Sunday, August 27, 2017

office

It's been faculty orientation week at my university, so my colleagues and I are meeting up after a long summer of working in places other than our campus, and this conversation keeps happening:

pretty much every colleague: Hey, how are you?
me: !!! I have a new office !!!
pretty much every colleague: um, okay...that's nice

After the third or fourth time someone gave me the side eye, I realized my excitement about having a new office might be slightly over the top. Why is that?

It's a little bit relief. Last year, my first year as a postdoctoral teaching fellow, I was using the office of a colleague who was on sabbatical, and I was perpetually stressed out about being responsible for the musical instruments, digital camera equipment, and files stored there.

It's a little bit convenience. Things related to my work that have been taking up space in my apartment are now in my office, you know, the place where work happens.

Really, though, it's mostly feeling valued. I've been teaching since 2005, at a variety of universities with a variety of job titles, assigned to a variety of shared office spaces. Because these offices have been shared with other graduate or adjunct instructors, the indentured servants of higher ed in the American twenty-first century, they've usually been spaces that no one else wanted--windowless, basement, interior rooms--filled with furniture no one else wanted. Some have been only big enough for a single desk, shared by 4 or 6 or 10 people who had to work out a rota for use. Some have been big enough for lots of desks, shared by 2 or 3 people each, with no walls to help tune out distraction. These rooms becomes the departmental storage areas, too, for back issues of print journals that no one ever reads, for surplus textbooks that are out of date, for student papers that others leave behind when they move on to the next job. Most graduate and adjunct instructors leave very little in these spaces, carrying everything we need into and out of the building each day, like turtles with our offices on our backs, pausing briefly in our communal space.

These overcrowded spaces furnished with cast-offs and full of the detritus of the department are a reflection of the value universities have for the graduate teaching assistants and adjunct instructors who teach many of the courses on the schedule. Like the meager paychecks they get, it's a reminder that they are at the end of the line when it comes to resource allocation.

So, after twelve years of working in this field, after twelve years of making do with scratch-and-dent, after twelve years of negotiating shared space with near-strangers, after twelve years of carrying my office on my back,  I have a space that is mine. I've moved up slightly in the line. And it feels ridiculously good.

It's tiny, but it's a window. 

The rocking chair and coat tree are mine, other furniture came with. 

Check out that diploma on the wall. 


I mean, it would be nice if the university valued me enough to pay an actual living wage, but for now I'll take the office and celebrate it. Stop by for a cup of tea and celebrate with me.





Sunday, June 18, 2017

looking east in the evening


There's a particularly quality to the light in the eastern sky at sunset that I never appreciated before now. It's a hazy blue-and-pink-side-by-side kind of light. Sometimes, but not always, it blends into lavender and lilac.

Rambling Farmhouse was in a generous clearing, and we could watch the sun climb up through the trees to the east in the morning and sink down into the western treeline in the evening. It was frequently glorious. It was not unusual for me to walk outside just to see what the sky was doing. The first summer Adam owned the house, we kept a ladder next to the garage and spent many evenings on the roof watching the sky.

I don't remember ever looking away from the main spectacle to notice the other side of the sky.

Lovely Apartment is full of windows, but only facing east and north. Occasionally, I think about going up to the roof garden, just one flight of stairs above, to watch the sun set to the west, but I've come to enjoy the subtle beauty of sunset in the eastern sky.

Suffering and Joy

This sermon was presented at Mt. Olivet United Methodist Church's 11:00 AM contemporary worship, the way (Arlington District, Virginia Conference) on Sunday, June 18, 2017. The revised common lectionary text for Year a, Proper 6 (Second Sunday after Pentecost) was Psalm 100 and Romans 5: 1-8. An audio recording is available on Mt. Olivet's website

