ICELAND

I cold-showered my way around the island, trying and failing to not be a zealot about it.

Can you get addicted to showers? *shrug* Probably.

But I don’t think I am. I think my body just knows how to keep me alive.

She demanded my acute attention in 2022, screaming at me to slow, to listen. To acknowledge how much she knows and to stop ignoring her needs and her wants.

To heal, I learned to heed her. She has since saved me again and again.

And in 2024 she’s requesting uiscefhuaraithe: “The feel of coldness only water brings.”

::

Entering cold water yanks you into “the now,” whatever that means.

And actually, this is exactly what that means: you cannot carry your anxiety, your stress, your cringey memories, or even your anticipatory joy into cold water and expect to keep a hold on them. You will set them down, and you will just…be cold. Now. This is The Now.

Cold water abruptly takes all your little narratives from you and says, “Sweetheart, you can have these back later, but you can also live without them, just for a bit.” Cold water hugs your frigid body like a steel trap: “I know it’s hard, hun, but if you surrender your cute façade, you get to be real.”

It seems cruel but remember—you consented to this. You took the plunge.

Uiscefhuaraithe.

I honestly can’t recommend it highly enough.

::

Every time I’m in cold water, I laugh. If I don’t laugh, I cry. Apparently, bodily uiscefhuaraithe—yeah, I can (kinda) help you with that, it’s pronounced ish-KOOR-heh, flip the r—bodily uiscefhuaraithe deals in extremes.

I don’t even want to subscribe to extremes, but they constructed my entire cultural heritage. I fear that extremism lives in my blood. Like any normal person might say sorry, pal, but obsessively scanning the metaphorical landscape for grey areas is...still not chill, and I know they're right but I just can't stop (!!!). I am perpetually pulled to the black and the white, ping-ponging in hopes that my average over time wears some kind of middle path.

Why do I even care? Moderation is not inherently moral, a moderate take does not guarantee I’ll be taken seriously, and “medium” excites no one. Maybe it’s just middle child syndrome.

Beautiful Iceland—mountainous and oceanic, volcanic and icy—does not court moderation. The island juxtaposes natural extremes, pushing them to their limits then placing them side by side. And particularly in the darker half of the year, Iceland pushes you to your own limits. The rougher the country and the more it demands, the more you find yourself rising to meet it.

But ay, there’s the rub. Moderate terrain seems more inviting, offering reasonable and clearly survivable challenges, whereas becoming immortal requires weathering outrageous circumstances. “The greats” throughout history embraced extremes as access points to The Now; then, they set up camp.

For the rest of us, fortunately, The Now keeps a 24-hour line open, accessible through somatic extremes.

::

After a very cold and very wet week, I come back home and jump right into a cold shower. I chase that unique water-cooled feeling. Uiscefhuaraithe guides me to my selfiest self, who remembers (again) that now is now and here is now and there is there and then is then.

With cold and heat specifically, the two extremes inform and mimic each other. Very cold fingers can feel weirdly warm, and as they warm back up, they tingle numbly as if still in the cold. Somehow, the most extreme cold and the most extreme heat register almost identically in our, well, extremities.

So my favorite part of experiencing The Now of a cold shower comes after I am out of the water and dry again, when my body sends pinpricks of heat across every inch of my skin. The warmth comforts me for hours, a physical reminder of having lived large and raw and real.

Though the cold is manufactured by an external source, that warmth is purely self-generated.

My wise body loves The Now. I'll embrace this extreme.

Articles of Life 13

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 13:

I believe people are honest, true, kind, benevolent, virtuous, and that everyone is trying. Indeed, I might say that we all do the best we can with what's ours. We can love ourselves, we trust ourselves, we have inherently good selves, and we hope to be able to enlighten all selves. If there is anyone needing help, wanting rest, or otherwise in suffering: I seek after these folks.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 28:54):

Articles of Life 12

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 12:

I believe in chosen family but must admit that there's something to blood and water, usually; don't give up on your clan.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 27:24):

Articles of Life 11

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 11:

I claim the privilege of wearing whatever I want according to the dictates of the circumstances, and allow you, too, the same privilege: you can wear whatever the hell you want!

