Anyone who knows me knows that I feel a lot of feelings. I really feel them, and am not afraid to express them. I suppose this makes me an extrovert, but I still question that on the days that I hide away from the world. The thing is, happy feelings are easy for me to share - the range of emotions that fill my everyday life are expressed through my three C's: Creativity, Craziness, and Caring.

A combo of all three are usually enough to frighten anyone away, but the people who stick around through all that are the real keepers.

This week has been a bit different. I don't know how to describe it other than, its been a week from hell. Coming into it, I knew it would rough - it was a 9 show week, shortly before Christmas. Reserves, both energy and financial were wearing thin. However, if you challenge the fates, they might just rise to the occasion. I lost an incredibly close friend of mine in a tragic manner on the first day of my work week, and I've been struggling with that ever since. After that followed two days of not being able to sleep or eat, aggravating my wrist injury, and spraining my ankle. This isn't a pity-me post, but it gives some context to my recent mental state.

Sharing my feelings this week was hard. I was feeling them, no doubt about it, but these are not feelings that I'm accustomed to - that anyone should be accustomed to. Loss, doubt, grief -- not things that I typically feel so strongly.

So there I was, feeling my feelings, but how do you function when you try to keep your feelings inside? The answer is not very well. A fourth feeling came into play - shame. Shame for being weak, shame for feeling these things, shame about anyone seeing me feel these things. Shame about wanting to hide my feelings, shame about my feelings not being the "right ones" to honor my friend.

Sharing those feelings was one of the hardest things I've had to go through. Thank God that my family, friends and co-workers are incredibly kind and patient people.  Its hard to go through day-to-day life when you aren't mentally present in your body. It's sort of like watching yourself go through the motions.

You get back up on your horse. Eventually you land back in your body. You've cried, you've laughed, you've spoken yourself hoarse. It takes time, and courage.

They say that "sharing is caring" and sometimes it means that it is caring for yourself. Being vulnerable is not easy to do, but if there are people you can share your feelings with, express what you are going through, even if they're just sitting in silence with you while you stare at your hands, you are caring for your mental state in the best way possible - landing your spirit back in your body and carrying on. No matter the loss - that person cared about you, and wants you to keep moving forward and live a good life.

I (heart!!) Thanksgiving

Poor Thanksgiving.

You don't even have an aisle at Target. It goes Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, CHRISTMAS!

"But Patria, I'm not a materialistic holiday!"

"But Thanksgiving, no one is even thinking about you."

"What about the food?"

Oh yes, Thanksgiving. My pinterest walls are exploding with ideas of foods that could be possibly used for you. But they aren't "Thanksgiving" recipes anyhow, they're all "Fall" "Harvest" "Pumpkin Spice" "Chai Latte" recipes. And don't you want to be known for more than gluttony anyhow?

"Visiting with family!"

Oh yes, Thanksgiving. People in cramped cars, stuck in traffic for hours, yelling at each other, fights at the dinner table between family members who think differently, delayed flights...

"There's football!"

Oh yes, Thanksgiving. Because grown men crashing into eachother in pig piles, and families fighting over which team is better is a good thing. Let's drink beer and scream, like we do every Saturday, Sunday and Monday in Fall.

"The Parade!"

Oh yes, Thanksgiving. Consumerism at its best - with bright colors and lip-synching Disney Channel Stars. And if you even mention that dog show competition....

"Black Friday"

Oh, sweet, sweet lil' Thanksgiving, that has nothing to even do with you. That's all about your big impressive older brother, Christmas, and his big older brother, Materialism! Is that all you got?

"The Pilgrims!"

Does anyone even think about the Pilgrims anymore? Aside from kids in second grade pageants, most people decide to not even include this part in their celebrations. It's 'questionable' about its political correctness, you see, and what do those people have to do with us really? History doesn't matter.

"Well what about my name?"

"Your name?"

"My name. Thanks. Giving."

"Gee Thanksgiving, is the day even about your name anymore?"

....

"I like to think it could be."

“Every one who has taken a shower has had an idea. It's the person who gets out of the shower, dries off and does something about it that makes a difference.” ― Nolan Bushnell

Sometimes the most inspirational ideas appear when I'm in the shower. I'm not the first person to notice this, I'm sure - it's something about the warm water, the steam, the soap suds, that create a meditative, creative environment. Think about it, in a shower, you're nothing but yourself, no armor, no shields, just yourself, stripped of all, but safe. Where better for ideas to form?

