Lindasusan

An Experiment in Integration

2011-04-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

the talk of fearful men
the determined resistance of reactionary forces
the hard cold facts of racial life
unmatched in the annals of history
an endless reign of meaningless chaos
confronted, exposed, and dealt with

strict enforcement of the “separate,” without the slightest intention to abide by the “equal”
a strange dichotomy of disturbing dualism
they adjust themselves
they very seldom do it voluntarily

a child’s mind is crippled daily
the easygoing optimism of yesterday is impossible
their own tender souls
tokens of integration
seated behind a curtain in a dining car
an overflowing love
covered up with such niceties of complexity

our deep groans and passionate yearnings for freedom
plagued by rats and roaches
rocks and sticks and eggs and cherry bombs
bricks and bottles
shocked at the venom they poured out
life as a madhouse of violence and degradation
it is pretty difficult to like someone bombing your home

president of the resistance
did not long survive the rejection and condemnation
forced out of his sacred office
because he responded to the human need that he was presented with
entering the area of human rights
a brief period of eminence
projecting the ethics of love to the center of our lives

it is more important to get at the cause than to be safe
struggle must never inflict injury upon another

what is needed is a strategy for change

respond to goodness
revolt against the myth of time
adjourn the councils of despair
put an end to the chain of violence in the world
refuse to cooperate with evil
become real and complete
close the gap in broken community by meeting hate with love

seek to transform the suffering into a creative force
a strange and possibly nonsensical way
to win freedom from every form of oppression
an impractical idealist or a dangerous radical
rabblerousers and agitators
never assume that anyone understands

this is a tedious task which may take years
solved in the sphere of practical action
make a career of humanity

to walk the streets in dignity
boldly and brazenly
one march is seldom successful
to arouse, to organize, and to educate
to suffer in a creative manner
we can walk and never get weary
the voices, the feet, and the bodies
intermingled like the waters of a river
a turbulent ocean beating great cliffs into fragments of rock
standing amid the surging murmur of life’s restless sea
the shores of history are white with the bleached bones
nonviolence or nonexistence
the end is preexistent in the means

there is something unfolding in the universe
some creative force that works for universal wholeness
the hearts and souls of those committed to it
deep faith in the future
no stopping point short of full freedom
all humanity is involved in a single process
virtually every door is open to us
ours is a great time in which to be alive

Each line in the poem comes from Martin Luther King's writings on nonviolence, which I then remixed into this piece. Text fragments taken from Nonviolence and Racial Justice; The Most Durable Power; The Power of Nonviolence; An Experiment in Love,;Speech Before the Youth March for Integrated Schools; My Trip to the Land of Gandhi; The Social Organization of Nonviolence; Suffering and Faith; Love, Law, and Civil Disobedience; Nonviolence: The Only Road to Freedom; and A Gift of Love.

Marriage as a Daily Practice

2011-02-13T23:06:00.000-08:00

This is a fortuitous week for me to talk about marriage because last Monday marked 13 years that Emily and I have been together. AND, today is the seventh anniversary of our second wedding, also known as the One That Got Annulled Without Our Permission. In July, we’ll have our eighth anniversary of our first wedding – the Friends and Family one – and in October will be the third anniversary of our Third Time’s the Charm wedding.

This plethora...overabundance...somewhat ridiculous number of weddings is really ironic, because I definitely was not one of those girls who grew up dreaming about every last detail of my Big Day. And I’m bisexual, so it’s not that I couldn’t picture myself with a guy. The thought just never occurred to me. I didn’t know until I was an adult that hundreds of millions of American women had spent endless hours imagining themselves gliding down the aisle in a satiny gown, or planning the floral arrangements that would grace the tables at the reception. It just wasn’t in my girl lexicon.

While I never fantasized about a wedding, I did dream about my marriage. Or to be more precise, I thought about what it would be like to share my life with someone I loved. I’d daydream about modest things, like snuggling on the couch while watching TV, reading books side by side, or making stupid jokes in the grocery store. The devil gets lots of credit for being in the details, but there’s a lot of divinity them, too.

What both of these daydream worlds leave out, though, is that relationships take a lot of work. They need ongoing care and maintenance. You don’t just say some vows once and POOF! you’re all set for the rest of your lives.

A life built day by day wound up being central to our wedding vows. I knew til death do us part wouldn’t work, because life is too uncertain for me to make a promise like that in good conscience. I’d heard the alternative as long as love shall last, but to me, that sounds like a couple is waiting for things to blow up. So I started from scratch: what was I willing to promise?

The words came quickly, and I still think it’s a pretty good list:

I promised to start each day with an action that is loving.
I promised to treat her with kindness and respect.
I promised to cherish her gifts and support her dreams.
I promised to remember, even when things are hard, that first and foremost, she’s my friend.
I promised to take care of myself, because my wholeness is a necessary part of our wholeness.
I promised to communicate clearly and lovingly, and to listen carefully with both my ears and my heart.
I promised to keep a sense of humor with me at all times.
I promised to do everything in my power to nurture our bond.
I made these promises freely, willingly, and joyfully, and I vowed to do my best to live them every day.

I knew that if we paid attention to these things daily, we’d also be attending to the long-term health of our relationship. There’s no need to promise 50 years into the future when a series of single days is the only way to get there anyway.

Even though those three weddings grew out of an injustice, they also made it explicit that we’re making an ongoing choice to be together. They gave us the chance to make those promises over and over. Plus, now we have anniversaries woven throughout the fabric of the year.

In the end, maintaining a healthy relationship requires a daily practice of love, patience, kindness, and acceptance. And if my marriage is any indication, a little chocolate never hurts.

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the February 13, 2011, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

A Force for Healing

2010-12-05T21:36:00.000-08:00

In 2008, Archbishop Desmond Tutu came to San Francisco to speak at an event for the International Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission. I didn't know this at the time, but it was his first direct address to a large LGBT gathering in the U.S.

I had waffled about whether or not to go. It was a weeknight, and I'd been busy and exhausted at work. The idea of schlepping up to Grace Cathedral from my office, and then schlepping home afterwards on transit, felt like a lot of effort. But almost all of my colleagues were going, and I wasn't sure I'd ever get another opportunity like this. In the end, I just couldn't pass up the chance to hear him in person.

When Paul Loeb was here [as a guest speaker] a few weeks ago, he mentioned Desmond Tutu's amazing humor and joy, and I couldn't agree more. As we waited for the evening's program to begin, someone I was sitting near mentioned that the Archbishop hadn't been feeling well that day. Yet when he came out on the dais, he had such a sense of delight about him. Elfin, laughing, down-to-earth, a little mischievous – I could see the twinkle in his eye even from my pew halfway back in the crowd.

The most astonishing moment, though, came when he asked for our forgiveness for the way the church had treated LGBT people. Time stopped. I thought, "Desmond Tutu? One of the world's most renowned moral leaders – is asking for MY forgiveness?"

Looking back, I think, "Yeah, he was. Which is what makes him one of the world's great moral leaders."

In that moment, it didn't matter that we didn't share the same religion. What mattered was that he saw the spiritual and emotional wounds inflicted in the name of religion. What mattered was that as a religious leader, he put his faith into action as a force for healing, not as a weapon.

As Unitarian Universalists, I think we have a responsibility to examine the ways we're putting our faith into action. Not just in terms of organizing for social justice or environmental issues, because in some ways, that's the easy part. It takes a lot of time and dedication, for sure, but it doesn't require us to risk being transformed. The really grueling work of a faith community is in how we treat each other, day in and day out.

For example, there was a time when Unitarians who didn't call themselves Christian were met with opposition and ridicule. Yet today, I know many UUs who speak dismissively of Christianity, as though anyone who follows that tradition is automatically a tool of oppression or just not very advanced. Any religion, even our liberal one, can be used as a force for good or ill.

Unitarian Universalism gives each of us the freedom to decide for ourselves what we believe, rather than being asked to subscribe to a particular dogma. But that also means we need to choose wisely. If we're going to live out the principles and values that bring us together as a faith community, then it matters very much what we believe, because those beliefs will drive our action in the world.

I believe that we're all connected, and that we need each other. I believe that each of us is integral to the richness of existence. I believe that as human beings, we share a capacity for deep awe, whether we find it in the experience of a divine being or a jaw-dropping sunset. I believe that when we act from a place of justice, compassion, and love, we align ourselves with forces that make our souls sing.

When Desmond Tutu asked for my forgiveness, he recognized the way his church was impoverishing the world by depriving it of the beauty and potential of humans who happened to be queer. His sincerity and humility opened doors to new possibilities for reconciliation. Because humility isn't about making yourself small. It's about understanding that each of us can grow our spirits beyond our wildest dreams – and the universe will still have infinite capacity to hold us in all our fullness.

It's about a diminutive 79-year old with a sparkle in his eye looming larger than any cathedral.

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the December 5, 2010, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

The Quality of Mercy

2010-11-19T10:13:00.000-08:00

In middle school, I got teased mercilessly. Not only was I a fat girl, I was a fat girl who'd had the audacity to tell a boy that I liked him. I mostly tried to ignore the venom that David and his friends sent my way. I almost grew used to the mooing in the halls, being called a sphere, and allusions to my special gravitational field. Such creative cruelty was one of the down sides of having a lot of smart peers.

There was one lunch period, though, that was just too much. That day, David went past viciousness into pure hatred. I remember being stunned, and knowing that however much I believed in my unworthiness, this was beyond anything I deserved.

At our lockers before our next class, I turned to him and said, "Oh, by the way..." SLAP! and walked away without looking back. It's the only time I've ever hit someone in anger.

We were called into the principal's office — something that had never happened to me before. I wasn't sure how I felt about the red mark on David's cheek, but I think I was a little surprised and a little impressed with myself. Still, I was nervous because I had no idea what to expect.

Fortunately, the principal knew me well enough to know that I had to have been pushed hard to do what I'd done. In fact, Mr. Rennie held both of us responsible for what had transpired because he understood that my punishment had preceded my crime.

The consequences of hitting David could've been quite serious. But I didn't even get detention because Mr. Rennie knew there was no chance I'd do something like that again. His understanding that day kept a terrible situation from being compounded.

I'm a Shakespeare nerd, so any discussion of mercy automatically makes me think of a well-known speech from The Merchant of Venice:

The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.
But mercy is above this sceptered sway;
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute of God himself;
And earthly power doth then show like God's
When mercy seasons justice.

The opening lines are the most famous, but the final lines point the way for us as people of faith, whether or not we believe in god.

Several years ago, I wrote a piece in the form of an open letter to David that I'd hoped to publish somewhere. I talked about unlearning his lesson that there's nothing more hateful than being loved by the fat girl, and how I'd come to see that my love is a gift. The piece was filled with sadness and righteous anger and transformation and empowerment. It was powerful writing, with a potentially life-saving message for other women.

And then one day, a funny thing happened: I got an email from him. There are few things in this life that could have shocked me more. He told me about living in our hometown again after years of globetrotting, caught me up on his family, and passed along some sad news about a beloved English teacher — news that he'd heard, ironically enough, through Mr. Rennie.

His note was lovely, and reminded me of the friendship that had prompted my crush in the first place.

All of a sudden, just like that, I wasn't angry any more. I'd needed the anger to help regain my self-respect, but it could only carry me so far. I can look back now with compassion for both of us, because I wonder what spiritual price he might have paid for his cruelty back then. Perhaps he has suffered, too, though I'd take no joy in it.

I don't want to measure my life by the scores that have been evened, or define people by the wrongs they've inflicted. Justice might ask me to publish that open letter, but mercy just isn't having it. I'd much rather remember the other lessons I learned from David: that boldness makes me immune to regret. That I know how to be content in my own company. And that I'm a person who values living from my heart more than I fear being wounded.

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the November 14, 2010, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

Come, Whoever You Are

2010-11-19T10:00:00.000-08:00

Come, come, whoever you are
Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving
Ours is no caravan of despair
Come yet again, come

I've loved that song since the first time I heard it. I love its wide embrace. I love that despair isn't allowed center stage. I love that a 20th-century American took the words of a 13th-century Persian Sufi and set them to music that speaks to me, a shamanic Unitarian Universalist. I love that a line of the poem that the composer left out – "Even if you have broken your vow a hundred times" – only makes it more radically welcoming.

There's something in particular about the phrase "lover of leaving" that I find heartbreaking and beautiful. Who are these people who feel the need to leave, not just once but over and over? And do they actually enjoy leaving, or are they driven to it?

I tend to be a lover of staying. I've only had about nine home addresses in my entire life, and that includes my year as an exchange student and a month-long sublet when I first moved to San Francisco. I'm a fiercely loyal friend, though more than once I've remained committed to a friendship long after it would have been healthier to let it go. I much prefer vacations where I can get to know one place for a solid amount of time rather than alighting briefly in one city before moving on to the next.

Wandering? I'm a big fan of meandering my way through neighborhoods.
Worshiping Well, I'm up on a chancel, so it must hold some attraction.
But leaving...time and again, by necessity or inclination...that holds sadness.

Many of us in this room have had to do a lot of leaving, by inclination or necessity. Jobs, relationships, schools, apartments, religions, our bodies, our families, our dignity. Even when leaving is the sane choice, even when it's done of our own free will, even when it's connected to a joyous occasion like a graduation, leaving marks us. We're riddled with exit wounds.

The question then becomes, What will fill the spaces thus created? One way to make sure that no caravan of despair rushes in is to fill the space with community.

A day or two after September 11, Emily and I came to a special service here. We weren't members then, but we instinctively wanted to gather with others as we tried to comprehend what had happened. I don't remember what was said, and even the emotions seem muted. But I remember a sense of relaxing, just a bit, because we didn't have to carry the burden alone.

I also know we came here, specifically, because we knew the people sitting nearby wouldn't limit their connectedness and compassion to the people in the twin towers and Pentagon, or the airline passengers, or emergency workers, or New York City, or the United States. The difficult truth of that day is that it reflected years of tragedies played out all over the world.

The awareness of how we're connected to those beyond our immediate circle is why I keep coming to this church – because no one's humanity is worth less than someone else's. Even those whose actions we condemn, whose policies we abhor, are fundamentally worthy of love. The way I see it, the people whose wounds make them strike out most viciously are the ones most in need of love, even if I can't always be the one to muster it for them.

On the way into the church this morning, I passed members of the Faithful Fools and others gathered to bear witness to the humanity of those living on the streets – the people who would be most directly affected by a law to limit their right to take up space in public. Their silent presence on our steps reminds us that when Unitarian Universalists gather and invite others to join us – whoever they are – we're also bearing witness to our own humanity. Even when we're imperfect, even when we've broken our vows a hundred times, still the invitation remains: Come yet again, come.

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the October 17, 2010, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

Must Be Present to Win

2010-07-25T21:00:00.000-07:00

Out the back and up on the ceiling. That’s how I would leave my body when I got too overwhelmed.

Until I started working with Dana, a somatic counselor, I might not have been able to map my escape route so specifically. I certainly couldn’t have to told you why it was important to map it. I was often perplexed during a session when I’d describe a sudden realization or the release of some old wound, and Dana would ask, “So how did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” I’d think. “I just did.” But eventually, I learned to slow the observation process down. I started to notice other signs that I was going away, like my vision getting a little unfocused. I’d have trouble forming sentences, and I’d feel fuzzy around the edges. I grew to see just how often I dissociated, spending most of my time absent from my own life.

As a survival mechanism, dissociation is brilliant. Your spirit leaves to minimize the impact of trauma, whether a car crash or abuse. The problem comes when you can’t find your way back, even after the situation is over.

This is fundamental to soul retrieval, a powerful form of shamanic healing that works on a spiritual level to bring you back to yourself. It’s no coincidence that after someone did a soul retrieval for me, I felt physically full up – all of me was there for the first time since I was a toddler. My soul was home.

Sometimes, though, it takes the body longer to catch up – our physical forms are slower than our spirits or intellects or emotions. Our bodies may not realize that it’s 2010, so they react like they did in 1994, or 1976. Maybe that more measured pace is why we can’t always hear the wisdom they’re trying to give us. That’s why we need to slow things down. That’s why Dana keeps asking me, “How did you do that?”

Because paying attention to how I come back means I can do it again. More often than not, I start by sitting up, with my feet flat on the floor. I clench and unclench my toes inside my shoes. Sometimes, I ground myself further by naming objects and their colors: red carpet, brown wood, white wall.

I’m not exaggerating when I say the somatic work I’ve done over the last three and half years has been revolutionary. I’m literally showing up in my life in a way I couldn’t before. I’ve discovered that here – in this body, in this room, on this day – is a beautiful place to be. It makes me think of that statement you often see on raffle tickets: “You must be present to win.”

When Emily, Genesis, and I went to Minneapolis for General Assembly last month, we stayed with friends I’ve known for over 20 years. While we were there, one of our hosts had a particularly tough day. She’d felt underprepared for a writing workshop she’d agreed to teach. She’d had to scramble for childcare because her daughter didn’t have summer camp that day. She’d arrived at the gig for her string trio only to open her violin case and discover that her instrument was still sitting on the piano at home. Worst of all, each setback was tangled up in other bigger knots of shame and fear. As a downpour cut the thick midwest humidity, this amazing woman cried as she confessed that she felt like an utter disappointment to all the people around her. Her despair and suffering raged more violently than the thunderstorm outside.

