Thursday, September 30, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Strength
Here I find myself, at 12:55am on Friday morning, sitting under my covers and listening to the song "Tell Me on a Sunday", and longing for sleep to settle in. I have folded my laundry, washed my dishes, swept and mopped my floor, dimmed my lights, drank my tea, washed my face, and arranged my things for my day tomorrow. I am surrounded by me. Sometimes, that single fact is so overwhelming I want to cry. "Me" can be a very lonely place.
I had my first television appearance - which lasted all of two seconds - this Monday night on CHUCK. The amount of enthusiasm and supportive words which came pouring out from friends and family far and wide were touching. Here I was, thinking I had only done some small baby step for my career as an actor, if even a baby step, and those around me were in an uproar over this tremendous personal triumph. And even though I may not have done anything worthy of an Oscar, or solved world hunger, the fact that there were people sitting in living rooms across the United States, gathered with others, taking an hour out of their day to search the screen for my face for a few seconds, meant the world to me. In some way, although I feel alone at times, I am given such strength in knowing that something about this uncertain, terrifying place in my life is inspiring to someone, somewhere. So to those of you who called, texted, wrote, watched - I am deeply humbled and honored to have such fans as yourselves. You are keeping this little silly actress chugging right along.
I spent today doing a variety of busy tasks. I edited a paper for a dear friend. I finally made it to Central Casting, where I updated my status to "Union" (AFTRA). I purchased a red, leather-bound planner for 2011 at Barnes & Noble, because I am constantly dreaming of the future, even as I love the present. I squeezed in a power nap. I folded, stuffed, sealed and stamped together invoices for "Mike the pool guy", who kindly presented me with my very own business cards for "Chelsea's Concierge Service" on Tuesday. I browsed through Borders and then Bed, Bath & Beyond with Evan, who generously insisted on us taking a five-minute detour by Fresh & Easy so that I could quell my screaming belly. I came home.
At this point, around 9:30pm, I finally got to sit down and read the few lines for my audition tomorrow for "MEDIUM", as Charlotte, a "beautiful but disheveled and seemingly homeless young woman with a criminal record and a drug problem." Generally type-cast as the mature, maternal figure or the cute blond, I found myself hungry to immerse myself in this skin. Perhaps this is why I am now feeling utterly lonely.
All actors have their own processes for generating character and for rooting down into something physically beyond themselves, but still very much within the potential range of human behavior and experience. Perhaps my favorite teacher of my entire life used to say that, "you don't have to dirty yourself up to be an actor, but you don't have to clean yourself up to be a human being." Joe urged me and my classmates to be willing to, pardon my French, "swim at the shite end of the swimming pool." I am not an actor because I dream of fame and fortune. Yes, it would be nice to make a living doing what I am passionate about. But at the end of the day, I am an actor because I seek to spread compassion regarding the human condition, and to fully explore the realm of human potential, from the darkest, murkiest hellholes to the exhilarating heights of the cosmos.
In thinking about Charlotte, I found myself thinking back to when I was seventeen. I wasn't worried about bugs in my hair, or finding a McDonald's bag with some stale french fries at dusk, or getting harassed or raped in a dank street corner. I wasn't worried about losing my period due to lack of nourishment, or wondering where I could crash that night, or breaking out in sweat and terror because I couldn't afford a fix. I wasn't wearing baggy, dirty mens' clothes and a hoody, in an effort to disguise my gender. I wasn't wondering if my parents and siblings ever thought of me, or how they had changed since I had left home. I wasn't being spat at or told to "get a damn job", and I wasn't praying to God when I got sick to please, please help my fever break, because I couldn't pay for a doctor or medication. I wasn't watching men being beaten to death, or wondering if I would still be around in three months. I wasn't staring up at the stars at night, freezing under their hollow glow and too exhausted to cry anymore.
