Christmas Blessings

Large and scattered families that mean Christmas is a cheerful, bustling, scrambled rush each year for four blessed Yuletides.

Three different families in three different homes full of health and warmth and love.

One little brother practically a man full grown, a head taller than his eldest sister and whose biggest Christmas smile came from watching Mum unwrapping her gifts.

One little brother who sits on the edge of teenage years but with childhood and all it's sweetness still clingy to his demeanor and smile, even when sick.

One little brother still barely more than a babe, a first Christmas that he can remember still ahead of him, who promises Christmas Eve he will stay up to say "Thank Santa Clause."

One sister far from home experiencing a round of firsts as her family waits for her to come to celebrate the holiday.

One sister in a lacrosse shirt and lace headband, all tomboy and all lady and all at once, blue eyes and pink cleats and a smile that looks like her big brother's.

One sister pausing to enjoy family as she bustles through the busy life she has built for herself class at a time, job at a time, roll-up-your-sleeves-and-get-it-done-day at a time.

Pups who like Christmas as much as children do.

A white christmas after all.

Grandparents near and far.

A pecan pie challenge that turned into a triumph.

Gifts generous and plentiful, filling bags and boxes and stockings.

The look on faces as carefully selected boxes filled with handmade goodies are passed around: the smiles when the treats inside are revealed.

The feeling of being known and loved so well.

The Carol of the Bells.

Warm fires blazing.

Two best friends who manage to share the holiday (cards and facebook chats and general mischief) without ever sharing the same room with me.

Getting the chance to gently let go of Christmas gently, since in Boyfriend's house we still have to celebrate when said sister comes home from her adventure. This means almost an extra full week of Christmas specials and movies, of decorations and Sanata stories and hoping for Snow and sugar plum dreams.

Ham dinners with more people than there are chairs and tables to hold them all, so we fill two rooms with our ruckus.

Late night well wishes and kindness from someone I barely know, whose words filled my heart with a candle soft but star bright glow.

Roommates.

Love.  Always, always, always blessed to have love.

Merry Christmas To All, And To All A Goodnight!

Yes. I Am Angry.

"Babe?  Why do you look angry?  Is everything ok?"  Boyfriend reaches over, turns down the radio with a twist of the dial.  "I'm fine."  "Are you sure you're not angry?"  I notice then the way my jaw is locked, the ridged way I'm sitting ramrod straight in the seat.  The fact that I haven't spoken yet since the radio was turned on, and that my hands are folded very very precisely in my lap.

So I stop biting my tongue.  The words roll, one right after the other, tripping over themselves in their haste to get out.  I glare at the radio and the inane voice still coming out of it, albeit quieter now.

Yes, I am angry.  I am very, very angry.  I am angry that more than two dozen school children and their teachers were slain just days ago, in a place that is meant to be a sanctuary of learning, discovery, and growth.

I am angry that voices like this one (I jabbed in the direction of the radio with one hand, while the other balled in to a fist on my thigh) and stupid talking heads think it's ok to make it a political issue, or a religious debate.

I am angry people know the killer's name, and his brother's name, and no one seems to know a single victims' name unless they've cut and pasted the list from somewhere on the internet.

I'm angry that people don't realize the lists they're cutting and pasting are in some instance incomplete, inaccurate, or just plain wrong.

I am angry that kids the same age as the ones who fill my classroom when I am home for breaks like this I am now will never again set foot in their own dance studios or martial arts dojos or basketball gyms.  I am angry that they will never watch Spongebob Square Pants with the volume too loud or fall down and scrape their knee like your little brother did, Boyfriend, just this afternoon.

I am angry that an entire generation can add a small town in New England to the deep scars of Columbine and Virgina Tech.

I am angry that as a nation grieves and a community weeps and the world watches in horror and sadness, we are quietly deploying men & women - including at least one very well loved friend of ours - to other countries to fight a war I sometimes think people forget we're even in, across far more nations than just Iraq.

I am angry that children were interviewed about horrors no one should have to see and endure while their tears were fresh on their cheeks and anyone with sense could see the shock - and I mean medical shock - in their eyes.

I am angry that people think this is a gun control debate or a mental health debate or a violence-in-the-media-and-entertainment debate.  How can you possibly think one solution, one idea, one pathway is the answer to something so huge and shattering?

