Angela's Advent Devotion

Every year Hollywood United Methodist Church curates advent devotions on their website. Today was Angela's day:

Isaiah 9:6b–7

The prediction written in this passage by Isaiah is full of hope: “For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; and he is named Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

It’s full of hope for us, just as it was full of hope for those in Isaiah’s nation affected by war when he wrote it. And this year, while I’m trying to be cheerful and happy and full of advent and candy canes, it’s hard not to feel sad too. Because it feels like we’re at war too.

At school my students spent much of November anxious, concerned, crying. They have been affected by our nation’s rift just as so many of us have, and in some ways, even more so. They don’t understand that it will ultimately be okay, because they have no prior experience with going through rough times as a nation and coming out the other side.  They are scared for their families, for their friends, for themselves. They are just figuring out who they will be, and even though so many of us are too, it’s a little more dramatic when you’re twelve.

But in this passage Isaiah tells us that this child, this Prince of Peace, will establish a kingdom full of justice, of righteousness, and that there will be no end to this kingdom. I take solace in that today. That Jesus is still king all these years later, and will continue to be. I use that solace to be hopeful. To lift up my students during this holiday season. To remind myself to turn on a Christmas carol and sing along rather than read another thinkpiece on the Huffington Post. To believe that that child, born for us, will comfort us, will love us, will save us. That solace will carry me.

Prayer for today:

God, I am grateful for Isaiah’s hopefulness, and I pray he be a reminder to me this advent season. That he believed Jesus would come, and He did. Thank you, for Isaiah, and for your son, that baby born for me. Amen.

Aunt Gloria

December 1979

The Saturday after Thanksgiving I was shuffling through the mail that had just been dropped off and I saw a red envelope from Guideposts magazine. I sucked my breath back into my body and I stared down at it. I knew what it would say even before I opened it. And I was right. A subscription had been gifted to me for Christmas, just as it was every year. From Gloria Hoolsema.

But here's the thing, Gloria passed away on November eleventh.

It was a complete surprise. And it was completely expected.

Since before I can remember Gloria had been battling Multiple Sclerosis (MS). It hit her quick decades ago and it hit her hard. She swiftly moved into a wheelchair and the disease ravaged her physical body. But not her brain. Or her spirit. Never her spirit.

May 1983

Angela and I went home for the funeral. It was important to be with our family. It was important to say goodbye. To remember the good times. To remember the not so good times. To sit in that church on that Tuesday and thank God for her life. And to be a little bit angry at what had happened. Back then and again that week. It's hard sometimes. Most of the time. To make sense of what illness does to us, all of us.

August 1982

Gloria was just thirteen when I was born. Young for an aunt. And I don't remember much from when I was little but the photograph books loving assembled tell me she loved being an aunt. Pictures of me from birth, in her arms, her on the ground playing with me, we look happy. We were happy. We played, we read books, she babysat us, even accompanied us to another uncle's wedding so my parents could party all night while she watched over us. I attended her graduations, and even later, went to her alma mater -- Olivet College.

And Gloria supported me in such an encouraging way. Even though words were few, especially in later years when MS took most of her ability to speak, she always made sure I got gifts that helped shape me. Novels by Christian authors, books she thought I needed to read, and the aforementioned subscription to Guideposts. I honestly think of her and her faith every time I pick up the small periodical.

Her faith was on display for all to see. She lived her faith every single day. She was an active member of her church, from her chair. She preached without words, as we are taught to do as Christians, and she preached loudly. She loved loudly.

She loved her children, her husband, her family, Texas sheet cake, playing cards (winning even more), family genealogy, music, and so much more. But I am blessed because she loved me. To have her with me for thirty nine years was beyond special. To have her memory with me forever, an unbelievable gift. One of my most favorite memories is from just this past August, at her son Jeremy's wedding. We danced all night -- all of us. Gloria on the dance floor surrounded by her friends and family, her lifetime of love, we all danced together. We sang favorite songs and made sure no one was left out of the circle. We took photos and hugged and to say I am grateful for that day is such an understatement. To know that we were all together for something so happy, something so celebratory, just months before she was gone leaves me gulping through tears. Happy tears, for the most part.

August 2016

There were tears that Friday morning when we found out she was gone. There were tears for days, shared with family and friends. Shared for her love, her spirit, her faith. But also because the world is a little less bright right now. A little less shiny. Gloria is gone but she will never be forgotten. She is a part of me, of so many. A bright, shining, loud part. And I love that. And her.

