Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EDT April 10th 2026

12 Comments April 10, 2026 cnmcolumbia

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “Sundown” by Jorie Graham, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about the whispers from what lies behind.”

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.

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Please join us for our next session Wednesday April 29th 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Sundown 
Jorie Graham 1950 – (St. Laurent Sur Mer, June 5, 2009)

Sometimes the day
                              light winces 
                              behind you and it is
a great treasure in this case today a man on
                              a horse in calm full
                              gallop on Omaha over my
                              left shoulder coming on
                              fast but
calm not audible to me at all until I turned back my
                              head for no
                              reason as if what lies behind
                              one had whispered
what can I do for you today and I had just
                              turned to
                              answer and the answer to my
answer flooded from the front with the late sun he/they
                              were driving into—gleaming—
                              wet chest and upraised knees and
light-struck hooves and thrust-out even breathing of the great
                              beast—from just behind me,
                              passing me—the rider looking straight
                              ahead and yet
smiling without looking at me as I smiled as we
                              both smiled for the young
                              animal, my feet in the
breaking wave-edge, his hooves returning, as they begin to pass
                              by,
                              to the edge of the furling
                              break, each tossed-up flake of
                              ocean offered into the reddish
luminosity—sparks—as they made their way,
                              boring through to clear out
                              life, a place where no one
                              again is suddenly 
killed—regardless of the "cause"—no one—just this
                              galloping forward with
                              force through the low waves, seagulls
                              scattering all round, their
screeching and mewing rising like more bits of red foam, the
                              horse's hooves now suddenly
                              louder as it goes
                              by and its prints on
wet sand deep and immediately filled by thousands of
                              sandfleas thrilled to the
declivities in succession in the newly
                              released beach—just
                              at the right
                              moment for some
microscopic life to rise up through these
                              cups in the hard upslant
                              retreating ocean is
revealing, sandfleas finding them just as light does,
                              carving them out with
                              shadow, and glow on each
                              ridge, and
water oozing up through the innermost cut of the
                              hoofsteps,
and when I shut my eyes now I am not like a blind person
                              walking towards the lowering sun,
the water loud at my right,
                              but like a seeing person
with her eyes shut
                              putting her feet down
                              one at a time
                              on the earth.

Copyright © 2011 by Jorie Graham. Used with permission of the author. Previously published in The New Yorker.

12 thoughts on “Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EDT April 10th 2026”

Trevor Hebert

It takes time to build trust.

Yet, it can be broken in an instant.

Three minutes to dictate an extensive history of trauma… where do I begin?

Which is more important and what is the scale?

Emotiona, blunt force, mental or psychological manipulation?

Who’s to be the judge? And what is worse?

Thankfully, this is the past that has molded my future, taken the time and tears through my life that I’ll remember forever and a day.

I speak from the heart and still bleed red through gritted teeth

The light I shine still paves the way.

I will help and share and care until the last breath I bear,

For soaking sleeves from second swords and second arrows I wear…

I live, I give and receive, and now,

this is the oath I swear.

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April 10, 2026 at 1:04 pm Reply
- al3793
  
  Trevor, your speaker did well with that three minute narrative. The heart that still bleeds red through gritted teeth ascended to the light empowering a remarkable oath. It is interesting that both our narratives gravitated to the luminous.
  
  Andre
  
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  April 10, 2026 at 1:27 pm Reply
- michele348
  
  Your speaker, having survived the trauma of earlier, now serves to comfort and uplift those who find themselves beleaguered. The oath taken can not be any more noble. Inspiring piece, Trevor!
  
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  April 10, 2026 at 1:33 pm Reply
- antoinette56
  
  Thank you for writing it out Trevor, so I could read it again (and out loud, to hear the rhymes). May I ask what second swords and second arrows are? I feel the meaning of that, and want to know more, but if it’s too personal, just tell me. Thanks! Antoinette
  
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  April 10, 2026 at 1:37 pm Reply
  - Trevor Hebert
    
    Hey Antoinette,
    
    Seconds swords, in this context, is a bit of a layered entendre. I typically set an intention for the reader to resonate with whatever they first feel most drawn to. For myself, “Second Swords” refers to the seconds in actual battle that seem like an eternity, tying seconds into the 3 minutes, a play off of second fiddle/understudy/hero v. villain dynamic.
    
    Second arrow, however, is quite literal. It’s a buddhist teaching about suffering. The first arrow would be the pain inducing agent/wound. The ‘second arrow’ is how we perceive the damage to be through the aftermath of infection, sensitivity from a literal/figurative aspect or the “Why did this happen to me?/I should have dodged it/What will the after effects be/how could I let this happen” from a mental anguish/psychological point of view.
    
    Thank you for asking! As an AuDHDer, oversharing tends to assist with the writing! Haha
    
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    April 10, 2026 at 2:10 pm
al3793

Whispers from what lies behind

The whispers from what lies behind

Are not the same as twenty-twenty hindsight.

They are a tiny voice that nudges and nags and shouts

“Slow down and let us catch up.”

They won’t relinquish their hook.

Gallop as you might

you can’t run away from them.

They want to keep you honest

honestly don’t fear them.

They want to make you wise

and move out from yourself

to ascend to what is luminous

feet firm on the earth.

afl 4.10.26

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April 10, 2026 at 1:23 pm Reply
- antoinette56
  
  Luminous, indeed… Thank you Andre! I love that you spelled out “twenty-twenty” – somehow that really made me look at that idea again, and how those same numbers get used in other ways (plus I had flashes of pandemic 2020!) Best, Antoinette
  
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  April 10, 2026 at 1:38 pm Reply
- michele348
  
  To be drawn, to do, to hear the whispers that call forth asking you pause and evaluate so that you are better able to forge the path. I know that feeling. But we must listen to their sage advice. Thank you for reminding me.
  
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  April 10, 2026 at 1:49 pm Reply
michele348

About the whispers from what lies behind~~~

The trees of the forest are dense and tall… those in front and those behind me… the white pines, the oaks, the maples… surround me with their outstretched branches, enveloping me with their forgiveness, warmth, and compassion.

I come here, to this place of clearing, to sort through the noise of the world… to make sense of a senseless reality.

The whispers of the pines, in their gentle tones, urge me to lower my burdens of fear and anxiety, and simply be among them. I allow their whispers to envelope me in calmness and peace.

And I did.

And the whispers became prayers.

And it all made sense.

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April 10, 2026 at 1:37 pm Reply
- antoinette56
  
  Thank you Michele, for a very benevolent and comforting version of whispers! I love the details of white pines, oak and maple. All my best, Antoinette
  
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  April 10, 2026 at 1:40 pm Reply
antoinette56

The horse crashes into my daily life regularly and without warning. Usually my mother’s voice, by accident. Or a story suddenly remembered. Or a photo. Or catching sight of my thumb, cocked at an angle that makes it a dead ringer for my grandfather’s thumb (the one that was severed in a plane crash then reattached – forever shiny and youthful, like an accusation, or a trigger). Then the light fades, my body is heavy, so much more gravity than usual, I can’t breathe well, my stomach is filled with weights, like a fist, like a dark clenched muscle, wet and purple, vaguely obscene. The light takes a long time to reach me, and sounds echo distantly; an hour can disappear, a second expand without end.

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April 10, 2026 at 1:42 pm Reply
- michele348
  
  antoinette, the mighty steed gallops into our lives, not taking no for an answer. Stirring up memories, images from the life that was. After it has had its way, it departs but leaves us having lost our sense of time.
  
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  April 10, 2026 at 2:06 pm Reply