My Brudder

The subject of sibling relationships has been on my mind intermittently for the last couple of years. It started when I began to conscientiously observe the dating game a few years ago. I started to notice the discrepancy between the gentlemanly care and protective affection men expressed for their sisters, versus the selfishness with which they approached the girls that they were trying to date. The very thing they would literally beat you unconscious for doing to their sister, they were doing to women on the regular. It also made me more aware of the way I interacted with guys I dated. The thought would often cross my mind- "Would I want a girl to treat my brother this way?" Conversely, when watching men date, I would ask "do you want someone to treat your sister this way?"

Recently I began to actively notice that in Paul's biblical epistles, he frequently addressed his audience as "brothers and sisters." That re-sparked a curiosity... what is so special about sibling relationships that Paul wanted to emulate it?


I don't have sisters, but I do have two little brudders, Conor and Jack, who light up my life. If you know me, you've probably heard me gush about them. I adore them. In fact, today is Conor's birthday. In honor of him, my little prince, I decided to jot down my thoughts on the potentially world-changing power of sibling love.

aren't they CUTE?!!

Today, he is 20 years old- but that's irrelevant because he's been going on 30 since he was able to walk. We used to joke that he was going to run a small country one day. As he's gotten older, I think the only laughable part of that joke has become the bit about the "small" country. The kid is a social wizard. He was the most popular guy in Buchanan High School's class of 2012, and he didn't go to Buchanan. He was homeschooled. (He also went to more high school dances than I did... and I thought I was pretty cute in high school.)

His ability to relate to people, to call out the best of them, and to make them feel seen and valued, is world class. It's so sweet to watch. And having been his sister for a few years now, I can say with validity that I've seen very few people show such relentless, selfless devotion to the people they care about. Conor is an incredible friend. He likes to build people up, almost to the point of embarrassment for some of them. He has contagious confidence.

This isn't to say that he is perfect. He can be quick tempered and pretty freaking belligerent when you wake him up (NEVERWAKEHIMUP). He enjoys being controversial and sometimes it comes back to bite him in the face, but he is quickly developing the humility that one would hope to see in a person of his caliber. As his sister, I have a front row seat to his failures and growing/learning experiences. But as his sister, I'm free to omit those accounts from this narrative, because he's my brother and I protect him, and I prefer to highlight his triumphs and successes. This is how siblings should be. We know their darkness and we can call them out on it, but simultaneously shield them from the criticism of unforgiving eyes.

Someone with Conor's gifting, but without his character, compassion, and humility, could easily end up being a mercilessly manipulative, socially networking, womanizing bastard like John Mayer- did I mention my brother is ridiculously good looking and a remarkably gifted songwriter? And the kid's got style. Seriously. I'd ask him to choose my clothes erryday if he lived here.

I'm actually tougher on him than other people will be, because I don't want my validation to be cheap, and because I think he deserves to hear the hardest truth from someone who loves him unconditionally. And he's just talented. He's written incredibly poignant and poetic, catchy songs since age 14. He played on Channel 24's morning show Great Day, formed a band, did a multi-state tour, made a music video, and traveled to Nashville to do co-writes with American Idol finalists- by the time he was 18. If he wasn't my brother I'd probably hate him for being "that guy" and I'd assume all sorts of terrible things about him. If I didn't know Conor, I might all him egotistical, because he's confident. I'd call him arrogant, because he isn't afraid to challenge people regardless of their status. I'd call him cocky, simply because he's good looking and not at all shy. I'd call him gay, because there's no way you can be that well dressed and like women.

But I do know him. I know his weaknesses, and I know his strengths. I know he is predominantly motivated by good intentions, even if they may get lost in the shuffle sometimes. I cant think of many people whose company I legitimately enjoy more than his. As with most siblings, we can have an entire conversation comprised solely of inside jokes and a nonsensically strung together series of movie quotes. We can communicate with one word, and this makes us unstoppable in Catchphrase. I can tell him the most offensive joke on the planet and he won't judge me, because, well-  he IS the most offensive joke on the planet. That's the beauty of our relationship. We know each other's best and worst. This is why it's possible for me to very calmly claim that he is a totally obtuse moron, and simultaneously rationally assert that no woman on earth is good enough for him (I can be bought).

The safety of a healthy, loving sibling relationship lies in the fact that we are on the same team, with no unsafe ties to bind. I know they're handsome men, but they're my brothers, so my objective awareness of their attractiveness is correspondent with my objective disinterest in them as sexual beings. It's the same thinking that makes you want to kill your little sisters boyfriend for kissing her, or makes you want to vomit at the thought of your parents having sex. You know it's happening, but by God you hope you never have to know it's happening. There is no place for sexuality in these relationships. It's like a safe house. Sexuality is inherently dangerous; it's far more powerful and more instinctive, something that compromises objectivity and makes you so frighteningly human that the thought of your parents -- who tie your shoelaces, handle your student loans, and in all other ways represent beacons of stability-- engaging in any instinctive, quasi-animalistic, emotionally heightened activity actually makes you physically uncomfortable.

The lack of this sexual dynamic makes siblings implicitly safer than virtually any other human relationship.  Your siblings are your safest bet; unlike your parents, with siblings there is no hierarchical boom-lowering. You can let them know you flunked your chemistry class because you were too lazy to study, and they aren't going to ground you. They can acknowledge some otherwise non-neutral realities about you (your fugliness, your inability to balance a checkbook or to commit to a relationship, your Tourettes syndrome) and it doesn't affect their relationship to you.

Paul's treatment of the church as a group of sisters and brothers is useful because... imagine what the world would be like if we treated everyone like they were our sisters and brothers rather than sexual objects or people to be leveraged against and conquered? If we could see one another for who they are and not for who they could be for us? If we treated each others failures as a moment rather than a monument? If we celebrated each others successes like they were our own? If we didn't compulsively sexualize each other and make everything a flirtation? This line of reasoning is particularly useful for singles.

How do we become safe places for other people? Perhaps we haven't had healthy sibling relationships and that is what muddies the water. But I'm grateful for my brothers. Because they're alive, I'm permitted the joy of relating to two of the most incredible, talented, hilarious, good-looking, smart, gifted young men who are required to answer my text messages and give me things on my birthday. If you don't have siblings like this... it's completely possible. Everyone deserves to be seen fully and still have the best believed about them, to be safe enough to fail and celebrated when they don't. And if you don't have a brother, you can love mine. I mean, LOOK AT HIM!

Misgivings on Forgivings

"If you don't forgive someone who's wronged you, you become just like them."

Ever heard this argument? I always thought there must have been some merit to the statement, but I couldn't wrap my head around it.  Shoeless Joe Schmoe broke into your house and jacked your sneakers, and if you don't forgive him, you're going to become a mangy, sneaker-stealing thief, too. That's kind of a tough argument to make. Plus, if he broke into your whole house and only stole your sneakers, he's an idiot. Also, who says sneakers.

