Who knows why our bodies are the way they are, fleshy and fit, broken and breaking out, male and female and the spectrum between? Who understands the indomitable nature of our souls? Creation unfurls immeasurable variety, and all of it can be transparent to this unexpected, revising love.
We can be in dialogue with our whole being, accepting what life makes of us, taking what has happened, and making of it something new. From this dynamic exchange comes aliveness—our own and the world’s.
Shared sleep changes us. It teaches our bodies what they can never learn otherwise, that we can be together in that warm dissolution.
Because of Robinson’s vast permission to explore what she wills however she wills, she’s creating literature that ministers to a profound and very contemporary thirst—for grace, for beauty, for kindness. She teaches me that those hidden, peculiar, contrary motivations that rise up when I’m given solitude are even more worthy than I thought.
I’ve been bowled over by how many people have shared with me that they feel like frauds. It plagues artists, for whom there’s always some level of public recognition to strive for that might finally affirm our worth; it plagues leaders, who must stand in front of people who will inevitably question their authority; it plagues parents, who feel they should know what they’re doing and don’t. Is there anyone who doesn’t at some point feel fraudulent?!
The spiritual gifts of bisexuals and transgendered folks reside in the both/and of our bodies. We contain paradox. We defy dualism.
The first rule of improvisational theater is to say yes to whatever comes your way. When your fellow actor hands you a toothbrush, don’t bring the show to a stop and demand a corkscrew. Say yes. When you accidentally trip over your shoelaces, don’t get flustered. Say yes as though you intended to be clumsy. …
Verbs know how to party. Nouns might be great to look at, but they just sit around. Adjectives inevitably take up your time; adverbs always seem needy; and those innocuous articles are wallflowers. Introduce a lively verb to the crowd, however, and everyone sparkles. Suddenly there’s dancing and arguing and necking behind the sofa. Bring …
Biking still evokes this lingering suspicion that I’m really a kid pretending to be an adult. Maybe it’s because I look so goofy. Maybe it’s because I’m having more fun than those gas-pedal-pushing professionals. Or maybe I’m back in that childish—or is it faithful?—place of participating fully in this glorious turning world.