I'm searching for something I can feel in control of. This ephemeral, fleeting world offers little condolence in this regard: I can't control who calls me in for auditions, I can't control, really, if I book the job or not, I can't control the train being late or rain, for example.
My world is full of things that let me have my hand on the wheel but refuses to let me steer (did I steal that from a Howard Jones song?). Just last night, I was sitting in a yogurt shop with Looks in the thick of Times Square. Little did we know that as we were eating and enjoying each other's company that a mere two blocks away, NYPD was closing down the streets and using a robotic arm to break into an SUV with a crude bomb inside. Looks said that Times Square was "mobbed," but Times Square is ALWAYS mobbed at 6:00 P.M. on a Saturday, especially when it's warm like it was yesterday. So now I have to add bombs to the list of things I have no control over.
It's not a new thought, and many books and movies have examined this very topic, but it made me stop and think about the things in action that we cannot see. Things at the particle level; glass molecules moving about, good and bad cells running through our bodies, cells that reproduce into cancer, or babies. Not to mention what is happening in the privacy of people's living rooms, on the street corners, in the board rooms.
So, in an effort to get a grasp on what I feel is becoming a steamrolling sense of malaise, I have decided to do a serious detoxification/cleansing regimen. I want to move through my days with a sense of purpose, a plan, other than the purpose and plans I have going now. The toy box that is my life needs to be turned upside down and scattered about, and if a change in my daily rituals and habits are the tools, then I can hardly wait. The mystics often ask themselves "how can I see this differently?" I am hoping, perhaps naively, that at the end of this personal cleaning, that I will perceive things differently.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Monday, February 08, 2010
47 Years
47 years is a long time to be married, and yet my parents have pulled it off with aplomb. February 8, 1963, is the day that my very young mother and slightly older father walked into the Santa Monica Temple and decided that they were going to be married, not just for time, but for time and all eternity, according the Mormon belief system.
I do not have enough words in my GRE studied vocabulary to describe the admiration I have for this. The years have not been easy to them, as they have navigated rough waters, 7 children, 10 grandchildren (two on the way), lay-offs, major moves, retirement, Pollock-like splatterings of health problems, great triumphs and I'm certain (though they would never tell us children) great disappointments.
Any lack has been filled in abundance with love and support, open hearts and what I'm sure must be an unbelievably strong belief in the minds of their children as they watch us stumble around in the dark from time to time, knowing that though we will most likely fall, they will be right there to help us up.
47 years of marriage is not something that I am likely to accomplish (YOU do the math), but their relationship has taught me something that perhaps was not intended: Love is a decision. One may be, at first, IN love. But that kind of love goes away. It will not stay. You must decide if what remains is something that you can spend the rest of your life cultivating. Or if love is a seed best not planted.
Happy Anniversary to the best mom and dad in the world. Thank you for having the courage to let me make my own mistakes and then for brushing me off when I finally get up.
I do not have enough words in my GRE studied vocabulary to describe the admiration I have for this. The years have not been easy to them, as they have navigated rough waters, 7 children, 10 grandchildren (two on the way), lay-offs, major moves, retirement, Pollock-like splatterings of health problems, great triumphs and I'm certain (though they would never tell us children) great disappointments.
Any lack has been filled in abundance with love and support, open hearts and what I'm sure must be an unbelievably strong belief in the minds of their children as they watch us stumble around in the dark from time to time, knowing that though we will most likely fall, they will be right there to help us up.
47 years of marriage is not something that I am likely to accomplish (YOU do the math), but their relationship has taught me something that perhaps was not intended: Love is a decision. One may be, at first, IN love. But that kind of love goes away. It will not stay. You must decide if what remains is something that you can spend the rest of your life cultivating. Or if love is a seed best not planted.
Happy Anniversary to the best mom and dad in the world. Thank you for having the courage to let me make my own mistakes and then for brushing me off when I finally get up.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Hiking Alone
I feel a bit like Gary Snyder today (and I am paraphrasing, and probably badly): the bend of the waist, the articulation of the knees, the in and out of ragged breath, the crunch of boots on ground.
Hiking. I know I wax romantic, and some of you, probably a lot of you, don't understand it or even want to. It's dirty, it's cold, it's hot, it's sweaty, it's exhausting, it's blister-inducing. You stand at the bottom of a hill and think, "no way am I walking up that thing." But then you do, one boot in front of the other and when you look behind you, you think, "I climbed that."
I love the austereness of it, which is probably why I prefer to hike alone. It seems sacred to me. From an online dictionary: "Austere usually implies a purposeful avoidance of luxury or ease." Maybe, to me, it seems as if you haven't earned it if the process wasn't difficult. I am leary of things that seem to come very easily. They rarely do.
When I am on the trail, I don't think about subway trains packed full of people, bills that are due, or any of the riff-raff periphery. I walk, I breathe.
Hiking. I know I wax romantic, and some of you, probably a lot of you, don't understand it or even want to. It's dirty, it's cold, it's hot, it's sweaty, it's exhausting, it's blister-inducing. You stand at the bottom of a hill and think, "no way am I walking up that thing." But then you do, one boot in front of the other and when you look behind you, you think, "I climbed that."
I love the austereness of it, which is probably why I prefer to hike alone. It seems sacred to me. From an online dictionary: "Austere usually implies a purposeful avoidance of luxury or ease." Maybe, to me, it seems as if you haven't earned it if the process wasn't difficult. I am leary of things that seem to come very easily. They rarely do.
When I am on the trail, I don't think about subway trains packed full of people, bills that are due, or any of the riff-raff periphery. I walk, I breathe.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Only a Car
I realize, you know, that it's just a car. A metal shell with an engine and wheels. A fuel-sucking, carbon dioxide emitting car. Then why did I feel a sense of loss and sadness as I watched the car, incapacitated, being attached to the tow truck?
When I was a little girl, if I fell off of a counter top, I would worry about the floor and if I hurt it when I landed. I would worry about the cookies I was about to bite into, wondering if I was causing them pain. I would further worry about doors being slammed, barbies being sad when I cut off their hair, cats left out in the cold or hungrily mewing at the back door, dogs in the dog runs and unplugged Canadian cars.
It's not like it kept me up at night, these adolescent worries (although the Canadian car worry came later when I learned that they actually had plugs). And I cannot explain to you why I thought these things, I just did.
When I sold the Yota (my beloved Toyota Paseo, 1993, 200,000 miles) I felt lost. "If These Cars Could Talk" would be the name of the show. Break-ups, arguments with loved ones, angry and loving telephone calls, memories of Canada and Southern Utah, little white dog hairs left on the seats reminding me of my sweet puppers Yeti (best dog ever)! It seemed as if I was closing a book that I absolutely did not want to end.
