the deeper magic

Lately I've had this one phrase running through my mind. And no, it has nothing to do with the recent travesties committed against me at the Philadelphia Airport.

It has a lot to do with love; everything to do with love.

And it's a question, though not my question.

I am not going to pretend I am someone I am not; someone perfect or holy or even kind all the time (cause remember when I didn't even want to tell that man on the airplane, God bless you? yeah.)But I will say that I do think that God is real, that he cares about what goes on here, and more specifically, about our hearts.

And just lately I think he's been dropping this question in my mind, At what point does love run out?

And then actually wanting me to answer. And the thing about God is that he's really patient; I mean he's like a billion years old or something and he's never gonna die, he's got the time to wait for an answer.

And well, if love doesn't run out the first time somebody runs you over, leaving you gasping for breath at the pain and limping down a long road you didn't even know existed, does it run out the second time it happens?

I am going to say no.

And if it doesn't run out the first time, then it doesn't run out at all. Or at least it doesn't have to. The same kind of powerful forgiveness that took away your limp after your first wound is still here. Somehow. It's just as powerful. Somehow. It's an ever-present miracle and it's in high demand because to the same degree that we need it to heal us, we need it to heal those we hurt.

It's like the deeper magic.

You know, from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis.

Oh, you weren't raised on this story? Ok, let me explain a little.

There's this witch. A white witch, which doesn't make the fact that she is a witch any better. She's nasty, keeping the fair land of Narnia in winter, but never ever Christmas, which is just plain mean. Anyway, this one kid, Edmund, turns out to be a traitor against her, giving her power over him, according to the law of the land. So the White Witch declares: "That human creature is mine. His life is forfeit to me. His blood is my property."

But then this big beautiful lion, this perfect creature, Aslan, gives his life in Edmund's stead. And that act of pure love sparks something in motion that the simple law could never do. It brings life and freedom. It brings springtime to the land. It speaks of something else. Something better than the natural law, and here, after Aslan comes back to life, he explains it:

"...Though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know. Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who has committed no treachery was killed in a traitor’s stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backward.”

I desperately love the idea of death, that natural progression to all things on this earth, working backward.

It's sounds a lot like forgiveness to me. Like how when we're hurt, we want to lash back out. It's natural, it feels right. It's our right as the injured one.

And love at that moment feels all kinds of wrong and backward.

But maybe, just maybe it's the deeper magic. Maybe I can look further back than that which is obvious to all of us, to me.

Because I don't think that love runs out. Ever. At least that is the kind of world I want to live in. The kind of world where the deeper magic is at work and springtime breaks through the seemingly never ending winter.

Yes, there is pain. Yes, we are wronged, unjustly attacked, and must grieve over our losses. And yes, it doesn't look like that will change any time soon.

But I want to look beyond that and see the deeper magic. I want to discover a love that doesn't run out. Which is so much easier to write than to live, but here's to trying.

Here's to trying.

that's what I hear in these sounds

It's his footsteps that reach me.

The sounds of stairs, begrudgingly giving way underneath. With a creak, announcing him.

And even though he's walking away, there's still the sound of him, and I love those loud stairs for that.

But then the big door swings open and closes with a hollow thud and that's that. The ensuing silence proving the point that he's actually gone. Until he starts up that motor, and his old jeep backs up, working too hard to just get out of the neighborhood.

And although that quiet is quite clearly broken, it brings no comfort.

Only isolation.

Like a woman noisily giving you the silent treatment.

She's banging on various kitchen sundries, making a point to carry overly loud saccharin conversations with everybody else when she's not humming that tune made famous in high school, and you finally put down your book. You wonder what it was you ever did to make her ignore you so hard.

And that's how it sounds when he leaves; I like the sound of him coming home much better and at least there's a cat at my feet and one at my side.

*inspired in part by when he left early this morning...and a song called The Chain, by Ingrid Michaelson:

So glide away and so be healed and promise not to promise anymore

and if you come around again then i will take, then i will take the chain from off the door

dance like a fool and when you see something really cute, bite your own teeth.

I am of the opinion that everybody should dance.

