It seems to be gaining popularity lately (at least in my respective circles) to embrace the seasonal nature of our world and lives. I am encouraged as I see more and more discussion of what it means to slow down and rest in the winter months before welcoming the busybodied joy of spring with open arms. I love this. And I truly believe in its goodness for us.

But of course, in addition to recognizing the slow, still nature of winter, there is another aspect we can’t ignore: winter brings death.

And with it, grief.

We may be slowing our minds and bodies, but they are not quite still—like the simmering pot of soup on the stove, we stir the deepest corners of our minds. Combine this increased introspection with a lack of sunlight, and we all know how easily the recipe can end with a downcast soul.

If you’ve been around Manifold Witness for a while, you’ll know that depression is a frequent character in my own story. It has been for a long time. And yet every winter I am somehow surprised when I find myself trudging through loneliness and hopelessness again. Sometimes it lasts months, sometimes days, sometimes only fleeting moments strung throughout the season. And this is coming from someone who gladly admits to loving winter (especially when it comes with snow).

I delight in it, but it also seems to leave me a little weary every year.

No matter what these last long days of winter look or feel like for you, I hope you resonate with the truth that winter not only demands us to slow, but to grieve. For many, the grief is personal. For all of us, there is at the very least the necessity to see the grief in the world around us.

Before we can clear away the leaves and brush, we must look at it.

Before we can revel in new life, we have to grapple with the crumbling of the old.

For your pondering during these damp early days of not-quite-spring, I share with you my poem, “Only Bones,” originally published in Issue 2.2 of LandLocked Magazine.

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Oh, friends. It was a thrilling class.

We read a lot of short stories—Poe, Chesnutt, Hawthorne, etc. But one of the few full-length novels we read was Melville’s Moby-Dick. I’m not sure I can say I loved Moby-Dick. I’m honestly not sure how much I would have enjoyed it at all if not studying it thoughtfully with other literature-lovers. But I can say that I appreciate it immensely. Especially for the unexpected connection it holds to my beloved prairie.

There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried Evangelist St. John. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery prairies and Potters’ Fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness. (Moby-Dick, Chapter 111)

For those unfamiliar with Moby-Dick, I’ll summarize it swiftly like this: in this gothic tale, whiteness is not purity and bright hope, but sheer terror, madness, and void. In the endless unknown of the ocean, Melville saw a similarity to the endless amber waves of grain of America’s heartland. He also drew direct comparisons between whale-hunting and the diminishment of the bison. In fact, I wrote an 18-page literary analysis on this very connection as my final paper for the class. I titled it “Bluestem and Blubber” (and got an A from a stingy professor, I’m happy to report).

Ah, but you came here for poetry. Not literary analysis.

So let me entreat you to read a small, imploring poem of mine written in the same spring I first read Melville. This poem also happens to be an ekphrastic poem, and its title comes from the photograph which inspired it.

Lastly, I will call your attention to the aspect of this poem that is too often disregarded when considering environmental themes in literature: The God who created this world cares about it, and it is written into our nature (into our bones, if you will) as the Imago Dei to both mourn its destruction and have hope-rooted peace in its eventual restoration.

My poem “Bison Skulls to Be Used for Fertilizer, 1892” was originally published in Issue 52 of Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review. You can read it below.

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Hello again, friends.

If you’ve been around since last summer, you’ll know that the birth of my daughter prompted my eagerness to get back into my memoir manuscript and start expanding and revising it. Needless to say, it has been more of a soft nudge than a rear-end kick, but hey—I’m still here. The desire is still brooding. And I’m truly at peace with the time (or lack of it) I have for writing in these swirling, sacred days.

Before you press on, please go back and read Part 1 of this series if you haven’t already, which introduces my memoir project and includes a few “vignettes” from my manuscript about my great-grandmother and grandmother.

Sharing my nonfiction work always feels a little riskier to me, even with most of my poetry being autobiographical. It’s raw. And it’s real. And it’s easy to fear that readers won’t see what I want them to in the realness of my life and loved ones.

However, I’ve always found that the most moving memoirs don’t shy away from this risk. When I first read The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, I was blown away by her ability to portray her love for her parents as broken people who loved her in a (very) broken way. She managed to capture the fact that it wasn’t just a childish view of her parents that allowed her to love them, but the fact that they were her parents, and they really did both love her and fail her.

My story, by God’s grace, does not include childhood neglect or extreme poverty or much of the other unthinkable trauma we so often see in popular memoirs. Sometimes this confuses people when I tell them I’m writing a memoir. They wonder what awful thing happened to me which qualifies me for writing a book about myself. It’s really just a misunderstanding of the genre, but we’ll have to dig more into that topic another time. I’ll simply say that my life, like anyone’s, includes both immense love and immense hurt. And I personally believe that’s what makes (good) memoir so compelling: the beauty of what is real.

So, friends, please enjoy the following three vignettes from my manuscript about one of my favorite people in the whole world: my mom.

DAILY BREAD

My mom loves to write notes because she loves to receive them. As a girl, they were post-it notes on my mirror or a small, folded piece of paper in my lunch box—always in her large, hard-angled cursive:

I love you, baby girl.

Have a great day, Riley Beth!

Good luck today—I love you.

Words mean everything to her. A single word can sustain her a week, a sentence can last months. But it can go the other way too. Sometimes, when wading through doubt or grief, she has told me things my dad once said. Things she wished she had said to my brother before he left. Things that a friend said without thinking, but have never been forgotten.

In these moments, I wish I could look away—as if looking away could make the words slip back out of my ears again. These words, like sword thrusts, carry pain that wasn’t mine but now is.

But here is the secret: if you know the right words, the spell can almost be reversed—like snowfall blanketing crisp, dead grass, I cover pain with reminders of what matters, what’s true:

I love this picture. You’re so beautiful.

Happy Mother’s Day! I’m so blessed to be your daughter.

Saw this and thought of you.

Wish you lived closer.

I love you. Don’t forget it!

Just called to say hi.

I miss you.

But like snowfall, words still melt. And like grass, pain is hard to uproot.

DOMINION OF DARKNESS

In her bedroom, if I pulled down the hinged wooden cover of the secretary’s desk and slid open the little drawer, I would find a stack of notecards hole-punched and hanging on a silver ring. On each notecard, a Bible verse in her handwriting in simple blue or black ink.

Her favorite, as she must have told me at some point, is Colossians 1:13.

One year, for her birthday or Mother’s Day, I wrote it out in my best calligraphy, painted leaves around it, and framed it for her.

He has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of His beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.

DORETTE: A PORTRAIT

As a girl, my mom worried. Her siblings called her “worry wart.” She worried about the Bermuda Triangle, about killer bees. She sat by the window until her parents came home, drunk. And when they finally did stumble in, she’d scream and slam her door.

On the first day of Spanish class in fourth grade, her teacher gave her the name Domingo. On picture day, when she came to school in a dress, the teacher changed her name to Dominga.

She had chopped her hair off short, though her twin sister kept hers long. In one picture, crouching by the side of my grandparents’ brick house alongside her four siblings, my mom wears blue overalls and a white t-shirt, her brown hair even shorter than her two brothers’.

In high school, my mom hated being a twin. Hated when someone would call their house: Is Dorenda there? And if she wasn’t: Is Dorette?

As if they were interchangeable.

Today, my mom still tells me to text her when I get home, even though I live hundreds of miles away. She still prefers cargo pants to jeans, only wears skirts for weddings. Still longs to be seen and feel loved.

And she is.

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The 2025 Christmas Snail Mail Poetry Exchange!

Give and receive the joy of poetry this Christmas! All it takes is some paper, a bit of your time, and a stamp.

Because is there anything better than receiving a poem you can hold in your hand knowing another human being lovingly chose and folded into a little envelope just to send it to YOU?!

You don’t have to be a poet or a writer to participate! And you don’t have to have a vast wealth of knowledge about poetry either (the internet is your friend). You just have to appreciate a good poem and commit to taking the time to send one to a stranger.

And no, the poem won’t necessarily be a Christmas or winter poem. You can indicate your preference on the sign-up survey!

🎄 DEADLINE TO SIGN UP: Friday, December 5th at 7:00 PM CST.

🎁 You will receive your randomly assigned poem recipient by the following evening (Saturday 12/6).

📬 DEADLINE TO MAIL YOUR POEM: Wednesday, December 10th

Click here to sign up!

