green light

it usually happens at a stoplight: a swell of contentment that surges out of the sudden stillness. arrested motion. typically it proceeds a moment of taking stock of my life–a split second acknowledgement of all the successes and failures that have brought me to this particular intersection, waiting for this one light to turn green. and in the insulated space of the car i sit in my small world, outside sounds at a safe distance, breathing in whatever music is on the stereo, resting in a gentle acceptance of a life i usually try to nit pick to perfection. but in these moments, all that static is gone from the line and i just savor the thick flavor of happiness and certainty that i am exactly where i should be.



today i was in a massive black jeep. the stoplight was a left turn arrow to merge onto hwy 101 in santa barbara, california. the soundtrack was my friend's cd of rodrigo y gabriella. and the sense of peace was a calm and quiet wave. beautiful as usual.


the light is just about to turn green. i leave for my project in alabama at 7:30am monday morning.

the story of sieve

i'm reposting a piece i wrote a year ago because it's the back-story to sieve.

it explains the moment the short film project began and the surge of responses that welled up in the wake of its conception. despite a year passing the story is still current. the thoughts, fears, hopes, excitement–all are still relevant.

and here we are.

in a week's time, i'll be in dallas, finalizing the script and packing up the car with andrew, ready to depart for bayou la batre, alabama the next morning. tuesday, october 2nd.

{and a small plug because i have not yet mentioned it here, we are very close to having our project funded, so if you are so moved to contribute and help out, the kickstarter link is here. there was such an overwhelming response to the kickstarter campaign that i went ahead and dove right in and bought the flight southbound.}

---------------------

a week ago, a facebook friend messaged me late at night. and when i say friend, i mean he’s more of an acquaintance, the older brother of a classmate in college. a good guy, really, but no one i’ve ever spilled my guts to or gone out of my way to spend time with. no, more just someone i’ll laugh with when i travel to see his sister, a passing friend who’s “sunset a day” photo series i’ve been admiring from afar all year via said facebook. 

we all have these kinds of friends, collecting them in mass quantities, shuffling through their updates about what boring thing they ate, what boring thing their dog or baby or friend’s friend did, whining about how boring it is yet doing it compulsively all the same. it’s inane, i know, but the only reason i subscribe to this use of technology is because of photographic works like this "friend", andrew, has been displaying all year, but even more so for the magical moments of connection like the one i’m going to tell you about. it was the kind of magic where a simple late night question “are you back in seattle yet?” lead, in less than 5 minutes, through a series of the twists and turns of meandering late night conversation, to the confession of a driving desire on my part to go down to alabama to create a piece about memory, family history, time and place. 

and then, the critical moment happened when this man, this person i can count on one hand how many times i’ve hung out with, offers to come and document the project. and then, when i ask if he’ll help me make the short film i didn’t really realize i had been trying to figure out to make until just that moment, he even manages to get excited about it even more. giddy. the two of us typing away enthusiastically into the wee hours of the morning, andrew completely unaware of the emotional breakdown i had earlier that evening watching the last harry potter movie {sappy but true}, seeing the entire magical community mobilize behind one person, tears streaming down my face realizing that i want that experience of people believing in me so much they would die for me, then simultaneously realizing in the flash of an epiphany that i crave that belief from others because, dammit, I don’t believe in myself! and then fastforward back to the present moment, me at a keyboard, a mere hour or two later, being given the gift of this one person’s belief and commitment and oh-my-gosh-i-don’t-think-i-can-sleep kind of excitement in me and my project and my vision.

after waiting 18 years to return to my childhood home and 6 years to make a piece of artwork about it, everything is happening and happening with the ease that synchronicity brings {that’s not going to be a problem, nathania, i have all the equipment i need sitting 5 feet from my body}.

so here i stand, suddenly at the precipice, looking forward to this place i have been looking back to for so long. and let me tell you, it’s a scary precipice. because all that longing, all that patina of loving polish and care i have added to all the memories i have maintained over the years, all those things i cared for and have contemplated for many years that may no longer exist, or even worse, exist still but so changed as to feel defiled--all those things might be taken away, violated or not as i recall them to be.

and as the time and space between me and bayou la batre, alabama compresses, gets smaller, the anticipation is often overwhelming and i feel the pressure building, the hope and memory and excitement and inevitable disappointment already converging until all i can do is breathe. breathe. breathe.

breathe space and air and light and life into the memories i do have, take them out and look at them one by one before having them irrevocably changed by the reality of what these places look like now. because 18 years in geographic time has passed, where a town was built up by the tourism surrounding the placement of bubba gump shrimp company smack dab in the center of town {even though it wasn't actually filmed there}, bringing interest and wealth to a town that probably deserved neither, to the violence of katrina who ravaged more than just new orleans, and especially to the uncontrollable yet gentler forces of time and change.

