Standing in Mont Alto State Park
by the river having lunch. i am reminded of early in my transition (relatively speaking), when i was still coming to terms with being trans (or wanting to be) and what all that means.
My best days were the ones spent going to State Parks and on hikes. I wrote in my diary time after time how wonderful it felt, Because i could exist outside. It felt like it was the only place i could exist.
i didn’t have to be anything or present as anything or even worry about who i was being or presenting.
i remember driving to my triple state park adventure. An empty highway with just me, cruising at 65. i imagined myself as trans for the first time, used those words to describe myself, imagined others understanding me as that. For the first time it wasn’t a fearful thing, for a few minutes. For the first time there was happiness in being trans, i didn’t have the feeling that being trans meant i had to do one thing or another. i didn’t have to be anything.
On that same trip i spent a lot of time wanting to be queer. Sitting by another river thinking about all the things i felt, all the things i wanted, all the things it felt like i wasn’t able to have. i wrote at length as i sat and thought as i drove.
i remember feeling sublime joy, euphoria, as i trekked through Black Moshannon and imagined myself as nonbinary.
i’ve always felt freest out here, in the forest. In nature.
in the dead of winter the forest promises life. in the heat of the summer it gives cool relief.
the outdoors is a promise, one we all are entitled to by virtue of existing, that life continues and will always continue. there is no set path. there is nothing else for you to do but to be as you are.
the warm sun greets you. the cool breezes reward you. all around are things built for others. pavilions, benches, trails. all without charge, emerging from a spirit of human decency. it’s hard to not have hope out here.
i wrote this, of course, on a hike. June 1, 2025.
Happy Pride.
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Postscript, as i wait for dinner (meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and bread. All cooking now):
i recall last year, around this time, being at my lowest point. Being faced with a lot of questions and a lot of anxiety. More than anything feeling unlovable. To quote myself, writing this day last year:
“I don’t feel soft or pretty or wonderful or smart or insightful or witty or funny. Just sad suddenly. A terrible negativity.
I think I’ve quite moved beyond gender and am just talking about life suddenly. Which is fine, as I suppose it all ties together. We can only feel certain in ourselves with all of our needs met. I would bet. Or at least it helps.“
Time makes a difference, but so does taking that step. Trying to open up, if only to one person. If only to oneself.
Perhaps we are called, as the religious are called to fast in anticipation of the feast, to open up in June. We are called to do the hard work of opening to ourselves and others, so as to prove our existence. So as to share in the existence of others.