LOOMINGS 2025
Loomings_2025
COVER ART: Emma Kaminski
Published by Benedictine College
1020 N 2nd Street
Atchison, Kansas 66002
Materials appearing in Loomings may not be reproduced or reprinted without written consent from Benedictine College and the original artist/author of each work. Writers, poets, and artists contributing to Loomings retain the full rights to their work and need not obtain permission for reproduction.
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
Dear Benedictine Community,
We appreciate that you have taken the time out of your day to sit down, relax, and perceive the beautiful compositions of these artists. Welcome. Here in this magazine, it is our mission to display, explore, and acknowledge the beauty that exists around us.
When determining a theme for this edition of Loomings, the editors wanted to encourage artists to highlight the beauty that is not easily uncovered. By choosing “Unveiling Beauty” as the theme, we hoped each artist and reader would take the time to recognize the work itself as well as the hidden beauty: the story and process. Beauty is something that can be easily overlooked by the fast pace of our everyday lives. At times, we forget to look up and see the stars or appreciate the joyful moments of our day. Our hope is to uncover our veiled sight and bring awareness to the encompassing beauty that surrounds us all.
As you participate with each of these pieces, we encourage you to take time like these artists to dwell in the ordinary moments that awaken your senses to the magnificence that awaits you.
Yours,
AWARDS
1st place
PHOTO_ Beauty on the Horizon: Lauren Morris
ART_ Palaestinae Sybylla: Peter Zuzolo
2nd place
PHOTO_ Intertwined: Haley Soto
ART_ The Angel of Death: Peter Zuzolo
3rd place
PHOTO_ I Can Still Fly: Emma Moorhead
ART_ Serenity: Anastasia Frawley
SISTER SCHOLASTICA SCHUSTER PROSE AWARD
Uncle, Sabrina Vizurraga
THOMAS ROSS YOUNG WRITER AWARD
The Ride, Jordan Knowlton
PATRICIA HATTENDORF NERNEY POETRY AWARD
Laurel Lane, Tatiana Tawney
THE EDITORS
Ellen Menke is a junior from St. Paul, Minnesota. She is studying Graphic Design with a minor in Art and Theology. She enjoys exploring various art mediums, fishing, and spending time with her nieces and nephews.
Emma Moorhead was born and raised in Uniontown, Ohio and spent three years of her life in Luxembourg. She is in the graduating class of 2025 and will receive her BA in Art and BA in Theology degrees, as well as a minor in Mathematics. Emma enjoys many types of art, including but not limited to charcoal drawing, oil painting, photography, and poetry.
Cheyanne Walt is a senior from St. Louis, Missouri majoring in English and minoring in Psychology and Graphic Design. She enjoys writing, especially flash fictions and fraudulent artifacts.
Allison Higgins_ is a sophomore from Chillicothe, Missouri studying English and Secondary Education. She loves to share books and art with good friends and is so excited to have witnessed the beautiful work of so many Benedictine students. She is honored to have served on the Loomings magazine this year.
Emma Lyons_ is a senior majoring English from Northern California. This is her second year being on Loomings staff! Emma loves flowers, art, and any sort of classical music. She is honored to have served the Benedictine community through the Loomings magazine and cannot wait for others to read it.
Mary T. Nunez_ is a junior from Southern California. She is studying Marketing and Theology with a minor in Mass Communication. She enjoys writing poetry and prose, watercolors, and whittling somewhat guessable figures.
Michael Stigman_ teaches courses in creative writing, literature, and composition. He also oversees the creation of Loomings each year. This is the eighteenth version he has had the pleasure to be a part of. Established in 1968, the magazine bears witness to the college’s ongoing support of the arts at Benedictine College. He remains grateful to our enthusiastic editors and all the talented creators who contributed to this edition’s success.
SELF-PORTRAIT BUST, Sarah Zorovich, Oil on Canvas (16”by 20”)
Laurel Lane
by: Tatiana Tawney
A collection of parts, scrappy little misMatched edges and pieces that somehow
In the sillyness fit together– it’s the thousandth puzzle piece
We found under the old 1990’s blue-carpeted couch along with A stale Cheerio and the elusively sly TV remote.
