crumbled cookies and spilt milk

So I met somone, as you may or may not have guessed. And in three weeks, I learned more about beauty and value than I may have ever learned before.

The man I met, who, in keeping with tradition, I'll call Frank*, was one of the sweetest, most thoughtful guys I've ever met. He was present, grounded, generous, and ninja-funny -- quiet most of the times, his jokes would sneak up on me from a dark corner and karate chop my funny bone. He made me smile with my heart. And my liver. And my tummy.

Frank and I met online, and he emailed me a couple of times, but, in truth, I kind of blew him off. Something about his messages didn't quite catch me -- and he didn't get around to asking me out for way too long -- so I let it go. But two weeks later, he was back again, following up on our conversation, and I decided to meet him.

The first time we talked on the phone, I had been working on the outline for the next seminar I'm teaching (about eliminating negative self-talk), and my conversation with Frank, from no effort on my part, went straight to the topic I had last been writing, about how you have the choice to believe whatever interpretation of what other people are thinking pleases you, since you'll never really know the truth of what's on their minds anyway. I saw that as a sign.

We agreed to meet that week, and on Saturday he was waiting for me near the Marquis de Lafayette at Prospect Park.

Did I mention that he's gorgeous?? Dark fluffy hair, tall, thin, beautiful blue eyes, muscluar... in a word, Yum.

We spent the day together, telling stories, laughing at jokes, wildly flinging frisbees, and eating some tasty fish on Flatbush Avenue. I had plans that evening, so we parted company early. There was a little bit of smooching, after which he looked kind of funny. I asked if he was ok, and he said, "I'm fine. I'm just a little breathless."

(Swoon.)

Anyway, several more wonderful dates ensued, and I was treated to a man who was patient, affectionate, gentle, and who taught me how to juggle! ("No!" I hear you saying, "It's too good to be true!" And alas, you're right.)

Frank is Jewish (raised-Orthodox Jewish) so my not being Jewish, in the end, was causing him trouble. It's not that he is religious, it's just that he's so committed to the Jewish community and culture that there are things he wants for his future, he told me, that I'm not in a position to give him. (You know, like Jewish babies.) And while it's too bad that I won't be spending any more quality, intimate time with him, I am so grateful to have met him, to have learned that there are men out there who are this amazing -- and who are still single! -- that I had to share my story with you.

So if you are sick of douchebags, think you are asking for too much, wish you didn't have to work so hard, or generally settling for less than you deserve, knock it off! Guys like Frank are out there, and are just as unhappy that they haven't met you as you are about not having met them.

And if you're Jewish, I know the perfect man for you!


*the funny thing about calling this guy Frank is the joke my family was making over Easter about how my brother in law wanted a hot dog with a natural casing, like the ones made by Hebrew National, which then morphed into jokes about him not being the only one eating a Hebrew National these days.

yay! bug!

It has not been terribly happy in k8's nyc, so to compensate, I give you this:

achtung! das emotions!

I have this little heart, and all these big feelings.

And sometimes my little heart just breaks because it can't help itself.

Filled up with love, or loneliness, or connection, or bliss.

And joy and sadness flood my body like sweet and sour sauce.

With gentleness, I pack the goodies back where they belong, and take my tear stained face for a sojourn on the pillow.

Silly little heart, trying to swim in the deep end without its floaties!

things I love (in no apparent order)

I love:

• when it becomes clear that the yowling neighbor next to you is actually singing along to Beyonce and not just suffering severe indigestion
• a commute that yields a parade of four yellow vehicles in a row: taxi, schoolbus, Arizona Iced Tea van, taxi
• the strange talismanic crap little boys carry around with them - stormtrooper in one hand, hammer and lizard in the other
• cashews
• Fernando's sister, Michelle, who laughs really heartily at everything
• the feeling of the beau's arms protecting me from the scary, scary alarm clock
• the existence of pudding skin, although not the skin itself
• the kind of blue bic pens that I can see how much of the ink I've already used while writing in my journal
• "otiose" (the new word I learned in my book today. It means "1. being at leisure; idle; indolent, 2. ineffective or futile, 3. superfluous or useless.")
• certain shades of blue that feel endlessly deep
• the power of my own body (and I mean that in a kick-you-punch-you kind of way, not a hubba-hubba kind of way, although that's fun, too.)
• coaching, but especially seeing the light in someone's eyes that comes from revelation

it would have been enough, DAYENU!

