Always, Amy

Growing up in the same neighborhood, we first met in grade school.  By junior high, Amy became my bestie. In the early days, Amy and I would spend all day setting up a house for her Barbies. Her Barbie would always be a doctor or a lawyer, and mine--um, a hooker.  Innocent as I was, I thought a hooker was a dancer, and I liked to dress my Barbie in the short skirts I imagined a dancer would wear!  But I digress.  As Amy and I got older, we shared babysitting jobs, did our homework together, spent hours together in her room listening to the radio, playing cassette tapes (Menudo!), and calling boys on her fancy Victorian looking ivory and gold phone.  We ripped posters out of Teen Beat magazine to decorate our walls, we practiced putting on makeup, and we dreamed about who we would be when we grew up. 

Amy--a teenage fashionista, artist, and a self-appointed advisor in my life--held strong opinions about how I should present myself; frequently raiding my closet and putting together outfits for me, since I was clueless about what to wear.  She had big ideas about who I should date.  More than once she introduced me to a football player, a hockey player, a cute boy she met at McDonalds...and since I can look back on those teenage relationships all these years later with good memories, I can say her matchmaking skills were pretty good.  

Amy's parents were my second set of parents, and her house felt like my home away from home.  Even today, I think I could probably show up and walk in without knocking.  I can still picture her mom perched at the kitchen counter with a bottle of nail polish or clipping coupons, and I wonder if the cereal is still in the middle drawer.  Every time I load my dishwasher I hear her mom's voice in my head, telling me to "put the silverware in families--knife, fork, and spoon, so they don't stick together."  I have fond memories of her dad and his jokes, and his voice in my memory tells me to stop watching MTV and go play outside.  :) 

Two weeks before my 50th birthday, my phone beeped early in the morning.  It was an incoming message from Amy's sister.  "Hey, Jenny.  Wanted to let you know that Amy passed away, just this morning.  She had a heart attack.  I'm so sorry to have to tell you this news."

Today was Amy's 50th birthday party, six months after her death.  There were photos and treats and sparkly decorations.  I hugged her parents, her sister, one of her aunties, and some other parents from the old neighborhood. I saw the cousins we used to babysit who are now all grown up.  I chatted with high school friends who came to honor Amy's memory.  I saw one of the old "Amy-orchestrated- boyfriends", and we introduced each other to our spouses.  Amy's mom and I laughed about how Amy would have had opinions about what we all wore to her party.  Her dad said I could come over and visit anytime, and I think I will.  

Amy's time on earth wasn't always easy.  She'd had her share of struggles and there were times when we fell out of touch with each other.  But then we'd reconnect, share updates about our lives, and talk about how much we needed to get together.  Our last conversation, last Christmas, was about how we needed to get through the pandemic so she could meet my new husband.  Though Amy never got to meet him, today the rest of her family did.  We all agree that Amy would approve.  

Every day since the morning of her passing, I have thought about Amy.  It's not as fun being all grown up, being 50, without her.  Every time something big happens, I want to call Amy.  Every time I don't know what to wear to an event, I want Amy's advice.  Every time I'm in a show and I can't figure out how to style my hair, I want Amy.  I'm guessing I will always wish I could call Amy.

Amy was one-of-a-kind. And of all the besties in the world, I'm so glad she was mine.  

"For a long time we grew side by side:  our roots will always be tangled.  I'm glad for that." A. Condie

Sweet Mama Dog

*note:  This entry was drafted at the end of July.  Caleb has given me permission to share, as today he said his final goodbye to sweet, funny, scruffy Mama.  8.20.20

