Today is the 5th annual "Blog for Choice" day. Although I'm not officially involved—after all, abortion is legal where I live, and access to it is not generally impeded by financial considerations—I thought I'd offer my thoughts about why I'm pro-choice.
Because you know what? I am pro-choice, though not explicitly pro-abortion. I'm pro-choice because I believe that nobody has a right to define what a woman can and cannot do with her own body. I'm pro-choice because I believe that no woman should be forced to bear a child if she does not want to do so, whether her reasons are physical or mental. I'm pro-choice because I know that history shows that in times when abortions are illegal, women who want or even need them can and will find ways to have them anyway. The richer ones will simply travel to someplace where it is legal, if they can; the poorer ones will risk long-term damage or disease—or perhaps even death—and possible prosecution via a "back-alley abortion".
I'm pro-choice because I believe that women are capable of making logical, rational decisions about their own health and lives, and no anti-choice rhetoric about "abortion stops a beating heart", "your baby could grow up to be the next Great Leader of the World" or even the old favourite, "what if your mother had decided to abort you?" is going to change my mind. Even for women who can access good health care, pregnancy and childbirth are not without their dangers, particularly for women who have long-term illnesses or injuries. And the healing process after the birth, whether the baby was born vaginally or though a C-section, can be difficult—something which is no doubt exacerbated by the fact that maternity leave is inhumanely short in most places. No woman should be forced to go through pregnancy and childbirth if she doesn't want to. I trust women to be able to decide whether it's a good idea for them to have children.
I have always been pro-choice, even in the days when I was devoutly Catholic. It's one of the biggest beefs that I still have with my former Church, and part of one of the reasons why I left it all those years ago—their disrespectful and condescending attitude towards women. It's not up to anyone to make a woman's health care decisions for her unless she is incapable of doing so herself, and I believe that reproductive health care is no exception to this. Furthermore, I believe that anyone who seeks to rob women of the right to make their own decisions about whether or not to have an abortion is barely a step away from deciding that women are incapable of making other logical and rational decisions—just look at the case of Samantha Burton, a Florida woman who was forced into bed rest when she showed signs of miscarriage. Although she had to hold down a job and take care of two toddlers, she was confined to a hospital bed and ordered by the state courts (acting on a tip from her doctor, who notified them before she had a chance to seek a second opinion) to submit to any and all treatments ordered by her doctor, who claimed to be acting on the fetus' best interests. They even refused to let her move to another hospital. The only thing that saved her from being stuck there for fifteen weeks was that three days later she had to have an emergency C-section; when they performed it, they found that the fetus was dead.
I am not explicitly pro-abortion, because I don't think that I would ever have one myself unless my life was in some way endangered by pregnancy—say, for example, that implantation took place in one of my fallopian tubes rather than in my uterus. Ectopic pregnancies can be deadly. But though I probably wouldn't have an abortion myself, I do not believe that other women should be forced by law to make the same decision that I would make should I find myself (very) unexpectedly pregnant. I believe that no choices should be forced—forced choices aren't really choices at all. I believe that women have the right to decide whether or not to have children. I believe that women should have control over what happens to our own bodies.
I believe in trusting women to make the right choice—and in the concept that "the right choice" in this matter will not always be the same for every woman. This is why I am pro-choice, and why I doubt I'll ever cease to be. Women, by and large, are not stupid creatures who need to be led down "the right path" by other people who think they know what's best for us.
In Virginia, people can order specialty license plates that say "Trust Women, Trust Choice." These aren't empty words; they are the best possible advice that one could hear in any debate about abortion. Trust women. We're the ones who have to live with our bodies and what goes on in them. Trust choice. Most women are actually pretty smart, and most of us are capable of making logical and rational decisions, despite society's opinion that we're a slave to our hormones and our emotions. The possibility that we might regret it later on is not an adequate reason to deny us the choice in the first place; for most people, life is full of choices. Some are good, some are bad, most are in between; we don't even always get to know the result of the choices we've made right away. That's the nature of choice, and the risk that we take when we make any choice. Abortion, in my mind, is no different except that it's been blown up to such a ridiculously large scale. But I trust women, and I trust in our ability to make choices.
And in the end, that is why I'm pro-choice.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
On Rebuilding a Community
Last week, a minor disaster struck.
I'm not downplaying what happened in Haiti; I'd certainly never call it a "minor" disaster and I'm still trying to sort out my thoughts about that, particularly because it turns out that some people I know and care about have a very personal connection to the earthquake, having lost a young relative to it. Perhaps I'll write about that at another time, but for now, I'm going to be talking about something that occurred in my personal life early last week.
Without getting into too many personally-identifying details, last week a message board I posted at regularly was destroyed by somebody, apparently in (as Inspector Clouseau once said) "a rit of fealous jage". Whether or not the jealousy was justified, I cannot say—I don't think it's really any of my business, anyhow—but because the person who destroyed the board had access to an administrator's name and password, the end result was the obliteration of nearly two years' worth of memories, fun and even some creative work. At first glance, it seems a bit odd to be calling the end of an online community a "disaster"; after all, very few of us have ever met in real life. But, as much as I can say this of people I've met online and don't expect to ever see face-to-face, I have considered them to be friends. The destruction of our little online "home" was met with shock and anger—not at the people whose alleged behaviour was the excuse for doing this, but at the vindictive little twerp who decided that because we were part of the same community as these people, we deserved to be punished as well.
I know this because many of us had added each other as friends on Facebook, and because (rather fortunately) the owner of the boards that were destroyed had never given up her admin privileges and was able to put up a couple of messages to us, give us a place to vent about what happened and a place to decide where to go from there. She wasn't interested in rebuilding her own board, but many of us felt that a new board would be a welcome thing. So because nobody else actually seemed to be putting a board together, I did it; I had a lot of spare time that day. It's been slow taking off—I think a lot of us are probably still in a minor state of shock over our old discussion board being gone—but somehow, I think it'll be all right. We have this place for discussion when we want it, and most of us are in touch in other places.