Advent Devotion

Every year Hollywood United Methodist Church curates advent devotions on their website. Today was my day:

Philippians 4:4–9 

I have this scripture passage from Philippians all marked up in my bible. I have the word always circled in the beginning phrase rejoice in the Lord always. I have the sixth verse, which states do not be anxious about anything, underlined. And in the margin I’ve drawn arrows around the whole passage and written the words “some assembly is required”.

That’s definitely my approach to the holiday season: some assembly required. There are presents to buy and wrap, cookies to bake, plans to make, calendars to coordinate, planes to catch, and on and on. But it’s also my approach to my faith: some assembly required. In this passage, written by Paul, in what some call the most joyous book in the whole bible, we are reminded to rejoice! To let our gentleness be evident to all. To pray with thanksgiving. To think about what is lovely, what is right, what is pure, what is excellent. And that can be hard. That can be near impossible. Especially in today’s political climate. In a culture that feeds fear and demands perfection.

But it is in these fractured times, in this busy holiday season, that we must put together the pieces Paul reminds us are there, right in front of us. We have to seek out what is true, what is noble, what is admirable, what is praiseworthy. We have to seek out the good. We have to remember that a baby was born to save us all. And that the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will protect us.  

Prayer for today: (lyrics from the Relient K song “I Celebrate the Day”)

“And the first time that you opened your eyes, did you realize that you would be my savior and the first breath that left your lips, did you know that it would change this world forever?”

Thank you for that, for the peace you bring to us all. 

Pearl Harbor

"I want to go to Pearl Harbor," said Mom, on New Years Day 2015.

And so we went, just a few short months later. We flew to Hawaii, wrangled the rental car up the coast, and arrived before the gates opened.

We spent all day visiting the memorials, the museums, reading, watching, looking at the pictures. We took the ferry out to the memorial for the USS Arizona. We filed off the boat and walked through the doorway. We looked out at the water, oil still visible on the surface 74 years later. We stood quietly among the crowd of hundreds, the click of cameras, the whisper of thoughts the only sounds. It was a beautiful sunny, Hawaiian day. Just as it probably was the day of the attack.

Before we left on our trip, we invited our neighbors, Bill and Betty, over to talk about Hawaii. They were both born and raised there before moving to Los Angeles some fifty years ago. Bill told stories of working in the fields after school, sometimes instead of school. Betty told of sitting on the porch that morning and hearing the attack. Of being forced from her family's home to make way for military housing afterward. There wasn't much emotion to their memories, simply facts, Polaroids from a life lived back then. But we talked later about how it was impossible to imagine what it would have been like to have been on the island that day, that week, that year. To live through it and comprehend it and process it.

We filed back off the memorial slowly that Monday, photographers like me trying to get a few last shots of the gorgeous panorama around us. We sat on the ferry, quietly heading back, thinking about the gravity of where we had just been, what we had just experienced. And then when we got back inside the visitors' center, Mom, Angela and I headed into the restroom. It was there where we finally let go. I remember coming out of the stall to wash my hands and seeing my Mom in tears.

This was the reason for the trip. The trip she'd waited her whole life to take. The trip we'd spent the last few months not sure would happen (see: Sarah gets blood clots). To be in this space, at the memorial, to take it all in, to think about the event, the attack, the people, her father who served in the Navy, her friend who'd worked with the veterans, everyone who'd come before us.

Growing up Pearl Harbor Day was marked on the calendar like most other holidays. We spoke of it, we read about it. And now here we were, in the place where it happened. We cried in that moment, all three of us. In the bathroom in the visitors' center. We cried for the enormity of it all. For the people we'd lost, not as a direct result of the attack but for the memories we carried with us. For my grandfather, the Navy man, for Helen, the helper. We all cried.

And then we got back in the rental car, fought traffic all the way back down the coast and found our way to the hotel bar. We sat on the patio, ordered drinks, and toasted Charlie and Helen. My grandfather and our very dear family friend. We toasted them and what this trip meant. What history means. What love means. What perseverance means. What remembering means. And then we watched the sun set. To be in that place, to experience it, we are thankful, and grateful, and most of all, full of hope at what has transpired since, that from something like that day can come something that is, in the end, beautiful.

God bless those we lost. God bless those who gave so much for so long. God bless America.

What happens next

It was supposed to be a history-making day. It was supposed to be an amazing day. It was supposed to be so much more. So much bigger. So much more exciting. So much happier.

