I’m actually not upset about the pigtails, I just think it’s a little funny. And not so glamorous. But life is not about being glamorous, is it? If that were the case, I should really stop wearing my favorite sweat pants to the gym. The ones with the holes. In the seat of the pants, that is. But, lucky for me, the point of life is not glamour, so LIVE ON, dear sweatpants, LIVE ON!

But, someone asked me to tell about the youtube video. Give some exposition. Like, how it happened to be that me and the fierce drummer just started jamming on the subway on a regular Tuesday evening on the A train (as if there is anything regular about a Tuesday evening on the A train!). So, here goes.

I had come from a series of classes and grocery shopping (life is not about glamour; case in point). I had my uke strapped to my back because I like to use the commute on the train to practice, if I can. You know, make the most of the 35 minutes, better myself and blah blah blah. And–before you go into a tirade about how PEOPLE JUST WANNA BE LEFT ALONE ON THE SUBWAY, SO JUST TAKE YOUR UKULELE AND USE IT TO BUILD A FIRE BECAUSE YOU’RE A HIPSTER AND SO YOU SURELY CANNOT AFFORD HEAT!–let me explain. I practice so quietly. Barely strumming at all–more just going over finger positions and picking, that kind of stuff.

In fact, yesterday I was doing just that, when I suddenly looked at the guy next to me and asked, “Does this bother you at all?” He looked irritated by having to strain to hear my voice over whatever was coming from his headphones, and, once he did finally hear me, he said ‘no’ in such an are-you-an-idiot? kind of tone, that you’d think I’d asked him if he’d like to eat one of the rats that live in the tunnels for dinner tonight.

I didn’t ask him that till later, after I was finished practicing. Duh.

Anyway, my uke was strapped to my back while waiting for the train at 59th. Fierce drummer and his friends walk up to me. “What’s that you got?” the drummer asks me. “A ukulele,” I say. “It’s not a cello?” someone else asks.

…

“It’s not a cello,” and I leave it at that.

“Why don’t you give me your number?” the drummer asks me.

“So we can jam?” I ask.

“…Among other things,” he answers.

Which is when I explain that he can give me his number, if he’d like, but I don’t regularly give my number out. He scrambles to find a pen. The A train shows up. I move to leave. He convinces his friends to jump onto my train with me, and then we all sit down. “Are you good?” the drummer asks me.

Which is usually when I don’t quite know what to say. And honestly, I’ve only been playing the uke for a few months–I’m not that good. I’m pretty good at the piano; pretty okay, I mean, but not really good at the uke. Thus, the practicing during my commute, see?

Another guy asks me, “You gonna sing some (which is when he makes yodeling noises–and I am not gonna attempt to spell yodeling noises. Not at 2:15 in the morning, anyway)?”

“No,” I say. “I’ll sing something better.”

So, then, I don’t even remember quite how it happens, but next thing I know, the drummer has started a beat–he wants something in 6, but we compromise on 4–and I am playing Ain’t My Friend.

Matt, who I didn’t know then, but have since gotten to know some, has taken out his phonecam and is recording it all. I start to sing. I start to rap. The guy in the SOX hat to my left starts to smile. The drummer’s friend starts to tell everyone what is happening; how we are strangers and it’s truly a serendipitous moment that we’re all experiencing.

And the magical part is that, well, we all seem to truly be in the same place. This place filled with music. Either listening to it or making it–or both–we’re here. Sharing one space. Together. What a lovely word: together.

Anyway, the rest is, as they say, history.

I am extremely SHOCKED over how that clip has found it’s way into so many different places. When Matt told me he was gonna put it on youtube and made sure to get my first and last name so he could tag me, I thought, Cool, maybe my parents will like to see it. 

And they do; my parents sure do like to see it.

I just didn’t think so many other parents would like to see it, too.

I am grateful. It was special. It involved every last person that was there; not any one of us could have made that happen alone.

Like I said, together. 

But then you find what’s called The Hurricane Simulator.

And your friend says she really wants to do it.

And it only costs two dollars.

And you only live once.

Or so they say.

So you get into a tiny booth.

And the wind blows and blows and you start to understand what it is that the Three Little Pigs must have felt.

And your hair is whipping you in the forehead.

And you’re laughing because–who does that?

Who pays two dollars to stand in a tiny booth and get blown on by some kind of industrial strength fan?

These people do, that’s who.

And another thing.

I got a very comfy shirt recently.

It has a message I hesitated over.

I wasn’t sure if it sounded a little too sad for my taste.

I wasn’t sure if it was what I wanted to proclaim from the fibers of my comfy shirt, you know.

But then I decided that, sad or not, it’s kind of true.

Not in every aspect; no, not at all.

But, in one sense, at least, love is hard to find.

However, I am gonna have to find another shirt, too.

And it will balance out that one.

