No one start singing that Sara Bareilles Song.

Being brave is not easy.
In fact, the most amazing people to me in the world, are truly brave men and women.
There's no doubt that there are different kinds of bravery.

There's bravery in be willing to lay down your life for your country.

There's bravery in be willing to lay down your life for your God.

There are men and women missionaries in Iraq right now, with full knowledge of ISIS baring down on them, ready to be DECAPITATED for their faith -- they have full ability to leave or denounce their beliefs. That's pretty damn brave.

There's bravery in being honest, in openly sharing your feelings - whether it's as simple as telling your friend she's being silly for worrying about a color of candles, or as complex as revealing a side of yourself you never show, with your shortcomings and all.

 There's bravery in listening to someone tell you horrible things about yourself and still being able to respond with love.

There's bravery in holding someone while they cry and telling them things will be okay, when you yourself want to cry.

There is bravery in accepting yourself for who you are. There is bravery in acknowledging that there are things about yourself that need to be fixed. There is bravery in realizing they cannot be fixed on your own.

There is bravery in acknowledging that things are bigger than you are. There is bravery in putting someone's welfare ahead of your own.

There's beauty in bravery. Being brave requires showing that you care a great deal. It means being vulnerable, emotionally or physically. It is scary and difficult.

The greatest things you will ever do are the bravest things you will ever do.

"There are all kinds of courage," said Dumbledore, smiling. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom." 

Things They Don't Tell You When They Say "Never Eat Gluten Again"

When I found out last August that I could no longer have gluten, my main thoughts involved bread and pasta. Little did I know, I would feel amazing and much healthier, despite my lack of wheat-laden products. That being said, I'm very happy I'm gluten-free. I'm happy there are so many options, and I'm happy I have friends and family who are considerate of my needs.

But its not an easy life. Without careful and due diligence, you can screw up.

Screwing up is easy to do. You misread a box of Captain Crunch and rationalize that "oat flour" is probably safe. It's 730pm and its the only cereal in the house. You're starving. Look at that little Napoleon-wannabe, he's practically begging you to eat that crunchy goodness. The box doesn't say "contains wheat", and oats don't have gluten.

It's safe right?
You rationalize that it probably is. You'll be fine.

[What you don't know during this process, is that "oat flour" can actually contain up to 50% wheat flour without having to report it... and it does just that.]

Gluten tastes good.
Like daaaaamn gluten, can I has your numbah? Your momma must be a meter maid cause gluten, you've got fiiiiiine written all over you.

It takes a few minutes, but if you have no gluten in your system and you suddenly eat gluten {especially if you medically cannot have gluten}, you STRAIGHT UP FEEL LIKE DEATH. Monty Python better swing by with the "bring out your dead" skit, cause that's where you go. If you're like me, you get a massive headache, stomachache (and I'm freezing cold... in the middle of summer.) All you will want is your bed and to go to sleep. You might even cry a little for no reason.

Once you taste blood, you want more.

Here's what I don't get about "bandwagon-jumping" Gluten Free People. If you CAN eat gluten, WHY WOULDNT YOU? I'm here, sick and miserable because I ate gluten, and yet.... I want more. I would eat that whole damn box, with that sick little naval bastard smiling maniacally all the while, if I wouldn't die. And half of me irrationally wants to go do that right now. So, now, after months of not screwing up, and almost being able to pretend that "rice bread" and "corn pasta" are just as good as the real deal, its back to stage one of craving all that gluten.

So please, if you can eat gluten, do. Be my gluten proxy. I'll be over here, in a blanket in the corner, trying not think about Captain Crunch

Find your inner Iggy!

As a freelance theater professional, I often fall into a time-wasting portion of life called "between gigs" or *coughcough* fun!employment... We are so used to rushing around, from gig to gig, fitting to fitting, shopping, pulling, buying, sewing - that when I have at least a few weeks before my next gig even begins to get underway, I have no idea what to do with myself.

After a day or so of playing catch-up with all the neglected-during-work-chores, I find myself utterly bored. So I schedule some plans with friends, I start a new workout routine, and I browse the internet looking for more gigs. But let's be real, it doesn't take all that time to daily see if there's any new job posted on the all of three sites that jobs for people like me might be listed. There's only so many times I can refresh my facebook newsfeed and only so much Netflix marathoning that can occur before I want to gouge my eyes out.

So I start little crafty, personal projects, and do what any good Catholic girl who seriously needs to get out of the house does... off to daily Mass! Today happens to be the feast day of St Ignatius of Loyola. Pretty much everyone knows St. Iggy as the founder of the Jesuits (which he is), and the author of The Spiritual Exercises.

St Iggy (all his friends call him that, okay??) was a soldier until about the age of 30, until he took a cannonball to the leg! He was pretty badass like that. While laid up at home, surely questioning this turn of events and what it meant for his career, he picked up a book about the saints!

