In the culminating days of 2010, a year chock-full of karmic rewards and fortuitous happenings, a darker shade of reality reared its ugly head directly in the face of some of my closest friends. Empathetic as I am to my female counterparts, I felt it too: a numbing sense of loss and defeat on their behalf. One that called to mind that ever-looming question that plagues any woman with a healthy case of neurosis:
When will the other shoe drop?
When will my relationship turn sour, my job prove unfulfilling, my parents become less understanding, my health and fitness less easily attained, my apartment less affordable?
The ebb and flow of life is an undeniable force, not to be harnessed or manipulated. So how do we enjoy the good times without living in fear of the bad?
I believe humans are to emotional fortitude what camels are to water. (Bear with me.)
During the good times, we store up our happiness as a means of survival. When life is going smoothly, we are equipped with a courage, a fearlessness, if you will. And since we don't need it at the time, we save it. We hold onto it so that in our times of need we look back on it as an inspiration to endure.
And while I certainly have no pessimism about 2011, I choose to enter it well-equipped with the gifts 2010 has given me. I choose to delve further into my cherished relationship and embrace the changes and challenges that come with loving someone for over a year. I choose to tackle my day job head-on while actively committing to me the artist, someone who needs to sing for others, regardless of pay. I choose to celebrate the energy that has accompanied my renewed devotion to running by continuing to do it, every day. I choose to give more to others - both through random acts and a more regular commitment to volunteering.
Rather than resolutions or promises, these are choices. And knowing that I'm doing all I can do, I breathe easier.
And I hold on to the unshakable faith that, through it all, a few of the really important things can - and do - last forever.
Call me a romantic.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Saturday, July 31, 2010
The last day of July.
It could be that it was Saturday - one directly in the heart of summer, devoid of any real obligation.
It could be the fact that the oppressive heat of weekends prior miraculously lifted, leaving us with a perfect 80 degree day with a gentle breeze and only a random, wispy suggestion of a cloud that would disintegrate before we could even give it mention.
It could be that we rode a motorcycle, sure, but more so the significance of this fact. Given its recent absence due to an accident that could have ended tragically, it is now somehow more precious, and branded with a reminder that precaution is never wasted on young, jubilant lives that lack nothing except a guarantee for the future. As we glided, smooth as silk from Manhattan to Queens to Long Island to the shore and back again, at moments along a mere strip of land nestled between the Ocean and the Sound, we were free and awake and as alive as possible.
It could be the beach itself. It has an innate ability to, in spite of crowds, capture people in their realest state, allowing them to temporarily abandon their own physical, professional or personal responsibilities and be captivated by something greater than ourselves. The salty air cooled our sun-soaked skin, deprived for months each year under layers of cotton and wool; the warmth of the sand radiated beneath us; the symphony of seagulls and laughing children and crashing waves serenaded us. The transformative power this environment is undeniable.
It could be the combination of all the above.
But I can't help but think that, as perfect as every detail seemed, as brilliant a combination of circumstances as it, admittedly, was - it was much more. It is much more. In spite of time or location or circumstance - in spite of background music or weather pattern or mode of transportation. In spite of candlelight or sunlight, winter or summer, Tuesday morning or Saturday afternoon, there is some greater unifying factor.
And though it is a defining factor - I can't define it.
And I don't think I need to.
It could be the fact that the oppressive heat of weekends prior miraculously lifted, leaving us with a perfect 80 degree day with a gentle breeze and only a random, wispy suggestion of a cloud that would disintegrate before we could even give it mention.
It could be that we rode a motorcycle, sure, but more so the significance of this fact. Given its recent absence due to an accident that could have ended tragically, it is now somehow more precious, and branded with a reminder that precaution is never wasted on young, jubilant lives that lack nothing except a guarantee for the future. As we glided, smooth as silk from Manhattan to Queens to Long Island to the shore and back again, at moments along a mere strip of land nestled between the Ocean and the Sound, we were free and awake and as alive as possible.
It could be the beach itself. It has an innate ability to, in spite of crowds, capture people in their realest state, allowing them to temporarily abandon their own physical, professional or personal responsibilities and be captivated by something greater than ourselves. The salty air cooled our sun-soaked skin, deprived for months each year under layers of cotton and wool; the warmth of the sand radiated beneath us; the symphony of seagulls and laughing children and crashing waves serenaded us. The transformative power this environment is undeniable.
It could be the combination of all the above.
