a few words on womanhood

(CW: weight, body image, gender stuff)

My relationship with womanhood has always been strained, in part because my relationship to my body has always been strained.

I am pear-shaped, in the truest sense of the term. My hips are the widest portion of me. Turn me around, look at my silhouette, and you’ll see that my stomach juts out; I have very small, non-perky breasts.

This wasn’t how women were supposed to be shaped. Or, at least, that’s the message I internalized from every pop starlet, every kids’ show, every billboard and magazine and movie and clothing ad.

Women were supposed to have bigger chests. We were supposed to be thin, flat-stomached and dainty. Smooth luscious curves and hourglass figures.

When I walked through department stores with my mom, sometimes—well before I actually hit puberty—I’d stare at the photos of lingerie models and wonder how it felt to have “real” boobs.

The feminine was inextricably linked to the body. I couldn’t separate the two in my mind. I was told, in so many wordless images, that women were meant to appear a certain way; to behave a certain way; to be a certain way. What choice did I have, little ten-year-old me, other than to nod and believe what I was told?

I worried my shape would keep boys from being drawn to me.

And in a religious subculture where much of my worth was predicated on one day meeting a man, marrying and settling and popping out babies, accepting my duty as vessel for the future soldiers of God’s Holy Army—that idea, of being seen as unattractive, was in its own quiet way excruciating.

How could I ever fulfill my one purpose, i.e., how could I birth these said babies, if I couldn’t even adhere to the most basic image of what a woman was?

But my body wasn’t my only defect. I had other flaws, too. Other boxes which I failed to check.

I thought we were meant to have intrinsic qualities instilled in us by the Creator: characteristics that set us apart, that defined us as “the fairer sex.”

Meekness. Mildness. Elegance and grace.

Conventional beauty.

Timidity. Softness.

Tender-hearted wisdom, and a laugh that lilted like birdsong.

I possessed few—if any—of these traits. My hair was perpetually frizzy, my laughter came out in a cackle. My shirts were too ill-fitting and my nails were all chewed short.

When a narrow expression of femininity is what you believe your creator god mandates, then any perceived departure—any lack or “falling short”—can feel like a wrong and sinful transgression.

Of course, I at some point grew resentful. I rebelled in my own tiny ways. Part of me bucked against what was expected. I cut my hair short and stopped wearing makeup and let my leg stubble grow long. I bought a men’s flannel and wore it every fall, content in the secret knowledge I’d found it in a department not meant for me. But even these cosmetic shifts, these perfectly harmless subversions, were met with some measure of guilt and hesitation.

I hesitated, because my own definition of “woman” was just as narrow as the men I’d grown up with.

What is womanhood, exactly?

And what does it mean to be one?

It’s only in the past year I’ve started to examine this. To ask the question, to look inward, and to do my best to answer it. Some days, it seems easy. Other days, it feels impossible.

If womanhood is defined by more than the way you’re shaped; the way you look; the way you walk; the way you dress; the way you laugh; the genitalia you’re born with; the amount or lack of sexual appeal you hold for the patriarchal straight men who view you… then what, in truth, is it?

Is it an essence? An aura? A spiritual knowing, as integral to a person’s being as their own heartbeat? Is it a certain energy, bendable and flexible, able to be moved and molded depending on how each individual wants to wield it?

Or—perhaps—is it as simple as in the immortal words of Lizzo: “If you feel like a girl, then you real like a girl”?

I can’t say for sure. And I really don’t have to. Trying to define “womanhood” or “femininity” is what leads to us reinforcing those outdated standards, those unspoken rules that have made me and others feel so ugly, inadequate, and unloved.

Instead, I believe, it’s up to each of us to answer the question for ourselves. We can only define these things insofar as how we identify and who we know ourselves to be.

It isn’t about anyone else. For me? It’s just about me. And for you, it’s just about you.

So. Okay then.

Again, I turn inward. I shift my question to be something more productive.

…

Am I a woman?

It’s strange, because allowing the meaning of it to expand—not restrict—is what’s led to me becoming more comfortable calling myself one (most days). I realize now that I can be a woman without a bigger cup size, or an hourglass shape, or a dainty way of moving, or skirts in my wardrobe. My pear hips never did in fact disqualify me. But, for too long, I felt like they did.