and on top of all that there is 18 years of personal time, of me growing up, becoming an adult, seeing and feeling the world from 3 feet taller and decades older all the while hording the memories i had of this sleepy little town in the south that inhabited me more than i inhabited it as a 3^rd culture kid, never speaking the southern language of mooobeal {mobile} and the bi-youuu {bayou}, never eating the southern diet of everything fried in two inches of bacon fat and never really understanding the southern mentality of “traveling a ways” meaning going to the next zipcode.

but the south, it has always lived in me in ways i can’t fully understand even as an adult. maybe because it was the most reliable way of feeling beauty and connection from within a family with three older siblings who would really rather not have anything to do with their littlest sister, a mother too spaced out to mediate and a father too imbalanced, fighting the world, fighting his wife, fighting his children and most of all fighting himself, where i was perpetually submerged in that feeling of loneliness that was more of a chronic disease than a passing emotion. the kind of loneliness that comes from feeling so small and separate in such a big world. a feeling i find kind of ironic since as an adult woman i can’t seem to get over how big I am. 

so where could i turn to but the south? the spanish moss laden trees passing by outside the open window of our car, the yellow wash of light soaking the faded fabric of our living room, the louvers of the windows that we would hastily close each night the bug sprayers would sweep through the area, the pungent yet sweet and horribly toxic smell they would leave behind that i would drink in to saturate my vivid childhood senses. the jeweled crimson of magnolia seeds. the gentle chime of the draw bridge being brought back up that i would strain to catch the first sign of each time--these images sink deeper into the spirit than i fully know how to go, pumped with life by the thready pulse of my memory that so lovingly crafts the experience each time i draw them up and back into me. and it worries me that i have instilled in myself a confidence in my memory, not for the methodic memorization of numbers and words, though i’m not all too shabby at that, but for that visual and sense memory, of knowing a place i have been to only once and years ago at that.

what if i go now and it is not how i remembered it not because it’s changed, but because my memory failed?

so i ask myself now: how do i let go of what i know or think i know? how do i come to this place open hearted and free? because whether or not i want to, i come burdened with an abundance of nostalgia. but not the sweet kind of nostalgia, cloying and untrue, no, this is not the saccharine variety but rather the sacrificial. the kind of nostalgia that churns up dark waters, where everything that has been lost or taken or forgotten washes up in its wake to be burned as an offering for all that is to come. because as much as i go down there for the past, for what was and what has been, to honor and name it, present it in vivid colors, i am here to discover what it holds for the future, to see how it lives on in my life as it is happening right now and how that will all grace what is to come.

dessert: cookies with shame a la mode.

the skin of my hands is that special kind of papery dry. the wrinkles fading from being submerged in water for so long. there were a lot of dishes left from the night and i was the only one still up to wash them. but i was using the task to elongate and savor the fading flavors of what was already one of my favorite dinner parties in a very long time. the night was more than worth the task.

five friends and one mom gathered around a table. some food on the grill. a little bit of wine. my first attempt at gluten free baking from scratch and a lot of conversation. at first we jumped and skipped between topics, starting with movies–the latest hits, the ones missed, a few really cheesy ones from years ago–and moved on to genius, geniuses, theoretical physics, and hillary clinton's texts.

until things shifted.
the sounding of a gauntlet thrown down to lay staring up at us six from among the rubble of half empty glasses and cookie crumbs.

but the surprising thing is we took it up. each and every one of us. we joined hearts and hands and spoke out loud to one another those stories of shame and fear and desire. and more shame. and more. again. and still. and it opened into a night like i haven't seen since a quartet formed out of nowhere in the wee hours after eden's wedding.

we lingered knee-deep in our stories, a different kind of round robin with higher stakes, more vulnerable hearts: things shame keeps us from doing, the things we tell ourselves we can't have because we're ashamed, the things we won't even think about because of shame.

and even if i started the questions, even if i was surrounded by five people i count as my kindred, count among my dearest, the questions weren't any easier for me to answer, and i am disappointed to say i found myself chickening out of speaking in clear and vulnerable words the places where shame rests most in my story, and admitting, without shame, the thing that i am most ashamed of at the moment. and so now, a few hours later, to a wider audience i state what i wish i had said earlier:

i am ashamed that i have settled so often for less in relationships.
ashamed the deeply interesting ones have always just disappeared.
and finally:
i am ashamed that the reason i am single is that i am not good enough for anyone {and never will be}.

there.
those are my secrets of shame.
and they beat a deep and measured rhythm beneath the opposite belief i have steadily been listening to over the years {even if i lose track of its cadence sometimes}:

i am.
plain and simple.
i am. i exist. me.
and that is glorious.
and enough.

and the fact that one day someone will recognize that and want to share their am-ness with me and take part in my am-ness is not something to worry about. my job is to just breathe, be, and remember which rhythm to listen to.

