I’ve been reflecting on the days I feel moved to symbolically mark; these aren’t the same every year. I try to stay true to the heart of ritual and only speak to what’s speaking to me in the moment, though guilt is often a sneaky stowaway however I feel. Land Day came and went and I did not move past my inertia.
But this morning, the plates have shifted and I remember that for all my wokeness, the first time I ever met and befriended transgender people was in a church I’d sought to make sense of what I believed.
Months later, they led us in a litany of lament & I wept openly for an hour during a time of my life when avoiding all appearance of vulnerability was my daily bread.
This morning, I realize that on that day of remembrance, I’d been baptized into new life as we honored the dead and cherished the living and loving among us.
A baptism of tears that gave eyes to see.