So here we are, almost a week later; besides occasional minor moments of faint panic because I know practically nothing about being a board administrator, I've often found myself thinking about our response to what happened. The people who were accused of a certain type of bad behaviour have been relatively silent; one has said very little to any of us, and the other has left a message with someone who did make the move to the new board saying that they weren't going to join and that they feel very bad about what happened. Some people were disappointed by these two; one even said that she felt betrayed somehow. My own opinion is that they really should have known better if it's true, but in the end, it's really all the fault of the person who decided to punish all of us for the transgressions of only two people. It really is amazing at how durable online friendships can be if they're nurtured in the right way. When I saw the destruction of the board, my first thought wasn't for the discussions we'd lost. It was for the potential breaking of our little community. It started with discussions on another site about a mutual favourite TV show; when the rules over at the first site became too rigid to allow real conversation, somebody set up our board, where off-topic discussions were frequent but always ended up straying back to the original point somehow. Sometimes we'd come to each other with our problems and complaints, and even when no solutions were offered, sympathy was always forthcoming. We had fun teasing each other, and overall, it was a friendly, safe community. When the board was destroyed, I was afraid that the community would be, too. But most of the regulars seem interested in keeping in touch, and in the past week I've come to have faith that because many of the people who were at the old board are now at the new one, we'll be able to build something like it there, if we put the time and effort in.
I'm not sure where I want to go with this reflection. Mostly I'm surprised—and pleased—that we're not going to give up our community without an effort to keep it together. That asshole destroyed our old forum. But however hard they tried, they couldn't destroy the community, and I think that the best revenge that we could possibly have is to keep in touch and not let that nasty little louse tear us all apart.
I'm not downplaying what happened in Haiti; I'd certainly never call it a "minor" disaster and I'm still trying to sort out my thoughts about that, particularly because it turns out that some people I know and care about have a very personal connection to the earthquake, having lost a young relative to it. Perhaps I'll write about that at another time, but for now, I'm going to be talking about something that occurred in my personal life early last week.
Without getting into too many personally-identifying details, last week a message board I posted at regularly was destroyed by somebody, apparently in (as Inspector Clouseau once said) "a rit of fealous jage". Whether or not the jealousy was justified, I cannot say—I don't think it's really any of my business, anyhow—but because the person who destroyed the board had access to an administrator's name and password, the end result was the obliteration of nearly two years' worth of memories, fun and even some creative work. At first glance, it seems a bit odd to be calling the end of an online community a "disaster"; after all, very few of us have ever met in real life. But, as much as I can say this of people I've met online and don't expect to ever see face-to-face, I have considered them to be friends. The destruction of our little online "home" was met with shock and anger—not at the people whose alleged behaviour was the excuse for doing this, but at the vindictive little twerp who decided that because we were part of the same community as these people, we deserved to be punished as well.
I know this because many of us had added each other as friends on Facebook, and because (rather fortunately) the owner of the boards that were destroyed had never given up her admin privileges and was able to put up a couple of messages to us, give us a place to vent about what happened and a place to decide where to go from there. She wasn't interested in rebuilding her own board, but many of us felt that a new board would be a welcome thing. So because nobody else actually seemed to be putting a board together, I did it; I had a lot of spare time that day. It's been slow taking off—I think a lot of us are probably still in a minor state of shock over our old discussion board being gone—but somehow, I think it'll be all right. We have this place for discussion when we want it, and most of us are in touch in other places.
So here we are, almost a week later; besides occasional minor moments of faint panic because I know practically nothing about being a board administrator, I've often found myself thinking about our response to what happened. The people who were accused of a certain type of bad behaviour have been relatively silent; one has said very little to any of us, and the other has left a message with someone who did make the move to the new board saying that they weren't going to join and that they feel very bad about what happened. Some people were disappointed by these two; one even said that she felt betrayed somehow. My own opinion is that they really should have known better if it's true, but in the end, it's really all the fault of the person who decided to punish all of us for the transgressions of only two people. It really is amazing at how durable online friendships can be if they're nurtured in the right way. When I saw the destruction of the board, my first thought wasn't for the discussions we'd lost. It was for the potential breaking of our little community. It started with discussions on another site about a mutual favourite TV show; when the rules over at the first site became too rigid to allow real conversation, somebody set up our board, where off-topic discussions were frequent but always ended up straying back to the original point somehow. Sometimes we'd come to each other with our problems and complaints, and even when no solutions were offered, sympathy was always forthcoming. We had fun teasing each other, and overall, it was a friendly, safe community. When the board was destroyed, I was afraid that the community would be, too. But most of the regulars seem interested in keeping in touch, and in the past week I've come to have faith that because many of the people who were at the old board are now at the new one, we'll be able to build something like it there, if we put the time and effort in.
I'm not sure where I want to go with this reflection. Mostly I'm surprised—and pleased—that we're not going to give up our community without an effort to keep it together. That asshole destroyed our old forum. But however hard they tried, they couldn't destroy the community, and I think that the best revenge that we could possibly have is to keep in touch and not let that nasty little louse tear us all apart.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
A Sudden Burst of Insight
As you might guess from looking at the link lists on the side of this page, I spend a lot of time reading (and sometimes speaking up) in the world of feminist blogging. You may even have found this blog through clicking on my name at Feministing, perhaps out of an urge to see what sort of verbal and philosophical train wrecks I cause in my own space. ;) Anyway, every so often there's a discussion of the most recent rectal haberdashery* perpetrated by various Christians, whether it's protests outside of a clinic that provides abortions, a sexual abuse scandal, more misogynistic tripe from the Vatican or the latest hate-mongering by the Phelps crew. A lot of these discussions tend to involve people who are atheists or members of other faiths, some (many?) of whom are ex-Christians. A lot of the time, they express anger towards Christians and Christianity in general. (I can understand this. I was angry at Christianity for several years myself—in fact, for some reasons, I still am.) And sometimes when an openly-Christian member of these communities comments on these discussion threads and they indicate that what's happened has upset them too, and that the anger that the non-Christians are expressing towards Christianity is hurting them as well, they're told to check their privilege and listen to the people who've really been hurt by whatever these Christians have done.
Just to be clear, I don't think it's done in bad faith; I think it's an understandable reaction by members of a less-privileged group to a perceived display of privilege by members of a privileged group. But although I've long understood the importance of checking one's privilege, this has bothered me for a long time. I wasn't sure why until this afternoon, but then suddenly it came to me.
