Rites... updated ... and updated again.

Before I moved away from the only state I had ever lived, I made a difficult but deliberate decision. I did not make the 12-hour trip to see my grandfather. I wanted to remember him how he was during my previous visit, about a year before. I knew I might live to regret that decision, and I didn't make it lightly.

About an hour ago, I was told that Grandpa is en route to Salt Lake City to undergo surgery after taking a fall. More details as they become available. **Update: he broke his hip, had surgery, developed pneumonia, is now doing better, and I've talked to him on the phone.**

He's worked so bloody hard his whole life. First as a miner, then as his town's garbage collector, then as a thoughtful and supportive grandfather to his fifteen living grandchildren, many of whom had no other grandparents except for him. He would say to me fondly, "You were the first one to call me grandpa."

During my tearful call to TW, she offered to take him flowers at the hospital tomorrow. Her angelic presence and willingness to be at his bedside in my stead deepens my devotion to her. That's what's so wondrously surprising - that my devotion could grow any deeper than it already was.

**SECOND UPDATE: Just heard that he's suffered a stroke. As of yesterday he was doing much much better, was actually sitting up, eating solid food, coherent, and was being transferred to a rehab facility sooner than initially expected. Sometime during the night he had a stroke, his pneumonia is back with a vengeance, and his body is full of infection. If the antibiotics are going to work, we're told, they will do so within the first 24 hours. And so we wait. And I fight back tears at work while coping by writing this update.**

Queer

Go here for the above book.

I upset someone today, using a word that rolls off my tongue as naturally as breathing.

My employer and teacher seemed rather rattled when I mentioned that of the fifteen living cousins on my paternal side, three of us are "confirmed queers." He questioned my using queer, and apparently assumes it reflects low self-image. He said he doesn't think "gay" has the same negative connotation. It may be useful to mention that he graduated from law school two years before I was born.

Although I grew up in a small town, and certainly heard "fag" used pejoratively, and probably "queer" too, I just feel really happy (gay, if you will) about the word queer. I was surprised by his reaction. The word is so normalized to me that I found myself blinking and stammering, surprised that I felt a need to defend my position.

Sure, I'll concede that my mom wailed a bit when I first used the word around her and I recognize that not everyone is thrilled with its use. But dammit, if I can't use the best umbrella term I know, for the sake of someone else's comfort, who the hell is accommodating and tolerating who?

So what does this mossygrrl do when she is baffled? She goes to the internet.

~ The wikipedia page on queer seems nice and round and overviewish, as wiki is wont to do.

~ I enjoyed the tone of this page from a queer spirituality blog.

~ This post talks about reclaiming, making distinctions between the Q-word and the N-word.

~ A how-to-decide guide for whether it's okay to use the word Q/queer made me grin.

Yet, for all my fervor and comfort with the word, I am now also thinking about effective communication. Shutting down pathways for connection by using a term that sets people on edge is not effective. And yet I find "queer" so normal. Is that ironic? Undoubtedly my comfort with queer is affected by the fact my undergraduate degree was in gender studies in the 1990s. Educational status certainly plays a role.

But beyond academia and postmodern mental masturbation maneuvers, at a very core level, the word queer is not only comfortable, but also comforting to me. It's broad and inclusive and makes space for me. It made space for me as a bi married person. It made room for me as a kink-curious person. It made room for me as a polyamorous person. It makes space for me now, mono and seemingly "lesbian." It doesn't require me to define myself too narrowly, providing space for fluidity and movement.

To me, being queer means being free.

Destination Spot

At my see-ya-later party I reiterated that if/when my peeps found themselves in the NW (or wanting to find themselves in the NW), I encouraged them to come visit me.

My wish is coming true! The first weekend I was in my new home, D stayed with me amidst my boxes on his way to a wedding in Olympia. My lovely lover TW stayed with me last week; 42 days until she's back for Thanksgiving. This evening I'll have dinner with my cousin and his wife, who are here visiting his brother, who moved here right after I did. Early tomorrow G and S arrive, taking a grrls' road trip in their respective post-breakup states of being. Slumber party at Casa Moss! Yesterday I chatted with J who is finishing his season in Alaska and is planning is PDX visit and I heard from S a while back about her plans to be in town for a wedding in December. Add to that the plans of N&S to vacation in the NW in the spring.

I love that everyone is coming to me, that I have a steady stream of visitors to anticipate.

Hooray for being a desirable destination spot!

Luvy Wuvy

In honor of its twentieth anniversary, a quote from the indomitable A Princess Bride:

Westley: This is true love - you think this happens every day?

Instead of being 766 miles away from me, my love is within a couple hundred miles. Right now she is on the coast and as I'm now working to pay off that mortgage-size student loan debt, I had to stay in Stumptown.

When she leaves Monday the 8th, I'll start counting the days until Thanksgiving.

M-m-miners

Maybe I should make this a mining blog.

