It is; it simply is.

Does the turtle feel like it’s particularly hard to be a turtle? No, I think a turtle exists without any commentary on either the hardship or advantage of lugging a shell around. Maybe on really hot days he feels a little more burdened, a little like he wishes he could just dump the shell behind a few rocks for the day. He’d try a swim without it, for a change. But then, I’m betting once a predator shows up, he’s pretty grateful for that shell; pretty glad it’s not hidden behind a rock while his own soft skin is exposed.

I guess my point is, a turtle is a turtle all the time and it would waste time if it questioned the validity of its shell. Better for the turtle to just learn to use it well. Better for the turtle to be the best darn turtle around.

Each of us have a story to tell. Better for us not to waste too much time questioning the validity of that story, I think; better to live a life that shares that story with integrity, generosity, kindness, and truth.

My own story happens to come out a lot. I carry it around like a stone in my pocket. Sometimes the stone feels so heavy; it is then that I steal away to write. To compose. To sing. To dance. To capture the emotions that have turned into boulders on my shoulders and write them down. It is then that something magical happens; the boulders are dwarfed and changed. They become music notes and lyrics; steps and hard work; syntax connected by many semi-colons (some might even say too many. I would say there’s no such thing).

One day my therapist asked me to describe a particular trauma I’ve experienced. I picked the one that is right, well, here. Inside my brain. Written on my heart. It’s confusing because it’s the day that never should have happened, but did happen. The little girl who I once was–with the jagged bangs across a too big forehead and more dreams than pets (and I had a lot of pets, believe me)–still can’t understand it. I try to explain it to her. I also try to tell her that her haircut gets better, too. She says she doesn’t care about her hair and she maintains that dreams come true and love wins. There’s no sense in arguing with her. Just like there’s no sense in telling her to brush her hair.

And love does win. Eventually. Just not in every situation on earth. Just not in the way she anticipated, I guess.

But one day my therapist handed me a sheet of paper and some crayons. “Describe what happened,” she said. “Use sentences to tell me how it sounded and smelled and looked like. And draw it, too.”

I got to work. I am ridiculously excited whenever anyone tells me to draw pictures or write sentences. I am not even particularly great at drawing pictures; I just love to do it. I drew the scene. Like a comic book strip, I drew squares, one right after the other. I showed an empty bedroom, and I explained the sound of the door slamming. I put it down on paper. All of it. In crayon, of all things. What an adult situation to jot down in crayon; if it hadn’t hurt so much, the juxtaposition would almost be humorous.

Almost.

Then my therapist told me to tell her, to show her, to explain. I am not a therapist, so I might get this wrong, but she told me something about how trauma gets trapped in the feeling part of our brain. It’s visceral. A scene that is always just one slight reminder away. But putting it down on paper–in pictures and words–takes it from that part of the brain to another part. The analytical part. So we become reporters. The CSI of our own crime scene, in a way. We lose the extremely raw and overwhelmed reaction as we take it in and describe it. We own the memory, rather than the memory owning us.

The change brings freedom.

The change is oxygen in an airless room.

And, in a way, relaying my story–making my art–does the same thing for me. Not that everything I make or create comes from trauma. No, not at all. But some of it does. And the truth is that all of it comes from my story. My experiences. My feelings. And I am not sure quite how to maintain the balance of telling my story without somehow dragging the other characters in my story through the exposition. Characters who probably don’t want to be mentioned. I do this imperfectly, I am sure.

So, being an artist isn’t hard or easy. Or maybe, more accurately, it’s both. It’s hard to tell my story without somehow exposing other people to ears that are connected to minds that make judgements. And yet, it’s also easy to tell my story. Too easy. Because it happens. All the time, again and again, it happens. Without provocation, it feels, my story comes out. In my songs and words and movements and conversations.

And so here’s to telling our stories with grace and honesty. Here’s to constantly trying to prove that, though I have failed at it before and will almost definitely fail at it again, the two can coexist.

Grace and truth.

Art and story.

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?

No, it’s true. Like, something happened inside of me somewhere along the way that made me less afraid or something. I like people so tremendously. Life is so interesting and people contribute a lot to make it so.

But, right–I’m different now, I think.

