The monsters your parents assure you do not exist.

But then they leave and you’re alone and you’re afraid.

Fast forward to now. You’re an adult. Or at least that’s what people refer to you as because you pay bills now. You eat noodles for dinner more often than not because you pay bills now. The monsters you were so afraid of as a child? Well, your parents were right.

Partly, I mean.

Because, true: they weren’t in your closet. God, you wish they were. And you wish they looked like monsters. You wouldn’t have gotten close to someone with fangs and talons and tufts of hair in odd places. Especially if he’d lived in your closet.

But the monsters did exist. DO. The monsters do exist. They are magicians of extraordinary skills. They dangle hope, you grasp it; they say abracadrabra! and you open your palms to ashes.

Those ashes can grow a whole garden, you’re told. Sprinkle them everywhere you go–you’ll see, they say. But you don’t want an effing garden. You want what the magician promised. And then you waste what is not even able to be bought, not with all the money and fine things in the world: time. You waste your precious time looking for this magician. He is the white rabbit and you are Alice; you follow him down a hole that widens your eyes, but no longer with innocence.

You are shocked.

And now you feel out of time. Now you feel lost, having followed that white rabbit down the hole and seen strange and terrifying things. But you still have the ashes.

And finally, you start to do it. You sprinkle the world with your ashes. You wonder what kind of garden a heart grows; you wonder if the earth knows that is what it’s receiving: tiny pieces of your heart. All the words he told you; the full ones before you knew; the empty ones after you found out. The vast and dead landscape of your life NOW. Now that he left. Now that he also left. Now that your dreams even left.

Oh, God.

You are Dorothy, but they got it wrong. Because, see, you started in Oz; you lived in color–you never imagined there were places that had none. Not until the tornado picked you up and dropped you squarely in the grainy black and white world of a 1950′s television. And there is your family, your friends, staring at you in that box. They don’t know how to get you out; but they mouth words to you about being strong. About scattering your ashes. About redemption and better things to come.

They are whispering secrets to the deaf. They are talking about Oz to someone who lives in Kansas. They are crazy; they are hope.

And you listen; you scatter your ashes. Even when some starts telling you the ashes are all gone now. Shhhh, don’t talk about it!  Shhhh, don’t sing about it! But they don’t know that you can still feel the ashes when you go to bed at night. You feel them on your palms; they dirty your cheeks as you wipe away your tears.

And now, there is a garden. And it’s beautiful, you must admit. You cannot believe how beautiful it is. And it’s made by a much kinder and truer Magician than the others that you have known. But every once in a while you still see traces of the ashes. You still sing about them. They still take your breath away while you’re doing nothing more emotionally taxing than waiting for the A train. The ashes come in a flash and you’re waiting for the A train, yes, but you’re also listening to him tell you that he’s leaving. You’re also being told no to this particular dream. You’re also waking up alone.

It’s a powerful thing that these ashes do.

And now I see that the ashes and the garden are so inextricably connected, it’s hard to know where one ends and the other begins. And maybe I will never forget the ashes; and maybe that’s how it should be. The ashes are real; the garden is real; somehow I live in a world where they coexist.

The ashes and the garden.

Together.

The time goes so quickly; the stars shine with this polished brilliance, like the sky has no wish for any traveler to be turned away, and it burns every last lamp to prove it.

“It’s good to have you home,” my mom tells me.

And then she asks me if the clothes on the pool table are mine. “I don’t think so,” I reply, really hoping it’s so–since I don’t have enough space for the clothes I have that are already accounted for.

“Well, they must be,” she reasons. “The jeans are skinnier than my arms and the underwear is very small and strange.”

My mom has a way with words. 

And so I take the ‘very small and strange’ underwear she hands me; I find a place for the super skinny jeans and realize that I guess I did leave some clothes on the pool table, after all.

And, oh! Did I tell you how, the other night, I dreamt (not once, but TWICE!) that I sang on the Ellen Show?

Because I did.

And I don’t normally remember my dreams so viscerally, but this one, I do.

I was right about to walk onto that stage where the couch and the coffee table sit . And there is Ellen, looking adorable in her tailored trousers and cute button down shirt, when I hear this announcement:

AND THIS IS JESSICA LATSHAW. SHE GOES AROUND SINGING, “BABY, YOU AIN’T MY FRIEND.” SHE MUST BE VERY ISOLATED AND HAVE NO FRIENDS.

It sounded like the announcer felt sorry for me, and, honestly, I did, too, once I heard what he said.

But the good news is that I have many friends and don’t feel isolated at all. In fact, I love a little bit of alone time now and then–it’s akin to breathing–meaning, I find it absolutely necessary. And who knows? Maybe I will sing on the Ellen Show at some point. I mean, as my friend John says: miracles happen, so why not to me? That would certainly make my sister pretty excited. And, who am I kidding, it’d make me pretty excited, too.

Speaking of my sister, isn’t she beautiful?

Yes, I think so, too.

“It’s a recording present…and it has a ukulele on it!”

And look at that–isn’t it so adorable? I am one very lucky girl.

And WE DID IT!

