The Studio Voice

Winter, 2013 Volume 1 Issue 2

In this issue we explore renewal What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Studio Voice is an online literary journal weaving story and inspiration, poetry and art with the strong thread of personal connection.

Melody Deetz: editor Amelia Maness-Gilliland, creator & editor Alexis Yael : editor

See the last page for submission guidelines and contact information

!

table of contents Gone to Ground !

Sunni Chapman, image by: Amanda Oaks

Sweet Surrender !

Melody Deetz, image by: Amanda Oaks

Finding Renewal at Mossy Creek !

Joyelle Brandt

A Small Release !

Josh Duffy, image by: Amelia Maness-Gilliland

Unto the Golden Coast !

Alexis Yael

Renewal in the Forest !

Vivienne McMaster

Transubstantiation !

Angela Warner, image by: Kathryn Stapleman

!

The Perpetual New !

Sunni Chapman, image by: Amanda Oaks

Padi, Beras, Nasi -or-The Three States of Rice !

Gayle Brandeis, image by: Amelia Maness-Gilliland

Meeting Waves " Joan Leotta, image by: Amelia Maness-Gilliland A Soul House Blessing !

Sara Thibault

Fatma’s Fate !

Mishka Mojabber Mourani

Renewal !

Laurie Zak- Richardson

Let it Shine !

Bethany O’Connor

On Dangerous Wings !

Heidi Richardson Evans, image by: Laurie Zak Richardson

Navigator " Linda Esterley

Gone to Ground Sunni Chapman image by Amanda Oaks

All my seeds have gone to Ground. the mulch and ash from the Â

Fire has made the earth rich. the moon has tilled and pulled for days the heavenly orb has bathed her husks in light.

I am the wind that winds freely on the field loving the unfurling that has already begun tending to the open space so shoots have room to grow And she, the gentle farm-hand is moved by Grace at ease.

And Love, it's splendor ripened, quakes to bring the Spring.

Sweet Surrender Melody Deetz image by Amanda Oaks

This is not a new story as many others have, thankfully, gone before me. However, it is my story. It is a story that I own along with the act of bravery for telling it.

First, let me start by saying that it has always been critical to my ego to have it all together, avoid weakness or frailty at all costs, and never been seen as too woo-woo.

The story I am about to tell conflicts with my ego’s highly valued characteristics BIG time. Truth be told, many of my stories conflict with these characteristics but sometimes it don’t hurt to keep your ego in the dark about such things.

I had my first panic attack while out of town for a business meeting two and a half years ago. I won’t go into the heart-thumping, throat-closing details. For those of you who have experienced a panic attack, I know I don’t need to say anymore. For those of you who have never experienced a panic attack, please find someone who has and ask them to talk about it – you will learn so much and it will give them an opportunity to tell their story and heal. (If you don’t know how I feel about secrecy yet, just stick around.)

This was the first of countless panic attacks. I had them everywhere. From walking in the rain because I couldn’t bring myself to sit in the back seat of a car to developing a paralyzing fear of flying to driving home white knuckled after leaving my unpurchased items sitting in a store aisle. At times, I could do no more than to go to bed and rely on sleep to get me through the symptoms. I watched myself having a harder and harder time leaving the house - isolating myself more and more in order to feel some sense of control. The space in which I had to live was literally closing in on me.

I knew I needed help. I knew my ego would have to chill while I attended to my heart.

Fortunately, the Universe was standing on the sidelines just waiting for an opportunity to jump in the game. In short order, the Universe delivered a guide for this journey (also known as my therapist), a mediation group, art, a yoga class, a blessed medical professional who intuitively knew how to handle my ego’s prideful objections to chemistry, and a slew of courageous woman who lovingly share their stories with the world in order to help others tell theirs.

I was about to embark on what Elizabeth Lesser refers to as The Phoenix Process – a painful and heart breaking opening journey in which the old has to die in order for the new to be born.

Looking back, I can see that the first eight months my journey looked a little more like a tug-of-war game than a transformation. I showed up to the game ready to fight for my life. I was religious with my meditation practice – bringing my attention back to my breath while wave after wave of death-gripping fear coursed through my body. I attended weekly therapy sessions determined but scared shitless of what I might have to face about myself or what changes I might have to make in order to get my life back. I prayed. I cried. I laughed. I forgave. I loved. I hated. I withdrew. I connected. I pushed. I pulled. Then….I finally just let go.

The crux of my journey took place when the pain of fighting was greater than the fear of letting go.

I spent three straight days in bed. When my eyes were open, I cried and with each cycle of waking hours and tears I gave in. I let go. I surrendered. I was too tired to do otherwise. I gave myself over to whatever the future might hold. I ceased my questioning, analyzing, and strategizing and replaced it with acceptance. I stopped doing and started being. I no longer had any fight left. My game was up.

The days following my sweet surrender were tender and slow. So much of what I previously cared and worried about had fallen away and time had not done its job to find replacements. I felt naked, empty, and open.

Five months later, I’m here with you writing this story. I am so much more mindful of my mental, emotional, and physical well-being. I have seriously pumped up my faith muscles. I have learned how to be still.

I am still growing. I still have moments of resistance. I still cling to what feels comfortable. I still occasionally deal with periods of anxiety. I try to love myself through these times. I coax my heart to stay open. I tell the truth.

This story would not be complete for me if I didn’t send out love to those who have endlessly and lovingly supported me. You know who you are.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

To Jeff, my one and only, I think of you when I hear these lyrics. Thank you for always standing next to me.

And when you're needing your space To do some navigating I'll be here patiently waiting To see what you find ~Jason Mraz

Finding Renewal at Mossy Creek Joyelle Brandt

A Small Release Josh Duffy images by Amelia Maness-Gilliland

The exhaust coughed and the engine spluttered. I turned and looked at the dark bag behind my fathers’ seat. It saw it squirm. We drove in silence, as we normally did; my father stared ahead into the circles of light on the otherwise dark road. He was looking past the road, as things which I could not yet comprehend flew through his thoughts. I tried to push myself up the seat a few inches; even a small glimpse at what he could see would satisfy me. There was nothing but the road and the rusted hood of the dilapidated truck. I sank back into my seat as I heard to bag shuffle once again.

We were going to the lake. I had been before but only during the day. During the day sunlight floated slowly through the trees and rested lightly upon the lake. Leaves stood and fell with each breeze while animals glimpsed out from the undergrowth. It wasn’t daytime now. The darkness did not float softly but hammered its way into the path of the trucks headlights, leaves attacked ankles and hid beneath them creatures scaled and scurrying.

We arrived. The lights cut out with my father’s command. He drew out the rough brown canvas bag from behind his seat. A flake of rust followed it, leaving the confines of the truck for the first time in years. The bag bulged and whined as its occupants sought after a glimpse of sunlight. If they had managed to reach the top of the bag they would have realized that dream was futile. The light had gone, we walked helped only by memory until our eyes became like those of the animals which we could not see, only hear. We made our way from the beaten up truck towards the beaten down track. Roots of towering trees caught themselves in my stride, my father glided over them. He walked possessed by routine while I straggled, my short paces struggling to stay attached to his heels.

