Lesbian is not a word, not a state of being, not a noun, not a verb, not a clinical term, not a definition, not a gender, not a singular identity, not a pathology, not a sin, not a phase, not a fashion, not a dare, not a dream, not a show-and-tell, not a wish, not a fantasy, not a nightmare, not a condition, not a naked singularity and not a temporal anomaly.
Lesbian is her and her, and she and she, and we, and us and that’s all. The facts, fictions, sciences and pseudosciences, new ages, angels, and nutritional quacks and other gurus have agreed that the question is silly when the answer is simple: Lesbian is.
Some days are full of words that conjure light, laughter, loving. Other days no words can be coaxed or conjured out of the shell of well-hidden thoughts.
All days move into other days, moving life along. Moon to sun, dark to light. Sky, stars, sun and earth. Clouds and rainbows. Mountain. Water. Waves, Trains. Dreams. Pillows. Dust.
Everything moves. Even words. Some move easily, happily, lightly. Some fall from lips and crawl to invisible places to live another life. Other words need to be caught; to be held close and walked back home huddled up against the elements, trudging through mud and tears, words quietly parting to make space.
Some rare days, some rare words are released and held onto for dear life; a lifesaver of hope for the heart for that someone, somewhere who believes them. For the someone, somewhere who gives them power. For the someone, somewhere who takes comfort from them. Some words are forgotten. Did they ever exist? Were they sounded and heard and taken in to live?
Words for days for people. Even lesbian people. These are the (lesbian) words of today: heartbeat, silence, touch, wish, today, love.
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.