I was completely taken aback. How could this brilliant, beautiful person so thoroughly doubt her own inherent worth? I enfolded her in a gigantic hug and told her that she might’ve had a disappointing day, but that’s just human. She’s far from a disappointment as a friend, and wife, and mother, and writer, and musician, and a million other ways. As the deluge pummeled the house, I put my hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” The phrase felt like it started deep in the earth, coming up through the soles of my feet and hitting her squarely in the chest. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Even as I said it, I knew the only way such a statement was possible was that I believed it about myself. I’d finally spent enough time in my own company – rather than up on the ceiling – to know that I’m not fundamentally flawed. After decades of my own suffering, I finally knew, in my body, that even when I make mistakes or forget to follow through or let people down, I’m whole. No caveats. No asterisks. Just me. Present, and holding the prize.

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the July 25, 2010, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

A Billion Stars

2010-06-16T13:01:00.000-07:00

I think it's fair to say that for me, turning 40 was...big.

Let me give you a quick synopsis: just after my 40th birthday last year, I put out my second album, which was the culmination of two and a half years of planning and work. We had the CD release party at Cafe Du Nord, a venue I'd always dreamed of playing. Then, over the course of the fall, I realized I was being called to become a UU minister, and in February I received an acceptance letter from Starr King School for the Ministry. And, as many of you know, a month later Emily and I got the call we'd been waiting a long time for: our foster-adopt agency had a six-week-old baby girl for us, a life-altering little bundle named Genesis. There were other major developments as well, but when releasing an album is already the third headline below the fold, you get the point.

My life is looking radically different from the way it did not that long ago. And while that's exciting, it's also kind of scary because my life was already quite good.

I have a loving, supportive partner whom I've been with for over 12 years. We have our own little house, with a dog, a cat, and super sweet neighbors. I work at a nonprofit that makes a difference in the world and where my talents are both stretched and appreciated. And I'm more at home and at peace in my body than ever before.

Sometimes I have to stop and ask myself, "Am I insane?" Why would I mess with all that? It's been 17 years since I stepped into a classroom. And starting a new program when I just became a new parent? Am I so sleep-deprived that I think I can just knock out a term paper during my morning commute?

I'm risking an enormous amount by upending my life. Just dealing with homework and a job would be majorly stressful, but we've got an infant who's already practicing her crawling moves. Even parenting would seem more manageable without the heartbreaking, gut-wrenching uncertainty inherent in the foster-adopt process. At some point, we may have to uproot our lives from San Francisco so I can pursue my ministry. I also know that all the demands on my time and energy have the potential to affect my marriage, which by now is one Jenga piece too many for my poor brain to handle.

The stakes are so high that only one thing could justify putting all my blessings on the line like this: the integrity of my soul.

When I was trying to decide whether to apply to seminary, I felt filled with life and joy when I thought about going, but I felt shriveled and desiccated when I considered staying with the status quo. Ultimately, that's what dealing with change comes down to: the choice between listening to that voice "still and small," or agreeing to the slow erosion of my soul. The latter is always a bigger risk to me, because over time, the waves of regret lapping at my spirit would eat away at my core.

I watched it happen to my mom.

"What does it matter?" became her relationship to life. All she could do was tread water in the ocean of old hurts she carried with her, with no hope of relief. One by one, she pushed people away until she was almost completely isolated. She certainly didn't have a faith community to draw on: she was convinced that one communion wafer she'd had as a girl while attending mass with a friend — she didn't know you were supposed to be Catholic — meant that her spirituality was forever compromised. Perhaps most importantly, when she looked at the night sky above her ocean of pain, she couldn't see any stars to guide her forward. For her, the fog didn't just obscure their light: it erased the very existence of a billion suns. I asked her once what she was passionate about, or even just to name some activities she enjoyed. She admitted that she used to write poetry, but then sighed in resignation, "It's too late for that."

And then one day, she was right. It was too late. On December 16, 2004, it was too late. But she'd given up on her life years before her heart stopped beating.

Seismic shifts like the ones I've experienced over the last year aren't the only way to keep the landscape of your soul vital and alive. Sometimes, it's a matter of nurturing seeds planted years ago, or finding new wonder in gardens that are already flourishing. Sometimes, it's just lying in the grass, looking up at the night sky, and trusting that above even the thickest fog, a billion stars shine on.

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the June 13, 2010, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

Claiming Genesis

2010-05-02T14:55:00.000-07:00

Today – this day – you are my daughter.
Bells that have tolled for you cannot be unrung,
And the future resolutely maintains its silence.
But still I can hold you and sing softly in your ear.

Today – this day – you are my daughter.
The endearments and silly nicknames have been assigned,
No longer available for any other child.
The songs are your songs.
The lessons are your lessons.
Wonder will be bound up with you from here on out.

Today – this day – you are my daughter.
I have no paperwork to prove it,
Just your name carved on my heart.

Today – this day – you are my daughter.
You are my firstborn.
Even if you didn't come from my body, you are part of it now.
You've altered my mitochondria
And changed my sense of gravity.

Today – this day – you are my daughter.
What cannot be explained to those outside
Is that this love for you is no longer negotiable.
The only way forward leaps in with both feet.
Someone else will decide whether we get to raise you,
But no one can keep me from claiming you.

This day, you are my daughter,
And every now is today.

Radically Welcome

2010-03-14T21:30:00.000-07:00

When I read the question guiding today's service – "What would happen if our Society closed its doors and ceased its ministries tomorrow?" – I stopped breathing.

"I've only just found you all," I thought. "I've been looking for so long, and I only just found you." The idea of this place ceasing to exist sent my heart into a panic.

Before coming here, I'd made a kind of resigned peace with being a solo practitioner in my spiritual life. Just to be clear, there's a lot of value in it. I got the chance to explore what I really believe and what works for me. There were none of the squabbles or power plays that crop up in human institutions. Plus, I could set up the altar any way I like, and scheduling was a breeze. But I found it hard to sustain a regular practice without more structure to support me.

It feels akin to the difference between being single and being in a relationship. There are critical things I learned about myself while I was single, and probably because I was single: a sense of my inherent self-worth, satisfaction with my own company, how to resolve conflicts, a trust in my ability to live independently. Before I met Emily, I'd come to a place where I was looking for a partner, but I was also content on my own.

And then I did meet Emily, and found myself stretched and challenged in a whole new set of ways. Our relationship has opened different doors into the world for me. It's helped me heal old wounds, and shown me parts of myself – both good and bad – that I wouldn't have found otherwise. Sure, being single meant there were fewer disputes about whose turn it was to walk the dog or who left food on the counter, but there was also a whole lot less love.

As in any relationship, I believe our challenge as Unitarian Universalists worshiping together, caring for each other, and together creating a more just world is to find a way to operate from that place of love even when there's conflict, and especially when we're trying to reconcile different visions for this church.

For example, my favorite homilies of [Senior Minister] Greg [Stewart]'s – and I've already told him this, so it's no secret – are the ones in which his natural warmth and caring presence come through. Where I have an emotional stake in his stories and insights, not just an intellectual one. Perhaps for some of you, though, those are the services you wish you'd stayed home for. Yet each of us deserves to be here – in fact, each of us is needed as an integral part of our spiritual community.

For me, the purpose of this church comes down to one simple thing: I want to be here, and I want you here, too, whoever you are. Because in the places where our beliefs overlap as well as the areas of meaningful disagreement – even in the squabbles – I learn something about myself. And because now that I've found a spiritual home, I want to throw open the doors as wide as possible so that everyone – everyone – feels radically, lovingly, unconditionally welcome.

We may not always succeed in reaching this ideal. Sometimes, we may not even want to try. But I had to wait even longer to find this place than I did to find the love of my life. I can't imagine a greater way to show my gratitude than to keep myself pointed towards that radical welcome and to keep my heart open to share and absorb as much love as I can.

Let's answer Greg's challenge from last week. Let's be the church together. In doing so, I think we'll take each other's breath away.

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the March 14, 2010, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

The Other Side of Change

2010-02-15T12:40:00.000-08:00

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the February 14, 2010, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

Many years ago, I got laid off when the company I worked for underwent some major changes. After the initial shock wore off, you can pretty much guess what I did next: I bought an airline ticket to Amsterdam to spend three weeks at the Van Gogh Museum.

Okay, maybe you couldn’t have guessed that. Certainly, I would never have guessed it at the time. My parents had grown up during the Great Depression, which meant that when faced with a layoff, I knew I should hunker down, batten down the hatches, tighten my belt, and hold on for dear life.

Objectively speaking, it’s not a bad strategy. I had some savings, but I was single, paying back student loans, in charge of the care and feeding of my Kitty, and with no family in a position to help me financially.

For months, though, I’d been immersing myself in Vincent’s art and letters, and I desperately wanted to go to the museum, which houses the largest collection of his work. And not just some superficial visit to see a few famous paintings, but a chance to sit with his passion and vision and allow the canvases to breathe with life. I knew I wouldn’t have the luxury of such time once I found a new job.

As I stood in the travel agent’s office, deciding whether or not to take the trip, I couldn’t believe I was even considering it when I had no income. But the way I felt afraid told me it was exactly what I needed to do.

My friend Laura used to say that courage is a muscle: the more you exercise it, the stronger it becomes. If booking that ticket to the Netherlands was a full set of reps at the bravery gym, then discerning my call has been selection camp for the Courage Olympics.

Change was upon me last fall – that much was unmistakable, though I didn’t know what it was about at first. Something was ripping open, something residing eerily close to my heart. I knew there was a spiritual element to what was happening, but the physical discomfort was overwhelming at times. Exhaustion from so much energy running through my body. A complete lack of resilience that led me to burst into tears at my desk several times a day.

The main symptom was a kind of restlessness. I felt like there was someplace else I was supposed to be. Dizzy and disoriented by the experience, I took to calling it my whirlygig.

I exercised courage simply by staying present with the change. I paid attention, knowing that the fastest way through the discomfort was right up the middle. As the process continued, and my way forward started to become clear, I felt like I was no longer caught in the arms of the whirlygig, spinning wildly, but planted like the pole, firmly in the ground.

On the other side of change, there’s always a gift awaiting us, commensurate with the work we had to do to get there. I know that for me, some of my most profound growth has emerged from experiences I’d never wish on anyone. The key is having the courage to accept that change is happening and to keep moving through. Sometimes, battening down the hatches is a recipe for remaining in the middle of your pain rather than making it to the clarity beyond the edge of the storm.

I didn’t ignore reality when I went to Amsterdam. I stayed in a youth hostel, kept my meals cheap, and planned ahead with an unlimited museum pass. I still had to look for a job when I got home. But my leap of faith was rewarded with the sound of water slapping the sides of a canal, painted figures threshing wheat under a green sky, even a chance to see scores of Vincent’s fragile drawings preserved in archival storage boxes. And I got a template for navigating change, right up the middle of fear.

Laugh More. Be Kinder. Leave Peace in Your Wake.

2010-01-24T15:29:00.000-08:00

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the January 24, 2010, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

“Laugh more. Be kinder. Leave peace in your wake.”

These three lines form a kind of summary instruction manual for me. My everyday credo, in near-haiku form. I use it as the signature at the bottom of all my emails so that I’m reminded of it every time I send a message. It’s a visual mantra, incorporated into my most regular daily practice.

“Laugh more. Be kinder. Leave peace in your wake.”

The lines came to me all at once, three elements of a single whole, but they started in different times and places.

Laugh more. It’s a simple reminder that there’s always room for a little more joy, and that I don’t have to take everything quite so seriously. I appreciate earnestness, but in the end, my money is always on humor.

For a long time, though, I didn’t know I was funny. My sense of humor seemed to misfire with my peers. I remember one time in high school coming up with a witticism that neatly tied together several different strands of the conversation. I was incredibly pleased with myself...until I glanced up to find a half dozen people staring at me with looks somewhere between pity, incredulity, and disdain. Things finally shifted many years later when I was having lunch with my housemate Chuck one Saturday afternoon. Between bouts of laughter at the kitchen table, he said, “You’re so funny,” and I could see that it was true. When I asked him if he really thought so, I got another look, but this one was considerably more affectionate.

Leave peace in your wake came from something I’d read by Thich Nhat Han, a well-known Buddhist monk and writer from Vietnam. He described a walking meditation in which the goal is to walk slowly and mindfully, being present for every moment as you pick up your foot, place it on the ground, shift your weight forward, and lift your other foot to begin the process again. What really struck me, though, was when he asked readers to consider what kind of energy we trail behind us. If we rush from place to place, it’s going to be agitated, churning, like a speedboat racing up a river. Certainly not a tranquil presence moving through the world. I realized then that I needed to take more responsibility for my energetic footprint and its effect on those around me.

But for me, perhaps the most important line of my mini-manifesto is Be kinder.

When I was in college, I had a close friend with whom I traded letters after he graduated. I was always thrilled to hear from Bill and delighted whenever I caught sight of his handwriting among my mail. In fact, I loved the shape of his lower case f so much that it still shows up in my own handwriting. We’d keep in touch about his research, my classes, people we knew, music, philosophy, and everything in between.

In one letter, he did me the kind of service that only a true friend can: he told me an uncomfortable truth about myself. “May I offer you a topic for reflection?” he began. He went on to observe that I often expressed my opinion of people in harsh or dismissive terms. I was shocked – and chastened – because I immediately recognized that he was right. In my impatience with a grocery store clerk or frustration with a coworker, I’d moved from occasional venting about life’s inconveniences toward a pattern of hubris. My friend’s invaluable feedback became a spur to do better.

Fast forward to a few years ago. Now, I don’t think I’m alone in occasionally checking in with myself about the big picture of my life. This particular time, it took the form of asking, “If I died today, how would I want my friends to remember me?” As I ran through the possibilities, I realized that the adjective I wanted at the top of the list was “kind”...and I wasn’t sure it would be.

It’s not that I thought people would lead by saying I was unkind, but I saw that I wasn’t living in a way that made kindness central to who I was. So once again, I set out to do better.

And you know what? Kindness doesn’t cost extra. It more than pays for itself in the time it takes me to hold the door open for someone. It comes back tenfold in stopping to help a tourist struggling to figure out a MUNI map. It’s my pleasure to thank the waitress every time she fills my water glass. I do these things with no expectation of getting anything in return – except becoming the person I want to be.

I can’t control what word first pops to mind when my friends think of me, but I’m doing what I can to make sure “kindness” shows up first in my own mind.

Laugh more.
Be kinder.
Leave peace in your wake.

The Animal You Need

2009-08-30T22:35:00.000-07:00

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the August 30, 2009, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

In the shamanic work I’ve done, it’s very common when journeying on someone’s behalf to bring back what’s known as a power animal. A power animal is a kind of spiritual ally and friend who shows up to help you by providing protection and guidance. Sometimes it’s with you for a short time, and sometimes for a lifetime.

Some people find they’ve always had an affinity for their power animals, even if they hadn’t noticed it consciously. For example, from where I slept when I was very young, I could look up across the room at a lamp I used as a nightlight every night. At the base of the lamp was a stuffed animal, which decades later turned out to be the same as my power animal. When I remembered this, I knew it had been watching out for me for a long time.

It’s important to note, though, that the power animal chooses you – it’s not about what animal you want, or think is cool, or believe is “good,” or even the animal you’ve always been drawn to. The one that shows up is the one with the gifts you need.

The majestic eagle. The awe-inspiring jaguar. The powerful bear. The playful dolphin. The mighty skunk.

Now, I’m guessing a few of you didn’t see that last one coming. “A skunk?” you may be thinking. “What kind of gift is an animal that sprays my dog in the face and gets its stink all over the neighborhood?”

The example might sound a little silly – unless what you need is to learn more about self-respect. There are few better teachers, because anyone who knows anything about skunks shows them considerable respect.

Think of it like having a friend with an incredible sense of humor who happens to use a wheelchair. If what you need is cheering up, there’s no one better. But on a day when you need to move furniture up two flights of stairs, she’s probably not the person best suited for the job. And that’s no reflection on how awesome your friend is. It just means that sometimes, the issue you’re facing is a couch.

We get into trouble when we decide there’s something wrong with what we need or who we are. We get these ideas of how things “should” be, and then judge ourselves when reality doesn’t match. I once made a list of the “shoulds” running around in my head, because I was so tormented by all the ways I felt I didn’t measure up. It was instructive to see not just how I beat myself up over things that were out of my control, but also to realize how many of my judgments were directly contradictory. “I should be less intense.” “I should be more engaged.” It was a setup for failure.

But just seeing pages and pages with line after line starting with “I should” – and how there was literally no way to satisfy them all – blew open the cognitive dissonance, exposing my internal critic for the saboteur that it is. I haven’t been caught in that kind of “should” avalanche since.

So what do you do when faced with the disappointment of expecting a deer and having a rat show up? The way you answer is a good measure of how you treat yourself.

I start by remembering that judgment doesn’t help. I may not want to admit that I can get cranky, or that my sarcasm sometimes bites harder than I intend, or that my recovery from perfectionism is an ongoing process, but those things are in me. When I reject those parts of myself, I’m failing to accept the totality of who I am, in all my human mess and glory. When I admit they’re there, though, then I can learn from them, just as I can learn from a rat, or a skunk, or an armadillo, or a three-toed tree sloth. And then I have the power to go about changing them if I want to, and from a place of self-love rather than self-hatred. A place of radical acceptance.

The good news is that like the tiger and the horse and the owl and the skunk, I also have gifts that are uniquely mine to offer. And while I’m definitely not the right person to call if you need to learn idiomatic Inuit, I just might do the trick on those days when you need a good laugh.