Often in the American church in the twenty-first century, we focus on the call to praise, like the one we heard in Psalm 100 this morning. Many churches, many evangelists, many congregations spread the message that life in Christ is a happy life. That if you just believe with faith the size of a mustard seed, your life will be good. Have you seen this message? I have. And it annoys the crap out of me.
            Although we are called to praise, God does not promise us a good life. In fact, in the revised common lectionary Gospel lesson, which I did not ask our liturgist to read this moring, God promises the disciples hardship as they go out into the world. In Matthew chapter ten, Jesus tells them, “See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves [....] Brother will betray brother to death, and a father his child, and children will rise against parents and have them put to death; and you will be hated by all because of my name. But the one who endures to the end will be saved. When they persecute you in one town, flee to the next.” Not a happy clappy life in Christ. It’s an odd thing that the lectionary does here, putting the praise of Psalm 100 side by side with this warning about hardship to come in the ministry.
In the church, we don’t talk enough about the fact that suffering is part of life. It is the shadow side of our knowledge and our free will. In fact, the presence of suffering in human life is one of the few things that most world religions agree on. (Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism). I admire that the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism put this idea first: “All life is suffering, pain.”
Our reality is that we live in a broken world, and this brokenness is visible at all levels. In our personal lives we experience the grief and loss, illness, and poverty. In our communities, we experience systemic racism and bigotry toward minority groups on the basis of race, gender, sexuality, faith, ability, and ethnicity. American politics have never been more divided, and this week, in our community, political disagreement became physical violence. If we look further afield, we can see large-scale, ongoing armed conlfict that destroys communities just like ours and turns people just like us into refugees. Indeed, the very planet under our feet is broken. Global climate change is disrupting the natural systems that life on this planet depends on. All of this brokenness fills our newscasts, and it we share it on social media. We see five people shot in Alexandria, and hundreds affected by the fire in London, and thousands in Syria or in Iraq wondering when the next air strikes will come. We see all this brokenness, and we are overwhelemed. 
We are not very good at dealing with suffering. And I think we get it wrong in two ways: Either we turn away entirely, refusing to acknowledge the suffering that is there in our own lives or in the lives of our communities; OR, we try to rush through the brokenness.
Let’s start with the way that we refuse to acknowledge suffering and brokenness. When you’re in the checkout line at the grocery store and the clerk says, “Hi, how are you?” What is the correct answer? “Good,” or “Fine.” This is a ritual that we each participate in dozens of times a day with coworkers, with bosses, with neighbors, with friends, with customer service personnel. Although the question in the ritual asks how we are, we’re actually not allowed to say anything other than “good” or “fine.” Don’t believe me? Break the rules this week. Tell someone you’re wonderful, or tired, or that you have a headache, or that you are overwhelmed by the brokennes of the environment. I will lay odds that the reaction you get is discomfort. Giving any answer other than the expected one in this ritual communication is just not done.
            Now sometimes, the people close to us actually do want to know how we’re doing. When the question goes beyond participation in the ritual to express actual concern, it sounds different, “how are you?” “how are you, really?” In this case, the person asking the question will make eye contact and lean toward you.
This “how are you ritual” might seem like a small thing, but I would argue that its ubiquity in American life, and the rigidity of the requirement that we respond to the question with a positive answer are evidence of the way we focus relentlessly on the positive. We publicly affirm that we are good and fine even when we are not, and when we get home, we distract ourselves with the many media available to us on our variety of devices, , with food and medication, with alcohol and drugs.
            The other way that we get it wrong is by rushing through suffering.  Romans 5:3-4 tells us that “suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” Passages like this one, lead us to platitudes like “every cloud has a silver lining” and “God has a reason” and “God does not give you more than you can bear.”
While I think that these platitudes point to an important truth—that living through tragedy changes us in profound ways—our eagerness to emphasize the reasons and the silver linings lead us to rush through the suffering in unhealthy ways. We need to slow down. We need to recognize that we are in the moment of suffering and let it be okay that we are not good. We need to take the time to actually feel our feelings.
In my experience, there will be a lot of feelings. Not only the sadness and pain of the event that caused our suffering, but also uncertainty, and fear about that uncertainty, and doubt and confusion. It is not easy to let ourselves feel these feeling. But you’ll notice that Romans doesn’t jump straight from suffering to hope. The intermediaries are endurance and character.  Sitting with our feelings long enough to recognize them and name them is an important step.
I have a couple of disclaimers. What I have said here is not a call to tolerate abuse or ongoing trauma. If you are in a relationship that is causing you ongoing harm, get help and get out safely. Reach out to the staff of Mt. Olivet, reach out to someone you trust. Reach. Out. This is also not a call to inflict pain upon ourselves in the ways that some in the history of Christianity have done. No self-flaggelation, no hair shirts, no beds of nails for us. We encounter sufficient suffering in our daily lives without seeking it out or inventing it.
Suffering is not a contest. We should not cry matyr to show that our own suffering is the worst, but neither should we minimize our own experience because someone else has greater suffering.
Each of us reacts to the suffering in our lives and in our world differently. And the process of moving from suffereing to endurance to character to hope is not a linear one. There are setbacks and delays and repetitions. It can take months or even years. In the mean time, though, life goes on. Even as we are learning to live with suffering, there will also be moments in our lives worthy of celebration.
And this, I think, is the greatest challenge: holding in tension the awareness that our broken world is full of suffering and the conviction that this same world is also beautiful and worthy of celebration. I’ve noticed this coming to a head lately in activist spaces on social media. One member of the community will say to another, “How can you care about new bike lanes when children are dying in the streets?” This question presumes that suffering and celebration are a zero-sum game, that we can only be engaged in one at a time. By this logic, if we are in a state of grief or trauma or brokenness, life can only be sad and dark and unhappy.
When I was widowed four years ago, I chose to wear black. That fast from color was a reminder to myself to slow down and make space for the pain and doubt and confusion. It was important to me at that time that my outward appearance reflect the dark wilderness that I felt like I was navigating, and I kept choosing black for about six months. In the early days especially,  I remember seeing shock, and sometimes judgement, on other people’s faces when they saw me laughing and smiling. As with the “how are you” ritual that expects only a positive answer, there was an expectiation that I as a widow wearing black would be perpetually sad and weepy.
Life is not just one way though, it never is. We can make space for the experience of suffering alongside our celebration. We can welcome it to the table as a ligitimate element of our experience of this earthly life.
I’m asking you today to pay more attention to the suffering in your own life, in the life of your community, and in the world, but I don’t want you to wallow in it or be incapacitated by its magnitude. Recognize that in our broken world, suffering exists alongside joy. And recognize that God is present with us equally in suffering and in joy.
When we are able to do this, when we recognize that suffering is a part of life that we should experience rather than one to escape, when we are able to be aware of both suffering and joy at the same time, it changes the way we relate to suffering in our own life  and in the lives of others. Often when we encounter suffering in the life of someone we are close to, we jump into fixing mode. We offer solutions, we reach for the platitudes and start naming the potential silver linings of the dark clouds. While I am a strong proponent of the idea that good things can come from bad things, I also know that this mental leap is one that the suffering person needs to make in their own time. As people giving moral support we need to be able to say, “This is awful. I am sorry you are going through this. I am here to listen.” And we need to stop there, before we start solutioneering.
It also changes the way we pray. Rather than praying, “Lord, make it stop,” we can pray, “God, be with us. God, help us see. God, give us strength.” Amen.