The bag was now over his shoulder, bouncing and whimpering with each step. Odd movements inside the bag protruded from all angles, turning the canvas into odd futuristic shapes, changing with each jolt.

Without my father I would not have known we had approached the lake. The surface reflected nothing as its darkness consumed all light, air and time. I walked towards the lake, trying to apply a look of bravery and nonchalance. His grip around my shoulder held me rooted.

“No.” My father said not unkindly, “Not yet.”

We stood. The bag squirmed. We said nothing. I watched the silence travel across the lake, sliding across the slimy surface of the water, cutting through slight ripples before returning to me. The silence wrapped me in its embrace as I stood by the water. My father stood next to me his hand still resting upon my shoulder.

“Now.” He said, removing the bag from its almost permanent position by his neck and into my hands. Small hands given a big task. I fought against the bags sporadic jumps as I slowly walked towards the water.

My father stood behind me, watching me. I walked burdened with purpose towards the lakes edge but slowed as I neared it, fearful, for any slip would result in a dreadful and drenched drive home but mainly to postpone the reason we were here.

I bent over the sack now all too aware of the slow constant moans coming from within. I grabbed and threw but remembered to grasp the last corner so not to lose our only bag. The mouth opened spilling forth a flurry of feathers, all black in the moonlight. They stopped. The bag floated in my hands, the birds floated in the air, momentarily unaffected by gravity. They hung clumsily in front of me, with an ignoble grace only inexperience could cause before exploding into the all-consuming waters. I was splashed but they were soaked as they sunk downwards out of view. My breath stopped.

They resurfaced, learnt to swim. Then they were gone.

I turned. My father smiled warmly in my direction.

“You did good.” Was all my father said to me placing his hand upon my head. We made our way back to the truck as the sound of swimming ducks breaking the water’s surface filled the silence of the lake.

Unto the Golden Coast Alexis Yael

Isle And then I looked away from the window and I the mirror crack'd... ...and the curse I had lived under all my life came crashing down on me, and all I could do was take refuge in the small boat that had been fastened around the tree next to my tower. With the chalk in my pocket, I inscribed my name in swirls around the prow and then I let the boat loose. And this is where I am now: adrift on a sea of my own making, adrift from a shore that no one else will ever come to. From this small craft the water seems green. ...you could reach me if you crossed the river. No one ever has, though, and I have lived a completely solitary life punctuated only by flashes of brightly colored light moving across the mirror in my living room. I had never even seen the birches or the elms that surround my tower, only their reflection. I see them now as I float away, waving their leaves at me like flags from a sinking ship. ...the walls that surrounded me are crumbling now; I can see them from the boat. The spiral tower I lived in for so long has fallen and started the long descent into the water below. I can’t see from here. It is falling away from me; that is not to be my end. ...the water is swift and I am being borne along on a current that is beyond any control. I am searching for him, for the one whose image shone so brightly through reflections and granted me the occasion to look out the window. My curse. My love.

Hope is too far away for me to reach, but still I have come to this river, to this boat that I have built with the hopes and dreams of a thousand nights. Scheherazade would be proud.

Weather Sunlight, sunlight, glamouring me brightly as I stepped out the door... ...on my island, the sky roops in August, thick with the moisture that is coming to relieve the dry, arid summer.

The sun is heavy and oppressive. I was counting; it had not rained for a hundred and seventeen days. ...when the mirror cracked, the sky opened up and rain began to fall onto the waiting land.

The rain pelts me now, rain that I have never felt before. I lift my face towards the sky and I feel more alive than I have ever felt before.

Vessel The vessel of my willingness. The vessel that brings me to my death... ‌ down by the yellowing trees of my August mood I found this

boat and wrote my name on it and bound the letters up in scroll work, signifying acceptance of my fate. It is a pretty boat, fit to start my first and last journey. The wood, painted bone white, has begun to fade gray with age.

that was placed on my wall by unknown hands. ...the mirror was my only source of knowledge, from the first day I remember. The mirror always next to me, always compelling me with visions to weave in my ever-lengthening web.

...I cannot account for the presence of the dinghy. No other person has ever stepped foot on my island that I know of.

My earliest memories are of me alone.

...and yet, it was because of the mirror, my only friend, my only source of entertainment, my lifework, that I could not look down to the world outside. The mirror trapped me, spelling doom if I so much as looked away.

...it is a reminder of how deeply lonely I have been, this boat, my entire life filled with silence (my own) and a tension so near and constant that it is only now on this slow boat that is taking me to my doom that I feel finally free, glorious and alive. ...there are no oars on this craft, although how I have even come to understand the concept of an oar I do not know; Perhaps I saw a boating excursion in the mirror

...and yet, I had no desire to look outside, not until he came into my mirror.

Him ‌.he was dressed in silvery-scale armor that reflected the light into a million broken pieces of rainbow. On his helm, a bright red feather tossed and buckled with the swaying of his body on horseback. I was mesmerized by the shape of his face, his body.

...I was caught with

incandescent desire, desire I had never felt, not in a thousand years of watching, of making my bright web with images taken from the mirror. It was him, him that I knew I had to see, had to know, had to touch if I could, no matter the death I courted. ...I swept aside the curtain covering the window that I had always known was there, that I couldn’t look out, my gift, my curse, and I looked upon the world for the first time, upon him and I was blinded by the light of him as he rode away. ..and in that moment, the moment of my loss, the mirror had crack'd and the tower began to shake and I knew that the curse was falling around me. I will not live to touch him.

I will not live to satisfy the love that courses through my veins. I will not live.

Mortal But death is a gift, for in these final moments I have truly lived... ...and the very sound of the mirror cracking and the rumbling beneath my feet filled me with glee. I have shaken off my prison and with it the protecting mirror that hung over me like a black crow every moment of my life. ...and my joy drove my flight down the stairs and towards the shore where I found this waiting boat (my salvation, my doom) tied up as if someone had foreseen my decision.

Had seen me throwing my unending life away in pursuit of this glorious stranger. ...and now all of creation is singing with me, a song that I have never known until now, this song that flies beyond the genius of the

sea, this song that fills me with the courage to go to that undiscovered country beyond. ...and is it any wonder, now that I am made anew, now that I am done for, now that I have at last become mortal, that the very sea around me is singing the song that I have become? “...when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; ‘I am half-sick of shadows,’ said The Lady of Shalott.”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Renewal in the Forest Vivienne McMaster

Transubstantiation Angela Warner image by Kathryn Stapleman

Every atom in our bodies, birthed from a star, sent sailing from supernova explosion out into nebulae, forming solar systems, forming Earth giving form to each of us: she shares herself while we learn alchemy

we stretch ourselves between two worlds plumb the depths and soar these eyes were made for crying both tears of pain and tears of joy don’t let any guru tell you differently – there is no wrong way to do this, this struggle through the darkness stretches and remakes

our earthen vessels made from soil seasoned dung, decay, broken pieces of bigger things silt, clay, and in the spaces between, beings assist with breaking down and building up

place yourself inside a heart – the symbol not the organ – rooted in earth, we draw up energy alter it within: transmuted worldviews and shifts in our own perspectives

these soil-entrenched lives of ours, earthy matters and grit get dirty, stay clean, we are seeds buried in the darkness reaching for light, star brightness – a resonant attraction, like memory of birth – and knowledge shooting through us, neutrino-fast, hold fast through harmonic vibrations continual flux, a theme in variations

the once-leaded gold arcs up from our crown out into the world around, an instinctive love of service, flowing back down into the collective unconscious – an eternal alchemy of renewal every heartbeat, a rebirth of self every breath rebirths the world

The Perpetual New Sunni Chapman image by Amanda Oaks

The funny thing about renewal is… it's constantly happening.

