Raise your fist with me

Over the new year weekend, I received an email from a friend who used to work for me years ago and was starting the following Monday to work for me again. But it wasn’t about work. It was about who she thinks I am.

It was an email with 41 words and a link. But the most important thing about the email was that she thought this was a thing I would/should (probably more would than should) do.

The end of my 2015 sucked ass. I got sick and spent the weekend before Christmas in the ER and was down for the count for two weeks. I couldn’t leave my bed or my bathroom. Colitis sucks, people.

And then at the beginning of the year,I lost my last cat, my 19 year old companion. I’d lived with her longer than I’d lived with anyone else, even my parents. So, shit was bad, and I hated everything and felt like I hadn’t done anything last year. It was awful. . . But this thing. This thing happened.

It was called www.yearcompass.com. I didn’t look at it over that weekend, but then I looked at it Monday morning, the first Monday of the month, January 4th. How was I going to shape my year? And dude, like I said before, I did SHIT the year before, so there is no reason to look back. I didn’t even write a blog about what I had accomplished for 2015 over the weekend because it seemed like I hadn’t done anything. And I always write something about the year before. And I was sure I did nothing. Absolutely nothing. But then on Monday, the 4th, I read about this booklet.

I told my friend that I would totally do this and would she do it with me and could I write it out and share it with her and would she share hers with me. We agreed.

The next 4 days I spent time doing this “The Year Ahead” booklet. But the first page taught me everything I think about myself is wrong. I am not lazy. I am not terrible. I am not a loser. The irony of these words does not escape me. I mean, every year for the last few years I write the same thing. . . “I’m so lazy. I don’t do anything. But wait. I did do things. Lots of things. Why do I always think I’m such a slag?”

This past year, 2015, is no different.

The first page tells you to consider the following: “Go through last year’s calendar week by week. If you see an imporTant event, family gathering, friendly get-together or significant project, write it down here.”

I didn’t have enough room.

I finished a tarot class
I started a writing group, where one of the writers finished a book
I met Gloria Steinem and Alice Walker at my writing conference
I saw Rose’s Pawn Shop
I stayed overnight with Simon playing games and telling stories about the slumperflurfer that lived under the couch and needed carrots - and every time it got carrots gave a kissing fit to laughing boys
I saw Amanda Fucking Palmer in Vancouver (I’d never been) with all of her TED TALK friends!!
I played smashputt!
I did Lauren’s hair and makeup for prom. She wanted to be cinderella and had a dress to match
I walked a marathon
I went to the women’s world cup
I attended a women’s conference and was inspired; meeting Gloria Steinem and Alice Walker (who does that???)
I stage managed Gary’s 50th birthday and had the fucking time of my life and loved on Gary and Rodney
I orchestrated a winning sock drive for homeless
I watched ET with Ciara. . . Watching movies with her is a healing experience.
I had two bouts of anaphylactic shock that left me on the couch for three total weeks - but it didn’t kill me - so fuck you antibiotics
I finalized my divorce
I went to see March4th and loved on Shannon and Shelia
I attended Derek and Kristin’s wedding, re-connecting with my soul twin Kelly
I lost 20lbs
I told a story as part of an event about my amazing familyship with Ciara
I got Colitis
An employee came back to work for me
I took a road trip to Montana in a corvette
I went to Florida in JULY to hang with my family. And it was amazing and fantastic, reminding me that despite my closed offness, they heal me.
I lost my Willie
I visited Alistair’s family for Doug’s 70th birthday and was reminded how much I belong
I celebrated my and Jennifer’s birthday with oreo cakes
I rooted for the Green Bay Packers at a playoff game with the Seahawks and kept all my friends
I discovered Kat Robicoud
I hired a life coach
I hired an assistant
I stage managed The Lion in Winter and could not be prouder of this production
I wrote more than 50K words.
I asked for help


There were 8 more pages that asked me to relive my most important events, accomplishments, avoidances, challenges, risks,fears,favorite things, people that helped me and that I helped, made me realize what I needed to forgive and let go, and helped me boil my last year into a book title with three themes: learning, change and asking.