Friday, June 16, 2017

a glimpse of fruit

Had I stopped to think about it, I would have realized that of course strawberry plants have flowers. Everything that makes fruit has flowers. I'd never seen one before today, though.



Tuesday, June 6, 2017

rosewater and cardamom burgers

Like delicious collaboration beets, this recipe started with a conversation that juxtaposed unexpected ingredients. This time my frolleague Carl raised doubts about the prospect of cardamom and rosewater in burgers. I use cardamom for cooking with beef all the time, and I was intrigued by the idea of adding rosewater. I was a little concerned that the rosewater might be too sweet, but a quick taste reminded me that rosewater is not itself sweet, even though it's often used in desserts. Even Younger pronounced these a success. Here you have the process we followed tonight:

1 lb. grass-fed ground beef*
1 egg*
1/2 cup 4C seasoned breadcrumbs*
1/2 Tbsp cardamom, ground**
2/3 tsp cumin, ground**
1 tsp salt
1 Tbsp rosewater

Mix all ingredients thoroughly. Heat cast iron skillet over med-high heat and coat with cooking oil of choice (olive oil in my kitchen).

Form a tiny, one-bite burger, cook, taste, and adjust seasoning as needed.

Divide burger mix into four or six even portions, form into burger shapes, and cook to desired doneness in skillet.

Serve with caramelized onions, lettuce, tomato, sharp mustard, and feta. Today, I had pita from my neighborhood halal market, but I would eat these again with onion buns from the regular grocery.

________________________

* Grass-fed beef tends to be less fatty than standard beef in US grocery stores, and I made a lot of unsatisfactory burgers before I started including egg and breadcrumbs as binders. If you're using regular ground beef, you may not need the egg and breadcrumbs.
** Sorry, I grabbed the weird measuring spoons.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

bittersweet

My fridge is full of farm--broccoli rabe, rhubarb, whole chicken, ground beef, green eggs, cheese......

My fridge is full of farm, and it's bittersweet.

I stood at the CSA pickup today, and part of me was so happy to be in a relationship with local farmers again.



But then I stood there looking at the honey and the maple syrup, and it wasn't Rachel's honey and syrup. And I walked along choosing veggies that weren't Dale's veggies. And there were no flowers.

