Catching Scents

Ah, we've entered into the dark months, always a hard time for me. (I appreciate these months, but they're hard.) I came across this piece from about 20 years ago, about the end of winter and thought I'd share it.

I’ve been catching scents: crossing the parking lot at school when suddenly I smell the mud, just briefly, and then it’s gone again. I know that mud, I know that smell, I think, it’s the late winter smell that comes after several days of thawing, the ground soft underfoot, water coming up as you press the earth down. It comes with the sideways sweep of wind on your arms until suddenly you know, without knowing how, that maybe you won’t need to wear a sweater tomorrow, and you start watching the trees for budding. I look for the moss, delicate sharp flowerlets of bright green, no larger than a thumbtack. The grass is still brown, the soil looks dead, but bending closer under the cover of withered grass is the moss: luxurious, rampant, abundant, if oh so tiny. From here on in I know that spring is coming, even if it snows again. I live in this world, I am embedded in this world, I am the world, and even if I forget it sometimes the truth remains because, see, there’s a whiff of mud suddenly as I cross the parking lot at school.

            I hear the birds so clearly now. I woke up this morning thinking kids were playing on the street and it was the birds: loud, joking, calling their good-mornings to the sky and to each other.

            I went for a walk today through town, up by all the older houses and the cemetery. I was going along, in my own head, when I was struck by a rosebush in front of me. How else can I say it: the sight of the tangled branches, the thorns, the dried rose-hips stopped me as surely as if I’d been hit. All the many shades of brown in the new stems, now gray, lined, no longer thorned but weathered, crisp; the delicacy of the rose-hips purple-red-brown and tough, their hard shiny surface surrounded with a lace of leftover leaves. These had lasted the winter, the storms and the wind, the carelessness of people passing no longer looking now that the roses were gone. The roses told me: stop, and, slow down, and I did, I did, in time to see the tree limb weaving the air into being for me, in time to watch the rippling of water beneath my feet. I stopped and looked below the grate and saw the coursing of water two feet below me. There is water beneath my feet! I stood and listened to the water flowing by, on its own way, water tumbling over itself and joined by more and more water winding its way down the streets to the grate, to… I realized I didn’t know where the water went to after that. I left this for another day and continued walking, but before I had even gone five feet I was stopped by another call of water falling, running. Two grates! one on each side of the street, and I stood there and listened to the water running on both sides of me, running down, running down from everywhere, and now I could hear the plink, plink of water dripping onto slate below a tree and the faster fall of water in the gutters and drainpipes along the houses. Everywhere was water, water, and I stood in the middle of it all and listened.

Cheers -
SA

#FinishUrBookFall - Oct. Update

This year instead of NaNoWriMo I’m taking part in a new challenge, #FinishUrBookFall. Since the summer I’ve been alternating between two projects (described here) and at some point I realized that I maybe had enough material for the first to start thinking about it as a collection. Possibly a book? Certainly a chapbook. Then the #FinishUrBookFall challenge came along and I figured this would be a good way to focus my attention and really get some work done on this.

What can I say, I like challenges.

And it’s been working. I have more energy and direction around this project than I’ve had before, I’m seeing things come together. At the same time, of course, I’m visited by doubt. I’m repeating myself (ideas, themes, words) – I have nothing new or worthy to say – my writing is obvious, trite…

Then at the same time I read other people’s collections, ones that are meaningful to me, that have given me inspiration or encouragement, and I see ideas, themes, words repeated… only in their work I see it as resonance, or echoes, or other ways of describing the ways that coming back to something again & again strengthens it, or turns it, or fragments it in ways that allow you to put things back together in new and insightful ways. So maybe mine will be useful to someone else in the same way.

(Of course there are the works I read that are so virtuoso that there isn’t any expectation of approaching, I’m content to merely kneel at their feet…)

I was blessed to see Ada Limón recently at the poetry book club I go to (author of Bright Dead Things, The Carrying). Among the questions she answered were ones on how she forms her collections. So I was blessed not only with her presence overall but also with very specific notes on exactly what I’m curious about right now, resonating with thoughts I’ve had about this. Her process isn’t mine, of course, but I think it’s similar enough in ways that I can get guidance from her words.

