Born of Dust and Silence

Several months of silence have elapsed since I last showed up to pour my thoughts into this space. Much has been unfolding that is more personal than I am able to explore in this format at this time, and I trust that as stories arise that want to be shared, words will accompany them. For now, know that much is shifting beneath the surface, and perhaps the surface itself is shifting, the landscape of my life changing shape a little, taking on new elements of beauty and fascination and curiosity to marvel at.

I have wondered on and off if it is time to retire from blogging for now. It seems I have less to say here than when I was a student, and it is at least as much personal as it is about midwifery. And then, at the ACNM Annual Convention last week, I spoke with no less than a dozen people (many current midwifery students, or new midwives) who told me that my blog was instrumental to them choosing this profession, or helped them through the rough waters of school, or reminded them that they were not alone. And I realized that I could still do that, even though I am in a very different place now than six years ago when I first sat down to write about my excitement about becoming a midwife and explore my journey towards this career, this calling of mine. Six-years-ago me could not have imagined that I would be sitting down during a lull on a call shift (I didn’t say the “q-word…” I learned never to say the “q-word!”) after a busy day in clinic to blog about being a midwife and becoming myself. Or, perhaps, could have imagined it, but not what it would be like from here.

But six-years-ago me isn’t the part of myself I’ve recently been most strongly connecting with. Ten years ago this summer, I was ill to the point of bordering on death. I look back at the photos of my emaciated body, hollow eyes staring at me through a decade of time, and I have so much I want to tell the person I was then. Last week, I went back to my childhood home (one of them) to visit my parents and my sister, and I spent some time connecting with myself. It felt like a deep healing sort of magic, to be able to send love back through time to myself when I desperately needed it.

Brene Brown put it this way:

A deep sense of love and belonging is an irreducible need of all people. We are biologically, cognitively, physically, and spiritually wired to love, to be loved, and to belong. When those needs are not met, we don’t function as we were meant to. We break. We fall apart. We numb. We ache. We hurt others. We get sick.

A number of those things happened to me a decade ago. I was newly out as queer, and newly in love with the person who would become my wife. I was living in a place where I did not get to express my queerness with a sense of safety or acceptance of who I was, and I managed to internalize the unspoken message that I needed to be small and take up less space. Combined with some undiagnosed physical health issues that spiraled together with anxiety and systemic oppression and not feeling a sense of belonging or knowing where home was, I made myself small. I lost 70 pounds in a year, dropping from an average weight to one that I still cannot believe I could survive at. I broke. I fell apart. I got sick.

I didn’t know if I would get better, or if I could, or even if I wanted to. I could not conceive of a life where I got to be my whole self and was loved exactly as I was and where delight was a theme woven through my days alongside the complexities of sadness and beauty and loss and heartbreaking joy.

I remember a singular moment that felt like a tipping point, where I sat alone in my room, my stomach raging in pain and nausea, gnawingly empty. I watched the pulsations of my aorta through my gaunt belly as I sat staring at a banana and trying to decide if I could eat it. I sat with that banana for hours, feeling like choosing to eat it despite how ill I knew I would feel was an affirmation of my intent to stay alive in the world, and uncertain if I had it in me to say yes. I journaled about this inner chaos. On July 1, 2007, I wrote of how “frighteningly low” my weight was (below 100 pounds), and described all the medical interventions that were on the horizon if I couldn’t force myself to eat, and what my choices were there. And then three small words at the very bottom of the page: “I choose life.”

I ate the banana. I somehow pushed through walls of pain and mountains of fear and kept eating. I left home and built a little family and fell in love with my life again. I didn’t die. I dreamed big dreams and from the depths of myself found the courage to follow them. I moved again, by myself, went to school, got divorced, became a nurse, became a midwife. And here I am on my couch at 11 p.m., pager clipped to the waistband of my shorts, hundreds of babies later, blogging about it.

In my grand tradition of writing letters to my past selves, here’s one specifically to me in that moment when I was sitting there with that banana:

Dear Rob (yep, that’s your name now; hang on),

I see you. Where you are at right now SUCKS. You feel sick constantly. Your body is wracked with pain and your mind with terror. You can’t imagine ever feeling alive again. You are eating your own flesh to stave off death for a bit longer, uncertain how much more you have to give. You are possibly the loneliest you’ve ever been, there in the solitude of your descent into illness.

I know, trust me I know, how much you don’t want to do this. You know how sick you will feel if you eat. You know what it will cost you. But just for a minute, I want to plant the seed of the idea that you not eating will cost me everything I now have. I need you to survive. I need you to do whatever it takes to keep your body alive. I can go back and repair anything else, can return with new perspectives and skills and coping strategies and will happily clean up any messes left behind. I just need you to feed yourself.

If I could, I would give you a glimpse into what lies in store for you on the other side of not dying. In the way that time is not as linear as we think it is and magic is weird and knowing that I went back last week with the intention of reconnecting with you, I’ll give it a shot. If you eat that banana, and keep eating, and keep doing whatever you need to do to stay in the land of the living, I promise you on everything you know to be holy and good that you will come alive again. This is not where your story ends. Far from it. You will keep writing.

In a couple of months, you will move to California, and you will meet people who won’t bat an eye at your queerness. A year from now, you will be married. You will put on a dress (sorry, next time it can be pants) on International Women’s Day and say “for today, and for the days to come” to a woman you love, and you will mean every word of it. You will explore together to the end of your exploring, and your paths will diverge, and you will be sad, and you will feel broken, and you will crochet and write and cry and study your way to feeling whole again.

During this time you will have moved again, to Seattle, on to one of the biggest challenges you’ve ever given yourself. You will dream a seemingly impossible dream, and you will have no idea until you’ve actually done it whether you can. From where your emaciated body sits, banana in hand, you can’t fathom being able to take on the role of caring for anyone but yourself, but you will do it. You will kick ass at one of the most accelerated intensive nurse-midwifery programs in the country. You will rise to the challenge of the dream your grandmother offered you. You will sit in a session at a midwifery conference ten years from now and hear her whisper, from somewhere, that you are her wildest dream, and you’ll realize that she gave you yours as well.

You will get a job that will stretch you and teach you a lot about how to be and how not to be a midwife. You will stay there until you need to leave it, and then you will go to a new place. You will bring your whole self to your work. You will receive babies into your hands and stories into your heart. Your presence with your patients is being cultivated by the quality of the ways in which you are showing up for yourself right now. So keep showing up. Keep doing the hard work of staying alive in the world.

Know that you are not alone. I promise that I will come back for you. Ten years from now, I will return. I will sit in the bedroom you spent your adolescence in, and I will bring all of my accumulated love and wisdom and magic with me. I will sit in the living room eating an apple (because I can’t stand bananas anymore), and I will feel the weight of your frail body sitting there with me, and I will reach out a hand to you from across the decade and lend you all of the strength I have built in the 80 extra pounds of muscle and fat and blood and bone and life I hold in this body you now occupy, and through our collective tears I will call you home again. I must leave home to stay alive, and I promise I will come back for you and through some time-warp magic I will reach back through the past and whisper courage to your palpitating heart, the courage you need to stay alive so you can grow into me and I can go back for you.