A crayon drawing of half-moon smiles–happy, sad, goofy, amazed–A veritable whirlwind of watercolored voices
Clamoring and shouting in the tone-deaf chorus Of home; of something more than the number on the mailbox
That was plowed over twice by apologetic converse-clad teenagers.
This little stilecco roof has cradled the joy through years Of marked walls and shattered windows and games of pretend–
Let’s be wanderers together forever through the treacherous journey
From the rock-rivered desert yard to the lagoon-blue pool–
Of decidedly not-in-the-lines filled coloring books
And the darkest scribbled secrets of elementary journals
Of an explosively vibrant story of a whole that is more Permanent than the sharpie stains on our worn tile floor.
VIA GHIBELLINA, Sarah Zorovich, Photography
Seeds
by: Will Crawford
When I was six, A splinter impaled my heel From the rotted deck in our backyard. That home took root And still lives in me.
PURE, Emma Moorhead, Photography
CHERISH , Caroline Stein, Digital Art
The Gift We Cannot Lose
by: Mariella Brownsberger
Once the colors of this Earth would dance before my eyes
Shimmering veils of unknown hues so clothed me with surprise
But as time yellowed every page of history that passed Those glorious, vivid colors so too yellowed in their cast
A foggy beige consumed my gaze and muted every light Wonder dissolved to numbness as childhood took flight
I mourned its death for far too long, wept in the hallowed shell
A stagnant widow dressed in black years after her love fell
And then one day, as I gazed down, I saw an image clear
My own face’s reflection in the pool of these tears
A human I am now, just as a human I was then Thus by my very nature I have reason as a friend
Beauty’s recognition is a solely human gift
And though I might not feel it, I still know beauty exists
A deer could never note the way the sunset kisses trees
A dog would never look at stars for longer than a beat
Birds are offered a most lovely view of Earth on high Yet that much envied freedom by them goes unrecognized
When gazing at such wonders now, I feel sorrow take hold
But I can identify them, still, which is worth more than gold
Although I cannot feel beauty the same as long ago, I retain what matters most, for though I cannot feel, I know.
SUPRA QUAE PROPITIO, James Patrick Reid, Acrylic on Canvas (56”by 42”)
SERENITY, Anastasia Frawley, Colored Pencil on Toned Paper(15.5”by 14”)
Uncle
by: Sabrina Vizurraga
Black streets and empty parking lots blur by as I look out the window. I can barely read the street signs, but I can always make out those golden arches of McDonalds. I drive on and look into the windows of banks, only seeing vacancies. Then, the blare of sirens surrounds me, coming from nowhere.
All of these, McDonalds, streets, and banks, are reminders of Uncle. They make me question why his death follows me like a dog, catching my scent from a mile away. Inescapable. Reminders of his death are in the books I read, the movies I watch, the words I speak. It is in my family. Still, death is a concept I do not understand.
I can sit alone in my car with my thoughts, or I can stand in a crowd and only think of the man I did not know. It pains me to think I could have known him. It brings me peace that I did not know him.
Uncle follows me like a dog. His alcoholism follows me like a dog. His schizophrenia, or whatever he had, follows me like a dog. I cannot escape my bloodline. His suicide follows me like a dog and now I am trying to run from something that is faster than me. I have two feet and no stamina. The dog has four feet and can run for miles. I can’t outrun my biology. I can’t outrun the thoughts from my burning chest and legs that tell me to stop running.
I think Uncle and I are the same. He is a representation of who I could become. A distant relative you know nothing of, but, somehow, everything. A son that dies before his father and his mother. The brother who gave his sister, my mother, a quarter of the lines on her forehead. (My brothers and I created the other ones.)
My friends will make jokes about killing themselves sometimes. They will explain an embarrassing story and dramatically whisper with a smile, “I am going to kill myself.” They hold up their fingers to their head like a gun. In our suite, a bee hangs from the ceiling, held by my roommate’s belt.
“Welcome to Suite B!” it seems to say. “Keep on thinking about how your uncle hung himself.” It is a joke, of course. I laugh even though I don’t think it is funny. I laugh even though I want to say something to make them stop. I laugh even though it only is a reminder.
