Moment of Zen: Summer Heat

Pic of the Day

A Somber Fourth of July

Today is the Fourth of July — a day that is supposed to celebrate independence, liberty, and the birth of a nation “conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” But I don’t feel much like celebrating.

How do we celebrate when the ideals at the heart of this country are being trampled?

We live under a Republican Party that has become openly fascist, hellbent on dismantling every shred of decency and fairness left in our democracy. With Project 2025 as their roadmap, they now dominate all three branches of government, mocking the Constitution even as they pretend to worship it. They speak of “liberty,” but only for the wealthy and powerful — only for those who fit into their narrow, hateful vision of America.

The Preamble to the Constitution speaks of forming “a more perfect Union,” establishing justice, promoting the general welfare, and securing the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our posterity. These are not just lofty words — they are a promise. A promise this government is betraying at every turn.

We are told this is the “land of the free,” yet immigrants are vilified and rounded up like criminals. We are a “melting pot,” yet the party in power wages a war on diversity, erasing the stories, cultures, and dignity of anyone who does not fit their mold. The Statue of Liberty, with her lamp lifted high, still whispers:

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…

But the current administration would rather snuff out that lamp entirely.

We are told all men are created equal, yet inequality deepens every day. We have tax cuts for billionaires while cutting food assistance and closing hospitals. We are watching, in real time, a government that would rather people starve and die than risk denting the fortunes of the ultra-rich.

On this day in 1863, Abraham Lincoln, the first Republican president, spoke of a nation “conceived in liberty” and warned that we were being tested as to whether such a nation “can long endure.” Today, we are failing that test. The Republican Party has made it clear: they believe only rich white men are equal, and everyone else must fall in line or be crushed.

This country has stumbled before. It has made grievous mistakes and committed unforgivable sins — yet it has also found ways to right itself, at least partially, each time. But never before have we been so actively beaten down by our own government, so gleefully dismantled from within.

And the Democrats? They have grown so complacent, so timid, that they too allow this to happen. We desperately need something new — a party with courage and compassion. A party that fights for justice instead of just tweeting about it. A party that remembers that government exists for all of us, not just for Wall Street and country clubs.

If we recover from this, it will take decades. But recovery is not impossible. It starts when we remember what we shouldbe fighting for: dignity, equality, justice.

For now, though? I find myself ashamed of this country.

If Vermont decided tomorrow to secede, I’d gladly wave goodbye to this so-called union and either stand proudly as the Republic of Vermont or join Canada. (And yes, if Canada absorbed Vermont, they’d gain a monopoly on maple syrup — since Vermont and Quebec together already produce 90% of the world’s supply. At least someone would benefit.)

What it boils down to — and yes, you boil down sap to make maple syrup; I couldn’t resist — is that America has never truly been great when it comes to humanity. But it could be. It still could be. If only we chose to live up to the words we pretend to celebrate today:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal…

This Independence Day, I don’t feel like celebrating — but I do feel like fighting.

Because it’s long past time we made those truths a reality.

Pic of the Day

Little Monsters and Lingering Pain

On Monday, I wrote about the back and abdominal pain that made my weekend so miserable. Tuesday, I went to see my doctor to try to figure out what was going on. He ran some tests and was able to rule out kidney stones, a kidney infection, and any obvious gallbladder problems—though, as he put it, nothing could be ruled out 100%.

When I told him how my back pain started the week before, after standing and giving tour after tour to high school kids at the museum, he nodded knowingly. He felt the knots in my lower back (which I had already discovered myself), and then did a thorough check of my abdomen. After he finished poking around, his conclusion was that I strained my back during those tours and probably caught some kind of intestinal virus from one of those “little monsters”—his words, after I joked about losing the immunity I used to have when I taught high school nearly a decade ago. Apparently, years away from a classroom full of teenagers means my immune system isn’t as prepared for their germs anymore.

