Guest Contributor

Three Poems by Harriet Ann Ellenberger

I Resolve To Speak

There’s a fascist in the White House —
a malevolent clown and front man
for a cabal of the hard right.
Their takeover of the US government
proceeds rapidly, a stunning succession
of defeats for democracy.

The nightmares of fascism
are taking shape in waking reality.
Now is the time, I tell myself,
to speak up, speak out,
name the perpetrators,
name their games.

The bully in the White House
has been called a rapist,
and fascism is patriarchy on steroids,
waging unremitting war on nature,
people of color, and women.

A Cave Story by Arianne MacBean

A few years ago, I took a pilgrimage to Crete with the hope of meeting the Great Goddess. I was yearning from something undeniable, proof that would allow me to be a card-carrying believer. Although our group was led to powerful ancient sites where we enacted sincere rituals and dances, each time I failed to feel greeted by Her universal power.

Except once. And I almost missed it.

The great cavern, Skotino (Photo by Helen Marie Traglia)

One day, a small but determined group of women took it upon us to co-lead a ritual at Skotino cave, an ancient site used for sacred purposes from the Bronze Age through the Roman era. The collaborative approach to facilitating a ritual was new to us, so we all felt especially ignited and giddy. Before we descended into the depths of the cave, I sang, (something I NEVER do). I had been provided lyrics, but I made up my own melody, which my fellow initiates sang back to me, as a call and response.

Sea Glass by Elanur Williams

Image Credit: Seascape, 1879, Pierre-Auguste Renoir (available on public domain).

I am drawn to the sea not for its grandeur, but for what it returns: small, broken things that once had sharpness. As a child, I remember walking along the shore searching for glimmers, glass fragments dulled into misty greens, smoky ambers, pale blues. I wanted to gather the pieces of what had once been whole and what had once been contained. I collected the way a child collects secrets, each piece a contradiction. Maybe I thought I could make something from these fragments; after all, I was the kind of child who looked for meanings and signs in everything. It is in part what drew me to literature and writing.

There is a piece of sea glass I remember more than the others: an opalescent shard, a piece of moon. That piece became a metaphor for the self I hadn’t yet become. Like those fragments, I too had sharp edges once. Pain teaches that: the need to defend, to protect oneself from further breakage, carves us into angular shapes. I learned early how to brace for fracture, and there was a comfort I found in control, a fierce desire for wholeness that was often mistaken for strength. But there is a brittleness to that kind of armor, and eventually, it begins to break. It took years of undoing for my edges to soften.

If I am The Mother* by Rebecca Rogerson

If I am The Mother

then I am holy. Made of moonbeams and shadows, darkness and light, questioned and answered, lost and retrieved;

discovered remains

If I am The Mother

then I am a reflection, a depiction, an inflexion of a cosmos in bliss and chaos, birth and destitution; a primordial sound unleashed to form planet, life, and

you and me

If I am The Mother

then I am fermented in humanity, and sour the illusions of precipices we’re told that

we cannot cross

Cross the trinity of three’s and return to

the magic of all

The Beat of Your Own Drum by Sophie Messager – Book Review by Judith Maeryam Wouk

Pick up a drum and start your unique journey with this sacred tool; there is no one right path. The drum can help women hear their inner voice, access their own wisdom, reclaim their power, and heal. The drum in its simplicity offers a direct link to our deepest selves.

That is the message of this profoundly personal saga, told through the stories of Sophie Messager and others. She recounts her own transition from scientist to birth doula to journey guide for women in life transition, through reiki and a diagnosis of ADHD, growing into her identity shift from outer- to inner-centered wisdom. Her personal practice now includes weekly drumming at dawn in a woodland with two friends and monthly drum circles.

Offerings to the Labyrinth on Papoura Hill, excerpt from the novel by Sylvia V. Linsteadt

Sylvia’s discussion of Papoura Hill was posted yesterday; read it here.

I have so many words I want to pour out of my vessel of milk and honey upon Papoura Hill, on the big scar in Crete’s earth where the airport is being carved, on all the places slated for the construction of electricity pylons, and into so many other scars left by millennia of conquest and occupation, but for today what follows is just one song to her. These words are not full of fighting rage or defiance, but of praise, and softness, and memory. Of motherlines that cannot die, and fatherlines almost lost, but not quite. These words come from the beginning of a novel that I began writing during my first season living in Crete almost seven years ago now, a novel that has metamorphosed with me across these many years, shedding skins and growing new ones— both me, and the novel. The book is still in process, close to being born, but here is one of her many skins, laid at the center of the labyrinth on Papoura Hill with my love.

Moonrise Over Old Crete
an excerpt

The earth tilted toward dusk.
Along the shores of Crete, the Aegean turned for a moment to gold.

