There are so many pithy quotes about being kind and compassionate and loving, and I have a confession to make:
I love them all.
It’s too easy to be cold and unforgiving and apathetic. I know; I catch myself doing it all the time. Vulnerability and weakness and caring make us–or me, at least–feel fragile. If we’ve been hurt, doubly so. I think scar tissue is as much a protection as it is a response to trauma.
These quotes deserve to be needlepointed on pillows on your grandmother’s couch. They’re greeting card stock. They’re things you wrote in your third-grade diary when that girl on your bus said something mean about your hair. And they’re true, at least for me, and sometimes they echo in my mind as a reminder that sometimes bravery is not stoicism but rather letting everything, even in the bad things, in.
Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.
Hello babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. On the outside, babies, you’ve got a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies–God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.
Kurt Vonnegut – God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater
And so on, and so on. Anyway, here’s a drabble.
INDURATIZE
(Noun: from the Latin durus, for ‘hard’)
To harden the heart against someone’s pleas or advances, or to the idea of love.
You don’t even realize that you’ve been calcified. It’s a slow, tedious process, a gradual layering that can go on eons if you let it, until you can no longer feel what lies beneath. Your heart can grow a callus as surely as your hands, but this one lurks beneath the skin, beneath the muscle, beneath the ribs.
Even so, it still beats, twitching, pulsating with life. Fractures appear. Deadness flakes off. Kissed by kindness, nurtured, pushed and fought by its owner, it changes.
Slowly, as the tides eat away at the shore, a heart made stone becomes soft again.
!["[Food] is how we care for and nourish ourselves, each other, and our communities."
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There are many terrible things about this pandemic. One of the ones I'm struggling with the most is that it's not safe for me to see friends, and therefore it's not safe for me to cook for them or eat with them. Going out for coffee or dinner is one of my favorite things to do with friends, along with cooking and playing games in person. We're staying connected as best we can, but eating chips and salsa over Discord just isn't the same as eating them together.
The Corners of Their Mouth is a queer food zine, exploring some of the relationships queer folks have with food. It begins with a question: what is the queerest food? Many answers are provided by a variety of people, including nachos, cocoa, figs, pancakes and honey, and rainbow goldfish. I think mango is my answer, but "queer food," to me, is anything cooked by or for my friends. Queer food is us gathered in the kitchen, me cussing as I screw up our Friendsgiving turkey for the sixth year in a row. Queer food is us dropping spinach dip all over my Gloom cards. Queer food is the ramen we made the last time we hung out together before the pandemic, when I was sick and we all hoped it wouldn't be the last time this year we'd get to interact in person.
But right, the zine. It's very good. The Corners of Their Mouth Press do a wonderful job of putting together thought-provoking content on queerness and living with great sensitivity. It's not just about showcasing queer life; it's about caring for it, nurturing it, letting it blossom in its own unique way. If you come upon one of their zines, pick them up, read them. They're lovely and strong things.
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#thecornersoftheirmouthpress #thecornersoftheirmouth #zine #booksofinstagram #readwhatyouown #bookstagrammerlife #booksandchill #moodreader #booknerdlife](https://melissabrinks.com/wp-content/plugins/instagram-feed/img/placeholder.png)