The mind paints this picture of renewal as a major event, but it misses the unceasing regeneration that is constantly underway.

All you have to do is blink, and life is BRAND NEW. This is not an inspirational statement, it's the literal truth.

Even if you haven't moved one iota, and nothing has changed in your physical view, a new thought appears out of nowhere, and a whole new world is formed from that thought.

The thought has it's life, and it leaves, and a whole new world appears in it's place.

Life is experienced through thought, and thought shapes our experience.

So every thought that comes to mind brings an entirely new "life" of it's own.

When you see this very clearly you begin to realize that you are always being born.

Even when they feel excruciating, they are only an invitation.

Thoughts and emotions are like clouds in the sky, they move in, they move out, and somehow days and weeks and years are left in the wake of their passing.

Notice this… and all you've wished to usher out will be seen to be already gone.

Thoughts and the emotions they give rise to are pushing through your metaphorical earth like freshly sprouted grass.

Each one is taking you somewhere important, and gifting you

Notice this… and an overwhelming preciousness might appear in the place of your longing.

a precious unrepeatable experience. Even when they seem the same, no two are ever identical.

not to come up new.

Notice this—and you will see that there is nothing you could do

Padi, Beras, Nasi -orThe Three States of Rice Gayle Brandeis image by Amelia Maness-Gilliland

“Berapa harganya?” Francis wags a finger at a pair of silver earrings. “How much?”

“Four rupiah, sir. Is good price. Murah.”

“Two thousand.” Francis tightens his lips.

“Francis,” Eleanor’s voice curls at the edges like paper starting to burn. “Give him the four thousand. It’s a good price, Francis, four dollars for real silver.”

“These folks love to haggle, El. Just let me have some fun.” Francis turns to the slight man behind the counter. “Tiga. Three thousand. That’s my last offer.” He puts his hands flat on the glass.

The man nods his head lightly, wraps the earrings in newspaper.

Francis turns to Eleanor, his face beaming.

Eleanor and Francis leave the shop in search of a café. The earrings pull Eleanor’s earlobes down like empty breasts. Eleanor walks in short, quick, steps; she has not figured out how to move in a sarong. Francis strides ahead of his wife; his legs stem thin from his tennis shorts. Eleanor wishes he would put on long pants; the Balinese do not like naked knees. The skin on Francis’ legs looks as pink and blind as baby mice.

Francis turns into Wayan’s Warung. Eleanor follows him in.

“Dua air,” Francis signals the waitress as they sit down. “In bottles.”

“Isn’t it funny how they call water ‘air’ in Bali?” Eleanor muses. “It’s not like they call air ‘water’ or fire ‘earth’ or anything like that. It’s very peculiar. ‘Air.’” “Just a coincidence, El,” says Francis. “Just a freak of language.” He thrums his fingers on the bamboo table.

The girl comes with the water. “Nasi goreng.” Francis’ voice shoots through the room. “With lots of meat on it. How do you say it?” He rifles through his phrase book. “Meat. Daging. Besar!” He holds his hands out wide, shakes them.

The girl nods reluctantly.

“I’ll have a fruit salad, buah…” Eleanor points to her menu. “Thank you. I mean, terima kasih!”

The girl smiles and glides off to the kitchen.

“You’re crazy, El. You know you shouldn’t eat raw fruit. It’s not safe.”

Eleanor shrugs. “I’m tired of fried rice, is all.”

Eleanor isn’t tired of rice. She’s never eaten so many kinds of rice before—white, red, brown, black—all so good. At home, she only makes Uncle Ben’s or boil-in-the-bag, sometimes rice pilaf at dinner parties. In Bali, rice is a way of life. The terraced rice fields are everywhere, emerald green and spectacular. The Balinese have different names for different states of rice—padi, beras, nasi— the live plant, raw rice, and cooked. That morning, Eleanor had black rice pudding for dessert, rice so black it was purple, swimming in coconut milk and palm sugar. Eleanor closes her eyes thinking about it. Heaven. She isn’t tired of rice. What she is tired of is Francis ordering the same fried rice, every meal since they got to Bali. When the girl brings Francis his plate, Eleanor can’t look at it. The fried egg splayed

across the pile of rice stares out dully, like an eye or a knee.

“Damn it!” yells Francis on their way back to the bungalow. “What did I step in?

Eleanor looks down and finds the heel of his hurache embedded in a mass of pink rice. “You stepped in an offering.”

Francis drags his heel across the dirt and mutters under his breath.

“You’re not supposed to step in the offerings,” says Eleanor. “You’re supposed to be careful about that.”

Francis takes off his sandal and smacks it against a light post. Rice scatters like hail.

That night, Eleanor reads by flashlight under the high mosquito netting.

REVOLT IN PARADISE: One Woman’s Fight for Freedom, by K’Tut Tantri, a book she bought at a news stand earlier in the day. Francis is in the bathroom.

“I don’t understand it!”

Francis yells. “You’re the one who ate raw fruit!”

“Are you okay?” Eleanor calls back.

“Yeah, yeah,” sighs Francis.

Eleanor cringes as strange, big, sounds come out of her husband’s body.

Francis is in and out of bed all night, in and out of the bathroom. Eleanor tries to sleep, but has a hard time. She has a short dream about birds.

When she wakes up, the room smells horrible.

Francis is still writhing on the bed when the sun comes up, the white sheets tangled around his legs. Big beads of sweat spring from his face.

“Maybe we should go home,” Eleanor says.

“No!” Francis’ voice is ragged.

“This is my vacation.

I’m not going home because of a little stomach bug, no way, El. I’m not flushing this vacation down the toilet.”

“You’re flushing yourself down the toilet,” says Eleanor.

“I’m going to find a doctor.”

Francis bolts upright.

“No, El! This is a vacation!

Just get me some ginger ale. All I want is some ginger ale and I’ll be fine. Then we can make that bus tour later, the one to the temples up north, you know, the ones you saw on that PBS special, with the monkeys…”

“You have a fever, Francis,” Eleanor touches a palm to his wet forehead. “There’s no way we’ll make that tour. I’m finding a doctor.”

“You’re impossible, woman!” yells Francis as Eleanor leaves the room.

Ibu, the woman who rents the bungalows, directs Eleanor to a clinic. She returns with antibiotics, anti-diarrheal pills, toilet paper, and Sprite.

“They didn’t have ginger ale,” she tells Francis as she puts a straw in the green bottle.

Francis grunts, turns to face the wall.

“The doctor says these pills should firm things up for you. He says to stay in bed for a day or two and you’ll be fine. It’s just Bali belly, dysentery. Lots of people get it.”

