presbyterian sunday school.

This is it: the Presbyterian church I successfully avoided
for weeks in my pre-teens.

I have one story for you tonight, and the only reason I'm telling it is because it popped into my head last night because I'd written the last couple of times about not being told about special Hebrew names or the red heifer that signals the start of Armageddon. They did not teach us about either of those interesting facts in Presbyterian Sunday school.

So I thought of a story about Presbyterian Sunday school to give you one layer of why I'm just a cultural Christian, a Christian by birth only (big fan of Jesus, leary of 90% of his followers):

So I hated getting up on Sunday for Sunday school. This is when I'm entering my teen years--no longer a girl, not quite a woman. It simply didn't make sense to me that, the ONE day there is hard evidence the Lord God wants everybody to rest, people have to get up early and go somewhere. That's not cool. If God says rest, then you should be, you know...SLEEPING IN.

My mom and dad disagreed with God. Particularly my mom, because I feel like my dad probably didn't really care either way. He only went to church on Christmas Eve or when my mom guilt tripped him into it. So listen to this fresh piece of hypocritical Christianity bullshit:

Every Sunday, my dad would make my little brother and me get up early so we could go to Presbyterian Sunday school (side note: I don't know if I'm supposed to capitalize "school" or not...I probably should, but I started out lowercasing it, so I'm staying with that). Early every Sunday morning, we'd be unceremoniously yanked out of our beds by my father's loud and demanding voice to get a move on it. We'd have to dress, put on our Sunday best, and then sulk in the back of his car as he drove us to the church.

Meanwhile, guess where my mom was? My mom, the one who demanded this torture occur each Sunday? Oh, you don't know her but I bet you already know the answer: in bed. Fast asleep. Obeying God.

So my dad would dump us, unceremoniously, on the curb on the side of the church. Then he'd peel off into the sunrise. I don't know where he went, what he did. If we'd lived somewhere with bars, he'd have found a place to commune with The Holy Spirit (and buy it beers). We did not have bars, so I bet he found a nice quiet coffee shop somewhere and read the newspaper for 45 minutes to an hour.

I did not enjoy Sunday school. I had a nervous, insecure teacher with bouffant, dark hair and the room was dark wood-paneled and stuffy in the spring/summer, cold in the winter/fall. I remember loving to hear Jesus' stories--what a consummate, innate storyteller, that guy. Other than that, I remember spending a lot of time doing worksheets. Key word in that compound word being WORK. WORKsheets. WORK. Again: the opposite of one of the most important Ten Commandments, second only to not coveting someone's ass (Kim Kardashian's excluded).

I don't know why or how this occurred to me, but one day after my dad had dropped us off and peeled off down the road, I looked across the street and realized: that's a gas station over there. Gas stations sell candy. And soda. And comic books (I always needed good reading material, and I'd read anything when I was a 7th grader...I remember I spent a lot of time at the school library checking out all of the biographies, then moved on to all of the plays, then moved on to the dictionaries. Literally, I ALWAYS had a book in my hands).

See the side of the church? That's where my pain began.
Every Sunday morning.

So the next Sunday, I brought my allowance with me, and my allowance was just enough money to buy 1 soda, 1 candy bar, and 1 comic book (I liked Archie comics the best). When my dad's car was well out of eyesight, I sneaked across the street and bought my paraphernalia. Then, I sneaked back into the church and found the safest spot I could think of: the women's restroom. In a stall. Locked. Sitting on the commode.

For the next 45 minutes, in this locked stall of the ladies' bathroom, sitting on a toilet fully dressed, I would eat my candy, drink my soda, and blissfully and happily read my comic book. I was RESTING, y'all. Obeying God's word. That's all that was. And it worked beautifully, for many many weeks.

Until it all began to unravel.

The foil to my Beautifully Working Plan started the one Sunday I was blissfully chewing and reading away, and an old lady came into the bathroom. She used the facilities, washed her hands, and then...didn't leave. I froze. I stopped chewing, I quietly closed my comic book on my lap and waited. The old lady stood and stood and stood by the sink for the longest time. (What is she DOING?? I thought. Old ladies are soooo weird, I thought.) Finally, after what felt like millennium, she knocked softly on my stall door and said, "Honey? Y'all all right in there?" Oh God. Oh Jesus.

"Um, yes," I answered weakly.

"You just havin' some trouble, sweet pea?" she asked. I said I was and I'd be okay, I just needed to be alone. Then, bless it, she left.

The nail in my coffin came the following Sunday. Unbeknownst to me, my mom suddenly decided she felt like going to a church service. Now I see that Old Bathroom Lady probably said something to Big Hair Bouffant Sunday School Teacher Lady, who maybe said something to my mom. I HAD to go to Sunday school that Sunday. NO secret gas station visit, NO candy, NO soda, NO comic book. Sunday school. During which Bouffant Hair Sunday school teacher was strangely cool towards me.

After the church service, my mom had a conversation with nervous, insecure, clearly seething Bouffant Hair Sunday School Lady. In front of me, the Sunday school teacher praised my tremendous and obvious love for Jesus' storytelling abilities, then inquired about my health. Was I okay? Today, this Sunday, was the first time she'd seen me in weeks. My mother glanced over at me with disappointed disdain and let me know: we'd need to talk.

Jesus Christ. I mean, seriously. WHAT is an almost-teenage girl supposed to do when confronted with such obvious hypocrisy to the word of God? I think I handled the whole situation with aplomb, and quite maturely for my age.

At any rate, my toilet/candy/soda/comic book days concluded and I was recaptured, an inmate in the prison of dark wood-paneling and WORKsheets again. Bouffant hair. We tried to amuse ourselves; the boys would pass gas just to offend the teacher. The girls would sit sulking and make bitchy faces at her. We were such assholes.

If I ever start a religion, all the pre-teenagers and teenagers will get to sleep in late on the Sabbath. When they do go to church, there will be tubs of soda, candy, and comic books. The way to win people to your deity is through their hearts, NOT worksheets and dark wood paneled rooms. Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Buddha, Ghandi, and Mother Teresa all agree with me; I'm sure I could go to Google and find tons of evidence.

The End.

pick good names.