I had a particularly fruitful shower meditation tonight, and got to thinking about prayer. It has always been my philosophy that, while no prayer is better/more right/more effective than any other, sometimes the simplest prayers are the most useful. (Certainly, they are the easiest to remember!)

This is a prayer I've had in my heart for a while, and if you'll allow me to share, I'll place it here in writing. If it inspires you at all, please, take it, steal it, make it your own. Pray to whatever you believe in, because any prayer at all, is better than none.

Dear God,

Please make me like a tree. 

I'm still a young sapling, the wind can bend and break me.

Let me sow deep roots and grow steadfast and strong.

Let me offer my shade to the weary who need rest from the sun.

Let me share my fruits to those who need them more than I.

Let me let go, throwing my withered leaves to the ground and embrace the coming change of Fall,

knowing that what I leave behind helps me survive through the Winter,

and look forward to the Spring.

Without Tradition, Art is a Flock of Sheep.

¹eclec·tic

 adjective \e-ˈklek-tik, i-\

: including things taken from many different sources

Not too long ago, one of my brothers and my father took a road trip to D.C. and back. Having gotten bored of the radio selection, they found a case of mix CDs in the glovie. My mix CDs, ranging in years of creation from 07 to present.

Apparently they had a good time listening to them, because the first words out of their mouths upon their return home was "gee, you sure have eclectic taste in music, don'tcha?"

Well, I guess so! I wittily(?) retorted that I just have really good taste in music. Looking at my current spotify playlists would surely drive even the most experienced music-taste analyzer mad, because honestly, it even takes me a while to realize why I like most of these songs - ranging from showtunes to punk rock, folk rock to Disney tunes. I could go on for hours about each genre and what I find appealing, you don't want to hear a blow-by-blow description of that, so I'll focus on just one.

Lately I've been definitively into folk music again. I grew up listening to quite a bit of folk music, cutting my teeth on Tennessee Ernie Williams and the best of Boston Irish music (on vinyl, mind you!).  I really have to thank the hipsters for bringing my favorite genre of music back into favor with the majority. I feel my heart beat faster when "Cups" or any Of Monster's and Men song pops up amidst the fray.

Culturally, I'm predisposed to loving this sort of music. A fiddle sings to my soul and sets my feet a-stompin'. When the Irish immigrated to Boston in droves, they brought quite a bit of their music with them, and for years, the quiet night was broken by the sound of jigs and reels every time a dance hall door was opened. Clear out the chairs and table, stick a fiddler in the sink, and bam! you had a Boston Irish Party.

(The Dropkick Murphy's continue the Boston Irish music tradition, albeit with a lot more screeching.)

However, may I pose a question? How many people do you know under the age of thirty that know all the lyrics to the MTA song? You know the one - poor ol' Charlie! Why couldn't his wife just give him that damn nickel? She clearly didn't want him back anytime soon... Not too long ago, a musician at any pub in the greater Boston area was guaranteed a sing-a-long just by playing the first few bars.

Most people my age barely even know why a CharlieCard has its name.

Now before you say that "its an old song", "no young'uns know any old songs", "no one knows all the words to anything" "it was before your time", go and hum the first few bars of Don't Stop Believing to a group of fifth graders and see where that gets you. They know all the words. Every word. Do you know why? (I do!)

Glee. As much as I hate to say it, Glee has become a way of passing down music from the past and making it new and relevant to younger generations. Aside from the Dropkicks, there don't seem to be any bands intent on keeping on the traditional Boston music. (If you know of any, let me know, because I want to listen). I'm incredibly excited about this movement within music, folk music, both new and old, deserve a place within our society. We need to preserve the songs of old, and renew them for the generations of new.

So the next time Frank Turner, Sufjan, The Lumineers, Guster, Mumford and Sons, or any of their brethren appear on my mix tape next to Green Day and the Backstreet Boys, I'll happily take the compliment of eclecticism!

Still don't know what I was waiting for and my time was running wild, a million dead-end streets/Every time I thought I'd got it made, it seemed the taste was not so sweet

How to Make a Change:

Step 1: Realize that something isn't quite right in your life. Ignore it as a passing thought.

Step 2: Allow original thought to nag you enough that it begins to bother you. Think about maybe giving it more thought - later.

Step 3: Find yourself awake in bed at night. Now's the time to give it thought. Think about it, but fall asleep.

Step 4: Wake up, decide that you will decide upon a course of action sometime today.

Step 5: Wait a couple days.

Step 6: Decide upon course of action. You will take that course tomorrow! Celebrate that you made your decision tonight by doing all the things you want to change.

