Sometimes imperceptible, yet just as likely thunderous, movement is the essence of life. What a great theme for Sippizine. When I shared the theme in person, eyebrows lifted. You could see the gears turning...
Volume 6 brings thirteen viewpoints, expressed in poetry, prose, photography, art with its first video contribution. Contributors hail from Onset, Marion, Mattapoisett, New Bedford, Dartmouth, Wesport and Fall River. Turn the pages and discover the results of those turning gears.
In between issues, Sippizine grows in its virtual home on Patreon. Running and promoting an online community is beginning to feel natural. Come join us. Enjoy the sweet and sour moments as Sippizine takes its next steps, share your thoughts and connect with others.
Writing Prompt Sessions continue at the Mattapoisett Library every last Tuesday of the month. Meredith Race or I lead the time together. It’s a time to spark new ideas, try something different and share, listening to others or reading your results. Free and open to the public, we’d love to see you there.
Have you heard about Write With Community, your South Coast source for author readings, spoken word events and classes? There’s so much action in the South Coast’s literary scene. I’m glad Sippizine is part of that movement.
Let me know what you think of Movement, and spread the word: Lucky is the next theme.
Wishing you fair winds and following seas, Like Sippizine?
Alanna Nelson Editor & Publisher
Poetry by Eileen Paccia salt
Tide all the way out
Periwinkles and crabs
Return to watery homes
From current lodgings
In a plastic pail
Warning is given before
The beach blanket is shaken
Lest the sand fly in your eyes
Carrying the now empty cooler
Back to the car
Then pile in after tucking a towel
Onto seats too hot to sit on
We roll the windows down
The air cool driving through
Side roads, almost home
Back in the city
The atmosphere more sluggish
We turn on to our street
Seeing patches of white on my arm
I touch my tongue to the salty skin
And am immediately transported back
To the sanctuary of the Ocean
7 May 1635
Prose by Krista
ancestral circuitry
Today was a pleasant Spring day to tarry at the River Alham, where I would amuse myself for many hours as a boy. I retain a fond memory of when the Dawe girl came down with her brothers to cool her feet in the water, removing her summer sandals and lifting her skirts so as not to spoil the cloth. The channel babbled roughly after the rains this morning. It feels odd not to be planting in greater quantities, to plan ahead for next winter. While I am not alone in my trepidation, I must exhibit only stalwart confidence for the sake of Katherine and the children during the preparations for such a monumental journey.
In 1635, a handful of brave folks by the last name of Alleine left their homes in Somersetshire, joining a group of one hundred people led by Reverend Joseph Hull, aboard a British ship in Weymouth bound for the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Upon settlement at Wessaguscus Plantation the modern spelling of the last name of George Allen, his second wife Katherine, and at least five of their children emerged. The family eventually settled in Sandwich, and one of George’s sons, Ralph, bought extensive parcels of land in south Dartmouth, including Barnes his Joy, now known as Barney’s Joy.
August 23rd 1663
Sweet baby Patience took her first steps this morning! While father is visiting with Susannah and the children, I am finally free to travel down to appraise the land for sale in Dartmouth. I sincerely hope that this decision will liberate us from the persecution and financial penalties inflicted upon us for refusing the Oath of Fidelity. I will worship with the Quakers there and enquire about the needs for a wheelwright in the community. My brother George will not sway my sights to West Jersey. Despite Hannah’s ill health, he seems determined to relocate farther south. I feel his faith is not as solid as my own, and I fear the consequences of such a hasty decision upon his wife’s well-being. Something tells me he’ll return to Sandwich in due course.
George’s son George, and that George’s son Daniel, and Daniel’s son Daniel all resided in and around Sandwich for good portions of their lives, some visiting Ralph and other Allens who moved to the South Coast. But the younger Daniel’s eldest son Ebenezer moved from Massachusetts to upstate New York, possibly motivated by French-Indian and Revolutionary Wars. Ebenezer eventually returned to Sandwich before his death.
