my tangible spirit

Blast from the past...

2010-07-09T22:06:00.000-07:00

Interesting that I was thinking this FIVE YEARS AGO. Talk about ignoring gut feelings....

Healing Paralysis

2010-07-09T21:55:00.000-07:00

A letter I wrote to a casting agent, for a show dealing with inspiring people to change...I think I sent it too late for the cut, but it was a great exercise for me anyway.

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I am 27 years old, and I have ignored myself for nearly half of my life. I have made life choices solely based on what I thought other people needed or wanted me to do. I have turned my back on pathways and opportunities because the little voices in my head--you know the ones: the naysayers, the judgers, the I-told-you-so-ers--made me think I wasn't good enough or the choice wasn't right. For as long as I can remember, I cared more about what other people were thinking about me than what I thought, what I KNEW about myself all along. THAT voice, the REAL voice, was stifled by the others, silenced by the doubt and insecurity running my life.

I've been paralyzed by fear of failure and loneliness. And I'm sick of it. I am finally ready to make some choices, some hard changes, to open up the pathways to possibility in my life.

I have been doing the "right" thing for a while now--I was an A student, I went to college and double-majored (still finishing in four years), I went to Graduate school, I immediately got a good job working as a teacher in a high-powered high school in CT. I dove right into the job, immediately getting involved in the extra-curricular activities. I should have known from the start that I was still looking for something else, something that was really going to satisfy, to challenge me--something other than what I found within the confines of the classroom and traditional public school teaching.

My dad told me I was set for life. Some of the teachers I worked with told me I was going to be a Lifer. And each time I heard things like this, I cringed. I looked around and a room full of teachers, people I absolutely love, and saw many who got stuck, who wanted something more or different but needed the stability. The need for the structure and the health care and the regular check seemed to be the reason many of them didn't try for some other career or life path. Was this really what my life was going to be? The more I saw, the more I felt limited and boxed in. I knew had to get out.

I HAVE to get out.

I have to find a way to meld together the loves of my life. I have to find a way to the dreamland I see for myself.

This is what I know: I care about wellness in the body, mind, and creative spirit. I care about finding the healthiest, most inspired space within myself and helping others find it within themselves. I want to meld together my interests in dance, theater, writing, wellness, youth mentorship, community building, and education. I want to continue to stretch and grow in what I know—intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. I want to support this spirit of growth and play in others, as well.

SPECIFICALLY (and long-term) MY DREAM IS......

Creating a space—a physical place, but also a creative space within everyone who walks through the door—where multiple genres of art and creation and healing can occur. This space will allow for a community of artists and lovers of art. The genres will include music (with performance and recording opportunities), poetry, writing, multi-genre performance art, dance, yoga, theater, therapy (play therapy, dance/theater therapy, perhaps massage), etc. There will be classes, workshops, events continuously filling the space with life, excitement, and change.

The space will be an ever-changing vessel for what the community that fills it needs at any given time. A concrete container for the ineffable energy pulsing and generating from the people and the moments within.

These are big ideas, big dreams. And sometimes I just don't know what to do with them. Until this year, I just ignored them--put them on the back burner, blamed the world for being so unreasonable and unfair--and went back to my safe little teaching job.

But this year, something has begun to change. I've started to listen to the authentic voice inside, and sometimes it's quite difficult. Sometimes it is drowned out by the worldly din outside. Sometimes the questions and the doubts and the worries of the people I love find their way in. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a crazy person, if somehow I've been embodied by some extraterrestrial hell-bent on making my life a whirlwind of the unknown. But mostly, I know and trust that I'm doing the right thing, even if I don't have a clear idea of what that is yet.

On Friday, I wrote my letter of resignation. It's as real as ever. I am moving to NH where I can actually breathe. Somehow, I just know the place is right. It makes me feel alive, personally and creatively. But the thing is, I'm not entirely sure what will open up for me.

I am absolutely thrilled...and scared to death.

I am writing to you--a bit later than I intended, with my fingers crossed that it's not too late--in hopes that I can find some support. Maybe by reaching out, I'll find that there are options out there, that this leap of faith is not career suicide, that following my heart will not lead me to failure. I've taken some first steps, which I hope will lead me to the right next steps, but sometimes I doubt and I question myself and this "trusting the universe" new age-y stuff.

I guess I'm writing to you for help and for assurance. I'm writing to you, hoping that it will help me find that next right step on this crazy journey of my life.
--
~*~Tina~*~

We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance. ~Japanese Proverb

2010-07-09T21:40:00.000-07:00

I am on the cusp of major change, of new beginnings...

There is much to say.

But I'm not sure how to say it yet.

Diving into life...

2010-07-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

A letter posted on my GHS facebook account, to my students of all types...

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To my cherubs new and old, to my drama clubbers, to my ballroom dancers, to my English students, to my ABC boys, to all of you,

I thought it about time that I send out a message into the electronic ethos, in case any of you were looking for something to read (to avoid your summer reading, of course :). I also am thinking that this facebook account is going to disappear at some point this summer, so I wanted to bid it (and you all) farewell. But more than either of those reasons, I wanted to thank each and every one of you for the part you've played in this stage of my life.

Without you all, I would not have had the courage to listen to my heart and depart on an adventure to find the life that honors its song. Translation--it is because of my time at GHS and the people I met there that I am trusting and believing in myself.

I am inspired, daily, by teenagers and young adults. You are not what the majority of adults think you are. You are positive, creative, energetic, aware. Many of the words I've read and listened to, from the mouths of young people, have made me stop in my tracks and rethink what I thought I knew. I have learned that working with this age group is something that I will build my career around. But I have also learned that my career will look quite different than the traditional public school setting.

Time will tell how it will all come together in the end. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy every step of the journey. And this is what I hope for all of you, as well. Enjoy each day, each moment, as it comes, trusting that it will all end the way it's supposed to. This is much harder than it seems, but it's so important.

There is so much I could say, but let me just finish with a few thank you's: Thanks for the side splitting laughter, the Saturday rehearsals, the dance competitions, the philosophical discussions, the "is it morning?'s," the raucous ABC dinners, the smiles in the hallways. Thank you for your insights, your questions, your challenges, your suggestions. Thank you for your intelligence, your talent, your passion, and your trust. Thanks for two fabulous musicals. Thanks for beginning the first ballroom dance club at GHS. Thanks for traveling to Ireland with me four years ago. Thanks for thinking, talking, and listening. Thanks for the energy boosts and the positivity when I needed them most. Thanks for all of this and so much more.

I said it before and I'll say it again--if it weren't for this stage in my life, I wouldn't be prepared for the next. For that, I will be eternally grateful.

I wish you all the best. I wish you love, happiness, and success (however you define that). I wish you the support and the courage to find what it is you LOVE to do, and then to pursue it wholeheartedly.

Peace, love, and laughter,

Ms. G/Mama G

For Yoga Beginners: Operation Lotus | Crazy Sexy Life

2010-05-28T07:48:00.000-07:00

"Yet small seeds do not doubt whether they will become trees. They trust the natural process of evolution and growth that takes them from seeds to sprouting seedlings to flowering, fruitful trees. With proper nutrients, care and love the flower of your inner lotus is sure to grow to maturity in the fertile soil of your own consciousness."

This inspires me to believe in the process, the journey, the in-the-middle-of-things madness. Trust. Faith. Belief.

Easier said than done, but I plan on showing up everyday and trying to let the seed grow as it is meant to. Naturally. Beautifully. Without fail.

For Yoga Beginners: Operation Lotus | Crazy Sexy Life

The Empty Stage

2010-05-11T17:39:00.000-07:00

I was asked to speak at our National Honors Society induction this evening:
_________________________________________________________
Good evening and welcome—to all of you—to all of the family, friends, and faculty who are here supporting and celebrating the induction of approximately 180 exceptional human beings into the National Honors Society.

I have spent a lot of time on this stage and others. I’ve performed, I’ve directed, and I’ve received honors like this one. All of that is wonderful, but I have to tell you: Every time I step foot onto an empty stage, I get chills. I walk across the floor, my footsteps echoing as I move into the space, visualizing the past, present, and future. I close my eyes and see singers, actors, dancers, and musicians. I see stage hands and techies. I see show stoppers. I see music and drama reverberating to the back of the theater. I see the shifting faces of audiences applauding through the years. I see it all. I stand at center stage, lights asleep, the sound of a generator humming gently, and I know that there is so much more to come. I breathe in possibility here, on an empty stage.

Today, I am deeply honored to be sharing this stage with such beautiful people. I mean that. And I’m not talking, the stylin’ new haircut you got this weekend, or that bright summer dress you’re wearing tonight, or the hot new kicks you’re rockin’. No. I’m talking about something else entirely, something far more important. When I look out at all of your smiling faces—go on, smile! There it is—you glow. Don’t they? You are glowing with everything you are, everything that brought you here to this moment, but more importantly, you are glowing with a beautiful spirit that is far wiser and far stronger than your young life might indicate to any of us.

When I look out at all of you, I can actually see the spirit of spring. And more than anyone else, we New Englanders appreciate the springtime. Spring is a season of new beginnings, growth, and waking up. It is a time when we stretch-out stiff muscles, open our doors, and burst out into blooming gardens, remembering and rejoicing all that is good and hopeful in the world. Spring is the light at the end of the tunnel, the time we all wait for when the dark, freezing-cold winters seem endless and unbearable. Spring is a time for awards and graduations, for ceremonies and celebrations, for recognizing accomplishments.

And here we are, on this stage, full of smiling faces now, recognizing you for being the whole package. Today, we celebrate your strong character, your leadership, your scholarship, and your willingness to serve. This is more than just making the honor roll on your report card. Today, you are making the honor roll for being a good person.

While we’re here in the springtime, in this moment of happiness, on this full and glowing stage, I would like to offer a challenge. I challenge each and every one of you to honor the empty stage, to honor and recognize endless possibilities. I challenge you also to honor the process—the beginnings, the middles, the endings and then the resulting new beginnings that follow. I challenge you to embrace the middle of the winter when everything is encrusted with dirty snow and it seems like the blue skies will never come back. I challenge you to honor all of the seasons, all steps in a process, no matter how difficult. I challenge you to do all of this and STILL be the beautiful, glowing, giving person sitting here today.

The true test is to embody all elements of your being when an award or recognition is not in sight. The true test will be if you can maintain the essence of the NHS throughout your life, long after you’ve forgotten what the four pillars actually stand for.

Congratulations! It’s on you now. It is your responsibility to share yourself and your beautiful spirit with the rest of the world. And I, for one, am so excited to see all the good you will do.

Aumatma on Karma Clinic and generosity.mov

2010-05-09T18:56:00.000-07:00

Kris Carr Media Reel

2010-05-09T18:55:00.000-07:00

Crazy Sexy Cancer Documentary Trailer

2010-05-09T18:54:00.000-07:00

From Eve Ensler's "I Am An Emotional Creature"

2010-04-28T07:32:00.000-07:00

GIRL FACT: Your left lung is smaller than your right lung to make room for your heart.

Author’s Note: These monologues are not interviews. Each monologue is a literary text inspired by traveling the world, by witnessing events, by listening to real and imagined conversations. On occasion a monologue was inspired by an article, an experience, a memory, a dream, a wish, an image, or a moment of grief of rage.

Introduction:

Dear Emotional Creature,

You know who you are. I wrote this book because I believe in you. I believe in your authenticity, your uniqueness, your intensity, your wildness. I love the way you dye your hair purple, or hike up your short skirt, or blare your music while you lip-sync every single memorized lyric. I love your restlessness and your hunger. You are one of our greatest natural resources. You possess a necessary agency and energy that if unleashed could transform, inspire, and heal the world.

I know we make you feel stupid, as if being a teenager meant you were temporarily deranged. We have become accustomed to muting you, judging you, discounting you, asking you—sometimes even forcing you—to betray what you see and know and feel.

You scare us. You remind us of what we have been forced to shut down or abandon in ourselves in order to fit in. You ask us by your being to question, to wake up, to reperceive. Sometimes I think we tell you we are protecting you when really we are protecting ourselves from our own feelings of self-betrayal and loss.

Everyone seems to have a certain way they want you to be—your mother, father, teachers, religious leaders, politicians, boyfriends, fashion gurus, celebrities, girlfriends. In researching this book I came upon a very disturbing statistic: 74 percent of you say you are under pressure to please everyone.

I have done a lot of thinking about what it means to please. To please, to embody the wish or will of somebody other than yourself. To please the fashion setters, we starve ourselves. To please boys, we push ourselves when we aren’t ready. To please the popular girls, we end up acting mean to our best friends. To please our parents, we become insane overachievers. If you are trying to please, how do you take responsibility for your own needs? How do you even know what your own needs are? What do you have to cut off in yourself in order to please others? I think the act of pleasing makes everything murky. We lose track of ourselves. We stop uttering declaratory sentences. We stop directing our lives. We wait to be rescued. We forget what we know. We make everything okay rather than real.

I have had the good fortune to travel around the world. Everywhere I meet teenage girls, circles of girls, packs of girls walking the country roads home from school, hanging out on city street corners, arm in arm, laughing, giggling, screaming. Electric girls. I see how your lives get hijacked, how your opinions and desires get denied and undone. I see too how this later comes to determine so much of our lives as adults. So many of the women I have met through The Vagina Monologues and The Good Body and V-Day are still trying to overcome what was muted or undone in them when they were young. They are struggling late into their lives to know their desires, to find their power and their way.

This book is a call to question rather than to please. To provoke, to challenge, to dare, to satisfy your own imagination and appetite. To know yourself truly. To take responsibility for who you are, to engage. This book is a call to listen to the voice inside you that might want something different, that hears, that knows, the way only you can hear and know. It’s a call to your original girl self, to your emotional creature self, to move at your speed, to walk with your step, to wear your color. It is an invitation to heed your instinct to resist war, or draw snakes, or to speak to the starts.

I hope you will see this book as something living, that you will use it to help you to identify and overcome the obstacles or pressures that prevent you from being an emotional creature. Maybe after you read these stories and monologues you will be inspired to write and share your own, or paint your bedroom wall or fight for polar bears or speak up in class or learn about sexuality or demand your rights.

