The Echo.

There is something about being backstage. 

I love and hate the feeling.

Everyone is waiting for you.

Everyone in the whole world is waiting for you.

Here I stand, wobbly unshaved knees.

Limited Too attire.

Twelve years old.

Holding (or not holding) a deep, empty pit in the cave of my stomach.

I feel hollow inside.

Trying to keep my mouth from going dry, I swallow nervously.

I look down at the floor a couple of times.

They need to sweep back here, I tell myself.

OMG! What do I do with my hands?!

A silent cry goes off in my head, like a fire alarm.

Kids racing outside.. light-up Sketcher shoes from Payless rub and screech against the mismatched tile floor.

“Is it real? Is it real? Is it real?!” they ask.

Teachers hurry them along.

I wonder if I will be able to see my Mom in the audience.

And if so... 

Will that make all this better or worse?

Ya know, this whole being on a stage thing is new for me.

Do I crave this kind of attention?

I know some people do.

I don’t think I do?

I mean, yes.. I did grow up performing for my mom and her friends, belting out “Tomorrow” and “Hard Knock Life” from the Annie movie, standing behind that ugly hunter green, potato chip-stained couch, (the one with the pink fringe at the corners, on purpose).

And I did tend to impulsively run outside to the front yard when I had a new song lyric in my head. I wanted to see what it felt like to sing my new hit with the breeze in my hair and the hand motions I had just made up to go along with the words. My first song was about a blue jay. My right palm would paint the sky above me, and I would shake my hips a little bit, like the girls always did on television. That memory still tugs at me from time to time, taps me on the elbow and whispers, “Remember?”

Oh, and I did stay up for hours on end learning every single word of the Dixie Chicks hits, “There’s Your Trouble”, “Wide Open Spaces”, and “Cowboy Take Me Away”.

But those moments were Pretend.

Not the same, right?

I could mess up, laugh about it, shrug my shoulders, and keep going. 

Something about this whole stage thing, it felt… 

Well... 

Fake.

This was different. 

And I wasn’t ready for it.

I wasn’t made for it.

Mom or no Mom in the audience.

My name is eventually called. 

I walk out on the stage, not able to see a thing under those bright lights, I wrap my small fingers around the microphone, my lips trembling.

What was I doing?

This isn’t me.

Words finally stumble out of my mouth, my voice sounded decent, I guess, but I could do better.

I was internally judging myself in real-time, my increasingly cruel inner dialogue becoming the constant echo to my voice.

I just wanted this 3 minutes to be over.

This Sara Evans song Needed.To.End.

No more proving anything to myself after this.

No more bright lights or fluttering heartbeat, it's too painful.

What am I even wearing?

Again, a silent cry goes off inside my head.

The echo.

I am embarrassed.
I am so embarrassed.

Please let this song end early.

Can the sound guy hit the wrong button in the back and just turn my microphone off? 

Is that possible?

Please, God.

Get me off of this stage, back in the comfort of those dark corners where no one can see me. Give me those hallways with the unswept, dusty wooden floors- Back where I belong.

…….

Has that ever happened to you?

On the outside you are performing, words leave your body with ease or unease.

You put on a smile and a happy face, like a preteen playing with makeup.

You play the part.

You do the thing.

But inside?

Inside the basement of your thoughts, you are tearing yourself down.

Constantly cursing at yourself.

Constantly talking down at yourself.

You shame your outfit and every single ounce of your being.

Like a cat clawing away at your very own soul.

A nightmare inside.

What is that?

If the audience could hear that...

Would they still clap??

Their Dinosaur-Bird

Enormous white birds with long noses stare back at me on the other side of the the glass.

I turn around.

Scattered eyes dart in every direction, searching for Gate numbers, departure times, bathrooms…

My feet play Checkers with all kinds of shoes all across the floor.

One step diagonal, one step forward.

Two steps to the right.

You have to pay attention in a place like this.

I touch eyes with a stranger,

Even offer up a half-smile.

A mumbled “Hello?”

(Too much?)

(Probably).

Women in the crowded restroom apply blush and mascara ever so-gently, in the most feminine of ways.

But most definitely in a hurry.

One woman brushes her teeth.

