It’s moments like these when one wishes they had a typewriter. Preferably by a window. One with wainscoting. I don’t know why wainscoting came to mind, but it did, so I wrote it down. I’ve learned to do that. Write things down that come to mind. The mind is a breeding ground. Little, baby, innocent enough thoughts are born there; they grow up to be Mozart and Martha Graham and Tennyson–shedding so much light on the beauty that already exists here, but now the rest of the world can see it, too; we step out of our present darkness for a brief transcendent moment and we think, It’s so lovely here. So achingly lovely–maybe I’ll stay here forever…But then a bill that is larger than our meager bank account becomes due or a parent makes us feel very small indeed and we forget the call to think higher, to see beauty, to be free.

We forget who we are.

Until the next transcendent moment shakes us from existing within the confines of our regrets and our fears, that is.

But, right, the mind is a breeding ground.

Those little thoughts.

Those harmless thoughts; they are the tiniest grey-blue puppy pit bull with matching grey-blue eyes that I saw chained to a parking meter the other day, while walking to the gym. He was one of the prettiest things I’d ever seen and I wanted to take him with me just about everywhere. ‘Oh, there is that tall and thin girl with the puppy the color of the ocean at dawn,’ is what people would say when they saw us.

But a puppy the color of the ocean at dawn soon becomes a dog who can bite, no matter what color he is. And there is a lot of responsibility that comes with handling that potentially dangerous and lovely creature. You don’t let a dog do whatever he wants, no matter how pretty or innocent he looks; because, eventually, the dog will ruin the world–or at least the fabric of your best drapes.

Drapes and wainscoting; I must have dreamt pure Jane Eyre last night.

I did perform at Sleep No More, which was not a dream, but was so dreamy, it might as well have been. All smoky and speak-easy-like, dimly lit with lots of sparkling pieces of jewelry hanging around the throats and wrists and fingers of women who looked to have stepped right out of 1939.

But back to the mind and how it’s a breeding ground.

The puppy and how it’s innocent until it’s not.

Our thoughts and how they can grow into grace, if we let them.

Unless we don’t.

So, here’s to our thoughts growing up to be Martha Graham, Mozart, and Tennyson. Or maybe even a simple, kind farmer in South Africa that neither of us will ever know, but whose life consistently makes the world a stronger, better, safer place.

And here’s to writing our thoughts down.

Even if we still haven’t opened up both eyes. Because the morning came quickly.  Just as quickly as the night flew by while you spent it singing and rapping and talking and eating and platonically sitting on the laps of a couple of friends you’ve not been lucky enough to see for a while now. Not until last night, and on into this morning, that is.

And then my therapist up and moved to Nashville. What can I say? Therapists have dreams, too, I guess. And in this case, my therapist had a husband with a dream.

But I have also met a few times with a counselor in Pennsylvania. I don’t meet with him often, because, frankly, I cannot afford it. But honestly, I am thinking that, for me, rich might look like voice lessons and therapy. LOTS AND LOTS OF BOTH. Expensive, wondrous mechanisms for better living, which I cannot afford at the moment.

But I wake up to a text this morning from my counselor: I have a cancellation at 12:30 today, if you wanna stop by and see me.

I groggily think about it (I have just woken up, after all), and realize that I cannot afford it. So, regretfully text him such.

No charge, he writes back, I think it’d be good to talk; you’ve been on my heart. 

WHAT.
OKAY.
DONE.

So I go and I tell him all of it. The little things that have been sticking to my heart over the past two weeks or so. The big things that have made me cry. The stuff that can only be described as: GOD DID THAT. The fears I still feel. The hopes I had thought were folded up, hidden in boxes and stored for another season, because surely they weren’t needed now. Not when nothing was happening. Over and over again–so many almosts and close calls and maybe next times and “keep your chin up, kid”s–to the point that, if people asked me what was happening in my life, I simply said not much and tried to change the topic over to their life.