June 3rd 1760
It’s a boy! Amaziah arrived safely into the midwife’s hands late last night, letting out a mighty wail. If you’d have asked me fourteen years ago at our wedding in Newport, Rhode Island where I’d be today, I couldn’t have imagined I’d be sitting in upper New York writing this whilst listening to the distant sound of a train whistling passing. It seems safe to raise a family here during this incorrigible French and Indian war. But already my heart pines to return to the coast.
But for the next few generations, Ebenezer’s son Cornelius and Cornelius’s son James remained in the Finger Lakes region. Then James’s son Charles, with his wife and three sons, moved to suburban Long Island, near New York City.
November 18th 1893
Floral Park has played an integral role in my successes. I’ve never harbored any regrets transplanting our home here. It is with great pride that I announced the completion of my latest and greatest work, “Bulbs and Tuberous-Rooted Plants: Their History, Description, Methods of Propagation and Complete Directions for Their Successful Culture in the Garden, Dwelling and Greenhouse.”
His son Charles, and Charles's son Philip, and Philip’s three children were all born in Floral Park. One of those sons, Donald, my father, founded a photography business in New York City where he worked for forty years He also built a house on Shelter Island by the beach, formally Manhansett tribal land, where I grew up. As a very young child, I had dreams focused around Montauk Point and its lighthouse, and about being whisked away from there, fallen and bleeding.
06/14/1986
New Hampshire? My father just retired, so my parents have decided we ’ re leaving Shelter Island. Why?! This makes no sense. Do they even have electricity up there in the north woods? I hear there are moose two stories tall and it snows so much people ski to work. The local high school has Future Farmers of America classes. Are you kidding me? We’re going to visit a private school also to see if they’ll just let me skip to ninth grade. Looks like I’ll be learning to ski regardless. Maybe I can write a mystery about getting lost in the mountains and being eaten by bears. I’m going to miss the beach!
I began college in western Massachusetts in 1989, then transferred to Syracuse, NY, moved to Vermont after graduation, and eventually settled near Boston where my own children were born. Eventually, while perusing real estate extending from Maine to Virginia, one spot seemed to be summoning me. Every time I visited Westport, MA (formerly part of old Dartmouth), before knowing the extent of my genealogical connections, it felt like I’d found my special place. My husband and I fell in love with a property a stone’s throw from where George Allen and his son Ralph had purchased land back in the 1600s. The neighborhood bears many reminders of their family’s legacy: Allen’s Pond, Allen’s Neck, Allen’s Mill, etc. While I’ll never be officially accepted as a “Westporter” since I wasn’t born here, further research has revealed that I am distant cousins to half the town, with familiar last names like Tripp, Akin, Howland, Goddard, Gifford, Eddy, Coggeshall, Lawton, Potter, Hicks, Albro, Briggs, Russell, Sisson, Hoxie, Fisher, Smith, Cornell, and more. While it took some moving around to get here, I know that I’ve come home.
(All diary entries, including my own, are works of historical fiction. I am eager to uncover more genuine personal documents, if they exist, and weave them into a larger family narrative.)
Art by Dawn Blake Souza
NEW BEDFORD HARBOR
Poetry by Dawn Blake Souza
THE HURRICANE BARRIER
Three and a half miles of earth and stone
Stand sentry over land once prone
To ruinous inundation and destruction.
Supplications to Odin and Nossa Senhora
By those whose very fortunes were at stake Were not enough to hold the tempest back Until the steely gates
Like granite guardians, arose.
Today, the seas are calm, the skies are clear But darkened clouds, in one brief moment May appear.
And we, within that granite structure, Feel secure
And trust our lives and livelihoods May endure.