I told my friends what happened. But they don’t seem to remember, because, after all, it was nine or ten months ago. Who cares what happened ten months ago? I care. I care because it is the conversations I hear, the things I touch, the literature I read. It is everywhere.
Everything reminds me of the man who sent me McDonalds gift cards as a Christmas present. (And that one year when he sent me an Amazon gift card.)
Everything reminds me of writing, “I hope you get better soon,” on a card mom asked me to sign, but then she got mad at me for writing that, even though she told me Uncle was sick. What kind of sickness? I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.
Everything Ernest Hemingway wrote reminds me of Uncle. Hemingway once said, “An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools.” Was Uncle an intelligent man who couldn’t handle his own brilliance? Was he just a fool keeping himself company? Hemingway was a writer who wrote about suicide and died by suicide. Nick, one of his characters, once questioned, “Is dying hard, Daddy?” The father responded, “No, I think it’s pretty easy Nick. It all depends.” Maybe Hemingway and Uncle thought suicide was an easy way out of everything they knew. Or maybe Uncle didn’t think death was easy.
I think back to when he left the hospital on that Tuesday in December. He didn’t show up on Wednesday. Or Thursday. Or Friday. No news over the weekend. We couldn’t go looking for him ourselves, we were almost five hundred miles north of him.
It wasn’t until Monday that his girlfriend thought of where he might be. That little, vacant bank in the middle of the parking lot. The bank my wealthy grandfather held on to in order to placate his alcoholic son. It wasn’t until Tuesday when Uncle was found in the vacant bank.
The sirens blared outside my window and the news threw me back into my bed. My body let out a heavy sob and Uncle’s thoughts became my thoughts.
Now empty streets and dirty windows and golden McDonalds and brick banks and blaring sirens all remind me of Uncle. I cannot help but wonder why Uncle couldn’t escape death, why death chased him down like a dog.
BEAUTY ON THE HORIZON, Lauren Morris, Photography
Golden
by: Kathryne Oakley
It is when the light outside the window is golden, That the moment of heartease comes softly. The leaves are no longer faded green, crunchy and old, But soft and wise, lit on the top side and glowing, The dark underside whispering our reflective secrets, The contrast lighting up the hues many times over. Like shining magic to your eye, the dust hovers, Illuminated in the beam of evening sun, radiant, gold. As the elder’s wrinkles, rosy in the eve of the day, The air itself smiles, folds upon folds of joy Embracing your face to lift the corner of your lips. The golden hour has come again, come dancing. Your aching heart picks itself up and basks In the warm rays of the setting sun, Settling into place, a dragon perched, Glorying in the knowledge that you are made And made beautifully, knowing from the deep That the gold gilding the crevices of the tree, The delicate paper hands trembling in the breeze, The long spears of swaying grass murmuring songs, All these golden things are only a mirror, A fragment reflecting your inner beauty. Pink slashes the sky, crimson and tangerine, The light blush of the sky, a maiden lover, Seeing your heart within and adorning herself In all her fiery vibrancy of splendor to match. A light touch, skin on skin, a smile, a laugh, Nothing special, yet these are gold. Your heart rises to meet these, giving back To the joy riding the silent melody, The song of the moment from your heart. Riches such as these, fleeting and warm, The contentment, the peace of belonging, This is the gold unknown to the hard-hearted. They clutch, grasping, at their hoards, Biting, cold, unfeeling hoards, life’s work, The result of sacrifices made and golden love lost. The treasure they lost in exchange for their trove Is the priceless gold, the gold of moments. All their gleaming brilliant prizes mean nothing As they sit, dead and worthless, collecting dust. Dust can be gold in the right light. That gold is worth more than dead man’s things. The fragile, temporary moment of thereness, rightness, Heartache turning to heartease, sighing, “Life is good and so am I."
Death, the Revealer
by: Mariella Brownsberger
Had night never before fallen on this planet
And the sun never abandoned the sky
We’d know neither sunset nor sunrise
But only the warmth imparted from our life-giving star.
