Nine Years Ago

June 18, 2016

Nine years ago today, I walked into the local humane society and met a tiny, frightened black kitten they had named Bridget. She was crouched low and hiding under a chair, wide-eyed and unsure of the world. I knew immediately that “Bridget” wasn’t her name. My cats have always been named after queens, and while Bridget may be a fine name, there’s never been a Queen Bridget. Elizabeth was out—my sister’s name. And I could never reuse Victoria (aka HRH if you were reading this blog all those years ago) , the name of my beloved cat who had passed.

June 19, 2016

But Queen Isabella of Spain? That felt right. Regal, bold, and destined for her own kind of adventure. So “Bridget” became Isabella, and Isabella became mine.

June 20, 2016

At the time, I was navigating one of the loneliest periods of my life. A dear friend had died the year before, and I was living 1,200 miles from home, trying to find my footing again here in Vermont. What I didn’t know then was how much this tiny creature would help me heal.

June 21, 2016

That first week, Isabella mostly hid under the bed. She cried when I left the room. She was timid and unsure. But even in those early days, something began to shift. By the second day, she was climbing onto the bed on her own. By the third, she was letting me pet her. A few days more, and she was confidently dragging toys into her bed and meowing nonstop when I dared to be in another room.

June 21, 2016

She was skittish, yes—but she was also vibrant and curious, funny and affectionate. She claimed her favorite sleeping spot on a neck massager under the bed, only to sneak onto my chest in the middle of the night. She was a chatterbox, a cuddler, a clown. And most of all, she became the best antidepressant I could have asked for.

June 24, 2018

Isabella gave me something I didn’t realize I needed: the daily rhythm of care, companionship, and connection. She reminded me to laugh. To be present. To love again. In those earliest days, when my world still felt uncertain and dim, she brought joy back into the corners of my life.

June 24, 2016

Today, Isabella is no longer that tiny black fluffball with the wide eyes. She’s older, wiser, still chatty when she wants to complain, still cuddly in her own way—and still the queen of this castle. For nine years, she has been my companion, my comfort, and my fiercely affectionate shadow. 

June 25, 2016

Happy Adoption Day, Isabella! You saved me as much as I saved you. 

—

May 22, 2024

To see Isabella’s journey over the years, visit the archive of blog posts about her here: 

ISABELLA

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Scheherazade

Scheherazade
By Richard Siken

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake

and dress them in warm clothes again.

How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running

until they forget that they are horses.

It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,

it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,

how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days

were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
              we’re inconsolable.

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

These, our bodies, possessed by light.

Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

About the Poem

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.

Richard Siken’s “Scheherazade” opens with a plea—not for survival, exactly, but for comfort in the face of despair. The speaker begs for a story, for beauty, for something to keep the darkness at bay. Much like the legendary storyteller of One Thousand and One Nights, who told tales to delay her execution, the speaker invokes narrative as a form of desperate preservation. But this is no gentle fairy tale. The world of “Scheherazade” is urgent, feral, and emotionally raw. Bodies are pulled from lakes. Horses run themselves into forgetting. Desire is dangerous, and love may be indistinguishable from destruction.

The poem speaks from a place of vulnerability familiar to many queer people: the hunger for connection even when it feels unsafe or impossible. Siken’s images are at once cinematic and deeply personal—romantic love merges with trauma, tenderness with violence. What the speaker wants isn’t just affection; he wants to be told that this brutal, beautiful life was worth it. The poem's dreamlike structure, full of fragmented longing and looping pleas, mirrors the psychological toll of being queer in a world that does not always offer safety.

“Scheherazade” is not just a love poem—it’s a survival poem. The speaker wants to be told that everything is going to be okay, even if that reassurance is a fiction. That need to believe, even briefly, in the possibility of warmth, of home, of a night spent in someone’s arms rather than alone or erased, is one of the deepest truths the poem offers. It resonates with anyone who has ever clung to love as a lifeline, even if only for one more night.


