I am missing them, those goddesses of old.
Healers and hags, saints and sages, the crones
and all the wild women. Oh, how I am missing
the wild women, the daughters of Ma’at.
They know this, of course. They hear my heart
calling for their terrible beauty to fill the world
again. And I hear them, just up the road, past
that curve I don’t like the look of.
I call ahead to let them know I am not afraid,
though my mother told me nothing of this,
and her mother told her less. And someone
it seems has removed all the signposts.
We tell stories.
We tell stories to make sense of our lives.
We tell stories to communicate our experience of being alive.
We tell stories in our own distinct voice. Our own unique rhythm and tonality.
Transformations is a weekly story-telling column. The stories are written by community members who are my students.
From time-to-time we will feature guest writers whom we have invited to contribute to the Transformations series.
Our stories are about family, love, loss and good times. We hope to make you laugh and cry. Maybe we will convince you to tell your stories.
— Kathrin Seitz, editor, and Cheryl Durbas, co-editor
"Everyone, when they get quiet, when they become desperately honest with themselves, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there." — Henry Miller
Kathrin Seitz teaches Method Writing in Rockport, New York City and Florida. She can be reached at email@example.com. Cheryl Durbas is a freelance personal assistant in the Midcoast area. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
I call again, louder, though some hesitancy abides.
For what can come of such a calling?
A bolt of lightening perhaps, because the air
now seems to hum and spark?
Or the seas may part, because suddenly
I feel a drowning sensation?
Or maybe, all mystery, that boulder
will roll away, the path ahead cleared,
because who in this world
has the strength for that work?
Instead, a push forward, far-forward,
and not all that gentle. I hear their sweet
laughter even as I stumble and straighten into
that first forced step.
Forward, yes. Forward always. But not alone.
Reprinted with permission from SageWoman #93, www.sagewoman.com
Zoe FitzGerald-Beckett lives in Appleton, Maine, where she is currently birthing a creative life, through writing poetry, collage-ing and gardening. Her work has been published in The Sun, PenBay Pilot, Zest, Maine and SageWoman. In 2017, she was the recipient of the first prize at the Plunkett Poetry Festival at University of Maine Augusta, for her poem “On the Edge.”