Author Archives: Beth Gager

About Beth Gager

I am a writer, a coach, an artist, a dancer, a mother and a goddess. I love elephants, trees, manatees, sea turtles, whales, dolphins, wolves, gorillas and watermelon. I have written three books and many blog posts.i love beautiful people and I am blessed to be surrounded by joy.

Birth Medicine II

When a woman gives birth to her soul
she sees the moon in all its phases
She touches the beautiful, dark starry womb
of her own self, the mother
and she knows she is no mere reflection
of the sun, the father
but a brilliance that is solely her own

When a woman gives birth to the earth
she might need to scream out loud a lot
to those who would take away her power
through fear, because it makes people listen

When a woman gives birth to her own light
she has no place to go on this earth
except into the handcuffs of the waiting policeman
except into the stale jail of the hospital
and when she returns from the icy chill of a medicated birth
that numbed her body and tried to take away her voice
she sings out loud, "I'm the one whose eyes
shine clear like moonlight."
She sings out loud, "I've been to the sea and
it's all that means much now to me."
The sea is truth. The sea is love.
And the body is the cells of the earth.
And this cell is no prison. 
This cell is the Goddess
as big and as small as the moon.
As vast as the sky
and as small as a buttercup.

"Lying in your arms
like a guitar so sweetly played.
Cover me with your softness
for life is so hard
and I am not at all."

Birth Medicine (A Medical Birth)

When a woman's body is taken from her
Sometimes she holds her breath
Inside the structure of her mind
So that the sound never has to come out

Sometimes she doesn't begin to know
what was taken
She only feels a loss somewhere
deep within the ache of her spine

She finds herself sharing her story
at odd moments and with more urgency
than she could have thought possible
before she goes back again
into the breath and pull of a life

She finds herself placing her palm
in the hollow of her back
feeling for something
she doesn't know is missing
in the place where the needle poked through

When a woman's body is taken from her
a self that was meant to be born
lies broken and lost in the shadows
unnoticed and carelessly dismissed
as a child comes into the light


I am very, very sick right now. My bladder is killing me like a terrible, painful UTI with a lot of blood. I have been bleeding since November 10, 2022 with very little relief. I have a deep, wheezing, hacking cough. I have horrible heartburn. I got a letter saying if I do not make an appointment my mental heath services at the community services board will be discontinued with a number to call of my case manager who I know as a coworker on the same day that I heard from all of you that we are no longer letting staff into the CSB and that we started Wren there. I know they will ask me to get bloodwork and come into the clinic, too. I know I can call and get an appointment with nothing having changed there for the staff, and I know that I am forced to very soon. And I am out of money for the month and out of food again. These are my circumstances. I am asked what I do now. I just said, I think I have to heal my body and go into birth. So, go ahead and keep contacting us. We will respond. But we are shutting down new outreach and old systems in the master field. You might no longer see the ordinary, profane world like I do. The sirens are running right now again for the eighth time in the last few hours and I hear the bad teenagers laughing outside. I got very attacked again today and everyone spun again for hours. Bad words, arguments with people that hate me, my team laughing and attacking me in the sight, peeing all over the place and then a lot of physical pain and discomfort. A lot of automatic not knowing. I am going to keep working for you. But I am not going to try to find anyone else to bring along. I don’t know what you think. You’ll have to tell us. This is a team effort, and for me, the old world rose up today harsh and hard once again after I got real serious and real involved with a lot of very poor, impoverished, religious and traumatized people. And now I have to deal with the world of my harsh circumstances once again by force, not choice. With people that are unchanged for me and still the masters of my life. So, I will see what I do in what time frame for that. Okay?

Altar Story

We are developing a world altar. Pretty. Pretty. Pretty. Google now shows me that what I have been doing is making an impact. Thank you, team. I am just listening. And wheezing a whole lot. I am taking regular Vitamin C because I think it will do a lot for my cough. And my eyesight that has been so blurry since I was little has been getting clearer and clearer. I have always been told that when I am in the goddess world I will have clear vision. And I have been told that when I do have clear vision I will see Charlie. My vision has gone in and out. In and out. But now it’s pretty clear. If my eyesight clears, I will probably soon be free. The goddess says she turns on a dime. She needs about two hours after everything is done. We must be getting done. Some of my most vulnerable kids and family members are now with the team. This means everything. So I will keep going. And I will watch and listen. I am doing a lot of work still. And I love it. And I am getting tons of input on what people need. So keep looking at this website. Because I keep adding pieces of writing that I am asked for and I keep updating. There is a lot here. And it’s growing as the tribe grows closer to me. We are absolutey doing this. And we are a world tribe. We are so wonderfully green. Glow, little wren. And pick up your pen. Find a new rhyme. And come into thyme. Thyme is sacred. And it belongs to you and me. We are such a sweet, sweet, tweety family.

My Father’s Hands

I stare at old men's ears.
Extra large ones are best.
The kind that don't hear as well
from the war.

My father's hands hold my story.
He carried me in his arms until I was ten.
He taught me to spackle and paint.
He always loved my art.

When I was twenty-one his heart failed him
and I lost knowing him as an adult.
I touched his hands in his coffin
and he was cold, damp and clammy.

That means his heart was beating.
He woke up when we left for the cemetery.
I haven't seen him yet,
but he's always kind and close by.

My father's hands hold my story,
but he didn't teach my brothers
to find their gifts of working wood.

It's in our line to use our hands for beauty.
Mancil built log cabins.
So did his sons.

My father's hands hold my story.
Charlie's father is a doctor
but mine is a carpenter.

My hands hold my daughter's story.
I taught her Ruth's recipes.
My son has his grandfather's hands.
And he knows how to use them.

Let your hands hold your story.
Find your father's ears.
All the houses and the buildings
will hold you in their hearts.


Oh, South Jersey, you craggy black thing.
Oh, cedar water for you I sing.
Take me back. Take me back.
Sing it up north.
We are the Pineys of the preservation.
We are the Monocans of the Sioux nation.
Tabernacle, Chatsworth, Shamong, Medford Lakes.
The lands where the strawberries grow.

Indians. Natives. Men who play spoons.
Country songs. Candlelight. Wood-paneled rooms.
Carpenters. Farmers. Dinner at two.
Visiting on Sundays. What else is there to do?

Where is the guitar?
In the old bar?
Only the records on our stereo.
Where is the music?
On the screen porch?
Why don't we teach our sons our traditions?
Why don't we talk to our kids and our women?

Men of the pines
don't say a word.
We study the cornfields.
We listen to birds.

I never had one chance
in those Jersey pines
to do something pretty
like that girl of mine.

Always too quiet, 
working too hard
but give me a chance now
and I'll come along.

I'm kind of an old man.
I don't really mind, 
when I hear this new music
of the South Jersey pines.

It brings me back to them, 
the Red Deer clan.
And yes that makes me
a fascinating man. 

Oh, South Jersey, you craggy black thing.
Oh, cedar water for you I sing.
Take me back. Take me back.
Sing it up north.
We are the Pineys of the preservation.
We are the Monocans of the Sioux nation.
Tabernacle, Chatsworth, Shamong, Medford Lakes.
The lands where the strawberries grow.


The wind cries, "Freedom!"
My soul sits inside a locked ward
waiting for the faeries
to fly to my heart
and set me free

The faerie folk
in your house
are very quiet.
You should not hope for today.
Weekend passes are not for the Goddess.