Come find us here. Twill be many a thing felt and god-twilling many a thing healed.

1172 Republican St Seattle, WA

Thursday-Saturday: 530-830

Sunday: 7pm performance

Put your hand into my wounds,” said the risen Jesus to Thomas, “and you will know who I am.” The wounds of Christ are his identity. They tell us who he is. He did not lose them. They went down into the grave with him and they came up with him — visible, tangible, palpable. Rising did not remove them. He who broke the bonds of death kept his wounds.

To believe in Christ’s rising from the grave is to accept it as a sign of our own rising from our graves…Slowly I begin to see that there is something more as well. To believe in Christ’s rising and death’s dying is also to live with the power and the challenge to rise up now from all our dark graves of suffering love. If sympathy for the world’s wounds is not enlarged by our anguish, if love for those around us is not expanded, if gratitude for what is good does not flame up, if insight is not deepened, if commitment to what is important is not strengthened, if aching for a new day is not intensified, if hope is weakened and faith diminished, if from the experience of death comes nothing good, then death has won. Then death, be proud.

So I shall struggle to live the reality of Christ’s rising and death’s dying. In my living, my son’s dying will not be the last word. But as I rise up, I bear the wounds of his death. My rising does not remove them. They mark me. If you want to know who I am, put your hands in.

…but we all suffer. For we all prize and love; and in this present existence of ours, prizing and loving yield suffering. Love in our world is suffering love. Some do not suffer much, though, for they do not love much. Suffering is for the loving. This, said Jesus, is the command of the Holy One: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” In commanding us to love, God invites us to suffer.

-Nicholas Wolterstorff in Lament for a Son

some friends who are grieving a tremendous loss have found this book and this book alone, resonant.

how tame is our grief, how empty are our tears, how unmarked is our sadness? after this season of grief insurmountable, I have tasted a corporeal mourning that is severe, searing, forsaken, bloody, fleshly –all strangely yielding creativity, anguished remembering, and more lamenting. This season has been a furious protest, a protest against normalcy and civility, against betrayal and confusion.

How long do they sing this song? I sing it from afar with far less pain, how do I continue to sing their song, her song, his song? Do I even know mine?

Can you guess each woman?

deep inside the folds of skin

I’m searching for the heart

that begs to be fought for

Evil sneers

My mind projects

demented images,

something awaits for my fear to swell

But I say, his name

I do

I say it

For there is power in his

(name)

Goodness in his name

A name that is for all

the living and dead

Someone other than me

is for all of my body

Someone other than you

is for all of yours

Someone other than us

is for the whole heart

His name

I listen.

She comes from a music legend and legions of artists. How could she not be utterly astounding?

I had a late night chit chat with my main squeeze last night. I never, should never call him my main squeeze. But I was squeezing him as he spoke about my writing. I was also clenching my buns.

Madeleine L’Engle once wrote in her seasonal prose that when she became defensive about her husband’s feedback on her writing, she knew there was some good truth to it.

Now I’m clenching and grinding my teeth.

There’s truth to what he said late last night. And it’s hard to hear. I usually act as though I’m underwater doing synchronized swimming with my many selves. If only I had a nose plug, I could’ve stayed under longer. Unfortunately, water accidentally surged through my nostrils while in a beautiful sequence, sending my 13 year old self to the surface.

(Rolling of the eyes)

You think you know what you’re talking about butthead, don’t you?

(Pause)

A pang, which had been panging becomes more present and I realize,

he’s kinda right.

I’m a yoked ox when I write at times.

I try too hard at times.

I’m hiding at times.

I settle for a rough draft and never break into new icy waters at times.

I’m afraid.

He’s says I’m gifted. Thank you. I need some encouragement here. The swimming pool is now far too shallow for any underwater activities, which means I’m wet and shivering.

Damn that drain.

I say I love to write, have loved writing since I was a young gal.

But, will I create cohesion and accessibility and me-ness in my poetry or prose? Rather than remaining cloaked by my selection of farsighted words?

I must break the rough draft open.

I may need your help.

If you don’t hear from me right away, I’m doing a choreographed number in the water as preparation for taking in your selected words. Don’t worry though, there’s always a drain somewhere and it always gets unplugged.

I will belie and belie and belie as a writer and my hope is through the human plight to belie, I will be gently caught and discover, more fully, my courageous voice.

The inspiration for this post came from here. Another great story told here.

1961 Freedom Riders’ mugshots. These are women who volunteered to fight for civil rights in some of the most volatile, racist places in America. They wanted change, so they did something.