Happy New Year Father Time

So, here we are. In just a handful of hours, no more lucky ‘13, and onto the first day of a whole new ...twelve months of life.

It’s kind of funny that humans have to block things off in this way. It’s so ingrained in me that the first of January is the first of the year that it doesn’t often occur to me to think about how we, as humans, built that. We made up time. “Time” is a concept we need in order to understand cycles, aging, beginnings and ends of things. That was man-made, like automobiles and the internet. Without us, time doesn’t actually exist in the way we use it. Like – it doesn’t really exist at all. !!!

But time is very precious to us – to me. As I embark on this new year, and -in a few weeks - a new age to call myself, along with some enormous, “big-girl-pants” life changes, I have to say… time has been my best friend. Sure, I’m not a huge fan when I wake up late and have to rush to the train station, only to miss the 7:16 train because it decided to come at 7:14, and I gazed up at it from the street below, helpless (If only I had a lasso). But other than the rushing of it, time has been there for me in ways no human could be.

It makes sense to me that we call it “Father Time.” It’s as if Time understands something we do not, and pushes us forward while we resist it. Our ages. Our memories. We cling and hang on and try not to change like insolent children refusing to go to bed when we’re told, and we lose – every time.

But, as we grow, we recognize how it was all for our own good. We learn to appreciate him. Time has helped me learn how to continue to move on, no matter how much I wanted to cling to a moment of it. Time has helped me move on when every fiber of my being was filled with heartache and I couldn’t imagine feeling otherwise. With each day ending, and each new one beginning, he cleaned the slate for me. Time has been there to accompany me in the excruciatingly slow moments before an audition or performance, giving me a second to stop my pounding heart and clear my head. Time has been the parental figure allowing me to grow into my own, to blossom, to develop. And the hand on my shoulder, guiding me surely into the next step... The next year.

There is something nice about that divide from December to January. I’m perhaps a little superstitious, but I do believe how we enter in makes a difference in the year. Last year, I went into the new year cautiously… and I had a year of tentativeness in the midst of all the chaos. This year, I already have big plans for the upcoming months, and truly feel grateful for everything that ended in 2013, and everything waiting. No more caution. No more nervousness. Let time move us forward.

I hope everyone of you reading this finds the year ahead to be the greatest, most life-changing of years. I hope you ring it in joyfully, however you choose to. 

Happy New Year, my friends.

Tidings and Joy

On the 14th day of Christmas my true love gave to me...

Five glasses of wine and a seasonal Flu.

I haven't been sick in, oh, probably about a year? I suppose the last time I was sick was December '12. December kills my immune system every year. It's the time of year where health is probably most important, because projects are always underway and audition season is putting the screws to every single singer in NYC. This year, each weekend I had either a singing engagement (Messiah, and lots of church-ly Bach), or auditions (or both), and while I swaddled my hands in gloves to keep from touching other peoples' germs on the subways, and drank my weight in Emergen-C, it was bound to happen: In came blizzard 'Electra' last Saturday, and in with it came my sinus infection. Or flu. Or whatever this thing is.

Since then I've had lots of days at work spent sniffling and abusing the tea stash in the kitchen, took a day off to try to sleep it completely out of my system, overdosed on echinacea, zicam and vitamin C, and still... have no voice. WOE.

Tonight's special so far is spicy Thai soup, tea with whiskey in it (I guess that makes it a hot toddy), and a huge glass of water with Apple Cider vinegar. (Supposed to raise your pH levels, I guess?). I will get well by tomorrow, dammit.

Anyway, given the down time, I have given thought to what 2013 was for me. I'm not going to go on a rant about how "Glad I am it's almost 2014, omg 2013 was the hardest year EVERRR". No offense to those who feel this way. I know the year was a toughie. But, it was not to blame for the hardships, it was just a year we were living in, and it was doing its best to move along quickly.

And move on quickly it did.

I will say, within the year 2013, I went through so many changes and stages that I truly am not the same person. Does that count? It must. Already I am embracing 2014, but not because I'm wanting to leave this year behind - because I am so excited for the coming year I can hardly stand it.

2013 was a year of healing, both for myself and for my family. 2012 was the year we lost loved ones with such catastrophic force (no apologies for the drama within that sentence, because it was dramatic and catastrophic for us), that we sort of looked at each other by the time Christmas came going "okay, what now?" Shell-shocked and rather terrified. We spent Christmas 2012 hunkered down in Albany holding family meetings and attempting to get through our spells of grief and moodiness. I already touched on this with Thanksgiving, and it doesn't bear repeating. We were eager to make big changes in 2013, even hard ones - like leaving jobs, or leaving relationships. We did so with our teeth gritted and our emotions barely at bay, but we made it here, and we're all better for it. From losses in the family, and losses of dear friends, to accidents that could have been tragic and turned into triumph. From job loss, to gain, to loss again. From identity crisis ... to fully embracing whatever identity this has become.

I, personally, am always going to look back fondly on 2013. It was not the hardest year of my life, because I chose not to let it be, and was surrounded by people who wouldn't let me stumble in that. It became the year I really learned to take control of what happiness means for me - and realized how much more important that is than anything else.

Merry Christmas. Be healthy. Be happy. Don't settle for a single year being a year you cannot wait to get out of... but here's to 2014 being the best one we've ever had.

Acting

Today I was thinking about how good it is to move. 

I mean, physically move. 

I spend a lot of time in my head. (Surprise?) I've learned how to channel that, so it isn't just useless thought - it's generally good, balanced, "What is going on here?" thought, or "Are you acknowledging this thing in your life?" thought. Then again, I also spend a ton of time in my own dream world imagining ridiculousness. It's hard for me to balance - honestly, I don't mind that this is an issue for me. It's entertaining.

But the last few weeks have been very action packed. Well, actually the last few months have been, but in the past 14 days I have had one spontaneous move after another. New office. New work to do. New opportunities. Sudden solo gigs I didn't feel quuuite  ready for (and that was an adventure I needed to shake me out of perfectionism, if there ever was one). Now we're onto planning for 2014. Today there are auditions. Tomorrow there are concerts. I feel overwhelmed, but very pleased with it all, and somehow have still had time to catch up or reunite with the people I care so much about - even if the catch up time is on a small scale, or just a moment or two. I'm grateful for that.

It's good to be "acting," in life. It's good to have the movement, the need to GO, the excitement. But, I do look forward to a quieter pace sometime down the line, if that is in the cards. 

"Passing" On the Holidays

I have been fruitlessly attempting to come up with a post about Thanksgiving. The truth is, nothing I write in here works, or sounds too trite, or is just downright ... kind of fake. So I'm going to be un-fake and write how I really feel about the holidays right now, and I hope you will all keep an open mind. And, you know, not call me emo and stuff.

This is just one lowly opinion, and I promise I am not anti-holidays.

For most families, I hear the holidays are a time of joy and celebration. Laughter, music, food, togetherness, dancing through snowflake-filled-scenes of pine trees and carolers and snowmen or menorahs. Thanksgiving is the precursor to a full month of food just like it and fireplace-lit evenings filled with time together with big grins on. It is a warm, beautiful Norman Rockwell painting of a time for those families. It is what they look forward to. ... This is what I'm told.

My family has, truthfully, never really known such scenes in the past 20 years. We are a happy, loving family who likes the lower-pressure months of summer or late winter/ spring best. Months where there are very few celebrations, and we can quietly do our thing. We cook and spend time together much like that previous paragraph describes. But, actual holidays are a time when I think we have all generally longed for a year where we could just "pass." There are a few blazing reasons for this - we are a solidly joyful bunch of people - but the main one is grief.

To begin, let me just say... I know every family knows grief and loss at some time or another, and many reading this are sympathizing, probably even more than I, with what I am writing. I'm not meaning to be negative, it's just a reality: it's very hard to celebrate family memories when you deeply miss a family member whose absence is felt painfully enough throughout the year. I suck at faking anything, and faking a big happy "Oh man I LOVE the holiday season!!! Peppermint Mocha LATTE, please!" would fool no one.

