Anyway.

Today was an interesting, sunny day.

Lots of people out and about.

I mean, it is New York City. The place is jam-packed with people. That’s partly why I love it. Humans are fascinating, I think. Never boring. Especially not today.

First, there is the guy outside Penn Station. He comes out of nowhere and envelopes me in a huge hug. My sense of boundaries are pushed and prodded with that one, I have to admit. But he is nice enough. Says something about my smile and the angels. But then he mentions football, so I am confused. Maybe he is still high on the super bowl win or something, I don’t know.

Then, there is the guy in midtown, on seventh avenue. Looks to be somewhere in his fifties. A business man, dressed up and stuff.

He slowly walks up to me. “You are so exotic,” he tells me, making this Pennsylvania born and bred girl laugh a little. “I just love your sense of style, too,” he mentions, and I thank him. “You’re from here?” he asks, and I nod my head, not wanting to delve into where I’m from with him, so here suits me just fine. Sure, I’m from seventh avenue today. 

“Well,” he continues, “You probably want some young guy–with muscles and all that–but that’s overrated.”

I just listen.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asks, before saying, “If I give you my number and promise you that I will be the best white b*tch you’ve ever had, will you call me?”

Is this happening? I wonder and then realize he’s actually waiting for an answer.

Waiting for me to either accept or refute his offer to be the BEST WHITE B*TCH I’VE EVER HAD. I am not sure there’s any competition; I am not sure, in fact, that I’ve ever even had one, to be honest.

I quickly mumble something about how my *boyfriend* would not like that.

The guy leans in and lowers his voice, “But he wouldn’t have to know,” he tells me, like we two could share the best secret known to man.

Oh, what fun.

“That wouldn’t work for me,” I tell him. “I’m honest.”

He looks disappointed and starts to walk away, but before he does, he asks, “Your boyfriend–how old is he?

“Twenty-seven,” I say, pulling a number out of the air.

He shakes his head. “You shoulda been with a twenty-seven year old when you were in high school,” he mutters as he makes his exit.

I don’t think my parents would agree with that sentiment.

And that might have been the weirdest exchange I’ve had with a stranger to date. Or at least, it’s in the top three, I’d say.

Gosh, best white b*tch I’ve ever had. 

And I walked away, folks; just walked away.

THANK GOD.

And then my therapist up and moved to Nashville. What can I say? Therapists have dreams, too, I guess. And in this case, my therapist had a husband with a dream.

But I have also met a few times with a counselor in Pennsylvania. I don’t meet with him often, because, frankly, I cannot afford it. But honestly, I am thinking that, for me, rich might look like voice lessons and therapy. LOTS AND LOTS OF BOTH. Expensive, wondrous mechanisms for better living, which I cannot afford at the moment.

But I wake up to a text this morning from my counselor: I have a cancellation at 12:30 today, if you wanna stop by and see me.

I groggily think about it (I have just woken up, after all), and realize that I cannot afford it. So, regretfully text him such.

No charge, he writes back, I think it’d be good to talk; you’ve been on my heart. 

WHAT.
OKAY.
DONE.

So I go and I tell him all of it. The little things that have been sticking to my heart over the past two weeks or so. The big things that have made me cry. The stuff that can only be described as: GOD DID THAT. The fears I still feel. The hopes I had thought were folded up, hidden in boxes and stored for another season, because surely they weren’t needed now. Not when nothing was happening. Over and over again–so many almosts and close calls and maybe next times and “keep your chin up, kid”s–to the point that, if people asked me what was happening in my life, I simply said not much and tried to change the topic over to their life.

Because I didn’t know how appropriate it’d be to tell them how I’d cried into my pillow last night again. How I still sometimes thought of him and wondered what he was thinking. How life could sometimes feel like a deadline that was yesterday, always yesterday. How my dreams scared me because I felt their power to usher in more disappointment into my life–felt it palpably. How I still think life is the most beautiful and poignant thing I’ve ever seen. How the sunset makes my heart hurt sometimes, it is so stunning. How the stars feel like friends with kind faces. How, in a lot of cases, I find television boring compared to all the stories that are unfolding around me. How Christmas parties are painful. How talks with friends are oxygen.

So, right: I don’t say all that, because who has the time or inclination to listen?

But I said a lot of that–adding a few details into the mix–today. And I feel so, well, taken care of. I probably didn’t even realize I needed to talk until afterward; but I did. And it happened. Not even because I could afford it; I couldn’t. Not even because I knew I needed it; I didn’t know.

But because there is a provision in my life that goes beyond what I have; it looks at what I need and then it gives me more than that, even. And everywhere I look, I see the provision of God.

Like I said: taken care of.

And today I felt it. Again.

Snow happens every year; but it always feels new, anyway. I like the parts of life that are like that; the parts that make my eyes widen in wonder while the rest of me feels all of seven years old again.