Because I was at work, after seeing this headline I had to consciously set out of my head the complex layers of gold, consumption, labor, and (in)justice. We're assured that the trapped miners have water and the mine is well-ventilated and that no one has been hurt so far. And maybe I'm just playing into the trapped-miner-sexy-media factor. But this stuff really strikes me. Strikes me deeply, as I've discussed at length here and here.

I guess it's like looking at a bad accident. Or listening to Neil Diamond. Sometimes you just can't help yourself.

Or more accurately, I can't help myself.

A Poly Song!

Whether or not I'm doing poly, I'll probably always be interested in it.

This song had me humming along by the end. How dear.

My favorite verse:

"Have you ever seen 'Big Love'?
Know what I mean, wink, wink, nudge, nudge..."
And they say "Oh, so you're a Mormon?"
"No! ...I'll explain from the beginning..."

Are You Carny?

Emay and I started a small beach fire and settled into our camp chairs, craning our necks to enjoy the rare view of coastal starlight. Several hundred yards up the beach, a bonfire blazed. Thick, black clouds periodically rose from the distant fire, the smell of burnt plastic wafting down the beach, occasionally reaching us. We muttered about rednecks and wrinkled our noses.

After awhile, I stood, stretched, and stepped out of the firelight to pull off my long-sleeved shirt, exposing my chest to the cool night air, before pulling on the leather vest and adjusting my leather chaps.

"Okay, Emay, here I go. You know how to work the camera?"

"Yep. I do. You signal me when you want me to hit record."



Usually I savor the post-fireplay rush produced by flame against flesh, heat dancing on lips, adrenaline pumping. But this time I was startled when a dog's glowing collar and rattling tags announced the otherwise-stealthy appearance of Drunken Local One. He swayed as he entered the circle of light, clutching a tallboy.

"Hello?" Emay called out nervously.

"Hey there, ladies," he said, slightly slurry. Then addressing me, "You're crazy!"

I sighed. Though attracting attention was inevitable with fireplay, I really wasn't in the mood to entertain a drunken stranger. "Yeah. That's what they tell me." I walked away, rustled around in my firebox, wishing he would go away so I could take off the leather vest and pull on the soft wool shirt without showing my breasts to some random drunk guy. After a few minutes of rambling on about my obvious insanity, he finally took the hint from our silence and non-engagement.

"Alright. Didn't mean to disturb you. Just drawn to the fire."

"Have a good night," I chirped, happy as he finally sauntered off.

Emay was anxious. "Wasn't that weird? Just to sneak up on us like that? I think that's weird, Moss."

"Yeah, it was," I acknowledged. In an effort to calm her nervousness, I added, "But maybe he thought we could see him walking up. Maybe he didn't know it was creepy. Maybe he was too drunk to think about it."

After sitting for a few minutes, watching the video on the tiny camera screen, and waiting for Drunken Local to move further down the beach, I spun poi, dancing barefoot in the sand. I dipped and re-dipped. Recorded, reviewed, erased, and re-recorded, missing the best performances and then futilely trying to recreate the best moments . . .



As I finished what I thought would be my last round for awhile, Drunken Locals Two, Three, Four, and Five approached. Drunken Locals' two dogs walked right into the fuel station, knocking lids off cans, spilling fuel. Again Emay called out to them before anyone acknowledged their presence. "Hello?" Her voice had the distinct twinge of irritation. Don't people know it's rude to approach a fire without signaling arrival?

"I was just finishing," I said to them, dropping my smoking poi on the firebox.

"Aww, but we wanted to come see up close! We been watching you for awhile down the beach."

"Okay, okay, I'll light up one more time," I conceded, figuring that making it performance-esque would perhaps keep them from feeling invited to stay and hang out at our campfire with us. I stooped to shoo away the dogs, upright the fuel cans, dip my wicks, and confer with Emay, who seemed agitated.

"This is freaking me out," she whispered. "There are four drunk guys here and two of us. I don't feel safe."

"It'll be okay," I whispered back. "Energetic boundaries. We're safe. They won't hurt us - I can just feel it. We're okay."

Standing, I addressed the Drunk Locals. "Here's the deal. I have open fuel over here, so keep your dogs away from me and the fuel, okay? Also, don't walk over here with lit cigarettes. Open fuel. Get it? And don't walk up behind me when I'm lit up. I can't hear you or see you when the toys are on fire. Okay?"

The Drunken Chorus:

Dogs! C'mere!
Wow, lots of rules.
Oh, yeah, yeah, we get it.
I don't smoke cigarettes.
Dogs! Come back here!

During the performance and afterward, the Drunken Chorus continued:

Wow!
That's amazing...
What kind of gas do you burn?
Probably propane. Must be propane.
How do you not burn yourself?
Man, you got balls, girl.

And then one question came from Drunken Local Three, who asked me in a serious tone:

Are you carny?

I laughed. "Am I what? Carny? No. I wouldn't say I'm carny." Images of thick-knuckled men with cigarettes dangling between their lips while they operated a merry-go-round flashed before my eyes. Emay later told me that she thought he'd asked if I was horny, fueling her nervousness at the scenario.

