Ray’s Rays, Number 30: We Are the Fire, We Are the Ashes, by Radiance Angelina Petro

At the beginning of the Ray’s Rays series I said there would be 30 of them. This post marks that number.

 

 

Ray’s Rays, Number 30

We Are the Fire, We Are the Ashes

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

 

 

 

The overall message of Ray’s Rays is to love yourself

and the communities and world around you.

To that end (beginning)

we’ve talked about taking everyday acts of kindness anarchy,

we’ve talked about mutual aid, fierce compassion, smashing the patriarchy,

dismantling capitalism, and the realization there are no gatekeepers

in the sacred arts and acts of social activism.

One of the threads running through the Rays is the celebration of,

and fighting for the rights of, LGBTQIA+ people.

Another thread is the importance and legitimacy of honoring

our freedom, agency, pleasure, and rights.

We also discussed deconstructing modern meditation

by taking away the competition to reach “higher levels.”

We’ve talked about the benefits of mindfulness, rest

and of the spiritual significance of darkness and of emptiness.

We’ve talked about the importance of movement, music,

and art in general. We’ve affirmed that some people (like myself)

need medication and therapy. We affirmed our bodies and rallied

behind the truth that all bodies are beautiful, perfect bodies.

That’s the overall summary of the Rays.

And to that, let’s add one final thing (for now):

Help one another keep the fires of hope alive in your efforts

to change the world and yourself. Some say “hope,” is foolish

or doesn’t exist. I think hope exists and I also think it is, in fact,

foolish. But all forms of love are foolish in the sense

that they needn’t (and often don’t) make intellectual sense.

The logic of the heart, however, acknowledges the fires of passion,

the imagination, and a wild, unstoppable love, and can appear

foolish.” With that love comes hope. “Keep the hope alive,”

is almost cliché, and it is also possible. Each and every

big or small acts of kindness, compassion, mutual aid, activism,

radical justice, anarchy, and love, stokes the flames of hope.

It is possible to change, even if that means burning the whole

thing to the ground first. After all, the myth of the phoenix

is steeped in the spiritual reality that radical love survives.

And you and I are embodiments of that radical love and hope.

You and I are the answers. We are also the questions,

and that isn’t a bad thing. There is a quest

in every question. And you and I are living, breathing quests.

We are also the destination, even though there is no

ultimate goal to this work/play. Why? Because we are love,

and we are hope, and there are no final goals in love or hope.

We are the fire and we are the ashes.

We are the builders and the destroyers. May we use our powers

wisely, with compassion and justice, so that everyone

shares the fruits that each of us harvests

from the gardens of our hearts, and our fields of hope.

 

 

 


Ray’s Ray, Number 28: Sometimes I Am Tired of Fighting, by Radiance Angelina Petro

Ray’s Ray, Number 28:

Sometimes I Am Tired of Fighting

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

 

 

 

There are days the fire of activism goes out,

or, at least, seems to die down to a couple

of red, sparking embers. There are times

when the fight just to exist as I am feels too much;

when the weight of what some people want to do to me

feels too much to bear. And by do to me, I mean,

wipe people like me off the face of the earth.

There are times when the injustices and the hate

and the violence, discrimination, fear-mongering,

the far-right-extremism make it seem like

there is no hope, and I just want to curl up and hide.

And that is totally fucking legit. Queer people,

marginalized people of all kinds, targets of hate crimes

and terrorism for simply living what they know

to be true or the faith tradition they believe,

or the color of their skin—sometimes it’s overwhelming

just to walk the planet. And that is totally a legit way to feel.

Some think you can’t take your foot off the gas

when it comes to activism. Lives are at stake. Basic,

human rights, dignity, and freedom are at stake.

We mustn’t stop. We cannot stop. If we stop

who will fight? And I know this feeling, and right now

I am tired and need to rest. And I will not be ashamed

of that today. I will not be bullied or marginalized

in an already marginalized community to keep on going

when I am collapsing, when I am lost in mental and physical exhaustion.

I will not let the gatekeepers of activism tell me

I am letting everyone down if I need to rest, to take a break

from marching, rallying, writing, shouting, educating,

living day-to-day as a non-passing trans person–

I sometimes just need to cocoon for awhile.