About the Poet

Richard Siken (b. 1967) is a contemporary American poet whose debut collection, Crush, won the 2004 Yale Series of Younger Poets competition, selected by Louise Glück. The book quickly became a cult classic, particularly among queer readers, for its fierce intensity, lyrical beauty, and unflinching depiction of obsession, grief, and desire. Siken wrote the collection in the aftermath of his partner’s death, and that grief infuses every line—making Crush not only a portrait of romantic love, but of love haunted by loss and fear.

Openly gay, Siken has spoken about the complex relationships between memory, violence, and the longing for safety that emerge in his work. His poems are often constructed as psychological collisions—dreams and flashbacks, fantasies and fears, stitched together with urgency and tenderness. In the queer literary canon, Siken’s voice stands out for its unapologetic emotional exposure and its refusal to tame desire for the sake of palatability.

As part of Pride Month, reading “Scheherazade” reminds us that queer love stories don’t have to be sanitized or simplified to be worthy. Siken’s poetry gives space to the full spectrum of experience: the danger, the ache, the beauty, and the need. His words speak directly to those who have survived by telling themselves stories—and to those still searching for someone to tell them they’re safe.

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Mind Over Migraine

Today, I have an appointment with a new neurologist at Dartmouth. Since my longtime provider at the Headache Clinic moved away, it’s been a bit of a revolving door—they’ve had a hard time finding someone permanent to fill her role. This will be the fourth provider I’ve seen since she left, and while I’m keeping an open mind, it’s hard not to feel a little weary of having to start over again with someone new. That said, there’s a bit of reassurance going in: my primary doctor actually knows this new neurologist personally. They’ve worked together in the past within the same hospital network, and he told me he thinks I’ll like him. I’m holding onto that hope.

This visit is especially important because my migraines have been getting worse over the past few weeks. The Botox injections I receive every few months have worn off, and I can feel the familiar pressure building again. I’m heading back to Dartmouth on Wednesday for my next round of injections, and I’m hoping they bring some relief before things get even more intense.

On a brighter note, I found out that my trainer will still be working with me for two more weeks! He’s transitioning into his new position as assistant manager, but because of some onboarding delays, I get a little more time with him. I’m really glad—our sessions have been such a steady and motivating part of my week, and I’m not quite ready to give them up.

So, here’s to new beginnings (again), to holding out hope for a bit of relief, and to small silver linings where we can find them.

— 

Wishing you all a good week—full of strength, support, and maybe a little less pain.

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🌈 God’s Image, Queerly Reflected

“So, God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.”

— Genesis 1:27

 

From the very beginning, Scripture tells us something radical: that we are made in the image of God. This verse from Genesis is often quoted, but too rarely unpacked in its glorious, expansive truth.

 

What does it mean to be made in the image of God? It means we reflect God not in uniformity, but in diversity. Not in sameness, but in difference. It means every gender, every orientation, every body, every soul bears something sacred—something divine. Yet for generations, many LGBTQ+ people have been told the opposite. That our queerness is a distortion, a rebellion, an error. But what if our queerness is not a flaw, but a feature of God’s creativity?

 

God is not binary. God is not confined. God is creator, relational, mysterious, wildly imaginative. And we—queer, trans, nonbinary, gay, lesbian, bi, ace, and all beyond—carry that same creativity, complexity, and relational beauty within us.mWe are not outside God’s image. We are part of its full expression.

 

Think about the rainbow—a biblical sign of covenant and peace. Its beauty lies in its range. Each color distinct, yet part of a whole. The same is true of humanity. Our identity, your body, our orientation, our way of loving—these are not obstacles to divine reflection. They are evidence of it. We are part of the kaleidoscope of God’s presence in the world.