Your (my? our?) pager will go off while you write this, and you will go catch a baby and not come back to finish blogging for another week. What will remind you is a sunset that is so astonishing in its simple brilliance that it will move you to tears. You will stand in a spot a block away from where you now live, the fading light of day dropping down over the Olympics before you, and the way the sky makes a perfect silhouette of a sprig of Queen Anne’s Lace will flood your cheeks with saltwater because you are alive to see it.

You will be listening to “Turning Wake” by Ayla Nereo right then, and you will stand still with the cool evening breeze caressing your face as she croons,

I’ll be dancing’ with the ones who remind me
we are born of dust and silence
we are made of ancient songs
and there are ones who’ll keep us sleeping
and there are ones who bring the dawn
put your back to the birch and your mind to the matter of a
listening kind of way
we are born of dust and silence
we are made of ancient songs…

I will stare into the lens of my camera in that moment as if I could look through ten years of history and catch your eye.

I will gaze unblinkingly at the memory of your dying body as tears pour down my cheeks, and I will smile because (spoiler alert!) I know you made it out alive. You can’t know that now, and that is terrifying. Your body will indeed die one day, love, and you will return to the dust and silence you were born of. But not yet. This is not where your story ends.

 

I will stare back across a decade and hold you with limitless compassion, borne out of all of the precious life I’ve lived in the 3644 days between these two photographs. I will grieve with the embodied memory of what happens when I try to take up as little space as possible. You have no idea what you are capable of, how you will proceed to gleefully and unapologetically refuse to fit into anyone’s boxes, how in claiming your authentic wholeness and all the space that is yours to occupy you will create for yourself a life that you can thrive in.

I imagine myself with you in my lap. I would kiss the top of your head and stroke your bony cheek and tell you stories of the life you will live if you eat that banana. I would whisper in your ear the names of every single baby your hands will catch. I would sing you songs you have yet to learn and recite to you some of the poems you will write. You have to stay alive, love, because the world’s best cat has yet to be born, and yours are going to be his favorite shoulders to sit on.

Oh, my love, the tales I have to tell you of who you are becoming! You have so much life left to live. I wish I could tuck you in at night with stories of how brave you are, how resilient, how you will create a home and a life and a chosen family for yourself. It will be a long, tough rode; I won’t lie and tell you otherwise. Dozens of healthcare providers, well over a hundred appointments, several surgeries, and countless medications and treatments of a variety of kinds will be required to keep your body alive. You will do so much inner work, filling journal after journal with your thoughts and reflections. You will come face to face with your own shadow and welcome it. The journey of a lifetime is to integrate all that you have seen and done and experienced and been in the world, and I promise you that you have within you a seemingly endless well of courage that you will draw from again and again to show up and do the work.

Your beautiful queer self belongs in this world, Rob. Despite what you grew up hearing and what you still hear: there is a place for you at this table. You will discover, as you do the work of staying alive, just how much the world is in love with you. Oh, I wish you could take just a tiny glimpse into my bank of memories from the past decade! You have no idea what a ridiculous life I’ve built for you to come home to. I need you not to give up on living just yet, because there are full moons to admire and queer humans to kiss and mountains to hike up and songs to dance to and heart-shaped rocks to discover in all of the places you go. There are books to read and baths to take and poems to take your breath away. There is love to give and receive and make and fall into and fall out of and do it all over again. There is so much delicious food to eat (I promise that nourishing yourself won’t always be as hard and painful and scary as it is now). There is this incredible body that you get to inhabit, and as you put in one of your poems, “to live in this skin and come alive here.”

And so you will, dear one. You were born of dust and silence, and one day you will return to the same. But not yet. I came back for you. I came to bring you home with me, to carry you to a life you’ve made for yourself to thrive in. I left a heart-shaped stone behind so that you can find your way back to me. I’ll take care of you; I’ve learned how.

Come home with me.

All my love and magic,

Rob (roughly 5,247,360 minutes later)

Between Earth and Sky

It’s been over a month since I last sat down to pour my thoughts into this container, and what a deeply moving month it has been. Each day has set before me an ever-changing landscape, and I have made it my intention to be present and deeply listen to what my life is asking of me. So far, what has been coming up is a request from myself to show up as my whole self wherever I am, and to take up all of the space that is mine.

It is the nature of my work to hold a lot of things. I accumulate so many stories during my clinic days and the nights I spend wiping sweaty brows and supporting perineums and welcoming new little lives onto the planet. I hold with my clients the intensity of pregnancy loss, the discomfort of aching backs and swollen ankles, the sweet relief of that first newborn cry. My hands guide babies safely into the world and their parents through the process of birth, mostly without excessive effort (aside from careful watching) on my part, though occasionally swift intervention to save a stuck baby from birth injury or a hemorrhaging person from complications is needed. I show up and occupy that space between life and death, and I feel it deeply when I do. I am learning that my education in science and the skill and training I received can coexist with my intuition and more subtle ways of knowing, and I am working at trusting them both.

I find myself in an endless process of becoming. I am in transition, now and always. I will never not be changing. Nothing feels solid to me right now, because I exist in the dynamic tension between beginnings and endings. There is a certain sweetness in just being in the discomfort of transition without having to know how the story ends, without having any idea if the paths I am walking will take me where I want to go, or even if where I think I’m headed is where I actually want to be.

I stand here in this singular moment in time, occupying this particular space between earth and sky, gravity holding me fast, feeling deeply into the strong force that unites the particles of matter that have come together to form this thing I call myself. I hold gently to my heart the groundlessness inherent in being human. I sit in the questions without having or needing the answers just now. I can breathe into the restlessness in my heart that wants to know what is going to happen, or if I made the right choice, or if it is all okay in the end.

Several times before in my life, I have felt a sense of being invited to do something by something larger than me, and of that being something I just couldn’t not do. I didn’t have answers, or even certainty that I would be able to do it. I felt this when I decided to come out of the closet 13 years ago. I felt it when I was deciding if I should go on the Equality Ride in 2006. I felt it as I was trying to figure out if I would be able to survive midwifery school. And I feel it now.

Mia Hollow put it this way:

every now and again,
you will feel a dull ache in your soul.
a gentle humming around your heart.
a longing for something without a name.
if i ever told you to obey anything,
this would be it.

listen to the call of your authentic self.
that part of you that lives just outside of your own skin.
let it have its way with you.

i have died a hundred times trying to ignore it.

I have learned to deeply trust this voice, because every time I have followed it, the subsequent journey it has invited me on has become a vital part of my becoming myself. It is a call to my deepest courage and most audacious visioning. It is, as Mia Hollow said, “the call of [my] authentic self.” And I have made a commitment to myself that I get to show up whole and take up space, which means claiming all of the parts of myself as mine and not making myself small to make other people comfortable.

