My Restless Heart: An Elegy to Valentines Day

Valentine’s Day is a day I do not and have not ever cared for.  I propose it is the commercialism that mostly drives me away, or perhaps the fact I have been single most of my existence. Nonetheless, it is not a day on my iCalendar or radar in general. 

Yet, with all the buzz building up to this day, I still find myself dragging out the word “love” and examining it once again. It is not like I haven’t been examining it my entire life, but this 4-letter word (take that how you will) is extremely complex and undefinable. 

Love is a boggling word. 

Love is a sensational word.

Love is a moving word. 

Love is an enticing word. 

Love is a word that is consistently calling me. 

My heart is restless. It has been for as long as I can remember. It resides in this place between “I wish” and “almost” but not any further extreme. It always sits inside of me perpetually talking. It never shuts up. It can’t. It’s teleological. It is always functioning with a forward purpose. It is permanently in drive.

Isn’t that what being restless is though, that I am in constant unsettled motion? But my restlessness and the true intention of my heart’s movement are not in parallel, because I feel conflict. Conflict leaves no peace, but a continual examination of friction and an inclination to honestly say that something just ain’t right. 

But how do we get our restlessness true north, like our hearts are naturally true north? How do we align the compass? It feels as though it is a theme of human versus spiritual. And why does Romans so precisely address this?

    “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate, I do.”

At the heart of both you and I is a great desire to love. Not just to love, but love well. There is even a greater desire to be loved, but on earth, this has to come at the price of imperfection. You and I are not perfect, and in this present lifetime, we will never be perfect. So, we have to relinquish to the universal fact that imperfection will be with us until death. 

Imperfection is so difficult! We have to face the fact that we don’t get things right. 

I’ve suffered imperfection as both a giver and receiver. 

Others have loved me well, and others have loved me horribly.  

I’ve loved others well, and I’ve loved others horribly. 

All with a root of imperfection. 

In the imperfection, restlessness is born. There is this vast canyon of “not quite.”  It is like watching a sunset. You are moved into this transcendent state that you can’t capture with words or feelings—but are transported beyond words. That is love. Love is this concept that is so far beyond my capacity of discernment, that I am not remotely capable to capture what its precise meaning is. Love is this untouchable part of creation, that even in the midst of not understanding it, creates peace. It is only when I begin to attempt to walk in it, capture and copy it, the restlessness invades. 

I still despise Valentine’s day. Perhaps the blame isn't all due to the commercialism, but maybe it’s because I greatly sense love, but can’t capture it. Not how I want to. Not how I desperately try to.  Maybe it is because of the “how I want/try to” that leaves me parched and restless. 

While I sit in the friction, I have to accept the restlessness, because I am imperfect. It will not be until the restlessness discovers true north that my conflict will be no longer. Perhaps true north is relinquishing my control? Perhaps it is moving beyond the “I wish?” Maybe it just that my true north isn’t here on earth, but something beyond the natural and part of the supernatural?  

My heart is restless, but it is alive. I know it is alive because something keeps calling it. 

The Overflow

I’m ok with crying. I really am.  I’m a man and I say that with such confidence because I’m at a place in life where I know a tear has such reason, decision and compassion to it, that I want it to be seen. Well, I don’t want it to be seen, but it’s the only symbol to affectively communicate things unsaid.  It’s honoring.  It’s a way to say more than words can formulate.  It’s a way to communicate without putting letters and words and sentences together.  Tears say “I’m sorry," “Goodbye," “Not again," “I can’t handle this," “I can’t return to this situation," “You have to stop," “Please leave," and the list goes on and on.  It’s a way of showing there is connection with something deeper in you that you can even speak to. Up from that well comes cleansing and catharsis. Many times you can’t even put wording to the reason of the overflow that comes out of our eyes. 

This time it encompassed so many months in my own world.  This time it was a crying out because months of my life came to a halt all on one day.  One day.  It seemed as if my life was a train moving with no destination, but one day the train just stopped and every car toppled itself at the station.  The station was transition.  Transition being the future of new things, new people, new relationships, new atmospheres, new feelings, new thoughts, new struggles, new venturings for connections.  All new. There were tears because everything that was coming was all new.  It was all the things that were unknown. And the ‘all new’ weren’t even here yet.  I had to say goodbye to the old. It wasn’t easy. And it wasn’t if the old was going away for good, the old was moving from my world. My world was becoming the new, while the old made it’s way back to it’s old and a place that starvation had overtaken.  Yet, I wanted the old to stay, because despite the hellish living I was going through, the old was comfortable and oddly sustaining.  I was dependent on the old, cared for the old, wanted the old to stay and be present, yet I knew the old had to go, and like myself I wanted to go. My deepest desire was to molt the old.  But the old was eating me, because the old was starving, and it was starving me. 

It was the tears that washed the old from the new. It was the water that pushed the dirt away from my body. It was the cleansing that let me start afresh and anew. It was the waterfall that carved a new route, a new flow to new lands.  

