I went to church this past Sunday. That’s not exactly breaking news – I know lots of other people did, too. The thing is, except for a few memorial services, I haven’t been to church in a long time. I guess Monica and Ross would say we were taking a break and like many breaks, it’s a long story that involves a toxic man or two – the kind of men who feel threatened by women who don’t agree with them. Sound familiar? Anyway, I’ve had enough of that dung to last a lifetime, and I surely don’t need it at church.
But nothing like watching an unarmed American citizen be shot in the head (three times) by a masked ICE agent to drive me to seek some divine intervention. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything else to do – I was desperate to find some peace. And so, my dear wife and I bundled up on a brisk January morning and made the familiar drive to our former church.
Say her name.
And we were greeted by a tsunami of smiles and hugs – big fat hugs – long ones that you feel in your spine. We were almost a bit embarrassed, but good Lord, it felt so good to held by kind folks who were feeling the same way we were after the horrible events of last week – last month, last year. I was glad I had come even before I sat down.
The priest began the service by asking for a moment of prayer for Renee Good and I swear I could feel the weight of those prayers pressing on my shoulders. I’ll be honest – I’ve had a really hard time praying for a really long time. It’s hard to pray when your heart feels rage. I hate that feeling and it was so lovely to have it extinguished for a few hours.
I’m a lifelong Episcopalian and the liturgy of the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) has always comforted me. No matter how long I’ve been away, those words remain the same. They are the words I spoke as a child in a world that was so different than the one we’re living in now. Don’t get me wrong – even as a kid, I knew that world wasn’t perfect, but it seemed like Walter Cronkite was telling the truth and that everybody agreed that masked men shooting unarmed folks were the bad guys.
We are not okay.
To be fair, I’ve been a bit of a prodigal daughter when it comes to the church – drifting in and out only to return in times of grave distress. That was the case in November of 2016 following Hillary Clinton’s soul crushing loss to Trump. I was devastated and didn’t know what else to do – besides rage. Are you picking up on a pattern here? I will never forget that Sunday – it was a lifeline to the hope of better days. That was 10 years ago and here we are and I’m getting some strong Job vibes as the locusts continue to swarm over Minneapolis.
And yet, once again on Sunday, sitting with a group of diverse folks who share a lot of the same hopes and fears as I do, made me feel better. A guiding mantra of my life has long been “safety in numbers” and maybe that’s what led me to church. And this prayer in the BCP is a more eloquent version of that sentiment:
A Prayer of St. Chrysostom
Almighty God, you have given us grace at this time with one accord to make our common supplication to you; and you have promised through your well-beloved Son that when two or three are gathered together in his Name you will be in the midst of them: Fulfill now, Lord, our desires and petitions as may be best for us; granting us in this world knowledge of your truth, and in the age to come life everlasting. Amen.
I’m certainly not here to proselytize. Religion is not everyone’s lane, and my own faith has wobbled plenty over the years, but one thing that has not waivered is my belief in community – two or three or a thousand. And that is what is saving me these days. The brave citizens of Minneapolis-Saint Paul have been preaching the gospel of community in all manner of ways since the horror of last week. My friend Mitch sent me a beautiful essay by Maribeth Romso, a writer who lives there. Here’s the link to the entire piece, but I’m sharing the last few paragraphs that read like a prayer to me.
Minnesotans know that grief can hollow a place out if it’s not met with care. But we also know the assignment.
Show up. Feed people. Listen. Protect one another. Name the harm. Love anyway.
Right now, life in Minneapolis feels like being in the belly of a whale: dark, disorienting and heavy with sorrow. We have been here before, but our broken hearts are not alone.
Two or three… Keep gathering, friends. You know the assignment.
When are you going to start writing again? This is the question I’ve heard from no less than half a dozen people over the past couple of weeks. Okay, six people is not exactly a mandate (unless you’re Donald Trump) but be careful what you wish for. I’m writing again.
Writing is how I process the world and the first nine days of January have given all of us a lot to digest – and regurgitate. What the absolute fuck? I feel like we’re rats on the Titanic, only the sinking ship is our country. In nine interminable days, we awoke to learn that the U.S had invaded Venezuela, seen a bear eating former(?) heroin addict change the childhood vaccination schedule – and flip the food pyramid on its head. Make Meat Great Again!
