Pic of the Day

The Hug

The Hug
By Thom Gunn

It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined

    Half of the night with our old friend

        Who’d showed us in the end

    To a bed I reached in one drunk stride.

        Already I lay snug,

And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.

I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug,

        Suddenly, from behind,

In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:

        Your instep to my heel,

    My shoulder-blades against your chest.

    It was not sex, but I could feel

    The whole strength of your body set,

           Or braced, to mine,

        And locking me to you

    As if we were still twenty-two

    When our grand passion had not yet

        Become familial.

    My quick sleep had deleted all

    Of intervening time and place.

        I only knew

The stay of your secure firm dry embrace.

About the Poem

Last night I had a dream about the guy I had a crush on in high school. In the dream, he had brought his son to visit my university because the kid wanted to attend a military academy that would accept him for being gay. My old crush had not known I worked there and was on an admissions tour that included a short visit to the museum. I happened to be walking through the museum when I saw him and immediately recognized him. I’ve changed a lot since high school but he barely had. I called his name and he turned around. At first he didn’t recognize me and I told him who I was. He was so happy to see me that he hugged me. That’s when I woke up. I woke up very aroused and it took me a bit to fall back asleep, but even though it was not an erotic dream, being in his arms was enough to arouse me. Anyway, it made me remember Thom Gunn’s poem “The Hug” even though the narrative of the poem is nothing like my dream.

What Gunn captures so beautifully here—and what my dream unexpectedly echoed—is the quiet power of physical closeness that exists outside of overt sexuality. The poem insists, almost defensively, “It was not sex,” and yet the intimacy it describes is unmistakably charged. The body remembers what the mind might try to categorize differently. A simple embrace becomes a kind of time machine, collapsing years into a single moment of contact.

That’s what struck me most when I woke up: not desire in any explicit sense, but the memory of being held—of being known physically, instinctively, without explanation. Gunn’s speaker experiences the same phenomenon. Sleep erases “intervening time and place,” and in that suspended moment, the past returns not as memory but as sensation. The body pressed against another body becomes a language of its own, one that speaks of history, affection, and perhaps even a love that has changed shape but not disappeared.

There’s something profoundly human—and quietly queer—about that. So often, queer intimacy has had to exist in these in-between spaces, where touch carries meanings that words cannot safely express. A hug becomes not just comfort, but recognition. Not just familiarity, but longing. Not just presence, but history.

And maybe that’s why the poem lingers. It reminds us that intimacy isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it’s as simple—and as overwhelming—as waking up in someone’s arms.

One of the most striking tensions in “The Hug” lies in the line, “It was not sex, but…” Why does Gunn feel the need to make that distinction—and what does it reveal about the nature of intimacy in the poem?

On the surface, the poem draws a boundary between physical affection and sexual activity. However, everything that follows that line complicates the distinction. The speaker is acutely aware of the other man’s body: its strength, its positioning, the way it “locks” them together. The embrace is described in deeply physical, almost sensual terms, suggesting that the experience exists on a spectrum rather than within a strict category.

This raises an important question: is Gunn diminishing the eroticism of the moment, or is he expanding our understanding of what intimacy can be? The hug becomes a space where emotional history, bodily memory, and desire converge—without needing to resolve into explicit sexuality. In doing so, the poem challenges the reader to reconsider the boundaries we place on physical connection.

Ultimately, “The Hug” suggests that intimacy is not defined solely by sexual acts, but by presence, memory, and the profound recognition of another body against one’s own.

About the Poet

Thom Gunn (1929–2004) was an Anglo-American poet known for his precise language, formal control, and evolving thematic interests. Born in England, he later moved to the United States, where he became associated with the San Francisco literary scene.

Gunn’s early work was often formal and restrained, but over time, his poetry grew more experimental and personal, particularly as he began to write more openly about gay life and relationships. His work frequently explores themes of identity, physicality, desire, and the tension between control and freedom.

In later collections, especially those written during the AIDS crisis, Gunn’s poetry took on a deeply emotional and elegiac tone, reflecting both personal loss and broader communal grief. “The Hug,” while quieter and more intimate than some of his other works, reflects his enduring interest in the body—not just as a site of desire, but as a vessel of memory, connection, and meaning.

