Well, I probably did more than just one stupid thing, but what I am referring to now is the time I locked my keys in my car. I felt dumb and, on top of that, I had to ask for help from a couple of super nice guy friends who were only too enthusiastic to try out their lock-picking techniques on my ghetto-fabulous car.  I was newly single and the whole situation helped to highlight the fact that everything was different and now I was alone.

It was hard.

Fast forward to today.

When I got my car stuck in the snow. And to make matters worse, I was dropping off a little welcome back gift for friends who were traveling home from halfway across the world and didn’t exactly want to be entertaining once they finally arrived at their house. And I was stuck in their driveway. While they were due home soon. Awesome.

Again, I felt like an idiot. And again, it sort of highlighted my situation and I didn’t have anyone who I didn’t mind calling. Like, it was embarrassing and intrusive and I greatly disliked having to ask for help.

But I called a friend. He came and got me unstuck pretty quickly and then I was on my way, feeling badly about the whole thing and marveling over how things can change and do change and when did I become a jellyfish who has no say over where I end up? Probably today, cause I spent the time I was planning to be at the gym all stuck in the snow instead. There you have it: instant jelly-fish-ation.

But then I remembered some things. Feelings. They are temporary, for the most part. They are not always pictures of reality; they are more like dress up clothes that are actually optional. So I decided to have what Jase and I like to refer to as a little Matt Chat. I talked it out in my car. Yes, I articulated what I was feeling, and I decided to let those feelings go and then–though it wasn’t like the earth opened up and high-fived me or anything like that (which would be quite apocalyptic and terrifying, actually), I do think things were sort of better after that.

I guess what I am saying is that maybe that was a step in the right direction.

Another step would be to try not to park where the snow has already parked.

Oh, and also, I picked up a book. Literally. It’s been sitting on the kitchen counter forever–or at least a few days–and tonight I picked it up and started reading it while eating some dinner. It’s a book on recovery. I feel like I am recovering, so I figured it would say something that would relate. And man, does it ever. In the first few pages there were these affirmations that one is supposed to read and agree with, over and over again, as many times as it takes, and just the first three made me think that someone had written me a letter, starting with Dear Jessica and everything.

Cause, look:

• today I accept that the life I have known is over.
• I am entering a new and blessed phase of my time here.
• I accept pain as my teacher and problems as the key to a new existence for me.

(and I am pretty sure they’re not even being sarcastic; I mean, I love this book’s depth already, but I would say that the author’s voice isn’t exactly what one would call comedic)

Later tonight, my pop noticed that the book on recovery was all dog-eared and in an obvious state of hey! somebody’s reading me! and so he asked me if I think I am an addict.

“Maybe,” I said.

“What in the world are you addicted to?!” he asked.

Which is when my mom jumped in. “Love,” she said, not even as a question. “OH.MY.GOSH.” I replied, with all the angst and irritation of a teenager who was just informed is grounded and knows that if they can’t go out, Billy will just go out with someone else, so they really just can’t be grounded right now, see?

“I am not sure what I am addicted to, but I certainly wouldn’t mind recovering and just being, you know, healthy,” I said in a way that didn’t really invite more questions.

And then I proceeded to sing the song At Last by Etta James, in preparation for an audition that is coming up. You know, all about how this one person has come along and now your lonely days are over and life is like a song and their spell was cast on you and his smile, his smile, changed your life and ohmygosh, can we say codependent and hey! I’ve got a great book for you to read, Etta James, and ps I actually do think your song is pretty; it’s just, I don’t really believe in a knight in shining armor and there’s a difference between loneliness and solitude and today I accept that the life I have known is over and I am entering a new and blessed phase of my time here and also I accept pain as my teacher and problems as the key to a new existence for me and right now none of that really jives with your song.

So, there you go.

But I do agree that life is like a song, at least; I just didn’t specify which song it happens to be like.

“Okay,” she agreed, and we both sat on the couch with our thinking caps on.

And then I told her that I think we should write a rap about missing people. We both have a lot of people that we miss, so this is not a very hard thing for us to do.

And a little bit later, here it is!

(and it’s for you guys)

(okay, it’s also for us, cause it was really fun to do)

(so I guess it’s for all of us, then)

And then she started laughing. And then I did too. And I guess it was a good moment, both my therapist and I laughing together like life is just the funniest thing. But she assured me that no, it is a book that she was referring to. But wouldn’t it be great if a post-it note could make you feel instantaneously better? Or actually, it’s more of a combination of a post-it note and the right four words, I guess.

