I was sitting there, holding my sketchpad and colored pencils. Yes, tonight I went to a bar clutching a sketch pad and colored pencils. All. Night. Long. I could have brought a bag to put them in, I suppose, but when thinking about that, my line of reasoning happened like this: I could bring a bag, and then I wouldn’t have to hold my art supplies…But, shoot, then I’d have to hold a bag. 

Discussion over.

Because for some illogical reason, I decided that carrying a bag–equipped with those very convenient and modern contraptions called handles! that you just effortlessly sling over your shoulder!–was much less annoying than just toting a sketchpad and colored pencils around like it was the world’s worst clutch.

Sometimes I make no sense.

Which is why I was on the A train, holding my art supplies and minding my own business, when I saw someone staring at me, walking slowly towards me. His pace picked up as he got closer, and, when our eyes met, he said, “You’re…the girl, aren’t you? With the ukulele?”

I smiled.

He smiled.

It was a moment packed with smiles, guys.

“I am,” I said.

“I saw you! Today! On the internet–can I get my picture with you?” he asked.

And I wasn’t kidding about the smiles, either–see?

“I’m Jessica,” I said, shaking his hand. Which is when I found out his name is Bernard. And Bernard is a wonderful human and what is it about the A train that has a veritable collection of wonderful humans riding it?

And then we talked about the video. How it happened. What it means. How much joy is found in those moments that Matt captured with his phonecam. And what happens next. He had some very nice things to say about that, Bernard did.

And now, if you will come this way with me, I will show you just a corner of my heart. Because, see, tomorrow is a very sad day for me. January 8th, I mean. And I had completely forgotten that it was coming up so fast–I mean, it was a ninja this year, all stealth until suddenly: BOO! I’M HERE! Which, maybe makes no sense, cause if a ninja ever said BOO! I’M HERE!–well, he’d probably be told he has one hour to clean out his cubicle and call a cab.

But, yes, as I said, January 8th is a sad day. And I was sitting in my bed tonight when I looked at the calendar, suddenly realizing that it was Sunday. Tomorrow. The 8th, come back again. Like tax day, only much more emotionally involved and, thankfully, does not leave me with a bill from Uncle Sam.

And then I realized that it is tomorrow that I am going into the studio and recording a song that will be released on itunes. That is, I must confess, a dreamy thing for me to do. And by dreamy I only mean: it’s the kind of thing that makes you want to pinch yourself to make sure that this is real. Too good to be true and all that.

And I remembered how my family and friends would tell me, back in the early days of January 8th being so acutely difficult, that there are very good things ahead. To hold on, don’t give up. But those kinds of cliches, they pale in comparison to the very real pain you feel in the moment. And the pain is so good at acting like it’s here to stay. Like it’s the final word. Like sadness is not just a feeling, but it has somehow replaced the very marrow in your bones; you keep digging and digging deeper inside, but you can’t escape it. Cause it’s your center now, this sadness, and it resides right smack in the middle of everything you know about life.

And the realization sounded like this: THEY WERE RIGHT. The people who told me that good things were still ahead, they were right. And tonight my brother texted me I told you so and I can tell you right now, that smartass response is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard.

And I don’t think it’s an accident that this is taking place on January 8th. I think it sounds a lot like redemption. The redemption that somehow everyone but me knew would come all along. But now? Oh, now I’m a believer.

Here’s to this January 8th being good, for a change.

I’m writing from a cab and the night air hitting my face through the open windows feels just about perfect.

I don’t normally take cabs, but see, it’s late. I’m tired. Like, I got-three-or-so-hours-of-sleep-last-night-tired. And the A train didn’t seem to be trying to come anytime soon. I found the two men in orange vests dusting off the subway rails–or whatever the heck it was they were doing down there–to be particularly disheartening, as one could only determine by watching them literally standing on the tracks that, no, the train was not anywhere close.

So now I’m speeding on some kind of big road in the general direction of my apartment. Well, my friends’ apartment. It’s not really mine at all.

But anyway.

