Butters

The first time I rode in Butters, I couldn’t get over the smallness. The cab was narrow, and that meant sitting close to each other. We hadn’t been dating super long, but long enough that closeness was more than ok, and though we were both full of desire, we could also relax into being near each other.

D drove her up my mom’s long gravel driveway to pick me up, took me to a gig I had at a local bar, then back to her hometown for the first time, my guitar safely latched to the inside of the tiny bed. I had never even heard of a Volkswagen Rabbit truck.

It was late July, and after the sun had gone down, it didn’t matter so much that the AC didn’t work. The windows down, we could see the stars and enjoy the cooler breeze of the night.

The Diesel engine rumbled and purred louder than what seemed possible for such a small vehicle.

Months later, that same sound of Butters starting up and then running would pierce through the early hours of predawn darkness, as D left to drive down the mountain and go to work. After she kissed me goodbye, I could hear the garage door open below, the Diesel engine getting its start, and Brandi Carlile’s “Live at Benaroya Hall” playing loud enough for me to hear as she pulled out onto the gravel driveway. The distinct smell of biodiesel made its way through the house as I would pray a quick prayer for her safety.

I wasn’t the only one who recognized the distinct sound of Butters. Deanna told me who she bought the truck for, and there was no mistake; the truck belonged to her (then our) beloved Boxer mix, Izzie. Izzie would start wagging her huge tail as soon as she heard Butters start. She always assumed it meant she was going for a ride.

I admit I was nervous just about every time Izzie rode in the back of Butters with us in the cab. I especially worried about her as we traveled over mountains, and as she would pace out of excitement at times. I’ll never forget how big she looked in the tiny truck.

We took Butters to the Apple Festival I played at, and as we met up with dear friends afterward. We drove her to my friend’s baby shower, and on longer trips to save money, getting close to 50 miles per gallon of fuel.

When I think of riding in the truck, I remember the drives to hiking trails, a particularly beautiful college campus, and around the area where D grew up. I remember keeping iced water with us and wearing tanks and shorts, windows rolled down in the summer. I remember D trying to get the heat to work, while we wore heavy coats, hats, and gloves in the winter time. I think of all the thumbs up and waving from VW Rabbit enthusiasts.

I remember cruising along the edge of the river, in the dark, on our way back to the mountain where we lived.

One of my favorite memories, I’ve written about before, when we came home around sunset, and D backed the truck back out of our driveway, chasing the horizon down so we could see a better view. The quietness inside against the constant diesel rumble on the outside.

Last night, I drove behind Butters. D was driving. I admired the stickers on the back, some of which were stocking stuffers from me to her, at our first Christmas together.

Izzie was missing. She’s been gone for a year now, and it still doesn’t seem right or real, yet all too real. It was and still is a hard goodbye.

In the morning, we are going to say goodbye to Butters. The guy that D drove to meet up with last night is going to buy it. I could see it in his eyes. He loved the truck. And that’s great. We want it to go to someone who will take good care of it.

But goodbye is filling my mind with memories. And that ever present feeling of the greatness of the story we write together: me & D. And how much things have changed, are going to change, and will never change. Like the steadfastness of our love.

So thanks, Butters. For bringing us close together time after time. And getting us there safely. Through the hellos and goodbyes. Slowly. But safely and surely.

Keep on Truckin.

 

Spirit

As I saw the news last night, I joined in the collective cringe, collective grief, collective righteous anger. I feel the effects of the UMC’s decision.

I am still collecting my thoughts to write more on the matter, but for now, I offer a simple prayer I wrote in 2011.

 

The world is angry and violent.
Lord, Jesus, we need your spirit.

Forgiveness is rare and hatred is rampant.
Lord, Jesus, we need your spirit.

The earth and people are being destroyed.
Lord, Jesus, we need your spirit.

The outcast is in need of welcoming.
Lord, Jesus, we need your spirit.

We need hearts full of grace, peace, and love.
Lord, Jesus, we need your spirit.

We need reconciliation and unconditional love.
Lord, Jesus, we need your spirit.

We need patience and strength to care for earth and others.
Lord, Jesus, we need your spirit.

We need to open our hearts and our doors.
Lord, Jesus, we need your spirit.

Fill us with your merciful love.
Lord, Jesus, we need your spirit.

Fill us with your unfailing love.
Lord, Jesus, we need your spirit.

Fill us with your spirit, Lord.
Jesus, we need your spirit.

For Mary Oliver (A Reflection from a Young-ish Lesbian)

Though many tributes have been written, I’ve yet to find one that says what I would wish to say. Therefore, I humbly offer this one.

When I love an artist, I like to take everything in. In fact, I still much prefer buying music on vinyl or cd, not just because of the better audio quality, but also for what I enjoy as much as the music – lyrics and liner notes. I read every word.