Yet, despite all of this, it is my responsibility to let this person inhabit me, because somewhere in the world, right at this exact moment, there really is a seventeen-year-old girl named Charlotte, and she lives this. Her story is my story; we are the human condition. If I can use myself to tell someone her story, and to make them reconsider the world around them, then I can sleep a little better at night.
There is always a story to tell. My craft is my pen, and my strength, and my will.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
My "Eat Pray Love" Weekend
Within the scope of the human experience, there are moments in which we must abandon the convention of walking on the solid ground beneath our feet and instead try flying, for one exhilarating, gravity-defying breath. Not everything can feel perfect, nor safe, nor economically feasible, nor should it.
This weekend, I should have worked out, so I could keep working my way down to a smaller size. I should have gone to my yoga studio and taken classes, so I could keep the controlling owner happy. I should have created my online casting profiles, so I could have them ready for greedy casting eyes come Monday morning. I should have saved my money, as I've done all summer, so I could get a steady savings account going soon.
This weekend, I did none of these things. This weekend, I went flying instead. And it was breathtaking.
I have made a very good friend in Los Angeles, even though I have only been here three months, and even though my friend, whom I will call 'Evan', was home in Switzerland for a good portion of the summer. I found my couch and loveseat through his roommate, who could not be at home when my family came by to pick it up, but assured me Evan would be. And when my family showed up an hour early, at nine am on a Saturday, Evan very kindly helped us carry a heavy couch and loveseat down two sets of stairs, sleepy-eyed and messy-haired, sporting black-rimmed glasses and a Ducks' hockey jersey. He never even mentioned his serious tendonitis in his elbows, or the fact that he was trying to take it easy for the sake of his extensive golf career. He simply smiled, looked at my dad, and asked, "which end do you want me to take?"
Over the coming months, Evan kept in touch with me by little texts or facebook messages, just checking in on me now and then, in a very non-invasive way, to see how I was faring in Los Angeles. And when returned to the US in mid-August, he made a point of getting together so that he could catch up with me.
This was just over three weeks ago, and I am still surprised at the uncanny amount of things we share in common. While most of these things are random, happy surprises, like the fact that we both adore huskies, or our admiration of acoustic music, or an appreciation for really good food, we also share the not so painless being recently made single.
On Thursday, I found out that Evan had just broken up with his girlfriend. Aware of the fact that I have been struggling with similar feelings for the past three weeks, Evan asked if he could drive over, and if we could just sit and talk. Needing some company myself, and thinking back to that miserable night for myself, I said of course. By eleven pm, we had driven to Yogurtland, poured ourselves frozen yogurt concoctions, complete with lychee and the trademark neon spoons, and settled into the seats of his black BMW. With the engine off, we sat in the parking lane of a busy LA street, watching cars zoom by and people walking dogs and other yogurt patrons, listening to acoustic music, and talking about the difficulties of life and love. While we were both melancholy, the company made the load a little lighter. After we finished our yogurt, we decided we were both still hungry and drove to Ralph's, where Evan decided that tomato and mozarella (which he pronounced in Italian) would be an excellent post-midnight snack. We split the cost of some sea salt, balsamic vinegar, fresh mozarella, tomatoes, and a cheap bottle of wine, and drove back to my house.
At this point, we put on a dvd of "FRIENDS", and then a very strange thing happened; I was directed to sit down on the couch, while Evan whipped out cutting boards and knives and wine glasses and prepared everything, not letting me lift a finger. We laughed through the entire last season of friends, eating our delicious snack and not glossing over the occasional moments of sadness. At three thirty am, acknowledging that each of us had to head to work - he to host a golf tournament, and myself to teach yoga - a mere three hours later, Evan headed home for what was left of the night. Although I was exhausted Friday morning, I felt somehow more confident and settled as I led my students through down dogs and utkatasanas.