Without going into all of the sad and depressing details of who we've lost or how, the description of the holidays is occasionally a bit darker than what it always seems like it's "supposed" to be. We try as hard as we can to avoid thinking about the changing landscape of what our "togetherness" means. We flip past the photos that have been brought out this time of year, including the faces of the people who will not be joining us. We each feel a conflicting combination of comfort in each others' presence, and overwhelming anxiety at the amount of people stuffed into one space - many of whom are feeling the exact same emotions. Alcohol is avoided like the plague, because otherwise it is just tempting to overuse it, which leads to one of us dragging the other out into the street to "take a walk" (But that's always a danger with alcohol and families ;) ). Conversation is either therapeutic or dismally lonely. It's just one of those paradoxes: this time of year is supposed to bring comfort and joy... and because it's supposed to bring those things, many times it also brings to light the reasons we don't feel that way. The oddest thing. I can't explain it. But it's how my family is feeling.

I am not saying this is how it is every year, and the past year has been harder than normal because we lost Lynn and haven't adjusted to that reality fully - the holidays tend to be this big fat reality check, it seems. There have been so many moments over the course of the past year where I have just wished I could respond to everyone's insistence that I have a GREAT Thanksgiving or Christmas with "Oh, I'm actually not doing them this year! Have a great one though!!" Get a year-long clean slate, and spend it doing absolutely nothing special for a few weeks, and then emerge the next year full of energy and ready for a brand new Holiday Season. That way, when I'm uncharacteristically quiet and cranky during the holidays, people won't wonder what the hell is wrong with me for being down during "the most wonderful time of the year" - they'll just figure "Oh right, Julie's not doing holidays this year. Whatever." (Shrug).

At the same time, though, I know I need to learn to just do that anyway. Start fresh, every year, rather than hang on to the memories of growing up that bring me so much longing.

Maybe that's what I will try for this year.

Bookcase Meditations

Between working at Random House and just being the nerdy fool that I am, I have an intense collection of books in my room. Every surface or shelf holds books ranging from tiny chic-lits like the "Shopaholic" collection, to the "Twilight" saga (I'll admit, that box set is collecting dust in the corner). My favorites are bent and ratty, like Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast," or my Stephen King novels, or the "Stargazer's Guide" Dad got me for Christmas. Then there are the new-agey and religious texts like "The Power of Now," "The Tao Te Ching," The Bible, (a few different copies), and all of the books attempting to explain them. Look up to the top shelf and you'll find every musical score I own, dog-eared and abused through the years of being tossed in my music bags and tattered in staging rehearsals.

I'm sitting here on this fantastically quiet Saturday night, candle flickering and barely any noise throughout this house, staring at the shelves of my bookcase in front of me. I am not sure why this makes me so calm. Perhaps it's the knowledge that I can find answers there - one of these books has something to teach me tonight, if I'm willing. Maybe it's the familiarity of the books I have from my childhood and upbringing - I can hear my Grandpa Norman's words on Hemingway. I can recall my mother's voice reading some of the fairytales in my enormous Children's Stories anthology up there. I can think back on countless nights in high school, setting aside my AP homework to curl up on the couch with "The Princess Bride," or some random Nancy Drew. Getting lost in some other story. Seeing how other tales can end; taking heart in the fact that I am still very much writing my novel each day, and it could go in any one of these fantastic directions. 

I think the comfort is probably in the lessons there. The enlightenment. The opportunity to expand and evolve and adapt. There is comfort in the plans laid out by humans older and wiser - and so much more experienced than I. Maybe tonight they'll let me join them. 

Love. And Marriage, I Guess.

I've had a crazy night. I've had some Jim Beam, sung a lot of singing, run a few miles, voted for a few things for my state -- obviously now I'm going to post about marriage!

No, it really has nothing to do with any of those things.

There's been this article floating around all week, written very charmingly by Seth Adam Smith. (In case you want to read that, here is the link: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/seth-adam-smith/marriage-isnt-for-you_b_4209837.html). This post is not to somehow put down that article. I think it's beautiful that he has learned what he has from his marriage, and from love in general, at such a young age. His wisdom is great; his experiences are by no means going to be scoffed at in this entry.

I guess I'm just a little... "over it."

I have a theory (since you are here, on my page, how 'bout you go with it for a sec?): Life gets over-thought all the freaking time. Everything from what we should be eating three times (or more) a day, to what our entire purpose in life is get drawn out, with multiple conclusions, always. We are influenced by the TV we watch, the video games we play, the books we read (if we still do that), and our friends. Our family. All of it. We are so heavily influenced; Instead of going with our guts and keeping things simple, we complicate, make lists, worry. Worry some more. Think it over. Talk it over. Oh my God - just STOP!

While reading the article, as a late-20's single female (I almost wrote "single, white female" but realized the TMI was really unnecessary. And not habit, I swear.), all I kept thinking was "Yes, okay, we get it: you feel guilty for having doubts in your marriage at your really incredibly young age to even be committed in marriage. We hear you: you feel like you need to declare to the world that your marriage will henceforth be about her, and your family only...but more importantly: I think that this will probably fail on you."

I am not saying his ideas are wrong, or love is selfish. I'm not saying he can't make this switch. I'm just saying -- can we all just be??? I feel like the failure that exists in marriage and partnership in our country actually isn't selfishness, but more... a freak-out that ensues whenever people stop just existing in their "married" state - happy, content to be a human who will inevitably make a ton of mistakes and come off really stupidly a lot of times, and glad to be with another human who will make those same mistakes. We over-complicate. We over-think. Infidelity and abuse stop being the deal breakers... and "seeming less invested than I am" becomes a reason for divorce. "Something not feeling right," is cause for breaking up.

Things "don't feel right" for me at some point almost every week. There, I said it. And by the way, that was the case when I was in happy and loving long-term relationships. It was also the case when I wasn't. I often "don't feel right," or feel selfish in some way. I often feel like I'm doing things wrong. I rarely feel like I'm being selfless enough, or am content enough, or have it all figured out... enough. Sure, I strive to be better about it all, but these are the idealistic dreams of our annoying society. No one feels right all the time. (Please correct me if you do!) Everyone has issues - even tiny, insignificant ones count. Those issues can make us selfish, confusing, complicated, and flawed as friends, partners, lovers, whatever. That is what makes love - true, human, imperfect love so astoundingly beautiful (and amazing) to me. It's the endless, exhausting attempt of our society to try and fix that that seems to create such unbelievable upheaval between partners.

I wish we could all just be simple somehow. Love simply. Feel what we feel for one another, and accept each other as being constantly evolving, messy, issue-laden humans. I wish for each of us to find a partner who truly knows how to love without the veil of "perfect" hanging over each of our heads. I pretty much vow not to marry - or even consider it - until I know that exists within whatever union I am contemplating.

Let's just love, and stop thinking so damn much.

100 Milestones: The Ride For Missing Children

I'm in the gray in the back. Dad is in the orange/red beside me. (Right)

To warn anyone reading this: When I started this entry it was Friday night, and I'd actually decided on a glass of wine after that day. I was up at 4AM for the ride that morning. So, there's really no telling how any of this will come across.



WOW.



I just don't know how to articulate this post, I'msorryI'msorry.

This weekend was incredible. My feet hurt. My hands hurt. Other things hurt.

100 Miles, on bikes, through the Capital District, with the strongest, fittest, most inspirational people I have absolutely ever had the privilege of knowing. And included in that is my unbreakable father. 100 miles on his bike.

What's more, the ride itself was just beyond anything I could have comprehended. When we got to SUNY Albany's sports center that morning, I was probably as nervous as I have ever been. Mom kept forcing me to eat, it was freezing outside, and everyone involved with the organization was there. I kept rattling off things I was sure I was forgetting to Mom, "What about my helmet, is it tight enough?" "How many wagons are there if bikers get tired and need to ride?" "What if I can't even get to the halfway point?" "What if I forget the words to the National Anthem?" I don't even remember the things she said back, but you know how it goes. Besides, after years of coaching me through pre-audition jitters, she knew the drill. "Eat a banana."