I already mentioned the air, with good reason, for it really did feel noteworthy tonight. Past tense now, because I am inside, no longer writing from the back of a yellow cab.

But I didn’t mention this yet. A new friend confided in me tonight. We don’t know each other well, having really only talked once or twice, but we walked out of class together this evening, and, since I am generally starving after taking ballet and then capoeira, we stopped for some pizza. Barbecue chicken pizza. Because that’s all I ever want. But, I was saying–we talked for a while, and finally the the conversation looked like this:

Me: “I’m not trying to be in a serious relationship with anyone right now. Things have been real hard for me lately, and so I am being single. On purpose.”

We talked about that, and so I asked him what his thoughts are on the whole subject of wanting to be single or wanting to not be single.

Him: “Yeah, I am not looking for a relationship now, either…I mean, I had told myself four years and it’s only been three now…”

He drifted off, obviously having not quite given me the full context. So I waited. He took a deep breath and looked at me as he quietly continued with, “I used to be married.”

So many things happened inside as I heard him say these words.
Me too.
I get it.
You have no idea who you’re talking to.

But I listened a little more, letting him talk. And then I knew I could tell him. See, being a part of the capoeira group here in NYC has been wonderful for many different reasons, but one of them is that, here? I’m just Cisne. The dancer who can kick her face. The girl who catches on quick and has vowed to do handstands or else. She’s single. She has dreams, else why would she have moved here? Her past is only what she’s told people, and she’s told 98% of the people she trains with hardly anything at all.

And that’s been really kind of nice for me.

But I decided to tell this guy a little about Jess.

Deep breath.

“I used to be married, too,” I said.

Too.

What a word. So tiny, yet can make all the difference in the world for those of us who would feel alone, had somebody not told us something and followed it with too.

“Nobody else in the group knows,” he told me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Hardly anyone else know that about me, either.”

And then we talked about our respective relationships. Why they ended. How we are now. And well, it was a good time to be honest, I guess. Not that I am not honest other times–but I am not quite as transparent, I guess.

But it was good this evening.

It felt like a significant connection.

That usually happens when someone throws the word too in your direction; it’s kind of an anchor like that, I guess.

And for those of you who have to get up in less than six hours, here you go…

TO BED.

good night.

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.

• Today my sister and I saw a cute young Amish man. I write this down because this has never happened before. I am sure they exist–and I am now positive that they exist–but I had just never before actually witnessed it. We were leaving Giant and he was just walking in and Jenna and I were both like, Oh. And then we saw his horse and buggy tied at the sign that indicates if you have a horse and buggy, tie it up here! but it says it with a picture because, in this case at least, I guess a picture is worth a thousand words about horse and buggies. And I joked with Jenna about leaving my phone number on the seat of his buggy. This is funny because he has no phone, you know. Well unless it is in his barn for business purposes but a). calling me, one of the English (as the Amish call any of us who are not Amish), could hardly be considered a business venture. Now I don’t know why I put in an “a).” there because I just realized that I have no “b).” Oh well.

• I have started writing. Started writing? you might all be thinking. But yes, I am writing something of a project and right now it is going all over the place and I am not quite sure what it will be eventually, but it’s this nice little secret that keeps me smiling when otherwise, I’d just be standing in line, about to order a bagel or something. Though the anticipation of a bagel would probably make me smile too. But now I have all these words saved and it’s a work in progress and I can order a bagel, so double whammy reason to smile. This, despite my invisalign, because sometimes that makes me not want to smile.

• My date with Ollie, which I talked about last night, was quite a delight. We had a great conversation throughout the night, some of which was on a more personal level. Which is why when Jase asked Ollie what we talked about last night, he simply answered, “Actually, Daddy–it was a private conversation.”Oh hahaha. Love that kid. Loyal to the max.

• This morning I had a few bites of some of my favorite cereal, only to look down and see a dead moth floating around in the milk. That was quite a bummer; no way around it. I dumped the whole bowl and had to start from scratch again. But you better believe that I thoroughly checked every spoonful before it went down the hatch.