Now this Jeep, my dad's Jeep that had a little breakdown on 4th South last night, it's not my car to romanticize. But we did drive (mom, dad, and I) to South Dakota to see my sister and her husband. It is the site of the notorious "Signing Monkeys" saga. It still smells, albeit vaguely, of the vitamin plant where my dad used to work.
We used to have a A VW Rabbit Convertible, a 1981, and we don't know how many miles it had on it because the odometer was broken, but my dad and I estimate well over 200,000. Pops said he was driving it one day, he parked it, and when he returned, it just didn't start. Never started again. It was as if the car gave up the ghost, saying, "You know what, I'm done now. I'm going to go to the great parking lot in the sky." And maybe that's what the Jeep said last night. "You know what, I'm 15 years old and have 293,ooo miles. I'm tired. And now I'm going to join the Rabbit. Peace, out."
No need to cry, Erin. It is, after all, only a car.
When I was a little girl, if I fell off of a counter top, I would worry about the floor and if I hurt it when I landed. I would worry about the cookies I was about to bite into, wondering if I was causing them pain. I would further worry about doors being slammed, barbies being sad when I cut off their hair, cats left out in the cold or hungrily mewing at the back door, dogs in the dog runs and unplugged Canadian cars.
It's not like it kept me up at night, these adolescent worries (although the Canadian car worry came later when I learned that they actually had plugs). And I cannot explain to you why I thought these things, I just did.
When I sold the Yota (my beloved Toyota Paseo, 1993, 200,000 miles) I felt lost. "If These Cars Could Talk" would be the name of the show. Break-ups, arguments with loved ones, angry and loving telephone calls, memories of Canada and Southern Utah, little white dog hairs left on the seats reminding me of my sweet puppers Yeti (best dog ever)! It seemed as if I was closing a book that I absolutely did not want to end.
Now this Jeep, my dad's Jeep that had a little breakdown on 4th South last night, it's not my car to romanticize. But we did drive (mom, dad, and I) to South Dakota to see my sister and her husband. It is the site of the notorious "Signing Monkeys" saga. It still smells, albeit vaguely, of the vitamin plant where my dad used to work.
We used to have a A VW Rabbit Convertible, a 1981, and we don't know how many miles it had on it because the odometer was broken, but my dad and I estimate well over 200,000. Pops said he was driving it one day, he parked it, and when he returned, it just didn't start. Never started again. It was as if the car gave up the ghost, saying, "You know what, I'm done now. I'm going to go to the great parking lot in the sky." And maybe that's what the Jeep said last night. "You know what, I'm 15 years old and have 293,ooo miles. I'm tired. And now I'm going to join the Rabbit. Peace, out."
No need to cry, Erin. It is, after all, only a car.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
The "L" word
I'm thinking about something, turning it over in my hands, mulling. It's the "L" word. That's right, the dreaded "love" word. What exactly does it mean? Other than the dictionary meaning, but the word itself. I love my parents, my friends, my phone, my decaf quad, my books. But why is this word so easily applied to everything, like a post-it note? Is this word supposed to be sacred? And is it?
I also wonder about the word "love" as it applies to male/female, male/male, female/female relationships. Why do we choose to love someone? And it is a choice, I firmly believe that. Has the word become a weapon, a tool of manipulation? "Hey honey, I love you, let's move in so we can split the rent." You see what I mean? Or "I love you so much baby but I can't go to that thing that means so much to you because I'm busy/tired/can't be bothered, etc." Is that love?
My mother tells me, especially in matters of religion (I suppose this need to define the "l" word could be certainly be considered esoteric) that I don't need to think so much about it, that I shoudn't try to figure out why, that I just need to believe it. That's what my geometry teacher said. And I failed geometry.
I also wonder about the word "love" as it applies to male/female, male/male, female/female relationships. Why do we choose to love someone? And it is a choice, I firmly believe that. Has the word become a weapon, a tool of manipulation? "Hey honey, I love you, let's move in so we can split the rent." You see what I mean? Or "I love you so much baby but I can't go to that thing that means so much to you because I'm busy/tired/can't be bothered, etc." Is that love?
My mother tells me, especially in matters of religion (I suppose this need to define the "l" word could be certainly be considered esoteric) that I don't need to think so much about it, that I shoudn't try to figure out why, that I just need to believe it. That's what my geometry teacher said. And I failed geometry.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A Place to Keep Warm
There is a homeless person I am fascinated with. It is neither man nor woman, but a meticulous blend of the two. I shall call this person Terry (a nice, dual sex name). Terry wears baggy grey sweatpants with a pair of platform flip flops in a festive, hawaiian print. Terry also sports an appropriately asexual windbreaker that cinches at the waist and a pair of grandmotherly earrings. Terry's long, brownish-grey hair is is swept up French Twist style and held in place by one pink and one blue hair clip. Appropos. Terry always wears headphones attached to an old school Walkman, and the headpiece rests on the back of his (for I am almost certain Terry is a male) neck. Terry's hands are mannish and marked on the knuckles with with crisp, black hairs. They are fastidiously polished a choral pink, which perfectly matches the lipstick that strays ever so slightly outside the lines.
I see Terry all the time. Terry sits on 57th Street between 6th and 7th on two large, zippered and clean suitcases. I see him on my way to work.
Terry doesn't know this, but I like him. I would like to sit next to Terry on 57th Street and find out why he is sitting on two suitcase, an empty Starbucks cup silently soliciting in his hand.
Terry has many good qualities: Unfailingly polite, a warm smile, attention to detail and a personal, quite stylish flair. Yet, Terry, I am surmising, has no place to live.
What is the difference between me and Terry? How many dominoes have to fall before you or I are dragging our heavy suitcases into a Starbucks, keeping warm and dry on a rainy, miserable day?
I just glanced at Terry and he was gazing out the window, looking positively girlish, chin in hand, pen clasped between two well-painted yet dirty fingers.
Yes, I like Terry. I hope one day to have the courage to ask, "is this seat taken?", and then ask, "how are things?"
I see Terry all the time. Terry sits on 57th Street between 6th and 7th on two large, zippered and clean suitcases. I see him on my way to work.
Terry doesn't know this, but I like him. I would like to sit next to Terry on 57th Street and find out why he is sitting on two suitcase, an empty Starbucks cup silently soliciting in his hand.
Terry has many good qualities: Unfailingly polite, a warm smile, attention to detail and a personal, quite stylish flair. Yet, Terry, I am surmising, has no place to live.
What is the difference between me and Terry? How many dominoes have to fall before you or I are dragging our heavy suitcases into a Starbucks, keeping warm and dry on a rainy, miserable day?
I just glanced at Terry and he was gazing out the window, looking positively girlish, chin in hand, pen clasped between two well-painted yet dirty fingers.
