I Was Diagnosed with a Rare Disease

On Thursday, I had what I thought was going to be a routine annual eye exam: I would go in, question whether option 1 or 2 was really clearer, panic that I tell them the wrong thing and end up with the wrong prescription, and order new contacts. What I got from an optometrist who is not my normal optometrist (who honestly reminded me of my dentist so I felt kind of more comfortable with her) is that there is bleeding in one of my eyes (at my horrified expression she assured me it's nothing I would notice) and that when she was looking at my eyes with the really bright light, there were spots she could see through my iris. You're not supposed to have holes in your iris. She diagnosed me with pigment dispersion syndrome, a rare disease that only affects about 1% of the population. The pigment from my iris is flaking off into my aqueous humor and can eventually block the drainage in the back of my eye, increasing intraocular pressure and resulting in glaucoma. A type of glaucoma that develops way earlier than other forms of glaucoma. I meet a few of the risk factors: myopia, age, and I am White. It's in the very early stages right now. She didn't link the bleeding to this so I'll go back in 3 months for her to check on the bleeding issue, and in 6 months to check my IOP and check on my optic nerve to make sure there is no damage. But there's nothing I can do, no treatment or preventative. The only treatments are for when it progresses into glaucoma, if it does (fingers crossed mine doesn't). After my appointment, I Googled like crazy, disassociated for a minute, drove back to work in tears and cried for a minute in my car. I ate my feelings that night. I needed a couple days to process. A guy I have been talking to let me word vomit at him via text and he said "that sucks but at least it's not fatal" and that's something I have to remember. It's not fatal.

My eyes are my biggest vanity, despite the disfiguring scar I have on the right side. I love my blue-grey chameleon eyes that I can make look blue or green based on what eyeshadow I wear. I've always been complimented on my eyes. While my astigmatism prevents me from seeing without corrective lenses and from wearing fun SFX contacts, I've never felt betrayed by them like I did the other day. I eat well, I exercise. Exercise may even be my eye's undoing: running--an exercise I love-- can cause further flaking of the pigments. At this point, if I experience blurring after exercise, I need to let my optometrist know, but she hasn't told me not to change anything. 

The hardest part of this is the lack of control I have over it. When my cholesterol was high and I felt like shit all the time, I changed my lifestyle and started eating better and exercising. When my bipolar disorder had me in its clutches and medication wasn't working, I started this blog. But this? I can't do anything and that makes me feel a little helpless. I hate it.
 

A Very Feminist and Animist Poem About Hiking

 How does hiking make me feel;

My thick thighs trembling

with

each

step

My calves rock hard, tense

   crashing against each other

Sweat starting, pricking my scalp

Down the back of my neck

My back

Glowing on my rounded shoulders, glinting on collarbones

Long hair like a veil sweeping it away

I like my own smell

My own odeur 

The primal scent

Mixing with the sunscreen that is sliding off, never enough

Until I am nut brown,

Freckled 

On my shoulders

My forearms bronze

Saying hello to every

Rock

Tree

Mushroom

Bird

Animal

Like they are old friends

     (they are,  my inner animist says)

You have known them before you were born and you will know them after you die and you will know them 

forever.

When I menstruate during a hike

I feel

Female with a capital F

Part of a cosmic womanhood

Embraced and swallowed by the 

Earth

Small

Insignificant

Strong

But

Easily crushed

Like the insects I swat away

Little drops of blood swelling, given to the Earth

I am She and She is Me and we are together intertwined in the woods

Accepting my Demons, One at a Time

 This is one of my favorite pictures of me, despite it being about 5 years old now and I have since grown my hair out and retired the piercings. Most of my selfies are taken from a strategic angle from above, but this one, I am actually looking down. And I think that's it. I think that's why I like it. But why? 

For a little back story, I took this in my first year of graduate school. I had actually done the makeup because I was doing a presentation in a class and (I think) going out with classmates after. At that time, I was newly single, and had started doing domme work for extra money. My specialty was humiliation and verbal abuse; I never touched a single submissive, it was all done via text, with the exception of a few sessions with a local guy that was into feet. I had always identified myself as being a "switch," someone who was okay being dominated or dominating, and I based this on my limited experience being dominated by a man, and being dominant to the point of being pretty sadistic with a woman that I neither liked or was attracted to. Being a domme taught me a lot about myself. A big thing I learned is that I do not like being dominated outside of a little light ropework and some spanking. I am too dominant and aggressive a person-- albeit introverted-- to submit to anyone, let alone a man. I like dominating men and treating them like shit. I've gotten a lot of compliments on my style and take pride in getting to know my submissive to make their session personal and extra painful. 

But this blog post isn't about me as a domme or sex work (but reminder that sex work is legitimate work) but about how I view men. It took years for me to examine my feelings, wrestling with it through the shambles of a long-distance relationship, and as I carefully constructed responses to decline advances from men when I really wanted to decline them in the most condescending, abusive way possible, I had an epiphany: I don't respect most men. It's a hard thing to admit. When men try to white-knight me, when they send unsolicited dick pics, when they position themselves as "nice guys," (spoiler alert, self-described nice guys aren't nice at all), when they apologize unnecessarily, all I can think of is grinding them under the proverbial heel of my cruelty, and I see, in my head, the picture of me that is above, looking down, cold, indifferent to the viewer, beautiful and untouchable. They are pathetic, and I have power over them. 

As you can imagine, this does not lend itself well to meeting people, especially when you're lonely. It is, however, something I am constantly mindful of when interacting with people. It's not all men, as I said, just most feel so pathetic and unworthy of any time or effort beyond charging them for it. I do make an effort to make meaningful connections, and I can typically tell within a very short time frame if someone falls into category A or category B. I know this is something that seems horrible, why would I admit this, let alone publicly? Because I am, and have always been, a firm believer in introspection, understanding oneself, understanding the why behind the feeling or thought, and either making a modification/learning from it, or accepting it as a facet of who I am. And here we are, the learning and acceptance phase. I once wrote in a long-defunct online journal that people can't hurt me with what I know and accept to be true, and I still believe that.