Now, though: here, with this newfound lack of restriction comes a freedom to embrace and express my femininity in ways I didn’t expect.

I call myself a woman, because it’s simply who I am.

And no one else gets to tell me that I’m wrong.

- - -

And maybe this isn’t the end of it.

Because maybe my preconceived notions run deeper.

Maybe there’s more I have to re-evaluate, to excavate.

Maybe it’s never been a question of “either/or.”

Perhaps—all along—it’s been a question of “and.”

the deconstructionist narrative of ‘blankets’

I’d been wanting to read Craig Thompson’s Blankets for years, before I finally got myself a copy of the graphic novel last summer. Going into it, I expected something straightforward: a coming-of-age romance where the author reminisces about his first teenage love. And, in a sense, I got that.

But I also got something else. Something different. Something much more relatable to me and probably anyone else who was raised Evangelical.

What I didn’t know until reading it was that Blankets isn’t strictly a romance. It also centers around Thompson’s Christian upbringing, and the myriad ways it affected him. Like me, he was born to religious parents—like me, he spent much of his childhood at church or church-related functions. Like me, he once had dreams of using his creative talents to proselytize. And, like me, he eventually comes to doubt the Bible as an inerrant source of factual truth.

*** Spoilers follow. ***

Thompson doesn’t ever use the term “deconstruction.” Blankets was published in 2003, well before the word started to gain traction in Christian and exvangelical spaces. However, the facts remain -

-> His parents were devoted, fundamentalist Christians.

-> He inherited his parents’ beliefs and held to them through his childhood.

-> As he navigated high school—and began to gain life experience—he encountered people and situations that led him to question his beliefs.

-> Partly as a result of this questioning, his adult self renounces the Bible as a be-all/end-all authority over his life. He doesn’t go into detail about what his new beliefs are, if any; but he does, at the very least, stop going to church and start exhibiting a willingness to participate in things that many would consider “un-Christian.”

This, in my mind, is a very typical example of deconstruction. Although everybody’s story is unique, and there will always be individual specifics to account for, there are also commonalities.

The trajectory Thompson follows is a familiar one. You spend a formative part of your life being indoctrinated into a set of beliefs that you, for a while, do genuinely hold to. (A common misconception about those of us who’ve deconstructed is that we never “truly” believed. We were never “real” Christians in the first place. But I can assure you this is false, as I know for a fact that I believed.)

And even so, beneath your fervor—beneath your hope and conviction and zeal—there are certain small doubts you can’t seem to shake. Conflicts in scripture you can’t quite reconcile. Ways in which the Church seems infuriatingly blind to its own hypocrisy, moral failings, and capacity to inflict harm.

Somehow, someplace, somewhen… it gets to be too much. You reach a breaking point, and you can’t keep your knees from buckling. You can’t keep pretending to be satisfied with shallow, blanket answers. You can’t keep smiling and nodding, turning a blind eye, trying to convince yourself everything that’s been gnawing away at you isn’t gnawing away at you.

So. All right.

What’s next?

You brush yourself off. You seek resolution. You read, and learn, and research, and reflect, and take that first step towards deciding for yourself what you believe and why you believe (or don’t believe) it.

You tear your faith down. You rend it. You wreck it. And maybe, one day, you build it back up again; planted anew like seeds in damp soil. Or you find yourself open to other religions. Or you decide you’re an atheist, and keep it quiet so you won’t be interrogated at every family dinner.

Point being that the spiritual transformation Thompson undergoes in Blankets resonates. Or, at least, it did with me. I smiled at the all-too-accurate details he included in his illustrations of church camp. I saw people I’d met in the characters he drew. When he wrote about snippets of sermons he’d heard, I nodded in recognition.

It’s cathartic to read about experiences similar to your own. But there was one particular moment in the story—just a brief set of panels on a single wordless page—that moved me so deeply I had to set the book down. I was overwhelmed and caught off-guard, in the absolute best of ways.

Said moment requires a little bit of context.

At an earlier point in the comic, Thompson recounts an instance from his childhood where his parents discover he’s been drawing naked women. They take him into their room to scold him in private. They tell him what he’s done is a terrible, wicked thing: that it was sinful, it made Jesus sad, and Thompson should be ashamed. They tell him he should do his best to never sin (in this case, by doodling naked people) again—because every time he does, it breaks the Lord’s heart.

