For me, there is possibly nothing more centering than plunging my hands into the dark, warm soil…
I love gardening…
So people are always asking about my name…
…and I figure I might as well share with y’all.
My first name is a story.
My last name is the telling of it.
My first name is Amber.
This name came from the night I finally defined myself as a womyn. I had gone with my then roommate/lover to be alone at her parents’ new place up in the snow (her parents had not yet moved). I had been defining myself as genderqueer/genderfluid at the time but had come to the conclusion that I was almost certainly a womyn; the overwhelming stress and workload of art school had denied me the time necessary to sit down and think.
My former lover and I were constantly busy stocking and tending the fireplace and wood pellet stove; the high ceilings of the housse took forever to fill with warmth. As I sat there that night, holding my mala necklace in my hands, I began to examine the beads in the light of the glowing embers. The necklace was long, and comprised of carved bodhi beads spaced with three opaque amber beads. Those amber beads captivated me; they looked like tiny stone peaches or an explosion trapped in time. I began to consider the transmutational nature of amber, how much it has changed from its original state, how pressures and forces and influences and time came together to forge something entirely different, something beautiful, something new… and I realized that was exactly what was happening to me.
My last name is Hazard.
Many people are familiar with the word “hazard,” as a noun.
It may surprise you to know that “hazard,” has a verb form as well.
haz·ard/ˈhazərd/
Noun: A danger or risk.
Verb: Venture to say (something).
When I chose my new name and my new life I chose a life of speaking out along with it… not just the act of coming out but everything which would come after. This is not an act of bravery or heroism; it is integral to my survival as a trans* womyn.
So that’s me: Amber Hazard… always changing and never silent.
if you ask a depressed person how they are.
you have to realise you’re asking an unfair question, because
- they probably don’t want to talk about it with you
- so they will probably lie to some extent
- and they will then feel like shit for it
(in my own experience)
GPOYest ever.
I often find myself wishing I could just disappear to some baren planet in a lifeless galaxy.
Reblogging because I always feel this way…