"Where'd you learn how to do that if you ain't carny?" he challenged me. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Well, I lived with fire spinners for awhile, and I learned from them."

He thought about that for a moment.

"Oh. So you ARE carny."

TrashMan

After his back was broken in a mining accident, my grandfather became the garbage man in Blanding, Utah, an insular little place, just north and west of the spot where Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico meet. It's a town that doesn't sell alcohol within city limits, a place where five or six family names dominate the cemetery headstones.

As the town trashman, he would often take people's broken side tables or bikes or whatever, fix them, and put them back on their front porch.

Grandpa was always picking up garbage. Everywhere we went, he was picking up trash, stooping his broken-backed self over to pick up a stray cup lid or cigarette butt or newspaper. He consistently made a place better than it was when he found it.

I've tried my best to follow suit, to follow the good examples I've received from my male lineage, taking latex gloves from my first aid kit and picking up people's nasty leave-behind garbage. And yeah, humans are really gross creatures. But this weekend, at the Owyhee Hot Springs Rendezvous with TW, I was shocked by the garbage. The 5-cent glass beer bottles and aluminum cans were taken away by enterprising sorts who wanted the recycling credits. But the cardboard box that held the 24-pack of Budweiser was left askew on the water's edge. The toilet paper alone was enough to warrant a second pair of latex gloves. But the topper was the Huggies and Pull-Ups.

What kind of person leaves filthy diapers strewn about? Seriously?

Rendezvous

TW and I rendezvoused at Owyhee Hot Springs last weekend. It was wonderful. We are both so much in love with each other that it's endearing and (by all accounts) not quite yet sickening.

When we met up in Nampa, Idaho, I realized how much fear and watchful looking over my shoulder I'd shed since moving to Portland six weeks ago. She had to remind me that we had an audience at times; that the rednecks might not appreciate watching me suck face with my girlfriend, that I wasn't in my safe haven of a liberal city.

Sunny Seattle

My well-loved pink sunglasses recently broke, so I was thrilled to find another pair upon entering Bumbershoot in Seattle Saturday morning. R took the following little mpg of me in those rose colored glasses that make the world look extra-beeeeautiful.



Other highlights from my weekend in sunny Seattle, in addition to hanging out with SLC friends who flew in for the festival:
- log cabin house where I stayed and slept under a fairy tree
- meeting Shanti's folks!
- laughing in an Irish pub with a couple of makeup'd clowns from Vau de Vire, fresh from BRC
- Rude Mechs doing Get Your War On (flash link)
- shaking my ass to the Aggrolites
- Ingrid and Heidi blessing the crowd with their loveliness (unfortunately the mpg I tried to take didn't turn out)
- getting turned on to Rodrigo y Gabriela
- DeVotchKa as the perfect end to a perfect festival day
- Cyclecide, the Heavy Pedal Cyclecide Bike Rodeo - see video below

* * *

After driving home Sunday afternoon, I finally hauled myself and my firetoys down to the bi-monthly firejam under the Marquam Bridge on Sunday nights. I was dead tired, hadn't lit up for over a month, but happy to hear the swoosh and feel the heat and play with burning fuel. After all, I am an Aries Fire Dragon.

Then today was my first potluck gathering in my new space and a very nice way to warm my house a month after setting down my first box, wiping my brow, and wondering WTF I'd done. What I'd done was follow my instinct/heart, and the rest is falling into place just as it should. As usual.

Irresistible

I couldn't help myself. And if you aren't familiar with this series, Get Your War On lives here online. And for other amusements, see My New Fighting Technique is Unstoppable and the subtle links at the bottom of the page. You won't be sorry.

Likey

Last night someone told me that if I'm blogging about produce, I have too much time on my hands. I cheerfully agreed.

However, having a lot of time on my hands does not mean I'm going to discuss anything like the long overdue resignation of US Attorney BossMan (aka Posterboy for the double feature: 'Merican Dream/Gitmo Nightmare). I will, however, link you to a chimp site. Yee-haw.

Tonight's post is going to focus on Likey.

Likey. Verb. As in, I likey that S continually inspires and endears me.

I first heard the term years ago from S, with whom I share a 12+ year friendship, and it always makes me smile. So in addition to the example provided above for the usage of the term, here's my likey list for today:

1. I likey that my Authentic Audubon Society Singing Bird Clock sounds so realistic that it produces the same reaction in at least two badass cats. B's cat Smokey used to do it, and I just watched Kitty do it too. They get That Look. They open their mouth, squint their eyes, and breathe all lustily. Roar. Feline instinct.

2. I likey that I found out about this Peace-Making site.

3. I really likey that I am envisioning a way to use my JD for good and not for evil, enabling me to meet my own gaze in the mirror hanging above my kitchen sink.

4. I likey making intention boards with an intuitive 5-year-old, who helped me collage carefully chosen images and words in an ongoing project to manifest my reality. (Oh, and if you're rolling your eyes at the mention of manifesting reality, I do have a sense of humor about Da Seeeekret. And/but I also make intention boards.)

