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Today was an exceptionally cozy day. Mom and I reorganized the upstairs living area to incorporate and decorate the sweet little Christmas tree Dad and I brought home earlier in the week.
While we steadied the trunk and strung the lights, we sang loudly along to the melismas of Handel’s Messiah (believe me, you are very sorry you missed this performance!) and then Pandora Christmas radio. It was all quite like the movies, our trimming the tree, except for me occasionally utterly phrases like, “These lights look shitty.” Sorry, Ma.
She’s used to my not-quite-Hollywood behavior, at least. One year Ty and I stayed up into the wee hours of the night decorating our silver tip tree with countless strands of carefully placed white lights. When Mom awoke to the surprise the next morning she oohed and cooed and called us her “little elves” (name inspired in part by the red button up union suits we both wore; union suits: onesies for adults with functional back flaps, if you know what I mean). It became one of her favorite Christmas memories until she learned we’d smoked a smidge of “weeds” while executing the labor of love. Again, sorry Ma . . .
Another year, Tyler and I were in his room on Christmas Eve wrapping presents and again poofin’ a little toof. Dad knocked on the door and we tried to gently deter him by explaining, “No Dad, don’t come in. We’re wrapping!” But, Dad being Dad turned the knob oh so slowly, easing the door open; then with his eyes squeezed shut poked just his head into the room. After a few seconds Dad’s nose began to twitch like a rabbit’s and he asked innocently, “What’s that smell?”
As I recall, Christmases were relatively devoid of such scandal during my adolescence; but delve into the single digits and you’ll find little Tessa creeping into the closet, behind the couch and into closed paper bags. I snooped all over our house every year and repeatedly ruined surprises for myself. Once, I found an awesome Spirograph set which I oddly never received (karma . . . ?) and when I was about 11, I found two Boxcar Children books my brother bought for me. For some reason discovering that gift early has always caused a little twinge in my heart. I think I may have changed my ways after that.
Unfortunately, my ways-changing didn’t happen in time to salvage the candy ornament Ty made in third grade. At four years old I neatly crawled under the tree, retrieved the sparkling rainbow swirl dangling dangerously low on a limb and took it back to my bedroom where I ate it under my bed.
Ahh, confession never felt so sweet. Merry holiday season, everyone!
Joe and I had a fabulous time dancing in Ashland again last night! Things went much more smoothly than before, as we worked it on the floor both together and separately.
If I am still going to parallel such experiences with movies about dancing, last night’s events would have comprised the lovely montage midway through where the female lead finally begins to show signs of significant improvement! Joe commented that I was “at least twice as good as last time,” (adding that I seemed to have gotten over my nagging neuroses about the beat) and a stranger walked up and complimented my moves! No matter that at first I thought he was asking me to dance and so responded, “Sure! I’d love . . .” and then, “. . . er, thank you!” So much for suave.
Anyway, what I actually intended to write about was seeing This is It with my pops this evening. After the most glorious of Sundays–packed full of lounging around in front of the fire first with a cup o’ joe (no pun), next a guitar and eventually a blanket as I cat-napped, followed by the most peaceful venture to Shastice park with Savannah–Dad offered to take me out for a brewski and dinner at the Goat and then to see the recent tribute to Michael Jackson.
I’m a little intimidated at the prospect of trying to write sensitively and eloquently about the film. So, I’ll try to settle back to my heart point at Four, where our tragic and remarkable musical hero M.J. almost certainly lived, and just let it flow. . .
Although I was running on very few hours of sleep, I was mesmerized by the movie as Dad (watching for his second time) said I would be. With my current passion for dance, what I found catching my eye consistently were technicalities like Michael’s impeccable turns. The way that man could spin on a dime and come back to the exact same millimeter of space in a second is astounding. I aspire to do the same!