And that all pales in comparison to what we saw – over and over and over again – on Wednesday, when Renee Nicole Good – say her name, say her name, say her name – was murdered in cold blood by an ICE agent in Minneapolis. Unless you live in a Fox News bunker, you know the stone-cold facts by now. I don’t need to recount them for you.
The bleak midwinter
And I don’t need to recap the hideous demonization of Good from the right – who are deadly wrong on just about everything. I can rant and rave about them – and God knows, I do – but that doesn’t really make me feel better. This week, I have not recognized myself in my own rage and that is not a good feeling.
An American girl
I have been comforted by the passionate but peaceful gatherings of heartbroken and bewildered Minnesotans who once again find themselves at ground zero of an unfathomable act of violence against an American citizen. How ironic that George Floyd’s name was recalled so many times on Wednesday, when so many of us felt like we couldn’t breathe as we saw a young woman be shot in the face at point blank range.
We should all be enraged – but living in rage is not sustainable. Trust me on this. We need to do something tangible – and that something is not the same for everyone. Here’s the thing – we all have a voice and there are many ways to use it. I can be bossy (understatement), but I would not begin to tell you what to do. I just know what I need to do today – so I’m writing. And quite selfishly, it makes me feel better to tell you about it.
Even in this black hole of a week, there have been glimpses of hope – the thousands of peaceful protests all over the country, some members of Congress finally growing a pair, and a faint but growing sense that there are more of us than maybe we thought.
These days are hard, my friends, but they are getting shorter.
I always tear up, in a happy way, when I hear the familiar refrain of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” – it was the recessional hymn at the blessing ceremony at my church a few weeks after my dear wife and I were married in 2014. I remember us squeezing each other’s hands as we practically levitated down the center aisle past the packed pews of friends and family smiling their faces off. But my tears were bittersweet on Saturday morning when I heard it– this time as the processional for my friend Susan’s memorial service. She died on June 21st from cancer – the beast known as glioblastoma – a brain tumor. She was 54 years old.
A celebration indeed
If you’re thinking about bailing on this post as a downer, please don’t. Susan Jean Gies Conley Link was many things – a mom, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a non-profit fundraiser, a social advocate, a singer, and a lover of bunnies to name a few. She was brainy – a proud Wellesley alumna – and had a wicked sense of humor which never deserted her – even during the last year of her life. And she possessed a faith that was as strong and deep as her Midwestern roots. You really should know her.
Susan Conley, April 16, 1971 – June 21, 2025
Susan and I weren’t social friends – I met her at church, so I saw her often and we became Facebook friends. I will admit that I have many social media “friends” that I could not identify in a police line-up, but Susan was one of those primo Facebook friends – the kind you look forward to seeing posts from. And her posts this past year, especially the months near the end of her life, were remarkable. They were profoundly honest and often staggeringly beautiful in their celebration of the extraordinary ordinariness of our daily lives.
Susan was the patron saint of bunnies and even had two as indoor pets. She would make charming posts about them. In the days after she died, I saw this sweet creature several times on my early morning walks. Coincidence? Maybe.
I began taking screenshots of some of her posts this spring. I didn’t want them to get lost in the abyss of doomscrolling and food porn and narcissisms that Facebook spews 24/7. Yes, I know I’m guilty of all of that, too, but at least I know good Facebooking when I see it. As her death became more imminent, you could see that posting had become difficult for her – there were typos and sometimes incoherent thoughts and that made her posts all the more achingly powerful. They have become gratitude prompts for me. And God knows, we could all use some prompting these days. So, I decided to share a few of them. I think Susan would be okay with that, although, as she made very clear in one of her last posts – she didn’t need to be anyone’s hero. No, Susan would tell you she was simply a woman with well-organized priorities. She loved her family fiercely, valued her friends dearly and didn’t suffer fools with an appetite for drama. This was a woman who found out she had a brain tumor on Easter Sunday and made posts from her hospital bed reassuring friends the next day.
I want you to know Susan a bit through her own words – she certainly had a way with them.