When I was your age, I didn’t know how to live as an emotional creature. I felt like an alien. I still do a lot of the time. I don’t think it has much to do with the country I grew up in or the language I speak. In this book you will meet girls from everywhere. Some live in remote villages, others in huge cities or posh suburbs. Some worrying about whether they will be able to afford the latest purple UGGs, some worrying if they’ll ever get home after two years of being held as a sex slave. Some deciding whether they are able to kill a supposed enemy, some on the brink of killing themselves, some desperate for the next meal, some unable to stop starving themselves. Girls from Cairo, Kwai Yong, Sofia, Ramallah, Bukavu, Narok, Westchester, Jerusalem, Manhattan, Paris. All of them, all of you, live on the planet right now. I think whatever country or town or village you physically live in, you inhabit a similar emotional landscape. You all come from girl land. There you get born with this awakeness, this open-hearted have to eat it, taste it, know it, defy it. Then the “grown-ups” come with their rules, their directions. They teach you how to make yourselves less so everyone feels more comfortable. They teach you not to stand out. They get you to behave.

I am older now. I finally know the difference between pleasing and loving, obeying and respecting. It has taken me so many years to be okay with being different, with being this alive, this intense. I just don’t want you to have to wait that long.

Love,
Eve

What Should We Teach?

2010-04-28T07:10:00.000-07:00

I am becoming obsessed with all that is Eve Ensler. Working with and through her words, in The Vagina Monologues, was a powerful and opening experience. She slams readers and audiences with a dose of reality, one that we so often overlook or forget: the reality of women. I love her bravery and brazenness. I love her humor and her humanity. I love that she continues to create works and do work that defies ignorance or apathy.

This is the kind of plugged-in I want to be.

I've begun introducing my drama class to her newest work, I Am An Emotional Creature, which brings to life the wide variety but also the unity present in girls' experiences across the globe. I started with confidence, but now it is beginning to waver. Can I really work with girls in a public high school on a piece that talks openly about sex, about abuse, about teen pregnancy, about sex slavery, about about about??? Can I get away with this? Will a parent complain? Will I make one of the girls uncomfortable? Wouldn't it be easier to use material that doesn't hit this close to home? Shouldn't I stop now, before it's too late?

But how could I stop? Now that I've heard one girl call the work "empowering." An another girl came in yesterday saying, "Ms. G! I saw a boy crying today and thought of this class. We are emotional creatures, and you don't normally see that!" Others have openly said that some of the words and ideas are "awkward" and "surprising," but they also say that it's "deep" and "they will really remember these lessons and experiences."

I've been as clear about my position as possible: I want to open a discussion about real and current issues affecting girls all over the world; I want to do this so that each of us can become more in-tune with our selves, our bodies, our decisions; I want to give them the opportunity, in a safe space, to define and strengthen who they are, something that has taken me a long time to do. I want to give them fair warning, a heads-up--you will have some difficult decisions and experiences ahead of you, but you are beautiful and unique and it is you, ONLY YOU, who can do what is right for your self.

I want them to know that if they are uncomfortable in any way, they can come talk to me. If we, as a group, decide there are some pieces we do not want to address, that is OKAY. I'm trying to give everyone the option of participating as much or as little as they need, so they can receive as much or as little of this message as they need or can handle at this time.

Is this wrong? Should we avoid sensitive material because it is too difficult, because it is too scary? And if so, what good are we doing?

Who are we?

2010-04-15T13:30:00.000-07:00

Behind closed doors, deals are made. Bargains are struck. Hearts are broken.

Behind closed doors, we protect ourselves from the public eye, the humiliation and exposure therein.

Behind closed doors, we can take the easy way out.

But we can also take a stand for what's right. We can dig our heels in, set our jaw, take a deep breath, and get ready to fight the good fight--the fight for justice, for fairness, for respect; the fight for the good parts of history to inform the future.

Behind closed doors, a person's true quality is forged.

We Must

2010-03-20T20:24:00.000-07:00

I am reveling in stories. They are surrounding me, pulsing through me, reminding me that I am not alone. They connect me to the source-spirit, the great mother, the merciful father. They bring me closer to truth.

Two weeks ago, I looked around a circle of high schoolers, preparing for our closing night of Fiddler on the Roof. Not knowing what else I could share with them, I asked for their stories, their positive remembrances from our time together. I watched and listened as these young people told the story of their fun, their challenge, and their growth. I shared a story about loss and love.

We stood there, holding hands, looking at each other through bleary eyes, connected to and supported by our common experience. We create theater, we dive into other peoples' stories, we use others' stories to understand our own. We do this because we must.

Last week, I met with four other writers--a novelist, a columnist in various print and online publications, the curriculum coordinator for my district (my boss), and a colleague I admire for her experience, intelligence, and talent. Just being in the room with them is intimidating.

I brought some of my writing, my stories, crumpled into a folded square and crammed into my purse. I was shaking when I started to read: how could my words possibly keep up with these accomplished writers? Who am I to think I can write anything of significance?

But as my words escaped my lips, I felt the energy bouncing around the circle, simmering there in the center of the group. When I finished, I let out a deep breath and so did everyone else. I looked around the circle, intensely connected to and supported by these people. And when they shared their stories, I realized something: they are just as insecure sharing their words, but despite that fear, all of us tell our stories. We do it because we must.

This weekend, I performed for the first time in a long time. I was one voice in a chorus of voices sharing the stories of womanhood. Through The Vagina Monologues, the exploration of the words and the process itself, I found a community of women inherently connected to and supported by our female experience.

Despite the difference in age, background, scars, we are all one. We will not be marginalized or pushed to the side. We will not be made to feel insignificant. We will not stand for rape, sex slavery, female genital mutilation. We will not experience these things, hear of these things and remain silent. We break the silence because we must.

I am reveling in stories--the ones that are joyful, painful, and necessary. I find myself hearing them, telling them, living them. I do this because I must.

The stink of storage...

2010-03-19T15:36:00.001-07:00

Not too long ago, I opened the torn-up duffle bag for the first time in ages.

I carefully pulled out old tights, ripped and frayed, unwrapped my last pair of point shoes, with a brown blood spot permanently stained into the pink satin. I unfolded leotards and leg warmers and sweaters. I leafed through an old book of notes, choreography, dance steps.

It all smelled musty, the years of stagnancy in my parents' basement emanating from every fiber. It all reeked of stillness, neglect.

I pulled that bag out of storage, not too long ago, and it's not going back. I might add a few new items to the mix, a few new skills, definitely a slew of new tricks.

I am stretching out stiff muscles. I am getting my blood flowing again, for real, for the first time in far too long. And even though my body might take a little while to rejuvenate, to become what it was and more, right now, my spirit-body is twirling and leaping for joy.

Fiddler on the Roof--Director's Note

2010-03-04T08:59:00.000-08:00

I first experienced Fiddler on the Roof when I was in 8th grade, a few short years after moving to a new town. I was cast as a villager, with seemingly little to do other than sing songs, dance steps, and imagine times and places I never knew. That didn’t matter to me, though—I began to breathe-in each moment, as if I’d held my breath for years. I remember watching my peers playing the lead roles, in awe of their confidence and talent. I remember seeing how close they were, how beautifully they sang, and how effortlessly they joked and performed drama together. But mostly, I remember feeling like an outsider looking in.

In high school, I became more and more involved in theater. Those people I once watched from afar became my people. We rehearsed together. We laughed, cried, sweat, and bled together. We challenged and fought with each other. We connected with each other in ways not possible anywhere else. And while I couldn’t place it yet, there was something happening each time we sang those songs, danced those steps, and imagined ourselves into other worlds. Some ineffable thing was bouncing among and within us.

Now, many years later, as I immerse myself in Fiddler with a new and wonderful group of people, I find myself reawakening to lessons I began learning long ago—lessons that have lain dormant for some time. This show explores family, friendship, and faith with such candor and beauty it transcends barriers. Fiddler challenges the idea that we must do what we’ve always done and follow rules before following our heart; so often we find ourselves standing at the cross-roads between what is right, according to tradition, and what is right for us. Through Tevye’s struggles, we learn to be true to ourselves, to place the important of happiness before riches, and to allow for change and advancement while always remembering our roots.

This story also shows us that reality and uncontrollable forces often complicate our lives and cause us to reconsider everything we thought we knew. Throughout the play, we see prejudice, narrow-mindedness, and fear. We see oppression and violence. We see people struggling to consider each other equal, even though they’ve lived as neighbors for years. But in spite of all this and perhaps most importantly, love and hope remain. In the darkest times, these characters hold strong—using the faith they have in themselves, their loved ones, and their God to carry them through, to truly live.

Somehow, the first time I experienced this show, I was not consciously aware of these lessons—just as I was unable to name that ineffable thing joining us together. Maybe my friends and I were too young or too preoccupied to see it, but we were steadily developing into the adults we would someday become. We were learning who we were and how to live our lives.

Now I see it, ever so clearly, in the magnificent cast and crew surrounding me. When we are faced with challenges, whether with each other or in the complexities of producing a show, we always find a way to maintain hope. Each time we struggle, if we come back to the heart of why we are here—our love for theater and this group of people—we always get through the hard times. Every time we rehearse a song or a step, explore a scene, imagine it alive; every time we let go of our judgments and insecurities; every time we allow ourselves to be present and attune to magic moments—every time, we grow a little bit closer to ourselves and the people around us.

To my “drama weenies”—take the time to breathe. Allow yourselves the chance to appreciate the moments you’re in. Don’t let so much time pass before you realize how magical this was and how important these lessons are.

Here’s to a great show! Here’s to great people! But most importantly, here’s TO LIFE!

2010-02-16T17:36:00.000-08:00

I don't understand what happened.

When I was a little girl, you told me fairy stories and helped me see little magical creatures living under the mossy ground in the woods.

You told me Santa Claus was real, and took me on (like you do your father in a political debate...) when I tried to argue that truth. When I was a teenager, you even gave me a book to read, debunking the myth of St. Nick's untruth.

We had a purple dragon for a pet--and you helped me ignore her pipe-cleaner body to imagine her alive. Her companion was a garden gnome who lived below her among your house plants. You taught me not to insult him by calling him fake.

You did everything you could to create magic in our home and in our lives. You did everything you could to make me a believer.

But now, 20-some years later, when all I need is for you to believe in me, all you can do is tell me that believing is foolish.

2010-02-16T11:43:00.000-08:00

One of my students put it brilliantly: "It's not about what you look at; it's about what you see."

2010-02-10T18:53:00.000-08:00

This is what I think: the dreamers spouting cliches and once upon a times are right. All of us have our somewhere over the rainbow. All of us have the ability to do wonderous things. All of us can be a part of a magic show or a fairy tale.

All. of. us.

We just need to open our minds to the possibility that we can be special. We are special.

We need to look around and accept the amazing things happening to us all the time. We need to open our eyes and see little fairies landing on our noses by way of snowflakes falling. We need to hear the songs of the spheres rustling through the leaves. We need to take in a deep breath, allowing tinker bell's fairy dust to coat every inch of our insides.

She's crazy, you might think. She's living in a dream world, you might say.

Yes. And yes. I have been crazy all my life. And I'd be even more crazy if I didn't ALLOW myself to live in my dream world, because it is mine--every terrible and beautiful inch. This dream is mine, and I can't wait to see the rest of it unfold before my eyes.

I feel like an infant carefully but curiously separating my eyelids, finally opening them to see.

How Can I Talk To You?

2010-01-25T07:28:00.000-08:00

I don't know how to talk to you. I don't think I ever knew.

We can rhapsodize about music and art and pedagogy. We can enter into intellectual, philosphical debates about everything under the sun. We can challenge, question, and agree or disagree about all of it. We feed from this discourse, our blood and our thoughts and our passions pump through us, invigorating and sustaining us. We are alive, and we are together.

But when it comes to me, the way I live my life, the choices and the paths I take, we look at eachother like strangers. We speak different languages. Our biorhythms clash. Our faces and feelings become alien. Judgement and fear and regret pound our beings so hard, we can barely find our footing. We lose the ground. We lose eachother.

And we don't know what to do. We don't have a clue.

I came to you with news--great news, I thought. News that excited me and represented change, hope for a future more in-line with who I am and who I want to be. I came to you, eager to share and rejoice in the possibility of the unknown. I came to you, for the first time, as an equal, as the friendly confidant and companion I've always hoped we could become. But you tore me down.

The voice I heard was full of worry and condescention. The words and the questions were not of support, not one of them, but of criticism and fear of failure. Your viewpoint was so far away from mine, so unwilling to meet me where I needed you.

I immediately jumped the fence, becoming defensive and emotional. I became the angry teenager, stomping down the hallway and slamming the door twice just to be sure you heard it.

I hung up the phone disillusioned, disappointed, hurt. You hung up the phone in tears. I called to create a connection, a bond I've rarely felt with you, and I hung up farther down that hallway than ever.

I want--I need--you to see me as a capable adult. I need you to let me make my own mistakes, regardless of what you've learned or experienced in your life. I need you to believe that I will be okay and I will make a life worth living. I need you to care about me, but not doubt me. I need you to realize that you might not have all the answers, you might not know everything about what is right for me. I need you to let me go.

I thought you said I could do anything I wanted, be anything I wanted. I thought you said I was special.

Then why, the first time I've EVER stepped out of my comfort zone--both in my life and in my communications with you--did you stomp all over my dreams? Why couldn't you, for once, tell me that the universe would support me and allow for magic to arrive, finally, after long last? Why couldn't you be a cheerleader for my happiness and fulfillment, not the dollar amount on a paycheck? Why?

Maybe you never actually said that I could do anything, be anything. Maybe it was a figment of my imagination. Or maybe you said it, but never really believed it.

And that lack of faith, that skepticism, is something I do not and will not accept. It is something I do not, will not understand.

This is why I don't know how to talk to you. This is why I choose not to.

From "Heal Your Body" by L.L. Hay

2010-01-23T13:22:00.000-08:00

Deep at the center of my being there is an infinite well of love. I now allow this love to flow to the surface. It fills my heart, my body, my mind, my consciousness, my very being and radiates out from me in all directions and returns to me multiplied. The more love I use and give, the more I have to give. The supple is endless. The use of love makes me feel good, it is an expression of my inner joy.

I love myself therefore, I take loving care of my body. I lovingly feed it nourishing foods and beverages. I lovingly groom it and dress it, and my body lovingly responds to me with vibrant health and energy.

I love myself therefore, I work at a job that I truly enjoy doing, one that uses my creative talents and abilities, working with and for people that I love and that love me, and earning a good income.

I love myself therefore, I behave and think in a loving way to all people for I know that that which I give out returns to me multiplied. I only attract loving people in my world for they are a mirror of what I am. I love experiences and I am free.