Some may call this “self-care,” some may say I’m

recharging my batteries.” I don’t what it is except a legitimate,

human need to stop fighting for a day, a week, a month.

I am not a machine. I don’t have batteries. I am a person

who is sensitive, fiercely compassionate, and who carries

with them everyday the burden of being who I am

in a world that wants me dead. I am person with diagnosed

mental illnesses, who just happens to be queer.

Today, or tomorrow, or whenever, if you need a break

take it. Honor your body, honor your heart

and mind. Honor your need for solitude,

and nourishing darkness, stillness, quiet. Or maybe

it’s the need for wild dancing, lots of TV—whatever

it is (I could sure use some rich, moist chocolate cake

right about now). If you feel hopeless, like I do,

here, in this moment, give someone the gift

of carrying you for a spell. Give them the gift of your leaning

on their belief, their hope, their strength, and then,

when you can, let them lean on you, carry them

as best you can. This is not a fight that has an end.

But there can be ends—pauses–to retreat into silence

or whatever it is that feeds you. Please,

please try not to feel ashamed, like I

so often do, when I need a break. This kind

of self-realization, this kind of setting boundaries

and taking time to pause, is radical activism in and of itself.

 

 

 

 

 


Ray’s Rays, Number 26: Touch Yourself, by Radiance Angelina Petro

Ray’s Rays, Number 26

Touch Yourself

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

 

 

 

Touch yourself. When people hear those two words together

a lot of their imaginations go directly to their genitals,

which is, of course, fine. Go ahead and touch your genitals

if you want/need. They’re yours. Learn about them. Explore

them. What makes them feel good? What doesn’t?

There are people like me that don’t particularly like

touching my own genitals. Sometimes this is all about gender dysphoria,

other times it’s just a lack of interest and/or libido, other times

it’s about me working through another layer of sexual trauma,

and it would actually make things worse. Other times it can be

empowering, but for me, I tend to not. Another thing

that may contribute to a lack of interest in my genitals

is my being asexual. I’m simply not interested in sexual pleasure.

I’m willing to help give that to a partner (which is totally

valid for my particular kind of being ace), but for me, I could care less

about my own sexual pleasure. It’s perfectly valid to be ace

and masturbate too, but for me, that is rarely the case.

So, the little, two-word phrase: “Touch yourself,”

is often associated with touching your genitals. However, there are

other body parts to touch, and when this phrase is taken

to mean touching other parts of your body, and should you practice

this, it can be a powerful expression of self-care and self-love, and

self-affirmation. It can be soothing too. For example, perhaps

explore stroking your arm with soft touches. Perhaps

massage your feet, your hands, your face, your legs. Touching

yourself all over your body can be like exploring a holy thing–

because it is. It can be a meditation, an expression of mindfulness and embodiment.

Honor your body with loving touches—brush

your hair, brush feathers over your arms, use various self-acupressure

techniques, like EFT; dance, touch your chest, belly, shoulders

with love. Of course, for some people the chest can be a source

of gender dysphoria, so explore what, if anything feels right.

To sum it all up, “touching yourself,” can mean many things.

Main thing is honor your body, let it sing with pleasure

and affirmation and self-affection. It is a holy act of worship

in my mind—the holy act of worshiping your own body–

and you are allowed to feel good. Perhaps give it a try.

 

 

 

 


Ray’s Rays Number 12: On Coming Out, By Radiance Angelina Petro

Ray’s Rays Number 12

On Coming Out

By

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

 

 

The thing about caterpillars is

they make their own shrouds.

They form into a chrysalis and then

dissolve. Slowly, they reconstitute themselves,

until they are ready to reemerge a winged-being.

Making the analogy between butterflies blooming

from cocoons and queer people coming out,

can be instructive. Remember though, the caterpillar state

is perfectly legit, as is the chrysalis phase.

Unlike the caterpillar though, that has a predestined time

when it must open to the sky, people coming out do not.

When National Coming Out Day rolls around, please

do not pressure anyone to come out. Please don’t

pressure yourself to come out. Some queers choose,

and, indeed, need to stay in the closet chrysalis,

and they are no less valid or queer. If someone

is too afraid to come out for whatever the reason

support them. There is no finish line, and no right

or wrong way to come out. You do you. Seek support

if you need/want it. Stay in the closet as long as you want

and/or need. No one can tell you you’re not doing it right,

no one can tell you you’re not being a good activist.