On Strong Female Friendships

I am a woman that has a hard time forming meaningful female friendships. Not to sound like one of those cringey "I don't get along with women, they're all drama," people, but my issue is having a hard time relating to other women. I'm a middle-aged woman that neither has not wants (or likes) children, I'm happy being alone, and like to talk about stuff that other people find uncomfortable (death and dying, anyone?). I have interests that women my age typically don't. I also have this toxic tendency to fall quickly and madly into (platonic) love with girls that sweep me off my feet with how fun and spontaneous they are. I usually find these girls and befriend them when I am manic, and when the high of the shopping trips, dinners, and platonic cuddling wears off, I realize that they are really bad, toxic people for me. The last such friend like this I had ended up selling prescription drugs and fucked up my taxes to the tune of $1200 that I had to pay back during a period of unemployment. 

Making and maintaining friendships as an adult woman is exhausting and sometimes very frustrating, when I feel like I'm the one always trying to make plans, make connections, so I'm grateful when I can find that rare unicorn of a friend that reaches out, checks in, accepts and appreciates me for who I am, and is content to sit in silence instead of filling the void with useless chatter. A rare friend, indeed, that I can have fun with, hang out with, and not feel exhausted by. I feel like I don't express my appreciation for those few friends enough, and today I realized, as I went on a "cemetery crawl" with my friend Kate, that she is one of those friends that I can always count on, and because we both have our issues, we can be flexible with each other if one is having a bad mental health or physical health day. We can have long meaningful conversations over coffee at Starbucks and have mutual interests we can explore together, but we can be silly and irreverent too without leaving our encounter feeling exhausted by the other. I am so grateful for our friendship, especially at times when I sorely needed distraction from the pain of everyday life. Thank you, Thing 1, for being a unicorn.

Feeling Small

This weekend, I climbed two mountains (three, if you get technical about it, since it was an out-and-back trail) which resulted in a new highest peak for me at just under 2600 feet. As I sat on the top of the second mountain (which was the highest), overlooking a wind farm, I felt small. 

Insignificant.

And I liked it.

There is something so comforting to me about feeling small in this world. Looking at the overwhelming size of the wind turbines, the height of the mountains, the sheer distance we could see from the top, and there I was, 5'3" of nothing that matters in the grand scheme of things. I know it sounds nihilistic to say but it's true. When I am in nature, I am in my spirituality. Being in nature in and of itself is spiritual practice, so when I say I feel small and insignificant and that it's comforting, it truly is. I am a speck of dust on the Mother's body, which has existed long before me and will continue on after I rejoin her soil in death. Feeling small and being in awe of this world that created me is both humbling and comforting. It's the only way I can think of to express it. 

 

Thornback Woman

I am 40 years old.
My tits sag.
Losing weight gets harder each year.
I have grey hairs.
I am unmarried, and childfree.
I have gone beyond "spinster" to "thornback" and while this term used to be derogatory, I think reclaiming it and owning it gives me power.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with my body. I think most women do, since we are indoctrinated and brainwashed at an early age to live up to an ideal, that our bodies are dirty, that we must be thin/pretty/feminine/delicate perfect enough for society to deem us worthy, and even then, we aren't. I've been overweight probably since puberty. I had C-cup breasts at 14 and was fully in a D-cup by the time I was 18. Even now I wear a DD, but it's hard to tell what my actual size is due to recent weight loss. They sag, anyway, and this is one of the recent body image crises I've endured.

Why is loving an accepting your body seen as a sign of radical feminism? Shouldn't it just be... the norm? Shouldn't we just love our saggy bits, jiggly bits, and wrinkly greying bits alongside our smooth and firm bits, muscular bits, and sleek bits? When I hit 40 I thought I just wouldn't care any more, but I honestly do care-- I care that my partner finds me attractive, I care that the world finds me attractive, I care that my body can do things, I care about how my clothes look. It's infinitesimally harder to not care than to care. So what if caring wasn't so bad, and not caring shouldn't be the end goal? Like, my tits may sag but they're healthy, my hair may be greying but it's long and shiny, weight comes off slowly but I have curves and a soft belly that reminds me of ancient artworks. I'm 40 and unmarried but I still go out and do what I want to do.

People worry a lot about me hiking solo but as an animist, I never feel like I am alone. These hikes give me time to reconnect with my spirituality, and reconnect with myself. I often spend my hikes in awe of what my body can accomplish, reveling in the tired muscles that seem to bounce back after a rest to eat and drink to carry me onward. Today, I went on a hike and, for the first time in my entire 40 years of existence, peed outside. I was terribly worried I would get it all over myself, but you know, I didn't. I actually watched the stream of urine and marveled that our bodies are made to do this. We're so disconnected from some of the functions of our bodies by modern convenience-- toilets hide our waste process, sanitary products disconnect us from our menstrual cycle. These things are unclean and not to be marveled at. But, despite being voluntarily sterilized 5 years ago and generally being uncomfortable every 22 days, it is a beautiful, holy process that was once revered for the sacred event it was. I may grumble about my cramps and weight gain each month, but deep down, my menstrual blood makes me feel powerful.

It has been a struggle to love these things about me-- sagging breasts, menstruation, grey hairs-- but more and more as I get older, I do love them, even if the relationship with my body is still difficult, my body is strong and amazing. Women get more powerful as they get older. I am a thornback woman, and I can't wait until I can call myself a crone.