This year, I had the joy of attending another Seder with my favorite adoptive Jewish family. It was my first vegetarian Seder, and somehow, even without the turkey, pot roast, stuffing and chicken broth (you better believe I ate the Matzo ball!), I still managed to stretch myself beyond capacity.

To that end:

If they invited me but didn't give me wine
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they gave me wine but it wasn't four glasses full
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they gave me four glasses but they weren't from a local Brooklyn winery
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they gave me local awesome wine but not gefilte fish
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me gefilte fish but not the fancy Israeli matzo
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the fancy Israeli matzo but not the matzo ball soup
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me matzo ball soup but not the Sannie Salad™
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the Sannie Salad™ but not the potato pie
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the potato pie but not the brussels sprouts
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the brussels sprouts but not the macaroons
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the macaroons but not the chocolate covered matzos
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me the chocolate covered matzos and not Ladybird cupcakes
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they fed me Ladybird cupcakes but didn't make me laugh
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If they made me laugh but the baby didn't fling hard boiled egg at me
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

If the baby flung hard boiled egg at me and they didn't make me feel loved
it would have been enough, DAYENU!

But boy did I feel loved.
And covered in egg.
And full.
And it was enough.

cloudbursts on curly pinks and goatees on lions

Here are just a few things in the world that delight me:

1. dogs that walk themselves
2. brioche
3. hipbones
4. raisins
5. hem
6. just making a train
7. plaid (the word, not the design)
8. story people
9. President Obama
10. the feeling of sudafed kicking in
11. the heffalumpish sound I made when I fell down on the escalator*
12. the dog this morning with legs barely longer than the two inches of accumulated snow that was bounding through the drift like he was a husky in the tundra
13. whatever they're cooking downstairs
14. clean sheets
15. moments of improvisational genius when the world just feels right

*I didn't enjoy falling down the escalator; that hurt. But the "oomphf" that escaped me (quite loudly, in fact) was entertaining. And not sexy.

Barack Steve Obama

I love this guy. And to find out that he has an amazing ability to not only poke fun at himself, but to do it with exceptional timing warms my heart.

I wanted to find a transcript of the dinner speech last night, but so far have only managed to find this clip, so I'll share the clip and keep scouring the intar-webs for more coverage.

Part One


Part Two

what i couldn't say two years ago

I had dinner with an old friend tonight (our friendship is old... we, ourselves, are quite young, thankyouverymuch), which was a date we rescheduled from last week, which she cancelled because she wasn't feeling very well. As we sat at dinner I very offhandedly and calmly said the following, which I never would have been able to say to her two years ago:

So, last week was no big deal, it sucks that you were feeling barfy, and you can totally cancel on me anytime for anything, but next time, could you give me a little advanced warning if you aren't feeling well? You didn't know this, but I was in New Jersey at a party which I had to leave early to meet you for dinner, and I was already on the train back to the city when I got your message to cancel.

Her response? Totally calm, agreeing, nodding, and saying, "Oh yeah, that's cool. I'll totally give you advance warning next time. I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Two years ago I was so afraid of myself (and of the threat of her rejecting me) that instead of saying something this simple, I would just sit on it. And stew. And brood. And every time she cancelled or was late or did anything that I could interpret as inconsiderate, I chose to see it as her being malicious or thoughtless instead of living her own life (with its own complications).

Now it's just so much cleaner. It feels fresh. It feels like we're miles closer, even though we see each other less. It feels like we're both covered in magnets and when we choose to live responsibly, the polarity brings us together instead of forcing us apart.

I'm immensely grateful, both for her and for the changes in my life. (And for the image of me being covered in magnets and accidentally getting myself stuck to my fridge.)

gratitude

My friends are the most awesome women in the world. All of them. I am so grateful for their love, their laughter, their support, their compassion, their undying love of sushi, their reminders, their concern, their vulnerability, their strength, their forgiveness and their care.
So in the vein of those cheesy Casey Kasem Top 40s Dedications from our youths, this one is for all the women in my life who have buoyed me and steadied me, both recently and over the long haul.

I love you.