So I like to avoid learning things the hard way. That doesn't mean that I always manage to avoid it. I just like the idea. As in, I wanted to learn how to forgive as a magnanimous gesture, not a defensive one that I used to stave off the rigor mortis in my soul. However, I had my "eureka!" moment on forgiveness when I found myself withholding true forgiveness from someone and becoming a pretty vengeful little witch. This person had hurt me and been cavalier about my feelings, and I found myself stung inconsolably by the injustice of it all. I was treated unfairly, and they didn't seem to care. My solution was to toughen up; and somewhere along the line, I subconsciously decided that if they were allowed to not care, then I shouldn't have to care, either. If my feelings were mishandled, and remorselessly so, then I was justified in exacting justice as I saw fit by returning wrong for wrong. That would make me powerful! I may not have had the chance to retaliate in their direction, but by God I could make sure to steady myself for the next one. My wound justified my wounding of another.

Boom. Just like that, I became my trespasser. All because I loved the illusion of power more than anything else that laid claim to my affections.

Forgiveness, like actual love, is otherworldly. (That's how my mom describes it.) It really is. Nothing about the human economy of relational interaction takes forgiveness into account. Think of the priest in Les Miserables. That's the embodiment of forgiveness. It feels like tying your hands behind your back and asking your assailant to use you for target practice. But it isn't. It makes you more powerful- because you're strengthened against hatred and bitterness. That's the crazy secret. And because it's otherworldly, if I rely entirely upon myself to make this transaction possible, I'm destined for earthbound failure.

I kept thinking that forgiveness meant I say it, then like medicine, saying the words "I forgive you" would mean that I feel it. If not immediately, then within the next 24 hours. I've been reminded that forgiveness is a muscle, like it's otherworldly counterpart, love. You don't just start running a marathon without training. You train regularly, daily. And it becomes easier. You don't just say "I forgive you" and be done with it. You choose it every day. At least, that's my opinion. I hate saying this because now everyone knows that I hold lofty opinions about forgiveness. But that's just my fear talking, and fear is soooo 2013...

ode to boy: Joy To Girl

I wrote this as catharsis a few months ago... published now after a moratorium on writing about my life. A song eventually, but for now a poem.

Joy To Girl, Her Best Man.
  
     or : Loss, Part 1.

Come, you said
come, won't you let me come in
won't you
won't you see
won't you let me
won't you let me speak to you
so kindly and tenderly and
won't you
won't you let me
won't you

Come in, you said
won't you feel the water
won't you?
it is so wonderful and beautiful and
so clear and so safe so
I've been in before and I know
Come in, he said
I'll breathe for you
come in and let me breathe for you
I took it away but I
will fill your lungs again

So I did and I heard and I let you speak
And I followed you into the tide into the tide,
And I thought loves weight would be a tidal wave,
But water rose quick and my heart unbridled

Come out, you said
the road is clear
let's cross to the other side
I felt the rush of the passing cars and I
was afraid and I cried and you said
won't you trust me
won't you come out
come out, the road is clear
come out
won't you

So I did and I heard and I fell for you
And I followed you out and onto the road
And I believed that you had cleared the way
But blindness proved too great a load

Going, I'm drowning
Going, I'm stricken
Going, I'm done for
Gone, gone, I'm gone
Gone, gone, you're gone.

HM 2014

Fifteen Days of Gratitude 15.15: HERE'S HOPING (RUDY! RUDY! RUDY!)

"Thanksgiving precedes the miracle."-Anne Van Kamp (1000 Gifts: Gratitude, Joy, and the Miracle.) Yeah apparently she is the chick who wrote a whole book on this entirely original idea I had last month. It's whatever. Also, yes, thank you, I know, yeah, I'm roughly a week late on this. I know. I got a little overwhelmed at my last post, got a little exhausted with all the frustrated windbagging I did, plus I pretty nearly bled myself dry on day 13. So all I have to say is, damn good thing I didn't call this series "Fifteen CONSECUTIVE Days of Gratitude." Winning!

This experiment in gratitude has actually, legitimately changed my life. And by my life, I mean my perspective, which is 90% of my life. The other 10% is mostly coffee and Spotify (shout out to Paloma Faith)

I learned to stop and be still. That sucked at first, so I threw a tantrum. I'm not making that up. I laid on the floor and everything. I was just covered in dog hair and I had a weird mark on my face when I got up.

I've relearned something I used to be very good at: to look around. My complaints have grown smaller, my gratitude has grown exponentially (well geez, you'd hope so after all my type-type-typing and gab-gab-gabbing about gratitude), and my perspective and hope have grown as well. I am more aware than ever of the remarkable people I'm fortunate enough to have in my life. I legitimately love this city that I live in. I drive down the street and look around at the view and I smile, a big smile that starts from the inside and unfurls like a flag til it's waving around like an embarrassing, goofy, really bad dancer. It's like the Elaine dance. Yeah, go ahead, picture it.

Okay that's enough.

Bottom line, I've found that joy is available to the new girl with no job, in a new city with very few friends available.  I've begun to value people in my life, because I chose to think about them differently. In some cases it just meant that I chose to think about them, period. I've realized how much I have. I've also interacted with some of you, readers and friends, who have, in the process of doing this exercise in gratitude with me, realized how much you have to be thankful for. I've reconnected with people I'd long since lost touch with, and we reconnected on the notion of gratitude. That's beautiful.

The complicated line for me, here, is the distinction between the fair skinned, plump, glowing siblings, Contentment and Gratitude. They have their boring, chubby, abstinent older cousin, Complacency, and her rumored-to-be-slutty younger sister, Desire who is always barefoot and making messes she doesn't want to clean up. The first three, I'm still not totally sure how to tell them apart, but I'm working at it. I'm also remembering what I already knew: I am remembering that desire, itself, is something I'm grateful for; wanting is not necessarily the opposite of gratitude.

I want to move to the East Coast. I want to love. I want to be loved (duh). I want to take the LSAT. I want to go to law school. I want to travel. I want to be able to run again without injuring myself like a moron. I want to live in the same house as my piano. I want my own place. I want to have Natascha McElhone's hair. ("It's good to want things." My friend and professor Dave Marley used to say that. Usually it was in response to some absurd request for a deadline extension, or mercy, or a final that didn't involve an essay question on the three principle causes of the decline of Western Civilization... but you get the idea: "Its good to want things" = "fat chance")

Wanting is fun, like hungering and thirsting. You can't survive without food and water, but you could go the rest of your life satisfying mere necessary urges, without enjoying it. We could probably fit the earths population comfortably in Delaware if the means to populating weren't so thrilling. But back to food. What if we didn't have taste buds? I'm so glad we do. Having desires, and then enjoying (or sometimes not getting) the satisfaction of our desires, that makes living so much more... like living.

And then there's hoping. Hope is tricky.

Here is what I think about hope. I think hope is simply about recognizing goodness, right where it stands. I believe in God. I believe that God is good. That gives me hope. Hope isn't based on current circumstance; that's the beauty of it. Hope is based on what our circumstances are not yet. I believe that with all the goodness my own gratitude has unveiled all around me, there is much goodness that has been untapped.