But this is why I was at the book store on a Thursday evening. And I will tell you that I do love the bookstore. I love basically everything about it. The rows and rows you can seclude yourself in; the few chairs you can find if you look hard enough, one of which you can actually sit in, if you’re lucky; the idea that you are sharing space with so many things smarter than you. I am not so great at figuring amounts when it comes to numbers of people or objects (but animals? man, I am spot-on when it comes to sizing up how many animals are in any given area. okay, not really, but I thought it was funny that I didn’t mention animals, but mentioned everything else). But anyway, I figure so many things is an adequate way to describe all the books in a bookstore, right?

But the only time I don’t love a bookstore is when I have to find one specific book. I feel like it is the perfect equivalence to finding that dreaded needle in a haystack (but why are you sewing among the hay, anyway?). And I get overwhelmed. I feel like I’d have a better chance at winning the lottery or going off and writing my own version of the book I am trying to find before I actually find it among so very many things (which is how I am referring to all those books, if you’ll remember).

And usually, I just go up and ask for help. I really have no trouble with this kind of thing at all. I ask people for directions all the time. I ask salespeople in stores for my size, without hesitation. When I was living in New York, rehearsing ACL, I really wanted to go to Bryant Park and I knew that it was super close, I just didn’t quite know how to get there. So I conjured up my best British accent in order to ask a passerby where the park was, so as not to make that person think I was actually someone who had been to New York before, let alone as many times as I actually had, and still didn’t know how to get to Bryant Park. And good thing, too, because I do believe that the directions I got were something along the lines of, “Just keep walking that way.”

But see, this particular title. Well, it’s a doozy.  And I will say that it’s not exactly the kind of book you want to let everyone know that you’re reading. Or, for that matter, why. But after searching for it on my own and coming up empty handed, I marched straight to the information booth, cause I was done looking.

Luckily the man behind the booth was very kind with a smile that does wonders in terms of customer service. If he had had a tip jar, I think I would have used it. I asked him if the store had the book I was after, and he told me to come to the computer and type in the title. And then, I don’t know why, but I got really nervous. He was watching me, and already I was embarrassed that I was looking for this particular book, and so I started typing like I had never even seen a computer before. And like I had never even spelled a word before, either. And in my confusion, I completely messed up the title, swapping one entirely embarrassing word for another one.

And that’s when nothing came up, over and over again. And he was all, “Are you sure that’s the title, sweetie?”And “Maybe it’s something else, honey…” cause nothing would come up, and even though it was kind of nice to be called so many terms of endearment, what I really wanted was that book and then to get the heck out of dodge. After paying for it, though, don’t you worry.

But then I finally remembered the actual word that is in the title, told him of my mistake right after I had my epiphany, and we laughed a long time together about that one.

And that tiny little post-it note is still on my dashboard, in order to remind me to buy that book. And I guess I’d better remember to put it somewhere else, because that’s gonna be an interesting conversation with whomever is in my car with me next.

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 that’s not like the most fun thing, but bear with me.

Because see, since they have no pockets, that means that I hand my camera over to other people  to store in their pockets for the day.

Thank God not all of us are in the habit of wearing leggings. Although, Jase did admit today that they do look quite comfortable.

But by the end of the day, I find pictures that I didn’t even know were taken.

Like this one, compliments of my sister Jenna.
And there are so many things that I love about this picture. Our shadows stretching out long behind us, mingling with each other. The light spilling out over the mountain, like the sky alone can no longer contain its rays so the mountain steps in to bear some of the grand burden of light.

And the sense of togetherness, too. How we’re all walking in the same direction, resolutely, almost.

It makes me think of another picture. One that was taken about six months ago, out here in California, too.

And I love this picture so much.

But it’s interesting. Ollie’s little hand in mine felt like a role reversal. Usually it’s the adult bringing comfort to the kid, right? But at that time in my life, he was comforting me; he didn’t know it, but he was helping to fight what came over me so easily then: a feeling of aloneness.

And that other picture has a greater feeling of being surrounded. Again, of togetherness. Which is about right, presently.

And these days when people ask me how I am, there’s one word that comes to mind: grateful. And yes, I’m so much more; life is usually evoking more from me than one word affords.  But still, when I was showering tonight, washing out the Pacific Ocean from my hair, I couldn’t help but remember how good life is and how it comes and goes, like the waves that beat upon the shore, taking and giving but always remaining mysterious and awesome and interesting and full of magic and when the waters recede, I think I’m still here; when the waters recede, I know I’m still here.

