Pen Flights of Nancy Roe

Lending voice to life in search of beauty…

Muse and the Mother

Muse fled. She spirited away the day heaven and earth shattered. TRUST, LUST, DUST, the words sprawled across sign posts, a poster, art reflecting life somewhere down there, down there in the Bywater of New Orleans. There at the end of all things, Muse visited before her exodus, summoned by a mother’s heart, summoned by the charge given her by the mother. “Keep writing,” the first-born son had written, the last words of his will to his mother. So, Muse labored. She eked, she leaked beauty and sorrow, transcendence and metaphor to form the words of heart break, to spill light with blood before the great silence came.

Pulled by the weight of stone, the lights of a small galaxy sunk deep into stillness. As the lights extinguished, a maelstrom of pain, grief, fear, and rage consumed the galaxy in a descent into the black abyss. Alchemy of death, the muse’s mistress, the mother, lost gaping parts of her heart, her essence, her reason to be. The mother held only a shell of herself. Suspended in time, the shell floated in the deep, lifeless, fragile.

Moon phases and cycles marked months passing, capturing the mother’s gaze. Lunar lights infused the mother’s eyes and buoyed her up into the heavens—momentary flights—cleansing her sight with awe and comfort. Moon’s own mother face soothed the mother’s ravaged soul with tender knowing. She reminded the mother of soaring, of wonder, of unending beauty.

As Moon coursed the skies the mother fell, returning to the depths. Loss and death remained at work, seeping into the spaces of a rent heart. Beyond awareness, they forged a remaking in quiet persistence, a metamorphosis on the rise. The mother’s shell cracked, myriads of fissures splitting. Power stirred, leaking light, birthing strength. Fomenting, a new journey began to wake as the pull of muse beckoned. Muse drew the mother by her sweet whispers, her calm warmth, her pure glow.

Moth to flame.

Muse waits, for she knows the time of the story has come.


By Nancy Roe


Wild seed caught by wind drops deep in secret. Black and still, the soil womb nurtures seedling in silence. Years pass and seasons pass of celestial light and dark, wet violent storms, and hot dry summers. In all of this, the sapling reaches sky ward gaining stature.

“You want me to cut the locust?” the landscaper asked me of the spindly fledgling, gangly and tall.

“No,” I said.

And so, beauty built, drawing sugars from sun. Harvesting bounties from endless mysteries, delicate leaflets synthesize energy for growth. Roots feed, hungry and thirsty, on water and soil. All in the dark silence. All in obscurity. Days rush by in a flurry.

Calendar pages turn and turn and turn.

The locust holds his secrets.

New arrivals join the locust. Just wispy sticks of things, two new saplings plant nearby. Though the locust reigns yet unencumbered. The locust gathers sunlight garnering power. Preparation ensues for the flowering.

On the heels of deep-frozen sleep, Spring warmth comes whispering resurrection to life. The locust wakes, now eager, now prepared. New buds swell and burst. Exquisite delicate linen white clusters of blossoms cascade, hanging like dainty grapes. At dawn, at dusk, in sun and shade, air drafts waft perfume. Busy pollinators dance, feasting on sweet nectar.

And still the locust grows, but not alone.

Verdant girth, full and thick, fattens around the locust. Though the new trees that flank him out pace his growth. These neighbors spurt up and out, taking to the heights, blocking sun below. The locust now leans North, top heavy in his resplendence.

Then comes the storm.

With frenzied force, violent winds whip and tear through the trees. Heaving and churning, the relentless winds and rain torrents assault, choreographing a war dance, a dance to the death.

The willowy trees beside the locust weave, bend, and flail. They gyrate gracefully sweeping the ground with leaf fingers. They endure the onslaught, yielding to its force. But the locust breaks, losing its heart.


In the still sun after the storm, stark wounds gape where the locust’s glory dwelt. The lush green jewel of the locust’s heart lies torn from his essence, in the street below.

His burgeoning glorious heart now gone, the locust fades, weakened and diminished. Now an expanding shade canopy blankets the sky as tree neighbors grow taller and wider still, blocking out the sun. Now left in shadow, the life of the locust wanes. His fragrant beauty dies with the strength of the locust.

And so, the locust is cut.

Calendar pages turn and turn and turn.

But as they do, a mystery works beneath the ground, down in the dark. Bustling alive, regeneration bursts exponents in secret. A miracle in the deep makes all things new.

Come Spring, the yard wakes up fresh, tender, and green. But, what’s this?

Everywhere we look, spreading out as far as our small yard reaches, there they are. Dozens and dozens of locust seedlings have made claim. There they stand proudly in their places, a grove arisen.

