Joy

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 31 of 299 · 20 per page

• From H Is for Hawk (2014)

  In the garden, if the weather’s fine. What would be marvellous,’ she said, head tilted, ‘would be if you came along afterwards and brought your hawk. We’ve heard you’re flying her on the college grounds, and we’d love to meet her.’ She uncapped a black marker pen, wrote HELEN GOSHAWK on a whiteboard, then hesitated, turned to me. ‘Two p.m.?’ ‘Two p.m.’ She wrote the time in her elegant hand and smiled. So now the hawk eats, the conversation continues, the sun falls in pale planes on the ancient walls, the chirrups of house martins drift down from above like distant fingertips on glass, and I glory in it all. How beautiful it is here, I think, and how supremely unlikely it is that I ever got to be here at all, a state- school kid born to parents who’d never gone to university, to whom Cambridge was the mysterious haunt of toffs and spies. ‘You must be a spy,’ my father used to tell me. ‘Must be.’ He’d watched me as a child sneaking about with binoculars, hiding for hours in bushes and trees. I was the invisible girl; someone tailor-made for a secret life. ‘No, really I’m not,’ I’d say for the hundredth time. ‘I’m not!’ ‘But of course you’d say that.’ And he’d laugh delightedly, because there was no way I could persuade him otherwise. ‘It’s a job, Dad,’ I’d say, rolling my eyes. ‘I teach people English and the History of Science. I sit in a library, read books, do my research. That’s all it is. I’m not something out of a John le Carré novel.’ ‘But you could be,’ he’d say, stressing the could, and part of him not joking at all. My father had revelled in the thought that I might be a spy, for it was a life he understood, being only a hair’s breadth from his own. One day he’d handed me a miniature silver camera. ‘It takes special film,’ he said gleefully, flipping open the back and showing me where the miniature spool fitted in its matchbox-sized casing. Over the years he’d rigged up infra-red light-beams to photograph nocturnal wildlife, staked out the love-nests of cabinet ministers, tracked and photographed the movements of nuclear waste on secret midnight trains, climbed over fences, sneaked cameras into places he, and they, should not have been. Patience, detection, subterfuge and record. What historians did for a living was far more mysterious to him than the work of spies. My vision blurs. We carry the lives we’ve imagined as we carry the lives we have, and sometimes a reckoning comes of all of the lives we have lost. The summer lunch recedes. I cannot pull it back. Fog seeps in from the rugby pitch where Prideaux strode. Slow, white breaths.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  There was no one in that house, it seemed, who had not some link with the profession. Even plain little Minnie - the eighth member of our party, the girl who had brought us tea on our arrival and had returned now to help Mrs Dendy dish and serve and clear the plates - even she belonged to a ballet troupe, and had a contract at a concert hall in Lambeth. Why, even the dog, Bransby, which soon nosed its way into the parlour to beg for scraps, and to lean his slavering jaw against Professor Emery’s knee - even he was an old artiste, and had once toured the South Coast in a dancing dog act, and had a stage name: ‘Archie’.It was a Sunday night, and nobody had a hall to rush to after supper; no one seemed to have anything to do, indeed, except sit and smoke and gossip. At seven o‘clock there was a knock upon the door, and a girl came halloo-ing her way into the house with a dress of tulle and satin and a gilt tiara: she was a friend of Tootsie’s from the ballet at the Pav come to ask Mrs Dendy’s opinion of her costume. While the frock was spread out on the parlour rug, the supper-things were carried off; and when the table was cleared the Professor sat at it and spread a deck of cards. Percy joined him, whistling; his tune was taken up by Sims, who raised the lid of Mrs Dendy’s piano and began to strike the melody out on that. The piano was a terrible one - ‘Damn this cheesy old thing!’ cried Sims as he hit at it. ‘You could play Wagner on it, and I swear it would come out sounding like a sea-shanty or a jig!’ - but the tune was gay and it made Kitty smile.‘I know this,’ she said to me; and since she knew it she couldn’t help but sing it, and had soon stepped over the sparkling frock upon the floor to lift her voice for the chorus at Sims’s side.I sat on the sofa with Bransby, and wrote a postcard to my family. ‘I am in the queerest-looking parlour you ever saw,’ I wrote, ‘and everybody is extremely kind. There is a dog here with a stage-name!