5. I likey having my Anticipator all revved up, looking forward to rendezvous and trips and visits in the next month.

6. I likey the varied correspondence TW and I share through psychic, written, technological, postal, auditory, and astral means.

6. I likey being in love. (Awww, she's in love!)

Feeding Myself~Feeling Good

Knowing where my food is grown is intensely satisfying. If I haven't grown it myself, I like to look at the person who did grow it and have a conversation. Though not always practical, I do engage in this behavior as much as possible.

Yesterday I went to my first Portland Farmer's Market. There are markets nearly every day, at various locations in the city, and I had missed a really good one Wednesday at People's Food Coop (which has a year-round farmer's market. Year-round!!!). So I got my ass out of Haven, the Stumptown-coffee-serving queer-friendly coffeeshop where I'd been working at my computer and headed over to 20th and Salmon. The market was mellow. It was friendly. Beautiful dready mamas telling me about the fingerling potatoes with a slight southern twang and easy smiles. A kindly old man telling me about the Red Bartlett pears, wagging his finger, telling me to "eat 'em up soon! They're ready!" I got the most beautiful berries, pears, peaches, beets, corn, fingerlings. Freezing the fruit, envisioning the sorbet and smoothies and fruit sauces I'll make all year, was a welcomed Farmer's Market Day chore last night.

As one who has been trying to minimize the plastic in my immediate world, especially in my kitchen, I'm wondering how to freeze or otherwise store my fruit without the use of plastics? Canning might be an option, but I try to minimize my sugar intake and all my experience with canning has required using sugar.

Here's a little video of my new apartment ...




And a tour of the yard outside my new place:



And here's my current reminder/intention board. You know, in case you thought I'd become a suit or something crazy like that:


Just for kicks I thought somebody out there might like a shot of my blackberried tongue. No? I'm wrong? Nobody wants to see my black tongue?

Mainstream Sex Stories

I don't often (or really ever) follow mainstream media. Shocking, I realize. However, I am on an email list from the Woodhull Freedom Foundation, through which I see many stories about sex(uality)-society-politics-law. And recently there were three articles in the mainstream press that caught my attention.

* * *

1. The general absence of male-identified folks in articles about bisexuality impacted my impression of Young Women Defy Labels in Intimacy with Both Sexes, Bisexuals Take a 'Flexible' View and Don't Follow a 'Fixed Path,' Say Sexuality Experts. But xx bisexuals are so fantasy-worthy! How silly of me to be bothered by a one-sided focus! At least the article did mention trans folks and resistance to labels and tags to define one's fluid sexuality. I noted, however, that all the women went from relationships with women to relationships with men, and not mentioning heteroprivilege or socialization was a gaping hole. But what did I expect, really, from a piece that mentions Britn*y Spears, Anne H*che, and Ang*lina Jol*e in the opening paragraphs? Favorite quote: "In no way does she deny her history or say she has found her true sexuality. It was all her true sexuality."

2. Polyamory is making it to the mainstream? The Decade of Bad Fashion was invoked, swinging inextricably tied to poly in the headline (oooh, titillating), the piece was hetero/marriage-based, and the question of what constitutes "success" wasn't really explored, but in general I was pleased to see Are Open Marriages More Successful Than Traditional Couplings? A New Generation Tries Swinging, but Leaves the Leisure Suits in the Closet, especially given the source. Favorite quote: "They see it as a high road; it's not cheating, it's growing their relationship."

3. The heteronormative tone and assumptions implicit in Boys, don't be jealous of her toys — play along! How's a guy to compete with the wonders of electronics engineering? annoyed me. Are the phallus-bearers feeling insufficient, given the many choices in small bedroom appliances? How aching that must be for them. Favorite quote: “So much choreography goes into orgasmic sex that sometimes it is wisest to accept help wherever you can get it!”

* * *

There's your mainstream media dose for today. Maybe for the month.

Noticing the Fear/Hope Connection

Though I generally reject dualisms, believing them oversimplifications of complex spectra, hope/fear dichotomies and impulses are on my mind, informed by recent events. My last post, about the miners trapped in a Utah mine, is still abuzz in my brain, though the volume has decreased slightly over the last two days. But hearing about the earthquake in Peru added to my tragedy anxiety. Is Uncle W, visiting Peru, safe? Are his friends and loved ones safe?

So I called my folks. After discussing my uncle's whereabouts and planned travel itinerary, my mom brought up the trapped miners, how they've been following the story closely and my dad has been trying to keep himself from watching the news continuously. This came as no surprise -- every cave-in takes him back to 1965. She talked about the families holding vigil and the incessant hopefulness that propel tight-knit mining communities. Stories of mind-boggling survival circulate, like trapped miners in southern China surviving 23 days, fueling with optimism the eleven-day-long search at the Huntington mine. Hope persists, even for those watching from afar, bearing witness. Praying.