 

So, unlike me, Iggy was productive with his time "between gigs" and decided that he was going to change his career focus and become a soldier... for Christ. (Spoiler alert! He does it!). In any case, despite not being educated (he went back to grade school!), and under fire from the Spanish Inquistion (which no one expected, right? No one ever expects that), Iggy gathered a bunch of his dudes, and founded the Jesuit Missionaries. His friends were a little reluctant at points (See: Frances Xavier), but this group of men founded a group that thrives on to this very day - there are over 22,000 Jesuits now!

So basically what I am saying, is that boredom can force the mind to get a little creative and dream big AND the bonus message is that a small group of friends, focused on a goal, have the power to achieve anything. Both are things that theater professionals and those involved in youth ministry alike need to remember.

Here Comes the Train Upon the Track

Tonight I saw the movie "Begin Again", which is directed by John Carney of "Once" fame.

I was first introduced to John Carney's musical world thanks to a trip to NYC. My friend and I had tried to get tickets to see Newsies, but when it was sold out, we jumped at the tix for the Tony-Award Winning Broadway adaptation of Once. Not going to lie - I was totally and completely enthralled for the entire two+ hours of the performance. I laughed, I cried - I had only agreed to going because Arthur Darvill was starring in it.

Boy, am I glad I did. I gobbled up the film shortly after that, and I'm wicked happy that I was able to see the new film in theaters. Something about Carney's films takes me away, transports me into the world that I want to see through my headphones. There's a bit about two characters spending an entire date, walking around the city, sharing music.

Beautiful new music is shared with us from these films, but this isn't an in your face "Chorus Line" - the music is from the character's souls, but is also very very real. Its a fantasy that speaks to me, and certainly I am not alone, in thinking that sometimes music can convey our feelings better than our words can.

It reminds me of a Frank Turner song (it always seems to, doesn't it?) The song is "I Still Believe", and the lyrics are:

And I still believe that everyone,
Can find a song for every time they've lost and every time they've won.
So just remember folks we not just saving lives, we're saving souls,
And we're having fun.

It makes me wish I had even an ounce of musical talent, if I could write a song for every life situation I come across, if I could help someone live a little more fully through it.

Because really, when you come down to it, these movies are simply about two souls saving each other with music.

How awesome is that?

On Display

Far too often, we live life in a glass case. Like butterflies in a museum, we let our worth be determined by those who pass by. Our wings pinned to the wall, an undecipherable lengthy Latin word claims to identify us. Thousands of others lined up alongside us, overwhelmingly unique, overwhelmingly ignored.

Human beings are scientific creatures. We like to categorize - insects, arachnids, losers, creeps. We like to break things down, piece by piece - large wings, long legs, fat thighs, skinny knees.We use objective facts to discredit subjective emotions. Bugs are gross.

Glass cases are for protection. If you left a butterfly on display without one, people might touch it. They might feel its hairy body, break its delicate wings. If we have a barrier that no one can see, they can't reach through and make contact with the precious treasure that's inside.

A child in a field gently cups her hands around a flower. When she peers inside, there is a gentle fluttering against her skin, as the butterfly breaks free. Her heart beats fast as she watches the little creature spiral high, flying into the sky, displaying its strength and beauty for all to observe.

Which encounter do you remember for the rest of your days? The museum or the field?

In the end, the only people who belong in glass cases are mimes. Historically, they seem to embrace it. Historically, they also have no voices.

So Many Feels!

I have a lot of feelings. If you've been following this blog at all, I think I've made that fairly clear. Over the past few days, in conversations with some of my best friends, I have realized that perhaps I have been gaslighting myself a bit. See, many times, the phrases I use to express my feelings are "I'm sorry, but..." or "I know I shouldn't but..."

It's kinda like asking for a favor by starting "you can say no, but..." however, this particular phrasing hurts no one but myself. It's a passive way of undermining my own statement. "I'm sorry, but I love ice cream." is far less intense than "I love ice cream."

Why do I apologize for having perfectly normal, human emotions? If my statement is merely an honest and actual representation of how I am currently feeling, why do I feel this impulsive need to add a codasil?

On Saturday, I was lent a book called "Odd Poems" by Mary Wrenn Morris. Privately published by a young woman in Maine in the 1930s, our author begins her tome with an introduction worth listening to. She is honest, but unapologetic:

"The following poems have no place in the world of literary jewels cut with the sharp chisel of ultra modern smartness or polished with the infinite care of the classical. They are the direct expression of an emotional development and therefore are preserved unchanged from the original manuscript and in the order of their creation.
Should either the order or wording be changed they would lose completely whatever significance they have. They were written over a period of years and each poem was written under the stress of an immediate emotional experience.
The experiences have been lived and have taken their place in the growth of an individual. Because the individual is, let us hope, still growing there must be a lack of completeness about the poems as a group and it is my earnest hope that this incompleteness may continue to exist for many years to come.
The poems were written because they had to be written. If even one reader can find in them the pleasure of a shared experience then I should consider it well worth while, for the sake of that one individual, to brave whatever scorn or adverse criticism they might call forth."

