Pep Talk

For everyone who needs to hear it . . . including me:

You.

Are.

Awesome.

You are awesome for all the ways you change the world every day just by being a part of it.

You are talented.

You are intelligent.

You are kind.

You are generous.

You are thoughtful.

You make a difference simply by being present.

You are important because you are.

Your awesomeness does not depend on my acknowledgment of it, but just in case you forgot or are having a hard time embracing the remarkable being that you are, I'm telling you. I hope you believe it.

You.

Are.

Awesome.

*******

Love, Micah

intellectual conversations with a guy you once had a crush on

This post is part of a writing project called #30daysofessays. For more about the project, click here.

He intimidated me. Easily the best-looking, most crushed-upon guy in town. Plus he was smart. Talked about books and music and social issues. And he listened to me when I talked. *Swoon*

But seriously. We would never be a thing. Acquaintances. Game for a good conversation. Now and then, he'd let me have a free cup of hot tea at the bakery I frequented and where he worked. He was nice, you know. He smiled. Not just at me. A lot.

And I looked forward to encountering him. Mainly for the banter. Sometimes I still had trouble stringing words together. I wanted him to think I was smart. I forgot that I actually was (am) smart. I didn't have to pretend.

I've gotten past the idea that it's better to act like I know what he's talking about rather than just to admit I don't. Have you read this author? No. What's she written? This is happening here and it's amazing. Oh, really? I had no idea. Tell me more.

I'm making things up now, but conversations with him almost always brought intellectual stimulation. I felt selfish talking with him because he was giving me so much, and I didn't think I had anything to give him in return.

We'd known each other a while before we finally sat down to have lunch as actual friends to talk about this essay he was writing. It had been a while since we'd even had much of a conversation beyond hellos. Casual meetings in the street. Waves across a crowded bar or through a shop window.

But we sat for an hour and only briefly talked about his essay. Conversation careened from topic to topic. Highs and lows. You look happy, he said. I am.

Story after story after story. Mundane and exciting and covering so much ground. I wasn't hunting for words, worrying what he'd think of me if I said this or that, hoping he'd like me, over-eager to be the one he's paying attention to. I was those things once, but we were just talking, and I realized I'm not anymore.

Then it was over. Back to work for me, to the essay for him. We smiled and said good-bye. I saw him sitting in the window another day. Once upon a time I'd have ducked in to sit. Any excuse to bask in his eyes. I smiled. Waved. Kept walking.

12/9/2013

#30daysofessays

I was having lunch with a friend last week and telling him about this bizarre day at Rotary the week of the 50th anniversary of JFK's assassination. He asked if I ever thought, during an experience, that if it were happening to David Sedaris, he'd write an essay about it. I really can't say I've ever thought that. Until now.

Of course, I'm not David Sedaris. I can, however, write an essay so I figure I might as well. I've let enough time lapse since college without adequately exercising my creative writing/critical thinking/whatever brain muscles. Hopefully they haven't atrophied too much in the intervening years.

So here's the deal:

I've got this bag of writing prompts. Sort of. They're just tidbits of things I find interesting or want to write about or that strike me on a given day enough to write them down and toss them in the bag.

I'll choose a prompt from the bag each day and write about it. A page or two. Maybe less. However long it takes until I'm finished.

(I'm writing from the library now and there's this clock at the bottom of the screen telling me how much time I have left in my session. Ticking the seconds away. It's making this feel rather like a test.)

Whenever I can get to a computer, I'll upload the essays to the blog and publish them one by one. Essay one will make its debut tomorrow.

The days might not be consecutive. Here at Day 3, I'm doing all right.

If you're reading and think I should write about something specific, let me know. If you like a piece, don't like a piece, feel really middling about a piece, leave it in the comments. I like to know what you think.

You can follow this project on twitter at #30daysofessays or just subscribe here or just check back now and then to see what's new.

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Like Letters

I have a penchant for writing long-winded letters, fraught with emotion, to guys I find attractive. If you've ever been the receiving party of such a letter, I apologize. (There aren't that many of you, and you're probably not reading this anyway, but just in case. . .) You probably didn't deserve it, and I shouldn't have inflicted it upon you, but I'm certain that I meant every word I wrote at the time that I wrote it. Still, that's no excuse for actually giving it to you. I probably should have kept it to myself.

