Travel Diary, Day 1

First pitstop, Illinois. I stop to change my pad, as my blood started first thing this morning and I have no interest in managing the washing of cloth pads and period underwear while traveling. As I walk past the Illinois sign in front of the rest area, I remember how my brother would make me stop in every state on roadtrips, even if we didn’t need to, just so he could get out and walk around. Not for any purpose other than to accumulate new ground on the soles of his shoes. He never wanted new footwear, keeping the same pair of sneakers or boots way past when they were even functional anymore, just so that he could continue to collect the places they had walked. I know he tracked it somewhere in his consciousness, a tally of whereabouts those soles had trodden. He was nothing if not poetic. I smile at the memory of my brother, dead now 16 years, as I wash my hands and walk out. One state down, six more to go.

I am on my way from Wisconsin to Forest & Village, a three day event celebrating the biological rites of passage for women that will be taking place in the white mountains of New Hampshire. I haven’t been in those mountains in years. I haven’t seen some of those women in years either. But they represent a time in my life that seems like ages ago, a time when I really started to step into my work.

Knowing that so many beloveds will be gathering together reminds me of those who are no longer here, who would have been at such a gathering were they still in the flesh. I touch my grief for those gone as I prepare myself for this transformational experience. I have no idea what is on the other side of this. I doubt it will be earth-shattering or life-changing in any seriously significant way, the way these kinds of events used to be for me. But I know that “when women gather, magic happens” (even if the woman who I associate with that phrase is full of shit, at least that phrase is still true).

I bring baskets of herbs and flowers, dried after their use of beautifying my home and celebrating my daughter‘s accomplishments in her theatrical endeavors, as offerings for the fire. I bring boxes of the medicines that I make and copies of my book, the bins heavy in the back of the truck. And I bring my heart on duty, the word medicine that I know lives inside my soul, that I trust to come out in just the right way at just the right moments if I keep myself aligned. I bring sage and cedar and sweet grass and tobacco. I bring a longing in my heart to be of service, my womb emptying its blood so that I can arrive primed to show up with all my energy.

I’m looking forward to seeing my friends. I’m looking forward to touching the Earth and sleeping outside and listening to bird song as the sun rises. I’m looking forward to being by flowing water again. The stagnancy of Wisconsin lakes is getting to me. I miss the sea. And while I know I won’t be at the ocean, I will be in the mountains where I once camped with my father as a child. I will be back in the territory that I grew up visiting regularly. I will be back among my people. In many ways, it feels like I am going home. After all, I did grow up out there. I wish my family could be with me, and I’m also grateful for the solitude. It has been a long time since I have had such a stretch of solitude. Any anxiety that I had leading up to this trip is melting away as the miles travel underneath my wheels. I am back on the open road again. Free.

* * * * * *

In Indiana, I stop to pee and wash my face of the tears that have been streaming down it for the last half hour. Plus, I’ve gotta get some Indiana on my shoes before it’s all gone, in honor of Laszlo. This time on the road is giving my thoughts the space they have not yet had to fully drop into the ceremony for honoring mothers that I will be facilitating on Saturday night. I have been astonishing myself with the ferocity and strength of my own words as I prepare. While not completely surprised by the passion and the power that lies within me regarding the state of motherhood and the importance of honoring those who are tending our young ones, entering in to the ceremonial preparation does alter me somewhat. The tears flow freely as I practice the words that I have been longing for years to say to a group of mothers, to have somebody say to me. We do not carry this alone. The state of motherhood and of birth in our world today is not OK. And our Earth is not OK because of it. The way we treat mothers matters, more than we might even realize.

I’ve released the fear and concern that I had about showing up at this event, having been one of the few vocal women on our preparatory calls to stand in the space that trans women are different from biologically born women. Somehow this perspective has become controversial in the last 10+ years. Somebody has to be willing to stand in the sacredness of what biological women are born with, without cow-towing to the aggressive narrative of identity politics. Might as well be me. But I won’t let this topic be what distracts or separates me from the other women coming together to do this good work. That is what this narrative is designed to do, and I won’t let it. I’m not coming to Forest & Village for the trans conversation. I am coming to Forest & Village for the mothers. I am standing for them.

I weep as I consider the task before me, gazing at the grace and beauty of the large owl feather that sits on my dashboard. I picked it up at Sundance this year after tending to an elder’s cramping legs. It felt very much like a gift from the spirits for taking care of one of the helpers this way, a gift that came with a beautiful teaching as well (like what happens when you forget to put tobacco down for something that you pick up off the Sundance grounds). At our Sundance the owl is not taboo like it is in some other communities. It even has its own direction on the medicine wheel, right next to the eagle. Not surprising I guess, for a Sundance started by a man named Sam Little Owl. I love our Sundance so much.

This gift I plan to use to honor and brush off the mothers with cedar as they stand around the fire. I feel overwhelmed with gratitude and the gravity of it all. Maybe I will come away from this gathering transformed after all. I hope I don’t crack under the weight of my own tears. I hope I can do my own prayer justice. I know it will be powerful if I can pull it off.