OTHER THINGS TO NOTE:

• Poems can be printed or handwritten.

• You can sign up to give/receive anywhere from 1-3 poems. You will receive the same number you give, and all poems will be for/from a different person (if doing more than one).

• If desired, you can include your name/email/Substack/etc. with the poem you mail so the recipient can thank you! Or keeping it anonymous is fine too.

• You do NOT need to send something that perfectly fits the themes your recipient listed or that is written by one of their favorite poets. These are just to help you choose something they will better enjoy.

• Please do NOT send one of your own poems. This is not an opportunity to promote your own work. But feel free to send a poem by a poet you know personally if you think they would like it!

• This exchange is open to all and will be curated by me! The only person who will receive your personal information (besides myself) is the person who will be chosen to gift you a poem. They will receive 1) your name, 2) your mailing address, and 3) your poetic preferences from the survey. If you don’t want to share your home address, consider using the address for your place of employment or church.

• There is no cost to participate in this exchange other than the materials/postage needed to mail your poem(s). You can use my “Buy Me a Coffee” link if you really feel so inclined, but please know that your participation alone is already such a gift! I mean it!

We already have 18 people signed up to participate, and there is still a little less than 2 weeks until the sign-up closes. Share far and wide! I can’t wait to fill mailboxes with poetry with you!

XO Riley

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While, of course, you don’t have to be a parent to deeply grasp the Lord’s good, deep love for you, any parent can affirm that the role serves as a tremendous reinforcement of what it means to be a beloved son or daughter of the Lord.

My favorite way the Lord has shown me this truth in my five-ish years as a mother is in the sweetness of watching my children sleep. I’ve made a habit of doing it every single night—I open the door quickly to avoid the squeak of the hinges, close it behind me so the cat doesn’t sneak in, stand on my tiptoes to run my fingers slowly through my eldest’s curls, and then crouch to tuck his younger brother back into the covers and plant a kiss on his precious cheek.

All the bickering, meltdowns, and messes of the day have melted away. Their bodies are finally still. Their eyes finally shut. Their lips puckered peaceably. I’ll repeat the ritual when I finally get into my own bedroom and pull my infant daughter into my arms to nurse.

It is in these moments that my heart swells like none other.

And it is in these moments when I remember that this is not far from how the Lord sees me.

My bickering and messes have melted away too (or, rather, have been washed away by the blood of Christ). The Lord looks at me and finds me precious. His heart swells.

I don’t typically share unpublished poems on Substack, but I felt compelled to share this little verse that sprung into being last night as I held my sleeping daughter. It’s short, but (hopefully) poignant. I send it off to you with love and bedtime kisses. By the time you’re reading this, I might already be sneaking into my children’s bedroom once again…

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In between the last verdant splashes of summer’s greens and the susurrous dance of autumn’s dying leaves there is a beautiful liminal little season that exists here in the heartland I like to call “the golden hour.”

You’ll notice it first by the wild tangle of sunflowers popping up on the other side of the highway’s concrete barriers. If you frequent more wild places, you’ll find goldenrod blooming too. The big bluestem is at its full towering glory, the switchgrass flickers meekly, and the coneflowers are on their last hurrah.

If you’re lucky enough to go somewhere where you can get a more “zoomed out” kind of view (lookin’ at you Flint Hills), you’ll find the prairie is rolling with gold. “Amber waves” takes on a whole new meaning when you’re watching miles of grasslands rolling in the wind like a honeyed ocean.

And then, as quickly as it’s here—it’s gone.

The “golden hour” season just came to a close here in Kansas, and while I’m already missing its warmth, I look forward to the new delights that true fall brings.

So in celebration of all things yellow, I’d love to share with you one of my first (of many) prairie poems I’ve written. It’s a self-portrait painted in the golds of the grasslands. I hope you enjoy reading “Of Prairie,” which was originally published in Issue 2.2 of LandLocked Magazine.

I hope you enjoyed “Of Prairie.” Click here to read more of my poetry.

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1 year. 52 weeks. 365 days.

1 Susbtack publication. 22 posts. 137 subscribers. 311 hearts (yes, I counted).

To be honest, the numbers are nowhere near what I had hoped. They are nowhere near “impressive.” But they're what they are, and I am truly not only at peace with them, but joyous.

I have a little corner of the internet where I get to write.

And I have people who want to read what I write.

What a gift.

I don't have much else to say besides thank you.

You! You beautiful human being reading these very words!

Can you pause here for a moment with me and realize that my humble little self (here I am!) is sitting in a chair by a messy desk breathing in air and blinking my eyes and pressing my fingers to little plastic keys with the alphabet printed on them in order to write these words you are reading?

As for me, I just took a moment to close my eyes and imagine some of the faces of my subscribers and let it sink in that your lovely little eyeballs might read these words after I click the magic button and blast them through the interwebs in your direction. Your beautiful human brain might take my words and make meaning of them. They might even make your precious lips lift into a smile.

What. A. Gift.

So in honor of all the hopes I have for the year ahead and in gratitude for all that the last one has held, I'm cutting you a slice of cake (with a big scoop of ice cream on top) that just so happens to be a poem and not actually cake at all. But hey, poetry is meant to be eaten, right? (If you haven't read “Eating Poetry” by Mark Strand, consider it a second helping of cake. You're welcome.)

When I set out to get this post ready I had one poem in mind. And now after writing my intro, I realize a different one is too perfect for the occasion to ignore… “Here I Am” was originally published in the Spring 2024 Literary Journal by Calla Press (). Sink your teeth in and enjoy!

Click here to hear me read the poem!

I hope you enjoyed “Here I Am.” Click here to read more of my poetry or check out all of my published work.

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Which of my 22 posts over the past year of Manifold Witness has meant the most to you? I'd love for you to leave a comment and let me know!

It seems to be the trend lately when sharing about a new poem that I start with “I wrote the first draft of this poem x number of years ago when I was in school…” I suppose this trend makes sense, seeing as my time studying creative writing in both undergraduate and graduate school included, necessarily, the generation of an abundance of new work. You might say my grades depended on this abundance. And you might be right!

I wasn’t assigned to write an abecedarian, but rather had been assigned to read one. And, of course, nothing better inspires a writer than reading. Needless to say, I decided to try my hand at my own abecedarian. Although I somewhat hate to spoil the surprise if you haven’t read the poem yet, I’ll go ahead and divulge (if you’re unfamiliar) that an abecedarian is a type of acrostic poem “in which the first letter of each line or stanza follows sequentially through the alphabet” (Poetry Foundation). Ironically, the word “abecedarian” can also be used to describe something rudimentary or elementary—which is far from the reality of writing a poem in this form, at least if you’re doing so in free verse like me.

When drafting the poem, I didn’t have an inkling of an idea of what I wanted to write about. I just found a word that started with “a” and got going. The first draft was a chaotic ramble of a poem with no clear story or overarching theme. But one theme that made its way in was that of sanctification. And, since its first iteration somewhere around nine to ten years ago, there was the image of peeling oranges.

It was a wonderful challenge to excavate this old poem last year and give it an overhaul. Sometimes there are words that fit perfectly with the abecedarian form, but you just can’t figure out how to get them to make sense in that spot (while keeping a relatively uniform line length). I truly reveled in the challenge of it.

Although the driving image of juicy orange slices and a mother repetitively peeling are lighthearted and fresh, they are presented with the somewhat gruesome analogy to our own skin being ripped and mangled in the process of sanctification. And goodness—is that not what sanctification truly feels like?

I won’t unpack it further, for I do wish to let you experience the poem for yourself. Needless to say, I’m honored and delighted that Vita Poetica has chosen this poem for publication in its Summer 2025 issue. It feels like the perfect time for it to be “born” into this world, in this ugly heat of summer (it has been sooo hot and muggy in Kansas City lately).

I hope you are able to taste both the sting and refreshment of my poem! And if you’d like to hear me read it, click here to take a listen.

I hope you enjoyed “Like a Mother Peeling Oranges.” Click here to read more of my poetry. And be sure to check out the other amazing work included in this latest issue from Vita Poetica.

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For me, it's a memoir manuscript that has sat untouched for over four years.

There are many reasons for this (and all of them valid). The main two: burnout and motherhood. The manuscript was my thesis project for my MFA degree. I completed it, defended it, and let the academic/creative burnout seep deep as I set it aside to give myself some rest. My first child was also born about a month after completing it, and—as you'll soon understand when I explain the topic of the memoir—his birth changed everything. It changed me. Changed my story. Changed the very story I was trying to write.