Standing at the edge of this unknown, I feel a pull from what feels like a future iteration of myself whispering, “Yes, take this next step. You don’t have to see the whole path now. But take this step.” I also feel an immense surge of gratitude to my past selves for all of the times that I’ve shown up for these invitations with an open, curious heart, and how each of the steps I’ve taken so far have led me right here. There is a sense of continuity here throughout my evolution thus far, and as I sit with my own liminality, it is becoming clear to me that while the destination is uncertain, I know that I am coming home to myself.

This word that I’ve chosen for 2017, belonging, is already challenging me to show up for my life in brave ways. This afternoon, during a meditation on grounding, I felt a fierce sense of belonging as I sensed myself occupying the space where earth and sky came together. There was a wholeness, a continuum between the farthest reaches of space and the solid core at the center of the earth, and I existed in that expanse, taking up a miniscule fraction of it, but nevertheless belonging here.

So much is happening under the surface, and I keep coming back to a question posed by poet William Stafford: “Ask me whether what I have done is my life.”

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

I’m sitting here at the edge of the river, trusting the current, asking myself whether what I have done is my life, taking up space between earth and sky.

A Thousand Ways to Kneel and Kiss the Ground

It is the end of one year and the beginning of another, and with the turning of the year arises in me a sense of reflection about who I was and what I did in 2016, along with curiosity and intention about the coming year. Last year, I explored the idea of home. This year was all about storytelling. I had such big ideas a year ago of how I would chase this word down, how I would let it inspire me to take control of my stories and craft them and attach words to them so they do not just exist in my body. Instead, I found myself opening to the ways that my stories wanted to tell me. I learned that there are nuances to the idea of storytelling, that the narratives in my head that I repeat to myself that can be harmful to me or to my relationships are stories I want to work on un-telling.

Just as home didn’t take me where I thought it might, neither did storytelling. But both brought me more deeply back to myself. And that, ultimately, is why I choose a word: it is an intention, a spell, a way of channeling my focus throughout the year and deepening my exploration of a facet of my being that I want to connect with.

In my grand tradition of writing letters to myself, here’s one from me at the cusp of this year to myself where I stood a year ago.

Hello fierce storyteller,

The way you showed up for your life this year was nothing short of extraordinary. I want you to hear that, to fully receive it, to let it settle deep into your bones. I wish that you, from the beginning of 2016, could see a glimpse of all that you would create and become this year.

You chose storytelling as your word for the year, envisioning that you would spend a lot of time and energy devoted to writing down your long history of amazing stories into a format that could be transmitted to others. You thought you would be writing your book, and instead the level of writer’s block you’ve felt this year has been challenging and unexpected. You have journaled and blogged much less than in previous years, and it has taken significant work for you to be gentle with yourself about that.

But that doesn’t mean you haven’t been storytelling. In January, you started dancing, and that changed your life and your body and the very way you move through the world. If I could give you any single piece of advice about this year, it would be to show up for that first ecstatic dance. Let that container give you permission to move in your skin, to process and release emotions and traumas and stories lodged in your muscles and your fascia and your bones. Let the way you learn to dance be one of the most liberating stories of the year. Don’t ever stop dancing.

Rumi said,

Let the beauty of what you love
Be what you do.
There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
There are a thousand ways to go home again.

These words will come to your mind towards the end of this year, as you find yourself on the Oregon coast at the winter solstice looking for heart-shaped stones. You will be walking along the beach, reflecting on all the work that needs doing and feeling inadequacy about your limitations and not being able to do all of it. You will wonder how your gifts can possibly be enough to do your part of being the healing of the wound when the wound feels so vast and your gifts so comparably small. Then you will see a heart-shaped stone in the sand, and in kneeling to pick it up will notice that the sand itself is made of tiny stones, and as you lean in even closer with a meditative state of focus, you will notice that some of those tiny stones are also heart-shaped. In inexplicable ways, part of your unique magic is expressed through seeing and collecting heart stones; you’ll find and bring home hundreds of them this year. And in that moment on the beach, after pressing your lips to the icy-cold sand, you will understand at the core of your being that whatever ways you are called to show up and offer yourself to the telling of the greater Story are enough. There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground, and this is one of yours. You are always going home again.

You have permission never to leave behind a written account of your existence. If your life full of fabulous stories ends up as nothing more than a multicolor mandala crafted from millions of grains of sand, sprinkled onto this beloved earth for just one lifetime’s worth of moments before being gathered up in a brilliantly wasteful display of impermanence, all is still well. You do not exist to produce evidence of your presence here. Just be present here.

Show up so deeply and fiercely for your life that when your flame is ultimately extinguished, you know that you burned as brightly as you could. Put down capitalistic ideals of all that you need to do with your precious time here and let your fragile self be gathered up in the interconnected webs of belonging that hold you fast. Let your heart be open to all that needs healing in this world, yes, but remember that the need is not the call. What the world needs is not the same as what the world needs from you. Be careful not to take on more of the world’s pain than you can metabolize; otherwise you will drown in it and not be able to do your work in this moment.

Dearest love, I know this year of exploring storytelling as your theme has not quite gone as you imagined it might. When you sat down at the end of last year to conjure up your word for 2016, you did not know where it would take you, but you knew you wanted to go there. And in your first blog post about it, prescient human that you are, you even named the word that would claim you for the following year as well:

In the last fifteen minutes of this year, I am committing to my word for 2016. I had a hard time deciding on this one (there were several strong contenders!). I know what this word will ask of me, and I am not quite sure if I have the courage to show up for it. But I want to go to the places it will take me and stuff my pockets with anything worth bringing back.

Storytelling.

That’s my word. That’s my goal. Now that I’ve journeyed back home to my body, I need to explore all of the stories I carry. I need to remember where I came from and who I am and what my life wants from me.

I need to rest my palms on my sturdy trunk and feel that I, too, have roots. I belong in this world, and this world belongs in me.

Looking back even a little further, to your post on home, you predicted the words you would choose for the next two years: “Home is being my whole self and living an authentic life true to who I know myself to be, even if it means that some people will not accept me. Home is writing down my stories so I can share them with the world… Home is finally, finally, feeling like there is a place for me in the world, like I belong here, like I am a part of all that is.”

Storytelling taught you that Nayyirah Waheed was right in her poem when she said:

remember.
you were a writer
before
you ever
put
word to paper.
just because you were not
writing
externally.
does not mean you were
not writing
internally.
–stories

This year also taught you about all of the stories you carry in your body that need un-telling. Again, Nayyirah Waheed said it first: every poem here / is an unwrite / of all that has been / written in me / without permission. You have been diligently unraveling strands of meaning and weaving them into a new whole self, a story you can clothe your body in, a soft bed where you can lay yourself down and rest.

