Birthday and LIFE UPDATE!

How we begin something matters a lot. Taking a conscious and conscientious moment to enter a new community, situation, or period of time, creates gratitude and an awareness of my fears and expectations. This morning, my 43rd birthday, I chose curiosity and courage as the values for my coming year by attending my first Quaker meeting.

While I was there, I became aware of a third value I’d like to center and foster in this 44th year of my life: gentleness.

Why a Quaker meeting? We’ll get there.

Between my last birthday and now, I had some of the darkest days of my life. And—I’m sorry—I’m not really going to say anything more about them because they were private. I’m ok! My family is ok! But there were some moments when I was afraid we were not, and I’m scarred and still tired. Superlative situations create space inside us if we let them, and I think I let the darkest days cast more light on my interior, open my heart, and expand my vision for just how big and how vulnerable my hope and faith can be.

In this last year, my oldest son survived his senior year, met his future at NYU, and graduated high school. I wrote another novel, published multiple pieces for The Coachella Review, and wrote about twenty-five new essays—several of which are on submission now alongside two of my short stories—and I competed in another GrandSlam for The Moth at Town Hall Seattle for an 800 person crowd. I assistant directed two children’s theater productions with Dandylyon Drama. And biggest for me of all: I graduated from the University of California Riverside’s Palm Desert Low-Residency MFA program with a Masters degree in Creative Writing.

I was selected by my peers to be the student speaker for our graduation, and I enjoyed every moment of developing, writing, practicing, and joyfully giving that speech. I’m proud of it and proud of every dark day, joyful moment, and repetitive, consistent practice I’ve done to become a woman who could give it. Brendan and my kids were all there to hear it too, and I healed a little more behind the microphone.

At UCRPDLRMFA we get to pick walk-up music for our turn receiving our diplomas. I picked Tacocat’s “I Love Seattle.” I haven’t been able to confidently say that about this town since somewhere around 2004. But I do love it again. I even had my hair dyed back to my natural brown because I don’t need to see blonde in the mirror that helps me pretend I live somewhere else.

I thought I hated Seattle because life has felt uncomfortable here. The darkness in Winter was the most obvious culprit, so I blamed it (and my past traumatic Nutcracker experiences) for many, many years. But, actually: the darkness was hardly the half of it. 

In my first residency for the MFA, I sat in a poetry workshop called “Poetry of Place,” drawn to attend because of my murky relationship with my place—one from which I saw no escape route. As we drew our personal maps, noting places of significance in our cities, I couldn’t keep it together. I got boo-hoo level upset. And I made a plan to go to every place on my map, sit with it, and write about it. I began the project as a survival strategy, but when I finished, it had shown me that it was a book and a survival process.

The draft received very positive feedback from my professors, editors, and literary agents, and I’m excited to continue shaping and polishing it for submission sometime in the next year or so.

But the biggest thing that writing did was help me be brave enough and safe enough to do the biggest thing I ever did in my whole life—bigger and harder than marriage, having babies, being ambitious, ANYTHING. I decided to leave the church denomination I’d been in for my whole life and begin exploring other faith communities in Seattle and other ways of understanding God and my life as a Christian.

It felt like being a plant under a cloche that needed to uproot itself and find a new vessel. There were a lot of times when I was sure it would destroy me. There are parts of me that have suffered from the change and parts that are thriving. But it did not kill me. It has been nine months since I sent the letter to my church leadership, and I’m just now beginning to relax into it more.

In my speech for graduation, I shared some words from my therapist that helped me tremendously: “Jessica, when you take steps to be your most authentic self, the people you are supposed to have will see you and find you.” I thought she’d say something like, “The people you are supposed to have are the people you work to keep.” It has changed how I notice people and how I accept that I might not be the right cup of tea for everyone—nor do I need to be. This has been extremely freeing, as I can give time, effort, thought, love and intentions from a place of genuineness instead of pressure, expectation, or obligation. 

