Welcome

Novena

I.

O big machine 

that I have been traveling in since 

5 a.m., please take all us souls sitting 

in rows above numinous city lights that look 

the same from 30,000 feet high no matter coast 

and deliver us safely 2,186 miles from where we started 

to a plot of land built on basement rock south of Lake Ontario.

II.

O my brother, 

this delivery of myself from coast to coast 

is not working for me anymore when I would 

much rather be sitting simply by a window and telling you about the 

Mexican whip-poor-wills that skitter from branch to 

branch on the desert willow, how they congregate, how they 

seek communion, how they are wholly offerors, calling to mind 

the drive we once made in a rented minivan, 

389 miles through fallen beech leaves when we missed 

exit after exit after exit before we realized we were never 

going to be where we wanted to be.

III.

O ghost light, 

O ephemeral will-o-wisp 

that is supposed to illuminate the way, 

where are you?

And why is belief in you 

all the evidence I have left that there are 

rooms beyond these rooms, 

a promise of eastern redbud blossoms when we land, 

a miracle of space in which we all might meet again.

IV.

O flight I live inside, 

where the bleed air sounds as hollow as 

the wind coming off Lake Ontario in winter, 

making me feel otherworldly, free-form, as if I don’t even know 

which way earth is anymore, as if I might be able to 

live inside you forever, 

lulled by your rhythm, 

in love with oblivion.

V.

O sun that has still not risen, 

you are also missing 

from my memory of a young man 

wearing a wool mackinaw in warm weather, 

and your absence also feels profound,

as if it will be everlasting.

VI.

O flight, 

O birds, 

O Mexican whip-poor-wills that I cannot see, 

that are no where near me but that I believe are somewhere out there resting 

on a low branch, rousing your feathers into realignment—which of you

is the god who will tell me everything is where it should be,

and who will share with me your divinity?

VII.

O elusive first light, 

O will-o-wisp,

O sliver of new day, 

all I ask for is a glimmer at the horizon line, 

anything to pretend night was never here and yet—heed this—

night is magnificent, 

the way it comes out of the depths of its opposite and

spreads itself thousands of miles in an instant 

to let us know there is no greater form of worship.

VIII.

O my brother, 

O your divinity, 

O the way you 

moved through the world for so many years without me 

when I would have given anything to sit simply by a window 

and tell you the body has a way of speaking slowly at first but then 

eventually it begs 

to be brought back to its place, 

which is how you sometimes find yourself 

traveling toward an expanse of bedrock 

you once were glad to forsake.

IX.

O big machine,

please hurry through this never-ending predawn purgatory

to the expanse of land south of Lake Ontario which is still miles away 

from this confining 9 x 12 window and yet which is still the only

deity I have ever known, from which he and I were both sown, to which only

one of us returns. 

Amy Schmitz's first collection of poetry, Border Crossing, was published in 2018. Amy's work has been published in the Westchester Review, Gyroscope Review, The Connecticut River Review, High Plains Literary Review, Sugar House Review, San Pedro River Review, Borderlands: Texas Literary Review, Louisiana Review, Askew, Poetry International, and elsewhere. Amy has an MFA from George Mason University and is a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer who served in Cape Verde, West Africa. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, USA. 

Sound

on mute

I covered my mouth with your

Silence

and

translating silence

You become

Sound

Passing

appearing and disappearing

I Least Expected It

I took your word
your eyes smiled truth
and your lips cosigned it into fact.

I found your voice waiting for me
in a miscellaneous file on your cell phone
they returned to me, seven days after you
made your departure.

No last kiss
No final hug

No itinerary
No written note

for me to chart your journey or whereabouts.

I took your word
your silence loud and clear
leaving me behind when
I least expected it.

Shadow Play

I played a game of chess with my shadow

until the sun took its leave

I kept score on a matchbox
I confiscated from the hotel bar

In the company of silence
I wait for the sun to finish its respite

before my patience wears thin

and my bones cry uncle

My shadow, you, and I

agree to postpone our game

until the sun promises to 

return the same time,
same place,
tomorrow

My Concubine

Fingering the ring on my finger, I remember

how you never removed it from your hand,

no matter what.

