Once upon Ye Olde English heath, as the door to her cottage swung open, Hildegard smelled burning. Her husband’s boot had crossed the threshold, he would expect dinner, and he would not want it to be burned.

Hildegard rushed to the hearth. She grabbed the dangling pot of stew and instantly, agonizingly, the metal seared her palms.

“Zounds!” she cried.

“Woman!” her husband remonstrated.

“Zounds, it hurts!”

“Hold thy foul tongue!” her husband roared. “Thou wilt not blaspheme in my house!” (For zounds, dear reader, derived from God’s wounds, a reference to the crucifixion of Christ, and to employ the torture of one’s Lord and Savior as an epithet was as shocking to a pious old Englishman as the lyrics of NWA would prove to his descendants' erstwhile colonists 400 years after.)

“But it hurts!” Hildegard cried. “Thy stew burneth, and the metal hath proved too hot for my tender hands!”

“Stow thy pitiful excuses!” her husband retorted. “Find thyself a godlier path, or never again look me in the face!”

Hildegard departed. She wept even after she treated her second degree burns at the home of a crone who practiced homeopathic medicine, for Hildegard loved her husband, for some reason, or at least loved having a roof over her head to escape the goddamned English rain. To keep her husband roof husband, she needed aid, so Hildegard set out to a person who could set her on a godly path.

“Woman, why dost thou weep?” the Archbishop of Canterbury asked.

“Forgive me bishop,” Hildegard answered. “I hath displeased my husband.”

“How?”

“With an ill word.”

“What ill word did thee speakest?”

Hildegard hesitated. “I said, Zounds, your bishopness.”

“Jesus,” said the Archbishop of Canterbury, “that’s fucking awful word. Why wouldst thou say such a thing?”

“I burned my hands, your bishopness. On a pot. Heaven help me, if I don’t find a safer way to hold a pot, I might blaspheme again, and my husband will disown me. Is there any hope for such a disgraced wench as me?”

“Let us pray.”

And Hildegard and the Archbishop knelt and prayed, and, i dunno, burned frankincense or something, and lo, the Holy Ghost sent them down a dove, which carried in its beak a thickly woven fabric, and they gave thanks to the Lord.

“Almighty God,” asked the Archbishop of Canterbury, “what wouldst You, in Your Infinite Wisdom, have us call this thickly woven fabric with which to hold pots?”

The candles flared, the stones of the cathedral shook, the Archbishop wet himself, and a voice from the heavens boomed, “A potholder.”

And so Hildegard carried the potholder home, and gave knowledge of it unto other women, and prepared many delicious stews without burning her hands, which meant she never again said the unforgiveable zounds, which meant her husband loved her, five times a week whether she were in the mood or not, and she bore many children and had a roof over her head to protect her from the goddamned English rain, and they all lived happilyish ever after until the plague destroyed their bodies and minds.

The End.

my eyes can barely stay open. i can see the stars when i close them, and when i open them just a sliver i can kind of see the outline of your face in the dark. familiar nose, lips.

i'm on the brink of time, where i'm neither awake nor asleep, where all things are meaningless and dark and warm. my head fits perfectly against your chest.

it's barely words, but you whisper if i'm awake. it's barely words, but i murmur and lift my head. you slide out of bed, say you'll be on the porch. i wanna know if everything's ok. i wanna hold you. you say it is. you put on a flannel in the other room.

you come back and kiss me before you go.

i wonder if you're looking at the stars, i wonder how many you can see. i wonder what you're thinking of out there, alone. you'd been in a car accident that morning, nothing serious. thank god. maybe you're more shaken than you want to admit. maybe it's something else. a scratch on the driver's door, but still. terrified me.

i roll over and give you space for when you come back. i'm afraid that you're out there without me, i don't like that you're away. it makes me wonder when i started to care so much. it makes me think about how miserable it would be if something had happened. if you hadn't come back. i can't stomach it.

i wonder if you're thinking parallel thoughts, but i don't move an inch.

i fall into sleep, but i think i'd really fallen quite some time ago.

it's a relief, then, to wake up with you beside me. i can't tell what time it is, but it doesn't matter today. all i care about is draping an arm over you, nuzzling gently into your back. reveling in your warmth and presence.

it's never been this strong before, the collection of stars spinning in my chest. i don't know what to do with it.

i can only hold you tighter. and hope.