Black Lives Matter

This has been a very heavy week. With the murder of George Floyd, things have been overwhelming in the world, but it's not a new occurrence and I've written about the murder of an innocent black man at the hands of the police before, and since that post, I've grown more and thought more about racial injustice in this country. I fully support the protests that are happening everywhere because shit has got to change in this country. This country was built on the genocide of indigenous people, the back of Africans that were stolen from their homes, the railroads built by Asian immigrants that were treated no better than slaves. We have a dirty, bloody history of violence and subjugation of nonwhites that is shameful. I've also taken the time to learn more about performative allyship and really stopped to think about what it means to be actively anti-racist. As a white, middle-class woman, I have no place to tell the black community how to feel, protest, mourn, or express themselves. All I can do is shut up and listen and take direction. To educate myself (because it is not on black people, or even my black friends to do that for me). It is my job as to use my nonmarginalized, privileged status to help others. I've also stopped caring about white feelings and have been plucking people off my friends list that use coded, racist language ("thugs"), respond with "all lives matter/police lives matter," or actively praise that shitbag in the White House.

During #BlackoutTuesday, I found myself disappointed. I went to graduate school in part to fight for social justice, especially after my own struggles with poverty and healthcare inequity. To see so many of my former classmates post their black square and then... nothing was, to say the least, disappointing. I did not post a square, but instead I took the time to look at the different charity funds that were set up, to read about performative allyship, to donate, and also to listen to the experiences of black people on social media. I reported hate speech on social media, including anyone who used "alllivesmatter" as a response to the Black Lives Matter movement. I read pieces written by journalists who had been shot at and gassed by the police and subsequently arrested. I also watched clip after clip of unchecked police brutality on peaceful demonstrators. It made me sick, it made me angry, and it made me frustrated with people who constantly respond with "nOt aLL cOpS!" Yes all cops. Because for every cop that beats, murders, or rapes a black person, hispanic person, indigenous person, there are the members of the force that turned a blind eye, who were complicit by doing absolutely nothing to make change. No amount of pro-cop propaganda (look at these cops dancing with kids on the sidewalk! look at these cops kneeling with the protesters!) will make me think that the police force in America is anything but a deeply corrupt institution that needs to be defunded, deconstructed, and replaced with social services that help support communities, to be healthy, safe, with access to equal educational opportunities, access to healthy food, mental health and substance use services, and healthcare, especially predominantly poor communities.

As an ally, it's my place to actively call out racism. It's my place to support and amplify black voices. It's my place to vote out corruption. It's my place to use my privilege as a means to help those that don't have it. I don't say all of this for asspats. I say all of this because as white people, we have never had to fear simply walking down the street, jogging, sleeping in our beds, going to the store, just because of our skin color. Our mothers didn't have to teach us from an early age how to act around police to avoid being assaulted or killed. It breaks my heart when my niece tells me that her best friend says "thank god my son is so light skinned" because fuck that shouldn't even be a concern for a mother with a school-aged child.

Remember, white people, this is not about you, or your feelings. If you go to the protests, remember, you're there to support, so shut up and listen and do as you're told. Have real and frank conversations with your families. Don't brag about donating (I hated to even mention it because I don't like talking about charitable gifts because I don't do it for praise), but don't be silent when it matters the most: when confronting systemic racism in the world around you and when it comes time to vote. Confront your own privilege and make yourself uncomfortable. 

If you are in the position to and want to donate money, here is a huge list to choose from. If you want to step outside of performative allyship and be better, here is an article that can steer you in the right direction. And another list of resources. Don't know how to talk to your kids about what's happening? Here's a resource that may help.

Hiking as Animist

As you may have noticed over the last few posts, my mental health has been up and down and I desperately needed a break, so I used Memorial weekend to give myself a vacation. I took the Friday prior, and then the Tuesday and Wednesday (today) following off, with my main goal of getting the hell out of town and into the woods as much as possible. My mood was immediately lifted as I drove through northern Somerset county to one of my favorite short hikes: Moxie Falls. But even on a Friday morning, it was too peoplely. I wanted someplace remote and to myself. I took a chance and a 67 mile detour (which was a lovely drive, as all of Maine is) to the Maine Huts and Trails trailhead at Flagstaff lake (see photo above, with the view of Bigelow Mountain). It was completely empty. There was one other vehicle in the parking lot, but not a person to be seen or heard. No children. No dogs. Just me, the forest, and the lake.

I am in my spirituality 100% of the time, especially in the forest. I feel an overwhelming gratitude and joy when I am in nature. My phone is filled with pictures of rocks, mushrooms (so many mushrooms!), flowers, trees, water... pictures I take for myself, pictures I can't help taking because I love each and every thing I take a picture of. I apologize to moss when I step on it, I thank the wind for cooling me, ask the trees for support and grounding, ask the rocks to help me ascend or descend. As an animist, these are all beings with spirits, and they are friends. I found myself thanking the water for nurturing the plants and trees, but most of all, I found myself thanking the Mother for all of it. The earth. The progenitor of all life.

Sometimes I share the pictures I take, but to most, they're pretty nature pictures, or weird pictures of rocks and mushrooms. It's hard to truly show someone the world as I view it, because it's a feeling, deep down, of being part of it, of respecting it and treating trees and stones like old friends. The inexplicable pull toward running fresh water. The smell of trees. The smell of sunlight. A photo can't really capture all of that, but when I look back at them, I can remember it, and feel that joy again. It's like looking at pictures of old friends, because they really are old friends to me. Every hike in a new place is an opportunity to meet new friends, and I find myself stopping often to take their pictures and talk to them. I take the opportunity also to be in awe, to feel small in the world, to understand that in the end, I am insignificant, that I am but part of a cycle of life, death, and rebirth, and when I die, my body will feed trees and plants, which will feed animals and insects, and my spirit will go wherever our ancestors go. There is no permanence in death when you're an animist. There is just a cycle.

When I shared a picture of a waterfall on my Instagram yesterday, I wrote "There's something about waterfalls, that makes me want to open up and be swallowed by them, devoured by the powerful water until I don't know where I begin or end, only that I'm part of something unfettered and more ancient than I am" and that is a thought that runs through my mind often. Running water draws me, and I don't have complete thoughts on it yet to write more on. Maybe later when I meditate on it.