Then, I had a breakthrough of sorts. I wrote a short note and spent a day agonizing over whether or not to give it to someone. In the end, I didn't, partly because I am a little shy sometimes, partly because my gut told me not to, and partly because I was terrified someone else would find it and read it and hello awkward!

The note didn't say anything incriminating. There was a comment on his looks (sort of) and a compliment on a recent project. It shouldn't have been embarrassing to give him the note or even to say those things to his face . . . if I only thought of him as a friend.

There's the trouble, though.

I like him. I probably shouldn't, but I do. A little, anyway. Enough to make me awkward.

If I didn't, I could tell him the things that I wrote in that note, but since I do, anything I say is going to sound like I'm flirting. Which would be okay, I suppose, if I knew he also liked me. But I don't. And anyway, he shouldn't. We're really all wrong for each other. Probably.

So I'm erring on the side of caution when it comes to "Like Letters" these days.

Probably.

Gracie Dances (and Talks to Strangers in Restaurants)

She was four years old and sitting with her family at a table near mine at the restaurant. Barefoot and dressed in a baby pink leotard and hot pink tutu, she tiptoed near my table and then back to her own. Three or four times, she did this dance, moving closer and closer while her parents called her back, telling her to leave me alone. I asked her if she was a ballerina, and suddenly, Gracie was regaling me with the minuscule details of her colorful life.

For nigh on ten minutes, we chatted. She climbed into the chair opposite me and while I ate my soup, told me about pre-pre-K, homework, dance class, her dislike of the color of her ballet slippers, and her excitement for an upcoming trip to Disney World. When I told her I met Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty and Belle when I was at Disney World but that Ariel was on vacation and so I didn't get to meet her, Gracie giggled and then firmly corrected me: Ariel was just upstairs changing.

Her mother suggested that Gracie color a page from her coloring book for me. On presenting the gift, she explained that she'd left the white parts that way on purpose. I promised to hang it on my refrigerator. She told me I'd have to put a magnet on it first. I assured her I would.

As she and her family prepared to depart for dance class, Gracie invited me to visit her anytime, told me her address (oops!) and asked when I would be there. Her mother smiled indulgently and said of course I was welcome anytime. Gracie told me to leave a note in the mailbox by their driveway to say when I would visit.

Gracie transformed my lonely meal into an exuberant conversation merely by being herself. She shares her smiles and her laughter with strangers at restaurants because why wouldn't we want to laugh with her?

Can this child-like confidence be contagious? Please!

Why I'm Afraid to Let You Read What I'm Writing

Too much of how I feel about myself is all tied up in how you feel about me. Good or bad, important or not, I value your opinion. Even if I don’t know you, I’ll take your response personally. Even if you just evaluate the grammar, I’ll internalize it and somehow manipulate your comments into a personal attack. They’re not meant that way. My brain knows that on the most basic level, but the emotional side of my brain doesn’t believe the rational side of my brain so I will struggle to keep the writing separate from who I am.

Except that, in a way, the writing is who I am. We are one and the same. It’s my thoughts and my opinions and my imagination run amok and my contribution to the world, however insignificant in the long run. It’s what will remain when I’m gone. So if you don’t appreciate it, if you don’t like it, if you don’t respond to it, what was the point of it? Why did I bother? If what I created isn’t worth your notice, does that mean I’m not worth it, either?

Again, I know that’s not true. I know my worth extends far beyond some words on a page. My contribution to the world is so much more than a physical remnant. My most valuable impression will not be measured by its physical presence. It will be the cheer that someone feels when they remember our interaction or the smile that creeps across their face when something reminds them of me.

So I guess what I’m saying is that how you feel about my writing will affect how I feel about myself, but I hope what you remember most about me is not my writing but me. Just me. My smile and my heart and the love and laughter I shared with you. I hope my writing doesn’t get in the way of that, and if all you have of me is my writing, I suppose my writing had better be full of love and laughter.

Recently, I've Been Writing...

Okay, I've been writing more than just recently. Since elementary school probably. When I was a kid, adults showered praise on my writing, impressed with my command of grammar and vocabulary, imagery and symbolism. (Yikes, that sounds conceited, doesn't it?) It made me uncomfortable, being singled out.

