Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

A Melancholy Zebra determined to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


3 Comments

I Screwed Up My Retreat

How does one screw up your own retreat, you may ask? Well. You can’t.

A retreat is an act of withdrawing. Nobody says how that withdrawing is supposed to work or what it’s supposed to produce. It just is. One withdraws and sees what happens. (Or, more specifically, one meditates.)

But I did screw up: I went into my meditation retreat with expectations. (How dare I?!) And I ended up experiencing one of the top ten most shocking moments of my life to date.

Continue reading


Leave a comment

Lessons from the Psych Ward

Tonight, I want to share something I wrote maybe a year ago. It’s an excerpt from an expository piece I wrote on my time in a South Carolina psych ward. I don’t expect any trigger warnings in here, but if you’ve been committed before, take some care.

Continue reading


Leave a comment

But I Can Fix It

Forgiveness means giving up all hope of a better past. -Jack Kornfield

But surely… surely if I dwell on it enough, replay it in my head enough, examine every little detail enough, I’ll figure out that it actually didn’t go that way! C’mon, Jack! What’s wrong with you? *pause* All right. That’s how one creates a delusion, however minor. That’s how “You hurt my feelings” turns into “You’re the BIGGEST BITCH in the ENTIRE WORLD!” and “We’ll call you” turns into “We think you’re so fucking awesome and will give you a bell at 9:00 AM tomorrow morning as the second ticks.”

But surely… surely if I just do things right this time, how things are now will look exactly like how things were then, and it’s like the past never existed! Magic Eraser! I can fix this! It can go back to normal!

… No? That’s not how it works?

Fuck.

Continue reading


Leave a comment

Meddling with Metta

First, let me acknowledge the cheesiness of the alliteration in this particular title. Second, I’ve stared at this post screen for a good half an hour so far trying to figure out what I can offer that is both sarcastic and mindful.

I’m not there today. I’m feeling neither sarcastic nor mindful, though L begged me to return to a sitting (or even walking practice) earlier today, even for just ten minutes if that’s all I can manage. Well, technically speaking, I am carrying out a sitting practice, one that lasts for at least 8 hours a day… sitting on my ass at my desk working and trying to piece things together. (There– I managed a bit of snark. You’re welcome.)

Continue reading


1 Comment

The Raisin Cult

Welcome to the Sarcastic Sangha, the Compassionate Cynics, the Mordant Meditators, otherwise known as the Raisin Cult.

Population: me. Your Humble Narrator.

My therapist of late (J) told me a couple years ago that I should attend her mindfulness group on Wednesday afternoons for an hour or so. I had just been released from a hospital whose idea of mindfulness was: “Look at your feet. WHERE ARE THEY?!” and the subsequent repetitions until you had named several possibilities for the location of your feet (under my ankles, on the linoleum, in my non-slip socks…), so I was skeptical. Sardonic. Scornful.

I thought it was a moronic thing to do. The most I’d heard about it at the time involved close examinations of raisins and the squeaky noises they make. I doubted that a raisin squeaking could fix my crabby mood, never mind my battery of acronyms pulled from the DSM IV.

Continue reading