I might say that the breadth of his talent–in addition to its excellence–is what I find most profound about the King of Pop. Watching the movie we get a chance to observe all the other incredibly gifted people who worked alongside him, but their expertise appears limited while Michael’s spreads as wide as the stage he shines on.
Of course, so does the air of tragedy that surrounds him; and an instability I sensed in his character that had nothing to do with the gory details gnashed on by the media. I just felt nervous that Michael might crack each time a request was made of him, despite that he never responded anyway but respectfully.
It all makes me want to hold him, cradle him like the little Earth Girl tenderly does the last flower. I wonder who the last person to do so, to really touch Michael Jackson, could have been? Did the composer of Human Nature ever receive any real human nurture?
My heart also breaks for everyone involved in the production of what would have been a pinnacle tour, for all the performers who opened the film weeping tears of joy for the opportunity to dance with the living legend.
I suppose that is the mess of life that any good Four will tell you is necessary in order to appreciate the beauty.
I appreciate the beauty of all that Michael Jackson created during his time on this earth–even if he did name one of his children Prince Michael II, a.k.a “Blanket!”
In honor of Michael Jackson, God bless you all.
Halloween turned out to be great fun, of course–although I did end up sneaking away to the privacy of my parents’ home to avoid the trick or treaters I wasn’t prepared for.
At around 8 o’clock my friend Natalie came over to curl my hair and help me take the final step into becoming Curly Top (no one recognized me in anyway and one person’s response to my ‘costume’ was, “You just look like a cuter version of Tessa.” Way to go, me!). Two hours, many ringlets and a cardboard lollypop later, Space Cat and Curly Top exited the premises. Destination: the Wayside Bar and Grill.
At the Wayside I enjoyed one Maker’s Mark whiskey on the rocks (Natalie’s choice) and a good six shimmying songs on the dance floor. I’ve noticed that salsa seems to flavor all my steps these days. I’d probably sway my hips all over the place even to electronica. But despite my ability to tune out leering goblins and other less creatively dressed men and to season hip hop with salsa, the party was not the fun filled environment I had been hoping for.
So, I ventured on to a party at the Coopers. The Coopers are a family of about eight children. Sophie, Chloe, CeeCee, Will, younger boy whose name I can’t remember–that’s five and I know I’m forgetting a few . . . Anyway, they’re a very eclectic and conscious crowd with an amazing old house right downtown (and directly across the street from Berryvale, as a matter of fact); and their party was the talk of the town.
And with good reason. The Coopers had held a decorating party on Thursday evening during which what was most likely a den area had been transformed into a strobe-lit, cobwebed cocktail lounge. When I arrived, a group of people stood chatting out in the cool autumn air and absorbing the glow of the fire from the pit nearby. Inside, a bar, snack tables and couches framed a dance floor pulsating with the beats of one of two hired DJs. I was first greeted with the festive scene, then by the shocked faces of three old friends.
I don’t fully understand the charade, but whenever a certain group of friends from high school and I reunite, there is a whole lot of show and surprise. Then, of course, the hugging. Oh. And for the record, these are male friends.
After allowing an appropriate period of time for reconciliation, I worked my way onto the dance floor and slid right into the groove. The boys danced along with and without me. Everyone seemed to be having a smashing good time.
I stayed until just before 3 a.m., when one friend, Clifford asked for a ride home. Seeing his tired eyes and watching him wilt before me, I gave Cliff the ride gladly, grateful for a chance to put my most recent EnneaThought for the Day into action: Today, try this recommendation: If you develop your great capacity to care about others, you will never go far wrong—in fact, you will do a great deal of good in life.
On our way to his house, the topic of music came up. “Do you play the guitar?” Cliff asked me.
“Yeah! I can actually say now that, yes, I do.” I smiled.
“Me too!” said Cliff with enthusiasm. He proceeded to tell me about a song he had written for his mom for Mother’s Day, then asked if I wanted to come inside and hear it.