I admired how you never worried about losing it.

Now that it has become my concubine in your stead,

I spend much of my time making sure

that it is still on my finger, safe and secure in your absence.

I try not to think of what will become of me if it

should fall prey to some unknown circumstance

without my knowing.

I only hope it will remain with me

until I choose to set it free.

E.J. Wade is an award‑winning poet, author and Pushcart Award nominee whose work appears in major Appalachian and national literary journals. She holds a doctorate in Education and master’s degrees in Appalachian Studies and Creative Media Practice, reflecting her deep expertise in literature, culture, and educational practice.

Birdwatching

It’s only a jay, I say—

as if June’s drought

and azure wings

aren’t enough, and

seeds of piñon pines

wing themselves

across a desert—

a desert that at sunset

makes constellations of dust

from the embers of the day,

and demands the crested

and the crestless learn quickly

to turn twigs

and shredded bark

into a kind of home.

Forgive me.

Tim Raphael’s chapbook, More Earth Than Flame, was a finalist in the 2025 Slapering Hol Press Chapbook Contest, and his poem, "Prayer of a Nonbeliever," was a Pushcart Prize nominee and won Terrain.org's 2024 poetry contest. His newest poems will appear in the forthcoming issue of Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment. 

resounding mysteries

sweeping

the floors

of the inner altar

a theophanic

sanctuary

sings with silence

the heart beats

the soul rejoices

channels opening

the mind—a servant to

the spirit, the body

a vessel

the organ plays

its heart-wrenching chorus

an echo inside my heart

waking me out of the daily slumber

what beautiful music

clear as crystal

tucked into cave crevices

chasms of sparkling

unknowns

never to be seen

by human eyes

how appropriate

it is

for some beauty to remain

a mystery, to remain untouched

by wanting hands—

always where it belongs

never within reach
 

union

fingers dipped in shadows

touch the tip of your tongue

tell me

how night tastes on the back of your throat

how it sits in your stomach

turns blood to brine to beauty

tell me

how secrets sound sung as lullabies

how the world shines through obsidian hues

tell me

what emerges from charcoal and ash

tell me

oh, tell me

how darkness became your lover

and showed you the stars 

H. Leopold (they/them) is a creative winnower with a master’s degree in Religious Studies. They’re the former editor for Sourced Press and the current editor for Pedestrian Dignity’s Civic Action Zine. You can find their poetry in the forthcoming issue of Starborne Journal. H wholeheartedly welcomes collaborations: hleopold.com. 

I Built My Own City

and lived in its ghostly presence.

I walked along, creating souls.

Within that city, I was not hinged

to her memory.

I am Trying

to explain the reason. I wanted

to tell a story that held her memory

in a tight grasp. Knuckles flexed -- I wanted

to never let go.

It tears you apart.

You have to let go or it tears you apart.

Note: These poems originally appear in Sheffield's poetry collection Underground City (2026) and are reprinted here by permission of the author. 

Tommy Sheffield is a disabled, neurodivergent writer who lives in Washington, DC, where he teaches high school English in Southeast DC. His poems, stories, and essays have been published in ucity review, Adelaide, Sanitarium, and a number of other magazines. His chapbooks From Whom We Trace the Bones, Ashore, Where God Has Gone, and These Things Are Often Sealed Within were published by Voice Lux Press in March 2022. He has served as the Poetry Editor for Stillhouse Press for a number of years, editing and publishing five critically acclaimed poetry books, and helping to oversee new projects. He is a co-founder of Shiversong LLC alongside Megan Merchant.  

A Thousand Normal Days

The Creative

Like stained glass

yours is a language

of deep hues—

ruby, cobalt, amber. 

Your reverence for 

a single ray of light

compels you 

to serenade eternity.

Your painted light

breathes on walls,

fully human,

completely alive.

~~~

A childhood

confined to twilight

taught you that

longing 

is more important than

having.

Into the deep well

you tossed

shimmering tokens—"Do I . . .

catch your eye,

belong,

matter?"

