Which is totally fine.

But, see, I grew up with the idea that this is the kind of thing that is very normal. Like getting the oil changed in your car. Or maybe even, God forbid, changing it yourself (which is something that I need to learn to do, if I am really gonna be like Rosie the Riveter. Does an oil change perhaps take a staple gun? Cause I am handy with one of those, you know).

But since my mom has her master’s degree in counseling and my pop, being a pastor, counsels on the regular too, I am not at all embarrassed of the fact that I am about to get some real good therapy.

And I can’t wait.

See, I haven’t been able to afford it, so I was just trusting that God would take care of my bruised up heart and funny little thoughts, but turns out, he’s doing that and letting me get some therapy.

And it’s one of those kinds of things in which I cannot help but keep going over the scenario in my head. I walk into a room and there he or she is: my counselor. Or even advocate, which is a fancy and nice word that my friend Christian used to describe this person. And he will probably be proper enough to use all three syllables of my name and he will say it with the kind of intonation that isn’t quite musical but certainly makes you think of warm things like fires. But contained fires, you know. Cause it’s real safe all up in this room. And he will ask me why I am here and I will have at least a thousand things to say but I will start at the beginning, just as soon as I figure out exactly where the beginning is.

Is it my first memory? When I was three and my brothers were visiting me at the hospital? Traipsing into my little room like the smallest boys orphanage there ever was, giving me homemade cards and telling me that they hope I get better soon.

Or was it when I was turning 13 and terrified at the idea of growing up? I thought that if I hadn’t disappointed my parents by now, then becoming a teenager surely would; that growing up was something that I didn’t know how to do, but knew how not to do even less. And there it was, inevitable. While there I was, scared. But then I turned 13, and I was still me, and that has been a lesson that I’ve learned over and over again–that no matter what happens to me, nobody can take me from me, if that makes any sense at all.

Or was it when I came home to a husband that was no husband at all? To the news that everything I held sacred had been put up for sale and bought by a cheap story that was supposed to make somebody feel better, but that somebody was far from me.

ding ding ding ding

I think we may have a winner.

But then again, I think all of my story is worth talking about to a professional. I think that people benefit from sharing their heart in safe places and, like I said, ooh, somebody pinch me, cause this girl’s going to therapy.

And I couldn’t be happier about it.

And I have often been told that I am missing out because of this. But when I ask what it is that I am missing out on, I am given a long list of things that I have tried and would rather not waste my precious time or taste buds on, thankyouverymuch.

Things like chili. Avocados. Tomatoes. Tiramisu. Coffee. Dark chocolate. Tea. Coke. Most chips that are colored orange. Salsa–though, I do enjoy that style of dancing. Taco Bell, yes the whole place. Clothes that match too well. Screamo bands (though I do dearly love some of those who do it…). Loreena McKennit (somebody who I will not mention used to listen to her all. the. time). Mashed potatoes. Arbitrary commenting on another’s appearance. And too-long fingernails.

And that’s just the short list; there is way more where that came from, believe me.

See, it is not so very difficult for me to form my opinion, I think. Except lately I have been vacillating over mushrooms. Turns out they are not quite as terrible as I had thought for most of my life. In fact, I recently ordered a salad and, upon hearing that it regularly comes with mushrooms, I didn’t ask them to prepare it sans the mushrooms, for once. But then I proceeded to eat around every last one of the mushrooms, leaving them quietly neglected at the bottom of the dish. Go figure.

But all this to say, that I usually know what I don’t want.

Which brings me to a conversation I had with my friend Christian a bit ago. He called me up laughing, so excited to tell me about a recent exchange he had with one of the guys who works at a local pizza shop we often go to around here, Rosa’s. Except the last time, Christian went alone. And this guy remarked upon that fact and then asked,  So, what’s the story with that blond who’s usually here with you? Is she your sister?