I currently have about 20 in close to final form, or if not finished, at least ready for other eyes, and another 20 or so in larval form. Not everything will go in so yes, I think chapbook is the right answer. Though I’ve also been wondering about what is missing, what needs still to be written, so who knows… I think perhaps quite a lot. It looks like I will come to the end of #FinishUrBookFall and see I have at least another year’s writing in front of me, let alone revision. But that’s okay. Already this exercise of thinking about putting together a book has led to good questions and new determination. And I find the more I write the more endurance I have for it, the more drive I have. The more ideas. The more I want to study as well…

Sometimes it feels my body can’t contain all I want to do. I remember this feeling from other times in my life and back then I got overwhelmed, more than once… I know better now how to ride it out, the rhythm of pushing forward and then, maybe not quite pulling back but allowing myself not to push for a while. To rest in the other rhythms of my life, the other things that need doing. It helps also that I’m working with all of me these days too, in fact, that’s the only way I could do this.

So onward I go!

S.A.

Committing to Poetry at Age 47

On the one hand it’s daunting, how little I know about the craft of writing poetry, or even of reading it. I go to these workshops and people speak with such knowledge, sometimes clearly pulling on years of study. Oodles of poets, of theory, of schools of thought. Of their own experience. I’m reading Robert Haas’s book on form and when I do understand what is being talked about it’s clear how much can go into it. Every word, every line. Antecedents and parallels and responses to other people’s work. And I’m stumbling through, a workshop here, book club there, reading an essay about form or craft here and there, there’s so much I don’t know and never can catch up to. And it’s really daunting.

…And at the same time I’m so glad I didn’t have that kind of education, I think I would have gotten myself twisted up and turned away, frozen completely, unable to go on. I’m glad I wrote a lot that wasn’t poetry but somewhat adjacent to it, read a lot just because. I feel I have developed, or am well on my way to developing, my own style – punctuation, line length, rhythm, etc. And I think it would have been a lot harder if I’d been taking classes or doing lots of workshops, trying to take in a hundred pieces of advice. Why? Because I did not stand solid in myself and would have wanted too much to find my way through others’ paths. But I feel solid in myself as a writer now, thanks to hundreds of blog posts and tens of devotions and even tweets, as I try to distill thoughts into 280 characters that don’t offend my ear. And also through my failures: attempting to write/draw children’s books or comics, and then novels. Only to come back to poems, again and again.

I recently received some excellent critical feedback of a few of them – and I can take it now, in a way I couldn’t have five, ten years ago, or even six months ago. It means a lot that I can take it in – disagree in places – and am strong enough in myself for it. This is only possible now that I am living closer to my true self to begin with. I think I might be ready now to take an actual class or commit to a workshop series at some point.

I’m currently working on two projects. The first is a collection of contemporary poems, spanning the last 20 years and set in the U.S. On nature & fear & the city & wonder & the work of figuring things out. Then the second is a new work, set in Bavaria, of a witch and his dragon, or a dragon and xyr witch. I wanted to try my hand at a longer narrative framework with fantastical elements and this is where I was led… It feels way beyond my abilities at the moment but it will also take years to write, I imagine, and I’ll learn what I need to along the way.

Poetically yours,
S.A.

Crocodile & Cat

So this is a wee bit of something I don't know how to characterize - not a story, exactly, not a poem either, akin to a devotion but not something I'd write for work. But I'm fond of it and thought it should be out there (it originally had a home in my masters thesis).

**********

The crocodile called out to the cat. He was in the river, the cat on the bank, slowly walking, lifting one paw up and putting it down. “You walk carefully,” said the crocodile.

            “With each step I pray.”

            “To whom do you pray?” asked the crocodile.

            “To the god that made me.”

            The moon watched them pass beneath her and breathed out to the stars. The air was cool and bright. The crocodile sank under the water and watched fish dart in front of him. He came up and called to the cat.

            “Cat, what does your god say?”

            The cat pulled his feet beneath him and sat, eyes closed. His whiskers stretched in the moonlight, he lifted his chin to the moonbreeze. “It is all our god, yours and mine.”

