for christine

If you went to my facebook page, you would read that I have 654 friends.

This is not true, not even close.

I think it's not quite right that we employ the same word to describe someone who, after leaving me a comment, I have to click on their profile to try to remember just how it is that I even know them, and a person who has been a part of my life so long that it is just our parents' now who can even recall a time when we weren't friends.

Cause it's when we could still go outside shirtless, just one of the boys.

Even though we weren't actually one of the boys.

And I am hoping that it's just our parents' who can remember that, though I am pretty sure there may be some photographic documentation stashed away somewhere.

But see, it's my friend Christine's birthday today. And when describing our relationship, the word friend falls a little flat. But what are you going to do? I was born an American, with the English language as my only tool to articulate my heart, so there you go.

And yes, I could learn other languages, but does calling her mi amiga strike that much closer to the heart of what I mean? Probably only for all the many Spanish speaking people who read this blog, would be my guess.

I remember we were hanging out with some friends at a diner years ago, when I said, Christine is just like my Old Faithful or something awkward and unpoetic like that. Another friend quipped, Yeah, it's every girl's dream to be compared to a geyser! and everybody laughed.

But the truth is, she is.

Not anything like a geyser, as she is the picture of beauty and grace and never spontaneously spurts water if she can help it, but she is faithful. Always.

Like the time we were both at the Chautauqua Institute studying ballet and it must have been at least 105 degrees and well, I don't do well in the heat seeing as I was born without sweat glands, and unfortunately the cafeteria decided to serve some sort of unidentifiable gruel and mash combination that, combined with the aforementioned heat, made for a lethal combination, that, were I to be stupid enough to consume it, would kill me, I am pretty sure. Assessing the situation and understanding my pickiness when it came to anything gruel or mash-like, Christine came running to the rescue.

Literally.

As in she ran from our cafeteria all the way to the sub shop which was in town at least a mile away in order to procure a decent lunch for me, i.e. a sandwich that was neither mashed nor laden with gruel, and then ran back, sandwich in hand, and made sure I ate it--all in the 105 degree weather, mind you.

Wow.

I have never forgotten that, nor will I.

And then there was the time when I was two years younger than her (which still happens to be the case, amazingly enough) and she never once made me feel young or immature or silly for it. Not when I was five and she was seven or when I was ten and she was twelve or when I was only fourteen and she was super cool and basically grown-up driving around in her parents' car at sixteen, offering me rides all the time, happy to have me in the passenger's seat beside her.

And I could mention the long talks in which we never had an agenda because words between us come freely, easily, and without judgement; the mounds of Snyder's Old Tyme pretzels we've consumed between the two of us, singlehandedly keeping that company in business, no need to thank us personally, Synder's, the pleasure was all ours; the prayers and exchanges of our own growing views of who God is, always good, always here, though life might look less bright at the moment; our respective marriages to men about whom we had already logged many many hours dreaming of, talking of, discussing and projecting their height, the color of their eyes, and how happy they will make us feel...But all of those memories stand in support of simply who she is.

The kind, humorous, brave, talented, giving, and godly person whom I am grateful to call my friend.

To know her is to love her, and there is not a day that goes by that I am not so glad that I get to experience both knowing and loving her.

Happy birthday, Christine...You deserve the best!

family

Sometimes I look around at my surroundings and have to wonder how it was that I actually got here.

Like now, for instance.

I am surrounded by bright yellow walls with a large blue foaming wave on the one to my left. The blankets are pulled tightly around me, covering me in anything and everything Hawaiian that can be printed on fabric. A large ceiling fan looms overhead, its blades fashioned to look like giant palm fronds.

See, I am in my first cousin once removed's bedroom.

She is the daughter of my first cousin, whom I have not seen for 13 years. And before that, had only seen her once in a very great while.

When asked by my friend what I was doing with my Monday, I told her about spending the day with my long-lost cousin that I never really knew in the first place and she simply said, Sometimes tour is just cool.

And I have to agree.

Tracy and I, along with her husband and two daughters, talked for hours and hours. We talked about our Mimi, the grandmother that we shared and to whom she was closer, since she is only 8 years younger than my own mom and so got to spend a lot more time with her. We talked about our Grandpa, and what I think is so very strange is that she refers to him as Pop-pop while me and my siblings refer to him as Grandpa. Why did he have a different name for different grandchildren? It was even a little confusing, what with me saying Grandpa and my cousin saying Pop-pop and both of us talking about the same revered man.

She told me that she was his favorite granddaughter.

And I didn't fight her on that one, considering he never even met me.

We poured over pictures; she is a scrapbooking wizard.