~~~

Sometimes you

count the days

other times you

weigh them. 

The beauty you create

is a prism of

suffering and love

refracting each

until

tears

become

jewels. 

~~~

Love lost

to the lie that

if your demons

take flight

your angels

are sure to follow.

The shadow of death

can't darken

the promise of

connection, 

imagination,

being seen. 

~~~

Feel the 

Earth's rotation.

Rejoice in the

rising and setting sun.

The fruit of your spirit

is a long goodbye

woven throughout a 

thousand

normal

days. 

"A Thousand Normal Days / The Creative" is Landon Johnson's first publication of any kind. He writes because he finds it the most effective way to organize his chaotic thoughts and feelings. 

Κόσμος

Good in Ging’ Ham cloth—

cold comin’—

Callin’ ta Son.

Sung’um slung slack-ed

To floors and odes.

And bird whiles a- fallen’

From the skies above.

On stars,

and ropes spun

Ta holem’

once to fly flung—

broken.

There—

red pots ta boils—

With sharp-ed fins pierced—

Lids undone and arch-ed,

a fyars dowsed,

By words—

by waters.

But Perfect flint’d faces,

smile.

Where from darkened places,

beyond.

Filled with fins and words,

and waters.

Ta places by rope-ed hands—

Unbound.

And from Ging’ Ham thread—

Birds will fall from skies.

Where Sones abide,

where rivers fly.

Hung for eyes.

And words.

And waters.

Portuguese

Un’a came—

Whéthe the slép’n fell,

While’n ōurs süng,

früm the Sön.

Und dem swëpun chile,

still kno’n all to be known—

Then, there were stars awhile,

wait’n for oportün ta fall—

To birth.

An’a whén th’m earth’n hearts brün,

there whéreh them people’s cry’n.

Born’n we call’n,

born’n brün’d from Sön,

and fyard wood.

Brün-ed we are,

them people.

Then mak’n uns

Whéthe solemn’d unds,

We cry.

Fyre:

White palm-ed peoples come,

sanded brown and earthun cracked—

Poles raised.

To see the Son—

Vein’d and hymns unsung’n,

they come.

To beat,

and pray.

There are dried strips,

hominy—buckskin.

There are fish planted.

children—skins.

And no one leaves.

And no one cries.

Where all are walkun.

Where they come to lie.

Where is them fiyard ones?

Where is them?

With sōōt-en faces and crōw-ed eyes.

And black-un tongues?

To sing.

To sigh.

They are fork-ed.

We are clove’d.

Mask-ed to darkness.

Where smudge sage-ed grows.

And white palm-ed peoples come.

dancing.

Poles.

And Sun—

Oats:

The beautiful ones go,

as silt-ed salt-un waters rise.

wanting depth—

they cannot come.

There are garnet stones,

and opals—

Flashed to heaven,

where clouds ache for reflection,

and wash themselves in rain.

There are hands here clasped.

Lips cracked and anchors held.

Waiting for water,

hoping for alabaster.

Praying for land and not sea.

—But the beautiful ones go on—

With wind-ed cheeks,

and whit-ed noses.

With little grace

but redeemed by color.

And sull-un swords for words,

fall fleeting from blue’d lips.

And masses cry with cupped hands to water—

“Give us rain!”

“Give us rain!”

“Give us stones to praise!”

“And oats!”

Paint-ed they fall,

ash-un blue and covered.

Hold-un firm to one and two.

Eyes rest-ed, waiting for night.

—The beautiful ones go on—

With rust-ed grains.

With wave-ed hands.

And sinew stretched and white.

They are perfume’d, bless-ed, and polite.

But ash’d blue they lay—

ash’d blue they sing.

“We long for rain”

“We long for rain”

“Stones to praise”

“And oats”

Jason Filbert is a husband with four children. He works as a pastor in Naples, Florida, USA. Jason feels that his work endeavors to understand the space between southern folklore and American identity.