And yet, that Tuesday night I sat on the floor in my living room, an untouched bag of celebratory M&Ms by my side, and I stared in horror at what had happened. I went to bed early. I tried to block out the truth.

The next morning I awoke to Angela sitting on the edge of my bed begging me to check the results on my phone. She couldn't bear to look. Couldn't bear to think of going to school and facing the thousands of students who had been so exuberant the day before. They'd spent their art periods making signs about voting. They'd stood on the sidewalk Tuesday afternoon encouraging the adults in their world to vote. To think about them. To do the right thing.

I checked my phone and my heart sank. I already had half a dozen text messages. I knew I didn't need to read the news. But I did. And my heart broke. For dreams deferred. For dreams quashed. For dreams snatched away.

We sat on the bed for a while before we both got the courage to get up and get dressed. We drove to Angela's school where she headed inside and I headed through the parking lot, putting in my earbuds for the five mile walk home. But before I got too far I saw a friend, a grown man, a teacher, in tears. He asked simply, what happened. I shook my head. I had no words good enough. He needed a hug. I gave him one. And off I went.

I called my childhood home and my dad picked up the phone. I asked him the same question I had been unable to answer. "What happened, Dad?"

He didn't know either. We commiserated. We vented. He listened as I rattled off what this meant, what it changes, how it will affect me and my friends, people I love. How I felt my work and efforts had been for nothing. And then I asked him what happens next. His answer?

"We get through this. We always do. We have in the past. It will be okay."

But I was honest in that moment. I'm tired of getting through it. I'm tired of just getting by, of just settling for okay. But at that moment there were no other answers to give.

I walked on. And when I got home I spent most of my day on the phone, talking to friends who's lives had been shaken. Who have been told they are not good enough. Not valuable. Not important. Not true. Talking to people who had volunteered, like me, and knew it wasn't enough. But weren't sure, just like me, what else we could have done. I tried to wipe away their tears through the telephone wires. I was unsuccessful and I cried myself.

I have been politically active most of my life. I grew up knowing that voting was something you did because it was expected. It wasn't a choice, it was a part of life. My parents voted in every single election when I was a child and I grew to know that was exactly how a person should act. By the time I was in college I was volunteering with a campaign myself, organizing other volunteers, walking in Fourth of July parades, wearing t-shirts, handing out buttons.

I'm a union girl, always have been since I was old enough to know that's how I got braces and casts for broken bones, a roof over my head and a fair workplace for my father and my grandfathers. I'm proud of the work the educator's unions do here in California and I support them. I've carried picket signs and worn red on Tuesdays for years.

I marched through the streets of Los Angeles to protest Prop 8 before I had barely unpacked here. I didn't fully understand the gay marriage issues before I moved to California but I quickly became versed and did my best to help the cause. I cried with friends and I celebrated with friends when rulings came down.

And so this past November, after months of volunteering and promoting and rooting, to have such a loss register, it was heartbreaking. And momentarily paralyzing. The world had stopped and when it started again, I was afraid of what would happen.

And then just a few days later I found myself unexpectedly back home in Michigan. Standing in the backyard at my parents' house on a cool Saturday morning, asking what happened once again to a friend. And her response immediately buoyed me. She was still upset, yes, as we all were, but more than that, she was moving forward. She had already had talks and set plans into motion and she was looking to the future. And as I walked back across the yard into the driveway, and saw the small Hillary stickers stuck on the back windshields of my parents' two cars, I smiled.

My parents are the reason I am so political. They are the reason I am a union girl. They are the reason I fight for what's right and for those who can't fight alone. They taught me to vote. To speak. To not back down. And Friday night when they picked me up at the airport and I commented on how great it was to see that little Hillary sticker I'd left them in the summer, stuck on their car, my mom spoke up and said she wasn't taking it off. She wanted the world, or at least her community, to know her true heart. I am so proud of them for that. For leaving their stickers on. For telling the world, this is my voice and I will use it.

I will not quiet my voice. Not now, not in the future. I will read everything I can get my hands on to try and understand this world I live in. I will talk to people. I will use my agency to try and enact change in this world. I will work to make the world see that it can be better, that we have to be better.

Since November 8th, I've fed and clothed the homeless, stocked the shelves at a food pantry, signed up to volunteer at Planned Parenthood, contacted my elected representatives, and yes, spent too much time reading and commenting on social media. But I've also taken time out for family, laughed at a movie, read a good book, and cooked a lot of comforting foods. It's a balance. Life is a balance. The world is a balance. And when I'm in balance, my world is too. And I can go out into it and be that agent of change. Be that person who's not just asking what happens next but actually being that person who goes out and does what happens next. Because what happens next will be extraordinary. It has to be.

