Looking Back (Part I). . .

I know that I'm a few days late: we're in to the first week of January 2014.  Most people have posted their retrospectives on the year that closed before New Years Eve, or during the lull that is New Years Day.  But 2013 was. . big.  Huge.  An awful lot happened in it, a lot to think about, process, feel, absorb, reflect on.  Every year it seems to me that I sit down and think "Wow.  Highest of highs, lowest of lows, what a crazy year!" and 2013 was no different.  This time, however, I think something is  different.  I am different - for the first time I can really remember, I find myself thinking "Yes.  I am a different person than I was on this day exactly one year ago.  Change. Growth. Exploration."  And as I look back on the year-that-was-and-now-has-passed, I can see distinctly the mile markers of myself: the adventures and their peaks and valleys. . .

January 2013

• I started the year by flying to Chicago (where I'd never been before) to see my Big Sis (not a member of my biological family, but of the sort of foster-family we assembled years ago: a bunch of super young adults sort of adopting each other as we went along) 

• We then roadtripped from Chicago to St. Paul Minnesota for the wedding of a dear, dear friend and his beautiful soulmate
• Had a reunion with the rest of our little family
• I met the lady-love in my Big Brother's (see above description of Big Sis: I promise a blog post on just them is coming soon) life and became fast friends

{Serendipitous Parking at Mall of America}

{Reunion time!}

{There was a photo booth at the wedding}

• Applied to grad school and received word my uncle had passed away on the same night
• Started my last semester in undergrad while battling what I thought was the flu

February

• Represented my school at KCACTF as a Stage Manager and Actress
• Won a scholarship for the Apprentice Program at Commonwealth Shakespeare Company on what was one of the most wonderful nights of my life
• Found out what was wrong with me was Pneumonia
• Performed in my first leading role in a Shakespeare production as Queen Gertrude in Hamlet

March

• Took another road trip, this time from ME to VT with one of the sweet, silly boys in this picture to visit the other sweet, silly boy and our friends at a university there 

            {^roadtrip buddy             ^buddy we roadtripped to}          

• Turned 23, a birthday my roommates Lily and Chet made perfect, from singing to spaghetti.

April

• Performed in my last show on campus (dance) & closed my last theatre production on campus.
• Had my world rocked by the Boston Marathon Bombing.  Felt the fear & panic of having many friends present at the marathon and not knowing when they'd come home.  Wept with my community and found solace in the way the people of Boston pulled together, and the outpouring of love from many cities around the world.
• Had my blog post about the marathon bombing and it's echoes in my life picked up by a branch of the Washington Post
• Gathered with family from around the country on my mother's property to say goodbye to the beloved uncle who had passed away in January
  

{Sleep Well,

Rest well,

Until We

Meet Again}

May

• Took part in two sacred rights of passage at my college: the Senior Brunch for dance majors at our ballet teacher's home and Senior Night for the theatre seniors at one of our faculty member's homes.  One involves muffins, mimosas, sitting out in the sun, and looking towards the future.  The other involves bonfires, ceremonial burning of set pieces, music, and dancing barefoot in the grass.  Both were perfect. 
  
  
  
  {"Ladies of the Ballet," Class of 2013}
  
  
  
  
  
  {"We're with you - whatever happens." Theatre 2013}
• Last Ballet class, and everything that means, at the end of which Jill gave my class her parting advise: "Whatever you do, wherever you go - just dance.  Just dance."
  

• Graduated College.  Summa Cum Laude, Phi Theta Kappa, Kappa Key, Honors Scholar, and with a perfect 8 semester record on Dean's List (that last one was for my Mumma, my teacher from 1st grade through HS).  Sang at graduation: watched one of my dearest soul sisters give the commencement speech to our class: earned both degrees after a regime that nearly killed me. Cried in the arms of Boyfriend and Big Brother afterwards.

{Cap}

{Support network}

{Panic eyes}

And then. . . oh, goodness.  Then the real adventure started.

Two Hobos & Two Monks From Australia Walk Into a Bar. . .

. . . Ok, so it wasn't a bar.  And they weren't all together.  But they all did play a role in my life this weekend. As my friend John pointed out to me the other day, "life is strange."  And it seems I have a knack for getting myself into strange situations.

Here, let me set the scene.  It's 5:10 on a Saturday in Boston, and I am somewhere between power-walking and jogging towards the bus terminal at South Station.  I've got a big ol' reusable shopping bag slung over one shoulder, filled with all sorts of clothing I can't actually wear this weekend because they're potential costume pieces for my show.  No, there is nothing practical in my giant bag.

No, I don't have a ticket yet.

Yes, this trip is impromptu.  

No, it wasn't well planned.  Gypsy life, ok guys?

As I approach the terminal, I move swiftly passed the assorted homeless, beggars, and other impoverished who often crowd that final stretch of street. I hurry towards my destination, trying to ignore the poverty around me that tugs at my heart, but I can't help but notice a man digging through the trash barrel by the side entrance of the terminal. My stomach sinks when I notice that he hasn't got a bag with returnables in it, which means his goal in riffling through the trash can only be one other thing. I move briskly past him but turn to look over my shoulder in time to see him pull a McDonald's bag from the trash.

