First, thank you to so many of you who chose to spend some time here reading– and hopefully feeling lifted, supported, not alone, or at least amused by my musings– over the past several days. Welcome!

Unfortunately the news of the cheating site hack has not ended and there are lawsuits and even loss of life, attributed to this leak of information. And these are just the BIG, LOUD stories being reported; not the millions of other little, catastrophic heartbreaks reverberating around the world. It’s bad, people. As someone who’s several months out from her own personal not-so-great-news event, this scandal has me thinking.

Well, let’s be real, I am always thinking. Likely too much for my own good. It’s a loud, crazy, fun, mess up in this head of mine– you should peek in. Wearing sunglasses. And a helmet made of glitter glue or unicorn feathers.

Right. So. How did I (feminist, humanist, successful, strong, smart, with a solid community and mostly good self-esteem) end up where I am?

I started to think back on other relationships. And early ones. Like the ones I had with Ariel, Belle and Cinderella. According to my early Disney education, if I was perfectly pure, willing to give up my voice, frozen in a prone position, and/or could communicate with animals I was absolutely guaranteed a Prince. Who would love me from minute 3 of knowing me, kiss me on minute 5 and marry me on minute 22. Unhappy endings were just not a thing, even with the untimely death of at least one parent or a devastating forest fire. So when I played dress up, house, and Barbies there was always a swooning Mommy (me) and a male counterpart (Ken, GI Joe or my BFF Becky whose turn it was to be the boy) ready to ride on in and rescue me/serenade me from below a balcony while I wore sparkly shoes and a Rainbow Brite wig. True love seemed like low hanging fruit if you just did the right things.

As I grew a little older, the “right things” came out of the instruction manuals known as Anne of Green Gables, The Babysitters Club, Teen Bop, Sassy and Seventeen. And I was a good study. I was quirky but not too weird, I laughed at all of their stupid jokes (be funny and open so he’ll notice you!), I stayed pen-pals long after camp ended trying to decode each letter that came back to me (was that a heart shaped bubble on top of the “i” squeeee!), I drank illicit beers and watched movies I hated, even though beer made me nauseous and I wasn’t entirely down with their sticky, gropey hands and weird pokey tongues. I created ALL OF THE SCENES that the instruction manuals told me to write so that I would be just right for them. No one ever told me how to know if they were right for ME.

Eventually, Disney and Seventeen turned into Buffy, 90210, Allie McBeal and Sex and the City. Again the rules told me that if I was just goofy, weird, stylish-but-not-trying-too-hard and skinny enough, true love, or at least an awesome heart crushing romance would ensue– cause the hot vampire/furniture maker/Brandon Walsh would certainly fall for you. Except Carrie cheated on Aiden with Mr. Big and Dylan Walsh was absolutely the hottest guy on 90210. Which brings me to the next phase of life: “TOO NICE” became a reason to dump men. In my head, I was so rooting for Aiden cause really Carrie, really? But in actuality, I saw Big in so many of the men I loved fiercely in my 20s. I started to eschew the princes of my childhood, who though vapid were likely well-meaning, and instead look for the intense, dark stranger who needed ME to save him in some way. It was an interesting turn of events. And one that led to many a dramatic, swirling, bathroom floor level, heart break.

And then the Biggest Big, the deepest, darkest one of all– said yes when I talked about forever. We know how that story ends.

What I’ve finally come to understand today is that those sweet but kinda mean, broken, sad intense men were all just who they said they were. There were not layers to uncover. They were not onions. They were just actually not that into me. But they WERE into the devotion I showed them. And the doing of their laundry or paying for dinner, cause that was cool too.

And the instruction manuals– good God they’re mostly the same today! So as the Mom of small boys, do I tell them to be the Prince? The Mr. Big? Where are their role models? And I certainly don’t want them learning that true love means giving anyone’s voice to the sea witch in return for a pair of legs.

Side note: as someone thinking about dipping her toes into the pool of the dating scene in her mid-thirties (gasp), I have to say, Aiden, Brandon Walsh and Gilbert Blythe are really looking good right about now. Nice is hot. I suppose that is a story yet to be written…

Overall, I want us as a culture to really look at our icons. Who are we lifting up? And how did we allow ourselves to get here? How did a website built to create extra-marital affairs become a booming business? And how did so many of us fail to learn that the Prince would not ever actually ride up on a horse and carry us away?

I am left with more questions than answers, but as I trace my path and realize how very easily molded I was in the past, my prayer is that I can break out of that. That I can stop listening to the noise all around me, telling women that we need to be skinnier, hotter in bed, but 100% sure of ourselves and demand that raise while serving a fresh organic EASY meal each night.