"I" Stagram

Instagram is hypnotizing. It really is. I have fallen deep into the your-eyes-are-getting-heavy spell of this app. Instagram is about a spectator getting to enter someone’s life through visual images that have been captured digitally and displayed through a series of  scrolling galleries.  The range of visual availability is endless, even though things get pigeon holed in the sunset, food, coffee and cloud categories, and more than not, the “selfie” category.  Yet the possibility of visual arrest is endless. Look at the world we live in, it’s vast and ever evolving. How much beauty do we rendezvous with on a daily basis…it’s unbounded. But the more and more I burrow into the personal pockets of those coupling with this puissant app: I grapple with human disregard for the things that are outwardly.

When I stumble upon, or strategically navigate, onto a profile page that makes allowance for 900 pictures of the authors face, I immediately suspect a sincere problem. Questions that quicken to and accompany my longing to problem solve: is this person missing that perfect angle to get the pièce de résistance? Or perhaps when taking their selfie breaks, their earned six pack just got more slightly chiseled than yesterdays? Or maybe it’s a brand new body oil to shine up that physical Chrysler that has to be captured under the brand new installed light bulb in the desk lamp? Perhaps there is a persistence for the greatest reward we learned to honor ourselves with, developed from our harmful junior high training programs: popularity?  I’m being vicious I know, but I’ve become so disturbed as a fellow human of these narcissistic authors because they are using brilliant technology as a way of giving allowance to peripheral prostitution.

Then it dawned on me: visual prostitution is our culture. An iPhone (or enter the phone of your choice) in our hands relieves us of having to truly connect with people, it steals our time to frolic in imagination, to sit and listen to a symphonic summer evening, it keeps us connected to the Facebook/Instagram falsified encouragement system called the “Like” button which many hunger to keep score with, but most importantly it entices us away from true perception and guttural awareness of ourselves. We squander more time marketing our mugs to other people who ping pong their marketing right back to us. If everyone is in the market place selling the same spurious projections, nothing will end up having value. It’s cheap to sell a face, it’s priceless to share a heart.

Where has the value of human gone?  Where has the influence and response of being moved by an event, piece of architecture, landscape, theatrical event, international adventure, passionate eyes of another human, or prismatic sunset gone? What has happened to our culture that we can’t look further than the red “capture” button that clones the other 899 copies of our dying mugs. Are we not cognitive of the fact that gravity is not a flawless figurine’s friend?

Move outward. Look beyond you. Turn the camera around to the widespread world that is before you. Allow life, color, words, God’s artistic handiwork to change you, to affect you, to evolve you from egoism to enveloping. Images that are captured by a snapshot share so much of the photographers physical world, but more so, their internal world. May we be avidly active to explore the latter. 

Z's and 3's

Act I finale: Zorro, with sword in hand, inflicts three violent indentations on Ramon’s chest. Triune slashes that form one symbol: a “Z”. Each evening seeing this dramatic event performed reminded me of me, a being created in 3: physical, emotional and spiritual.  Three parts that make one entity: a human.  Three indentations that are there for all the world to see. 

Zorro was ten weeks of physical exertion.  My ensemble track was a marathon and after the final curtain would fall each evening I would be utterly exhausted. Costume changes with extensive sword fights in addition to climbing what seemed like thousands of stairs added to my body being beaten. Then adding to my daily role, I understudied the role of Ramon who was required to be shirtless for a sizable amount of Act II, one of my greatest insecurities in life. Knowing that, I drastically converted my diet and work-out schedule. After several weeks I found myself 15 pounds the lesser and two pant sizes smaller, arriving at a semi-comfortable place to bare my skin. Nonetheless, I was still apprehensive and timid. 

Zorro was also ten weeks of emotional exertion. I’m a sensitive person; it’s the way I have always been and I would never want to be independent from that attribute , but when I am physically exhausted, my sensitivity heightens.  Let’s add a book to my heightened sensitivity: Daring Greatly by Brene Brown. It’s a map to treasure.  I would highly recommend it to anyone, especially theatre artists, because we hide, we numb, and we have little or no clue that we are even broken. The book pricked my skin. I’m still trying to digest major points discussed, in that it’s grueling to examine your brokenness and shake hands with the pain, heartache and dysfunctional life system we operate out of.  Ms. Brown’s key word: vulnerability, is something we all fear to participate and engage in, but the greatest requisite to connection with others-which is why we are on this earth, to connect.  I started practicing vulnerability more with a coffee-bean-sized courage. Scary and freeing congruently.  I also, with the same coffee bean, began taking more initiative to ask for help. This isn’t an easy practice for me, but a necessary one. Without fail, my faithfuls around me dove in head first for support.  

Most importantly Zorro put me back into the spiritual practices of meditation, prayer and unconditional love. Taking a truth and meditating on the words that bring life and resilience to my spirit, was the greatest of sustainers for this time period. The phrase that became my cornerstone, “Be still”  accompanied my times of silence and stillness. It’s remarkable how quietness authorizes your heart to be heard. In the silent moments I received revelation of many of my numbing distractions: Facebook, Instagram, Books, iPhones, unhealthy vulnerability-vices that steal my true connection to my God and to the beautiful creations He put around me. This lead to another disarming moment, the notion that one can’t really love God or others properly without loving oneself. I still need a flashlight in this cave. I’ve never loved myself because I’ve faithfully carried the boulder of false humility on my back, the dictated lesson of my childhood legalism teachings. Yet, loving yourself in a proper healthy way is the crux of truly connecting and loving beyond yourself. Brene Brown would call this worthiness, Brennan Manning/Henri Nouwen would call it being the Beloved, and I through frustration and disdain called it necessary to attempt. I’m now commencing that attempt. 