I am angry that the horror isn't done for these kids, including the ones in the classroom.  I am angry they must bare mental and emotional wounds that could in so many ways ruin their lives for no other reason than because they went to school.  PTSD?  Survivor's Guilt?  How do we help babes with these troubles??

There are those saying it is because we kicked God out of our schools He didn't save our children and-why-should-He. That makes me very, very angry.

There is the Westoboro Baptist Church who want to picket the funerals of innocents.  That makes me angrier than words can do justice too - how dare they rain further grief on these families and this community?  How dare they speak ill of sleeping angels?  How dare they call this travesty the will of God?  How dare they masquerade as Christians?

I am angry with the world and with myself that this is such a big deal, when six million - six million - 6,000,000 children die every year of starvation alone.  That doesn't include those who die of dysenterie, AIDS, malaria, land mines, mining accidents, factory/sweatshop accidents, or in wars/as victims of genocides and hate crimes.  The number of playmates that kindergarten class has waiting in Heaven boggles the mind, breaks the heart, and turns the stomach and who, including me, has cried a damn tear over them everyday?  How dare these 20 laid low be more precious than those millions?  And how can we live in a world where a tragedy this big is a drop in an ocean of cruelty and horror?  It makes me very very angry! Yes I am angry!

I am so God damn angry!

I realize now I am close to shouting.  The voice on the radio has gone and a jingle for some holiday sale or other comes faintly through the speakers, the windshield wipers a metronome beneath it.  I feel the tears that taste like acid curling at the back of my throat and the corners of my eyes and feel the dented half moons I have pressed in to my own palms, my fists bunched so tight the knuckles are white against my skin.

I pause and take a breath, reminding myself of a lesson from my childhood that has become like a mantra to me.  "Anger is a secondary emotion.  Find what you're really feeling."  I let Boyfriend's hand wrap around my much smaller fist - he doesn't say anything, just lays warm and gentle pressure against the balled up physicalization of outrage my hand has become.

I find fear - fear for children I haven't even had.  Fear for friends heading to war. Fear for the children I've taught, tutored, and the children I love, fear for the generation raised post-Columbine and post-9/11 and too young to remember these events that will shape their lives.  Fear for those with mental health problems, that rather than raise awareness Friday will increase stigmas.

I find sadness, for how can you not want to weep at such senseless loss of life?  The helplessness?  The sheer brutal madness of it all?

I taste guilt.  These were not my children, I don't even have children.  I'm not related to the teachers who died heroes.  I am not part of the aching, bleeding community.  This is not my pain or burden and to have wept the way I have feels self-indulgent.  How dare I? There is the guilt, too, of my last point so vehemently raised.  There are so many who suffer so much, how dare I pretend to share these 26 family's pain and yet ignore the pain of millions?

Confusion.  What do we do?  How do we do it?

So yes, God help me, I am angry - so blisteringly angry I think I might melt the damn polar caps myself with my fury.  

I know I must release my anger: it is selfish, and indulgent, and gets nothing done.  What else to do, dear friends, I am not sure.  

I will try to be informed, so that I can be part of conversation and progress.  I will pray, and I will listen, and I will learn, and I will work to make this world better - in memory of the 26.  And the 6 million. May that number lesson soon.

House Rules.

301. It's my apartment number, here at school.  It's also my home, in so many senses of the word.  It's where some of the people I love best in the world are.  It's where I put on sweat pants and a tank top and put my feet on the furniture.  It's where the music is always playing - Thing 1 (as I call one of my roommates) plays the ukelele and the guitar and is rarely found without one of them, Rose (the only other girl in the apartment) likes to teach herself songs on the piano by ear when she's bored or anxious, Thing 2 dabbles in everything and takes voice lessons, I am learning the ukelele and sing at least a hundred times a day and each of us goes through life with our respective iPods turned all the way up.  Here in 301 we have some rules.  They're listed below, and I think they give a pretty accurate summary of why I am in love with my apartment, my roommates, and the life we've built together.  So here they are, in no particular order.

301 House Rules

- We don't do goodbyes, only see ya laters 

- Pinky promises are law

- If it's not yours, don't eat it.

- Be brilliant.

- Courage

- We are the people who don't look away. 

- If it stays in the living room or kitchen for more than a few hours, it gets put on your bed to be put away.

