From "Ode to Broken Things"
by Pablo Neruda
Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.
For the first time since moving to New Jersey, I am looking forward to winter. I have been always a fan of late summer and late autumn. Blazing hot sun where I can read in the shade, the warmth of October sun, the muted colors of November before it gets nasty cold. Those seasons suit my spirit well, spinning, somewhat directionless, landing where I do.
But I find myself in a time when it is necessary to narrow down my options, to make things stark so I can see better, to cut out superfluous things, in order to get by. I'm working on a PhD, and I'm working on some kids, and I'm working on a church, and there's still dishes and laundry and Goddess help me a pile of paperwork taller than you. So winter suits me just fine, stripping the leaves until nothing but bare branches remain, life held in reserve for the spring.
And you might pray for me, those of you who do that sort of thing. And if prayer isn't your thing, you might just think a fond thought of me here and there when it gets cold. Because this is a mourning process, to embrace winter. It's just a little too stark and naked for my taste.
Today we had a beautiful worship service at school, officiated by those of us in the trans and lgb group at Drew Theological School. We made some elbow room with our queer stoles and collars (which look a lot like straight and cis stoles and collars, I'm just saying). It was good to be there. So that's the thing about winter, the trees are still wick.