This should be a familiar lecture to anyone raised in a comparable environment. Don’t sin; because if you do, you’ll disappoint God; and this is one of the worst offenses you could possibly commit; and if you feel embarrassed, that’s the right response, because how dare you disobey the word of the One who gave his very life for you?

Thompson visualizes his guilt by imagining a portrait of Jesus turning to look at him, becoming distressed, crying, then looking away. Thompson is alarmed by this: by the outright gesture of rejection, of disappointment. He reaches out to the painting in supplication. Please, we can imagine him begging. I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again! Please forgive me, Jesus. You still love me, right? Please don’t be mad at me. Please don’t turn your back on me!

He vows to never draw a naked woman again. And thus, his parents’ guilt-trip is effective.

Later, at a much further point in the comic, Thompson—now a teenager—sleeps with his then-love interest at the time. Being in high school, the two aren’t married. And sex outside of marriage is something most Christians are quick to condemn. If anything, it seems like this would be a sin worthy of disappointing Jesus: more than enough to make him turn away from Thompson in sorrow and disgust, the way he did all those years ago.

A painting of Jesus hangs in the room where Thompson and his love interest lie side-by-side. It’s the exact same one, Thompson notes, that used to hang in his parents’ room.

Thompson’s partner falls asleep. Sitting upright in her bed, he’s compelled to turn and face the painting. There’s an obvious visual parallel—we can assume he’s anticipating a similar reaction from Jesus as the one he imagined in his childhood. We can speculate that he may be bracing himself for impact. For the coming shame. For the rejection.

This time, though, Jesus reacts differently.

Instead of crying, the portrait of the Savior simply meets Thompson’s gaze… and smiles.

It’s a kind smile. An exuberant one. Warm and uplifting, without any trace of condemnation. And unlike the guilt Thompson is wracked with as a child, here Jesus gives no indication that those involved should feel at all mortified about having committed their “sin.”

I flipped back to this page a couple times after finishing the comic, because again, I just found it so incredibly moving. Without the need for dialogue, it communicates a concept I find difficult to explain—that maybe, in our current iteration of American Christianity, too many people have become more concerned with enforcing rules than practicing love. Maybe too many of our Church’s adherents, as well as its pastors and leaders, have more in common with the rule-lawyers of Jesus’ day than they do with the person of Jesus himself.

Maybe, just maybe, God doesn’t care so much about whether we say “fuck,” whether we wear shorts, or whether we have sex as he does about whether or not we’re loving people in the way he explicitly commanded.

Maybe, almost certainly, our priorities have become vastly skewed.

- - -

I remember the first time I said “shit” out loud, alone in my car, when I was frustrated at the slow-moving traffic around me. Like sex outside of marriage, cussing was something I’d always been taught was wrong. It was sinful. Filthy. Un-Christlike. And when the word tumbled out from my mouth, clumsy and hushed, I irrationally expected some kind of backlash.

Was this it? The beginning of my “slippery slope?” I panicked. Okay, sure—today it was “shit,” but what would I say tomorrow? Would I graduate to the f-word? (Gasp! The scandal!) Would my speech patterns and personality change? Would I begin to cuss like a sailor, morphing into the kind of person who couldn’t go three sentences without tossing in 40 obscenities?

But, of course, nothing happened. There was only quiet. I took a breath, calmed down as the traffic eased up, and was thankful that Jesus hadn’t deemed it necessary to smite me.

I felt a similar underlying fear when I borrowed R-rated movies from the video rental place I frequented as a high schooler. (Yes, this was a brick-and-mortar store. DVDs and VHS tapes. Before streaming was a thing.) I was interested in classic film at the time, and wanted to watch stuff like The Godfather and Taxi Driver—but, again, had always been taught that “we should not conform to the world,” and part of how we stayed “pure” was by abstaining from “secular” media.

I’d heard youth pastors advise that whenever we started a movie, it was helpful to imagine Jesus sitting next to us. If, at any point, we found ourselves becoming uncomfortable with the idea of Jesus seeing what we were seeing, it was time to turn the movie off.

And so, I sat in the dark of my room, seventeen years old and trying to parse what made Taxi Driver such essential viewing, wondering how Jesus might feel about the scene where Travis shoots a pimp.

