Hope Revealed

Teri Holford

Hope is the thing just beyond reach.

The smoky shape of desire,

Hanging low, we must stretch our arms,

And believe.

Hope is the thing we could call crabgrass.

Stubborn, persistent, resistant.

Despite all odds, the seed buried deep beneath the cold death of pavement,

It finds the will to generate towards the light it knows is there,

And shows us the way to the first yellow brick.

Hope is the thing we understand the least.

But strangely, it’s the thing we never forget.

Our common bond, our collective humanity.

Polyglot, it speaks all languages,

And flies under the radar of translation, interpretation, conjugation.

Hope is the thing that fills balconies with song.

The audacity to fling open the shutters,

Fill its lungs with expression,

And share freely, wildly, a song for the universe

Sounds with wings that infiltrate shadows and narrow passageways.

Hope is the thing that promises tomorrow.

It flies in the face of containment.

Skirting definition, boundaries, and rules.

It knows nothing of formulas, codes, order, or tyranny.

Like the sun, it shines for everyone.

Hope is the thing that knows.

It knows before we do.

And never fails. But never is a big word. A dangerous word.

Because never sometimes comes calling.

And when it does, we close our eyes,

And accept that hope knows.

What is best.

Hope is the thing that grows into wisdom.

It spares no one.

When we feel that Hope has betrayed us,

Left us abandoned, treading in our sea of despair,

It unsparingly gives.

A sliver of something, the sound of a whisper, a wink that flirts.

Because it knows.

Not necessarily what we think we know.

Or what we want to know.

When the dice have been cast,

And all seems lost,

Hope is generous.

Gently, prodding our emptiness towards renewal,

healing,

And reconciliation.

Without despair, truly, what then is hope?

Words are a big deal to me. They are the flip side of the coin that they share with visuals. Both are wonderful because they co-exist in a delicious way and play together to create some sensational art. I am an academic librarian during the day and when I get home, I play with words and images. Writing for me is more about presence than product. Maybe someday I’ll finish one of my many projects. In the meantime, words have powerful creative potential and they give me infinite pleasure.

Hope Is The Thing To Do Right Now

Mickey Crothers

Hope is three crumpled dollars you find in a coat pocket when you thought you were flat-broke… then giving those three crumpled dollars to somebody who needs them worse than you do.

Hope is that power surge of devotion when a tiny, brand new hand closes around your finger, and you realize in that moment that life will reach way out beyond any days you will see. And you realize the world will be tended skillfully and lovingly one day by the owner of that brand new, tiny hand.

Hope is a chameleon. It morphs. If hope in one form doesn’t do the trick, it mysteriously transforms into a revised version of itself so it can rise to the occasion. Hope changes its clothes, reinvents itself as many times as it must, to get the job done.

Hope is working shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers-becoming-friends. It’s the deep, coursing power of building together what we cannot build alone. Hope is a neighbor showing up to milk the cows when somebody’s leg is broken. Hope is a barn-raising. Hope is a casserole.

Hope is straining the eye to look through the chinks in the headlines for the good news. It’s about believing in things unseen, like the million small acts of generosity we’ll never know about, because they won’t be touted in the bold, black strokes of headlines. Hope is written quietly, by hand.   

Hope is a prayer whispered through the darkness. It’s the prayer you whisper for someone you love. It’s the prayer you whisper for someone who hates you. It’s the prayer you whisper for a stranger you will never meet. It’s the prayer someone whispers for you.

Hope is starting to sing when the last thing on earth you feel like doing is singing. It feels artificial at first – dishonest. Your brain doesn’t believe a word of it. But keep singing. The vibration of throat and chest set the air around you vibrating, and the song streams back in through your ears, and your skeptic brain has now forgotten who it was that did this singing in the first place, and grudgingly allows itself to be cheered. First thing you know, you won’t really have to sing any more – the song will start singing itself. And every stringed instrument in the universe will start resonating – echoing hope.

Hope is a hand. The strong hand that pulls someone up when they’re too exhausted to make the climb on their own. The hand that milked your cows when your leg was broken. The hand that raised the barn. The hand that made the casserole. When the hope of one is on the ebb, it’s the gentle hand of another that reaches out and pulls it back. Hope is the unspoken language of a hand that touches the places words can’t reach. Hope is the hand that promises it will never let go.

Hope is the thing to do right now.

Mickey Crothers is a clinical psychologist in private practice and a professor of psychology at the University of Wisconsin – Eau Claire. Her work has appeared in dusty journals tucked at the bottoms of desk drawers.

Hope Is The Thing That Shines

Chloe Rowe

Hope is what you believe. Hope is trust. Trusting those around you to take action, to stand by your side. Stand by your side through joy, through despair. Hope is the little piece in your heart that knows everything is going to be okay. Hope is knowing tough times happen in everyone’s lives, knowing you have to fight for a happy ending. Fight, even if there are bumps in the road. Hope is the light at the end of the tunnel. 

I trust those above me, under me, and equal to me will all put in their part to defeat COVID-19. Although COVID-19 is exponentially increasing both in deaths and in positive tests, I am beginning to see the light. I can see the sun shining at the end of the coronavirus. I can feel the hope in those around me. I see citizens in my community choosing to work from home to stop the spread. I see businesses shutting down even if they qualify under “essential” because the owners know how continuing activity is not mandatory. Companies are putting other’s health before profit. I watch the news and see hospitals preparing for patients. People around the world are rising and joining together by staying apart. Creators on social media are actively encouraging fans to stay home. Communities are making masks for hospitals. Volunteers are rolling carts around the hospitals supplying food for the day shift workers while the hospital cafeterias close. 