You—and only you—know best, and a good, gender-affirming therapist

can be a huge help in sorting it all out. There needn’t be any

shame in seeking and/or needing/wanting support.

Before leaving this entry, there are couple things to know:

Chrysalis,” comes from the Greek, and means, “golden.”

The word, “Psyche,” also comes from the Greek, and means,

among other things—the soul, breath, spirit. The Greeks

personified Psyche as the Goddess, Eros, who was represented

sometimes as a butterfly. The word, “analysis,” likewise

comes from the Greek, and means, to set free. If you need a therapist

to help you analyze your unique set of circumstances

with regard to coming out, please know, getting help is holy.

Sorting things out with a gender-affirming therapist may help

free the butterfly, the soul, from the golden protective sphere in a safe way. And that

is called, wisdom. Once the butterfly hatches, it is vulnerable

as its wings form and the colors swirl and settle into place.

This is all holy and sacred. Please be gentle and patient with yourself

during this process, and, just as importantly, be gentle and patient

with each other. Learning to fly into an infinite sky

can be terrifying. It’s also full of magick and wonder—and dangers.

So, please come out only at your own time

you dear, wonderful, perfect butterfly.

 

 

 

 


Reflections on Lovemaking, by Radiance Angelina Petro

Reflections on Lovemaking

By

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

Reading a book this afternoon, called, Sexual Ecstasy (hey, why not? Yeah, I mean, I’m basically ace, or demi-sexual, or abstinent by circumstances or perhaps by choice, but I can dream and study and wonder, can’t I?), I am aware how many times the author, Margo Anand, refers to sex as “lovemaking,” one word. When I wasn’t just looking at the pictures, I saw this word, “lovemaking,” a lot.  The more I did, the more I thought.

Can’t anything be love-making—two-words? Can’t walking (silently or chatting) be love-making? Can’t eating together be love-making? Can’t talking into the wee hours of the night be love-making? Can’t reading to one another be love-making? Or reading silently to ourselves in the same room, or serving one another, of easing the suffering of others, of being an activist?

I would say, yes. Love-making, to me, isn’t (shouldn’t) be confined to sexual-intimacy. Of course, it’s totally valid if you view love-making as lovemaking in a sexual sense. Some people, however, have consensual sexual experiences not as a fruit of romantic love, but as friend-love—friends with benefits, so to speak.  Sex doesn’t always have to involve romantic love, or even friendship.  It can be sex work; it can be casual.  Constraining sex to only romantic love limits the possibilities of not only what love can be, but also what sexual experiences can be.  As long as its enthusiastically consensual and safe for everyone involved, and doesn’t involve minors, then have at it.

Love goes both beyond the body and into the body. It can be of your own body and/or include the body of another—a sort of rhythm of inner and outer. It encompasses infinite variations of unfoldment—love between friends, love between monogamous couples, love in poly relationships.  Love unfolds as tenderness, openness, vulnerability, honest communication, deep listening, as well as fun, wildness, quiet calm, ecstatic singing, ecstatic silence, helping others, compassion, kindness, and more.

Further, as I began to reflect on all of this, the question arose: Can any kind of love between people be “made?” If so, what does that mean? Is love like a recipe? Is love like a canvas, clay on a potter’s wheel, a melody of music? It can be.  I mean, it’s legit to think of it as that.  I also like to think that love isn’t “made,” so much as cultivated, but then again, that’s like making love in the sense of creating a garden with someone and/or someone’s. I guess, in this moment, the best way I can express this thought is that perhaps love is just there—everywhere, and when people connect (physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally, life experientially, for a common dream, for laughter-ally, etc.) they are participating in something that already exists.  In other words, it’s more like merging with a hidden-in-plain-sight river, or song, or breath.  Yeah, that’s it.  Love is like air.  When we consciously love it’s like consciously breathing. It’s a sharing, a partaking of the furtherance of the flow of things. It’s a quiet (or wild) celebration of the air, of sunlight, moonlight, holy darkness, of earthiness, of clouds, of the laughter of creation.