I don't mean that everybody should take formal dance lessons, necessarily; and certainly not that, when pressed, everybody should be able to correctly identify the five positions of the feet in ballet or anything like that.

Though, let's face it, that wouldn't hurt. How many times would it have come in handy so far? Come on, be honest--I know in the state of Pennsylvania that it's a prerequisite to driving. It must be. How else did my genius older brother Jason fail to pass the test three times?

It must have come down to ballet positions.

And he just doesn't know his ballet positions.

And I don't mean to brag or anything, but I did pass it on my first try. And yeah, I know ballet.

Anyway.

There is something transcendent about losing yourself to the music. I totally get why so many religions make it a part of their ritual. Dancing is spiritual. It's basic in the sense that it's communion. With each other. With ourselves. It surpasses a need for words, for analyzation and criticism. You just let it happen and suddenly you've forgotten about yourself and it's always really nice to forget that for a moment.

None of us need that kind of awareness all of the time.

Of course, while dancing in a club and your friend suddenly asks you to do some African dance and you pull out what you remember from the one class you took maybe a hundred years ago and show it off, complete with arms flailing wildly, torso hunched over and knees in the air, and suddenly knock your friend's drink out of her hand and into her hair, you become instantly self-aware. Just as she became instantly wet.

At least, uh, that's what I've heard.

And if I had to choose between the two, I'd choose wet. Every time.

Unfortunately, we don't really get that choice, so most of the time I end up self-aware.

Tonight a group of us went to a club and we danced. I loved it. To be real, it does take some time to get past the painfully self-aware stage where at every turn you are wondering if you look stupid. But forging ahead past that is good, because then you just lose yourself to the music and there is nothing like it.

It's stupid. Stupid good, that is.

Shoot, but that is not what I meant to say tonight. So I am going to keep going until I do exactly what John Mayer has told us to do at least a thousand times on the radio (and that's just after listening to the song once) and say what I mean to say, say what I mean to say-a-a...

I got this overwhelming sense of well-being when I read an email from Drew this morning. He wrote me five random things that he loves about me, and once again I just knew.

He gets me.

To be understood, to be loved for who you are--is there anything better?

I am not going to go into exactly what he wrote, but I will mention number 3--

3. The way you stick out your jaw and bite down when you see something cute.

And it's true, I do that. I don't know why, exactly (just like I have no idea why this font on blogger suddenly changed...), but it's something I have to do. I usually get the impulse when it involves animals, my nieces and nephews, or Drew. But when I am overwhelmed by whatever form of cuteness that has presented itself, I set my jaw, tuck my upper teeth behind my lower teeth (effectively giving myself an underbite), and bite down.

I. Just. Have. To.

And funny enough, my mom captured it on film. Well on digital, I guess, since it was with a digital camera, but the point is it's documented.

See, here I am just doing a normal smile, enjoying this adorable puppy, Strider.

But, here I am with the grimacing, bite-down-on-your-own-teeth thing because he is just too cute. I guess the little rope he was tugging on set me over the edge, so to speak.
As you can see, it makes my chin look kind of weird, but I could stop doing it about as easily as I could stop my eyes from being brown. So why even bother trying?

But my question is, am I alone in this? Is there anything you guys do when you are overwhelmed by cuteness? Or overwhelmed by anything for that matter?

If I'm the only weirdo, it's okay.

I just wonder if I am going to have to get some kind of mouth guard for when I actually have babies of my own.

and then it was monday

After finally boarding a delayed plane at the Providence Airport this afternoon, stopping for a three minute dash from gate to gate at BWI, and then boarding the plane to Pittsburgh just in time, the big question was--would our luggage make it?

So it was with some relief that I saw this.

Can you guess which one is mine?

And like a naive fool who simply trusts too much in spring and the warmth that should bring, I left my winter coat and other such wraps at home, discarding them in anticipation of days that look something like this.
Yeah, I realize we are in PA. And, although I grew up in this state, at dinner tonight I still asked my friend Brandon if Pittsburgh is on the water. Sometimes I need to just think a few seconds more before I actually let a question transfer from thought to words.

