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June 12, 2017 / jennrudsit

Summer Reading: Daughter of Time II

by Laura Bloxham

In Josephine Tey’s mystery A Daughter of Time (1952), Alan Grant, a Scotland Yard Inspector, is confined to bed with a broken leg.  He’s bored until he begins his investigation of Richard III, popularized by Shakespeare in a none-too-accurate historical fashion.  He needs an assistant to do his legwork, so to speak, in this era before the Internet.  I understand Alan Grant.  I spent last summer in a rehab facility with a broken ankle.

Summer reading has been largely my choice.  I plan. I hunt. I gather. I stack.  My book categories vary from classics to trash.  I also have my Kick Ass Women’s Summer Reading group.  We meet over lunch to discuss the kick ass women authors and characters we are indulging in from week to week.  So much for my plans last summer.

I probably had more control that Alan Grant did.  I could have sent someone to my house for the stack of books.  I could have (and did) order Amazon to deliver books to my bedside.  But circumstances changed my reading regimen last summer.

In the emergency room, while I was being prepped for surgery, my friend Jenny recommended Gene Stratton Porter, A Girl of the Limberlost (1909). Right there I ordered Limberlost delivered to my kindle.  What a relief to know that when I woke I’d have a book, a new discovery, waiting for me.

During my four-day hospital stay, Carol, a Sunday school book club friend, brought Frederik Backman’s My Grandmother Told Me to Tell You She’s Sorry.  I’m not much for fantasy, Harry Potter excepted.  But early on in Backman’s book I was hooked.  Then on to A Man Called Ove.

Meanwhile, the Kick Ass Women were reading and meeting without me.  I read about their books in email summaries.  Helen recommended Jana DeLeon’s Louisiana Longshot for travel entertainment.  Worked for me too in my confined state.  The protagonist is a CIA operative with a hit out on her, now going underground as a former pageant queen.  The first mystery in the series is kick-in-the-butt funny.  The second book a bit predictable.  

I measured the physical reality of my summer by the weeks in a non-weight bearing cast, the weeks in a boot with limited weight bearing, and my slowly increasing ability to move.  My mental reality I measured by reading, most of which I had not expected to come my way.   While I might have chosen mysteries anyway, now they were distractions of another kind.   I didn’t mind institutional food and constant vital signs being monitored when I was reading Robert Galbraith (JK Rowling), The Silkworm and Career of Evil,  Jeffrey Deaver, The Steel Kiss, Allyson K. Abbott, Murder with a Twist (gift from a visitor),  A.A. Milne, The Red House Mystery (also a gift).  I added Malice by Keigo Higasino to my kindle book queue (recommended by kick ass member Katherine’s mother).

In the non-mystery realm, I found I liked the concept, the premise of Katarina Bivald’s The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend, but not the execution of it.  I read a couple books, including Jane Yolen, The Devil’s Arithmetic, for the Holocaust Literature class I thought I was going to teach in the fall.  That did not happen; but the reading was worthwhile anyway.

By the time I returned home to my stacks of summer reading still waiting for me, it was September. To be sure, I had not solved the historical mystery of the actual Richard the Third.  But I had discovered that, despite physical limitations, I could relish new reading adventures, planned or gifted. Thomas á Kempis wrote (scholars have suggested it is a shortened version of what he actually wrote), “ . . . I have sought peace and not found it, except in a corner with a book.”  I might substitute “hospital bed” for “corner” and make the saying the capsule of my summer reading.

Laura Bloxham was born in Seattle and raised in the Seattle Public Library.  She loves baseball and reading mysteries.

June 5, 2017 / jennrudsit

Sympathy, Empathy, and American Healthcare

by Liz Backstrom

When I stand on curbs or in parks for a few hours with a protest sign, I start looking for something to do, and inevitably I end up making new friends. It’s not as hard as I thought, even for an introvert like me. We may have nothing in common but the corner we’re on, but by the time we’ve been there for an hour, we’re inevitably sharing stories and swapping slogans.

