February Video Clip of the Month

How to improve the movie?

by Isadora Gabrielle Leidenfrost, the filmmaker of “Things We Don’t Talk About”

I have spent most of the month of January in the early stages of editing the film and having meetings with my advisers to get feedback. In late December, I completed what is known as a rough cut of the film. A rough cut is an outline of the film, where all of the interviews and sound bits are organized to create a visible story line. My rough cut was 4 hours long. Obviously too long! I then cut the film down to 2 hours by deleting scenes and condensing interviews that did not support the things we don’t talk about stories. Once I got the film down to 2hrs, I contacted my advisers and close friends to watch the film and give feedback on the direction that I was going. This took about 2 weeks. Each meeting lasted around 4 to 5 hours and there were 7 meetings in total. In between meetings, I made major structural and organizational changes to the narrative based on the feedback. Now that all of these meetings are over, the film is around 1 hour and 18 minutes, not including credits, which I have yet to make. All in all, I am very excited by the direction of the film and am amazed by how much the film has improved because of the feedback. I have always been a great advocate that getting advice and feedback, even sometimes negative feedback serves a purpose in my filmmaking and creative process. Over the years, I have developed some thick skin!

January Video of the Month Clip

Feminism is Not a Four-Letter Word

By Keiko Zoll (Hannah Wept, Sarah Laughed, June 22, 2011)

Whether I call myself a women’s health advocate or Vagina Warrior, it boils down to this:

I’m a feminist.

(Shocker.)

What a loaded word, right? Images of unshaven armpits, gross looking white-girl dreads, floppy bra-less boobs, a man-hating smirk on my face, my fist raised in the air. Now, granted, if this describes you… um, cool! More power to you. But it’s not me. And honestly, that’s not what feminism looks like.

Feminism looks like women and men who want to take the world by storm to make the world a safer, better, more empowered place for women and girls. If you want men to stand by your side and advocate with you, feminists can’t be man-haters. Are there some feminist man-haters? Sure. But if feminism is going to make any kind of global impact, it’s got to be a collaborative effort between both sides.

Why the heck am I talking about feminism? A few reasons, actually. First, to be an advocate for women’s health is a pretty fundamental aspect of feminism. It’s about leveraging equal access to healthcare. Second. Esperanza at Stumbling Gracefully has a post that asks the question “Do we want too much?“ and third, Schmoopy in our Prompt-ly Writing Group posted a link to a Guardian article that asks Why is feminism still so afraid to focus on its flaws?

The two are truly interrelated and it got me thinking about stereotypes that even I’ve held about what it means to be feminist, who is and is not considered feminist, and what it means to want more than we have.

I took a few women’s and gender studies courses in college. I was both vice-president and then president our of GLBT student alliance. I performed in the Vagina Monologues. As a young empowered woman in my early 20s, I was rockin’ the feminist label and damn proud of it.

Like so many things in my early 20s, I wouldn’t really appreciate all of it until now, as I approach my (gulp) early 30s. Feminism has become less about the rallies and the petitions and the student activism for me. Feminism for me has now become an active effort to make good in the world for women and girls where I can with the strengths and talents I have to offer. I blog about infertility and women’s health. I blog about why we need to care about the cultural norming of misogyny in America. I support and promote the work of the Red Tent Temple Movement. I think very intentionally about the kind of world I want to shape for my niece and hopefully, my own daughter should I be so blessed.

I’ve been doing the SITS Girls 31 Days to Build a Better Blog (SITS31DBBB). Much like their Bloggy Boot Camp blogging conference I went to in May, I am out of my league here. I’m one of a very small group (as in, you could probably count us all on one hand) of infertility bloggers participating. SITS is a very Mom Blogger focused forum of support. I’ve stuck with it because I’ve got a lot still yet to learn about blogging and as I’ve come to realize from reading both Esperanza’s post and the article Schmoopy shared – I’ve got a lot to learn about feminism too.