Yes, I like Terry. I hope one day to have the courage to ask, "is this seat taken?", and then ask, "how are things?"
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Severing the Complicated
I had to sever a relationship today. A long-standing, very complicated relationship. I wish I could say that it was easy, because it wasn't. Even after all the roiling, murky water under the bridge, as I made my decision I felt the thin fingers slipping between my skull and brain and squeezing tightly. It almost takes your breath away. Then to hear your heart pounding as you consciously breathe makes you question even further whether you made the right decision or not.
Nothing is forever. Our relationships, our homes, our clothing, it is all ephemeral. As for this relationship, I have said "no more. I cannot do this any more." My only hope, since there is always hope to be found, is that I will be able to reclaim the power I surrendered, that I can once again speak with a voice unguarded.
Nothing is forever. Our relationships, our homes, our clothing, it is all ephemeral. As for this relationship, I have said "no more. I cannot do this any more." My only hope, since there is always hope to be found, is that I will be able to reclaim the power I surrendered, that I can once again speak with a voice unguarded.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Cape May
Michelle just turned 30, and for her birthday celebration she wanted to go to Cape May and do some skydiving on the way! We had 11 people altogether, and 5 people had agreed to jump. But I am telling you, I saw that plane and was very grateful that I had said, "no, thank you." It looked like a toy airplane put together with crazy glue and duct tape. Unfortunately for the jumpers, it was pouring rain and they were unable to go. So, after our little stop off at the airport, we all headed down to Cape May, this cute little beach town in southern New Jersey.
Cape May is about 2 1/2 hours from Manhattan, and by the time we did our skydiving detour, we weren't able to spend much time seeing the town before our dinner reservation at this adorable hotel called The Virginia. We were able to spend a little bit of time on a fairly cold day on the rocks by the water, then we did a little bit of quick shopping, but of course, it being the off-season, most of the shops were closed. I think the town would be really fun in the summer when it's nice and warm!
Pics!
The top is, of course, a picture of the beach. That is the Atlantic Ocean, people, and it is nice and cold. The next pic is of the birthday girl, me and Erin B. The following pic is of all the girls Michelle loves: Erin B., me, Leah, Michelle, Rachel, and Rachel.We had a really great time and it was really nice to get out of the city, if even for a day!
Friday, March 20, 2009
She is happy fish!
I was very proud to be watching my best girl, Looks, make not only her Broadway lead debut, but any lead debut in The Little Mermaid on Wednesday. Might as well do it on Broadway, right?! Her parents came up from Virginia with some other family as well, and there was a lovely gathering afterward with her friends and family.
Looks, if you read this, you were/are positively radiant. She made me a little teary-eyed.
Pics!
So, the first pic is of me, of course, Rachel (she's in book club with me), Upstairs Rachel (she lives above Looks and I call her that to keep her straight from the aforementioned Rachel. She is a dresser on Mermaid), Kay and Cecily (they are in the show). The white blonde is Erin B., another book clubber and also a ballroom dancer, Michelle's husband Victor, and the girl herself!
The other pic is of me, Erin B., and Michelle's Mom, who had to be the proudest mom in NYC on Wednesday! Encore, I say, encore!
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Baby showers, NYC style
My good friends Ashlee and Jeremy are having a baby. Little Lincoln is coming in about six weeks. Now I have been to a few baby showers but this one was off the hook! First, it was at a friend of Ashlee's at his apartment in Chelsea (kind of a high-priced, fashiony area). I don't know how many rooms this place had, but let's just say there were more than 40 people there and we all fit! They had great food (fresh fruit, scones, a plate of cold cuts --you know, the fancy name I can't remember, cheese and crackers). The hostesses ran this like a military outfit: Totally organized and on it!
They did something really clever: They bought TONS of white cotton onesies in many sizes and brought in a whole bunch of Sharpies. Then they just turned us loose and let us decorate all the onesies! There were so many great, creative little baby outfits that are really appropriate for not only the baby but also the parents. I thought it was a really cool idea.
There was so much loot there I could hardly believe it: Baby Bjorns, two car seats, tons of clothing, millions of little tubs, bottles, lotion, diapers. I guess they have already been given the "Cadillac" of strollers to the tune of $1000 and another jogger stroller that apprently folds up Jetson-style. They have also already received a six month supply of diapers! They are totally set, I think, and little Lincoln will be coming into this world in style (although, how could he be any other way, with a Broadway daddy and a Rockette mommy)?
My only question for the day was "Where in the hell are they going to put all this stuff?" They have a great little one bedroom midtown, but I am telling you, these gifts would fill most of their aparment! I can only wish them the best!
They did something really clever: They bought TONS of white cotton onesies in many sizes and brought in a whole bunch of Sharpies. Then they just turned us loose and let us decorate all the onesies! There were so many great, creative little baby outfits that are really appropriate for not only the baby but also the parents. I thought it was a really cool idea.
There was so much loot there I could hardly believe it: Baby Bjorns, two car seats, tons of clothing, millions of little tubs, bottles, lotion, diapers. I guess they have already been given the "Cadillac" of strollers to the tune of $1000 and another jogger stroller that apprently folds up Jetson-style. They have also already received a six month supply of diapers! They are totally set, I think, and little Lincoln will be coming into this world in style (although, how could he be any other way, with a Broadway daddy and a Rockette mommy)?
My only question for the day was "Where in the hell are they going to put all this stuff?" They have a great little one bedroom midtown, but I am telling you, these gifts would fill most of their aparment! I can only wish them the best!
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas Eve Saga
As we all know, yesterday was Christmas Eve. Granted, I didn't hundred dollar bills would be falling from the sky or anything like that but I wasn't expecting the day to be quite so challenging.
It starts out well enough: a little breakfast, getting my gym and work clothes together, stuff like that. I was meeting Michelle at the gym so we could exchange gifts and have a little Christmas Eve cardio blast. I made Michelle her gift, some cranberry and orange infused vodka that I had put in a lovely glass jar, taped and wrapped in foil in order to prepare for the ride midtown (I didn't know if it would leak but certainly didn't want to find out). I get on the subway and I'm like a pack-mule: giant backpack, big purse, shopping bag with the aforementioned vodka inside. I put the shopping bag on the train floor so I can take off my backpack, the subway starts and the bag tips over. "Aaaaahhhhhhh!" is what's running through my head, so I pick it up quickly and decide not to worry about it since there's nothing I can do on the subway anyway. I get off the train (and did I mention it was raining?) and finally get to the gym. And that's when I notice the saggy bottom of the shopping bag. Luckily, I was at the gym and was able to clean it up, but the vodka had indeed spilled (not too much, but enough to be very messy and require a 15 minute clean-up job).
