…

Well, thanks, Jonathan–cause, if it wasn’t before, well, now it’s weird!

Just kidding.
I just think he’s funny.
And intense.
It tends to run in my family.
Did I mention playing dodgeball out in California with a couple siblings of mine?
We played mostly with kids.
And, let’s just say I sure didn’t mind informing seven year olds when I got them out.
Informing them repeatedly.
Or at least until they walked off the court.
CAUSE THE GIRL IN THE PINK DRESS AND GLASSES WAS OUT, GOSHDARNIT!
We had a good laugh over that.
Like I said, intense.
And I can assure you, I brought my A game to dodgeball.
But it had nothing whatsoever to do with possible suitors and everything to do with possibly winning.

And you’re standing there in the dark, clutching a fist full of rocks you’ve scooped from underneath your feet; you’re not wanting to get close enough to whatever it is that’s terrifying you to actually throw them, but at least you’re armed now, and if not dangerous, well–you’re no longer just an innocuous girl. You’re not waiting to be a victim, legs and arms exposed because you were running and wearing shorts and a tank top and you never did expect to be so scared and vulnerable.

Not tonight, anyway.

But then your brother laughs just a little. “It’s just the sprinklers going off!” he says. And you laugh at yourself too and you let go of those rocks and they hit the ground with a thud, respectively, until you’re no longer feeling so weighed down by the weapons you clutched while you were fearing the worst.

Sprinklers, that’s what they were.

And now when you pass those sprinklers, you laugh a little inside your head. And you remember that what you feared so badly was something that couldn’t hurt you, after all.

So you don’t need to walk around with rocks in your hand; you don’t need to run away so fast; you don’t need to fear that every sound you hear is the worst.

Because sometimes the monsters you fear really are just sprinklers.

Which she wasn’t, thankfully.
And considering the fact that she never did marry King Henry VIII, that’s probably not gonna happen anytime soon.

But the thing is, I’ve been feeling like that chicken lately. The one with its head cut off, I mean.

And it’s funny how when it rains, it seems to pour.

( Yes, let’s see just how many cliches I can fit in this one post!).

Because I, along with my brother Jonathan, have been busy putting a musical–The Story of Esther–on its feet, and well, it’s the day of the show, y’all (which sadly, is NOT a cliche, but it is a quote from Waiting for Guffman so should count for something, right?)! But all this to say that this week has been tech week.

No problem.
Except that this week is also when a casting company has decided they want to see me.
Every day since Wednesday.
Now both are awesome–Esther and getting seen by this casting company–but together?

Let’s see what kind of fancy footwork can be done to make it work (as Tim Gunn would say!).

So wednesday I drove to NYC and drove back for rehearsal. Then I recorded with Shane. And “recording with Shane” meant that I plopped down on a pillow and fell asleep while Shane and Pat worked hard.

When I asked Shane if I could hear the tracks later he asked me if I knew the story of the Little Red Hen. He was teasing, but still. Good point.

Thursday I drove back to the city, danced to the point where I could have maybe thrown up, had I been the kind that does that, which I don’t, and then drove back to Delaware. I stopped to sing three songs with Shane at a concert and then made it to help run a cue to cue tech rehearsal into a dress rehearsal.

And then today.
I HAVE to be back by seven. I accompany this show and nobody else even knows the music remotely. So I got myself a real nice little Amtrak ticket and man, does it feel luxurious to be all relaxed and not having to pay attention or worry that I’ll get stuck in traffic or even sit up cause, girl! you’re driving! that ain’t no joke!

Instead, I’m all relaxed on the train. And I’m On my way back from NYC and it takes not even an hour and a half to get there, compliments of the speedy Acela Express.

And I’ll make the show tonight.
And tomorrow I don’t have to get up and go to NYC, which sort of feels like a day off, by this point.

So yes, this chicken has found her head once again.

Especially ones that are perfectly square, not necessarily rectangular. Though, I would never turn a rectangular card away. But there’s just something about the symmetry of a square that makes me happy.

And then when you add some good words on top of a square card?

Well, it’s real, REAL nice.

Like this one.

I saw it today and I had to read it again and again. And then, well, I already believed it, I think, but I started to believe it a little more.

And something else I like are photo shoots with my sister.

Her name is Jenna Veronica but at some point, my brother Jonathan and I gave her the nickname of Jarna Vern and it got enough of a reaction that it stuck. I guess after years of still being called that, Jenna has finally stopped fighting it and now she just goes with it.

And look at her with her yellow sun glasses.

In case you were wondering, I approve. Very much so.

And I think Jenna was maybe my biggest fan during A Chorus Line. Because that crazy girl saw the show at least five times. If that’s not love, I’m not sure what is.

