Good Morning Sweet Spirits!

I am excitedly here to ask for your support in femmeifesting funds so myself & two other community healers can attend the Allied Media Conference (AMC) in Detroit, Michigan next week!  The gaggle of community healers who are going on this trip include myself, my kiddo Panda, & our friend Mindy.

WHO ARE WE?
Panda & I are an indigenous femme mom panda & baby pandafemme duo.  Together, we do intergenerational healing together & inspire others by sharing our truths & showing up again & again for each other & our communities near & far.  

Panda is a 10-year-old babe genius Ancestor who likes to spend their free time drawing, playing video games, & sharing the events of the day.  They are not into femmephobia, apocalyptic movies with natural disaster themes, or feeling ignored.  

I, Lettie, still can't believe I made it to 31.  Every year feels like a scary miracle.   As a community healer, I frequently hold space & inspire others to connect with their healing by sharing my own healing process, communing with the Ancestors, & paying close attention to the signs that are always there.  

Mindy & I met at a backyard party late fall of 2012.  Mindy is a white, raised middle class, community healer whose vision of community care & revolutionary accessibility overlaps my own.  She has kept me alive on more than one occasion, never shaming me for how I navigate the fucked up shit that happens to me.  Mindy's attendance means that I can focus on volunteering at the Healing Justice Space & fine tuning my presentation because I know that we both care about Panda & Panda trusts her.  

WHY ARE WE GOING?
I am volunteering for the second year at AMC's Healing Justice Space & co-presenting "Femme of Color Altar-Making Healing Space" in the Femme 4 Femme Track.  When I asked Panda why they felt it was important to go again, they said, "I want to go there because there's amazing people that I like, people that I get to know, people like me...probably...stuff like that.  It feels really nice!  I feel safe!  I like it."  Mindy will be volunteering with child care as part of her dream and working towards having spaces with youth, with child care, with food, reciprocity and love. 

As community healers, it is so valuable for us to spend time with other community healers, organizers, & visionaries that inspire us, hold us, & recognize who we are.  AMC is a place where we can fill up so we can come back to Salt Lake & continue to love, give, witness, name, & survive for ourselves, each other, & probably you. 

WHAT DO WE NEED?
We need your support through reposts, signal boosts, & sharing with your networks!  We also need donations, $5, $10, $20--every dollar really matters & helps us tremendously!  Our goal is $900, & so far we have $15.  $900 would cover transportation, lodging, & food for 3 people.  We gotta drive because flying is outrageously expensive for us.

• $250 for a car rental 
• $200 for gas
• $300 for housing
• $150 for food

You can donate to your Paypals at: [email protected] or [email protected]!  If you can, send it via the friends & family option so we can receive all of your generosity! 

Often the work we do as cultural workers, as holders, containers for communities, as community healers, is not widely heralded due to the way fucked up systems erase our value, demeans & exploit our labour, & pretends like we anyone could do what we do.  Well, if that was true, things would be different.  So show solidarity & support for us as community healers & help us reach our goal!  We'll be here, pushing, crying, grieving, holding, organizing, dreaming, & living our lives despite it all.

XOXO

i try real hard not to feel it.  to always be three moves ahead.  to fall asleep first.  to come first.  to lie to my cute face as i put my makeup on first.  to become steel & bone first.  to acquire a new lipstick & read poems aloud first.  i have journals full of tricks just i don't have to feel it.  but even my brown femme fortitude has limitations.  & every now & then i find myself busted open at my seams.

tonight i teeter on that tender seam brink as i haul my not-so-small panda babe into the house, guiding them by their arm, hoping not to drop too many things.  as i usher them into our depression-storm of a mess room, i urge them onto their side of the bed, "the corner, baby, scoot into your corner."  i feel bad for not being tidier, & then i remind myself that we're alive, & that that counts.  i think about writing these words down, & make myself a strawberry promise.  i wonder if i will always strain to make a life outta shit circumstances, & tell myself, i hope not.  

i count & recount the number of years i have been alone, & finally conclude that it really is nine.  i think about how years ago i was simply giddy about being untethered, wanted nothing to do with it, was eager to brave being my own wild companion.  but that was before all of the community fallouts & heart shatters, before the blood moon betrayals, back when i had a lover to fuck me so good i forgot my name, every wednesday morning, like clock work.  i've since learned heartache makes the lonely years feel longer.

again & again, i try to find comfort in knowing that i'd rather be alone than with an asshole or someone who is harming me but calling it love.  that i'd really rather cry myself to sleep & pray to the moon & talk to my grandmother's spirit than try to fall into slumber next to someone who can't see me or love me or let me in.  though sometimes these comforts feel too small for my whale heart, & then i just wail.  i cry & sob & bring down the house.  i make sure to get the sorrow deep down in the guts & make sure all the gods & goddesses know that i am angry at being this alone.  & then i curl up on my bed, sometimes holding myself sometimes not, & peel out that soft & lonely words, i still love you.

there are times when this is enough, & i can calm down enough to pick a show & binge on some episodes.  or i call a friend & talk about these feels out loud.  but there are also times when it isn't, & i'm afraid my heart will bleed out & i curse all the lovers who failed me, who cut me, who made me believe i was less than.  i berate my tender heart for loving so many, for falling for so many, for being so goddamn open all the fucking time.  i look at myself in the mirror & wonder what is wrong with me, then make myself mashed potatoes with lots of butter & listen to my sad playlists on relentless repeat. my only hope on these kinds of days is sleep.  knock me out kinda sleep.  fuck the world kind of sleep.  thank god i don't have to stay in this world kinda sleep.  the next morning i usually wake up with that glow that only comes from sobbing your face off, & the sensation of having no skin is thick.  i make sure to hydrate more than usual, then go about my day.  one breathe on front of the other.

i resent feeling lonely, that sometimes i have to say it, name it, grieve it, accept it.  i also resent wanting the opposite of lonely, of wanting companionship, of wanting to be in some kinda --ship with someone who can love me in all the ways i do & in new ways i haven't yet.  because i do, i want something more than this loneliness, to make love to something other than this loneliness, to feel something other than an echo in my body at night.  

i'm not sure where this is going, if anywhere, or how to bring this to a close before i open a can of worms that requires me to cry all night my myself, but this is good enough.  this fucking feels like one of the most vulnerable things i've ever written.  this is who i am when no one is looking.  who i am beneath the leo in venus charisma.  who i am beneath the eyebrow that raises involuntarily.  good night.  & send me tender heart woo if you'd like to & can.

deer lovely luscious luminous lettie,
i love you.  you make me proud to be the moon, the way you talk about being a high moon femme, the way you see me, even when i am void of light.  people think i am at my most powerful when i am full, when i can light up rooms with my midnight beams, but they are mistaken.  

it is when i hold that sweet & tender darkness that i am most powerful.  this is something you know.  i see you putting out your bowls of crystals & flowers to soak of my darkness beneath that tree in your backyard.  i see you scan the horizons trying to find my outline.  i see you writing poems & casting spells.

your prayers are nestled tightly together in the craters of my timeless hands, just so you know.  so are the tears that you swallow, my landscape made up of super fine salt.  when you cry at night, i come through your window & hold you.  i miss the baberation, too, because that eastward window was a direct route to your precious brown fat femme body!  i looked forward to those phases, too!

this is the first letter i've sent in a while.  i feel kinda silly, i hope it makes it to you.  there's so much to say, but i don't have all the words.  i want you to know that we are real, that we are kin, that you are not alone, that you can never be alone.  i know you get fucked with a lot, & believe me when i say that when you curse those that hurt you to never gaze upon me the same again, it's real!  

those failed lovers hide from my blazey gleam & only steal glances from behind curtains or while briskly walking to their cars.  in the same way their mouth can never hold your name softly in their mouths, no longer can their heart feel excited when i come up over that horizon.  i do burn through their bedspreads, haunt them daily, & even when in my darkness, they dream of my cold heat.  you know, in case you were wondering.  

