As a Lesbian Woman: My Own Journey on Gay Marriage

I wrote this as a response to my girlfriend, Nicole's, Facebook post about the progression of her views on gay marriage as she realized how those viewpoints now included herself as a lesbian woman. She referenced me as being someone ahead of the curve, and it gave me the opportunity to think about my own journey on this path. I wanted to put my thoughts here so they would be collected with other deep feelings I have shared over the years. While my complete journey would take a thousand more posts, this is a small snapshot of my thoughts. They are as follows:

Nicole is always so generous and kind when it comes to me and my thoughts. I wish I could claim that I was always super progressive. I guess I did always believe that people should be able to love whomever they love without interference from anyone else.

I used to have a teacher friend many many (many) years ago that always talked about her roommate. I strongly suspected that this was cloaked language, but I never asked her to clarify or asked her questions that could potentially out her. However, the thought that perhaps she had to hide her roommates' real status in her life out of fear of career repercussions, or how she would be treated, or for whatever reason, made me so so so sad. The fact that I could freely talk about my spouse and she felt she couldn't, felt profoundly unfair.

I am sad to admit, however, that my journey was imperfect. I wanted all partners to be able to have the same rights I had, medically, financially, career and housing opportunities without discrimination, etc. but I thought those could be accomplished with civil unions or just expanding the definitions of what it meant to be someone's life partner.

I slowly began to see how ridiculous it was for some people to have the right to define their relationship, while others didn't. They didn't get to choose how to categorize their own relationships. It was a construct put upon them by others to only define themselves in a very limited way. I started to see how again, this was profoundly unfair. I don't have the right to tell anyone what their relationships mean to them, and no one else should have that right either.

I was livid about Prop 8. I couldn't believe a religion, at the time, my religion, could and would put so much money, energy and effort into defeating the right for two people to define their relationship in the way they felt best. It was again, profoundly unfair!

I waited anxiously for the verdict from the highest court. When I found out about the landmark Supreme Court case giving to right to marry to everyone, I woke up my dear friend Becca because I knew she would be as happy as I was, more so I'm sure. It was one of the proudest moments I had experienced about our country's willingness to be more inclusive. I think I was teary all day. Finally, this ridiculous limitation was removed.

As I argued with friends and family (and anyone willing to listen) about the rights' of LGBTQIA+ people, I was ignored, eye rolled, and "accused" of being "one of them". I say accused, because that's definitely what it felt like.

Then, I realized, I WAS one of them. Having never had the opportunity or space to imagine that as a possibility for ME, ever, I never did consider that it could be my truth. With this realization, many things in my life began to click into place as I realized why some things worked for me, and some things never did. I found Nicole, and my life, and my sexuality, made sense. I suddenly felt like I could own my own skin, and then share my deepest self with someone else in a way I just couldn't before.

I quickly found that some people who were closest to me, who claimed to be strong allies in that fight, realized that they could be allies to other people in that fight, to be proud of them for finding the real them, but they could not support that for me. It was too personal to them, too close, too painful for them to support me. I needed to be vilified, pushed away, criticized. They needed to see me as deeply, and fundamentally confused. Where I was once thoughtful and wise to them, I became broken and wrong. (Thankfully, I did always have the support and continuous love of Casey and Bryn, for which I will forever be tearfully and heart-meltingly grateful.)

Despite all of that, I am proud to be who I am. I never shy away from talking about my amazing girlfriend, or from being lovey in public (sorry Bryn and Casey 😁 ) even though we often get sidelong glances and sometimes all-out stares from other patrons who have seemingly never seen an openly lesbian couple showing affection for each other in public. I get to do that, to be that, openly, because of the long, wearisome struggle of so many for so long. I get to do that because many people continue to try to learn to be more inclusive. I know that there are people, so so many people who refuse to welcome, to love, to progress in their thinking that they continue to hate, actively. But, if enough of us continue to try to do better, to be better, to choose love in all things, we will move the pendulum toward more love, toward more inclusiveness, more safety for all people.

I really didn't mean for this to turn into a speech, ;) this is what Nicole's beautiful writing always does to me. :D

I choose love, I choose to be forever LOUD and PROUD! 💜❤️💜❤️

Physical and Spiritual Gliding

I first learned about the principle of gliding from running guru Jeff Galloway in 2000, when I was training for my first marathon. Jeff's philosophies are especially popular with beginning runners as he strongly advocates for frequent walking breaks, as often as after every 7 or 8 minutes of running. As I trained for the marathon, I knew that the course was very downhill for the first 16 or so miles. I knew that if I didn't train for that downhill, my quads would not be prepared for the pounding, so I trained every Saturday morning up (and down) City Creek Canyon. The paved path up City Creek is about 5 3/4 miles long (even though the sign says 5 1/2) from gate to gate, mostly uphill the whole way with differing grades of steepness. However, anyone who has spent time in City Creek can tell you where all of the monster hills are; they are brutal running up, and can be very difficult to run down. If you completely give in to gravity, you are going to lose form at best, or go out of control and fall down at worst; but, if you try to maintain your same form as on a more gentle grade, your running gets really tight, your stride becomes sloppy and your muscles feel constricted. This is where I learned to glide. Gliding is a conscious relaxing of your muscles, for me, especially quads and back as you run down a particularly steep hill. It is the perfect in between place of maintaining control and letting go. It is just a little bit scary to try for the first time because it feels, I don't know, dangerous. You have to consciously let go of your control and trust that your body will know what to do, and give in to the gravitational pull. I always have to remember to do it. It is not instinctual to me. About a third of the way down the hill the thought comes to glide. I can physically feel the shift. The paradoxical thing is, the more you let go and relax into the glide, the more you fly. I feel my body relax, my step becomes lighter, and I feel so free. I feel more in control than ever. It feels delicious.

A couple of years ago I started to feel my spiritual ground shift and start to tilt downward. The grade was bearable, however, and felt familiar. I'd been there before. I had traveled a hilly course for many years. It was easy to keep my same pace, my same form. Then, the grade became more steep, and I found myself beginning to tighten, my stride flailing a bit. This last year I spiritually ran through the Rotary Park sign and headed down the long steep path heading down to mile 4. I found I was trying to figure out how to land my strikes so I could stay in control, but I wasn't succeeding. It felt like I kept turning an ankle, finding more side stitches I couldn't breathe through, snapping IT bands. The more I tried to hold on, the more I hurt myself, and the steepness of the grade just keep increasing. Then I had the conscious thought to glide. Give in to the pull. No! Did I mention I am stubborn? Give in. No. Then, I felt I had no choice almost. I was falling down. Unhappy. I had to try. As I did, I felt so good and my soul knew what to do. Then, since that path was way too scary, I rejected it and tightened my grip again. The ground continued to make me stumble. I tried to glide again with the same result. Yes! Frightened, I again pulled back. Finally, I decided to trust the physical principle I had learned to love. I chose to glide. It feels like me again. Suddenly, my mind has relaxed, my soul is at peace, my heart is so happy, my pace has quickened, and I'm learning to FLY! I can almost touch the beautiful blue Utah sky. I'm almost free. And it feels delicious.

Happiness

Happiness is
loving a borrowed book

so much

so much that I can't wait for my own book
to arrive in the mail

so I can turn every marked page
into a page I can mark

encouraging the phrases
to finally

Become

MINE

Words

I was listening to NPR  the other day, and they had an award wining poet on the show,  he said "Words are cheap."  That instantly brought to mind the opposite, "Words are expensive". Then, the skeleton of this poem popped into my head and it started writing itself. I'm no poet, but I liked this idea.


WORDS

Words mean nothing

Words are cheap
They have no cost

Words are light
They float effortlessly around us

Words are fleeting
Spoken without thought
Chosen at random

Words are harmless
Words wound

Words are permanent
Their meanings never forgotten
Permanently emblazoned

Words are heavy
Their weight makes us sag

Words are expensive
Their cost we are sometimes unprepared to pay

Words mean everything

Prayer

I have had an analogy buzzing at the edges of my conscious for many months now.  I have wanted to flesh it out in writing, but I'm not sure that I will be sharing this on Facebook.  There are all sorts of concerns that I have about making these very personal feelings public.  I guess I will write it down for myself, and then let it rest a while before I decide what I will do with it.  The metaphor that won't go away begins like this:

Imagine a child who wants to love their parent, but their parent seems distant and difficult to talk to.  They have been told all of their life that their parent is easy to talk to, is readily available, and is easily accessible.  But, that seems a foreign concept to the child.  That certainly hasn't been her experience.  Then, after years of effort of differing degrees of intensity, a beautiful relationship builds such that the child now comes to their parent often and consistently feels connected.  It seems to the child that time and time again, their parent responds to pleas of help to soften a heart, to change a desire, to help her change.  I imagine this pleading to happen in the kitchen, because that's where I have many of my conversations with my own children.

Then, something unexpected and painful happens in the child's life.  The child is lost, confused.  Since the child has done everything she was told she was supposed to do to continue the connection, in fact she has fulfilled the requirements several times over, she feels confident she will get help.   Even though the experience is painful, more painful than she ever thought possible, she knows she just needs to ask for help, and it will come.  The child, as per her learned pattern, comes to her parent tearfully pleading for help.  Surely, her parent will, once again, help to soften the pain, to change her heart.  Surprisingly, she gets nothing.  Often, she will feel the equivalence of a comfort hug, but no help with the pain.  Hmm.  This doesn't make sense.  She just needs to keep trying.  So, she repeatedly begs for help. . . in tears. . . again. . . and again. . . and again. . . again. . . again. . . aga. . .  ag. . . a. . .  Then, she comes to her parent with drier eyes, and asks. . . . . Nothing. . . . . . .   Then, she is done crying. . . but she still asks. . . . Nothing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Now, she is stronger.  Not only are the tears long gone, but she no longer asks.  Her heart has healed, and is now scarred and protected.  She still goes through the motions of keeping the connection, but her confidence is gone.  Long.  Gone.  When she approaches her parent, it is to ask for strength and peace for those who struggle; it is to ask for help for others.  But, truth be told, she is not sure she believes that extra help will really come.  It is more for her own comfort that she is voicing this love and concern for her loved ones.  She has enough respect for her parent to continue to include her, now distant, parent --  Father -- in her life, but she no longer has faith to believe that He listens or responds. . . or cares. 

She is strong.  She believes in listening to her gut.  She has learned to trust herself and her intentions.  She has learned to love more people, especially those who have experienced deep pain.  She believes in the goodness of men and women everywhere.  She has seen God in the love that people show to each other, and is drawn to those who choose love over judgment and criticism.  Her protected heart has grown into a much stronger foundation of trust in herself.  Perhaps, like a certain ruby-shoe-wearing character from a show she can't stand, she has discovered that she had it in her all along.  All she had to do was recognize it and find it within herself. 

I used to pray to something
Something
Something I called God

I expected the warmth of
Good Morning, of
I've missed you, of
I'm glad you're back



Silence
The deafening kind
empty



Now I pray to nothing
nothing

and no one answers

Authority and Keys to the Grown-Up Restroom

I had an A-HA! moment the other day as I walked home from work. I was thinking about something that had happened at work that day, and I had two analogies simultaneously pop into my head.  So I don't forget it completely (a particular talent of mine), I want to write it down.  My official title at work is Paraprofessional.  It is just a fancy way of saying Teacher Aide.  At my school, and probably all other schools in my district, parapros are not given keys:  no keys for classrooms, restrooms for the grown-ups, doors to the building, etc.  Only teachers were allowed to have keys.  A few years ago, we were given Fobs so we could at least enter the building.  I remember how empowered I felt to have the power to come into the building without relying on someone walking by to let me in.  However, for the first 6 1/2 years of my employment, the restrooms were always locked, so in order to use them, I had to ask the secretaries in the front office for the key.  I remember thinking that it was quite demoralizing to be in my 40's and still need to ask to use the restroom.  I knew that I had the authority to use the restrooms for adults, and all I needed to do was ask the holders of the keys for help, but for some reason it really bothered me.  The last part of this last year, our administration changed the system for the restroom doors so no keys were needed.  I recognize how silly it must seem, but I felt so relieved to not have to feel like I was one of the students anymore.  Then, I was chatting with my co-worker the other day, and she mentioned that it was possible that I was finally going to be given keys.  It made me so happy, validated,  and acknowledged as a full member of the staff at the school. 