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 24:18):

Articles of Life 10

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 10:

I believe in the literal breaking down of systems and in the need for building better ones. In working together as a family, worldwide and local. In intersectionality! We'll need to work compassionately and communally if we want Earth to be renewed and receive its paradisiacal glory.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 20:36):

Articles of Life 9

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 9:

I believe most of what science reveals, most of what it will reveal, and some of what it already has revealed; it ain't much but it's what we've got for making sense of God's green earth.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 18:13):

Articles of Life 8

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 8:

I believe that scripture is translated with bias, and that's just how everything's written. It doesn't mean it's wrong; it doesn't mean it's right. It means it's not the word of God.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 15:37):

Articles of Life 7

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 7:

I believe in the gift of love, witnessing with compassion, holding space, open-minded list'ning, consent, and so forth.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 13:55):

Articles of Life 6

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 6:

I believe in the same organization that existed before patriarchy: namely, equal'ty, equity, partnership, and fairness. Egalitarianism!

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 11:52):

Articles of Life 5

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 5:

I believe that each person is called in life to find their gifts and then to share them with the world. Without this, we may find that our souls feel numb and that we need an outlet for our joy. I believe in life before death.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 9:30):

Articles of Life 4

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 4:

I believe that the first principles of dying well, without regret, are: first, time spent with people you love. Second, lived values. Third, a job or project worth your time which enhances your skills. Fourth, caring for your body with without going overboard.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 6:28):

Articles of Life 3

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 3:

I believe that through my compassion for myself I can live a happy life by accepting how I feel and holding space for ev'ry emotion.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 4:07):

Articles of Life 2

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 2:

I believe that sin is a construct used to shame me: I trust my pers'nal integrity.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (starts at 2:07):

Articles of Life 1

I rewrote the statements of faith which I memorized as a child so that they now reflect my beliefs as a 30-year-old adult. Each statement had a song to help with memorization, and I have written my statements to match the music of those original songs.

Here is my Article of Life 1:

I believe in god as my inner knowing, and that it's in each of us, and in the universe.

Here is the original song and wording from the LDS church materials (0:14):

Done: A Conversation Guidebook

“So, are you guys done, then?”
Done with what?
Well-done, like a steak?
Oh, like buns in the oven?
Do, doing, did, done.
Doing “it”
Done with “it”
Done with sex, done with love?
Done with babies! Gotcha.
Oh, done with growing our family?
Done with the neverending, irreversible act of creating life--
Done with that?
My period is back.
I’d like to be done, but he thinks he wants one more.
Thinks that means we want one more.
We might try again.
We have talked about being done and
I do feel pretty done with the conversation.
I don’t know. Maybe we’re done.
Have we done our job?
Have we met the minimum standard of care?
The minimum number of kids?
Who is counting this?
We’re done.
Well, maybe God will send us one more.
Maybe we’ll be surprised.
But yeah, we’re done.
Why do you care if we’re done?
Sorry, yeah, you’re right, it’s always hard to tell if you should be done or not.
I never know when others are done.
How do we measure up?
Are they done?
Okay. But is she done?
We’ve checked the boxes, completed the list.
All that’s left is to, well, raise them.
To give every moment of my life, my feelings
My mental and emotional capacity.
No, right, not his mental and emotional capacity.
Just some of it.
See, he still has to work every day
So he’s not done.
Not in the same way.
Right but we’re done.
Yeah, I’m done.

The Start of the End

The second installment can be found here.

So that's how I found myself knocked down by an emotional tsunami and treading water for all I was worth.

To survive, I fawned. I gave them what they sought: I shared our news, I educated, I reconciled doctrinal concerns, I calmed fears. The conversation lasted for nearly an hour. They released me from my calling at some point. They did not extend to me a new calling. (One member of the bishopric literally never spoke for the entire time—weird, right?)

I walked myself home in the dark.

For the rest of the evening, I lived in shock and, I think, dissociation. I did get to hug Brooks, who had stayed awake, miracle of miracles! But then I sat on the couch with my eyes wide and staring. I mustered no energy; I felt no feelings. I went to bed early, exhausted.

I stayed in the shock zone for a few days. The meeting seemed unique, so I shared the details around a bit to fact-check. No church member to whom I told this story—current or former, young or old, man or woman—could remember a time when they had heard of all three members of the bishopric interviewing one member alone. My story dropped jaws and summoned incredulity, and most people commented that it reminded them of a disciplinary council.

