Four or five people now have asked me if I’m going home for Christmas. The answer is no. First of all, I don’t have time. Second of all, I haven’t gotten my first paycheck and I don’t own a credit card that has frequent flier miles. Last, but not least, I don’t want to. Yes, being with my parents on Christmas Day would be wonderful and amazing and all of those things, but flying back into IAH or HOU at this time would make me more emotionally crispy than I really want to handle right now. Not only that, my mom, dad, and sister have all visited me since April (and my dad visited a second time about a month and a half ago). It is a special holiday and I get it, but because of our work schedules, I’ve almost seen my family more since I left Houston than in the two years I lived there. It’s one of the perks of living in a place where people want to visit. Portland was not an easy trip for anyone. It’s so remote and the time change was so great that I hardly ever saw my family relative to the amount that I see them now.

Plus, there’s a lot about going to Houston in and of itself that just brings up bad memories and I don’t want to go there, physically or mentally. I have said before that the pendulum has swung too far in terms of wanting to be around other people, and though I don’t feel that way about my family, I certainly feel that way about Dana. She was my family, too, my primary one, and not even getting a “hello” in months has made me actively fearful of ever running into her again. It’s a strange dichotomy, this feeling in the pit of my stomach that she is the love of my life and I will never meet anyone like her and at the same time, so fearful of even a tiny interaction. I think that’s because I’m bad at small talk. I do not want to hide behind pleasantries while pieces of my heart turn from red to grey to black, color draining from my face as I realize we do not know each other anymore, and the same jokes do not land.

It reminds me of when I was 18, and Meagan used to come home from University of New Brunswick on Christmas break. We’d small talk, and then we’d flirt, and then a flirt would hit too close to home and I would just go dead inside with shock and grief. It was always those moments of “why don’t you want me anymore?” instead of the better question, which was “why do I want you?” She screwed me to the wall emotionally and still, I wondered why SHE didn’t want ME. It took getting a LOT of distance from that situation to even be able to ask myself that question, and by A LOT, I mean ten years. I’m not saying that it took ten years for me to stop having romantic feelings for her, but it did take ten years before I was able to put the relationship in perspective and take back the power I’d lost in always wondering what it was about me that she didn’t like, when there was PLENTY I didn’t like about her.

At least with this breakup, I’ve been able to ask myself that question from the beginning. Do I want to be with someone who thinks I will never amount to anything? Do I want to be with someone who, with our past history, will treat every friend I meet as a potential threat to our relationship? Do I really want to be with someone who has consistently embarrassed me and treated me like my opinions don’t matter? Do I really want to be married to someone who doesn’t get mad in the moment and saves up all her emotional bombs until something small drops the Mento into the Diet Coke and I have to run for cover?

Do I even want a partner at all?

My track record with such things is not great, probably because I haven’t done the work on myself that needed to be done before getting into a relationship in the first place. I met Meagan when I was 17, just about to turn 18. There were three years in between Meagan and Kathleen, but in those three years, I didn’t really grow as a person. I was still that arrested 14-year-old trying to fake it as an adult, pining for both Meagan and Diane as if living in the past was the right answer…. just pretending they were there when they weren’t. I didn’t have the idea then to write things down so that I could let them go….. or as the old joke goes, “how do you release anger?” “You’re supposed to release it?”

Going back to Houston is not only reliving memories with Dana, but Diane, Meagan, Kathleen, Katharin, and Angela as well. Saying that many names makes me feel like a total whore until I remember that you’re not supposed to marry everyone you date. 😉 What does make me feel like a total ho is having two legal relationships in two different states that still haven’t been resolved. It will be a lot easier now that gay marriage is national. The reason that Kathleen and I did not dissolve our civil union in Vermont is that we didn’t know when we married that if you wanted to get a divorce, you had to establish residency for six months before you could file, and neither of us wanted to do it. Had we known the residency requirement at the time, I’m not sure it would have made a difference. We were young, stupid, and needed joint health insurance all at the same time (which is a whole ‘nother story because we learned through The Washington Blade that a spokesman for ExxonMobil told the paper that XOM was going to start recognizing gay marriages from other states. The problem was that I’m not sure the rest of the company knew he’d said it. They had to make a whole new policy just for us. Beat that with a stick.) Because we have not spoken in over ten years, I can safely claim abandonment as reason for divorce and hopefully it will happen as quick and dirty as the wedding ceremony, one of the most hysterical farces of my entire life.

It seems cheap to say that we were only married for 11 months, because the truth is that I married her in an instant. Kathleen’s jealous ex left some information on my answering machine that was DEEPLY personal as a way to get back at Kat for leaving her, and it opened my mirror neurons immediately. There was no way I’d leave Kathleen’s side for anything in the world…. it was as if her flaws made her more beautiful rather than less. For the most part, our three and a half years together were ultimately positive, but our divorce was traumatic. The only truly sweet thing I remember happening during that time was that we had this duvet made from an old U-haul blanket with 600-thread-count sheets wrapped around it and it was my favorite possession in the whole world, even though it had originally been hers. I told her all the time as a joke that if we ever divorced, that was the one thing I wanted. When she cleared her stuff out of 803 N. Van Dorn, my dad and I came up to our media room to start getting out my stuff, and there was the blanket, wrapped up on a chair. It was as if the blanket represented an “I’m sorry,” and even though we haven’t spoken since, I will always remember that even in the midst of our pain, she remembered our inside joke. My kindness to her in return was that her dad used to call her a monkey because she could pick things up with her toes, so I went to the Discovery Store and bought her a huge orangutan that she could use as a pillow, and the feet had velcro on them. I wanted to go out on a sweet note, too.

With Dana, it was a completely different story. Marrying her felt like the most natural thing I’d ever done in my life, because I wasn’t marrying someone I’d been dating for a while. I was marrying someone who had been my bestbestbest friend in the whole world for three and a half years, so there was no way she didn’t know what contract she was signing, and vice versa. The conversation over how to dissolve our domestic partnership in Oregon is not a conversation I thought I’d be having this year, much less this lifetime. I didn’t know how to respond to the words, “I just can’t handle you,” as if my life was a basketcase and hers was any easier in terms of being her partner. I did and still do have some choice retorts for that one, but I don’t focus on them. I focus on the time I fell in love with her sweatshirt with the Canadian maple leaf on it, and when I moved to Houston, in (I think) 2005, Dana drove with me and flew back. She waited until we were unpacked to show me that her sweatshirt was in one of the boxes and I just fucking lost it. It was one of the moments I should have told Dana not to fly back, because when her plane took off, I realized that my entire world went with it. I wasn’t homesick for Portland. I was homesick for her and the “Boston marriage”” we created. At that point, romance hadn’t entered the picture. I felt twinges every once in a while, but they were always manageable knowing that she was married and I was busy with work and trying to find a girlfriend of my own. And if I’m honest, part of the reason I am so mad at Dana over the Argo situation is that she went through the EXACT SAME SHIT with me.

She told me after six weeks of being friends that she had a crush on me, and she was still married and it was her shit to own, because I wasn’t going to be the reason she ended her marriage. I wasn’t even attracted to her, not even a little bit. She never even drew that parallel in our lives, and it is one that should have been at the forefront, considering that my attraction to Argo was mine to own, especially because it was something that the relationship wouldn’t and couldn’t ever sustain. I got over it. Back in the day, I wanted Dana to just get over it, too…… and then….. What changed my mind over time in terms of attraction was that Dana became the face and the mind I loved, to the exception of no one else…. until Argo entered the picture and I struggled with the same issue Dana did…. the difference being that the crush on Argo was because it wouldn’t go anywhere, and I felt safe in the knowing of it. As I have said before, if Argo had told me she was bi or lesbian, I would have run from her like a house on fire, because I could not have sustained a friendship with a woman that excited me that much and stay married to someone else. I wanted Dana to stay my first priority, and I would have disposed of that relationship quickly and easily, instead of over time, starting to torture myself because I knew it was my shit to own and I did not get it handled as quickly as I would have liked.

