7.

Dear little Miss M,

First of all, you are no longer that little. But you are still Miss M, and you will always be Miss M. When you were first born, I started calling you Miss M, or sometimes just "ma'm." You seemed like such an old soul in a tiny little body, and needed something far more formal than the name we'd given you.

Still does this, but in bigger PJs.

You were indignant and angry from the start. I remember every night you'd cry from 6 pm-8 pm. Every single night. Two hours straight. Angry, balled up fists in the air. Mad at only god knows what, for god knows what reason. And you hated sleep; you didn't want to miss a thing (you are still like this). The moment you took your first step, I felt a rush of relief - you were free, FREE! But also a deep sadness...the first step is the beginning of the end of babyhood...toddlerdom...childhood. It's been 7 years, and in another mere 9 you'll be driving. It goes so, so fast.  

You are a strong-willed, determined little girl. You like girly things like cheerleading, make up, nail polish, dancing, One Direction, Nick (and Joe) Jonas, sparkles, the color pink, Disney princesses, Disney's anti-princesses, and you'd really really like to go on a date with a boy except I can tell: you don't even know what that really means or entails. But you also like boy things like skateboards and scooters, Star Wars, soccer, Sunday night football (which you understand so much better than I do - thank your father, he's just made you cool with all the jocks), worms and roly poly bugs, all things gross, and fart jokes. 

Loves to party. With sparkles.

You are a becoming a mini-me, but with a lot of good balance from your dad's genetics. You are highly imaginative and in your own head a lot (me); yet you're a total social butterfly who can't say no to a good party (your dad). You love stories and music and creativity (me); yet you're analytical enough to be one of the best mathematicians in your class (your dad). You're disorganized (me), but you can clean like nobody's business when necessary (your dad). You're all emotions (me) but really logical (your dad) (emotions + logic = bless you, my darling...you got a looooong, crazy road ahead of you trying to marry those two character traits). You are stubborn (me) but not unreasonable (your dad). You have an illogical issue with shoes and clothes (that's all me...and you got nothing from your dad to counteract that, sorry).

Yesterday, I completely lost it with you. In public. I am sorry, sweet girl. When things like that happen, where afterwards I am filled with guilt and What-The-Heck-Is-WRONG-With-You-Amy?! thoughts, I always hope it becomes a memory that gets buried deep deep down in the recesses of your brain. And I'm sorry I've taught you cuss words. I'd honestly intended to wait until you were at least 10. (I'm sure by now you get it: mommy's got a temper, and now you know why you do, too.) 

....and/or she'll be running her own small country.

Sometimes, because you are such an old soul and also very tall for your age, I forget: you are only 6 (now 7), just a baby. And I am having a hard life, and so are you. You cry a lot and ask why daddy can't come over for a sandwich, and why we can't be together as a family anymore. You asked, for your birthday this year, if you and I could spend the night at daddy's house, and all three of us sleep in the same bed like we did a long time ago. You are sad when you're with daddy because you miss me and worry I'm lonely without you. You are sad when you're with me because you miss daddy and worry he's lonely without you. 

Your tender heart breaks mine a lot; I have tremendous amounts of guilt about what I did this summer. But I also did it because I deeply felt that, in the long run, it would be the very best thing for all three of us and I never ever do anything without weighing all the possible best/worst case scenarios and being prepared to accept any and all consequences that follow every choice I make. I feel like it's really important you know that...on the first birthday you've had not waking up in a house that has both me and daddy.

Cheerleader. For dolphins.

At night, you like me to make up stories for you in which you are rescued or whisked away by Harry Styles of One Direction until you giggle yourself silly. Then I draw pictures on your back and sing You Are My Sunshine or The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow or Somewhere Over the Rainbow until you fall asleep. And after you are asleep, I stare at your profile, and I can still see the little face from the ultrasound images 7 years ago. Isn't that amazing? From a side angle in the dark, you are still a mysterious part of me. I remember I couldn't believe you were actually inside of me. And even now, years later, I can still feel the surreal, freakish sensation of having your tiny feet swipe at my insides when you were finally big enough to make your presence known. I watch you sleep and think about how small you once were, how your entire body fit perfectly on my chest, and I remember how we'd defy all the What Not To Do parenting articles and risk it just to lie together, napping...me on the sofa, you on my chest. Really, it was the only way you could sleep. You have been sleeping on top of me ever since, often with a foot in my face.

But mostly I just look at your sweet sleeping self a lot of nights and think the same thing I thought when you were lying in the bassinet next to me in the hospital: I can't believe my body made you, and that you picked me to be your mommy. You are the happiest and saddest and most exciting and silliest and angriest and scariest and hardest and best thing I have ever done, and ever will do. 

My most favorite thing ever.

Happy 7th year on Earth, little Miss M. I'm so lucky I get to be YOUR mommy. You are my favorite, my most favorite little girl, on the WHOLE planet. There is no other little girl I love more than you, no other little girl I ever want to hug and kiss and fight and laugh and sing and cry and watch movies and dance and take nature hikes with. 

I hope you are growing up with more happy moments than sad (but I think some sadness is good for you, too - so you can appreciate the happy), and more than anything else that you know how tremendously loved you are. Every single night before you fall asleep, after I sing You Are My Sunshine to you, I say: "You are my very best blessing." I made a conscious choice when you were 2 hours old to do that, to make sure those are almost always the last words you hear before you fall asleep, no matter what kind of day you or I or we have had. It's the most important thing to me that you know you are a blessing, that you are worthy of love, that you are perfect just as you are...because one day you will encounter people who will make you question that, and doubt yourself. Which is why my biggest wish for you, every day, is that as you grow up you'll encounter far more of the OTHER kind of people, the ones who will see who you really are and love even the darkest parts of you.

I send prayers to the Universe, on a consistent basis, that you are one day in a home of your very own, one that you'll fill up with things that bring you peace and happiness and inspire moments of creative abandon full of wild recklessness. I write daily requests to Whatever is listening, that you'll find something to do with your life that brings you joy and makes you feel good, and that you'll be surrounded with people who help you and support you through the gloomiest bits while bringing your life a little weirdness, a lot of extraordinary, and great gigantic gobs of blessings and love. 

You are the all the very best parts of me and your daddy wrapped up in one beautiful place, in one growing and magnificently magical child, and more than that, you are my very best blessing of all. I love you, sweet girl. Happy birthday. 

Love,
Mommy
October 30, 2015

Miss M likes zombie eyes.

My very best blessing. Thank you, Universe.

3 beautiful things.

It has been a weird, sad day Internet. My home feels happy (except for the potato chip crumbs Miss M has left all over the floor, and the markers and the electric outlet plate she miraculously chipped a giant piece off of this morning with her 6 year old thigh of steel). I fixed my bedroom curtain rod (until it unfixes itself). I have cleaned and done laundry. I have called the apartment complex and had them fix my air conditioner leak for the 2nd time since moving in, and now the bedroom carpet can dry again and be re-padded for the second time, and I can hope and pray there will be no molding issues (they did spray something). 

This is my safe and sacred space, and I think I am going to buy some sage from amazon.com and smudge all the negativity out. I only want peace and love and happiness to be here with the falling curtain rods, chipped outlet plates, leaky air conditioning unit, re-padded a million times bedroom carpet, and random art materials strewn everywhere. 

