Drum roll please.
March 5, 1988. By-line: Providence Journal. Age: 16. Payment: $5. Word Count: 13. (Mmm-hmm. Indeed. That works out to a whopping 39 cents a word.) Sick sense of humor: Clearly intact. Dream and determination: Just getting out of the starting gate.
This was me at six.
It's okay. You can laugh. As long as I don't hear you.
And you stop.
Soon.
As you can probably tell, intense would have been a fair description. I was a serious kid; full-on frivolity didn't find me until MUCH later in life. (Partially, I blame the hair. And the height. And that outfit. Um, did anyone get the memo that I wasn't a boy?)
But beneath the shy exterior, or more importantly, in spite of it, the dreaming was already in full effect. I was hatching a plan to bust out of my small town, where I never felt like I fit in, move onto a bigger, more diverse experience, and write, although, even thirty-five years later, I'm still honing the details.
Those beautiful Newtown first graders? Brutally robbed of that luxury.
It was only after the school shooting last week that I realized I'd actually been to Newtown, more than once. Their Starbucks became our pitstop on visits to family, serving as the marker that we were almost there and it was safe to drink an iced coffee. And while, until last Friday, I never knew exactly where I was, the quiet rural countryside, peppered with historic homes, always reminded me of where I had been.
And now, those small children, forever frozen in time, remind big me of little me.
I have no doubt we shared the same unshakeable feeling of safety that comes from living in a small town. As well as the luxury to dream, a gift that comes directly from the calm, quiet and complete lack of urban stresses. We all stood in that magical place together, where barriers don't exist. Where nothing, either real or imagined, can slow you down.
But, as we all know, life gets in the way. There's mortgages. And car payments. And credit card bills. And obligations that you never even could have imagined when you were six. The dreams dry up. Or worse, we decide to kill them off ourselves--because it's less painful not to have dreams at all, than to believe that you'll never reach them.
We become angry. And bitter. And hate on those who have the luxury to live the life that should be ours, even though we're the ones to blame for not having the courage to take any risks. We look backwards, instead of ahead, pining for a time when we were young and innocent. And life was simple and perfect. We refuse to believe the best is yet to come. And there's so much to appreciate, if we could just look beyond the negatives.
Which brings us to what started as just another ordinary Friday in December, but ended as another wake-up call. Proving that life is fleeting and there are no guarantees. And just being alive is really all the power you need to pursue your passions. No matter what your age. No matter what your circumstances. And to me, there seems no better tribute to all of those first graders lost, both inside the Sandy Hook Elementary School, as well as the one that still lurks, deep within yourself.
For two years, this has been the view from my office chair:
My husband Andre shelled out ten bucks to a Washington Square Park street vendor in New York City, on a sweltering June day, to buy this 1950's tin goddess. Once home, I gleefully hung her directly over my desk.
This became my motto.
Not because I'm a bitch, but because, drum roll please, I'm not.
Of course, at times I can be bitchy (usually when I'm hungry or tired). Or impatient (usually when I'm crafting a wreath out of dollar store ornaments at 4:30am). But I can also be thoughtful, generous and just plain silly. Truth is, my personality runs the gamut in the calm, controlled way of a well-adjusted, usually happy, always self-reflective person, living a full, beautiful life.
The slickness of my wise, all-knowing, retro muse, with full-on red lips and nails to make her naturally more authoritative, is that she's not actually commenting about bitchiness at all. Nope. To fully understand this chick, sort of like her owner, you've got to look beyond the obvious first layer, to uncover a message that goes a whole lot deeper.
To me, as she rests casually, elbow on knee, bangles a-dangling, my girl is issuing a warning about the danger of perceptions, or more accurately, misperceptions. Her message? A plea to carefully consider the movies of our lives, examine the roles given to each member of our supporting cast, then ask if theirs is a honest, accurate and up-to-date depiction.
And rest assured. If you haven't auditioned for the part, you should never accept it.
My name is Dawn.
I am NOT crafty.
I didn't say I wasn't creative. I am a fantastic bow maker, after all. But whipping up something from scratch a la Martha Stewart? So not my forte. That's why I've honed my skills as a bargain huntress. So I can buy the stuff that I covet. Ready-made.
But sometimes my wants, the retail clearance calendar and my current cash flow are a bit out of sych. And I start living in a fantasy world. One where funky holiday wreaths can be constructed cheaply and perfectly. Using only my hands.
Fortunately, this experience, as most things in life, has become yet another lesson just waiting to be learned. Mmm-hmm. My take-away? Much like grief, there are seven stages of DIY (Do It Yourself? Nope. That's Don't Irritate Yourself), ready and waiting for the non-crafter. And, oddly enough, I've survived them all. Again.
Stage One: Inspiration
Behold exhibit A
And exhibit B
Amazing right? And whipped up last weekend, in the basement, by my husband. Next time this happens, I need to say aloud: Dude has an art degree. Not: Oh yeah. Let the crafting competition begin. Because someone will lose. Handsomely.
Stage Two: Excitement
Crafty bloggers. You suck. I'm not hating on your amazing abilities. I'm calling you out for managing to make your projects look completely effortless. For everyone. That dollar store Christmas ball wire wreath you were pimping out for $6 and boasting that it would only take half an hour to complete? I excitedly bought in. Sucka.
Stage Three: Smugness
Oh, I got this. Sure, the final cost may have risen to $20, thanks to the lingerie bags, bubble envelopes and other assorted impulsive crap I 'needed' for a buck apiece. But, not only do I have all the materials on hand, courtesy of my no shame act of cracking into a stock box or two, but I also showcased my mad improvisational skills. Indeed. Watch as I magically transform 15 feet of garland into one illusive wire hanger.