With the arrival of my daughter at the beginning of May (who is strapped to my chest sleeping as I type this), I am now blessed to be the mother of three exquisite little humans. And though I suspected this for a while before her birth, I now know with certainty that my memoir is not just in need of revision, but expansion.

Easier said than done, of course.

There are three key terms I use when describing my memoir: matrilineage, martrescence, and mental health.

I can give a much longer description too (you can check out the abstract I wrote for my MFA thesis project if you're really curious), but those three pillars are what have driven the manuscript and continue to keep me grounded in the throughline of the story.

The funny thing is, when I completed the version of my memoir that was my thesis, I thought “matrescence” was all about the build-up. Matrescence, defined simply, is the process of becoming a mother. But as any mother knows, that journey doesn’t explicitly end at any point. Or maybe ever.

To start, I'm asking questions (and letting those questions roll and knock around in my brain for a bit). What does matrescence look like beyond the moment your baby is placed in your arms? What more do I have to say about mental health now that I’ve battled depression and anxiety in new seasons (especially as little ones look on)? And how does the birth of my daughter change the way I consider my matrlineage—a maternal line she now (at least temporarily) punctuates?

But I can't ask questions forever. I also need to answer them.

And I need to write.

So in honor of the birth of my daughter and with the hope of dusting off the dream of finishing (and publishing) my memoir, I'd love to share a 3-part series here on Substack of brief excerpts from my manuscript.

For Part 1, I will share a poem modeled after Genesis 10 which illustrates a driving theme in the memoir, as well as two vignettes about my great-grandmother and grandmother. For Part 2, I will share two more vignettes about my mother and myself. And for Part 3, I’m holding myself accountable to get new words on the page and write about my daughter—a birth story, maybe? A scene from her newborn days? A poem? I’m along for the ride with you in waiting to find out!

I know this is a little different from my poetry, which most of my writing in the last year or so has consisted of. But I hope you, my reader-friends, enjoy it nonetheless. And maybe some new friends with different reading/writing interests will find their way here too!

A little note on form before you proceed: my memoir is written in a somewhat hybrid form, including short, titled nonfiction vignettes as well as poems.

THESE BE THE DAUGHTERS

Minerva Jane begat Martha Angeline
          and Mary Elizabeth;
          Nancy Jane and Annie Artemeny.
The daughters of Martha Angeline were Atta May,
          Minnie Belle, and Mary Ethel.
And this Minnie Belle began to be mighty in the earth.
Forsooth the daughters of Minnie Belle were
          Minnie Ola and Margaret Angeline,
          Mary Shannon, Ruby Mae, and Abbie Cordelia.
And the daughters of Abbie Cordelia were
          Margaret Ann, Ouida Pearl, and Abbie Louise.
And Ouida Pearl begat Robin Louise, Dorenda, and Dorette.
          And the daughters of Dorette were me;
          And the daughters of Dorette were me.

ABBIE LEARNS TO DANCE

Much of what I know about my great-grandmother, Abbie Cordelia (or “GaGa” as my mom and her other grandchildren called her), is from a grainy video of her telling her life story to a camcorder at age 78. The video, which was recorded by my great-aunt in 1990—five years before my birth and just a few months before GaGa’s death—is nearly two hours long, the entirety of which shows my great-grandmother’s slightly bent, cream-sweatered frame sitting on a rattan chair with red cushions, her eyes gently closed. Her hair, once as deep brown as her mother’s, is dark grey and short, and she has a simple strand of pearls around her neck.

At one point, she recalls one of her own childhood “homes.” She starts by telling of her mother’s postpartum depression after the birth of her younger brother, and how this depressive episode—like many before it—resulted in her mother moving to a nearby town to live with a brother while she recovered. GaGa and her family were living in Mineral Wells, Texas at the time, where most of her childhood and adolescence was spent.

After weeks turned to months turned to nearly a year, GaGa’s father went out to O’Donnell, Texas where his wife was staying and made arrangements for the whole family to move out and join her.

It was in O’Donnell that GaGa met her cousins for the first time, spending the warm summer evenings under stars with them for company. She and her siblings shared in the neighbor’s farm work—and in their harvest too. It was even in O’Donnell that GaGa says she learned to dance. Eyes still closed, she recounts again, her plump lips almost frowning before parting: “It seemed that we were out there for so many years, but we were only out there nine months.”

There’s something about the places we inhabit as children.

Time flows slower in those early years. Memories dig their way in deeper. Our feet remember floors, soil, and grass in the same way our ears are carefully tuned to the music of our mothers’ voices. Maybe it’s really just a matter of comparison—each time you experience an October, with its fiery trees against still-blue skies, you can count on your fingers how many Octobers you’ve experienced before it. On just one hand if you count the ones you remember.

I’d have to use my toes to count my Octobers now, and some of my freckles too.

OUIDA PEARL: A PORTRAIT

When she became a grandmother in 1991 after the birth of my cousin, Ouida Pearl deemed herself “GiGi,” pronounced with a hard G, like grand or glory or gleam.

She grew up in Memphis, Texas, a small cotton town southeast of Amarillo that had already boomed and started drifting downward by the time she was born in 1940. The town had only a few thousand people, but Ouida Pearl was its shining star. In high school, she was the drum major as a freshman. In college, she started beauty pageants, finding herself crowned in 1960 as both May Queen of Baylor University and runner-up Miss Texas.

Soon after marrying my grandfather, James Edward Bradshaw, in 1961, she found herself crowned with two new titles: mom and alcoholic. But I never knew this Ouida Pearl.

I know GiGi.

GiGi, who has a bronze forty-year sobriety chip jingling in her pocket.

GiGi, whose laugh can fill a room plus all the ones surrounding it.

GiGi, the thought of whose poppyseed pound cake makes my stomach roll like thunder to this day (the secret: a pound of Crisco and serve it cold).

GiGi, grandmother to fifteen grandchildren, all of whom have known her to whisper in their ear at least on one occasion: Don’t tell, but you’re my favorite.

GiGi, who always had her toenails painted red when I came to visit as a girl. I would do the same before we left Kansas, rushing in her front door after the 8-hour drive and throwing off my shoe to reveal five ruby-red toes. She’d do the same.

GiGi, who once took a picture with a chimpanzee and almost sent it out as her Christmas card: With Love from Ouida and Jimmy.

GiGi, who had the beauty mark on her cheek tattooed back on after the dermatologist removed it.

GiGi, who can make any one-syllable word sound like it has two with her high, Texas drawl.

GiGi, who is beautiful and fiery and mine.

Be sure to subscribe so you don’t miss Part 2 of this 3-part series in which I am sharing snippets of my memoir-in-progress about matrescence, matrilineage, and mental health. Thanks for reading Manifold Witness! I’m so delighted you’re here.

XO Riley

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Nailing down one’s “voice” is a well-loved topic in the writing world. For some writers, it seems to come naturally, dripping into each poem, essay, or story as easily as opening your mouth and speaking. For other writers, it is a challenge of refinement to look at your body of work and determine which pieces feel most true, followed by an attempt to continue traversing (or writing) in that direction.

A writing friend recently told me that my “voice” was so clear in my poetry, and that she struggled with finding her own. I was a little surprised by this comment, not necessarily because I was disbelieving, but because I hadn’t really stopped to think about it before. I think it’s easy for me, as a writer, to break down my work by genre, theme, or style. However, I don’t often think about voice. If I am the one writing it, doesn’t that automatically make it my voice?

I think some of it goes back to the topic of genre, theme, and style actually. In my current season of life and writing, I have definitely seemed to develop a preference of genre (poetry), theme (wonder, creation, motherhood), and style (pastoral, invitational, maybe even psalm-like?). Is it because of these focuses that my voice appears definable? If I look at my work in other genres, of other topics, or of different styles, is my voice still there?

In my last post, I mentioned that my new poem published with TWB2O was originally written when I was in grad school, circa 2019. With this one, we’re digging back even further—my newest poem, “Salvation in Kilograms Per Meter Cubed,” was first drafted when I was in undergrad, probably in 2016. It may only be a few years older, but this was actually at the very beginning of my reemergence as a creative writer. Before switching my major to English my junior year of college, I probably hadn’t written a poem (outside of a school assignment) since I was ten years old.