Step 7: It's tomorrow! Let's make that change!!!

Step 8: After having gone strong for a little while, panic and suffer a setback.

Step 9: Repeat steps 1-8 as needed until you realize that this plan is crap.

Step 10: Buckle down and make that change, no excuses, no fear.

Step 11: Voila!! You did it! Remember how hard it was to make that change, be proud, and channel that energy to keep yourself in check.

Wait A Minute Mr. Postman....

Handwritten letters are a dying art. The penmanship, the stationery, the content - a letter written on paper is far more intimate than an email could ever hope to be. An email is a means to an end, while  a letter is a conversation.

Getting a letter in my mailbox brings little butterflies to my stomach. I note the envelope, the return address (I even love it more if the return address is unfamiliar - a little mystery really can brighten the day). I can barely contain myself as I run to the kitchen to grab a butterknife (who has letter openers any more? I once bought my brother a Glamdring letter opener. Now that's a fancy way to open a letter!) 

Sometimes you can read your letter with a group of people around. Sometimes you have to find somewhere private to read the news it holds. Either way, just the thought that someone thought it was worthwhile to take the time to write you a letter brings even the most mundane information to life in a way you never thought possible. The joy of receiving something other than junk mail is hard to quantify. 

Did you know that most schools don't teach cursive script anymore? Hen scratching students are more likely to learn keyboarding before being able to comprehend traditional manuscript font. I've already met many children who would rather get the chicken pox than not type out their message on a computer. The day will come when even doctors will have to print in block letters, and still not understand that.

I will admit that I am a romantic when it comes to letter writing. One of my muses, the esteemed Edward Gorey, was an avid letter writer and illustrator. His envelope art is impressive, stylish and witty. I doubt most post offices would know what to do, should a letter such as his come through the system - there's no mechanized process for understanding art.

I will also blame the great Jane Austen for her literary depictions of letter-writing for giving me a fond predisposition to the handwritten epistle, but that is another story entirely. However, if there's a man out there who wants to woo me Captain Wentworth style via dispatch, I'm totally down for that - woo away!

If you really want to connect with someone, but find yourself too far away to do so in person, grab a pen and paper, jot down a few thoughts, ask them how they are, and slap a stamp on that! Believe me, you'll make their day, and you'll have infinitely more catharsis than sending a Facebook message.

You get bonus points from me if you can turn your missive into artwork as well. 

Everybody get up it's time to slam now/We got a real jam goin' down/Welcome to the Space Jam

I remember a particular trip to McDonald's, many years ago.  Space Jam had just come out at the movies, and the Happy Meal toys were themed thusly. This particular McDonald's itself was pretty cool - it had a model railway running around the restaurant, up by the ceiling.

Normally, a trip to McDonald's isn't much worth remembering 15+ years later, and to be fair, it really wasn't all that monumental. What I do remember, is why I was there: my older brother was in clown school.

Yeah, you read that right. I remember a trip to McDonald's because it's where I hung out while my older brother was in clown school. He was learning all sorts of things, juggling, balloon animals, and I was dunking chicken nuggets in ranch dressing, hoping I might get the Lola Bunny toy in my kid's meal.

But really, it began a storm of envy on my behalf. See, my older brother got really good at juggling, very quickly. I've always been rather skilled with my hands, and proud of that fact - I can knit, draw, sew, etc - but juggling seemed to be beyond me. After a few attempts at teaching me, my brother gave up on his little sister who had no rhythm, and that was that.

Several years speed by, and Space Jam was a long forgotten time in Michael Jordan's career.  Now one of my younger brothers decides to learn how to juggle, mainly because he believes its a good way to pick up girls. He picks up the three little bean bags (starting fodder for any juggler in our family, they were hand-made by my mother's friend who got my older brother started on the clowning path). Green, peach, blue blur in the air - in about two hours, Matt was juggling like a pro.

I tried again, and mainly succeeded in knocking a picture off the wall with a mis-tossed ball. Again, I'm given up on, and the fact that I can't juggle to save my soul is forgotten about.

Several more years pass, and my brothers only bring out juggling as the occasional party trick. I'm still a little bitter, but resigned to my lacking in this skill.

Summer of my sophomore year of college comes around, and, though I was working 40 hours a week, I somehow found myself with a bit of free time on my hands. Looking for a challenge, I picked up the ol' bean bags, watched a couple of youtube videos, and got down to business to defeat the Huns.