Francis grunts again.

For a few hours, Eleanor sits next to the bed, reading. Francis makes fewer trips to the bathroom, but the is weak and cranky.

“Why don’t you just get out of here?” he says to Eleanor. “You don’t need to be here. I’m fine.

I don’t need a nursemaid, and I sure as hell am not spending my vacation pay for us to sit around a goddamn room all day. Get out of here. shopping, go take that tour. Just go, El. Git!” He waves his hand towards the door.

“Fine. I know when I’m not wanted.” Eleanor grabs her purse and leaves the room.

Once outside, Eleanor doesn’t know where to go. She stays close to the bungalows, the cluster of artisan’s shops nearby. In one stall, she finds herself taken with the flying figures—dragons, frogs, women—hanging from the rafters. They are wood, painted in deep, rich, colors, the wings shot through with gold. She buys several, without haggling.

Out on the road, children surround Eleanor. They push small flowers under her watch band, behind her ears. By the time she realizes what they want and pulls a 1,000 rupiah note from her pocket, she is mobbed. One small boy grabs the money and races off.

The other children paw Eleanor like monkeys. Somehow, she pulls herself away and runs back to the bungalow, the bag of flying things clutched to her chest.

Francis is sleeping soundly. The room smells of sulfur and sugar water, sick room smells. Eleanor sits on the bamboo chair next to the bed and watches her husband breathe. Adrenaline still races through her legs. She picks up the book, then puts it down. A lizard, fairly big, crawls down the wall and out the window.

Eleanor realizes she doesn’t want to be there when Francis wakes up. She takes a pen from her purse. On the back of a receipt, she scribbles “Went exploring, love, El.” She leaves the note on the night stand with a fresh bottle of Sprite.

“Chantik!” a young man sitting on the hood of a bemo bus calls out to Eleanor as she walks by. Beautiful woman.

Eleanor looks at him, startled. The man smiles and waves.

A small smile works its way onto Eleanor’s lips. She knows the tropical air has worked wonders. Her hair is fuller than ever, curly and almost wild in the humidity.

Her skin is steamed smooth with the heat. She waves back and keeps walking, her legs feeling stronger and stronger.

For the first time since they arrived, Eleanor feels she is really in Bali. She can see things, she realizes. When she is with Francis, they are always looking through lenses—a camera, a bus window, binoculars. Usually their vacations seem more real after the slides are developed.

Walking down a village road in Bali, though, dodging offerings and chickens, Eleanor thinks— yes, I am really here.

The sounds of a gamelan orchestra shimmer through the air. Eleanor feels the music in her bones more than her ears; she follows it like a dowsing stick drawn to water. Turning a corner, Eleanor finds herself at the edge of a temple festival.

Women dressed in brilliant brocade sarongs carry offerings three feet high on their heads, tall pyramids of fruit, rice, and flowers. A group of men squat on the ground playing cards, next to cages of fighting cocks.

Vendors sell sunglasses, batiks, snacks, and balloons from makeshift stands. Children are everywhere.

The air is fragrant with sandalwood smoke, incense, and sweet hair oils. Eleanor feels light headed. She lets

herself get herded through the temple gates with the throng. she remembers to take her temple sash from her purse and wraps it around her waist.

In the temple courtyard, some women dance the Pendet.

Their limbs look unhinged; fingers flutter like rice plants, wrists, elbows, turning as if oiled. Next to them, Eleanor feels about as flexible as an egg, and just as conspicuous. She is the only Westerner in the temple. She wishes she had on her sarong, though it feels good to move her legs inside her skirt. No one objects to her being there. A priest even comes up to her, puts a dab of rice on each of her temples, one under her throat.

Day stretches into evening into night. Eleanor stays on a stone bench, transfixed. she watches young girls dance like nymphs from another world, then race off giggling, arm in arm. She watches men poke daggers into their chests without bleeding.

She watches whole families pray, flowers pressed to their foreheads. Dogs eat offerings from the ground. A puppet master creates air, water, fire, and earth, out of shadows.

Eleanor feels like she is fading into shadow, like all that is left of her is the gamelan music vibrating in her blood.

Eleanor wakes up curled on the ground, her head on her purse, her right hand on someone’s back. Many people sleep around her. It is just dawn, still a bit dark. Eleanor sits up, brushes herself off. A wave of panic shoots up her spine when she remembers Francis. She rushes through the stirring crowd on tiptoe.

As soon as Eleanor gets through the temple gates, it starts to rain. Light, warm, rain at first, but soon the air is dense with water. Eleanor cannot see where she is going. Someone grabs her arm and pulls her under an awning.

“Selamat pagi,” she says to Eleanor. Good morning.

Eleanor nods. “Selamat pagi. Hujan…” She points to the rain.

“Ia. Hujan.” The woman grins. She takes Eleanor’s elbow and leads her to a room in back. A man sits on the floor, a block of wood between his feet. He chips at the wood with a chisel and mallet.

Eleanor glances around the room. Masks of all colors line the walls, some red with bulging eyes, others blue and serene, gold and fierce.

“I make the masks,” the man says, not looking up.

“What kind of mask are you making now?” she asks. She tries to picture Francis’ face. It is blurry, gray. “Don’t know. The wood hasn’t told me.” He continues to work.

The old woman returns with a platter of fruit. Salak, with coppery, snake-like, skin, bananas the size of fingers, furry red rambutan, dark purple mangosteens.

“Terima kasih. Thank you,” says Eleanor. She breaks open the burgundy fruit. The flesh is pure white inside.

The rain soon stops. The man gives Eleanor directions back to her bungalow. As she leaves, the old woman slips a chunk of ebony into Eleanor’s purse.

The air is heady with frangipani and jasmine. Eleanor feels drunk. She tries to follow the man’s directions, but winds up in a rice field. She walks down a small path that seems to lead through the field, but it just goes to the center and stops.

Levels and levels of slender green shoots stretch out for what seems to be miles around Eleanor, each level separated by a thin stream of water. White ducks waddle between the plants, dipping their bills to drink. Eleanor takes off her sandals. The hem of her skirt drags in the water and clings to her calves. The air, hot and wet, presses heavy against Eleanor’s skin. She feels it melt her features away, leaving her face blank and smooth as a block of wood.

Eleanor takes the chunk of ebony from her purse. She holds it in her hand and keeps walking.

The rice fields rise up green around her. Everything around her is green.

Meeting Waves Joan Leotta image by Amelia Maness-Gilliland

The cool gray sea foam Tugs on my toes.

“Come and play,” he calls.

“I’ll teach you the games I know.”

I gasp and gurgle and stand, Trudging my way toward shore.

I see my blanket ahead Just.. a… few…steps… more…..

My knees follow my toes ‘Till I’m fully in I lean back on the wave For a relaxing swim.

Almost falling I run now The wave chases me.

I run until he becomes Small on the beach.

Up and over! The wave dunks me Ending my peaceful float Salt water stings my eyes And tickles its way down my throat.

Time to towel off.

I comb sand from my hair Watch seagulls at play— Breathe fresh seaside air.

Wet silver foam waves Call to my toes once again I’m onto waves' tricks now I will go back in.

