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SHE RAISED ME The woman who raised the woman who raised me died on this day years ago. As many years have passed as the age I was when she passed.   I’m humbled by how the years swiftly go. An immigrant woman who boldly stepped foot In a new world during the Great Depression, she spoke little English, which made me think she was dumb but I was the fool to think this. She was wise but too humble to brag or insist.   She knew things I may well never know.   An angel on Earth, she accepted pain like a martyr.   This tiny immigrant woman had worth. My Nonna was a fighter who chose LOVE as her weapon, which led me to think she was weak.   I perceived her to be a dusty doormat until I found myself used and abused. She would turn her cheek, again and again, and learning of this angered me.   “I guess she didn’t know better; how to defend herself,” but of course she was strength and durability. When someone is wronged it is easier to react with the same venom rec

Why have there been decades of artists changing the world with their work, transforming their own lives with their ateliers and thought-processes and I still can't fathom a career creating art?  Why have I decided to hard wire myself into believing that I can do the work, but not get paid or that I can get paid a pittance but will need a survival job or do the work and not get paid at all?  What pact had I made prior to incarnating that left me thinking this way for far too long? The words, "Far too long" always hearkens Sara Ramirez in "Spamalot" when her character comes out and tells the audience that she's been offstage "for FAR too long!"  Now SHE knew her worth. Someone compared me to Anais Nin today.  Ok, it's not how it sounds - there was no, "Your work reminds me of Nin," so much as there was a comparison to how she writes about her day and her experiences, which I do...so a comparison was made and I was just fine with

I still don't know why I'm writing a blog but I think it's mostly for practice.  To keep up the writing.  To make it second nature.  So here I am, writing, with "Forever" playing beneath this open window.  I am tickled by this Netflix show and hope that it inspires something in me.  Creativity that is useful.  What do I mean by that?  Well, I'd love to create something that is entertaining, fun, relatable.  Now, just for some IDEAS.  Muse, ya listening? People have asked if I'll create the short film version of my solo show.  That's a topic that is not super fun, and perhaps I'm past that story (although I'm thinking of submitting the show to another festival, thanks to someone who kindly forwarded me a link) but what I'd really like is to create something far out.  Weird, even.  Like me.  I'm a little bit country but I'm a little bit rock and roll.  And that doesn't sit well with a lot of people. That's not true.  I mea

I'm on a work sabbatical, so every day is Saturday.  The sabbath.  Saturn Day - swirling around her rings however I choose. I had big plans for this time off.  Travel, of course - to a place in the world in which I've not yet pressed my feet into its dirty, grassy, hilly, concrete surface.  Participate in a program through an organization that helps communities of underprivileged people where I could tote my grade-schooler and teach him that not only do others live exceedingly different than he, but that he is as wealthy as he knows he is...in theory.  To see it first-hand, and at a young age, would be impactful and could change the course of his life.  Yes...I had plans that were big. When one expects such grandiose plans (attainable, but grandiose), they don't often come to fruition unless one lets go and trusts that things will fall into place.  Perhaps something will come up unexpectedly.  Yet, thinking that this may take place also makes me doubt that it will come

As an adult, I see children being their authentic selves all the time.  If they're in grade school, they may stop, suddenly self-aware, if they make eye contact with me and realize that I am in the process of seeing them.  Or they'll continue with their activity but slowly stop, giving me the side-eye, watching to know when I've stopped peering in their direction so that they can return to fully being themselves.  But those preschoolers don't have that moment of recognition that maybe they should stop.  I don't know why we suddenly become judgmental of ourselves and feel shy when we become aware of someone spotting us in our fun, but psychologists have some theories.  I try to remind myself that being wholly, goofily, creatively, uniquely myself is EASY.  I innately did it as a child. I am participating in the Writing Contest:  You Are Enough,  hosted by Positive Writer .  As an adult, I can probably more easily write all the ways that I sabotage myself into inac