Capturing the ephemeral

I didn't take my camera to my first Michigan Womyn's Music Festival. I knew instinctively that this was an experience I wanted to live. I didn't want to sit on the sidelines and watch, as our modern culture encourages. I didn't want to observe, report, capture, as though Festival were something I could put in a box and take out later, as if Fest were something I could own. Fest, I thought, isn't a butterfly to be pinned behind glass.

I still feel that way (and it's my feeling only, just for me, and just for now). But ironically and contrarily, I also regret the lack of photos.

The Festival's intention regarding photos is this:

"The Festival is full of beautiful images, and womyn often want to record their experiences here on film and tape. If you receive permission beforehand from womyn you do not know, you are welcome to take photos for personal use Please respect others' rights not to be photographed, and do not take random photos or video of the Festival environment, other campers or performers. In the age of YouTube, what plays here stays here.

"Performers specifically ask that you do not tape or videorecord their performances.

"No photo or video can be published or used for any commercial purpose or for public distribution without specific written permission of each person in the photo or video and the permission of the Festival itself. All Festival images are protected property of the Festival."

Even in my few years of Festival attendance, I've been surprised at the number of womyn taking pictures of crowds and parades, despite the clear intention regarding getting permission from all photographic subjects. It's actually made me unlikely to take my shirt off or march in the Butch Strut. I don't want pictures of my free self showing up on YouTube. That inhibition saddens me, in a place that otherwise breathes empowerment.

Yet before I attended, I scoured the internet looking for pictures. I stared at them, I wondered how the Land smelled, how those tents moved in the wind, how that mud and paint felt as it dried on skin under the hot sun. I tried to put myself into those photos.

It's a fine line. Other womyn may arrive at different conclusions. For me, part of the magic of Fest is that it's Avalon. It's Brigadoon. It doesn't exist except when it does.

I wish there were no cameras at all, and that when we sisters are missing Home, we recapture it by calling one another on the phone, or meeting for coffee or a walk in the woods, or getting together for a campfire and music and chatter.

Now that would be magic.

Community

"The [Michigan Womyn's Music Festival] is a communal village created each year by womyn from all over the world, reflecting an amazing diversity of lifestyles and needs. For an ad hoc community -- the largest town in Oceana County for one week -- we do incredibly well. While we have no real "rules," community guidelines have evolved to help our town run safely and with respect for all of its members. ...

"Mostly our community works because we all use good sense. When we're in public spaces such as concerts, paths or other common areas, our behavior becomes public. Those around us are exposed to that behavior, whether they consent to be or not. We can all enjoy the freedom of the Festival, but let's use common sense to make sure that our choices don't infringe on someone else's."
--MWMF program, 2010

I miss this type of community etiquette, where most (not all, but most) people are willing to surrender "what I want" in the interest of "what's best for most of us." Life at Fest isn't about hedonism; it's about community and participation. (This is one reason why we all do workshifts.) And seeing it in action once a year is enough to make me try a little harder to carry that message of community for the other 51 weeks.