At a healthcare protest in Spokane a few weeks ago, I met a nurse. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve been a nurse for 40 years,” she said. “I’m not here for me. I have great healthcare. I’ve got mine. I have a good plan, my kids are covered – but so many of my patients aren’t. They were just starting to get on their feet, and then this.”

I thought about that. For now, I have mine too. I grew up poor, but now I have a health plan that covers my pre-existing condition. If I get a seizure at the wrong time, I might die, but at least my family can pay my bills. For probably the first time in my life, I’m middle class.

I’m not on the curb, and lots of us aren’t, because we want ours, although I’ll admit it, I’m scared for myself if I lose my job. I’m here because I’ve spent my whole life hearing stories of people who had theirs – whose lives were going along just fine – until they weren’t.

Hundreds of people end up at the food bank where I work because of high medical bills. They go from shopping with a nice car to shopping with a cardboard box and a wagon because they had the audacity to get sick. Some of them are homeless.

Usually a well-meaning person comes along halfway through this story and says something like – Why are they at the food bank if they can afford a car? Or why do they have kids at all if they can’t support them? It’s all a variation on “if only that person had made better choices, they wouldn’t be where they are, and I would do better.”

I don’t believe we say things like this out of malice, usually. We mostly believe we could do better, if we were put in that set of circumstances and had to make those choices.

In a recent essay for NonProfitPro, authors Otis Fulton and Katrina VanHuss point out how easy it is to ignore another person’s suffering if it’s not something we ourselves have experienced.

In his book “Mindwise” University of Chicago professor Nicholas Epley describes the importance of “distance” and the ability people have to imagine what others are thinking or feeling.

Epley says, “Distance is not just physical space. It is also psychological space, the degree to which you feel connected to someone else. The ability to feel empathy for another group decreases as distance increases. In some cases, distance can grow and shrink. For example, when you get in an argument with your spouse, you feel ‘distant’ from them. Then, you can feel the psychological distance diminish when you resolve the conflict.

But distance from groups that are unlike ours is more difficult to close. People who are viewed as ‘too different’ from us can completely shut down our ability to connect with them.”

Author Matthew Desmond examines the same phenomenon in a piece about housing prices and wealth inequality:

“We tend to speak about the poor as if they didn’t live in the same society, as if our gains and their losses weren’t intertwined. Conservatives explain poverty by pointing to ‘individual factors,’ like bad decisions or the rise of single-parent families; liberals refer to ‘structural causes,’ like the decline of manufacturing or the historical legacies of racial discrimination.

Usually pitted against each other, each perspective serves a similar function: letting us off the hook by asserting that there is a deep-rooted, troubling problem — more than one in six Americans does not make enough to afford basic necessities — that most of us bear no responsibility for.”

This kind of thinking lets us feel sympathy – bad for someone – but not empathy – what it could be like to be in another person’s shoes. The two are vastly different. It allows us not to feel anything for those less fortunate than ourselves, especially not the possibility of a shared experience. And then we don’t do anything, because why should we? They made mistakes, we didn’t, and we’ve each faced consequences from those choices.

Except it isn’t like that in real life, at least not for most people I know. Some folks using the food bank can’t qualify for food stamps, because they aren’t poor enough. Sometimes they drive up in a car that looks a little too nice for a food bank user. Did you know if you have a house and a car, you have to list those as assets on a food stamp application?

Some still have jobs – working full time, even, but can’t quite cover the costs of raising children, or medical bills. Some stories go like this: “I worked for 20 years, and then I got (medical condition I couldn’t pay for and/or that forced me to stop working) and I couldn’t get back on my feet.”

One thing most stories have in common is the people telling them never thought they’d be there. They thought it could never happen to them, until it did.

This isn’t a threat. It’s not an admonition to be like me or share my political views. It’s me sharing what I’ve learned over a lifetime of being poor and working with the poor.