Yesterday I took a drive out to the town where I used to live.  I drove to a park and sat on a bench with my ex-husband.  We talked for an hour while we watched our dog wander and sniff and explore.  Yesterday I took a drive to say goodbye to our sweet dog, who is old and sick and failing, only she seems like she doesn't know it.
Mama was a birthday gift for my youngest son the year he turned 10.  Some boys just need a dog, and that was true for my boy.   Caleb's dad and I spent a fair amount of time searching for the right dog for our family, and all through the research process, I insisted we would get a specific type of dog--something small, with light-colored fur, that didn't shed.  I didn't want a big clunky dog in the house with dark hair that would show on the furniture if it ever happened to shed a little.
We have joked for years that it must have been opposite day when we found Mama.  She was a big girl, with tons of dark fur that was falling out--tumbleweeds of dog hair were everywhere.  We went to visit her at her foster home, and as I stood in the kitchen, Mama approached, put her enormous paws up on my shoulders like she wanted to hug me, and it was love at first sight.
Mama was ours and our house would never be the same.
Mama had been rescued from a farm in Wisconsin.  She was just 2 years old, and had already had 3 litters of puppies.  She was mellow and quiet, and after her first big haircut, we discovered her back was covered in scars. A phone call to her rescue person told us that this was typical of dogs that are used as bait in dog fight rings.  Poor Mama had lived a pretty rough life, and we were happy to give her a safe place to call home.  Mama quickly got comfortable enough to explore.  Over the years, as Mama developed a reputation for being a little too curious and occasionally freaking out, my nephew referred to the stories as Mama Drama, and the name stuck. 
The first time we left her home alone, Mama reached her big paws up onto the kitchen counter and pulled down a bunch of bananas.  She sampled each one, and must have not liked what she tasted, because when we got home, there were partially chewed bananas--all of them-- squished into the carpet throughout the upper level of our house. 
The first time the kids stayed home alone with Mama, they called us and said, "Come home quick, Mama threw up!"  We raced home to find that Mama was feeling great--she had chewed up a drink coaster that was made of cork and spit it out all over the carpet.  No dog puke--just exploring!
Mama couldn't be trusted to stay in the yard.  Every now and then she'd break away from her running line and go on a little neighborhood field trip.  We'd stand on the deck, calling her name, or we'd go on a search in the car, and every time she'd come home covered in filth, in desperate need of a bath, and grinning from ear to ear.  She'd snore extra loud on the nights after a little escape. 
Mama had entertaining eating habits.  She somehow always knew exactly when it was time to feed her, and she'd come find us.  She'd clack her teeth together relentlessly, until somebody put some food in her dish.  She'd snarf down the entire dish of food without stopping, and then she'd go throw herself down on the floor to rest.  By the time she was full-grown, the thump of her body hitting the floor could be heard in every room of the house. Mama once enjoyed an entire jelly roll, just out of the oven, stolen from the spot where it cooled.  She also ate a care package, intended for our oldest son who had gone away to college.  Who knew sticky notes and pencils tasted so good?  Fortunately, there were peppermints in the care package too-Mama's breath was minty fresh!
Mama would sometimes get rattled when she was home alone.  We had tried using a crate, but she broke her way out every time.  We tried using a baby gate to keep her confined to one room, but that girl could jump.  We finally gave up and just gave her the house.  She definitely left her mark.  One time she accidentally shut herself into the master bedroom, and she chewed and clawed her way out.  The door was destroyed, but she was free!  Another day, I came home from work to find Mama with sheetrock dust stuck to her nose.  In some sort of frenzy while home alone, she had chewed the walls of our sunroom down to the studs.  She even managed to pull down the woodwork, and I think if the owners who now live in that house look closely, they'll see doggy toothmarks still embedded in the doorknob. 
Mama was a fan of a good belly rub.  She loved to stretch out on her back and reach up with her paws to tap whoever was sitting nearby, in an effort to get a little tummy scratch.  Once you started, she wouldn't let you stop.  She'd scoot closer and tap harder, and the belly rub wasn't over until she said so.  Every guest who ever came over couldn't sit comfortably until Mama got her tummy rubbed.  
Yesterday I sat on a bench with my ex and we remembered the Mama drama.  We talked about our kids, our jobs, our new relationships, how we are happy for each other, and how our marriage, even though it ended, was not a mistake, and how this new chapter in our lives is very, very good.
That last part of the conversation might not have happened without our sweet and quirky Mama at the park, and I'm grateful that she gave us that gift.  We're trying to decide how we'll know when it's time to let her go--to help her go.  Her body is failing her, but she's not complaining.   In spite of her efforts to go for a daily walk, to sniff all the smells in the world that need sniffing, and to take all the best naps after eating all the best snacks, a bleeding tumor in her mouth and her legs constantly going out from under her are making the decisions for her.  We have some ideas in place, and so does her boy who is now all grown up and full of Mama memories of his own.  I know I won't see her again before she goes.  I missed her terribly when I moved away and left her with my ex-husband, and I will miss her once she's gone from this world too.   I'm so glad it was opposite day the day I met my cute little light haired dog that doesn't shed. 