And I’m grateful.

And that’s not much, I guess. Not when compared to the people who come home from their work and write something on their blog, respectively, that sounds more like I made a rocket ship today or I danced for the President today or even I invented that break-away pump thing at gas stations that keeps those tube things from breaking when the driver accidentally drives away because they’re probably spending their thoughts on more romantic notions than gas tube things and how they really should be stowed properly, people!! Although if the guy who invented one of those things was doing the writing, he’d probably sound a lot more sophisticated than that. Tall order, I know, cause does it even get any more sophisticated than the word thing used over and over again ?

But still, making the dough–that’s something. Something that I might have even needed. And I would even argue that it’s one of the productive ways in which we can use our hands, though I am not sure that it made The List that my friend likes to mention every so often. He has a picture on his phone of two people giving each other an exuberant high-five (which is how a high-five should be given, I’d guess), which is just one of the ways listed in this book that I suppose he’s read that reminds us of the good things we can do with our hands.

And kneading dough is definitely one of  them, if you ask me.

It’s all this work and digging in and don’t be shy because, honey, this is gonna be messy and you’ll be picking dough out from under your fingernails for at least a minute, but that’s just it: you make it work. Until it suddenly doesn’t feel like work at all. Not anymore.

And the thing is, you were ready for all that work. The effort. The feeling like this is just plain hard. But really, when you take some inventory, you find out that it’s not so difficult after all; that it’s fun. That you’d rather this kind of work that could result in maybe the best bread you’ve had in a long time than any other.

Cause the work you had been doing turned out to be a production. And you didn’t know it, but other people were acting while you were doing what’s called living and that’s maybe the worst kind of production of all.

And I don’t know when this changed from making bread into talking about life, but it did, and I am in awe. And okay, the sweet rolls were quite delicious, but more than anything else, I am in awe of what May looks like. How it tastes on my tongue. How it feels, like I don’t want to pull back from its touch the way I thought I would, had you asked me almost six months ago to the day.

And I was ready for life to hurt for a very long time. What I wasn’t ready for was this. A feeling that life is good. That it’s meant for the living and, God, but I am glad! glad! glad! to be among them. That I wouldn’t want to miss the way God seems to hold a cup of stars and every once in a while accidentally spills the whole thing out into the night sky until it’s brighter than it is dark. How people are the most fascinating creatures and I can understand why God is so taken with us, I think.

How this is a story that I don’t want to abandon and, as it turns out, I care about very deeply, indeed.

And baking bread is just a small part of this story, but it was something and something counts for, well, something. Something that I liked very much, which was partly the point, I think.

For some of you, this might seem like quite a lot, actually. But considering the amount of times I have performed in front of people, I think that is a rather low number of parades.

My first parade was a job. A paying job. But in hindsight, I am sure that whatever paycheck I got was not nearly enough to recompense the horror of it. First of all, it was in Atlantic City. And as if that isn’t bad enough, let’s get more specific and talk about how it was in a casino. You know, one of those places that has no windows. Hmmm, what else generally has no windows?

Oh right, a jail.

But there are no windows and no clocks in casinos–nothing to let on to the fact that you’ve been there all day, that the day has come and gone and the only thing you’ve managed to do is lose some of your retirement and pay way too much money for food that is passable at best.

Now my particular job was to simply dress as a showgirl, stand in the lobby of the hotel and smile and wave. Unless it was quarter till the hour–then I hopped on a little cart at the tail end of the parade that looped around the main floor of the casino and continued to smile and wave from there.

See, standing in a showgirl costume isn’t the worst thing in the world–or at least it isn’t for me. I’d done it before, you know. But I soon realized that doing it on a stage with lights and many many feet between myself and an audience was a totally different thing from standing in the lobby of a casino. Cause people would get really close. Talk to me. And sometimes stare. Which, I know–I mean, most people who wear costumes in public give off the impression that they want to be stared at–but this was different. And I know they all say that–that it’s different this time–but well, this was a legit job and listen, I just didn’t want to be stared at, okay?

Okay.

But the thing that really made me hate my life that day was the headdress. It hurt so so so so very badly. It pulled on every hair follicle on my head (I do hope hair follicle gets tagged, which is why I am going to say hair follicle once more!). It also felt like some kind of terrible and undeserved punishment for my neck, it hurt that much.