Did I turn my nose up at Mom Bloggers? A little, yeah – I’ll be honest. Part of it was jealousy – I want what they have. Part of it was being judgemental – how can nothing but reviews and giveaways be good for the blogpsphere? But as I’ve spent the last 3 weeks interacting and networking with these fabulous ladies, I’ve realized my stereotypical judgments were wrong. The Mom Blogger niche is just as varied and valuable and has as much to offer as the ALI blogosphere. I’m realizing it’s time to stop passing judgment and start taking a closer look at blogs outside of my niche to see what I can learn.

Oh Diane is one of those Mom Bloggers I’ve met through SITS31DBBB and she posted a fantastic post on why the Mommy Blogger market is so hot right now. What followed in her post comments was a fiery discussion about why Mom Bloggers get all the attention from advertisers while may of us childless folks sit here twiddling our thumbs.

My point is this: Mom Bloggers – and Mom Blogging in general – can be feminist too.

The Guardian article elaborates:

“Women bear the children and, far more often than not, they wish to be the primary carer for those children. At its most strident, feminism can be mistaken for an ideology designed to make women feel they are wrong to want that.”

Mom Blogging is not counter-productive or counter-intuitive to feminist ideals. Even when I was in college, I got horrified looks from other college feminists who were shocked – shocked I tell you – that I didn’t really care what my degree was in because I eventually just wanted to be a SAHM and pump out babies.

This is the point: it’s not about creating an army of empowered career-women. Feminism is about having  equal access to and support for making empowered choices, be it career, motherhood, health or otherwise. Wanting to be a SAHM mom – like my own mom was when me and my sister were kids, a fact that I am so grateful for to this day – doesn’t make me any less feminist. The fact that the Mom Blogger market is growing says to me that women’s voices in social media and technology are rising, and people (especially advertisers) want to hear what they have to say.

Which brings me to my last point: does feminism want too much? Again, from the Guardian:

Worse, feminism has accidentally promoted the idea that it’s pretty easy to work and have children, with the right support in place. On even an average income, it’s never easy, even once children are at secondary school (though it’s certainly easier then). Your priorities change. Work is no longer the most important thing, for a while anyway. Ambition can dissipate.

Let me rephrase that: do we want too much? In fact, let’s drill that down again:

Do I want too much?

Take a look at what I grew up with: a mom who stayed at home for the most part, picking up seasonal part-time work to pad out Christmas and birthdays. My father still works almost 60 hours a week. He traveled extensively when I was much younger, leaving the brunt of the child-rearing to my mom. I’m stating this as fact, not to pass judgment. This was what worked for my parents and they were in agreement about their roles as caregiver and provider, respectively.

I grew up with a big, two-story house with two cars. My sister and I went to public schools and college. We pretty much got to do just about any lesson or extra-curricular we wanted. We lived in comfortable New Jersey suburbia. For the 18 years I grew up and lived in that house, this is what The American Dream looked like to me.

Is it too much to want the big, single family house? Is it too much to want a husband that brings home the bacon while I stay at home and serve as primary caregiver to our gorgeous genetic children? Is it fair to place that kind of burden on my husband?

Folks, I struggle with this. These are things I want really bad, I can’t necessarily have and boy howdy, I don’t like taking No for an answer.

But let’s step back for a second: in an time of record foreclosures, a flailing economy, and my seriously busted reproductive system, The American Dream I grew up with isn’t realistically even possible anymore.

Esperanza challenges us:

“The reality is, we might not get to be what we want to be, or we might have to sacrifice greatly to get there, and the same can befall our children. If certain lessons are learned; that frequently life brings disappointment, that sometimes their is no just reward for our efforts, that we must be grateful for what we have and stop continuously looking for more, that sometimes we won’t be happy, maybe, just maybe, we will wake up one day knowing how to be satisfied with our life.And maybe some day, if we’re very lucky, we can learn to be truly happy with what we have.”

I counter with this:

If the status quo was okay though, we wouldn’t need a feminist movement in the first place. And you know what? After all this, after this huge and rambling post, it’s not about feminism anymore.

It’s about being active participants in shaping a just world.

Feminist labels aside: where do we fit in to shape that world?