The Martha in Me

About a week ago, I wrapped up my time with the Fall Collection of One Acts in Eden Prairie.  Gosh, I love those people.  I enjoyed spending time with some of the friends I've made during my year of involvement with Eden Prairie Players, I made some new friends who were onboard for the first time,  connected with others who had returned after some time away, and I worked really hard on a show that left me feeling both satisfied and completely drained.
When I auditioned this time around, I was hoping for a role in a comedy.  Last spring I worked on a show with heavy subject matter, and I thought I wanted a change.  I knew that I would accept whatever role was offered, but I didn't really bargain for Martha.
Collateral Damage was beautiful and ugly, desperate and hopeful, wonderful and terrible--all at the same time.  From day one I was struggling to embrace the character of Martha--and I was quick to say she was nothing like me.
I don't have any experience with life as a military wife.  I don't have close up experience with military life in general; in fact, I avoid listening to stories about the military at all, because war scares me so much.  I am not a person who is hard around the edges like Martha--the other night somebody told me Martha "seemed like she could kick some ass", which is a compliment to the actor side of me, because real-life Jenny does not!  (Actually, while I'd like to take credit for the acting, I think it was probably the wig!)
Now here's the thing that I haven't wanted to say out loud, but now that I'm reflecting, I need to admit:  I am like Martha.   At least, I have been like her at times.  I do know what it is like to feel resentful of a person's absence.  I know what it is like to feel so angry that I can't see straight, especially when the situation is beyond my control.  I have experienced times when fear comes out sideways as screaming and swearing.  I have swum in the murky waters that surround a person who struggles with untreated post-traumatic stress and anxiety, and I know that the undertow can threaten to pull everyone in along with the victim.
Martha was the one trying to come up with all the solutions to the problem in George Bryjak's play.  Martha had been carrying the load alone for a long time-- in her opinion, anyway--and she was not going to get the break she thought she deserved when Roger returned, broken and beaten down, and falling apart.  And here's the admirable thing about Martha-- at the end of the day, Martha picked Roger up in her arms and took his heavy load upon herself.  I don't think that happens all the time.  I keep thinking about Roger's line from the show, "There's always a choice."  If I'm honest, my choice in that moment might have been to leave Roger crying in that parking lot, while I drove away in our beat up little car.
Our directors had some email contact with the author of the play as we began working on the project, and one of the things he said is that when he writes, he likes to take "common man and woman, put them in difficult situations, increase the pressure to the breaking point, and see what happens."  He doesn't shy away from difficult topics, and spending time digging around in that space caused me to think hard about who I am, who I have been at times, and who I hope to be when I'm the one at the breaking point.
I wonder if maybe Collateral Damage Part 2 would look like Martha living alone in an apartment for the first time in her life, trying to figure out where she might have chosen differently along the way.  Maybe she and Roger will have been rowing in opposite directions for so long that they can't figure out how to be together anymore.  Maybe Roger would find healing, by some miracle that is bigger than the thing that broke him in the first place.  Collateral Damage wasn't just about a soldier's experience or a war--it was also about marriage, survival and relationships in the darkest of moments.  Martha's selfless choice at the end of the show is not the choice I can I claim every time my own life, and while I know my choices have been right for me, and I know that Martha and Roger are illustrations of fiction, I still find a little shame tangled up in there someplace that is difficult for me to swallow.
I cannot say that I completely enjoyed myself this time around with this particular show. Enjoyment wouldn't be the appropriate word anyway.  The content in the script was really, really hard.  I can say that I grew as a person and as a performer.  I can say that it was worth doing.  I can admit, with gritted teeth, that I have a little Martha in me, even though I don't like her one bit.  If given the choice, I would absolutely explore the role again.  But next time around, I might still be hoping for a comedy.