i can't wait for summer, for late night communion with you.  it feels like magic when the sun & i are in the sky at the same time in those special early summer mornings--let's meet there.  bring me flowers that match the lavender swath of sky, peach to match my blush, & surprise me with something that matches our hearts.  

i gotta go get ready for my full moon in sagittarius debut!  & you better get to sleep (i saw that yawn)!  i love you, & i am so deeply proud.  thank you for deciding to stay.

loving you always,
the moon

One of my deepest, most tender life dreams is to be able to financially support myself & Panda (my kiddo) doing healing work. Through out this process, I've learned that refining one's vision is important because to be flexible & honest about what feels good & is working (or not working) is to let the dream/work breathe & live. This is me trusting my own process, & thank you for witnessing!

This, here, is my newest incarnation of my tarot card reading business dream, High Moon Femme Tarot.  I began reading tarot cards 10 years ago, mostly for close friends & often in my home or theirs.  But over the years, as I've had my own cards read, the same message would come up over & over: When was I gonna claim my place in the world as a healer & share my gifts with others who need what I have to offer?  I've decided to use my energy & efforts to bring this dream to fruition.  What better use, right?  (Gah, this feels so vulnerable, but there is no way around it.)  

One magical femme babe in Queens, NY had this to share about High Moon Femme Tarot:

I am offering introductory & referral specials to help boost my business!  So please help me put my Pluto femme powers to good use & visit www.highmoonfemmetarot.com

• First time clients receive $5 off a 30 minute session, $10 off a 60 minute session, & $15 off a 90 minute session.
  
• Receive $5 off your next reading when you refer a friend.  Make sure they let me know who sent them my way!
  

I hope to read for you soon!  XOXO

i am tired.  i am hungry.  when is my life gonna feel good for longer than a few months?  when is everything gonna stop feeling so damn hard?  when can i finally exhale-hale-hale?

i meant this to be some kind of gratitude list, but that feels so hard right now.  i am back in SLC after a week in LA, & i feel so lonely, so subtly devastated that this place is so awful.  i feel under appreciated here, & i don't often enough get to spend time with the ones that do because we are all busy, either with families or jobs or simply our own survival.

this is a selfie of me on day 6 in LA last week.  this was me after two trips to the ocean to pray & play.  this was me after a drive up the coast talking & listening to a deer friend.  this was me after my sistar invited me over for homemade caldo & vegan carrot cake with no raisins.  this is me after a femme of color fundraiser that i went to with tiny shirts coven babe member & we talked for hours in the car about desire & how we're trying to heal.  this was me after finding a giant piece of black tourmaline for $20 on mother's day.  this was me after the sweetest posts & texts from beloved femmeily & family.  this is me after having fried chicken for dinner & finally finishing season 6 of buffy & witnessing her relief of not having to save the world for fucking once.  this is me after femme of color yoga & sweet sweet femme reunion with someone who changed my life with the simple question of, "how do you feel loved?  & how can i do that for you?"  this is me after so many deep tears finally had enough distance & support to come out.  this is me remembering who i am.  

& these are cute flowers from my neighbors tree, whose petals are all gone now & i'm glad i seized the moment so i could share how beautiful we both are.  all the time.  

the first summer i experienced displacement & houselessness as a bonafide adult with a child, i was enrolled in summer classes at the university.  one of my classes was intro to drawing, twice a week, three hours per class.

prior to taking this course, i was familiar with chalk pastels, comfortable with the way i could draw what i could & then smear the rest.  i enjoyed the way chalk was messy, evidence all over my fingers, unintentionally all over my paper, & most often on other unintended articles of clothing, table tops, door knobs.  

