For Lauren. Thank YOU!

Come Inside and See What I Hide.

1.) I find that I am unusually attracted to gay men. Not like a fag hag. I just love the vibe some gay men give off. It gives me butterflies.

2.) If I ever came across Danny, I would let him know that I should have pressed charges.

3.) I once ran away from home as a child by hiding in the hatchback of my sister's car. It was the perfect plan, until they got into the car and spent hours looking for me. I had to sit and endure their panic because I was too guilty to let them know I was safely hiding in the back.

4.) I once did Ecstasy. And L-O-V-E-D it.

5.) My family nicknamed me "Humper" as a child.

6.) My father took me to see Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho" when I was six. I was angry with him because I knew it was not a movie I could handle. I made him take me out of the theater, out of the lobby, and into daylight where I scolded him for making a poor parental choice.

7.) I have recently craved meat and feel very confused about this.

8.) My best friends and I (5-7th grade era) had a "make out" shed that we would bring boys to and practice making out. We would spin a boy around, have him toss a bean bag into a basket, and whoever's basket got lucky, would get lucky.

9.) I have fantasies of chasing a tornado. I also have reoccurring nightmares of saving loved ones and friends from tornadoes.

10.) I feel guilty about making bad choices in my dreams, even though they are just dreams.

A good poke!

This is too good to miss.
For those of us addicted to facebook, we must eat this delicious treat for breakfast!

Click here for revenge.

I like Ingrid.

This is one of the most fantastic songs of my moment today--Ingrid Michaelson, you are so good!

Giving Up

What if we stop having a ball?
What if the paint chips from the wall?
What if there's always cups in the sink?
What if I'm not what you think I am?

What if I fall further than you?
What if you dream of somebody new?
What if I never let you win, chase you with a rolling pin?
Well what if I do?

I am giving up on making passes and
I am giving up on half empty glasses and
I am giving up on greener grasses
I am giving up

What if our baby comes home after nine?
What it your eyes close before mine?
What if you lose yourself sometimes? Then I'll be the one to find you
Safe in my heart

I am giving up on making passes and
I am giving up on half empty glasses and
I am giving up on greener grasses
I am giving up

I am giving up
I am giving up
I am giving up on greener grasses

I am giving up for you
I am giving up for you
I am giving up

oh, housewife.

So I'm on summer break. It is the biggest bonus after battling an extremely stressful school year. And I am enjoying the freedom of sleeping in past seven, eating in peace, reconnecting with friends and family. And furthering my music, which was my goal was throughout the year. Recording is almost done. I have a title for the cd. I have a design concept for it too. And I have a mini NYC trip in the works to help get exposure outside of Cleveland. These are all good things. And yet, I feel overwhelmed by the lack of structure. I wake up and go, "what the hell am I going to do with my day?" Perhaps the number of options is what overwhelms me?

I wake up, and before I have the inclination to work on getting things done with my art or my body (I should be going to the gym right NOW) I sit and overwhelm myself with all the things that I should be doing around the house. The attic, the basement, the closet, the kitchen. I feel like a trapped housewife. And the horrible reality of it is: I'm trapping myself. How ridiculous am I?

I think at my core, I crave productivity. I am not fond of being lazy. When there are things around me that need to be done, I feel the responsibility to do them. ALL of them. But it gets messy when I feel compelled to do housework over doing the things that I truly should be doing with my free time. I have an internal voice that is saying, "you only have so much time on this earth...how are you making your mark?" I don't want to say I left my mark by cleaning. I'm not tied down with work, I'm not tied down with kids. Why am I tying myself down with cleaning? I've had an itch to do something a little bigger. And I've had this itch for as long as I can remember. I remember it amplified by Shakespeare in 12th grade. Shakespeare's Sonnet 55 opening lines hit me head/heart on:

"Not marble, nor the guilded monuments
of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;"

Not necessarily his most famous phrase, but it stuck with me because it highlights the longevity of good art. If someone produces something worthwhile, it has the potential to live longer than stone, longer than metal, longer that his/her time on good ol' earth. I doubt Shakespeare woke up thinking about what he had to do around the house. He woke up thinking about what he had to create.

I'm going to the gym. Housework will get done.

And I will work on making my mark. After the gym, of course!

why i LOVE movies

Jme and I went to go see "500 Days of Summer" last night. I was lucky enough to get a Marquee card for my birthday and having one has many bonuses--one of which is a **free** two ticket pass to premiers. We were almost late, by our own fantastic doing, but luckily (for Jme especially, cause I freak out at being late to movies) we made it just in time to sit in the kinkyourneck 3rd row of the theater.