I opened up my laptop and pulled up facebook, the only thing I have that comes anywhere near a scrapbook of family photos.

Upon seeing the latest photos of my mom, she exclaimed that Terri hasn't changed a bit. And when I saw more pictures of my Grandpa I couldn't believe how much my mom looks like him, the grandfather I never met.

She shared lots of memories with me--mostly of my mom, which was just a joy to hear. And I am left to marvel again at this thing that causes a near stranger to invite another near stranger into their beautiful home on a random Monday; to feed them fine food and wine and keep talking over empty plates for hours; to house them in Hawaiian themed rooms and allow them to pet their beagle Shelly with her titanium knees.

I am left to marvel at this thing called family.

a part of the journey

On Tuesday, after having had more than a week off from the show and if I were to be totally honest, dealing with ribs that hadn't healed yet, I was feeling...wonky.

Weird in a leotard all over again.

Trying to find my center.

Wondering where the heck it was that I spotted when I did those turns on stage anyway.

Hoping that I remembered my monologue and lyrics.

And now? Well, eight shows later I am feeling much less wonky and more myself.

My leotard is once again like a second skin to me.

I found my center.

I found an exit sign that does quite nicely for a place to spot while I turn.

My ribs are feeling much better, thankyouverymuch.

And well, I am still hoping that I remember my monologue and lyrics. Not sure when that is going to change. Though, most of the time I do--remember my lyrics, that is. But still, the times when I didn't stand out like a lesson learned the hard way; like a lesson that could always come back for round two if I am not careful.

Or even if I am.

Because mistakes happen.

And realizing that and then moving on is a part of my journey right now. It's not a terribly bad journey, really, but I'd enjoy it much more if it weren't so riddled with my mistakes. See I have always tried my very hardest to be perfect and I hate when I so obviously am not. Stupid, I know, but like I said, it's a part of my journey.

It's a part of humility.

It's a part of life.

So there you go.

Oh, and this week a few of us have been dancing before the show, in an effort to remember how to do something other than Michael Bennett's choreography. It's actually been fun and challenging and a nice reminder that I do indeed love to dance.

And because I have been moving in ways that differ from what I have been doing in the show for these past 14 months, I have ended up sore.

Which is fine with me.

It means that I am growing and being challenged.

Which is another part of my journey.

I do; I will

There is a blog that I have been reading for a while now. The author is a young mom whose husband works two jobs to take care of their family. They lead a youth group at their church. Two years ago, their third son was born stillborn at nine months, which of course was devastating. Their son born after him is deaf. She is pregnant with their fifth child right now, only twelve weeks along. Her site is decorated with stills that capture the faces of her family. Happy faces, loving faces.

I tell you all of this because these are the things that have shaped this young woman's life. But through it all there has been a theme of love and trust. Of family. Of staying together. Of not giving up when despair seemed like the easiest path in which to sink.

Which is why I was shocked to read this sentence on her blog yesterday:

My husband left me.

Literally, I had a visceral reaction to it; I felt sick inside.

Some of the comments left on her blog revealed a theme of vulnerability; of wondering, If this marriage is falling apart, what makes me think mine won't?

And the truth is that our marriages are vulnerable. As is every one of the relationships in our lives. Because of the very fact that they consist wholly of us, they lay prone to our downfalls. Our selfishness. Our inability to follow through, though we've promised otherwise.

But there is some good news.

I have to believe it.

If nothing else, there is the decision that we are free to make to simply and doggedly do the right thing. With one foot in front of the other, we can walk in the general direction that we know to be good, elusive as it may feel at times.

Truly, I think that we have more autonomy than we give ourselves credit for.

My friend recently got married and instead of each of the couple answering I do to the vows, they decided to answer with I will. I like this. I like how it acknowledges our ongoing will in the matter; how it encompasses not just the moment in which the vows are first uttered, but every moment thereafter.

So there's something to us understanding that we don't just have an obligation to do the right thing, but that it is within our power to do it.

Now that's much better than being a slave, right? Better than not having a choice in the matter, either way. Our free will is a powerful tool that can cause beauty. It's up to us.

Nice.

Better than nice; it's life to us.

And then there's the matter of us not being able to find it within ourselves to do the right thing--what then?

Then you're screwed.

Kidding.

But that particular idiom has been pretty funny to me ever since a pastor that I know and love and who will remain nameless to protect his reputation hit another car, turned to me and my sister in his car, and uttered these two words:

We're screwed.

Despite ourselves, and the poor hit car in front of us, we laughed.

The, ah, pastor didn't.

