A very kind lady did my makeup for the pre-shows fashion event tonight. “I have googled you,” she told me, upon first meeting. “It does not look like you wear much makeup–are you comfortable with me doing your makeup?”

I assured her that I was.

And she got to work.

And then a very sweet Japanese man did my hair.

It was nice to sit back and let other people take care of me, actually. And this is what they did:

They also put me in a dress. Courage B is the designer. And they let me keep it. And I totally would have, too–had someone not stolen it. Which sucks, but what are you gonna do, right? I didn’t have that dress yesterday, so not having that dress tomorrow won’t be that different, anyway.

Here’ s a picture of me playing (in case you couldn’t figure that out). Oh man. I had to walk the catwalk to get to the stool and microphone to sing. People were so kind and cheering. Plus, I didn’t fall or even trip. Added bonus.

The mic situation was trying, though. They only had one and nothing to plug my uke into, so I had to somehow use one microphone for both my voice and my uke. I hunched over like some sort of creature to get my voice and uke as close together as possible for the mic to pic it up, and then I BELTED THE HECK OUTTA THOSE SONGS.

Here’s me and my wonderful, completely lovely friend Jes.

One of the best parts of the night was that two of my dear friends came with me.

And here is me and beautiful Bets.

Oh! Also, I had an awesome rehearsal in Brooklyn today with some AMAZING musicians I am collaborating with for the Sleep No More show on Monday. I feel so lucky to play my ukulele with these guys. Their groove and vibe is just plain dreamy. In a musical sense of the word. Plus they have a HUGE STUFFED LION in their apartment, just chilling. And they call him Aslan. Um, what’s not to love about that situation?

I met a kind Italian man who spoke to me for a while tonight. Considering the music was thumpin’ and his accent was pronounced, I did a lot of smiling and nodded without totally understanding what it was, exactly, I was smiling and nodding about, unfortunately. But, there were two things that stand out from that conversation:

1). I kept thinking that maybe my Italian grandfather (who passed away before I arrived on the scene, but worked in 30 Rock as the senior VP of RCA) sounded a bit like this guy, and the thought warmed my heart.

and

2). At one point I noticed liquid pouring down the side of his pants. I was really afraid that I was witnessing him peeing during our conversation…Until, with some relief, I realized that he was just holding his bottle of beer upside down. Thank goodness that’s what it was.

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.

And now I feel all shiny and gem-like because of it.

I got to go mail a package at the post office. And listen to a mostly-deaf man try to listen to a post office employee tell him how much it will cost to mail the package he was sending.

“Eleven dollars, sir,” she said.
“HOW MUCH?” the man asked.
“Eleven dollars, sir!” the girl repeated, this time louder.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” shouted the man.
So the lady raised her voice even higher, “ELEVEN DOLLARS!”

“Well, you don’t have to sound so nervous,” said the man, having finally heard her. “And why is it so darn expensive?”

“I AM NOT NERVOUS,” said the lady, “I AM SIMPLY TRYING TO MAKE IT SO THAT YOU CAN HEAR ME, SO I HAVE TO RAISE MY VOICE. AND IT’S EXPENSIVE BECAUSE YOU WANT A PACKAGE TO GET TO CALIFORNIA BY CHRISTMAS. WHICH IS SUNDAY. AND WE’RE IN NEW YORK.”

It was quite a display, let me tell you.

And then, Shane and I played Brooklyn tonight. It was a blast. A lot of people came out–which never ceases to throw my heart into this posture of gratitude and humility.

And while waiting for the L train, there was a musician playing and singing and stuff. He spotted my ukulele at one point, and just said, “Come on, then. Play us a song.”

So I did. And people started gathering around and cheering and throwing dollars into the guy’s case (thinking it was mine). It was surreal. When I finished, the musician guy gave me a cd. “I can have it?” I asked. “For free?”

“Well, you earned me some money tonight,” he said, indicating his case. “So, it’s not really free now, is it?”

And then, once on the train, this kind guy I later found out is named Bryan, lent me his tuner after watching me try and try to tune my uke by ear. So then we got into a conversation. Actually, I got into a conversation with Bryan and his friend, Joe.

“Where are you from?” Bryan asks me.
“Pennsylvania.”
“What part of Pennsylvania,” says Joe, sounding interested now.
“Landenberg,” I say, quietly; ready to explain to him just where, exactly, Landenberg actually is.
“NOW WAY!” says Joe. “I grew up in Landenberg!”
“You did not!” I say. “There were only about five of us, and I was led to believe that most of them were my family.”

So then, as you can well imagine, we talked about both of our hometown. We talked about it lovingly. I told him he was family.