When Christian told him I was a good friend, he proceeded to ask if I am single. At which point, Christian–honest guy that he is–had to say yes. Because I am, I guess. But then to scare him off (Christian informed me), he told him, But she very recently went through a divorce…

Um, thanks, Christian.

Because the guys at Rosa’s might have been the last people to know about my story, so I guess it was time.

But then Pizza Guy asked Christian to put in a good word for him.

And ugh. Cause the thing is, I know that I don’t want to date him. And yes, Pizza Guy might really be nice and hey! he knows how to make pizza (and on a side note, not just any pizza, either, but my very favorite kind of pizza in the whole world: their version of barbeque chicken pizza!), I know that I know that I know that I don’t want to date him.  And it’s not like it’s him, necessarily–it’s actually most people in the world.

Because I wouldn’t date most people.

And unfortunately, it got to the point where I found myself married to one of them–a person I wouldn’t date…So, that was a real problem, as you can well imagine. But back to Pizza Guy. How do you just say I wouldn’t date you? I suppose I could just say I am not dating anyone right now–but the truth has much more to do with the fact that no, I would not date him, super pizza-making abilities, and all. And I don’t anticipate it being a real problem or anything, but it is kind of annoying, because I really do enjoy their pizza and don’t want it to be awkward in there.

And how weird that I am once again in this kind of a situation, because well, it’s been a minute, to say the least.

Things like walking into the bathroom to perform my get-ready-for-bedtime routine and suddenly realizing that I already flossed today. Major score, one less thing to do.

And oh, what if my get-ready-for-bedtime routine was something that I actually did perform? Like, on a stage? I think I’d be a starving artist, cause not many people would buy tickets. I think that my life-as-art act might be better as life then as art. Although I’ve been told that I make quite a mirror face, so there’s that. Maybe somebody would buy a ticket to see me make my mirror face.

Or maybe not.

Oh, but back to things that make me more excited than is normal. See, I get really happy when someone asks me to read out loud in a group. Of course, I don’t let it show. When they ask for a volunteer, I wait for what I consider to be an appropriate amount of time so as not to seem too needy, and then I casually say, Oh. I guess I will. I mean, if nobody else wants to…But inside, it’s my birthday. And you’re all the guests and oh look! the birthday girl gets to read! OUT LOUD! and bam! she gets to practice her diction and emote through her words–even if it is just a book about abnormal psychology or fear and art or dance history or whatever, cause READING! OUT LOUD! LIKE, FOR REAL! and who needs cake when you’ve got that?!

And tonight, I got the chance. Cause I was at a Bible Study that my friend Christian leads and you guessed it, he asked for a volunteer to read aloud and nobody said anything (I. KNOW. I don’t understand it, either!). So he finally was like, Okay, Jess. I know you want to read out loud. Do it. And I was all, Oh, well, sure. I mean, I guess I could. I suppose I have time to read a few vers–and I was gone. Happily reading out loud.

Until I came across this one particular verse. It was about someone named Epaphrotitus (I might have just spelled that wrong; spellcheck certainly thinks so, but it might not be up on its Roman names. And that might not be a Roman name). And Paul is praising this guy with the name that’s proving to be unspellable, saying that he is living right–for others and God and all that jazz but probably not in that order–and then Paul says this: And then he got sick and almost died.

And cue Bellatrix Lestrange from Harry Potter, because remember how she seems to be laughing all the time? When it is terribly inappropriate, too; like, when some of the best characters in the story are dying, leaving Harry alone. AGAIN. Well, I read that verse–out loud, mind you–like this:

And then he got sick…trying not to laugh here…and almost…starting to laugh here..died…HAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

And I will probably never get asked to read out loud in that group again, because who laughs like a crazy person at someone almost dying in the Bible? I mean, who other than me?

The responding silence is noted.

And not surprising.

Luckily, I was laughing so hard that other people started laughing too. Probably not at someone almost dying, though; it was probably more at me. Which is fine. I will have to practice my delivery, I suppose. I will have to learn what emotions go with what words all over again. I will have to be appropriate.