Because I didn’t know how appropriate it’d be to tell them how I’d cried into my pillow last night again. How I still sometimes thought of him and wondered what he was thinking. How life could sometimes feel like a deadline that was yesterday, always yesterday. How my dreams scared me because I felt their power to usher in more disappointment into my life–felt it palpably. How I still think life is the most beautiful and poignant thing I’ve ever seen. How the sunset makes my heart hurt sometimes, it is so stunning. How the stars feel like friends with kind faces. How, in a lot of cases, I find television boring compared to all the stories that are unfolding around me. How Christmas parties are painful. How talks with friends are oxygen.

So, right: I don’t say all that, because who has the time or inclination to listen?

But I said a lot of that–adding a few details into the mix–today. And I feel so, well, taken care of. I probably didn’t even realize I needed to talk until afterward; but I did. And it happened. Not even because I could afford it; I couldn’t. Not even because I knew I needed it; I didn’t know.

But because there is a provision in my life that goes beyond what I have; it looks at what I need and then it gives me more than that, even. And everywhere I look, I see the provision of God.

Like I said: taken care of.

And today I felt it. Again.

Snow happens every year; but it always feels new, anyway. I like the parts of life that are like that; the parts that make my eyes widen in wonder while the rest of me feels all of seven years old again.

I am now working with a manager. He is kind and funny and smart and moves things along. He has worked with people whose names are now brands, basically. He says I am magical; to contact him, contact him, contact him. For any reason.

I have a hard time with this kind of stuff sometimes. There is a part of me that is not magical or adorable or even likable, really. It is the part that is insecure. The part that does not want to be a burden–not to anyone–but, especially not to someone who knows more about the music business than I do about the color of my hair. Which isn’t saying much, lately, because I really am not quite sure what color my hair is.

But, this is the part of life when I step it up. I see the open doors and I walk through them. Like I belong there. I do not quietly hang back, as is my nature–I take whatever has been given me and I weave it into a bright and shiny LIFE. Quietness and hanging back has its place, sure–but usually just when you’re at a wedding and the bride is about to toss the bouquet. THAT IS THE TIME TO BE QUIET AND HANG BACK.

Not when you have a manager who is now on your team. Wants you to succeed. Believes that you will. You effing will.

And then there is the part of you that believes that you have, you effing have. You know it when you look inside your heart and find all the beautiful people there. When you realize that you’re doing what you can with the gifts God has given you. When you continue to be you–because that’s all any of us ever can be. That’s the highest calling.

To be the best darn you imaginable.

Cheers to that.

And to my manager.

Cause he’s really very great.

So finally I just walked out of the bathroom and explained the situation to her. Though, seeing my fly open probably gave her the gist of it before I opened my mouth.

Enter: safety pin.

Have I mentioned that safety pins are basically my knight in shining armor? They are right now responsible for holding together: my purse, a pair of boots, and now my bright green jeans.

Who needs a personal assistant when you have safety pins?

“The good news is that a replacement zipper costs $10,” my friend told me.

And the bad news is that I’m out for the day and my zipper is busted and a safety pin is reflecting the sun from my crotch, I thought.

Oh well, C’est la vie, right?

I took pilates today with a teacher I’d never had before. And I happened to be waiting for the elevator with her before the class. And she kept hemming and hawing over the length of time it took for the elevator to get down to us. And then she got all frustrated over the fact that it was 6:30 on the dot and the instructor who was presently teaching in the studio had not yet finished. And then she got all mad at the lady giving a tour to prospective clients because she interrupted the pilates class (once it was well underway) by touring it briefly. All this to say: no matter how good the class was, I would have been less than impressed.

Because we are in a world that involves other people.

And they use the elevator, too. And they teach classes, too. And they have to do their job and give tours, too. And I think if we realize this (and if I realize this, because I sometimes get frustrated with the elevator and forget that maybe Suzie on the tenth floor needs it a little bit more than me right now. Maybe she’s got to go to the bathroom. Maybe she has a busted fly and–horror of horrors!–NO SAFETY PIN!) –well, if we realize this, then we start to practice patience. And when we start to practice patience, then all the good parts of life become much more accessible. Not that they weren’t there before in droves–but now we notice them. And, honestly, whether the good parts are there or not doesn’t matter as much, I think, as whether or not we notice them.

So, here’s to practicing patience. And realizing that we share the elevator with a whole building full of people who lead VERY! IMPORTANT! LIVES! too.