I now love Argo for everything she is, but that doesn’t include romance. That includes a lifetime of loyalty toward someone I believe deserves it, whether she wants it or not. If she doesn’t, I will just be the angel that sits on her shoulder in times of remembrance. If she does, I am only an e-mail away…. and that’s that.

I also take it as an incredible compliment that Dana thought I was so amazing that eventually Argo would see it and fall in love with me. It wasn’t reality, but at the same time, I was the one trapped in the vicious cycle of wondering how anyone like that could love someone like me, and Dana was sure of it. I know it must have hurt deep into her soul, but the fact that she said it changed me. It made me feel like I had something more to offer the world than my current output, because she saw the way that Argo was overclocking my processor and that I was learning to think about bigger things than I’d ever thought about before and knowing within herself that I could hang (or believed it, anyway…. me, not so much). With Argo, I’d never win a toaster. That was clear from the beginning…. but I could win an amazing friendship if I was willing to let go of the parts of myself that made me think friendship and sex were the same thing, again, a mark that Argo clearly says Diane left on me. It is a mark that deserved an eraser long ago, and now that I know it, I’m doing something about it.

I don’t want to be that kind of friend to anyone.

Just for the record.

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, just grumpy as all hell that my driver’s license hasn’t arrived and I can’t accrue any more hours at work until it does. So I’m sitting in the Silver Spring Metro Starbucks like I do every morning, NOT waiting for my train with all the other unemployed people who think Starbucks is actually a Kinko’s. There’s nothing wrong with it… did it for months, but I miss my office mate and the free coffee and camaraderie that comes with going to work. As Lou Anne, the office manager said, “you know, it’s not that bad a time to be off.” She’s right, but after spending so many self-induced months of isolation, I’m ready for more than that. My wallet couldn’t have gotten stolen at a more inopportune moment. The good news is that it is guaranteed by tomorrow, so “after all, tomorrah is another day.” Even when the government is saying, “frankly, my dear… I don’t give a damn.” Gone with the Wind quotes? Is that what we’re doing now?

My funniest story about Gone with the Wind is something that happened to someone else, but still so funny I have to tell it. My friend Gary’s dad, GB, took his now- wife, Marilyn, to see Gone with the Wind as their first date. GB got so bored in the movie that when they went to the popcorn stand at intermission, he told her that the movie was over and they went home. On the day I was told this story, Marilyn *still* hadn’t seen the end. That was in 1995.

Speaking of which, I am on the fence about spending $20.87 for a ticket to The Force Awakens. I want to see it in IMAX, because I saw the trailer in IMAX when my dad took me to see Spectre. However, I cannot find IMAX without 3D, and 3D gives me a headache because I have monocular vision and can’t see it, anyway. Everything just looks red and blue without angle of convergence. I may have to go to the theater without looking on Fandango to see if I missed something. Maybe there IS IMAX without 3D, because obviously we found it for Spectre…. and it may be cheaper.

The reason that a ticket to the new Star Wars movie couples with Marilyn’s lack of seeing the end to Gone with the Wind is that it reminded me I’ve never seen the end of Return of the Jedi. I mean, I saw it in May of 1983 in the theater with my dad… our last father/daughter date before my baby sister was born in June. However, I was 5 and a half then. I don’t remember it. What has happened in every viewing since is that I’ve made it to the Ewoks and fallen asleep every time. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. Meaning that I have never seen the epic scenes at the end.

In short, fuck Dana.

I mean that in the most LOVING WAY POSSIBLE, but still. We’re hiking up to Angels’ Rest in he Columbia River Gorge, talking about Star Wars as we walk because that’s how nerds hike. Master Yoda is my favorite character in the entire series, and the part in Empire Strikes Back where he’s scrounging through Luke’s lunch box makes me laugh every time. So, we’re walking along and Dana says, “remember that scene where Yoda dies?” My face is absolutely horror-stricken and I yell, “YODA DIES?!?!?!?” and I kid you not, I fell ass over teakettle into a rock with the shock. I just lost it. I had to sit down for a minute to recover from the shock. Of course, Dana is laughing both because she just cannot believe how shocked I am and wishing she could have taken a video…. plus, I am sure in her head she’s thinking, “too soon?” I mean, the movie had come out almost 30 years ago by that point.

I have all the Star Wars movies so far on my 3TB hard drive, so perhaps it will get me in the mood to decide whether I want to spend the money for a Force Awakens ticket.

So here’s how the conversation with Dana ended up:

• At the end of Little Women, BETH DIES.
• In The Sixth Sense, he was dead the whole movie.
• In The Crying Game, it was a MAN.
• At the end of Titanic, ALMOST EVERYONE DROWNS.
• Ken Jennings LOST LAST NIGHT.
• etc., etc., etc.

I was funny angry, and we were both laughing as we were hiking. When we got to the top, I wanted a shot of the entire gorge. In order to get the shot, Dana held onto my feet so I wouldn’t slide down a cliff. We made an agreement that if we had an accident, it was Dana’s responsibility to call my dad and say with authority, “Leslie was being a dumbass, and got herself killed.” And that reminds me of the day I GOT THE SHOT.

Dana and I were visiting Stepanie, her sister (whom I will call “Counselor” for the rest of her natural life), and taking a break from spending time with the whole famn damily. We were driving around just lost in conversation when I saw this huge sunflower field and told Dana to pull over. In order to get the shot, I had to climb down into that muddy gulch. It was so wet that it didn’t take three seconds before I was up to my shins in mud, and I COULD NOT GET BACK OUT. I was so stuck I couldn’t move. Finally, I tried taking my shoes off and climbing out that way. Dana was mystified as to why I was walking back to the car in my socks, and when I opened the door to the Jeep, the first thing I said was, “the most important thing is that I got the shot. The second thing is that the next farmer to work that field is going to find a pair of pink and white Nikes.”

It feels right that I am ending this entry sitting in a Starbucks as Thomas Lauderdale plays “Hang On, Little Tomato.”

Micah 5:2-5a

But you, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah,
who are one of the little clans of Judah,
from you shall come forth for me
one who is to rule in Israel,
whose origin is from of old,
from ancient days.
Therefore he shall give them up until the time
when she who is in labor has brought forth;
then the rest of his kindred shall return
to the people of Israel.
And he shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the LORD,
in the majesty of the name of the LORD his God.
And they shall live secure, for now he shall be great
to the ends of the earth;
and he shall be the one of peace.

How could he know? How could he be so specific in his prophecy? How could he paint this picture of Jesus, so accurate that it should be one of the first pages in Jesus’ baby book? This was written hundreds of years before Jesus was, as my dad would say, “even a twinkle.” Micah prophesied from 737–696 BC, and yet he saw the fully painted picture of a Davidic restoration for the Jews…. a baby born in Bethlehem, when “she who is in labor has brought forth.” How could Micah know that the restoration of Israel would not happen with the sky opening up and a pronouncement from God, but a tiny baby just as human as you and me?

Micah’s prophecy was so accurate that it was handed down through the ages via Matthew 2:6:

But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
Are not the least among the rulers of Judah;
For out of you shall come a Ruler
Who will shepherd My people Israel.

Micah was waiting for the baby, just as we do every Advent. He was waiting for new life, new hope, and the restoration of what Israel had been instead of what it had become. The political circumstances in which he lived were no less precarious than ours. He railed against the beautification of Jerusalem because it was done through dishonest business practices that absolutely devastated the poor financially. He spoke honestly and plainly regarding the marketplace Jesus would later tear apart, saying that merchants and tax collectors were cheating the people they were supposed to serve. He even turned against his own people, oracles like him who, instead of giving away their counsel for free, took money for them… ironically cheapening their own gifts… because for Micah, the restoration of Israel would be the restoration of honest government, one that would not collapse under the weight of its own sins.