Or sometimes I just need to learn geography.

Anyway, I fully realize that there are no bordering oceans to this grand state, as pictured above, but still I dream of blue skies and days that call for nothing so much as tank tops and shorts. Maybe jeans--but just for their fashion, rather than their warmth.

And instead, I landed early this evening to a day that looked a lot closer to this.
Luckily the theater is literally right around the corner from our hotel. And if this weather persists, I can guarantee that I will be walking briskly. Maybe even running. Seriously, my coat is not warm.

But I don't care about coats or the lack thereof so much. I can deal with the cold, it won't last forever and layering is totally in. What is hard to deal with is this feeling of just totally, always, constantly, sometimes even hopelessly missing this guy. Even when I'm mad at him.
It's funny, he has a beard now. Well, an on-and-off one, at least. I am not altogether sure if he does have a beard at this exact moment or not, to be honest. He can basically not have a beard on Monday and have one by Tuesday if he so desires and that is absolutely a skill of which I will never be jealous.

But that's not the funny part.

What's funny is that the first time I ever laid eyes on him he definitely had a beard. And that was that. I didn't give him one more look--or thought--because in my mind, a guy should not have a beard unless he is forty or wants to appear forty or owns forty cats or is aspiring to have forty wives, Big Love style.

Just kidding about the cats and the wives.

Anyway.

My brother would talk him up to me, but I would not be able to get past that darned beard. I just wasn't so interested. Until...

I turned around in church one day and was surprised by this handsome young man, standing closer to me than I had anticipated. And I didn't mind the proximity one bit. I just stood and stared for a second, then two, then three; I stared at this newly clean-shaven guy in a crisp white button up shirt who was meeting my gaze with a kind of directness that I could appreciate.

Especially since it was coming from someone who had finally turned my head.

I simply said hi and he responded with that same stupidly short word that started something eternal, something that encompasses our lives.

So last night, I was writhing under the influence of a horrible headache and sent him this text at 3:50 am,

I miss you. My head hurts so bad that

it's making my stomach nauseous. I wish

we didn't feel so distant. Life feels kind of sad

now. I wish I had medicine. For everything.

The truth is that life feels better today. Much better. It usually does once you get past the 3:50-am-writhing-in-pain-missing-your-fave-someone-and-generally-just-doubting-your-life stage of the night. And thankfully, that stage doesn't come upon me often.

But when it does, I know that it will pass.

That it will give way to a clearheadedness not unlike clairvoyance. And though I might not see the evidence of what I hope for at the moment, my hope still grows, even strengthens, because every moment that passes without the evidence of what I hope for, brings me closer to it.

May it be so.

Oh, and p.s. I have since changed my stance on beards for men under forty; I no longer have a problem with them.

back then

      I was walking towards Rittenhouse Square to meet him. The boy who had, of late, been occupying my thoughts, daring me to dream, teaching me of romance. We were meeting for lunch--two hastily prepared brown bags full of whatever we could throw in there before class, respectively. This had been happening a lot lately and if I was completely honest, I was hoping it would never stop.  

     The sky was full of the sun, overflowing really, in bright streams that invited people to lay out blankets and soak it in.  It was still spring, but summer was beginning to creep in softly; people were beginning to respond with t-shirts and skirts, flip-flops and brightly painted pedicures.  I looked for him and our eyes met across the park. I couldn't help smiling, my face saying plainly what I wasn't quite ready to commit to in words.  

   We sit down. We eat slowly--hoping to draw out the lunch hour, feeling no need to usher in the future when the present is perfect.  We talk about class; he asks about my dancing, I ask about his music.  He crosses his legs, looking quite comfortable and it is at that moment that I become quite uncomfortable.  See, Drew is wearing shorts with a huge split right down the center seam. 

   Keep looking at his eyes, I think. Keep talking about something-anything!--and maybe he will uncross his legs, I hope.  

  It doesn't work. He has the look of perfect peace; I realize that he could sit like that, with his legs crossed in leisure, forever. Just like Buddha. Only Buddha never wore shorts with a split down the middle. Buddha never dated a shy girl who was quite embarrassed by those shorts with a split down the middle. 