Mostly, that I can realize that kindness, values and trust are paramount. And that I get to write this story. The instruction manual is blank. I. Get. To. Write. It.

I have written and deleted without posting about 57 tweets and FB statuses in response to the Ashley Madison situation. I clearly have something to say, but feel like I need to be really, really careful in saying it. Not so much in regard to my own situation, but thinking about those of you sitting in silence right now, potentially reading this and feeling literally and figuratively frozen. You searched the list or a browser history and confirmed the dark, nagging suspicion sitting under your heart. I know.

And warning, there is going to be a judgey undertone to this post. I feel VERY judgey about this topic and am 100% ok with that.

I hear the loud noise about privacy and user data; yes, in general, hacking is not cool. I work at a giant tech company whose utmost priority is privacy and the security of user data. I hear this, I live this, I work for this. That’s a different topic that will continue to be a central focus whether the data is tax information, credit cards or extra-marital affairs. I have colleagues working 24/7 on this, so no worries, that’ll still be out there when all of this dust settles.

I, personally, am having a hard time getting past the tagline of Ashley Madison: “Life is short. Have an affair.” Why not “Life is short, climb a mountain. Life is short, take care of your heart and your spouse’s. Life is short, cure fucking cancer. Life is short, fight for human rights and clean water.” I am very sorry, but life is NOT too short for an affair– in fact it’s the very opposite. We get one shot on this planet with the gift and miracle of love in partnership and it’s up to you to do something with that. You took vows, so on that day, you sort of thought this might be something you could get on board with, yes?

I also hear the noise of the edge case users– we’re in an open relationship, my spouse is chronically ill and we talked about it (uhh, not really cool in my book, but ok), we both do it, this spices up our lives. Ok, ok. If you are in a relationship where both parties really and truly feel comfortable and bought in to this and you approach it in a safe and loving manner, fine. Your life, your deal. We all know I am wildly open hearted to all types of lifestyles– as long as love is numero uno and everyone has a say, we’re all in. Great.

I have dug real deep over the last several months about what fidelity, vows, marriage and the sanctity of all of that means and while I understand my own boundaries and values and intend to live them out as I enter this next season of life… I am, on the whole, worried. I mean, we just make it so EASY to slip into something anonymous and distant. So EASY to seek comfort in a willing stranger. And don’t get me started on the smirking CEO in charge of this whole mess (who’s one of many, there are so MANY of these sites)– Mr. Biderman, are you married? Do you sleep well at night? Tell me, what are we teaching our children about commitment and hard work when it’s all just a click away from unraveling through secret, false intimacy? I know it’s not all his fault- adultery has existed forever and these sites are not fully to blame. I know, I know.

Being in a marital relationship is likely the hardest thing, along with parenting, that we do as humans. We are really just animals trapped in bodies topped with rational brains. Our physical urges get all caught up in these webs created by thought, emotion, and memory, coupled (pun intended) with another human’s unique and totally other web of stuff– and BOOM hard fucking work ensues to keep it all together. But that’s where the grace, beauty and light comes in. The hard work and the joy at it paying off. That’s why it’s called a sacrament. Interestingly, the word “sacrament” comes from the Latin sacred and solemn oath (straight forward enough) but also the Greek: mystery. The mystery is the magic- the still small voice, the third eye, the Holy Spirit. The “I don’t know exactly why you’re it, but you really are.” Sacrament.

Now. To the lovies who are sitting in a deep, dark hole of “holy shit I don’t know what to do”– my guess: the VAST majority, impact and fallout of this hack– let me just say some things. First, you are not alone. Second, this is NOT about you. This is about the brokenness of someone who hasn’t been able to get past some shit, buried somewhere and the internet made it super easy for them to act on it. Chances are, you know what that shit is, cause you married them, and this is how it’s oozing out. Repeat after me: this is not about you. Know that you do not have to do anything that doesn’t feel ok to you today. Or any of the days that now follow. You absolutely should go to a doctor to get checked out. But otherwise, you can sit with this. You can tell no one. You can tell everyone. You can make the decision that feels right today: scream from the rooftops or just wait a bit. You are now in survival-land and all things are ok. If you are not ready to publicly scream, I do suggest talking to SOMEone who makes you feel safe and protected. Cause that’s the thing, you feel wildly unsafe right now. So, a counselor, a pastor, a true friend. Me.

Also, divorce is not everyone’s answer. Only you will know, with time, what feels right.