For you see, the locust grove has come for the felling of the one.

The weather weary one who thrived and suffered.

The one whose heart was torn by storm.

The one who spread fragrance and beauty without reward, without respect of persons.

Johnny is the locust, we the ones flowing from his root source, planted in his wake.

We who rise to show his tenderness and fairness.

We who do not deign to speak ill of another.

We, who with candor and honesty, pierce the phony and go to the heart.

We who have courage to value beauty and creativity over accumulation and power.

We who dare to plumb the depths of truth.


He gave us the love and beauty of himself and captured our hearts forever.

Now it is our turn.

We do it for Johnny.


John Ecclesiastes Liberty Pretasky



By Nancy Wilde Sartz Roe

Sandburs and Tumbleweeds

West we traveled. My family laid to rest its migrant ways to settle into the Northern Midwest. We settled into the land of towering bluffs where rattlesnakes sunned themselves on rocky bluff outcrops. Here we found a land of rolling hills and coulees untouched by ice age glaciers. This region of black fertile soil and lush farmlands flowed with pristine springs and streams offering plentiful fish and fresh tender watercress at early spring thaw.

But my family put down its roots in the city. We came to live down the street from the large muddy river that flooded deep, spilling out of its banks and up into the roads after a winter that piled snow second story high. We hunkered down in the heart of it, in this river country of sultry humid summers thick with may flies and river barge traffic. Here the mighty river cut a deep valley through bordering bluffs in bordering states. Here in the Mississippi River valley of La Crosse, Wisconsin we made our new home.

My world sprouted new beginnings, crisp and bright, as my family began afresh in the distant Midwest. We started out in an arid pocket of urban landscape in south side La Crosse. Our first home was a tiny ranch house, complete with laundry shoot and small postage stamp yard enclosed by a chain link fence.

Though now, out on the black top over at my elementary school playground, delicate weightless tumble weeds the size of beach balls danced and rolled in clouds of stinging sand, powered by wind gusts and back lit by the warm autumn sun. Here we played, my new-found small girl companion and I, running, laughing, swinging. Free as the wind whirled the bliss of our new friendship, and free as the tumbleweeds we danced in the gusts of it. But eclipsing the joy that we shared came a creeping animus that stuck and pierced like the sand-burs around us.


By Nancy Wilde Sartz Roe

President Eisenhower comes to Laconia, New Hampshire in 1955. Our small New England town bursts alive with bustling excitement. Parades, brass bands, and adoring throngs line the streets to welcome and behold him. Eager and excited, my family and I join the throngs. As if in a spotlight, the memory of him waving from the cavalcade to the crowds radiates brilliant clarity. In those light-filled moments, the sight of the president imprints me deeply, and feelings of awe, reverence, joy, pride, and safety wash over me.

For our dear “Ike” later spoke these words, “To be true to one’s own freedom is, in essence, to honor and respect the freedom of all others.” And, “A people that values its privileges above its principles soon loses both.”

As a small person, I know not any of this. But beyond words, luminous and sure—inspiring depth, breadth, and height from its very core—the essence of patriotism radiates the untarnished, unsullied, and intuitive. Does it not offer a place of love for fellow, joy, and peace? It did then for four-year-old me.

When in the first grade, we pledge allegiance to the flag at the beginning of each school day. Solemn joyful reverence lights up the air as my small classmates and I rise to our feet, put our hands on our hearts and gaze at the American flag, elegantly draped with its gold braided tassel on the polished wooden stand at the front of our classroom. We then rhythmically recite the words in soft hushed tones.

“I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Deeply moved, I find I choke-up at the end. Though the under-God part puzzles me. I don’t quite know what to think about it. But the weight, the hush, the solemnity of the words, “indivisible, with liberty and justice for all,” carry with them a sacred charge, a joyful promise, like wings ascending.



By Nancy Wilde Sartz Roe

With the changing weather, the golden days of summer give way to brilliant autumn displays and rain drenched shivering coolness. Days grow shorter, and the sunlight casts long horizontal rays amid the lengthening shadows. Now wild brisk winds whip across the open vastness of the field driving rippling waves of grass. Ragged clouds scatter, racing with the wind, as I wander out back. My friend and I travel far today, and Lady Beauty stays at home. Today my boy companion and I hike beyond the field, beyond the far distant end where the trailer and danger dwelt. Sunlight and cloud cover dance in the wind scattering light and dark all over the landscape as we reach our destination.

