Issuu

Ethnosphere Connect, Express, Inspire

Collection 13 - January 2024

Table of Contents Letter from the Editor

List of Contributors

Mountain Photography

Issue 1 Recap

Novaturient: desiring or seeking powerful change in one’s life,behavior, or situation.

Issue 2 Recap

Commuovere: to be moved to tears, in a heartwarming way, by someone or something.

Issue 3 Recap

Tir na nÓg: a paradise and supernatural realm of everlasting youth, beauty, health, abundance, and joy.

Issue 4 Recap

Meraki: to do something with soul, passion, or love. To put some of yourself into something.

Architecture Photography

Issue 5 Recap

Saudade: an emotional state of melancholic or profoundly nostalgic longing for a beloved yet absent something or someone.

Issue 6 Recap

Jayus: a joke that is so unfunny that one cannot help but laugh.

Issue 7 Recap Eleutheromania: a desperate craving for freedom.

Issue 8 Recap

Wabi-sabi: an appreciation for beauty that is imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.

Wildlife Photography

Issue 9 Recap

Trouvaille: something lovely found by chance.

Issue 10 Recap

Vedriti: to shelter from the rain.

Issue 11 Recap

Hyppytyynytyydytys: joy found in small things.

Issue 12 Recap

Smultronställe: “place of wild strawberries”; a special place, often secret or hidden, where one finds solace, peace, or happiness.

Submissions

A Letter from the Editor To everyone reading this, In our first issue of 2024, we’d like to look back on some moments from our previous twelve issues and express our appreciation for everyone who, through their time, passion, and generosity, made all of it possible. If this is the first issue you’re reading, we hope you enjoy the selection of stories we’ve chosen, and go back to read the others; if you’ve been with us for some time, we hope some of the stories, photography, or poetry have touched you in some way. A year ago, Mike Neundorfer came to me with his vision for an online, literary magazine. It would be my responsibility to create this magazine from scratch, with little to no direction except this: the purpose was to share people’s stories. Through all the growing pains and learning curves that come with a new project and unknown territory, we kept this at the front of our minds. We want Ethnosphere to be a place where people connect with each other, express themselves, inspire, and get inspired. Some things will look different in 2024. We are determined to raise the quality of the magazine, using the knowledge we gained in our first year, with a dedication to grow our readership and expand our net of contributors. Because of our desire to improve, we’ve decided to release one issue every other month, instead of once a month. This will give us more time to collect work, edit, have a back and forth with the contributors, and put the issues together. If you find value in our magazine and in sharing real, agenda-free stories and wholesome content, the best thing you can do is read Ethnosphere, share it, and submit work of your own. We hope you enjoy this 2023 recap and continue to follow along. We are grateful for each and every one of you. May you create stories worth telling in the new year. -Madeline C. Lanshe

ethnospheremagazine.com Instagram: @ethnospheremagazine

Our 2023 Contributors Chris Agnew Benjamin Al-Doory Juliana Amir Angelo Anderson Cheryl Barker Susan Bell Alex Bevan Daniel Cappell Paula Carmosino Sheila Crawford Mariela Del Castillo Stephen Cerne Enzo Chaudet Julie Chaudet Hannah Clemente Alexandra Corey Jose Coronado Mary Crider Patrick Culliton Grace Demaree Trevor Dodson Manuela Dumay Kym Dunbar Mitchell Dunbar Randy Dunn Hannah Fortune Gabrielle Lanshe De Gante Shirena González

Christine Gregory Maureen Gregory Elise Hanson Robert Hardcastle Nick Hoeller Bill Hoff Griffin Holub Joyce Jentoft Neil Jentoft Ali Kaeberlein Susan Kanarick Elizabeth Keller Debbie Kifer Faith Lanshe Madeline C. Lanshe Jenise LeMay Alex LLacsahuanga Harry Lorton Mary Lorton Donato Luciani Sergio De Gante Martin Bob McCormick Julie McCormick Elinda McKenna Amy Moskin Dave Munro Nate Neading Marcia Neundorfer

Mike Neundorfer Beth Nguyen Hai Nguyen Allison Njaria Jim O’Callaghan Thomas Ostroski Bill Paine Jackie Paine John Plymak Zach Province Emilia Resanović Megan Romocean Loïc Sablé Nicholas Sherman Jacob Sledz Janice Spicuzza David Stovall Adam Stupi Sadie Tooson David Waitley Gail Waitley Rob Wick Linda Williams Jarrett Wilson Emily Wist Troy Valentik Travis Yocum Valentina Zirone

Mountain photography can be found all throughout the Ethnosphere issues in 2023. Our contributors have beautifully captured mountain majesties from Alaska, to Utah, to Ireland, and beyond. Who among us can gaze at the face of nature’s architecture and not let a smile of awe spread across our own?

Stephen Cerne

Thomas Ostroski

Nick Hoeller

Griffin Holub Madeline C. Lanshe

Madeline C. Lanshe

Mitchell Dunbar

Collection 1 - January d In our first issue, we explored new beginnings and drastic life changes.

Featured Stories By the Seat of Their Britches Bob and Susan find companionship and adventure after tragedy. A Paper, Some Haircuts, and 400 Towels Angelo, who started a newspaper while homeless, shares stories of the lessons he’s learned and the help he received to get off the streets and overcome his addiction to drugs. Standing on the Line Shortly after starting a new job, Madeline breaks her wrist and is forced to navigate the physical and emotional difficulties that come with it.

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Last Night

Last night, I ate chicken wings from the garbage can on 4th Street. It’s a good place to find doggy-bags from the restaurants on that street. I walked over to the alley next to the May Company, got in the corner, and slept.

Last night, I went to a tailgate party. Drank and ate for free, panhandled some money, went to the hood, got high, then slept in the park until the police woke me up and told me to move along. Last night, I found a bus pass. I rode the bus all night. Then I went to St. Augustine’s and had breakfast. Last night, I hung out on Public Square. The food people were there and they fed us coffee and donuts. I went to the alley and slept. Last night, I panhandled on Playhouse Square. Made enough to smoke dope all night. Walked to breakfast at the church. Last night, I hung out in the Flats. Swept up the floor, put out chairs for a concert. Listened to the show, got paid, slept in the bus shelter. Last night, I slept in the emergency room because it was so cold outside. I had to leave at seven when the shift changed. Last night, I went to the men’s shelter. It had seventy-five mats on the floor and a bathroom with two sinks and two stalls. All of them were stopped up. And I won’t go back. Last night, I slept in a porta potty. This will be my last night on the street, God willing.

-Angelo Anderson

Nick Hoeller

A Paper, Some Haircuts, and 400 Towels By Madeline C. Lanshe

hat night in the porta potty was indeed Angelo Anderson’s last night on the street, though not the last night he got high. The journey to overcome addiction took him a year and a half. “My wife was cocaine. My life was cocaine.” He’d stay in a hotel on Detroit Avenue. The last bus left to go downtown at 7:45 each night. If he didn’t catch that bus, he had another night clean. “The (hotel) manager played a big part,” Angelo said. “After he talked to me and found out what I was doing, he gave me a discount.” In fact, according to Angelo, the only thing that made it possible for him to get off the streets, and drugs, was accepting help from others. “Without me opening up, and being willing to accept the fact that I don’t know it all, I’d probably be dead. Ain’t no probably to it. I would be dead.” Someone who played a pivotal role in helping Angelo on his journey was Sister Corita at St. Augustine’s on West 14th street. Angelo describes her as short and forceful. And yet, she’d allow him to sleep in the corner on the floor of the church. Half asleep, he’d hear her say, “No, no, just let him sleep, he’s okay.” Later, she’d wake him up and ask for his help washing dishes and mopping the floor, among other

things. Angelo always obliged. Other nuns, at St. John’s Cathedral, seemed to materialize during some of his worst moments. They believed in him, more than he believed in himself, always assuring him he could do it. “I can’t say I picked myself up on my own.” Another factor in Angelo’s progress was helping to start a newspaper called the Homeless Grapevine. At that time, he was still homeless himself, staying in dope houses, Metro Parks, doorways, Public Square. Angelo and three other homeless men would each write one page, trying to top each other’s stories about life on the street. A man from Kent State, who was doing a thesis on homelessness, got involved. He asked the director of the Northeast Ohio Coalition for the Homeless (NEOCH) if he could help write a grant to aid in getting the paper started. “The first issue was printed with the understanding that we would have to sell them all in order to print the next one. Thirty years later, we’re still doing pretty good.” He’d sell about fifty papers a day, enough to pay for the room at the hotel, something to eat, and papers for the next day. The Homeless Grapevine is now called the

Cleveland Street Chronicle. Angelo himself sells them on Saturday mornings at the West Side Market. It is there that Mike Neundorfer, president of Advanced RV, met him. They exchange a few sentences every week, an experience that always enriches Mike’s day. Mike heard more and more of Angelo’s story and it fascinated and inspired him. So he asked Angelo to come speak at one of ARV’s weekly staff meetings, and Angelo graciously obliged. Angelo shared with the staff some of the life lessons he has learned through his experiences. At the Salvation Army, he learned it is better to ask for forgiveness than permission. His boss at the time asked him why he’d done a certain thing, and Angelo had explained. His boss told him, “Here’s what I need you to start doing. I need you to ask for forgiveness, because I know I’m wasting my time telling you to ask for permission.” In the theory of not asking for permission, Angelo says he’s always in “good trouble.” An example of this is when he started a GED program at the shelter, six men graduating at once, five of them employed due to his employment program. His bosses didn’t know anything about it until it hit the newspaper. They asked him when this program was started and where the money came from. According to Angelo, it didn’t cost them a dime. Once he’d made up his mind that he was going to do it, things started falling into place. A foundation provided them with the books, and he started getting calls from retired school teachers, principals, professors, all offering to volunteer their time. The things you need will be provided, provided you ask. Angelo told one last story, which demonstrated this, and the belief of following the “little voice inside you,” before he parted. For three years, he did a program called the Homeless Stand Down. He was asked to be