“You know where Elbow lane is?” Joe asks.
“Of course! Right down the road from my parents’ house.”
“I’m going there for Christmas…”

And so, in conclusion: The World is a very small town, actually, with a population of: everybody. People are kind and generous. And singing songs is just about the best way to while away an evening that I can think of.

There is a reason that I spent so much time in Narnia as a child. Yes, the world that Lewis created, I mean. It was always my dream to go there. I have the wardrobe to prove it.

There was a part of me that wanted so badly to escape. To go where the world was magical and the story was epic. Where the light was bright and clear and evil snarled or had horns or cast mean enchantments, so was generally pretty easy to spot.

Or I’d be Cinderella and the story wasn’t over until a beautiful dress, a handsome prince, and talking mice arrived on the scene.

In these stories, there were no broken relationships. Neither Cinderella nor Queen Susan had an Ex. Lucy was not owed money from a man who broke his word to her enough times to have eventually lost his voice completely. I guess those stories just looked so beautiful and sometimes I look around and I see so much ugliness that it makes my heart sad.

Sadder sometimes than I let on.

I mean, the contrast can be startling.

I look at my wonderful, wide-eyed, (basically) perfect nieces and I hope that their lives don’t look too much like mine. Maybe they can love their family, sure. Love animals. Have a thousand and five questions every day. Write a few songs and such. But I don’t ever want them to look around and see some of what I’ve seen; I want them to feel more love than shame always. To have good, simple lives that aren’t whispered about because the story is too juicy to keep to yourself.

And I know, I KNOW. My own story is far from over. My God is a magician who knows something about brokenness himself. I’ve heard about the flowers that bloom fiercely and brightly only after the devastation of fire; the desert rose; the men and women who
not only survive traumatic events, but never truly live till after they occur–and because of this new awakening, they would not trade it, not for all the tea in China, as the saying goes. I take these stories to heart; they are my air and my food and my heartbeat.

I have hope.
And I have sadness.
And frustration.
And questions.
And dreams; resilient little stink-bug-like dreams that will not be squashed, darnit.

And so what if, in my story, Cinderella has an Ex? I’m sure her fairy godmother has seen it all, anyway, and can deal with this new development accordingly. She’s not a fairy godmother for nothing, I imagine. I guess Cinderella would have laughed at anyone who told her she’d be living in a castle, surrounded by real, heart-warming love, while she was cleaning out her step-mother’s gutters and the like.

She kept singing her songs, keeping hope alive, and, in her heart, lived like she was worth something. Because she was. And eventually her life’s situation caught up with that reality. I guess it just took some time.

Here’s to singing songs that give us hope. And believing in castles and talking animals even if we don’t quite see it.

Yet.

Well, shoot.
And change of plans.

So, I call my mom and I can’t keep the sound of tears from my voice.
But it’s okay to cry; it has to be okay to cry.
And here is the truth: I don’t cry as much as I used to.
What does the Psalmist say? Tears have been my food, day and night…
At one point, I could read that and think, I know what you mean, David. And oh, way to go on killing that giant. I mean, I’m not a huge proponent of killing, myself, but if one has to kill, I suppose offing a giant who is bent on annihilating and enslaving everyone you know and love–not to mention all of the people you don’t know, since it’s, like, a whole nation and stuff–I suppose, that’s the way to go.
But not so much anymore.
I mean, my tears are not so constant now.
Read: growth. Progress. Healing. Mascara.

“These are just feelings,” my mom tells me, for maybe the five hundredth time.
And I need to hear it, for maybe the five hundredth time.
“Feelings change; you won’t always feel this way.”

I can see a picture in these words with which she paints.
Slowly, the sentences drop into my heart; they feel like hope, smell like hope, taste like hope, sound like hope, look like hope–and with this much overwhelming evidence, one must conclude that they have hope.
I mean, it’s elementary, really.

And then, later, a friend calls me.
“What’s going on? What are you feeling? Why are you sad?” he asks.
And I let myself talk and I am crying and apologizing for crying and he’s telling me not to apologize and then he’s calling someone a shithead (on my behalf), which makes me laugh, and now I am crying and laughing at the same time and at least, at the very least, I feel alive.

And the night is a wonder of traffic and headlights and people in cars that are passing me by, again and again, it would seem; but then there’s here and there’s now. Connection. Laughing and crying. With a friend who cares. And that’s a contrast to all the people passing me by, and I take note.

“It’s about choices, Jess,” my friend tells me. “You could lose yourself in a million different ways. Fill up that space in your mind and heart with some mindless guy who likes the way you look and maybe you’d even feel a little better for a little bit. But, I know you. And I think you’d lose yourself and I know you’re waiting for something better, standing on your own two feet, feeling what you need to feel, confronting every piece of your heart all the time.”

