Nothing ungovernable, it’s more like a hum. The hum of I’m not feeling at my best, of can’t get that argument out of my head, of what if, what if, what if; a hum that I eventually forget is there at all, even though it never ceases to soundtrack my every move.

I’m maintained and restricted by the ability to tune out whatever is suboptimal. By now I know it’s a common early-childhood survival skill that, while seeking to conserve me, grants me the capacity to self-destruct. When I was younger, I would only hear the quiet it gave me. These days, the hum.

The surfer, she tells me she met a woman at a 40s singles mixer. The type of woman who reschedules her flight home to Colorado so that they can have sushi in California. There’s a sweetness to tales of the dating world when I’m in a monogamous relationship. I feel only a little bad about appropriating them to satisfy something which I can’t put into words.

Imagine the world in which I hadn’t spotted the surfer in the queer Catholic Slack space of Vine & Fig when I did, that one day she was there. I have no right to define the surfer’s hardship. The day her parents kicked her out because she’s queer. The way she seeks to remain a parishioner in a space that can’t hold both her and the woman she loves.

Nienke, Mehdi, an anonymous friend, and I attend the annual Pride March. It’s the city’s first two-week Pride festival in Amsterdam, each week organized by a different organization. With a naturally intersectional and radically-inclusive interpretation of the term “queer”, I am pleased Queer Amsterdam is taking care of the annual Pride Walk.

On Friday, I tell colleagues over office drinks why we still need Pride. The fact that I had to write “an anonymous friend” instead of the name of a person I love and admire illustrates my point beautifully.

When I first set foot in the Old Catholic Church to attend an All Saints service, I knew I had found a special place. Today is the third time I make it to their service, which is always on the second Sunday of the month.

It just so happens that this second Sunday falls on Easter, and it’s perhaps because of this that the service is more crowded than previous times. I see All Saints regulars as well as new people, shy and seemingly hopeful.

Replied to Adrianna Tan

Isn’t it so that, if a cog in the wheel doesn’t work, the entire thing falls apart? What a beautiful reflection, Adrianna. I’m glad I read it today.

She blesses Anja, me, and a handful of other people who carved out time in their Sunday evenings to come to Church. I have never been inside this particular church building before, and chuckle at how new the Old Catholic decor is: in imagery and candle lighting possibilities it’s reminiscent of the average Dutch Roman Catholic church. Its white walls and central heating tell me something different.

You may think I chose this church because the woman blessing us is Desmond Tutu’s daughter, the Reverend Canon Mpho Tutu van Furth, and because Anja and I can’t help but fangirl. I’m here because she’s a Black queer person leading a church service that I can attend in person. I never thought I would see the day.

The tourists are back in town. Lots of Germans with face masks. I suppose we’re all beginning to venture out into the world again, just a bit closer to home. Anja and I are considering taking the ferry to Norway. Apparently you can camp virtually anywhere in that country, as long as you “leave it cleaner than you found it” and make sure you’re gone after two days. At this point, we’re vastly underestimating how attached we are to luxury. I can still hear myself whining “Bonsoihoir”. This was the catch-all name we used anyone who would come to the door of our Parisian hotel room with a bucket of ice, “no, not for champagne, just for the drinks”. I also really don’t like ticks, and I simply can’t imagine that Norway somehow doesn’t have the national health crisis taunting its neighbor.