My Commencement Speech! And a really fun red dress!

And—I’ll be real—it’s been a weird shift that has often left me wondering if I’m a selfish garbage person. BUT! I don’t believe anyone is a garbage person or should talk about herself like she is or might be… so, round and round I go.

Clunkily, I have eased into a more relaxed, less terrified way of existing. And I’m doing this weird thing where I’ve left the church without dropping a match on my way out, or ghosting the whole place, or talking shit about it, or also leaving my marriage or my children. I know I’m not alone in doing it this way, but it’s not one we get to see too often in this age of (necessary and welcome but often sad) deconstruction.

My faith can be summed up as this: I want for the story of Love bigger than all pain and injustice to be true, and I choose to pursue God in the Christian tradition, studying Scripture and the life and teachings of Jesus. I also hold my hands open to what I do not understand, willing to change my mind and welcome wisdom from many avenues, knowing that ALL things and wisdom belong to God and that God works through the weak, wounded, mysterious, and marginalized places and people in creation… not just the triumphant, beautiful, powerful, or predominantly white ones. 

I’ve been drawn to the Quaker tradition mostly because of Parker J. Palmer’s books. (And I’m not saying I’m Quaker now—I just went to my first meeting this morning!) One thing I’m most attracted to is the de-centralization of power and authority in the structure and worship. I’m also interested in learning from their much more developed practice of listening for God and learning to discern God’s presence and guidance.

I have been saying I want to go to a Quaker Meeting for like three years now. But I’ve been afraid. Afraid 1) of finding out that they are just as messed up as every other group of Christians trying to do something together in the name of God, 2) of crying and sobbing and feeling over-exposed to a group of strangers, and 3) of stepping further away from the theological stream in which I’ve spent my life (and cooked my brain).

About the sobbing: change is scary. New places are scary. And I’m beginning to learn just how much I’ve attached achievement and faith to each other throughout my life. Leaving my place of worship has felt bewildering at many times and like failure (HUGE UNFORGIVABLE FAILURE ON MY PART) at others. I’m at high risk of losing it on strangers.

We’ll see how it goes!

I’ve visited other places too. But I’m writing about the Quakers here because that’s what I did today, and the overwhelming sense I had while with them is that I must offer myself some gentleness this year. Be not hurried and panicked, Jess. It’s ok. 

One woman shared during the worship that a while ago a man prayed that God would cause the people who needed them to find them. And she felt encouraged by the “guests” in the room. That caught my attention.

Another woman shared that the prayer that kept running through her head today was for people to accept the Spirit’s nudges to be in the right place at the right time. Attention caught again. A birthday girl who sort of had to force myself to show up there this morning, wanting to choose curiosity and courage over fear.

“Be not hurried and panicked, Jess. It’s ok.”

With writing—freed as I am from the rigors of academia!—and faith—freed as I am from the rigors of church membership!—I’m leaning into practices that keep me moving with intention in the directions I want to go. I write everyday. I read everyday. I pray. I walk or stretch. I ask God questions. I read and listen to other people who are asking God questions and seeking to hear the answers. 

Today is enough. 

Not every moment takes us to the mountain top. Not every moment is full of winnowing suffering or bolstering progress. But writing won’t happen without a pencil in my hand or a laptop under my fingers. Reading won’t happen without a book or my earbuds. And we won’t find the people who we are supposed to have and who are supposed to have us without our eyes, ears, and hearts open. 

I am SO tempted to resolve and snap shut this “season” that I’m in. I can’t tell you how good about myself it would make me feel to find a new place of worship and immediately feel like “a success.” But, yikes. That’s not the point. I think the point is trusting God for my daily bread, looking for the work that’s mine to do, and saying yes to opportunities to show love—always aware that every “yes” creates some “no” in another place, finite as I am.

I love my birthday! I can’t wait to see what the year will bring. There’s gonna be big stuff again, I’m sure of it. We are in a very eventful season of life in our family, and I’m working hard to build a new career.