The movie is delightful. It's honest. It's funny. It's heartbreaking. It has a kick ass soundtrack that will certainly be purchased ASAP. Bottom line is, it's one of those movies that makes you feel in love with life again. It opens up your senses to the idiosyncrasies of being human, of being in love, of relationships working and not working.

During the film I felt moved by one of the scenes and I turned, beaming at Jme. She replied, "I know you. I know what you're doing. But I'm not Zoey DeChanel. I'm not Summer. I'm Jamie."

And she's right. She's not Zoey. OR the character Zoey plays in the film. But when I woke up and thought about it, that's not what made me spin inside. What made me spin inside is this:

Movies, as fiction as they are, hold up a momentary mirror for us. They reflect our beauty and our grotesque. Just like in books, we search for connection with the characters, with the situations, with the themes.

Watching that movie last night I was moved and it wasn't because I was seeing Jme in Zoey/Summer or Zoey/Summer in Jme, but because I was seeing the life, the falling in love, the superpowers relationships have on human beings and I was connecting to it. Understanding and embracing it because it felt so honest to me. And honesty moves me.

Honesty in film, in music, in art is a drug for me. It makes my heart race, it makes my blood pump with more power, it gives me goose bumps. It opens me up to living again in a way that I may not have been open prior.

500 Days of Summer reminded me of how truly fantastic movies are and how truly fantastic it is to dig someone.

And as Jme pointed out, regardless of whether it works out or not, the experience is bloody great. You spin, whether it's upward or downward, it is spinning nonetheless. And movement is so much better than stagnancy.

I think I have a fairly controlled fear of heights. But it's a fear nonetheless. And sometimes it feels a little more intense than normal. I think when it comes to me, I can manage the fear. But when it comes to others being in high places, it seems to truly get the best of me. For instance, it kicks in full gear when I see toddlers inching near a set of stairs. I see horrible things in my head when they get too close to the edge (this may be because I fully launched myself, in walker, down a set of stairs as a toddler and experience flashbacks of other babies doing the same). Anyway, it's a knee-jerk gut reaction and it sets my anxiety spinning.

So when I came across this five year old hanging out on this, I felt my stomach drop and I wanted scream.

I'm just saying: I will never, ever ever ever ever want a glass balcony.

It would be the death of me.

bull semen

So upon my internet research for conditioning products that help curly hair like mine, I've come across a plethora of possible treatments that may tame my frizz. There are the traditional pricey conditioners by the fancy hair companies, the not-so-traditional remedies (vinegar, avacado, beer) that you can create at home.

And then there is bull semen.

Bull semen for hair.

After reading this article and talking with my hair stylist, I found myself buzzing with curiosity.

1. Who in god's name came up with the notion of using bull semen for hair?

2. How did they come up with the notion of using bull semen for hair? (Was it by accident, like they were cleaning out the barn, a bull got excited and exploded over someone's dry, frizzy head and suddenly, "Wow, my hair feels so soft. I'm going to make a million with bull semen.")

3. How do they go about getting the semen and who would actually want that job?

4. Isn't semen too acidic for hair?

5. If bull semen is good for hair, does that mean all semen is good for hair?

6. Does anyone feels this walks a thin line of beastiality?

7. Who would actually go into a salon and ask, "I'd like a hair cut, color, and bull semen treatment please?"

Imagine a commercial:

Lady One: Your hair looks fantastic! What's your secret????

Lady Two: (shaking her long locks in the wind) Bull semen.

Live Music

Last night I was reminded of how good it feels to experience live music. There is something spiritiual about watching/hearing talented musicians connect to their music in front of you. It moves me, the way a good wine or good sex moves me. I feel lighter in my body somehow...as though the music thins my blood and lifts my heels off the floor.

I think people need to get out more and experience live music. It's going on every night, even in poor, depressed cities like Cleveland.

Being in the presence of good live music reminds me of what it felt like to be in church--people/strangers connected to something bigger than themselves for a moment in time.

Patience

"The key to everything is patience. You get the chicken by hatching the egg, not by smashing it."
-Arnold H. Glasgow

I find that as a redhead, I do not respond well to demands. If someone demands something of me, the demand often destroys it before I have the openness to share it.

Perhaps it's because my mother has the patience of Buddha. She set a standard higher than most humans are capable of reaching. Now I often find myself disappointed with people (TEENAGERS) who function on instant gratification.

