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It is intriguing how the family psychic connection works.

Last night I was stepping into the shower when the thought,
“My extended family never pays any attention to what I do
and I am so glad I am over that fact.”

I was reflecting the response my youngest brother
receives when he posts photos of his children or a
note on facebook and the sibs gather around to hit
the “Like” button and oooh and ahhh every accomplishment
from him and his family. That’s cool, that’s how it
should be, and I am right there with them, happily
clicking “like” and happy high fiving whatever I
see that comes along from Joe or any of my other
remaining four siblings or my parents, all of
whom are on facebook, too.

Life on facebook reflects life everywhere, doesn’t it?

This morning I was checking out my profile page and
noted my eldest brother had clicked “like” on the haiku
I posted this morning on twitter, which feeds
into facebook.

I had to blink, first in disbelief and next to keep
the tears that had formed from falling down my face.

Here is what I wrote:

hint of gold tip toes/ across the eastern hillsides/
August sunrise calls

I was shocked to know my brother even read haiku. I
knew he would know about haiku from his time as an English
major and his second career as a High School English teacher
but what on earth would motivate him to “like” one of mine?

I sat back in my chair and thought, “Maybe he is pleased
I actually sneaked an element of the season into the poem,
since the traditional Japanese form has this as a
requirement and Jeff, being highly logical, is
connected viscerally to following required forms
precisely. Perhaps his “liking” is I finally honored
the intention of the Japanese masters of haiku.”

I sat closer to the computer screen and pondered more.

This is my eldest brother, who is the King of the Big Kids
and the First of the Big Kids in a Six Child Tribe. Although
my sister is only two years and two months older than me,
I wear the mantle of Eldest Kid of the Little Kids, something
I didn’t realize until recently. I could never figure out why
my sister was so much like a youngest child and I wasn’t much
like a middle child nor a younger child.

My brother and I share certain qualities that never get spoken.

One of the “never get spoken” things is any form of
appreciation for the other.

Last week I was chatting with Katherine and said to her, “I
don’t want what happened to me and my siblings to happen to
you guys, do you understand me?”

She looked mildly confused.

“I want you to all stay in touch, to support each other, to
be an active part of each others lives, somehow.”

We were quiet for a minute before I said, “Realistically, if
I were to evaporate from the planet right now, it wouldn’t
make any difference in the lives of my brothers and sister.
We don’t have enough of a relationship for my presence here
to be missed by them.”

The rest of our conversation that evening was an understanding,
compassionate silence.

This morning I remembered the journal entry in my moleskine
which I shared here earlier this week: "Notice the questions
you have been avoiding. Risk them."

I journal- ranted a bit, not in my usual, composition book
journal, but with what was right in front of me – a word
document journal as I asked:

Why is this stuff still an issue for me?

Why have I not let it all go?

Am I not supposed to let it all go?

I am reminded of Rainer Rilke’s advice, "Love the questions
themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in
a very foreign language."

This triumvirate of questions pose more than a whiny woe-is-me
diatribe when I change the wording just a tiny bit.

Change “Why is this stuff still an issue for me?” to “What is
it in this situation with my brother that is still an issue
for me?"

Change “Why have I not let it all go?” to “What aspect
of this situation wants me to let it go and what wants me
to do some additional discovery?”

I will hold onto the very pure, very truthful question,
“Am I not supposed to let it all go?” exactly as it is,
even with the “not”-knot in the middle.

I will write those questions into my moleskine and I
will risk them, continuing to dive into them until
they feel completely loved.

I hope that last sentence would make Rainer Rilke
smile, just like it made me smile through the tears
collecting around my eye lids.
 

Today is another read through and it is not
“just” another read through. This project
calls to me as an artist and it romances me
in the soul sense. Today I start work on the
short film “Zombie High” which is being filmed
here in Bakersfield.

It is being produced by Inclusion Films.

I feel deep within that my participation in this
project is a homecoming to people who I have not met
but to whom I am closer than many people I have
known for years. It is difficult to put what
I feel today into words...

Just a week ago I was waging warfare on myself, not
sure if I wanted to go through with the audition
or not because there were too many roadblocks in
the path. Certainly these roadblocks were telling
me not to bother, right?