It was strange to wrestle with and revise such an old poem, for not only was its topic a slight shift from my norm (at least lately), but its bones were also in a very different style than what I typically stick to in poetry. It was almost like looking at an old photo of yourself, thinking how much you’ve changed but how much you’re still you. The poem holds fast to brevity, not only in line and stanza length, but also in language and imagery. In an attempt to echo the topic of the poem (density/beauty in smallness) through form, I found myself challenged to not run away with the lengthy, flowery descriptions that I tend to use in my poems.

The themes of childlike wonder and faith might be the only thing about this poem that feels true to my poetic “voice,” but maybe I’m just overthinking it. Maybe brevity and simplicity can spout from my pen too.

But before you read the poem, I want to shift from the topic of voice for a moment and reflect on the heart behind the piece…

A little fun fact: the original title for this poem was “Childhood in Kilograms Per Meter Cubed.” However, after revising and getting ready to submit, I realized this poem isn’t really about what it means to be childlike, but what it means to “enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3).

But what does that even really mean?

If we aren’t childlike enough, are we not granted salvation?

One of the things I’ve noticed since having children (my oldest just turned four) is how hard it can be to turn off my adult way of thinking and humble myself into a more childlike posture.

There are some things that come more easily to me—like reading books (even if it’s the same one ten times), an art project, or crouching down in the grass to get a closer look at an earthworm. But there are even more things that don’t come easily at all—playing make-believe (hunting monsters or ninja sword fights are my older son’s go-tos), taking my attention off the task at hand to “watch this” or “look at that,” or joining in the laughter (or should I say mirth) of watching a tower of plastic stacking cups knocked over for the seventeenth time. I think what’s easy and what’s not is different for each of us—my husband seems to enjoy the make-believe sword fights and monster hunts much more than I do. Regardless, becoming childlike is in its very nature humbling. And humility is hard.

The ESV translation of Matthew 18:3 says we will not enter the kingdom of heaven unless we “turn and become like little children” (emphasis added), and I think this turning is really the key. Salvation is never about performance, but re-formance. Through God’s grace and Christ’s sacrifice, we are re-formed into new creations. Becoming like little children comes after the turning, and it’s something that we can (and arguably must) choose to pursue day by day.

And so finally, as always, it’s a delight to share my work with you. I’m filled with gratitude to for finding this little (but hopefully still “dense”) poem worthy of publication in their newest issue, titled “Mirth.” While my poem isn’t one that will leave you giggling (though there are some wonderful pieces in the issue that will), I hope it is one that will remind you to stop and learn from the masters of mirth in this world—the crumb-ridden, belly-giggling, chaos-causing, question-spouting little creatures we call children.

Now let me close with one last little story—one last patch on the quilt, if I may…

There’s a Goodwill less than a quarter mile from our house that I walk to with my kiddos often. It’s a great chance for us to get out of the house, and I am admittedly a bit of a thrift addict. This morning after a failed attempt at distracting grumpy kids with water painting and other activities so I could finish writing this Substack post, I poured nuts and dried fruit in the snack cups, dug the double stroller out of the shed in the backyard, and waddled my two-days-shy-of-my-due-date pregnant self down the street to see what deals (read: distractions) we might find.

I’d be a fool to think that God wouldn’t work through something as small as what secondhand treasure might be sitting on the shelves of a Goodwill right when you need it.

When we got back, my four-year-old was the one who excitedly lugged in the box from the stroller to show his dad who is working from home today—a never-been-used “fort-building kit” consisting of plastic balls and rods for you to build a custom structure with and throw a blanket over.

I’m hurriedly finishing this post as my kiddos scarf down their lunches with the promise of building a fort together when they’re done. My question for you, dear readers—

Will you get down on your knees and crawl deeper into the Kingdom with me?

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Read My Published Work

P.S. If you didn’t catch it above, I mentioned that I am just two days away from my due date with our third child. We are so excited to welcome our daughter into our family! While I’m not sure what my writing life or Substack presence will look like in this new season, I hope to be “around” in some capacity before too long. I am thankful for you, my reader-friends!

The incredibly anticipated spring issue of The Way Back to Ourselves Literary Journal, “In His Garden,” debuted online this week, and I am honored to have a poem included. If you want to fill your cup with beauty (both in words and visually), be sure to head over to the online issue and check out the plethora of amazing work. I have yet to be able to sit down and enjoy it all, but I am already eager to explore the work by other writers I admire such as , , , , , , , , and so many more.

My poem, “When the Yellow Finally Arrives,” dates back to my time living in Iowa for grad school. The poem sat (mostly) untouched for years before I recently resurrected it and gave it a few rounds of revision and expansion until I finally deemed it “ready.” Ironically, I happened to stumble upon the poem’s earliest draft just this past week when I found the few dozen poems I wrote as part of National Poetry Writing Month (also known as “NaPoWriMo”) in 2019.

So here’s a special treat for you—an insider’s scoop at just how much a poem can evolve. Now before you keep scrolling, I’ll say that you can of course proceed to read these poems in whichever order you prefer. My preference would be for you to read the final published version first before swirling back in time-travel to see where it started. But do as you please! And have fun doing so!

Here is the link to my newest published poem:

“When the Yellow Finally Arrives” by Riley Morsman

The Way Back to Ourselves Literary Journal

“In His Garden” Spring Collection

April 2025

And now, you can enjoy the special glimpse at the poem’s earliest draft from just over six years ago:

As you can see, a lot of the poem’s driving images remained, but a lot of expansion occurred as well. What do you think? Is there something from the initial draft you wish made it to the final cut? What newer images or lines from the final poem do you enjoy the most? I’d love it if you left a comment and let me know!

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It’s especially meaningful to welcome this poem into the realm of my published work at this little moment in time since I am getting ready to welcome my first daughter into my arms any day now—I’m 11 days out from my due date, eep! I have truly been anticipating her arrival as eagerly as I have the vibrancy and warmth of spring.

I’ll also mention that I anticipated maintaining forward momentum with my writing life right up until her birth. However, if you noticed my absence from Substack over the past month or so, then it’s no surprise to you when I point out that my pace has seemed to slow down sooner than I expected. I’m trying not to be disappointed and to simply embrace the season at hand—I know the words will flow again.

And I’ll welcome them as warmly as the buttery daffodils when they do.

When the yellow finally
arrives, I will be wide-
eyed. I will have loved
the brown and green
in the waiting.

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Thanks for reading Manifold Witness! I mentioned in a recent post a little bit about my decision to turn on paid subscriptions. While there aren’t currently any tangible “perks” to a paid subscription besides my gratitude, I can at least offer this: click here for the opportunity to support me and my writing at 50% off… forever! (That’s only $2.50/month or $25/year!)

P.S. You can check out a complete list of my published work on my author website here!

I'm not sure exactly what number should go in front of “years.” Since my eldest was born? That would be almost 4. Since college? That's nearly 7. Sometimes I feel like it may just be the reality of my entire walk with the Lord. Have I ever made scripture the priority it deserves? That answer is a definite no, but then again, I’d wager that's mostly true for all of us.

But I'm not here to talk about shame or regret or the tightrope dance between legalism and obedience—at least not today.

I wrote briefly on the topic in a note early in the new year. My personality has never seemed to line up easily with routine, and for most of my life, I think I've used that as an excuse for choosing erraticism over stability. No human life is free of patterns; the Lord wrote the need for rhythms into our very being. We wake and we sleep and we wake again. Breath cycles through our lungs endlessly. Our bodies, our minds, and our souls flow through seasons of sowing and reaping and barrenness just as the world around us does the same.

And ah, how the Lord uses this very basic truth to teach us our need for Him. Again and again Jesus compares the nourishment of our souls to our bodies’ rhythmic need for food: “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God” (Deuteronomy 8:3; Matthew 4:4).

As I stride (or maybe pitter-patter is a better word) toward making Scripture-reading as consistent in my daily rhythms as I do appeasing my empty stomach, I'm turning to writing as a way to celebrate the ways the Lord meets me there (and in hope, as there always is when I write, that my words might be used to bless others in some small way).

I'm calling this series “Scripture Sips” not only because I plan to keep the posts brief, but in large part because my current season of mothering tiny humans often feels like a “sipping” season—just ask me how many times I've found a mug of cold coffee or tea still three-quarters full after the kids go to bed in the evening. I know my time in the Word might have to come in sips as well sometimes, but praise God that when it comes to the Living Water, one drop might as well be an ocean.