The expansive gravel pit spreads out distant, open, and high before us. A small shallow rocky stream gurgles brightly as the cold rushing waters carry away sticks, leaves and debris—like small boats speeding to a far port. The brisk rushing waters offer a place to launch new voyages for floating things, a place to stride, jump and balance on large rocks as we ford the waters, a place to slip, immerse and feel the cold and wet seeping deep.

Such “mountains” beckon us from the heights in the gravel pit. But first, we run on the glorious “plains” leaping and garnering speed to take flight as we ascend and climb—scaling over rocks, grasping dirt, loosening rocks that cascade and crash down the hill. We race to see who will be king of the mountain. We scramble to the the top and mount the summit. Now breathless, we shout and laugh, our hair whipping in the darkening sky. For we rule over all that we see as the land spreads out distantly around us. We reign mighty conquerors, kings, and queens as we descend and ascend again and again in our play. My boy child friend and I are free travelers and adventurers today. For the dirt beneath our nails, the rocks, the coursing waters, the cold winds on our hands and cheeks, the changing lights in the autumn sky and the sheer bliss of our “mighty” agile feats have exhilarated us, washed us, and crowned us wild and free.



By Nancy Wilde Sartz Roe

Juxtaposed visceral and vibrant, pleasure and pain flood my early childhood where life in a small New England village fills my landscape. And, oh—during the 1950s—what a glorious time and place it was. But the darkness lurked.

Here I find the idyllic and the fearsome. I discover dazzling beauty of nature’s bounty, but I endure bursts of wounding chaos. Bliss abounds—the fresh, new, tender, and bright—but so does illness. Nascent gifts emerge—heralding promise—though fear gusts rend me ragged like a cloth in the wind. The wide-open discovery—of all the wild and the wonder and the vast and the tiny—welcomes me. But lonely heartbreak lies in wait.

My family moves to Laconia, New Hampshire in early October of 1954. Spreading out south of the White Mountains and encompassed by lakes and water ways, its motto remains today “City on the Lakes.” Here we settle, my family and I, into this wonderland of vast clear pebbled waters and, oh, so much more.

In Laconia, a world of fresh beauty and delight envelops small me. For I dwell amid woods, brooks, flowering lush fields, and distant towering mountains. Here my family and I enjoy summertime swims in cold clear lakes as we gather for picnics in the park. Main Street downtown hosts the Winnipesaukee River’s clear gurgling waters, chattering brightly as they rush below our feet under an arced stone bridge.

My young summertime world overflows excitement, glee, and awe. Brilliant stars explode and rain down in the black night sky as the 4th of July fireworks enrapture us all. The annual summer carnival comes to the heart of our small downtown, bursting thrills and delights. The Ferris wheel sweeps me breathless into the heavens lifting high above the lights and fanfare. Merry go ‘round ponies transport me into royal lands as we race up and down on the carousel. I sample billowing soft pink fluffs of melting cotton candy sweetness. And as the sun drenched summer days swift away with the turning of the seasons, the New England autumn advances with blazing glory.

In the fall, I pulse alive with vivid leaf colors. Dazzling sunlit magenta, crimson, canary, pinks, and golds light up the sky with tree fires. Later, these fall trees lift their gifts to the wind. I romp free with family and friends as we join in to gather the scattered brilliance into towering pillow mounds for jumping in and plunging into. In New Hampshire under crisp clear night skies, I find that place for deep longing and wishing upon a star. Here my dreamy harvest moons glow promise. Here I find my beloved home—the best of homes—but all is not well in paradise.




Nancy Wilde Sartz Roe


It took me a long time to realize I have a story—a story worth telling, a story worth knowing. You see, as a 1950’s born, mostly middle-class, mostly Midwestern grown, mostly Caucasian American—I am ordinary. Mostly. The third of four children, I was born into a family where births came every three ½ to six years. The lot of us grew up with two cats, two dogs and two birds. We lived in small homes with big yards for playing and for raising vegetable gardens. Early in our family life, Mother stayed at home and Daddy worked. On the outside, we appeared very much like everyone else in our culture in our time.

But on closer examination, the extraordinary rises to the fore, overshadowing the story of ordinary. For there exists beneath the ordinary, seeds of something else, something more, buried deep. Over time and with the right conditions, the very seeming commonplace and of no consequence life can burst out of the constraints and restraints, burst out of the hum drum of ordinary into the extraordinary—out into the open, into wild adventure. Though a tale worth telling reveals those things, not easy to live or survive. But survive I did. And so, I dare to tell it.

