Olympic Gifts

Talent belongs to God. Training comes from the robots within us. What makes the equally trained and the equally talented unequal is their humanity. Gabby Douglas' charisma, Missy Franklin's sweetness, and Michael Phelps' humility, qualities they sustain regardless of the results, sets them apart from their sometimes more qualified opponents, whose desire to win is palpable and gives away their ego (or their parents' and trainer's egos, in some cases).

Within my own talent and my own training, I have often felt that subtle tug-of-war between my ego's need to succeed and my gift's desire to serve. Before I step on stage, I have learned to ask of myself, May my ego step aside and make way for my gift. May I give what I am meant to give to this character on this stage for this audience. May I have the courage to serve, may I love every minute of it, and may I remember to be grateful for the experience in its entirety. 

I do not always grant my own request. I am sometimes too pleased with myself. I sometimes want to shine more than I want to give. But it is never long before I am humbled. On those moments, I look much like Jordyn Wieber, Viktoria Komova, and Ryan Lochte. Failure shatters poses.

Gifts are delicate. They shy away at the sight of arrogance. I must always keep myself in check, and practice catching it as it happens. If I have enough clarity and presence of mind, sometimes I can reverse it as it is happening. I am failing. I suck tonight. I am shmacting. It is hurting me to fail because I stepped on stage tonight wanting to succeed, wanting to be known as a great actor, wanting to be applauded.  I must let that go. It is not my job to succeed. It is my job to get out of my own way. I'm sorry, Talent. I tried to use you to make others see me, admire me, and love me. That is not your purpose. I accept failing tonight so that I may learn and grow for your sake. 

I watch the Olympics not only to cheer on the athletes I admire, but to study their humanity. I hope to absorb their clarity, their balance, and their drive. And I always applaud the courage it takes to remain humble, kind, and grateful after their consecutive wins.

The Aurora Shooting and the Interminable Questions

Another mass shooting in a small Colorado suburb. (I don't even know what part of that sentence is most sickening, "another" or "mass shooting.") The answerable gets asked, for facts soothe the shocked. What How Where When Who go first. After those have settled, the unanswerable haunting Why comes up. Articles vomit their theories; loose gun laws, social inadequacies, negligent parents, media influences, and the maddening mundaneness of the American suburb.

Can we really handle the answer though? How many times did we read Eric Harris' diaries and watch Seung-Hui Cho's homemade videos? How many books will we write, how many weird indie films will we make, how many more pieces to this puzzle do we need before we take responsibility?
Maybe they were insane or maybe they were just a magnified version of us: angry, in pain, and lonely. The disparity lies in their despair and not, I maintain, in their access to weapons, for we all have access to weapons but we do not all go on a shooting rampage.

We collectively ignore the misfits around us, and then we collectively believe that if we take away the means, we will erase the turbulent cause. Not that the argument is unfounded: if we banned cigarettes, we would likely have less cases of lung cancer; if we take guns away from our children, we will likely have less mass murders among our youth. I am absolutely in favor of gun control- if we can prevent the How, then why don't we?- But neither "solution" soothes the cause, and we simply cannot ignore that. Our angry young men will still be angry young men. Their desire to indiscriminately kill others still stirs within them, and what do we intend to do about that? Numb them with Prozac and do away with violent entertainment? Guarantee every child in an American suburb loving and attentive yet ambitious and successful parents who can pay for a college education that will give them a fulfilling career?

Theories and questions don't change the tragedy, the sadness, or the loss. But we must study it, we must ask questions, we must be moved to tears by this, we must scream at the top of our lungs, and we must not stop thinking about it for a moment, for the instant we move on with our lives, it will happen again.

GUEST POST: how to say the hard stuff OR not even in the face of armageddon

This is Chris

My dear and very wise friend Chris, who has been reading my blog since its beginning (it is the very source of our friendship) and helping me work through the muck of life, love, and spiritual growth, wrote this beautiful guest post for us today. It was inspired by my post A Heart's Gamble, and I am so happy to share his insights here.

Enjoy...

-----------------------

I once spent two and half years working up the clarity / confidence in my choice to tell a woman that as much as I loved her, deeply, profoundly loved her, I was not truly happy in the relationship with her because she and I wanted different things out of life, or at least to live in ways that did not bring me closer to her.  It was *excruciatingly* difficult to commit my future to that path, of ultimately living without her in my life.  The (many!) times I thought about it and what it would mean... and what could I possibly be thinking that I would give up all the extraordinary times we had together in hopes that I would somehow find something "better"?  What kind of fool did I think I was?!...  I waffled.  I tried all kinds of things to make it work, to contort myself for us to fit better -- and I know she did a lot of that too on her end, for sure.

I had numerous conversations with friends and family along the way to sanity check myself.  My best friend gave me lots of wisdom and a broader perspective.  My brother gave me a lot of practicality, but empathy all the same.  Nevertheless, in terms of the positive benefits my suffering could bring to the world, my mom was the most interesting one to talk to about what I went through.  My dad had divorced her only after 20+ years of marriage counseling and trying and trying... and trying.  They just weren't right for each other.  She gave me, in her own way, a woman's perspective of being on the receiving end of a serious breakup, and I gave her, much to my tangential happiness, a perspective on what a man's side of instigating such a breakup could be like.  That it was hard.

The reality is, I have been unskillful with women.  I have done and said the worst possible things at the worst possible moments.  Usually things I thought were innocuous and sometimes took me years to realize what a horrible thing I done to that poor woman's psyche.  I certainly hope they have recovered well, and at least learned something useful from my horrendous mistakes.  I myself have learned a great deal from my "failing big" and am very, very enjoyably much more skillful now, but even now I still have no strong knowledge of how to handle situations where really deep feelings are involved.  Hell, even when incredibly superficial feelings are involved on both sides: how do you, compassionately, tell a chick you know just came over because she was horny, "btw, I don't want you to sleep here tonight, can I get you a cab?"  Sometimes there's just no easy way to say some things.

So, how, in what was unquestionably the most serious relationship of my life to date, how could I possibly know the right thing to say, to express my real feelings, to be heard and understood that I had my own needs, but that they did not correspond with what she wanted (to remain with me)?  It hurts me deeply to hurt women.  I *love* women, I love taking care of them, treating them well and making them feel safe and comforted.  But as I am a monogamist, I can not do this for all women for all time...  The women I take some time with to explore and see how we fit, learn about her -- and learn about me! -- well...  Statistically, there are going to be more breakups than lifelong relationships that result.  But I remain nevertheless anxious that even after the hurt, somehow, *somehow*, I can find a way to impart to each one the knowledge and certainty that I cared so deeply for her, want her to be profoundly happy and wish with all my heart that a better guy for her than me shows up just around the corner.  And all the while I feel as though she is going to hate my guts no matter what I say, no matter how hard I try -- especially if I am actually _honest_ with her about my feelings, god forbid!

I do not begrudge the women of the world their bar hopping in the aftermath, telling their friends -- or random strangers, or the very next guy they hook up with for a night to forget... -- any stories they can think of that paint their ex-men in the worst possible lights so they can all commiserate on how men are scum, or at least that particular one.  But by the gods I wish it was not so.  Holy fuck I wish there was a way to demonstrate/share/empath the struggle and pain and frustration that goes into the desire to find an, honestly, _better_ happiness -- but still acknowledging that it was indeed a happiness before with that woman.  To know that a woman I cared so deeply for, and gave so much of myself to, that she would remember me fondly and know that I do still, until the end of all days, care for her, in a different way, yes, but deeply care all the same.

