MOTHER
The love of a mother is a profound and intricate tapestry, woven with threads of unconditional care, unwavering support, and a profound understanding that transcends words. It is a force that shapes our lives from the very beginning, nurturing our growth, guiding our steps, and leaving an indelible mark on our souls.
From the moment a mother cradles her newborn in her arms, a bond is formed that defies definition. It is a primal connection, an instinctual understanding that transcends language and reason. The first touch, the first gaze, the first whisper – these are the building blocks of a love that will endure through time and circumstance.
A mother's love is a constant source of strength and security. It is the safe haven we return to when the world feels overwhelming, the gentle hand that guides us through life's uncertainties. It is the unwavering belief in our potential, even when we doubt ourselves.
As we grow, a mother's love adapts and evolves. It becomes the steady hand that helps us navigate the challenges of childhood, the encouraging voice that whispers, "You can do it!" when we face our first fears. It is the shoulder we cry on when our hearts are broken, the warm embrace that soothes our pain.
A mother's love is not always easy. It requires sacrifice, patience, and a willingness to put the needs of her children before her own. It means staying up late with a sick child, wiping away tears, and offering comfort when words fail. It means celebrating our triumphs and offering solace in our failures.
Through the years, a mother's love becomes a guiding light, illuminating our path and providing us with a sense of purpose. She is the one who teaches us right from wrong, instills in us our values, and helps us develop our sense of self.
Her love is a constant source of inspiration, reminding us that we are capable of great things. It is the fuel that propels us to pursue our dreams, to overcome obstacles, and to strive for excellence.
A mother's love is a gift that keeps on giving. It is a source of strength, comfort, and inspiration that we carry with us throughout our lives. It is a love that transcends time and circumstance, a love that endures even when we are miles apart.
But a mother's love is not just about the sacrifices she makes or the lessons she teaches. It is also about the joy she finds in watching her children grow and thrive. It is about the pride she feels when her children achieve their dreams.
It is the shared laughter, the inside jokes, the memories that are woven into the fabric of our family. It is the simple moments of connection – a cup of coffee shared on a rainy morning, a phone call to say "I love you," a hug that speaks volumes.
A mother's love is a complex and multifaceted thing, a love that is both powerful and tender, both fierce and gentle. It is a love that defies definition, a love that can only be felt in the depths of our hearts.
It is a love that shapes who we are, that guides us through life's journey, and that leaves an indelible mark on our souls. It is a love that transcends words, a love that is eternal.
Even when our mothers are no longer with us, their love remains a constant presence in our lives. It is the legacy they leave behind, a legacy of love, support, and guidance that inspires us to live our lives to the fullest.
Ancient
The drunken swiftness of the waves
Calms me
From a reverie of unpredictable marches
A lost song of victory and losses
As she possessed the divinity of all things
Things high and low lay bare
The stratum of bounty Hastings
The unnameable spoken mantra, the soma of life
Lying all over the fringe of all things
Knitted in a divine mastery
I knew the ancient waters, the green scenery
As the rivers comingle with the ever chanting song fare.
First of all, we wish everyone a very happy Earth Day! Here’s a picture from regular contributing artist Jacques Fleury.
Image c/o Jacques Fleury
Poet and essayist Abigail George, whom we’ve published many times, shares the fundraiser her book’s press has created for her. She’s seeking contributions for office supplies and resources to be able to serve as a speaker and advocate for others who have experienced trauma or deal with mental health issues.
Also, the Educational Bookshop in Jerusalem, a store that has the mission of peaceful dialogue and education, invites readers to donate new or gently used books (all genres) that have been meaningful to them, with a note enclosed for future readers about why the books were meaningful. (The books don’t have to be about peace or social justice or the Mideast, although they can be). Please send books here. US-based Interlink Publishing has also started a GoFundMe for the store.
We’re also having a presence at the Hayward Lit Hop festival this year, and we encourage everyone to attend this free, all-ages event! Many local writers will share their work and we will also host an open mic.
Image c/o Carl Gorringe
Passing along a message from someone who contacted us. If you’re interested, please email Mark directly at jennybridge45@gmail.com
Hi there, As a seasoned coordinator of educational events, this is my official introduction. Mark is my name. I hope our conversations won’t be hampered by my hearing loss. For an upcoming workshop, I’m searching for an illustrator, cartoonist, or artist to work with on a project. I’ll go over the project needs in detail and pay your fees in advance if you can assist. Once I indicate what has to be depicted or drawn, you can estimate the cost.
Mark Stewart from Ohio, USA.
This month’s theme is Lost and Found.