Stage Four: Pride
Granted it may be 4:30am (don't ask) and I'm keeping the goldfish awake, but I've managed to not only go all MacGyver on the plastic garland, ripping it down to its base wire, but successfully completed the tedious ornament stringing process. All before the sun came up. I rocked. All the way back to bed.
Stage Five: WTF
One step left. Secure the sucker. And that's when things start to go drastically wrong. An easy five minute job, ha-HA, turns into an hour of intense irritation. I am ready to smash all of this shiny red goodness with one World Wresting two footed stomp. Go on. Try me.
Stage Six: Recovery
Art Degree husband saves the day (and wreath) by casually whipping out a glue gun. Fa-la-la-la-la. I hate him.
Stage Seven: Acceptance
AKA: The Non-Crafters Prayer. Dear Crafting: I accept that I am a perfectionist, as well as creatively impatient. I accept that these characteristics do not bode well for crafting. Also: I accept that I do not enjoy crafting. At all. Ever. In fact, I'd rather pull out my toenails one by one. But most of all, I accept that there is a distinct danger of relapse...
November 29, 2012
Dear Maxwell,
I don't think I've written a real fan letter since John Schneider starred in the Dukes of Hazard, so you're in fine company.
Or something like that.
Last weekend, I had the good fortune of attending your Winter Warm-Up Concert at the Foxwoods/MGM Grand Theatre. It was a make-up for me too. Last summer, I scored, (sniff) fifth row (sniff, sniff) tickets to your cancelled shows in New Jersey. Man, was I ready to rock my jumpsuit. An epic weekend for sure.
But then there was that throat surgery.
And my jumpsuit stayed in the closet.
Fast forward to Saturday night. And excuse me if I get a little pissy. My irritation isn't directed towards you. Nope. I'm angry for you. And I guess it's been brewing for a while.
Truth is, I've been a fan since the very beginning. And outside of 'For Lovers Only' (I'm sorry. Any touch of country twang gives me instant hives), you can do no wrong. I am still amazed how every single one of your albums, from start to finish, are going strong in my personal rotation. That's a testament, not only to your perfectionism, but your refusal to cave to outside pressure to release a project until you deem it finished. Even as the world loses patience with your timeline.
With a whole bunch of live shows under my belt, nine and counting, I've also been privy to not only your consummate professionalism, but your extreme humility. I had the privilege of hanging out at the Times Square meet and greet after your last show in June, 2010. And that's where it all started to click for me. The metaphor of life behind the velvet rope that must ring a bit too true.
Straight up: Folks forget there's an actual person powering that voice. Or maybe it's the other way around.
Here's the thing, after a free cosmo, or three, and the urging of my angel husband, I worked my way over to say hello. I couldn't get this close and pass up this opportunity--or worse, take on the negative vibe of the sour ladies a table away, who were incredulous that you weren't working the room.
I got my reward alright. Two unsolicited hugs. That's right. Read it and weep. What's my secret? It wasn't a low cut blouse, red lips or heavy fawning. I think we connected because, newsflash, I treated you like a real person. Listen, that's just what I do, but it became clear to me, through your sweet shyness, this human to human vibe is far from the norm. Especially in this hyped up celebrity hungry world of: "What Have You Done For Me Lately?"
So listen man, because you've proven to me over and over that you are a genuine solid dude, I've got your back with this whole Winter Warm-Up mess. Go ahead and cover your ears because it's going to get ugly; I know you're a lover, not a fighter. But some of this East Coast Maxwell Nation has got it a bit twisted and they need to stand corrected.
Listen, NJ and CT. I so get it. I'm a Northeast girl. You know, AKA the center of the universe. But these two shows that came our way didn't come courtesy of hitting the Maxwell lottery. The low-down: Brooklyn brother, just came off throat surgery. He can rehab all he wants in the privacy of his own Manhattan digs. But eventually, if he wants to keep on performing live, he's going to have to bring those pipes out into the public.
For a test.
Yup. Sorry. You can go on believing that Maxwell really loves us best. (You do, don't you, Max?) But the truth is those two Warm-Up shows could have easily been called: Let's Take To The Stage and See What We've Got. Now would not be the time to tell me you were expecting some sort of full-fledged stadium production. I repeat. Two. Dates.
And, could we just pause for a second and consider the balls it took to come out on stage in the first place? Maxwell doesn't know how his voice is going to hold up over two hours, nevermind two days. And with a cold on top of everything, I'd say all things considered, he worked it out better than fine. He's a man, not a machine.
Yeah, I would have been cool with an more accurate start time, and spending more time in my room, enjoying another bottle of two buck chuck, instead of rushing to try to get to church on time. But how much of that is in Maxwell's personal control and how much lies with the venue and/or promoters? Someone hook me up with a drink next time and we're straight.
Maxwell, you've still got my admiration and respect. And that rendition of 'Symptom Unknown'? Off the chart. I only wish my husband had the sense to illegally video it.
So what the hell is up with the rest of you? Where's the love? The appreciation? Does anyone remember that EIGHT YEAR vacation a certain someone took not too long ago. And wasn't this Thanksgiving weekend after all. Can't we just be grateful the surgery seems to have corrected the problem and no one's dealing with a career ending injury? Stand up in our damn seats and dance in the aisles?
Maxwell, you're still here right? I so get it now. So go on. Poof. Disappear if you must. Book some sort of Caribbean cruise and hide behind your straw fedora and Ray Bans. Apparently absence really does makes the heart grow fonder. Oh, and if you make it to Puerto Rico, can you bring me back some rum?
Until next time, with much respect and appreciation,
Dawn from Providence