I feel like (the universal) We are at a critical moment where We need to stop the incessant spinning for a minute and breathe deeply. Take a moment (or several) to get right with whatever God (mountains, Mother Earth, Buddha, Jesus) speaks to you. Find the still small voice. Notice your baby’s eyelashes. Really, deeply kiss your partner. Feel the earth under your feet. Talk openly to the person you took those vows with. You promised to love them. You promised to honor them. So do it. Do it today.

xo

A few weeks ago, I wrote a thing that a lot of people read– and a lot of people reacted to. Actually, it got more reaction than my blip of a brush with cancer. My guess is that me telling people that someone had hurt ME, like an actual person, not just an asshole of a rogue cell or two, brought something out in all of you, which in turn brought me many gifts in the form of all of your words. What a powerful reaction and strange happening in the universe– like a little chemistry test. Let me tell you, my words prompted your words, which prompted a mini love shower all over this place.

I often refer to myself as a fierce mama bear, but have such a hard time receiving the gift and grace of someone else being a bear on my behalf. So one of the huge lessons I am learning on this journey is to not brush off compliments, love, offers of help, or words of kindness. So often I turn to humor or just put on my 3,000 pound shield of armor against human kindness toward me– mostly saying “oh yeah thanks, we’re good.” Raise your hands, how many of you have heard me say “no worries, it’s all good!” and emphatically flash my muppet-ish-face grin at you?! Yup, all the hands are raised. It’s a thing.

I got email, voicemail, texts, comments and letters from so. many. of. you. And from absolutely every continent and walk of life I’ve set foot on. People who I did not even remotely realize still remembered me, or thought of me, or who I’d had an impact on, wrote to me and told me. You used words like “power” “beauty” “strength”– and actually sent me things that said: “Following your journey on Facebook there have been so many moments when I read a post or saw a photo and was captivated and inspired by you. Reading your blog just now, my heart feels on the verge of exploding with love.” And this: “Because in my mind you are strong and amazing and capable of so many things and whether or not you feel any or all of that at this very moment, the ripples you put out into the world mean a lot to those of us around you. I just thought you should know someone thinks you’re pretty awesome.”

I am sitting in the middle of a storm and you, friends, are sending me life raft after life raft. I actually feel like all I have to do is reach my hands out in any direction and they’ll land on the steady shoulders of any number of people ready to just lift me up. A few people have commented that they haven’t seen me break down, they haven’t seen me get really emotional and “how do you DO it all?” Well, not alone, that’s for sure. And rest assured I’ve had my moments that are much less than grace filled– more yell-y, f-bomb, ugly cry. Trust me, it happens, and it’s ok. But mostly, mainly, I have faith and friends.

So, when I shared my big scary “shit what will the world think of me NOW” truth, y’all literally created a counter-storm of love. Which got me thinking- what if we all got to hear words like these more often? Would we be inspired to do something new? Would we save ourselves from staying in a crap relationship for that much longer? Would it release some pent up sadness that long ago needed to go? And therefore, I am giving you homework. If you are reading this I am asking you to go be Truthiful (truthfully beautiful) to another someone. The words that you all shared with me literally changed my heart– and I’d like to share this ripple of wild Truthiful love out into the world. If there is someone else you feel has impacted you, gifted you, shaped you, helped you– and you’ve never told them, your job is to TELL THEM. Today. And then tell me that you did it. Here or on FB. Take those words that my storm brought out in you, and shower them on someone else. Don’t wait for her storm, tell her NOW.

Go. Truthifully. Do it.

xo

Whenever we go on a vacation I have this amazing image of what I am VERY SURE will happen as soon as we set foot in our destination and the sea breeze hits our faces. It’s idyllic, spontaneous and usually equal parts J. Crew ad, Gisele Bundchen’s Instagram account and Anthony Bourdain’s “Parts Unknown” (with less scariness and drinking, but all of the adventurous street stalls of food). Just me, two beautiful little boys, several days stretching ahead of us with few plans– what could possibly go wrong? It’s likely that I have some re-examining of expectations to do so allow me to tell you about this week, as I remove my own filters and get really real- like barfy, bickering, sweaty, yet mostly happy- REAL. Join me, will you?

The Great American Car Trip
My image:
I always get in the car so pumped and ready to sing camp songs, eat fun snacks, and play car games like I Spy or the License Plate game. I mean, who doesn’t LOVE a good round of Boom Chicka Boom? I know at least a dozen adults who to this DAY would bust out in song if I yelled “a booma-chika-rocka-chika-rocka-chika BOOM!” In my mind’s eye (with it’s Twitter “famous” photo filter on, duh) I see my boys chattering back and forth, bonding over the cool things they see out the window, pointing out the chintzy americana orange juice shacks that dot route 301. It’s a long day, but we bond as a family, all needing to pee at precisely the same times and taking just a QUICK break to stretch and eat the bento box organic lunches I pre-packed for this busy family on the go.