Food Privilege

Today while I was at the auto dealership having my car worked on, I chatted with some friends via messenger about food. I admitted to a friend a certain smugness I felt, that I could relate to some vegans in that smugness, that meat processing plants were shutting down and meat was starting to become scarce, that I wanted to say, in my smugness "you don't need meat," but I don't say it out loud, because I have a really huge amount of food privilege and I understand that. Also I feel saddened that the demand for meat products has caused workers in the meat plants to become ill and die, and lose jobs, because I am still a compassionate person, despite a lot of empathy fatigue I've been feeling lately.

I am very, very fortunate that I am still working, that I am financially able to still access the specialty foods I buy (including being able to wait for my preferred brand of tofu to be back in stock at the grocery store, which of all things, I never expected to be sold out for two weeks), to be fussy about brands, and that my dietary choices are just that-- a choice. I am flexitarian because I choose to be, but not because of underlying health conditions, unlike a friend of mine who is vegetarian under doctor's orders and has been looking for nearly a month for red lentils that aren't astronomically high in price due to gouging (I offered her the little bit I had in a jar in my cupboard). I don't live in a food desert, and I have my own transportation to get to and from the grocery store. I have a huge amount of privilege, and I need to always be aware of that. When I first started writing this blog, I was experiencing some food insecurity. I did have food stamps, access to fresh vegetables and eggs from my sister, and I learned to make my food stretch, but looking back, I wrote some really cringey, privileged shit. It's important that I recognize that, and also recognize my food privilege now.

Sharing food is a love language for me. Nothing makes me happier than to cook for someone I care about. In the past, I have given food from my cupboard freely to friends in need, no questions asked and no expectation of repayment, and when there has been a food drive, I donated.  I have enough food. I have lots of potatoes and sweet potatoes, rice and lentils, and canned beans. I'm always happy to share what I have if my friends are having a hard time. I'm willing to make a pot of soup if someone brings their own containers for me to fill, and help people with recipes to use what they have on hand, because I'm good at throwing recipes together (I'd say maybe I should be on Chopped but I don't think they have the dishwashing budget to have me on the show). In the spirit of food sharing, I'm going to put my recipe for lentil soup below. Wine and sumac are optional, blending is optional. Switch up the cooking fats if need be. I strongly recommend the turmeric, though, so that's a spice I would recommend investing in. It doesn't look pretty but it's tasty and nutritious. I can usually get about 5 servings from it.

Lentil Soup

1 medium onion, fine dice

3 carrots, fine dice

1 sweet potato, small dice

2 stalks celery, fine dice

4 large cloves garlic, minced

1 cup small green lentils

¼ cup white wine

1 carton chicken or veggie stock

2 cups water

1 bay leaf

1 tsp dried thyme, crushed

½ tsp dried oregano, crushed

1/4 tsp turmeric

½ tsp sumac

¼ tsp black pepper

1 tsp seasoning salt

1 tbsp butter

1 tbsp olive oil

Heat butter and olive oil on medium. Add onion, sweat for 3 mins. Add garlic, cook until fragrant, 1 min. Add celery, carrots, and sweet potato, cook for a couple minutes. Add wine. Add lentils and all seasonings except salt. Add broth and water and let cook for 40 minutes. Add salt, taste, adjust seasoning as needed. Blend 2 cups of soup (or more to taste) and add back to pot.

ungandiR

Photo credit to this person

In the last several months, I have been really feeling more in tune with my spiritual nature than I have in a long time, to the point that, when I say the word "shaman" in the context of myself, I don't feel weird or Pagan-hokey. Heathenry is an intellectual curiosity, but way too prescriptive for my nature. But listening to Nordic-inspired/proto-Nordic-inspired music stirs my soul, and makes me realize that my spiritual nature needs to be fed, yet I feel like I have no outlet.

I need an altar.

I feel like such a creeper when I ask my hunter friends for bones and skulls, but I desperately want a deer skull to the the focal point of the altar. I feel so closely tied to the forest, and to honor that, the bones of the lord of the forest are needed. I would ask his spirit for his blessing, and surround him with objects honoring the forest and the earth.

I need space for my altar.

I need easy access to the forest to feed my soul. I need a place where I can build a fire and dance around it to the beat of a frame drum.

More and more, I want a house, set away from people, on lots of forested land. I want to be that shaman in the woods. I want to have gardens full of herbs and mumble wise things, like observing the leaves showing their backs and knowing it'll rain.

As much as I hate the winter in Maine, I feel so connected to it. I'll always be a child of springtime, but this winter has given me a lot of time to reflect on my shamanic tendencies. It makes me think I'll live a very lonely, solitary existence.


ungandiR roughly translated means "I (am) the priest, I (am) invulnerable to sorcery" is from the Nordhuglo rune stone in Norway.

Norse/Scandinavian folk I've been listening to:

Wardruna (will be seeing them in concert in February)
Heilung  (watch their amazing concert Lifa on Youtube. Serious shaman headdress envy)
Kaunan (very folksy)
Danheim (only recently discovered yesterday, already love them)

You Heathen!

Icelandic stave Veldismagn

As mentioned in a recent, ranty, "get off my lawn you kids" sort of post, I have a habit of sitting down and reevaluating my spirituality every decade or so (and woe to be old enough to measure these reevaluations in decades!) and generally realign my spirituality. I will never be one of those people who is comfortable practicing any sort of spirituality in a group setting, but I still seek virtual groups out not for camaraderie, but to quietly learn and slip away with the knowledge I was seeking out. Recently, I've been feeling that the word "shaman" fits my spirituality the best (although I'm not hung up on labels) so over the last few weeks I have been looking into modern shamanism (oh boy, so much fluff and woo) and dissatisfied with that search, started researching the Icelandic runic staves.