The Hidden Costs of the Healthcare Crisis

2009-08-09T17:49:00.000-07:00

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the August 9, 2009, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

Horror stories about the healthcare system are disturbingly commonplace at this point. Families bankrupted by hospital bills. Seniors taking less than their prescribed dosages because they have to make their medications last. That guy in the Michael Moore movie who had to decide which of two severed fingers to repair after an accident because he didn't have insurance and couldn't afford both; even the "cheap" one was $12,000.

Growing up, my family only went to the doctor if it was serious. If that cough wasn't a likely symptom of tuberculosis, then you took some Comtrex and got back out there. It wasn't until I lived in Germany that I even imagined another possibility. I'd been hanging out with a friend who twisted his ankle, and he decided to go to the doctor, just to make sure it was okay. "Just to make sure it was okay." This was a foreign language to me in more than one way.

But what I want to focus on today are the hidden costs of our healthcare crisis. They're not financial, though. I'm talking about the reluctance to spend political capital on anything else while health insurance reform is on the table -- and the spiritual cost of doing so.

One example I take very personally is the backpedaling on Obama's promises to the LGBT community. With everything this administration was handed, I was willing to have some patience. But things started to go off the rails pretty quickly. A blatant homophobe invited to give the inaugural invocation. No stop-loss order to prevent more "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" discharges. The Department of Justice's horrendous brief supporting DOMA and the White House's tone-deaf reaction to the justifiable anger that ensued.

There are other examples, but the most stark one -- and as an American, I take this personally as well -- is torture. We've already got evidence that war crimes were committed under the previous administration. Dick Cheney has done an entire media tour admitting to it. Yet the White House has focused on "moving forward" and wants us to believe that a new policy about not torturing people is sufficient. By this logic, any crime that was committed in the past shouldn’t be prosecuted. "Well, that jewel heist was last year, and we're not stealing any more, so let's just move forward."

I hope the Attorney General will end up making a different choice, but think about that: the special interests fighting health insurance reform are so entrenched, the opposition so intractable, the fear of repeating the failure of the Clinton Administration so great, that just one line item in the price we're paying is not even investigating documented torture.

This is a nation composed of people who time and again have shown deep compassion when faced with human suffering. So how have our priorities become so warped that affordable and accessible healthcare isn't the default? Isn't that exactly the kind of help a government should provide its people? And how has torture, the absolute opposite of compassion, become an acceptable bartering chip for anything?

I see us in danger of becoming a country that's willing to sell off parts of our soul as the cost of getting things done. The thing is, though, souls don't work like that. I can't use parts of your essence to fill holes in me -- it's like the frequencies don't match. Similarly, we can't excuse torture to gain points for healthcare. All we're doing is creating another rupture in the spirit politic.

Soul loss is serious. It's a spiritual illness that can manifest in physical and emotional symptoms. You can hear it in the language people use when they've suffered soul loss: "I feel like part of me is missing." "I don't feel like I'm really here." How do the consequences multiply when this illness strikes not just an individual, but an entire nation? Healthcare is a critical issue, but it can't be an altar upon which we sacrifice our very essence.

I believe the hunger we saw for change last year was our country's collective soul reaching towards healing. After the spiritual damage of the previous eight years, it couldn't come a moment too soon. But I'm also seeing signs that warn of more soul loss -- like people are watching their hope headed for a major car crash, and they're starting to leave so they won't fully experience the pain.

I know that if I allow myself to fall away into cynicism, I'll be giving up part of myself. And I'll have even fewer resources to draw on as we deal with the crises in front of us right now.

As a first but vital step, I invite you to ask any parts of your soul that have hidden themselves for safe keeping to return to help you. The gifts they bring back will be immeasurable, and are immeasurably needed, not just for your sake but for all of us. Creativity. Integrity. Energy. Joy. Vision. What will yours bring back?

All healing starts right here. I hope it won't be the only healthcare plan I can afford, but it's one that will help me mend everything else.

These Few Words are Enough

2009-07-31T00:09:00.000-07:00

Joe had been sick for a long time. His multiple myeloma had already required one bone marrow transplant and several rounds of chemotherapy. Eventually, doctors took the plans for a second transplant off the table because he just wasn't strong enough to undergo the procedure.

Although Emily and I wouldn't have described ourselves as part of Joe's inner circle, we were among those who kept up with how he was doing, visiting him during his many hospital stays, checking if he needed assistance getting to his appointments, bringing him the occasional 4-pack of bottled root beer -- one of the few things he'd ever taken us up on when we asked if he wanted anything. Emily in particular was great about calling and texting him -- she always had a sense of when he might need help. More than once, she'd call his cell phone and if he didn't answer, she'd hang up, call the UCSF hospital, and find him there.

We knew Joe from the bisexual community here in San Francisco. We first met at the weekly bi brunch that happened for years. Even when he was a more occasional visitor -- putting in a special guest star appearance, as I liked to say -- he was as friendly and personable as ever. He had a naturally cheerful demeanor, and even his sarcasm came with a playful smile. He could also be counted on as a dapper figure in the bi contingent in the Pride Parade, sporting a porkpie or fedora on his clean-shaven head. His grounded presence and genuine curiosity about the people around him always made me glad to spend time with him.

Joe was also extraordinarily generous with his time and resources. Until he got too ill, he hosted and moderated the listserv for the Bay Area Bisexual Network (BABN). These chat and event email lists are a major way that bi folks in the Bay Area find community online -- and frequently offline as well. Countless people have shared stories of feeling like the bi community was the first place they'd felt at home and how grateful they were to have found the chat list. It was a thankless task, but it was a way Joe felt he could contribute and so he did. (Happily, many folks on the BABN list did recognize his role and thank him over the years.) Joe was also a generous donor, quietly sharing his support with different causes.

Thankfully, before he died Joe was well enough to make the trip back to Indiana to be with his family, as he'd wanted. He got to see his mom, who had also been ill, as well as meet his new two and a half month-old nephew named Luke Joseph in his honor. He was an incredibly sweet, warm, humble, giving, good-hearted man who made a difference in the world -- can any of us hope for more? I feel honored to have called him my friend.

~ ~ ~

Gentle slip to sleep
Skin tightly fit over skull –
Still the bamboo grows

As Joe's time wound down, I was shocked to realize that despite my sense of not being a close friend, I was still probably closer to him than many others in San Francisco. Certainly, he had good friends like Jon and Jack around, and most likely others I don't know about. At the same time, a theme emerged over and over in talking with people or in messages sent to the BABN list: "Even though I didn't know Joe very well, he always seemed like a great guy, and I always appreciated everything he did for the bi community." I know he was tight with his family, but his circle of friends seemed inexplicably small.

This was difficult to get my head around. Why did so few people feel connected enough to this universally liked man to visit him in the hospital? Nearly a decade ago, when my roommate Laura was dying, we had a list of volunteers alone with at least 40 names on it. Did Laura just share more about the seriousness of her cancer? Joe was no less kind or deserving of support. I do know he never wanted to be a bother, even when friends were eager to help. Emily and I made sure to call him regularly in the hope that an active offer of assistance might minimize his sense of imposing.

Even in the week before Joe died, the only reason we knew how sick he'd become was that Jon stopped by his hospital room. Joe had assured him over the phone that he was "fine," but Jon felt something was up. After one look at him in person, Jon sent out word that people needed to come say their goodbyes.

I was at work when Emily called me about Jon's message. At that point, I didn't know whether Joe's remaining time would be measured in hours or days, so the 30 minutes it took me to wrap up some critical loose ends was agonizingly slow.

As soon as I walked into Joe's room, I knew he wouldn't recover. He was asleep with eyes half open, his chest seeming to climb boulders just to rise and fall, his upper lip pulling back over his teeth, and the contours of his skull far too apparent beneath a thin layer of skin. I'd seen that look before: when my Aunt June was dying in hospice and when I found our cat Jonathan already wearing death's grimace. Given that Joe was still able to be alert and talk, I expected he'd live several more days, but I knew the arrow wouldn't shift direction this time.

So we sat and chatted with him, talked with his cousin about training guide dogs, and made our way to the solarium when Joe wanted some time alone. Later, we'd compare notes with Jack and Jon, entertain our niece while her parents visited inside the hospital room, and coordinate with another friend trekking in from the North Bay to say goodbye. The next day, Joe's dad would fly in from Indiana and start to figure out how to get him from a hospital bed in San Francisco to their living room in Terre Haute. Three days later they'd get on a plane. Five days after that, on July 9, 2009, Joe Dale Holt died peacefully, with his brother by his side. He was 47.

~ ~ ~

Enough.
These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.
~ from "Enough" by David Whyte

I've been processing Joe's death for a little while now, alternating between an image of his withered body lying in the hospital bed and another of him smiling and laughing at brunch.

The last time I saw Joe, the day before he left for Indiana, there was no opening to say goodbye in any meaningful way. I had to learn to respect his process, which did not include delving into the serious issues of life and death (at least, not with me or Emily). I was prepared to dive as deeply as he needed to go -- I pictured myself decked out in scuba gear, fully charged air tank strapped to my back -- but he remained closer to the surface. And since what I really wanted was to be present with him and for him, I stayed near the surface, too. I had to trust that my presence was enough. His last words to me? "Have a good rest of your day." Mine to him? "Safe travels."

In trying to make sense of this loss, and the void where I expected more people to be, I realized that Joe was just more reserved and private than I usually associate with such genuine friendliness. Given that he lived in San Francisco for 20 years, he must have found a measure of satisfaction in the life he'd built here. And he had to have wanted to keep that inner circle small because as far as I can tell, everyone who met Joe truly liked him. It's just that few of us had the privilege of knowing him well.

In that hospital room, my questions about why there weren't more people around had nothing to do with Joe. They grew out of the sadness and confusion I'd feel, because I want to make a different choice for myself. I want the people around me to know me. I want to share my whole self -- the thoughts and emotions and creativity and goofiness and insights that combine to become me. I want to draw people near and be present enough to know them, too. I've been doing this, but now I understand how committed I am to building that life.

I'd wanted to send Joe a card with the things I didn't get to say in person -- my gratitude to have known him, what a warm and giving person he was. I thought he might be better able to take in the words without me standing there. Ultimately, I didn't want to leave anything unsaid for my own sake, so I let go of any attachment to the exact form this deeper goodbye took. But the text I put together seemed stunted. I didn't have his family's address. I thought perhaps I'd send an email. And then Joe died before I could do any of it.

So the form has adapted once again. I drafted this tribute to him in a coffee shop eight storeys below his condo. I'm sharing the facets of him I did have the chance to see and honoring his considerable generosity. Most of all, these few words are a way to thank him for helping me clarify the life and death I hope for myself by allowing me to witness his.

Whatever the closeness between us, his friendship has given me the profound gift of drawing me closer to me.

=================
Please join me in making a gift in memory of Joe Holt to one of these organizations:

Bay Area Bisexual Network
Attn: Joe Holt Fund
1800 Market Street, PMB #101
San Francisco, CA 94102

Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation

American Civil Liberties Union of Northern California

I’m Going to...Church?

2009-07-24T21:06:00.000-07:00

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the July 19, 2009, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

See if any of this sounds familiar:

“I heard this really interesting speaker last week at...church?”

“There are just some of the nicest, most engaged people at our...church?”

Here’s a good one: “I had this insight last week during the discussion at Small Group...Ministry? I’m one of the...lay leaders?...at the...church?”

Maybe some of you recognize yourselves in such hesitancy. I felt a particular dilemma a few months ago, as I prepared for my first time as a...Worship Associate? I was excited about what I’d written and wanted to invite friends to hear me...what? What word comes next? Preach? Not exactly. Talk? They could hear me talk any time with having to get up early on a Sunday morning. Bear witness? Probably a fair analogy, but yikes – no. I couldn’t find any way to capture the excitement I felt about sharing the intersection of my creativity and my spirituality that didn’t also reek with historical and cultural baggage.

It’s not that I’m ashamed of being a member here – quite the contrary. I’m excited to have found a spiritual tradition that doesn’t ask me to leave any part of myself at the side of the road. It’s the language of organized religion and recruitment – known second cousins of coersion – that makes me shiver.

I must admit, I put off attending UU services for a long time, though not for the reason you might guess. As far as I could tell, Unitarian Universalism seemed pretty cool. I’d come here for School of the Americas Watch meetings, so I already knew the Society’s dedication to social justice. In the wake of September 11, Emily and I had wanted to be part of some kind of communal gathering, and this sanctuary was an instinctive choice. Heck, there’s even a Pagan Interest Circle. How many churches have that?

I put off coming here because the UU Church was my backup plan. It was the mythical land I held in reserve. My safety schul, if you will. Because what if I went and didn’t like it? What if I arrived only to find that I didn’t feel comfortable bringing my soul here? What if my last, best hope for finding spiritual community didn’t pan out?

For years now, I’ve had a singing job in the choir at St. Francis Lutheran Church. It’s a place that gives Christianity a good name. They’re very LGBT-friendly. Their worship is based in a vision of a loving god and a deep calling to make the world a more just and humane place. Everyone at St. Francis has always been warm and welcoming to me, and I feel like part of that community. Except for one tiny thing: I’m not Christian.

I’ve spent many a jealous Sunday in that choir loft, longing for a religious institution where I wouldn’t have to spin my sense of the divine out of a book that resonates only intermittently for me. I’ve found ways to make do. For example, it helps to recall another singer’s trick, where she’d mentally replace “god” with “dog”: “O Dog, we thank you for your unconditional love. After all, what is asked of us but that we do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our Dog?” It also helps a lot to think of Jesus as a powerful shaman with killer PR. But such constant translation isn’t the same as finding a spiritual home – it’s visiting as a spiritual exchange student.

The first few Sundays I came here, I grew nervous as my fears about not feeling at home seemed well-founded. After St. Francis’s modest chapel and small congregation, I felt lost in the soaring architecture and large crowd. You can probably guess how that story ends, though, or I wouldn’t be up here.

So how do I reconcile my uneasiness with evangelism with my enthusiasm for the spiritual home I’ve finally found?

Even though I’m uncomfortable with the language of organized religion, I also know that when I invite people to think about joining Small Group Ministry, or to come hear me on days like today, I’ve got a Major Caveat Trump Card in my back pocket: “Well...it’s the UU Church.” I’m inviting them to a place where we have a shared conversation of discovery because the breadth and depth of the human experience isn’t neat and tidy. No one person, no one book, has the answers. Rather, we all do.

I get to tell people that this is a place about wholeness. One of the moments I love in the St. Francis service is the blessing they give at communion: “Live in forgiveness, claim your wholeness, and go in peace.” The phrase came out of the congregation’s commitment to affirming that everyone’s sexuality is sacred. For me, wholeness affirms that my spirituality doesn’t have to fit inside a box marked Lutheran, or Buddhist, or Muslim, or Pagan, or even Unitarian Universalist. As I walk my path, I carry my spiritual home with me, in a Linda-shaped box, because none of it has been left behind.

"Reverse Racism" Caption Contest

2009-05-27T18:37:00.000-07:00

The very excellent Liza Sabater (aka @blogdiva) is holding a caption contest to slap certain right-wing windbags for accusing Supreme Court Justice Nominee Sonia Sotomayor of "reverse racism."

1) First of all, if they bothered to read more than the 30 words taken out of context, they'd see she was arguing in favor of as much judicial neutrality as a human can bring to the bench.

2) Racism is an institutional system that excludes certain groups from political and economic power. There's no such thing as "reverse racism" because the power dynamics only go in one direction. (HINT: It's not from Latina > White.)*

Here's the photo that I'm submitting for the contest:

(Thanks to ROFLBOT for their caption-adding awesomeness.)

* Note: In case you're curious, a word that can apply in either direction is "prejudice."

No Approval Needed to Shine

2009-05-08T17:55:00.000-07:00

Nearly two and half years. That's how long it has taken to shepherd my new album, Consequences of Seeing in the Dark, from vague recording itch to final product. In all that time, I was rarely impatient for the process to go faster. I chalk this up to knowing somewhere inside that I was also preparing to handle the terror of putting my soul's work on display.

With the finish line in sight, I've been jumping up and down at folks -- sometimes literally -- about how excited I am. This project is so close to my heart, and only a handful of people have heard it during the years it took up residence in my life. With only a couple more weeks before I have the CDs in hand, I couldn't resist putting some tracks on MySpace.

Because I'd only received positive feedback thus far, I was caught off guard when a friend told Emily he wasn't sure what to make of the songs. I always knew such a day would come -- I'd pictured myself reading a review, pondering how I'd feel if the person was underwhelmed -- I just hadn't expected it so soon, or from this particular source.

But the surprise of it was a gift. It reminded me to hold on to the joy I feel when I listen to the songs. Even just talking about the project, I'm at my most grounded, powerful, and present. I glow. This friend's reaction -- which I know came with absolutely no ill will -- reminded me to prepare for the next phase of the album's existence.

Fate conspired today to take me to Grace Cathedral. I knew that walking the labyrinth would provide a perfect opportunity to learn how protect my heart going forward, not by building a wall around it but by strengthening that inner glow. As I walked the twists and turns in the sunshine, I sought a way to remain grounded in the profound creativity I'd been privileged to experience.

What I discovered in that labyrinth is that my soul doesn't need anyone's approval to shine. Not even mine.

Do I hope people enjoy the album? Of course. I hope it's wildly successful and heard far and wide. In the end, though, my dearest wishes have already come true: the music simply thrills me.

I still have fingers crossed that my friend will appreciate the album once he hears it in its entirety, rather than a few tracks out of context. But if not, that's okay, too -- perhaps his soul just resonates differently from mine. All I can do is send my flare up and enjoy the fireworks, however many voices join me in marveling at the show in the night sky.