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I am the Queen of Carefulness. I shall go on being careful for ever, if you like - so long as I might be a bit reckless, sometimes, when we are quite alone.’Her smile, when she gave it, was a little distracted. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘things have not changed, so very much.’But I knew that everything had changed - everything. At length I rose too, and washed and dressed and used the chamber-pot, while Kitty went downstairs. She came back with a tray of tea and toast - ‘I could hardly look Ma Dendy in the eye!’ she said, all shy and red again - and we had our breakfast in our own parlour, before the fire, kissing the crumbs and butter from one another’s lips.There was a hamper of suits beneath the window, that we had had sent over from a costumier’s and not yet properly examined; and now, as we waited for Walter, Kitty began rather idly to sort through it. She pulled out a black tail-coat, very fine. ‘Look at this!’ she said. She slipped it on over her dress, and did a stiff little dance; then she began, very lightly, to sing.‘In a house, in a square, in a quadrant,’ she sang, ‘In a street, in a lane, in a road; Turn to the left, on the right hand, You see there my true love’s abode.’I smiled. This was an old song of George Leybourne’s: everyone had used to whistle it in the ’seventies, and I had even once seen it sung by Leybourne himself, at the Canterbury Palace. It was a silly, nonsensical, but rather infectious kind of song, and Kitty sang it all the sweeter for singing it so softly and carelessly.‘I go there a courting and cooing, To my love, like a dove. And swearing on my bended knee, If ever I cease to love, May sheep’s heads grow on apple trees, If ever I cease to love.’I listened for a while, then raised my voice with hers for the chorus:‘If ever I cease to love, If ever I cease to love, May the moon be turned into green cheese, If ever I cease to love.’We laughed, then sang louder. I found a hat in the hamper, and tossed it to Kitty, then pulled out a jacket and a boater for myself, and a walking-cane. I linked my arm with hers, and imitated her dance. The song grew sillier.‘For all the money that’s in the bank, For the title of lord or duke, I wouldn’t exchange the girl I love, There’s bliss in every look.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  When had I started smoking? I couldn’t remember. I had grown so used to holding Kitty’s fag for her while she changed suits, that gradually I had taken up the habit myself. I smoked so often, now, that half my fingers - which, four months before, had been permanently pink and puckered, from so many dippings in the oyster-tub - were now stained yellow as mustard at the tips.The musician - I believe he played the cornet - took a small, insinuating step my way. ‘Are you a friend of the manager’s, or what?’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you in the hall before.’I laughed. ‘Yes you have. I’m Nancy, Kitty Butler’s dresser.’He raised his eyebrows, and leaned away to look me up and down. ‘Well! and so you are. I thought you was just a kid. But here, just now, I took you for an actress, or a dancer.’I smiled, and shook my head. There was a pause while he sipped at his glass and wiped at his moustache. ‘I bet you dance a treat, though, don’t you?’ he said then. ‘How about it?’ He nodded to the crush of waltzing couples at the back of the stage.‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t. I’ve had too much cham.’He laughed: ‘All the better!’ He put his drink aside, gripped his cigarette between his lips, then put his hands on my waist and lifted me up. I gave a shriek; he began to turn and dip, in a clownish approximation of a waltz-step. The louder I laughed and shrieked, the faster he turned me. A dozen people looked our way, and smiled and clapped.At last he stumbled and almost fell, then put me down with a thump. ‘Now,’ he said breathlessly, ‘tell me I ain’t a marvellous dancer.’‘You ain’t,’ I said. ‘You’ve made me giddy as a fish, and’ - I felt at the front of my dress - ‘you have spoiled my sash!’‘I’ll fix that for you,’ he said, reaching for my waist again. I gave a yelp, and stepped out of his grasp.‘No you won’t! You can push off and leave me in peace.’ Now he seized me, and tickled me so that I giggled. Being tickled always makes me laugh, however little I care for the tickler; but after several more minutes of this kind of thing he at last gave up on me, and went back to his pals in the band.I ran my hands over my sash again. I feared he really had spoiled it, but couldn’t see well enough to be sure. I finished my drink with a gulp - it was, I suppose, my sixth or seventh glass - and slipped from the stage.

• From Get Out of Your Head: Stopping the Cycle of Anxious Thoughts (2020)

  Whatever God says to do, we do. That’s what Paul knew: “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus.”15 Scripture is clear that Jesus “came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”16 And there is no greater demonstration of this truth than Jesus humbling Himself, leaving heaven to come to earth in the form of a vulnerable baby, suffering unjust accusations, and enduring death on a Roman cross. The race that was set before Jesus involved emptying Himself, taking on the past and present and future sin of all humankind, and spending three days in a tomb. And yet. You remember what Hebrews 12 makes clear: He did all these things, never once losing touch with joy. “For the joy set before him,” says verse 2, “he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God” (NIV ). Jesus knew that His race centered on a mission that was big. He knew that His race would take Him right to the cross. But here is something else He knew: fulfilling the mission God had asked Him to fulfill was the best possible use of His life, so He chose it. “For the joy set before him.” That joy is real, and it is coming for us too. We have a future and a hope in Christ. We are set free to serve so our lives will point all people to the joy we have now and the joy that is to come . I can’t think of a better way to live. [image "Part Three: Thinking as Jesus Thinks" file=Image00052.jpg] 15 Who Do You Think You Are? My oldest kid went to college this year, and as any dedicated mother would, I tried to cram every last lesson into his precious mind in the final weeks before he moved out. Here is the essence of my final speech, delivered to Conner there in the front seat of my car: “Son, you are light. I know this because I have seen God in you. I have seen you go from a selfish punk kid to a young man who responds to conviction, a young man who hears from and responds to God. You love people. You put others’ interests ahead of your own.

• From A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (BDB) (1907)