What especially gives me hope is neighborhoods creating ideas for each other to take part in. For example, families are decorating the sidewalks with activities and inspirational notes and quotes for both children and adults, and houses are putting stuffed animals in windows for neighborhood scavenger hunts. The reason the neighborhoods are giving me hope is that I see people coming together by keeping the joy high. The houses participating in similar activities are keeping their community delightful and energized. 

Hope is the growing faith in those around you. Hope is the ability to see the luminous shine peeking through the dark. COVID-19 may be expeditiously growing, but hope has the capability to expand even quicker. 

Chloe Rowe is a student in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Her goal in life is to attend University of Wisconsin- Madison to become either a pediatrician or a family doctor. 

Hope Is The Thing That Stays The Same

Breanna Hayden

The ringing of the church bell hourly. The knowledge of the seasons changing yearly. The sun rising and setting every day. There can be hope found in all these things that happen constantly. It’s almost like the beat of what we do; they keep us together in what we do, and we become reliant on them to lead us. 

 The church bell other than being a percussive instrument can help people keep track of time, so they can be on time to events. Without this many people may lose track of time. Without the seasons changing there wouldn’t be much agriculture resulting in more people starving. Without the sunrise and sunset there would be no set time to sleep, and no new day starting. But this is not the case. Even in this tough time of COVID19 we still have all these things to push us forward.  

COVID19 hasn’t completely ruined our daily lives. Sure, school may be out, and there might not be a lot of workplaces open, but some things never completely change. When any new virus is introduced to us there will be hard times, but we can grow from those hard times. The flu used to be worse than it is now with no preventatives, but now we have the flu vaccine. Even though there have been many tough times that we have been presented with life never completely changes.  

Our needs are another example. We can’t change those completely suddenly because of COVID19. We still need food and water. Only a few things changed compared to the many things in life. Like most things there is a peak. We are nearing that peak of COVID. Once things are under control, we will have school and work like normal. We might even take a few good things out of this experience like washing hands more often, sneezing in your elbow, and overall having better hygiene.  

Do you still brush your teeth day and night? Do you still shower? Do you still talk over the phone to your family? Hopefully you can say yes, but even though this pandemic is scaring people and taking things away from us these are always possible. If the sun rises and sets, the church bells ring, and the seasons change, I have the ability to hope.  

Breanna Hayden is a middle schooler in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. She spends time with her family and friends, although currently her family is all terrified of COVID19.

Hope Is The Thing To See On The Bright Side

Anthara Boehm

I hoped that I would always have my first dog Dudley beside me forever.I hoped that my great grandma would spend one more Christmas with me, and I hoped that my grandpa’s cancer would go away forever. I really hoped. Even though the ones I loved so much were gone, I replayed the memories I had with them. The dog walks I had with him, the morning conversations I had with her would now only be dreams. I hoped to see the bright side of all  these crises. Seeing my grandfather with this pain of cancer makes me heartbroken, but on the bright side I see that I still have time to make more memories with him.

I always hoped to see the bright side of everything until I heard that I was not going to be attending school, I was not going to be seeing my friends and family, and I was not going to be anywhere but in my house being quarantined. This crisis in fact made me hopeless. Being at home I started looking on the negative side. Doing 8th grade online school all alone by myself, not being able to talk to my friends and family, and worst of all not being able to go anywhere but staying in your house keeping yourself away from anyone and everyone. All anyone could talk about was Covid-19. Everyone was worried, scared, and did nothing but panic. I did, too. 

Then one day when I was in quarantine I decided to bake brownies. The joy in putting the ingredients together into the oven and watching it all form into a delicious treat made my heart beam. I started to love baking and I kept on doing it.  Another day when I was in quarantine I decided to write letters to my friends and family thanking them for how much they mean to me. It was such a blast using my creative crafts and arts to form a homemade card. I even went outside one day and spent the day outside with my dog, chasing him, and playing tug a war with him. 

This really made me miss all the times that I could have done this with him in the past but never had the time. I hoped to see the bright side of this crisis, and I had! I learned, experienced and explored so much. I baked, made homemade letters, and spent time with my dog making memories to last a lifetime. I really did find hope on the bright side of all of this. Hope is truly the thing to see on the bright side.

Anthara Boehm is a student and writer.

Hope Is The Thing That Promises More When The World Is Less

Ann Larsen

Her hand presses into mine as I'm crying again for the third time. 

She counts the weeks on the calendar, and marks them for me to see, so that even when my mind is raging static, my eyes can find something clear to fix onto. 

Six months ago, we signed a lease with trembling hands, electrified and terrified to embark on something new together. After debating in the car, teary and desperate and more than anything, asking for solidarity, we'd agreed. 

And I'd still second-guessed it. It was all I talked about in my weekly sessions- the fear of commitment as opportunity for abandonment the root of every frustration. 

But over the months, I'd allowed myself to believe in it. I'd taken detours down main street just to see the porch swing one more time, so we could rubberneck and chatter excitedly about where we could put potted plants, and whether the siding looked different than we remembered. 

And now, nearly a year after I met a beautiful stranger in a coffee shop, the thought of home together pulls me forward, tugs me to my feet when another day at work, smothered behind a hot mask with a pandemic breathing down my neck, feels like more than I can bear. 

"We're in this together," she says, and I know that no matter what happens, summer will come. 