Similarly, I like to take the time to read the first few pages in a book: the copyright page, the table of contents, and most of all – the dedication page. I’ve always been struck by and keenly interested to know to whom my favorite singers and writers dedicate their projects.

Today, as I am continuing to reflect and mourn over the passing of beloved Mary Oliver, I’m realizing and processing the depth and meaning I experienced as one of her readers. From cherished poems long and stretching to her exercises in brevity, I’ve been a fan. And through teaching, leading, coaching, and work as a therapist, I’ve recruited  – I mean passed on – love and appreciation for her work.

Like so many, I connected with and related to Mary’s love for nature – her sensing and seeing the depths of beauty, her being entranced in the mysteries of the natural world, and her sharp insights and spiritual wisdom she gathered from her many walks in the woods and along the shore.

I join in the chorus of those challenged and inspired by her lines in “The Summer Day,” “Peonies,” “The Journey,” “Wild Geese,” and more of the usual favorites.

The first poem (I think) I read of Mary’s was “The Journey.” I remember connecting with the feeling and heart of that poem, but it wouldn’t be until later that I made the connection between this poem and its creator.

The first time I felt struck by Mary, I was in graduate school. A woman I deeply cared for shared that she was reading a book of poetry called Blue Iris. She shared “Peonies” with me. Immediately, I was hooked. Over the next year, I read more of Mary’s work and purchased Blue Iris and New and Selected Poems (Volume 1). I read her poems in groups I led and used them for instilling hope in others – and most deeply – in myself.

As much as I’ve shared my love for Mary’s work and spirit, there’s something else I’ve strongly felt toward her but never put into words until now:

Deep abiding gratitude.

Of course, I am thankful for the beauty, simplicity, and meaning I received from Mary’s words.

But I’m also and more so grateful for affirmation, validation, and visibility.

My wife and I often talk about the time before we were out. Individually, we had similar experiences.

We watched every cliché show and film on LGBTQ cable networks, absorbing ourselves within the stories we could find that better reflected who we are and whom we would love. No matter how terrible some of them were.

Sometimes, however, the stories were beautiful and full of truth, love, and light. Sometimes, the stories showed a glimpse into what the future might someday look like.

In Blue Iris, I found such a story.

Tucked in between the poems about various flowers, great oaks, and swamps, is a no frills simple piece. One I found myself longing to read and touch after hearing of Mary’s passing.

I noticed, only just now, the depth of meaning and sharp importance this poem held for me – giving me a glimpse into the simple loving relationship I desired to have someday with another woman.

“Freshen the Flowers, She Said.”

Sitting in my room, alone – in so many ways – the words and feeling in this poem leapt off the page and into my heart.

Curious, I read other poems, looking for more clues and more affirmation. I read about Mary’s life and realized the connection of “family.”

Today, I realized more words of affirmation, validation, and visibility. They grace the sometimes unread pages – just four simple words:

“For Molly Malone Cook.”

Thank you, Mary.

For being brave enough to write those words. Visible enough for a lesbian from East Tennessee to see it and to know that she, too, would be ok.

Mary’s books and individual poems have been included in love notes, gifts, and private thoughts in my marriage to my wife and in our falling in love with each other to start with. They have led to tender moments and served as prayers, comforts, and reminders to be mindful.

Mary was intensely private, but if I had the chance, I would ask her about her love. With Molly. And I would ask her about visibility and how much things have changed in just the past decade.

Less than a decade ago, when I came out and when I started dating then eventually becoming engaged and marrying my wife – people made a point to tell me they “did not agree” (which is still a baffling phrase to me).

In the past few months, I have witnessed some of these same people celebrate the engagements and relationships of LGBTQ mutual friends. They’ve had a change of heart and mind.

It’s people like Mary and Molly, Edie and Thea, Ellen, Amy Ray, Emily Sailiers, and so many others living their everyday lives who we have to thank for that progress and change. The ones who lived through the darker years and endured the heartache, yet still chose to be visible despite the costs.

When I came out, I lost friends, relationships, ideals, and even some dreams and desires I had long held. Still, I found love, honesty, true friendship, and belonging that transcended the rejections. I am lucky to live in this time to experience and witness such rapid change and progress. Even though so much progress remains (and needs) to be made.

The costs have been much steeper and more perilous in the past. Yet, many brave souls came out anyway, and loved.

I sit in my home tonight, with my copy of Blue Iris on one side, my children on the other, my wife in the next room, getting things ready for the kids’ bedtime.

I sit in a new security, and I have found the love I desired back when I read Blue Iris for the first time. I have even found some societal acceptance – more than I ever dreamed would be possible at this point in my life.

Here I am – in my wonderful, simple, beautiful lesbian life.

Doing my best to be mindful of how wild and precious it is.

So, thank you, Mary.

 

You said you saved yourself.

Honestly – did you notice?

I did.

You saved so many of us, too.