The Total Femme

Saturday I went to a very dear holiday fair for young artists (6 – 12 years old). People, I was able to purchase a crocheted emotional support pickle: “There for all lifes moments! It’s no big dill!” As well as a wonderful clay dog executed by a very small person who perhaps had never seen a five dollar bill before given his unadulterated glee when I handed it over (all the vendors had online payment options). I love kids. I love supporting kids in their artistic endeavors. I also bought a crocheted butterfly.

One of the young people was a dab hand at knitted hats, and was, in fact, wearing a wonderful Teletubbie hat complete with ears. We had a whole talk about it, with me reminiscing about how the purple Teletubbie had that whole stupid thing about being a bad influence because of the purple triangle on its head and the fact that it carried a purse so of course it was gay and trying to convert 2-year olds.

“As a lesbian mom, I just thought that was so ridiculous,” I held forth, making a conscious effort to come out to the wee sprat, who looked very non-binary and was closer to 12 than 6. They appeared to take this in stride, and we chatted a bit more, with them telling me about the person who played the Sun Baby, who is now the parent of a toddler.

In all, I tried to speak to each of the young artists, complimenting or asking questions about their wares whether or not I bought something. I walked out feeling like I had contributed positively and even queerly to the entire endeavor. Feeling pretty good about myself.

When I got home, I realized that my fly was undone. I mean, UNDONE!

You have to laugh. I mean, after you have a moment of severe embarrassment, imagining one of the young people asking another of the young people, “Did that lady with the purple mask come to your table?” (I was the only person with a mask in the entire place) and the other young person saying, “Yeah, and her fly was totally unzipped – she was SO WEIRD!! She told me the Teletubbies were gay!”

But sweet, tubby, bonny, darling queer femme sisters o’mine, we femmes come in all kinds of shapes and sizes and states of dress. We don’t have to be well-groomed to be out, we are even allowed to have wardrobe failures and toilet paper on our shoe and green stuff in our teeth and boogies in our noses. Why? BECAUSE WE’RE HUMAN! And we do not have to be perfect to represent.

The important thing is that children saw a random queer adult who was jolly, purchasing their art, and chatting with them about art and other important Teletubbie subjects.

As embarrassed as I might be about the fly situation, I’m going to focus on the above and not the unzipped.

Every Monday, I offer a Meditation for Queer Femmes, in the spirit of my maternal grandmother, Mimi, who was fabulous, and from whom I inherited her Meditations for Women.

At the Total Femme, my intention is to post three times a week: Meditations for Queer Femmes on Monday, Pingy-Dingy Wednesday on Wednesday, and Femme Friday on Friday. Rather than play catch-up in a stressful fashion on those weeks when life prevents posting, I have decided to just move gaily forward: if I miss a Monday, the next post will be on Wednesday, and so on. Thank you, little bottle of antibiotics for inspiring me in this! (“…if it’s almost time for the next dose, skip the missed dose and continue your regular dosing schedule. Don’t take a double dose to make up for a missed one.”) And…as I go through life life life, I will post as I am able, Mabel.

      

Last night IT WAS SO WEIRD AND FREAKY and I’m still kind of shivery, so last night I was merrily singing with my new chorus at our holiday concert, just innocently standing there on the risers next to my friend and fellow alto, trying to see the director around the tall woman standing in front of me, when I looked out into the audience AND SAW MY MOTHER! who is dead.

It obviously wasn’t my mother, but the woman’s affect, the haircut, the glasses, her stripy turtle neck, the way she was holding her mouth, boy did she really look like my mom. And then, the man sitting next to her swam into view with his red beard and red hair an a grumpy, friendly face AND HE LOOKED A LOT LIKE MY FATHER!! who is dead.

It was very strange. Later, when I saw them at the reception, they looked a lot more like themselves and not so much like my parents, but there for a little while as I was singing, they sure did.