  I keep my eyes averted. But I realize that I have to say something. I can only imagine how humiliated he will be, so I try to be really gentle.

   Um, Drew? I say quietly.

    Yeah? he responds.

   Listen, I really don't want to embarrass you...but you need to know something...

   What? he asks.

   (gulp) Well, do you realize that your shorts are split down the middle?...And I am really not looking, but well, you should know that about your shorts, I guess. 

   There. I dropped the bomb. I thought he would be flabbergasted. I thought he would turn red. I thought he would not know what to say...

      

    I thought wrong.

   Oh right! I do forget that about these shorts sometimes, he laughs. What? I think--He forgets that about those shorts?!?! So that means that he knows about their...incomplete state and still willingly wears them?! I have a lot to learn about men; or maybe I have a lot to learn about exhibitionists...

   And not bothered by it in the least, he doesn't even shift his position. 

   So I hint to him and ask, Do you think maybe you could...? 

   Oh sure! And with complete ease he simply pulls his shirt down further, covering up the split, but still not uncrossing his legs.

   He wasn't embarrassed. Not even a little bit. 

   And when we got married three years later, guess which shorts made the move to our apartment? Yep, the ones with the seam split down the center.  Needless to say, I have since thrown them away.  

missing him.

          I sometimes lay awake in bed, wishing for sleep but finding none. My mind wanders relentlessly, almost always ending up in the same place: Drew.

          I have always had the ability to go to other places inside my head. I remember taking long car trips with my family as a little girl and just losing myself to my thoughts, content in the overtones of boring, adult conversation or even silence because my mind was anything but. I remember specifically hearing my parents and brothers speaking of the Big Bear; my eyes would grow wide in wonder as I pondered the bear that was somewhere in the great and dark outside, instantly feeling a thrill of fear overcome by a flush of warmth as I knew I was safe with my family.  

       It wasn't until later that I realized they were talking about a constellation, that bears weren't really around in Landenberg, PA.  It was disappointing, but probably safer that way. 

       Anyway, I have always felt accompanied by my mind--especially when I cannot sleep because of all these loud thoughts keeping me awake, talking to me. And no, I am not crazy. But right now, I am a woman missing her husband like crazy.

      I don't know how you two do it! I know me and my husband could never live that way...This has been said to me on more than one occasion by a well-meaning person. I understand that sentiment, I really do. But sometimes I feel a little less understanding and a little more defensive. 

   

    Of my marriage. Of whether or not I am being a good wife. 

    It's not like we chose for me to go on tour because it's not very hard for us to live apart. It's not like I thought, Luckily, I don't love Drew all that much so this decision is really a no-brainer...   

    No, this decision is one that God led us to, true; it's one in which we both have peace, yes--but sometimes it really sucks. I know that can be a crude thing to say, but it is true. Especially when I am laying awake at night with a heart full of so many both heartfelt and insignificant things to say to Drew; I want to tell him that we had an around-the-world-party tonight and I, along with a few friends, represented the United Kingdom; I spoke in a loud british accent--my volume making up for whatever might be lacking in authenticity--we served tea sandwiches, guinness, and I made cupcakes that I decorated by crafting union jacks on each one and let me tell you, that's not easy!  I want to tell him that I tried to pretend that I could stomach this drink that was served to me in the Brazil room because my friend made it and was clearly proud of it, but the truth is that it tasted like lava from an active volcano going down my throat and I swirled it around and held it until I found a nearby and inconspicuous ledge to leave it on and quickly walked away. I want to tell him that I had a hard time keeping my eyes open tonight in the show during What I Did For Love and felt like a real poser on stage blinking furiously, just trying to keep my vital signs strong so the audience would never suspect the truth. I want to tell him that I miss him, and I feel that more than almost any other emotion, I think--it is a defining emotion of my very existence...And sure, I could say all these things tomorrow when the sun is once again shining and he is on the other end of a phone conversation, but I might not remember it so poignantly or one of us might have only a moment to talk and then be called away and let's face it, no matter how much I tell him of terrible drinks, almost falling asleep on stage, and cupcake decorating, it's never as good as him being here.