But I can't help but think that, as perfect as every detail seemed, as brilliant a combination of circumstances as it, admittedly, was - it was much more. It is much more. In spite of time or location or circumstance - in spite of background music or weather pattern or mode of transportation. In spite of candlelight or sunlight, winter or summer, Tuesday morning or Saturday afternoon, there is some greater unifying factor.
And though it is a defining factor - I can't define it.
And I don't think I need to.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
"I've been through this."
There’s a strange sense of comfort and accomplishment that accompanies the ability to utter those words when faced with one of life’s many unprecedented hurdles.
Over the course of 23 years of being chronic worrier, I’m prepared to identify my mortal enemy: the unknown. What’s better? I know I’m not alone.
What do we do when faced with the possibility of a past struggle resurfacing – and the realization that though we have won the battle, or perhaps several, we have yet to win the war?
We keep fighting, with the confidence that we know how to. With the conviction that the odds are in our favor. With the gratitude that our battles are fewer and farther between than most. With the knowledge that the war will be won, and it’s simply a matter of when.
And with the optimism that maybe the unknown isn’t something to fear.
Over the course of 23 years of being chronic worrier, I’m prepared to identify my mortal enemy: the unknown. What’s better? I know I’m not alone.
What do we do when faced with the possibility of a past struggle resurfacing – and the realization that though we have won the battle, or perhaps several, we have yet to win the war?
We keep fighting, with the confidence that we know how to. With the conviction that the odds are in our favor. With the gratitude that our battles are fewer and farther between than most. With the knowledge that the war will be won, and it’s simply a matter of when.
And with the optimism that maybe the unknown isn’t something to fear.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
A Confession.
My reticence to post in recent weeks - okay, months - can only be attributed to the fact that I find myself, well, speechless. Amid all the richness of life, my vocabulary has failed to do it justice.
I have been teetering precariously on the edge of contentedness for months now, and it seems that, as I embark on a full-time job, leaps and bounds closer to the independence I demand for myself, with a family whose health and fundamental happiness seem startlingly in tact, a circle of brilliant loyal friends, and a relationship that continues to redefine my standards for happiness on a daily basis, all amid the youth of summer in the most ridiculously phenomenal, inspirational 22 square-mile piece of the universe - I have blissfully fallen off the edge and into that terrifying, thrilling void of what happens next.
Needless to say, run-on sentences don't do it justice.
I turn to a Stoppard quote courtesy of a coworker who I admire immensely:
"Words are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little."
Jeez Tom, no pressure. But it has dawned on me that I need to pay tribute to my current circumstances in writing, to immortalize them so that I may turn to them in the future. As a reminder that this kind of happiness is always out there, lingering in the atmosphere, waiting for that moment when find ourselves ready to breathe it in. As a reminder that I've achieved it, regardless of whether it lasts a season or a year or until the day I die.
That's more than many people can claim in their entire time on this planet.
So here's to working for an organization that feels like a family - a family who has taken a leap of faith in me and given me the opportunity of a lifetime. Here's to a mother who I admire and respect so greatly it moves me to tears to tell her. Here's to a father who has a warmth and kindness in his soul that seems to transcend humanity. Here's to a brother who is so brilliant that I can't help but worry that the world will never give him the credit he deserves, but know he will land on his feet anyway. Here's to a future sister-in-law who is a woman of intelligence, grace, and humility and the perfect match for my brother. Here's to my best friend since childhood, a woman of unwavering loyalty and sense of humor, and an inspiration to any writer. Here's to the man I had thought only existed in my dreams, who loves me just the way I am and tells me in every way he can, at any moment he can, and who serves as a constant reminder that I can do anything, and that it's more worth doing when he's by my side. Here's to health. Here's to intelligence. Here's to happiness. The kind of happiness that makes you want to nudge the world a little.
I realize this is a somewhat self-indulgent proclamation of gratitude, particularly in a world of war, poverty, racism, environmental crisis. But I've devoted tears of joy and sighs and laughter and greeting cards and meals and skipped heartbeats and long runs and songs played on repeat to savoring this feeling. If I could paint a picture or compose a symphony of the caliber it deserves, believe me, I would. How could I call myself a writer and not attempt, however clumsily, to capture it?
The only certainty is the present moment. And in this living, breathing moment, consider me shouting from the proverbial mountaintops that a I am living in every sense I know how.
This commitment to life in the moment makes the idea of what's next a lot more promising.