 

Queerness challenges rigid categories. It defies the neat boxes religion and society often try to impose. But perhaps that is exactly what the image of God does too. It disrupts our assumptions. It invites wonder. In a world eager to limit God’s likeness to the familiar, LGBTQ+ people expand the canvas. We remind the Church that God is still creating, still surprising, still delighting in what is “very good.”

 

God made us in His image, in all our beauty and complexity—our queerness reflects His creativity. When others try to diminish our worth, He reminds us that we carry the divine imprint. Our lives should be a mirror of His love, a reflection of His grace, and a celebration of the diversity He called good.

 

We are not a deviation from God’s design. We are a beloved echo of the divine voice that said, “Let us make humankind in our image.” Our queerness is not too much. It is not too different. It is exactly what it was meant to be: a radiant, holy reflection of the God who made us.

 

Go forth this Pride Month not just with courage, but with the joy of knowing that when you live as your full self, you show the world what God looks like.

 

🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

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Moment of Zen: 🏳️‍🌈 Flag Day 🏳️‍🌈

Today is Flag Day, a moment traditionally set aside to honor the adoption of the American flag and what it represents. But with the current administration using the occasion to stage a highly controversial military parade—one timed to double as a birthday celebration for Donald Trump—it’s hard to feel the usual patriotic pride. The event, laden with tanks, fighter jets, and political spectacle, has drawn criticism for politicizing the military, straining budgets, and veering disturbingly close to authoritarian pageantry. So instead of celebrating with stars and stripes draped in nationalism, I’ll be sharing images of flags that reflect the spirit, resilience, and identity of myself and many of my readers—flags that speak to inclusion, struggle, and pride in the face of adversity.

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One Last Rep

Today marks a bittersweet milestone: my last one-on-one workout with my trainer. Over the past weeks, he's been a fantastic motivator, guide, and friend as I've navigated this fitness journey. He's taught me so much—not just about exercise routines and proper form but also about determination, consistency, and pushing past my own limits.

When he told me on Monday that this week would be emotional, I understood exactly what he meant. It's clear how much he loves training and helping people achieve their goals. Sadly, Planet Fitness doesn't compensate their trainers enough, prompting him to seek a promotion into management. I fully support his decision—he deserves recognition and reward for his hard work—but I'll genuinely miss our regular sessions.

Fortunately, this isn't a total farewell. He'll still be around as an assistant manager, offering advice, answering questions, and checking in on my progress. He's even promised to write up a personalized plan summarizing what we've done so far and outlining how I should continue. It's comforting to know I'll have that guidance moving forward. I'm genuinely motivated to continue my workouts and keep improving my health and fitness.

And let's be honest, I'll definitely enjoy seeing him around the gym still—his cute little butt and the perfect way he fills out those sweatpants are perks I won't easily forget!

Here's wishing everyone a wonderful weekend filled with smiles and relaxation. Keep moving forward, and remember: every step counts!

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Migraine Fog

Sometimes I just don't know what to write about. This week has not been particularly exciting—it's been one of those stretches where the days blur together, marked mainly by their lack of notable events. On top of that, I've been dealing with a migraine since Monday. Though it's better this morning, it's still lingering, a quiet reminder that it's not quite ready to leave.

Migraine fog has a way of clouding thoughts and making inspiration especially elusive. It leaves me feeling disconnected, struggling to find the right words or any words at all. I sit down at the keyboard, hoping something will spark—perhaps a memory, a piece of news, or a passing thought that might grow into a meaningful reflection. But today, the page feels particularly daunting in its emptiness, my thoughts muted by the dull haze of discomfort.

Yet, there's comfort even in admitting the absence of excitement or inspiration. Writing honestly about these quiet, difficult moments feels genuine, relatable. It's a reminder that life isn't always about milestones or major events. Sometimes, it's simply about getting through a dull week or coping with a persistent headache and its accompanying fog.

So today, I'm writing this—acknowledging the quiet, the uneventful, and the struggle to find words through the haze. It's a small step, but sometimes, that's enough.