So let's get sipping, shall we?

For this inaugural post, I'll share a story from a few weeks ago (shortly after resolving to make Bible time a staple in my daily rhythms).

My boys (currently ages 2 and almost 4) were engaged in what seemed to be focused and contented independent play, so I poured myself a quick mug of something warm and snuck away to my favorite corner of the couch. I had just unraveled the leather strap from around my Bible and opened to where I needed to be in Genesis to keep up with my reading plan when my oldest son suddenly appeared at my side and began to trace his small fingers along the side of my mug.

“Mommy, what birds are these?”

I set my highlighter back down and tried not to let my exhale turn into an audible sigh.

“That one is a goldfinch. And this one is a robin.”

“And here's another robin!”

“Well, actually that one is a bluebird. They both have orange bellies, but see how the bluebird is blue and the robin is kind of a grayish brown?”

We turned the mug, and he correctly identified the cardinal and blue jay. We talked about the way they both had feathers sticking up in a crest on the top of their heads. We turned the mug further to find another robin, bluebird, and goldfinch.

“Okay, buddy. Why don't you go play so Mommy can read her Bible for a bit?”

“Will you read some out loud to me?”

Once again, I pushed down my bubbling impatience and desire to turn him away. I glanced at the genealogy I was supposed to read in Genesis and decided to turn to the chapter I was supposed to read in Mark instead.

“Okay, I'm reading Mark chapter 4 today. Are you ready to listen?”

He leaned climbed onto the couch and leaned into me as I read to him the Parable of the Sower. I stopped at the end of the parable to talk about it with him and ask if he understood. Then I asked if he wanted to work on a puzzle at the kitchen table while I turned on an episode of one of his favorite podcasts that talked about the same parable we just read. I got out a puzzle for him, started playing the podcast on the Bluetooth speaker, and finally curled up into the corner of the couch once again.

But instead of a sigh huffing from my lips—as often does when I make the mistake of viewing my children as “interruptions”—I found them lifting into a smile.

I looked at my bird-covered mug, the contents now lukewarm, and considered them in light of the ones in the parable I just read:

And he said to them, “Do you not understand this parable? How then will you understand all the parables? The sower sows the word. And these are the ones along the path, where the word is sown: when they hear, Satan immediately comes and takes away the word that is sown in them. (Mark 4:13-14)

Perhaps you are similar to me in that you are more likely to blame yourself and to dwell on your dreadful shortcomings than you are to remember that there is an Enemy, and a cunning one at that.

An Enemy who would love for me to believe that my children are an interruption.

An Enemy who loves when my heart is ruled by frustration and impatience.

An Enemy who loves a mother who considers herself “tired” before she considers herself “blessed.”

An Enemy who would love for me to keep choosing scrolling over Scripture.

An Enemy who loves when my list of excuses grows ever longer.

An Enemy who would love for my eyes to read the words and sentences of God’s Word without my mind and heart engaging.

An Enemy who would love for me to forget that he is there at all.

But as one of my favorite thrifted t-shirts says:

Not today, Satan!

To quote one of my favorite Biblical scholars, Alexandar MacLaren, in his sermon “Four Soils for One Seed”:

“No man is obliged, by temperament or circumstances, to be 'wayside,' or 'stony,' or 'thorny' ground. Wherever a heart opens to receive the gospel, and keeps it fast, there the increase will be realised—not in equal measure in all, but in each according to faithfulness and diligence.

Faithfulness and diligence. This is what the Lord requires of His disciples. (And I might add “humility” as a crucial attribute too.)

And yet, we shouldn’t forget how MacLaren goes on to describe to describe the Lord:

“. . . the great Lord of the harvest, who Himself not only sows the seed, but gives it its vitality, blesses its springing, and rejoices to gather the wheat into His barn.”

For what good is there in rich soil if there is no gracious Sower to spread the seed?

I have to admit, when I look at the birds at the feeder out my window (or the ones painted on my coffee mug), I’d prefer to think of them as little singers of God’s praise and reminders of God’s care for His children (Matthew 6:26). But I suppose it will do me good to also think of the Enemy who comes to pluck the seed of Truth from my heart before I can bury it deep.

Let me always choose to bury your Word deep, Lord.

And in your graciousness, may it bloom.

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Alright, no need for a fancy intro on this one. Let me just offer a quick (but sincere) thank you for your warm and genergous engagement with my last post. Sharing something so vulnerable is never easy, and I’m so grateful to know the Lord has used this small snippet of my story to touch others. Please know that He has also used you to encourage my own heart. I’ve been so grateful to have been in much higher spirits the past week and a half since writing/processing that. The Lord is so gracious to me.

Now let’s dive in with some announcements!

Guess who’s on Spotify?!

I’m delighted to have my poem, “Flesh and Bones and Branches,” included on the new season of “The Poetry Corner” Podcast which released earlier this month. This incredible podcast (brought to you by The Way Back to Ourselves/ and hosted by the lovely and ) features dozens of poems read by their authors. Because who doesn’t want an easy way to fill their life with more poetry?

If you’d like to listen to me read my poem, you can type “The Poetry Corner” or “Riley Morsman” in your search bar on Spotify, and it should pop right up. Otherwise you can just click the link below!

Listen to my poem on Spotify!

I just launched a huge new project…

If you didn’t hear about it already from my Instagram or Substack Notes, I recently launched an exciting new project called “The Hike & Write Virtual Community.” We already gathered for our first ever Community Call in early February and are gearing up to do it again this upcoming weekend. If you like nature, you like writing, and you like community, then you’ll definitely want to check it out.

The best part? The next phase of this project just launched yesterday! I’ve been working for the past few weeks on building a Substack page for The Hike & Write Virtual Community, and it’s finally ready! You can click the button below to check it out. You should be able to find all the info you need on what we do, how we do it, and what to do if you want to get involved.

I can’t wait to watch this special community grow, and I really hope you’ll join us!

Check out The Hike & Write Substack!

Check out this amazing Poetry Workbook!

Last week, the amazing launched a FREE year-long poetry workbook, and I’m absolutely flattered to have two of my poems included! As Kris Ann describes it: “Each month includes 2-4 poems, reflective questions to engage individually with each piece, and a prompt to create your own based on that month’s selected theme.”

There will also be a Live Poetry Reading on March 9th from 5-6 PM CST featuring poets from the workbook. I won’t be reading, but I’m planning to hop on the call to listen and enjoy. Hope to “see” some of you there as well!

Get your FREE year-long poetry workbook!

“Scripture Sips”—A new Substack series coming soon!

If you saw my recent Substack Note about my sweet 2-year-old “reading” his Bible with me, then you already heard about my plans to start a new Substack series touching on what the Lord is teaching me through His Word. I'm calling the series “Scripture Sips,” and I've been working on the first post for a while (the brain space for writing has been sparse lately). I hope to have it up soon! Make sure you’re subscribed so you don’t miss it.

Manifold Witness now has a “Paid Subscription” option…

I told myself that I would consider turning on paid subscriptions when I reached 100 subscribers. Thanks to YOU, I have blown right past that goal (insert a thousand thank you’s here), so I think it’s finally time.

First and foremost, please note that simply knowing my words are being read is a more valuable gift than any chunk of change.

I’ve never wanted my writing to go behind a paywall, so I’ve struggled with justifying what would make it “worth it” for subscribers to upgrade from “free” to “paid.” Should I entice you with some sort of gift? Is there some sort of special content I could reserve just for paid subscribers?

Well, long story short, I’ve decided to stop fretting about it and just go for it. There is absolutely no pressure to upgrade to a paid subscription. And to be frank, I have nothing to offer if you do (besides endless gratitude, of course). All I can say is that any financial gift through this platform will be a huge blessing to this stay-at-home writer-mom of two (soon-to-be three) tiny humans.

It’s almost baby time!

One last bit of news, this time on the personal front. I’m almost 32 weeks pregnant, and we are ready and eager to welcome our first daughter (my husband and I are currently blessed with two little boys). Navigating postpartum is a new adventure every time, and I have to admit that I’m a bit nervous to see how this new season will affect my ability not only to find time for my writing, but also to have the mental clarity to write.

I’m not sure what my Substack will look like in the coming months, but I’m hoping to be here in some capacity—even if that’s just sharing some older work for a while until the brain fog clears.

My family appreciates your prayers and encouragement as we prepare for little girl’s birth and a new family dynamic!