Damn it Ma, why did you have to be so brilliant!

Favorite Walt Whitman

Quotes are so sexy to me. They are short, simple, and punch perfect.

I came across a quote by Walt Whitman today and it has inspired me to share a few of my favorite WW.

Enjoy! Hope one rings true for your ears!

"And your very flesh shall be a poem."

"I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best."

"I have learned that to be with those I like is enough."

"If anything is sacred, the human body is sacred."

"Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes."

"Re-examine all you have been told...dismiss that which insults your soul."

"Be curious, not judgemental."

"If you've done it, it ain't bragging."

"Oh while I live, to be the ruler of life, not a slave, to meet life as a powerful conqueror, and nothing exterior to me will ever take command of me."

change.

"The key to change...is to let go of fear."
--Roseanne Cash

In a conversation I had with my mother last week, she expressed that she felt a change was coming for me. I wasn't quite sure what to make of the comment, but I trust it because of its source. I also trust it because I have felt something stirring within me, though I can't quite pinpoint what it is or how my life will be affected by it.

It's funny how there are specific times in our lives when we feel as though we are on the edge of something. When we feel the energy of forces beyond our body, pushing/guiding/channeling us. This "a change is coming" feeling is truly mysterious when it is, in fact, followed by something life-affirming/centering/changing.

So I'm raising my hands up and letting go of any fears that may keep my little spirit from growing the way it needs to grow.

Grow Maura, G R O W.

little british boys

This week I find that I am being moved quite a bit by the talents of young british boys.

I just watched this and the little lad had my heart bubbling with joy.

***must see***

Last night Jme and I watched a movie that lovely landed in my top ten favorite films.

It ignited my youthful spirit unlike any film I've seen in years.

Creative, honest, fun. Perfectly accessibile to both heart and mind.

Go rent.

Son of Rambow

Now. Go find it. Go! Go! GO!

I promise, you will fall in love <3 with it.

(and if you don't fall in love with it, there is something wrong with you.)

fishing for good love poems

I'm on a mission to examine good love poems and I have always been a captivated geek of Adreienne Rich's poetry. This particular poem makes my toes curl.


Adrienne Rich
from Twenty-One Love Poems

I
Wherever in this city, screens flicker
with pornography, with science-fiction vampires,
victimized hirelings bending to the lash,
we also have to walk . . . if simply as we walk
through the rainsoaked garbage, the tabloid cruelties
of our own neighborhoods.
We need to grasp our lives inseperable
from those rancid dreams, that blurt of metal, those disgraces,
and the red begonia perilously flashing
from a tenement sill six stories high,
or the long-legged young girls playing ball
in the junior highschool playground.
No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees,
sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air,
dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding,
our animal passion rooted in the city.

II
I wake up in your bed. I know I have been dreaming.
Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other,
you've been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed:
our friend the poet comes into my room
where I've been writing for days,
drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere,
and I want to show her one poem
which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate,
and wake. You've kissed my hair
to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem,
I say, a poem I wanted to show someone . . .
and I laugh and fall dreaming again
of the desire to show you to everyone I love,
to move openly together
in the pull of gravity, which is not simple,
which carried the feathered grass a long way down the upbreathing air.

III
Since we're not young, weeks have to do time
for years of missing each other. Yet only this odd warp
in time tells me we're not young.
Did I ever walk the morning streets at twenty,
my limbs streaming with a purer joy?
did I lean from any window over the city
listening for the future
as I listened here with nerves tuned for your ring?
And you, you move toward me with the same tempo.
Your eyes are everlasting, the green spark
of the blue-eyed grass of early summer,
the green-blue wild cress washed by the spring.
At twenty, yes: we thought we'd live forever.
At forty-five, I want to know even our limits.
I touch you knowing we weren't born tomorrow,
and somehow, each of us will help the other live,
and somewhere, each of us must help the other die.

"empty" with Ray

I love Ray LaMontagne.

There's truly something magical about listening to him sing.

I feel like his soul is whispering into my ear.

Yowza!

april fools

April 1st
A perfect day to risk hitting on a Baptist baby.
I was a Catholic.
You were a girl
and so was I.

There was a spin of the bottle the week before.
Spinning…spinnin’…spin…stop. You.
Lips.
We felt the difference.
(The difference was we would go on spinning like that bottle.
Eight Aprils.
Almost.
You spent one or two away, but I kept tap dancing on your tongue.)

Our first date was a double date.
You brought a boy.
I brought a boy.
You and I went home together,
no pity for the fools who fell for us.

