Dictionary one writer, who uses the pen name Lifey, wrote on April 14, 2015:

Ana is very caring.  She is always there for you and you can trust her…she is also very funny. She has a childish style that will cheer you. Ana is sensitive and (a) very beautiful girl. She is always full of joy and ready for a new day.

Full of joy, ready for a new day, that’s true. Lastly, I looked up Jane, a name from my mother’s heart. In Hebrew, it means, “God is merciful,” or “God is gracious.” Gracious and merciful. Didn’t I just read that following the name Ana? It seems my parents were on the same mental wavelength, pulling ideas of who I was from different cultures, using different names for it. What is grace? What is mercy? Do I embody either of those attributes?  

I decided to use the name I have always favored the name my father wanted to give me. The letter goes like this:

 Dear AnaValarie,

Your teaching style was certainly a reflection of your name. You defied convention and did for each student what she or he needed, holding their precious images up to a mirror so they could see how lovely, competent, and brave they were and how much you valued them. They grew to understand and trust themselves, and when you let them out from under your wings, they flew straight and true.

You treated your own children like equal creators in life, which they certainly have become, admiring, guiding, and cherishing them each moment as they grew under your care. You will cherish any grandchildren that grace your life and feel a deep kinship with them as well.

You bravely took roads less traveled with choices taken as a teen, as a young adult, becoming a single mother, an alternative education teacher, following your dreams of becoming a vocal soloist, a graphic artist, a writer. You provided for your family as both male and female. It took guts to buy a house, wrangle ownership of cars, figure out the ins and outs of doing it all on your own. You appreciated help when offered. That took bravery. I love that you are brave. You lived up to your name.

I love that your primary focus is peace, an attitude reflective of grace and mercy. You are compassionate and seek connections with and between others. You find those connections when sometimes others do not see them for themselves.

Now, we bring in a new way of being, one that favors the path you have always walked. Here is your chance. When you write, sing, or draw, your words, songs, and images will be true to your needs as well as to those who receive them. I appreciate this ability so much.

I appreciate how easily amused you are. This is something not reflected in your lofty name, but you are silly. Life amuses you. I love that.

I love you. I love being here, a participant in this journey. Let’s live a long time. There is much yet to give, and I know you want to do that. I will make space for you to shine because in doing so, we all shine.

Thank you, dear AnaValarie for being here on Earth. You mean the world to me.

Love,

Myself…

How do I feel now? I feel empowered. I feel renewed strength. I am ready to move forward.

I invite you to write a love letter to yourself, especially right now at the start of this month. There is a lot we have all been through with world conflict, the pandemic, and personal tragedies. I will hold a space for you and your love letter to self. I love you, even if I don’t know you. I know you are there, struggling in this world. We are the same in that, as is everyone. That makes you brave and strong no matter what your name means. My name gives me the power to see that in you, so please accept my gift, Brave One.

If you wish to share your experiences of this love-thyself-month, or be a member of my newsletter, please contact me at:

anna.morningsong.54@gmail.com or you can leave a comment at the end of this blog. 

You can catch my friend’s blog at: https://www.hereiswhereiam.com/blog

May you find moments of Peace, wherever you are,

AV Singer

Freely Express Your Truth

Background: I belong to a writers group, a collection of strong, wise, and creative women who meet on a weekly basis for an hour and a half to meditate together, respond to crazy prompts with a ten-minute quick-write, and then share what we have written. I have been working with these women for four years; the group has been together for seven. Sometimes…actually often… the members write as if their minds coalesce into one mind. This offering is one of those times.  A few members have agreed to share with me, and allowed me to publish their writing on a meditation prompt for the night of December 14, 2020.

I present their voices, and my own, as I invite you to think about what it means to express your truth. I would love to hear from you. (To any man that reads this blog, I do not mean to exclude you. I just happen to be a woman who belongs to an all-female writers group. There is no discrimination, here.)

Either reply to this post, or if you feel you don’t want to share publicly you can reach out to me at anna.morningsong.54@gmail.com. Please be sure to include “blog reply” in the message in case your unknown email gets sent to my spam file. I will look for you.

Waiting…waiting…waiting.