I am now working with a manager. He is kind and funny and smart and moves things along. He has worked with people whose names are now brands, basically. He says I am magical; to contact him, contact him, contact him. For any reason.

I have a hard time with this kind of stuff sometimes. There is a part of me that is not magical or adorable or even likable, really. It is the part that is insecure. The part that does not want to be a burden–not to anyone–but, especially not to someone who knows more about the music business than I do about the color of my hair. Which isn’t saying much, lately, because I really am not quite sure what color my hair is.

But, this is the part of life when I step it up. I see the open doors and I walk through them. Like I belong there. I do not quietly hang back, as is my nature–I take whatever has been given me and I weave it into a bright and shiny LIFE. Quietness and hanging back has its place, sure–but usually just when you’re at a wedding and the bride is about to toss the bouquet. THAT IS THE TIME TO BE QUIET AND HANG BACK.

Not when you have a manager who is now on your team. Wants you to succeed. Believes that you will. You effing will.

And then there is the part of you that believes that you have, you effing have. You know it when you look inside your heart and find all the beautiful people there. When you realize that you’re doing what you can with the gifts God has given you. When you continue to be you–because that’s all any of us ever can be. That’s the highest calling.

To be the best darn you imaginable.

Cheers to that.

And to my manager.

Cause he’s really very great.

The sound man snapped at me while sound checking. Confession: whenever someone yells at me, I instantly feel a). five years old again, b). deeply hurt, and also c). kind of mad. But, I simply thanked him for his work and smiled.

Like this, I guess.

One guy came up to me and told me that I look “much taller!”

“Taller than…what?” I asked. “Than on facebook,” he said, “And thinner, too,” he added.

Which doesn’t say much for my pictures on facebook, I guess.

There is not much else I’d rather be doing than singing my songs for people. And every time I get to do this, I am reminded of this fact once again.

I also sometimes get the irrational fear that, now that people are actually noticing, What if I never write another song again?! Sort of like the other day when I was hand washing my delicates (which is an even more embarrassing word than just plain underwear, I think; and don’t even get me started on panties!), and the socks, in particular were taking a very long time to dry (I guess we say delicates because socks aren’t considered underwear, right?). I literally entertained the thought that my socks may just never ever dry. Like, AT ALL.

But guess what? My socks are now dry. Therefore, since that irrational fear did not materialize, I can also trust that I will continue to write songs.

Yes, I will write songs while wearing dry socks and life will be good.

Because, really, does it get any better than that?

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. 

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?

Today, I marveled at life. I’m feeling all whole and full inside lately. Buoyant, even. Like a little apple that continues to happily bob along in the water.

It’s really good. Life is really good. And lately, I’ve been feeling it.

“Nothing cataclysmically amazing has happened,” I told my friend Kevin who called me from LA tonight, “But I’m just feeling so good inside.”

“That’s great, Jess!” he said. “And it’s okay to feel happy just, you know, like normally. Even if there aren’t great events that are making it so.”

This is good to know.

And my mom–she is good to know. 50% Italian and 100% adorable, that one. And since I am half of whatever she is, I suppose that makes me 25% Italian and 50% adorable.

50% is better than nothing!

Oh, and I like to make cards. “I am happiest–absolutely thrilled!–when I am making something,” I told my friend Nick tonight. “Even if it’s just a puppy sign. My heart sings when I am busy creating, is the thing.”

Speaking of making things, these friendships have been years in the making. Decades now, actually. I’m a lucky girl, to have two such as them love me.

And who doesn’t like tiny mittens? They were on the outside of a gift from a new friend this year. And I knew just what to do with them.

People–the ones in my life, specifically–helped a lot with that.

And my parents got me a microphone. One that I can plug into my computer and record songs in such a manner that they don’t sound entirely terrible. MERRY CHRISTMAS, INDEED.

Favorite quote from church this morning had to be while my mom and I were listening to my pop give the message. She leans over to me and I’m expecting to hear something–anything, really–other than what I hear. Maybe spiritual. Maybe Christmasy. But, not this: “I hope your pop stops speaking soon, so I can put the turkey in the oven.”

If you knew my mom, you’d know that is such a very uncharacteristic thing for her to say. She hardly ever cares about putting turkeys in ovens. But Christmas day is different, I suppose.

Anyway.

You wanna hear my new microphone put to work? Um, if you do, you’re in luck, cause I recorded this tonight. Track after track after track of vocals and uke and claps and clicks. Not to be confused with clucks.

I am not, after all, a chicken.

sdfds

“No!” I say, quickly. “I love the name Jane; I want Jane to be my daughter’s middle name someday,” I tell her.

“Why?” she asks. “Why do you love my name?”

“I love how it sounds, the nice, long ‘a’ vowel sound; how short a word it is, and yet how timeless.”

