Stamp of Identity

"The wax that has melted in God's will can easily receive the stamp of its identity, the truth of what it was meant to be. But the wax that is hard and dry and brittle and without love will not take the seal: for the hard seal, descending upon it, grinds it to powder.
"Therefore if you spend your life trying to escape from the heat of the fire that is meant to soften and prepare you to become your true self, and if you try to keep your substance from melting in the fire - as if your true identity were to be hard wax - the seal will fall upon you at last and crush you. You will not be able to take your own true name and countenance, and you will be destroyed by the event that was meant to be your fulfillment."

--Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation

It's 8:03 am and I'm waiting to board a flight to Oklahoma. Going to see my parents. My mom, really, for Mother's Day. Seth's Dad is coming to New York for their annual father/son hang-out thingy, so basically, they kicked me out. Perfect timing for being kicked out seeing how it's mother's day and all.

I don't understand why people, who are clearly surrounded by other quiet, obviously very sleepy, people, feel the need to speak so frickin loud. Honestly. Look around man. NO ONE else is speaking as loud as you are. Ssshhhhhh

I have a little secret to share with you all. Remember how we were always taught in Sunday school that flying is "the perfect time to witness!". We should all find out if the stranger next to us is saved because it's perfect! They're trapped! They can't go anywhere! Here's my little secret. I don't do that.. When I sit next to a stranger I like to be left alone. Very very alone. So alone that I bury my head in a book from the moment I sit down. I'm really hoping that loud man isn't sitting next to me. I KNOW he's the kind that nervously and LOUDLY asks you questions even if you're head's buried in a book. Ok. Gotta go. Boarding. Layover in Chicago.

10:48 AM:

In Chicago, home of the two famous O's. I didn't realize when I booked my flight that this second plane here was one of those little ones. Dang it. Not a fan. I didn't have to sit by the loud mouth. Instead I was smack dab in the middle of two babies, one directly in front and one directly behind, and one, if not both, had a poopy diaper. Lovely. I've cheered myself with a bag of Chex Mix and am waiting to board the rinky dink. Wish me well.

Thirty.

I remember, when I was seven years old, being hid in the back bedroom of a house with all the other kids. Those kids' parents were throwing my mother a surprise birthday party. They thought it would be cute to theme the party "Over the Hill."

My mom turned thirty that day. I remember hearing them all yell surprise through the bedroom door.

Two days ago I turned thirty. There were even a few close friends who yelled surprise when I opened the door. Except I don't have a 7 -year-old daughter waiting in the back bedroom. I babysit a 7-year-old.

My earliest experience associated with thirty is also associated with the words "Over the Hill."

Hmmmmm.

I don't feel anywhere close to a hill.

I was a little worried about thirty. Mostly because when my mom was thirty she had two kids who where 7 and 5. That makes me feel like I'm late on a few things. But I already like thirty. It's liberating. Who cares what everyone else thinks when you're thirty. Everyone else can kiss ass. See, I even said ass when I knew a good bit of you wouldn't approve.

I'm embracing the thirties.

I went to a yoga class today and the instructor had this to say: "Don't fixate on the goal. Fixating on the goal leads to negative feelings towards others who reach the goal and negative feelings towards ourselves if we don't meet the goal as fast as we hope. Instead focus on the present, how you feel in each pose and in each movement. No judgment. Wherever you are today is exactly where you should be."

That's kinda what thirty feels like to me. It feels good.

Welcome to the Club

LITTLE WOMEN is officially closed.

And I am officially a member of the Actor's Equity Association.

The Engeman theater gave me my card. It's the actor's way of saying, "They allowed me to pay for my card." And pay for it, I did. Strange how it took literally half an hour. Half an hour to walk into the Equity building, fill out my application, write a check, and walk out with my card. That simple. Amazing what money can do.

I went to my first audition as an Equity member this past Friday. It's almost unfair how easy it is to get past the guy at the desk. He hardly looks at your card. Doesn't check to see if it's really you. Doesn't look to see if your card is fake. Just barely glances at the thing you pull out of your wallet and nonchalantly allows you to pass. I mean, it should be harder than that, right? Considering all those mornings I woke up to sit for hours and hours only to be told to go home. Considering all those times I had to use the bathroom at McDonald's because I wasn't allowed in to use the Equity ones? Considering ALL those times I got up IN THE 5'S!!!!

When you're non-Equity, Equity members try to tell you that there's not much difference between being union and non-union. I think they just forget what it was like to wake up in the 5's.