As I climb the stairs to the purchasing area of the terminal, I can smell the McDonald's upstairs in the food court, the same location the man outside's scavenged dinner no doubt originated: the greasy smell strikes me as a sharp, pitiful contrast to the mental image of the man looking for a few cold bites of the disregarded fast food in the garbage.  I tell myself if I miss my bus (which is probable, it departs in less than ten minutes and I haven't purchased my ticket yet) I will go to the McDonald's and buy the man a value meal so he can at least have warm fast food.

Instead of making me feel better, the idea immediately makes me feel awful.  In what world is my surprise, impromptu day off full of comfort and convenience more important than another human being literally starving outside?  If it takes me missing my bus in order to do the right thing, than I don't deserve to ever catch another bus again.  I turn around, and head back down the stairs, open my wallet and pull out the few dollars I have left, and give them to the man with a request that he buy himseld something hot to eat.  I don't know if he'll spend it on food, or if it will got to booze or cigarettes or something else.  I do know that he was a grown man eating cold french fries out of a trash barrel, and I couldn't stomach walking away. And that the look of shock on his face, shock that another human being would reach out to him, will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Well, now naturally, I missed my bus. I purchased a ticket for a later trip, and then headed over to the McDonalds.  I know it seems foolish, but I kept imagining what it would be like for that man - dirty, and yes smelly, and bearded, and clearly homeless - to stand in line and wait for his food.  The looks, and the judgement, and the suspicion from security guards at bare minimum. . . so I grabbed a chicken sandwich and brought it to him.  I started to walk back towards where the trains come in to South Station, deciding to buy myself a slice of pizza at the big food court while I waited for my bus.  As I started on this leg of my journey, I noticed a man in grey.  A grey robe, to be specific, with a shaved head and a long beard and a pair of sandals on his feet.  Clearly, he was a Franciscan monk.  He looked a little lost, but I figured he'd be fine.  God knows there are enough Catholic Churches in Boston and he probably knew where he was going and I was really hungry . . . . and then he stopped and looked around, and the next thing I knew. . .

Me: "Excuse me.  Are you lost?"
Franciscan One: "Sort of . . ."
Me: "Sort of?  I take it, by your accent you're not from around here?"
Franciscan One: "No, me and my brother" - indicates back towards the terminal - "are here for four months visiting a brother in Roxbury.  I believe we're supposed to meet someone here, but I have no idea where exactly 'here' is other than being in the southern part of Boston."
Me: "Do you know how to contact the person you're meeting, brother?"
Second Franciscan approaches cheerfully, introduces himself as actually being a priest within the order, and says: "Yes we have a number but unfortunately, being. . ."
Me: ". . . Franciscans and having no personal property, you have absolutely no way of contacting them." *pulls out phone* *hopes they aren't very clever thieves* *judges self for thinking so poorly and suspiciously of two men of the cloth* *remembers Church scandals* *chides self again for painting with a broad brush* *and for being paranoid* *hands over phone*

As Franciscan One makes his phone call (well, I had to do the actual dialing) a homeless man approaches us, pulls off his knit cap, and crosses himself.  He waits patiently until the phone conversation is complete, crosses himself again, and asks each friar for his blessing in turn.  I immediately feel as though I could cry, watching this gentle yet fervent display of faith, but before any tears can reach my eyes (I'm a sucker ok?) the homeless man turns to me.  And he is not looking for a blessing.  He abruptly begins to shout, admonishing me for being a sinner, a slut, a jezebel, a daughter of the devil himself.  How dare I stand in front of holy men dressed the way I am - which for the record, is jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of toms.  The thing that earns this man's ire (and is "why the world is becoming a hell-pit") is my shirt, a comfortable t-shirt I sometimes wear for rehearsals, which has the collar cut off: at this particular moment, you can see one of my shoulders, and across it, my bra strap. The man's outrage continues to build and I note that our strange group - keep in mind, we're a 20-something girl, two foreign monks in full robes, and a hollering homeless man - is drawing attention.  The Franciscans step between me and the man, and admonish him for yelling at me, and for passing judgement, and firmly inform him that is not "the Lord's will or work," and that as a matter of fact, I had just done an act of charity (which is when I get my phone back).

The Franciscans then walk me into the main hub of South Station, so I can finally grab my slice of pizza. Before they leave, I open my mouth to ask for their blessing, but before I can speak the first brother has raised his hand and made the Sign of the Cross over me, while the second brother smiles and says something I don't think I'll ever forget: "Blessings are more than gestures, little sister.  Blessings should be deeds.  You have as much power to bless as I."