     It's never as good as him actually experiencing it with me.  

     I want to tell him that I hold on to the thought of he and I experiencing life together again with all the strength of a drowning woman holding onto her one lifeline. I want to tell him that I am fine, true, but always, always much better with him. 

    And I want to tell him that if this wasn't our life, I would also innocently tell a couple who couldn't, at present, live together:

     I don't know how you two do it! I know that me and my husband could never live that way...

Back off, ladies--he's all mine.

     They say that in some cases, once a man gets married he doesn't work as hard to maintain his charm...But still, who would have thought that this handsome man that I married...

   That I went to the beach with...
   That I proudly had on my arm at opening night parties...
   Would ever be capable of looking like this...
   However, the vows remain for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, in human-form, or as a R.O.U.S, I suppose.  

   But seriously. Just look at that picture again. Drew looks crazy. Actually, crazy doesn't even begin to describe it...Does anyone want to try?

  And oh yeah--aren't my nieces adorable?

drew.

     My husband is in the Nutcracker this year.  Um, it used to be that I was the one in the big story ballets, but nope. Now it's Drew. And before you worry about the image of Drew prancing around in tights on a well-lit stage surrounded by tutu-bound ballerinas, let me put your mind at ease: He is playing an overgrown rat, The Rat King, to be precise.

    No tights involved.  Had they been, I doubt whether or not he would have taken the job.  I still have a hard time keeping a completely straight face when Drew tells me that he has to get to the theater for the Nutcracker. Or that he needs to stop at Rite-Aid for his make-up.  But really, I am proud of him. And I know absolutely that he is a man is a man is a man. Even when dressed like a large rat. Or contemplating the very best shade of foundation at the drug store. 

   I guess at least he doesn't insist on going to MAC or Sephora. That might be a little too much.

     It used to be that I taught my nieces piano. Ever since I left for tour, however, Drew has taken over that job.  And I get the feeling that they may enjoy his lessons better. He calls it his own personal School of Rock, a la Jack Black, and I am positive that he is pretty fun to be taught by, so really I cannot blame my nieces.  

    Besides, I still pick out better clothes for them than he does. And I don't anticipate that ever changing.  

   It also used to be that I was the one who regularly performed at our church's Christmas Adoration Service.  Now, Drew is the one to do it every year. This year he's in a three-person play.  He'll be fabulous, I am sure. Although, I will have to get everyone else's take on it since I will be working. 

   So how does all this single-white-female-esque business of Drew now doing what I once happily did make me feel?  Fine. Really good, actually.  Maybe it's strange, but having Drew at home, so very involved in the things that I love, makes me feel like in a way, I am being represented too.  Like a part of me is still here.  

    So yeah, there it is. 

     Oh, and I am thinking about designing a new t-shirt. It'll say:

       Real Women Marry Nutcracker-Dancing, Music-Teaching, Bass-Playing, Sleep-Teching, Play-Acting Men. 

      So maybe it wouldn't be the largest grossing t-shirt as far as sales go, but I can think of at least one girl who would wear it.  And I would do so happily.  

my drew

Drew only pretends to be a fratboy, he really isn't one (but the pit stains are the real deal, unfortunately).
Drew does not, however, have to pretend to be good with children, he really is.  Maybe because he can be a big kid himself sometimes, but they just love him.  Our nieces and nephews instantly brighten when he comes into a room--and then demand that he does something crazy or funny.  Drew usually acquiesces, and I hope he doesn't feel like a trained monkey or anything--its just that he's so funny!   And Drew doesn't always have the I'm-holding-an-alien-and-I-hope-it-returns-to-mars-soon look on his face when he holds a kid, sometimes he even looks happy.

   Drew never looks like this when he is listening to me...he is quite attentive...
And Drew really looks quite fabulous in a red leotard.  Maybe he got jealous because I get to wear a leotard in my show.  Maybe that's why he insisted on wearing one in Godspell.  Whatever the reason, he rocks it.  

