Welcome to my blog page! This is where I'll serve up a variety of sayables; stories, articles, poems and quotes. 

[sey-uh-buh l] adjective 1. of the sort that can be said or spoken; utterable: 2. capable of being said or stated clearly, effectively.

100 Nights of Rescue

I burned through a pack of cigarettes in less than three hours. I’m not a smoker, but I didn’t know what else to do with my hands. Holding the young girl pressed against my side trying to sell herself to me was not an option. “Don’t touch!” was the first given rule. “We don’t exploit the exploited.”

One American pop song after the other blasts in the background of Passions To Go. First Usher, then Macklemore, now Katy Perry. The tub is filling with bubbles and bodies while speakers spit out the words to “Firework”.

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag

Drifting through the wind

Wanting to start again

Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin

Like a house of cards

One blow from caving in

Do you ever feel already buried deep

Six feet under scream

But no one seems to hear a thing

Do you know that there's still a chance for you

'Cause there's a spark in you

You just gotta ignite the light

And let it shine

Just own the night

Like the Fourth of July

'Cause baby you're a firework

Come on show 'em what your worth

Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"

This scene, those lyrics and the girl plastered to my rib-bones make me feel like I landed on some kind of twisted planet, in the middle of someone’s sick idea of a punchline. Where is this dimension? How did I get here? What is my name? My hands are not my hands, my fingers are a far-flung foreign land, my limbs are affixed to a body I don’t recognize, and I’m spinning on a world I can’t fathom. My self doesn't know my self in a brothel where slaves are made from the stuff of desperate, duped parents and kidnapped kids.

Maybe it was the bizarre combination of sensation that compelled me, or the pressure in my chest wanting to wage war against wall-to-wall wrongness, but within 30 minutes I subconsciously broke the first rule by reaching for her. I reached for her, tucked her to my breast, and silently begged her heart to feel the rhythm of mine. I’m a mother with three sons, she is my daughter. Her physique shows the signs of early adolescence. I can tell by what she isn’t wearing.

It’s been two years, but I can still travel back there, feel her in my arms, and hear myself screaming inside. I still know how I imagined opening my skin and stuffing her in. GET INSIDE ME! I’LL SMUGGLE YOU FREE! was the irrational refrain of my brain.

Never did I imagine one week of my life would find me brothel-hopping in SE Asia, learning how investigators find trafficked children hidden among the hordes of humans buying and selling flesh in the underbelly of the world’s blackest beast.

Never did I imagine I’d have to “look the part” of a role I no way wanted to play; gut laughing, chain smoking, gin drinking, “Erika, keep smiling! You’re having a good time!” They keep reminding me because I keep forgetting to be careless, animated, amoral.

Investigators for The Exodus Road are the masters of this illusion; smoke and mirror, hocus pocus, sleight of hand. They have honed the craft of collecting evidence against pimps and mamasans without abusing a single body in the process. I just tried my best not to muddle up their masquerade.

And so it went, night after night: neon lights, loud music, ladyboys, little girls, SMILE!, pass the cigarettes, have another drink, have a good time, SMILE!, don’t touch! Watch the stages and players, pawns and broken pieces. See the lonely men and frat packs from the West high-fiving each other between brothels and bartering. Don’t forget to smile! Keep your hands full. Put your bleeding heart back inside your chest. Stop shaking. Look the part. SMILE! Do the work.

Write the story.

We live in a world where people want children to serve their bent pleasures. It should not be so, but because it is we need organizations like The Exodus Road who specialize in finding trafficked sons and daughters concealed amid the misery and ruckus. This is a story about funding investigative work; donating your hard-earned dollars to buy cigarettes so someone can look the part. Collect the footage. Gather the data. Log the details. Rescue 1 more beloved body from the fist of modern day slavery.

The Exodus Road is looking for 100 more monthly “Search and Rescue” donors at $35 each, but listen: $35 is considerable amount for a lot people. So. Let’s make an additional option. Austin and I give $18 to almost every “ask” that crosses our path. Why? Because 18 is the Hebrew number for “LIFE”. When we give $18, it’s not just to support a nonprofits’ overhead. We send this specific money amount with prayer and intention; gestures of imparting LIFE into Kingdom Come and good work being done. Somehow, with magic, there’s always $18 more dollars. There’s always LIFE to give and resources to share in true loaves and fishes fashion. 200 donors at $18 each is more than the same as 100 at $35! Wanna join us? Let’s do a damn thing: 


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Erika Morrison
meet me here

meet me here for open heart surgery
for the always glory that
stops clay feet and
bends desperate knees to the ground of
go another direction;
a countenance can awaken
cave, and
kiss the dirt with
a thousand different ways to say
thank you
forgive me
have mercy
meet me here for the ejecting of the unreal, and
restoration of Who is enthroned
then for the rebirth, readiness
rising, and
go forth go up go in