This constant self-monitoring—this practiced way of thinking that obsessively sorts everything into “sinful” or “not-sinful” boxes—can lead to a lot of mental anguish. It did in my case. I would feel a self-loathing, an inner unrest, every time I found myself enjoying something I thought people at my church would’ve called “too worldly.”

Songs with innuendos? Those R-rated movies? Gory, profanity-ridden video games? Anime that featured Eastern spirituality, or else utilized Christian imagery for no other reason than because “it’s foreign and it looks cool”? (Which, by the way, is why I only recently got around to watching Evangelion. Teenage-me worried that it would cross the line into blasphemous territory.)

It took some time to realize it wasn’t necessarily the media itself that made me feel guilty. I couldn’t imagine Jesus would be scandalized much by my choices in entertainment; after all, if he was omniscient, I reasoned he had seen much worse. Rather, what inspired my sense of dread was the idea other people might find out what I enjoyed, and judge me for it.

I worried that pastors and peers would see what I consumed—the things I watched, read, and listened to—and classify me as “too worldly” to be trusted. Conformed to secular culture; unclean and un-Godly. I worried I might be shunned, or lectured, or not allowed to play on the worship team, or told I wasn’t passionate enough about following Christ. To a young woman whose entire identity and sense of self-worth revolved around trying to follow the Bible, an accusation like that would have been devastating.

My actual character didn’t matter. How I treated the people around me didn’t have any bearing on it. I wasn’t worried that I wasn’t a “good enough Christian” because of how I loved (or failed to love) my neighbors. I was worried that I wasn’t a “good enough Christian” because of entirely superficial things: the movies I watched and the songs I happened to have downloaded on my iPod.

If that isn’t a clear sign the religious environment I grew up in—the theology I absorbed, the worldview I was taught—prioritized legalism over grace, then. Well. I’m not sure what to say.

I keep coming back to the idea of the Fruits of the Spirit. In a perfect world, Christians are supposed to embody the traits found in Galatians 5. Love, joy, peace. Patience, kindness, goodness. Gentleness, faithfulness, self-control. “Against such things,” Paul writes, “there is no law.” And when Jesus is warning his followers of false prophets, he tells them: “you will know them by their fruits.”

It’s a pretty straightforward concept. “Good” things should, broadly speaking, produce good fruit, and “bad” things should bear bad fruit. This is part of how we’re supposed to discern what’s true and what’s right and what isn’t.

The problem is that so much of what evangelicalism has taken to be “good” results in, uhh, some absolutely horrendous fruit. Take purity culture, for instance. The idea that people should wait until marriage to have sex isn’t, like, an “evil” one, in and of itself. Often, the intentions are good. And there shouldn’t be any issue if it’s a decision two consenting adults are arriving at mutually.

But when you take a step back and look at what sort of “fruit” this mindset is bearing, it… it isn’t great.

Stories of abuse and manipulation run rampant. Repression, frustration, and a culture of secrecy can incentivize people to express their sexuality in unhealthy—or downright dangerous—ways. Women (and men, to a lesser extent) are made to feel as if their value as a Christian and a person is tied directly to their status as a “pure,” “unspoiled” virgin. The taboo nature of the topic, as well as a lack of age-appropriate/comprehensive sex education, can make it easier for predators to target young children; because if you’re 6 years old and don’t have the vocabulary to describe what’s happening to you, how are you supposed to ask for help? Or even recognize that what’s being done to you is wrong in the first place?

Teachings about hell, the Rapture, and the inevitability of the End Times have left countless with crippling anxiety and long-repressed trauma. The framing of queerness as an intrinsic sin that can be “cured” or “overcome” has resulted in so, so much tragedy. Conversion therapy. Physical and emotional abuse. Higher rates of homelessness and suicide attempts among LGBTQ+ teens. An entire population of people who believe themselves to be destined for hell, irredeemable and abominable, all due to a facet of their personhood they can’t consciously control.

Those are just a couple of examples, but—none of this is “good” fruit. None of this is indicative of the kind of change Jesus wanted his followers to bring about.

You know what is good fruit?

What the Fab 5 does on Queer Eye.