Pic of the Day

A Busy Week

I woke up this morning with a headache, so after feeding Isabella, I went back to bed for a bit. Thankfully, the extra sleep helped—because today is not a day I can afford to call in sick. I’m the only one scheduled at the museum, I have a class to teach this morning, and a full slate of administrative work waiting for me afterward.

It’s going to be a very busy week. Today alone will likely keep me occupied from start to finish. Tomorrow, I’ll be heading to Burlington to pick up a speaker we’re flying in. I’ll be playing host for the day—taking her to lunch, showing her around Burlington and Montpelier, and getting her settled into her hotel. Then it’s dinner tomorrow night. On Wednesday, we have several activities planned at the museum leading up to her talk, and that evening I’ll take her back to the airport.

And then—finally—I’m off for five days.

I’ll be heading to Montreal Thursday morning and staying through Sunday. After the pace of this week, it’s a trip I’m very much looking forward to. A little escape, and a much-needed one.

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Seen in the Stranger

“For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me… Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these… you did it to me.”

— Matthew 25:35–40

There are many of us who have heard, in one form or another, that we do not belong. That who we are—whom we love, how we live—is somehow incompatible with faith. Some have been told this gently, others harshly. Some have simply felt it in the silence of a church that never quite made space for them.

And yet, here is Jesus.

Not drawing lines. Not building walls. Not asking about doctrine, identity, or worthiness.

Instead, he gives us something radically simple—and profoundly challenging.

Feed the hungry.
Welcome the stranger.
Clothe the naked.
Care for the sick.
Visit the forgotten.

This is the measure he names.

In Matthew 25, Jesus does not say, “You recognized me because you believed correctly.” He says, “You recognized me because you loved.”

That truth matters—especially for those who have been pushed to the margins.

Because it means this: even if a church rejects you, Christ does not disappear. Christ is still present in the world—in the people who need compassion, dignity, and care. And when we meet those needs, we are not just doing good deeds. We are encountering Christ himself.

There is something deeply freeing in that.

It means your faith is not confined to a building that may not welcome you.
It is not dependent on the approval of others.
It is not measured by how well you fit someone else’s expectations.

Your faith is lived in action—in kindness, in justice, in mercy.

Every time you show compassion, you are walking in the footsteps of Jesus.
Every time you choose love over bitterness, you are reflecting his heart.
Every time you welcome someone who feels like an outsider, you are doing exactly what he asked.

And perhaps most importantly: in those moments, you may find that Christ is not only present in the person you serve—but present with you, too.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, the question has long been: Where do I belong?

Jesus offers an unexpected answer.

You belong wherever love is lived.

You belong wherever the hungry are fed and the lonely are seen.

You belong wherever mercy is practiced.

You belong wherever Christ is found—in the least, the last, and the overlooked.

And in doing these things, you are not just following Jesus.

You are meeting him.

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Moment of Zen: Fun in the Sun

Pic of the Day

Not Quite a TGIF

Normally, I’d be saying TGIF because I’m working from home, but this week is a little different. I worked from home on Monday, which means I’m heading into the office today—and a bit earlier than usual at that. Honestly, I’d much rather still be in bed.

I didn’t sleep all that well last night. We had thunderstorms rolling through, which isn’t something I hear very often in Vermont. It’s one of those things I had to get used to after moving up here. The rain is usually light and steady, and thunder is pretty rare. Growing up in the South, though, I was used to heavy rains—what we called “gully washers”—and thunder so loud you could feel it in your chest. I’ll admit, I sometimes miss that… but I definitely don’t miss the tornadoes and hurricanes that came with it.

Last night wasn’t a full Southern-style storm. There wasn’t much heavy rain or lightning, but there was plenty of thunder. I actually fell asleep to the sound of it, which was nice—until it wasn’t. I woke up around 11:00 and couldn’t get back to sleep for a while. Eventually, I drifted off again sometime around midnight.