But I have spent today very sad. Distressed, worried, and sad. And discombobulated. And yet blessed and grateful. And very very detached from it all, yet sad. I am all over the place, emotionally. 

So Miss M and I went to Starbucks and then my 2nd favorite outdoors space. I'd have gone to my 1st favorite one, but it doesn't have a playground and my 6 year old doesn't enjoy long hikes. I went there today because (1) I'd been on a phone or a laptop all day...literally, from like 9 AM to 2:30 PM or whatever, and that's not healthy, and (2) I was sad, and (3) I remember Elizabeth Gilbert telling me a story about a time she was incredibly sad, so sad she didn't think she'd make it out of the post office she was in, and then something inside her (God, her soul, her inner Oprah, whatever) told her: Liz, go find 3 beautiful things. It's okay if you want to mourn your life and be sad, if that's how you want to spend your time today, but you're not allowed to until you find 3 beautiful things. And she did - she walked out of the post office and 3 gigantic circus elephants walked past her (nothing magical; the circus was in town and it was a city-approved parade) (also, Liz didn't really tell ME this tale, she told me and about 20,000 other attendees at the Oprah's Live Your Best Life seminar last year). 

So this is what I did today. I took my daughter to my favorite natural space, and I requested the Universe please help me find 3 beautiful things. This is what I found:

These gigantic orange mushrooms. There were many others,
but this cluster was amazing. How does Mother Nature come up
with bizarre shit like this? And they are blooming because of
all Her rain. I was gobsmacked by them, and She is totally forgiven.

This tiny waterfall. If you go to my Instagram account
(social media links up on your upper right), you can
hear it via video. Waterfalls make me happy.
The big ones are powerful and majestic and good for blowing
your mind; but little ones like this make me think of peace and
fairies and how gentle Mother Nature can sometimes be
and how everything (EVERYTHING) must keep flowing, keep moving on.
Water constantly changes and flows, and so must we.

And then I could not find a third thing. I kept looking and looking, thinking:
well, maybe how the sun plays on the leaves; that's pretty beautiful. Or maybe these leaves
that are just now beginning to turn colors, that's quite lovely. Or maybe those clouds up there,
that look like wisps of cotton moving across the sky; well done, Mother Nature.
And then I looked up ahead of me and saw HER, and thought: Oh, well of course.
She's the most beautiful thing in my life, and I never have to go far to find her.
Ta da! Third beautiful thing. Mission accomplished.

Here's the deal McNeals: I have no idea who I am right now or what I want. I think I want to have sex with someone, and then I decide nope - too messy and complicated. I think I want to be open to new ideas and all kinds of people, and then I decide nope - people are fucking exhausting. I think I want to start up an exercise program and then I just laugh and laugh at myself because Life and work schedules and Insomnia. And then I cycle back around, and go: just shut up, get over yourself, and make it happen. It'll be fine. And then something else will happen and I'll be all: fuck this shit. 

I just want off the roller coaster at this point, I think. 

So after M and I got back from our Nature Quest, I sat down with a new notebook I bought today. I decided I shall flood the Universe with requests until It starts to cooperate with me. (The Universe actually always cooperates with you; it's just that It does it on Its own sweet time and sometimes what shows up doesn't look precisely like what you requested, but fair enough...it'll do. Which is why I advise you to always keep your Universal requests simple and to-the-point, or very very precise and detailed...and then be prepared to accept whatever shows up.) 

I will write letters to It, confessionals and notes of gratitude and lists of things I want. Some of it I may share here, because my very nature is to share and do it as brazenly and as publicly as I can. I keep saying this is because I think sharing our experiences and stories connect us, but maybe I'm really just an attention whore at heart. 

What I am certain of, that's been a standard certainty going on 4-5 years now is the following:

1. I want to be peaceful, loving, and kind. 

2. I want to be loved and treated kindly.

3. I want to be able to know who to let in, and who not to. Trust issues are tremendous psychic blocks for me, and I'll confess: I have no idea how to work through them. I give up, Trust Issues. I have no idea who to trust now. I'm a runner; if I even sense you may leave, I like to leave first. But because I've been abandoned so many times by so many people who promised they'd never leave? I am always ready to be abandoned. 

I would like to find a Master Teacher who will teach me how not to do this. I think I keep looking, but maybe I'll just sit back and let the Universe bring him or her to me. I think if I keep asking, It will. Hopefully before the end of the decade.

4. I want to be open to all kinds of new experiences and people. Trust issues make this fairly impossible.

5. Eventually, I do want to love another man again. But I want that man to be kind, funny, smart, open-minded, non-judgmental, not critical, emotionally available, real, whole, artistic/creative in some manner, honest, loyal, confident, tall, and good in bed. Is that too much to ask? I will not settle for less. I am determined and ready to be alone forever if I can't have every single thing on that list.

However. Because I've done the Oprah Create Your Best Life seminar, I am painfully aware that before I can have anything on that list, I need to resolve my trust issues. And then learn how to be whole and love myself. I have no idea how to start this. So I guess I'll just ask for help. Please help.

And I'll keep going outside, looking for 3 beautiful things each day, and write letters and notes and demands to whatever may care or be listening and cross my fingers that there is such a thing out there, listening and caring. Because I DO believe in magic, I guess. I mean, my god. There are gigantic mushrooms in the world. There HAS to be magic as well. Right?

anger management, xxl.

Forewarning: there are many angry swears in this - sorry mom. 

This scene is what the press junkets SHOULD have
focused on.

I saw Magic Mike XXL last night. I don't know if I should publicly admit this, because I almost feel like it's admitting I read 50 Shades of Grey cover to cover and had favorite sentences in it that I highlighted and return to whenever I need writing inspiration (I have never read 50 Shades of Grey). However, in my (and many other women's) defense, may I just say that I think there are all kinds of movies for all kinds of situations. Books, too. Just like taking a mindless/garbage-y/trashy romance to the beach to read and leaving War and Peace at home? Thus shall movies like Magic Mike  and Magic Mike XXL serve their purpose for (Wo)Man. It is a trashy beach read, on film.

I saw the first Magic Mike, yet preferred this Magic Mike to the first Magic Mike. (Which, just expressing that opinion out loud, I think officially makes me a connoisseur of trashy films). It makes fun of itself, and I like people/books/film/music/art that can make fun of themselves. Life's short, let's mock It. 

I loved Jada Pinkett Smith as the girl version of Matthew McConaughey--I'm sorry, Matthew McConaughey, I normally love you, but you were far too oily in the other one. But Jada! Jada was bad. ass. And she knows women and knew exactly what to do with this character (which totally makes sense, since she is one) - I want a Girls Night Out with Jada Pinkett Smith. And can we talk about Joe Manganiello for a couple of seconds? Oh my. Oh my! I know most women go for the Channing Tatum scenes, but Joe just looks like he has a secret obsession for Shakespeare sonnets. People are all talking about his gas station mini-market dance, but I am in love with the wedding/honeymoon dance scene. Minus the swing; let's not get crazy (because that was crazy).

What I most liked about this movie is it knew who'd be watching it (me...I'm saying I think Channing Tatum & Co. personally tailored it for me: "How can we make Amy in Georgia happy?" was a constant refrain heard at every table read). Best scene/stole-the-show character: Andie MacDowell. Oh, how I understood her - not her divorce situation; I am separating from a nice man. Just her anger. If you've seen or do see the movie, you'll understand what I'm talking about.