            The crocodile ducked under water, embarrassed. The cat sat. The moon watched.

Under water, the crocodile rested his chin in the mud and counted reeds. At fifty he came up, saw the cat, and went back under. He counted frogs. That took longer. At fifty he came up. The cat’s eyes were closed and he said, “It is god who made that water and these reeds and those frogs. You were born of mud, I was born of dust.” The crocodile sank under and counted his teeth, ten times over. When he came up, the cat had tucked his paws under and slept.

The crocodile crept up the bank and lowered his head to the cat. His breath tickled the grass. His eyes were gold. The cat opened his eyes. His eyes were gold. The cat said, “Tell me.”

The crocodile closed his eyes. “What do I say?” he asked.

The cat closed his eyes. “I give thanks for the sun and the rain. I praise the sweet smell of the mud. I dance to the moon and I sing to the wind. When the wind is still, I hum to the earth. I enjoy the frogs. I chant to the trees. All this is god, and I am glad.” He opened his eyes. “What do you do?” he asked.

The crocodile sank low. “I count,” he said.

“What do you count?”

“I count the waterbugs,” he said. “I count the currents. I count the hippos and the frogs and the reeds.” The cat closed his eyes. “I count the raindrops. I count the stones. I count the winds.” The cat sat up and stretched his ears. “I count,” the crocodile said.

“The egret,” the cat said, “names things. She sings these in her sleep.”

“The elephant dreams,” he said, “and whispers these to the ibex.”

He said, “The ibex listens.”

The crocodile raised his chin to the wind. “It is good to pray,” he said.

“It is good to pray,” the cat agreed.

The crocodile slid down to the river and under the water. The cat stood up, stretched his tail, and walked, lifting one foot up and putting it down.

**********

Devotedly yours,

S.A.

So What’s Been Going On With You Anyway?

Hey y’all. There’s been a lot going on in my personal life over the last year, and I haven’t been sure how to talk about it here, or if I even wanted to. Or if it even made sense to keep this blog going.

Eventually, though, I decided I wanted to at least keep this space, so, with a little revision, here we are.

Running

No running right now! Years of ignoring my core, while still partaking in intense physical activity (and probably aggravated by my scoliosis) have led to muscle imbalance and weakness and from there to a chronic knee injury. I’m taking the time right now to really focus on rehab and some other health issues with the goal of being able to return to running and swimming.

Writing

I’ve set aside the novels. They were useful at the time – as a way to keep writing when writing poetry felt too raw/vulnerable, as a way to work through some things I couldn’t look at head-on,  and to prove to myself I could. But poetry is my real love.

There’s a common adage in ministry that you should only do it if you really, really, really, really can’t do anything else. Because why else take up something so challenging and with so little reward. I think the same thing is true of poetry – it’s a calling.

I was trying to articulate for a friend how poetry feels intimately connected to spirit for me and so why making a commitment to it is about more than just words on a page. Here's what I came up with:

That poetry is the medium I live in, breathe with, swim through. Medium as in both as the substance that surrounds me - that sustains and heals and invigorates me - and as the material that I work with.

I’ve been writing new work and revisiting all of my previous writing. There’s not much yet that I feel is complete, or that I’ve gotten enough feedback on to want to share widely (still looking for a poetry buddy!), but I’ll might start posting some work here over the next few months.

Body & Spirit

Longtime readers (don’t know if I have any left!) may see I’ve cleaned up a lot of old posts. Mostly ones to do with goal-setting, or with food/weight-loss. This is probably a surprise given how much time I’ve spent on such posts! But I’ve never found long-term goals to be that useful, as you’ve seen from my inability to keep to them. Short-term goals, yes. Mid-term priorities, for sure. Long-term vision, absolutely.

A lot of those posts were also about me trying to figure out “what should I do with my life” – but I’m feeling pretty clear about that now, thanks very much.

As for the food/weight-loss posts, I’m sure I’ll write more at some point about my eating disorder. (For example, I’ve been interested to learn that there is a higher incidence of eating disorders among the transgender population, particularly among trans masc people.) But in reviewing what I’d written, I can see how far I’ve come since then, and I didn’t want to perpetuate old thinking that proved unhelpful at best and harmful at worst. So while there may be a few references to struggling with food (especially around marathon training), I’ve tried to remove any other specific references.