Photo c/o Brian Barbeito
Brian Barbeito shares a mindful reflection on walking a paved road, finding a human place in nature. Rustamova Asalay depicts a farmer in tune with the sun and the cycles of nature. Stephen Jarrell Williams contributes several different ways of looking at and interacting with a city plaza. David Woodward contemplates life and aging while observing his garden, yet to bloom. Sayani Mukherjee dreams of flowers, rivers and mortality, biological life undergirding a modern city. Grzegorz Wroblewski, in a second set of poetry translated by Peter Burzynski, probes the corporeal and how we nourish ourselves.
Maniq Chakraborty speaks to being a lost traveler on a psychological journey. David Sapp writes of ordinary people and the weight of regret for their past choices, whether justifiable or not. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poetry portrays people trapped in memory or dreamtime. Graciela Noemi Villaverde laments our human limitations: mortality and fragmentary knowledge. Sheila Murphy addresses isolation, confusion, and the weakness of language when it comes to expressing inmost feelings.
Bokijonova Madinabonu Batirovna’s piece explores the universality of grief and how it fragments and hardens some people’s selves. Denis Emorine’s novella Broken Identities explores the weight of the past, even a past we didn’t live through, and how it affects our sense of self. Tamara Walker (T.A. Aehrens)explores the practical and psychological process of repentance and healing from cultural sins in her novel Leaves from the Vine in an interview with editor Cristina Deptula. Vo Thi Nhu Mai’s elegant, understated poems express the weight of memory and unanswered questions.
Eva Petropolou Lianou’s poem, translated from Greek to English, and then to Bangla by Md. Sadiqur Rahman Rumen, expresses a warmer view of the past and nostalgia for the simple kindnesses of her childhood. Sterling Warner’s poetry revels in nostalgia, nature, and culture – from Silicon Valley to Oktoberfest. Mahbub Alam describes in great detail the Bangladeshi New Year celebration. Rashidova Shaxrizoda pays homage to her cultural past and the poetic heritage of Alisher Navoi. Kylian Cubilla Gomez looks at nature and culture with a whimsical and curious eye. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa learns from the past while planning for the future and playfully musing about the present.
Nigar Nurulla Khalilova’s poetic speaker leaves a beloved to pursue artistic dreams in a journey that resembles a camel caravan. Lalezar Orinbayeva reflects on how her youthful dreams have changed over time, but she has not lost her optimism or determination. Ismailova Hilola outlines events that inspired her to become a teacher, how she found her life’s calling.
Eshboyev Oybek Davlat Oglu also speaks to education, highlighting potential roles for e-learning. Shahina Olimova researches the use of role-playing games in English language learning.
Chimezie Ihekuna shares his life’s purpose, asserting his artistic independence and desire to make the world a better place through writing and music. Biljana Letic of the Balkan Beats radio program interviews Maja Milojkovic about the spiritual, intercultural, and humane inspirations behind her writing. Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna’s poetry celebrates the beauty, grace, and discipline that goes into crafting haiku. Vernon Frazer positions words and shapes and fonts onto three pages with a loose theme of music. Rizal Tanjung explores the nuances and ambiguities within Anna Keiko’s abstract paintings. Jim Meirose’s piece mutates language into a mix of fonts and verbs and sounds, giving the sense of flying a plane.
Jacques Fleury also experiments with language as he reflects on learning to “go with the flow” of life, even when life’s “flow” is uneven, in a piece crafted during meditation. Gabriela Marin’s gentle poems evoke dreams, intimacy, and the imagination. Duane Vorhees’ pieces speak to attraction and intimacy, longing for human and poetic muses. Sam Hendrian explores moments of human connection and faux-connection.
Eva Petropolou Lianou urges human solidarity and friendship: she wishes for women to stand together and befriend each other. Dr. Jernail S. Anand’s essay reminds us that society’s leaders should represent ethical values beyond money and power. Rahmat A. Muhammad expresses her hopes for international and domestic peace within her country. Ahmed Farooq Baidoon urges the world to become worthy of its children. Isabel Gomes de Diego’s photos celebrate new and burgeoning life in various forms. Isaac Aju’s short story challenges the Nigerian social taboo about middle-aged women remaining unmarried, celebrating a broader scope of people and lifestyles.
Even as we find some new joys and new lives, we sadly lose others. Ahmed Miqdad laments the destruction of Gaza and its ravages on both land and souls. Emran Emon decries the killing in Gaza and the U.N.’s lack of action. Daniel De Culla lampoons those who lead humanity while willfully ignoring climate change.
