By Melissa Jeter

“Our bodies are the texts that carry the memories and therefore remembering is no less than reincarnation.” 
—Rev. Dr. Katie Cannon, Womanist theologian

Wherever I go, I bring my ancestors with me. There was a time when I was disconnected from this sense of being. I’ve lost the memory of my grandmother’s face—though I know that her love in the first four years of my life sustains me still. She has always been with me in how I love. But she’s with me when I look into mirrors as well, because I look like I’m directly her child. I look nothing like my mother and her mother.

My father told me once that his mother admonished him to never go down South. Her words were protection, meant to protect future generations. However, just like salmon swim upstream to spawn, I had to return to visit friends and to learn and honor the pathways from which I have come.

Elizabeth was born in Brevard, North Carolina. Her high school was one of the Rosenwald schools that educated Black people after Reconstruction. Even today, our family values education; my father told me it’s the only thing that can not be taken away from a person once they have it.

I lack shame about my grandmother’s brown skin, her wide smile, or her education. The conditions from which Rosenwald Schools were formulated in the South bear no shame upon me either. Yet the knowledge is held by my body.

Salmon swimming upstream probably do not have this problem. They travel the paths of those who came before. The Way is encoded in their bodies. I experience this numinosity: I wander into Mystery of wholeness and oneness. I am the “we” of the narratives I still do not know about my ancestors.

I imagine that Elizabeth left North Carolina for a safer, more self-actualized life in Ohio. I went South for that too, but it was also for authenticity and inner felt worthiness of belonging. I needed to be in the waters that my grandmother swam in. I need it now. There is so much more to me. I know it when I read, when I write, speak, and especially when I sing. My ancestors take hold of me. It is no small thing. I need them and they are with me and we need to be free.

Prayer

Let the Mystery in becoming realigned with our ancestors, known and unknown, give vitality and purpose to our Being. Remind us of the scriptures written in our bodies and faces. Let the wisdom of honoring this Love tell stories of strength and endurance for the journey.
Amen Ase Blessed Be

By Stacy Duffy

“Blessings on all the life in this pile that will transform decay to fertility, death to life. May I always remember that the cycle of life is a miracle. May I continue to feel a sense of wonder and joy in the presence of death and life.”
—Starhawk’s Blessing for Compost, in The Earth Path

Every successful vegetable gardener knows the invisible key to a bountiful harvest: the sacred element of compost.

When I take my daily neighborhood walk, I notice clues about how Mother Earth deals with waste: the leaves browning and falling to the ground in autumn; earthworms emerging during a rain, ready to digest those fallen leaves; and my personal favorite: the never-ending varieties of mushrooms that pop up, quietly transforming what has fallen into something that can nourish new life.

Like most transformations in life, decay is messy. Most of the time it downright stinks. We humans know something about this kind of transformation. Grief is messy. Break-ups are messy. Losing a job, leaving a community, watching a chapter of life close… none of it is tidy. We resist it, we package it up, we try to move it somewhere out of sight. But the mystics and the poets and the gardeners all tell us the same thing: you cannot skip the decomposition. There is no shortcut from what was to what will be.

The compost pile does not mourn what it receives. The apple core, the coffee grounds, the wilted stems: they’re not failures. They’re not endings. They’re simply matter in the middle of becoming something else. Given time, given the right conditions—a little moisture, a little air, the patient work of ten thousand invisible organisms—what seemed like waste becomes the very substance that makes new life possible.

This is not a metaphor we invented. It is a truth the Earth has been demonstrating since long before we arrived to observe it.

Perhaps the invitation is not only to compost our kitchen scraps (though please do that, too). The deeper invitation is to practice what the compost pile knows: that transformation is not the same as loss. That what breaks down is not destroyed but redistributed. That the beauty of those flowers you passed this morning was fed, in part, by everything that fell and rotted and gave itself back to the ground before them.

The garden does not thrive in spite of decay. It thrives because of it.

Prayer

May we find the courage to trust our own seasons of falling apart. May we remember that we, too, are part of this great cycle of life. And may we tend—with care and with hope—both the soil beneath us and the fertile, unfinished ground within ourselves.

