Cassie's Birthday

Dipstick's posting about her snow dogs is prompting this post in honor of Cassie. It's timely, given that LittleGrrl turned six two days ago.

Cassie was born February 1, one week before the 2002 Olympic Games in Salt Lake City, and is my very first dog. Given the totality of the circumstances, leaving her with B and K was assuredly the right choice. The prospect of taking her away from her home and her best friend was unacceptable to me. Nevertheless, moving 766 miles away from my canine companion was one of the hardest choices I've ever made. The privilege of caring for animals is a blessed responsibility, and making that particular decision about Cassie's future was perhaps the most unselfish thing I've ever done. Maybe there's hope for me yet!

Though it brings a lump to my throat, my heart swells when K sends pictures to my phone, like the one above from a hike in Memory Grove. I miss her fiercely, but it brings great comfort to know she is happy and cherished. Many thanks to B and K for continuing to give all the Avalon Animals such a good home. (They are now giving daily insulin shots to Buddy, whose obesity resulted in an unsurprising feline diabetes diagnosis a few months ago.)

So happy birthday to Cass; may your next six years be as joyful and full of adventure as the first six!

Men's Abortions & The War Mentality

Two weeks ago I read two articles about abortion on the same day. I'm glad I read them in the order that I did because the first one placed my paradigm in a more inclusive rather than exclusive stance.

The first article (A Change of Heart: From Pro Life to Pro Choice, AlterNet 1/9/08) included a perspective I needed to hear: "Our beliefs are not created by what -- or who -- we are against. They exist because of what we are for: comprehensive reproductive health for all, and the ability to decide for ourselves if we will or will not have an abortion."

A line from the second article (Changing Abortion's Pronoun, LA Times 1/7/08) elicited an audible groan from me, and my mind went to The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood and Starhawk's description of The Southlands in The Fifth Sacred Thing. A man, discussing his personal regret about several ex-girlfriends' abortions: "'I never really thought about it for the woman,' he says slowly." What?! He never really thought about the woman part of the equation in an abortion scenario? Excuse me?

It's an interesting catch-22. Though it disgusts me, it doesn't surprise me that anti-abortion activists will utilize women's termination regret to influence the courts toward the incorrectly-perceived need to "protect" women from their own choices. But would they do the same with men's regret as a motivator? To protect men from themselves? I do not doubt that some men experience loss or sadness over the termination of a pregnancy in which they played a role. But is regret the best measure of whether or not government should permit certain reproductive medical decisions?

Back when I was a married-to-a-man queer grrl, before the polyamorous part of our marriage was predominant, my husband and I terminated a pregnancy. In Utah. I wrote about it here, when the South Dakota mess was in the news. In the post, I half-heartedly pretended it wasn't me, but it was probably pretty obvious. Many women have termination stories; I have one. I don't see why men shouldn't get to tell their stories too.

My ambivalence toward abortion topics is deep and multi-layered. I believe it important to let stories and voices be heard, and yet I also recognize the deeply personal realm of reproduction, coming from a family where fertility, miscarriage, and ectopic (tubal) pregnancies were wrapped in whispered conversations, kept from children, spoken about with solemn secrecy.

The more we share, all of us, the more information we have, the greater likelihood that we might just be able to see each other and really connect and not live under the illusion that our way of experiencing the world is the only way it's experienced. The more information, more connection, more understanding, more empathy, the better. That includes having empathy for people who truly believe that abortion should be illegal. If I can empathize with their feelings, it may be a vital step in bridging the gap in our perspectives, and maybe that person will one day believe that even if abortion is not a choice s/he would make or want a loved one to make, it is a choice that should nevertheless be available in a legal and safe way. The "fight" is more about increased connection and communication rather than fighting. Give peace a chance, wo/man.

. . .

Utaaaahhhhh

Interesting the way that perspective shifts. Now that I've moved away from Utah I find myself defending Utah, Salt Lake City, even Mormons. No, it's not so bad, I say. It's beautiful! And Salt Lake City has an incredibly progressive mayor and is a great city! The counterculture there is strong and the community of freaks fairly cohesive!

When I lived in Utah, I would bitch and moan about politics, Mormons, small-minded backwater culture. I (perhaps begrudgingly) recognized and acknowledged the good things, too, but my focus on the good parts has increased and my vocal defense of my previous homestate has grown tremendously. It feels good to actively focus on the good parts, because certainly there are wonderful, amazing things about my former homestate and my religious/cultural upbringing.

Yeah, there are really shitty parts, too. But this is a positive post.