the director the second year and he decided he wanted to do haircuts. Everyone thought he was crazy. But haircuts make you feel good about yourself, can even make you feel like a new person, so why shouldn’t the homeless get to experience that too? That was his motivation. Of the two barber schools in Cleveland, one agreed to participate. Three weeks before the event, they backed out. Because it was on a Friday, the day the students made the most money, they couldn’t ask them to not make any money. Angelo was leaving a weekly meeting when he bumped into a woman. She could see he looked upset and asked what was wrong. “Little voice says, ‘Tell her what’s wrong. Tell her what’s wrong,’” Angelo said. After telling her, she said her husband, Kelly Rice, ran the Lake Erie Barber College, and he was going to call Angelo later that night. He did call, saying he’d bring all twenty-five of his barbers. The Monday before the event, he called Angelo back. They could still do the event, but they needed twenty-five chairs that let up and down and swiveled. “Little voice says, ‘Tell ‘em okay, tell ‘em okay.’” As Angelo was trying to figure it out at the school’s gym where the event was going to be held, the janitor asked him what was wrong. Angelo told him, and the janitor said they’d just gotten a shipment of lab chairs that he had to put together anyway. He’d set up twenty-five in the gym. They even swiveled and let up and down. Three days later, he got another call from Kelly Rice who said they needed everyone to have clean hair. “Uh oh,” was Angelo’s reaction. But the little voice told him to tell him okay again. The janitor yet again asked Angelo what was wrong. There were showers downstairs. He’d open them up. But Angelo needed to provide the soap and towels. Angelo thought

he’d found someone to lend him 400 towels, but they called him back the day before the Stand Down and said they’d double-booked with a racing event happening in Cleveland that weekend and they were no longer able to provide the towels. When the secretary called back and apologized, she said they didn’t want to give Angelo the towels because they thought homeless people would spread AIDS to their customers. Someone from AT&T was at the gym, setting up phones. He asked Angelo what kind of event they were preparing for. When he heard, the man said he wished he’d known earlier. Still, he asked if there was anything he could do to help. Angelo said, “If you could help me come up with some towels, that would

be a miracle.” The man started laughing. He said he coached little league soccer. After every game, the kids took showers, leaving towels which he and his wife collected, washed, and bagged for the Goodwill. He said he hadn’t been to the Goodwill in two months. There were 8 or 9 large garbage bags in his garage. On top of that, he donated $300 with which to buy the hygiene products. The next year, Angelo’s goal was to donate 500 pairs of shoes. A representative from Oprah Winfrey’s Angel Network in Chicago contacted him out of the blue and donated 1,000 pairs from Timberland. Angelo says he still doesn’t know how all of this happened, except that he asked for it. Today, Angelo works at the men’s shelter in downtown Cleveland. He houses men who are, in his words, “the hardest to work with.” 2022 proved the most successful year the shelter has seen, with Angelo at the head of the program. He also just started another position where he works with homeless families. With that comes new challenges and hardships. It is not, however, deterring him. “When you’re doing good,” he said, “you get good results.” He later added, “Never think you can’t do something because you don’t have the money. If you’re trying to do something, and it’s the right thing, believe in yourself, believe in what you’re trying to do, and it will happen.” Angelo has said that he doesn’t always feel like going into work, but every time he is there, within an hour, he feels like he’s making a difference and doing good in somebody’s life. There is no doubt that for countless others who have faced similar struggles as him, he was one of the reasons they picked themselves back up: their Sister Corita.

Madeline C. Lanshe

Collection 2 - February d An issue to remind you that tears need not come solely from sadness.

Featured Stories From Italy to Willoughby Mike, president of Advanced RV, tells the story of hiring a new Master Upholsterer from Italy, helping his family through the two year immigration process, and making them a part of the ARV family. A Road Paved with Trust Alex and Mariela reflect on their decision to move their family to the US, and the blessings and hardships that came with it. Resilient, Little Warriors Madeline participates in a sea turtle hatchling rescue and release; one of the turtles captures her heart. When Rewards Outweigh the Risks Mike writes about his decision to implement the four-day work week at ARV, and three employees give their testimonies on how it changed their lives.

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In 2018, Alex and Mariela made the decision

to leave their comfortable life in Rome, Italy, trusting their gut feelings and taking a chance on carving out a future for their family in the United States, based on a job offer for Alex from ARV owner, Mike Neundorfer. Trust must be a two-way street if a joint venture is to move forward successfully. Mike had to trust that Alex had the upholstery skills that his company needed and that he would persist in the two year legal immigration process, and Alex had to trust that Mike’s job offer was the real deal and that uprooting his family to move to a foreign country was the right path for them. Both Alex and Mariela were convinced that immigration, although difficult, would provide opportunities for their three children, Demi, Brisa and Francesco. I spent some time with Alex and Mariela recently and found that their smiles lit up the room while discussing their new “hometown” of Willoughby, Ohio. Here, they have found a

hub of friends, neighbors and co-workers that have welcomed them and their three children into the community. How do you explain to your children that their life is about to be turned upside-down? The trust that Alex and Mariela had placed in Mike and his wife, Marcia, would have to see them through the difficult transition. Daughters, Demi (now age 21) and Brisa (now age 18) along with son, Francesco (now age 10) needed to trust that their parents knew

“The decision was already made before we met with Mike and Marcia.” -Mariela

what was best and would help them navigate the unknown. Meanwhile, the parents worried how their children would adjust to their new environment after saying good-bye to friends and family in Italy. Language would definitely be the first stumbling block, as Mariela was the only one of the five who spoke English. The girls had studied English throughout school, but were hesitant to speak it. Starting school here for Francesco, at first, meant shedding many tears of frustration because he didn’t understand anything that was being said and he felt completely lost. According to his mother, he is a kid who loves raising his hand and speaking up in class, and it was hard for him when he was unable to do so. But within a few weeks, his comprehension improved and he began to grasp the basic concepts of the English language. Before long, he was doing well, making friends in class and feeling comfortable with his elementary school lessons. Marcia spent a lot of time with Francesco

and the girls when they arrived. She played Parcheesi with them (“You are ruthless! Do you know the word “ruthless?” she’d say), and with Francesco, she started reading picture books. They quickly advanced to classics such as Stuart Little and Charlotte’s Web. With the girls, she read Harry Potter. Marcia and Francesco played baseball in the backyard. Francesco has a passion for the sport and hopes to join a boys’ team in the spring.

“I consider Mike the best owner because he is flexible. At the same he’s rigid. He wants you to consider this company like your house. -Alex

“We asked, ‘Is this a dream?’ This is my first question.” -Alex Upheaval for teenagers is not so easily resolved. Demi and Brisa found that fitting in and making new friends, while dealing with the language barrier, was a bigger struggle than what their little brother faced. Both teens were born in Peru, where their family hails from originally. They had already experienced cultural disruption when the family moved to Italy 14 years ago. To add to their estrangement, the COVID-19 pandemic meant that much of their US schooling took place online rather than in-person. This increased their feelings of isolation and disengagement. How do you become friends with someone you only know from a classroom Zoom screen? But, as the pandemic restrictions gradually eased and schools returned to their prepandemic routines, both girls had developed sufficient language skills to excel in their lessons and feel more adapted to the situation. Currently, Brisa will soon graduate from high school and Demi is already attending classes at a nearby community college. The sisters have continued their international adventure by obtaining employment at a local Mexican restaurant.

As the three of us continued to talk about contrasts they found between their former life in Rome and their new life in Willoughby, our focus turned to food. It was quickly apparent that they missed the easy access to fresh food that they savored while living in both Peru and Italy. Alex, being the chef of the family, favors the many varieties of Italian pasta.

They occasionally indulge in a trip to the large food emporium known as West Side Market in Cleveland to satisfy some of their cravings. When I mention pizza, both Alex and Mariela burst into laughter. “It is so different here!,” they both exclaim in unison. Of course, the youthful standard of burger and fries has quickly earned their seal of approval. However, Francesco gives two thumbs down to the unappealing choices offered by the infamous school “lunch ladies”. He prefers, instead, to bring his own lunch from home to guarantee a tastier noon meal. Home itself looks different here, too. Instead of the customary apartment in the bustling metropolitan city of Rome, the family lives in a suburban ranch house that is just a short walk from Francesco’s elementary school. There is a grassy yard to enjoy (and take care of) and a finished basement that provides additional living space. Neighbors have turned into friends and life in Willoughby has become routine as the family settles into their new normal. A few trips to visit friends in Virginia and Florida have given the family a glimpse of

the diverse regions found in our United States. When asked to give their overall verdict of their move to this country, along with their new employment with ARV, Mariela responded in a voice laden with emotion, gesturing to indicate that she spoke for both of them. “We are so grateful for what Mike and Marcia have done for our family. We are not just employees here. They have treated us as family members and helped us imagine a better future for our children.” It is abundantly clear from her statement that the twoway street of trust that connected them with Mike, Marcia and ARV, has smoothly paved the way to a beneficial partnership. For Alex, Mariela, Demi, Brisa and Francesco, it is the road to success, and they are delighted with where it has led them.

“I saw Mike, tall man, and I’m just little, it was impressive for me. ‘Is this real?’ That was my first impression in that moment. It was beautiful, my first meeting.” - Alex 22

Collection 3 - March d We may never travel to Tir na nÓg, the land of eternal youth and joy in Irish mythology, but a similar magic can be found in our own world.

Featured Stories The Puca and the Changeling In this short story, based on Irish folklore, a bored puca schemes to switch a human baby with a changeling, not knowing it is his life that is about to change. The One, Last, Great Hurrah Shortly after his 90th birthday, Bill and his wife, Jackie, fly to Ohio from Dallas to get their third Advanced RV and start a new adventure. The Poem She Started A short story that explores the ache of letting go of someone who was not meant to stay with you. Jekyll Island through the Generations Marcia returns to Hollybourne Cottage on Jekyll Island, where her grandmother worked as a servant for a wealthy family during her youth. At the Foot of the Sequoias Three road trips, three separate years, three men connected by the awesomeness of the Sequoia trees of California. Irish Pride and Blisters A look at the Cleveland Cultural Gardens through the eyes of Maureen, who leads a group of teenage volunteers as they weed, plant, and sing.

