Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Dear eHarmony
Dear eHarmony,
Like many of your subscribers, I am a busy, professional, independent woman who waited a long time before deciding to fill out your very lengthy profile form. I did a lot of head shaking as I answered all of those questions. (Rate the importance of “honesty” on a scale from 1-5? Really? Is there a 30? How else would you answer that?) I very much regarded the whole process with a “What the hell?” sort of attitude, having been alone and recovering from the end of my relationship for...well, A LONG TIME. Clearly, meeting someone, no matter how it might turn out in the end, was an idea whose time had come, if only to get me out of my yoga pants on a Saturday night. Would I find a fling? A friend with benefits? Would it be a string of weirdos who would at least give me writing fodder, blog entries called “Horrible First Date, Number 73?” Would my blind date flex his muscles at me at the bar or ask me how many miles I had run that morning (obviously, ZERO) or text all during dinner or tell me that teaching theater was a very “cute” way to make a living? My expectations, eHarmony, were low. If I’m being an honest 5 on a scale of 5.
Every journey starts with a single step, and since I am a woman long used to being In Charge, I set out on your little website with a business-like plan to pick someone. Anyone, really, to be First Guy. Just to get it over with, no big hopes. Just to get out there. But then I saw…well, this smile. Dark hair, twinkly eyes, whose profile basically said, “Nice Guy seeks an up-front, positive woman who understands busy schedules and hard work and that kids are priority, and values both adventure and quiet time on the couch.” He sounded ideal. But what about the little things? There is not a place on your profile “wish list” to include things like: Looking for a man who will hold open the door. Who will hold my hand from the penguins all the way to the top of the giant turtle tank on an Aquarium third date and remember the quirks of my murderous cat. Who will bring me both wildflowers and a mix CD before week one is even over, and who will render me legless by unexpectedly kissing my ear at the dessert counter.
Based on my experiences so far, you might need to consider updating your questionnaire.
And I know you advise taking everything very slowly and approaching intimacy with care and caution, but honestly, eHarmony, what can you do when you look at his face for the first time and literally hear your own voice in your head say, VERY LOUDLY, “Yep. This guy.” What can you do? You go with it. And the new story begins.
You have all of these commercials with beautiful couples nudging each other with their elbows and tossing their heads back in laughter and gazing at each other with such a sense of affection and true companionship. And on my cynical days, I would just shake my head and fight back the uncharacteristic taste of bitterness those commercials would leave. But clearly, eHarmony, something in those images must have resonated. The quiet part of me that longed for someone who would look at me like that, who would know me like that, who could make me laugh and blush and sigh must have somehow still believed that those stories were real and possible. Something inside me kept the faith that even though I was 40-plus and mothering teenagers, it could still happen, against the statistical odds. And so I kept writing my vision-board-ish journal entries about Mr. Wonderful, who would be able to cook and think to hold my coat for me and be a super invested, connected dad. And - though this is basically impossible, of course, but since I was ordering him up from the Universe I figured I might as well include the following CRAZY little quirks: He will give me reason to visit random cities, like, say, Nashville or Minneapolis, because he would have to travel for work and not mind having me around to keep him company in airport waiting rooms. And, though this is REALLY pushing it, could you maybe make him able to tolerate show-tunes and someday sit in a dark theater with me as an overture rises and hold my hand? And if it isn’t still too much to ask, (though I know it is) might he possibly be comfortable drinking scotch and smoking cigars with Chris and Tom and the guys? How about good grammar, nice lips, maybe an interest in wine and lingerie? (On me, preferably.) Yeah. I know. That’s just Crazytown 101. But still…if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream Big. And extremely specifically.
This is a long introduction to a very short story, eHarmony, because this story starts and finds its Happily Ever After in a New York minute. I found him, literally one day after signing up for your fine service. He said yes, then we both said yes yes yes, and now we are planning picnics and buying tickets and sharing confidences. No one can predict the future, but this today we have found? Beautiful. Inspirational. Healing. So, I hate to say it, eHarmony, because you did a very nice job, but you’ve just lost yourself a couple of prime subscriptions. We are all set.
Let us know when you need us to film our commercial.
Love,
Kelly and Adam
Because we’re an “and” now.
Friday, May 2, 2014
Fandoms
My youngest girl has a very obsessive personality. When she loves something, she immerses herself in it completely, head over heels in love, to the exclusion of all else. No matter what anyone else thinks about it, no matter if anyone else knows what on earth she is talking about...she breathes it in completely. (I know...sound familiar?) When she was very young, there were phases of these obsessions. One notable one was these Littlest Pet Shop toys. There were guide books with the names of these little plastic animals, and she had these little houses that she would set up on the kitchen table, moving the pets from one place to another, having conversations between them, clear about everyone's personalities and preferences and best friends and favorite corners. She would sit there for hours as a 3 and 4 year old - and four year olds do NOTHING for hours, so that's saying something - enacting her little plays. These little sheep and dogs and reindeer and frogs came everywhere with her in bags or buckets, and she always had one or two clutched in her little fists.
Later, there would be a very long Greek Mythology phase, where she read all the Percy Jackson books and her dad told her the entire story of the Odyssey and the Iliad, and she created huge posters with all of the Olympians and their symbols and personalities and back-stories and connections to other tales. Just for fun. She painted her room an Aphrodite pink and had a little altar of shells devoted to this favorite goddess. Then came the Hunger Games, briefly, and then she finally read the Harry Potter series after years of protests and refusals. And of course, she fell in love with that, too. She was particularly enthralled with the Epilogue, and the characters of the next generation - Harry and Ron's and Hermione's children and their relationships to one another. She began, at this time, to write very detailed "fan fiction" in which she created all new stories featuring these characters, typed fervently with two thumbs on her iPod. Notoriously shy, she wouldn't let anyone read them. She drew the characters endlessly, in different outfits, in different combinations and families, pages and pages and pages in colored pencil. These, she shared. And these I will hold onto forever in her keepsake boxes.