Gratitude is a muscle. So is hope. The person who wrote the words above on a wall somewhere during the Nazi occupation... she may have survived the Holocaust, or she may have died. What if she died? Does that make her words any less true? What if she lived? Is God more real because she survived? Did the sun cease to exist because she no longer felt its warmth? Hope is the muscle of our spirit.

Again, I say hope is a muscle. If the picture below sickens you, and makes you want to retch, or leaves you desperately sad, or overwhelmed... there is hope. The opposite of hope is despair and indifference. So long as we are moved, there is hope for us. Today is April 9th, the day Dietrich Bonhoeffer was hanged for conspiring to kill Adolf Hitler. He was a man who made a move. He was the body of Christ; the hand, the foot, the fist.

 So I'll be real with you- I get sick of hearing talk of the body of Christ. Cliche, yadda yadda yadda. But you know why? It's because I always HEAR ABOUT IT. I don't SEE ABOUT IT. Its just like listening to a dance, or eating a sculpture. "Yeah, you know, I'm really glad you- appreciate that statue so much, but you're really gonna wanna sit down for this..." Yikes.
If the church is the body of Christ, we need muscles or nothing is going to get DONE. And this is NOT an argument for action based works-righteousness, please don't even make me go there.

But my point is that the body of Christ is the body for a reason. Not just the heart, not just the smile, not just the mouthpiece or the brain. I am more of a thinker than a mover just by nature, so I am not disparaging the brains and the mouthpieces, without you in the Church there is just a big dumb well meaning animal lumbering around with bad coordination and embarrassing "theology."

We are the body because bodies reach other bodies; bodies do the holding, the catching, the carrying, the guarding, the warding off, the tending to, the healing, the visiting, the enacting of the love that we think on so often; and the basis for this able bodied ability is nothing other than the Love and the Graciousness of God. Gratia plena. Which we can't tap into without gratitude.

The justification for my gratitude is this: you cannot exaggerate the goodness of God. I have many things to be grateful for; but I know first that I have a good One who I am thanking for the things, people, notions, places that I am so grateful to have, to know, to understand, to see.

Things may be thought of, discussed, extrapolated, hyped, shamed, but people who have gratitude are those who hope, because they have tapped into the Ultimate Goodness of God. If I was relying on my own goodness, which is finite, I would give up because I know my own limits. Gratitude makes for cheerful, joyful, strong-willed beings with the will and the determination to walk out the things that we think on; the Philippians 4:8 passage springs to mind:

"Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such things." 

So we think on these things. For what purpose? To sit in a holy huddle (I know, I said it, lame) and wait for the Apocalypse?  No, we think on these things, because they ennoble and they enable. They remind us that we are to hope. Hope is the ammunition of courage. Hope, like gratitude, is an exercise. It is something we are free to choose to ignore. And just as you can choose what you worship (as I mentioned in my blog on desire, 15.1), it's your business what you hope in (Notre Dame). And it's scary to hope, just as it's scary to want. Hope kind of reminds me of Lenny from Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. Boy, he sure is dumb. But he is really, really strong. You also can't help but like him, even though you want to occasionally knock him unconscious. But you don't want to kill the guy, even though his intense energy is sometimes a little overwhelming and deadly.

Jeff Goldblum could just as easily been talking about hope in Jurassic Park when he spoke of the tenacity of life itself: 


"If there is one thing the history of evolution has taught us it's that life will not be contained. Life breaks free, it expands to new territories and crashes through barriers, painfully, maybe even dangerously, but, uh... well, there it is.... I'm simply saying that life, uh... finds a way."

Well, there you have it. Anyone who ever did anything worth doing didn't do it because they were guaranteed to succeed. Who has guarantee? Well, maybe the kid who is a legacy to Harvard and was guaranteed admission regardless of his grades. But no one went to see the movie about the blonde Michael Bolton wannabe from the Harvard Bar in Good Will Hunting. People want excuses to hope, because it's just how we're built. Some of us are more emaciated than others, but that isn't wisdom, it's just giving up. 

So while you're choosing whether to hope, or to despair, just know that hopers are in good company. That's where the good stuff is. I'm grateful for people who hope out loud, because they encourage others. I'm reminded of Marianne Williamson's argument for confidence (confidence, incidentally, just means "with faith." Chew on that) and she says it better than I can, so I'll finish with her words on what is, essentially, hope.  This is the quote I placed on my door during the year I was an RA in college, when I had the privilege of working with some of the most amazing young women I've ever met. I wanted them all to remember this, as I wish for you, and for myself:

 

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

 

Fifteen Days of Gratitude 15.14: LES MISERABLES (OR: WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE)

Justice: getting what we deserve.

Justice is the thing we seem to have a firm handle on, but not in the way I'd like. I see a lot of people determined to right the wrongs done them. Reality TV seems to zero in on this retaliatory, reactionary way of life. This impulse is natural. But so is going to the bathroom, it doesn't mean we do it whenever and wherever we want. We do as infants and toddlers, and then we train our impulses. Somehow we don't always train our emotional impulses though. And we don't refine them as we should.

Justice is one of my favorite ideas, an attribute of God that I used to identify with the most. But then I realized that justice on it's own is a little dismal. We're always ready to dole it out but never ready to receive it when we have done something wrong. It is 'right' and it is the best that we can come up with: the justice system. So useful; and that is why our crime rate is plummeting.

False. Our crime rate is not plummeting. Even if it was stagnating, it would not be an argument for cold, stark justice. "An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind." What we need is something that transforms. Justice is not transformational. Righteous, but not transformative. Everyone expects it, so justice has no surprises.

You know what? I've been a Christian my entire life; never left the church, never "fallen away." And I used to think that Christians were some of the most justice-oriented (read: judgmental, cannibalistic, ruthless) people around. I developed this opinion after going to bible college. I figured that outside of church circles, there would be a lovely, soft-hearted, non-finger pointing club, people who had been hurt by judgment, by religion, by pharisaical blood-lust. I thought that in non-Christians, I would find a club of people united by their mutual distaste for the feeling of being criticized and judged. Maybe a little solidarity.

There is no such club. I was legitimately shocked and disappointed by what I found instead. I found backstabbing. I found people who were intolerant of others' mistakes and failures. I found people who were quick to point out the speck in the eye of their neighbor while they had a plank dangling from their own. But this didn't prove to me that non-Christians are worse than Christians. No, this showed me that the most basic desire for justice is inborn. That even people who deny the existence of God, demand justice (interesting). Too bad justice isn't enough. And justice for the sake of following the rules... that will kill you. The law will bring you death. We've all broken rules.

Mercy: not getting what we deserve.

Mercy is the most beautiful thing.

Mercy is not retaliatory.

Mercy is the story of Les Miserables, my favorite story in the world; I will do it no justice here, so read it yourself and watch the films! (I saw them four times in theatres, and am watching it now.)