The Poem She Started The Poem She Started A short story by Juliana Amir A short story by Juliana Amir

he beach sprawled for kilometers in both directions. A trail of ghostly footprints padded in the sand, coming closer, creating a path from the sea. The footprints stopped beside me. I trusted it was my imagination, though I couldn’t be sure, having seen what I had. Awake too many hours, sleep should have sung to me, but it didn’t. It couldn’t, not until I finally processed the events from months ago. I had always loved open waters, forest hikes, and making my living selling fish to the marketplaces, but something in me was slowing. My eagerness? My heart? For the first time, I thought of nothing. Only felt the sadness in the salty breeze and the collapsing waves, and felt the color of the deepest blue reflected in me. Still, I smiled when the first hint of sunlight split the sea from the sky. Instantly, her voice was in my ear, whispering: “contagious seems an awful word until you think of a smile. You smile, see it mirrored, and it fills you because you gave a moment to someone, however fleeting, just by

moving your lips. Is that not magic?” And in that faint whisper, I knew she was with me. Her story swelled in my throat each time I gazed at the sea. I stopped feeling and started remembering her. She danced before my imagination. Perhaps the shyest girl on earth. Crowds crippled her with fear. She’d tuck herself behind me. I shielded her through each crowd, her hand in mine, as I carved us a path. She looked faint when people noticed her. She was to me the fairy that was never meant to be seen by human eyes, and yet, she let me see her and all of her vivid emotions. She definitely cried more than any person on earth. But it was as often a happy tear as it was sad. One Saturday, I brought her a blueberry muffin because, why not? Walking down the cobbled path to her tiny brick house, I thought nothing of it. I handed her the plain paper bag, and when she opened it, she smiled...like a fallen star hid within. She invited me in, put on the kettle, and brewed heather tea. When it was poured and

steaming in two cups, she cut the muffin in half and insisted that it was better shared. We sank into the deflated cushions of her sofa. About a minute after we sat, tears were being absorbed into her muffin. “What now?” I asked. Because I always said that when I saw her in tears. “It’s just so beautiful.” “It’s a muffin! It’s literally flour. And sugar. And whatever else is in muffins.” “The blueberries are so bright and encompassed in these rings of purple, and it must be the most beautiful breakfast, and I am just so happy that I get to have this moment.” She stared at the muffin. “Okay,” I said, wondering if she thought me emotionally dense. I studied the bluish spots. I studied them just as I had studied the winter trees dressed in lights, the blinding pink sunrise, the red butterfly that landed on her wrist, and the many, many other things that were also apparently so special. But now, on the beach, with the wind cutting through my shirt, I saw that these moments were fragments of a time that could not be replicated, despite my younger, sillier notions. The muffin soaked in one last tear before she stopped crying and continued eating, slowly. She was thinner somehow, even more fragile in appearance than the last time I had seen her, and I had the same thought before. In my dreams, even back then, she was often in her bed, frail, and vanishing before my eyes, becoming transparent. It would reach the point that I could stand it no longer and forced myself to wake rather than be forced to try to find her in the dream world when she was not there. “It’s balmy,” I said, to distract myself from the memory of the nightmare. On a whim, I added, “let’s take out the boat.” A stack of strangers’ clothes to be mended sat on the other side of her. She glanced at it,

and I wasn’t proud of it, but I knew if I said please, she would. “Please.” “Looks like a storm will roll in, don’t you think?” “Have you never seen a storm from sea before?” I asked. I never had to say please twice, but that day, I did. She sighed. “Let’s take out the boat.” She grabbed her shoes, and it was odd to me that at twenty, she was already moving slower. I didn’t focus on it, for fear of my nightmare returning to me. I wondered sometimes what we were to each other. Best friends? Family? But we seemed like a category other than that, one I had no language for. Adventure partners for twilit wood walks and moonlit sea swims. We followed the road to the long, stone steps that led down to the little seaside shack that I shared with my papa. She had looped her arm through mine. The longer we walked, the heavier she breathed, and the more I was towing her along.

breathing in something that nourishes.” “Your mam made the best stew.” I don’t know how long exactly our moment stretched, but I noticed the sea towing us out. I rotated the oars and tried to haul us in toward shore. As I rowed and rowed, all the muscles in my torso tightened, but the more I rowed, the further our boat slipped in the wrong direction. For a moment, I believed I was caught in a nightmare again. I didn’t want her to see my worry, but I did check to make sure she wasn’t turning transparent. She was solid, and whatever she saw in my eyes, it prompted her to tell me it was okay. It was not. My view of the land was now swallowed by the sea. A flash of light zipped through the darkening clouds. The rolling crack sounded like our boat snapping in half, though the dinghy was still whole and bobbing on the surface. If I was by She waited outside the shack as I retrieved myself, I may have been loving all of this, but the boat and carried it to the water’s edge. She not with her, not with precious cargo in my boat. followed me across the shore. “It is okay, my dear,” she said. I asked myself now, if I had that day to do I wasn’t sure if she had ever called me that over again, would I help her mend holes and before, but thousands of drops started falling at once. sew on buttons instead of saying please twice? “I can’t see.” I helped her into the boat, pushed the dinghy Through the veil of rain, she was there, and deeper into the water, and jumped in with her. I focused on her for a moment before I realized My legs were mostly soaked, and some silt was our boat was twisting around, spinning. She still between my toes. The clouds were charcoal came and sat beside me, and though it was hard and violet and vast, looming over the saltwater. to tell, I was almost certain she was not crying, The sight sent a chill of excitement through me. which figured, because it was the first time in a With the two oars, I paddled out, not too far, decade I feared that I might. and let my mind wander about what we could The world, a strange mixture of violet and do next. What could we do tomorrow, and the silver, was whipping around me, until I closed day after? I could see the shore from our boat. my eyes. She placed her head on my shoulder. We were surrounded by waters almost indigo in color. Her hand was in mine. I wasn’t sure when that “I have never seen water this exact shade.” happened, only that it was the only good thing I “Don’t cry,” I told her. knew at that moment. “I can’t. I am too stunned by it all. The What could’ve been minutes or hours later, I summer wind feels so warm, so comforting, out felt her nudging my shoulder. I opened my eyes here. It makes me think of the tendrils of steam and saw land, but it was the wrong color. Our curling off of Mama’s stew. The joy of just shores were cream, and the isle ahead was emerald.

“How is this for our adventure?” she asked. I felt ill. Thankfully, the water did most of the work, pushing us toward a mossy green dock jutting into the sea. The waters were suddenly so clear that I could see red fish drifting below the surface. I glanced to see if she had noticed the giant, jewel-toned fish, and it seemed she looked to me for the same reason. I took the rope from the dinghy and used it to tie the boat to the dock. She stepped out onto the boardwalk with no help. Her shoes dangled from her fingertips. The breeze tousled her curls. I grabbed my shoes and followed her onto the mossy dock. It was slippery, but also soft underfoot. The overcast sky was a bright silver now, and I knew I should be worried, but all I sensed walking along the dock, with her in front of me in her lavender dress, was serenity. She tossed a glance back to me, and I was shocked. Her sallow skin was glowing, and her often-tired eyes were bright with a spark I hadn’t seen in years. She said, “Catch me,” and I thought, Always.

She took off running down the boardwalk and through a meadow of purple wildflowers. I was always quick, but suddenly, so was she. When I caught up to her, I picked her up by the waist and spun her around—my fear of her being fragile, forgotten, all of my fears, forgotten. I knew I should’ve been worried about getting home, but when I set her on her feet, she took off again, turning back to make sure I was following her through the grass, closer to the wall of trees. I saw her shoes discarded and threw mine too. I followed her through this island that seemed long forgotten. And yet, I had an eerie sensation growing stronger with each moment that we were being watched. “Look who is falling behind today?” she called, twirling. Her voice, usually soft, was full and bright. I quickened. The earth was still covered in grass, flowers, and moss, even as we moved through towering trees with dark bark and blue and green leaves arching overhead. The world

that I thought I knew every shade of looked new. I couldn’t help but try to drink in each moment as it came to me. We crossed a river. She took my hand and we made it to the other side. We found ourselves by a crystal blue pool of water with a waterfall pouring down from high above, and I wondered how I could get up there. The water misted our skin where we stood and rainbows of color filtered through the mist in maybe the most staggering visual of my life. In one of the trees was a bird with a feathered tail that cascaded from its perch. When it saw me observing, it flapped its wings and soared away into this mystical land. “Do you see the glimmers of light in the trees? It reminds me of something my mother said about fairy wings.” “Your mam always told us the best stories,” I said. “The very best,” she added. “This place reminds me of one.” “Tir na nÓg,” said a voice behind us. I would’ve thought it my imagination if she had not turned around with me in the direction from which it came.

“Odd. Sounded like that came from a branch,” I said. “Or maybe even a fairy, or a star not yet visible.” Something about the disembodied voice raised the hair on my neck. The eerie, queasy feeling was worse now. “Maybe, it is time to make our way to the boat.” The fear, familiar to me, was returning. “I can’t.” “Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing, but that is just it. I feel good. Nothing hurts. I have energy. The energy I haven’t had since I was a child. I want to stay here. I feel…it’s right.” “We haven’t seen one other person.” A colossal green leaf came swirling down. “There is nothing here.” Though we’d seen little of the island, I wanted to believe it. “I don’t believe that is true,” she said. “And here, I can just exist.” She gazed up past the waterfall, so high, that it seemed to pour from the clouds. I rubbed the back of my neck. I was always the one convincing her, and now that it was the other way, I didn’t know what to say. We knew the stories of Tir na nÓg. Mortals could

not stay forever. They could only last a number of days. No one knew how many, but it was a number divided by three, which meant in less than a month, or a week, she would be gone. It was her own mam who warned us of that. As if reading my thoughts she chimed in, “I would rather have one week to be well than a year of feeling myself disappear.” She placed her hands on my neck. Her hands had been shockingly cold for so long, and this time, I was shocked because they weren’t. She kissed my cheek. “You should go.” “Not without you.” “You have so much more to experience and to enjoy.” “So do you.” The look in her eyes made those three words feel like fiction, but the thought of separating shattered my heart just as it did each night I spent trapped in the nightmare. She nodded and glanced in the direction we came. I found myself following her. With every step back to the boat, I left another shard on the island with her. The same bird I saw earlier flew in a pair now, and disappeared into the pink foliage. I grabbed my shoes from their resting place in the grass. Maybe she would collect the pieces. Maybe she would make my heart whole again, the same way she mended holes or quelled my spirit when it felt like it was going everywhere at once. Back on the mossy dock, I eagerly took her hand, this time with no crowd to use as an excuse. Maybe we weren’t simply adventure partners, but two parts of a shared spirit. I had the feeling that she already knew this, maybe months ago, or even years.

I didn’t know how I would find my way back alone, but she believed this place was meant for her, and we knew the opposite was true for myself. Her eyes still reassured me it would all be okay. She didn’t seem to have any words to say, and I had too many, so I released her hand and stepped into the dinghy. Just as soon as I untied it, the water began pulling me out as it had once pulled me in. I locked my eyes on her, her dress and hair dancing in the wind, her bare feet hidden in the moss, melancholy and relief in her soft eyes. It was sudden, too sudden, but soon I was in a haze of mist. I took the oars and rowed back. I rowed back for so long, my arms and torso burned and I didn’t dare stop and I didn’t understand anything. I understood even less when I saw the familiar, empty cream shore. Standing there now, I told her, “I would do it all again to see that spark,” as if she were beside me, and I believed she was. She left lines of poetry inside of me that weren’t there before I met her. Remembering that abnormal twist on an ordinary day, I called to mind my last image of her as the waves carried me away—she was well, she was radiant, and she was without tears. That was the gift of Tir na nÓg. Now, it was I who cried at the sight of a blueberry muffin as often as I smiled.