When my mom, over time, came to acknowledge that I was clearly greatly concerned about the happiness and well being of the woman I was contemplating leaving behind, she developed at least a hint of appreciation for what my dad went through.  That was so hopeful for me, that at least one woman saw that the guys who do/say these things to them are not cold heartless sociopaths who were lying about their feelings the whole time they were having these intimate moments prior to the uncomfortable conclusion, but rather human beings going through a struggle of their own, to find their own way in this confusing world and trying their damnedest to do the best they could with the skills they had at the time.

And it's not just the super intense moments.  The whole dating game is ripe with opportunity to hurt each other as we gradually shed layers with each other.  (And sometimes not so gradually -- thankfully!  I have cried my own eyes out over such times and am so, so, so immensely grateful to have had those experiences.)  We are all unskillful at times and we are all trying to find happiness in our own particularly selfish (but not in a bad way!) /individual ways.  I want to live in a world where we all recognize this of each other, and can respect our "opponents" in the battle of the sexes, especially from skirmish to skirmish as wounds are inflicted.  Forgiveness, compassion, understanding.

I would rather spend my life looking for a relationship that is truly satisfying for me, even if I never find such a creature, than settle for "almost but not quite" and then spend the rest of my life wondering what it would have been like to experience the satisfaction I knew I truly desired.  I will never stay with someone who wants something that is not what I want to offer, or offering less/other than what I know it would take to truly satisfy me.  Along the way, I will break hearts, including my own, and I hope that, at least for me, all the women I encounter are able to see and value my own attempts to do the right thing, even when it conflicts with their desires and thereby causes them pain.  

Eternally pursue that which brings you joy (and learn better every day what that really is!), perpetually operate from the assumption that hope is worthwhile even when it seems pointless or impossible, and, please, constantly look for the best in everyone on your path to real satisfaction.

May you, ultimately, find peace.

****

*Note from the author regarding the title: I have always planned for my own blog, agonizingbliss.com to title articles twice, once somewhat obviously, and the second a seemingly nonsensical reference at first that ultimately relates to what the article turns into.  This particular second title is somewhat unfortunately a bit obscure, it requires quick googling for those who are not already very familiar with the source material, but it is _extremely_ profound when taken in context and is very apt for the material.  A suggestion to google it after reading might be worthwhile. You should read the graphic novel it comes from, although it is a substantial commitment to do so -- it would take a day start to finish, basically.  A very very profoundly moving day.

A Heart's Gamble

Image from here.

Eyes smile at each other and touches linger. Flirtation plants its seed and desire waters it. Between would you like another drink and you're beautiful, we kiss. Boom boom double-boom, goes my heart, and in an instant smaller than a sigh, hope is born. 

Legs interlace, noses touch, hips kiss. Grr grr grrar, goes my body, and in between this is nice and yeah there, my armor falls to the floor. 

I am nervous, he touches my cheek and torsos piece into each other, a puzzle completed.

Vulnerable and hopeful, I rest on his chest and wait for his lips to find my forehead, his heart to find mine. 

But it doesn't. 

His body goes cold. I don't want to hurt you, I'm not ready for more than this, I don't want you to have expectations, his lips say instead. 

Boom. 

In a breath of space smaller than the sigh in which it was birthed, hope is killed. Desire vanishes, hearts hide.

I turn away and quickly touch my heart. Shh, little heart, it's okay. We'll be okay. We were too quick to trust. We know how this goes. Let's pack up and go now. 

I get up from the bed, and I feel a part of me stay there. That's the gamble; a part of us is always lost. Good bye, my sweet romantic girl. 

I pick up my armor from the floor and put it back on. It is heavier now.  I feel my edges sharpen, I am older. It will be harder to take off next time...

How a Brazilian Survives Winter in New York

It has taken me NINE New York winters to figure out how to survive them. That means I was here back when winters were real, with snow days and big boots and dry skin. I learned to battle the "winter blues," which to me felt much like outright depression and not at all like a passive color, and I lived to tell the story. So, young adults from tropical places about to go to college in the east coast thinking it's all kinds of awesome, Do not take this information for granted. My tone is condescending and in nine years you will know why. Take this as gold.


1. Proper Attire

If it is your first winter, you will need all of these things. You will need them until about your fourth winter, then you can graduate to less things.
- A long puffy nylon coat in a dark color that has both a zipper and buttons. It must have deep good pockets that zip up and a detachable hood. It must be waterproof and it should be so warm that if you put it on indoors over your naked body you will begin to sweat.

At Sarah Lawrence in the winter of 2005

- Thick cashmere and/or wool scarves in many colors. This is where you can change your closet. You only need one coat, but you need many scarves. Make sure they are washable and make sure you wash them.
- Warm hats that cover your ears and that can be stuffed in the pockets of your coat. You can also have more than one, but it should be washable and you should wash it.
- Gloves. Nowadays, I use gloves that allow me to text. A good investment. Don't buy expensive gloves. They get lost.
- Boots. We no longer have snowstorms of the kind you can't walk through with regular shoes, but you still need boots. Rubber soles, waterproof, comfortable boots that have zippers. None of that slip-on stuff, you need to be practical in the winter.
- Underclothes. I like to wear cotton leggings instead of long underwear. Black, several, and washable. I don't own long-sleeved shirts anymore. You sweat more in the winter than you do in the summer. Once you get inside a place, you will want to have a tank-top on, such is the power of modern heat.
- The most practical bag is either a backpack or a long strapped side bag. An over your shoulder bag tends to fall off a bulky coat.  


2. Things

- Tissues (buy them buy the box load at Bed Bath & Beyond for under $2.00).
- Hand Sanitizer (not everyone carries around tissues, and so the city becomes a germ bed).
- A pocket mirror that you carry in the pocket of your coat (for snot checking before going in for a job interview or meeting your boyfriend's ex-beneficial-friend).
-  Cough drops.
- Humidifier (unless you sweat a lot at night anyway).
- Sunglasses.
- Lip Balm (I think I have gone through about 5,000 in nine years).
- Moisturizer (big bottles at home, little ones for your purse).
- Benetint (paleness, even for the naturally tanned, is a side effect of winter-- indulge in liquid blush).


3. Battling the Blues: Wake Up and Brighten

- The days are shorter, so don't sleep in. Wake up with the sun, make the day as long as humanely possible.
- Have bright things. Throw pillows, nail polish, carpets, flowers, table cloths, whatever. Just have bright stuff to look at. (Note the color scheme here on my blog.)
- Avoid things that lead to depression in the long run, such as alcohol, drugs, sleeping too much or too little, unemployment, and dating assholes.
- Have at least a shelf full of self-help books. Work through them over the next five years.
- Collect inspiration, through quotes, nature, architecture, etc. Whatever makes you feel things you cannot even label, indulge in them. I personally have a "Book of Happiness," that I started on my fourth year here. It is one of my go-to's for a smile on any given day. 
- Mark on your calendar how many days you go without leaving your house. Do not exceed three.
- Even if you like depressing movies, paintings, poems, and relationships, steer clear of them. Or, likewise with hibernation, keep track of how many of those you take in per week and do not exceed three.
- Cut or color your hair. Preferably not depression-purple. I'm sporting caramel-blond highlights on an uneven inverted hairstyle right now. Yeah. Roar. 
- Exercise. Winter will make you fat.