We were the fools,
fickle and fabulous non-fiction.

So April drops in again today,
joking over silenced memories and some two thousand miles.

the ocean and the moon

the ocean and the moon

The ocean whispered to the moon,
"I know you.
You are always with me.
When I don't see you,
I feel your pull.
This is how I know you.
As long as there is gravity, I will never unknow you."

lucky

I am so lucky to know the people I know in my life.

I am lucky to have them because they challenge me to become a better person.

I am lucky for their love, because it embraces me whole. Flaws and all.

I am lucky because I continue to learn through them. They teach me daily (hourly when my soul is open for the lesson.)

I am lucky because when I need it most, I am able to feel their spirits radiate onto mine.

I am lucky because I am in love, and that love continues to grow. When it seems like it couldn't possibly get any bigger, BOOM! It expands beyond what it was before.

Growing in love with someone is perhaps the most amazing life experience ever.

Hope.

There are moments that hit me unexpectedly in the classroom.


These moments are shocking. There is the shock that is welcomed, and then there is the shock I prefer to avoid altogether.

What kind of shock do I mean, you ask inquisitively?

Oh, just that kind of shock that comes from having a gun in the classroom. And the shock from having another gun, on a different day, in the same classroom. And the shock that comes from a swat team barging in, pointing 14 loaded guns in response to said gun being in the classroom.

S-H-O-C-K.

This kind of shock is not invited to my tea party. And when it rudely interupts my day, it it is genuinely hard to recover.

But today I felt a different kind of shock. It unfolded slowly and methodically. It knocked gently on my door and wiped its wet feet on the rug. And it restored hope in my heart.

We are currently reading a book called, "We Beat the Streets" in our classroom. It's about three inner-city kids who make a pact to overcome the challenges of poverty, violence, and apathy and become doctors. My students are in love with it.

Today I witnessed that love unfold in front of me. I watched Dawayne eagerly turn the pages of the book. His nose was pasted to the page. This is a kid who rarely does anything but sleep and drool through the day.

My initial reponse was this, "Dawayne, please put down the book and take part in the discussion with us."

His head, in perfect opposition defiance, did not move from the page.

And then it dawned on me. He's READING! He's actually so engaged in the story that he can't put the book down. What the hell I am trying to accomplish here? How can I care about not following directions when I'm witnessing a mind being independently engaged in literature?

I was in shock, but I embraced it with open arms.

Let him read.

Sometimes it is important for me to pause and recognize what I ask of my students and whether it is ultimately the best thing for them.


Knowing when to bend so others may grow is a delicate lesson for all involved.

"stuffed up"

My dear, dear, dear friend Kate suggested a book to me a few months ago and yesterday I was determined to find it. For some reason, probably my aging mind, the title had drifted from memory. I text her on a whim and asked her for the title.

"The Artist's Way."

I felt a rush of life through my bones. It's been a while since I have felt connected to my artistic self. Not to say that I have not been active as an artist, because I feel as though I have. I have been creative and I have been taking time to write and perform. I've felt the buzz of lyric and melody on my tongue and in my head, so much so that words and melodies are once again arriving at the same time. It's a bit of a spiritual moment when it occurs--where I feel as though something bigger than me is traveling through me and taking shape in the form of song. It is good. It is powerful. I feel very fortunate when it unfolds like so. But it's becoming more rare in the last two years and by admitting this, I'm hoping I am taking a step in the right direction.

I think it comes down to the fact that I don't feel as though I have connected or nurtured the full artist within me. I have been so wrapped up with life and doing things that I have lost touch with just allowing myself to be. I don't feel as though I'm being as "alive" as I should be.

Ahhh...this is kind of complex.

See...being alive means being aware...being open. Being open, being aware, being connected to everything around me. Open, aware and connected to what day of the week it is. Open, aware and connected to the words and the feelings of all those around me. Open, aware and connected to the life, the mysteries, the beauty that unfolds around me. I recall a moment I had a while back where I felt so rooted in my life that I had full trust in myself. I trusted I was exactly where I was meant to be, doing exactly what I was meant to be doing, and going in the direction I trusted I should be going. While in this place, the feeling of being alive flooded me. Flooded me in the way that when I felt sunshine hit my face, I was so aware of the warmth it had on my skin and in my bones that the moment felt like a vibrant jolt of electricity rushing through me so much so that I wept over the simple notion of existing. It was a moment and it occurred because of how open I was to it taking place. I remember knowing that I was open to the world around me, I was mindful of it, and I was in love with it. I remember driving down the street and thinking about lyrics I had just wrote about a blind man walking three shepherds...and I was thinking of these very specific lyrics, I drove past a man walking three german shepherds holding a red-tipped, white stick.