It's interesting, the rabbit holes you can fall into with a Google search. From Icelandic staves I went to Norse runes (the Elder Futhark) and somewhere along the way I stumbled upon Heathenry. A first, knee-jerk reaction was that Heathenry appealed to me very much. A second, knee-jerk reaction was "wow, there are a lot of racists who use a religion to justify racism." Apparently, it's a widespread problem, as several groups I've found online have, as rule number 1, "take your white supremacy and racism elsewhere." After looking into Heathenry on a superficial level, there is a theistic side to it, which doesn't quite work for me, but I'll continue to research and read, because knowledge is always valuable.

In the mean time, I'll continue to collect crow feathers and any clean bones/antlers and other magical items I can find/afford and spend time in nature. I'm too shamany for anything organized. Hopefully next summer I can make it to Iceland for a spiritual journey and to have Veldismagn tattooed on my chest (because believe it or not, 2 of my 3 current tattoos are spiritual for me, being my animal guide, the crow). Right now I'm looking for something way more primal and less organized, and I've realized that's a path I have to forge for myself.

Photographing Cemeteries

St. Francis Catholic Cemetery, Waterville ME

 I have had this blog for a long time, and I could have sworn I had written about my cemetery photography hobby before, but it's only vaguely mentioned in a post from 2015 where I talked about getting my creative spark back.

I've been visiting cemeteries in a non-funerary function for as long as I can remember. As a child, I used to help my parents as they helped fill Memorial Day orders at the family greenhouse for the local cemeteries, which included delivering arrangements and planting at the grave sites. Because visiting cemeteries was never associated with anything "scary" or "sad" for me (and indeed, the only "graveside" service I can remember attending is from adulthood) I have always found them a place of calm serenity. Oftentimes, if I need a quiet place to sit with my thoughts, I'll go to a cemetery. While some people do use them as walkable greenspaces (as they truly are), I typically have the place to myself for the most part, with the exception of the people who come to tend the graves of their loved ones. It's quiet, peaceful, and filled with art.

St. Francis Catholic Cemetery, Waterville ME

I started photographing cemeteries when I was in high school. I think the first time I put any effort into photographing something at a cemetery was at St. Francis Catholic Cemetery in Waterville, Maine, when I went with my mother as she tended to the graves of families. There are the most spectacular bronze angel statues guarding the gates of the cemetery (the Catholic side, because there is a secular side), one with a cross raised up to the sky, and another blowing a trumpet. It was natural, when I started photographing cemeteries again, that I recreate some of my first photos (the above is one of the recent photos). St. Francis is one I have traveled the width and breadth of because it is not only massive and convenient to get to, but it is filled with some of the most beautiful monuments. There are angels galore, many in varying state of decay due to age and the inevitable lichens that feed on the stone they are made from. There are virgin statues (see right), incredibly old grave markers that are barely legible, and new, shiny, modern marble and granite head stones with likenesses of the deceased etched into them with laser precision.

Maplewood Cemetery, Fairfield, ME

I have a set of personal rules or standards I hold myself to when I'm visiting the cemetery to photograph monuments. I try to remain as respectful as possible, and treat it like you would a national park: what goes in comes out with me. I try not to tread on the flat markers if I can help it (some have sunken into the ground and become overgrown over the years), and while I haven't encountered a fresh grave yet, I wouldn't tread on the dirt or otherwise disturb someone recently interred. I give anyone else in the cemetery a wide berth because I realize that some people find it weird and morbid and possibly inappropriate that I'm photographing grave markers and monuments. I also don't photograph (with one exception, because I hadn't seen one like it before) the names and birth/death dates if I can help it. If I can't, usually editing can help make them illegible. To me, photographing the personal information of the dead feels invasive. I do not sit on or lean on grave markers, ever. While a cemetery is a public greenspace, it is still a place where people are interred and their loved ones visit. It's not a park, or a playground, and I get upset when I see people walking their dogs through a cemetery or riding a horse through one (I have seen this). Cemeteries are sacred places to me, and they-- and their residents-- deserve respect.

Cavalry Cemetery, Skowhegan, ME

Photographing cemeteries is a sort of self-soothing act for me at times. It allows me to completely disconnect from the outside world for a while and do something creative. I often edit the photos on the spot and upload them to my Instagram account (you can find more there, but my page isn't all cemeteries), and I will walk through the more historic areas with their old, leaning marble stones to learn about the history of the area (anyone with an interest in epidemiology should visit an old cemetery or one with an old section, there's a lot to see and learn). Sometimes, though, I get sad, because I see graves with plastic or silk flowers on them, tattered and faded, and to me, that says "this is an obligation" or "I don't really care" and I would hate for my final resting place to be treated that way by the people I've left behind to care for it.

A friend recently asked permission to print some of my photos to decorate her office with and asked why I don't sell prints. Honestly, I don't photograph cemeteries for money or fame. They are available on my public Instagram page to view, and I would hope people would ask before reproducing them. I do this for myself. These cemeteries and the photos I take in them make me happy. I enjoy exploring different angles, getting close, and editing on my phone (because I take them ALL with my phone). I enjoy the time outside, walking, seeing the varying types of monuments, and learning the history of the area. I'd like to visit more than just the local cemeteries, but there is a lot here I'm sure I haven't seen. Cemeteries are a happy place for me.

If you're interested in death, cemeteries, mortuary science, and anything to do with death rituals, I highly recommend looking up Caitlyn Doughty either on Youtube or on her website. She's informative, funny, and a mortician that specializes in green burials.

All photos in this post are mine. If you want to see more, use the link above to visit my Instagram. Please don't steal them, I don't want to start using watermarks.

I'm Peopled Out

One of the tricky things about me is that I'm an A-Type personality but also an introvert. Combined with bipolar disorder, sometimes being social can be overwhelming. Between graduating and getting my job, I had about 2 months of unfettered free time in which I could do things. I could barely get anyone to make plans. I've been at my job a month now (holy shit, when did that happen?) and since I started there I've been to two weddings, and pretty much had full weekends where I'm spending time with people and not a lot of down time. This weekend a friend reached out to see about going to dinner at my favorite restaurant but I had to ask if we could do it another time. I love my family and friends, but I'm an introvert and I'm peopled out.