Around this time, she discovered the concept of a "Fandom." I am sure you are familiar with this - they are little internet groups devoted to a certain fad or actor of tv series. They gather in corners of Pinterest or Facebook, and some eventually lead to things like Comicon. I know they have existed in some form or other forever, but with the internet, they are very easy to find. Abby is like me as a middle schooler in that she has friends in school, but after school, is pretty much content to just hang out on her own, doing her thing, with the stuff she loves. For me, of course, it was reading Anne of Green Gables and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Flowers in the Attic and ridiculous Gothic novels by Victoria Holt, mostly so I could be like Kristin Fahey, whom I idolized. And, of course, there were the Broadway cast albums. Left at my house by my grandmother, and collected from an ex-boyfriend of my mother's, I had every obscure cast album you could think of. Fiorello and She Loves Me and Damn Yankees and many versions of Gypsy and several Fiddlers on the Roof and the black versions of Guys and Dolls and Hello, Dolly. (Pearl Bailey is my favorite ever Dolly Levi.) I listened to them, song by song, and read the liner notes, and they are the reason I win the Broadway Teachers' Workshop trivia contest every summer. Who needed friends when I could spend my afternoon with Laurie and Curley and Maria Von Trapp? But the thing is...I was alone. I knew not another soul on the planet with this same obscure hobby. There was no internet, there was no community theater in my life. I was a solitary, weird little girl who thought I would basically always be solitary and weird. I dreamed of the people who would later become my Tribe, the Bens and the Craigs and the Jamies who came along in the flesh and recognized and shared all of my little Freak Flags. But it took a decade of solitude before that came.
Abby, however, who is the most fervent Freak Flag waver I have ever met, is most certainly not alone. In her little Pinterest world, she sees many other people who love Dr. Who, and the Harry Potter next generation with their fan art and fan fiction that brings to life the stories that she carries inside her as well. Though she doesn't know these people in life, she knows that they exist out there in the world, and that she is not alone. And she will never be alone. I love that she has that sense of community, giving validation to her quirks and inspirations and the worlds that delight and ignite her.
Her latest is Les Miserables, and the fandom for this is wide-spread, vocal, and creative. It has been going on for quite some time, and because my life has always been kind of magical, we have been given a number of very magical gifts to support her joy in this. If there were a stronger word for "obsessed," I would use it. She knows every word to every song. She can list every cast from every version in the US and London, and trace the various actors who have appeared in multiple versions and their relationships to each other. She had drawn all of the characters and writes fan fiction about them. She has read the actual novel, dog-eared and underlined - Victor Hugo at 12 years old, prompting one member of her math class to ask, "Why do you carry a dictionary around with you all the time?" She has written every single word of the musical out in longhand on 12 x 18 art paper - all from memory, and they are rolled up in a scroll in the parlor. She knows all of the actors currently playing the Barricade Boys, also knows as Les Amies, including all of the swings, and follows them all on Twitter. She literally knows EVERYTHING there is to know about Les Miserables and her Freak Flag is very firmly red, white and blue Frenchie-French. Earlier this year, I rediscovered an old friend from my past named Jennifer. (This in itself is a phenonamenally blog-worthy story for a day very soon. You'll like this one. I promise.) Anyway, she lives in London and came to visit recently, and it turns out...she was the pianist for the film version of Les Miserables. She worked with every singer on every song, coaching and teaching, and playing into their ear pieces while they sang live for filming. And she brought her score, and played the entire thing in my front parlor while we all sang along. So, Abby had the experience of singing "On My Own" with the same pianist who played it for Samantha Barks in the film. In my freaking living room. And for Christmas, I got the girls tickets to see the revival on Broadway. We went at the beginning of April (after the months-long countdown Abby had installed on her phone), and not only was I able to use connections to get a backstage tour, it was by her exact number one most favorite actor in the whole entire show, named Jason Forbach. (Who deserves a shout-out because he literally could not have been nicer.) He wrote a personalized note in her copy of the novel, and his friendliness and attention gave her the single best moment of her life so far. I am taking her back to see it again, along with my goddaughter, for their 13th birthdays this July. They have seats in the second row. I maxed out a credit card to do it and I swear, it is already worth every single penny. Because it is her thing. It is her passion. She doesn't play on a soccer league, or skate for a travelling hockey team, or need dancing school costumes or piano lessons. She wants this. She loves this. And it is more than worth it to support whatever gives her a sense of passion and community and reminds her that she is not alone. She hears the people sing. She hears the distant drums. And while I will not have control over many of her tomorrows, I have her todays in my hands and I will do what I can to fill them with as much wonder as I possibly can. Just one among my many, many blessings that are more and more evident to me every day.
Glad to be back to the blog. Thanks for reading.
Later, there would be a very long Greek Mythology phase, where she read all the Percy Jackson books and her dad told her the entire story of the Odyssey and the Iliad, and she created huge posters with all of the Olympians and their symbols and personalities and back-stories and connections to other tales. Just for fun. She painted her room an Aphrodite pink and had a little altar of shells devoted to this favorite goddess. Then came the Hunger Games, briefly, and then she finally read the Harry Potter series after years of protests and refusals. And of course, she fell in love with that, too. She was particularly enthralled with the Epilogue, and the characters of the next generation - Harry and Ron's and Hermione's children and their relationships to one another. She began, at this time, to write very detailed "fan fiction" in which she created all new stories featuring these characters, typed fervently with two thumbs on her iPod. Notoriously shy, she wouldn't let anyone read them. She drew the characters endlessly, in different outfits, in different combinations and families, pages and pages and pages in colored pencil. These, she shared. And these I will hold onto forever in her keepsake boxes.