I have been teetering precariously on the edge of contentedness for months now, and it seems that, as I embark on a full-time job, leaps and bounds closer to the independence I demand for myself, with a family whose health and fundamental happiness seem startlingly in tact, a circle of brilliant loyal friends, and a relationship that continues to redefine my standards for happiness on a daily basis, all amid the youth of summer in the most ridiculously phenomenal, inspirational 22 square-mile piece of the universe - I have blissfully fallen off the edge and into that terrifying, thrilling void of what happens next.
Needless to say, run-on sentences don't do it justice.
I turn to a Stoppard quote courtesy of a coworker who I admire immensely:
"Words are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little."
Jeez Tom, no pressure. But it has dawned on me that I need to pay tribute to my current circumstances in writing, to immortalize them so that I may turn to them in the future. As a reminder that this kind of happiness is always out there, lingering in the atmosphere, waiting for that moment when find ourselves ready to breathe it in. As a reminder that I've achieved it, regardless of whether it lasts a season or a year or until the day I die.
That's more than many people can claim in their entire time on this planet.
So here's to working for an organization that feels like a family - a family who has taken a leap of faith in me and given me the opportunity of a lifetime. Here's to a mother who I admire and respect so greatly it moves me to tears to tell her. Here's to a father who has a warmth and kindness in his soul that seems to transcend humanity. Here's to a brother who is so brilliant that I can't help but worry that the world will never give him the credit he deserves, but know he will land on his feet anyway. Here's to a future sister-in-law who is a woman of intelligence, grace, and humility and the perfect match for my brother. Here's to my best friend since childhood, a woman of unwavering loyalty and sense of humor, and an inspiration to any writer. Here's to the man I had thought only existed in my dreams, who loves me just the way I am and tells me in every way he can, at any moment he can, and who serves as a constant reminder that I can do anything, and that it's more worth doing when he's by my side. Here's to health. Here's to intelligence. Here's to happiness. The kind of happiness that makes you want to nudge the world a little.
I realize this is a somewhat self-indulgent proclamation of gratitude, particularly in a world of war, poverty, racism, environmental crisis. But I've devoted tears of joy and sighs and laughter and greeting cards and meals and skipped heartbeats and long runs and songs played on repeat to savoring this feeling. If I could paint a picture or compose a symphony of the caliber it deserves, believe me, I would. How could I call myself a writer and not attempt, however clumsily, to capture it?
The only certainty is the present moment. And in this living, breathing moment, consider me shouting from the proverbial mountaintops that a I am living in every sense I know how.
This commitment to life in the moment makes the idea of what's next a lot more promising.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Too much of a good thing?
I was raised in an extremely open, liberal household, by professional artists. I have made my life and career in the world of theater, a community in which homosexuals likely represent the majority. I live in New York City, a melting pot not only of cultures but of lifestyles and sexualities. Finally, I have gay family members and friends who I love regardless of, and irrelevant to, their sexual preference.
But along with any signifcant and necessary social rights movement comes a backlash of unnecessary hype.
I couldn't remain quiet when noticed the amount of attention being drawn toward one Newsweek article expressing the author's opinion about openly gay actors playing straight.
Glaring typo aside (ten bucks if you can find it) - the author posed strong opinions on historically controversial topic, and for that, I commend him. I don't agree with everything he says, and I certainly don't agree that Sean Hayes' sexuality posed any significant hindrance to his portrayal of a straight man in Promises, Promises. I also don't agree that the author of said article, however poorly written or uninformed, was even remotely in the wrong.
In not surprisingly dramatic fashion, Hayes' co-star Kristen Chenoweth (love her as I do) got her panties in a twist and fired a letter in response to the article essentially accusing the author of being homophobic, ignorant, intolerant, and a big old meanie-head.
As a petite blonde with a solid High C, I empathize with Ms. Chenoweth's protective impulse. It's almost a gut reaction to jump on anyone who would attack a fellow artist, more so if said artist is in a social minority that, in our industry, represents the majority.
But the subsequent hype - the number of publications that have picked up Chenoweth's response - the social media frenzy that inevitably erupts whenever there is a bandwagon to jump on - is completely outrageous. I happen to agree, as would most seasoned theater critics, that there are oftentimes qualities in an actor that are stronger than the character they play. We as audience members are afforded the opportunity to overlook the literal time, place, and circumstance in order to embrace the one presented before us. The fact that for decades people have erupted into song and perfect harmony in another wise normal situation is something that, while we logically know is unrealistic, we embrace and celebrate in the beloved genre of American Musical Theater. In specific pieces we are even encouraged to overlook the actor's race or gender in favor of their talent, the character, and the piece.