Case in point: Today, I ran into a guy who I did a show with a few years ago. We recognized each other and had one of those conversations that feel alive. You know, like, you’re both seeing each other and so fully inhabiting the moment and captivated by whatever it is the other one is saying. And it made me a little sad, because I didn’t really give him the chance to get to know me back when we did a show together. And I missed out on getting to know him.

I was quiet then, I guess.

Fast forward to now.

During Chicago, when the director mentioned that those of us who have a hard time not talking should probably bring a book to tech rehearsals, many of the cast pointedly stared in my direction.

Because I am not so quiet now.

And there’s this place in Philadelphia I’ve been to called the Please Touch Museum. It’s wonderful because every last thing that is on display is meant to be explored and discovered and felt and understood. Kids love it, but honestly, I like it, too. And, well, maybe life is more like the Please Touch Museum for me now. And, you know, this could sound entirely inappropriate so please, let’s keep this family, okay? But my point is that I am glad I am not wasting time afraid to discover the people around me. I am glad I am not missing out on this.

For me, being shy is a good excuse for letting someone else do the talking at the drive- thru window, maybe; but there is no good excuse for missing out on what’s so vibrantly around you. The people. The rainstorms. The books. The places. The questions. The answers. The humor. The challenges. The growth. The everything is everything, as Lauryn Hill says.

Well, shoot.
And change of plans.

So, I call my mom and I can’t keep the sound of tears from my voice.
But it’s okay to cry; it has to be okay to cry.
And here is the truth: I don’t cry as much as I used to.
What does the Psalmist say? Tears have been my food, day and night…
At one point, I could read that and think, I know what you mean, David. And oh, way to go on killing that giant. I mean, I’m not a huge proponent of killing, myself, but if one has to kill, I suppose offing a giant who is bent on annihilating and enslaving everyone you know and love–not to mention all of the people you don’t know, since it’s, like, a whole nation and stuff–I suppose, that’s the way to go.
But not so much anymore.
I mean, my tears are not so constant now.
Read: growth. Progress. Healing. Mascara.

“These are just feelings,” my mom tells me, for maybe the five hundredth time.
And I need to hear it, for maybe the five hundredth time.
“Feelings change; you won’t always feel this way.”

I can see a picture in these words with which she paints.
Slowly, the sentences drop into my heart; they feel like hope, smell like hope, taste like hope, sound like hope, look like hope–and with this much overwhelming evidence, one must conclude that they have hope.
I mean, it’s elementary, really.

And then, later, a friend calls me.
“What’s going on? What are you feeling? Why are you sad?” he asks.
And I let myself talk and I am crying and apologizing for crying and he’s telling me not to apologize and then he’s calling someone a shithead (on my behalf), which makes me laugh, and now I am crying and laughing at the same time and at least, at the very least, I feel alive.

And the night is a wonder of traffic and headlights and people in cars that are passing me by, again and again, it would seem; but then there’s here and there’s now. Connection. Laughing and crying. With a friend who cares. And that’s a contrast to all the people passing me by, and I take note.

“It’s about choices, Jess,” my friend tells me. “You could lose yourself in a million different ways. Fill up that space in your mind and heart with some mindless guy who likes the way you look and maybe you’d even feel a little better for a little bit. But, I know you. And I think you’d lose yourself and I know you’re waiting for something better, standing on your own two feet, feeling what you need to feel, confronting every piece of your heart all the time.”

I sit and let the tears roll down my face as I listen and every part of me agrees–even, maybe even especially, the part of me that keeps crying. And I am not suddenly happy, no–I am to my emotions as the Cheshire Cat is to his smile. He eventually gets there, and when he does, all of him is smiling. But his grins starts first at the tip of his tail before it works up to lighting his whole face with joy; and no one would guess what’s coming by looking at that flick of a tail, I’d bet, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t steadfastly on its way.

And so happy sometimes takes a while with me. And I didn’t feel it much today, but that’s okay, it doesn’t mean it isn’t close by. Maybe even already at the tip of my tail (metaphorically speaking, of course). But I will say that I stopped crying; I greeted my niece on her birthday with a kiss and a smile.

I did so happily, as a matter of fact.
And also, the sky was streaked with purple at dusk tonight.
So, there’s that.
It made me a little breathless to see it; and though that’s not exactly happy, that’s something very good that I wouldn’t trade, I think.