My LITTLE WOMEN cast, who were all Equity members already, threw me a little surprise "initiation" ceremony in honor of being let into the club. They pretended to hold an Equity meeting and when I walked in to the meeting (it being my first), I was greeted with flowers and a Congrats card. It was incredible, really. I couldn't have hoped to have started this next phase in my acting career with a better cast or show or theater. It was very special.

I have also officially begun my week of the "Show Closing Blues." Bleh.

Nanny Diaries

I took the two-year-old to swimming lessons today. He was a doll. The whole time I sat there with a big grin on my face because he was so cute. His other babysitter (who usually is the one who takes him to swimming) instructed me to, after the lesson, shower the little guy off in the open shower at the corner of the room and shampoo his hair, so we wouldn't have to bathe him later.


The lesson ended. The two-year-old's swim instructor approached me after the lesson.

We'll just call him....Goob.

GOOB:
Have I met you before?

ME:
(thinking) Oh brother... (Then out loud) Uh...yeah, I think once, when I brought his older brother to swimming. I usually work evenings so this is pretty new to me.

GOOB:
(as I'm getting two-year-old ready to shower off) So are you from New York City?

ME:
(thinking) Here we go... (then out loud) Uh...no. From Texas, actually.

GOOB:
Oh. (As I'm heading with two-year-old to the shower) How long have you been working with this family?

ME:
Uh...probably a year and a half, or so.

GOOB:
(While I'm at the shower shampooing the two-year-old's hair) Hey, I was thinking, since I probably won't see you again, I should probably go ahead and ask...

ME:
(thinking) NO!!! DON'T ASK! PLEASE! DO. NOT. ASK!

GOOB:
Would you like to have dinner with me?

ME:
I'm married.

GOOB:
OH....yeah...uh.

ME:
Yeah...haha...I'm flattered...but no.

Note to self and all other Nut Nannies in New York City: when watching child's swimming lessons, watch nonchalantly and keep outward forms of expression to yourself, unless Goob swimming instructor mistakes smiles and *thumbs up* to be for himself rather than for child.

Blogpology

It's that time, fancied friends, when I re-enter the blogosphere in hopes that there's somebody still there. That time where I profusely apologize for being absent, though it always strikes me a bit vain that I would apologize to YOU for not having any writing of MINE for you to read.

When I'm doing a show, it's hard for me to write. I don't know why. I guess my creative energies are focused somewhere else, or maybe I'm getting all the recognition I need through applause and "Good show"s. Maybe I don't feel the need to prove myself anymore.

Is blogging really all about self-validation?

Sometimes, maybe.

But not all the time. I like it. I like hearing from you guys and reading about what's going on in your lives. I like writing. I like trying to find the memorable things in my day, the small seemingly inconsequential that holds meaning if we'd just let it. And I like sharing it with you. The big things, too. I like holding myself accountable to my own goals and dreams by archiving them. I like having a way to look back.

So, really, I think the reason for my absence, is...I'm just worn out. WIth my free time I want to talk to my husband and catch up on my shows and sleep in and go to church.

But the show's closing this weekend, and I'm preparing mentally for that. which involves remembering how much I like this here form of communication and expression. I hope you guys are still there. Holler if you are. Anyone out there?

Hey Jetsons, check this out:

Rad.

LITTLE WOMEN is officially open! Woo hoo!

Hey check it out! There's some great pics at the bottom of the article.

Click here.

Hubbie's New Job

Remember how I said that my husband just became the musical director at a church here in Manhattan, and that I'd tell you more about it later?

I think I'll just let him explain it to you.

To Be or Not To Be

Oh fancied friends I am not a dedicated blogger these days. I'm sorry the posts are few and far between, and sorry that I haven't been able to make it over to your blogs to read and comment. But my hope is that you're all well and happy and content.

At this very moment I'm on a train to Northport for another long tech rehearsal. We're behind but all in all I'm very excited about how the show is coming together. Right now my cast mates are probably wondering where I am because I forwent the gathering ritual of meeting before the track is announced. I'm a little grumpy this morning and thought I'd spare them all my sullen face. By the time we get there I should be less sleepy and less irritable - irritable because I lost my scarf in the train station. One minute it was hanging loosely from my neck (I had just undone it because I was burning up hot from the cramped subway ride), the next minute gone. Did it fall? Did someone slyly pull it from my neck when I was indecisively trying to figure out which bottled water to buy? Of all things, my pashmina! It was pink. And pretty. My pretty, pink pashmina is now gone forever. And I didn't even buy it. It was a hand-me-down. Actually I was kind of borrowing it. There. Truth be told. It wasn't even mine. Dadgummit.

I looked all around on the floor where I had been. Missing pashmina nowhere to be found. Someone is walking the streets of New York this very minute with my pretty pink pashmina. Well not really mine.... Dangit.