So the working diagnosis is a combination of back strain and a mild viral gastroenteritis or colitis. He recommended a probiotic, being gentle on my stomach, avoiding anything that would make my back worse, and keeping an eye on symptoms. He told me to call the clinic by Thursday if things hadn’t improved.

Well… it’s Thursday morning, and I can’t say I’ve noticed much improvement yet. Ugh. So I’ll be calling the office this morning to see if they can advise me or hold me over through the weekend since tomorrow is a holiday. Unfortunately, I’m the only person at the museum today, so running to the doctor might be tricky. But I do have a deep tissue massage scheduled for Tuesday afternoon—just couldn’t get in sooner with the holiday.

For now, I’m muddling through. The silver lining? My migraines have been minimal lately thanks to the botox and other meds, so at least that hasn’t been piled on top of everything else.

I’ll keep you all updated if there are any new developments tomorrow. Fingers crossed that a little more rest and care will start to turn things around.

Stay healthy, everyone—and if you’re around high schoolers, don’t forget: those little monsters carry more than just noise and chaos.

P.S.: I should say, though, that the students I gave the tours to were actually wonderfully behaved kids—attentive, engaged, and full of intelligent questions. They really were good tours, and it was a pleasure to share the museum with them.

Pic of the Day

A Soldier Stripped Bare: The Nude Photographs of Lt. Edgar Henry Garland

Some of you may know that my original academic passion—and the reason I first went to graduate school—was to study military history, with a particular focus on the First World War. Ever since I took my first undergraduate course on WWI, I’ve been captivated by the conflict: the way it reshaped nations, upended empires, and left cultural and emotional reverberations we still feel more than a century later. I’ve long been drawn to the poetry of the war, as well as the deeply human stories of the individuals and communities who lived through it.

That’s why, when I came across a set of nude photographs taken of New Zealand soldier Lieutenant Edgar Henry Garland, I was immediately intrigued. The images are striking—not just for their artistic composition, but for the questions they raise about masculinity, memory, and identity during wartime. This week’s art history post centers on three rare and intimate photographs of a single soldier. There may have been others like them, but this particular case remains one of the most compelling and well-known examples of its kind.

Uncovering the Man Behind the Uniform: Art, Intimacy, and Queer Visibility in a WWI Portrait

In the archives of New Zealand’s photographic history lies a haunting and striking series of images: nude portraits of Lieutenant Edgar Henry Garland, a World War I soldier, posed with classical grace and remarkable vulnerability. Captured by the studio of S. P. Andrew Ltd., these images raise fascinating questions about art, masculinity, and queer subtext in the early 20th century.

At first glance, Garland might seem like any young officer from the Great War—handsome, lithe, a product of Edwardian values and imperial loyalty. But his story is far more remarkable.

Born in 1895, Edgar Henry Garland served with distinction in the New Zealand Expeditionary Force during World War I. He fought on the Western Front and was captured by German forces, becoming a prisoner of war. What set Garland apart was not just his courage in combat, but his extraordinary persistence in trying to escape captivity. He attempted to escape seven times from various POW camps—an astonishing feat that earned him admiration both during and after the war. His repeated escapes were acts of daring and defiance that turned him into a kind of folk hero in New Zealand military lore. By war’s end, he was among the most celebrated escapees in New Zealand’s wartime record.

And yet, tucked away behind this legacy of bravery is a quieter, more intimate chapter—one not written in medals or official commendations, but in a series of photographs that strip away the uniform and expose the man beneath.

These nude images were taken by S. P. Andrew Ltd., one of the most respected portrait studios in New Zealand. Founded by Samuel Paul Andrew, the Wellington-based studio was renowned for its official portraits of governors-general, judges, and prime ministers. It specialized in formal, large-format images meant to convey dignity, authority, and professionalism. That such a prestigious studio would also produce a set of male nudes—posed with artistry and elegance—speaks volumes about the complexity of photographic culture at the time.