Jean Valjean is lost in the "justice" system... 20 years imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread to save his nephew from starvation. Once released, he finds that the world is a cruel place for ex-convicts. No one will give him a job, or a room to sleep. The first person to offer him mercy is a priest who welcomes him into his rectory to eat and to sleep. Jean Valjean, realizing that he is going to face living as a convict the rest of his life with no one willing to give him a job, or a roof, decides to steal the priest blind. Old habits die hard.

When he is caught by the authorities and returned to the priest -the man he just robbed- he is stunned by the mercy he is given: for while the just thing would be for Jean Valjean to go back to prison, not only does the priest, the victim, have him released... he gives back to Valjean the items he had stolen, and to sweeten the pot, throws in the last bit of silver that Valjean had neglected to steal. Does anyone else find this incredible!?! The only human who had the right to accuse Valjean, absolved him. And in return, he asked only that Valjean become a better man and live his life for God. Valjean stops reporting for parole, and reinvents a new life for himself as a man of mercy, patience, and kindness.

Mercy is transformational, but only if we can quit being so stupidly blind that we fail to recognize it. Mercy seems like weakness to those blinded by the repetition of "an eye for an eye."

The world doesn't know what to do with mercy; it's otherworldly. That is why we need more of it.

Inspector Javert, the policeman, is aware of Valjean's failure to report for parole. He cannot see that Valjean's life is reformed, that he is a kind, generous man. He can only see that a rule has been broken. And that has consequences. He doesn't think outside the box. He's not a "think-for-yourselfer." But Valjean repeatedly shows mercy to the man who hunts him relentlessly. Yet this does nothing for Javert, ever the ledger keeper; when the tables turn and his life is in Valjean's hands, he is spared because Valjean is not a murderer, and he is not vengeful: although he has every reason to rid himself of this insanely legalistic blood thirsty inspector, he is merciful.

Mercy shatters his paradigm, and he has nothing left to live for.

He is an example of a person who lives for justice and cannot fathom mercy when he sees it. He's given it, and despises it. I've seen people like this. Given every mercy, they receive it and don't let it change them. They just take it, like a greedy beggar, and they abuse it. They have no eyes for mercy. This is the mystery to me. A guilty and hardened convict can be transformed by an act of mercy, and a spoiled rotten sorority girl with a vicious tongue can be shown the same forgiveness and mercy after she has betrayed a trust or slandered another, and take that mercy in a stride, as though it were nothing more a decoration or a trinket.

Entitlement is what I think I've discovered here. Blinded by our own self-righteousness, and desiring to punish those who've wronged us, we fail to see that our own hands are filthy.

Grace: getting what we don't deserve

If we viewed ourselves through the lens of grace, we would realize that not a one of us are innocent. Realization of our own failures should free us from the self-appointed task of judging others for theirs. It's far less stressful, seriously. Just breathe. We then remember that without grace, none would be spared what we're due.

Justice is a demand of the world. It is not a demand of the church. So the fact that the world demands we answer for our wrong doings is not something Christians can take the blame for. Desire for justice is not wicked; but we are failures when we shriek for it while forgetting to carry that same concern for justice to the rest of the oppressed. We all would suffer the consequences of our actions in the hands of justice, and you would think- YOU WOULD THINK- that the reality of our own guilt and imperfection (raise your hand if you're perfect. That's what I thought), would keep us from pointing fingers.

Grace is unearned. You can't be good enough. You won't be good enough. Justice demands that we all pay a price: on this earth, we pay different prices. Some of us pay the cost of friendships lost through careless words, selfish actions, and inconsiderateness. Some of us pay the cost demanded by justice when we lose relationship with those whose trust we have violated. Some of us pay for our laziness with poverty. Some of us pay the cost of cheating by being kicked out of school. There are 6 billion price variations. Everyone pays a price for something we've done.

But one of the best moments in life is when we are given a second chance. Or a third. Or a fourth. If you've made more than four mistakes, you need to pay it forward in granting forgiveness and mercy at least four times.

"To love another person is to see the face of God." -Victor Hugo

I'm so grateful for mercy and grace. Because you know what? I NEED IT.

You are a much-loved child of God. Learn what that means, and then act like it.

In Jesus' name.

Fifteen Days of Gratitude 15.13 WHEN LITTLE HILARY FELL IN LOVE (OR: Love Came Down- A Good Friday Tribute)

*This is my official "Good Friday" post. It was initially supposed to go up yesterday, but Easter weekend travels prevented it. Folks, if there was ever a topic that involved me opening a vein... this is it. If you can enjoy this story, or be encouraged, I hope you will.*

Setting: April 6th, 2012

Good Friday

Inside: Broken. Years of cynicism and failure to hope leave me bereft of the desire to believe in love; my heart is concealed beneath layers of dried blood and disbelief, shame, and devastated expectations. Vicious, more recent circumstances have left me a bag of bones. Cracked and dried, I am likely to disappear any moment now. I can't find myself in my own reflection. My heart and mind are in a dark room; I try to stay in the light for fear that if I don't, I will vanish.

Outside: I had been in England just under a week, and this was my first trip to London. Some friends from the base and I had taken the train into the city and stopped at the Green Park station, just near Buckingham Palace. We split up and I walked down the South Bank of the Thames with Clara, my friend from Germany. The crowd was pressing in on all sides as we squeezed through the bottleneck by the London Eye. We walked through throngs of travelers, old and young; it was the start of spring break, it was Easter weekend, and there were thousands upon thousands of people crowding the pavement. As we squeezed our way down the River Walk, we watched a magical display: street performers, jugglers, African acrobats, contortionists,  dancers, human statues, musicians, gypsies with massive bubbles blown through the air, bubbles large enough to fit a person inside! We walked under Waterloo Bridge. As we neared Oxo Tower, I saw a sign written on cardboard and propped up on an upside down tin bucket. It said "SHAKESPEARE." Obviously, this caught my eye immediately. I looked up to see who this Shakespearean busker was.

Inside:  "... Wow."

Tall, dark, and handsome. A beautiful, Tom Selleck mustachio'd face, a charisma that you cannot fake and would have to be blind to miss, and that rich voice that grabbed the ears of all the passersby until he had a crowd surrounding him, captivated. He drew you in, made you wish he was talking about you. I wish I could remember the monologue he was doing at the time. I was too distracted by the fact that he had an American accent. I honed in on this like a homing pigeon.

Outside: I wait until he is done with his monologue. The crowd cheers, tosses money into his bucket, and dissolves. Poor Clara wants to move on, but I stay and say "Where are you from?" He looks at me, smiles, cocks his head to one side and says "I'm from Texas... where are you from?" An hour later: we have wandered the streets surrounded by soaring architecture so rich with history and life in the brick and stone that it vibrates with a pulse that was matched by my own quickening heartbeat. After wandering, we settle in at a pub. I could literally feel it in the air. The tension was palpable. I've heard of this sort of thing, but never experienced it. We are like magnets, moving toward one another slowly and steadily, both knowing and hoping. My heart is thump-thump-thumping in my chest (even now, I have the reminiscent adrenaline and the thumping of the computer keys is hiding the shaking of my hands as I type away). He buys me my first cider and we bask in the thrilling tension of this new unexpected, beautiful prospect, which is immediately larger than the sum of our parts.