Ann Larsen is writer who has lived in the Chippewa Valley for three years and is proud to call it home. While working at the local food co-op and (slowly) branching out and participating in community events, she has witnessed the love and solidarity intrinsic to the area. She's excited to get back to exploring Menomonie once the snow (finally!) melts.

Hops Is The Thing With Job Security

hope is the thing, bright generalist, multi-tasking the hell out of it

hope knows our lives depend on it

do we? 

hope is the thing tugging at the hand of fear

as it runs, screaming, our limbic systems in tow

whoa there! take a break, let's sit down over here in this nice comfy place

in fact, you scaredy-cat, why don't you take the day off

here's some tea

not strong enough? ok, here's a scotch

now, let's breathe together

look, there's even a *gif* for that

you just sit and watch that for a little while

if you get bored

Facetime the devil - you get along good, yeah?

stay, ok? be quiet...i'll be back for you later

hope is the thing weaving a golden thread

through the shroud of grief we're wearing, a crabby little garment

see that? swirls of light!

hieroglyphs of happy villagers doing their thing, mythic creatures

those celtic knot patterns people favor for tattoos, along the edges

see all that lovely stuff?

walk around in that a bit now

ah, don't you feel better?  'course you do

hope is the thing hitting the damn smiley emoji button

in our wayward amygdalae

saying: you don't have to lean the heck so far away, at the grocery

or the sidewalk

there's already 6+ feet there

plus!

it's not illegal to smile

even with a mask on, it shows in those sweet crinkles around your eyes

say good morning like you mean it

they're still human and so are you

hope is the thing that courts joy in an endless romance

whispering quietly in our ears: 

savor the food, even dumb food, you lucky thing

dance in the kitchen while you're making it - even if you're alone, because then? you're not

listen to those birdy-birds, love the flowers even if it's going to snow tomorrow

and wow! those 17 dog breed mixes you never saw in your neighborhood, before!

cheerlead those people walking, go out, do that!

never mind the indoor cats; they like this and are not to be trusted

hail the loved ones near and far

let's not forget to hail ourselves; we have to be beloved to ourselves

i'm only here to give you the nudge, says hope, a little overworked

you have to carry this

hope is the thing that takes measure of worry, despair

there's an apothecary for that

pulls out the mortar & pestle, mixes the seeds

courage, instigation, reason, discernment, truth; ok, some outrage

and like every wild-good cook who overdoes the garlic

adds about 5x as much love as is called for

take that! you messed-up-beloved world

and keep taking it until you're well

old julian didn't have it wrong

hope is the thing doing essential work,

we can't lay off hope.

Jera Terreng is new to Eau Claire, and courting a long-time desire to write. She loves the optimism of this CVWG project and felt compelled to offer something in exchange for the joy & hope she's received. Bowing deep to everyone who's championing hope, in this time. Thank you.

Hope Is The Thing So Small, You Might Almost Miss It

Karissa Zastrow

When I first heard the whispers about Covid-19, I hoped it wouldn’t make its way north. But then schools and businesses shut down and cases were reported in my county. I felt as though I was sinking, sucked down and trapped in quicksand. While I try to find my new “normal” I have been trying to find the calm in quiet and solitude. As someone who thrives on busy hallways, social interactions, laughter, and events, I have had to dig deep to find the small moments that inspire hope. 

I found it in the two-hour conversation for the second night in a row with my youngest sister, who I haven't talked to in months because we’ve been “too busy.” We laughed until we couldn’t breathe, and tears trickled down our cheeks. My heart felt lighter. 

I found it watching a robin dance on my lawn two days after the first day of spring and four days after my social isolation started. He didn’t fly away as I made my way past him to my front door. I paused for a minute as he hopped toward me and looked into my eyes before chirping. I watched until he flew away- a reminder that freedom will come again soon.

I found it in words. First, in a phone call about my grandfather. I chose to focus on the words “caught early” and “very healthy” rather than “cancer” and “surgery.” Next, between the words in my new book allowing me to escape real life for a while and live in a pandemic free world full of social interaction. 

I found it in the texts, phone calls, e-mails, and other messages from coworkers, colleagues, friends, classmates and family checking in to make sure I am okay while isolating alone. I take these moments to reconnect now that parts of life are on pause.

 I found it in a stranger who yelled hello to me through her face mask and from a safe distance—a sign that we have not lost our kindness in the madness. 

I found it in a new song that I play as loud as I can. I sing-scream along with the artist as I wander around my house, trying to stay busy and keep my anxious thoughts at bay.

I found it along the riverbank, as I listened to the water rush by and cleanse my soul. Looking up at the sky, I took time to imprint the gradation from orange to pink to purple as the sun set in the distance. 

I found it when the sun burst through the clouds after a week of grim, gray days as if exclaiming, “don’t worry! I am still here!” I turned my face toward the sun, soaking in the warmth and closed my eyes before whispering, “me too.”

Karissa Zastrow is a writer and graduate student who currently resides in Menomonie, WI.

Hope Is Virtual Office Hours

Stephanie Turner

Sitting here in my bunker—I mean, basement—no, I mean, office—I’m ready at the laptop. Ready to receive earnest students with challenging questions about my carefully crafted assignments, now adapted to our COVID-19 all-digital classroom-slash-office. There, we can talk through our screens face-to-face in real time, almost as good as actual office hours in my actual office back at school. Almost.

I’m charged up, logged in, have all the necessary tabs open: our classroom “management system,” my work email, a couple of websites students need for homework, gmail . . . .