Around this time, she discovered the concept of a "Fandom." I am sure you are familiar with this - they are little internet groups devoted to a certain fad or actor of tv series. They gather in corners of Pinterest or Facebook, and some eventually lead to things like Comicon. I know they have existed in some form or other forever, but with the internet, they are very easy to find. Abby is like me as a middle schooler in that she has friends in school, but after school, is pretty much content to just hang out on her own, doing her thing, with the stuff she loves. For me, of course, it was reading Anne of Green Gables and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Flowers in the Attic and ridiculous Gothic novels by Victoria Holt, mostly so I could be like Kristin Fahey, whom I idolized. And, of course, there were the Broadway cast albums. Left at my house by my grandmother, and collected from an ex-boyfriend of my mother's, I had every obscure cast album you could think of. Fiorello and She Loves Me and Damn Yankees and many versions of Gypsy and several Fiddlers on the Roof and the black versions of Guys and Dolls and Hello, Dolly. (Pearl Bailey is my favorite ever Dolly Levi.) I listened to them, song by song, and read the liner notes, and they are the reason I win the Broadway Teachers' Workshop trivia contest every summer. Who needed friends when I could spend my afternoon with Laurie and Curley and Maria Von Trapp? But the thing is...I was alone. I knew not another soul on the planet with this same obscure hobby. There was no internet, there was no community theater in my life. I was a solitary, weird little girl who thought I would basically always be solitary and weird. I dreamed of the people who would later become my Tribe, the Bens and the Craigs and the Jamies who came along in the flesh and recognized and shared all of my little Freak Flags. But it took a decade of solitude before that came.
Abby, however, who is the most fervent Freak Flag waver I have ever met, is most certainly not alone. In her little Pinterest world, she sees many other people who love Dr. Who, and the Harry Potter next generation with their fan art and fan fiction that brings to life the stories that she carries inside her as well. Though she doesn't know these people in life, she knows that they exist out there in the world, and that she is not alone. And she will never be alone. I love that she has that sense of community, giving validation to her quirks and inspirations and the worlds that delight and ignite her.
Her latest is Les Miserables, and the fandom for this is wide-spread, vocal, and creative. It has been going on for quite some time, and because my life has always been kind of magical, we have been given a number of very magical gifts to support her joy in this. If there were a stronger word for "obsessed," I would use it. She knows every word to every song. She can list every cast from every version in the US and London, and trace the various actors who have appeared in multiple versions and their relationships to each other. She had drawn all of the characters and writes fan fiction about them. She has read the actual novel, dog-eared and underlined - Victor Hugo at 12 years old, prompting one member of her math class to ask, "Why do you carry a dictionary around with you all the time?" She has written every single word of the musical out in longhand on 12 x 18 art paper - all from memory, and they are rolled up in a scroll in the parlor. She knows all of the actors currently playing the Barricade Boys, also knows as Les Amies, including all of the swings, and follows them all on Twitter. She literally knows EVERYTHING there is to know about Les Miserables and her Freak Flag is very firmly red, white and blue Frenchie-French. Earlier this year, I rediscovered an old friend from my past named Jennifer. (This in itself is a phenonamenally blog-worthy story for a day very soon. You'll like this one. I promise.) Anyway, she lives in London and came to visit recently, and it turns out...she was the pianist for the film version of Les Miserables. She worked with every singer on every song, coaching and teaching, and playing into their ear pieces while they sang live for filming. And she brought her score, and played the entire thing in my front parlor while we all sang along. So, Abby had the experience of singing "On My Own" with the same pianist who played it for Samantha Barks in the film. In my freaking living room. And for Christmas, I got the girls tickets to see the revival on Broadway. We went at the beginning of April (after the months-long countdown Abby had installed on her phone), and not only was I able to use connections to get a backstage tour, it was by her exact number one most favorite actor in the whole entire show, named Jason Forbach. (Who deserves a shout-out because he literally could not have been nicer.) He wrote a personalized note in her copy of the novel, and his friendliness and attention gave her the single best moment of her life so far. I am taking her back to see it again, along with my goddaughter, for their 13th birthdays this July. They have seats in the second row. I maxed out a credit card to do it and I swear, it is already worth every single penny. Because it is her thing. It is her passion. She doesn't play on a soccer league, or skate for a travelling hockey team, or need dancing school costumes or piano lessons. She wants this. She loves this. And it is more than worth it to support whatever gives her a sense of passion and community and reminds her that she is not alone. She hears the people sing. She hears the distant drums. And while I will not have control over many of her tomorrows, I have her todays in my hands and I will do what I can to fill them with as much wonder as I possibly can. Just one among my many, many blessings that are more and more evident to me every day.
Glad to be back to the blog. Thanks for reading.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
You Can Never Go Back to Before
Well, hello there, old friend. Fancy meeting you here.
I have been away from this blog for a long time, clearly. I have waited until it was “safe” to write again, based on advice from counsel, and even when that time came and passed, I waited until I felt the ground was steady under my feet again. And then I waited a little longer, still, until I felt like I could understand why I even wanted to write again. And then, I waited even longer until a dear friend sent me the nudge, and said…go. It’s time. And then, finally, I waited until I could find the words to qualify and explain and protect myself from future damage with a person who matters deeply…who said, predictably…GO. Be you. Freely.
And so now I begin. On an ordinary Thursday, girls hanging out upstairs, doing their teenage girl things, as I sit on my couch under the twinkle lights that now fill every room, and not just my old Athenaeum office. It’s a new life now.