WisdomI love this post and it really captures the essence of Susan’s beloved Michigan roots.Classic Susan“Stay consistently yourself.” Damn, that’s good.The perfect eulogyThis one really got me. Susan and her mother were very close.GraceLord have mercy.Nevertheless, she persisted.
Susan’s mother posted the message below on Facebook on June 17th.
It’s true – the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Susan, a lovely soprano, was a long-time member of the choir at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church and she also sang with the Winston Salem Symphony Chorus. So, it was fitting that her memorial service was a concert of sorts with as many hymns packed in as she could negotiate with her priest. And, of course, she had personally selected each one. The Sequence Hymn before the eulogy and homily was “How can I keep from Singing” by Pauline T. and Robert Lowery.
I wasn’t familiar with the hymn but as I listened to it, I couldn’t help but smile. It seemed to perfectly capture Susan’s spirit and her taste for irony.
Of course, Susan Conley could never keep from singing – in all manners of ways – in this life or the next one. And we are all the better for it.
Amen.
Folks who had performed with Susan in the Winston Salem Symphony Chorus joined the St. Anne’s choir on Saturday to create a magnificent choir of angels.I think Susan felt this deep down in her bones.
I’ve always done things the hard way. Often it’s a curse, but on rare occasions it has also been a blessing. I’ve found you really have a deeper appreciation of things when they don’t come so easily. And that’s why I had to fly almost 10,000 miles (one-way) and cross the International Date Line to find my way home.
My dear wife and I recently returned from a three-week tour of Australia. Well, our bodies have returned, but our circadian rhythms are marching to the beat of a different time zone. Jetlag is real, y’all. Oh well, a small price to pay for a marvelous adventure Down Under.
Unbearable cuteness at the Sydney Zoo
Everyone always asks the same question when we return from a trip – “What was your favorite part?” That’s usually a tough one to answer, but not this time. The most favorite part of our trip had nothing to do with our tour. Don’t get me wrong, the tour was great. We covered a lot of ground – taking three internal flights. Australia is massive and we went from Melbourne (the coastal capital of Victoria) to Uluru (the largest sandstone monolith in the world) to Cairns (the gateway to the Great Barrier Reef) to Sydney (the most populous city in Australia). That’s over 4,000 miles of flying – and a lot of Tim Tams – Australia’s denser, chewier version of our Kit Kat. Highly recommend!
We bounced around a lot of Australia.Kangaroo joy!Dinner in Outback > Dinner at OutbackA night of a thousand stars in Uluru The Twelve Apostles in Victoria are a highlight of The Great Ocean Road. Spoiler alert: There are only seven.The Three Sisters and the Blue Mountains – it doesn’t end well for the sisters, but damn, it’s pretty.
There were lots of highlights – my wife got to feed a kangaroo – shut up! And we dined outdoors under the Milky Way in the Outback. Honestly, every day was spectacular except for our ill-fated trip to the Great Barrier Reef. My wife is such a trouper that even though she suffers from motion sickness, she signs up for the full experience. She wore a Scopolamine patch AND took Dramamine for our voyage. The seas were angry that day and let’s just say we shall henceforth refer to that World Heritage Site as the Great Barrier Barf.
How it started…How it ended
Australia is bursting with natural wonder, unique wildlife, stunning coastlines, and vibrant cities. And Australians are lovely, laid-back, friendly folks. You hear them say, “No worries, mate” a lot and that pretty much reflects their relaxed approach to life. This was all no surprise to us since we got to know a handful of Aussies on a 2014 tour of Italy. They were a joyous lot of 13 ranging in age from 15 to over 70 and came from all over Australia. We could tell this was the group to hang out with from day one and we shamelessly glammed on to them. And two weeks later when we tearfully said our goodbyes, we vowed to see each other again one day.
Cairns was giving some White Lotus vibes.The Sydney Opera House is beathtaking – day or night.
We kept up over the years through Facebook and some of them would have reunions every now and again and drunk FaceTime us – oblivious to the 14-hour time difference. We always loved hearing from them, even if it was 5 AM for us. One reunion they even had little dolls with our names on them and posed us in all the pictures. No wonder we fell in love with these fun-loving goofballs.
The Addy and Joy dolls came out of the caravan closet to join the reunion party.