A Faithful Existence

2009-04-20T10:22:00.000-07:00

I wrote and delivered this piece as the Credo for the April 19, 2009, service at the First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco.

When I told my partner Emily that today’s topic was “A Faithful Existence,” she got a kind of faraway, glassy look in her eyes. She was polite enough to keep any “yes, dear...uh-huh...wow, that’s interesting” comments to herself. But we’ve been married a long time, and I knew something was up.

The concept of “faith” didn’t speak to her because it seemed too wrapped up in a belief in god. Or more specifically, a distinct kind of monotheistic deity with distinct ideas about how we should be living our lives. For those of us who find divinity everywhere, sitting through a service like that is a recipe for boredom at best or alienation at worst.

Certainly the word “faith” has become a loaded term. People of faith, faith-based initiatives, faith communities...on my best days, the images that pop to mind start with my friend Matt, a devout Catholic who leads an interfaith worker’s rights organization, has run for office as a dyed-in-the-wool progressive, and is my exemplar of a truly feminist man. On my less-than-best days, though, those phrases about faith conjure images of people waving Yes on Prop 8 signs, screaming outside Planned Parenthood clinics, and protesting at funerals.

But faith is larger than religion. The truth is, each of us already lives a faithful existence, in ways large and small. Without even thinking about it, we take a lot on faith every day. In this moment alone, I assume that my internal organs are going about their business, my house still stands, and gravity will continue to operate. Often this faith is grounded in reason – especially that thing about gravity – but trust, expectations, and past experience all play big roles as well.

It’s an act of faith to go to bed at night and assume we’ll wake up the next morning. This isn’t something people with terminal illnesses can take for granted – maybe making their leap of faith that much bigger.

It’s a tremendous act of faith to become a parent. How will I know what to do? What happens if I lose my job? What if my child turns into a person I love but don’t like? There’s so much that’s unknowable, and the stakes are enormously high. Yet here we are, nearly 7 billion people later.

I think the biggest act of faith, though, is believing that we can find meaning in life. It’s a profoundly human tendency that transcends religion. We look for signs and omens. We cross our fingers and make wishes on stars. We ask for guidance, from the universe or the directions or our higher power or our best selves or from god or the goddess. We sit here on Sunday mornings. When times are tough or tragedy strikes, when the inexplicable and wholly irrational occurs, still we ask, “Why?”

When I was a junior in high school, I lived in Germany as an exchange student. The scholarship I’d won to get there allowed me to escape the torment I experienced at home and at school. That year abroad literally saved my sanity.

About eight months into my stay, a major existential crisis hit. I was a 16-year old desperately needing to make some kind of sense out of everything that had happened to me. One Saturday, as I sat by the river that formed the valley where my host family lived, looking up at the mountains of the Black Forest, I kept repeating, “What does it all mean? Why are we here?” with tears streaming down my face.

Much to my surprise, I got an answer. As though whispered in the back of my head, I heard, “For the beauty of it.”

Well, figuring out the meaning of life is heady stuff for a 16-year old. I tried to share this new insight with my host mother when I got home that afternoon and discovered for the first time that not everyone contemplates the meaning of life all the time. (This news came as quite a shock.) I tried sharing it with friends at school, but I couldn’t seem to convey the depth of my experience by the river. And while I’ve come to think of life’s beauty more in the sense of poetry rather than some neat and pretty package, at the time I struggled to reconcile what I’d learned with things like famine, violence, poverty, and the crazy-making way mosquitoes buzz your ears in the middle of the night.

But those words whispered to me more than two decades ago have stayed with me. It may not be your answer to why we’re here. It’s not even always my answer. But that long-ago afternoon gives me faith that the yearning for meaning will point me in the right direction to find peace.

Putting Our Money Where Their Mouths Should Be

2009-04-09T11:11:00.000-07:00

UPDATE: While the number of states with marriage equality has changed since I first posted this, and other LGBT issues are claiming headlines, the need for greater inclusivity remains (unfortunately). ::sigh::

+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

With multiple victories for marriage equality in the last week -- including Iowa, Vermont, and Washington, DC -- many LGBT organizations sent out a flurry of emails and press releases about all the progress our movement had made.

Some, like NGLTF, used wonderfully inclusive language, hailing the various events that granted "the freedom to marry to same-sex couples."

Others, like HRC, continued their spotty and inconsistent (and frankly, inaccurate) language expressing excitement for all the "loving, committed lesbian and gay couples" who can now marry. Particularly disappointing is GLAAD, an organization that's supposed to be a watchdog around language for the LGBT community.

What's frustrating is that it isn't difficult to do it right. "Same-sex couple" is both more inclusive and more accurate, because two women in a couple are not always lesbians or in a "lesbian relationship." Ditto for men and "gay." Heck, for that matter, not all different-sex couples are heterosexual. (Depending on the gender identities of the people involved, "same-sex" and "different-sex" may be no more than approximations -- but these terms get closest to the crux of the struggle and are the best we have right now.)

Countless letters and phone calls and personal interactions and educational sessions and explicit non-donations and behind-the-scenes pressure over many, many years have done little to change the institutional culture wherein such exclusive language is acceptable. For whatever reason, too many supposedly LGBT organizations just don't get it -- it's not about throwing the occasional B and T into the mix. It's about standing up for us as integral parts of the queer community, all the time and every time.

This week, my bisexual wife and my bisexual self had had enough. Again.

She suggested and I created "checks" that you can fill out, print, and mail in (see below). It includes a note underneath: "This might have been a real check if you had been more inclusive." They are brought to you by the "bank" of BiPOL, a bisexual political action group.

Bisexual check (single) [PDF, 157k]
A single check, with plenty of room to write a note, if desired

Bisexual check (multiple) [PDF, 179k]
Three bi checks on one page, for efficient printing if you don't need the blank space

Transgender check (single) [PDF, 157k]
As above, but focusing on transgender exclusion

Transgender check (multiple) [PDF, 258k]
As above, but focusing on transgender exclusion

Our goal is to drive home the point that excluding bisexuals and/or transgender people is not only unacceptable, it costs the organization donations.

I should mention that there are many, many LGBT nonprofits out there doing fantastic work on behalf of all of us, and they DESPERATELY need -- and richly deserve -- our support. (In fact, only about 5% of LGBT people give to LGBT causes. We need to do far better.) That's why it's all the more important to let groups like HRC know that we're being strategic with our bi/trans/ally dollars and not rewarding them when they can't even remember to talk about us (much less address our most serious issues).

So download the files, link to them, share them with friends, invest in a few stamps, and demand that the organizations supposedly representing YOUR community do better. In this economy, perhaps we'll have enough leverage to institute lasting change.

More or Less

2009-01-17T14:19:00.000-08:00

According to my mom, my grandmother wasn't embarrassed in women's changing rooms because she figured, "They don't have anything I don't have, just more or less of it." This always made total sense to me, and in fact made me less shy when trying on new clothes or getting dressed at the gym.

It struck me the other day that my grandmother's concept also scales up. Everyone has a body -- they come in different shapes, but we all have circulatory systems, internal organs, senses, and the impulse toward healing. Everyone has emotions -- some of us know how to put words to them, some of us get overwhelmed by them, some of us have locked them away, but we've all experienced them. Everyone has talents -- whatever one's passion, career, hobby, interest, or passing curiosity, each of us has a strength, even if it's just being the only You of your kind.

Everyone has the capacity to do good as well as the capacity to increase suffering. Everyone has a unique combination of nature and nurture that has brought us to this point in time. We all have what everyone else has -- just more or less of it. It's a profound blueprint for fostering compassion.

In a flash, I saw the concept at work within myself as well. Over the course of my life, I've always been smart, kind, and funny -- just more or less of it. I've carried fear -- just more or less of it. I've felt connected and I've felt lonely -- just more or less of it. I've expressed my true nature -- just more or less of it.

Despite everything I've gone through, I've never really lost anything. My essence remains intact within the ebb and flow of time and circumstance. Whatever may happen in any given moment, I'm never less than whole -- and never more grateful to know it.

Call for Personal Stories from Bisexuals (San Francisco Human Rights Commission)

2009-01-12T10:22:00.000-08:00

From the LGBT Advisory Committee of the San Francisco Human Rights Commission:

CALL FOR PERSONAL STORIES FROM SAN FRANCISCO BISEXUALS

Too often, bisexuals are ignored, demonized, or rendered invisible by both the heterosexual world and the lesbian and gay communities. Too often, the entire sexual orientation is branded as invalid, immoral, or irrelevant. Despite years of activism and a population twice the size of gays and lesbians, our needs still go unaddressed and our very existence is still called into question. This erasure has serious consequences on our health, our incomes, and funding for our organizations.

The Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Advisory Committee (LGBTAC) of San Francisco’s Human Rights Commission is currently working on a report that will address the issue of bisexual invisibility and recommend changes that the city can implement. Past reports include groundbreaking work on issues such as transgender discrimination, LGBT aging, and the medical “normalization” of intersex people. (For more about the Human Rights Commission and the LGBTAC, go to www.sfgov.org/sfhumanrights.)

As part of the “Bisexual Invisibility” report, we’d like to include personal stories from bisexuals to give a voice to a population regularly left out. Please note that because the LGBTAC’s official scope is limited to the City and County of San Francisco, we’re looking for authors who live, work in, or spend significant time in San Francisco.

Submission guidelines:
~ Stories should be 500 words or less. Your entry may be edited for length, grammar, or clarity. Even if you don’t consider yourself a “writer,” we want to hear your story, too! (Please note that we may not be able to include all entries in the report.)
~ Authors should identify as having attractions to more than one sex (whether or not you call yourself “bisexual”).
~ Stories should be grounded in personal experience rather than focusing solely on philosophical or political analysis.

Possible topics (you do NOT need to address all of these):
~ What do you feel are the particular gifts, perspectives, experiences, etc. that bisexuals bring to the broader LGBT community?
~ When did you come out as bisexual? Have you ever identified as lesbian or gay?
~ Have you ever felt excluded (or welcomed) specifically because you were bisexual?
~ Do you feel your healthcare needs as a bisexual are taken into account by mainstream health services? By LGBT-focused services?
~ In your experience, how well do LGBT organizations that include the “B” in their names also address the needs of bisexuals in their programs? Does a particular experience stand out?
~ How/when do you disclose your bisexuality when dating? Do you choose to talk about it at all? Why or why not?
~ Does your bisexuality conflict with other aspects of your life? Would you choose a different orientation if you could?
~ What is your relationship to the label “bisexual”? Why do you apply it to yourself (or not)?
~ How does bisexual space differ for you from mixed settings or primarily monosexual spaces?
~ What is the best part about being bisexual? The most difficult part?

Submission contact information:
Please send your piece to bivisibility@gmail.com with the text IN THE BODY OF THE EMAIL ONLY. (To protect against viruses, messages with attachments will be deleted.) Please include your name, address, email, and phone number.

To ensure that we can include stories from a diverse cross-section of bisexuals, please include the following information:

Age:
Race/ethnicity:
Gender:
Are you a parent?

Entries are due no later than FEBRUARY 15, 2009.

If you have any questions, please email bivisibility@gmail.com.

No Unalloyed Joy

2008-12-20T12:12:00.001-08:00

For many queer people and our allies, November 4th was not a day of celebration. For brief moments, sure, when the presidential race was called for Obama and as he gave his victory speech. In the latter, there was an entire 20-minute period when I was able to focus almost exclusively on that galvanizing moment in our country's history and witness a new page turning in American politics.

The glow faded back into anxiety within 30 seconds. The results of Prop 8 - by far harder to predict - were yet to come.

When the first vote tallies did come in, the news was bleak. The gap would narrow slightly before exhaustion drove us home (we'd been up since 5:00 that morning working on No on 8 visibility), but I felt isolated from the crowds of revellers we passed cheering in the streets.

As the passage of Prop 8 became official, I couldn't access much excitement about Obama's election. Relief I had big-time - McCain would've been disastrous - but sadness and grief were my constant companions. Having married my sweetie for yet a third time just weeks earlier, I took Prop 8 very, very personally. Not only had its passage snatched away my rights, but I also felt robbed of the joy that was rightfully mine on the occasion of Obama's historic election.

That's a big part of why Rick Warren's presence at the inauguration is so painful - once again, I can't simply celebrate Obama's victory. But this time, the joy thief is Obama himself.

I never expected our new President to be perfect, nor did I have any illusions about him being more progressive than he is. I just thought...for a few brief months...that this time, LGBT people wouldn't have to live with our dignity and hope and humanity in a lockbox for safekeeping.

You've wounded us deeply, Mr. Obama. I'm not sure you even understand how much. You've taken our sacred trust and shoved it down the back of our throats. You've sucker-punched us in our souls.

I was ready to heed your calls for sacrifice, and step up my public service even more, and give you enormous leeway because the mess left by your predecessor is unfathomably deep and wide.

Instead, I now feel I've pretty much done my part sacrificing on behalf of my country. I live openly as a bisexual woman with my openly bisexual wife - our very lives are a public service to this country, even before you get to all our other do-gooder work. And clearly, anti-LGBT bias is the one form of discrimination that's still acceptable (no proud anti-Semite or racist would ever have gotten the call Warren did), so we have our work cut out for us as it is.

Mr. Obama, the LGBT community was poised to stand by you as one of your staunchest allies. I understand all your reasons for inviting Mr. Warren (reaching across divides, you're everyone's President, etc.), but you could have expressed those same ideals with a far less divisive, hate-filled man. How does anyone win by you standing up and saying, "Even virulent homophobes have a place of respect in this country"?

Let me be clear: this isn't okay. A batterer may feel genuine love for his wife, but it's unhealthy for her to stick around after the first smack. The only way she'll return (assuming her self-respect was intact enough not to believe the abuse was acceptable) is if he does some serious soul-searching, gets help, demonstrates genuine remorse - and never, ever, ever treats her that way again.

Consider yourself being held accountable, Mr. Obama.

A Modest Suggestion

2008-12-18T09:24:00.000-08:00

I really like Heather Gold's take on how to deal with Rick Warren (of Yes on Prop 8 infamy) presenting the invocation at Obama's inauguration. Her basic thesis is that while it sucks that queer folks always have to be the "bigger people" in terms of practicing inclusiveness, ultimately we should do it because it's who we are. If we truly believe in the little-d democratic principle of making room for everyone, then that also means the people we virulently disagree with get to enter the big tent, too.

Yes. And.

I also think Obama could signal his willingness to be that Big Tent President while not simultaneously slapping his queer supporters on the way in. Was there no other Evangelical pastor in the entire country available that day? One who hadn't been quite so visible and active in taking away marriage rights from same-sex couples? Someone who exhibits his/her Christian faith by, y'know, actually treating all human beings with dignity?

I have a suggestion. I know it's extremely unlikely that Warren's invitation will be revoked. So be it. Why not counterbalance him, then, by having Melissa Etheridge perform at the Inaugural Ball? Or some other highly visible proponent of LGBT rights?

Make the tent as big as you can, Mr. Obama. I know our country needs to come together in a big way right now. But if elbows are going to fly, at least give us a little padding. Our community has already taken far too many hits as it is.

UPDATE: 12/19/08
An Even Better Modest Suggestion

If Obama really wants to demonstrate how he's going to bring people together across great divides, he can start by inviting a queer pastor to co-invocate the inauguration with the rabid homophobe Rick Warren.

There are plenty of candidates to choose from, even before you start counting the closet cases. A few names to get the transition team rolling: Troy Perry (MCC founder), Gene Robinson (Episcopal bishop), Yvette Flunder (Ark of Refuge), Phyllis Zillhart and/or Ruth Frost (awesome Lutheran pastors who are also a couple). I know there are many, many more.

The brilliance of this move is that Obama doesn't have to disinvite Warren. The moment becomes both more balanced and even MORE symbolic. (I'm a big believer in the power of symbolism, but the transition team seems to snort it for breakfast.) BONUS: We get to see Rick Warren wring his hands over whether or not to participate. Would a Christian right-winger, for once, have to be a big enough person to accept the honor for what it is and meet the LGBT community halfway?

Of course, if they had Rachel Maddow emcee the event, I'd also accept that in lieu of apology.

Two Allies

2008-12-10T21:15:00.000-08:00

I've been quite moved by the way straight allies have stepped up to support same-sex couples in the fight over Prop 8, both before and after the election. Something feels monumental in how this is happening -- the tide is turning, but this time, it's not going back.

I know there are thousands of examples out there, but I wanted to mention two people in particular:

Keith Olbermann. His November 10 Special Comment had me sobbing. Here's this straight guy (down to the major sports fan stereotype) who totally got it. He truly didn't understand why anyone would feel compelled to stamp out someone else's love. It was all he could do to contain his own emotion enough to get through the words. His heart was broken on our behalf, and as his voice quivered, it released some of my pain.
Olbermann also had a segment on December 5th about "Prop 8 - The Musical", with spot-on comments from straight allies Jack Black and John C. Reilly (as well as nelly queen Mark Shaiman, who composed the brilliant piece).

Jon Stewart. In the second half of his December 9 interview with Mike Huckabee, he completely undercut the former Governor's position on same-sex marriage while managing to keep his tone completely respectful. The moment that stood out for me, though, was when he took Huckabee to task for saying that same-sex couples need to make our case to the American people in order to have our rights. Jon Stewart wasn't having it.