For any of you who are thinking, “There she is again in the middle of the night with a strange man who is about to get her all alone inside his empty house!” (or bus, as the case may be), it wasn’t like that. I promise.
We went inside and he shared his song and I shared my songs and he shared another one and I shared my blog. And it was there that I got the idea for this post, which it has taken all this time to really get to . . . :
I’ve been noticing that the more I open up my gifts to the world–music, writing, laughter, love–the more other people respond by opening theirs. In the past year I have been privileged enough to hear numerous original songs–some debuts to the audience of one, see countless works of original art, be danced all across smooth floors and be graced by conversation after conversation steeped in original thought.
People are so cool when you open up and get to know them. And I think it’s in doing both–the opening and the getting . . . –that the true riches spill forth.
Blessings and Thank You’s all around. Peace, ya’ll.
A day to remember, in reverse:
I’m currently propped up in bed wearing a seafoam green flannel nightshirt with monkey’s all over it that my mother sewed for me. Zoe, the feistier of my two cats, is resting sweetly atop my outstretched legs. I’m drinking red wine and just finished relishing a delicious dark chocolate covered macadamia nut straight from Hawaii (hand-delivered to me by Carl and Kathy). In the background, Pink’s “Please Don’t Leave Me” is on repeat; it’s been stuck in my head since I worked out at Curves (“For Women”) earlier this evening.
I started going to Curves when I was 16 and still in high school. I remember being so impressed and happy with the program that I wanted to write articles in favor of it. These days I’m not so enthusiastic about it–although I suppose I am about just about everything else. Actually, as I hopped around on one of the Curves recovery boards today a gal whose seen me there a time or two before said, “Geez, you have too much energy all the time!” Thankfully I’ve learned, sort of, not to take things like that too personally. . .
Prior to going to Curves, I visited with my new friend Coreena at the SAC gallery. She relieved me at 1 p.m. as the coop member on duty for the afternoon and I came back around 4 to help her finish up the day. Together we looked at photos of her family’s holiday hideaway, “Hikers Rest,” on the big island of Hawaii. Corree had a c.d. playing in the background, “Have you heard of Rob Sexsmith?” she asked me.
“No. He’s good?” I replied.
“Oh, yeah! Plus he has ‘sex’ in his name.”
“And smith! As in ‘wordsmith.’”
“Or ‘locksmith. . .’”
I let Coree look through the clothes of mine the local consignment store had just rejected. “They didn’t take this!?” She asked, bewildered, as she tried on a pale blue corduroy jacket. The jacket was a hand-me-down from a Bostonian friend of mine, seasonally appropriate, cute and in good condition. I couldn’t see the problem either, but to each their own.
Shopping at Trading Places became a favorite pastime this summer while my big brother Tyler and Allison were in town planning their wedding. Neither my new sister-in-law Alli nor I are big shoppers, but somehow we created one fabulously fun experience after another at the little store. No doubt it was largely the influence of TLC’s What Not to Wear. Passing comments like, “Stacey and Clinton would NOT approve” back and forth resulted in each trip becoming highly entertaining. It also made it easier to provide–and receive–honest opinions about potentially poor choices in clothing.
I like to think Alli, Stacey and Clinton would all approve of what I came out with today: a gray Daisy Fuentes sweater-dress, a melon cardigan and a pair of black ballet flats, all for $17.50–and I didn’t pay a penny because I had $26 credit for clothing I brought in previously! Consignment, I tell you, is the shit! Please pardon my Français.
Prior to shopping came work at the gallery, and just before that I met for a most inspirational cup of coffee with a longtime family friend, Nathan. Being at similar places in life, we discussed the pros and cons and proper timing of grad school, travel, and just enjoying our little hometown. I tried to refrain from imparting any unprecedented wisdom to him, but Nathan seemed to welcome it. So I shared how when I finally slowed down and began to be present in my parents’ house in this teeny town of Mt. Shasta, life came to meet me, instead of the other way around. I explained that when I finally stopped “should-ing” all over myself, my passions just burbled up to the surface. It’s beautiful, really, and I wish the same for everybody . . .