By Ann Stillwater

“I’m not broken. I’m different and that’s okay.”
—Ellen Hedger

“Hablo mejor que entiendo.” Years ago I memorized this phrase to explain my Spanish-speaking abilities: “I speak better than I understand.” My aunt was trilingual and I have her gift for learning proper pronunciation in other languages, but not her ability to understand them—so I feel lost and ashamed in pretty much every Spanish conversation.

This is also true in English, my native tongue: I do better at speaking than understanding. Like the time I went into too much detail on the phone about our upcoming motel reservation when all they needed was my last name to find the reservation. Each time I make this kind of mistake, it’s too easy to catapult myself back into the shame and guilt that was instilled in me as a child. I’ve been working on this for decades: learning that I often give too much information, and trying to remember that folks want to be heard—because I want to be a better listener!

A few years ago I found out the “why” behind my struggles: I’m on the autism spectrum. This helps explain my difficulty understanding! As a child, I was consistently over-corrected by my (probably also autistic) mom, who just wanted me to fit in. She taught me to focus on giving to others and sharing my knowledge. I loved to read and learn, and there was so much amazing and helpful info I could share! It was a way to mask my autism—though I didn’t have those words for it.

Learning about my neurodiversity has been a huge relief: I do not need to continue carrying the toxic shame that has haunted my entire life. It’s also a complicated journey: I haven’t been able to just flip the switch to rid myself of decades of conditioning. It’s a slow learning curve. I still often go into shame, but I am creating brave new patterns of compassion and patience for myself.

Hablo mejor… Yes, I do speak better than I understand, but coming to understand myself more deeply points me towards tools that are leading to a more relaxed and serene life.

Prayer

Spirit of Life and Learning, thank you for continuing insights about myself and my world. As I seek a healthy balance between giving and receiving, speaking and listening, let me deepen my appreciation for uniqueness, mine and others’.

By JeKaren Bell

“When great souls die, 
the air around us becomes light, rare, sterile. 
We breathe, briefly. 
Our eyes, briefly, 
see with
a hurtful clarity.” 
–Maya Angelou, in “When Great Trees Fall”

I became a death doula to companion people in their grief. That was the calling I trained for. I did not expect how many calls would come on behalf of a dog, a cat, a horse, an iguana.

The first time someone called about a dying cat, I almost said that wasn’t my work. I caught myself. She was not asking me to save the cat. She was asking me to help her hold what was coming, the same way I would help her hold the death of a parent.

So I said yes. And I kept saying yes.

Companion animal grief gets little room in our culture. People apologize before they finish describing their loss. They say “I know it’s just a dog” or “I feel silly grieving this much.” They believe that this love counts less; that this grief should stay small and be managed alone.

I’ve sat with a man who could not wash the blanket his dog died on, the smell his last thread to twelve years of companionship. I’ve held space for someone grieving an iguana, an animal most people would not think to grieve at all. That grief moved through her the way grief moves through anyone who has lost a being who relied on them completely and loved them without condition.

Grief does not measure itself by species. It measures itself by the bond that has been broken. A companion animal knows us unguarded and unwell, and chooses to stay with us through it all. When that attachment ends, the absence is not smaller because the body was smaller.

We’re rarely taught to anticipate losing an animal we love, even though most of us who share our lives with them will witness their death. There is no cultural script, no permission slip that says this loss deserves full mourning. People improvise alone, apologizing for tears at their desk.

This ministry allows me to hand people that permission slip: their grief is not too much, not silly, not something to minimize. I help them build a farewell ceremony, write a memorial blessing, or sit with a dying animal so neither faces that threshold alone. Every loss I have witnessed–fur, feathers, or scales–has been real, and worthy of honor and care.

Prayer

Spirit of all that lives and breathes, hold the ones who grieve a companion today. Let their love be counted whole, their tears be counted holy, and their heart be given room enough to break and mend in its own time. Amen.

By Christine Slocum

“We live by each other and for each other. Alone we can do so little. Together we can do so much.”
—Helen Keller

Moving slower lets you observe what’s around you. I’m a bicycle commuter for many reasons, but the ability to better notice the world—and its birds—is one of my favorite gifts of the practice. From my bike I can see them fly, build their nests, and raise their chicks throughout the summer. With that said, one species’ future is another species’ snack, and I am the witness to a lot of hunting.

