The Sweet Bi and Bi

altar calls

Rachel — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 00:43:07 +0000

SP question of the moment: There’s a million different ways to believe. Why did you end up believing in the way that you do? What Draws You To Your Faith?

Thinking back, I have always been on speaking terms with God, I just couldn’t articulate who or what I was talking to. I didn’t grow up in a church, and up until the age of 9 or 10 I had never heard of God/god/faith therefore it had no place in my life. However, as far back as I can recall there was always a special place—usually in a closet—that these “conversations” would take place.

Behind last years snowmobile suit and some long special occasion dresses you could find my “altar.” Made from an old milk crate, a grocery store box, an old bed-sheet, some boards and a shoe box tucked in the back corner of my closet, I used to sit with my most precious things. There was an old dried up beehive, some buttons that belonged to my mom, notes passed in class, a notebook to write in, a picture of someone I was “going with” and various other bits and bobs from my little life. Alone in this quiet space I would talk to myself, cry, read and write letters to whom it may concern about wishing for this or that—mostly to be loved by a certain boy, and for the other stuff, to please please stop.

Over the years I have had pictures of my boyfriends, girlfriends, best friends, dead friends, and Jesus all adorning this space, in every place I have ever lived. My altars have moved, the precious things have become less like things and more like people, stories and experiences. The altars have changed, the names of who I am talking to have changed, but the conversation continues.

I don’t know where the idea ever came from, I only know that my faith, my belief, like my altars, has always been with me. And what exactly is my belief? I believe that I am loved, was created for love, from love.

someone, that’s who

Rachel — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 19:39:38 +0000

This is not another post about a video gone viral, I am all too aware of how little my opinion on such matters weighs.

This is not a post about taking sides, or about believing that in the Kingdom of God there is such a thing as taking sides or that sides even exist (too many sharp corners, edges and angles me thinks).

This post is not about flinging moral and righteous poo behind “safe” keyboard spaces and/or holding people accountable for said flung poo.

This post is a call to respect. A call to lay down our arms, our silver daggers and poison pens and peck peck pecking. A call to say knock it the fuck off for crying out loud—someone just died today. Who you ask? Someone, that’s who. And someone else, yeah, diagnosed with cancer. And someone else still, dumped—heartbroken and lonely for the first time. And even still, another someone, they had put their beloved dog down today.

This post, if you think its about you, it just might be. But more than likely, its about me. I want to engage in social media, heck you all make me laugh, cry and pray every single day. But somethings very wrong when a video that is supposed to be about love incarnate sparks us all into our camps, taking shelter in our bunkers of hurt, pride and assumptions about one another.

Someone had to put down their beloved god today, lets all show some respect.

hindsight is 20/20

Rachel — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 18:38:27 +0000

Another post prompted by the pancake: How much sex would you un-do?

Image Source:: http://www.flickr.com/photos/theaftershock/3142742134/

How does that old saying about hindsight being 20/20 apply to your love life? How many of your sexual experiences would you take back if you could? Maybe if you could change the number of people you’ve kissed, or slept with, or given your heart? Mine is four, mostly because, as it turns out, there was nothing special or memorable or interesting about the moments. @NoMattJames

I was a floundering 7th grader and his name was Matt. His dad and my mom were acquaintances, and he was over working on a project in my driveway for his dad. Matt was not exactly in my crowd of friends, but it’s not exactly like he wasn’t either. I knew who he was and I think he knew who I was. He listened to metal, wore a lot of black concert t shirts, drank a lot of Old Milwaukee for a guy his age (not 21, and his bedroom walls were lined from floor to ceiling with cases of consumed evidence). He had a kind smile and a deep voice. I was a somewhat troubled but mostly good kid. I dabbled in naughty but mostly was nice—naive but nice.

It must have been a record high that day, it was at least 100 degrees outside. There he was, busting up blacktop and sweating, he looked like he needed a drink. My first offer would be lemonade. “Want one?” I offer him a glass from the pitcher. “That’d be great, thanks.” While he drank the whole glass back I conjured up my second offer. I wasn’t much of a slick talker then, just as I’m not now. I blurted out something like “sooo … maybe we could watch a movie together or something later, when you are done working? The air conditioning and dark room might feel nice after a day like today?” Setting the glass down on the brick retaining wall he replied something cool like “yeah, sure.”

The day finished and he knocked on the front door. I answered, in the same outfit so as to not look like I was trying too hard, but with a fresh coat of aqua net and lip goo. He said he had my home number and he’d call later when he’d showered and taken a nap. “Cool, alright” was all I was able to get out, and he was gone. He called later, asking if we could just watch something at his place. He was tired but really wanted to see me (really? me?). I agreed and got my mom to drive me over. She said to me just as I was exiting the car to call if I needed anything, anything at all, she’d come right back, no questions asked.

