Under a Leo Moon (A Ritual for Creative Success)

A few nights ago was the new moon, which apparently is a great time to like, do intention setting rituals and whatnot. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — I’m pretty skeptical when it comes to this stuff, but choosing a goal or vision to work on for a month does tickle the science part of my brain. Besides, I have ADHD. This is the kind of structure I need in my life.

“Jess getting her shit together for once” will take all the magic in the universe.

The new moon is in Leo, which is a thing I don’t know a lot about, but I guess it’s a good time to do creative things. There’s supposed to be a lot of big, bombastic energy surrounding this moon, which is perfect for the average glam rock frontwoman trying to manifest her band’s success. Additionally, I found out when I was researching my birth chart that my moon sign is Leo. Coincidence? Realistically, yes. But I’d like to believe there’s something special there. I’m a frickin’ lion baby, and you’re gonna hear me roar.

My lovely wife, Crass, has been mostly supportive of my magical endeavors (albeit she’s a bit annoyed with how many essential oils and herbs I’ve accumulated in the past few weeks). Although she’s Jewish by birth and generally agnostic, she’s always felt drawn to the witchy side of life. So for this new moon, she decided to join me for an intention setting ritual.

Here’s what all was involved:

– “road opener” candle I got from this dope metaphysical store downtown (supposedly opens new opportunities)

– bay leaves

– citrine crystal necklace

– cedar smudge stick

– a black Sharpie

We started by assembling a makeshift altar on the balcony and smudging the air around it. It was a beautiful summer night, and considering it was dark out, we decided to go out naked as the day we were born. I didn’t bother to look up whether nudity affected the magic at all. Once we were settled in, we light the candle and said a few words. Our incantation was as follows:

Holy powers that be
Ignite a spark in me
Bring success to my art
And creativity to my heart

After reciting the incantation, we scribbled the names of our artistic projects — my band’s name and her art business’s name — on a pair of bay leaves using the marker. We then placed the leaves into the flame, envisioning our prayers being sent up to the heavens along with the smoke. Around that time, I took her hand, and we started daydreaming aloud about what our hopes and visions were for our respective endeavors. It felt nice, dreaming about the future with her. Somehow, it made the evening even more magical. At the end, we brought the candle inside and let it burn on the kitchen table, but not before holding the necklace we had in the smoke. The plan was for her to wear the necklace to art shows and me to wear it to my band’s gigs, as a reminder of our intentions.

It feels silly at times, but I really do get a sense of peace from performing rituals like this, like I have a sense of control over my destiny. Suddenly, my dreams of making it in music don’t seem so lofty. It gives me perspective. Perhaps this magic stuff is baloney, but I think there’s some substance to it after all. It’s retraining your brain to see your full potential and focus on achieving what you need to achieve. Maybe it just takes burning a couple of leaves to finally tame my ADHD. So mote it be.

Good News, Everyone: WE’RE REBRANDING!

You might have noticed the domain name and blog title have changed. Don’t worry, it’s still me! I wanted to rebrand this blog into something that gives hope, something that can serve you — yes, you! — as an anchor in the storm we call life. Here, you’ll find my personal observations on topics like spirituality and mental health, (eventually daily) devotionals, and things that have helped me through my sometimes turbulent journey.

My perspective is a Christian one, albeit a more progressive version than you’re likely used to. If you have an established faith, or don’t really believe in anything, don’t fret! I’m not here to convert anyone. Instead, I want to be a voice for those who may have been burned by the traditional Church, people who are neurodiverse, queer, or who maybe just don’t fit the “churchy” norm. I know what it’s like to feel excluded from my own faith tradition, but God never abandons His kids, and I’m still learning from Him every day. That’s why I want to share what I’ve learned with you all. Because if I can help just one person reading this feel less alone, everything I’ve been through will be worth it.

So here’s to setting sail on this new adventure. And you are absolutely welcome along for the ride.

The Three Words That Made Me Hate My Own Body

I remember the first time I became aware of the male gaze.

I was twelve.

It was at a Rite Aid with my mom getting some film developed (which definitely just dated me). I saw a pair of older guys talking about something, and laughing, but I didn’t know what was happening. My mom shot them a look and pulled me away quickly.

“Those creeps were looking at you,” she said.

I was twelve. Twelve. Like, all I cared about was Pokemon and my stuffed animals. But I didn’t look it.

The film wasn’t the only thing that was developed.

