Judgment Days: Parental Pandemicostal Prayer. {poetry}
Guide us as we seek to elevate our responses from judgment into discernment during these times that try parents’ souls.
Browsing Tag:
Tracy Stamper
Open Letter to All Who Wield the Words ‘Too Sensitive’.
Beyond not wishing to exacerbate the shame game, why do sensitive souls typically avoid retaliation? The answer: our sensitivity.
Grieving Under an Invisibility Cloak.
It seems to me that the cloak of invisibility worn by those invisibly grieving is no less than a superhero’s cape. While tossing and turning on mourning’s high seas, it can take Herculean strength to simply get out of bed some days. It can take immense strength to acknowledge that one must amp ...
Look! Squirrel! {If You’ve Tasted One Nut, You’ve Tasted Them All}
There is no one who loves squirrels more than I love squirrels. I respect squirrels. I even let them vote for me.
Stand Up, Sister, and Dare to Look Truth in the Eye.
Others can either understand, come around to understanding in time, or choose to not understand. That’s not our weight to bear.
Drop the Bomb and Let It Burn: Ode to the F-Word. {poetry}
Now, when little ones are on the scene?
My language is immaculate. Pristine.
That stipulation becomes a way
of bringing mindfulness to each word I say.
F-bombs become a tool
of my own mindfulness school.
I keep to heart this one rule:
If I can see a child,
my language remains ...
The Discord of Dancing with Not-Enoughness.
Moving with wind, swaying with breeze, I gazed up at skies and trees. I danced. I danced my feet into the earth. My base claimed my space. My hips held me as I freed my heart and danced in the art of my garden. Birds’ songs danced along with my song as I whistled and worked in my garden. I ...
Once Upon a Tide of Tears. {poetry}
We don’t cry after years of absorbing others’ fears that we’ll never stop or we’ll go mad.
But madness lies in the very lies that choke our cries so we can go with the 'Fine' status quo.
Slow Stanzas of Release Through the Stages of Grief: A Triptych. {poetry}
Your daughter remembers you
Holding you in her heart
That leads the way to where we are today
Spitfire, Sass & My Imaginary Friend.
This private joke was going to stay private. I didn’t want my colleagues, bosses, or those I see at my son’s school, while wearing my mom clothes, to know about Stacy. Stacy’s profile went live. She started receiving friend requests and strange private messages. Gulp! Facebook had changed the ...