After having raved about the Swedish meatballs at Ikea for weeks, Evan asked if I wanted to go to Ikea in Burbank that afternoon. I had spent the week running around, doing extra work and paying traffic tickets and meeting with industry reps, so I said sure, putting my work aside until later. Evan picked me up around three thirty on Friday afternoon. Forty-six hours later, my new-found friend and I parted ways to get back to our responsible adult duties. We did what Evan calls, "wingin' it", which consisted of visiting spots all over Los Angeles, eating too much rich food, and most likely spending too much of the money I have penny-pinched for weeks. I loved every minute of it.
On Friday, we browsed through Ikea, where we took the time to look at all of the furniture and showrooms and ate Swedish meatballs, discussing the merits of fladbrod and of elderberry soda. We met up with two friends, Eric and Tyler, both of whom work at NASA, to go Rollerblading at Skateland, during which time we were hustled and bustled about by the teenagers there, whom we all swore were much less polite than we were at the age of twelve (though our parents and teachers may disagree). We grabbed more frozen yogurt and discussed space ships and race cars (I listened more than I spoke on these matters, enjoying the three guys revel in their passion for speed and driving and rockets). After this, we parted ways with Eric and Tyler, and we did another Ralph's run for sandwiches, which we greedily gobbled up on the floor in Evan's room as we watched the first episodes of "HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER" and "THE BIG BANG THEORY". We fell asleep late, me on the bed and Evan on the floor, both completely exhausted from a long history of being insomniacs.
On Saturday, we woke up at noon, which I rarely do anymore. After Evan took a shower, and just before we walked out the door, Evan noticed a sea of foam engulfing the kitchen floor. We paused to stop the dishwasher (which was apparently not compatible with the sample soap Evan had received), and we laughed as we mopped up foam from under the refrigerator, the trashcan, and between our toes. We ate hot, Pastrami sandwiches at a hole-in-the-wall spot which I was assured was "worth the thirty-minute drive"; it was. We drove to Venice Beach and walked along the boardwalk, so lovely and charming in its dirty, unapologetic way, and watched people skating in a giant cement bowl, men doing flips and tricks with incredible athletic prowess, a towering tree-man walking amidst the floating crowd, robed people chanting kirtan, drowsy bums slumped over guitars like love affairs, and vendors exhibiting their paintings and jewelry and knick-knacks and pot paraphernalia like proud tokens of a simpler life. We went to Third Street in Santa Monica, where we laughed at random books in Urban Outfitters, sighed approving smiles over the rustic couches and tables, reminiscent of the French provinces, in a furniture store, clapped admirably for the street musicians, whose performances were untouched by the slowly falling fog of the Los Angeles coastline, tried on silly accessories and jackets in H&M, and chatted about music (including the song "Ali in the Jungle", by The Hours, which seems so very fitting for this current, hazy phase in each of our lives). We headed back to my apartment, where we made pesto pasta and drank red wine, watched tv, shared foot massages in a simple, kind way, reminisced about home and friends, had cereal and chips at some ridiculous hour, laughed about life, and eventually fell into another deep slumber until late this afternoon, when we parted ways to go back to our little to-do lists.
I have a feeling the to-do lists will always be around, and that's okay. But sometimes it's not so bad to take that list off of the refrigerator, or to hide your planner under your bed, and to say, "hey, let's just wing it."
Who knew you could live such a life in two days?
This weekend, I should have worked out, so I could keep working my way down to a smaller size. I should have gone to my yoga studio and taken classes, so I could keep the controlling owner happy. I should have created my online casting profiles, so I could have them ready for greedy casting eyes come Monday morning. I should have saved my money, as I've done all summer, so I could get a steady savings account going soon.
This weekend, I did none of these things. This weekend, I went flying instead. And it was breathtaking.
I have made a very good friend in Los Angeles, even though I have only been here three months, and even though my friend, whom I will call 'Evan', was home in Switzerland for a good portion of the summer. I found my couch and loveseat through his roommate, who could not be at home when my family came by to pick it up, but assured me Evan would be. And when my family showed up an hour early, at nine am on a Saturday, Evan very kindly helped us carry a heavy couch and loveseat down two sets of stairs, sleepy-eyed and messy-haired, sporting black-rimmed glasses and a Ducks' hockey jersey. He never even mentioned his serious tendonitis in his elbows, or the fact that he was trying to take it easy for the sake of his extensive golf career. He simply smiled, looked at my dad, and asked, "which end do you want me to take?"