What actually happened:
About 57 seconds into the car trip I had already heard “Are we there yet? Is this Florida?” at least 34 times and the big one was very loudly lamenting the fact that we could NOT have DVD players on because he had barfed on the last trip, so nooooone of that this time. They settled in for a couple of hours of toys and drawing and I thought “seeee that, totally Giselle. I got this shiz.” A little while later though, the small one starting screaming for the bag of chips he had selected at the grocery store the day before (at like 9 am, I have my limits man). It was a full on rabid-poodle-mode tantrum and it lasted the entire state of Georgia. I gave in, he ate the chips. As the day progressed, we made no fewer than 7 potty stops, punctuated by an HOUR long lunch stop at (gasp, the horror) McDonald’s because they had the big outdoor playground and dammit they needed to run off some freaking energy. No less than 15 minutes after said stop, the barf happened– remember those chips from Georgia? Side of the road cleanup was medium in its effort and duration and we pressed on. Until the next barf. And until the very backed up I-75 due to the TORRENTIAL sideways rain and ensuing 4 accidents dotting the highway. All tolled, an 8 hour journey took 11 and did not even remotely resemble a J. Crew ad. No ballet flats or flamingo embroidered bikinis for miles.

Time to Rejuvenate and Center

My image:
As a runner, I always pack running gear and had already planned out the 3 mornings I would get up, bound out of bed and out to the beach trail, getting a few miles in before anyone even noticed I was gone. I would stretch by the water and breathe in the gorgeous salt air. I would find myself again, as I pounded the very path that inspired me to start running 3 years ago. The beautiful trail on Ana Maria Island where I said out loud “I want to become a runner, because I want to run that path.” In my plan, I would come back to a sleeping house, flip on the coffee machine, then put my feet up with a giant steaming mug waiting for small, sweet sleepy heads to emerge.

What actually happened:
First of all, let’s talk about the gnome-sized mugs my parents try to pass off as fit for human consumption of coffee. I came back from my run and had to slurp the coffee out of a fairy thimble– though I did escape to Target later in the day to purchase human sized mugs. Everyone has since thanked me. The kids got up when I did and I threw Cheerios at them as I snuck out the door and away from their slightly annoyed faces. And my run– it was beautiful, and remains one of my favorite paths ever– the ocean was churning and birds were swooping as I ran into the headwind; turtle nests marked with caution flags dotted the beach. I even took a leisurely selfie break, where I ALMOST broke my ankle on a step I didn’t see while taking said selfie– I mean, #hazard. But I pressed on and got my run in– stripping down to just my sports bra at the end in an act of fierce-ness, probably impressing the entire 75+ crowd getting their morning shuffle in. I was FEELING the burn in all the good ways. THIS was the vacation of my mind’s eye. What I didn’t know is that it would be my ONLY run of the trip, with no time for sitting and taking in the ocean air… cause something was churning and it would hit us all. Hashtag: ewwww.

Quality Time with Small Boys
My image:
I love my kids more than anything else in the world. Let me just start with that. And I had planned amazing, adventurous outings for us. We’d scour the beach for seashells to later paint and turn into works of art; we’d eat homemade popsicles in our bathing suits and snuggle up for long naps listening to the seagulls overhead. We’d talk long into the evening about their hopes and dreams (they are 6 and 3, I know, shhh, it’s MY fantasy)– and we’d examine our feelings about the recent changes in our family, while gazing over the Gulf of Mexico at sunset.

What actually happened:
We definitely did fun things– the Children’s Garden, Children’s Museum, Sarasota Jungle Gardens, the pool, our favorite ice cream spot. We watched fun movies and read new books. I even let them watch a totally NOT kid appropriate movie (Jurassic Park, no judgements please) and they LOVED IT. Also though… we all got sick, like really actually food poisoning, barfing/etc. sick. The entire family. Three generations of us were down and out for 24 hours. Which is hard to do in a 2 bed/2 bath condo where all the adults just want to lay in bed and sip gingerale. But alas, we rotated nap times, nibbled on crackers and I only woke up ONE time from a snooze with a toddler face creepily staring from 3 inches away. Mostly, everyone respected everyone else’s need for total rest and the kids survived on a steady diet of Octonauts and toast. I personally could not actually peel my body off the couch and started the day LAMENTING the utter HORROR of the fact that this was supposed to be the vacation of QUALITY TIME and painted SEA SHELLS. How could the universe be so utterly CRUEL to me?! But then, I peeked into the guest room and saw my two little boys snuggled next to their Grandpa, under a cozy blanket and realized, oh wait. OH WAIT. Well, shit. Quality time sometimes comes in very strange packages and usually not at all how you pictured it. Actually, never how you pictured it.