     One more reason I love Drew:

            He takes one for the team. There was one time, very very long ago and unprecedented for me, I can assure you, that I had a small wart on the bottom of my toe.  Now, I am a dancer and so find myself barefoot on many different surfaces in many places, so please don't judge.  Because of this wart, I had to buy some medicine with the very subtle and non-embarrassing title of wart-off. Good thing, otherwise people might have figured out what the medicine was for.  However, with that name, my secret was safe.  But just to be sure, I was careful to always keep the bottle hidden in the bathroom, away from prying eyes.  

           Well, one night, Jonathan had asked us to have our kinship group (essentially a small gathering of people who have church together) at our apartment instead of his house.  Drew and I were fine with that and opened our door to the group.  Before the meeting had officially started, but after everyone had arrived, I noticed with more than a little alarm that I had left the bottle of wart-off in the living room, of all places.  I guess in the hustle and bustle of getting things ready, I had completely forgotten to squirrel that away (ha, I used squirrel as a verb--that is so something my pop would say!).  Anyway, I looked at it, and immediately got Drew's attention and indicated to him what I was referring to.  He didn't hesitate before he said, Don't worry, if anybody notices, I'll let them know it's for me.  Well, my fears were instantly assuaged.  What a hero, that guy.  

a small part of the story part 2

        Eventually, Drew and I arrive in New York City.  I can't help but notice that the guy has on a nice, new button-up shirt (later on, he admits that he had bought it with me in mind, hoping I would like it).  I can't help but notice he looks good in it.  I can't help but notice that his eyes are still wide-set and blue, the same kindness in them that I had fallen in love with before.  He is the same, I am the same, but we are different.  And I can feel the difference in the guarded way he looks at me, the space he is careful to leave between us.  

     But, it is difficult not to be close in our interaction.  We've been there before; we know the way all too well.  I find myself talking, teasing, drawing him out.  He is reciprocating and we are both having fun.  I am smiling and laughing, and I can feel him walking a little closer to me, not pulling back if our shoulders happen to brush.  If I am being honest, I like it.  I am liking him, a little.  But really, I tell myself, Who has the time to sit and think all this out?  Sometimes, it's better not to think...

    There's this picture in my parents' house that captures that time (at least, it used to be.  It might not have survived the great Jessica-picture-downsizing from the photograph wall after a certain family member complained of the unbalanced Jessica-to-sibling-ratio of pictures displayed there).  It is of me and Drew smiling, on that day in a small cafe in New York.  A friend spontaneously asked us to pose for a photo, and poor Drew hesitated.  I, however, moved in quickly--putting my cheek right next to his so that we were touching right as the camera flashed.  You can see the awkwardness of the moment in our shoulders, though; it would have been more comfortable to just let them touch, but not knowing how to be with me, Drew barely moved and so there is room between us.  Telling, awkward room between us, with our smiling faces pushed together.  

     Like I said, I am having fun.  And I think Drew is, too.  But, that night he has to go ruin this carefree time with a serious talk.  Oh shoot, I was really enjoying this whole not thinking thing...But, if we have to, I guess.  Drew starts in, Jess, it's really hard for me--you flirting with me and being close to me.  Always quick to point out that I am not the only one at fault, I shoot back with, Well, you are flirting with me, too! Very mature, I realize this. Then he calmly and deliberately says, The difference is, I mean it. 

  Oh. Now, I have to start thinking. Really thinking...Do I mean it?  And honestly, at that moment, I don't know.  I am bereft of any words for him.  So, he continues, Please tell me why we are not together right now. I look at him incredulously as I say, You know why. I mean, I've told you a good amount of times...Or at least once, I've told you once...Right? No, Drew answers, but without any accusation or anger in his voice, as if it was my right to simply break up with him without telling him why; as if most people wouldn't have demanded to know months ago.  

   The thing is, I honestly had thought I had told him.  I certainly told enough other people.  I thought I told him that it scared me how he wasn't perfect and didn't have a full-proof plan for his life.  That the depression he had fallen into (which was surprising, because I know now that Drew is not easily depressed) was too much for me, which I know sounds mean and unfeeling, but I am sorry, it's the truth.  There were little things that bothered me, and rather than tell him about it and risk hurting his feelings--I just looked for the quickest exit.  And breaking-up was what I found. 