And if, after living for years in perpetual light
The sun suddenly began to dip and bow towards Earth
We’d stare in terror as our lifelight died
Flames of sunset, alien to our eyes, would encircle the horizon
And inconsolable fear would grip our hearts.
We’d watch the sky melt away for the first time
And the rays that once illuminated the blue atmosphere wither and dissolve
And so, too, the surface of our planet would descend into cold darkness
If all we’d ever known of life was ripped into ash
Would we not think our existence was culminating along with our lifeblood?
The source of our survival never to rise again?
And then the night falls fully, and lo!
The sheen of our cobalt sky having faded, its absence reveals what lies beyond.
The rest of the universe.
Higher realms, deeper expanses of reality
Than anything we could have imagined in broad daylight
And there, flooding the seas of existence once hidden
An innumerable amount of suns!
Do you not see our future reflected where those stars abide?
Do not fear the mystery of bodily death
When the sun begins to fade, presume not permanence
Only in death can all be revealed
Our light must be dimmed to unveil the beyond
Our noise must be silenced to hear the music of the heavens.
When the sun falls to the horizon
And our bodies fall to Earth in mirrored motion
It is only necessary
Looking upwards requires this physical act of humility
We must align our faces with the x-axis to view what lies on the y
We must make ourselves prostrate to look up.
And we must let it all leave.
We must let the air abandon our lungs.
We must let the rhythm abandon our hearts.
We must let the Father abandon us,
If just for the moment.
Night will divulge all
And our sun will rise, unified, with the other stars of this universe.
Beginnings beyond our wildest dreams are unearthed
Once we watch the end of all we know.
THE ANGEL OF DEATH, Peter Zuzolo, Oil on Canvas (16”by 20”)
This piece is supposed to invoke a sense of dreamy curiosity and slight unease in the viewer. “Who is he?” you may find yourself asking. “Why is he standing upright like a man instead of horizontally like a fish?” Well, dear viewer, you may as well ask why ladybugs like to die en masse on windowsills, or why unglazed ceramic is the worst texture in existence, because I too have no answers to such profoundly unknowable questions.
SCENIC LANDSCAPE, Rachel Decker, Oil Paint (4”by 6.5”)
Beyond the Mirror
by: Morgan Vehige
Some days I look into the mirror and see my father. I see it in the way my eyes spark, A touch of green amidst a bright blue sea, Squinting at the world for the hand dealt, But with a determined glint that lasts through the game. Some days I look into the mirror and see my mother. With the way each dark acne scar feels like a canyon Or through each deep laugh line that appears with a wide smile, I am reminded of the fact that time is both a friend and a foe, And that it decides which it gets to be, not I.
Rarely do I look in the mirror and see myself. But when I do, there are two sides at war with me. Dismay and delight work in tandem as I begin to understand That my features are merely borrowed from my parents, But each day they become mine As I step out beyond the mirror.
THE ARTIST’S GARDEN, Emma Kaminski, Pastel (22.5”by 18.5”)
Walden Pond, 6.30.24
by: Tatiana Tawney
In the footsteps of Thoreau I trod the well-worn path of art: the haven of arctic blues, the painted canvas of whispering trees, and the little fish that nibble at toes if you are stiller than the pond. Here is beauty incarnate in Place; poetry, unwritten, lives in the speckled stones, the beanfield, and the little house. To sit and front this essence is all one needs–the words will come in time.
OLD PLASTER, Gabriel Guzman, Pen and Marker (4”by 6”)
INTERTWINED, Haley Soto, Photography
THE EMBRACE, Anastasia Frawley, Watercolor (16”by 19”)
The Symphony of Serenity
by: Audrey Kirwan
“Jimena, come here and sit with me.” I hear my father’s gentle baritone voice call from the porch swing. Obediently, my little eight-year-old legs scramble off of the velvet green chair and dash out the back door. Bare feet patter against the cobblestone path; long wavy hair flutters in the ocean breeze.
“Yes, papi?” Jumping up, I scoot next to him on the weathered seat. “What is it?”
“Ahh, mija.” He pulls me onto his lap and smiles. “Listen.”