I write myself a script, not so that it can become a performance, but so that I don’t forget these important things that I wish to say. Will I have a chance to memorize it while I’m driving across the country? Probably not. But I want to capture it anyhow. If it doesn’t change my life, it might just change someone else’s, and isn’t that the medicine I’m wanting to bring? Isn’t that why I am doing this? So that someone else can come out of it feeling a little more whole, a little more held, a little more free? How arrogant I am, thinking that I might be that person for someone else. How arrogant I am, to take credit for what my altered state shows me is clearly something that is coming from somewhere much larger than my little self anyhow. This larger thing that I have been in service to for many years now, ever deepening on my path of understanding what that even means. After over 20 years of spiritual work, I still feel like such a baby on the path sometimes.

I wash my face with the warm water that comes out of the faucets at the travel stop and dry it with some of the roll of paper towel sitting on the counter. Cold water would’ve been nicer, but I take what I can get. I walk back to my truck, road weary but determined. I’ve still got a lot of miles to cover if I wanna make it to Erie by tonight. The caffeine from the Excedrin that I took to stave off the migraine that has been haunting me since last night makes my hands shake. I don’t have the space to crawl into bed and sleep it off as I normally would if I want to get there on time. Sometimes western medicine is helpful - especially when we just need to power through our symptoms instead of tending to the deeper root they are revealing. But still here I am, grateful to be on this journey. A woman who knows her place and her purpose.

Five more states to go. Pennsylvania is my goal for tonight, but we will see how far through Ohio I manage to get. Anyone who has driven across the eastern part of the country knows what a fucking horribly long and boring state Ohio can be.

* * * * * * *

Just outside of Erie, PA I arrive at a campground a few hairs past sunset. I was lucky enough to drive through Ohio mostly not noticing, as I spent the hours on the phone with a dear friend that I hadn’t spoken to in months. Through rain storms and even a flooded portion of highway, I talked my way through the state, catching up on each other’s lives. As I enter into the small strip of Pennsylvania I will pass through, a pink rainbow appears shooting a straight line to earth from the clouds, lit by the glorious sunset which I catch glimpses of through the trees.

I arrive at the camp and I’m welcomed in by a kind man maybe 20 years my senior. He unlocks the office door to let me inside and it’s like stepping back in time. The camp office smells vaguely reminiscent of my grandparents attic apartment where I would stay when we visited them in the summers as a child in the 80s. In fact, my first thought upon entering is “this place smells like the 80s.” A few cookout supplies and condiments line the whitewashed walls. There is a refrigerator stocked with soft drinks and hot dogs for sale.

The man asks if I would prefer a cabin with a shower or no shower. After deeply inhaling my own stench for the last hour, I quickly reply “shower.” To which he tells me that there will be an additional cost. “How much?” I ask him, even though I don’t really care and will likely pay whatever he quotes me anyway. He fumbles through some books and says “I don’t usually handle that kind of thing. Maybe about $20?” I nod. He fumbles around some more, flipping through some keys on the wall. He can’t find the information he’s looking for, so he says “I’ll just charge you the same rate.” I smile and thank him for his generosity, and only then do I realize that he’s wearing a Trump T-shirt. I pause and wonder how one could still be in support of our clearly maligned “commander in chief,” but this man is kind, and as kindness seems like such a rarity in today’s world I take his at face value. I accept the keys as he guides me back outside, cautioning me to watch my step as the pavement drops. He closes up the office, steps into his little golf cart and drives away, wishing me a pleasant stay.

I drive up the road in the direction that he has pointed me to find my little cabin nestled in the woods, the smell of campfires wafting through my open windows along the way. I step inside to find a perfectly clean, pine-paneled little cabin with a queen size bottom bunk, a sagging pull out futon couch, a small sink, mini fridge, and a closet-sized bathroom with a toilet and shower. Everything I will need for a 1 night stay. And there is air conditioning! Perfect for this sweltering humidity, that already has sweat beading up on my forehead from my brief jaunt into the cabin. I’m in heaven.

I turn on the AC to cool off the place and head back outside, deciding to walk down to the lake before darkness has completely taken over. I hear the little pitter patter of gentle raindrops on the leaves as I walk through the canopy of trees down the steep rocky road to the lakeside. Most people are walking in the opposite direction now that the show is over, the sun having set about an hour ago already. I come to the beach and find a giant fire pit with a fire still going, clearly started - and abandoned - by those who were enjoying the sunset before me. The beach is deserted, the crackling of the campfire and gentle splashing on the shore the only sounds, along with a few distant barks of someone’s dog. Despite the mildly funky stench emanating from the water, I take off my shoes and step into the cool wetness, joyfully feeling the sand between my toes, soaking in the final glimmers of fading light before the sky turns completely dark and the stars take over. After hours of lumbering down the interstate in my pick up, this feels like bliss. Lake Erie. I feel at home in water as big as this. I drink it in with all my senses, but my road weariness starts to get the better of me and I figure I had better head back up that hill before what’s left of my energy gives out. Time for sleep.