He did not use the image of an all-powerful ruler, but a simple shepherd feeding his flocks. It is a paradigm shift in terms of what we think of as a Savior. He would not be born to have power over, but power with. Micah knew that it would take more than one set of hands to make a government interested in keeping peace, but it needed a leader dedicated to moving others in that direction… not by force, but by example.

There is no better example of faith in a great leader than the mother who bore him. When the angel Gabriel came to her and said that she would bear a child that would do great things, she believed in her baby with all her heart. In the Gospel reading for today, we learn just how much:

My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,

for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;

for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.

His mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.

He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.

He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;

he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.

He has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,

according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and to his descendants forever.

Mary not only believed in her angel, she believed the baby pictures she read, given to her by the prophets of Israel that had been born long before her. She believed in her son’s ability to unite Israel and restore it to its former greatness, because like all the other Jews of her time, she would have read these prophecies and had no idea Micah was talking about her…. right up until Gabriel walked into her house.

She believed in her little shepherd, the one that would unite Israel not by his power, but by his kindness. It does not seem kind to overthrow rulers, but the Jews had been wrested from their homeland and treated poorly long enough. She believed in his power to stand up in the power of the people who gave him the authority to speak for them.

She believed in her baby, just like you believe in yours. Not only that, other people prophecy that your children will go on to do great things, just like Micah did for Jesus. Micah’s prophecies and Mary’s Magnificat are the hopes and dreams they have for this tiny baby boy.

How do we sing our songs of hope for our own next generations? Elizabeth (mother of John the Baptist) praised Mary by saying, “blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by God.”

What can we accomplish by raising our children with hope and expectation for their greatness? What wrongs will they be able to right knowing that their parents and their friends hold them in such high esteem? How will we sing our own songs of praise to our babies so that they grow up safe and secure in community love and care? How can we influence them with the light of Christ that flows through us?

A baby book records firsts. While we’re looking at first steps and first words, why not first great ideas? First challenges handled? First moments of gratitude and peace-making and integrating into the community around them? What would happen if we wrote down all the moments in which we saw the light of Christ in our children?

It is a passing down through the ages, from Micah to Mary to Matthew to us. If we, as Christians, are called to be Christ in the world, how do we know when we see it? And if we do, is it a cherished moment in the lives of our children? Is it something that will be remembered later on?

It will be if we write it down.

Amen.

I had a God moment at rehearsal today. The choir and full orchestra were there, including an INCREDIBLE brass section. When the opening strains of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” began in all it’s brass-filled glory, I could not even. Tears slipped down my face as I was thinking just how lucky I’d been to find CCC, and how effortless it was. Karen put her arm around me and I was so grateful that I’d really made a friend… several, in fact. It isn’t always the music that rescues me, but the people who see how hard I’m struggling and respond to it. Christmas is always a hard time for me when I’m away from Diane and Susan. I don’t want to say that’s true, but it is. My saving grace is that none of the music we’re doing is something I’ve performed with Diane as a conductor or as a young woman, her elbow on my shoulder at rehearsal so she could lean her face onto her hand. In time, those beautiful tapestry moments have come back, and even though I have no interest in protecting her future, I have every interest in protecting the parts of her past that made me who I am. I grew so much with her as a musician, and I won’t forget that fact. The God moments come when I realize that there is nothing on earth that will take those moments away from me, and she’s with me always as the angel on my shoulder who reminds me to keep singing…. to keep working toward the musician I want to be, rather than hiding in the pews.

I truly felt lost without being a church musician, especially going on without her, because I’ve been a church musician since I was three in one capacity or another. I made it a grand total of three weeks in the pews before I realized that my place wasn’t there. My place was with the other sopranos. Despite my line about wanting to sit in comfortable chairs instead of the pews, it wasn’t just that. My mother says that when she goes to church and sits in the pews, she is lost because she knows her place is at the piano. I felt the same way. I don’t attend church so much as I enjoy making it happen. When I’m preaching, I don’t generally sit with the choir, because I need to focus on what I’m going to say and pray that prayer Rev. Matt Neely taught me when I was a teenager…. “God, let the words of my mouth reach these people today, and if they can’t, push me out of the way and speak it in spite of me.” Sitting in the choir is every Sunday but those. We are doing some incredible music, and a lot of it I’ve never heard before. I’ll create a playlist on Spotify for those who want to “come to church” with me tomorrow as soon as I finish writing out all the feelings that are swirling within me.

At first, my voice was weak because I did not show up early to warm up. As I had some water, tea, and Tic-Tacs (anything to create saliva), I started to relax, and by the end of rehearsal I was on top of the world. Singing with brass does it to me every time. I wish I could bottle that top-of-the-world feeling, because I was utterly unprepared for what happened next.

Nae stood up and announced that he was retiring in July.

It caught me off-guard because I realized it would be yet another change, and then I got excited because I realized that there would be a national search for a choir director, and I had one specific name in mind. I’m not ready to let go of what that name might be, but I will tell you it’s not Diane. It’s the first boy I met when I joined a choir in PDX and was absolutely smitten with his ability as a conductor. I don’t know if he’d move to DC, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with asking him if he wants to submit a resume. 🙂 I knew we were kindred spirits when we pulled up to a stop light at the same time, both jamming to NPR.

I am so glad that Nae let us know this early so we have time to prepare for this enormous loss. He really is one of the best clinicians I’ve ever worked with, and as I told him today, I felt so blessed that I got to CCC while he was still there. I also asked him if he was keeping his private studio open, so stay tuned. It was literally going out on a high note to have that amazing a rehearsal, and I look forward to celebrating the joy that is Nae, rather than the sadness of his leaving.

I can’t be selfish about all this. Just because it’s a change for me doesn’t mean that it won’t be the best thing for him, and I think it will. He’s already had a 40-year career despite being relatively young, because his first job as choirmaster and accompanist was when he was fifteen. He talked about his parents having to drive him because he got his first job before he got his driver’s license. It was a sweet moment of the Spirit gathering us in close, because even though Nae’s retirement isn’t going to happen fast, the initial shock to all of us made us gather in tightly.

We need it. We need each other. We need time to save up for a gold watch.

Amen.

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Spotify didn’t have everything I was looking for, so here is a YouTube playlist. My personal favorite is the setting of Silent Night by Peter Anglea.

Dana: I want some ice cream.

Leslie: We can go to Valero.

Dana: We’ll probably get better prices at Foodarama.

Leslie: I kind of want to go to HEB so I can get some fruit sodas… you know, a purple cow, a pineapple cow…

Dana: What would a pineapple cow be called?

Leslie: A “moo-au.”

Dana: Go post that on Facebook right now.

The struggle is real. These tennis match conversations that come up in my Facebook memories make my actions toward Dana look even more miserable than they were, because I wrecked a good relationship at my own hand. Two, if you count Argo, although we have made our peace somewhat and are happy to live in the same city separately. I told her I wouldn’t treat her any differently if I lived in DC than I would if I lived in Houston, because meeting in person at this point is super intimidating, I think for both of us. Holding each other at arm’s length is right where we need to be. It is saying to each other that shit went down, and neither of us can trust the other as far as we can throw each other, and if you get to that place, you can rebuild from the ground up…. or you can’t.

Time wounds all heals. When you break each other down and walk away, you are allowing both parties the lack of seeing what happens. You are cutting off grace. You are cutting off that Holy Spirit moment when a small thing creates a smile, like a sprout in a bean cup at Sunday School. I would do anything to make Argo smile, given the the ways I’ve made her cry without being there to see her frustration and respond to it with care.

The sprout in a bean cup idea sticks in my mind as something I wish would happen with Dana as well. Perhaps she just needs time, or is so angry that I will never hear from her again. It can’t matter to me. Her response is her response. All I can do is think of the funny things that have happened over the years and remember them instead of the heartbreaking fights that tore us apart. I have moved on with my life enough to see that I am worth so much more than I allowed myself to be when I was with her. I did not allow myself to take up so much room. I have a huge personality in a tiny body, which makes me go back to the night at Chuy’s that I met a friend of Dana’s whose first words to me upon seeing me for the first time were, “I thought you’d be taller.” I guess that’s what happens when you’re loud on the Internet.