I am having a Snow Day (actually, it's an Ice Day) (actually actually, it's a Winter Day but there was some ice up in the northern tiers of where I work, so they had to cancel the whole thing--it's hard to stop the Titanic once it's in motion).

So I thought I'd do some writing. Here. In front of you, Internet.

Here's what I've done today:

1. I made pancakes.
2. I hung out on social media.
3. I took a shower and got dressed.
4. I watched a movie.
5. I did some teacher work.
6. Now I'm here.

Let's talk about the most exciting part of my day--the movie I watched. Because I think you need to see it.

It's called BELLE. It was airing on HBO this afternoon, so I watched it (because it's a period piece, and I am all about period pieces). It's based on the true story of Dido Elizabeth Belle (played by Gugu Mbatha-Raw). Dido was the illegitimate, mixed race daughter of a West Indies slave and Capt. John Lindsay, a Royal Navy officer. When Dido's mother died, Capt. Lindsay took Dido back to England. She was raised by her great-uncle Earl William Murray and his wife Elizabeth. William Murray was also England's Chief Lord Justice to the Supreme Court--he made the rules and was super powerful. Dido grew up with William and Elizabeth's niece, Lady Elizabeth Murray, who was pretty much unacknowledged and unaccepted by her own father because he'd remarried. William and Elizabeth treated both Lady Elizabeth and Dido as if they were their own daughters.

....except when it came time to eat. Because Dido pretty much had to eat by herself. She was too high brow to eat with the servants, but too low brow (skin color) to eat with them. And this was basically Dido's entire life: she never fit in anywhere, really. Too much of a gentlewoman to be a servant, too much like a servant to be a true gentlewoman. Ditto when it came to marriage. No self-respecting English gentleman wanted a mixed race illegitimate wife. Back in 1700s England.

When Capt. Lindsay died, he left Belle a very comfortable inheritance. And that's where things got dicey. Because her cousin, Lady Elizabeth, HAD to find a man. Elizabeth's father never acknowledged her, so she pretty much was to receive nothing when her uncle William Murray died and her dick of dad got it all. Aren't you thankful for Women's Lib, ladies? Frickin' men.

At any rate, Oliver Ashford (Tom Felton) comes in at one point, doing a fairly evil turn as a potential Lady Elizabeth suitor, and Belle has to make a choice between marrying Ashford's brother (who is nicer than Oliver but still only marrying her because she's like an interesting trinket to him...oh, and she's got money and his family is pretty poor) (the British class system was BRUTAL)...or marrying a much nicer, cuter, and more passionate John Davinier (yummy Australian Sam Reid) (that was very female chauvinist of me to add that word "yummy" to Sam's name and I'm only slightly sorry about it).

This soundsJUST like a Jane Austen novel, doesn't it? But it's a true story! Because Davinier was an abolitionist and with the help of Belle, he successfully convinced Belle's great-uncle to make a ruling that set the forces in motion for England to outlaw slavery. Way in advance of the United States. NO CIVIL WAR NECESSARY. (America, listen up! Next time? Just watch how England does it.) (That's a fine irony.)

I cried and was thoroughly touched in several spots by this film. I'd say the overarching theme to it, it's primary message, was Love. Courage and Love. It was heartbreaking to see how very little power women truly had over their lives, and if you were a brown-skinned woman? Lands help you. The world really didn't work in your favor. As the mother of a 21st century mixed race child, I can see first hand how this still happens, quite a bit. Obviously, people have advanced a lot socially and have developed good social filters...but the subtle signs are still around, that this "you kinda don't really belong anywhere, do you?" message continues to be sent.

But I thought it also said a lot about sacrifice, how willing human beings can be to sacrifice themselves for love. And it was a commentary on how far we've come as a planet, and perhaps how much farther we have to go (because, I assure you, there are still Oliver Ashfords out there in the world). 5 stars and two thumbs up from this not-a-real-film-critic chick.

So please see it if you have a chance. (If you have HBO, you should have a lot of chances right now.)

Now. Let's talk about one more thing before I go: names.

What's in a name? Letters. Hopefully at least one or two vowels. True story: I got a student once with NO vowels in her name. Seriously. And her mother's name was even worse--I'm surprised it wasn't just a symbol. She tried to tell me what her name was but I couldn't even...my brain almost exploded. I just nodded at her and thought: M'am, your name is ridiculous. Try again.

But also, power. Names have letters (hopefully lots of vowels) and POWER. They can bestow their owners with a certain kind of bent toward a certain kind of personality, good health, creativity, sense of self. I have a friend who just informed me the other day that Jewish people all have a special Hebrew name. What?! They didn't teach us about THIS in Presbyterian Sunday school either! (Possibly because it was Presbyterian Sunday school.) So Jewish people give their children a special Hebrew name that's meant to empower them, or honor family, or both. And then there's also something you can do called Gematria, which has something to do with using numbers to the letters in the name, that will also further empower the name bearer.  In addition to this, whenever they want to, Jewish people can add names to their names. Like, if you're having a bad financial year? Go find a Hebrew name that will help fix that and add it to your existing one.

This is magical, and y'all should know by now: I like magical.

So, given my current Life flux and imbalance situation, I asked: Hey, uh...could I have a Jewish/Hebrew name? Even though I was raised by descendants of the Calvinists. And she said: Yeah, why not? So she gave me some Internet research homework to do (yay! my favorite thing!).  She told me to look up the story of Haddassah, aka Queen Esther, which means Compassion. That was a good start. But she said to also look at Shifrah and Puah, midwives who defied Pharaoh's orders to kill all newborn Jewish boys. (What IS it with the world and killing Jews? Huh? Seriously, Humanity. STOP it. You look insane.) Instead of just refusing to do it, which would obviously get them killed by Pharaoh, they were very crafty and pretended they wanted to obey orders but couldn't; Jewish women were too hardy and kept giving birth and hiding the babies before they could get there.

In the end, I was most drawn to the story of Puah, aka Miriam, which translates to Splendid. Miriam is known for her power to speak and pacify the cries of children; she's a baby whisperer. When Pharaoh does send guards finally to capture Puah and Shifrah, God turns them into beams that uphold a house. The symbology being these are two incredibly strong women who are fortresses. Rabbi Jonathan Sachs has said they were the first recorded examples of civil disobedience, abolitionists and proponents of social justice of their own time.