You stood up on a stage in March and told a vulnerable story in front of a sizable crowd. You sat in countless circles and shared your name and your pronouns, which themselves speak volumes about the stories you’ve written with your life. One on one, with new friends and chosen family, you have spoken into being stories of your deep authenticity, weaving in magic that is uniquely your own. Every night, you write a few short lines in a small book designed to hold daily memories for five years’ worth of adventures.

You may not have written the extravagant book of your life that you aspired to compose in January, and that is just fine. You wrote new stories with your life, with your body, with the ways in which you showed up in the world to do your work and be the healing of the wound, of the wounds you carry and the wounds you’ve inflicted and the wounds you see in others and the deepest wounds of the world. Part of your realization this year is that storytelling does not require words.

The way you sit with people in labor and call tiny new humans into the world is a story.

The way you place your hand over someone’s heart and hold their gaze with pure love is a story.

The ridiculous love you have for your cats when they sit on your shoulder and head-butt you is a story.

The intuitive magic you bake into delicious food is a story.

The ways you stitch and weave and design crafty objects (crocheted uteruses, felt vulva ornaments, rainbow queer embroidery) is a story.

Your photographs are each stories.

The way you engage in intentional relationship-building, forming attachments with other people in co-created containers that have space for healing past traumas and fostering wholeness in connection: that is a beautiful story you keep writing every single day.

The way you move your once-frozen body on the dance floor, alone and with others, is a new story every time.

The ways in which you are making your body a place you can come alive are all stories.

The very fact that you still walk in the land of the living is such a precious story.

Your work still matters, even if it isn’t the work you thought it might be. What you are creating is your life. You will continue to write poetry, and blog occasionally, and fill in lines in your journal with who you are becoming. If you never write a book, that is perfectly okay (though I really think you will). Your very life is an epic poem, and it is up to you to keep on writing it into existence.

And now, now it is time to shift your focus to your new word. You saw this coming last year, when you expressed a “need to rest my palms on my sturdy trunk / and feel that I, too, have roots / I belong in this world, / and this world belongs in me.” You couldn’t have known then how much you would need to ground yourself in the world and in your sense of belonging here.

I don’t know what I will tell myself a year from now that I learned about belonging. It feels like an exquisite magic to speak to you in the past and to look forward to the things future me will tell me about what I have not done yet. I am curious if I have mentioned in this writing the word I will choose for 2018, as I’ve done in the past.

I want to know where belonging will take me. I want to know what it means to belong fully to myself, to feel like I belong in my body and in my communities and in my family and in the world. I want to feel like there is a place for me here. I want to explore how I interact with what I believe belongs to me, with my so-called belongings, and mindfully release what I hold onto that no longer serves me. I want to know what it is like to fit in a place or a context or an environment and to truly feel the level of acceptance that belonging suggests to me. I also want to continue to show up in the world and in my body in the ways I’ve been cultivating over the past year (and more).

There is a lot I am genuinely terrified of that might happen over the coming year, both political and personal. I want to hold the complexity of the myriad negative things that are happening in my life and in the world, but not be overshadowed by it. I want to make space for curiosity and wonder and joy and beauty and delight. I want to allow myself to continue to open to all that life is calling out of me and calling me into. I want to see how deeply I am a part of all that is, how the earth and the air and the fire and the water and the spirit are a part of me as much as I am a part of them. I want to explore connection to myself and to others and to feel myself woven into this web of belonging that will sustain me for as long as I exist in this form on this planet at this point in history.

Dearest Rob from 2016: thank you for the intention you put into becoming the storyteller, the author of all that you are writing into being in the world. Thank you for becoming more and more yourself, for becoming me.

And, to the person I am becoming over the next year who will write to me on the cusp of 2018 with a new word to explore: I am excited to see how this year turns me into you, how I belong to you and you belong to me and we both belong in the grand scheme of this extravagant life that each moment is contributing towards.

I stand up from kneeling, my hand full of sand gifted to me by the ocean. I will take these tiny grains of time and use them to draw a temporary masterpiece on the canvas of my body. I will not grieve as the waves wash them away, because I know that I am a part of all of it, and it is a part of all of me. That is what belonging means to me now. I will see what it means to me in 365 days.

So much love,

Me, right now

Tell About It

pay attention.
be astonished.
tell about it.
-mary oliver

Words have been hard to come by lately. This year has been a transformative one for me in so many ways, and I have found it challenging to find ways to describe my experience in language. I’ve spent this year doing countless things I’ve never done before, and I am doing my best to listen to Mary Oliver’s wise words. I have indeed been paying attention, and I am astonished over and over again. So here I am to tell about it.

This January is when I started dancing, which was the first time I ever really intentionally began moving my body. After a couple of decades of my muscles existing in a trauma-induced state of permafrost, I remember the exact moment (in the middle of dancing) when I felt them melt. At first, learning to dance was an endeavor of being in deep solitude in the middle of a crowd of people I didn’t know, but over the coming months, I developed a community of beautiful humans who have become family to me in ways I cannot begin to define in words. These people have gone on so many journeys with me, both in the container of an evening’s set list, as well as journeying with me into the wilderness of my humanity and vulnerability while exploring deep connection and belonging. I am unendingly grateful that this year brought dance to my world, and the people that have come with it.

February brought me to the end of one job–my first position as a midwife after graduation–and the beginning of another. That transition was an important one that afforded me much more time for self-care, as I am currently working much less than I was previously. My quality of life has drastically improved in this new role, and I view my decision to accept this new position as one of my most important life decisions thus far. I am grateful for the environment in which I work, the delightful midwives and nurses and other staff who make my workdays something I look forward to, and the precious individuals and families I have the privilege of serving. This month, I also met for the first time someone who became a member of my chosen family and one of the dearest humans in my world. The end of February was also when I learned that my mother had cancer, which would prove to be a thread woven throughout the remainder of the year.

March was full of cherry blossoms and poetry. This month ushered in my thirty-second year of life, and with it, the first labor I ever attended where the baby shared my birthday with me. That is a special moment I will not soon forget, and a hard birth that compelled me to dig deep into my reserves and hold exquisite space for what was unfolding. I went home to vegan cake with a small handful of special friends, and I felt loved. I also stood on a stage on the tenth anniversary of the start of the Equality Ride and told a deeply personal and hilarious story about my journey of self-discovery of my sexuality, which felt like an embrace of my choice of the word “storytelling” as my word of the year.

April involved a road trip that took me to a workshop that proved life-changing for me in several important ways. I met some people who made a big impression on me, and formed new connections that would push me to the edges of discovery and increased self-knowledge. I continued to become more comfortable in my new job, and kept building relationships as I met more people in the dance community I joined at the beginning of the year. April took me away from home to help me find home within myself in new ways.

May brought me love, and exploration, and curiosity, and growth. So many stories unfolded this month, stories I can’t begin to unpack just now. May was about mindful embodiment, witnessing my formerly trauma-frozen body continuing to melt and heal and open to movement and wonder and delight. I kept dancing, and catching babies, and writing poems, and falling in love with the world in new ways.