Renewal

Running towards renewal

That old rugged cross

It is the best this world has to offer

Like solitude on a rainy day

A cyclone blows in the streets

As the winds wash you away

Tired of walking in rain-swept streets

Settle down here before it drives you insane

In your life, you just don't hesitate

To drive the pains away

When you struggle

Life revolves and sways

Trading a cross for a crown

Living for Yahweh

Void of any frowns

It is my life story

Richard McClellan was born in Yellville, Arkansas (USA). He served in the U.S. Army, and has traveled the world including Japan, Korea, Portugal, Italy, Canada, and most of the lower forty-eight United States and Alaska. His favorite place that he has visited is the Azores Islands in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. 

Author’s Note on "Silver Trains"

A reflection on how ordinary moments can open into midday reverie.

Silver Trains

Not long to stay,
our late June days.

Sweet summer rains
race on the pane,

small silver trains
down these lost lanes.

Cold city embrace
in cement encased,

a numb frantic pace,
left without trace

to a newfound place.

Our stories begin,
unknown from when—

petals loosed in wind
twist, twirl, and spin.

Red dust and kin.

Long have I roamed
in high wind flown.

Deep in the loam,
a new sprout shone:

Humble path home,
with end not shown.

Chadwick Rowland is a Catholic writer and attorney based in Washington, D.C. A recent convert, he writes at the intersection of longing, memory, and grace. His poetry is shaped by pilgrimage, silence, and surrender. 

Shades of Sorrow

Elbow stuck on sill, her knuckle-propped chin

Glued next to a vase overflowing with dead. 

Unpetalled stalks, she is piqued by the loss.

She ponders the difference between deep

Sadness and its miserable cousin 

Melancholia. Sadness hides no dread

Never outdoes itself, a light kiss, 

Tears stop, briskly dry. Melancholia seeps 

Into bones, scars outlast. If gifted 

Flowers arrive with fond note she will return

Their pre-skeletal poses before they weep.

But to forget the note and at last lift

The spirit, she strolls slowly through the garden,

Flowers upon flowers, lets fragrance pass.

Pramod Lad was born in India and has a Ph.D. in biochemistry from Cornell University. He was a scientist at the National Institutes of Health. His poems have been accepted in Wilderness House, Eclectica Magazine, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Litbreak Magazine, Amethyst Review, Soul Forte, Neologism, Verse Virtual, Umbrella Factory, Raven Review, and elsewhere.

Cuban Tavern

Cigar tavern.

Silently screaming 

"Come, come whoever, you are"

No questions

Just QUESTIONS.

Lit!

Puffing infinity.

Eyes 

Wide shut.

Truth becomes 

relaxed

Waltzing through

Time

Puffing with friends

All searching for 

THE FRIEND

i . . . came.

i . . . saw.

i . . . was conquered

Will 

Return

Dr. Faisal Sheikh is a poet and an accounting academic in England. 

A Perfect Sacrifice

What would you trade? To be worthy? 

It is a great sacrifice, 

For the one who makes “my son” the answer. 

The one who climbed up the hill, his hand speckled with age. His own son’s hand felt small in his, clammy from the walk, but not with doubt. 

“My son" is the boy who cried out, who begged, who looked the angel in the face and wished he could say thank you, thank you for saving me. His own father was holding the knife. 

The boy had seen many sheep slain that way, 

Many sacrifices to their god. Haven’t I always been good? 

His own father was acting funny, gruff, angry. So that it didn’t seem a jest when the boy himself was placed on the altar.

And it happens twice! 

The boy cries out, please, no, but this time there is no angel. His father watches. He doesn’t care to stop it. 

A crowd jeers as the boy bleeds. His powerful father chose it for him. 

But did anyone think to ask Mary? Did anyone think to ask Sarah?

Jules LeFort is an academic librarian, writer, and daydreamer in Nashville, Tennessee. She collaborates with trees to write stories about nature, the self, and occasionally, sorrow. She is currently working on her first novel. 

The Fire of Transformation:

How Being Lost in the Woods I Found Myself

Sometimes it takes a journey to come home.