That’s what I hear far too often – people perceive
challenges as reasons to not do something when in
actuality, challenges are often times the exact
reason one must do something.

My challenges ran the gamut, from physical challenges
to belief challenges.

Every actor I know has some level of disbelief in himself
or herself. I knew there were more than likely people
auditioning for the role I was auditioning for who
were more suited age-wise,  who were more attractive
and more experienced. I felt that “Why bother?” voice
creeping into my preparation.

The audition day was ridiculously busy – I had more
appointments than I had time to fulfill them. Who did
I think I was, attempting to slide an important audition
into the mix? Wouldn’t it be easier just to bail on
the whole thing before it started?

My printer wasn’t working, so I couldn’t print out my resume.
(Solution: Call my friend at PIPS, email my resume, and
have them print it for me.)

The folks at my usual photo lab wouldn’t print my photos
due to copy right issues. I understand this one, it was
my own mistake. I opted to arrive at the audition sans
photos since I had previously emailed photos. I trusted
it was acceptable to not be absolutely perfect and
follow all of the guidelines exactly to their specifications.

This is enormous to me, one who likes to follow instructions
as closely as possible both for personal comfort and also
due to a life long history of “fear of making
other people mad.”

I texted Hester, who was facilitating the process, telling
her I was a bit late and would be arriving, most likely,
a couple minutes after 12 noon, the time I had first said
I would arrive.

I got closer to the downtown building praying aloud
two simple words, “Parking space, parking space, parking
space, parking space” and God heard my call. I parked
and literally floated into the basement where the
auditions were being held.

Hester met me and advised me in a manner so similar
to how I would advise auditioners, “Take a breath… yes,
just breathe…” so I did.

I didn’t allow my belief barriers to get in my way. I
didn’t allow myself to fuss over my appearance or lack
of skillfully applied make up or lack of designer clothing.
I caught my breath and before I knew it I was swept
into the audition itself.

The audition itself remains like a dream in my memory.

I remember the voices of the production team: familiar
East Coast accents. I remember the cameras and seeing
myself on a screen so I knew I was being filmed, which
normally sets me back creatively as I get self conscious
of my appearance.

I remember being directed towards my “mark” which was
taped onto the floor, which I took as a reminder to
stay grounded and not wander from my aim – doing
the best performance possible.

I remember a sea of faces, glorious faces – the participants
in the Able Program who were key collaborators in the
making of this film, some of whom asked me questions
before and after the audition itself began.

I remember letting go of my worries about not knowing
enough about what was desired of me and allowing myself
to create wildly – perhaps even a bit recklessly – loud
and silly and over the top.

I remember getting some direction and pulling back and
trying again and feeling grateful for the opportunity
to give the team what they wanted.

I remember applause and thank yous.

I remember leaving the room and floating back up the stairs
and crying on my way home. My crying was not filled with
sadness, but with an overwhelming sense of joy and hope.

My friend and neighbor, Jill, sent me a message on facebook,
asking me how it went.

I responded:

I had the best time ever at an
audition - I felt like there was a magical doorway
to my forever home right there on
18th Street and no one had told me about it
until I tumbled into it yesterday afternoon.
Head over heels over heart I fell down those
stairs to be changed, forever, even if I am
not cast in the movie. I have spent a lot of my life
working with folks who are "differently
abled"... and now, with Sam, the whole concept
is even closer - if possible to be closer than
it has always been - to my heart. Right down
to the accents of the folks who were leading the
audition reminding me of my New Jersey home.
This audition had a sense of coming home for me.
I loved each and every minute. 

Today I have read through for a movie being filmed
next month here in Bakersfield.

A homecoming, a beginning, a renewal, a blessing, a becoming.

Last January, eleven-year-old
Emma and I sat at the playground,
a purple writing tablet between us.

We were playing a game with words, something
that would become an object of embrace - a
writing target or goal of sorts. A writing
aim within the rest of my writing life
taken on simply to improve my writing
and enjoy a new-to-me form of poetry
at the same time.

I had numbered the page with 19 lines in
groups of 3 and one last group with 4
lines. We bubbled up variety of rhyming
words so we could complete our self
assigned task, primarily to keep us
content and focused while Sam played
for what felt like a ridiculously
long amount of time.