June took me out into the woods and brought me home again. The magic I created during my five days there left indelible imprints on my life. This month kept teaching me about relationship-building, and boundaries, and attachment, and family. June also contained some new trauma that shook me to my core for a while, and ultimately it showed me the importance of healing in community. I claimed very openly my whole self, and I lost some people I loved because of it. I saw how resilient I have become, and how even painful wounds can be tended to in ways that strengthen my wholeness.

July was about coming undone. The trauma from June seeped into my spirit, and I could not keep holding it all. I went into the woods again, and I fell apart. I set some clear boundaries in relationships that were not serving my wholeness. I grieved hard for what I lost. I felt everything deeply. July was messy and important.

August, again, took me out into the wilderness in search of something inside myself. I went to the coast alone for a week, and felt so very lost. I wrote my way back to myself there, and I came back home with thousands of pictures and hundreds of heart-shaped stones and dozens of ways I had reclaimed lost parts of myself. I went to dance camp this month, and explored movement in community. I allowed myself to be witnessed and held in extraordinary grief, and through this found the strength to go all the way through it to the end of my sorrow. Relationship creation and nurturing continued to be an important theme throughout the end of the summer, as did showing up in my solitude in the natural world and finding myself belonging to it.

September taught me more about healing and letting myself be held and loved by my chosen family. This month found me unearthing the courage to be vulnerable in my storytelling, to choose to unload shame that was not mine to carry, and to see myself through the eyes of the ones who love me the most. This month, I traveled to Oregon for the second of five times this year, and I saw my mother and her family and connected with them in the beauty of nature. I made memories of collecting heart-shaped stones from the beach together with my mother, which I will always cherish.

October taught me again about loss and grief. In the span of two weeks, I lost a dear mentor (a mother figure I have loved since college, when her presence in my life was instrumental in keeping me alive in the world) to cancer and two queer friends to suicide. I grieved their loss in my bones as I continued doing my work of baby-catching and community-building and working for justice. A bright spot in this month was getting the chemical structure of oxytocin, my favorite hormone, tattooed onto my forearm, reminding me to generate love and connection and relaxation wherever I go.

November was a hard month. Anxiety building up to the election, exponentially worse afterwards, gave way to an odd mix of paralyzing despair and dedicated action towards resistance. Two more weekend trips to Portland, and a third to Bainbridge Island, made this month full of travel. I stayed on friends’ couches and in guest bedrooms and in a gorgeous cabin in the woods, connecting with chosen family and my ancestors and finding belonging in the world I inhabit while continuing to work for justice in as many ways as my limited energy would allow.

And now it’s December. 2016 is close to over. This year of exploring storytelling has taken me into both my past stories, as well as giving me many new ones to write. Indeed, I think I am realizing that I write in ways that go much deeper than words. My presence in the world is writing epic poetry to the time I inhabit. My body is composing a love story to the land. My feet are dancing stories into sand, snow, dirt, grass, and on hardwood floors throughout the Pacific Northwest. The birth stories I witness unfolding and help to write with the families I serve may go untold, but they are writing themselves into my memory, not to be forgotten.

I may not have been writing as much this year, definitely not blogging as prolifically as I used to, which has required much gentleness and self-compassion on my part. But silence here does not equate to a lack of stories being lived or being told. I think I am just learning new ways of storytelling. I am seeing that the way I eat a ripe satsuma tangerine is a story. How I trace my fingers down the cheek of someone I care deeply for. The ways my body has learned to move to music and to rest in stillness. The quality of space I hold in my clinic and hospital rooms when important things are unfolding. The presence I give to the feeling of fall air on my face. The tenderness with which I welcome new people onto the planet. All of these are evidence of the ways I am becoming a more prolific storyteller and stepping into my greater wholeness as a member of the human family.

I have been paying attention. I am astonished. And I am doing my best to tell about it.

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In the Storm

The West Coast is bracing itself for a storm of potentially historic proportions this weekend, and here in my apartment I am watching the wind ripping leaves off trees in my yard and bracing for what might be in store. To top it off, I am on call all weekend and am half expecting that all of our remaining clients due in October will come in and have babies with me during the storm!

Earlier today, I donned a raincoat and boots and braved the heavy rains to prepare the yard for the storm. I moved potted plants to where they wouldn’t blow away in a sudden gust, noticing the cold raindrops stinging my eyes and feeling my fingertips going numb as I moved my plants to safety. Already quite damp, I decided that instead of going straight back inside to dry off, I wanted to walk down to where I had a good view of the city. I wanted to see what Seattle looks like in a storm.

I stomped and sploshed my way down the hill, kicking my rain boots at puddles, not caring when I felt them filling with water. I shivered a little, suddenly feeling the ambient temperature dropping. Standing at the top of the hill overlooking the Puget Sound, I planted my feet in the saturated ground and breathed deeply, truly feeling into what it is to be in the storm. I flipped off the rain hood from my jacket and let the sky water me. Each raindrop made a different path down my face, and I tried to follow them one by one. Tilting my head back, I stuck out my tongue, saying to myself, “This is what the storm tastes like.” All of my senses were recruited to tell me every last detail I could gather about what it meant to stand in the center of the storm.

I felt fully present and very much alive as the wind swirled around me and the rain got me soaking wet. When I finally decided it was time to walk back up the hill towards home, I reflected on how much the rest of my life mirrors those moments in the rain today.

I have been in some storms this past year, which picked up speed and intensity over the summer. I lost three friends to death over a ten-day span of time this past couple of weeks (two queer/trans friends to suicide, and a dear mentor to cancer), and I have been navigating some intense conflict and loss in my family of origin after coming out a few months ago. I haven’t blogged very often because some of what I’m processing is more vulnerable than I am ready to be in this public of a space.

That is not to say that I have not been writing. On the contrary, I have been doing more poetry-writing and journaling this year than in recent memory, and each entry feels to me like sticking my tongue out in the storm and tasting the raindrops. It is not lost on me that the wind and the rain have the potential for destruction. I also know that when life circumstances carve deep channels of grief and anger and sadness in me, my capacity for holding more delight, wonder, and joy is similarly expanded. I have been doing my best to show up and splash around in the puddles at my feet, aware that I am getting soaked.

“Let this open you,” my life has asked me on more than one potent occasion, and I feel those whispers again. With rain and tears mingling and coursing down my cheeks, I feel renewed courage and resolve to show up and pay attention, and to taste the storms as they rage around me. I see myself as a force of nature, and offer myself to the wind and the rain, reaching out my hand to invite them to dance with me.

I know that the sun will return, and that the nights won’t always seem as long and dark as they do. And I know that storms can bring rainbows, but I’m not counting on those. I feel into the groundlessness of not being ultimately in charge, and I hold my small self gently as I breathe through the contraction and expansion of it all.