 Here's a poem that spoke to my soul (source: Shifrah and Puah, agitators for inner freedom):

Puah

Like freedom fighters

who pray with their feet

I protest for inner-peace

though paraplegic in comparison

to prodigious heels 

of powerful men

my prayerful wheels

spin tales of inner-freedom

and entone hymns of mindful treatment 

of children and kin

I commit to calm the din of crying infants 

with the easy clicking of my teeth

I speak for those who do not yet know how to speak

My freedom fighting is not political

that task is for a hardier class 

of jewish girl

for me - the Egyptian fiend 

is personal 

for the Pharoahs I dethrone 

rule the halls of each of our homes

in the inner-alcoves of a private despair

that petrifies the children 

and paralizes the parents

that inprisons our finest hours 

of family commitment and contentment

I prefer to peddle wares 

of wars-well-avoided

where everyone wins

through carefully worded 

apologies and the timely 

airing of grievances 

between friends

for cowering beneath the pyramids 

of needs – my fiends 

are the menacing insecurities of adolescents

and the lethal bickerings of parents

- the noisome whines of needy toddlers

and the all-too-common-household-hollers 

that oppress our most precious commodities

of family

my enemies crouch quietly beneath

the crumbs on the living room carpet

a beast between the sheets 

of a cold-shouldered bedroom

where partners sleep

unconscious 

and deeply out of tune

with the exquisite call 

of their common dreams

I come to loosen the shackled lips

of fathers and mothers

that they may better utter

their astounded praise

at the miracle of a house full 

of filthy shoes, spilled soup

and their children''s most innocent mistakes

My task is to counter the 

armor-clad offensive

against love and friendship 

- to incite a protest against 

the enslavement of a trillion 

inner prophets of tranquility

whose gentle-tongued souls 

are daily buried beneath 

straw burdens of poor communication

and tossed out with the trashed 

afternoons of a mother''s 

epic impatience 

I come to play the Moses of relational redemption

in the face of a sink-full of grimy resentments

And so I call forth all fellow 

freedom fighters for inner-transformation 

midwives with wise hands

toting Torahs, toting infants, toting pens

all prayer-footed-protesters

come & herald in 

emotional freedom from the pharonic foe

and let us birth our children 

into peaceable homes

for when our houses enshrine tranquility

then outer-world will follow inner-lead

and rock-hard hearts 

will soften grips

and all that's enslaved 

will lithely slip

into the soft of freedom found

and take your shoes off

to walk around

for our houses are the 

hallowed ground

from which God speaks

So call me Puah, 

who quiets the cries

of children, slaves 

and the Pharoahs 

inside.

Isn't that breathtaking? "So call me Puah, who quiets the cries of children, slaves and the Pharaohs inside." I so deeply love that. Don't we all have a little bit of Pharaoh inside of each of us, and don't we all need to find someone, some way, to quiet it. Contain it and be bigger. So...Puah it is. Except I prefer the more English-y version. Puah makes me think "Winnie the Pooh," who was very cute and cuddly and very silly and wise, but I'm going for a bit more than that.

.......okay, fine. No I'm not. I would love to be known as cute and cuddly and silly yet wise. You can call me Pooh if you'd like. It'll be our secret handshake.

She also sent me to listen to (I forget why now, but it doesn't really matter) to "Tikvah," the Israeli national anthem. Tikvah translates to "Hope." And so I went to YouTube and found Israel's national anthem, and fell in love with it. It's a song that's mournful and full of hope, all at once. Kind of like this gal, me.

Miriam Tikvah. Splendid Hope. Based on a woman who defied the authorities and did what was right, not what was expected. Kind of like Dido, back in 1700s England. And look at what can be wrought when we stand up for ourselves, for what is right not just what is. 

For the record, I've always been sort of sad my parents didn't name me Delilah, because wouldn't that have been perfect? Delilah Samson. (I once asked my dad: "Dad, why didn't you guys name me Delilah? It seems like a missed opportunity." And he said, "Because your mother and I weren't cruel people." Hah, that dad! Always thinking ahead.)

My name means Beloved. My middle name is Lynne, which means "waterfall." Beloved Waterfall. I like that, too. I didn't know until just now what "Lynne" translated to--I was truly worried it was going to be something odd like Wood or Grass or, worse, Cranky. (I can be that, quite a lot actually.)

Seriously, I think the Native Americans did it best: just name your kids the qualities you want them to possess, be it from Nature or in Personality. Splendid Hope, Beloved Waterfall, Dances With Wolves, Busy Little Bee (that would be my Miss M), Walks on the Wild Side, whatever. Just make sure they have vowels in their names. And STOP putting punctuation in people's names, it's weird. Don't name them stuff like Q'rDshVZ-Mklv. I'm not kidding. There's somebody walking around out there, right now, with a name just like that and they're never ever going to get a job. They'll be lucky if they get a high school diploma. Stop it, human beings. Pick good names.

Baruch H'ashem (that's all the conversational Hebrew I know).

The Promise (watch DIG! On USA!)

Many months ago, I made a promise to Jason Isaacs on his Instagram account that I would do a lot of free PR work (I have no idea how to do PR work) to promote his new, upcoming show DIG to all my friends, readers, followers, etc and so forth on my many and varied social media accounts (I only have 4 but Pinterest doesn't count since it's just the place I put all the health nut recipes I'll never actually make...okay, fine, 5 if you count LinkedIn but I never go there, unless it's to see who's looked at my LinkedIn page because I keep hoping someone famous will look at my LinkedIn page). 

Before I start doing free PR work for DIG's producers and Jason's employers, I feel like I need to explain why I'm doing it in the first place. Can I tell you the reason I made this promise?

First let me say: I don't want to get political, but to explain The Promise, I have to for a bit because it was sort of born out of politics (isn't everything nowadays?). ***

Second let me disclose upfront: I'm Team Israel. I don't agree with everything the Israeli government does, but I absolutely think Israel has a right to exist. You know what else I think? I think it's nice Israel is in the world, because they've been through enough, and downtrodden on throughout the ages, and so they deserve to be here, they've earned it. And screw you and your anti-semite ways if you think they should disappear (okay, that was extremely political) (but seriously: screw you).