You continue onward

Just over a week ago I spent a Saturday afternoon with Ava DuVernay and Oprah. Granted, it was me and 300 other people in a theater in Hollywood but still, it was an amazing experience. To sit and listen to one of my writing and directing idols was nothing short of fascinating (and as Oprah kept saying, so blown away, we gave up our Saturday afternoon to do it!).

Oprah & Ava

Ava was there to talk about her new television series QUEEN SUGAR. I've been watching the show since it started in September and I'm completely hooked. Laughing, crying, impressed that they've gone to so many places already, it's a family drama that I hope to watch unfold for years to come. But Ava also talked about her start in the business, about her work, about how she has made her movies in her way for herself, and how she's now doing that in television. And that struck me so, her tenacity, her fight to do it her way, because frankly, there is no other way -- at least in her mind. 

As Oprah interviewed Ava, she kept going back to the words, to the writing of everything. It was a Writers Guild Foundation event so this made complete sense but the way Oprah moved their conversation, I couldn't help but think, she gets it. My girl Oprah gets it! The words. They're important. The most important, in this process of film and television. Without the words? Nothing.

Swag from Oprah

QUEEN SUGAR started as a novel. And after a while the novelist, Natalie Baszile, joined Ava and Oprah on stage. They talked about her words and how they were crafted into what we see on screen each week and eventually the three main cast members joined everyone on stage. It was a great afternoon, hearing how the stories Ava and Natalie wanted to send out into the world got created. 

But Oprah kept going back to Ava and her process. How she approaches direction, how she approaches making her own films versus those using others' scripts, and how she perseveres even when it seems like the world is conspiring against her. And then finally Oprah asked Ava for some words of wisdom for all of us sitting there in that darkened theater on a sunny Southern California Saturday afternoon.

Ava talked about how we must tell our stories, how we must raise our voices but then Oprah said, well what if it's hard? What if you aren't getting the work or you aren't getting the job or no one wants to read your writing? And Ava said, simply, "You continue onward."

Those three words have stuck with me over the last week and a half. Life hasn't been all puppies and rainbows over here on Abbey Place.

Yes, things are fine. I'm fine. Angela's fine. But I'm tired of fine. I'm tired of smiling when someone asks what I do and saying, I'm a writer, and them asking what they've seen that I've written and I have to come back with nothing. I say it. I own it. But it's hard.

The two development deals fell apart almost before they got started. I made it to the second round of a couple fellowships and contests but no further. I get some great feedback and then nothing. A friend introduces me to a manager or agent and they don't return emails or don't connect with my work. I post online and nothing. I network and nothing. I'm tired of it all. 

I haven't written anything new in weeks. Yes, blogs and posts but nothing substantial. I've dug myself into volunteering - for Hillary, for Angela, for the homeless - and I've filled the days. I apply for teaching positions and don't hear back. I'm tired of it all. 

And yet?

I continue onward.

I don't know what else to do. I got up this morning, read the news, made a to do list, and settled in at my desk. I've befriended a fellow Women in Film member who's an actress who wants to make a web series so I've been working on that today. I'll do some writing on that this week. I'll pull out the start of a screenplay from last year and decide whether it's a movie or a novel. 

And I'll continue onward.

At some point, decisions will have to be made. Decisions that can only be made by me. I'll have to pick a path to go down, possibly a new path, a new adventure, in a new place, and that will be what happens. I don't know any other way. It's hard. Incredibly. There are so many what ifs, or if justs, that it's a guessing game all around. I realize that every day I get to sit in my chair in front of my keyboard is a very special day and I don't take that for granted. But I also realize that like Hamilton, and Shonda, the urge to #writelikeyourerunningoutoftime is all too real. And I know that whatever happens, I will always write. That will never change. And so? 

I continue onward. 

Life will be busy for the next few months. I'll write because time is running out. I'll keep volunteering. I'll celebrate my family being in Los Angeles for Thanksgiving. I'll celebrate Christmas in Michigan and a brand new year. Another year of yes. Another year of what's next. Because no matter what, you continue onward. Because that's all there is. That and the words. 