Damnnnnn. Girl is brave! Her poems cover a range of subjects that are clearly uncomfortable for an audience in the 1930s. The first poem is to a lover, about how she misses him - the second, is a poem to their lovechild, despairing at the man who has abandoned them. From there, the poems range from lonely and sad, to empowered and vengeful. To caring so much about her child, to wishing she had never created that life. As time goes on, we reminisce about old lovers, revel in the joys of new. We feel her pain as she loses a child, is abandoned over and over by friends, family, men. She confesses to being frightened, to being lonely, to being weak, and yet it only serves for me to realize how strong she must have been.

She knows people may judge her feelings. They can easily use her feelings against her. Yet she is courageous - true, authentic, honest expression of self is the only thing necessary. The fears of judgement and ridicule must take a backseat to her one defining need.

When we apologize for what we are feeling, we are kicking ourselves in the heads. We try to free those seeds of honesty from our heart with one hand, and the other hand is grabbing them and shoving them back inside - "don't look! don't look! Nobody saw the real me, right? Right??".




Robert Frost said "Poetry is what gets lost in translation". I think it may be my new job to focus a little less on expressing my feelings in a manner comfortable to others, and instead turn my attention to expressing myself in a way necessary to my own survival. So the next time I haven't hurt anyone and begin to blurt out "I'm sorr-" feel free to give me a sharp smack on the hand. And certainly don't apologize for it.

"It's like Jaws... but in space."

"Oh, what a nice hobby!"
"So, does your (husband/boyfriend/family/significant other) support your career?"
"Y'know, you can fall in love as easily with a rich man as you can with a poor man"
"Are you going to go back to school?"


Every so often, some well-meaning soul flatters me by saying that I seem to always say the right thing, that I just am soooo together. And every so often, my brain shouts "AS IF" while I blush and politely thank that person.

The four statements above seem rather harmless, if not a little insensitive. It may seem hard to believe, but I've actually had these things, and many variations thereof, said to my face numerous times over the past few years. They're said with good intentions, usually as some sort of conversation filler or perhaps as a bit of good advice from some self-proclaimed "experienced" soul.

They cut me to my soul every single time, like a roundhouse kick to the heart.

I am not a parasite. This isn't Alien - I don't latch on to other beings solely to use their resources and reproduce. I am a theater professional. Like many others, I work incredibly hard to try and sustain my own career. Like many, I often fall short. Like many, I sometimes need to rely on favors and a little help from friends and family.

BUT I DO NOT INTEND TO NEVER BE SELF-SUFFICIENT.

Yes, my career has a reputation for not paying well. This reputation is often unfortunately accurate. And when I need to, I will take whatever jobs I can get - whether it be taking in seamstressing and alteration projects, or getting another part time job to help pay the bills when the season is slow.

But I didn't go to college for a hobby. I don't intend to go back to school to learn something else, just so I can get my loans deferred. I appreciate the occasional help of my loved ones, and I intend to repay them a hundredfold when I can. And I absolutely will never ever marry with the intention of having a husband to support me financially.

If I were to fall in love today and get married tomorrow, even if that man was the richest man in the world, I would still get married in a church and have a reception in a park or in a backyard. I would still buy a hundred dollar dress, and be tempted to elope. Why would I want to start a new stage in life by going into debt for a wedding?

Many of my friends have elaborate Pinterest boards for their weddings. Some of these pins are brilliant money-saving tips, and that's pretty awesome. But looking at some of the price tags on cakes, dresses, locations, makes my heart start to race --- not in a good way. It's almost panic attack inducing. I don't understand any of it, to be honest. Maybe I'm just bad at being a girl, but my dream wedding doesn't include spending 2000$ on a dress I'll wear once, 500$ on a cake I'm just going to eat, and 400$ on tiny mason jars to put on string lights, though they may be cute as pie. If I make my own wedding dress, like everyone says I should, it's only because that would be the more economical decision. In reality, I'll probably just buy a cute, old-fashioned white dress off Modcloth. Even better if it's cotton based, so I can dye it another color afterwards and wear it regularly. A marriage doesn't last just for the wedding, so why should my dress?

I've digressed a bit, but the point remains the same. Yes, I could fall in love and marry a rich man, and he could support my "hobby" and we could live happily ever after.

But I would never be happy in that situation, no matter how in love I was, no matter how willing my man was to sacrifice money to let me do my own thing and pick up an occasional job here, a gig there, no matter how "perfect" our life would be. It's nice to be comfortable. It's nice to not worry about paying the rent.

It's not nice to sell out, to give up. And you may say that the above scenario isn't either of those things. Maybe it isn't. But I think I would feel resentment about not having tried, really tried, maybe tried and failed over and over again, to make an underpaying, overworked career work for me. Resentment would eat away me, and that's not a healthy situation for anyone involved.

So let me struggle to get by. Let me fall in love with a man and not think about his financial situation. Let me go back to school only if I truly feel like I want to learn. Let me not be a parasite, waiting to burst out of your chest screaming "Viva la arts!"