In addition, my dear friend, and wonderful writer, Elaine Mansfield, reminds us that creativity in and of itself is love-making. It needn’t involve physical touch or to even be in the same room with someone. Creativity nevertheless reaches out and touches others.  Elaine, speaking of when she’s chasing written inspiration, says:

“I can feel hot on the trail of something when I’m writing–and that’s a kind of love-making for me and it involves “touching” others.”

Not only is writing self-love, it indeed touches the reader even if that reader is hundreds of miles away. For touching goes beyond the physical, beyond the body. And this kind of touching goes with all forms of creativity.  The painter paints, and their work touches us.  A composer composes and their music touches us.  A singer sings and their song touches us.  It is the same with dancers, sculptures, and all other creative love-making.  They make love with us in the most genuine and intimate ways.

Self-love can also encompass self-sexual pleasuring, setting boundaries, practicing holy solitude, self-care, and so on.  Love is just as valid and powerful alone, doing “nothing,” as it can be between people in any kind of consensual, safe relationship paradigm one is a part of.

Someone once said, the purpose of life is to learn to love and be loved.  I think that’s a wondrous idea, but perhaps not the purpose of life (or, at very least, not the only one).  I haven’t a clue, really, what the purpose of life is.  It’s different for everyone and for every relationship.  It also doesn’t need to have a “purpose.”  It can just be—just exist in the experience of existing without attaching a goal to it.

These are some things I thought about today, alone on my Treehouse, wondering whether or not I should delete OKCupid and Tinder, whether I am surrendered to being single, abstinent or ace, or will I keep looking for some kind of relationship.  There is much deconstructing yet to do in my cultural conditioning of what love is, and that it goes beyond romantic love. Keeping in mind the original meaning of “romance” is a story, and adventure.  In that light, life itself is one long romance with the world, and with one’s self, and with others in one form or another. In the end, it simply is what it is, even as it is sometimes touched with sorrow and longing for me.  It’s also flavored with a quiet, growing acceptance of who I am and how my life has unfolded and is unfolding. Love is the here and now at the same time it’s the blossoming of horizon after horizon.  It’s fun to think about–to think about all the manifestations love can be/is, and not just confine it to sexual intimacy, just as light is not confined to the day, just as wisdom is not confined to the mind, just as seeds are not confined to the darkness.

 

 

 

 


Coming Out Day Reflections, 10/11/2020, By Jennifer (Ray) Angelina Petro

Coming Out Day Reflections

10/11/2020

By

Jennifer (Ray) Angelina Petro

 

 

If you didn’t already know—I’m trans, and every time I leave the Treehouse automatically makes the day, no matter what day it is, for better or for worse, Coming Out Day.

There are still private, and little/big moments, when I look at myself in the mirror, and for better or for worse, realize all over again that I’m trans, and there is nothing whatsoever I can do about that even if I wanted to. And that can bring a wild, almost feral joy. It can also bring the oppressive sense of being trapped in a life I did not choose.

There are times when I think back to my initial coming out, and how it smashed my world all to hell, and I regret it–in the sense of wishing it didn’t have to happen. And yet, the truth was/is that I couldn’t NOT come out. When you’re born you’re born, the rest of the world be damned.

I have learned over these past 5 years that my being trans–in my particular case–and, for better or for worse, is only a beginning to the discovering/uncovering of who I am, and there isn’t a finish line to this journey, and the journey is wondrous, terrifying, full of laughter, full of loss, full of gain, full of joy, full of anger, full of shame, full of power, full of gratitude, full of healing and pain, full of possibilities and opportunities, full on the kind of emptiness that is crucial to being a vessel for authenticity and for good.

Coming out, for me, was really more of a coming down–as in descending, incarnating into my body for the first time. It was the embodiment of fire in wood. It was also more of a coming up, as in the cicada nymph having no choice but to allow the light to draw it skyward. And magically, it was also a certain kind of coming in. As the revelation of who I was blossomed into the world, its roots found soil in my heart, and my own self-compassion turned inwards to treasure and protect the truth of me in ways neither you or I will ever fully know.

Coming out was also the acceptance of how powerful I am, how resilient. It was embracing that being a shapeshifter is holy. It was honoring and feeding a ferocity that for too long lay hidden, afraid, and directionless. It was accepting that coming out later in life, for better or for worse, makes me an elder, a crone, a warrior who will fight for the young with my new found claws and teeth.