I love myself therefore, I love totally in the now, experiencing each moment as good and knowing that my future is bright, and joyous, and secure for I am a beloved child of the universe and the universe lovingly takes care of my now and forever more. And so it is.

2010-01-21T14:57:00.000-08:00

When am I most in touch with a sense of inner connection, guiding strength, calming love, reassurance or ease?

When I’m writing, free writing, letting my thoughts flow without editing. When I have the time and space and willingness to listen to my inner voice. She always knows what to do. It is when I ignore her that I get myself into trouble.

How can I build a structure for this inner connection into my life? (group or class? A friend? A place in nature? Etc.)

Morning pages. Morning yoga. Aryuveda massage after shower. Walk dog. Go to the river. Take moments to breathe. To unwind at the end of the day. Keep dancing. Keep going to yoga. Keep in contact with Ian and Liz. Keep in contact with Sawrah and Marie.

How do I find my inner voice of wisdom?

By listening. And then trusting.

When have I heard my wisdom in the past?

When I consciously called upon it, listened, recorded it, and then thought about how the wisdom applies to and affects my life at that particular moment. When I was ready to listen. When I was ready for clarity. When I asked for help and guidance.

What power do I believe in and how can I strengthen my relationship with this power?

I believe in the connective power in and among all human beings and nature and the universe. Though we have a perceived separation and beginning and ending to things, I believe it is all unending and loving and inclusive. I can strengthen my relationship with it by daily reminding myself of this and clarifying my role as one piece of the grand whole. I can become closer to and more aware of myself, and through that strengthened self-awareness I will be closer to the connective power.

What kind of divine being did you grow up with? Is that definition still helpful to you or do you need to let that definition go so that you can have a new experience in your life?

I grew up on the Science of Spirituality, which sells itself as a hippie-type practice but has somehow defined it self in my consciousness as something that expects a perfection I can’t achieve. I am resentful when I am pulled into it time and time again, but I still haven’t outright said no. I think it is because that is outright saying no to the path my parents took, and I still have this sick idea that I have to impress them, that I have to do what they expect of me. But really, I think I need to let that go—let go of their expectations and let go of their spiritual practice. I need to explore my yoga, my ideas, my writing, my passions. I need to follow my path. Not “the” path as they call “their” path. I need to forgive myself for that and embrace the idea that I need something different and that’s OKAY.

2010-01-21T14:48:00.001-08:00

What if I gave myself two years to explore my interests or to try a particular path?

· I will get questions and worries and tears and lectures from everyone who thinks what I’m doing is dangerous.

· My mother will shed tears and lose sleep.

· My father will wish I was putting more money away towards retirement.

· My doubt voice will wonder if I can hack it, if this following your bliss shit is actually legit.

· But what if I love it?

· What if I love the unpredictability and the apparent instability?

· What if I thrive from the challenge and push towards a more fulfilling, and thus more truly stable, existence?

· What if believing I can actually turns into I CAN and I DID?

· What if the two years becomes the jumping off point for this life of artistic exploration I’ve so been longing for and whining and pining for ever since I walked away from my initial desire…?

· I believe giving myself this two year exploration will be the beginning of the life I will love.

· I believe it will show me I can do what invigorates me AND feel stable.

· I believe I will learn to love myself through the experience.

What would my life look like then?

· I would be living close to the shore, with a fellow dance teacher and my dog. I would have my mornings to work a shift, do some yoga, and exercise with my dog, write/read/create, or just walk along the beach.

· Then, I would go to the studio where I would help with everything from administrative work to class preparation work. I would be learning to teach ballroom dance, while honing my own skills and developing my confidence, trusting that I do have the ability to dance beautifully and expressively.

· I do have the ability to inspire others, to capture their attentions and imaginations for a few moments while I glide with a partner or by myself across the dance floor. I have the ability to choreograph my future. I have the ability to be happier and more invigorated by my life and my job.

· And, as a result, the steps and the years to follow will continue to be fruitful and inspiring. For the rest of my days.

2010-01-16T13:08:00.000-08:00

1. I give myself permission to believe in myself, to believe that the unconventional and unexpected can be achieved.

2. I give myself permission to not do exactly what my parents would expect of me or choose for me.

3. I give myself permission to not make the for-ever career choices, but rather the for-now choices.

4. I give myself permission to trust that that is okay.

5. I give myself permission to dance, and to believe that I have talent.

6. I give myself permission to believe, to see what others believe and see about me.

7. I give myself permission to breathe. To listen. To move. To be. In body, mind, and spirit.

8. I give myself permission to walk away, towards a new beginning.

9. I give myself permission to do something for me, with only me in mind.

10. I give myself permission to live the life I dreamed for myself long ago, when I had the gall to believe it could happen—I give myself permission to follow my heart towards a dance, artistic, socially and actively aware life.

11. I give myself permission to prove the haters wrong.

12. I give myself to be the adult I know I am, while still feeding the child-spirit within.

13. I give myself permission to be strong—mentally, physically, spiritually.

14. I give myself permission to find my own spiritual path. My own life’s path. My own path. A path. Not THE path.

15. I give myself permission to fall in love with A right, not THE right, partner.

16. I give myself permission to not have my whole future planned, to just be in the here and now.

17. I give myself permission to wag my tail, to enjoy life by myself and with others—just like my dog. I also give myself permission to enjoy and bond with my dog.

18. I give myself permission to be perfectly imperfect.

19. I give myself permission to love and explore the many different things that fascinate and invigorate me.

20. I give myself permission to be truly me.

my tangible spirit...

2010-01-15T20:11:00.001-08:00

..might soar through the sky, with its proverbial head in the clouds. It might zip through a crowded city street--or a wide open road. More likely, it will trip and scrape its knee on the dirty gravel while others just fly on by. But this spirit is mine, and I am taking my time. Scabby knees and all, I am enjoying the ride.

The Vagina Monologues

2010-01-06T19:38:00.000-08:00

I am Assistant Directing, Stage Managing, and performing in The Vagina Monologues--February 12th and 13th, in Hartford. More to come, but--for now--here is some background information about the V-Day movement:

_______________________________________________________

V-Day is a global movement to stop violence against women and girls. V-Day is a catalyst that promotes creative events to increase awareness, raise money, and revitalize the spirit of existing anti-violence organizations. V-Day generates broader attention for the fight to stop violence against women and girls, including rape, battery, incest, female genital mutilation (FGM) and sexual slavery.

Through V-Day campaigns, local volunteers and college students produce annual benefit performances of The Vagina Monologues, A Memory, A Monologue, A Rant and A Prayer, and screenings of V-Day's documentary Until The Violence Stops, to raise awareness and funds for anti-violence groups within their own communities. 2009 V-Day events had the option to introduce a new V-Day theatrical event, Any One Of Us: Words From Prison, which reveals the connection between women in prison and the violence that often brings them there. This new event brings forth raw voices of fierceness and honesty written by women from prisons across the nation and performed by local women. In 2009, over 4200 V-Day benefit events took place produced by volunteer activists in the U.S. and around the world, educating millions of people about the reality of violence against women and girls.

Performance is just the beginning. V-Day stages large-scale benefits and produces innovative gatherings, films and campaigns to educate and change social attitudes towards violence against women including the documentary Until The Violence Stops; community briefings on the missing and murdered women of Juarez, Mexico; the December 2003 V-Day delegation trip to Israel, Palestine, Egypt and Jordan; the Afghan Women's Summit; the March 2004 delegation to India; the Stop Rape Contest; the Indian Country Project; Love Your Tree; the June 2006 two-week festival of theater, spoken word, performance and community events called UNTIL THE VIOLENCE STOPS: NYC which welcomed 2,000 runners in Prospect Park running to demand an end to violence, witnessed 50 actresses and over 100 writers contributing their genius, time and talent to sold out events, and reached millions through media and a citywide subway and bus campaign. In 2008, V-Day celebrated its 10-year anniversary at V TO THE TENTH at the New Orleans Arena and Louisiana Superdome. V TO THE TENTH featured two days of speakers, art, performance for all and makeovers, massage, medical testing and healing circles, and yoga for the women of the Gulf South Region. The event was attended by over 30,000 women and men and reached millions of people all over the world, raising over $700,000 for local efforts in New Orleans to end violence against women and girls.

In Africa, the Middle East, and Asia, V-Day commits ongoing support to build movements and anti-violence networks. Working with local organizations, V-Day provided hard-won funding that helped open the first shelters for women in Egypt and Iraq, sponsored annual workshops and three national campaigns in Afghanistan, convened the "Confronting Violence" conference of South Asian women leaders, and donated satellite-phones to Afghan women to keep lines of communication open and action plans moving forward. Through the Karama program based out of Cairo, V-Day works in-depth to build networks ending violence against women and girls in Egypt, Suday, Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon.

The V-Day movement is growing at a rapid pace throughout the world, in 130 countries from Europe to Asia, Africa and the Caribbean, and all of North America. V-Day, a non-profit corporation, distributes funds to grassroots, national and international organizations and programs that work to stop violence against women and girls. In 2001, V-Day was named one of Worth Magazine's "100 Best Charities" and in 2006 one of Marie Claire Magazine's Top Ten Charities. In ten years, the V-Day movement has raised over $70 million.

The 'V' in V-Day stands for Victory, Valentine, and Vagina.

2009-12-12T18:23:00.000-08:00

Life is a poem,

A musical,

An Alice in Wonderland carnival,

If that stops, all will be lost.

It saddens me

to think people have stopped

seeing,

thinking,

breathing

m e t a p h o r s.

When we stop finding new ways of

seeing

understanding

experiencing

the world around us

I believe the very essence of life is lost.

The day I wake up

and don't have a new thought,

a giggle,

a day dream,

The day I settle

for the same old cliche,

the easy word,

the things I already know,

that will be the day that I've given up on me.

Breathless

2009-12-12T18:19:00.000-08:00

When I think about what could have been, my breath runs away from me...

Your face smashed into my mind a few days ago, after a long and quiet absence.

He sat there at the bar, your friend, another face from that time, and I fell fast, back into that swirling, slippery space that I thought I left behind.

And, immediately, I was lost again, breathless again

about you.

"Famous" by Naomi Shihab Nye

2009-12-12T18:14:00.000-08:00

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to silence,

which knew it would inherit the earth

before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds

watching him from the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom

is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,

more famous than the dress shoe,

which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it

and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men

who smile while crossing streets,

sticky children in grocery lines,

famous as the one who smiled back.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,

or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,

but because it never forgot what it could do.

--From Words Under the Words: Selected Poems

From a poetry/drama workshop, a year ago...

2009-12-12T18:05:00.000-08:00

**I am the color---PURPLE---a smattering of passion, curiosity, heart, and mystery. Solid in who I am, in what I am....but....still....with room for growth, for prettypunky magic. A little kid at heart in a young woman's b o d y. The girl next door with a royal air.

**I am the sound of a strong, blustery wind, whistling in and about the world. I am the sound of the sexy, soulful guitar, wailing and singing through the night. I am rock music, jazz music, acoustic, folk, and blues music. I am hip hop. I am classical. I am musical theater. I am music. I am sound.

**Change. Loose change rattles in my pockets, falls in cracks, jingles in various bags or jackets--a currency of overflow, evidence of money unused and forgotten. Possibilities remain dormant until that fateful moment or that last minute, frantic search for the change that will make my day. Change is the ever-possible something that lurks in the wings, the breaking dawn, the calm before the storm. Change is hope.is youth.is constant.is slow.is flexible.is coming.is happening.is hard.is necessary.

**If I could make one change...I would make an arts center--a studio, a performance space, a gathering space, a place where creativity, friendship, and growth happens.

Sigh. I'm nothing if I'm not consistent.

Joy is an inside job with outside rewards...

2009-11-10T17:01:00.000-08:00

...if I stay put, my insides will eat me up and my happiness will burrow deeper within me.

...if I go, personal, wellness, and monetary rewards will come.

Freedom is...

2009-11-10T16:55:00.000-08:00

...a barefoot girl, with bright paint on her toenails, walking, galloping, skipping, sitting through and in warm, summer sand. The salty, sweet breeze wrapping her up in a familiar hug, blowing her hair gently, making it dance around and above her face. A peaceful smile tickles her lips as she gazes, content, over the small and large, calm and crazy, rolling and crashing waves that make up the deep, complex ocean of existence before her. The sun has kissed every inch of her body, awakening her skin to the bright possibilities of today.

...swaying trees. Flowers drizzled with fresh, morning dew. Birds flying high, playing in and around air currents. Laughter. Open roads and fields and vistas from mountaintops. The feeling when you dance or sing without worry. Going on a walk alone, with your dog, in a quiet wood or by a peaceful river. Water. Of any kind.

A leash-free world is...

2009-11-10T16:50:00.000-08:00

...a world where boundaries, and judgements, and harmful restrictions, and fear melt away to a constructive, supportive, interesting, loving community. A world where people of different beliefs, backgrounds, shapes, and colors...

bare a common responsibility

to protect and nourish everyone, including ourselves.

...enclave...a distinct cultural or social unit

2009-11-10T16:45:00.001-08:00

Somewhere off in the distance

I see a strange little speck

Glimmering there, shifting and morphing

With uncertainty...

Or is it possibility?

A shape-shifter of astronomical proportions,

This speck is cHaNgE.

It lives within the misty.murky.mess

Of life,

Making the blurry lines of the future

The solid outline of this

EnClAvE where we belong.

2009-11-10T16:43:00.000-08:00

"There are many different ways in which the new will be revealed. All you have to do is go along with it and not resist it. Change need not be painful. It is inevitable because nothing can remain the same; and if you look into your heart, you would not want it to do so." --Eileen Caddy

"What we play is life." --Louis Armstrong

Bringing the "Dance Thing" back to life...

2009-10-13T08:40:00.000-07:00

Check this out.

2009-10-13T08:39:00.000-07:00

Feel free to fill in

the ___________ space.

2009-09-26T11:51:00.000-07:00

"Do only what only you can do." --the band director at my school heard this at a Teacher Burnout conference.

Getting Back in the Saddle

2009-09-21T14:25:00.000-07:00

This is an excerpt from a proposal I just wrote. I'm hoping to get involved more in my dancer and artist side. I think--I hope--that will reunite me with myself.

My personal mission:

I believe in the healing and growth properties artistic endeavors provide people of all backgrounds and levels of experience—but I especially see the relevance of and necessity for the Arts during childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood.

