Flowers vs. Funerals

It may surprise some of you that the smell of flowers makes me think of funerals.

Me? I know. I don’t fit that profile – black eyeliner streaked, curtains drawn, Evanescence shirt on. Right? Most people probably think of me as a fairly positive, goofy, playful, happy go lucky person. I am indeed those things, and I’ve been ruminating on that a while now, for years even.

I’ve been thinking lately about choice; what we can do.

Since I was a kid, I’ve had these sort of visions – strange thoughts that locked in and repeated, sort of waking nightmare-like, things that made me feel both badly and scared me from an early age. It’s hard to describe what the feelings were like, but the closest I have in words is “impending doom”.

Ha. Man, impending doom. You know, there was even a short time where I was sure I was psychic (or something close). My brothers had this magic set, an 80s Mattel board game called ESP!, and in the set was this stack of cards. The deck had symbols on each card – a circle, a triangle, wavy lines – and you’d shuffle the cards and hold one and guess what it was. A random time, sitting alone in the basement, I went through the whole stack and didn’t miss one of the twenty. I was panicked – WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY! – and still wonder if someone somehow punked me, a kid on a dank cellar couch, tiny rollerskates strapped to feet, freaking out.

Years later, just to give you an image, I went to the Ohio Historical Society, and was inspired to buy this sort of beaded headband with a sort of native-american pattern on it (I had just learned my Mom’s side had a smidge of Blackfoot in it and was unequivocally stoked). Whenever I wore it, it was like I was a mighty Kreskin – I had magic powers, I felt like I could see the future. I was 19. (Just kidding, I was like, 8. Calm down.)

Sometimes, in those days, I would do all things that normal kids would – play, climb trees, bike, school, read, draw, whatever. At the end of the day, I’d often sit between my Mom & Dad in the middle of this big blue couch, and my Mom would scratch my head while she did the crossword and I’d sneak tiny sips of my Dad’s Black Label beer he’d be enjoying after a day on a jobsite or something. It was great. During these times, I vividly remember staring at my Dad’s hands, and feeling sad, and not having words for why I was sad, but just knowing I was sad, like his hands weren’t always going to be there.

So, all this psychic bullshit aside, and anecdotes away, and context given, if I wasn’t Janey Mediumz, I think it’s at least fair to say I at least mirrored a character in a Wes Anderson movie – hyper aware, complex, a thinker, with a dash of good spirit.

I’d never told anyone this story until recently, I’d never said it out loud, almost 20 years later. I come from a giant, awesomely stereotypical Italian family. As you ride the joy of that, you also ride the pain; the sheer number of elders were large, and each year for a number of years, one would pass – an old jovial great uncle, a matriarchal great aunt, a “cousin” (you know how it is). It sucked, but I was always overcome with love for my family and learned the importance of that love early.

One day, driving, I passed the hospital I was born at and many had gone to or ended in. In my head, I thought “Wow, no one has died in a while.” As I thought it, I panicked, immediately sensing the impending doom I had just willed accidentally. I frantically searched for a piece of wood to knock on, but nothing was in the car. I laughed at myself – a silly teenage girl – for being so superstitious and scared. Relax. Stop. Come on.

Three days later, my Dad died.

Not only has this led to a lifetime of panic and wood-knocking, but it’s led to me never to dismiss those feelings, those dooms, the whatevers, the intangibles. Of course I know it wasn’t my fault (it was a massive heart attack’s fault, left anterior descending, right at Christmas), and of course I know that it didn’t mean anything, and ofcourseIknowthatandpleasestoptellingmethatIknowitdoesn’tmeananything.

Where am I going with this?

Here’s where I’m going: Shit happens, man. Okay, here’s some of my shit: My Dad dying (see above). Lots of people fucking dying. Facing sickness. My own incredible medical debt. Being bisexual and unapologetic for it. Having one or two movie-of-the-week-worthy nightmarish breakups. Bewilderment by occasional employers that reward squeaky wheels and not the cogs. Having friends in trouble. Consistently questioning your faith and faith in general. Truly trying to be a good person, doing good things. Facing depression. Searching. Being a woman in the career I’ve chosen, and the bs inevitably that comes with that. Hustling, always hustling, in this untraditional and blessed life. Teaching and performing and actually giving a rip about every class, every show. A brother suddenly fighting the hell outta cancer (and being a badass). Wondering if I’m living the right life. Wanting to live simply in a complex place. Remaining torn between several worlds. Constantly worrying about the welfare of others. Wanting to do as much as I can, more. Ruminating. So how are we even handling our shit?

I just felt like I should come out with it, that we should all come out with it. Even if we’re acing it, we’re all having a real TIME of it, aren’t we? I’ve had 12 people write me for advice this week alone. Something is in the air. And during this air, this moon, this whatever, there are so many students I have and friends I’ve made that have implied or said that I have it all together, and I just want you to know – I sure don’t. I mean, I dooOOooo, but I don’t, and neither should you. Why should you? What’s having it together even mean, anyway? That you are perfect? No thanks. I’ll take a flawed friend any day over a perfect one. At least you’ve lived a life, man. If you haven’t gotten it perfectly right, good for you. Keep trying. It ain’t over until you’re done; May you have many stories until then.

So for now, let’s all hang in there, let’s take care of each other. If you’re depressed, breathe deep. If you feel alone, feel blanketed with love. If you feel like your compass is spinning and you have no idea which way is up – occasionally, so does everyone who thinks. Depression, anxiety, and beauty is in the thinkers. Know the people you look to for guidance are just people doing their best to not look lost, just like you.

Yes, thank you for noticing, I am confident and happy; but, I want you to know that I am a surprisingly neurotic, nervous thing who is wired to/may as well be wringing her hands in a corner, who instead reminds herself to choose to attempt a life of presence and awareness in the beauty of each moment. That’s all I’m doing. Maybe that’s made me the tenderest of all, and I’m learning to try and like that about myself. As a once stoic tough-girl, now I think vulnerability is gorgeous, and it’s no longer weakness for me to feel like people are beauty and moments are magic and all we have is right now right now right now.

So when you see a bunch of Easter Lilies in a corner somewhere and smell them and think they’re awesome, know that when I do, I think they smell like a fucking wake. I know. That probably sounds like it sucks, and it could, but for me it’s okay. Because, although that isn’t implicitly as beautiful, it makes me remember that everything in life is pretty fucking beautiful and fleeting, just like this moment, and that I better go do something beautiful too.

Come with.