A web of womyn

Fernalicious Feminist has posted a nut loaf recipe, too! Hers, more usefully, is trimmed down to serve somewhat fewer than 5000.

~~~

I went to my first Fest solo and single -- but I didn't go unprepared. I'm an introvert's introvert, a reader, a lover of ideas. One of my fears, embarking on this grand adventure, was the terror that I'd feel alone in a crowd. I'm almost 50, I thought -- they'll think I'm the Cryptkeeper. I'm in recovery, I thought. I'll be completely out of place in a big party. There would be me, and there would be 5000 womyn who've known one another for 35 years. This, I thought, is a recipe for disaster. I didn't want to drive for 15 hours and spend all that money to sit under a tree and feel desperately alone.

This is what I did. I had a year before the next Fest. I started to haunt the message boards -- the loving parts of them, where new Festies can get advice and share information. I asked questions. I got to know some names. I exchanged emails with a few generous womyn, and also a few womyn who, like me, were solo and nervous. That way, I started to establish my own "support group" before Fest even started.

I planned my official support activities. There were plenty of recovery meetings, I knew. There were also regular support meetings for womyn alone at Fest, womyn at Fest for the first time, and others. There was the Oasis tent -- the emotional support tent -- where I knew I could just stick my head in and sit for twenty minutes if I felt overwhelmed. In other words... I planned myself a community. I dug around on my regular mailing lists, looking for womyn who were going to Fest. I asked if anyone had friends of friends who were going, and I bit the bullet and sent some emails.

By the time I got to Fest, I knew a handful of people by name. I met some of them at a regularly scheduled meet and greet on Monday night -- then I had some faces to go with the names. I found my internet friends during the week. And every day, I met more womyn. In line for meals, in line at the shower, in line at the Saints concession stand, I met womyn. I didn't go to workshops that first year, but since then I've found that it's a way to meet womyn.

Fest is all about the networking. Between Fests there are camping trips, dances, concerts. There are mailing lists and other ways to keep in touch and make friends. By the time my second year rolled around, I was surprised to realize that me -- the introvert's introvert -- always knew at least one person wherever I went.

It's the sisterhood of the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival. The magic started to happen when I put myself out there... and it really blossomed the more I went back. The web expands. The circle widens.

What a gift!

"Tuesday night is nut loaf"

The womyn line up at the kitchen, weaving between the string-and-post guides. And on Tuesday night, a serenade from a grinning Amazon with apron and spoon. Sing it with me, sisters! (Think Queen. Think "We will rock you." And there it is.)

Modify as needed:

Cook:
400 lb brown rice

Chop:
425 lb onions
310 lb mushrooms
400 lb carrots
400 lb yams
105 bunches parsley

Mince:
13 lb garlic

Cube:
400 lb tofu

Blend:
1.75 lb thyme
1.75 lb marjoram
1.33 lb sage

Measure:
55 lb walnuts
55 lb peanuts
90 lb sunflower seeds
3.5 gal vegetable oil

Grate:
150 lb sharp cheddar cheese

Roast nuts in light oil, stirring constantly. Saute onions, then carrots, then yams, then mushrooms.
Add garlic and herbs; stir through. Add tofu; bring everything to a slow boil and simmer.
Combine veggie/nut mixture with rice and grated cheese.
Note: Make a pot without nuts.

Serve with 7680 pita bread halves and 168 lb tortilla chips.

--Michigan Womyn's Music Festival, 1991

Belonging

"[Womyn] leave the Land knowing they have a place in a matriarchal culture with rich traditions. The Amazon culture built at the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival is a unique culture based on feminist principles, socialist/egalitarian values, and womyn's spiritual traditions. ... It is a culture where womyn's lives, bodies, and experiences are reflected in the art, music, and literature of the culture. It is a culture rich with symbols, myths, and rituals that heal womyn's minds and bodies, unifies them across lines of difference, and empowers them personally in their everyday lives."
--Laurie J. Kendall, The Michigan Womyn's Music Festival: An Amazon Matrix of Meaning

Don't talk. Listen.

The map of the Land shows a main road that forms a rough loop. My impression, then, was that the bus at the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival -- the shuttle -- followed that big loop. The first time I hopped on a shuttle, year 2, I sat there on the side bench trying to make heads or tails of the map above the driver. It showed a line, not a circle, and I didn't yet have a geographic understanding of the various stops by name.

I asked the womyn sitting on the bench with me how long it would take the shuttle to get to the parking lot. (I wasn't going to the parking lot, but I thought it would be useful information for later in the week.) There was some cross-discussion and a little consternation. "This shuttle doesn't go to the parking lot," they said. But I thought the road was a big circle! Those kind womyn finally managed to make me see that the diagram showed two bus routes: one dark green and one dark purple (I hadn't even noticed that the line switched color in the middle). The shuttle with the purple awning for a roof was one route; it went (I think!) Downtown as far as the Acoustic Stage, then turned around and came back. The shuttle with the green awning was the other route; it went all the way to Parking, then turned around and came back. As always on the Land, I was kindly educated by womyn about this long-established culture I'd chosen to enter. All I had to do was ask, and then listen, listen, listen.

As we rattled along, the womyn and I made small talk and laughed. Womyn hopped on and off at the stops. Womyn squished over to make room. There was always a chorus of "So, where are you from?" "This is your first time? Welcome!" "How's your Fest going?" There were smiles, chatter, the day-to-day comfortable talk that feels so much like home. "Honey, I filled the cooler." "Did you put the chairs by the kitchen?" "No, Maia, you can't put on your costume until after we wash your feet."

I don't remember the individuals now, although I retain vague impressions: a couple who were there for the first time, from Texas, and were confused and awestruck; a womon carrying a drum in a case that was almost as big as she was; Gaia girls jumping on and off, or sitting on the back and swinging their legs and laughing together.

I live in a city. I never see little girls ride the bus alone. What empowerment!

All week that second year, I rode shuttles. I loved them! Not to mention, I finally realized: they weren't there to get us places much faster than we could get there by walking. They were there to save our feet and legs, to leave us more energy for dancing or a late-night walk in the woods.

I can't wait for August, when I'll sit and chat, when I'll scoot over to make room for womyn with drums or I'll up to sit on the rail so a sister and her child can have the bench. I'm looking forward to watching the slow green progress of the Land while the shuttles bump along.