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Erika Morrison
meet me here

meet me here
in the cool of somewhere
by this skin we’re in
that quickening of imagination
of course, of course! 
we’ll arrive at
the green fields of the world
ready and
to take our place among the fiber and
metaphors; spaces
and shapes
are already ours
that are already, only


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Erika Morrison
the path of totality

(originally published on august 23rd, 2017)

my brother and i rolled the dice, packed up a few of our kids and drove 13 hours straight through the night to a range of tennessee mountains. we noted more than a dozen different things that could’ve gone wrong to prevent us from our one objective, but every detail went exactly right and there we ended up: in the path of totality on top of old smoky, all covered in the things we were covered in—exhaustion, sweat, smiles, sun, partial sun. we shared a rocky-top vantage point with about 30 strangers and together we waited by the bedside of something about to get born from above.

5 minutes before the main event an atmosphere full of fat clouds rolled back to create a complete clear sky. you could cut the expectancy with a knife and eat the bites. it was almost time. our complexions started turning colors we’d never seen before, the bees went from buzzing to bed, venus federated the parade, my heart flew from it’s chest. and the world stopped being the same. brother sun got masked by sister moon. night mixed with the shades of day in 360 degrees of direction.


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Erika Morrison
meet me here

meet me here for the thinning of the veil,

see your portal to the crystal country

that golden anytime, anyplace;



forever and temporal

sing and jig,


concrete and ethereal 

kiss and dip;


everything is one,


it is home


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Erika Morrison
in response to the nashville statement

My teacher is famous for saying: “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.” (Which *isn’t* to say “Love your neighbor *as much as* you love yourself”, but love your neighbor AS yourself. As an extension of your own body; a continuation of your own flesh. I am you, you are me. There is only *we*.)

My teacher is also famous for saying: “Love your enemies.”

Love your neighbors, love your enemies. This covers everyone. A person will land in one category or the other, but the response is only always the same—which merges the human kingdom to a single category, not two. No separation, no disconnect. No camps. Just one big category called LOVE.

This is why I don’t recognize The Nashville Statement. Or even the responding Denver Statement, come to think of it—though I can tell you which of the two I’m in more agreement with, but that isn’t the point. These statements mean we have to pick a side. And picking sides divides the field even further, and makes the lines and lengths between us harder, bolder. More staggering. (Why do we beg for such things? Why do we *need* them?)

And to divide us is to divide myself. It is to cut my own flesh into different tribes. Dis-memebered. Dis-embodied. Fragmented. Frayed.


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Erika Morrison
a way to see yourself

i am Spirit dressed in fingers and toes;

Divine mind wearing shoulders, spine

wine and


a body divided like this:

astral; spectral; corporal


myers briggs can't name my between

spaces or

blurred lines or

appetites and

aquatic solution

the enneagram doesn't have my number

of shades and gradients

is-ness and instinct

of divergence and

whole and


i am this one and only


specific and


sacrament of self



both [S]he and



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Erika Morrison
in response to the vegas shooting

(Originally published on Oct. 7, 2017) 

i am the wife under the body of her dead husband

i am the husband who threw himself down and took bullets in his back

i am the child without mother or father

i am the father who grieves a son

i am the mother with vacant arms, broken

i am the newlywed suddenly without a soul mate

i am the now empty chair at every kitchen table

i am the best friend with half a heart

i am the stranger saved by an unknown hero

i am the hero who considered it nothing to lose his earthly existence

i am the survivor with a lifetime of nightmares to come

i am a nurse, a teacher, a single mother and motherless children

i am an officer, an actor, an attorney, a college student, and a coach

i am a banker, a fisherman, a personal trainer and homemaker

i am myself with 59 holes in my body

i am the killer no one truly knew

i am myself with 60 holes in my body

may we all be dead 60 times over, and wailing times thousands

may we all look in the mirror to see how we’ve lost ourselves

and may we all take on the power structure of gun companies and lobbyists who are sick with their love of money and misguided agendas.

may we call them back to ourselves; tell them a hundred different ways how their work and unholy desires perpetuates pain in our Body.

may we call on the senators who can’t put themselves in someone else’s shoes and show them through sound and persistence how their negligence and blindness is breaking us.


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Erika Morrison
meet me here

meet me here for the sounds of morning; that slow shuffle,

those early breaths

orion eyes

meet me here at this fresh beginning,

in this enormous world

put your hands on a part of it;



any piece within reach

and see

just see how

materiality will siphon Spirit

into a single second or

all day


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Erika Morrison
a letter to the exiles

(Originally posted September 24, 2015)

To the refugees in exile everywhere: 

I’m trying to imagine what I would say to you if we were face to face, what I would do with my hands and this one thumping organ I’ve learned to call a heart. 