Fast forward, oh, two hours. I have now acquired a shopping bag that has my lunch inside. A salad. I have to go to my friend's house on the Upper East Side because I am house/cat/fish sitting for him. He has a persnickety lock on his apartment door, one that has to be cajoled gently in order to work. So, there I am, all my bags, etc. (luckily it's not raining anymore, so one less thing in my hands) cajoling the lock, when the tumbler comes out with the key, falls to the floor and breaks into ten pieces. Yipes! I start to worry about the cat and the fish (and wonder if the fish will be there when I can finally get into the apartment). I call my friend and tell him what's happening, and he instructs me to go the management office and they'll take care of it. I go to the management office and he's turning the broken tumbler over in his hands and asks me if I can stay until he fixes the lock. Nope, I inform him. I have to leave for work in twenty minutes. So, I leave my information with him, etc. This is a problem that will have to be fixed today.
Like I mentioned I was in a bit of a hurry because I had to go to work. So, I hop on the train and ride all the way downtown and get to work when, surprise! The door is locked. Insert Scooby sound here. I call the manager and she tells me, "Oh, it's a private event. You don't have to be there until 9:00." I check my watch. 6:00. I am downtown, 180 blocks from home. It's Christmas Eve. Even the crazy Meatpacking District where I work is starting to look a little sparse in terms of people. I find a Starbucks that is open until 8:00 (after two attempts), and sit there for two hours, then find a bar for another hour where I drink soda and bitters (I'm sure the bartender was THRILLED with me, but whatever. I left her ten bucks for a $3 drink), and then went to work, which was finally open.
Checking coats is thrilling. Honestly. You sit in a dim room and make fun of REALLY drunk people. Like last night, a girl fell. Like literally, just fell right on her butt in the hall. So, anyway, a guy comes to pick up his coat and his ticket number is 735, and he said, "Those are my lucky numbers!" "Good numbers, too, I say, 3, 5, and 7 are sequential and prime, too. That's pretty good." And I hear him say to his friend, "I'm surprised a coat check girl knows what prime numbers are." And as I'm handing his his coat, I say, "Yeah, and I know lots of big words, too."
I got off work at 4:00, that is a.m. I splurged on a cab ride home and as he was driving (does anyway remember that video game, Crazy Cab? That's what this ride was like), I was considering the messages of love I received yesterday from friends and family, the fact that though my day was indeed frustrating, I am blessed. I hope you all have a beautiful Christmas.
And now I have to get dressed to check in on the lock/cat/fish situation. Wish me luck!
It starts out well enough: a little breakfast, getting my gym and work clothes together, stuff like that. I was meeting Michelle at the gym so we could exchange gifts and have a little Christmas Eve cardio blast. I made Michelle her gift, some cranberry and orange infused vodka that I had put in a lovely glass jar, taped and wrapped in foil in order to prepare for the ride midtown (I didn't know if it would leak but certainly didn't want to find out). I get on the subway and I'm like a pack-mule: giant backpack, big purse, shopping bag with the aforementioned vodka inside. I put the shopping bag on the train floor so I can take off my backpack, the subway starts and the bag tips over. "Aaaaahhhhhhh!" is what's running through my head, so I pick it up quickly and decide not to worry about it since there's nothing I can do on the subway anyway. I get off the train (and did I mention it was raining?) and finally get to the gym. And that's when I notice the saggy bottom of the shopping bag. Luckily, I was at the gym and was able to clean it up, but the vodka had indeed spilled (not too much, but enough to be very messy and require a 15 minute clean-up job).
Fast forward, oh, two hours. I have now acquired a shopping bag that has my lunch inside. A salad. I have to go to my friend's house on the Upper East Side because I am house/cat/fish sitting for him. He has a persnickety lock on his apartment door, one that has to be cajoled gently in order to work. So, there I am, all my bags, etc. (luckily it's not raining anymore, so one less thing in my hands) cajoling the lock, when the tumbler comes out with the key, falls to the floor and breaks into ten pieces. Yipes! I start to worry about the cat and the fish (and wonder if the fish will be there when I can finally get into the apartment). I call my friend and tell him what's happening, and he instructs me to go the management office and they'll take care of it. I go to the management office and he's turning the broken tumbler over in his hands and asks me if I can stay until he fixes the lock. Nope, I inform him. I have to leave for work in twenty minutes. So, I leave my information with him, etc. This is a problem that will have to be fixed today.
Like I mentioned I was in a bit of a hurry because I had to go to work. So, I hop on the train and ride all the way downtown and get to work when, surprise! The door is locked. Insert Scooby sound here. I call the manager and she tells me, "Oh, it's a private event. You don't have to be there until 9:00." I check my watch. 6:00. I am downtown, 180 blocks from home. It's Christmas Eve. Even the crazy Meatpacking District where I work is starting to look a little sparse in terms of people. I find a Starbucks that is open until 8:00 (after two attempts), and sit there for two hours, then find a bar for another hour where I drink soda and bitters (I'm sure the bartender was THRILLED with me, but whatever. I left her ten bucks for a $3 drink), and then went to work, which was finally open.
Checking coats is thrilling. Honestly. You sit in a dim room and make fun of REALLY drunk people. Like last night, a girl fell. Like literally, just fell right on her butt in the hall. So, anyway, a guy comes to pick up his coat and his ticket number is 735, and he said, "Those are my lucky numbers!" "Good numbers, too, I say, 3, 5, and 7 are sequential and prime, too. That's pretty good." And I hear him say to his friend, "I'm surprised a coat check girl knows what prime numbers are." And as I'm handing his his coat, I say, "Yeah, and I know lots of big words, too."
I got off work at 4:00, that is a.m. I splurged on a cab ride home and as he was driving (does anyway remember that video game, Crazy Cab? That's what this ride was like), I was considering the messages of love I received yesterday from friends and family, the fact that though my day was indeed frustrating, I am blessed. I hope you all have a beautiful Christmas.
And now I have to get dressed to check in on the lock/cat/fish situation. Wish me luck!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Merry merry!
Thankfully Tom and Shane have a Christmas tree and all the trimmings. So, for fun, a friend and I put up the tree the other night (and truthfully, I needed his long limbs to get all the stuff out of the storage area). It was a fun night! I know it's no big deal compared to your big trees and years of accumulated decorations, but I think it's pretty darn cute and just the right size. And for those of you who don't know, I will not be heading to Utah for Christmas. I've decided to stay in town and earn money to pay bills. So send your well wishes to NYC! Hope you are all enjoying your holiday season!
Monday, November 24, 2008
A preemptive Thanksgiving gratitude check
I know the big day is still a couple of days away, but the next few weeks are going to be very busy for me, so I thought that I would acknowledge this day by posting the things that I am grateful for today. As some of you may know, I keep a gratitude journal. I write in it every day. So some of this is what I write every day, and some of it is not.