Because I'm pretty angry at the moment. A stew-y type of anger. A stew-y, soup-y, highly controlled kind of anger that's actually hard to explain unless you're inside of me. (Please don't make inappropriate jokes about how that came out because I started off rave-salivating over a male stripper movie. You'll just add to the swirling bog of turbulent vexation.)

Here are some examples of things that make me angry right now:

1. People, specifically men, telling me what to do/who I am/how I feel. Are you me? Do you have exclusive access to the thoughts in my brain? That's right, you don't, so. Fuck you.

2. People, specifically men, who make assumptions about what I need or what I want. Oh, why? Because I'm in a bad spot right now, and vulnerable, and so I don't really know what I need or want? Fuck you.

3. People, specifically men, who think because I'm separated now that I'm easier to take advantage of. Oh, you sense my vulnerability and think it'll make me less discerning? Fuck you. 

I continue processing where I'm at right now - this will take an enormously long time to wade through if I want to do it properly, and I want to do it properly. My summer is ending, I have to get back to work next week, and I have to engage and be present there. I've accepted that this is where I'm supposed to be right now, in terms of career, for whatever reason, and so it's really important to me now to stay engaged and focused. Yet I also know now that, particularly at work, I need to keep protective walls of immunity from the Crazy built around me. I need to tend to these walls, adding layers whenever necessary. 

And I'm still adjusting to my new home situation, and I am worried about me, about C, about Miss M. And so you know what? This IS all making me vulnerable, goddammit. And that's what's making me angry, I bet. Each interaction I have with a new human being right now, specifically the male of the species, leaves me generally suspicious: what do you really want from me? I am here for me and my family, full stop. If you are not in my family, I'm not here for you - I am not responsible for how you feel or what you think, and what you want is...sorry to be rude, but that's your problem not mine. You do you; I'll do me. And so I have nothing for you and I am a mess right now; please don't say or do anything to make it worse. 

Generally, I'm a ridiculously over the top nice person, an extreme people pleaser of the worst kind. I try very hard to keep my interactions with others - online and off - kind and pleasant. I prefer to spread love, not anger. But I'm finding I may have to start being a bit more assertive. Less nice. More Jada Pinkett Smith-y. If you will. 

Most of all, I need to be surrounded by healers and people who just want to laugh and have fun right now. Go see Magic Mike XXL, and you'll get a good idea of who I want to hang out with right now (and NO I am not saying I want to be surrounded by male entertainers...you seriously haven't even read a thing I just wrote, have you? Focus, or we can't be friends: I mean people who don't take themselves seriously, people who are interested in smiling and laughter and fun and goodness and kindness and authenticity. I want to be around people who know this planet is hard to live on and so let's not create any more messes than we absolutely positively have to. And I want to be with people - specifically men - who know sometimes women just want to be a queen, not a thing to be manipulated and used and taken advantage of). 

Ending side note: This would be one of those roller coaster emotions a friend of mine told me about. This week's roller coaster was anger; last week's was sadness. I'm cycling through, so happiness is right around the corner; I just know it.

tough magic.

I am back to normal. By "back to normal" I mean: exactly 50% less geeky. What you witnessed last night was Amy on Geek Crack. I hope I didn't tweet anything too embarrassing to Jason Isaacs, Alison Sudol, or Anne Heche. Or DIG (on USA!). (Geek Crack is street drug lingo for 2 glasses of wine after a really long day.) 

Also, I re-read my entire blog piece about DIG (on USA!) from yesterday. I should never, ever attempt to live blog again. I clearly haven't got a clue what I'm doing. Were you confused? I'm so sorry if I confused you. I was excited and drinking wine. Two things that work better for me in person than online. If you'd been in my bedroom with me, I promise: we'd have had THE best time. But watching from your computer may have given you an entirely wrong impression of me. Or, I don't know, probably the right one in terms of me, online. 

....I would like to note, though, that according to my blog statistics, I have garnered DIG (on USA!) about 360 pairs of eyeballs (if those eyeballs all followed my directions correctly). Add that with my Facebook (180) and Pinterest (1800) eyeball pairs, multiplied by all the tweets I geeked out all night about DIG (on USA), that's about 3,180,180,017 viewers for them last night. From ME alone! (This is why I don't do my own taxes.) (And you're welcome, USA Network.)

Tomorrow, I will go into further detail as I de-brief you about the show. If you haven't watched it yet (and if you haven't: are you effing KIDDING me?! What the. Listen, don't even give me that look--you are THISCLOSE to my Shit List. Jesus Christ). If you didn't DVR or TIVO it and/or you simply don't have USA Network, go -->HERE<-- to watch the pilot episode. BEFORE SUNDAY. I'm not kidding: I have this much time to play catch up with you: 0. Zero minutes.

Miss M has begun her football (soccer) season. This is her first real team sport, and it is being coached by a real football team player. FROM ENGLAND. ....Oh, Internet. Do you have any idea what this did to me when I showed up and M's coach spoke his first words to me? You don't. Internet, you don't even know. Had it not been so cold, I'd have melted into a gooey puddle of bluthering anglophilia. Seriously, her first game is tomorrow and I've already planned my outfit and coordinated my hair and make up. If I'd only KNOWN before I came to practice tonight--I'd have at least refreshed my lipstick. I mean, for the love of all, it was freezing tonight at soccer practice and I needed a thicker coat, but if I got up to get it from my car, that meant I'd miss drinking up some of handsome Coach Mark's exotic football player talk. And as I was utterly opposed to missing out on exotic British football player talk, I sat in enthralled, raptured, frozen misery. My issues for this accent run far, and deep. (I don't know why. I'm sure I'm a psychiatric researcher's wet dream, though.)

Besides which, he was directing and interacting with little girls, and he was sweet and silly and patient and they were sweet and silly and impatient, and nobody--NOBODY--was focusing on the ball. They were just interested in holding hands and jumping around in circles, and he was kind and sweet and patient with all of them. Tomorrow's game is going to be just one 60 minute fiasco of freaking ridiculous little girl cuteness, I can tell, with a patient, kind Englishman gently reminding rambunctious little girls how to run around a pitch, reminding them for the 10,000th time: ONLY USE YOUR FEET. (And: which is your goal? which is the goal you're stopping the ball? And: No, no, ducks--go the other way, the OTHER way. And: Come on now, Let's have a go, darlings. You can DO it!)

Just thinking about this is making my heart melt all over again. There is nothing like watching a gentleman use a hot accent to coach little squirrely girls who are running amok and not even listening to him a single bit. Meanwhile, one of the mums in the audience is in her purse looking for her smelling salts. 

Whole. Night. MADE.

At any rate, Miss M kept running over to give us high fives. She made some goals (I have no idea how she accomplished this, other than maybe the other little girl she was playing against was even less coordinated and/or aware of her surroundings). So we cheered--yay! YOU DID IT! GOOOOO M! And then somebody else made a goal and we cheered the same for them, except we said GOOOOO J! And thus began the drama queenery: I am NOT to cheer for other children, even ones on Eagles United (the name of M's team).