Olbermann's Special Comment and Stewart's "make their case" moment share a theme for me -- at a fundamental level, they stood up for my humanity. They spoke of my life and my love as worthy of respect. They accorded me the dignity that every human being deserves simply by virtue of being alive.

That's what it gets down to, and it's really not much to ask. We just want to be treated with dignity. Unfortunately, humans are remarkably bad at it -- a recent article argued quite persuasively that this one-up-one-down dynamic (which the authors dub "rankism") lies at the root of all "isms."

What Jon Stewart and Keith Olbermann have done is reminded me that my inherent worth will never hinge on a vote -- it's nothing I ever need to argue for, and no one can take it away from me. By affirming our dignity in such a high-profile way, they've not only influenced potential allies who'd never given the issue much thought, but also sent a life preserver to queers like me. We're not in this struggle alone.

The Waiting Game

2008-11-27T11:34:00.000-08:00

On the evening of November 3rd, Emily and I had gone to the No on Prop 8 headquarters for an Election Day training. The sense of anticipation and nerves in the packed room told me I wasn't alone in feeling the momentousness of the occasion.

On the way home, as we ran into people and talked quietly about Prop 8's chances, I felt as though I were in Act IV of Shakespeare's "Henry V" -- the night before the big battle at Agincourt. The English are outnumbered 25 to 1 by the French, and each soldier knows he's unlikely to see the end of the following day. King Harry moves quietly through the camps to give them heart in a situation where the stakes are high and the odds bleak.

I came home and reread that section of the play, struck by how perfectly it captured the atmosphere surrounding me four centuries later. And praying that we'd play the part of the English, who defeated a formidable foe against all odds at the end of an exhausting campaign.

Unfortunately, our campaign played out differently.

~ ~ ~

Soon after Election Day, the legal challenges began, as we knew they would should Prop 8 pass. As I understand it, there are two main arguments to overturn the measure: 1) because marriage is a fundamental right, eliminating it for same-sex couples is too large a change to the California constitution to be passed by a simple majority; and 2) equal protection requires the court to protect the rights of a minority from the "tyranny of the majority." Also at issue, should Prop 8 stand, is the legal status of some 18,000 marriages that took place between June 17 (when the Supreme Court ruling went into effect) and November 4 (when 52.3% of voters saw "elimination of rights" on the ballot and chose "yes").

The California Supreme Court has agreed to hear the case. This is good news. However, even with everything on a fast track, we probably won't know anything definitive for several months.

And so the waiting begins again.

~ ~ ~

Emily and I have gotten married three times now: a friends and family wedding in 2003, a legal wedding in 2004 at San Francisco City Hall, and a third "combo special" (ceremony + legal) in 2008. We even used "Third Time's the Charm" as our theme.

But with Prop 8 hanging over our heads, I haven't quite been able to settle into feeling married this time around. It was so painful when our 2004 marriage was forcibly voided that part of me has been steeling myself against it happening again.

To keep myself sane, I've been coming back to the reality that right now, we're still married. That bears repeating: in this moment, I'm married. That's pretty remarkable on multiple levels, not the least of which is that there's this awesome person who thinks I'm wonderful enough to share her life with me. But in the history of the LGBT movement, the fact we're married is absolutely stunning. No one can rob me of the joy of this moment without my consent.

The Prop 8 question is unlikely to find a clear answer until some time in the spring. This Thanksgiving Day, though, I realized that this enforced waiting is actually a blessing, because it means I get six months of luxuriating in the state of matrimony. I don't have to worry about my marriage being snatched away without warning. Steeling myself will just turn my core cold and hard -- instead, I'm taking the opportunity to practice being in the moment and living in gratitude.

"Thus may we gather honey from the weed and make a virtue of the devil himself."

===============================================

POSTSCRIPT
I'm fascinated by what emerged in a word cloud of this piece, especially in the lower left (click to enlarge in a new window):

The Potential of Tuesday

2008-10-31T13:06:00.000-07:00

I'm not the only one who feels it.

In these waning days before the 2008 election - when the United States can elect an intelligent, grounded, inspiring man who would also become the nation's first African-American President, and when California can turn the tide on anti-LGBT sentiment in this country and even the world - the historic nature of this moment is palpable.

Newspapers and TV news and blogs and probably carrier pigeons are all sounding a similar theme. The Democratic primary alone made history in several directions. And the GOP Vice Presidential candidate, while completely unqualified for the job, does represent a milestone for that party. Everywhere you look, the tectonic shift occurring in our politics carries once-in-a-lifetime import.

Which made me wonder why it felt so familiar.

What happens on Tuesday has the potential not just to elect one candidate or another, or to shoot down one proposition or another, but to help this nation evolve. Will we choose compassion and mutual responsibility, or fear and isolationism? Will mutual respect win the day, or will one group foist their beliefs on another? Will we act like adults and finally live the values we were taught in kindergarten - sharing, playing well together, using our imaginations - or will we remain childish, insisting that there are monsters under the bed that need to be destroyed?

There was another Tuesday not that long ago when this country was also given the opportunity to evolve. Following the attacks on September 11, the world poured out enormous compassion towards the United States, mourning beside us in our grief. They stood with us graveside, their hearts opened by our loss, and offered the embrace of friendship in solace. The potential in that moment for humanity to come together and become better than we had been was incalcuable, though bought at a terrible cost.

I believe that of all the horrible things George W. Bush has done during his presidency, the squandering of that potential is the one for which he will pay the highest karmic price. In the weeks after the attacks, he and his administration flung off the world's embrace and told everyone to piss off. Their behavior during that crisis only began the litany of failures that followed, including a far higher body count than claimed by the Twin Towers.

However, the American people have another once-in-a-lifetime opportunity before us on November 4th. And this time, the power is in our hands, not dependent on a small group of small-minded people. This time, we can move humanity forward without the sacrifice of 3,000 more lives. This time, we can make a different choice, with our hearts wide open and the strength of millions of voices calling for change as one.

On this Tuesday, we can let the angels of our better natures carry the day. There's no one to hold us back but ourselves.

========================================
Read another post of mine about Tuesdays...

Cynicism is Overrated

2008-08-18T13:47:00.000-07:00

In 2005, Horizons Foundation (where I work) created a brief video for our 25th anniversary. It's powerful, joyful, and inspiring. I've lost track of how many times I've watched it, but it literally moves me to tears every time.

I do not take for granted the privilege of working at an organization like this, doing what I love and making a difference in the world. It just doesn't get any better.

Words Matter

2008-07-04T17:23:00.000-07:00

“Words matter. Names matter.”

These sentences set the stage for a powerful and eloquent statement by Deputy City Attorney Therese Stewart as she argued before the California Supreme Court for the right of all people to marry the person they choose.

I couldn’t agree more. Words shape our thoughts and give form to reality. They are the vehicles through which we engage in the profound and magical act of communication.

Words do matter. Which is why, as a bisexual woman, I find the current celebrations on behalf of “gay and lesbian couples” profoundly painful. Each time I hear that phrase, I feel physically stabbed.

My partner and I are both bi. As a same-sex couple, we’re subject to the same injustice and legal complexity and potential violence as any lesbian or gay couple. Our excitement in 2004 was just as palpable as we stood in line for our marriage license at San Francisco City Hall, and our relationship was just as diminished by the state’s subsequent annulments. We are just as threatened by Prop 8, the ballot measure this November that would define marriage as between one man and one woman.

The language of California law had left us out of the right to marry until the victory on May 15th. But the language of LGBTQI organizations and the media has robbed us of this moment’s joy. I can’t get my heart to stop hurting.

What’s shocking is that this non-inclusive language isn’t entirely random. Because some focus group data found that “gay and lesbian” was more palatable to undecided moderates than “same-sex,” there has been a strategic decision by key lesbian and gay leaders to use it through November. The goal is to win the fight against the ballot measure and secure marriage equality once and for all in California.

We could argue about whether the ends justify the means. We could argue about why the language is being used so broadly rather than just with the straight voters we’re trying to persuade. What’s not open for discussion is why no bisexual leaders were in on the conversation. No one asked us whether we were willing to make this sacrifice. We didn’t even get the courtesy of an acknowledgment that this strategy would take a toll on us. No one prepared us to have our hearts broken over and over for months.

Words matter. Not just some of them, and not just some of the time. Just as marriage is not the same as domestic partnership, bringing the entire queer community along is not the same as throwing some of us under the bus.

Names matter. I have chosen to name myself “bisexual” as a political stand for all people whose attractions span beyond one gender. Even as I acknowledge the word’s limitations, I also understand its rich history and its role in determining our real allies.

During last year’s fight over the non-inclusive ENDA, the queer community came together in extraordinary fashion and true solidarity with transgender and gender-nonconforming people. Organizations and individuals across the spectrum expressed justifiable outrage that some of us were being left by the side of the road, with only vague promises of getting picked up at an undetermined later date.

During this season of celebration, where is the outrage on bisexuals’ behalf? My gay and lesbian colleagues didn’t even notice that fundraising emails from nonprofits fighting the ballot measure kept talking about “gay and lesbian” couples. Why didn’t they get angry for me? If people I consider good friends and allies don’t even have my back, who will?

At the time of the ENDA fight, I suspected that if bisexuals were the ones left to wait at the side of the road, we would never have received the same outpouring of support. Sadly, I couldn’t even imagine it. Even more sadly, it turns out I was right.

Rigoberta Menchu Tum once said that any erasing of differences is an act of violence. And because words matter, I’ll name this pervasive “G&L scandal” for what it is—violence.

Shocked to hear that word applied here? Think I’m overreaching? Climb inside my heart these days. You’ll feel just how deeply words matter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

POSTSCRIPT:
Last night (July 3rd) was the first in a series of town hall meetings for the Equality for All campaign (the coalition fighting Prop 8 in California). My partner Emily and I, along with bisexual activist Lani Ka'ahumanu, put together a handout, press packets, and a silent protest we called "unVEILing injustice" -- Emily, I, and several other bisexuals and allies walked into the standing-room-only crowd at the San Francisco LGBT Center wearing white veils to symbolize how bisexuals have been rendered invisible in the marriage equality movement. We even brought a cake, which read, "Having our cake and eating it, too -- Bisexuals exist!"

I'm delighted to report that the very first words from Kate Kendell (Executive Director of NCLR) -- before anything at all about Prop 8 or the campaign -- was an extended and heartfelt apology to bisexuals for leaving us out, and a sincere promise to use inclusive language in all communications going forward (as well as an invitation to contact them if they slip again).

The proof will be in the pudding, of course, but I couldn't have been happier with the outcome at this stage. I'm confident that marriage equality efforts in California will begin to include all of us.

Special thanks to Kate not only for working so hard to win legal protections for LGBT people, but for stepping up to the difficult task of saying publicly, "I'm so sorry. We'll do better."

To donate to the campaign to defeat Prop 8, go to www.equalityforall.com.

Jonathan's Resonant Death

2008-02-23T11:52:00.000-08:00

In January, our cat Jonathan died. He had been quite ill around Christmas, with a serious and mysterious bleeding issue that stumped three different vets. We thought he was going to die then, but thankfully the bleeding stopped. He remained severely congested, though, barely able to breathe, physically weak, and his dramatic weight loss continued -- from a solid 18.5 pounds to something under 10 in less than a month. In the days before his death, he'd seemed to rally: I'd started giving him subcutaneous fluids and remembered how we'd microwaved wet food for the stuffed-up feral cats we'd nursed. With his sniffer getting more information again, Jonathan had more appetite.

That Saturday, I had a rare chance to spend the morning relaxing downstairs -- a much-needed respite, with Emily on the east coast dealing with a major family crisis and me at home trying to cope with a hyper not-yet-housetrained puppy, three cats, a full work schedule, and total exhaustion. When I went upstairs to the bedroom to get dressed, I didn't see Jonathan sleeping in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. I figured he must've gone into the closet again, where I'd found him the night before. As my line of sight passed the wooden footboard, though, I saw him lying on the ground, the HEPA filter on its side near his still form.

I recognized the eerie grin of death in an instant.

I went over to confirm what I already knew from the too-wide eyes and too-tight skin over skull. Jonathan wasn't breathing, no matter how closely I watched his now-shrunken belly. He must have died hours earlier. Later, when I'd move the air filter, his body would remain indented where the top of the plastic cylinder had fallen against him. I'd be able to feel the cold in his limbs through latex gloves that provided at least a modicum of distance between my emotions and the practicalities at hand.

Haunted by the image of him lying there, I was distraught. Had I failed him somehow by not being with him when he died? How could I have been reading a book downstairs and not known? Why didn't I check on him, as I'd remembered and forgotten to do several times that morning? Why hadn't I thought sooner to heat up his food so he could smell it? Shouldn't I have picked up the subcutaneous fluids from the vet more quickly? Should we have paid to take him to another specialist? Would that liver panel at the pet hospital have held the clue the doctors needed to cure him? Was this my fault?

~ ~ ~

A few relevant facts I should mention:

We'd gotten Jonathan the previous July when my dad could no longer take care of his cats. Even though Emily and I already had two cats, Jonathan had been my mom's favorite when she was alive. I just couldn't let him go to a shelter.
Because of a perceived slight at Emily's and my wedding, my mom hadn't talked to me for the last year and a half of her life.
The night my mom died, she was alone. When my brother came home from work, he found her body lying on the floor where she'd fallen out of the bed. She was already cold.

To say Jonathan's death reverberated is an understatement.

~ ~ ~

I called Emily with the news, sobbing. She did all she could to comfort me from a continent away, both of us wishing (for a million reasons) that she were with me at home instead. She also suggested that I call our friend Kat to come over and help me take care of Jonathan's body. I'd call Kat later in the evening, asking her to bring food and some completely untaxing comedies (Miss Congeniality, anyone?), but for whatever reason, I wanted to be alone to bury Jonathan.

After looking online to make sure it was legal to bury him in our back yard (it was) and to find out how deep a hole I'd need (several sites recommended at least three feet so that predators wouldn't dig anything up), I pulled the shovel out of the storage shed and began digging in the back corner. As with shopping for a glass vase to hold my mother's ashes, I once again faced the question of "how big is big enough?" I tried to imagine what he looked like curled up for a contented catnap, though my brain mostly served up what he looked like as a corpse in rigor mortis. I dug until my hands grew red and tender from the friction of flesh on wood.

Then it was time to move Jonathan's body. I wasn't sure at first what to wrap him in -- a California King sheet seemed ridiculous and wasteful, while something disposable like newspaper was unthinkable. Then I remembered the beautiful towel he'd slept on during the worst of his illness, which we weren't sure was even salvageable. We'd received it as a wedding gift. It now seemed a fitting shroud.

I put on my latex gloves and moved him to the spread out towel. Even after years of reading mysteries and watching cop shows, the stiffness in his limbs still took me aback. I lifted him into an empty a cardboard box and carried him downstairs and outside.

At the grave, I was surprised when the tape measure informed me that I'd only dug two feet down. I moved the box away and started digging again. By two and a half feet, between the angle of the surrounding fences, the consistency of the soil crumbling back in on itself, and sheer emotional fatigue, I couldn't make any more headway. It would have to do.

As I looked into the hole, which passed several root structures and into a second soil type and yet was still 20% too shallow, I couldn't help thinking just how deep six feet under really is.

Finally, it was time to lay Jonathan to rest. I had the idea to use some nearby ivy to lower his shrouded body into the hole, but the strands proved impractical. I was left dropping him in as gently as possible. His outstretched, unbending legs kept him from lying entirely flat.

As I was preparing to sprinkle some drops of lavender oil on him as part of the ritual of saying goodbye, Groucho -- my favorite of the feral cat colony we take care of -- joined me graveside. He looked in the hole, and sat down next to me as I said a few parting words to Jonathan. I think he sensed my sorrow, as so many animals do, and came to bear witness. Silent and comforting, full of life yet calm, Groucho was the perfect company for the occasion, particularly as I started the heartwrenching task of shoveling dirt onto a body hidden inside an ivory and embroidered towel.

~ ~ ~

In the days after Jonathan died, I missed him intensely. We'd never lived in our new house without him, and suddenly, he was gone. It helped to start substituting images of him diminished by illness with memories of his lively, vibrant self. He was an extremely affectionate cat (whether you were interested in getting head butts at the time or not). He had a gigantic purr that caused the fur on the sides of his neck to vibrate. When you petted him, he'd start giving himself a bath; often, a scritch on his left caused a lick to the left, and if you switched your hand to the other side, his tongue would follow suit. He sniffed at everything, frequently and loudly. He was also just a big linebacker of a cat -- we often joked that he was an Agent of Gravity because when he was on your lap, you were reminded of its continued presence. He could be a bully to the other cats, deciding he wanted whatever it was they had at the moment, whether that meant our attention or a spot on the couch. Still, he wound up resolving their longstanding conflict by giving them a common enemy.

These days, I mostly think of Jonathan when I let the dog out back. I look to that far corner of the yard where the pile of stones that helped settle the grave still sits. I remind myself that even if I had done things differently -- had a brilliant insight sooner or reached out one last time -- the outcome might still have been the same. I haven't failed anybody. So I say goodbye the best I can, call for the pup, and get back to the business of living.

Je Ne Parle Pas Chienglais

2007-12-07T09:31:00.000-08:00

A couple years ago, I got into the habit of taking walks. I'd walk to work, walk home from work, walk after Saturday brunch, walk during my lunch hour, walk instead of taking a bus, and walk to explore a neighborhood. Not all of them on the same day, but each one pretty regularly. Then with Emily's campaign, I was so exhausted all the time that the walk down the hall to the bathroom was about all I could handle. Plus, we were living in a different part of the city, and the walk between home and my office just wasn't practical any more.