Our aim? To write a villanelle. Or two.

Neither of us had ever taken on such a task
which made its implementation all the more
sweet. I heightened the challenge by
attempting to make each line of our
poem ten syllables long.

You may be wondering what a villanelle
is because, primarily, in this time and
space in the United States, we are usually
more adept at knowing which teams were
in the Super Bowl and which Near-Teen-Diva
just got out of rehab than we are to
know forms of poetry.

Villanelles are metrical poems, meaning
there is specific structure and rhythm, often
times referred to as "feet" and they
also use a rhyming structure unlike the
now popular free-form of poetry.

Emma and I are not meaning to bring about
a renaissance in our own way with our
experiment in metrical poetry, we are
simply taking some time where we could
have twittled our fingers and complained '
about Sam's lust for climbing, shrieking
and running and turned inwards
towards our creative souls.

We didn't realize we would soon have
a new writing aim - that we would take
a playful use of time and turn it
into a study in word-delight.

By the time we were done with our first
Villanelle we were laughing and Emma
wanted to take what we had written
and proclaim it in front of her classroom.

I thought she might get beaten up if she
did that so we started on an alternate
which still isn't completed. That's ok.

I have since learned that villanelles
usually have fewer metrical feet – in
regular now English terms, that
means shorter lines.

You could say I was increasingly
haunted by villanelle after
that fate-filled day.

In January I wrote a
haiku-a-day to synopsize my day.

I have come up with some pretty juicy
"inhale-exhale" moments, which are at
the heart of haiku for me. Simple
inhale….. add an exhale and in
seventeen syllables, much
richness is birthed.

Here are some examples:

January 30, 2009

Hands merge with my soul
"Don't let your love go unspent"
Tears baptise my face…

January 16, 2009
You know Leland Sklar?
My feet feel each floor board creak
My lips on your glass

January 13, 2009
Tears wash away gunk
Writing poetry, inside
My soul's lullaby

January 9, 2009
"He fits perfectly!"
Heart right but unexpected
Relief pours clear rain

January 8, 2009
Kudos tap my hand
Is detachment free from space?
Coffee at Dagny's

This is simple writing that is flavored with
precision. A haiku artist learns to be concise
as a matter of course – one may not
be verbose in haiku.

I have barely dabbled in metrical poetry.
Occasionally I will experience a brief
flirtation with rhyme but have oftentimes
thought writing metrical verse was too
constricting, too boxifying.

I realized during my month of haiku
that many people believe the same thing
about my beloved art form. One friend
tried out daily haiku and couldn't keep up.
This flickered in my mind when I had a
wild idea, "Why not write a villanelle
each day in February?"

At first it was like an annoying fly,
buzzing around my ear, relentlessly
toying with my focus. I found myself
visiting rhyme dictionary websites
and going to thesaurus.com to attempt
to fit what I was trying to say
into a specific form.

Finally, I stepped into the goal and
instantly the buzzing, unfocused fly
and the pervasive fear that I wouldn't
have time was brushed away.

In February, I started writing Villanelle.

I especially appreciate how I am incorporating
my life coaching, my creative life and my
parenting within the realm of a poem. I
know I can look back on these villanelle
and remember specific images, specific
moments in time that would otherwise
be lost to me.

Here is an example, from yesterday:
Early Bird on the Porch
Villanelle February 2

Early bird like Dad, awake for sunrise
There, right there, where it was waiting was found
Sit on the porch, talking, without disguise

Nerves settle in my belly, unspilt cries
Memories of dreams, for thirty years, bound
Early bird like Dad, awake for sunrise

Disappointment lives in unconscious sighs
Passion sought, unspent, is like being drowned
Sit on the porch, talking, without disguise

Wait and wait, wait,wait, there is no grand prize
At least I knew to stay flat, on the ground
Early bird like Dad, awake for sunrise

I wear reassurance in my blue eyes
I wonder if it would have helped to expound?
Sit on the porch, talking, without disguise

Grateful for ride home, no need for big "why's"
Comforter about my face, duvet crowned
Early bird like Dad, awake for sunrise
Sit on the porch, talking, without disguise

= = =

In March, I have been writing Rondolet and in
April, in honor of William Shakespeare’s birthday,
I am going to take on a daily sonnet.

