Unmooring to Connect: Holistic Feminisms
It's around nine in the morning, and the wind has just whipped loose
a dome that three people built last night. Several of the PVC pipes that
made its frame have cracked or slipped out of place; sections of the
fabric meant to provide us shelter from the harsh desert sun—and
wind—are now ripped. The dome is no longer seamless or secure; there are
openings in unintended places, and we have to relocate it, fast.
This was meant to be our central shared space for the weekend—a space
for introductions in just a few minutes, for workshops later, for a few
people to sleep at night. It was built last night by three young women
who arrived early to start setting up our campsite, expecting others to
arrive and pitch in throughout the evening, but as dark took over the
huge desert and stars denser than many of us city people had ever seen
burst overhead, most of us were still driving from L.A., trying to find
our way on dark dirt roads. So just those three had made this dome in
the cool, starlit night to serve as a place to gather and eat whenever
the rest of us, including the pair who were bringing dinner, found our
way here. Last night people entered the dome as they arrived, ate,
laughed, played music. One or two people slept in it. (The rest of us
were in tents or trailers.) Earlier this morning we all had breakfast in
the dome, again on our own paces, as we woke up.
And now the sun is full and bright, so we can see all the
just-emerging wildflowers—really so wild, out here in this desert that
seems so not likely to nurture something like a flower, yet they
are not just one kind of flower or one color but wild in their
variety. I couldn't get over it as I walked alone just after sunrise,
these white-and-pink bunches
and these
purple and blue blossoms and these green pods or what were they,
strange-to-me shapes, with red markings—there was no reason I
could see that these flowers needed to be not only here but here and
various—in shape, in color, in texture—in such seemingly inhospitable
soil. But here they were, incredible. And what do I know? Just like what
did I know under those stars last night, except some vague sense that I
believed in them—that's the phrase that came to my mind as I
looked up, thinking, I believe in you, stars. Whatever that means,
exactly. (It means something inexact, but strong.)
It's mid-morning now. We were about to enter the dome to come
together as a whole group for the first time. And here comes the wind. A
strong gust pulls the dome from its spot in the ground, loosens several
of the plastic tubes that compose its frame—they go cracking and
slipping—tears its fabric.
We run toward it. Some of us know just what to do and some of us have
no idea how to save or repair or otherwise address this, but we move
toward it anyway, try to help. We are on all sides, lifting the big dome
up and over things and into a spot we think will be less affected by
later winds; we're looking around for objects that might hold the stakes
more firmly in the dry desert earth; pulling hard, two and three of us
at a time, at the supporting pipes, trying to bend them back into shape
and position; grunting at the effort; laughing. Soon the dome is
reconstructed, if a little more airy from the tears in the fabric, and
in a new location. We all go inside.
This was the beginning of the 2010 Pachamama Skillshare Retreat,
organized by an L.A.-based, young-feminist-of-color-led group called
Women's Creative
Collective for Change.[1]
The skillshare was held in the desert
near Joshua Tree National Park, a couple hours outside L.A., in April.
Over the course of a weekend, participants taught each other how to use
plants as medicine, how to make seed balls to incite the growth of
wildflowers in earthy interstices in cemented urban habitats, how to
holistically treat depression, how to use family stories for healing and
organizing, and more. There was a workshop on self-gynecological-care
that didn't narrowly bind genitalia to gender, one on capoeira, and one
on radical childraising. Throughout the weekend, new connections were
made, relationships were built, organizing projects were hatched. People
took time alone or with others to move reflectively through the desert;
we made art and cooked and ate together, and more.
A space for women and gender-variant people, the Pachamama Skillshare
was attended primarily by people of color of many different ethnicities.
It had been organized by mostly young women of color who, with no
institutional support and limited financial resources, managed to create
a weekend-long event that was free to attend, and this included not only
the programming and lodging but all meals and childcare. They even
organized carpools and provided camping gear for people who needed it,
so anyone could literally attend without spending a dime. This was
possible in part because participants and supporters shared resources to
make it happen—workshop leaders and organizers volunteered their time
and skills; one of the organizer's teachers shared her family's land
freely; food was donated by Food Not Bombs, and several participants
cooked for everyone; participants and their friends loaned equipment,
and the organizers raised funds through a bake sale. About 35 people
attended. We came from different local feminist collectives, or just on
our own; we didn't all know each other beforehand; we were rooted in
different communities, ranged in age from 18 months to fortysomething,
and had a host of different abilities, skills, wisdoms, and experiences
to share. And share we did.
I left at the end of the weekend feeling inspired and more sure than
ever that we do have the skills, wisdom, and resources we need to create
systems—communities, ways of living—that are just and sustainable, if
only we weren't under the pervasive pressure of a system that keeps most
of us too tired and busy and twisted up—too stolen from, too
colonized—to do it.
Page: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8
Next page
|