Collection 3 - March d What sets your soul ablaze so fiercely it cannot be ignored?

Featured Stories Essential Ingredients for an Excellent Meal Guatemalan chef, José Coronado, starts his biggest project yet: executive chef at a restaurant in a historical manor in Ohio. In Loving Memory of Neil Jentoft Honoring photographer Neil Jentoft’s memory and work. Pursuing Pork Tenderloin Sandwiches Dave Stovall has found the one thing with the power to unite people across the country: pork tenderloin sandwiches. Shooting from the Heart Photographer Randy Dunn shares some of his spectacular photos and his insights on the art of photography. 18: A Number and a Dream Zach Province grew up with a love for football and a killer arm. Here, he shares his journey as he works to become a pro football player. A Stairway of Clouds A short story about the daughter of Icarus, whose obsession with a pegasus leads her on a quest on which she discovers new depths of both exhaustion and inner strength.

A Stairway of Clouds

A short story by Madeline C. Lanshe

Ever since she was a small girl, Angeliki had

wanted, more than beauty, more than strength, more than comfort or life itself, a pegasus. Though she’d never stopped to examine her obsession with the majestic sky horses, it could be suspected that it had something to do with the fact that her father was Icarus. Not only had she seen him soar high above, while both her feet were tethered unfairly to the ground, but he, too, had been possessed. Possessed by his ambition, a need to go further than any had before, and a blazing, awesome sun that would one day spell his doom. While living, Icarus was rarely there with Angeliki, too preoccupied with pushing his body to new heights. But the rare moments his feet stayed on the earth, he’d take her to a hidden valley, tucked between rising mountains that seemed to grow taller each year, and there they’d watch the pegasi frolic in the sky above them. “I want to ride on the back of a pegasus, just like Bellerophon,” Angeliki would say each time. “Of course, my daughter,” Icarus would respond. “If you can reach one, you may have a pegasus.” “But I have no wings,” Angeliki would complain. “And you never will,” Icarus would say. “When you want something badly enough, it is like

a fire burning you from the inside of your heart, out. Nothing will stop you from reaching it.” Angeliki never noticed how he gazed at the sun, not the pegasi, as he said this. Her own eyes were fixed on a black foal with the midnight-blue mane. Her favorite. Some dreams become smaller as you age, fading into the lost recesses of your mind, and some grow even faster than you, exploding forth, unable to be contained. The latter was the case for Angeliki. By the time she became a woman, her dream had outgrown her body. Sometimes, she did not even feel intact, and she released her desire into all she did. She read everything there was to read about pegasi, from legends and myths to books on anatomy and breeding, and when she had consumed the knowledge thrice over, she wrote her own stories. Songs she sang while bathing, walking, cooking, cleaning. The walls of the home Icarus had left for her were covered with paintings of the winged horses, as were the floors and ceilings. She was rarely there to see them. When she was not lying on her back in the hidden valley, she was traveling on her feet in search of bards and prophetesses, anyone who could provide her with a way to reach the creatures that lived in the clouds.

She paid for information with her money, when that was gone, her hair, when that was had been shorn short, her body, scrubbing floors, washing dishes, fetching water. What she got in return were calluses on her hands, blisters on her feet, bruises on her knees, and techniques for reaching the pegasi that did not work. She left cardoons on the slopes of the mountain to tempt the pegasi, tried to sing them from the sky with lyrics she’d become a servant to acquire, and staged herself to be attacked and kidnapped in hopes of being rescued by one of them. She could’ve sworn that the black and blue pegasus, now a strong, massive stallion, was watching her. But he never so much as descended a single hoof to be nearer to her. Exhausted from years of hard work and betrayal, Angeliki was ready to leave the world, for if she could not have her pegasus, there was no reason to go on each day. All could see that her spirit had left her. She was but a shell. She was known for her madness in the surrounding towns and cities. Of course, who could be surprised? She was the daughter of Icarus, afterall. So used to being mocked was she that, when a stranger arrived in her town and said he wanted to help her with her quest, she threw three apricots from a nearby vendor at him and fled. The stranger was uncannily quick, and when he grabbed hold of her wrist, firmly yet gently, she found herself entranced by his eyes. They reminded her of her pegasus, the same midnight blue, with specs of white sparkling inside them like stars. “I mean you no harm,” assured the young man, his black hair like a blanket made of night. “I know the secret to reaching the pegasi.” “What is it you want in return?” Angeliki asked, weary from the games of strangers, even one as lovely as he. “Would you believe me if I said nothing?” he asked.

“No,” was her reply. “Then all I ask for is your dimples,” he said. “After you have accomplished your quest, I want to see those dimples every day.” Angeliki thought it over. If he was lying, she had no obligation to him. If he was telling the truth, any price was worth it, and she’d figure out a way to find the man again and smile for him every day. Perhaps she should’ve questioned how the stranger knew of her dimples, since it had been years since she’d last smiled. “Tell me what I want to know, and you shall have your price,” she said. The man smiled, and though his cheeks were free of dimples, Angeliki recklessly thought how she’d like to see him smile every day too. The secret, according to the stranger, was the clouds. She was to climb the mountains, up to the height where rock met clouds. From there, she must fashion a staircase out of the clouds themselves. This would work, he assured her, if she never wept, for tears would melt her progress; never slept, for the clouds were ever shifting; and never stopped singing, for the clouds would be drawn to her voice and, without it, they would not gather together for her. “And if I should fail?” Angeliki asked. “You will plummet to your death,” the stranger said. She could read in his eyes what he did not say: Like your father before you. Angeliki set off for the valley that same day. She slept in the soft green grass that night, and before dawn, began the longest trek of her life. She had scrambled up the side of the mountain several times in the past in an attempt to get closer to the pegasi, but never had she come close to reaching the spot where the clouds met the rock. For three days straight she climbed, sleeping, though not long, when she could, on the rough mountainside, as she would not be able to rest once she reached the clouds.

On the fourth day, she awoke feeling wet from head to toe. The clouds had found her. More than the fear or doubt, she felt excitement, and as she began her song of winged horses and epic sky battles, the clouds rolled towards her, growing thick and dense. With her hands, she fashioned one stone-shaped cloud after the next, placing each one a little higher. Like this, she climbed her way into the sky. While the sun shone, the same sun that had both consumed and ended her father’s life, she felt high with hope and relief. The stranger had not lied to her. She was on her way to the pegasi. But day gave way to night, and there was a reason Icarus held no love for the moon: its light was distant and cold, its domain, the night, one of doubt and fear. Still, Angeliki sang on, weaving one song into the next as her hands formed the cloudstones, and the rising sun brought with it another burst of motivation. But when night came for a second time, Agneliki could feel nothing but exhaustion. Oh, how badly she wanted to sleep. She’d give anything to close her eyes and rest her body for a moment. She’d never been one to cry. She’d shed but a single tear for her foolish father, though all of her memories of him she held fondly within her heart. However, when the clouds turned thunderous in the dead of night, and each time she dipped her hands in them, she was shocked by sparks of lightning, she’d never yearned to cry so much. She forced an image of her black and blue pegasus into her mind and blinked furiously until the building tears retreated. For nearly a week, she climbed thusly. Her throat was so dry from singing that her voice was barely louder than the gentle wind. Her mind was mad from resisting the urge to drink the clouds. Her body begged for sleep, sleep, sleep. She yawned, grandly. For a minute straight, her mouth hung open. When she at last closed her aching jaw, her eyes began to water. She

thought nothing of the singular drop that traveled down her cheek, holding on for a moment, as if to give her a chance, before slipping off her chin. The instant the drop of water touched the cloud on which she knelt, it began to dissipate beneath her. Perhaps she could’ve salvaged it, had she quickly fashioned another. But her mind felt untethered and slow, and any lyrics or melody were lost in her immediate, enveloping fear. She had failed. Angeliki fell from the sky, plummeting the thousands of feet she’d spent days climbing, all her progress evaporating like the clouds. She tried to scream, but nothing came out of her desert-dry throat. She’d often wondered after the death of her father if, when he was falling to his doom, he’d thought it had all been worth it, losing his life to reach the unreachable, attain the unattainable. Angeliki, with her short hair flailing like the arms of a spider in the wind as she tumbled through the sky, now had an answer. It was worth it. For if she hadn’t done all in her power to pursue her dream, even though it had led her to this moment, the guilt and weight of the abandoned dream would’ve consumed her. Perhaps it would’ve taken longer, but it would’ve led to her demise nonetheless. She’d never resented her father for abandoning her, both in life and in death, but now, she forgave him for the pain that still daily clung to her. There could’ve been no other end to Icarus’s story, nor hers. Closing her eyes, Angeliki accepted her fate. Her body landed on something soft, and she was scooped upward. She opened her eyes and would’ve gasped if she could. Beneath her, carrying her towards the clouds again, was her black and blue pegasus, larger than she could’ve imagined while observing him from the ground all those years. She wrapped her arms around his thick

neck, feeling his deep breath as he climbed, without stairs, into the sky. Once he leveled out, she relaxed, sitting up straight, and took in the view she’d been too exhausted to notice before. The sun was dipping behind the mountains, casting the valley and mountainside in a radiant hue of coral. Looking down, she was in awe of how far she’d climbed up the mountain to reach the clouds. “There they are,” the pegasus said, his neck twisted back to look at her. Angeliki tried to speak, but still could not. “Drink,” the pegasus said, veering into a pillow of clouds. Angeliki opened her mouth and swallowed them in, the softness and moisture immediately coating her throat and alleviating the pain. “May the stars remember you for your kindness,” Angeliki said. “You have saved my life.” “It was a life worth saving,” said the pegasus. “I have watched you since I was a foal. I have heard every song you have sung. I have known every pain you’ve endured.” “Why did you not come to me before?” Angeliki asked. “I, who was wingless and alone.” “Had I descended to your realm,” the pegasus said, “you would not now know your strength, and I would not know the strength of your devotion.” “But I failed,” Agneliki said. “No, Angeliki,” he said. “You had already reached our domain, you were simply too drained to see us all around you.” This revelation left Angeliki momentarily speechless. How had she become so absorbed in her task that she was unaware of succeeding? Then she said, “You know my name.” Though it was not a question, his large head nodded. “May I know yours?” “You may call me Califax,” he said. “Shall we go on an adventure, you and I?” Angeliki’s heart lifted and fell in a single second. “There is something I must do,” she