And, just to bring it round full circle, here’s to safety pins. Because they sure help when my fly has decided not to.

Which makes no sense to me.

Unless, of course, they are literally talking about people who are littler than me. Which is quite possible, as I am on the taller side of the spectrum. So, perhaps if a person is so small that I simply cannot even see them from my five feet eight inches high vantage point–well then, perhaps it is possible I could forget them.

You know, out of sight out of mind.

Maybe, since they are so microscopic, these little people who I cannot even see with the naked eye–well, maybe I should arm them with pins. Therefore, if I forget them, as people keep warning me against, then they could prick my feet as a reminder. A painful reminder, albeit, but a reminder nonetheless.

But little people.

There is no such thing. There are people with small minds, I suppose. People with hearts that grow small because they forget to nurture them; forget to put them in growing and spacious places, fill them with hope and peace and compassion and humor.

But even those people are somewhat unforgettable. As they tend to be the ones who I accidentally bump with my new and slightly bigger ukulele on the train and then get yelled at like I had just run over both their feet with a hummer or something. Rather than bump them with an instrument that weighs about 8 pounds soaking wet.

Not that I have ever or plan to get my uke soaking wet. I think that would be a terrible idea, actually. I once got my iphone soaking wet. Didn’t work out so well for either me or the iphone. Oh, but back to the uke and the lady.

My bad.

I really do need to watch that thing.

Especially on a crowded subway.

Still, kind of takes the joy out of an apology when the offended party yells at you, rolls their eyes, and turns their back to you–all before you can get out the words, “I am sorry.” And then it’s just not the same, saying it to a rigid back, is the thing. But it’ll do. It has to sometimes.

Anyway, have you ever heard that saying in theater that goes: “There are no small roles, just small actors.” ?

I think that applies to life in general. There are no small people. Sometimes we box ourselves in and make our lives feel small cause we think small and act small and all that; but we’re all big. Infinite. Eternal. Important.

Unforgettable, really.

And that’s that.

Hubbub.

Song.

On itunes.

People I have never met before buying it and using wonderfully expressive language to tell me that, in so many, words: they like it.

They effing like it.

Can I tell you something? In the spring of this year, I packed one polka dotted suitcase, a canvas tote bag that has now sat on the subway floors more times than I care to think about, and a guitar. I said good-bye to my parents and the dogs and got on the Chinatown bus headed to NYC with tears in my eyes. And then on my face. And then on my shirt. I was reading my copy of The Grief Club and I was thinking how just about everything in life seems to point to this one consuming lesson: LET GO. 

Because you just lose it anyway.

And I guess it’s easier to willingly let something go, than to have it pried from your white-knuckled fingers, huh?

I remember thinking, This is all wrong. I shouldn’t be moving to NYC by myself. He should be with me. And forgive me if I don’t mention exactly who he is right now. But the truth is that in one day–one cataclysmic day–he had left. My dream job (touring with the broadway show, A Chorus Line) had ended, and my house was no longer a home. I felt a deep sense of dysphoria. Actually, let me put it bluntly; crudely, even (cause it was raw, what I felt): I felt like everything I loved had turned to shit. 

But, what do you do? You keep being you. You make things and breathe and make jokes and find life interesting and practice kindness and forgive just as often as you need forgiveness, yourself (which is an awful lot, let’s be real); you appreciate the people who are still here and you learn to live without the people who have gone away; you dream, because god knows that if you stop dreaming, you become a robot and I’ve never heard of a robot moving anyone to tears or falling in love (there was that one robot who could read and that other robot who could kill–but still, we’re more than readers of other stories; more than killers of life); you find inspiration everywhere you are, darnit. EVERYWHERE. And if you haven’t found it, then you look harder, because it’s there–it has to be–because YOU’RE there. And you, we, every last one of us, can be–should be!–inspiring.

And you cry.

You let yourself cry as often as you need to; the pillow is well acquainted with your tears and some days you don’t even bother with mascara because it’s just gonna leave a little trail down your face, anyway.

But you also laugh.

You make fun of the mundane until there is a bit of the sublime in it, now that you’re laughing so hard; you realize that every bit of life matters and that, yes, that’s transcendent. The knowledge that every moment builds something that we call LIFE–and that life is all we have. Life and each other. And the God who gave us both.