A casual graze, a hand on the arm, a touch on the knee, sliding our stools closer to each other and fitting together like dancers who are waiting...waiting...waiting for the music to start. I realize the time, and I have to leave. He accompanies me to where I will meet my friends, at St. Stephens Tavern across from Westminster Abbey. He's only been in England a couple weeks longer than I, but he knows his way around, and I follow in sweet relief. He reaches over and takes hold of my hand. *If you knew me then, you'd have known that you do not hold my hand. Not. Ever. And yet, I looked down at our hands and our fingers, interlocked, looked like the most natural thing I'd ever seen. We sat in St. Stephens, sharing fish and chips and linking our ankles underneath the table, beneath the low-hanging ceilings of a room lit by an orange glow of amber glass bulbs. When my friends stepped outside, he grasped my hand, his own eyes smiling as he looked into mine... then slowly leaned in to steal a kiss. I let him, at first holding still and then leaning into him as the softness of his forehead pressed against mine. I smiled shyly and laughed away my embarrassment at this public display, which I never allowed before... but I was also surprised at how it felt like the most normal, and necessary, thing in the world. And I'd known him not three hours.

The next 6 weeks are a dream. Meetings in the city, trips out to the countryside to meet his sister with her husband and her children, who live in a fairytale Beatrix Potter landscape; late night strolls through London awash in the bright lights of street lamps and the buzz of a city that holds us in the palm of its old, knowing hands. Bridges, train rides, tulips, always tulips... wine, sudden thunderstorms... the rain soaked adventure of a couple so young, free, and hopefully in love that we rested in the ease of each other like a ship that had finally reached port and now anchored, rocking, peacefully, her beams creaking in the slow cadence of the sea as she held closely to the strength of the dock.

He and his friend did occasional performances of Shakespeare in the Tube (the London Underground)... pretending to be mere passengers and then breaking out into performance mid-route. It was amazing to watch. I was his Juliet; the stunned looks on the faces of the passengers when he took the kiss from my lips. They thought I didn't know him from Adam... the gasps were audible. It was a thrill ride.

Never was I safer, more accepted, more lavished with kindness, respect, tenderness, and love. Never was a man so
eager to know about my passions and interests, more interested and enthusiastic about my own life than I was. He handled my fears and doubts and hesitations like a .... like a woman whisperer. And his patience was a mile long... although I can't know for sure, since I never once reached the end of it. Never once was it exhausted. And I lost my train pass at literally every stop. Every. Stop. You need it to get in and out of stations and onto the double decker buses. That's dozens of times a day where I rummaged frantically through my many coat pockets and my canoe of a purse, searching for that little orange slip of paper. Never once did he grow angry or impatient. It was remarkable. I could've cried. Never a roll of the eyes, or a bite of the lip, or a shake of the head. Never: "WHY can't you just keep it in the same place?" or "Why do you wear so many layers?" or "why is your purse so big?" (I would've asked those questions!) ... only: "Here, darlin', let me hold your purse for you so you can look." What kind of man was this? He was an angel, I tell you.

Prior romantic experience had taught me that deep "love" breeds passionate intense highs and with it, bouts of emotional boxing, long, protracted arguments, stress breakouts, emotional spasms, exhausting trials and tests of my sanity. All in the name of love. And there was always a hardening and breaking, both of my will and of my heart. None of that was to be found here, and it was such a gift.


Love is tested in adversity, and mine was no exception. Our respective stays in England ended, and we parted. Promising to see one another again, we made plans to relocate, to be together. This is where the "alas" comes in. Time and distance did their worst. It killed us both in cycles; first me, then him, then me again. But what I noted in myself, and what I wrote about in my first ode to my love (my blog from last May, "On Speaking Italian"), was that my instinct for self preservation was gone. Gone. That has never happened before. Let me emphasize this for you, because this is pivotal. It was like having terminal cancer (self preservation), and then being told that you were in full remission (boundless love). Not a trace of my former shell; my heart had emerged from years of hibernation. There was life and strength in my bones, no longer the dry and brittle things that were so close to dust before. And in the testing of my resolve, and in the trying of our relationship, my test results showed that my heart was good, my blood was moving, and I was strong. 

When I say strong, here is what I mean: in prior experience, if I detected any trace of breakdown in a relationship, I was out of there while the body was still warm. Pain, rejection and failure were things I wouldn't tolerate, and had no time for. A deteriorating relationship was not worth my time, especially because (I came to realize) I'd never really cared enough for the person to walk out the dying process with them, to allow the thing a natural death. This isn't to say that I've never cared for anyone. But in times of conflict- when the first red flag went up, I was gone. And yet here I was, faced with the possibility that time, distance, and circumstance were tearing from me the only man I have ever loved, and I was determined to stand there. Not leaving -waiting. I was going to cut myself open and hold my heart out, keeping nothing hidden and holding nothing back. If he didn't want me, I would've accepted it. In fact I tried to end it several times, because I thought that was what he wanted. I would've waited forever, but more than anything, I wanted him to be happy and free (even if that meant without me). I really did. But he wouldn't sever the tie, at least not with his words. He couldn't. And I wanted him so badly that there was very little I wouldn't have done to make it work. But in love, you cannot do the work of two people. One can be willing but their willingness cannot compensate for the others' slack. That is the boundary even I couldn't cross.

So I was the woman who wouldn't be moved. He could let this relationship slip away if he wished, but as God was my witness I would not be the one to leave. I'd be the last one standing. This was some love I had, Jiminy Christmas. I would have taken a bullet for him. In a strange way, I think I did. And the me you would've met a year ago, this morning, she would've said that no man on earth was worth putting your heart on the line for. There was no love that was beautiful enough to risk anything for. No farce, no matter how alluring, was worth setting down your pride and your armor. A year ago this night, I would've begun to say that I wished it were possible. And within two days, I would've told you that I was terrified to see how alive this type of love really is.


If I look back with perspective, I know in my gut that the love itself was the gift. He gave me a glimpse of something I thought was a myth. You may say that since I no longer have it,  it was a mirage. But I defy that. I held this love in my hands, like a dove, and felt its heartbeat. It was as real and alive as I am. And I am. With the I Am. And the realization that fell on me like first rain on a barren field was this: the love that he showed me a glimpse of is the Love that He has for me, which is already in my possession. That is the truth that gripped me, beyond my own ability to grasp it. I have no bitterness; only a little pain. The song "Somebody That I Used to Know" has a line that says "You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness" and that is so true. The reason is that sometimes the sadness is the only souvenir you have left, and you want it to be tangible still. If the pain is gone, you're afraid you've forgotten them. Sadness is like a memory that we keep; we worry that we will forget the voice of a loved one who has passed. We fear will we lose the emotional ecstasy of a love that we have lost, so we cling to the pain of it to remind ourselves that it was real.