Puzzled, I tilt my head and wait for some marvelous sound to emerge from the darkness. My eyes can barely make out the inky outline of trees, the sandy strip of beach beyond our fence, and the rhythmic breathing of water as the tide flows in and out, in and out.
I wait, but nothing happens.
With the insufficient patience of a child, I last only a few seconds before tugging on his shirt, my face furrowed. “I don’t hear anything, Papi. How come I can’t hear it?”
He chuckles. “It is there. Ten paciencia, mi amor Just listen.”
“No, papá, nothing is there. It’s just silence. No sounds.”
“Oh Jimena, silence sings such a beautiful song.” He tucks a strand of my tousled hair behind my ear. “Listen to how the leaves chatter and gossip about the wind. How our lovely swing sighs in contentment after its years of faithful labor. Can you hear the ocean murmuring its secrets? The waves rising with stories to be heard?
“A symphony of serenity is waiting for anyone who stops to listen. It is often overlooked and forgotten. Our busy world has no time for a moment of peaceful silence.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Don’t take its gift for granted, mi amor. Remember that.”
“Okay, Papi.” I sit for a few more minutes, trying to listen; trying to hear the music. I close my eyes and soak in the safe, cozy warmth of my father’s arms. I start to think… Yes, maybe I do hear the music. The leaves, the wind, the ocean. It’s all right here. Maybe there really is a–
The playful shrieks of my little brothers float down from the house, breaking my temporary tranquility. They must have started a game of tag without me. Enticed by the flurry of activity, I look up at my father. His warm gaze meets mine and he nods, saying softly, “Go play, mija.”
Away I run, towards the garish porch lights and the thunder of little feet running on a wood floor. A glance over my shoulder captures one last image of my father and his box seats at the symphony of silence. He sits there, so still, the moonlight illuminating the serene smile on his face.
This is the memory that I treasure the most. Oh, how I would give anything to be that little girl again. To sit on his lap, safe and sheltered without a care beyond that strong embrace. To wait with patience until I could truly appreciate the quietness that captivated him.
Now I am a young woman. Sitting on the same swing. Staring at the same shore. Only, it’s different now; I am different now. And my beloved papá is not here.
I reach up and fiddle with the short, curly hair that tickles my neck. My toes tap shakily on the worn cobblestone. His vacancy is so loud, I can hardly bear it. A familiar, deep ache is stirring in my heart, and I double over, squeezing my eyes shut.
And then, I hear it. I feel it. A breath of fresh air after days of flailing underwater. The porch swing is still creaking, the ocean is still humming, and a breeze is still sifting through the leaves. The familiarity of it all is so comforting. And yet, there are a multitude of new harmonies that I can hear now. Tiny brown birds serenade our little grove of trees. The rumbling purr of an alley cat reverberates from the fence. I straighten and a soft smile plays on my lips. Along with this beautiful music all around, he is here with me. His achingly familiar presence is the final addition to the symphony. Our symphony. A symphony of serenity.
Leaf
by: Hannah Moore
As a cool wind blows a red leaf moves along a straight path swiftly striving towards some unknown end, sliding along the road with a soft scraping noise, like sandpaper, clinging to the pavement underneath, but twirling in the air with a flourish when it loses its desperate grip on all those lost moments, loses all control, loses time, and with it all the other leaves tumble along wishing to press pause, to retrace their steps to hit rewind, knowing they will never again be where they once were, will never again cross paths with one another, and as the winds die down and they find a place to rest, so dies their color fading fades fade
CLARITY, Dominic Halbmaier, Photography
WONDER, Haley Soto, Photography
PALAESTINAE SYBYLLA, Peter Zuzolo, Oil on Canvas (16”by 20”)
MARY AND THE INFANT JESUS, Ellen Menke, Acrylic (10.25”by 13.25”)
Entanglement
by: Finnegan Ritchie
So this is what I have been feeling Seeing in the world and my experiences. So this is why the suffering has felt so sweet And the consolation leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
It's all wound together, Like a patch sewn into my pants, Like a scab healing over.
It is as if the resonances of my heart Have been voiced And the dissonances of my soul Played in accompaniment.
It’s all mixed together, Like paint blending on a palette, Like milk and coffee poured perfectly into leaves.