Recently, though, I seemed to have more impetus to walk again. I had the sense that my energy was shifting back in that direction. I welcomed its imminent return and looked forward to spending quality time with my iPod again.

In retrospect, I can see that the universe was preparing me for what happened this past weekend: we got a dog.

Through the glories of craigslist, Emily found Aydan, a fabulous 5-month-old Finnish spitz puppy. Neither of us had heard of the breed before -- it isn't very common in the US -- but picture a burly fox whose tail curls upward and you've got it. In fact, we've had several people ask us, "Is that a fox?" I bite back my impulse to reply, "A fox? On a leash? In the city? Are you insane?" because in this town, it's not totally implausible to see someone out for a walk with a fox on a leash. So I give a chipper, "Nope, just a dog who looks like a fox," and keep walking.

Now, I've always had cats in my life. I understand cats. I know how they operate, how they react, how they like to get scritched, and how to handle them if they're being a pain in the butt. I am naturally fluent in Cat.

With Aydan, it's a whole new language. "Are you all wound up because you need to pee? Are you play-biting or do I need to count fingers? How do your ribs not crack from all that barking? I can't imagine why you'd rather crush your windpipe against your collar than stay one foot closer to me on the leash." Want an easy way to feel out of your depth? Try being a vegetarian cat person picking out rawhide chew toys at the pet food store.

I remind myself that it has been less than a week into the learning curve for both of us. Just as we're training her to sit before we cross at an intersection, she's training me to be fully present with her. She's learning how to be a good dog, and I'm learning how to let a puppy be a puppy. She's getting housebroken, and I'm getting my heart stolen. And in the meantime, we're both going on lots of walks.

Election Day Haiku

2007-11-06T21:36:00.000-08:00

Suffrage
Do they call it that
Because of all we endured
For the right to vote?

87 Years Later
I walked to the polls
With high heels and wide red purse:
Liz, Susan B. ... thanks.

The View from November 6, 2007
Light in the distance:
364 days,
Can't re-elect Bush

How Politics Gets a Bad Name

2007-10-24T19:14:00.000-07:00

I had the misfortune to attend the general membership meeting of the Harvey Milk LGBT Democratic Club last night. I had gone because of a contentious issue on the agenda: whether the club should hold a "special meeting" in December to vote on an early endorsement in the California State Senate race.

A little background first. Two queer progressive Democrats are running in the June 2008 primary: Carole Migden, who currently holds the seat, and Mark Leno, a current State Assemblymember who will term out in 2009. When Leno announced that he was running, I thought, "Wow! How exciting! We actually have enough progressive queer politicians coming up through the ranks that we'll get to choose between two strong candidates." Democracy and progress in action.

Not everyone felt the same way. In fact, many Midgen supporters were absolutely outraged; the overriding sentiment was, "How dare he!" As though the seat had her name engraved on it, and this upstart was trying to steal something she'd been bequeathed. Unfortunately, I'm not overstating it.

In the interests of full disclosure, I'm supporting Leno. I'd had some concerns about how he'd do when he first ran for Assembly -- in fact, I'd campaigned for his opponent -- but I have been consistently impressed with him from his first day in office. He has been an outstanding and effective leader on progressive issues, and I believe he'll continue to do great work.

But that's not the point of this post.

Without getting into the minutiae, the effect of the issue before the Milk Club last night would be to stack the membership in Midgen's favor for the endorsement vote while deliberately disenfranchising Leno supporters. For more details on the utter chaos of the meeting, there's a fantastic article on Beyond Chron.

This vote wasn't about debate or democracy -- it was about winning at all costs. And it turned my stomach. The level of bullying and hypocrisy in the room was unbelievable. I heard one person accuse Leno of "ripping the club apart," even though it was Midgen supporters trying to shut down debate and steamroll the membership.

Is this what queer politics is about now? We've tasted enough power that we use our gains to be assholes to each other? Don't we have better -- and infinitely more important -- things to do with our limited energy and resources than rip each other to shreds?

It occurred to me that their behavior was very much like the current Republican regime: cherry-pick the rules you like, change the ones that don't suit your needs, shout down dissenting opinions, give lip service to the power of the people (but lip service only), assign malevolent motives to anyone who disagrees with you, and defame the loyalty of anyone who dares question the process through which you're exercising power.

I'm sure they won't like the analogy. But I'll stop comparing them to Republicans when they stop acting like them.

Haiku, anyone?

2007-09-27T22:12:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, Emily and I put together a site for PARK(ing) Day, a global one-day event where people turn parking spaces into temporary parks. Ours was called "Leaves of Grass: A Literary PARK(ing) Space" and came complete with rugs, comfy chairs and pillows, free books (donated by folks in the community), snacks, bookmaking for kids, and more. We also raised a little moola for a new branch library being built in our neighborhood: a volunteer from Friends of the Public Library was on hand to sell calendars, and I set up the Haiku Hut. (See also my 12/9/05 blog entry.) It was quite the fun day, and cops only stopped by twice to ask us what we were doing.

As I sat at my Haiku Hut table, I realized just how much I love writing custom haiku for people. It struck me how fantastic it would be to do it more. As in, a lot more. We've started brainstorming ideas of where I might be able to set up the Haiku Hut more regularly, while still giving myself the flexibility I need to take care of everything else in my life. I never want it to become a chore.

Do you have ideas? Do you volunteer with a nonprofit in San Francisco that could use something fun like this for an event? Post a comment and let me know. We can all use more poetry in the world.

One More Open Heart in San Diego

2007-09-26T13:44:00.000-07:00

If you haven't already watched this incredibly moving statement by Mayor Jerry Sanders of San Diego, I strongly encourage it. It's a powerful five minutes that warmed my heart, made me cry, and reminded me that humanity does still seep into politics.

I've already thanked him -- I hope you will, too.

Another Tuesday in September

2007-09-10T20:34:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow is the first Tuesday, September 11th, since the fateful one in 2001. I don't know why the Tuesday part should feel so significant. Maybe the rhythm of the week will align too closely, or the very ordinariness of the day will shake me because Tuesdays are normally when the merely unthinkable feels utterly unimaginable.

I remember hearing about the planes hitting the World Trade Center from a neighbor down my street. I was working from home as a contract writer, and I hadn't listened to the radio that morning. I'd collected my americano from the corner cafe around 11 am, and on my way home, Denise asked if I'd heard the news. Somehow, as she told me the little she knew about what had happened, it didn't sound bad. Not good, of course, and certainly surprising, but nothing prepared me for the images I was about to see when I got home and turned on the television.

Why does this anniversary make me more uneasy than the previous five since the attack? What is it about the fact that tomorrow is a Tuesday -- not a drowsy Monday, nor an anticipatory Friday, nor a contemplative Sunday -- that urges me to glance left, right, and over my shoulder?

For the last six years, people in the U.S. have held our collective breath, waiting for the pervasive sense of threat to pass. The tenor of the country seems to say, "If we just shut our eyes hard enough and think positive thoughts long enough, the nightmare will be over." In the meantime, we've slowly become accustomed to living under the mental and emotional occupation of fearmongers.

Throughout it all, I've felt infinitely more threatened by George W. Bush than by Osama Bin Laden. Airplanes crashing into buildings? From a purely probabilistic point of view, the reality is that something like that is extraordinarily unlikely to happen to me. But the effects of the Executive Branch running amok? I've already bruised my shin on that one. Even if you don't count the unexplainable clicks I heard during more than one phone conversation a few years ago, there are still the contortions that my sweetie and I have to go through just to file our taxes and provide for each other. There's paying insane amounts for my dad's medicine because he'd passed into the "donut hole" in his Medicare prescription coverage. There are the billions of dollars wasted on an illegal, immoral, impossible-to-"win" war in Iraq instead of spent on the folks I see daily who are hungry, homeless, and -- with few exceptions -- without hope.

I have a very clear mental image of Bush holding a copy of the Constitution and slowly pulling away one strip at a time by hand, much as one might do to an important document in an office without an automatic paper shredder.

"I'm doing this to keep America safe," he says as one piece rips away. Protests are drowned out by cries of, "Look how much we still have -- surely we must make sacrifices to keep America safe!"

Another tear, another round of "Either you're with us or against us." Such black-and-white thinking deserves no place in the subtle and complex arena of international relations, but anyone who points this out is smeared as a traitor.

More and more rights and protections get stripped away, each to a chorus of, "We can't let the terrorists win!" But of course, a Constitution that is torn apart, riddled with holes, and frayed at the edges delivers precisely such a victory. And not nearly enough of us -- and certainly too few elected officials in Congress -- are standing up to say, "No more."

Perhaps this Tuesday, September 11th, has me spooked because it seems that over the past six years, the unthinkable has not just become imaginable -- we've allowed it to become utterly ordinary.

Even Greek tragedies reach catharsis

2007-07-08T18:07:00.000-07:00

Life has been so overwhelmed with awfulness lately that mere one-sentence summaries quickly unfold like a Greek tragedy. It's gotten to the point where there's nothing to do but accept the absurdity of it all.

My brother nearly died after complications before a hernia surgery.
He has been in the ICU for a month and a half.
He was in a coma for several weeks.
Dialysis is no longer necessary, but he remains on a ventilator with a medium to high fever.
He still has a hole in his belly because his innards have been too swollen to close it up. Every few days, they take him into surgery to clean out the wound. One time when I had to give the consent for the procedure, I also approved the doctors' plan to put in a piece of cadaver skin so they'll eventually have something to graft his own skin onto. The doctor explaining it to me must have repeated the phrase "cadaver skin" about 25 times.
We also discovered that my brother had not been handling my dad's finances as, shall we say, prudently as he should have.

My dad has been in the hospital three times in the last month.
The first time, he was able to get to the phone himself and call 911. His blood sugar was dangerously low.
The second time, he woke with a weird sensation in his chest. It was an atrial fibrilation. Not as bad as it could've been (I guess the ventricles cause more serious issues), but not great for someone who had a heart attack six months ago.
The third time, my partner and I were there to call 911. Luckily, she happened to be awake at 3:30am and heard him. Again, low blood sugar. The sounds coming out of him were inhuman and terrifying.
Shortly before my brother's hospitalization, my dad lost his job just for being old ("you've done an outstanding job...now it's time to let you enjoy the golden years of your retirement"). He also lost the apartment that came with the job and had to move.

There are additional subplots -- our trying to close on a new house, another wreck of a house, nasty neighbors, pets in multiple municipal districts, my biggest work project of the year, other people's middle-school-worthy antics, and traumatic encounters that literally left me shaking and keening -- but more details would just be overkill.

They say the universe never gives you more than you can handle. Clearly, the universe thinks I'm a rock star. With each new thing, I could tell I was getting the opportunity to heal something from my past (whether I wanted to or not). The universe was throwing down the gauntlet, challenging me to trust my ability to face it all. "I know you can do this. Now I'm going to add another thing, because I know you can handle that, too. See? You're doing great. Here's some more."

Thankfully, the air is finally beginning to clear. My dad's health has stabilized significantly, and we've taken steps to start cleaning up the financial situation. My brother continues to make incremental but steady progress. We move into our new house tomorrow. The traumas didn't remain under my skin where they could do serious damage.

Throughout the whole process, I've kept coming back to the things I'm grateful for in my life.
My amazing sweetie.
Our new house.
The friends who have totally come through for us, often at the last minute.
My understanding colleagues.
My own health.
My ability to find the humor and absurdity within an overwhelming situation.
And the knowledge that the universe thinks I'm a rock star.

Rediscovering Music

2007-05-04T14:34:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in my previous post, I went through a period a few years ago when I couldn't listen to music. At all. Music made me unbearably sad, even when listening to otherwise joyful songs. (Perhaps especially then.) I even got depressed at a live Michael Franti & Spearhead show. For those who don't know the reference, let's just say that it takes some doing to remain unaffected by their infectious, inspiring energy, much less to grow actively demoralized.

In contrast, last night I spent several hours online sampling bands I thought I might like, based on write-ups in Paste (a new favorite magazine). What a gift to dive back into music and to want to discover new bands again. I still have my handful of bands that I adore, listening to them over and over and hearing new things within the years-familiar texture. But that itch to spread out had mainly left me.

I'm encouraged in part because I suspect the thrill of discovery will extend to my own work as well. Tender buds of wanting to write songs again are starting to poke their heads up. Nothing that has ripened into putting pick to guitar string yet -- but that "yet" is all-important.

In the meantime, I'm letting the new music work its magic in my ears, adding nutrients to fields that have lain fallow for several seasons now. Nothing to do for now but wait and watch to see what grows.

Creative Buzz

2007-04-05T12:03:00.000-07:00

As Alex and I sat at lunch yesterday, my entire body was buzzing. I felt as though I'd mainlined a church-sized urn of coffee, though my small Americano had actually remained unfinished in my travel mug that morning. The only stimulant in my system was the adrenaline of my vocal we'd just recorded for the track that will close the album. It had gone very, very well.

In fact, the whole project is going extremely well. I'd be more concerned about jinxing it if the power felt like it were coming from me instead of just through me. There's a grace to the process and to everyone's performances that feels far beyond anything to do with my ego. I'm reminded of Michelangelo's famous comment that the figures he sculpted already existed within the huge blocks of stone -- his job was just to chip away the excess. My job is to midwife these songs into the tracks that need to go on the album. I literally feel it in my body when we've captured it.

At the same time I'm helping these songs take form, I also feel the songs changing me. I'm rediscovering my deep love of music -- not so many years ago, I felt completely cut off from it. I couldn't even listen to music without a profound sadness stirring in me. And now, I walk along with the rough mixes playing on my iPod, and I start to cry because I'm so moved by what's coming through. The way one song is shaping up, I won't be surprised if it becomes something I point to as a major achievement of my life.

Several years ago, I'd more or less put my music on hold. My energy felt more drawn towards writing, and I finally decided that beating myself up for not spending time booking gigs brought me nothing (except bruises). I feel humbled and grateful that I listened to that instinct -- if I hadn't let music percolate up again in its own time, I'd wind up with songs that sounded forced and cut off from soul. The transformative experience I've been blessed with instead needed the filtering of those years to bubble up, clear and satisfying.

From the outset, I'd envisioned this album as a healing: many of the songs use imagery from my shamanic work, and the songs are ordered to follow the shape of a healing ritual. That intention has influenced every aspect of the project. I sensed the profound potential of the album, even before I'd finalized the track list.

What I couldn't have foreseen was that it would primarily work its healing on me.

Leaning into Passion

2007-02-24T13:55:00.000-08:00

As soon as the transaction was complete, I started to cry. The combination of relief and joy just overflowed before I even realized what was happening.

Buying something doesn't normally engender such a reaction; the only other time I can think of is when I won the eBay auction for my wedding dress. But here was something I'd waited for even longer than a wedding. After filling in my contact info on two different sites, entering my credit card number, and passing the anti-spam distorted-character test, I got my confirmation: I had tickets to see the reunited Police.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I distinctly remember the moment when my life-long love affair with the Police began. It was 1983. I was taking a 3-week geology class at CTY, a fast-paced academic summer camp I was attending for the second year. I found such solace there: the kids around me weren't afraid to be smart with each other. In our respective hometowns, our intelligence marked us somehow, for better and worse. In my case, it was the thing I held on to for self-esteem while being tormented for my weight. Here, though, where brilliance was the norm, I felt like I could relax and discover myself. I didn't have to prove anything.

Our geology class took a few multi-day field trips off campus that summer, traveling in 15-passenger vans to collect fossils and examine metamorphic rock formations where highways cut through Pennsylvania hillsides. On one long stretch of road, one of my classmates -- I don't remember his name, but I vaguely recall someone blond and generically cute -- urged several people to listen to a song on his Walkman. He handed me the headphones.

"King of Pain" was playing. The sound transformed me. Literally.

At that time, I didn't listen to the radio much, and I wouldn't have a Walkman for another year. I'd hear stuff at other people's houses and pick things up here and there, as I still do, but I was not what you'd called immersed in popular culture. So my ears came to the music fresh, untainted by past history or overplayed hits or mainstream perceptions.

The lyrics caught me first -- here was someone else unafraid of his intelligence. A black hat caught in a high tree top, a dead salmon frozen in a waterfall, a king on a throne with his eyes torn out, a skeleton choking on a crust of bread. Who knows -- perhaps my psyche was especially susceptible to the pull of "a fossil trapped in a high cliff wall" that summer.

Then there was the music, those lush harmonies, layered together by that voice. They worked a spell on me, drawing me in and sitting me in the middle of the haunting imagery. Until I handed the headphones back, I remained fully in the music's grip.

I still am.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I soon began listening to the Police more or less constantly. They became the soundtrack to my life. I started reading magazine articles about them, cutting out pictures to hang on my walls (I was 14, after all), learning all the lyrics and inflections on every song, anticipating each distinctive riff, and immersing myself in all things Police.

A few months later, by some amazing good fortune, I heard that they were going to play the Atlantic City Convention Center in February 1984. The concert was already sold out, yet through a chance set of circumstances, I heard about a place to buy a ticket. It cost $30 -- which was hugely expensive back then, and more than I'm usually willing to pay to see a concert even now. After weeks of deliberation, I knew I needed to go. I'd never been to a rock concert before and had had no idea even how to go about buying a ticket, so this opportunity presenting itself (and still being available after my long delay) was unlikely at best. Call it fate, the universe, divine intervention, what you will...I had the distinct impression of being looked out for.

