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Staycation Thursday

My vacation is officially more than halfway over, and I’m already dreading returning to work next week. The only silver lining is that it’ll be a short week—and most of it I’ll be entirely alone at the museum. There’s a certain peace in that, even if it also reminds me that the quiet is coming to an end.

All week, I’ve told myself I’d finally get back to working out. With the days free, I could go during daylight hours and maybe even run into my former trainer. After being out so long because of my back, I’ve become an expert at excuses—telling myself I’ll go after work (I never do) or that I’ll get up early and go before work (I definitely never do). But even this week, one thing after another has popped up and thrown off my plans.

Yesterday I even packed my gym clothes when I headed to the Headache Clinic. The plan was simple: do a little shopping, have lunch, and then swing by Planet Fitness before heading home. But the Botox had my head feeling tender, and a migraine settled in before the day was over. So instead of working out, I went home and took a nap. Not exactly the fitness comeback I envisioned.

This morning, though, I plan—there’s that word again—to go before lunch. I’ve got a dentist appointment this afternoon for the crown I’ve been putting off. The appointment is from 2 to 4 p.m., which means my mouth will still be comfortably numb right around dinner time. So either I skip dinner altogether or eat far later than I prefer. Either way, I suspect I won’t feel like doing much once I get home.

Staycations never quite go the way we imagine, do they? But at least for now, I still have a few slow hours ahead of me—and maybe, just maybe, I’ll make it to the gym today.

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A Quick Check-In

I have to make this one short today because I slept in a bit—one of the perks of being on vacation, even if it means I have a little less time to get myself going this morning. Honestly, I’m not complaining. A slow start felt good.

Even though I’m taking some vacation time this week, I would have had today off anyway because I’m heading down to the headache clinic for my next Botox appointment. The good news is they were able to get my insurance to approve treatments every ten weeks instead of every twelve. The helpful effects always wore off right around week ten, so I’m hoping this new schedule will keep the headaches at bay a little more consistently.

Fingers crossed—and coffee in hand—I’m off to get ready for the day. I hope your Tuesday is gentle and kind to you.

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Spring Rush

Spring Rush

By Aaron Smith

The college boys have pulled their shirts
off and are playing football
on the lawn. Their farmer tans pink
in the afternoon sun. They toss

and jog, slight fake and almost
tackle. One puts his face too close
to another one’s stomach, grabs
the guy’s waist—steady—to keep

from falling; then a damp armpit on the back
of his neck, as a blond wraps his arm
around him in a quick guy-hug. I am old-
er and pretend not to see, furtive

in sunglasses, looking at them, past
them, at them. I could ruin the game
by watching the wrong way—professor gawking
at students; even a shift between them

could change everything: a hand more than
smacking an ass, someone pressed too long
against a humid chest. Crash of skin,
body pushing body into perfect crush.

Their biceps bulge, un-bulge, bulge again.
It’s not that I want them. I’ve had enough
men, and yet I can’t stop looking at them
while trying not to look at them.

About the Poem

Aaron Smith has a way of holding up a moment—one we might otherwise dismiss as simple, ordinary, harmless—and revealing all the longing, all the humor, all the complicated ache underneath. His poem “Spring Rush” captures a scene many of us know all too well: young men tumbling across a sunlit lawn, roughhousing with the kind of careless intimacy that adulthood slowly chisels away.

The poem opens with a tableau of shirtless college boys playing football, their “farmer tans pink in the afternoon sun,” their bodies moving with effortless confidence. It’s a familiar choreography to anyone who has watched young men at play—how easily they invade each other’s space, how unselfconscious their closeness is, how they grab, steady, press, and laugh without a second thought. Smith catches each gesture with almost photographic clarity:

one puts his face too close
to another one’s stomach…
a blond wraps his arm
around him in a quick guy-hug.

What he’s really capturing, though, is the speaker watching. Not intrusively, not predatory, but with a mix of wistfulness and restraint—half nostalgia, half desire, and a healthy dose of gay self-awareness. “I am older and pretend not to see,” he admits, slipping on the protection of sunglasses, watching but trying not to watch. Smith renders the tension of that gaze with startling honesty. He knows how easily a moment like this can break, how a look held too long can change the boys’ play, turning innocent roughhousing into something self-conscious, something policed.