Matt’s bedroom was in the basement, decorated with christmas lights, beer paraphernalia, blacklights and posters that glowed under their blue light. He had just put on Led Zeppelin IV, on vinyl, and offered to watch some obscure movie I can’t even recall what it was. I felt awkward but wanted to be cool. He offered me a marlboro red, and though I smoked lights, I took it, and hotboxed the whole thing because I was so nervous. We laid on his waterbed and well, you know where this goes. This, was my first time. It was painful, filled with cliches and moments I will both always remember and try to forget.

I have had a lot of sex in my life. Perhaps it is the ultimate cliche, but the only one I would un-do is this one, the first time. Hindsight is 20/20 and I wonder if mom’s words dropping me off that hot summer night were warning me. You really never can un-do the first time now can you?

Tagged: first time sex, SoulPancake

getting back up on the wagon

Rachel — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 19:18:57 +0000

“Art is the act of triggering deep memories, of what it means to be fully human.” – David Whyte

I’ve had a hard time writing lately (I promise, not all of my posts will start this way—but apparently I am really aware of the problem). A conversation with a friend last night got me all fired up again. I went to bed thinking about it, woke up with the same thoughts.

To this end I am taking up writing using SoulPancake as my writing aid. SoulPancake is a website that invites people to tackle life’s biggest questions through art and writing in community. Sounds promising ehh? I have no idea how I came across it—twitter or some damn thing. Probably because I follow Rainn Wilson (some people say from The Office, I like to think of him being from Six Feet Under) on twitter—its his project.

I imagine sometimes the posts will be long, perhaps stretch over a few posts. Other times, a few words. Either way I miss this: tapping away with coffee just over there, the feel of the click click click on the lapitty topitty, and moving some of what is in here (pointing to her heart) out there. So (dramatic pause) here goes.

What is the best piece of advice you have ever received?

From my father: Everything, in moderation.
From my mother: He is not the only one that will ever love you. There will be others, I promise.
From everywhere: This too shall pass.

Part of what I like about writing is that my memory is shit. Self preservation, laziness and just plain chemistry have kept me from myself for a big chunk of my life. Writing helps me remember.

What is funny about the reason why I chose this question, instead of say “What’s the most important thing that we, as a society, are NOT teaching our children?” is that I knew I had an answer. My fathers advice has been etched into my consciousness since his passing. My mothers advice, I was sure I blogged about it in the past. So. Very. Sure. However, the advice above is the only bit of advice I can remember right now, and that sucks. She was my best friend, one of the wisest women I have ever known. And time passes, moves ever on, and I can’t recall anything other than that night when I told my mom that Mike had just proposed marriage to me, after a huge fight in the driveway, in the pouring rain.

He was sure I was cheating on him. I wasn’t. He lost his temper, slammed his fist on the dashboard, screamed. I somehow broke through his jealous rage. He opened my car door, got down on one knee, offered me his class ring as a stand in for a real ring and asked me to marry him.

My mom loved Michael, so the above advice was certainly not about him. Was she speaking about her own life, perhaps alluding to when my father proposed marriage to her? “He is not the only one that will ever love you … promise.” Did she know my potential to love was bigger than his jealousy and longing for white picket fence, two and a half children suburban fantasies? Or perhaps she always knew I was meant for someone she would never meet on this side of the veil.

Wise words, just not the ones I wanted to remember.

Tagged: advice, SoulPancake

marking time

Rachel — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 16:42:35 +0000

Come, come, whoever you are
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of living
it doesn’t matter
Come, even if you have broken your vow a hundred times
Come, come again, come yet again.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
-Rumi

Today I would have met my friend Jason. In one of our exchanges I told him I had mostly stopped writing, not because I didn’t have things to write or say, but because most of my energy for writing had been poured into my exchanges with him. He wrote back and said:

I love that you write me – but sad if it keeps you from blogging…you are talented and gifted…don’t deny all the people around you from hearing your thoughts – you make their life richer because of it. You make them think.

I am not the most heavily read blogger—my stats are abysmal. Sometimes wonder if I am writing just for the attention or adoration. I don’t read all of the blogs I want to, and rarely have anything to contribute in the comments of others. I wonder if my stories are interesting enough, I worry that I expose too much. I have stopped and started, switched platforms and redesigned a hundred thousand times since starting to write in earnest in 2006. Blogging can be such a grand experiment in ego tripping. But, the truth is …

today I would have met Jason. If I didn’t write, I wouldn’t have met him—or really—many of you. Overwhelmed with gratitude and grief, I recommit to writing once again.