Pretty bitch (when it’s three am and i’m looking at myself in the mirror and my ego is getting the better of me, otherwise i think my face is too ethnic—the ancient aztecs would’ve loved me though—and too white at the same time)

Compulsive—

I compulsively and impulsively do things

(do i have adhd? should probably get tested so people stop asking)

I am staring at my body

At the funhouse mirror in the county fair

All long hair and petite and wide hipped

(some white lady once told me i had ‘mexican hips’ and i should’ve clocked her if she wasn’t so old and i’m still not entirely sure what that means but that’s a weird thing to say to a latin girl when she’s nineteen, no?)

I feel observed,

In public

Like I am constantly being baited into social error

I crave and detest attention

I like to read

(and at night i will gaze upon such nonsense it makes me sick and i begin to hold a personal grudge against Garth Ennis)

I want things I can’t have, (like, i want lemonade but not this lemonade, the lemonade from two summers ago)

Would you still love me if I told you everything wrong with me? If I told you my fixation on religious imagery stems from—

I like to paint

(if i love you i’ll make something in your image and also i can’t really remember when i was eight years old and my favorite color is a green i’ve tried to find my entire life and will probably never be able to see again because it was the center of a lake on a roadtrip through the yukon when i was small)

I’m young and dumb

(but i feel so old it hurts—I blame this ⅖ on the expectations of the religious sect—cult??? jury’s still out—and all the guilt and the violence that came with it and the other ⅗ on bad blood and familial tradition)

Would you still love me if I was a worm?

Would you still love me if I told you I couldn’t sit with my back to doors? Or that if I don’t check behind the shower curtain, I am confident that I will be Psycho-ed? That I can’t stand loud noise in or outdoors? That I am a slut but only of the soul, because I want you to eat my mind or some other dumb shit I might confess on account of a sleep-deprived high?

Would you still love me if I said men scared the living hell out of me? On account of the reception of violence from them since I was just a baby? That I once crashed my bike while trying to get away from catcalling and rode home with gravel stuck to my bleeding knee?

I’m good with animals and small children and my roommate’s cat literally won’t leave me alone

Would you still love me if I told you I hated vulnerability? That if I said I loved you, I’d immediately ask you to take me out back and shoot me? That I feel like I present the illusion of it and so people always tell me everything because I'm just so goddamn trusting? Because all people want to be believed.

(And, like religion, i believe until it makes me sick.)

That,

my favorite songs are Ethel Cain’s unreleased, and AC/DC, and Gaga and just about everything except country (best friend gets in my car and is stunned by the rapid switch from Danzig to Pop Smoke to Dolly)

and every sibilant sound that my mind latches onto

and i also latch onto you

I really like trees and the beach

(please want me,

please like me)

As it eventually will with every young man, he sees her and is struck. He is struck by her beauty, struck by his own youthful incapacities, and struck by the giddy paralysis of a fear so deep it can only be known by one whose own status is deemed by themselves to lie below that of their infatuation’s. “I cannot,” he reasons as he gazes upon her, “be worthy of her. Yet who else would ever love her as I would? Who could?”

“But, how to make her notice me?” He wonders, until presently it occurs to him to display for her that one thing that he can do well, as that one thing might somehow reveal to her the feasibility of other, hidden potentials within him which she, and only she, might manifest within him given time… if only she would look at him now.

And so the boy shows himself off to her. He is young. His skillsets are few and mostly outlandish, but he is completely unmindful of what the rest of the watching world may think. The urge is strongly upon him to somehow impress her in ways which he has not yet had time enough in this world to formulate, but he will try. He must try. And if the lad has wit he will manage it in a convincing and winsome enough manner that he will gain some however-so small affection from her... a smile, a touch, a peckish kiss. Any of those would be enough for now, as he would have been seen.