- Friends are always welcome: on the couch, at the table, around the keyboard. 

- Adventures are mandatory.

-No one in the family is ever uncomfortable in their own space.  We stick together.

-Everyone does dishes.  The boys carry out the giant trash barrel since it was their idea.  Bottles and cans get recycled.  The apartment should never smell bad.  It's ok to suggest rearranging if you need a change or the vibe is funny.

-Sometimes you've just gotta flip shit over.  That's cool, just flip it back.  No hurry bro.

-Talk to each other.  Lack of communication kills relationships and families.

-Things that are always allowed on TV: Doctor Who, anything Shakespeare, anything involving ghosts, anything involving space, anything Hugh Jackman has ever done, Star Wars.

-The brita filter is never put back in the fridge empty.

-Don't put on the kettle without offering some to everyone.  Tea (and for the boys coffee as well) is a lifestyle and form of currency.

-Nutella is always welcome.

-Popcorn is made to be shared.

-Phones aren't part of family dinner.

-Naptime is to be respected, exercise is essential and the music corner is sacred.

-Every single day, sing, laugh, fight, dance, and dare.  Every. Single. Day.

*Welcome Home. *

Day 2 Thank You

Today's Thank You is designed for "Someone Who Gave You An Opportunity."  I had a handful of people in mind, but ended up thanking my friend V.  He's an absolutely amazing guy I've met here at school: he's a sophomore this year as a twenty-something who is several years older than I am.  He's already been to college, had a successful performing career, a debilitating injury, a serious relationship and comfortable lifestyle he walked away from to go back to school and start over again.  He picked a new major and a new state and began the next phase of his arts career, which I think is bold and brave and brilliant.  He is colorful, loud, creative, emotional, courageous, and firmly himself in every conceivable way.

The opportunities he's provided me have been wonderful: chances to work and perform and occasionally be able to say my work is performing.  But of equal importance is the opportunities he's provided me as a person: he has helped me see my own worth and talent.  He has been a supportive friend to have in my life, a fellow artist to share the lens through which I view my world.  So thank you, V.  Thank you for everything.














Obviously "V," is not his name, nor is it generally what I call him.  However I didn't ask his permission before writing about him, and I will not use folks' name's without their permission for privacy and publicity (as performing artists are name is part of our product) sake.

A Month of Thank You

Here's the deal, folks.

It's been awhile.  I've been off the bandwagon.  I won't waste anybodies time with stories, explanations, or the like: I am simply going to say I think it's important that it's back.  That for my own sanity and well-being, I write.  So to kick start my lazy, I'm going to spend everyday this November saying Thank You.  The Student Activities Committee at my school has posted a list of different people they suggest you thank this month, to help make gratitude and carrying infectious.

I think thats a beautiful thing, so I'm going to do my best to participate.  Today's prompt was "Thank Someone You Love."


So this is my formal thank you to Boyfriend.  Thank you for being the voice on the other end of the phone that gets me to the end of the day.  For taking all the complaints, the stress, the bitching I-don't-want-to-dump-on-other-people-because-I-believe-in-being-a-positive-individual and letting it rest on your shoulders.  For loving me at my worst and ugliest - and at my very best too (no one ever gets thanked for that.  For letting another person not only be weak and frail and small, but big and bold and brilliant too).  Thank you for three years of love.

The second thanks go out to my Aunty and Uncle, who have been the most loving and supportive family in the world to me as I have been out of state of college these past four years.  Thank you for everything - love, tea, patience, and a home to turn to whenever I need it.  I love you.

Week One.

Hello All!
I didn't want you to think I'd abandoned you.  On the contrary, I love this blog and my dear followers very much and am more than eager to get back to sharing with you regularly.  I'm just popping in to let you know I am in fact alive.

Thats right folks, first week of classes down and I haven't died.

Although my body feels like a couple mac trucks were drag racing and slammed in to me.  Repeatedly. And either I'd forgotten what homework was like or all my Professors have forgotten we take more than one class at a time.  And auditions never get any less stressful.

But my roommates are lovely.

And my apartment is divine.

And some of my classes are amazing.

And I start every morning with Ballet class.  Which is the most fantastic thing a girl can do for her body, you know.