• I need to get some sort of job before too long now. There are a lot of things I do, and some that even bring in some revenue, but I think I need to werrrrq, as some of my dear tour friends would say. So I am wondering what that shall be. I am actually not worried about it right now. Just sort of anticipating an open door and thinking huh. I hope I like it.

• And last but not least, never least!, have you noticed the moon lately? It’s hanging quite low. I think it must be lonely, cause it seems to want to be a part of things down here on earth. And I don’t mind at all. The moon has always been a friend and a comfort in my life. I’d love to have a party that the moon attends; but perhaps that sort of happens every night anyway.

It was nice; lots of laughter and help surrounded me.

The very last part of the recipe called for butter to be “sprinkled” on top of the rest of the ingredients. I wondered how to do that, exactly. Which is why my friends found me grabbing small chunks of butter and tossing it all over the macaroni. And yes, it was odd. I explained to them that I was trying to sprinkle it, but man, this butter was pretty unsprinkle-able.

So Shane said he’d do it.

And then he proceeded to drizzle the butter over the macaroni.

Which was fine, really, but I still maintain that the butter was quite unsprinkle-able. And if it had called for drizzling, well yes, I could have managed that just fine, thankyouverymuch.

But anyway.

The night reminded me of being on tour–all the best parts of it. The part where you let the conversation meander and suddenly find yourself in a lovely spot, made even more so by the fact that you could not have anticipated it. And how a conversation is like life in the way that it’s so much better with other people. How at some point, you look around and are in awe of the fact that you could never have gotten here without their involvement.

So yes, life.

It’s quite lovely in spots.

And those spots beat all, I think; they really do beat all.

So, I’m in a band now. First time ever. We came to the decision tonight, but not without having That Conversation. You know, somebody mentions how you’ve been spending a lot of time playing music together lately. Someone else wonders aloud what that means. Finally, one of you asks it: So what are we? And yes, it’s a risk, but the question has begged to be asked and so there, you did it. And (gulp) listen, cause the other person is saying something that sounds like they think you should be a band.

Too.

And it’s the too part that really matters. Because it’s nice to agree and it’s nice not to hear nothing! after you ask someone what you are. And it’s even better to say okay, then, let’s try this music thing out and huh, let’s think of a name for us.

I’ve suggested Jane since that’s Shane and Jess mixed up together, but I don’t think Shane wants to be in a band named Jane.

So we’re gonna keep thinking until we land on something that we both like. I just realized what I wrote. Hmm. I guess after that, no more thinking for either one of us. We’ll basically be zombies since, apparently, all of our thoughts were poured into coming up with a band name. And no, I don’t much care for Shess, which he put together…It’s okay, we’ll think of something.

And tonight we played a gig.

Now, I had the brilliant idea to open up the gig, basically say an initial hey to the crowd, by saying Good night! Um, how weird is that? Even weirder than the time I tried to parallel park by nosing into a really tight spot. I kept wondering why it wasn’t working when suddenly I remembered people generally back in when they parallel park.

And this was just last week.

But starting out the night by saying Good Night. That’s super weird. And confusing. In fact, a guy at the bar immediately asked if he’d already missed our set, which is what tipped me off to how strangely I had used that little phrase. I tried to explain that I said good night in order to mean: It’s actually a good night, but well, let’s face it, that isn’t the way that people who have half a handle on the English language use those words.

Pretty dumb, I know.

But not even as good as when we were playing our rap. And yes, I wasn’t kidding when I admitted to all of you that I wrote a rap a while back. But basically, I talk about the kind of guy you should avoid, the kind of guy who acts like he likes you, but for less than noble purposes.

Anyway, there’s a lyric that says, And you go around town hooking up with all the girls…But tonight I didn’t say that. What I said was this: And you go around town hooking up with all the boys…And hahahahahahahahahahahahaha. I immediately looked at Shane cause how funny? Suddenly the guy that I am so mad at for being such a jerk and just wanting something that girls, you better know not to give away, is gay and that changes the tone of the song considerably.