4. Protecting Your Immune System

- These are the things I have discovered (the hard way) I cannot live without:

Vitamin D3

Vitamin C

Echinacea tea

Sambucus Immune System Syrup

Silver Hydrosol Spray

Mint Lozenges

Emergen-C

And my super Immune System Boosting Tea: lemon zinger tea, fresh squeezed whole lemon or lime, honey, cinnamon, cayenne pepper, chopped raw garlic, and chopped raw ginger-- all mixed together in hot water, covered, and steeped for 15 minutes. If you feel your throat scratching, drink this immediately. If you have to socialize that day, skip the raw garlic until you're home alone and not going out again that day.
- If you are sick, take all of the above, a warm shower, bundle up, and go to bed. Do not try to brave winter while sick. If you have to work, then wear a lot of layers, but make sure you are not sweating while you are outside in the cold. Your skin should be dry, and you should feel warm. Protect your neck, chest, head, and feet. Try not to take "cough suppressants" or "fever reducers" unless you absolutely have to. They are an illusion; your body will overwork itself because it is numb, and then you will crash.
- Ask a friend to bring you organic fresh vegetables and fruits- can be in the form of juices and soups.


5. Love Stuff

- If you are in love, winter will be easier by a thousand percent. If you are heartbroken, winter will make you suicidal. If you are in a bad relationship, winter will make you homicidal. So, if you can, try not to get dumped in the fall, really work on finding a lasting love story during the summer, and get out of anything bad before it gets blisteringly cold outside. 
- We live in an era that caters to cowards, so go ahead and join an online dating website if you haven't already.
- I have been single for many a winter- this last one included- and it can also be just fine, if not great. I take the time to try new classes, read books, start creative projects, travel, and soul search. But remember, Valentine's Day is in the winter, so plan ahead for that one. So far getting brutally ill has been the best way I've gotten through it.


All right, that's my list. Make good use of it! Print it out, frame it, and pass it on for generations to come (given we still have winters in our globally warmed future). And, when April comes around and it's STILL cold, but you're ALIVE, and WELL, and NOT EVEN DEPRESSED, give yourself a giant treat: a vacation from New York City. Preferably somewhere warm, but any good vacation will do. If you are poor, then start a fund NOW for next year and put aside $100 a month for the next year-- this will be your sacred vacation money.


ENJOY.

My Hair and My Smile

I Wonder About You

Are you better at sadness now? 

I am. Or at least I am used to it. I have not been as sad as you, for as long, but sadness is sadness, and it's deathly in all its sizes.


Do they, the new "she's"-- (I rather think there are many than one; one is too threatening still.) Do they understand? Are they better at it than I was? 

I didn't set the bar too high. But still, I hope they are not.


Are things like smiling and tomorrow still chores? 

I wanted so much to make you smile; I failed to understand you needed me to be the one person you did not have to smile for. Or talk about tomorrow with, for that matter.


Do you still ache for the mundane? 

Sameness, which was so excruciating to me, is precisely what I miss the most.


Do you fit in yet? 

I can't imagine you do. You are an outsider and you are arrogant-- rightfully so, you are too smart and too beautiful for normality. I was much better at seeming comfortable. But it's a pose, nonetheless. I think I have become more transparent and tired. A facade requires cement-like armor and energy.


Are you forgetting? 

I am. 

I would rather who I was be dead to both of us. 


And... Do you, too, wonder?

I hope not. And I hope not never.


*

Roar

I teach little kids, and the theme this week was a lion. A small child's first response to "We're lions!" is to roar. I have to roar too, but they are better at it than me. This is a precious time for them. It's before most of them will be punished into politeness, before You can watch TV if you stop screaming, and before their voices get tucked away for good. For now, they are rewarded for roaring. The bigger the roar, the better.

I was a shy child. If I had been my student, I likely would not have roared. I would have sat quietly in a corner and daydreamed myself into a different world, where no one ever made me do anything I didn't want to do. But that doesn't mean I didn't have a roar in me.

The first time I roared, I was nine, and I did it right at my mother. I was angry that she didn't let me sleep over at a friend's house, and while I would normally have quietly complied, my friend instructed me to at least put up a good fight, otherwise I would never be able to do anything I wanted. Your mother can't control you forever, she said. It was a new concept for me, and it gave me the courage to tread on uncharted territory: standing up for myself. I didn't throw a tantrum, but I stood my ground and used a voice I had not used ever before; a loud, demanding, unapologetic voice that sounded much like a roar. What will you do when I'm an adult? Keep me at home? You can't! You can't just not let me do things that everyone else does! I repeated what my friend had instructed me to say. I was using logic, but I was also being vocally fierce.

My mother thought her daughter had been abducted. She literally said, "This is not the daughter I know." I was afraid of my mother. The mildest misbehavior usually lead to being severely reprimanded, and I was a very sensitive child. I couldn't stand to be yelled at. But on that day, I was brave. And she did not scream back at me or punish me. She was in shock. She really did not know the child who stood before her. I, too, was being introduced to this part of myself for the first time. 

The next time I wanted to sleep over at a friend's house, she let me. 

Her reaction was the one most of my family members and teachers would have had. The Larissa they knew, the Larissa my mother raised, did not roar. She was not a lot of work. She was the good child. Polite, delicate, graceful, compliant, diplomatic, and sweet. My brother was "the terrorist." I was the saint. It was a role I was comfortable in, one of general invisibility and obedience.

But no child, no human being, is all terrorist or all saint. I had a roar in me and, from time to time, I would let it out and shock the people who knew me best. For the most part, no one was comfortable with this.

When I was 21, my dad and I were having an argument, and I started to roar. He interrupted me and said, "We're not going to talk anymore. We'll talk again when you calm down." I had a realization at that moment and burst into tears. I roared even louder, "NO! You will talk to me NOW. You don't get to choose to only talk to me when I'm calm! You have to deal with me NOW too, when I'm frantic and upset!"

As an adult, I was able to demand that my not-so-polite self be not only listened to, but loved. No one, not even my father, was going to get away with loving only the pleasant part of me anymore. You don't get the kitten unless you can accept the lioness that comes along with her. I had set my ultimatum.

It would, naturally, echo in other relationships as well, outside of family. At first, I didn't want anyone to fall in love with the good girl before they knew the bad girl. This extended to friendships as well as romantic relationships. No one was allowed to know that I wanted a monogamous committed relationship until they could accept and love the part of me that wanted to have sex on a first date.

It is a real challenge to find the balance between the gentle kitten and the roaring lioness. But if I ever try to repress one of them so that the other may flourish, it acts out when I least expect (and want) it to. Be the sweet, loving, kind girl for too long and a monster will come out. Similarly, roar and scratch for long enough and the desire to marry and have children starts to seep out of my pores. Despite my best efforts, I cannot keep either one silent for very long. If I listen to both parts of myself and let them out, then I am free. If not, I am a slave to the one I do not bring forth. That which you do not bring to the light will destroy you, we learned when we did shadow work at school. True words indeed.