It bothers me because when those Christians do hurtful things, they hurt me, too, and the Christian privilege I have from being Christo-Pagan doesn't shield me from it, and not just because of the Pagan part of my spirituality. Yet because of the Christian part of my spiritual identity and the privilege it entails—even if it's not as pronounced for Canadians as it is for our Neighbours-Mostly-to-the-South—if I say anything at all, I have to be very careful not to be one of those people whose posts, however phrased, mean something like "Oh, but we're not all like that, most of us are good people and I don't see why you're being so mean to all of us Good Christian Believers". That isn't what bothers me, though; there's nothing wrong with watching what you say in order to not offend people and make yourself into some sort of "wounded saint" who delights in seeing yourself as being persecuted. What bothers me is that acknowledging that Christians—or, in my case, Christo-Pagans—can also be hurt by the destructive actions of other Christians is too easily interpreted as a privileged person making the discussion "all about them" instead of discussing the thing that's happened. The line between authentic hurt and revealed privilege is sometimes very difficult to see.
The thing is, the world isn't divided into categories named "Christians" and "People Hurt By Christians". Hatred of LGBTQ (etc.) people, when expressed by Christians, hurts me—and several of my friends, some of whom come from various Christian denominations themselves—because we belong to one or more of the groups in the short or long acronym. Because I'm a woman, anti-abortion activists hurt me although I don't think I'd have an abortion unless my life was threatened by a pregnancy I doubt I'll ever have in the first place; they hurt me because they want to control what I can and cannot do with my own body.
And to be told that we're not among the people hurt by these Christians is, quite frankly, a slap in the face when we need support as much as any other person hurt by those people's actions. Far be it for me to suggest that we're being silenced—I can't believe that because the Christian perspective on most things is as easily found, even in Canada, as the male perspective is—but by treating us as nothing more than unthinking (and easily-offended) pieces of a monolithic and atrociously malicious whole, nobody's best interests are being served.
When it's necessary, remind us to check our privilege, by all means. Even the best intentions are often obscured by the filter of privilege, even if the person who has it has examined it and is trying not to let it get in the way of them being a decent person. Privilege is one of the worst excuses in the world for being an asshole. But don't assume that just because we've got something significant in common with the people who've hurt you, that means we haven't been hurt by them too.
Incidentally, just for fun, try switching the word "Christian" for the name of any other privileged group and many of my points here will probably stand.
---,--'--@ ---'--,--@ ---,--'--@
Just to be clear, I don't think it's done in bad faith; I think it's an understandable reaction by members of a less-privileged group to a perceived display of privilege by members of a privileged group. But although I've long understood the importance of checking one's privilege, this has bothered me for a long time. I wasn't sure why until this afternoon, but then suddenly it came to me.
It bothers me because when those Christians do hurtful things, they hurt me, too, and the Christian privilege I have from being Christo-Pagan doesn't shield me from it, and not just because of the Pagan part of my spirituality. Yet because of the Christian part of my spiritual identity and the privilege it entails—even if it's not as pronounced for Canadians as it is for our Neighbours-Mostly-to-the-South—if I say anything at all, I have to be very careful not to be one of those people whose posts, however phrased, mean something like "Oh, but we're not all like that, most of us are good people and I don't see why you're being so mean to all of us Good Christian Believers". That isn't what bothers me, though; there's nothing wrong with watching what you say in order to not offend people and make yourself into some sort of "wounded saint" who delights in seeing yourself as being persecuted. What bothers me is that acknowledging that Christians—or, in my case, Christo-Pagans—can also be hurt by the destructive actions of other Christians is too easily interpreted as a privileged person making the discussion "all about them" instead of discussing the thing that's happened. The line between authentic hurt and revealed privilege is sometimes very difficult to see.
The thing is, the world isn't divided into categories named "Christians" and "People Hurt By Christians". Hatred of LGBTQ (etc.) people, when expressed by Christians, hurts me—and several of my friends, some of whom come from various Christian denominations themselves—because we belong to one or more of the groups in the short or long acronym. Because I'm a woman, anti-abortion activists hurt me although I don't think I'd have an abortion unless my life was threatened by a pregnancy I doubt I'll ever have in the first place; they hurt me because they want to control what I can and cannot do with my own body.
And to be told that we're not among the people hurt by these Christians is, quite frankly, a slap in the face when we need support as much as any other person hurt by those people's actions. Far be it for me to suggest that we're being silenced—I can't believe that because the Christian perspective on most things is as easily found, even in Canada, as the male perspective is—but by treating us as nothing more than unthinking (and easily-offended) pieces of a monolithic and atrociously malicious whole, nobody's best interests are being served.
When it's necessary, remind us to check our privilege, by all means. Even the best intentions are often obscured by the filter of privilege, even if the person who has it has examined it and is trying not to let it get in the way of them being a decent person. Privilege is one of the worst excuses in the world for being an asshole. But don't assume that just because we've got something significant in common with the people who've hurt you, that means we haven't been hurt by them too.
Incidentally, just for fun, try switching the word "Christian" for the name of any other privileged group and many of my points here will probably stand.
---,--'--@ ---'--,--@ ---,--'--@
*I don't recall who first used this phrase, but I suspect that it might be someone from Shakesville.
Friday, December 18, 2009
There are times when all that I can say is "ROFLMAO"!
So an Anglican church in New Zealand has managed to stir up a little controversy with a billboard. I laughed very hard when I saw the picture of it in the article I've linked to, but I can still see why the Catholics are so upset about it. After all, they do believe that Mary and Joseph never consummated their marriage; it's been such a deeply-ingrained part of the faith for such a long time that the fact that Joseph was much older than Mary is often played up in Christmas songs and pageants from the Middle Ages—"Joseph was an old man, and an old man was he, /When he wedded Mary in the land of Galilee" and all that. Obviously another denomination's irreverent reference to their belief that she did not remain a virgin after Jesus' birth is deeply offensive to Catholics, and whatever offends the Catholics must surely be offensive to God.
*eyeroll*
It's a cute joke in a billboard that's obviously doing what it was supposed to do—get people thinking about Biblical things and poke a bit of fun at those who think more about Jesus' birth and death than anything he did in his life. God has a sense of humour; otherwise She/He/It/They would never have caused humans, elephants, chimpanzees or the duck-billed platypus to happen. If your faith is so fragile that a bit of humour threatens it, then perhaps you ought to examine the reason for that. The love of God isn't all "'sorry this' and forgive me that' and 'I am not worthy'"*, after all.
_______________________________________________________________
*Credit Monty Python, from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail".