Having said all that, I'll admit that I only partially understand the situation the people in Israel are dealing with. From what I can gather, everyone who's normal is really just trying to live their lives as best they can and would like to do it calmly. Then the political groups get involved and, lands y'all. To me it really looks like such a complicated mess. And in spite of reading as much as I can, I still think I'm only scratching the surface of understanding--this appears to be a multi-layered issue, with a lot of historical pain on both sides, and some very deep grudges. This will take a lot of very smart people being willing to do a lot of very smart listening and compromising to heal it. Personally, I think one way to bring about healing and understanding is via Story. 

So DIG got to shoot the first episode to its story in Old Jerusalem, in parts of the city even people who've lived there their whole lives have never gotten to see. This became a hostile situation, because a vocal anti-Israel group demanded the show not film there, but then the show filmed there. (This is an area that's a matter of contention; it's in the part of Israel they're calling Palestine, but Israel says that belongs to them and Palestine says no it belongs to them...and this is where the pain and the grudges all come vomiting up and people start yelling and someone throws something and then things snowball [sandstorm?] from there.)

One day, back in June, the protest group decided to launch an attack of hate-words against the series, and they chose to focus on one of the stars of the series, Jason Isaacs, as a (dare I say) Machiavellian means to get him to...actually, I'm not sure what they wanted. For him to quit the show? Start painting protest signs with them? Launch some rockets? Write firmly worded letters to the editor? I don't know. What I do know is I watched many of them try to bully him on his Twitter account, and try to bully him on his Instagram account. I watched him try to dialogue with them, but they weren't very interested in doing that, just making accusations and being rude, and so he gave up and just started blocking them. Which he had a right to do, because that is NOT how you are supposed to be using Twitter, people. Look it up--it says so all over their Terms of Service. 

Internet, if there is one thing I simply cannot and will not tolerate,it's bullies. Yes, I know--bullies bully because they were bullied. And yes, I know--Jason Isaacs is a big grown up boy who's worked for a long time in a cutthroat creative industry so his skin should be about 10 feet thick now. But when I see mean people in action, I'm sorry I don't care. Bullies who are derogatory and threatening are the pus in the pimple on the blighted, wrinkled ass of Humanity. Seriously, I don't even know what to do with you--the ice caps are melting, honey bees are mysteriously disappearing, 3 year olds are being sold into sex slavery in Thailand...and this is what you're choosing to do with your free time. You can't find something better to do than hang out being mean to strangers on the 'net? 

So after I read yet another personal attack against this very nice human who seems to simply be trying to eek out a peaceful existence by telling stories, I decided I would (from my little, quiet corner of the WWW) do whatever I could to make sure his show DIG was a huge, ginormous success. At least amongst the people I personally know and whoever reads this blog (hi, Mom!).

And THAT'S why I promised Jason Isaacs I'd promote his tv show to all my people. Bullies made me do it. And also: Jason Isaacs has kind eyes. And he talks storytelling in ways that make him the bees knees (or, as they'd say in his land: the dog's bollocks). More than all that, he says things like "blimey" and "ace" and "bloody." And he spells swanky. 

Okay, that's that, and let us move on, never speaking of these disgruntled, mean people and their angry, propaganda-based agendas again. Because you guys! Honestly, if you don't watch DIG (on USA!) starting March 5 at 10 PM Eastern Standard Time, you are going to be SO sad! I mean it--you are totally going to miss out. I really feel that this will turn out to be a compelling, breath-taking story that people will spend a lot of time trying to figure out and if you don't watch it, you aren't going to be invited into a bunch of really interesting, thoughtful conversations at work. I also sense it will have people freaking their freak about the darkness that exists in some people's souls, and wouldn't that be sad for you, if you couldn't freak your freak with everybody else. You'd just be sitting in your cubicle doing your work, or knitting some boring scarf, while everybody else will be figuring out how to save the planet from religious crazies. And they won't care, because it's your own fault--should've DVR'd DIG last week.

The story centers around an FBI agent named Peter Connelly who's come to Israel to investigate a murder. A terrible tragedy has happened to Peter--his daughter has died, and he's on the run, emotionally, from his demons. (Lord knows, I know lots about being on the lam from one's emotional demons. Peter Connelly and I could sit in dark bars and hide from our demons together over many drinks, I just feel it.)

At any rate, now he's in Israel trying to solve a murder. He does things like run around and get sweaty on top of ancient buildings, and when he's not doing that, he's sleeping with his boss (who he used to be the boss of, who is played by talented, lovely Anne Heche) because THAT doesn't make boardroom meetings awkward at all. 

It appears he gets into work tussles and power-ego plays with his Israeli detective counterpart, Detective Golen (played by Ori Pfeffer, an Israeli actor who I don't know a lot about, but I YouTube'd him and from clips from movies on there, he looks amazingly talented). Musician/actress Alison Sudol (who's simply lovely--I cannot say enough nice things about this sweet human being. I'm a humongous fan of her beautiful songs, thanks to this show...see? Story = connections) plays the young, murdered archeologist, who reminds Peter of his daughter. 

So as the story of DIG goes along, it looks like Peter will uncover a lot of strange, heebie jeebie, shit-in-a-Middle-Eastern-sandstorm kind of stuff. There will be confusion and espionage; just when you think you know someone, you'll find out: no you didn't, you didn't know them. 

From the prequel, I think there will be something in the storyline about bank fraud that will make your head spin (or, for people like me, unless they dumb this down, this part will make my eyes glaze over, since that's what happens to me whenever people start talking money math and accounting). Mostly, it looks like there will be groups of religious people trying to bring about the destruction of Earth so their religion's mythologies can come true (this I'm excited about, because it will make my head spin, and that's because I'm all about studying and picking apart religious crazies. They. Are. Frightening. And yet I can't stop staring at them).