If you follow literally anyone in the exvangelical community, you’ve probably heard of “Modest is Hottest,” the Matthew West track that’s been setting the Christian music scene ablaze. It’s a silly tongue-in-cheek song — I’m not too cool to admit that I laughed at “a sensible pair of slacks.” But after taking a moment to consider the culture that birthed this tune, it left a sour taste in my mouth. And judging by the backlash it’s received, I’m not alone in that sentiment.

My family never pushed purity culture onto me; rather, it was the churches I attended. The modesty talks were ubiquitous, at least among female leaders. Judging by the gendered sermons we sometimes had to endure, girls had two main problems — not feeling pretty enough, and not wearing enough. I never cared too much about the former as a kid, but as my own body made me painfully aware, I had to care about the latter, lest I get embarrassing lectures from youth leaders and mocking chants of “modest is hottest” from other girls. Yup, there’s that phrase again.

Here’s the thing — I never intentionally dressed to, as these talks put it, “cause my brothers to stumble.” I was just wearing what all of my friends were wearing. But because of the way I was built, my body was inherently dirty, inherently sexual. And people behaved differently because of this. I’d be groped by other students at my school because they thought my reactions were funny (which is doubly fucked up considering I was on the autism spectrum). When swimming with others, I’d be given the “t-shirt of shame” for exposing too much of my breasts, even though I was wearing the same kinds of bathing suits as other girls my age. And of course, I was made to feel like I was this filthy sinner for garnering looks from guys, because hey, it’s the girl’s job to keep guys from stumbling. Even when that girl is — let me reiterate — twelve.

It honestly messed me up for a while. At first, I tried to run away from my sexuality, playing the part of the innocent, virginal ingenue. When I inevitably couldn’t keep up that facade, I learned into my own sex appeal, feeling it was the only real thing I had to offer. No one cared about my intelligence or creativity. I was a walking pair of double D’s.

If you’re in a similar place to me, I’m here to tell you that there is nothing dirty or shameful about your body. Your body is a beautiful gift, every single bone and tendon and nerve and glob of fat! 1 Corinthians 6:19-20 says “Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” Conversely, should we not honor other people’s bodies by respecting them, no matter what shape or size they are, if they are indeed temples of the Holy Spirit?

I don’t think modesty is necessarily a bad thing. My philosophy had always been “if it brings you closer to God and hurts no one else, you do you.” My point is that someone’s inherent worth doesn’t come from how much skin is exposed. Forcing modesty on girls as if their worth depends on it isn’t healthy. Rather, we should be teaching young men to honor and respect women whether they’re cloaked in Amish garb or doing their best Cardi B.

When God Sends Your Hogwarts Letter

Let’s make one thing clear: I despise Harry Potter. Absolutely loathe it. I can’t follow it to save my life, the creator sucks, and Pokémon is the superior millennial franchise in every way. But sometimes I fondly remember a sermon I saw many years ago talking about it. No, they didn’t go on a rant about how it’s Satanic and all that crap (surprisingly). Instead, they viewed it as an allegory for the way God calls us to certain things in our lives, and the absolute ridiculous lengths He’ll go to in order to owl-airdrop that Hogwarts acceptable letter to your front step. I think about that scene with the with all the letters flying around a lot still, even though I’m not a huge fan of my old church and certainly not a fan of Harry Potter.

From a young age, I always imagined that Hogwarts letter to be an acceptance into a doctoral program. My joke is that I refuse to die before adding the letters “Dr.” in front of my name. It just made sense. I was (almost) top of my class and had a passion for learning and academia like none other. And full disclosure, a good part of why I wanted this so badly was to prove to everyone I was actually smart! To be honest, it was more than a little vain — I craved the status that came with the title.

So I decided there was no way around it. I was going to become a doctor of something or other. Medicine, psychology — trust me, I’ve cycled through all the aspirations. But every time I try to commit to something, life gets in the way. Too much money, mental health issues, parents convincing me to pursue classical guitar instead of premed (no regrets; music school was the time of my life).

Maybe it’s not in this season of life to pursue such things. Or perhaps — even scarier — I’m not supposed to pursue them at all.

Jesus Himself said to deny yourself and take up your cross (Matthew 16:24). What does that even mean for my own life though? Do I really have to give up on my futile attempts to glorify myself, to add a little pizzazz to my own name, to hold the coveted title of “doctor” I’ve dreamed about my entire life? And it hit me.

Maybe I’m supposed to be Pastor Jess instead of Dr. Jess.