I felt connected. I felt open. I felt aware. I trusted who I was, where I was, and where I was going.

I think in order to nurture the artist within, I must trust the artist within me. I must honor and value being open to the world around me. I crave it. I need it. My survival depends on it.



After Kate text me the title of the book she called.

After we gleefully responded to each other's voice, I thought she said, "I'm stuffed up again."

I responded about how everyone seems to be "stuffed up" these days...how it must be the season, how it must be something in the air.

Kate said, "or something in the water."

I quickly responded that I really don't think the water is affecting people's sinuses.

She cut me off, "did you hear what I said?"

I hadn't.

I wasn't being open. I wasn't aware. I wasn't connecting.

It hit me.

Kate wasn't stuffed up. I was. And I'll be damned if I continue to be.

Open up. Be aware. Connect.

And trust. Trust. Trust.


"i just want to feel today, feel today, feel today...I just want to feel something today."
--Ingrid Michaelson

a day of love.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Seventy-six years ago my mother was born, and if you know her, you understand why it is so fitting that my mother was born on a day that celebrates LOVE.

I think, rather I know, she has the biggest, most kind, most loving, most unconditional heart around. I have said in the past that I have Gandhi for a parent--most people would agree that that's not much of an exaggeration.

She has given birth to 11 children, raised us, helped to raise at least 10 of her 37 grandchildren, and on top of that, she took in and cared for both of her aging parents when they were too weak to do so themselves. AND, on top of that, she helped deliver thousands of healthy babies through the organization she founded 33 years ago. (www.womankindcleveland.com) I should mention that during the years when medicine was about the patient and not the insurance company, she even took and cared for battered pregnant women in our home.

If it sounds like I'm bragging,I am. She is a rare commodity in this world, and celebrating her on a blog is one small way to spread the good word on this good woman.

I met my mother (this is a love story, right?) 32 years ago. I was the last of 11 children, and they joke that I was named Maura because my Aunt came in and told her, "Alright Michele, NO MORA CHILDREN!"

There are so, so, so many stories of love that exist between my mother and I. Needless to say, it would be impossible to capture them all in a blog. From her undying support of my dreams from the time I was 8 and stepped on stage, to her commitment to be by my side through all my health hiccups and nightmares, to her unconditional acceptance of my sexuality despite the huge generational and religious gap...her love and dedication is an unyielding force that has helped me through some of the darkest, most unsettling times in my life.

As I find myself going through some rough patches these days, I think I have to take a moment and consider this woman in my life. She has raised me to have such high expectations of myself, to not settle for anything less than what I know is right in my heart, to give people the chance to grow, to love when it seems most difficult to love, and to forgive when it seems impossible to forgive.

She is my Saint, my Valentine of sorts, and I am so grateful that I know and can witness her human force in this world.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

fuck and run

"And I can feel it in my bones
I'm gonna spend another year alone
It's fuck and run, fuck and run
Even when I was seventeen
Fuck and run, fuck and run
Even when I was twelve"
-Liz Phair

I realized last night in a conversation over a Delaney sandwich that I am (in ways I'm just beginning to understand) a runner.

In fact, I was nicknamed Nike by someone I "nike-eed" on before we even dated.

Yes. I run.

I'm not sure why this is. For the most part I see myself as a very committed, very passionate individual. I was in a relationship for almost 8 years with the same person, and didn't run...though I felt the urge many times to do so. In truth, I should have ran but hated the idea of "giving up."

The sad thing is that when I have ran and what I have ran from are often things and people that are extremely valuable to me.

Who Nike's on someone they haven't even met?

That's right...little ol' me.

I want to understand this.

I want to work on it.

I don't want to run.

I want to stick around.

drool (in a severe SBH classroom)

I woke up my ninth grade student today after he had fallen asleep. I convinced myself that if I reached out to engage him, he would be thankful for having not missed a page of the story we just started. The odds were against me, as they always are with the population I work with. But I went in determined to make that difference.

When he lifted his head, he was shocked at the stretched saliva dangling from his mouth to his sleeve.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Drool, DaWayne."

"No. It's not. You're fucking with me," he stated definitively.

My cleanly OCD response was, "No. I don't fuck around when it comes to drool."

And with that, a tissue was given and the story continued.