I will be the answer at the end of the line
I will be there for you while you take the time
In the burning of uncertainty
I will be your solid ground
I will hold the balance if you can't look down
If it takes my whole life
I won't break
I won't bend
It'll all be worth it, worth it in the end
'Cause I can only tell you what I know
that I need you in my life
When the stars have all gone out
you'll still be burning so bright
Cast me gently into morning
For the night has been unkind
Take me to a place so holy
That I can wash this from my mind
The memory of choosing not to fight
If it takes a whole life
I won't break
I won't bend
It'll all be worth it, worth it in the end
'Cause I can only tell you what I know
That I need you in my life
And when the stars have all burned out
You'll still be burning so bright
Cast me gently into morning
for the night has been unkind
--Sarah McLachlan

o kate, where art thou?

Sorry I haven't written in a while -- as you can imagine, it's been kind of busy, what with my NEW JOB AND ALL! (who's the coolest? Oh, yeah, that'd be me!)

So, those of you who know me know that for the last eight years or so I've been an actor in the city, and, as such, have had a need for Ye Olde Dreaded Dayjob. I landed in a really good one, with good pay, good bosses, good flexibility and overall general goodness. Of late, however, I've grown weary of Said Olde Dayjob, because I'm not acting anymore. So I started the process of looking inside myself to see what new career path I wanted to follow. (I recommend the book Finding Your Own North Star to anyone who is undergoing the same process.) I put a ton of pressure on myself to do Something Perfect (sheesh!) and hated everything anyone else suggested. I even once had a job-searching conversation with Christina in which I said "we have to change the subject now, or I'm going to have to hate you."

Somehow I found the courage to give myself a break, and take the summer off. I was going to focus on the things that made me happy (like Tuvan throat singers, for example) and let the job find me. Secretly, though, I knew I was just postponing the inevitable disaster that awaited me in September, when the summer was over and I still hadn't figured out what to do with my life.

I listened, smiling, while people suggested a variety of options to me. "You should be a dentist!" said one of my co-workers, whose husband is in dental school.

"Yeah," I said, "except that I don't really like mouths very much. Or teeth."

"Well, how about a physical therapist?"

"Yeah, I'm not so much with the broken parts of people."

"Oh! I've got it! You should be a vet!"

"Yeah, ok, except for that's the broken parts of animals..."

I had a vague sense that what I wanted to do would incorporate the parts of acting that meant the most to me -- analysis, communication, teaching... but how to combine them? How to execute that? At one point, my mother sent me a job posting for a computer trainer at another law firm. And it really grabbed me, since I have a solid background in computer programs used by legal secretaries. But... something was wrong. I wasn't ready to uproot my life like that just yet. or something.

And anyway, it was summer. I didn't HAVE to.

So a few weeks went by, and I asked for a trademark paralegal position at the firm. I didn't get it (for a variety of reasons) and I went back to not paying attention to the job search. Until last week -- Friday the 13th, to be exact.

I was in the word processing department (which makes it sound like more than a guy in an office, which it's not), and the head of WP (that's legal sec'y slang for word processing, yo!) said, when I told him I wasn't acting anymore, that the firm was looking for a trainer.

Kismet! Karma! Kate!

I heard about the job at 11 and by 3:30, I had it.So I'm really excited! I don't think that legal computer training is my end goal or destination, but making this switch right now feels really right. And I'm really proud of myself. It's not Perfect, and I'm doing it anyway!

On top of it all, I came up with a salary that I thought would be appropriate for the position. Now, as a sidebar, I didn't actually realize what I was currently making. I thought my net was my gross, and, well, duh, it's not. So based on my erroneous math, I came up with this number (which was, eek!, less than what I currently make), and worked up the courage to make my salary pitch $5,000 more than that. I screwed my courage to the sticking point, went to HR and said "this is what I want." And he said, "um, ok, we're actually going to give you more than that." But the most important part (to me) is that I found the self-worth to ask for the money.

Around Christmas, we'll talk about the raise.

So, that's the story, pretty much. Down the road, I'm going to need some guinea pigs to run my training on, so stay tuned. And if anyone has any background in training and wants to give me advice, or book suggestions, I'm totally open to that.