It’s perfect. I get to learn theology (which I’m already a huge nerd about), play music, write, interact with and help people on a personal level, and perhaps most importantly, further the Kingdom of God. I keep going back to a certain phrase: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” I keep complaining that there are so few affirming churches, but what am I doing to change that? I personally know so many queer folks who feel disenfranchised by their churches and the Christian community at large. Maybe it’s my job here on this little blue planet to help give them a community who loves and accepts them as they are while leading them home to a God who loves and accepts them as they are. I know I’m not a perfect person by any means, but God uses imperfect people all the time. I’ve prayed about this for a while now and all signs seem to point in this direction. I feel like I finally got my Hogwarts letter.

Maybe being a pastor isn’t as glamorous as being a professor or doctor. But if I can help just just one gay or trans kid feel like God hasn’t abandoned them, it will all be worth it.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Scrolling through Instagram as I tend to do on a lazy Sunday evening, I found this infographic:

I could write an entire doctoral thesis on how this relates to my own life. Like, how I’m glad I didn’t end up a journalist, because I can’t handle that kind of pressure. Or how I’m glad I never reached Taylor Swift levels of fame, because, well, I can’t handle that kind of pressure.

I’d like to think I’m the fancy bejeweled Russian kind, though.

Young Jess wanted a lot of things that, in retrospect, adult Jess would have considered a nightmare. None more so than my middle school crush, who I absolutely believed was my soulmate.

Ah yes, the face of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

I remember crying myself to sleep over this kid, who will remain unnamed, but we’ll just call him Kyle. The way his floppy auburn hair jostled in the wind at youth group meetups, the way his blue-green eyes shone like sea glass at Cedar Point. I was obsessed with this guy in a way I’d never been obsessed with anyone ever. I didn’t think I was capable of having a crush. The closest I’d come before was strange thoughts about Ann Wilson from the band Heart and this dude from an American Idol knockoff no one remembers. I wasn’t supposed to have crushes on people I actually knew. That was preposterous.

But there he was. I was so enamored with him, I couldn’t imagine a single flaw in him. And young me thought this is what love is. I would have done anything for him. I would have let him walk all over me if he wanted. I would have readily given up everything that made me, well, me, if it meant a chance to have him. And I did. I changed the way I dressed to be more like his then-girlfriend. I started trying to be someone I wasn’t. And surprisingly, it worked! A few years later, I ended up dating him. And…it was anticlimactic. We kissed once, and there were no sparks. I had this boy of my dreams, but something wasn’t right. Shortly after, we broke up. it was mutual.

I had many crushes since, but none were as intense as Kyle. I think everyone needs a Kyle, just to show them what love isn’t. Love isn’t obsession. Love isn’t being a doormat. Love isn’t losing yourself to someone else. Kyle wasn’t a bad person. In fact, he was a great person! Just not my person.

Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like had I ended up with him. Before writing this article, I looked him up on Twitter, my last connection to the boy that changed my life. It was…mostly hockey. Some stuff about Bitcoin. A retweet of Ben Shapiro, which is probably not a good sign. But mostly just hockey. Even if middle school me got her way, she’d be miserable today. I’d be miserable today. I don’t give a shit about hockey or Bitcoin, and Ben Shapiro kind of sucks. And he’d be just as miserable with some eccentric artsy chick who likes Bernie Sanders and blogs for fun.

Sometimes we don’t get what we want, and that’s okay. I’ll let the Rolling Stones take it from here.

How Sad, How Lovely (Or, The Tragic Tale of Connie Converse)

It’s not uncommon for me to feel a kinship to a person I’ve never met — and never will meet. From Freddie Mercury to Zelda Fitzgerald to a number of murder victims from the scores of true crime podcasts I binge, I have a tendency to see myself in various figures. I think everyone does this to an extent. Whether it’s a fictional character or a real human who walked this earth, we all want to find someone to relate to in the things we consume.

I was listening to a podcast on unsolved mysteries when I learned her name. Elizabeth “Connie” Converse, a fledgling but pioneering singer-songwriter who gave up and ran away to places unknown, never to be heard from again.

The listening experience was eerie as hell, as the narrators rattled off various facts about her life. She worked as a writer and editor. She was also into visual art in addition to music and writing. She lived in Ann Arbor and likely walked the same streets I do today. And like me, she was plagued with depression, or as she worded it, a “blue funk.”