The Moral of the Story

I am a control freak with a very active imagination. I have done this my entire life and frankly, I might need to start getting over it. The image of what I want to have happen is never, at all, in the very least bit, the way it actually goes– and usually I end up either being SUPER pissed off OR learning incredible lessons from it all (luckily, I am erring toward the latter these days). The messed up barfiness, the mean mommy who sometimes (usually) comes out at (ugh why won’t they just sleep) bedtime, the falling off a beachside bathroom step while trying for the “perfect” selfie, and the incessant rain that plagued our time in the sun once again reminded to look for the kairos. The flash of a grin as they slid down a firehouse pole at the Children’s Museum. The little one exclaiming “this is DELICIOUS!” being his emphatic sweet self at lunchtime. Sidewalk chalk in tie dye shirts. Picking out the BEST ice cream flavors at our favorite old timey shop. Sleepy bedtime brother giggles before finally giving it up for the day. And, who am I kidding: the solo time I spent strolling the aisles of HomeGoods sipping a Starbucks iced coffee.

As much as I love, lament, and a little bit mourn the image of my J. Crew/Gisele/Bourdain vacation– well, it just wouldn’t be us. Messy and messed up, but filled with joyful noisy love; that’s US and I am really, truly learning to own it. To wave it like a damn flag, sort of to warn the rest of you that you might want to get out of the way… but mainly, to be the leader of our unique crazy parade. ❤

So, it’s been a rough summer. On top of a rough several months. On the heels of the fall/winter that brought me surgery and cancer. It’s been a slippery slope of a year, and most of all I am learning to just sit back and let it roll. What now, you ask?

Here goes.

Call it irony, call it whispers from the universe, call it God’s perfect (ridiculous) timing… the week I talked through my “perspective party” at LTYM Charleston, was the week that my husband told me some not so great news about the state of our marriage. The week that said talk came out on YouTube, he moved out. And the very next weekend one of my closest friends from forever, also the one witness to our legal marriage in Guatemala 7 ½ years ago, had planned to come months ago- her timing, yet again, impeccable.

I am someone who believes that things happen for a reason, that ultimately we are called to learn from all of the times we’re knocked down and have to get back up. I believe not in silver linings but in the connectedness and poignance of experiences. But, really, God? Universe? Mother Earth? REALLY?!

Watching that video of me, reading about my “perspective” situation and the “parachute you’re only kind of sure will open”– I see a person I am not sure I recognize today. I see a person trying to keep it together and show the world a HER that didn’t really exist. That’s the thing about these walls and facades we’ve all built, they are fragile. They are hard to keep solid. They start to weigh on us and if we can’t shake them off… well, they start to crush us. It’s so painfully ironic because I was on a stage full of truth tellers in front of an audience of people thinking they were hearing my truthiest parts– when in fact I didn’t even yet know that the truthiest of all was about to break free. It’s like, can I audition again next year? Cause now this story, THIS IS THE STORY.

But is that the thing? That the story is always unfolding? That you can’t just stop time and say OK this, this right here- THIS is my line in the sand and the cross that I’ll bear. This is the thing I’ll tell future lovers about; this is the scar I’ll point to and the “turning point” that I’ll share with new girlfriends over bottles of wine. In fact, there’s always another thing and the true juicy, treasure-filled bit is how you welcome and breathe through that next thing.

There’s a lot of shame associated with separation and divorce. Not only do you grieve the loss of what you thought your life would be, but you grieve the story: the way you met, the little mosaic you built, the future plans you shared with the world. You said it all out loud: the vows, the love, the kids, the STORY– and then poof, in a couple of sentences, it’s gone. While the shame shouldn’t be mine, it feels a little bit that way because I was clearly the author of this story that now appears to be wildly untrue.

Yet.

I am clinging ferociously to the imagery of a heart broken wide open. The opposite of broken wide open (shattered unfixable ice cream and comfy pants broken heart) would probably feel a little better for a minute with it’s utter falling apart, but really that’s not me. And that’s not who my kids need, or the future me needs… or, frankly, who the world needs. I actually believe that I have something awesome to offer the world and me melted into puddles of angry, sticky, jagged, hurty parts won’t make the world a more loving and grace filled place. Which, in the face of it all, is what I want.

This image- my heart burst WIDE open into an even greater capacity to hold space for the hurting parts, to allow my pain in, plus my children’s pain, and the pain of others– to open it RIGHT UP and say “come on in and let’s hold each other, and then let’s do some awesome shit with this”- this is what feels like home today.