In retrospect, I'm also amazed at how lucky I am that my parents agreed to the plan. We lived at the other end of New Jersey, and my dad would be driving me down there but not going in with me. Of course, I was a really good kid with solid common sense, so they had little to worry about on my end. Still, I'm eternally grateful for that trust.

The Police were phenomenal live. In addition to the overwhelming experience of the music and being 10 feet from the band (I made my way to the front of the stage through the crushing crowds in the aisles), I learned many things. For example, I'd never again make the mistake of wearing corduroy pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and an argyle sweater to a rock concert, even if it was biting winter outside. Less obviously, I hadn't realized that bands don't just play the songs from their album in order and then go home. And in a multileveled foreshadowing of my future, I felt real compassion for the opening band, whose announcement of, "This is our last song" was met with undeserved cheers.

The Police broke up after that tour, of course, though no one outside their circle knew for sure until a few years had passed with no word. I'm a hopeful person by nature, so it took me a very long time to accept a reality that was apparent to everyone else. I was broken-hearted. I'd finally found their music, and now there'd be no more forthcoming. I listened obsessively to Sting's first solo album during another summer at CTY...but it just wasn't the same.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ever since I heard that the Police might reunite, I've had a buzz of excitement and agitation going through my cells more or less constantly. Their gig opening the Grammys was confirmed, but I was loathe to believe the rumors of a tour until I heard something official. Hope bubbled up anyway.

I warned my coworkers that I was going to be obsessing about this. I told them I'd be embarrassed about how excited I was if I weren't so busy being excited.

The Police played "Roxanne" at the Grammys, and I thought they were fantastic -- the beautiful way they played slightly behind the beat, the experiment of the arrangement for the second verse, Sting's ever-stunning biceps. Most of all, though, I saw how much FUN they were having. I knew right then that the rumors were true. They didn't need the money, but that joy and connection of making extraordinary music....now that was a reason to get back together.

Sure enough, the announcement came the next day, but with an unexpected twist: they didn't have any California shows on the schedule. I was wracked with anxiety. This couldn't be happening. Surely they had to play somewhere in California. I knew they were planning to announce more shows, but I realized that they still might not make it to the Bay Area. I was determined to make something work. I couldn't imagine they'd skip LA -- so I'd hop on one of the commuter flights from SFO. Or take a vacation to Vancouver -- I like Vancouver. Or I could visit friends in Boston. One way or another, I couldn't miss this tour.

Finally, last Wednesday, they announced a show in Oakland, and some of my anxiety shifted into sheer delight. I heard about the announcement after I got home from dropping Emily at the Oakland Airport -- a rare errand that had me driving past the coliseum where they'll play. Synchronicity, anyone?

I had to decide quickly, though: would I drop the extra money to become a Premium Police Fan Club member and have access to pre-sales tickets? The pre-sales started Friday morning, but the premium membership didn't guarantee anything. Finally, I thought, "This is why I work: to have money for things that are important to me. I'm just going to do it. I want to have the best chance possible of getting tickets." I reasoned that it was still cheaper than traveling to LA.

I warned my coworkers on Friday morning that I was going to be incommunicado around 10am when the tickets went on sale. I kept saying, "I know I'm a dork, sorry. I'm trying to embrace my inner dork, it's okay...." But they were all just happy for me and wished me excellent luck.

Shortly after I got the tickets, I was IMing with a friend and told him how thrilled I was. We chatted about the Police and their incredible musicianship. I mentioned I'd been thinking recently that I was proud of my 14-year-old self: the object of my teenage obsession really was something extraordinary. Sting, Stewart Copeland, and Andy Summers are truly giants, virtuosi on their respective instruments, and they'd created a sound together that had never existed before. As a professional musician and songwriter with years of experience myself, I appreciate just how good they are, and especially how well their music holds up after all this time. I'd recognized that spark instantly in the passenger van, and even now I keep unearthing new subtleties.

After regaling my coworkers with the dramatic story of my ticket purchase and pulling out a printout of the coliseum seating with my section highlighted (reminiscent a proud new parent showing off the first baby pictures), I noticed how often I'd apologized for my excitement. Like caring about seeing the Police again was shallow and unworthy of serious emotion. But that's not how I talk about their music -- I speak of it with true passion. It comes from a deep place in me. It stirs something at my core. Their music has been an integral part of my life for nearly a quarter century -- what is there to be embarrassed about?

Their music taught me about thoughtful, intelligent, well-crafted songs. Each instrument showed me its range and the possibilities of what it can add to an arrangement. Different pieces helped me understand moods and emotions that I didn't know how to capture in words.

Most of all, though, I found myself through their music. Something opened in me that day in 1983. I discovered what it meant to be passionate, what it meant to dive deeply, what it meant to let my soul resonate freely. I could just relax, and lean in, and find the freedom to experience something beyond the borders of my own skin.

No, I'm not going to apologize about my excitement any more. Because this isn't about tickets to see my favorite rock band of all time. It's about the ecstasy of accessing the real me.

Dear Mr. President

2007-02-09T16:20:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. President:

In some way, I almost feel I should thank you. They say that nothing worth achieving comes easily, and you sure are putting up plenty of obstacles on the world’s path towards peace, compassion, and justice. There’s some comfort in knowing that once this vision is realized, it’ll have staying power because we had to go through so much to get there.

After September 11, I felt the profound potential of that moment—a time unlike any other in the history of humanity, when the entire world stood by this country’s side, consoling us as a dear friend would stand graveside while we mourned a beloved parent. But instead of extending the compassionate possibilities of that sacred moment, you pushed our dear friends into the dirt, spit in their faces, and told them that if they didn’t join us in kicking the shit out of someone—anyone—they might as well have murdered our loved ones themselves.

Thanks to you, humanity must now take the long way around in our evolution as a species. The very, very long way around. And it gets longer each day we remain in Iraq, each time you beat the drums of war at Iran and Syria, each time you wave the flag of “terrorism” to justify shredding the Constitution you have sworn to uphold—a victory this country’s enemies could not possibly accomplish as thoroughly and efficiently as the victory you yourself are handing them.

Have you no eyes to see, Mr. President? No ears to hear the cries of the people you were elected to serve? No humility to conceive that your plans might be failing? I simply cannot understand your unflagging bravado in the face of overwhelming evidence that your policies are leading to increasing misery, both at home and abroad. Even Jesus expressed uncertainty about his path—and in his case, the only life he was risking, the only sacrifice he was asking, was his own. Not thousands of soldiers and hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians sent to senseless deaths. Are you more sure of yourself than even Jesus was? Can your arrogance extend that far?

But I’m a hopeful person, Mr. President. I believe it isn’t too late for this country or for this world. No, nothing worth achieving comes easily. You’re making us work hard for a world based in love rather than fear, lived in connection rather than isolation, and embraced in its beautiful fullness rather than sliced into bland uniformity.

Ever since this war started, I haven’t been able to stomach “fighting back” in protest. Peace can’t come about through the language of war, just as you can’t “defend freedom” by trying to silence your critics. So whenever people gather to speak out against the war, I don’t shout in anger. Instead, I hand out peace haiku: 17-syllable reminders that our common humanity is the best long-term defense against our common destruction. Here are a few of my favorites:

Supporting the troops
Means bringing them back alive,
Not in body bags.

History records
The art as well as the war –
These lines, my small peace.

There’s no joy in death,
Whatever the corpses’ names –
I name them Human.

Lies, lies, and more lies –
Have you no shame, Mr. Bush?
At long last, no shame?

It’s your move, Mr. President. Will you use your power to move this world closer to justice and peace? Or will your hubris continue placing obstructions in our way? I urge you to choose wisely.

In peace,
Lindasusan

[Tip of the hat to Michael Franti and Spearhead, whose President's Day letter-writing contest initiated this piece.]

Christmas Ghosts

2006-12-24T17:45:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas Eve, and I'm supposed to sing tonight. I'm the alto section leader at St. Francis Lutheran, a great little church in San Francisco that restores my faith in Christians. It's a paid gig, but I was looking forward to it beyond the dollars it would deposit in my bank account. They're lovely people. And though I'm not Christian myself, they've warmly welcomed me as part of their community during my many years singing there.

We did a concert last night of Christmas music -- some choral, some sing-alongs -- and it went very well. My voice was a little weak from the illness I've been fighting all week (not always successfully), but I made it through. The last carol about did me in, though, as my extremely tired vocal chords told me when I got home.

As it turns out, though, they were more than tired -- they're down for the count. I've got laryngitis. Nothing is more frustrating to a singer and Gemini than laryngitis. I've been drinking tea, trying not to talk, and hoping that resting all day would do the trick. But I had to face reality: I couldn't croak out much of anything tonight, much less sing Renaissance polyphony.

I called the choir director to give him the bad news, and he had to ask me to repeat who was on the phone. The form of the message pretty much gave him the content at the same time. Luckily, tonight's Christmas Eve service has a lot less music than the concert, so I'm sure the alto section will do fine without me.

Irrationally, I feel the need to apologize. To him, to the choir, to the folks at St. Francis. To Emily, too, for being sick during the holidays. It's just biology, I know. Nothing I've done wrong. No willful disregard for my commitments or other people's reliance on me. I've been extra careful about trying to get better -- better than I normally am.

Still, the whole thing feels heavy with meaning.

I'd been concerned about the carol that did me in -- "Angels We Have Heard on High" always makes me think of my mom, who died around this time two years ago. And with her death very present for me over the past few weeks, I knew chances were good that I'd start weeping as we sang. (I'm fine showing emotion, but crying makes it very hard to sing.) I'd started girding my vocal loins when the organ played the opening measures of the final sing-along instead. I breathed a little more easily -- he'd accidentally skipped ahead.

At the end of the concert, though, as the choir started filing off, someone in the pews stood up and said, "Let's sing it anyway!" and launched in -- about half an octave lower than the sheet music. So we came back on and everyone gamely kept singing. Without the organ accompaniment, though, I wound up oversinging on an already overtaxed voice.

In that moment of skipping ahead, I felt as though my mom had played a trick. "You thought you had to make it through this one, but I just wanted to see if you still loved me!" I'd been willing to take her test, then given a reprieve. But when the song came back around, I knew the reprieve was a mirage. That, too, felt like her.

No tears came (I was too busy trying to ignore how wrong the notes felt in my voice), but the difficulty singing came anyway. So my lot this Christmas Eve is silence. Most likely on Christmas Day, as well. I don't know if I'll be able to call family members, or get on the line to my in-laws when Emily talks to them. This feels like a form of enforced meditation. (Silent Night, indeed.)

Interestingly, my first impulse was to write. I trust my instincts, and I trust that my body knows things that my intellect hasn't grasped yet. Certainly, it's got my attention. So I'm using the required silence to let words emerge anyway, to use my voice anyway, and to be heard, no matter what the obstacles.

Getting Back on the Horse

2006-11-25T11:08:00.000-08:00

Election season is finally over.

For the past several months, I've been completely focused on campaigning for my sweetie. My energy and thoughts revolved around the election every waking moment -- and far too many of the sleeping ones as well. Our common refrain was, "November 8th...November 8th..." Shorthand for, "This will end and we'll get back to normal life soon..."

Well, November 8th has come and gone, and life is not what it was. The results didn't go our way, but at root, I don't think that's even relevant. Sure, we'd be thrilled if Emily had won instead of mourning the loss. But the changes are deeper for me, and the questions cause more vertigo.

When it comes to supporting Emily's dreams, why can I pack up and move my home of more than a decade, spend endless hours strategizing, walk precincts, make phone calls, rise and fall emotionally with every advance and setback, create campaign literature, hand out flyers on buses and trains, literally exhaust myself for months, and take on thousands of other tasks....but I can't seem to carve out an hour every week to do my own writing? Why can't I show myself a tenth of the commitment I've given her?

For the sake of the narrative drive here, I wish I could tell you. I'd love to wrap up this piece with a poignant conclusion of how I'm going to shift things finally, drawing together all the strands of my story with words of pathos and wit. Best of all, it would mean I had a plan.

But this story hasn't ended yet. Hell, I'm just starting to ask the right questions. So stayed tuned. I'm a sucker for finding out how cliffhangers turn out.

"I'm sorry, this just isn't working anymore..."

2006-09-15T10:50:00.000-07:00

Until six months ago, I'd lived in San Francisco's Mission District for 12.5 years. For those unfamiliar with the area near 15th Street and Mission, it has a diverse and vibrant mix of people, great restaurants, bodegas with fresh vegetables, excellent transit, bookstores, funky boutiques, theaters, and lots of sunshine. It is also a nexus for drug deals, mental illness, prostitution, violence, and poverty. We lived on one of the side streets where people would go to do things that they didn't want to be seen doing, so we regularly walked passed used syringes, used condoms, and -- how can I put this? -- things better left in a toilet bowl. "Dynamic" and "urban" (our favorite euphemisms) start to capture the full range of what the Mission offers.

We'd been getting more and more worn down by the area, and had been trying to buy a house for a few years (no easy feat in SF). Then earlier this year, when my sweetie decided to run for BART Director in the district with the Republican incumbent who hadn't done much during his 16 years on the board, I knew the move was the right thing to do. Even though is meant leaving a three-bedroom Victorian flat with a 20 year-old rent-controlled lease. (That's commitment to public service!)

Whenever I go back to my old neighborhood now, I experience a confusing combination of feelings. Sadness. Comfort. Distance. Familiarity. Loss. Last night, I finally put my finger on what it feels like: breaking up with a lover.

An amicable breakup, sure. It was one of those partings that came out of circumstance: someone moving to take a new job, and knowing that it meant the end of the relationship. We were together for a third of my life, after all, so the mix of emotions is not surprising.

When I see my old love again, I still remember everything special about our time together: the fun we had, the colors, the liveliness, the convenience, dinners at fantastic taquerias, the way it met so many of my needs, all the artistic/progressive/queer/fabulous people who lived nearby.

But there are also reminders that I made the right decision to leave: more and more characters bringing around their violence, their anger, their smells, and their insanity at all times of the day and night. After 12.5 years, the relationship just wasn't healthy for me anymore.

My new Richmond District neighborhood and I have just started getting to know each other. We're still early in the relationship, though I know its more quiet approach is really good for me right now. It'll take me time to adjust to life after moving on -- the language the Richmond speaks is literally different. (The Mission is heavily Latino, while the Richmond is mainly Chinese with a good deal of Russian.)

Still, the Mission will always have a place in my heart, and I'll always be grateful for everything I learned while we were together. I'm glad we can still be friends.

Exhaustion as Truth Serum

2006-08-25T17:29:00.000-07:00

Some days, I'm just too tired to repress my feelings.

I'm usually someone who speaks my mind, but energy gives me the option to make strategic choices about timing: a different context, fewer distractions, a waiting period to see if an issue turns out to be a serious concern I need to address or a minor annoyance I can let go.

On the days when I'm broken down, though, I have no choice but to answer the questions put to me. Exhaustion as truth serum.

I just made the terrible connection that this is how torture works -- a torturer wears victims down until they have no defenses left and give up the required information. Only...I've been the one torturing myself.

Is our society of constant motion a large-scale example of torture in action? Have we gotten to the point where this pathology seems normal? Millions of people with Stockholm Syndrome, acting as both captor and victim? Are we pushing ourselves with insane work hours, overbooking, heaps of stress, over-the-top multitasking, and the constant need to produce as a way to break ourselves down enough that we have no choice but to tell the truth about our lives?

What would happen if we all took a healthier approach, ensuring we each had enough energy to make real choices about when and how we expressed ourselves? What would American society look like then?

Blog tip

2006-08-06T23:35:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to recommend the blog of Julie Dorf, a friend and colleague currently in Jerusalem with one of her daughters for the events surounding World Pride: www.worldpride.blogspot.com. It's fascinating and moving to read, from the difficult decision to go as planned to their experiences now that they're there. I'm eager to learn more.

Flowers for Lebanon

2006-08-01T07:34:00.000-07:00

Bombs in Qana
Scores of small bodies --
One man tallies his losses,
Tears a branch of blooms
To toss at soldiers nearby:
"We will not be made monsters!"

In CNN's report on the aftermath of a bomb in Qana, Lebanon, that killed 56 people (37 of them children), one Lebanese man described what had happened and detailed the family members he had lost. I couldn't hear his voice, but his face clearly conveyed his outrage and grief. His words, unfurling in the captions, pleaded for an end to the violence. Then he had the camera follow him as he ripped a stalk from a nearby flowering plant and threw it in the direction of Israeli soldiers standing several feet away. "They bomb us, and this is how we respond! We will not be made into monsters!"

I couldn't think of anything more necessary to this war: a simple refusal to ignore our common humanity.

I don't profess to be an expert on the Middle East, by any means -- and even experts don't have good answers to these extremely complex problems. Best as I can tell, neither side has had the moral high ground for quite some time.

Perhaps that's why this image from Qana stays with me: it's one man's refusal to let his broken heart also break his soul.

Writing Without a Net

2006-07-28T11:28:00.000-07:00

It takes courage to be a writer, and not just in the "how will I pay the bills?" kind of way. I mean if you want your words to have any kind of substance, you have to be actively bold enough to delve into places a lot of people would rather leave unexamined.

I've recently gone back to working on a book about my wedding -- it's a humorous take on the whole thing called Let Them Eat Cake: Tales of a Queer Girl in the "Straight/Lace" World of Weddings. Now, at risk of ruining the plot for you, the wedding took months of planning, the day itself was amazing, and we're still happily together. However, there was also serious family drama: that weekend would be the last time my mom ever talked to me before she died. No surprise, then, that I stalled on the chapter where she threatened to leave five minutes before the ceremony.