I saw the face. I know it. I know that Oh HELL no! look that Miss M gets whenever she feels certain she's been slighted. (That's from my DNA. The hypersensitive, did-you-just-IGNORE-ME?!? mitochondria--that's all me.) And maybe the fact she's got Only Child Syndrome. That may be a lot of it, too. Which is why I say she just wants all the attention. 

A future television reality star, is what I'm saying. I'm not raising a future Meryl Streep; I'm most likely raising the next Kim Kardashian. Which is fine! I'm totally fine with this; Kim K is rich beyond her wildest dreams. I just don't want any Kanye Wests brought into the family, or that strange--what was he? a basketball player? The one who had no couth or IQ and was being led around by all the Kardashian women like broken puppy. No sports people. No. And nobody who dresses like THIS:

I can't even. I mean, can he BREATHE?

I'm being very judgmental, aren't I? I think that was a New Year's goal of mine, to stop doing that to fellow human beings. But I mean, honestly, who comes up with stuff like this? (Although...most Monday mornings, I guess I'd actually kind of like to have a face cover. It would shave 25 minutes off my prep time and I could make all kinds of faces at people I don't like very much and no one would be the wiser.) 

Speaking of England (keep up, I'm off Kanye and back to soccer now): I showed my class PETER PAN (2003 version) today. We'd watched the Disney version, then read the chapter book...actually, I read the chapter book, doing my very bad posh British accent for the dialogue parts. (Two things about this: -1-switching between American and British is hard on the tongue, and -2-I have two accents I'm halfway good at: posh British and Lucky Charms Irish [The Irish hate Americans like me, every March 17: "ach! bless me loocky chARms!" "Top o' the marnin' to ye!" All. Day. Long.]. And I have one accent I absolutely excel at: twang Southern.) (I don't think I actually sound that Southern, though I do say "y'all," and "bless his heart." If I start talking fast, I also drop all my g's from my -ing words turn the pronoun I into AH. And then there's the slurring of my words....okay. Okay, fine. I'm a damn Yankee Southerner. Whatever.) 

So after reading the book (by the way, PETER PAN by JM Barrie is in my Top 5 most favorite children's books...it's all about bravery and loyalty, friendship and imagination, conquering fears and going forth into the dark vast of the unknown; ultimately, it's about staying true to yourself...and, of course, staying forever young no matter what), and after completing numerous compare/contrast, writing, character analysis, and other very very academic activities, we watch the 2003 movie. Which is just magical. It has some plot issues (for instance, what's up with the weird Aunt Vanessa Redgrave character? I mean, I liked her character, I just didn't get why they put her in), but little kids don't know about any of that, and frankly they don't care. They just come to be entertained. And if a little kid isn't entertained, they'll let you know. In ways Mark Kermode couldn't even begin to try to rival. (Do you know who Mark Kermode is? He's smart: go here.)

So I read this book and show this movie to my classes every year. And every year, I have to, at some point, stop the movie and say things like the following:

"Hey. This isn't a football game. We aren't cheering for teams. Just WATCH THE MOVIE."

"Hey. Stop with the running commentary. Peter can't hear you."

"Hey. You guys are a HORRIBLE movie audience. If this were a real theater, I'd be glaring hard at you in the dark and shushing you. And then I'd call a manager over to have you forcibly removed."

"Hey. Pencils are NOT popcorn. Stop that."

Every year! Every year I have to stop the movie periodically to say things like that. But not this year--this year, they were enthralled and captivated. And you know that part when Tinkerbell drinks the poison? They immediately started clapping so she'd live again. And when they realized this movie doesn't do the clapping, they started immediately chanting "I DO believe in fairies, I DO I DO!" I tried to capture that moment on Instagram--no faces being shown, that could land me on the 5 o'clock news, y'all--you'd have just seen my lesson plan book and heard a bunch of upset children begging a fairy to live, live again! But my phone mucked up. (Typical.)

Anyway, at the end of the movie, I took a quick straw poll. Usually, my classes are all about the pirates. All the little boys want to know where they, too, can purchase themselves a Capt. Hook hook after seeing this film. Not this year--this year, they all wanted to be Lost Boys, and the girls wanted to be Wendy or Tinkerbell or Tiger Lily. I think I had one little girl who secretly aspires to piracy. But more eye widening? One of my toughest little boys came up to me at the end of the day and whispered, "Ms. S, I really DO believe in fairies." 

Oh my god. Internet, OH MY GOD. I'm tearing up again just remembering. I mean, seriously. This is the little boy who gets yanked out into the hallway at least once a week and told, "I am very disappointed in your choice. This isn't funny! Look at my face: this is my I am NOT HAPPY with you teacher face and I do NOT like having to wear my I am NOT HAPPY with you teacher face." And also back in December he tried to ruin Santa Claus for a little girl in our class. Freakin' kid.

But now he really does believe in fairies. He does. He DOES! You guys! This is when Movies can truly bring us Magic. 

(Don't get starry eyed; I promise by Monday afternoon that kid'll be back in the hallway and I'll be crouched down in front of him going, "WHEN. When? When do you think you'll make a better choice? Go move your clip down and figure out how you'll fix your problem. Let me know when you have a solution. And this is NOT funny.")

British league soccer coaches with soft hearts for little girls. Tough little boys who secretly believe in magic. ......And then there's Kanye West's idea of fashionable.

Going to stick with soft-hearted Brits and tough little boys who secretly believe in magic.

six.

I'll write about my magical, ghostly trip to the beach last weekend later (if I can find time to breathe between Halloween and birthday festivities). First, I need to talk about Miss M. Because she is six today. Six! SIX. A mere four years from one whole decade here on Earth. I've been here for four decades, and I still remember when I turned my first decade old. Where do the decades go?

I remember lying in the hospital room after Miss M was yanked from my body, and staring at her--how can a person's body make something so incredibly amazing? And yet so alien-like and freakish? All at once? Yes, yes, Biologists--I KNOW the scientific process; but sleeping babies are all about magic. 

I remember watching her tiny body sleep, thinking: she will never be any more perfect than she is right now--she has never had a bug bite, a scratch, a pimple; she has never had anything tragic happen to her (well, unless being ripped from the liquid warmth of a safe womb counts), there's not a single thing in her world right now to mar her perfection. I remember thinking: here is a human being who's a completely clean slate, existing in the most perfect state of being humans ever get to exist in. (I do sometimes think most of our navel gazing as adults is a dull, pathetic attempt to go back to this state of perfect perfection, to recapture the precise moments in which we were absolutely Okay. Before, you know, our parents' and their parents' and all of our ancestral baggage laid claim to our innate wellness, and the boxing match of wills with the Universe began.)

I remember strapping her baby body into the car seat and climbing in next to her and realizing: Wow. They just...GIVE these things to you. No instruction manuals, no stickers, no warning labels. Just: Here ya go. Try not to have Child Services called or anything. (So far, so good! Fingers crossed.) 

I remember standing in her bedroom one night, holding her soft, sweet, little body cradled on my shoulder, and I remember watching us sway together in a mirror, with a soft nightlight illuminating the room around us...it didn't really feel real then, and I remember thinking: One day, I won't be able to do this with her anymore, and I should burn this moment into my brain forever and ever and hold onto it as tight as I possibly can. And I did. And it is still there. As if it we just did that yesterday.