Theater is about the suspension of reality. It gives the audience the benefit of the doubt - that they have the intelligence to know that, while what they are seeing before them is most obviously not real - they are entitled to believe so, at least for the moment. It's the art of make-believe - not precision, accuracy, and literal interpretation. When did we forget this?
I truly believe that gay actors should be just as subject to criticisms about the apparence of their sexuality as I am subject to criticism about my appearance, ethnicity, height and weight - all factors in nearly any role for which I have ever auditioned.
Did I find Sean Hayes to be a most satisfactory, charming, endearing and entertaining 2010 response to Jerry Orbach's role in the original production of Promises, Promises? Certainly. His performance was commendable and his nomination deserved. Did I find there to be an amusing undercurrent of skepticism about his sexuality in the role? Certainly. And, truly, I felt it served the levity of the piece.
The fact that America is a place of differing opinions is what makes it America. This was no hate crime, and even a far cry from homophobic. That some people will take offense is their right. I can only hope that their opinions, however varied, are genuine and their own.
But along with any signifcant and necessary social rights movement comes a backlash of unnecessary hype.
I couldn't remain quiet when noticed the amount of attention being drawn toward one Newsweek article expressing the author's opinion about openly gay actors playing straight.
Glaring typo aside (ten bucks if you can find it) - the author posed strong opinions on historically controversial topic, and for that, I commend him. I don't agree with everything he says, and I certainly don't agree that Sean Hayes' sexuality posed any significant hindrance to his portrayal of a straight man in Promises, Promises. I also don't agree that the author of said article, however poorly written or uninformed, was even remotely in the wrong.
In not surprisingly dramatic fashion, Hayes' co-star Kristen Chenoweth (love her as I do) got her panties in a twist and fired a letter in response to the article essentially accusing the author of being homophobic, ignorant, intolerant, and a big old meanie-head.
As a petite blonde with a solid High C, I empathize with Ms. Chenoweth's protective impulse. It's almost a gut reaction to jump on anyone who would attack a fellow artist, more so if said artist is in a social minority that, in our industry, represents the majority.
But the subsequent hype - the number of publications that have picked up Chenoweth's response - the social media frenzy that inevitably erupts whenever there is a bandwagon to jump on - is completely outrageous. I happen to agree, as would most seasoned theater critics, that there are oftentimes qualities in an actor that are stronger than the character they play. We as audience members are afforded the opportunity to overlook the literal time, place, and circumstance in order to embrace the one presented before us. The fact that for decades people have erupted into song and perfect harmony in another wise normal situation is something that, while we logically know is unrealistic, we embrace and celebrate in the beloved genre of American Musical Theater. In specific pieces we are even encouraged to overlook the actor's race or gender in favor of their talent, the character, and the piece.
Theater is about the suspension of reality. It gives the audience the benefit of the doubt - that they have the intelligence to know that, while what they are seeing before them is most obviously not real - they are entitled to believe so, at least for the moment. It's the art of make-believe - not precision, accuracy, and literal interpretation. When did we forget this?
I truly believe that gay actors should be just as subject to criticisms about the apparence of their sexuality as I am subject to criticism about my appearance, ethnicity, height and weight - all factors in nearly any role for which I have ever auditioned.
Did I find Sean Hayes to be a most satisfactory, charming, endearing and entertaining 2010 response to Jerry Orbach's role in the original production of Promises, Promises? Certainly. His performance was commendable and his nomination deserved. Did I find there to be an amusing undercurrent of skepticism about his sexuality in the role? Certainly. And, truly, I felt it served the levity of the piece.
The fact that America is a place of differing opinions is what makes it America. This was no hate crime, and even a far cry from homophobic. That some people will take offense is their right. I can only hope that their opinions, however varied, are genuine and their own.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Enlightenment - $9.50
This morning as I hailed a cab on East 79th Street, I carried with me my purse, a plastic bag of Heineken bottles and vanilla vodka that clanked as I slid into the back seat (long story), and an exquisite bouquet of aromatic spring flowers.
I carried with me reluctant anticipation of my morning run, happy that I had the time for it and unsure if I had the energy, but knowing I would try anyway. I carried a mental checklist of daily responsibilities, brewing excitement for upcoming events, and a tightly wound ball of love and concern for the special people in my life.