Over the coming months, Evan kept in touch with me by little texts or facebook messages, just checking in on me now and then, in a very non-invasive way, to see how I was faring in Los Angeles. And when returned to the US in mid-August, he made a point of getting together so that he could catch up with me.
This was just over three weeks ago, and I am still surprised at the uncanny amount of things we share in common. While most of these things are random, happy surprises, like the fact that we both adore huskies, or our admiration of acoustic music, or an appreciation for really good food, we also share the not so painless being recently made single.
On Thursday, I found out that Evan had just broken up with his girlfriend. Aware of the fact that I have been struggling with similar feelings for the past three weeks, Evan asked if he could drive over, and if we could just sit and talk. Needing some company myself, and thinking back to that miserable night for myself, I said of course. By eleven pm, we had driven to Yogurtland, poured ourselves frozen yogurt concoctions, complete with lychee and the trademark neon spoons, and settled into the seats of his black BMW. With the engine off, we sat in the parking lane of a busy LA street, watching cars zoom by and people walking dogs and other yogurt patrons, listening to acoustic music, and talking about the difficulties of life and love. While we were both melancholy, the company made the load a little lighter. After we finished our yogurt, we decided we were both still hungry and drove to Ralph's, where Evan decided that tomato and mozarella (which he pronounced in Italian) would be an excellent post-midnight snack. We split the cost of some sea salt, balsamic vinegar, fresh mozarella, tomatoes, and a cheap bottle of wine, and drove back to my house.
At this point, we put on a dvd of "FRIENDS", and then a very strange thing happened; I was directed to sit down on the couch, while Evan whipped out cutting boards and knives and wine glasses and prepared everything, not letting me lift a finger. We laughed through the entire last season of friends, eating our delicious snack and not glossing over the occasional moments of sadness. At three thirty am, acknowledging that each of us had to head to work - he to host a golf tournament, and myself to teach yoga - a mere three hours later, Evan headed home for what was left of the night. Although I was exhausted Friday morning, I felt somehow more confident and settled as I led my students through down dogs and utkatasanas.
After having raved about the Swedish meatballs at Ikea for weeks, Evan asked if I wanted to go to Ikea in Burbank that afternoon. I had spent the week running around, doing extra work and paying traffic tickets and meeting with industry reps, so I said sure, putting my work aside until later. Evan picked me up around three thirty on Friday afternoon. Forty-six hours later, my new-found friend and I parted ways to get back to our responsible adult duties. We did what Evan calls, "wingin' it", which consisted of visiting spots all over Los Angeles, eating too much rich food, and most likely spending too much of the money I have penny-pinched for weeks. I loved every minute of it.
On Friday, we browsed through Ikea, where we took the time to look at all of the furniture and showrooms and ate Swedish meatballs, discussing the merits of fladbrod and of elderberry soda. We met up with two friends, Eric and Tyler, both of whom work at NASA, to go Rollerblading at Skateland, during which time we were hustled and bustled about by the teenagers there, whom we all swore were much less polite than we were at the age of twelve (though our parents and teachers may disagree). We grabbed more frozen yogurt and discussed space ships and race cars (I listened more than I spoke on these matters, enjoying the three guys revel in their passion for speed and driving and rockets). After this, we parted ways with Eric and Tyler, and we did another Ralph's run for sandwiches, which we greedily gobbled up on the floor in Evan's room as we watched the first episodes of "HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER" and "THE BIG BANG THEORY". We fell asleep late, me on the bed and Evan on the floor, both completely exhausted from a long history of being insomniacs.