I have a lot of homework.

Yes, you could, my friend Christian told me, just as serious.

No, it’d kill me. I can’t, I just can’t, I kept repeating.

No, you’d get through it. Just like you get through all of life, he assured me.

And then I told him I’d kill myself, but neither of us really believed it. Because I wouldn’t, but still.

We were talking about me and marriage and whoa. I know that might sound crazy, but it’s me we’re talking about here; and in case you don’t know, I talk about everything. Well, with some people, anyway.

And when I talk about marriage in the case of me, I generally say if while my friends say when. And when I asked Christian how weird–on a scale of one to ten-he thinks my life is, we both decided on twenty (at least) and then started laughing.

Because, seriously. Who would have thought? I still shock people quite regularly by giving them an outline of the recent events of my life. As in: I’m single now. S-I-N-G-L-E. Yes, I know he seemed like he was “really on fire for the Lord,” as one person recently put it, but well, things didn’t work out, anyway.

And the thing is, they don’t even know the half of it.

Just like me. At least, the way it was for a long time.

But now I know the whole of it and I’m grateful to be out of it. And I’d rather feel a little lonely sometimes when I am all by myself, then very lonely when I am with somebody who claims to be a husband.

I like this feeling, lately. I think it might be peace. Isn’t that a beautiful word? And what makes it beautiful is the concept behind it. Because sure, the e and the a sitting so close, making a nice, strong and two-letter-deep sound that neither of them could make very well on their own doesn’t hurt either, but I love the word because of what it stands for.

And you could talk to me about peace for hours and hours; we could even watch a movie chronicling peace that Quentin Tarantino himself made, but if it’s not something that’s in my heart, I guess I’d lose interest or stop believing after a while.

Because eventually it’d be like randomly saying peace to the soldiers marching in Pickett’s Charge in Gettysburgh while all their friends are getting shot down around them. War is obvious in the cadence of their marching, always marching, towards an end that is not necessary; not if this world were the way God dreamt it, I think. But I guess it’s the way we wheel and deal our free will as if we’re peddlers, each of us with an angle, each of us with a gimmick and a jingle to keep them coming back, even if it’s a place that hurts rather than heals. I suppose that is what makes war necessary sometimes. But God, I wish it weren’t.

But if you’re saying peace over and over again in the midst of all that, the word starts to mean nothing.

Which is what the word trust became for me. Nothing. But I kept hearing it; he’d even get upset with me for not holding fast to it, but there I was, watching everything fall down around me. Wondering at the secrecy. At the lack of communication. The lack of care. The lack, the lack, the lack.

And now it all makes a kind of sad sense. But the sadness is trailing behind, I think, in this race for my heart, while the sense of freedom is maybe pulling ahead now. And certain words that had lost their meaning in my life are once again conceptualizing right before my eyes.

Trust.
Peace.
Love.
Forgiveness.

And I find myself loving those words like they are family itself. I gather them close to me, holding them with the kind of urgency that spells out to the world that I’m not afraid for anybody to know how much I need them.

Because God, I need them to mean something and it’s because of God, I think, that once again, they do.

Well, God and people.

Some of the best darn people in the world, I think.

So I saw a movie tonight, in the theater.

It was me and some really cool guys. I actually crashed a guys’ night out I’m pretty sure, but I think my brother Jonathan feels sorry for me an awful lot, so I got an invite too.

Anyway, we saw Clash of the Titans, which was fun because, well, I love Greek Mythology. Oh, and there was this weird alien desert guy who everybody called Gin, but it sounded like they were calling him Jim, so I just thought of him as Jim and it made me laugh. A lot. Because how funny would it be if the one alien-thingy in a movie where the humans all have names that are on the fancier side–like Perseus and Andromeda and Cassiopeia and Io–is the one with the normal, every day name like Jim?