That’s all I’ve got, friends.

As always, thanks for being here. You truly bless me.

Again soon?

XO Riley

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For the last few months, the mere thought of my 30th birthday would send me to tears.

And what's funny is it's not at all the number that's behind the sadness. I'm actually quite glad to finally be in my thirties—there's a certain element of maturity and growth about this decade that I'm eager to welcome.

No, I know who the real culprit is.

My husband would kindly ask how I wanted to celebrate, if I wanted him to surprise me, who I wanted to be with, what I wanted to eat. And before I knew it, my eyelids were dammed rivers threatening to burst. I'd mumble an exasperated "I don't know,” then walk away in a desperate attempt to push the unwanted emotions away.

Back when my birthday was still a ways off, I was actually full of fun ideas. What about an ice cream sundae bar? A costume party? What about something ridiculous like a talent show with all my friends? (Fun fact: I held "talent shows" with all my friends in my family's basement for my 16th, 17th, and 18th birthdays, and it was nothing short of outrageous and delightful.) I have always loved my birthday. I’ve always been proud of my status as a “Valentine Baby.” I joke that I was “born to love,” almost always making time to make and give Valentines to friends (and even strangers). And I definitely always looked forward to the chance for some extra words of affirmation to fill up my own love tank too.

It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly the excitement flipped to dread. But it did.

As the actual date crept closer, I began to wonder if I had a party, who would I even invite? I began to brood on the idea that a milestone birthday is supposed to be filled with close friends and laughter, with people going out of their way to make you feel special and loved. And here I was in a season of loneliness, wondering what it even means to have friendship when my days are spent fighting for patience and joy as an isolated stay-at-home mom of young children.

When I expressed these burdened musings to my husband, he always reassured me that I did have friends. That people did care about me. He would list names of people who would love to go out and celebrate my birthday with me. And he wasn't wrong. But I'd snap back at him with something along the lines of "What good are friends if they show up to your birthday party but are non-existent in your day-to-day life?" All I could think about was pretending to have fun. Fake smiles and fake joy on the outside, while loneliness and cynicism swirled dark and deep within me.

Yet here we are.

As of yesterday, this “Valentine Baby” is 30 years old.

But before I go on, dear reader, can I pause here and be honest with you?

Even as I write these very words, I struggle with knowing if I should be.

Do I want to admit to the world that I cried myself to sleep on my last night in my twenties? That I spent my entire birthday oscillating between numbness and fighting back tears? That I couldn’t even look at my phone for most of the day because each text wishing me a happy birthday made it harder to keep my swelling emotions at bay?

And, since I obviously am sharing these vulnerable details with the world, I find it necessary to inquire the following:

In sharing my story—this story—what outcome am I hoping for?

But let me back up a moment.

This post isn’t really about my birthday.

It’s not even about the things I thought it was when I started writing it. It isn’t about loneliness (not entirely, at least). It’s not about insecurity. It’s not about selfishness. It’s not about exhaustion or disappointment or dread. It's not even about shame.

This story is about depression.

Go back and read again, and maybe this time you’ll see it lurking.

When did my excitement for my birthday switch to dread?

Well that’s not so hard to pinpoint now—not long after Christmas, when the January cold had sunk in not just bone-deep, but soul-deep.

Why have I been all-consumed by loneliness?

Depression.

How did my self-worth plummet to the sea-depths so quickly?

Depression.

Whose cold hands keep pulling me under again and again and again?

Depression, depression, depression.

The great, unwanted magnifying glass that takes your small hurts and broken edges and pushes them deeper and deeper until nothing else can be seen or felt or thought about.

I woke up on the morning of my 30th birthday already drowning. Unlike most days when a night of sleep offers at least a few hours of a peaceful heart and clear mind before I slip back into the pit (sometimes a whole day, sometimes even a few), depression had its icy grip poised around my neck from the get-go.

I forced a smile through a cinnamon roll breakfast. Read books to my sons with at least a semblance of my normal animated cadence. Walked a precarious line between numb and calm as I handled the emotional outbursts, poopy diapers, and lack of personal space that are typical of any day spent mothering small children.

When afternoon finally came, I put my two sons down for their rest before crawling into bed myself. I was tired, yes. But even my 30-week-pregnant body was nowhere near as exhausted as my mind. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep (sleep has always been my escape) and quickly found myself in tears instead.

I thought of my husband, working in the other room, and his sadness at my sadness. I thought of the burden my depression has become not only for myself, but for my family. I thought about what remained of my birthday and wondered how I’d muster through it. I thought of the calls I’d ignored throughout the day. The texts that still needed a response. The large box wrapped in paper with gold stars. The homemade birthday cake in the fridge.

I thought of my almost-4-year-old running to wrap his arms around my legs this morning: “Happy Birthday, Mommy!”

His brother’s bumbling echo: “Birf-bay, Mommy!”

My husband’s gentle kiss upon my cheek.

Please God, I found myself begging as the undammed rivers wet my cheeks and neck and pillow. Help me be happy. Help me be happy for them.

When I woke (after a somehow both deep and restless hour or two of sleep), I did the only thing I could think of: I opened my Bible.

I checked for my place in my reading plan and numbly turned to Genesis 41. I began reading the familiar story of Pharaoh appointing Joseph to lead Egypt. I almost laughed out loud when I reached verse 46:

Joseph was thirty years old…

I took my pencil and scrawled a note in the margin: Read on 2/14/25 (my 30th birthday)

I continued reading, and it wasn't long before I was stopped in my tracks once more, as Joseph names his first two sons:

And the second son he named Ephraim, saying, “God has made me fruitful in the land of my affliction.” (Genesis 41:52)

Again, I lifted my pencil: What would it look like for fruit to come from my affliction? (depression)

I’m not sure why I wrote it as a question since I already know the answer.

Or, even if I don’t know what exactly the fruit will be, I know what it looks like to help it grow. I know the garden God has called me to tend.

A garden of words.

A garden of story.

A garden with an open gate.

I’ve been writing about depression since I was blogging on Tumblr in high school. In grad school, it became a major theme of the memoir manuscript I turned in as my final thesis. I’ve had a hard time putting my experiences with it over the past few years into words, but I know that I need to.

My hurting heart needs me to.

My family needs me to.

And maybe, just maybe, someone reading this needs me to too.

Today, I am 30 years and 1 day old. I haven’t cried a single tear. And I haven’t fought them back either. My day has been filled with genuine smiles and laughter and (dare I say it?) some joy too. It feels a lot like the calm after the storm, but we know storms always come again. Maybe it’s more like a screaming babe finally falling asleep on his mother’s chest—a calm of exhaustion, but also comfort. I know I’m not out of the pit yet, and even when I am, it’s possible that another season will bring me sliding down here once again.

But something about the promise of fruitfulness in the land of my affliction has a spark of hope in it that I’ve been missing. Something about writing the hard things (the really hard things) has been a needed balm to my weary soul.

So there you are, reader. I offer you my all-too fresh, all-too painful story of a despair-filled birthday and my not-so comforting, not-so promising tiny sprout of hope. I still find myself hesitant to hit “publish.” It doesn’t feel like enough of the strings are tied up yet. I know we can’t expect our lives to “tie up” neatly. They never will. But at least our storytelling should, right?

So let me tie a few bows here at the end (the messy, lopsided kind that might unravel if you give the slightest tug):

It’s okay if hope hasn’t found its place in the story yet. It’s okay to be hoping for hope.

Don’t underestimate how healing it can be to cry. Like really, really cry.

And no matter how lonely you feel, I promise you’re never alone.

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And how is it even possible that today he is 2? I promised myself I wouldn't blink...

Today in Kansas (oops am I starting a third story when I promised two?), the sun came out and the wind held back, blessing us with such a glorious afternoon that I found myself in my yellow rain boots cavorting around our muddy yard with my two toddlers. They spent nearly an hour poking at the last of the snow mounds with wet sticks and a mini plastic shovel, and the combination of sunshine, birdsong (mostly crows today), and their little squeals and giggles of delight was truly medicine for me today.

It's funny how that time of day has two names: the “golden hour” and the “witching hour.” I'm thankful that the former name was the best descriptor for us today. We tromped in the mud until the sun finally slipped behind our neighbors' houses and the evening chill reminded us that it is, indeed, still January.

I'm not sure if the rest of my days will be spent in this beloved little state I call home, but I know that the many days I've spent here already have been more full of love and delight than I could have dreamt possible.