After hanging up, I sat outside under three gigantic cedar trees in my backyard, listening to birds singing in the trees and chickens cooing at my feet. I thought about how fear and hope wove together these events in my psyche. Fear for W's safety and the safety of those he loves in Peru, as hundreds of bodies are found in rubble; fear for the families whose loved ones are trapped. Hope for W's well-being; hope that plucky earth-diggers will survive.

I recognized how much I've grown, because now I'm noticing the hope. I persisted in such a fear-based state for so very long that hardship seemed to loom at every turn. Now I often create a Gratitude List upon waking each morning, almost automatically, but consciously. I live a blessed life, and I am thankful.

Focusing on hope, in the face of frustration, is my mantra for today, and probably for tomorrow too. Larger events put my challenged job searching in perspective.

Update: Just heard a message from my uncle, who reports that the earthquake's devastation was in the area he had visited and that he returned to the US two days before. N, the love of his life, and her family, all escaped injury. Blessings abound.

Update2: Another cave-in at the mine leaves rescue workers dead and injured. Mournful, I breathe, quelling fear for hope.

Trapped in Earth-Tunnels

Along with my father, I have a tendency to pay close attention to mine accidents, those inevitable consequences of digging hundreds of feet into the earth and putting humans there to blast and gather and cut away stone. I generally ignored the news this week as I settled into PDX and studied for the exam I took yesterday. Last night on the BBC news service I read about two US mine accidents and my belly rolled over.

No one in my family works underground anymore. But my connection to mining persists; I cannot shake free from the prickling awareness of what happens in the heartstone of Gaia, where we've tunneled and taken. Don't misunderstand by my word usage that I am vehemently opposed to mining. What would be the point of such opposition? I am acutely aware of why people work in mining and logging and for defense contractors. The food that fueled my lengthening limbs, the house that sheltered me, the books that expanded my sharpening mind - these were all acquired by the modest salaries derived from work I find politically objectionable.

But politics and personal family dynamics are a realm requiring deliberate navigation. How do I hold these seemingly disparate parts of myself? Will I continually mourn for unknown miners, trapped by tons of rock and soil, oxygen running low? Is that mourning a reflection of the sadness I feel toward the limited opportunities available to my dad and granddad? Grandpa's back was broken in a uranium mining accident in 1965, a cave-in that also crushed my father's 15-year-old shoulder. Dad's neck was broken in 1978 in a copper mine accident, and after recovering he went back to the mines as foreman. After Anac*nda shut down its Utah operation in 1983, he sought whatever mining work was available. Hearing of workers dying in a mineshaft fire, he'd rush to the mine to apply, knowing there were now openings. After being unable to secure underground work, as new veins and cheaper labor were harvested in South America, he moved on to defense contractor jobs, at Dugw*y Pr*ving Ground and then at Thi*kol. And how was my mother impacted by her husband's profession? How many times did she wonder if she'd see him again when he left for a graveyard shift as she put her small children to bed? How often did she expect to be a young widow?

There are things I recognize on a cellular level. Through my mother's body I recognize Oregon, the land here, as well as the proud hearts and minds of old-school loggers, who eschewed clearcutting and defended their work as promoting forest health. Through my father's body I recognize redrock desert, uranium dust, the smell of greasy manual labor, and the terror of being trapped in tunnels.

I wrote the following about a year and a half ago:

Sentimentality for the natural world could have easily overwhelmed me; gratefully, it did not. I am deeply connected to the western landscape in which I was raised and protecting the earth from abuse is a cherished personal value I hold. But sentimentality could never fully take hold because early on I realized that issues relating to natural resource acquisition and preservation of wild spaces are complex and require creative methods to find common ground.

My maternal grandfather was born in an Oregon logging camp, the son of a crew foreman. Before he died, my family took him to the forest areas of his childhood; Grandpa was shocked by the clear-cutting we found when venturing off the main roads. He recounted stories of his father covertly bringing forestry students to his camp, against the wishes of the company bosses, to advise the crew on healthier logging techniques. I thought about that story a lot on the drive back to Utah, realizing that my great-grandfather, who made his living from the forest, had a fervent desire not to see it destroyed.

While my mother’s family subsisted on the logging of trees, my father’s family endured by tunneling through the earth. My father and maternal grandfather worked in uranium mines in southeastern Utah, their very livelihood reliant upon a nuclear industry with undisclosed health and ecological consequences. I understand all too well why and how economic survival takes precedence, even in the face of extreme risk and physical injury.

In my family, balancing idealism and pragmatism was a necessity, not a luxury. As a child, I witnessed and participated in a working-class struggle for survival. Education was my ticket out of that cycle of hardship. However, I did not anticipate that education would create such an intense disconnection from my family. As my education and life experience grew, so too did my perceived sense of alienation from my upbringing. My beliefs have deviated from my family's, which has provided me the unique opportunity to recognize the validity and importance of a variety of perspectives and eschew ineffective dogmatic approaches.