I don’t tell her that it’s vintage and I love vintage things. Because she is older than I and has already mentioned this once or twice, to the point where I think this must be a big deal for her–but maybe not in a good way–so calling her name vintage might not make her happy.

“Thank you for liking my name,” she says, before she goes in to sing.

“It’s perfect,” I tell her.

I leave the audition and go to meet a friend. We are going to try out a bakery we found. It’s French. When we get there, he orders a sandwich and I order soup. The waitress places what must be a sandwich down in front of him, though the only reason one would know that is because that’s what the menu says. It looks nothing like a sandwich. “This is the strangest dish I’ve ever seen in my life,” my friend says.

I offer him some of my soup.

It actually looks like soup, too.

Bonus.

I go off to meet more friends. They have an extra ticket to American Ballet Theatre’s Nutcracker. I am mesmerized. Riveted. And then laughing. Because there are bumble bees in ABT’s version of the Nutcracker. They dance around on stage during waltz of the flowers and look basically ridiculous. I don’t even know if it’s supposed to be funny or not; it doesn’t matter, though, because it is.

And in this little sequence of the events of my little life, I am content. In fact, my heart wells up with joy. I feel grace on me so tangibly, like the unmistakable heat from the sun. Nothing is perfect; everything is wonderful. I don’t always feel this way, but today I do and so, if you don’t mind, I’m not in any kind of rush to tomorrow.

If you cannot be high on life, then that is the next best thing, I guess.

It’s Christmas time and I decided that, gosh darnit, I’m gonna effing enjoy this holiday. I’m tired of being sad and haunted by memories that keep me quiet and pensive and picking the skin off my lips. I mean, my lips hurt, for goodness’ sake.

So.

So far, so good.
Kinda.
I trimmed the tree. Literally. Took out my pop’s weed whacker-ish gizmo and just started giving that tree the haircut of its life. “Jess! Be careful–you’re making him all short and spiky,” my mom yelled from the ground.

“I have a plan, mom,” I said in the kind of voice God probably uses with me all the time. You know, when I’m doubting that he knows what he’s doing. Or I’m just generally wondering if he even remembers I’m still here. Like he suddenly looks down, sees me doing yoga or something, does a double take and announces to Archangel Gabriel, “Wait–Jess survived that mess a little while back?! She’s still going?”

“Just like the Energizer Bunny,” says Gabriel, never one to miss the chance to reference a popular commercial from the nineties.

And then God forgets about me all over again as He and Gabe reminisce over that darn, unstoppable bunny.

Oh, I’m kidding.
I know God knows about me. And cares much more about me than He does the Energizer Bunny. And I also bet Gabriel makes way better jokes than that.

But, the tree. I trimmed and decorated it within an inch of its spiky green life. And then my parents and I sang carols. I played the piano. It was a scene straight out of Little Women, only I’m hoping I don’t catch scarlet fever from the people in the woods and die. I mean to say, I hope the piano playing and carol singing is where the similarities end.

And then I went to a Christmas party last night. I was naive about how it’d make me feel. And excited to make shake paws–a delicious cookie/candy treat that I learned about from Darby. I made half a million of them, at least, tried to dress festively, and showed up to my dear friends’ party.

The one filled with couples. Smiling, laughing couples who talk about their kids and their spouses and their ugly Christmas sweaters. And that last one, at least, I had a chance to fit in with that–but I ran out of time to find one. So my one hope at solidarity with these lovely people was
squashed when I wore a sweater that was neither ugly nor Christmas.

And it’s not that I don’t love that people are married. I do. Or that I don’t love that people are in love. Gosh, but I love
that fact.I Believe in that fact. It’s just–the last time I attended this same kind of party–I was one of them. And now I am not. And the contrast hit me again last night. Hit me hard.

So I left early enough to be considered tacky at best and rude at worst, and went and rapped and played the piano for a while by myself.

What–that’s not what you do when you’re feeling desperately discouraged?

Oh, and to top it all off, I recently received an email from Facebook. And it said:

[My Ex's Name] has scheduled to delete your profile page within fourteen days.

I stared at the absurdity of it for a while. I forwarded it to my brother, along with a few choice words. Choice words makes it sound much worse than it was, though. Don’t worry, it’s not like I was echoing the language of Mordor or something.

I figured out how to keep the cyber ax from dropping on my cyber neck and was able to save my cyber life and keep my ex from cyber murdering me. CAN WE SAY CHRISTMAS MIRACLE?!

Yes.
Yes, we can.
(how bout that, Mr. Obama, I can say it, too!)

To be fair, the would-be cyber murderer did apologize. Apparently, he didn’t mean to schedule to terminate my Facebook page. Accidents do happen.

And now it’s one week until Christmas and I’m gonna focus on the people I love and the presents I get to buy them and how grateful I am to be alive.

Both in reality and on Facebook.