But, as I just posted over on Facebook while waiting for my first visitor for today’s virtual office hours, “I’ve been having trouble concentr—”

I click on the New York Times tab, always there at the far left, forever updating. “Cases near 2 million,” one headline sighs. “Global Economy Faces Worst Slump Since Great Depression,” shouts another. Wait! What was that? Did I hear someone logging on? I click on the “Welcome” tab for my virtual office hours. Nope. I’m still the only one in the “room.”

 All they have to do to get my attention when they enter my virtual office is say the password, “bananagrams” for one class, “monsters R us” and “all we need is science” for the other two, respectively. I’m trying to make this fun, this social distance learning. I hope somebody shows up soon.

Over in my gmail account, more bad news. Something else important’s been cancelled due to COVID-19. Something that wasn’t even supposed to happen until June. June! I thought for sure that was far enough out that we could, at least cautiously, start to ditch social distancing. Uh-oh. There’s that funny sprung spring noise. I click back over to my virtual office. “Are you still there?” My virtual office is talking to me now. I click the button that means “yes.”

Virtual office hours remind me that most of us are clicking the buttons that mean “yes” now, each of us in our own ways. Yes, despite the suffering and death wrought by this new jot of protein, a great many of us are still here. We are showing up for each other now in surprising new ways. Zoom yoga. Virtual happy hour. Music and games shared from platform to digital platform.  

“Hello?” A hesitant voice calls from my laptop. Apparently this is someone who forgot the password. No matter! I pounce on the microphone button. “Hello! Can you hear me?” I’m desperate for the contact. “How are you?” I hit the video button. There we are!

Stephanie Turner is a writer and professor at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire.

Hope is the Thing that Gives Us More Time

Leni Marshall

Hope is the thing that gives us more time.

            Hope beguiles us to believe in longer.

            Hope conducts the imaginary of better, of cure.

Time is the thing that gives us more hope.

            Time spins visions of possible futures.

            Time dwarfs the personal tang of our fear.

“Hope time” as a home is irrational, naïve; as a destination,

remote, perhaps marooned, off the map.

“Time hope”: a new branch of philosophy,

            same as the old. Is the desire for assurances

            of progress a sign of progress?

Hope is the thing that is not a wish, that we can make

            come true (unless it is just a wish).

Hope is the thing that we can become.

Leni Marshall, Ph.D., is a principal consultant at LeaderSHIFT In and is the Intercultural Development Ambassador and a Professor of English and Philosophy at the University of Wisconsin-Stout. Marshall’s publications include poetry, articles, and books on intercultural awareness, age studies, inclusion, disability studies, and contemporary culture.

Hope Is the Practice of Hope

Amy Segerstrom

How quickly life can change. In the blink of an eye, things I thought were reasonably certain are now just as reasonably uncertain. Aspects of life I have taken for granted, which served as a sort of anchor when my feet hit the floor every morning, are now a question mark.    

Fear, never a welcome visitor, has set up camp in my home, binging on Cadbury mini eggs and hoarding toilet paper. Nights, it crawls into my bed, stealing my sleep and blankets.

As the crisis deepens, reducing Fear’s presence seems more a process of accepting our changed circumstances than waiting for life to return to the way things were before. Such acceptance, I’m learning, is not about getting rid of Fear, but about holding it with Hope.   

For me, Hope is that daily practice inviting me to hold all that is and is yet to come –the fear, frustration, sadness, grief-with compassion for myself and others. I am reminded of Sister Michaela Hedican, former Prioress of St. Bede’s Monastery, who once said to me, “Hold that lightly, Dear.” When Fear’s grip tightens, Hope wraps me ever so lightly in its gentle embrace and nudges me towards the rocker, where we quietly sit, listening to the birds.

Like everyone else, I go about my business as best I can. I drink my morning shake, (occasionally) exercise, shower, and flip on the computer. When the words on the computer grow fuzzy, I take a break. When the pantry gets low, I take a drive to the store, hoping what I need will be there and that I recognize a face or two I can safely wave at from a distance.

Day by night, sun and moon come and go. Winter retreats. Spring rushes in. The cycles of nature unfold, revealing themselves as trustworthy. There is more life here than death. Both are worthy of my attention. Hope steers me towards the next right step: check on loved ones, love ones who need checking, lather, rinse, repeat. 

Hope reminds me of the kindness of people like my daughter’s co-worker who sewed masks for all her colleagues at the clinic where she works, or tells me a story like that of the Chippewa Valley couple whose guests honked joyfully from their cars in the parking lot as they emerged from the church, newly married.  

Skillfully, Hope untangles Fear and braids back new connections, tosses Fear a rope, ties a pink “New Baby” balloon on a neighbor’s mailbox; Indra’s net grows wider and more visible.  

Practicing Hope increases its volume until it overflows. Like the Italians from their balconies, Hope bursts into boisterous song, beckoning us to join in.

Slowly, surely, I heed Hope’s call. Slowly, surely, I am aware of my heart stretching. Not always, far from perfectly, but more and more, I am amazed and grateful that Hope continues to believe in me as I practice believing in it.  

Amy Segerstrom is a writer, counselor, spiritual director and former Coordinator of The Healing Place: Center for Life’s Journeys, a program of Sacred Heart Hospital in Eau Claire. Her poetry and prose are featured in “Spilled Ink and Second Thoughts” and “Goodbye to Lonesome Valley”, both available at The Local Store. A resident of Mondovi, she is working on a book of meditations entitled, “Living in the And of Life: Reflections from Mirror Lake.”   

