25 Ways You Show Me True Love

This weekend, Boyfriend turned 25. I came home for his birthday, our first full weekend together since New Years (long distance is the worst) with every intention of having the best couple days imaginable. 

Then, as I am wont to do, I got incredibly sick the details don't matter: what does matter is at one point I was crying my eyes out in discomfort and when Boyfriend asked if there was anything he could do To help, I realized nope. Nothing. Because he'd already done every last thing I needed, thought of everything I want when I'm sick or sad. That is some serious love right there. So instead of the usual "Happy Birthday You're Awesome!" Post I thought I'd share what else he does that makes me think "Yup. True Love, man." I decided to list one thing, in no particular order, for each year of Boyfriend's life thus far. 

I'm not joking when I say I got to 35 and realized it was a bit much. So. Without further ado . . 

THE TOP 25 TRUE LOVE LIST 2014

1.) Always asking for a straw when we're brought our drinks, because you know I don't like to appear prissy but also I can't drink from a cup with ice without risking hives (and that's weird to explain)

2.) Text messages that say "I love you," and nothing else simply because those three words crossed your mind, while I'm two states away. 

3.) The second serving of ice cream cake. 

4.) Thirty seconds before I announce I'm restless/bored asking if I had errands I wanted to go run or a new book I'd had my eye on or pointing out how nice a day it might be to go for a walk. Always knowing the fidgeting is coming. 

5.) Luna, Kind, or Lara bars always on hand and tucked in to my bag when I leave. 

6.) Holding my hand without having to look over, because you know that commercial/interview/segment/line/comment/joke/moment is probably making me cry. 

7.) Turkey burgers, pesto, and unsweetened iced teas where papa johns, cheese sauce, and Sierra Mist used to be. 

8.) Always loving what I've done to my hair. I mean genuinely grinning because you think it looks nice, and knowing exactly what's different, whether I changed how I wear my part or up and dyed it red. 

9.) Not seeing the newest superhero movie without me. {Most of the time}

10.) Seeing the latest Pixar/dance movie/cartoon with me. Occasionally before we make it to the aforementioned superhero movie. 

11.) Suggesting a girls night or that I call my best friend or skype the sibling who is far away or go watch a game with some of the guys from college because you understand when I need what other people in my life give me. And that as an extrovert, I do best with LOTS of people and experiences. 

12.) Understanding this career I've chosen is actually several careers in one. And they all require endless amounts of my time, focus, energy and devotion. Never resenting that. 

13.) Taking care of me - more than taking care of me. Pampering, spoiling, indulging. Even when at first it makes me feel guilty or uncomfortable: reminding me I am worth as much as you can give. That I deserve to feel special, and that isn't a trick. That I am allowed to have the things I want . . . And sometimes I don't have to fight for them until I'm too exhausted to see straight. 

14.) Not being suspect of my guy friends: understanding I was raised in an environment dominated by males, by sports, by pseudo brothers and eating contests, dirty jeans and fart jokes. That I was at the side of the mat (jujitsu and wrestling) when I was still in pigtails and my first round of "the talk" was around a campfire with a high school dude who didn't realize I wasn't asleep and suddenly had to explain himself. So despite teaching ballet (or perhaps because of it) I still gravitate to those sort of messy, loud, competitive environments and those guys with their beards, appetites and candor but I could never, ever love them the way that I love you. 

15.) Learning about triggers, trauma, and boundaries. Being willing to rework how you communicate and your definitions of supportive behavior. 

16.) Always putting the seat down, holding the door open, waiting until I'm seated, offering me the first bite, ordering second, and walking on the side of the street closer to the road.

17.) Making sure I know how beautiful you find me when I'm in yoga pants and a Celtics t-shirt with no make up to be found and my hair at its most Hermione as well as when I'm wearing a cute, trendy outfit, and when I'm in formal wear for a show. 

18.) An armful of my favorite bangles, one for every special event, holiday, opening night, and anniversary because you know how I love tangible memories. 

19.) Loaning me your headphones/charger/plug/flash drive. Because I've lost mine. Again. 

20.) Never even once in five years comparing me to any other woman in your life: not your mother, sisters, exes, friends' girlfriends or women on TV. Not even to tell me the ways I'm superior/things you prefer because you see me as myself - whole and unique and in competition/comparison with no one. 

21.) When the cramps are so bad I am crying {sobbing} {it's gross} in bed bringing me a bowl of peanut butter and chocolate chips the size of my face. 

22.) Giving up Walmart. Buying local. 