  I look at him and quietly say, You really want to know why I broke up with you? I mean, really? Every little thing?  Yeah, he says, please, he adds. I take a deep breath and talk for a long time.  I am not afraid of hurting him; I have already done that to a greater degree than my honesty now could ever do.  He is not defensive, but just listens.  And finally, when I am done, when I have racked my brain for every thing--little or big--that bothered me and laid it out for him to understand in no uncertain terms, he says a mere, Okay. Um, Okay?  Is that it, I think?  But it's not it.  He goes on to say, I can see how those things could scare you or bother you.  But, I also need you to understand that you are never going to find somebody who is perfect.  Having said that, I need you to know that I am willing to work on everything.  I am not done. I want to change, mature, realize my potential, figure out where I am going in life...

    Oh, I think.  He asks me if I am starting to like him again, because it feels a little that way.  I say I am, a little.  But then I get very serious and say, I am a very dangerous person.  I will hurt you.  I could change my mind again. I could decide tomorrow that I don't like you at all.  I need you to know this.  He gets the sounds of a smile in his voice as he says, You are a dangerous person (I am not sure, but he may have been picturing me as a ninja, or something--a truly dangerous person)? Jess, I of all people, know this.  You've hurt me more than anybody else.  But, you have also made me happier than anybody else.  And sure, it's true that you could change your mind tomorrow--but do you always want to be that way? Do you always want to have a fickle heart?  It could be nice to someday decide something is worth sticking with.  

   Well, I had to admit that sounded logical.  I didn't always want to be fickle--that actually is not so nice and very hard when it comes to planning ahead.  We didn't really settle on anything that night, other than the truth finally being told.  And maybe that he loved me and I liked him again. A little.  

   I get home from New York a few weeks later, and I know that I miss him.  I want to spend time with him, maybe even start dating him again.  So, I call him and ask if he wants to see a movie with me that night.  

    Sure, he says, What did you have in mind?  

   Catch Me If You Can, I reply.      

        

         

a small part of the story part 1

     It is the very beginning of 2002; the calendar is still mostly unmarked, full of numbered white boxes representing days that haven't happened yet.  I had received a scholarship to study at the Martha Graham School for Contemporary Dance's winter session (yeah, I realize that's a mouthful), and was gearing up to go to New York City later in the day.  It is a Sunday, placing me at church, and it has just begun to snow outside.  Drew walks up to me and we begin to talk. Haltingly, a little awkwardly, we find a rhythm for our conversation.  

     See, it has now been three months since I broke up with him, but after being so special to each other and sharing so much, it is hard to know quite how to relate to one another.  Do we pretend not to know the details of each other's lives and just ask what the other ate for dinner, or how their family is doing?  As if the level of interest stops there?  As if the carefully planned show of polite disinterest is the only thing we feel now?  But who am I kidding, Drew was never very good at pretending he didn't care--not when he told me that he wanted to go to my shows at Uarts simply because he enjoyed watching dance--you know, it's a beautiful art form, Jess, and not when he asked if he could stop by my house because he was hungry and wanted toast (toast, Drew? really? couldn't you think of any other reason to stop by--something that wasn't quite so transparent, at least?).  I never doubted that I was special to him--not during the whole three months when we were broken up and his poor heart was hurting and my brother and all his friends who wanted to see his eyes not look so sad anymore told him to give up on me. That it'd be better that way, he'd see.  

  Anyway, I mention to Drew that I have to drive to the city later in the day and now it is snowing and now I really don't want to do it.  Very nonchalantly, he offers to drive me.  Really? You would drive me to New York?  You have the time, there's nothing else you have to do? I ask. Carefully, so as not to reveal an eagerness that might scare me away, he answers, Sure. I enjoy driving and I have a friend I'd like to see in the city anyway. It would be no problem. Well, great.  Drew is a friend and a good driver and I now don't have to go to the city alone.  We head out, and pretty soon are on the turnpike.  