There's this one part in my big duet I sing with Jo, where I am going to (gasp) change the melody! Actually it's just one note but I thoroughly hate this one note, and sparing you the boring details, I'm just telling you. I'm going to change it! I've figured it all out, and I think my way is much better on all accounts. I'm trying to decide if I actually need to inform my musical director. One thing I do know is that musical theater people don't like changing notes. As a folk-slash-pop-slash-kindofrock-slash-Christian recording artist you can change notes all day long and it's ok! But these musical theater folk....oh no. I might scare the scarf off my musical director (he typically wears one) and bring the whole darn number to a svreaching halt.

"Woah woah woah. (nervous chuckle). Uh.... Fancypants.... You sag a B instead of a D there. (nervous chuckle... Wraps scarf back around his neck).

To which I could have numerous responses.

Number 1: Yeah. I know. Who wrote this song? They kind of suck. I'm not singing the D there.

Number 2: OH!!! Oops. That just kinda happened. But I sort of one it better. What do you think?

Number 3: I am so sorry. My mistake, won't happen again. (or will it, she says to herself)

Hmmmmm. Or I could just work it I win my musical director before hand so as not to risk another scarf being lost, but risking my idea being shut down.

Diva or not to be diva? THAT is the question. What should it be, folks?

Nanny Diaries

I'm wearing my Beatles t-shirt with camo pants. (My favorite tee designed with a pic of all four guys - John, Paul, George, and Ringo - on the front) I was sure the 7-year-old would say something about the camo pants. I figured he'd get a kick out of 'em, which is pretty much why I wore them. I enter the front door of my nannying destination, where I find my little 7-yr-old, glasses and all, sitting at the table eating a homemade oreo cookie.

7-YEAR-OLD: Why are you wearing a Jonas Brothers shirt?

.....Oh boy.

Have you ever been in a place in your life where everything, every-single-little-thing, means something. Where you go about your day knowing life is rich. It's not all easy. It's not all fun. But it's all clear. It's all love. Even the pain is love.

Somehow I'm there. I don't know how long it will last. I don't know why it's right now that it is. Every relationship is full. Every act is purposed. I'm thankful for each new day, for every person in my life. My faults are directly before my eyes and known to me, but I'm not afraid of them. I'm seeing light from darkness in a new way.

What is this? What is this but the undeniable grace of God that is given on no account but by the will of the Giver. Grace super-abounding. A little taste of heaven. An awareness of the kingdom of God on earth.

Yet even as I write, I feel its absence in fleeting moments. It's gone. It's there.

And I hope for what's to come, when the Gift is all throughout and around and eternal and near in a way that is fully known, fully realized, fully felt.

Complete.

Update

Rehearsals are going well. My cast is amazing. My director has issues with sentimentality and therefore keeps cutting more of my lines out of the play, because, well, my character is the sentimental one. The first two times I was like, yeah, that line was dumb. Cool. Then the third time, I thought...hey now, that's three of my lines gone. And if he does it again, I might just have to stand up for poor Beth here and plead her case.

Our Jo was in Cry Baby on B'way before it closed. She's really fun to work with. They're ALL fun to work with. My director included, even though he keeps chopping my lines.

Seth is now the acting music director of Central Presbyterian Church in Manhattan. We led worship today and it was a blast. My husband plays the organ. Who knew? We feel incredibly blessed by the people there and are so thankful for them.

More about the church later. I'm exhausted. Gotta sleep.

Little Women

Good news! I'm playing Beth in LITTLE WOMEN at the Engeman Theater. (Same theater as OLIVER and WONDERFUL LIFE) Rehearsals start Monday. I can't wait to get started. The show runs March 12 - April 19.

Beth is the second to youngest daughter of the March family.

Here's the website for more info. Click on "Show Schedule," then scroll down to find LITTLE WOMEN. Click on the link for tickets if you're interested in show times and prices. Would love for anyone who's able to come see the show!

I'll update with more info on cast members and let you know how the process is going as we go along.

For Husbands: 10 Ways You Know Your Wife is PMS-ing.

1. She cries not only at movies like Steel Magnolias and Beaches, but also at random scenes from Desperate Housewives.

2. She stares off in the distance mopingly for no good reason at all. Actually altogether she has a distant look in her eye. Like she's there but not really there -you can't be sure.

3. She wants to cuddle, then seconds later wants nothing to do with you.

4. You think it's safe to joke about her quirks, but when you do, she either cries or yells at you or slams a door or some combination of all three.

5. She keeps asking you, possibly for three to five days in a row, if she's gained weight, even though just the day before you told her no and that she looked hot. You do tell her that she looks hot, I'm sure....RIGHT?