Listen to the rythym of the falling rain...

The first night I can sleep with my window open is always a special one. I've got it open right now, a softly warm night - cool breeze wafting in. I'm all snuggled up, listening to the spring peepers. Nature is a stirring out there - all sorts of critters are out and about, starting their families.

My dog knocked me over when I got home, shortly before midnight. She may be 13 but she still greets me like a puppy. I put her on a leash and took her out for a perimeter check. 

We paced around the yard: she sniffing up a storm, while I examined the prints from my LL Bean boots in the soft earth. 

Over the past few years, I have lived in several cities. Cities are great for walkability, being close to my work (they don't generally put too many theaters in the 'burbs). It's all fine for that... But I miss the seasons.

Now I know the seasons still occur on the city, I'm not stupid. But I miss seeing Nature at her best. I never feel more comfortable then I do near the trees.  The signals that nature gives our bodies are not to be sneezed at - I know it's a significant part of my spirit.

Tonight at Adoration, Father Matt was speaking about silence. I love silence. As a crazy busy theater artist who always takes on too much, I never get to make time for true silence. In fact, sometimes I think I can be afraid of the silence. My brain races a mile a minute, even at night.

When I'm in the city, as I am most nights, my window is shut. I can still hear the muffled sounds of cars whizzing by, couples shouting... I can't sleep. It's so very quiet. I think about everything from guy troubles to "if someone was to walk in with a machine gun, where would I hide for optimum safety?" to the scariest scenario of them all (my future! Ah!)

But here, near nature, I get the song of the peepers and the lilting odes of the owls to calm my brain and let me soak up the silence of the mind. Now if only I was camping outside.... Maybe it's not quite warm enough for that yet! 

42

Define Art.

It is a question proposed to most art students on the first day of classes. Usually to scare them a little bit, but mostly to open their eyes. I propose that we ask this question of everyone, not just the artsy kids with their crisp-clean sketchbooks.

Define Art.

It's a puzzler, ain't it? There are so many different kinds of art, how do you possibly include them all? How could you possibly exclude what isn't art?

The reason I put this forth, is because I have the firm belief that everyone can be an artist. Everyone is an artist. It's so easy to create art! I created a guide, just for you.

How to Create Art: The Definitively Indefinite Guide
by Patria A. Ferragamo

Create art when you are sad.

(write a poem)

Create art when you are happy.

(write a song)

Create art when you are in love.

 (paint a portrait)

Create art when someone breaks your heart.

 (paint an abstract)

Create art when you can't feel anything at all.

 (listen to a song)

Create art when you are bored.

(make a diagram)

Create art when you are exhausted.

(compose a song)

Create art when you want to talk and there's no one about.

(make a flowchart)

Create art when everyone's about and you want to talk.

(sketch their faces)

Create art when everyone's around and you want to be left alone.

(embroider a design)

Create art by yourself.

(pace a labyrinth)

Create art with someone else.

(scratch their name in the sand)

Create art with your hands.

(spin a vase on a wheel)

Create art with your head.

(make a perfectly organized spreadsheet)

Create art with your heart.

(dance in your underwear to your favorite song).

Create art with your soul.

(deliver spoken word at an open mic night).

Create art for the community.

(stitch a curtain for a youth group performance).

Create art for yourself.

(write a journal entry about your day).

Create art for everyone.

(paint a mural).

And I mean everyone.

(run for a political office, on a campaign you really believe in).

Create art for a price.

(take yearbook headshots).

Create art for free.

(style your best friend's hair for her wedding).

Create art at cost to yourself.

(knit hats for the premies at the hospital).

Create art at great cost for yourself.

(perform in an agitprop piece, get arrested).

Create art that doesn't accept the popular definition of popular.

(write a blog).

Create art when you are young.

(color Mom's face with mushy carrots).

Create art until you "can't create art anymore".

(glue pictures into a scrapbook).

Create art until you are six feet under.

(have flowers planted over your grave).

Create art even when there are bills to pay.

(write a book).

Create art even when there's Netflix to watch.

(learn to juggle).

Create art.

(make a promise).

I promise you that I can't promise everything. But create art - it's undefinable. Its liminal and fluid, impossible to grasp like water, but like water, we can't live without it. Art makes our time on earth, if nothing else, a little more interesting.

You know what else is undefinable?

The meaning of life.

Odd how two unquantifiable concepts seem to go hand-in-hand.

Faint Heart Never Won Fair Maiden. Fair Maiden, "tabula rasa", Ain't Worth it Anyways.

“I am a canvas of my experiences, my story is etched in lines and shading, and you can read it on my arms, my legs, my shoulders, and my stomach." ~ Kat Von D

Permanence.

/ˈpərmənəns/

Noun.

Origin:  1400–50; late Middle English, from Medieval Latin "permanentia."

The state or quality of lasting or remaining unchanged indefinitely.

Permanence.