The darkness has been illuminated, But it burns and blinds my eyes. The colors have been multiplied, But I am a man, not an angel.
Too small to see, But small enough to be moved Small enough to understand.
It comes together here in the cemetery Persons, memories, ghosts. It separates here in the mind Myself and the noise.
It is as if the silence is no longer itself. Like it is filled with a presence. An unspeakable presence.
So it is here, in the world, then Where the hurt is found. And in the monstrance of others Where it makes sense.
It is as if evil is not the problem But me, silly old me Who is the solution.
Surrender is what solves the problem, When I get out of the way. When I draw up the white flag And let Him clothe me with it.
It is as if I am okay. Really, it's okay. All is well, And all manner of things will be well.
It’s when I let Him break the rules Which I always thought were His. And I let Him come to me And find myself embraced.
It is as if I am cut from the same cloth Mystically enmeshed. No stiches in sight.
It is when His arms feel like shackles, Or the spider's web, And I release my clenched fists Just to hold His hand And walk on.
It’s as if none of it makes sense Without the pain, without the grief, When love has nothing to conquer.
When the ashen trees blossom With fire and golden wings. That time just before the cold sets in And the ground covered in snow.
It is as if a transformation is required, Like the life of the butterfly Like the life of the saint.
To speak on would be folly
To stop would not exhaust the thing I’ve seen To ramble on frustrated At the weakness of my words.
It’s as if I can’t finish, Like I need someone else. Like I need Him.
I
CAN STILL FLY, Emma Moorhead, Photography
Bottle on the Bank
by: William Rosson
With windows down, the road we sailed Forwards to that wooded land.
A bottle on the bank to find, On those grounds so beautiful
One foot after another, forward always forward, From overlook to railroad track
On trails paved, marked, or of our own invention Never following the same path twice.
Down on the riverbank, a bottle in our keeping unsought, unhoped for by a tree naked Cleaned, restored, in place of honor displayed. A remembrance for bygone times
Friendship true and sights arresting Yet passing, only in our minds now The leaves have fallen, the days grow colder The same view never to be seen again
What is left then of that happy encounter?
The love of friends and the warmth of our God. Unending and unchanging, food for the soul, And a bottle to remember it by.
CAPTURED IN A FLASH, Audrey Kirwan, Photography
FATHER AND SON, Matthew Cavanaugh, Photography
ILLUMINATION, Lauren Morris, Photography
ONLY THIRTY-ONE NEED CANCER SURGERY ANYTHING HELP GOD BLESS
by: Henry Burns
Now I knew you when I saw you. You know, people give a look, or they slow down. Yeah, I’ve seen a lot.
Nobody else is coming. Sorry just let me stretch. I can’t sit long in one position and you know that it’s hard out here all day and man, I moved up here, I didn’t know Midwestern cold. When I got my diagnosis nothing hit me straight. I was waiting for big feelings, like right then I should care. Then there’s something about this cold. One day, just sinks into you: you’re going to die. I’m going to die. Personally, I’m religious. Now I don’t know for certain or mean harm guys but I think you might be too so I’m telling you: you do, you do grow closer to God. Yes.
I can feel Him close sometimes. Thank you ma’am, God bless you. It’s just us here now and we’re doing the best we can. I’m not wasting time anymore so I’m grateful. Could I pray for y’all?
Dying men have power. You know I’m only thirty-one but I feel like I’m a’hundred.
THE WORKING CLASS, Emma Lyons, Photography
The Ride
by: Jordan Knowlton
The smell of horse, the smell of grass, The smell of leather and the flash of brass, The eyes with depths that see so deep, The twitching ears with secrets to keep, The sound of birds chirping through the breeze, The humming of the busy bumble bees, The thunder of hoofbeats and steady breathing of a horse, The deep comforting whinny, the gentle snorts, The feeling of a soft squishy nose, The feeling of warm breath on your cheek telling you he knows, The feeling of trust and companionship as one, The feeling of freedom as you ride towards the setting sun, This is somewhere my soul could abide, In the beauty and thrill of the ride.