I have been a long time gone from this, and I have struggled with whether or not to return at all. I have thought long and hard about my motives for blogging in the first place – was it just for attention? Was it to be able to present myself to the world as I wanted people to see me, rather than for who I truly am? Was it just to have a platform to use in order to call myself “writer,” since a writer no one reads is just…what? A diarist? Is that even a word?
So, to come back, I have had to ask myself very deeply…why do I feel the need to do this? And if I do it, what do I want it to be? I am starting today because I know the answer now to both of those questions. Or at least, I know the answers on this exact day as much as I am capable of knowing them. To the first question, the “why,” the simple answer is this: I blogged, then, because writing myself out into the public was a way to keep myself accountable for the person I was striving to be. Not the one I always was, but the one I was reaching for. The person who saved baby swans. The one who pondered life next to Christmas tree lights even in the summertime, and who tried to get sixth graders through their awkward year with some semblance of dignity in tact. I used to feel, sometimes, that some things only happened to me so that I had something to write about. Looking back, I still feel that to be true. Not always, but often. There was so much that I didn’t, and couldn’t, say, but that didn’t mean that what I did say was inauthentic. It was just a slice of life, a series of snapshots of my little world and what I was trying to forge.
Up until today, I hadn’t looked back into this blog at all. It just felt too sad, honestly. But everything is different now. I grieved hard for the past two years, mindfully and with lots of therapy and way too many Saturday nights alone in yoga pants watching reruns of Will and Grace. Today, though, I looked back through some old entries, trying to see myself through the eyes of someone who had never read these words before. How would that land? Who on earth is that cheery, striving, Universe-loving middle school teacher with the showtune soundtrack and the fervently cockeyed optimist mindset? I am not that woman any more.
The life I used to lead is so foreign to me now, and my secondary struggle in the past two years has been to figure out which parts of my spirit to leave behind, and which to bring forward into this new life. My first struggle, my primary focus, has been on how to meet my most pressing needs of providing for my daughters and navigating a brand new career in the midst of this topsy-turvy new world.
Those two things have taken a lot of energy, as you might imagine.
With what energy has been left over, though, I have tried to rebuild my own soul, cleaner and wiser and more hopeful than before. It has taken lots of therapy, lots of journaling, lots of crying, and an embarrassing number of boxes of cheap-ass chardonnay. I have kept my head above water for most of it – not all of it, but most. I made it with the support of my most excellent Tribe, and a determination to do my mourning now and not shy away from it and save the worst of the grief for later. I grieved very thoroughly, with every damned how-to book I could find, and very slowly, I have emerged blinking into the light of this strange new land. What country is this? And what will I bring to it?
Which brings me to my second question…what do I want this blog to be? Now, in my life’s Second Act, what do I want to offer up to the world? I am no longer the winsome sixth grade teacher. I am not raising little girls in a “happy home,”scrapbooking my Lovely Family Scenes while watching romantic comedies in the Athenaeum. I am not the showtune singing, daisy picking, party throwing, Universe-loving woman I used to be. Now, I teach teenagers. I am raising teenagers. And truth be told, the Universe and I spent the better part of the past two years in a really big fight, and I have devoted considerable energy to trying to punch it in the face. So what does this sadder-but-wiser woman have to offer?
The answer is clear to me now. What I have to offer is all that any of us have – I have my journey. My truth, as much as I can state it at any given moment. My hope, my voice, my fears, and my sincere wish to do the best I can…and my determination to articulate that, in the hopes that someone out there might find some light of their own through my attempts to climb out of the dark.
For those of you newly catching up, I would like to say…I didn’t write about my marriage before in my blog, for lots of reasons. I am not going to write about that now, either, though its ending, up until recently, remained a daily factor in my life. Ironically enough, my divorce agreement has an “intellectual property” clause, which allows both of us to write freely without the other either profiting from or inhibiting it. That still just makes me shake my head…that it ever had to come to that. This blog will not be a rehashing or a slam or a tell-all. It is not about then. It is about now. And here. And this. It is about forward, and emergence, and whatever is happening today.
So…today. Today, I wrote scenes for a Harry Potter parody for my acting class. I chose out new music for my women’s choir. I ordered the royalties for our fall musical (West Side Story) and I cleaned out a file drawer full of old sheet music. I talked my oldest through a stomach ache, watched a vlog with my youngest from the star of Les Mis, made pasta for dinner and had a Facetime conversation with a dear friend across the sea about the nature of art and music and creativity…one of many such conversations we have shared.
So, when last you tuned in…I was a cheery wife and mother living in my house of dreams, about to start my Dream Job at a dream school, having no idea how it would turn out. Now, I am a divorced mother of teenage girls, struggling to afford this House of Quite Dented Dreams, with two years of crying and grieving under my belt. The Dream Job? KICKING ASS. I love it even more than I ever could have thought I would, and it has been my saving grace in this whole deal. The Universe and I spent a lot of awkwardly silent and sullen nights alone together, where I pouted and kvetched, and the Universe said, patiently…just wait. I have plans for you, dear one. And I threw popcorn at it and passive-aggressive jabs, and rolled my eyes and felt terribly sorry for myself. Until, finally…I quit. I gave in, and decided to put back into practice what I knew to be true. What I saw work for me in the many years of writing…that when you expect the best, you get the best. When you offer up your heart in gratitude for what you are hoping for, rather than what you already have, then good things always come.
After the worst thing I could imagine happening…happened…something better than I could ever, ever have hoped for has hit me like a ton of bricks. I fell in love. And the broken pieces of myself are coming together now in a whole new and very unrecognizable form…one that I would never have expected or predicted in my dark hours. Maybe this blog will also be a little bit about that.