Too loud.

I got in trouble (and I totally fucking deserved it) for being loud on the Internet, and we never talked again. It was extremely painful, because I didn’t mean any harm. But I just did what I always do in that situation…. berate myself until I am ensconced in fear and try to forgive myself for it. Still working on it. She was a gorgeous person inside and out, and I made a huge mistake in losing her friendship. Picking up the pieces of all these broken relationships has forced me to realize my common-denominator personality and try to fix it. Fixing it is relative. I may not be able to go back and repair unhealthy patterns, but I can damn sure work on them not happening again. I haven’t seen Sarah in three weeks because getting around on the Metro takes up my whole day. But she is my savior, one negative feeling at a time. She’s helping me rewire my brain so that negative thoughts aren’t the first to pervade my mind, but ones that build me up into the visionary I know I have the capability to be, instead of these unhealthy patterns that have shattered my life.

I can only hope that it is a “breaking eggs to make an omelet” situation, because if all of this psychological work is for naught, it will destroy me yet again, and I will have to be resilient enough to recover…………… again. I have truly gotten past the idea that I need to kill myself to stop my ability to hurt others. It seemed altruistic at the time, because my brain mangled my thought process that life would go on for people who didn’t want to worry about me anymore.

The thing that really got me past that place was not my therapist, but someone I’ve come to think of as a friend, even though I’ve never met her. I follow her podcast every week, and I’ve read all her books save the newest one. It’s Lutheran pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber, who reaches into my heart and squeezes like no one else. Don’t read her sermons. Not ever. Listen to them, and feel her presence. I learned that cutting off my own life was the same in relationship to myself that it is with others- cutting off the grace that would allow new shoots to spring up, a phrase appropriate in this season of Advent. I am in the process of grafting hope onto my pain……. and right now, there’s a lot of it.

The truth of the matter is that I wish I could go back in time, but that is never, ever possible. As with The Doctor, I cannot cross my own timeline. These pieces of pain are fixed events in the evolution of my growth. The challenge is feeling every bit of that pain without numbing it. I take Klonopin, but it does not abate emotional pain. It keeps me from feeling the physical effects of anxiety, such as shortness of breath and a tight chest that will not quit unless I actively do something to change my mood. In the hospital, I learned those skills. Most of the time, it means writing out what I’m feeling while listening to something upbeat, like Eminem or Aqua. Sometimes it means walking to the Metro, 36 minutes of actively getting my heart rate up. While I walk, I think.

I think about how much I miss being married and having a friend that liked reading what I had to say. I think about how much I did to destroy both of those connections, and they weigh heavily on my heart.

Maybe a moo-au would help.

I didn’t know that Ingrid had also been an Episcopalian prior to coming to CCC, and she was telling a story about getting hazed in the choir. Apparently, they decided that the new kid had to sit next to the meanest old biddy in the Alto section. So Ingrid shows up in all her, “what’s up, bitches?” glory and the lady immediately says, “I like you.”

Sunday morning rolls around, and instead of slits through to your pants pockets that most cassocks have, their cassocks had their own pockets, deep enough for a wallet, a set of keys… Ingrid says you probably could’ve fit a baby in there but she never tested it…. and Ingrid finds out that this woman has a full flask of whiskey hidden under her surplice. The “mean old biddy” takes it out during the sermon and says, “you want a sip?” It was at this point that I said, “where three or four are gathered, so goes a fifth?” The women around me just burst out laughing and said, “OH MY GOD! I’ve never heard that one.” I laughed because that’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone say that.

Now see, that’s the problem with being a congregationalists. Our robes don’t have pockets.

 

On Sunday, Rev. Susannah put me in charge of the Advent prayer stations. It was an exercise designed to let the kids feel Advent, rather than just hearing about it. In one station, they wrote prayers on strips of red and green paper, making a chain for a Christmas tree. In another, they wrote prayers on a wall for everyone to read. In the third, there was a Fisher Price nativity set (where does one get one of those?), and the exercise was to take a piece of paper and draw yourself into the nativity. Being the Love Actually fan that I am, I drew myself in as a lobster. The last station was tea lights, with large pieces of paper laid out on a table. One said Love, one said Peace, one said Joy, and the last said Hope. The exercise was to say a prayer and to put your tealight next to the piece of paper that represented it. I wanted the kids to pray for something real, and so I said, “I know that you guys won’t throw down if I don’t, so I’ll go first. I went through a divorce this year. It was really hard.” The eldest boy said, “it sounds like you could use some joy.” I said, “I do…. and it’s standing right in front of me.” All the kids smiled, and as I put my candle on the word Hope, I heard one of the kids (not sure which, but I have a good lead) say, “smooth, Lanagan.”

Laying down my feelings first worked. A lot of the kids prayed for peace because their families were fighting. Some prayed for joy for the same reason. It was intimate and beautiful, these children sharing their deepest prayers…. and feeling so grateful and humble that I was the one they chose to listen.

At the end, I prayed over all of them……..

As I do every night.

Amen.

I took a break from blogging yesterday, because I needed to live enough to have something to write about. It was clear and bright until it was time to go home, and then I waded back to the house in a downpour. It wasn’t pleasant, but it had its moments. For instance, Silver Spring is beautiful in the rain. The lamps dance on the puddles downtown, “tripping the light fantastic.” This morning it is grey, and the umbrella I keep stashed in my backpack may indeed get some use.

I carry an umbrella now, and don’t think I’m happy about it. I am from Portland, bitch. Umbrellas are for tourists. Period. I gave in when my cousin Nathan decided I should have one, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I compromised with myself. I WILL NOT use it in mist. However, a toad strangler is a different story, just like the rain between Portland and Silver Spring.

The music in SBUX this morning is the Leonard Cohen Hallelujah. It seems like most people enjoy this song more than I do. I enjoy harmony with the melody, and even though the piano arrangement does that, I’d rather have two voices than one. However, the coffee is outstanding this morning…. Probably because I got here so early that it is fresh. It’s Christmas Blend, with four Splenda and lots of half-n-half. I only got a tall, because I took a caffeine pill at 6:00 to make sure I made it out the door on time. I overslept yesterday by a large amount, but I Ubered to work and made it 10 minutes early.
Most of the time, I try to make it to Starbucks by 7:00, so that I can walk to the train at 7:40.

And on that note, it’s time to go. Catch you later- probably lunch.

Love you miss you mean it.

In today’s Gospel, it is not Jesus preaching, but John the Baptist. While Jesus tended to use parables and soft power, John puts it right out there in black and white. He is not particularly nice, because in a sense, he doesn’t have to be. He doesn’t feel that his job is to spoon-feed the crowds that come to see him, but to challenge them. He is not convinced that salvation comes from mere words, but in decisive action. Someone else will come to baptize in the name of the Holy Spirit. He is there to wake them up before that person arrives. His sermon reflects this:

John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.”

He is saying to the Jews around him, “please stop with the ‘we are God’s chosen people’ line, because you think it gives you an excuse to act however you want.” In other words, you cannot treat people poorly and think that you can wriggle out of punishment for it just because you’re Jewish. You are just as likely to get the same ax that the fruit tree will get if you don’t show your faith through your actions and not just your words. John does not want the Jews to be Jewish in name alone, but to be known for how they act in community with others. I’ll let John continue:

And the crowds asked him, “What then should we do?” In reply he said to them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, “Teacher, what should we do?” He said to them, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what should we do?” He said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.”

In other words, no matter what you do for a living, be present in it. NOTICE the world around you and act accordingly. To John, it is reprehensible to have so much and not share the wealth with the less fortunate. It is a sin to steal from people by extorting taxes. And if you’re a soldier, be a good and honest one.