And I'm not too proud to take any congratulations that find their way to me...

apparently i'm ill equipped with lullabyes

If PMS was designed to make women want to have babies (if only to not have PMS for the intervening nine months), then babysitting while PMSsing was designed to make women not want to have babies... ever.

I love my little boyfriend, Max, I do, but last night, there were two Kates babysitting at his house, Friendly, Good Babysitter Kate (FGBK) and Overly Rational Bitchy Kate (ORBK). FGBK played a variety of games that had absolutely no point, engaged in conversations about imaginary friends from a TV show, read a number of books repeatedly and blew bubbles until she was lightheaded. RBK glowered in the corner, muttering things like "no, YOU turn the page" and "YOU blow a huge bubble."

But ORBK got slapped (metaphorically) when FGBK sat down to sing Max some lullabyes and came up practically dry. I mean, we started off with the one my mom used to sing to me, "my pigeon house I open wide, and set my pigeons free..." (which is odd enough in itself) And then I realized I was completely kicked. No more lullabyes in the repertoire. I tried one of the ones I know Lisa uses, "Corner of the Sky" (from Pippin) (since I actually know the lyrics), but I got cut off after two words because "that's my Mommy's song!" (who knew there were licensing rights to lullabyes?)

I dug deep. Sleep was coming on, and would be completely disrupted by the lingering silence pervading the room.

Nothing. Whole minutes worth of nothing.

Then genius struck! Mary Poppins! There's that one she sings about staying away and NOT falling asleep ("Stay Awake") but the tune refused to come to me, so I had to sing "Feed the Birds" (you know, "tuppence a bag") but very rapidly ran out of lyrics. (While writing this, I looked online and apparently there are more lyrics than "feed the birds, tuppence a bag, tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag" but did YOU know that?)

Nothing. He was beginning to stir, sit up a little, look around... and then...

John Denver! His songs put me to sleep, they should work! I started with "My Sweet Lady" and then hit "This Old Guitar" and halfway through "Leaving on a Jet Plane," I realized that Max was crying.

Apparently, he, too, was depressed about the passing of a 70s schmaltz giant.

"Oh no! Are you crying, Max?"

(sniffles) "Yeah."

"Was that song too sad?"

(sniffles) "Yeah. I want my mommy!"

"I know, sweetie. Do you want to get up and wait for her in the living room?" (she was due back momentarily)

(sniffle) "No. Sing something else."

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!

All I can say is thank heavens for musical theatre (the little I know of it). We busted out some Annie ("Tomorrow") and some Really Rose ("I'm Really Rosie") and then, blessedly, Lisa came home.

And so did OPSM -- Overly Pouty Sleepy Max. Who wouldn't say good bye or give me a kiss, who told me that my psychology textbook was his, who said that he hadn't had any fun all night and who, in Lisa's words was "acting like a butt."

Luckily, when ORBK (Overly Rational Bitchy Kate, remember) returned, it coincided with my closing the front door and walking home. And all I have to say is this:

Lady, are you crying, do the tears belong to me?
Did you think our time together was all gone?
Lady, you've been dreaming. I'm as close as I can be.
And I swear to you our time has just begun.

(Thanks, John.)

one of the nicest men, ever

My boss, Stanley Rothenberg, is easily one of the most generous, good hearted men I have ever met, let alone worked for. I could regale you with his achievements in the field of copyright, I could overwhelm you with the cases he's argued and won, I could describe to you his family, the hoardes of people who love him. I could drown you in his accolades. But you might not get how special he is that way.

Last year my firm moved across town. And in the few weeks before we left, my boss was in the hospital. So I helped him pack up his office, filing what needed to be filed, and pitching everything I could. I had a great time, since organizing people is what I'm really good at.

Going through the tons of paperwork in his office, I discovered everything he's held onto for the last ten years -- birth announcements for secretaries, memos of colleagues he was proud of, and miles upon miles of his own articles. And I packed it all up. And when we got to the new location, I unpacked and organized everything all over again. He wasn't young and he didn't have any specific filing systems. I wanted him to come into a clutter-free office that ran efficiently. And he did.

A few weeks later, he gave me a thank you note, with an American Express gift card inside it. "I couldn't have done this without you." I wasn't expecting anything, but when I saw the gift card, though it might be $50. It was considerably more. As a thank you, I told him that I would do it again for him any time, as long as we could skip the part where he went into the hospital.