  + 1. TENT n.f. canopy, chamber (as cover- ing, enclosing) —abs.’ n Is 4°; sf. INBO y 19%; AMEN Jo 2% ;—1. canopy, עלדבל-כבוד ח'‎ Is 4° | over all glory a canopy (for protection). 2. chamber, of bridegroom ו‎ 19° (metaph. of sun rising); of bride Jo 2% (|| 130 of bridegroom). MET n.pr.m. 1 Ch 24" priest of 13th‏ .זנ course, 695 4.‏ 1 דזפים‎ n.pr.m. a son of Benjamin Gn 467! (G Odile 2 Ope), descendant of Benjamin 1 Ch 7° (G Audhew, Apher, GL Odep), and so / pan ys; ,ץ‎ DDN, an, as,‏ ,חפף (NH yan; Aram.‏ חפ all rub, cleanse, esp. the head).‏ זף אני sa‏ פשע חַף Tan adj. clean—only‏ Jb 33° I am pure, without: transgression,‏ שָכבי I am clean (in speech of Elihu).‏ tyan vb. delight in (cf. Ar. as be mindful of, attentive to, keep, protect, Aram. $2 whence eu ¢ eager, zealous, Ar. 5 anger (excitement), 125! enrage (Aram. and Ax. of excited attention, Heb. of delighted atten- tion), D1?" כ אך‎ 26 196.75: NH חפץ‎ weakened to thing, v. De®", Ph. in n.pr. (חפצבעל‎ ;- - Qal Pf. ח'"‎ Gn34%+ 28 כו‎ 1. NYDN 1566"; 2m, +*%21%כ חָפַצְתָּ‎ 4 t.; YBN Jb wae etc., +14 t. PE; Impf YT Dt 29+ t.5 PEM ש‎ 37" 147%; pl. BN) Is 13% Je 6; EM y 68%; PYBM 15 587° ete.+9t. Impf.; Inf. abs. yan Ez 18"; on Pt. YO = adj. verb., v. infr.;—1. of men: a. take pleasure in, delight in, 6. 3, ₪ woman Gn 34" (J), Dt 21% Est 2%; a man 18 18" 19! 2 5 20"; in matters and things 2 ₪ 24° Is 13” 66° 166% 109" 112° 519” Pr ies Est 6°79; ¢. acc. 68" Is 58? Ec 8°; implic. obj. ץ‎ 73”. b. delight, desire, be pleased to do a thing, would do it Dt 257* 1 K 9’ Est 6° Ru © 38 ש‎ 40° Jb g® 13° 21 33” Is 58? Je 42%, c. abs. PEAY עד‎ wntil it please (of love) Ct 27 3° | 5% 2. of God: a. delight in, have pleasure in, c. 3, persons Nu 14° (J), 2S 15% 22% = Vy 18%, 1 K 10°= 2 Cho’, ץש‎ 229 41” Is 624; | not in the strength of a horse y147"; in doing evil Mal2”; in the death 01 the sinner 13218" 33"; but in mercy, justice, and righteousness 26 95; בחר באשר (לא) חפצתי‎ Is 564 65” 66%; not with (acc.) the blood of bullocks [81% זבח(ים)‎ y 40% 51'S", or the death of the sinner | Ez 18"; but with ton Ho 6° 211 7% nox a ——_ x. "שיש

• From A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (BDB) (1907)

  grass (NH id., As. digu,‏ 7" , בוד. בב רשאז fresh shoots‏ התא herb, Lyon Sreontexte 9. Sab.‏ DHM2¢ "0.5" — springiime ClS" =. Aram.‏ Nok (cf. Lag**™®))—"7 abs. Gn 1" + 13t.‏ דְּתְאֶה ace. cogn. SYA Gn 1"; ef. v” (in both, pro-‏ duced by earth); springing out of earth 28 23°;‏ of a second crop of grass Pr 27” (opp. V3);‏ לְהַצְמִיחַ מצָא דשא caused to spring forth by God‏ Jb 38%; refreshed by rain Dt 327; “7 nix}‏ as food of wild ass Jb 6°; as failing‏ ;23° שי (withered) Is 15°; lacking for animals Je 14°;‏ (עשב 71¥ ||( 1% sim. of weakness 2 K‏ וירק דּשָא =Is 37”; of transitoriness (withering) 37°‏ of growth and prosperity, Is 66™.‏ ; (יָרֶק 7‘( vb. be fat, grow fat (Ar. os‏ דשןז make Jat,‏ הר שן whence also 2.25 grease, fat; NH‏ fat)—Qal Pf. 3 ms. {¥7) consec.‏ דָּשָן cf. NH‏ Dt317(JE)fig. ofIsr.’sprosperity. Pi, PfNIW7]‏ DWT consec. Nu 4"; Impf:: maw‏ ;23° ש volunt. (cf. Ges'** De; but perh. rd. sf.‏ 20% ץש "מז Ki 008""(; 3 fs. JW) Pr‏ .ד -נָה ,-נָהָ ד' בשמן Ex 27°—causat. make fat‏ לרשנו Inf.‏ anoint, symbol of festivity and joy‏ .1.6 ראשי Pr1r5* of bodily effect of good‏ ד' OXY‏ ;23° ש Jind a burnt-offering fat=accept-‏ ד'עולה news;‏ able y 20‘; elsewhere denom. fr. JY1 (fat‏ ashes) ;—take away, clear away the fat ashes‏ סירות לדשנו (ace. of altar cleared) Nu 4% (P), so‏ (P). Pu. Jmpf. 11) Pr 28” Is 347;‏ 27% א Pr r1® 13*—pass. of causat. Pi. be‏ תֶרְשָן .5 3 made fat, of dust saturated abn Is 347; fig.‏ of prosperity of the liberal Pr11™, the diligent‏ הֶרִּשָנָה the trustful 28%. Hothp. Pf 3 fs.‏ 3% ז (cf. O15?" Ges$**) Is 3 4% of Yahweh’s sword :—‏ it hath fattened itself 29) (|| DI TN).‏ tT דשן‎ n.m. fatness, fat ashes—abs.’7 y 63° +8 t., wa Ly 1°43 t.; estr. wy W 36°; sf. wa Ju ge ae fatness, abundance, luxuriance, oil, Ju 9° (of olive tree); abundance, fertility ה 206 63° (in simile || 229), 65", of food and drink, Jb 36" Je31"; passing over into fig. of spiritual blessing 36' ,(ד' ביתך)‎ Is557%. 2. fat ashes, 1.0. ashes of victims, mixed with the fat Ly r™® 4°? 634 (all P) Jegr*is Kaueas: T HW adj. fat, YI Is 30% (|| 12), of DDD as product of ground; fig. of righteous as trees DIY (רעננים ||( 92% ש‎ fat, full of oil )1( or sap (Che; cf. ("1 Ju 9°); as subst. vigorous, stal- wart ones (opp. BY "TW cf. Che) ץש‎ 22% 7207 ys (Briill 220, Renan Hist: ii. 134 .(ישבי‎

• From A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (BDB) (1907)