Also, I've discovered juicing is every bit as amazing (albeit expensive) as they say.  I'm really quite terribly exhausted, so I apologize for the briefness of this post.  But I'll be back soon.  I promise.  And because it brightens my week, on the wee hours of this Monday morning I'd like to share this image of Fred Astaire and Audrey Hepburn. Because they're amazing.  And I try to only provide the very best, my dear followers.  The very best.

There.  Didn't that make you smile?

I Move In Tomorrow.

Can you believe it?  Senior year is no longer around the corner.  It's here, knocking on my door. . . and I'm but a few steps away from turning the knob and letting the madness commence.  I'm excited.  I'm nervous.  I'm elated.  I'm terrified. 

I cannot wait to see my three amazing, talented, beautiful (inside and out) roommates.  I desperately miss Roomie, my amazeballs-talented-stunning-ridiculous-humorous roommate from last year. 

I'm excited to move in to our big condo, generously spaced for four people to live in.  It will be so nice to have three other people sharing the burden of internet, groceries, dishes, keeping the floors swept and the trash emptied.  Other hands to lock the door at night.  Voices in the living room and footsteps in the morning, a comforting rustle to and from the kettle and the coffee maker as sleep lingers around my eyes.  Gentle reminders that we're safe and at home and with this strange little family we've built.  I long for our little two person condo, which seemed so massive for two at the beginning but quickly filled with all the trappings of a home - not a college apartment.  All of our friends loved gathering in it's cozy confines, on it's soft velvety green couch, at the high table with the sunflower placemats: they said it felt like a home more than anywhere else on campus, instead of like temporary school residences.  And thats what it was.  We tried to keep treats in the bowl on the end of the counter, tea in the pantry for when friends stopped by.  Music played constantly and our assortment of paintings and other artwork covered the space, each item lovingly crafted either by Roomie's hands or by our talented friends.

I'm anxious to begin dancing again, everyday, and at the highest possible level.  I miss my "uniform," the skin tight leotards and the well worn tights.  I long for the stretch and the shaking and the ache in my muscles, for the trail of sweat that outlines my spine and tells me I've worked mu guts out.  I am eager for the ritual of the ballet class, one hand on the barre, the sounds of the pianists fingers working the keys, the intimidating but reassuring gaze of the ballet mistress.  I am anxious to push myself through an advanced level Horton Technique modern class, to test what my body can do, how strong in can be.  I worry that I'm still not recovered enough.  I fear the damage to my body, a tired, battered thing, laced with scars and tattered by neglect.  I wonder how much damage the cruel men in my life have done, how broken I will reveal myself to be under the duress of the highest level classes in a competitive and grueling environment.  I find myself hoping I can live up to the standards of my beautiful, talented, athletic classmates, so many of whom are fierce dynamos and elegant technicians, they're bodies supple and responsive.

I am anxious to leave this place behind - this lovely and serene home state of mine, with less people than there is wildlife.  It is a lovely place to visit, and if you're the type, it is an idilic place to live.  But it's wooded charms and rural graces are lost on me, wasted on a child who wants only to be free of the nest.  I long for the more populous town - still considered small by most standards - where I live and am educated.  I ache in my bones for a train stop a mere feet from my apartment that will take me to one of the world's major cities for $6.75 and a half hour ride.  I am excited to step back into a world where jokes about dancers and classes and movements, half of which must be in French to even identify the topic being jested, will be appreciated.  Where singing in the halls isn't unusual, it's expected.  I'm not quirky or unique there, at least not for the reasons my family back home thinks of me.  I look forward to Mass in the large, old, granite church with it's stained glass windows and lovingly worn wooden benches. I feel tears pooling in my eyes at the thought of kissing Boyfriend goodbye, once again.  This will be the fourth goodbye which promises 9 months of only intermittent contact.  I dread not knowing the next time I can fall asleep with my head in his lap and the tv on or reach over and squeeze his hand without thinking about it.  I cringe at the thought that summer's sweetness has faded: rehearsals with new found friends, a job that mandates singing nursery songs and playing with a rainbow colored trampoline, kissing my love at dusk, stolen moments at a family lobster bake while his abundance of cousins cause a ruckus.

There is one more hour - one last magic hour - left before any time for thought or doubt has ended and all that is left is getting in the car and riding away.  Not into the sunset, I think, though this moment does mark a certain ending era.  Rather, it is into the sunrise I must ride - and who knows what waits beyond in that new sun dappled horizon?