I’ll be waiting at an intersection for the light to change, handlebars in hands, when a scene will unfold in front of me:

A large bird, usually a predator, swoops into an area filled with smaller birds. But instead of what one might expect when faced with a predator, the smaller birds collectively swoop and attack the larger one. They dive and scream. They make being around unpleasant, and the larger bird will usually fly away, chased until the smaller ones find the distance acceptable.

I’ve seen this collective effort from crows chasing ravens, hawks, and vultures. I’ve seen this with redwing blackbirds chasing crows. Their bravery impresses me. The size difference is big. Caught alone, the small bird would be a meal of the larger one. The small ones surely understand that. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by large powerful forces of potential death and yet they challenge it directly and often are successful.

My mind wanders to all the ways that large, powerful forces in society threaten people I love or undermine my values. I witness them making rules or laws that challenge the self-defined personhood of people I love, starting unjust wars with deadly weapons, or showing up at my neighbors’ doors exacting life-disrupting consequences for not having the right paperwork.

By myself, I am an ineffective advocate. And I hear people around me describing powerlessness as the defining characteristic of their relationship to forces of harm. This is a perspective from a single person. Civil rights movements, labor movements, and other efforts of justice do advance. History shows that success is possible, and it is a collective effort.

It seems that every time I’m getting overwhelmed, I see another bird reminding me that you can be triumphant when challenging big things. The trick is doing it together.

Prayer

May we find our people and join together. May community inspire the bravery needed to fight for justice. May we use our collective power to create a life-affirming, equitable world.

By Carleigh Heckel

“Of course I wake up finally
thinking, how wonderful to be who I am,
made out of earth and water, 
my own thoughts, my own fingerprints—
all that glorious, temporary stuff.” 
—Mary Oliver, “On Meditating, Sort Of”

Tending to my houseplants has become a spiritual practice to me. I examine them daily, hoping to see new growth and their progress opening new leaves. I worry about brown spots and yellowing leaves, and hope that they’re getting the right amount of light and water and love to thrive. I feel the firmness and shape of their leaves to know when it’s time to water them, and I often poke my finger in the soil for another check.

Caring for my plants can be messy: the dirt I haven’t bothered to wipe from my windowsill, that always seems to show up in the sink, and that I never manage to entirely get out from under my nails attests to that. Yet it’s in the messiness where I’m reminded that my plants and I are alive, together, sharing a little studio apartment, breathing the same air. That dirt—which we kindly call soil when it’s contained—gives life to my plants and, through them, back to me. The row of plants in my windowsill ground me after hard therapy sessions, comfort me in my tears and my hurt, and ground me in time through their slow, continuous transformation.

I once took some of the water I had been growing plant cuttings in and used it in blessing to offer myself release from the shame I had around my pandemic trauma. I sought grace in that water that created and sustained life, knowing that only I could give myself forgiveness. That sacred, life-giving water gave me the space and the separation from myself to let me love myself, to make myself more whole, to find the Love inside me.

I cried many tears that night, but I found myself full of wonder knowing that those tears may one day be the water that blesses another; the water that now nurtures my plants may once have been another’s tears. The soil that now holds them may once have been a stone thrown in anger…yet here it is now: giving, nurturing, growing, and loving.

Prayer

Spirit of Love, May we be the dust, the dirt, the soil that creates and sustains life. Help us know that every time we testify at a city council meeting, write a poem, or tend to a child, we are givers and creators of life. Let us remember that we are blessed by those whose love created the life that surrounds us. Amen and blessed be.

By Kim Mason

“When it’s time to go onstage, 
know that you’re not ready but
this is not about being ready, 
it’s not even about being fierce, 
or fearless, it’s about being free.”
—Dean Atta, The Black Flamingo

Three religious professionals walk into a bar: a queer UU minister, a female priest from the Ecumenical Catholic Communion tradition, and a trans nonbinary Disciples of Christ minister. It’s amateur drag night and we’re all there to see our friend perform. In the tiny back room of the newest gay bar in town, we crowd in with strangers and friends to celebrate these drag newbies.

For some this is their first drag show—both performers and audience members—but everyone claps loudly, cheers enthusiastically, and generously offers wadded up cash to the brave kings and queens strutting their stuff on the stage.

The Catholic priest asks, “Should I have brought dollar bills?”

“Here,” I say, handing her mine. She hands the money into a drag king, who palms the money and kisses the back of her hand. “Oh!” she exclaims, fanning herself and blushing.