said. “I am bound to a stranger by an oath.” “Angeliki?” Califax said. “How do you like flying?” Forgetting for a moment her anxiety, Angeliki let herself take in the sensation. She no longer felt like a creature of the earth. She sat weightless on the back of her pegasus. Day was giving way to night, and the first stars appeared in the sky, closer than they’d ever been before. Instead of the fear and doubt, she felt wonder and contentment. The night was not so bad when she was not alone, as she’d been her whole life. “My father longed to touch the sun,” she said. “But all I want is to bathe in the moonlight with you.” “There they are,” Califax said again. “It has been years since I’ve seen them, but oh, how I’ve missed your dimples.” “Califax,” Angeliki breathed, realizing that he and the stranger were one and the same. “Just as it has been your life’s mission to reach this moment, so it will be mine to make you smile each passing day, and if I fail, I will free you from your oath.” Angeliki wrapped her arms again around his neck and rested her head on his mane as they glided through the stars. She wished her father could see her. She thought that perhaps, he would be proud. Califax landed in an unfamiliar meadow of the softest grass, flowers sleeping all about them. He laid beside her, his feathery wing covering her like a blanket. For the first time since she’d seen the pegasi with her father as a little girl, Angeliki was able to rest peacefully. In spite of her bruised and tattered body, she’d never felt more healed and whole. Califax watched her as she slept, the smile never leaving her mouth, and wondered if she’d ever know that from the moment he first saw her, frolicking in the valley below him, he’d been as entranced by her two little dimples as she’d been with his sprawling wings.

Ethnosphere didn’t just feature photos of nature; our photographers also shared humanity’s contributions to Earth’s facade. Some of these man-made structures, like this bridge, are built out of necessity. Others are made for worship, taking hundreds of years to complete. And some are purely art - made for art’s sake.

Nick Hoeller

Madeline C. Lanshe

Daniel James

Nick Hoeller

Mary Crider

Collection 5 - May d In this issue, we explored the melancholy side of humanity in hopes that, by sharing the unique ache in each of our hearts, we may find the beauty that exists within the pain, and comfort in the universality of the feeling.

Featured Stories Remembering Jim Mike shares the heartbreaking story of losing his brother, Jim, on Easter Sunday. The Spill that Killed the Thrills Maureen agrees to go on a week-long ski getaway, despite the fact she’s never before skied. She falls...in love and in life. She is left questioning what to do about both. Sugar Bread Growing up one of twelve children, Faith reflects on her vibrant childhood, the traditions her mother passed down, and those she has bestowed upon her own children. Beautiful Pieces of Patsy Stumbling across a stack of Patsy Cline CDs, Paula jumps head first down a rabbit hole to learn all she can about the singer’s life. Motherhood: a Roller Coaster in the Dark An imagining of going back in time and offering wisdom and encouragement to your younger, anxious, pregnant self. The Rhythm of Resilience Mike and Marcia take a trip to Cuba, where they find joy, creativity, and strength among the crumbling buildings and hardships of the country.

Remembering Jim “If you are not doing something, you are

doing something wrong.” This was wisdom my younger brother, Jim, shared with me while he was teaching me to fly an airplane. I was the second oldest child, and the oldest son in a family of seven children. Jim was next, a couple of years younger than I. We grew up in the country, and Jim was always working on a project. He loved to build stuff. He and I would ride our bikes to the junkyard and scavenge bicycle parts. We’d take the parts home, build whole bikes, and sell them in front of our house. For his twelfth birthday, Jim got a welder. We stripped an old Dodge, shortened the frame using his welder, and raced it on a dirt track we made in a back field. He also built a gyrocopter, which are notoriously dangerous. Fortunately, he never got it to fly. Jim studied engineering in college. There, he rebuilt a 1948 Harley Davidson on the balcony of his room in his high-rise dorm. He also restored antique cars. He was in Air Force ROTC and, after graduating, went to jet flight training. Jim got married and had three children before graduating from flight school. He transferred his remaining military duty to the Ohio Air National Guard and on weekends flew C130 transport planes in Mansfield, Ohio. I had started a small engineering and construction business which could support Jim part-time. He convinced me that we needed an airplane to make it more convenient to get to customer projects around the country.

Jim found an old Beechcraft Bonanza, and I sent him money for the purchase. He taught me

by Mike Mike Neundorfer Neundorfer by

to fly, mostly while we were on business trips. Jim made me a pretty good instrument pilot, and I flew for over fifteen years, with nearly 3000 flight hours. During that time, I upgraded airplanes a few times. After working and flying in Cleveland for about six years, Jim moved his family to Houston, Texas, to operate part of the business there. In Texas, his projects followed his passion for flight. He purchased an airport with a grass runway about 35 miles from the center of Houston. He bought the airport on land contract so there was almost no down payment. If he missed a payment, however, he lost the whole thing. Like our bike building days, he salvaged equipment for maintaining the airport and did all the work himself. He recruited a WWII airplane mechanic he knew from Cleveland to work on vintage airplanes in a tin roof hangar of the airport. He was flying for the Confederate Air Force and had two WWII trainers, a T-6 and a T-28 that he flew in airshows. He was also building a custom airplane on which he planned to set a propeller speed record. When I visited him in Houston, I was amazed at all he had going on. It was Easter of 1984, and I had flown our current Bonanza, with Marcia and our three young boys, to Elmira, New York, to visit her family. On Saturday night, I got a call from my dad. He told me that Jim had crashed a T-6 trainer. I said, “But, he’s OK,” thinking there could be no other outcome. My dad replied, “No, he died.” That’s all he said. Later, I learned that a friend had landed his T-6 at Jim’s airport and offered to

let Jim take it up. Jim took off with a neighbor in the rear seat. They did a “hammerhead” stall that turned into a flat spin too low to the ground to recover. They both were killed instantly. Our dad was a stoic, larger than life, 6’2”, 220 pound, hardworking man. He’d joined the Navy right out of high school and was on board a ship in Pearl Harbor when the Japanese attacked. He rarely shared feelings and had little patience for those who did. I am sure Dad wouldn’t say that Jim was his favorite child, but he was. Jim followed my dad into engineering and into military service. Jim never challenged my dad. He did what he wanted to do, but he did it quietly. I, on the other hand, had long hair and a beard, which my dad hated, and I argued with him over the Vietnam War and other political issues. Like Jim, I managed to do what I wanted to do, but I was rarely quiet about it. After one of my rows with Dad, I remember Jim saying, “All Dad wants is for you to listen to him, he doesn’t care and will hardly notice what you end up doing.” Even now, I think of those words, and I wish I was more empathetic with my Dad, especially on that phone call after Jim crashed. I don’t remember sleeping that night. My mind and heart were trying to come to grips with the fact that Jim was gone. I was also churning about another issue: was I in a state of mind to fly the family safely back to Cleveland? Marcia trusted that I would make the right decision. I was sure that the consequences of a lapse of concentration or judgment during a flight home were so huge that I could stay focused for the short flight. In the morning, we loaded up the kids in the airplane and I flew us back home. It was harder than I had imagined. It took everything I had to keep my mind in

the cockpit. I couldn’t believe Jim was gone. I concentrated on the instruments while tears soaked my shirt. This past Easter marked 39 years since Jim died. I quit flying about 30 years ago, because it took a lot of time to stay current and safe. Also, I never loved flying like Jim did. For me, most of the time, it was work. Since Jim died, I’ve been wearing his Air Force flight jacket. Every time I put it on, I think of our adventures together and the joy he experienced from flying and building things. Recently, I decided the jacket was so torn and threadbare, I “retired” it. Marcia found me a replacement, but still, when I am going outside for chores around our house, I pull on his old jacket. It keeps me connected to Jim, his vision and energy. I still miss him everyday.

Collection 6 - June d This issue is all about laughing at the mishaps of travel and sharing that particular kind of joy.

Featured Stories Rumble in the Jungle As the sun goes down in the jungles of Colombia, Daniel chooses a rather unfortunate spot to pitch his tent. May the Road Rise to Meet You The tiny roads of Ireland prove harder to navigate than Madeline originally anticipated. The Long Road to Hana A fallen tree and power line strand Janice and her family on a residential street in Hawaii. Gettin’ Gutsy in Guatemala Rob navigates the chaotic roads of Guatemala, but does not come out of the experience unscathed. Mzungu Mayhem Marcia recounts a mistake she made when the pipes froze in her RV. Rain, Rain, Go Away In an effort to save money on their annual family trip to Florida, Maureen’s father gets their family of 10 a tent. Then came the rain.

READ

As the sun began to set in the jungles of

Colombia, I knew I needed to find a place to pitch my tent before dark. I had already ridden 70 miles that day and was exhausted. I was only a few weeks into my bikepacking journey through South America, and was in a remote part of the country with very few inhabitants, apart from the monkeys, parrots, and iguanas. Only native communities lived in this stretch of jungle. The jungle didn’t intimidate me though. I was no novice to bikepacking nor camping out. I had ridden my bike coast to coast across the USA, Australia, and New Zealand, and camped out almost every night on those trips. The jungle in this part of the country was very dense, and finding a clearing in the vegetation to pitch my tent was going to be a challenge. I knew very little Spanish in those days, and didn’t feel comfortable asking a local if I could

camp outside of one of their huts. Not that the Spanish would have actually helped much anyway, as most of the people in that part of Colombia spoke a native language called Wiwa. As I continued pedaling, I heard the distant rumble of thunder, which drew my attention to the sky. The clouds looked dark, imposing, and ready to burst. A new urgency to find a camping spot took over. I didn’t fancy the idea of getting drenched right before bed. I looked closely at everything I rode past, trying to scope out any spot that I thought was even remotely decent. I just wanted to get set up before the rain hit. I wasn’t seeing much besides trees, vines, and iguanas. Then, I got lucky. I looked down the road and saw I was coming up to a bridge. The wheels in my head started turning. “Maybe I can take shelter underneath the bridge until the storm passes!”