The book title to 2015?

The Fool’s Journey.

Don’t judge. If you get it, you get it. If you don’t. Look up the Fool/Tarot.

And then came the planning for 2016.

I am not a planner. . . Not in anyone’s imagination.

But, despite this depression (getting colitis and being in the ER during the week of Christmas and your birthday and then losing your 19 year old cat a two weeks later will totally fuck with you and help you right into the darkness of depression), it gave me hope. It made me smile. It inspired me.

The first thing it asked me was this: What does the year ahead of you look like? What will happen in an ideal case? Why will it be great? Write, Draw, let go of your expectations and dare to dream.

My answer?

Hopeful. Full of family and travel and writing and friends and change. I will leap. I will step off the sidewalk to see what it is like off the path. I will give myself, all the way, to the universe. I will hide nothing, be shamed by nothing. I will close my eyes, throw back my head and my arms out wide to let the universe fill all the space with no apologies. And when I fall, I’ll get back up by asking my loves to give me a hand.

And then I remembered I was going to share this with another person. It was terrifying and I realized I had committed to telling another person of all my failures. But then I looked at my dare to dream statement. How could I NOT share this with her. I had declared my unabashed vuneralbility. I would start out the year being a fraud if I didn’t share it with anyone.

And so I will live it. I believe that stating these things to me. Stating these things to you will inspire, compel and propel me to that. And I’ve shared that statement of dream to many people. Close people and not close people. I want to be free to declare myself always. And so I do.

I am brave
I am courageous
I am vulnerable
I am fragile
I am strong
I am fallible
I am trusting
I am trustworthy
I am worthy

I give myself to the universe.

I believe the universe will give right back.

I know that I can lift my fist in the air and say
Fuck yes.
I am here.
I love.
I am loved.
I see you.
We are connected.

AND I SAY TO ALL MY PEOPLE (you know who you are - I love you):
FUCK YES
YOU ARE HERE
I AM HERE
WE LOVE EACH OTHER
WE ARE LOVED BY EACH OTHER
THANK YOU FOR SEEING ME
WE ARE CONNECTED

Here is to 2016.

p.s. I share with her tomorrow. And I’m not afraid. oh, and here are some pictures https://goo.gl/photos/AVsD66XPUbshyHhFA

30 for 30 has gotten me totally inspired

today is day 11 of 30 days of writing.  it's been so helpful in getting me unstuck. i've been stuck for months and months and months. and for some reason, at the end of September, i was ripe for change. Dustin asked me to go to this "open mic" night at the Hugo House to see him read some of his work. i hadn't seen him in months and i always leave our writing groups with so much excitement and inspiration, i thought it would be good to see him (miss him so much!!) and see what he'd been working on. i needed out of this funk.

it was the exact right time.

i found this note on the table we were sitting at and it hosted a graphic that spoke to me.

i thought it would be a good idea for Dustin to do since he was so good at being regular with his writing (he's totally my hero on this. . .). but a few days later, he emailed me, telling me he had taken a look and maybe we could do it together. i don't even know what possessed me to say yes since the previous three or four months i'd been completely terrified to open up my computer or my notebook.  the thought of writing anything made me want go into a fugue state. so, when i said yes, i think it surprised me more than Dustin.

and so far. . . it hasn't be horrible. the complete opposite (for those of you following this horrible pattern are likely screaming at your screens, "seriously kp. you fucking say this every few months. .. " continue. . . ). it's been great. i've written about Laffy Taffy (a caper at work), what it's like to have to arrange a funeral, the rivers etched into your skin when you take a shower, college reminiscents, parts of a novel i've been desperately trying to rid my mind of, part of a novel in my brain i want to let ruminate in that same brain, and the weird parallels between the global warming conspiracy and when a democrat is in office while the economy appears to be booming. . . all weird, but all good. the two things i wrote related to my novel. . . it's amazing. i'm so excited to finally be actually writing about it. 