And because of that headdress, I made sure to take the ten minute breaks that my supervisor had told me to take. I took them every hour, just like she said. Until her supervisor came up to the dressing room and saw me sitting down, headdress sitting on the floor behind me, and informed me that she didn’t pay me to sit in my dressing room.

I told her about the breaks, but she was more interested in getting my headdress back on and getting my back to the lobby where I belonged and where that headdress made life miserable.

All this to say, it totally sucked. And I will never work in a casino again. Or be a showgirl sans an actual stage or production number.

Oh, but my second parade was fantastic. It was just a few days ago, on Judah’s birthday. I got to beat a drum and follow the feminine version of the Pied Piper, I think.

See?

Me and the little kids who are not adults had a blast. I didn’t even mind so much when their various rhythm sections got a little off.

When something is too cute for words, I set my jaw so that my chin sticks forward a little–successfully maneuvering an underbite–and then I bite down. I’m not sure why. But there are so many mysteries on this earth already, that I don’t think it’s gonna upset any kind of balance by just adding this one more to the pile.

Now, this happens almost exclusively with my nieces and nephews and adorable animals. And I am especially prone to biting my teeth around puppies. I’ve always loved animals–in fact, I used to want to grow up to be a vet. But then my parents forced me into ballet and apparently my feet point pretty well, so that was that. I wonder what would have happened if they had forced me into the FFA instead.

But I have a weakness for puppies. Dogs, too. Actually, people sometimes make fun of me because I tend to wave to dogs–or even say hello to them–when out and about, while unintentionally ignoring their human companions. I suppose that’s considered rude. But then, I suppose one should ask who we’re considering here–cause I bet the dogs don’t think it’s rude. Just saying.

But anyway.

When Shane and I were tuning on Mole street the other day, a very adorable thing happened. He opened his guitar case, grabbed his guitar, and in jumped one of the furriest and cutest little dogs I’d ever seen. We all started laughing and it was just one more thing that made Mole Street magical, I suppose.

And another good part of this story is that our friend Jimmy captured the moment with his camera. So you can see just how cute it really was. And you can see that even the puppy was pretty happy about being in that guitar case. And in fact, it looks like he’s about to shake Shane’s hand.

And if you want to bite your own teeth cause of that puppy’s cute factor, then I say go ahead.

And I just really like this one.

The brick, the cement, the pastel blue chalk, the text. It makes me smile. And no, I didn’t write it.

*photographs by Jimmy Simpson

And I actually wouldn’t change that.

Huh?

I know, that’s strange. But hear me out. It’s not like I’m a misogynist. Oops, wait, that’s not what I mean. Well, I’m not a misogynist because, as it turns out, I don’t hate women. Like, at all. That’s like saying I hate people named Jessica. Although I do have this strange thing about wishing I was the only one with my name. Guess I need to still work on that whole sharing thing. Actually, my parents came close to naming me Honeysuckle, because I was born right when those wild flowers first make their summer appearance. And I know, having a name with the word suck in it would probably have given my parents just one more reason to have home schooled me, but hey! I bet I’d never meet anybody with my name, if I were Honeysuckle Latshaw. Wow, that’s a doozy.

But what I meant to say is that it’s not like I’m a masochist. And that doesn’t just mean…well that, right? It also means that you don’t want pain to be inflicted on you because you derive some sort of strange pleasure from it, right?

I’ll just assume that’s right.

But about life being unfair. A friend and I were talking about this. And we came to this conclusion: life is sometimes terribly unfair as in, what did I ever do to deserve this?; and life is also sometimes beautifully unfair as in, what did I ever do to deserve this?

And what if you took out the unfairness? ALL of it. You’d be left with death and taxes, I guess. Which are the only two things that are certain, according to Benjamin Franklin, anyway. And yes, I hate all the unfair tragedies. The randomness that makes us all wonder what God does with his omnipotence, anyway. It’s not like he sleeps. At least, not according to the Bible. And actually, I firmly believe that none of the evil that transpires around us is related to God at all. I think that it can be traced to us, to our selfishness, to living in a world that is, well, unfair; as well as living in a world in which we are not the center of the universe, that maybe a flood needs to happen or a fire needs to burn and no, that doesn’t make anyone feel any better about their house now being gone, but maybe it helps us to understand a little bit better.

Or at least keep us from building a house in a flood land or somewhere prone to fires.