Eventually, life happens to everyone – it is the great equalizer. Someday, you might be in the position to not contribute anything. To have done all you can, made all the right choices, and still it happens – the unexpected diagnosis, the request to take early retirement, the days and weeks and years of working two jobs, only to learn your insurance doesn’t cover a fire when you lose your house – then what? No one bears any responsibility for you, do they? Are you still worth something?

Liz Backstrom is a freelance writer for Spokane Faith & Values and works as a grant writer for Second Harvest Inland Northwest. She has a BA in journalism from Western Washington University and an MPA from Eastern Washington University.

May 25, 2017 / jennrudsit

Make it New: A New Adaptation

by Andy Zell

My ten-month-old daughter is a terrible sleeper.  She wakes up multiple times per night and needs to eat at least twice if not more to make it to morning.  This is hardest on my wife because at night she bears most of the burden.

My main excuse for doing so little with the baby was that for a few months, I was dealing with the sleep problems of our three year old.  He would wake up nearly every night and cry and scream.  It was up to me to help him back to sleep. I became so attuned to his crying that I would wake up as soon as he started across the hallway, but I would sleep right through the baby who wailed in the same room as me.  For my wife, vice versa.

I’m not at my best in the middle of the night. My usual strategy was to lie down on the floor next to his bed (his mattress is on the floor) while he took his time calming down and falling back to sleep.  If I tried to leave before he was completely unconscious, then the cycle of crying and screaming would repeat.  This meant that I usually fell asleep on his floor and slept there for a few hours each night.

After talking with his pediatrician, I knew this couldn’t go on. It was hard on me, but for him it was establishing bad habits. He needed to re-learn how to fall back to sleep on his own.  Using the doctor’s suggestions, I slowly started to distance myself from his bed.  Instead of lying down next to him, I would sit on a chair while he went back to sleep.  I got less sleep, but I did make it back to the comfort of my own bed.

It didn’t happen immediately, but over the course of weeks he needed me less and less.  Now he sleeps through the night, and I am left with no excuses for not helping more with the baby.  I think the baby also has bad sleep associations.  For many reasons (she’s highly distractible when feeding, and bedtime with four kids is chaotic at best, among others), we’ve gotten into the habit of feeding her right before laying her down.  So she associates snuggles and eating with going to bed.

The most helpful sleep book we found is Jodi Mindell’s Sleeping Through the Night, where she talks about the importance of bedtime routines and sleep associations. It’s a lesson that we’ve used to good effect with three other kids, but somehow we’ve forgotten. Being a parent is hard.  We never have it all figured out, even when we’ve done it well in the past.

And it’s so easy to coast and think that the present routine is going to keep on going forever.  One child suddenly drops the second nap from the schedule that had gone on for months.  The sweet three year old turns into a biting and yelling tantrum machine.  The previously compliant one starts peeing on his carpet to get attention and boy does he ever!  Things change all the time, and I don’t like change.  But I have to approach situations and my kids as the unique individuals they are.  When I get stuck in my own ideas and expectations, inflexible to the context and to the persons my kids are becoming, I get frustrated.  I have to adapt.

My wife often reminds me, “This too shall pass,” whether good or bad, and it will.  It’s up to me to be open and ready for what comes next.

Andy Zell tutors writing part time, but mostly he’s a stay at home parent for his four young kids. He writes about books, music, faith, and life on his personal blog and occasionally uses Twitter @strangerextant.

May 9, 2017 / jennrudsit

Sweet Child, You Are Loved

by Julie Riddle

I hung up from my phone conversation with our assigned foster mentor, feeling a mixture of relief, excitement and trepidation. I had left a voicemail for her one afternoon this spring, expressing my husband’s and my concerns that we wouldn’t be able to handle being foster parents. She had returned my call while I was eating lunch and reading a novel I had checked out from the library.