Where do you fit in? How are you helping to shape a just world?

Beneath the Red Tent

By Jacqueline Riquez

The first time I found myself in a Red Tent, it was like a bolt of electricity : very powerful and hard to ignore ! And yet at the same time there was something so evident, so obvious about this experience that I knew I had tapped into something that went back to the Beginning, to a time before my knowing. I’ve had the feeling before, carrying water from a well with another woman, this intense flash of vestigial memory, the strongest sense of déjà-vu that one can imagine. That night in the dim light of the Red Tent I heard women speaking the strongest truths that spoke to the depths of my soul. There was talk of moon-blood and the words seemed to open a dam for me… I left that night with my mind racing and though I got home past midnight, it was hours later before sleep could claim me. ‘I must make my own Red Tent, this is what I have to do.’ It was like a clarion call – very powerful and hard to ignore!

I should explain that the Tent I went to here in France is really in a tent, though that one was kind of basic. My own tent borrowed the same concept and then went wild from there : don’t think of a tent for camping, think of a sumptuous nomadic tent, with cushions, blankets, candlelight, draped silks and an air of decadence, as though a harem of magnificent women were about to descend – and they do! It’s 9 feet square and 3 feet high at the sides, going up to 4 feet in the center, and though it’s a tent, it stays indoors. About 11 of us can fit in there at a time without it being uncomfortable.  I started making it in the days that followed that very first Red Tent. I sewed and sewed and sewed, a good half mile of thread. My baby was just learning to roll over on her side and I would place her on the floor at the far end of the room, rush to my machine at the other end and sew like a Fury, looking over my shoulders as she rolled her way giggling down the room towards me. As soon as she arrived I’d take her back to the other end of the room and we’d start over. My first tent was sewn with my baby girl hot on my heels. My second tent, even more beautiful, was inaugurated last weekend. I found some fabric in a thrift store that I fell in love with and knew it had to become my Red Tent. Every piece of fabric came from yard sales and thrift stores and I delight in knowing that all of this material has already traveled and lived other lives.

Something about that warm, sacred space invites intimacy. Women often say with the conviction of those who know that it’s like being inside a womb. Tongues loosen, guards drop and we can all lay down our loads. I’m not great in small spaces, never have been, and other women who’ve come to the Tent feel the same, yet there is something about that deep red womb space that defies all claustrophobic comparisons : in here we feel contained, not closed in, safe not suffocated.  I begin by reminding everyone that what is said within the Tent remains in the Tent.  I invite them to share briefly what they’re bringing with them : no-one is obliged to talk but to honor the energy of the group everyone is invited to say where they’re at – ‘I’m having a hard time right now and I’m not sure I’m going to talk much’ – that’s fine. We fix a time to end the Tent together and then we’re off : I have rarely needed to get the discussion going nor wrest back the conversation from someone talking too much.  No talking stick is required. I help things along if needed but I don’t run the show though I do make and serve the tea, not to mention the home-made crackers and cookies and the essential chocolate supply. The talk just flows : sometimes around our moon-blood, sometimes birth, sometimes sex : whatever comes is right. At the end we wind a red ribbon round our wrists as a reminder of our sacred connection. As I type here, there are still two ribbons on my wrist from two Tents over the last months : I am still connected to 20 other women via red satin.

I schedule the Tents every three weeks so that after four tents I’ve covered every phase of the moon. This seems to be more ‘democratic’ since we don’t all bleed in sync anymore. The energy that comes from the different moon-times is tangible : at Full Moon we’re often thoroughly over-excited and channeling some very sexy energy, we laugh more, sometimes until the tears are streaming down our faces ; at the Dark of the Moon we are quieter, more reflective and the Dark of our own natures emerges. If I contribute anything, it’s nudging women towards an awareness of their own seasons, to connect them with those of the moon, but also to the seasons of the solar year and those of a woman’s life.  Towards feeling the rush of energy that I felt just recently: I was in the Fall of my cycle (pre-menstrual), with the moon waning, the leaves were reddening on the trees and here I am, 42 years old, in the Fall of my life as a woman, done having babies but still revelling in all the fruits of the summer.  This is what I feel so strongly in my life when I have all four elements lined up like that – the profound feeling of being where I am meant to be.

I fill up the thermoses with hot water for the endless cups of tea and infusions we will drink, I burn sage and Palo Santo and lay out the candles, plump the cushions one last time. I breathe deeply and murmur my prayer : ‘to the fire above and the earth below, to the air that folds around us and the river that runs through us, to our Father the Sky and our Mother the Earth, to the cool glow of our Lady Moon and the warm caress of the sun, to the bonds of kin that hold me close, to all that I am a part of and to all that is a part of me, I bring myself to you. We are all one relation. ‘ I am ready now. I rise to invite the women waiting in the other room to join me beneath the silken skirts of the Red Tent. This is where we are meant to be.

www.entente-feminine.com
http://ententefeminine.wordpress.com

Sous la Tente Rouge

par Jacqueline Riquez

(We will feature the English translation of this story in the next post in 2 weeks).

La première fois que je me suis retrouvée dans une Tente Rouge, c’était comme recevoir une décharge électrique : très puissant et difficile à ignorer! Et en même temps il y avait quelque chose de si évident, si frappant, dans cette expérience, que j’avais la conviction intime d’avoir contacté quelque chose qui remontait à l’Origine, bien avant la connaissance. J’avais déjà eu ce sentiment-là, en portant de l’eau d’un puits avec une autre femme, un flash intense de mémoire atavique, le plus profond sentiment de déjà-vu imaginable. Ce soir-là, sous la lumière tamisée de la Tente Rouge, j’ai entendu des femmes livrant les vérités les plus puissantes, qui résonnaient au plus profond de mon âme.  Elles évoquaient le sang des lunes et les mots semblaient ouvrir un barrage en moi… Je suis partie cette nuit-là  l’esprit dynamisé et bien que je sois rentrée à minuit passé, il se passades heures avant que le sommeil ne m’emporte. ‘Je dois fabriquer ma propre Tente Rouge, c’est ce que je dois faire.’ C’était comme un appel au clairon : très puissant et difficile à ignorer!

Je devrais expliquer que la Tente Rouge à laquelle j’ai assisté ici en France se passait littéralement dans une tente, même si celle-là était plutôt basique. Pour ma propre tente, j’ai emprunté la même conception et puis je me suis laissée aller dans la fantaisie : n’imaginez pas une tente pour le camping, mais plutôt une tente somptueuse de nomades, remplie de coussins, de couvertures, de bougies, de soies drapées et un air de décadence, comme si un sérail de femmes magnifiques allaient débarquer – et c’est le cas! Elle fait 3 mètres sur 3, un mètre de haut sur les côtés et 1,40m au centre et même si c’est une tente, elle reste à l’intérieur. On tient à 11 personnes dedans pour rester confortable. J’ai commencé à la fabriquer dans les jours qui suivirent cette toute première Tente Rouge. J’ai cousu et j’ai cousu encore, presque un kilomètre de fil rouge. Ma petite apprenait tout juste à rouler sur le côté et je la posais par terre à un bout de la pièce, puis je courais à ma machine à l’autre bout et là, je cousais comme une Furie, en regardant par-dessus mon épaule tandis qu’elle roulait en rigolant vers moi. Dés qu’elle arrivait, je la ramenais à l’autre bout du salon et on recommençait. Ma première tente s’est cousue pendant que ma fille était à mes trousses. Ma deuxième Tente, encore plus belle, a eu son inauguration il y a une semaine. Je suis tombée amoureuse d’un tissu trouvé à Notre Dame des Sans-Abri et je savais qu’il était destiné à ma Tente Rouge. Chaque tissu était chiné dans des vide-greniers, à Notre-Dame ou à Emmaüs et je me réjouis de savoir que toutes ces étoffes ont déjà voyagé et  vécu d’autres vies.