The environment you cultivate within you is the environment you cultivate around you. Daring greatly means that as you stand dead center in the colosseum, blood on your hands, dirt on your face, you know you are fighting to live life rightly. You’ve taken the extreme step to gird yourself with whatever courage you can muster and walk unrepentantly in front of the crowds that jeer and mock. But you have the determination to not only truly live, but to live wholly. 

I’ve stepped into the arena. I can’t exit...not now.  With indentations on my chest, scars on my body, taunting names in my ear, my triunity being challenged at ever turn, I know this is the only chance for survival, sanity and life. 

Dimly Present

     During my visits to NYC, it always seems I'm poked and prodded in ways that I'm never expecting. Partly because I get to see good theatre and partly because the older I am, the more I have released myself from personal defensiveness towards the city. In years past the city would require all of my energy and effort, but getting to know this culture of individualists it's daily rampage and the way it all cyclicly operates, it has become easy to manage, and more so, enjoy. My last two trips have rendered nothing more than excitement and an invitation for a quick return.

     I was able to see the musical “Once” based on the Irish film released several years ago. The musical was the recipient of last years Tony Award for “best musical.” It's impossible to tell you how mesmerizing this piece of theatre was. It's rare that I have found myself so emotionally invested in a theatrical piece. At it's conclusion I wanted everyone to be quiet, stay in my seat, regroup, gather my thoughts and figure out what just happened to me. Reflecting on the story from the stage, I gleaned shadows of a greater story, and in this particular evening that overarching backlit shadow was hope.

     In the beginning of January I was privileged to spend some long-awaited time with a dear friend of mine who carries large amounts of wisdom and discernment. Speaking to her is like having all of your words, feelings and thoughts filed correctly into a clarity filing cabinet. She has the ability to diagram, order and shape things in a way I wish I could. In speaking about certain situations in my world, she concluded with a certain thought: hope was lost. Without hope the specific situation I was living was bleak, dismal and dying. Yet to season the situation with even the slightest sprinkle of hope would refashion the entire life-concoction before me.

     One of my favorite moments of “Once” is the first scene. The character named “Girl” steps onto the stage in a dimly lit area and listens at a distance to the entirety of Guy's song. Her back is to the audience, but her spirit so present. From that moment on, Guy's life is challenged, pushed, and prodded. Girl, with her rough-edged drive, stringently stands in the midst of Guy's blurred dreams and his complacent and to him complicated hopes. Girl was presence and presence challenged Guy's vacillation. The presence of anything, no matter where it's spacing in the room, still makes it present. Presence makes it living. Living makes it active, and activity calls for movement, one way or the other.

    I was singing a beautiful song alone in a big room with no one to hear it but myself. And the song had a wonderful melody and beautiful poetic lines, but there was no honesty or reality behind the notes, the phrases, the content. I was filling the room with sound and nothing more even though I knew the song like the back of my hand, but I didn't really know the song because I was singing it just for me.

     Then across the way, quietly entering--hope, faintly seen, stood at a distance and listened. Hope heard all the notes, the words, the crescendos, the denouements, but wasn't affected by my song. Yet hope stayed and was still present. After singing the song over and over expecting a different result hope asked me to stop singing. Then hope began to sing the same song but it was different. After a moment hope asked me to join in. In harmony we sang. I invited hope to stay.  

Listening: the lost art form

"I like to listen. I have learned a great deal from listening carefully. Most people never listen."

                                                                                                                     --Ernest Hemingway

I’ve come to learn that listening is an art.  Like any art form, you have to practice it consistently to have any ability to do the skill well.  When I was five years old, I decided piano was a good instrument choice for me, and my parents came along side my decision by saying that if I wanted to take part in learning the piano, I had to take part in committing myself to a long term agreement of training and practice. In retrospect, I’m glad I had parents that made me follow through, because now the piano, after all those grueling childhood hours, is not only my therapy but also my joy.  The same goes for listening, it takes daily practice and longevity to train your ear for a full 100% engagement mode.  And you have to train your ear to not only hear the words that are being sent through the air, but actually hear their tone, their meaning, their depth, their purpose and their truth. 

We treat things so frivolously in our culture. We don’t question the ins and outs of our world, we just take words at face value when there are so many levels and shelves of information that we are handed daily.  Not only is that information glaring at us, but our doors are shut to hear that information, greatest reason being that we are mostly consumed with ourselves.

We’ve all talked to people that are not present in a conversation. Frustrating isn’t it?  We’ve all energetically tried to engage with that one on the other side of the receiver who is obviously disctracted. We’ve all repeated something for the 40^th time wondering where the listener was the last 39.  We’ve all become drained trying to get in a word edgewise to the one whose mouth is the only thing that functional. Truthfully, it gets exhausting.