And it will say that love is worth finding.

Because both are true.

And thank God for that.

Anyway. Like, despite the times that would make me feel unhappy. I mean, I’d rather not wait around for everything to line up before I can be like, high-five, world! You and I should be friends. We’re both tall and we both like to dance–what else do you need?

Can you do that? I’m about to find out. And I will tell you some things that make me happy. Things that I saw. Today. On one of those early March Saturdays that deceptively lead you to believe a long dress, tall socks, beat up boots, and a little denim jacket are enough to keep you warm. What a jokester you are, March. Cause it got cold. Colder than you led me to believe it would. And the way your wind whips my hair about and makes my dress look like saran wrap, all tight to my legs like that, sure is something else. Thanks. Thanks a lot.

But I saw three foxes today.
I have decided that seeing a fox means that something very good is about to happen. It also means that something very good is already happening. Cause, the fox. That you’re seeing. I mean, obviously.

Okay, so cheers to the happiness that may or may not be ours for the taking, but I am feeling gutsy enough to try taking it anyway.

*clink*

That is a good thing, a very beautiful and good thing. Because he is not here. He left before I knew to look for him; he left but pretended to stay. It was a trick and in the end, I think we were all tricked, even him.

And in the end, we all felt tricked.

Yes, even him.

Felt it the way you can feel a bruise, all soft and painful to the touch. It was the kind of powerful feeling that trumped all. It was the ace of spades revealed, and all the other feelings went running because they knew they were beat.

But now there are no tricks and there are no pretenses; now there is a heart that has been hurt but is being healed. The sun is kind enough to rise over and over again, marking the progress like a prisoner scratching off the days till freedom.

Now there is a story that is unfolding. To say I know it in its entirety would be premature. But to say that I know it’s good would be faith. And would be true.  I think that at some point I will look back at my life the way you talk to your friend about the movie you just saw together. You are leaving the theater, zipping up your jackets against the cold, and you say, “There was that one bit in the middle–man, I didn’t know if the girl would make it. I hadn’t seen that (insert terrible thing)_________ coming, and I didn’t think she’d recover. But whoa! What a story. And you know, I think the tension made the resolution that much more startling. I think the contrast was a sight to behold.”

I think I might say something like that someday about this life.

I think I might start saying something like that already.

Because the contrast between a sad place I have known and all this good and love and beautiful people that speak of a God who doesn’t just care from a distance and hope that I got his letter–the one stockpiled in Christian book stores and the bureaus of otherwise empty hotel rooms–but rather, he’s close. He’s more like a coach, yelling from the sidelines. Not cause he’s angry, no, but because he believes in me enough to fashion a plan that looks a lot more like a perfect fit than anything else I’ve ever seen. And he’s calling out to KEEP GOING! because he sees the open spot–right there, between those guys who wanna knock me over–but don’t worry, he says, cause he sees the open spot.

The whole I-sort-of-have-red-hair-now thing.

See, I went to the salon with the idea of trying to make them match my roots. I do like the blonde hair, but the maintenance! That color is demanding, what with the roots being all exhibitionists, starting their parade only the day after I get my hair all blonde again.

Also, I could feel my hair getting more and more grumpy about the bleach and I was starting to remember with fondness the good ole’ days when my hair was soft.

But when you go from so very blonde to darker, there has to be a filler involved, meaning some kind of crazy color that’s applied in between. So my stylist was applying a blood red (no lie, it was like the halloween special) color to my hair and all these people were passing by and telling me how awesome it looks and really? you’re not keeping it that color?! well, have you thought of it, at least?

No, I have never thought of making my hair match Ronald McDonald’s, believe it or not.

But.

Then other stylists were all saying that I should consider a red, because it just looks sooooooo good…So I caved. But I suggested something darker and there was a compromise and this is what happened cause what kind of work did we do today? TEAMWORK!

And I kind of really like it, actually.

My pop loves it and my mom said her standard line for when she doesn’t like my hair: You’d look beautiful bald, Jess.

Thanks, mom. What a rave review for my new do.

And what else?

Well, I was informed straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, that a certain someone is dating again. And the nice thing is that it really doesn’t hurt me at all. I actually was quite curious about it, asking questions, though he was hesitant to answer and finally said he didn’t know how appropriate it was to talk to me about this. So I told him, Well, it’s a whole lot easier hearing about the girl you are dating this time around than it was last time around.

And it’s true.

There’s actually no comparison.

And I also started therapy today. Sitting in the waiting room for my very first session was an interesting experience too; I kept looking around at the other people waiting and wondering what it was that they were in here for. I actually felt a little nervous, like I was about to audition.

But then my therapist introduced herself and I was immediately put to ease and guess what? I really like her. I think we are going to get along just fine and she also told me that she has no doubt that I am going to be just fine. She said it just like that, with as much assurance as you would tell me that my hair is now red and goodness, but it felt good to hear.