Coming out has also made my life far more threatening to those around me than it was when I thought I was a cis male. Surrendering male privilege in this society threatens people in strange, outlandish, and very real, dangerous ways.

Know this: if my coming out was a choice I may have very well not come out. I am not that brave, but I have to be now.

My coming out, however, wasn’t a choice. It was, as mentioned above, the giving birth to myself; it was Joseph midwifing me into the world.

The only thing I can control now is how I outwardly present who I am, and how I choose to use the new-found power that lives within me. And sometimes choosing to hide is the wisest, bravest thing I can do.

And even as my wings continue to grow and there are times I can spread them, like an angel, I am very conscious that the more I fly, the more I soar, like a hawk searching for those that would harm the fledglings– the more vulnerable I am to violence, hate, discrimination, and marginalization.

So, while Coming Out Day can be a day of celebration, it can also be a day of reckoning; a day where one’s destiny suddenly unfolds before them, like an unstoppable river. And this can bring joyous freedom and excitement, and it can also bring churning fear of what might happen next. It can also bring a deep sense of inner crisis, isolation, and the need to hunker down for a bit to grow into the truth.

Know this, my blessed allies–Coming Out Day is a very big day indeed with repercussions that will be felt the rest of our lives, and so, we need you. Please continue to make this world safer and safer for people like me and to the young ones coming after. I know you will, because you too, are brave. Please also continue to make the world safer for older trans people like me to come out later in life.

And remember all of you seasoned, professional queers–remember what Coming Out Day was for you, and never forget how scary it can be. Protect each other. Celebrate each other. Remove the gates so gatekeepers have nothing else to do but turn away and grow into better people.

So, there it is. It’s Coming Out Day. I am a transgender woman who presents somewhat non-binary, and uses she/her pronouns. I am, every day, newly born, and, for better or for worse, I am not going anywhere.

 

 

 


 



Silly Geese and Momma Bears: A Playful Look at So-Called Gender Differences, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Silly Geese and Momma Bears:

A Playful Look at So-Called Gender Differences

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

The following is a light-hearted (yet with deadly serious ramifications—especially in today’s world) look at the fallacy of so-called gender identifiers and the even more illusionary “characteristics” of gender as perceived by people (henceforth referred to as Silly Goose, or SGM for “males;” SGF’s for Silly Goose “females,” (sorry to use the tired binary system—it’s just for the sake of this post); and I will refer to them collectively, as Silly Geese, or SG, for short) who

1). Believe there are only two genders— “male” and “female,”

2). Believe that the only two genders are “opposite,”

3). Believe the two genders can ultimately be defined by genitals and personality traits.

 

It should be pointed out at the onset that I too am a Silly Goose Female, but of a much more pleasant, fabulous, and glittery variety.

Some of what is said in this little romp are actual statements people have made to me (henceforth referred to as Fabulous Unicorn Glitter Rainbow Queen, or FUGRQ for short) while trying to disprove my existence a transwoman.

Please note: any information herein is meant to be humorously educational and if it offends may you be nibbled to death by gazelles.  And now back to the exchange.

 

SGF: How do you know you’re female?

FUGRQ: How so you know you’re female?

SGF: I asked you first.

FURGQ: And the first shall be last.  We’ll get to my answer later.

SGF: There are clear-God-ordained differences between males and females.

FUGRQ: That’s an opinion, but back to my question.

 

[Please note I am not going to use quotation marks around words like, “male,” “female,”” tough,” or “womanly,” for the remainder of this post. I realize I just did, but that was purely for example’s sake. The overuse of quotation marks dampens their otherwise enormous powers of making sure you understand what I “actually” mean.  I have the fullest confidence that your brain will automatically insert quotation marks around the words that need them, thus saving me from having to hit “shift,” before hitting the quotation mark key. Damn.]

 

SGF: Well, I just feel…womanly.

FUGRQ: OK.  What does feeling womanly feel like?

SGF: It feels…feminine.

FUGRQ: What does feeling feminine feel like?

SGF: Well, I feel nurturing as a female.

FUGRQ: Have you ever met, seen, or interacted with a nurturing male?

SGF: Um…. yes, I suppose.

FUGRQ: Then the quality of being nurturing is a genderless quality?

SGF: Well, female nurturing is softer and gentler.

FUGRQ: Ever heard of Mr. Rogers? Or, Bob Ross, or, say: Jimmy Stewart?