As our morning together drew to a close, Nathan and I suddenly touched upon an idea to collaborate with many of the other motivated, creative and inspirational young people in town. Now, it looks like all the lovelies I’ve been spending time with–Coree, Joe, Nikolas, Royce, Nathan, and others–may all get to come together and create something beautiful.
Time will tell; and so will I. Stay tuned.
I’m losing steam on blogging. Blah. Perhaps it’s because I really wanted to be out dancing tonight, but I couldn’t talk anyone else into it. Plus, it appears I need even more downtime than I’d planned. I’m still tired. Blah again.
Jocela sang a great song lyric at her show Wednesday night: If life’s so short then why are the nights so long?
And getting longer. We’re working our way well into October and the sun is setting around 6:30. It’s time to get out the knitting needles and board games, that’s for sure! Not to mention the dancing shoes . . .
Which reminds me . . . I may have snagged yet another dance partner tonight at the Artists’ Reception at the gallery (what a relief polygamy is widely accepted on the dance floor)!
I didn’t stay long (I’ll admit for largely spiteful reasons. I like savoring the thought that people will ask my ex-boss, “Where’s Tessa!?” and she’ll be forced to explain my absence. It’s not very noble, but oh well. At least I’m honest), but in the few moments I did linger after my shift I was engaged in conversation by a certain Nikolas Allen and he invited me out swing dancing!
I’d seen Nikolas just a few days prior when he came by the gallery to submit work to the show, and actually thought I may have scared him out of conversation in the future. During a casual conversation about artwork and dancing, I decided to mention all the eligible bachelors I attract working in the gallery. Minutes later I made a grossly flirtatious comment to Nikolas in response to his idea to hang a string of free condoms from his piece “NO LOVE!” (featuring a photo of a young couple from the 50′s with the words “Sorry Bobby; No Glove, No Love.”). Ugh. Thankfully, since he still extended the invitation tonight, it appears my tackiness didn’t too far outweigh my charm (or at least my affinity for dance) . . .
Ha. If only Lauri had been there to witness that interaction. Yesterday, after watching me train the new co-op member, she commented dryly, “You flirt with boys.”
“Oh? Was I flirting?” I’d responded.
“Yeah, and you flirted with Tony on the phone the other day, too.” She sounded oddly miffed, and I’m going to bank on jealousy as the cause. See, I’m quite sure my boss is an 8 on the enneagram (ironically, 8 is often referred to as “the Boss” or “the Challenger”), and that makes me, at 2, her heart point. If a person has not gotten in touch with his/her heart point it can be highly uncomfortable to have that inner child mirrored back at them. On the inside, Lauri is really just a little girl who cries and wants to be loved. Since she probably hasn’t embraced that aspect of herself, it would make sense that I, the quintessential (quinTESSAntial) lovey, flirty, cry-y female, would easily push a big strong 8′s big strong buttons.
In any case, I’m grateful for people who see beyond my weaknesses and limitations and still love me. Or ask me out dancing, anyway. . . Hooray!
It’s a Thursday night and for some reason it feels to me like Saturday. I’m eating a plain corn tortilla and thinking about The Omnivore’s Dilemma. Oh, don’t make fun of my false Saturdays; I was planning to go line dancing, yes line dancing, at the Black Butte Saloon. Rumor had it that there would be an instructor to prepare us for the honky-tonkin’ band, but alas not tonight. So I opted for home instead. There will be plenty of time for dancing when we actually hit Saturday.
Doesn’t the paragraph feel like complete post in and of itself? Maybe I ought to just stop there. . . plus I’m falling asleep again. . . The past few days have taken their toll and slumber calls me.