I think this is something I will continue.

Seeking answers, asking questions, finding
rhymes and rhythms and with great detachment,
and having a grand time in the process.

The joy of having a writing aim is that
we begin to take writing from being something
we do to making it something we are - we are
words, we are rhythm, we are rhymes, we
are sometimes rigid and demanding and
othertimes fully inspired, completely flexible.

The joy of having a writing aim is that the
joy prevails no matter what shows up.

Is it time for you to have a writing aim?

I should never be surprised at the outcome
of auditions.

When considering what monologue to audition
with at VDay and what monologues to request, I
was somewhat ambivalent except for knowing what
monologue I didn't want to do.

"I don't want to do this one." I did not want
to have anything to do with One Particular Monologue.

So ofcourse I did my reading and Caroline asked me,
"Julie, will you read this One Particular Monologue?"

My heart felt heavy as my mouth said, "OK." I felt
myself leap into the present with full devotion. I
was requested to audition with this One Particular
Monologue so that was what I would do in that moment -
with every part of me committed to the best
expression I could offer.

There is back story, ofcourse, that no one knows.

Some of it I wasn't even aware of until I worked
through the deluge of emotions since I was cast
to do this One Particular Monologue.

"What is my own process, what is my resistance?"
I wondered as I felt a strange combination of
responses to the assignment.

What I said when people asked me what was bothering
me I would say something like "I didn't want to do
an 'old lady' monologue. I am not an 'old lady'" but
is that what is really upsetting me?

That night as I headed towards sleep, tears came.

Four years ago I auditioned for VDay using this One
Particular Monologue. I didn't do a very good audition,
but I was so excited to be involved. "I am willing to do
anything" I told them. "I just wanted to be involved."

Four years ago I was even more unsure of myself than I am
now, constantly questioning who I thought I was as an actor.
I was a new actor at the time, only a few shows under my
belt but I had a lot of passion and a lot of willingness
to learn and grow.

I auditioned for that One Particular Monologue because it
spoke to me. I didn't care, then, about it being an "Old Lady"
monologue, I just related to the story, the heart, the
"what happened" of the monologue.

When I didn't get cast and everyone else I knew who auditioned
did get cast, a cloudy sadness fell over me that lasted a long
time. I remember feeling left out, sad. I remember pretending
it didn't bother me.

The show came and went and I had nothing to do with it. I didn't
participate at the fair that was held even though I had volunteered
the year before - I just couldn't get a grasp on the rejection
which I have learned, now - with more experience under my belt,
is a natural part of the process.

I didn't audition the next year because the sting was still there.
I thought, "Why bother? I won't be cast anyway. I obviously didn't
fit in there, with that show with those people." When the show came
close to opening, one of my friends called and I  asked me to be a
board operator.  I gladly agreed  so I could experience VDay and make
a valued contribution.

I wonder if this idea, this "Why bother?" energy I had between my
auditioning and not being cast and my eventual connection through
being a technician is connected to my lack of desire to do this
"One Particular Monologue."

I have loved watching other women perform it. When I directed the
show last year I spent a lot of time talking over content and
intention with the actor who performed this One Particular Monologue.

I think a big part of my not wanting to do it comes from a couple places
that are more truthful than the "old lady" argument.

I think I didn't really want to go to the places in my own soul
that this monologue will require I go.

I have actually come to see that the reason I wasn't cast four
years ago - wasn't cast at all - was a part of the lesson
for this year.

Sometimes disappointments of "once upon a time" turn into
"Prelude to This Present Moment." I think this is one of
those circumstances.

In this 'old lady' monologue, there are connections to the sweet,
young part of me, before I got cynical. The sweet part of me that
got hurt, much like the woman in the monologue.

This Sweet, Young Version of Me felt wrong in her being-ness.
 
To re-phrase that statement - to take it on, personally - I felt
wrong in MY beingness as a woman. I am not a HER. I am a MY
beingness - see how subtle it is? Without thought I referred
to myself in third person.

What is that?

It is, perhaps, resistance in pro-noun clothing.

I felt wrong specific to MY being-ness as a woman.