Poetry by Hendrick Hernanez-Resto
137 YEARS
I was having a conversation with the great Lee Blake/ Who told me about a slave passage that had been written on a page/ It spoke about America, and all of it’s rage/ and how 137 years was marked as its age/ I sat there in amazement at how I didn’t find it strange/ that 137 years was only felt like a few days/
Its such a small portion of our human existence/ And feels so far away I feel that we ’ re losing its vision/
The same cut with a new incision/ Plague us with a new division/ It makes trusting a true decision/ We adjust to ensue collision/ It doesn’t add up and its eschewed with limits/
Masked up and is my new religion/ This path won’t imbue the timid/ Were the last of the few who did it/ Who asked you move your pivot/
Nah, I need you to stay ten toes/ Sign of times from them to get low/ My mind doesn’t hide your Jekyll/ And then ask you for respect though…
I keep having this conversation with the great Lee Blake/ About how minds are linear, and time can seem fake/ How we ’ re all just star dust, and how the universe is awake/ And that our existence is how it experiences its own state/ Sound like amazing, reasons to celebrate/ Then I think what does the universe feel to experience its own hate/ Does it fear what we do make/ As much as what we don’t make/ I know that theres no mistakes/ as much as I know there no breaks/
But how long is this gone take/ I feel stuck in the cold lake/ Someone said as long as the lone snake/ Who travels around the world and does realize it has no fate/
And that snake traveled for 137 years/ And it never stopped once to wonder how the hell it got here/ I ask you. Don’t be the same/ For 137 years is just a few days/
KEEP MOVING Poetry by Juliet O’Donnell
Keep moving – I always say, Look back if you must, it’s okay. But turn around before you fall, Stand up strong – through it all.
Hardships and heartaches shape our way, Our journeys twist through night and day
What matters most is how we feel, For time will help us heal.
Keep moving – take each step in stride, Let faith and purpose be your guide. Zig zag or straight, or a figure eight, The path is yours – it's never too late.
Lessons learned and failures burn, Through every loss, there’s more to learn. Setbacks happen, that’s the deal, Just rise again, with grit and steel.
Keep moving – that’s my motto, It’s always been my go-to. So when in doubt, look ahead, Dread nothing – have hope instead.
Performance Art by
Aneshia Savino
ALCHEMIZE
lick the image to view sunlight-inspired movement, sound, and words.
Prose by Laura Pedulli
60 MILES SOUTH OF ALBUQUERQUE
ay I help you, ma ’am?” inquires the clerk. The scruffy, tall woman looks at me
expectantly, but it doesn’t register at first.
I flinch at the reminder that I’ve entered the “ ma ’ am ” stage of life. My reflection stares back in the gas station window. Sullen lines crease my eyes and mouth, and stringy gray hairs shoot out of my thick auburn curls like an invasive plant.
“Just coffee,” I mumble.
Without a word, she gestures to a small table in the back. Two pots of stale coffee sit forlorn and forgotten. It’s 2pm. I don’t know why I expected a Starbucks experience at a small gas station in the middle of the New Mexican desert.
I guess, after a 36-hour car ride, I expected some service.
Instead, I was here, at a station with outdoor bathrooms. Only minutes earlier, I did the walk of shame to the someone-could-murder-me-and-I’d-never-be-found side of the building something I haven’t done since 1979.
“No cream for the coffee?” I ask.
“No, ma ’ am, ” the old lady says, barely disguising her annoyance. She doesn’t offer any excuse or reasoning. On a 100-degree day like today, I’m not sure I can tolerate hot coffee without something to help it go down. But I’ll have to manage.
Any minute now, he’ll arrive.
The red Bronco will swerve into this wanna-be Mobil station. Benjamin will be sitting there, his green eyes radiating love, his 6’2 frame ready to fold me into an embrace.
At least, that’s what he says in his texts, that he has green eyes. I’ve heard they are rare; only 2 percent of the global population have them. And I’m guessing even fewer than that have a connection like us. It’s truly rare. No matter what my daughter or mother says. What do they know, anyway? My daughter is pushing 30 and still living with her cats and no prospects. She still plays video games, even on a Saturday night! My mother still blames me for the divorce, tells me I let myself go. But love is unconditional. They don't know what love is.
Dust swirls across the station lot as an SUV pulls in.
Stay calm, I tell myself.
No Bronco.
A few minutes later, a boisterous family of three waltzes past me.