A few days before I called our mentor, my husband and I had completed a 24-hour training program (six hours across two weekends) with Fostering Washington as part of meeting the requirements to become licensed foster parents. At the program’s opening one of the trainers said, “We’re going to hit you with the gloom and doom first, but don’t worry, it’ll get better.” At another point that first day one of them said, “Being a foster parent is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. It’s also the most awesome thing you’ll ever do.” The trainers were longtime foster parents and had adopted foster children; they taught as professionals and from their own experience, and I soaked up the helpful insights, facts and information they shared throughout the program.

On the final day of training my body was worn out from sitting for two weekends in a stuffy, fluorescent-lit room, but I still felt capable and hopeful. By the time training concluded that day, however, those positive feelings had deteriorated into discouragement and despair. The tipping point came during a panel with former foster children who had aged out of the system; their parting advice was: “The best thing you can do is take care of yourselves. Foster children will do everything possible to prove that you will abandon them. They will push you as far as they can to see if you will break.” My husband and I made eye contact and shook our heads slightly. What are we getting ourselves into?

During the four days of training we had encountered a fat manual’s worth of gloom and doom; as we neared the program’s last hours, the manual and the instructors remained starkly absent of hope. All kinds of hard; no signs of awesome.

In the days after the training concluded, my husband and I talked and prayed together, we each did a lot of thinking, and I prayed alone. Every time I prayed, a gentle, insistent sense arose in me – Do this…You can do this…I want you to do this – the same sense that had been prodding me during the past six months as my husband and I discussed fostering a child and researched the process, and I, initially resistant to the idea, had begun praying about it.

During those months all sorts of support had surfaced. Everywhere I turned it seemed that friends, colleagues and acquaintances had fostered or adopted children, or were related to someone who had. Our pastor. My doctor. My three best friends. My mom’s best friend. A writer-friend of mine in Iowa who had fostered dozens of children with her husband, had adopted two foster children, and led training workshops for the state.

These people provided information, ideas, advice and encouragement, affirming my prayer-led sense to pursue foster parenting. So my husband and I began filling out an abundance of application forms and participated in the training, where our eagerness collided with doubt.

On the phone, our foster mentor seemed cheerfully unfazed at the anxiety that gripped my voice as I explained our fears. “It’s great you’re asking these questions,” she said. She gave me a pep talk and provided clear directions on how to best ensure that the child placed in our home would be a good fit for us and us for him. I took notes, and at the end of our conversation I thanked her for helping us find our way back to you can do this.

After setting down my phone I returned to the novel, The Portable Veblen (quirky, funny, thought-provoking), and opened the book to the page I had been reading when our mentor had called. I turned the page to place my bookmark and discovered a handwritten note, penciled in cursive on a square of blue stationery:

“Sweet child,
you are not alone,
and you are loved.

This note from a stranger was meant for me. And it was meant for the child who would one day come to our home. I slipped the paper from the book and placed it on my bedside stand. Before I returned the book to the library I slid a square of stationery between two pages and wondered who would come across it. I hoped the message I had passed on would find the reader – as it had found me – at just the right time, the surprising words offering confirmation, reassurance, peace.

Julie Riddle is the creative-nonfiction editor for Rock & Sling and the craft-essay editor for Brevity. She works as senior writer for marketing and development at Whitworth University and is the author of the memoir The Solace of Stones: Finding a Way through Wilderness (University of Nebraska Press). Learn more at


April 20, 2017 / jennrudsit

Make it New: Prayer

by Lyle Enright

In the opening pages of her Prayer Journal, Flannery O’Connor explains her project to God:

“I do not mean to deny the traditional prayers I have said all my life; but I have been saying them and not feeling them. My attention is always very fugitive. This way I have it every instant. I can feel a warmth of love heating me when I think & write this to You.”

I felt a delightful irony as I read this, because I had come to O’Connor’s journal with the inverse attitude: she longed to “write a beautiful prayer,” though she had “nothing to do it from.” I had nothing from which to pray, and so I wanted to pray her beautiful prayers—hers among others—to try and find it.