Luckily, I have really come to love both of these creatures I can be. As I roared with my young students this week, with whom I have to be infinitely patient and kind, I felt my docility co-existing with my recklessness. ROAR and out came the lioness, followed by the sweet kitten, That's right boys and girls! Great job! I loved that I had both qualities in me, and that they could both serve me simultaneously and balance each other out.

I am grateful to that friend who, 17 years ago, encouraged me to find that first roar. I am so proud of my nine-year-old self who stood up for herself and kept on doing so, even though it was scary and didn't always please other people. I am also grateful for the well-behaved little girl in me who survived by going unnoticed for a long time, and who holds on to my sweetness, grace, and good manners.

And the lesson has been learned: inside every lioness is a kitten, and inside every kitten is the potential for a roar.

I think I look pretty good roaring.

That Damn Week of Positivity...

I am officially one week late on my follow-up post for my week of Extreme Positivity. (And I know you've been checking, because I check my google stats, even when I'm not blogging.) So I'm sorry.

In short, my week of Extreme Positivity was hard and I didn't like it, and I didn't want that to be how I started this blog post.

For a week, I wrote and re-wrote this post, trying to find a positive authentic spin on my positivity challenge. At heart, I want to- no, I live to- inspire. Whether on stage, over coffee with friends, in writing, or on my yoga mat, I find nothing more gratifying than to have fostered a reaction in another human being that reads, You have touched me.

But I have learned that when I try to force that reaction, I come off as arrogant. My audience shuts down. And I feel the one thing I absolutely cannot stand to feel: inauthentic. 

My week of extreme positivity left me, mostly, unchanged and uninspired. Not that I massively failed at it- no, I had my happy thoughts, my mantras, my good actions, and so forth. I did what I had to do. I smiled and heard my happy music and went to yoga and ate beautiful food and so forth. I focused on the good stuff, even as I was sweating through a fever one night and coughing up my rib cage.

But I didn't like it, and I didn't feel that rush of joy I was hoping to feel. There wasn't a major a-ha moment. And I kept lying to people about it. They'd ask me how my week of positivity was going and I'd, say, "Great!" Because what else could I say? I was being positive.

It's not like I learned nothing, though. I made a few discoveries that felt meaningful and changed my behavior:
- Wit is not often positive. My presence on social media, therefore, suffered from this week.
- Avoiding that which will cause a negative thought is not as hard as it seems. Don't drink as much the night before. Don't take the subway during rush hour. Don't let the dishes pile up. Etc.
- It is possible to catch most thoughts, if you set your mind to it, and shift them from complaints to gratitude. I can't believe they've blocked off this road for construction turns into I'm so grateful there are a dozen men and women willing to work outdoors in the cold in order to ensure proper roads for me. 

I wouldn't say it was useless, no. But it felt like a lot of effort with a side of fake. And it felt somewhat robotic. I am a fan of impulses and reactions- it is one of the reasons I mostly fail at enlightenment- so the week felt like being in an awful lot of control. Not my strength, to be honest.

It was, after all, an experiment. And while I like succeeding and I especially like major breakthroughs, I know I cannot force change or growth, and I am better off looking at things for what they are. There is always some benefit for me in setting up something difficult for myself, and there's always a lot to learn from that which I don't like doing, so I can appreciate it in that sense. But, overall, it was harder than I thought it would be, and the pay-off seemed much smaller than the bargain.

I hope this isn't too disappointing or uninspiring. Several people told me they might want to try it themselves, and I do encourage you to do so. People are different, and this may be a much, much better plan for someone else. And I may do it again myself at some point. I am a different person every day, and positivity will have a different effect on me every time I take it on.

My best advice from this is, take it one step at a time. One thought, one breath, one moment. Positivity, I found, is most comfortable in the present.

The Importance of "Me Time"

Between four jobs and two plays, I have discovered the importance of doing things, every day, that are just for me. Something that gives me pleasure, that makes me smile, that warms my heart, and that improves my quality of life. I share some here with you, and encourage you to find your own and share them, for they have a very powerful effect on the people around you too.


- Having a chocolate chip cookie from pret a manger. 
Maybe not something to do every day (unless it's an especially hectic week), but every once in a while, it is necessary to indulge. Their cookies are perfect. In 30 seconds, they improve my day and spirits by 100%. Try them. I am sharing with you one of my best-kept secrets, friends. Do not take it for granted. Go to pret a manger. Get a chocolate chip cookie. It will change your life too.

- Listening to fun music. 
It has taken me a long, long time to find this. The thing is, I love folk music, so I have always assumed that it made me happy. But actually, silly and fun music makes me happiest, fastest. As it turns out, I don't always need meaningful lyrics and sad guitar strings. Sometimes I need... Lady Gaga and Lily Allen, over and over again.

Tiramisu I made last week. 

- Cooking or baking something complicated.
If you're my facebook friend, you've seen the pictures. Cooking and baking gives me a ridiculous amount of pleasure, and even though I often do it for others, the act itself is just for me. If a recipe takes 5 hours, I'm all about it. If it takes 3 days, even better. Orange marmalade, braised lamb shanks, chocolate mousse, or an entire Thanksgiving meal from scratch-- it all makes me incredibly happy. And I'm notorious for not wanting anyone in the kitchen with me. It's my me time, and I share it only with my sharp chef knife and my extra extra virgin Italian olive oil.

- Reading a self-help book.
I love self-help books. Curling up in a corner and reading them with a pad of paper next to me so I can write out all of the blazing insights I'm having about myself makes me so happy. Currently reading: "The 5 Love Languages," by Gary Chapman. Highly recommend it!


- Watching The Food Network. 
I can't watch anything for as long as I can watch The Food Network. It drives anyone who lives with me crazy, but I am an addict. I'm a foodie. It makes me happy to learn about food.

- Walking.
I often get off the subway one or two stops before my destination so I get a little walking time. It's just so important to me. I can think, clear my head, observe, listen to some music, feel the world around me, and decompress. Even 10 minutes of walking makes a difference in my quality of life.

- Writing. 
I always feel so happy after I blog. And I have four journals: my one sentence a day for five years journal, my dream journal, my morning pages pad, and my journal journal. Things are on my mind, on to the paper or screen they go. Toxic thoughts especially need to get out, but insights, gratitude lists, prayers, and hopes also need to be written down. And I like to be alone when I write. It's my me time. It's important. It makes me happy.

Vanity and I

Ours is a love story, like so many before it, rooted in an external search for acceptance, completion, and happiness. Abusive at times, melodramatic at others, and full of resentment and bitterness, Vanity and I have had a turbulent relationship.

At 16.

I did everything I was supposed to do. I was always manicured, pedicured, waxed, exfoliated, cleansed, starved, tucked, lifted, firmed, smoothed, and glossed. My hair was always long, my clothes were always form-fitting and feminine, and my perfume was whatever the magazine told me was a man's favorite scent on a woman. If my hands were dry or my lips chapped, I'd be embarrassed, and I'd never dare take my shoes off if I was overdue for a pedicure.

Vanity was with me every single day. And for as long as there was enough money, there were solutions to everything. Needles could smooth out stretchmarks, electric shocks could stop hair from growing where it shouldn't, surgeries could lift, tuck, and sew in anything that wasn't in place. Pills could make me stop eating. She had an answer for everything.