  Gn 17" (P), 2 (JE), 1K 12" Est 6°‏ אמר בלב+ "134 "כב Ee2!*‏ 748 שה )5( re‏ סנ דבר בלבץ ;18.27% (8*)1 Gn‏ אָלדלב 15% Ob? Ze‏ by rss” (1);‏ לב Gn 24° (J);‏ אֶלדלב 2 He‏ YU? SVBTOND y 36%‏ 3293 בי py Ec x™;‏ לב TWD stay the heart‏ לב as seat of appetites,‏ .8 (with bread) Gn 18° (J) Ju rg’. 9. as seat‏ of the emotions and passions: a. of joy and‏ Ju‏ ,טוב+ gladness, in various combinations of‏ Raz 128% 2519 2 hee‏ "19° 18% ~£6 "ל 20h) 241 Esti” ₪ Pr ig” Ee‏ Ex4™‏ ,שמח + Is 65**; various combinations of‏ Pr‏ ”33 19° 16° 4° ץ )105% (J) 1 Ch 16° (=y‏ p72 27931 Ee 210 55 (it 21 15 247 Zero’:‏ 1539 *28ץ עלז 1S2!;‏ עלץ ;5 15661.8 "119 + שוש of‏ 10 26 24% יבנ ש ניל :20% Zp 3%; jm Jb‏ speak unto the‏ דבר על FA?‏ ;377 21° ש desire,‏ heart (kindly) Gn 34° 507 (JE) Ju 19° 2S 19°‏ Ch 30” Is +0" Ho 2% Ru2™. | 0. of trouble‏ 2 Is65™, sorrow Ne 2" Pri4*, pain 755°,‏ "6 16 2 vexation Ec 11”, trembling Dt 28%)1( 1S 28°,‏ faintness La 5"; 15 is wounded + 109™, dies‏ לב נמס+ within one out of fear 1$ 25% ete.;‏ the heart melteth (in fear) 2517 22 Ez21”‏ "Na 2". +10. seat of courage: לְבּךְ‎ POS let thine heart take courage 27; 125 אמיץ‎ Am 2"; ab ‘YAN stout-hearted ו‎ 76° Is 46°; JBN WD לבו יצוק‎ his heart as Jirm as a stone Jb 41°; WIND a3 לבו‎ his heart as the heart of the lion 25 "ד‎ T [725] sf. qnad Ez ד‎ 6" should be corrected to לְבְרִיתַךּ‎ (see Co). >older view, as fem. of לב‎ for‏ ) ששף ab prob. late Atbash (cf.‏ קמי the original reading (G) Je 517.‏ כשדים vb. denom. Wiph. Jmpf 225°‏ | לבב] ן יש 332 )339 get a mind; 723) DIS NIB Wy‏ shall an empty man get a mind or a wild ass’s‏ colt be born a man? Jb11"*. Pi. encourage;‏ Wry Sosa wd... . med ce‏ 2 thou hast encouraged me, thou hast encouraged‏ me with one of thine eyes Ew Gi Gr RVm (AV‏ RV Ges Hi De Ot (ef. 5°) ravished my heart,— \‏ Pi. priv. Ges").‏ + [7225] n.pl. cakes (prob. pancakes, from shape ?) לְבְבוּת‎ 2 fu. [לבב‎ vb. denom. Pi. make cakes. עו‎ 2297 2 8 13°. sab לבד‎ alone v. 13 sub בדד‎ p. 94 supr. [725], nad Ex 3? v. ma79 sub .להב‎ (2 ?[ vb. thrust down, out, or away (NH cd. ; Ar. 13) strike the ground with a on 80, 6. ‘eo one down; Syr. Pa. par in citavit, stimulavit); ו‎ Impf. be hist down, away, i.e. ruined ; pads pay xd DY Ho 4"; baby oynay ys Pr 10% .לבא maby, sub‏ ביא לבל Da.‏ + לבים

• From H Is for Hawk (2014)

  The American writer and ecologist Aldo Leopold once wrote that falconry was a balancing act between wild and tame – not just in the hawk, but inside the heart and mind of the falconer. That is why he considered it the perfect hobby. I am starting to see the balance is righting, now, and the distance between Mabel and me increasing. I see, too, that her world and my world are not the same, and some part of me is amazed that I ever thought they were. Then I find myself doing something surprising. I raise Mabel’s weight even more and let her range more widely when she flies. This is terrible falconry. ‘Never let a goshawk self-hunt,’ say the books. ‘Such independence is the fastest way to lose your hawk.’ I know I shouldn’t slip her unless there’s quarry, right there, in front of her. But how can I resist this method of hawking? Today I walked up to the crest of a hill on a freezing, smoky afternoon, the whole Cambridgeshire countryside laid out in front in woods and fields and copses beneath us, all bosky and bright with golden sunshine, and I can see that what Mabel wants to do is launch a prospecting attack on the hedgerow over the rise. I let her go. Her tactical sense is magnificent. She drops from the fist, and sets off, no higher than a hand’s width above the ground, using every inch of the undulating relief as cover, gathering speed until the frosty stubble winks and flashes under her, and she curves over the top of the hill. Then she sets her wings and glides, using gravity and momentum to race downhill, flash up over the top of the hedge in a sudden flowering of cream and white, a good hundred yards away, and then continue down the hedge’s far side, invisible to me. I’m running, all this time, my feet caked with mud, feeling earthbound but transported at the same time. I find her in the hedge bottom, holding onto a rabbit. ‘Mabel,’ I say, ‘you are behaving like a wild hawk. Shocking.’ This is nerve-racking falconry, but a wonderful thing. I am testing the lines between us that the old falconers would have called love. They have not broken; they do not look likely to break. Maybe they will. I raise her weight even more, and slowly the world widens. But I’m pushing my luck, and I know it.