Il y a quelque chose dans cet espace chaleureux et sacré qui invite l’intimité. Les femmes disent souvent, avec la conviction d’initiées, que c’est comme si elles se retrouvaient dans un utérus. Les langues se délient, les défenses se  relâchent et nous pouvons toutes déposer nos fardeaux. En général, je n’aime pas être dans des espaces confinés et  d’autres femmes qui sont venues sous la Tente avaient la même difficulté. Or il y a quelque chose dans cet espace matriciel d’un rouge profond qui refuse toute comparaison claustrophobe :  on se sent contenu mais pas confiné, sécurisé mais pas suffoqué.  Je commence en rappelant à toutes que ce qui se dit sous la Tente, reste sous la Tente. Je les invite à partager brièvement ce avec quoi elles viennent : personne n’est obligé de parler mais par respect pour l’énergie du groupe chacune est invitée à dire où elle en est - ‘ça ne va pas très fort pour moi aujourd’hui et je ne sais pas si je vais parler beaucoup’ – cela peut s’entendre. On convient d’une heure de fin ensemble et puis c’est parti : c’est rare que je doive lancer la discussion ou empêcher quelqu’un de trop parler. Il n’y a pas besoin de bâton de parole. Je facilite si besoin mais je ne dirige pas, bien que je serve du thé, des gâteaux faits-maison et un stock essentiel de chocolat. La parole coule : des fois nous parlons de nos lunes, de l’accouchement, de sexe : ce qui vient est juste. A la fin, nous faisons passer un ruban rouge autour de nos poignets pour nous rappeler notre lien sacré. Alors que je tape ce texte, il reste encore à mon poignet des rubans des Tentes de ces derniers mois : je suis encore reliée aux 20 autres femmes par ce satin rouge.

Je propose des Tentes Rouges toutes les trois semaines, afin de visiter toutes les phases de la Lune au bout de quatre séances. Cela me paraît plus ‘démocratique’ vu que nous n’avons plus nos Lunes toutes ensemble. L’énergie qui découle de ces différentes phases est parfois tangible : à la Pleine Lune, nous sommes souvent assez fébriles, excitées, canalisant des énergies assez sexuelles, nous rions jusqu’aux larmes ; à la Nouvelle Lune nous sommes plus calmes, plus pensives, la face cachée de nos propres natures émerge. Si je contribue à quelque chose, c’est d’encourager les femmes à prendre conscience de leurs propres « saisons » et de les relier à celles de la Lune, mais aussi aux saisons de l’année solaire ainsi que celles de leurs vies de femme. J’ai pu ressentir cette incroyable connexion avec les cycles de la vie très récemment : j’étais dans l’automne de mon cycle (pré-menstruelle), la Lune était décroissante et à la fin de son cycle, les feuilles flamboyaient aux arbres environnants, et à 42 ans, je me sens à l’automne de ma vie de femme – j’ai fini de faire des bébés mais je vis toute la plénitude de cette période. Voici ce que je ressens si fortement dans ma vie quand ces quatre éléments sont alignés ainsi : le sentiment profond d’être où je dois être.

Je remplis les thermos d’eau chaude pour les innombrables tasses de thé et de tisane que nous boirons ensemble, je brûle de la sauge et du Palo Santo, je prépare les bougies, je redonne leur forme aux coussins une dernière fois… Je respire profondément et je murmure ma prière : « Au feu par-dessus et à la terre par-dessous, à l’air qui nous entoure et la rivière qui coule en nous, à notre Père le Ciel et notre Mère la Terre, à la lumière fraîche de Notre-Dame la Lune et la caresse chaude du soleil, aux liens affectifs qui me contiennent, à tout ce dont je fais partie et à tout ce qui fait partie de moi : je me présente à vous et vous invoque. Nous sommes tous un seul être. » Maintenant je suis prête. Je me lève et j’invite les femmes qui attendent dans l’autre pièce à me rejoindre sous les jupes soyeuses de la Tente Rouge. Nous sommes où nous devons être.

www.entente-feminine.com
http://ententefeminine.wordpress.com

Coming Home to Red

"Coming Home to Red" a watercolor by Alma Dell Smith