When I reached the bridge, I looked over the side. To my surprise, there was no water running beneath. It was bone dry–just sand and some small stones and a concrete ledge. I hit the jackpot! I wouldn’t have to clear a camping spot with my machete, and I would have a roof over my tent to protect me from the storm. I finished crossing the bridge and walked my bike down the steep valley to the riverbed. After the usual routine of setting things up and pulling my bike inside, I relaxed in my dry tent while I ate dinner and took some notes about the day’s ride. It still hadn’t started raining. I laid down and quickly fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later to the sound of more thunder, and the rain pouring down. The thunder had closed in on me and was now much louder. I was glad I’d found such a perfect camping spot. I was safe and dry. I fell back asleep for a few hours. The second time I woke up, it was not from the sight of sunlight brightening my tent, or the sound of the storm, but by my entire tent floating downstream. I was utterly shocked. The bone dry river bed was no longer bone dry. Some water was leaking in from the sides of the tent, but for the most part, and for the moment, it was functioning as a boat.

pushed it through the water it would have been engulfed almost up to the seat, and my attached bags were not waterproof. I muscled the bike above the water as I waded through to the other side. When I reached the ledge, I summoned up all the strength I had, and He-Manned it up onto the concrete above my head. After that, I had to backtrack and gather the stuff I’d tossed out. The sun had just started rising, so there was enough light for me to see. By this point the tent had floated further downstream. I got in the water again and guided it to safety while trying not to rip or snap it on anything-it wasn’t as easy to move around as I remembered. I felt inside and it had filled up with a considerable amount of water. Once it was out, I made one final trip to grab any remaining discarded items. Now that everything was safely above the floodwaters, I started taking inventory and removing valuables from the wet bags. I sorted everything out and set the tent back up to dry. When it was all said and done, the only casualties that I discovered were some shorts, pants, and two shirts. The resurrected river had claimed them. Not cool, but all things considered, it could’ve been much worse.

In hindsight, it makes complete sense that I looked frantically for a flashlight and a bandana, during a downpour, a dried up riverbed is going to flood. I definitely didn’t look like a seasoned as the sun hadn’t yet come up. My hair kept falling in my face, making it even harder to see. I camping expert that night. But I guess that’s couldn’t find a light and had only seconds to act. human nature. Many of us ignore warning signs and take the path of least resistance from I unloaded everything I could see, besides the time to time, especially when we’re completely bike and the bags attached to it, throwing them exhausted. Needless to say, I have never made out of the tent to the riverbank. The water was now well over knee deep-too deep to roll the bike that mistake again in any of my travels! out of the tent. All the while, the tent was filling with more and more water. I climbed out. It was The moral of the story: never trust a dry difficult to walk in. My bike was all that remained, riverbed! and I needed to get it to a ledge and safety. If I

60 5

Collection 7 - July d Let your mind ponder what it is that makes your heart feel free.

Featured Stories More than a Breath-Hold For Shirena, who grew up on the island of Cozumel, it was in learning to hold her breath while free-diving that she could finally breathe. Joie de Vivre Enzo shares his passion for parkour and stunt work as well as a glimpse into his Peter Pan-like spirit of youth and energy. The Lesson of Cades Cove Bob and Julia find more than bears during their stay at Cades Cove: the place’s history tells them the story of the settlers who discovered the area, and the Native Americans who were pushed out. Through a Toy Store Window A pensive doll observes life from behind the glass of a toy store window, yearning to live it instead.

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More than than aa Breath-Hold Breath-Hold More by Shirena González

The story of why I choose to push my lungs to

Open Water certification. Hundreds of dives their limit in an environment in which I cannot later throughout the years, it was time for me breathe, going against every instinct my body has to to leave my precious yet limiting island to go survive, is one that began when I was a baby. to college in a landlocked city in a different country: the U.S. Every time I went home to Being born and raised on a small Mexican island visit, which was around two to three times a in the Caribbean by two ocean-loving parents year, I’d inhale deeply as soon as I got to the meant I was exposed to the ocean at a very young ocean. Serenity, peace, and quiet bliss would age. My parents threw me in the water as a baby, flood over me. I would scuba dive as much as I and by my mom’s accounts, my eyes opened could on those short trips back home, as well as wide in amazement as I held my breath. I can’t enjoy the beach with family and friends. remember this, but I know this was the catalyst for my love for all things ocean. My earliest Flash forward to 2020, the year the pandemic memory of the ocean is being on the beach with hit this hemisphere. I had over ten years of my parents, playing in the sand, laying in the sun, experience working in the restaurant industry and chasing the waves. The roaring sound of the (for those of you that know, my condolences). latter is very present in my brain, and sensory I was too afraid to take my photography career memory takes me back there often. full time, and I was tired, undervalued, and underpaid. I would later come to terms with I remember going on scuba diving trips with the fact that, without noticing, I’d fallen into my dad on his boat as a child and getting in the a series of abusive relationships and settled water to watch the divers descend to the depths for a life of mediocrity. The relationship I was of the sea. I was mesmerized, playing with their in during this period of time was the most bubbles on the surface as they exhaled and sank egregious of them all. Feeling trapped in a cycle deeper, following them along until the captain of unhappiness and unfulfillment, fueled by would tell me to get back in the boat so we my new unemployment status and my partner could follow the divers. I would jump back in being across the country for a few weeks, I took the water as soon as I could, which was usually advantage of the situation I found myself in, during their ascent, and I would greet the divers and ran away from my life in the States to go and my dad on the surface. It was during one home for an undetermined amount of time. of these moments that my dad handed me his octopus (the second scuba regulator for those During this period, we weren’t allowed to go of you non-divers). I swam down to about five to the beach, and all sports and water activities meters and breathed in through that regulator. were suspended. This meant no swimming, no I was ecstatic that I could be underwater and scuba diving, no surfing, no snorkeling, and breathe at the same time. He held me down with nothing that involved being outside. At this him until he surfaced. I fell in love right then point in my life, I wasn’t much of a snorkeler, and there. I was seven years old. as I didn’t see the point in just floating on the surface, because what I really wanted was to be From that moment on, I would do that as much down there, where all the fish and coral were. as I could, and when I turned twelve years old, Scuba diving would’ve been complicated to get I studied my little butt off and got my Junior away with, so I started sneaking in the water for 54

little snorkel trips without any authority figures noticing. In doing this, I noticed I wasn’t the only one. There were a few of us who couldn’t resist the tides of the ocean.

one with nature below the surface, and give in to the ebb and flow of the ocean. Even more incredible, my mind would quiet down. My thoughts weren’t scattered anymore, and I was able to focus on the here and now. Sound It didn’t take long before swimming was allowed travels differently underwater. This is something again, but scuba diving was still off the table. So, I knew since I was a kid, but now, I was hyper I began going with a friend to snorkel. He taught aware of it. I was hyper aware of everything…I me about freediving: how to pull air into my could hear my own heartbeat slowing down. diaphragm instead of my chest, how to hold my My movements appeared to be one tenth breath underwater, to take the snorkel out of my their regular speed. I could hear boats passing mouth during my descents to prevent pressure by in the distance, fish chomping on coral, buildup, the difference between a traditional, a rays flapping their wings, dolphins squeaking, dry, and a semi-dry snorkel, and other equipment. clicking, and whistling, and schools of fish Slowly, I began to get better, go down deeper, suddenly changing course… It was the same and stay down longer. I went from going down underwater world I had known, yet experienced five meters, to ten, and then seventeen. I was able in a wildly different way. to hold my breath long enough to not scare the animals, to sit still and have them come to me. Freediving saved me. The ocean saved me. I felt I was once again HOOKED. More than that, at home. I felt safe and at peace for the first time I felt the freedom I had felt when I first tried in a long time. Focusing on my body, my breath, scuba diving, and in some ways, even more so. I the sound of the water, and the crackling of the could do it any time I wanted, and I didn’t have to coral helped me tremendously. It helped me to spend any money to do it. overcome fear, uncertainty, and even trauma. It saved me from spiraling out of control, and I had never been able to quiet my thoughts, slow resorting to other methods of coping. It saved down, or even meditate. I couldn’t understand me from myself. Combined with meditation, how people were able to have nothing else going yoga, and a lot of inner work, freediving helped on in their heads. This was something I later me discover a whole new version of myself. discovered to be ADHD (but that’s another story). Descending several meters below the Feelings of overwhelming joy weren’t surface, on nothing more than the oxygen in uncommon during these excursions of mine. my lungs, flooded my body with feelings I had Neither was the sensation that we are all been looking for for a long time. Ironically, I connected, we are all one, and we all depend felt like I could finally breathe again. I felt this on one another. The ocean never fails to teach deep connection to everything: the rocks, the these lessons to those who listen. Our time coral, the fish, the sand, all of the different here is finite, just like the breath we are able to sounds, and especially the water. I was better hold. Knowing I would eventually have to go able to observe animal behavior, as fish and back up for oxygen taught me that the present other animals would curiously come up to me. is a gift, and nothing is guaranteed. What better With no bubbles to scare them away, I had a personification of freedom is there? No other completely different interaction with wildlife obligations, nothing to trouble you, just you and than I had previously had. I was able to become the water as one, for that moment in time.

II could could keep keep trying trying to to find find the the perfect perfect words words to to describe how freediving makes me feel, but it describe how freediving makes me feel, but it simply simply comes comes down down to to me me smiling smiling and and feeling feeling happy when surrounded and engulfed by happy when surrounded and engulfed by the the ocean. Everything else is blurred. ocean. Everything else is blurred.

Collection 8 - August d

In our constant endeavor for perfection, how fortunate are we that beauty exists equally in the imperfect?

Featured Stories The World through an Ikebana Lens Cheryl shares the art of Japanese flower arrangements and how delving into this craft changed how she views the world. A Moment and a Lifetime with Joni Trevor journeys to watch an idol in concert when he’d believed she’d never perform again. Birthday Binge What was intended to be a relaxing birthday of self-doting entails more pain than Christine thought she was signing up for.

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Look at me, says the moon Observe me and learn Discover that every day is unique That each day has its colors Its light and its darkness Learn that life is movement: Nothing is still Marvel Feel things with your child’s heart Never forget that beauty is Everywhere It surrounds us It can be ephemeral, imperfect But that’s also what makes it so Beautiful Beauty is fleeting Admire it See, it hides in the smallest corners It inhabits imperfections Cultivate simplicity and sobriety And above all Never stop loving and hoping

Regarde-moi, dit la lune Observe-moi et apprends Découvre que chaque jour est unique Que chaque jour a ses couleurs Sa lumière et sa noirceur Apprends que la vie est mouvement : Rien n’est immobile Émerveille-toi Ressens les choses avec ton cœur d’enfant N’oublie jamais que la beauté est partout Elle nous entoure Elle peut être éphémère, imparfaite Mais c’est aussi ce qui la rend si belle La beauté est fugace Admire-la Vois, elle se cache dans les moindres recoins Elle habite les imperfections Cultive la simplicité et la sobriété Et surtout, ne cesse jamais d’aimer et d’espérer

- Julie Chaudet 60

The existence of animals is one of life’s greatest delights - a cow grazing in the distant mountains of Slovenia; a freshly hatched baby sea turtle; a family of Alaskan grizzly bears drying off from a swim. Throughout our first year, our contributors captured why photographing animals, and their unique personalities, is such a joy.