After three days, my shock and surprise alchemized into anger and action. It hit right as I got into the shower (my best thinking time). I railed at the injustice of that meeting overfull with men, at how I had felt cornered, at how I had seemingly voluntarily spilled my secrets. I cried and I swore. I had the house to myself for an hour, and I yelled—alone and loudly—what I wished I'd said. I really let 'em have it, naked in my shower, wet but flaming mad.

As I got out of the shower, I looked at my clean clothes waiting on the bathroom counter.

My garments.

I was dry and back to a state of emotional regulation, but I felt a visceral, embodied reaction to seeing those garments. In a flash, they became to me nothing more than a symbol of the patriarchy, a tool for keeping women down and quiet, a literal manifestation of the deindividuation this proudly patriarchal institution intended for me. They were suddenly nothing but fabric, yet that fabric had woven into it every suppressed feeling I'd experienced two nights prior.

Rather than protecting me, as promised, from that traumatic tsunami, the garment had led me directly into the tsunami's path. The way of goodness and reputability within the church was revealed to have actually been a perilous way of unquestioning obedience. A way of losing my self, but not just to Jesus. A superficially smooth way, planned for me without my opinion or consent. Ultimately, the end of the way landed me at a bouldered blockade for the fight/flight path I would have rather chosen.

My body screamed, “Do not put those on.”

I had not listened to my gut on Tuesday night, and it had cost me. Now, alone and safe and embodied, I realized I could no longer afford to not listen to my gut. My gut knew the truth: that my humanity could never really be up for debate, that reputability was and is an illusion, and that my goodness was inherent and beautiful. 

With this course correction, I could finally step onto that elusive fight/flight path I had accidentally avoided earlier. Metaphorically, there were no immediate dangers. The tsunami had passed and I had survived, but I knew I would encounter future tsunamis if I didn't start hiking to higher ground.

I did not put my garments on.

I have never put them on since.

And honestly? Thank you, gentlemen, for the clarity.

The Start of the End, Prequel II

The first installment can be found here.

I waved Mel and Brooks home and walked into the church building while silently rehearsing my new calling boundaries. 

You can imagine my surprise two minutes later when all three members of the bishopric followed me into the bishop’s office. Immediately, I wondered why. Secondly, and nearly as immediately, I justified it—weakly—to myself. “I knew there would be two of them; what’s one more?” I was not worried for my physical safety. But my gut knew that this would not just be a 5-minute release meeting. (My head required some convincing.)

The four of us filed into the small office. We sat in a parallelogram shape: Bishop at his desk, me across from him, the two counselors each taking a seat on the side walls of the office. They were perfectly triangulated; I felt perfectly trapped.

The bishop asked me, “How are you, Sister Facer?”

I cheerfully, maybe a bit nervously, responded, “Fine! How are you?”

“I’m good! I’m good.” Slow nodding.

A pause. Nobody spoke. Then the bishop, again:

“How are you, really?”

And right then, a knowing from my gut rode a lightning bolt of recognition straight up to my head: this is about Melody.

See, those Easter neighbors? Who wanted a family photo? I like them! That family has since moved, and I miss seeing them. And, as helpful context, one of them was the Elder’s Quorum president at that time.

I knew suddenly that he had spread the word of Mel’s transition. He was allowed to do that; I had indicated that this was no secret. But so immediately? For what purpose? Why was this meeting called, and did it really have much to do with my calling? Why, why on God’s green earth, were there so many men in this room? Why did I feel like I was in trouble? I had done nothing wrong, and I knew this. Did they know this?

A quintessential “fawn” response arose: What do they want from me, and how quickly can I provide that to get out of here?

Many people like to tell me that this is when I should have stood up and simply dismissed myself from the interview. I wish, truly I do, that I would have done that. But the reasons I didn’t are perfectly plain to any woman in the LDS church, and they don't have to do with any lack of bravery or desire. Every woman who has suggested this course of action has also admitted (often with chagrin) that she, too, would not have known how to leave. But why not?

Because neither fight nor flight seems like a feasible response when the power differential so clearly supports the male majority in the room. I wasn't part of that majority. I was on defense, and I was going it solo.

Let me lay it out for you.

