Vitorexia

Anorexia, for me, feels like trying to hold all the water in a dam back, using only my body. I don’t really know what remission means, except in the context of cancer, which I don’t have, but I think I’ve been in remission for a long time. There were the months (years?) of never enough movement, never little enough portions of food. There were all the symptoms like weak finger nails and distracted, dizzied mind. I hurt when I think of myself then, grasping for some sense of control over a life. My life.

College came and I sat with myself, taught myself to eat mindfully. I remember when I was squatting at a friend’s house, not paying rent, just doing some dog care for her, I sat at the dining room table with chicken and rice and for the first time since I was a small child, I tasted my food, I noticed I was eating. That brought me joy. Food brought me joy. Not punishment, not chastisement, not pushing my body to the limits later because I ate it. Just a sense of fullness and nourishment. That moment was a seed that grew and brought the fruit of those years of “remission”.

Looking at photos from the time after I did the work of curing myself, to earlier this year before my symptoms resurfaced, I vacillate between celebrating that I have been at my happiest when I was fat, and critiquing how I look harshly.

So far on this journey, if I am successful in overcoming the anorexia, I am fat, and therefore not successful by global beauty standards, standards that are hardwired into my brain, no matter how many body positive, healthy lifestyle advocates I follow (dieting culture does NOT represent or honestly have anything to do with healthy lifestyle) and read.

In June, I was in a car wreck. I haven’t driven since. Six days after the car wreck, I had a tonsillectomy (that had been planned for months, some timing….). 5 days later I went to the ER because the surgeon’s office was not responding to my calls or questions regarding unmanageable levels of pain (“take Tylenol” was their response – f*ck you five ways to Sunday, Health Partners). They administered desperately needed steroids and fluids, that cost me hundreds of dollars (a battle for another day, no?).

Since surgery and the car wreck, my sense of taste and appetite have been greatly altered, as have my movement patterns. Not having a car is a whole different conversation, but it has led to far more movement, making parts of my body more healthy. A few weeks after these appetite and movement changes, however, I noticed the anorexic thought patterns start to intrude in my psyche again (Example: “It doesn’t matter how exhausted you are, too much exercise is better”, “No reason to make yourself eat, it’s better to have no appetite anyway. Your body is finally behaving how it’s supposed to”).

Fast forward to the stress of a new job, as a public educator (it was bad for other reasons in private and charter schools, to be clear), where no matter how hard I work, or what strategies I attempt, I will never be able to complete all that is asked of me. I will never do enough. I will never reduce my own needs enough to meet the demands of these standards (the education system has an anorexic mind, but I don’t have the compassion for it like I have the compassion for a human or animal mind. Like every human system I can think of, it needs to be remade from the bottom up).

To save $20 on co-pays for 1 year (see previous note about medical costs – I’ve paid over 3k this year, and will be making payments for over a year from now on bills I still owe. To stay alive. So you can see why this discount would interest me/anyone), the district I work for offers a “health” program called Vitality. It reminds me of Weight Watchers programs (if you’ve ever been outspoken on social media about weight watchers type programs, this may be why you lost a follower or two), where you (or your device, or both) log your activities, they give you recipes, you earn points for steps, etcetera, and then if you reach a certain points level, you get the discount. There are parts of the program that talk about calories, but I ignore them (grasping at self-preservation).

Day 1 – they tell me my “vitality age” is 38. I’m 29. They use my BMI to pool data about me, and BMI data always puts me in obese range. I messed it up. I’m too big. Obese is a death-knell and a judgment, society makes that clear every day. Way to fail, Lydia, your efforts and struggle to the contrary fall short. I shake my head, get back to work, it’s just a stupid program.

The water in the dam is rising, rushing, pressing against my body. Here I am, breathless, again.

Side note: Y’all can take your destructive, inequitable, ableist “health” program and shove it.

Day 2-4 – I’m not walking enough. I go to the gym at 6:10am on Thursday before work, in order to log the workouts I “need”. I start to become aware of how this program is affecting my brain, destroying the healthy neural pathways I’ve worked so hard to fortify, so when Sunday comes, I make the conscious effort to do nothing, to not push myself to move. (Amazing how organic movement happens on days I don’t force myself, almost like, at my core, I’m not the one who is f*cked up.)

Day 5 (Sunday) – Around 2:00pm the Vitality app pings – suggesting a HIIT workout.