So Happy 164th Birthday, my dearest Kansas! And to my precious little 2-year-old: I hope you learn to love your home state as much as your crazy all-things-prairie-and-yellow-obsessed mama. There's nothing more beautiful than the corner of the world that is yours.

And with that—I'll leave you, my friends, with the final parting gift of some of my very favorite photos I've taken of Kansas over the years. Enjoy!

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Psst! Did you hear about my latest project to bring together nature-loving writers?

Check out The Hike & Write Virtual Community here! 🌿

I am thrilled to introduce to you...

The Hike & Write Virtual Community

Whether nature is a major theme in your writing or not, we can all agree there's something about escaping to the wild corners of our world that calms our nervous systems, softens our hearts, and gets those mind-wheels spinning. Combine that with the joy of fellowship with other creatives? Just like that, we've got magic. 

So here's the gist:

🌿 Once a month, there will be a scheduled weekend when participants find time to grab a notebook + pen and go on a nature excursion... Wherever you are in the world! And whenever and however works best for you!

🌿 On Sunday evening of that weekend, participants will gather via video call to chat about what you saw, what you felt, what you wrote, etc.

When will we get started?

📆 The first Hike & Write weekend will be Feb. 1-2, with the group video call taking place on Sunday, February 2nd at 8:00 PM CST. (Yes, I know—only a week away! Get it on your calendar!)

📆 Future H&W weekends will (tentatively) continue on the 1st weekend of each month. 

Even if you're not sure about the dates or how often you can join, please don't hesitate to express your interest! Getting on the email list is by no means a commitment.

Questions? Send me a message so we can chat!

Planning to join? Leave a comment and let the world know!

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I can't wait to get this adventure started.

XO Riley

🌿

P.S. The "hike" part of this initiative is totally flexible.

Maybe you'll take it literally and strap on your boots to drive to the nearest state park. Maybe you'll sit on a bench at a suburban park and just listen to the birdsong. Maybe you'll be slowed down by the tiny strides of your toddler who came along for the adventure. Maybe you'll be blissfully alone. And maybe you have a local writing friend who wants to do it with you. 

Whatever works for YOU is perfect. My hope is simply that you make intentional time to get outside and let inspiration find you.

Perhaps one of the trickiest tasks as a writer, at least in my own opinion, is tackling the issue of color. Sometimes the best course of action is to resist the temptation to “overdescribe” and just state the colors simply. “The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams does this perfectly. The point of the poem is in its simplicity. If Williams had tried to described the redness of the wheelbarrow or the whiteness of the chickens elaborately, the genius of the poem would have been lost. Another great example is Sylvia Plath's “Tulips,” in which the repetition of “white” draws the reader’s attention and allows the images to stick. Other times, a longer or more surprising description builds the image, such as the “pointed pines” of the ocean waves in H.D.’s “Oread.”

The challenge of masterfully handling color within poetry (and all forms of creative writing) is one that could keep any writer busy for a lifetime. Personally, I'm glad of it. The precarious nuance of color and light within this incredible spectrum of a world we get to live in will forever delight me.

And so, I share with you a timely poem of mine titled “Winter Palette,” which was published in the Spring 2024 Literary Journal from Calla Press. I can't claim to have handled color in a way that is “masterful” or “genius” as in the works mentioned above, but I do hope this short piece leaves you thinking about the richness of color that can be found even in the midst of the most barren seasons.

WINTER PALETTE

Ochre like grass that sleeps

till spring; slate like skies

just breaths from dusk, like

shadows on snow. Grey as mist

stretched taut then pinned

down at horizon, edgeless.

White that is broken, glinting,

somehow both barren and bright.

Browns of every sort: soaked

bark, naked branches, soil

frozen two dozen inches deep.

Palest of blues that permeates,

that seeps in softly.

*This poem was originally published in the Calla Press Spring 2024 Literary Journal.

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P.S. Calla Press is currently accepting submissions for this year's Spring Literary Journal, which has the theme “Living in Wonder.” Click here for more info, and be sure to send them your work ASAP to be considered for this amazing PRINT publication!

Ah, winter. Maybe the snow has gone to my head a bit (we're at ten inches and counting), but I really do love this special season.

I recently read someone's critique (and ultimate dismissal) of New Year’s resolutions. The general assertion: we can't expect ourselves to successfully revolutionize our habits or lifestyles in the dead of winter. After all, don't our minds and our bodies crave (and maybe even need) the rest and slowness of winter?

I do agree that letting our lives fall in step with the seasons has wisdom to it (and that we have become more and more out of touch with this practice as artificial lights and climate control and other technology have infiltrated our everyday lives). However, I have three reasons why I can't get fully on board with deeming New Year’s resolutions as completely unnatural: 1) We can't forget that half the world is actually welcoming summer's arrival on the 1st of January, 2) Sometimes the seasons of our circumstances speak much louder than the seasons out our windows (the very premise, actually, of this book which has been on my TBR for a while), and 3) Couldn’t one argue that the inward nature of this slowness actually lends itself quite perfectly to dreaming?

So yes, there are tangible realities of the winter season that demand our slowing down. It is harder to take evening walks with the family when the sun has already tucked itself away before dinner and the bundling of toddlers in warm coats and hats takes an actual eternity (no seriously, I timed it once). We quite naturally trade weed-pulling in the garden and sun-soaking and a glass of something iced for jigsaw puzzles by lamplight, a shared blanket and picture books, and always a steaming cup of tea with a little too much honey.

And yet, I always find myself ready and eager to make my little list of goals for the coming year.

So riddle me this… Are New Year's resolutions really just a foolish attempt to force spring’s blooming into winter’s rest? Or is it actually quite natural to gather your seeds before you plant them?

You have probably already guessed rightly that I agree with the latter. Sure, the New Year may simply be a change in arbitrary numbers at its core. A Tuesday becomes a Wednesday; one cold day begets another. And yet, I think I just might always cherish this unique time of year when everyone seems to be looking at their lives and realizing that if one chapter is closing and another beginning, then our lives must be stories (and beautiful ones, too).

So with that, I will jump straight into my own compilation of reflections and dreams (as it relates to my writing/reading shenanigans at least) to celebrate the soft fade of one year as the next one brightens into being. Scroll down for the list(s) and enjoy!

2024

Publications - 8

• “Look Anywhere” / Calla Press Spring Literary Journal

• “Here I Am” / Calla Press Spring Literary Journal

  • Click here to hear me read it!

• “As Flowers” / Calla Press Spring Literary Journal

• “Winter Palette” / Calla Press Spring Literary Journal

• “Forsythias Are Everywhere” / Coffee + Crumbs

• “Flesh and Bones and Branches” / The Way Back To Ourselves Literary Journal

• “Angels Are Still Heralding” / Vessels of Light Poetry Journal

  • Click here to hear me read it!

• “Word Became Flesh Becomes Words” / Self-Published on Substack

Books Read - 23

Poetry

• Goldenrod by

• Simple Weight by

• Bright Dead Things by Ada Limón

Fiction

• Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

• The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

• Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry

• Dracula by Bram Stoker

• Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

• Eragon / Eldest / Brisingr / Inheritance by Christopher Paolini

• Daughter of the Sun by *

• Children of the Earth by *

• Wishtress by Nadine Brandes

• Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt

• The Secret Book of Flora Lea by Patti Callahan Henry

Nonfiction

• Habits of the Household by Justin Whitmel Earley

• Loving the Little Years by Rachel Jankovic

• May Cause Side Effects by Brooke Siem

• You're Not Enough (and That's Ok) by Allie Beth Stuckey

• Raising Conservative Kids in a Woke City by Stacy Manning & Katy Faust

*Note that I read these two novels in FOUR DAYS and am eagerly awaiting the final book in the trilogy releasing this year! is amazing. Do yourself a favor and go subscribe to her Substack and put her books on your TBR!

Substack

• Launched in October

• 11 posts with an average of 132 views each

  • (Although half of those views might be me rereading for typos, ha!)

• 92 subscribers!?

  • Thank you isn't enough… but THANK YOU!

2025

Writing Goals

• Finalize a poetry collection or chapbook manuscript by the end of the year.

  • Still working on establishing a clear vision/theme for this. I have wanted to write a prairie-themed poetry collection for a long time, but I am now finding myself pulled toward a project centered on motherhood, wonder, and nature (with many prairie appearances along the way, of course). Stay tuned!

