ISSUE No. 8 Embodiment
In the eighth issue of Clerestory Magazine, contributors confront the joys and pains of being a body.
Editor’s Letter
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When your dad drops you off at school this morning and reminds you that he has signed you up for the cross-country team, you wonder how you got roped into this one.
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One of my earliest memories of coming to terms with mortality was when I was a child, just shy of seven years old.
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A rocking chair can serenade anyone, not just the very young and old
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Some time ago, I went to a reading by an excellent Midwestern poet.
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It was summer; and there was a patchiness to the weather.
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On our walk through town, my husband and I passed by an assisted living facility. There were a couple dump trucks in front.
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A gruff man groans, his pain
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because: i wanted cool shoes
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Somewhere in a hotel gym, a mother is running on a treadmill. Her sneakers haven’t touched pavement in months, and her taupe leggings make her thighs look like seals.
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Spring in our county brings wind. Early in the morning, a light breeze lifts leaves on the trees, in and around the back patio.
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At night, the walkway by my window was lit by orange lights.
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A chance discovery of an artistic Soviet Ukrainian family’s portfolio prompts curator Myroslava Hartmond to reappraise the importance of life’s small kindnesses.
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When I see the three positive pregnancy tests lined up on my bathroom counter, my first thought is that I wanted another baby, but I did not want another baby like this.
![](https://images.prismic.io/clerestory/196a5265-a415-4413-92b2-9dc9e5720164_Dora-Maar-2-1.jpg?ixlib=gatsbyFP&auto=compress%2Cformat&fit=max&q=50&w=1280&h=1601)
The mind plays tricks on us. This we know. The heart is deceitful above all things. This we accept. But the body is the consummate con artist.
![](https://images.prismic.io/clerestory/36ec7ceb-8561-4a11-bfc8-f9c2e10e2e19_jessica-felicio-QS9ZX5UnS14-unsplash%20(1).jpg?ixlib=gatsbyFP&auto=compress%2Cformat&fit=max&q=50&w=5329&h=6621)
... in In this poem, the body asks to be over-feeling.
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Hated body, hated self. Therefore, body equals self.
ISSUE No. 7 Sanctuary
In the seventh issue of Clerestory Magazine, contributors locate places of rest and refuge.
Editor’s Letter
![](https://images.prismic.io/clerestory/5a780a4a-50f6-4728-ab35-de85adc2885f_Screen%20Shot%202022-12-17%20at%209.30.06%20AM.png?ixlib=gatsbyFP&auto=compress%2Cformat&fit=max&q=50&rect=0%2C50%2C1012%2C1252&w=1012&h=1252)
What does it mean to make your body a home when all it has ever known is the loud incessant chatter of rooms too full of thoughts so mean, you’d only dare say them to yourself?
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In 1330, five days after he killed his wife, Geoffrey of Knuston of Abingdon sought sanctuary in a church in Northamptonshire.
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A flock of gulls rises from a choppy sea, hangs aloft in abeyance – a distraction
To be alive means to be in relation...
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Dew clings to leaves and calms the dust, soothing wild asters tangled in goldenrod.
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Amanda Held Opelt is a songwriter, speaker, and writer based in Boone, North Carolina. Her work stands at the intersection of faith, grief, healing, creativity, and belonging.
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I used to think that my hometown would always feel welcoming, that I would always be able to slide back into place. I plotted my return for many years.
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It takes 650 steps to walk the perimeter.
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The stars were dancing on the waters as I looked out from Stella Maris chapel.
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It is common to intellectualize the sacrament of Communion, and to view the practice as a sacred ritual of reverence.
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Some things never change. I love that.
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I am one of two hundred teenage girls walking through the Ozark green on a muggy July evening.
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What is “sanctuary”? To me, sanctuary is a refuge, a retreat from the noise and myriad voices competing for our attention.
![](https://images.prismic.io/clerestory/348ac45e-fe5b-4921-b6cd-5ba51b7c131e_untitled_2006.133.84.jpg?ixlib=gatsbyFP&auto=compress%2Cformat&fit=max&q=50&w=2624&h=4000)
I learnt of loss and how it attaches itself to your body
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On a sweltering August afternoon when only a man deranged would return to Savannah, I wheel up.
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How can I explain the joy that I get from reading? Words can't fully express it.
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The shack’s one room is wallpapered with pages of the Denver Post, a decorative soul.
![](https://images.prismic.io/clerestory/81d6ed48-756e-4c19-839a-d63e013c7b8c_annie-spratt-vhgDIE5p4ao-unsplash.jpg?ixlib=gatsbyFP&auto=compress%2Cformat&fit=max&q=50&w=8256&h=6192)
on the page we grew like dusk falling, something breathtaking, impossibly ravishing
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Last weekend felt like coming home.
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Fire, 20 miles south, 30% contained.
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“Who else is on the reservation?” asks the assistant naturalist, who appears to be around the same age as me, as she finds my name on the registration list for a bird talk.
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Low-water years, our pond is Walden-size, just right...
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Théo has lived and worked in this forest, Madagascar’s Parc National Ranomafana, his entire life.
![](https://images.prismic.io/clerestory/1e6b548c-bb69-4cfa-92c3-c3e78e38651f_annie-spratt-M35DI6c9zPQ-unsplash%20(1).jpg?ixlib=gatsbyFP&auto=compress%2Cformat&fit=max&q=50&rect=0%2C1196%2C6192%2C7056&w=6192&h=7056)
I was swimming alone late one September afternoon at Great Pond in Wellfleet when...
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I go there again and again, never tiring of the place. When I’m away, I imagine that it waits for me, no matter how long my return might take.
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Sunday, a day early, but those murderous temperatures, and we’d had our gators if not our dolphins, our tidal marsh kayak if not our sunset river cruise, decent meals if never a feast...
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I don’t want to worry. But I do. I want to lay my burdens down and find rest. But I don’t. My mind interferes.
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Came on my bike, hot in the August sun and beaten down by what life had been dolloping out to me.
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laid out in the tiny details...
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I arrived at Nrityagram dance village in Karnataka, India in July of 2014 with the monsoon rain.
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Gardenias droop in August heat at the Episcopal plot
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Earlier this morning, he called his parents with the bad news. He had just learned he has Covid-19.