We have exciting news for you! This space, Ruminate Magazine’s blog, has been abuzz with compelling essays, reviews, interviews, poems, and art for the past ten years. Our regular columnists, guest contributors, and readers have all shared in encouraging the contemplative arts, and our readership has grown to 4,000 readers a month.
To further celebrate this online space, we've given it a new name: The Waking.
The Waking takes after Ruminate’s mission to help us slow down, read deeply, and live awake—a call that our writers and artists have answered with craft and care. We are excited for the ways our community of creators and readers will continue to support this space under its new name. To read a sampling of past posts that have helped people to slow down and live more awake, check out the following suggestions:
Thanks for sharing in our journey here at The Waking. What posts on this blog have helped you come awake?
Pssst…A sneak peek of forthcoming posts includes:
- The second installment of the series honoring the legacy of Rachel Held Evans
- An essay on encountering humanity through public transportation
- A reflection on grief and Eucharist in the Christian tradition
Photo by Marcus Dall Col on Unsplash
Charnell Peters is the author of the poetry chapbook Un-becoming (Thirty West Publishing House). Her previous work has appeared in Apogee, Hippocampus, Crab Creek Review, and elsewhere. She is the blog editor for Ruminate Magazine.
Leave a comment
Comments will be approved before showing up. We don't allow comments that are disrespectful or personally attack our blog writers.
Also in The Waking
The poem read: "In America they kill their children." What if there’s a quiet truth to what this person, and most likely many others, think about our country?
I find this tussle with ambivalence on-going in my writing life, rooted I know in fear. So, when I’m able, I listen for the voices of mentors. I listen for their guidance and faith as I consider tip-toeing in.
“They put pets out of their misery,” my mother said. Mom then glared at her newest visitor. She continued with, “Why can’t you do that with me?” Mom was stitched together by rows of metal staples. They appeared like the tips of landmines on the battlefield of her abdomen.