As a writer, I have three options: (1) skirt this central fact about what took place, (2) abandon the project all together, or (3) write my way through the pain. This is nonfiction, so Door #1 wouldn't feel right. By letting the book languish, though, I've effectively been going with Door #2.

So instead, I'm turning the knob on Door #3. No matter how difficult the truth is to get down on the page, it's the only way to get to the other side.

Using Up Words

2006-07-20T08:09:00.000-07:00

I love my job: I'm the writer at Horizons Foundation, the world's first LGBT community foundation. It's a fantastic organization making a real difference in the lives of LGBT people, I get to work on lots of different kinds of writing projects, and my coworkers are not only smart and hard-working, but also completely hilarious and fundamentally kind. I have thanked my lucky stars for the opportunity to work there ever since I started in 2004.

So it almost feels like poor taste to say there's a drawback: at the end of the day, I feel like all my words got used up. After eight hours of intense concentration at my job, there's nothing left for my own writing projects.

Now, I know this sounds completely trivial to non-writers, and compared to many work issues that people are dealing with -- unlivable wages, harrassment, unsafe conditions, and so on -- it is minor. Trust me, I'm well aware of how good I have it.

At the same time, for someone like me who is nourished by her creativity with words, the potential long-term consequences can't be dismissed. I need to acknowledge that the situation is serious for me, and find ways to get those words flowing again.

My current plan: on the mornings when I haven't been getting up early to go to the gym, get up early anyway and write. Once it becomes habit, it'll be easier to expand from there.

Welcome to the fruits of Day 1.

When Everything is Working Out

2006-06-21T17:47:00.000-07:00

Much to my surprise, I've been working out. At a gym. Regularly. Sometimes twice a day. I even get up early. Anyone who knows me would probably have been taken aback about five times in those last five sentences. Or as my sweetie puts it, "Who are you?"

Two things prompted this unusual turn of events: my friend Kat was looking for a workout buddy, and I was a bit spooked by my birthday. I'm usually not freaked out by getting older -- I have plenty of fantastic role models of women in their 40s, 50s, 60s who are rocking and fabulous and getting better all the time. Back when I turned 30, I'd actively welcomed it. But this year, I had a sense that I needed to get serious about the things that are important to me. And my health made the list, perhaps for the first time.

I'm completely fascinated by the whole process: what my body tells me, what my brain tells me, what my emotions tell me. I've discovered that I don't have to talk myself into working out -- my body knows what it's doing. I just have to avoid talking myself out of it.

After 30 some-odd years in charge, I think my brain is finally learning how to share. Instead of chattering about how bizarre it is that I'm at a gym, it's sending supportive messages like, "It's so cool that you're even here!" when Pilates makes me want to cry. (Or, as it happened, actually made me cry.) And it reminds me to laugh when a belly dance move has me all kerfuffled or I'm tripping over my completely-inappropriate-for-salsa-class running shoes.

For a goofball like me, the only way to take working out seriously is not to take it too seriously.

Lightening the Load

2006-04-21T17:50:00.000-07:00

We recently moved. Only across town, but the exact distance was mostly irrelevant. I'd been at the old flat for 12.5 years. That's a lot of crap to wade through.

I don't think I'd ever been so physically exhausted for such an extended period of time. Maybe in college, but I was younger, more resilient, and not really used to getting enough sleep on a regular basis anyway. The late nights...the heavy lifting...the emotional drain of leaving the place I'd called home for so long...I don't ever want to know for sure what it feels like to be hit by a truck, but I think I may have some sense of it.

The new apartment is a lot smaller, so we had to be ruthless in our purging of junk. As a recovering pack rat -- second generation, so I come by it honestly -- I'd been getting better and better at tossing things I no longer needed. I felt fine about recycling/selling/trashing many items that I hadn't been ready to let go of in the past. We'd set aside lots of things to give away to friends, or else to Community Thrift (which donates the proceeds to a nonprofit you choose). By the time all was said and done, we'd tossed/sold/donated about two-thirds of our stuff.

I'm revelling in the new sense of lightness. I felt some kind of switch click inside me when I finished filling the new kitchen's built-in hutch: each glass bowl had its place, all our pots and pans had cupboard space, every plastic tub had a matching lid. Everything fit. And it was all beautiful. Without the random mugs and useless appliances in the way, I could better appreciate what we had.

We still have some boxes to unpack, and perhaps even a little more purging to do. But I'm enjoying the chance to build this new household from scratch and make every corner count.

Bone-chilling Cold

2006-02-20T15:43:00.000-08:00

Okay, any East Coast folks who think it doesn't "really" get cold in San Francisco can stop reading right now. Go sit next to the radiator with your central heating by your double-pane storm windows and mock me if that makes you feel better. Sit tight with your cup of hot cocoa and bitch about the two feet of snow and the inevitable slush to follow and how obviously I don't know how good I've got it if I have the temerity to use the words "bone-chilling cold" to describe weather in the Bay Area.

I understand that I'm fortunate enough to live in a place where I avoid months in long underwear. I know that precipitation that remains liquid has many advantages over its solid cousins. And I appreciate that we enjoy more daylight hours than people at more northern latitudes.

As I sit here typing in hat and gloves, though, don't tell me it ain't cold. Those Victorians -- the notoriously repressed folks who built the charming building in which I live -- apparently believed that not only shouldn't people have sex, they also shouldn't wear less than 16 layers of clothes at any time. Otherwise, there'd be a little more insulation in the place.

Can anyone tell me why heaters are almost always right below windows? I've seen it over and over, and not just in SF, so my optimistic self believes there must be a point to giving newly warmed air the most direct route towards its easiest exit in the room. We've decided to throw cash out the windows instead and cut out the electric company as middleman. We'll freeze, but at least we'll be adding to the local economy more directly.

Still, I'll miss this place when Emily and I move to a different neighborhood. In all my nervousness about finding a new apartment that allows cats and packing all our stuff, I realized that I've spent a third of my life in this flat. It has been a period only slightly less formative than the third+ growing up in my family house. Part of me is afraid to leave this home where I've become myself.

I'm taking the bone-chilling cold seeping into my abode as a reminder that the flat isn't perfect -- and it never was. Despite the realtor's motto about the importance of "location, location, location," the walls and windows and stairs here never held the key to the changes in me. I have. I've had help along the way, of course, but in the end, I've unlocked those doors myself. And that isn't going to change, whatever address the outrageous PG&E bill comes to.

So I'll suffer through the gloves and hat for now, and light a candle for a new place filled with even more warmth than this one. Which, if the flame wavering in a draft is any indication, shouldn't be too hard to find.

The End of the Year of Death

2005-12-31T18:48:00.000-08:00

As you may know, 2005 was the Year of Death. Well, that's my name for it anyway. It started for me in December 2004 when my mom died. Then in March, my Aunt June died as well. My family is very small, so the two of them represented a significant percentage of my relatives. But death touched many people in my circle last year: one friend's grandmother, another friend's dad, my mother-in-law's dog, and more. It seemed everyone I knew had someone to add to the memorial list. When you then add all the folks killed during the tsunami and earthquakes in Indonesia, Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, the earthquake in Pakistan, and wars around the globe...let's just say the Reaper must've installed express elevators to keep up with the flow.

Once I'd run through my store of body-wracking sobs and exhausted myself with keening, I found I couldn't help but find humor everywhere. For example, with my mom and aunt passing away less than two weeks before each of the major catastrophes in Indonesia, I joked that my family members needed to stop dying -- for the sake of the people of South Asia. I got a few shocked looks. I had to remind myself that most people weren't as fluent in death as I'd become. Gallows humor started with the hangman who faced it every day, not the people who scurried home with their eyes averted.

Death seems to cause absurdity to bubble up everywhere. The most absurd experience in my entire life was shopping for an urn for my mother's ashes. We'd decided to get something in colored glass, which she'd always loved. So not only was I looking at shape and color, I also had to estimate how much space she'd take up. The kicker was that this was all taking place in the final shopping days before Christmas, with songs of joy and glad tidings playing on every loudspeaker in every store. I felt as though I were moving in a different gravity field from the rest of the world. In a sense, I was.

And in a heady mixture of the profound and ridiculous not long after June passed away, I discovered that an intense bout of gas made me feel overwhelmingly grateful -- because if I could feel the pain in my gut as I sat there on the toilet, then it meant I was alive.

Perhaps strangest of all is that I find that I'm happier and more content than I've ever been before. Don't misunderstand: in no sense am I happy that my mom and aunt died. Grief can still stop me in my tracks. In October, I stood frozen in the greeting card aisle of a supermarket as it hit me that June and I had traded our last Halloween cards. And I can't make it through my mom's favorite Christmas carols without breaking down entirely.

But the Year of Death seems to have purged much of my fear. It's easier to say what I need to say. I'm more willing to admit when I've screwed up and learn from it. I'm bolder in asking for what I want because I just might get it.

Absurdity pops up around death because it's the thing that keeps us humans honest about living fully. We constantly exist in the midst of that paradox, even as American culture does everything possible to ignore half of the equation. I'm not sure whether to marvel at or mourn a civilization that even has the option of pretending that death doesn't exist.

During 2005, though, I didn't have a choice. I had to let grief wash over me and through me. As the waters subside, I'm left with the sense of soil that has been enriched, like the banks of the Nile. In 2006, I'll find out what will grow.

Haiku and Absolute Freedom

2005-12-09T23:41:00.000-08:00

Every December, I set up my Haiku Hut at the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition's annual Winterfest. I write custom haiku on any subject for people, with the proceeds going to the SFBC. (I look sardonic in this year's picture, but really I was just woozy from a stomach bug that had taken me down hard the day before.)

This is the fourth Winterfest where I've haiku-hutted (did you know that was a verb?), and I love, love, love it. As you'd expect, I get lots of requests for bike-themed haiku, with transit, peace, and cold weather also popular topics. I have a bevvy of repeat customers, too. For example, one fellow has commissioned a haiku each year for his son, with the first one coming a few weeks before the little guy was even born. And I can't count how many people have told me, "I still have that haiku you wrote for me a few years ago! I keep it in my wallet/on my fridge/in my cubicle." There's an art not only to writing the poem itself, but also to discerning the story behind the requested subject. I always know I've done my job if the person gets teary-eyed.

Given that the haiku only cost $2-5 (a rather low-stake investment, and a fundraiser no less!), I'm always touched that people take the process of choosing a subject incredibly seriously. At the same time, a lot of people freeze when faced with choosing what they want from the realm of all possibilities -- they're overwhelmed by the absolute freedom.

I understand that feeling. When I was graduating from college, I didn't have a plan for my next step for quite some time. The story had always gone: "high school, college, Ph.D." But I discovered I didn't want to go on to a Ph.D., at least not in nuclear fusion. (Yes, I really did study nuclear fusion.) I decided at the last possible moment to apply to one M.A. program in English to study Shakespeare (a long-time passion). So between December when the application was due, until late April when I'd hear their decision, I had no idea what the future would hold. What if I didn't get in? In sharp contrast to almost everyone around me, with their grad school or job prospects already lined up, I had nothing.

Even as I was daunted (and occasionally freaked out) by looking out into the void, I also ~s a v o r e d~ it. I could choose. I could explore. I could go in any direction that intrigued me. I had agency. My life had possibilities I'd never even considered before. What a gift to understand this so viscerally at 21.

It's the same reason I don't take my sweetie for granted. When we first met, she had just started a one-year AmeriCorps stint, and she moved into my flat when it was over. I told her that I knew she could do anything, go anywhere -- so the fact that she chose to stay with me meant everything. I still believe we make that choice every day. (Well, maybe less so on grey dreary days, when the inertia of staying snuggled under the covers is pretty darn strong.)

Real freedom and real choice have divinity to them. They call us to bring our authentic selves to the table and take responsibility for the direction of our lives. It was hard at first -- terrifying, at times -- to own up to the fact that I'm the one behind the wheel of this life of mine. (To the extent that anyone is driving at any given moment.) One taste of that wide-openness, though, and there was no going back. You can pretend to go back, or act like you don't know better, but this kind of deep knowledge can't be unlearned. Once I loosened my death-grip on the stories I told myself about what I was "supposed" to do and just followed my energy where it wanted to flow, taking responsibility felt just like freedom.

When people get that panicked look trying to think of a subject for a haiku, I ask them what seems "up" for them lately. Because their authentic selves have been working on something, whether the person knows it consciously or not. There's some corner of their lives where growth is underway. And if they listen to what their lives are trying to tell them, they just might hear poetry.

What Does It Mean to be Thankful?

2005-11-24T16:20:00.000-08:00

A friend once told me the story of a man whom everyone in the village thought was crazy: when someone arrived, he would cry, and when the person left, he would laugh. One day, a villager asked him about his unusual reactions. "When my friends arrive, I think about them leaving, and it makes me sad, so I cry. And when they go, I think about them coming back, and it makes me happy, so I laugh."

I've often repeated this story, especially when taking my leave of friends I rarely get to see. It always felt like a way to remember that we will see each other again, and that it's cause for happiness.

Today, another meaning pops out for me: it's a story all about not being present in the moment.

Today is Thanksgiving, and I have so much to be thankful for: my beloved wife, my kick-ass job and colleagues, my health, my cats, my creative pursuits, my home. I do not take these things for granted -- I know how lucky I am. Yet all morning I was fighting to stave off an overwhelming sadness. I didn't want to cast a pall on the day for Emily, or give vent to any of the snarky thoughts cropping up in my head, so I looked for ways to make the day special. While Emily slept, I poked around online for movies we might take in, and called to find an open coffeeshop where I could pick her up a surprise mocha caramel latte with extra chocolate and whipped cream. But the movies weren't going to work out, and all the cafes were closed. So I tried the "make myself feel pretty" route, with a long shower and special attention to my hair.

Standing under the warm water, though, I just couldn't hold the tears back any more. This is the first Thanksgiving since my mom died -- the anniversary of her death is only weeks away -- and I'm just plain SAD. She has been on my mind for several days now: the special cream sauce she'd make to go on the cauliflower, the plain stuffing that's still my favorite, the ways I see her shape in my own body. It doesn't matter that I hadn't spent a Thanksgiving with her in years, or that our relationship was complicated and often painful. Grief is just as complicated and painful, and unless you let it take up the room it needs, it doesn't fade.

So I finally let myself be present with the reality of the sadness. I stopped trying to put on a happy face, just because my life is going well and the calendar tells me to show some gratitude, dammit. I let the sobs wrack my body and the bath towel absorb my tears.

And once I did, the grief moved through me and the storm passed, more quickly than I'd ever have expected. In its wake, I could concentrate again on all that I am so grateful for -- not the least of which is the simple reality of being alive in this moment.

That Scorpio Charm

2005-11-05T20:03:00.000-08:00

Over the years, I've had many close friends who are Scorpios. This time of year is all about the big transformations: life, birth, sex, death. Halloween, All Saint's, Dia de los Muertos...it takes some heavy duty cabling to handle that stuff, and they were literally born into it. I like that they can meet my intensity and say, "But of course -- you mean other people don't live this way?"

Fixed water...like the water table sitting inside the earth, just waiting to be drawn upon. But you have to dig deep.

I've mostly fallen out of touch with these friends, though not for any reasons that make the break permanent: new jobs, grad school, moving around. The usual suspects. I'm always happy for the emails and phone calls when they come, and my affection is unwavering.

What's different this time is that a new Scorpio hasn't shown up to fill the gap. Pretty ironic, during this year of huge transformations for me. My sense is that it means I've had plenty of intensity going on already and didn't need the ongoing "refresher course" that a Scorpio friendship can provide.

Still, this time of year I can't help thinking about these folks who are so dear to me and about the gifts I've received from each of them. They're imprinted on me, like the autumnal colors I grew up with and miss desperately every fall. Even if I don't get to see them for years, when the light catches my life just right, I'm instantly transported to the seasons we spent together. I inhale deeply, wrap myself in the warmth of my wool coat, and marvel at the crisp blue sky.

The Dangers of the Blank Page

2005-10-23T16:14:00.000-07:00

Now that I've figured out how to get this journal integrated into my web site, I think I'll have a lot more energy - and incentive - to keep it updated. My goal is monthly. (My secret goal is weekly.) Surely, a Gemini like myself can figure out something to say on a regular basis that isn't completely inane.

Not that you'd necessarily know that from this post.

Still, I have faith that inspiration will come. Deep thoughts mixed with just the right spark of levity...righteous indignation about injustices in the world...a link to a Strong Bad email* that had me wheezing from laughter...Ah, the possibilities abound.

So sit back, relax, and snag yourself an appropriate beverage. Here's to both of us enjoying the ride.

* For those who have no idea what this means, check out Homestar Runner.

The apres-garde

2005-03-06T08:11:00.000-08:00

I must be the last musician and writer - certainly in San Francisco - to get myself a blog. Maybe it was concern that I already spend enough hours on the computer without an online journal, or distaste at the journal's potential to get crusty from lack of updating. Or maybe it was an instinctive reaction against anything trendy (the same impulse that made me rebel against reading The Lord of the Rings in elementary school because everyone else was doing it).

But here I am now. I loved LOTR when I finally read it last year, so I'm hopeful ("Hey! Maybe there's a reason people like blogs so much!..."). I figure that any tool that gets me writing has to be a good thing. Even if it's just a tiny introduction like this.