And I closed my eyes and saw Dale's smile on the back of my eyelids, and now I am sitting at the keyboard with tears spilling over.

I love my current life in the city. I love the fact that Elder, Younger, and I each rode our bicycles from different parts of town to meet at the CSA pickup after school today and then rode home together. I love that we also could have done this by bus or on foot.

I love the compactness of my current life.

Standing there in relationship with new farmers today, though, I realized that I have walked away from being enmeshed in agriculture, from being in relationship with farmers, twice now. Both times moving toward a more urban life. Both times moving to this metro area, actually.

My fridge is full of farm, and I am so sad-glad about it.

Maybe this will be the time that I learn to be both a city mouse and a country mouse at the same time.

Thursday, May 4, 2017

guessing wrong

Turning thirty-five felt like a major milestone. I had only just been widowed, and it felt like I had lived the events of an entire lifetime in but half of my threescore and ten. I felt like I had done everything, and I wasn't sure what was left.

And then I realized that I had the opportunity to make all the choices of adulthood anew. To begin again.

In some ways this has been incredibly frightening. When I made these decisions the first time, I had only myself to think about. Now, I am responsible for children and pets and debt and an estate. Now, I have lost my sense of invincibility.

The privilege of being the spouse who lived carries with it a burden to get things right, an irrational sense that choosing wrong dishonors the dead. (Reader, I can hear the platitude you're thinking. Just stop. Do not type it in the comments.) The irrationality does not make the burden any less real.

In a post in January Mike at Internet Monk meditated on a brief passage from Thomas Merton that has been rolling around in my head since then:
Our vocation is not a sphinx’s riddle, which we must solve in one guess or else perish. Some people find, in the end, that they have made many wrong guesses and that their paradoxical vocation is to go through life guessing wrong. It takes them a long time to find out that they are happier that way.
As I make decisions for my second life, the roads not taken in my first life have loomed large. Should I have chosen them then? Are they still available to me? Should I choose them now? What if I choose wrong again?

And yet, the vaporizing of my old life that came with widowhood, the instantaneous disappearance of my marriage, the release of the moorings that held me at Rambling Farmhouse showed me that any decision I make can be unmade by circumstance. Even decisions that felt permanent when I made them have been undone, and that undoing did not ruin me.

As I make decisions now, I might guess wrong.

I might choose wrong, and that's okay.

Even decisions that are wrong, even decisions that are right and then are undone, are worthwhile.

I can go through life guessing wrong, and knowing that even permanent decisions are not actually, and still be happy.



Wednesday, April 5, 2017

loneliness

I realized this past winter, that I am chronically lonely. Even when I am with friends, I am lonely. Even when I am joyful, I am lonely. It's like having a mild chronic illness along the lines of well-controlled asthma or surgically-corrected strabismus. For some periods of time, it's latent, and then it makes itself known again.

I get tired of being the odd numbered wheel.

My friends are wonderful and welcoming, but the vast majority of them are coupled, and being the third, the fifth, or the seventh at the table gets old. Excellent, wide ranging, adult conversation does not change the fact that when we all stand up, they are going home in pairs, and I am going home alone.

Because I have recently moved, I've been meeting lots of new people, and I have become fascinated by third fingers on left hands. Even in places where I tend to meet people separately from their partners, as at church and at work, the majority of my peers are similarly coupled.

There is a particular kind of loneliness in being a widow surrounded by couples.

There is also a particular kind of loneliness in being the adult in a household with teenagers.

My teenagers are good kids, and they have learned to bear greater responsibility for themselves than many of their peers are asked to, but their inherent adolescent selfishness means that the emotional labor of noticing that the animals need care and that the sinks need scrubbing is my burden. No amount of reasoned conversation followed by pleading followed by screaming followed by profanity has changed this.

This is the loneliness that comes of not being heard.

I get tired of being a broken record.

I don't dislike my own company, and I don't feel that I am an incomplete person as a single person. In fact, there are times that I quite enjoy making decisions without having to consult another person. Nonetheless, loneliness is part of my life. And I imagine in this I am not alone.


Monday, March 20, 2017

other people's books

The books toward which my hands are drawn in libraries and bookstores are all variations on the fairytale structure: overt retellings, nineteenth-century comedies of manners, high fantasy, so-called chick-lit. While there's nothing wrong with this generally, these categories all tend to feature romance and end as do comedies, with weddings filling the stage. And since my life is decidedly lacking in romance lately, reading only these sorts of books is less than great for my mental health.

I still don't like mysteries, westerns, or horror, so those genres are not a respite for me.