This love came and rescued me, so poetically, on Good Friday. The power of that has never for a moment been lost on me. I saw a love manifest in my own soul that I'd never known or seen before. Of course there was what seemed to be bottomless sadness, hurt, and disappointment, but the true immense love I held for him, and my gratitude at having gotten to experience him even for a short time, killed my selfishness... and from it's very grave, forgiveness sprang up like a desert flower. I couldn't be angry. I sensed that this was too important. And in me, an unrecognizable Love had risen up from this vast desert place, a desert place which I knew very well. It was a shockingly robust and muscular love that showed such strength I couldn't believe it had been there in me and I'd never seen it before. I guess it had been lost. Like flesh put on a valley of dry bones, like a sleeping giant awakened, was the love that came out of my desert. And that is how I know that love is real. And I am so grateful.

Fifteen Days of Gratitude 15.12: A SMATTERING

No rest for the grateful. Just a shorter blog. I couldn't decide today! Could. Not. But there was this awareness that I only have 4 posts left. And 2 are spoken for. So I'm cheating.

Here are a few things which I am very, very grateful for, don't let the condensing that's about to happen convince you otherwise. You don't have to be grateful for them, or agree with them, but it's my list, now get off my lawn. :)

1) Color Easy to take for granted, since it's everywhere. "But all your wear is black, grey, and black!" Shut up, those are colors. I wore a pink top somewhere once and felt like a piñata; suddenly, everyone could see me. It was terrible, so I went home and changed. But as long as I don't have to wear it, I love it. Especially on trees in the spring and fall. And red is great everywhere.

2) Fall and Winter We don't get them in California, but I hear good things. I love them because I love pumpkins and I love scarves and I love coats and fires in fireplaces. I love the smell of burning wood, and I love the leaves on the ground. I love walking from the freezing cold into a warm room. I love drinking hot things, and I love having an excuse to be really grossly pale.

Here is a fall

Here is hell without chains

3) Rain I love overcast days when the sky is grey. I love lightning, and thunderstorms, and I love the way the airs smells afterward. I have lived in California most of my life, and I'm not supposed to say this, but I'm a little sick of the sun. I already invested in sunspots and premature aging; looking for those around 30.

4) Friends  You people deserve your own cell block. I mean blog. My friends are top notch. Créme de la créme a la Edgar. They make me laugh (I only have funny friends, remember!), they listen to me when I'm in the mood to "verbally process"

which is probably a real thrill, they humor my paranoia, and they forgive me when I do stupid crap. And I've done stupid crap. For one, I'm terrible at returning phone calls and text messages. The. Worst. On a fail scale from Charlie Weis to the Titanic, I'm off the charts. I'm Ted Kennedy. And I'm also a biter.

Now, this next part is going to appall some of you, but it'll seem like a no-brainer to the rest: if you're wondering where you stand with a friend... a surefire way to figure it out is to A) Read their diary in  a public forum, like an open mic nite, or B) set out for a fun night with your pals, go completely off the reservation, get irretrievably hammered and forget where your face is. The people who laugh at you the next day when you're looking around for your shoes and your dignity... those are your friends. Sure there are better ways to be a friend, and there are plenty of ways to show forgiveness. But people fail you in unexpected and surprising ways, so there are plenty of opportunities.

My point is, friends don't always agree with your behavior (it doesn't have to be inebriation. It can be backstabbing, getting stoned out of your gourd, borrowing clothes without asking, you know what makes you mad) and they certainly don't have to condone it, but they know and love the real, better you, and they will summon memories of that better you in the moment when they'd rather leave you in a pile on your porch. Hear me, babies, that's not license to be foolish! But if they gave out licenses to be human, you could get it here. And it would be unfair to my friends who've gone the distance if I didn't own up to these shortcomings. So if you're a close friend who was at my 21st, or at a gonzo bachelorette party, or maybe in Alex's parents backyard that one night after finals week... you have gone the distance. Possibly while carrying my purse and/or my person. Hi, mom!

5) Honesty: If you haven't noticed, I have a tendency to over-divulge in certain areas, and here's why: I once had an unforgettable conversation with the mother of a guy I was dating. We were talking about him... his job, his hair, his childhood, his cat allergies yada yada yada, and at some point midway through the conversation I realized that she had no idea what her son was actually like. It was like listening to Al Capone's mother explain that he spent all his time volunteering at the Marjoree Mason Center and coaching the Special Olympics. And it made me sad for her. Consequently, I tend to want to spare people disappointment and disillusionment later by trotting my big failures out for show and tell, right away: "That's a picture of my first boyfriend... heeeeere's me the day after my 21st birthday party... that's me in gaucho pants... Here's one from the night I called Jacques Chirac the UN Secretary General... Oh, here's every picture taken of me in eighth grade..."  (I often pretend to be worse than I am, just to weed out the iffy folks.) So for people who are honest even when it's uncomfortable... I'm grateful for you. Because it's cold out here, under the lights, with all your self showing.

Fifteen Days of Gratitude 15.11: WHAT DOESN'T KILL YOU (just leaves a baldspot)

What doesn't kill you may just maim you. What doesn't kill you will instead resort to identity theft and then purchase sixty adult videos from pay-per-view with your credit card. What doesn't kill you leaves you with severely debilitating psychosomatic conditions, which may or may not be covered by your insurance. What doesn't kill you leaves you balding. What doesn't kill you accidentally shrinks your pants in the dryer and gives you a stress related, jaw-disfiguring meteor-zit on your chin, and then pats you on the butt and sends you to your high school reunion. What doesn't kill you makes you wish it really had just gotten it over with and actually killed you.

Rubens, Thetis Immerses Achilles in the Styx

All this to say, I hear so many people chanting "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger," but I'm not convinced they mean stronger, and I'm actually not convinced it hasn't killed them.  I looked up the definition of "strong", and I highlighted the parts that stood out:

strong
adjective
1 having the power to move heavy weights or perform other physically demanding tasks
• (of an argument or case) likely to succeed because of sound reasoning or convincing evidence: there is a strong argument for decentralization.
• possessing skills and qualities that create a likelihood of success: the competition was too strong.
2 able to withstand great force or pressure: cotton is strong, hard-wearing, and easy to handle.
• (of a person's constitution) not easily affected by disease or hardship.
• not easily disturbed, upset, or affected: driving on these highways requires strong nerves.
• (of a person's character) showing determination, self-control, and good judgment: only a strong will enabled him to survive.

But some people have a different idea for stronger, like an urban dictionary version. Sure, what doesn't kill you often makes you "stronger"... if by "stronger" you actually meant "bitter, vengeful, and crazy as a feral cat in heat." "Strong" people sometimes look like they're related to "Persistently Angry and Miserable" people. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but being bitter and vengeful is not strength, it is weakness. Being crazy as a joker, on the other hand, I hear that might actually make you physically stronger, depending on your prescription.  I read somewhere that holding onto unforgiveness is like drinking poison, and expecting the other person to die. Crap. That's like "Suffering from depression? Try Debilify! Side effects may include suicide." Bitterness is a gaping, unhealed wound, which is, I think, the opposite of the look you're going for. No one gets very far while they're wounded. Just watch Jurassic Park.