I did not think she would ever leave me, and I certainly did not think I would ever leave her. 

When a teacher quite forcefully told me that if I wanted to be an actor I had to get messy, dirty, ugly, and, above all, let go of my vanity and ego, I was baffled. Like a slave born into a life of unquestionable servitude, blind to the absurdity of her circumstances, I was suddenly made aware of my binding chains.

At 22.

I cut off my hair. I stopped getting my nails done. I bought a dozen yoga pants. I set my make up, stomach-gripping jeans, and heels to the back of my closet. And I started eating french fries.

In order to set myself truly free, I had to let go of Vanity completely. I had to break up with her, and I was very, very angry. I was ready to break mirrors and burn bras, such was the depth of my pain. You trapped me, chained me, butchered me, controlled me, and erased me. I want nothing to do with you, ever again.

She complied. She left me alone. And I was so happy to find the freedom within stretchy pants, flats, messy short hair, and unpainted uneven nails, that I did not miss her at all. It was a blissful time, and I did grow tremendously as an actor. Vanity murders creativity. For the next couple of years, I was unstoppable.

But I was not done growing. We never are. 

It was a group of actor friends that next freed me when they proposed, gently, that I indulge in my vanity, flaunt my femininity and sexiness, and invite a little ego back. Again, I felt a light turn on in a dark room within me. In my complete negation of Vanity, I did not realize she was still controlling me. I feared her so fiercely, I never considered that we could have a healthy, balanced relationship.

As I had done years earlier when I dispelled Vanity completely, I was ready to take on the challenge of welcoming her back for the sake of my growth as an actor. 

I have been taking slow, cautious steps every day towards discovering what feels good to me, what I like indulging in, and what daily doses of Vanity I can take. I felt my hair touch my shoulder the other day and was surprised by how much I liked the feeling of it. I dug up my eyeliner from its grave and played with different ways to bring attention to my eyes. I looked at each part of my body and asked myself, How do I celebrate this body part's beauty? 

It is no coincidence that The Body Stories emerged at the same time. I am telling stories that I hope inspire others to find a peaceful relationship with their bodies. It was time I worked on mine. 

I know Vanity is not a real person who forced me to do things I didn't want to. I know that when I talk of Vanity I am talking about a relationship I had with myself in pursuit of an ideal. But sometimes it's too hard to look at myself, to touch the parts of my body I have butchered, and not want to blame it on an external source.

Here we are, Vanity and I, with our loaded past, working on our relationship. And it does take work. I'd be lying if I said she were no longer a threat, and that our relationship is always healthy and balanced. I am still mostly afraid of her. When I spend 45 minutes on my hair, I have to make sure, every other minute, that I am doing this because I want to. And, when I wear yoga pants for five days in a row, I have to check that I am not avoiding her. But, step by step, we are figuring each other out, and I am a little bit closer to true freedom.

At 26.

10 Tips for 10-hour Flights

For 26 years, I have regularly embarked on 10-hour flights, and I could probably write a book on what I know about traveling, but for now, here are my top 10 traveling tips:

1. Love Your Legs
I have circulation problems (I even had surgery last year), so I am extra diligent about my legs and feet when flying. I wear knee-high cotton compression socks (yep, the old lady types), sneakers that won't feel too tight if my feet swell up, lie down and put my legs up on pillows for 30 minutes before and after flights, take regular strolls along the airplane hallways (the flight attendants won't like it, but I rather take their nasty looks than have varicose veins at 26), and exercise on the day of and the day after a flight. If I can afford it or have extra miles, I fly business or first class. If I can't, I request an emergency exit seat in coach and fly with a carry-on that I can rest my legs on if they start to hurt. Before flying, check your aircraft online- the first row of coach usually has the most leg room, and you can switch your seats online.

2. Hydrate
I carry an empty water bottle in my bag and fill it up with tap water after I've gone through security at the airport. Yes, it will make me pee, but I make sure to drink at least one small bottle of water while flying. Once I land, I drink as much water as I can. Alcohol is generally a bad idea.

3. Food
The best option is usually to take a sandwich and some snacks that you have made yourself or bought from your favorite deli. But that's not always possible. So, you're stuck with airplane food, here are my rules: Always choose pastas over meats (less chance of food poisoning, and microwaved pasta is less disgusting than microwaved meat). If they give you a cold stone-like bread roll, put it immediately over the hot dish- this will soften the bread. I usually find the salads unbearable, but I use the dressing to dip the bread in, rather than try to spread ice-like fake butter on it. If you get a cookie, you can also put it over the hot dish to warm it up a bit, and that makes it much yummier. It's never going to be a gourmet meal, but you can certainly make do with what you get.

4. Entertainment
I usually have at least two magazines (one with lots of reading material, such as The New Yorker, and one that's complete junk, such as People), one book I'm dying to read, a diary (deep thoughts are birthed on airplanes), and a project (putting together a scrapbook, writing Christmas cards or postcards, decorating notebooks, etc.). I always count on airplane movies, too, to update me on Justin Timberlake's latest crap.

5. Clothes
Comfort over looks, always. There's nothing tackier than people who dress up to travel, especially if they're traveling first class. Jeans and heels are for masochists. My traveling attire is always the same. Comfortable black pants, a black or gray shirt, wireless bra, comfortable underwear, and a sweater with pockets. I always have extra socks, underwear, and a t-shirt in my bag, in the event that my luggage gets lost or a baby throws up on me.

6. In My Bag
I always carry a watch, two hair ties, hand moisturizer, small toothbrush & toothpaste, face cream, eye mask, hand sanitizer, tissues, and lip balm. I have a separate travel wallet for my passports, tickets, and extra cash (both in American dollars and in the currency of the country I am traveling to). I also keep any phone numbers or addresses I may need written on a piece of paper, should technology fail me.

7. Hair
I don't know why, but airplanes ruin my hair. I usually keep it tied up and wash it as soon as I can after my flight, but if I have to go somewhere as soon as I get off the plane or I am being met by, say, a boyfriend's mother, then I have learned that hair can be preserved by wearing a head scarf. Washing it the day before the flight and as soon after you land as possible is generally the way to go. Dry shampoo can also help, in the case of an emergency.

8. Be Polite
Even if your flight attendant is impatient and the person next to you is smelly, it is important to be polite on airplanes. No stealing magazines, hogging the armrest, moving other people's luggage, or leaving a mess on your seat. This is important because you may get food poisoning or your blood pressure may drop, and you may need help. In such cases, you do not want to have made any enemies on an airplane.

9. Avoiding Conversationalists
The best way to avoid an overly talkative neighbor is to pretend you do not speak their language. This means, however, that you have to do the same with the flight attendant and be sure not to let your passport give you away (this is why passport covers are great). If you don't want to be so extreme, make sure to have your headphones handy. People generally get the message, but, if they don't, try to figure out what will make them want to stop talking to you. Are they wearing a cross? Use the name of the lord in vain. Did they request a vegetarian meal? Tell them you hunt for sport. Things like that.

10. Luggage
My luggage is bright metallic pink and decorated with giant orange L shaped labels. This means I can always spot my luggage and it has never gotten stolen. I'm a fan of the four-wheeled suitcases and I firmly believe that it should be of excellent quality. I always have my New York contact information as well as contact information of wherever I am going on the labels. My luggage has gotten lost, but never forever.