Joyce Ann Campbell

In the quantum view of this world, I am a vibrating, radiating field of electrical energy dressed for winter in the Sierra foothills.

Magnetic forces within me attract exactly what I need, but not always what I want.

Activity in the back of my head goes round and round in memories, alternating with my imagination, fishing for the future. In between, my mind rests in the present, witnessing and resounding to life within and surrounding me.

And, beyond that, my energies ripple endlessly into space, and flow back to me, pen in hand.

Shari Anderson               

To freely express my truth…what does that mean?

It means to express in an unhindered way, without restraint, holding guilt or fear.

It means to let out what calls to be released in a space expansive enough to allow it to exist. A space in which it is able: to wind its way along rivers of tears and oceans of heartache, to waft through foggy memories and unexplored fields, to percolate up from the muck and mire and finally find the sun.

Laurayne Mae offers the second prompt of the night, “I Am This Kind of Person – But Not Like That.” Her writing always speaks her truth and her piece, Big Grief, is no exception.

Stuck. Sticky stuck.

Can’t lift my feet to see what kind of person I am – let alone what I am not like.

So many changes in such a sick, short span. 

Terrifying times, globally, nationally, personally. 

Stuck. Sticky stuck. Who am I now?

Who I am in this moment is one who feels. I feel sadness and loss. They weave themselves into grief.

BIG GRIEF

Waiting for 

Relief

Release

Renewal

Amel Tafsout returns to the original meditation prompt, “Freely Express Your Truth” in Don’t Burn the Chicken Wings!

“Don’t burn the chicken wings!” he said.

“You already told me that!” I said.

“Why do you react this way?” he said.

“I just would like you not to repeat it to me so many times!” I said.

“I want to be free to talk to my wife… you are never here!” he said.

“You are picking on me all the time!” I said.

“Here we go, that’s why I am afraid of you!” he said.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me, but try to understand me!” I said.

“I just want a peaceful morning!” he said.

“Me too, but you don’t realize that you are picking on me most of the  

time!” I said.

“Here we go again with your pride!” he said.

“I may overreact but there is a reason and I am asking you not to do it!” I  

 said.

“Now my morning is destroyed!” he said.

I kept quiet thinking why can he not see my way when I am trying to make  him understand that I have been blamed so many times in my life and I want to change that to heal myself from it? Am I talking another language? Obviously, I am!

Here is another from Amel Tafsout, called Beheading Me. I choose to leave it as is, with no editing from me. It is a powerful piece about an actual event. Amel is a powerful dancer and one of her online photos was defiled.  

Amel writes:

Hey, You, how dare you delete my face, decapitate me and replace me with a Western white blond blue eyed woman, a sexual object such as Marilyn Monroe!

In my real photo my face is all power, a power that you will never understand – standing my ground in strength, power and beauty like our Amazigh-Berber warrior Queen Kahina, looking at you directly and saying to you I am!

I am that woman from the era of shamans and priestesses, who can make of you dust in one look!

A primal woman connected with ai, water, earth, fire and ether!

A woman who can rip you in pieces while doing nothing.

I am that Amazigh woman, proud of her roots and transcending her ancestry that you are ignoring and disrespecting!

Beheading me will harm you, replacing my powerful womanhood to a sexual object won’t work!

Making money off of me will follow you in hell! And you will get served what you deserve!

I am the power of all energies, gathered in the eye of the tornado that will sweep you away in a second!

AV Singer – Now I ask you

Is it fair for me to express my truth freely? For me, to myself, it is essential. For others, I find it more prudent to allow them space to express their truths while not imposing upon them mine. Why do I do this? Is it a lack of trust? Maybe. But, do we give others a chance to speak their truths or are we so wrapped in self? Maybe I feel most are not yet steady enough in truths of their own to carry my burdens. So I keep it hidden while remaining softly alert, waiting for their truth to manifest.

This is true for many women in the world. They quietly wait. Subjugated and repressed, not only are they silent, many have not had the chance to explore self, to know they have truths. They need space to learn what it means to be fully feminine. They need teachers. Those of us given time and guidance to do so must afford them the space for this vital expression of what it means to fully own womanhood.

Postscript: Waiting…waiting…waiting. Peace be with you as you travel through your week. AnaValarie