A New Song

Back in the day, back in my old life, I used to be a singer.  I started singing in 8th grade, when I decided I didn't want to practice my flute for school band anymore.  I sang all through high school, I sang when I went away to college,  I even sang for a little while with the international touring group, Up With People.  

Being a girl who was known for never finishing anything she started, the stint with Up With People began when I dropped out of college, I dropped out of Up With People when I got sidetracked by a man, and, true to my reputation, it turns out I didn't exactly see that choice through to completion either--or maybe I did get all the way to the ending of that chapter.  At any rate, for lots of years, I was a singer.  I sang to my babies--show tunes and lullabies, camp songs, and 70s folk songs--I sang on my church worship team for most of 25 years, I sang at the occasional wedding, funeral, or anniversary party, and most of my time in the car or at home alone was spent with music coming out of me like breathing.  

When my life as I knew it changed almost 2 years ago, and I found myself up to my eyeballs in counseling and decisions and feelings of guilt and shame, the music stopped.  I switched the car to talk radio, I quit the worship team at church, my babies were long grown and gone from the nest-- so there'd been no bedtime songs for years anyway...for whatever reason I discovered I couldn't handle hearing music like I had before, so for my own sanity, I turned it off.

Over the past several months, I've been listening to music again.  I started with non-threatening pop songs from the 80s, the songs from the days when life was stress-free.  The only trigger that might go off is a memory from a date with a high school boy, or remembering a song from a favorite mix tape.  Easy.  I listen to soundtracks from Broadway musicals fairly often.  I might be preparing for an audition, or researching a show I want to see.  My heartstrings get tugged on a bit when I hear those songs, because I want to be onstage every moment of every day--and that is an unrealized dream that comes with a lot of powerful feelings.  I used to have to limit how much I listened to show tunes, because it was painful, and that is still true today.  I discovered almost immediately that tuning in to country music is a surefire way to find yourself drowning in yucky feelings about heartbreak and hard choices, so the only time I tolerated that was for some character work for a show last spring, and religious music--both the hymns from my childhood and the more contemporary songs from more recent church experiences--threatens to absolutely slay me.  Small doses are ok, but being in church is hard and reintroducing that genre is going to take some work. 

Isn't it strange how the thing that used to bring me the most joy and comfort has been so painful?  I don't fully understand it, but I know that music speaks to many people in a way that spoken words can't.  I guess it was too hard for me to hear the messages in the music, I wasn't strong enough, or I wasn't ready.

I've known it was time for me to write about music for a few weeks now.  I'm not sure why, but it seems like it's important to recognize some things about music in my life.  I am wired to be touched by music, and I know that is not a universal feeling.  I have a couple of friends who cannot stand music--they would have loved the new "quiet me"!  Music says things that I am not brave enough to say, and music says things that I need to hear.  Every chapter of my life has been marked by songs, and those songs are memories that are sometimes bittersweet.  Mostly I am beginning to realize that my decision to stop singing was both an act of self-preservation and an act of punishment I inflicted on myself.  

In recent weeks I've discovered I'm stronger than I was when I turned off the music, and I want to sing again.  I'm smarter than I was when I turned off the music, and I'm ready to hear what it is music has to say to me.  I suspect the messages will be different now, and I suspect my voice won't be the same, but I'd like to think I might find myself singing a new song, just as beautiful as the songs I used to know.  

