Diane Hartman

The Ark Speaks

When the man built me, my rough planks were 

pounded together, one against the other, 

to form an enormous floating vessel.

“Ark” he named me, a carriage of safety. 

The blood from the man’s injured hands

seeped into my crevices, like wine spilled

across a wooden altar, sealing God’s promise

of salvation by means of one good man.

He didn’t seem that good to me, 

angrily cursing at the mocking crowd,

ordering his family around like they were slaves,

inebriated, staggering with unearned swagger.

He was the chosen one?

Then the animals arrived, a cacophony of relentless

noise and arduous movement. And I was afraid.

There were too many. How could I hold all of them?

The Deluge came next.

The remaining animals hustled in as God

heaved the door shut to the cries of

the drowning crowd. What loving God does this?

Day became night and night became day.

I struggled to stay afloat through the weight

of their shuffling. “Stay still!” my boards groaned, 

until finally the women took charge

and the animals became calm.

The rain stopped, but we floated on.

The raven didn’t return, and all were restless.

I thought about giving up, of letting my bulging 

sides surrender to the water. But I was chosen too. 

Chosen to give every living thing a second chance.

The dove returned bearing an olive branch. 

She flew off again and did not come back.

Those aboard waited impatiently until 

my worn-out body struck some rocks.

They disembarked chaotically, my boards

bearing the weight of their self-centered descent. 

While I who had saved them was left to rot.

The obedience of one is the salvation of many. 

A Woman Speaks in Her Journal of the Pandemic

March 1, 2020

I waited to meet him after the concert.

When it was my turn, he hugged me with his long, 

thin guitar-playing hands. Could I be blamed 

for wanting more? He signed my copy 

of his first album, now fifty years old,

and we laughed at the way 

he looked then and the way we look now. 

We talked about how fortunate we are

to be doing the things we love.

April 17, 2020

Quarantined. We were so naïve. 

News about this strange new 

virus from China snaking its way onto our shores  

wasn’t on our radar. We were oblivious that, 

within a few weeks, it would invade 

our country and the world, sickening us, 

killing without mercy.

May 29, 2020

A trip to the grocery store 

is a post-apocalyptic experience. 

Words like “mask,” “pandemic,” “Zoom” 

and “Covid-19” 

monopolize our lexicon.  

June 10, 2020

We watch in horror as personal opinion

supersedes scientific fact. How our leaders

continue to fail us. How fear 

has replaced hope. I want to 

escape from the world of alternative facts 

and the systemic racism the virus reveals, 

a plague older than our nation. 

July 1, 2020

When will this strange new way of life end?

I want to hug my grandchildren, my family,

my friends, even strangers, but we must 

keep socially distant. Everything is on hold. 

My travel plans are canceled.

July 17, 2020

Helpless, I retreat to my ark—

my house, my dogs, my books. My solitude

makes Thoreau seem a party animal.

I write, read, and watch too much TV.

Melancholy sits beside me.   

“Get out!” I scream. “Get the hell out!” 

It slowly slinks behind a pile of laundry.

October 27, 2020

Isolation reaches a saturation point that startles me.

I turn to music, poetry, and art. James Taylor’s

“Tend your own fire, lay low and be strong”

affirms my solitude. Poet Wendell Berry

reminds me to “rest in the grace of the world.”

January 20, 2021

More deaths in our country 

than during WWII. I gaze 

at Hokusai’s The Giant Wave and imagine 

my heart opening with a great gust,

blowing all traces of the virus away.

I cling to that moment

like a swimmer caught inside the calm

of the giant wave before it rolls over

and thrashes the shore.

 Julian of Norwich Speaks

1.

I was six years old

when the Great Pestilence

entered my city of Norwich.

Black Death: Bubonic,

Pneumonic, Septicemic.

Coughing, fever, swellings

the size of an egg oozing

blood and pus, changing

into hideous black boils.

The stench and screams

Constant, never-ending.

Those infected died within

Days, decimating half of

the population. We 

painted red crosses on our

doors and prayed as the

death carts rumbled day

and night past our window.

Only my mother and I survived.