SGF: There are exceptions, yes.

FUGRQ: Those exceptions are actually proof that being nurturing is a genderless quality, and thus cannot define gender.  Give me another example.

SGF: Females are more emotional than males, they cry more easily.

FURGQ: Ever heard of Cal Ripken, Lou Gehrig, Jon Stewart, Abraham Lincoln?  They all cried, as did many a Philadelphia male when the Eagles won the Superbowl.

SGF: As I said, there are exceptions—some males are more sensitive than others.

FURGQ: Those exceptions are actually proof that being emotional, or crying easily, is a genderless quality and thus cannot define gender.

 

Here is a conversation between an SGM and myself:

 

SGM: How do you know you’re female?

FUGRQ: How do you know you’re male? What is your inner experience of that like?

SGM: Well, I feel…masculine.

FUGRQ: What does that feel like?

SGM [puffing out chest]: Well, I feel manly.

FUGRQ: OK, what does that feel like?

SGM: [unable to keep chest puffed out more than a few seconds, it sinks back to regular chest settings]: Well, I’m a protector of children.

FUGRQ: Ever heard how mother bears protect her cubs, or how Sojourner Truth or Mother Theresa protected children, or how Pink protects her children?

SGM: Well, there are exceptions to the rule.

FUGRQ: Rule?  You’ve just seen that being protective is a genderless quality.

SGM: Well, I know I’m male because I’m tough. [SG puffs out chest again.]

FURGQ: Well, what about the aforementioned mother bear, or the likes of Kathrine Switzer, Venus and Serena Williams, Rosa Parks?

SGM: As I said, there are exceptions to the rule [chest sinks back in].

FURGQ: It boils down to toughness—physically and mentally—is a genderless quality, and therefore cannot define gender.

SGM: Whatever.

FURGQ: So then, what is the actual difference between males and females?

SG: Here’s proof of the difference between males and females you can’t dispute—males have a penis and release sperm and woman have a vagina and release eggs.

FURGQ: So, it comes down to body parts?

SG: Yes.  You can’t deny that one.

FURGQ: What about sterile males and infertile females are they still males and females?

SG: Those are disorders.

FURGQ: But you still consider them as defining characteristics of male and female?

SG: Yes, of course.

FURGQ: So, then, ultimately bodily functions can’t define gender. What about intersex people or the so-called-not-really-used-anymore-word: hermaphrodites?

SG: Again, there are exceptions that are considered disorders.

FURGQ: Hmm. What if a male loses his penis in a horrible accident or a woman has her vulva damaged in some way? Is the male still male or the female still female?

SG: Yes, because accidents happen.

FURGQ: I’ll give you that both sperm and egg are required to make little humans, but those ingredients can produce both little male and females, isn’t that interesting? And just because sperm come from one type of body and eggs from another doesn’t actually make two genders—it makes differently made bodies.  Both have arms, legs, eyeballs, ears, toes, and so on.  You’re saying the ONLY body parts that define males and females are genitals and their bodily functions?

SG [smugly]: Yes, that’s the truth.

FURGQ: OK, well, we’ve seen that either body can have different genitals, so, when it comes down to it, bodies don’t explain the inner experience or the feeling of being male or female. Despite bodily varieties there is no actual way to define what it feels like to be male or female.

SG: Yes, that’s what we’re saying.  We just KNOW.

FURGQ: And so, you go around KNOWING you’re males and females because you’re constantly—so-to-speak—feeling your genitals?

SG [looking at one another then turning back to me]: No, not necessarily.

FURGQ: So, genitals do not make you experience on a soul-level-a consciousness level, that you’re male or female?

SG: We suppose not, but still…

FURGQ: Still what?

SG: Feelings and inner experiences are subjective and not necessarily true.

FURGQ: Really, so your inner experiences don’t count either?

SG: Well, it’s in the Bible.

FURGQ: Ah, I wondered when that book would eek into the conversation. There’s no way for me to really argue with people who believe that one book—out of the gazillion books ever written—is the whole truth and nothing but the truth despite science, and verses like Isiah 53: 3-5 where God says eunuchs shall be given names greater than men or woman? Or how Jesus treated everyone as if their gender didn’t matter in the least?

SG: Never heard of the Isiah passage.

