Daughter of My People

By Sandy Hartman            

Who are you?  asks Creation

What is your fate among your people?

What is the mark of all your kind?

To this eternal question I answer

I am the daughter of a willful people

Of a nation that struggles always

To find its better side

It dreams that all its citizens are equal

All must be free      

Worthy of its knowledge

Worthy of opportunity  

Protected by its laws

Deserving

Under laws equal to all

  

On this, I have considered well

In my world I stand my ground

I am free to come and go

Free to learn and judge with wisdom

I draw my circle close                       

The choices made are mine

I turn chin high to claim my truth

I walk my way in pride

I am a World Child

Daughter of this rare and wondrous age

A time that comes to some

But not to everyone       no, not to everyone

The good and the right

The wrong and the strife from every ancestor

Sing to me and make me bold

The dark strength of Earth 

Courses my veins and builds my bones

I breathe the dreams of sunshine and sky

The dust and the rain and winds that blow

Divinity echoes within my Soul

Yet in my heart are chains that still abide

I hear the cry of sisters lost in histories gone

Restless ghosts that never will be known

Innocent Souls forgotten, their stories never told

Their dreams enslaved, their freedoms bound

Trapped in fortune’s chance

Necessity and unforgiving circumstance

Dignity denied

Mistreated, abused, injured, raped

Heaped in unjust shame, given no escape

Helpless, hidden, bargained away       

Used for profit, sold

Betrayed, enslaved

Forsaken

Even now too many women smother

In heritage that leaves them mute

Denied the learning of their people

Denied justice

Their freedom shackled

Hopes shattered

Living without honor

Half of All Creation’s children

Robbed of half the sky

I am the daughter of a willful age

A precious breath of freedom  

That shines for me, but not for everyone  

No, not for everyone

What people can be proud 

Of women pressed against their will?

Kept captive by their custom

Forced to struggle all alone

What savage fists dare clinch in pride

Before the face of The Divine

What wayward power’s protection

Will defend the vicious tongues 

Of shameful stiff-necked fools

Who excuse their brutish acts as Heaven’s Holy Rule

Who choose to shrug their shoulders in indifference

As they say  

“We simply follow custom.  This is what we do”

What woman’s words will speak for them

Who come before Creation in the certainty of Judgment

If they dare defend their ruthless slights

And self-promoting righteous might

As they did in life

When they stood against their fellow Souls

And chose to judge them less than worthy

Fools who dared to set the knots and twist the ties

That ensnared those precious lives

Lives beloved of Creation

Other Souls

Who were half of Divinity’s infinite design.

Copyright   5/13 

Sandy Hartman

This poem along with a full set of photos and several slide shows and my audio appear on Sandy Hartman’s site, www.eonwriter.com

"We poets can help in the global struggles so many face."

Just Another Religious Festival

“OK”.  And with that one word, my 15 year marriage ended.  We had both given up so there were no fights or last hurrahs to save our union.  I wanted our son.  Done.  He wanted his pension.  OK.  We actually negotiated the division of property at Starbucks over lattes.  Dutch treat!

It doesn’t get any better than that for a friendly divorce.

However, I had spent the previous 15 years as an ice hockey mom and school teacher for at-risk teens.  For this 70s throwback of peace, love, rock and roll, violence didn’t fit with my belief system; however, circumstances dropped it into my lap daily both at home and at school.  Along the way I disappeared while serving the needs of everyone else.  I couldn’t even remember what I enjoyed doing and I didn’t know where to start in creating Cheryl Version 2.0, middle aged edition.

Slowly I experienced rebirth, dabbled in online dating (just don’t!), raised an amazing son and developed deep interests in yoga, reading and writing. My regular haunts included Starbucks, yoga studios and bookstores.  Not exactly the life of a thrill-seeker but joy appeared in subtle ways through the perfect backbend or a well written novel devoured over a latte and cookie.   I was restless though.  After so many years living in ice rinks and never taking a vacation I had to blow off some steam and this lovely life I had created did not include adventure.

Three weeks.  That became my gift of time and for once in my adult life, I had freedom.  Throw caution to the wind, this was a childless adventure.  My friends thought I’d head to the shore with a stack of books when I shared the news of a getaway.  Not this time. 

The Festival of San Fermin!  That’s where I chose to go so I planned a vacation around that religious holiday. Traveling to the major cities of Spain introduced me to centuries old neighborhoods, gothic cathedrals, and fabulous museums.  I soaked it all in while spending siesta time sitting in plazas drinking cava.  Three weeks.  Time for me.  And for kicks, I went alone and did not activate international cell phone service.   No one to tell me when to get up, what to eat for dinner, or how to spend the days. 