HIATT'S ANNUAL "WHAT I'M GRATEFUL FOR" LIST (in no particular order):
So, as I eat my pumpkin pie (which is really the only thing I want on Thanksgiving, and minus the crust, of course, because really, the crust ruins a perfectly good pie) I will think of all of you that I am not seeing, and I want you to know that I am grateful for you because you have composed a part of me.
Happy day!
HIATT'S ANNUAL "WHAT I'M GRATEFUL FOR" LIST (in no particular order):
- My beautiful, loving family. Never will you find a mosaic made of so many different kinds of glass. And yet it makes a sparkling image, all of our colors contributing to the whole.
- My astoundingly talented, creative friends. I am so blessed to be surrounded with people that inspire me to be a better person, to strive to be more than the sum of my parts.
- Every struggle behind me and every obstacle in my path. I see you and I will overcome you.
- My jobs, though at times I hate them.
- Health, safety, a warm apartment, coats, food, umbrellas, rubber bands for my hair, my gym membership, gloves, hats, scarves.
- BOOTS!!!
- Books. I am grateful for the time it passes, the lessons they teach, the different worlds within my view, if even for the duration of my subway ride.
So, as I eat my pumpkin pie (which is really the only thing I want on Thanksgiving, and minus the crust, of course, because really, the crust ruins a perfectly good pie) I will think of all of you that I am not seeing, and I want you to know that I am grateful for you because you have composed a part of me.
Happy day!
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Timshel
I have been inspired by my siblings lately to put my thoughts in coherent order. On the one hand is Juli, whose opinions are well-researched and surprisingly diverse. On the other hand is Jarrod, who is navigating by instinct which is not a bad thing. Instincts are good to have for they act in our own perceived needs for self-preservation and also color our outlook on the world. Politics are interesting in that they seem to bring our passions and convictions to the surface, and I for one am grateful to use this blog as a forum to teach each other.
Perhaps you are wondering what the title of this blog means. It is from the novel East of Eden by John Steinbeck, a book that contemplates the ramifications that our personal actions make. Read it, by the way, if you never have. Though the Grapes of Wrath is more popular, I believe this book has more to say about the human spirit, which brings us back to the word above, Timshel. In the book it means "Thou Mayest." This is what Jarrod wrote in my comment space (and please, this is not meant as an offense to me, but merely acted as a catalyst).
"If Obama is the one that inspires you and holds your best interests in mind than you seriously should consider different interests. He associates with known terrorists, he has defended a group that has participated in voter fraud, his pastor and "mentor" for more than 20 years has called America the U.S of KKK A. His wife has said that she has never been proud of America until now."
I could argue contrarily about this in a million different ways, but I won't because I believe ultimately in Timshel, or "Thou Mayest." In the novel, Lee, the Chinese servant and sage, and Samuel Hamilton, the man who never ceases to be curious and question the reasons for life are arguing about different translations of the bible. Instead of "Thou Shalt," which of course means "you must," the Hebrew word is Timshel. "Thou Mayest." It is much more powerful, and it goes back to the notion of free agency, or free will. This word is extremely powerful. It leaves our choice to do good or evil up to us. It allows us the leeway to explore both the dark and enlightened corners of our souls.
In a political season highlighted by misinformation, media saturation and candidate overexposure, I am going to exercise Timshel and allow people I disagree with to do that, too. We believe, we love, we hate for reasons that will never be explicable to someone other than us, and perhaps not even then.
So Timshel, friends, and exercise your free will, because that is our univeral gift.
Perhaps you are wondering what the title of this blog means. It is from the novel East of Eden by John Steinbeck, a book that contemplates the ramifications that our personal actions make. Read it, by the way, if you never have. Though the Grapes of Wrath is more popular, I believe this book has more to say about the human spirit, which brings us back to the word above, Timshel. In the book it means "Thou Mayest." This is what Jarrod wrote in my comment space (and please, this is not meant as an offense to me, but merely acted as a catalyst).
"If Obama is the one that inspires you and holds your best interests in mind than you seriously should consider different interests. He associates with known terrorists, he has defended a group that has participated in voter fraud, his pastor and "mentor" for more than 20 years has called America the U.S of KKK A. His wife has said that she has never been proud of America until now."
I could argue contrarily about this in a million different ways, but I won't because I believe ultimately in Timshel, or "Thou Mayest." In the novel, Lee, the Chinese servant and sage, and Samuel Hamilton, the man who never ceases to be curious and question the reasons for life are arguing about different translations of the bible. Instead of "Thou Shalt," which of course means "you must," the Hebrew word is Timshel. "Thou Mayest." It is much more powerful, and it goes back to the notion of free agency, or free will. This word is extremely powerful. It leaves our choice to do good or evil up to us. It allows us the leeway to explore both the dark and enlightened corners of our souls.
In a political season highlighted by misinformation, media saturation and candidate overexposure, I am going to exercise Timshel and allow people I disagree with to do that, too. We believe, we love, we hate for reasons that will never be explicable to someone other than us, and perhaps not even then.
So Timshel, friends, and exercise your free will, because that is our univeral gift.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Why I feel sorry for John McCain
From dictionary.com I pasted the following definition:
hu·man·ist
The reasons I feel sorry for John McCain are mostly related to definition #1. After watching the debate tonight, I feel that John McCain has lost his dignity. Granted, it was slipping out of his grasp weeks ago, and he likely has Karl Rove-like minions prying it from his fists. I feel that John McCain is an honorable man, one who has served his country amazingly and was put through five years of what could only be worse than hell. I feel, however, that his time in the Hanoi Hilton changed him. Formed him. Drives him. My BA in acting has taught me a few things about how humans operate, and we all know the meaning of text vs. subtext. The text is, of course, the words that you say. The subtext of course, is what drives the meaning of the words. When someone asks you if you're okay and you say in that short, exasperated or forlorn way "Nothing," then we know that something is wrong. We all do it, every day. McCain really, really wants you to like him. He said as much in his concluding statement this evening. Of course, I am paraphrasing, but "my friends, I'm from a long line of McCain's who have served this country and I've been here a long time and I want to do it some more," is not enough to make me consider his policies. In fact, it is the very thing that made me sad for him. Here was the subtext for me (and this is the great thing about art, because all of it is subjective. We likely saw some very different debates tonight simply because we saw them through different eyes): I was shot down in Vietnam and spent five years as a POW. I have earned my way, through my military, familial, and financial connections. I have been a Maverick because I never really thought that I would actually get nominated for president, and now that I am, I have to do what the Republican architects tell me to do. I have sold my authenticity in the hopes that you'll buy me.