A Soul House Blessing Sara Thibault

In the broad dark light of a winter’s day, I dreamt awake a vision of my life -- my very soul -- as a house.

In it I stood at the threshold of this house, my soul.

It hurt just to breathe. I pulled my shirt up over my mouth, but even still, I tasted the dirt and death and dust.

The house, my soul, was nearly empty of life.

All was quiet but for the drone of termites and a single pair of wings in the attic, flapping against each other, their owner singing “caw, caw!”

Behind closed doors, and a long, long way down, came a thump, a faint lub-dub.

This was what had become of my life, but no tears would come. All was dry, and I was numb.

Long gone, the gatekeeper.

The gate swung lonely, an aching steel cry on the wind.

Dusty, shot-out windows let little light in; the hole in the roof sagged into the shape of a winged creature.

I saw into that the uppermost chamber of my soul, and there lay a blue box.

Sun-stained and familiar, it lay empty but for one thing: A note from my mother, faded and near to crumbling, with just barely a hint of the words “Love, Mom”.

Long years had passed since I had seen words written in her hand.

It was a turning of a key in a lock. My eyes flooded, my chest went taut, while the thump and the lub-dub arose from the basement, loud and insistent.

I heard rusty chains clanking together and somewhere far away I heard myself scream.

There in the basement my heart was chained, not the victim of some gothic horror, but something self-inflicted.

I could not control my own weeping.

For years, there had been this one overriding thought: That if I started, I would never, ever stop.

The water rose up against the dirty windows, washing them.

The water weakened the crumbling chain links and released them of their rust.

The water nourished the parched garden soil and polished the wood floors as if of fine oil.

The tears dropping to the floor seemed to make music, to form words, to call to me, faintly. ‘It is time now to trust.’ And thus a soul opened; ever wider and more present to the joys as to the sorrows, for locking a heart up in chains stops the flow of both.

Laughter began filling the rooms; how close the catch of a laugh is to the convulsion of a sob.

The long dark-winter receded, the clouds lifted, and I sang, running through the house.

Pushing at the broken windows, I listened for the sound of illusions shattering.

An owl came to rest on a nearby sill, hooting in approval and squinting into the sudden brightness.

The hole in the roof became sunroof by day and celestial observatory by night; I began to occupy these rooms once more, with my heart once more in my chest.

And now a new gatekeeper is at his post; whose lot is to remind me that here in my house, in my very soul, it is safe to cry.

In fact, it is a blessing.

Fatma’s Fate Mishka Mojabber Mourani Fatma rambled when she talked. She looked for the thread of a story, often losing it, then started another story that, in turn, ended without a conclusion.

Fatma Abdel Baset was an Egyptian domestic worker in the home of our neighbors, the Saads, whom she had served for many years. She had come to Beirut as a young girl from a village on the Nile. A poor, thin, ungainly woman with sallow skin and dark circles under her eyes, she knew she would never be married. Fatma left behind several sisters, a brother, and a number of nephews. By working abroad, she hoped to put some money aside and help with the family’s expenses. She sent her eldest nephew money whenever she could in order to build a house for her retirement.

Salwa and Khaled Saad were an older couple on the fifth floor of our building, in the area that became known as ‘West Beirut’ during the Lebanese war. Their children had gone to live abroad.

They brought the middle-aged Fatma with them. They quickly became good friends of my parents, who lived on the floor above. The Saads were like family, and I called Mrs. Saad "tante Salwa," as if she were my aunt. The war had that effect on people. It brought strangers together in an intimacy that came about quickly, in the presence of a shared need for survival. People were drawn into unllikely companionships that developed rapidly in the context of imminent personal danger. The Saads and my parents, however, had much in common, not least of which was the enjoyment of playing cards.

The summers had a different rhythm during war-time Lebanon. They were traditionally hot, not only in terms of the temperature, but also in terms of the severity of the fighting. Year in year out, for fifteen years, the spring weather would herald an escalation in fighting. Every afternoon, the shelling notwithstanding, the Saads, my parents, and some other acquaintances in the neighborhood, got together to play a local card game named Beriba. When the shelling was heavy, they would play at the Saads’ apartment, which faced south and west and was surrounded by buildings, giving the impression of being shielded from open fire. On quiet days, our apartment, facing north and east, was the place of choice, for its coolness, and for the lovely view it had of the mountains and the Mediterranean.

The card games started after lunch, to take advantage of the daylight. Come nightfall, we could only run a few light bulbs, the 10 amps of electricity we purchased from the neighborhood generator being too little to run our refrigerator otherwise. Those mad days of war had an internal logic to them:

Traditionally, in the morning there was a tacit lull in the fighting, so people would go about their work, shop for supplies, and run their errands.

When the shelling would start later in the day, the streets would empty. Beirutis, used to socializing late into the night, simply changed their schedules to accommodate the war, and met with their friends early in the afternoon, in order to making back home before the sun set and the deadly fireworks resumed.

The war ended, ended, but the two women continued to play cards with their friends, the games starting later, allowing the players to nap after lunch, and stay till the evening.

The mornings were spent embroidering, doing needlepoint or knitting. Their handwork was exquisite.

They would spend hours selecting designs and threads, and their fingers worked easily and quickly while they chatted. There was always plenty to talk about.

Thus, the Lebanese continued to entertain as usual, the domestic help providing cakes and coffee in the earlier part of the game, and stronger drinks accompanied by nuts and finger food in the afternoon. Although she was slow in her movements, she would hurry through the housework in order to go to the kitchen and prepare meals and snacks. Fatma’s cooking was exceptional and she enjoyed preparing delicacies and receiving compliments for her concoctions.

Even in old age, Salwa Saad was a beautiful woman.

Tall and elegant, she and my mother would get dressed every afternoon and attend the customary card game. The rituals were the same whether they were receiving in their homes or going to someone else’s. As always, Fatma prepared delicacies when it was Tante Salwa’s turn to receive the card players. She was devoted to her employer.

Although she was illiterate, Fatma maintained the household and supervised the payment of bills.

She memorized both her mistress’ social and medical schedules, remembering the tests she was to undergo regularly, which medication to give when, and what kind of food to serve. Fatma was honest and had few needs. She sent

When Khaled Saad passed away, he left behind a stark emptiness.

Salwa and my mother became even closer, their friendship sealed when my father, in turn, passed away.

her salary to her nephew in Egypt, who was using the money to build a house, for when she retired and returned to the village.

Fatma went home to Egypt every few years, but her visits grew shorter in duration and their frequency lessened, as her family increased in number, and her employers aged. Her real life was the family she served, and she grew more and more protective of them as they aged.

She nursed Khaled until he passed, and stayed by tante Salwa’s side with even more devotion until she, too, left us.

The Saad children returned to Lebanon when the war ended. They debated what to do with Fatma. She was taken in by the second generation of Saads, and continued to work for them, though she, too, was aging. She continued to visit my mother, telling her that she loved seeing her because she reminded her so much of her dear Sett Salwa.

Fatma was slowing down, and it was soon time for her to retire and go back home to Egypt.

She came to bid my mother farewell, and asked for her blessing, since it would be like the baraka of Sett Salwa. Fatma left to retire in Egypt.