And that’s it for now! If you found me from Twitter, that’s where I’m most active. If not from there, you’re probably family / friend / longtime reader, drop me a note here if you want to connect.

Peace,

S.A.

A Coming Out Story

So... last night I and two other queer colleagues of mine shared our coming out / faith journey stories at the monthly gathering of the women's group at the church I work at, in honor of LGBT History Month. I thought you all might find what I shared interesting.

It's a very particular perspective, narrowly focused on the intersection of my church-going experience (vs. my actual faith, which I don't broadcast widely and especially not in that setting) and my identity as a queer person (and not all of that, either). But I had the opportunity and thought my story could be of use to others, and so far the feedback I've received suggests that it is. So here you go.

Happy Belated Coming Out Day (Oct. 11)! Maybe next year I'll write a less heavily redacted version.

Annie

**************************************************

I first came out in 1988, 30 years ago, when I was 16. I’d known before then that I felt different but I didn’t have words to explain how – it was the 80s and all we heard about was gay men and AIDS. Then I was reading the alumnae journal of a college I was considering attending and the then-president of the college was talking about the “lesbian problem” there, and I knew, quite clearly, that that’s where I wanted to go.* I went to college that fall, promptly came out as a lesbian, and once I’d been there a while longer and knew more words, came out quietly to myself as bisexual.

            But the language still didn’t feel right. Back then that word didn’t seem to include trans people, or people who might now describe themselves as nonbinary, and I knew I was drawn to them as well. So I chafed. Then I came across the word queer – as a word nerd I just loved the word itself, the sound and its history and its connection to Queer Nation – and that word felt big enough, broad enough, queer enough to include me and all I was interested in and attracted to.

On to faith.

I grew up unchurched but seeking (and with a strong Catholic bent thanks to my cultural background) – and then angrily atheist when at first I could not find a faith that made sense to me, and then again when it seemed Christianity had nothing but condemnation for me. For years I was happy to turn my back on organized religion – though not entirely on faith – only to first be turned upside down by multiple experiences I can only describe as mystical, and then the growing conviction that I needed to explore my faith within a community. So I started seeking again, reading, praying, and trying to find a welcoming church home in any of the cities I found myself during my twenties. And I’ll tell you, none were a great fit. In some I felt at home liturgically, but not as a queer person (and unbaptized to boot). In others I felt safe if not exactly welcomed, but my spirit was dissatisfied. Eventually I found a church home where both my partner at that time and I felt welcome and invited to contribute to the life of the church, and if my spiritual needs weren’t entirely met, it was made up for by that congregation’s place in New England transcendentalist history.

And then I moved. And I needed to find a new church home, which was complicated by my growing desire to be baptized – which I didn’t understand, but knew was important to listen to. I started my search again, and again didn’t find any place that felt right. In the end, as I was already working at Fourth Church – another decision that didn’t make sense at the time but felt like the right one – and it was as much a community as any I’d found, I decided to be baptized here and to become a member.

But it wasn’t enough. Quite aside from the serious lack of saints, there’s a world of difference between not feeling unsafe and feeling welcomed. And in 2004, still seven years before the PC(USA) would pass Amendment 10-A, and with the lack of any kind of visible effort to invite LGBTQIA+ folks in, I didn’t feel as if there was room for me to bring my whole self to the life of the church. So I continued my search, and ultimately found a smaller Episcopal church on the Northside, near where I lived, with a rainbow flag prominently displayed, and I have continued to worship there since.

So that is my coming out in faith, and I feel that the two are intimately connected. In part because both my understanding of myself as a queer person and as a person of faith are absolutely foundational to my understanding of myself. But also because I see these two journeys as parallel, not just intertwined. My thinking on faith continues to grow and change, and it’s important to me to have a church home open to that – and my queer identity continues to grow and change as well. For instance, in the last few years it’s become more important to me to claim myself as bisexual and not only queer. This has grown out of changing use of the word – as people insist on its inclusive nature rather than exclusive – and also the knowledge that the bisexual community, while statistically the largest component of the LGBTQIA+ community, has, with the exception of trans and intersex people, the worst health and domestic violence outcomes of that same community. So it’s become a kind of political act for me. And my understanding of gender continues to expand as well.