Connie, born in 1924, would throw herself into the local music scene in the 1950s, playing living room shows and doing home recordings with artist and animator Gene Deitch of Tom & Jerry fame. Her songs are often described as ahead of their time — think a proto-Joni Mitchell. She wrote about subversive themes for the time, things like sexuality and racism. In fact, many consider her the earliest example of the singer-songwriter genre in the US. So why has no one heard of her? Simply put, she never managed to make an impact on wider audiences. Disheartened, she gave up on music and eventually would pack her bags and disappear forever, not even telling her own family her whereabouts. Her fate remains unknown.

But her music survived. In an interview, Gene Deitch shared some of the music he’d recorded in his younger days, including Connie’s music. This sparked a renewed interest in the forgotten artist, and in 2009, an album of her music was released to the public. She finally gained the recognition she’d always wanted. And yet, no one knows if she was even alive to see her half-century-old project see the attention it deserved.

Considering she’d be closing in on 100 years old now, the chances she’s still alive somewhere is incredibly slim. But I wish she was. I wish I could meet with her in some quiet cafe and just talk about music, art, life, anything. I know we’d be kindred spirits. I’d tell her my own frustrations about trying to make it in music, about my struggles with mental illness, how I’ve fantasized about simply disappearing sometimes.

But I can’t have those conversations, so I’ll settle for continuing her legacy. I’ll take her life and learn from it, glean inspiration from it. I’ll be the best songwriter I can be. I’ll be the best writer I can be. I’ll live a life that would make her proud and kick depression’s ass.

Do it for Connie.

Like life, like a smile
Like the fall of a leaf
How sad, how lovely
How brief

The Pen is Mightier

When I threw in the towel on writing after several failed attempts at breaking into the languishing journalism industry, my mom was the one who inspired me to start blogging instead.

“The world needs your voice,” she said. “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

And then I reminded her of this bit, and then we both laughed because we have such highbrow taste in comedy.

But me? Why me? I have nothing to offer. Who wants to read the ramblings of some twentysomething millennial with too much time on her hands and no real expertise on anything except Bon Jovi and Pokemon? It’s not like I’m a political pundit or theologian. I can’t start a compelling mommy blog with all zero of my children, traveling to fascinating places is well outside my means, and I don’t have a brand to promote. All I have is myself and my admittedly mundane life experiences.

But maybe that’s enough. When I posted my most recent blog post, I was blown away by the response it garnered. In a day, it became my most viewed post by far. And my messages exploded with responses. People saying I inspired them, that they didn’t feel alone anymore in their own battle.

You see, when I began writing, back when I was in second grade, it happened out of another, albeit less traumatic, trauma. As a weird-ass kid who almost definitely had some kind of autism spectrum disorder, I was bullied pretty relentlessly as a child, and I needed an escape. That escape was storytelling. My mind overflowed with these silly stories I’d make up, and the characters in these stories became imaginary friends to me in a way. Whenever something shitty happened to me, I’d write it into the story, and by having one of my characters experience it too, I felt less alone. Writing became something therapeutic and almost sacred to me. I wrote relentlessly during class throughout elementary school, and when my family got its first home computer in eighth grade, I eschewed chat rooms and games for the word processor. Whenever I had a bad day, I’d just throw myself into my writing, and everything around me would be just a little better.

I think that’s why I still write, even after all these years, and I think that’s why I share my writing here, even when it’s difficult. Because if I can help just one person feel less alone in their struggles, everything I’ve ever gone through — every mental illness, every bad experience, every ranch dressing packet hurled at child-me — will have been worth it.

A Letter

Note: ENORMOUS content warning for this one. If sexual assault is a trigger for you, you can skip this one. Take care of yourself.

It started with an Adderall-fueled spring cleaning of my laptop’s documents, some dating back to when I’d bought it several years back. There in the word documents, between old college assignments and a smattering of first chapters of stories I’ll never finish, was a file simply titled “A Letter.” Opening it made my blood freeze in my veins as I remembered the whens and whys of the letter’s existence.

I never intended the letter to be read by its addressee, frankly because I wished to never see him again. It was a catharsis, a pouring out of emotions I thought I’d come to terms with. In retrospect, it affected me more than I thought. Following the incident that sparked the writing of this letter, I found myself seeking comfort in things like alcohol. I gained more weight than I ever had. My depression and anxiety overtook me to a point where my grades suffered and I needed to drop out of school — and I’d seldom gotten anything lower than an A- before.

I never intended the letter to be read by its addressee — or anyone else — but it’s been two years almost to the day since it happened. And I’m ready to talk about it. This is the letter, exactly as I wrote it the day I was raped.