23.) Not participating in girlfriend/wife/partner bashing. I don't mean never complaining about me. I'm a handful and we're both human. I mean not engaging in those conversations that happen where everyone involved seems intent on making their claim that their parameter is the worst-most-annoying-most-frustrating-so-impossible and tearing them to shreds in the spirit of camraderie. Agreeing that behavior is toxic and no good for the relationship, even if the other party never finds out. That it diminishes the strength of legitimate complaints and issues that we may need to vent to friends about. 

24.) A netflix account saturated with wedding shows, old BBC gems, Classic Disney and half-watched stand up specials. 

25.) Being able and willing to say "I love you very much," even in the midst of a fight. 

And of course one to grow on . . . 

26.) Having the ability to make me laugh when I'm bawling, grin when I'm fuming, and bring me some piece of calm when the waves of anxiety are tossing me around like a rubber duck in a typhoon. 

Thank you, my love.

And Just Like That.

A pause in the rapid clicking sounds coming from my own fingers, flying across my laptop's keys.  

Only the hum of computers and the sound of our breathing.

Words.  Gentle words, softly spoken.  Words whose very softness belie the devastation each syllable contains.

A calm.  A warm hand pressed against the small of my back, squeezing my thigh.

Brown eyes searching for my own, now darker glance.

A phone passed, it's weight solid and real, and the discarded.

A shaking breath.  A shaking hand.  A shake of the head.

The screen blurs.  The fingers slow but can't quite pause.  Finally the "Submit," button is clicked, a quick press of the fingers and it's done.  With barely two hours to spare, I have submitted my application to the grad school of my dreams, with an application fee paid by my boss because I couldn't afford it, and letters of support from faculty and friends.  There is no sense of relief, though.  No sense of pride and joy.  I know that I had to finish, to type the last words which seemed so all-consumingly important moments ago and now ring hollow and . . . and. . .

. . .there is a long, slow swallow and another shaking breath and then the tears come and will not stop.  They fall so fast and so hard that there is no discerning an individual tear from the fast running streams.  I reach my hands out and Boyfriend knows what I need, instantly enveloping me in arms that are far larger and stronger than my own, but not enough to hold me together as my heart falls to pieces.

It's been a long, slow process to this point.  There has been the deterioration of a brilliant mind, the clutches of a sad and frightening disease.  Mind and body failing, slowly at first and then so rapidly it makes me think of the very first hill on a rollercoaster.  Up and up and up and up, chugging away steadily, relentlessly, and seemingly endlessly despite the feeling of fear in the bottom of your stomach and then woooooossshhh you're over the other side, careening.  No breaks.  No pause.  No chance to reverse courses.

I think of the Beatles, of toolbelts, of a bearded smile and Elvish poems.  I think of blue jeans and ducklings and being called a smartass.  I realize how stupid I was, trying so hard in the last days, the last hours, of his life to do "the right thing."  You cannot orchestrate grief, stupid girl.  It is neither simple nor elegant nor tidy, no matter how much you wish it to be, or how many sweeping songs are written, or how many aching poems are penned.  Yet it is something that will not be left alone.  I worried about how and when to touch the hand, to look in the eyes: to whisper goodbye through lips that quivered, to a man who probably had no idea who I was any longer.  I held my brother and I told jokes.  I read pages from a warn, thin book penned by a mutual favorite author - J.R.R. Tolkein.  And then the day before Tolkein's birthday, my uncle slipped away to see him.

There aren't really words for grief or a way to express properly my thoughts.  As Boyfriend held me and tears receded, I ran through the Sacred Canon in my head.  The list of names and faces and cherished memories of those I've laid to rest: and my heart ached and ached that the list was so long, that some of the names were so young, families left behind extensive, and marveled that grief long since passed out still stung so fresh.

You would think, by now, my heart would be used to these goodbyes, and yet it breaks anew, as though each fresh wound must be carved from the unique spot the loved one held.

"Quel esta, quel kaima, tenna'ento lye omenta"

Rest well, sleep well, until we meet again my Uncle.

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?

At A Loss (For Words).

This doesn't usually happen to me. Silence. Generally speaking, I always have something to say, on almost any topic you choose. It runs deeper than that as well though. Like a thin vein of ore melted into the earth's crust that you could follow right to the world's own molten, blazing, burning red heart. It runs as deep as a creative personality and tightly wound nature. It runs as deep as the almost-endless cacophony of ideas, criticisms (generally aimed towards the self) itineraries and plans that careen about in my mind.

But today, everything is still. Hushed - but not soothed. Rather it is as though everything the noise, the thoughts, the feelings, the ideas have reached an apex and with that apex a pitch my tired self can no longer hear.

