“...I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
— Mary Oliver
Because it’s Satur-whatever-day, I’ve been reflecting. Not day drinking—okay, maybe a 9am mimosa counts, but it’s a holy weekend so let’s call it a sacred libation.
I remember awhile back, I was at my friend's place fixing their busted kitchen faucet because, well, if I didn’t, water was going to explode from the top handle like a scene out of a bad sitcom. And, I probably wouldn’t have been there to witness it, unfortunately. However, I knew the chaos was imminent. And I hate letting something be broken when it can be easily fixed.
But not everything can be easily fixed.
We live in a culture of planned obsolescence. Phones. Furniture. Relationships. People. Toss it when it’s worn out. Replace it when it gets complicated. Upgrade when it doesn’t serve you anymore. One friend once said to me, “Everything has an expiration date, Vangie.” That stuck with me. Milk has an expiration. Friendships, relationships, even this version of yourself—all eventually change, decay, transform, or dissolve.
One of the core tenets of Buddhism teaches that everything is impermanent. Transient. Inconstant. Or in one of my favorite underused words—evanescent. We forget how fleeting it all is. Until suddenly… we don’t.
Holy Saturday is this weird in-between day. The day after death but before resurrection. Jesus is in the tomb. Nobody knows what’s coming. That space between grief and hope? It’s uncomfortable. And yet… so familiar.
Maybe right now, we’re all in some kind of Holy Saturday. Mourning what’s lost. Questioning what’s next. Not knowing if the next chapter will even arrive. But we wait. We breathe. We keep going.
If what you’re doing right now brings you peace—do that. If it doesn’t, then ask yourself why. What’s keeping you from joy? What’s stopping you from becoming the best, truest version of yourself?
Mary Oliver asked, “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
I hope your answer is something bold. Something beautiful. Something unapologetically you.
Because here’s what I know: You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not too late. You are enough—right now, as you are. I see you. I love you.
The light in me sees, embraces, and amplifies the light in you.
Lenten Reflection: The Pause Between Death and Rebirth
“The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul that seeks him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.” – Lamentations 3:25–26 (NRSV)
Holy Saturday is a hinge. It asks us to sit with uncertainty, to resist the rush toward resolution. In this quiet middle space, we mourn, we rest, we listen. And in that stillness, something begins to stir.
🔹 What have I buried that is still asking to be resurrected?
🔹 What hope have I dared not name yet still quietly carry?
🔹 What version of myself am I ready to lay down—and what new self might rise?
You’ve made it 40 days. You’ve reflected. You’ve shown up. You’ve told the truth. And now?
Rest. Let the tomb stay shut a little longer. Let the silence speak.
Resurrection is coming. And you? You’re already being made new.
Namaste.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.
📖 More reflections at: flanneldiaries.com
Updated: Apr 19
When I was 25, I was your classic angsty queer adult (and I use “adult” loosely). I was emotionally unavailable, moody as hell, and had no idea what I was doing with love. My friend John, who had known me since middle school, once told me he thought I was actually commitment-phobic. We were debriefing yet another breakup, and he just said it. Flat out. No judgment—just truth.
And the thing is? He was right.
I think it’s important that your ride-or-die friends can call you out on your shit. I sat with it for a while and started looking at my pattern. I didn’t know how to stay in a relationship, and part of that was who I was choosing to date—and part of it was who I was in the relationship. A bad combo on both ends.
In the Bay Area, it’s easy to date a lot. And if it doesn’t work out? Chances are you’ll never run into that person again. Breakups can feel like vanishing acts. I kept trying to treat dating like an adventure—boldly going into uncharted territory, learning something new about myself and others. But over time, I got tired. Really tired.
And here’s why.
My second girlfriend was still in love with her ex—and I didn’t know that until we had sex. The first time we slept together, she cried. Not because it was emotionally overwhelming in a good way. But because she was thinking about someone else. That kind of thing rewires you on a cellular level. It messed me up.
Of course, being the ever-empathetic lesbian that I am, I held her and comforted her. But on the inside? I was crumbling. She cried almost every time we slept together. Eventually, we stopped sleeping together altogether.
Naturally, I wrote a poem about it. Because of course I did. Processing through poetry? That’s very on brand. It's also been almost 30 years so I'm good with sharing my youthful angst:
Just For One Night by Vangie Castro
I feel a breeze
cooling the sweat on my brow.
The intensity builds
as I move harder, faster—
a rhythm growing strong,
methodic,
desperate.
I’m spinning,
slipping into another world,
exploring the fantasies
I’d dared to keep hidden.
Touching.
Needing.
Wanting.
Consumed by passion
that rolls and crashes over me—
Until it stops.
Something’s wrong.