And then one year passed, and two, and three, and now here we are. At age six. Six! As each year comes and goes, someone will invariably say to me: Oh, I love this age! This was my favorite age. Enjoy her at this age. They grow up so fast and this age will never come again. And then I will spend that whole year going: Wow. You know, I really do miss that one age that one person told me three years ago not to miss...but this age? pssh. Let's go age (X)! I am soooo very over YOU, age (X), and all your ridiculous issues. (Each age has its unique challenges, is what I think I'm trying to say...and you will never appreciate how easy those challenges were until you're looking at them in the muddied rear view mirror of Life's macho, over-the-top, gas guzzling monster truck.)

Miss M can practically read now. I started typing this right before she fell asleep, and she was using her phonics skills to try to sound out what I was typing. Before I know it, I won't be able to get away with things like spelling out the location of her hidden birthday gifts in front of her. 

And she's in love! With strangers and little boys in her class alike. You guys! This is so different from four years ago, when she was mostly concerned with Yo Gabba Gabba and  getting enough yaw-yee bops (lollipops) at her birthday party. In four years from now, when she is 10, will I be longing for the days when she just obsessed over little boys who wanted nothing to do with girls, boy bands from Britain, and Frozen ice princesses? (Probably.)

I think childhood is magical. I wish I'd known, when I was growing up, that I was partaking in this very strange, delicious bit of sorcery called Childhood. And this makes me wish more children were like Peter Pan, who totally understood what odd blackness is afoot when a body and mind begin to get bigger and older. Instead, I was like I think a lot of children are, including my own Miss M: I kept thinking older would better and wiser and I'd have more freedom. When I was six, I couldn't wait to be ten. When I was ten, I thought 16 was when it all started to come together. When I was 16, I was certain 21 was when the magic finally happened. When I was 21, it hadn't sunk in yet that this is IT. There IS no older or wiser or freedom. Just one more year and then another year after that and one more after that.

Year 21 seems to be where Childhood goes to die.

(This may be one reason why some people are driven to have children, but now we're going down a philosophical path that's less about M and more about her Mommy so let's backtrack to the most important part of this essay, shall we?)

Miss M is my most very favorite human on the entire planet. I cannot think of anyone who makes me happier, angrier, more in love, more frustrated, more joyous, more scared, more amazed, and more complete than little Miss M. I remember feeling sort of restless and without form for a good 30 or so years...and then, one day, staring down at a plus sign on a pregnancy stick feeling blown away. It wasn't until a doctor showed me her shadowy form and beating, tiny heart on an ultrasound that I truly believed she was in there. And when I believed that, I felt a huge surge, a tremendous rush of relief, and sort of deep, visceral knowledge: I can plant my feet now. This is why I had to go through THAT tunnel to scale THAT bridge to rock climb THAT cliff. So I could plant my feet, right HERE. With you, dear Child.

I remember sitting very still with her inside of me, before I could feel her move around, knowing that this is what God is like: you can't see, feel, or hear God...but God is in there, somewhere. And then I remember the feeling of her tiny feet swiping around my insides, and knowing: this is what God is like: you can't see or hear or talk to God...but occasionally there will be a swipe, a little something to let you know, Hey there, hello out there--yes! It's ME, I'm really in here.

And then out she came--six years ago. Sucking maniacally on her fingers, hungry from the start. Screaming and shaking balled up fists at the world angrily, on cue, every night from 6:30 pm to 8:00 pm when she finally gave out and let go of whatever chapped her little buns every single day. Curly-haired in ways that make her scream like she's being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition when we comb hair. Demanding and indignant, yet kind-hearted and silly. A lover of jokes about farts and stinky feet, terrified of the dark and the Big Bad Wolf, a princess-wannabe, and a budding Oscar/Emmy/Golden Globe winning actress. A reader and a writer with really bad handwriting. Dances like Seinfeld's Elaine, but not with wolves (or dogs, because those terrify her, too). A reluctant swimmer-turned-mermaid. A singer of inappropriately adult songs because her mother refused to listen to kid song CDs on long car rides when she was a baby. An advanced cusser, curator of swears, because her mother also couldn't get a handle on her road rage issues on morning car rides early in M's life. A night owl and grumpy morning person (like her mother); overly opinionated and bossy (like her father). 

She loves princesses and the color pink in ways that make me nervous, so thank god for a sporty dad who's turned her onto soccer and insists she play outside in the dirt as much as possible. She has a musician's soul, but if you could see the song playlist she's demanded I create on my Spotify account for her so we can listen to HER songs in the car, I feel confident in saying you'll agree with me when I contend that Iggy Azalea is simply not a good influence for a six year old's developing psyche or brain. Lourde, maybe. But definitely not Iggy. Don't even get me started on Miley Cyrus.

She would stamp her feet and scowl at you for agreeing with me about that, and try to manipulate you by saying something morose and sad like, "Well then. I guess that proves YOU don't love me EITHER!!!!" before flouncing off to slam her bedroom door. Later, she'll come out and insist on watching STAR WARS or Minecraft or something boy-ish, and will act like she doesn't know she has two X chromosomes because she'll giggle relentlessly about fart jokes. This will make you wonder: (a) where did the angry girly girl go? Not that I miss her, but seriously--where is she? and (b) should I be worried? is this early hormonal surges...or bipolar? 

And then, if you are very sad and crying, or you stub your toe or get a case of really bad cramps, Miss M The Future Psychotherapist and Nurse will swoop in to salve  your wounds with back rubs and shushes: "It's okay...don't worry...breathe...just breathe...it will be okay...you'll be okay, I promise..." Because this is what she hears all the time herself...no, seriously, like 50 times a day, because every day something makes her sob with inconsolable abandon, or she insist she has a mortal flesh wound somewhere. 

Are you getting that she's exhausting? But it's a good exhausting. It's a "I wish I didn't have a job where I have to spend all day with 25 other people's kids so I could really focus on your amazingness" kind of exhausting. But that's okay, because I think most children exhaust their parents, if most children are doing their jobs correctly. 

But more than any of that, I think she's grand. Just darling and very, very grand. I think, one day, she'll take her inappropriate song lyrics-loving, giggling soccer star princess self to far flung places and teach the natives how to fart and belch in ways that will send them into peals of ridiculous laughter, especially if they do so while in a bathtub. And I think she'll be a big, massive super star one day, and also that if she actually does become an Oscar winning actress, she'll also become an Oscar winning screenwriter/director/producer at the same time, because if there's one thing in the world Miss M can't stand, it's to be told what to do, and she's too opinionated to let other people have the final say anyway. 

I think my little Miss M's got transcendent, iridescent, impossibly large fairy wings, finely threaded with the purest of pink glitter-dust, hidden under her mud-soaked soccer uniform, and my biggest wish, each year as she inches closer to Year 21, each moment we pass other people's Favorite, Most Enjoyable Ages of Childhood, is that one morning she'll wake up to realize the Big Bad Wolf knows all about her hidden, impossibly large, iridescently pink glitter fairy wings; that the existence of these wings actually strike terror deep within him and he is afraid of her, far more than she could ever imagine being afraid of him. My heart wants her heart to know this makes her more powerful than she knows, much more capable than she realizes, that she is able to weave certain kinds of alchemy in the world that would marvel Merlin.