It began two Thursday’s ago, and has not let up since. Out of the blue the boy began showing up nearly every day, some days two or three times a day, dribbling his basketball on the sidewalk out front of Trisha’s house. He could only bounce it, as there is no basket out there to shoot at, so sometimes he bounces it up high, or sometimes he dribbles it down low, wrapping it effortlessly behind his back and then scissoring it between his legs, spinning the ball on his finger, and then on his forehead, and then dribbling it some more and more and more as he spins and jukes and out-fakes invisible sidewalk defenders.

Oh, she sees him all right. Trisha watches him through the window slats, her face a torpid mask meant to hide her curiousity away from sniggering parents. The boy was actually quite good at bouncing his ball, so she waited to see what tricks he might do with it next.

He made dribbling the ball look so easy that once, when the bouncing boy had finally gone, Trisha went out to the garage, where she picked up her brother’s ball and tried dribbling it herself, but her hands moved awkwardly, and the ball was too heavy. It always bounced too high, so that she couldn’t even begin to do the boy’s tricks. In fact, it was all she could do to keep the stupid ball bouncing near enough to her that she could bounce it again. She quickly discovered that what the boy made to look so easy was really not so easy at all.

Of course, at least initially, it wasn’t just her parents, but even Trisha who found the bouncing ball annoying. The infernal thump, thump, thumping of the ball drug her to the window from her daytime bed where she laid listening to music, or from the couch when she was watching television. The thumping was out there during supper, and when she was dressing, and all the time it seemed. When she could do so without it being obvious Trisha would sneak over to peek between the blinds at him dribbling the ball, and spinning it, but the boy never, ever looked over at her window, or even towards her house, but only dribbled his ball as though neither she, nor even her house, were even there.

But our girl Trisha was no one’s dummy.

Who was he, she wondered? And why was he doing this? It seemed to be a very strange thing to do, but then it also didn’t. At first it had appeared to be a random act, as though her house just happened to sit on his route home from the basketball court or something like that, but it quickly became obvious that there was a greater purpose to his dribbling here, that it was for someone’s benefit, and her vanity allowed her to suspect that the someone he was doing it for might be her, not that she really cared about the boy one way or another. She didn’t even know him. But why else other than to impress her? Why did he always stop right here in front of her house every day? And why bouncing a ball? If he was truly coming to impress her, or any other girl for that matter, why bring a basketball? Why not sing, or dance, or anything more romantic than bouncing a ball? It was a curious mystery, but then… she did enjoy a curious mystery.

Regardless of their intent Trisha came to look forward to his visits, her heart leaping at the first thump. She no longer felt the need to go peek every single time, though she did it quite often anyways. It was enough just to know he was there. After all, she knew very well by now what he looked like, and what he was doing, and she suspected that she was the reason, so there was really no need to peek, was there? If he truly was coming here to dribble in front of her house in an attempt to impress her then not peeking was almost a form of playing hard to get, wasn’t it? A way of showing him that she had more important things to do than to watch him play with his ball? So she shouldn’t make herself available to him every time, should she? The boy might get the impression she was easy, or uninteresting. No. She could not allow that.

Still, most times she peeked. She couldn’t help it. And when she did so she wondered if he noticed the break in the blinds, and if that break gave her peeking away? Sometimes she even hoped that he did see it. Trisha was alone a lot, which did not make for a particularly happy girl, and during those times when she was not peeking she took on an unconscious habit of brushing her hair until the thumping echoes of the ball faded away into the twilight, and of smiling as she brushed.

Oddly, Trisha began to wish the boy was out there even when he wasn’t, and she found herself discouraged when he was not. Depressed even. She began to wonder where he was, and what he had found that was more interesting to do? And then she would hear ghost balls thumping on the sidewalk. She would run to the window but the boy wouldn’t be out there; this seemed always to happen while lying in her bed at night for instance, or when she was naked in the bathroom. And even more strangely, she found herself peeking out when there was clearly no ball out there thumping, hoping that the boy might be just down the street, bouncing it up the sidewalk towards her house.

”Is that boy a friend of yours?” Her father finally asked her. “Why don’t you go out there and make him stop?”

Go out there? Was her father a fool? She couldn’t go out there! Going out there would break the magic. The boy would see that she was not so special, that she was just a girl and not so pretty, and was infinitely awkward at that.

