When A Cross-Dresser Meets An Off-Key Kumbayah

I quit all service-related activities this past summer when I burned out. And I haven't been back at them since. But the thing is, when you go too long with your heart-values being unrequited, something different---but equally damaging---happens: your heart starts to choke on your own values because they just keep sitting there, stacking up inside you. Until they come so high you can nearly taste them crawling inch by inch up the back of your throat, suffocating you for their need to be [ read more... ]

12 Years and Why Are We Married Again?

There once was this man who bent himself over our married-feet and prophesied that thousands and thousands would gather around our married-love, but we didn't have much time to reflect on his seer-like vision because shorter then a month later our love shattered into a million little shard-sharp pieces. Oh. Well . . . we didn't see that coming. And our married-eyes still look back and marvel that we decided---in spite of ourselves and our choices and our circumstances---that neither of us was "going" [ read more... ]

Profile: My Him

Christened: Robert Austin Morrison, but most folks call him "Austin". I call him whatever's closest to my heart at the time. I wrote this one post about him and he consistently makes an appearance in other stories here, but I just be having the itch to tell y'all again . . . he's achingly and strikingly special. He's special with a torrent of good adjectives and everyone who knows him, says so. Our dear friend who lives across the pond in London-town (a more unlikely Anglican priest you will [ read more... ]

Life As Art

"Listen to your life, see it for the fathomless mystery it is." ~ Frederick Buechner It's raining grey drops on the outside, peppering the asphalt and earth-dirt with heaven's impartial, christening water. It smells like creation's church and my imagination is pressed close to cold panes of windowed glass and I can almost feel the taste of liquid silver on my tongue and this absurd little human-heart inside a chest-of-flesh flips over and oh dear God, the sound of it on the roof? Makes me school-girl [ read more... ]

Wherein He {Still} Makes Music

It's the sweetest sound, really. And I can hear it everyday if I'm sitting in just the right spot at just the right time . . . When I first laid my 17-year-young-eyes on all 6 foot 3 inches of unbridled male virility, I dove, DOVE I tell you, into love. (Which is just a way more dramatic method of "falling" in love.) All I remember thinking was, "ME WANT. UGG." I might've even beat a fist against my chest once or twice. (I don't usually exhibit neanderthal qualities . . . I swear.) To my further [ read more... ]