You realize all this; it builds a reservoir in your heart. You pull from it when you see other people getting the things you dream of. The men who stay. The broadway shows. The charmed existence that really only looks that way from where you’re standing, anyway. But, like I said, that reservoir makes you realize something powerful: you’re on a journey and the story isn’t over. You don’t drive from Maine to Florida and stop off in Delaware for a spell, look around, only to complain about how Florida doesn’t have alligators, after all. You realize that, it’s okay, there’s no alligators yet–because your journey isn’t over. YET. Florida is still coming. Gators or bust!

So, all this to say, this is one heck of a journey. ALL OF IT. The grief and the joy–they each make the other that much more poignant and significant, I guess. And I have to say that I am grateful that I didn’t stop off in my grief and stay there forever, complaining that Florida has no gators, after all, if I can stretch that metaphor just a little bit further.

I am glad I kept on this journey; I have no idea where it will take me, but I never had, anyway. I thought I did, but life was all like, NOPE. So, nothing much has changed. I am on a journey. There are many bends in the road.

And tonight, I did a little dance in my living room while listening to ‘ain’t my friend.’ I danced in the very same leggings I wore in a certain video that has been making its rounds lately, if you wanna know the truth.

Not that I planned it that way, mind you; but what I have found is that sometimes life turns out better than we’d planned. Way better, actually.

Would you like to know what, exactly, I was ‘taking in’ while I was playing and singing on the tv this morning? Why the heck did I write such a long song with so many words?! Those were my thoughts at the onset of the song. If felt like the song was impossibly long. A veritable marathon of music. Whoever thought ALL THOSE VERSES (two) and ALL THOSE CHORUSES (three) and a WHOLE FLIPPIN BRIDGE (one) was a good idea for just one song, anyway? Really, who wrote this crap?

Seriously. And now you know. Sometimes I feel afraid and sometimes I am not magical in my thinking and sometimes performing on tv feels like oh god oh god oh god oh god–help me not to mess this up! But then I get into the second verse and I start to enjoy it. And my new ukulele is singing along with me. And it didn’t hurt that the Super Cute Vampire From Twilight (does he go by any other name, really?) that was interviewed right before me said, “You sound really great.”

Vampires give the best compliments.

And now I can hear the sound of the rain against the window to my right. It’s falling and falling endlessly; like the universe lives generously; like the rain is a gift that will not run out. Reminding me that I, too, can live generously. That whatever is is that God has put in me will not soon run out, either.

And oh! I took a cab to get to FOX studios this morning. If you know my sense of direction and how it is comparable to the amount of times I’ve performed MC Hammer’s Can’t Touch This (um, zero), then, you’d understand. Probably a good idea to, you know, actually get to the studio, was the thinking that prompted getting a cab.

But I had to pay with a card, because I generally have no cash (so far we’ve learned that a). I generally do not perform Can’t Touch This and b). I generally have no cash. Moving on, class, excellent lesson today!).

So, I had to call the service that takes your card information, effectively allowing one to pay their fare. Anyway, the lady on the phone asked me for the reservation number–I asked the cabbie, and repeated what he told me. Then she asked me the name. “Name?” she said, just like that.

And this was a tough one.

I glanced at the name in front of me on the ID thingy that makes you realize this driver is legit and all that. Knowing I would probably butcher the pronunciation, I decided to just spell the whole darn thing.

“K-W-A-H-I-P-E-S-T-I,” I spoke into the phone.

“First name?” she asked me.

“I-T-L-A-N-A-R-I,” I said, nice and loud.

At which point the cabbie looked back at me and said rather urgently, “Hey! That’s MY name.”

Um, obvi, I thought.

“Sorry–I spelled it, cause I wasn’t sure I’d say it properly,” I explained, thinking he was upset about that.

“No–I mean,” he said, “Why are you giving MY NAME for the credit card?”

And then it dawned on me. And I started cracking up. “Hahahahahahahaha!,” I said. “I am so sorry–I thought that’s what the lady wanted–YOUR name.”

“No. She wants YOUR name!” he clarified.