I’ve always been fascinated with the real world applications of a production process, whether musical theater, dance, music, or drama. The act of learning new things, practicing them, working through and around them with other people, young and old, is invaluable to any human out there. Through collaboration and overcoming artistic challenges, we can all become better performers and better people. And when young and old, novice and professional, come together to encourage and inspire each other, magic can be made.

Ultimately, I hope to continue learning about and expressing myself and my world through the various artistic media available to me—choreography, dance, theater, poetry, prose, song writing, etc.—and I hope to involve myself as a lifelong role model and mentor to young people.

Some things I could offer:

Workshops (which I can use to offer exploration and expression through collaboration with me, their peers, and other artists):

Writer’s workshops—where we explore aspects of creative and personal writing processes, as a method for self-awareness, healing, and expression.
Choreography workshops—where we explore elements of space, movement, and composition, culminating in either one or multiple dance pieces.
Viewpoints workshops—where we explore the various ways an actor can utilize his/her body, fellow actors, and the existing performance or practice space to create organic and dynamic theater. (I am by no means an expert at this training, but I have attended a workshop by a student of the creators and I do use elements of Viewpoints training in my drama classes, as well as the shows I direct.)

Dance classes (although I feel out of practice, I would be willing to throw myself back in as a means to whet my appetite and get myself moving again):

(Primarily) Modern/Contemporary dance—my choreography style melds together elements of ballet, jazz, and contemporary styles, all combined to create movement pieces which tell a story or evoke emotion.
I could also offer beginning and intermediate Jazz or Musical Theater style classes, as well as beginning and intermediate Ballet classes.

Directing (again, this is a new realm for me, but I love it and the possibilities it provides):

I’d be happy to help explore various real-world topics.
I’d also be into the possibility of writing and creating original theater.

The Walking Wounded

2009-08-15T22:09:00.000-07:00

We are all so fragile: little feathers floating in the breeze, coasting in any direction the wind chooses, stopping, going, fluttering every which way. Some might say aimlessly, while others say purposefully.

But whose purpose is it?

Have you ever had the sudden urge to open a car door as it speeds down a freeway? Or to not take that step to solid ground as the escalator reaches the top? Sometimes I stare off the edge of a cliff or over the railing of a balcony and wonder what would happen if I took a step over, if I tumbled down from safety to something else entirely.

I am not crazy. In fact, I think I'm more sane than ever.

But sometimes ghosts make their way back. Sometimes people you thought you put to rest find you again, haunting your dreams. With an innocent song or smell. A picture. A flower. The sound of his voice. A car that reminds you of his. Any one of those things can steal the air from your lungs, stop the beats in your heart, and bring you back to a place you thought you left long ago. And there you are, in a pool on the floor, a puddle of your old weakness.

I think every human has those moments, and is susceptible to them every day of his or her life.

Every day, we walk the line, tightroping our way through our lives, following a path either precarious or predestined. We gamble with ourselves about the decisions and the actions and the questions of our lives: one more look and I will never look back, one last kiss, one last call and then I'll let it go.

We wonder what it would be like to jump out of a plane, to sabotage our safety, when we really should question the importance of intact limbs and unbroken hearts.

I am not crazy. But every once in a while, I wonder. Is staying on the rope the best thing for me? Is walking that wobbly safety-line really worth it? Or should I take that temptation, and leap away from the known path, the expected path, and finally let myself live?

Well. I took one step off, and his face flickered back into focus. He is back in my mind. My heart flutters through the memories of our fiction, that feather resting for a moment in possibility and quickly flying away for good. I know it was not real. But then why am I still shattered apart at the thought of him?

Nearly two years ago, I said goodbye and meant it. Sometimes, though, I picture that path--in that tenuous moment of what-might-have-been, I see a whole world, a life we will never live. It is a glimpse, a flash imagined on a movie screen, a whim there briefly and then gone.

I still gamble with myself. I still look over the edge, flirting with disaster. Maybe next time I jump out of a high-speed vehicle, the flesh wounds will be more than the illusion I suffered with him.

Again

2009-08-01T12:05:00.000-07:00

Amiga, amiga.

Good price for you.

Almost free today.

Bonita. Guapa.

Whistles. Kiss faces.

Honking. Waving.

But then there is

The poor woman,

sitting demurely

outside the church.

Skin dark, wrinkled,

like leather,

curled into the rough, rocky wall,

her hand quietly cupped,

silently asking for help.

Can this be called begging?

She utters not one word.

Not one sound escapes her lips.

She never raises her eyes to meet ours.

But, then again,

mine never stooped to meet hers.

We were both there,

in that moment,

quietly avoiding

the other's

eyes.

Both

crying inside.

Wondering why Fate

placed us together in

this moment

on opposite sides.

I am haunted by these images,

by the outstretched hands,

the crumbled humanity that

surrounds us all.

I am paralyzed by my brain.

By the thinking-too-much-

syndrome.

Will they use this money for food?

For drugs?

Are they truly poor?

Is this just a front for greed?

For laziness?

I hate that I dare to think these things.

How dare I assume anything about

anyone. else.

We all have our own issues,

our own challenges,

our own demons.

Here I stand, again.

Plagued with guilt, again,

Because I turned a blind eye.

I looked away.

Walked away.

I kept my bleary eyes up, again,

when Need sat quietly below.

2009-08-01T12:03:00.000-07:00

Tiny little microcosms of life hide around every corner, alley way, side street, around every nook and cranny.

2009-08-01T12:01:00.000-07:00

Textures and patterns scrape across Mexican landscapes, engraving the story of her legends, life and love stories.

...Souls soaring...

2009-08-01T11:56:00.000-07:00

Flocks are flying overhead,

little pockets of collective consciousness,

floating and flipping,

flip-floating,

fly-flying,

effortlessly. beautifully.

They know nothing of the murky, madness

down here.

They cluster together

with ease,

by necessity.

They are free from

the plague of adolescence

raging rampant

in and among our supposed

adult democracy.

Who are we anyway,

but a synchronized group

of kindred spirits

screaming our way through

the middle of it all?

Daily haze.

2009-08-01T11:51:00.000-07:00

Mist.haze.humidity.moisture.molecules.

nestle into the sometimes cozy,

sometimes rocky

curves and crevices of

Mexico's landscape.

Daily this haze

comes and goes,

hiding sometimes,

and revealing sometimes

the beauties,

the maladies,

always the realities

of the land.

In one look it is there,

and the next,

it is gone.

What is writing to you?

2009-08-01T11:47:00.000-07:00

The physical manifestation of my inner voice. It is the questions, the taboos, the mistakes, the discoveries that happen all the time, all at once, in my mind. It is the deafening white-noise that needs silencing. It is the phantom pain that needs treating.

It is the hunting and gathering, the trapping and holding of these ideas.

It is also the planting, nurturing of a beginning, of an itch, and the watching it, helping it, encouraging it to grow into a developed and complex being, ready for harvest, for consumption. And then it is ready to compost and begin again.

Writing is a way to make real, to make tangible, the invisible--but paradoxically, more real--existence that is all around and within me.

Culture

2009-08-01T11:35:00.001-07:00

I am worried that this is lacking, in this country, but more importantly, in me. So many times I find myself and those around me looking to OTHER cultures to identify with. We are fascinated by THE OTHER.

Latino cultures seem to have such vibrant color, such spice, and that steaming hot salsa running through their veins. Black cultures--African Americans, people from the Caribbean, and sundry other places--have blues, jazz, and hip-hop; slavery and repression fueling them, pulsing through them. The gay culture has banded together under a flag filled with rainbow colors and togetherness. Some bigot calls them a fag, and the community owns it, turning that defamation into an affirmation.

I am white, really white, blue-eyed, upper-middle class, and I grew up in Small Town, CT.

Boring.

I long for a culture to call my own. Culture, which seems, in so many ways, synonymous with color. Flavor. The spice of life.

Judging by my hometown and my skin, I am the nutrition-less, flavorless, over-produced and empty slice of white Wonder-bread.

But if I identify with my italian culture, my irish culture, I can be feisty, worldly, culturally rich. It doesn't matter that, in truth, I am mostly English--and my blaring, white skin shows it--I want to be more like my spicy side.

It has more depth. More flavor. More color than the bland little ol' white girl from Little Town, New England.

2009-08-01T11:32:00.000-07:00

When I can't see myself sitting down to write a real, written-just-for-this-purpose, post, I look through random notebooks and scrap papers to find some snippet of my thoughts. Here are a few recent ones, until I can get my act together. For real, for real.

2009-07-09T23:53:00.000-07:00

I know this place too well. All of my doubts and my mistakes haunt me. Whispers of heartbreak and ambiguity follow me everywhere. Songs and memories decide to arrive at my doorstep at this moment of uncertainty, taunting me, reminding me of possibilities lost. These ghosts precede every step and echo every word. The strength that defines me is draining out of my core. All of the certainties are broken into a million shards of worry and doubt.

Who is this person? This timid, meek girl? Who is that? Part of me knows that all of the decisions, all of the mistakes, all of the hurts have made me stronger, have made me more ready for the future that awaits. But loneliness and guilt are tough adversaries. They seem to have taken up residency in my brain, and they are going to be difficult to eject.

I know this place too well; it feels like home to me.

But I don't want to live here. This won't always be my norm, my touchstone. This won't always be me.

In another moment of weakness, one of my other weaknesses said, "You have more going for you than anyone else in this room. At least you have options." Then he asked me, "How can you regret a decision that was right for you?" Out of all of the things he's said to me or not said to me over the years, this was one of the most poignant.

I think he's right. At least, I hope so.

2009-07-05T17:33:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to sit down and write, for days and days.

Some part of me is stopping the other part of me that wants to get. going.

I'm sick of that part. She sucks.

2009-06-04T18:37:00.000-07:00

Free-writes with my students....

2009-05-25T18:04:00.000-07:00

In preparation for their college essays, I spend a class period offering free write topics, encouraging self-reflection and exploration. This semester, the activity fell directly in the middle of my own personal disaster. In some ways, I feel like I am at a similar place as many of them, on the horizon of a change, of a new direction. Through this brainstorm, I reminded myself of some key elements that comprise who I am. I'm not sure exactly what I will do with this information yet, but I'm thankful to have generated a beginning of a new direction.

____________________________________________________

What is your strongest personality trait?

My go-to attitude. I am a doer. I don't sit around and wait for things to happen to me. And when problems occur, I like to think I jump to action and help drive a situation to its conclusion. I believe I get this from my mother. I get much of my drive and determination from her. I am the living, breathing result of a 1970's feminist child.
(Interesting, I now feel frozen and indecisive. Will I be able to make a change in career?)

How would your friends describe you?

She is driven. She is a bubbly person. She always tries to do what is right and helpful by everyone else, which can sometimes be detrimental to her sanity. In the process of doing what is expected or asked of her, she sometimes loses sight of her own needs. She is someone who has a lot to give, but sometimes doesn't know how to balance the pieces of her life to allow for that generosity to truly take effect. She doesn't know the meaning of the word, No.

What is a favorite book, movie, piece of art, etc? Why?

Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Dreams. I'm not really sure why this is a favorite. Maybe I just read it at the right time in my life. Maybe I liked the relationships between the characters, the sense of loss and rebuilding of a life. I also really love the importance she gave to the place, its healing properties and magical, dream-like qualities.
In general, I love things that make me look closer, once, twice, or twelve times. I love pieces that have an immediate but lasting emotional effect on me. Sometimes these effects and these pieces are unexplainable. I just want to be made to FEEL. I want my gut to respond.

Have you ever reached an epiphany in your life?

Yes. RECENTLY. I realized that I have a tendency to get stuck in INERTIA, in a pathway that was my choosing and is respected/supported by everyone in my life, but then I realize that it may not be the right pathway for me. This is true in my professional and personal life right now. But at the same time, these questions fly through my mind: How dare I stand up for me? For my feelings?
I must begin paying attention to me. NOW. Or forever hold my peace.

What are your greatest accomplishments? Why do you consider them so highly?

Being a part of Samantha's life (my little cousin who ended up spending a year with my family, in a time of turmoil for her)--and I regret not being as strong presence in her life currently.
Helping my grandfather and grandmother during his illness--I was able to be useful and caring and use my strengths to help them with things they struggled with. And I regret not spending as much time with my Grams now that she is alone.
Going to school and doing well. High school, undergrad, and graduate school. For so long this was all I knew or expected of myself, and I committed to doing well.
Creating groups of friends and communities in various facets of my life. I regret losing touch with some or many of them.
Right now....the fact that I am actively and verbally admitting unrest. This is a first for me. I hope that I take this beginning and create the life that I really want. The time is now.
Next...I hope the next big accomplishment will be making the change. Or, at the very least, beginning to make the change that I know I need to make.

What activities do you do outside the classroom that define you as a person?

Directing/choreographing plays--I see these as vehicles for mentoring kids in an arena sometimes more meaningful than in a traditional classroom.
ABC House--I am daily helping five boys in a very real, very tangible way. I am helping to provide comfort, family, and support to inner-city kids trying to find A Better Chance than they might find in their home neighborhoods.
Ballroom Dance Club
Advocating for a Theater and Dance program in a public high school.
(......all of these activities are directed towards populations of kids who don't have an existing outlet in their communities or schools)

In what areas have you struggled and succeeded? Struggled and failed?

BEST portfolio--to be certified to teach in CT, second year teachers face UNREAL pressures. I passed this portfolio, but not without much turmoil.
Directing my first musical at this high-powered public high school.
School, through all the levels.

I don't have as many failures, but I think this is because I've played it safe. Maybe I need to stretch out of my comfort zone. For once in my life.

What are some difficulties you've had to endure and how have they changed you?

This might be one of the most difficult things I will have to do--to break from INERTIA. I fear that this decision will help define me and my life hereafter. I just hope I make the right choice.
I am proud of the difficulties I faced with Sammi and my Gramps--I love myself most when I do the right thing by me AND others.

Where and with whom would you like to be?

Outside, walking or running with my puppy, with a notebook and my ideas in tow. Then, I would take a break, a long one at that, to play, bound, rest, and let my words flow. I want to let the writer's life take over. I want to commit to it, in combination with some yoga and dance. The more I think about it, the more I realize it could be. the. most. perfect. and. powerful. scenario.

How do you define success?