i even went to the open mic night on 10/5 to read something from one of the novels. it was liberating! i even auditioned a story for a storytelling night. .. and i cannot wait to edit it if they choose it. and even if they don't, i'll now have a place to send more pitches. 

so. . .not so bad for 11 days. 

oh - and this whole thing is to raise money for the Hugo House.  I don't know if any of you have heard of it, but it's amazing. when i went to my first open mic in September, to listen, it reminded me so much of the play from San Miguel that parroted what it must have been like back when Kerouac and Burroughs had done readings in front of their friends fueled by the alcohol and camaraderie.  it felt like home. i think i looked over at Dustin at some point in the evening and said, "why haven't we done this before??" it was a question asked that seemed so . . . late - i mean, it felt so right to be there with these other people. 

i became a member about a day and a half later, as soon as i had a second to go to their website. and i never want this place to go away. so, if you feel so inclined to help support a community that supports me as a writer, i would be extra grateful (as i am already grateful you are here reading this). many thank yous. i'm hoping that out of this 30 days i'll get something i can submit for publishing. . . or at least something that's fit to post here as a fiction. but nothing has totally taken shape yet. but keep me doing it. which means i'm about to do a weird ask. . . and give. . . 

if you decide you can donate some cash - $20 or more, i'll totally write you a micro fiction of any topic you want. and send it to you. . . really. it may be horrible, but you'll get me writing. holy crap - i'm terrified. . . ready?

set?

go!!!!!

damn those dots

not sure if i ever mentioned it, but i have been reading tarot cards. in fact, i took a class. it is endlessly fascinating. most people think that it’s about predicting the future, but really it isn’t. . . it’s about reflection and looking within.

but more on that in some other post.

i actually do a reading every morning - a one card reading. i usually ask something like, “how should i guide myself today.” the accuracy of my situation reflected in the cards borders on the ridiculous and absurd, but always nails accurate.  today was no different. 

this morning, i am sitting here in the airport on the verge of a reset button while i wait for my plane to take me to mexico where i will be infused with all things writer and artist and become whole again. i need this trip more than even i probably know because the last year has been less than stellar (this is the king of understatements).  i have been nervous to go this year because i don’t have my personal interpreter (she really isn’t. . .but i have had the good fortune to travel with her so many wonderful times) and i am doing this solo, so i haven’t really let it sink in that i’m going to this most amazing bubble in San Miguel where i will be healed.

it hit me this morning when Terri came to pick me up. i hugged her, put my bag in the back, and got in the front seat. as soon as the door closed, i actually started crying. a flooding of relief and exciting and exhaustion - but mostly - relief that i am on my way to getting filled back up. 

i hadn’t actually done my tarot reading this morning because i was too busy remembering to put shit in my suitcase, take shit out of my suitcase and forget to put shit in my suitcase. so, i thought it would be a good thing to do while i was eating my glutinously delicious mcdonald’s breakfast (yes. yes i did) - so i shuffled and shuffled and shuffled, breathed in the cards, put them to my forehead and asked, “what should i remember to do on this trip?”

it really never does cease to amaze me what comes up. today it was the ace of cups.  i could go into all the fancy ways i read the cards, but here’s what this one means in one simple sentence. . . 

be open to receiving 

yeah. . . so - that happened. 

so, yes, i’ll be down in mexico -  being open and receiving. . . damn those dots like to hit me in the face.

it was rough and amazing. cuz that's how life is. . .

and it’s that time again. time for me to put goals out there and then promptly not meet them. i’m a great beginner, and a terrible finisher. this time last year i decided i was going to “live the Ray Bradbury way.” it was my hair brained idea that i could read something every single day of the year. and to add to it, i also said i’d read a whole bunch of other shit and go to a bunch of shows and visit the library - oh, and of course, write a whole bunch. on the blog, not on the blog. . .oh, the goals i had.

i don’t think i made it to the library one time. i almost went last month when my parents were in town, but i am not sure that would have counted at all.

i feel like i failed. . . again.

i looked back at how many postings i did in 2014. and it’s less than 2013 (which was less than the year before that). . . and i wonder why on earth i can’t keep up a writing habit. i love to write. it makes me feel right, normal. the gap in the middle of the year makes complete sense to me.  so - here’s what happened.

at the beginning of the year, i had just moved back into my house. i had moved out (this was the second or third time) because of a major disagreement of how a marriage should work. i had high hopes, i posted 5 times in january. that was amazing for me. at least once a week i posted something. 

in february, i went to mexico to a writing conference and - it was an amazing time.  i was inspired. i felt renewed and invigorated and i thought i would write and write and write.