HOLDING ON, Emma Kaminski, Ceramics
THE LUCKIEST, Cheyanne Walt, Digital Art (24”by 18”)
Divine Scope
by: Ella Biggins
Soulmate searching, whole life reaching Waves are crashing, so much sound
Leaves are falling, softly casting Brilliant whirlwinds, all around
In the distance, feel a difference Looming brightly, thrusting hope
Intertwined hands, face turned upwards Seeking silence, words to cope
Holding softly, careful newness Bringing innocence, lovers trope
Gently wishing, treading lightly Bearing daringly, sweet hope
Praising, pleading, and heeding Divine whisper’s loving scope
IF ONLY, Emma Moorhead, Oil on Canvas (11”by 14”)
Through Her I See Him
by: Gabriella Kushner
The second she saw me walking towards her at the train station I saw her face change. She saw me— and in that moment I felt loved. Together we lived a beautiful week seeing beautiful sights.
In that short week I saw myself change. When I was with her, I was able to see my own life better. I was able to live what was happening all around me more. Who is she that she helps me live in this way. But more importantly who does she follow that allows her to live in this way. Embracing all of life, embracing it in a way that screams of the knowledge that everything is a gift for her, and therefore with her I see how everything that I live is a gift specifically for me.
And after that week I was not the same— I rediscovered life, rediscovered how to live my own life. To be a person who allows His gaze to shine through onto others so, others can see His love for them through me. Like how I felt His love through her.
UNYEILDING, Caroline Stein, Photography
HOMEGROWN, Aubrey Novacek, Photography
Motherhood
by: Cheyanne Walt
Giggles erupt from my daughters, shoving each other back and forth and back and forth as they move in and out of the limited frame of reflection. To have the childlike freedom to let yourself be once again captivated in simplistic journeys. They’re gone now, their beds made in preparation for their return, their bags packed fuller and their shelves left emptier with each new destination, their presence exchanged for creases in my skin. Yet, each step around my house is full of their giddiness, toys, band aids, songs, arguments, hugs, tears. It’s not my fraying body that looks back at me now, but my arms full of books they’ve collected from library shelves, my time spent cleaning and playing and cooking and singing, paper jewelry and crayonstained pictures draped over my fingers where they used to lay not so long ago. It’s the same way I see you in your father’s eyes, even at a moment’s glance. I will always return to these joys, the outreach as your chubby fingers as they draw me to you, the subtle brush across your cheek as I tuck you in one last time.
THE DIFFICULT LESSON, (Study of William Bouguereau’s The Difficult Lesson), Joël A Moraille, Graphite (6”by 19”)
LUCIA, Anna Gallagher, Watercolor (8”by 11”)
Psithuros
by: Jessica Pammenter
The lyrical and melodic genius of the wind as it moves through the trees is almost music. If I turn my head and squint my eyes, I can see the eighth notes and treble clefs weaving about the translucent leaves, glistening with the morning dew. Sometimes it’s a soft lullaby, sometimes a cacophonous symphony, and Mother Nature conducts it all on her whims. The winds that destroy also create, if one only listens close enough to hear it.
ROCOCO LAMPS, Sarah Zorovich, White Earthenware (5”by 12”by 5”)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
We would like to thank all of the staff at Benedictine College who have made this year’s edition of Loomings possible, especially Dr. Michael Stigman, Jay Wallace, Sue Leo, and Allison Merrick. Each of you have continuously poured your dedication and support into this project, and we greatly appreciate your generosity.
In addition, this magazine would not be possible without those who offer up their time to witness each work. Thank you Dr. Filiberto Mares Hernandez, Dr. Jamie Blosser, Danielle Blosser, Dr. Gail Blaustein, and Sr. Judith Sutera, OSB for judging prose; Sr. Jennifer Halling, OSB, Dr. Julie Sellers, Gretchen Burch for judging poetry; and Emily Carstens, Gracie Blevins, and Grace Sammoury for judging studio art and photography.
Lastly, thank you to all of those at Benedictine College who are dedicated to the arts and Loomings, and to each of you who chose to participate in this experience.
live, laugh, love they say. to love is to live, to live is to laugh, love, live, laugh I say. _allison higgins