I swear, Mulan climbing up that pole with Donny Osmond singing in her ears must've been easier than me learning to juggle. The first day I practiced for about 4 hours straight, and all I had to show was some sore abs. (from leaning over every two seconds to pick up the juggling balls).

Every day before work, every day after work, sometimes even at work, I practiced. Time and time again, all I could prove was that I couldn't do it.  It went on like this for a couple weeks, the more times I failed, the more angrier and determined I got. Stubbornly, I kept at it.

And one day, I was able to juggle three balls for about three rotations. Actual juggling!!!! I was so excited that I wasn't able to do it again for the rest of the day, but I did it once, and that was all that mattered! After that, it came easier and easier, though it still took me about a month of essentially constant practice to achieve.

Now I juggle as rehab for a wrist injury I sustained last year, and I bring it out as a party trick occasionally. People ask me if I get bored with just three bean bags - they suggest I should try juggling more balls, or maybe clubs (knives!! flaming torches! FLAMING KNIVES!). I shake my head and smile, nope - three is enough, three was enough to prove to myself that I could achieve the impossible if I just set my mind to it, not unlike a young Michael Jordan at the beginning of Space Jam.

Along Came Dog

I had the joy this weekend of getting to go home and watch my dog (huskies don't do well in teeny apartments). It's hard to believe that Keara has lived with my family longer than my littlest brother has been alive.

13 years old and still going strong, my beautiful lil' girl had a rough early life. She had been found wandering the streets of Worcester by the dog catcher, and eventually made her way to the Worcester ASPCA.

I had been begging my parents for a dog for about a year, as most kids do, and it was agreed that I could have a dog if I paid the adoption fees and took care of her. So I did the sensible thing and asked Santa if he'd bring me a dog for free. Christmas morning came, and no dog. Instead I found a note explaining that so many dogs were abandoned and brought to shelters after Christmas, that Santa doesn't bring dogs straight to children anymore. Instead, there was a printed voucher good for one dog, signed, Santa Claus.

The next month was a flurry of me hogging our old translucent green iMac and looking up dogs on Petfinder. Many dogs were considered, but we had chickens, ducks, and my turkey at the time, and most dogs that I wanted, wanted to eat our birds. I desperately wanted a big dog, a dog to go on adventures with. My mom wanted a yorkie. My dad wanted a lab. My brothers could care less as long as they didn't have to care for it.

Eventually I stumbled upon a listing for Keara on Petfinder. She was beautiful, with a huge smile and two different color eyes. It also said she hadn't tried to eat any of the cats at the daycare, which I took as a good sign for our birds.

I got on the phone, and they said she'd been adopted that day. The kind woman took my info down incase a similar dog came along. Heartbroken, I returned to the search. The weekend passed and Monday morning, I got a phone call. Keara had been sent back. Dogs who get sent back don't stay long at the shelter, so if I wanted her, come and get her now or never.

By monday evening, I was in Worcester with the most beautiful dog I'd ever seen and an unhappy mother who wanted a "small" dog. Keara had been returned by an old woman who just "couldn't deal" with her. AKA, my dog was strong and precocious. Not the kind of dog for an old lady. Not really the dog for a young girl lacking in arm muscles either.

We got Keara home, but couldn't get her up the stairs. Our house is a raised ranch - the only way in the house is through a flight of stairs, but everytime we went to bring her upstairs, she cowered and cried. My dad spent the first month of my dog's adjustment carrying her up and down the stairs for every potty break. Which was a lot, because at a year and half old, she hadn't been housetrained before. She was also terrified of brooms and big men. We can only sadly wonder at what had happened to her before she came to us.

Now, huskies are pack animals, and we quickly became her pack. I loved her to bits, but she wanted to be top dog on the totem pole. It was clear that Dad was the alpha male, but pup and I had to go through a bit of.... wrangling for her to accept me as her person. If you've even seen the Cuba Gooding Jr movie Sled Dogs, you know what I mean. My arms were covered in bites, scratches, and cuts from our "play-fighting" to establish dominance.

As an emotional young lady, it brought me to tears that I couldn't play with my dog without getting hurt. I had the option of returning her to the pound and getting a better behaved dog. Bleeding, crying, sad - what was I going to do? Training her was just so difficult - she was willful and strong. My parents said they would support me, no matter what I chose.

Looking back, this was a decision that would change my entire outlook on life.

You just don't give up on someone you love. Relationships take work, and you have to open your heart for them to succeed, and yes, someone will hurt you for that, but you have to try.