But, I’m so grateful to have gentleness in mind today. The last few years have required deep digging for the energy required to make changes. It’s been like remodeling a house, but I’ve been remodeling my life to get clear about who I am and then match my outside behaviors and time-expenditures to my inside values. One more analogy: it’s been like fighting rapids in a kayak to get to the stream I’m supposed to be in.

Tonight we are going to make risotto and tempura with a bunch of cool mushroom varieties I bought at the farmer’s market and watch movies as a family, and I couldn’t be more excited. I feel incredibly blessed to have my husband and children. They remain my greatest motivations and joys, year after year.

Live Storytelling's Benefits to Writing...

Or What I Learned About Writing by Winning the Moth StorySlam(s)

The Moth, a nonprofit organization, preserves and shares true personal stories, told live. Stories are collected for radio and podcast through curated performances and StorySlams—open mic opportunities held all over the world. Several years ago, I puffed up enough courage to go to my first StorySLAM in Seattle and put my name in the hat. My name has now been drawn eight times, and four out of four of my last visits, I won.

Here are the rules, in my own words: tell a story that is yours alone, do not use notes, do not exceed five minutes. Three randomly selected judging teams score each storyteller on elements like length, story flow, and adherence to the night’s theme (things like “First Impressions” or “Mama Rules”). At the end of the night, a winner is crowned and earns the privilege of participating in a GrandSLAM—a contest of ten winners in a much bigger venue. At a StorySLAM, all the stories are recorded and may be used for the radio hour or podcast. One of my earlier stories was featured on the podcast, a gratifying result.

Five minutes is not a long time to win over an audience, but it is long enough to make them yawn or cringe. The StorySLAM crowds are supportive and warm every time. I want to repay my listeners’ kindness by providing an excellent, engaging, empathetic experience. The feeling of uniting two hundred people in a common mood, inviting strangers to my heart intoxicates me. I can sail through a depressed, dark Pacific Northwest winter a little more smoothly on a StorySlam performance high.

Here are my four secret ingredients: vulnerability, laughter, detail only I can share, and a lump in the throat.

In the StorySLAM context, connection is created by vulnerability. Everyone there is aware of the courage required to stand and tell your life to strangers, to not know whether you’ll be selected to speak until three minutes before you go on! They are ready to support but can smell a fake, over-rehearsed, or miserly telling from a mile away. But, divulging the real feeling behind the story, the embarrassing details, or the cost of the events in a story creates an immediate mood of camaraderie. It’s the same with personal nonfiction writing: even if a reader has never shared your exact experience, they can quickly tell if you are trustworthy and truthful.

Laughter does more than just give everyone a free, ten second abdominal work-out—it promotes production of happiness hormones! I’m not a neuroscientist but know from experience that a room full of laughing people is a room full of people experiencing pleasure from dopamine and a sense of unity from my favorite hormone, oxytocin. A chuckling audience—or reader—is one with a brain feeling safe, peaceful, joyful, and receptive. I tell stories about physical and emotional wounds, harrowing betrayals, and loss. Revealing my inner life to the audience is scary, but it’s a gift very worth giving. Every time, I try to provide at least one hearty, collective laugh. It puts me at ease, audience too. I’m reminded of Mary Poppins and her spoonful of sugar. It’s not always appropriate to use humor, of course, but when I can, I do.

As important as creating a common experience is providing a unique experience. There are some things only I can deliver, and that’s what an audience or reader has come to get. Most people know what it’s like to trip and fall, but do they know how it feels during the middle of a live, professional performance? Do they know what happens when you go careening down a red dirt hillside in a canyon? Probably not! The details are what turned the occurrence into a precious memory, one you feel compelled to share. Adding simply one sentence to add dimension and color or orient the reader in a space they are trying to picture makes the whole story more rare, therefore more valuable.