So why were these photographs taken?

At one level, they reflect the influence of classical artistic ideals. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the nude male form was seen—at least within certain artistic circles—as a symbol of strength, youth, and aesthetic perfection. Garland’s poses recall ancient Greek statuary, suggesting a deliberate invocation of heroism and beauty. For a young man who had survived war and captivity, these images may have served as a personal monument—an assertion of vitality, resilience, and self-possession.

But there are other possibilities too.

The photographs may have been taken as private keepsakes, either for Garland himself or for someone close to him. Garland never married, and little is known about his private relationships. The possibility that these images were intended for a romantic or intimate partner—perhaps even a male lover—has been raised by queer historians who see in the photographs a coded form of homoerotic expression. The tenderness of the poses, the elegance of the lighting, and the sheer vulnerability on display all hint at a relationship between photographer and subject that goes beyond documentation.

Indeed, these photographs function within a long tradition of discreet queer representation. In an era when homosexuality was criminalized and forbidden by military and civil law, photography could serve as a silent language of desire. Studios like S. P. Andrew—though publicly respectable—may have discreetly permitted or even participated in the creation of such images for trusted clients. This wasn’t pornography; it was art. But it was art with layers of subtext—subtext that speaks volumes to those willing to see it.

Whether these photographs were meant as aesthetic studies, personal mementos, or secret love letters, they offer a rare and poignant glimpse into the inner life of a man whose public legacy is defined by heroism. In these images, we see not just the soldier who escaped seven times, but the human being who posed—naked, unguarded, and beautiful—for reasons we may never fully know.

Taking a dip: Soldiers take a break from the heat with their horses in the sea. The men wash their steeds while completely naked as they enjoy a moment away from the battle

A Note on Queer Visibility in WWI Remembrance Culture

Photographs of nude soldiers—while rarely publicized—have existed across multiple conflicts, including World War I and World War II. Often taken in private or semi-artistic contexts, these images captured the male form not only as a symbol of strength and youth, but sometimes as an intimate keepsake, a personal act of vulnerability, or even a quiet expression of queer desire. Though such photographs were uncommon, they remind us that behind every uniform was a body, a story, and a complex humanity often left out of official histories.

Stories like Edgar Garland’s remind us how queer history often survives in the margins—in photographs, in letters, in quiet acts of defiance and longing. Mainstream remembrance of World War I tends to focus on duty, sacrifice, and masculine honor, but it rarely makes space for the hidden lives of queer soldiers. Yet they were there: loving, grieving, and serving alongside their comrades. For some, like Garland, a single photograph may be the closest we get to that truth.

As we commemorate the soldiers of the Great War, it is vital to recognize that their humanity was not confined to the battlefield. Some found intimacy in silence. Some left behind coded artifacts. And some, like Garland, posed for a camera and dared to be seen—fully, tenderly, and without shame.

Pic of the Day

America

America
by Walt Whitman

Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,
A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,
Chair’d in the adamant of Time.


About the Poem

Walt Whitman’s six-line poem “America” may be brief, but its layers of meaning resonate across history, politics, and queer identity. First published in the 1880 edition of Leaves of Grass, it is often overshadowed by his longer, more famous works. Yet this small poem encapsulates Whitman’s vision of the United States as not only a political ideal but also a deeply emotional and physical presence—one that holds particular significance within LGBTQ+ literary history.

At first glance, “America” reads like a patriotic hymn. The poem praises a nation made of “equal daughters, equal sons,” where all people—regardless of age or status—are “alike endear’d.” This inclusive language is typical of Whitman’s democratic ideals. He often celebrated the collective body of America: not a faceless mass, but a communion of individuals bound by shared experience and affection. His use of words like “endear’d,” “fair,” and “love” reflect his romanticized view of a nation built not just on law and order, but on emotional connection.