If you're like me, that definition just made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. It might feel like a cool breeze just ran down your spine, making you shiver just a little - even sitting in bed, curled up in your favorite blanket.

Yet maybe, maybe you have this little twinge in your heart. Some weird pain. It's probably just a bit of gas, you tell yourself. But that's just how you sugarcoat exactly what you know.


Grief.

"Good Grief". ~Charlie Brown.

Some days are lost causes. You chalk them up to being Peanuts Days. You tried to kick that football, but the Lucy of fate always pulls it away at the last minute. And you can't talk to your therapist about it, because that football-pulling meany Fate is your five-cent therapist.

I'm not good at talking about grief. In fact, I'm really bad at it. This has been a long winter, and it has revealed this weakness of mine most thoroughly. I've watched many of my friends try to deal with it. Losing your friend, your sister, your mother, your daughter, your grandmother... I've just listened, no words to say, awkwardly reaching out to give them a hug. Holding back tears when they hug back. I've tried to deal with it on my own. I've had friends try to help me. And yet I sit silently next to them at the bar, mumbling something about the Bruins, stirring a sweet cocktail that I've no desire to drink. Zombies express more feelings for a cauliflower. But I appreciated that anyone would be willing to sit next to me at all in such a state.

Grief.
Permanence.

Isn't it the oddest thing? If I dislike grief so much, you'd think I'd be okay with permanence. If nothing changes, nothing can hurt. But if nothing changes, what are we supposed to feel? Are we supposed to be okay with every day being the same as the next, formulaic and routine?

If nothing happens, no one can leave me.
If nothing happens, everything can stay.

If nothing happens, nothing really means anything.

Let's blend together our fears. Let's put grief right in with the permanence. Let's throw it in a big ol' needle, cause what is more terrifying? Let's get our experiences tattooed all over our bodies, all over our souls. We are just a canvas for impermanence to change permanently. We cannot go back. We keep moving forward. Let's be raw, open and honest -- allow people to judge us for what they see, what we show. Let's tell stories about our images, our battle scars. Instead of keeping it bottled up, let us wear our hearts on our sleeves.

Perfect, fair skin... quilters say that "only God is perfect", so you must leave mistakes in the work. Even if they show on the outside, we record our imperfections with the needle.

Juicy Juice and the Mystery of the Missing Gluten?

 

I want it to be spring - desperately. I want to start growing my own veggies, and going to farmer's markets. For some reason it feels so much easier to be healthy during the growing and harvesting seasons. Maybe it's because I don't feel like hibernating all the time.

Last week I got a new juicer - it works like a dream. The idea of juicing is that you "free" all the nutrients to make it more easy for your body to digest. Less work, more results. People are really into juice cleanses these days. Clearing your body of all toxins, flushing it with six juices a day, two hours apart.

I'm not entirely sure if I buy all the hype surrounding juicing, but it certainly seems to be a delicious way to add extra vitamins to my diet, so I'm planning on adding it in alongside the other clean eating habits I've been working on establishing over the past few months. 

I think what I like about juicing the most, is that it allows me to expand my repertoire in a fairly easy fashion. Despite my best efforts, with the new dietary restrictions my body has decided to impose upon me, it's getting harder and harder to find easy, everyday meals to turn to. Not that I had an incredibly varied diet before, in fact, quite the opposite. At least now my limited selection of meals is healthy.

It seems to be a sort of fad to be gluten-free lately (dairy-free not so much...), but I'm not going to complain - if it takes a fad for companies to decide to try and make more delicious GF products, I appreciate it. Some people have expressed their doubts about my GF lifestyle, seeing as "well, you weren't that way before". Truth time - I've known I was gluten intolerant since I was about 14. I just pretended that eating cookies, devouring the bread basket at Olive Garden, drinking ALL THE BEER at festivals, wasn't the reason I got sick. It's been a journey of self acceptance. Try imagining that, as a child, you are told that all your favorite foods make you sick. You'd be in denial too!

Last summer, I decided that it was time for me to take control of my life, and specifically, my health. Being sick constantly just isn't fun. And though I have suffered other afflictions throughout the years (those are a different story), I had the power in my grasp to properly nourish my body. Let me tell you, this change of attitude changed my life. 

Yes, I felt shitty for a couple weeks while my body detoxed from all the poisons, and while I went through gluten and dairy withdrawal -- food can be an addiction!! Just ask anyone who has ever craved chocolate....

But I began to see results almost immeadiately. For the first time in my life, I had ENERGY!! My head felt clear, and my body was the opposite of lethargic! I actually wanted to go outside and run - stretch my legs and go. 

Eight months out, I feel like a completely different person. I feel alive, I feel well. I feel more myself that I have in years. I didn't go on a diet - I changed my life. Now if I eat gluten - it's not "cheating" - it's a mistake, because my body rejects it, just like it wanted me to for all those years. Dairy is a different story... allergies are a little more complex than intolerances. Either way, I could never go back - mentally or physically.