These are my tips, folks! Hope you enjoy them!

Happy travels!

Extreme Deprivation: The Vegan Challenge

I set up for myself a one-month challenge called "Extreme Deprivation," where I would tackle the vegan lifestyle and not eat any animal by-products for the entire month of November. I had three reasons to do it: First, I had been feeling unhealthy and indulgent; it was time for a change in my diet. Second, I knew I would be asking for a lot in the upcoming month, due to The Body Stories, and I wanted to sacrifice something, in order to complete the karmic cycle. Third, I have always judged vegans and vegetarians very harshly, believing that they are not "really" living their lives. I judged the soft-spoken, always in control, unemotional stereotype I associated with people who don't eat meat. And I figured it was time to know first-hand just what I was so critical of. 

I had to call it "Extreme Deprivation" because I eat meat and dairy every day. I grew up in Brazil, where the word "vegan" brings forth expressions of confusion and disdain. I went to Sarah Lawrence, where there were a lot of vegans, and they always annoyed the hell out of me; I thought them extremist and often hypocritical. And, I'm a foodie. It is one of the great pleasures I find in life, and the thought of restricting what could inspire me in the kitchen made me very sad. For me, being vegan was extreme.

But it was just for one month. I can do anything for just one month. On September 30th, I stocked up on vegan cereal, nuts, almond milk, vegan bread, fruits, and vegetables. And on October 1st, I was pretty excited to get started. I liked the idea of changing my diet to what I supposed was a lighter, kinder lifestyle.

The excitement lasted about four hours. By the afternoon, I was hungry. I was paranoid that anything I bought to eat would have butter or milk in it and not tell me. I had long stretches of time throughout the day when I wouldn't be able to sit down for a meal, so I was depending on snacks, and all I had were nuts and dried fruit. I don't really love nuts and dried fruit, so I was kind of miserable. Also, I wanted coffee with tons of milk and sugar in it. I already knew I didn't like the taste of soy or almond milk in coffee, so I was left with the milkless coffee option, and what was the point of drinking coffee that tasted like coffee? This was starting to suck.

I was ready to give up by day 2. Not only was I not enjoying the things I was eating, it seemed to be inconvenient for the people around me. My family was in town, and they love it when I cook for them. Suddenly I was this boring vegetable and fruit person who couldn't even eat dessert. I was also about to go to LA to visit my aunt and uncle for a few days, and I was really anxious about making it hard for them to host me.

But I didn't give up. I knew that there would always be an excuse. No month would be easier than another. And that's when I learned the first lesson of this challenge: I was going to have to come to terms with being inconvenient company and stop caring about being fun for other people. I'm a big people-pleasing entertainer and can't stand the thought of giving anyone any trouble on my account, so this lesson came in due time. 

After the first week, I lost 4 pounds, and I felt amazing. My skin looked better, I had more energy, I was very alert, I felt a lot of lightness and space, and I was starting to enjoy the flavors of a fruit-vegetable-nut-and-grain based diet. I learned to pack things for the day and not let myself get too hungry. It's pretty easy to be vegan in New York City, there are tons of options and waitstaff is generally used to the question, "Is there any dairy in this vegetable dish?" This was starting to seem like a good idea.

By the end of week 2, I wasn't as excited. I was really missing the flavors of meat and dairy in my meals. I wasn't having cravings yet, but I was tired of fruits and vegetables. And my energy level wasn't that great. I didn't feel amazing all the time anymore, I felt pretty normal. I started eating more tofu and what I call, "fake food," meaning- vegan chocolate cake, made from ingredients I neither recognized nor understood.

By week 3, my stomach wasn't doing so good. I probably had too much soy and wasn't making sure my meals were balanced. I got to the point where I was tired of paying attention, and my meals consisted of a lot of guacamole and vegan chips. I didn't feel the physical benefits anymore; I was just as tired and worn out as usual. I had cravings and I was absolutely sure I couldn't be vegan forever. I kept telling myself that as soon as this month was over I was going to sink my teeth into a turkey and cheese sandwich, one of the things I was craving the most. This is incredibly dumb, I thought, and I can't wait for it to be over.

When week 4 started, I was ready to be done with this. I wanted a cheeseburger, a milkshake, an omelet, chicken rice soup, and real chocolate cake. And then, I got my period. Under normal circumstances, I know I'm getting my period a week before it comes. I have very clear physical symptoms, and I usually get cramps and headaches when it finally does come. This month, I was completely surprised by it. I even thought maybe it wasn't my period, because I didn't have a single symptom, and that maybe something was wrong with me. But it was my period indeed, and it was the healthiest, most pain-free period I have ever had. Enough to have me swearing off meat and dairy for the rest of my life. I started collecting vegan recipes and made delicious vegan pumpkin-coconut-walnut bread. I even looked up a vegan thanksgiving meal recipe and planned to make my family enjoy my new lifestyle with me. I can do this! I can be vegan forever!

And then, on October 30th, I started feeling like I was getting a cold. I took a bunch of vitamins and drank a lot of liquids, but my body shut down. I was pretty sick yesterday, still drinking lots of liquids and taking vitamins, and didn't even get to enjoy my last day of the vegan challenge. I woke up today feeling like crap, and my body screamed at me, Give me chicken soup! I could feel it; I needed protein. And so, I write this with a bowl of chicken soup next to me. I didn't eat the chicken in it, just the vegetables and broth, because I'm not ready yet, but I am pretty sure I will eat it all soon.

It has been an interesting and challenging month, and I am really glad I went for it. I learned to adjust my palate to milder flavors and appreciate vegetables in many forms. I got really creative making soups and salads, and I did feel kinder, less angry, and less impulsive. I found that I had more compassion for animals and genuinely cared about how they're being treated in farms, which was not something I used to consider all that much.

I am certain that I will cut down on my meat and dairy (especially dairy) intake a lot, but I don't think the vegan diet is for me. I feel proud that I didn't give up on this challenge, and I don't feel a huge need to run out and get that turkey sandwich I've been dreaming of. I do think that at least once a year, for one month, I may adopt the vegan diet again. It is a good way to appreciate food and pay attention to my body's needs and wants. And I'm not quite so critical of vegans and vegetarians now. But I learned what I needed to know: I am a meat-and-dairy eating girl, after all, and the best diet for me is to give my body what it wants.

My vegan pumpkin-coconut-walnut bread. Delicious, actually.

Please do share with me your experiences with veganism! I am curious and would love to learn more!

The Artist's Way

Child Artist- image from here

I am working through Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way, a workbook for recovering and discovering our Artistic Self. It's a 12-week do-it-yourself program, with daily and weekly tasks. I recommend it to anyone and everyone. It's the second time I am working through it.

I was given a used copy of it by a friend a couple of years ago, and it sat on my shelf for two years, untouched. Then, in May of 2010, I found myself deeply sad and stuck. I had spent my first year out of school auditioning and getting rejected, and I had gone through two major heartbreaks in the span of just a few months. I was lonely, uninspired, and in a lot of pain. Then someone sent me an article written by Jenna Fisher, where she talked about going through these periods throughout her career as well, and mentioned how helpful The Artist's Way had been. I picked up my copy, dusted it off, and started reading it. I committed to it because I didn't know what else to do; I needed to shift something within.