“Be still” is a reference the Bible uses that most Americans could not comfortably exercise.  The ability to stop, be silent, sit quietly, let your mind rest, take captive your thoughts, no music, no TV, no this-activity or that-activity, no unnecessary stimuli, just stillness. In that place of utter solitude, if you listen, you begin to hear. And the greatest voice will rise up to speak to you: your heart. It will begin to tell you things that it doesn’t normally get to say…it will begin to share truths that you normally don’t pay mind to, it will begin to confide secrets that you may not know, it will finally have it’s chance to be vulnerable and honest and heard. But, you have to listen.

The same goes for your neighbor—the one who sits across from you in whatever circumstance.  You have to take that divine moment with that individual and create a place of stillness. To do so you will need to put yourself away, you will have to let your needs and your thoughts rest on the sideline as you welcome the words and thoughts of another.  In this place of welcoming you listen, letting grace and mercy be the landing pad of their words, letting good reason allow you to filter these formed sentences into levels of depth and meaning. As you practice this, you will soon begin to not only hear the words of another person, but you will soon begin to actually hear their heart—the trueness of who they really are…the most delicate piece of them that they most want you to know.

Listening is an art form, but you have to practice, so you can joy in the beauty of someone else's words.

Chaplin: The Unsuccessful Smile

During my whirlwind of a week in NYC, I enjoyed an evening of theatre with my newly acquired friends from New Jersey.  I sat between the couple, front and center, as we watched the story of Charlie Chaplin’s entire life funnel into a two-and-a-half hour experience accompanied by intermittent songs.  Up to this point, my knowledge of Mr. Chaplin was next to nothing except to know of his comedic movies, particularly styled moustache/hat/cane combo and composition “Smile.”  Things I didn’t know were his British roots that included a highly dysfunctional mother, his numerous marriages not to mention lovers, his business partnership with his brother in the film industry, and his desire to move into dramatic films away from comedy.

On a theatrical level, the show brought a real humanness to this man whom I’ve always considered just a caricature and not necessarily real.  But you were able to see many glimpses of the theatrically enhanced truth of Chaplin’s life: the unwillingness to deal with a very sick mother, the knock-down drag-out fights exiting his numerous divorces, his dealing with neurotic fans (not to mention gossip columnist), and his desire for fame and fortune which began to rule his life.

While watching the finale (giving no plot lines away) there was quite a celebration of Chaplin’s life that lead me to the question, are we celebrating Chaplin as a person or are we celebrating Chaplin as an artist?  Celebrating Chaplin as an artist I have no problem with, but Chaplin as a human, I struggle. 

One phrase that kept pervading my thoughts during the show: profession trumps people.  My definition is simple: it’s when a person solely chooses their career over people they claim to love, honor and value. It’s when the thought or drive of success becomes the hierarchy in one’s world, and they will sacrifice whatever it takes to attain it. Or, it’s when one chooses a career as one’s hiding place so there is no dealing with the everyday of life.

I clearly saw this effect on both Chaplin’s brother, who he eventually fired from his studio, and Chaplin’s wives who always begged for quality time but never received it.  Reason being was because Chaplin was climbing so hard to the top of the success ladder no one could even keep up. All they saw were the bottom of his shoes.

Have you ever seen a resume on a tombstone? I suppose if you paid the extra fee for the engraving of such an expensive honorarium, you could solidify your accomplishments. But when you are pushing up daisies, what does it matter?  And why are the decisions to strive to the “top” come at so great a cost? It is worth it to undermine, ignore, hide or hurt those around you for the great gold star of success?

I find it fascinating that the humans that are so damaged in their upbringings are the same humans who have the greatest ability to make you laugh. And during that laughter, we neglect to look back and see the source of where that joke and gag are arising. Making someone laugh creates peace, it calms the waters, it covers an atmosphere saying, “everything is ok.” Except that laughter doesn’t heal hurt, it only ices the wounds for a little while.

Chaplin could make me laugh. What a gift one human gives another: laughter. What he gift he gave us. Yet, Chaplin couldn’t live in his movies forever. He had to go home at night and in the morning wake up beside many people who shared his bed in rapid rotation. He had to look at his brother everyday at the studio. He daily went about his life knowing his mother was just miles away and mentally sick. What did he offer these dying connections: a joke? 

He best describes himself:

Smile though your heart is aching

Smile even though it's breaking.

When there are clouds in the sky you'll get by.

If you smile through your pain and sorrow

Smile and maybe tomorrow

You'll see the sun come shining through

For you.

Light up your face with gladness,

Hide every trace of sadness.

Although a tear may be ever so near

That's the time you must keep on trying

Smile, what's the use of crying.

You'll find that life is still worthwhile-If you just smile.

Chaplin’s life carried sadness, and he covered it with laughter and success. If only he would have learned to accept the pain and sorrow, understand the aching of his own heart and make friends with his sadness.  Then, he could have truly smiled.  