It’s the familiar queer balancing act: seeing without being seen seeing.

One of the most poignant lines comes near the end:

It’s not that I want them. I’ve had enough
men, and yet I can’t stop looking at them
while trying not to look at them.

It’s a line that resonates with age, experience, and the complicated beauty of queer desire. Wanting isn’t always erotic; sometimes it’s longing for a kind of ease, a kind of freedom, a kind of uncomplicated belonging that many of us never got to fully inhabit in our younger years. The poem complicates the gaze—it’s not a hunger for the boys, but a hunger for the days when closeness wasn’t dangerous.

Spring Rush is tender, observant, and unflinchingly honest. It holds space for that bittersweet place where desire, memory, and self-restraint overlap—where we both relish and mourn the distance between who we were and who we have become.

About the Poet

Aaron Smith is an award-winning American poet known for his candid, queer-centered writing that blends desire, humor, vulnerability, and sharp cultural observation. A graduate of the MFA program at the University of Pittsburgh, he is the author of several acclaimed collections, including Blue on Blue Ground, Appetite, and Primer. Smith’s work often explores gay identity, aging, pop culture, and the messy intersections of intimacy and longing. His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, The Yale Review, Court Green, and Best American Poetry.

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Cozy Monday

It’s Monday—but for once, I’m not dreading it. No alarms, no rushing around, no inbox waiting to ambush me. I have the whole week off, and it feels absolutely glorious.

Today, I get to relax. I might curl up on the couch and watch something mindless on TV, or maybe pick up a book I’ve been meaning to start. A nap is also a strong possibility—honestly, it’s at the top of the list.

I’m especially grateful that I don’t have anywhere I have to be. The snow that fell all day yesterday has left everything outside looking pretty but treacherous, and I’m perfectly content not to venture out in it. I do have a couple of small errands I could run later in the week… but only if the snow melts enough for driving not to feel like a circus act.

Mostly, though, I’m just going to enjoy this week-long vacation. No schedule. No pressure. Just me, some quiet time, and the luxury of slowing down.

Here’s to a peaceful Monday and a restful week ahead.

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Living Free, Living Kind

“For it is God’s will that by doing right you should silence the ignorance of the foolish. As servants of God, live as free people, yet do not use your freedom as a pretext for evil.”

—1 Peter 2:15–16

Some verses arrive like a steadying hand on the shoulder—quiet, firm, and full of clarity. I came across 1 Peter 2:15–16 recently through my “Verse of the Day” email, and it resonated with me in a way I didn’t expect. It calls us to live as free people, but not reckless ones; to live as God’s own, but not self-righteous; to do right in such a way that the loudest argument we ever make is the grace and kindness flowing through our lives.

As LGBTQ+ Christians, these verses strike a particular chord. For centuries, people have spoken about us with suspicion, ignorance, or outright hostility. But Scripture reminds us that doing good has a power all its own—a power that reveals the truth of God far more than arguments or debates ever could.

Jesus tells us in Matthew 7:12, “In everything do to others as you would have them do to you.” The Golden Rule is one of the clearest expressions of holy living, and it aligns beautifully with Peter’s reminder to “do right.” When we live lives shaped by kindness, integrity, compassion, and mercy—when we refuse cruelty even when it is used against us—we are practicing the freedom God has given us.

I try to live out that kind of freedom: not the freedom to do whatever I want, but the freedom to choose gentleness over anger, empathy over judgment, and grace over bitterness. I’m not always successful—some people make it very hard to be kind—but I try my best to live out God’s love as faithfully as I can.

As a gay Christian, I believe that living in a moral, loving, humane way becomes a quiet testimony—one that says to the world: every person is worthy of God’s love.

And in a time when many still use faith as a weapon against LGBTQ+ people, our goodness becomes a form of resistance, not to win approval, but to reflect Christ’s heart more clearly than any stereotype placed upon us.

Doing right silences ignorance not by humiliating others, but by proving false the stories they once assumed were true.