*eyeroll*
It's a cute joke in a billboard that's obviously doing what it was supposed to do—get people thinking about Biblical things and poke a bit of fun at those who think more about Jesus' birth and death than anything he did in his life. God has a sense of humour; otherwise She/He/It/They would never have caused humans, elephants, chimpanzees or the duck-billed platypus to happen. If your faith is so fragile that a bit of humour threatens it, then perhaps you ought to examine the reason for that. The love of God isn't all "'sorry this' and forgive me that' and 'I am not worthy'"*, after all.
_______________________________________________________________
*Credit Monty Python, from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail".
Monday, December 7, 2009
Weighty Thoughts
Although there are many ways to sugar-coat this statement, I'm not going to bother. The end result will be the same.
I'm fat.
I'm not one of those women who believe they're fat because they wear something larger than a size 2. I'm one of those women who know we're fat because clothes for us don't exist in most "normal-people" stores; we have to get cheaply-made and expensively-sold clothing at special fat woman stores—in my area, these are Pennington's and Addition-Elle, which are pretty much the same damn thing—or sew our clothing ourselves. My jeans are size 24. My tops are a bit smaller than that because my waist is very well-defined and I'm pear-shaped to begin with; still, I can't really go much below a size 20 before the darn things get too tight across my shoulders (or, in the case of blouses that need to be buttoned up, start to gape in the area of my bigger-than-C-cup-but-not-quite-a-D-cup Miniature Rack of Doom). Even my feet are oversized; the shoes that are most comfortable for me tend to be size 10 wide at the least—more often size 11 wide. Suffice it to say that shopping for clothing is a frustrating experience, and shoe-shopping is an evil that I try to avoid whenever possible, to the point where I don't replace anything until it's so far beyond repair that it's barely holding together.
Now, I know that by now the usual stereotypes are probably running through your head. They probably started as soon as you read the word "fat", if they hadn't started at the title of this post. You're probably getting mental images of a horribly gluttonous tub of lard who constantly chows down on junk food, who thinks that walking five feet to the fridge to get more food counts as exercise, who wouldn't know a fresh vegetable if it slapped her on her oversized ass and who dresses badly, smells awful and probably has a constant sheen of sweat on her skin from being so fat. You're probably picturing one of those "headless fatty" photos that so often accompany news articles about Those Dreadful Fat People, Their Awful Eating Habits, And The Problems They're Causing For Virtuous Thin People. You probably think I look like one of those poor souls who's 500 pounds at least. After all, in this world only extremes exist, so obviously if I'm not rail-thin, I'm as wide as I am tall...
You'd be wrong on all counts.
I've been fat all my life, regardless of how active I've been or how little I ate. I've been complimented many times on my sense of style, even by thin people. I love long walks (as in "three hours at a moderately brisk pace with one rest per hour") and would rather nibble at a carrot than a chocolate bar any day. I don't sweat much unless it's very hot out and I've been exerting myself, and I smell pretty normal because I believe in bathing and other practices of good hygiene. Oh, and contrary to popular belief, my butt isn't so big that I can't fit into one of those cramped little third-class airplane seats.
And by the way, I do eat very little. Generally speaking, I only eat two small meals a day, and no snacks. I only eat when I'm hungry, but I don't always eat when I'm hungry. If I was thin, this would probably be a huge warning sign; because I'm not, it's taken as a sign of Virtue in a Penitent Lardass.
What brought this on—and the reason why I put it on this blog instead of somewhere else—was a realisation that I had yesterday morning in church. I caught sight of myself in a mirror while I was wearing my cassock and surplice, and I thought I looked hideous. My arms are too big. My hips are too wide. My face is too round. I look like an ugly parody of a grown-up wingless cherub in Anglican choir dress. It didn't matter that the other singers in the choir, as well as our choirmaster, had thanked me for my willingness to step into the alto section again this morning when we only had one actual alto who was feeling shaky thanks to jet lag from a long flight she'd been on the day before. It didn't matter that I was among friends. It didn't matter that I know that very few, if any, of us ever actually like the way we look in choir dress. I felt worthless, stupid and ugly. And thanks to my infamously good memory, I couldn't stop thinking of an incident from a couple of years ago, when my other choir was considering a change of dress code for the women involved; the people who'd done research into a company that would make the blouses and skirts to order said that the clothes the company kept in stock went up to size 28, but they'd have them sewn for anyone who needed a larger size. Our director—the same person who is the organist and choirmaster at my church—laughed when he heard that the clothing sizes would go that large. I believe his exact words were, "That's a two-person tent!"
At the time, I couldn't do much but toss an irritated glare in his direction; due to his amusement, I doubt he noticed. Yesterday, however, I remembered his unintentionally cruel words. Size 28 isn't that much bigger than size 24, after all. And I couldn't stop thinking that this man, someone who I've trusted implicitly since I was in my teens and who I've lately come to consider a friend, thought two years ago that it was OK to ridicule people who wear a clothing size that he'll never have to worry about getting anywhere near—both he and his wife are quite slender, as are their children. I could not discount the possibility that someone who I like, trust and admire (a very rare combination for me, thanks to my cautious and aloof Scorpio self), who seems to like and respect me in turn, nonetheless apparently thinks—if only at a subconscious level—that I'm a hideous fat mess. After all, I'm nearly big enough to wear a "two-person tent" for concert blacks.
I know him well enough to know that it would be highly uncharacteristic of him to be intentionally cruel to anyone; if anything, his faults run in, if not the opposite direction, then one that's highly opposed to it; if twelve years have taught me anything about him, it's that he apparently prefers to avoid confrontation and he doesn't like offending people. He'd probably be mortified if he realized that a throwaway comment he made a couple of years ago that didn't get the laugh he was probably hoping for was very hurtful to me (and, for that matter, to the other women of large size who sing in that choir) at the time and is still periodically coming back to hurt me now. I think that what hurt the worst was that I wasn't expecting that sort of cruelty to come from someone who, aside from that one incident, has always been kindness personified to me. The part of my mind that's always willing to torment me and make me feel unworthy of existing exults in this sort of remembrance; it tells me that because someone who's so basically good has felt free to mock fat people, I can't expect anyone else to treat us decently. It tells me that for all our size, we're less than human. It tells me that it's right to be disgusted by someone as big as me. It tells me that my anger was unreasonable and my pain didn't matter.