Isabella Pic of the Week: Ever attentive, Isabella is probably pondering life's great feline mysteries—or perhaps just wondering when I'll go to bed so I can get up early enough to feed her.

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Before the Parades: Gay Pride in Art and Artistic Expression

“Braschi Antinous”, also known (wrongly) as Albani Antinous, the statue is composed of an antique head of Antinous and an antique body of Hercules, 2nd century AD, (Louvre Museum)

While the concept of Gay Pride as we know it—public marches, rainbow flags, and open celebration of LGBTQ+ identity—is a relatively recent phenomenon, the spirit of gay pride has long found expression through art. For centuries, queer individuals used artistic media to celebrate same-sex desire, intimacy, and identity in ways that defied societal norms and preserved a sense of dignity and joy. Long before the world was ready for open affirmation, LGBTQ+ artists—and their allies—used beauty, symbolism, and coded language to proclaim their existence and their worth.

Ganymede, Rome, 2nd century CE. (Vatican Museums, Rome)

Art has always provided a refuge for queer expression, especially in eras and regions where same-sex love was criminalized or pathologized. From the sensual male nudes of classical antiquity to the romantic portraits of Renaissance companions, art offered what public discourse denied: a space to affirm beauty and love between men. The sculptures of ancient Greece and Rome—Apollo, Ganymede, Antinous—didn’t just celebrate form; they canonized homoerotic ideals in marble and bronze. Even when later societies sought to suppress these themes, artists returned to them time and again, as if retrieving a sacred truth buried beneath centuries of shame.

David and Jonathan. Samuel & Pharaohs Daughter and the Infant Moses from Simeon Solomon’s 1854 Sketchbook (Jewish Museum London)

During the 19th century, artists such as Simeon Solomon in Britain and Wilhelm von Gloeden in Italy dared to depict love between men with unmistakable tenderness and eroticism. Solomon’s watercolors of biblical figures—David and Jonathan, Ruth and Naomi—recast religious stories as queer allegories, while von Gloeden’s photographs of young men in Sicily, staged in classical poses, cloaked desire in the guise of nostalgia and antiquity. Their works were often persecuted, sometimes destroyed, but they endure today as testimonies of queer pride in the face of rejection.

Photograph titled “Pastoral Idyll,” Wilhelm von Gloeden, 1913 (Private Collection)

In the 20th century, as queer identity began to coalesce into more defined social and political movements, art took on a sharper edge. Artists like Keith Haring and David Wojnarowicz turned pride into protest. Their works channeled anger, loss, celebration, and eroticism in ways that were unapologetically queer—bold lines, graphic imagery, public installations, and furious calls to action during the AIDS crisis. At the same time, the poetry of Audre Lorde, the paintings of Paul Cadmus, and the photography of Robert Mapplethorpe revealed the many facets of queer life—from intimacy and sensuality to community and struggle.

“Untitled (565), Paul Cadmus, 1968, (Originally, the property of actor, cabaret singer, and Paul Cadmus’ muse and lover, Jon F. Anderson)

What unites these expressions across time is a fundamental belief: that same-sex love is beautiful, worthy of representation, and part of the human story. Whether through coded glances in Renaissance paintings or blazing neon activism in contemporary murals, gay pride has always found a way to speak. Even when silenced, it painted itself into the margins, waiting for a world that could see it clearly.

Apollo, Baccio Bandinelli, 1548 – 58, (Boboli Gardens)

Today, we celebrate openly. But let us also remember and honor those who celebrated in secret—those who, through brushstroke and verse, camera and chisel, gave voice to a pride they couldn’t proclaim aloud. They remind us that Pride is not only about visibility, but also about creation. And art, in all its forms, remains one of the truest expressions of queer existence and resilience.

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The City

The City
By C. P. Cavafy

You said: “I’ll go to another country, go to another shore,
find another city better than this one.
Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
and my heart lies buried like something dead.
How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
Wherever I turn, wherever I look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where I’ve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.”