”What’s the matter? Scared?” Her father taunted, making fun when there was nothing funny about it. But was she scared? Scared of what? Of a boy bouncing a stupid ball? Of course she was not scared. She would show her father. She would go out there! But first she would go see how she looked. Once in front of the mirror she touched her hair a few times to little effect, but it wasn’t really her appearance that she wanted to see, was it? What she needed to see lay deeper than that, so rather than primping she gazed into her own eyes, gauging their strength, asking them if this was truly what she wanted, to meet this boy whose attention she had somehow attracted, and to take a chance on driving him away? Wasn’t it better to leave things alone, and to keep this little thing between them as it was? The eyes in the mirror told her no. Trisha saw in them a readiness, almost a hunger to meet the boy, to find out who he was. Taking a deep breath, she hesitated no longer.

It was actually a relief to find herself on the tiny front porch, and to hear the door click shut behind her, and to see that he had not noticed her there yet, but there was no turning back from here. She was committed.

“Hi!”

The ball got away from him for just a second. It was a little thing, but it was the first time in all her peeking that she’d seen a fumble from him, which meant nothing really, while also meaning very much when she considered her own continuous fumbling in the garage when she had attempted to dribble her brother’s ball. Trisha’s initial thought had been that he was a boy, so dribbling the ball was easier for him, but that was not right. He was obviously athletic, but where did that come from? Was it genetics, hand-eye coordination handed down from mother or father, or both? And how did speed play into that, and balance, and dexterity, and strength? No, he could only reach the level of skill he had achieved through diligence. She wondered where he found such a thing as diligence, and why?

He was really not very big, seen from a closer perspective, not much taller than her actually, yet he looked strong, if lithe. He caught up with the fumbled ball and tucked it under his arm as he turned to face her, his weight balanced evenly on both feet, his chin held high in an exaggerated, almost comically masculine posture.

“Hi.” He did not smile, though his expression was soft, his eyes kind. His voice was surprisingly deep for such a youthful looking face.

“What are you doing out here? Why do you keep bouncing your ball in front of my house.“

The boy shrugged.

“You are driving my parents crazy.”

”And you?”

There was a pause as she considered her answer. Her eyes refused to look at him as she gave it, though she longed to see his response. She had never suffered rejection and didn’t know if she could take it, but she had a feeling that she needn’t worry. He instilled in her that feeling. “Yea, I guess you could say that you’re driving me crazy, too.”

With that said she did look up. He wore a brilliant smile now, which she could not help returning. “Good, then I’ll be back tomorrow.” He said it as he turned to go.

”Hey!“ His still smiling face glanced back at her call. “Why don’t you try ringing the bell?”

The boy nodded and took off running down the street, the ball thumping expertly at his side.

When I picture Deborah, there is no hearth or home involved. Instead, I see her on top of the domelike Mount Tabor with the general Barak, watching as the oppressive Sisera gathers a terrifying army of 900 chariots below.

I imagine her turning to Barak, and with command in her voice saying "Up! For this is the day in which the Lord has given Sisera into your hand. Does not the Lord go out before you?”

Then I imagine Barak stirring, calling his troops to attention, and storming down the mountain, all under Deborah's watchful eye.

Later, after the battle, I picture her and Barak again on top of Mount Tabor, looking out on the scattered bodies of Sisera's troops. I picture the joy on her face, as she receives the news that her prophecy has come true: it was to Jael, a mere tent-dweller, that the Lord had delivered the fleeing Sisera: the oppressor of her people is finally vanquished.

And then, I picture Deborah breaking out into song, braids possibly flying:

“In the days of Shamgar, son of Anath,

in the days of Jael, the highways were abandoned,

and travelers kept to the byways.

7 The villagers ceased in Israel;

they ceased to be until I arose;

I, Deborah, arose as a mother in Israel."

Deborah was a prophetess, a military leader, a mother figure, and a judge during a time when her nation was oppressed by cruel rulers, such as Sisera. Yet not once do we see her flinch, and not once do we see her acquiesce, even while the men around her are quaking in their boots (sadly, many of the tribes, refuse even to rise up against their oppressors).