I sit and let the tears roll down my face as I listen and every part of me agrees–even, maybe even especially, the part of me that keeps crying. And I am not suddenly happy, no–I am to my emotions as the Cheshire Cat is to his smile. He eventually gets there, and when he does, all of him is smiling. But his grins starts first at the tip of his tail before it works up to lighting his whole face with joy; and no one would guess what’s coming by looking at that flick of a tail, I’d bet, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t steadfastly on its way.

And so happy sometimes takes a while with me. And I didn’t feel it much today, but that’s okay, it doesn’t mean it isn’t close by. Maybe even already at the tip of my tail (metaphorically speaking, of course). But I will say that I stopped crying; I greeted my niece on her birthday with a kiss and a smile.

I did so happily, as a matter of fact.
And also, the sky was streaked with purple at dusk tonight.
So, there’s that.
It made me a little breathless to see it; and though that’s not exactly happy, that’s something very good that I wouldn’t trade, I think.

I am one half of the Paper Janes.

Well, since we brought a couch on stage with us tonight, perhaps I am more like one third of the Paper Janes.

Anyway.

We had a really good time; I really love that yellow couch of Shane’s.

It looks like it belongs in a very good story.

Probably because it does belong in a very good story; Shane’s story is very good and so is the paper janes’ story and now that couch is part of both (more the former than the latter, really).

And we brought a drum tonight, too.

I was supposed to play it.

I played it a tiny, tiny bit–and not too well, at that.

I got nervous and it was awkwardly to my far right and when I try to sing and play a djembe simultaneously it feels like my brain is fighting itself and doesn’t understand how to function anymore.

But other than my less than parr occasional hits on a drum, the show was really fun.

The couch, especially, was a hit.

Plus, we got a little bit of money and a lot of tater tots and chicken fingers, too. We shared those with friends. Food usually tastes better when shared, I think. Unless you’re, like, really hungry and all you have is one tiny sandwich. That probably tastes better not shared, I’d imagine.

In conclusion: I need to get better at playing the djembe. And food that is both free and shared is delicious. And the yellow couch was a major hit. And my voice sounded a little crackly twice tonight, but I decided not to get my panties in a wad over it. That expression is for my friend Mindy, who says it often and cracks me up every time. Plus, wadded up panties sounds terribly uncomfortable and would only make a situation in which your voice is already crackly even worse, I think.

Or interesting (which is generally better, anyway) are as follows:

• Trapper. He works at the Media Post Office and helped me mail a package today. At first I thought he just didn’t feel much like talking, but after interpreting his gestures and following his finger as he pointed to this and that, I finally realized that he is deaf. And then I wished I could sign. But I can’t, but I sure can smile, so I smiled at him a lot. And when I told my friends at the theater about Trapper, one of them sounded a little jealous. “Of course you would get helped by a deaf postal man named Trapper. You already have Mr. Stoltzfus, the Amish man. All the good stories happen to you.” And yes, I do have some stories, for sure–but I am not so sure I would classify them all as good.
• Laughing till I couldn’t breathe. These friends I am making in my cast–they are hilarious. We make up ridiculous scenarios all day long and then we talk about them in a dry, quiet voice (quiet, so as not to disturb whatever “work” is happening. It is a rehearsal, after all)–we talk about these scenarios like they’re real and we talk about them until one of us bursts out laughing (usually me).
• Wawa. It’s sort of like a convenience store, but so much better. You can buy delicious subs there. Oh, and bananas. Of which I’ve been eating a lot lately, since there’s a Wawa right behind the theater. And bananas are cheap and pre-wrapped and easy to eat, so they’ve been my fruit of choice. And today, there was a bunch of us from the cast there, ordering food. And it was the lunch rush, so we weren’t the only ones there. And there was music playing, you know, so we just had to dance, and I happened to look down and notice that I was wearing duck boots and tights and leg warmers and a plaid shirt– all while dancing in Wawa and holding a banana–and come on, guys, really: does life get much better?
• yoga. It’s still hard and some of it hurts, but there’s not much of value on this earth that doesn’t hurt at least some, I think. But anyway, I’ve been practicing yoga pretty consistently while here in PA and I love it and it’s so good for every part of me and yes, I still look at the clock sometimes, and yes, I still really dread doing the pigeon (cause that hurts like a mofo), but it’s good for me anyway, and I really try to nurture me; to coax me into good and healing places. Cause yep, that’s where I belong.

And so I did just that.

But, that rainbow.

What a reminder that the world cannot be all that bad when there are rainbows hung in the sky like that. And it was amazing; the restaurant basically stopped so we could all press our faces against the glass or jump outside in the rain and snap a photo. I love when something speaks a universal language. When it stops all of us in our tracks, no matter where those tracks lead, were someone to follow them to wherever it is we each come from; whatever it is we call home.