But enough about Jim.

I want to tell you about when we went to Friendly’s afterward.

And well, we each get our ice cream sundaes, of course, but Jonathan–now, he springs for a banana split. He’s like that. Always wanting to mix fruit with ice cream and such. Not me as much, unless we’re talking pinkberry. But sadly, that’s not around these parts so I haven’t been able to talk pinkberry for a while, much less eat the stuff.

So we all get our ice cream and Jonathan tries one of his two bananas and we all watch as his delighted anticipation quickly turns to horror and disgust. He puts his banana in my face (I know, the jokes that could be told here are endless…but don’t worry. We’ll get to that) and asks that I try it too.

I tell him that bananas are pretty much always disgusting to me, that I eat them for medicinal reasons or when I am very hungry–neither of which apply at the moment. So Jonathan reaches his banana across my face in order for Christian, who is sitting on the other side of me, to take a bite of it. Someone mentions that this moment should be documented with a camera, and Jonathan then decides it’s too weird, so he just hands his banana over for Christian to have at it.

Awful, Christian agrees.

And then we all tell Jonathan he should talk to the waiter about it. Which is what happens next. But talk about an ice breaker, because right as the waiter gets to the table, Jonathan blurts out:

Have you ever actually tasted your bananas before?

And then we all lose it. We can’t help it. Alex is dipping his head in shame, literally covering his face with his hand. I am laughing outright (of course). Christian and Joe are stifling their laughter, too.

But none of this deters Jonathan.

Because then he grabs his banana, thrusts it in the waiters face, and dramatically splitsit in half right before him. Lucky for him, the banana makes the kind of cracking sound you’d only expect from plastic when it breaks–and it quite obviously is a horrible banana.

The waiter tells him he’ll get him two new bananas right away (without answering Jonathan’s question, mind you). The discarded banana is left on the table between Alex and Jonathan, and Alex, after finally removing his hand from covering his face, takes some wax paper and wraps Jonathan’s banana up for him.

So of course, Jonathan has to mention that his wrapped banana is now just sitting idly on the table.

And then, when I ask him if he actually ate some of his horrible banana–before he decided it was horrible, I mean?

He simply looks at me and says,

No Jess, I never swallowed!

And so we all lose it, all over again. And I’m pretty sure there are a few seconds when I can’t breathe at all, I am laughing so hard.

Oh my, oh my.

And now a few of you are offended.

Sorry.

Kinda.

But don’t get me wrong, I’m from Pennsylvania. If I was gonna be any kind of chick at all, it would be of the yankee variety. One who cracks her voice on purpose and happens to own a pair of cowboy boots. But who doesn’t?

That’s what I thought.

And tonight I had three deep talks with three different people and one of them called me a good person, which I don’t think I am, necessarily, though I appreciate the compliment. I think that, bottom line, I’m a person. And I hope that I choose to do good things, but I’m really made up of the same stuff as that person who we are all tempted to call not good.

And, life.

It’s a series of small steps, one in front of the other, sometimes tentative and sometimes running like life is one pleasant green light after the other and actually? you’d kind of like one red light now and then because, boy, you’d like to text, but you told your friend Christian that you wouldn’t text and drive all the way back in January; back when you were vulnerable, so you’re grateful that you didn’t make any binding decisions worse than that, to tell the truth.

But life is now and it’s then like tomorrow just like it’s then like yesterday, too. But when realized, it’s always just now. And while the future looms scary and unknown, once I finally do get to know it, it will be now and I’ve always been able to handle now.

And right at the moment, right now, to good and make sure that word is tagged in this post if it hasn’t already been, I need to sleep. The birds are singing like it’s Friday morning, which is probably because it is Friday morning. And the sky is brightening its tune, changing colors the way I change my clothes.

And dear God, I am hoping that my nows are good, like the way He planned, I guess.

Not even if I’m desperate.