On Saturday, we woke up at noon, which I rarely do anymore. After Evan took a shower, and just before we walked out the door, Evan noticed a sea of foam engulfing the kitchen floor. We paused to stop the dishwasher (which was apparently not compatible with the sample soap Evan had received), and we laughed as we mopped up foam from under the refrigerator, the trashcan, and between our toes. We ate hot, Pastrami sandwiches at a hole-in-the-wall spot which I was assured was "worth the thirty-minute drive"; it was. We drove to Venice Beach and walked along the boardwalk, so lovely and charming in its dirty, unapologetic way, and watched people skating in a giant cement bowl, men doing flips and tricks with incredible athletic prowess, a towering tree-man walking amidst the floating crowd, robed people chanting kirtan, drowsy bums slumped over guitars like love affairs, and vendors exhibiting their paintings and jewelry and knick-knacks and pot paraphernalia like proud tokens of a simpler life. We went to Third Street in Santa Monica, where we laughed at random books in Urban Outfitters, sighed approving smiles over the rustic couches and tables, reminiscent of the French provinces, in a furniture store, clapped admirably for the street musicians, whose performances were untouched by the slowly falling fog of the Los Angeles coastline, tried on silly accessories and jackets in H&M, and chatted about music (including the song "Ali in the Jungle", by The Hours, which seems so very fitting for this current, hazy phase in each of our lives). We headed back to my apartment, where we made pesto pasta and drank red wine, watched tv, shared foot massages in a simple, kind way, reminisced about home and friends, had cereal and chips at some ridiculous hour, laughed about life, and eventually fell into another deep slumber until late this afternoon, when we parted ways to go back to our little to-do lists.
I have a feeling the to-do lists will always be around, and that's okay. But sometimes it's not so bad to take that list off of the refrigerator, or to hide your planner under your bed, and to say, "hey, let's just wing it."
Who knew you could live such a life in two days?
Friday, September 17, 2010
Upcoming TV Spots
While I do not currently have the luxury of cable, my mother and sister just might fly out to the state of California and beat me if I do not post a list of my upcoming extra spots. So listed below, in a decent amount of detail, are my upcoming tv spots as an extra or featured extra:
September 20, 2010 - CHUCK (Season 4, Episode 1), on NBC, 8/7C
*Look for me as: Russian bus rider (only blond); woman on airplane (behind Chuck); hands used to stamp passports, slide credit cards, change food plates
September 22, 2010 - CRIMINAL MINDS (Season 6, Episode 1), on CBS, 9pm EST
*Look for me as: the gold Honda in traffic (you probably won't see me as a person)
October 1, 2010 - OUTLAW (Season 1, Episode 3), on NBC, 10/9C
*Look for me as: the girl at the outdoor hotel restaurant scene whom Eddie points out to Lucinda as "his type"
November 7, 2010 - DEXTER (Season 5, Episode 7) on Showtime, 9pm EST
*Look for me as: one of the sex trafficking/ rape victims, handcuffed to the bed (this is intense - be forewarned)
Unknown - SHAKE IT UP! (Season 1, Episode 7), on the Disney Channel
*Look for me as: the blond girl in the karate class and at the cafe; a movie patron in the back row during the scary movie
September 20, 2010 - CHUCK (Season 4, Episode 1), on NBC, 8/7C
*Look for me as: Russian bus rider (only blond); woman on airplane (behind Chuck); hands used to stamp passports, slide credit cards, change food plates
September 22, 2010 - CRIMINAL MINDS (Season 6, Episode 1), on CBS, 9pm EST
*Look for me as: the gold Honda in traffic (you probably won't see me as a person)
October 1, 2010 - OUTLAW (Season 1, Episode 3), on NBC, 10/9C
*Look for me as: the girl at the outdoor hotel restaurant scene whom Eddie points out to Lucinda as "his type"
November 7, 2010 - DEXTER (Season 5, Episode 7) on Showtime, 9pm EST
*Look for me as: one of the sex trafficking/ rape victims, handcuffed to the bed (this is intense - be forewarned)
Unknown - SHAKE IT UP! (Season 1, Episode 7), on the Disney Channel
*Look for me as: the blond girl in the karate class and at the cafe; a movie patron in the back row during the scary movie
Monday, September 6, 2010
LA Creepies
This will be a short and sweet post, because I need to vent, or take a shower, or perhaps both.