This force is actively working to push me under water. How dare I think I could breathe. How dare I consider myself worthy of rest. How dare I orient myself towards life – the aliveness of good rest without the imposition of tasks or routines or scripted movements. I belong to death, I belong to destroying myself. Thanks, Vitality, for reminding me.

Never active enough. Never thin enough. Never restricted enough.

Overcoming anorexia, putting this sweet, broken, part of myself back into remission, in a world that is set up to allow that exact disorder to flourish, is my work. If it’s yours too, I love you, I believe in you. If it isn’t, please be oh-so-careful with your words and posts about your body, diet culture, appetite suppression, foods, and jokes about physical appearance. I’m not good at being careful all the time either, but being careful can save someone else from painful moments.

Proud of myself for trying to live in integrity, trying to make sense of a senseless world.

I am in love with my body, mind, and spirit.

You are in love with your body, mind, and spirit.

We are in love with this planet’s body, mind, and spirit.

We are together, in brokenness, and bliss.

perfection = joy reduction

If this life was meant to be perfect, it would be. If we were meant to be perfect, we would be. 

I went to a yoga class at a San Antonio yoga studio, and it was refreshing. Why? A non-white teacher who taught in an imperfect way. It was like, *gasp*, she allowed herself to be human. Her words weren’t perfect. Her cues weren’t flawless. I felt like I could breathe. 

Adjusting to the Twin Cities (Minnesota) area yoga scene hasn’t been easy. The teachers and the studio atmosphere crawl with the sensation of perfection. Sure, there’s a handwritten note in the bathroom or by the coat rack, encouraging us to “keep going”, but it doesn’t feel like it was written because someone needed to hear it. It seems like it was written because that’s something a perfect yoga studio has. 

Teaching yoga and all its’ facets (except for checking people in on the *technology*) makes me happy. I love greeting people, making people feel comfortable, creating a comfortable environment, moving with people, etc. I love planning the classes, trying new movements out, weaving them into a sequence with timeless postures. Before my trip to San Antonio, I felt distance from the joy that teaching yoga had always brought me. I assumed it was exhaustion.

After taking Rafaela’s class in San Antonio, it clicked that the reason I felt less than enthused about teaching yoga was because I had tried to fit into the culture of perfection in the White-owned, White-led yoga studios. (I think it is possible for White yoga practitioners to run a yoga studio that does not have that undercurrent of perfectionism, but I think it is a rare find.) Instead of waving proudly the flag of my own style – patterned after the example of several non-white yoga teachers (electronically and through books for the most part- that reflects who I am and the values I most highly prioritize, I had bowed the knee to the White ideal of perfectionism. A perfect pose. A perfect class. Perfect cues. A perfect body. The perfect opening and closing words. The perfect number of attendees. The perfect monetary profit.  

The perfect way to suck the joy out of teaching yoga. 

Rafaela, who stumbled over her words several times, who made us feel comfortable even though we arrived late, who adjusted how she taught throughout the class without making a single self-deprecating comment, who is just a person, not a monolith, not an idea, not representative of any one group, helped me see how to regain my joy in yoga teaching.

By being myself.

By being authentic, regardless of how many sensitive midwesterners who came expecting a certain cookie-cutter class experience, left mine unsatisfied. Regardless of the monetary profit left.

I’m grateful for how one woman, teaching a poorly-attended gentle yoga flow in San Antonio on an overcast Sunday morning, deeply inspired me. Her example gave me permission – again – to be what my middle school students call “cringey”; to laugh at my own jokes even when no one else laughs (or even chuckles!), to read the poems that I find inspirational, and to stop trying to read people’s minds, curate the perfect experience, and impress all of Godforsaken White America. 

Guess what? From this inspired space, the day I returned from San Antonio, I taught a 7:00pm class. Familiar faces were there, a couple even cracked a smile at my jokes. Afterwards, a quirky retiree told me her stomach was upset during class, so she mostly watched me instead of practicing.

“You’re so fun to watch,” she said. “You are so joyful in each pose.”

Not perfect. I’ll never be perfect in each pose, but hell yes, won’t I be joyful. 

If this life was meant to be perfect, it would be. If I was meant to be perfect, I would be.

Re-member-ing

-9 degrees Farenheit (above). The free state of George Floyd, Minneapolis, MN (below).

Re-member-ing. Putting oneself back together. Letting the members of ones’ being reacquaint after a time of separation, disassociation, unfettering; any sort of un-wholeness.