I do like reading books of essays. Some of the most prized books on my shelf are beautifully bound Henry Van Dyke volumes in which the short stories read like essays on profound things. I can still remember buying them one at a time from the antique shop as a teenager. I rather suspect that after the second one, the owner started keeping an eye out for more of them to feed my habit.

Unfortunately, the book of essays is not a very popular form these days. There is no section in bookstores dedicated to essays. Occasionally, a book of essays will make the best-seller list, like Eat, Pray, Love. Even more rarely, one like The Amazing Thing About the Way It Goes pops up in a yarn shop.

The place I've had the most luck finding books of essays is in the religious life section. Not theology, not religious history, but the section of books about living life with faith. It's tough to choose off this shelf, though. Some of these veer over the edge into the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad, blow-by-blow memoir of life from birth through conversion like Augustine's Confessions. I don't like throwing books across the room, but sometimes there is no other choice. Others of these books veer over a different edge into preachy, how-to, self-help books. Those I throw into the donation box.

So I find myself relying on the recommendations of friends. Last spring, I read An Altar in the World, because Kathleen put it in my hands and said, "This. Now." In the autumn, I read Love Warrior, because Taylor found it to be profound. At Christmas, I reread Girl Meets God because decade-ago me thought it was amazing. This week I'm reading What Falls from the Sky because Erin sent it to me with the message that it sounded like I needed a new book. (Full disclosure: I do this, too. I gave Erin Girl Meets God for Christmas,  and I *just* handed Kathleen Chalice and Marriage and Other Acts of Charity randomly on a Wednesday with the words, "This. Now.")

While I've enjoyed each of these books and recognized the value of the wisdom they have to offer, I haven't felt like they speak to my soul the way they spoke to the soul of each of the women who recommended them.

These are other people's books.

I'm still looking for my books.



Friday, March 17, 2017

rejection


Yesterday, Facebook reminded me that eight years ago, the University of Oregon declined my proposal.
Which reminded me that eight years ago I was in the throes of a mild existential crisis. Before the four programs I applied to that year declined, I had never experienced that much rejection. It was quite a reversal from the experience of my senior year in high school when all five of the schools to which I applied accepted me and offered me money. 

The following year, my successful application to the program from which I earned my PhD in 2015, was a humbling lesson in How Things Work. Never before had I really understood the maxim that who you know is more important than what you know. It was absolutely my network connections that   pushed my submission to the top of the stack of applications from other eminently qualified people. 

In the last couple of years the realities of the academic job market have brought this experience of rejection back to my life. It's not unusual for job seekers in the humanities to submit upwards of 70 dossiers, each customized to the recipient institution, for 1-2 interviews and maybe 0-1 job offers each year.

I am, however, responding to rejection differently.

In her blog post "Why You Should Aim for 100 Rejections a Year" Kim Liao talks about flipping the way we regard the rejection slip. It is not evidence of unworthiness, but rather evidence of bravery. Evidence of the audacity to take a chance.

It's also evidence of productivity. In order to put oneself out there, a writer or an academic has to be producing the work to put in the envelope (read: e-mail attachment) in the first place. Aiming for one acceptance would mean slaving over a single document long beyond the point at which real improvement ceases to happen. Accepting the inevitability of, and *gasp* even celebrating, rejection means sending things out as soon as they are polished enough. And sometimes rejection comes with the advice needed to improve to the next level.

I'm not the same sort of writer that Liao is, and 100 rejections a year is beyond the scope of what I need to be aiming for as a writer of scholarly journal articles. But if I add up all the ways I want to be putting myself out there in the next year, I should be able to garner a healthy number of rejections from academic journals and presses, job postings, fellowships and grants, and potential friends and partners. I think I'll aim for 40.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

awry

Last night I checked the forecast and saw that this morning was going to be excellent weather for cycling: 48 F by 8 A.M. and rising into the sixties with sunny blue skies. I texted my cycling pals that we should play hooky, and Chris agreed.


Chris and I rolled out of the driveway about 8:45, heading for the new portions of the Anacostia Riverwalk Trail on the far, east/south, side of the river.



It never ceases to amaze me that these monuments are part of my regular life. This bit of trail on the east side of the 14th St. bridge over the Potomac connects us to so many destinations.

The Anacostia Riverwalk Trail is beautiful, but not very photogenic at the moment, with wide smooth asphalt running along the river through floodplain parkland most of the way. The riverbanks were in that awkward stage when everything is starting to develop the green haze of spring, but it hasn't yet managed to cover the curmudgeonly grunge of winter. The Kenilworth tidal estuary marsh smelled like it was just starting to think about developing a funk.