Happiness. For me and for as many other people as possible. In thirty years, I don't want to doubt my path. I think I might if I staid in teaching. At least in an artist's life or a writer's life, I would have the opportunity to change and develop my focus, what I am working on. Could I go freelance?
Success, to me, equals me as an old lady, sitting around a porch surrounded by my family (blood and gathered), laughing, telling stories, and loving life.
I want a world of options and inspirations. A wealth of interest and knowledge and curiosity. Always. For my whole life.

The Pro-Con List

2009-05-25T17:46:00.000-07:00

In trying to decide what is causing my discontent at work, I came up with the following list.

The positive parts of my job--

Helping kids, being a positive influence in their life.
Supporting a life of thoughtful consideration and curiosity, of awareness, of creativity, and of self-expression.
I have the opportunity to participate and facilitate theater and dance, and to advocate for the arts in public schools.
I sometimes have the opportunity to share and be excited about my passions and my concern for kids with like-minded people. This is limited, however, due to the normal stresses of the job.
The people in this working community are wonderful and supportive, interesting and challenging. They never fail to bring a smile to my face, even when that might be a hard thing to do. They have become a second family to me.
I have a consistent paycheck with benefits. I am putting money away for retirement. This is stable.

The negative aspects of my job--

The correcting load, in addition to the other responsibilities.
Because I am overwhelmed with additional activities (by choice, I admit), I feel like I'm not being as good or as clear in the classroom (and out of the classroom). What good am I if I am letting my students down?
While the possibility for a theater program exists on the horizon, I have no idea how long it will be before it materializes.
I am supporting the students' creativity and self-expression, but I am stifling my own!
I've been questioning this career path THE WHOLE TIME I have been on it. I went into it wondering, and it hasn't stopped.
Leaving would be a huge monetary risk. And I have my Dad's voice in my head...
Teaching English was always the choice I made to be logical (here's that theme again...), responsible, to bring together pieces of myself. But. I am lost. So I am worried that this is not working....................

Do I have the guts to do something about it?

Sometimes silence screams.

2009-05-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

I could feel the anger and the sadness reverberate through the car. Thank god I stopped to get a coffee…at least I had something else to do with my hands than grasp the wheel and the stick. I could engage the sense of taste to distract from the other senses, shrieking with his pain.

I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I sat there and let him go through his motions until we got home.

I quietly got out of the car after his not-so-quiet door slam. I stood in the grass, under the clear, starry sky, and watched as he tossed his bags into his car, took his parents' air conditioner from the house, said C-ya, and tore out of the drive-way.

I stood there for a few more minutes, letting the cooling humid air swirl around me. I listened to the sound of his engine get quieter and quieter in the distance. Until it was gone. He was gone.

I could finally take a breath. And I made it count. I took a deep breath in, held it there, carefully, mindfully, and then slowly let the air seep out through my lips. It seemed like I had air for days.

My stomach churned a little bit. But the tension in my shoulders went away. The tears hung in the corners of my eyes, but they did not fall. I looked down at my dog, who stood still at my side, staring up at me.

“Come on, Sid,” I whispered. He wagged his tail slightly and trotted, carefree, into the house. I took slow, deliberate steps inside, turned around, and gently closed the door.

I sat down in my satellite chair, hugged my knees to my chest, and let the silence ring in my ears. I did it. I just broke a good man’s heart.

And here I am, sitting still, in a space somewhere between tears, nausea, and relief.

Another goodbye.

2009-05-23T18:24:00.000-07:00

________,

I want to write this to you in case I forget to say some thing or things in person. I know this is going to be hard, and I don’t want to risk you not understanding, or at the very least, not getting all of my thinking.

Let me start with affirmations, which I hope you can remember and believe when it’s easier to focus on the negative. I think you are the sweetest, kindest man I have ever met. I am blessed to know you and to have you love me as much as you do. I admire your bravery in making such a huge life change and the steps you’ve taken to grow as a person. I can’t imagine the strength it has taken for you to cope with so many challenges, without asking for support or help from anyone. I am so proud of you and happy for you about the positive experiences you’ve had during your recent training—you deserve to have a turn-around at work; you deserve to be recognized for the good things you are doing. In fact, you deserve the very best in all facets of your life.

Let me also be very clear about this: I love you and care about you a great deal. If you need my support, it will be there, without question.

It is because of all of these things that I cannot wait to do this, to say this. I can’t be your girlfriend anymore. It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be right. I do not love you the way you love me. My heart and my gut—my emotions, my intuition—are not in line with my logic. And no amount of time or rationalization is going to change that. I’m sure of that now. In fact, although I am not particularly excited about hurting you, I’m more sure about this than I have been about anything in recent months.

I have been trying to write myself into the perfect love story, the story we’ve been creating for ourselves. This makes so much sense; WE make so much sense. We’ve felt drawn to each other, off and on, for years. We have such a common background and have a deeper understanding of each other because of that. Our families know each other and are supportive of the two of us together. Our friends are supportive, too. Everybody seems to see the perfection of the story, but that doesn’t mean it is perfect.

I’ve realized that there is a disconnect between the experience I’ve been painting for myself and the experience I’ve actually been having. I have worked very hard to try to make myself feel this, to want and need this gutturally, but it’s not there. Of course, I have had moments of contentment and happiness, because I enjoy spending time with you. You are a wonderful person, and I like being around you; I like having you in my life. But that doesn’t translate to me being in love with you, to this being the right thing for me.

And I think I’ve been using “the walls” and “the being emotionally closed off,” “the being scarred and scared,” as barriers to hide behind. I certainly have been hurt in the past, but I know I’m not this emotionally stunted. It is not coming naturally to me, not because I’m not capable of it, but because somehow, subconsciously, I knew something wasn’t working. You’ve said that I’m “copping out” quite a bit lately, and you’re right. But not in the way you thought. I wasn’t listening to myself. I wasn’t letting myself admit that this wasn’t working for me, so I kept coming up with lame excuses or reasons for the way I was acting. I was trying to give myself enough time to MAKE it work. Some things, though, you just can’t force. This is one of them. And it’s not fair to you.

I don’t really know what catalyzed this bout of self-analysis and realization (or, rather, beginnings of self-realization), but I’m starting to listen to myself, to pay attention to my desires and my aspirations. This is the hardest thing I think anyone can do, and for a long time, I’ve been putting myself second to what seems to be the “right” path or the one I have a responsibility to simply because I’ve started down that road. But instead of staying in things that aren’t working, isn’t it better to be honest? First, with myself, but also with the people I’m affecting?

I don’t believe we’re as compatible as we’ve been trying to convince ourselves we are. I am not going to make you happy in the end, because I can’t love you the way you need to be loved, the way you deserve to be loved. I believe you will find that in somebody just as wonderful as you.

I know you don’t want to hear, “I’m sorry.” But I am. I am sorry that it took me so long to figure this out. I am sorry you’re hurting; you don’t deserve that. I am sorry you made such a drastic move for something that didn’t pan out the way you pictured it. I’m sorry you might hate me after this. Believe me, I will feel badly about that for a very long time. I will regret hurting someone that I care about so deeply and respect so much.

On the other hand, I am NOT sorry we tried. If we didn’t try, we would never have known—you might not have proven to yourself that you could leave the comfort of home, that you could be on your own. I might not have learned that there is a sensitivity and kindness that I should expect from a partner. I might not have learned how to be honest with myself, to pay attention to the actuality instead of the make-believe reality.

Thank you for loving me. I’m sorry I’m hurting you.

If there is any way you can keep me in your life, I would love that. But if you need space, time, or a clean cut, I understand that, too.

You are wonderful. Please don’t ever forget that.

With love.

2009-05-22T07:44:00.000-07:00

For the first time in a really long time, I'm being the selfish one. I'm putting my needs before someone else's. I'm trying to let the guilt roll off of me, just this once. Because the weight of that guilt might crush me like stone.

2009-05-17T13:20:00.000-07:00

Don't listen to logic.

....Do what feels right.

....

--Star Trek

2009-05-17T08:42:00.000-07:00

"I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom."

--Clarissa Pinkola Estes

2009-05-12T10:06:00.000-07:00

Check our SARK and her beauteous way of living and loving abundantly.

(Thanks to my cousin, Liz, for turning me on to this. It turns out that today happens to be a day of reconnecting, to inspiration, to self, to others. And I am thankful for it.)

http://www.sarkjournal.com/

Well...Astrology.com says Libra and Leo are a perfect match:

2009-05-12T04:30:00.001-07:00

Eloquent, artistic, and honest, these two signs share many touchstones and easily accommodate each other elsewhere. The Libran individual, incurably wishy-washy, will adopt the Lion's determination if it seems fair. And the Lion laps it up! Leo fulfills the Libran's desires, rubbing him or her the right way and expressing boundless love, especially in the physical sense. Friends and lovers, Leo and Libra derive strength from each other to parade splendidly, in dignity and grace, through the outer world. Their love is an intelligent device.

2009-04-28T09:05:00.000-07:00

As did March. And April after it.

Time is slipping past me.

Or is it fermenting into something tasty?

2009-03-05T14:22:00.000-08:00

Where did it go? One day I blinked and February went away...

2009-02-25T06:52:00.000-08:00

Good evening—

On behalf of the cast and crew, I’d like to welcome you to the GHS Drama Club’s production of Crazy For You.

When we were choosing our shows for this year’s season, we decided to follow our hearts and our passions. For a transition year and for two directors’ debuts at GHS, we thought it best to utilize our strengths. We chose our fall production because of the director's infectious enthusiasm for Our Town. We chose this musical because it is a big dance show, and dance is what I know best. Looking back, however, I think both of us learned far more than we expected. We started in our comfort zones, and the magic of theater took us to a beautiful new place.

Crazy For You shamelessly celebrates the musical theater genre. It oozes dance, music, and laughter. It is over-the-top and sentimental. It breaks from reality and brings us directly into our characters’ dreams. It is often cheesy and cliché. But scattered among all of that shines a few simple messages: be brave enough to love, follow your passions, hold out for what you deserve, and let people give you a hand once in a while. And if you do that, your dream world might actually become a reality.

Like Zangler’s Follies and the people of Deadrock, Nevada, this cast and crew set out to put on a show, a big and challenging show. We didn’t do this to save a theater or make money, however. We did it because this is what we love. This is how we breathe, how we move through the stories of our lives with purpose and flare. This is how we learn to understand each other and ourselves. Through the production process, the fusing together of theatrical elements, we learn how to be better people.

Also, like the people of Deadrock, there were moments in this process when we found ourselves in the middle of everything, looking out, wondering how we’d make it through. In my life, I’ve often found solace in the messy madness of art, but I must admit there were moments this time around that seemed insurmountable. However, at each one of these moments, without fail, someone stepped up—sometimes it was a student; sometimes it was an adult; sometimes it was a friend or a parent. Regardless, we helped each other. We encouraged each other to keep a “stiff upper lip.” We “put on [our] dancing shoes and watched [our] spirits climb.” And the moment we collectively believed it, when we realized “we got rhythm” and “we got music,” was when it did come together. It was then we realized we couldn’t ask for a single thing more.

And that feeling is magical. It is the over-the-top, the dream-turned-reality. It is why we do this time and time again.

For that, I would like to say thank you to every person involved. To all of the designers and directors, students and adults alike—you helped actualize this vision. To the pit, thank you for providing the music that carried us through. To the crew, it is because of you that we feel like we’re “up among the stars.”

To every one else who supported us along the way, thank you. Parents, thank you for all of the rides and for supporting our crazy schedule. And thanks to the cast of The Complete Works of Shakespeare Abridged—your talent and time helped buy some of the instruments we are using tonight.

To the cast, you truly were a joy to work with. Every time you tap together, turn on the charm, or hit that last pose, I get chills. I feel like a little kid again. Never lose your passion and your energy. I am CRAZY FOR YOU.

2009-01-28T07:58:00.000-08:00

She stands in the middle of the room. But it is not just any room. It is a room, like so many other rooms, that has defined so many moments in her life.

She stands there in the pit, the lowest point of the whole place, the point where a piece of the magic begins. She turns to the back of the room, looking upwards over hundreds of battered, worn seats, seeing shifty figures and faces that have occupied them through the years. She sees the tears and the laughter, the intense attention and the restless boredom, the family, the friends, the faces of people who made a regular moment wholly unique and irreplaceable, never to be found exactly as it was again.

Her eyes travel up past those seats to the doors which welcomed those faces in, to the booth which controls other pieces of the magic. She lets her eyes travel across the high ceilings and up to the catwalk, caging in streams of light which illuminate and inform the magic, hanging from above the pieces that will bring people and moments to life.

Then, ever so slowly, she allows her body to turn, facing a gaping hole--dimly lit, empty. The floor gouged, splintered, worn. Remnants of tape and paint and blood, sweat, and tears sprinkle the surface which so many have occupied before her. Remnants of successes and failures--that she does not remember--haunt the space before her.

And she is not sure she belongs in this room, like she has in others from before. The pieces of the past do not speak to her here, the pieces of this room are still foreign, strange. She stands there looking, questioning, hoping, that before too long that strangeness will disappear. She stands there hoping that the various pieces of the magic she knows so well will come together for her here.

Because then, standing in the middle of things will feel less daunting.

2009-01-10T10:29:00.001-08:00

It is simple. It is true.

It is the living, breathing mushy stuff.

It's a solid "me and you."

Two hearts pumping and beating together.

It's as simple as "I love you."

When I'm worried, I think of...

2008-12-21T19:29:00.000-08:00

First snowstorms

Flakes fluttering through bitter cold

Fireplaces lighting the dark

Steady hands and a gentle kiss calming my nerves

Teachers inspire me.

2008-12-21T19:03:00.000-08:00

A poem given to us at our last department meeting.

After almost two full hours of debate and complaining and whining and griping (sometimes rightfully) about anything and everything that needs to get accomplished but can't because we are only human and can only be expected to do so much, I am so grateful to have received this piece of writing.

Its simplicity and poignancy reminded me why I do this. It's not the CAPT scores or the piles of college recommendations or papers or duties or web portals or professional objectives or whatever else's. It's the students sitting in front of us. It is the faint recognition, the pieces of me I see sitting in front of me. It is the lessons I struggled so hard to learn. It is the lessons I learned the wrong way. It is the passion I had then that was stifled too early. It is the purity and innocence I see before me. And before that innocence is lost, I want to do something, say something, or not say something to help that purity become what is possible.

Even though I am tired everyday, I don't regret a second I spend with my students, for my students, because of my students. This is a life choice. This is dedication. This is for them. Because I was them, and if it weren't for a very small few, I might not have become the me I am now.