I envy the jubilant mother. I know, if she arrived alone, the old clerk would call “miss.” Her blond curls bounce in a messy bun, and her handsome husband holds the hand of a small girl in a princess costume
I adjust my blouse with vertical stripes, which I’m told gives the illusion of sleekness and height. My dark bootcut jeans disguises thighs and the four-inch heels of my leather boots. Benjamin says he likes that I have a big heart. He says I have an old soul that is rare and beautiful. He understands things about me that others miss.
The family’s laughter irritates me. I breathe more easily when they finally make their purchase and drive off.
I quickly pay for the retched coffee, bitter to the taste. I exit the station. The quiet of the space envelopes me. The heat of the sun is endless and unrelenting — so different from New England. Sunset approaches. Hues of pinks and oranges more beautiful than rainbows radiate serendipity and softness.
It would be beautiful, if it wasn’t for his absence. And the bitter taste in my mouth.
The pinks and oranges fade into blacks and blues. The minutes pass. Then an hour. The temperature, at least, begins to drop.
The door creaks open. It is the gangly clerk.
She eyes me with sadness.
“It’s all a mirage," she says, gesturing to the desert for effect. I don’t understand.
“What do you mean?” I ask, feeling my mascara drip down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry. He isn’t coming,” she says, but with a surprising kindness in her voice.
“You aren’t the first woman I’ve seen here, waiting.”
Art by Krista Allen
REPOWERING
Prose by Kathryn Lee Hamilton
STEALING BACK THE STARS
t was in a NET interview, many years later, when the Moon and Mars had I
colonies, and I was an old woman, sitting with my grand daughter and heir, Kathryn, that I broke my silence about my thoughts the night of the great disaster…
The year was 2122. My name was Sarah Whitelace. I would have to respond to the fact that my entire family, in the first prototype family gravity rotating space pod manned civilian trip, died when the pod exploded. I hadn’t gone on the trip at the last minute after testing positive for a cold.
My whole family, burned to cinders in an oxygen heavy atmosphere. Lost: my mother, who to be honest I did not have the best relationship with, my father, the famous head of Cosmosis, the largest privately owned outer space science firm on the planets, my twin brothers, Hercules and Hector, 2 years older than I, my little sister Jena, 12, who looked up to me like I was a Goddess, and Matt, who was only 8. An innocent child who we all doted on. They were all gone in a senseless accident - a flash of movement and fire. Our company motto was “Inherit the Stars.” But my father didn’t know how much he had been wrong about that, with only one surviving heir, a girl, left, I thought. I had turned on one pre-tuned holo-vid; our stock was in flux.
What was I to do? Space travel was growing more and more unpopular in a world that seemed so hellbent of destroying itself, with no spare little… colony anywhere. No ace up the sleeve to save mankind if we did all kill this planet. And we seemed so focused on doing it. My father, some called him a zealot; were they right? I had grown up with his wanderlust for space; it was all I knew. Dad’s momentum was mine.. I knew we had to keep it up. Get off this rock and onto another one. Get moving. Get building!
But how? It was a hell of a legacy; my father, who had loved space travel, now would do more to derail it, in his own accident, than in a lifetime of promoting it. The irony was bitter.
I sat in his office, crying softly. Across my father’s desk wall was a realistic enlargement of Starry Night by Van Gogh. I used to ask him about the seemingly haunted tree and the glowing balls; swirling, and strangely undulating… moving as if… twinkly like in songs. That’s when he told me how humans were robbed of the stars. For centuries, air pollution and haze have given us pinpoints of stars at night only. Dad said that once, they had twinkled in a clear black sky and an oxygen rich atmosphere and dominated the night as they moved through the heavens. What Van Gogh had seen had been the truth
af the night, and even brighter before his time. Dad kept that painting to remind people, mostly himself, what the stars really looked like. Or should look like; great, glowing, and in swirling shimmering motion.
I cancelled the press conference and was deep in thought for many hours as an idea danced in my mind. “Could we do it, could we pull off a combination lazo/computer show to dazzle the world’s skies and restore confidence in the company, ” I wondered? The next night I dressed to the nines, in a dark satin blue dress with small star-like diamonds sewn into a sheer cape and matching shoes. Blue in the face to suggest midnight skies.