• From Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance (1995)

  Then again, maybe that’s not all that the waiter is feeling. Maybe a part of him still clings to the stories of Mau-Mau, the same part of him that remembers the hush of a village night or the sound of his mother grinding corn under a stone pallet. Something in him still says that the white man’s ways are not his ways, that the objects he may use every day are not of his making. He remembers a time, a way of imagining himself, that he leaves only at his peril. He can’t escape the grip of his memories. And so he straddles two worlds, uncertain in each, always off balance, playing whichever game staves off the bottomless poverty, careful to let his anger vent itself only on those in the same condition. A voice says to him yes, changes have come, the old ways lie broken, and you must find a way as fast as you can to feed your belly and stop the white man from laughing at you. A voice says no, you will sooner burn the earth to the ground. That evening, we drove east to Kariako, a sprawling apartment complex surrounded by dirt lots. The moon had dropped behind thick clouds, and light drizzle had begun to fall. As we climbed the dark stairwell, a young man bounded past us onto the broken pavement and into the night. At the top of three flights, Auma pushed against a door that was slightly ajar. “Barry! You’ve finally come!” A short, stocky woman with a cheerful brown face gave me a tight squeeze around the waist. Behind her were fifteen or so people, all of them smiling and waving like a crowd at a parade. The short woman looked up at me and frowned. “You don’t remember me, do you?” “I …” “I’m your Aunt Jane. It is me that called you when your father died.” She smiled and took me by the hand. “Come. You must meet everybody here. Zeituni you have already met. This …” she said, leading me to a handsome older woman in a green patterned dress, “this is my sister, Kezia. She is mother to Auma and to Roy Obama.” Kezia took my hand and said my name together with a few words of Swahili. “She says her other son has finally come home,” Jane said. “My son,” Kezia repeated in English, nodding and pulling me into a hug. “My son has come home.” We continued around the room, shaking hands with aunts, cousins, nephews, and nieces. Everyone greeted me with cheerful curiosity but very little awkwardness, as if meeting a relative for the first time was an everyday occurrence. I had brought a bag of chocolates for the children, and they gathered around me with polite stares as the adults tried to explain who I was. I noticed a young man, sixteen or seventeen, standing against the wall with a watchful expression.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Anyone with half an eye could see that my heart lay all with Kitty Butler now; anyone might guess that, having once been offered the chance of a future at her side, and kept from it, I could never return to my father’s kitchen and be happy there, as I had been before.So when, an hour or so after Kitty’s departure, I nervously put her plan before my parents, and argued and pleaded for their blessing, they listened to me wonderingly, but carefully; and when, the next day, Father stopped me on my way down to the kitchen to draw me into the parlour where it was quiet and still, his face was sad and serious, but kind. He asked me, first, whether I had not changed my mind? I shook my head, and he sighed. He said, if I was quite decided, then Mother and he could not keep me; that I was a grown-up woman, almost, and should be allowed to know my own mind; that they had thought to see me marry a Whitstable boy, and settle close at hand, and so have a share in my little happinesses and troubles - but that now, he supposed, I would go and hitch up with some London fellow, who wouldn’t understand their ways at all.But children, he concluded, weren’t made to please their parents; and no father should expect to have his daughter at his side for ever... ‘In short, Nance, even was you going to the very devil himself, your mother and I would rather see you fly from us in joy, than stay with us in sorrow - and grow, maybe, to hate us, for keeping you from your fate.’ I had never known him so grave before, nor so eloquent. I had never seen him weep either; but now as he spoke his eyes glistened, and he blinked, twice or thrice, to hold the tears back, and his voice grew thin. I placed my head against his shoulder and let my own tears rise and spill. He put an arm about me, and patted me. ‘It breaks our hearts to lose you, dear,’ he went on. ‘You know it does. Only promise us that you won’t forget us, quite. That you’ll write to us, and visit us. And that, if things don’t turn out as you might, quite, wish them, you won’t be too proud to come home to those that love you -’ Here his voice failed utterly, and he shuddered; and I could only nod against his neck and say, ‘I will, I will; I promise you, I will.’But oh! hard-hearted daughter that I was, when he had left me my tears dried at once, and I felt the return of all my gladness of the night before. I hugged myself in pleasure, and danced a jig around the parlour - but delicately, on tiptoe, so that they wouldn’t hear me in the dining-room below.

• From H Is for Hawk (2014)

  She turns, and Mabel bursts towards me, dragging the creance behind her, flying so low her wing-tips almost brush the turf. With each deep wingbeat her body flexes and swings but her eyes and head are perfectly, gyroscopically, still, fixed and focused on my glove. The silvered undersides of her wings flash as she spreads them wide, her tail flares, she brings her feet up to strike and she hits the glove feet-first like a kickboxer . ‘Was that OK?’ shouts Christina. I give her a thumbs-up, and she responds the same way: for a moment we are two traffic controllers on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier . We do it again. And again. The next day brings heavy rain so we fly her loose between us in the front room of my house, back and forth from fist to fist, over the rug, past the mirror , under the light, wings sending up draughts that leave the lampshade swinging wildly. By the fourth day the hawk is flying twenty-five yards to me, will come without hesitation from the ground, from Christina’s fist, from tree branches, from the roof of the pavilion. ‘Thank you so much for your help,’ I tell her as we walk from the field . ‘You know, I think we’re nearly there. Once she flies a full fifty yards I’ll let her loose.’ The thought brings a squirmy, high-pitched joy. I mustn’t rush. I cannot wait . I had called so many hawks before, but calling Mabel was different. I stood there, raised my arm, and whistled the whistle that meant, Please come. This is where you want to be. Fly to me. Ignore the towering clouds, the wind that pushes the trees behind you. Fix yourself on me and fly between where you are and where I am . And I’d hear my heart beating. And I’d see the hawk crouch and fly. I’d see her drop from the perch, speed towards me, and my heart would be in my mouth. Though she was still on the creance, I feared the faltering. I feared the veering off, the sudden fright, the hawk flying away. But the beating wings brought her straight to me, and the thump of her gripping talons on the glove was a miracle. It was always a miracle. I choose to be here , it meant. I eschew the air, the woods, the fields . There was nothing that was such a salve to my grieving heart as the hawk returning.