And with that I want to say something about language. It should be clear from my story that language is important to me. It should also be clear that language around sexual orientation and gender identity continues to evolve, sometimes very rapidly. For example, there are definitions on the vocabulary sheet we provided that I’m not wild about, and that’s only four years old. So while language is important and I think it’s hugely important to keep learning, I would encourage us to let go of expectations of getting it “right”, especially if that means we don’t dare say anything at all. Respect and openness are what’s most important – and then listening to what one is told and respecting that.

I imagine the question is out there – as a bi person in a heterosexual relationship – that is, I could “pass” – why come out? Why put myself out there? And my answer is twofold and also intimately connected to my faith.

First, I come out because I can. I’m secure within my family, my workplace, my church – I don’t risk anything by coming out other than other people’s opinion of me. By doing so, though, I may make it easier for others to do so, and I may also make it easier for others to advocate on our behalf. I live out my faith through service, and through trying to “be the change I wish to see in the world”. Coming out is one way I do this.

Second, if I don’t come out, if I keep some of myself back, then I lose opportunities to be of service, and I am not being who I believe God called me to be. For example, a year ago I was asked to lead a workshop at a women’s event at the Presbytery level. And I was flattered, and interested, but without knowing who would be there, and without being publically out, my gut feeling was “But you don’t know who I am, and I can’t trust that I will feel safe”. And I turned it down. I have faith that I have contributions to make in this world, and I don’t want anything to limit them, especially not my fear.

So that’s why I’m here, tonight, speaking to you all.

*I don't think I ever shared that with my parents before. Hi, Mom and Dad! 

Afterwards

It only just occurred to me that I didn't write any update here about the marathon. Probably because I didn't finish, and was okay with that, and had other things I was thinking about... But here's what I wrote to a friend who asked about it.

I haven't blogged yet, but when I do it won't be a play-by-play of the marathon as in the past - more a meditation on pain and privilege. Stuff I've been thinking about all season, actually.

This is what I wrote donors:

"If you were tracking me you'll know already that I didn't finish. I'd been in pain from the start and at mile 17 it was too much to continue and I dropped out. Nothing serious, just an unfortunate combination of long-term structural imbalances and unresolved past injuries - stuff I'd struggled with all season but just came to a head during the race.

      This experience has strengthened my resolve to "retire" from marathoning, so I'm especially grateful for a super-successful fundraising year - together we all raised over $1700 for Chicago Lights! (Or $100 for each mile I finished.)"

What made this year different (in terms of going on despite pain) is that 1) this year my back was hurting as well, and it was actually worse walking than running, and 2) I really didn't have anything to prove to myself or anyone else. Last year, once I realized I could continue, I wanted to keep going as long as I could. This year I realized the only way I could possibly continue was an extended break at the aid station, with no guarantee that I wouldn't have to stop again. And I decided that the pain was worse than my pride.

I'm putting a hold on marathoning, though oddly enough, the first half, despite being painful, went well. I kept an even pace and felt stronger than I had all year. But that made me realize how much I've missed that kind of racing (at distances of 15k - 13.1m), and how in the future, if I were to do a marathon again, I'd want to know I could run it that way - strong, steady, and able to push harder as I went along. But for that kind of running I would need to train for at least a couple of years - purposefully, eyes on the prize kind of training - and not until after I've gotten my shoulder and back taken care of. And honestly I don't want to train that hard, I have too much else I need to focus on.

So that's the marathon.

Some of what I plan to focus on - what I already am focusing on - is writing, and increasing my activism around anti-racism and trans rights. NaNoWriMo begins next week... *rubs hands*.

Still running though, I've been loving my short early morning runs in the dark, watching the sun begin to rise (it's still dark when I get back!) and seeing who else is up that early. A lot more people than you'd think.

Contentedly,
Annie