These words remain true today. When John was preaching to that group, he knew that a small amount of people owned most of the resources available, and he was railing against it. In our modern-day United States, we are facing the exact same problem. We do have the resources to feed the poor many times over, but do we actually do it? John believes that the poor work just as hard as the rich, so being poor is not their fault. It’s the result of low wages and the rich keeping their money for themselves. His idea of social justice is to call attention to that problem, to specifically call out people who have money and connections enough to help the plight of the needy, and don’t…. because in John’s world, the definition of being Jewish is caring for others. Look beyond his hard shell and into his heart. For John, it boils down to one idea. How can you say you love your God with all your mind and strength, while at the same time ignoring the world around you?

To John, this hypocrisy is unbecoming. He attempts to divide the line between good and bad in one brush stroke. Those who do good will be lifted up, and those who do evil will be struck down.

And yet, according to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, this line is too grey for a black and white decision:

If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.

No person on earth is all wheat and no chaff. By the same token, no one is all chaff and no wheat, either. Good and evil look different depending on where you’re standing. Listen to the last verses of today’s Gospel:

As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.

John’s message is clear and larger than life… but is it feasible? Can you reduce a person to wheat or chaff when we all have elements of each? I choose to believe in this time of Advent, while we are waiting for the baby and sitting in the literal darkness of the season, we have the time to burn our own chaff. We do not have to wait for Jesus to do it for us. We have the time and ability to look inward, toward the bright hope of a new birth within ourselves. What does it mean to be baptized with the Holy Spirit and fire? In modern day, I believe it is working on the pieces of yourself that tie you to past grievances which do not allow you to reach up. When you constantly focus on how much you need and how much you deserve, you close yourself off to the possibility that sharing your abundance with others will in fact, feed you. You cut yourself off from the possibility that grace will happen in a moment of seeing another’s need and filling it. Then, as now, John’s message of social justice rings true… even if it isn’t couched in the loving tone with which Jesus preaches.

John preached from a place that said God was capable of counting our sins and deciding whether we were worthy. Jesus preached from a place that said God was out of the accounting business altogether. Perhaps that’s why John has such an “I’m not worthy” (cue Wayne, Garth, and Alice Cooper) moment in talking about the One who is coming. John says that he is not worthy enough to even untie his sandals. I wonder what John was looking for in that kind of Messiah. Perhaps he knew that it was because his preaching was so divisive and the Messiah would come to unite…. something which John was incapable of doing because he could only see black and white. Shades of grey were beyond him.

But are they beyond us?

Perhaps John’s unworthiness stems from the fact that he is unable to do what the Messiah will… Jesus offers to become the chaff for us. He offers to take on the sins of the world so that they are forgiven before they even happen. He allows our chaff to burn away and forgives us as he does it. The gift has been given. What are we supposed to with it?

Are we, as children of God, able to handle the shades of grey that permeate our world? Are we, as children of God, able to handle the shades of grey within our own souls? All people, especially as they age, have layers upon layers of feelings about everything that has happened so far. And we are all fallible people, trying to make it as best we can. We carry the moments where we have created darkness on our hearts and sometimes, the weight becomes intolerable to us. In those moments, we are called to reach up for the tempering fire that faith has to offer. We are called to remember our baptism and the prevenient grace that Jesus provides. We are already forgiven for our humanity, but the invitation is so much more than that. What does it mean to live in a world where you know you are forgiven? What would it look like if you could put your burdens down and shout, “I AM BAPTIZED!” What would it look like if you tapped into the needs of the world and responded to them, because you were relieved of the weight your past sins have created? What would it look like if you said “enough is enough!,” and decided to live from a place of abundance instead of a place of need?

Scarcity is a scary thing. We all believe that there is not enough, and we hold on to everything we have because we are afraid that someone could take it. But it is a different thing to give it away willingly, freely in the name of burning your own chaff………. As we give away and see the hope and joy our generosity creates, the THINGS we are missing are replaced by the EMOTIONS which giving endows.

It is letting go of the preconceived notion that being loved by God is all it takes to be a Christian. It is acting in such a way that people around us know it by our actions. It is a radical, extravagant welcome to the poor, the sick, the friendless, and the needy. It is living in the promise that if we provide for others, it does not mean that we are losing anything. It means we are gaining the ability to extend the extravagant welcome that has been given to us.

If we are called to be Christ in the world, it is our job to be born with the baby every year. It is to take in new life, new hope, new plans for helping others as we achieve our own greatness. It is to burn away the parts of ourselves that no longer serve us, and get into the business of serving others. It is tapping into the vibration of the universe that says, “if I provide for someone else, giving will become receiving.”

As Advent draws to a close and Christmas will soon be here, what is the chaff you will burn away to make room for abundance? How will you bring light into your own darkness so that you can receive the baby with open arms?

John’s message may be wild and rough around the edges, but do not dismiss it. This is important work we are doing, this shedding of our old ways and renewing our covenant to do what is right and good, both for ourselves and those with whom we live in community. People should not know we are Christians just because we tell them. People should know we are Christians by our decisive actions….. the ones that say “God has given me so much that it would make me feel good to share those blessings with you.” It is not proselytizing. It is quiet. It is giving your from your abundance to those who need it, without thanks or praise. The burning of the chaff is letting go of your fear that there will not be enough.

Growing up is realizing that there always is.

 

This morning I was so full of grief and anxiety that I didn’t get out of bed until it was time to go and visit Prianka. I knew she would get me to the point where I could live out of abundance again. It comes in waves. I try to live my life that way, but there is still mental illness to manage, which takes my real thoughts and mangles them until I can’t remember what is real. I remain closed off to what the universe has offered me, which is a whole hell of a lot. When I keep my mind on my future, everything looks bright. When I run across something that opens an emotional wound, I sit with it to the point that I can’t leave the house. This morning it was a case of letting my emotions manage me, rather than me managing them. I try as hard as I can not to go to that place, but for someone who suffers from bipolar disorder, sometimes it is unavoidable and I just have to deal with it until it passes. The urge to isolate is strong, to be fearful of what the universe has to offer because it is so foreign.

Alternatively, I do see abundance. I do see myself as the prosperous person I want to be. I have landed an amazing job that pays me what I’m worth, and not only that, the universe responded when I put myself out there. They wanted me because of my blog and the profile they read on the Maryland Workforce Commission web site. Yes, that’s right. They read my blog before they hired me, which is enough to make me tear up with joy. They know my shit and they hired me, anyway. It doesn’t get any better than that, because why would I want to work for anyone that didn’t recognize me for the writer I am? That didn’t want me just as I am, without one plea? In fact, one of my coworkers thinks that my blogging is a good thing and doesn’t mind me blogging about work as long as I am not giving away proprietary information. I know within myself that if something was going wrong, I wouldn’t write about it, anyway. There’s no point in getting Dooced. But at the same time, there are lots of exciting things that I’ve never gotten to do before, and I do want to talk about it…. mostly because the more I am myself, the more abundance comes my way. It was a shift learning to live that way…. one that is still happening because I have moments of fear to sit with until they’re gone and I can look at the universe as a friend. That if I am honest about what I want, and create a clear vision for it, the universe will answer.

I put myself out there with Prianka today. I said, “we don’t get to see each other very often. We should talk on the phone more.” I was surprised that it even came out of my mouth, but it was something I needed to ask the universe and hope she responded positively. If I could capture Prianka’s essence in a perfume bottle, I’d put it behind my ears just for safety. She is my guru, the living example of “when you ask the universe for what you want, people will find a way to make it happen.” Having that energy around me has me striving to be a better person, to live in that space of promise rather than the space of fear that limits me to isolating in my room. I am missing amazing opportunities to network on the Metro. You never know when you might be sitting next to an intern, a veteran, an intelligence officer, etc. I just mean networking socially. It would be cool to know those sorts of people because I am fascinated by them, not that I want to work in the world they inhabit. For me, it’s better to hear their stories than have my own. I am not the person in the room. I’m just the person that wants to write it down afterward.