San Miguel Febuary 2014

however, my return was ruined by the fact that another marriage disagreement (of major significant factors) occurred. details don’t necessarily matter, but know that i don’t deserve what happened. i have enough self esteem to know i am a good person who deserves an equal partner willing to participate in life. and not just in my life. in their own life, too.

i wrote a blog posting in march about how i needed to forgive myself about what i hadn’t done. and it’s true, i did need to forgive myself. i was depressed. so depressed it was hard to get out of bed every day. i had tried very hard to write, to read, to be inspired, but it was hard. when your marriage is dissolving before your eyes, it’s hard to focus on much else. it would be short sited to not look back at that and think - shit - she should forgive herself - she did all of that during a very difficult time. 

that time lasted for a long time. my breaking point was in the middle of may (probably at the beginning of may, but i hadn’t found enough courage to do anything). there is a quote by Meg Cabot -

“Courage is not the absence of fear but rather the judgement that something is more important than fear; The brave may not live forever but the cautious do not live at all.”

it’s a quote i’ve told to others, on many occasions, to help them know they are more important than any fear they have. so hypocritical of myself. it’s always easier to give others advice - you can see the problem so objectively when it isn’t you. but this time i had to see my own problem. it was hard and it was terrifying. but i had decided that i was more important than my fear. more important than my fear of loneliness, more important than my fear of being hated, more important than my fear of thinking i could never find my center, more important than the my fear that i deserved this unhappiness and disrespect.

i didn’t leave my house this time. it’s my house. on June 1^st, i got my space back. my house and safe place. i was mercifully and terrifyingly alone. i thought it would be enough to break the depression. but it didn’t get better. it got worse. and along with it came some other scary things. 

i woke up one morning, in july, without being able to put a hair tie in my hair. i couldn’t grab things correctly. and i knew this mean there was something wrong with my neck. and i had been through this. two and a half years ago i had my disc removed and my spine fused to get rid of this problem only to find out that well - there are these canals that were being pinched by the disc but that are now narrowing so. . . disc or no disc, my nerve was very angry. two neck injections later and i’m better. . . but. . . just better. it comes and goes.

a month after that i woke up and found  this crazy creeping red thing going up my arm.  i waited all day because it didn’t hurt or anything, but after work i went to the doctor and she sent me straight to the ER. they promptly said i had a blood infection and needed antibiotics - oh - and hey - i guess i’ve developed an allergy to that antibiotic (WHAT?). they sent me home with two OTHER antibiotics and said if the red moved outside of this marker line they drew on me to come back in the morning. and it had.  and they gave me another antibiotic that i promptly and painfully found out that i’m terribly allergic to. only to be told to take the antibiotics they gave me in pill form. WHICH I AM ALSO ALLERGIC TO and had to go into the ER for a THIRD time in 48 hours to get treatment for anaphylactic shock. it was fun. and they have no idea what the blood infection was. and all of that led to more depression. so much so that my best friend came into my house to make sure i was ok. i wasn’t returning phone calls or text messages or emails.

blood infection

then came the panic attacks. i was receiving emails and letters from my estranged husband. each and every one caused me to have an alien bursting from my chest episode. i could hardly work and would cry at the drop of a hat. i needed to file for divorce but the mere thought of having to think about him made me spiral into these horrible panic attacks where i felt like my chest was going to explode and i would end up in a lake of tears. it was crippling. i spent a lot of time hiding in my house. avoiding things. avoiding places. avoiding people. going to work was an enormous effort. and i would be so exhausted when i got home i would just want to sleep. and while i could fall asleep, staying asleep never worked because if i woke up for even a few minutes, i would start thinking about what i had to do. that would become completely overwhelming.