Stanley bought Christmas presents for all the secretaries who sat near him, not just for me. He was always sharing interesting articles or jokes that made him laugh. Since I started working for him five years ago, he's seen more of my shows than my parents have. He has always been supportive of me and my dreams. He has always been respectful, generous, interested and most of all, friendly.

They are taking him off life support tomorrow, and I hope he finds his heaven full of copyright disputes for him to set right.

[author's note: I just found out that instead of "taking him off life support," the family decided not to pursue additional medication options. There is a subtle difference in that, which I think is important to note here.]

a reflection on 9/11

A simple fact: I do not consider myself a 9/11 mourner.

I, blissfully, lost nobody I knew in the tragedy, and was barely involved in it myself. Yes, I lived in the city, and yes, I felt all the aftershocks as they came, but I am not big on mourning public tragedies. It reminds me too much of middle school, when an unpopular girl would get terribly sick and suddenly EVERYONE in the school would claim to be best friends with her. Me? I'll bawl over a lost earring or cry my eyes out at the theatre, but my tragedies are generally personal.

To be more specific (I am realizing things as I write them): If I am going to respond emotionally to a public tragedy, it will be because of the small bits of humanity within the huge cloud of the disaster. September 11th as a concept doesn't make me cry, but personal stories from within that day will break me down for hours.

I never intended to post anything about 9/11, to avoid the issue completely, but then I read RJ's blog.

it's outstanding.

my family

It's Saturday night, 3 o'clock in the morning. I'm sleeping. The rest of my family, though, is standing out in the street in their nightgowns watching a downed power line arc around in the darkness. (I think it pays to have windows that face the front of the house.)

Hurricane Ernesto (or Estenardo, as Scott called it for no apparently good reason) barreled into Connecticut this weekend and took down a ton of trees, branches, and with them, power lines. We were without power all day Sunday, and well into the morning Monday. Which actually turned out to be a good thing.

My parents have city water, so there was no problem with running water. They have a gas stove, so we could heat things up. The only thing that we couldn't do was sit around and watch tv (alas), so we all headed out to the beach in Stamford and drank cocktails and watched as the maintenance crew cleaned up the beach (which was pretty impressive). Apparently the water had been all the way up to the doors of the clubhouse -- the building probably felt like it had sand in all the wrong parts of its bathing suit. We ate greasy food, talked with some friends who came by, did the NY Times crossword and just sat together and watched my sister burn in the sun.

When we got home, there was still no power, but we cooked up our dinner in the dark (eating whatever was starting to melt in the freezer, which turned out to be all the ice cream!) and ate it on the back porch, while Scott filled up the fire pot (this metal contraption specifically designed for building fires where you probably shouldn't be having fires) with all the downed branches from the yard.

And my family, in this very twenty first century setting, sat down together and watched a bonfire. We talked and laughed and watched stuff burn. We didn't fight, we didn't engage in family politics. We just sat there, together, and watched the fire.

Which, of course, prompted the lights to come back on immediately.

Luckily, though, after five minutes, the power went off again, and my parents went off to bed, and Priscilla, Scott and I sat around and burned off the rest of the wood.

I sat there and thought about what life used to be like, when it was too dark to read alone in your room, too cold to be anywhere but within the glow of the firelight. When music came from singing together. When the only opinions you got on a regular basis were those of your family. When connections with your family were so constant, so important and so regular... what did it mean to be a family then? Was it just taken for granted? Could you truly be friends with your parents or your siblings? Have family politics always been a part of life? Have they gotten better or worse, with the advent of open communication?

I don't know, and I truly can't fathom. All I do know is that I'm glad to be a part of mine, and hope I can one day find someone who can fit in as well as Scott does. Even if he can't get hurricane names right.

tribute to an outstanding performer

You know how every once in a while you go to a show, expecting it to be fine (but not mind blowing -- you are a jaded New York actor, afterall), and the show will turn out middling at best, but one performer will just jump out at you and stay with you for hours and hours afterwards?
That happened to me this weekend with the Brick Theater's production of Greed: A Musical Love $tory and one colossal performance from Moira Stone.