And today we, along with some other members of our fantastic family, went to the beach.

And it was warm in the car and even on the boardwalk.

But not so much on the actual beach.

So we mostly lay like this,

talking about how it’d be nice if the wind would dial it down a bit.

And then we laughed, because how annoying to tell the wind to dial it down?

And we did a good job of pretending that we were warm enough.

But there’s a difference between being truly warm and being warm enough.

If you’d like to know the difference, just go on down to the Delaware beaches in the beginning of April.

But try to go with a few people you love, it’s better that way.

And try not to bite them.

But if you absolutely have to–and I understand if you do–try to bite in such a way that it doesn’t actually hurt.

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.

I just read his post about a first that he recently experienced. And um, it’s one heck of a first, I’ve got to say.

Which reminds me of today.

As if I really need a reminder.

As if the email I got from outofyourlife.com isn’t enough. The one confirming that they did, indeed, receive the breakup box I sent them with all the jewelry that has lost its meaning. And oh yeah, it ends with this special piece of encouragement:

Who needs a honeymoon when you can have a fresh start?

And though the only thing that could have made that sentence better is if they had ended it with the word, Tiger–well, who indeed?

And hahaha, who writes this stuff anyway? To which, when I asked him, my friend replied (to this rhetorical question!), Well, you could! And yes, I certainly could. Dear God, but I could.

But I guess another answer to the question, Who writes this stuff anyway? could be: someone whose honeymoon must have really sucked. And actually? I could use a nice little trip to somewhere warm right about now. But yes, it’s true: I could also use a fresh start. No, actually I plan on using a fresh start. And I’m not totally clear on the details yet, but honestly, it’s good. And it’s wide open. And I think there are a lot of windows there.

Kind of like the room I dream of.

It’s got lots of space and doesn’t bother to crowd itself with anything other than music and words and people who love them both. Maybe even some dancing, too. Definitely some dancing. And there is wood, beautiful wooden floors that remind you of forests and how sometimes they lay down and let you walk on them and goodness, but we should be more grateful for this. And then there are large windows and they let in the kind of light that is kind, that illuminates the beauty; and that only allows the safest people to witness the parts of you that are the reason America spends so much money on lotions and creams and padding and things that suck you in. And yes, there’s a grand piano and yes, there’s a guitar made of treewood, and yes, there are many other instruments there because I have good friends who like to sing their stories, too.

And perhaps I will call it the Fresh Start Room. And I will sit in it and make my music and come under the spell of redemption over and over again and not once will I think, I wish I were at Sandals, enjoying a honeymoon with a man who doesn’t love me. Because that sounds a lot like looking at what isn’t and why would anyone waste any time doing that when, look: it’s just about springtime. If that isn’t God’s way of reminding all of us about a fresh start, then fine, I quit.  Cause I don’t want to be in a dance that isn’t new again and again anyway; I might as well just watch tv.

Which is why I went and filed the papers today. For real. Signed and stamped and organized and copied and paid for by a check from my recently opened bank account.

And because my marriage has ended with a blow that Delaware kindly cloaks in the word misconduct, this will not take so long after all.

Two to three weeks.

For the state to recognize it’s over.

Although, really, it ended back in August. Well, that’s assuming that it ever really began. In a real way that takes two people, I mean. But yes, whatever it was, ended back in the late summer. It just took me a minute to realize. Okay, it took me a lot of minutes to realize. And added up, I think all those minutes spell H-E-L-L, at least compared to anything else I’ve ever experienced on earth.

And now I’m looking forward to these new minutes. I think they’ll be better. I think they’ll be full of grace. I think I’ll be okay. Dear God, may it be.

But now it’s not if.

Whoa.

It’s. Not. If.

And it kind of terrifies me, I guess.

See, I liked the certainty of marriage. Took the suspense out of things in a good way, you know? And while I was married, I never once wished that I wasn’t. I was happy to be totally unavailable while on tour–at least, romantically. I was content to skip the drama of a showmance, so to speak.

And it was something to lean on. Something, at least, that was settled. Who I was gonna marry, I mean, because I had already married him.

And now I am ridiculously back here, where I barely know a thing about what my tomorrows hold for me. I know none of us know exactly what the future looks like, but most can at least count on the fact that the person they married will be around to help them do their taxes come April 1st.

And sometimes I can see mystery and wonder in all these blank pages before me; but sometimes it just looks like a whole lot of work, filling in all those pages.

And I wonder if I am even reaching for the right color at all. And there are so many people who love me and tell me what colors to use and sometimes I am just tired and I decide that I’m gonna make this page green, so be it, and if you don’t like green, then you must not like the earth cause there’s a whole lot of green here so, honey, get used to it.

Ahem.