Good thing Shane didn’t laugh.

Good thing that is false.

He totally laughed and so did I and hahaha, if the guy is gay, then why am I so worried he’s gonna try to charm me into giving him something sacred in the first place?

Relax, girl, he’s gay; he don’t wanna get with you, anyway!

But yes, tonight was a good, fun night. Not bad for a Thursday, not bad at all.

OMG is right.

How do you think I feel about it?

Because see, it’s right outside my door. In my parents’ basement. Because, although I am not living in a van down by the river, thank God, I am living in my parents’ basement.

Which is actually very nice.

Minus the scary little hand.

Actually, there are two of them. My mom puts them in each of the dogs’ crates at night. I guess it’s a real treat.

But when you’re innocently doing your laundry at one in the morning and you happen to glance down and see a severed hand right by your foot–albeit, behind bars, but still–it’s a bit disturbing.

Okay, a lot disturbing.

So disturbing that I had to snap that picture and text it to my brother Jason out in California. Which he then shared with Darby, my sister-in-law. To which she asked, Why are mom and pop teaching the dogs to chew hands?

Good question, Darby.

And then when I told my friend about it, he had yet another take. He seemed to think that they are alien hands and that they are what’s left of an alien attack. The thought is intriguing but even more frightful, I think.

Because that would mean that there is now an alien where the dogs sleep at night. And where the dogs sleep at night is the basement and remember? I also sleep in the basement. And now he is not just your every day alien, he’s an angry alien because he has no hands. Perfect.

But at least he has no hands.

Meaning, at least if he attacks again I will be up against an alien with stumps instead of hands and since I have two perfectly good hands, that totally gives me the advantage.

Plus, I doubt the alien knows ballet.

I could so take him.

But still, I hope it doesn’t come down to that.

Fingers crossed.

Last night I performed at the World Cafe Live open mic night in Philly. I got home late, slept for about three hours, and then woke up in order to wash my hair and put on something presentable in order to get to a Catholic church in time to rehearse and then sing for a funeral.

Oh, did I say rehearse?

Silly me, that is a mistake.

Because, see, I didn’t.

Get to rehearse, I mean.

Well, that’s not altogether true either. I did get to rehearse the song I was singing while my friend Christian accompanied me on the guitar. The song that I’ve sung a thousand times and was not nervous about at all. That was the song I did get to rehearse.

But the other one. The tricksy one. The beautiful hymn for which I had never received the complete sheet music and remember? had never rehearsed. That was the one I was really counting on practicing with the organist and I don’t know, at the very least hearing the introduction and the interlude.

But no dice.

Joe, the organist, heard me sing a few notes quietly and decided we didn’t need to practice. You’ve got this one, he said. I feel total confidence in you, he let me know with a thumbs up.

As if the thumbs up made up for the lack of practice. Well not just the thumbs up. He kissed me too, which might have helped, but not with Ave Maria.

And even when I asked if we could go over it once he looked absolutely befuddled at the very notion of practicing something which clearly needed no practice.

Gulp.

And that was that.

Except it wasn’t.

I walked up to sing Ave Maria and knew that I was standing there on a hope and a prayer. I opened my mouth and I sang it but let me tell you, it was one of those times when you finish the first verse and cannot believe God would be so merciless as to have allowed Shubert to write a whole other one.

Usually when I sing songs I am happy in every section of it, relishing the song, savoring the words in my mouth like they taste good. But this time I was a little scared and I don’t like that. And Joe was wanting me to lead and there I was wanting Joe to lead and so there we both were doing a very tentative kind of limp together that eventually got to where we were going.

But it sure did feel like it was taking it’s sweet old time.

Oh, and I do love that song. It’s beautiful and you can’t tell me it’s not. The melody is sinuous and I can see it moving to the pattern of the lace on a victorian valentine’s day card. Round and soft, ephemeral and strong. Not thick, but definitely lasting. And I also have to admit that I do love singing in a Catholic church. The way the notes ring without hardly any effort at all makes me wish all over again that I had gotten to practice Ave Maria so that I could have made them ring even more.