All nerves went out the window during that opening ceremony. Families of people who'd gone missing were either riding with us or volunteering for the day to stand up for theirs. Families got up to talk about what their struggle was like, and how much it meant to them to have this organization. Truly, I cannot imagine the kind of suffering losing a loved one to abduction must be. No word on where they are. No leads. No closure. I had always felt committed to the cause, but hearing these stories lit a fire that I hadn't known before. As we pulled out of Albany, as a team, the entire police force was lined up, hundreds of people, along either side of the road - saluting, and then cheering.

That happened throughout the entire day - at each school we visited, every single student waited outside for us and cheered and held signs and asked us to sign autographs. (On the signs they made, or on their arms and faces). We played games with them and taught them about safety. Then, we hopped back on our bikes to ride down the highways with police escorts for another 30 miles until the next school. I never felt tired once.

By 4:15 that day, we were almost back to where we started, and my Dad and I had ridden beside each other for almost the entire trip. Despite a terrifying moment where my pedals locked up and I had to quickly skid off the road to fix them, neither of us hopped in any of the wagons once, or had any mishaps. In fact, for several hours of the trip (the amount of time we were actually on our bikes that day was about 7 hours), we talked about life. We joked around. I told him about plans I have coming up, and he told me about things he hoped to do next. It was almost like we were in the car going someplace, rather than pedaling at an average pace of about 16-18mph through upstate New York.

I kept thinking, as we went by gorgeous lakes and towns, mountains and planes (and amber waves of graaain...), how many obstacles there were to this goal. Obviously physical ones - being in the right shape to ride up to this many miles, training throughout brutally hot and busy summer weeks, and also having the endurance to keep moving, mile after mile. Then, there were the mental obstacles. Demons with so many faces and masks, showing themselves in the form of fear, doubt, insecurity, shyness, anger... These were the ones that almost claimed the goal. I'm sure this was the case for every person on the ride.

Getting to the end of that day wasn't just about being physically fit; in fact, I'd say that was the smallest aspect. There were milestones all summer that led to that last one. Dad going home from the hospital, with a sling and pain killers. My mother and I starting brand new jobs in August. Tom coming to NYC to decide whether or not he wants to pursue living here. Dad going on his first jog after the crash and then, shortly after, hopping back on his bike. These were all baby steps - seemingly small things that in hindsight were enormous contributors to achieving the one thing I had come to think would be impossible.

I know this could start to sound like a Mr. Roger's moment, but that thinking - that it really just takes a small step in one direction to wind up just a couple months later leading you across a 100-mile finish line - changed me this fall. While I plan to sit back and rest for a few days with my whiskey and my good friends, and just celebrate having gotten there, I'm secretly even more excited for mile-marker 200. Whatever that may be.

Happier than ever, minutes after the end of the Ride!

Just Like Riding A Bike

Last night I slept for 13 hours, and I am sitting here with a huge cup of coffee assuming that helps? I have not been this physically exhausted in a really long time, and it's an amazing feeling.

On almost the exact day, two months later, I hopped on my bike to join the team for the Ride for Missing Children for the first time since Dad's accident for their penultimate, 50-mile training ride. And holy crap. These guys are intense bikers - even on the day of Dad's crash, they continued on, shaken to the core, for the rest of the 25 miles. They are people who have had to stay strong-minded for years to ride in the event, many of them have lost loved ones to abduction and are still trying to find them, and all of them look at these rides as a team event wherein not one athlete is better than the other. I have so much respect and admiration for these people that getting back on the saddle after 2 months was not an option. I had promised myself, my father, and the rest of them that I would. 

I did NOT anticipate that Dad would be joining me.

To preface this, and it's a little gory, so I'm sorry: Dad's injuries were not superficial. For the first 48 hours, none of us slept waiting for the phone to ring and praying he'd pull through the night. He had seizures. He had (has) a dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, and a lacerated ear. He had chips out of his skull, and trouble remembering things - his memory kept resetting (which is a common occurrence with concussions and trauma, but when you're dealing with someone like my father who can remember pretty much anything...). It was terrifying and I know that, even though I said I would get back on my bike for another ride, I had written it off as a possibility. No way was I strong enough to handle the anxiety.

When Dad crashed, I was ahead of him on the road (I'm a new rider this year, so they try to set the pace off of that as a team and make you go up front with the leader). I was at the bottom of what had been a pretty steep decline, probably at about 25-30mph, and something felt reckless about our speed. I heard the crash, and then the cries from the team of "MAN DOWN", and even before turning around I knew it was my Dad. I had no reason to think that, I just did. I saw his friend, John, on the road  just behind me - John had been behind my Dad in the lineup - and saw that he was pretty banged up, but okay. He had crashed into my Dad's bike and gotten thrown forward off of his own. I couldn't see Dad anywhere, and scanned the 20 team members frantically for him until I saw that he was surrounded by 5 or 6 of them, clearly badly injured and unconscious, making horrific noises I will never get out of my memory, about a half mile up the hill. I ditched my bike and ran to him panicked, and to say the ten minutes before we could get him to open his eyes were the longest of my life is an understatement. 

The ambulance ride, trauma center and rest of that day was a blur of trying not to cry and praying he'd come through. I felt like the team made me push through the weak moments when I nearly lost it in front of him. When he had a seizure episode in the hospital, about 3 hours after he'd been brought in, the nurses left me alone with him and I felt utterly lost in my own helplessness, holding his hand and trying to let him know he was fine. Just then, Dan Craven - who leads these rides - walked into the room. He proceeded to tell us about his own bike crashes, and experiences where a teammate had been hurt like this, and how they got back on their bikes. It comforted me in those moments to think about Dad riding again, like nothing had ever happened. Unrealistic, I thought, but it gave me a glimmer of hope as I scanned his war wounds. 

Yesterday, Dad and I rode to the training ride site together at 7am. He had gone out on his bike with Dan, Jim, and a few other guys from the team a few nights before and said he was ready. Now that his main injury is his shoulder, he wanted to get back in the game. Granted, Dad has no memory of the crash at all, but still - my amazement overcame my fears on the ride over. 

Then we started out, and my heart was racing so fast I could feel it in my temples. I was in front, again, because I haven't done a ride for 2 months. I felt my hands shaking on the handlebars. I was wearing the same shorts and helmet I wore the day of the crash (Dad bought them for me before his accident). Dad was behind me in the lineup, just like before, and on the first major decline I felt like I was having some kind of panic attack. I couldn't see Dad, and I clutched my brake for dear life with an irrational certainty that the same thing was going to happen. I started to feel sick, and pulled over on the side of the road after we'd cleared that hill, saying that I thought something was wrong with my bike. 

Jim, who held up the end of the team, let my Dad and everyone else pass me, and said "You'll feel better with your Dad ahead of you." On the last ride, Dad took his fall behind me, and since I can't ride glancing over my shoulder all the time, I was freaking out over my lack of visibility. The rest of the 30 miles were a blur of me feeling out of the game (Even running every day doesn't train for biking like this), staying behind my father and watching in awe as he easily powered up every hill, and took a controlled, steady descent on the way down. Jim, riding beside me most of the time, coached me through everything, "Go into 1, stay in your lower gear, stay upright - you need your lungs, keep your mind strong, riding this kind of thing is 90% mental - you are in shape, you're strong, you can do this!!" He shouted these things to me as I cursed my way up what felt like thousands of hills, and kept telling him I thought my bike was malfunctioning (Basically, I was wimping out by mile 30, haha). He wouldn't let me quit, at some point literally taking one hand and pushing me forward for three solid miles of incline. 

My Dad never took a moment's pause the entire day. To the astonishment of our teammates, he rode the entire 50 miles, smiling, cautious but steady. We celebrated as a team, a family and friends. It was the kind of victory we all felt - even people who weren't on the ride. 

