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.

Hope Is the Thing With Silence

Jackie McManus

Hope is the silent thing, the space before

robins sound out their warning, seet-seet,

and the space after.

Hope is the thing that fills a room

when flowers and cards have had their say,

when our frayed and complicated lives shout

thank you from windows, doors and yards,

then go quiet, everything forgiven.

It is the toll of a church bell across the brooding sky,

its deep tenderness over a town, over a world in crisis.

Then hope falls on our grieving, so let us grieve.

And when we are done and not before

it won’t seem outlandish to look

to where we are and see how just showing up

has carried us.

Maybe there is a fear of hope.

There is a fear of hope.

Yet hope is in the silence that saves you

on an impossible day, waiting for things to be well,

listening to everything holy between sounds.

 Jackie McManus is a poet who splits her time in Washington and Wisconsin. She is the author of The Earthmover’s Daughter.

Hope is The Thing: Easter, Plan B

Katherine Schneider

A corny Easter joke from Alexa reminded me I’d better get planning my Easter celebration.  The joke:

Q: What do you get when you pour tea on a rabbit?

A: A hot cross bunny!

Those of us who live with disabilities are used to planning and replanning on the fly. If something isn’t accessible, how can we make it work somehow? Is a daily question for us. Planning for Easter in the days of Corona, no problem!

I love Easter with its emphasis on resurrection and new life. In addition to the faith parts, there’s the friends and family, the food and the fun to be enjoyed. Some of my modifications this year:

I’ve ordered food a week ahead of time to be delivered before Easter. Hot cross buns are sometimes hard to find, so I have two people looking for them when they next go to the stores. If I get extra, I’ve already got friends in mind to share with. The friends and family will be greeted by calls or emails. No Easter lily, but the paper white narcissus I’m forcing should be blooming by Easter. 

Instead of attending services, there are many Facebook and YouTube choices (even at my convenience) in addition to the traditional radio and television options. I’ve already downloaded my favorite Easter hymn, “Jesus Christ Has Risen Today” from Freegal music to be played throughout the day.

As Rachael E. Goodrich said in her poem “Easter Is”, “Easter is…
Hoping, believing,
Reviving spent life,” May you have a blessed Easter, full of new life.

Katherine Schneider is a retired clinical psychologist and author. She blogs at http://kathiecomments.wordpress.com and has a column “Corona Chronicle” at www.cvpost.org

Hope is the Conversation that Keeps Us Together

“So apparently ‘piss’ is not an acceptable Scrabble GO word. How can you be 50-0?”

“This week I am ranking all 22 Pixar movies—all I have left to watch is The Good Dinosaur. Can we re-watch Wall-E on Friday for our movie night? I need to revisit that one to get my rankings right. I don’t know if it will beat Coco or Toy Story 2.”

“You are the first spouse to photobomb one of our meetings—can’t you just use the other bathroom?”

“Thank me for this later. . . then tell your dad. ‘Where did Arnold Schwarzenegger find toilet paper? Aisle B. Back.’ You’re welcome.”

“We just have to ride our bikes up to the cones in front of the restaurant and they bring the food out to us? This is the best! I hope they keep doing this after everything opens again!”

“Papa, your camera is still pointed at the ceiling fan—all we can see is your left shoulder. You don’t need to hold the phone to your ear every time you need to talk.”

“You should show outtakes from your Othello videos for class at virtual happy hour tomorrow.”

“Yes, I agree it would be funny, but I don’t think we should record your video jazz band audition with me playing off camera and you just moving your fingers.”

“Am I the only one that thinks we should finish one bike before we bring another one into the living room?”

“Yes, you have to wait to use your power-up in co-op—we’re on the same team!”

“All I could see when I first logged in to your virtual office hours was the back of your head and the kitchen—what’s for dinner?”

“I already finished my math and social studies homework and I didn’t get out of bed once!”

 “Dad, I really don’t want to do virtual piano lessons! Can’t you and I just work on a larger piece together and then start lessons when school reopens? . . . . That lesson was awesome—do we have to do regular lessons once school starts back?”

 “You can ride around the block with your friends, as long as you stay on opposite sides of the street at all times.”

 “Now that school is online, I can just be a virtual vegetarian for my project. All I have to avoid is cyber-meat, so pass the bacon.”

“Hi! It’s your favorite hairstylist! You might have some crazy hair by the end of the month, but that is hopefully when we will get to reopen. Do you want to schedule a day for the end of May? I hope you and your family are healthy and safe!”

