For someone who never wanted a car, I sure do love my minivan. Oh, Salsa Pearl, oh, Femmemobile, you have been such good company! I like the space, I like the height, I like the family marker. It’s true, in good American fashion, my car has become a part of my identity.
And now, it is time to say farewell. Fulfilling a decades-long dream, Tex is in the process of purchasing a camper. She will now be able to visit relatives out west in a leisurely, independent, and jaunty fashion; we will be able to go see friends around the way; and we will be able to hightail it to Provincetown whenever the spirit moves us. And, check it, we’ll be able to join the company of the other dykes who trundle about in their RVs. They’re organized! They’re wild and wacky!
We’re trading in the Femmemobile for a truck to pull the camper.
When they hauled away my next-door neighbor’s well-used minivan several years ago, she got on the phone to her husband sobbing so hard he thought someone had died. It’s emotional, to move from one phase to another. I know I’m weepy right now. So I’ve been really focusing on enjoying my drives in the Femmemobile, appreciating her every quirk and her company. It feels a little like taking your ailing pet to the vet that very last time, only she won’t be put down, she’ll just move on to another family. And I will move on, too, of course I will.
Bless them and let them go, says my therapist about regrets and other things I no longer need. I don’t regret having the Femmemobile, but there are regrets embodied in her and in her era, parenting regrets. Seth, my elder son, who rode in her with me, is currently off on some Kerouacian journey, choosing not to be in contact with me. I regret that I didn’t know earlier how troubled he was and had made more efforts to get him help. Owen, my younger son, who rode in her with me, no longer lives in this house, choosing to stay with his other mom (we are on lovely terms, though, deep gratitude). I regret that I didn’t know how to keep things more on an even keel for him.
Time to move on. Time to let go.
How do you do your big transitions, angel darlings? Or your small ones, for that matter. How do you keep on truckin’? On the wall above my desk, I have a postcard from Southerners on New Ground with the Octavia Butler quote:
All that you touch, you change.
All that you change, changes you.
The only lasting truth is change.
God is change.
May your transitions be easy and holy today, sisters. May the changes delight you.
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 graduate school and life life life, I will post as I am able, Mabel.
The Total Femme 