6. She's slacking on chores and household responsibilities. Doesn't want to cook or clean or run errands or much of anything.

7. But she does want chocolate. A lot of it.

8. If she's normally a pretty organized person, you notice her forgetting things when she leaves the house, like maybe even her PURSE! GASP. You'll notice her leaving and coming back inside several times before actually departing the premises.

9. She's irritated at the world when she's not irritated with you, and irritated with you when she's not irritated with the world. Choose your words carefully and be extra sweet, and if....IF....you must remind her that she's PMSing...don't use it as ammunition. She can't help it. Don't discard her feelings because of it. Her feelings are important. And by all means, don't ASK her in the middle of an argument if she is. It won't get you anywhere. Just ask her LATER, when you think it's safe, and ask her sweetly, and then remember so you don't have to ask her AGAIN.

10. She's too annoyed to think of a number 10 on a list she thinks is cliche but will post anyways because she has nothing else she presently wants to write about.

Thinking Out Loud

Sitting in a Starbucks, thinking. Surely, there is some inherent goodness in us all. I notice kindnesses in the street. Real, genuine kindnesses. More than I ever have before. Maybe I'm more aware now. I am almost thirty, after all. Maybe thirty means you pay more attention. Or maybe this city forces you to watch. Maybe both. There has to be a balance between self awareness and selflessness. Self aware so that I'm not constantly viewing myself from the outside, from what I think other people think. But this is not a selfISHness. To be kind is to consider another better than yourself. To be genuinely kind it must stem from a self aware security, in order to come from the inside out. To notice another should come from the nside out. Coming from the outside in, I can see only myself. But to be only self aware I forget my neighbor, and there the balance is skewed. (Is that the right word? Skewed?)

Thoughts from a Starbucks. From my trusty iPhone.

Nanny Diaries

I arrive at my nannying destination. 7-year-old boy is in trouble and in his room. He's crying. 2-yr-old boy is NOT in trouble, and 7-year-old thinks 2-year-old should get the same punishment as he does, even though 2-yr-old didn't do anything wrong.

7-yr-old emerges from his room for dinner. 2-yr-old is already in high chair, and through the following discourse is only half paying attention, very happy about eating his food. Dad is sitting down at the table. Mom is putting food is front of them all. I'm...trying to make myself useful.

7-YR-OLD: (whining) Why did you give me a baby bowl?? I don't WANT a baby bowl!

DAD: It's fine. Eat what's been given you.

7-YR-OLD: But I don't WANT this baby bowl!! I'm not eating this!! Put it in another bowl!

DAD: The bowl's fine. You don't need another one.

7-YR-OLD: YES I DO! I'm not eating this until you put it into another bowl!

DAD: There's no reason to dirty another bowl.

7-YR-OLD: I NEED another bowl!

DAD: That's enough! To your room. Now. Don't come out until you can speak nicely.

7-YR-OLD: (glares at Dad)

DAD: Now. To your room.

7-YR-OLD: (still glaring)

DAD: NOW. One...

2-YR-OLD: Two! Three!

7-YR-OLD: (to 2-Yr-Old) You are SO mean! You STAY OUT OF THIS! You have NOTHING to do with this!

7-yr-old stomps out of the kitchen, into his room, crying dramatically. He cries and yells to himself in his room, or maybe to his stuffed animals? Dinner is finished. Dad and Mom and 2-yr-old go to the opposite side of the apartment. I'm still in the kitchen. I hear from the 7-yr-old's room: (He's still crying and wailing to himself.)

7-YR-OLD: These are the LAST WORDS BEFORE I DIE! THE LAST WORDS BEFORE I DIE!

Would you like to see what I live with?

Seth's Firside Chat:

Eyelash Trouble

I just pulled out a clump of my eyelashes. Like, probably four or five. At one time.

I spent the last ten minutes asking Seth if he could see a space where they came out, and googling "Do eyelashes grow back."

I found out that yes, they grow back, and it usually takes 4 - 8 weeks.

Unless you have a hypothyroid problem.

?!?!?!?!

Untitled

Sometimes the world opens.
It says yes.
Or maybe it just says nothing.
A blank white screen with blinking cursor.
The sun's warmth upon a turned corner.

Silence.

Allowing words, allowing steps, allowing thought.
Action.
The poet's canvas.

And if the world is silent...we ask.
Our creation: a mere question,
Dialogue between the created and its creator.
Ask before the world closes.
Ask. Ask. Ask.
Before the screen goes dark and the sun dips behind the building
Or before the clanging.
Before pain, before duty, before the quickening steps,
Ask when the world opens.