Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment

I was exhausted and glad to pull up to mindfulness class, arriving early, I thought, to a room full of people I hardly know whose presence there delighted me. Turns out I was late. Our activity this fourth week was to listen, and quietly hold space. It made me clammy and teary with too much feeling. I was exhausted and glad to pull away from mindfulness class at its conclusion.

I visited my post office box to empty it in case anything comes for whoever I am. This week’s catalog proclaiming womanhood, me again feeling a familiar pang of fear for the women who have owned this box before. May all of their boxes be healthier than this one stuffed with spandex and shapewear; there’s no room to breathe in the shame and synthetic of it all. Sometimes I pretend that Susan Hughes is a trans woman who when she lived in this tiny southwestern town was so closeted and denied as to invest in this doubling down of contempt. It’s nearly June and I dream of Susan, whoever she is, out there living with pride.

I know better, claro, but refuse to sulk about anything I cannot verify. Indeed, I would like to refuse to do anything about anything I cannot verify. In this I will endeavor. I can be completely sure of my own hunger now though, and want of nicotine. Things I’m trying to manage that refuse to obey. Here of course I must include my old narratives, so perfectly coiffed by years of repetition as to seem docile most of the time. Wolves in sheep’s clothing, though I wonder whether I could get sheep in line, either.

Today a white straight male colleague my age gave me space to address difficult feelings about a complex occasion. I said I felt like I was whining and he put a hand up, “I’ve gotta stop you right there. This is not whining.” A moment too wild for any of my own dreams.

Becoming oneself is like this.