It was the listening to womyn that got me there.

The long road behind

"In 1976 we were carving out a space where we could be ourselves--to create, to love, to organize, to be safe and survive--a home to a cultural movement that included music and art that spoke to our lives as womyn, feminists, dykes. Some of who we are now is included in the mainstream culture of today--35 years has seen many changes. And yet it is here on this land of our shared spirit that we walk most true to ourselves--self-loving in the ease of our community, strong and free in the night of the woods, arms and shoulders broad enough to hold all."
--Michigan Womyn's Music Festival 2010 program

The Michigan Womyn's Music Festival has a public transit system! Two bus routes, with buses for able-bodied and differently abled womyn.

My first year, I confess... the buses scared the crap out of me. OK, perhaps that's a slight exaggeration. Maybe intimidation is a better word.

That first year I spent much of the week in a state of general confusion. Fest, like many witchy and sacred and mythical things, is much bigger on the inside than on the outside. Much bigger. One square mile doesn't seem all that big, right? I walk four miles a day, I thought. What's one measly mile? Oh sisters, my sisters... the quaint and foolish hubris of the uninitiated!

That first year, I walked everywhere. I wanted to get to know the Land; I wanted my feet to understand her, I wanted my eyes to see her secrets. I wanted to engage with sisters, who were always happy to turn me around when I got lost, or take pity on me when I helplessly held out my map and asked how to get to the kitchen, the Community Center, the parking lot. (And truth be told, my meanderings in the various neighborhoods rewarded me with some great conversations and camping ideas; and the womyn's homesteads were testaments to artistic spirit, not to mention exceedingly fun to look at.) So... I walked. If I wanted to get to a concert, I walked from my site high-high-high on a hill, down the hill, past the porta-janes clustered at the village hub they call Triangle, down the long paved path, twisting, turning, uphill, downhill. Womyn smile at you, they nod, they're walking in pairs, in groups, alone. They're open and happy. There's the butch nod, the covered yawn (if it's morning), the Festie virgin grin-of-awe as they turn their maps upside-down and try to orient themselves. (That last one I recognized from being on the inside of it.)

Anyhoo.

I walked. I did some math afterward, as I was trying to figure out how I'd manage to lose ten pounds in a week. My campsite was a mile from the area called Downtown, where most of the action takes place -- Night Stage, the kitchen, the Cntree Store. Every morning I was schlepping to the kitchen tent, grabbing breakfast in my covered Tupperware, and schlepping back to my site to drink coffee and look at the program. Two miles. Then I'd spend the morning walking (to workshifts, to places I wanted to see, back to the parking lot with dirty laundry, to Day Stage, to the Crafts area to windowshop, carrying my water bottles to the tap to fill them, taking my towel to the shower for a quick rinse). Call it two miles. Then at lunchtime, I'd schlep to my site, grab my dishes, go get lunch, then take it back to my site. Two miles. Then all afternoon, more schlepping. Two miles. Dinner? Two miles. Night Stage? Two miles. As the amazing Festie Toshi Reagon says, "There and back again." And again. And again.

Call it ten miles a day, give or take (probably twelve). For a week.

I'll say this: my feet got to understand the Land, and my eyes saw some of her secrets, and I was very, very content. But year two? MWMF has a public transit system! Two bus routes, with buses for able-bodied and differently abled womyn.

(to be continued)

Sacred gates

Spirit of the wind carry me...

Spirit of the wind carry me home...

Spirit of the wind carry me home to myself

Ubaka Hill, "Nightflight," Shapeshifters

The amazing Ubaka Hill leads the Drumsong Orchestra at the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival.

The womyn are silent in the predawn on the dark country road. If you're an early riser, though, like me, just when the world is cracking from black to silver, when the trees are still silhouettes against a barely lighter sky and the cars hulk like sleeping dragons, you can shuffle down the long, long hill. There's a clearing, a bit of space to stand in, sand and brown grass, and all of a sudden over there the mist rises in a vast open field. Green trees, green grass, striped tents, and silence. A sleeping city, out of time. You can stand there and watch the first glints of sunshine, you can watch the sky stretch itself open, and you can walk right to the gates, the only woman in the world, and touch the letters, those letters lovingly painted with dancing womyn and drums. If you're like me, you touch those letters in the predawn stillness when the world feels ancient and kind. If you're like me, you cry.

Dark into light

In the small hours of Monday morning I made my way in the Michigan night, following the directions that had come with my ticket. A mile along a country road, two miles along another one, four miles here, watch for that turn... Rounded numbers that made me afraid I'd miss a more-subtle turn in the dark. And was it dark! It was a flavor of midnight that an east-coast city woman never has a chance to get accustomed to, no matter how many nights she spends camping. My little old car, the size of a roller skate and packed to the gunwales with gear (and there's another story), chugged along while I squinted into the pie-slice of my high beams and worried, exhausted, that I'd end up irretrievably lost.

I spotted a pair of headlights coming up the deep blackness behind me. They were far away but moving faster than my map-reading was allowing me to drive. A truck. Uh-oh, I thought. Who's out here in a truck the middle of the night? Could be a farmer. Could be something much more dangerous.

Suddenly I wasn't just anxious anymore; I was out-and-out afraid. I was afraid like a lone woman in the dark is always afraid--that terror instinct that the straight white men I've known, not conditioned to be prey animals, never quite understand. The reflexive fear tightened my gut as I squeezed the wheel. Hide, I thought immediately, a reaction as automatic as a hand jerking from a hot stove. But no, there was no hiding on this stretch of barren midnight road. When 'hide' isn't an option, the prey instinct says, 'Don't be a threat. Make yourself little, too insignificant to be worth their while. Hope they go away.' I pulled over to let the truck speed past.

It went past, all right, but it didn't speed. Instead, it slowed, a dirty, beat pickup truck with New York plates. A dozen feet ahead, it stopped,  close enough that I could read the bumper sticker. "See you in August."

It was a woman! A Fest woman! She had no idea who I was on this back country road, she had no reason to stop, there was no reason on earth for her to pause her journey. But she did! That stranger from New York, she waited on the road until I fell in behind her, and without ever having exchanged a word with me, she slowed her pace so I could follow her all the way to the line outside the gates.

That was my very first experience with MWMF Festival magic, and what it could be like to live in a cooperative world of loving womyn.