Local Artists and Publishers Put Community First

Hayley Jacobson

 The COVID-19 pandemic is entering its fifth week here in Wisconsin with no sign of coming to an end any time soon.

Many are stuck at home. According to Forbes, millions of Americans have been laid off due to the ongoing crisis. It is now predicted by Forbes that another round of layoffs may be imminent.

However, there are still local businesses doing their best in supporting local artists. Here in the Chippewa Valley, there are several options to pick from.

Volume One, for those not familiar, is an arts and culture magazine in the Chippewa Valley that also specialized on events. Before COVID-19, they focused many articles on what was happening in Eau Claire, Chippewa Falls, and Menominee.

In addition, the magazine covered many community stories, community needs and inspirational people, according to Nick Meyer, publisher of the magazine.

“We’re quite concerned for people in all walks of life around the community right now, and for the businesses and non-profits who have been put at serious risk through all this,” Meyer said.

Volume One is working to continue covering those community stories showcasing the community coming together. However, they are still worried about how the community may come out from all of this, Meyer said.

“We’ve put nearly all our focus onto covering the community’s needs and responses to the pandemic,” Meyers said. “Our website at VolumeOne.org has been relaunched under the banner of Pulling Together While Staying Apart.”

Volume One does have its own store, which helps support the magazine as well.

“While our sales are certainly down a lot compared to if our doors were open, we’ve been very thankful for an incredible amount of online orders coming in,” Meyers said. “We’ve been offering some fun care package options for people to pick from, to mail directly to friends and loved ones.”

That concern about the unknown carries through all artistic endeavors. Across the Chippewa Valley artists and creators are facing uncertain times. While some may have originally been looking forward to having more time on their hands, many are now being forced at home after losing their jobs and means of supporting their families.

Ambient Inks, a print shop specializing in t-shirt and apparel printing, is run by Aaron Brice and Tim Brunner, with a focus on supplying the local music scene with every kind of print shirt that the scene needs.

However, as concerts and group meet ups have come to a halt, business has slowed considerably. Ambient Inks’ main source of printing comes from the local musicians of the Chippewa Valley, and as many local concerts have been postponed, so have orders.

“We print merch for tours and to stock bands’ online stores. Our busy season is the summer, so with bands not touring and festivals being cancelled, we’ve definitely seen a decrease,” Aaron Brice, co-founder of Ambient Inks, said in an online interview.

Ambient Ink works with many musicians to supply t-shirts and other merchandise to their fans both at gigs and on their online stores.

““But it’s all about empowering our artists to be creative. People still want to support the music/artists they love, and we’re rethinking how to support our clients at this time,” Brice said.”

“But it’s all about empowering our artists to be creative. People still want to support the music/artists they love, and we’re rethinking how to support our clients at this time,” Brice said.

While Ambient Inks orders have gone down, the company is still looking for ways to continue supporting the local artists in the area through their shop as well as relief programs.

Ambient Inks has partnered with Give Local Love, which is an online store devoted to small business tees. Businesses submit a design, customers preorder a tee, and Ambient prints & ships them. There’s no upfront costs and no risk. The more they sell, the more their business makes, according to Brice.

“Businesses submit a design, customers preorder a tee, and Ambient prints & ships them. There’s no upfront costs and no risk. The more they sell, the more their business makes,” Brice said.

Ambient Inks has also launched their own fundraiser for Chippewa Valley artists and creators which they call the Artist Relief Fund.

This fund is specifically for those artists who have been impacted by COVID-19 through losing their day jobs as well as being unable to book shows, and having their events or gigs cancelled, Brice said.

While many of Ambient Inks orders come from musicians, the store themselves have an online portion full of their own designs.

“Our webstore fulfillment department is currently operating with the bare minimum staff.  We’re doing this in compliance with Minimum Basic Operations as defined by Wisconsin’s Safer At Home order, and so that we can continue to keep as many of our staff members working remotely as possible,” Brice said. “It is our goal to continue to keep up with our client’s demands, but foremost we want to take care of our staff working both on site and remotely.”

Until the end of April, every item on Ambient Inks entire roster will be donated to the artist relief fund as well as the feed my people foodbank.

“The more this pandemic seemingly separates us, the more it has the potential to bring us together,” Brice said.

Hope In The Hours Before Redemption

Tim Brennan

in the field, a hundred 

or so 

Canada geese congregate, 

maybe they are praying—

they think not of social distancing, 

think not of previous loved ones. 

they don’t seem sad, 

seem not to think about dying, 

maybe not to think enough is enough

for them—

but each time they migrate, they quiet their wings,

write in haiku the understanding of the seasons.

Tim J Brennan’s poetry can be found in many nice places including Twig, Up North, The Lake (U.K.), SDSU’s Oakwood, KAXE public radio, Volume One, Barstow & Grand and is a two time winner of the Talking Stick poetry prize. Brennan’s one act plays have played across the USA, including nice stages in Milwaukee, Colorado Springs, Ypsilanti MI, Waxhaw NC, Taos NM, Chagrin Falls OH, and most recently in Lexington, KY. 

Hope Is a Thing

Jan Carroll

To each of us in this pandemic together

Though it has no body, no form, hope is a thing
that lives amidst fear and uncertainty, a spring

in the desert, not a mirage, just the water you need
to keep on and on, that sustenance, yes, but also the seed

chock-full of potential for good, that makes you believe
you can do it, you’ll get through, yes, even as you grieve

what is lost or what you worry so suddenly could fall
from your touch, from your hold, though you stall

so many of your usual activities, hunker down at home,
try to nurture in some small way shalom, shalom.

