The Total Femme

The National Day of Mourning is my most holy day of the year. This past week, I was there on my own, due to a wave of feeling under the weather washing over the other people who would have joined me. I got there in time for the prayer, thank heavens. I am so grateful for the prayer. When I knelt down to touch Mother Earth, I just kept going down until a woman behind me caught me and gently pushed me back up. We smiled at each other through our masks and I thanked her, laughing.

So much gratitude, so much to do, so many all of us there wanting healing, wanting community, wanting wiser heads and ways and hearts to prevail. Wanting to know we’re not alone and that what we feel and follow is worthwhile, healthy, sustainable, and loving.

The message from the Mayan Elders this year was short and sweet: “Ok, kids, it’s your turn to fight.” Eyes of the world on the US. Next year, Leonard Peltier told us in a recorded message – from his own home!! – he hopes to be with us to celebrate, to mourn.

When we got to the pebble (known by some as plymouth rock), the march stopped for more speakers. Me and my crew usually go up the hill so we can see, but this year I decided to just sit on the wall at the bottom of the hill. There was an open space beside me, and people kept clambering up. I would offer my hand if they needed a boost, which many of them didn’t, limber dear things that they were, but some of them did. One little boy did, and the incredibly practical way he took my hand has stayed with me. He took my hand because he needed a little help up the hill. He took my hand because it was there, because of course a random lady would offer to help him because he knows himself to be loved and cared for. He took my hand with a trust that was healing balm for my broken mama’s heart.

I was thinking about Seth that day, there on my own, surrounded by all the people. My troubled, angry, unwell and unhappy boy. How he used to listen and ponder at NDM. How he read a book about Leonard Peltier, how he – the boy he was, the man he is in his heart – would be so glad to hear Leonard’s voice. How he would listen with care to the speakers. How he would join in the prayer and the chants.

Seth doesn’t seem to be able to let anyone help him, me, his other mom. This morning’s latest go-round of angry, accusatory texts from him just about did me in. What went wrong? Where did I fuck up?

“I think we just need to give ourselves grace,” wrote a dear friend, whose son is also somewhat estranged. “We parented the best we could.”

I know that, I know we did. And still, and still.

I can’t help Seth, other than holding him, always, in my heart and prayers and love.

But I helped that little boy, and up he went.

To not notice because I am so overwhelmed with grief about my own child would be to refuse what is good, what is sweet and loving and true.

I don’t want to do that, I don’t want to live like that. Alongside my grief, joy.

Bartlett pears, golden kiwis, nice ripe bananas, crisp and blushing McIntosh apples, my queer femme sisters, my travelers on this human road of it all and all of it, everything we never dreamed of and more coming at us at unstopping unstoppable speeds, reach out your hand.

Here.

Here’s mine.

Many a 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.

Do you have a meditation to share? I would love to welcome you here! Email me at: thetotalfemme@gmail.com