at twice a week, in three hour increments, i fell in love with drawing just like i fall in love with everything else--slowly, cautiously, almost begrudgingly, then whole whole whole heartedly.  i was afraid i'd be bad at it, frustrated at my lack of easy line making skill.  i also wanted to like what i was drawing, be wow!-ed at my marvelous abilities, but it just wasn't happening like that.  

committment (eeek!) to the process helped.  i think the only class i had to miss was when i had to make sure all my shit was packed & the place cleaned before we embarked on the journey of what the fuck do we do now?  it also helped that i could flip to the first page in my drawing pad & see that i was actually making progress & not just saying that to make myself feel better.  week by week, the hours flew by with quicker, sweeter ease than i expected.  

ink & graphite are my favorite tools to create with, i learned.  i love the way ink makes that scratchy sound as i drag the tip across the soft & subtle grain, how i can feel the way graphite wants to yawn all over that 130 g/m squared paper.  & with each inanimate object i drew, i found myself stilled at my core in a way akin to meditation.  this, too, became my practice at accepting what is.  i was introduced to charcoal & a variety of pencil densities, but when final project time came around, it was ink that i decided to bang my heart out with.

for my last still i chose a photograph of me & newborn panda babe, with their little head on my chest, & my eyes closed in this totes tender mama way.  its one of my favorite photos of us (that i actually haven't been able to find since).  as background, i chose a basket, their baby blanket, & one of their cheesy smelling shoes with iconic vans checkered panels on the side.  it was an ode to us that i never finished.  i drew everything but us.  i was too afraid of fucking it up, which says everything there is to know about me.  

i am still here, afraid of fucking us up, on femmecation trying to call my spirit back to my body & fill us with more than sadness & survival.  & i bought myself a tiny, 6in. x 8in., 80 lb., spiral bound at the top, drawing pad.  & this is my first doodle in years.  i like it.  its not perfect, & i like it.  a  lot.

i'll always love you.  May 2015.

*cw: self-harm talk, referencing familial trauma, & lots of feels that can be intense in this poem.

my roots are tangled & curved
complicated & dangerous
this is how i feel when
dentist after dentist says
i don’t do those kinds of root canals

15 is wreaking havoc on my life today
mouth wide
hands in
i hear them say 15 
& am immediately transported to 15

quadrant by quadrant, my back teeth are falling ill
about a month before the pain slipped through
i shared a dream with two of my friends
prompted by a card i drew from my tarot deck
it was about teeth
my dream was about crumble
the sun burned my friend
i hoped i was wrong

front right center i am dead
i fell out of the car one evening
& broke my teeth more than in half

it was evening, & we were driving back from
visiting my mom on her break
the lamps along side the railroad track 
shone matching sunset orange
& i wasn’t wearing a seatbelt as i fought
for the last taco with one of my sisters,
the youngest of whom was next to me

i assume the pothole that slowed us down was also
the culprit
all i remember was arguing & then 
my body wrapping itself around my sister & then
air wrapping itself around us & then
lifting myself up off the gravel &
knowing immediately that
my teeth were gone

i always wondered if we’d have found them if we had looked

that was the same time i became my mother’s mother
bore witness to the remains of her childhood,
collected her whimpers & the questions that hung like muscle
& tucked them into her peach blanket
sang her the saddest song on the radio from memory

that was the same time that i began to pull out my hair
& when i found the name
:trichotillomania 
in my mother’s DSM IV
five years later
i let out a five-year-old sigh

my bald spots made the shame worse,
made my mother angry,
& i never had answers for the
found sandwich bags of hair 
i would collect from the floor

at this same time, my self-hate began
to solidify a presence in my small brown body
desperately urging me to scratch my skin
til blood came to surface
this is what i did the night 
i didn’t have the nerve to run away

my mom took my teal & pink backpack, 
with all the zippered pockets, into the bathroom
& i pressed my face to the carpet & watched her feet
listened to her cry as she rummaged through the pockets
of things i don’t remember 
except for the this:
the photo booth picture of her & i
black & white
she still in braces
my pigtails small & a top my baby faced head
both of smiling