Apparently, the chef at work who keeps hitting on me, and who occasionally walks me home (as far as my front gate), and who I went out dancing with (with some of his friends) about a month ago - an illegal immigrant who has poured out his heart to me about how much he cares about me, who has tried to kiss me (fail) while I was in a relationship, and who bought me a wilted rose from some woman driving by a few nights ago - GET THIS - is not only married, but also has several children (like, three) with multiple women, the youngest of which is no more than six months old.
Los Angeles, you are quickly teaching me how to be the most suspicious person on the planet.
Needless to say, I was creeped out beyond belief when I found out all of this last night. I found out from the other waitress, who, when she found out I had actually gone out with him and his friends, was horrified and said, in total earnestness, "I really wouldn't have put it past him to have slipped something in your drink." The night we went out, he even had the gall to say to me, "hey, don't mention us going out to anyone at the restaurant. They blah-blah [talk] too much." Oh, okay. Meaning they might mention the fact that you should be spending time with your wife and kids instead of trying to date-rape twenty-two-year-olds. UGHHH.
Tonight at work, said nasty could tell he was on my bad side, and kept trying to talk to me. I flat-out told him, "I have nothing to say to you. Don't talk to me. You need to leave me alone." I don't think I've ever been as direct or, pardon my French, flat-out bitchy with someone. Let's hope he got the message, loud and clear.
Tomorrow begins my quest for bear mace. Goodnight, world.
Apparently, the chef at work who keeps hitting on me, and who occasionally walks me home (as far as my front gate), and who I went out dancing with (with some of his friends) about a month ago - an illegal immigrant who has poured out his heart to me about how much he cares about me, who has tried to kiss me (fail) while I was in a relationship, and who bought me a wilted rose from some woman driving by a few nights ago - GET THIS - is not only married, but also has several children (like, three) with multiple women, the youngest of which is no more than six months old.
Los Angeles, you are quickly teaching me how to be the most suspicious person on the planet.
Needless to say, I was creeped out beyond belief when I found out all of this last night. I found out from the other waitress, who, when she found out I had actually gone out with him and his friends, was horrified and said, in total earnestness, "I really wouldn't have put it past him to have slipped something in your drink." The night we went out, he even had the gall to say to me, "hey, don't mention us going out to anyone at the restaurant. They blah-blah [talk] too much." Oh, okay. Meaning they might mention the fact that you should be spending time with your wife and kids instead of trying to date-rape twenty-two-year-olds. UGHHH.
Tonight at work, said nasty could tell he was on my bad side, and kept trying to talk to me. I flat-out told him, "I have nothing to say to you. Don't talk to me. You need to leave me alone." I don't think I've ever been as direct or, pardon my French, flat-out bitchy with someone. Let's hope he got the message, loud and clear.
Tomorrow begins my quest for bear mace. Goodnight, world.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Addictions and Character
Last summer, as I was preparing to return to CMU for my final year as an RA, our lovely housefellow, whom I adore and look up with the utmost respect and admiration, had each staff member write up a brief essay in the style of the wonderful book This I Believe. If you've never read the book, go buy it on Amazon right now. It will fuel your desire to enact positive change in the world and will leave you with the realization that, while the economy may not always be the best, people are always good, in some fashion, if you dig deep enough. After thinking long and hard about what I believe at the core of my being, I came up with the following phrase: "I believe in judging less and in playing more." Tonight, and this past week in general, brought to mind this aspiration of mine.