May we live freely, love boldly, and shine with the goodness that God plants in us—so that our lives themselves become a witness to God’s inclusive love.

No matter how the world labels us, doubts us, or presses us to shrink, God continues to call us into freedom—freedom rooted in goodness, compassion, and love. When we choose kindness in a world that often rewards cruelty, we participate in God’s quiet miracle of transformation. May we remember each day that our lives, imperfect yet sincere, can reveal a glimpse of God’s heart to someone who needs it.

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Moment of Zen: Bath Time 🛁

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Cozy Weekend Mode

Today is a work-from-home day, and I’ve officially flipped the switch into cozy weekend mode. I’m off all next week, which feels wonderfully luxurious, and I can’t help daydreaming about hopping up to Montreal for a little adventure. Maybe one day soon. For now, I’ll settle for a quiet house, soft pajamas, and a cat who insists she’s the one really in charge of my schedule.

We’re expecting ice and snow this weekend, so I’ll likely be tucked safely inside—curled up with Isabella, who loves cold weather only because it means I become her heated mattress.

Wherever you find yourself this weekend, I hope it’s warm, gentle, and filled with small comforts. Stay safe, stay cozy, and enjoy every minute.

Here’s a pic of Isabella relaxing in my lap:

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A Quick Note This Morning

I had a terrible night of sleep last night, and as a result, I just do not feel like writing anything today. Some mornings are like that, and I’m choosing to give myself a bit of slack.

I hope all of you have a wonderful day, and may it be far more restful and pleasant than mine started out to be!

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Coded Desire: The Hidden Queer World of J.C. Leyendecker

When we think of early 20th-century American illustration, Norman Rockwell’s name often comes first. But long before Rockwell’s wholesome small-town Americana, there was Joseph Christian Leyendecker—his mentor, idol, and predecessor at The Saturday Evening Post. Leyendecker not only helped shape the golden age of American illustration; he also created some of the most striking, subtly queer imagery ever to appear on mainstream magazine covers in the early 1900s.

Between 1896 and 1950, Leyendecker produced more than 400 magazine covers and countless advertisements for brands like Arrow Collars, Kuppenheimer, and Interwoven Socks. His sharply dressed men, gleaming with confidence and sensuality, set the visual standard for masculine beauty. These “Arrow Collar Men” became the male ideal of their day—elegant, poised, athletic, and perfectly groomed. But beneath their polish lay something quietly radical: Leyendecker’s men gazed at one another—and at us—with desire.

Leyendecker lived most of his adult life with his partner and muse, Charles Beach, who modeled for many of the Arrow Collar ads and became the archetype of masculine allure. Their partnership was both personal and professional, lasting nearly fifty years, and though they lived in an era of rigid moral codes, Leyendecker found ways to encode affection, intimacy, and attraction in his art. The male figures in his paintings—posed with subtle tension, often in pairs—seem to vibrate with a kind of longing rarely seen in commercial art of that time.

His holiday covers for The Saturday Evening Post often featured wholesome domestic scenes, but even there, queer readings emerge: the bachelor trimming his own Christmas tree, the soldier straightening another man’s uniform, or two athletes sharing a private glance. These moments, hidden in plain sight, offered coded expressions of male companionship and tenderness during decades when overt queerness could not be depicted publicly.

After Leyendecker’s death in 1951, much of his reputation was overshadowed by Rockwell, who succeeded him at The Post. Yet in recent years, art historians and LGBTQ+ scholars have reclaimed Leyendecker as one of the most important queer figures in American art. His work reminds us that representation isn’t always loud—it can whisper through brushstrokes, glances, and gestures. In those polished, idealized men, he painted a world where beauty, desire, and love between men could exist—if only in coded form.

Leyendecker’s legacy today is being rediscovered in museum retrospectives and popular culture, from contemporary fashion photography to the animated short Coded: The Hidden Love of J.C. Leyendecker, which explores how he built an entire visual language of queer identity long before such language was socially permissible. His art stands as a testament to resilience and creativity under constraint—a reminder that even in eras of silence, queer artists found ways to make themselves seen.

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From Glory to Grief: World War I Poetry and the Meaning of Veterans Day

“If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.”