Seriously, tell me to pull out the dirty ones from the hamper and just be on my way.

Because I don’t ever want to be in the car, en route to the gym, and notice that I can kind of see my legs through my leggings again.

And pretending that it looks worse than it is, trying to tell myself that maybe my leggings are just lighter in those particular places, doesn’t really help. Because black leggings should never really look skin colored, you know?

And then there’s the fact that I was wearing a sporty tank. One that cuts off right at the waist. And no amount of tugging it down could make it stay there.

Perfect.

But I hoped for the best anyway and, once I arrived, made my way right to the bathroom.  I knew there is a full length mirror there, so a thorough legging inspection could at least be more private.

I looked at my legs.
Yep.
See-through.
So not cute.
Ugh.
Because then I turned around and oh no.
It’s as I feared.
I gave my tank top one more pitiful little tug.
Major fail.

So I went directly to the track and proceeded to run faster than I ever had before. I figured that if I stay in constant motion, people will not be able to notice that my leggings are a little threadbare today. Especially in the areas that one would actually prefer coverage. I mean, who cares if people can see my calves? But of course, those look just fine. Amish-approved, almost. Covered in nice, respectable black. Not at all not very Christian, as some of my dear friends from tour would say.

Actually, those friends sure did like to keep me accountable.

As much as they possibly could.

And, knowing that I take my faith quite seriously, one of their greatest pleasures was informing me whether or not my behavior or attire was matching up to it. And boy, did they get out their soapbox at the gym, especially. I guess it was because I do, admittedly, have this one pair of pretty small shorts that I sometimes like to workout in.

I mean, I am on the taller side of height; there will be a lot of legs going on, no matter what.

But still, these shorts. Whenever I wore them, my friends Kevin and John would be so excited to tell me that they were not very Christian. It was actually quite the running joke between us and pretty soon they’d start saying that about things that I was doing that were neither here nor there, in terms of morality or even faith. Like suddenly the ham and cheese sandwich I was eating was not very Christian either. Ha. Love those guys.

But these leggings, they were certainly not very Christian. And I dearly wish I had noticed that before I left my house.

Because there  I was, stuck and just hoping that nobody looked too closely at me. And boy, you should have seen me go. If I never stopped, then I’d be a blur, right? I’d maybe even be mistaken for what looked like a solidly Christian blur, leggings nice and covering, and all that.

And I guess I have at least learned a valuable lesson: always look in the mirror before you strike out for the gym. If for no other reason than to just not feel a little exposed.

And also, don’t go buy $5 leggings and then act shocked when they turn out to be not very Christian, I guess.

And lastly, maybe just don’t buy $5 leggings at all.

Find them fascinating, really.

And this weekend I was among about 700 of them altogether. My friend Christian organizes an annual youth conference for the association of Vineyard churches here on the east coast and asked me to tag along this time. Even sing a few songs, which was so very fun for me.

And well, this was a youth conference, you know. Lots of wonderful hearts connected to funny mouths that sometimes say funny things. Like one kid who boldly stated that God has a Disney World life prepared here on earth for us.

And it was all I could do to not crack up laughing, bless his heart.

I texted this sentiment to my brother Jason and he replied: Well you must have been one of the ones who died on Thunder Mountain!

Remember that thing about laughing or dying? Yeah, I regularly choose to laugh. And often my friends and family do with me. When they’re not crying with me, of course.

And then, this other kid, he was so endearing. He was maybe fourteen and dressed in black, a la Johnny Cash. Though Johnny Cash never did have a green streak in his hair.

Now Pat (which is not his real name) had gotten the chutzpah to get up on the stage and say a prayer in front of all his peers. It was a good one, too. Though I cannot begin to tell you when I’ve ever heard a bad one. However, my mom’s blessing for the food the other night might have come close. Cause she quickly said, Thanks for the food, God! and that was it. Like God was standing at the stove, stirring the pots and pans and affectionately known as Ma to the neighborhood children. My sister and I started laughing. And laughing. And then each took our turn at the prayer too.