Who knows why? I tried to figure it out, like, were they somehow there at the concert with me, sending me their heavenly blessings? It sure has been a rough year, and I sure do miss them. Do they want something from me? Or were they just sitting there, listening?

 Are they somewhere listening right now?

When my folks visited me and my former partner after we’d moved to this neighborhood, my mother was quite taken with our neighbor’s property.

“Look at that nice outcrop!” she said. “What a nice thing to have right next to you.”

And sure enough, our kids as well as the rest of the neighborhood gang did spend a lot of time clambering around over there, and I always look at it fondly even now.

When Seth was a wee tot, my mom would put him in the stroller for a walk, saying. “Let’s go out and look around. We will certainly see something wonderful.”

And they always did: a rock wall that Seth loved to pat; a squirrel with leaves in its mouth, building its nest; sap oozing from the trunk of a tree; milkweed puffs escaping from their pods.

Around that same time, my ex and I had bought a new rug for the living room, one my father really approved of.

“That’s a really nice pattern your kids will grow up with,” he said. I hadn’t thought about it like that, but I remember his words whenever I look at that rug.

Something wonderful. A soothing pattern to keep you company. Making space for beauty and a peaceful moment – maybe that’s why my folks came to me last night as I leaned into singing, there next to my old friend, there with everyone else leaning into the music, doing their best, trying to see, listening, breathing, all together to send the sweetness out and over.

Rich and vibrant, in-tune and amazing, passionate, nectar-filled, floral, annointed, my queer femme beloveds, today take a breath, take a moment, fix your gaze on something wonderful, something soothing, something that connects you to who you are where you are, and take flight, my lovelies.

So much beauty.

Every Monday, I offer a Meditation for Queer Femmes, in the spirit of my maternal grandmother, Mimi, who was fabulous, and from whom I inherited her Meditations for Women.

At the Total Femme, my intention is to post three times a week: Meditations for Queer Femmes on Monday, Pingy-Dingy Wednesday on Wednesday, and Femme Friday on Friday. Rather than play catch-up in a stressful fashion on those weeks when life prevents posting, I have decided to just move gaily forward: if I miss a Monday, the next post will be on Wednesday, and so on. Thank you, little bottle of antibiotics for inspiring me in this! (“…if it’s almost time for the next dose, skip the missed dose and continue your regular dosing schedule. Don’t take a double dose to make up for a missed one.”) And…as I go through life life life, I will post as I am able, Mabel.

          

(Oops! Had this ready to go yesterday, but forgot to post it! Oh well, sometimes it’s just Friday on a Saturday! xottf)

Your femme and my femme are different in so many ways.

You for a lot of makeup, perhaps, me for a splash of lippie here and again. You for the delights of a high femme lover, me for my downhome butch hubby. You for the excitement of big city life, me yearning for a quiet country yurt. You for the beauty and healing of weekly services, me for the ocassional spot of meditation and the loud purr of my old cat.

Our politics, our diets, our backgrounds, our fancies, our worries, our jobs and families and senses of humor, all different.

You, I see you.

For the femme dancing to the crosswalk beeps on Mass Ave;

for the femme slurping ramen and looking at her phone;

for the femme ranting on the internet;

for the femme waiting for medical test results and not telling anyone yet;

for the femme on the train, leaving;

for the femme in her car, arriving;

for the femme in rehab and the femme in 12-Step;

for the peppily healthy femme and the femme who’se got a damn lot of dings but keeps on truckin’;

for the middle-aged femme, the baby femme, for the femme ancestors, for the femme elders.

I gather you, all of you, in your femme variety and glory, I gather you here.

Look around at all of us!

We are here, making community, causing trouble, asking questions, dealing with fallout, laughing, dancing, enduring, getting on with things, fucking things up.

My sisters, my ardent, strong, spirited, rising, blooming, starsparkle beloved queer femme sisters, do you see one another, do you see us?

How we shine!

Every Friday, I showcase a queer femme goddess. I want to feature you or someone you love! Write to me at thetotalfemme@gmail.com and let me shine a spotlight on your beautiful, unique, femme story! If you’ve written a femme story or poem or song, oh, please let me post it!