We recorded FOUR SONGS in just under TWO DAYS. And, I must say, I am so excited about these tracks. I keep listening to them. In fact, I went to the gym tonight (yes, I’m the girl who goes to the gym on a Friday night. Romantic, I know)–but, I was in the weight room and listening to this one part of my song that breaks down into a rap. And there’s this rolling snare drum that just makes me SO EXCITED (that’s why I used caps, guys, cause caps are EXCITING!), I cannot help but dance when I hear it. So, I am standing there with one weight in my hand while the rest of me is sort of dancing, when one of the trainers walks up to me.

“What are you listening to that’s making you dance?” he asks.

And for a second, I can’t even hear him, my music is blasting so loud through my earphones. I see that he’s not going to stop asking me whatever it is he’s asking, so I regrettably stop the music and listen to his question.

And am instantly embarrassed and evasive.

“Oh…” I say, scrambling to think of something–ANYTHING!–other than: “Myself. I am listening to myself and it’s making me dance. And, oh yeah. I don’t go on dates on Friday nights–I go to the gym. At least you’re here because you’re getting paid to be here; I cannot say the same about myself…”

Right, so I don’t want to say that, so I say, “Oh…it’s nobody you would know…” and just kind of hope he goes away.

But he keeps standing right in front of me, staring, muscles bulging through his polo shirt, looking like he’s ready to talk to me about whatever it is that’s making me dance —even if it takes all night. Or at least until ten, when the Y closes.

“What kind of answer is that?!” he says, “Come on, what are you listening to?!”

“Uh…myself? I am listening to myself…” I finally admit. “I didn’t want to tell you that I was dancing to my music. That’s kind of embarrassing to be caught doing. I mean, I never thought anyone would ever ask me what was making me dance…”

And then that led to a whole conversation about me being a musician and then another guy came over and, having talked to me at my parents’ Y last time I was in town, asked me if I’ve cut some weight. Cut some weight. Not lost it. Huge body building men have their own language, guys. So I admitted that I might have. “But not on purpose–I’ve just been so busy lately, that I keep forgetting to eat.”

Which, once these guys got over the shock and incredulity of anyone EVER forgetting to eat, of all things, led to us talking about what’s happened since youtube happened to me.

And then I came home and played the tracks for my parents and one of their dogs. Strider seemed to enjoy it. Well, he slept through it, but he seemed to enjoy whenever I scratched his ears–and my tracks were playing when I was doing it–so there’s that. My parents listened to it in a kind of reverie, smiling or moving a little or closing their eyes (but unlike Strider, I am pretty sure they didn’t fall asleep).

My nephew and brother are geniuses in the studio. Their help is immeasurable and I could not do this without them.

Like I said, I am one lucky girl.

Because right now, there are always things to do, it seems. I need to write this person back. Or text that person. Or call her. Or record a song. Or practice my music. Or listen to a message. Or get artwork together for an itunes release. Or send a post card. Or do laundry. Or brush my teeth. Or get on the train back to NYC. Or meet with someone. Or eat a sandwich.

But, tonight, I sat and talked with my parents about the recent occurrences, and I was just so happy for them, if that makes any sense at all. I have not yet had a kid, but I have heard that being a parent is to have your heart walk around outside of your body. What I mean to say is, the connection goes deep. And, they’ve seen me through some sad times. And then some more sad times, after that. We’ve sat on that couch many a night when I was crying and asking them to please tell me something that is good; tell me that there is a plan for my life that involves dreams coming true. Or love. Or, hey–how bout plain old health insurance, for starters?

But, I just watched them tonight. Their faces were so animated, talking to me. They were actually laughing out loud when I played for them the finished track of Ain’t My Friend tonight. Well, my pop was joyously laughing, anyway. My mom was concentrating very hard and looking irritated at my pop every time he adjusted the volume. Like, if you touched a knob–altered the atmosphere even the tiniest amounts–this whole thing might just vanish as fast as it first appeared.

And it might.

But, in the meantime, I am happy to sing my songs for people. And really really happy to watch my parents’ eyes light up over something good happening in my life. Not that it’s the first good thing. No, far from it! There are so many good things that have already happened to me–and many of them share my last name; while some don’t, but our closeness makes it feel like they do, anyway.

But tonight it was good to see my parents so happy.

And I am just gonna sit in this feeling for a while, if you don’t mind.

Who knows!? Maybe health insurance is next.

But it’s  a great kind of exhausted, because it comes from doing a lot of this:

Which doesn’t look nearly as difficult as it is. Does anyone realize how hard it is to record an instrument that is not your forte? Recording a piano is much easier than recording a ukulele. For me, anyway. I imagine this is not the case with everyone. But, luckily, one can take many takes in a studio.

Favorite quote today…Wait, not yet.

Because, first, let me give you some context. My pop had just picked me up from the train station and taken me back home; my parents’ three HUGE (see how effective it is to actually make the word ‘huge,’ well, huge? I need you to know these are not small or even medium sized dogs, guys)–but their three alaskan malamutes were making me feel very welcome. By sniffing me and stuff. You know, what dogs do. So my pop says to me very seriously, “No matter how famous you might get, Jess, you will always come back home to a place where the dogs will sniff your crotch.”