Paul Reid teaches writing at Chippewa Valley Technical College and has now added his own children to his class roster.

Hope Is The Thing I Deliver

Amanda Zieba

In the first few days of the coronavirus quarantine efforts my family and I have relied on words to keep our social hearts happy. To show you what I mean, I’ll start by borrowing some words my husband shared on his Facebook feed.

“Maybe social distancing isn’t the right term? My family has been pretty social… through pen pal letters, email, texts, Facetime, Twitter, phone calls, Snapchat, Facebook messages, Instagram, and yelling across the cul-du-sac. A student even wrote me a letter. Make physical proximity distancing would be a better term?”

He’s right. Despite staying home, we’ve had more solid conversations with family and friends in the last week than in the past few months. I’m not exactly thrilled that my entire spring calendar has been wiped clean of paying-author-gigs, but this extra time at home, spent connecting with people I love a lot, hasn’t been awful. I’ve especially loved the letter writing. I always have. Each morning since this quarantine started, I walk out to the mailbox and place in a handful of hope and then put up the little red flag, signaling I have some to send, to share, some hope to spread.

This quarantine hasn’t been awful. It’s given me time to send a little hope in the mail, and to write this poem about the process.

Hope is the Thing I Deliver

Hope is the thing I deliver

one envelope at a time.

It arrives at your door unexpected

and hopefully brings a small smile.

Yes, I thought of you.

I hope that you are well.

This small token is filled

with stories I have no one else to tell.

Ink and paper,

well wishes and care,

all placed with love in this envelope,

and dutifully sent off somewhere.

If its arrival

brightened your day,

maybe return the favor

and send some hope my way.

Amanda Zieba is a firm believer in the power of real, snail mail. She is a writing instructor at Western Technical College and the author of ten books for readers of all ages.

Hope is an embrace

Katy Hackworthy

Hope is an embrace which I’m learning takes many forms:

the elderly couple eating sandwiches over a kitchen sink, their love

encyclopedically etched into sagging faces, or the teens

tangled under a sizable spruce across the street, their tenderness

so delicate I have to look away, or the child forcing his face

into the cat’s fur, inviting the rough ritual of a tongue

traveling across his forehead, their bond becoming a promise.

We are all learning new methods of enveloping each other

without the tools of touch- we share poems in place

of firm squeezes, palm in palm, across the dinner table.

Instead of arms slung swiftly across shoulders, we share songs

to remedy all the ways we don’t know how to say “I love you”.

Our eyes entangle and instead of cradling a cheek in cupped hands,

or brushing loose locks behind an ear, we honor this new way

of holding each other the best we can, refusing to look away.

 Katy Hackworthy is an organizer, caregiver, and writer. Her work has been featured in Barstow and Grand, twig, Volume One, NOTA, and Literally, Darling. She resides in Minneapolis with her cat, Long Walt, and a mountain of books. 

Hope Is The Thing We Need To Go On

Jaimie Vogelsong

His short little legs propel his big blue truck down the pebble covered asphalt, barely balancing his weight over the tailgate. I watch and wait. Will he make it down the driveway? Or will he lose control and take a tumble? Either way, the freedom of the outdoors and the thrill of the run are worth the risk.

As the one we affectionately call Monster Baby tempts the fate of skinned knees, his older brother Wild Boy rides his green bike.

He coasts down the hill, risking the same crash and burn as his younger brother. He rolls through the grass, unaware that standard bike protocol recommends pavement. He rides back to the fence to check on the dogs. He whoops and howls to hear the sound of his echoes as they vibrate around the neighborhood.

Wild Boy is old enough to notice we are spending a lot more time at home, but he is also young enough not to mind most of the time. About once a day he asks to leave for preschool or dinner or to visit the store. So far, we’ve gotten away with simple things like, “not today” or “sorry, it’s closed.” Monster Baby doesn’t notice or care at all.

Monster Baby and Wild Boy know that we’ve started making a few more phone calls to family. They’ve learned what video calls are and love the chance to talk to Grandma. They spend their days dashing through the halls in a shared super hero cape and driving toy cars through the house. They even got to claim a couple of boxes for all their important playtime needs.

They seem blissfully unaware of how scary the world is right now. They don’t know that Mom has worried about everything. Constantly. For days. They haven’t seen her tear up out of nowhere when she is suddenly anxious and fighting off panic or overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers.

The boys know that every day we will have lunch and then take naps. They know Mom has chores and Dad goes to work sometimes. They know that we will go outside in the afternoon if the weather allows, and probably watch a movie after dinner.