If you’d let me, I would touch my forehead to yours and just absorb. I would absorb the heave of your chest, the sorrow of your story, the texture of your skin. I would take in the unique hue of your irises, the fear of your flight and your survivor’s strength. I’d stay for days and go through every one of your emotions and motions; learning your language and ways and rhythms.

My fervor and feeling might be too much for you or not enough, I don’t know. I’ve never walked a mile in your life. But I would share my light, my love, my food, my energy, my shelter–everything I am and have. I’d bleed beside you if it was my time of the month and gladly without the necessary supplies just to know what it must’ve been like for some of you to flee while on your flow.


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Erika Morrison
safe, great, first – things jesus never promised

(Originally published February 15, 2017)

Part 2: GREAT

This work is a response to the three most repetitive outcries I see on Facebook from men and women who voted for the current regime, all while claiming the Bible as the basis for their belief and behaviour. 

See me. I claim the Bible too, but there aren’t enough resources and smarts in the world to reconcile the message I know and love with the one being used against it.

Is one more right, and the other more wrong?

Must we pit ourselves against each other to get to the bottom of it?

I don’t have the answer to that question, but in this current climate of American and Christian culture it has become necessary for me, as an American and a Christian, to say again what it is I am for. I can’t let others speak for me.


“I can’t keep quiet.” ~Milck

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Erika Morrison
safe, great, first — things jesus never promised

(Originally published on February 6, 2017)

Part 1: SAFE

This work is a response to the three most repetitive outcries I see on Facebook from men and women who voted for the current regime, all while claiming the Bible as the basis for their belief and behaviour.

See me. I claim the Bible too, but there aren’t enough resources and smarts in the world to reconcile the message I know and love with the one being used against it.

Christian leaders and their followers are using the Bible–THE BIBLE–as evidence for why we shouldn’t welcome refugees and immigrants; for why we should keep ourselves SAFE.

See me. I am a Christian too, but there aren’t enough resources and smarts in the world to reconcile the Christ consciousness and commands I know and love with the kind being used against them.

Now, as ever before throughout history, we wade through the painful declaration Frederick Douglass once made:

“Between the Christianity of this land and the Christianity of Christ, I recognize the widest possible difference—so wide, that to receive the one as good, pure and holy is of necessity to reject the other as bad, corrupt and wicked.”

No [wo]man can serve two masters.


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Erika Morrison
letting the land lie fallow

(Originally published on June 3, 2016)


I want you to know where I’ve been, and what I did once I got there, but the last time I stitched more than six sentences together was back in December, so let me first remind you of what was said (it’ll add up for later):

“I’m not the same person I was a month ago, last week, or yesterday. Years and all these exhaustive, demanding, sharp life events eventually caught up and crashed into me tsunami style. It was a Sunday afternoon on a walk with Austin when I became my own ragdoll, rolling under waves and water, thrown this way and that way, breathless, breaking to pieces.

It must’ve happened because I finally made space in my calendar to fall apart, which is related to the question: how much self-talk do we talk just to keep ourselves sane until a more suitable time?

That night I crawled on palms and knees into bed, fell down next to the terrible pain in my chest and sobbed out that universal question: “What is the meaning of life?” (It is good for the girl with so many answers to sit in the dark without them for a while, to be cradled by a long shadow of doubt. Isn’t this an essential place which provokes more hunger for God?)

In hindsight all that emotion can sound sort of silly and stageworthy–even to myself–except the raw and the grind and the fracturing was real and there’s only so much a body can take, eh?

And maybe I should’ve seen it coming . . . how I had reached a fullness of myself. Do you know what I mean? Every now and again there are reasons why we outgrow our own clay container; we outgrow our former selves and the breaking to bits is a sign of those times–the busting before the next burgeoning.

In more words: Who I was couldn’t support who I am becoming.

So here I sit with my splinters and limbs hanging out on the line to dry, littering the street and sidewalk. Look how my ideals are leaking onto the sheets with no skin to hold them in. Ashes to ashes we all fall down, or take a rake in the forehead when we don’t see it lying there in the leaves.

I can’t rightly recall how many times brokenness and I have ridden the merry-go-round together, but there is one thing I can ascertain from my every experience with it:

Just about the entirety of what I think I know when I’m feeling whole goes right out the window. And that’s okay. Because who am I but a sojourner in a body I didn’t make, in a land I didn’t create.

What do I actually know of anything?

Humility and humanity must go hand-in-hand. Which is to say: humility and humanity come from the same root word meaning “of the ground; earth”. There are seasons when we should go so low we hit it with our faces. And by “it”, I mean: gravel, grit, forest floor or floorboards. Hit it. Dust thou art and to dust thou must return.”


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Erika Morrison