To change a story from something pleasant—a nice way to pass five minutes—to something a reader can metabolize and use, I share the lump in my throat. In writing, we are taught to know and highlight “the stakes.” What is at risk in this story? Why should anyone stick around to see what happens? During live storytelling, I invite my emotions to the surface—both my recollection of the feelings I had during the original event and the feelings I have as a fellow audience member, someone examining what happened. Very often, the ten seconds that begin “looking back” or “now I know,” become the most important ten of my 300 behind the microphone—and my voice often cracks, even if just for a second. Past events, whether weighty or light-hearted, leave us with some drop of grief, gratitude, or (most likely) both. When we share our grief and gratitude, we inspire our readers and audiences to access their own.

For these secret ingredients to shine in my stories, I trim everything that buries them. Sometimes that means cutting a few good laughs to make room for the one great laugh. Other times, I only give details to the most crucial part of a story and cut all the other clever (to me) observations I wish I could include. The audience won’t know what they don’t hear, but they might remember one great line forever! Recently, I went back to editing my novel after a year of winning Moth StorySLAMs and was amazed by how much more easily I could “kill my darlings,” as Faulkner has encouraged us writers to do. For work to work, it must be made in service of the audience. Sure, they don’t know all I have to give—want to give—but hopefully they will be eager when I next approach the mic or publish another piece of writing. And that is a true win. 

Grab some tickets to my first GrandSlam in Seattle on March 22!

Huckleberry House Retreats

Around 2016/17 (unless a kid was born in a year, I really can’t keep things straight), I started taking my writing seriously. My soul demanded it. Even if I thought I was just sitting down to dabble at fiction, or even humor, the writing would turn into memoir as soon as I sank into my creative brain. My body demanded it. Unprocessed trauma and self-destructive patterns of overwork and self-flagellation were eroding my health. But it felt like the slow clank-clank-clank ascent to the biggest downhill drop on a rollercoaster, the one that supplies the momentum to get you through the loop-de-loos. I had the sense that I couldn’t get off the coaster, but I was terrified of what might happen when I crested the hill and the ride really began. 

There are some things that we don’t really decide to do. Rather, we accept, bit by bit, that we know they must be done. Each progressive step we take backfills the map of where we are headed, and we might have the sense to stop and recognize that what was terrifying has now become familiar— perhaps not comfortable or easy, but familiar. Writing, sharing, publishing, submitting, editing (for money!), and naming myself “Writer” all belong to me now. They always did. I knew somewhere inside that those were true parts of me, but I had to accept each activity, each expansion of identity bit by bit. Doing so for the first time(s) scared me. 

Think of Dorothy Gale from Kansas. She had what she needed for the journey set before her, but she needed a ragtag band of partners to reveal her to herself. And they needed her. So often the piece we are most convinced we are missing—heart, brain, courage, plans—is right there under the surface begging to be acknowledged. A lot of the time, others can see it before we can. 

Now imagine the four of them in that rollercoaster cart about to dive down the hill. Looks pretty fun, right? Or if rollercoasters aren’t your thing, fill in your own analogy (can’t expect me to do ALL the work).

I had Scarecrows, Tinmen, and Lions come around me when I was most afraid that I couldn’t begin (let alone complete) the writing journey set before me. And, no, it wasn’t only about writing. It’s never only about one thing; that’s part of why it is so scary. It was about fighting lies, grieving loss, acknowledging limitations (and strengths!), getting back on stages, and untethering my brave imagination. 

Whatever you may have before you, the things you know—but maybe can’t yet believe—you must do, you need people to help you crest the hill. And there are many hills! I have a passion for supporting and empowering people to see in themselves what they so badly long to find. Sure, some people are deluded about their own potential, but in my experience, they don’t tend to have much doubt. Doubt is a good indicator that you may be on to something. 