I found it difficult to carry out my choral duties yesterday morning. It's hard to sing in time with everyone else when you can barely stand to look in the direction of the choirmaster. Outwardly, I was trying my hardest to act normally. Inwardly, I was in a state of utter torment. Words kept repeating themselves in my mind. Fat. Ugly. Shameful. Worthless. Useless. Stupid.
No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried to think more positively, I couldn't stop the wave of self-loathing.
The effects of my inner meltdown weren't pleasant. Apart from the coffee and danish that I had when I stopped by at my dad's apartment on my way home from church, I didn't eat anything at all yesterday. I spent the whole day feeling tired, hungry, dizzy, weak, irritable, slow and even in a little pain, thanks to hunger pangs and the headache I always get when I've been starving myself again.
In the end, I can only be thankful that I've never had to wear anything that was size 28. As damaging as the incident was, I suspect it would have been worse if I had been that size when he made that comment, or if I'd reached it since then. But as it is, I keep praying for help to get myself out of this depressed and painful mental state. Sometimes that helps, but for the most part I'm deeply afraid that the answer to these prayers will be "NO!" and I'll be stuck with it for life.
And fears like that truly worry me, because I don't approve of suicide, but I could almost understand the temptation when the world is such an unfriendly place that even kind people like the choirmaster at my church, who's been a mentor and almost a friend to me for twelve years now, don't have to be aware of it—or apologise for it—when they say or do something that's cruel to fat people, whether or not it was intentional. After all, we're constantly used as a symbol of all that's wrong with modern Western civilization, so obviously that means that we don't have feelings, or at least it means that our feelings aren't worth considering!
I'm fat.
I'm not one of those women who believe they're fat because they wear something larger than a size 2. I'm one of those women who know we're fat because clothes for us don't exist in most "normal-people" stores; we have to get cheaply-made and expensively-sold clothing at special fat woman stores—in my area, these are Pennington's and Addition-Elle, which are pretty much the same damn thing—or sew our clothing ourselves. My jeans are size 24. My tops are a bit smaller than that because my waist is very well-defined and I'm pear-shaped to begin with; still, I can't really go much below a size 20 before the darn things get too tight across my shoulders (or, in the case of blouses that need to be buttoned up, start to gape in the area of my bigger-than-C-cup-but-not-quite-a-D-cup Miniature Rack of Doom). Even my feet are oversized; the shoes that are most comfortable for me tend to be size 10 wide at the least—more often size 11 wide. Suffice it to say that shopping for clothing is a frustrating experience, and shoe-shopping is an evil that I try to avoid whenever possible, to the point where I don't replace anything until it's so far beyond repair that it's barely holding together.
Now, I know that by now the usual stereotypes are probably running through your head. They probably started as soon as you read the word "fat", if they hadn't started at the title of this post. You're probably getting mental images of a horribly gluttonous tub of lard who constantly chows down on junk food, who thinks that walking five feet to the fridge to get more food counts as exercise, who wouldn't know a fresh vegetable if it slapped her on her oversized ass and who dresses badly, smells awful and probably has a constant sheen of sweat on her skin from being so fat. You're probably picturing one of those "headless fatty" photos that so often accompany news articles about Those Dreadful Fat People, Their Awful Eating Habits, And The Problems They're Causing For Virtuous Thin People. You probably think I look like one of those poor souls who's 500 pounds at least. After all, in this world only extremes exist, so obviously if I'm not rail-thin, I'm as wide as I am tall...
You'd be wrong on all counts.
I've been fat all my life, regardless of how active I've been or how little I ate. I've been complimented many times on my sense of style, even by thin people. I love long walks (as in "three hours at a moderately brisk pace with one rest per hour") and would rather nibble at a carrot than a chocolate bar any day. I don't sweat much unless it's very hot out and I've been exerting myself, and I smell pretty normal because I believe in bathing and other practices of good hygiene. Oh, and contrary to popular belief, my butt isn't so big that I can't fit into one of those cramped little third-class airplane seats.
And by the way, I do eat very little. Generally speaking, I only eat two small meals a day, and no snacks. I only eat when I'm hungry, but I don't always eat when I'm hungry. If I was thin, this would probably be a huge warning sign; because I'm not, it's taken as a sign of Virtue in a Penitent Lardass.
What brought this on—and the reason why I put it on this blog instead of somewhere else—was a realisation that I had yesterday morning in church. I caught sight of myself in a mirror while I was wearing my cassock and surplice, and I thought I looked hideous. My arms are too big. My hips are too wide. My face is too round. I look like an ugly parody of a grown-up wingless cherub in Anglican choir dress. It didn't matter that the other singers in the choir, as well as our choirmaster, had thanked me for my willingness to step into the alto section again this morning when we only had one actual alto who was feeling shaky thanks to jet lag from a long flight she'd been on the day before. It didn't matter that I was among friends. It didn't matter that I know that very few, if any, of us ever actually like the way we look in choir dress. I felt worthless, stupid and ugly. And thanks to my infamously good memory, I couldn't stop thinking of an incident from a couple of years ago, when my other choir was considering a change of dress code for the women involved; the people who'd done research into a company that would make the blouses and skirts to order said that the clothes the company kept in stock went up to size 28, but they'd have them sewn for anyone who needed a larger size. Our director—the same person who is the organist and choirmaster at my church—laughed when he heard that the clothing sizes would go that large. I believe his exact words were, "That's a two-person tent!"
At the time, I couldn't do much but toss an irritated glare in his direction; due to his amusement, I doubt he noticed. Yesterday, however, I remembered his unintentionally cruel words. Size 28 isn't that much bigger than size 24, after all. And I couldn't stop thinking that this man, someone who I've trusted implicitly since I was in my teens and who I've lately come to consider a friend, thought two years ago that it was OK to ridicule people who wear a clothing size that he'll never have to worry about getting anywhere near—both he and his wife are quite slender, as are their children. I could not discount the possibility that someone who I like, trust and admire (a very rare combination for me, thanks to my cautious and aloof Scorpio self), who seems to like and respect me in turn, nonetheless apparently thinks—if only at a subconscious level—that I'm a hideous fat mess. After all, I'm nearly big enough to wear a "two-person tent" for concert blacks.
