Floris van Dyck, circa 1615. Transition is not a one-way street, or a bowling lane with the bumpers up. Transition is not a recipe with precise measurements, or a fixed curriculum, or a rulebook. Transition is not a set protocol, dictated by faraway experts. It is far too intimate and important for that. You are welcomed to this feast as an honored guest. Your cup is filled and the table is set. And then stand among ashes in.

What have I done? And now what do I do? This is getting complicated. So I had my appointment with this psychologist at the gender clinic. This very experienced senior psychologist. A man my own age, or actually probably a little older. I was tired and hurting more than usual. Did I really need to go? Did I really want to be away from home for most of the day? Anyway, .

It is the middle of July. There are many competing potential things to do on any given July weekend. Hence, this is my first Pride celebration in several years. I have almost forgotten the deep significance that Pride day has to me. All of us are refugees. So, I sit here on a bench with my pen and notebook, in the mottled light though the oak trees, with the buzz of music and voices around me, and bask in comfortable oneness. My Father Washes With Rubbing Alchohol.

Trans stuff, life, etc. But when the future looks bleak, I always turn to stories about heroes. In the end they always do the right thing.