Are they preparing to see someone special?

When their dinosaur-bird returns back from the clouds?

When wheels hit pavement and a new time zone confuses their plans?

Boxy luggage at their heels, black like their mascara.

This place is interesting.

My Little Ant-Size Body.

I remember staring at the row of ant soldiers emerge from the dirt.

Belly to the ground.

The tiniest tip-top of my pointer finger tapping the black dots, all marching in a row, obediently.

They were so organized, those ants.

I was with the Sisters.

You know, the Crew.

All the younger sisters of the Orioles (often mispronounced “Oreos”) Little League baseball team.

We stuck together.

“Let’s go to the sandbox,” demanded Sarah.

She was the Leader.

Her skin was tan and people listened to her.

So, we went.

Shoes thrown high over our shoulders into the overgrown grass.

No looking back.

We didn’t need them.

Sand was meant for bare feet.

Everyone knew that.

“Who wants to have me over to spend the night tonight?” Sarah asked.

Was this some sort of test? I quietly wondered.

A cry for loyalty among her people?

Sarah was the Queen Ant and we were her tiny black dots, marching obediently in a row, under the potential careless tap of a giant.

It seemed strange she asked this question.

But Sarah had taught us how to get every SPECK of pink and blue sugar out of the candy straws sold at the concession stand. 

You know, the ones that were half our height.

Sarah even taught us how to play Wall Ball with the boys.

We owed her.

So I answered back quietly, trying not to sound too scared.

"You can spend the night with me.” 

A sigh of relief was audibly released among the other small ants dressed in overalls and Krackeroos hair bows.

Queen Sarah nodded in approval.

The dark blanket of stars above her shoulders, above all of our shoulders, was impressive.

There was something about the sound of metal baseball bats and tired but proud parents cheering on their kids, and their kids’ friends, and the friends of their kids’ friends that was oddly comforting. 

I felt safe underneath that sky with those sounds and those people.

My little ant-size body with my small, timid voice but yet-

Tonight I was as big as the sky.

There Is No Formula To This.

The voices.

You know the voices.

We all do.

Your Career:

“Hurry up and get promoted.”

“Make more money.”

“You are moving too slowly and it’s embarrassing, people are watching.”

“Look at your peer who is the same age and thriving. Why can’t you be more like them? Why aren’t you more successful?”

Society (Sometimes)/ Your Body, as a Female (Other Times):

“Hurry up and find your life partner and have a baby or two, PLEASE.”

“You know you are running out of time and before you know it, it will be too late.”

Recently, I have watched several dear friends of mine sit in a whole lot of pain because they are wrapped up in these voices.

They have listened too hard for too long.

They feel stuck in their career and are afraid to make the next move or don’t even know what the next move is, which can feel even more scary.

They move away and then move back and then away again, and feel absolutely, completely restless. (I can relate to this… Nashville and its “exploding growth” and “thriving business community” annoys me most days… it’s a complicated relationship, 8 years and counting).

They have gone on really shitty dates with too many strangers, and they are beyond emotionally exhausted.

They want to be having babies, but can’t.

You know what I want to tell these voices most days?

Shut.

UP.

I want to redefine 30.

I want to redefine being a woman in the year 2018.

I want to redefine me.

In my own, authentic way.

And please know, I am no expert at this.

I am no “preaching to the choir” kind of girl.

This stuff is hard.

And those voices are loud.

Lord knows, I stayed in a relationship for far too long, thinking I was on the way to getting all of the external crowns of “achievement”, all of the noise to finally shut those voices up.

Engagement.

Marriage.

Children.

And I was trying so hard to create something out of something that was… not.

I was trying to make a circle a square, y’all.

And it just didn’t work.

Did I feel like I failed at first when we ended it?

Yes.

Did I feel shame?

Yes.

Was I angry at myself?

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

(A thousand times, yes).

But then there came this:
Grace.

SO much grace.

Grace for myself to heal at my own pace.

Grace to forgive myself and others, even if that comes in baby steps.

Grace to “get back to work” when I was emotionally ready and mentally able to actually focus, and some days that is there and some days it’s just not.