My original plan this weekend was to not even leave my bed. I was going to be super lazy and read trash romances, give myself facials, and play video games. My car, however, is an old cranky bitch and decided to have exhaust problems, so I had to drive to my parent's house to have my dad look at/fix it for me. Mom and I went to the farmer's market (I bought goat chops! And lots of basil!) and once my car was done, I went home, where I had planned to stay in a state of inactivity for the rest of the day.

...Until I realized there's a cemetery within walking distance of my house (I'll write about that in a post for tomorrow). I've logged over 8,000 steps on my fitness app when I originally aimed to hit fewer than 500, and caught a new Pokemon I hadn't gotten yet. I will say though, that while I was planning on lazing about, reading and giving myself facials (which I am going to do because what even is skin), cemetery photography is something I do for myself, that makes me relaxed and calm.

I appreciate when the people in my life understand, however, when I just don't have the energy to be social. I've been active today, but being in prolonged social situations isn't something I have the headspace for right now. In fact, I've felt so busy every weekend since I started working that I don't even want to do food prep tomorrow like I have been, so I won't. I'll figure out lunches as I go.

My Spirituality isn't Your Tumblr Aesthetic

I've talked about my spirituality before, but very very long ago, so it bears a refresher before I get into this rant. I discovered Wicca when I was 15 as I prepared to put my beloved dog to sleep and realized that the Catholic faith of my mother (which which I had loosely associated myself) had no room in heaven for dogs. It appealed to my love of nature and my affinity for fantasy (I was particularly interested in herbal healing) and it provided solace to my broken heart as I worked through the grief of my dog dying. I read books, visited the local occult shop when I could, and when I had regular access to the Internet, joined a Wicca message board (and made and maintained friendships with some of those people, even though we have all taken differing spiritual paths over the years). But, as I entered my 20's, something about Wicca felt... off to me. I didn't believe in the Wiccan Rede, I hated how, although it was based on early nature-based religions, it was terribly one-sided in favor of the Divine Female, the Goddess, with little attention paid to the actual duality of nature or the recognition of a God within the structure. I hated the fluffy, feel-good, be nice to everyone and harm NOTHING vibe. I loathed the little girls who thought it was the movie The Craft (which is an awesome movie, don't get me wrong, but it's entertainment, not fact) and used it to rebel against their parents.

At around 23 years old, I reevaluated my spirituality, and decided to drop Wicca as a personal identifier. My spirituality is much more grounded in the world I live in, existing in nature, celebrating the primal energy that surrounds us. I have an animal guide (ravens and crows, which I have tattooed all over me). My own personality is much too grey-area to stick with something so love-and-light as Wicca (which is a modern religion, don't let anyone tell you it's ancient) so I prefer to refer to myself as an extremely solitary, shaman-ish dirt-worshipping tree hugger, because I don't particularly like the term "Pagan," even. Given all this, maybe my rant is going to sound a little salty-old-Pagan, but so be it.

Sooo ~aesthetic~

There is a trend currently of girls appropriating certain aspects of various Pagan religions and declaring themselves "Wiccan" or "witches," when really, they're in it for the aesthetic. It's all over Tumblr and Instagram: aesthetically arranged crystals and candles, all put through a millennial pink or cool, blue-toned filter, alongside pictures of mermaid/unicorn hair (as an aside, I am so over unicorn and mermaid fucking everything) and maybe some witchy-sounding text. As someone who actually worships nature and has spent a long time pondering and evolving her own spirituality, I am actually so offended by these Tumblr witches. Insta witches. Facebook witches.

Owning some pretty crystals and spouting bullshit about your chakras (I guess Wicca is East Asian now?) doesn't make you Wiccan. It doesn't make you Pagan. It certainly doesn't make you a witch. ~Faerie majik~ is bullshit. I'm all for people having religion if it helps them (although I do believe wholeheartedly that organized religion holds us back as a species) or some form of structured spirituality, but come on. My spirituality isn't a trend. My spirituality is primal. I, on occasion, cast curses, because nature is not kind and sweet. Other times, I commune with the world around me and talk to animals (I have always had an affinity for animals). I read the weather in the leaves on the trees, in the clouds, and behavior of animals. I feel the world around me with every fiber of my being. I am happiest near trees and with crows nearby. It is not enough to have some shiny rocks that you've "charged" in the moonlight to be any form of Pagan. It's a belief set. It's a faith. If you want to take aesthetically-pleasing pictures of crystals and candles, by all means, do so, but don't pretend to belong to an established religion or faith when you don't know a damn thing beyond what pop culture throws at you, and you don't actually believe in what it says. Religion and spirituality are personal things, and Tumblr witches discredit those of us who have taken the time to examine our faith and refine our practices.

I'm not the only one that gripes about this. I'm friends with all sorts of flavor of Pagan, and we collectively roll our eyes at newly-minted batches of pastel-haired "Wiccans" who fill their feeds with pictures of crystals and sparkles and faeries because it's so aesthetic. Yes, there are some pretty tools in the more modern practices, and some gorgeous things crafted by talented artists that can be used for rituals and such, but pretty things shouldn't be the basis for choosing a religious path.

Maybe I am a cranky, salty old witch. Lately, as I've been craving being primal raising up some energy (it really has been a while), I've been stewing on the topic. I've been stewing on it for a while but maybe it's the upcoming new moon, maybe it's some amazing ancient Northern European inspired music I've been listening to, but I've felt my spirituality particularly acutely these past few days and seeing fake Pagans makes me salty. Maybe I'll go send out energy for their Instagram accounts to be hacked. ;)

The Matriarchs of Public Health

I started thinking about entering the world of public health all the way back in 2009 when my amazing cousin Stephanie planted the seed in my head as I spiraled further and further into job dissatisfaction. Granted, I didn't act on that until 2015, and this past May, I graduated (I'm not technically finished, so I don't feel comfortable putting the credentials after my name yet since I'm not officially an MPH). In my 2 years of graduate school, I found myself inspired by our program director (who just retired from the position this month) who had, in her long career, done it all, but mostly in the realm of end of life care. But, because she had done it all, I learned some valuable skills from her, as much as they make me groan (work plans and budgets are not fun things to draft). She has stories and experience and has seen the field I'm interested in-- technology in healthcare-- literally evolve from paper charts to the sophisticated electronic medical records and health-related devices and mobile apps that we have now. She has written programming for early systems.