Which keeps things in perspective. Keeping it real, as they say.

And something else that’s real is I need to record vocals tomorrow. And so sleeping is a very good idea.

Good night.

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.

Let me explain.

Before I had really gotten used to using facetime on my phone, I got a call from my brother one morning. But, a facetime call. So, you know, with video and stuff. Visuals. Anyway, I was in the middle of changing my clothes, but just picked up the phone anyway. Before you start praying for my brother’s eyes, let me assure you that he did not see a thing that I wouldn’t show the rest of the world.

Can we say HUGE SIGH OF RELIEF?

But.

I realized just in time, so said hello, then–before the screen really came to life–threw the phone on the bed, face down.

“Jessica?” Jase asked. “Are you there?”

“Yep!” I yelled, from a short distance. “Gimme two secs!”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Putting a shirt on!”

“WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD YOU ANSWER FACETIME WITHOUT A SHIRT ON?!” was what I heard next.

…

Well, that was quite a lesson, let me tell you.

Anyway, I facetimed Latshaw West and made sure to wear all the appropriate garb.

And then had a good conversation.

In which I realized something.

“I don’t think I’m gonna get married for a while yet,” I said to Darby, squarely into her face–that being the only thing I could really see. It was facetime, after all.

And the nice thing is that I was not lamenting this fact. Not at all, actually. I felt a kind of peace as I said this. And she nodded at me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it was a good thing, actually.

See, I come from this background where people get married very young. It’s a kind of race down the aisle for all the Christian kids–or at least, it can feel like that. It’s like marriage is the goal. What you do once you get there isn’t talked about so much–but marriage! DO IT! Which, incidentally, is more to the point of the race down the aisle, I think. You know: DO IT. Cause the idea for us Christian kids is to NOT do it until you’re married.

And then when my Plan A turned into a kind of Plan B that looked exactly like me not being married right now, I was devastated. A loved one even set a goal for me: “I think we can get you married by next fall,” he said.

Like it’s the middle ages and I am the Princess of Wales who needs to secure the line or something.

Like Craigslist has just the right space for me to place my personals add.

But ‘next fall’ came and went and, sure enough, I am not married. I am single. But, wonder of wonders, I am enjoying this. I do not believe I will be single forever–I try not to think of much in terms of FOREVER! or NEVER!, for that matter–but this season of life is pretty fun sometimes.

Plus the fact, I get scared of settling down with someone. I get scared that a bit of the adventure I love will drain away and I will be left staring at a television night after night, wondering who it is I am sharing a couch with and why he keeps trying to touch me; and if he gets me, truly gets me. Anyway, my point is that being single and waiting for the kind of man who makes me feel beautifully and wholly alive is way better than sitting next to some guy and feeling slightly numb, albeit warmer with him in my bed.

So, there you go. I’m single right now. And I’m okay with this. Not that I don’t ever want that magical thing called togetherness to happen–but, until it does, I sure am gonna enjoy right now for what it is.

Today, I marveled at life. I’m feeling all whole and full inside lately. Buoyant, even. Like a little apple that continues to happily bob along in the water.

It’s really good. Life is really good. And lately, I’ve been feeling it.

“Nothing cataclysmically amazing has happened,” I told my friend Kevin who called me from LA tonight, “But I’m just feeling so good inside.”

“That’s great, Jess!” he said. “And it’s okay to feel happy just, you know, like normally. Even if there aren’t great events that are making it so.”

This is good to know.

And my mom–she is good to know. 50% Italian and 100% adorable, that one. And since I am half of whatever she is, I suppose that makes me 25% Italian and 50% adorable.

50% is better than nothing!

Oh, and I like to make cards. “I am happiest–absolutely thrilled!–when I am making something,” I told my friend Nick tonight. “Even if it’s just a puppy sign. My heart sings when I am busy creating, is the thing.”

Speaking of making things, these friendships have been years in the making. Decades now, actually. I’m a lucky girl, to have two such as them love me.

And who doesn’t like tiny mittens? They were on the outside of a gift from a new friend this year. And I knew just what to do with them.

People–the ones in my life, specifically–helped a lot with that.

And my parents got me a microphone. One that I can plug into my computer and record songs in such a manner that they don’t sound entirely terrible. MERRY CHRISTMAS, INDEED.

Favorite quote from church this morning had to be while my mom and I were listening to my pop give the message. She leans over to me and I’m expecting to hear something–anything, really–other than what I hear. Maybe spiritual. Maybe Christmasy. But, not this: “I hope your pop stops speaking soon, so I can put the turkey in the oven.”

If you knew my mom, you’d know that is such a very uncharacteristic thing for her to say. She hardly ever cares about putting turkeys in ovens. But Christmas day is different, I suppose.

Anyway.

You wanna hear my new microphone put to work? Um, if you do, you’re in luck, cause I recorded this tonight. Track after track after track of vocals and uke and claps and clicks. Not to be confused with clucks.

I am not, after all, a chicken.

sdfds