Semi-Sweet

It's been a few weeks since I wrapped up my time with the Eden Prairie Players Women's One Acts.  I really love the people and the venue, and the variety of shows this year was entertaining.  I started the rehearsal process fresh off the high of the silliness and fun of a comedic role in another show, and I have to say, I don't think I was fully prepared for the emotional drain the role of Simi would bring.  
I have not buried a child, but I know friends who have.  I haven't had to keep putting one foot in front of the other after that kind of loss, and I can only imagine how impossible it must feel.  I've experienced different kinds of grief over my lifetime though.  While I'm not grieving the loss of a baby,  I have lost other parts of my life lately--some by choice and some not.  I've looked for ways to heal and stay hopeful along the way, just like Simi did when she decided planting flowers would help her.  And like Simi, who realizes the bloom of the violets will coincide with her late daughter's birthday, the things that give me hope sometimes come with an unexpected zing of pain.  
Keeping that raw and honest sadness at the forefront of my mind helped me set my attitude and energy for Simi, but it also made me tired, and sometimes a little scared--like I could lose control and not be able to fully recover afterwards.  My onstage partner was my dear friend, and he was 100% ready to explore that challenge with me.  I'm grateful not only for our good chemistry, but also for the friendship we share that made it safe for me to lose it and smear my mascara on his shirt during each show! 
After every single performance, I was approached by at least one person who thanked me for telling their story of grief and the child they had lost.  I absolutely did not expect that, and it made me appreciate the gift of the role even more.  I was touched that people would take the time to talk about it with me.  I was grateful that audiences allowed themselves to feel our show.  I was honored that they let themselves believe our tension and tears and sadness, and the moments of clinging to each other as the lights went down.    Our director wrote in her notes about the playwright:  "Her words reach into spaces that are sometimes locked away.  Allie finds the key to those spaces and helps us remember."
The short story of Simi and Rhys and the death of their child didn't have a happy ending.  The show ended with a snapshot of a couple who were only beginning to find their way through a painful chapter.  The promise of flowers blooming in a garden and the memories of their "little potbelly stove" toddler helped me this spring as I continued to heal in other ways.  Every show I've ever done has taught me something, and this one taught me that life--and even grief--isn't bitter, it's Simi-sweet.  