How does Deborah, a mere woman in a nation of male dominance, have such confidence and clout?

“Lord, when you went out from Seir,

when you marched from the region of Edom,

the earth trembled

and the heavens dropped,

yes, the clouds dropped water.

The mountains quaked before the Lord,

even Sinai before the Lord,[a] the God of Israel."

Her confidence is in her God, and in no one else. And from God comes her clout. That is how she could tell Barak clearly that it was time to attack: that is how she could command with decisiveness and purpose. And not once in the Bible can you find a caveat for Deborah's leadership, such as you hear in many pulpits today (i.e. 'Deborah was only in charge because there were no suitable men around'). The Bible does not offer any excuse or apology for her leadership - it simply paints her as a stellar example of a leader who listened to God and did what he said. Period. No gender roles involved.

This is to me, a wonderful example of a godly, unapologetically strong woman. We women who now trust Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior; we women who have the very same God as Deborah guiding us (in the form of the Holy Spirit); we women who are instructed by Paul to take every scripture as God-breathed and useful for teaching and instruction in righteousness; we women (and men too), can learn that when we listen to God and point our noses unyieldingly in the direction of his will, he will use us in mighty ways, regardless of our gender.

Deborah was not obedient to man - she was obedient to God. Deborah was not submissive to the commander Barak - she was submissive to God. Deborah was not quiet and home-centered - yet her spirit was quiet and centered in the will of God. Does God find delight in a woman like that? It sure seems so.

This is the only notebook I have never lost, I can confide a series of journal-like thoughts and they stick like fluorescent stars on a ceiling, floating up above for me to look at. To the world, there are so many things I'd like to say, and I never know if I am really the right person to say them.

Life is fleeting, they say, life is long. We spend too much time not fighting for what we believe in. I want to fight-- let me start at my pace, and do what I can. I will do what I can, to protest, to speak up.

But in order to speak we need to believe in the goodness of people. That they are not deaf, but malleable. That they would pay attention.

We spend so much time in war and fear, in hesitation and insecurity.

I have started swimming again and it helps me to remember. The feeling of my arms scrambling in the water, pushing like I too, could cross the sea if I needed to. My lungs emptying out, the knots come up through my chest. I can feel them, at last, the threads grow so moist they break and I can breathe again.

On Sunday I was a couple of steps behind my friends and when my thoughts started buzzing I said sharply 'okay,' to make them go away. They turned and I laughed it off. Off they went, these thoughts. And I breathed in.

One day I will write about sunshine. About the daisies we caught. I will write about love, all its forms, I will write about hope. More than anything else, I believe in hope. I see every day the goodness of people, not just through children waddling down corridors, mothers, brothers, friends, but those who have weathered through everything and still choose to be kind. Through the way my dad will let me finish my sentence, even if it means he has to stand in a parking lot before telling me everyone else has gone inside, so he has to say goodbye. People are so kind, and day by day I find kindness is no longer so much of a surprise.

A few months ago, I was at a table and some friends of friends said that I never got to finish a sentence, that I was always being interrupted. I don't mean this to sound self-pitying, I just hadn't noticed. It doesn't bother me. But I was touched and surprised by their goodness, that they would look, that they would listen. I think they told me they had counted, and the number of interruptions was eight. Why would anyone count someone else's unfinished sentences, except than because they are themselves nothing but good? So it struck me, when I found some old notes-- went looking for them, from April 2016:

'I had resigned myself to repeated interruptions, so sometimes when I was asked a question I didn’t bother answering. He paused, and let the more confident speaker finish, before asking me the question I had never got to answer. His eyes were clear and green and sincere. I caught him leaning back, his mouth closed and his gaze resting on me thoughtfully. He asked another question, which the overconfident jumped in to respond to, and he asked it again so I would answer.'

So how can I not believe in the right to speak, when some listeners are so endlessly good? And perhaps that is all the reason there needs to be.