So friends, it’s with this heart broken open that I tell you that I am sitting here, on the floor mostly, open and ready for whatever may come next. I cannot thank enough those of you who have wrapped me and my kids in your love and light; in your drinks, food and desserts; runs, movie nights and girl talks; tears, laughs and promises of karaoke.

It’s like, this time, I might actually start finding out who I really am. Watch out world.

xo

I know that many people, myself included, feel really weird about all of the celebrating right now. About all of the happy dancing, rainbows and LOVE WINS scrawled across the internet. There are rainbows utterly everywhere; unicorns, the White House, profile pictures, puppies dyed bright hues.

And this includes my own social media feed, and here’s why. I was so relieved to get some HAPPY in our crazy fucked up world that I literally wanted to vomit rainbows all over everywhere. Like an actual FUCK YOU of rainbows. See, living in Charleston, my beloved new hometown of 2 years, where we’ve created deep roots in what feels like no time, but also all the time ever… was deeply injured last week. A horrible, racist, vile person took 9 lives in the most sacred of places. Unless you live under a rock, you already know this. But every once in a while, in these last 10 days (how can it only have been 10 days? it feels like a lifetime) I have had to re-set myself, pinch myself almost into a “this actually happened.” Someone walked into a prayer meeting, no, was INVITED in to a prayer meeting, sat down, reflected on the word of God with a group of people he would, in 60 minutes time, shoot down in an act of heinous violence. Leaving one person to live, so she could tell the world why. That is some actually, truly, fucked up shit.

So, when the week after, I was able to tell my kids that LOVE WINS, that the Supreme Court of the United States SAID YES TO LOVE, it was like a time out. It was a moment where I could just celebrate that there is some sense in the world, that we are moving ever more toward the goal of just getting over ourselves, getting out of our own way in a world that seems like everyone needs to be right, judge others, pay SO MUCH attention to what we perceive everyone else is doing wrong– that we forget that we’re all just tiny, fragile humans, on a tiny fragile planet, trying to make it through each day mostly ok.

I have been grappling with all sorts of white privilege this week– and with “am I doing or saying the right thing?” “am I doing or saying ENOUGH of the right thing?” I marched in the March for Black Lives last Saturday and I shouted until I lost my voice. I cried with my hands clasped in prayer in front of Mother Emanuel AME. I listened to the voices of the mourners singing, crying, praying, shouting. I watched a man with so much anger his fists clenched and unclenched as he stood in front of the piles of flowers and candles lining the sidewalk in front of the church. I watched his body actually not able to process it. I felt my own body shift away from him, and then shift back. Wanting to at least be near enough to him that some love or stray vibe of healing might leap from my shaky body to his curled up one.

When I finally found the words to tell my kids this week about the shooting, about the death of 9 black lives, when I explained that it was because of their skin color, my 6 year old said: “was it a police officer who did the shooting mommy?” That was his fucking question. See, we just lost Walter Scott not too long ago and so his first question was that. My heart broke into a thousand pieces. My 3 year old said, “was it an ogre mommy?” Yes baby, it was an ogre. It was a mean monster– but the monster wasn’t entirely the man who did it.

The monster is the historical degradation of an entire population of human beings in our country. The monster is the continued systemic violence, under-education, school-to-prison-pipeline and general ambivalence of the people in power to change it all. THAT IS THE OGRE.

I have no answers today. I have hurt, I have a desire to change things and I have 2 children who need me to make all the wrongs in their world right. I am reminded of the infamous quote from the Protestant pastor Martin Niemoller during the holocaust:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

So, if you are also feeling strange, or even angry, about the vomit of rainbows, my opinion is that it’s ok (but open to yours. if you’re still too sad/angry, that’s good too, we’re all in). To me, it’s ok because I see it as a beacon of hope. It’s not the end of the struggle. I’d like to believe that this is the beginning of a tsunami of love, God’s love, washing over this great nation of revolutionaries– showing us that it’s time. It’s time to be done, to right the wrongs of the past, to live out loud in our TRUTH, that actually all humans beings are equal because THEY ARE. JUST CAUSE THEY ARE. Do you live, breathe, love, and hope? Then you’re in. That’s it, those are the only qualifications.

My prayer on this balmy Sunday morning in Charleston, SC, where we are in the middle of NINE funerals over 4 days is that we let this be the start. Let the deaths of our 9 martyrs not be in vain, let the momentous decision by SCOTUS be a signal to us that it’s time to move on. It’s time.

A wonderful, soulful friend shared an article with me today– about purpose. About finding your place in the world, telling us that perhaps, rather than seeking to take it all by storm, the real work is in quietly moving your little puzzle pieces around bit by bit, to gradually, gently shape the world. And of course there’s this gorgeous reference to a small garden and its caregiver. As I am all about the garden metaphors these days- and still in wonder at the growth of ours- I paid attention.