You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore.
This city will always pursue you.
You’ll walk the same streets, grow old
in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses.
You’ll always end up in this city. Don’t hope for things elsewhere:
there’s no ship for you, there’s no road.
Now that you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner,
you’ve destroyed it everywhere in the world.


About the Poem

You said: “I’ll go to another land, I’ll go to another sea.
Another city will turn up, one better than this…”

You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore.
This city will always pursue you.

In “The City”, C.P. Cavafy offers a haunting meditation on the inability to escape oneself. The speaker dreams of abandoning the city—representing failure, disappointment, and perhaps forbidden desires—for another, better place. But the poem undermines this fantasy, repeating the refrain that the city, and all it symbolizes, “will always pursue you.” The “city” becomes not just a literal place, but a psychological and emotional state—a metaphor for internalized shame, regret, or the burden of identity.

This theme has particular resonance in queer readings of the poem. For many LGBTQ+ individuals, especially in the early 20th century when Cavafy was writing, fleeing from one’s environment did not mean freedom from judgment or repression. The city follows not because of geography, but because it lives within the self. The speaker’s disillusionment—“You won’t find new places, you won’t find other seas”—echoes the pain of those who have tried to escape their own truths or reinvent themselves in new places, only to discover that what haunts them is internal.

Cavafy’s strength lies in this subtlety. He rarely wrote directly about homosexuality, but his poems are filled with coded longing, remembrance of fleeting encounters, and the quiet ache of unfulfilled desires. “The City” is often paired with poems like “Days of 1903” or “The Afternoon Sun” in queer readings, all of which evoke nostalgia for past loves or unspoken yearnings. The city becomes both the scene of desire and the prison of repression. During Pride Month, “The City” reminds us that visibility, acceptance, and healing must begin within—even as we fight for it in the world outside.



About the Poet

Constantine P. Cavafy (1863–1933) was a Greek poet who lived most of his life in Alexandria, Egypt. Though he worked as a civil servant by day, his poetry carved a powerful legacy that would influence generations of queer and modernist writers. His work often blends historical references from Hellenistic and Byzantine eras with deeply personal emotional landscapes. Published sparingly during his lifetime, many of his poems circulated privately among friends and admirers, adding to their aura of intimacy and secrecy.

Cavafy was a gay man writing in a conservative society, and he developed a poetic language that allowed him to express homoerotic longing while veiling it in allegory, history, and metaphor. He never married and lived a relatively reclusive life, but his poetry reveals a rich inner world of desire, memory, and loss. After his death, his work gained international recognition, with poets like E.M. Forster championing his genius and his role as a pioneer of queer literature.

In poems like “The City,” Cavafy’s voice is timeless. His ability to fuse the personal with the universal, the erotic with the philosophical, continues to speak to readers who have wrestled with identity, regret, and the yearning for a different life. For LGBTQ+ audiences, his poetry offers not just reflection, but connection—a bridge across time and silence.

Monday Again

Here we are again—Monday. Somehow it always manages to arrive faster than we expect, doesn’t it?

This morning began the usual way: me standing in front of my closet, staring blankly at the hanging shirts like they might whisper the answer to “What should I wear today?” I finally settled on something practical—comfort matters when you’re spending most of the day alone in the office. Yes, alone. The joy of summer at a university museum means most folks are off on vacation, faculty are scattered to the winds, and students are few and far between. It’s quiet, still, and honestly… kind of blissful. There’s something peaceful about being the only one here. No meetings. No interruptions. Just me and the hum of the air conditioning.

Of course, with summer also comes the slow trickle of tasks. There’s not much to prep, no classes and not many programs to plan, and the daily to-do list is shorter than usual. I can’t say I’m complaining, but it does leave a lot of room for reflection—and daydreaming.