There's the side benefit that because I have been so focused on getting healthy, that I have lost (not a small) amount of weight. I feel like I fit in my own skin - again, for the first time since before high school.  I don't think that there is a woman (or many men) in today's society who has not had an unhealthy relationship with food at some point. It's a shame that in a world where people are starving, so many Americans can actually fear food, be controlled by food. Of course, this change in my physiology has had some people asking me for "my secret" or just how I did what I am still doing. There's no secret. No easy track. It's all about changing your attitude and deciding who or what controls you. 

I won't lie - I began this journey with a program. My older brother and his wife had used the Advocare System with great results, and I was envious. It worked for me, but I don't think that this system is the end-all and be-all of nutrition. What I do think, however, is it works as a cleanse and a method of teaching yourself how to nourish your body. There are other methods that could help you achieve this, possibly free, but I can only speak for what I did. Advocare worked because I was dedicated to it - I wanted to change my life, I wanted to be better than my older brother (not gonna lie!) and I didn't want to waste my money (it's not cheap). 

The Advocare Challenge only lasts 28 days. 28 looong days that will test your willpower, but if you can make it through and make a commitment to continuing to live this semi-paleo lifestyle, bravo to you! Everyone is different - your body has different needs than mine. Learning what those needs actually are, versuses what we have been conditioned to believe they are (hint: it's not the USDA food pyramid or America Runs On Dunkin) is the first step to well being.  My body just happens to work best on fruits, veggies and lean proteins (Turkey Jerky is a gift from God), and not function at all on gluten and whey. Am I a model of perfect health? No. I love chocolate. I drink too much tea. I like putting ranch dressing on everything, and I can only afford to eat eggs for protein most weeks (watch that cholesterol!). But I'm getting better, daily. I cheat for reallllly good GF brownies and cake, but I know to not let that make me feel guilty, or let food control me.

So I can't wait for the season of fruits and veggies. There is nothing better than a fresh, juicy tomato, picked straight from the vine, that you grew yourself. Call me a control freak, but if I can give my body the best, why wouldn't I?

Lurve. Luv. Luff.

The Ancient Greeks had five words for love: agape, philia, storge, xenia, and eros - spiritual, mental, affectionate, hospitality and physical, specifically.

We have one word - love. It's a combination of Middle English "lufu", Old Frisian "luve" and Old High German "luba". (So maybe the lolcats are actually scholars of ancient languages. But I digress). We may use love in many different senses, ie - I love KitKat Bars, or I love that new song, but our culture tends focus on "love" in an entirely different way.

Take a look at any "woman's" magazine the next time you're in a checkout line. Or rather, don't, they're pretty tasteless and full of advice on how to be a two dimensional "perfect" woman. But a recurring theme is "How to tell if he's THE ONE", "6 Ways to Nab Your Dream Man" "83 Questions to See if You Are Meant To Be" etc etc etc etc. It's formulaic, it's a game, it's a competition. We might as well call it "How-To-Not-Be-A-CatLady-Opoly".

Love. It's the subject on everyone's minds, it's the elephant in the room, it's the caged bird in our souls. We all feel it, we all discuss it, but we only share it IF ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY.

I'm not even talking about "soulmate" love here - I'm talking about being so afraid of rejection, that we can barely tell our friends and family that we care. Do we really think that some day on our death beds, that we will be regretting telling someone we loved them? No.

That's not to say you should give your heart away to everyone who walks through the door. You've seen Frozen? Getting engaged to someone after three hours - not exactly what we're talking about here.

 

Then again, who knows - it could work out! All joking aside, there is this concept that we have hearts made of glass - don't let it get broken, no one wants a broken glass.

I'm going to say something a little bit crazy.

Let it be broken. Your heart is incredibly strong. It's a muscle and it needs it's exercise. Weightlifters at the gym know how to use their muscles. They also know that they constantly need to push their muscles to the limits - ripping the muscle is how you build it up. Little tiny rips, make them jacked and stronger than ever.

Let your heart get jacked. Start with the baby 2lb weights - show your love daily in the little things. Pay attention to the details of the life of someone you care about. Smile at your coworkers. Work your way up to the 5lb kettleball - have a heart-to-heart with your friend late at night, and before you both fall asleep end with, "night, luv ya!" 8lbs and give your heart some crunches too - tell your mum how important she is, aside from giving you that amazing recipe for stirfry. Before you know it, love, like exercise, will simply become part of your day to day experience. You won't fear rejection, because you know your heart can handle it. I'm still working on getting there, practicing daily - like Mad Eye Moody shouts - "CONSTANT VIGILANCE" (only replace vigilance with love... and maybe don't scream it randomly. Or do. Whatever suits you best.)

But truly - a broken heart can hurt. It can ache. It can seem like it may never get better. But every injured muscle needs a little PT to recover. It's just like any sprained wrist or ankle - at first it will hurt to move it and get it better, but with practice and commitment overtime, it will heal, and hopefully become a distant memory. 

You might say, Hey Patria, what's up with all the love nonsense lately? Why so wistful and introspective?