At the end of the day I heard myself say to him "...It's almost like nothing ever happened." And it really was, except I think every one of us is a little bit tougher, and a hell of a lot happier. The ride is in two weeks, and my father, who was bedridden with broken ribs and head trauma to recover from, will be riding in it on the very same bike he crashed on. 

One.

Truthfully, I hesitate to write this post. But, I don't feel like I can post anything in this blog without acknowledging this very important landmark in my life - and, of course, my family's. I can't just go in here and post another subway post. Can't divulge all my plans for fall. Can't start that '10 Favorite Horror Movies' list back over... I'm sure some other person could, but for the purposes of this blog, well - I can't.

This time last year I felt the cruelest of high-to -low crashes I think I've ever felt in my life. Kate had just gotten married on September 1st to Chris, who had become such a fixture in our family that celebrating their marriage just felt like a party. Pshhh, they were already married! We were just looking for a good excuse to get dressed up and eat pulled pork. Still, Chris' vows brought tears to all of our eyes that day. I am a sucker for a good speech, and when he coupled "You are the most beautiful woman in the world" with "...and you got to level 99 of Dr. Robotnic's Mean Bean Machine," (he choked up the most at that part), we all just lost it. Love at its truest!! (No, but really.) I sang. We gossiped. We ate. We jammed with guitars until the sun set... It was, in my memory, the most beautiful day imaginable; I was so happy that night. 

Then, the very next night, we all lost Lynn...And so much of me just can't finish this story openly. Truthfully, as I try, it's similar to describing Dad's bike accident in July, or holding my grandfather's hand on the last day of his life. These are times that can't be captured in writing - especially not blogs. People, honestly, don't understand what happened. What my family went through, and is still going through, is alien to anyone else no matter what they have faced. Sometimes I get very defensive of my own journey with grief. I admitted to a friend today that the holiday weekend for me was not very fun, (and why), and that it probably won't ever be the same this time of year as it used to be. She responded with how amazing it is I can even talk about it openly. Yeah. I guess? Except... most of what I say is the safe stuff. The "Well he passed unexpectedly... still no cause..." is not the same as actually talking about what happened. Not just to him - to all of us. To my cousin, Allison, who was incredibly brave that night in our house when she got the news. (I am still in awe, in fact). To his wife, Natasha, who has openly and courageously logged her journey since. To my sister, who considered Lynn her best friend growing up, and who was on her Honeymoon when we called to tell her the news. My cousin, Ben, who somehow made me laugh consistently as we cried through the wake, the funeral, and the agonizingly long drive back home last September... feeling torn, limb by limb, away from Lynn, his remaining memory and the life he'd built in his too-short time on Earth. 

I think what I have to focus on as I push forward into another year of this, is not the memory of his loss - but the memory of how courageous my family showed themselves to be in light of it. Something I am so proud of is the ability my siblings and cousins, mother and father and aunts and uncles, have at laughing in their sorrow. Acknowledging the pain, but finding a glimmer of 'what Lynn would say,' in it. 

Lynn was hysterical. He loved his life. He danced through it, as my Aunt Cyndi so wisely stated last night, and he knew how to inspire us to do the same. At his funeral - where what must have been over 1,000 people sang in his memory, I glanced around the room and thought "If I touch even a third this many lives in my life, I will know I've lived it well." 

As Tom, (my brother), and I went through the day yesterday... we considered what we missed most about him, and what we needed going forward. We both said the same thing - we miss his advice. His quirky, honest, exuberant advice on life and love and what to do. Realizing I had only shared snippets of what my conversations with Lynn had been with Tom, I finally shared one of the most profoundly LYNN messages he'd written to me in the last few years. I see no reason why these words of wisdom can't be shared with the world. 

So, for the sake of honoring and sharing a love, a friendship, and a mentor I'm sure I'll never find an equal to in life again, here goes: (I did, because this is a public blog, edit some segments out...)

• 
  

  My lovely cousin,

  I had an experience last night that has rendered me... extremely uncertain in my life, and for whatever reason my heart told me to write to you.

  Last night I was driving from Albany to Rochester to 1) spend the weekend with my boyfriend, and 2) sing for an evensong performance he helped put together in Rochester tonight (I was assigned "Frauenliebe und Leben," by Schumann and I don't think I will ever think of it the same way again). I was tired, and flustered, because I'd worked for 8 hours on not enough sleep, and then spent the hours before leaving at about 8:30pm for a 4 hour drive buying last minute presents and trying to tackle everything on my to-do list. So, I got tired behind the wheel, and refused to pull over to get some coffee, and the roads got slippery... and the next thing I knew, about an exit or two on 90West I went to merge from the left lane into the right... and wound up tail-spinning completely off the road. I slid into oncoming traffic, including trucks, coming at me on 90East as I clutched the steering wheel and prayed "please do not let me die tonight", and saw headlights and heard horns, and skidded into a ditch where I finally managed to break. I just stared at my hands wondering if I was really alive; I noticed a truck had pulled over, and my door was being opened by a man I didn't know, who was crying and hugging me and saying "I did not think you would survive, you have somebody looking out for you... please say a prayer and thank the lord for what you just survived tonight..." That man proceeded to coach me through trying to drive my car out of that ditch (which failed - I'm pretty sure the underside of my car looks like my back tires right now..), and then he called 911 and told them what happened when I couldn't make enough sense of it to speak for myself. Everyone all night kept saying to me "It is a miracle you are alive. You have angels looking out for you."

  I know I should feel grateful, and I do, but my overall feeling right now is this nauseating sense that I didn't deserve it. I've been yelling at God for months for the life I've been leading; for challenging me with student loans and serious people who don't understand me, and making me work in the Department of Health when I could be singing on a stage somewhere. I haven't said thanks. I haven't been a good christian. I have this overwhelming feeling that, had I died last night, I wouldn't have gotten to see anything of the 'Someone looking out for me'. I feel lost and like I need to change my life, but I do not know where to start. I'm sorry this has been such a novel, but I couldn't think of anyone more equipped to answer me tonight.

  I love looking at your pictures with your family, and cannot express to you how wonderful it is to see you doing so well. I never would have expected less, but I am thankful for Facebook (never thought I'd say that) for allowing me to see you from so far away right now. I hope you're having a great holiday season so far; happy anniversary, and all my best. Talk to you soon.

  Much love, Ju ju
• 
  
• 

  5:32pm
  

  Lynn Erskine
  

  
  

  My dear cousin,

  First, thanks for this. You sent your message at a time when I've been on the road a lot. (Actually, you sent it on my sixth anniversary, which has since been successfully celebrated!) I had read it, but I love and respect you way too much to write a trite Sunday-School-style response to you. That, and I felt happy and tender at the memories of how our family has always been able to talk openly with one another (the cousins, at least). It was almost therapeutic for me to read your message, especially because of the happy ending!

  Julie, it makes perfect sense for you to have questions and even to be angry with God. Though I am not privy to that area of your soul that only you and God spend time in, I know one thing about God: that God has always been there. It's one of the wonderful - even sometimes annoying - things about Jesus. No matter how satisfied I feel walking the road that Christ has set out for me, I completely identify with the questions that you ask yourself.

  The raw truth is that there aren't answers to almost any of these questions. This might seem random, but that is why I like old people. Old people have lived through identity pursuits, shattered hopes, mountaintop excitement, and the wise ones can trace God's hand through all of it. I don't know many old people who have answers, but they have figured out that these nagging questions are important, worth thinking through, worth wrestling, but never worth being consumed by. Old people don't get those of us in our 20's sometimes because they think we're dramatic. And why wouldn't we be? This is all new to us? We're just beginning, just learning how to trust God enough to follow God on our life journeys. We're facing for the first time many decisions of whether we can trust God when this isn't the way things were "supposed" to happen.