As I embark on this story telling adventure, I sink into the depths of reflection. Here, I find that my life plays out as a fairy tale with all the trappings. Beauty, honor, privilege, promise, wonder, light and laughter, adoration, esteem, adventure, exploration and transcendence weave through a landscape of loss, death, torment, desolation, suffering, trauma, abandonment, sorrow, bitterness, abuse and exploitation. Or is it the other way around? Perchance, the stories of loss and suffering weave through a tapestry of light and beauty. I imagine it will become clearer to me and to you as we explore this landscape together. Perhaps you will meet yourself here. Perhaps you are ordinary just like me.



My writer sister births life in her words like a doula. Her raw beauty and honesty beg me to move, to respond as in song. In safe open sacred spaces, her words welcome and invite me to find and birth my own. So, I am raw here.

Dear Lord, HELP!

I am caught in a whirlwind swirl of sweet hope, a glimpse of life, and the forces of hell shrouding my identity with ugliness, emptiness, despicable shame, a reject. I’m lost in the void of panic, restlessness, purposelessness. It comes every day. I laugh when I’m empty and hurting. I grasp at TV viewing to find relief. I eat, drink trying to fill in the gaps. Panic infuses, what do I do? I do not know what to do.

One thing I discover as I reflect and view my thoughts and feelings is this. I am caught in the lies of my captor. These are the lies formed to destroy me. These are the lies that he wants me to believe, know, think, and feel about myself. This is the trap, the false identity that feels real. He tells me I’m too evil to consider Sacramental living, that I am outcast, unacceptable. I’m not like those good religious girls. And the telling is done with innuendo like a smear besmirching their characters.

This is life in the war zone. I live suspended between heaven and hell, and the forces of both are palpable and active.

My dreams at night are filled with hellish intensity trying to pull me under into torment. I wake in a stupor covered with oppressive death shrouds.

I have been embattled for years now, and I am worn out, worn down. I have suffered from shame and self hatred my whole (long) life. So I am easy, susceptible, a sucker for a bad familiar lie.


I want the Holy and the Sacramental.

I want shining boldness. I want to live a beloved warrior, an ezer kenegdo.

I know I must continue to seek, ask, knock. I know I must continue to follow my homing instincts.

Thus, I tumble to safety. Rescue from the fight, I find myself again in the Psalms. The Anchor secures me safely in the ancient words. My eyes stumble upon the mirrors of my soul looking back at me. Here the words echo my own anguished cries of longing, desperation, languish, and pain. I can exhale here. My prayers form and come alive, a familiar whisper, seeing and being seen, knowing and being known. Relief! Hope!

The war zone teaches me. I discover that in the deepest, blackest depths of all my darkness, GOD is afoot. He works, even when I have no awareness of Him. He works, breaking life, hopefulness, a sense of surety about HIS VOICE. PEACE. LIGHT. LIGHTNESS, springing up joy, whispering a future…

The casting off of death is rising now as sure as the slow steady indomitable move of flood waters. Coming. SURE. TRUE. FREE.



I am coming home again. The call came. I am being roused awake as if from stupor. A fair breeze wafts in on the words, the musings of others, the telling of their stories. They are the writers whose words I study and marvel at, whose words I soak in and relish everyday. The message comes clearly as sun bright blue sky uncluttered. It invites. It beckons. It calls me to that familiar place where I scribble my words and conjure up beauty and images and relive and revive emotions. The rousing stirs me to ponder and reflect as it playfully dances like soft caressing wind currents.

“Come. Play. Free the Words. Free your life. Free your life force. Let us go to new fresh dreams and visions. Let us warm ourselves before the bright, hot, fragrant sparks flying up from night fires, dizzying our senses in the deep wild blackness of woods.”

I am hearing this call again, this call to write. But this time, afresh. This time, I am being invited to play, to soar, to return to the garden. I am making my way back to the beginnings of the wonder that has ever been with me. I am making my way back to imagination, story, and adventure.

Here I stumble upon myself. I am startled to find I am one created, a masterpiece and image bearer with capacity to etch out the wonder and the mystery. Here gravity and other earth constraints do not limit. For I may fly, sail, voyage, discover, unveil, and heal without leaving the quiet small ordinariness of my chair. It happens in the reading, and it happens in the writing. There is so much living in the seeing of it and the telling of it. The unearthing of wonder and pleasure and new thought landscapes abound here.

Come with me. Ascend and transcend with me to the beauty, the holy, the sacred, the intimate union, to seeing and being seen, knowing and being known. Come with me.

The path is unknown to me too. I have never been here before. Should we venture out together? Shall we seek to find the wild free, the antidotes for the poisons, the return to the garden, together? Come with me.

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