• From Pleasure Activism (2017)

  Jodie. I’ve learned I love pleasure and can notice what pleasures me and create it. Adrienne is a pleasure extrovert and Dani is a pleasure introvert. They both have pleasure superpowers. And I think I vacillate somewhere between them. We celebrate each other’s pleasure. Adrienne is so good at naming all of the things to strive for. She gives me stretch goals. I’ve learned to create spaces that bring me infinite pleasure. I love my apartment. I created a collection of little tiny antique frames with all of the people I most love in them, and they are all around the house. There is currently a picture of us woes in Vancouver making our woe sign being transposed onto a six-by-six piece of wood that’s going to go in all our houses. It will be in my bedroom. And this super sweet precious little glass antique frame that has a pic of Bel in it. They are in my bedroom. At the foot of my bed, by the window, with all of the precious things. I get to see them when I first wake up. That is so much pleasure. The woes vibranium mugs arrive this week. It gives me great pleasure to imagine sipping tea apart but together. I feel like my woes taught me to live, love, travel well. Dani. Our relationships have deepened my appreciation of the set and setting approach to pleasure. I think it’s typically used with regard to drug use, but for me it has a broader application. My ability to take risks, stop worrying, relax, enjoy, and accept pleasure is connected to whether I feel safe in and trust the environment (setting) and whether I’m in a good state of mind (mind-set) that will allow me to embrace whatever’s going on. Because I trust you two and, because I know that our spidey senses are pretty much aligned, we often create ideal environments wherever we go—in each other’s homes, on vacation, whatever. And, again, because we’re aligned and I don’t have a ton of defenses up or concerns rolling through my head when we’re together, my mind-set tends to be really positive when I’m around you both. Our relationships have reminded me to prioritize pleasure, even when I don’t feel like I have time for it or necessarily “deserve” it. You two remind me that my pleasure matters.

• From Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance (1995)

  I jerked up in a sweat, hitting my head against the wall lamp that stuck out above the bunk. In the darkness, my heart slowly evened itself, but I couldn’t get back to sleep again. We arrived in Kisumu at daybreak and walked the half mile to the bus depot. It was crowded with buses and matatus honking and jockeying for space in the dusty open-air lot, their fenders painted with names like “Love Bandit” and “Bush Baby.” We found a sad-looking vehicle with balding, cracked tires that was heading our way. Auma boarded first, then stepped back out, looking morose. “There are no seats,” she said. “Don’t worry,” Roy said as our bags were hoisted up by a series of hands to the roof of the bus. “This is Africa, Auma … not Europe.” He turned and smiled down at the young man who was collecting fares. “You can find us some seats, eh, brother?” The man nodded. “No problem. This bus is first-class.” An hour later Auma was sitting on my lap, along with a basket of yams and somebody else’s baby girl. “I wonder what third-class looks like,” I said, wiping a strand of spittle off my hand. Auma pushed a strange elbow out of her face. “You won’t be joking after we hit the first pothole.” Fortunately, the highway was well paved, the landscape mostly dry bush and low hills, the occasional cinder-block house soon replaced by mud huts with thatched, conical roofs. We got off in Ndori and spent the next two hours sipping on warm sodas and watching stray dogs snap at each other in the dust, until a matatu finally appeared to take us over the dirt road heading north. As we drove up the rocky incline a few shoeless children waved but did not smile, and a herd of goats ran before us, to drink at a narrow stream. Then the road widened and we finally stopped at a clearing. Two young men were sitting there, under the shade of a tree, and their faces broke into smiles as they saw us. Roy jumped out of the matatu to gather the two men into his arms. “Barack,” Roy said happily, “these are our uncles. This is Yusuf,” he said, pointing to the slightly built man with a mustache. “And this,” he said, pointing to the larger, clean-shaven man, “this is our father’s youngest brother, Sayid.” “Ah, we have heard many great things about this one,” Sayid said, smiling at me. “Welcome, Barry. Welcome. Come, let me have your bags.”

• From The Four Vision Quests of Jesus (2015)

  At first I just sat in my chair, reading over the Wilderness story, recognizing in it all of the classic elements of a Native American vision quest. Matthew presents Jesus as going out to a lonely place to make his vision quest. He is going in the spirit of lament, open to being tested and tempted in his weakness as a human being. Jesus sees several powerful visions. He is offered the chance to make these visions about himself, but he stays focused on the good medicine and understands the true power of his vision to heal others. Like any Native person undertaking a vision quest, he is even attended by others who support him. In his case, they were angels who are the spirit helpers so familiar to Native American tradition. The voice was right: I could read Matthew 4: 1–11 as a Native American vision quest. I did not have to stretch theologically to do so. I did not have to diminish or dismiss any parts of Native tradition to make the story work for me. In fact, by reading the Wilderness account in its Native context, I could discover whole new ways to appreciate it and let it become a source of blessing. I remember the sense of peace that came to me that afternoon. I remember feeling thankful to God for helping me to bring my quest to a close with this wonderful revelation. But the experience was not over all at once. The voice had said “the first vision quest.” How many more were there? What else could I discover in the gospels if I kept reading? The vision quest is not a substitute for life. It is not a one-time other-worldly experience that somehow separates the seeker from reality. In the Native tradition, it is very much a part of everyday life. The voice of God speaks about the good medicine that will heal people in their everyday lives and that will keep on healing them for generations to come. The vision of God shows us how to make our lives better, how to bring the sacred down to earth, how to transform our reality, not escape it. I knew that if the voice had told me that there were more things to discover I should keep going. A Native American vision quest is not a static thing. It is a journey within a journey. Like a spiral, the visions God grants revolve one into another, insight building on insight, strength going to strength. If God had brought me to this point where Matthew’s gospel was beginning to open up to me in a new way, then there must be a reason. I kept reading. I read the entire gospel straight through. I found the second vision quest. Then the third. Then the fourth and final vision quest.