:: The binarily gendered Priesthood power structure

:: The passive aggressive nature of the bishop's repeated question

:: The misrepresentation in advance of this meeting’s participants

:: The lack of informed consent from me for the group setting

All of those bolded bits are so normalized in LDS culture, and they act together as a tsunami to enforce conformity. Each element is seemingly innocent, as in "nothing wrong here," "oops our mistake," or "sorry, I'm required to ask this." But en masse, they can turn a destabilizing tide with the bonus effect, given their ubiquity, of isolating anyone who questions the norm.

The goal of these systematic mores, particularly toward women, is long-term deindividuation. The message: Women in this church, or at least the good women in this church, find this acceptable—why don’t you? We have all agreed that men exercise power and authority, they set the tone, they hold the meetings and the expectations.

Meanwhile, women cooperate, if they know what's good. If they want good things for themselves and their families. If they want to be good, period. And what woman (what person) doesn't want to be good?

These cultural norms, and the people who uphold them, silently declare, "Question me, and I will question your goodness, your reputability, your humanity." If you don't believe me, I invite you to imagine (literally, go ahead and picture it!) how good, reputable, or human you would feel or expect to be treated if you got up and walked out of a meeting with your full bishopric.

Fight and flight may have led me to higher ground, safe and away from that silent tsunami. But my lifetime of deindividuation was deeply rooted, and despite years of study and a good bit of therapy, I could not climb any path toward higher ground. I perhaps could have seen the path, and my gut certainly sensed the possibility of it, but I did not yet have the legs to take it.

I had been crippled by the mores and the system which kept me in the room. Here's an important point: The mores and the system exist only when perpetuated by the people in the room. Whether my bishopric upheld the social system knowingly or unknowingly, I cannot say. I do like to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Either way, I realized quickly that you cannot stop a tsunami; you can only preempt one. I had not preempted this one. My Priesthood leaders' pile of personal questions and unsought advice would now flood the room, and I was squarely in their path.

You'll recall that I had, in fact, preempted something else entirely, had spent all my prep time building boundaries and words around my next calling and my desire to possibly, potentially, maybe consider declining it. I had done everything I thought might work in an attempt to save my own goodness, reputability, and humanity while still honoring my needs and wants. I was ready at least to swim and to do so in deeper water than I had thus far traversed!

In fact, I had even planned to let the bishop know that Mel is trans. It was not a secret, and it would have to come up eventually. But it was supposed to be at the end, casually, on my way out, lobbed gently like an underhand throw, with kindness in my tone and enough patience to answer a couple of questions.

Alas. Wrong higher ground, Alyssa.

The final installment will be posted tomorrow.

The Start of the End, Prequel I

Tuesday, April 11, 2023.

The four of us filed into the small office. We sat in a parallelogram shape: Bishop at his desk, me across from him, the two counselors each taking a seat on the side walls of the office. They were perfectly triangulated; I felt perfectly trapped.

The bishop asked me, “How are you, Sister Facer?”

I cheerfully, maybe a bit nervously, responded, “Fine! How are you?”

“I’m good! I’m good.” Slow nodding.

A pause. Nobody spoke. Then the bishop, again:

“How are you, really?”

And right then, a knowing from my gut rode a lightning bolt of recognition straight up to my head: this is about Melody.

See, the back story goes like this.

Mel was soon to come out publicly, and I was busy informing everyone that we regularly interacted with that she is trans. As Relief Society secretary, I had told the RS presidency in one of our meetings already. We were friends, and they were supportive and loving and, I believe, discreet. It wasn’t a secret, but they knew not to treat this news as gossip.

On Easter Sunday, April 9, I learned that we, the presidency, would soon be released from our callings. Though I wouldn't have shared this with anyone, I was honestly glad to hear it. Brooks and I were sitting on the curb of our corner lot after church when I read that text, and my happy hands started waving at passing church traffic with a bit more enthusiasm: “Hello ward members, driving by! I am getting released, hello! I will no longer feel an obligation to connect with you and can therefore do so genuinely, hello! Happy Easter! Hello!”

Our neighbor asked if I could come over and take a picture of their little family in their Easter garb. I thought, “So cute, I am in a happy hello mood, of course, hand me your phone!” And I took advantage of the moment to also let them know Melody’s name and pronouns. They expressed support and love, and I felt relieved, plus an extra measure of gladness. The circle of who knew our biggest news had grown a bit more, and with good results. So far, so good!