FURGQ: Ah.  What about Jeremiah 1:5?  If you deny an infinite variety of bodies exist, then God must make mistakes.  You must believe people born blind or short or tall or deaf are mistakes.

SG: God doesn’t make mistakes.  People born handicapped are due to human genetic abnormalities.

FURGQ: I prefer the term, “differently born,” because that includes everyone—since we’re all born with different bodies.  But aren’t those genetic issues ordained by Divine Providence?

SG: Now we’re getting into theological debate, and there’s no sense in that.

FURGQ: Agreed. Disputing the Bible’s so-called infallibility is futile, not because it’s right, but because your minds are indoctrinated with what you believe to be true, and everyone knows that beliefs aren’t facts.

SG: The Bible is God’s actual word.

FURGQ: As I said, there’s no way I can argue with your ingrained beliefs, I shouldn’t have tried, so let’s return to the human body, which you so ardently believe defines a particular gender.

SG: OK.  Let’s.  Everyone knows females don’t have facial hair or deep voices or adam’s apples.

FURGQ: On the contrary , there are females with beards and facial hair of varying amounts, plus most other mammals, like the afore-aforementioned bear–no-matter what genitals it is born with–have hair (well, fur).  So then, body hair is a genderless quality and can’t define gender.  And by the way, I wouldn’t go around asking bears to spread their legs so you can think you’ve decided what gender they are based on what you find.

SG: OK, fine, but what about the male’s deep voices or adam’s apples?

FURGQ: What about Mae West, Kathleen Turner, Angelina Jolie? They have deep voices.

SG: There are exceptions too.

FURGQ: At the end of the day, the sound and timber of someone’s voice does not define male and female. And as far as the adam’s apple, anyone can have one.  Just because some bodies have bigger ones than others doesn’t make theirs’ male and the other female. Sandra Bullock, Meg Ryan, and Halle Berry can all be said to have large adam’s apples.

SG: Well, females can nurse babies and men can’t.

FURGQ: We’ve already seen that body parts do not define gender itself—they may be associated with bodily functions and made-made words—but those words and functions referring to various body parts don’t define gender.  It’s what’s inside that counts—the inner experience or feeling of being the gender you know yourself to be.  So, I will ask my original question: What is your inner experience of being a particular gender—not reliant on the outer forms of the body?  What does it feel like to be who you are?

SG: We just know, that’s all.  We just know.

FURGQ: And that’s my answer to your original question. I told you we’d get to it eventually.

SG: Whatever.  We won this little debate [the SG’s walk away with their chests puffed out and their chins pointed high].

“Love your neighbor as yourself,” I call out as they strut away, but they are too far out of range to hear, which would be the case no matter the distance from where we stood.

 

 

                                     

 

 


 


 

 

 

 

 

 


Musings on Prayers and Kisses, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Musings on Prayers and Kisses

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Trying to pray with your eyes open is like trying to walk with your eyes closed. One distracts you, the other confuses you, but the end result is the same—clumsiness.  Trying to kiss with your eyes open is more an act of will and wide-eyed-giggling than it is: “I must see where my face is going.” Lips know.  The soul knows. The feet do not without aid of the eyes.  Then again, it must be considered not all prayers are the same, just as not all kisses are the same. And I must say at the beginning, I am musing along with you as I write these words.  The ideas herein are like the aforementioned legs without eyes to guide them.  I do have certain experience, albeit limited, with both kissing and praying, but I am roaming these topics of heaven-given moments with as much anticipation as you to see where they lead.

One can kiss a lover, friend, or a child “Good morning—have a good day”—with eyes open (perhaps, however, while staring at the coffee maker or the clock).  One can kiss a lover with eyes open—wild, seeing everything—following the other’s eyes like search lights, but that’s usually at first contact—when clothes are dropping off ready bodies, like swollen seed-husks falling from blossoming flowers. Eventually the eyes close and you both connect, like living magnets, and both exhale–surrendering into that intimate vulnerability of having someone ornament your body with decorating kisses. We have an interesting distinction here: eyes open during the initial flurry of passion, then eyes close when things settle in a pulsing rhythm of bodies, and the feast of lips tasting lips.  Then, one begins exploring the other’s body with kisses as the other’s eyes close in deep, rising and sinking sighs.  And when the lips find the places where rapture happens both lovers’ eyes close. That being said, it’s not uncommon for the one receiving to have their eyes fly open with: “Oh God! Oh God!”  When the sweet release comes, and the waves shimmer through the body, the eyes most often close like the deepest, most calming, evening.  And when the lovers switch places, the process unfolds, with any luck, the same way.