  From what I can tell in my experience and study of God (not necessarily class study), the Holy Spirit of Christ is the only One who can look at our lives and connect all our dots. What we're walking on doesn't feel straight and narrow, particularly when we're narrowly missing death on freezing, busy Interstates and trying to dig ourselves out of ditches (literally and figuratively). There you are, with a great deal of success for someone in your experience and location, yet you're at home, in debt, with a day job that surrounds you with people who think "Frauenliebe und Leben" is either expensive beer or some European delicacy. On top of that, you're faced with life flashing before your eyes - a life saved by One you're not exactly happy with right now.

  Julie, your life was spared by the One who connects the dots of your life in ways none of us will ever understand. I'm personally grateful that your dots extend another several years. And I feel hopeful about what that could mean. To me, God sparing your life means you will see another day. You'll see new experiences. You'll see a time when your debts are erased, when you are more self-sufficient, when the Department of Health sends you a severance bonus, when your warm heart and smile light up another song to delight another crowd.

  None of this is because you deserve it. None of life is about that. God isn't interested about who deserves what. God knows there's something beyond daily doldrums, something beyond whatever merit we do or do not have. Christ is not Someone we know because we're good, because we're eternally happy, because we're full of love, because everything is right for us. Christ is Someone we know because God loves us enough to be in relationship with us. It is that relationship over time that results in Christ's goodness flowing out of us, eternal joy welling up within, love being offered without condition, and the right things being right at the right time and the right place. It's like any relationship that way: the more time we spend in a particular relationship, the more like the other person we become. You and I can only catch a glimpse of this now, in our 20's, with everything unknown ahead of us, but things will work out. If it means fame, fortune, and every outlandish dream lived out in your life, great! If not, I suspect you'll be glad because you'll have a better picture of what "things working out" really means. (Nevertheless, I will be shocked if you don't see several of your dreams come to pass.)

  And, by the way, God can take your anger and questions. Sometimes we think God will punish us or get mad at us if we get mad at God. Maybe, but I'm pretty sure God is big enough to be able to handle it when we have questions. God is bigger than our biggest questions, and God is the only One with answers, whether or not God chooses to give them to us. Furthermore, God knows how relationships work. When we have anxiety, confusion, sadness, and anger over our circumstances, it is the people with whom we have relationships that feel the brunt of it. The people close to us get it the most because we feel safe with them; they're always there. Who is more always there than God? Christ gives us relationship with God, so Christ knows that He will bear the anger and emotions we have. Remember He loves us, so He'll bear it and love us more.

  It's funny how uncomplicated God can be. For all the questions we come up with about God, it's all quite simple in the end. Christ gives us relationship, expresses God's love, and spends every moment loving us, spending time with us by the Holy Spirit. It's like John knew something profound when he wrote simply, "God is love."

  So, lovely and thankfully saved-from-death cousin, God is love for you. It sounds like you love Him, too, even if you feel different emotions from time to time. Not that you need my advice or anything else after this diatribe, but I would simply say, "Get on with loving God and letting God love you." I have a lot of hope when I think about you. I believe in you a lot. How much more hope does God, who made you and knows you inside and out, have for you? How more more does God, who loves you perfectly, believe in you? I get excited just typing it out!!

  So, if you're still reading, thanks again. You've reminded me how much I support you. You've also reminded me how precious you are. I don't doubt your affection for our family and probably never will. We are doing well, though remember that pictures only capture the outside shell. We're great, but we're just people, too.

  Happy new year, and I look forward to seeing how life unfolds before you!

  Love, Lynn

Subway Thoughts

Is it bad that I publicly write about things going on in life?

...

Should I follow the words of wise sage Bill O'Reilly and 'Keep it Pithy'?
(Read that comment sarcastically if you wish...)

Stop doing this whole prooose thing...?

I have this handy little app on my phone - used mostly when I'm bored underground on the subway and my Spotify and Pandora won't play anymore - called Evernote. As you can imagine, I sometimes like to write - I even like to write things that not everyone can see. (Oh please stop gasping.) These notes are done clumsily with my thumbs on a jerky train, surrounded by people I'm always certain are reading my private, innermost thoughts!!! 

Then I get all agitated and draw it in closer to my chest, typing furiously. Usually I wind up with ridiculous-looking paragraphs including words like "Sahara" and "Bahamas" and "Thwarted," because autotype thinks I live a much fancier lifestyle than I do. Then, as soon as the train emerges from underground with an almost-audible inhale, like coming out of the deep, dark ocean, I promptly forget about whatever it is I just typed.

A lot of random moments have gone down in that app.

Bored, and underground tonight, I started doing the unspeakable and... read them all back. "Hmmm what was I thinking on this very N train on October 18th, 2012?" I wondered as I scrolled dangerously through. I was suddenly wrapped into the oddest-looking year, in 2-paragraph Evernote entries, filled with typos and belligerence and addictive as popcorn.

I wrote about the homeless lady who always uses empty pales and subway poles to create her own lethargic "Stomp" routine.
I wrote about romantic encounters and bad dates (and, of course... good dates).
I wrote about how summer is my favorite subway people-watching time of year.
Sometimes I wrote about Lynn. Sometimes I wrote about Grandpa. Sometimes I wrote about other losses.
I wrote a lot about my worries-of-the-day: "What if I got the wrong flight info?" "When am I going to get back upstate?" "I know the top two buttons of my shirt are popped open underneath my purse strap..."
I wrote a lot of to-do lists.

Obviously most of these thoughts I will never publish, but the glimpses into what my mind does during that 'black hole' span of time are equally as disturbing as they are sometimes remarkably on point for what I am seeing that day. And it made me realized how much more can be said in just two paragraphs than these silly, sprawling passages I sometimes agonize over.

Insomnia

I am quite raw this week. I think that sounds weird, but it's not intended to be (I never intend to be weird, afterall...)

I am extremely homesick. I am homesick for old times, old friends, and family I cannot visit with. I miss my cousin, so much more tonight than I have in a long time. It's not an anniversary or a birthday or anything, just one of those evenings I would have gone to his facebook page and written something ridiculous, or - rather than writing here - would have written him a scrolling, novel e-mail with all my worries and sadness and quirkiness rolled into it.

I miss my cousin. I miss 'my cuz,' with his silly laugh and his loud affectionate voice. I miss him calling me Juju, Ben 'benj,' Allison 'small'... I miss all the jokes mixed in with wisdom. I need him all the time - I always needed his advice, and maybe it's even selfish of me to look back on that. What did I give him? I hope love. Affection. Adoration. I am sure he knew I loved and adored him, but I don't know if I really brought anything more than that into his life. Yes, I realize it's silly to say 'love' like that's something small and insignificant, but the mark he made on my life - and not just because he left it too soon - was much much more powerful than that.

I need my family. I need people to lean on. But, I wish I didn't. Oh, I wish I were this thick-skinned, hardened person without any sensitivities or emotions. I would never get hurt; never feel sadness like this. I wouldn't worry so much about my Dad healing from his accident. I wouldn't be so anxious about the next steps in my career, or the relationships in play in my life. I wouldn't blush and fidget in my shyness at work. If I could just feel less, I would get so so much more done.

....And I would have been asleep a good three hours ago.

Just a typical happy family shot from when I was probably 2, getting bunny ears from Lynn.

Decisions.

Reading my post from last Friday is pretty surreal to me right now. I know people say all kinds of dramatic things all the time, but honestly - my life has changed so much since that night. I originally thought about posting about Dad's accident Saturday morning, but every time I would start it the entry just felt wrong to type up. It was a gruesome and frightening accident for him, and to say that I am grateful to be home with him watching him heal right now - as cranky and in pain as I know he is - is such a huge understatement. It makes my stomach lurch to think about how different things almost were, and unbelievably grateful to the help we had on the road that day.

