The Rhythm of the Ocean

A personal essay by Frances Avery

Without a backwards glance, I tip off the edge of the boat and sink into the tumultuous waves around me. I am going in slow motion: the waves at the surface break and create little white caps but the deeper we go down, the less movement there is. 

At Kerama Islands, Okinawa, Japan.

I have trained, tested, evaluated, tested again, and finally proven myself worthy of the little plastic card I am handing over to the dive shop owner. I release a breath I did not know I was holding as he hands it back to me, smiles at me and asks me if this is my first time. I choke on the words and answer back that yeah, this is my first time. But what I want to stutter is something along the lines of yeah this is my first time and I’m terrified and please don’t let me die. I smile back and shove my doubts into the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet of my brain.

I wrestle into my wetsuit and wriggle around until it is comfortable; the wrists feel too tight; the neck is exceedingly scratchy, and it is pulling on my baby hairs that never had a chance at survival.

Bears and Cows and Alice! Oh My!

A personal essay by Melanie Henderson

Life is always exhausting and busy. But having Alice has helped us see that there is always room for fun and silliness. 

I slightly lift my eyelids. We both hear her. Her waking moans ooze through the crack in her door and spill into our room. My body is plastered against the cotton sheets. Like a hibernating bear, I refuse to move. It's not the right time; it's too early.
Connor, however, I suppose is the true mama bear as he lumbers to her room. On those mornings, he doesn't even ask me. He knows. He goes. He gets her.

When I'm the mover, I'm not as swift as Connor. I grudgingly creep to the crack—only wanting to drop down in bed and sleep for an extra two minutes. Before I push the door open, I wait. Maybe she will go back to sleep? Maybe she was just grumbling or playing in her sleep?

No...she's definitely awake.

The Rivering of Writing

Bachu, my river guide, near the Harishchandra Ghat
along the Ganges in 2004

Like the Ganges, writing is for me a flowing river, sacred and profane.

His name was Bachu and he was my river guide along the Ganges on a summer morning there in Varanasi. And he was difficult, to say the least.  For as he rowed, he haggled, pushing for more rupees. "I take you to the burning ghats. Everyone wants to see." And yes, I'd hoped to see the Harishchandra Ghat where ashes of the cremated were cooled and sent into the water. And so much more. But Bachu wrecked the still and quiet of the early morning river. The current, it continued, but Bachu stopped the flow.

We must seek out, we must protect, the flow of writing. The subjects we address, the genres that we ply -- they are but secondary to the primal flowing, the rivering of writing.