And now I’m finally getting to the favorite part of our trip to Australia – our eleven years in the making reunion with our Aussie mates. We gave them all the head’s up that we were coming their way when we booked our trip almost a year ago. Our tour ended in Sydney, but Leeanne, mother of four grown sons and grandmother to two littles, generously offered to host us in her home. She and her husband Neil and her younger sister Michelle and her husband Darren all live within miles of each other in Newcastle, New South Wales. And our other Lee-Anne – what are the odds? – lives about eight hours north of them in Broadbeach, Queensland on the Gold Coast. We had a plan and the countdown was on.
The only thing we didn’t factor in was the Easter holiday weekend, so when Leeanne and her oldest son Ryan (now known as St. Ryan) picked us up in Sydney, the two-hour drive to Newcastle took about five hours. We hardly noticed. We talked non-stop and Leeanne had stocked the car with water, snacks, lollies (Australia’s word for candy) and tissues for rest stops in case they were out of toilet paper (they were). We felt so cared for.
We arrived in Newcastle and Neil and Lee-Anne were waiting for us on the deck, wine glasses in hand. And anybody who says there’s no crying in reunions is wrong. We hugged each other’s guts out. And we did it all over again when Michelle and Darren arrived a few hours later. The reunion was on!
We got the band back together -Darren, Michelle, Joy, Addy, Lee-Anne, Neil and Leeanne. Cheers, Big Ears!
What followed was one of the best weekends of my life. We were deeply ensconced in a bubble of laughter, love, and connection. It was magic. The first night we sat on the deck overlooking the Watagan Mountains and talked for hours. And Leeanne’s son Matt dropped by with his new baby Lewis – better known as Koala Baby. We passed Lewis around like a potato and he clung tightly to each of us – no tears. Leeanne and Neil have created such a beautiful family – their love and affection for each other is palpable. Oh, and when we finally said our goodnights, everyone hugged and kissed us again. We were ready to fill out the adoption papers – for us, not Lewis.
Darren and Michelle in the background as I have a cuddle with sweet Lewis.
The next morning when I stumbled into the kitchen for coffee, both Leeanne 1 and Lee-Anne 2 kissed me good morning and asked how I slept. “Like a koala baby,” I said. True story. And I was so glad we weren’t in a hotel. There’s something so sweet and intimate about greeting the day with dear friends in your pjs.
Newcastle, New South Wales is gorgeous!
Leeanne and Michelle had planned a wonderful overview of Newcastle, and our first stop was the Newcastle Memorial Walk overlooking the spectacular coastline. We had to cross a terribly busy street with cars zooming by and as an opening appeared, Leeanne took my hand firmly in hers and held it until we arrived safely on the other side of the street. You may not understand how I felt if you are lucky enough to still have a mom, but at that moment I was a little girl again and I did not want to let go of that sweet paw. It’s funny – I’m older than Leeanne and about six inches taller than her, but she has big Mom energy – and I mean that in the absolute best sense. She is loving and caring and nurturing in such a natural and gentle way.
Lovely Leeanne in the middle – best hand holder ever!
That’s how the whole weekend felt – like we were being held. There was a peacefulness surrounding us that I had not felt in a very long time -and certainly not since January 20th. Australians hate Trump, too, and I felt the global impact of his toxicity in a way I never had. Our Aussie friends are worried about their retirement accounts, too. And they cannot understand how he was elected – again. Ironically, we were in Australia a few weeks before their election although we hardly saw any signs of it. Their campaign season lasts one month. ONE MONTH! And there are no huge rallies – they laughed and told us no one would come to a political rally in Australia much less buy a stupid hat. Politics is not a death match in their country, and they are better off for it.
If America is a clenched fist these days, Australia is an open hand – ready to pat you on the back. Aussies have a jaunty lightness of being that is intoxicating to be around. They simply know how to live. We felt this every minute we shared with our friends, and I’m determined to hang on to this feeling for as long as I can.
Yes, I will still retain my Resistance membership, and I will make my calls to my representatives, and I will work hard for the midterm elections, but I refuse to let Donald Trump steal any more of my joy. Mortality is no longer a random musing for me these days as more and more friends face serious health issues. My meter is running, and I’ve got some more places to go.