And then he started laughing, too. And amid our laughter I managed to ask him two things: “Did you think we were related, when you first heard me spell your last name?” And also: “You didn’t want to pay for my cab fare today?”

We both laughed long and hard over that one. Which was a nice moment, actually.

And–funniest one liner I heard from a stranger yesterday, while he was walking off the subway car. He brushed past me and quietly said under his breath, “I tweeted your video.”

Hilarious.

And interesting that that sentence would have made absolutely no sense five years ago.

I was sitting there, holding my sketchpad and colored pencils. Yes, tonight I went to a bar clutching a sketch pad and colored pencils. All. Night. Long. I could have brought a bag to put them in, I suppose, but when thinking about that, my line of reasoning happened like this: I could bring a bag, and then I wouldn’t have to hold my art supplies…But, shoot, then I’d have to hold a bag. 

Discussion over.

Because for some illogical reason, I decided that carrying a bag–equipped with those very convenient and modern contraptions called handles! that you just effortlessly sling over your shoulder!–was much less annoying than just toting a sketchpad and colored pencils around like it was the world’s worst clutch.

Sometimes I make no sense.

Which is why I was on the A train, holding my art supplies and minding my own business, when I saw someone staring at me, walking slowly towards me. His pace picked up as he got closer, and, when our eyes met, he said, “You’re…the girl, aren’t you? With the ukulele?”

I smiled.

He smiled.

It was a moment packed with smiles, guys.

“I am,” I said.

“I saw you! Today! On the internet–can I get my picture with you?” he asked.

And I wasn’t kidding about the smiles, either–see?

“I’m Jessica,” I said, shaking his hand. Which is when I found out his name is Bernard. And Bernard is a wonderful human and what is it about the A train that has a veritable collection of wonderful humans riding it?

And then we talked about the video. How it happened. What it means. How much joy is found in those moments that Matt captured with his phonecam. And what happens next. He had some very nice things to say about that, Bernard did.

And now, if you will come this way with me, I will show you just a corner of my heart. Because, see, tomorrow is a very sad day for me. January 8th, I mean. And I had completely forgotten that it was coming up so fast–I mean, it was a ninja this year, all stealth until suddenly: BOO! I’M HERE! Which, maybe makes no sense, cause if a ninja ever said BOO! I’M HERE!–well, he’d probably be told he has one hour to clean out his cubicle and call a cab.

But, yes, as I said, January 8th is a sad day. And I was sitting in my bed tonight when I looked at the calendar, suddenly realizing that it was Sunday. Tomorrow. The 8th, come back again. Like tax day, only much more emotionally involved and, thankfully, does not leave me with a bill from Uncle Sam.

And then I realized that it is tomorrow that I am going into the studio and recording a song that will be released on itunes. That is, I must confess, a dreamy thing for me to do. And by dreamy I only mean: it’s the kind of thing that makes you want to pinch yourself to make sure that this is real. Too good to be true and all that.

And I remembered how my family and friends would tell me, back in the early days of January 8th being so acutely difficult, that there are very good things ahead. To hold on, don’t give up. But those kinds of cliches, they pale in comparison to the very real pain you feel in the moment. And the pain is so good at acting like it’s here to stay. Like it’s the final word. Like sadness is not just a feeling, but it has somehow replaced the very marrow in your bones; you keep digging and digging deeper inside, but you can’t escape it. Cause it’s your center now, this sadness, and it resides right smack in the middle of everything you know about life.

And the realization sounded like this: THEY WERE RIGHT. The people who told me that good things were still ahead, they were right. And tonight my brother texted me I told you so and I can tell you right now, that smartass response is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard.

And I don’t think it’s an accident that this is taking place on January 8th. I think it sounds a lot like redemption. The redemption that somehow everyone but me knew would come all along. But now? Oh, now I’m a believer.

Here’s to this January 8th being good, for a change.

I am, in a word: full.

I don’t quite know how to put it, really, but one thing that has astounded me this past year is the proven ability of the heart to expand and grow with each new person you meet; that somewhere between the time you said hello after learning each others’ first names, and the time you found yourselves chopping vegetables and singing songs together on the first day of a brand spankin’ new year in West Philly, your heart grew a whole person bigger. Cause, look now! this person who, six months ago you didn’t even know existed, is presently snugly in your heart.

