Holding My Breath Mandala. Fall. 2011

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Table of Contents

Cover – Sarah Wagner

My Whispered Wish 5

Poem 8

Under the Bodhi Tree 10

Art 13

Art 14

A Death 15

Poem 18

Art 19

Art 20

Fear and Feathers, pt 1 21

Art 24

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Family is a Gift 25

Art 27

back cover – Taylor Medford

The Staff

editor: Frank James

advisor: Dr Campbell

art editor: Taylor Medford

many thanks to all who made this issue possible

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My Whispered Wish – Ameenah Ikram

“Happy Birthday”... I whispered it softly watching my words mix with my cold

winter breath. I could not believe how cold it was. I remembered last year when it was

this cold; when I had never even imagined of being in such a scary place like this. I looked

at the sugar maple trees; They were so empty, so bare, once so beautiful. Its crazy how so

much can happen in just a short period of time, so much change; so many broken

branches. Though one day, I know that the sugar maple branches will grow and bloom

once again. When the time is right everything will start to look beautiful once again. Its

like a healing process.

I continued to keep that point in the back of my mind while I was there. I looked

across the street and noticed our park. Snowmen, sandbox, slides, and swings our

favorites for each season. As I walked towards the sandbox I passed the swings. The

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chains were so worn, most likely from our “who can swing the highest” competitions

when were little. I slowly took off my gloves and sifted my hands in the sand box. The

sand was now a pile of snow with memories buried beneath it. The slides, way to small

for me to even fit one leg into now. And who wants to build a snowman alone anyway? I

felt uncomfortable, nothing felt right. Last year this day was nothing but celebrations;

such a happy and incredible day. Today was the complete opposite; dreary, mournful, sad.

I sat on the bench for a minuet, tears decided to sit down with me. The wet sensation felt a

little warm on such a cold day. I sat for hours and pondered what we would have been

doing together if it had never happened. Sneaking out of the house, shopping, watching a

movie, or maybe just talking. It was late now, even for us...I decided to cross the street

again and head home.

With every step I got closer to home the more I wanted to go back, the more I

wanted my life back... her life back. Fifteen minutes passed and tears conjured in my eyes,

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I walked at a slightly quicker pace.

“l'm almost there,” I said under my breath.

Fifteen more minutes pass. It felt much longer. I started running. This time the

tears were streaming down my face again “Come on you promised yourself you wouldn't

do this!” I said this loudly to myself; I needed to hear it.

My legs were aching now, I was so out of breath, and so tired. I fell to the ground

on my knees, shaking needing to go back... needing her so much. Fifteen minutes pass...I

ran again this time not home... back to the cemetery..... back to her. I got there. Extremely

tired. Panting for air. I lay down breathing heavily. My eyes literally started to shut.

“Happy...Happy Birthday” I whispered. “I miss you”

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Poem – Laura Hornback

I am a morning warbler.My feathers are stained yellow from being touched by thesun.My wings are aching to open, and touch the heavens from which I am derived.He is a pike, who has happened to stumble onto land.His fins had been transformed into wings, his mouth into abeak.

The warbler did not know that pikes could exist on land, So the bird was taken aback by the novelty of the situation.His scales were wet with water, and reflected the moonlightwhile he whistled the way only a bird could.The pike sang a love song, and the warbler fell into hispond.

Night slowly gave way to dayThe sun did not hold the same magic that the moon did.The pike’s body was quickly dried out and could no longer shine His song became slow and raspy, His body wrinkled

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The warbler sat in the pond in horror as the pike returned to water.He swam over to her and broke her wings.

The warbler drowned and became part of the scum at thebottom of the pond.The pike smiled, for he knew that there was no other way a bird and a fish could build a home together.

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Under the Bodhi Tree – Kylan Nelson

The slang term “tree hugger” seems to be a bit more perceptive than its casual

users would probably realize. It's not necessarily that I hug trees or am an

environmentalist. Rather, trees have long stood for so much more and have provided a

profound insight into what it truly means to be present. A source of stability and

constancy, trees have long offered comfort and a remedy to pain in my life. Trees are

constant and symbolize the connection that we as humans have to our natural origins.

The roots remain grounded while the branches sway in the wind, coming and going with

the seasons.

You see, trees, at least in my opinion, exist in a constant state of duality. They are

the convergence of ideals and the convergence of two different states of being. On the one

hand, they are grounded, their roots descending deep into the earth. On the other hand,

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their branches and leaves sway with the wind, subject to whatever the elements present.

They are the merger of two different states of being, much like human beings. In my life,

trees have long symbolized duality. Sure, the trees can't talk back to me, but they provide

a source of both understanding and comfort. Like a childhood friend or a wise relative,

they remain a constant presence in my life. Constant, my best friends are like the roots.

Changing, they sway in the breeze.

For me, trees are teachers. They've taken on humanlike qualities when I've needed

them to do so the most. One of the highest ways of living in the Buddhist tradition has

been to exist in a state of equanimity. One acknowledges the events, people, emotions,

and suffering all around, but does not internalize the suffering. In my life, trees have been

the ultimate teachers of this ideal. Go outside and yell at a tree. Does it yell back? Does it

become angry and flustered, only to internalize your distress? Trees are the best teachers.

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They take whatever they are given and ask no more. They give but do not take. They exist

in a state of equanimity. Throw something and they do not throw back. They swallow

your pain and emanate understanding. Like bodhisattvas, they are present, plain and

simple.