The boys know that something is different, but nothing is wrong. They know we are at home and that home is safe. Monster Baby and Wild Boy know that Mom and Dad will do anything for them. For today that means finding a new normal that actually feels normal by leaning in to the love and hope and kindness that makes things a little less scary.

Jaimie Vogelsong is many things, but most of her time is spent being a stay at home mother to Jack and Owen. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Environmental Science and worked professionally in both outdoor recreation and environmental regulations. She spends her days keeping the peace, evenings crocheting, and any spare minutes in the pursuit of knowledge.

Hope Is The Voice Shared Between Us

Alexander Zitzner

“How can I even know what I’m doing in a poem without that other voice there?” -Matthew Rohrer Frank

Frank O’Hara would’ve been terrible at social distancing, but like us, he would’ve adapted. He’d befriended many bohemians comprising New York City’s “avant-garde” art scene in the 50s and mid-60s until his untimely death in 1966. Paging through a book of O’Hara’s will introduce a handful of these friends—John Ashbery, Amiri Baraka, Kenneth Koch, Ron Padgett, even Allen Ginsberg. It’s no surprise then that he loved parties—Picayunes, hor d'oeuvres, negronis, conversing & flirting over pop culture (O! it’s all so sexy!)—he just generally enjoyed company. From Bill Berkson’s A Frank O’Hara Notebook we know Koch described that O’Hara would, “become something of a germ in your life,” after befriending him (how endearing!), and that, “Frank worked every weekday at MoMA, and his friends used to drop in to visit him…”. This level of sociability would’ve run a high phone bill if he couldn’t leave his apartment.

*

As I write this sentence, it’s Friday, March 27th, 4:27PM (almost happy hour!), and I am recovering from Monday’s nervous breakdown, and am about to partake in a new Wisconsin tradition: the take-home fish fry. More importantly, it would’ve been O’Hara’s 94th birthday today and I imagine how hard it would’ve been (and still is!) to celebrate such an occasion alone—especially in New York City. In two poems that come to mind he explored this loneliness —in one of his many poems entitled “Poem” [light clarity avocado salad in the morning], he addresses an “unknown” lover with, “though a block away you feel distant”, then in “Poem En Forme De Saw” he tells us that, “I wanted to be alone / which is why I went to the mill in the first place / now I am alone and I hate it.” In self-isolation I find myself experiencing these lines as if they happened to me, though luckily, O’Hara has a solution: PERSONISM: A MANIFESTO.

*

Currently we can’t see our friends. Personism is then useful as a way to bridge the gap by writing poems to your friends. The last section of the manifesto is where this idea is revealed—the placing of a poem between the writer and another person—like a phone call—where the writer’s voice is conversing with that of another on paper. O’Hara did this to preserve romantic love, but to expand this idea, as my friend Katy Hackworthy has helped me understand, platonic love doesn’t hurt a poem. “What can we expect from Personism?”, he then wrote, “Everything, but we won’t get it,” and he’s correct. I subscribe to art critic John Berger’s idea that, “Poetry can repair no loss but it defies the space which separates. And it does this by its continual labor of reassembling what has been scattered.” So to say we’ve been scattered. Emotionally, physically, financially, you name it—except Paul Celan once wrote, “here the distances decline,”—and my “here” is each poem written this way. The day by day, conversation to conversation attempt at reassembling hope. The strengthening of friendships through the voices of them inside my head

Hope Is Spring Garlic Tops

Derick Black

Last October a co-worker and I were discussing gardening when I had mentioned I wanted to grow garlic. His response was, “Now’s the time!  Get some bulbs in the ground before the first hard frost.” So, with limited knowledge but a head full of “You bet you can,” I headed to the garden and prepared an area for the garlic bulbs, planted them a few inches deep, then covered the bed with a healthy amount of mulch.  With mud beneath my nails and hope in my heart, I walked away from the garden. By 8:00 that night I had forgotten all about the garlic because there were pumpkins to carve. 

February of 2020 turned out to be one filled with personal and international headlines.  Personally, I was home recovering from shoulder surgery and transitioning to life in a recliner. Internationally, the world was transitioning to life with a new, deadly virus. Like most in the insulated midwest I watched the headlines with a drop of growing concern but was more focused on the snowmelt, the deadfall sticks in my yard, and the prospect of raking with only one arm.  After the evil joke that was the winter of 2019, I found my spirits rising with the mercury in the thermometer and the waters in the rivers. A deadly virus is serious stuff, but so is a pair of mating robins and a snow-free yard before the first of March. 