Jason (who plays troubled Peter Connelly) has said after he read the script, he got on the Internet and started researching the stuff that was in it. And dagnabit if it wasn't truly true! I don't know exactly what all Jason researched, but when the red heifer symbol came about in some of the previews, I got on the Internet too and googled "red heifer" and had my mind blown away. Y'all! We never, ever discussed this in Presbyterian Sunday school! I remember talking about doves and lambs and sheep and a donkey, but NO RED HEIFERS. I'm kind of annoyed at my Sunday school teachers now. This seems like dire, important information they needed to tell us. Seriously, Google it, you'll see what I mean. 

I already like a lot of things about this show, and I haven't even seen it. I like that they filmed in Jerusalem and I'm sad they didn't get to do the whole thing there; I like that when they were there they got to go into some really historical locations because Israel is at the top of my bucket travel list: I would like to stand on ancient stones under the same sun and moon King Solomon made all his very judicious judge-y decisions under; I want to stand in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and ponder the last moments of a peaceful Jewish man from Nazareth, I want to visit Temple Mount and beg the Universe to save us from ourselves. I want to walk the Plain of Sharon and be a lily among thorns, a darling among maidens, even though I'm not anything close to a maiden now. 

I also like that, when they couldn't film all of it in Jerusalem because of war, they went and filmed in Croatia and Albuquerque, New Mexico, because that's what is so very magic about TV/Film storytelling: you just fake it til you make it. I haven't been to Croatia, but I have been to Albuquerque, and I did time in nearby Arizona, and let me tell you: weird ju-ju stuff goes on out in the Sonoran Desert. I am certain it's a ley line area. So I don't know about Croatia, but the American desert just makes so much sense for a story of this nature.

I really like that they've brought in a lot of diverse and feminine energy--they've used female directors and writers. Hollywood still hasn't completely seemed to receive the message that people with vaginas and/or brown skin can do a lot of cool story stuff, too. It's nice to see the makers of this show don't seem to suffer from that.

And most especially I like that it will be told in a perfect story arc. You know how you'll start watching a television series, and at the end of the season they'll leave you hanging so you'll come back next year? With this show you'll have a Beginning, a Middle, and a satisfying End. A The End--you will not have to wait until next season to find out what happens next, though like a good book you may end up really forlorn and lost for awhile that it's reached the end. 

I like that it will have an exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, denouement. Good stories have lots of rising action steps that rise and fall and rise and fall, aka cliff hangers within a story. Which I'm betting will be the endings of episodes 1-9, so you'll come back the next week (in novel format, this would be called: need to go to bed, but can't stop turning pages). Then I bet that Episode #10 will be The Answers/Denouement episode. That's nice, isn't it? Like a very long movie. A visual novel.

I like that NBC (which owns USA Network) seems to be one network that's attempting to keep up with the changing times of television viewing, and they are going all out to make DIG a success (I'm saying this as an outside observer--this is just what I've noticed, that if you're a TV network and you don't recognize that there are exactly 459874210965439360984 other options and ways for your viewers to get their TV stories, then you need to catch up): they had a prequel written on Wattpad.com. They're opening up some type of DIG Mystery Room/Escape Room thing you can do in select cities for this show (I actually did one of these yesterday with Miss M and her cousins...not the DIG one, just a Sherlock Holmes-themed room. Thank god for my gifted niece's brain--the adults just sat on the floor at one point and went, "We don't know?" while she figured out like 3 of the hardest clues. And then, after 45 minutes, we didn't know...and the Mystery Room shop guy had to tell us the solve and then we were all: OMG, we are soooo dumb! Honestly, how did we even dress ourselves? It was one of the simplest yet funnest things I've ever done...I want to go back and do it again, but this time with adults who've been drinking.)

Where was I? Right--DIG, sorry. So yes. Wattpad.com prequel, DIG your way out some Mystery/Escape rooms. Also there's a DIG decoder app--you download it and you can point at various things you see to help unlock mysteries. I think you may even luck out once in awhile and get a 3-D Jason Isaacs popping out at you, like Princess Leia in STAR WARS.I'll be participating because there's a possible trip to Israel (or Croatia) in it for me. I think there's one to Norway, too, but Norway seems very very cold right now. 

Also this is all over social media, and I think this whole thing has forced poor Mr. Isaacs, who seems to have never really been a big fan of having public conversations in front of strangers he doesn't know, to get on Twitter and Instagram and have public conversations in front of strangers he doesn't know. 

(Silver lining: it worked, Jason Isaacs! Because LOOK at you! You have like 30,000 Twitter devotees now, and about 28,000 of them frequently tweet sexual propositions to you. I only have about 380 Twitter devotees and 300 just proposition me to buy their newest products. Nobody has indicated they'd like to sleep with me at all, and frankly I'm all kinds of disappointed about this. What good is Twitter if no one's flirting with you? I mean, really.) 

Also, all y'all need to know that poor Jason has been suffering for Story, for Art, and for you to watch this show. I will just come right out and say that, if you watch for nothing else, then please watch it to help him heal, because it sounds like he may have some lasting concussions and nasty bruises from filming this. 

He claims he was hit in the face by a female coworker, and recently had to film in a haunted courtyard and, afterwards, then had to sit naked on the floor of a 65 million year old cave, risking hypothermia and stuff. Obviously, he's dedicated to his craft. Totally admirable. Getting smacked in the face for a story is hard work. I see now why there has to be so much swag at Sundance.

.....I'm sure Anne Heche and Alison Sudol also suffered flesh wounds and contusions and ripped ligaments while filming DIG, but they are women, and so they didn't whine about it. (I kid! I kid Jason Isaacs! Who has a marvelous sense of humor.) (But seriously--women don't complain about physical pain, just the emotional kind.)

So this is Part 1 of my blog promotion of the show, which I shall tweet and the retweet as the air date nears. There's a 30 minute preview you can watch by clicking HERE.

You can also go to YouTube and type in "Jason Isaacs DIG" or "Anne Heche DIG" or "DIG on USA" and you'll get all kinds of fabulous, exciting stuff to watch. And then the real deal starts on March 5, 2015 at 10 PM (East Coast) or 9 PM (Central). If you're in Europe or elsewhere in the world, I bet all this is probably giving you the sads because you guys have to wait to see it. But don't give up! I think they'll air it soon in your land, or at least put it on DVD or something so you can have it shipped to you. Which'll be nice because you won't have to sit through advertisements AND you'll get some extra features to enjoy. In the meantime, let's start a massive letter writing campaign to end this stupid embargo on television shows; if a show airs in one country, it ought to air in EVERY country, no wait period. Let's bring the planet together via boob tube. Want to? I think it could bring about world peace. (Have you SEEN Japanese game shows??)

