Iden-bugger-tity

I identify as myself. I don't, on the whole, identify as something, be that a nationality, gender, sex, religion or something else.

I am a woman. I am Finnish. I am female. I am Christian. I don't prefer to be identified as any of those - it's not about my preferences, it's about who I am, almost to the point of whether I like it or not. Identifying carries the meaning of someone - that would be me - doing the identifying. But I don't do it. I just am, there's no doing in my being. They're different for me.

I cycle to work occasionally - I don't identify as a cyclist. Cycling to work doesn't define me, not for myself anyway. It may, of course, prompt other people (or even me) to see me as a cyclist, or it may not, but it's not me doing the identifying for the most part.

In fact, identifying oneself as something has this faint air of deception in my ears - the logic being that if you have to identify as something, it seems almost as if it needs extra work, and that identification doesn't really flow from you like apples from an apple tree. Identifying as something has also a bit of an effort to it - and that kind of an effort is something I leave undone with extra pleasure: can't be arsed, kthxbai.

What does this have to do with anything? Well, some people like to think I identify as something - they like to think I am doing my being. I know, it won't change me, and I don't, on the whole, mind it much - I've lost hope on most people understanding things anyway, but I do like to point out that it's kinda silly to impute motives on other people (that is, yours truly) - it's much better if you ask, and don't get defensive if you don't get the answer you were expecting. And please, pretty please don't try to shoehorn the answer you may get into some standard formula of yours - please give it a fair consideration, and don't be too quick to judge what does, and what does not, exist.

I promised myself

It's an old Nick Kamen song from the 80s, but it's very relevant today. I just turned 40.

I promised myself when I was thirty that I'd sort out my gender issues before forty, and I did. Looking back, I realised yesterday that I've fulfilled my dreams. I wanted to get rid of my persistent, gender-related pain, I wanted a home where I'd have a space to read books and do a bit of art, I wanted a relationship, I wanted to learn how to use and move my body - I wanted to become a learned, well-read woman. I am that just now.

I wonder where I should go on from here: the world is open to me - it's not like I don't have my limitations: as a mother of two I can't just go on a lark, but I'm not doing the mothering alone so I'm not absolutely bound to my children, either.

I'll likely do a bit of activism: the dealing with health issues was pretty exhausting and now that it's been over for some years I feel some strength coming back to me: I've already managed to be booked for a couple of talks on gender issues and transitioning, and, lucky me, it isn't about me me me and whatitsgotbetweenitslegs but about cissexism and all that other, actually important stuff. Like, discrimination and fighting back and reading your context so you can fight back most effectively. Exciting, really!

Happy for now

Easter was good, I actually feel I'm doing religion once more. A bit of introspection resulted in some actions and I'm hopeful I'll find something interesting and lovable about myself sometime in the nearish future. Gosh, I'm happy to be alive for a change. Oh, and the fishing season's started, too. No fish, just standing on the riverbank waving a carbon stick and watching the spring flood, which hadn't quite subsided enough for the river to be fishable. Planning summer already, too.

The well of darkness

The depth of darkness inside my soul opened again this evening. I'm glad. The depth I hadn't quite forgotten sprang into life, and there I was - in the dark night of the soul, waiting for my Lord. Words fail when trying to describe it.

In the deepest darkness stars shine brightest.

Persuasion

Come to the dark side, we have cookies...

Chattering red bushes and birch thickets

Reddish bushes, a bit closer now.


A thicket of birches. These birches were but wee saplings when I lived near them, and I was but a chit of a girl. I've grown into a woman, and these trees have grown, too. I wonder how long they're let grow there - how long before someone cuts them down. I hope they can put up a fight. I know I will, if someone tries to cut me down to size. For several decades, I didn't. I know better now.

Trees

Three trees in a row. They remember the house that was next to them. Forgot to take pics of the paved stones forgotten on the ground when the house was demolished. The trees likely protect the small, reddish bushes next to them...

I really like trees. Especially trees next to each other. Trees with roundish tops are a fav, too - like in that picture.

Those trees grow near the place where I came of age. Now they remind of a past, of a has-been, although the trees themselves have grown, too. They're not the same they were twenty years ago, but they're not wholly different, either. I like the way the trees seem to protect the small, reddish bushes next to them, and the tree trunks' rhythm provides a base for the perhaps quiet chattering of the bushes. Of which I've photos, too.