Our friend takes the stage, eliciting shouts of appreciative laughter as they sashay across the stage to the TLC song “No Scrubs” wearing a jacket covered in sponges and a skirt made of rubber gloves. There’s joy in the celebration of creativity, and we yell with pride: “We know them!”

Then it’s the final act. A tall, elegant drag queen strides on stage in massive, spiked platform heels and an ornate black cassock to the opening refrain of Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus”: Reach out, touch faith. Everyone screams in recognition.

With each stride and squat, the cassock splits to reveal black garter straps and a leather bustier. She is glorious. She looks at each one of us as though she can see beyond the bright lights of the stage and into our hearts.

Your own personal Jesus / Someone to hear your prayers / Someone who cares

She slides and grinds, genuflects and bows, praying with her body the prayer that all LGBTQ+ folks say at some point: See me as I am. Accept me for myself. Love all of me.

The song continues, Feeling unknown / And you’re all alone / Flesh and bone. This is why we gather, in the back rooms of bars and on the streets during Pride: to be known, to be free to be fully ourselves, to feel deep in our bodies the truth that we are not alone. When the world tells you your love is a sin, that your body is a transgression, to be seen is baptism; to be accepted is grace; to be loved is the Holy made real.

The song winds down—Reach out, touch faith—and our drag show priestess brings out a tray laden with wafers. My friends and I turn to each other in wonder: “We get to have communion?” So often in the position of giving, we religious professionals, on this night, get to receive. We line up at the stage, leaning forward, mouths open to receive the host. “Take. Eat. You are loved,” she says, over and over.

That night an Ecumenical Catholic, a Disciple of Christ, and a UU each received communion: the blessing of being seen, the blessing of being accepted, the blessing of being loved. That night, the blessing of belonging brought the holy into being. That night, reaching out for community, we touched faith.

Prayer

Spirit of Life and Love, Source of Pride and Well of Power, may we always find the places where we belong. In a world struggling to find hope, may each and every one of us be known. May we be free. May we be loved. In the name of all that is holy and life affirming, amen and blessed be.

By Cat Rambo

“My use of their is socially motivated…: a deliberate response to the socially and politically significant banning of our genderless pronoun by language legislators enforcing the motion that the male sex is the only one that counts. I consistently break a rule I consider to be not only fake but pernicious. I know what I’m doing and why.”
—Ursula K. Le Guin

Early on in my life, I learned that it was a terrible thing to be mistaken for the opposite gender. But I often was, as a shaggy-haired kid with thick glasses and a science fiction paperback stuffed in my back pocket—and I found that my mother cared about it much more than I did.

When I played Dungeons and Dragons as a young adult, I was usually the only female in the group. No matter what character I ran, the other players persisted in treating my character as the person to be protected, even when I was running the biggest bad-ass in the group. And socially I was presumed to be the peacemaker of the group, the advisor, the confidante—even when I didn’t want to be.

It’s fitting that I realized I was nonbinary at a 2019 science fiction convention. In that revelatory space, I was finally able to articulate something I’d been fumbling my way towards, and say it to others: I’m nonbinary. Moving outside of femininity is how I manage to be myself. Being nonbinary lets me evade much of that internal programming, and braces me to resist other parts of it.

The universe is nonbinary, too, but we keep trying to impose a binary nature on it. I believe that the binary that’s done more harm than any of the others is Us versus Them. It’s a seductive binary, because being “one of us” is a human instinct. We want to fit in; we want to be accepted; we want to be part of the crowd and not the outsider.

But everyone is us, whether we or they like it or not. We’re all inhabitants of the same planet, and so we must figure out how to get along. The stranger you do not know is not an enemy but a potential friend, and certainly a comrade on this small lifeboat, surrounded by sharks whose primary characteristic is not their gender but their hunger.

The universe is a complete entity and I am a reflection of its entirety—not just parts. To be nonbinary is to say “I’m choosing my own path. I know it will be rocky from time to time, but there are things to experience along the way. There are flowers. And there are companions. There are all of you.”

Prayer

Thank you, universe, for all the complexity around me, and for manifesting me as part of that complexity. Help me perceive and appreciate it in the people around me.

By Anonymous

“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” 
—e. e. cummings

I didn’t know that my child had been struggling to tell me their truth about their gender and sexual orientation—a truth I’d always thought I would understand how to respond to.