I will say this: I learned what happens to me in a moment of crisis like that - I become a short, bossy, commanding person and I'm pretty sure I demanded something of everyone around us that day. I don't even know if I was coherent in any of what I asked of everyone, but I hope they know I'm thankful. We were blessed to be riding on a team with several cyclists who also happen to be cops, who knew how to react and what to do, had a first aid kit on hand, and made it possible for my Dad to have the best and quickest care imaginable. I'll be a little shaky getting back on my bike in the coming weeks, but I will be able to knowing they are beside me.

Biking has changed a little for me, and I think that is inevitable. I am sure Dad will ride again, and I am still dedicated to it, but of course there's this broken innocence thing going on, "emo" though I know it sounds. It was a hobby that brought my family together, has made my Dad a terrific athlete, and has provided us all with a lot of therapy, so... it's an adjustment to re-frame my mind around seeing it also be life-threatening. Still, his battle wounds are pretty cool, and I am tempted to put his helmet up on a tumblr to encourage people to wear them. SERIOUSLY, I can't stress that one enough.

The week became a roller coaster ride. I went back to NYC Tuesday to an amazingly supportive group of people at Random House, and by yesterday - I had left Random House, and will be starting ANOTHER new job in a week and a half. I won't go into all of the details here, but it was for the best and I am calmer than I can say about the course of events.

Sitting with Dad for three days, coming back to work, and now being back upstate again with my tough, resilient family (it's been quite a year), I feel more than ever like re-evaluating. I felt forced to make some big decisions last week. I feel forced to make more, to move on, and to see the truth in things I've probably been avoiding seeing. It is not a bad thing to feel this way, it's just that I would rather be shaken into these things on my own - not by the universe ringing the bell for me.

So often, I think, we let life coast by without realizing our hand in the events that do happen to us. We'd rather "see how things go" than make the hard decisions - decisions to quit. (QUIT?). Decisions to leave someone, or something. Decisions to stop doing something, even if it feels good in the moment. Decisions to pursue something scary.

What are you avoiding ending/beginning/attempting? Who are you letting make you feel like just an option - when you should be fought for? Who are you treating like just an option?

After a week of unconditional love, for myself, for the amazing people who have been there during some very hard times this year (I can't shout out to Amanda or Justin enough, but I probably wouldn't have survived Saturday without their voices on the line...), and a week of the universe forcing perspective on me, I feel like I can answer the hard questions without fear. In fact, fear isn't even really a part of things anymore. Life is really short and miraculous. There's just no more time to waste.

Risk.

As I write this, I have all my running gear on from an earlier jogging attempt, a mug of hot tea beside me and some advil coursing through my system. I know tomorrow I have to get up at 5:30 AM in order to get breakfast and prepped in time for my second RFMC training ride - aiming for another 28 miles. Last Saturday we hit 28.19, and just yesterday it was a fast-paced 15 miles to the lake and back. I am getting used to this feeling at the end of the day - the soreness, once something I avoided like the plague, has started to become a nightly companion and friend. Within reason, I actually like that feeling; knowing I pushed a little more today, grew in strength, and reached a new goal. I've started getting accustomed to the aches that come with toning and muscle development. I've learned which shoes I should bike in (the barefoot sneakers), and which shoes I should run in (never the barefoot sneakers :) ). I've finally figured out how to handle the severe downward hills on these routes - a feeling of "free falling" on my hybrid that has often freaked me out. I'm learning how to signal and shout out when something is in the road or a car is coming, and I'm embracing being on the tail of another biker, in a team, trying to keep a pace as one of the pack.

This is a cool time. I've always been kind of a tomboy at heart - I took years of ballet, but the challenges of scaling mountains, learning how to outrun the fastest girls on the track team, or conquering the high bar in gymnastics appealed to me way more. I feel like, in my singing and in my physical life, I have this excess of energy I never know what to do with. I want to channel it - focus it into this super-energy that cuts through the distractions of life. It makes me want to practice Queen of the Night every single night, go for an 8 mile run, and then go out dancing with friends or something. I CAN'T BE STILL.

I don't know what the cause is, but I'm doing everything I can to find a way to deal with this. More coachings? More auditions? New repertoire across the board? Obviously new physical challenges, and this ridiculous need to BE more physical, constantly. I find myself crashing into things all the time, or tripping on my own two feet when I'm barely moving from one end of the office I work in to the other. Maybe I have suddenly developed ADHD. Maybe I need to completely quit drinking caffeine in any form.

I know I need to learn to quiet this, but at the same time - I don't want to. There's a feeling, a very strong one, of NOW. Now is the time to take risks like century rides or 10 mile hikes up mountains, or doing auditions I'd never take otherwise. Now is the time to move when I'm pushed to. Even if it means wiping out on every turn or eventually dissolving into a puddle of weakened exhaustion, I want to use these reserves and see where they take me.

So, I attempt at this only semi-decent hour, to get rest before tomorrow morning. I eagerly await the open road, the shouting teammates, and the endless stretch of challenges ahead of me. I think, what I'm eagerly awaiting most, is the confirmation within myself that I am stronger, and braver, than I knew I was.

That's the real reward after all this time.

Beginnings

So many new beginnings. My life went from one "norm" (although, nothing has really felt "normal" in my life), to one extreme other. I moved on from my old world in NYC at Sony, to a new job I am adoring being challenged by. I find my days filled with an interesting balance of shyness and impulsivity, one constantly trying to cancel the other out. I think it's very interesting how brand new experiences that bring you out of your comfort zone can so often illuminate the conflicting forces within you. Or, maybe that's just me. One second I am poised for attack, the other I am dropping a full cup of coffee all over myself.

Tonight, after coming home, cooking dinner, practicing and now settling in with this laptop and a book, I kept refreshing the same memory in my mind. Maybe because it's finally starting to feel like summer out - the humidity forced us all to huddle into our short sleeves on the overly air-conditioned subway and my apartment smells like a jungle - but the image that kept coming to mind was from when I was probably 12 years old at the pool.

I was visiting my best friend in Albany, Erin, for probably a whole week that summer, and one of our favorite things to do was to go to the pool. She had this massive pool in her town with three different sizes: a kiddie pool, a normal-sized pool for adults and kids, and a 'deep-end only' pool with this high diving board that looked like it was miles above the pool itself. I had a burst of adrenaline upon arriving at the park, and wanted to try every pool. I waited in the long line for the high dive, Erin and her sister Leah watching from the other side of the pool for my turn (both in awe of my bravery, of course!), and boldly ascended the never-ending staircase to the plank at the top. Finally, after a few steps, the boy in front of me dove off and it was my turn. I was on top of the diving board, on top of the world!

...And then I reached the tip of the board. All of a sudden, I realized the lifeguard was several feet BELOW me, perched on top of his post. Erin and Leah were jumping around like little ants, in my imagination, waving and squealing for me to "JUMP!!" And, most terrifying, the water below... was pitch black. I couldn't see the bottom, why - at this angle I felt like if I fell just a little too much to the left I'd land on the fence beside it! I could hear the kids behind me screaming, and with a lurch of nausea I panicked, "I can't go!!!" I shouted to the lifeguard, who was waving for me to jump so the line of kids waiting could have their turn. "You have to!!" He called back, unhelpfully. I froze in panic, and then tried to turn around to go back down the stairs, "NO!! You HAVE TO JUMP!!" The angry line of prepubescent boys yelled back at me. I'm sure I was crying, and at this point I was angry, so realizing I had no choice, I turned back to face the water, screwed up whatever courage I had left, and barreled at light speed off the end and into the pool, splashing a delighted Erin and Leah.

And I loved it.

So many stories go this way: forced to do something terrifying with no escape, keeping you from being able to turn and run back to safety, and with only the dark, cold unknown ahead. It's such a cliche I'm almost embarrassed writing it, except - it didn't occur to me until today why I kept thinking about it. I didn't realize how true it was of my life. I am the over-thinker who weighs all horrible possibilities before taking a leap - so much so that the leap sometimes doesn't happen. But, so often when I look back on my life, the exhilarating moments; the times that blew my mind, changed who I was and made me stronger, were forced upon me. I'd watch others handle change easily, joyfully, like the boys before me on the high dive, but I'd get to my own pinnacle and freeze. Often times, if there was real danger, there was always a way out. But, the times where I needed to move forward, was not allowed to turn back, and just had to leap into the dark, were, and are, the most exciting times in life.