I grew up in a praying household, one which included me in the dinnertime rotation and set aside time to ask protection over our doors and windows at night. All of these were good things, but they never moved in me the ways they did my mother and father. I often parsed those prayers for the right economy. My mom, at least, still remembers one time when I systematically thanked the Lord for every item on the table, down to the napkins and the ketchup. My father did the most pious thing he could have done and laughed, prodigiously, though I was sure I’d provoked some sort of blasphemy.

So when I learned the Lord’s Prayer, it was one of the most liberating moments of my early religious development. The roteness and authority of it were exactly what I needed to get through meal- and bed-time rituals. However, my father (in an exceedingly strange move for a pastor, I felt) rarely let me get away with simply praying to God the way God prayed to himself. “I want to hear your words,” he would tell me, yawning as he tucked me in. “I want to hear what you say, what you think.”

The idea that this had ever been the point of prayer was news to me, though I didn’t tell him that. I obliged, but somehow never really felt right about it. This is still true, over twenty years later, and all the more acute. Years of literary theory have ruined me in the search for “my own words”—though perhaps Christian college prayers, with their variously recombinant vocabulary of “just,” “good,” “father,” “move,” and the occasional “Whattap Jesus” did that for me a long time ago.

There is an undeniable pragmatism, under such circumstances, in defaulting to “groans too deep for words” but that doesn’t nourish forever either, and I realized that what those groans lacked was grammar. The language of everyone around me was sincere, but it often prayed God down from Heaven into “this place” (wherever that was). I wanted to pray God up, through my body and into the world, and had no vocabulary for doing so. Not until I looked, of course.

Slowly, I found that what I wanted was in those “rote” prayers which so many people had told me were empty and made you complacent. I found it first in the poetry of John Donne and Czeslaw Milosz, then in the Prayer Journal of Flannery O’Connor, but most of all I found it in the Prayer Book of the Orthodox Church, in the trisagion and hesychasm, in the Third Prayer of St. Antioch. Again I felt liberated; I wasn’t stumbling over myself, looking for words to say, but was mulling over the words in front of me, wondering what logic or wonder knit them together this way, how I might be changed by their mere presence. Strangely, I didn’t feel so much that I was using these prayers as being used by them.

So when my cousin went into labor toward the end of December, I did something I’d never done before: I went alone into my office and said vigil. I got on my knees, barely recognizing myself: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us,” I said three times, crossing myself, bowing. “I entreat You who loves all people to bless Your servant who is with child.” I was amazed that someone in the past had penned this prayer for this purpose. “Ease her labor, bring her to safe delivery. Open the treasury of Your mercies and Your compassion to her.” I did this ritual three times, each time becoming more convinced that I was in the proper place, the proper posture for something like true intercession—facilitating willing Spirit into rigid, anxious matter.

I bowed one last time and left my place. My mother called me the next morning to tell me that a healthy baby girl had been born, an easy delivery.

“I know,” I said, cutting my words short so as not to carelessly say: “I was there.”

Lyle Enright is a doctoral candidate at Loyola University Chicago, where he studies religion and literature. He blogs inconsistently at , and you can also follow him on Twitter @YnysDyn.

April 11, 2017 / jennrudsit

Make it New: Goals

by Hailee Meyers


  1. Loved ones over ambition.
  2. Be a better big sister.
  3. Take care of yourself.
  4. Talk to God.

Our house is divided into three piles: the things we will give away (a substantial pile), the things we will keep (a less substantial pile), and the things we know we shouldn’t keep but can’t bear to part with yet (a decent pile). We are stripping our house layer by layer, occasionally stopping to wonder out loud if it feels like we’re trying to erase her and purify this space. Our mother is in every facet of the house; she picked the colors, sewed the curtains herself (one handed, no less), and embroidered half of the wall decorations. Her cookbooks still overwhelm the bookshelf in the kitchen. Her British television shows now fill her empty bureau. Her blankets are piled in an armchair in the corner. A rose colored handkerchief I found tucked in her scarves is now in a glittery stemless wineglass on my bookshelf.