At my current job, I work with an amazing group of (mostly) women, and our department head is another seen-it-all-done-it-all bastion of public health. She has been doing what she does since I've been alive (seriously-- she's been in her position since 1980 and will be retiring to a per diem status in October). I started my job 3 weeks ago and probably since before I started she has been working on writing grants for future projects. Grant writing is a huge undertaking and as she explained her process to us, she said, without a shred of vaingloriousness, that she is granted nearly every grant she applies for (which is good news for my department and my job security). She knows everyone in the state, she has experiences and stories to share. She has shaped public health, disease prevention, and the spread of evidence-based health education in central Maine.

These two women remind me so much of each other, because they share so many of the same attributes: their calm demeanor, their shrewd, innovative thinking, and their soothing voices. These women that I look up to are the matriarchs of public health. When I think of leaders in public health, I don't think of men leading the way (although there have been amazing male contributors to the public health world and I've had the pleasure to learn from some very gifted scholars) I think of these wizened, caring women who have paved the way, who fight for the health and wellness of everyone in their communities, who put their nose to the grindstone to apply for grants to ensure that resources can be generated, studies performed, and health services delivered.

I'm 37, and I can't even imagine getting to that point, to that level of achievement. I admire these women so much and it saddens me that I am only now encountering them in the twilight of their careers as they prepare to retire and pass the torch to another generation. These are women who have been in public health for decades, have witnessed social change, policy change, changes in attitude toward health and healthcare delivery. These matriarchs of public health have been the backbone for people like me, entering the industry. They're grassroots people, people I can relate to, when so many of the women in my program I couldn't relate to at all. They have built the foundations of what I do, and I will forever admire and be grateful for them paving the way.

Bi Erasure, Biphobia, and Treating People Like a Fetish

Pride month is wrapping up, and I've had a few thoughts that have been stewing at a rolling boil just below the surface, and it started with The Babadook. I am not "babashook" about people elevating a horror movie character (from a fairly good movie, mind you) to the New Gay Icon(tm) and proclaiming that the B in LGBTQIA+ stood for Babadook. I am not here for that at all. And neither are other bisexuals.

Other? Yeah, about that. I'm bisexual.

Apologies to my family who find out via my blog. I never felt a "coming out" was important or necessary, because all of my relationships have been with men and let's face it, we all know I'm too huge of a catty bitch to have a functional relationship with a woman. It's not a big deal. I don't even particularly care about labels, but if you want to put one on it, there you go.

Back to the Babadook and why it's a big deal. Bi erasure is a huge problem not only in mainstream media but within the LGBTQIA+ community. Bisexuals are faced with stigma, exclusion, and treated like they're too gay to be in straight spaces but too straight to be in gay spaces. At the best, bisexual people are ignored. At the worst, they're either treated like a fetish for straight-identifying people or instantly categorized as inherently unfaithful and untrustworthy partners.

Let me tell you why the way bisexuals are treated is bullshit:

1. A bisexual person is perfectly capable of being in a committed, loving relationship with someone without being "tempted" to cheat, without feeling like they're "missing out" on the other sex. I am a ridiculously faithful person, even with a partner 1,200 miles away that I haven't seen in a year. Don't tell me I'm a cheater because I'm bi!

2. If someone tells you they're bisexual, your instant response shouldn't be "wanna have a threesome?" Please. That gets old really quick, and I can tell you, threesomes are kind of overrated, awkward, and boring. I'm not here to be your unrequited fetish fantasy.

3. It's not that I can't choose. I am attracted to both. It's how I am. Penises are awesome. Vulvas are awesome. It's not a phase. If it is, it's a 20 year one.

4. Bi people aren't bi for attention. If I was bi for attention, I would have... come out?

I'm sure so many others have written about the topic of bi erasure and biphobia much, much more eloquently than I have. But the whole point of this blog was to work through my feeling and thoughts as I wandered through my day-to-day life. So to sum up: I'm bi. No I don't cheat. I'm not attracted to you, don't worry. No I don't want a threesome. Yes I belong in queer spaces. No it's not a phase/for attention/because I can't choose. Yes I am valid. Yes I am visible. Yes I belong.

Oh and P.S., stop being shitty to asexual, intersex, gender noncomforming, nonbinary, trans, and other erased members of the community. They're just as valid.

A Letter to my Youngest Niece on the Second Day of Trump's Presidency

Dear Rachel,

You probably won't see this unless someone directly links it to you, since you don't use Facebook, but this is something that's been composing itself in the back of my mind now for years. Composing itself, ever since that Easter a couple years ago when you, barely 15, started expressing an interest in politics and a desire to see a woman in the highest elected office in this country. That Easter, when I saw you visibly withdraw your passion when your grandfather (not my Dad, mind you) stated "the worst thing we ever did was give women the vote." With that utterance I felt rage well up inside of me, and I am truly sorry I didn't speak up, but instead buried myself in the glass of wine in my hand and worked on getting drunk.

With that single utterance, he reduced your thoughts, ideals, and hopes into an insignificance he ground under the heel of patriarchy, and I should have spoken up. I was so happy to see your burgeoning feminism at the table, and so incredibly sad to see someone in your life who is supposed to love and support you quash it. I'm sorry I didn't let my anger manifest into words. On this day where so many women around the world are voicing their anger and fear by demonstrating political dissent, reminding the patriarchy that our voices will be heard, I offer my humblest and sincerest apology. I have been dwelling on that day for years, and you have no idea how much that one harmful phrase has stuck with me. I will no longer remain silent. I may not be marching for us today, but I will no longer remain silent in the face of a regime that wants to subjugate women and commodify them.