I know him well enough to know that it would be highly uncharacteristic of him to be intentionally cruel to anyone; if anything, his faults run in, if not the opposite direction, then one that's highly opposed to it; if twelve years have taught me anything about him, it's that he apparently prefers to avoid confrontation and he doesn't like offending people. He'd probably be mortified if he realized that a throwaway comment he made a couple of years ago that didn't get the laugh he was probably hoping for was very hurtful to me (and, for that matter, to the other women of large size who sing in that choir) at the time and is still periodically coming back to hurt me now. I think that what hurt the worst was that I wasn't expecting that sort of cruelty to come from someone who, aside from that one incident, has always been kindness personified to me. The part of my mind that's always willing to torment me and make me feel unworthy of existing exults in this sort of remembrance; it tells me that because someone who's so basically good has felt free to mock fat people, I can't expect anyone else to treat us decently. It tells me that for all our size, we're less than human. It tells me that it's right to be disgusted by someone as big as me. It tells me that my anger was unreasonable and my pain didn't matter.
I found it difficult to carry out my choral duties yesterday morning. It's hard to sing in time with everyone else when you can barely stand to look in the direction of the choirmaster. Outwardly, I was trying my hardest to act normally. Inwardly, I was in a state of utter torment. Words kept repeating themselves in my mind. Fat. Ugly. Shameful. Worthless. Useless. Stupid.
No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried to think more positively, I couldn't stop the wave of self-loathing.
The effects of my inner meltdown weren't pleasant. Apart from the coffee and danish that I had when I stopped by at my dad's apartment on my way home from church, I didn't eat anything at all yesterday. I spent the whole day feeling tired, hungry, dizzy, weak, irritable, slow and even in a little pain, thanks to hunger pangs and the headache I always get when I've been starving myself again.
In the end, I can only be thankful that I've never had to wear anything that was size 28. As damaging as the incident was, I suspect it would have been worse if I had been that size when he made that comment, or if I'd reached it since then. But as it is, I keep praying for help to get myself out of this depressed and painful mental state. Sometimes that helps, but for the most part I'm deeply afraid that the answer to these prayers will be "NO!" and I'll be stuck with it for life.
And fears like that truly worry me, because I don't approve of suicide, but I could almost understand the temptation when the world is such an unfriendly place that even kind people like the choirmaster at my church, who's been a mentor and almost a friend to me for twelve years now, don't have to be aware of it—or apologise for it—when they say or do something that's cruel to fat people, whether or not it was intentional. After all, we're constantly used as a symbol of all that's wrong with modern Western civilization, so obviously that means that we don't have feelings, or at least it means that our feelings aren't worth considering!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
I am so tired of this BS.
Once again, the truth about horrific abuses committed by Catholic priests, this time in Ireland, has come out. Once again, it appears that there was a massive cover-up in an attempt to protect the church. And once again, there's a flurry of otherwise-rational and fair-minded people in the feminist blog-sphere who are willing to blame not just the priests who actually committed the abuse for it, but all Catholics (sometimes even all Christians, regardless of denomination), priests or not.
Whatever happened to blaming only the abusers for the abuse? Does that disappear when the abuser is supposed to be a spiritual leader? Are people who didn't know of the abuses still somehow complicit in the crime? I can see where people who knew about it and did nothing to stop it are also to blame for it, too; they aided in the victimization of those kids and they deserve all the censure that the world can spare. But treating all Catholics (or even all priests!) like they're all child-molesters isn't an appropriate response to tragedies like this.
Even though I decided that the Roman Catholic faith wasn't for me, I am tired of seeing a valid spiritual path being constantly denigrated by people I respect. For every pedophile priest we hear about, there are many more who are not sex offenders, who genuinely do care for the people in their parishes and who do their best to give their support, guidance and kindness to those who need it. But these are the ones we rarely hear about, because their stories are not scandalous enough to catch the interest of a public who loves to see other people's disgrace.
The Catholic Church needs to change its responses to disasters like this; I have never thought that this was a matter that was up for debate. I believe that at the very, very least, the offenders need to be de-frocked, put on a sex offenders registry, imprisoned and (if possible, though I know that there are some, maybe even many, who will never repent) TRULY rehabilitated. But this is not a good reason to dismiss all Catholics as child-molesters or enablers of child-molesters. It's not a good reason to scoff at Christians in general. It's not a good reason to make disparaging remarks about a religion that, for all its flaws, nonetheless manages to give many thousands of people the comfort, inspiration and spiritual fulfilment that they feel enriches their lives and encourages them to do good in the world.
Hate the sin, not the people who have a religion or vocation in common with the sinners.
Whatever happened to blaming only the abusers for the abuse? Does that disappear when the abuser is supposed to be a spiritual leader? Are people who didn't know of the abuses still somehow complicit in the crime? I can see where people who knew about it and did nothing to stop it are also to blame for it, too; they aided in the victimization of those kids and they deserve all the censure that the world can spare. But treating all Catholics (or even all priests!) like they're all child-molesters isn't an appropriate response to tragedies like this.
Even though I decided that the Roman Catholic faith wasn't for me, I am tired of seeing a valid spiritual path being constantly denigrated by people I respect. For every pedophile priest we hear about, there are many more who are not sex offenders, who genuinely do care for the people in their parishes and who do their best to give their support, guidance and kindness to those who need it. But these are the ones we rarely hear about, because their stories are not scandalous enough to catch the interest of a public who loves to see other people's disgrace.
The Catholic Church needs to change its responses to disasters like this; I have never thought that this was a matter that was up for debate. I believe that at the very, very least, the offenders need to be de-frocked, put on a sex offenders registry, imprisoned and (if possible, though I know that there are some, maybe even many, who will never repent) TRULY rehabilitated. But this is not a good reason to dismiss all Catholics as child-molesters or enablers of child-molesters. It's not a good reason to scoff at Christians in general. It's not a good reason to make disparaging remarks about a religion that, for all its flaws, nonetheless manages to give many thousands of people the comfort, inspiration and spiritual fulfilment that they feel enriches their lives and encourages them to do good in the world.
Hate the sin, not the people who have a religion or vocation in common with the sinners.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
A Disturbing Lack of Compassion
A few days ago, I became aware of the story of Nathalie Blanchard, a woman whose insurance benefits were cancelled because somebody from Manulife logged on to Facebook, looked her up and saw pictures of her at a party, having a good time. Ms. Blanchard had been diagnosed with depression and had been on leave from her job, but now apparently she's fit to work.