Here is a group of people who, by every standard I grew up believing, should be objectively bearing “bad” fruit. They’re out. They’re proud. They’re not church-going Christians in the sense most evangelicals would think of someone as a church-going Christian. (Truthfully, I don’t know what their religious beliefs are, if any. But does it matter? Short answer: no.) They dance and cuss and make sexual jokes, and quip about things that would make my own parents uncomfortable.

They would be seen as too “worldly” for most churches to embrace them. They are, hilariously enough, the kind of people fundamentalists warn will “corrupt” you if you go to a secular college.

But they’re also some of the most thoughtful, loving, joyous, gracious, and kind-hearted people I’ve ever seen. Whether or not they intend to? They exemplify the Fruits of the Spirit.

I don’t know them personally. I don’t know the nitty gritty of their lives—and it’s always possible they could fail to live up to the wholesome image they portray. Even so, when I was first made to watch Queer Eye (thanks Tori), I couldn’t help wondering: what does it say that a group of five “secular” queer people is more loving than a lot of Christians I do know?

It says what I interpreted Thompson to mean with his panels of Christ’s portrait smiling.

That the Church’s priorities are not often God’s; and he smiles on his followers so long as they love, and do their best to carry out that simplest commandment. It’s so easy. And that’s part of what makes it so difficult. The straightforward nature of the gospel is part of why I believe it’s so tempting to complicate things, until we end up less with “love God and love your neighbor” and more with “hey, don’t show a bra strap or you’ll be kicked out of church leadership.”

So what if a budding artist draws naked women? So what if someone cusses, or hangs out at bars, or gets tattoos, or likes Game of Thrones (sans the trainwreck of a final season)? Those are extraneous things. They’re neutral, neither inherently sinful or inherently virtuous.

At the end of the day, it’s the fruit we are bearing—and the character we are striving to cultivate—that matters.

- - -

The question, then, becomes: what “fruit” did Thompson bear when he slept with his love interest in Blankets? Why was it not a big deal to Jesus’ portrait, and why did the painting smile at him instead?

In one sense, it’s a visual representation of a turning point in Thompson’s spirituality. The fact he no longer sees his own failure to “save” his virginity as something to feel guilty about speaks volumes. His mind is changing, and he’s seeing the world differently.

But I also believe it means Jesus wouldn’t have minded very much in actuality, because the act itself was borne of consent and a mutual desire to provide comfort.

The idea of comfort is a running theme in Blankets, often symbolized by the object of a blanket itself. When we think of blankets, we think of warmth and reprieve—but they can also be used to hide. They can become a shield from the world and its harshness. Similarly, in life, the things we use to comfort ourselves can also be a means through which we avoid harsh truths. (Such as, say… strict religious worldviews? Which provide comfort in one sense, but also allow us to burrow our heads in and say “we do not acknowledge the world”? Hint hint?? Wink wink??? Nudge nudge????)

In the moment Thompson and his partner sleep together, they aren’t aiming to take advantage of one another, or to manipulate each other for their own personal gain. I mean, yeah, sure—they’re teenagers. They’re impulsive and hormonal. But they’re also both vulnerable, hurting in their own ways and each feeling like the other person is perhaps the only one in the world who understands them.

They want to give one another a small comfort. So, comfort one another they do.

It’s an expression of love. And in the grand scheme of things, with the violences and injustices happening every single day the world over, is a quote-unquote “sin” such as this one really worth chiding? Does it really hinder Thompson’s ability to love God? To love his neighbor? To be a generally kind, decent person?

In other contexts, it could. Sex is one of those inherently neutral things, able to be weaponized for harm by the wrong people. But here, in Thompson’s scenario, it’s something sweet and ordinary: a thing that’s impromptu and human, stemming from a place which may be immature but is also honestly felt.

It is, in its own way, pure.

And it is, in its own way, something kind of beautiful.

There was a time I would’ve read Blankets and been totally unreceptive to it. I would have shaken my head at so many of its scenes, and been offended by the portrait of Jesus smiling. This isn’t right! I would’ve thought. The good Lord our God hates sex! I would have been sad that Thompson walks away from the church, because I used to think church and its rules were the only place to find goodness.

But what Thompson learns—and what I’ve discovered over the course of my late 20s—is that sometimes “good” fruit is borne by the people and places you were told to avoid. And “bad” fruit can absolutely be borne by the people and places you were told you could trust.