— Rupert Brooke, “The Soldier”

Each year on November 11, we pause to honor the men and women who have served in the armed forces. Known originally as Armistice Day, this date marks the end of World War I in 1918, when the guns finally fell silent on the Western Front. What began as a commemoration of peace after “the war to end all wars” evolved into Veterans Day in the United States—an annual moment of gratitude for all who have worn the uniform.

World War I not only reshaped geopolitics and society; it also transformed art and literature. Poetry, in particular, became the most immediate and emotional record of soldiers’ experiences. From the idealism of 1914 to the disillusionment of the trenches, poets captured both the nobility and the horror of modern warfare. Three poems—Rupert Brooke’s “The Soldier,” John McCrae’s “In Flanders Fields,” and Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est”—trace the arc of changing attitudes among soldiers during the Great War.

⸻

The Soldier
By Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

⸻

Rupert Brooke’s “The Soldier” (1914) reflects the early optimism of Britain’s entry into the war. Written before he ever reached the front lines, Brooke’s sonnet presents death in battle as noble and redemptive. The poem imagines the fallen soldier as eternally consecrating foreign soil with his English spirit—a vision steeped in idealism and romantic patriotism.

Brooke’s language is pastoral and spiritual: England is “richer dust,” “flowers,” and “laughter.” His tone conveys the belief that sacrifice in service of one’s country was beautiful and pure. Tragically, Brooke never witnessed the grim realities of trench warfare; he died of blood poisoning in 1915 on his way to Gallipoli. For many early in the war, his poems embodied a kind of naïve heroism that would soon fade in the face of unimaginable loss.

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In Flanders Fields
By John McCrea

In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
                                   In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

                                   In Flanders fields.

⸻

By 1915, the tone of war poetry had begun to darken. Canadian army doctor John McCrae wrote “In Flanders Fields” after presiding over the funeral of a friend who died in battle. The poem’s haunting image of red poppies growing among soldiers’ graves made it one of the most famous pieces of war poetry ever written.

“In Flanders Fields” bridges two worlds: the patriotic call of Brooke’s generation and the emerging sorrow of a war that had already claimed millions. McCrae gives voice to the dead, who urge the living to “take up our quarrel with the foe.” Yet the repetition of poppies and crosses hints at the futility of such endless sacrifice. The poem’s enduring symbol—the poppy—has become a global emblem of remembrance, worn each November to honor veterans and the fallen alike. McCrae himself died of pneumonia in 1918, just months before the war ended.

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Dulce et Decorum Est
By Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer,
Bitter[note 1] as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori. 

⸻

If Brooke and McCrae wrote from faith and duty, Wilfred Owen wrote from the mud, blood, and gas-filled trenches of the Western Front. His poem “Dulce et Decorum Est” (“It is sweet and fitting [to die for one’s country]”) exposes the brutal truth behind that patriotic ideal. Owen describes exhausted soldiers “bent double, like old beggars under sacks” and a gas attack that leaves a comrade “guttering, choking, drowning.”

By ending the poem with the biting phrase “The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” Owen rejects the glorification of war that poets like Brooke once embraced. His work gives a voice to the generation that witnessed industrialized slaughter on a scale never before seen. Owen was killed in action in November 1918—just one week before the Armistice.

During World War I, poetry became both a weapon and a refuge. Soldiers scribbled verses in trenches, hospitals, and letters home, using poetry to process trauma, question authority, and preserve humanity amid chaos. Newspapers published patriotic sonnets beside dispatches from the front, and later, the war poets’ raw testimonies helped shape public memory of the conflict.

The evolution from Brooke’s idealism to Owen’s bitter realism mirrors society’s loss of innocence. Through their words, we witness not just the cost of war, but the courage to speak truth against false glory.

The armistice signed on November 11, 1918, marked not only the end of World War I but also the birth of a day of remembrance. In 1954, the United States renamed Armistice Day as Veterans Day to honor all those who have served, in every war and in peacetime. The poetry of Brooke, McCrae, and Owen reminds us why this day endures—not merely as a celebration of victory, but as a solemn reflection on sacrifice, service, and the cost of freedom.

