Ending

That first breath I took after reading LV's email last year.

I just remember holding my breath as I read it, thoughts filling my brain, fleeting thoughts of nooooo this is it. It just can't be. I'm not ready. My friends! My family! My home. But wow, look. I'm not crying. I always thought I'd be hysterically crying...

All these brief thoughts floated through me. I stood up, walked 5 steps into the middle of my family room, and just looked at my daughters.

I couldn't breath. That breath was truly the most painful I've taken. It was physical, ripped at my heart pain.

This is my soul.

And oh, that breath. Everything lost in that breath. And then tears flooded, like I haven't cried before.

Tearing up now just remembering.

My daughters just looked at me, scared. I tried to reassure them through sobs, I uttered "Fest".....

And they knew. 🌿❤️🌿

November Writings: The Smell of Summer

bubbly, bouncing girls, sun-kissed and smiling,
the waft of sunscreen applied and reapplied,
strawberry breath from a quick pause for a snack before diving back in

splashing and laughter, chlorine-perfumed air

or sand-covered toes and nearby grills cooking up summer feasts.

My girls love the water. Any water.

the smells of summer, of carefree joy, no schedules, swimming pools, beaches and picnics.

Oh, how I long for that simple time again.

November Writings: Favorite Kitchen

The floor was a weirdly speckled, sparkling blue linoleum that fascinated me as a child. There were a few cabinet doors that stuck, and one drawer that was nearly impossible for me to open, so I always asked my grandmot Magaw for help. I spent hours upon hours of my life peering over the metal wrapped Formica counters as my grandmother cooked.

Her voice was so soft and smooth, just like the dough we rolled out together when she let me help her make the homemade biscuits in the morning. Each time she would ask me, "Do you know what can this is?" It was a small, single serving Gerber can she used to cut out just the right size of biscuits. Of course, I knew, but I always wanted her to tell me again. "This was your mama's, and oh, I don't know... I just always hung onto this can, it's just perfect to cut out the biscuits." It's funny the things you remember. I can still hear the tapping of that can as she loosened up a freshly cut biscuit to place on the baking sheet.

I loved her stories as much as I loved her cooking. My favorite breakfast was always Magaw's homemade biscuits drowned in her homemade hamburger gravy. It was overly floured, stark white, and always needed salt, and I loved every bite of it. My sister couldn't stand it, which made me love it all the more. I could hardly leave the table if there were a spoonful left in the bowl.

Magaw would let me set the table, always with dish towel placemats, the jellies and jams gathered and set out. I'd pull the collection of old, gigantic Dallas Yellow Pages books out of the china cabinet and set them in the chair for a while for myself, and eventually for my younger brother - the perfect phone book booster seat. Magaw would hand me the jar of honey to bring in. She knew I'd always want honey for my one special biscuit, made of all the dough remnants after the biscuits were all cut and lined up on the baking sheet. I always got the misshapen one, and I loved it so.

I was a bit obsessed with the honey dipper, too. There was just something about dipping it in the jar of honey and watching it stream down on the biscuit. It's very inefficient compared to the pour-ready containers of today, but there was just something about it as a kid, watching honey drizzle down off that little mini beehive shaped tool.

There was a lot of sadness in my life growing up. There were moments that terrified me, would terrify any child, and many adults. There were dark secrets that weren't to be discussed. But those moments in Magaw's kitchen were among my favorite. She was fully present. She shared with me as though I was someone worth spending time with. Magaw taught me things, patiently explained steps, filled in the pauses with wonderful stories from her past. My grandmother spent time with me.

She laughed as washed her hands, and often told me the story of when my Papa convinced my somewhat naive aunt to check a certain cow every morning to see if they had morning sickness - it was the only way to know if the cow was pregnant, he said. Apparently, my aunt just watched and watched, hoping to help confirm the early signs of pregnancy. Magaw would laugh as she looked out the window, and you could see it playing out in her mind, even though they had long since moved from that old farm house.

I'm sitting here in tears now, wishing I could have just one more morning with her. She's still alive, but her memory is gone. She lives with my mom now, and we live across the country from them. Magaw doesn't remember who I am any longer. She is no longer able to tell us stories, but I still see her joy in her smile. I'm forever grateful to have her in my life. I'll never forget those mornings in Magaw's kitchen. 

Reflections on a decade with Michigan Womyn's Music Festival

10 years.

I've been wanting to write something about how meaningful Michigan Womyn's Music Festival has been in my life, but I haven't known where to start. I've been contemplating the profundity of experiences I have had as a result of this Festival.

I was recently taken aback to realize Michfest has been a part of my life for a quarter of my life. No wonder she feels so huge, no wonder this feels a bit like a death. I hope eventually I will look at it differently, but today, there is mourning. I'm going to be with her one last time, to say my goodbyes to this thing that has been a part of my life for 10 amazing years. I'm so grateful for all the wisdom she has bestowed upon me - some lessons were more difficult to accept than others, but all were profound. She gave me space to sit with myself, to get to know myself. Nestled in her arms, in the comfort of her woods, I found me. I found the way to nourish that which was buried so deep within me. I came out from my own shadows, I came home. I came home inside myself, I returned home again and again to those woods.

We are both turning 40 this August. I've never been particularly afraid to age, and feel that really it's a quite arbitrary number. It has become somewhat more significant, however, knowing that

I am preparing to say goodbye. I've never been very good with goodbyes. This transition has become more meaningful.