In a world where people come from different cultural, political, religious, and fiscal backgrounds, not to mention personal experiences, joys, and catastrophes, judgment is practically ingrained in our kindergarten lunch boxes. I remember feeling embarrassed in grade school because the "cool kids" had things like fruit roll-ups and gushers and lunchables, while I had homemade (read: self-made) turkey-and-mustard sandwiches, generally smushed, and apples, with the occasional bag of fun-pack doritos. Judgment is something which we project onto others, and, often with the longest lasting damage, on ourselves. So tonight, I reiterate the importance of saving the judgment. Put it away on a shelf with the things you don't need. Let it collect dust, and let it be forgotten behind the brighter aspects of your livelihood, like the little trinkets and macaroni art from your children. Instead of judging, get to work playing. We started playing before we started judging, and I am constantly striving to return to that place.
While I may not always understand why that man has to lean on his horn in rush hour traffic, or why that bitter woman wears a scowl as she hurries down the street, I assume only that people have their reasons. Are their actions excusable because of an unfortunate morning or past? No. However, neither is a lack of compassion on my part excusable.
Underneath the seemingly unaffected facade is someone who feels lost and alone, under the strict restaurant manager is an ex-heroine addict who has to run a tight ship because he is grateful for someone giving him a chance, and under the jovial playboy is an illegal immigrant who worries but cannot return home to visit his mother, who is in the hospital with a serious heart condition. Even for myself, under the busybody who stays cheery and optimistic is a five-year-old girl who feels a little like hiding under the covers sometimes. Although it may be faster and easier to assume, take the time to look a little closer. Patience eventually produces understanding, and understanding, in turn, reflects compassion.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Choice
Life has its little way of throwing curveballs at you when you least expect them. When you're paused to chat with the coach, or on your way to the plate - wham! Life nails you in the shin, sending searing pain throughout your body and taking you out for a few innings. After that comes the swelling, and the ice pack to ease the pain. A week later, you get a nasty bruise that still hurts when you touch it. Then, down the road a ways, you are fine.
Time heals all wounds, and I believe time will treat me no differently. To once again quote Baz Luhrman's subtle yet poignant sunscreen speech, "don't worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday."
I have been blindsided once this week by the end of a long and, in many ways, wonderful relationship of four years, with a person who knows more about me than virtually anyone else on the planet. I have been blindsided this morning, waking up with nausea and vomiting at 4:30am. The physical experience of each of these events has been much the same. I find myself alone in a still-new city, sick to my stomach and aching. Yet in the same cycle as the inhale comes the exhale; the two are inextricably linked. As you inhale, you receive life. As you exhale, you release fear.
At any given moment, we project either love, or fear. I elect to have a conscious say in this extension of self, to continue reaching skyward and to pull the world up with me. Over the last day, I have received many incredible messages of support from friends and from family. Love has the ultimate say in the great game we play. And although love may be a terrifying thing, in that it requires courage and compassion to extend beyond the self, it is the only way forward.
Time heals all wounds, and I believe time will treat me no differently. To once again quote Baz Luhrman's subtle yet poignant sunscreen speech, "don't worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday."
I have been blindsided once this week by the end of a long and, in many ways, wonderful relationship of four years, with a person who knows more about me than virtually anyone else on the planet. I have been blindsided this morning, waking up with nausea and vomiting at 4:30am. The physical experience of each of these events has been much the same. I find myself alone in a still-new city, sick to my stomach and aching. Yet in the same cycle as the inhale comes the exhale; the two are inextricably linked. As you inhale, you receive life. As you exhale, you release fear.
At any given moment, we project either love, or fear. I elect to have a conscious say in this extension of self, to continue reaching skyward and to pull the world up with me. Over the last day, I have received many incredible messages of support from friends and from family. Love has the ultimate say in the great game we play. And although love may be a terrifying thing, in that it requires courage and compassion to extend beyond the self, it is the only way forward.
Baz Luhrman also said, "do one thing every day that scares you." Whether that be singing, or just taking the next step, you are choosing to conquer fear with love.
The light grows and grows and grows, endlessly!
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