So I stopped sharing things and started keeping them to myself. Eventually, I lost that youthful ability to give over my thoughts to people to read and instead hoarded them, terrified to let anyone else see or hear what was happening in my head.

In college, of course, as an English major, I had to share my thoughts, had to write them down and let professors and peer-readers evaluate them. I was successful (mostly), and my confidence grew. Reading over some of those papers now, I wonder who that writer is. Surely, I didn't write those papers. I did, though, so where is she, the person who thought those things and phrased them the way she did. Not that anything I wrote was particularly commendable or memorable, but the thoughts were interesting and the writings engaging.

So what happened?

Well, whatever happened, I'm back to writing and figure I might as well put the words out there for reading. Some of it will be fiction, some introspective, some just for laughs. I'll leave it to you to decide what's what.

I hope you'll share your thoughts in the comments. I hope you'll tell me the truth, even if it might hurt. I hope you'll help me grow, and I hope you won't give up on me the way I had nearly given up on myself.

And thanks, in advance. I'm glad you're here.

Be Who You Are and Be That Well

Mount de Chantal Visitation Academy's motto, words burned into alumnae memories perhaps better than anything we learned in class, comes from a quote by St. Francis de Sales:

Be who you are and be that well that you may bring honor to the Master Craftsman whose handiwork you are.

For my senior Herndon Speech Contest, an annual event held in honor of Mount de Chantal graduate Judith Herndon, our motto was the theme. While unpacking boxes today, I found my speech. It begins with a monologue adapted from the musical You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown. (Incidentally, I later played Lucy Van Pelt in a Towngate Theatre production of that musical, but for this contest, I stuck with Sally Brown.)

The only thing wrong with my big brother, Charlie Brown, is his stupidity, his clumsiness, his inferiority, and his lack of confidence. But Lucy had the guts to tell him like it is. And he said, "I'm not very handsome or clever or lucid. I've always been stupid at spelling and numbers. Oh how could there possibly be one small person as thoroughly, totally, utterly blah as me." And then she told him that there was still reason for hope because he's no one else but the singular, remarkable, unique Charlie Brown. As Lucy put it, "For whatever it's worth, Charlie Brown, you're you." So I guess all those things that I said were wrong with him are really what makes him Charlie Brown.

Like the characters in Charles Schulz's Charlie Brown cartoon, we must discover who we are and then how to be who we are without fear of what everyone else might say. In the six years I've spent at the Mount, my class dynamic has changed as we've lost and gained students and as we, ourselves, have grown. Still, in each of us can be found a little bit (or a lot) of those comic characters.

Although we might deny it at times, we can all be bossy like Lucy or stubborn like Sally. As Schroeder loves his music, every one of us has our passions, and while we may not literally have a blanket to cling to like Linus, we probably depend on some person or object to bring us comfort. And at least in my class, our inner Snoopiness shows itself usually more than once a day--that joking way of being to make someone or everyone smile. Finally, we are all Charlie Brown. We're trying our best to form our personality while overcoming all of the faults we perceive in ourselves. Meanwhile, we must be careful not to criticize the personalities of others because they're only doing exactly what we are in the search for self.

So, even if someone might be a little more Lucyish than we would like and take charge when we might want authority, we must remember that we, too, have our moments of Lucyness. Or perhaps, a classmate's passion for whatever topic she chooses does not particularly interest us, or it bores us mad. Either way, maybe we should recall that not everyone shares our enjoyment of our chosen hobbies. Snoopy, for instance, wildly loves suppertime, an idea Charlie Brown simply cannot comprehend, but he tolerates his dog's unusual antics because Snoopy just would not be Snoopy if he didn't celebrate his meal so much.

We all might benefit from listening a little more to the words of these characters who have such a firm grasp on what it means to "Be who you are and be that well" because they have learned to find joy in appreciating and loving one another for who they are and what they will become. They know that being who you are isn't about what other people think of you. It's about what you think of yourself and making yourself happy. After all, "Happiness is anyone and anything at all that's loved by you." Including yourself.