Sandro Piedrahita’s tale of conquest, tragedy, and some tiny justice finally served dramatizes the Spanish colonization of the Incas. Z.I. Mahmud explores dystopian elements within Margaret Atwood’s feminist classic The Handmaid’s Tale.
On a more personal level, Anna Keiko’s youthful-sounding poetry expresses tender lovesickness and fear of losing her beloved. Taylor Dibbert’s weary poetic speaker gives up on the dating world. Bill Tope’s short story presents a tragic interpersonal situation with tenderness, causing readers to think about the role of the justice system.
Christopher Bernard’s piece illustrates how humans can defend ourselves against all sorts of danger with calm, mindful preparedness. We hope that this issue will not only charm and entertain, but inspire and strengthen you to face the days ahead.
Curious, I consulted a psychic who confirmed what my chart had suggested: that my family had endured shame rooted in a past event—something that happened long before I was born. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my writing was somehow tied to this revelation. So I asked my father about our lineage, and he quietly shared a difficult truth: that his great-grandfather was a Dutch slave master, and his great-grandmother had been an enslaved woman in his household. He directed me to his eldest sister, Aunt Daphne, for more.
Aunt Daphne told me what little she knew about “the Dutchman”—that he was both a pastor and a Justice of the Peace, and that his name was Cornelius. The moment she said his name, I froze. Cornelius was the name of the grandfather pastor in the story I had written all those years ago. I had even described his favorite candy as licorice—a detail that, to my surprise, is a traditional Dutch treat. It was in that moment I realized I hadn’t written a work of fiction after all—I had written a remembrance. My hands had merely transcribed what my spirit already knew.
That was when I knew this story wasn’t meant to stay on a hard drive. It was meant to be shared—both as an act of remembrance and as a tool for healing. The research wasn’t traditional, but it was guided—by dreams, divination, and a deep listening to my lineage.
Question #2:How much of this book is from your ancestry and how much is made up?
To be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure where memory ends and imagination begins. When I first began writing Leaves From the Vine, I had no conscious knowledge of what I was channeling. It wasn’t until I later explored my family’s history that I began to see startling parallels—details in the story that echoed my great-great-grandfather’s life and the legacy of his descendants.
That’s why the imagery is somewhat elusive, set in a quiet town “in the middle of nowhere,” a place that could be anywhere—or nowhere at all. It reflects that sense of mystery and ancestral whispering. What I did craft intentionally was the dialogue, the rhythm of the language, the emotional texture. I used artistic license to shape the tone—infusing it with wit, symbolism, and sentiment.
And while the story is deeply rooted in family lineage, I also chose to include something profoundly personal in the Afterword: the Invocation for Sacred Sexual Embodiment (from the Ascension Glossary). That was my offering—a healing remedy for those navigating sexual trauma. While that part isn’t inherited from my ancestry, it’s a conscious and heartfelt contribution to the legacy of healing.
Question#3: How do you think people reconciled being people of faith, and even pastors with being slave owners and perpetuating injustice?
I’m not sure they ever truly had to reconcile it—at least not in a way that disturbed their sense of righteousness. Many slaveholders, including pastors, used scripture—like Ephesians 6:5—to justify the institution of slavery. Verses such as “Slaves, obey your earthly masters with respect and fear…” were interpreted literally, providing a moral and religious rationale for what was, in truth, a deep injustice.
But faith without compassion becomes blind obedience. And privilege, when left unchecked, can distort one’s understanding of justice and mercy. In many cases, those in power may have believed themselves to be the ones under threat—viewing any resistance from the enslaved as rebellion rather than a cry for freedom.
This perception of fear allowed them to see themselves not as oppressors, but as protectors of order, which further reinforced their actions. It’s a painful paradox: using faith as a shield to avoid reckoning with cruelty. And yet, it’s this very contradiction that makes the truth so vital to examine today—with humility, not blame.
Question #4: How do you think it’s possible to break generational curses or generational patterns of course dysfunctional behavior?
Breaking generational curses isn’t just about changing behavior—it’s about transforming identity at the root. We must approach healing as an act of Identity Alchemy, a sacred process of rewriting the unconscious contracts we’ve inherited.
First, we must Expose the Ancestral Root—identify the patterns that have been passed down, the pain that still echoes through our choices, and the beliefs we didn’t even know we adopted.
Then we Shock the Pattern with Radical Reversal. That means doing the opposite of what the curse expects—speaking the truth where silence ruled, choosing joy where shame lingered, or creating boundaries where chaos thrived.
Next, we Implant a Future Memory by consciously visualizing and anchoring a new narrative—one where we are free, whole, and deeply loved. The subconscious doesn’t know the difference between memory and imagination, so we use that to our advantage.