I’ve never been literally split in two, but I have been told things that drove my mind out of my body.

I’ve never been punched in the throat, but I have opened an envelope to learn that basic treatment which I thought insurance would cover is now due as hundreds of dollars from me.

I’ve never had my heart cut from my chest, but I have lain alone in bed with someone who said they love me, but is unable to make love to me.

I’ve never been dismembered, but every so often, I find the pieces of myself torn apart from one another.

The heart, up near the Arctic circle. The soul, lost in the Kalahari desert. The body, drowned in the sea full of plastic bottles. The mind, wandering blindly in the Amazon Rainforest. By default, I assume that a wild expenditure of resources is necessary to find and summon them back together. A team of explorers native to the territory. A collection of encyclopedias. Many online purchases. At the very least, a new apartment, or career overhaul.

But with a day–just a day–out of assailant’s range, the members call from the four directions, letting me know that to be re-member-ed isn’t all that complicated.

And it isn’t modern.

And it isn’t flashy.

And it isn’t easy. Except that it’s far easier than being severed (and living that way without stifling the bleeding) ever is. The heart misses the mind who misses the soul who misses the body when I’m dis-member-ed.
To put the pieces of myself together I often

sing a song

read a story

heat up some water and make tea

look at the leaves on the trees or the leaves falling off the trees or the snow icing the trees (as the case may be)

say a prayer

meditate for 5-12 minutes

do 3 yoga poses

nestle my nose into my cats’ fur and inhale deeply

close my eyes and feel the body I live in. The body makes

the money, lifting, thinking, producing sound and expression. Yet the world does not care

for my home. The world values four wooden walls with a roof more than it values the miraculous house of every part of my being.

The miraculous house of my being, the miraculous houses of all beings. Sitting in lines at clinics. Staying home because getting medical help is too expensive. Nearly choking to death alone because an ambulance ride would put us in debt for years.

Society wakes up every Monday, and every first of the month, to pull us apart, limb from limb. It is a brutal ritual of injustice, and so many more suffer worse than I.

Against such an enemy, what are our weapons?

You are the wind, the flood and the flame.
Nothing here can get in your way. ~ Cloud Cult

A cup of tea and a good book, I suppose. A reminder to a friend to keep their chin up. The savoring of a poem, or meal, or orgasm. A night around a table with warm, open faces. A sharing of ideas for being made less of a victim with every passing evaluation, year, or semester.

Those sorts of things put me back together. The heart and the mind hold hands. The body curls up by the fire. The spirit wraps its’ arms around all three.

\ I remember again\

The Arrival of Light

I saw the sun coming up behind a tangle of trees. Most of the landscape was still in shadow, but where St. Charles Road merges with North Avenue, a round mouth of light opened–the sun shining through the throat of the road there, then looping toward me down a single telephone line. It was epiphany–the arrival of light–but so brief, so fleeting. ~ Luci Shaw

The Miracle of Imagining a Life

My selective amnesia allowed me to forget that last time I uprooted my life and moved, I developed a crushing case of depression and anxiety, that nearly cost me my life. I’m grateful that I forgot, because that’s how I gained the courage to uproot and move again, when it was again time to do so.

There’s a time for and to the rhythm of our movements as beings; be we cats, humans, whales, birds migrating south, etc. The time came for me to uproot and re-root again; fear didn’t stand a chance against the quiet knowing that landed on me while the pokey grass at the side of Lake Nokomis ate at my thighs. It also helped that I had, selectively, forgotten the deep difficulties of establishing a new home by myself, for myself.

The difficulties: new job(s) not panning out as expected, the tight grasp of financial anxiety around my neck, the strong pressure of scarcity pushing into me between my breasts. Then there are the roads. Roads with more lanes than I’ve ever driven on, roads with confusing exits, and construction cones that seem to be placed wherever-the-fuck-they-felt-like-it. The stress of driving or walking somewhere I have never seen before, every time I leave the house. The sheer terror of trying to make friends in a society that scoffs at vulnerability, and applauds closed-mindedness. The exhaustion of getting off of work late, being hungry, and learning that no restaurants stay open past 10 pm in this new city. Going to bed hungry because I didn’t time the grocery trip right, or because the grocery trip I made time for, was to a place that didn’t have the food I can eat. Constantly washing dishes because the new apartment doesn’t have a dishwasher, I don’t have many dishes, and I don’t have a microwave (want to heat something up? Use a saucepan.). They’re small inconveniences, if you take them one at a time, but in a fast-paced world where I have to make a certain amount of money, or I will not be okay, they are all together, terrifying and suffocating.