---------------------------------

it's funny how hard it still is to confess. here, safely tucked away behind the screen and sheltered by the internet. i look at the words and throw blankets like cliche and petty over them, judging them and me. or perhaps giving myself a little dig about still not having confidence as i toe the line of thirty. but that's just the shame fighting back, trying to hide away again as it sits there and squirms beneath the light of day shining down on it giving it words and definition and spindly limbs. it looks up at me with beady eyes knowing it's just a matter of time before i gather up the courage to squash it with a paper towel and take it to the trash.

beirut - september 2012

i saw beirut last wednesday and came away filled as any good show should accomplish. usually that's enough to find a path to words and in turn recreate and preserve the night but i came home and kept erasing the words i had written. nothing seems to capture it. maybe i was just tired.

or maybe it's just because there were two stories happening at the same time.

1. the story of the show:

the show was perfect. strong. free. joyful and heartbreaking all at the same time. a fantastic setlist played by a row of brass blasting out their notes to us with such force sometimes i imagined i could feel the wind of their instruments brushing my face. and only a few feet back from the stage, a body or two between the band and me and i couldn't stop moving, smiling, pursing my eyebrows together in direct correlation to the shift between their vivid intensity and soul stretching joy.

my hand stayed over my heart the whole show. though occasionally it was there to keep my heart from cracking itself open on the piercing edges of the music. at one point my neighbor, this little slip of a thing who, until that point mostly annoyed me by her something-induced dancing, looked over at me holding on to my chest and gently tapped her hand on my heart empathetically. she knew. she smiled. i smiled. and for the rest of her show her dancing lost its annoying edge.

but most of the time, i didn't need to hold my heart together with my hands and they could joyfully play the heart and thigh drums by thumping them both in time to the music. shortly into the show i noticed the lead singer, zach condon, doing it as well {when he wasn't playing his trumpet or guitar}. we had became a mirror image to each other: my right hand on my heart and my left thumping my thigh as his left hand played his heart and his right drummed his thigh. and in our shared musical enthusiasm he became my long lost mirror twin i didn't even know until now i had been missing.

2. the story of the song:


the night of the show life folded in on me in a few ways* most of them around this one short song: a sunday smile.


a small tangent: the last time i went to a show alone, i was at the moore theater seeing regina spektor in 2007. it was a show i was supposed to see with two others but they bailed, selling their tickets last minute and so i went alone. i remember being put off by the fact that the people next to me gave me the cold shoulder, thinking that it shouldn't be too hard to at least be congenial with someone you obviously share a certain level of music kinship with. and it was that experience in particular that lingered with me four years later and motivated me to break the barrier of stranger and reach out to my neighbor at bon iver last september. it's been nearly a year and not only did i make someone's night that night {as well as my own} but i scored music friend #10, someone who quickly became a dear friend. to take this in a tidy little circle, tonight i went alone to a concert for the first time since 2007 and of course it was back to the moore theater to finally see beirut live. and halfway through, i called music friend #10 to share with him a sunday smile since he could not be there in person to hear it with me.

and so it was that a sunday smile was handed back to me that night, folding time and space once again to string together all the intense moments it has carried me through in my life. as soon as i knew i would be seeing this band, i knew i wanted to hear this one song the most. the first song of there i ever heard, given to me by another great spirit in my life: my favorite professor who sent me a mix of songs in early 2008. it was right as a relationship ended and my world came crashing down on me, leveling me for about a year at least, probably more. and it was the opening lines of this song on repeat for weeks in my car, perhaps months during this time, that helped carry me above the tides of my life. a lifeline out to better times.

all i want is the best for my life my dear
and you know my wishes are sincere
what's the say for the days i cannot bear
a sunday smile, we wore it for a while
a sunday smile, we paused and sang

while that was how we first met, the song has come up again throughout the years, marking several finite moments of courage in my life. these two stories are both from my 9 month acting course that was basically a study of pushing oneself beyond one's boundaries. they can be found in the archives here and here {the latter post being a far more interesting class, perhaps one of my favorites}. or if you are up for a little recording of me singing it pre-voice lessons, here is a silly little video {that still took a lot of outtakes and even more courage} with an ending that still makes me laugh.

and at the show, coincidentally {or not, depending on how you view the world} the song found me once more on a day when i needed it badly. one of those days i stared down fear in a way that made my stomach and heart shrink inside me, trying to squeeze themselves into hiding from what the rest of my body and spirit could not avoid. i had been so fiercely swept up by the anticipation of failure, of pain, and of shame just as i stood staring at the cusp of so much that can either build or break my heart. i even considered bailing on the show but i think it was the song that got there, got me out, got me into a crowd and exactly where i needed to be doing most: listening to amazing music and writing a long overdue screen play during set changes. ironically it was the usual behavior of scribbling away at a notebook that got connecting me to the audience around me who wanted to know what i was writing. and in turn they drew me into their excitement and enthusiasm, drew me into that soft warmth of bodies standing close, happily waiting for a band to take stage. so that when the band finally did come on, i was there. i was ready. my stomach and heart and spirit cautiously unfurled, catching the winds of change in my life rather than hiding from them.

about halfway through the show, zach did a long, gentle lead up to a song, inviting us to sing along, smiling in anticipation of giving us this true gem of sonic heartbreak. and all i can say is that halfway through i realized my knees were weak in a way i haven't felt in a long time. it was good. it was heart breaking. it was perfect.





*i must not take credit for this lovely image: life folding in on itself. that moment when you retrace the steps from the past unexpectedly, or find yourself tied to a person, particular relationship dynamic or song mirroring the past. you probably know what i mean, but regardless, these words are words of a friend i repeat here because they were so perfect.

a view from the top

i am afraid of so many things. some days i stay in bed an extra five, fifteen, thirty minutes checking email, facebook, playing solitaire on my phone, whatever it is i can distract myself with and insulate myself from life. a futile effort to hold at bay the waves when fear takes over.

luckily though these days don't come often, but they do come, and then they come back again in some unpredictable turn of the self-evolutionary cycle. i should be used to them now. should, would love to, but am not.

some of the things i fear:

failing
never even trying
not beating my previous half marathon time
never achieving all i hold in my ambitions
settling for less

wearing high heels and tripping myself up
worse: wearing high heels and being taller than everyone

pulling the emergency door on an airplane because for some reason i forgot my life depended on it being in place
getting shot on a run through central district {not so paranoid given this year's death by shooting count}

bowling
pool
karaoke
and all things that are sexy when you know how to do it well but i suck at or haven't tried...see "failing"

spiders

being left
leaving

heights
tall buildings
sky scrapers


these last ones are a bit of a theme for me and have featured in many nightmares throughout my life. it's the vivid pressure of gravity, of potential gravity, a visceral understanding of the force the fall would garner that comes out of nowhere and pulls at my body and fills my flesh. it is not a comfortable experience, but none of the above are whether they ever actually happen or i just sit in my fear of anticipation. a fear of potential realities could be added to the list.

short of being shot or opening the door on an airplane at cruising altitude, i need to remember i can handle all these things, live through large spiders leaping out at me from piles of junk mail {true story} or surprising me from under beds and landing on my leg {sadly, also true story}. i can weather the discomfort {or even humiliation} of a mediocre round of karaoke or game of bowling. i can run. i can be run from.

so when did i stop living at the edge of my fears, staring them down and telling them they can't win? when did i start tip toeing through my life? a month ago? six? when i settled back down and gave myself a space to call home? a place to return to? when i began living again in a daily reminder of my entitlement to safety both physical and emotional?

in a gentle effort to push myself, i went to the top of the columbia center last week and stood on the viewing deck of the 73rd floor. and all i did was let myself be pulled, just let it happen. and the terror i thought would come, the terror that finds me in the middle of sleep as i stand precariously on the roof of some skyscraper or another, or attacked by a massive spider, or just alonealonealone, that terror wasn't there. or rather, only came in small moments that rushed through me faster than i thought possible. a flicker here. a passing thought there. a good reminder that the reality of my fears are not impossible, and in facing them, i discovered that surpassing them all was a sense of awe. awe of the discoveries this new place had to offer. a bird's eye view. silence. warmth. the reminder that we are just so small in this great big universe {and that's only looking down at one medium-sized city} and that the story inside my head, that narrative that follows my every move and lords over every thought and feeling, it's not as important as it would like me to believe. and the quiet of peace and contentment, that quiet that says there is nothing really to fear here or anywhere, just take a good look and breathe, she speaks so softly in comparison.

there is always something here in these fears. the real battle is just remembering who to listen to. and breathe.






currently listening to "goshen" by beirut.


you're on in five, it's time you rise or fail.
they've gone before, stood by your door all day.
for what it's worth, defend your kind from shame.
the lights are down, go on inside, they've paid.
you're the face in stone, through the land i own.
you never found it home.
you're not the girl i used to know.

what would you hide from such a glow
if i had only told you so?

you're on in five, it's time you rise or fail.
they've gone before, stood by your door all day.
but you never found it home.
a fair price I'd pay to be alone.

what would you hide from such a glow
if i had only told you so?