In fact, one day, when she DOES realize all of that, I hope I'm there to see her peel off the soccer uniform, unfurl her pink glitter fairy wings; I hope I'm allowed to witness her flights to as many wild and majestic places of terrifying splendors as she can find. Because I know she will conquer these places, and that these places will be better for having experienced her and she will be stronger for having experienced them. And I pray I will not be too exhausted and can marvel at her artistically adept ability to weave wonder at everything and inside everyone she touches, even when she stamps her feet with all her completely indignant, over-the-top, opinionated, control freak demands along the way.

But for today? I'm just trying to keep all the Frozen- and One Direction-themed shit hidden, because she's also pretty wily at figuring out my game plans. 

I love you, Sweet Melissa. My entire life got better when you came out of me six years ago. 

universal conspiracy theory or: how the Universe is a drug

First of all, if you are connected to me on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram, I apologize about yesterday. I was an annoying geek who didn't know when to shut up. Because I wanted every single one of you to BE where I was, to be doing and seeing and hearing and feeling what I was getting to feel because it was completely and insanely amaze-balls.

Second, I also apologize for the length of this entry you're about to read. If you're busy, come back later...if you have time, please get yourself a refreshment before beginning.

Last, before I say this, please know: I don't do drugs. I Do Not Do Drugs. I was, and still am, a total, vanilla goody-two-shoes about putting things in my body that would make the Drug Enforcement Agency want to arrest me. I have always been like this, always. But yesterday? Yesterday I got high. But I'm back to normal now. Sort of.

Let me explain:

Miss M likes to connect to people. Specifically, Miss M likes to connect to other children. If you are an adult and Miss M meets you for the first time, she's slightly shy...for about 5 minutes or until she can find something about herself she thinks will amuse or astound you. Then she won't shut up, because you MUST pay attention to her. The. Whole. Time. However, if you are a child and Miss M meets you for the first time, you are instantly her best friend forever. Forever. The next day when M talks about you, she won't have a clue who you are, where you're from, what your name is, or how to even get back in touch with you. But you are friends. Best Friends. Forever.

That's the kind of high I was on yesterday. I made new best friends. Forever. I don't know their names or even how to get back in touch with them. But they are my best friends. Forever.

Here's some more about connections:

So I had a bad week one week. Actually, I've had about 6 bad weeks. (Actually, I've been having 86 bad weeks, but that's another blog entry.) It's been a stressful start to a school year. Last year was, too. And the year before that. And the year before that. Teaching is hard. (I think I've alluded to this before.) So it's hard, and it feels like it's getting harder and it doesn't seem to be letting up, and I've been in a quandry because 15 years ago if you asked me: Do you love being a teacher? I would have said: YES. It's hard, it's a lot of work, some of the families are really challenging, but YES. I would have said this 10 years ago, too. Even 5 years ago.

I cannot say this today; I don't know what's happened. I have theories about what has happened, and these may or may not be correct or insightful, but the point is: Me, personally? When it comes to teaching as a job, I can't say YES today. And also, I hate how I sound when I talk about what I do for a living. I cringe when people ask me things like: "How's your school year going?" or "Do you like being a teacher?" because I have to stop and think: do I tell them the truth and ruin their day and spew negativity into the world? Or do I lie and participate in perpetuating the ick I see going on right now in public ed at the expense of children? Because I certainly can't and won't say YES to any of that. But by not responding at all or staying silent I feel like I'm not participating in Life, that I'm not connecting, that I'm not being real, and god. THAT isn't who I want to be. I want to be many things, but I know I do not want to be someone who brings the bad but also is afraid to tell the truth.

So I spewed about it on Facebook one night. And then I started thinking: I need to change my perspective, or I'm going to have either a mental break down or a heart attack. *I* need to change. So I started looking for blessings, and I found some. And I wrote about them on my public writer Facebook page. And then someone at work I really like saw my blessings post and read it. And then she read all over my public writer Facebook page. And then, the next day? She ate lunch. And someone else I work with who she works happens to have a cousin who had some tickets for Oprah Winfrey's Life You Want Weekend at Philips Arena Friday and Saturday. And after lunch, my friend came and asked if I wanted those last minute tickets. And I said YES. I had a bunch of stuff to do this weekend, some of it of timely importance, but something inside of me said: SAY YES. And then the other coworker emailed them to me and I said YES (and THANK YOU) to that. And then I checked with my husband, and he said YES. And then I checked with M, and she said NO (but then I explained how important this was, and she said NO again and I said, SORRY, YOU DON'T MAKE THE GROWN UP RULES.)

Because my friend noticed, on my writer page and here, that I pretty much hero worship Elizabeth Gilbert's brain and writing abilities. And I bet you can guess right about now who was going to be presenting at Oprah's big Life classroom thingy, right? That's right. THE Elizabeth Gilbert. And her amazing brain. So that's why I said yes, because it was a chance to be in the same space as someone who's been an inspiration to me. And I used to watch Oprah when she had her talk show, and I figured that would be cool, too.

So I went. And I got high. Totally, completely, unexpectedly HIGH. The kind of high the DEA can't arrest you for. The kind of high that won't involve mug shots or bad skin or visits to emergency rooms. The GOOD high. (I apologize if you're very let down right now because you thought you were going to read a story about my first crack experience or something. Sorry if you were looking for a drama post.)

Because the energy was HUGE. At first it was because I was super excited about Liz Gilbert. My plan was: see Oprah in person, go: Wow! I got to see Oprah in person! and then listen to Liz talk, and then sit through some other speakers (blah blah blah), grab some lunch, and go home. I have a ten foot pile of tests to grade. I have a 200 foot pile of grades to enter into my online gradebook because midterms go home on Friday and I didn't get anything accomplished last week because there were meetings every single day except Friday and I was exhausted on Friday and still couldn't get out of there before 5:45 and C and I got into a tussle because of this late leaving stuff and M needs her hair done and I have laundry and need to do grocery shopping and I have to cook dinner and... (BREATHE). So I was just going for half the thing and then home to do my stuff.

And then Oprah came out. And that was exciting. And then Deepak Chopra came out and taught us a whole bunch of things like:

Challenges are opportunities. We are the potential of all that was, is, and ever will be. Choices are actions, so choose consciously, with intention, because every choice you make affects EVERYONE in the Universe. We are all connected, divine pieces of star dust. Ask yourself: What do I want? Do I really want it? (intention orchestrates its own fulfillment so be careful: if you ask, you'll get it.) And don't put a lot of effort into your choices--do less/accomplish more...do nothing/accomplish everything. Because if you can be who you really are, you'll become who you've always been meant to be, which is who you really are and that's actually not that hard to do, if you're just yourself. (Freaky, huh??)

Detachment = surrender. Let go of "should" and let the bigger picture take over; it's always more magnificent than what you're presently experiencing.

Choose happiness--have goals, have compassion, know you are a divine spark as an expression of the Universe, we are sparks of the Universal Intelligence. Know the Universe is mathematically precise, so get in touch with your creative center--every single one of us has a creative center which is the creative center for the manifestation of the Universe. We are all divine manifestations. (This should make you HAPPY!)

Happy people know that to be happy, they must make other people happy. Successful people help others be successful, and they celebrate those successes. This is the key to success and happiness. You must make others happy and successful first. Give, and you will receive.