Though it has no mass, no friction, hope is a thing
with weight, heft, anchoring you, but also wing and wing

to lift you, to carry you where your heart needs to go
both within the troubles and beyond them, below

and above, within and among, grounding and freeing,
in stillness and acting, through self-care and we-ing,

learning from our mistakes and from the best we’ve been
and can be, all of us called to be healers now, and when

shadows come near someone you love, wild hope, still rife,
shaky, fierce, rises, lifts its glass, cries, “To life! To life!”

Jan Carroll is a poet, a member of two poetry-writing small groups, and the facilitator of the 6x6 reading series.

Why We Canceled The Priory Writers' Retreat (And Some Good News, too!)

As poet Robert Burns knew,  “The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” 

It is with that sentiment that we sadly announce the cancelation of the 2020 Priory Writers’ Retreat.  We’d planned for most every contingency, but we hadn’t planned for this.  Why did we cancel the retreat? Very simply, because our participants’ health remains our top priority.

Allow me to take a moment to thank our amazing writers-in-residence, Nickolas Butler, Tessa Fontaine, Peter Geye and Kimberly Blaeser, all of whom made travel arrangements, planned courses, engaged in interviews, and gave their all to this event.  It is our great hope that they’ll accept our invitation to return some future summer, and ideally summer 2021! 

Allow me to also thank the retreat’s many applicants.  Oh, how we wish we could spend this summer with you.  Please, pretty please, try us again next summer.

While it would be easy to allow such a blow to demoralize us, that’s not really our way.  Since the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic, the Guild has responded by way of a series of proactive measures to ensure that our members remain well supported, at least virtually.  Much of the credit belongs to our advisory board, whose members recognized the many ways in which we might be part of the solution, at least in terms of local culture. 

•  To this end, in late March Barstow & Grand announced free submissions through the end of their submission period on April 30.   

• Additionally, the Guild has invested in local writing-related opportunities, specifically joining Volume One’s Reader Membership Program at the partner level.  In this way, we can begin to give back to a publication that has fostered countless writers over the years.

• We also commissioned Elizabeth de Cleyre to write “Literary Citizenship in the Time of Coronavirus: Pragmatic Ways To Support Writers”, a wonderfully inclusive piece on the many, many ways we can support one another during this difficult time. 

• And last but not least, for the past month we’ve been busily curating our “Hope Is The Thing” Project—an attempt to collect submissions of 500 words or less from writers across the state on the subject of hope.  We have been absolutely astounded by the depth and breadth of these submissions, nearly 50 of which we’ve already published, with more coming out daily. The goal here isn’t simply to read about hope, but to allow writers the chance to write about it, too.

“Throughout June, our Priory writers-in-residence (Nickolas Butler! Tessa Fontaine! Peter Geye! Kimberly Blaeser!) will all give featured “craft chats” with lively participation from you! ”

And finally, today we’re pleased to announce yet another initiative to tide us over until we can all meet again: “Craft Chats”!  Throughout June, our Priory writers-in-residence (Nickolas Butler! Tessa Fontaine! Peter Geye! Kimberly Blaeser!) will all give featured “craft chats” with lively participation from you!  Join us on Facebook Live for four evenings of fun and literary conversations with some of the best and most generous writers we know.  These Craft Chats will be offered FREE.  If you would like to donate to help us offset our presenter costs, we sure would welcome your generosity! 

On that note, for those of you willing to become sustaining members, we’re glad to offer you a very special gift!  We happen to have a whole lot of unused Priory Writers’ Retreat mugs sitting in boxes.  Rather than have them gathering dust, we’d prefer to give them to you!  If you become a sustaining member, drop us a note and we’ll get a mug in the mail as soon as social distancing allows!  We’ll even be helping the US Postal Service in the process!

As always, thanks for your generosity, your humility, and your humanity. 

Yours,

-BJ Hollars

Hope Is The Thing That Blossoms On Trees

Rebecca Mennecke

If gravity is a force of attraction,

why does it keep us all so far away

from each other? When Isaac Newton

formed theories of motion, he was alone

at home, avoiding the Bubonic Plague,

the Great Plague, the Black Death

Plague, the Bring Out Your Dead Plague

because that’s all anyone was back then

before vaccines and hand soap and Purell

that’s out of stock anyway. It would be two

hundred years before scientists

determined what bacteria plotted

such a diabolical illness: skin turning black

with blood, filling pores, pouring

onto rat fleas to infect

the next victim. But no one knew

that, back then. Talk about living

in uncertain times. Back then,

there was no twenty second rule, no six

foot rule, no limit one toilet paper pack

per customer rule, only the rules

of physics we call laws

because they created order

from disorder, which the world probably

needed. And Newton made lots of laws:

creating early calculus while his room

was lit by candles instead of electricity,

looking through prisms to study

refractions of colors—signifying  

promise—to determine optics, lazing

beneath a tree and thinking how

all motion leads downward

or repels. Infinitesimal calculus

is the study of continuous

change, so what Newton really

hypothesized is a theory of

life because everything is changing:

plane fumes aren’t soaring so high

above ground like they used to,

the rivers in Italy look like water,

real water, & less gas in the sky

from cars mean people can breathe,

and everyone applauds the guy

who works at Wal-Mart because finally,

finally, we all see how his work is good

too, & I have to wonder, sitting at home

like Isaac Newton, quarantined and self-

isolated in self-pity while new

plagues ravage cities where I grew

up, eating everyone in the world whole:

if every action has an equal and opposite

reaction, then the budding growths

on the trees outside my window—

as the sky pours down

my windowsill—well, they must

be the Earth’s form of

balance.