It feels like I am exactly where I need to be at this time in my life. I’ve managed to live in abundance because I’m not viscerally angry at Dana, just sad. Not bitter, just broken. I think that’s a better place to be….. just trying to work through my own feelings without making anything worse than it already is. Bitterness and anger do not serve me. Realizing that I am broken open does. Is it weird that I feel I needed Silver Spring, but at the same time, I also feel like Silver Spring needed me? I plugged in quickly and easily. I found something that fed my soul right away, so I didn’t have much time to dwell on my sadness. I had all the time in the world to realize how much I could give. How much I could stretch to accommodate the blessings that were being bestowed upon me even when I wasn’t in a place to receive them. In the words of Oprah Winfrey, “the crown has been placed upon your head and all you have to do is STAND UP.” That’s the process I am going through now. I have been prostrate on the floor, and I am up to my knees. One of these days, and I hope it is soon, I will rise up to meet the God-energy that’s flowed around me and watch it flow through. Even though we talk every day, I think God requires something and I don’t quite know what it is. But lessons are repeated until you get it. God taps on your shoulder, and if you don’t get it the first time, there’s a second tap. The third time, it is full-on Nock Yo Punkass Down. I am in the transition of living in fear to living in abundance, and if I keep saying it to myself over and over, I will believe it.

I am in the time and place I am supposed to be. I landed on my feet solidly in order to have time with myself, to get to know me and try to accept the fact that I’m just me. I have my own quirks, faults, and flaws…. but that doesn’t mean I have to dislike myself for it. I’m no worse or better than anyone else. If I ever have another serious relationship, it will be a series of dates laying out all our quirks to see if they line up. Right now, I can’t even see that far, and am happy to be single for the rest of my life unless someone so miraculous comes into my life that it doesn’t make sense to isolate into my books anymore. I just learn so much more when I’m reading and praying than i do when I am out and about. I hear you have to do that to meet people.

I am skeptical.

I do not live in abundance when it comes to opening up to other people. Eventually, I will try. But right now I feel a large wall of protection built up to keep other people away. That wall does not come from a place of anger. It comes from a place of wanting to staunch the bleeding that’s already happened. To open myself up to anyone new, friend or love interest, is as scary to me as picking up the phone or a venomous snake. Believe it or don’t, I’d take my chances with the snake first, because then I wouldn’t have to call anyone ever again. 😉 To paraphrase one of Dana’s chefs in culinary school (he was talking about eating mushrooms), “you can hold any snake……….. once.”

And on that note, I’m going to head to the train. I need to go to youth group tonight. If is part of my plan in terms of opening myself up to abundance. I’m not sure I teach the kids anything except how to teach me, and that’s how it should be. I’m not a top-down leader. I’m a soft-power kind of leader. I tend to get much better results that way because none of the kids think of me as “the heavy.” When they’re out of line, I can handle it quickly without getting the “OMG she is such a bitch #eyeroll” that most teenagers have perfected.

No, my kids have perfected being together and dealing with their differences in healthy ways. It is abundance in action, which only motivates me to be as forward-thinking as them.

We’re all moving together toward all the universe has to offer.

Amen.

 

It’s been a day of watching Covert Affairs on Amazon Prime. Piper Perabo looks and acts so much like Jennifer Garner that it’s like watching Sydney Bristow all over again. Annie Walker (main character) is a linguist that was picked up by the CIA in college because she was fluent in like, five languages. It’s action packed, mostly because she doesn’t let on that she understands so many and just takes in information because people who don’t speak English naturally assume that people who do can’t speak others. I have witnessed this first hand many times when people are speaking Spanish in front of me and don’t realize that I do understand most of what they’re saying, if not all. I can listen a lot better than I can read and write.

Speaking of which, I would like to go back to Ensenada. It was the best trip I’ve ever taken, minus the fact that when we were snorkeling (Katharin, Jill, Linday, and me) the water was filled with jellyfish and Jill, quite cutely, said to watch being stung on “both our asses.” She meant both of our cheeks, but it was funny as hell and still comes up in conversation.

Speaking of Jill, gotta talk about it.

I met Jill on the first day of class at UH, right before (I think) Comparative Politics. Einstein’s gave me a free bagel dog, and I took it because I was polite. I don’t really like hot dogs all that much. So, I give it to this girl sitting next to me and we’re still friends today. We have said many times that it’s a shame she wasn’t a lesbian, because we had such a great “meet cute.” She always says, “you had me at bagel dog.” The next class after that was Con Law, probably the hardest and best class I ever had in college (so far). Lindsay, Jill, David, Andre, and I became a study group. We worked harder than we have in a long time. Our professor owned a share of The Continental Club, so Thursday nights we’d all go and party down. We just built a community.

A community that let our professor buy us Patron shots because he knew his tests were of the devil and I think he felt somewhat sorry for us. I took the best notes ever. I type 80-90 words per minute, and I had a transcript of every class. I don’t know where those notes went, but if I had them back I would still use them. He was hilarious, and cool like the other side of a pillow. He graduated from UT and took the bar in both Texas and Louisiana (just for fun). Taking the bar in Louisiana is very different from any other state because it’s based on French provincial law. Just a total badass and I can truly say I loved him and he loved me, in that deep companionate “I will hold your hair back if you drink too much Patron” kind of way. I will say for the record that I am making fun of him here. I wasn’t there the night Patron shots were taken, and I will regret that forever. Good stories came out of it that I only know by hearsay. The ONE Thursday I missed. JEEZ.

The soundtrack was a Beatles cover band that I still love called “Beetle.” They still play on Thursdays at the club, and if you haven’t been, do not pass Go until you do. If there’s anything I miss about living in Houston, it’s Thursday nights with Lindsay and Jill.

It was a weird time in my life. I was dating a dry drunk who verbally abused me all the  time,  but we looked like the perfect couple on the outside. One night at Beetle, a waitress who’d known me for years came up behind me and surprised me by shotgunning me with weed. I didn’t know it was going to happen, and I was truly embarrassed. Katharin reacted by asking if I was having an affair, “knew” that I had feelings for this woman and wanted to run away with her, when the truth was that I barely knew her. She was my fucking waitress. Katharin said that the shotgun was just an excuse to make out with me and proceeded to berate me for it for over a year. Speaking of which, I made the gargantuan mistake of telling her that my doctor was cute, and all I meant was that she was good eye candy and also one of the smartest doctors I’d ever met in my life. Katharin got so mad that she nearly hit me and said, “are you going to run away with her?” I said, “No, she’s married and pregnant.” Katharin said, “are you going to raise another man’s child?” Whoa there, freak show.

Katharin was awesome to hang out with, but being with her was a mistake from the very beginning. She was a rebound from Angela, who broke my heart when she said she wanted to marry me and reneged ten days later. Angela and I have healed from it, and we’re friends now. She is dear to me. Katharin is not. Katharin wanted to marry me because she said she was tired of the two or three year dance, and I got the message that she wanted to get married and settle down if only I’d change everything about myself. Katharin wanted to be married, but I’m not sure she wanted to be married to me. The fight where she punched a hole in the wall haunts me, because my first love, her wife, and their toddler were set to arrive the next day. The wall was fixed, but the paint had hardly set when they walked in the door. I wish I’d reached out to Meag and told her what was going on, but I didn’t. I just sat and seethed in unhappiness and thought, “this is my life.” One of the last nails in the coffin of that relationship was when she said, “I really wish you’d go back to college, because it would prove to me that you’re not a flake.” This was bad news because she actively prevented me from going to night school by saying she didn’t want me to go…. that I’d fall in love with my professor and run away with him. It was a never-ending stream of wanting me to get out and do things, but actively preventing me from doing them. She had a huge grudge against my family and called me a spoiled little rich girl. Her family was not of money and she held it over my head that my family did special things for us. At that time, I was working in my stepmother’s office as a medical assistant and earning my keep. It’s one of the best jobs I’ve ever had, and I miss it like air. The only thing was that it was so far from the UH campus that I rarely made it to my 5:30 class. I studied the online notes and Jill covered for me  when I wasn’t there.

