I don't want anything.

She’ll spend sleepless nights wondering how a soul with so much love inside of her has found herself so lonely. 
How someone who cries tears of joy at daffodils blooming, laughs at her own mistakes, and peers into people’s energies has become so lost. 
When she looks you in the eye her mind is not elsewhere, and if she smiles wistfully it’s only because she spots the same powerful green her father carried with him until the day he died - his heart open and willing until the end.

She makes up love stories in her mind, the details so real you would swear they were borrowed from the novel she just hungrily tore through, but they are of her own making. The look across a crowded soirée her hypothetical soulmate casts in her direction. If you’re too slow you’ll miss it. But her head is always tuned in to his brain waves. 
The electric energy that sparks each time her feet strike the city pavement reflected in the bright marquee shouting her name. 
The pride that swells in her chest as the audience leaps to their feet and the glowing flame of pure, unconditional love when she sees him…whoever he is…clapping along. 
There would be no need for words, because in God’s final draft of us, she believes we will not speak. Words only ever complicate things, and life could be lived as it was inside the web she travelled nightly as a child. Inside that web she never spoke. 
She only felt. 
She was only understood.

The feelings are so real to her. So utterly tangible and although she knows she’ll regret investing in them, at this point it’s the only way she can fall asleep anymore. 
It’s the only way she can calm the thoughts of hatred that course through her body all day, and focus her mind on love. 
The kind of love that needs no words.
That sings her lullabies off key and lets her ride her bike with no hands…because although it’s more dangerous, it’s the closest she’s ever been to flying. 
She dreams of this soul and feels guilty when she realizes how much he is just a permutation of the man she misses every day, taken from her too soon. 
She drifts off nightly, hoping she’ll be visited by her father.
But that too is dangerous. 
Seeing as she’ll only be disappointed when she wakes up.

You Made This. I Am That.

This rehearsal process has been a whirlwind, but an incredible whirlwind.  Not only am I surrounded by insanely talented and inspiring people, but it has allowed me to take all of the hard and harrowing work I have done in recovery and put it into practice.  For more days than not in the past 8 months, I felt like this thing I was battling was putting me through the ringer, and that the reward wouldn't be worth it in the end.  I can now say that every tear, every scream, every step so far has been worth it.  I am not fully recovered...I am not going to try to kid myself there...but I am well on my way to becoming a success story.

One thing this show and this process has shown me is how truly amazing my body is.  After 4 years of beating myself up, this is somewhat of a new insight.  Every day I am astonished by how my (now much stronger) arms and legs can heave myself up into the jungle-gym like set Eric designed, how I can jump from a platform and not feel breakable, how I can sing the high notes that I lost at my lowest weight. I would have never been able to do this show last summer.  And 2 summers ago? Forget it, I would have gone to the hospital.  Because of this, I have gotten into the habit of thanking my body EVERY SINGLE DAY. Even when it's not 100% sincere.  I would like to share a poem inspired by this practice, which I hope will in turn inspire YOU to join me!

Thank you for forgiving me 

after years of tearing you down 

after years of ignoring your cries for help

tears of frustrating fueling my hatred 

feeling betrayed

while I was the one betraying you. 

I tried so hard to disappear 

to shrink to what I thought was an acceptable amount of space

to take up in the universe.

None at all.

When I was weak

I felt like a perfect china doll

a false smile painted on every brittle bone.

Little did I know

that china dolls break.

I never realized the unadulterated joy in feeling the vibrations created

by boots striking the earth

my own feet inside.

Never relishing in the moments of expansion...

How am I supposed to change the world

when the world has swallowed me whole?

I will swallow the world

and nurture it inside of me

just as my mother did with this inexplicable bundle of atoms

cobbled together with nothing but unconditional love.

I will wrap my strong arms around myself

just as my father held me tight

assuring me that I will never fall

I will only grow.

They made something precious

and strong

and imperfect

Something that can sing, and climb, and laugh, and feel

and expand.

They made something remarkable. 

I am that.  

I am. 

I encourage you to join me in my revolution of self love.  It is so much better than the alternative.  I can not say it enough.  Now let's open this show, shall we??

I used to know...

Some poetry for your Monday...enjoy!

***

I used to know a girl who would shudder and yelp at an unexpected touch.

Who would walk up the stairs to her room

carefully placing what little heft she retained

on each step

to make the smallest

amount

of noise

possible.

She would attempt to leave unnoticed

disappearing into her daily adventures alone and unaccounted for

hoping no one would come looking.

I used to know a girl who would snap at a look or a question.

Who would retreat into herself and pray to any higher power who would listen

that her lunch break not coincide with anyone else's

so that she could eat free of judgement

(this excludes the voice screaming at her inside her own head

tearing her down

making her question everything she put into her mouth, of course). 

I used to know a girl who would stop whatever she was doing at midnight

and go be by herself. 

What was she afraid of?

That the clock would strike and it would all be a dream?

That her overactive imagination had finally gotten the better of her?

Or maybe, that any minute she would achieve the unattainable goal that had bested her for so long.

To disappear. 

I used to know a girl who moved through space as if cameras were following her.

Who would flood her mind with music

because every good story has a soundtrack, after all.

I used to know a girl who craved touch so intensely

that she never thought twice about casually holding her sister's hand 

while walking down Limestone. 

She never flinched when her best friend laid his tired head on her shoulder

on hot, end of the semester choir rehearsals. 

She didn't flush with embarrassment when castmates spooned her

on a stage floor after a particularly tiring matinee.

I used to know a girl who sang so loud that heads would turn

in disbelief.

Who laughed so loud no one could deny which lunch period she was in.

I used to know a girl who made her presence known.

Who wanted to change the world.

Who wanted to be seen.

She is still there inside of me, clamoring to fully inhabit the woman I am struggling to become.

I love her so fiercely. 

Her passion for life floors me.

Her dreams humble me.

She believes with all her soul that she can do anything.

And I will.

The Cruellest Month

 April is the cruellest month,

breeding lilacs out of the dead land. 

Mixing memory and desire. 

Daffodils, sunshine walks, damp air, sudden showers.  Nothing can stop people from going outside and shaking off the winter blues.  I'm always amazed how many people are out and about around my neighborhood, all hours of the day.  We've clearly had enough of winter.  There is something so beautiful and so sad about spring time. It truly does mix memory and desire together into a strange restlessness which wells up inside of us as the days grow longer. I love this time of year, but it is a time of change and transition. I have always been a restless soul...always ready to move on to the next thing, and spring time always magnifies those feelings. Due to recent events, I have never been more ready to move on. 

                        

 You gave me hyacinths first a year ago.  

They called me the hyacinth girl. 

Yet when we came back, late from the hyacinth garden

your arms full and your hair wet

I could not speak

and my eyes failed

I was neither living nor dead

and I knew nothing

Looking into the heart of light. The silence. 

Shantih, shantih, shantih.