But Whitman’s vision of unity goes beyond mere nationalism. His America is not militaristic or imperial. Instead, it is “perennial with the Earth,” suggesting a natural, almost spiritual presence, and one that is rooted in love. Love, for Whitman, was often embodied in the male form and in same-sex affection, offering deeper layers to his patriotic verse.

Though “America” is more abstract than Whitman’s overtly homoerotic poems like “Calamus” or “Live Oak, with Moss,” it is steeped in his lifelong merging of the sensual and the political. Whitman, a man who celebrated “the love of comrades” and reveled in the touch and sweat of male bodies, did not separate his love for men from his love for his country. In fact, he often imagined the two as intimately entwined.

To Whitman, America’s promise of equality and freedom was not just a civic ideal but a personal one. The phrase “equal daughters, equal sons” carries resonance for LGBTQ+ readers, particularly those who have long fought for recognition, rights, and representation. In declaring that all are “alike endear’d,” Whitman gestures toward a radical inclusivity—one that, at least in theory, includes queer lives.

His description of America as a “towering, seated Mother” may seem traditionally maternal, but the sensual grounding of this maternal figure in “adamant” and “Time” adds an almost mythic gravitas. This is not a soft figure of sentimentality, but a resilient presence that endures. For queer readers, Whitman’s “Mother America” might even serve as a symbol of a nation large and loving enough to include all her children—regardless of who they love.

For LGBTQ+ Americans, Whitman’s “America” offers both comfort and challenge. It’s a vision of what the country could be: a place of true equality, of celebration rather than repression, of love alongside law. At a time when queer Americans continue to face political backlash, book bans, and legislative attacks, Whitman’s dream of a “grand, sane” republic remains aspirational.

Yet it is also a call to action. If America is to live up to the Whitmanian ideal—a nation of “equal sons, equal daughters”—then we must continue to demand that equality, to assert the place of queer people within the American story.

Walt Whitman is often called the father of American poetry. For many LGBTQ+ writers and readers, he is also our queer literary ancestor—one who dared to blend the erotic with the patriotic, the body with the nation. In “America,” he offers us not just a reflection of his time, but a challenge to ours: to imagine, and to build, a country worthy of such love.


About the Author: Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

Whitman was a poet, essayist, and journalist whose groundbreaking collection Leaves of Grass helped revolutionize American literature. Though he never publicly identified as gay, Whitman wrote openly about same-sex desire and affection, especially in the “Calamus” poems, which have since become foundational texts in LGBTQ+ literary history. His bold embrace of the body, the soul, and democratic ideals continues to inspire generations of queer writers and thinkers.

Pic of the Day

Rough Weekend

It’s been a rough one.

This weekend has been full of pain—head, back, and stomach—and not the kind that fades with a good night’s sleep. The headache is, unfortunately, part of my usual chronic migraine pattern. For me, pain doesn’t like to travel alone. When something flares up in my body, it often invites a migraine along for the ride. And this time, it brought friends.

For the past week or so, I’ve been dealing with lower back pain. It ebbs and flows—sometimes tolerable, sometimes so intense I can barely move around the house. I’ve had worse episodes in the past, but that doesn’t make this one any easier. I’ve been using a heating pad, and while it gives me temporary relief, it’s just that—temporary.

To make matters worse, a bout of stomach pain decided to join the party. No clue if the three are connected or just coinciding at the most inconvenient time. Either way, it’s made for a miserable few days.

Today, I’m taking a sick day. I need to rest, let the heating pad do its magic, and take a muscle relaxer to see if I can ease this back pain. If I’m not better tomorrow, I’ll be giving my doctor a call. I know when it’s time to stop pushing through and start taking care of myself properly.

I hope your Monday is starting out much better than mine. Wishing each of you a healthy, pain-free start to the week.

Pic of the Day

🌈 Bold, Beloved, and Called

“But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.”

— 1 Peter 2:9 

 

“For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of self-discipline.”

— 2 Timothy 1:7 

 

“Love is patient, love is kind… It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.”