It was my first time traveling alone. No family, no friend, no significant other. Maybe I was asking for it. I’ve lived enough life to not be naive about these sorts of things, but in general, I’d like to think most people are good. The handsome, friendly man you’re having lively conversation with over some craft beer won’t hurt you, right? Wrong. So wrong. So fucking wrong.

It was my last night in Ohio. The people I were staying with were all asleep. I was lonely. The extrovert in me wanted to meet people, to make memories, not just sit on my laptop in the dark. So I went to the bar on the top floor. The view was spectacular. I had one, two, several drinks. I’m no stranger to alcohol. I don’t get black-out drunk easily. I still remember all of my time up in the bar, chatting with you.

But I don’t remember how I got to your room. The rest of the night comes to me like a movie montage. I was sitting on the ledge of the window, looking out over the Cincinnati lights. Your friend was rolling a joint. Next scene. I can’t make out much, but you were on top of me. Next scene. I wake up, somehow in my hotel room. My friends were petrified I got hurt somehow. As the memories flood back to me, I realize I had been. I check my phone. You’ve messaged me. “I hope you never forget our night together.” I can barely remember it, but no, I won’t forget.

My friends leave for the music therapy conference. I need to head out to play a gig in my hometown. Wanting to take a hot shower and scrub off the uncomfortable feeling on my body, I lift my hideous rainbow grandma sweater over my head. There’s no bra. I left my bra in your room. I see I have another message. You want to see me before I leave. I don’t want to see you, but I want my bra back. So I give you the room number — stupidly — and ask you to bring it to me.

Oh, but you love me. You love how I heal people with music. You want a future with me. You’d do anything for me. You stand in the doorway, blocking me with your body. I tell you I need to leave, I need to go home. I’m cornered in the bathroom. You want to show me how much I mean to you. Your hands meet my high-waisted jeans — who the fuck gets raped in an ugly sweater and mom jeans? You begin to pull them down. I protest and pull them back up. You say fine, okay. Just one kiss. One kiss and you’ll leave me alone. Right? Wrong again.

I kiss you, timidly. You pull me in. I smell you. You lift me up over your shoulder like a ragdoll. You put me on the bed. I’m scared. I tell you I don’t want this. I say no. I said no. You should have left me alone. But you didn’t. You’re between my legs. You take off my pants. Your mouth is where it shouldn’t be. I’m shaking, struggling to breathe. I’m so dehydrated I can’t even cry. I feel sick. And then you take your dick out. You fuck me as I tell you to stop. I don’t want this. Frustrated with my whining, you pull out after a minute or two. And eventually, you leave. Finally.

But you’re still with me. I’m sore. There’s blood. I’m shaking. You keep messaging me, telling me you’re thinking of me. You call me. I don’t answer. I can’t answer. All I want is to get the hell out of Ohio. I’ve never sped so fast on the highway, crying as I tell my two closest friends what happened and hoping the sweet, sweet voice of Freddie Mercury will drown out the voices telling me this is all my fault.

But it’s not. I remind myself. You picked me up. You pinned me down. Even if — playing devil’s advocate — that previous night was my fault, for getting drunk and letting myself be taken advantage of, what you did the next morning was textbook rape. The last thing I did before I blocked you on Facebook was go through your photos. You have a daughter. How the fuck are you going to justify what you did when you have a little girl of your own? Would you want a man to do to her what you did to me? I sure as hell hope not.

I’m conflicted. Part of me wants to believe you’re good, that this was all just a big misunderstanding. That somehow I tempted fate by drinking in a strange place with strange people. That I tempted you with my ugly sweater and mom jeans. Maybe no one ever taught you about the concept of consent. And then I think about how, in less than 48 hours, you have completely destroyed my trust in people. I’m scared. I don’t know if the next guy I hang out with is going to take advantage of me. How many of the men I talk to every day or the men I admire have done what you did? It seems like every woman I’ve gotten close enough to to talk about this subject has some kind of story. And you happen to be mine.

And I hope I never, ever meet you again.

This is probably the most difficult, personal thing I’ve ever shared on here, but stories like these, like mine, need to be told. Chances are, it’s happened to someone you love. Maybe it’s happened to you. And I’m sharing this for the same reason I’ve shared a lot of my deepest struggles in my writing — because someone out there needs to know they’re not alone in this. To all the survivors out there reading this, you are strong and valuable and loved, and what someone else did to you does not define you. Take care of yourselves and be good to one another.

There is help if you need it. You can reach the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800.656.HOPE or online at online.rainn.org