That might seem like a random thing to say, but let me explain.
Battleshy Youths and The Paper Janes and Em McKeever and many other lovely friends all just made a Christmas Album together. On Sunday. Seriously, in one day. It was wild and ramshackle and lovely and hilarious and I cannot wait to hear the results.
But, one song I really have wanted to sing for a while now is Baby, It’s Cold Outside.
You know, the kind of creepy, but kind of adorable Christmas song?
But, none of the guys would sing it with me.
I had the impression that they were afraid it’d be like a public admonition of feelings or something.
And I know, I KNOW. Not that; anything but that.
So, a wonderful and talented female singer named Erin agreed to sing it with me.
I changed the line, “I ought to say no, no, no, sir” to “I ought to say no, no, no, girl” and everything.
So now it’s a sweet little lesbian-ish song that makes me laugh, and I have to admit that I love it.

But I’d sing Baby, It’s Cold Outside to Orion and totally mean every word.
Speaking of constellations, I said something really pretty stupid today.
I do that at times, guys.
I’ve literally had a friend tell me, “For being so smart, you sure do say some pretty dumb things sometimes.”
And then I had a different friend recently call it endearing.
I think I like that version better.
Anyway, on the bus home from NYC tonight, I was lucky enough to sit next to a young man from Transylvania.
YOU GUYS, TRANSYLVANIA!
He immediately told me that, no, Dracula does not live there, but I told him it’d be okay if he did; vampires are so trendy right now.
But, of course, I had so many questions for him.
Since he speaks three languages (just three!, he said), which one does he think in?
(Hungarian)
What does his name (Oguish) mean?
(White Eagle)
And then I asked him if they have different constellations in Romania.
He very kindly said that he thinks all of earth sees the same constellations in the sky, but maybe just at different times.
Which is when I realized that I wasn’t talking to someone from a different planet, rather, just a different country.
So right, we all have one moon, and we all see Orion.
My bad.

But how’s that for going full circle and ending up right where I started?
Yes, that’s right: Orion.
He’s a generous and constant force in my life.
He’s a beautiful part about cold weather.
And tonight, while someone was noticing my well-loved vintage purse–the jerry-rigged yellow strap I’ve replaced the original one with and the hole through which random dimes fall because the leather threading has come undone–he observed, “You have a hard time letting go, huh?”
In other words: time for a new purse, girl.

And yes, I don’t love change.
It’s hard for me; I’ve been generally happy with my life–save the minor blip of this past season–for as long as I can remember, so why change?
But, change is necessary and even beautiful and can land me in places I never even knew existed.
Good places, I mean.
Great places, even.
In fact, change is necessary for growth; and maybe it’s too simple to say I’m either dying or growing, but maybe that’s not too far off from reality, either.
Anyway.
In the midst of all this change that I am trying my darndest to embrace and be all kinds of zen about, there’s Orion.
Steady.
There.
And I love him for it.
And his belt.
I’m a fan of a good accessory, you know.

And it’s probably not at all necessary to mention that I might have referred to North and South Germany before quickly–like, really REALLY fast–amending it to East and West Germany.

Oh, gosh.
Sometimes I am way too, um, endearing.
ahem.

Truth is, I am not the best anything in the world.

But that doesn’t really matter. Because who is? Not being The Best In The World is peripheral compared to this: What is it that you love?

And I mean real love. The kind that makes your heart beat faster and your body feel electric as you push yourself and find that you’re doing things you never imagined you’d do. Not ever. Maybe for the guy who’s shy, who’s never read Shakespeare–maybe he’s suddenly writing a poem to some blue eyed girl in Minnesota that, just by her very presence, has transformed Minnesota into some kind of wonderland. A place where dreams are born.

What I mean is, being in love transforms you.

And I love to dance.

Which is why I went to samba class again tonight. Why the four drummers playing in the corner were changing the beat of my own heart, turning it into something that went bum, BOOM, boom, boom, for a change. And why I shook my whole body for about an hour and a half. These are the kinds of crazy things that people do–people who are in love, I mean.

And no, I am not the best dancer in the world.

But do you refrain from falling in love with another person for the mere fact that you are not The Best Person In The World?

No, you don’t.

And that doesn’t matter at all.

Heck, that doesn’t even exist at all.