We then Sever the Quantum Energy Cords, energetically and emotionally cutting ties with the trauma and limitations that no longer serve us. We release the old without fear. Finally, we Embody the One Who Was Never Bound—our truest, most divine self. This is the version of us who lives not from pain, but from power. Who walks not in shame, but in sovereignty.
This is how we heal—not just for ourselves, but for those who came before us and those yet to be born.
Question #5: Did your ancestors ever repent of enslaving people and how might we begin to heal that wound as a country?
Yes (my great- great -grandfather)—he’s repenting through me, his descendant, his soul-scribe. Through my voice, he’s asking for forgiveness. He’s sorry for abusing his power and manipulating his privilege to oppress others. He now understands—through my own suffering—that in enslaving others, he also enslaved himself: to greed, to ego, to the seduction of control.
He became a prisoner to the very forces he thought he controlled. A prisoner to fear, to lust, to legacy. Slavery robbed his victims of their freedom—and robbed him of peace, love, and the humanity that connects all souls, even across lifetimes.
His spirit seeks redemption now. He knows that true power doesn’t require domination. That true privilege uplifts rather than oppresses. And that true faith is never rooted in fear.
The wound of slavery cannot begin to heal if we continue to reopen it—whether knowingly or unconsciously—through daily practices rooted in a painful past. Each time we glorify “soul food” without acknowledging its origins in survival, each time we discipline our children with the same tools once used to control, each time we overlook the spiritual traditions of our ancestors in favor of the religion that once justified their bondage—we unknowingly press salt into the wound.
On the other side, the wound festers in silence each time privilege built on slave labor is denied or dismissed. Every benefit drawn from generational wealth, every institutional advantage, every opportunity rooted in the unpaid labor of others—left unacknowledged—prolongs the ache.
Healing begins when we commit to the uncomfortable work of unlearning: unlearning inherited superiority, and also unlearning generational servitude. It begins when we honor the full truth of our history—not just its victories, but its violations. Only then can we move toward wholeness—not as separate sides, but as one people reckoning, remembering, and rebuilding.
Question #6: How can individual people begin to make amends for systemic injustice put in place by their ancestors?
I’m not entirely sure there’s a single answer, but I do know that making amends begins with a willingness to sacrifice comfort for justice. The obvious place to start would be to embody the spirit of modern-day abolitionists or even modern-day hippies—people unafraid to disrupt the status quo in the name of equality and compassion.
To truly make amends, descendants of those who benefited from systemic injustice must first acknowledge that they’ve inherited not just wealth or status, but also a moral debt. And they must be willing to pay it forward—not in shame, but in service. This might mean using their influence to challenge systems that favor them. It might mean divesting from privileges that came at others’ expense.
But here’s the real question: Who among them is willing to risk losing inherited power, privilege, or prosperity for the sake of justice? To go against the grain of their lineage? Because making amends is more than a performance of empathy. It’s a courageous reordering of values—a revolutionary act of love.
Question #7: What role does faith play in Leaves From the Vine and why/how can faith and spiritual practices help people?
Faith is the heartbeat of Leaves From the Vine. The town of Charlestown itself is built on a foundation of faith, family, and fellowship—where the Big Church stands not only as a place of worship but as the town’s schoolhouse, meeting hall, and sacred ground. It’s quite literally the center of their lives. So when young Jones Jr. begins to question his Christian beliefs, it shakes the town to its very core.
But as the story unfolds, we see how each character is tested. Jones Jr. must find faith in himself to lead the church when his father falls ill. Mrs. Jones clings to her unwavering faith that her son is still alive, even when others doubt. The twin sisters, Anna and Annie, draw on their shared faith in each other to face the nightly hauntings.
Every soul in Charlestown is pushed to their limit—but it’s their faith, especially faith in the power of love, that ultimately breaks the curse. Faith helps people by creating a sacred space for love and joy to dwell—even when the world outside feels harsh or unkind. It serves as a spiritual retreat, a quiet refuge from life’s noise and cruelty.
When doubt clouds the mind and uncertainty shakes the soul, faith becomes the balm that steadies us. It reminds us that we’re not alone. That there’s something greater, something divine, that holds us even when we can’t hold ourselves. Faith gives people something to believe in, especially when belief in themselves feels like too much to carry. It softens the edges of pain and sharpens our vision for hope.
At its most tender, faith teaches us gratitude—for the small mercies, the everyday miracles, and the unseen grace that carries us forward.
Question #8: Why did you write this book and what do you hope to accomplish with Leaves From the Vine?