 Rebecca Mennecke is the editor of NOTA, and a writer and student in Eau Claire.

Hope (Is The Thing That) Breathes

Peggy Blomenberg

I hold my breath, waiting for the sound of my newborn taking her very first breath. She breathes! and cries—and I cry, too, in great exhausted jubilation at her shocked announcement of life: I am here! (Wait, where AM I?) Simultaneously with breath, her voice is born, borne on that very first exhalation. Our cheers, laughter, and tears applaud her brand-new breathing—robust and sure, as practiced as if she has been doing it all her life. 

Still, many nights I steal to her crib to look for the rise and fall of that impossibly tiny chest, then expel my own held breath in relief and gratitude. 

Life: in-breath, out-breath, repeat. Precious, fragile, infinitely dear.

Decades later, I sit stunned with this all-grown-up daughter at the bedside of her husband, who collapsed at work and was found not breathing. He is 35. We are in Neuro-ICU. A ventilator breathes for him, buying time, keeping our hope alive minute by minute. As long as breath follows breath, we can hope for recovery. 

As a singer, I know that breathing, so life-giving and seemingly so natural, can be improved upon. I recently attended a master class in singing at UWEC given by the brilliant Dr. Pina Mozzani. She demonstrated for her student singers how to better hold their bodies to make a space for the air, enabling the deep and effective breathing that is foundational for excellent singing. It was a marvel, the difference in the sound that emerged from these already fine singers as they allowed their breath to effortlessly become their song. 

Our first breath and our last breath pretty much delimit life as we know it outside the womb. In between, in daily routines, we might stand up and go for “a breath of fresh air.” Or take a break to “catch our breath.” We have a sudden inspiration (literally, in-breath) that “breathes new life” into stale patterns or ideas. Celebrating special occasions, we expand our lungs to the max, blowing up balloons, blowing out candles, making joyful noises. (Well, not so much right now, but we can hope.) Swimming, we dive deep then race back to the surface for air. Hiking at altitude, our breathing becomes more rapid the higher we go. Very thin air and thin ice are both dangerous in that they do not fully support us.

The last breath, for many, comes too soon. To our grief, my son-in-law did not recover. But it was not for lack of a ventilator. Simply, he had been without oxygen for too long before being found, resulting in irrecoverable brain injury. For many in communities around the world, right now, the availability of such a machine—to buy time, offer hope, and provide support through the critical period—is the difference between recovery and death. I hope that we will each do our part to delay transmission and thereby spread the serious cases out over time, so that those whose survival depends on such machines may hope for recovery.

Peggy Blomenberg is a hopeful, grateful, and mostly positive person. She has lived in the Chippewa Valley since 2009.

Hope Is A Tall Glass Of Water

Catey Leonardson

I’ve been dehydrated for years. It’s terrible, I know, but it’s one of those behaviors that’s always stuck with me. My days are filled with chugs of cold press and rare sips of water. Will I ever change?

This poem was going to be about coffee.

“Hope is steamed milk” my brain started to say

As I ached to pour lattes and shoot the shit with the regulars

“Hi sweetie!” Large mocha with three extra shots, no whip, marshmallows and chocolate chips on top, in her own mug. Large cup of ice water, extra ice. She knows the trivia. I remember her phone number. More chocolate chips, please? More ice?

“Hello friend!” Large mint mocha with only a hint of chocolate, an extra shot, no whip, in his own enormous mug. He’s tall enough to see me over the top of the espresso hoppers.

Cup of coffee, black. Rinse out the coffee urn and repeat. Are they making their own black coffee now?

This one’s the silent type, so I took to prompting with “Large americano?” and that usually works for us.

His daily cup of coffee is paired with a quick visit to the cup of espresso beans on the counter that houses the pens. He punctures the lid of his cup with one, allowing it to breathe. Why are the holes that exist on lids already so uselessly infinitesimal? Why is our system so flawed?

My coworker and I paired this guy’s black coffee with a list of twenty DJ’s scrawled on the back of receipt paper, a collaboration created upon request. I hope it’s serving him well now in this time of solitude.

I miss these interactions, this sense of community. Routine. Routine?

It started slowly, with hand washing and anxiety, budding into unpredictability and no one allowed to stay inside our doors. Have you heard about social distancing?

No, I can’t take your mug, I’m sorry. Have you heard of germs? Did you know they don’t discriminate?

…

I started taking this seriously on Friday the 13th.

Today is April 11th, almost a month later. It’s been a month. How many more will pass by?

I put my coffee in the microwave to freshen up. I should probably drink some water if I’m going to be having more coffee, so I pour a glass while I wait.

My friends and I used to pass around a bottle of water and take ten-second swigs at concerts. It’s important to stay hydrated. When will I see live music again?

I start hydrating, counting how many times I gulp. I get to eleven and stop.

I hate drinking water. But you need it to survive.

Twelve… thirteen… I get all the way to twenty-five.

This feels like it has meaning. I’ll be twenty-six in a week.  

I love little things like that.

Hope is a tall glass of water.

I’m nourished with every sip and each day closer to our reunion.

Catey Leonardson is a student, barista, and writer. They live in Eau Claire with their five-year-old son and are spending this period of self-isolation creating blanket forts, eating chicken nuggets, and completing their last semester as an English major at UWEC. You can find more of their work in Volume One, 5ive for Women, and the Sky Island Journal.