It’s spring. Daffodils and apple blossoms and peepers. I have found the past two springs kind of insulting, honestly. How could the world still be bursting into cheerful bloom when I was so damned sad? But now? Now, I am blooming right along with the pink azaleas that I pet on my way into my theater each morning. Thanks, Universe. I never really doubted you all along.
New beginning.
I have been away from this blog for a long time, clearly. I have waited until it was “safe” to write again, based on advice from counsel, and even when that time came and passed, I waited until I felt the ground was steady under my feet again. And then I waited a little longer, still, until I felt like I could understand why I even wanted to write again. And then, I waited even longer until a dear friend sent me the nudge, and said…go. It’s time. And then, finally, I waited until I could find the words to qualify and explain and protect myself from future damage with a person who matters deeply…who said, predictably…GO. Be you. Freely.
And so now I begin. On an ordinary Thursday, girls hanging out upstairs, doing their teenage girl things, as I sit on my couch under the twinkle lights that now fill every room, and not just my old Athenaeum office. It’s a new life now.
I have been a long time gone from this, and I have struggled with whether or not to return at all. I have thought long and hard about my motives for blogging in the first place – was it just for attention? Was it to be able to present myself to the world as I wanted people to see me, rather than for who I truly am? Was it just to have a platform to use in order to call myself “writer,” since a writer no one reads is just…what? A diarist? Is that even a word?
So, to come back, I have had to ask myself very deeply…why do I feel the need to do this? And if I do it, what do I want it to be? I am starting today because I know the answer now to both of those questions. Or at least, I know the answers on this exact day as much as I am capable of knowing them. To the first question, the “why,” the simple answer is this: I blogged, then, because writing myself out into the public was a way to keep myself accountable for the person I was striving to be. Not the one I always was, but the one I was reaching for. The person who saved baby swans. The one who pondered life next to Christmas tree lights even in the summertime, and who tried to get sixth graders through their awkward year with some semblance of dignity in tact. I used to feel, sometimes, that some things only happened to me so that I had something to write about. Looking back, I still feel that to be true. Not always, but often. There was so much that I didn’t, and couldn’t, say, but that didn’t mean that what I did say was inauthentic. It was just a slice of life, a series of snapshots of my little world and what I was trying to forge.
Up until today, I hadn’t looked back into this blog at all. It just felt too sad, honestly. But everything is different now. I grieved hard for the past two years, mindfully and with lots of therapy and way too many Saturday nights alone in yoga pants watching reruns of Will and Grace. Today, though, I looked back through some old entries, trying to see myself through the eyes of someone who had never read these words before. How would that land? Who on earth is that cheery, striving, Universe-loving middle school teacher with the showtune soundtrack and the fervently cockeyed optimist mindset? I am not that woman any more.
The life I used to lead is so foreign to me now, and my secondary struggle in the past two years has been to figure out which parts of my spirit to leave behind, and which to bring forward into this new life. My first struggle, my primary focus, has been on how to meet my most pressing needs of providing for my daughters and navigating a brand new career in the midst of this topsy-turvy new world.
Those two things have taken a lot of energy, as you might imagine.
With what energy has been left over, though, I have tried to rebuild my own soul, cleaner and wiser and more hopeful than before. It has taken lots of therapy, lots of journaling, lots of crying, and an embarrassing number of boxes of cheap-ass chardonnay. I have kept my head above water for most of it – not all of it, but most. I made it with the support of my most excellent Tribe, and a determination to do my mourning now and not shy away from it and save the worst of the grief for later. I grieved very thoroughly, with every damned how-to book I could find, and very slowly, I have emerged blinking into the light of this strange new land. What country is this? And what will I bring to it?
Which brings me to my second question…what do I want this blog to be? Now, in my life’s Second Act, what do I want to offer up to the world? I am no longer the winsome sixth grade teacher. I am not raising little girls in a “happy home,”scrapbooking my Lovely Family Scenes while watching romantic comedies in the Athenaeum. I am not the showtune singing, daisy picking, party throwing, Universe-loving woman I used to be. Now, I teach teenagers. I am raising teenagers. And truth be told, the Universe and I spent the better part of the past two years in a really big fight, and I have devoted considerable energy to trying to punch it in the face. So what does this sadder-but-wiser woman have to offer?
The answer is clear to me now. What I have to offer is all that any of us have – I have my journey. My truth, as much as I can state it at any given moment. My hope, my voice, my fears, and my sincere wish to do the best I can…and my determination to articulate that, in the hopes that someone out there might find some light of their own through my attempts to climb out of the dark.
For those of you newly catching up, I would like to say…I didn’t write about my marriage before in my blog, for lots of reasons. I am not going to write about that now, either, though its ending, up until recently, remained a daily factor in my life. Ironically enough, my divorce agreement has an “intellectual property” clause, which allows both of us to write freely without the other either profiting from or inhibiting it. That still just makes me shake my head…that it ever had to come to that. This blog will not be a rehashing or a slam or a tell-all. It is not about then. It is about now. And here. And this. It is about forward, and emergence, and whatever is happening today.
So…today. Today, I wrote scenes for a Harry Potter parody for my acting class. I chose out new music for my women’s choir. I ordered the royalties for our fall musical (West Side Story) and I cleaned out a file drawer full of old sheet music. I talked my oldest through a stomach ache, watched a vlog with my youngest from the star of Les Mis, made pasta for dinner and had a Facetime conversation with a dear friend across the sea about the nature of art and music and creativity…one of many such conversations we have shared.