I remember a dear friend who I met on my first tour saying to me, Oh, I told my mom that I met the girl I want to marry…Only, I’m not sure her husband will approve…And we laughed together because no, my husband wouldn’t approve and there was no thought of anything between us ever because duh! I was irrevocably and happily married.

But little did I know that it was revocable.

And so here I am today, strangely available.

It’s funny, my brother Jonathan is quite fascinated by this new shift in my life. Don’t get me wrong, he’s also devastated and we’ve cried together about it, but Jonathan has always been a bit of a matchmaker. We were at the mall the other day and he leaned in really close to me, saying, Are you just always looking around for available guys? I mean, do you just have your eyes peeled?

I laughed because, no. I don’t always have my eyes peeled for guys to perhaps someday get to know. And I don’t think that I’d go looking at the mall if I did find myself with my eyes peeled.

And peeled.
What a gross way to describe your eyes.

But the weird thing is that someday, by God’s grace, there will be someone in my life. Firmly and wonderfully there. Happy to be there. And right now I haven’t the faintest idea who he might be.

And I know, this could be wonderful.
But sometimes this really sucks.

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.

People always warn you about getting that gnome on the inside of your wrist; that maybe you won’t want to be holding your grandchild someday and reminded of the night you took those awful shots and then thought it was a good idea to get inked. And that somehow you found the one tattoo artist who specializes in gnomes. Specializes. As if gnomes are special.

But what’s the big deal?

Things change.

Because I knew a guy who had a naked lady tattooed on his bicep. But then he met Jesus and, I’m not sure if it was Jesus who said something or the other people he knew who had also met Jesus, but he suddenly didn’t feel so comfortable with that poor lady, exposed for all the world to see like that.

So the next time I saw him, the tattoo was different. And although it wasn’t exactly Amish approved, a bikini was something, and all the unfortunate people in the world who were walking around with gnomes on their wrists suddenly felt some hope that they, too, could find some kind of redemption.

Although I’m not sure that putting a bikini on a gnome is the answer.

But see? Things change.

And you know what is just hilarious in all this mess?

I’ve never dealt so well with change.

Not when I was twelve and skinny with legs that were too long for the length of my jean shorts and went off to Chautaqua, New York for a summer dance intensive.

By. My. Self.

I remember the small wicker basket of plastic flowers that I picked out at my parents’ suggestion; something to make my dorm room in which I’d be staying a little more homey. But if you’re trying to make something homey, then it’s all too clear that you’re not at home.

You’re just not.

And that change hurt.

The kind of hurt that had me ducking into the bathroom for a good cry enough times to probably make my mom wonder if she should pick up some cranberry juice for my obvious bladder infection.

And then there was the change that happened every time one of my brothers moved out of the house. Like lemmings, they went until it was just me and my sister left on the second floor; they went until it was just me walking home from church late Sunday nights all alone, my brother Jonathan no longer making the trip across the yard with me.

And I’d sing a song from Les Miserables, On My Own, to the stars and I know, can you say dramatic?

But those changes?

Oh, they were sweet changes, by comparison. Changes that make me think of soft bunnies, dolphins swimming, and slippers that are fluffy and bright yellow and basically perfect.

I didn’t know about the changes that could make you realize that nothing on this earth, not even tattoos, is actually permanent. That you can bet your life on a few words, even nail them to your wall, painted on a piece of wood so all the world can see:

I will always go to sleep with your name in my prayers and you in my heart.

And then it’s the world’s best and worst joke.

And it’s old and timeless because you’ve heard the story before. You know about Arthur and Guinevere and then along comes Lancelot who sucked then and sucks now. Not to mention the way that Guinevere fell from grace in her own sucky manner too.* But it’s not like the kinds of betrayals that end relationships are original or anything. It’s not like Tiger Woods tried out something brand new.

But well, it’s new to me. It’s like life is a knock knock joke that I thought I knew. And I thought I’d laugh at the punch line again, just like all the other times, but I wasn’t prepared for knock knock, who’s there? nobody.

That was shocking.

And a big um, effing, change.

Can I say effing?

Or should I try to make it better with a bikini, just like that guy did after he met Jesus?

No, probably saying effing while wearing a bikini would not improve my situation.

But I guess I’m still reeling from the change. I guess going into our old place, seeing some good guys carry my piano from our old home to my parents’ home once again, was symbolic of this change.

And that’s why I was once again ducking away into a room for a good cry tonight. Only this time there was no little wicker basket with fake flowers, no attempt to make anything even feel more like home because why even try?

Things change.

At least they do here on earth; at least they have for me.

*I’m sorry, but I must point out how in just two sentences I used three different versions of the word suck. Somebody get me a gold star. An effing gold star.