This is one of those posts I have no idea how to wrap up, so I’ll just end with a recommendation. If you’ve been on your own journey of deconstruction, and you like graphic novels, Blankets might be worth giving a read. Its art alone is reason enough to pick it up. A couple parts of it are iffy or otherwise outdated (Thompson uses the r-slur once to refer to a character with a disability), but again, I was surprised by the ways in which it proved resonant.

No matter where we each end up in our own individual journeys, whether it’s back to Jesus or onward to elsewhere, hopefully it’ll be at a place of greater love than wherever we were at before.

(Oh—and also, Happy New Year! Excited to continue my tradition of posting on this blog maybe once every five-to-six months. Cheers.)

nature and nurture

“… that’s your role,
The work that stirred your soul
You can make for someone else.”

Porter Robinson isn’t a musician I would normally gravitate to. He’s part of the house, synth-pop, EDM scene, which isn’t a scene I’ve been known to dip into.

There are, of course, exceptions. I love Caravan Palace. And I’ve listened to Madeon’s newest album an embarrassing number of times. But on the whole, I prefer different genres.

I like folk. I like indie. I like Broadway musicals and generic pop/rock.

Listening to music outside of your regular wheelhouse can be… enlightening. I grew up parroting the annoying slogan of “I like everything! Except rap and country,” until Dolly Parton, Childish Gambino, and—I know, I know, I’m a cringy theatre kid—Hamilton convinced me to give those genres a real chance.

Rap is so many things I had never bothered to realize because I dismissed it too quickly. It’s metaphor; it’s wordplay. It’s poetry, rhythm, rhyme, and movement, and yes, it’s kinda freaking brilliant. So much of country, once you move past the top-40 hits of today, is storytelling: people shaping their hopes and heartbreaks into short-form musical narratives. Like rap, it’s much more interesting than I used to give it credit for.

My reasons for avoiding these genres in the past were shallow. At some point, I was given the impression rap and country were inferior, and I didn’t care enough to question it. I made a premature judgment call on those kinds of music—whole entire categories—based not on my own experiences, but based on whatever ideas I’d absorbed secondhand through my peers.

Which, needless to say, is wrong and unfair and ignorant.

But rap and country weren’t the only genres I inherited unkind opinions about. If I say house, synth-pop, or EDM, what words do you associate with those types of music? Do you think of dancing in a neon-lit club? DJs with sunglasses and baseball caps? Do you think of things like “noisy,” “repetitive,” “superficial,” or “formulaic?”

How about “thoughtful?” Or “heartfelt?” Or sad, or sweet, or soulful?

Because I know that at least for me, I never thought of EDM music as being especially heartfelt. Creative? Yeah! Inventive? You bet! Fun to listen to? Go on & tell me this isn’t a bop. But somehow, I came to believe synthesized sounds and digital instruments couldn’t quite measure up to the “real” ones. I thought they couldn’t be “soulful” in the same way. Try as you might, there would always be a discernible difference; and what was the point in listening to synthesized guitar strings when I could pop in Ben Howard and listen to the “real” thing?

The point, as it turns out, is that any method of making music can be soulful so long as there’s a human soul behind it. In the case of Porter Robinson’s Nurture, every measure of every song is practically teeming with soul.

“Lifelike,” the opening track, is gentle and nostalgic in a way that sets the tone for the rest of the album. It sounds like something out of a Ghibli film, or a fantasy setting where the heroes stop to rest in a countryside hamlet. It’s peaceful. It’s lovely.

Most of the songs—and the project as a whole—pay tribute to what can help constitute an artist’s growth, whether personal or creative. We’re given a glimpse into what nurtures Porter (*ba-dum tss*) as a musician and as a person trying to keep his head up above water.

“Blossom,” “Sweet Time,” and “Mother” are odes to the relationships that help keep him going: the ones that inspire him to focus on living, to move forward, and to not take any of his days for granted. “Mother” is self-explanatory, but there’s a sincerity to the lyrics of “Blossom” and “Sweet Time” that I didn’t really expect (I wasn’t scared of this before/But since I met you, I don’t wanna die no more). It’s refreshing, in a sea of by-the-numbers love ballads, to hear Porter sing from such an obviously personal/specific place.