I already feel like a flake for leaving UH when I did. I didn’t need someone else to beat me up over my own insecurity. I was young and in love, and wanted to be married, living in my Paris. Kathleen and I were together for three and a half years, and she worked for me in the Information Systems department, but we were dating before she got the job. I didn’t want to move without her, and I still have feelings for her in a fond memory kind of way. It wasn’t all bad, despite the way she tended to treat me. There are no words to describe how broken I was then. I think to myself that I would have helped her if she was sick, and that “in sickness and in health” was being stretched to its limits. I felt abandoned and alone. I went to a grief support group in Houston and showed up at Diane’s work two months later. I just needed her mothermentorsisterfriend love that we’d created over the years, and for a bit, I got it wholeheartedly. I get the feeling that if there’s anyone in the world that Diane truly loves, it’s me. We met seven years before Susan was even a twinkle, and Diane watched me grow up, for better or for worse. The sunshine and chill was extreme, and when we were fighting for some stupid reason or another, I’d pine like a wounded animal, baying at the moon with loss.

That loss didn’t abate until I became the moon for someone else.

And on that note, I’m off. I’ve gone to a very deep, dark, and sad place so I’m going to walk to 7-Eleven for a Cheerwine and pump up the gangsta rap to try and change my mood. I just feel weird all over.

God, where to start…………………………………………..

#prayingonthespaces

 

I’m listening to a Spotify playlist I made called “Kiss My Brass” and relaxing to the sound of Wynton Marsalis’s horn. When I was at HSPVA, I got to take a master class with him. He even let me play his horn. I doubt he would remember me, but it was a life-changing moment. Sometimes I miss being a trumpet player. However, when I pick up my horn, it makes me upset that I’m not as good as I used to be and knowing within myself how many hours it would take to get back there. It seems like more trouble than it’s worth. I wasn’t THAT good to begin with. Just good enough. I have a huge, lazy, fat sound…. and that pretty much ends what I bring to the table. I’m also a good mimic, so I can play classical or jazz. I just don’t have any endurance. After about half an hour, my lips feel like they’re just going to drop off…. and that was true when I was a kid, too. I never got my embouchure to the point that it didn’t hurt to play. I picked up some bad habits and never corrected them. Maybe when I retire. We’ll see. I’d rather focus on singing because I’m so much more confident about it. Because I had so many problems with endurance while playing my horn, I couldn’t get to the point where I could play solos without a tremendous amount of stage fright. With singing, that never happens. If anything, I become somewhat of a ham (“descant whore,” as Wendy & Dana would say). Plus, I am lucky enough to have a choir that needs me, and I need them. That pretty much settles the argument within myself right there.

I didn’t make it to practice last night, though. It was imperative to me that I get there, but I got on the wrong train and went quite a bit out of my way. By the time I finally got to the church, there was only 20 minutes left of rehearsal, so I just walked home. I’d left the house at 6:30 that morning and it was 8:40 at night. Not only was I late, I was so tired I could barely hold my head up. It’s not a good excuse, but it’s an excuse.

I’ll see everyone on Sunday at AM rehearsal. I am lucky that we’ve been working on these pieces for a while, so I won’t be sight-reading or anything. I am unusual for a choir member in that I was taught to read music in band before I started singing. Solfege drives me up the wall and I will never understand it, mostly because I won’t put any effort into it. I see it as totally pointless. Actually, I think less of it than that. When Nae uses it in choir, I have no idea what’s going on. I just concentrate on the notes and try not to stick out because I don’t know the words. I’m all like, “just learn to read music.” Reading music is not rocket surgery, but for some reason choir directors love solfege so I am stuck with it.

I am excited that none of the pieces we’re doing for Christmas are things I’ve heard before. There’s a whole swath of music that lots of choir directors use for Christmas, so there’s been a lot of them where I’ve sung the same thing. I love straining my brain. For instance, right now I’m listening to Variations on “America” by Charles Ives. If that doesn’t get your brain in gear, nothing will.

The Mozart Effect works on me, but it’s not just him. All music that bends math to its limits will do. I adore J.S. Bach, Dave Brubeck, Paul Hindemith, etc. It keeps my brain from getting tired, which is good, because coding requires a ton of focus for a very long time. As someone with ADD, I have to double and triple check my work to make sure I haven’t flaked on a tiny piece that will cause big problems later. I can’t even imagine how sick to my stomach I would get if I sent out an e-mail with broken tables or links.

I have been working so hard that I’m ready for the weekend. I plan to spend Saturday in my pajamas cleaning my room and watching Covert Affairs. Then, on Sunday after church I’m hanging out with………. wait for it………. PRI DIDDY!!! She’s only one of my favorite people of all time and space. I also have youth group Sunday night, which also feeds my soul in a way I don’t get anywhere else.

Also, don’t let me forget to call Aaron. It’s his birthday today. He’s 29……….. again.

 

 

 

So, one year Dana and I are decorating the Christmas tree and in order to honor both of our family traditions, we put both kinds of lights on the tree. Dana grew up with the red, blue, green, and yellow lights. Our family was all white, all the time.

So we’re standing there admiring the tree and our handiwork when Dana says, “the whites look so pretty next to the coloreds.” It doesn’t take five seconds before I am quietly shaking with laughter, tears and snot coming down my face. I can clearly tell that Dana has no idea why I’m laughing. When it dawns on her, she just says, “Wait.” It was an unintentional slip, and now so famous it gets told every year. Putting it here in the repository so I don’t forget it.

I literally slumped to the floor, not making a sound but rocking back and forth as not to laugh so loud the neighbors will think a cat is being strangled.

When I think about all I’m doing at work, I feel like Bob tied to the mast in What About Bob? It’s crazy how much I’m picking up and how fast. I get all excited about my work because I’m adulting so hard. I’m blocking out the rest of the world (as all coders do) and listening to Mannheim Steamroller’s Christmas albums. They’re my favorite for this time of year. As you can imagine, my favorite is Hark! The Herald Trumpets Sing. It’s the perfect soundtrack for SQL. I’m working on HTML-formatted e-mails with fields populated by databases. For lay people, here’s the explanation. It goes something like this: “Dear Mr. W, you bought X and Y on Z date.” The e-mail pulls from a database so that we don’t have to hand-write 7,000 e-mails. Does that make sense? It’s like a mail merge for the web. Actually, it’s exactly that. Look at me translating geek to English! Actually, I tend to put that in my cover letters (seriously). It’s one of my most adultiest skills because most of the time, when people don’t understand technology, they are treated with a pejorative sneer and it shows. I am unique in that if you ask me what something is or how it works, I won’t judge you and I won’t talk down, as if I am God’s gift to computers and you, frankly, are not. However, I WILL laugh about you with my friends later. At least give me that. It helps me to show up for another day.

There are no words in the English language that can describe how happy I feel right now, because I get it. Transitioning from the help desk to coding is the best thing that has ever happened to me, because as I told Argo, “I would do damn near anything to get out of saying ‘this is Leslie, how can I help you?'” I have done my time. Other people can interface with customers while I pound out code. Being on the phone is terrifying in terms of not knowing who’s on the other end and how angry they might be. Some of the reason that tech people are so insular is that they’ve really been treated like crap by people who don’t understand what’s going on and have gotten very angry because they can’t wrap their brains around what is being said to them. I would say that at least 90% of anger is fear of the unknown, and that translates across any job field. But tech is particularly hard because the level of knowledge that the customer has is so far below what is actually happening… and because of jargon, it’s hard to drill down into simple terms because they don’t exist. I tend to find them easier because I am verbally flexible, but at the same time, a port is a port. A firewall is a firewall. I can’t make it any simpler than that. RTFM (Read the fucking manual), because PEBKAC (Problem exists between keyboard and chair).