I call bullshit. Having suffered from depression several times in my life—I'm still dealing with the fallout of the most recent episode—and because I am also trying to help my mother deal with her severe depression, I know very well that not only is attempting to have fun a part of the treatment that is often recommended for depression, but even when a sufferer is having a good time, it's possible for them to sink right back down into the stifling, terrifying and mentally-paralyzing hell that we call depression. I've been there a time or five myself. Just as it takes a long time for the condition to develop, it takes a long time for a sufferer to be able to deal with it.
But it's not the insurance company's lack of compassion I'm going to be ranting about today. That's more or less something to take for granted; if my mother's struggles with the company from which her own insurance policy comes have shown me anything, it's that such companies are only interested in keeping the money that they demand from their customers, and should any of those customers have grounds for getting any of that money back, the companies will do everything in their power to deny the coverage. If that fails, they'll do whatever is necessary to stop providing the service they're supposed to provide, whether it's hiring professionals of their own to say that the person's condition isn't as bad as any other professionals working on the case have said it is or, indeed, snooping through people's private data just to find a tiny bit of proof that the person who actually dares to use their insurance policy might actually not be as badly off as they say. Insurance companies don't exist to help people, they exist to take people's money and do whatever they can to avoid giving it back, even to the people who need it the most. I think we all know that, and while their lack of compassion (or ethics!) is notable for being the cause of the problem in this case, it's not what I actually set out to rant about.
I call bullshit. Having suffered from depression several times in my life—I'm still dealing with the fallout of the most recent episode—and because I am also trying to help my mother deal with her severe depression, I know very well that not only is attempting to have fun a part of the treatment that is often recommended for depression, but even when a sufferer is having a good time, it's possible for them to sink right back down into the stifling, terrifying and mentally-paralyzing hell that we call depression. I've been there a time or five myself. Just as it takes a long time for the condition to develop, it takes a long time for a sufferer to be able to deal with it.
But it's not the insurance company's lack of compassion I'm going to be ranting about today. That's more or less something to take for granted; if my mother's struggles with the company from which her own insurance policy comes have shown me anything, it's that such companies are only interested in keeping the money that they demand from their customers, and should any of those customers have grounds for getting any of that money back, the companies will do everything in their power to deny the coverage. If that fails, they'll do whatever is necessary to stop providing the service they're supposed to provide, whether it's hiring professionals of their own to say that the person's condition isn't as bad as any other professionals working on the case have said it is or, indeed, snooping through people's private data just to find a tiny bit of proof that the person who actually dares to use their insurance policy might actually not be as badly off as they say. Insurance companies don't exist to help people, they exist to take people's money and do whatever they can to avoid giving it back, even to the people who need it the most. I think we all know that, and while their lack of compassion (or ethics!) is notable for being the cause of the problem in this case, it's not what I actually set out to rant about.
No, the lack of compassion upon which I intend to remark today is that of the astoundingly arrogant and cruel jackasses who, in commenting on the story, not only side with the insurance company but say that Ms. Blanchard is getting her just deserts—you see, these experts on all things claim that depression is a bullshit excuse for laziness, so she should just get off her lazy butt and go back to work because clearly, the smile on her face in a few photos taken on her birthday is proof positive that she just doesn't want to work. "I work for my living," they say. "Why shouldn't she have to work for hers?! Better yet, make her pay back all the money that she bled out of the system because depression doesn't exist! It's no excuse to take time off work! She's being a lazy stupid little bum and we're all paying for it! She's partying while the rest of us have to work!" Often it's hard to tell whether these people are really upset that a woman was (until recently, at least) getting the time off that she needed to rebuild her sanity or they just want to say, "Look at me! I'm a smart and important person! I work hard! That person is trash, she deserves what she got! This proves that I am a hard-working important and smart person! By the way, my troubles are worse than hers, and I'm not complaining!" Oh, the troubles of people who claim to be martyrs. They've got problems, all right. They're just not the ones that they're talking about.
All those people who claim that depression is bullshit and that sufferers should just grin and bear it and just get over it already—I hope that someday they develop a case of depression that's so terrible that simply getting out of bed is nearly impossible and going to work is practically unthinkable. Let them see what it's like to be in such a dark place, mentally speaking, that they can't find any way out that isn't death without the help of friends, family and trained professionals. Let them feel the suffocation that severe depression makes its sufferers feel. Let them know what it's like to have a condition that's constantly belittled and denied; let them feel the utter hopelessness, that crushing despair, that's only compounded by the knowledge that sometimes even people you know, love and trust won't take you seriously if you say you're depressed because mental illness that doesn't involve a straitjacket is just "all in your head" and that means that it isn't real. Let them know the anguish of realizing that they've become something that they once condemned—a person suffering from depression who really does need help. Let them know what it's like to become depressed in a world that denies the very existence of the condition.
Let them see how utterly wrong they are. Because that's the only way they'll ever learn compassion for the sufferers of depression; they'll never understand it otherwise.
I realize that such wishes are out of line with many of my beliefs, but right now, I'm too angry to care. Sometimes the only way that some people will ever learn to have compassion for people who are suffering from anything is to suffer the same damn thing.
All those people who claim that depression is bullshit and that sufferers should just grin and bear it and just get over it already—I hope that someday they develop a case of depression that's so terrible that simply getting out of bed is nearly impossible and going to work is practically unthinkable. Let them see what it's like to be in such a dark place, mentally speaking, that they can't find any way out that isn't death without the help of friends, family and trained professionals. Let them feel the suffocation that severe depression makes its sufferers feel. Let them know what it's like to have a condition that's constantly belittled and denied; let them feel the utter hopelessness, that crushing despair, that's only compounded by the knowledge that sometimes even people you know, love and trust won't take you seriously if you say you're depressed because mental illness that doesn't involve a straitjacket is just "all in your head" and that means that it isn't real. Let them know the anguish of realizing that they've become something that they once condemned—a person suffering from depression who really does need help. Let them know what it's like to become depressed in a world that denies the very existence of the condition.
Let them see how utterly wrong they are. Because that's the only way they'll ever learn compassion for the sufferers of depression; they'll never understand it otherwise.