Finally, know we are Star Dust beings. We are a privileged species--we are self-aware, we know who we are.

(Please go back and re-read all that with a Deepak Chopra accent.)

And then we meditated and that was calming.

And then Oprah made us do a writing activity in our workbooks, and I sat and wrote, tears dripping onto my workbook. We were to think of one person we love with all our hearts and put them there. Then we were to write every single thing we could think of that we wanted for them, and we were to think BIG, no limitations. So of course I picked my child, even though earlier she'd attempted to thwart my big day. This is my dream for her (I'm trusting you with this, don't abuse it):

To adore and be adored. Health. Happiness. Love. To be surrounded by Art & Music & Literature. A comfortable home filled with things she thinks are beautiful. Laughter. Playfulness. To know who she is. To love herself as is and be okay with it, to see others as they are and love them anyway. To be loved as is. Supportive friends. To see the world. A connection to herself. A connection to other people. A connection to whatever she thinks is God. An ability to dream and go for it. To live to live, not to work. To be bold, not afraid of anyone or anything (no big bad wolves). PEACE.

Some of the things I drew clouds around because they were THAT important: Laughter, Connection, no big bad wolves. PEACE got a cloud and I darkened it a lot so it would stand out.

Internet, I cried as I did this, because I know Oprah and all her tricks. My heart knew I was asking for things for M, but really I was asking for myself--tricking my ego into thinking it was asking the Universe on somebody else's behalf. And I also knew that something really important was going to happen that day.

And so after all that? After the Deepak information and meditation and the crying workbook activity? I stayed. I stayed for the WHOLE thing. (And I got high.)

Here's some more of what I learned:

Breath. Life is about breathing. How often do you think about breathing? I know I don't; it's just something I do. But have you ever thought about how important breathing is? I mean, if you stop breathing bad things can happen. From the moment you're born, you take a breath. It's really, really important when babies come out that, you know, they BREATHE. That first breath--everybody in the room is waiting on it, and if it doesn't happen it's a problem. And then it's important to keep doing that, breathing, until you can't any more. Because the moment you stop breathing, that's, you know, the moment you're basically done here. Your work, your being is done here.

I learned that almost every language in the world has a word for breath and that word translates to "spirit." Breath is spirit. In Hebrew it's ruach. In Greek it's nooma. Breath means spirit.

I learned that when you breathe out, if you say the sound AH, that's a pretty big thing to do, because you're basically saying the name of God. Because in many religions, the word for God contains the sound AH: Rajah...RA...Jehovah...Yuh Hey Vah Hey...Hallelujah. The very first, ancient people who ever concocted the concept of "God" and uttered a sound for it made the sound AH.

I learned that, in fact, the ancient Hebrews didn't necessarily even have a word for God, because in ancient Hebrew the word is mostly vowel sounds and so when you say the ancient Hebrew word for "God," it basically sounds like you're breathing: Yuh Hey Vah Hey.

I learned that God (or spirit or the Universe or Life, or whatever you wish to call It) is in each of our breaths. God is in every breath we take. What I took away from this knowledge is that, when we die? It's not because we got sick from cancer, had an aneurysm, suffered a heart attack, or just got old. It's because we can't say the word God anymore.

Breath is spirit.

So. Oprah made me cry, therefore I stayed. And then Liz Gilbert took the stage and I was too happy. And she favorited my SECOND tweet about her, which--I don't know if you're aware of this or not--just sends me into peels of total writer fan geekiness whenever someone I hero worship recognizes me on social media (I am 12, at heart). If I'd brought her book The Signature of All Things (which I had considered bringing, just in case we ran into each other at lunch or something), and taken a picture of it enjoying the event, I bet she'd have re-tweeted me...or (cue angelic music) REPLIED.

What I learned from Liz are 3 important stories:

1-The Hero's Journey. Every culture in every country in every language across the planet tells these: a boy (always a boy) has to go on a journey. He's living his life, la la la, and then one day has some sort of awakening in which he realizes: I have to take a journey. Sometimes it's to fight a dragon, sometimes to rescue a princess, sometimes to slay a monster. But it's always a journey, and as he journeys he always comes to a low point, a point where he is beaten down and has hit rock bottom and doesn't know if he can continue his journey. Joseph Campbell (who came up with the theory of The Hero's Journey) called this the Dark Night of the Soul. It's where the hero must decide to die or to live. If the hero chooses to live, the only way to do so is to change, and that change is always HARD. Eventually, the boy fights the dragon, rescues the princess, or slays the monster. And he comes home and is glorified and written about and stories are told of him for all of history, the end.

But the stories never include girls. Joseph Campbell would some times be asked (by astute women back in his old timey classrooms): Why not? And he would say: because you're not supposed to be taking heroic journeys; women don't need to grow. Women have babies and feed the world from their breasts and basically, you know: just stay in the kitchen, chicks. You don't want this. It's for hardier stock.

Then, to show us (and hopefully Joseph Campbell's ghost) how wrong Joseph was about women's hero journeys, Elizabeth told us about the lady with the coffee can:

2-The Coffee Can Story. She once met a lady at a book signing who told her about her Coffee Can. So, once upon a time, the lady was married. She had 5 children. One day, her husband couldn't take the hardness of being a working husband and a dad with 5 kids and so he just up and left and they never heard from him ever again. (Heroic, no?) And the lady sacrificed and worked and pretty much had a million Dark Nights of the Soul while trying to get her children safely from childhood to adulthood All. By. Herself. No help. But she made herself a promise the night she realized her husband was never coming back: My life will not always look like this. I can't do anything about it now, because I have to help these children and I have to survive. But my life will not always look like this.

And so she came up with a plan. Her plan was this: every day she would save one dollar. She figured that no matter how bad things were, she could always at least save one dollar. She got a coffee can and started putting the dollars into the can. When one can filled up, she'd get another can and fill that. And her rule was: no matter how bad things were, no matter how tempting it was, she would never, ever touch the money in the coffee can.

One day, her children were finally all grown up. They'd somehow all made it out of childhood, gone to college, and were on their own. And so she got down the coffee cans. And she bought a ticket on a freight ship. And she traveled the WHOLE world.

And her life never looked like that Dark Night ever again.

3-Find Your Elephants. The last thing I took from Liz was: find your 5 elephants. When things are really, really bad and you don't know how you'll go on? Go find some elephants.

So one day, things were down and out for Elizabeth Gilbert. She was at the post office having not just having a Dark Night of the Soul, but a Dark Life of the Infinity. And she didn't know how to go on. She just wanted to go home and sit on her sofa and cry. That was the only thing she aspired to that day: I can't wait to go home and cry. And a still, small voice said to her: Okay, Liz. You can do that. If that's all you aspire to, fine. Go home and cry. But first, go find something beautiful.

That was the deal--go home and cry, but first you have to go find something--ANYTHING--beautiful. So she made the deal, all disgruntled-like, and then she opened the post office door. And she saw 5 elephants. Five huge elephants, with gold fabric on their backs and beautiful show girls in sparkling costumes riding them. (The circus was in town, and the elephants were taking a walk through midtown Manhattan because, you know, why not?)

When it's really bad, go find your 5 elephants.