Fatma left to retire in Egypt.

Some months later, Mabrouka, also an Egyptian, told my mother she had run into Fatma in Beirut. “What is she doing here?” asked my mother.

“Ya haram, poor Fatma. She went to her village expecting to move into her new house. Her sisters had died and her eldest nephew was living in the house with his wife and children. He told her she would be more comfortable moving in with them, and that they would take care of her. But you know how it is: the nephew’s wife was unhappy, the children were a headache, and poor Fatma felt she was a burden on everyone. So she decided to come back here.”

“But where is she staying? What is she doing?”

“Mrs. Najjar, the Saads’ daughter, God keep her, is letting her stay with them. Fatma is helping an old neighbor of the Najjars during the day.”

Months later, I received a call from my mother. She was in tears. “I had such bad news today!

Remember I told you Fatma, the Saads’ maid, returned to Beirut and was helping the Najjars’ elderly neighbor? Well, the neighbor had a stroke and her children in Canada decided she should move to Montreal to be with them. Lina Najjar just called to tell me that Fatma was in a coma in the hospital!

They found her in the old lady’s apartment, almost dead. When she found out her elderly charge was leaving Lebanon, she went and drank rat poison!”

Miraculously, Fatma survived. She spent weeks in the hospital in critical condition. Her medical bills were paid by the Saads’ children. Her recovery was slow, she was partially paralyzed, and she had damaged her vocal cords severely.

Eventually she recovered, though her voice was now hoarse and low. She came to see my mother the other day and asked for her blessing again. "It is decided, I am going home, ya Sitt. Give me your baraka! My nephew told me he would move out of my house when I came back. He says that that house is my home. But why do I feel like I am leaving home? You know, I only really had a home with the Saads. But how can that be? I am not related to them, and I am not even from the same country. Our village now has a big supermarket. My sister says they have things from all over the world.

Even from China. And the house has a dish. My nephew says we can watch all the TV programs now.

Even the Lebanese shows. Are you watching the new Ramadan soap opera? It's very good. I think that Mustafa is the real father of Mimi. They say the actors are Turkish. But they speak Arabic. How can that be? My nephew says I spent my life taking care of old people. Now it is time to take care of myself.

It’s a fresh start. My life is being renewed. I will be free to watch TV all day, ..." Fatma rambled on as she always had. She looked for the thread of her story, often losing it, then started another story that, in turn, ended without a conclusion.

l a w e n Re ar ak-Rich Z e i r u La

dson

Let It Shine (OR: “The Essay in which I Tell My Fears to F*ck Off”) Bethany O’Connor Images by Bethany O’Connor

Marianne Williamson has lost her marbles.

Or at least that’s what I thought when I read her famous “Powerful Beyond Measure” quote for the first time (in 2001.)

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.”

I cocked my head like a confused dog. So…what you are trying to say is that my deepest fear is that I am powerful? ”Powerful beyond measure,” in fact?

Sorry, Sweet-hot. You are forgetting the answers.

I have a lot of fears, you see. A wicked lot of them. In fact, I try to give myself a false semblance of control over said fears by obsessively compulsively doing entirely illogical things like inhaling when hearing good news and exhaling when hearing bad news (so as to welcome the good and protect myself from the bad; obvi.)

Accordingly, I am no stranger to my fears. I have made my list, I’ve checked it thrice, and–let me tell you one thing–the fear of being powerful beyond measure? It’s not on here. Access to Scary Club O’Fears: DENIED. But that was a whole 11 years ago. When I heard the Powerful Beyond Measure quote at a leadership retreat in 2001, I had myself so convinced of a subconsciously fabricated story that I actually THOUGHT I HAD THINGS FIGURED OUT! We might call that time my “Pinnacle of Delusionment.”

During said Pinnacle of Unenlightenment, I was maintaining a 3.96 GPA at Boston College (delusion #1: “I am lovable because I am smart”), exercising two hours a day (delusion #2: I am beautiful because I am in shape), and volunteering 12 hours a week (delusion #3: I am a good person because I do nice things). I was participating in a host of extracurricular activities [you fill in the delusions now; I'm tired of that exercise.] I was partying late and lots because that’s what college kids are “supposed to” do, I was exploring the art of flirtation to lure men into my net and was relishing the power that came with denying them what they wanted (playah, please: I am sexy but I am not easy.)

Generally, I was basing my entire self-worth off of other peoples’ checkboxes, because–hell–I was good at checkbox-checking. And I like being good at things.

Plus, I was happy. I mean, wasn’t I? Well, sure–I spent a lot of time crying behind closed doors, which should have been one of many easyassed clues that something was wrong, but I can write off crying to PMS at least three

out of every four weeks in a month. Plus, maybe I secretly (and I am just realizing this right this minute)–maybe I subconsciously actually LIKED that I cried a lot. I mean–doesn’t that fit the profile of Overachieving Collegiate Female–a role that I unconsciously hand-picked and clung to in order to mask my lower feelings of inadequacy and unlovability?

I mean, if you’re an Overachieving Collegiate Female and you’re not crying a lot, then– let’s just stop whacking around the bush here–you’re probably not much of an overachiever, now, are you? Get out there and champion another cause, girl. Stress yourself out ’til you crumble. THEN–and only then–can you check the overachiever box, Sweet Thang.

of life. Now I am also a teacher.”

It wasn’t until the blessed tides of childbirth came crashing into my shores in 2009 that it became undeniably clear that my castle of “I’ve got things figured out” was built upon pillars of sand (pillars of sand, pillars of sand.) At some point during my postpartum maelstrom, it occurred to me: “Holy hell. I am no longer just a student

The answer to those questions was also a resounding “no,” which was excellent news for my therapist. Let’s just say I’ve seen a lot of her since then.

Could I be a good role model for this precious child? I’m not talking about modeling the easy things. I know I can teach him not to litter, to pay his taxes, and (so long as I buckle down some serious self-discipline) there’s probably also some hope that I can teach him to share and not to swear.

But can I model selfconfidence? Can I stand in my own skin– fully conscious of a plethora of flaws and also conscious that I’m not even conscious of ALL of my flaws–can I stand in that authenticity and shout with the ferocity of a freedom warrior, “I LOVE ME!!!!!” without feeling undeserving, boastful or inauthentic?

Fast forward three more years. I’ve done (and am still doing) the work. I’ve cried, I’ve sweated, I’ve shaken. I’ve lied to myself. I’ve yelled, I’ve laughed, I’ve sobbed. I’ve cut through those lies.

I’ve researched theories, tried new techniques. I’ve done well with some, I’ve done poorly with others. I’ve punched, I’ve bled, I’ve fallen. I’ve gotten back up.

I’ve pushed people away, I’ve kept my guard up, I’ve knocked those same walls down. I’ve read, I’ve workshopped, I’ve reflected.

I’ve prayed, I’ve meditated, I’ve begged. I’ve listened. I’ve paid attention. I’ve identified my fears. And slowly–slowly and magnificently surely–I am learning what it feels like to truly love myself.

I like it here.

I like it a lot.