Hope Is Conditional

David Hadbawnik

Maybe all we really have is what’s right in front of us. So many of the plans that we made, dreams we had for the future – even something so ordinary as an upcoming ballgame, birthday party, or vacation – have been taken away by the Covid crisis. At times it feels like we are all, each of us in our little “self-isolated” circles, standing on a tiny island watching the water rise, swallowing things one by one.

Last year at this time my wife and I, and our soon-to-be one-year-old son, were living in Kuwait. Tina and I had full-time jobs as professors at an all-English private university. We were making good money and we enjoyed our work and our colleagues. But our tolerance for life in Kuwait, with its harsh weather and social restrictions, had run its course, especially with an active son who wants to play outside. So I reluctantly waded into the job market once again. 

I was delighted when a late-breaking opportunity arose as a Visiting Assistant Professor in the English Department at Wisconsin-Eau Claire. Two great friends of ours from grad school days were professors there, and we’d heard good things about the school and the area. Luckily – in a lightning-fast interview, job offer, and moving process that is a whole different story – things worked out, and we arrived in Eau Claire in August 2019. Our friends helped a lot, and we found the city itself and my new colleagues to be incredibly welcoming as well. The ability to walk outside in the pleasant summer air, visit the farmers’ market, go running on trails along the river – this was a miracle, one we didn’t take for granted after four years in the desert.

But I couldn’t relax for long. A position as VAP is transitional and transactional – you are providing temporary, needed labor to a university, with the idea that you leverage it into something more permanent elsewhere. This is the nature of the beast in today’s precarious state of higher education.

 Thus, I continued applying for jobs. Through an agency, I was referred for a job as “head of academics” at a small, private, Muslim-centered K-12 school in Austin, Texas. I eagerly applied and was soon invited to interview. This seemed like an unbelievable opportunity. My wife and I had met in San Marcos, just south of Austin, and we still had many friends in the area. After ten-plus interviews, both over the phone and in person on a campus visit, I was offered the job in early February. I negotiated and signed a five-year contract soon after, and with relief and joy we began telling friends and family, and posting on social media about our impending move.

And then came Covid.

Looking back now, it’s easy to see the warning signs. The early rumblings from China, the growing alarm in the rest of the world, the (false) reassurances from the Trump administration that we wouldn’t have to worry about an epidemic here. As recently as the second week of March, I was still planning to fly to Austin over our spring break to observe some classes at the school, still planning to meet with realtors to find out what kind of housing our stretched budget could afford, still gleefully making plans with our Austin friends.

In the space of just a few days in mid-March, everything changed. Austin’s famous SXSW festival was canceled (along with the NBA season, Coachella, many other events). Suddenly it became obvious I couldn’t fly to Austin anytime soon. Then I received an ominous email from my contact at the school, telling me they’d already had parents unable to pay tuition and were worried about enrollment for next year. Soon after that I spoke with the school owner, and she asked me to give her until mid-April to try to figure things out. 

I said yes – what else could I say? – and waited with chagrin as the virus ravaged New York, California, most of the country, while millions of people were instantly out of work. We began letting friends and family know that we might not be moving to Austin after all. And I informed my (very understanding) department chair that I might need to rescind my resignation.

A few days ago, I received a regretful message from the school that, indeed, they would not be able to honor my contract. Though we’d come to expect such news, it was still a blow. Still is a blow. In just a few weeks we’ve gone from dreaming of buying a house and enjoying the type of security that would see us towards retirement, to wondering how long we can afford our current rent, and what kind of employment prospects might lie ahead in this dark new world.

Is there hope? I refuse to subscribe to wild-eyed optimism – the wishful thinking of an administration that until recently claimed the virus would simply disappear in warmer weather – even as I refuse to submit to despair. Covid has already taken so much from so many of us. 20,000 dead and counting. Millions unemployed. Front-line workers and care-givers still without basic protections. And the small, personal things the rising tide takes away: the party we’d been planning for our son’s second birthday, and Tina’s brother flying in from Europe to celebrate with us.

What we’re left with is what’s right in front of us. The still-miraculous gift of taking walks outside in nature. My son’s face as he smiles and laughs and sings, blessedly oblivious to the worries of the pandemic. These moments give me the spark to get through the otherwise monotonous days. And they fuel my cautious hope, leavened with anger at what’s been lost. That hope is conditional on turning the anger into action to transform the world we go back to. A world in which we no longer tolerate the systemic inequalities, and the underfunded and overwhelmed health care system, that have made this crisis so much worse. A world in which we prepare for such storms rather than waiting for them to sweep over us.

David Hadbawnik is a poet, translator, and scholar  living and teaching in Eau Claire.

Hope is the thing that treasures the bone after the marrow is licked clean

Hope is the thing that growls at dawn when you poke it with your toes. yowls and yawns. chases sunrise into the kitchen. kibble clinks tin, kettle whistles, toast pops, slurpy slops. hope pricks up its ears, chases its tail, guards the yard. hope squirrels away memories. piney hikes, campsites, gnawed sticks, marshmallow licks. hope pulls the lead. hope rescues. rangy, mangy, flea-bitten, parasite ridden. hope circles, settles, claims a spot by the hearth. hope is the thing that stays with you even when thunder drives her under the bed.

Lisa Henner is a writer and educator. She co-founded the Driftless Writing Center in Viroqua, Wisconsin where she lives with her husband and two indulged dogs.