I realize that such wishes are out of line with many of my beliefs, but right now, I'm too angry to care. Sometimes the only way that some people will ever learn to have compassion for people who are suffering from anything is to suffer the same damn thing.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Proselytizers Embarrass Me
They do. They really, really do. They did when I was a Catholic. They did when I was sorta-Solitary-Wiccan. They do now that I'm a Christo-Pagan. While I suppose that their devotion to their faith is admirable in a way, the fact is, the way that so many of them believe that their right to free speech trumps other people's right not to be harassed is deeply embarrassing to me. After all, most of the ones I hear about happen to have something in common with roughly half of my spiritual identity, and it embarrasses and offends me that they're trampling over other people's right to believe (or not believe, of course) as they choose and using the cross as a means of convincing themselves of their own superiority. And should anyone actually choose to stand up to them, then the accusations of persecution and silencing come out! When the encounter doesn't go well, the logic seems to go something like this:
And then there's the perspective I have as a result of the Pagan elements of my faith. I struggle enough with balancing the Pagan and Christian beliefs that my heart, if not always my head, insists are compatible with each other. What I do not need is some stranger telling me that unless I become a devout and loudly Evangelical Christian, I'm going to go to Hell. You see, my faith does not hinge on whether or not it will get me out of eternal punishment; it tells me that I must have compassion for people. It tells me that I should do what I can, no matter how small the action may be, to make the world a better place. It tells me that I must have respect for the Earth and be kind to it. It does not tell me to feel self-satisfied at the prospect of being one of the Chosen Ones, whatever one might be chosen for. It does not tell me that I should pray loudly on the street corners so that everyone around can hear me. It does not tell me that anyone who disagrees with me is my enemy. It doesn't tell me that it's my job to tell everyone else—or even anyone else—what they should be believing and how they should be living.
It does not tell me that everyone has to believe the same things that I do in order to live a happy, fulfilling and moral life.
Proselytizers embarrass me because they embody many of the worst stereotypes of the Christian believer. Most of the ones I've met over the years have been rude, tactless people who, convinced of their own moral superiority, have decided that it's their right to tell other people how they ought to live. It's not about God, it's about them. It's about their conviction that they are God's Favoured Ones, so they are better than the rest of us mere mortals.
So, my militantly evangelical Siblings-Who-Deny-Our-Siblinghood-In-Christ-Because-I-Worship-A-Goddess-As-Well, be warned: if you want to share the Good News with me, I suppose that I can't stop you. But I will be moved to share the following Bible verse with you:
—Matthew 6:1-6
1. God tells me that I have to Spread The Gospel.I often wonder why these people do what they do, whether it's really for God's glory or their own. What do they tell themselves about what they're doing? Do they really think that they'll be able to annoy people into becoming Christians? Do they enjoy feeling like they're being oppressed by the fact that somebody didn't want to put up with their harassment? One somehow suspects that they should experience some real persecution before they start whining because their unrequested spiritual advice hasn't fallen on friendly ears. Only I wouldn't want that for them, because nobody deserves to be persecuted or oppressed, even for being a monumental asshole.
2. You don't believe what I do.
3. Therefore, I have to Spread The Gospel to you to Save Your Damned Soul.
4. No, you don't have a choice about whether or not you listen to me. I am God's Holy Messenger.
5. Don't tell me to go away, that's persecution! (Implied: freedom of speech only applies to me, not you.)
6. I have rights! You can't tell me that I can't spread God's word to you! You have to listen to me!
7. No, really, you have to listen to me!
8. *after final rejection* Come see the disregard that this little twit has for me and my rights and My Holy God! Help! Help! I'm being repressed!
And then there's the perspective I have as a result of the Pagan elements of my faith. I struggle enough with balancing the Pagan and Christian beliefs that my heart, if not always my head, insists are compatible with each other. What I do not need is some stranger telling me that unless I become a devout and loudly Evangelical Christian, I'm going to go to Hell. You see, my faith does not hinge on whether or not it will get me out of eternal punishment; it tells me that I must have compassion for people. It tells me that I should do what I can, no matter how small the action may be, to make the world a better place. It tells me that I must have respect for the Earth and be kind to it. It does not tell me to feel self-satisfied at the prospect of being one of the Chosen Ones, whatever one might be chosen for. It does not tell me that I should pray loudly on the street corners so that everyone around can hear me. It does not tell me that anyone who disagrees with me is my enemy. It doesn't tell me that it's my job to tell everyone else—or even anyone else—what they should be believing and how they should be living.
It does not tell me that everyone has to believe the same things that I do in order to live a happy, fulfilling and moral life.
Proselytizers embarrass me because they embody many of the worst stereotypes of the Christian believer. Most of the ones I've met over the years have been rude, tactless people who, convinced of their own moral superiority, have decided that it's their right to tell other people how they ought to live. It's not about God, it's about them. It's about their conviction that they are God's Favoured Ones, so they are better than the rest of us mere mortals.
So, my militantly evangelical Siblings-Who-Deny-Our-Siblinghood-In-Christ-Because-I-Worship-A-Goddess-As-Well, be warned: if you want to share the Good News with me, I suppose that I can't stop you. But I will be moved to share the following Bible verse with you:
Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your father in heaven.
So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.
And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.
—Matthew 6:1-6
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Sunday After Remembrance Day
Today, as I was singing in church, I realized that tomorrow it will be a full calendar year since my first Sunday service as a member of the choir there. I was simultaneously pleased and surprised, and I realized something.
That church is now as much my spiritual home as the small clearing in the trees in my two-acre backyard where I observe the days that are important to the Pagan part of my identity.
I have a lot to thank my choir director for. I can't imagine my life without those people now—at least, not without feeling a tremendous sense of loss. But for all the embarrassment I've sometimes felt, first being an outsider with only a bare-bones knowledge of Anglican ritual and then being someone who sometimes forgets important things despite having known better for months, this past year has been almost surprisingly spiritually fulfilling.
Today, it was a year in Sundays since my first Sunday there, and that makes me happy. :)
That church is now as much my spiritual home as the small clearing in the trees in my two-acre backyard where I observe the days that are important to the Pagan part of my identity.
I have a lot to thank my choir director for. I can't imagine my life without those people now—at least, not without feeling a tremendous sense of loss. But for all the embarrassment I've sometimes felt, first being an outsider with only a bare-bones knowledge of Anglican ritual and then being someone who sometimes forgets important things despite having known better for months, this past year has been almost surprisingly spiritually fulfilling.
Today, it was a year in Sundays since my first Sunday there, and that makes me happy. :)
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