Flawed though it may be, this speech reminds me of the importance of accepting people for who they are, no matter how different who they are is from who I am. It also takes me back to a place that held so many happy memories. It puts me right back on that Music Hall stage at Mount de Chantal before a room of my teachers and friends, sharing the podium with half a dozen of my peers and listening as they shared their thoughts on our motto. I remember those traditions that are ours, moments that we hold dear, treasures that cannot be taken even though our building no longer stands on that hill majestic.

I am grateful for six years of being told day in and day out to be who I am and be that well because now, eight years after leaving those hallowed halls, those words still echo in my mind. They are printed on my conscience, reminding me that who I am is valuable, worthwhile, significant. Those words will always be there because the faculty, staff, and sisters of Mount de Chantal Visitation Academy refused to let me forget them.

Resignation and Rediscovery

I know I still haven't posted pictures or stories from Ireland, but I just made a big life change, and since I'm on this journey toward living authentically, here goes.

[Since this is a long post, here's a summary: I quit my job. Mostly. I'm growing a backbone and rediscovering my voice.]

For a while now, work has been tense. I was resigned to the tension. I could handle it. It wasn't pleasant, but it was manageable. Until July 16. In a meeting on the morning of July 16, the tension reached new heights, and it became abundantly clear that I could no longer continue in the position I held. On the afternoon of July 16, I submitted my letter of resignation and two weeks' notice. The next morning, I agreed to continue to manage the youth orchestra.

I have worked steadily since graduating from college in May 2008 so I find myself in rather an odd place without a full-time job. In a way, I feel liberated. Certainly, I am grateful not to have to spend my days under the thumb of a merciless dictator. (Okay, I'm being dramatic. It wasn't that bad. Most of the time.) In another way, I feel really lazy for not going to work.

I've sorted through a pile of old greeting cards (happy memories, those) and binders full of atrociously bad writing from high school. The dishes are all clean. My bedroom floor is visible. I've got a play to rehearse beginning this Monday evening. My days, though, stretch ahead in vast emptiness (until I find another job, which is, of course, the goal).

These free moments have led to some pleasant discoveries. Saturday Night Live has proven a time-consuming diversion. (Stefon is hilarious; Seth Meyers is dreamy.) Huffington Post directed me to Janet Varney's podcast: "The JV Club". Varney's conversations with talented and interesting women have helped pass the time while I'm cleaning the apartment and also provided thought-provoking brain fodder.

During Varney's podcast featuring Alison Brie from TV's "Community", Brie and Varney played with one of those paper fortune tellers sometimes called a cootie catcher. Rather than being a fortune teller, though, this cootie catcher asked deep, probing questions. (Here's a picture of their cootie catcher.) One of them was to name "three differences, better or worse, from your teenage self." Varney's answer covered, among other things, feeling not as smart and well informed as she once was. (She expressed, though, that this is changing through the work that she's currently doing because she stays really well informed, on a par with the intellectual stimulation of being in college. Yay Janet!)

In re-reading some of my writing from college, I began to wonder what has happened to my brain since I graduated. I had thoughts, big thoughts and smart thoughts, and I wrote them down and gave them to my professors--and sometimes even to my peers but only when required--to read. I remember, though, being overly concerned with what other people would think of my thoughts. I still am. That hasn't changed. I am terrified of sharing my opinions with people (excepting those few very greatly trusted friends).

I grew up in a very nurturing environment. I attended an all-girls high school with small classes and low student-to-teacher ratios. My thoughts were valued when I chose to express them, and the environment provided ample opportunity for such expression. Then, too, in college, my papers (mostly) received glowing comments with regard to my thoughts. Why, then, am I so afraid to share them now? What suppresses my voice?

It's a fear of discomfort. I know that. I can name it. I strongly dislike being uncomfortable or making other people uncomfortable. So I have kept my mouth shut and my head down. I have shied away from confrontation, which has allowed people to walk all over me. Recently, I found my voice and started standing up for myself.

People who like to walk on other people don't like it when those people grow backbones and refuse to be trodden upon any longer. People like that call standing up for yourself "insubordination" or "lack of respect." People like that refuse to acknowledge that maybe they need to change.

In the face of such miserable vindictiveness, I resigned. I retreated to a place where positivity is appreciated, even if that's only in my own brain. My thoughts are worthwhile, and I am valuable, and I am not about to surrender my newfound backbone and voice just because someone thinks I am worth less than I am.

Because I am awesome.

So are you.