What do I have to say to Ms. Williamson now? For starters, this: YES!!! OMG–YES– MARIANNE!!!! YES, YES– FROM THE ROOFTOPS– YES!!!!! Our deepest fear IS that we are powerful beyond measure!!!!!

All along, I thought I was an overachiever when really I wasn’t achieving at all. Afraid of failure, criticism, isolation, and inadvertently insulting those who are smothering their own lights, I was distracting myself from the things I was meant to be by vigorously pursuing the things that I thought put me in the best light with others. I

pursued the things that felt the safest.

I, the “overachiever,” was actually doing everything within my power to KEEP myself from achieving.

I distracted myself from my inner wisdom because pursuing the things that we were born to pursue? That shit is scary. The stake are high and success is contingent upon a willingness to be vulnerable.

Me? I do a lot of things, folks, but I do not do vulnerable.

If I DO go there–if I DO honor that voice of my heart and my soul and truly let myself shine, then I’m going to have to shed all of the “tools” that I have developed to “protect” myself for so long. My “tools” of perfectionism, independence, and nose-to-the-grindstone productivity distractions are comfortable to me. For all intents and purposes, they’ve been rather useful, too.

Without them, I am a swordsman without a sword.

I could really get hurt, folks.

But if I DON’T honor my inner voice? Well, now.

That’s even scarier. If I

DON’T strip out those old behaviors and let myself feel vulnerable, then I will be trapped in my bad habits for the rest of my life. I will never be able to say honestly that I think I am improving. And I will never be able to model– for my son and also now for my daughter–what it looks like to be a strong, comfortable-in-my-own-skin, self-loving person.

The fear of THAT? The fear of that throws kerosene on the fire inside my soul. It’s why I’m writing today.

Today I just want to plant a seed in your head.

What if you ARE powerful beyond measure? What if every fear standing between you and your optimal life was planted there by YOU– subconsciously but intentionally–to prevent yourself from being all that you can be? Is it possible that you are AFRAID to let yourself shine?

[Hint: answer = "yes."]

Consider it, friend. Because I have not lost my marbles.

And neither has Marianne Williamson.

On Dangerous Wings Heidi Richardson Evans image by Laurie Zak-Richardson

The flight isn’t to be; The wings artificial and frail.

I want the sun to be a god.

In these wings I’m wide and wild as the sky and rising.

I want to be dared to challenge the worldthe small, nested world, and to fly instead in dreams and strange magic.

And then my patchworked wings, a construction of myth and story melt and boil. I’m falling wax bleeding out and down.

I made wings from reveries and molten wax, delicate feathers that are pages from stolen books.

The nest below catches dropped feathers, softened wax, and lost dreams.

The nest seems far below, a tangle of life: The small, mundane world.

The nest below me opens, holds me tight and whispers: “Tell me of your dangerous flight, of blinding light & burning.

Line the nest with fallen feathers and fall quiet into this.

You are always safe and you can always fly and fall.

I was meant to rise, I cry, wings catching a dashing wind.

I’m not for the small nest and solid simple things.

I think I want to burn and feel until I hurt and the sun blinds me.

I will hold you always.

Be small and safe and still.

And tomorrow again you will craft new wings.”

Navigator Linda Esterley and one day I looked up from my sink, as the toothpaste striped its way around and around the harvest gold porcelain toward the mottled chrome drain, then down down down to...who knows where? And as I looked up, I caught my own eye in the mirror. A reflection I hadn't paid much mind to in some time. A reflection that had held little interest for me when I checked to see if my pants were too long, too short, gappy in the back, straining at the pockets. From the neck down I could see this in the full length mirror that was propped up against my husband's dresser, but only from my armpits to the floor, such was the angle of the mirror. And now there I was in my bathroom with the water running loudly down the drain...seeing myself for the first time in a while. And what I saw was not me, was not my Self. It was, in every last detail – my mother. The jowls, the gray roots, the deep crevices running from the corners of my mouth down to my jawline. But most of all, it was the eyes. In them I saw acceptance – a laying down of sparklers and noisemakers and deep belly laughs, and an acceptance of how life had become quiet and solemn and a little disheveled around the edges. And I thought of my mother's life. From black and white bathing beauty photographs with scalloped edges and a slight mildewy smell through proper family portraits to those years of just her posing by a small tabletop christmas tree, or just her sitting on the front step. Then the wedding pictures with smiles so wide you could taste the frosting on the cake. And now her eyes stare back at me, witness to bad judgement and wrong paths taken and not enough and too much and hidden disappointments. I smudge on a slash of “Hot Hot Hot” red lipstick, slowly blink my eyes, and vow that I will chart a different course. My own course. A new way to navigate with the stars.

The Studio Voice would like to thank all of our contributors for submitting their work for the winter issue.

We invite you to review our contributor biographies on the following pages to learn more about the amazing work that each of them are doing.

Contributors Gayle Brandeis is the author of Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write (HarperOne), the novels The Book of Dead Birds (HarperCollins), which won Barbara Kingsolver's Bellwether Prize for Fiction of Social Engagement, Self Storage (Ballantine), and Delta Girls (Ballantine), and her first novel for young people, My Life with the Lincolns (Henry Holt), which won a Silver Nautilus Book Award. She released The Book of Live Wires, the sequel to The Book of Dead Birds, as an ebook in 2011.

Gayle teaches in the MFA Program in Creative Writing at Antioch University, Los Angeles and lives in Riverside, CA, where she is mom to two adult kids and a toddler. She is currently serving a two year appointment as Inlandia Literary Laureate.

Gayle Brandeis

Joyelle Brandt Joyelle Brandt is a creative dynamo and kindness maven.

She blogs about living an artful life at An Artful Endeavor and lives by the credo "All endeavor is art when rendered with conviction."

Some of her current projects include a series of abstract paintings called Elemental for an upcoming exhibit, and a children's story called One Act of Kindness.

Sunni Chapman is an artist, designer, and metaphorical wave rider. Her creative interests are kaleidoscopic in nature, and as difficult to pin down as a fish in slick water.

She lives for the deep dives that pull out the jewels, and has been known to indulge in mad tea parties. She writes about all of this, and more at The Daily Breadcrumb Facebook Twitter & Pinterest

Sunni Chapman

Melody Joy Deetz is a creative soul, an explorer of self, and seeker of truth. She practices mindful meditation, yoga, and heart opening. She is totally inspired by the authentic stories and triumphs of others and is learning every day how to share her own stories. You can find her at Melody Joy Deetz

Melody Deetz

Joshua Duffy I'm Joshua Duffy. I used to live in London but have been living in Ireland for the past few years and writing for around the same amount of time. I pursue writing mainly for my own pleasure and if others enjoy my work I find it doubly rewarding.

Linda Esterley Linda Esterley is a writer turned mixed media artist. Her current work has involved writing short poems and vignettes, and creating visual art to interpret the work. She is known for abusive use of the "..." segue, and generally disrespects most grammatical aspects of writing. Her visual art can be seen at Linda Easterly Designs

Joan Leotta Joan Leotta has been writing and performing since childhood. Her “motto” is Encouraging words through pen and performance.” Her newest work, Giulia Goes to War is book one of a four part series, Legacy of Honor that traces the women of a family and how they find love and independence from WWII era through the Desert Storm era. Her other books include Massachusetts (Scholastic), Christmas Gift (Warner), Complete Guide to the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia (Norton) and Tales Through Time: Women of the South (an anthology of short historic fiction co-authored with Edith Edwards, published by Lulu). She is working on the second book in the Desert Breeze Legacy of Honor series, Letters From Korea.