One of those daydreams involves my fitness routine. Today marks the next-to-last session with my trainer, and I’m already thinking about what comes next. Do I keep going in the afternoons, even though I know I’ll be tired from work? (Let’s be honest—not having much to do can sometimes be more exhausting than being busy.) It’s easy to talk myself out of going when I’m dragging by the end of the day. That said, I’ve genuinely enjoyed working out, even if it’s just a 20–30 minute walk on the treadmill. I haven’t quite worked up the courage to use the machines on my own yet, but that’ll need to change next week. Or maybe… maybe I try becoming one of those people who works out before work. I used to do that—twenty years ago—when I had college classes later in the day instead of a full-time job. I’ve always admired folks with the discipline to exercise before the sun’s fully up. Could that be me? We’ll see. I’ve got one more session to decide if I’m ready to trade evenings for early mornings.

Wherever you are this Monday—whether you’re easing into the week or sprinting out of the gate—I hope your weekend brought you some rest, some joy, or at least a good story to tell. Here’s hoping this week treats you kindly, and that you find a few quiet moments of your own, even if you’re not alone in an office.

Stay cool and take care.

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🌈 Redeeming Pride

“But he gives more grace. Therefore, it says, ‘God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble.’”

— James 4:6 

 

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind…and you shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

— Matthew 22:37, 39

 

“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

— Romans 8:1

 

For centuries, Christians have been taught that pride is one of the Seven Deadly Sins—a dangerous self-exaltation that places one’s ego above God. And rightly so, this kind of pride—the pride that leads to arrogance, domination, and the denial of God’s grace—is spiritually harmful.

 

So, what does this mean for LGBTQ+ Pride? Are we sinning by celebrating who we are? Let us be clear: LGBTQ+ Pride is not the sin of pride. It is not self-worship. It is not superiority. It is not about denying God—it’s about denying shame.

 

For many of us, the world has tried to crush our spirits, silence our truths, and teach us to hate ourselves. We were told that being gay, bi, trans, or queer was incompatible with faith, with love, with dignity. And yet here we are—alive, thriving, and still clinging to hope. That is what Pride Month celebrates: not arrogance, but survival; not superiority, but belovedness; not sin, but sacredness.

 

The “pride” warned against in Scripture is not about loving yourself as God made you. It’s about refusing to love God or others. It’s about placing your ego above compassion. It’s about being closed off to grace. But the pride we celebrate in June is the healing of what was broken. It is the restoration of image-bearing dignity. It is standing up and saying, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14).

 

Jesus taught us the greatest commandments: to love God and to love our neighbor as ourselves. That last part—loving ourselves—is often forgotten, yet it is essential. We cannot extend love if we believe we are unworthy of it. Pride, for the LGBTQ+ Christian, is not sinful—it is sacred defiance against shame, and a return to the truth that we are loved just as we are.

 

God reminds us that His grace is not reserved for the perfect, but for the honest and the hurting. He helps us discern the difference between selfish pride and holy confidence. Let our celebration of Pride be a witness to God’s inclusive love, to the beauty of diversity in His creation, and to the freedom found in Christ. We should Remain humble, yes—but also whole.

 

God doesn’t call us to be ashamed of who we are. God calls us to walk humbly, love deeply, and live truthfully. As LGBTQ+ Christians, we can hold our heads high—not in arrogance, but in gratitude for the grace that sustains us. This Pride Month, reject the shame others tried to place on you. Celebrate who God made you to be. That kind of pride—the kind that honors truth, healing, and love—is not sin. It is resurrection.

 

We are not condemned. We are cherished.

 

🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

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Moment of Zen: Archery

I'll be honest, I don't really care anything about archery, but I do like these pictures. There is just something very sexy about these adult Cupids. (I guess I should say Eros, Cupid's Roman counterpart, is more often depicted as either an adult or young adult, whereas Cupid is more often depicted as younger.)