“My name is Sarah Whitelace.”
I stood alone at a podium.
“My father was Gregory Whitlace. He, with the rest of my family, died to make his dream of life among the stars normal and yet beautiful. Your condolences are honored. But we… I am asking you not to turn away from the private funding you have been so generous to us with after this accident, and I want to share something with you. ”
“Look up. What do you see? Stars, tiny and constant, and frankly disappearing. They are becoming small and static. One day, our sky will be starless. My friends, my father looked up, and he saw that we had been ROBBED of the stars and starlight moving overhead. Now, close your eyes, ” I said, with a flourish of my arm.
The sky above the whole world changed to a reflection of the bright glowing balls from stary night and swirling mix of colored sky People gasped, panicked and fell to their knees at the miracle, but I waved my arm again and it faded.
“This shows you, though an illusion, what starlight used to look like, and even brighter before modern cities.
“This is what my father could see. Give me your confidence now in our company, and I give you from 8 pm to 9 pm in your home, Cosmosis will give you Starry Night, around the globe, every night, to dream by, to love by, to think by, until I can get you closer to those stars, personally.”
The crowd rallied For a time at least, I had saved the company, though my work was just beginning.
Though my heart ached deeply for my loss, I did not choose a life of mourning, I chose a life of glowing, gyrating stars to swirl and move above our hearts and heads, and that will be my family’s legacy.
SIPPIZINE VOL 6
Poetry by Juliet O’Donnell MOVEMENT OF MEMORIES
Life is a movement of memories –a mural shaped by the hands of time, a collage of color: some vivid, some faded. Each brushstroke, a moment remembered.
Swaths of paint trace our journey through time’s perpetual passage –asymmetrical, unpredictable, dynamic.
Layers of life stack like streaks on an artist’s palette, each a story to be told.
Every canvas the creation of a life lived –bold, flawed, radiant. Each extraordinary, unique like the artist.
For in the end, are we not all masterpieces of our own making?
Prose by Meredith Race BYE FOR NOW
Dearest 224,
Before all else, you were my babiesʼ first home, for that I am eternally grateful.
Iʼm moving now As if— outside of sleep— Iʼd ever stopped
This makes six houses in one town. Impressive? Stubborn? Youʼd think Iʼd be better at it now. Packing and unpacking.
Boxes, tape, labels, Iʼm learning more about letting go.
As if anything has ever been mine.
No deed has ever held my name and signature.
No good deed goes unpunished.
Do you feel my presence gone now? No stirring in the refrigerator light.
No praying by a wood fire that itʼd be enough to keep 30 toes warm.
No violent screams when prayers went unanswered.
There's a patina on the hand rail upstairs. I hope it stays.
Thereʼs bird seed in the feeder I hope it goes and brings melancholic songs
Thank you for the shelter from the storm.
Thank you for the water from the hose that hot afternoon. Thank you for doors that kept some things out and others in.
Maybe weʼll meet again. Me with my wrinkles and you with fresh paint.
Thatʼs not where I put my silverware, Iʼll think to myself but Iʼm not the chef. Iʼll be a tourist in a place where I once held the only key. No hidden cash. No treasured books. Not mine.
And so I write here on a borrowed bed, in pajamas bought by my mother, wearing my grandmother's jewelry.
But Iʼll move again, and write another quiet eulogy in an inevitable spring to this new house— new to me
But for now Iʼll cherish bathing in the moonlight, paddling near local ruins, and creaking louvered doors.
For now.
But on my next great expedition, my prayer is to be cherished. To be gazed at with such awe and amazement as I do the moon. To be thought of and cared for. Someday to be brought back supplies that I need and want. To have loving fingers trace my scars. Scars I did not ask for but endure and heal and celebrate. Yes, and celebrate.
SIPPIZINE VOL 6
What a battle I have traversed to lay my swords at the feet of men. To say I am stronger than Iʼve ever been and in that strength I carry my peace, my joy, and love. I donʼt have enough hands for swords and shields.