MarlaFaye: Stuff I Learned From a Fictitious Southern Gal

Last weekend I wrapped up my time onstage in a production of The Savannah Sipping Society.  I felt fortunate to have been cast in a role that was different than what I usually play.
While I knew my time with the show-- the cast, the crew, the script-- would be rewarding and fun (it always is), I wasn't sure how my experience with the character would feel.
I met some new people, re-connected with some folks I haven't worked with in awhile, and I enjoyed the creative process and the teamwork it takes to put a show together.  I even enjoyed the challenge of memorizing a dialogue-heavy script.  As the weeks went on and I became more familiar with the character, I went home more than one night thinking about MarlaFaye long after rehearsal had ended, and I wasn't sure she was likable.  MarlaFaye is an angry loudmouth from Texas, she has no fashion sense and no manners, and doesn't seem to care what anybody thinks.  While I know not every character is likable, and sometimes it's all right not to be, I couldn't help thinking there was something positive in her that I wanted to uncover.
I came to realize that MarlaFaye ( or MF, as I was tempted to call her, but quickly realized that is NOT a good nickname!), carries pain and fear and disappointment that is coming out sideways as anger and a desire for revenge on her cheating ex.  She's loud and she speaks before thinking and doesn't hold back--she's brutally honest.  She has a self-deprecating sense of humor--she'll make fun of herself before anyone else can.
I learned some other stuff about her too, some things that might be worth remembering as I put away my script and move on to my next project.
1:  Remember where you came from:  MarlaFaye mentions that she gets her ability to think positive in challenging times from her Daddy.  ("He always said bury him in his 4 wheel drive pickup, because it ain't never been in a hole it couldn't get me out of.")  She says she learned not to put the cart before the horse from her mother.  ("My mama didn't raise no fool!")  My own parents have taught me so many life lessons that have served me well, and I find myself looking to those lessons even now as I've spent the last year rebuilding my own life.
2:  Try new things:  MarlaFaye has a new home, a new job, new friendships, and a new outlook.  The very point of her time with the Savannah ladies is about trying new things.  While I'm not planning on trying hot yoga, swimming with snapping turtles, or going salsa dancing, I have made an effort to try new things in the past year.  It's good to step out of our comfort zone!
3:  Know when to pack it up:  It's really never too late to start over, is it?  What a relief to know that you can choose to move away from the things that aren't good for you, and to know that good things will find you if you open yourself to them.  While MarlaFaye's reason for packing it up and hitting the road was somewhat different than mine, I still see myself in her, and I've been reminded again and again that I still have time to create a new life.
4:  Find some loyal friends:  The ladies of the Savannah Sipping Society cast and crew are actually some of my dearest friends in my real life, which made my adventure with MarlaFaye even sweeter.  Girlfriends are so important as we navigate life's challenges.  I'm fortunate to have good friends in many different circles, and they definitely have made my transition and life changes easier.
5:  Step boldly into your new life:  MarlaFaye actually gets the chance to finish old business once she gets settled in her new life.  Her confidence grows, she's open to new relationships, and her anger turns to happiness by the end of the show.  ("You can't let your past block your plans for the future.")
That last lesson is one I haven't quite mastered yet, but I'm getting there.  It's becoming easier for me to make my own decisions.  It's less scary being on my own, because time and again I'm seeing that I will be ok.  I've welcomed new people into my space, and my life is richer for it.  If MarlaFaye can start over and live to tell about it, so can I.
I always leave a show with new knowledge about myself, and I usually see ways that a small piece of a character leaves a mark on me long after the curtain comes down.  I'm not bitter and angry like good ol' MarlaFaye, but I am learning to to jumpstart a new life like she did.  She is likable after all.    I'm all right with hanging onto a little bit of her as I move forward--but I'll leave her Crocs, Pringles, and Twinkies behind! 

I Used To Be A Blogger

"I used to be a blogger."
I've heard myself say those words to multiple people in miscellaneous conversations over the past several months, and every time I say the words, I get a little catch in my throat, and a twinge of sadness for the writer I used to be.
I blogged, fairly regularly, for a period of five years, and through my posts, I documented the launch of my boys into young adulthood, the growth of a ministry in which I actively served, and many a childhood memory that had come back to visit me, bearing one kind of lesson or another. I faithfully published the funny, the touching, the positive Pollyanna stories of my life.
What I didn't document was all the rest of it.
We do that, don't we?  Nobody really wants to read the daily unloading of an Eyeore whose life is one disappointment after another. Readers want laughs and inspiration and a good time, and writers want to deliver those goods.
While I am unwilling to use this space to write about the breakdown of my marriage, I will sum it up by saying I've been living alone for just about a year, and everything--ALL.THE.THINGS.--are different now, compared to when I used to be a blogger.
Today somebody I love told me that when she first saw me after All The Things Changed, she felt like she was seeing a "new-ish" me, and that she had to grieve the loss of the person she used to know.  I've thought about that all day.  I've thought about how the changes happened.  I've thought about the people who have stood by my side while the changes happened.  I've thought about the people, like her, who live far away, and didn't even know the changes were happening until the dust had begun to settle.  I've thought about the people who didn't stick around to see how the story would go, and I've thought about how I feel about the "new-ish" me.
The Old Me blogger would leave out all the parts about the times when I'm afraid, times when I'm sad, times when I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do next.  The Old Me would be cute and funny and everything would seem fine.  But the Old Me would miss out on all the growing and learning that can happen when all the things change. I'm grieving parts of the loss of the old me too.  But along the way, I'm discovering that the New Me is not so bad.  I'm finding my way in a new community.  I've made new friends, and I've discovered which of my old friends would hang on for the ride, and which ones would drop me like a hot potato.  I'm learning to see myself the way God sees me, how He really sees me, not how I may have been taught before.  I'm learning that I'm smarter than I thought I was.  I'm valuable.  Brave.  And, today I realized:  I can still be a blogger.