The next day, Monday, I received a text message from the bishop. Something like this: “Sister Facer, would you be available to meet with Brother XXX and I tomorrow evening at 8:00?” I replied with something like this: “Sure! See you then.” And again, I felt glad to know that this releasing would be made official very soon.

I realized immediately that the bishop might extend to me a new calling invitation. Would I accept a music calling in this ward? Would I accept a primary calling? A teaching calling? Any calling? I certainly had much to consider. I got straight to work on the mental and emotional load of boundary finding, reciting, and holding before our meeting. I had never declined a calling, but I would be ready.

A quick note: I found it a little weird that I was requested to meet with both the bishop and Brother XXX for a simple calling release meeting. I also thought it strange that the bishop had texted me directly, rather than going through his executive secretary. (Honestly, if you're allowed to text me directly, release me over text, please, I beg you.) 

I did not see either of these things as strange enough for me to be concerned. I knew some women in the church dislike meeting one-on-one with men in the church. I knew some bishops monitor bits of their own schedules. Okay, whatever, it’ll be five minutes, see you then.

On Tuesday, prior to my appointment with the Bishop and Brother XXX, we ran to Target for a few things. Mel, Brooks, and I raced through the checkout line as 8:00 approached, and I knew I’d need to be dropped off at the church on our way home. I was planning to do bedtime at 7:45 but had missed my window. Before they left the church parking lot, I assured Brooks I’d be home soon to give a bedtime hug. 

The second installment will be posted tomorrow.

Book Report: Know My Name by Chanel Miller

 

It is January and I am ready to declare this memoir my “book of the year” for 2024.

Chanel Miller writes the story of her assault, court journey, and accidental (and anonymous) Buzzfeed fame after being Emily Doe in Stanford’s rape case involving Brock Turner. I will mention that Brock is a swimmer, not because he deserves the accolade of being speedy in the water but because the media’s coverage of this case in 2015 likely means that you, dear reader, are more likely to recall the events of the case if I mention his swimming than if I don’t. Chanel’s courage, truth, and nuanced understanding of the world shine like a lighthouse beacon from every page, but don’t get me wrong: this is not an “I made it and so can you” inspirational story. This is closer to “I can’t believe this shit, can you?” realism with rawness and solidarity for unnamed victims across the world, along with their families and friends (so, all of us).

Everything about the book is clearly intentional, from the font sizing and kintsugi on the cover to her acknowledgments at the end. Chanel comes to the book with an understanding of triggers and consent, walking the reader through tricky topics with compassion for the ways those topics may flare up in readers’ bodies. But she doesn’t shy away from ideas or even words which may cause discomfort, using that discomfort deliberately throughout the book to bolster any victims and to call in any non-victims. If you have not suffered assault, congratulations on bearing instead the uncomfy feelings of knowing it exists. And if you have suffered assault, congratulations on finding the balm that is Chanel’s writing.

Chanel chooses viscerally cozy imagery when dreaming about her future and builds such neat (tidy, yes, see also: cool) analogies from seemingly mundane life experiences. She’s right—emotional healing is like learning to hold a gallon of milk. Chanel employs hilarious imagery when describing miserably unfathomable court questions: “Ns and Os painted across hairy stomachs, NONONONONONO, doing the wave.” Chanel is such a person throughout this memoir, unafraid of the title of victim but also unafraid to be full of her self. She does not perfectionize her thoughts, actions, feelings, for the benefit of anyone, including herself. Chanel is Chanel; know her.

In fact, I think that’s what I loved most about the book: reading a modern memoir where someone has so clearly flown to the depths of their self, understood what is there, and come back to enlighten us as to how that is done but without prescribing platitudes is just…rare. I think every memoir is a self-help book, at least for that author’s self. The trick is that the author’s written down help of self is more helpful and therefore valuable than the average self-help book. Don’t tell me what to do; rather, tell me what you did and allow me the space to follow.

I will be purchasing a copy of this memoir. Five stars.

 

(As a helpful note: Chanel’s victim statement is printed at the back of the book. I googled the statement and read the Buzzfeed edition but would have liked to stay within the book for that content.)