And so what I have to say tonight, my friends and handful of faithful, beloved followers, is nothing.

For tonight, everything is silenced. Maybe tomorrow I will be able to speak again. In the soft light of morning sometimes I think even the world holds its breath - in that pause mayhaps I will find my words again.

The Music & The Mirror

For those of you who don't know, the title of the post comes from a beautiful song of the same name from the musical A Chorus Line.  In this number the lead character declares "God I'm a dancer - a dancer dances!" and explains how the only things in life she ever needs are "the music, and the mirror, and the chance to dance for you."

In that moment, I feel for Cassie.  I understand exactly what she means - because I feel the same need, the same urge to move that has my feet tapping and my heart racing and my very bones aching if I sit still too long.  If I go overlong without singing enough notes, I can feel my throat tighten and I get grouchy, listless, bored.  Without a character to painstakingly create and build and loose myself in, I become so antsy I irritate even myself.  I was nervous at the thought of a summer spent this way - with no "home dance studio" anymore, no money for voice lessons, and not much access to theatre where I live, it didn't seem likely I'd be performing or creating very much.

But my fears were proved wrong by a wonderful chance to perform!  I'm part of a community theatre's production of "Aida."  It's a beautiful show and a talented cast and a well respected theatre, so that alone is a great opportunity.  I'm part of the Trio of Dancers in our production, who like the Trio in the Broadway production narrate and enhance the story through dances to instrumental music through out the score. The Trio often take the lead during the ensemble dances, and portray various ensemble roles.  Additionally we're part of the Prologue and Epilogue sequences, set in a modern day museum with all of the key characters intermingling and forming connections.  During the Prologue, the audience doesn't realize the crowd is composed of the lead characters - but when the Epilogue comes, they've met everyone and are aware of their roles/connections/etc.  It's one of my favorite bits of stage magic and I'm quite excited to be a part of it!

And perhaps even more excitingly, I have been given a wonderful opportunity to perform a solo in this production!  The way our director has decided to stage one of the dance sequences, it will be danced by a soloist in an exotic costume, en pointe.  I almost cried I was so excited when he informed us at the Read Through that soloist would  be me!  Me, my pointe shoes, and a live band alone on the stage. . . what more could I want? Because stereotypical as it is to say, performing is my life. The practice studios and rehearsal halls are my home, with their cool barres and familiar smells of rosin, tea with lemon, tiger balm, and honey, the ancient creaking of floors a thousand feet have danced on, the solemn black music stands waiting to be burdened with librettos.  The dark curtained wings are my horizon, a strange mix of heavy red velvets and blinding yellow lights - and beyond them lies my entire world.  The stage.  Without songs to sing and steps to dance and characters to breathe life into, I am certain I'd have gone mad.  Now, I am going home instead.

They Came, They Saw, They Kicked Ass.

Last weekend was one of the most Happy-Sad Days of my life.  Happy-Sad Days are exactly what the name implies: days of bittersweetness, where you are laughing with genuine pleasure while tears tug at the corners of your eyes.  Saturday was a perfect example: Graduation Day for the Class of 2012.  It was such an amazing, special graduating class and ceremony.  For one thing, I am proud to announce the first ever students to graduate with a BA in Theatre from our college crossed the stage and collected their diplomas. Without that moment, my own graduation as a Double Major would never be possible.  Additionally, the BA Theatre Class '12 has in its ranks some of my dearest, most beloved friends and the most talented assortment of people you can imagine.  I utterly adore them. 

Then there were the dancers. . . my dancers.  More than any other class (including, in fact, the one I came in with) this group of exceptional, talented people took me in and made me feel at home.  Taught me about love, family, loyalty, courage, self-expression, worth, work, and creativity.  My world is so much better for having them in it and I am genuinely a bit nervous to imagine it without their daily presence.  Below are some pictures of the festivities!

Julia, BA Dance '12 & Colin BA Theatre '12

(aren't they a ridiculously pretty couple?)  

I call this one "Family: You're Doing It Right."

My fierce roommate, all decked out in her honors gear and the fabulous Jenna

(Both BA Dance '12)

 Roommate's glee and awkward arm motions in anticipation of graduating.  Also, note our bare walls and empty looking apartment.  I am just so sad.

The boys.  My boys.  Let me tell you, they are more trouble than you can shake a stick at, more fun than is legal, have less sense than your common household goldfish and better hearts than half the Saints in heaven.  I love them to pieces.

{ I didn't take this picture: it belongs to my friend Em, you can find her here}

Woohoo! We did it! First graduating class! Bye-bye college!

