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Queer sexy fairy magick
Catharine Clarenbach explains how Pride began losing its sexy magic.
[In] 1978, queer, world-traveling magic would find a new expression: Gilbert Baker designed the first rainbow flag. . . . He assigned a meaning to each stripe, an expression or aspiration for the “gay” community. Bright pink for sex, red for life, orange for healing, yellow for sunlight, green for nature, turquoise for magic, dark blue for serenity, and violet for spirit.
The flags were an overnight sensation, and eventually groups like the 32 volunteers who dyed and sewed the first flag couldn’t keep up with demand. Enter mass production. . . .
The first big change was that large lots of hot pink fabric were unavailable; the stripe signifying sex was lost. The second change, made to accommodate hanging the flags in municipal areas, was to eliminate the turquoise; the stripe signifying magic was lost. So now we have the six-colored flag we see all the time. And six qualities, no longer including sex or magic. (The Way of the River, 6.7.19)
Theresa Soto examines the question, “Can cisgender heterosexual folks tell the stories of queer history?”
Maybe there are times when cisgender heterosexual folks can hold queer history with cultural humility to contribute to a community’s co-learning. Maybe there are also times that the advocacy of cisgender heterosexual folks can make a difference in building equity among us and in the larger world. At the same time, it is cultural humility that will keep cisgender heterosexual folks from making the mistake of “discovering” queer culture and history and from confusing commitment and sacrifice. (Medium, 6.9.19)
Erica Baron explores the process of queering fairy tales.
Charlie Glickman suggests that queering something—queering everything—is a practice rather than a finished goal or project. It is the act of reimagining something—or reimagining everything. Of asking questions we hadn’t thought to ask, of suggesting stories we hadn’t thought to tell. Queering fairytales begins, I think, with a series of what if questions. (Nature’s Sacred Journey, 6.8.19)
Hope, not optimism
Doug Muder writes that in these uncertain times we need hope, not optimism.
[An] optimistic person plants a garden because the rains will come and the plants will grow and the harvest will be bountiful. But a hopeful person plants without knowing what will happen, because the possibility of a harvest is worth creating. . . . The harvest was uncertain when everything looked fine, and it’s still uncertain now. It’s worthwhile to keep going. (The Weekly Sift, 6.10.19)
John Beckett looks unflinchingly at the harsh realities of climate change, and encourages us to celebrate Summer Solstice anyway.
[Greet] the sun at sunrise, or at noon, or even at sunset. Gather with your fellow Pagans, and with your Pagan-friendly neighbors—the more difficult things get, the more you’re going to need each other. Light your fires, pour your offerings, and leave some cream or whiskey for the fairies—you’re going to want to be on the good side of all your neighbors.
It’s fun and easy to celebrate in the good times.
It’s necessary to celebrate in the hard times. (Under the Ancient Oaks, 6.11.19)
Strains and fractures
The UU Ministers Association will consider new guidelines during this year’s Ministry Days; in preparation for that discussion, a group of ministers wrote a letter outlining their areas of agreement and disagreement with the proposed guidelines. (Rev. Scott Wells, 6.12.19)
The letter drew responses from others, including one from Leela Sinha, who wrote, “That letter is thick with privilege of many kinds, and relies on tactics and concepts I had hoped that we as an institution were learning to notice and outgrow.” (Facebook, 6.13.19)
Lori Sirtoski wrote, “I am . . . reminded that power concedes nothing without a demand.” (Facebook, 6.13.19)
Now comes good sailing
After visiting Thoreau’s grave, Aaron White remembers his easy acceptance of mortality, and his last words: “Now comes good sailing.”
The presence of death softens the edges of life for me. It reminds me that all people will die, not just me. The people I’m angry at, the ones I despise, the people I dearly love. Everyone, and everything, is temporary and precious. Every wrong that has been done to me, every wrong I have committed towards others, will fall back into the earth, smoothed with time. It gives me grace and asks that I give it back. (Possibility Conspiracy, 6.8.19)
With her son finally succeeding in public school, Jordinn Nelson Long shares a post about a time when they made different choices.
In short, I am sharing this piece that I wrote more than five years ago because I don’t know who is out there needing to read it. Needing to know that as the years unfold, different stories are possible. Needing to hear that there is a village, and we are with you, and that sometimes that might include a really phenomenally-committed public school . . . and culminate in a night where you are prouder of your kid and those professionals than you can imagine.
There is hope. Keep on trucking. Wishing you strength and joy for the journey. (Facebook, 6.7.19)
Misha Sanders offers advice for those days when “everything will seem too hard.”
Even on those days, do one thing that moves you toward your goal, if you can.
Even if it is just lying down and envisioning it for one second before you take a long nap, it counts.
And some days you will be able to do a little more, and it will all count.
All those daily movements and micro-movements toward the thing WILL pay off, I promise. (Facebook, 6.12.19)