and so it went for months. and months. then my friend moved in for a couple of weeks. it was amazing. i felt like i had a purpose. i had to get up every day. i had to make sure the house was clean. i had to be a good roommate. and i wanted to do things with her. having her live there was sort of like having a booster shot of b12 those celebrities get when they are overwhelmed with their schedules. but if you have ever read anything about that kind of thing. it’s very short lived. it gives you a boost, but it isn’t a solution. and that is sort of what happened when she moved out. i fell back into the old habits.

but the healing has started. i think it’s started because i finally filed for divorce and asked that all communication go through my lawyer. there are few emails here and there that still give me panic attacks, but for the most part, i find myself doing things like going to the grocery store regularly. cooking. walking. seeing my friends instead of watching endless amounts of investigation discovery. it’s not perfect and i haven’t quite figured it out, yet. but it sure as hell is better than i felt the first part of 2014. 

and how did i do in 2014 with the Ray Bradbury way? Actually not to feakin’ bad for not finishing. i didn’t have goals for the entirety of all the things i’m about to show you, but i am going to use it. i’m going to improve on what i did. 

Category	# of items	% of goal completed
Poem	30	8%
Short Story	31	8%
Novel	22	183%
Essay	15	8%
Show	25	208%
Story Idea	8	15%
Film	7	13%
Blog	10	100%
Non-Fiction	5	100%
Written Short Story	2	4%
Writing	25	48%

a quick % explanation

• Poems, short stories, and essays were out of 365 (one a day)
• Novels were out of 12 (one a month)
• Shows were out of 12 (one a month)
• Story ideas were out of 52 (one a week)
• Films were out of 52 (one a week)
• Blogs were out of 10 (mostly because i didn’t give it any goals. . . so anything more than 1 was good)
• Non-fiction was out of 5 (because i didn’t have a goal and shit, i did five, so fuck - yeah!)
• Written short stories was out of 52 (one a week - that was ambitious, wasn’t it?)
• Writing - in general i wanted to write every week. . . so, this is out of 52 (at least once a week, right?)

The funny thing is that i was pretty disappointed in myself when i saw how “little” i wrote. so, i went back through all of my writing over the last day, blogs, journals online and written long hand, and letters. oh, the letters i wrote. i actually wrote more tun 40,000 words. that can seem like a lot or a little, depends on who you are (an author might say that is shameful, a non-author may be amazed). the point is, if i say (which is pretty reasonable and accurate) that i didn’t write enough, i should call myself a liar. most paperback books have between 250 and 350 words per page, i wrote the equivalent to a 114 to 160 page paperback book. while it’s not the next american novel - shit - that’s a lot of pages. it’s a lot of words.

not sure if you care, but there were some amazing things I saw, read and wrote. here are some highlights:

• poem - Anna Akhmatova - Drink my soul, as if with a straw. Ciara gave me this author. she's amazing.
• short story - Neil Gaiman - the goldfish pool and other stories. a sad tale about how hollywood just forgets.
• essay - Cynthia Ozick - A drugstore winter - lovely lovely sad story - so reminiscent. 
• novel - John Scalzi - Agent to the stars - just fun. and funny. love this novel.
• shows - too many i love to name - Amanda Palmers book tour (me and a friend sang and cried like there were no tears left on the planet - it broke us open), Blood Countess (my roommate was amazing), Rose's Pawn Shop (best song ever and a great boy introduced it to me), It's a Wonderful Life - omg - I can't pick and there are 21 more. . . .
• Non-Fiction - Kathi Diamont - Kafka's last love. i left her seminar with mascara down my face. amazing.
• writing - well, everything i ever wrote my mother. it's more inspired and amazing than anything i've ever published. 