Dashboard Light

Sitting on a make-shift curb in the midst of an old cotton gin, now revamped as a community ground of sorts to facilitate this specific evening, my mind was stirring. The grounds were filled with diverse food suppliers, Damien-Rice-wannabes moodily exerting their musical craft from a rickety stage, a local theatre group trying to gain artistic strength flexing their free voice muscle for local social causes, various back-wood designers with big city prices, and three port-a-potties...such variation in atmosphere…such variation in people. 

My legs were tired. I needed to sit down in the very near future.  After a wonderful southern plate of food: collard greens, black eyed peas and pimento cheese grits, I finished off my meal with a homemade popsicle made of peaches and basil when off in the distance I saw a nearby curb calling my name. The entertainment was beginning and the only way I could remotely enjoy it was to let that curb support my physical exhaustion. Sitting there, I began to watch people, a favorite activity of mine, and I began analyzing all the different people groups wandering in the courtyard wondering how these mish-mash of adults had come to choose their hairstyles, their clothing, the shoes on their feet, the piercings on various parts of their bodies, there pick of tattoos, etc.  Then suddenly, I heard this question in my mind, “What do all of these people have in common?”  I thought about it, looked individually at a few more passerbys when the answer came as easily as the question did. “Like me, all of these people want to be significant.”  This world opened up to me. It was as if someone put glasses on my face and my blurry vision went to 20/20. 

That’s what I’ve been dealing with and I haven’t even seen it.  Significance.  This of course began leading me down a path of personal questioning that I still haven’t even begun to answer, or don’t even know if I can answer.  Not only did it begin to question my personal world, but more so my professional world: acting.  Is the acting world a place where you can really find significance? You don’t get applauded for who you truly are, you get applauded for whom you portray. You get praise for your performance, for outwardly putting on a character far beyond what you naturally are. The oddness is that you do find some odd satisfaction and significance in it.  We actors drink praise like holy water—thinking in some way it will cure us of every empty well not filled in us. We can’t get enough. But it’s unfortunate that we base our life’s significance on what the praise pots are really filled with: temporary water. 

You hear throughout your life from healthy leaders that significance is from the inside out and not vice versa.  It’s knowing who you are created to be, and in reality that creation has nothing to do with career.  How many careers do you see posted on a tombstone?  All you get is your name with two dates balanced with a dash. That dash is like a blink of an eye, but it’s so complicated at times isn’t it?  We want that dash to be so much, we want to be ‘something’ huge in that dash. We want to be recognized on the street, loved by all we come in contact with, the best singer in the world, the richest business man there is, another Mother Theresa-but better and more effective...but I can’t help but wonder how one would gain significance in that?  It really just seems like popularity.

My dash: that is my stirring right now. I think for some time now, it’s been temporary water, but I need more. I’m desperate for more. And the ‘more’ is only something that can possibly come from asking the director to turn off the spotlight for the time being. 

Iceberg Dead Ahead

No, I wasn’t on a ship that sunk. But my bank account has sunk a bit, not too mention I’m battling to stay above water with my joy-as this passenger aboard ship tries to get to the bottom of horrible navigation from leadership we are supposed to trust. I’m flailing fighting against the idea to be “joyful in all trials and tribulations.”

Yesterday it rained. Last night it froze. My car was about two miles from my friend’s house. When taking my exit, police lights shine brightly, much like the star in the east. Just beyond that star is where my destination lies. Unfortunately after this wise man made a closer examination, the realization occurred that someone hit an ice patch and found their way into the sidewall of the ramp. Immediately my gut said, “turn around.” I wish I had listened. My wise man score just dropped to a “b”.

After thirty minutes, traffic began to move. Joy rose up in me. My nerves were already beginning to nudge me in anticipation of getting to my destination safely. A parking space at an apartment complex never sounded so good. Halfway up the off ramp, all of we ramp passengers come to a stand still. Thirty minutes passes. An hour passes. It was time to make friends. Out of my car and into the cold I went. It felt like being at a PTA meeting with parents who weren’t happy with the school system. Although one man was content to be sitting still after his car had recently three-sixtied on the main highway. After the meeting it was back to the car to get warm. Another light, yet not the star of the east, but despair—the gaslight. The yellow couldn’t have shouted at me any louder. The options: turn of my car and be cold or stay warm and go ahead and call AAA for gas. Survey says: car off.

Two hours pass. It was getting colder outside and inside the car, and I was getting restless and more nervous. After two hours of fidgeting, I felt a small nudging from the Lord to spend some time with Him. The first thing I asked for was for Him to supernaturally fill my gas tank and my car with heat.

Thirty minutes later a cop arrives. It is now 12:30 am (three hours into the process) After assessing the situation, and after realizing he couldn’t even drive halfway up the ramp, I was at least hoping for a verdict. All of us received one. We had to abandon our cars for the night because due to the iceberg at the top of the hill, no one could pass. We were then asked to come back at 8 am to retrieve our cars. After getting two bags from my trunk, I struggled up the hill, using any car I could to help me ice ski to safety.

8 a.m. and the car is nowhere to be found. After investigation it is learned that all the cars were impounded and towed away. Two hours later, $139 poorer, and irritation at a new level, phone calls are beginning to be made as to the reason for this debacle. No answers yet, but this steamboat is full speed ahead.