                                                              ~Stephen Levine 

ONE

He was a full-blooded Karuk medicine man. Many knew him as Red Hawk. Fierce and funny, confident and full of generosity, Charlie Thom was physically strong and warm of heart. He often sat quietly and when he spoke his words fleshed out and dissolved anything that was untrue or insincere. His presence was both peaceful and passionately alive. At a moment’s notice he would sing and dance, bringing joy to those around him. I’ve not met anyone like Charlie before or since. “I work full time for Great Spirit,” he once told me. His life reflected the fact that everything is relational. Great Spirit moves everything and all is a manifestation of Great Spirit. This is what guided Charlie Thom’s life. Charlie’s intuition was impeccable. This deep connection may be why, when in his presence things happened that defy logical explanation, synchronistically, seemingly magically. I had been participating in Sweat Lodge ceremonies with Charlie Thom for about seven years and it was clear that it was time to take a deeper dive. Charlie sensed this and invited me to join a group for a ten day quest in the Salmon Mountains of Northern California. 

After a five hour flight to San Francisco I met up with Sam who travelled with Charlie often. We rented a car and drove north along the California coast to Siskiyou county. We took turns driving, and when we entered Yreka, Charlie’s home town, I was asleep in the passenger seat. Several miles outside of town Sam shook me awake. “We’re here,” he said. The car inched up a steep driveway. Charlie walked down to meet us. I had not seen him in six months. We stopped the car. Charlie approached me and stuck his head through the open passenger window. His smiling face loomed large as he said in an enthusiastic voice “Bruce . . . you’re lost!” With that he walked back up the driveway to his home, laughing. After having known the Káruk medicine man for years, I knew this was both an omen and a statement of fact about where I was in my life. Lost.

I was indeed lost on many levels. My professional work was going well. At the same time, despite my success I inwardly believed I was a fraud, always fearful that I would be found out. I gave inspiring lectures about the innate intelligence within us and the universal intelligence that courses through all of life. At the same time I was disconnected from this Spirit in all things and wasn’t even aware of the disconnection. I had been taught that I’m unworthy and in my self-doubt I often turned away from the things I wanted most, finding myself lost in a sea of outer persuasions and beliefs that threw me off course. This filtered into my intimate relationships as well. I believed that the only way to be loved was to be a hero, a savior, a man with no needs or vulnerability. This was not working out well and my marriage was falling apart.

In the midst of these struggles I sensed something that was trustworthy, powerful and infinitely compassionate deep within me, and I recognized that Charlie’s invitation could be a guidepost in pointing me in that direction. My quest in the Marble Mountains wilderness area would give me a glimpse of what exists beyond these turbulent waters and was lifesaving in more ways than one. It would reveal to me what is possible beyond what I believed was possible. It would bring me into relationship with true Source, that which is benevolent and giving, full of genuine power and a fountain of wisdom and true guidance. It would be the impetus for a new and authentic relationship with myself and the world I was creating and drawing to me.

TWO

Sam and I drove to the top of the long driveway and arrived on the porch of the medicine man’s home. Charlie gave each of us a warm hug. He and his wife would host the fifteen participants who signed up for the quest in their home for two days as we prepared for a week in the wilderness. As was the Native custom we slept on spare beds, on couches, on the floor in sleeping bags so we could all have meals together and spin tales deep into the night. The next morning Charlie pulled off the covers that wrapped my sleeping body. “Get up”, he said, “we have something important to do.” Four of us piled into Charlie’s pickup truck. He sped through the darkness up winding dirt roads until we reached a plateau overlooking the valley. Once there Charlie sang, drummed and danced. Soon the rose-red fingers of dawn poked above the horizon. This was the way to begin the day: thanking the sun and the earth, the wind and sea, the very sources of our physical existence.

The next morning we all woke before sunrise. It would be a twelve mile hike from the trailhead to Spirit Lake, each of us carrying camping gear in fully loaded backpacks. Several of Charlie’s friends met us at the trailhead with supplies and two horses. Charlie would ride horseback to our encampment. The medicine man was getting on in years. Charlie spoke of his horse not as a vehicle, but as his beloved brother. Their ride together would be an opportunity to connect with each other and with the majesty of these sacred mountains. Our instructions were sparse and specific: follow the trail to Spirit Lake. There would be no trail makers except a sign at a crossroads seven miles in. Turn right at the sign.