Grace when my words feel sloppy- when I have to keep beginning the same story again and again or my voice trails off because I am not making any sense and I mumble things like,  “Wait, that’s not how that goes..” or, “Does that make sense?”

Grace to start dating again and then to find humor in the awkwardness of it all, and then, to share stories with girlfriends on my couch in my living room as we laugh and drink wine and feel human.

Grace when I find someone new I kind of even like but then have to answer some of his questions with fading eyes and a, “Can we talk about that later..?”

(Pacing myself).

Grace for my mistakes because I know they will come- they always do.

Grace to decorate my house when I am in the mood- I can’t force that stuff, ya know.

Grace to cook slowly.

Grace to make a mess in my kitchen because those meals taste better, we all know that.

And the best part?

It is totally mine.

My grace.

For me.

Because I know that I need it.

And sometimes that’s the only Truth that I know for sure.

The kind of grace when you watch a two and half year old refuse to be helped when she is getting out of the car and her foot just never seems to hit the floor but her level of focus is out of this world. Or when the same two and a half year old is trying to put on her jacket so you can finally leave the house and you are already running late and of course, the tiny baby jacket is upside down, inside out and her right elbow is rotating at an extremely slow, pathetic pace. But again, she is determined and she is growing up just like the rest of us, and is proud of her growth. So proud.

Sometimes we need to ease into the slowness of our growth.

“There is no formula to this,” I told my friend a while back over the phone. She was going through the same thing at the same time as me, (a breakup). I imagine it was something kind of like having a friend share the same exact month of your pregnancy. (I don’t know anything about this, but I am guessing that would be a small pocket of comfort and strength when you want to complain about your weight changing or share stories of nausea or sleep deprivation).

And then there’s this--

What does grace feel like?

Grace feels like finally taking off a heavy, heavy backpack for the first time after a long and boring day of school, a day full of bright fluorescent lights, oily, acne-covered faces, uncomfortable desks and way too much homework. You forget you were even wearing the damn thing but as soon as you take it off, you feel your spine open up like a flower at the top of spring.

Grace feels soft.

It feels like forgiveness.

It feels like space.

So much space.

The best kind.

My Confession.

I save too much.

Old scrappy letters.

Half written reminders.

Chicken scratch on folded over post-it notes that have lost their sticky backside.

I save all my old journals.

Photos of people I no longer see or care about.

I save tools that I don’t know the name of, all the left-over clutter that Curt left behind.

I might need it some day, I tell myself.

Maybe it will keep me from spending more money, I offer.

I save clothes that remind me of something or someone that I’m not ready to let go of.

I save voicemails and birthday cards.

I save crafty slips of paper and broken jewelry because you never know when you might get the urge to make stuff.

I save students’ writing from years prior.

I save every single screw and nail that I find because I never seem to have the right kind when I actually need it.

I save every ounce of cardboard and paper and plastic, and when my recycling overflows, I drive it somewhere to drop off, like a mom in a school carpool line.

I save breath mints.

I save pens.

My car is a pen graveyard.

I save time.

I save money.

I grew up learning I had to “be saved”.

It’s the saving I’m good at.

Too good at.

But letting go?

I am still learning.

I Bought Them Anyway.

A writing prompt yesterday..

"Tell the story of something you are wearing"....

I was in Costa Rica last February.

I stayed an extra day for the beach after a yoga trip.

I was leaving and I was sad about that.

But then, 

I saw these pants.

They were overpriced and I knew it and I hated it.

And…

I bought them anyway.

The girls in the store smiled, and said,

“Ahhh muy bonita!”

I agreed.

The whole day I bought overpriced things, and it just stung a little.

I knew it would happen: 

I was stuck in an airport all day.

I had no choice.

I got hungry.

But these pants.

They reminded me of my time in Costa Rica.

The real me, 

in most ways.

They had a yellow background tint like the sun I missed SO so much when my shoulders were drenched in the nothing-but-gray-colored skies of the Forever Winter of Nashville.

And this gray had eaten me away inside.

To be honest, I think I was more stagnant, unstable, uprooted, unkind, lonely, sticky, and depressed then, than I wanted to admit.

And these pants offered me color, lightness, a lift from heavy stress and heavy thoughts.

Of course I changed into them right away.