If it goes well, and if everybody (except for some party poopers we are NOT going to talk about again) likes it, the story creators have hinted they can and will write some more edge-of-your-seat, perfect story arc thrillers set in other locations. Wouldn't that be nice? (I hope one is Atlanta, Georgia and that they will come find me and hire me to help write one whole episode. I will make sure Jason Isaacs gets smacked upside the head a few times in it; he appears to enjoy doing work that involves this.)

***This post was updated/edited on 2.18.15. Just the political part. Because I was given some historical information that opened my eyes to just HOW political the whole situation is in this area of the world. Mostly I learned some new things about the history of the area called Palestine, and......let me just say I slightly had to adjust what I wrote. Quite frankly, I'd really like to just delete ALL of that political stuff at the beginning, but I wrote it, it's out there now, and we're just going to move on. 

....though I'd also like to say: damn it, Human Beings! Can you just let a TV show be a TV show?! For god's sake, some days it's just embarrassing to be a person.

gossamer threads of connection (aka: what makes good storytelling)

"Storytelling" by Randis, via deviantart

Let's talk storytelling shop, shall we? I read an interview the other day that some lucky duck got to conduct with my favorite British actor the lovely, talented Jason Isaacs and my favorite Irish actress the lovely, talented Saoirse Ronan (by the way, you say her name like this: Shir-suh...I first took notice of her in the movie THE LOVELY BONES which was an okay reproduction of Nicole Krauss' superb book by the same title, and kept saying her name Say-OY-ersee. Because I'm an American from the South, and we always think you should say it like you spell it. [Unless, like me, you grew up in Kentucky 3 hours from Louisville, which we don't say like Looisville...we say it like LOOVull, KinTUCKee, all Appalachia-proper like...but we do say LaFayette, Kentucky like it's spelled: Luh-FAY-ett, not LAH-fee-ette like those crazy French people think you say it] {Dear French people: I apologize on behalf of the South}. At any rate, finally I google researched how you really say her name and the correct Gaelic pronunciation is Sheer-say, but I think she says it Shir-suh. Either way, no matter which way you choose, you'll sound exactly 100,000 times less dumb and American if you pronounce Saoirse the Gaelic way and triple bonus: no one will accuse you of being from Kentucky.) 

Where was I? Oh, right! So some lucky duck got to interview those two amazeball human beings at Sundance 2015 (still bitter I wasn't there). They were promoting a really intriguing-sounding movie I'm kind of desperate to see now that I know more about it and have heard them describe it, Stockholm, PA. And here's what Jason thinks about storytelling (from an actor-y perspective, but you can easily apply this to any kind of storytelling both fiction and non-fiction--books, poetry, magazines, orations, songs, art, photography, book clubs, group therapy...) (what? WHAT? group therapy IS telling stories): 

“When you watch things on the big screen you realize why we gather to be told stories. It’s important to continue to gather. Watching other people go through big emotional challenges is somehow uplifting, cathartic. The fact that you’re with other people watching them go through it makes you feel more human. It makes you feel less alone. It gives your soul a stir. I see that storytelling has value. That’s why it’s universal. Acting and story-telling is about connecting.” -Jason Isaacs, January 2015

Isn't that really astute of him? Jason Isaacs has got an astute, canny, smart brain. And I hear he's a really nice human being on top of that. I vote we make Jason Isaacs our planet's top representative storytelling expert and artist-in-residence. 

Here's what Saoirse says about acting (and I think we wordy types will all agree we feel the same way after finishing a marvelous, stupendously good book):

"The thing that I miss most when I finish a film is just the atmosphere that you'll have on set. When I started working, on the very first thing that I ever did, I was only on it for like two weeks or something, but I got so into it, and I loved it so much, I was devastated by the end. It becomes your world." -Saoirse Ronan, January 2015

Tell it, sister. I vote we make Saoirse Ronan our planet's representative for Young Adult storytelling.

In addition, they BOTH have exotic accents that make them sound very, very smart. (I do know people from their part of the world, and probably Jason and Saoirse themselves, will possibly disagree with me about that and say: But Amy, we don't have an accent. But then they don't have to listen to the hillbilly speak I have to listen to every day, now do they? No. No, they do NOT. I think if they had to hear what I hear all the time, they would agree with me when I say: UK people sound smarter.) (And spell swankier.) 

And Nikole Beckwith! The writer/director of this movie Jason and Saoirse were talking about--what a delightful, thoughtful, artistic soul she seems to be. Somebody interviewed her about what she thinks is paramount to good storytelling and here's what she says:

"I think you have to love your characters. I’m not sure. It’s one of those intangible things. You want to make sure that every character has a sense of a life of their own. I’ve been saying that some of my favorite movies are movies where you feel like everyone has their own movie but you’re just getting to see this one little slice. I think that’s very interesting. I think you have to have a lot of respect for your characters." --Nikole Beckwith, January 2015

Another smart, astute, canny brain and a thought you could apply to other types of storytelling (like books). I really heart storytellers, don't you? ** 

In my research about what makes good storytelling, I've run across a lot of Jason Isaacs thoughts. Many months ago, I found a website that's dedicated to him, with lots of links to interviews he's done, and he always makes my heart soar with hope and happiness when he talks about this process. He's rather prolific at playing bad guys (he actually plays a lot of good guys, too, but everyone always fixates on Lucius Malfoy for some reason...I feel it has something to do with the Fabio-like hair, but that's probably just me), he is also prolific with opinions about what makes good storytelling. Here are some storytelling bits of know-how I've gleaned from Jason's exotically-accented, swanky-spelling, big brain: 

*"Nobody wants to watch characters with no conflict." (Nobody wants to read about them, either.)

*"Great storytelling is about being completely specific, which makes it completely universal." (This observation is completely universal to all genres and types of storytelling, and I think Jason Isaacs should become world famous, for this quote alone.)

