Church has often felt like eyes staring at me. The eyes of other churchgoers: women who have given me the up-and-down modesty assessment, men I have been afraid of “causing to stumble” by any accidental skirt blowing, the little girls for whom I was taught I should be a model of virtuous womanhood. And then, of course, the eyes of God, which felt much further away, but still always watching me as if to catch all my mistakes. It felt like the eyes were always staring in judgment, looking to see if I fit the description of a “godly young woman.” I didn’t feel grace in those glances. I didn’t feel acceptance. I had a difficult time imagining God looking down on me in love.Read More
The slip of moss and pebble underfoot. Slime of algae and bacteria, bubbling in the tepid water of the shallow creek we follow. My feet on the slip: bare uncalloused toes feeling for some kind of grounding, some kind of earth, some kind of level.Read More
Flannel folded on top of linen on top of velvet and taffeta and silk and calico. Smell of the dryer and iron, tinge of hot metal. The soft cut of thread on dry fingers. The whir of the machine behind the door.Read More
Remember the scrawl of initials on aspens, bark thin and scarred. The flutter of heart-shaped leaves, butter yellow, glowing in the sun.
Remember the shuffle of damp pine needles underfoot, the sifting of thoughts that fall on forest silence.
Remember the want of solitude, threaded to the want of freedom.Read More