Suzanne DeWitt Hall's Blog

The mysteries of death are at the forefront of my mind this week. It started with the nation's collective vigil during the days Trump abstained from appearing in public, and compounded with the actual deaths of two individuals I've known through my work. 

First the one who didn't die: 

What must it be like to live a life in which millions of people await your death with hungry anticipation, scrolling their phones and hoping against hope for a headline which confirms the theories and rumors? What would that feel like? It's hard to imagine anything more terrible, really. We all want the world we leave behind to spend a few moments grieving our loss. We want people to miss our interactions, to recall the good things we've done across the years, to hope that our passing was smooth. We want to be remembered with affection and gratitude. I literally can't imagine what it would be like to know your death will result in rejoicing across the world, dancing, music, actual tears of joy. My brain can't wrap itself around experiencing this revelation.

One of the people who actually did die is Helen Ryde, a warrior for LGBTQIA+ justice within the Methodist Church and Christianity more widely. Their death was sudden and unexpected, and thousands of people are in mourning.

The other person's death was less shocking. Her name is Trudie Barrares, an author, artist, and encourager. She'd lived long, and had been ill for some time. While not a public figure, her life is a story of outreach and acceptance. Her brilliant mind, depth of wisdom, and insightful eloquence changed the communities around her, and her ability to love through challenging circumstances amazes me. She will be mourned. She will be missed.

What a contrast these two saints are with the man-monster whose death the nation awaits.

I periodically ponder how the transmutation of matter works when a heart stops beating and the mysterious life force leaves, wondering about the potential retention of any kind of conscious beingness. I like to think that the essence of Helen and Trudie escaped into joy, and freedom, and limitless wonder. But what of Trump's eventual passing? Is real joy possible for such a tortured soul? Could there be anything other than shrieking resistance? In the final death moments, I envision Helen and Trudie sighing deeply, relaxing and embracing the mystery they so often contemplated. But him? Whatever remains of his mind will likely be terrified, angry and screaming that the decision must be appealed. How could the jail of death be destined for him? 

I'll turn my mind back to the light soon. Perhaps tomorrow. But for this week so far, and for today, I can't help but contemplate death. 

May Helen and Trudie rest in peace. May their memories be always a blessing. 

I'm working on a trio of poems for an upcoming Writing the Land anthology featuring the Salmon Creek Nature Preserve. My overall theme is sanctuary, and I'll write pieces based on spring, summer, and fall visits. I took a few pictures and videos while walking the paths recently. Mostly I took notes. 

Lots of notes. 

Here's one of the videos:

My phone couldn't pick up the astonishing ballet of creatures which buzzed and hummed through this flowery section. You can hear some of their sounds, but can't see much of the movement.
In contrast to these teeming acres, our home doesn't have a lot of land. Just a front yard and a U-shaped plot around the back of our rectangular house. My beloved has indulged my desire to discover what grows in the back space, and I've let all sorts of wild things bloom over the past months. My primary interest is in providing pollinators with resources, and since we had to decimate the jungle which took over in the years of the house's abandonment, I had no real idea of what had been planted or landed there.
The months of growth have been fascinating. One section of yard waves tall with some flowering thing also spotted at the Nature Preserve. A large bush seemed promising, but the buds which finally emerged are tightly closed, and winged things remain largely uninterested. I'll give it a few more days then pull it out. Bittersweet nightshade is a bumblebee favorite. Yellow jackets enjoy the Rose of Sharon. A sprawling trumpet vine didn't produce, though I'm still hoping.
In the video, you can hear me oohing and ahhing over things you can't see.  And if you could see them, you'd probably think me a bit nuts to be so gaga over insects. 
But I am.
This world is desperate for sanctuary spaces, places where beings can feel safe, be fed, and rest. The scale of need is devastating, and my own ability to make a difference miniscule. The Salmon Creek Nature Preserve provides grasslands for birds which are threatened by our nation's lack. In providing for the bird's need, other creatures flourish. 
Our little yard is a microcosm of that effort. 
It is a nothing thing to do. A lack of action. Non-mowing. Non-seeding. Non-disruption. A letting things be. Something so insignificant in both space and exertion. 
But this minute pushback against the tide of exploitation gifts me with disproportionate moments of peace. I can do little to address the vast wrongness of the world. But for a few moments, a few weeks, a few months, I can offer shelter and space for a few tiny creatures who live in danger. 
And I'm grateful.