— 1 Corinthians 13:4, 7–8 

 

As Pride Month draws to a close, we are invited not to retreat—but to rise. We should not pack away our rainbow flags or tuck away our truths—we should plant them firmly in the soil of our daily lives. We have explored who we are (fearfully and wonderfully made). We’ve reclaimed the image of God within us (queerly reflected). We’ve healed what shame tried to break, found boldness in our truth, and committed to growing where we are planted. now, we turn to three things that comes next.

 

We are called to serve God.

 

Jesus’ words in Matthew 5:16 (“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”) offer a powerful commission: Let your light shine. Not dimmed for the comfort of others. Not hidden behind polite silence. But out in the open. Joyfully. Authentically. As a witness to what God has done in and through us.

 

Scripture tells us that we are a royal priesthood, a holy people, God’s own. That’s not conditional. That’s not for someone else. That’s for us. We are called not in spite of who we are, but because of who we are. We are called out of shame and silence, out of marginalization and fear, into God’s marvelous light. Our queerness, our tenderness, our truth—they are not spiritual liabilities. They are spiritual gifts.

 

Through God’s gift, we are bold.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, Pride has historically been about survival—holding onto life, faith, and hope in a world that tried to silence us. And that survival has been sacred. But now, we are called to more than surviving. We are called to joy. To deep, radiant, unashamed joy.

Paul writes in Philippians 4:4, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, Rejoice.”  Not only when things are easy. Not only when we’re safe. But always. Because joy—real joy—is an act of spiritual resistance. It’s a declaration that we are still here, still beloved, and still building something beautiful. It takes courage to live openly as an LGBTQ+ Christian. It takes courage to love ourselves in a world that taught us to hide. It takes courage to believe that the Spirit speaks through our lives.

But here’s the truth: we were not given a spirit of fear. We were given the Spirit of power—to stand tall. The Spirit of love—to resist hate with grace. The Spirit of self-discipline—to hold fast to our faith even when others misunderstand it. Holy boldness is not loud arrogance. It is quiet faithfulness. It is showing up fully, beautifully, honestly—day after day. Pride is not just a celebration. It is a declaration: We are still here, and we are still beloved.

 

We are love in motion.

 

Love is not just a feeling—it is a force. It bears burdens. It holds space. It speaks truth. And LGBTQ+ love is no less holy than any other. In fact, many of us have learned how to love through rejection, through hiding, through longing. We have had to fight to love ourselves, to love one another, and to believe that God loves us too.

Our lives as LGBTQ+ Christians are not a detour from faith—it is a testament to it. Our honesty, our resilience, our capacity for love—these are lamps lit by the Spirit. When we love openly, we reflect the God who is love. When we celebrate joyfully, we reflect the God who rejoices over creation. When we live truthfully, we reflect the Christ who never apologized for healing, embracing, and breaking the rules to welcome the outcast.

We are not just welcome in the Church—we are vital to its witness. Our pride doesn’t end with the parade. It continues in our daily living, in our compassion, in our courage to shine. So now, let that love flourish. Let it speak. Let it heal. Whether you’re single, partnered, celibate, dating, married, or questioning—you carry within you the kind of love that “never fails.” Love that transforms. Love that reflects God.

God calls us to be courageous. He made us part of His royal priesthood. He called us into the light—not despite our queerness, but through it. He gives us boldness to live as He created us. God gives us strength to resist shame, and tenderness to love others as He love us. We carry His love—patient, kind, and enduring—into a world that so desperately needs it, especially in this climate of hate that seems to permeate our political, secular, and, far too often, religious worlds.

 

We are chosen. We are courageous. We are love in motion.

 

As Pride Month ends, may our truth continue to shine, our love continues to grow, and our calling becomes ever clearer. Let the world see what God is doing through us—a radiant reflection of bold, beloved queerness.

 

🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

Pic of the Day