• From Pleasure Activism (2017)

  I am having a sexual liberation moment. I am really living the dream. I know these hookup apps are full of all kinds of the -isms, but they are allowing me to come out safely as trans and craft the experience that I want. I am able to say who I am, what I like, what I want, and what I won’t tolerate. I am able to pick and choose between potential lovers. I am able to get to know them enough before meeting in person in order to decide if it’s safe and worth my time. I definitely realize that I’m able to have these rich experiences because of the privileges of my height, body composition, relatively light skin, middle-class status, being able-bodied, and my geographic location in a major queer and trans metropolis. But I still can’t figure out what to do with these privileges or, rather, how to be responsible with them. January 2016 Are you there, goD? It’s me, Day. I’ve been on T for a year now, and I’m feeling really good about the decision to not try anymore to carry a child. I am looking forward to looking into adoption! I also think it’s time to shift things in my dating life a bit. I’ve mostly had amazing, safe, and liberating experiences. But now I’ve learned some nuances and safety tips that have me wanting to pull back from anonymous sex for a while. A Transmasculine Guide to Navigating Hookup Apps Just because a guy is open to kicking it with a transman and isn’t blatantly transphobic, doesn’t mean he necessarily appreciates trans bodies. There is a boundary between being interested in someone versus holding someone as a curiosity, an item to be poked, prodded, and explored. Gross. Just because a guy is open to kicking it with a transman and doesn’t see the transguy as a human Rubik’s Cube (as in the previous example), he may still only be committed to his own pleasure and not also that of the transman. Cis dick-centrism is so real. I need to really, really, really explain that being polyamorous does not make me confused or greedy,32 and that having a primary partner who is a woman does not in fact mean that I’m on the down-low. I can’t assume that just because my profile states this or I mention it that it will necessarily be understood or believed (or even read). When speaking to these hookups about my primary partner, I’ve been encouraged on numerous occasions to find the courage to tell my partner the truth about my sexuality and to come out of the closet. Girl, boo. I’m as queer as a three-dollar bill.

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  They evoked the heroic days in the Punjab, when men had proved their valor and virility by braving the untamed forest. Many saw the bhiksu as a new kind of pioneer. 78 When a famous renouncer came to town, people of all classes flocked to listen to him. Perhaps the most important martial ritual revised by the renouncers was yoga, which became the hallmark of renouncer spirituality. Originally, as we have seen, the term had referred to the tethering of the draft animals to the war chariots before a raid; now it became a contemplative discipline that “yoked” the yogin’s mental powers in a raid on the unconscious impulses ( vrittis ) of passion, egotism, hatred, and greed that had fueled the warrior ethos and were so deeply entrenched in the psyche that they could be extirpated only by sheer mental force. Yoga may have been rooted in the indigenous traditions of India, but by the sixth century BCE it had become central to the Aryan spiritual landscape. A systematic assault on the ego, it expunged the “I” from the yogin’s mind, nullifying the warrior’s proud self-assertion: “I am the mightiest! I am supreme!” The ancient warriors of the Punjab had been like the devas, perpetually on the move and constantly engaged in martial activity. Now the new man of yoga sat for hours in one place, holding himself in such unnatural stillness that he seemed more like a statue or a plant than a human being. If he persevered, a skilled yogin had intimations of a final liberation ( moksha ) from the confines of egotism that bore no relation to ordinary experience. Before he was allowed even to sit in the yogic position, an aspirant had to complete an arduous ethical program, observing five “prohibitions” ( yamas ). 79 The first of these was ahimsa, nonviolence: not only was he forbidden to kill or injure another creature, but he could not even speak unkindly or make an irritable gesture. Second, he was forbidden to steal: instead of seizing other people’s property like the raiders, the yogin had to cultivate an indifference to material possessions. Lying was also prohibited. Truth-telling had always been central to the Aryan warrior ethos, but the exigencies of war had occasionally forced even Indra into deceit; the aspirant, however, was not permitted to be economical with the truth, even to save his own life. He also abstained from sex and intoxicating substances that could enervate the mental and physical energies that he would need in this spiritual expedition. Finally, he must study the teaching ( dharma ) of his guru and cultivate habitual serenity, behaving kindly and courteously to everybody without exception. This was an initiation into a new way of being human, one that eschewed the greed, self-preoccupation, and aggression of the warrior. By dint of practice, these ethical disciplines would become second nature to the yogin, and when that happened, the texts explained, he would experience “indescribable joy.”

