Dear God,

Dear God,

You might remember me.

I’ll preface this, though: I don’t understand, and I won’t understand at any point in this writing. But I see. Having floated back down to earth this year, I see.

We fell out when the Gray took over — not dramatically, or rebelliously, or even traumatically — but in a slow, hazy fade. But it might be fairer to say that I never acknowledged you properly in the first place.

I guess I was too young to consciously feel what puberty would take from me, or to consciously grasp just how good normal feels. But I suppose if I had held onto that, the loss would have been traumatic. Instead, it was its own kind of normal, the creeping kind you hear about in bad relationships. Good news on that front, by the way — estrogen and me, we broke up this year. Nothin’ fancy; we just weren’t right for each other. The folds of my bonehead little brain were driving her nuts, and we couldn’t settle down. But I digress.

God,

I see now. With the haze finally lifted out of my head, I get why some people are (were) so insufferably spiritual.

Because their minds can truly rest with you, and just exist in a space, a oneness neither full nor empty. The first time I felt that space was maybe four days into testosterone, and I still remember how utterly, strangely fantastic it was to just sit on my couch and do nothing. The churn was gone, and the compulsions to churn were gone, and there you were, I guess.

I would say that now my brain has a blissful nothingness in it, but we often think of voids as bleak, horrifying things. This is more like a weightless ether, or even an embrace. Like knowing what warmth feels like without physically feeling it. This is why some people are so insufferably, vocally spiritual.

I mean, look at me now; I wanna broadcast this nirvana all day. But I digress.

God, the really great thing about this ether of yours is that it doesn’t really seem to have a quantity. It doesn’t feel like it was ‘worth’ waiting for, because — you tricky, celestial bastard — whatever this is (or whatever you are), it feels like something completely removed from this human concept of ‘worth’.

It feels — warning: here comes that spiritual shit again — well, it feels infinite.

It’s the reasoning I try to give when I tell people that I genuinely don’t feel a sense of mourning or resentment about not figuring out this whole trans thing until nearly 30. I poke thigh, magic hormone goes to brain, magic infinity-peace-brain happens, I happy. But I digress.

God, what I actually wanted to do here was get all insightful about why bad things still happen in the world (classic, I know), and see if I could use this whole ‘at peace’ thing to finally understand. Spoiler alert: I don’t.

But I can say, at least, that your peace ether (yeah, let’s call it that…the peace ether 😂) and my newfound moments in it really do feel like they occur outside of all things good and bad.

The ether is a refuge even from this very analysis, and I take comfort that it will always be there, waiting for us. This is what those spiritual nobheads were talking about.

So, I guess the goal becomes: how can I blabber ecstatically about this gorgeous, goddamn peace ether without becoming one of those nobheads myself?

Spoiler alert: I can’t. Seems it would be utter hubris to even try. I guess that’s why it’s so goddamn annoying when people try to assign meaning or — ether forbid — some plan to the bad shit we deal with here on earth. Maybe those “God’s plan” folks, when they aren’t just outrageously lucky bastards who haven’t truly suffered a damn thing in their lives, are just fellow tasters of the ether Kool-Aid. People who forget that the infinite doesn’t come with free empathy and that, apparently, this Kool-Aid can’t be served by proxy.

So, what’s my job here?

Well, if I could hazard a guess, it’s to shut up about the good and the bad, and to shut up about plans or reasons or even (especially) the ether itself. It’s to just…be present.

To be present for others, not because they can see the ether in my eyes if they haven’t experienced it for themselves, but because I can still be an assurance that someone — something — will always be around.

That someone will listen, no strings or interpretations attached.

That someone will sit with them in an imperfect little version of the way the ether sits with me: unassuming and hopeful. Or maybe just unassuming.

That someone will provide a space that isn’t empty, at least until you get the hell back over here to fill it.