As I wrote that last paragraph, the wind has continued to howl outside my window, but the rain stopped momentarily, and now the fierce afternoon sun has burst through the clouds, and my cat has claimed his spot in the warm windowsill. He is watching the bushes and trees blowing every which way outside, unperturbed by thoughts of what is to come.

I have solid confidence in my ability to weather these storms. That might be the biggest difference I feel between now and stressful periods I’ve endured previously in my life. Each challenge I have faced and opened to has changed me, and I’m not going to sugar-coat things and say that every obstacle I’ve encountered has made me stronger. Some of the things I’ve survived have damn near broken me, and I wouldn’t wish those “growth experiences” on anyone.

Nevertheless, I have grown. Having to learn to survive has taught me survival skills that continue to serve me well when I need them, and also, I am tired of living in a world that people just have to survive in. I will continue to be a part of the work of healing the wounds where I encounter them, including inside myself. As I open to healing, and as I see the enormous capacity I have cultivated, the ability to hold intense emotions without needing to run away from them all the time, I am more at ease in the storm. As Louisa May Alcott said, “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.”

This body, this mind, this life I inhabit is my ship. And whether I am sailing on calm seas, enjoying witnessing the sun set over the horizon, or whether I am navigating over the choppiest of waters, I want to be fully here, living this one wild and precious life of mine (to borrow a line from Mary Oliver). I want to hear the roar of the wind whipping through the trees. I want to smell the petrichlor, to feel each icy drop coursing down my face. I want to taste the storm while I am in it. And when the rain lets up, I will revel in the glory of the sun breaking through the clouds.

 

Note:
This weekend’s storm is just beginning, and while I may be inconvenienced by it (through loss of power, or possibly minor damage to property, or flooding… hard to predict), I am not anticipating any long-lasting serious effects. It is fascinating to me how a different storm killed over a thousand people in Haiti recently (a country where I went last year to work as a midwife), and it has now all but disappeared from my news feed, replaced by projections of heavy wind and rain locally, but unlikely to cause anywhere near that level of destruction or loss of life. The social justice implications of what we choose to talk about are ominous, and I couldn’t close this post without mentioning that silence.

 

At the End of Every Road

Fall came around again last week, as it does every year. I am usually sad to see summer go, especially in Seattle where summers are glorious days full of sunshine and fall means a return of the darkness and drizzly rains that envelop us here for much of the year.

This year, though, I am ready for fall. So very ready. I had a summer that was full of powerful growth, deep healing, significant challenges, wrenching grief, hot rage, fierce self-care, and radical love from my community and my chosen family. This whole year has been transformational for me as I have explored my word for the year (“storytelling”) and all the ways that going ever more deeply into my own wholeness has allowed me to connect in authentic, vulneraable ways with others.

In coming out more publicly as gender non-conforming, and especially coming out to my family of origin, I have dealt with the deep pain of loss. Telling the truth about my life has fractured some important relationships in ways that I don’t yet know how to repair.

I have come to a place where an absolutely non-negotiable part of being in relationships, for me, is that I get to show up in my wholeness. I refuse to hide parts of me that make people uncomfortable. I will not make myself smaller for anyone. I have fought for the right to take up space in the world–for myself, and for others who have been denied that right–and I am unwilling to give that away because my bigness is intimidating. Sometimes that means I lose people whom I’ve been connected to for much or all of my life, or for a brief time but who meant a lot to me. Sometimes, self-care looks like setting clear boundaries, like not engaging in relationships that don’t allow me to be whole, like not picking up the phone. Sometimes, that means that relationships can’t continue, or can’t continue in their present form.

Sometimes existing in my radical wholeness is a lonely proposition. But, even in moments of feeling isolated, I feel so much better existing as myself than I ever did pretending to be someone I could never be.

I have been doing a lot of reclaiming of the idea of isolation versus solitude. I can be alone without being lonely. Being with myself, truly and deeply present with myself, has taken me to some of the richest places I could have imagined. And now, I’ve noticed that I’m not trying as hard to fill the empty spaces in my life with just anything. I think of Warsan Shire and her reflection, “My alone feels so good, I’ll only have you if you’re sweeter than my solitude.” After my solo retreat to the coast last month, I feel the same.

And then I shift back into being in community with amazing people who see me and celebrate my authenticity. I see them and celebrate them as well. This year, of any year of my life, has been full of growing some of the most amazing connections with people. I have engaged in the deep, loving, challenging work of being in relationships with clear communication, boundaries, consent, accountability, and fierce love. I am flooded with gratitude for these people with whom I am co-creating the world I want to live in.

This summer was a huge one for me, both personally and within my community. I don’t yet have the words to speak to all that happened, or possibly the desire to share what I’ve been doing in my inner world. I’ve gone to some hard places and searched for whatever good I could find there to bring back with me. I’ve grieved, and grieved hard. I’ve raged at the violence and the unkindness that exists in the world and that has been and continues to be perpetrated against me and against people I love and against my community and other communities. I lost a queer friend to suicide. I had another that was viciously assaulted. Institutional oppression–in the form of racism, homophobia, transphobia, rape culture, classism, and so many more–continue to harm so many folks, and working to change the status quo is exhausting. Yet I don’t see any alternatives but to help co-create the world.

The last few lines of this song have been running through my head for weeks:

Maybe it’s all right
Maybe we won’t fight any more
Maybe love is waiting at the end of every road
I don’t know
I don’t know
But maybe
Maybe it’s all right

–Patty Griffin, “Mother of God”

I don’t know about every road; I haven’t walked all of them. But I know this road that I’m on is going home. And I know that love will be there, if for no other reason than that I am bringing it with me.

All the Robins

I woke up in the middle of the Hoh Rainforest at 5:00 this morning, realizing I had completed what I set out five days ago to do. With that sure knowledge settled deeply into my bones, I packed up my campsite and was on my way ultimately back home. It seems I am always on my way home.

The past week has been one marvelous adventure after another, starting with staying up terribly late after ecstatic dance to go with a dear friend to see the Perseids meteor shower at its peak. We lay out in the middle of an open field, giddy with excitement every time we saw a meteor arcing its way through the night sky. In between gasps of delight, we shared deeply with one another and continued to build on a connection that has been so nourishing to me.

The next morning, bright and early, after a counseling appointment to set me off on the right foot, and running on only 3 1/2 hours of sleep (from staying up so late watching pyrotechnics displays in the sky), I packed up way more than I needed and headed out into the woods in search of something. I had not made any firm plans about where I would go or whether I was car camping or backpacking or what precisely I would do when I got there. Being a planner by nature, this was a stretch for me, and it put me in precisely the frame of mind I needed to be in to do the work I went to do, namely, to get lost in search of myself.

Which is exactly what I did. I let myself get lost, alone and far away from home and from the people I love, away from the creatures that keep me warm at night and the food I’m used to eating and the bed I sleep in and the routines that make me feel safe. Dropping the facade of safety was key to the work I had planned, which was to dig deep into the stories I carry in my body and in my psyche that want out, that want to be written in a form beyond the limits of my journal or this blog.