Iʼm as old now as my mother was when I first met her. Iʼm the youngest Iʼll ever be again. This season of my life weighs so heavy on my heart. How difficult it is to move under threat of contempt. How easy to love. I can't tell what I treasure more my grandmother's easy unconditional love that spills out of my cup or my mother's strength that whispers keep going when the storm is raging It doesnʼt matter, I packed them both.
My new home will bear my name. My gratitude. My children. Safe and joyful. I think Iʼll be back next week to steal some lilacs. Donʼt tell on me?
Bye for now,
Meredith Alice Race
Mother of Wolf, Grower of Poppy, Keeper of dreams
Poetry by Lorene Sweeney
I AM THE WIND
I generate waves knock trees to the ground
I make sails billow, kites soar
I bear scents of roses, lavender the danger of fire
I spread snowflakes, scatter leaves, seeds
I tickle your ear, tangle your hair
I make you zip your coat, or toss it away
I rock the sea, lift the osprey
I carry the clouds, then blow them away Birds and butterflies ride me home
I soothe the tired, wake the morning
I carry voices of life, the silence of death
I am the wind
SUMMER BREEZES
They skip across the leaves and bounce from branch to branch. They tease a proper rose to join their silly dance. They dart beneath the buds then shake the nodding grass They toss the bee balm stalks and duck when insects pass. They whisper nonsense words that flirt about unchecked They sail away untamed, more neatness to be wrecked.
Evans THE GARDEN DASH
Photography by Midori
Prose by Jackson Gillman
SORRY, CHARLIE
ow, where did that come from? Stick with me..
Long before Prince and his raspberry beret, there was the chapeau’d Charlie the Tuna. In his time, the bespectacled cartoon character was a commercial fixture on cathode-ray tubed television Gen Z-ers wouldn’t know him from Adam-12 — another dated boob tube staple from two score and umpteen years ago. Boomers like me certainly remember the suave StarKist mascot who knew he’d be sought after for his good taste.
Sorry, Charlie. As hip as he projected himself to be, Charlie was always rejected by the company ’ s announcer, Danny Dark, with a dismissive “StarKist does not want tunas with good taste; they want tunas that taste good.” Charlie was patterned after Henry Nemo who was purported to be the “creator of jive” and was voiced by the chameleon-tongued Herschel Bernardi. (The names of these real-life players are too good not be included because they seem so typecast.)
So what does this have to do with Movement? Consider Charlie to be the hook (pun intended) to get you to bite on this And now for the bait and switch Somewhat along those same fishing lines...
Tunas have to move constantly in order to survive. They wouldn't exactly drown, but if new dissolved oxygenated water doesn’t keep passing through their gills, they would belly up. Not to the oxygen bar; not to the surface to breathe; not to play possum. Stillness… death. Movement… life.
To move this analogy even deeper, might that not be true to avoid every sort of atrophy? Every living thing needs to continue growing in order to survive, not necessarily getting bigger, but to constantly grow new cells out with the old, in with the new. And not just physical growth/movement, but mentally, spiritually, metaphysically. The lyrics of a 1983 pop song by Matthew Wilder come to mind: Ain’t nothin’ gonna break-a my stride, Nobody gonna slow me down, oh no, I’ve got to keep on moving…
Now before drifting even more tangentially, let’s get cut back to the bait. Do you think anyone would remember Charlie if he hadn’t been so persistent? Just like his need to ...keep on moving. Charlie exemplified an inner drive. One that kept him vital. Maybe there’s a lesson here for us: Move it or lose it.
And now I’ll end exactly as each of his commercials did: "Tell them that Charlie sent you. ”
Prose by Mark L. Collins
BEACH YOGA
Movement of Collective Joy, an Experience of Oneness With All
Every Sunday morning at 8am, from early June to Labor Day, we gather at the
Westport town beach for gentle yoga at the waters edge, on the oceanside of Westport Point's adjacent peninsula. Our seaside sangha (gathering), hosted by Eileen Wardwell, a Westport resident and owner of Heart Center Yoga in Bristol RI, includes deep words of ecumenical, spiritual wisdom, along with skilled yoga instruction. For all attendees, it is an experience which connects one deeply to the pristine beauty of the natural environment we are blessed with here on the South Coast.