My favorite American teachers are Julia Child, Bob Ross, Fred Rogers, and Julia Cameron. Why? Because each of them operates/d from the view that everyone can and should have access to the best parts of themselves. They also love/d to share treasure rather than hoard it. People who care and share are the best, and I want to be one of them as I grow up. 

I had a picture in my mind in 2019 of a place on Whidbey Island where I could breathe, explore, create, and invite others to do the same in little, temporary-but-highly-influential communities. In 2020 (look at me keeping track of years!!), we bought a place that far exceeded even my imagination. And now I’m ready to facilitate the creation of renewing, encouraging cohorts. 

On a retreat at Huckleberry House, you will eat well, meet new friends, see things in yourself that you need to see, and get some work done. At the first one, a songwriter, a couple of poets, a writer cloaked in teacherhood, a therapist, and I engaged in discussion, responded to creative prompts (many borrowed from Ms. Cameron), laughed, and cried. 

I would love to talk with you about how one of my retreats, a residency, or a collaboration could help you on your rollercoaster ride!

Stretching My Legs

My heart tends to live in the past or the future. Regret, grief, longing, hope, need: these all have objects that lie, so often, outside of my control in the past or the future. I wish I had what I had then. I wonder if things had just been different. I can’t change it now. When won’t I feel this way? How can I be filled? Where should I go?

This body that contains my memories and dreams trundles through the quotidien, mundane, and demanding activities of health and home. 

I don’t mean to say that I do not ever enjoy my days or that I never stop to acknowledge the gift of every new morning. But my soul often struggles to rest comfortably inside me in a present moment. And, to be honest, I think I’m pretty good at trying to be awake to my surroundings, to notice, love, and savor. (Notice that I needed “I think,” “pretty,” and “trying.”) Still, the sense of longing never seems to lift.

Yes, I believe there is longing built into every heart—an existential, ontological, theological longing. But, this is not a piece of writing about that.

Let me be specific and concrete: I miss dancing and the life of performance on which I cut my teeth and wished to dine upon forever. And now, I am forever wondering what’s next. Twenty years have passed in the meantime. Twenty years that include marriage, children, friends, projects, ideas, and products. Still haven’t found what I’m looking for in the U2/psalmist sense. But if this isn’t an essay about that…

It’s about knowing a feeling, seeing other people (Out There) having it, and being jealous. Not a very bitchy jealousy, my jealousy is perfectly happy to hunt for opportunities and work hard. But on what? How? Where? When? What? Who?... It’s a regular Busytown Mystery up in here. Why am I not a songwriter? I’d know what to do then. (quick answer: I don’t sing or play an instrument well. Just a guess.) What if I go to improv classes? That could be a trailhead. Which agent will finally bite and sell my novels?

I am always asking “where to” instead of “what NOW,” like, actually now. The train of my life stops in the station of each day, each hour. I need not wait to get out until I get There. Who knows where that is anyway? Would I even recognize it? Best to stretch the legs in Now. So how do I engage these parts of me that I enjoy, that I am meant to use, now? Sometimes it’s easy and glorious (and usually involves nature or my children). At other times, even my best efforts get buried in laundry, dog vomit, etc. 

Enter this question: what is the strength that you have? In a Biblical story from Judges, a nobody with no confidence is given a big job and a bizarre set of resources. He wants a big result (and to not die). When he waffles to God, he is told, “go in the strength that you have.”

This question can appear with boldness in the parade of modern encouragements to be present. It represents a “growth mindset.” It encourages me to Steal Like an Artist, to pursue my own Hidden Wholeness.

One strength I have is to write short, personal nonfiction essays between school drop off and gathering my house back together from the weekend. Others are: Texan chutzpah, a high tolerance for being a dork, a very active imagination. And a really beautiful log house on the third best United States island. I’m riding the high of having hosted a retreat there this past weekend, my first ever hosted, guided retreat for creative types. It was awesome, and I’m looking forward to sharing a short, personal nonfiction essay about it soon.

What is the strength you have?