I enjoyed 2 glorious weeks traveling throughout Spain with my camera in hand.  I wandered through street markets, toured museums and palaces and chose to view only masterpieces at the Prado.  I even crashed a wedding reception.  Why not?  No one really knew what I was doing but me.  I enjoyed freedom for the first time.

Did I mention that the Festival of San Fermin is more commonly called the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona? 
I didn’t tell too many people from home either.  I certainly didn’t tell my mother what adventure awaited me.  My guess was that wouldn’t go over too well.

A train ride later, I entered the tiny village of Pamplona.  The annual kickoff food fight had fortunately already ended by the time I settled into my hotel but the partying had just begun.  I began to realize that my standard glass of wine was not going to be the norm for the next few days.

Mardi Gras looked tame compared to Pamplona during the festival.  Dressed in obligatory whites with red sash and scarf, I elbowed my way through the crowds to enter the streets.  Once there, African conga drums played, strangers pulled me into their arms to dance in the street and mimes entertained all.  Music poured forth from stores and vendors filled the streets selling t-shirts and flags. The streets provided sensory overload but once I got into a rhythm, the crowds became invisible.   Callemucho .  The drink of San Fermin poured freely usually by flask or 2 gallon jug.

After a night of partying and no sleep, the actual festival began.  Fueled with over a decade of pent up energy, I  chanted “let ‘em loose”  in my mind.  Catch me if you can.  But I’m not quite as foolhardy as it appears.

First, most of the people running had imbibed for at least 24 hours.  I chose to toss back just one flask of Callemucho (cheap wine and soda).  Juts for courage I thought but my balance remained rock solid.  Next, a plan.  I wasn’t about to run on a cobblestone street the width of a standard American alley full of drunks without knowing the lay of the land.  I watched the first day, safely ensconced on a balcony two stories above bull level. 

Day 2 however I joined the crowd in the street.  My earlier reconnaissance showed that the end of the run was safer as there were fewer people (still packed shoulder to shoulder), a bit more space on the street and a fence to leap over should the need arise.  So that’s where I planned the start of my run.

 I heard the shot indicating that the bulls had left their pens, waited my 17 seconds for them to arrive, and then hit the street.  There they were, 10 agitated, magnificent 2000 pound beasts and me soaking wet at 115 pounds.  This sister ran fast, smelled their musky odor as they swept by and breathed a sigh of relief as I choked on their dust when they roared past.  My 2 seconds of glory.  Not trampled, not hurt and only a slight glow of perspiration on my brow.   I ran with the bulls.  Feel my power now people!

This single mom can do anything these days.   When life gets tough or when I’m feeling a bit beaten up, I don my red sash from Pamplona, look at the photos I took of the bulls on my desk and smile.  I found my inner courage again.  I’m getting to know myself too.  Life’s not so bad as Version 2.0.

Cheryl Stahle, memoirist, author and founder of Your Best Writing Group lives in Doylestown, PA with her son.  Cheryl consults with aspiring authors to guide them in telling their life stories.  She has a special interest in working with adoptive families as an adoptive parent herself.

Cheese, Glorious Cheese!

I am a fanatic for cheese. It makes no difference if it is fried, processed or

Pasteurized; I will consume it. As a matter of fact, even farmer’s cheese holds a fascination for me. Feta and Fontina also come from the farm, but from three different animals gathered from two ancient worlds. Roman soldiers received a regular ration of cheese, wine and bread for energy from which they built the Roman Empire.

Sheep, goats, and cows are all sacred to me, because centuries later they “rock my world.” Cheese factories on the hoof walk the walk and talk the talk. Arran, Brie, Cheddar, Dunlop, Edam, Fromage Faris, Gouda, or Havarti are my alphabet soup.

Gruyere cheese, in all its magnificence, is savored by the French, Stilton (the king of cheese), is the pride of England, while all along the way, Kraft singles fed a whole generation of baby boomers. Now our palates are far more sophisticated. We can order Mac-and-cheese in some of the finest restaurants in America to comfort us after a bad day in the board room.

We can fly off to Paris to share the ubiquitous combination of cheese and wine and never once, not once, think of a hot dog or hamburger, unless it is a cheese burger. God Bless America! It is now the largest producer of cheese in the world.

In my lifetime, I passed over from pabulum to cottage cheese. I lived on Colby and crackers in college, and after I was married, served longhorn cheese with pâté’s and caviar.

Yes, I am a true connoisseur. I read a cheese guide like some people read a novel. And if that isn’t enough of the “good life,” now there is a magazine named “Culture” for cheese lovers like me. This, magazine is the première source of for your “cheese lovers’ dreams.” You just might not want to ever wake up or ever put it down.

We may not know exactly when or where cheese was first made, but one thing is for sure—no one plans to stop making it.

Bon Appétit!

Jan Atchley Bevan, President, National League of American Pen Women

Jacksonville, FL Branch

Photo:courtesy of Pearticles Photostream on Flickr.