Prayer is very much the same, only different.  So is singing, but that’s another essay.  In praying, as in nighttime prayers (that often slip so easily into sleep), the eyes close to shroud the whispers that kiss the dark.  Morning prayers too are most often said with eyes closed, head bowed before the body of the day. Of course, there are those prayers where the whole body participates, as when the sea rolls through your body during love making.  Dancing prayers, yogic prayers, walking prayers, making coffee for your partner prayers—these are all eyes-open prayers—even if your eyes are drooping with not enough sleep. There are vigil prayers when candles are meditated upon, and lives gone are reflected upon, and hopes for peace rise to the sky. During vespers, the eyes can be open or closed, as the prayers wish for safe sleep and warmth.  Then, there are prayers we pray for someone else—someone sick or struggling through a rough patch—these prayers are almost always asked with eyes closed in supplication and intensity, as when we humbly, or boldly ask a lover to kiss us in the places we want kissed.  There are prayers of wonder, as when we see stars and newborn babies and sunsets and moon rises.  These are prayed with gasps and awes, as when your lover’s lips find the tingling places on your body—eyes suddenly open with surprise and reverence.  There are rote prayers where the eyes automatically close because everyone else’s automatically close and if you sneak your eyes open and scan the room full of closed-eyed people you feel a sprinkle mischievous and a dash voyeuristic, and perhaps a pinch of outright rebel.  These are moments akin to opening one eye during a kiss to catch the reaction of your lover.  Both are perfectly acceptable, of course, for they inspire the fun of witnessing community and union, provided the eyes aren’t opening in either case with insecurity to check whether or not you’re kissing well or praying with the proper piety. Hopefully, however, there are very few rote kisses in your lives. There are prayers of prophecy—spontaneous and unplanned like wild, ravishing kisses predicting soon to come release. Your eyes are always open during these prayers while your lover’s are usually closed with faith and the sweet, blessed, little fear that sometimes accompanies letting go to the control of another. There are also the prayers of grace and blessings before a meal, which can easily be translated into prayers of gratitude before feasting at the table of your lover’s body. Lastly, there are prayers of ecstasy, when your eyes close seeing lights and visions, and the soul stirs awake and bliss shimmers through your entire body, and exclamations of: “Oh God, Oh God!” soar around the room.  We don’t have to imagine too hard to know which kisses these are like and where they settle and deepen and what the eyes do when such rapture happens.

Well, there we have it.  I truly had no idea where this was going.  Now that we’re drawing to a close (or a curious, intriguing opening) it is my hope this meandering piece inspires you to kiss more reverently and to pray with more wildness; to kiss with more attention and devotion, and to pray with more openness to revelation; to kiss more adventurously and to pray more like the trees must pray, like the sea must pray, like the shore must pray, like a hawk gliding on spiraling currents must pray, like the mother bear awakening with cubs must pray, like the owl must pray keeping watch over fields and marshes.  In other words, may our prayers and kisses become one and the same, where Lover and Beloved become one and the same–one breath, one sparkling river, one song of praise.

 

     

 

 


 




Trauma Returning, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Trauma Returning

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

It’s there, outside my window. I’m standing still looking out into the dark yard. It’s there, by the early-frost-eaten-fallow garden. It moves, like a loosened piece of the night. It might be human. It might be a walking tree. It is most likely another monster. It leans towards the shed, lurching forward, it’s face sideways watching me as it goes. It’s also inside the house—coming down the hall to my bedroom door. I could crawl under the bed. I could hide behind the clothes in my closet. Outside, it turns fully towards my house and is at my bedroom window in one great, terrible stride. It crosses the threshold into my bedroom. My heart strains to not burst into pieces. I can’t breathe. There is nowhere to hide. They’ve found me again. They always were going to find me again—from within and without. I shut my eyes, clamp my mouth closed as tightly as I can. And then it happens. My body is no longer my own, and years of my life disappear into the ceiling and up, out into the late summer night never to be seen again.