You are an incredibly intelligent, articulate, generous, gentle, and kind person, Rachel, and don't let this cruel world strip that from you and turn you cynical. Seize hold of that burgeoning feminism I saw manifest years ago, and speak up for yourself, your friends, your loved ones. Get involved, be active. Get to know victims, marginalized people, vulnerable people. Use your incredible capacity for caring and compassion to make change in this world. Whatever career you embrace, use it as a platform for good, but please, I implore you, never lose your values, your ideals, your autonomy. Stand up for what is right and never allow someone to drown out your voice.

I'm sorry I didn't stand up for you then, but I will and am now. I have your back, and the backs of all women whose voices have been drowned out.

You are not property.

You are not a commodity.

You have agency.

You are strong, whether you realize it yet or not.

I'm proud to call you my niece.

Thanks, Obama

I posted briefly on Facebook this morning, as the Inauguration proceedings were underway in Washington D.C., that I would not be participating in the Women's March locally, not because I don't support the cause (I wholeheartedly do. Dissent is political. Dissent makes change) but because I know, as a person living with bipolar disorder, that the sheer crowd would trigger a negative reaction in me. I am, however, incredibly proud of the friends and family that will be marching tomorrow, locally and in the nation's capital. It is incredibly important that we use our voices, that we stand up for ourselves, loved ones, marginalized populations, at-risk populations, humanity.

I will admit, watching footage of Barack and Michelle Obama waving farewell and stepping onto Marine One made me tear up a bit. There went one of the biggest champions of human rights, women's rights, gay and transgender rights, health, and public health. So, without a shred of irony I say, "thanks, Obama."

Thank you for the Affordable Care Act. Is it a perfect piece of legislature? No. Is it huge and incredibly complex and in need of reform? Yes. As we face a vague plan of "repeal and replace," I worry that the good work Obama has done will be undone by the incoming administration. Many people focus on the high premiums on the plans offered in the Marketplace, and the struggles to navigate the website. Consider, however, that the ACA removed the ability for insurance companies to deny you coverage based on preexisting conditions. Looking at things through the lens of public health, the ACA has been monumental in healthcare reform. The ACA introduced value-based purchasing and improved quality measures that have improved healthcare delivery and health outcomes. While the HITECH Act was implemented prior to the ACA, it has flourished and expanded within the last several years, opening up health exchanges that collect, examine, and report on population health data. Thanks, Obama, for trying to resolve healthcare disparities and gaps in coverage.

I won't lie. As someone in her last semester in a Master of Public Health program facing an administration that has already demonstrated it doesn't care about the health and welfare of Americans, I'm scared. I'm scared but this degree puts me in a position to advocate for the health needs and rights of all people.

This post isn't nearly as coherent and cohesive as I would like it to be. I am sure, in the near future, there will be plenty to write about.

The Harmful Ways We Think

Rear Admiral Grace Hopper said that "the most dangerous phrase... is 'we've always done it that way.'" A collective resistance to change exists in this world, and I used to embrace it with open arms. I found change scary and harmful-- after all, if ain't broke don't fix it, right? But I've realized this is a harmful way of thinking. As part of dealing with my bipolar disorder, I've had to become incredibly introspective and self-aware, which includes examining the way I think about things and react to things. Change makes me panic, but I realize it's necessary for growth. On January 1st, I wrote on my Facebook "I've realized over the past few weeks that some of my ways of thinking seriously limit my personal and professional development, and I'm going to work hard at changing my own mind, no matter how scary it might be." 

One of the biggest changes I've made was my decision to go to graduate school, and as I enter my last semester, I face new changes: transitioning back into the workforce. I've already dipped my toe in the water, and have already been rejected for one job (I was quiet about the application and rejection, I've processed it, and while I'm bummed, I'm okay with it). I regularly search for public health/health information technology jobs to get a feel for what is available. When I entered my program, I did it under the auspices that I was doing a duty to my state, to Maine, that needed my help so much. I was going to champion my fellow rural poor, I was going to champion reproductive justice and mental health. And I was going to absolutely, unwaveringly do this in Maine because I was born here, and dammit, I'm going to die here. 

Why, my fellow Mainers, do we get into this mindset? Why do we view the outside world as scary and not worthy of even visiting? I'm in the bad habit of reading the comments on articles online (I know, I know, never read the comments) and I've seen salt-of-the-earth Mainers say things like "I went to [state] once. I didn't take to it. Didn't see the appeal, I'll stay right where I am." We are ingrained to have this horrible world view of anything outside of the state, and to look at people From Away with disdain (I am guilty of this), and even treat our largest city, Portland, as not part of the state. We are formed of the earth of the state and will not be moved. I love my state, and I love my people, but the resistance to change, the unwillingness to be open minded to new ideas, new people, and new experiences is suffocating. 

I was never one of those kids who said at high school graduation "I can't wait to get out of this state." I was one of the "I will never leave" kids. But as I reach the end of my career, and I look at job opportunities and median salaries (because while job satisfaction and knowing I'm helping others is important, so too, is salary) I realize I need to be open to new experiences and opportunities. I have never lived outside of Central Maine. While I am more traveled than probably the average Mainer, I've never fully experienced life in a more urbanized area, I've never been in a culturally diverse area. My resistance to change has narrowed my worldview and that is a hurdle to overcome, in and of itself. When I look at the careers of people I admire in my life, I see movement, I see change. I can help people in Maine, and elsewhere, but I can't remain static doing it. I can't remain in this holding pattern of resistance to change. I can't, and I won't. 

Maine is a special place. Escaping to the forests makes me feel refreshed and healed. But I can't put up a wall of resistance to change if opportunity arises. That way of thinking is harmful, and I can't limit myself.