Then there are the miracles. The new sight I have because of the intense uprooting, and the perspective I gain from the soil I’m re-rooting in.

The miracles: as a teenager, I read fiction by Madeleine L’Engle, and I wished for myself a life like some of her characters, intelligent people having deep conversations, people who made time for tea and coziness, for conversations across generations, and who read books by people from various countries and viewpoints. While I unpacked my books in this new city, I noticed the variety from cover to cover. I noticed that most were written by people from a different cultural background than I. The thing I brought most of here to my new home, were books and mugs. The thing that has impressed me most deeply here in my new home has been my own intelligence. Voila. The miracle of the life I hoped for as a kid, now being mine. The move gave me vision to see it.

People have liked me and disliked me, over the course of my 28 years. My favorites are, of course, the ones who really like me, and who I like in return. The handful of friends who have really stuck by me in adulthood are precious, and I do not take them for granted. Leaving them was what made the move seem foolish. I fear(ed) that I won’t meet people who are wild about me, and serious about following my lead, dancing in the conga line of life with me, and celebrating me in the most beautiful and redemptive ways. Yet already, less than 2 months into the move, I have met 5-10 people who have expressed delight over the ways I’ve surprised them with anecdotes and questions and general interest and care. People who even at the first encounter say things like, “you seem rad,” or “you have a great personality.” Being around people with the confidence to say those affirmative things out loud, versus keeping them to themselves, or attempting to be my rival out of jealousy, is inexplicably redemptive. The miracle of being liked for who I am, by old and new friends alike.

The miracle of the internet keeping me connected with the community made up of angels with hearts similar to mine. The miracle of savoring phenomenal food that I didn’t have access to in my old home. The deep pride of solving any challenges that I encounter. The stubborn joy that comes from refusing to give up. The soft curls of a new lover in this new place, springy between my fingers.

It’s a double helix: fears and failures forming one side, miracles and joys forming the other. My essence is in the pairs of bases that bond one side to the other. I am neither light nor dark. I am both. Both are in me. I accept this chaos of good and evil. I accept the sun rising and the sun setting. I accept that I am perfect and imperfect. I accept the eyelashes that grow on my eyelids; I accept the eyelash that I see resting on my cheek, when I lean in towards the bathroom mirror, and sigh, blowing it away, looking in to my own eyes, and finding the strength for one more day.

interplay of personality & place

pieces of me that I’m picking back up in a new place:

the nervous thrill of entering a restaurant or bar full of people I have never seen before, whose acquaintances I wouldn’t even know one of

the delight of turning a corner to behold a colorful mural completely new to me

freedom to express myself as I’d like; no constraints or expectations pressed on me from outside (that I can feel)

renewed ability to see how the places I have been before impacted who I was there; learning for the first time who I am here

thinking about what I like, rather than who I want to be around (I don’t know anyone here!)

repeating lines from funny tiktoks to myself in the mirror–because I have time in my fresh life here

discipline to utilize my own power in creating a structured, ritual-rich weekly routine (a fresh chance to become my bestest self)

space from my normal occupations and chores, allowing me to see which ones I miss/like, and which ones I can restructure my life without

the electrical zing under my skin that I feel when I see myself in a new light; a living, breathing, powerful mystery on two legs, writing a story that’s never been written before with her head, her hands, her feet

simple tips for loving someone who doesn’t love you back

when they say “you complete me”, believe them

whenever you make plans, keep the possibility of cancelling everything open, in case *they* happen to text you

stay close to your phone, checking apps that have no notifications pending, in case they messaged you and the internet didn’t alert you appropriately

convince yourself that, when they finally text you, it’s because they’ve been thinking about you nonstop…for the past (silent) 8 days

when they pay for the food, tell yourself it’s because they want to take care of you, not because they know they’re about to get pussy

stare at them lovingly after sex, as their gentle snores start up, and imagine the conversation you’d be having, were they actually in love with you

get tired of tracing the lines on their face, roll over, sleep with one hand between the softest part of your thighs

give them a toothbrush in the morning, call them “angel”, as they walk out the door to work

notice they left their phone charger

write four love poems, pretty good ones, and then realize they’re making you sad, not happy

leave your notebook open on the couch, go to work, think about them and all the ways they’ve said “I don’t love you.”

take their phone charger by their house, don’t stay for conversation

decide it hurts to not be loved

spend the weekend alone, not checking the apps, feeling love, peace

without their love which is, surprisingly, okay

Minneapolis Institute of Art & the Grass We Came Up From

Expecting the Minneapolis Institute of Art to be similar to the art museums I am used to visiting in Arkansas was a bit like expecting the number one ranked steakhouse to be similar to a Steak and Shake (I looked it up, the number one steakhouse in the world is called Hawksmoor, and it is located in London).