As we walked our chatter dissipated and our sense of time slowly fell away. I paused to watch a small cascade feed a trailside stream. In doing so I fell behind the group ahead of me. When I reached the crossroads I saw a sign that said “Spirit Lake” pointing to a trail straight ahead. The instructions were to turn right at the crossroads. I decided to follow the sign’s instructions instead of turning right. Maybe I misunderstood the instructions. After a good while on this trail I noticed hoof prints headed in the direction I was coming from. I was clearly not on the trail the others had traversed. I continued on and became disoriented. Lost in a huge wilderness with no communication with the group or the world outside. I was lost, as Charlie had foretold. I was terrified and continued on. At the point of exhaustion I finally saw a dim light ahead. I staggered into the encampment and saw the faces of the friends I had been with that morning. It turns out that both routes ended at Spirit Lake. The one I chose was five miles longer. 

We lived in community together for the time we were there, in community with each other, with trees, animals, birds, insects, air, water, fire and rock. Together we built a Sweat Lodge from saplings, thanking the woody beings who gave their lives for the sacred structure we were building. In the evening we ate heartily, told tales and shared joys and sorrows until one-by-one each of us retired to sleeping bags as welcome sleep conferred blissful rest to weary bodies and minds. 

Once the turtle-shaped Sweat Lodge was constructed and properly covered, we were ready for five days of purification and prayer. The Lodge represents Mother Earth and within this womb of heat and the darkness we would shed physically and emotionally whatever blocked each one of us from what is essential, enlivening and real. What needed to be shed was different for each of us and sometimes the purification could be quite painful. Charlie Thom’s guidance, instructions, prayers and songs were guided by an infinite source and completely trustworthy. We each came into direct contact with what needed to be experienced and released, and perhaps most important we did this together, with the essential relational support needed for such transformation.

“Today is a beautiful day to end something in our life.” We each asked for the death of what no longer serves ourselves and others. This was revealed to me from the deepest part of myself. It was like someone shined a light on the dark places within me. I had sat in countless Lodges with Charlie Thom. They had always been healing, sometimes uncomfortable, always tolerable. This time it was different. I began to feel sick and full of fear. The imbalances inside me were being purged. I felt like I was dying. I shook uncontrollably. A couple of folks from the community came to my aid, offering healing and care. A deep grief welled up. I was exhausted, weeping and trembling. My soul forced me to slow down and be with these places that had been disconnected from my true nature and spirit, to know them fully and release them.

This liminal place was difficult and disorienting. Great Spirit had taken me into a territory that I needed to traverse and was ready for. Everything I believed about being strong and courageous was turned upside down. I was helpless, afraid and flat on my back. In this condition I was cared for. Love emerged and approached me. There was nothing I could do but receive the kindness and support, nothing I needed to do. My heart opened and I offered love. And then there was just... Love. What felt disorienting is that everything was being reoriented to something that is much greater and something was breaking open. It was like my DNA was being reconstructed. This was happening for each of us. We helped each other, walked together through this territory, and the ancient rituals and songs knew precisely how to guide us, to see us through.

On the fifth day we had completed our purification ceremonies and restored the site to the condition it had been in before we arrived. As much as possible we would leave no trace of having been there. I spoke with Charlie and presented my plan to him. The group planned to leave for the trailhead the next day. I wanted to spend the last night camping by myself in the forest and then take an escarpment trail back the next morning. It would be a solo vision quest of sorts and I was ready. Charlie agreed. After a farewell breakfast with the group that had become family, I packed up my gear. Charlie walked me to the edge of camp, handed me maps marking the route I planned to take and bid me well, as a father sending his son off an an important rite of passage.