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

Things That Make Me Feel Better (Even When The-World-Is-Ending-BooHoo-Poor-Me)

Sometimes things get messy.  They go wrong.  Sometimes it is when everything is moving along smoothly, your life is humming at an almost industrial pace and the sun is warm and the future is roses.  Sometimes - most times - it is when things are all ready pretty bad.

Too much to do.  No time.  So many needs.  No money.  Every ounce of me parceled out, weighed and measured and carefully divided, poured lovingly and hectically into the various people/places/things/goals that cry out for my attention.

That, for me, is almost always when the storm comes rolling in.  The last crack of lightning to an already fragile structure that stands no chance and simply bursts into flame.  In case you were wondering which you clearly weren't because I am so dramatic  last night was a lightning-strike kind of moment.  Why it was and the details don't matter.

Because less face it. . .  when shit hits the fan, it hits the fan.  The clean up is what matters.  I am still in the defecation-spreading-all-over-the-walls-in-blatant-disregard-of-my-orderly-life phase. . . but even still I realized as I sat here, stomach in more knots than a badly done cat's cradle, I have comfort.

In a Boyfriend who stops his entire world every time my silly fragile world comes unraveled.

A friend who knows from a three word text that something is wrong.  And quietly shows up in my kitchen, arms open to catch my crazy in a bear hug so tight I couldn't squirm away, forcing me to actually let go and . . . cry.

Comfort in jamming my headphones in to study the rest of the night away (no sleep was forseen) and being unable to ignore the ding of Facebook as another friend firmly instigated a totally asinine conversation.  I don't think I was supposed to know I was being checked up on, so. . . sshhhhh, ok?

A roomie who looked me in the eye and informed me of how strong and brave I am in her eyes, and demanded that I try seeing myself that way for a few seconds. I'm trying.

Opening my mailbox, where I have been collecting soft white envelope after soft white envelope, some traced with silver, others tied with dark ribbon, each containing a message of condolence for yet another friend who has lost a parent.  Everyday for two weeks I have gone down and placed my key in the lock, listening to the cool metal click open and expose the sadness neatly packaged in the gaping maw of a metal mouth my mailbox becomes.  Everyday I place my hand inside and offer a silent prayer thanking God for such a supportive community. I place donations in a small envelope and stack the sympathy on the edge of my counter, trying not to let my fingers linger on someone else's sorrow.  Today when I opened the mailbox, a bright yellow envelope greeted me, with cheerful, looping hand writing.  A note from a friend, who thought my mailbox (and heart) might need some cheer.

I find peace in the gently prying questions of my pseudo brother, who is maybe the only person alive who has found the right tone between soothing, insistent, and compassionate that will instantly make me open up.  Sometimes a lot of crazy comes out when I do.

There is the friend who saw me walking and knew from the set of my shoulders that my smile was lying.  There is such a strength in being transparent - the strength of being an Us and not an I.

Finding myself, instead of running my scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream, being squeezed in the papa-bear hug of one of my favorite faculty.  60 seconds - no more, no less - of being hugged and being me and breathing, were required before I was allowed to say a single line.

Joy in the sly smile shared when the last ballet class of the semester holds a mini-rebellion in ballet and the accompanist is a willing cohort!

A sense of hope when I round the corner from work and see beautiful lilacs (my favorite flowers) blooming in the rain, their perfume all the sweeter in the cool damp air.

The pure exhilaration only dancers and athletes know when your body suddenly obeys you.  We're talking a triple pirouette here people!  To the left.  In jeans!


Perhaps most excitingly, my big source of comfort is finding out I have a Cassie Care Package on the way!  I wish there was a way to convey to you the excitement this encompasses for me.  Imagine a a beautiful and female Mad Hatter.  Now imagine her as a former competitive diver.  Now set this imagining loose in SoHo.  This is who is creating my care package.

And that, ladies and gents, is a beautiful thing.

Scars and Damsels.

I had Tech Lab today.  I suppose those words are probably gibberish to most of my readers, so I'll explain.  I am taking a class about building, designing, and maintaining sets for theatrical performances.  There is a lab portion a few days a week, and today was my lab day.  Because we do a lot of painting and playing with power tools, we're supposed to wear clothes we don't mind wrecking, so I wore a t shirt with the collar cut off.  It's comfortable and fashionless, the perfect thing to splatter with paint and saw dust.  I spent most of the day with it falling a bit off of my shoulder. Off of my left shoulder.  Because I make sure it stays high and over my right side always.

There are scars under there, scars I still don't want anyone seeing.  I know this is foolish of me - they are three small lines, hardly massive damage.  But they represent massive damage on the inside.  And no matter how many times Boyfriend kisses them, or how often I have to see them around the straps of my leotard, I hate them.

