the reason I got married

Graduating from college and not finding a professional position is enough to knock both feet out from under anyone. I fell flat on my back, completely disconcerted and eventually depressed.

Living in Buffalo, most of my friends lived 900 miles away and most of my family lay 700 miles farther than that. I cut my world into strips and tied them all around Zach. Whenever he left on a long weekend for his job, my world fell to the floor like a pile of rags. I had an unhealthy dependence.

On October 21st, 2009, Zach received an email from his boss, stating that I needed to move out immediately. Zach worked for a church, so it makes sense. Obviously a woman couldn't live with the youth minister unless they were married. I should have expected something like that.

In good light, that email was written out of sincere concern for the kids in Zach's youth group and the example he was setting. But turn off the lamp and you can see the shadows (of judgment, condemnation, and meddling in people's personal lives).

The day after the eviction notice via email, we got married.

It started out with a "we're stickin' it to the man" sort of energy and ended up with me sobbing out my vows at the courthouse in Cleveland, Ohio. I love Zach. I have never regretted marrying him. But I still cringe when people ask me why we got married after only dating for six months.

Last week I had a long conversation with a good friend of mine. He works for the biggest peace lobbyist on Capital Hill. He has dedicated his life to peacemaking, creating a fair and balanced world, serving those in need, and working to end poverty. He is one of the people I admire most in life.

This friend of mine got engaged in July and a month later, when he was still glowing with happiness about his engagement, he received a phone call from a church apostle. His priesthood is under review by the presidency of the church. Waves of anger and sadness washed over me when he told me this. I knew the only reason he received that call was because of the gender of his fiance. My mind started screaming, "Oh really? Well, great! Of course now that they know he's in a balanced, supportive, and loving relationship, certainly they would question his ability to minister to people. His sexuality obviously invalidates all of his Christ-like qualities. Why didn't I think of that?"

I'm just so done.

Done with politics,

the condemning emails and phone calls,

the "Priesthood Club" for exclusive members only...

If people believe in a loving god,

why don't churches reflect that?

five women

Once upon a time
five women ran.

Up
down
around
Green hills on a golf course.

Nothing between
their skin
and the moonlight.
Chains of society
stashed under a tree.

Once upon a time
five women danced.

Bare-skinned.
Beautiful.

Some felt nervous
others felt shy...
Soon the fear melted.

All twirling and singing
loving and being

no judging
no hating
no condemning
no scrutinizing
no rejecting
no I'm fat
no worrying about size or shape
no lying about beauty

All loving sisters
teaching lessons
about how the world should be.

Sharing skin with the stars
and joyfully enfolding
the universe in a bear hug.

Once upon a time
five women became

ancestral journey

Last time my brother was in Oregon, he stole a box of cassette tapes from my dad's closet. Twenty-two tapes which contain the voice of my grandfather from an interview done by my father when he was 18. The tapes were lost for years. When the box finally re-surfaced, the astronomical cost to convert the tapes to digital files made the project impossible.

My brother wanted to do it for my dad's 50th birthday on October 29th but he didn't have the tools or the funds for it. Fortunately, at this wonderful establishment of higher education where I work, in a small corner of the library, a mac lab sits with all the equipment necessary to convert the tapes- for free!

So here I sit, tucked away in a quiet corner, listening to the stories of my grandfather's life. Hours walking hand-in-hand with this deep gravely voice, re-living the life of a man who died six years ago.

It makes me feel somewhat insignificant. This man's death seemed to shatter the world for my family. My dad fell apart in a way I've never seen. Two thousand one hundred and nineteen days have passed since he died and the story of his life doesn't get told very often anymore. And that makes sense. You can't use all your time sitting around and thinking about the lives of the people who have already died. You have your own life to live!

I don't ever tell the story of the man who was my grandfather's dad. I didn't know him. He has never directly affected my present moment. For some reason that makes me feel extraneous. Within two generations, almost everything about my life will be completely inconsequential. Sometimes I feel like that matters and sometimes I feel like it doesn't.

Right now I'm at the part in the story where my grandpa's plane got shot down right outside of Munich during WWII. He was free falling through the clouds when the 9th tape ended. I didn't have time to record another hour but I listened to the first five minutes of the next tape. He pulled his parachute and when it opened, it snapped his boots clean off his feet. The wind blew him over a few smaller German villages as he lost altitude and he began to see Germans running after him with pitchforks and clubs. I absolutely had to leave right at the point that he hit a tree, fell to the ground, and could see men, women, and children through the woods, all spread out in a line looking for him.

I have embarked
on an ancestral journey
with a man whom I loved
but am just beginning to truly know.

His stories enchant me.
His country accent and grammar enamor me.
Understanding him helps me understand
my father
and maybe
parts of myself.

I am a woman.

Today I am flat-out fed-up with women.

I usually like to paint myself in colors of:

fair

understanding

impartial

tolerant

open-minded

forgiving

receptive

nondiscriminatory

but today I am not those things.

Today I am sexist.

How many roommate conflicts have I (or my student staff)

had to resolve since September?

About twenty-five.

How many of those conflicts were between men?

Zero.

Sure the guys sometimes pee in the elevators.

Or put on their rollerblades and play hockey in the hallways.

But I would take those things any day

over the mountain of women

clawing at each others hearts

shredding each others self esteem

ripping up each others door decorations

bashing each other on facebook

screaming in each others faces

and talking behind each others backs.

I know I'm being unfair.

Out of the 200 women who live in this building,

the 25 loudest voices fill my ears

the 25 most angry emails fill my inbox

the 25 worst insults are repeated

by sobbing women

who fill my office chairs.

I am a woman

and my heart breaks for us.

At least once a month we act like crazy people

and get angry or cry for almost no reason at all.

We feel hurt by things that were never meant to be hurtful.

Emotions move underneath us like the ocean,

we rise and fall helplessly.

Today my well went dry.

I lowered the bucket

and it came back empty.

I used my last few drops of compassion

but I needed more.

I became angry

and wrote angry things

about angry women!

My words dissipated my anger

and the spaces in between formed compassion

that rained down

and filled my well.

I am a woman

who allows herself to feel anything

but always hopes to arrive back

at compassion

love

understanding

and open-mindedness.