Then things got real. 

COVID in Wisconsin.  COVID in Eau Claire. Seed catalogues in the mail. 

I tend to read seed catalogues like science fiction.  There is a significant amount of suspension of disbelief as I read vegetable names and assign protagonist or antagonist roles to each one.  The good guys: Imperial Star Artichoke, Jersey Giant Asparagus, Baby Wrinkles Pumpkin. The bad guys: Annihilator Bush Bean, Redhawk Cabbage, Delta Yellow Crookneck Squash.  I buy them all with hope of bountiful fall harvest. I’ll plant this spring with a hope for the unknown. May the best vegetable win. 

Last week I took advantage of unseasonably warm weather and walked to the garden to survey the land, take stock of the work to be done, and dream.  Standing like soldiers were greyed stalks of corn overlooking bent tomato cages and a colorless cucumber left in the weeds. I knelt in the dirt and with my good arm reached in and let the soil break apart in my fingers.  Cold and loamy, I held the material that would soon cradle the seeds. But something to my left caught my eye and broke my reverie. There, poking through the mulch were the pale green tops of garlic. Anemic and fragile, somehow, through the cold and harsh winter, they found a way to slowly reach skyward - into the oncoming spring and beyond. 

Derick Black is a Middle School Language Arts teacher in Eau Claire.  

Hope Is The Thing with Four Leaves

Scout Roux

When lady luck weeps

with her many heads

in the day, taut red stems bent

below the windowpane, I know

to take her to the kitchen sink, watch

until the water comes out the other end

brown, salt soaked, and washes down

the drain.

And an hour later, how I am stopped

by her response: sparse wave

of buds

of green growth rising to the east

folded like hands in a prayer

for peace.

I got my luck some place local.

When the cashier asked

if I found everything alright

I let her know

with a smile I had

more than I need.

Hope is a Conversation in a Bar

Anna Loritz

This morning I received a disappointing but not unexpected email. Back in February I accepted a job offer working for a non-profit in New York. My start date was pushed back in light of the pandemic, but I remained hopeful.

The gist of this morning’s email: It is highly unlikely the organization will run programs for the rest of the year, and in an attempt to preserve itself, the organization is laying off a majority of its employees, including me and my boss. My boss, his wife, and their two children have all tested positive for COVID-19.

I’m disappointed in my lost opportunity and anxious for my “would be” boss and his family, but I am heartbroken by the prospect of the organization closing. The Hudson River Sloop Clearwater is a 19th century replica sailing vessel with an environmental activism mission. Since the late ’60s, this 100-foot historic wooden sailboat has worked to educate the public -- particularly young people -- about environmental protection and restoring and preserving the ecosystem of the Hudson River. 

In an alternate version of the next six months, I would be sailing with school groups, casting nets for critter population samples, teaching the physics of sailing, performing science experiments right on deck, singing sea shanties...sun on our faces, wind in our hair…

About a year ago, I decided to leave a stable job as a classroom teacher to lead the unpredictable life of a tall ship sailor. The tall ship's world is full of organizations like Clearwater. They seek to educate about history or science while preserving the art of sailing historic wooden ships. Some are right in our backyard, Denis Sullivan in Milwaukee and Inland Seas in Suttons Bay, Michigan.

Many worthy nonprofits are having to shutter their doors these days, but it is unlikely that many ships will recover from this pandemic. They rely on their summer sailing season to fund their maintenance costs, slip fees, and crew wages. One summer without sails could easily result in hauling out their vessel for it to sit in a shipyard. When a wooden boat dries out, the wood shrinks, and costly leaks are formed. They need to sail to survive.  With daily news of closures from sailing friends and former crewmates, I’m witnessing the slow death of one of my greatest passions. 

As I stared at my laptop, letting the reality of the email sink in, my mind kept wandering back to a conversation I had in a bar one rainy October night, when I was a deckhand on the Lady Washington. 

The Captain and I each had a few empty glasses and a brandy in front of us.  We were chatting about the organization's financial troubles, and he said, "Quite honestly a lot of tall ship organizations are not in a good spot. I think if there is another recession or another big....whatever, only a few will weather it." 

“Which ones?” I asked solemnly. 

“Clearwater,” he nodded, sipping his brandy. “They’ll survive.” 

Part teacher, part sailor, Anna Loritz is spending this time of “social distancing” reading, writing, catching up with friends on the phone, and making masks for the Children’s Hospital of Wisconsin.