DaWayne passed the quiz at the end of the class.


I am making a difference.
I am making a difference.
I am making a difference.

the 32nd year or the 33 year?

The dogs are bouncing off the couches. I mean B O U N C I N G! They dash off the couch, to the floor, to the pillows, to the couch, to my lap, to the floor. Holy hell, why don't human beings get this excited about couches?

I may not be excited about couches, but I certainly feel excited about life right now. Wait, why not include being excited about couches? I am excited about this couch. I am excited that I have a couch. In fact, I have two couches. Double the couch, double the excitement. And the dogs like me enough to sit by my side while I'm feeling excited about feeling excited about this couch. And that makes me feel more excited.

Although dogs generally like everyone...

I am excited. I am excited because I'm writing. Ride my cliche-riding with me, won't you? Writing again is like getting on a bike after you haven't cycled in years. Your feet hit the pedals, your hands hit the handlebars, and the wind hits your face...fingers hit keys, words appear, and your face starts to glow. Hello words. Hello thoughts. Hello savoring life.

Yesterday I turned 32. Born Jan. 4th, 1977 at 7:14 p.m. And the weird thing is my oldest brother, who is 20 years my senior, was born on July 14th. So my mother gave birth to her first child on 7/14 and (20 years and 10 children later) gave birth to her last child at 7:14 p.m. I find this to be an exciting coincidence...at least one worth noting.

I am confused as to whether I am in my 32nd year of life or my 33rd year of life. If anyone can explain this concept of age and time, please do.

I was up last night making whoopie into the wee hours of the morning. I think that's the best way to begin 32. It's like you still feel like a teenager while you touch and talk and tickle the ins and outs of each other. And then you wake up after fours hours of sleep and don't feel quite 32. But it's worth it.

I will be a zombie for good lovin' any day. It's well worth the afternoon drag.

begin.

Detox tea to the right of me. Peanut butter toast to the left. Smelly dogs by my toes.

And I am turning 32 in two days.

Which amounts to 32 candles. That is sixteen more than the sixteen Molly Ringwald had in 16 Candles. Oh to be sixteen again. My heart actually still skips like I'm 16 some days. Yes, my heart skips, my back cracks, and my butt...is as white as it was at 16. The sun just don't shine on some spots.

What will 32 be like? Does one year really make a difference in who we are?

The great thing about having a birthday 3 days after New Years is that you really become aware of time and the changes that you want/need to make in response to the marked change in time. It's a new year, so what am I going to do differently? And NOW, it's my birthday, so REALLY, what am I going to do differently?

So I present a list. Of things I want to change. Of things I want to do. Of things I want to do differently.

1. Change my job.
2. Find a new job that I believe in, that has good health benefits, and doesn't suck the life from me. (hopefully 2 comes before 1, to avoid stress.)
3. Say "yes" more often. (thank you jim carrey.)
4. Not think so much about people who could care less about me.
5. Raise a puppy. (baby steps to a baby.)
6. Work out. My heart and head need to be stimulated more in 2009.
7. Make more time to woo Jamie.
8. Pick up my guitar and trust that I am meant to do something with it.
9. Be more involved in my nieces' lives and infuse them with fearlessness and hope.
10. Tell my father.
11. Let go of my failing kidney and focus on what isn't failing in my body.
12. Get a new tattoo.
13. Travel more. Go to places on a whim, and let it fuel me with more awareness/awakeness.
14. Make the most out of the last 6 months at my job by knowing I am making a difference, regardless of the fact I don't see it.
15. Don't put a foot out the door when I'm scared.
16. Don't put an arm, a finger, or a toe out the door when I'm scared.
17. Eat less, more often instead of eating more, less often.
18. Drink more water.
19. Walk the dogs...even the chihuahua, who I struggle to recognize as a dog.
20. See my father more. See him at least 3 times a week. Because 3 times is not enough. Nor is 6 times. Nor is 7 times when he lives in a nursing home, after raising 9 children and over a dozen grandchildren.
21. Finish the plays I started years ago.
22. Do something with the plays after I finish them.
23. Finish the attic. Sooner than later. We need a space to be creative.
24. Propose.
25. Go to the dentist.
26. Find a new bass player.
27. Learn to play the ukulele.
28. Learn the play the harmonica.
29. Continue learning to play the guitar and piano.
30. Find a therapist that challenges more than pampers.
31. Record. Record. Record. Without fear.
32. Find God again...at least be more open to all that is bigger than me, again and again and again and again and again.