_________________________________________________________

{Untitled}

in my first year, when i teach geography to seventh graders,

one little girl's voice faintly

reminds me of one of my college friends and

i almost give her an A just because she's an echo

of someone who formed a vital layer in me.

over the years I have more students who drift into

reminders of people in my past;

sometimes I recognize the resemblance immediately,

like the profile of the low appalachian ridge outside the window,

and sometimes it hits me mid-year and,

having created the borders of the connection,

i then chart the inlands,

embellish and illuminate mountains, floodplains, and

valleys with memory.

i wonder if we all listen to our students for echoes--

in the lilt of a laugh, or how one's hair parts in the middle,

like the friend we had in thenth grade

who wore mega-sweaters and leggings.

or in the turn of a phrase,

the cadence of a question,

the way a hand is slowly raised like the long neck of a dinosaur

in those long-ago science hand-outs,

that smelled like sweet cereal and purple ink.

each september it's as if we have a new chance

to fumble through the past,

to listen for echoes of ourselves that inexorably decay

as they resonate and ripple

off the earthtone and crumbly layers

of time, of characters in books, of friends and old lovers--

--and sometimes of the dead,

who we unearth for an hour or so each day;

time enough to quietly say hello,

how you doing? I'm glad you're still with me

in this young mind sitting across the canyon, across the great divide.

--Simao J. A. Drew (teaches literature and language at Liberty High School in Eldersburg, Maryland, and is a member of the adjunct faculty at Frederick Community College. At the Gifted and Talented Summer Centers sponsored by the Maryland State Department of Education, he teaches creative writing. His poems have appeared in literary magazines including Scarab and Sandstone Review.)

2008-12-21T18:45:00.000-08:00

From old notebook covers and college doodles comes Shakespearean wisdom. Oh, how timely and prophetic.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run

That our devices still are overthrown

Our thoughts are ours; their ends

none of our own.

--Hamlet

2008-12-21T10:16:00.000-08:00

This letter preceded a collection of writings through my past (they can be found under The Familia link). A Christmas gift, I chose pieces from different points in my recent journeys, pieces that I think this person might appreciate more than some. My intent--to let her in a little more. I just hope she receives them the way I think she will.

Consider this another (or the first official) letter of my Letter Project!!

Saturday, December 20th, 2008

________,

When I picked your name last year, I was ecstatic. Not just because I thought shopping for you would be easy, but because I figured I could take the opportunity to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and my family since you entered our lives. But as I began thinking about what I could get you to show such profound gratitude, I came up empty.

There really are no physical things to say thank you from the heart. Finding an object to give as a gift, however beautiful or thoughtful, does not truly accomplish the task. The thing is, there really are no words to portray this feeling, either. And it is here that I stumble on a paradox, the paradox, in fact, of my life.

As an artist, a dancer, a writer, a poet, a teacher, a student of life, I am constantly trying to find a way to experience and express the inexpressible. I go through each experience in real time and then in dreamtime. I analyze and cry and think and laugh and feel my way through the stepping-stones of my life. Sometimes I make things more complicated than they need to be. Sometimes I find a way to see each piece of my puzzle, good and bad, in a new and more meaningful way. Sometimes I realize I need this part of me to survive—I need to dive into the ephemeral energy, the enigmatic space, and I need to flit, or trudge, my way out of it.

And I have done this for as long as I can remember.

When you came into our lives, I was doing just that. In fact, I have been doing just that for the past four years. Who am I kidding? I will probably be doing this for as long as I live. But what I want to share with you is a slice of that journey. I have been working my way into adulthood, and I’d like you to see some of it.

Why? Because you have always inspired me. You have never judged me. You have never made me feel like I had to be a perfect person. You have accepted me as I am and have encouraged me to grow into the woman I know I can be. When we spend time together, I am invigorated. When I am down, you know how to help me. You have selflessly thrown yourself into the morass of our family. You have helped me see that I am stronger and more forgiving than I think I am. For all of this and so much more, I will say the words that never seem to say enough: thank you.

Here are a few more: Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Peace Be With You. And most importantly, I love you.

2008-11-13T16:35:00.000-08:00

Last night, the moon stole my breath away. I stopped and stared for a mini-eternity before getting into my car. Then, behind the wheel, I had to tear my eyes away to watch the road instead. A New England harvest moon, full to its brim with wonder, chilling, shining, captivating. Slicing through the ice cold air with a cool confidence unlike any I've seen before.

Tattoo design.

2008-11-10T15:08:00.001-08:00

The Friday Five: Holiday Season Edition

2008-11-08T08:25:00.000-08:00

What's your favorite holiday ...

Song?

Christmas Carol--"What Child Is This?"
Pop nonsense--Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You" or Nsync's "Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays" (I know. I'm a nerd.)

Movie or TV special?

It's a Wonderful Life

Memory?

Any time my family gets together, but most recently, last year's Christmas Eve celebration. We went to my aunt and uncle's house, and even with stress and stupid old school drama, they made me laugh, sing, and love being there. They made my loneliness and anger disappear. I think my heart grew a few sizes that day.

Baked good or desert?

CANOLI

Each year, what's the one moment that lets you know it's officially the holiday season?

When I see friends and family that I don't get to see during the year. Everybody comes home and everybody gets together and we stay true to our traditions...and I couldn't be happier to have them all in my life. Cheese. I know. But I love cheese.

2008-10-23T10:51:00.000-07:00

"No wind favors him who has no destined port." --Montaigne

"Clarity is essential: clarity regarding values, observations, intentions, assumptions, request and next actions. We move toward that which we are clearest about." --Dennis Sparks

The Letter Project

2008-10-12T19:03:00.000-07:00

Friday Five: Can't Live Without

2008-10-12T13:26:00.000-07:00

This week's questions are brought to you courtesy of an anonymous reader, the letter F, and the number 5...

What is the one most important thing by your side right now?

The Connecticut Writing Project's Summer Invitational Institute application.

Why is it so important?

This could be a WONDERFUL program for me to participate in--not only for me as a teacher, but as a writer, too!

Can you live without it?

Probably. I have so far. But I think that would be a silly settlement, to just do what I've always done, the way I've always done it. What excitement or growth is there in that?

What is the one thing you can't live without?

Materialistic thing--my wheels.

Non-materialistic thing--truth, beauty, and love. Ok, so it's three things. But I would argue they are intrinsically linked.

Who is the one person you can't live without?

I'd like to have this ONE person in my life that makes me or breaks me, but to be honest there are far too many people that are irreplaceable to me. I suppose if I were to narrow it down to JUST ONE, it would have to be me. If I lose the reflection of me in that shifty mirror of self, my life goes into flux. I've seen it happen more than once. But I am slowly becoming more and more self-aware, the outlines of my reflection are becoming more solid, and as a result, my life is starting to make sense. So...that girl, that woman, that person...it is SHE that I can't live without.

My first blog profile...

2008-10-09T14:39:00.000-07:00

...during my lowercase letter phase. Let it be noted that I still enjoy this concept of the lowercase writer--one who does not assume mastery, who knows well the struggle entwined in the writer's experience.

I consider myself a writer, with a lowercase "w."

I have worlds to explore, worlds to learn, but I am finally ready and willing to put myself out there. For better or worse.
__________________________________________________________

i laugh. loudly. i giggle. i squeal. i squirm. i scream.

i skip. i spin. i dance. i play. i trip and fall and tumble down hills. i like to be barefoot. i like to swing. i like to drive fast letting all the wind in.

i create. i collaborate. i question, challenge, meditate. i teach and i learn. and i hope and i dream for a place someday free of hatred and greed.

i have incredible friends and family i adore.

and i have this beautiful ideal. of sparks and chills. of truth and thrills. and i hold out for magic i know is real.

2008-10-09T14:33:00.001-07:00

...As if through the black and white flicker of his old film projector splashing the past across the walls, showing footage of my father and uncle when they were babies, toddlers, and teenagers, I saw my grandfather's very own life mythology flash before my eyes...

My first blog description...

2008-10-09T14:22:00.000-07:00

We are all so much more than the image we see in the mirror, yet so much of our self-concept comes from that illusive reflection. My challenge is to physically manifest the stuff of my mind and soul, whether through movement, words, or teaching. This is my personal goal, and I hope others will join me.

My Letter of Recommendation

2008-10-09T12:24:00.000-07:00

Among the high school paraphernalia I dug up, I also found this letter--written by my HS band director (who also happens to be an administrator at the school I am working at currently).

I always find it interesting to see how others see me. Putting that kind of mirror before my eyes is far more useful than doing it myself.
__________________________________________________________

To Whom It May Concern,

It is my pleasure to write this recommendation for TG. I have known Tina for four years as her high school band director and music teacher. I find her to be a very mature young woman, with many admirable qualities.

First, and perhaps most importantly, Tina has a friendly, kind, and loving personality. I have never heard her say or imply anything critical or derisive about any student or teacher. Teenagers typically fall into the habit of being negative so often that it becomes the expected characteristic of the high school years. Tina is truly the exception. For several semesters, Tina was a member of my Instrumental Music class, a class where students work on classical chamber music in duets, trios, and quartets. I have watched her work in this setting with other student musicians who are far less skilled and she is always patient, kind, and encouraging. In band, I have asked her to work in sectional rehearsals with younger flute players, and they have consistently told me of how much they were able to learn from her because of her encouraging and supportive attitude. These are traits of leadership that she draws upon naturally and that will serve her well in the future.

Second, Tina has a sharp intelligence that is evident in all she does. In music, she picks up new concepts very quickly, and is among my most responsive students in working on the difficult areas of musical expression and aesthetic meaning. Her intelligence is clearly evident in her academic success, and certainly has played a role in her many community activities. Tina is one of our school's "doers," a girl who is able to give freely of her time without shortchanging other commitments. She wisely budgets her time, and has learned to set her priorities. Even when she is at her busiest, I have the feeling that she is in control and I am always confident that she will not let anyone down. It is in this area that I feel she is particularly mature for her years.

Tina has made a real impact on our school and our school community. She happens to be a member of a class that has an unusual number of high achievers, but even in this valuable collection, she is a shining star. All of the teachers in our school think highly of Tina--her name evokes smiles and positive nods even from those who have not had her in class. All students from her grade, and many from classes before and after hers, know her and feel her friendship. In addition to her achievements in academics, music, and volunteer organizations, she has been ver active and accomplished in dance. We don't have a dance program in our curriculum, but she has helped bring dance to our students by choreographing in school and community musicals. In this area, she has been able to combing her strengths of leadership and teaching, artistic ability and organizational skills.

I believe TG will be a wonderful asset to any college. She has given much to our school and I will miss her. I look forward to hearing of her future successes and happiness.

___________________________________________________________

Wow. I just hope I can maintain that...

My bad College Essay

2008-10-09T12:03:00.000-07:00

I found a manila envelope the other day, while going through my old stuff for a tag sale and trying to de-thing my life. In it were relics from my high school days: National Honors Society letters, Student of the Week notices, various awards and youth leadership invitations, and my college application stuff. (Yes, I was a total nerd! But I totally own that nerdiness. In fact, I am proud of it!)

Eight years later, I have gone to college--undergraduate and graduate--and I have begun working full time as a teacher. An English teacher, at that. As an English teacher--a composition teacher, at that--I am disappointed with my College Essay. To say the LEAST. I know I was capable of much much much more!

I think the problem was the lack of instruction we received. I was never taught how to approach this type of writing. In fact, I don't remember ANY of my writing instruction between the 7th grade and my freshman year at UNH. Perhaps I blocked it out for various reasons, or perhaps it just wasn't there. I'm afraid the latter is true.

So here's the plan: I will rewrite my college essay, perhaps in a few different ways, and show my students the comparisons!

This could be quite amusing.
___________________________________________________________

My First Dance Recital
Written circa 1999

The first time that I stepped out under those bright stage lights and heard the music reverberating throughout the auditorium, I was addicted to dance. The attraction wasn't only to the dancing itself, but to everything surrounding the art. I fell in love with the studio, the dance classes, and the teachers. I was overcome with excitement when getting into costume and dancing for an audience. This all encompassing passion for performance has stayed with me ever since.

Dance and performance have been catalysts to my involvement in many other facets of the fine arts, including instrumental and vocal music, musical theater, and drama. I've also worked as an assistant dance teacher for my studio and student choreographer for school and town musical theater productions. Not only do I enjoy participating in these activities for myself, but I get an incredible sense of accomplishment from helping and teaching others in the areas that I love.

Performance has allowed me to utilize my bright and dramatic personality, as well as my talents for leadership and organization. For me, there is no greater satisfaction than the appreciation received for a performance, whether my own or that of my students. The only thing that comes close, is the unconditional and loving support from my students, mentors, and fellow thespians.

I would be incomplete without dance, theater, music, and performance. The course of my life would have been entirely different if I hadn't taken that first tap class and performed in that first dance recital.

2008-10-01T18:19:00.000-07:00

It is worse this week than it was last week. Last week I could throw all of my energy into the details, into helping my grandmother or other members of the family. I felt like my job was to make everyone else ok. I needed to hear the stories and say the right things and fix the flowers so everyone else would feel less stressed. My words, my stories, even my feelings served other peoples' purpose--to make them feel better. Maybe I am more like my grandpa than I knew. Maybe I have been spending too much time focusing on protecting others. Maybe I need to spend more time grieving. To feel the hurt. In order to begin to heal.

BLUES

2008-09-30T20:01:00.000-07:00

A sad song, seemingly simple or small on the surface, but teeming with complexities below. Melodies and harmonies and counter melodies intertwining, weaving in and out, soar through our skin and touch us at the core. The sounds pervade any verbal or physical language we might try to use. They speak to us in a way that we've never heard before and will never hear exactly in this way again. Each experience with the blues is unique. I feel the landscape of emotions, of music, of history, deeply and differently each time. And that is beautiful to me.

FORTIFY

2008-09-30T19:58:00.000-07:00

My defenses. Make them thick and heavy and strong. Build them up, proactively preventing future illness, attack, or hurt. If I prepare for the worst, I will never again feel the pain I've felt so many times before. The walls will be built up. Nothing will get in. Nothing will tear them down. I will be protected, and safe, sitting up high looking down at the world scurrying around below me. Untouchable. Unbreakable.

But then, I wonder, who will be there with me?

I forgot, in all my brilliant planning, to consider my heart. And in all of this defensive fortification, I've managed to shut out not only the negativity, but everything else too.