Well m'dear, I might say, hedging my bets, it simply has been on my mind. Maybe it's the teasing of spring in the air, but mostly I think it's because of another four letter L word --- Lent. Now there's an example of true love that I can never hope to match, but maybe in my short time on this planet, I can try to show even a little bit of that agape love to someone. And maybe all the other kinds of love will just fall in line behind that.

If we focus on loving others, and not on if others love us, we might just find that those two loves go hand in hand. No one is perfect, and we need not express love in a perfect way. It can be as clumsy as trying to take care of someone who is drunk after you've had a couple yourself. It could be a majestic confession at a balcony, but probably only in a Shakespeare play. It could be a hand-written confessional note, complete with elaborate cursive, or it could be mumbled on the phone sleepily before you hang up (and then swear with horror at your "love youuuu", and tear up that note cause they know now.) It could be a song....

The most important thing is that we get our exercise. Get out those two-pounders and start some reps right now!

There is nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

The Thing about Tinder

A few weeks back, I was introduced to the popular dating app, Tinder. For those of you who aren't familiar with Tinder, it's essentially a "lookbook" of eligible singles within a specific radius of you (or rather, your smartphone). Each photo is paired with a first name, age, and whether you share any likes or friends on Facebook. Then you can flip through the photos, and either "nope" or "like" to your heart's content. When two people "like" each other, a little chat window appears, and you are able to connect further.

By now, you've probably noticed the obvious flaw -- can a relationship really be based on a photograph and a small amount of information?

Using Tinder so far has made me feel like a shallow, horrible human being. Yet I've pushed myself to keep trying, to see if it's possible to make any progress with technology. What I have learned is that, I've learned less about any of these eligible bachelors, yet I have learned a lot about myself.

See, when I first started to click through these photos, if anything, I figured I would learn what my "type" is. You hear a lot about girls and their types. Everyone is supposed to have some "ideal" that they're looking for in a companion, and that it should fit rigorously in their boundries.

Well, what I've realized is that even though there are some physical features that may stand out to me as attractive, the massive amounts of men I "noped" were based on visible personality qualities gauged by your chosen avatar.

For instance, if you've got a selfie taken in a bathroom - NOPE.
Picture of you showing us your abs (no matter how nice they may be) -NOPE.
Picture of you at a party sloppily holding up a glass (with or without posse of friends) - NOPE.
Flashing some sort of hand signal while wearing a baseball cap in any position but the way it is practical to wear it - NOPE

and the list goes on. In the end, looks aren't everything. They certainly could begin a relationship, but if the image you are sending out is perceived as over the top or too bland, you are probably going to get noped in other areas in life, not just Tinder.

Herein lies the inherent problem with Tinder, and nearly all forms of online dating. They try to quantify something unquantifiable: who we really are. We can present ourselves in any way, even a possibly accurate way to how we view ourselves. So we find someone who messages us back. At least finding each other possibly interesting, we talk for a bit, swapping basic information about ourselves, wondering if this will lead to anything. For some people, it does, and that's great. For the majority of people, myself included, we find ourselves frustrated by continual rejection from personality-lacking avatars, and instantaneous "marry me"s from possible stalkers. Or just the basic "we have nothing left to talk about now.... so..." that most of the conversations devolve into.

This general lack of satisfaction from online dating, and as for that matter - the current "dating" scene, lends a sort of nostalgia to the modern single. (although do we think times have improved things? Tinder is essentially just a modern day Yenta).

We long for the day our life looks like an old-time movie: you meet someone, in a bar, at work, at your favorite activity, and without any hubbub about the whole situation, he/she asks if you want to have a drink with them or take you to dinner. It's perfectly clear that it's a date, but if it doesn't work out, it's okay - there's no hard feelings, because you haven't spent months needlessly worrying about it.

Until that happens, we sit at home with a glass of wine, send flirty messages into the void and NOPENOPENOPE till our thumbs are sore.

Yeah, but like, what do you ACTUALLY do?

"So Patria, what do you do?"
"Well, I'm a costume designer for theater and film..".

Pick a response:

A) Oh cool, so, do you make your own clothes?
B) Thats neat, are you going to make your own wedding dress?
C) AWESOME! Halloween is coming up in a month!

Honestly, I've been a little frustrated these past few weeks, and I've pinpointed one of the sources of my frustration to this seemingly innocent dialogue. I don't know about you, but as a general rule, when I tell someone something as meaningful as my beloved career path, I want to be taken seriously. Instead, it would seem that the majority of people envision my life as a Quilting Bee episode of Little House on the Prairie.... but with more sequins!

Obviously, I disagree with the "little mice helping Cinderella build her dress" theory. Maybe I once thought the same thing when I started out on this path, but seeing as I've been working continuously in professional costume shops since the age of 15, I seem to have forgotten that vision if I did indeed ever have it.

So, let's clear the air! Sit back, and allow me to explain. What is a professional costumer? Well, to sum it all in one word... BADASS.