Isabella must have sensed I needed the extra rest because she let me sleep until about 4:30 this morning. That alone tells me I didn’t sleep well.

Now it’s time to get moving. I’ll be hopping in the shower in a few minutes and heading into the office. Hopefully, a little coffee will make up the difference.

I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend!

Pic of the Day

A Quiet Thursday

Some days, a topic for a post just refuses to come together. I’ll sit down thinking I’ll write about having nothing to say, and somewhere along the way, something sparks and I end up rambling on about whatever crossed my mind.

Today… is not one of those days.

So, I’ll keep it simple. I hope everyone has a nice, easy Thursday.

However, I will add an Isabella Pic of the Week:

Pic of the Day

The Winter War

Back in January, I reviewed The Broken Dawn, the first book in The Silver Throne series by Aurora Chatsworth. The second book, The Winter War, releases tomorrow, and I was fortunate enough to receive an advance reader copy for review.

The series is a gay historical romance set in a fictionalized, pre–World War II Sweden, following the forbidden love story between Crown Prince Harald and Jakob Eliasberg, his former fellow cadet. As many of you know, I am a military historian, but I’ll admit that my prior knowledge of Sweden during World War II was fairly limited—I mostly knew it as a neutral country. In graduate school, I wrote about Spanish neutrality during both World Wars, so I understand how complex and morally ambiguous “neutrality” can be. Rarely is it absolute—just look at the United States before formally entering either war.

To say I was intrigued by the first book would be an understatement. I loved it. I was especially impressed by Chatsworth’s research and historical awareness. Even within a fictionalized setting, many of the events and circumstances mirror reality, and she remains grounded in historical truth at the level of detail.

The real-life Winter War between Finland and the Soviet Union provides the backdrop for this second installment, and Jakob finds himself in the midst of it—ironically, because it is safer than remaining at the mercy of the Swedish queen.

Crown Prince Harald expected to spend his life in the shadows, until his brother’s tragic death thrust him into the spotlight. With his father dying and his mother threatening everything he holds dear, Harald must outmaneuver the deadly politics of the royal court while Finland burns—and the man he loves fights for his life on the battlefield.

Jakob Eliasberg has found purpose on the frozen front lines of Finland, fighting alongside the ragtag forces of the Finnish army against the Soviet invasion. But even war cannot silence his longing for Harald, the prince who sacrificed everything to protect him from the queen’s wrath. Miles from Stockholm, Jakob fights not only for survival, but to become a man worthy of standing beside the future king of Sweden.

Separated by distance and the weight of a crown, Harald and Jakob wage their own battles—one in the halls of power, the other in the snow-covered forests of a besieged nation. With Swedish neutrality hanging in the balance and enemies closing in from all sides, they will discover that the greatest act of love is refusing to let go.

The Winter War continues the story begun in The Broken Dawn, but it does so in a markedly different way. Where the first novel centered on the burgeoning relationship between Harald and Jakob—two men from vastly different social worlds whose love felt immediate and undeniable—this installment explores what happens when that relationship is tested by distance, danger, and duty.

Much of their connection unfolds through letters, coded and careful, across great distances. The tone shifts accordingly. This is a story of separation—of longing, endurance, and emotional resilience. Both Harald and Jakob face dangers and hardships far beyond anything seen in the first book. Yet despite their physical absence from one another, the romance never diminishes. If anything, it deepens.

Chatsworth writes this beautifully. The emotional weight of their separation is palpable, and the historical backdrop adds a constant sense of urgency. As with the first book, the level of historical detail is impressive. It’s clear that Chatsworth has done her research and has a genuine interest in the period.

I will note that the advance reader copy contained some editing inconsistencies and minor errors. However, given that the book was still in the final stages of editing when I read it, I feel confident these issues will be corrected in the published version. No book is ever entirely free of errors—even those with the most experienced editorial teams—but these do little to detract from the overall reading experience.

Looking ahead, the third book in the trilogy, The Silver Duke, is set for release in October, and I’m eager to see where the story goes next. Too often, historical fiction makes me roll my eyes at glaring inaccuracies, but the best authors immerse themselves in their chosen era—understanding its language, culture, and limitations. Chatsworth clearly does the work, and it shows.