I’m in my second (third? fourth?) home, Minneapolis, for nearly two weeks of summer reprieve/mostly vacation (still working remotely in typical Mid-American dad fashion), and on my first full day I decided to “pop in” to the Minneapolis Institute of Art only to find that the visit ate through lunch time, nap, time, and could have gone longer except that I had to pick up my friend whose car I was borrowed.

The path I followed in the museum began in the China room(s), and wound its’ way through Japan (tea house!), various African countries (possibly all of them represented; if I go back I may count), the Pacific Islands, the United States before it was the United States (seemed to be focused on the Native Americans located in or near Santa Fe, as the featured Native American artist was from there I believe), Mesoamerica, an entire exhibit of art that represents Nazis and the holocaust, to a broadly titled “America” room, to a bunch of rooms filled with familiar-looking, Catholic European stuff (imagine if a museum curator or actual art person read this? The horror of using the word “stuff”!), then a memorable, gut-wrenching, lyrical exhibit on the African American experience, and finally, I had to rush through what *looked to me like* American modern art, to find my way out of the labyrinth and down to the street where my friend’s car was parked (free parking; I love it here).

I suppose that seeing art should be about seeing the art, but, what I find most interesting on my perusal through MIA is the responses that come up within me to the different art rooms and cultures represented. Chinese art? Really can’t get into it. I bow my head a little and try to let the respect for what is old and miraculous and intricate translate to some sort of resonance, but it isn’t there. Do I disrespect Chinese culture? I wonder, but then reflect on my Chinese-American students and how privileged I was to listen to them process their journey of being different than their friends, and how fascinating and important their roots and values seemed to me as they spoke. Chinese art isn’t about me. I keep walking.

The experience is nearly the same for me in the Japan rooms; I keep quiet and walk. In one room there is a track playing from a hidden speaker and the sounds truly resonate in my spirit. Thank goodness, maybe I am not the Eastern-world icicle that I’ve feared.

The African countries rooms intrigue me far more. I pause in front of a piece of wood with words from the Qur’an painted on it. People believe so deeply, across time and space. I pause, readjust my backpack, and walk to the next room.

By the time I get to the Native American room, I am fully engrossed; floored by all that I did not know this museum contained. The walls hold modern drawings of men and women in traditional attire. The buffalo dancer, the female buffalo dancers, various people who sing and dance about the relationship their people have with corn. I find it all resonant, thought-provoking, magical, breathtaking. The colors and shapes make sense to my eyes, which means they make sense to my heart, I suppose. I remember reading stories of Navajo, Apache, and Crow children (I wonder if these stories were written from the perspective of the White gaze, or if they were by Indigenous authors. What I remember from them is accurate according to what I’ve learned since K-12, which is, hopefully, a good sign). After school I would play-act the stories, listening to the ground, checking for moss on trees, envisioning horse and rider trotting under the tree canopy behind my home. My privilege gave me access to nature, and nature is where I felt a connection with the people who had walked on the same pine-needled ground years before me. Beholding art made by Native American artists-even with an open heart–doesn’t change the wrongs that have been done; wrongs acted out by people who look like me, wrongs that are too deep and brutal to ever be undone. I keep walking.

The Mesoamerican section washes over me as a sea wave of familiarity; college studies, best friends, travels, books. I’m grateful for my exposure to these folks telling their stories. I’m grateful for more colors and shapes that wind around each other, and tell the story of how interconnected we are as beings.

By the time I’m entering the Southeast Asia area, my feet are tired, and my back is sweating under my backpack, but a tall, red and gold Buddha statue makes the breath catch in my throat. The small amount of exposure to Buddhism I’ve had, plus following Thich Nhat Hanh, and Sharon Salzberg, among others, has brought me closer to feeling present in my life, and to loving myself unconditionally (yet still so far). I feel awed, and want to do the sign of the cross, but don’t because it doesn’t seem appropriate (no clue what the move is here??!!). The Tibetan mandalas hold my gaze until my eyes tire, and my feet carry me into the adjacent room where, again, I am awestruck.