Lately, I am finding purpose in the small, quiet corners of life. Like a glint of sun at just the right angle warming my face, or the rich giggle of my littlest boy– just small victories in a big, strange world. I’ve written, thought, raged, laughed, cried and wondered at the hand I’ve been dealt over the past several months. I shared it on stage- and called it a “perspective party” and “an invitation from God.” When I wrote those words, I don’t think I really realized how right and how poignant they were and would be. I didn’t realize how some days the word CANCER still seems etched on my heart– especially with the news that actually I had the NOT easy, kind of “good” cancer. I didn’t broadcast it, but of course my little spots of cancer were the weird, rare, aggressive form of thyroid cancer. Still no change in prognosis or treatment, but just slightly more burn in my chest on the days when it feels most surface-ish. The experience of spiraling through the weird, murky world of sickness and healing has made me feel a little schizophrenic… like on the one hand, I MUST DO ALL THE THINGS; fix the world, make my mark, change the planet and save all of her creatures! And in the next breath, I want to get really quiet. Like quiet enough to hear the swoosh of a butterfly as he flutters across my face. So quiet that I can hear the small, still voice inside saying “it’s ok, I’m here too, rest a while.”

So, when my incredible friend sent along this article it was a reminder that I am already doing things small, medium and big to change the world– and that each tiny change starts with me. It starts with being humble, honest and genuine. It starts in my home. It starts with creating a safe and loving environment for my boys. It starts with those little seeds we planted in our backyard that are now long, green vines reaching for the sun. It starts with having a dream and being brave and just slightly crazy enough to give it a try. It starts with following your gut instinct, supported by the small, still voice.

It’s sort of incredible the journey we’re all being sent on each and every day and it’s so easy to get sucked into a place of “WHY ME?!” about it all. But the land of WHY ME is not a land in which you take up residence, it’s for temporary pause and a rest break– until you feel strong enough to move forward to the town of tiny, meaningful action. To a place where you reach out and make yourself vulnerable and open to a dear old friend. Who in turn sends you articles on purpose and truth. To a place where you smile at strangers because well, their day might just be a little worse than yours. I feel like I have purchased my ticket out of WHY ME-ville… I’ve put my perspectacles on and am ready to make tiny shifts in my own place. To bloom where I am planted– with the little seeds I’ve been given.

I hated my parents for making me move. I hated the first day that I walked over that bridge into my new high school in southern California. I hated their stupid orange and blue uniforms and cheerleaders and outdoor dumb lockers. Mostly, I hated that I had no clue how to navigate all of it. I distinctly remember wearing the dorkiest outfit EVER on the first day. I don’t know what I was thinking, but when I got there, I realized I was wrong. Super wrong. Capri pants and sandals were not it. I had no friends and no clue whatsoever on how to find them; how to find my people. I have never been so utterly and totally terrified in my life.

Flash forward a few years… and I became thankful for that experience. While WHS left some to be desired, the experience of starting over, and figuring out how to navigate all of that– it made me an incredibly strong person. I am sure it made me brave in a way I didn’t even understand then. And I did find my people– in the usual places: the choir room, the theater, and on the yearbook. Havens for weirdos, aspiring actors and people who are not afraid of sequins.

Now, sitting here almost 20 years later (WHAT?!) I realize that that was just the first of many instances where I have picked up and moved, or started over, and gotten a re-do of sorts. I’ve spent most of my adult life starting over in all manners: moving, traveling, loving, parenting, working on various projects, getting passionate about different causes– and all the while, finding my place. I’m not an extraordinary person, but I might be extraordinary at being new and not being afraid of it. People often tell me their deepest feelings, or most impactful experiences within minutes, or days, of knowing me. I used to think it was the strangest thing, but then I started to take it as a compliment. Due to all of my moving around and starting over, I sort of just became more me. And I present me in all situations, at all times, sometimes to the detriment of the embarrassment of my loved ones. I take truth telling seriously and in doing so create a safe space for others.

Several weeks ago the kids and I planted a garden. And I honestly wasn’t sure how the garden would actually grow. Seeds, soil, sun, water… but was there something magical? Something secret in between those steps that I was supposed to do? No one ever told me how to plant and grow a real garden. Sure enough though, within several days, green sprouts began to poke through the dark, rich earth. I was so excited I took picture of these little baby sprouts, with their hopeful green leaves pushing toward the sun. I thought, see, I DO know how to grow a garden.