How can this be?

Miracles are all around us; but mostly, miracles are within us, I think.

“What are you doing tonight?” asked my pop, after a little family lunch and before they were dropping me off at a hotel in Philly, since I have rehearsal here early in the morning.

“My friend is picking me up and taking me back to his place to make dinner for me.”

“Seriously, Jess?” pop asked, a little incredulously.

“Yep,” I said, smiling.

“You have such a good life,” he said with his usual enthusiasm. “I mean, way better than a lot of married people I know…”

Which made me laugh. And bless him for saying so. I don’t know if it’s better or worse, necessarily–my life, I mean; those two words are rather arbitrary by nature, and therefore I tend to steer clear.

Better.

Worse.

Unless, of course, we’re talking about things that are clearly better–like peanut butter–or clearly worse–like basically any caffeinated soda.

And judging from the amount of you who surely disagree with me, I am pretty sure I just proved my point concerning the arbitrary nature of the terms better and worse.

But, last night I–along with another new friend–made it to Lancaster just in time to see fireworks remind us that Something Big Is Happening. 2012 looked like explosions in the sky, shedding light on all the girls in dresses that appeared to be just a little bit more comfortable than the high heels that caused them to stagger more than walk from here to there.

I looked down at my boots and my bright yellow jeans and felt like life and I were pretty good friends right about now.

I got a feeling that gives a nod to what my pop said, actually: life is so good.

Which is how I felt while singing and talking and ladling spoonfuls of fresh-made french onion soup into my mouth with my friend on his porch tonight. Like maybe life is about this: harmonizing to Hallelujah with each other in the cool evening air. Listening as we describe the shape of our heart, respectively, after it’s been nicked and dented and broken and subsequently become bigger and softer and more alive than ever before. “What are you again?” he asks, referring to the direction of my faith. “Oh–Christian,” I say, knowing that the nod he gives me is one of acceptance and even affirmation of who I am.

“I grew up Catholic…but you know, I’m not now. Not at all,” he says, nonchalantly.

And now it’s my turn to nod. And there’s gentleness in the air. The feeling you get when you hold a baby is between us. Soft movements. Nurturing sounds. Holding up, holding close, knowing that whoever it is with whom you’re doing this kind of holding–well, they will change and grow and this needs to be okay. Needs to happen, actually.

And yes, life is good. And I don’t always feel this way in such strong vibrant strokes as I do tonight, true; but I believe it and what we believe seems to have this amazing knack for shaping and changing the world around us. After, of course, it has shaped and changed the world within us, is the thing.

Here’s to a whole new year’s full of ‘life is good!’ moments.

When I’m feeling like the past is the only kind of fire I can ever warm my heart by again.
When I am feeling like I must rush to catch up, that I am that white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland who is perpetually late, late, late! Always preoccupied by the clock he clutches, by the knowledge that what he was sure he’d do yesterday isn’t even a guarantee for tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or any day, really.
When I am missing the shape that my life had settled into at one point.
When I am afraid that tomorrow will bring more change; when I am even more afraid that tomorrow will be exactly the same as today.

To all this, my friends and the maker of this beautiful universe, say the same thing. They say it over and over again, tirelessly; it sounds like doors slamming and hearts breaking, but something more, too; like the kind of peace that comes when you look to your hands and see them finally empty. The white knuckles are not so white any longer and now, oh dear God, NOW there is room for something that is pure life giving.

Like water, clean and sweet.

Like grace, undeserved.

Let go, they tell me so many times, swelling until it becomes the very sound of the wind rushing the leaves to the ground in the fall; the soft brush of winter snow sticking to the corners of the porch in piles, as if we could ever actually save some for later; the sound of springtime birds singing, not because they have to, but because it’s just another sign that they are alive; and I can hear it in summer, too. In the free swish of my skirt against my bare legs, my body having hidden behind sweaters and leggings and boots and layers of just about everything imaginable all winter long.

Let go.

It’s an anthem and a challenge; it’s simple but there’s nothing easy about it.

Nevertheless, let go.

It’s better this way, the universe keeps telling me, and who am I to argue?