So maybe it was actually one of the best prayers I’d ever heard.

But back to Pat. After his prayer, which had obviously been extremely nerve-wracking for him, he wandered to the back of the room, right where me and my friend Shane were sitting. He made eye contact with us as he walked by and stated quite frankly: Well, that was weird.

Just like that.

And I figured that’s not such a bad statement and I could use it a little more in my own life lately. Along with some others, of course.

Shane and I wanted to laugh, but we took him seriously and told him he did a great job. At which point he started to just stand and hover directly in front of us and stare. He finally broke the silence by apologizing for standing and staring, but, he said, we just seem so happy.

I jumped in and said, We are happy! And then promptly remembered my life and quietly added the word kinda to amend my statement.

Then I told him I like his green hair, and, teasing him just a bit, asked if it was natural.

At which point he quite seriously explained to me that, Nobody has green hair.

Oh, my bad.

And when Shane got him a chair, this kid started to talk. He told us about what God had been doing in his life–told us something of a vision that he’d had–and though I couldn’t quite understand all of it, I knew that I wanted to be someone in his life who listens.

Because isn’t that what we all want? Somebody to listen to us. Show us, even more than tell us, that we’re important. Take our word for it when we emphatically state that nobody has green hair naturally.

And even though I am quite sure that God does not indeed have a Disney World life planned for all us; that something that predictable, that neatly engineered, just isn’t what life is about anyway, I see God in those moments of connection with others.

And I feel God deep inside me, even in the midst of  all that pain; not buried, but deep.

Not Disney World, but something interesting; something better than worse and something in which the love is worth the pain and the risk of weirdness is worth the rewards of stepping out and saying something in the first place.

And to that, I say thank you.
From the bottom of my broken heart.
Ha. That’s a cliche lyric, but in this case it works.

But on to my point.

Today I received a text from somebody, telling me he was sorry that this weekend must be especially hard for me.

And I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why this weekend was any harder than all the others.

Goodness, but I’d already weathered Thanksgiving. I counted my blessings with the kind of paranoia that belongs to those who’ve been robbed. I held onto them with a tight fist, like a child with their few sweaty, dirty pennies.

And I woke up Christmas morning with the realization that no amount of work I’d done on stage could prepare me for the acting job before me: Christmas was still Christmas to all my nieces and nephews and I didn’t want to change that.

And then there was my anniversary. Hahahahahahahahahahahaha.
My. Anniversary.

Drew had sent me an email that morning which basically said there are no words. And he’s right. But God knows I try. Desperately. And maybe one of these days I’ll dwarf what’s happened to me with some kind of powerful syntax.

But on my anniversary I kept telling myself that it was just another day. It’s like I was catholic and it was own version of the Hail Mary and maybe it did something because it sort of was just another day. You know, morning. Afternoon. Eventually the sun goes back to bed and you should too.

But who am I kidding? because no, it wasn’t a normal day. It was Opposite Day only this time the universe agreed with the outcome and there was no option to turn it back to right side up.

So yeah, those days were hard and horrible, but a lot of these days are like that in the sense that it’s ALL a freaking long, slow climb up out of grief.

And then there are the forgettable days that stand out too. Because somebody mentioned to you that “it must be so weird to have had somebody and now suddenly not.” And you politely agree because you know that they meant well by it, but Come On. Weird is a three-legged cat. Or a person who actually wants to eat olives. Or that picture of the man who is part tree that was shocking the world wide interwebs for a while there. But this–THIS–isn’t just weird, thank you.

And there’s every day and all the facebook statuses I read that remind me of how most people, it seems, didn’t lose the bet with love. And I get it, I do, because I was one of them, too, not too long ago. But right now I’m a long way from “Jessica Latshaw is spending the evening with the love of her life. Blah blah blah. Makeout makeout makeout.”