* * *

I'll probably still continue to follow the progress in the mines. I can't seem to help myself. The simultaneous integration and untangling of emotion and worldview and cellular knowing is a lifetime journey; not something I expect will be quickly resolved. And for the families of those trapped, those praying for oxygen to reach their loved ones - I pray with you, eyes welling with tears. My body remembers.

Settling

Here's a picture of the first proper meal I made myself at my new home in Portland. Salad, pasta, wine, oh my! Add some Harry Potter and a beautiful location, and it was utterly pleasant, even though I used way too much rosemary in my sauce. Until last night, I was feeding myself antipasti, guacamole, Thai takeout, and PB sandwiches.

I've been in Portland a week now, and I am wondering if my housemate thinks I'm agoraphobic. I have left the house, but not much. Getting everything settled and unpacked and finding where stuff belongs has seemed important for my mental clarity. And it's amazing how much job-hunting and networking one can do in the backyard with a cell phone and a laptop. Plus, I'm studying for the exam on the professional rules governing lawyers, which I'll take day after tomorrow. Do I sound like I'm making excuses? Yeah. I am.

But tomorrow I'm going to study law at the anarchist cafe. Ironic, no?

Yes, friends, I am happy, I am settling in, and the wonder of actually living in Oregon is starting to not be the shock that it was at first. Moss belongs here. My body recognizes this place, and it feels like home.

SLC: Magical Organic Gardenspace

On our way out of town, the beautiful and multi-talented TW gave my parents a tour of Traces, the most breathtaking acre oasis in SLC. (TW describes the fact that she works at a place with her own name as another manifestation of the serendipity in her life.) Going there was the last stop I wanted to make as I set forth.

This spot is incredible. Farmer's market of organic produce every day! Edible flowers! Gorgeous floral arrangements! Lovely gifts and furnishings and organic gardening supplies in the shop! Heirloom vegetables, seeds, and information from those who tend the soil and care for the plants!

For those in or passing through SLC, you must - I emphasize must - visit this place, pick some fresh organic produce, directly pay the beautiful people who grow this blessed food with love, and know that we can feed ourselves from the earth beyond the sidewalk.

1432 S 1100 E. Summer hours Monday through Saturday 9:30 am - 6:00 pm. Sunday hours erratic.

I'm so relieved I didn't leave without learning about its existence; sharing the knowledge and love of this place will make me profoundly glad.

Farewell (Faring Well)

The choppy and disoriented tone of the last few posts may persist as I settle into the first Big Move of my life. Abrupt, jerky movements have manifested as nasty scrapes and bruises all over the lower half of my body from stumbles and lurches.

Remember to breathe, Moss.

The See-Ya-Later Party was beyond words. The love I felt, the bright eyes and tight heart-hugs, the laughter, the touching things people wrote in my self-proclaimed "SLC YearsBook." And tonight I just saw some incredibly beautiful and heartfelt writing by Chicory about moi and feeling our friendship in my core.

***

Now I'm sitting amongst boxes, filled with the knowledge that stuff, in general, is just superfluous anyway. Although toothbrushes are nice.

Relief >>> Anticipation

I survived the bar, but won't know if I have to re-take it until the results are posted 9/14. What an awful ordeal that was; I'm very glad it's behind me. And I didn't even have a seizure from the terrible carpet in the hotel ballroom. Two days of wearing earplugs did make me rather self-conscious and self-absorbed, as every swallow rang in my ears and my footfalls sounded elephantine.

Now I am frantically packing up twelve years of life in Salt Lake City. Tomorrow's farewell potluck party starts in the afternoon, so I have much to do in anticipation, plus the actual packing part. I load the truck and move Monday the 30th.

Slightly bittersweet, as I have recently connected with someone truly extraordinary, and naturally, living in SLC. But this feeling of liking someone a whole lot, and being liked back in turn, is incredible. Thank goodness my leaving prompted boldness on my part (what did I have to lose if she wasn't interested?), else I may have slid out of Mormonia without meeting its rocknroll-angel-goddess. But. That tragedy was averted, and I do have the distinct pleasure of Miss W's affection, and she mine. Yes, my friends, I am indeed grinning.

back to the boxes and packing tape

Downslope

Today I checked in at 7:40 am. We finished just before 7:00 pm.

Tomorrow: 6 hours of multiple choice questions. Over halfway done.

Verging . . .

. . . on tears. Rather freaked out. Landed in Portland a few hours ago; will take the bar exam tomorrow and Wednesday. Someone told me today I should consider myself lucky because the California bar is a day longer than Oregon's. Um, okay. Presto. I consider myself lucky. (!)

I've been really grateful for the friendly voices on the other end of the phone line.

Thanks to mama for believing in me. Thanks to sistah L for her support. Thanks to G for taking me to New Seasons so I can be stocked on good water, fruit, oatmeal, almond milk, and Stumptown coffee for the morning. Greasy eggs and bacon in the hotel restaurant did not appeal.

