Posts Tagged ‘musicals’


as i pulled into 
my driveway, i saw
one of my neighbors
basking in the sunshine
on her front porch,
with a dog on
either side
of her

i called
as i opened
the driveway gate

she told me
that she’s feeling
a little pain, but that
the sunshine helps
in more ways
than one, so:

she can’t

i paused,
and said,
“you know,
i just had a really
great conversation
with anthony, and i’m
just so grateful for
him … i’m with you.
i really can’t

i’d already
planned on
sharing (a little) about
anthony and neighbors,
so the timing of this
exchange was

as anthony and i
talked, i asked if he’d
be okay with
this one


he laughed.
“you know me.
i can put up with
almost anything.
i can’t say i’ll be
all sunshine, but
i’ll be okay”

we talked about
how people mistake
his very long fuse for
absence of fuse, with me
explaining how my sister
rache taught me that
the fact someone
has a long fuse
and peaceable

(a lot of people
make that mistake)

i thought about
this one post 
i wrote on
surprised me,
and reminded me:
i no longer have
to fight every
fight alone

i’m sharing
that post here
tonight, but with a
caution: while the first
part was all about
anthony, the
second was
me raging

i’m done 
raging at 
i do
vow Read more…



For a while,
my long commute
felt like a sentence

Then I found musicals,
and found myself
my daily

Later still,
my sister recommended
podcasts, so that
I shared the road
with The Dig,
Chapo Traphouse,
Katie Halper,
and any episode
of anything
Mark Blyth

English and all
its concealed
started to feel
like a cage,
so I began
wieder Deutsch
zu lernen

one of my very
favorite things to
do while driving
is talk with my
sister, Rache;
as we talk,
my car encompasses
the whole world
we share

In all these ways,
by all these means,
I have commuted
my commute
from a sentence
to a celebration

measure in love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

Work ends

I love it, but
I’m tired, still

I scroll through
my Twitter feed
as I walk to my car,
feeling both more alert
and more tired
by the tweet

But then
I climb into my car
and I am lifted–
no, catapulted–
to love
by a chorus of
voices singing
about how to
measure the
moments in
a year

These friends
(this family),

(They are
my friends,
and my family)

Even when
I step out of my car,
Rent continues
in my soul

Its silver (love)
cocoon continues
to shimmer
around me though
its notes stopped
with the car

After dinner,
my older son
pedals his bike
up ahead

I jog behind
with my younger son
on my hip

Littler J giggles.
Bouncing is fun–
so fun, he bursts
out singing his ABCs,
all the way through,
which I didn’t know
he could do

And then,
back home,
my husband’s
trying to tell me
about an article in
The New Yorker, but
I’m not really listening
because the kids are tired
and I read them
their bedtime
stories first

I feel guilty, as I begin
to read

(I should have
listened better. Why
must I be so objective

I try to focus on
my little boys, which
is easy because they are
so silly and sweet

Li’l D blows
spit bubbles as
Littler J pretends
a Hulk action figure
is a monkey jumping
on the bed, which
bed is actually
his brother’s

When it’s Daddy’s turn
to read, both the boys
rush to snuggle him

Littler begins (again)
singing about monkeys
jumping on the bed

“Why does he keep
saying three monkeys?!”
asks Li’l D, affronted

“He’s only two,”
Daddy explains, gently.
“He doesn’t know
subtraction, yet”

Daddy sings along,
leading slightly
so that the proper
number of monkeys
remain on the bed

And I sit down
at my computer
to look at political
Twitter, but instead
find myself humming
Seasons of Love

And I know,
with every particle
of me, not only that
life is not measured
in missed tweets,
but that it’s
measured by
shared in

Oh you got to remember the love
You know that love is a gift from up above
Share love, give love, spread love
Measure, measure your life in love


Categories: Love, Parenting, Twitter Tags: , , , ,

Beyond fight or flight

I recently wrote on a now-lost scrap of paper that trauma is a grenade, not a bullet. It breaks into splinters, lodging bits and pieces of itself along and through every inch of you. You can remove dozens of pieces of shrapnel and still have hundreds or thousands left over.

Over time, you get used to the remaining splinters. You adjust your stride to minimize the pain they cause and sometimes even forget they’re there … until.

Until something rubs up against one of them, and you’re reminded not only of the pain now but the explosion then. Triggered.

Hamilton has recently opened my heart to the wonder of musicals.

Thanks to Hamilton, I was excited to watch the Tony Awards for the first time ever this year.

I settled onto my couch to watch them with my husband and our friend Ra. All was well until an innocuous exchange between them rubbed up against jagged shards within me, adding raw new pain to old entry sites. Read more…

what song tomorrow

Prescribing Joy

I’ve listened to the Hamilton soundtrack almost non-stop for the last month and a half.

As each workday has neared its end, I’ve noticed the time and found myself excited about my long commute. Instead of thinking a string of expletives about my drive, I’ve thought, “It’s almost Hamilton time!”

The recording translated a cost to a benefit.

It invigorated me.


I met my new doctor early last month.

A couple of weeks after we met, he provided patient instructions incuding the following: “make sure you take time for yourself every day – personal time – to relax/do your favorite activity – even if only for a short period.”

I rejoiced his compassionate instruction, but I was also perplexed: What do I even enjoy anymore?

It had been so long since the question even seemed relevant.

It took me a couple of weeks to realize my heart already recognized the answer my head did not: I enjoy the hell out of Hamilton.

I didn’t bother long with wondering why. In light of my doctor’s prescription, the joy was far more important than its rationale.

For months, I’ve wanted to host another guest post series, but I couldn’t find a topic. That, I found on the freeway about a week ago. Read more…

Wait for It

Same as every other Sunday, my family began our weekly shopping early.

Unlike most Sundays, we first stopped by the bookstore so I could buy a hard copy of Ready Player One (upon multiple recommendations).

On our way to the cash register, my husband, Anthony, pointed out one particular display to me: “Hey, it’s the book that inspired Hamilton.”

If you’d asked me three months ago whether I’d read a book on Alexander Hamilton for fun, I’d have said no, but only after laughing. A lot.

Then, two months ago, one of the bloggers I follow posted links to a couple of songs from a show called Hamilton. I can’t even remember which one I listened to or who posted it (so sorry!/thank you!), but I clicked through to one of the songs and listened. Anthony quickly joined me at my computer and we listened together.

“How have I not heard of this?” I asked him, as if I’ve watched more than a single musical (Wicked) live. Anthony’s the musical lover in this house. Read more…

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