It's hard to summarize the state of my spiritual self these days, other than to acknowledge that my heart hungers for truth and resonates with the idea that divinity=love. The vast majority of my seeking has been through the lens of Christianity, and so despite having deconstructed from the form of it in which I was immersed, the person of Jesus continues to be the simplest way for me to contemplate the world through a spiritual lens. Perhaps someday I will plumb the richness of other faith traditions, experiencing God in new ways as a result. I hope for t hat day. In the meantime, I continue the searching through the most familiar lane.

Here's a recent exploration sprung from the troubling days in which we find ourselves, excerpted from a piece which appeared in the wonderful magazine Earth and Altar.

HOW GREAT THOU ART: TRANSCENDENCE AND IMMANENCE IN A TIME OF FEAR

Contemplating transcendent aspects of the divine creates a slow-burning fullness in my chest. It lacks the mystical sharpness of St. Teresa’s fiery sword, but when it happens, I feel my desperate hold on the material world loosening and catch glimmers of mysteries hiding within. I tried to transmit this wonder through a presentation at a retreat held by my church years ago. The place saved me at a dark moment, and I was eager to give back. I wanted my friends to experience the comfort of that warm fullness too. The grandeur. The invitation. The challenge.

We gathered in a monastery chapel and the guitarist began strumming the chords of “How Great Thou Art.” People relaxed into the soft familiar progressions. When he finished, I stepped into the silence with words which pulsed along with my heart:

Oh Lord, My God

When I, in awesome wonder

Consider all the worlds thy hands have made

I see the stars, I hear the roaring thunder

Thy power throughout the universe displayed

Then sings my soul, my savior God, to thee

How great thou art, how great thou art

Then sings my soul, my savior God to thee

How great thou art, how great thou art.

After speaking the lyrics, I invited the assembled to marvel with me at the glorious force which set molecules and galaxies into motion, and to enter the vastness of space existing between atoms and stars, joining our hearts to reach for their singing. I’d helped the church launch by developing a website and printed materials, leading women’s groups, and organizing neighborhood outreach efforts. Serving saved me as my marriage entered its death spiral, and church became home. I had no idea that I’d soon be kicked out.

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One of the things I love about being a writer is the ongoing invitation/obligation to learn new things. I'm working on a novel in which one of the characters is a follower of Druidry. In researching for him, I came across this wonderful prayer, which seems intensely needed for our moment:

The Druid's Prayer

Grant, O God, Thy protection;

And in protection, strength;

And in strength, understanding;

And in understanding, knowledge;

And in knowledge, the knowledge of justice;

And in the knowledge of justice, the love of it;

And in that love, the love of all existences;

And in the love of all existences, the love of God.

A circle of prayer, for you, for me, and for the world.

A member of my writing group raised a question at the last meeting and I've been pondering it ever since. She's a fine writer, and is working on a coming-of-age novel which circles around the process of deconstructing from rightwing conservative Christian formation.

At the meeting, she expressed something real, discouraging, and painful, wondering aloud if she should just give up on the book. Why? Because of the potential hurt it could create for people she loves. And the potential for putting her in the sights of extremists who've been emboldened by the current political environment. 

I listened as others offered their thoughts while gathering my own, eventually saying essentially this:

You're right. People will be upset. Your Mom will struggle, feeling as if she must have screwed up along the way, worrying about the state of your eternal soul. Members of your Mom's congregation will murmur about you leading other souls straight to hell. Once the book is out, you could very well be targeted by those who wish to mold society into their ideal of conformity.

But first things first. Your Mom. 

There comes a time in everyone's life where a change occurs between parent and child, when offspring step into the reality of being adult. It is a good and proper thing to stand in your own authority. That doesn't mean being disrespectful, it simply means that there are times when you have to be more of an adult than your parent can.