Even though these songs are great, my favorites on the album—and the ones I most relate to—are the ones that deal with artistic setbacks and triumph.

I’ve read countless blog posts that talk about The Writer’s Struggle. (Heck: I’ve even written a few!) There are movies, plays, books, articles, and episodes of television that revolve around the stress of trying to make… whatever it is somebody is making. But I can’t remember the last time I heard a musical body of work that featured these themes and honed in on them. And among the ones that exist, I’m not sure how many of them reach the same level of vulnerability Porter has here.

So many of the creative highs and lows are represented, either mentioned in lyrics or portrayed instrumentally. Burnout. Writer’s block. Inspiration! Validation! Messing around aimlessly in the hopes of finding something that “works.” Self-criticism, and the self-inflicted pressure of trying to follow up on your prior success. Again, there’s just such a genuine vulnerability here: a willingness to open up about the realities of the songwriting process that I, at least, haven’t encountered before.

The first time I sat and listened through the entire album, I was struck by the sensation of Porter having put words to my feelings—over, and over, and over again. It’s the emotional, not just rational, realization that your doubts are valid because others have shared them. It’s the elusive connection every artist hopes to make with their audience. (And vice-versa.)

Look. See? This is how I feel. You’ve felt the same way, haven’t you? You’ve been where I’ve been. You’ve walked in my same steps.

The relationship between “creator” and “consumer” is a symbiotic one, where either party wants to be seen, understood, and accepted by the other. I think that can only happen when an artist isn’t afraid to be honest. To bare it all. To expose themselves emotionally. The difficult work for so many of us is in learning how to balance that emotional openness with quality, skill, and respect for our craft.

But this, I think, is what we mean when we say someone has put their “heart” or “soul” into a piece. They’ve revealed their genuine selves, which—in turn—has let an audience connect to said work by recognizing themselves (and their own thoughts) in it.

At the end of the day, despite our individualities, some of our experiences are pretty universal. And if you make art or media of any kind, one of those universal experiences is being told: “Hey. Buddy. Old friend. Ol’ pal… Isn’t it about time you went and got a job?”

Nurture is infused with Porter Robinson’s honesty about himself, his insights, his creative process, and his insecurities. And that’s what makes it so “soulful.” It doesn’t matter that his chosen instruments are digital, or that his chosen genre is electronic. There’s something inherently true, inherently human and resonant, about his work.

And I’m so grateful I get to be alive to listen to it.

I mentioned before that a major running theme of Nurture is the patented Artistic Struggle. But, as any creative person knows, it isn’t all doom and gloom.

“Look at the Sky” is one of the most affirming things I’ve ever heard, with its chorus mantra of I’m still here/I’ll be alive next year/I can make something good. “Wind Tempos” evokes the feeling of lying out in the shade somewhere, letting your mind wander, listening to the bugs and trees and allowing that beauty to inspire you. “do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do” celebrates how music can speak where words fail. And the album’s closing track, “Trying to Feel Alive,” features lyrics that I consider to be its thesis:

Maybe it's a gift that I couldn't recognize
Maybe I don't really need to feel satisfied
Maybe it's a gift that I spent all this time
Just trying to feel alive

The process itself—the striving itself—is a gift. Anne Lamott talks about this too, in her book Bird by Bird: how writing is its own reward, and the simple act of practicing it is more fulfilling than any worldly measure of success could be. Sure, one day I might write a hit novel and find myself drowning in millions. But would that make me “feel alive” in the same way writing itself does? Would it satisfy me? Is reaching the mountain’s peak as compelling as the attempt to climb it?

No. (At least, I assume not. Drowning in millions wouldn’t make me a fuller person, but it would be helpful in paying off my student loans~~)

I shouldn’t assume too much about what Porter’s intentions were when he began to make music. However, I’m willing to bet he was hoping for some measure of fame. Or wealth. Or accolades. It’s what most of us secretly hope for when we first embark on that journey of creating… whatever it is we decide we want to create.

But if that was ever the case, his priorities have shifted. His focus is different. What he expects to gain out of the ordeal of writing and releasing music has changed.

In that same closing track—“Trying to Feel Alive”—Porter implies he’ll feel like a success if “somebody somewhere finds the warmth of summer in the songs [he writes].” Well. I’ve certainly found that warmth! Countless others of his fans and listeners have, too.