I allowed myself to deeply face my fears. I sat with myself, my selves, all of the Robins I have been throughout my life, and I greeted each of them–regardless of how difficult I find it to love them–and welcomed them back to me. Over and over again, I allowed memories of all that I have been and done and experienced to wash over me, and gently, with courage and grace and dignity, called them home.

As I have done repeatedly over the years, sometimes what I need to say can best be expressed only by directly addressing myself in a letter.

Dearest Robins,

I usually write to one particular memory of you, one time or place in the past where I think of you and recall you needing to know that you are loved and that you are going to make it. Usually, I take this one at a time, and focus in as with a zoom lens on my camera onto one particular area, but today I want to take a step back and look with a curious eye over the entire landscape of my days.

I love you, each and every one of you. I love the scared child about to undergo surgery not understanding why. I love the creative, curious kid who loved climbing trees and swimming in the lake. I love the terrified little one who learned about violence way too soon, and I love every last creative thing you did to survive and live through it so you could become me. I love the sick teenager whose body grew and shrank at almost unbelievable rates, disappearing nearly before our eyes until birth defects were discovered and lifesaving surgery was carried out and more trauma and healing could happen, and did. I love the person who grew so focused on coming alive and living well. I love that, despite further trauma from multiple complex sources, that person found ways to make it through. I love the person who lived in the sick body that again nearly died, and again, fought to remain in the land of the living. I love the queer one who declared their autonomy from all of the oppressive messages that said they weren’t worthy. I love the lover, who has in their heart an enormous capacity to love, and the ability to continue to love again even when it doesn’t work out sometimes. I love the midwife who helps others create their families, even as family is a tricky thing to define for oneself. I love the one who has lived through fractures in mind and body and has nevertheless pursued wholeness. I love the one who creates their way out of the darkness with any means available: words, poems, art, music, crafts, connections with humans and animals, dance, photography, time in nature, cooking, and physical activity.

To sit with every last thing about my life I could remember and accept myself fully in every aspect of my wholeness took me to some of the hardest places I’ve ever been. I chose to go there alone, to be physically and emotionally and psychically and spiritually in solitude, with the natural world as my anchor, always calling me back home to myself.

To the Robin who is so sick she is terrified to leave her house, I say this: You will travel out into the wilderness with courage in a body that is as strong as it has ever been.

To the Robin who is so terrified she cannot believe she will ever feel better, I say this: You will learn skills to help you hold all of the enormity of your feelings, and you will learn to reset your brain so it can be calm, and you will not always be afraid.

To the Robin who needs constant reassurance that you will be okay, I say this: You ARE okay. You belong to the Everything. You are a part of the world, and you belong to the trees and the mountains and the waterfalls and the wind and the rising moon.

To the Robins who have done things they are not proud of, I say this: You are worthy of love and acceptance and belonging. There is forgiveness for you. You have hurt yourself, and you have hurt other people, and there is yet healing and reconciliation for both.

To the Robin who doesn’t know what the next step is, I say this: Stand still. Let the forest breathe you. Listen to the winds beckoning you forward. The way will open. Let yourself be guided gently forward. Your passion will continually call you home to yourself and to your work in the world.

To the Robins who feel permanently broken, I say this: Brokenness and wholeness are not opposites. They exist in dynamic tension with each other. I would not be able to be this whole if I had not been this broken.

To the Robins who feel lost, who long again and again to go home, I say this: Home is inside you. It is as close as your breath. Home is the presence you bring with you to any given moment, the attention you give to the elements that make up your life. You will find your way home again. And again. And ever always again.

To the Robins who strive for safety through some very creative means, I say this: I see you wanting to structure your world in such a way that you make it predictable, and controllable, and solid. But hear me when I say this: You will wake up one night in your car in the middle of the Olympic National Forest with a black bear trying to get inside, and you will know deep down what safety is. None of the mental structures you create can give you the sense of security in the world that you can get from standing firm in your truest wholeness, and in the knowledge of how inordinately fragile a thing life is, and how out of reach it is to control.

To the Robin who is afraid of germs (and I mean, seriously afraid of them), I say this: You’re going to wake up one day not having properly washed your hands in a while. You will be filthy. You will swim in bodies of water that may contain giardia, and you will poop in holes you dig in the woods, and you will laugh at the reality that a germaphobe grew up to be a healthcare provider with a job in a hospital, and you will delight in the irony that is your life.

To the Robin who is afraid to be whole because claiming their authentic self in the world has some degree of unpredictable loss inherent in that process of selfhood, I say this: Be wholly you anyway. Yes, you will lose people you love who cannot create space for you to be you. You will lose dear friends and family members and casual social relationships, and your vulnerable authenticity will make people uncomfortable. Be you anyway. Be the most Robin-ful Robin you can be. Nobody else can do that for you, kiddo. Nobody else can go on this journey to the places that scare you (both inside of yourself and out into the world) and come back with 2200+ photos and 200+ heart-shaped stones and dozens of stories of encounters with nature that took your breath away. You are it, love. You have it in you to go on this journey and to do this big thing, and I believe in you.

You are coming home to yourself love, loves. Every last one of you is a part of me, and I am so beyond grateful that each of you existed, and engaged with whatever your challenge or struggle in all the ways you did, and that you did everything you could to survive and to become the Robin I am now. You each had a part in helping me create this life that I can honestly say that I love living. And I give you my word that I will do my best to honor the work you have done by bearing witness to the stories you have lived.

So that’s where I end, and where I also begin: In the storytelling. I went out into the wilderness in search of myself, in search of the inspiration I needed to start writing again, and I found it in measures that astounded me.

I found it in the moonrise over the Hoh River:

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I found it in Lake Crescent:

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I found it at Sol Duc Falls:

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I found it in the Hall of Mosses at the Hoh Rainforest:

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I found it at Kalaloch:

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I found it at Rialto Beach:

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I found it at Ruby Beach:

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I found it in the presence of the world’s largest western red cedar, near which I had unwittingly camped the night before:

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And I found it in the pages of my journal, and in the pages of my history:

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Greet Yourself Arriving

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
–Derek Wolcott, “Love After Love”

The time will come, and for me, is soon coming. I am leaving this weekend for a week-long solo trip to the Olympic Peninsula, to get lost and find myself in the woods, or something. I’m going to write, to explore what is inside of me that wants to exist in the world, to explore both my inner world as well as the world around me. I am taking my camera, and my journal, and my curiosity and anxiety and courage and authentic wholeness.

Nine years ago exactly, I was really sick. This body I live in now was eating itself for food; I weighed 70 pounds less than my current (very average) weight. I had a BMI of 13.7. I was aware that I was actively dying. I said goodbye to my life, and detached from everything that I loved and that gave meaning to my existence. I was ready. I remember vividly what death tastes like. I can feel the coldness of her shadow on my skin. I didn’t know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t expect to survive.