And I have to say the contrast isn’t awesome.

So I update about my own loves.
Family.
Friends.
Music.
Peanut butter and jelly.

And not necessarily in that order. If I happen to have an exceptional PB&J, it takes precedence, you know.

But again, back to that text. I mean, it’s Saturday, and Saturdays are hard, but so are Tuesdays, for that matter.

So finally I told my friend Christian about the cryptic text. He thought for a few seconds before he nailed it right on it’s big fat dumb head.

Valentine’s Day.
Oh, right.
That.

Just perfect.

But this year, it can still be about love, right? Maybe nothing pink, nothing involving doilies, but definitely a gutsy kind of love that keeps me from doing the dumb things that I now have every tool to do, and do quite well.

Sounds like God’s love to me.
And people’s love, too.
Because I’ve got some heroes in my life who won’t quit crowding me with care, and I’ll die trying to thank them enough.

So yeah, happy Valentine’s Day.

And here’s to this time next year not looking anything like it does now.

And then you tell me that it’s about time I took off my kid gloves and replaced them with a pair of gortex gloves. Oh, and a shovel.

But see–and maybe because, admittedly, I’ve never done it at all before and therefore haven’t had the chance to grow sick and tired of it–I actually quite enjoyed it.

But I’m thinking that had something more to do with the company I kept while shoveling–

the snow didn't stand a chance.

rather than the actual act of shoveling itself.

And aren’t we adorable, all bundled up, daring the cold to even try it with us? There’s Christian, there’s my brother Jonathan, and of course, I’m the one who’s a girl. And I only had to be told once to not dump the snow into the spot that we needed to shovel once we were finished with this one. After I had done it a couple times, of course, proving to Christian that it was no longer just a one time mistake on my part.

Oh.

Good point.

Forgive me; I’m a nube.

But a nube with a unique perspective. One that seemingly colors everything right now. Even as I was shoveling snow, I was thinking about it.

You know, the encompassing it. And it’s funny, there are a couple different ways people can ask me how I’m doing. Like this weekend, I was snowed in with some wonderful friends and family and a lot of the hours were spent in jolly good times with kids that know nothing else. But then there’d be a lull, the kids would be somewhere else, and someone would ask me, How are you doing? and they’d say it with the kind of inflection that let me know that they were thinking about it and it was okay for me to think about it too. Aloud, if I want.

Cause it’s always there.

Which makes me think of something else. That scene from Harry Potter with slightly batty Luna Lovegood, discussing why both she and Harry can see the creatures who pull their carriages, while others cannot:

And I thought about how the price feels too high to be in such a club. And how yes, you end up seeing more than you ever thought you would, but maybe you become a bit of a loon in the process. Maybe you’re at a party and you look around and everybody seems happy and normal and wow, their life looks generally good, and here you are blinking because while everybody else is looking at the tv, you can’t stop seeing the Thestrals.

And if you could be writing songs all of the time, you think you would be just fine with that. And actually, if you could choose, maybe you’d become a musical note anyway. You’d just make your little sound, hit it like a hammer whenever you’re needed, and there’s no confusion in that. There’s only a great big, deep breath of fulfillment in that.

And you’d be an E, you think. And depending on your mood, you’d either hang out with your minor friends or you’d hang out with your major friends but either way, you’d still be an E. You’d still be you; no guessing in that, snuggled right between a D# and an F natural, right where you belong.

And maybe the Thestrals wouldn’t bother you so much anyway, cause remember? You’re just an E. You just keep doing your thing, striking your note, and let it all happen around you.

Oh, but you’re not an E. You’re a complicated person who wakes up surprised all over again at the landscape around you. And you’re feeling crazy because you still want to write love songs, despite it. And yes, you might have a stronger urge than ever before to throw in an occasional curse word into the song, but you’d still like to write about love and wow, you still believe in it.

Thestrals and all, you still believe in it.