it helps me think, every day, i’m not horrible. i’m not less than. i am good. i am trying. and some day i’ll get there. i don’t even know where there is, it’s just not here. and i think if i keep striving to be better than now, better than here - that’s something. the second i stop caring, then you need to be worried.

the most significant thing that happened this year (yeah, something more significant than divorce and blood disease happened) is that i turned 40. it was amazing. my parents came (they won't let me show you pictures, but they were adorable and everyone loved them). i had the best time and here's one of the many many days i celebrated. so - onward to the next 40, because, fuck - life can only go up, right?

and then there was that time you were too busy to write at a writer's conference . . .and it broke you wide open

to even know where to start is difficult. you just spent one of the most magical but exhausting weeks in Mexico at the San Miguel Writer's festival. you didn't know what to expect and you were scared not knowing what to expect.  you figured everyone would know what to do and how to act and that you might not fit in.

the fitting in part . . . well . . . you were young in comparison.  one morning at breakfast, you were talking with someone and you said something about 20 years ago and high school.  the woman to your right stops you short and demands to know your age.  when you tell her you will be 40 this year, she exclaims, "oh!! i thought you were in your twenties!" you tell her you love  her and would like to take her every where with you.  so as far as fitting in, in your age group, you are one of only a handful under 40.  you were few and far between.

as for the fitting in with the "writer" part of you - you have no problem at all. everyone there was there because they love to write or want to write or are trying to get their writing published, read, out there.

the first thing everyone asks you upon your return, is, "did you write your heart out???"

no. no, you did not. you did almost no writing at all. but you have a good excuse . . .

every morning, you wake at about 7:30ish, get ready for the day and head out for breakfast which is to be taken with about 200 other people in large tables. so, you have to find a place that isn't taken yet that has silverware and fruit at the place setting. this is usually between people that are already seated and likely know each other. some are kind and some are not. you talk about what is coming up for the day or what happened the day before. you discuss what you like and what you don't and what you are writing and whether or not you talked to an agent or what strikes you as absolutely amazing from
another author. you wish each other luck and sometimes exchange information and sometimes not have enough time. you re-introduce yourselves because so many people makes remembering names so difficult. your favorite one of these moments is this:

a playwright turns to you as she is running to give her next workshop, "what was your name again, dear?"

"kp, like kitchen patrol."

"kaypea," she repeats, like she is rolling it around on her tongue. "that sounds like a writer's name."

"well, it's the one i've used for the last 20 or so years, so i'm hoping so."

she nods as if this is just right. "well, it's a good one. i'll see you later, kp."

it feels like validation, even if she hasn't heard anything you have written.  she has heard you read before though. you have taken her workshop on what "action" is in a play and we read Gypsy (you read the stage directions). it is fascinating and makes you really appreciate a good play and what moves the play forward. you think it will really help in scenes your fiction.

after breakfast, you run to find a seat in one of your workshops. they are full to the tippy top with 40 or more people in each one and if you don't get there at least 15 minutes early, you will only get a chair and no table (which, of course, makes it difficult to take notes).  then you stuff your brain for the next hour and a half with what ever wonderfulness that happens in the workshop.

after the first workshop, you have a half an hour, along with the other 900 people at this conference, to find a bathroom, grab some coffee or tea or water, change out of your sweater (because now it's no longer FREEZING), and find your next workshop room in time to get a seat with a writing space and that is if you don't talk to anyone - and believe me, you want to talk with people because you've just had this weird shared experience but you can't because you need to pee and you need some water and you need to figure out where you are supposed to be . then you spend the next hour and a half stuffing your brain full of more exciting and cool stuff only to want to talk with someone about that workshop too - and the one before, but you need to find a bathroom and lunch and there is a line and there is a keynote speaker you want to listen to in less than an hour and you want a good seat.

then you listen to a most amazing author tell you about his or her experience with their writing and their research and how they fell in love with what they do. and you cry. hard. so hard that you go back to your room an hour and half later, having taken no heed of the wetness on your face that your best friend says, "um, you have mascara all down your face." and you look, and you do - you have mascara all down your face, and you don't even care.