And let me tell you about Rob Bell now:

I discovered someone I'd never heard of named Rob Bell, who's a pastor of a church somewhere. He's the one who taught me about breath is the same as spirit. He also taught me about how very connected we all are; it is impossible to be a human being and not be connected. We are all the same. Every atom of us is a piece of cosmic star dust, and there is scientific data to back that up. However, he also taught me things like THIS:

"The mess is where the interesting things happen." (Because seriously: go back in your life and think of the time(s) that you learned the most from, the things that changed you the most...bet they were all messy messed up pieces of clusterfuck.)

and

"You can't give me data on why a song makes your spirit soar." (Seriously, can you? I mean, if you're an education reform-y type, I know you're thinking: yeah, I bet I could pay a testing company to measure that. But guess what, education reform-y types? NO YOU CAN'T. Some things aren't measurable. They just aren't. There will be world peace when reform-y types get that.)

and

"When despair comes to visit, STOP, take a breath and realize: you are a MIRACLE."

Because we ARE breath.

Here's what else happened:

We had to exercise. A very excited lady brought loud, pumping music and made us punch the air and pull in goodness. Before that, the DJ played songs that women like to dance to, and the entire crowd was up on their feet either dancing or clapping or pretending to (that was me). The energy was palpable. Have you ever been somewhere where you can actually FEEL electricity in the air and not the kind that will kill you? I think that's where I tweaked. (As opposed to twerk, which I did not witness at all during the spontaneous dance portion, thank god.)

Iyanla Vanzant came out and talked to us about humping puppies in our minds. Humping puppies = negative thoughts about who you are, what you can do. Don't let your humping puppies hump on you. Okay? Also, she drank champagne, but promised us it was just cider.

**I learned that if you don't know what your passion is, follow your curiosity.

**I learned you should pay attention to what shows up when you get what you want.

**I learned the real definition of OVERWHELM is when you try to convince yourself you can do something you don't really believe you can do.

**I learned that INTEGRITY is when your thoughts, feelings, and actions all align.

**I learned every choice has a short term consequence and a long term consequence and that's why you should choose carefully because you should be ready to deal with both.

**I learned we don't HAVE a spiritual life, we ARE a spiritual life.

**I learned why quests are important to take, because you never know how a quest is going to end.

**I learned why Storytelling is so important to the continuation of our species. Yesterday was all about Story. Story after Story after Story. And in the end, I felt so connected to the 20,000 people in that stadium, to the world, that when I left it was pouring down rain and I didn't care. I walked to my car in the torrential downpour and I felt cleansed and whole, and like that was the Universe giving me a great, big shower.

Phew. I think I touched on the most important things from yesterday.

Oh, also! I sat in front of famous people. They were actors from a show on Oprah's network called Haves and Have Nots. People kept making me stand up so they could get in front of them and take pictures. At first, I just thought somebody had recognized family or friends in the audience and were saying hello. Then suddenly I was surrounded by 10,000 people with iPhones and I was in the WAY, dammit. Could I move PLEASE? THIS IS VERY VERY IMPORTANT. MOVE!!!!

So I picked one of the ladies waiting to their picture and said, "Hi. Um, can I ask you? Who are they? Why?" and she was shocked, SHOCKED, I tell you. How could I not KNOW these two people??? Do I not own a television???????? And I let her know: yes, I do own a tv, but I don't watch a lot of tv. When I do, it's usually a series on HBO or Showtime or a documentary. And then she stood and told me all about the Haves and Have Nots (it's like an O network soap opera, and it's HUGE!! and these two people are STARS!!!!) and somehow we got onto Dukes of Hazzard, which I did watch. When I was ten. And only because I wanted to marry Bo Duke and dress like Daisy Duke but my mother said NO.

Last night, I imdb'd them. The man was Aaron O'Connell and the lady was Crystal Fox. Crystal Fox was on In the Heat of the Night years ago. She's also worked with incredibly legendary thespians such as Cicely Tison and Sydney Poitier. I didn't talk to them, and I didn't take their pictures. Because I didn't know who they were and I hadn't asked for permission, and also it just felt weird to be taking random pictures of strangers sitting behind me. But I did take a selfie or two. Because that's not weird at all.

(What are we doing to ourselves as a species, taking pictures of strangers and ourselves?) (But I still think asking for autographs is even weirder--why do you want someone's signature? So you can practice it and forge it when you do bank fraud? If they're going to also write you a personalized note on a piece of work they've done, okay, I get that. But just their signature? Like, on a bar napkin? Why?)

At any rate, Aaron and Crystal were kind, sweet, gracious, very normal and down to earth people, these famous people everyone wanted to talk to. And after the show started, they were left alone, and I was happy for them. Because they're star dust, too, breathing in and out God. We are ALL connected, friends. We. Are. All. Connected.

The last thing I want to leave you with is what I wrote at the end of my workbook. (Lands. WERE you busy today? I'm so sorry if you were...listen, this has taken me five hours to write--hopefully it's taken you far less to read and you've gotten something from it)

At the end of the day we were to take every thing we'd learned that day, all of the other workbook activities, and evaluate, analyze, synthesize it all into one descriptive paragraph that expresses what we want our life to look like, who we think we actually are (that's called Higher Order Thinking, Bill Gates and friends, and there wasn't a SINGLE TEST INVOLVED). Here was mine (I'm trusting you with this, so please don't abuse it):

I am healthy and well. I eat healthy food & exercise my body. I meditate every day. I am in touch with the AH, the breath, the spirit that make me Me. I feel connected to others & strive to empower them & celebrate their successes. I am open & my heart is full of light and life--I can be alone and be okay. I am who and what and where I wish my daughter will be one day. I am consciously manifesting my dreams, choosing with careful intention, accepting all the consequences. I am a writer who is surrounded by Art & Beauty & Music & Story & Words. I am a traveler, a soul citizen of the planet. I am a piece of light in an expansive Universe & feel that Universe move through & within me, every day. I am connected. I am who I AM, who I was always meant to be, who I've always been. And so it is.

Now. For those of you who got this far and are all sarcastic and eye rolling, going: oh, THIS was a butt load of freaky New Age-y bull crap in a cow field Oprah Thought-Speak (though I suspect that, if you've gotten this far, you probably aren't one of those people), I will have you know that I fully anticipate to be sort of back to my constant state of WTF?!ness by tomorrow afternoon.

The thing is, though, I think it will have a different flavor than it had Friday afternoon when I left. I will be less attached to the outcomes, because they don't apply to me; they don't make me who I am. I know this now, and that's a very freeing place to be. I refuse to let others' humping puppies hump on me, and I will no longer be participating in their strange madness. I've decided. We're too connected to hurt each other like that, and I won't participate. I will not.

Freedom is sort of what it's all about, I think. And having a plan! Which I am formulating, and I hope you are too, now. It's begun. Breathe.

Oh! And if you have even MORE time? Here are some pictures that I didn't vomit all over social media (I was like one of those email spammers who have no self-control, and again: I am sorry, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. I am sorry):

Deepak helps Oprah (and the audience) find our creative centers.

Writer Hero Elizabeth Gilbert tells me: Get a plan.

If you went to O Town, you got a special white bracelet that lit up during this part so it looked like we were all sitting in the Milky Way Galaxy.

We DANCED. Because we are happy and young at heart and FREE beings.