But, when we feel we can't do the right thing, or are afraid we might not, well that's when we admit it. Tell someone. Tell God. Tell someone and God, though chances are the latter will be listening while you tell the former, anyway. Listening proudly cause it takes courage to admit weakness.

But you might want to still tell Him anyway.

Even though he already knows.

Because there is freedom that comes from honesty within ourselves; there is grace that comes softly to cushion our prostrate selves when we try for humility.

And then that small, familiar light starts flickering; that Better Way whispers its course and as we tentatively follow it the house of cards on which we had previously been standing gets solidified a bit more, day by day, hour by hour, as we continue to honor our promises and with each action and word and thought back up the decision we made when we said I do, when we still say I will.

only in texas

Okay, so every day on my way to the theater I pass by a sign sporting this word...And it makes me smile.

Every time.

What kind of word is Texarkana anyway?

A great one, I can tell you that.

*I apologize for the google image I have to display; I went to take a picture of it myself today and realized it's time for my camera to be charged*

And this prize of a magazine is currently being offered as prime reading material in my hotel.
There's nowhere quite like Tejas, I think.

you gotta know when to hold em

Texas traffic is crawling outside of my window. Tractor trailers are methodically plodding along, their drivers probably not in a hurry anyway since they are getting paid no matter what. Or maybe they are a little anxious cause they are under a deadline, in which case they are cursing the three lane highway, the urban sprawl, and the oven that is Texas right now. It's not like they can sit fully immersed in water as they drive.

Which, in my opinion, is really the only acceptable option in terms of being outside here.

Which is why I spent my afternoon in the pool.

And I very well might spend every afternoon just like that for these couple of weeks.

But anyway.

I am so annoyed with myself right now. See, I had the very slightest beginnings of a pimple and so I decided to dig in there and make it much much worse.

Because now I am left with an open wound right by my mouth, at worst leaving people to assume that I have an STD and at best causing the scab to crack and hurt every time I smile. And believe me, I'd much rather trade the very slightest beginnings of a pimple for the huge scab/wound/goiter that I am now sporting.

And this got me to thinking...Maybe life can sort of be like this. Yeah, it's probably one of the least attractive and unromantic metaphors that are in existence today (when you think of it in terms of the pimple), but sometimes we dig and prod and pry when really things would be much better if simply left alone.

If we just tried some patience on for size.

Sometimes I do this with Drew. I know our hot buttons, I know the things that can easily lead to The Tense Time. And yet, when I feel upset about anything at all, I inevitably bring it around to those. I prod and pry and am left with a big ugly scab that heals, yes, but wasn't necessary in the first place and stands as a direct result from me not just leaving things be.

I am not saying that you should ignore problems.

I am simply saying that, like the song goes, You gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em and sometimes I just plain don't. I find myself talking and talking when really I should have just held my tongue or at the very least shut up after my first few sentences weren't exactly what the doctor ordered.

Anyone else have a hard time not digging into things that would be better left alone?

back and right now happy to be so

I really do enjoy the opening night parties.

And tonight's was a doozy. They say everything is bigger in Texas, and I guess the parties fall under that category too.

A lamborghini and ferrari salesman here in Dallas is an apparent lover of theater as well, since he hosts all the touring shows that come through. Um, in his mansion.

Nice.

Stacked on the winding staircase in the entryway of the house were gift bags in varying bright colors. They gave us all gift bags. And among some of the articles within these bags are snacks. Which works out perfectly for me since I happen to be a big fan of snacks. And this is in addition to the vase and huge bouquet of flowers that are gracing each of our dressing stations, as well as a card to welcome us.

And that's not all, though it would certainly be more than enough. They are also catering all of the meals that fall between double show days.

Golden, folks; this is golden.

Southern hospitality is doing just fine here in Dallas, I can assure you.

But while Southern hospitality is doing just fine, I am feeling exhausted. Blitzed, as my mom would say. I am almost too tired to tell you that my favorite part of the party was the amazingly talented pianist who was kind enough to sit back for a second and let me play and then when I gave him back his seat he asked me what I knew and so he and I together filled the room with some Beatles, James Taylor, and Sarah MaClachlan.

I sang, and boy can he play those keys.

I am also almost just too tired to let you know that the show went really well tonight; that having a week off seemed to give it a shot in the arm and that I truly enjoyed playing Kristine.

Minus the stabbing pains every time I took a deep breath.

And I am almost too tired to say that, despite my ribs being what they are right now, the rest of my body feels great and I sort of wouldn't mind taking a week off every week.

Or at least every other week, since it is my job after all and so I should probably you know, do it.