Early in the book, Cameron explains that when we are in pain, we are present. The future becomes too challenging to imagine and the past is too painful to remember, so we focus on the present. And that is when we notice the details of life, which is a propeller for creativity. I found that to be true. I was diligent about doing the exercises, and it didn't take long for things to start shifting. Before I knew it, I had created my own show, Leading Ladies, and I had four other plays lined up to perform in. And I fell in love.

The Ladies of Leading Ladies

Things got better quickly, projects were coming my way, and I was happy. I was glowing, in fact, and many people noticed it. So I made the mistake that many people in recovery make: by week 8, I abandoned The Artist's Way. I thought I didn't need it anymore. I was healed. I knew how to nurture my artist and the universe was responding; why spend 30 minutes of my morning writing morning pages, why take an hour out of my week to go on an artist date, why spend 45 minutes on a task, why repeat affirmations to myself? I thought my time would be better spent living, loving, and creating.

I can see now that what happened after that was no coincidence. Slowly, things fell apart. Auditions led to nothing but rejections. I got a job I didn't enjoy. I met people who sucked my creative energy out of me, and I didn't know how to protect myself. I turned into a version of myself I can't stand; bitter, angry, self-loathing, and victimized. My relationship, too, went down a destructive path and I didn't know how to save it. I saw myself losing everything, and I felt powerless.

I have been crying for just about 6 months now, and I haven't acted in a play in 9 months. It was time for a shift. Two weeks ago, as I was organizing one of my closets, I came across my copy of The Artist's Way. I felt such a huge relief in holding it in my hands that I burst into tears. I knew I needed to attend to my artist. I needed to do the work again.

It's only the second week, and already things have changed. Projects have come my way, I have felt my creative juices flowing, and I can feel a huge space opening in my heart again. This time, I hope I'll know better than to abandon the process, and I won't take my progress for granted. It's actually quite simple: Do the work. Results will follow.

I highly recommend this workbook, even if you don't think of yourself as an artist. We are all creative beings, and we all need to attend to that part of ourselves. Creativity, like a muscle, needs to be nourished and given the opportunity to practice and build upon itself. As a teacher of mine in grad school used to say, energy flows where attention goes.

And... I don't know if other people can see it yet, but I looked in the mirror today, and guess what?

I'm glowing.

I think this is a good example of what I look like when I glow. photo by Shirin Tinati.

...On Directing WEIGHT

The day of a show usually goes like this:

Wake up, the first few seconds are normal, and then there is a sudden, sharp realization: I am performing tonight!

Excitement is followed by extreme panic. 

For the next two minutes I wonder if it's too late to leave the country.

It is.

And then I remember: I love doing this. No, love doesn't cover it. I am obsessed with it. If someone said: Here's a theatre, but you can't leave it for the rest of your life, you have to be here every day, and for many days in a row you might not see the light of day, but you will create theatre with integrity, love, and purpose; I would say, Lock me up. Tie me down. There is nothing else I'd rather do with my life. 

I have been doing this since I was four years old; performing, creating shows, making other people do what I want, making other people watch what I've created, and seeking, always seeking, an opportunity to bring a character to life. I am not a story-teller, I am a story-liver (as in, life liver, not body organ liver). Even when I tell my cousin's daughters a story, I do it as if I were acting out a play, taking on the character's voices and acting out all the actions. I usually end up a sweaty mess and, if the intention was ever to put the child to sleep, I fail at it miserably. They are as wound up as ever by the time I am done, because I am most alive when I am acting, and life is contagious. They love it. They need it. We all do. We all need stories to be lived in front of us; we ache for that exposure of the human heart.

Tonight the play I directed opens. How is directing different than performing? Multiply the above experiences by a thousand. And then put on the pressure to be the one who is calm, in control, patient, and knowledgeable.

WEIGHT was written by my soul sister, Kerri Campbell Evans. She showed it to me one day, and I had a vision. We looked at each other, and it was done: I'd be directing WEIGHT.

I have directed things here and there since I was a child; it's easy for me because, as my brother and cousins can attest, I like telling people what to do. But I have hesitated to call myself a director. I am so madly in love with being on stage, with communicating a character's soul to a live audience, that I often wonder if directing can be as fulfilling.

What I've learned is that it's fulfilling in an entirely different way. This play was important to me; I fell in love with the characters and felt a need to tell their stories. I saw my role: I would be the one creating the environment for my actors to bring their characters to life. I would give them what they needed, whether they knew that they needed it or not, in order to rise to their character's worlds.

In this life of odd day jobs here and there, I discovered two jobs outside of the theatrical business that I was suited for: teaching and tour guiding. So it made sense that I would fit right into my director's chair. I see the potential in people and then I make it my mission to guide them towards it. Because I know first-hand what that "a-ha!" moment feels like for an actor- the moment when the character clicks, when you understand something that could only be understood by living through it, when you feel with absolute certainty that there is a force much higher than yourself that takes you to this place of raw truth- because I know that this is what we live for, I have found it incredibly fulfilling to be part of the process that takes them there.

I am a mother tonight, watching my baby take its first step, speak its first word, and look out into the world for the first time, knowing that it is theirs.

I am so proud of my girls, and I am so excited to see our play, which we rehearsed in living rooms and pieced together bit by bit over the course of four months, being given to others tonight. That is the final step- giving the creation over. No matter how many times I do this, I will always feel the butterflies in my stomach. Like the early stages of falling in love, I cannot help but let excitement clash with nervousness, and hope that my heart's desire to love will be met with another open, willing heart.

Send your positive energy to our beautiful play and, if you're around, come support our magical journey.


WEIGHT opens tonight at the Strawberry One-Act Festival.
Hudson Guild Theater
441 W. 26th St. (btw 9th and 10th aves)
7:00pm

Oh No Moments

image from here

Forrest Gump immortalized it: Shit Happens.

Some of my Oh No Moments that still make me cringe...

• Spilling red wine on the white couch of a couple I was visiting for the first time. Ugh ugh ugh. 

• Opening the door to a cafe and hitting a child on the face. The poor little guy fell on the ground, sobbing, while his parents gave me "You asshole" looks and a girl at the counter said to her friend, "Oh my god that's like my worst fear, hurting someone else's child." Yeah. Thanks. 

• Leaving my building and hearing my doorman run after me to tell me my skirt was caught in my underwear in the back. I still can't look that doorman in the eye. 

• Calling/texting/showing up at an ex-boyfriend's door after severe inebriation. Usually followed by extreme crying on the street and a week-long hang-over. 

• Telling my cousin's daughter she doesn't have to wait for the "go light" to cross the street. Boy, I'm never gonna live that one down. 

• Turning in a paper to a teacher in high school and accidentally leaving in a love poem I'd written for a boy between the pages. Teacher thought the poem was meant for him. Big uh-oh moment. Pretty much awkward for the duration of my high school career.

• Talking about how I absolutely can't stand so-and-so to a guy I didn't know had dated her. Apparently, they were still on good enough terms that he recounted our conversation to her. Boy, she does not like me now. 

• Getting a tattoo on impulse. Ended up with a "ladybug" that looks like a cockroach. Forever.

 

There are more, but one can only take sharing a few of these at a time...

*

Thoughts Simply Arise now has a Facebook Page. Go Like it. 