I think our response to pain has something to do with this whole "killing me stronger" thing...

pain
noun
1 physical suffering or discomfort caused by illness or injury
• mental suffering or distress: the pain of loss.

I'd like to expound on the notion of pain by giving some examples of little pains and big pains, which I have we all may have experienced at some point:

• Ridicule
• Being tuned out
• Being taken advantage of
• Bounce houses
• Being talked about behind your back by someone you trust
• Humiliation following visible failure to locate public restroom
• Realizing someone unfriended you, and you can't figure out why
• Figuring out why
• Taking 10 bags of clothing to Platos Closet and being told "We were able to buy 8 of your items" (out of EIGHTY)
• Losing someone you love
• Being the designated driver for a person who doesn't remember where they live, but who keeps forgetting to remember that they don't live in a field. ? Exactly.

Okay. So I know that the knee-jerk reaction to pain is to push yourself away from the cause of the pain. Also, break things. Find out someone lied to you: lash out verbally and/or destroy their person/property/reputation. Find out someone two-timed you: accidentally back into their house with your truck. Two times... "Tawanda!" Feel hurt and discarded: immediately decide that I hate them, I'm sorry I met them, their haircut is ugly, and I didn't even like their dumb jokes.

Yeah, oh, I'm strong and tough. Never gonna get me again, oh, I'm so angry, oh you wouldn't believe the toughness and the anger, oh see how feisty/cute I am when I'm mad, look at the memes I made, don't you wish you had me back now that I've posted all these pictures of myself with my revenge outfit (it's a bra)? What I'm really doing is being spastic, disassociating, and lying to myself. Pretty much a guarantee that it will happen again. Doesn't it seem like anger addresses the symptom (pain) rather the cause (sadness, rejection, betrayal, disappointment, embarrassment)? When I skip pain and go straight to anger, I'm cheating myself, and negating every choice I ever made before the moment of injury. I mean I guess you can just stumble through life like a drunken toddler... In the famous words of Paris Hilton "I don't really think, I just walk." No waayyyyuh. So there's always that. Is pain really so bad? Yes, of course it is. But can you imagine if we treated our physical injuries with the same brute disregard with which we handle our emotional injuries?

You're jogging along, good for you, oh you just love to jog. You don't see a hole in the asphalt, you fall and hurt your ankle, ohhhh it hurts so much, oh the worst pain in the world, it's probably infected already. So you get up, started yelling at your (maybe) broken bone, cursing the hole, and telling yourself every day "I'm never jogging aGAIN!" You start posting bitter Vaguebook pictures saying really "strong" things like "Trip me once, shame on you, Trip me twice, shame on me... #betterwithoutyou #joggingisforsuckas #sluglife." You start making fun of the people, throwing tortillas at them as they jog, and holding solidarity meetings at the YMCA. But you never get your ankle looked at, you'd rather just not. Sure, it's no longer a "weight-bearing" ankle, but its fine because you don't plan to use it ever again anyway, that's how you hurt it the first time, duh. Icing and elevation is for suckers. But uh-oh, what's this? Suddenly, one day, you look outside and its so sunny and bright and you find yourself missing the thrill of running. Oh, look at all that sunshine, oooh don't think, just run! Run like the wind! So you take off sprinting through the front door but the shooting pain is so monstrous you throw yourself on the lawn and scream like a banshee, because you've got... I don't know, gout, or something like that, and now you've also got grass stains.

I HATE GRASS STAAAAAAAAAINS!

I hope this seems really really stupid to you... good, because it is. But this is pretty much exactly what we do with emotional pain when we refuse to acknowledge it, because anger makes us feel more in control. First we go put trust and hope in someone (friend, family member, romantic interest), because we like them, we like ourselves when they're around, and we want them to make us feel something (smart, safe, pretty, needed, respected, talented, wanted). When they do something that brings out feelings we didn't want to feel (unwanted, inadequate, insecure), we lose it and start saying crazy crap like "I'll never trust again" or "I'll never let anyone hurt me" or "I'll never let myself need anyone"...which is about as rational as "I'm pretty sure this is a broken bone. I'd better never walk again" and "serves me right for going outside" Well, that's an overreaction. And it's also a lie. You're forgetting that you got hurt because at one point, your desire for something outweighed the risk of pain that was associated with it. And that's nothing to be ashamed of. Desiring is good! ...But know what it is you actually want, what you're really hungering after, and try to want things that are good for you. If you really enjoy running with scissors or dating other people's husbands, I want to suggest branching out.

It takes a discerning palate to recognize what we're really craving. We can't just eat everything in sight the second we realize we're hungry. We're not bears.  Have a little self-respect? I think its very much about recognizing our vulnerable spots, and not destroying them. Because vulnerable parts, the parts of us that need others, they don't need to be gotten rid of. Unless you're Hitler, he was all about weeding out the vulnerable. Besides, if strength really is partly about showing good judgment, then that means we can't just indiscriminately remove all vulnerable parts in order to dispense with the burden of having to be careful with anything, or anyone. (I have done this for years: I called it "casual dating"... where we say things like "I'm not really looking for anything serious right now," but we mean "let's spend too much time together with no strings attached so I can start to get unjustifiably upset about things." It's sort of like Jim Gaffigan's spin on Vegetarian Hot Pockets: "For those of you who don't like meat but would still like diarrhea.")

I'm grateful for pain because it's honest. If it's emotional pain, it will not kill you. I mean, you'll probably want to die. Pain just draws attention to parts of us that need tending to. Just don't do a lot of Facebooking during this time. We're begging you.  If our hearts are like engines, pain is the "check engine" light. And for the love of God please check that engine with a mechanic. Or perhaps a therapist, or a priest, so long as he keeps his hands where you can see them. Mother Theresa had this to say about pain and love: "I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love." I think I have to believe her. Being bitter is like burying our hearts in a box underground, and that's just plain lazy because it means we don't have to take any responsibility for the way we interact with others. That is not the way! But loving is the way, and what I've known of love so far has shown me it is worth every scar, especially since they're emotional scars, and those aren't disfiguring kind.

Fifteen Days of Gratitude 15.10: MUSIC

As an aspiring writer, all I am really doing is rolling up my sleeves and digging elbow deep into evasive, slippery notions and emotions. We tap into veins and trace them backward toward the heartbeat. We identify the nerve endings and flick them, like toddlers thumping on piano keys (Look what I can do!) When I was a kid, I used to sit on the counter with my legs swinging freely, then I would whack my kneecaps just below the patella to see how high my leg would fly in the reflex. At first, writing is kind of like that. Keep hitting the spot until you get an uncontrolled response. As it progresses, it is about trying to string together word pictures and weave nets for catching the "a-ha!" moments, moments that seem as unspeakably beautiful as the sun disappearing beneath the sea, and just as impossible to keep. That's why nets are dicey: some things get away from us. Songs, however, give voice to human ways and emotions, where words alone may falter (therefore this whole effort may be a setup.) So I'm putting my iTunes on shuffle and I'm taking a trip to a place where words fail.