Wrapping my head and heart around the fact that whether I like it or not, I am Mormon, is a long, protracted trudging through subconsciousness and repression. At age 21, I had my name removed from the Mormon (LDS) church rolls. When I got the letter saying, "You are no longer a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints," I let out a little whoop. I wasn't Mormon anymore! I lived under that delusion for about six months until I realized that I will always be Mormon. It's part of who I am. Inextricably.

So I'll focus on the good parts. For now, anyway. I had a great time singing early Mormon education songs like "Give Said the Little Stream" and "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree" with another "former" Mormon I met after moving to Portland. Actually, I have no idea if those songs are unique to Mormons or not. (Probably not.) But they were quintessential to my Mormon experience. And this YouTube video, though the quality sucks, still makes me smile.

SLC: Magical Organic Gardenspace

On our way out of town, the beautiful and multi-talented TW gave my parents a tour of Traces, the most breathtaking acre oasis in SLC. (TW describes the fact that she works at a place with her own name as another manifestation of the serendipity in her life.) Going there was the last stop I wanted to make as I set forth.

This spot is incredible. Farmer's market of organic produce every day! Edible flowers! Gorgeous floral arrangements! Lovely gifts and furnishings and organic gardening supplies in the shop! Heirloom vegetables, seeds, and information from those who tend the soil and care for the plants!

For those in or passing through SLC, you must - I emphasize must - visit this place, pick some fresh organic produce, directly pay the beautiful people who grow this blessed food with love, and know that we can feed ourselves from the earth beyond the sidewalk.

1432 S 1100 E. Summer hours Monday through Saturday 9:30 am - 6:00 pm. Sunday hours erratic.

I'm so relieved I didn't leave without learning about its existence; sharing the knowledge and love of this place will make me profoundly glad.

Farewell (Faring Well)

The choppy and disoriented tone of the last few posts may persist as I settle into the first Big Move of my life. Abrupt, jerky movements have manifested as nasty scrapes and bruises all over the lower half of my body from stumbles and lurches.

Remember to breathe, Moss.

The See-Ya-Later Party was beyond words. The love I felt, the bright eyes and tight heart-hugs, the laughter, the touching things people wrote in my self-proclaimed "SLC YearsBook." And tonight I just saw some incredibly beautiful and heartfelt writing by Chicory about moi and feeling our friendship in my core.

***

Now I'm sitting amongst boxes, filled with the knowledge that stuff, in general, is just superfluous anyway. Although toothbrushes are nice.

8

When I woke up this morning I realized I have only eight more nights at the goddess house until I move. Four nights until I fly to Portland to take the bar; four nights after I return until I move. Wow.

Element XI 2007: The Emerald City

B and his crew spent six weekends and many hours building the Emerald City tower. Complete with a chill space in the belly of the structure and a ramp to access the stage on top (where RandyCandy, aka The Wizard, performed the first E11 wedding), the big burn structure was impressive indeed. Everyone kept calling it "the effigy" but I always thought an effigy was a dummy representing a person ...













Glinda (aka the lovely CoCo), welcomed us to the Emerald City. I was lucky enough to camp mere feet from the good witch, which undoubtedly cast blessed spells of goodness on my entire experience.














I was also lucky to have artistically inclined friends nearby when I needed help getting ready for the fireshow before the big burn. I was the throat chakra (see the cool choker I made?!) and if you can imagine a blue wig added to the mix, you've got the image of my full costume).


The Temple Burn

I've already posted pictures of building the temple; here's a couple great shots Chris C got of the temple burn morning. Yes, I didn't wash my face after the fireshow. I was a blue-faced grrl alllllll night long. And well into the next day, actually. If my smile seems a little off-kilter, it's probably because I smiled for the sake of the camera, but was undergoing an incredible transformation as a cathartic release rattled my skeleton and shook the bugs loose. Release!

The Pictures I Was Awaiting

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My roadtrip with J to the desert last month was amazing. I just got the photos of that adventure and want to post a few here.

A Mayan Temple of Ammo Boxes

Yesterday I helped R build 3/4 of the temple at Seabase for our annual Utah Regional Burn, Element 11. The typical temple crew fell through, apparently, and we made the temple happen quickly. I am burned to a crisp and exhausted now, but it feels so good to have participated in the temple building. Letting go of so much - of this place, of my hopes and dreams with regard to a particular family configuration, of notions about myself. This is a profound and fabulous release.

Things I'll Miss

I love where I live. For years I chafed at living here, only seeing the less-than-stellar aspects of this place. But now? I love it. And I'm leaving. These are things two I'll miss: this amazing geography and the City Library.