The trouble is you think you have time. For instance, you always think one day you’ll tell her. Not now. Not when it’s so inconvenient. not when it could make things weird. Not if it means losing her. Not if it could make her uncomfortable. not if it could worry her. Not when it could cost you a lifetime of friendship, her kindness, that ease you love about her. and her lovely face, the way she lights up a room. Not when she’s your favourite kind of magic. You won’t tell her now, but maybe later, when you’ve introduced her to all your friends and her friends don’t think you’re weird. When you’re not invasive, not out of place. Just a friend. Maybe one day you’ll introduce her to someone, or she’ll let you meet them, the kind of someone who makes her feel everything she deserves, who gives her all she needs, a handful of rings and a fistful of diamonds kind of love people write about it. Perhaps, as the years go by, you’ll wonder if you could tell her. but it’s not so important anymore. And you lose touch, and hear one day that she got married to that person, that magic person. They post pictures of their honeymoon hiking across the Andes. So you won’t tell her then, either, but instead thread the memories of loving her into that tapestry of fondness, of the things that kept you alive and hopeful, the things that kept you wanting to be better. You’ll write about it, tell someone else as you stroke their hair by the sea. Another friend, maybe, to watch get married to somebody else. And you’ll tell them, that maybe you loved her, loved the fantasy and her enough to know that you didn’t want to risk losing her by loving her wrong. About how you walked home from that rainy café thinking of how you would brew her chamomile tea—anything she wanted. How when you sat next to her you stretched away from her but all you wanted to do was hold her close, her lovely lovely shoulders. How at choir you only wanted her to stand closer, and lean into you, and you imagined swaying, like that, in a kitchen alone. You will tell her that you always held back, but that you loved her, maybe, after all, but it all flew by and the trouble was you still think you have time.

Dear Friend,

As I sit under the vast canopy of my night sky, my pen hesitates above this blank page. I often wonder about the world that cradles you, half a world away. The ink bleeds a little on the paper, mirroring the way thoughts of you have gently seeped into the corners of my being.

We have never met, yet your words have become the silent whisper in my every day. The streets I walk, the people I see – they all seem to hold a piece of the stories you've shared. I find myself pausing at the marketplace, smiling at a stranger, imagining if you would've noticed the same peculiar smile that I did.

Our worlds are different, as are our skies. My days are painted with the broad strokes of a sun that sets as yours awakes. And yet, in your letters, I find a familiarity that transcends these physical disparities. The emotions you weave through your words resonate with a part of my soul I never knew was seeking a companion.

You write about the rain that falls in your city, the way it paints everything a shade darker. I imagine you, watching the droplets race each other down your window, as I often watch the sun paint the evening sky in hues of orange and purple. In these moments, I am there with you, a silent observer in your world.

Though our lives are a patchwork of disparate threads, we have managed to unite around one common strand. You with your stories of packed streets and dark nights; me with my wide-open spaces and an unfathomably large sky. We have found comfort in the empathy of a stranger by sharing our joys, anxieties, and ordinary moments.

Sometimes, I lie awake at night, your latest letter clutched in my hand, and I stare at the stars. I try to map out the constellations you've described, but they are foreign to my sky. It's in these moments that the distance between us becomes tangible, the miles stretching out like an unbridgeable chasm.

Yet, even as this thought lingers, a comforting feeling washes over me. It is the thought of your words, your existence – a reminder that across this vast, incomprehensible space, there is another soul that resonates with mine.

Tonight, as I write back to you, I wonder if the stars that watch over me whisper secrets to the ones that guard your sleep. In this thought, there is a poetic justice, a connection that defies the logic of distance and time.

So, as I seal this letter, a vessel of my thoughts and a bridge over our distance, I find myself asking a question that seems to hold more than just curiosity. A question that perhaps, in its simplicity, captures the essence of our unlikely friendship:

Do We See the Same Stars?

With love,

Your Friend

is there a sky

and is it blue

why is it not

some other hue

why not red

or green or white

why is black

the sign of night

why do fish swim

and birds fly

and lions roar

and people lie

why do plants grow

and pets die

and grannies wrinkle

and mommies cry

why learn to read

or read to learn

or learn to think

or think and burn

and spurn and yearn

and fret and weep

and long and lose

and sow and reap

why care and love

or fear and hate

why believe in

free will or fate

why God or gods

or devils and demons

when all good and evil

flows from humans

why seek answers

that end with a sigh

why try and survive

why live to just die?