 ~~~

Life ain't that heavy

If you look to the light

See one side of things for most of my life, I'm tired

If life gives you just a moment of bliss

Don't take that minute to bitch how long it took you to get it

This is a ride of a lifetime, this is a ride of a lifetime

And all you really need to be happy

All you really need to be happy

All you really need to be happy

All you really need to be happy

All you really need to be happy

Happy, happy...

Laughin' my ass off on a path in Michigan.

--Hanifah Walidah, "Happy," Black Patti

(Hanifah Walidah sang this during Opening Ceremonies of Michigan Womyn's Music Festival 35.)

Beginnings

"We recognize it is with conscious effort and intention that we are each here at this very moment on the Land. Together we create a time and space to be in community--a breathing place to stoke the precious flame that fuels our female spirit throughout the year. Relaxed, open, engaged, and strong--we move toward who we are meant to be."
--Michigan Womyn's Music Festival program, 2011

I came out late: at 40, after a marriage and a life fueled by grossly unsuccessful strategies for avoiding my various truths. As part of my coming out process--my learning to understand the core of me--I found Fest online. I read the message boards fiercely, I found blog entries and journals and books. My forward progress into community was interrupted when I went to grad school, but when I graduated, when I was finally where I needed to be, I opened the door again. I went to MWMF for the first time in 2010, when I was 49 years old. I was solo and single, and I drove 17 hours, terrified but determined.

A river of birds

There's a river of birds in migration
A nation of women with wings.
--Libana

The Michigan Womyn's Music Festival is my "river of birds." See you in August, my sisters!