WAVES: AROHO Retreat 2015 by Kristi Crutchfield Cox
“WAVES: AROHO Retreat 2015” by Kristi Crutchfield Cox That summer, turning forty and evaluating my choices in life, roads taken through Oklahoma, the grey slickness, red crumbling, swelling clay churned in fields, sticking to me, claiming me. I was supposed to live in New York, sidetracked by farms and families, frustrations and illness. Paths changed. Maxine arrived in an email, I held her face in my hands,...
Pollination by Barbara Ann Yoder
“Pollination” by Barbara Ann Yoder Monday after the AROHO retreat I woke up early, came into my kitchen and looked at the sun—almost an eclipse behind bay fog—then tasted the sweet tang of Meyer lemon, the first fruit borne by my four-year-old tree. I watched a spider tiptoe up my bathroom wall, as if she too had just awakened, her legs as delicate as eyelashes, her eyes bulging to take in as much of the...
Writing in Mothertime by Geri Lipschultz
“Writing in Mothertime” by Geri Lipschultz Ours is not the world of mothertime. We don’t live there but some of us write there. Mothertime was never on the map, nor in a book. Unrecordable, its wave undetectable, its mouth knows when to stay closed. Mothertime exists in those moments that come in a flash and then disappear, never to return. You could stitch these moments together, and it would be a quilt of...
Against by Vero González
“Against” by Vero González I grew up on an island in the Caribbean. I learned to swim before I learned to walk, talk, read, or write. I remember my parents telling me not to swim against the current—not to even try. It was for my own safety. The implication being that the current was stronger than I was; that if it came down to a struggle between us, the current would win. As I grew, don’t swim against the current...
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman by Patricia Farewell
“Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman” by Patricia Farewell She wanted to plant the long and learned Face-of-Virginia Woolf in her garden: a firm bulb whose roots would seek every direction, whose strong, fine, green stem would relish its time climbing the loam back to the light it had left on the waves of the river Ouse. Surely come spring a leaf unlike any other would brush her ankle and remind her that...
Does the sea remember everything? I wonder.
Does she absorb everything? Does she keep it safe?
Virginia Woolf
. . .
The Q: Can you fathom the spectacle that would be created if we moved together, arms outstretched, close enough to touch?
The Q: What echoes through you that longs to take form—a poem, an image, a mark, a whisper of becoming?
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fathoms Feb 28, 2026 -
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