I am excited to meet with her again, actually. She has kind blue eyes and she’s already on my side and I can tell her about everything and it took me an hour to even tell her about some of it, so to paraphrase that book by Dr. Suess, Oh! The Places We’ll Go!

There’s no telling, but I have a good feeling about it.

Okay, so I could honestly say that sentence every day since Wednesday of this week. It’s just that I’ve not been able to braid my hair for so long now, that it was quite exciting once I realized I’ve achieved braiding length.

Exciting enough to last five days.

And tonight, I was unplaiting them before bed and suddenly felt like one of those lovely girls from Little Women. Only my braids were so short that I could only be Jo–after she had gone and cut her hair off and sold it in order to bring home some money for her family.

Except my reason for cutting my hair was not quite so altruistic. A Chorus Line wanted my hair short, so four hours and four hundred dollars of their money later, it was. And gone was my ability to wear braids.

But not anymore.

Thus, the five days worth of braids, I guess. Consider it my version of catching up.

But back to Jo March. I think I identified with her because she was a writer and a dreamer and generally lived her life appalled by the thought of settling down to some sort of status quo existence. She spent her nights awake later than was proper, spelling out the stories that lived within her, and her days with purple shadows under eyes and ink stains on her fingers.

And everyone thought she would marry her neighbor Lorry.
Even I hoped that she would, while watching the movie.
Though this may have had something to do with the fact that Christian Bale played Lorry and well, I thought he was cute.
But she wouldn’t be with him like that.
She couldn’t.
So she didn’t.

She cared tremendously for him, but there wasn’t that spark of recognition when she looked into his eyes, I think. There wasn’t the dreamer’s and co-conspirator’s acknowledgement; the realization that not all who wander are lost, as JRR Tolkien said, and so maybe they would spend some time wandering together and not minding so much that the destination was unclear as long as the story along the way was something to write home about.

And then when she met Friedrich–another writer; a German one–it’s like she came home, I guess. And you know, I hate to admit it, but I was shallow enough to mind. And part of it was because the actor who played Friedrich was not nearly so winsome and handsome as Christian Bale and I know, I know, I know: who cares?

Me, I guess. Or at least me then–and in my defense, it hadn’t been all that long since I had watched him in Newsies, and fallen a little in love with him as the singing and dancing tough-as-nails orphan who went as Cowboy and dreamt of Santa Fe. And I guess the other part was that, upon watching this story, I was a little afraid that I was doomed to marry an unattractive German man whose accent would confuse my parents and who would constantly be apologizing for both World Wars when he wasn’t writing poetry and  generally replacing the th sound with a grand old z sound.

Blame it on my identifying with Jo March, but the thought struck me and no, I did not relish it.

Oh, but life has taken me down some paths I never chose, but found myself walking anyway since then, and now Friedrich looks like a sweet walk in the park. And more than that–I think he and Jo had a similar view on life.

On magic.

On the point of it all and how it’s chiseled and defined by every living moment. Even the ones where it feels like nobody is looking. Even when we’re listening to the radio and suddenly somebody whom you’ve never met is singing about the father that he never met and your heart breaks a little and you’re more aware of life in general and there being a point to it all.

Or when you read a text and it’s a friend telling you in May that she’s already thinking about your birthday in June and tears are forming in the corners of your eyes because you never thought this birthday would be good–not since November, at least.

And as silly as it sounds, you’ve been stealing yourself for the worst since then. Thinking that this year would be hard and terrible and something to survive–certainly not something to celebrate!–but here it comes, another milestone and here are your loved ones, wanting to help you celebrate and you can’t help but see that yes, there is something worth celebrating after all.

And there it is, again: more of that point to it all.

And I think that’s why Jo fell in love with Friedrich. I think he got it or maybe he got her but anyway, they were the kind of kindred spirits that surpassed some of the things otherwise known as barriers. Even silly ones like accents. And being German, in general.

Though I still don’t want to be with Friedrich, per se.

Which is why it is a very good thing that I am not actually Jo March, I suppose.

They all start the same way, mostly.

I generally get so hungry that I am reduced to opening my eyes. Nice and slow. Maybe even one at a time.

But about being hungry–every morning I wake up to a belly that acts like I’ve never put anything in it for the entirety of its existence. And believe me, this is not true. So I’m all, Listen, belly. I got up in the middle of the night, not even five hours ago, in order to creep up to the kitchen and eat; can’t you at least act grateful? But it’s all, WAAaaaaaaaaa!!!! and my reasoning is completely lost on it until I eat some cereal.

But before I get to the cereal part, I blearily walk to the bathroom and attend to business.

But sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and bam! I see my hair.