The best thing to do is plan your interaction. You need to take charge of how the process unfolds, regardless of the typical patterns for communication you've previously followed. You can break the news in person, by telephone, or in writing. Rehearse points your Mom might make so that you have responses ready. Set boundaries for what you'll engage in discussion about and what you won't. Tell her the ground rules for continued discussion, and if she violates them, let her know you're willing to talk again another time after she's had a chance to process. 

In the meantime, write the book. 

It takes time to finish a draft, go through the editing process, find an agent, get the book picked up by a publisher, and then, finally, go to print. There's lots of time to prepare, and lots of time for things to change before a confrontation is needed. The world may have moved on entirely by then, meanwhile, the only way the book gets finished is if you keep going.

One of the reasons the group conversation resonated so strongly is that it's Pride month, a time when so many people are facing similar issues but from a queer lens. Wondering if they dare come out. Wondering what the impact  might be on their close relationships and their position within the world. Wondering about their emotional and physical safety. There are no guarantees that all will be well for writer or queer individual. A shitstorm may very well rain down causing unforeseen disruption.

But I know this much with certainty:

Being yourself, speaking truth, and getting to share your perspective and wisdom are all worth it. 

It's ironic and meta that my writer friend continues to struggle with the things she writes about in her novel. But it connects to another queer truth. We never stop coming out. We can face the fear and pain of telling our closest friends and loved ones, but then there are co-workers. Or healthcare professionals. Or people who work in clothing stores. As people eventually read her book, there will be contact from those who believe they should correct her (and worse) on an ongoing basis.

For me, at least, it's all worth it. Not to say there aren't moments when I want to pull my hair out and scream loud enough to rock the planet from its axis. But the work matters. People need to read the wisdom she pours out in such an entertaining and compelling way. People need to see me standing up in the various ways I am queer. We need to claim space because otherwise the voices which wish to restrict thought, identity, and freedom will win. And we can't let that happen. 

So friend, keep writing.

Queer sibling, stand strong.

Embrace as fully as possible the beautiful thing that is you.

 

A very cool thing happened this week! The first chapter of my debut novel, The Language of Bodies, was narrated as part of Kings River Life Magazine's Mysteryrat's Maze Podcast. Cady Mejias, the voice actor, did a wonderful job. Check it out:

 

I don't recall if I've mentioned my Cookbook Love blog here before, but if not, now you know it's a thing! 

Earlier today I wrote a post called Bitter Indeed prompted by an experience from the past weekend. If you want to learn more about the rather disturbing image above, go check it out.

An essay I wrote about the visceral emotion of facing darkness versus light was selected for inclusion in a lovely anthology called North Woods at Night (12 Willows Press). The book is now available for purchase. 

Check out the evocative book trailer the press created for the collection:

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It’s December 2024, and I just found out that the son of my parents' friends died. The pictures posted on social media made him look much older than he was, and perhaps saddled with Alzheimer’s or dementia. His face was gaunt, his gaze not entirely collected.

My memory recalls him as the oldest of a tribe of five or six kids, and the bad boy of the bunch. Wiry, dark haired, and rascally, with a fondness for a leaf which was then illegal, and a propensity for trouble. I didn’t know him well. He was older than me, and I younger enough to be unworthy of his attention.

His death would have been merely a fleeting observation if not for one thing: 

His balls were the first I ever saw.

It was at the Horse Traders Convention in the tiny town of Almond, NY, probably around 1976. (Now don't get the wrong idea. We aren't talking some fancy Connecticut-style event with posh equestrians strutting around in polo shirts and gleaming riding boots. This was a gritty event with smoky campfires, banjo music, and horse pulls. We were in Northern Appalachia, and it showed.)

The kid didn’t mean to display his goods, or at least, I don’t think he did. He was merely leaning back in one of those 60’s era folding lawn chair made of aluminum poles and plastic webbing, his legs sticking out from the frayed edges of cutoff jean shorts.

 (We didn’t know to call them jorts back then.) 

And since he was skinny, the legs of the shorts were loose. 

Quite loose. 

And the cut of the shorts was short. 

Quite short. 

We didn’t know to call it manspreading then either, but his position offered passers by—in this case me—an eyeful of something lurking within, unrestrained by undergarments. Something odd and ungainly, of a hue which didn’t seem earthly. It/they were unlike any body part I’d previously seen. Or imagined.