I've been friends with Moira for a few years, and I saw her play Amalia in She Loves Me at Hofstra a while ago, and she was terrific. But in Greed, she's outstanding. The show itself made little to no sense to me, the songs and lyrics were extremely odd, and while there were moments that were very entertaining, what I would go back to see is the way Moira can sing lines that make no sense without even looking like she's acting. It's unreal. And her voice is outrageous.

In one scene, her character is sitting on a subway car with a microphone in front of her in which to voice her inner thoughts. They generally don't make anything resembling sense (I wish I could quote one here to show you, but I can't remember any of them), but Moira pulls off these monolouges with such skill that you begin to believe that that's precisely what the accountant in the suit sitting across from you on the ride home is thinking. These mumbly, rambling passages that often have just syllables masquerading as words make all the sense in the world to her, and you begin to buy it, too.

But the moment in the show that refuses to leave my head comes when Moira's character, Lydie Bloom (I think), goes to a Chinese restaurant by herself and eats dinner. The scene goes on about five minutes, during which nothing more happens than the pianist plays The Rose, and Moira eats Chinese food alone. The pathos, the overwhelming loneliness and isolation of the scene is soul-crushing, and not once do you ever feel like Moira is even acting.

I could go on and on, but I think you get the point.

Please, casting people of the world, discover Moira. She is an undeniable talent that I would watch in marathon readings of the phone book.

coming home again

I have a friend, who I won't name, in case she doesn't want the inner workings of our relationship (and, in part, her life) to be known to the k8-blog-reading public. I will call her Kate, just so it's confusing.

Kate and I have been friends forever. (Ok, ten years.) She is the oldest active friend I have (I have friends from high school who I see once or twice a year, but I don't really think they count at this point... they're more Acquaintances I Have Loved for a Long Time). Kate and I have been really close for the last six months or so, since she moved to a far-flung corner of the world and from there back to so-called civilization.

We've both been through a lot lately, with breakups and dating and general soul searching ("why am I an actor?" "gosh, I don't know, why am I?"), and we had evolved (or devolved, depending on how you look at it) into a pattern, where Kate would come to me with a problem, I would try to fix it (even though I wasn't asked to do so) and then I would get frustrated that Kate wasn't listening to my advice and then Kate would get angry because I was judging her. We'd exchange a few snarky emails and each go off into our separate corners to lick our wounds for a day or two.

But last time it was bad. And when Kate went off into her corner, I was afraid I might never see her again. And I looked at my own behavior, the judgements, the positions I held about Kate and her life and what she was doing with it, and I felt awful. I felt like a bad person, let alone a bad friend. But I didn't know how to stop loving her the way I was loving her. So I felt like I had to let her go.

Kate was the third girlfriend I had broken up with in the last a year and a half. While I knew that neither of the other two were good for me anymore, this was the first time I felt that I wasn't good for her.

I asked around -- how do you love someone, who from your perspective is hurting herself, without judging her for doing just that? I got a lot of "you just don't," but no clear answers.

Time passed. I missed Kate so much that I was worried about myself. Was I caving in on my principles just because I was lonely? If I called her, would I go back to just judging her? Would I enable her? Would I disable her? Could we find a way to be good for each other?

Friday night I sat crying on the couch of Sean, the guy I'm dating, about how much I missed Kate (which may or may not have been the sexiest thing I could do... but that's another story) and he just turned to me and said, "Call her. Just call her. You love her, you're hurting, you'll find a way to make it work. Just. Call. Her."

So I did, and it was like coming home again.

We talked about everything that had gone on while we were apart -- she told me she's dumping the guy she's dating, I told her about Sean and Lear and work (and all the nothing), and she told me she was in therapy, and committed to it. And just talking to her made such a difference. She sounds like the burden of seeing through the muck that was her depression has finally lifted, and she can see things more clearly. She's not perfectly happy (I'd be scared if she was), but she doesn't sound as miserable as she did before, and I see the pathway to a new kind of friendship.

I no longer feel responsible for her safety or sanity, and no longer see a place where judgment is useful, let alone necessary. I feel more like equals, partners, real friends.

Thank you for coming back to me, Kate. I've missed you so!

trust

I'm a very trusting person.

Of everyone else, that is. Not of myself.

