Sunday, August 17, 2014

But I Remembered the Blueberries #storybysunday

This is the moment they're always talking about in movies. The sun is rising behind her face, tendrils of light touching on her hair so that blonde is transformed to gold; she glitters as she starts to wake up.

Sarah turns toward me, scrunching down our sleeping bag with her caterpillar crawl so that goosebumps spread out across my bare shoulders. But I don't mind. She smiles with her eyes closed, yawns, full mouth to the world, and when she presses into me all of the chill is gone. The goosebumps remain.

I stare at the golden glow of her, the light that I have to remind myself that she is borrowing. Somehow though, I feel that she would be luminous even in the pitch black of a cave. Science be damned.

This is the moment, the 'I just knew' moment that reaches back and rewrites history so that from now on I feel as if somehow, some part of me has always 'just known.'

Sarah mumbles something into my chest and it takes every ounce of willpower I've ever earned to peel myself away from her. I pull on jeans, grab a t-shirt and step out of the tent to start a fire for breakfast. I'm making pancakes if I can ever figure out how any of this is supposed to work. Sarah is walking towards me before the kindling even starts to smoke. As soon as she takes over, sparks fly up.

Her blue eyes are grey as she holds a hand up to shield them from the fire and the sun fighting to get to her through the trees. She is full of such surprising beauty in even the smallest moments that I swear I'm going to burst trying to breathe it all in.

I want to spend the rest of my life in this moment. Armageddon will come and go and we'll still be here standing between the fire she built and the tent I didn't quite put together right, feeling the universe move through us.

I have just enough breath for one word. "Pancakes?"

Her smile is mysterious and sad and gone from the right side of her mouth before the left side knows what it's doing.

"You didn't pack the griddle."

"I remembered the blueberries though, your favorite. We could walk into town, buy a griddle."

"Steve."
"Or just forget the pancakes. There's plenty else we-"
"Steve."

I step towards her and she backs away. She stumbles but catches herself before falling towards the flames.

"I really should be getting home."

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Asking Without Shame


If you spend any time anywhere on the internet you’ve probably heard Amanda Palmer’s TED talk by now. If by chance you have a life away from your desk and do things in the sunshine and haven’t seen the video, you’ll find it below.



This video appeared in my twitter feed like manna from internet heaven, like little glittering fairies surrounded Amanda while she was writing so that her words would reach out and touch my very soul. Or, you know, maybe it was just a fortuitous coincidence and she explored issues that a lot of us struggle with. 

It might be that last one but I’m not quite ready to give up on fairies just yet.

As brevity is the soul of wit and no one wants to hear me whine, my story boils down to this: I got a promotion. I was not given enough training. I knew that I was not given enough training. I did not ask for the help I needed. I was unsuccessful and demoted. As tales of woe go it’s not the most tragic; I still have a job, I still have my health, my family. Nothing was hurt, as they say, but my pride.

And my pride, really, is the core of the problem. I knew I needed help but I was too embarrassed to ask for it. There’s a stigma about asking, about needing. For so long I’ve lived by the philosophy that if I can’t do it on my own that means I’m just not good enough, smart enough and no one will like me.

Asking is scary. You’re telling someone that you’re less than perfect, that there is something that you lack; you’re being voluntarily vulnerable. You’re asking for something and they may so no. And not getting what you need sometimes seems safer than asking for it. Which is all so preposterous when written out in front of me, but then, fear is often ridiculous. I mean, I’m still terrified of clowns.

The heartbreaking part of my little professional melo-drama, the part that makes me want to smack myself upside the head, is that I was working my ass off and worrying myself sick trying not to fail at a job that I didn’t care about because I never stopped to ask myself what I want.  I was so concerned with what other people would think of me and what other people thought I should be doing, who they thought I should be, that I didn’t ask myself for what I needed.

The most important thing I gleaned from Amanda’s TED talk was that she is able to ask for the help she needs from others because she has allowed herself to ask. She started with herself and gave herself permission to be human and vulnerable and trusting, to “ask without shame”. 

I can spend my life crying in the handicapped stall of the women’s bathroom  OR  I can ask myself what it is that I truly want and I can ask for help from the people who can help me get there. 

Amanda helped me to realize that asking usually isn’t just asking, it’s sharing. Sharing is what connects us, whether we're sharing personal stories on sad little blogs or sharing 20 bucks to help an indie author self publish, or sharing what we need -allowing someone to help us, to feel a part of someone else's life if only for a moment.

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Is there a world you long to see?