Festival 30 Kick-Off

Although initially fraught with frustration and delays, the trip to Mystic Hot Springs ended up being a wonderful adventure. Soaking in warm water, celebrating Vernal Equinox, and seeing Kan'Nal in an intimate venue with eighty people was the perfect way to start the celebration week for my 30th and K's 27th birthdays.

J, O, and B drove down and soaked with us Sunday, Equinox-eve.

The Mysterious B ("When I was in Colorado I was George") is taking this photo.

Vernal Equinox Morn.


Aries grrl before the show, age 29.99178 .

The next morning, age 29.99452.

Rub dub dub.

Pre-Equinox Nostalgia

The planned travel to Mystic for our 4th annual Aries celebration has been delayed. Now we can't leave until tomorrow morning. Illness, old and new injuries, exhaustion, major vehicle frustration. This has been a weird trip from the beginning. We bumped it up a week to coincide with Kan'Nal's show Monday night. Usually we go after the 23rd and 24th, after K and I get to celebrate our actual birthdays. Lots of the regulars at these Aries gathering won't be there this year. Cycles. Inevitable change.

The goats played a big role that first year, in 2003. B and R, getting rather facial with the cloven footed creatures, S playing her guitar and singing to them. The goats have been relocated to another part of the property. And S is in Belize for spring break.

And I'm leaving for the odd beginning of my birthday-week-festival tomorrow morning. Instead of hours ago, as planned.

Thirty is visible. Less than a week away.

Going to Term(ination)

Okay, I admit it. I've become complacent in recent years about my pro-choice activism. But South Dakota's attack on the constitutionally-protected right to choose has the tiniest of tiny silver linings. NARAL: Pro-Choice America and Planned Parenthood are each getting a ridiculous pittance from my dwindling-too-soon-in-the-semester checking account. I'm clinging to the adage that every dollar helps.

This Denver Post article describing the extreme difficulty women already faced in South Dakota prior to the new sweeping criminal ban reminded me of my own state. According to the oh-so-pleasant American Death Camps website, Utah has three abortion clinics. (I had only been aware of two. Thanks for the good news, abortion foes!) All three clinics are within Salt Lake County. Meaning 96% of the counties in this state do not have an abortion clinic. [According to the site, there are five states with only one abortion provider: Arkansas, Mississippi, North Dakota, South Dakota, and Wyoming.]

Terminating a pregnancy in Utah is tough. Five years ago, a woman I know better than anyone else (yet somehow never well enough) went through the challenging and frustrating process of getting an abortion here. Although I can't find statutory explanation for this circumstance (and perhaps I'm forgetting the explanatory facts), she had to wait for several weeks after learning she was pregnant and had a very brief window of time during which she could submit to the procedure. The hassle was tremendous, but would have been much worse had she lived in any one of the 28 less fortunate Utah counties.

After getting an appointment, she had to take another day off work to go to the clinic two days before the planned abortion to receive the mandated "informed consent" (aka state-articulated you-are-killing-a-baby) lecture from an underenthused women's health worker complying with a law she despised, pick up the manipulative and expensive color glossy thirty-page printout with details of fetal development, and be given the state-produced try-to-convince-you-adoption-is-the-answer video. On the day of her termination, she thanked the doctor and nurses profusely for being willing to stand up for the rights of women. Given the difficulty she had in scraping together money to pay for the termination, she couldn't have afforded to go to a friendlier state as an alternative.

FOR ANYONE READING THIS WHO IS ANTI-CHOICE (a longshot, given the scant and known readership of this waste of my homework and sleeping time), would you be less upset about this abortion if you knew she was addicted to methamphetamine at the time?

This decision was wrenching for her. She had previously described herself as pro-choice. Yet she found the biological drive and the intensely positive feelings the pregnancy hormones induced may have clouded her judgment and affected her decision had she not been addicted to speed. She has often said that it was a blessing that her Unintended Pregnancy Lesson and her Drug Addiction Lesson coincided. Otherwise, she may have given birth and not experienced the Getting an Abortion in Utah Lesson. [Another day maybe I'll post the story of a close friend whose Drug Addiction, Abortion Attempt, and Unsuccessful Open Adoption Lessons converged.]

The irony? At the time of these intersecting lessons, her state-employee health insurance wouldn't pay for oral contraceptives. But two weeks after the bleeding stopped and her reproductive system started to re-boot, she received a check from her insurance companying covering 80% of her $380 abortion.
. . .

Is it just coincidence that those who criminalize abortion are overwhelming fat white men?

Rep. Roger Hunt, a sponsor of the [South Dakota]
bill, said momentum is building for a change in national policy on abortion.
(By Doug Dreyer -- Associated Press)