So, when last you tuned in…I was a cheery wife and mother living in my house of dreams, about to start my Dream Job at a dream school, having no idea how it would turn out. Now, I am a divorced mother of teenage girls, struggling to afford this House of Quite Dented Dreams, with two years of crying and grieving under my belt. The Dream Job? KICKING ASS. I love it even more than I ever could have thought I would, and it has been my saving grace in this whole deal. The Universe and I spent a lot of awkwardly silent and sullen nights alone together, where I pouted and kvetched, and the Universe said, patiently…just wait. I have plans for you, dear one. And I threw popcorn at it and passive-aggressive jabs, and rolled my eyes and felt terribly sorry for myself. Until, finally…I quit. I gave in, and decided to put back into practice what I knew to be true. What I saw work for me in the many years of writing…that when you expect the best, you get the best. When you offer up your heart in gratitude for what you are hoping for, rather than what you already have, then good things always come.
After the worst thing I could imagine happening…happened…something better than I could ever, ever have hoped for has hit me like a ton of bricks. I fell in love. And the broken pieces of myself are coming together now in a whole new and very unrecognizable form…one that I would never have expected or predicted in my dark hours. Maybe this blog will also be a little bit about that.
It’s spring. Daffodils and apple blossoms and peepers. I have found the past two springs kind of insulting, honestly. How could the world still be bursting into cheerful bloom when I was so damned sad? But now? Now, I am blooming right along with the pink azaleas that I pet on my way into my theater each morning. Thanks, Universe. I never really doubted you all along.
New beginning.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Dear Sixth Grade Boy
Dear Sixth Grade Boy,
Well, the time has come to say goodbye. It seems hard to believe that my life will no longer be surrounded with such a level of crotch-grabbing, nose-picking, and girl-baiting. I know that high school boys have some strange habits as well, but somehow, they seem less relentless due to the increased level of self-awareness and, you know, actual girls around who could possibly be paying attention.
In some ways, I will miss you. I will miss you nerdy ones, who like to talk about the Titanic or the battles of the Civil War, or like to try to stump me in Greek mythology. I will miss the tender-hearted ones, who make sure that the boy with Autism always has someone to partner up with during pair reading, even if it makes their partnership with their best pal an awkward trio. I will miss the ones who surprise themselves when they write a really good line of poetry, or take the risk to sing a solo line in the Christmas play. I will miss the ones who I know still snuggle up against their moms when they are home alone, and maybe still have a little stuffed animal under their pillow where their older brother can’t see it. I will miss the ones who don’t totally know their gay yet, but never miss a chance to comment on my hairstyle or my shoes, and remember to have spirited conversations with me about Glee on Wednesday mornings.
Boys, I still feel a bit like I am abandoning you to the wilds of the middle school hallway, and hope that I have left enough behind to instill in you some compassion, fortitude and gentle reminders to use extra deodorant on gym days.
And you know, I feel like I should miss the Jakes most of all. There’s always a Jake, sometimes two, and you know who you are. (Though your name might also be Nick or Sean or Matt. It doesn’t really matter. You’re still the Jake.) I feel like I should miss you, and part of me wants to stick around and give you the parenting that is either not working, or not evident at all. But you know what, Jake? I should miss you, but I actually won’t.
I won’t miss you randomly falling out of your chair during writing workshop time to be funny. I won’t miss you asking me to go to the bathroom three times during every class, doing the pee-pee emergency dance, when you know you’ve lost your in-class bathroom privleges because of various issues involving permanent markers and paper towels in the toilet. I won’t miss you interrupting every single time I give directions just to derail me and create mayhem in an effort to have power in some arena of your life. I will not miss you asking me the same question over and over again as I sit at my desk in a thinly veiled attempt to look down my shirt. I will not miss my fear every time I have to take you on a field trip that you will open the rear door of the bus and plunge into highway traffic, or steal from the museum gift shop on a dare. I will not miss hearing you bark like a dog in the hallway after lunch and blame it on a kid from the other class, and I will not miss the emails from your parents telling me that it’s somehow my fault that you don’t write your homework in your agenda. ‘Cause the thing is, you’re 12. You can write down your own damned homework. I won’t miss caring about your education so very much more than you do.
Jake, or Jake-equivalent, I have done my time. I have had anxiety dreams about your Egypt projects, given you days worth of lunch detentions to prove a point about getting your Climbing Mount Everest poem through to its final draft, and given you endless rah-rah-you-can-do-it speeches. The you-can-still-change speeches. The effort-is-the-most-important speeches. I have given you, every one of you, a piece of my heart without ever really knowing if it will make a difference, or if I’ll simply see your name in the police ledger ten years from now.
Sad, but true.
Boys, please strive. The world needs good men, and everyone, everyone, is capable of finding their highest and best self and sharing it. I have high hopes for every single one of you, and I do have faith that with the right people in your corner, you can overcome your Jake-ness, find a good job, experience the love of a good woman or man, and make it through an hour without checking to make sure that your boy-parts are still intact.
I believe in you, and I always will. But now I am done.
Affectionately,
Your Teacher
Well, the time has come to say goodbye. It seems hard to believe that my life will no longer be surrounded with such a level of crotch-grabbing, nose-picking, and girl-baiting. I know that high school boys have some strange habits as well, but somehow, they seem less relentless due to the increased level of self-awareness and, you know, actual girls around who could possibly be paying attention.
In some ways, I will miss you. I will miss you nerdy ones, who like to talk about the Titanic or the battles of the Civil War, or like to try to stump me in Greek mythology. I will miss the tender-hearted ones, who make sure that the boy with Autism always has someone to partner up with during pair reading, even if it makes their partnership with their best pal an awkward trio. I will miss the ones who surprise themselves when they write a really good line of poetry, or take the risk to sing a solo line in the Christmas play. I will miss the ones who I know still snuggle up against their moms when they are home alone, and maybe still have a little stuffed animal under their pillow where their older brother can’t see it. I will miss the ones who don’t totally know their gay yet, but never miss a chance to comment on my hairstyle or my shoes, and remember to have spirited conversations with me about Glee on Wednesday mornings.