For me, the mark of a truly good historical novel is that it sends me down a research rabbit hole—and this one did exactly that. I found myself reading more about Swedish neutrality and the Winter War simply because I wanted to better understand the world she created.

If you haven’t read The Broken Dawn, what are you waiting for? And if you have, then you’re likely already counting down the hours until The Winter War. Either way, I can’t recommend this series enough. 

I received an advance review copy for free, and I am leaving this review voluntarily.

Pic of the Day

If—

If—
by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son.

About the Poem

“If—” is perhaps the most famous poem by Rudyard Kipling, first published in 1910 in his collection Rewards and Fairies. Written as paternal advice to his son, the poem reads like a moral blueprint—an instruction manual for how to live with integrity, resilience, and balance.

Structurally, the poem is built on a series of conditional statements—“If you can…”—that accumulate into a final promise: a life fully realized. Kipling’s language is simple but powerful, relying on rhythm, repetition, and contrast. Each stanza presents a set of virtues, often framed through paradox: confidence balanced with humility, ambition tempered by restraint, and emotional strength paired with compassion.

At its core, the poem reflects a philosophy often described as the “golden mean”—a middle path between extremes. Kipling emphasizes stoicism and self-mastery, urging the reader to remain steady in the face of chaos, to endure loss without complaint, and to approach both triumph and disaster with equal composure.

While the final line—“you’ll be a Man, my son”—reflects the gendered language of its time, the virtues Kipling outlines transcend that limitation. They speak to a broader ideal of human character: one grounded in patience, courage, humility, and perseverance.

What has always made “If—“ endure is not just its advice, but its challenge.

This is not an easy poem. Kipling sets an almost impossibly high bar. To remain calm when blamed unfairly, to trust yourself while acknowledging doubt, to rebuild your life without bitterness after losing everything—these are not everyday accomplishments. They are lifelong pursuits.

And yet, there is something deeply compelling about that ideal.

The poem asks us to hold contradictions in tension: to dream, but not be ruled by dreams; to think, but not become lost in thought; to engage fully with the world, but not be consumed by it. In many ways, it’s a call to balance—to live fully without losing oneself.

For me, one of the most striking lines has always been the idea of treating “Triumph and Disaster… just the same.” In a world that constantly pushes us toward extremes—celebrating success as everything and fearing failure as final—Kipling reminds us that both are temporary. Neither defines us unless we allow it to.

There’s also something quietly powerful in the poem’s emphasis on endurance. Not flashy success, not brilliance, but the simple, stubborn act of holding on:

“Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’”

That line feels especially relevant in moments when life is overwhelming—when the best we can do is keep going, even when we feel emptied out.

At the same time, it’s worth acknowledging that Kipling’s vision of strength is very much rooted in a particular historical ideal of masculinity—stoic, restrained, emotionally controlled. Today, we might read the poem with a more nuanced lens, recognizing that vulnerability, openness, and emotional expression are also forms of strength.

Even so, the heart of the poem remains meaningful. It’s not really about becoming “a Man” in a narrow sense—it’s about becoming whole. About striving, however imperfectly, toward a life of integrity and balance.

About the Author

Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936) was a British writer and poet, born in India during the height of the British Empire. He is best known for works such as The Jungle Book, Kim, and the poem “If—,” all of which reflect his fascination with empire, identity, and moral character.

Kipling became the first English-language writer to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907, recognized for his storytelling and vivid prose. His work often blends adventure with moral instruction, and his poetry in particular has a didactic, almost instructional quality.

However, Kipling’s legacy is complex. His association with British imperialism has led to criticism, especially in modern readings of his work. Poems like “The White Man’s Burden” have sparked ongoing debate about colonial attitudes embedded in his writing.

“If—,” however, stands somewhat apart. Rather than focusing on empire, it turns inward—offering a personal code of conduct that continues to resonate with readers around the world. It remains one of the most quoted and beloved poems in the English language, not because it is easy, but because it dares to define what it means to live well.