You fall in love, and then you’re doing crazy wonderful things (one hopes). You’re stopping at nothing to make sure you’re the very best vehicle for that pure strong love to flow through, and you point it nowhere but in your beloved’s direction.

So it is with the things that we love to do, I think.

And I remembered tonight, while shaking it in samba. I remembered how much I love to dance. And that’s something, guys; that’s really something.

And I felt like that again this morning. This heaviness in the pit of my stomach; this resistance to what was inevitable: change. My mom asked me how I was doing. “Fine,” I said in an abnormally high voice. I wasn’t. I mean, I am now, but I wasn’t then. But one thing that I have learned–and I don’t mean this in a cynical or even depressed way in the slightest–and that is, life goes on. And just because you feel something now does not mean you always will, and, blessedly–life goes on. Astoundingly so, actually.

How does this happen? I am not sure, but I think it has something to do with what we do with all the moments that, at the time, we assume just don’t matter.  Because, eventually, you are standing in the house that was built upon those moments. And if we want better someday, then we draw back our arrow and aim for better right now. We don’t wait for better; we choose better this moment.

I found myself on a bus surrounded by sleeping people, en route to NYC. It was so interesting. We were all crammed together, each of us a chapter to a book nobody but God will ever read, I think–and I couldn’t help but be intrigued by this beginning. And I also couldn’t help but think about this past year. I am reading a book about grief right now, thinking about letting go of the things that have gone away, anyway. This book tells you to sort of tally your losses so that you can feel what you need to feel about them. And I was struck by the thought that in a little over a year’s time, I have lost my marriage, my job, and my house. Well now, that’s quite a resume of loss. I feel like quoting the Lord of the Rings:

I’m Mr. Bilbo Baggins, I’ve lost my dwarves, my wizard and my way.

But, I think I need to read a book on finding things, too. Because I have found so many things in this same season. I am here in New York. I am living in an apartment by myself. I am fine; I really am. And just because I cry sometimes doesn’t actually even mean I am not fine. I think it has more to do with the fact that I am human. Or, as the Killers would say–am I dancer? Yes, that’s right, they don’t even put the article, ‘a,’ in there, leaving us all quite confused.

Today I went to Whole Foods and bought some groceries and felt quite happy to be there. I smiled at people (when it was appropriate; I’m not going all Joker up here in NYC) and I happily bought bananas and peanut butter and cheese and bread, to name a few things. Then I took yoga and even did a half-way-kind-of-handstand. Handstands are a new goal of mine.

They seem impossible.

But, at one point, so did the life I am living right now.

Yes, spandex pants.

And I’m still wearing my cardigan sweater and denim shirt.

Good thing I mentioned the spandex pants, or else you might just wonder if you had accidentally stumbled upon Mr. Rogers’ blog, what with the cardigan sweater and denim shirt and scarf and stuff. I should just change my shoes and speak to a small trolley and then there’d hardly be any difference between the two of us at all.

Other than the spandex pants, I guess.

Which means that I am just one pair of spandex pants away from being Mr. Rogers. As my friend John would say, there have been a heckuva lot of firsts for me this past year. What’s one more?

Have you heard of the It Gets Better campaign? It’s basically an encouraging message for LGBT youth who are treated as outcasts in their schools and rejected from mainstream society. It’s trying to convey to them that life isn’t hopeless and that there is reason to remain alive–otherwise, you’d miss what’s up ahead. And apparently, that’s better.

Well, tonight my mom told me it gets better. She said it with confidence, too. She said it like it was as simple as springtime; like how the seasons have to come, because it’s just what happens. I want to believe her. Sometimes I do, and it’s the kind of fresh air that shut-ins must gulp when they are taken by some kind soul to the sea. When they are taken to a place that has no doors. None whatsoever. None to slam, none to say no, none to draw the line that separates where you are and where you cannot be.

I was in a winterwonderland this weekend. It was snow and snow and still more snow for as far as the eye could see. It was hard to imagine that the same land I was walking on would ever not be covered in snow. But while I was walking, I had this thought that spring would come here, too. And it surprised me. And then I imagined warmth and flowers and that surprised me, too, because it was so divergent from what I was seeing.