But I survived. Thanks to exquisitely-timed interventions from loved ones that involved leaving my parents’ home, moving across the country to seek specialty treatment for the leading expert and researcher in my particular condition in a place I’d never lived before, and being welcomed in my wholeness into a loving and accepting community, little by little over the next year I started getting better. And in my process of healing, I realized that I had the opportunity to rebuild my life in whatever ways I chose. I launched into an exhausting process of exploring every last piece of my life as I decided whether I wanted it to be part of what existed for me now. After not dying when I fully expected to, everything since that time has felt like bonus time, moments that I never thought I would get to experience. It was during that exploration that I realized I didn’t want to study childbirth academically as I had planned, but that I wanted to have a more hands-on role. And a year later, I was enrolled in prerequisites for midwifery school.

That period was a turning point in my life, setting me on a path that has led me to a place where I get to be my most whole self, doing work that I love, in a place I feel welcome and accepted, belonging to a community of people who see me, creating a family for myself out of chosen friends and loved ones. I have gone to the very depths of myself, digging into the deepest awfulness of human experience, and come back with fists full of unearthed treasures.

Some of what I’ve done doesn’t seem like it should be humanly possible, and when I look back, I wonder how I did it. I have so many stories of survival, of not just getting by but of actively thriving. I never thought I would be able to say that I love being alive, but I truly do, and getting here was a journey so full of rich stories that now want to be told. So I am going, in large part, to explore my stories. I did, after all, pick “storytelling” as my word for the year, and it is kicking my butt in all the best ways.

I am simultaneously terrified and fearless to go on this trip, to pay attention to every last bit of me that has stories to tell, to sit down with myself and “feast on my life.” I feel strong (hopefully strong enough to haul my pack on the trail!), both in body and in spirit, probably as strong as I’ve ever felt. I have no idea exactly where I’m going, other than that I’m taking myself to the woods to get lost and found again, and that I’m going away so that I can call every last part of me home.

It is time to greet myself arriving at my own door, after all the work I did to heal from my illness, and to address all of the physical and mental and emotional and psychosocial challenges that got me that sick in the first place. It is time now, after the intense work I did to heal, and to prepare myself for becoming a midwife, and actually studying and learning how to be a midwife, and becoming a midwife, and then working fiercely as a midwife for my first years in practice, and now finding myself settled in my second job and with more free time and energy to be able to bring some attention and gentleness back to myself.

Who am I now after that long journey? What do I want to do next in the world? What writing do I need to do? What stories want to be told? What further healing wants to happen in my mind and body? Where am I going, and what do I need to support myself on the journey?

These questions and more will follow me to the coast this week. I don’t know what I will bring back with me, but I can guess that there will be stories, and photographs, and likely more than a few heart-shaped stones. I’m ready to let the meteor shower make me feel exquisitely small, and for the trees to breathe me, and for the ocean to call my name and the ground to give me a place to rest. I’m ready to “give back my heart to itself.”

I will love again this stranger. I will find my way home.

whole

I wrote this poem the night I heard that a friend of mine was assaulted in a transphobic hate crime. In the gayest neighborhood in Seattle, one of the gayest cities in the world. Leaving a benefit event for the victims of the Pulse massacre in Orlando. During Pride.

I don’t have many words right now. This picture of the flower they were wearing in their hair at the time of the assault speaks for itself.

If you would like to donate to their healing, the link is here. Content warning: there are graphic pictures of what transphobic violence looks like on the fundraising site.

Michael's flower

 

whole

for michael, with love and healing

sticks and stones,
they said. sticks and stones.
but words
but
words

but.

words.

words and fists.

words and fists
break open
queer bodies,
the bodies of people
i love.

they hurt my queer body.

the queer body of the earth
weeps and trembles
weeps and trembles
and as i curl my
queer body
against theirs tonight
i weep and tremble too.

my calling is to be
the healing
of
the wound

but the wound
the wound is bleeding
queer blood
out onto the flowers
worn in queer hair
bleeding from gashes
in beautiful queer faces
bleeding from words and fists
and i don’t know where
the healing will come from
or where to start.

i guess i start here
with my rainbow Pride painted
toes tucked under
fuzzy blanket
with mint tea
with words
and healing hands open
to the sky
that is shedding fierce tears
as loud as my own.

i start here.
claiming my wholeness
in a world that wants me small.
i start here
embodying the name
i gave as a gift
to my truest self.

i start here,
refusing to hurt my queer body
choosing to love my queer body
making a home for my queer heart
creating a queer family to belong to.

i start with radical authenticity
i start with speaking my truth
i start with loving the hell
out of people
i start with kindness, and rage

i start with letting myself open
and be opened

i start by tiptoeing
outside
and kneeling in the wet grass
and burying my face in the body of the earth
and letting myself be held.

i start by feeling her rage
and by opening my eyes
to the truth that
when we hurt each other
and we hurt her
and we hurt ourselves
we all suffer
all end up broken and bleeding

hate and fear broke
my friend’s body
with words and fists
in a spot where i had
stood only hours earlier.

their body is hurt
my body is hurting
they are afraid
and so am i.
so am i.

and somehow
in the thick of the
grief
and the rage
and the sadness
and the fear
there remains a seed of kindness

and if i know
anything
it is that seeds grow
and blood dries
and gashes scar
and minds heal
yes, minds heal

i have but one seed
but one mind
but one body

and i don’t know how to
heal this wound
but i know how
to tuck my seed
into tear-soaked earth
and gently love it
whole.

perhaps that’s all there is
to do
just love things whole.
just love
all the broken things
whole.

Rage, and Be Kind

I wrote this as a Facebook status update this afternoon, trying to work through my body the grief and rage I feel at the murder of so many queer folks at Pulse in Orlando yesterday. I wanted to share it publicly as well.

Rage, and Be Kind

Note to everyone I love:
I cannot help you right now.
I can reach out my hands
And wrap them around you
And extend to you my broken heart
And witness yours.
But I cannot live in the mundane world today
Cannot hold the ordinary.
Fifty members of my family were slaughtered yesterday
And today I am trying to be a midwife
And not let my heart break open wondering if the babies my queer hands welcome
Will grow up to be queer and live in a world
Where they might still be slaughtered for it too.
I cannot bear it.
I can take a brief nap in the sunshine with my cats
And let the tears fall.
I do not know what I need
Other than to live in a world
Where I do not always need to look over my shoulder
Where families love their children exactly as they are
Where my people can pee without it being a political act
Where being myself is an act of fierce authenticity
But one that doesn’t risk my life or my safety
I want to live in a world where speaking my truth
and my name
Doesn’t cost me my family
And where going somewhere that should be a safe place
Doesn’t end in violence.
A friend asked how she could help
And all I could ask her is to raise her infant son not to rape and slaughter my people.
That is not an ordinary answer.
That’s where I am today.
Nothing is ordinary.
Please love hard.
Please be kind.
Rage, and be kind.