I guess it is time to close this chapter, and open myself up to more. Perhaps I'm ready to put forth these lessons in larger ways, to seek out community closer to where I live, to build a future that doesn't depend so heavily on one week out of the year, while still maintaining those connections that have grown from those weeks. Goddess knows I've longed for that connection in my daily life.

But this transition... deep breaths....

 This festival, this powerful community, my family of choice, the home where I found myself, my voice; 10 years of my life, my thoughts and daydreams, one week in August for 9 of those 10 years; she is truly a part of me.

10 years has seen me through newly coming out, finding my tribe, my voice, gathering the strength and courage to leave my heterosexual marriage, starting my own business and seeing it thrive, and living my truth - for myself, and for my three daughters.

10 years has helped me to show up for my daughters in new ways, better able to listen, to see them. To know that my older two daughters have both been to Fest, know this most sacred space, and feel its depth in their own ways - it leaves me quite nearly speechless... and filled with gratitude. I hope that my youngest daughter will take away valuable experiences from attending for her first time this August, and I am grateful all three of my daughters will be there this year. It's always been my dream to see my daughters at home on the Land. 

10 years. My home for the other 51 weeks of the year feels somewhat like a shrine to Michfest - gifts, artwork, photographs, memories surround me from so many of you, they comfort me. 

10 years. YOU, my dear fest sisters who have become an intricate part of my life. Your stories, your presence in my life, holding one another up, sharing our lives, our joys, celebrations, our challenges and sorrows with one another. We celebrate together, mourn together, laugh together, offer support when we can. You are my rocks, and with your support, we have moved mountains. I love you.

10 years. It's hard not to feel the mourning. It's a huge loss, but what I've received from Fest - this whole new life - courage, the time, the space to find my authentic path.

I live by a different set of values from many around me. I try to live an authentic life steeped in radical feminism, radical self-care (which I am still trying to master and sometimes lose sight of) and deep connection. I sometimes feel alone out in this big world. I have found comfort in knowing that in that place amidst the ferns, my tribe is waiting. 

Amazons.

These six foot elders exist, and I honor them.

Inside my dreams, draped in red, we stand together, ready to take this world on. It's a comforting visual for me.

10 years. Michfest. She's a part of me, and I'm a part of her. My most compassionate, loving, empowering relationship in my life.

Or perhaps this relationship I'm referring to is with myself. Knowing what I've experienced from Fest, what I've had the opportunity to learn about myself... I know this lives on inside each of us. Perhaps, in moments with my mind quiet and my heart filled with hope, I can feel her power, MY power coursing through me. I can trust that I have my amazon sisters beside me, and know I have the strength of the womyn before me guiding me on this journey. 

and with my heart filled with gratitude, I will say my goodbye to this Festival, and open doors to something new.

November Themes: Coffee

Coffee, it's not just a drink to me. Without its intention and ritual, I can hardly finish a cup. I'm distracted, going about my day. At work with 10 kids to watch over, the cup sits forgotten on my desk, perhaps two sips before it's cold and ignored. I may heat it up several times throughout the morning, only to set it down, once again forgotten. I laugh at the end of my short workday, the coffee barely touched and no longer wanted. I admit it, I waste a lot of coffee on weekdays. Lately, I don't make it at all.

Coffee, for me, is an experience, it's a ritual. It's quiet. It's peace and silence. Sitting at my table, or sitting outside listening to the sounds of life around me. It's that quiet sigh of relief that I have a moment to myself after my children have left for school. It's my time, for my thoughts, my day's to-do list, daydreams, or just simply sleepy silence after a night of too-little sleep.

It's gathering with a friend and catching up, sharing our lives. It's laughter and stories, updates on kids and families. Coffee is togetherness, joy, or support and comfort. It's friendship and remembering. Coffee in these moments is joy-filled, and there's always time for a second cup.

My favorite cup of coffee, however, is once shared with my lover. It's caring, love, it's gratitude for one another. It's coffee-kisses, or perhaps left ignored on the nightstand while we touch. Or in-hand while we sit side by side reading books, or checking out social media, with only our feet touching. It's "I see you. I love you. Let me get you coffee." It's thank you, my love, for letting me stay warm-and-cozy on a crisp morning while you brave the daylight to bring us back that caffeine sustenance after a night of passion. It's my turn to treat you, handing you the warm cup with a smile that shows you my love for you.

I miss coffee. I mean, I leave it there, forgotten on my desk in the mornings. Memories of the past, the cup is full, just not quite as enjoyable or meaningful as in those moments of togetherness.

Nah, I'll save my coffee for those good moments. That ritual of self-care, that connection to friends, or the best cup, shared with my future love.

November Writings: A Story in Five Sentences (take two)

She jumped with fear at the sudden horrifying crash at the door, glass shattering everywhere, the grunts of someone, something breaking in. Her own screams filled her ears, as she dashed to the back of the small apartment, as far away as she could go from this noise, this terror. Everything around her moved in a strange slow motion, sounds were hollow, and she recognized this feeling, a nightmare that felt all too real. She ran to the bedroom, certain this would be the familiar bad dream she kept having; she would find herself there, sleeping, just as before, and she would again startle awake from this horrible nightmare. As she reached the doorway, the footsteps, the heavy breathing grew closer, and she saw that her bed was empty.

November Writings: A Story in Five Sentences

Jill looked at him as though he was a stranger, unrecognizable to her despite a lifetime together. She didn't know how things had gotten so bad, all she knew is she couldn't stay any longer. She leaned over, gently touching his hair, so as not to wake him, taking in this last memory of a man she no longer knew. She turned and walked out of the bedroom, picked up her bag and her car keys and left this place one last time. A single tear fell as she drove down the empty road.