Michele Fulves offered a session on June 1.

Michele Fulves births some of her best writing in the early hours, before thoughts of the day inch their way in. A New York City-based writer and actor, she created her first solo show Roadside Angels in 2010. The play is a love letter to the people who taught her the richness in what wasn’t meant to be. From there, she wrote The Price of Courage, another solo piece that explores the risks rewards and unintended consequences of blowing the whistle. It’s through the AWA method that she found her way into the glorious world of writing.

She invited writers to join her on June 1st to write with the light. Thanks to Michele for sneaking in one last WAW group for us and to these writers for sharing their work with us!


by Fiona Van Wissen

Opens in me
Trap doors

Dawn clears
The mists
Of my mind

Dawn breathes
Fresh light
Into tired cells

Dawn fills my tears
With healing


by Belinda Edwards

I am at the corner, the intersection, the crossroads.  At this place Hecate, the Greek Goddess stands.  In ancient times cairns would be built here, a warning. Stop, reflect before crossing.  Stopping and reflecting honors what is and what might be.

Hecate has raised her head.  I imagine her old with leathery skin,  and a walking cane. Bent.  An old woman who one would ignore or walk past without noticing.  An old woman who is invisible in our modern world where light, fresh air, and Spring is valued instead of the damp darkness of Fall.  

Turn our facies if we dare .  Hecate stands at the crossroad asking us to stop, to reflect, to put our ear to our own heart, listening to the flutter of our voice as it is carried on the wind.  The old woman looks us in the eye, she is fox, waiting, watching at the crossroads.

Write With the Light

by Jane Dirks

There is too much traffic; busy Barcelona. She can’t cross yet. She’s dancing on the corner, can’t wait to get to me. Her arms are open. 

It was wartime. An indoor patio, a tamarind tree, when last we sat together. She was in her teens, no children yet (although she did have a secret about that). I was leaving soon, returning to the States, my home. Leaving her, her family, to the war. 

How mysterious, our human paths, toward and then away from each other, in this world. After decades, I found her again, gracias to the Internet, now living in Spain, married to a Catalan. From Nicaragua to Catalonia, from war to a seaside town, which, she tells me later, is “boring.”  She has diabetes now, she tells me; her daughter is turning 30. It’s hard to take my eyes from all those years. 

COVID-19: Ordinary Grace

by Maire O’Donohoe

1. A hen hops onto my knee
In the garden-enclosure we share:
I for reading and companionship,
She for pecking and exploring the view
From a cocked knee.

2. To lie long of a weekend morning
Beholden to no one but me
Covid so ordaineth. What glee!

3. Zooooming. worlds enabled.
Possibilities –(I recognize too
the simple deprivation
Of warm bodies within reach. And you.)

4, “I’m not allowed. So I can’t.
So you can’t expect . . .”
And with the restriction, my own field of freedom
Flung broader and bolder and further. Hen-pecked!

5. Time too to pray – and truer
To wander more mindful my own tradition,
To dabble in Buddhist impermanence
And Islam’s submission to the Holy Mystery
Underneath the unwordable boundless.

6. So, COVID-companion:
A chance to dream a new tomorrow –
The wheel of our days stopped short.
Imagine! “Normal” no more!
A world turning toward the new
For climate-care
For songing and dancing at will.
Imagine! A new me.
And you too –
Self-sculpted in a cocoon.

Ordinary Grace

by Michele Fulves

So much fell away as “shelter in place” orders took hold in the once crowded city. No more tourist dodging clumps of out-of-towners on subway stairs.  Gone were the neighborhood corner coffee cart lines.  Sold out Saturday night movies? Nope. Things that once annoyed, now longed for. 

New York gets a bad rap. But we who brave its daily challenges know. There’s plenty of silent “You go ahead, no you, no you,” negotiations during the morning rush. You can acknowledge an occasional eye on the most crowded subway. The grouchiest melt when babies stare till they get a smile.  Ordinary grace.  I missed that most. 

With no tourists in our midst, the almost all clear bell rang. We dodged each other, ever-mindful of the 6 feet rule. As we emerged, moving masks up and down our noses to keep one another safe, came the biggest present of all. New York became a veritable thankfest. For the dodging, the mask moving, the swerving out of the way. 

Still I had my fears. My shelter housed no one but me.  I hadn’t left it for weeks.  Venturing out to Broadway one afternoon, I saw an eighty-ish woman negotiating door, walker, bag, purse as she exited a bodega.  Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about grabbing the door.  But on this 63rd day of Covid, I paused. “I’m not going in.  I shouldn’t risk it. Maybe I can hold it without getting too close? Can she manage it if I don’t?”  As she crept under the arm stretched to its limits, I heard her say, “Thank you, darlin’ thank you very much.

Thank you for joining us to Write Around the World!

For the rest of the summer, watch our blog! We are sharing writing from AWA’s yearly marathon fundraiser, which happened this year all-online throughout the month of May.

We offer this series in appreciation for the incredible community of writers and workshop leaders that sustain us. If you’re inspired and would like to be part of the fundraiser, please donate!

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