This is what 39 looks like

October 18, 2016

I woke up yesterday morning at 6:05am. It was pitch dark out, cold in my bedroom with all the windows open but that good cold where your quilt is enough if you stay inside of it, and my sister was singing Happy Birthday to me at the top of her lungs from the hallway.

This is what 39 years old looks like.

I tied on my expensive running shoes that were an early birthday present from my parents this summer when I was home in Michigan and pulled on an old long sleeved tee and headed out the door. I spent the next 100 minutes walking almost five miles. Listening to a screenwriting podcast and chugging a lot of water.

Then I came home, got ready for the rest of the day, and took this photograph. #selfie #nofilter

This is what 39 years old looks like.

And then I headed out the door. Again. I landed at Hollywood UMC where I proceeded to chat with my friends, get birthday hugs, pass out 118 sack lunches, and be told I looked 25. I left with a spring in my step. Not because of the compliments but because of how busy we'd been, because Pauley had sent boxes with clothes for our guests, because we had a whole new supply of socks to give out, and because we had had a very good morning.

And then I received an SOS call from Angela. She needed help with a grant proposal at school and a deadline was involved. So I hightailed it over there and helped. I helped some more. And before we knew it, several brownies had been eaten, I had gotten several more birthday hugs, and it was time to head home.

This is what 39 looks like.

Angela made my mom's meatloaf. She poured me a glass of wine, I FaceTimed with my parents, I opened gifts from family and friends, and I ate chocolate cake with a side of chocolate chip ice cream. I sobbed over an episode of SCORPION. I laughed over an episode of ATLANTA and then over an episode of FRESH OFF THE BOAT. I texted with friends. I was overwhelmed by the birthday wishes on Facebook, Instagram, email, even LinkedIn. I posted pictures of my food and my cake to Instagram and I washed my face and put on the new nightgown my mom had picked out just for me.

This is what 39 looks like.

I did not read much of the news yesterday, I did not obsessively check Twitter. I did not pay attention to anything outside of my immediate reach. I was able to help feed some people lunch, and so I did. I was able to provide some people with clothing and toothpaste and hugs, and so I did. I was able to play grammar police and write a better sentence that will help a school, and so I did. I was able to crunch some numbers and help with a budget project, and so I did. I was able to work my PowerPoint magic (it's so not magic but people who hate or don't understand PowerPoint always think it is) and so I did. I was able to spend the day doing good. And so I did.

I did not write a new screenplay, or even a scene. But I came up with a title for a new project, while walking. I did not make any money yesterday, and that's alright. Because I think I made a tiny, small, almost-imperceptible difference, and that's all I am looking for most days. My voice was heard, loudly and softly and written down and shared. I was a part of the conspiracy of love that I'm so desperate to belong to (and thank you to all who shared my first vlog - 1,209 people have viewed it! That is amazing!).

This is what 39 looks like.

If you had asked me at 18 or even 25 or 30, what 39 would look like, I'd have had some guesses. And they all would have been wrong. This is not how I envisioned my life. Not that it's bad. Not that at all. I just had no idea this is the path I was headed down, and frankly I don't even know what the next part of the path looks like. I have very little idea of what the future holds for me. I will always be writing. I will always be creating. I will always be helping. I will always be loving. I just don't know what that will always look like. All I know is that this is what 39 looks like right now.

And I kinda love it.

I VOTED!

Me, right after voting!

Yep yep, it's true, I VOTED! I am pretty freakin' excited, I have to tell you. Now granted, it's not election day yet. And yes, I participate in California's permanent vote by mail program, but it doesn't matter. Yesterday, Angela and I sat down and we got out our voter's guide from the state, we got out our notes from the ballot initiative workshop we went to last week, and we got out the teachers' union election guide and we went to work. We studied, we talked, we chose, we marked our scantrons!

And then this morning I drove down to City Hall and I dropped our ballots in the box! It's official! I got to vote for the first woman President of the United States. (I am nothing if not confident in this.) I got to vote to make real change in our country, in our state, in our community. How cool is that?!

I have to tell you, I'm not sure I really ever believed that there might be a woman president. When I was younger I dreamt about it, I wrote about it (a partial, yet abandoned, novel I have is entitled Madame President), I thought about it, but I'm not sure I had the faith I should have. Things were different then (not that they're all that much better now) but now that we're this close...I'm ecstatic!