And yes, it’s unfair that there are so many people who’s spouses treat them as they deserve to be treated, and yet, that didn’t happen for me. It’s unfair that many people are living in a home, when I am living in a bedroom (that is of course, in a home, but you know what I mean.) It’s unfair that I was faithful and was betrayed for my effort. Especially when that effort was spelled L-O-V-E.  But for every unfair bad thing that’s happened, I can list an unfair beautiful thing that has happened. It’s unfair that so many people have parents who don’t have time or resources to really take care of them, while my parents bend over backwards to help me, to make sure that I know I am important and loved. It’s unfair that so many people are so busy working on surviving, on eating their next meal or just making their next payment, while I am able to spend time on crafts that have nothing to do with my basic survival needs. Music. Dance. Writing. And yes, I will spend my last breath telling you that these things are absolutely essential to living, but I will not try to make that argument to someone who’s stomach is empty, someone who cannot remember the last meal that they ate.

And then there’s grace. Mercy. A way we have with God, a close connection to his heart that starts in the way he loves us and ends there too.

That is so unfair.

And I don’t understand this unfairness. Any of it. Not the bad or the good–but I guess it’s not really up to me to understand it. I guess it’s up to me to live a grateful life; to try to make life as unfair as possible for others.

In the beautiful way, that is.

If you had, I might have told you that I don’t get your metaphor.

Which is what I said to my pop tonight, and then immediately regretted it. Because, see, I did get it. It was something about a snake and youth and I did understand it, I was just being difficult. Which I can be sometimes.

I know, shocker.

Oh, and I made dinner tonight. Chicken pot pie, macaroni and cheese with stewed tomatoes (it sounds weird, but it’s actually quite delicious–and this from a girl who doesn’t even like tomatoes), salad, and a loaf of bread. But don’t get all impressed, because I didn’t actually bake that bread. Still, if that doesn’t sound like a lot of comfort food, I don’t know what does.

And I feel a little jumpy inside or something. Like peace is a good idea, but could someone please explain it to me one more time? Because I don’t remember how it’s supposed to go. It’s a melody that I used to have memorized but now the intervals escape me, and oh well, maybe I’ll just sing a good break up song, anyway.

But, breaking up.

I like the sound of that a whole lot more than divorce. And I’m sorry to keep bringing this up, but it’s sort of a big deal for me. And I know I am not the center of the universe–that there is a fabulous cast of others who play out their own stories, rise and fall with their own victories and tragedies–but, wait. Stop. Because isn’t that a relief? What if you got to the end of your days here and looked around and it was just you? Maybe you’d be okay with that, but after a while, I’d like to play my songs for someone–anyone!–else.

And then–the birthdays. Could you imagine? All that pressure to make yourself feel special. To surprise yourself. To cook yourself breakfast while allowing yourself to sleep in on your freaking birthday. It’d be a mess, I tell you.

And you’d never again be surprised by the feel of the emotions playing strongly across your own heart reflected in someone else’s song; never again hear the funniest twist of words coming from someone else’s mouth and laugh till you can hardly imagine how you’re managing to stay alive, it’s been that long since you were last able to breathe.

So yes, I am grateful that many people share this earth with me.

And another thing, though I have the feeling that I was trying to make an altogether different point before I started imagining a life lived solo. But I’ll get to it. I think, anyway.

But I remember once someone told me that they wish they were omniscient. Like God, I suppose. They expected me to reciprocate, but I immediately hated the idea. Because first of all, it’s confusing, anyway. What with all of us having this ability to choose right or left, this guy or that girl, but if we can really choose that, no strings attached, how can God know everything? As in, how can God know what we’re going to choose? And if he doesn’t, how does that limit his omniscience?

I don’t know.

And I am glad that I don’t know everything. Happy to leave all the difficult answers to someone else, I guess; but I’m interested in the questions, though, for sure.

But what was I saying before all this? Oh yes, I hate the word Divorce. Can you blame me? That v that cuts right in the middle is a real downer, I guess. Nothing against v’s, though; my own sister’s middle name is Veronica, which is quite lovely.

So I told this to a friend tonight. I said, I don’t think I’d mind it so terribly if I could just say that we broke up–instead of that other word.

And he said something so simple and refreshing.

Then say that. You did; you broke up. Just say it like that, if that’s what makes you feel better right now.

So, yeah.

I broke up with someone five months ago. That’s pretty normal. A lot of people do that, you know.

Oh, and just to be clear: I’m grateful to share this world with others. And right, I don’t want to know everything. Not now, anyway–maybe not ever.

And I did get that metaphor, pop. Sorry for being difficult.