The fact of the matter is, at one point in my existence, albeit many years ago, I actually admired John McCain, rabble-rouser from AZ. Back when the Straight Talk Express seemed like a political beacon, before he was being groomed for the presidency. It's like someone has smothered him. The grimace, the calculated laugh through clenched teeth, the skin cancer surgery scars running longwise down his face; all of this concerns me. Sarah Palin, should John McCain win and pass away in office, would be the U.S.'s greatest mistake and go down as our greatest folly, even surpassing Dick Cheney and Rummy.
Now to be fair, I feel sorry for Hillary Clinton, too. She and McCain are in the same boat. Both have been in politics for decades, with long careers, many successes and failures, more experience than Bushie 2, Obama, and Palin combined. Hillary REALLY wanted you to like her, too. She is the not-so-pretty girl who wants to be the prom queen. Oh, and guess who is? That's right...my favorite, Sarah Palin. The classic story of the girl who really deserves it being bested by the skinny girl with better hair. By the way, The New York Times the other day posted side by side statistics of presidential races and those who won or lost based upon, of all things, their height. Something like 8 of 10 times the taller candidate won. So I suppose we could posit the same theory for women, since women generally value beauty the way men value height. Sarah wins (even though she really does need new hair).
I would like to give my parents great credit for not requiring us to lean one way or another politically. Dad is saying, election after election, "I don't like either one of them." But here's the difference for me this year, a difference that was highlighted by the lackluster performances of John Kerry and Al Gore: Barack Obama inspires me. His words make me think about volunteering, about teaching, about doing my part for my community. When John McCain talks, I find myself staring rudely at his gesticulating arms. All I can think about is how that poor guy will never be able to raise his arms above his shoulders because he broke both his arms being shot down and they never healed properly. That's why I know that his wounds, his isolation in prison are the things that drive him. I don't want a man mired in the nightmare of his past laying the groundwork for my future.
hu·man·ist
| 1. | a person having a strong interest in or concern for human welfare, values, and dignity. |
| 2. | a person devoted to or versed in the humanities. |
| 3. | a student of human nature or affairs. |
| 4. | a classical scholar. |
| 5. | (sometimes initial capital letter) any one of the scholars of the Renaissance who pursued and disseminated the study and understanding of the cultures of ancient Rome and Greece, and emphasized secular, individualistic, and critical thought. |
| 6. | (sometimes initial capital letter) a person who follows a form of scientific or philosophical humanism. |
The reasons I feel sorry for John McCain are mostly related to definition #1. After watching the debate tonight, I feel that John McCain has lost his dignity. Granted, it was slipping out of his grasp weeks ago, and he likely has Karl Rove-like minions prying it from his fists. I feel that John McCain is an honorable man, one who has served his country amazingly and was put through five years of what could only be worse than hell. I feel, however, that his time in the Hanoi Hilton changed him. Formed him. Drives him. My BA in acting has taught me a few things about how humans operate, and we all know the meaning of text vs. subtext. The text is, of course, the words that you say. The subtext of course, is what drives the meaning of the words. When someone asks you if you're okay and you say in that short, exasperated or forlorn way "Nothing," then we know that something is wrong. We all do it, every day. McCain really, really wants you to like him. He said as much in his concluding statement this evening. Of course, I am paraphrasing, but "my friends, I'm from a long line of McCain's who have served this country and I've been here a long time and I want to do it some more," is not enough to make me consider his policies. In fact, it is the very thing that made me sad for him. Here was the subtext for me (and this is the great thing about art, because all of it is subjective. We likely saw some very different debates tonight simply because we saw them through different eyes): I was shot down in Vietnam and spent five years as a POW. I have earned my way, through my military, familial, and financial connections. I have been a Maverick because I never really thought that I would actually get nominated for president, and now that I am, I have to do what the Republican architects tell me to do. I have sold my authenticity in the hopes that you'll buy me.
The fact of the matter is, at one point in my existence, albeit many years ago, I actually admired John McCain, rabble-rouser from AZ. Back when the Straight Talk Express seemed like a political beacon, before he was being groomed for the presidency. It's like someone has smothered him. The grimace, the calculated laugh through clenched teeth, the skin cancer surgery scars running longwise down his face; all of this concerns me. Sarah Palin, should John McCain win and pass away in office, would be the U.S.'s greatest mistake and go down as our greatest folly, even surpassing Dick Cheney and Rummy.
Now to be fair, I feel sorry for Hillary Clinton, too. She and McCain are in the same boat. Both have been in politics for decades, with long careers, many successes and failures, more experience than Bushie 2, Obama, and Palin combined. Hillary REALLY wanted you to like her, too. She is the not-so-pretty girl who wants to be the prom queen. Oh, and guess who is? That's right...my favorite, Sarah Palin. The classic story of the girl who really deserves it being bested by the skinny girl with better hair. By the way, The New York Times the other day posted side by side statistics of presidential races and those who won or lost based upon, of all things, their height. Something like 8 of 10 times the taller candidate won. So I suppose we could posit the same theory for women, since women generally value beauty the way men value height. Sarah wins (even though she really does need new hair).
I would like to give my parents great credit for not requiring us to lean one way or another politically. Dad is saying, election after election, "I don't like either one of them." But here's the difference for me this year, a difference that was highlighted by the lackluster performances of John Kerry and Al Gore: Barack Obama inspires me. His words make me think about volunteering, about teaching, about doing my part for my community. When John McCain talks, I find myself staring rudely at his gesticulating arms. All I can think about is how that poor guy will never be able to raise his arms above his shoulders because he broke both his arms being shot down and they never healed properly. That's why I know that his wounds, his isolation in prison are the things that drive him. I don't want a man mired in the nightmare of his past laying the groundwork for my future.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Mad. Madmadmadmadmadmad!!!!!!!!!!
As most of you know, the study of science has never been my strong suit. I am fascinated by it, but I do not understand how it works. So in tenth grade I decided to take what I thought would be the easy road and take Environmental Science. I would like to thank Mr. Richins for my current fascination and worry with global warming, acid rain, recycling, the extinction of the Polar Bear, the percentage of landfills taken up by disposable diapers, the National Geographic Channel, etc.