I can meet someone and instantaneously trust them. And I do. All the time. And for the most part, I've been lucky, meeting good, decent people who are worthy of my trust. But it seems like it's getting to a point where I trust other people more than I trust myself.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, as people have come and gone in my life. People who I have trusted as if, in some way, they have the answers that I don't. And if I trust these people, or follow their advice, or live my life in a way that they would approve of, then they're in charge, and I'm no longer responsible for whatever shortcomings I have in life. As if they know the route better, and I can relax and just enjoy the ride.

But what's funny is when I do that, I end up somewhere other than where I wanted to be.

This kind of trust, this belief that other people know what's right for me, what my inner truth is, is in fact, a huge betrayal of myself. It's almost as if I'm saying, "Hey Kate, your plans and your wants must suck, because look at all these other people, who know how you should be living your life differently --they clearly have the inside scoop!

One of the monologues I use is from The Road to Mecca, by Athol Fugard and it closes with this: "You know what the really big word is, Helen? I had it all wrong. I suppose like most people I used to think it was Love. Thats a big word all right, and quite an event when it comes along. But there's an even bigger word. Trust. And more dangerous. Because that's when you drop your defenses, lay yourself wide open, and if you've made a mistake, you're in big, big trouble. And it hurts like hell." It speaks to me mostly because I've been there before, trusting someone to take care of me, to be responsible for me, and in the end, letting me down simply because that's not their job.

I am so not a religious person, but the Rev. Kim K. Crawford Harvie has written an AMAZING sermon on trust, and I would recommend reading it. You can find the full text here.

She says, "The more highly developed our trust yourself voice, the better prepared we are to trust the world, or to trust it again. The strength of our capacity to trust ourselves is the reserve on which we draw when the world betrays us. And the capacity to trust ourselves is the bedrock of our trustworthiness to others."

So, it seems that the objective, then, would be to build a trust in myself, and to listen more to myself and what I'm saying I want. Which sounds great, and is an idea I can really get behind. But it gets tricky when I know I'm listening to a part of myself that is my least trustworthy -- my sexuality.

When I was younger, I never did drugs, I never drank, I was really (REALLY) straight-laced and good. But the one area where I let myself misbehave was with guys. It seemed (at the time) the lesser of the many evils I faced, and, while I wouldn't change how I was then, it's almost as if my sexuality missed the boat when the rest of me grew up. When I want someone (or something), I want him NOW!, regardless of what the other, more responsible voices say. Regardless of my really strong desire for romance and courtship. I have done some fairly reprehensible things in the name of Attraction (which I won't list here, thank you very much) and I often lead myself into temptation (but do NOT deliver myself from evil) in pursuit of someone sexy or a situation that turns me on. And then my heart gets involved (intentionally or not) and I find myself in a place where I don't trust myself to drive, and whoever I'm with leads me somewhere other than where I wanted to be.

This has manifested itself in several, no, scratch that, most of my past relationships, where I got physically involved with a man, and then ended up in waaaaaay over my head before I was ready, or before I was willing to see the full picture. I can't do this anymore. I don't want to.

So.

Is the answer then to only listen to parts of myself? To listen to those voices that I respect? Or to hear my sexuality, but not let it drive? I want to live a life I'm proud of, and make decisions for myself that not only do those close to me respect, but that, more importantly, I can trust.

"In our inner world, we can cultivate a sanctuary of courage and strength. It is from within that sanctuary that we cast our lot with the world, whatever hand the world deals us. The trick here, though -- and it's a good one --is not to harden our hearts, not to make of our sanctuary an armored vehicle, or a prison."
And I think I can get on board with that -- finding a way to curb, but not destroy the voice coming from my sexuality. Before, when I thought about handling that side of myself, I thought it meant cutting it off completely. Keeping myself from even acknowledging I had desires, and certainly not acting on them. But the more I think about it, the more it just means I have to be careful, to be selective, and not to think about a lack of sex as a deprivation or a way of being "good," but more as a choice to be strong, to opt for the clearest future I can make for myself.

I won't be my best self until I make the choice(s) to become her.

Rev. Crawford Harvie also refers to Rumi (which is actually how I found her in the first place), and the poem below really speaks to me right now, to not selling myself short, and to finding out how to trust the woman I want to become.

There is a life-force within your soul.
Seek that life.
There is a gem in the mountain of your body.
Seek that mine.
O traveler, if you are in search of That
Dont look outside.
Look inside yourself