on our mantle: keepsakes from MichFest As we pulled away from the Night Stage Parking Lot in August for the very last time, no other sound track would do. From a portable sound system in the back of a pick-up truck, the Carps crew was dismantling the stage to Janis wailing our shared primal pain, "Coooome on, coooome on, coooome on, coooome on, and TAKE IT! Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!"
For nearly every summer of the last 20, I've been among the thousands of women from newborns to 90 who've journeyed from all over the world to the woods of northern Michigan to build a city that celebrates female power. The Michigan Womyn's Music Festival - I've written about it before.
This year, the 40th, was the last. Knowing that this beloved grandmother, sister, teacher, home was coming to the end of her life cycle, we mourned as fiercely as we celebrated. Three days before the gates opened for the Festival week, I co-led several hundred members of the worker community in a Living Funeral. We spoke our collective eulogy, sharing with each other what we loved about the place, the experience, the community. We made our bucket lists: what we wanted to make sure to do, see, say such that when it was over we would have no regrets. And we talked about how we would go on, what we would take from MichFest into our lives and the wider world.
For nearly every summer of the last 20, I've been among the thousands of women from newborns to 90 who've journeyed from all over the world to the woods of northern Michigan to build a city that celebrates female power. The Michigan Womyn's Music Festival - I've written about it before.
This year, the 40th, was the last. Knowing that this beloved grandmother, sister, teacher, home was coming to the end of her life cycle, we mourned as fiercely as we celebrated. Three days before the gates opened for the Festival week, I co-led several hundred members of the worker community in a Living Funeral. We spoke our collective eulogy, sharing with each other what we loved about the place, the experience, the community. We made our bucket lists: what we wanted to make sure to do, see, say such that when it was over we would have no regrets. And we talked about how we would go on, what we would take from MichFest into our lives and the wider world.
The day before our departure, Amber and I took a final walk around The Land, a walk of remembrance. We scooped up pea gravel from the sublime outdoor showers, one of many unofficial community centers. A scrap of yarn from the weaving around the Goddess statue at the back of the Night Stage Bowl. A safety pin and painted washer from behind what had been the Acoustic Stage. A feather from The Quiet Walk out by the swamp. The papery orb of an oak gall, acorns, curly maple bark. All the precious flotsam and jetsam found its place in an old jam jar.
We headed back up to the campsite that had been our annual summer home for all these years, my eyes still scanning the ground. There, on the crossroads to our path, I saw a scrap of red ribbon nearly covered by leaves. I picked it up to add to the jar. As if to confirm the future life that would be fed by this conscious ending, the ribbon bore a single word: Phoenix.
As our final farewell ritual, after striking our camp the next day and loading our gear into position for our shuttle to the airport, we buried a time capsule. Into a mason jar we'd placed the polaroid photos of each of us from the who's who photo board in the Staff Services Tent where we'd worked. A finisher's ribbon from the 5K Lois Lane Run. A wrist ticket, the one piece of "clothing" every worker had in common, no matter how widely we varied in aesthetics otherwise. The crystal that commemorated the death of a community member in a fatal car accident, unpacked each year to hang in the window of our tent. A remnant of rope from the elaborate tarp Amber erected to keep us cozy in the epic rains.
Amber dug a little grave on the spot we'd pitched our tent. We laid our jar inside, tucking it in with a few ferns. We returned the shovel we'd borrowed, took our final outdoor showers, and pulled away to Janis making the broken-hearted sound we all wished we could make.
We headed back up to the campsite that had been our annual summer home for all these years, my eyes still scanning the ground. There, on the crossroads to our path, I saw a scrap of red ribbon nearly covered by leaves. I picked it up to add to the jar. As if to confirm the future life that would be fed by this conscious ending, the ribbon bore a single word: Phoenix.
As our final farewell ritual, after striking our camp the next day and loading our gear into position for our shuttle to the airport, we buried a time capsule. Into a mason jar we'd placed the polaroid photos of each of us from the who's who photo board in the Staff Services Tent where we'd worked. A finisher's ribbon from the 5K Lois Lane Run. A wrist ticket, the one piece of "clothing" every worker had in common, no matter how widely we varied in aesthetics otherwise. The crystal that commemorated the death of a community member in a fatal car accident, unpacked each year to hang in the window of our tent. A remnant of rope from the elaborate tarp Amber erected to keep us cozy in the epic rains.
Amber dug a little grave on the spot we'd pitched our tent. We laid our jar inside, tucking it in with a few ferns. We returned the shovel we'd borrowed, took our final outdoor showers, and pulled away to Janis making the broken-hearted sound we all wished we could make.
thank you, Janis (click image for a taste)
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