I have my floaties ready for a summer filled with leaps...

Power of No and Yes

The extraordinarily talented Norman Vladimir, helping me celebrate my b'day this January. :)

On my birthday this year, my good friend Norman insisted on one thing: That I make this my year of "Yes."

All of the things I wouldn't have said "yes" to in years past, obviously within reason, I was supposed to begin saying it to, even if it felt out of my comfort zone. "This will change your life this year!" He told me about how he'd applied the very same principal to his life, and the difference it made. (The evidence is obvious if you ever just google the man: http://www.normanvladimir.com/ )

So, I have been slowly but surely applying this principal to each day, and I'll admit - the results are impressive.

What's amusing (to me) about this new tactic, is that for years I was told to learn how to do the opposite. In high school I played sports, danced 6 nights a week, did the musicals, competed for awards for voice and violin, performed at All State/ All Eastern for voice and violin, was an honors student, was in the jazz vocal ensemble, was part of bible study, did the morning announcements, and tutored. Therefore, in my undergrad I happily piled on work as class Secretary, wrote for the school paper, played violin in church quartets, taught private lessons, became an orientation leader, then became an RA, joined Westminster Choir, did tours with said choir, did roles in the musicals and summer program operas, and piled on way too many courses. No wonder in the span of those 4 years I wound up with an ulcer (twice), kidney problems, and was always deathly ill with whatever flu was going around due to my nonexistent immune system and sleep deprivation.

By 2007, after I'd applied and auditioned for 5 different grad schools, I had no voice and was wilting from exhaustion in my voice teacher's studio. This was the point at which she gave me the lecture I will never forget, with one insistent word of wisdom: "Learn to say 'No.'"

She explained to me that if I continued to go through life the way I was: over-extending myself and living with insurmountable stress at the age of 22, I would fall apart before 30. Now, 6 years later, I can see how very right she was about that.

So, in the next two very busy (yet fulfilling, with things I wanted to be busy with), years of graduate school in Rochester, I put that concept in motion. I learned how to tell people "No" when they asked me to join student life groups. I picked two extra-curricular activities to do: soloing in church and private teaching while I performed and went to classes. I said "no," to going out when I could tell my body needed a night in. I spent time with friends out and about in Rochester only when I knew I would enjoy it, or at their apartments, but I reserved most of my R&R time just for me. I learned to love that alone time, and spent it cooking in my apartment, going for jogs down to Amanda's place, or cleaning and doing laundry on a lazy evening in while I'd practice. NO became a wonderful word; a savior. I never felt stretched too thin, was able to focus on what I was in school for, and I developed real friendships (that are still in place today) without guilt or obligation.

But, new habits soon become old/stubborn habits, and this past year I found myself saying "No" to way too many things. It became common practice for me to stick to what I knew; to "Play it safe" in the phase of life after graduation. I felt more comfortable with the people I had already established trust with, and with the activities I'd already set in place for my life. I began to exercise my "no" capabilities far more often than not. I don't necessarily regret that introspection, but I will admit that with closing myself off more came a certain "trapped" feeling, stagnancy, that I realized was an inevitable pitfall of being that way. Habits are formed so quickly, and "NO" was my most frequent habit - for better or for worse.

So, in the last few months I have pushed the boundaries to find an equilibrium I can handle. I have said "yes,'' to new experiences, career paths, friendships, and routines of being out when I'd much prefer to be in. I am still maintaining the "No" for putting too much on my plate, distracting myself from the real living that happens with others, and getting out there experiencing something new in life. It's been more about knowing what I can truly handle without going to the extremes, while being fully open to whatever experiences are coming my way. I've learned things about myself that I can see as "non-negotiables" and be proud of: I really like long meals with friends where we can talk and share. I'm not the introvert I thought I was. When I don't think for ten seconds before I say everything, I am usually a lot clearer. I am good at knowing when it's time to exit something, and when it's time to take a chance. I'm ready for new challenges. I can hem clothing. I don't HAVE to always be talkative to be out with people who are... and so on, and so forth. It's a subtle shift in energy that feels refreshing and exciting, and not in the least bit unhealthy.

It really goes on and on. But I do know that as I've managed to go into some of the less comfortable zones of my life fearlessly, I can only imagine where they might lead in the coming months. And I am very, very excited for Spring.

For Grandpa

Always making me laugh, playing with Grandpa when I was probably 2 years old.

Writing this, I'm aware it's going to be a very sentimental and possibly sad post. But, that's not my intention - it wouldn't be what Grandpa wants, or anyone else in my family for that matter. It's not sad to me, but it is realistic for my life right now, and I hope that makes it okay to write.

My Grandpa Allison (Bob), has been an enormous part of my upbringing for my entire life. From before I can remember, he's been the granddad to sling me over his shoulder, tickle me, nickname me and above all, make it abundantly clear that HE LOVES his grandchildren. In short: for all the negativity and fear of being "too soft" in this world, Grandpa A has always been there to fight back with a huge, beaming smile and an overjoyed, overflowing amount of love. When asked how he is, he has always replied with "I've been blessed! Look at my family! I've been blessed. God's been good to me."

Whether we were unemployed, struggling in school, recently dumped or rejected or on top of the world, he has always loved us with an abundance of affection and joy, never more or less. No matter what our dreams have been, he has always been there to believe in us firmly, with so much praise it would sometimes feel embarrassing. "I just ran on the treadmill a few minutes, Grandpa! I am NOT a future Olympics contender. I don't think." Maybe I am, actually, with his enthusiasm!

Above all else, Grandpa has always had an incredible faith in God. Every time I visited him growing up, I could be sure he'd talk about two things: fitness (he was a physical trainer for many years at the YMCA, and is still in great shape for his age), and his faith. I'd get the same question: "How is your relationship with God going?" (a question I wish more people would ask me about now, actually), followed by the same statement: "You've got a friend in Jesus, and a God that loves you. Don't forget that." He'd go on to say it was well with his soul. I never once doubted it was. In fact, "It Is Well With My Soul," is his favorite hymn, so much so that he would bring it up multiple times whenever I'd visit. My cousin Allison and I even sang it, wobbly voiced and emotional (on my part - Alli sounded awesome), at the surprise concert our family threw for my Grandma and Grandpa Allison's 60th Wedding Anniversary 2 years ago.

As I grew up, I questioned my faith a lot. I went to temple, read texts on Taoism, Buddhism and Reiki. I went to church, joined youth groups, went to bible studies, and sought after what was true in my soul. Sometimes I even didn't appreciate Grandpa's faith because it felt as though I was being told what to believe. (Anyone who knows me understands that there's nothing I fight against more than being told what to feel or think, or judged by either.) I also felt envious of his extremely unshakable belief. How did he know there is a Heaven? How was he so sure that we are loved by a God?? And, what about Jesus? What made him so sure that Jesus was the son of God, and not just another very impressive and inspiring man? I wanted to believe as firmly as he did. I constantly tried to pick his brain, to see if he would falter in his beliefs. He never did.

I would sit at his feet in their house in Pennsylvania, the mountains looming nearby in their living room deck windows, on the soft carpet as he rocked and talked to me about the bible. I'd listen closely as he went on and on about Job, a story he told so well and lit up when he thought of it (and now, I understand more about why). He would recount the stories he liked, laugh at verses that rang particularly true to him, and suddenly punctuate what he was saying with an inspirational quote summing it all up- sometimes his own. He would grow serious, warning of what temptations lay in the world I was trying to make my way in. He would get lost, staring over my head in thought, rambling on about our current political climate (often with opinions I disagreed with but bit my tongue about ;) ), the problems with youth these days, and how to apply the teachings of the bible to our everyday relationships and health practices. Then, he'd remember I was there and his eyes would twinkle with his unconditional love as he reassured me that I was going to do great things in my life. I never got The Answers I was seeking in his certainty, but I was always comforted.

