It’s hard to believe this blog has been live for over four years, and we are quickly approaching the time when I began to take it seriously, and what I consider its birthday. Of course, that ended up being six days before my wife had the audacity to die on me, forever altering… well, everything. I know I’ve mentioned my brave friend who asked me if I was going to keep that promise to keep writing, keep posting, before I even starting receiving the mail that follows such a death. And I have. I’ve fallen off in the number of posts per month over the years, when life and mental health struggles got in the way. But I haven’t stopped writing.
In the past 4 years, I’ve written 74 installments for this blog, along with guest blogs, essays, chapters, letters, short stories, and drafted three full-length books – one in waiting, one independently published, and one about to be.
My name is Riley Adaris, and I write queer fiction.
My name is Eliza de Rodillas, and I write spicy Sapphic romance.
My name is Queer Mama Rising, and I write this blog.
This blog – this soft landing, this expression of the world around me and inside me – isn’t going anywhere. You can still find it right here, in your inbox, or on Facebook.
What is changing is the world it exists in. I have been using Flannel and Ink as the umbrella for my books, and it’s time for the blog to have space there as well. The website will be under intermittent construction for a bit (currently it’s devoted to Riley’s book) but please check it out.
If you’d like to follow me on Instagram for all said adventures, you can find me @flannelandink.
If you’d like to buy my book (and especially if you’d like to leave a review!) you can just click here. Reviews on Amazon are the only thing that pushes the book out for more people to see it.
This blog will return to its regularly semi-scheduled programming next week. Probably.
I miss you, in this place that looks like home. I wouldn’t give up my solo time here – it was needed – but I was silly to forget that it’s here in the mountains and fields that I find you.
Through the window of this bus, I can see the cat o’ nine tails that fill the low-lying edge of the next property, and little bunnies dash from the thicket of untamed raspberry bushes between us. Beyond that are the low stone walls that we traced years of journeys on around New England, a hazy field with a few black cattle, and the forest beyond that, rising off into the distance. More birds than you’d care to hear about flit around, but you’d be sitting with your camera, cursing my bird facts as you took me pictures of my favored bluebirds. “UNSUBSCRIBE!” You’d shout when you finally had the shot and could make noise again.
You would have slept on the outside of the bed that took up the whole end of the bus because you were claustrophobic, and been worried about biffing it on the tiny stool that was definitely necessary to climb in. I can hear you guffaw at it being sturdy enough to hold you up, then giggling as you pranced up the tiny steps. You would have touched everything, and wanted me to stitch a couch like this one. You would have teased me for how much I loved it, for the style and the demands it made to be fainted upon.
You would have wanted to break into the tiny shack, with its short door and little window, except you would have wanted me to do it, because spiders. You would insist on peeing outside instead of the dedicated porta potty – until your morning coffee hit and you grabbed your phone to keep you distracted. Because spiders.
You would have been delighted with the spotted frog that claimed the path when the rain fell. You would have laughed too hard to be helpful watching me try to get the fan into the window the first night, dropping it out twice. You’d have loved the sound of the thunderstorm that rolled through the valley, beating on the roof of the bus like it used to on our metal roof.
We’d have talked about how much it reminded us of home, of those first months in Vermont, where it was too hot to stay inside, and we cooled our beer in the river as we made our grand plans. We’d have whole days where we didn’t leave the property and spoke to no one but each other, and been perfectly content.
I wrote my own tarot pull yesterday, out here in the clear air and setting sun. The second question I had was, what didn’t I know I needed to fill my cup on this trip? I pulled the 5 of Cups, a card of grief. I thought it odd; the whole pull seemed odd, truly, and I tried to remain open to the possibilities since the trip wasn’t over yet.
This morning I woke up with songs in my head – you know what that’s like. So I set up a Youtube playlist for myself as I got ready for the trip home and onward to my event. When “Give Heaven Some Hell” came on, which I had added as an afterthought, I sang along (loudly, as I had been all morning) until my voice broke. I cleared my throat, and tried again, and the tears started.
I don’t believe in heaven, but you did.
You didn’t like country music, but I do.
So here, where the pastoral view meets the forest, the Five of Cups suddenly makes sense.
Songs like Give Heaven some Hell help me sometimes, pulling the tears out in safe places where I can cleanse myself of the grief for a few minutes. What I didn’t know I needed to fill my cup was giving myself the space to miss you, to grieve for you, since your dumb ass up and died on me almost four years ago.
I don’t know how many times I played the song, adding Where the Wild Things Are and I Hold On after that. I cried; I sobbed myself empty sitting here at the desk, your motorcycle dreams and your love for me wrapping me like your arms used to. When I was finally out of tears, I walked outside and pulled you back into my lungs, breathing in the clean mountain air until I could function.
There are phoebes here, remember the nest on our porch for years? They say hi, and they miss you too.
I’m half-packed, the bus is damp and getting warmer since I already took the fans out (I didn’t drop them this time). I haven’t finished what I needed to do this morning because I had to stop and write to you. I’m going to see Dierks Bentley this week, who you teased me endlessly about – and I’m going with one of your (our, my) best friends. We’re going to get a little tipsy, a little high, and sing along really loud and really queer. We have lawn seats; I hope it rains and we dance across the muddy grass. We’ll both feel you roll your eyes and hear your snark, and we’ll laugh and flip you off.
Queer Mama Rising 