And please don’t misunderstand me. I love wintertime. I wouldn’t want to miss this season, ever. But, this fledgling February feels extra cold. The trees and I share a camaraderie; we are all stripped and bare and yet still standing. And springtime speaks to me of change. And right now? Change feels better. And I’d like very much to believe that it gets better. Though not in a way that would wish winter from here. I just like to think that now isn’t forever. That there are places without any doors and the horizon–that once friendly kind of beckoning entity–can be something like that once again.

I don’t mind the idea of cold toes so much if it means that I have been walking on the earth, like so many sojourners before me; if it means that I have seen the moon standing there alone, reminding me that there’s a beauty that comes from being so still and watchful.

Ah, the moon. She’s a nice ancient dame who’s done it all and now she’s too old to care about the things that don’t matter anymore. You don’t see her hiding her face for embarrassment and you don’t even see her covering her mouth in one of the few times it’s really open. You know, gaping and wide with a smile. Though I’ve never really been able to see anything but a touching sadness written on her incandescent face.

I am not sure what that says about me, but I don’t think it says anything too terrible. There is a ying and yang to life. There is a contrast that, consequently, makes both the light appear brighter and the darkness darker. So it is with joy and sadness. Each makes the other more poignant. I have learned this; I will continue to learn this.

I have always been a happy person.

No.

I have always been a curious person.

No.

I have always been a sensitive person.

No.

I have always been a person.

Yes.

And that requires a description involving more than just one word. We are all such a mix of longings and bandaged up parts that don’t work so well lately and little hearts with astounding amounts of resilience and quietnesses that we’d rather be loud and words that we wish we’d not said and big eyes that look out and see a world that makes us wonder if this is all there is, afraid of the finality of either yes or no, when it comes right down to it.  We are all so very much; we are all fantastically powerful creatures. The earth trembles with this knowledge, I think. The trees know it and speak to each other about it. We would do well to listen. We would do well to have cold toes because we were out and about, listening to the trees.

And a dear friend just texted me. He says he’s been muttering bad words and, at my suggestion that he drop them off at the bad word pound–since bad words don’t go so well with the kind of stellar heart he has–he threatened to drop himself off at the pound instead. Because at least that would be a change.

And yes, I know that feeling. Sometimes I feel like I am that feeling.

But progress and change. They aren’t the kinds of pets you keep on leashes and they certainly don’t just come when you call. They are tricky and spotted and blend in with your surroundings so well that you might just as easily miss them or worse, smack right into them in the dark and get angry when you stub your toe.

And perhaps one of these days we will open our eyes and actually see. And we’ll look back, shocked over the miles and miles of desert we have traversed, not having even realized we were going that far, other than the slight burning sensation we felt in our toes where the soles of our shoes had grown ragged and worn.

So yes, it is good when our toes are hot. For this means we have been traveling through the desert. This is progress.

And yes, it is good when our toes are cold. For this means that we have been outside, listening to the trees, experiencing January in a way we never could while simply parked next to a space heater, our life knitted up in socks and sweaters and a very warm pair of pants between.

*this is the unfortunate part of the story when I raise my hand. And then, since my hand is already so conveniently close to my nose, I scratch it. And then I wince in pain. And then I remember that I am raising my hand because I DROPPED A WEIGHT ON MY FACE.

I would have felt more embarrassed, too, if it hadn’t hurt so much. I did get a puffy lip, though, and those kind of look cool, actually. All red and big, the vain part of me was like, but now your lip looks so pretty! And then the rest of me was like, Shut up! My nose hurts! And my eyes are tearing up from the pain…Till the rest of me had to admit to the vain part of me that yes, you have a point; my lip does look rather cool right now…

But, moving on.

I think the sky performs miracles every day. One of them is twilight. I love to watch that kind of change, I really do. There are a lot of changes that are hard to watch. I’ve been forced to see them. At times, life is a television show that I absolutely hate and yet nobody seems to know how to turn it off, least of all me. But the changes in the sky bring me comfort and lets me know how wonderful something new can be. That kind of change does a better job of giving me hope than most things, lately.

I’ve also been thinking about babies. Nope, not having one, so much–not now, at least–but I’ve been thinking about how the most beautiful and precious gifts are given to us in immense pain. From what I understand, there is unimaginable and unescapable pain and suffering–YES SUFFERING–and that’s when a baby appears. That’s when such purity and inestimable value appears on the scene.

Okay then, this gives me hope, too.