Grandpa was diagnosed about 2 years ago with Alzheimer's, a disease I am more and more desperate there'd be a cure for. It all started, really, when we noticed he could not remember who my boyfriend at the time was, though they'd been introduced a few times. Now, he doesn't recognize me and we have to meet again and again each time I visit with him. He has continued going to church and continued to be a loving, wonderful grandfather and man in life, but his memory has deteriorated significantly. Alzheimer's is so complicated, with one minute seeing the person you've known your whole life light up, and the next having to meet a complete stranger. To talk too much about what that's been like would be a bit too painful right now, and wouldn't be how he'd like to be talked about anyway.

One thing that fascinates me, is that his loving heart and faith have not faltered in his condition. He doesn't know me as well by name; he doesn't have the same vivid memories I do (right now!) of our time together, but I always sense that he knows me somehow. His hugs are still as tight and long, he still calls me "sweetie" and says he loves me, and I believe him. And when we ask him how he's doing, he always still says "Life is good. I've been blessed."

And because I know that, it truly is well with my soul.

Friendship.

I try not to ever complain in public posts, because I feel as though it diminishes the difficulties so many people are going through, and I just never want to sound like that person who isn't grateful for my awesome life. I'm not that person - I like my life a lot. That being said, we all have tough weeks and last week was very tough for me.

It was one of those slippery-slope weeks where I just had this sinking feeling every day, even though I attempted a bright attitude and worked hard, that each day was going to be a challenge. So many things fell apart, mistakes were made, arguments were had, and overall I ended Friday pretty deflated and miserable. I needed uplifting, big time. That, coupled with severe homesickness for my family and a lot of other family-heaviness I discussed lightly in my last post, made it difficult for me to maintain any semblance of my cheery self. Last night, I was all but fetal by the time 1am came around, and quite frustrated with God, the world in general, and myself.

So today when I finally let myself get up (late), I anticipated a day of being a loner in order to get my head back on straight without biting any innocent bystanders' off. I felt content punishing myself with hours of practice and organizing and budgeting, and hoped I could just be left alone to my own devices to "solve all my problems," like I constantly, stubbornly, attempt to do.

I was laying in bed, staring at the ceiling and plotting out my plan of "attack" when I got a buzz from my cell on my nightstand. It was from Amanda... who lives under my same roof. "Want to get brunch with me? I know I am just a room away right now, so it's probably weird I'm texting you, haha." (Not her exact words, but you get the picture). My initial impulse was to say "No, I really cannot afford it. I need to save my cash." But, my own thoughts intercepted this before I sent it via text saying, "maybe getting out of your own way needs to be the mission today." Amanda is like a sister to me; after years of friendship and living together, we are able to handle one anothers' highs and lows, moods and crankiness, and even momentary pauperism. So, instead, I said "Yes absolutely, give me 30 minutes!"

I'm so grateful I did. Brunch wound up being the most therapeutic 2 hours of my week, filled with reminders of who I am - who we are as friends - who she is as such a wonderful person in my life - and what being in New York City is even about. We laughed at the rough moments from the week. We laughed at the probable future rough times to come. We outlined better days for our individual selves. Two passion fruit mimosas later, we were heading into the city to do some shopping, wound up buying new things for our apartment, came home to leftover Indian food, a Netflix queue and completely lifted spirits.

From beginning to end today, I was never allowed a moment to feel down about the events of the week, or stressed for the week to come. Sure, I never made it to the church I planned to try tonight, and I owe Grandma Bee a phone call tomorrow, but I feel like myself again before another unpredictable week.

At least I know at the end of the days this week, I've got an apartment filled with new rugs, shower curtains and pictures, and above all a really amazing friend to laugh at it all with.

A Memory

So, without going too deeply down the road of emotions (if that's possible), today is the 6 month marker of the day my cousin Lynn passed away. For some reason, no matter how hard I have tried to sort of...be careful with how much I allow myself to think of that and miss him, it continues to be a present thought. Partially because I adore and admire his siblings, my cousins, very much. :) Partially because I adored and admired him so much growing up, and used his influence in a lot of what I decided to do with my life (and continue to, of course).

I try not to think of and describe him as something "tragic", though it's always hard not to focus on the pain of loss too young. When I think of how Lynn used to explain away loss, death, and fear to me -- I remember it being with a certain kind of simplicity that infuriated me, because I liked to complicate everything growing up. For Lynn it was very simple: God had a plan. He was going to follow that plan. Therefore, life was sweet and there was nothing to fear.

We used to fight all the time growing up. Correction: I used to get angry at Lynn and my sister Kate, while HE would stand by and "chortle" (his word!) at my frustration. Kate, my sister, would join him in pointing and laughing while I stomped my feet and huffed and puffed, and eventually I would be forced to stop my pouting because they would win me back over or my Aunt Cyndi would insist I stop the fuss.

I always wanted to be included in everything Lynn and Kate would do when our families would visit. I was the dreaded MIDDLE CHILD of the family. The tree went (in oldest to youngest): Benjamin, Lynn, Katie, ME, Kaia, Allison, and then Tom. Tom, Kaia and Allison would have their playtime, Ben, Lynn and Katie would have theirs. So I was smack dab in the middle wanting to be like the cool older cousins and generally failing and making a spectacle of myself. Lynn was hilarious, always coming up with alter-egos like "Mortimer Snerd", a nerdy personality he'd put on that made me laugh for hours and demand for more. He'd crack himself up with foreign languages. He and Katie once gave Mom a heart attack while she was driving by screaming for her to "LOOK OUT!!!" in the middle of the road. I can still hear their laughter like it was yesterday.

One of my favorite memories, that I keep thinking back on today to laugh, was when we were all in Delaware visiting our Erskine family and we'd been on the beach a lot. I had sunburned my nose, which looked hilarious to Lynn and the entire week he kept tweaking it and yelling "JuJu's NOSE!" which, because I was a sensitive 14 year old, made me angry and annoyed every time. We went to the outlet mall one day when it was rainy out, and while our parents went to shop on their own, Lynn insisted that we go to "Socks Galore", thoroughly delighted by the title and the theme.

"We can't go to the outlet mall without going to SOCKS GALORE!!" he shouted and then charged to the store ahead of us (or, probably, silly walked since we had watched about 8 hrs worth of Monty Python that week). I ran behind and grumpily tagged along throughout the store, bored by all the socks. Lynn was excited about the argyle socks and was piling his arms up with them when he noticed I was pouting (still). "Jujuuuuu!" he yelled and then tweaked my nose particularly hard, causing it to bleed. (I won't get too graphic, I promise).

In my memory, Lynn threw his socks in the air and shouted "OH NOOO!!! NOT YOUR NOSE!! I MADE YOUR NOSE BLEED IN SOCKS GALOOORE!!!" And then insisted I buy new SOCKS, IMMEDIATELY!!

I just remember him telling my Mom, in this high incredulous voice, "Aunt STARR!! I made Juju's nose bleed in SOCKS GALORE!! It's all my fault!!" And she, always on his side, started to laugh. Eventually, so did I. The truth is, I don't honestly think I was ever for a minute actually mad at Lynn growing up, but I always wanted more time with him.

My hope, as I consider all of these memories and laugh, (and cry, and pout), and miss him so much... is that he knew in our last messages to each other long distance how much all of our memories always meant to me. I'm sure he did, and of course I always hope that my cousins know that I can recount all the same kinds of memories for each of them, with deep descriptions of why I wanted to spend time with all of them too growing up. I was "middle child", worried about being left out, and very sensitive. I loved my time with all of them, and always (still) want more.

Here's to the memories we want more of, and the memories we will make in the future, still loving and including Lynn no matter how much time passes by.

Lynn, always mischievous, either peace-signing or giving me bunny ears when we were kids. (Probably the latter.)