Mary Christmas

Mary had to not only become pregnant with the Messiah, but must have been pregnant with many questions. She must have had so many thoughts and feelings as she took upon one of the greatest miracles ever. Dealing with the fact that she, out of all women on the earth, was highly favored by God and was the chosen one to carry salvation within her, yet face her people, friends and family with information that in the natural would never be comprehendible.

As my mind contemplated Mary this morning, I couldn’t help but be quickened to the thought that we are all impregnated with a miracle within us. There are stirrings in us that can only be accomplished in a supernatural way. There are stirrings in me- dreams, visions- that seem like impossible walls to scale, and like Mary are met with immediate fear and questions. The Angel put all fear away with a quick retort to not fear. It seems as if it were a command. Why should there be no fear, because there is favor. Favor is what allows the birth of dreams, a birth of royal things that take the throne and rule the kingdom. Something that seemed so insignificant as pregnancy became the equivalent of universal freedom for all people.

“I’m the Lord’s servant…may it be!” Trust fills those words. Mary came into the acknowledgment that humanly this was an impossible situation, but as the angel told her, nothing is impossible with God. A woman who was filled with humility became the key to revolutionize this world. A woman who stepped out in courageous faith birthed an unshakeable kingdom.

Sometimes you have to say and declare things before they happen. I wonder if Mary in faith said, “May it be” before she really believed it could be, and the evidential truth followed her faith. Or perhaps in that moment something rose up in her that she stood with unwavering strength in her protected favor. All in all, as we know the Lord has impregnated us with dreams we can easily hear the everyday world seems to laugh at us in its impossibility. But impossibility isn’t possible with God.

May it be.

Reality TV Blog Style

A few days ago, a friend made a comment that I should have my own reality TV show after reading a Facebook post describing an unfortunate event in my life. I heartily agree. Not only do random odd things happen to me, but for some reason I tend to encounter strange people. This last week, I unfortunately wasn't wearing my head cam so I will blog the reality for you to enjoy what was missed!

The first is a story that actually won't be shared. Incredibly embarrassing was the event, but left me and a dear friend in tears as I told her what happened. And the only reason she found out is because she called me right after the event happened. Lets just say it involved a bag of carrots and digestion.

Two days later, in preparation for a current show I'm performing in, I sat poolside working on my guitar skills. I had two chairs with me functioning in two different roles: one to support me, and one to support my music. The chair that was supporting my music was also attracting a wasp who didn't seem to have anything else to do. At first the wasp did his thing, and I kept strumming. Then for some reason, a change of events began to happen: when the wasp was ready to take a lap to the other side of the pool, he felt the need for a fly by of my face. It started to annoy me, so I took my script and took a strong swipe at the wasp. The CD that was inside frisbeed out and flew a good distance away. After retrieving my CD, I came back to my seat where the wasp after just a few short minutes once again started his fly-bys. Lets call the wasp Maverick. Maverick was on my last nerve, so I picked up my script again, and with a hearty home run swing, the script found its way out of my hands, into the air and landing with a flop into the pool. (Enter expletive here) My lifeguard instinct travelled me quickly over to the victim, and luckily after triaging the situation realized I didn't have to jump in. I pulled the soaking wet victim from the pool and rushed it into the house where I had to pull apart page by page the almost drowned lines and music, sitting it out over the entirety of my house to dry.

Two days later I was with a friend at the Costco concessions stand, waiting patiently to order my food, when suddenly I find an older woman in my personal face space. With no introductions or everyday pleasantries, she cuts to the chase.

"What kind of bike do you have" she asks.

With a perplexed face I replied, "Excuse me?"

"Bike" she said, "What kind of bike do you have."

"A bike? Like a motorcycle? I don't own one sorry" Then looking down I realized I had a faint graphic of a bike on my t-shirt which naturally made this woman think that I actually own one. I mean--usually when I see people with horses on their shirts, my immediate thought is, oh, they must have a Clydesdale at home.

"Oh, you are talking about my shirt" I said with understanding.

"My son is a champion" she said adorning a smile.

"That's great" I said supporting her joy.

"Next please" the concessions attendant pipes up with great volume. So I stepped up to order my food in internal thanks that this awkward conversation was forced to stop. Thinking I was in the clear, I then hear my elderly friend spout out some foreign motorbike name.

On auto repeat I said, "Excuse me?"

She repeated the name and followed with "If anyone ask you want kind of bike you have you just tell them (fill in the bike brand here)"

I didn't know what to do with that. I collected my food and drink and quietly slipped away. I'm glad she didn't see the rainbow on my flip flops.

Nashville With a Big Red Bow

Through my life, I see how much I'm blessed. It's daily. But sometimes the gifts come in a little bit bigger of a package than normal. Some would call the gifts luck or random: but I would disagree. I would call the Giver who gives the gift--wise. One who knows just when to give a little something extra.