Statues of Indian dieties; Lord Shiva, various manifestations of Krishna, Sarasvati, Lakshmi, and others, named and unnamed. I almost shout when I see the Lord of the Dance statue. A shape I’ve put my body into countless times, inspired by ancient stories from a continent I’ve never set foot on. It’s astonishingly expansive, the whole story, and time. The inexplicable timeline of it all.

The opening of my heart in response to Native American art (as though it were a piece of poignant memory) was the only natural response for me. Time is cyclical; premonitions and deja vu that I experience regularly tell me that, as do the many indigenous philosophies of the world. Time is cyclical, and I am smaller than a dot in the space between the big and little hands of its’ clock.

If I were told to go back to the museum and choose one exhibit to spend time in, I would choose the Rituals of Resistance by Chaka Mkali and other African American artists. I walk through it faster than I would like because of the time that has already passed, but this is the exhibit that urges me to open my phone, and Snapchat share the content before my eyes. The images and words, all familiar to me, are woven together in a way that reminds me of the times I’ve cried for African American friends or acquaintances who died earlier than they would have had they been born White, or had their people not been kidnapped and trafficked across the Atlantic for death or a life of torture. The art contains shapes that remind me of the jawlines of graceful, proud Black women whom I love, admire, and work alongside. The painting of a Black man with a neon shirt on, riding the metro, reminds me of the Black men I love, who populate my life and community. My experiences are adjacent, but they are bodily. The art lands deep in me. The African American experience isn’t about me. I keep walking.

As I rush through the quiet atrium, cross the street, and get in the car, my mind is working to organize what the visit showed me about myself, and about how I relate to this world’s art. There’s a good chance I don’t know how to do it right– the art museum thing–but I notice more profound knowledge of myself. The closest I’ve come to summing it up is that: art travels through space, as ideas from one person that land in me and speak with some part of my body. Where I have experienced people, ideas, shapes, practices in my body, they resonate with me. The statues of deities in what we now consider yoga postures, the Native American images that I’ve run with in my imagination, the people I have held in grief, and who have held me in grief. We become one in our bodily experiences. Well, we are always one. Perhaps our bodily experiences, and how they overlap, bring us to awareness of that truer unity.

There was White people art too, by the way, but so overlaid with Catholic images whose meanings are moot for me now, and so familiar, that they fell short of inner communion. I took them as a reminder to be mindful of what is in my bloodstream. A reminder to overcome evil with good (maybe that Scriptural slip makes Catholicism less moot than I thought?!), in my being: body, mind, spirit. To see myself as a miniscule portion of a thread in the fabric of Earth’s tapestry.

Appreciation for artists, whose people are different than mine, and whose ancestors were harmed by mine, yet who came up from the same grass as I, floods me as I drive away.

5 delights

Inspired by The Book of Delights, a wonder of a book, by Ross Gay, which I currently have checked out from Terry library.

