A taste of my own medicine

I yammer on and on about community and how life is a group project that requires all of us — even the bummers and boomers. Then, last week, after I sent in the final manuscript of ze book to my publisher I got an email said “anyone who could Identify themselves within the manuscript needs to sign a release form” within five business days. After I nursed my nausea, I emailed and texted three exes, two elders, a few conservative family members, and 10 others. A taste of my own medicine.

A card carrying member of the Yapper Club, I blab about turning toward honesty, clean pain, and complex conversations. Then, I was home in North Dakota this week and couldn’t let myself turn away from tearful conversations and stark truths about things that will never change nor be okay. A taste of my own medicine.

I will never stop talking about taking your body to the water, to the land. While home, I drove by my deceased grandmother's cabin. Had white bread with jam and orange soda at the diner like we always used to. Then, I waded into the just-thawed water, laid on a sun-soaked rock and let myself grieve. A taste of my own medicine.

I go to church with my family when they ask me to. They always ask me to. Yesterday’s sermon briefly focused on the sins of homosexuality and our “warped modern culture.” My dad and sister sat with me through communion, fielding dirty looks from the others lining up for bread and wine. We embarrass them by being there. Somehow, though, having us there is less embarrassing than having to answer why we aren’t. A taste of my own medicine. Choked down. No spoonfuls of sugar.

The things we stand by in theory create messes in real life. They knock the wind out of us. God, they are bitter.

So, we do them anyway. Dose by dose. Building up a tolerance to swallow what we’ve turned toward without a grimace or shake. Because we can and because we must.