But there you go, it was not what I would call my favorite moment, but it happened. And I know the family friend who asked me to sing for his father’s funeral was very happy, so I am grateful to have done it. Maybe I should say touched instead; happy isn’t really the word when involving a funeral, I think.

But the World Cafe the night before, the other singing I did within the past 24 hours.

That was a blast. Just nothing else but a really good time. My sister and I went last minute, got there later than intended, and so I missed even making it onto the sign-up sheet and had to put my name on the loser alternate list. But we were highly entertained listening to some of Philly’s finest woo the packed club and even got to eat the world’s worst cheese plate while doing it.

And what do you know, but I did get to sing. I was the very last of the night, could only do one song (as opposed to two, since I was on the loser alternate list), and in an effort to speed things up for the understandably tired crowd, the MC made me sit at the piano bench on stage while the previous few acts were performing.

Awesome.

I was just sitting there, for no apparent reason, while not performing. See, I am not the kind of person that likes to be in the spotlight for no good reason. I’d much rather read a book or catch a frog. Or even read a book about catching frogs. But because the MC did not want to have to wait the .10 seconds it would take me to walk from my chair to the piano when it was my turn to play, I had to wait on stage, poised and ready, with nothing to do.

It was actually pretty funny.

And a very nice guy ended up sitting with me on the piano bench, keeping me company and making me feel less of an idiot, so I took comfort in that.

And then I performed and it was my own song so I totally knew it and could make the intro and interludes as long or as short as I wanted and there was also comfort in that.

And I loved it.

The funeral was sadly beautiful, haunting and light; the World Cafe was jaunty and shadowed, crowded with music that came directly from anonymous living rooms.

I am grateful to have been at both places, grateful to have come by them by a song.

There is in every true woman’s heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. –Washington Irving

I read that and it catches my heart. And everything–my skin, my lips, the back of my neck–is alert, trying to make that spark blaze. God knows it’s dark enough. And God knows I want that spark to spread like those fires in the mountains of California; to eat up everything else until it becomes the biggest thing about me.

Kindles.Beams. Blazes. Adversity. All of it catches my heart.

Kind of the way Christmas catches my heart every year.

But this time it’s different. There are things that usually excite me, things like trimming the tree and buying gifts, but my heart isn’t so much into that now. What I’d like to think about is what happened on that night. And you can say it was in December because we sing about it being then, or you can talk about how theologians go around bursting our bubbles as they prove that the famous silent night was actually in June, but really I don’t care about any of that so much.

And really, I don’t think that it was all that silent either. Not with the baby crying and all those animals milling about, and are we really supposed to believe that those shepherds were quiet? I’m betting they liked to talk, those guys. After all that time spent under a vast endless sky with only sheep for company don’t you think they were excited to talk about current events with Joseph and Mary and all those magi?

Though I don’t think Mary was talking back too much. She was too busy pondering the good things God was doing in her heart.

But whether or not those shepherds talked at that birth is irrelevant.

What I really care about is that it happened.

And what I care about right now is what it looked like.

The way society painted Mary with the staining color of shame. Joseph, who wanted to leave her, but decided to take a risk and spend a life on a dream and some faith in an angel’s words. The way that nothing went right that night; they couldn’t find a suitable place to have that baby, though not for lack of trying.

But this Christmas the thing that I’ve been repeating in my mind over and over again is that dirty little manger. The ugliness, the shabbiness, the bleakness of it all. How none of it seemed perfect, but God, was it humble. And that’s where God chose to place that innocent baby.

Not where it was orderly.

Not where it was perfect.

Not even where it was clean.

But in the midst of all of that, there was somebody perfect. Beautiful. Full of light and hope.

In that dirty little manger.

Which means that maybe in my life, my own dirty little manger, God can place something beautiful, full of light and hope…Which is what I like to think about this Christmas, if that’s okay.