Women flocked down to the sea like dark birds to pour jugs of oil and wine into the water. Amphitrite of the cockle crown, they murmured, Aphrodite mother of vessels, mother of the foam and deep, bring our men home safe. The sun lowered under the edge of the world, leaving the last light along the coast. Threads of it pooled in sea-caves and in the inlets where fishermen kept their summer boats. The old storytellers said that in lost times, when the queen was called the Ariadne and her king the Bull, the women of Crete could gather up the last light from the sea onto their distaffs and take it home to spin golden thread for their skirt hems and finest vests.

Offerings to the Labyrinth on Papoura Hill by Sylvia V. Linsteadt

Rhea, mother of Demeter, is coming down upon the seven mountain ranges of her Crete. Ariadne, granddaughter of Rhea, is coming up from her ten thousand perfect caverns inside those mountains with clear water in her arms. They have been quiet a long time, but they are not quiet now. Between them comes Demeter across the wide plateaus where her stones and soil are being stripped for profit, where her bees are dying from pesticide use in their hives, where her grain and oil are sold out from under her, the farmers who grew them cheated by countries with fatter economies and shinier marketing schemes.

They are gathering on Mt. Juktas and Mt. Dikti and Mt. Ida and on Papoura Hill, on all the old holy mountain places where nereids and kouretes were born, where midwives danced, and the dead were buried, and the priests and queens held night-long vigils to take divinations from the procession of the stars. From those divinations they turned the wheel of Crete’s festivals so that they continued year by year as precisely as Earth turned around her axis, so that Earth knew that she and her gifts were respectfully received, and truly loved.

Me and the All American Girls Baseball League by Winifred Nathan

During my grade school years, I was a passionate fan of the Belles, the Racine, Wisconsin team in the All-American Girls Baseball League. My aunt and I would travel across town to Horlick Field to cheer them on—an experience that took place during the challenging times of World War II. Racine proudly carried the nickname “Belle of the Lake.” I don’t remember the players fitting the conventional idea of “Belles”; what stood out was their competitiveness and the exciting baseball they played.

Later in life, the movie *A League of Their Own* became a cultural touchstone for me, although I formed my connection to it years after its first showing. I first watched it during a twelve-hour flight across the Pacific Ocean in 2023. Expecting only nostalgia, I was surprised to uncover a profound connection to my past as I watched it two or three times during the journey.

The scenes reminded me of the evening games played just a few blocks from Lake Michigan. The cool breezes from the lake enveloped me, and I recalled how the ballpark served as an oasis, providing a blissful escape from the harsh realities of the war effort. There were no distractions—just baseball—a stark contrast to the Brewers games I attended later with my grandson, which were filled with Jumbotrons and entertainment gimmicks. Back then, the focus was solely on the game itself, although I must admit I secretly looked forward to the Brewers’ sausage race.

The ‘Current’ of Patriarchy: Feminization of Rivers in Indian Mythology by Dhruv Kabra

The Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati, Kaveri, and Godavari are all goddesses. In contrast, the mountains- Meru, Kailasa, Himalaya are male gods or their celestial abodes. Perhaps this is not just a coincidence but a deliberate gendered imagination that reveals how patriarchal structures flow through the very geography of the sacred.

Indian rivers are predominantly personified as women, with the lone masculine river, Brahmaputra serving as a subversive exception that divulges the somewhat gendered logic of sacred geography.

The Containment of Divine Power

Ganga, the most revered river goddess in India, is born in the heavens, but her descent to earth is mediated by Shiva. His matted locks absorb her torrent, lest her power shatter the earth. Ganga’s sacredness is based on her containment. Feminine energy is revered, but only if domesticated by a male god.

Pasang Lhamu Sherpa: The Fearless Sherpa Lady Who Conquered Everest and Shattered Patriarchy by Bikash Khanal

Introduction: Beyond Being a Mountaineer a Feminist Icon of the Himalayas

When we hear the name Mount Everest, the world’s highest mountain, we involuntarily think of rugged, macho explorers battling ice and thin air. Pasang Lhamu Sherpa’s existence defies that stereotype. Not only was she the first Nepali lady to reach the summit of Everest, but she was a living testament to feminine strength, determination, and will. Her life is a stirring affidavit to feminism in its very extreme forms, where gender discrimination is as hard to overcome as the mountains themselves.

Early Life: A Sherpa Girl Raised Among Giants Dreams beyond Tradition

Born in 1961, in the high-altitude town of Lukla, Pasang Lhamu Sherpa was brought up in the shadow of the Himalayas, under a centuries-long patriarchy-dominated culture. Sherpa women had assumed support roles—cooks, caregivers, assistants to climbing expeditions—while the men assumed the risky climbs.

But ever since childhood, Pasang was captivated by the mountains, her aspirations reaching as high as the mountains themselves. Defying cultural expectations that she seek domesticity, Pasang applied herself diligently and acquired competence which would make her a trailblazer in the years ahead.