Many months later…

I’ve been neglecting writing for some time here on my lifestyle blog, as well as my vanilla one. The problem with being properly medicated (and being to actually sleep after a lifetime of insomnia) seems to mean that my wordsmithing suffers. Not sure how I feel about that. Well. I’m sure. I’m livid. It feels a deepest truth about myself has been stolen. I’ve been a writer my entire life and here I am with my bedrock all mushy and catching at my heels as I try to slog forward. It’s like trying to run in a vivid dream, and my arms and legs refuse to move quickly enough.

This is the weekend of Women of Drummer in Maryland and I’m gutted I haven’t been able to attend this year. I fell in love with the woods there, wandering away from all human noise into the trees, touching the riverbed near the grounds. It’s lush and so green it hurts the eyes of this Texan used to large vistas and smaller trees. But I adapted quickly. It felt as if I’d returned to a home I didn’t know I was missing. Everything so vibrant, especially the women attending. I felt I’d be happy forever if I could just live repeating that weekend and kinky/Leather women’s shenanigans all around me. I spent so much time observing and watching. Women in a space with no male energy is an incredible thing.

When growing up as a Jehovah’s Witness my mother did me so many favors. She encouraged strength and resilience in her daughters. She spoke of living independently from the expectation of depending on a man. As a JW that’s all us girls had to look forward to.

Even with mom’s insistence upon us growing in ways beyond most of our peer’s expectations, the fact remained that we lived in a world that insisted upon stifling us. Our whole world was the cult, after all. We were kept from association with “worldly” people. No extracurricular activities, no hanging with workmates or school associates. We were kept from college, and people from a very young age were pressured to marry to “keep from sin”. After all, young hormones are a very strong thing, and if we stayed single into adulthood then it would be more likely we’d slip up and mess around with someone. Better to marry young and have sex sanctioned by the organization.

As much as mom tried to instill independence in us, I was a “good girl” and listened to the pressures, and married at 19. Actually was proud of myself for lasting past 18, which was the age mom married.

My mind rambles beyond what I intended.

Mom would take us camping. Not any old camping, but women-only gatherings of ladies from the congregation. And there was peace unlike any I’d feel anywhere else surrounded by men. Here we were finally free from taking care of our man-children and supplicating their wounds and frustrations.

The nights held us with fireflies dancing out of reach of the campfire, and we’d talk about everything and nothing at all, laughing without restraint for once. I’d wander off for firewood and sit at the edge of darkness, just watching light dancing off the hands and mouths of these strong women. Here we were, still JW women of course, some of them still shackled to thoughts of their men at home, but for a few days we were free.

There were no cell phones then. We’d tell the men where we were going and approximate when we’d return. No one would be taking photos of every dish we made, or posing constantly to post online. We simply existed and were deliberately happy. We’d eat what we’d call now “girl dinner” and save our big meals for elaborate breakfasts the next morning. Some would go trail walking, some would play in the water nearby, some would nap. No one to look after or placate, and it was FREEDOM unlike any I’d feel anywhere else in my highly regulated life.

Heaven to me was the wild places populated by curious, laughing women. And now Women of Drummer is done, it’s Sunday, everyone is dispersing and heading back to their respective homes by road or air.

Very soon, this Fall, when Texas sun isn’t actively trying to kill us, I’m going to take my kinky Leather women to the woods without their families to care for, no testosterone allowed. We shall wander and wonder, giggle and tease, have hard conversations and embraces, and return home renewed. There will be naked flesh appreciated without having to perform or placate. I’ll likely string someone up from a tree, trussed beautifully for our eyes only. An adorable little piñata meant for striping with cane and whip marks. And we all will hold one another for tastes of the most regenerating aftercare, lit by stars and the moon above, and hand-feed one another as we whisper spells into fire smoke.

In a world growing further from the shackles of patriarchy, I long to plant a seed in the women I love, as my mother did for me decades ago. One that will be carried to the women they cherish most. I want to hear those seeds shimmer down like the sound of a rain rattle, sliding and bumping, shifting old beliefs and ingrained teachings until they wash away.

Just because it was “good enough” for our mothers and the women before them doesn’t mean it was right. Not for them, not for us.