Written in the Sand

Last year I committed to spending more time at the beach. AND I DID.

My priorities and my visions of normalcy and success shifted with every minute I spent at the shoreline.

My intention was to continue regular beach visits in 2019 — multiple times every week — but so far this year … I haven’t gone much.

Today I didn’t even want to leave the house. Like most days this month. February is the worst month of winter in Washington (even without the snow that piled up last week); even though the days are getting longer, it’s not nearly enough sunlight after months of reduced daylight hours. It feels like darkness falls way too soon every day.

But I had to get one of Delia’s checks in the bank. It seemed like a waste of gas and putting-on-clothes to turn right back around and go home, so I made myself go to the beach, telling myself that I could just sit in the car and read. Just GO. Just GET there.

And there it was … proof that THE BEACH IS FOR ME, written like a personalized welcome mat:

Without planning it, the tide is often low when I get there. Especially on days like today when I had to ease myself into just the idea of being upright.

Funny coincidence: last night I read a story featuring sandwriting that was also like a personal bridge, but between where I picture the author Emma Donoghue and here in the Pacific Northwest. Starting out reading Slammerkin and The Sealed Letter, she has always seemed SO across-the-pond and decades and centuries ago from where I be, but in Touchy Subjects there she is writing about JESUS and TACOMA and the word COCKSUCKERS in the sand.

So far this book is full of stories I would never have imagined her writing, but I was totally surprised by Room coming from her, too. But maybe she was just making fun of us for that big JESUS CARES ABOUT YOU sign you can see from the freeway that you can imagine was an inspiration for it. It makes me miss Tacoma, actually. Lots of things make me miss Tacoma. But then I go to the beach here and don’t give Tacoma another thought.

Anyhoo … I had very tender feelings for “The Man Who Wrote on Beaches” when I read it last night.

“…he had a home with a view of Puget Sound and a good job and a great collection of German steins and a lot of laughs. Above all, he had Margaret, who was twice what he deserved.”

The older I get and resign myself to being My Authentic Self, I have to accept that even though I’m capitalizing those words like I’m in on the ridiculous joke of myself, I’m honestly NOT joking. I’m earnest and can say with my whole heart that I love The Man Who Wrote on Beaches. With recognition, relief that I haven’t taken it QUITE that far (but only because I got the idea of asking Jesus into my heart out of my system as a teenager), forgiveness … and no measurable amount of irony.

Pregnant for 22 Hours

 

Delia and I went to the doctor and got some very unexpected news a couple of days ago:

Maybe we shouldn’t have immediately tweeted about it and told a few choice members of our families … but it was probably the only chance we’ll have of telling people that news. It was fun while it lasted! Stressful, but overall a bizarre-yet-positive learning and bonding experience for us. And it was so lovely reading all of the excitement and congratulations from you folks online – thank you so much for being so happy for us!

You are good people, and we experienced your well-wishes and hopes for the best to happen as real love. I hope for all of us to thrive and be joyfully aware of how much new life is around and IN us EVERY DAY, and nurture that in ourselves and each other.

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If you want to read more about what we went through a decade ago trying to get pregnant before Delia could move forward with HRT (hormone replacement therapy) and her transition, check out my blog archives at FertileTrixie.com. I still want to explore and share more about that experience and what I learned from it: that having difficulty conceiving doesn’t mean you aren’t fertile in tons of potent and amazing ways. Also I love a lot of fertility-related fetishes and taboos.

The doctor didn’t seem concerned about the false positive (which I’ve always heard is super fucking rare / weird to get), so I am going to follow up with my GP to see if there’s something wrong with me that caused it. Maybe I have a big huge hairy toothy ovarian cyst growing inside me, or a stone baby! It would explain so much, and be so much easier to take care of the fruit of our loins if we had her contained in a jar of formaldehyde.

 

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15 Years (and a Decade) Ago

The first time Delia told me she loved me was 15 years ago … the day my dad died. I wish he’d been able to know her … he would have loved her so much. Their loving kindness and senses of humour are so exceptional and similar.

And just over ten years ago, near Mother’s Day of 2007, is when Delia decided to transition. My memory of that day and her announcing this beautiful change is one of the happiest and most hopeful, joyful memories in my whole entire life.

I fervently wish for everyone to be able to be their best, happiest, truest, most green-growing radiantly-thriving selves, and be surrounded by love, safety and the certainty that we all want the very best for each other, and allow each other the freedom to determine what is best for themselves. It may not be true today, and it doesn’t seem probable … but it is possible, and I want to focus on believing that kernel of goodness is in everyone as much as our capacity for fear, willfully self-centered comfortable ignorance, and cruelty.

 

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Starry Winter Night Stroll

We got up too-early to go dance. It was worth it, but then all we wanted was a movie and food-in-bed and murder-porn lazy-time.

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With the velvety curtains drawn around our well-fed body heat, it finally got too stuffy by other people’s Sunday-night time-for-bed standards under the sloped-ceilings of our sleeping alcove. I whined for Delia to make me a bulls-eye egg NO WAIT can we take a walk?


Out in the dark in our pajamas, strolling the silent neighborhood … so many stars. My pj’s are a soft knit dress and thin fleece hoodie: no panties, no bra. Just shuffling along. It feels balmy compared to a couple weeks ago when the moon was full and the ground hard-frozen. She finds out her new nalgene does indeed glow.

We should be walking naked. Through gardens, not towards the obscenely-bright porch lights of people who go to bed so early. We should be walking naked with bare feet. RUNNING, even. Maybe we will someday, and then come back inside to dance. Or if it’s summer … stay outside to dance. All night long.

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There’s Orion. There’s The Big Dipper. There are billions and billions and billions of things I don’t know the names for. Just tiny little lights in darkness from where we’re moving, such tiny barely measurable distances together, walking at night towards another cold still building where we’ve danced before, and other people. Maybe for a hundred tiny little years.

HOLD MY HAND, I said. WE’RE MATES. MATED FOR LIFE.

We left the sometimes-lit straight roads for the darker curving trails. Little miniature hills roped with roots, rising and falling under our feet.


 

I can hear her downstairs, smell the buttered bread and egg she’s frying for me coming up the stairs.

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