As I was walking home, it clicked.  I'm sure you have already guessed the connection.  It made me realize how many women in the church feel about not officially holding the priesthood.  We are told repeatedly that we have the authority of the priesthood (the ability to use the grown-up restroom), when we are acting in our responsibilities in our respective callings, etc., but if we need the actual keys of the priesthood (the power to enter said restroom), we have to ask someone who has been given that power.  So, there is a continual need to ask permission from someone with actual power to do anything. 

The second analogy that hit simultaneously, was the idea of partners/spouses and money.  I'm not exactly sure how to describe my thoughts on this one, because this analogy doesn't apply to every couple.  In fact, it doesn't even describe my own three-way relationship between my husband, me, and our finances.  But, I have heard of this happening often.  In many partnerships, the couple has blended their accounts so that all of their money is jointly owned.  However, often one person is in charge of the finances so they control the checkbook, so to speak.  So, even though they both have the authority to spend their money, it's really one person with the power to approve or disapprove any one purchase or charge, thereby necessitating the first to ask permission of the second. 

For some women, it is not enough to have the authority, when they still are forced to continually ask someone else to exercise their power to access their keys.  I'm still not sure where I am on this particular issue, but this eye-opening moment helped me understand, to a small degree, how they might feel.  This is such a complicated issue.  I have many friends and family members that have no problem asking for the proverbial restroom key.  They are just grateful to be able to use the grown-up restroom.  I have a lot of respect for these women.  I also have friends for whom this issue is a very painful one.  They feel marginalized for having to ask for the key again and again and again.  My heart hurts for their pain. 
   

Am I an ER?

"So, you're a singer?"  I'm asked often.
I pause, hesitant, "Well. . . I sing."
Blank look.  "What does that mean?  Don't you have a degree in singing?" They respond.
"Yes . . . sort of.  It's in choral education."  I reply.
"Haven't you been teaching singing in one form or another for years?" They ask.
"Yes"
"Haven't you taken singing lessons off and on for 15 years?"  They are starting to get irritated.
"Yes"
"Haven't you put in your 10,000 Malcolm Gladwell hours?"  Pitch is rising.
"And then some." I answer.
"Then, you are a singER!" They say definitively.

. . . . .  This is the hard part.  If I say, "Yes" I'm claiming something.  As soon as I say I'm a singER, people expect something of me.  Or, perhaps, they think I put myself in a certain category of accomplishment.  I don't make money singing.  I'm not a professional singER by any means.  I don't sound like an opera singer, I don't sing like most musical theater singERs, I only sing certain kinds of jazz, I sing folk and pop, but only in my own way.  The next time they hear me sing, they will be making their own decision.  

Am I a singER?  I have been singing almost since birth, it's how most people knew me as a kid.  It's probably in my veins and sinews, the most basic core of who I am. However, how much it calls to me ebbs and flows over the years.  Sometimes, I sing daily.  And sometimes, it takes me months to actually let the constant, but quiet, pull of my piano draw me to it.  But once it wins and I give in, I usually stay glued to the bench for song after song.  I guess, YES, I am a singER.  But, I don't sound like anyone else, I don't have a genre, I just sing like me.

There's more.

This next quote is hard for me to write.  It sounds so arrogant, so please keep reading to get my meaning. "You are a good writer!"  A few people have been kind enough to say.  But then, they are not going to tell me to my face that I stink at it are they?  Regardless, I have heard it often enough that I have been thinking about it.  Am I a writER?

This one is much easier for me to answer.  I have a friend who is a writER, a published, practiced, talented writER.  I have been reading about the process she goes through to write her next book. A rewrite of the whole book to change voice.  A rewrite of the whole book to change setting.  She edits again, and again, and again.  She writes every day for hours and hours.

I write a blog.  I hope I am grammatically correct.  I hope I use full sentences.  I hope I use correct tenses.  I very much hope I am somewhat interesting, and somewhat entertaining to read.  I sincerely hope I sometimes connect with people on a deeper level.  However, am I a writER?  No.  I don't claim to be a writER. Yet, since I know I am not a writER, every compliment, every kind word is a rare treasure that I hold close, never to be forgotten.