Whether you are a designer, technician, wardrobe, craftsperson, illustrator, or any combination thereof, working in entertainment costuming takes a whole lot of chutzpah. Hours are long (typically upward of 40, possibly above 60, or even higher, in the last weeks before opening), you are most likely underpaid (I  once made a grave error and calculated how much I "made" for one "paid" shop internship... pennies on the hour. I'm not even going to think about the uncompensated ones), and incredibly stressed!

Our skillset is an eclectic one. Not only do you have to be able to make a shirt "look like it has had multiple caramel macchiatos spilled on it before being mauled by a bear" but you also have to be able to account for 100 costumes for 20+ cast members, including jewelry, hankies, gloves, socks, lingerie, hats, and keep a total piece count (476).

• Budgetry, Scheduling, Organization - paperwork plays a huge role in our jobs, and can be a key factor in getting you hired more than once.
  
• Sketching, rendering, swatching - being able to visually convey a concept, a newly birthed idea, to a director who cannot see inside your brain. Ever try to describe a piece of artwork? Really, reallllly describe it - the feelings it gives you, the context of when it was created, the artist's emotional state? Yeah, see how easy that is?
  
• Research and development - personally, research is my favorite part. Figuring out how a dress would've been built in a time period from which no extant pieces remain.... and then how to make it yourself! What sort of fabrics would've been used? How were the fibers processed?
  
• Sewing. If you can't build it, you can't put it onstage. If you can't build it properly, you will regret putting it onstage.  If you can't fix it, you will get impromptu nudity onstage. Impromptu nudity onstage will get you boos from your employers, cheers from the audience. Too bad the audience doesn't pay your next month's rent.
  
• Creative problem solving -- "She needs to change from a man's three piece suit, hat and shoes, into a skimpy, floor-length negligee.... in 10 seconds." "So, can one of his feet be a club foot?" "The mermaids should be able to perform in a kick line". 
  
• Time management (and stress management) -- If you are charged with building a 1930s 27 person musical set in the winter, and you have three weeks and two stitchers, next to no budget, and its the middle of July (I'm lookin' at you, Lil' Summer Stock Annie), and you accept that mission, you better deliver. And the only way you can do that is through the most careful planning and utilization of zen breathing. And possibly only enough sleep to keep yourself functioning above zombie level. It's not recommended for the faint of spirit.
  
• Dyeing, Distressing, Beading, Welding, Weaving, Tatting, Spinning, Burnishing, Painting, Embroidering, Quilting, Smithing, Enameling... this list can go on and on. Every show or project I work on, I learn something new. It never gets boring - there is always something to be learned, some challenge to overcome. It is an uphill battle, and I love every second of it. Everyone who has ever worked in costumes can add something I have missed to this list.

So the next time you think about comparing a costumer's profession to an episode of Project Runway or My Great Big DIY Wedding, you might want to reconsider. We may know how to smile and look pretty, but behind every costumer's battle armor hewn from red lipstick or a brown furry vest, there is a whole mess of calculated, precise, knowledgeable, stormforce energy. Don't challenge us to unleash that whirlwind -- anyone who can create a career simply out of PASSIONATE LOVE FOR WHAT THEY DO truly is a force to be reckoned with.

Let's not be hot.

I'd really rather not be "hot". Hot isn't an adjective I want anyone to use to describe me. Hot earns unwanted attention, hot is a word used to describe actresses, models, musicians. It's a flat term that blankets a vague sense of attractiveness.

I've recently lost a good deal of weight. I'm so glad that no one has told me that I'm looking "hot", even though I'm now technically in the "ideal weight" category. I'd much rather hear that I'm looking healthy and strong.

At the end of the day, I'd rather be interesting. I'd rather fly under the radar of "conventional beauty". I'd rather be surprising, mysterious, different, weird. The size of my bust-waist-hips should be irrelevant to your opinion of me. If you think I'm pleasant looking, that's great. If you think I'm beautiful, I'm going to question it when you tell me, because I am a human being - I am insecure, uncertain, hesitant. I know I'm not perfect. I never want to be a "perfect 10". I know I can work with what my momma gave me: costumes aren't just for the stage. You can dress to flaunt your positive aspects, you can dress to play them down. You can show the world one side of you, while hiding the others. You can change who you project to the world.

As a costumer, I know that the best reviews are the most involved ones: the ones where the critics really thought about the work, the effort that went into the garments and how they related to the other elements of the play.  If a reviewer just said "she made [character] look hot" and that was all the review entailed? Trash that paper. Waste of time.

Same thing for daily life. "All the world's a stage, and the men and women merely players" - Shakespeare said it best in As You Like It. If I put energy, time, thought into being the best person I can be and at the end of the day, all that's said about me is that I am "hot"... clearly I would be disappointed. Let's stop reducing each other to simple objects, and start appreciating the reality.

Have you ever read the dictionary? Used a thesaurus? There are lots of words out there to show our appreciation of each others' appearances AND personalities. Let's start using them again.