Madeline C. Lanshe

Gabrielle Lanshe de Gante

Debbie Kifer

Hai Nguyen

Neil Jentoft

Randy Dunn

Nick Hoeller

Randy Dunn

Collection 9 - September d The unpredictability of life can provide us with unexpected moments that transform into some of our fondest memories.

Featured Stories Back Road to the Universe Dave and Carol stumble across a discovery that leaves them starry-eyed as they travel the back roads of Arizona. A Knock on My Office Door An unexpected adventure comes knocking, sending Elise last minute across the country.

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Back Back Road Road to to AA

llow me to begin this story with its moral: llow me to begin this story with its moral: travel the back roads; you could discover travel the back roads; you could discover the heavens. the heavens.

maps. I watched the peak grow larger while maps. I watched the peak grow larger while Carol scanned the map spread across her legs. Carol scanned the map spread across her legs. “That’s Kitt Peak,” Carol said. “It’s the U.S. “That’s Kitt Peak,” Carol said. “It’s the U.S. National Observatory.” Neither of us knew National Observatory.” Neither of us knew such a thing existed. such a thing existed.

My wife, Carol, and I retired from the marina My wife, Carol, and I retired from the marina and boat building business thirteen years ago and boat building business thirteen years ago A little way down the road was a sign: Kitt when we were in our mid 70s. While we have A little way down the road was a sign: Kitt when we were in our mid 70s. While we have Peak National Observatory, tours daily. No been avid boaters most of our lives, we have Peak National Observatory, tours daily. No been avid boaters most of our lives, we have discussion was needed. We turned south and also traveled extensively on land in motordiscussion was needed. We turned south and also traveled extensively on land in motorheaded up a long, narrow, steep mountain road homes. BB2 (Baby Bus 2) is what we currently headed up a long, narrow, steep mountain road homes. BB2 (Baby Bus 2) is what we currently to Kitt Peak, elevation 6,883 feet, the highest drive, one of the best features being a super to Kitt Peak, elevation 6,883 feet, the highest drive, one of the best features being a super point in the Quinlan Mountains. The climb is high roof, as I am too tall to stand up straight point in the Quinlan Mountains. The climb is high roof, as I am too tall to stand up straight 12 miles, we gained 3,591 feet in elevation, and with a standard ceiling. In BB2, we are able to 12 miles, we gained 3,591 feet in elevation, and with a standard ceiling. In BB2, we are able to travel on almost any road we discover, and park the average grade is 5.7%. travel on almost any road we discover, and park the average grade is 5.7%. nearly anywhere we desire. Our Sprinter has a nearly anywhere we desire. Our Sprinter has a factory defect, however, that I will not report or When we finally reached the top, we entered factory defect, however, that I will not report or When we finally reached the top, we entered get fixed: when it sees a brewery sign, the wheel the visitor’s center, got in line, and asked get fixed: when it sees a brewery sign, the wheel the visitor’s center, got in line, and asked about the tours. “There are no tours today,” turns itself into the parking lot. about the tours. “There are no tours today,” turns itself into the parking lot. we were told. Our faces and hearts dropped. we were told. Our faces and hearts dropped. Our disappointment didn’t last too long, We were driving north on a local road from Our disappointment didn’t last too long, We were driving north on a local road from however, because someone standing in the Green Valley, Arizona, and what to our however, because someone standing in the Green Valley, Arizona, and what to our exhibit area said, “They have night tours wondering eyes should appear on the horizon exhibit area said, “They have night tours wondering eyes should appear on the horizon tonight.” We gladly stuck around. but a towering mountain peak, so tall it was tonight.” We gladly stuck around. but a towering mountain peak, so tall it was impossible to miss. “What is that?” I asked impossible to miss. “What is that?” I asked In BB2, we dressed warmly, then went back Carol. “I don’t know, but I will find out,” she In BB2, we dressed warmly, then went back Carol. “I don’t know, but I will find out,” she told me. We travel with three active GPS units: into the visitor’s center for dinner (Subwaytold me. We travel with three active GPS units: into the visitor’s center for dinner (Subwayhis, hers, ours; they were no help in an instance like sandwiches which were part of the tour), his, hers, ours; they were no help in an instance like sandwiches which were part of the tour), like this. Luckily, we also travel with a complete and divided into small groups. The hike began like this. Luckily, we also travel with a complete and divided into small groups. The hike began at dusk, offering us a fabulous sunset over set of old fashioned but up-to-date paper at dusk, offering us a fabulous sunset over set of old fashioned but up-to-date paper 69

o the the Universe Universe by Dave Munro by Dave Munro

the front where the leader guided us. I’d never the desert. It led us into the telescope domes, the front where the leader guided us. I’d never the desert. It led us into the telescope domes, which are huge, white domes: windy, cold, noisy, driven in such circumstances, needing to trust which are huge, white domes: windy, cold, noisy, driven in such circumstances, needing to trust the driver in front of me not to lead us off and fascinating. The astronomers explained the driver in front of me not to lead us off and fascinating. The astronomers explained the edge. It was an experience like no other: how everything worked while we waited for the edge. It was an experience like no other: how everything worked while we waited for frightening, but undeniably exhilarating. it to get dark. The word “dark” may be an frightening, but undeniably exhilarating. it to get dark. The word “dark” may be an understatement. With no light pollution, it understatement. With no light pollution, it We eventually reached the bottom, removed the became an all-enveloping black. We eventually reached the bottom, removed the became an all-enveloping black. tape from our lights, and parked in a large lot on tape from our lights, and parked in a large lot on the desert floor where we’d gotten permission On TV screens we could see what the the desert floor where we’d gotten permission On TV screens we could see what the to stay till morning. It was a nice quiet night. We astronomers were looking at through the to stay till morning. It was a nice quiet night. We astronomers were looking at through the looked up at the sky with renewed appreciation. telescope. Together, we explored galaxies, looked up at the sky with renewed appreciation. telescope. Together, we explored galaxies, planets, stars, nebulae, black holes. In the planets, stars, nebulae, black holes. In the vastness of space, we struggled to comprehend Upon waking, we discovered a 4x4 motorhome vastness of space, we struggled to comprehend Upon waking, we discovered a 4x4 motorhome truck parked next to us. The owners were a that things were dying and being born, just like truck parked next to us. The owners were a that things were dying and being born, just like they are here on our home planet. We were each German couple who had built their conversion in they are here on our home planet. We were each German couple who had built their conversion in given a turn to sit in the astronomer’s chair to Germany and shipped it to Patagonia, Arizona. given a turn to sit in the astronomer’s chair to Germany and shipped it to Patagonia, Arizona. They obliged our interest by showing us their see first-hand what they were studying. We’d They obliged our interest by showing us their see first-hand what they were studying. We’d truck, and we did the same with our home. We never seen so many stars. truck, and we did the same with our home. We never seen so many stars. exchanged names, stories, and more. Carol gave exchanged names, stories, and more. Carol gave After leaving the dome, and with it, our window them some home-baked banana bread. They gave After leaving the dome, and with it, our window them some home-baked banana bread. They gave us a Black Forest Cuckoo Clock. into the sky, we were led back to our vehicles us a Black Forest Cuckoo Clock. into the sky, we were led back to our vehicles with red light flashlights. Our adventure wasn’t with red light flashlights. Our adventure wasn’t With the previous night’s splendor still swirling over yet. All the lights on/in our vehicles had With the previous night’s splendor still swirling over yet. All the lights on/in our vehicles had been blacked out except for a marble-sized circle through our minds, it was hard not to feel a bit been blacked out except for a marble-sized circle through our minds, it was hard not to feel a bit sentimentally cosmic, in tune with how the back in each tail light. Yes, we had to drive 12 miles sentimentally cosmic, in tune with how the back in each tail light. Yes, we had to drive 12 miles roads led us here, connecting us to fellow travelers down the steep, winding road following only roads led us here, connecting us to fellow travelers down the steep, winding road following only from across the sea, uniting us under an endless the smidge of light coming from the taillights from across the sea, uniting us under an endless the smidge of light coming from the taillights on the vehicle in front of us, who was following expanse of stars and celestial bodies, invisible now on the vehicle in front of us, who was following expanse of stars and celestial bodies, invisible now the vehicle in front of them, and so forth, until in the daylight of a bright desert sun. the vehicle in front of them, and so forth, until in the daylight of a bright desert sun.

Kitt Kitt Peak Peak National National Observatory Observatory

Elizabeth Keller Elizabeth Keller

Collection 10 - October d This issue is for the people who saw someone in need and provided relief and a safe haven from the storms without and within

Featured Stories The Ultimate Shelter Manuela captures poverty, need, and friendship in the photos she takes of three young boys begging on the streets of Dublin. Trust Mike flies to Spokane, Washington, in hopes of finding a way to get to Trail, Canada, for a work meeting. With no rental cars, and during a time before the internet, he willingly puts out his thumb. An Angel Without Wings Having struggled to find support after her son was diagnosed with a developmental disability, Stacy started a foundation to help families within the community get the help they need. Selûne’s Wanderer A short story about two lonely outcasts who find solace in their unexpected companionship. To the Grown Ups Who Let Us Be Kids Emilia writes a dedication to the adults who gave her and her siblings a safe space to be kids, learning valuable lessons about themselves and life.

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The Ultimate Shelter by Manuela Dumay

hese pictures were taken in 1973 Dublin, on O’Connell Bridge, over the dark waters of the Liffey, just before it throws itself into the open arms of Dublin Bay.

This little boy caught my eye first. He was begging, as were the other two, but they were standing a little further away. They joined in when they saw me talking to him. It was drizzling. They were used it. Why was this young boy looking so lost? Was he a motherless child? Or beaten when he came home with too little money after his day’s begging? Or was it sniffing glue that gave him this blank look? What has become of these young fellows? What sort of life have they had? Are they still alive even? And what prompted me to take these pictures? I was 19, adamant about equal rights and social justice, and I wanted to give them a feeling that they had worth: worth their photograph being taken, worth some attention, worth being given money. But they had something more to keep them going: friends and companionship. They had each other.