I wrote this book because I began to sense that I was simply the messenger—entrusted with a story that needed to be told. Over time, it felt less like something I was creating and more like something I was uncovering. I came to see myself as a voice for my great-great-grandfather, someone whose truth had long been buried. Through me, he could finally speak—offering confession, seeking redemption, and hoping for peace. In telling his story, I also hoped to bring healing to his descendants, including myself, and perhaps offer a mirror for others to reflect on their own generational wounds.
This book is my personal call to courage. I hope it inspires others to bravely uncover their own family stories—the ones hidden in silence or shame. I want readers to feel empowered to confront the spiritual and emotional battles their ancestors may have left unresolved. My hope is to awaken a generation that seeks healing with humility, gives and receives love with openness, and chooses to leave behind a legacy rooted in truth, honor, and redemption. If this story stirs even one person to begin that journey, then it has done its work.
Question #9:Who are some of the authors you admire?
I admire Iyanla Vanzant for her bold, unapologetic voice and her willingness to speak from personal experience. In books like Yesterday, I Cried and In the Meantime, she holds herself accountable for her own shortcomings, and that honesty creates space for true healing. I respect that she doesn’t just “preach” to her readers—she walks the talk and invites others to do the same.
I also admire Caroline Myss, particularly for her work in Sacred Contracts, where she introduces the idea that each of us is born with twelve core archetypes that shape our purpose and path. Her teachings helped me recognize the unconscious roles I’ve played and the agreements my soul may have made before coming into this life. That framework has been key to understanding both personal and ancestral patterns.
Don Miguel Ruiz, through his book The Four Agreements, helped me embrace a liberating perspective—especially the powerful lesson of not taking things personally. That one idea alone has protected my peace more times than I can count.
Lastly, I admire Eckhart Tolle for his deeply grounded spiritual wisdom and his conversational approach to writing. The Power of Now is structured as a dialogue, which feels intimate and refreshing—especially for those of us raised in spaces where questioning was discouraged. His work helped me come home to the present moment and discover freedom in simply being.
Each of these authors has been a guidepost on my own spiritual healing journey, and their work quietly echoes through the pages of Leaves From the Vine.
Simmering with strain. Fault lines beneath the strain.
Enclosed
Enclosed, we outlive our closeness. Beyond
the perpendicular pronoun. Warm we,
second person plural, a better answer
to the restaurant host’s “Just one?” The
hungry body needs to lose itself,
without strangling dangling participial
others thirsty for speakeasy taunts, as if
proximity meant all one, Alwun House,
a performance space in our western village
bloated with population. In twos, shucking
the status of MVP, a threnody
before the spotlight on one deemed ideal
for the role of icon according to
the ministry of prey, overcast
with envy to carry forward an urgent,
inextinguishable senseless oneness.
Recidivist
I’m on my way to taintthe glyphs on trees. Freeze frame light of day. Board the traipse-mobile and go away (I’m on my way). Cliffs splay clipboards at play. Way north of gerunding, God willing. Recidivist splay. Rebel against the gains on hilltops retrieved. A reprieve. Scope sequenced to fault the slow learn. Slow burn fallen (through). Who teaches you, the few. I wrap my head around the wrap around my head.
Trawling the score named evermore, free lit freeway, smell of hay
Underpainting
Braille hums
haptic heft, a fuse
lurking around
future romp. Pomp
and cirque-de-soleil.
Summer gardens
opaque with shine.
Toots Kinsky matte
finish. Surface gloss
gone tame. Outer
glass rough with
source code grains.
With / Draw / All
With.
Draw. All
morning.
Raw
mourning. A longing.
ensconced in
brother
broth once
fair-minded, now
un-
mended
sweat on brow.
Practiced
preach. Long-
sleeved feral.
skeet
shot blood
on window
missing
target by way
of cheap wheels.
Husbandry
Roller coast me close
to breeze viatical (remember
expectation. Bluebottle dit
dot (pairs sans need
(pared just enough
for early breath. Shaped
pear pearl lid plot
half
injurious day-
glow (run from
penury (slow
return to place-
based pain). Stain-
cropped (drum
plain page boy
buoys no sprite
Just spit
(split lip
Sheila E. Murphy. Appeared in Fortnightly Review, Poetry, Hanging Loose, others. Forthcoming: Escritoire (Lavender Ink). Permission to Relax (BlazeVOX Books, 2023). Gertrude Stein Poetry Award for Letters to Unfinished J. (Green Integer Press, 2003). Hay(ha)ku Book Prize for Reporting Live From You Know Where (Meritage Press, 2018).