We removed the painful things first, anything that reminded us of her physical hardship: her wheelchairs, the walker, the Hoyer, her BiPap machine. Those were an easy choice, the first things we all silently agreed to move the next morning. They weren’t her; they were a reminder she was trapped in her body every day. The space they occupied was avoided, and the house seemed quieter once they were taken away, like the spoiled foundation removed. Now we could mourn without being reminded of her pain.

Ending the year with a death marks every New Year from now on with a two-fold grief: the anniversary of her death and a reminder that we are heading into another year without her. There’s a vacuum of space that now occupies our lives, sometimes so large and unyielding that I can’t imagine ever finding a way through it or around it. There are times when forgetting for a few moments brings a larger bout of grief, and I wonder whether the sense of loss I feel is big enough to match how important she was.

Goals (Expanded):

  1. Loved ones over ambition (because one more night a week would have meant more time with her).
  2. Be a better big sister (because it’s one of the last things she made you promise).
  3. Take care of yourself (because if you had gone to the doctor earlier, she may not have gotten sick or you could have given her your antibiotics).
  4. Talk to God (because she went peacefully; she didn’t suffer, and you had a chance to say goodbye. That’s more than you hoped for. Thank God every day that you had more time with her than anyone expected).
  5. Be kinder to yourself.

Hailee Meyers is a 2015 Whitworth graduate with degrees in English and Political Science. After earning a certificate in publishing from the Denver Publishing Institute, she took a job with the Sheriff’s office to be close to family for her mom’s last few years (or months as it turned out). Currently, she is earning her next belt at Krav Maga Spokane and planning a re-entry into publishing and writing. 

April 6, 2017 / jennrudsit

Make it New: See it New

by Karen Bjork Kubin

There’s so much in the news these days. So much in the lives of those I love. The stakes are high everywhere I turn, and everything demands a response. So I find myself renewing old vows: to care for myself better so I can better care for others. To stand tall, both physically and emotionally. And to adopt and live out a new word for something I have been working at for several years, now.

I observed Advent the last few years by looking for light of all kinds and sharing it on my blog. It is a tradition that feels increasingly important. What better way to handle the shortening days? What better way to wait for the Light of the World than to keep my eyes open for harbingers? This year I got completely distracted, though, when I took a picture of the Christmas tree through the lens of a teleidoscope. A teleidoscope is a type of kaleidoscope with an open end and a lens which, instead of making patterns out of shifting beads, allows a person to make patterns out of the world around them, broken and reflected. I fell in love with the possibilities. Everything I looked at was changed. A pile of laundry became a bouquet of poinsettias. The fish tank turned into a mosaic from some ancient holy place. The bare ceiling in the hallway burst open with glowing petals.

All of this took work. The teleidoscope my husband brought home from Salvation Army is heavy brass, and nearly as long as my arm. Pointing it at my subject was not a big deal. Adjusting the lens, maintaining the angle, and then holding my phone up to the eyepiece and trying to focus on the image inside was a lot more difficult. I usually took pictures until my arms were too sore to keep holding it up. But the effort was worth it. It is a powerful act, seeing the world transformed.

What does this mean, exactly, that I will twist and tire myself with the effort of turning laundry into something beautiful? It will still be laundry. And I do not mind—let it be laundry. But also let it be beauty, and mystery. This is where my resolve lies this year. I am attaching myself to the word shift. I want to hone it to a fine blade and carry it with me everywhere. Shift perspective, shift my focus, shift my gaze. Acknowledge what is there in front of me, always. But then see it new, and more, and beyond.