1. the way my cat’s eyes close (appears to be involuntary) when I scratch the top of her head with my fingers. the way she uses her cheek muscles to push back the triangular fluffs on either side of her head when I rub my thumb forward and back under her chin. the rumble in her chest starts. a tarot reader that I follow on instagram posted about how pleasure is heightened when more than one sense is positively stimulated. her example was brown boots on crunchy ice. mine is the feeling of kitty’s fur paired with the sound of her guttural, delicious purr.
2. the space in me where there used to be an urge to text a man (or men) back, but now instead, there is a quiet confidence. this is delightful because the confidence frees me from conversations I don’t want to have, and paths I have no business being on. this confidence is somehow a byproduct of how fed up I am by the negative, unsatisfying experiences that I have had dating men (thus far), and perhaps also a byproduct of good books, early bedtimes, satisfying workouts, and firm boundaries set around myself, emotionally. I do not have to respond to all the messages that make my phone ping…and I am happy not to.
3. the delight of having acrylic nails–long, and with square tips–glued to my chewed-down natural nails by a Vietnamese man who explained the early stages of being a business owner, complete with the joy of opening the first day, and the terror of having no customers. these nails make me feel a part of the sisterhood of women who are pleased by the clacking of their nails together; the way the color she chose looks good against a ball gown, or a barbell. these nails have brought me into a sisterhood of women who have found ways to type anyway, to wipe anyway, women who have also found joy in gently scratching their cat’s–and student’s, with permission, of course–heads with square-tipped, acrylic, immaculate nails.
4. the joy of an intimate, sacred moment with a student I’ve known for 3 years–since before she could speak and understand English. she struggled to let the lid off, but eventually said, “I think I’m gay!” And it was my delight to smile, and tell her, “wow, you like girls? Cool!” I went about the business of tidying my room at the end of the day, and she asked after some time had passed, “you don’t think it’s weird? Or that I’m not normal?” I responded, looking up at her still child-like, yet pimpled face (the middle school metaphor), “it’s weird to some people, but not to me. you’re not normal, you’re a special girl, and you’re different. i like everything i know about you so far. you’re interesting.” her face didn’t betray an emotional response to what i said, and we went back to studying pyroclastic flow, and other scientific terms for her upcoming quiz. (what i love most about education is how it cradles us. we show ourselves to one another in moments between cinder-cone volcanoes, the great new deal, and craters. we come out as gay or bisexual, depressed or emotional, proud of ourselves or infuriated, in moments between the content we digest about the world around us. we come into the world as our fullest selves, as we study–in homogeneous and heterogeneous groups–the world we exist in. marvelous.)
5. the delight of a Black boy who is still able to cry, who can still be bothered by the way another student talks to him. a Black boy still child, soft enough (in the best way), to be angry and cry, instead of just being angry, angry, angry, with dry eyes. the beauty of his soft heart shining through even such crystalline tears, here in my classroom where I will do all I can to protect his holy body and spirit, despite it all. what a haunting, redemptive glory.

invocation, 2022

Let it be a year of tending to my feelings, in an honest way. Let it be 365 days of risk, reward, and trusting that between the risk and the reward, there is a tension that will purify me, if I’ll let it.

Let this next year bring lessons to an open heart in me, and let it bring calm twilights, with tea brewing to settle the stomach before bed.

Let me and the people I love find solace in one another. Let us make ourselves at home in each other’s houses and apartments.

May we have long conversations about books and podcasts and music, fewer conversations trying to convince others to fear what we fear.

May we make space for differences, may we care for each other’s pets, plants, and hearts.

Let this be…

A year of quiet dawns, the sound of a cat’s paws on the hardwood.

A year of seeing people I love blink the sleep out of their eyes as they stretch and yawn themselves awake.

A year of next mornings, putting Goodwill mugs into each other’s hands and asking. “what all happened last night?”

A year of good “no”s and better “yes”es.

A year of family relationships, hurts, and memories redeemed (in ways you hadn’t believed possible), transformed into fuel for loving new loves, and old loves in new ways.

A year of signing checks with whispered, “thank you”s, because the bills are paid on time one more month.

A year of onions sauteed in olive oil, warm oatmeal topped with cool peaches, cookies that are chewy on the edges and soft in the middle, just out of the oven.

A year of bypassing the fruitless attempts at convincing others to love us, in order to march straight up to the doors of our hearts, knock, and offer ourselves all the love we could need, there on the heart’s stoop, an altar.

At the Café & Before

At the Café & Before

The khaki “Levi Strauss” tag

on the waist band of the jeans a little girl’s grandpa

is wearing one table over; the same tag my Papaw’s jeans had, when I was a little girl at breakfast with him.

The Germans at the cafe’s corner table take video calls while my stomach

kicks up acid to the tune of coffeeistooacidicnomatterwhereintheworldIam. My mind retraces

what I’ve seen today: the wide mouth full

of flat teeth that the crying baby, who sits next to his Mamá

and her neatly arranged tapestry of goods, shows to the sunlight as I walk past, suppressing the urge to touch

someone else’s child in a country where children are trafficked to people who

look like me. Women with large loads balanced on their heads–why do I only see women doing this, both here

in Guatemala, and in Uganda?–is Woman the only one regal

enough to walk so steady, with her neck so erect, shoulders back,

gaze forward, bringing precious cargo wherever she goes?

Back at the café, the granddaughter has her hair pulled halfway up, her ankles crossed.

She taps her fingers on the silverware still cocooned in a napkin.

A German woman behind her has blonde hair tossed carelessly, falling over itself as

she speaks. She and the girl do not notice each other. I notice them

both.