I'm a part of the process, I'm a part of the solution, not the problem. I'm trying to make a difference. I'm trying to make my voice heard. I just hope that every single person in these United States gets to experience the same type of joy before or on November 8th. I know that people fought for my right to vote, that people died for my right to vote, and I want to make sure that I never take that for granted. That I always exercise my vote and honor those people, particularly those women, who came before me and paved the way.

In the words of Lou Henry Hoover, former First Lady, "That we have the vote means nothing. That we use it in the right way means everything." 

Using it means exercising our right. Speaking our mind. Influencing the outcome. Making a difference. Being a part of the experience. I got to do that today. I did it and then I put on my sticker. And when the woman checking me out at Trader Joe's a few minutes later commented on my sticker, I reminded her to go vote when she gets the chance. She said she would and even wrote a reminder on her hand. Because that's what we have to do, encourage one another to use the vote.

Just do it. I did!

I Will Love

Sunday morning Angela and I headed off to Hollywood United Methodist Church, like we do most Sundays. We settled into chairs under an umbrella in the courtyard and chatted with friends for a while before worship began, then we found our way into the sanctuary and settled in. There was the familiar bulletin, the prayer requests, the usual hymns, and faces of so many friends. Hugs and handshakes. Laughter and love. It was a typical Sunday morning and what drives us to get up, get going and drive a half hour into the city on the only day we can sleep in during the week.

But what happened next was anything but typical. And it's something I just can't shake, four days later.

See, it's election season. (In case you hadn't noticed.) And I'm well past the point of over saturation. I'm emotionally and intellectually spent. I'm exhausted. And yet I get up every morning and I scour the newspapers (print and online). I read FaceBook and Twitter. I check the polls. And then I stew. I wonder what's to be done. What's to change. I fret and I ponder until it hurts. And then I retreat. I dive back into work. I make a casserole. I try to knit a new dishrag pattern (I only know how to knit dishrags). I watch a bad sitcom. I watch ten good sitcoms. I try to stay off Twitter and am unsuccessful. I avoid watching the debates but I read every word about them online. I volunteer and phone bank and have no idea if I'm helping the cause or just filling time. I do other things. I help Angela learn about Common Core. I focus on raising money to fight autoimmune diseases. I make muffins for the neighborhood. I try to stay off Twitter and am unsuccessful. I vow to try again tomorrow. I call my parents. I text friends about the election. I look at the very big, very overwhelming book I checked out from the library. I take A People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn off the shelf. I listen to Hamilton for the nine hundredth time. I read Twitter like it's my civic duty. I watch Ava DuVernay's 13th because that actually is my civic duty as a person living in this country. I ask one hundred people if they prefer chicken or tuna or vienna sausages or sardines for lunch. I apologize because we still don't have any hummus to hand out. I dance in my room. I tell the grey cat in the yard how pretty she is. I worry that it will never be alright. That it will never be the same. That it will always be the same.

Back to Sunday. I sat there in our pew right in the middle of my church, between my sister and a good friend, and I was transformed. For fifteen minutes I wasn't over saturated. I wasn't exhausted. I wasn't emotionally drained.

I was encouraged.

I was motivated.

I was reminded...of what it is to be a person alive in this world...of what it is to be a woman...of what it is to be a Christian...of what it is to be faithful.

All of this came from Cory Booker, the United States senator from New Jersey, only the fourth ever African American elected to the Senate. And he wasn't just there to show his support for Kamala Harris, who is running for the Senate. But he was there to preach. And preach he did.

His message shared a thesis that is so missing from our world that I had begun to think it was gone forever: that there is a conspiracy of love and it is through this conspiracy that we can change the world.

Now don't get me wrong, there are plenty of good things in the world, in this country, in my life. I know that. I feel that. I see that. But the bad things often times get together and cloud our field of vision. There's too much to sift through to get to the good stuff. So we don't see it. We don't feel it. We don't know it. Until we're reminded of it.

He preached that we cannot accept tolerance. That simply stomaching the differences in one another is unacceptable. That we have to instead love. Be a nation of love. Be a people of love. Be agents of love. That our love is needed. That our power is love.

And this is hard. For me and I suspect for others. Every Tuesday when I work at HUMC's Homeless Lunch I experience this first hand. Not everyone who comes through our gates wants to be loved. Many are angry and hurt and exhausted and hungry and sick. Some lash out. Some see me as the problem. Some spew hatred with their words and their attitudes and their actions.

And you know what?

I don't blame them.

Life is hard. I'm often hurt and exhausted and hungry and sick. Not in the same way but come on. We all know exactly how hard life is for every single person on this planet. We have to stay alive. We have to try. And it's never easy. Going above and beyond is simply too much for some people. I get that.