On October 4th I made my journey to Nashville, TN. My first stop was my living quarters: the house of my host family. The door opened and I was greeted by two amazing people: Jeff and Cindy Loring, not to mention a homemade soup accompanied with fruit, cheese and crackers. From the moment I stepped in their door I was instant family and was going to be taken care of for three weeks except that "taken care of" is such an understatement of how they really treated me. I felt like royalty. We ate many meals together, had many conversations, hit the town, watched Antique Roadshow and Dancing With the Stars on regular occasion, laughed, and just got to rest in one another's presence. I spent many hours swinging on their porchswing, playing the guitar, basking in the sun, watching the little puppies have there outdoor activity time and just being.

The next door I stepped through was to the home of my Hello Dolly cast. We can call them my second Nashville family. How precious they all turned out to be. From the start I was received with such warmth and kindness. As I think on each cast family member such fond memories surface: Ashley doing her lazy eye Minnie Fay: Michael talking about prostitutes in the aisle during the middle of a show; Carrie making me belly laugh on many occasions; Graham taking my First Call lyric quizzes; Bonnie just sitting down and having good conversation; Nan giving the best hugs ever; Kirk being my downtown Nashville pal; Katie proving her true title of the karaoke queen; Maggie tying my apron before each show; and the list could go on and on. I find myself smiling now after making that list. But it was so good. It was a show I was so proud of, a character I really felt true in portraying, and a performance I wanted the world to see.

The city of Nashville was such an amazing place: the food, the people--it is a city that is warm and homey. Everyday before the show I would either visit Frothy Monkey or Bongo Java for a pumpkin muffin and a coffee of sorts. I looked forward to it. I looked forward to every day and would hate when my current day would have to end. I feel like I had so much to do, so much to see, so much to share with other people. Three weeks was not enough.

Tokyo, Japan is a place I never dreamed I would have lived. To be honest Asia is a destination that would have never been on my "to visit" list. But I was blindsided by a wise gift. I remember my very last day at Tokyo Disney, I walked behind my outdoor theatre and I looked up in the sky and told the Lord, "You just gave me a gift with a really big red bow on it." My last performance of Hello Dolly, before the show started, I returned to that same outdoor alter, looked up at the sky and repeated the prayer that came out of my heart just years before, "You just gave me gift with a really big bow on it." The Giver did. And I'm so grateful.

25 Random Things...

1. The only fight I have ever been in was in 4th grade and it was pretty violent. It was between me and my best friend Andrew. (Not Zahn) =)
2. I won second place in a costume contest in 1st grade. I was a smurf. I should have won, but I went to a really legalistic elementary school and they probably thought I would cast a spell on everyone.
3. I was spanked in first grade (the school called it cheating, I call it giving someone secretarial work) and the first whack made me have to use the restroom. So I had to go to the little wranglers room then return for my next two whacks. I think I still need therapy for this.
4. One of my favorite things besides a good ocean and beautiful skyline is a clear stary night! If you add Over The Rhine, a glass of wine, and a leisurely walk afterward, you are pretty close to heaven.
5. I wanted to be a marine biologist or an ER nurse.
6. I wasn't a big fan of the Asian culture. Then I lived in Japan. I wept when I had to leave and come back to the US.
7. I was the first person onto a pretty horrific accident. I'll never forget seeing the the things I saw.
8. When I was a youngin' and I was afraid, I would run and hide somewhere. I still do that sometimes today, but I'm getting better at facing my fears.
9. I love love love love love my church! www.christcc.org Check it out.
10. I've had many men tell me I look like Oscar De La Hoya
11. My sister Renee's first boyfriend taught me how to do headstands when I was a kid. One night for their pure entertainment, and the entertainment of all the guest in the house, I decided to perform my new trick. After assuming my headstand position, I proceeded to split my legs in the air, thus releasing a loud noise from my buttocks. They didn't know what was coming with the headstand did they?
12. In 4th grade my friend Kelly used to eat her earwax and flash us by pulling her dress up. I hope she isn't reading this.
13. One of my roughest times in life was my junior-senior year summer. Jesus literally picked me up and carried me through.
14. My most embarrassing moment (well not anymore) included my friend Tory's house, a clogged toilet, and a dixie cup.
15. My sisters and I used to sing three part harmony in the car wherever we went. One of our hits was "Oh I Ain't Got A Barrell of Money"
16. I love that Jesus teaches us to love! It something I really am learning and want to be better at.
17. I currently have the greatest boss ever. Beth W Bowen!
18. I wish my spring break this year (which will be doing the show Miss Saigon--come see it) could be like last year. Going to Florida and Disney!!
19. My nickname in Junior High was "lardbutt". I might as well go to therapy for this one too.
20. Have I told you how much I love cookies? What about cheesecake? M&Ms? Trail mix?
21. I really want to go skydiving
22. Creativity is my heartbeat. I've written tons of music and two and a half musicals. The songs aren't so bad, but the musicals need some work. =) I would love for Jesus to allow my music to heal people.
23. I never have had a speeding ticket! (Who wants to play "I have never?")
24. I used to rollerskate shows non-stop in the basement when I was younger. I also loved to perform regular non rollerskating shows on the front porch for the people passing by car.
25. I have a jacket and shoe fetish. My mom has told me I can't buy any more jackets. =)