I'm fortified. I'm strong. And alone.

BRICK

2008-09-30T19:55:00.000-07:00

Brick houses withstand far more than any other kind. But when they crumble, they fall hard. Crashing to the ground, crushing everyone and everything that hid inside. Amidst the dust and rubble, we might uncover pieces from a life turned disaster. Archaeologists, we pluck the memories, the artifacts, the physical manifestations of what came before. We pluck pieces from the wreckage and start to build again, brick by brick, a new life--one that holds the fallen bits close, but is unafraid to push forward. Fearless, the brick house stands stronger than ever. It simply exists, stoic and brave. It experiences each moment and then lets it go. Through tragedy, this brick house finds peace.

The following are a series of free writes...

2008-09-30T19:52:00.000-07:00

...sprung from these prompts:

PRIDE

POWER

"Power corrupts; Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

The plight of the Average Joe

2008-09-30T19:43:00.000-07:00

Such a slippery slope, this idea of power and corruption. The Average Joe begins his life. He steps out of his door on a perfectly regular sunny day. He breathes in the fresh air and smile smears his lips. He plugs in his iPod and sets out for the day. There is a positive pep to his step. Average Joe realizes that the day is new and the possibilities are endless.

His happiness spreads, infecting those around him. His whole body smiles, his eyes twinkle with the promise of this new day, beginning today. The people passing by would normally ignore the everyday man passing in the street, but today, Joe's energy pervades the typically separate space; the distance that stretches between complete strangers in the street is closed with a single smile and nod.

As time passes, however, and days begin and end and begin and end, Joe's inclination toward good, toward the simple and pure tendencies, start to cloud with desire. The materialistic, shallow, superficial pull of this sick and twisted world we live in begins to poison his purity, his happiness. His kindness disappears. Greed enters. The power-hungry mantra--more more more mine mine mine--echoes in his ears, drowning out the peppy positive tunes of before. And the picture perfect Average Joe descends down the same old tired slippery slope of corruption and power gone wrong.

Everything in moderation...

2008-09-30T19:27:00.000-07:00

Pride fuels positivity in life, individually or collectively. But too much pride sews the seeds of evil and corruption. Pride then becomes a suit of steel, an eyeless mask, a thick brick wall separating good intentions from execution. And as the divide widens between what was what was intended--the compassion and understanding and truth that is essential to change, to growth in this world--and what ACTUALLY happens, the world falls into the deep dark recesses of despair.

Too much of anything is a bad thing. Gulping, inhaling, greedily ingesting the chicken mcnuggets of truth, we choke. We suffocate. The body rejects this excessive inhalation of sustenance. The stuff that the body needs to survive becomes the weapon that brings it down. A small piece gets stuck in the back of the throat. It sprints, it speeds recklessly by the gag reflex and throws the mind into panic mode. The lungs scream for air. Tears sting the eyes. The blood rushes to the face, trying to save the day, in vain.

The only hope is from the outside. A helping hand. An everyday hero. A friend. A foe. Another human being who knows what to do, is willing to do it, and who doesn't hesitate. In this case, the speed helps. But it is connected to kindness and care, not selfishness, self-indulgence, gluttony, greed.

Haste in that vein may end well. But haste driven by the needs of self, of the individual only, can only ever end in tragedy.

2008-09-30T19:21:00.000-07:00

I am so sick of people thinking they know what is best for everybody else in the world. If I am different from the person next to me, across from me, behind me, across the country and across the world from me, then the same solution or approach is certainly not going to work for each of us. Somehow we have to find our common ground, because I still believe--perhaps stronger now than ever--that among our differences, there are even stronger similarities.

Let's start with being human beings, being living breathing beings who need food and shelter and love and care. We need support and community. We need challenge, intellectually, emotionally, physically, spiritually. All of these things are true for all people, despite the surface level differences. So why can't we look past the different colors, clothes, tastes, languages, customs, and see a greater connection. One that supercedes the one and only, the great and powerful, the holier than thou, the my way or the highway.

As I get older, my anger gets quieter, but it hasn't disintegrated completely. This nausea that I feel in the pit of my stomach tells me that the anger is still here. And sometimes it wants to burst free. It wants to spew forth in a loud and putrid way.

2008-09-30T19:20:00.001-07:00

I had to stop being my grandmother so I could go see my grandmother.

My personal mission statement...

2008-09-30T18:59:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to focus our goals, to identify the ways that we as individuals in an imperfect system might affect the larger whole, in spite of evils and powers seemingly greater than ourselves, I asked my students to create a personal mission statement for their lives. I asked them to identify the ways they could approach their life so that they could be proud and be agents of change.

It is idealistic in many ways, but is it so wrong to ask teenagers to get in touch with their idealism?

Here is what I came up with...
______________________________________________________

The way I might personally better the larger whole is by working with young adults in a real and truthful way. Through theater and dance, I can teach students skills and encourage their artistry and teamwork. I can help young adults and adults work together toward a common goal. Through teaching, I can encourage students to explore and discuss issues pertinent to them and to the world they live in. I can use literature, past and present, to help students evaluate where we've been, where we are, and where we are going as a society; I can help them begin to define their place in a large and complex history. I can help them communicate effectively, through written and spoken word, and I can help them evaluate information to make them more literate social beings.

If, by the time my students leave high school, they have learned the importance of...

**Listening more, talking less.
**Thinking for themselves.
**Reading more.
**Expressing themselves clearly, uniquely, and truthfully.

...I will have succeeded.

"Good things happen to good people like you and me."

2008-09-28T11:20:00.000-07:00

To my Gramps. One of the loves of my life.

This eulogy, from Russell L. Grinold’s funeral services on Saturday, September 27th, 2008, was written and delivered by his granddaughter, Tina M. Grinold.

Good morning.

Or, as my grandfather would say, “Hello, hello, said the man with two heads.” He would then follow either by asking how I was or by cracking a sly joke and then asking how I was. Nodding, listening closely, his eyes would sparkle, beautifully magnified by those big old bifocals he wore. And as I spoke, I could tell how genuinely he cared about what I was saying, how genuinely he wanted to make me laugh. With arms crossed and heart open, he’d say, “I see…said the blind man, as he picked up his hammer and saw.” He would look at me in that impish, mischievous way; his laugh would rumble up from the depths of his being; and at that moment I knew…all was right with the world. No matter where we were, as long as we were together, my grandfather made me feel at home.

My grandfather was a beautiful contradiction. He was a living, breathing paradox. He was a tough guy and a softy. He maintained control out on the streets and relinquished control in the kitchen. He was an enforcer and a supporter. He set rules. He followed rules. And he knew how to break them. He had German Shepherds and Beagles. He was a dog and a cat person. He loved Cadillacs and he loved pansies.

My grandfather embodied the phrase “tough love.” In a way, I see his life’s journey as a progression from the “tough” to the “love.” And in looking at that progression, in looking at who he was, through and through, I am learning more about me and who I want to be.

In my mind, my gramps represents an era that I never knew and could never fully understand. He is a time capsule showing me pieces from my family’s past and my country’s past, showing me pieces of things that I will try to carry through in my life and also some things that I will never condone.

But he is my grandfather; I love him; and I never, ever questioned his love for me.

Since the day I was born, he has been making me laugh, supporting me, and making me feel like a princess. When he called me Cutie, I knew I was beautiful and deserved to feel that way. When he stood by his family through the years, even when it was hard to do, I saw what true love and devotion looked like.

More recently, when he started trying to marry me off to any male nurse or doctor we came across, I realized he only wanted to make sure I’d be ok. He’d say to them, “This is my granddaughter. Isn’t she beautiful?”

I would turn scarlet and tell him not to be fresh.

He would look from me to whichever guy it happened to be and say, “Are you married?”

They would be gracious and charming, and eventually they would leave. As I scolded him, that impish look would come back, and he’d say, “What?! Would it be so bad to have a doctor in the family?”

When he slipped me various bills through the years, I knew it wasn’t about the money. It was about his generosity, his unwavering support. Two days ago, as I was looking through old family pictures, I wandered around my grandparents’ basement and found myself wading through the images, the special moments of their life together.

I came upon a little note I’d left them a long time ago, maybe ten or twelve years ago. I signed my name on a note pad and underneath it I wrote: “This is going to be worth money some day.” Underneath that, in his distinctive print, my grandfather wrote back: “You’re worth more than money now, Cutie.” It has been something like twelve years, and he never tore off the page.

Through the tears welling up in my eyes and the baseball growing in my throat, I looked around. As if through the black and white flicker of his old film projector, splashing the past across the walls, showing footage of my father and uncle when they were babies, toddlers, and teenagers—much to my father’s chagrin—I saw his very own life mythology flash before my eyes.

My grandfather kept a close, careful chronicle of the loves in his life.

I saw a proud and devoted public servant. As a Hartford cop, a state policeman, a national guardsman, and a military man, my grandfather maintained a high moral code and a sincere pledge to serve and protect others. I noticed a framed citation, praising him for his bravery, for his willingness to put himself in harm’s way. Because of him, a murderer, armed and dangerous, was taken into custody. I had never noticed this before. He never bragged about it. He never brought his work home with him. With all of its challenges and hardships, my grandfather never burdened anyone else. He never took any of those hardships out on anyone else. And this is just one of many ways he helped make other people’s lives better.

He also was one of the few officers given the honor to work closely with Gov. Ella Grasso in the 70’s. As her bodyguard and chauffer, he once again took on the role of protector. I understand that Ella was a tough cookie, and gramps respected her for it. While most people would sit in the back seat, she insisted on sitting in the front seat with him. She even asked him to pull over on the highway sometimes to pick wildflowers, knowing full well that this was not technically permitted in the state of CT. It seems the two of them shared a similar understanding of the important things in life. They were able to appreciate the other’s toughness, while also embracing the simple beauties and pleasures surrounding them.

I continued my trip down his memory lane, and my tears started to dry. The baseball began to shrink. I saw a proud and devoted husband, father, uncle, friend, brother, son, colleague…grandfather. I saw a man who could be serious and silly. I saw someone who knew what he liked, someone who cherished the seemingly small moments in life. I saw his sense of humor bounce from wall to wall. I saw a full and happy life. I saw my grandfather in ways that I hadn’t before, and also in the same old ways that I always had. The ways that always made my heart smile. The ways that still do and still will make me remember him with love and admiration.

And I have a feeling I will continue to find relics of his life’s history, of the story of this man that we all loved, for many years to come. And I have a feeling—no, I know—that those findings, those precious memories will be laced together with laughter and love.

Over the past few days, I began that process of uncovering, of remembering who he was. And all of the people I spoke to—many of you are sitting right here in front of me today—told me many of the same things.

He was a great guy. He was fun. He was funny. We had some good times. We have wonderful memories. He was a prankster. He was generous to everyone he met, even when he didn’t have to be. He provided undying and unflagging and unquestioned support—financial and moral. He was willing to make fun of himself, but God forbid anyone poked fun at his loved ones. He bailed people out of trouble. He scolded them for it and never let them forget it, but he never held it against them.

He gave and gave and gave some more, and he still felt like it wasn’t quite enough.

We also shared his stories. We remembered some of our favorites and couldn’t remember some of our favorites. And through the process, we laughed. A lot. I think he would have wanted it that way.

I have two stories, in particular, that I would like to share with you all today.

The first marks an earlier stage in my grandfather’s journey, and it comes in the form of a joke.

There was a man walking along a cliff’s edge, too involved in himself and his own thoughts to realize how treacherously close he had come to this edge. He lost his footing and fell over. Hanging on for dear life, he looked to the heavens and cried out, “Can anyone hear me? Is anyone up there?”

And a great booming voice answered him, “Yes, my son.”

“Oh, thank GOD,” he cried. “Can you help me?”

The voice replied, “Yes, my son. Have faith. Let go.”

The man, still dangling above the precipice, considered this proposition for a moment. Then he asked the booming, faceless voice, “Um, excuse me, is there anyone else up there I could talk to?”

The second story is one he told at his brother’s grave, with his wife and his sister-in-law. I believe this is the story he would have wanted told today.

There was a very special ship being built for a very special purpose. It was to transport people who were loved, respected, and cherished by others from their homeland to a new land. Board by board, this ship was constructed, and day by day, its departure came closer.

When the day finally came, the people boarded the ship, one by one, two by two. They boarded the ship for their very special voyage. They went up to the deck and stood by the rail. Their friends and family, their loves and their lives, stood on the shore waving and smiling and crying and waving. The people on the ship stood on the deck and waved back at them.

As the ship moved out of sight, the people on shore wondered what they would do without the departed. How could they ever replace that hole they left behind? And as those friends and family, the loves and the lives, tried to figure it out, the ship was coming into port on another shore—their newest destination.

And the people on that new shore were waiting there, waving and smiling and crying and waving. And they were ready to welcome the passengers of the ship with open arms. The very special passengers of the very special ship traveled from one shore filled with love, across a very special horizon, to another shore filled with love.

I think my grandfather told that story then for a reason. He wanted to help and to comfort and to protect once again. I believe these are his words coming through me. I believe this is his wish for us—to be at peace, to be comforted, to remember him fondly, and to know that he will be ok.

My grandfather defined himself by his strength and perseverance, and it became more and more difficult for him in the end. He hated having to inconvenience anyone. For years he took care of himself and the people he loved. For years, he did it all himself. He held it together. He fixed it. He built it, even if the “it” he built wasn’t perfect, my grandfather was proud to have done it himself. The thing is, I only see perfection in those imperfections. In fact, that may be one of the most important lessons he taught me.

But through all those years, I’m not sure he ever got over having to let others help him. All those years, those times that I drove my grandparents to and from the doctors appointments and the hospitals and the procedures; the times I went shopping for them or picked up prescriptions; the times I pressed the nurses and doctors for more information; the times I told him that “it shouldn’t happen to someone as nice as him” and that “if I could, I would take the pain away”—the same things he used to tell me when I was a little girl, sniffling over a scraped knee; or, more importantly, the times I just sat and listened and talked and laughed; all those years, my grandfather lamented being a burden on me, on all of us that helped.

He didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, ever, not even when he had no other choice. He still didn’t want to rely on anyone else. His stubborn pride couldn’t let him accept his weakening body. His inner strength and will fought sickness until the end.