And when Senator Booker said that we have an unusual commitment to each other in this world, to join in a conspiracy of love, I wondered what that actually looked like. That the Founding Fathers saw to remind us that we must mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor in the Declaration of Independence must mean something pretty important. We are in this together. We are not alone. And it wasn't just referring to the people who make the decisions or have all the money or sit in the seats of power. It means all of us. Every last one of us.

The guy who walked through our gates Tuesday with blood caking half his face, begging me to give him everything I had because he had nothing, and not being kind to me? He's in this with me. I'm in this with him.

The woman who has told me every week for four years that she's getting her housing soon, and believes it, and hugs me and debates over applesauce, banana or raisins like they are choices on the wine list at the Four Seasons? She's in this with me. I'm in this with her.

The family member who just doesn't get what I'm so riled up about and doesn't understand why I care so much about this election? She's in this with me. I'm in this with her.

The lifelong friend who is this close to disowning me if I post one more pro-Hillary Facebook message? Or one more #awomanwrotethat tweet? He's in this with me. I'm in this with him.

Towards the end of his sermon, because yes, he PREACHED, Senator Booker told us to stand up. He said people will talk about us, people will condemn us, we're gonna be tired, but we still have to stand up. People stood up for us, he said, people fought for us, bled for us, cried for us, scrubbed toilets for us. He quoted King by saying that change is carried in on the backs of lovers. There's work to be done. STAND UP.

At this point on Sunday morning I was in tears. I was clapping, nodding my head in agreement, mesmerized by what I was hearing. "There's work to do, stand up." Don't be someone who sits down. Grab someone to stand up with you. Don't accept tolerance. Be an agent of love. He told us that this is not an election of politics but of purpose.

Purpose. What's my purpose? What's your purpose? What's our purpose?

"To stand up. To speak up. To love," commanded Senator Booker. "How we love in this world will always speak our truth."

I want my truth to be heard. That is why I write. That is why I volunteer. That is why I smile. That is why I hug. That is why I study. That is why I read. That is why I bake. That is why I write letters. That is why I make phone calls. That is why I spend hours working at a middle school that does not pay me. That is why I make time to listen. That is why I try to love. That is why I vote. That is why I fight. That is why I raise my voice.

That's all I am trying to do. In the best way I know. In the only way I know.

I want to be a part of Senator Booker's conspiracy. I want to be a part in the world's conspiracy. Because we are all in it together. In this conspiracy of love.

I will stand up.

I will speak up.

I WILL LOVE.

#52FilmsByWomen

Last fall Women in Film, a professional organization I'm a member of here in Los Angeles, started a campaign to get people to seek out content created by women. Specifically, they asked people all over the world to watch 52 movies from October 1, 2015 to September 30, 2016. These movies needed to be written and/or directed by a woman. Old movies, new movies, documentaries, shorts, anything created by women.

And so on October twelfth of last year, I signed the pledge. I agreed to spend a year seeking out film content created by women. Now, I'm a TV girl, always have been. Don't get me wrong, I love a good film. I love sitting in a darkened movie theater, immersed in a new world, but I really love lying on my couch, watching my favorite characters week after week. And so, this 52 films thing was going to be different for me.

I started in October, and it was easy. Angela and I had already planned to see The Intern by Nancy Meyers in the theater. And so we went. One movie done! Fifty-one more to go! Alright, if I was going to be serious about this I should seek out content I might not normally see right in front of me (i.e., films at festivals or distributed by less traditional means). So on a warm Friday afternoon I took a sketchy Lyft and arrived at a film festival in Beverly Hills at a little theater. The short film playing before the movie was a horror film, at least what appeared to be, and I was sure I was not in the right place. But I stuck it out (a ten dollar ticket as incentive) and I saw a documentary I would never have seen anywhere else in the world. Did I enjoy my experience? Not necessarily. But I'm glad I had it. I'm glad I saw potential and was introduced to a new subject. And I'm glad my Lyft home was less sketchy.

After that Angela and I found a few more movies in the theaters we would have seen anyway. But I was much more conscious of seeing them opening weekend because box office counts, especially if you're not a Marvel franchise. And because I wanted to support my sisters in this business. I watched Oscar contenders I'd not usually seek out, we flipped through many a blockbuster film on the planes we took over the holidays to find female fare. And I was pleasantly surprised to find that some of my favorite popcorn flicks have females at the top of the creative chain. Also? Checking the credits of some great films made me seek out other content created by these women. And that led to more entertainment. How great is that?!