Boys, I still feel a bit like I am abandoning you to the wilds of the middle school hallway, and hope that I have left enough behind to instill in you some compassion, fortitude and gentle reminders to use extra deodorant on gym days.
And you know, I feel like I should miss the Jakes most of all. There’s always a Jake, sometimes two, and you know who you are. (Though your name might also be Nick or Sean or Matt. It doesn’t really matter. You’re still the Jake.) I feel like I should miss you, and part of me wants to stick around and give you the parenting that is either not working, or not evident at all. But you know what, Jake? I should miss you, but I actually won’t.
I won’t miss you randomly falling out of your chair during writing workshop time to be funny. I won’t miss you asking me to go to the bathroom three times during every class, doing the pee-pee emergency dance, when you know you’ve lost your in-class bathroom privleges because of various issues involving permanent markers and paper towels in the toilet. I won’t miss you interrupting every single time I give directions just to derail me and create mayhem in an effort to have power in some arena of your life. I will not miss you asking me the same question over and over again as I sit at my desk in a thinly veiled attempt to look down my shirt. I will not miss my fear every time I have to take you on a field trip that you will open the rear door of the bus and plunge into highway traffic, or steal from the museum gift shop on a dare. I will not miss hearing you bark like a dog in the hallway after lunch and blame it on a kid from the other class, and I will not miss the emails from your parents telling me that it’s somehow my fault that you don’t write your homework in your agenda. ‘Cause the thing is, you’re 12. You can write down your own damned homework. I won’t miss caring about your education so very much more than you do.
Jake, or Jake-equivalent, I have done my time. I have had anxiety dreams about your Egypt projects, given you days worth of lunch detentions to prove a point about getting your Climbing Mount Everest poem through to its final draft, and given you endless rah-rah-you-can-do-it speeches. The you-can-still-change speeches. The effort-is-the-most-important speeches. I have given you, every one of you, a piece of my heart without ever really knowing if it will make a difference, or if I’ll simply see your name in the police ledger ten years from now.
Sad, but true.
Boys, please strive. The world needs good men, and everyone, everyone, is capable of finding their highest and best self and sharing it. I have high hopes for every single one of you, and I do have faith that with the right people in your corner, you can overcome your Jake-ness, find a good job, experience the love of a good woman or man, and make it through an hour without checking to make sure that your boy-parts are still intact.
I believe in you, and I always will. But now I am done.
Affectionately,
Your Teacher
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Didn't mean to make you worry...
Don't worry. In the immortal words of Monty Python, "I'm not dead yet!" Stay tuned...
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
The Richest Girl in Town
So, yesterday I decided to finally post my news on Facebook. I figured this was the type of thing that people shared - new jobs, new babies, a great trip, an engagement - the stuff of life that people tend to want to know about you. I wasn't at all prepared for the response.
So many people, from far-flung corners of my life, took the time to say congratulations, or just to "like" my happiness. Kids from my past fifth and sixth grade classes, people I've been in shows with, kids from my high school, kids from shows I've directed at my New School. I felt so incredibly overwhelmed and humbled to have so many people care about what happens to me. I was thinking of that line in It's a Wonderful Life, where Clarence says, "Each man's life touches so many others..." It's amazing to me how many people I have known and engaged with over the years, and when my friend Dillon posted, "Could this be any more like the scene at the end of It's a Wonderful Life? To KHB, the richest girl in town!" I just lost it, and sobbed.
Who am I ever to feel unhappy? How dare I for a moment ever feel sad or lonely, or forget how very supported I am in the world? I have everything a person could ever want in life, and this was just another huge reminder to be grateful grateful grateful and to try to be kind, and to try, whenever possible, to reach out in this way to other people, and to tell them how much I appreciate them and what they mean to me. It feels so uplifting. Life is so funny...you get up every day, and make the coffee, and drive to work, and toil away, and talk to people and listen, and you just never know what lingers. Careful the things you say.
The best of all was the email from Matt's mom, congratulating me and telling me again how much Beauty and the Beast had meant to their family, and how New School is lucky to have me. How do I express to her how much it meant to me? How knowing Matt has changed my life completely, and is directly responsible for this whole thing even happening? More than anyone else in my life, Matt taught me how much it can matter, and how worthwhile it can be. I prayed to him during this process...his mom's email felt like a shout-out back from him.
This reminds me, too, to make extra sure that I am worthy of this wonderful opportunity. I have much to learn and study before I start; I need to be totally devoted to that. I want to build something special there. My vision is a little corner of the school that has the inclusive and protective vibe of the UMass Theatre Guild, where anyone can fly their own Freak Flag and know that they will find other kindred freaks around. I want the theater and vocal music programs to have the sense of service and social responsibility that Company has, where theater is place for kids to both learn and teach themselves and their audiences how to make the world a little better. I want to have a devoted aspiration to excellence that this school is worthy of, where kids take real skills and experiences with them into their futures. And through it all, we'll...you know... sing about it.
I am grateful for this outpouring, and for my raspberry coffee in the pink travel mug that Abby gave me for Christmas. I am grateful for the things that make my children so happy - Amelia's show, Abby's joyful obsession with the Hunger Games (or whatever is the joyful obsession du jour). I am grateful for the Easter Egg Hunt with my Tribe this weekend, with laughs and cameras and new babies and Tom's mimosas. I'm grateful for my in-law's new home and my upcoming trips to see Elise and Craig and the coming of spring for real. Nothing is ever perfect, and everyone's life has shadows, but this whole thing yesterday was such a powerful reminder to always, always look to the light. I want to focus on the best of everything, and just remember to say thank you. I intend to double my efforts in this regard.
