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...
Mad Bad Sad Woman by Audrey Chin
“Mad Bad Sad Woman” by Audrey Chin If not for words I’d be a mad bad sad woman dancing on the razors edge petticoats flouncing...
Confessions of a Family Woman by Chivas Sandage
“Confessions of a Family Woman” by Chivas Sandage “Five hundred a year stands for the power to contemplate… a lock on the door means the power to think for oneself.” Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own How strange it sounds: “family woman.” But “family man” ranks as compliment or defense, connoting respect for “a responsible man of domestic habits.” Or a general term for a man, responsible or not, who...
… and Stones by Gillian Barlow
“… and Stones” by Gillian Barlow She bends over to pick up a pebble – no, not that one – her hand skips across the roundish brown pebble to the black oval one and then on beyond to where she sees below the surface, the very one she wants – the chosen one. She curls her fingers around it, lifts it from the river floor and turns it over, feels its smoothness, its coolness, its rounded edges, the way the...
Audre Lorde’s Unfinished Business: Working Through Religious Resistance to Cancer Treatment by Pamela Yetunde
“Audre Lorde’s Unfinished Business: Working Through Religious Resistance to Cancer Treatment” by Pamela Yetunde I, as a pastoral counselor and theologian, have had the privilege of reading through Black lesbian poet Audre Lorde’s journals and diaries archived at Spelman College in Atlanta, GA. Many people are acquainted with Lorde (1934-1992) through some of her more famous rally cry-quotes like, “The...
Copper by Caroline LeBlanc
“Copper” by Caroline LeBlanc A sculptor friend gave me his scraps of sheet copper although I had no immediate use for it. Still it shines, reddish, in the cellar after years of collecting cricket’s casings, after long summers of their rasping song. Even time has not dulled it, dry and wrapped tight in the dark, so no free elements oxidized it green or blue. Words can be like that, pristine as long as they are...
Contact Dance in the Mission District by Dawn Banghart
“Contact Dance in the Mission District” by Dawn Banghart She is there, sitting on the dance studio lower bleachers untying tennis shoe laces socks off, toes touching the rough paint chipped floor spandex tights snug at the knees, hugging her thick thighs a loose silk shirt swirls as she walks across the floor past us the small pod of early arrivals. She opens the windows and breeze rolls across her hand. We...
Practice by Alison Hicks
“Practice” by Alison Hicks The small precision: word matched to moment, finger placed squarely on the string, the pitch containing not only itself, but itself halved, and that halved, and again. Ratios that move the small bones of the ear translate resonance to the brain. Lives of sloppy shifts, wrong notes, mistakes in tonality. Late at night in the living room, try to make up for this. In your notebook, on...
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WAVES ALIVE is an immersive experience, held tenderly by the ebb and flow of ritual, sisterhood, creative expansion, then surfacing to share what we have uncovered about ourselves and our art. Creative sisters are invited to join us at any point and remain for any length of time during our full-circle offering.
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The Deepest Place Jul 26, 2025