I kept Keara. Eventually, with a lot of band-aids and patience, she was trained, and I could not find a more faithful companion if I tried. We have had adventures, misadventures, cuddle sessions and fights (she stole a lot of food from the counters in the early days. She got mad at me when I worked at the doggie daycare, and was "cheating" on her with all those other dogs).

I'm blessed to have her, I'm blessed to have made the right decision. 11 and half years on, I love her even more than I did that day at the pound, and boy, do I get the best greetings when I return home to see her!

Creativity takes Courage - Mattise

Have you ever noticed that though most people will agree that art is what makes life beautiful, what adds meaning to every day life, no one wants to pay for it?

I was wandering through the Steampunk Exhibition at the Old Stone Bank here in Providence on Saturday, and found myself in awe in front of a gorgeous illustration. On hand-aged parchment, with various kinds of ink, appeared a scene of some amazingly intricate zeppelins, flying above brick buildings. I could've stared at the details for hours, but instead I let my eyes wander down to the price tag on the piece. My heart caught in my throat. 75 dollars. I couldn't afford it.

Bitterly, I wandered back out of the exhibition into the street. 75 dollars is actually underpriced for a piece that clearly took hours of work, nevertheless materials, and had I had the money, I would've paid even more for such a piece. Alas, one starving artist cannot afford to purchase another's work - though that is how the majority of the arts community survives: reciprocation. I am paid a small amount to work on a show, an amount that barely covers my transportation costs, never mind food and shelter for that week. You come out to see my show - amazing, thank you! In return, I'll use what little money I may have left to come see your show next weekend. And the cycle goes on. I'll build you a skirt, if you paint a portrait of my dog. If you bake me dinner, I'll hem your pants.

No one goes into these fields with the mindset "If I become a theater technician, I'll make loads of money!"

We go into jobs in the arts community because we think "If I become a costume designer, I'll make art."  To an Aquarian such as myself, making art is like breathing. Without it, I would slowly die. Maybe not physically, but soulfully. Art is how I communicate, how I think, how I live. It makes me happy.

No one will pay you to be happy. They will pay you to flip burgers or walk their dogs, because they have "real" jobs. They will encourage you to marry a man with a steady income so he can support you in your endeavors. They will look at you with disdain when you assure them that you can live on a steady diet of cereal and apples, because you spent most of your stipend on a new canvas or needlepoint project. They will tell you to forget about it, if they say "Oh my gosh, I love your dress! How much would it cost for you to make me a custom dress?" and you give them a quote that is accurate and what you deserve.

Then you see the costumes you've slaved over for the past two weeks on stage. You see a canvas full of warmth and color and meaning. You hear the audience catch their breath as the cauldrons are lit. A little girl squeals in delight at the new soft toy she has received.

That sort of payment is unmeasurable.

But I wouldn't complain if someone decided to actually pay me what my skills are worth. That Bachelor of Fine Arts was expensive, yo!

Money is worth what it will help you to produce or buy, and no more.  ~ HENRY FORD

The Rhythm of Life

A few years ago, I was given a copy of Matthew Kelly's book, The Rhythm of Life.

Now, anyone who knows me at all, knows I read like a cheetah chasing an antelope - quickly! (The seventh Harry Potter book was devoured in a matter of hours. Hours!! I hear that being able to read quickly is a sign of genius - JFK supposedly won speed-reading competitions. I take this a fortuitous sign...)

This book took me two years to get through. Why?

Because it is life changing. Kelly says in the book that if you ask anyone to think back to a majorly significant time in their lives, chances are they'll remember what they're reading. I've got a feeling that this book will be something I remember when I look back over the past two years. Not only is it brilliantly written, poignant,  and full of intriguing anecdotes (the one about Billy Joel had me in tears), but it is heavy, thought-provoking prose.

"What can I do today to become the best version of myself?"
This is the mantra of the Rhythm of Life, and it's a question you'll never stop asking yourself once you finish this book. Kelly offers advice, steps, plans on finding your Rhythm, all in pursuit of this mantra. Some you may do already, some you may disregard, but all are worth considering.

In any case, that brings me to the reason for this blog. I've been saying for years that I'll start a blog (usually in response to my dad's nagging me to be a writer instead of a costumer.) I've never done it. Somehow I'm always worried that it will turn out like this:

(but would it really be that bad if NPH showed up to sing all my entries?)

The Rhythm of Life encourages us to not put off what we can do today, because how can we know if we will fail or succeed if we don't even try? Here goes nothing!