then you go on an amazing "excursion" where you are crawling to some local cantinas listening to a beatnik inspired performance that takes you back to when Uncle Bill really existed and you cry because you think of your first husband and how cool he would think this is. you look over to your best friend and you squeeze her hand for so many reasons, not the least of which is her being there Like Water for Chocolate. and when you aren't there, you are eating tacos and running into those same said people.
with  you and not the most of which is her just knowing this is the thing you need and will love and is the most right thing for you. and if you aren't crawling to cantinas, you are watching cooking classes and giving beer to the presenters and hearing a most amazing new orleans accent tell you of all the wonders of

and after these excursions, you are trying to find your place in a ballroom for another author speaker where you are inspired to buy his book (and spend hours trying to find a way to buy it in the united states since it's only available in canada) to send it to your favorite artist because she's writing her own book about art and what it means to ask for supporting art. and you think about how weird it is that all things are connected and how everything finds itself eventually, over and over and over.

then it's time for dinner, or a fiesta . . . with a donkey. . . and mescal with shot glasses around your neck. . . and then it gets to be after 11pm and you know you are supposed to be up for the next day to do this all over again.

and you do this for five days. . .

and you are so busy you aren't even taking pictures and you are so glad because your best friend is here taking pictures. you are too busy to take pictures, or read, or write, or even have time to pick at your fingers. . . they've never looked so good.

and while you are at a fiesta with a donkey you meet the production manager and sound and lighting people and you gush over how much you noticed how they saved the day. and they give you their card and the next day when you are barely figuring out where you are supposed to be, they want to see you and they ask you if you will help them with this Shakespearean play that is to go on the next night and can you do rehearsal? and OF FUCKING COURSE YOU CAN because you cannot wait to see the actual show and these people want you to HELP THEM?  of course you want to do this. and you rehearse with them and these two amazing Shakespearean actors who tell you that you are doing great work and they are tired, and you are tired, and the sound and light people are tired and you tech this show like a bitch. and they love you and you love them and they give you cupcakes and water. because they are awesome.


and then you go through your day and stuff your brain and run a show like a boss. and you are proud and you have fun and you are grateful. and then you get to go out with your best friend who came all this way to hang with you and your new friend (her old friend) and you talk and drink and listen and eat volcanoes of shrimp and pork and steak and chicken and fish and it bubbles and erupts and is amazing. . . and comes with a side of guacamole you cannot possibly replicate.

and on the last day you have where you aren't in some workshop reaching too deeply within yourself , you explore the city with your best friend and her friend, your new friend. you hike up crazy hills, worse than you have ever hiked on any of your marathons (and maybe it only seems like this because you are at 6000 feet). you take so many pictures of doors while thinking of your mother and magic and stories you want to write. and you spend money on rings and bags and other day of the dead-type fabrics for your family. and you eat - oh, do you eat. and then you try to nap by the pool, but the sky is so blue and the temperature is too hot and you are to distracted by both to be able to read or write, so you still do neither and you go back to your room to nap because, HOLY HELL, you need a nap on this 6th day.

and then you get on a plane, and you cannot sleep, but you read. voraciously. you read your new friend's work and a book by an author that did a workshop that touched you so deeply you buy her books. you don't buy anyone else's books, but you buy hers and you carry them around for days waiting for her to be available to sign them for your step-daughter. and you cry while you read this book and you realize how all of these things are so connected over and over and over.

and you think about this whole week and how amazing it all is - you think how all these things are connected to each other over and over and over.

and then you break open - wide

and THEN you write 

you write your mother. and you cry, unabashedly as you write more than 2000 words to her with less than an hour left on the plane ride home. and you still don't care that the tears are coating your neck as you cannot type fast enough to share with her all of the things you need to tell her. and how you will always write to her from now on.

and you are happy. because you are a writer. and you have been opened like a new book cracked - that sound that is so satisfying yet a little sad because it is the only time that sound will be made.

and you continue to share. . .

the sky is the limit. . . looks pretty wide open to me