I hiked until dusk and set up my tent in a small natural clearing covered with soft pine needles. The air smelled of cedar, spruce and hemlock. As I dozed off in my sleeping bag the sounds of the wilderness invited me to join in the remarkable diversity of life of which I was a small participant. It was humbling and enlivening. The next morning I packed up and set out on the steep climb to the escarpment trail. Once there I’d spend hours on this narrow rim trail encircling the vast basin, looking out on the stunning vivid white cliffs of Marble Mountain.

Carrying a fully loaded backpack I felt strong and confident as if I could hike forever and never weaken or tire. I was full of life and my sense of being lost was gone. I felt happy and content. As I neared the last stretch of the escarpment trail I heard a dog barking. Was it my imagination? I turned around and saw a dog running towards me, full speed ahead. The dog’s eyes were focused downward. A moment later I saw the reason for the dog’s flight. A bear was furiously chasing the dog. I quickly assessed my situation. I was standing on a four foot wide trail. On one side was a sheer cliff face. On the other side was a five hundred foot drop. I calculated that the bear would catch up with the dog exactly where I stood. I would soon be thrown to my death or mauled in a vicious battle.

Just as these thoughts arose, the dog, who had been looking downward at the trail raised his gaze slowly until his vision locked with mine. A moment later the dog reared up and confronted the bear. In a swirl of dust and frenetic ferment the bear reared up as well and then turned, running back down the trail. The dog had prevailed and chased the bear away. I stood stunned and amazed, my body vibrating with this remarkable divergence from death. The dog turned back toward me, ran to where I stood and sat at my feet. I lifted off my backpack and we sat there together for a good while. When I was ready to leave, the dog and I walked together briefly and then he ran ahead on the trail and disappeared. I continued on with a stride that was slow and steady.

THREE

As the afternoon sun descended in the sky I reached a checkpoint and saw a few of my Sweat Lodge companions sitting there, resting. As I approached them they all stood up and a man in the group exclaimed “What happened to you?” It was clear from my countenance that I had gone through something other-worldly. I was not ready to recount the tale. As we walked together quietly towards the trailhead my mind and emotions relaxed. I told the entire story from start to finish exactly as it happened.

That evening we all gathered in a local restaurant in Yreka, as was customary after Sweat Lodge ceremonies with Charlie. Many locals joined us, eager to hear about our time at Spirit Lake. We placed our food orders, filled glasses with wine and chatted. Then Charlie announced: “Bruce has a story to tell.” I had not been prepared for this yet rose to the occasion, telling the story in detail from start to finish as I had done back on the trail.

Silas, a mountain guide who had been with us the entire time at Spirit Lake said to me, “So what do you think happened up there?”

“Well,” I replied, “the dog saved my life.”

He and Charlie looked at each other shaking their heads. Silas explained:

“It was the other way around. A dog would never confront a bear like that. And if he did, the dog would be killed. You were filled with Spirit, my friend and when the dog looked into your eyes, he was filled with 

Spirit too and did what was beyond what he believed was possible. The bear realized this power and ran back to her cubs. You saved the dog’s life.”

Charlie walked over to my chair. I stood up to face him. He gave me a big hug and smiled. Then he turned to the assembly of folks at the dinner table and announced: 

“I’ve been trying to teach him something for seven years and finally something happened that’s worth talking about.” 

Robust laughter broke out on Charlie’s announcement, and one-by-one stories emerged from our time together at Spirit Lake. We ate, drank and talked well into the night until the waning moon brought our adventure to a close and we all sauntered off to our beds to delight in peaceful and welcome slumber.

Dr. Bruce Schneider is a writer who practices cranio-sacral chiropractic care in New Paltz, New York. 

I am Patient

I am patient

There is no hurry

All come to me eventually

of their own accord, willingly

although some may appear reluctant

at first

I travel the universe

Some are surprised to find themselves 

in my company

Others welcome me

Some seek me out

Many call me Death

I call myself, A New Beginning.

With degrees in biology and chemistry, Hal Taylor worked most of his career as an electrical engineer, designing computer controls and writing software. He began writing poetry while in university. When he was not writing, he was painting and drawing. In his soul, Hal believes poems should say more than words. The combining of words and sounds provides a key to deeper understanding of life.