No sooner did my driver compliment me on the flowers than he launched into a sermon of his personal beliefs.
"Oh God, one of these," I thought to myself, hoping that cross-town traffic would be light. A few sentences in, though, I realized this was no fundamentalist tirade or nonsensical stream of consciousness. It was an honest attempt to share with me the basic, yet frequently ignored tools of personal enlightenment.
It started with philosophies and suggestions I've heard before. Find your strength within. Know thyself. If you spend life trying to win the rat race, even if you win, you're still merely a rat. Too many people succumb to spending their lives in search of success and once it is found, they have lost their soul. Inner truth, personal enlightenment.
And I didn't even mind him pushing his religious agenda on me since it was a religion in which I actually have an academic interest.
Half-knowing how naïve I sounded, I smiled and innocently inquired “Are you talking about Buddhism?”
“VERY GOOD!” he applauded, and I mentally patted myself on the back for being moderately well-read on the subject. This pride, this sense of accomplishment, however, was precisely that which he was arguing against.
"But it's so much more than that. Let me ask you a question: What is the fundamental problem with human nature?"
I didn’t know.
"Answer me this: what is our purpose for being on this planet?"
I considered saying something pithy- like, to love one another, to create something that lasts longer than we do.
Instead I said “I. Have. No. Idea.”
"And that is the problem."
He then persevered through broken English,
"We try to give our existence meaning through the material world, through accomplishments and education. Through money. We need to define our purpose for living through tangible successes. We define it with churches and gods, schools of belief that are limiting and render us untrue to our inner selves. The truth lies not in Lord Jesus, or Buddha - it is not written in the Bible or Koran or Bhagavad Ghadi. It can only be found within yourself. And once you know yourself, once you achieve that enlightenment, you can share it. You MUST share it. You must awaken the heart and soul of others. Share the knowledge, share the love. Devote yourself to selfless service. When you feed the birds on the street, you're feeding the creative power."
A hint of Zen, sure, but this had nothing to do with religion at all.
As we wove our way to the western edge of Central Park, I found myself wishing traffic would slow down.
He continued talking for the rest of the drive - pearls of wisdom pouring out at such a rate I couldn't re-articulate them if I tried.
His advice wasn't anything I hadn't heard before in some shape or form. What moved me about this was pure circumstance - the unexpected and rare gift of human connection and shared wisdom for no other reason that the fact that we are alive, breathing, and for the next 15 minutes or so - sharing this confined space. Let's learn from it.
"You are my sister," he said. "You are a child of the universe."
"Of course." I said. I smiled. "Thank you," he said.
"Right or left side?" Hello, reality. As I swiped my credit card payment, complete with 20% tip, he continued to implore me to search inside myself. And when I find it, whatever it may be...share it. Share it with my boyfriend who bought me the beautiful flowers that sparked the conversation to begin with. Share it with the people you love and the people you don't understand. It's universal and it's good and nobody can argue with that.
Because everyone, at the end of the day, has to answer to themselves.
I carried with me reluctant anticipation of my morning run, happy that I had the time for it and unsure if I had the energy, but knowing I would try anyway. I carried a mental checklist of daily responsibilities, brewing excitement for upcoming events, and a tightly wound ball of love and concern for the special people in my life.
No sooner did my driver compliment me on the flowers than he launched into a sermon of his personal beliefs.
"Oh God, one of these," I thought to myself, hoping that cross-town traffic would be light. A few sentences in, though, I realized this was no fundamentalist tirade or nonsensical stream of consciousness. It was an honest attempt to share with me the basic, yet frequently ignored tools of personal enlightenment.
It started with philosophies and suggestions I've heard before. Find your strength within. Know thyself. If you spend life trying to win the rat race, even if you win, you're still merely a rat. Too many people succumb to spending their lives in search of success and once it is found, they have lost their soul. Inner truth, personal enlightenment.
And I didn't even mind him pushing his religious agenda on me since it was a religion in which I actually have an academic interest.
Half-knowing how naïve I sounded, I smiled and innocently inquired “Are you talking about Buddhism?”
“VERY GOOD!” he applauded, and I mentally patted myself on the back for being moderately well-read on the subject. This pride, this sense of accomplishment, however, was precisely that which he was arguing against.