A century later, these poems still speak across the silence of the graves and trenches. Brooke reminds us of the hope that sends soldiers to battle; McCrae gives us the grief that lingers after; Owen forces us to confront the truth of what war does to the human soul. Together, they form a poetic memorial as powerful as any monument of stone—a reminder that remembrance begins not with ceremony, but with empathy.

So this Veterans Day, as poppies bloom once more in our collective memory, may we honor not only the fallen, but also the living—those who have carried the burdens of service with courage, faith, and love.

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From Tun Tavern to Netflix: Celebrating 250 Years of Marines

Miles Heizer as Cameron Cope

November 10, 2025, marks a truly historic milestone—the 250th birthday of the United States Marine Corps. Founded in 1775 at Tun Tavern in Philadelphia, the Marines have stood for courage, discipline, and an unshakable commitment to honor, duty, and brotherhood. Every year on this day, Marines around the world—past and present—celebrate their proud legacy. This year’s celebration carries even greater meaning as a quarter of a millennium of service is recognized.

In honor of that incredible legacy, I recently watched a new Netflix series that brings a very different but equally powerful perspective to the Marine Corps experience: Boots.

Max Parker as Sergeant Liam Robert Sullivan

Based on the memoir The Pink Marine by Greg Cope White, Boots tells the story of a young gay man who joins the Marines—though, unlike the memoir which is set in the 1970s, the Netflix adaptation takes place in the 1990s, just before the era of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” What unfolds is a deeply moving, funny, and inspiring story about resilience, identity, and belonging.

The show stars Miles Heizer and Max Parker, two incredibly gorgeous gay men who both play gay men with honesty and heart. Their chemistry, vulnerability, and courage to portray queer characters in such a traditionally masculine military setting make the series truly special. Heizer brings his signature quiet intensity to the role, while Parker adds authenticity and depth to every scene.

Boots doesn’t just retell a coming-of-age story—it redefines what it means to serve, to find pride in oneself, and to carve out a space in a world that often tries to deny you one. For LGBTQ+ viewers, it’s especially meaningful to see this representation handled with respect, humor, and tenderness.

If you haven’t seen Boots yet, I highly recommend it. It’s beautifully written, well-acted, and emotionally resonant. And what better time to watch it than now—in honor of 250 years of the United States Marine Corps—a reminder that courage comes in many forms, and sometimes the bravest thing a Marine can do is to live truthfully.

Semper Fi—and happy birthday, Marines!

P.S. I have to admit—there’s just something undeniably sexy about Marines. And fun fact: every military man I’ve ever hooked up with has, coincidentally, been a Marine. Go figure.

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Called Into the Light

“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

There is a transformation unfolding within the Church today—a long-awaited moment in which LGBTQ+ Christians are finally stepping out of the shadows and into God’s marvelous light. After nearly two thousand years, we are being seen not as outsiders, but as part of the royal priesthood Peter describes: God’s own people, chosen and beloved. In many congregations, the doors of affirmation have swung open, and the light pouring through them reveals the fullness of God’s love.

We, the people once told to hide our hearts, are now becoming a visible part of the body of Christ. As Jesus said, “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matthew 5:14). That light shines through us—through our authenticity, our resilience, and our love. When we live openly and faithfully, we help the Church itself become that shining city, showing the world that God’s love embraces all who seek it.

Paul’s prayer in Ephesians 1:18 asks that “the eyes of your heart may be enlightened” so that we may truly know the hope to which we are called. That enlightenment happens each time we recognize that God’s light is not limited or conditional—it has always included us. The more we see ourselves as God sees us—holy, beloved, and radiant—the more we are able to reflect that light into the world.

To be called into the light is not only to be affirmed but also to become bearers of hope. We are invited to live as witnesses of God’s inclusive grace, proclaiming through our words and our lives that love is stronger than fear and light always overcomes darkness.

May the eyes of our hearts be opened this week to see the light that has always been shining within us. May we walk confidently as God’s chosen people, reflecting divine love into every corner of the world, until all God’s children stand together in that marvelous light that cannot be hidden.

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Moment of Zen: Home

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