I’m not sure where his penis was hiding at the time, though to this day, I thank it for that small kindness. 

It feels strange realizing that the first pair of testicles I ever saw no longer bobbles around the earth, in youthful ignorance and freedom. 

The passage of time can be measured in so many things. The age of our children and grandchildren. The lines on our faces. The creaking of our bones. But who could have guessed that time could be measured by the deaths of people who prompt genital memories?

Rest in peace, Robbie. 

Want to learn more about the HorseTraders Convention? Here you go.

https://www.nytimes.com/1972/08/24/archives/all-horse-traders-shun-being-no2.html

I was honored to participate in the launch event for a literary journal called Sinister Wisdom recently, and to read a condensed version of an essay included in the most recent issue, number 132. You can watch the full program for the event here, https://youtu.be/c3xvp9XzNSQ but I'm also pasting the piece below in case you'd like to read it. It's about the power of gender examination, and the importance of names.

A Name Like Chocolate, Melting on My Tongue

When I first met my transgender spouse Declan, I was still a girl. Not by age, but by assignment at birth and inculturation. My hair was long, my heels high, and makeup was a requirement before leaving the house.   

Declan was never a girl though he wore bras he hated, gave up dreams of being a ball player, and did his best pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

When we met, we were both married to men and proud of ourselves for performing the role of excellent wife. We became deep friends.

And then we fell in love.

 

For as long as I can remember, my mother proclaimed:

“Your name is SUZANNE. Not Sue, not Susan. SUZANNE.”

The etymology of Suzanne is “graceful lily:” a soft, bending thing, implying fragrant fragility. I did my best to conform to that image.

Years ago, a male client sang Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne to me the first time we spoke. I did what was expected and tittered in response, performing the role of bending lily according to the shape of my name and the generations of cultural expectations which traveled with it.

Rejection of those expectations has been slow; unobservable without timelapse captures.

Suzanne.

 

I love reading old cookbooks which include the names of people who submitted recipes. In some, women list their husbands’ names rather than their own, merely planting “Mrs.” in front.

Mrs. Richard Dickinson.

The identities of these women who lived, cooked, and loved has been erased, as if there was no existence outside marriage.

 Declan and I have been through several name changes together. First when we divorced our exes and again when we married. We each took the other’s last name as a mutual offering of histories, of identity, of self.

 When my beloved pondered what his true name was, the sound arrived as epiphany:

Declan.

Its truth settled around him, a mantle of affirmation, a source of power.

 Declan’s mom struggles with this. Many parents feel like something is stolen when a birth name is rejected, as if the act of naming gives them possession over our beings.

“Her name is SUZANNE,” my mother demanded.

 For years, I called my beloved Dolce; an Italian word meaning sweet, or dessert. The nickname felt true; his presence a reward for having choked down a lifetime of soul-scouring struggle. Declan made me realize life could be delicious.

Dolce.

My Dolce.

The word was like chocolate, melting on my tongue.

Transgender people understand the significance of names better than most. They endure an ongoing reality of being called something which is out of sync with their essential beings. But Declan was always Declan, no matter what his parents called him.

The name Dolce is still true and yet no longer fits. He’ll always be chocolate, but tempered, poured out, and molded into a shape of his ongoing making. He’s himself now, even if his name doesn’t conform to anyone’s sense of ownership or of previous understanding.

Even mine.

 When I was a teenager, I rebelled against my mother and asked people to call me Zanne. I liked the strength of the nickname. Zanne sounds like a superhero, whereas the soft susurration of the “soo” in front of “zanne” transforms it into lily-like submission.

Decades later I abandoned Zanne when I left my ex-husband, because the power I’d experienced dissolved in the acidity of our marriage, eroded by the loudness of my insufficiency each time he spoke it. But I’m done defining myself by what others cling to or expect: a creature formed in their own image-making.

I’m ready to reclaim it:

Zanne.

 As Declan explores the kind of man he wants to be, I’m invited to examine my own gender and name.

Today my hair is short, my heels low, and makeup optional. I’m still figuring out what any of that means. But I know one thing:

I want to be like Declan.

I want to be like chocolate, melting on his tongue.

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