  I am feeling really comfortable with Drew now--but maybe something else, maybe something more.  I like sitting next to him very much and so do what had, at one point, been only natural: I reach over to take his hand.  But, I remember that we are not together, that I broke up with him, that I wanted this not togetherness, so I stop my hand in mid-air and quickly pull it back to my own lap where it belongs.  I can only hope he didn't notice.  He breaks the silence with, Why did you do that?  I play stupid and ask, do what?  Just now, he says, you pointed at my crotch. Why did you point at my crotch?  Now I am facing a dilemma--do I let him think I am a freak who randomly points at crotches, or do I tell him the truth that may be even worse; the truth that may let him hope for something that five minutes ago I didn't think would ever happen?  What to do, what to do?  He obviously won't let me evade the question, so I simply say, I was reaching to hold your hand. To which he says a quiet oh.  And then we sit in silence until one of us welcomes the other's inane and completely unrelated comment like a long-lost friend.  

   

  

He Had Me With Hardtack

   Drew won my heart with hardtack.  It sounds strange, I know, but it's true.  I have always been a sucker for romance.  But not just the generic stuff--the typical gifts that could be for any given girl.  I mean, don't get me wrong--I enjoy roses (actually, one guy gave me a literal rose bush one year for my birthday. He pointed out that a bouquet would just die, but a bush could be planted and would bloom every year on my birthday--that was sweet. But it was not Drew who did that, and this is supposed to be about Drew...).  I appreciate jewelry.  Actually, I would be hard-pressed to get a gift that I would not enjoy (hmmm...I do remember getting a hawaiian skirt and bra from my Aunt Skippy when I was about 6.  Being a good and modest christian girl--it horrified me.  Worse, she mentioned me actually trying the shameful thing on--and parading it around--so I spent the rest of Christmas day trying to hide from her, just hoping she would forget. But most gifts, I enjoy. And if she were to give me one today--I would try it on for her happily. And oops, again--I digress).  

    But Drew gave me a gift that took my breath away.  We had only been dating a couple of months, maybe, and of course we had spent most of that time talking.  Over dinner, while walking, watching a storm, during a drive, sometimes even during church (gasp!)--we would just delve into what made the other unique; what made the other angry, sad, happy, bored, interested, mesmerized, hopeful.  You name it, we wondered it about each other.  And all the other questions of life that did not pertain to Drew--or vice versa--suddenly did not seem worth asking.  Ask me a question, and I will happily tell you all my thoughts on that point (especially if you are a cute boy, which Drew happens to be).  And Drew's no dummy; he had been listening to my likes and dislikes and had gotten an idea.  

    So he calls me one night asking me to meet him after school the next day.  He has a surprise for me (no matter how old I get, those words will never cease to thrill me. Never.  hint, hint, Drew...)   You see, somewhere along the line of our discussions, we had talked about my absolute fascination with the Civil War--the battles, the soldiers, the women who waited at home, the politics and intrigue, the atrocity and the heroism that threaded through those years. I had been going to Gettysburg every year since I was little, had actually ran down Little Round Top to Devil's Den,  reveling in the fact that I was walking on ground made sacred by so many soldiers.  Anyway, like I said, I was mesmerized by that period of history.  

   Now, back to me.  I have just finished some dance class or another, and am meeting Drew in Rittenhouse Square.  He is standing there, shy, but excited with a small basket in his hand.  He simply passes it to me and lets me look inside.  Oh, I say, Thank you for this basket of...uh...bread.  He answers, not even trying to hide his pride now, Jess, it's not just bread.  It's hardtack. Real, honest-to-God hardtack.  I looked it up and found the recipe. This is exactly what the soldiers from the Civil War ate.  I made you hardtack, cause I know how much you love the Civil War. 

   Wow. This was from a guy who, if it couldn't be microwaved or cooked in a George Foreman Grill, than it was too much trouble. But when it came to me, he went to the trouble.  He found out exactly what interested me, then made something from that genre. Baked it, to be specific.   That is romance.  That is hot. I felt special and important to him.  I felt worth his time, his labor--and yes, worth even the trouble of baking some antiquated bread. 

  So yeah, he had me with hardtack.