This is the only post that intimidates me more than my post on humor, mostly because writing an ode to laughter is like reading a song or eating a painting. Just isn't right. Besides, writing about how and why I love music is terrifying. It's like eulogizing your best friend (or, if you watched the recent episode of New Girl... your boyfriends father: "I'M NOT ASKING YOU TO DO TOO MUCH! JUST WRITE MY FATHERS EULOGY!!") In that light I'd rather just leave a playlist, or some flowers or a nice card, because all I can hope to do here is impart the feelings, the exhilaration and intensity of a sound that hits a home run. You already know what I mean, I'm sure of it. So here are some notions and emotions about music.

Tonight, I sat with my housemates and watched "The Voice" and tried to figure out what to write about. My roommates are ridiculously talented, and they do music for a living. I'm not exaggerating. No, they don't wait tables on the side and play gigs between and say "I'm a recording artist"... though that is legit, too. No, people fly them all over the world to sing and play, and they have a record deal. They tour. It's fine. And when I'm watching "The Voice" with them... I feel like a six year old watching to the State of the Union address with her dad. Not sure what's happening, I recognize that there are words involved... But mostly I watch my dad's response and when he frowns, I frown. When he laughs in derision, I laugh too. And I want to clap every time someone claps (clapping is fun!) but my dad isn't clapping, because he heard something I didn't hear. Imagine watching the Super Bowl with a football team. I know I like the game... but I don't know what to look for all the time. Suddenly everyone is in an uproar and screaming and I can't tell if they're upset or elated, but they're yelling. I have to assume there are things I don't see yet. Lets train our ears and eyes.

For me, it's like the chorus to Boston's "More Than A Feeling," which I used to lose my mind for in high school. It was like a frenzy when that song came on. Heads banging, windows shaking, people mildly concussing. Or there's Christine McVie's haunting (it's about witches so I get to say haunting) piano intro in the live performance of Fleetwood Mac's "Rhiannon." It gives me chills, even though it lasts for maybe 5 seconds, tops. I'll never forget hearing "Paradise" by Coldplay when I was driving through a mountain pass over the borderline from Cork into Kerry.  The song began, and as though I were in a music video, suddenly I topped the hill and before me was a panoramic chorus of color and landscape that was more beautiful because of that soaring symphonic arrangement that yanks your breath out of your chest, almost like the moment after a swimmer jumps off the starters block in a heat, but right before they hit the water; or when you fly over the crest of a rollercoaster and your stomach and your lungs and your heart bang around like fireworks in a telephone booth.

You remember in the movie Hot Rod, when they talk about the Tai Chi move that makes a grown man crap his pants? Yeah, well, music can probably do that Tai Chi move. It can stir up almost anything. Laughter, tears, rejoicing, harlem shaking, that Ally McBeal baby dancing. It can even make you die a little... like the slowing of your step when you wade into the water. Or like parachute pants. You tell me what it stirs up in you, they're your pants. For me, there's the song "It's Me" by Sara Groves; it's about a fight between a woman and her husband. I've never even been married but the lyrics still seem like I could've written them. That's a powerful kind of writing... to make strangers believe you. And the music of it! It's so simple I doubt many people would be stunned by it, but therein lies the beauty. There is a point in the song (3:56) where the electric guitar makes a wailing noise like (what else) the song of a whale. A disappointed, surrendering sort of sound, like a flare that is burning out over a sinking ship.... a long, last parting look.

Or if you're not particularly into pained glances... check out "Shipping Up to Boston" by Dropkick Murphys. The whole song is like the musical equivalent of a rumble, West Side Story style, except they're Irish rather than Puerto Rican, so instead of stabbing each other to death, everyone gets in a few blows, feels like they won, and keeps drinking.  If you could literally walk on sunshine, I don't think it would sound like Katrina and the Waves said it would... I think walking on sunshine would sound like "Dreams" by the Cranberries. The thrill of love at first sight? "Sweet Disposition" by The Temper Trap. Longing? It sounds like "Never Let Me Go" by Florence and the Machine or "On My Own" by Samantha Barks.

Melody and percussion move in like a wave that catches you off guard when you've gone into the water just far enough that you are out of your depth. Suddenly it's pulling you and pushing you and coming from out of your lungs and your eyes and your skin... that's why I listen to music when I exercise!  It's like an interior gas pedal. When I don't want to move, music makes me want not only to move, but to run. Or punch, or pedal, or ignore the shredding of my tendons. Whatever. i like to listen to "Down with the Sickness" by Disturbd when I'm doing squats and lunges: I go from zero to Lara Croft in 30 seconds... more than 30 seconds and I turn into the Hulk. And I can run for many miles further than I should with either "Take Us Out" from the Rudy soundtrack or Lady GaGa's "Americano" on a loop.

When Napster first became a thing, I would spend hours on my dads computer, crafting playlists to accompany me on "tasks" that would take no time. Playlists to listen to while I cleaned my room, while I wrote a paper, while I worked, while I got ready for school. It's like drinking wine as you make dinner... only you're making top ramen. The music was actually better, and more important to me, than anything it was accompanying. It never occurred to me that music didn't matter to people. In fact I have only met one person who was somewhat indifferent to music, so I'm hoping that is an anomaly, like the baby born pregnant. I will go ahead and assume that all of you love music just as much as I do.

I still have those playlists... they're like time capsules. Isn't it astonishing, the way music transports you? "Select... play... BAM!" The soundtrack to Garden State is also known as the soundtrack to my first breakup. I couldn't hear it without getting wistful, which really pissed me off because I liked that album. So one night I sat in my car, in the dark, and forced myself to listen to it over and over and over, and I squeezed out that reserve of tears and sentimental associations, until I didn't associate it with anything but the dashboard of my car, the pink lei hanging from my rear-view mirror, and the bright lights of the football field across the street. (7 years later, I can still see it) If you were to put my heart on puppet strings for this week, you could make one string Adele, one string Florence + the Machine, and one the Epilogue from the Les Miserables soundtrack. I once sat in a parking lot, waiting for my car to get towed and listening to that song, openly crying. When the tow truck operator arrived, he looked at me and said "What happened?!" I shook my head and smiled bashfully and said "I was just listening to the Les Mis soundtrack." He looked at me blankly and said "...no, what happened to your car?"

There's a Rolodex in our brains for music. We forget, until we hear a few introductory notes and then there it is, that snapshot of a memory, looking at you knowingly and tousling your hair and punching you "playfully" in the arm, just hard enough to knock the wind out of you and make you hope no one saw. It's personal, uncomfortable, mysterious, and glorious, and it's all yours. The "shuffle" button on the iPod is like hitting that kneecap until you get a kick. I've been writing with my iTunes library on shuffle this whole time (just to slow me down) and as I stretched out on the couch with coffee by my side and holes in my socks, I went all over the world, through a myriad of memories and moments and heartbeats, through the maze from childhood to college and beyond, from bad decisions and raw, exposed nerves to pure bliss and back. Someone said "music is what feelings sound like." Well it's half past 3 in the morning and I feel really tired. What song is that.