She turns away and cries.
I reach for her tears,
but they aren’t mine.
They belong to another.
To a love she still yearns for.
And my body mourns,
knowing it won’t be satisfied tonight.
Still—
I wrap my arms around her.
Hold her close.
And hope, just for one night,
I can keep her safe
from the ghosts she can’t let go.
Just for one night.
It’s amazing how quickly I’ve always been able to rebound from disappointment. You’d think after all the heartbreak, I’d be more risk-averse. More guarded. But nope. Either I’m a secret optimist or a romantic masochist. Still not sure which is worse.
But I keep going. I keep dating. I keep trying. Because even in the chaos, there’s beauty. Even in the heartbreak, there’s humor. And yes—even in betrayal, there’s a story worth telling later over drinks with friends.
Or like Jesus said on this very day: "I thirst." (John 19:28)
Same, Jesus. Same.
Historical Context: Good Friday
Good Friday commemorates the crucifixion and death of Jesus Christ. It’s the culmination of Holy Week—the day when love incarnate was nailed to a cross. The paradox of calling it “good” lies in the belief that through Jesus’ death came the promise of resurrection, redemption, and grace.
This day calls us to sit in the tension. To reckon with betrayal, loss, sacrifice, and silence. It’s a day where even divinity seemed abandoned. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). If you’ve ever felt unseen, unloved, or unworthy, know that even Jesus felt that.
And yet—he still chose love.
He forgave. He stayed. He thirsted. And in his final breath, he said: “It is finished.” (John 19:30)
Lenten Reflection: Love in the Ashes
Good Friday isn’t about tying a neat bow around suffering. It’s about holding space for it. It’s about standing in the rubble of what didn’t work, what broke you, what wasn’t enough—and saying, “Even here, I will rise.”
🔹 What grief are you carrying that needs to be named?
🔹 Where in your life are you still mourning something that never got closure?
🔹 Are you willing to believe in the promise of resurrection—that something beautiful could still grow from the pain?
Lent has taught us that love isn’t neat. It’s messy and costly and brave. And it doesn’t always come wrapped in fairy tales. But it’s worth it. It’s worth everything.
Hold tight. Sunday is coming.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other. As above. So below.
“About all you can do in life is be who you are. Some people will love you for you. Most will love you for what you can do for them, and some won't like you at all.” ― Rita Mae Brown
Maundy Thursday commemorates the Last Supper—Jesus’s final meal with his disciples before everything went sideways. Christians like to follow it up with something called Good Friday, which is the day he was crucified. I don’t know about you, but calling the day someone was tortured and killed “good” feels like a weird flex. Then again, I’m not a religious scholar—I’m just a queer Filipino kid who grew up Catholic and learned to question things early.
Let’s not forget: Jesus was a good Jewish boy. The Last Supper was probably a Passover meal. He gathered with his chosen family—his crew, his ride-or-dies. The folks he met on the road who followed him not because they had to, but because they chose to. That alone speaks volumes. Your table doesn’t have to be filled with blood relatives. Chosen family counts too—and sometimes, they love us more fiercely than the people we share DNA with.
There’s a moment in the Maundy Thursday story that gets overlooked a lot. Before dinner, Jesus washed the feet of his disciples.
Let me say that again: he knelt down and washed their dusty-ass feet.
Back in the day, that was a job for servants, not someone considered the Messiah. But Jesus flipped the script—he wanted to show that real love, real leadership, real community is about humility and service. He looked his friends in the eye and said, “What I’m doing for you? Do this for each other.”
“A new commandment I give to you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” – John 13:34
Not “tolerate.” Not “like only the people who vote like you.” Not “love, unless they piss you off.”
Nope. Just love one another. Period.
The world right now? It’s in chaos. Every day brings some new nonsense that feels like the foundations are crumbling. But Maundy Thursday reminds us that in the face of betrayal, fear, violence, and impending death, Jesus still chose love. He still chose service. He still broke bread.
If we want to live like that—not in performance, but in actual practice—then we have to show up for one another. Not just in moments of celebration, but in our grief, our uncertainty, and our brokenness.
Lenten Reflection: Washed Feet, Open Hearts
Tonight, whether you’re with your family, chosen or biological, or just quietly sitting with yourself—remember that love is active. It shows up. It serves. It kneels. It listens. It doesn't require perfection—just presence.
🔹 Who in your life needs to be reminded that they are loved?
🔹 In what small ways can you serve others, not from obligation, but from grace?
🔹 Where in your own life do you need healing—and who might help you find it?
Let this Maundy Thursday be about more than ritual. Let it be a reminder to love the hell out of each other. Because if this world needs anything right now, it’s that.
As above. So below.
Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other.