Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem The Rolling Saint by Aimee Nezhukumatathil, posted below. 

Our prompt was: “Write about a time you kept going.”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday May 23rd at 6pm EDT,  with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.

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The Rolling Saint by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Lotan Baba, a holy man from India, rolled on his side for            
        four thousand kilometers across the country in his quest for            
        world peace and eternal salvation.                  

  —Reuters
                                                                            
He started small: fasting here and there,
days, then weeks. Once, he stood under
a banyan tree for a full seven years, sitting
            for nothing—not even to sleep. It came
            to him in a dream: You must roll
            on this earth, spin your heart in rain,
                        desert, dust. At sunrise he’d stretch, swab
                        any cuts from the day before, and lay prone
                        on the road while his twelve men swept
            the ground in front of him with sisal brooms.
            Even monkeys stopped and stared at this man
            rolling through puddles, past storefronts
where children would throw him pieces
of butter candy he’d try and catch
in his mouth at each rotation. His men
            swept and sang, swept and sang
            of jasmine-throated angels
            and pineapple slices in kulfi cream.
                        He rolled and rolled. Sometimes
                        in his dizzying spins, he thought
                        he heard God. A whisper, but still.

Source: Miracle Fruit (Tupelo Press, 2003)