Thanks to B for her reassuring roommate loves and advice on how to handle my stress through physical action like the cross-crawl, eye exercises, and muscle movements. Thanks to J in Boston for being unfailing in his ability to make me feel better. I knew I could count on his pep talk!

And especially thanks to T for being the person she is -- calm and inspiring and beautiful and receptive and perceptive and open and generous. When I see/hear/think about her I find myself blissed out and buzzing and breathless.

Breathless, yes. Even as I try to remember to breathe.

8

When I woke up this morning I realized I have only eight more nights at the goddess house until I move. Four nights until I fly to Portland to take the bar; four nights after I return until I move. Wow.

Flowing to the Ocean

After her unexpected passing eighteen months ago, I wrote about the beautiful MissyB and posted one of her art pieces. One of the ways those who love Missy stay connected is through this tribe group. In that group we post memories and things that remind us of Missy. V posted a chant that Missy taught her and someone else linked to the YouTube video of Missy singing it at a show back in 2003. V later posted an extended version of the song to the thread.

At the Salt Lake ceremony honoring and celebrating Missy's life, people created squares that were made into a quilt. I added the phrase "flowing to the ocean" on a raindrop/teardrop because that song always gives me chills, kept running through my head that day, and felt appropriate. At the time, I didn't even know if Missy knew that song, but clearly she did. (Be patient, you can hear her about 2 minutes into the clip.)

Compilation of different extended versions:
We all come from the Goddess
And to Her we shall return,
Like a drop of rain
Flowing to the ocean.

Hoof and horn, Hoof and horn
All that dies shall be reborn
Fire and rain, Fire and rain
All that dies shall live again

(Chorus)

Air and earth, Air and earth
All that dies shall have new birth
Corn and grain, Corn and grain
All that falls shall rise again

(Chorus)

Sage and Crone, Sage and Crone,
Wisdom's gift shall be our own.
Crone and Sage, Crone and Sage,
Wisdom is the gift of age.

Chorus:
We all come from the Goddess
And to Her we shall return,
Like a drop of rain
Flowing to the ocean.

Minimizing

B and I went through the last of the storage, sifting through material remains from our early years together. Like Cassie's first chew toy and the time capsule we made in 2000. We were left wondering about our state of mind based on the random shit we included. There were more than a few giggles at tweaker craft projects given to us by family members and therefore elevated to maybe-oughta-keep-but-what-the-hell status.

Two filing cabinets are now on the curb for neighborhood cleanup. I used one cabinet as a sticker canvas. The heart sticker in the lower left is my favorite.

Flag Memory

Since I couldn't be at the Rainbow Gathering, with proximate participation in peace prayers, I stayed at home Wednesday and cuddled with my dog, giving her regular doses of Rescue Remedy to calm her fireworks freakout.

After letting the Independence Day vibrations settle for a day or two, I decided not to let the day go unacknowledged. But how? Then I remembered this . . .

. . . which I stole from J in LA's tribe page. His explanation:

I actually sewed the flag onto this shirt in college, when i still thought the USA was a cool place (like in the way that peter fonda was pro USA in easy rider).

then i accidentally ripped the flag. i put the shirt in the closet for years, thinking (a) i don't want to wear a flag around and (b) it looks retarded because it's ripped. then i realized i could make a statement with it. and voila. people immediately responded.

but that was two years ago. i don't know if we can still fix it...

** ** **

My disillusionment waxes and wanes in cycles. Some days I feel hopeful and optimistic. Others not so much. My dad is a sentimental veteran who persists in reminding me that I have no clue how lucky I am to live in this country. I don't think I'm unlucky. I just think we can do better. If we can't do better, then I'm especially disillusioned.

I was born post-Watergate. The first president I remember was a memory-challenged actor who spoke in passive voice to avoid accountability ("mistakes were made"). The first senate hearings I remember were Oliver North in his medal-strewn uniform. Followed by Clarence Thomas and an uneasy conversation about race, gender, power. I remember a videogame-esque war when I was in junior high. Didn't it last but a week or two? Oh, and the US didn't leave Saudi Arabia like we said we would? Hmmm. A blue dress and a blowjob splashed the headlines during my (not so) formative adolescence. Wasn't there more to the Clinton administration than that . . . ? I'm not sure. Maybe the whole country was inhaling at the time. The Supreme Court's selection of the Executive Branch in 2000, manipulation of emotion post-9/11, endless war . . . and people wonder why my generation is jaded. And it's interesting to me that I don't associate the flag with the country, but with politics. And yes, to me the two are distinct.

That's enough. Right now, I have to study for the bar.

Hetero-Only Sex-Positive (ish) Christians?

When I saw Anal Sex in Accordance with God's Will, I couldn't resist posting the link here. Other offerings include

Oral Sex and God's Will

Viagra and God's Will

Threesomes Within a Christian Marriage

Reader Questions and Answers

Masturbation - God's Great Gift to Us

A Proposal for a Christian Pornography

Bondage in Christ - BDSM in a Christian Marriage

Fisting and God's Will

I don't have time to check these out myself, what with bar exam preparations and such, so I can't really comment on them. But wow.