As soon as I can, I cover them up.  Thats the funny thing about being a woman, isn't it?  We're asked to be delicate, almost frail - yet we're not allowed to have scars.  We're like porcelain: valuable because of our form and frailty, useless as soon as we chip or crack or break.  How am I supposed to be a damsel in distress if I can't rumple my dress?  Yet I follow the rules and dutifully hide these small markers of my strength behind a careful cloth covering.

After all, no one wants to see a woman with scars.  No matter how small  they maybe, they're generally hiding something bigger on the inside.  Ironically, as I covered my tiny physical marks today, I lay bare - only for a few moments - the longer, deeper, more virulent scars on my heart.  We were in class and discussing how something had made us feel. . . and my hand was up.  And my mouth fell open, and I felt so strange spilling out words, trying to describe a feeling you can't understand unless you've had it.  I focused tightly on the teacher, willing myself not to blink, not to sigh, not to break.  Not to acknowledge any other faces or voices in the room, not the kind eyes or the gentle expressions.  Not the bored person a few chairs over, or the one next to me who already knew some of the story.  Then it was done, and my story half-told hung in the air like the ashy remains of a fire, wafted away on the breeze and only ever half contained.  I blinked, and the spell was broken.  Tight throat and tingling palms, I tried to draw that invisible veil between these scars and this self, but wasn't quicker than a classmate's hand.  He reached out and grabbed mine tightly in his, without a word, and suddenly the tears - which had already made a bid for freedom today - were much closer to the surface. 

I shifted slightly, making sure my three.  tiny.  straight.  tidy. unimportant.  shoulder scars were covered.  The tears were forgotten as I realized my own foolishness.  I could leave heavy words hanging in the air, revealing to people I hardly knew a little dark in the bottom of my heart, but I couldn't let a friend know I had surgery scars?

I am not a sighing damsel, crying out from her ivory tower.  I have paths sliced in my flesh and in my heart that could take a hundred years to heal - and I refuse to fear them anymore.  Next time, perhaps I'll let those tears fall, instead of snatching back my hand.  Perhaps I'll even wear a tank top without a blouse carefully arranged, covering my shoulder.

I'm Supposed To Be Doing Homework

I really am.  But I just can't settle into it this evening, and I really don't know why.  So many different thoughts are buzzing in my head.  So many different feelings are competing in my chest.  I can't direct my thoughts in a practical, steady way.  They're mercurial and slippery, changing from here to there far too smoothly to focus on the construction of Proscenium Theaters or the correct way to build a flat.

Too visceral to analyze my pirouettes.  Too quick moving to select an outfit for mock auditions.  Too . . . much.  And many.  And varied.  Swirling in my head and my heart, until it is as though just my face and chest are under water.  It is peaceful and oppressive under here, all at the same time.

I'm in the happiest, saddest place in the world right now.  Today marks the end of any illusions of comfort, of safety, as the last legal barrier between the old dark and the new life for my family slips away.  The barrier for myself - the no trespass order at my school - stays the same.  But what is the use of being safe if you have no confidence in the security of those you love?  It's also natural, I suppose, for my mind to wander off into territory I generally try to avoid, like the dark thicket just off the safe trail you usually walk.  This tints me with melancholy.

On the other hand, today was a serene fall day.  I went to a later Mass than I typically attend, with a group of friends.  There are no words in my limited vocabulary to describe the glow in my heart as I reached out my hands during the Our Father and found the warm, secure, tight grip of kind people on either side.  The way my soul sighed as our voices joined the rest of the congregations, giving strength to my wavering will.


There were so many times I thought I'd just drift away with the golden leaves today, carried in the ice cold riptide barraging my spirit.  Then a friend caught my eye from across the room, or brushed my hand with theirs.  A hand has fallen on my shoulder, and like a rock dropped in a pond, it has settled right down to the bottom of me.  And I realize I have a bottom.  I am solid, and physical, and real.  I can't drift away.  There are hands to hold and songs to sing, and I must follow this trail of warm human contact so I don't loose myself behind my own eyes.

I'm so very outside myself tonight; I feel like when I lift my eyes to the moon, I could drift off and touch it with the tips of my fingers.  Hold it in the palm of my hand.

I'm so deeply inside myself today, I fear when my roommate walks by me, she won't raise her eyes.  Because there is nothing there to see: I've swallowed myself up, into the rattling in my chest and the whispering behind my eyes.

I am melancholy and peaceful tonight, and I fear very little homework will be done.