My father and siblings were consumed

by its hell-bent fury, carried down

the stairs and out the door

to a mass burial pit.

I carried the memory of the

stench, the screams, the

suffering, and the survivor’s

guilt with me. Therefore,

I was a good girl. I pleased

my mother who took over

my father’s textile business

and worked hard to provide.

2.

The Second Pestilence arrived 

twelve years later in 1361. I was married,

with child and doting over our toddler.

The Mortality of Children snatched our

child and my husband. Within a few

months, the population of Norwich

had fallen by twenty percent. I gave

birth to my daughter soon after. My

mother and I pulled together and

carried on, giving my daughter

the best life we could. I managed

my husband’s textile business

and prayed that my child would

not be taken from me. My grief

and my nightmares kept me

awake most nights, and I prayed

for redemption from my guilt.

3.

A short eight years later came

the third plague. This one

had no name, but it was great

beyond measure, especially

fatal to children, but the 

good Lord spared my child.

Only God knows why. Still,

it decimated our cattle and crops.

The wrath of God descended

upon the land, but we persevered.

 I could find no peace from

the constant bombardment of

stress, fear and mourning. I

ceased to feel anything.

God was so far away. I prayed

for strength to endure, but

why was there so much death?

4.

A few years later my resilience

faltered and the Dark Night

consumed my soul, shattering

it and my body to pieces.

Pain permeated parts of my body

and numbness found the rest.

My head and lungs were on fire.

I did not care whether 

I lived or died. My mother and friends

attended to me constantly,

but I grew worse, and was

administered Last Rites. 

I was watching myself in 

slow motion, dying.

But I did not die.

Suddenly, I was healed.

My pain was taken from me

and I was completely whole.

I knew that it was the private

working of God. And then

the most miraculous

revelations were shown

to me. Over a period

of time God revealed

many Truths. So intense

was my passion to share these

Truths of God’s love for us that

I wrote my account of these 

“showings” in my native

 language, not knowing

 that I would be the

first woman to write

a book in English.

I wrote that I saw the

world in a hazelnut

and knew that it would

last forever because

God so loved it. I saw

that there is nothing

between us and the

love of God. No priest,

no bishop, no pope. I

saw that as truly as God

is our father, as truly is 

God our mother. I saw 

that love is the 

beginning and the end

of all Revelation.

I kept my visions and 

my writings mostly 

to myself. No one in

authority could know

lest I be misunderstood,

branded a heretic,

beaten and jailed.

5.

A fourth Great Pestilence,

closely followed by a fifth,

returned to Norwich in 1378.

My beloved daughter,

so good and so beautiful

was taken from me.

I don’t know which was worse,

suffering through two great

plagues or suffering the

loss of my second child.

I was inconsolable

for many years.

6.

As time passed, the 

corrupt bishop became

suspicious of my knowledge.

I was careful to memorize

Biblical texts and sermons

and to never be seen 

with a book. I concealed

my writing life and my

ministry to my close 

group of women. I 

grew weary of hiding and

longed for a life of

quiet contemplation.

I held no desire to

join the convent and, thus,

be held under the thumb

of the priests and bishops.

Instead, at the age of fifty,

I became an anchoress at

the church in Norwich,

enclosed in a small room

with three narrow windows.

There I could watch the

liturgy and take the

Eucharist, receive my

meals, linens, and writing

materials. Behind a 

cloth curtain, I could

minister to those seeking

advice on spiritual matters.

Though physically enclosed,

I gained complete freedom

to write, read, pray and

minister to visitors.

It was there that I lived

for twenty years until

the end of my life. It was

there that I wrote the long 

and the short versions

of my “showings.” And 

it was there that I

contemplated the true

meaning of what God 

revealed to me beyond

the specter of suffering,

disease and death: “And

all shall be well, and 

all shall be well, and

all manner of thing

shall be well.”

About Diane Hartman

A recipient of many writing awards, including the Midwest Writers Workshop Fellowship, Diane Hartman is currently writing a memoir about her solo adventures in Ireland. A retired librarian and teacher, and a life-long Hoosier, Diane lives with her two rescue dogs in a house filled with books.