We were a bit pressed for time today, and the Anacostia Riverwalk Trail extends deep into Maryland, so we set a time to turn around hoping that it would allow us to cross the DC-MD border.

My only picture from the trail is this one of Chris checking to see if we had reached Maryland when the marks on the trail changed from yellow to orange. We had indeed! Just under two hours and just over fourteen miles from home. 

The ride back felt like the landmarks were coming more quickly. (Why is that always true?) There was an intense and persistent headwind, though. 

And then.

Climbing up the second most awful bridge crossing in DC, all of a sudden my handlebars were not square with my front wheel. Since I was practically crawling up the incline, I was able to get my feet on the ground before I fell over. I reoriented the handlebars and started walking the bike. Chris had the tool we needed to tighten the handlebars, but not in a shape that we could use on this bike.

Meanwhile, I realized that the strap on my shoe had also broken, perhaps while being yanked out of the pedal clips, and every step made the shoe flop off my right foot. We didn't manage to improvise a solution to the handlebars, but I did have a velcro arm/ankle reflector band that was happily repurposed into a shoe-keeper-onner.

Having ridden only twenty-one of the twenty-eight miles of this route, I parted ways with Chris to metro home.


What started out as a grand and spontaneous adventure had gone awry.

This was my first time riding the metro with my bicycle and I learned that my bike and I can fit in a metro elevator with a full-sized motorized scooter, it's occupant, and one other passenger and also that I can carry my bike down a flight of stairs by hoisting the crossbar of the frame onto my hip. Less fortuitously, I learned that up-going escalators will further twist already misaligned front wheels and handle bars. That got interesting fast.

My bike and I rode the bus--using the bus-front bike rack was another first for us--straight to our neighborhood bike shop where a plain, old 6mm alan wrench solved the problem. Such a simple solution. The 6mm alan wrench from the set in my toolbox will be moving to my bike bag forthwith.

It wasn't really a big problem in the grand scheme of bicycles. It wasn't a punctured tire or a broken spoke. Nothing weird happened to the chain or the sprockets. But a slightly loose joint made my bike a dead weight instead of a powerful tool.

All in all, I suppose a disabled bicycle was easier to deal with than a disabled car would have been, I could still make it go where I wanted it to go, and I could lift and carry it when necessary. No tow truck required.



I'm glad to have made this ride to Maryland and halfway back and glad to have learned to use public transportation with my bike. I'm really sad the about the shoes. They were the best shoes, and I knew they were on their way out, but this forces the issue.

Biggest regret, though? I didn't have any knitting for the transit rides.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

birthdays

I love birthdays. I love my birthday. I love everyone else's birthdays. I especially love birthdays in the era of social media.

Facebook is the best thing to happen to birthdays since cake.

I know that not everyone agrees with me. At least one friend probably wishes that I would stop remembering the birthday he chooses not to mark publicly.

I just can't let go of the idea that birthdays are an amazing thing, though, so I selfishly celebrate everyone else's birthdays as well as my own.

A birthday is the day that commemorates the fact that someone wasn't, until suddenly they were.  Birthdays commemorate magic! (while I concede that technically birth is biology, I maintain that it actually is magic)

A birthday is also the day that celebrates successfully having completed one more trip around the sun, three hundred and sixty five more days above the soil. This is also a feat worth noticing.

Over twelve years I had gotten used to receiving a dozen roses on my birthday. I'd missed them these last three.

This year, I decided to treat myself.


Almost, I cried in the flower shop. Instead, I cried in the car in the parking lot of my building. Buying flowers for my own birthday did not used to be my job.

It is now.

It is magic that I am here. Today is the day I remember that once upon a time I wasn't, until suddenly I was. Today is the day I thank God for the privilege of waking up to put my feet on the ground.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Saturday, January 21, 2017

women's march

I marched because I am a woman.

I marched because I have a mother and daughters and sisters and aunts and grandmothers. 

I marched because I have held space for the fears of my immigrant students and friends. 
Photo Credit: Veronica

I marched because democracy looks like voting AND it looks like this. 

Today I stood with half a million feminists as we peacefully occupied the streets of Washington, DC. 
Photo Credit: Veronica

Today I sang protest songs on the overcrowded metro to the rally. 
Photo Credit: Anna

Today I walked back across the river because the metro was too full. 

Today I put my body where my mouth is. 

Today I stood up.