What he didn’t seem to understand was my free will. If I were truly inconvenienced, I wouldn’t have stayed. If I didn’t want to be there, I wouldn’t have gone. If I had somewhere to be that was more important than being right there with him, that’s where I would have been. But there was no such place. In fact, this wasn’t just something I wanted to do; this was something necessary for me. I needed to be with him. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if I missed this part. This was the part when I could give back. After all his years of protection, care, and service, I could finally return the favor. If I made him laugh just once, if I made him feel comfortable when he hurt just once, if I put his mind at ease even just a little bit for a little while, then all of the time he felt I was surrendering was worth it.

What he didn’t understand was how much he was giving me still, every minute, every second I spent with him.

And what I want him to understand now is how he protected us until the end. The strong, the stoic man spent the last years making sure we would all be ok. He gave us the time we needed to say goodbye; he showed us how to finally and gratefully surrender when the time is right.

He went down still telling stories and charming strangers and making all of us laugh. I will never forget the day he brought the house—or rather, the hospital—down telling one of his stories. The one about a parachute and a man with a stutter. Nurses and hospital workers packed into the tiny hospital room and the laughter rang through the hallways.

He showed us all the merits of both “tough” and “love,” and we will never forget it. I know I won’t.

Before I close, I need to turn the attention to my Gram for a moment. Through the years, but especially in the end, we were privileged to witness the tenderness between my grandfather and grandmother. Gramps referred to her in many ways: Polly, Dear, and even Cutie, which I always thought was reserved for me, but then quickly realized the truth. She was the original and only true cutie to him. He would also, quite simply, call her his bride. She never aged for him. Their love never aged. It went through different stages, sure. But for fifty-six years, they were a team. They supported each other, they finished each other’s sentences, they lived with and loved each other.

In the end, they were very careful with their goodbyes. Every single time she had to leave him, he would make sure to kiss her and let her know how much he loved her, how much he appreciated everything she was doing for him, everything she had ever done for him. I watched my grandmother tortured by every moment he was tortured. I watched her try with all her might to help him maintain the control that had always defined him. She lived for him, day in and day out, and he knew it. If it was possible, I think he loved her more than ever in the end.

And, Gram, I believe that his love will never, ever leave you. I believe you can go inside yourself whenever you need to and feel Grandpa’s love. I believe that for you and Grandpa, “till death do us part” is just a formality. It is only about the physicality of your relationship. When you miss him and when you need him, just remember him in your heart and soul. He will never really leave you.

Today, even the heavens are weeping for my grandfather. But somehow, I don’t think they are tears of sorrow or of grief. I believe that these are tears of joy. In many traditions, water cleanses, it purifies. When it rains, we should remember the story of the ship crossing the ocean.

In our limited, worldly view and experience, it looks like Russ is leaving us today. But in reality, he’s just moving on to the next place. He is bringing joy and laughter to the folks on the other side. I imagine him on the deck, as the ship heads for the horizon. He is standing on his own two feet, for the first time in a very long time. His belly is bulging again, just a little bit. He is wearing his baby blue fishing hat that he always wore, a short-sleeved striped polo, and he’s waving to us. He is at peace. He is ok.

And when he gets to the other side, he’ll see all those that went before him. He’ll see his parents, my great-grandma and great-grandfather Conti, his sister, his brother, and all the friends that went before him. He’ll saunter on over, thinking of the first joke or the first story he’ll tell. He’ll give a sturdy handshake or a big hug, and he’ll say, “Well. Here we are.”

I imagine him there right now, sitting around a kitchen table like the one over on Country Lane, surrounded by loved ones, looking down on us sitting here right now remembering him. I imagine him sitting there, saying the same thing we’ve heard him say time and time again: “It’s always nice when the family gets together.”

________________________________________________________

On Tuesday, September 23rd, 2008, in the early hours of the morning, my mother and father, my grandmother, and my Auntie Ann and Uncle Joe went over to Manchester Hospital to see my grandfather’s body before it was transported to the funeral home. They weren’t sure what to expect when they walked into his room. But as they did, they were amazed at what they saw. On my grandfather’s face, where we had seen so much pain and suffering in the past few weeks, was a gentle, peaceful smile. It’s true. My Gramps was smiling in the end.

And as we were heading to the church in the limo this morning, to celebrate his life and to say our final goodbye’s, my grandmother said, “Maybe he was trying to tell us something. Maybe he was trying to let us know he was ok.”

I think my father said it best, “Dad had the last laugh.”

Even in his last moments, my grandfather was protecting us. He was trying, one last time, to make sure we’d be ok.

Little nuggets of encouragement make all the difference.

2008-09-22T13:08:00.000-07:00

My boss is an inspiration. She is the kind of leader I want to be, one that loves her work, that has purpose and drive, and that is constantly, lovingly involved with her staff. This person not only makes me want to be a better teacher, she makes want to be a better person.

In a post script to our first department meeting, she wrote:

"I read a poem by Marge Piercy (from Circles on the Water, 1982) this weekend that made me think of all of you."

To be of use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward.
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in the common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn,
are put in museums but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

The Friday Five: Morbid Questions We All Think About

2008-09-12T22:03:00.000-07:00

1. If you were to die today, what would your last words be?

I have been blessed.

2. What would you want your epitaph to say?

She loved, she laughed, she lived, and you can visit her anytime, dancing barefoot in a summer rain shower.

3. What song would you want played at your funeral?

"Imagine" by John Lennon. Or "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles. Or "Beautiful" by India Arie.

4. In lieu of flowers, what should loved ones do in your honor?

Go on a trip together. Or donate to the unsticking mentioned in #5.

5. What unfinished business would you wrap up?

Make things that have been stuck in the middle unstuck...right now.

When the end arrives...

2008-09-12T21:13:00.000-07:00

...I'm not sure I'll be ready. After seven years of staring inevitability in the face, I'm still not prepared. Last night I sat in his latest hospital room, which is much like all the others, watching drops of blood plop plop plop into his veins. Watching as the latest attempt to flush sickness out plop plop plopped in vain.

His skin sags off of his bones. His head itches and flakes from the last round of chemotherapy he finished not too long ago. Or is it from the last bout of radiation to the head, the round attacking the four tumors in his brain? Purple bruises scatter themselves across his hands, elbows, arms, reckless marks of stabbings and pokings and needlings he's put up with for far too long. One of his legs is so thin you can see all of the bones and joints in detail. The other one bulges violently, angrily, from the thigh.

Metastasized, they said. In the soft tissue, they said. No more procedures, no more tests, they said. Hospice, they said.

Home, he said. I want to go home. I want to sit on my chair, in my living room, with my cat, in front of my big t.v, he said. I want to be able to go outside on a nice day, he said.

I sat at the foot of the bed, unable to take my eyes away from him and the last of the dripping blood. I had a baseball in my throat, and I blinked back tears more than once. I've known this was coming for a long time. I've been back and forth to different hospitals and nursing homes for years. I've driven him to New Haven for special testing, to DeQuatro in Manchester for various treatments and updates. I've heard doctor after specialist after nurse after doctor give reports and updates and diagnoses. I've read pamphlets and seen specials. I've heard the word cancer my whole life and always known what that meant.

But none of that could soften the blow. None of that prepared me to hear those words. None of that prepared me to watch as the last units of healthy blood dripped into my grandfather's ravaged body. I stared, willing time to slow down, unwilling to let go. Then I got up, I kissed his face, said "I love you," and went home to bed.

Tonight he was fast asleep. There were no units of blood dripping. I held onto his hand for dear life. My hand held on tight; his trembled and lurched. He didn't wake up, and I wouldn't let go. Then I got up, I kissed his face, said "I love you," and went home to bed.

We're nearing the end, and I know I should be prepared. But I don't know how.

My life to-do list...

2008-09-08T18:21:00.000-07:00

...a work in progress.

...in no particular order.

1. Fall deeply in love.
2. Write a book.
3. Create meaningful theater.
4. Go back to India and Japan.
5. Travel to the following places: Europe (backpack), Cross-country road trip, Italy, Australia, New Zealand, various S. American locations.
6. Travel wherever life takes me, having the wisdom and guts to follow.
7. Have a happy and healthy family of my own.
8. That interacts on a regular basis with my existing family (near and far).
9. Live in a space that is full of life, that provides shelter for travelers, that hosts many gatherings with loved ones (new and old).
10. Learn the guitar.
11. Take voice lessons.
12. Write songs.
13. Write poetry.
14. Write plays.
15. Allow my career to focus on creating community through the arts.
16. Dance on a regular basis.
17. Take care of my back, and the rest of my body.
18. Learn my history (family, country, personal) and allow it to inform my interactions with the present and future.
19. Know enough to take that information and let it go.
20. Practice meditation regularly.

Inspiration.

2008-09-08T18:03:00.002-07:00

I am reading for me again, and the most recent was a collection of essays from director Anne Bogart: "A Director Prepares."

The last passages (as well as most of the preceding ones) rang true for me. And in a creative draught of my own making, any bit of inspiration will help. Also, it just might kick my bony ass into gear.
___________________________________________________________

A working artist is in a constant struggle with the brain's attempts to ambush their work through diversion. Do not be seduced by the buzz. In all the work with artifice, while going through the back door, keep your inner eye secretly on paradise. Stay true to a deeper pursuit.

...

Today we live within another kind of totalitarianism. Each of us is a target of the attack machinery of consumerism. A media-drenched culture aims aggressively at our psyches with a constancy that breaks and numbs the spirit. This dangerous environment offers us an opportunity: the challenge to think and to act.

Laziness and impatience are constant internal resistances and they are very personal. We are all lazy. We are all impatient. Neither are evil qualities; rather, they are issues that we learn to handle properly and act on at the right moments. We navigate them in our aim towards expression.

...

Your attitude towards resistance determines the success of your work and your future. Resistance should be cultivated. How you meet these obstacles that present themselves in the light of any endeavour determines the direction of your life and career.

Allow me to propose a few suggestions about how to handle the natural resistances that your circumstances might offer. Do not assume that you have to have some prescribed conditions to do your best work. Do not wait. Do not wait for enough time or money to accomplish what you think you have in mind. Work with what you have right now. Work with the people around you right now. Work with the architecture you see around you right now. Do not wait for what you assume is the appropriate, stress-free environment in which to generate expression. Do not wait for maturity or insight or wisdom. Do not wait till you are sure that you know what you are doing. Do not wait until you have enough technique. What you do now, what you make of your present circmstances will determine the quality and scope of your future endeavours.

And, at the same time, be patient.

2008-09-08T18:03:00.001-07:00

I am overwhelmed by all of the things and nothings I want to say.

Maybe it really is just that simple...

2008-08-04T23:14:00.000-07:00

...maybe it is time to let go of all the bullshit, of all the history, of all the worrying. Maybe it's time for me to take a chance on someone, to let him into my life. Maybe someone really can look at me and in that moment realize I am something special, something worth waiting for. Fighting for. Moving for.

Maybe all of the complications and analyzations and self-destructions are meant to dissolve.

Into the misty, magical hope of what is to come.

You know you're from Tolland when...

2008-06-25T19:33:00.000-07:00

So...I'm moving. And in going through some of my old purses, I found this list. I believe it was compiled at a happy hour, at Friday's last year, with many a Tolland folk. With many a friend and acquaintance. My nostalgia continues. I'm starting to see that I truly will have to wade through some of the muck (good and bad) before really being able to forge forward. Hopefully I'll be able to do so quickly. And painlessly. ...Ish.

More "This I Believe"

2008-06-23T19:30:00.000-07:00

Writing prompts suggested for student writers as a pre-writing strategy. I plan to answer each of these questions for myself, working towards the composition of my own “This I Believe” essay. This is as much for myself as it will be for my students, if not more so. And I challenge any other writer out there—take a look at yourself long enough to decide what it is you believe.
___________________________________________________________

1. Most of us have been in a situation where we made a promise that for one reason or another we were unable to keep.

When were you disappointed because someone made you a promise that they failed to keep? Or when did you break a promise that you made to someone else?

2. All of us are works in progress with a long way to go before we reach our full potential.

In what skill or area are you still working to make progress?

3. Our society uses the word hero in many different ways.

How do you define hero, and who is a hero in your life?

4. We all tend to judge people by their appearances, even though looks can be deceiving.

Have you ever prejudged someone incorrectly based on their appearance or has someone ever prejudged you unfairly based on how you look?

5. Everyone has problems or challenges to overcome.

What obstacles are you proud to have faced and conquered?

6. There is a famous adage: “To err is human, to forgive is divine.”

When did you feel divine because you were able to forgive someone for their mistake? When did someone act diving by forgiving you when you were wrong?

Hmmm. I see a new project a-brewin.

2008-06-23T18:16:00.000-07:00

The Original Invitation from 'This I Believe'

This invites you to make a very great contribution: nothing less than a statement of your personal beliefs, of the values which rule your thought and action. Your essay should be about three minutes in length when read loud, written in a style as you yourself speak, and total no more than 500 words.

We know this is a tough job. What we want is so intimate that no one can write it for you. You must write it yourself, in the language most natural to you. We ask you to write in your own words and then record in your own voice. You may even find that it takes a request like this for you to reveal some of your own beliefs to yourself. If you set them down they may become of untold meaning to others.

We would like you to tell not only what you believe, but how you reached your beliefs, and if they have grown, what made them grow. This necessarily must be highly personal. That is what we anticipate and want.

It may help you in formulating your credo if we tell you also what we do not want. We do not want a sermon, religious or lay; we do not want editorializing or sectarianism or 'finger-pointing.' We do not even want your views on the American way of life, or democracy or free enterprise. These are important but for another occasion. We want to know what you live by. And we want it in terms of 'I,' not the editorial 'We.'

Although this program is designed to express beliefs, it is not a religious program and is not concerned with any religious form whatever. Most of our guests express belief in a Supreme Being, and set forth the importance to them of that belief. However, that is your decision, since it is your belief which we solicit.

But we do ask you to confine yourself to affirmatives: This means refraining from saying what you do not believe. Your beliefs may well have grown in clarity to you by a process of elimination and rejection, but for our part, we must avoid negative statements lest we become a medium for the criticism of beliefs, which is the very opposite of our purpose.

We are sure the statement we ask from you can have wide and lasting influence. Never has the need for personal philosophies of this kind been so urgent. Your belief, simply and sincerely spoken, is sure to stimulate and help those who hear it. We are confident it will enrich them. May we have your contribution?

Adapted from the invitation sent to essayists featured in the original 'This I Believe' series. Excerpted from 'This I Believe 2,' copyright © 1954 by Help, Inc.