Joan’s articles, short stories, and photography have appeared in many newspapers and magazines including the Washington Post and Woman’s Day, Crimestalker, and St Anthony’s Messenger and OMDB.com. She performs folklore shows and one-woman shows on Civil War and Revolutionary war figures at venues up and down the east coast from schools and libraries to museums, fairs and festivals. Joan also teaches writing, creativity, and storytelling for children and adults. She lives in Calabash, NC with husband Joe. You can learn more about her at Joan Leotta , www.joanleotta.wordpress.com, her Facebook Page and can email her to speak to your group.

Amelia Maness-Gilliland is a professor in “real life� and a self professed cartographer of the soul always.

She is a firm believer that it is our handling of the details of life that defines the quality of our days. She is dedicated to documenting these details and does so through her inspiring and humorous musings. She strives to live life consciously using her strengths and talents to make a meaningful difference. Her goal is to inspire others to capture the details of their lives and recognize that we are all writing our life story with every single today.

Amelia Maness-Gilliland

You can find her at The Blackhouse Studio

Vivienne McMaster Vivienne McMaster is a Vancouver, British Columbia based portrait photographer and workshop leader. She teaches a series online and in person workshop to women around the world. A large part of Vivienne's work is based around self-portraiture and she is on a mission to help women see their own beauty and re-write their relationship to their self-image through empowered self-portraiture. She shares stories, photo essays and vibrant images at her website You Are Your Own Muse

Mishka Mojabber Mourani

Mishka Mojabber Mourani was born in Egypt of Greek-Lebanese parents. She has lived in Australia and in Lebanon.

She is the author of a poetry collection, Lest We Forget: Lebanon 1975-1990. Her short story, “The Fragrant Garden,” appeared in Hikayat: Short Stories by Lebanese Women [Telegram books, London, 2006], and Lebanon Through Writers’ Eyes [Eland, London, 2009]. Her work also appeared in Habiter Beyrouth? Parcours d’écriture [Assabil, Beirut, 2010], and La Mediterranée au Carrefour Des Mots [Assabil-Kitabat, 2011].

She has published Balconies: A Mediterranean Memoir [Dar An-Nahar, Beirut, 2009] and translated to English Faiseur de réalités [Maker of Realities, 2011] French poems by Antoine Boulad inspired by Mohamad Rawas’ art. In 2012, her work appeared in Mused Literary Review An Old Box of Antiques, and Arabic Literature in English Global Story Behind A Bilingual Book of Poems , and Teta, Did You Know Aleppo?

Her writing deals with the themes of war, memory, identity, exile and gender issues.

Most recently, she co-authored Alone, Together[Kutub, Beirut, 2012], a project in which Aida Y. Haddad translated Mourani’s poetry from English to Arabic, and vice versa.

Hi, I am Amanda Oaks, overseer + enabler at Kind Over Matter & sharing my hoop journey at Hooptacular. I create & hold space for more people to embrace the awesome in themselves & in others. Spiritual Rebel. Rock-n-Roll-Hippie Mama. Lover. Poet. Hoop Dancer. MultiPassionate Solopreneur. Kindness Advocate. I believe in our collective freedom & enjoy laughing more than most anything.

Amanda Oaks

A Licensed Joyologist, Waxer of Philosophy, and Optimal Living Evangelist, Bethany Pearson O’Connor dreams that her own journey with learning to “Let It Shine” may assist YOU in unapologetically spiraling towards the greatness that is YOUR destiny, too. If being “Authentically You” sounds scary to you (as it once did to her), then she prescribes a healthy dose of Gratitude, Humor, Loving Kindness, and Optimism… all of which are available for free on her Catching the Light Blog. Check her out on Facebook or follow her on Twitter

Bethany Pearson O’Connor

Heidi Richardson Evans is an artist, bleeding-heart mama blogger, thrift store junkie, and anatomical nonconformist. She lives with her husband and daughter in a house made of mismatched reclaimed bricks in Charleston, WV. She earned a BA in ceramics and printmaking from West Virginia State University, then taught herself graphic design. She now makes most of her fine art digitally. She’s kept an online journal since the late 90s and authors the blog Daisy Bones. There, Heidi over-thinks life as an artist, mom, and wife.

Heidi Richardson Evans

Kathryn Stapelman Simply Unique Studios strives to not only to be Simply Unique but to also be Uniquely different from other photographers. We have over five years of experience. Every day we strive to come up with new ideas on how to better serve our clients and to make their experience with us totally Unique from any others they have had.

Sara D. Thibault Sara D. Thibault is a writer, intuitive designer and ambassador of soul work. She believes soul is hiding amongst the spilt milk and the sacredness that occurs between sunrise and sunset should be celebrated daily. She lives in Manchester, New Hampshire with her two furbabies in an apartment overlooking the Piscataquog River that she shares with her two furbabies, soon to be blogging away at Soulful Sara.

Angela Warner Angela Warner is a poet-heretic, aspiring healer of wounds, and midwife of metaphorical waste. During the day, she dotes on her two boys; at night, she pretends to moonlight as a medievalist. Her first chapbook, Weaving Spirit, is due out this spring from Lyrical Myrical Press. You can find more of her work at Noetic Nuance

Alexis Yael Alexis Yael is a writer/ photographer living in northern New Jersey with her soul mate and their incredible, nerd to the second power (autistic) kid.

Her super power is empathy and her kryptonite is depression and yes, they are intrinsically entwined.

She has been writing poems and stories since childhood and blogging about her wabi sabi life since 2002.

Laurie Zak-Richardson I believe that the most beautiful and interesting images often come from the most everyday of objects-it is the way of seeing things from a unique perspective which will bring this beauty to light. Everyday life is so amazing in an abundance of simple yet touching ways, and I strive to capture what speaks to me, often in the most unexpected and seemingly ordinary places. It is my fondest hope my images invoke emotion in the viewer, and I consider it a great privilege and honor to share my visual world with others.

Google + , Facebook & Happy Me Laurie Z

Each quarterly publication has a theme. You are invited to submit to one or more issues. We invite submissions in the following formats: photography and art work poetry short stories (up to 15,000 words, this is not a challenge, just a limit) creative non-fiction (tell us your true story! up to 15,000 words) flash fiction (up to 1,000 words) memoirs (up to 15,000 words) book reviews You can learn more about submissions here: Submissions

Coming Spring, 2013, Live Out Loud.

This is a wide open, full of energy theme. You are invited to share how you are living life according to your own rules, how you are rocking what you do, enjoying life to the fullest etc. There are many possibilities!

Submission deadline: April 14, 2013 Release date: May 12, 2013

to learn more about The Studio Voice please visit our site.

We can be contacted at info@studio-voice.com

www.studio-voice.com info@studio-voice.com