Our Yogini Eileen guides us to experience each sense while we assume various asanas (positions) facing the sea. As we feel our feet sink into the soft warm sand, we hear the sound of waves gently breaking at the nearby tideline. The smell of the salty summer sea breeze saturates the senses so deeply, it can be tasted. Visually, the morning sunlight dances on the wave tops, a shimmering scene which enlivens the heart and spirit The multi sensory experience, combined with gentle movement and conscious breathwork brings us all into present consciousness.
Eileen encourages us to let the warm summer sun permeate our bodies, minds and souls, so we can carry that joyful warmth inside us into the winter season and throughout all days on the wheel of the year. Over the last few years, I have continually reflected on that light and warmth, especially during the darkest days of winter, since discovering our summer Sunday sadhana (practice). Returning to walk that golden section of Horseneck Beach in the Fall, Winter and Spring still brings an inner joy, even on the coldest days. As for us year rounders, winter beach walks still offer many treasures to our senses. The turbulent power of winter winds, stirring the sea to a froth while larger waves crash upon the shore, sharply contrasts with the serenity conveyed by the calm summer waters. The tumultuous winter surf creates a spectacular scene which activates all senses and makes one feel energized, alive and most importantly, completely present in the moment.
Eileen’s goal throughout our summer sangha, is to get us to that place within that is completely connected to everything around us. She quotes Terence, a slave in the Roman Empire, who was freed by his writing. "I am a human being, nothing human can be foreign to me. "
BEACH YOGA
She said, from that place, every person can connect to all humanity and all creation - in everything we see, hear, and experience. That is; common, shared experience works to unify us all.
Oceanside yoga guides us to a collective experience of big nature, whether it be the majesty of Mount Kilimanjaro, the iconic landscapes of the Sahara or the entrancing waters of our own Buzzards Bay. Eileen also references small nature, which includes experiences like the sight of a seagull floating in the breeze or a multi-colored clam shell resting atop a pile of dried seaweed . At the beach, the all connected part of us is just more accessible, as our senses bring us into an awareness that the macro and micro are indeed suffused.
When our morning practice ends and we rise from savasana (final pose), we feel energized, delighted to have ventured outdoors into an immersive nature experience which steers us to a better condition as we head back into the work week. Quoting Eileen, “from this place we are able to look at the wide open sky differently from now on. Art, music, and yoga are all a cry to get home to that place, which the beach seems to nurture so well, while walking us home to an awareness of our oneness. ” This reflection recalls the quote from Ram Dass (Author of Be Here Now) who said, "We are all just walking each other home." On the beach, this idea becomes manifest.
Eileen Wardwell at Westport Beach
BEACH YOGA
In terms of yoga practice, the beachside setting requires you to drop your preconceptions about your progress, requiring you to surrender to weather, the unsteadiness of the ground, and especially the part of you that likes things a certain way. It's a next-level experience to surrender our desire to control to the elements. You need to be okay with bugs, wind, or lack of props, or flat ground. It’s a true experience which requires an embracing of the duality life presents, joyful warm summer sun mixed with temperature shifts, hot sun, cool rain or wind gusts carrying grains of sand into your hair. Or as Eileen says, the "who moved my cheese" part of you needs to be dealt with.
Seaside yoga offers deep reflection on our connection to nature, while surrendering the hurried mind to embrace the present moment, to finally find serenity in the now.
For me, having spent 6 decades living on or visiting the Westport Point peninsula, beach yoga helps keep me in tune with nature at a place where childhood experiences of convivial play in the summer were balanced with experiences of deep quietude present in the snow filled dunes of winter time. This magical place showcases the natural beauty contained in all of the New England seasons, while allowing one to experience a true connection with all that is, a divinity expressed in nature.