• Get words on the page for the overhaul of my memoir manuscript.

  • This is going to be hard writing for me, both because I've struggled to write prose in recent years and because the content is heavy. The key for this goal is consistency. And as someone who tends to edit as I work, I'm challenging myself to not worry about the organization and to simply write, write, write.

• Submit my work more often and to more places.

  • Bring on the rejections!

• Grow my Substack.

  • With an important caveat that growth in numbers is not as important as consistency and authenticity.

Reading Goals

• Read more poetry collections.

  • On my short list:

    • A Thousand Mornings by Mary Oliver

    • Nebraska by Kwame Dawes

    • The End of Pink by Kathryn Kathryn Nuernberger (reread)

    • The Wild Iris by Louise Glück

• Read more hyrbid work.

  • On my short list:

    • Zero at the Bone by Christian Wiman

    • Bring Down the Little Birds by Carmen Gimenez Smith

    • The Backyard Bird Chronicles by Amy Tan

• Other books I'm putting at the top of my pile:

  • Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard

  • Adorning the Dark by Andrew Peterson

  • One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp (reread)

  • Matrescence by Lucy Jones

One of my favorite things any time of the year is hearing what books people cherish and what they are eager to read soon. I would LOVE if you left a comment sharing some of the books on your list for 2025!

Speaking of books, my sniffly toddlers are done with their afternoon rest and making a little TBR pile of their own on the living room sofa. I think I'll make another cup of tea and join them…

P.S. If you're active on Goodreads, I'd love to be your friend! Click here to find my acount and add me.

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Yes, the Incarnation is a daunting muse, but oh how it is a worthy one.

In the weeks sense, I have wrestled with this poem. It didn’t go the direction I anticipated. Its style feels different than my norm. I showed it to my husband and asked him if it seemed like too much thinking and not enough seeing—my poetry is most often driven by concrete images, whereas this poem is driven by language and wordplay.

And yet here we are. I have a poem to share with you. An offering, not for its readers, but for the Lord. May my wrestling, even if it be merely with words, be for His glory. (Though I do hope you enjoy reading it too.)

My poem, “Word Became Flesh Becomes Words,” is the fourth and final poem as part of the Advent Poetry Collaboration “A Sacred Longing.” You can check out the previous three poems in the series here, here, and here (by the lovely poets , , and respectively).

And since my poem heavily relies on the playfulness of sound, I decided I’d be remiss not to include an audio recording of the poem read aloud. You can find that recording below!

Merry Christmas, friends!

WORD BECAME FLESH BECOMES WORDS

The same kind of words
always find my mind
this time of year: glisten
and grateful and good.
Twinkle and tucked in
and true. Snow never fails
to be silent, surrounding,
soft. Chimney smoke sings
of how we linger and
loosen and laugh.

These long winter
nights: enveloping,
viscous, vast.

And that one night—
can words ever be
enough? (We keep trying.)
It was humble and hopeful.
Lowly and longed for.
Of dirt but also dreams.

Too often I let these
words slip through
my fingers before
they can soak in.

Humble. Not just
a donkey or a dirt floor
or a cradle of straw
—but the brightest star
lending light to a stable.
The harmony of heavenly
heralds in tune with bleat
of sheep. Dirt, but also
dynasty. Manger, but
also majesty. Think
of this, comes the whisper,
when pondering that night.
Think of this, when you hear:
humble, humble, humble.
Let your soul rumble.
Let it revel.

Humble and hallowed
and heaven and hope—

Hope. Not just eyes
turned upward. Not sun
rays crowning clouds,
nor merely might and
bright of light. Don’t fail
to see the dust dancing
in that sunshine. Remember
the shadows displaced.
Remember you are rescued.
Upward, but also inward.
Bright, but also night.
Hope, hope, hope. Don’t
let it slip through—not
yet. Find its footprint
on your bones: hope.
Let it sink in. Let it
deepen.

How can it be that the Creator
of words can never quite
be wrangled by them?
How can it be that the King
enrobed himself not in violet
but fickle, fading flesh—
just so my own undeserved
dearness might magnify
with the newness
of nearness?

Here I am with words
in my mind, my hands,
my heart: promise
and prince and pride
and price. Dwelling
and swelling and telling.
Trumpet and tree.
Womb and tomb. Infant
and infinite. Foreknown,
foretold, unfolding. I’m holding
tight. (I’ll keep trying.)

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I’ll simply say this: Christian art is thriving… if you know where to look.

If you were like me last year, your awareness of Christian creatives honoring the Advent season with their art might only have gone so far as what your own local church promoted, whether that be artwork on the walls, songs sung during worship, or a communal participation in a certain devotional.

But the more involved and connected I have become in the Christian creative community, the more I have realized that incredible Christian art is everywhere.

This season, I have almost felt bombarded by it.

So I wanted to take a moment to collect a few of my favorite places where you can engage with beautiful, meaningful art this Christmas. Most of it is creative writing, seeing as that is my own primary creative discipline. And yes, you’ll find some promotion of my own recent creative work.

I hope you discover something new and beautiful.

Praise God for the creativity He bestowed upon His children! What a joy it is to worship Him with it.

Poetry & Essays

Vessels of Light Poetry Journal

“The Birth of Light” Collection

If you read my last Substack post, you’ll know that I had the honor of having my poem “Angels Are Still Heralding” published in this beautiful issue. Now’s your chance to check it out and read some of the other incredible poems published in the issue, including work from , , , , , and more. And don’t forget to watch my poetry reading video if you haven’t already!

The Clayjar Review

“A Thrill of Hope” Collection

I am so eager to read all of the forthcoming work in this new issue publishing in just a few days on 12/21. has been hard at work, and I have no doubt this collection will bless many.

Of Trees & Poetry

Poetry Advent Series

This beautiful Substack series by & is already rolling with their collaborative poems for Week I and Week II already posted and more to come. “Peace is tangled up in Sycamore leaves, / Sweet-smell of autumn decaying on the ground / And I wait for snow to fall and bury them.” I mean, c’mon. SO good.

The Way Back to Ourselves

“A Light in the Darkness” Essay Series

There are already four beautiful essays gracing this collection with more to come. Don’t wait another moment to get reading. Essays that are already posted include “A Tiny Nativity for Us All” by , “(Not) Home for the Holidays” by , “Learning to Sing Mary’s Song” by , and “The Liturgy of Waiting” by . Essays by and to come!

The Rabbit Room

5-Part Advent Poetry Series by

Runyan’s five poems, written from the perspective of Jesus in utero, are definitely enough to make a pregnant woman cry. And no, I’m definitely not speaking from experience… Hop on over to Poetry Substack and give yourself a quiet moment to read the series, which consists of the poems “Conception,” “First Trimester,” “Second Trimester,” “Third Trimester,” and “Birth.”

“A Sacred Longing”

Advent Poetry Collaboration

This Substack collaboration includes thoughtful considerations on the Incarnation from poets , , , and yours truly. The first three poems from the collaboration are already posted (Week 1: “Light Laid Down” / Week 2: “I in You and You in Me” / Week 3: “Finds Herself in the Deepest Story”). You can expect my poem right here on Manifold Witness this upcoming Sunday 12/22 for the last Sunday of Advent.

Visual Art & Music

Poor Bishop Hooper

“As Foretold: Part 1” album

If you have yet to discover the profundity of the musical work of Poor Bishop Hooper, the good news is you need not miss out any longer. Husband and wife duo Jesse and Leah Roberts just released yet another powerful album of storytelling through worship with Part 1 of 3 of their “As Foretold” musical journey. What I love about their work at PBH (besides the incredible musical talent and manner of sticking closely to Scripture in their lyrics) is that all of their projects also include commissioned visual art. You can find PBH pretty much anywhere you listen to music, but be sure to check “As Foretold” out on YouTube if you want a behind the scenes look at the artwork creation as you listen.

Art & Theology

“Advent & Christmastide” Art Blog Series

From December 1 through January 6, Advent & Theology has daily posts highlighting a piece of visual art alongside a brief written reflection on its spiritual implications and connections to the Advent season. You can view these posts on their Instagram, but if you browse on their website, you will also find a daily song to listen to. A&T has also curated some lovely Spotify Playlists as well as a list of “25 Poems for Christmas.”

Know of any other touching creative work published or shared this Advent season? I would love for you to share in the comments below!

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