I love that no matter where you are or what language you speak or who it is that makes your heart beat that much faster when you hear their voice, a glittering rainbow above us evokes an ahhhhhhhhhh.

And that ahhhhhhhhh is universal.

Like laughter.

And tears.

And dance.

And hand holding.

And a kiss.

All of it reminds us that we’re more alike than not, I think.

That we’re all created by someone whose love was the motivation for the rainbow in the first place.

And love is for darn sure a universal language.

It’s been grand and so chock full of song.

We had a show on Friday night in Philly; it was oh-so-fun. I don’t know how many times I get asked if I am Jane, but I don’t mind it; I rather love that name, anyway. I get to be in a band with some very talented musicians. So I might not be Jane, but I am lucky. Like the jeans, only not so designer and I’m not for sale. And then Saturday, I sang at church. Twice. And then Sunday, I sang at church. Twice again. And then I had the honor of singing at my great aunt and uncle’s very special and beautiful memorial this afternoon.

I sang hymns.

Hymns are not exactly something that I am familiar with, either. So I was a little nervous. Plus my voice was what you could call tired. I am on the getting-better-now side of a sinus infection, and, on top of all that singing I had already done this weekend, there were a few of those notes that I like to refer to as HIGH! in the hymns–so well, I was just hoping my voice would work.

And it seemed to, so I was grateful. And more than that, it was just so very special to be with family who I hardly ever get to see. Special and emotional. At one point, I just kept crying and crying and here I was, having to sing in a few minutes, so I was all, Gurl. Get a hold of yourself. Those hymns are not gonna sing themselves.

Yes, I inferred Girl with a U. I was that serious about getting a handle on my emotions, you see.

And God bless the woman who asked me if I was still in high school. And God bless the small choir of singers who asked me to join them at the last minute. I jumped in on the soprano line and really enjoyed blending with the other singers. It’s good to be a part of a sound that is greater than just your own voice, sometimes.

And then, right before my parents and I had to go, a man whom I had never before met asked me a little bit about what it is I do. I told him and then he looked at me quite seriously and said, “Everything is going to happen for you that needs to. Things will fall into place, you’ll see.” It was a serious moment and I couldn’t help but believe him. He said it the same way you’d tell someone that today is Sunday and tomorrow will be Monday; just like it was a given and whyever would you doubt it?

And then tonight there was that smashing spring thunderstorm all around me. It lit the night sky on fire and drummed out some kind of fantastic rhythm on the roof. Arwen and I both decided to take a small nap. And at the same time, we both woke up, lifted our heads and looked at each other. It was special. It’s hard to describe, really. But there we were, two girls. Safe and warm and sleepy and present like only a pup can be. Like only a girl like me is learning how to be.

And learned:
A song for my voice lesson.

And had a conversation with:
My ex (I hate that word; I just do).

I think I am exhausted in every way it is possible to be exhausted. My legs are protesting the three class streak today. My body’s all like, “Gurl. If you wanna do this on the regular, you gotta feed me.”

Apparently my body is a little ghetto. This makes me glad; I like a little ghetto.

My mind is trying to figure out what just happened. All of it. Trying to remember the hip hop combination cause I’d like to teach it to a jazz class I’m subbing next week. And the new stuff I learned in capoeira so I don’t look like a pansy when it comes to the free form fighting at the end of class. This is difficult, because I suspect I am a pansy. Trying to remember the new song I’m wooing on. And working on. It’s a very special combination, what I’m trying to do.

And trying to feel whatever it is I need to feel about the conversation I just had. I think it was good; I think there was closure. I asked my questions. There was peace there in our words. That’s what I had wanted, so I’m grateful for that. I looked and listened and didn’t hurt at all. Not even when he said things that, not that long ago, would have devastated me. He told me things I already knew were true. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have done what he’d done. I told him that I was sorry for being gone so much. I was, too. I hated saying good-bye so much.

This good-bye was not so hard, though. We can both move on. We are. Actually, there is no ‘we.’ And this is good. Now, it’s good.

I left him at the subway station. I got on the A train and smiled at a stranger. I marveled over the fact that nobody in that car would have guessed what I had just done. We are all such marvelous stories. Some we hear about, some we never do. Every once in a while we catch sight of each others’ scars. We guess at the cause. We wonder at their ability to laugh despite it all.

“But you seem so happy,” someone recently remarked to me in surprise, after listening to a little bit of my history.
“I am,” I said. And that’s true. It’s also true that I’m sad. Sometimes. And I’m me. All the time. That’s what keeps surprising me the most. That what I think I need gets taken away and I find that, look!, turns out I didn’t need that after all. Turns out I’m me–even without ______ or _______ or even _____.

Who knew? I didn’t, but I’m learning.