Author's Note:  This piece is obvi unfinished, but has been sitting in my drafts box for a while.  I want to share now because Full Moon in Scorpio feels like letting this story breathe because not only did I survive it, I am recognizing what I can take from it now.  This is important because for the years that I've carried it, it has felt so fucking unbearable, so deeply painful.  It no longer has the sting of taking from me.  The tide has changed, & I welcome it.

as they cut your heart out seam by seam with their soft sighs, you come a little each time, without falter or blush.  you both deny you’ve fallen in love, but continue to do the things lovers do: say i’m sorry, write love letters, & lie. 

you sit in their kitchen, pretending your not allergic to the cat who recklessly flirts with your legs.  you are there to read tarot cards, & in exchange, they are cooking you dinner.  you remember this reading for too long a time, & your heart will break more because you thought you knew them.  you are both wrong & not wrong.  

this is the same dinner, they will later confess to you, they should have never cooked.  everything was deliberate because this is the first time they admitted to themselves how much they wanted to be alone with you.  the dish is so delicious you will ask for it again three months later when they throw a birthday party for you.    

when they drop the pan fresh from the oven, they’ll curse & bashful & promise not to serve you sullied squash.  you are smitten & keep your ass put & tell them its ok.  before they drive you home later, they tell you they have a twin sister & they share a poem with you about their sweetie.  this is the same sweetie that never likes you, never trusts you.  nobody talks about this, except you with yourself.  

magnificent.
breath taking.
beautiful.
these are words they use to describe you.

on your way to your crash & burn there are lots of sweet things. there’s an almost date thing where they pick you in their car & insist on paying with their groupon.  you want to wear something short because they complimented your legs that one time, but utah springs are more like a sloppy winter, & if you showcase your lovely gams too soon, that might tip them off.  your motto is always play it cool, so you wear pants that hug your ass instead. nobody says a word about how much this feels like a date, but you both feast with your eyes, have each other for dessert.  

you say, nobody ever tells me when they fall in love with me, but i know.  & then you smile.  

they say, oh, how can that be, & smile back.  this is when you begin to notice that look you come to call i am the center of everything good.  sweetie & i are opening our relationship.  i can kiss people now, everything but hands down pants.  

the next night you both go to the club you no longer frequent & you kiss them.  this is the second kiss the two of you share at the club you no longer frequent.  this becomes the summer of self denial.

you write poems about the first time they say i love you, how they tried  to cancel plans because of a migraine, but in the end texted, fuck it, i’m coming over.  you hide how much it means to you when they show up with yellow flowers & the smile you can never get enough of.  you love these flowers more than any other flowers in your whole life until this moment.  the yellow flowers live longer than most in your purple vase. this is the night they tell you, i’m afraid i’m not gonna be at your table for forever because i am not good enough.  you comfort them with promises neither one of you keep, but you still believe the words that are coming out of your mouth.  

that night, in your living room with felt for carpet, you kiss them before they go home.  it feels awkward, but you both want it so much you don’t care that your lips clench with overload of desire, or that they’re dry, making your lips stick together when your kiss is done.  on their way out in your stairwell they, look back & say, i love you, & you echo it back back back.

you don’t wild make out like you want before shit gets bad, but you do snuggle & hold hands at the movies & sit in their car for hours as the moon yawns across the sky.  you read them stories in bed until after midnight about finding home.  you stay with their twin sister for a few days in the summer summer, & then the two of them throw you a birthday party, cooking that one dinner & buying the spendy carrot cake with nary a raisin to sully the sweetness.  

as some king of birthday homage, they proclaim you poet laureate of their house.  it is so sweetly obvious they adore you & your words.  it’s probably shit like this that make your friends assume you’re fucking.  they introduce you to Dear Sugar & come to your house on Sunday mornings where you two read it aloud & cry & bear witness to something that feels like healing.  they call you chosen family.  they text you things like, i miss the sound of your voice.  you go along, follow their lead because they are the one with a sweetie who is now live-in.