They tried to tell me, vaguely, while playing with a friend at a party. My child unexpectedly spoke of transgender identity. It was unclear to me, then, what my child was actually sharing with me about themself. In the same moment, the friend did something that elicited a laugh from both her and my child. Thinking they were making a joke of the LGBTQIA+ community, I responded as such—lightly scolding my child.

Time passed. Over a year later, with the added support of speaking with their therapist and their grandmother, my child again came to me. This time they’d gained a fuller language to express what I had not understood before: they let me know they identify as lesbian and as gender-fluid. I understood now. I was regretful and heartbroken that I hadn’t recognized their truth before, and for the hurt I unintentionally caused in that misunderstanding.

From that moment, something shifted in my child. Still discovering themselves, now they were secure in their mom’s acceptance. May they never have to worry of this again.

My child came out like confetti. It was beautiful. I was, and am, happy that my child knows who they are. I’m also scared: I’ve wondered how to protect this beautiful, vibrant, rainbow of pride that I love. How to prepare them for a world that could be cold and callous and outright hostile for them being themselves. Like celebratory confetti, my beloved is out.

Thus I vow: my role is to guard my beloved child as they spread and share their confetti, their light, their proud celebration of being themselves. It’s my place to give them the space, attention, love, and protection to be the celebration of pride that they are. I must always let them know and feel how much I love them, and how proud and amazed by them I am. May they ever experience the acceptance, beauty, and joy of PRIDE that I celebrate for and with them.

Prayer and Blessing of Pride

Dearest Spirit that accompanies us all—we of every gender, of every sex, of every orientation, of every shade; Divine force retained in us each and sourced in love,

We ask you to be protection for the vulnerable. Hold us with concern and comfort as we tread a harsh terrain of hardened hearts. May love guide and surround us as we each discover and embrace who we authentically are.

May calloused and closed minds be softened; be opened to heal and grow humanity,
of which we are all curators; of which we are all a part; to which we all belong.

May every life journey be met with the love and light of Spirit, and blessed with pride, peace, and acceptance.

May it be so. Amen. Ashe.

Editor’s note: The author is a UU religious professional who, with their child (who gave their blessing to share this story), decided to publish this anonymously for the sake of privacy and safety. 

By Pat Uribe-Lichty

“Protesting is an act of love. It is born of a deeply held conviction that the world can be a better, kinder place. Saying ‘no’ to injustice is the ultimate declaration of hope.”
—Amy Goodman, investigative journalist, columnist, and author

In the spring of 1975, I sat in a rocking chair in a studio apartment in Manhattan and contemplated the wreckage of the marriage that had been my attempt at being straight. For the first time, I said to myself, “I am a lesbian.”

On that cold but brilliantly sunny day it didn’t occur to me that I could be closeted. I was an activist; the only way I knew to live my life was to fight for what I believed justice demanded.

Tolerance, let alone acceptance, was a far-fetched dream. Unitarian Universalists were still five years away from ordaining gay clergy. Until 1986, it was legal in New York City to discriminate against queer people in employment, housing, and public accommodations. I was fired from three jobs. I was evicted twice. I was asked to leave restaurants because “we don’t want your kind in here.” My best friend—the mother of my godchild—ended our relationship because she believed I was immoral.

As an out lesbian, I couldn’t even try to work as a teacher or social worker. Instead, I was an office temp for eleven years. These were the harsh realities of the time.

Choosing to be an out lesbian was, and is, an act of choosing to be free. Yes, there were consequences, but one consequence that I never anticipated was the discovery of great joy.

That joy came from finding a strong, vibrant community of women who had created their own freedom. We faced being ostracized, we faced discrimination, we faced danger—but we had each decided that in spite of all that, we would be who we were, openly and proudly. Our claim to liberation and freedom was not something handed down to us—we were “the ones who would change the world.” For those of us who were lucky enough to live in that time and brave enough to risk our futures creating new ways of living for ourselves and with each other, it was intoxicating simply to be alive.

Those who came out later came out into a very different world. But always, the LGBTQIA+ “alphabet soup” requires the choice of how one will be who they are. Facing this choice and choosing freedom is the root of Pride.

Prayer
May we be inspired by the passion for justice and the courage to envision a better world that filled the nameless many who went before us. May we, too, dare to dream and choose to live in freedom.