Two hours later
. . . yet time passes and I’m still awake. Life lately has been much too rich to let rest. It feels like a carousel of lovely horses going endlessly, effortlessly round and round. Finding the perfection in each moment seems only a matter of jumping on the right horse, syncing up with the timing of the twirl.
I spent the last hour numbing the tips of the fingers on my left hand playing the guitar. I couldn’t get the rhythm of the song and so I played it again and again, rode one horse around and around. The rhythm came easily then, but I couldn’t add the syncopated melody of the lyric.
Finally, it occurred to me to dance. I thought of the most beautiful guitar playing I’ve witnessed in my life, and I mimicked that motion of a woman merging with her instrument, melting into her gifts.
With body swaying, hair sweeping my face and the darkness of the room cradling me gently, I glided into the space of the song.
I didn’t want to leave that place. I never want to stop playing. I want to keep making music just the way I want to keep writing, the way I want to keep dancing.
Oh, thank you, thank you that I am beginning to find myself within life’s cocoon.
Thank you.
I’m back at home where internet comes easy and now I’m struggling to blog. Then again, starting up is usually a challenge for me; and at least today I have my topic all cut out . . .
As you know, I am currently working as the Gallery Manager/Executive Assistant at the Siskiyou Arts Council (“Siskiyou” being the county I live in). I got the job through a boyfriend a couple of months ago when he decided to move to Michigan without me (ohh, the drama). It seemed like a good idea at the time, my working there, and it has been a great experience in many ways . . .
SAC’s gallery is located on a corner of Main Street on the north side of town. It’s right next door to what locals call “the Cowboy Gallery;” and particularly in contrast to its rugged neighbor, our gallery is a gleaming array of Pergo wood floors, hanging lights and a nice selection of works by local artists from around the county. The SAC gallery is also one of very few places in town a girl can wear heels without receiving weird looks (you’re better off in Crocs or Birks around here). That said, one reason I’ve enjoyed working for the Siskiyou Arts Council has been the opportunity to put my newly found fashion skills–thanks to What Not to Wear–to good use. What a perk!
The job has also been fab’ in that it’s pushed me past various edges of my comfort zone. Mainly, I’ve been forced to make phone calls. For some reason, although I am relatively comfortable with people, making phone calls has always made me feel kind of nervous and stupid. Half of the time after I hang up I make a gagging face and mutter the last few words I spoke during the call outloud, sure I’ve just made some kind of fool of myself (maybe a post on confidence should be next in line).
Working for SAC, I’ve also had exposure to the inner-workings of an Non Profit Organization, worked in close proximity to artists and their art and been truly welcomed into the loving arms of this little community as I upkeep one of Mt. Shasta’s finest storefronts.
Have you wondered why I keep talking in past tense?
Some two months ago a great opportunity came up to apply for a friend’s old job in Santa Barbara. As I worked out the logistics of driving down to interview mere days before my big (and only) brother’s wedding, I had to consider how I would handle the situation with my current employer. Should I tell them why I need time off? Do I keep it hush-hush?
Being a 2 on the enneagram and being me, I opted to be 112% forthright and considerate. I not only told my boss where I was going and why, but went so far as to add (after not getting the job), “I only expect you to be as committed to me as I am to you. . .”
My honesty is both a blessing and a curse, so it seems. Today, my boss Lauri politely informed me, “Consider this your two weeks’ notice.”
Oh . . .
I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. In fact, I even blogged about seeing it come. Still, I remained in minor shock for some time after receiving the news. Post conversation, I spent the afternoon on the mindless task of archiving newspaper clippings mentioning SAC. The day was as rainy as they come. Eventually, I slumped to the floor, wrapped myself around my dog Savannah Belle Bones and cried–for approximately seven minutes.
Two minutes after that, an Austrian woman came into the gallery and . . . I sold her a painting! Now, that’s what I’m talking about when I say carry kleenex and carry on!
On that note: I’ll keep you posted. And thanks for listening.