Collection 11 - November d While blazing sunsets, towering mountains, and white beaches proclaim their majesty too loudly to be ignored, there are subtle things, no less delightful, that bring joy to those who experience them.

Featured Stories Abounding Joy Allison, who has been living and working at Naomi’s Village in Kenya for five years, makes preparations for another child to be received into their community, where she will start her new life with a joyous celebration. From One Heart to Another A generous act from strangers, involving Dungeness crabs, touches Nick and his wife in a lasting way. Cracks in the Crown Elinda is forced to travel for months with a fractured crown in her mouth. She is surprised when it ultimately leads her to friendship and a wonderful experience.

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Abounding Joy by Allison Allison Njaria Njaria by

ometimes I think that the brokenness of this world is far more than I can bear. But devoting my life to serving at Naomi’s Village Children’s Home in Maai Mahiu, Kenya has taught me to live in the tension of the bittersweet: heartache in one hand, joy in the other. The warm sun blanketed the rural town of Maai Mahiu in the early hours of an August morning. One little girl in the next town over was waiting to be brought here, to her new forever home. A series of events, unknown to me, led us to this day, in which Naomi’s Village, a private local children’s home, needed to intervene and care for a parentless young girl, as we’ve done for so many others. Here, there were hearts ready

to love her, arms more than ready to embrace her, and lives already committed to raising her and providing all that was necessary for her to become the person she was created to be. Raised in suburban Arizona, I never imagined settling down 9,000 miles away in rural Kenya. An initial internship at a local Kenyan hospital and a brief visit to Naomi’s Village sparked a fire within my heart to join those serving the vulnerable children living in this community. I couldn’t leave. Walking through life with these children every day over the last five years, my heart often breaks over the challenges that they face. I mourn their losses with them. I carry space in my heart to hold their tears. And as we bear together the weight of heartache, I

continue to remind them of the little glimmers of joy that poke through the darkness, if you’re willing to keep your eyes open to spot them.

designate someone to commence the chorus of praises for the One who created the little life about to ride into our gates.

Early afternoon marked the departure of the Naomi’s Village Land Cruiser. Members of the leadership team took off for the nearby town on a clear cut mission: pick up one little girl, sign countless guardianship papers, and travel back for the celebration of a lifetime. I chose to stay behind at Naomi’s Village as the official Welcome Home Party Coordinator, a role that lends itself to the sweeter end of the occasion.

She would be lifted out of the Land Cruiser just like Rafiki lifts Simba on Pride Rock in The Lion King. We would celebrate her introduction to our ever-growing family until the sun set behind us.

The minutes dragged by as I anxiously waited for the phone call which would alert me to gather the troops, grab the African drum, and

“There is a little boy here who also needs a home. Get ready for one more.”

Lost in my thoughts, daydreaming of this beautiful moment to come, I nearly missed my phone ringing.

I couldn’t believe our director’s words on the other end of the call. We had only planned for one child. Did we have enough cribs? Was there time to bake another Welcome Home cake? Did we have enough decorations to properly celebrate this little boy? As I wondered aloud, I realized the trivial nature of my thoughts. My desire to plan every moment of every day would be nothing in comparison to the hearts which would put love into action regardless of the circumstance. And that’s exactly what happened: a bed was prepared, another cake had already gone into the oven, and more arms were ready to carry another child into our family. Tears of joy filled my eyes as I watched love move all around me. I started to walk up the long, rocky driveway, wanting to find a way to lend a hand and keep myself busy, when my phone rang yet again. What I heard next genuinely took my breath away.

where, by the miracle of love, three cakes sat waiting to be devoured. Speeches of gratitude and joy were given by fellow children and members of staff. Our hearts overflowed as we reflected on the moments that had brought us to that dining hall with those three little ones. The celebration concluded, as any good party does, with the ceremonious cutting and serving of cake. I looked up from my corner of the room to see that first little girl, the one whose circumstances set this whole beautiful day into motion, gobble down her slice, wide-eyed and grinning. Her name would be, from that day forward, Violet Najuma. Najuma: a Swahili name meaning “abounding in joy.”

Each of these children are now excelling in primary school, learning to swim during school holidays, and celebrating their birthdays surrounded by lifelong friends. Every time I see a teacher’s glowing report of their academic “Her name is Stella and we believe she is about progress, watch them do a cannonball into the 4 years old. There should be a bed available for pool, or see them donned in a birthday party her upstairs. We’ll be home soon.” hat, I am reminded of the abounding joy that can be found in every little moment, just so long Three children. Three lives. Three narratives as you keep your eyes open long enough to see of heartbreak about to be rewritten into it. These delights are part of what has kept me stories of hope. in Kenya for the past five years. And they are in abundance in Naomi’s Village: a rainbow that The Land Cruiser, which left the gates expecting takes up the entire sky above me on a rainy day, to bring home one precious little life, returned, the taste of a perfectly ripe mango as the sun instead, with three. It charged into the village sets on our boys’ soccer match, or a tiny hand, like a chariot carrying only the most precious squeezing mine, as a little boy learns to trust for and exquisite gifts. A chorus of voices rang the very first time. out, celebrating life and seeking the joy that was sure to be found in each of their tiny smiles. We carried them on our shoulders, dancing and marching forward to the communal dining room

Collection 12 - December d For our final issue of the year, we explored the special places where solace and joy are found.

Featured Stories Saved by the Parks Seeking to relieve the pain of a swollen foot, Debbie starts walking in the park every day. The rewards are far beyond what she expected. A Kingdom in My Corner A short story about getting lost in the process of writing and creating. On an Enchanted Street in France Madeline reminisces about the apartment where she stayed during her two years in France, and reflects on how time seems to keep pulling her back to it. A Mind in Motion Gail and David find different ways to handle the stress of their medical careers. COVID-19 presents a difficult challenge.

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Saved Saved by by the the Parks Parks byby Maureen Gregory Maureen Gregory

ears of a sedentary lifestyle, poor food choices and the lack of any meaningful exercise had left Debbie Kifer in a less than ideal state. At only five feet tall, she carried 255 pounds on her short frame. When she retired in 2012 from her desk job in the federal court system, she was wearing size 24 clothing. She was looking forward to leisurely spending her days at home after leaving the office rat race. Soon after settling into a passive retirement, a swollen foot began bothering her. Oddly, Debbie found that walking seemed to alleviate the problem. So she came up with a plan to ease the pain – she would try going on regular walks at a nearby park called Lake Erie Bluffs. The trail was a one mile loop. Easy-peasy, she thought. 85

Debbie did not make it very far, though, before she was out of breath and too tired to carry on. She was forced to turn around and trudge back to the parking lot. She returned the next day, and every day after that, with high expectations, only to be disappointed when exhaustion got the best of her. “I just couldn’t do it,” she explained. Refusing to become daunted, Debbie forced herself to keep going back to that park. After a while, she began to feel a small taste of success as each day she was able to press on just a little farther than the day before. It was a cause for celebration when, three months from the day she started, Debbie was able to complete the entire one mile loop at

one time without stopping to rest. She was still relishing the sweetness of victory when she decided to set another goal for herself: she would continue her daily walks until she spotted a bald eagle in the park. Within the next month, that goal was met when she was lucky enough to see both a mature bald eagle and an immature eagle in a tree near the trail. And the bonus – Debbie’s foot pain had resolved itself and she felt a few pounds lighter. The exhilaration Debbie experienced upon reaching her goals made her want to continue the daily walking regimen. The drawback was the boredom she felt while walking by herself. Her solution was to start bringing a camera and document any of the interesting things she might see. She also decided a change of scenery was in order. Debbie began researching online to see what other parks were located near her home in Northeast Ohio. Friends suggested some of their favorite parks as well. Thus began an adventure that led her to discover a network of trails, marshes, ponds, forests and meadows, all teeming with wildlife and flora. She began to spend hours every day walking, while using her Canon camera to capture the beauty that was all around. Debbie became immersed in the world of nature photography. She upgraded her equipment to a Nikon P950, which included a high quality zoom lens. Boredom was no longer an issue.

camaraderie exists among the other camera enthusiasts she would encounter in the parks. She made some friends who were happy to share their knowledge about the parks and tips about nature photography. Occasionally, Debbie will spend a few hours together with a park friend, walking and searching for those perfect camera shots of graceful birds in flight, a camouflaged praying mantis, or maybe a field of sunflowers swaying in the breeze. But mostly, she walks alone. “It’s hard to walk with others. We each have our own pace and our own obsessions. I may want to spend an hour searching for an owl’s nest that was rumored to be on a certain trail. That may not be a priority for someone else.” It is safe to say that parks have become Debbie’s special place. She will travel far and wide to

“You see so much more when you are searching for interesting subjects. You never get bored when you have a camera.” Debbie found that a certain

explore someplace new or to return to a favorite spot. She has found an amazing variety of public spaces that never fail to impress. She does have her favorites, though. “Chagrin River Park has the most diverse range of wildlife, while Holden Arboretum has the best landscape displays of plants and flowers, but with the most solitude. Cuyahoga Valley National Park is 33,000 acres of beauty. I am smitten with the great blue herons who have hundreds of nests in the park.” When asked for a few nature photos to accompany this story, Debbie let out a laugh. “I have over 200,000 photos from the parks stored on my hard-drive. How many do you want?”

These days, there is no place Debbie would rather be than a park, with her Nikon camera in hand. She has come a long way from that first grueling, one mile loop in 2012. In fact, while conquering one walking goal after another, Debbie accomplished something else along the way. Her now size 8 body weighs a slim 130 pounds. No crazy diets, no pills, no weight-loss surgery. Just walking in the parks. Every day. With her camera. There is one size 24 shirt still hanging in the closet. For Debbie, it is a symbol. “That shirt is a reminder of a battle I won,” she says proudly, “all starting with that little loop.”

Submissions We need your submissions! We are open to any and all, so if you have a story to tell, an incredible photo to display, a heartfelt poem to share, or know someone who does, please send them our way! Writing: We are looking for stories that are told in an honest, engaging way, tapping into the emotions of each personal experience, as well as enthralling poetry and short stories. Both fiction and non-fiction are welcome. Photography: Stunning, high quality photos which can include accompanying text. Art: Illustrations, paintings, etc. Your art can stand on its own or be accompanied by text. We are also looking for artists who could collaborate with us to create work to accompany stories or poetry. Look for our next issue the first Thursday in March and subscribe to the magazine to get the monthly newsletter.

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Madeline C. Lanshe

Nick Hoeller