So many people, from far-flung corners of my life, took the time to say congratulations, or just to "like" my happiness. Kids from my past fifth and sixth grade classes, people I've been in shows with, kids from my high school, kids from shows I've directed at my New School. I felt so incredibly overwhelmed and humbled to have so many people care about what happens to me. I was thinking of that line in It's a Wonderful Life, where Clarence says, "Each man's life touches so many others..." It's amazing to me how many people I have known and engaged with over the years, and when my friend Dillon posted, "Could this be any more like the scene at the end of It's a Wonderful Life? To KHB, the richest girl in town!" I just lost it, and sobbed.
Who am I ever to feel unhappy? How dare I for a moment ever feel sad or lonely, or forget how very supported I am in the world? I have everything a person could ever want in life, and this was just another huge reminder to be grateful grateful grateful and to try to be kind, and to try, whenever possible, to reach out in this way to other people, and to tell them how much I appreciate them and what they mean to me. It feels so uplifting. Life is so funny...you get up every day, and make the coffee, and drive to work, and toil away, and talk to people and listen, and you just never know what lingers. Careful the things you say.
The best of all was the email from Matt's mom, congratulating me and telling me again how much Beauty and the Beast had meant to their family, and how New School is lucky to have me. How do I express to her how much it meant to me? How knowing Matt has changed my life completely, and is directly responsible for this whole thing even happening? More than anyone else in my life, Matt taught me how much it can matter, and how worthwhile it can be. I prayed to him during this process...his mom's email felt like a shout-out back from him.
This reminds me, too, to make extra sure that I am worthy of this wonderful opportunity. I have much to learn and study before I start; I need to be totally devoted to that. I want to build something special there. My vision is a little corner of the school that has the inclusive and protective vibe of the UMass Theatre Guild, where anyone can fly their own Freak Flag and know that they will find other kindred freaks around. I want the theater and vocal music programs to have the sense of service and social responsibility that Company has, where theater is place for kids to both learn and teach themselves and their audiences how to make the world a little better. I want to have a devoted aspiration to excellence that this school is worthy of, where kids take real skills and experiences with them into their futures. And through it all, we'll...you know... sing about it.
I am grateful for this outpouring, and for my raspberry coffee in the pink travel mug that Abby gave me for Christmas. I am grateful for the things that make my children so happy - Amelia's show, Abby's joyful obsession with the Hunger Games (or whatever is the joyful obsession du jour). I am grateful for the Easter Egg Hunt with my Tribe this weekend, with laughs and cameras and new babies and Tom's mimosas. I'm grateful for my in-law's new home and my upcoming trips to see Elise and Craig and the coming of spring for real. Nothing is ever perfect, and everyone's life has shadows, but this whole thing yesterday was such a powerful reminder to always, always look to the light. I want to focus on the best of everything, and just remember to say thank you. I intend to double my efforts in this regard.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Blessings
Still cleaning out. I'm onto files and binders, now, really weeding through the things I would use if I ever taught middle school again, and getting rid of absolutely anything that I wouldn't. I found this poem in a folder, and it spoke to me this morning.
"Blessings"
by Ronald Wallace
Blessings
occur.
Some days I find myself
putting my foot in
the same stream twice;
leading a horse to water
and making him drink.
I have a clue.
I can see the forest
for the trees.
All around me people
are making silk purses
out of sows' ears,
getting blood from stones,
building Rome in a day.
There's a business
like show business.
There's something new
under the sun.
Some days misery
no longer loves company;
it puts itself out of its.
There's rest for the weary.
There's turning back.
There are guarentees.
I can be serious.
I can mean that.
You can quite
put your finger on it.
I am reminded every single day to be grateful for all of my blessings and for the seemingly impossible dreams that come true every day, not just for me, but for lots of people. I love this beautiful weather, the buds on the trees, and my backyard swing. I am excited to have made plans to take road-trips with my girls to see two of my best far-away girlfriends in the next month. North then south the Browne girls travel, singing showtunes and listening to adventurous books on CD together. We do love a road trip.
My coffee is excellent today in my shiny pink travel mug, and for the next two mornings, my students will be taking MCAS, and because we have to be so still and quiet, there is really very little else for me to do besides plunge into the Game of Thrones series. I'm pretty pumped for that. My plan is to spend many quality hours this spring reading those books on my backyard swing, coaxing the peonies to come up and join the party.
"Blessings"
by Ronald Wallace
Blessings
occur.
Some days I find myself
putting my foot in
the same stream twice;
leading a horse to water
and making him drink.
I have a clue.
I can see the forest
for the trees.
All around me people
are making silk purses
out of sows' ears,
getting blood from stones,
building Rome in a day.
There's a business
like show business.
There's something new
under the sun.
Some days misery
no longer loves company;
it puts itself out of its.
There's rest for the weary.
There's turning back.
There are guarentees.
I can be serious.
I can mean that.
You can quite
put your finger on it.
I am reminded every single day to be grateful for all of my blessings and for the seemingly impossible dreams that come true every day, not just for me, but for lots of people. I love this beautiful weather, the buds on the trees, and my backyard swing. I am excited to have made plans to take road-trips with my girls to see two of my best far-away girlfriends in the next month. North then south the Browne girls travel, singing showtunes and listening to adventurous books on CD together. We do love a road trip.
My coffee is excellent today in my shiny pink travel mug, and for the next two mornings, my students will be taking MCAS, and because we have to be so still and quiet, there is really very little else for me to do besides plunge into the Game of Thrones series. I'm pretty pumped for that. My plan is to spend many quality hours this spring reading those books on my backyard swing, coaxing the peonies to come up and join the party.
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