A violinist by training, Karen Bjork Kubin works as a free-lance musician, teacher, and conductor in a small Midwestern city. Her poems and essays have appeared in Rock & Sling, Whale Road Review, Off the Coast, How to Pack for Church Camp, and American Suzuki Journal, among other publications. She blogs occasionally about life, art, and other things at

March 30, 2017 / jennrudsit

Remembered Sounds: Of Breaking and Healing

by Sunni Wilkinson

In The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter,” backup singer Merry Clayton reaches a peak of such emotion, such electricity, that her voice breaks as she practically screams the lyrics (“Murder”) just before “It’s just a shot away.”  If you listen carefully, you can hear someone in the background holler, “Wooh!” and you can almost see the people in the recording studio stand back a little, as if they just caught the woman levitating for a moment, reaching into a place deeper, more primal than we normally dare go.

In an interview with NPR back in 2013, Clayton describes how she was pregnant at the time of that recording, how she had no idea who the Rolling Stones were, how she got called at midnight to go in and do a recording that took a total of three takes and became the hallmark of her career.  And how that very night she miscarried.

Music elicits a physical response from listeners.  Sometimes we sacrifice part of us to it.  Sometimes we’re given something back.


“I think.”  That was all she could say.  She could never finish the statement: about my mom’s haircut, my boyfriend who shyly waved and smiled, the state of her fingernails.  After a massive stroke left my grandma almost unable to speak, she had to defer to comical facial expressions, pointing, and shaking her head to communicate.  But the two words she could still hang onto were “I” and “think,” and it struck me as deeply profound that she could tell us, in two words, that she was, in fact, still entrenched in thinking, still there, a tiny “I” in a wheelchair considering the world around her.  Even though she couldn’t finish the statements, we learned to read her.  My mom’s haircut looked nice.  My soon-to-be fiancé was a keeper (the wink helped).  Her fingernails needed some attention.  Would I use that shimmery pink polish in the top drawer?  (She fumbled for it and pulled it out with a nod of approval.)

In this way, and over the course of six years, we had conversations about everything we always did: she, giving her approval or disapproval, poking me in jest or flashing a look that said she still worried about my parents’ marriage; and me, laughing in return or quietly taking her hand for a minute while we both shrugged our shoulders and felt the weight together.

Expression was not new to her. Years before, when my cousins and I were young, we would gather around for her recitation of “Little Orphan Annie.” She’d playfully poke us, like a witch with her gnarled witch finger, when she came to the part that said “and the goblins’ll gitch you if you don’t watch out!”

But it was music that drew out her deepest emotions, her greatest performances.  When we were very young, she would sing to us at night the saddest songs you can imagine.  One was about a child searching for her kitty all over the house and yard only to discover that her father has drowned it.  “Kitty oh kitty, my poor little kitty” went the refrain, and her voice would reach up into a wavering falsetto, and we felt a great sadness wash over us.  Another song called “Hobo Billy” described the life of a lonely hobo, and at the end she’d yodel “ho-oo-oh bo-ooh-oh, Billy!” in a way that mimicked the call of the train carrying the old hobo away.

My mother had been telling me for months that something miraculous happened to my grandma at the church services they held in the care center where she lived now.  I was sure she was exaggerating, willing herself to hear things, to believe in healings and the proximate business of angels.  But one week when I happened to be in town on a Sunday, I agreed to accompany my mom and grandma to church.  Services were held in a small “chapel” – a large room decorated with vases of fake flowers and paintings of Jesus, a baby grand piano in a corner.

As I settled into a chair next to my grandma’s wheelchair, the pianist started to play a hymn – “How Great Thou Art” or “Sweet Hour of Prayer” or one of the usual Mormon hymns we all knew by heart –  and a look of excitement crossed my grandma’s face.  As the music conductor lifted her hand to lead the singers, my grandma raised her head a little higher and, to my utter surprise, began to sing out – clearly – every word of the hymn.  She sang words she hadn’t spoken for over six years, sang them loud and with the same vibrato she’d always had.