In recent years, I have expanded the scope of my winter walks to all nearby beaches in South Coast MA and South Coastal Rhode Island, From West Island beach in Fairhaven to Little Beach at Allens Pond in Westport/Dartmouth, Seapowet and Fogland beaches in Tiverton as well as to South Shore Beach in Little Compton. Jaunts down to Newport’s Second Beach with treks into Purgatory Chasm or Sachuest Point have also been noteworthy experiences.
Walking the winter shoreline, you can feel the swirl of negative ions which emanate from crashing waves. The ions create an invisible tunnel of energy which envelope you as you stroll along the water's edge, rejuvenating the body, calming the mind and bringing joy to the spirit, once again.
Dawn Blake Souza
Mark L. Collins
Midori Evans
Contributors
MA @veganaf
Born and raised in New Bedford, Dawn raised a family and was a stay-at-home mom. She started college when her youngest entered kindergarten, receiving degrees from UMass Amherst and Harvard. Dawn authored five non-fiction books, including a children’s book that was illustrated by her late husband She also explores primitive/folk art as a creative outlet
Mark writes nature-inspired prose, drawing from Tagore and Emerson to explore divine connections through natural beauty in his literary works www.quantumlove.net
A photographer and creative coach, Midori’s practice concentrates on exploring the hidden. Find her work at cedarlightimages.com and Midori Creativity. Waterscapes: A SouthCoast Anthology features more of her work.
Jackson Gillman Is a wordsmith, songsmith and movement artist, performing throughout the country as the Stand-Up Chameleon He was inducted into the National Storytelling Network's Circle of Excellence and received their Oracle Award in 2020. He has taught college storytelling courses, offers a workshops, and private coaching. jacksongillman com, and on YouTube
Kathryn Lee
Hamilton Hendrick Hernandez-Resto
Kathryn Lee Hamilton, a 45-year-old LGBTQNBA+ Author and Poet, educated at UMass Dartmouth Massachusetts. She created fantasy worlds in the woods behind her house. “Katie’” grew up in the basement of the Museum of Fine Arts Boston, where her father was the head of Shipping This almost daily childhood experience has influenced her imagination and writing greatly.
A Puerto Rican-born interdisciplinary artist, DIY creator and Berklee College of Music-trained audio engineer based in New Bedford, MA Hendrick writes, produces, records, mixes, and distributes his own music. Commissions include works for Wind Works for You, New Bedford Creative, AHA! New Bedford, Northstar Learning Centers, Zeiterion Performing Arts Center and the New Bedford Historical Society. Hendrick performed with or DJ’d for the New Bedford Whaling Museum, DATMA, 3rd EyE Open Unlimited, Wateke by the Water, MASSCreative and La Soul Renaissance.
Juliet O’Donnell
Originally from upstate New York, Juliet, her husband and three children have called Mattapoisett home for the past ten years. She has been a stay-at-home mom who is about to embark on a new chapter of her life as an empty nester
Eileen Paccia A poet living in the venerable city of New Bedford, MA She was recently a featured reader at Pathways, on Martha's Vineyard and is a participating in a reading during the Warren (RI) Walkabout Eileen is an active in the writing community and is a member of both the Martha's Vineyard Poetry Collective and the Mattapoisett Poets.
Laura Pedulli is a writer and editor living in Marion.
Meredith Race
Meredith studied Philosophy, has her Masters in Education, and her Series 6 She’s dipping her toes in real estate, picking back up her Ticonderoga, and exploring the treacherous world of hope. Condolences, compliments, and gratitude can be emailed to: missrace@gmail.com.
Aneshia Savino is an independent apothecary, dancer, and scribe exploring southern Massachusetts' Labor and Queer history. Recent work includes "Recognition" for DATMA's Being Seen They are the grandchild of Yiddish, English, and Italian speakers. Aneshia lives with their partner and cat in one of New Bedford's restored mills.
Lorene Sweeney
Celebrates the seasons with the wildlife that find their way to her gardens.
Krista Allen Is an author and artist living in Westport,