It feels so vulnerable and scary to write this publicly
and yet as a V-Day warrior, I know I was given this assignment
so it would become a compelling call to be here, present, with
what is.

Raw, truthful, painful, highly personal.

I need to be present to the bitter pain to the sweet,
uncynical me. It was a sadness which lasted a long, long
time and there are still ripples occasionally today, as
evidenced by my words here now.

In the same way I make jokes about my parents purposefully
using birth control to prevent my conception (yet God wanting me
to be born so ta-da, I was born despite my being unwanted.... )
I lightened the blow of this inner-ache, this assault on
my being-ness as a woman, with humor, too.

I think I wasn't cast in VDay back, those four years ago,
because I was meant to continue this process underground. Or
the process, rather, was meant to continue working me. I didn't
know it was rumbling within me. I was unaware of its presence
within until I said this line during my audition:

"There was this boy. Andy Leftkov" and as soon as I spoke
his name, tear-darts stabbed inside my eyes.

In retrospect, forty or so hours after the audition later, I
am becoming aware of my level of devotion to the audition
because I could feel the darts, the pain in those icy slivers
from way deep inside my soul, yet I was able to move into the
next line with all my uncynical me intact.

It was that uncynical me that was visible, not the icy-darts,
perplexing me - the thinking me - from the inside.

I remember when I was done with the audition, looking up
at Caroline and Deva, and Caroline saying she was near
tears herself. After only a couple paragraphs of a lengthy
monologue. That says something to me.

My realist daughter, Katherine, said "She was probably relieved
to find someone who could do that monologue." I am hoping it
was more than that.

I fear I won't be able to be so sincere with it again, but my
intent is to allow the process to continue working me.

To stay truthful in my portrayal, to let go of all the meaning
I have put into the "reasons why I don't want to do this piece"
and into the trusting that everything I do creatively is by
divine appointment, not MY appointment.

That is my intention now. Staying truthful, trusting, and
letting go of all the off-kilter meaning I have given for why
I don't want to do this One Particular Monologue.

I need to remember, always, that assignments like this have
long-lasting impact which I can have no way of knowing
right now.

Why? Because everything I do creatively is by divine
appointment, not MY appointment.

When I remember divine appointments are love-filled,
light-drenched moments in time, all of a sudden that
One Particular Monologue feels like the
Just Right for Now Monologue.

It feels so much better.

I know I will more than likely continue to cry, continue
to head-butt resistance along the way, but I won't
hide from what I have come to know.

The uncynical me has much to teach the Now-Me.

The Empty Space is proud to announce its upcoming production of Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues as a part of the VDay Community Campaign with the mission of raising awareness and ending violence against girls and women. The Monologues will be performed on March 6 and 7 and there will be the Annual VFair on March 8. Call 327-PLAY for more information.

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I got to rehearsal for “The Good Life” this past Monday night, a little concerned at attempting to do Act 1 off book (without my script in hand) but knowing I needed to take the leap whether or not I felt completely ready.

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This morning as I worked on "closing out"
2008 - the year I referred to early on
as "The Year of the Infinite", my
beloved Adela Rubio asked this
question:

If you were a reporter and capturing the
top 3 Featured Stories of your 2008, what
would they be?

How did those events shift your being?

Who did you become?

I had two "feature stories"
pop up fairly quickly and the
last one was hovering over me, within me
and all around me simultaneously which
made me feel nervous, excited, curious,
angry...I felt what my friend Rumi
would call "Bewildered" when he said,
“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”

I have given myself the gift of a day
to really be with this question, to allow
it to work through me because I am guessing
by the end of the day,what I thought were
my top two may not even be there and what
I thought was significant about them
may give way to some other discovery
about them.

How will I do this?

My process involves several steps of
engagement which I invite you to try
out as well.

First, I will sit with the question as I
have been doing since Adela asked it of
me an hour or so ago.

I will take the question and put it in
the back of my mind and let my "smarter"
mind, the quiet one without the monkey
swinging from branch to branch chattering
away, from interfering with what wants
to be heard.

I will write - several times throughout
the day.

I will prompt myself in my writing, not
with a question, but with an opening
statement, something like....

One of the top feature stories from
my life in 2008 is.....

and I will let my pencil move.