I had the opportunity to visit an aquarium, dumpy though it was, in Manhattan Beach, CA. They had on their wall a display of several different types of containers: Plastic, styrofoam, tin cans, aluminum cans, and plastic bags. A quick double check on Wiki lists the biodegradable time of the following items: Tin cans at 50-100 years, aluminum cans at 200-500 years, plastic bottles at 70-450 years, and styrofoam will never leave this planet. Ever. So I don't think any of you will find it difficult to imagine me pulling my hair out when Sarah Palin, the Republican nominee for Vice President poked some vitriolic fun at the Obama campaign by saying "after he's done turning back the waters and healing the planet" he will raise your taxes (I think is how that sentence was concluded). This was followed by the largely white and obese crowd yelling "Drill, baby drill." My other favorite barb of the night had to do with the people at the DNC "hauling back their environmentally safe styrofoam to some Hollywood studio." This insult is, of course, two fold. The first part of the jab is belittling people who are interested in "environmentally safe styrofoam." The second part is, of course, the same old Elephant wail to hate everyone in Hollywood.
I dislike Sarah Palin for several reasons, the least of which is barb-filled environmentally obtuse speech. I take that back. In a sense I feel sorry for her. She came into this nomination so late and so unexpectedly that she probably didn't get to offer up any of her own opinions and got to recite a speech written for her by Bushie 2's former speech writer. But back to why I am so upset by her and her stances:
And after this rant, I can absolutely promise you this: I recycle to the best of my ability. I eat organic, unprocessed foods. I drive fuel-effecient cars when I do drive. I do not judge you if you don't, because I understand that life is complicated, busy, and hard. Some cities do not even offer recycling. The self-interests of corporations make it hard to do the right thing. But let's not continue to promulgate this cycle of waste and pollution by putting people like McCain and Palin in the White House. Let's take a chance on someone who can get us back to the Kyoto Protocol, who can hopefully build the U.S. image in a positive light for the rest of the world to behold. Because they do look up to us, whether they want to or not, they do.
I had the opportunity to visit an aquarium, dumpy though it was, in Manhattan Beach, CA. They had on their wall a display of several different types of containers: Plastic, styrofoam, tin cans, aluminum cans, and plastic bags. A quick double check on Wiki lists the biodegradable time of the following items: Tin cans at 50-100 years, aluminum cans at 200-500 years, plastic bottles at 70-450 years, and styrofoam will never leave this planet. Ever. So I don't think any of you will find it difficult to imagine me pulling my hair out when Sarah Palin, the Republican nominee for Vice President poked some vitriolic fun at the Obama campaign by saying "after he's done turning back the waters and healing the planet" he will raise your taxes (I think is how that sentence was concluded). This was followed by the largely white and obese crowd yelling "Drill, baby drill." My other favorite barb of the night had to do with the people at the DNC "hauling back their environmentally safe styrofoam to some Hollywood studio." This insult is, of course, two fold. The first part of the jab is belittling people who are interested in "environmentally safe styrofoam." The second part is, of course, the same old Elephant wail to hate everyone in Hollywood.
I dislike Sarah Palin for several reasons, the least of which is barb-filled environmentally obtuse speech. I take that back. In a sense I feel sorry for her. She came into this nomination so late and so unexpectedly that she probably didn't get to offer up any of her own opinions and got to recite a speech written for her by Bushie 2's former speech writer. But back to why I am so upset by her and her stances:
- She is a proponent of abstinence only sex education. Her 17 year old daughter is pregnant out of wedlock. She vetoed money in her state that would help single mothers. If Obama's daughter was pregnant, the Evangelicals would be all over that, claiming immoral family values, and the dangers of teaching valid sex-ed, because knowledge is power. If you understand sex you'll want to do it all the time! It is the epitome of so-called "moral" hypocrisy.
- She has a four month old son named Trig who has Down's Syndrome. I am all for working mothers. It is nearly impossible for any family now to make it on anything less than two incomes. As one Evangelical woman said in an interview in the New York Times, "Sarah Palin is running for Vice President with a pregnant daughter and a four month old son with Down's Syndrome. Not my set of values." Another example of conservative hypocrisy at work. Thank heaven, though, that if Sarah Palin wins she will have a team of nannies, tutors, cooks, etc. to raise her children while she is out looking for new places to drill. Meanwhile, you and I go to work as waitresses, teachers, laborers and try to scrounge up money to pay a babysitter so we can go to a Friday night movie.
- I am upset by the pro-life wing singing the praises of Sarah Palin for not aborting her son when she discovered while still in vitro that he had Down's Syndrome. Because, as we all know, every woman who is pro-choice and becomes pregnant with a special needs baby aborts it immediately.
- Her energy plans are preposterous. "Yes," she exclaims, "There's plenty of energy on the North Slope of Alaska!" Let's extract it, drill it, thump it, drain it completely dry. The "alternative methods" of energy were practically an afterthought in her speech. Wind, solar, biothermal, water. We need them all. We ABSOLUTELY need to end our dependence on foreign oil. But we can't do it by drilling in the Alaskan Wildlife Refuge. It will not sate our appetites but for a moment. We must learn to do without it. It's like french fries, people. They're a treat, not a food group. And as we all know from our spiraling obesity rates, Americans love French fries.
And after this rant, I can absolutely promise you this: I recycle to the best of my ability. I eat organic, unprocessed foods. I drive fuel-effecient cars when I do drive. I do not judge you if you don't, because I understand that life is complicated, busy, and hard. Some cities do not even offer recycling. The self-interests of corporations make it hard to do the right thing. But let's not continue to promulgate this cycle of waste and pollution by putting people like McCain and Palin in the White House. Let's take a chance on someone who can get us back to the Kyoto Protocol, who can hopefully build the U.S. image in a positive light for the rest of the world to behold. Because they do look up to us, whether they want to or not, they do.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
M and D on the right coast (as in east, not incorrect)
As you all know, I took a trip down to MD to see the parental units. I got there in the later part of the evening, just in time to wish Mom a Happy Birthday, watch some Shark Week, and then go to bed. It was a fun trip. Too short for me, but fun. I did make B take me for a hike, which was lovely. And I got some good pics of Em and the rents. My favorite part of the trip was sitting on the front steps with E in the relative cool of the evening. We read together; she Nancy Drew, me National Geographic. She is an excellent reader and I think we must have looked straight out of Norman Rockwell or some other terribly domestic picket fency kind of mag. Very fun.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Big fat nothing
I am sad to report that nothing exciting is going on, especially on the career front. Well, on second thought I guess that's not entirely true. My good friend Q from my Southern Utah days dragged me onto Facebook. I don't know if you all know this story, but my sophomore year at SUU I lived in a house with seven other girls. We became known in the theatre community as the PMS house because you women know the story; we all dragged each other onto one another's cycles, therefore, in theory, we would all be PMSing at the same time. Since we were all clever, we decided that we would call ourselves Pi Mu Sigma, thereby creating our own little sorority. It has been such a ridiculous pleasure to be in touch with all of these women again, most of whom I haven't seen since leaving Cedar City in 1993.