"But it's so much more than that. Let me ask you a question: What is the fundamental problem with human nature?"
I didn’t know.
"Answer me this: what is our purpose for being on this planet?"
I considered saying something pithy- like, to love one another, to create something that lasts longer than we do.
Instead I said “I. Have. No. Idea.”
"And that is the problem."
He then persevered through broken English,
"We try to give our existence meaning through the material world, through accomplishments and education. Through money. We need to define our purpose for living through tangible successes. We define it with churches and gods, schools of belief that are limiting and render us untrue to our inner selves. The truth lies not in Lord Jesus, or Buddha - it is not written in the Bible or Koran or Bhagavad Ghadi. It can only be found within yourself. And once you know yourself, once you achieve that enlightenment, you can share it. You MUST share it. You must awaken the heart and soul of others. Share the knowledge, share the love. Devote yourself to selfless service. When you feed the birds on the street, you're feeding the creative power."
A hint of Zen, sure, but this had nothing to do with religion at all.
As we wove our way to the western edge of Central Park, I found myself wishing traffic would slow down.
He continued talking for the rest of the drive - pearls of wisdom pouring out at such a rate I couldn't re-articulate them if I tried.
His advice wasn't anything I hadn't heard before in some shape or form. What moved me about this was pure circumstance - the unexpected and rare gift of human connection and shared wisdom for no other reason that the fact that we are alive, breathing, and for the next 15 minutes or so - sharing this confined space. Let's learn from it.
"You are my sister," he said. "You are a child of the universe."
"Of course." I said. I smiled. "Thank you," he said.
"Right or left side?" Hello, reality. As I swiped my credit card payment, complete with 20% tip, he continued to implore me to search inside myself. And when I find it, whatever it may be...share it. Share it with my boyfriend who bought me the beautiful flowers that sparked the conversation to begin with. Share it with the people you love and the people you don't understand. It's universal and it's good and nobody can argue with that.
Because everyone, at the end of the day, has to answer to themselves.
Monday, April 5, 2010
And she's back.
As I had hoped, the weekend in Connecticut was precisely what I needed to feel completely like my old self again.
Of course, credit is also owed to the phenomenal weather (showing no end in sight), the fact that my parents are back from the West Coast and my brother is blissfully planning his nuptials with a woman I adore, the Yankees' more-than-respectable showing in spite of their loss at Fenway's opening day yesterday (and the rapidly approaching opening at the House That Deej Built), and the fact that I'll be in Spain in exactly one month with the man I love. Credit where credit is due, friends.
But there is something about good old Wilton, CT...about cruising through the twists and turns of back roads you could swear were hundreds of miles from any city...about jogging a path that showcases the three schools I attended between the ages of 10-18...about being in my car with the windows down, flipping back and forth between z100 (and the same old morning show I listened to day after day throughout my entire adolescence) and 95.9 (better known as the station that made me fall in love with classic rock)...about kicking back with wine and friends under the strangely incomparable security of our parents' houses...about singing in the church that cured my stage fright...about hilarity-inducing reflection on the early days of the internet over belated corned beef at dining table that has seen so many holiday dinners...
It's impossible not to become swept up in a sea of sense memories, almost all of which awaken a sense of comfort, consistency, and overwhelming gratitude for the fact that some things will indeed never change.
Of course, credit is also owed to the phenomenal weather (showing no end in sight), the fact that my parents are back from the West Coast and my brother is blissfully planning his nuptials with a woman I adore, the Yankees' more-than-respectable showing in spite of their loss at Fenway's opening day yesterday (and the rapidly approaching opening at the House That Deej Built), and the fact that I'll be in Spain in exactly one month with the man I love. Credit where credit is due, friends.
But there is something about good old Wilton, CT...about cruising through the twists and turns of back roads you could swear were hundreds of miles from any city...about jogging a path that showcases the three schools I attended between the ages of 10-18...about being in my car with the windows down, flipping back and forth between z100 (and the same old morning show I listened to day after day throughout my entire adolescence) and 95.9 (better known as the station that made me fall in love with classic rock)...about kicking back with wine and friends under the strangely incomparable security of our parents' houses...about singing in the church that cured my stage fright...about hilarity-inducing reflection on the early days of the internet over belated corned beef at dining table that has seen so many holiday dinners...
It's impossible not to become swept up in a sea of sense memories, almost all of which awaken a sense of comfort, consistency, and overwhelming gratitude for the fact that some things will indeed never change.
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