I may make a list of a bunch of possible
stories. Write on the top of the page:

My life top feature stores are....

and let it go.

I will go for a walk, with the same
opening statement as an invocation of
sorts. I will have my notebook ready
when I get home and as I cross the
thresh hold I will pick up my pen and
write.

I will also ask other people I encounter
the same question.

"If you were a reporter and capturing the
top 3 Featured Stories of your 2008, what
would they be?"

I will glean insights from others and
get the energy moving around this
question and after I have enough oomph
behind my curiosity, I will settle
into the oh-so-juicy, nitty gritty of

"How did those events shift your being?"

"Who did you become?"

Engage with me.

"If you were a reporter and capturing the
top 3 Featured Stories of your 2008, what
would they be?"

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Its been forever and a day and then some since I have posted any poetry at Bakotopia but today it just feels right so here goes NOTHING!

I heard my mind say
"I wish I had bought a candle today"
and God said,
"Lift your chin, there is a candle
right in front of you, silly girl"
and so there was

Slightly used and still useable.
An apt metaphor for me
So I smiled and kept my
chin lifted and raced to find
a match that worked unti
I remembered there, in the drawer
Right where I sat was not
only one match box, but two

God laughed with me
"Right in front of you, silly girl"
And so there were
Two boxes, not one, but two
More than I needed
an abundance, plenty

An apt metaphor for me?

I wait, listening thinking
this poem isn't at all
not nearly no couldn't be done
Feels like a work in progress
Not a finished, ready for
showing gathering of thoughts

I hear it now, familiar
God (sounding like Candice Bergen)
says "Do you get it yet?"

A work in progress? Yes
An apt metaphor for me.

It has been a while since I have had such a long break between the read through of a show and the rehearsals. It was like “oh, yeah, I am in a show, I think, opening in November or sometime after the fair and Halloween and… wait, what is it again?”

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There are lots of things I do "daily" (or almost daily) in order to keep myself feeling relatively ok. I went to a therapist this Winter who said to me, "You sure do a lot to just stay feeling decent. You sure you don't want to try medication?"

Made me laugh. Made me get a new therapist, too, but that's another story.

I write a daily gratitude list, I have just started writing a "daily one sentence journal, and for September I am trying on the practice of Daily Contemplative Prayer. Right now, I am focusing on "Peace" as explained by the pastor of my church on Sunday. Peace as Wholeness, Peace as Completion. I appreciated that so I am following its call into my prayer life this week.

And, as I shared yesterday, I do a daily self portrait... the most recent one is not the world's most flattering and I appreciate its brute honesty.

So - I am not going to blog about politics or sports or entertainment (directly) today. I am going to blog about daily-ness. My own staying sane-ness.

Gratitude:

 Today I am grateful for my Grandfather, who was born 112 years ago today. Because of his willingness to sit outside with me for several hours while I practiced balance, I learned to ride a two wheeler on the fourth of July while I was six years old. The Jordan Family didn’t do training wheels or the whole “running behind the kid while holding on” but apparently Grandpadaddy (that’s what we called him) sensed this Grandchild needed a witness. The next day I learned how to turn and the day after that, Granny and Grandpadaddy headed back to California and if you look on the family movies of their exit, you see me, riding in circles around them in the driveway.

Today I am grateful for my friend, Jennie – who I helped last night write her artist statement. She took me for dinner at one of my favorite places and we had some great, deep conversation.

Today I am grateful for David, with whom I shared a brief phone conversation yesterday as he drove West again. I can’t believe we have only been friends for only two years. Admittedly, they have been a very full, densely lived two years within which he was mostly absent yet ever present in that absence. Mmmm. Poetically felt, my friend, poetically felt.

Today I am grateful for each of my three children for very different reasons. I am grateful I have become such an education advoccate….

Today I am grateful for my American Women in History instructor. She inspired me in ways she probably doesn’t realize yet and it just reminds me that showing up wherever I am called to show up always always always is fruitful… often in surprising ways.

Today, I am grateful.

Daily Sentence Journal: 

Jennie and I wrote, reflected, ate, revelled in our senses and shared deeply while I wondered, aloud and silently – “What is this?”

Processing about Daily Contemplative Prayer: