He had told me that he played the organ and something about the vowel sounds in organ made me think of the word accordion, and so, when I ran into him a little bit later by happenstance, I asked, “Oh! is THAT your accordion, then?”

Looking at the black, rectangular speaker that he was rolling around via dolly, he quietly answered, “It’s actually a speaker.”

I know that. I KNOW that. I know the difference between a speaker and an accordion. Oh, man.

But, that’s not nearly as bad as last night, when I asked a sweet lady the question that I know nobody should ask. Not unless you actually SEE a baby crowning, do you assume a woman is pregnant.

But, what did I do last night? After I played at the Cake Shop, I met a couple who just missed my performance because a cab driver had gotten them lost (and they aren’t from the city). Often, I try to talk to people about themselves; I don’t like all the attention on me, so I will include their lives in the conversation. So I said, “Oh my gosh! And you’re pregnant?!”

“No…I just had a baby…”

What do you say then? JUST KIDDING? You can’t. I ran right on ahead to the congratulations part of the conversation, but still.

I KNOW NOT TO ASSUME THAT.

Just like I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SPEAKER AND AN ACCORDION.

Now to actually act like I know these things, I suppose.

Oh well, the good (and random) news is that my sheets are clean. And so are my clothes at the moment.

Tomorrow is one of those days that is a bit of a doozy. A good doozy, don’t get me wrong, but a doozy, nonetheless. I have a rehearsal for an industrial gig for TDBank from 6-10 pm (which I am in charge of! Hello, my name is Jessica and I hardly like to be in charge of anything. Except maybe decorating my family’s Christmas tree. And, okay, some baking projects)–and right after that, I have to run on over to Sleep No More’s Story Telling concert in which I am getting all fancified up for in a vintage dress, some fishnets, and heels (thanks for the kicks, Bets!). While there, I will sing some songs–one of them being an eminem song on the ukulele. Another one being Sweet Child of Mine on the uke. And then another in which I get to play the piano (thank goodness!) and am just singing some background vocals (thank goodness again!).

I am actually really excited for it. Collaborating with other musicians–super talented musicians–is like getting to share the wealth. Wealth being music, in this case.

Hopefully, during this doozy of a day I will not say anything extraordinarily ignorant, rude, or stupid.

Here’s hoping.

It’s funny, when I wrote this song over the summer, I never imagined so many people would hear it, let alone like it. It was just the way I was feeling at the time.

For me, putting my feelings into words and melodies is like a little bit of redemption NOW. A way of saying, This hurts so much, but maybe it’s worth it–cause look. Here’s a song, now, and that’s directly related to what I was feeling. Couldn’t have one without the other.

It doesn’t necessarily make it easier while you’re in it–but pain can produce good things. Worthwhile things. So what I’ve learned is not to run from your pain, but to sit there. Listen to it. And then use it to make things. Just my two cents.

Ain’t my friend:

Chorus: Baby, you ain’t my friend, and I ain’t your last call, nor can I let my heart wonder how you feel about me at all. Cause you got all your fans, people who are on call, but I ain’t one of them, nor can I let myself pretend…
Oh-oh-oh…baby, you ain’t my friend
Oh-oh-oh

See, I don’t really really wanna just be your friend; we’re either gonna play this game or let the game end. I mean, sure, I’ll be polite and wave as I walk by, but it hurts way too much to act like we’re still fly after everything that happened, that happened between us; you’re so good at pretending while I just make a fuss; now, I ain’t saying that it’s now or it’s never gonna be, I’m just saying that this friendship feels impossible to me. And maybe someday it’ll be just fine between us, but that day ain’t today, and maybe there’s some truth to the way they always say that, baby, you’re from mars, and maybe I’m from, I’m from, I’m from Venus.

Chorus

It’s not like you were wrong when you decided that I didn’t belong next to you, it’s just hard to stand here with you, when I’m not really with you, do you know what I mean? Don’t think I’m trying to be mean–no! I think you’re just great! Too great, in fact, that’s why I take a step back; it’s just a matter of survival as I walk through this new trial, don’t take it personally, cause I’m just trying to live free, to take a deep breath now and feel what I feel. As I keep walking, watch me walking, no I won’t stop. Though you ain’t here–stop with all the fear, I tell myself again and again just as long as you say that you are my friend, so…

Bridge: Hey hey hey, a baby (bay bay bay); you live your life now and I’ll be busy living mine; Hey hey hey, a baby (bay bay bay); I already got quite enough friends now, thank you, yeah, I’ll be fine, fine, fine….

Chorus.

Chords: chorus/rap: C,G,Amin,F,G (with an occasional extra F and G thrown in for good measure; I trust you to figure out when)

Bridge: Amin, C, Amin, F, G

(yes, the chords are simple…have I mentioned I haven’t playing the ukulele for that long…?)

And there you go.

Peace!

I went on a walk and watched the moon. For the first time maybe ever, the moon did not look sad. I felt like this was significant. Maybe because tonight the moon was the one thinking that I looked sad. Although, I don’t glow like the moon does; perhaps he couldn’t see me so well. I like to think that he can, though; I like to think we’re friends.

I played music at a women’s meeting at my church tonight. I am not exactly sure why, but ever since my life started acting a little funny, I have been scared of groups of women. I love them individually. En masse, though, I tend to stay away. And then there was the fact that I was sad today. I didn’t feel like going to church so much, and I sure didn’t feel like going to a church full of women. Which means that being there was probably the very best place for me. And it’s true. Singing was good; it made me cry, but that’s okay. Afterward, I was very emotional. Embarrassingly so. Someone would talk to me, and I would start to cry. Finally, I just explained that I will cry no matter what right now–so please, just go ahead and talk.

A friend told me that she has felt guilty. She went through a hard time in her marriage around the same time that mine was ending (SPOILER ALERT! my marriage ended. sorry, I am laughing about writing that. I just have always wanted to write spoiler alert! and I thought wow, I finally can. hahahaha…ha? yes, ha). She said that it doesn’t seem fair that she has a husband who was willing to make changes and say he’s so sorry and cared enough about her to, well, love her, when I did not. I told her to please not feel guilty. That it makes me happy that they are well and together. And that, to be honest, it is better that I am not with someone who did not (could not?) love me.

And this is true.

And then somebody hugged me for a while. She asked if she could. I cried, of course. I realized that, as she was hugging me, this kind of thing does not happen very much for me. I remember hearing about how some babies who do not get any kind of affection will simply die from lack of contact with another person. I don’t want to be the adult equivalent of a baby who dies from lack of affection. So I hugged her. And it was good. She grabbed my hands, touched my head, looked in my eyes. I was alive and connected. I was not a baby who was going to die from lack of affection. I was connected.

I was the supermoon and she was the earth and I was close to her.

——-

At any given time of the day one of the five of us here will burst out into song. It might not be beautiful. It might sound operatic. It might sound like a chicken. It might involve the words hot tottie (include those in any song for an instant hit, you know). And it might even be Jase trying to keep up with Eminem. Except Eminem isn’t actually here. And nobody is rapping but Jase.

——

I got a dress for five dollars today. It’s long, real long. And it has all these bright stripes that are horizontal. Enough to make me feel like a psychedelic caterpillar when I wear it. Not that I don’t feel like one when I don’t. Okay, so I don’t. But my point is, I try it on for Jason and Darby tonight and have to start doing some terrible polka-esque ballet around the living room while I am wearing it. Yes, have to. And Darby is laughing and Jason is looking like he doesn’t know what is going on (though he’s been my brother long enough now to know terrible polka-esque ballet when he sees it ).

——

But I think it is when Darby is singing in some sort of squawking-like tone that I finally just ask, “What do normal people do?” And we all laugh, but nobody answers. So I ask again, “No, seriously–what do normal people do?”

And silence ensues.

Because I’m pretty sure that none of us in the house know what it is that normal people do.

And we wouldn’t want to give up our songs and our dances and the faces that we make and the raps that we attempt in order to find out, either.

I think I can learn from her.

I think that it is a tricky thing, trying to be strong and yet realizing that it’s okay to need something or someone. I think the amount of trust that she has in her parents to take care of her is a good reminder. You don’t have to be tiny to trust like that, right? You can be grown up–or at least much bigger–and realize that there’s a plan for you. That life has not lost its whimsy and that there just isn’t time to be ashamed of your story anyway; not when it’s still unfolding like the best kind of epiphany that brightens you up on the inside until it works itself all the way out into the way you carry yourself.  Like you’re somebody.

Not better than anyone, but man, somebody.

And I think holding a brand new little person is good for the soul. It’s nearly impossible to go to dark places with a bundle like that in your arms. It’s hard not to feel hope when bam! there’s a miracle right here and look! she’s wiggling her tiny toes and her eye lashes are just perfect.

And she’s somebody.

And we all started there, a miracle.

And we’re all going somewhere, so might as well make it a good place and might as well not rush the journey along the way and might as well think about the moon and his beautiful, sad face; might as well think about the taste of salt on your tongue, how it changes most things and makes them better; might as well think about how life is full of somebodies who are, for the most part, lovely and who are, for all parts, full of worth and potential at least, and yes, it’s good to be among them.

And yes, holding a baby is so good for the soul.

And I wonder if parents of tiny babies get a little glimpse of something that tips them off to the secret of how we are all some pretty special somebodies and how love is never, not even a little bit, wasted.

I mean, we learn our lessons experientially, right? Someone walks outside and they see the ocean and then they tell everyone they meet that the world is very wet with a surface that never does stay still, it’s so busy swelling and upturning. Or they look up and all they see is the night sky and then they learn how the world is dark and dotted with bright stars that are far away, but manage to give some kind of comfort despite the distance.

And then there’s me.

I learned that covenants are suggestions at best, it would seem; that they mean as much as the ones who make them. I learned that you can build your life around one but then you hear the final death knell when the door slams with the sound of a bullet and you wonder why it couldn’t have just actually been one and why it couldn’t have cleanly gone through your heart. Because that seems better than the way you are walking around shattered, your heart in a million pieces and your smile stopping just short of your eyes.

I learned that bad things happen. Period. That plans change with a force that can feel like God, though it isn’t good and its effect carves you from the inside out. I learned that things are rarely black and white when it comes to relationships; that we stumble and fall and land on each other. That both the landing and the getting back up can cause us to lean heavily on one another. And getting back up. Sometimes we can’t stay around long enough to even see if the other one gets back up. But you hope that, eventually, they do. Still, you have to move on; you cannot bet your life on whether or not they ever do.

But the lessons, they keep coming, like the days that keep coming and you don’t want to stop the former and you just can’t stop the latter.

Because I have learned that there are people who care so much about you that they are up and waiting for you when you walk through the door at 330 am. They surprise you in the living room and tell you that you were born a certain amount of minutes ago a certain amount of years ago and then give you chocolate covered strawberries. Along with a knife. Because there was no wax paper, so you scrape and eat and chocolate is flying and you and your mom and sister are happy.

I learned that there are people in life who give you the kind of creative and thoughtful gifts that make you cry. And then they speak words that bring life and the kind of encouragement that holds the weight of water on a hot day.

And all of these lessons come together and they bring me here. Somehow. And with a force that is God, life is good and better than I could have imagined and people have so much to do with this.

And I’m grateful.
And it was one of the best birthdays.
And my brother, Josh, wanted me to include this tribute he wrote. It’s my first guest blogger–so be kind!

“I mean it! If this baby is a girl, I’m gonna throw it in the trash can!”