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Tiffany Mitchell

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Viki Roman

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A Refusal to Mourn – Kaylen Strench

A horse is standing in the wash rack, his ears pricked, his gaze bright and focused,

blood emptying and filling his contracting heart. A girl holds the end of his leadshank;

she is trying to get him to walk. She pulls on him to no avail. Finally, in frustration, she

snaps the chain against his muzzle, shocking him. He breaks his gaze, looks towards her,

and rises onto his hind legs. For a moment, he is magnificent, powerful. And then,

suddenly, he loses stability. He falls backwards and smashes against the pavement,

headfirst. He lands with his legs extended outward, as if he is bracing himself against the

sky. His ears twitch. Then, he slowly rolls sideways,weakening as he goes, until he is

lying on one side, limp. I blink, and when my eyes open, it is obvious that he is dead.

Sublime, I learned, is a word that describes something that evokes “awe;”

something that changes your life when you see it. When I saw death, the essence of life

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draining from flesh, I was changed. I became acutely aware that I was going to die.

Death was no longer an abstract concept in my mind, it was raw and real and cold.

Such a thought is overpowering and dark but, as I came to realize, also very

beautiful. The fact that life is limited is the human condition, and only because of this

fact is life meaningful. We are a fragment in the scheme of the universe. For infinite years

we are not yet born, for infinite years after life we are dead. And that is why this

glimmering piece, this tiny, short light in which we live, is so valuable and beautiful.

Because I cannot love forever, my love now is brilliant and profound. Because I cannot

learn, and hurt, and burn with passion for eternity, this life is so much more powerful.

Being a bystander to the death also made me aware of how much of life we spend

in waiting. Even when life is pleasant, we often times still devote a part of ourselves to

anticipating change; the next goal to be accomplished. The day we meet the love of our

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life, the move to a better place, the next, better, smarter version of ourselves. Things never

seem complete. And I realize now, that we create our own paradigm. Society, the world,

can't dictate the condition of our lives, only we can. It is true- I am young, I will change, I

will not be the same in ten years, or maybe not even tommorow. But my life for now is

this moment, and the best I can do is to revel in it.

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Poem -

the rain falls randomlyin chaos and in pattern

the leaves float aimlesslywith disorder and direction

guided,all guided,

by the grace of something good

rhythm existsbeyond all sound

pulsing beneath the wood

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Payton Newcomer

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Claire Applegate

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Fear and Feathers - Julia Bache

I closed the door behind me as I stepped out of my house. I was going to the

shoemaker's for a pair of shoes my father had ordered, and to the general store for some

fabric. I could feel the cold autumn wind blowing gently in my face, and I was glad that I

had thought of wearing my cloak. My cloak was plain, brown, and very ordinary, but I

was proud of it because it was the first piece of clothing that I had made. My mother had

taught me how to sew when I was eight. I had finished my sampler by age nine and a

half, and for my tenth birthday, my mother had bought the brown fabric for my cloak. I

completed most of the sewing for the cloak on my own, but I still had needed a little help

from my mother. Being sixteen, I was now very accomplished in making many different

cloaks, dresses, and petticoats. I enjoyed sewing very much, and I wanted to try to earn a

living from my sewing.

I rounded the corner, which led me into the main part of town where all of the

stores were. The shoemaker was the first one on the left, and I stepped inside the dimly lit

room. I took a deep breath, as I always did when I entered the shoemaker's store. I loved

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the smell of fresh, new leather shoes, and I could not wait until Christmas when I could

finally have a nice pair of my own. I walked around the room, admiring all of the

beautiful shoes on display and the unfinished works in the back room through the open

door. I stepped into the line of two others in front of me and waited

for them to place their orders. I overheard the request of the second lady, Mrs. Anderson,

who was quite large and was a well known loyalist. I eyed her with dislike as she proudly

asked for the most elaborate shoe I had ever heard of to be made.

Mr. Kinsbury was the man behind the counter on this Monday afternoon, and he

was about the kindest person I knew in all of the colony of Massachusetts. He always

listened to everyone with deep interest, and he was always very welcoming. He was

probably about fifty-two, his thick brown hair starting to produce a few gray hairs. He

was well educated in his trade, and never made a mistake. If someone was unhappy with

the product, he always remade the shoes until they brought satisfaction. Today, Mr.

Kinsbury was especially kind to Mrs. Anderson, and he smiled at almost everything she

said. I was surprised at this behavior because Mr. Kinsbury was a member of the Sons of

Liberty.

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The Sons of Liberty was a group of patriots who met secretly, discussing what they

should do to inform England of their lack of rights. I should not have known about this

group, since it was none of my business, but one night I overheard my father discussing it

with my mother. My father, in-fact, had joined the Sons of Liberty one year ago, and he

now worked with some of the most well known and famous patriots, such as Paul Revere,

John Hancock, and Samuel Adams. There were other patriots in the group as well, like

Johnny Tremain and Mr. Kinsbury, and I have seen them many times conversing with my

father.

Finally it was my turn, and I stepped up to the counter. I asked for the pair of shoes

that my father had ordered, and Mr. Kinsbury handed them to me. I gave him the money

and thanked him with a smile. I really enjoyed talking with Mr. Kinsbury, and we both

had a great number of things to tell each other, but three more people had formed a line

behind me and were waiting impatiently, so I left the store.

to be continued

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Jacob Spielberg

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Family is a Gift – Kaitlyn Dwyer

Tender love and care a family is always there.Through your maddest and saddest;

to your grumpiest and gladdest.Skin color is no matter family is family and that’s what really matters.

If someone should stare just look over there and remember that you are loved so much by that diverse bunch.

What’s family do you ask? It’s pretty clear;it is a combination of the ones you hold dear.

Not by blood or color but in your heart.So live it up and have some fun these are the memories that will keep us moving on.

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Alayna Altman

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