Cycles: A Year of Closure & Opening

Closure is not an event. It's a series of steps backwards and forwards, stumbling, slinking, striding toward wholeness. And from closure, opening is possible. Opening memory, opening compassionate and generous heart, opening possibility.

Finding closure has been a slow accumulation. As I realized at the E11 temple burn, after I smeared snot and blue makeup on D's tunic, I could only cry for a few moments because I'd already cried all my tears. Emotional closure.

Legal closure came by way of a divorce decree being issued in Salt Lake Third District Court on June 18. My marriage to B is legally finished. We are now divorced. And somehow, that legal closure, after all we've been through together and separately, gave me a peace I hadn't realized I was lacking. Administrative closure.

Over the fifteen months we've been separated, I've been rattled to learn how many people didn't even know we had been together, let alone married. That in and of itself may be telling. Of what, I'm not entirely sure. But we were together. We were married. On a beautiful Saturday in September 2000, twenty months after falling in love, surrounded by friends and family in our new garden, we promised to feed, clothe, grow with, comfort, and love each other.

Our relationship and our marriage were never typical, by anyone's definition, and two years after we were legally married, K joined our family. Over the next three and a half years, the joys and pains we three experienced individually, collectively, and in our respective dyads was intense. Incredible joy. Excruciating pain. Those emotional extremes inform and define the other, I believe.

I've been purposefully vague in my online writings about the relationship and family transitions I've been experiencing over the past year. (I consciously choose to call it a transition rather than a breakup. My reasons for that choice varied.) Part of my reluctance to address it directly was because my feelings shift radically, and usually they shift into a space of more compassion and understanding. If I were to have regularly recorded my thoughts and feelings, much of it would have been based in the agony of my process toward healing. While painful spaces and the kinds of words that result from those spaces are valid and accurately reflected where I was in the moment, I had no desire to capture and share those words any more than I already did. Shamefully, I often spoke words of blame aloud to anyone who would hear me. Despite those words of blame, I felt simultaneously blessed and grateful for the lessons B and K gave me and the personal growth I experienced as a result of the family structure I chose to help construct and the reality we three created together.

Paradoxical emotions and the clumsy communication of how I felt seemed to cause such pain in my circle of friends and in my interactions with my former partners that writing it down seemed patently unwise. But maybe writing it out would have provided some clarity. In any case, I spent the year with a cracked skull (yes, literally) and a lot of emotional terrain to cover. It's been quite a ride, and I am profoundly grateful for all of you who have supported and loved me in spite of myself. And to those of you who never took sides or saw the transitions we were experiencing as a war or battle, even/especially when what I said or did made it seem that way, I am particularly grateful to you for that neutrality.

In the past months, I've come to see several things. Firstly, what B and K and I did was brave. We were courageous. Our friend called us "pioneers," not as though no one else had ever done what we were trying to do, but because there weren't a lot of clear paths, and we were forging our way without many guideposts or examples.

Secondly, time and space were/are necessary for me to disengage. I fought against that for a long time, and that struggling only perpetuated unhealthy cycles. My upcoming move to Oregon will likely help with that disengagement and continued healing.

Thirdly, I can see now that we all did our best with the tools we had at the time. Perhaps sometimes our best was kind of pathetic in retrospect. But still, we tried. Would I do it differently or better were I to do it again? Of course. I have more tools now than I did when I started. My compassion for B and K and the roles they played in our journey together has grown significantly. My compassion for myself has grown tremendously as well. Without that compassion for myself and my recent acknowledgment that I did the best I could, forgiving anyone was impossible.

Now I feel capable of moving forward, of continuing the opening of my heart and throat, of deepening the healing. Though they aren't regularly online these days, and may never see this post unless someone shows it to them, I still feel compelled to end by offering my most heartfelt love and gratitude to B and K. Without them, my journey of the past eight years would not be the same. Thank you both for helping me become the person I am.

Namaste.

Brief Return

My eyes on the road, my mind wandering and exploring and discovering, my spirit expansive -- the two weeks I just spent away from SLC in Portland, the Oregon woods, the redwood coast, Nor. California, and across the Nevada desert were healing, informative, and somewhat exhausting.

I'm back in Salt Lake for a couple weeks as I study my little heart and brain out, preparing for the bar exam; packing, sorting, and minimizing my worldly belongings; saying see-ya-later to dear friends and family; and preparing for the New Life that awaits.

Of course, New Life is a moment-by-moment process, isn't it? Doesn't every second provide the opportunity for New Life? Sure it does. But there is something about uprooting one's life and all one knows, moving to a new place, and starting afresh that *especially* drives the point home - Choosing Newness. Learning from Old. Creating Space for Growth. Challenging Myself.

What a grand adventure.

Ape Diets & A Cell

I'm on Jinjee's list from The Garden Diet. Two things I saved from the list in recent months are this article by the BBC on humans who "ate like apes" in a zoo and the following video representation of the life of a cell.