This is a bit how I live my life– I just have faith that things will be ok. That the next move will be the right one. That the unexpected twist or turn will just propel me to the next right step. Sure, it feels pretty crappy when going through some of it, but I’ve learned that pretty much, it’ll all just be ok. There’s a miracle on the other side of that shit creek you’ve been thrown into. Grab your paddle and get to work.

I went to church this morning for the first time in a really long time. The pastor spoke about being “passionately persistent.” This rang true for me and spoke to the internal dialogue so present for me these days. He also said, “the only way the battle is lost is by forfeit” and this really spoke to me: you have to stay in it, you have to stay present, get your hands dirty in that garden, but equally, have faith that those little seeds will grow. You cannot forfeit. You can, and should, try all of the new things and places that call you. You must get in the canoe and freaking paddle.

xo

I keep seeing this meme about having a friend who doesn’t ask questions- just shows up with a shovel and helps you bury the body. We all need such a person in our lives; the best friend, the cleanup crew, the “it’s ok, I won’t ask, I am just here, show me where to dig” one.

Last weekend I stood on a stage… k, walked onto a stage trying not to barf and staring out into the bright stage lighting, hoping I could remember how to read the words I’d written. Hoping they’d laugh at the parts I thought were funny. Hoping that my cold, clammy hands could grasp the pages well enough to turn them. Hoping that my voice wouldn’t shake and my message would carry. I stood on a stage and told my truth. I was the second to last in a line of some of the bravest people I have ever known. And we know how I feel about brave.

As second to last, I got to root for each writer from back stage, listen to her (or him, one him!) get brave and truth-y– and feel the audience as they kept inching forward in their seats. They inched literally and figuratively, drawn in as their own memories wove together with those of the writer, affirmed with “mmm-hmms” and “amens” and muffled teary sighs of “oh wow”. We listened backstage with bated breath, knowing the lines that would come next, knowing the gut wrenching beauty about to be spoken– and pray that the audience would feel it too. What we had felt the other times listening to our castmates’ stories. And they did. It was palpable.

As each person came back to the quiet, safe, dark backstage space we silently cheered, clapped, wiped away tears, high fived and said “good lord that was perfect.” We’d only ever spent hours together, but in those precious moments of truth telling, we became bonded for life. Cemented to each other in this shared, sacred work of turning ourselves inside out before 300 unsuspecting strangers. Not for the faint of heart, let me tell you.

Thank you Listen to Your Mother Charleston for being there for me in ways you know, and don’t yet know. Thank you for being a cast of people who I undoubtedly, unequivocally know would just show up with a shovel and get to digging. Your voices have stayed with me this week– and what I learned from each of you serves as a little kernel of strength carried right under my heart.

xo

One of my castmates asked us to share an “I’m excited” selfie before our first read through today. I was in the pharmacy drive through line picking up Little One’s antibiotics (conveniently, strep befell our house this morning, in time for him to be deposited at 8 am by his grandparents who had him overnight for our anniversary. Happy romantic day to sleep in!)– and was trepidatious at best about the whole thing:

I wasn’t quite feeling it, but never one to be left out of the selfie game, I triumphantly posted. Kind of secretly feeling self doubt and wariness and a little bit of “oh shit” cause I had to actually read this thing aloud. It was very much about me and what I would feel, and would they like me, and would I be good enough… me, me, me.

Fast forward about 3 hours and I can tell you that I am unequivocally all about my castmates. I sat around, utterly mesmerized and totally sucked in to each and every one of their funny, sad, poignant and beautifully written pieces. Such that, when it finally got to me, I sort of forgot that I was even doing a read-through. I felt, instead, like I’d just been given a precious gift, a magic key, that unlocked the utterly truthful stories of the family of folks around that table. We were all able to suspend all of the other things around us and just BE for each other. And that is RARE. When do we ever just stop all of the twittering, posting, maniacal texting and just SIT with someone else as they tell their story?

The beauty was not lost on me as we sat in Charleston– a community currently reeling from the death of Walter Scott, an African-American gentleman shot down by a white police officer last week– that we were all there because we all matter. Every walk of life is present in this show; every essay the perfect puzzle piece needed to present the full story; every scar, battle, loss, love, belly laugh and tear shed is because WE ALL MATTER.

This is the photo I snapped at the end:

This is what BEING there for another person looks like. Words, tissues, a cup of coffee.

So, world, let this be my FORMAL announcement that I am part of the cast of Listen to Your Mother Charleston 2015. The show is on May 3 at the Charleston Music Hall. What I am reading is not yet on this blog, but I’ll leave you with a snippet:

“…being a Mom sometimes feels like skydiving with a parachute on your back that you’re only pretty sure will open but you have to smile and say “it’s ok! of course it will open!” to everyone who asks you.”

Come watch me and my fellow castmates parachute together.

xo