*And--no direct quote, just an overall summary of what I've seen/heard--Jason often talks about how storytelling (for him) is not just a way to connect, but to unravel the human condition, to discover what it means to be a human being. This echoes what countless other storytellers--visual, musical, and writerly--I've read and listened to all say whenever asked: "What makes good storytelling?" (It's a TRIBE!) 

This is why Jason Isaacs and I should live in the same neighborhood. So I can invite him and his family over for summer barbecues, and then we can sit on the porch talking about unique ways in which to tell stories, as we slap away mosquitoes. Jason's a master storyteller, and so I would like to ask him to tell me how to do it correctly. And also, maybe he'll agree to get me into Sundance 2016. And possibly a coffee date with Clive Owen. Oh, and! I need him to come up with an interesting travel itinerary that will help me really understand what makes London London. When I finally go to England. And he's got daughters who can play with my daughter and take her off my hands for like an afternoon or something so I can get stuff done for the love of God. (Am I overstepping my boundaries? I'm over stepping boundaries. I do take liberties with nice people, and I think I can do that because I'm really really nice.) (Also, I'm doing free PR for Mr. Isaacs and his employers at the end of this blog post and on all of my social media for the rest of February, and so this is a totally fair exchange. I feel.)  

So my take away is that, basically, storytelling (according to Lucius Malfoy, Briony from ATONEMENT, and talented, thoughtful screenwriter Nikole B.) is this: 

When a really good story comes to an end, we are suddenly lost and sad, because that story becomes our world for a bit, and that only happens when we are exposed to good storytelling, which is always specific conflict between interesting characters we feel deeply for. Good storytelling is one way to unravel the human condition, and whenever that happens to us, our souls are stirred because we recognize our common connection, an invisible story thread that binds us all, and we are forever altered in some way after we've been in the hands of a master weaver. (To wit.)

Gossamer threads of connected humanity, is essentially what I'd call good storytelling.  Taking apart, then putting back together, the messes that make us brilliant and stupid, funny and sad, crazy and sane. What makes a person feel so superior or inferior to everyone else? What life experiences did that girl have to give her the idea she can be so cold and cruel? Is he really a gigantic a-hole, or just a scared little boy hiding behind one? Which is worse: Evil that reveals itself for what it is, or Evil that looks and feels like kindness? Is there even a difference? Why are we here? Why should we care? What happens next? IS there a next? 

Doesn't that make you want to sit down, right now, and read a good book that tries to answer questions like that? Or write a story that addresses something very specific that's always troubled you or freaked you out or made you angry? Good stories leave us with more questions than answers, I think; they make us want to continue wondering about what happens next, they inspire us and impassion us and let us know we are all in this together. 

I think what's most amazing to me, as a writer, is how very many stories there are to tell, from just the mundanities of Life. You don't have to be a Nobel Laureate to tell a good story; they are already there, all around you, in places that are no more extraordinary than simply waking up and making the decision to get out of bed, go make some coffee, see what will happen next. 

Right now, for instance, I'm staring at a stack of graded papers I need to enter into an online gradebook. I don't feel like doing this, and I don't feel like doing this because it's making me think of some of the issues swirling around public education these days, how wrong and unfair it's become not just to teachers but to KIDS, and this is making me very angry. And when I get angry about something no matter how boring it may seem to other people, I want to peel back the layers to study it, because I need to understand the source of my anger so I can write about it, sort it out. And when I do THAT, my hope is that my anger will calm but also someone else out there who is angry about something completely different may read my story, and learn something about peeling back the layers to their own anger and understanding it. Because anger is a very universal, human thing, and by learning about it we can support one another and maybe even find ways to help each other let that shit go.

Therein lies the power of good storytelling. 

P.S.- watch Dig--on USA!--starting March 5 at 10 PM/9 Central! (sorry if you're in Europe because you'll have to wait to watch...but you all got Case Histories first and also you guys have universal healthcare and better maternity leave, and all we have in America is Republicans arguing over oil pipelines and voter I.D. fraud....so get over it.)

P.S.S.-Here's a behind-the-scenes preview of DIG that I bet will make you set your DVRs so you can watch DIG on March 6 because lots of people don't even watch TV shows when they air nowadays (I don't--I try to be asleep by 9 PM...since I usually wake up and can't get back to sleep by 2 AM). No, seriously--go click the link and watch that interview, there is one right after that one with Anne Heche, too. Doesn't that look like really superb storytelling? Blood, mystery, and sex with gorgeous Anne Heche. Those are prerequisites in ALL my stories, at least.

**Next time I write about storytelling, it will be from the point of view of a story writer storyteller. I could have culled writerly storyteller sources for what makes good storytelling. But I started my blog post because I liked what Jason, Saoirse, and Nikole had to say about storytelling and it snowballed from there.*** 

***I may have also been looking for a way to combine storytelling talk with Dig (on USA starting March 5!) promotion. I'm sorta scheisty like that.

really real.

Soooo....true confession: I've been feeling very...glum? weird? something...about the direction this blog seems to have taken. At least in terms of some recent posts I've thrown up here. I don't know who reads this thing (well, except for YOU, mom...and hello to YOU as well, sister in law...and my 3 very, very good and loyal friends--I'll see you guys at happy hour on Friday!), but if you do read here regularly or even semi-regularly, I mean obviously I've been treading water, emotionally. I started making brief references to it this summer, and then, as it deepened, started throwing more and more out there until occasionally I just came out and said it: Teaching poor kids in America sucks, or maybe I just suck at teaching poor American kids. 

In the spirit of what I've just written, I will have you know that today, in the shower, I sobbed and begged God to help, to please get me out of this...PLACE...I'm in right now. (Remember Joe the Nigerian? He said to do that. Well. Except that the lights were on. But I was naked, and that's how Joe says God likes us to beg Him.) (When I conclude here, I may turn off all the lights and do some full-on begging God. It's not that late still.)