And it looks like I was visited in the night by The Hair Fairy, who is maybe The Milk Fairy’s second cousin once removed, but was definitely a stylist on the set of The Wedding Singer.  And she comes in with her curling iron, her hairspray, and her wrists that can tease hair a hundred strokes a minute.

And by the time I get up in the morning, I look like this.
And oh, baby, those bangs. So I document it, because–well, look at it. Flock of Seagulls should totally ask me to do their reunion tour. I can play keys, guys. And I can harmonize to whatever you throw my way. Oh, and I have a little treewood guitar, but please don’t ask me to use a pick. I’ll make up for the lack of a pick with my bangs, though, promise.

But then it gets better.

Cause I decide to run my hands through my hair, embellishing The Hair Fairy’s work just a bit, and I get this.

And as you can see, it makes me totally happy.
I’m so in with Flock of Seagulls.

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.

You know, the kind when you’re absolutely positive the cat eats the butter–you saw him doing it the other day, in fact–and yet, you now give in to a kind of laziness-induced-denial as you butter your toast with the exact same butter that you are now telling yourself has probably most definitely not been licked by the cat. And you do this because at least this butter is soft and you hate getting out new butter and how hard it is when you do cause then any attempts to spread it usually rips the toast.

And really, there are so many other and bigger life issues that are knocking on the door of your attention right now, that this case of butter that may or may not have been licked by the cat has been crowded out. And if you happen to succumb to some ill-fated obscure disease that is only contracted through a cat’s saliva, then hey–one less problem to deal with: life.

And you let the mascara go for the day because let’s face it, you’ll be crying before you make yourself your usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch anyway. And really, you hate how tears clump up the mascara and make it look like you have maybe four eyelashes, five if you’re lucky. Might as well just call it a wash and though they appear lighter, your eyelashes at least look plentiful.

But then on the bright side, there is your mom and she’s telling you how much she loves your hair and there’s you, soaking this in like it’s somebody telling you the last three months have been the world’s best and cruelest April Fool’s joke ever. Ha ha ha, good one, now let’s all get our lives back, okay?

But your mom–she’s not greatly liked your hair for a while now. Not as much when it was dark dark dark and certainly not when it was one inch long on a good day. She’s a true hippie, the kind that put flowers in the soldiers’ guns to protest the Vietnam war, and just like she wants everyone to live in peace, she wants every girl to live with long hair. So now that it’s getting there, as in, it no longer looks like a baby chick’s fuzz, she’s giving you all the encouragement that goes with it. And the color she finds outstanding.

And you can’t be entirely positive, but you suspect that moms tell their children to make sure they don’t stare directly at your hair for the same reason you should never stare directly at the sun: blindness is sure to follow. And maybe you should invest in sunglasses to hand out to passerbys, just to avoid any possible allegations against you in the future.

And then there’s your sister. She’s cute and she thinks that you are absolutely medieval with your tampon choice. And yes, I said tampon. Does that word really surprise anyone? I’ve been getting my period for awhile now and though I might not have been so bold about it the summer I turned thirteen and carried toilet paper around in my purse because of the irrational fear that, once I got my period, every public bathroom would spontaneously run out of toilet paper, I’ve grown used to it by now. It doesn’t embarrass me so much anymore. As I told my brother recently after an audition, When you’ve been to hell, the littler things don’t tend to scare you so much.

But just because my tampons are green, not as in the color, but as in friendly to the environment and blends in with the grass and the trees, metaphorically speaking, she says they are old fashioned. I guess they should be plastic and eventually float down Lums Pond or something. Which is a local pond that will forever remain stamped in my memory as really really gross.

Because once when I was a kid we couldn’t swim there since it was polluted. When inquiring what that meant, my parents assured me it meant there was all kinds of things that belonged in a toilet that were now in this pond and dear God, I was grateful to have been spared swimming in that.

For years, I couldn’t even drive past a restaurant in the area called Lums without thinking of pollution and then wondering what kinds of things that belonged in toilets were in that poor restaurant.

Let’s just say it made an impression.

And so it’s a mix, which is how most of these days are. And it’s certainly interesting. Life, I mean. It’s certainly not leaving me sleeping through the story, wondering if anything is ever gonna develop or change or if that old plot will just go on and thicken anyway.

Cause it has.

It’s developed and changed and the plot has gotten so thick that it doesn’t even fit in the place that is usually reserved for plots anymore. I’ve had to go out and get a whole new plot spot, folks, it’s changed that much.

But there you go, it’s just one of those days, I guess.

The fact that there are some things that I can just count on, I mean.

For instance, no matter what color my hair is, there are a few consistencies to my life.

Like how my hair often goes unwashed.

x

gimme some sugar

And how dogs like to nibble on me.

no really, that means he likes you

Come to think of it, perhaps the unwashed hair is why dogs like to nibble on me.

*I am using some hyperbole here. I do shower. Mostly.