Love's Scars

I distinctly remember the realization I had after the first time I got my heart badly broken. Everyone said, It'll pass, You will heal, This won't kill you, It gets better with time. And my realization, which came upon me one day mid-recovery while crying so hard I couldn't keep my eyes open long enough to see the tissue box, was that this was precisely the problem: Surviving something hurts like a bitch! If it had killed me, if I hadn't been able to heal, if time didn't do it's thing, then I wouldn't have had to go through the survival thing- the torturous learning experience, the painful growth stuff, and the what doesn't kill you makes you stronger routine. Survival is linked to the biting pain of loss, and it means carrying that pain with us and living with it, because no, it does not always kill us.

We were all happier before we lost that person we loved. Music, poetry, and films have reinforced this fact over and over again:

Raul Seixas, genius of Brazilian music, says in one of his songs, "Today I know/ that no one in this world is happy/ having loved once."

Pablo Neruda wrote, "Love is so short, forgetting is so long."

In the 1961 movie, Two Rode Together, Marshal Guthrie McCabe says, "You know, sometimes it takes a lot more courage to live than it does to die." (Perhaps an extreme example, but still- heartbreak can be extreme at times.)

And then, after it hurts enough to heal, we are left with a scar. The "break" in our hearts becomes a crease, the pain concealed neatly behind a stitch, and we move through life and, hopefully, let ourselves love again.

When I was going through that first "survival" process, I didn't know that it would be okay one day. I didn't know that today I would look back on it, think of him, see the scar, and feel grateful for the experience in its entirety. That deep, uncensored first love, followed by a loss that knocked the wind out of me, became the patchwork from which I constructed my survival mechanism. Because of it, I developed the mantra, "I have survived my past, and I give myself permission to let it go;" words I repeat to myself on almost a daily basis when I feel something from the past weighing me down.

My most recent scar has been throbbing a little lately, and I've had to attend to the residual grief. It's still painful. It still paralyzes me. I am still surviving it, and I am still letting it go. It doesn't get easier with time; surviving a loss. It mostly just becomes something I know I can do, and that gives me strength, but the work is still there: I still have to survive this.

The other realization I had after that first big loss was that the wounded knew something the unwounded did not. They knew the essence of the human experience: everything changes. "Nothing gold can stay," wrote Robert Frost. A sweet, tender love can turn bitter. The person who teaches us to live to our full potential can leave us one day. The one we want to protect with all of our might may be the one we end up hurting tremendously. There are no guarantees, or permanent states of loving- of living, for that matter- and what is true today may not be true forever.

In that sense, we best let people in. We do well to let them scar us. What we gain with love- the stories beneath the scars- that is life's fuel. Loss is not temporary, but suffering is. While what we have lost remains so, what we gain is also ours to keep. Part of us lives on in the hearts of others, and they live on in ours, even as our stories change.

I am grateful for all of love's scars. They are my treasured stories.

Let's go, I tell my heart today, let's go love again.

Guest Post: Gunshy

Today's guest post is written by Jeanne Joe, author of the blog Gypsy Joe, an amazing woman I've known and watched grow since grad school. She's a beautiful artist, a really talented actor, and a creative person in all areas of life, as you will see in her writing. With Jeanne Joe, you're in for a ride, and you will enjoy it. 

Gunshy

When reigning Artistic Director David Greenham invited me to spend my summer with Maine's Shakespeare Theater, I wasn't sure who was wooing who.  Clearly I was enamored immediately with the theater and desperate to be likable enough to warrant an invitation to join the company.  When I received an email for a phone interview my heart went pitterpat and I said okay, Joe, this is game time.  Put on the charm for this one.  Get a job out.  You can do it.

On the phone, I was so stinking charming I believe I even chatted with Dave (who is himself charming and hilarious, with bone-dry sarcasm and a lifetime of theater experience to pepper his conversation) about house additions and contracting companies - which I know next to nothing about.  And then he offered me a job, and our roles seemed to reverse.  He said humbly, courtingly, "Are you SURE you want to step out of your life for 10 weeks and come to Maine?"  I remember how smiley my voice was.  It drew my roommate out of the kitchen to make sure I was alright (normally my voice is not exactly smiley).  "David," I said, "I would love to step out of my life for 10 weeks."

Calamity isn't gunshy

It's one thing to talk big.  I can talk big about a lot of things.  I can talk big about dropping everything for 10 weeks and build myself up to be some kind of gun-slinging desperado.  I can talk big about being a gypsy, eating three plates of pasta in one sitting, heartbreaking, moving on, adulthood, professionalism, double entendres, flirting; but when the rubber meets the road I find myself shrinking a little from my bold words, worried by ghostly memories and flashbacks.  Last time I took a risk it didn't end so well...I know where this is going....I was kidding...no you're right I wasn't kidding..were you kidding?...damn.  Yup, this is happening.

Gunshy.  Listen to this song and you'll know what I mean:

I've stepped out of my life for 10 weeks and into...still my life.  As my father likes to say, "You always take yourself with you."  Usually I'm pretty good with the confidence and risk taking, but sometimes I feel less like a sexy beast and more like a hot mess.  Leaps of faith can be hard to make and wisdom is hard to come by.

How do you know what - and who - to let in?  As artists I know there's an eagerness to be open, to live dangerously and fully and impulsively and I am ALL ABOUT THAT - for about 3 weeks.  Then I start feeling feelings and I'm afraid to pull the trigger.  How does one do all that, and still have a home inside oneself to rest in - a home that goes with you wherever you lay your head?

say yes?

I remember in my second year of graduate school I had the "Say Yes to Everything and Everyone" phase, where I let so many people and things into my heart I could no longer hear my own voice in my head.  After about 6 months I was dizzy and heartsick, but not very sorry.  It took me about a year to be sorry.  Now, sometimes I miss the extreme peak experiences I had back then.  Life out of grad school is a little more about surviving, which sometimes isn't as fun...but I'm a little hesitant to toss myself to the winds.  There's an element of maturity that wants to control and monitor a person, a performance, a self.  My pendulum doesn't seem to know how to fall to center: I'm always a freakish uber-marionette or a wanton will o' the wisp.  Was my mother right?  Are all things really moderation?

Honestly, I kind of hope not.  Ultimately, what have I got to lose by taking a chance?  It's just one small human heart.  As Beatrice says in Much Ado About Nothing, "Poor fool (heart), it keeps to the windy side of care."

with the skeletons

Every day is starting again.  Some days that's exciting to me - when I know my lines, when I know how I feel, when I know what I want to do - or when I don't know what I want to do and can't wait to figure it out as I go.  Sometimes the idea of starting again makes me not want to wake up, preferring my dream people and dream lives.  Sometimes when I hear a foreign voice say, "Let me in," I am running to the door or the window or the skylight and throwing back the shutters, shivering in sun, damning the torpedoes and racing full speed ahead.  Other times when that voice comes along suddenly I'm hiding in the closet with the skeletons, afraid to meet those green eyes or blue eyes or brown eyes or whatever color pleases God eyes.  Afraid to be unprofessional.  Afraid to be professional.

it's just one small human heart

Gunshy. 

What if...what if this time...

Today, I'm a bit embarrassed to report, I'm hiding in the closet.  You can come in too though.  We can share my flashlight and listen to this beautiful song again and work up the nerve to open the door.