That is how I reacted to Mom’s news that she was having yet another fricking kid. This was getting ridiculous. I was so happy being an only child for three glorious years and then !! rapid fire like some sort of reproductive tommy gun, two brothers, wanting my toys, changing the !GASP! channel, basically wrecking my swerve yo.

I had just gotten used to the idea that these small oddly shaped creatures were an unfortunate fact of life (like athlete’s foot or warts that can’t (legally) be cut off.

Now another.

Eight year old Josh had nothing if not the strength of his convictions. I was riled up. Ready for action.

My brothers of course were ecstatic. They were a simple folk, enjoying arts and crafts, playing with bugs, even going so far as putting bugs in their hair (yeah you wont read that little story on chasingmist.com) Think of them as special-needs hobbits, excited about their impending doom; even doing little drawings of their new baby friend- it was disgusting.

The whole pregnancy thing was annoying as well. Don’t even get me started- I had to help mom around the house, vacuuming, dusting, dishes. The hobbits didn’t have to do anything but play with their dumb little arts & crafts.

Then came the big day.

I came down the stairs and realized something was amiss. The stranger sitting on our couch was my first clue.

“good morning! You mommy is had a little girl!” She said with a sort of forced happiness.

I choked on my bile. This was it- the end. 8 years old and officially, life sucked.

Angrily, I turned on the tv. Click click to the UHF, then many smaller clicks to the cartoons. Better get in the Superfriends before this little female interloper made me watch Strawberry Shortcake or something equally as emasculating.

Then I met her. Mom and Pop brought her in, a tiny little ball of felt and red skin.

And I fell in love. A fierce protective love that wanted to shield her from anything that could hurt her.

And that feeling has only grown…

Happy birthday Jess..I love you…”

(thanks, Josh!)

And Yep.
I can only describe this feeling as loved.

Undeniably loved.

There is in every true woman’s heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. –Washington Irving

I read that and it catches my heart. And everything–my skin, my lips, the back of my neck–is alert, trying to make that spark blaze. God knows it’s dark enough. And God knows I want that spark to spread like those fires in the mountains of California; to eat up everything else until it becomes the biggest thing about me.

Kindles.Beams. Blazes. Adversity. All of it catches my heart.

Kind of the way Christmas catches my heart every year.

But this time it’s different. There are things that usually excite me, things like trimming the tree and buying gifts, but my heart isn’t so much into that now. What I’d like to think about is what happened on that night. And you can say it was in December because we sing about it being then, or you can talk about how theologians go around bursting our bubbles as they prove that the famous silent night was actually in June, but really I don’t care about any of that so much.

And really, I don’t think that it was all that silent either. Not with the baby crying and all those animals milling about, and are we really supposed to believe that those shepherds were quiet? I’m betting they liked to talk, those guys. After all that time spent under a vast endless sky with only sheep for company don’t you think they were excited to talk about current events with Joseph and Mary and all those magi?

Though I don’t think Mary was talking back too much. She was too busy pondering the good things God was doing in her heart.

But whether or not those shepherds talked at that birth is irrelevant.

What I really care about is that it happened.

And what I care about right now is what it looked like.

The way society painted Mary with the staining color of shame. Joseph, who wanted to leave her, but decided to take a risk and spend a life on a dream and some faith in an angel’s words. The way that nothing went right that night; they couldn’t find a suitable place to have that baby, though not for lack of trying.

But this Christmas the thing that I’ve been repeating in my mind over and over again is that dirty little manger. The ugliness, the shabbiness, the bleakness of it all. How none of it seemed perfect, but God, was it humble. And that’s where God chose to place that innocent baby.

Not where it was orderly.

Not where it was perfect.

Not even where it was clean.

But in the midst of all of that, there was somebody perfect. Beautiful. Full of light and hope.

In that dirty little manger.

Which means that maybe in my life, my own dirty little manger, God can place something beautiful, full of light and hope…Which is what I like to think about this Christmas, if that’s okay.