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  The prospect of killing may stir our empathy, but in the very acts of hunting, raiding, and battling, this same seat of emotions is awash in serotonin, the neurotransmitter responsible for the sensation of ecstasy that we associate with some forms of spiritual experience. So it happened that these violent pursuits came to be perceived as sacred activities, however bizarre that may seem to our understanding of religion. People, especially men, experienced a strong bond with their fellow warriors, a heady feeling of altruism at putting their lives at risk for others and of being more fully alive. This response to violence persists in our nature. The New York Times war correspondent Chris Hedges has aptly described war as “a force that gives us meaning”: War makes the world understandable, a black and white tableau of them and us. It suspends thought, especially self-critical thought. All bow before the supreme effort. We are one. Most of us willingly accept war as long as we can fold it into a belief system that paints the ensuing suffering as necessary for a higher good, for human beings seek not only happiness but meaning. And tragically war is sometimes the most powerful way in human society to achieve meaning. 25 It may be too that as they give free rein to the aggressive impulses from the deepest region of their brains, warriors feel in tune with the most elemental and inexorable dynamics of existence, those of life and death. Put another way, war is a means of surrender to reptilian ruthlessness, one of the strongest of human drives, without being troubled by the self-critical nudges of the neocortex. The warrior, therefore, experiences in battle the transcendence that others find in ritual, sometimes to pathological effect. Psychiatrists who treat war veterans for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) have noted that in the destruction of other people, soldiers can experience a self-affirmation that is almost erotic. Yet afterward, as they struggle to disentangle their emotions of pity and ruthlessness, PTSD sufferers may find themselves unable to function as coherent human beings. One Vietnam veteran described a photograph of himself holding two severed heads by the hair; the war, he said, was “hell,” a place where “crazy was natural” and everything “out of control,” but, he concluded: The worst thing I can say about myself is that while I was there I was so alive. I loved it the way you can like an adrenaline high, the way you can love your friends, your tight buddies. So unreal and the realest thing that ever happened.… And maybe the worst thing for me now is living in peacetime without a possibility of that high again. I hate what that high was about but I loved that high. 26 “Only when we are in the midst of conflict does the shallowness and vapidness of much of our lives become apparent,” Hedges explains. “Trivia dominates our conversation and increasingly our airwaves.

• From Pleasure Activism (2017)

  Or we would be in my little apartment, taking turns as the DJ of the best music ever made, telling each other all of our secrets, telling each other what we were gonna do with our lives, trying not to mess everything up with sex, but … you live and learn. These were brilliant people, my fellow adventurers. We had jobs, we had oppressions, but the center of our lives was pleasure, celebration, dancing, music, cooking together, sharing a critique of our country, seeking freedom in the here and now. I have distinct memories—a club with glowing pink walls and Janet Jackson’s “All for You” playing, and I knew it was for me. A warehouse with endless rooms where my high came on while I was in the bathroom line, and I forgot to pee because I started making out with the hottest man I’d ever seen. A New Year’s party where I sang Rihanna’s “Shine Bright Like a Diamond” with two famous musicians.75 Rolling in my little studio apartment with a friend who took my face in her hands and told me I was beautiful and kept saying it until I believed her. Ecstasy is a hyperbolic, hypnotic drug. Here’s the only downside: I was depressed. You may have guessed that, but in case you didn’t—that’s one of the things you can call it when someone needs pills in order to access their natural magic, interconnectedness, and pleasure. There was unnamed sexual trauma, unspoken abuse, fatphobia, depressive tendencies, and perfectionism challenged by having failed to graduate college. I felt like a fraud all the time. I had anxiety, I had paranoia, I was scared of everything and everyone. And although it was beautiful to flood my brain with serotonin, my weekday struggles were sometimes intensified by the crash that would come after these blissful weekends. But … looking back, I was going to be depressed either way. I was down in the gray place, the nothing. Most of the activists around me were also depressed and finding ways to cope. This once-illicit path is getting therapists’ attention now, but, at the time, I felt I had to hide my use from those who I worked with, that I would be judged. These brushes with joy were promises that there was some brightness, some delight, that was also me.

• From The Four Vision Quests of Jesus (2015)

  Native Christian theology offers us a radical sense of community. The vision of the mountain reminds Jesus that just as no one can be on “top,” no one can be on the “bottom” either. In his vision there is no vertical caste system for human beings. Though we may have very different gifts and very different abilities, we are all members of a single sacred family that stretches out horizontally to incorporate all persons without exception. We are a spirit family. We include our ancestors. We include clans of creatures whose presence on Earth is just as important as our own. Only God stands apart. The Creator is at the center of all life, the One being around whom we all revolve in an attitude of joy and thanksgiving. When the Native Messiah completed his first vision quest, he returned to be greeted by his friends. In this case, his spirit friends. Matthew’s narrative calls these beings “angels.” Native tradition would call them “spirits.” They are at the end of the story to symbolize that the person on the quest goes out from community and always returns to community. There is no real break in the relationship with the tribe of the human beings. Matthew, therefore, offers a description of the first vision quest of Jesus that can be read as an expression of the most fundamental values and teachings in the Native Covenant. This vision quest announces the Good Medicine of Jesus as being deeply grounded in Native American religious tradition. Jesus embodies a Native concept of messiahship because he confirms the cardinal principles of Native tradition. In his vision, he supports the primacy of God, the centrality of the “we” over the “I,” the egalitarian nature of sacred community. Jesus rejects the rugged individualism that inflates the human ego and leads to the exploitation of greed. He stands against those temptations that are truly devilish in every human heart, the lure of ego and profit. As the Native Messiah, Jesus embodies every virtue of the Native tradition while preparing himself to contest those forces that may try to subvert the People. He returns from his wilderness experience even more connected to the Native family. His vision is so powerful that he cannot be seen in the crowd. He is truly one with the many. When my ancestors buried their loved ones in a common grave, when they carried their bones on the long walk into the wilderness, they were on a vision quest with Jesus. They were announcing that what holds us together as human beings, what unites us to all of God’s holy creation, must be the primary vision of our collective lives. My Choctaw relatives, along with those of so many other Native nations, were making their witness to God. Even during the nightmare and trauma of Removal, of the Trail of Tears, they kept their vision clear.