The first time I saw Les Mis I was 15. Orchestra Right. Row H. First seat in from the middle aisle. By this time I had the entire libretto memorized and as the overture began I gripped both armrests tightly because, sitting there, I knew that I could run and jump on stage before anyone would be able to stop me. They would pull me away and put me in handcuffs immediately and, since this was a school trip, I’m pretty sure I would have been suspended. 

There’s still part of me that thinks it would have been worth it.

Almost exactly a year before this I was in the hospital. I was afraid and alone and surrounded by strange and sometimes scary people. I had a walkman and a cassette of the original Broadway recording of Les Miserables and I put on my headphones every night and sung silently to myself, trying to sleep.

Les Mis means something to me. Not just because I’ve spent countless unrequited nights singing “On My Own” in my bedroom and empathizing with Eponine. But because songs and stories have the power to carry us through our darkest times if we can let go enough to dissolve into them.

Disappearing into the French Revolution can have strangely healing affects.

Almost exactly 16 years after that night at the Imperial Theatre I was sitting in a movie theatre watching the revolving stage of my childhood turning into a whole wide world.  And I felt like I was 14 again in more ways than I care to admit.

I could nit pick.  I could question casting choices or random and bizarre lyric changes, or the inclusion of new songs in an already overflowing libretto. But really, when it comes down to it, none of that shit matters.

The only thing that matters when you’re talking about a movie, or any piece of art, is: how did it make you feel? Or, rather, did it make you feel?

Les Mis makes me feel. It makes me ache and hope and doubt and aspire for something more than the petty little dramas playing out in my head. Les Mis makes me want to fight and love and struggle and find someone worth standing in front of a bayonet for, to be someone worth standing in front of a bayonet for. It makes me want to write something that makes someone else feel something, anything. And it makes me want to sing out at the top of my lungs and not give a damn what anyone else thinks..

Broadway play or Hollywood musical, it’s all still there.

And I felt every minute of it.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Valentine's Day: Post-mortem




Before I went to bed on February 13th I picked out an outfit. When I woke up in the morning it would be Valentine’s Day and I wanted to feel pretty- instead of the unlovable can of slop I had been feeling like for the past few weeks. I knew that I would be walking into an office full of “Surprise” flower deliveries and chocolate explosions and overly perky women in snuggly red sweaters. I needed armor.

Cute sweater, little black skirt, black stockings, sexy purple boots. I made up my face and headed out the door ready to stick my single, sexy booted foot up Valentine’s Day’s ass.

By 9am I had the first run in my pantyhose and by 1030 I had managed to completely mutilate them with the zipper from my left boot. It was very punk rock but not quite business casual. Bye-bye “I feel pretty” skirt, hello jeans that probably should have been washed yesterday. Great, there goes my self-empowerment Valentine’s Day.

But, as I was sitting on the toilet MacGyvering my stockings into socks, I remembered something; I don’t care about Valentine’s Day.

I’ve been reeling from the death knell of the most important relationship of my adult life (so far, fingers crossed) and everything got twisted in my head. The thought of my ex with his new girl on this oh so hallowed of Hallmark holidays so soon after learning that we were never, ever, ever getting back together made me feel like I was going to fall apart because I was alone and unloved.  (Cue any song Morrissey has ever written but Unlovable would be most appropriate) But that’s not who I am, or, more importantly, not who I want to be.

Valentine’s Day serves 1 of 2 purposes it’s either an excuse for you to make someone feel special or an excuse to feel bad about yourself. Neither one is necessary.

If you’re in a relationship with an other, significant or otherwise, who makes you feel special every Thursday and not just those Thursdays that fall in the middle of February then you know that you are loved and cherished and supported and wanted and appreciated and although “make your co-workers jealous” bouquets and fancy dinners are nice, you don’t need them.

If you’re not in a relationship and there isn’t someone who wants to make you feel special in the ooey-gooey romantic ways then beating yourself over the head with self loathing and romantic comedies and boxes of chocolate large enough to give yourself diabetes in one sitting isn’t going to do you, or anyone else in your life, any good.

This is something I used to know. Something I used to laugh about.  But here I was, caring about something that I don’t care about, fretting about something that wasn’t important to me, being someone that I’m not. I think I’ve had enough of that.

Today is just another Thursday and next year it will be just another Friday.  Maybe next year I’ll have a Valentine, maybe I won’t. Either way I am just as lovable on February 14th as I am on the 15th.  And Hallmark can just go to hell.  

Also, this makes me smile so big: 

Happy Valentine's Day


Sunday, February 3, 2013



The snow falls sharp in the city walking from the theatre to the train that will take her home to an empty bed but a head full of regret and remorse and a belly full of fear and questions that stab at her even in her sleep. Still, she thinks, it's beautiful even though it hurts.