Song, memory, and the body are inextricably linked.  A study on the American Stroke Association website recounts the story of a young man who lived in Sweden in 1736 who was brain-damaged after an accident and rendered speechless.  He astounded townspeople one day at church by singing church hymns alongside them as clearly as he ever did.

The study refers to the language disorder as “aphasia” and says that “every clinician working with aphasia has seen individuals who can produce words only when singing.”  But the songs can’t be made up just to sing what they want to say.  They must be familiar to the patient, music from their past.

Melody and lyrics occupy a particular place in the brain, a place distanced from language.  Aphasia typically shows that while the left side of the brain (language ability) is damaged, the right side (music and “the melody of speech”) is unharmed and still able to perform.

My grandma had been a nervous person, unsure of herself and even afraid of other people at times, something that had escalated just before her stroke.  But she’d always seemed perfectly confident, perfectly at ease with herself when she was singing.


When Merry Clayton reaches her music-induced out-of-body moment, my whole body is listening, feeling it along with her.  She’s stretching the fibers of something deep within.  It’s a reaching that, for her, means something breaks.  For others, like my grandmother, it’s a loosening, a sleeve snagged on a branch and wrestled free, a bird lifting off, almost weightless, after a long, heavy night.

Sunni Wilkinson holds an MFA from Eastern Washington University.  Her poetry has been published in Weber: The Contemporary West, Red Rock Review, Gulf Stream, Rock & Sling, and other journals and anthologies and has been nominated for two PushcartsShe teaches at Weber State University and lives in Ogden, Utah with her husband and three young sons. She also blogs at

March 14, 2017 / jennrudsit

11.2 Contributor Notes: Part Two

by Carrie Heimer

Literature can be a training ground for putting faith into action.  Even second-hand or imagined encounters can spur real compassion in the physical future.  When we reach out in words, where we’re safe, we prepare to cross a boundary with respect at our next opportunity.  We prepare to offer the comfort we weren’t able or brave enough to offer when our last chance arose.

In “For the Homeless Woman Whose Nails You Painted,” allowing a stranger to hold her hands gently and long enough to paint her fingernails was intensely vulnerable.  My friend who shared the story made the gesture as part of a group offering dignity to homeless women in Portland by restoring some safe measure of a femininity too often exploited.  My heart breaks for all the ways the female body becomes a target and a burden.  The impulse of my poems is to offer the dignity of recognition.  I write to say I see you, which is what God says to us again and always.  I see you, and you are valuable to me.

More of Carrie Heimer’s work is available at

February 23, 2017 / jennrudsit

Rock & Sling at AWP: AWP as Told by Elf

by Lauren Klepinger

Bookworms and publishing nerds at AWP often feel like Christmas came again in the spring. You enter a magical wonderland with all of your favorite literary paraphernalia, and you go home loaded with gifts (for others, or for yourself). So, it’s only fitting that I represent my experience with the fictional character who can best match the enthusiasm of a writer/editor/bookworm landed in the AWP conference Literary Mecca: Buddy the Elf.


Of course, the hype for the book fair had been going on for weeks.











And when we stepped through the double doors for the first time, our faces looked something like this:











You can find programs and publishers for virtually any specific literary interest.












I found my own favorite booths…












…and visited them a few too many times to deliberate which books were worthy of my precious luggage space:












When I got back to my hotel, though, I realized I still took too much free stuff.











Of course, we also spent plenty of time selling our own merchandise with that good retail smile.











I also can’t leave out the panels and readings, equal parts entertaining and informative:












But no true bookworm is satisfied without also taking a tour of the local coffee shops…











…and finishing off the day with some good food.













All told, AWP is a whirlwind of enthusiasm for literary culture and all the unique and rich artifacts it produces. And it makes me never want to leave.















Lauren Klepinger is a junior English major at Whitworth University, and the Assistant Poetry Editor for Rock & Sling.