Cry Baby

I embrace the sighs after bitter tears and runny noses. I hold it close to me. That moment of unclenching when the tension of fear, worry, bed bugs dissolves itself past the pit of stomachs, the miles of overworked intestines, through obliging belly buttons, and into the nothingness too afraid to be hoped for, is for me a kiss with the Divine. Lungs are large then small, eye lids rested, ears quieted, soul well.


I am a crier. I always have been and probably always will be. Flashbacks of bitter words, hurt feelings, and sixth grade boys worked over through Jesus, therapists, and a theatre degree have helped me accept this part of myself without shame. And when I cry, I breathe, and things just feel…better. As of late, the majority of my crying has been at church. By the time I make my way to the 7pm Chelsea service, the workings and implications of my week have clung to me like barnacles, layer upon layer of cares here, worries there, with a generous helping of how, why, where all over. They, along with me, make the journey up the narrow aisle, over cooperative knees, and into the small slot on the end of pew number six one row too far from the oscillating fan.

There are a whole host of reasons I find myself every week in bench number six ,and most of them are not as high and holy as they should be. But I make it, and sometimes that in and of itself is the answered prayer. I sit there waiting for the service to start, waiting for my mind to still, waiting for him to talk to me, waiting for HIM to talk to me, waiting … waiting… The music starts and my voice gradually unhinges itself from the sticky parts of my throat and my mind and body try to focus on this concept of God and man and The Story. This part is hard because I always get distracted, lost in myself, lost in the sound of my voice, busy with the loud buzz of me. Then the music stops, announcements are announced, hands are shaken, offerings offered, prayers prayed, words spoken, time to say goodbye. But in this beautiful, sometimes rote consistency, the most shocking and unexpected thing happens. God shows up and then… I cry.

He doesn’t give me answers, assurance, the “A” for effort. He gives me Himself, His Son, you.

I embrace the sighs after bitter tears and runny noses. I hold it close to me. That moment of unclenching when the tension of fear, worry, bed bugs dissolves itself past the pit of stomachs, the miles of overworked intestines, through obliging belly buttons, and into the nothingness too afraid to be hoped for, is for me, a kiss with the Divine. Lungs are large then small, eye lids rested, ears quieted, soul well.

Found Wanting

Last night my roommate asked me the world’s worst question. She looked straight into my puffy, tear-tuckered eyes and just said it, “What do you want?” I hate that question. I have always hated it. Whether it is in line at Baskin Robbins, on stage with my scene partner, or in this case, on an overcrowded couch in the East Village, I get nauseous at the thought of having to grapple with that query. What does it matter anyway?  According to Mick, “You can’t always get what you want. “ You can set your mind, body, heart, hope on a dream, goal, or ambition and still not see it come to fruition.  So, what is the point of saying it out loud over and over again? Can’t I just keep it to myself?  Why do I have to say it? Why do I even have to think it?

At that moment I wanted to chain myself in protest to the fence of mediocrity and settle for the oldie but goody response of “I don’t know,” but those sunflower eyes wouldn’t let me go. So, with a disgusted sigh, I hunkered down for a rather large helping of inevitable personal reflection.

 Hmmm… what do I want… well, I want not to have to answer this question right now… I want a Dr. Pepper in the worst way.  I want to be able to stop crying at the drop of a hat. I want to get out of my head. I want to call home and actually have something positive to say I want to be able to blow my nose and not have to see New York emissions on my tired tissues. I want to be kissed. I want to be ok.  I want my dreams back.

Last March something inside me died.  It scared my Mom. She sat on the edge of my bed looking at something she had never seen before, the limp, dark remains of my broken spirit.  For the first time in my life I couldn’t dream. I didn’t want to dream.  Now, while the gulf between this slough of despair  and arriving in the Big Apple is another book  entirely let alone another  blog entry, I mention it because when I flew into JFK on September  1^st,  I showed up with  three suitcases, an unfamiliar address, multiple prayers, a healthy dose of fear, and oddly enough, no dream.  Who does that?! Who comes to New York City without a dream? That is the complete opposite of what is supposed to happen.

 Don’t get me wrong, I had plenty of acceptable answers as to why I decided to pick up and move two thousand miles across the country. My favorite one was merely stating the obvious, “Well, I am an actor.” I wouldn’t even have to finish the rest of my sentence because undoubtedly, the person spoken to  would nod their head, smile, and assume that I would be that person that they could say,  "I knew them when.”  It was a good answer. However, for the more academically inclined, grad school was the better, saner response. Now, this is not to say that these answers aren’t options, they are, but they are not necessarily THE answers.  I’m good at giving people what they want to hear because it is much easier to say something…anything … rather than to openly and honestly admit the truth. And that is that I don’t know what the H- E -Double Hockey Sticks I am doing.

So, when things are really difficult I have to fight hard to remember that there is a reason I am here even if I don’t know it yet. I have to fight hard against the thought that God is just messing with me, that  I am being plucked over  by this all knowing  Cosmic Mother Pheasant Plucker, that I am not a victim and that there is a story and I get to play a part in it.

So, back to the question, what do I want?  I want the dream, the vision, and the plan. I want to know what I am working towards, where “X” marks the spot, what the last page in my story says, what I am doing, where I am going, and how I’m going to get there. I don’t want to wait till Christmas or my birthday I want to know all of the answers now. I want to be God.

So much for having the alluring quality of patience this week.  

The Evasive Mistress

I woke up this morning feeling better. Which is good considering one rarely looks forward to waking up feeling worse. With my aching throat considerably releaved and my nasal passages surprisingly clear, I climbed down from the top bunk and set about getting dressed in the quiet morning dark. I have been in NY now for 1 month and 8 days, and up until this point, I have been avoiding writing about my experience here. I can't exactly explain why that is, except for the fact that there is so much. To be perfectly honest, I am so overwhelmed. There are so many daily, sometimes hourly stories, experiences, fears, hopes, struggles, miracles to share that I can't keep up. I'm sure that when I look back on this time I will be kicking myself for letting the finer details of these past days escape me. However, despite the lack of detail, through all of this I am being changed, refined, and at least for my own sake this is a process worth reflecting on.


 Based on my current experience with the Big Apple I would have to say that she is a temptingly evasive mistress. You know the kind that I am talking about. They catch your eye, laugh at your jokes, touch your sleave, give you their number and then on Monday when the weekend flirtation has passed and we are all pumpkins once more, refuses to take your call. And so for the rest of the week you have a bad taste in your mouth, or worse, no taste at all. You vow never again to be taken in by such a brazen tease until Friday night comes round once more and there she is- Everything you've ever wanted. She comes into the room and everything feels warm. She stands so close that you can smell the dream. Then the lovely lady orders her cosmo turns, stares, grins and the it's all over. In that moment you remember. You remember where you are and why you're there, Joy.

So, I got up this morning feeling better. I still need a permanent job and a place to stay, and an anxiety free day but that's ok because it's Friday. So, I put my clothes on in the quiet dark, grabbed my umbrella, and headed off to work eagerly anticipating my beautiful, gorgeous, flirtateous NY opportunity. She may have a few strikes against me, but that's ok because I am on to her and even though it's often times incredibly hard and discouraging I've got the most alluring quality of them all... patience.

"  I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry."- Psalm 40:1

Testing

Greetings one and all stay tuned...