It disappoints me that in years past, I would’ve written off Nurture for no other reason than because of its genre. And that would have been a disservice to myself. I would’ve missed out on the ways in which Porter Robinson’s music inspires me.

The same can be said for rap and country. I spent too long missing out on what I’ve come to enjoy about those genres. I love language! So then why did I avoid rap? I love storytelling! Then why did I avoid country?

Again, it was because I wasn’t willing to step out of my comfort zone, to form my own opinions about those genres by giving them a fair chance. I took what the people around me said as gospel, when they were just as sheltered and uninformed as I was. Not to say that I suddenly know everything; just that I know Orville Peck is a wonderful artist.

If you’re like me, and not a usual fan of electronic music, maybe sit back, pop in some earbuds, and give Nurture (or another well-regarded EDM album) a listen. You never know—it might surprise you, and you might end up finding something new to enjoy.

Next on the out-of-my-comfort-zone agenda is heavy metal. Wish me luck.

an update

Well. Hi, everybody!

Did you forget I had a blog? I forget I have a blog sometimes. Weeks and months and years pass by, and then one day, out of the blue, I think: “Oh, yeah. I really should post something.”

Thus, here I am. Posting something.

If you remember how my blog looked the last time I posted, back in, uh… 2019, you’ve probably noticed things are a little different. That’s because I moved to a new hosting platform! Why? Because WordPress doesn’t let you use plugins anymore without upgrading to their “business plan.” I didn’t want to pay extra money for a minor convenience for my personal blog so I could install one very specific plugin to do one very specific thing.

The plugin I wanted would’ve allowed me to separate my posts onto different pages: the “main” page, and an “archive” page where I could stick all my old posts I don’t necessarily stand by. But Squarespace lets me do that without having to upgrade my account! So. Thank you, Squarespace! And a hearty “screw you” to both WordPress and capitalism.

There’s a lot I’ve said in my older posts, dating from 2019 back, that again I no longer agree with. While I could have just deleted everything and started this blog over new, I’m trying to work on being more transparent. And part of transparency is being honest about where I’ve been as well as where I am. I may disagree with the worldview of my past self, but I still want to hold space for her: to acknowledge that she is who I once was, and the fact I’m embarrassed by her is proof that I’ve grown.

I’ll elaborate more on my changing beliefs in the future. Maybe. We’ll see. For now I’ll simply say that I’ve been doing a lot of deconstructing, and—side note—it’s been weird seeing that term start to enter the awareness of mainstream Evangelicalism. Now you have big-name pastors warning about “the dangers of deconstruction!!” and books coming out with titles like How to Deconstruct in a Gospel-Centering Way. (Which is not an actual book. I just made up that name. But you get the idea.)

Change is inevitable, and I—of all people—never thought I would change to the extent that I am. My past self was confident in her beliefs. She’d be horrified to know I don’t take much of the Bible at face value anymore, and also that I’m openly gay. Skimming through some of my older posts is a little heartbreaking, honestly. There was a lot going on between the lines; I was miserable in ways I didn’t care to admit. The term “sweet summer child” has never been more apt.

Anyway. I know there are also a few of those cringe-worthy old posts that certain friends of mine love. And I’m not sure how fair it would be to vanish those posts from existence. It isn’t all bad, and there’s some nostalgia and sentimentality mixed in with my self-critical feelings. Like—I still love Undertale, despite the terrible state of its fandom. This will always slap.

Part of the reason I avoided posting anything for so long was because my mind was changing. Would it make me a hypocrite if I started posting things at odds with opinions I’ve shared in the past? Should we, as people, just living and maneuvering through the world, be expected to stay the same? Does it invalidate either my prior or current beliefs if I’ve shifted, begun the process of unraveling, learned to accept and entertain concepts that before I would’ve dismissed?

I don’t think so. At least, I hope not.

I grew up believing rigidity was something to be admired: that an “unwavering” faith, an inflexible set of beliefs, was a virtue. But now I’m not so sure. Change, again, is unavoidable, and doubt is not a sin. Re-evaluation isn’t a sin. Coming to different conclusions after you learn new information does not mean there’s anything wrong with you.

As long as it’s in a healthy direction, change can be a sign of growth. And in my case, I sincerely hope that it is.