Am I a teachER?

Twenty-one years ago, when I got my first teaching job, I was more than slightly terrified.  I remember standing in my empty classroom before a single student arrived.  I distinctly remember saying to myself with much trepidation, "I sure hope I like this."  My fears were unfounded.  I loved it.  However, I only taught for three years before I stopped teaching in a classroom to become a mother.  Within a couple of years, I had friends and neighbors begging me to start teaching private piano lessons.  When I couldn't dissuade them - and I tried - I reluctantly agreed to open a teaching studio in my home.  Again, I quickly learned to love it.  I taught for about 14 years before I "retired" due to my children's busy afternoon schedules.  In the meantime, my youngest daughter began all-day Kindergarten, so I begged the principal of our elementary school for a job teaching at the school.  I started teaching a math rotation, and now, for the last three years plus, I have been teaching reading intervention with an amazing team.  However, since my position was that of an aide, I was never sure what to tell people when they asked what I did for work.  When people found out I worked in a school, they would ask if I was a teacher.  Not wanting to sound presumptuous, I always told people no. However, I have since changed my mind.  Being a teachER is more than your official title.  It's more than a job you have or a thing you do.  Teaching is a mind-set.  It's either in your bones, or it isn't.  I think you can learn to be a teacher for a career, but whether or not you become a teachER, whether or not it becomes a part of your soul, the way you think, who you are, has to be remembered or discovered, not learned. Almost every calling I have ever had in my church has been teaching related.  Or, I have turned it into a teaching opportunity.

Am I a teachER?  Yes.  I am.  It is a switch I can not turn off, even if I try.  It's how I approach every situation.  There is always an internal dialogue of how I would approach or teach something differently.

Am I a runnER?

Yes.  I have been running off and on for 25 years, and have been a consistent runnER for the last 16 years.  I have run some marathons and a handful of triathlons, however, I have won NONE of them.  The only medals I have from running are for races where everyone gets a medal for finishing.  I think I feel like a runner because I choose to run at least 4 times a week -- every week -- year after year.  I don't necessarily love to run, and my favorite part of a run is finishing each run.  But, if I do have to miss an occasional run because of illness, I miss it body, mind, and spirit.  I feel so much better if I have run that morning.  So, when our alarm goes off at a ridiculously early hour, I grumble and groan just like everyone else.  But, while I'm grumbling, I'm lacing up my shoes.

Yes, I am a runnER.

Am I a bikER?

No.  Even though I have been consistently biking twice a week, either outside or at the rec center, for a couple of years now, I haven't earned this particular ER.

Am I a readER?

YES!  Thankfully, yes!  I see the struggle it is for my students to learn to read, and I am so grateful that I can read without the difficulty they experience.  It is a major source of peace and satisfaction in my life.  It's something I practice daily.  10,000 hours?  Easy!

I am a readER!

Am I a mothER?

YES!  YES!  YES! and YES!!  My co-favorite descriptor is that of a mothER!  I love spending time with my girls!  They are smart, funny, kind (um, mostly), and a continual source of joy for me.  I find that I don't even mind driving them to their various classes, school, work, shopping - ok, I lied, I hate shopping, etc.  I love being able to meet any one of their needs.  With Casey getting older, I find I recognize the shortness of the time I will have with them before they go out on their own, so I appreciate our time together even more.

I am most definitely a happy mothER!

Finally, I am a partnER/wife!

My other co-favorite desciptor is that of being a partnER to a great man.  I owe much of who I am, and who I am becoming to the way Dave encourages and empowers me.  I still have a long way to go to find and embrace the strength I believe lies dormant inside me, but I am grateful to be married to a man who wants to support me, who wants me to realize who I was meant to become.

I am a grateful partnER!

A singER, writer, teachER, runnER, biker, readER, MOTHER, PARTNER.  These are just a handful of words that describe, in their own way, my journey.  I still don't know when that line is crossed and I become an official ER.  Each category is a journey, a part of a whole, snapshots in time, phases of a life.  There's so much more to learn, to experience, to become.  I'm so inexplicably grateful my family will be there to experience it with me.