Why Grandma Doesn't Shop At Walmart

This really is my grandmother explaining why she won't set foot in a Walmart.

http://i56.photobucket.com/player.swf?file=http%3A%2F%2Fvid56.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fg191%2FTarheelwoo%2FIdontshoptatwalmart.flv

Relationships: A Pathway To Loneliness

Henri Nouwen struck a chord in me; a dissonant chord; a chord that hits the ear harshly, but with tones that leave brilliant depth, a chord you don’t want to be right, but for some unforeseen reason it is. Nouwen expresses the thought that when you enter a friendship or relationship with human beings, it makes you all the more aware of your own loneliness. It reveals all the needs within yourself, whether realized or unrealized, that you are hopeful that the person across from you can somehow meet, somehow touch, somehow be the end all be all, somehow embody being hope. One glaring need is basic: wanting to be wanted by someone, and for a brief period of time, having that need met, having been chosen as ‘the one’, ‘the best friend’, ‘the boy/girl friend’, the ‘husband/wife’. But what does time do to these titles? How does a society that spins the word ‘commitment’-as if it were foreign-support these ideals? What happens when 4 days, 4 months, 4 years pass, and someone feels as though they are back to the drawing board, in search of that one we believe can make every need go away?

If we look closely we can see how avoiding loneliness manifests itself: many times it involves becoming so heartily encroached in some type of connecting activity to help you feel anything besides the loneliness that doesn’t budge. As humans we need experiences, we need the tangible, we need someone to say that they love us, we need the most current attractive distraction to buy us a little more time from the pieces of us that are undeniably frightening to unite with that lie deep in our hearts.

Facebook- I’ve heard some refer to this social network as a “glass of milk with just a hint of arsenic laced in it.” An online activity so entertaining, a place to reconnect with friends from your past, a click of a button to see what the latest news is of your cyberworld/real world collision of friendships. Yet how much time does it take from us? How often have you found yourself going from page to page desperately wanting a deeper connection with the picture displayed in front of you? How many times has it served as a place of hiding?

I believe we should never view loneliness as a negative attribute. If loneliness could be a part of our healthily lifestyle, then why are we so quick in delaying to really see it, or rather embrace it? Loneliness can help spur on healthiness in relationships with others by letting us understand that every person we come into contact with is exactly like us: human with needs. When we finally discover that another person by no means can save us 100% of the time, we begin to let the one we are relating to off of the hook of our need for a human-savior. We release our demands of underlying requirements that we have placed on the relationship. We simply can just be with no ploys, no manipulation, no striving, and no performance. Then we can see through that relationship that there has to be something bigger and greater outside of ourselves that can fill those deep lonely places--something supernatural. And only when we get filled there can we even begin to fathom pouring it into others.

Lower still with no expectation.

Underlying Urinal Usage

Urinals live between being necessity yet apprehensible activity, a need yet anatomical requirement. What makes urinals an event that causes my mind to plan ahead minutes if not hours before I venture into the bathroom realm? What makes this pure convenience to every day life such a stressful thirty seconds?

What happens mentally before we step up to the porcelain wall hanging? First, you have to make sure that you’re in tune with the underlying male rules and regulations for proper urinal use. The rules you ask?

The following rules are underlying and are in effect whether an occupant is using a divided or undivided urinal system.

When approaching the urinal, first asses the situation seeing how many males exists per urinal. If the occupancy isn’t high, then please proceed to the nearest urinal that is affixed at least two urinals away from a current occupant. This will make other occupants feel less awkward. If all urinals but one are filled, feel free to try to find a stall toilet to use. If no urinals or stalls are available, please wait in line at least 8 feet away from any urinal occupant, do not look in their direction and do not talk.

When a urinal becomes available to you, please move quickly to that urinal not turning your eye to your right or left as this could be used to non-verbally tell other occupants that you are either a new urinal user or just an untrained user. Also the wandering eye (as the National Urinal Association credits this term) can also have adverse affects on other occupants-who may question the sexuality and reason for your use at that specific urinal. Keep your eyes ahead and do not talk.

When in full use of the urinal, it is best if you do not bring up conversation or short talk with other occupants at the urinals. This causes much discomfort to all of the patrons, because this is not a normal arena for conversation. Some men are not able to focus on two large tasks at one time, and the conversation may cause many doubts between you and another occupant of where your eye contact should be during that conversation because conversation induces the wandering eye. The NUA would also recommend that not even a small greeting should be used, because you will not be in synchronized usage with your possible neighbor and this can make for an embarrassing situation. Please, do not talk.

Approaching the “turn around time” (NUA Glossary of terms) is important and is very crucial to your well being and the well being of others in the urinal grounds. When beginning to exit, please zip quickly keeping your eyes in complete vertical alignment with the wall that is currently in front of you. After your person is ready to exit, please turn quickly 180 degrees making no eye contact with any other occupant. Walk directly to the sink and please wash your hands, and immediately proceed out the exit door. Remember, do not talk.

All in all, I say break the rules. Chat it up! Ask your urinal neighbor how they are doing! It will make for good stories! But…do keep away from the wandering eye!