I watch the brothers walk away, back to where their ride (in theory) is meeting them.  Then I turn and head to the pizza counter to purchase my lunch/dinner, which I will now have to do with my credit card since I'm out of cash.  While I look at the variety of pies, the cheerful, mustachioed, heavily-accented man behind the counter makes small talk with me, and when I say "Could I have a slice of this one?" he replies "Eeeeehhhhh, maybe. . . " so I try again "May I have a slice of that one, please?" "HHhmmm, better but eh, I'm very busy," and so forth.  Each slice I ask for he jokingly turns down all the while taking the pizza, pulling out my slice, and packaging it neatly up.  Finally I figure out the trick - "Per favore? Posso?" "Please? May I?" I ask, and he laughs so hard his mustache shakes and hands over my meal.  As I take the bag that should contain my slice of pizza and a drink, I note the extra weight.  "Scusa?" (excuse me?) I hold up the bag and tell him I think he made a mistake, that he gave me an extra slice.  The man smiles at me and says "No mistake: I hope the extra slice will bring me an extra blessing.  You must be a special girl, I figure: I saw the Franciscans give you care when they brought you in.  Maybe I think it's smart for me to give extra care too."  Immediately humbled - and thinking of the brother's words about blessings - I thank him and walk away, suddenly strangely grateful to have missed "my" bus.

It isn't until after that I look at my receipt and see he didn't charge me for either slice, only for the soda.

"Blessings should be deeds."

Freshman Fears, Senior Year.

Today is July 1st.  Not a date I expected to have mixed feelings about but, well, there you have it. My summer is, basically, halfway through.  I know many families with kids still in elementary and even high school are just beginning their summers, but for me I was done back in May and return at the beginning of September.  So the first of July marks the halfway point.

Part of me is very pleased with that thought - woo hoo!  Almost time to go back to school, to awesome roommates and a beautiful apartment and a super productive, overwhelmingly busy schedule.  Almost time for dance and dance studios and stages everywhere you look.   Almost time for regular voice lessons and half way to the Sunday I can sit in what has become "my" church after three years of attendance.

But part of me is sad, too.  Sad because I know the place I'm so excited to return to - the place I love so well - is just not going to be the same place any more. My new roommates are good friends, talented people, loyal, clever, beautiful, wonderful.  But they aren't Roomie.  And the apartment won't be the one we shared.  The thoughts I have of my school almost always include Marissa Jenna Sam Meg and Julia and my boys - my crazy, wild, silly, sweet boys who are actually older than me and graduated and won't be there any more for watching the game or The Scottish Play or convincing me tonight is as good a night as any to put down the homework and let my hair down.

And then there is the work itself. So much of it.  Just so, so much of it.  Including my voice lesson, I am taking 23 credits this semester alone.  Twenty-three credits. That's an entire year's worth of classes all jammed into a semester. . . plus my Independent Study.  And Senior Performance.  Those are at least two performances I'm guaranteed to be involved in, never mind Cabaret, Oklahoma!, and any of the other club-sponsored shows.  Or any clubs - Sisterhood, Vocal Conviction. . . plus my mandatory auditions as a Senior for dance companies.  And the "mock" auditions with professionals from a NYC Agency, who actually hire people every year (!!!).  And where in there will I find the time to *work*?  And if I don't work, how will I eat?  Or pay my cell phone bill, or for internet, or dancewear (which I haven't replaced/updated/bought since the summer before freshman year).

In a weird way, it feels again like the summer before Freshman year.  Though I do in fact know and love (really and truly and very much) people at school, without my seniors around me it feels almost as though I'll be around strangers again.  Will I be ok?  Will I have enough time to work?  Will I have enough food? Will the classes be too much for me?  How will I keep my grades up?  I'm scared.

I'm scared.

I'm scared.

There.  I said it. I admitted it. Something I've barely even allowed to whisper in the back of my mind but has wiggled in my belly anyway.  See, I'm almost never scared.  I'm *ready* or I'm *excited* or *prepared* or always *confident.*  I smile and say "I think I can handle it, no worries," and set off with a laugh for the impossible.  For the adventure.  And really, that part of me is more than there still - ready, excited, sure.  But part of me is a little frightened.  Daunted by how big the obstacles appear.  Nervous about whats on the other side.  Sad to have lost my favorite hands to hold along the way - even if only for a little while.

And so, my summer is halfway done.  I have another two months to work as hard as I can and save money to survive on, to prepare and organize my life.  To take a deep breath, put the smile on and say "I think I can handle it," to the impossible.

Here's to the adventure.  Let's set off laughing, shall we?

Words To Stir the Soul.

"Your epitaph will begin: 'She redefined what it meant to be a good woman.' It will say 'She scaled mountains, in hiking boots and in heels.  She started in her own backyard and then went all the way around the world.  She accepted challenges with curiosity and determination.  She emerged victorious regardless of outcome, knowing both the pleasure of success and the grace of failure.  She tasted long hot days and cool still nights, at home wherever she found herself.  She wasn't always popular, but she was always true.  She wasn't always comfortable, but no one can say she didn't enjoy her life.  She explored her edges, increased her capacity, and lived as big as she could dream.  Moved equally by bliss and pain, she played her heart out one moment at a time.  She was dialed in.  She was courageous. She was turned on.' "
                                 - The Turned On Woman's Manifesto