I'm (believe it or not) generally a really Pollyanna kind of gal. I believe in the inherent goodness of Humanity; I am a prime target for con artists. I look for the rainbows in the silver linings, and STILL to this day want to believe stuffed animals and toys talk and live real lives when people aren't in the room. So this spot I'm existing in currently is overwhelming and worrying--I will not lie: I am worried about me. I'm online a lot either running from it or Googling ideas for how to claw my way out of it. And then I like to come here and write sort of cryptic blog entries about my situation/emotional state, or just flat out state: I think I suck as a teacher, and my teacher confidence and self-esteem is at an all-time career low. (And, obviously, I do that because that's going to inspire total confidence and excitement about me in any principal interviewing me for a new school position next year, I just know it. That, and some of the angry swearing here? They are just going to fight over hiring this chick.) (I'm being sarcastic, for those of you who lack that internet reading comprehension tool.)

And so I think (after spouting off here): well, maybe I should yank my little inner Pollyanna off the floor of my soul, where I bitch slapped her down last week, and tell her to start dancing, dance you whore! dance this off! Get over it!! GET OVER IT BEFORE I GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO GET OVER!!!! Entertain the silent Internet readers who may stumble upon this place and quit your stupid, whiny crap, Amy. GET. OVER. YOURSELF. (Actually, I don't really talk that harshly to myself. Usually what I say to me is far more Southern, something like: Well, Miss Amy. Look at y'all. Just one big ol' hot mess. Bless your heart. Oh, honey. Lord have mercy, bless your little heart.. ....."Oh, honey." "Bless your heart." Two phrases Southerners will say to you that aren't as nice as they sound--translation: You're being a dumb ass, now stop it.)

But then. Then! I read a Facebook post by my (in my head) BFF writer friend Ms. Anne Lamott. Annie wrote about not being ashamed to be real, not letting our own insecurities hold us back from displaying our Dark Nights of the Soul for all to see. She wrote about childhood trauma, and how bad juju moments in our adult lives--sometimes even just brief run-ins with bad feedback or whatever--can look, and feel, like that childhood trauma so much that all we can see when we look into the future is Trauma (capital T). She said a lot of really deep, insightful, pretty effing brilliant stuff, and so...here. Just, can you just go read what Anne said first and then come back here to me? I'll wait: CLICK HERE FOR ANNIE LAMOTT'S BRILLIANCE. 

...........okay. Are you back? Is your brain totally reeling?! Isn't she INSANE?!?! Insane in a good way I mean, as in insanely awesome and spiritual and just really really good and really really real. I think it's just nuts how some people are so reasonable and so real and so open with their crazy that they look so calm and together. It lets people like me know: (a) hey, it's okay to be crazy and (b) it's okay to let other people know you're crazy because (c) we are ALL crazy. This is a crazy, crazy screwy planet to hang out on, for any amount of time. I'm starting to think, in fact, if you aren't a tad messed up then there is something very wrong with you and you should get some help.

I'm writing all this to let you know I'm going to stop moaning over having the life energy and enthusiasm for my chosen vocation sucked out of me every single waking moment. This is simply reality for most teachers in high poverty, Title 1 schools these days in America and I shall not be apologizing for it, any more, and if you are uncomfortable reading about it then you should move along and go continue to dream the lie you're being sold. Because listen: I am overwhelmed, I am struggling daily at work with things like workload and self-esteem and that is making me question why I chose this career, and NOBODY is supporting me or helping me (other than a very sweet, supportive, rock-like group of women also being flung about the gigantic waves of the stormy ocean with me). 

In addition and furthermore, the work/career situation has led to stirring up bad things in my home life and C and I are struggling to stay together and Miss M is having nightmares and being extra spunky sometimes and I am very, very worried about her, too. Neither situation--work or home life--appears very fixable at the moment. The fact that I wake up every day and find the energy to stand, in the shower naked, begging God is most likely a GOOD sign....is what I'm saying. I still care, and hold a deep-seated belief Something else cares too, and that something good is up ahead it just has to be. 

So if I whine occasionally, just know: it's childhood trauma (per Anne Lamott and her wise spiritual friend) rearing its ugly head. Or it's the insanity that's completely overtaken public education these days, particularly in our poor schools. Or it's another crappy mom/wife/home life moment I just dealt with. Or it's just me having low vitamin D levels and needing a good nap. Who cares? Come read on those days and know we're all in this, that it's okay to be radical and reach out--even to the silent World Wide Web--to scream: THIS IS MAKING ME FEEL REALLY SHITTY BUT I'M STILL NOT GIVING UP!!!! 

Because maybe someone else out there feels the same. And that is why I write--connections matter. Telling a story truthfully matters. I don't know any other way to be Me than to continuously try to make connections in a truthful, storytelling way. In public in most situations and in person around small children (not while driving), I can control the swears and the are you kidding me?!?! reactions. But behind a keyboard and while writing? You get to experience Really Real Amy, and all her neuroticisms. I'm not sure that's a word but who cares. And so there. I said it. This is me, here I am, and so....

I guess what I'm trying to communicate is this: if this just isn't your thing, just not something you want to read that day, it's okay by me for you to say: Hey, uh, Amy? I'll come back and check in later to see if Pollyanna's back, cracking her jokes, telling silly Miss M stories, talking writer stuff, or being a fake movie critic. This is a bit too real for me right now. Or even: Hey, uh, Amy? I'm sorry. I thought this blog was going to be about jokey jokes and writery storytelling stuff, not teacher girl misery crap. I'm going to go read The Onion dot com from now on--best of luck to you! 

Because, seriously, no matter what I'm totally fine with any of those choices, Internet, since I really just started this blog to scream out into the ethos of Your Silence. I ain't doing it for you, is what I'm saying, I'm doing it for me. (Okay, okay FINE. I AM doing it for you, to a point, because I have a healthy sense of audience, or at least an idea of the audience I'd like to attract and hopefully write for. But most of these people are all a lot like me, and if we met for coffee or drinks after work, we'd spend a lot of time high fiving each other on how messed up but still really awesome we are.) (And we ARE awesome...possibly not Monday through Friday, August through May in a classroom doing all the stuff on their checklists, but all the days in between.)

I'm going to meditate on this quote a lot. I'm going to memorize it, and sing it (naked) in the shower until the Universe gives in. And I'm going to keep taking deep belly breaths and waking up and moving forward.