At the Total Femme, my intention is to post three times a week: Meditations for Queer Femmes on Monday, Pingy-Dingy Wednesday on Wednesday, and Femme Friday on Friday. Rather than play catch-up in a stressful fashion on those weeks when life prevents posting, I have decided to just move gaily forward: if I miss a Monday, the next post will be on Wednesday, and so on. Thank you, little bottle of antibiotics for inspiring me in this! (“…if it’s almost time for the next dose, skip the missed dose and continue your regular dosing schedule. Don’t take a double dose to make up for a missed one.”) And…as I go life life life, I will post as I am able, Mabel.

        

It’s coming up on a year that I’ve lived in the world with Type One diabetes. I still don’t know how to do it. I cobble something together ever day, but it’s really hard, time consuming, depressing, and draining. Like when I had breast cancer a few years back, I am both grateful for and hemmed in by technology. Unlike when I had breast cancer a few years back, I’m extremely unhappy with the medical support I’ve gotten and that doesn’t really seem to be going to change any time soon. It’s truly mindboggling, the difference between having a chronic condition that could kill you if you don’t watch it and having an accute condition that will kill you if the treatment doesn’t work but then, if it does, you’re more or less ok.

Today, I don’t feel more or less ok, I feel like my life is over.

Ah well, I can hear my father say, might as well get on with it. And my mother might chime in, as she did (infuriatingly at the time) when I used to get bad cramps, “I find a walk usually helps.”

Writing this post is getting on with it, and so was calling and talking with a femme friend. Also, the doggie and I had a nice tramp earlier today. Ok!

But damn. What a funk I can sink into.

You as well, my ardent, handcrafting, goddessly, bubbling and beaming queer femme sisters? Do you also know this negative and beckoning funk? My grandmother used to call it “feeling punk,” not to be confused with “being punk rock.” Perhaps for you, it’s not a chronic condition, and perhaps yes, but family troubles, money troubles, worries for days, worries and tragedies and miseries and fuckeries.

Last night I kicked my own sad femme ass and went to an online meditation held by the hard-working and generous members of the Diabetes Sangha. Nowhere locally had I been able to find a support group for late-onset type-one diabetes, but somehow, through the grace of the sweetness in the universe, I found this sangha.

I am not healed, I am not even in that much of a very good mood, but yesterday evening, in the company of others who may well have been awoken by lows in the night as I was – the shrill buzz of the alarm waking up all concerned (except the cat, the cat sleeps through it) and ending dreams and rest – I was able to let a bit of peace into my life, and I also remembered to meditate a smidge this morning. Which is why I’m writing this post instead of responding to outside noise.

Connection. Reaching out. Gazing in. Being together.

Whatever it is, there are others out there.

Today, my gorgeous, suffering, healing, cultivating, and enticing sisters who are alive, who are glistening and leaping, reach out to those who are traveling with you, whatever that looks like. 12-step, support group, it might be online, it might be down the road, it might be in a series of books or videos or podcasts. I know they’re out there, and I remind you.

You are not alone.

We are in it together.

Forfemmefuckingever.

Every Monday, I offer a Meditation for Queer Femmes, in the spirit of my maternal grandmother, Mimi, who was fabulous, and from whom I inherited her Meditations for Women.

At the Total Femme, my intention is to post three times a week: Meditations for Queer Femmes on Monday, Pingy-Dingy Wednesday on Wednesday, and Femme Friday on Friday. Rather than play catch-up in a stressful fashion on those weeks when life prevents posting, I have decided to just move gaily forward: if I miss a Monday, the next post will be on Wednesday, and so on. Thank you, little bottle of antibiotics for inspiring me in this! (“…if it’s almost time for the next dose, skip the missed dose and continue your regular dosing schedule. Don’t take a double dose to make up for a missed one.”) And…as I go through life life life, I will post as I am able, Mabel.