I have been crazy busy at work. One of the girls quit, so last week and this week have been in overtime territory. I am also caring for a friend's cat and taking his job as a personal assistant for a couple of weeks while he makes the western rounds (an old friend of mine from WSU, hitting Vegas, Layton, and Jackson Hole, poor guy). I have no time.
I do have some things to look forward to: I am headed down to MD to visit Mom, Dad, Bry, Starr, and Emmy for a couple of days. I also got to take a very quick trip to Philly to see a friend of mine (again, fellow Utahn, representing!) in the national tour of Mamma Mia. He was great! He plays Sky and is the best part of the show. Go see it if it ends up in your neck of the woods. You will especially enjoy the mega-mix at the end. I love me a good mega-mix. I am undeniably biased, but I really enjoyed his performance (shout-out to GH, you know you're a rock star).
That's about it. No auditions happening, just cat petting, laundry doing, and reservation taking. Fun.
I have been crazy busy at work. One of the girls quit, so last week and this week have been in overtime territory. I am also caring for a friend's cat and taking his job as a personal assistant for a couple of weeks while he makes the western rounds (an old friend of mine from WSU, hitting Vegas, Layton, and Jackson Hole, poor guy). I have no time.
I do have some things to look forward to: I am headed down to MD to visit Mom, Dad, Bry, Starr, and Emmy for a couple of days. I also got to take a very quick trip to Philly to see a friend of mine (again, fellow Utahn, representing!) in the national tour of Mamma Mia. He was great! He plays Sky and is the best part of the show. Go see it if it ends up in your neck of the woods. You will especially enjoy the mega-mix at the end. I love me a good mega-mix. I am undeniably biased, but I really enjoyed his performance (shout-out to GH, you know you're a rock star).
That's about it. No auditions happening, just cat petting, laundry doing, and reservation taking. Fun.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
4th of July
This past July 4th was the first 4th I've had in years where I wasn't working or doing a show. My friend Michelle has a cute little apartment in Jersey just on the other side of the Hudson with great Manhattan views. They also have a cute little backyard and two adorable doggies, who were wearing their dress-up outfits when we arrived for the BBQ. Victor went all out (and he is a graduate of the American Culinary Institute so he does NOT mess around) and they had a great turn-out. We had a great time. The fireworks however, were a little anticlimatic. We could see across the river to the shows in Manhattan, but it was rainy, sticky, and therefore, not thrilling. But here are some pics.
This is Michelle, me and Rachel. We are book club buddies. And below is what was happening as the fireworks were going on. As you can see, raining. I hope you all had a great 4th!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Prayers for people who lose things
Sometimes we lose things: People, love, pets, our favorite necklace, wedding rings down bathroom drains. I remember one time dropping my wedding ring down the bathroom drain accidentally and the sense of panic and the onset of complete nausea as I watched something precious disappear. It was palpable, a tinny taste in my throat and mouth.
It's no secret that we are all going to die. We don't know when or how, yet we know that it will happen. Sometimes I wonder if it's a blessing of sorts to be diagnosed with something like terminal cancer. You and your family know that the day is soon. You set your house in order, tell everyone you know that they are loved and held so esteemed. And we, the people who get to watch the dying learn compassion, faith, hope. We get to decide ahead of time how we are going to handle someone we love leaving this sphere and being in the hereafter, whatever that may be for you.
So I would like to acknowledge the people who have passed who may be precious to me or precious to people I know. I cannot empathize with your suffering and anguish but I hope that you can teach me compassion.
Ruben O., who lost his 8 year old daughter to cancer. Wade-o, who moved to Canada to be close to his father as he fights Multiple Myeloma. My roomie Tom who lost a friend to Leukemia. Sweet baby sis Boo, who lost her MIL just yesterday to cancer. Her husband loses his mother, her FIL his wife, his true love, we hope. My roomie Shane lost his brother Scott to a car accident as he was driving to pick up his first date. I have two friends suffering HIV. My friend S has a friend who lost both of her sons; one to murder and the other to cancer. A theatre associate and friend of mine overdosed on morphine. He was 20. I sang a song from Peter Pan at his funeral. It's a song about a boy who will never grow old. My friend Shannon, all of 20, died in a head-on collision with a semi-truck in rural Wyoming. The kicker: she was on her way home after traveling to see me in a show.
These are the things that are on the top of my head. I could think of more if I dug further into my past, but none of this will bring them back to us. I just want to know, somehow, that there is method to this madness. Stock religious answers don't satisfy me. So I will try to comfort myself with the thought that I have right here, right now to love people. I KNOW beyond a doubt that I am flawed in this and every other aspect of my life. But I am learning. I hope that I always continue to learn.
Should I ever wear a wedding band again and if that thing should go down the drain, I will remember that it is just a thing; a symbol but still a thing. Instead of panicking, I will grab that man, hold him tight and know that losing the symbol does not make our love any less real.
It's no secret that we are all going to die. We don't know when or how, yet we know that it will happen. Sometimes I wonder if it's a blessing of sorts to be diagnosed with something like terminal cancer. You and your family know that the day is soon. You set your house in order, tell everyone you know that they are loved and held so esteemed. And we, the people who get to watch the dying learn compassion, faith, hope. We get to decide ahead of time how we are going to handle someone we love leaving this sphere and being in the hereafter, whatever that may be for you.
So I would like to acknowledge the people who have passed who may be precious to me or precious to people I know. I cannot empathize with your suffering and anguish but I hope that you can teach me compassion.
Ruben O., who lost his 8 year old daughter to cancer. Wade-o, who moved to Canada to be close to his father as he fights Multiple Myeloma. My roomie Tom who lost a friend to Leukemia. Sweet baby sis Boo, who lost her MIL just yesterday to cancer. Her husband loses his mother, her FIL his wife, his true love, we hope. My roomie Shane lost his brother Scott to a car accident as he was driving to pick up his first date. I have two friends suffering HIV. My friend S has a friend who lost both of her sons; one to murder and the other to cancer. A theatre associate and friend of mine overdosed on morphine. He was 20. I sang a song from Peter Pan at his funeral. It's a song about a boy who will never grow old. My friend Shannon, all of 20, died in a head-on collision with a semi-truck in rural Wyoming. The kicker: she was on her way home after traveling to see me in a show.
These are the things that are on the top of my head. I could think of more if I dug further into my past, but none of this will bring them back to us. I just want to know, somehow, that there is method to this madness. Stock religious answers don't satisfy me. So I will try to comfort myself with the thought that I have right here, right now to love people. I KNOW beyond a doubt that I am flawed in this and every other aspect of my life. But I am learning. I hope that I always continue to learn.
Should I ever wear a wedding band again and if that thing should go down the drain, I will remember that it is just a thing; a symbol but still a thing. Instead of panicking, I will grab that man, hold him tight and know that losing the symbol does not make our love any less real.
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