The music has switched to Light Jazz Christmas, Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella specifically. I originally found this album as a throwaway at Walgreens, you know, one of those $5 cds at the checkout? It was the cheapest Christmas album I’ve ever bought, and I listened to it CONSTANTLY over the holidays. I lost the disc, so I’m ecstatic that I found it again on Spotify. I’m also drinking a lemon energy drink that tastes like cold Theraflu, so I got that goin’ for me.

It’s spectacularly quiet in the office as per normal. I have mentioned this before, but it is such a gift. Nothing breaks my concentration, so there’s a better chance I’ll remember where I left off if I have to go to the bathroom. Yes, that is really all it takes. Thank you for asking. If I get up from my desk, I am thinking about something else so hard that I don’t have room for those details. It’s one of the reasons that when I’m driving, my phone giving the directions is so necessary. If I didn’t use GPS, I’d forget where I was going.

I’m rethinking getting a car when I have the money for it. It won’t take long because I live like a monk. The only reason why is that it costs $50/day to use Uber to get from my house to work and home again. If I use the Metro, it takes me an hour and a half both ways, which isn’t bad…. unless I have to get somewhere fast. For instance, tonight I have to miss choir practice because I don’t get off work until 6:30 and I have to make it to the pharmacy before they close, because they’re not open as early as I’d like. Actually, I take that back. I have enough medication to go to the pharmacy tomorrow, because it is NOT a good time of year to miss rehearsal. I can’t believe I even thought about skipping it. Besides, if I miss choir practice, I won’t get to see Ingrid, my spirit animal. #epicfail

The other great thing about choir is that my friend Karen has a doppelganger in my choir who is also named Karen, and I can’t look at this Karen without seeing the other one. Because of this, in a weird way her face feels like home. When my friend Karen used to call me, I’d pick up the phone by saying, “IT’S THE KAREN MILLER SHOW!” That’s because Karen isn’t a person. She’s an event, and anyone who knows her would say the same thing. She’s the kind of person that is so quirky and lovable you can’t help but want to be around her…. but I think the quirky is an act, because she’s a brilliant Fulbright scholar. She reminds me a lot of Lindsay, who is a brilliant political mind and gets herself into situations that would only happen to her. I will not tell you what those might be, but I will tell you that when she was in high school, she got in an argument with the whole famn damily over whether New Mexico was a state if that gives you any indication.

In any case, I have to watch myself with “new Karen,” because she looks SO MUCH like “old Karen” that I feel like I know her better than I really do. Memory is such a tricky thing.

Speaking of memories, I had a good one today, which was Dana learning Python on Code Academy and seeing her ask Aaron questions in my head. Dana would be a brilliant coder if she put her mind to become one, because she can math so much better than I can. Her logic ability is fantastic. I am so glad that I can write about Dana fondly, because that’s what I choose to remember. I don’t choose to dwell on toxicity and pain, but forgiveness and peace. I just love her so much that I can’t help but remember the good things rather than the bad ones. She is also not a person, but an event. If you’ve ever met her, you’d know what I mean. She can own a room inside of a minute.

And on that note, I have to get back to coding and adulting. 😉

I spent my childhood watching narratives get spun, twisted and renegotiated as family events were transformed from incidents into stories. There’s a big difference, it turns out, between the two. An incident is an event that happens in real time, with real consequences, usually involving real (and raw) human emotion. A story is what you make out of it later. Incidents are wild and dangerous; stories are controlled and reassuring.

Elizabeth Gilbert
Your History Is Whatever You Choose to Tell About Yourself

Did I do my stories justice? Did I make the right decision by saying X or Y? Is telling my story worth other people being angry at what I’ve written? Am I leaving out parts of myself that I should tell, but won’t because it doesn’t “fit?”

Yes.

Maybe.

Yes.

When I look at the past, I’ve never let facts get in the way of telling a good story. But I find that I reveal more than most when I lose myself in writing what I’m feeling at the moment without editing (as you can tell- there are typos all over). At the same time, the way I remember things are the way I remember things, and all emotions are valid even when my logic is screwed up and backwards. My logic is screwed up and backwards most of the time, because my EQ is so much higher than my IQ. I don’t tend to remember the facts, but I remember what I felt around them. I remember how incidents made me feel rather than the order in which they happened. In this blog, it really shows.

I can tell when I won’t lay down The River.

When I wrote that sentence, fear enveloped me like a coat. As a writer, it was supposed to. Sometimes, The River means telling someone else’s story instead of mine, and I try to avoid that at all costs…. this blog is not about anyone else’s emotions, because their reactions are their reactions, and those are valid, too. I just can’t speak to them. I can only speak about my reactions to what has happened, and not what anyone else was thinking in the same moment. I just take guesses, and sometimes they’re off to a frightening degree because I haven’t taken in someone else’s words as they were meant to come across to me. I have written my own spin because again, I cannot read minds. There is only so much I have to go on, and it’s often wrong because I’m not listening…. or as I told Argo, “sometimes what you think of as ‘not listening’ is actually ‘not understanding’ and I am beating the wrong dead horse instead of the right one.” When I originally wrote that sentence, it made me ruminate and laugh at the same time.

I know me. We’ve met.

I do not have an easy peace about writing. If I am going to get emotions out enough to make me feel better, it has to scare me in the moment. I have so much compassion for me in my older entries, because I am far enough away from those emotions that it feels like caring for someone else, and I can do that. As I walk further from who I used to be into who I want to become, it feels like one of The Doctor’s regenerations. I might not change bodies, but my mind feels completely different. Feeling like I am listening to someone else’s story allows me to forgive myself, because I wouldn’t treat a friend nearly as harshly as I would treat myself, and that is really something considering how bad it got between Argo and me. I lashed out at her because a piece of me was missing and I couldn’t get angry at the person who deserved it, so I got angry at her instead. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t sane. But the beauty of seeing that much anger in myself encouraged me to get it handled. I had to look back at myself on this web site, and when I didn’t like what I saw, it was the impetus to change directions. See, I can read and get angry about what I’ve written just as easily as you can…. if not more so.

I am sure that Elizabeth Gilbert has had a few “what the fuck was I thinking?” moments, because all writers do if they’re writing about themselves. Crafting your story so that you can’t really see yourself is not hurting anyone but you. There’s not a repository of real feelings, just created ones. The entries where I’ve really taken off the mask scare me, but I know they were necessary in making me the person I am today. Telling all my secrets makes me immune to blackmail, because there’s nothing in my past that I wouldn’t say about myself if we were talking. I am an open book, and as much as you read on this web site, there’s still a layer I only share with my inner circle.

And in time, those stories will come out, too, because bringing them to light makes them not look so bad after sitting with them until I resolve the conflict I had with the way I behaved. I don’t write because it is easy… I write because it is hard. The day-to-day unraveling of my marriage is disheartening and scary. The C3 I used on Argo is cringeworthy. I beat up on myself until I can make my peace with it, and it takes a long time. I do not vomit emotions on the internet and feel like the subject is closed. If anything, it is broken open. You get about 20% of my thoughts because in my own head, there are subroutines upon subroutines, and I can only put one on the page at a time. That’s why you get different reactions at different times. I am feeling a thousand emotions and they can’t all “make it in.” So the stories have different emotions at different times on the page, but I was thinking them all at the same time in the moment. It seems like hypocrisy, but I have no problem with cognitive dissonance. For instance, I can love Dana and want to kick her ass at the exact same time, and if you can’t feel me, you’ve never been in a serious relationship of any kind. If only my 64-bit brain could play the piano on the page, two rhythms running at once. But there is only one piece of virtual paper. I absolutely FEEL ALL THE THINGS, but I can’t express them in real time. That would require being able to write two concurrent blog entries and I nearly flunked group piano. There’s no way I could write with a Dvorak for each hand. But even then, you’re only getting two streams of thought when there are more like 16.

I can only tell it like I think it is.

Right or wrong.