Michelle and Darren drove us back to Sydney on Easter Sunday night and we were still gabbing away when it came time to say goodbye. Darren kept shaking his head and saying, “I still can’t believe you guys came.” And then we all squeezed each other tightly – twice.
We’ve been back about three weeks now and some days Australia feels like a dream – sort of like the one that farm girl with the little dog from Kansas had. I mean, it makes sense – we both had to travel a very long way to discover that there’s no place like Oz.
Wishing sunny days for these dear hearts until we meet again.Bonus! We had a mini reunion with Annie and Helen – cuties we met on our tour of NZ last year. They met us for dinner one night in Sydney. One of the desserts of travel – the wonderful people you meet along the way.And if they happen to be Aussies, well, good on ya!Our Tour Director Christin was a ripper – that’s Aussie for fantastic! Here she is under the Sydney Harbor Bridge. @trafalgartravel @aatkingsActual footage of me when we arrived home after 20 plus hours of flying.
Tilda Swinton has long been one of my favorite actors and style icons. She’s tall, slender, and strikingly beautiful. I am none of those things and perhaps that is why she so utterly mesmerizes me. Sometimes she can look almost otherworldly. And she always has fabulous hair. So, earlier this year, I decided to try and copy her hairstyle. Hey, be kind, it has been a shitty year so far, and I needed a diversion from the end of democracy.
Runway slayer Tilda Swinton
In January, I showed my hairdresser, Kelly, a picture of Swinton and shared my hair goals with her. I adore Kelly and I have been seeing her for longer than I can remember. I think of her as a dear friend who happens to also cut my hair. Kelly looked at the photo on my phone and said cheerfully, “I think your hair would look great like that.” Everyone needs a Kelly in their life.
She told me it would be a process and would entail growing out the top of my hair longer than I’ve been accustomed to. So, Kelly went to work, and I was surprisingly pleased with the results. In fact, I was feeling pretty cool about my new hair. My dear wife really liked it, but only a couple of friends noticed. Still, I had a little Tilda swagger that gave me a much-needed lift.
Twinning with Tilda – use your imagination – and maybe photoshop some lipstick on me
That’s how it started. Now, I’ll tell you how it’s going. I’ve been called “sir” twice in the past month. This is really nothing new for me. That’s happened throughout most of my adult life – since I cut my long hair off in the mid 80’s. I’m going to be honest – it stings. And I just don’t get it. Yes, I’m a gold star lesbian, but I’ve never purchased men’s clothing – I mean, I don’t even own a flannel shirt. And I always carry a purse – not a Velcro wallet stuffed in my back pocket. I may not present particularly feminine by classic definition, but I move through the world that way. That is who I am, so it is a very unpleasant experience to be identified otherwise.
It happened recently when I was leaving a shoe store. A teenaged boy was walking out ahead of me and held the door for an older man coming in who looked at me and said loudly, “After you, sir.” I could feel the familiar rush of embarrassment and the hot tears that fill my eyes but never quite fall as I made a quick dash to my car. I was not in a great mood that day anyway and my reserves were low, and I just sat in my car and cried. Okay, I might have also visualized saying “fuck off” to the guy who called me sir.
Stuart Smalley knows that it’s a really good feeling when the inside matches what you see in the mirror.
On the drive home I started thinking about my trans friends – many of the female ones who are far more feminine than me. And I wondered how horrible it must be to be deliberately and forcefully misgendered by the government of your own country. The trans community was the low hanging fruit for Trump and the MAGAs during last year’s election. About 1% of Americans identify as transgender – approximately 2.3 million people – and Republicans spent $215 million on anti-trans ads. Manufacturing fear is expensive, but effective.
Imagine having to misgender yourself on a passport application for fear of being denied approval. And that’s just one of the hideous ramifications of Trump’s assault on trans Americans. People will lie and people will die. But at least Nancy Mace won’t have to worry about getting raped when she pees in a Capitol restroom.
Perspective is a good thing, so I’ve given myself a reset on how to react when I’m called sir, because it will most certainly happen again. I’m going to try and not go to a dark place. I know who I am and most days, I like that person. I’m the kind of person who smiles and holds the door for strangers. And besides, I have fabulous hair.
I see my trans friends and I love them. Original art by Cat Rocketship Art. instagram.com/@cat_rocketship
Bookends 