What else did I do? I learned that renting movies on iTunes lends itself to financially supporting the writers of films more so than buying them does, so I started renting. A horror movie I can't ever unsee but don't regret. A little indie I kept meaning to see in the theater and never did. I scoured Netflix and Hulu and Amazon to find little known movies or oldies but goodies I missed along the way. I drug my parents and Angela to see Ghostbusters on a rainy Tuesday morning in Michigan when the tickets were cheap.

I also sat through several movies I didn't particularly enjoy. I turned off several in the middle (and didn't count them on my list!). I suffered quietly through a few more, happy to have knitting to keep my hands busy so I wouldn't play Yahtzee or check Twitter. But you know what? That's alright. That's to be expected. Right? Right.

Because not all female-created content is wonderful. Not all of it's for me. Just as all male-created content isn't wonderful, or for me. And yet sometimes I'm so surprised I'm blown away.

I'd put off watching The 33 even though it was Oscar-nominated and well received because I was like, I know that story. But then I watched it because it was free on HBO and I needed to pad my list. And I laughed. And I sobbed. And I loved it. And I shouted that from the rooftops. A woman directed film. How about that? About men! About mining! About life! A woman did that! And in reality, that should not be a deal at all, much less a big deal. I shouldn't care that a woman directed it. But I have to. Because it doesn't happen hardly at all.

In the past six weeks I've watched 26 of the movies on my list. I'm not proud of the fact that I didn't get one a year done as I'd pledge. But I am proud of the fact that I got them done. And I kind of liked the intensity that came with this last stretch. I culled a list from various sources and Angela and I set to marking them off. Sometimes I'd watch a film over several days on my lunch hour and sometimes we'd settle in for one or two films a night. And it really opened my eyes.

What I saw in so many of these films were stories that went beyond anything I regularly consume. I saw characters who were deeply drawn. Women who were the focus, even if they played a wife or mother, sometimes simply because they did. I saw stories that were complex, surprising, fascinating. I saw storytelling at it's best. Male or female created, it doesn't matter. These voices, these women's voices, are out here, they are yelling, they are demanding to be heard.

And I heard them. Fifty two of them over the past year.

And I can't wait to keep up my challenge. To keep up my list. To add to it. To seek out stories that are different and better and the same. That are everything.

The list of films I watched:

1. The Intern - written and directed by Nancy Meyers
2. Let Them Eat Cake - documentary directed by Alexis Krasilovsky
3. Suffragette - written by Abi Morgan and directed by Sarah Gavron
4. The Holiday - written and directed by Nancy Meyers 
5. The Wolfpack - documentary directed by Crystal Moselle
6. Sisters - written by Paula Pell
7. Room - written by Emma Donoghul
8. The Danish Girl - written by Lucinda Coxon
9. Straight Outta Compton - written by Andrea Berloff and Jonathan Herman
10. How to Dance in Ohio - documentary directed by Alexandra Shiva
11. Unbroken - directed by Angelina Jolie
12. Meet the Patels - documentary directed by Geeta Patel
13. How to Be Single - written by Abby Kohn, Dana Fox and Marc Silverstein
14. Race - written by Anna Waterhouse and Joe Shrapnel
15. London has Fallen - written by Katrin Beneditk, Creighton Rothenberger, Christian Gudegast and Chad St. John
16. My Big Fat Greek Wedding - written by Nia Vardalos
17. My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2 - written by Nia Vardalos 
18. The Boss - written by Melissa McCarthy, Ben Falcone and Steve Mallory (technically saw it twice - once in the theater and once the week it premiered on iTunes but only counted it once!)
19. Barbershop: The Next Cut - written by Tracy Oliver and Kenya Barris
20. Confirmation - written by Susannah Grant
21. Echo Park - written by Catalina Aguilar Mastretta and directed by Amanda Marsalis
22. The Meddler - written and directed by Lorene Scafaria
23. The Invitation - directed by Karyn Kusama
24. Money Monster - directed by Jodie Foster
25. Ghostbusters - written by Katie Dippold and Paul Feig
26. Lemonade - written and directed by Beyonce 
27. 30 for 30: The House of Steinbrenner - directed by Barbara Kopple
28. Tiny Furniture - written and directed by Lena Dunham
29. The Bronze - written by Melissa Rauch and Winston Rauch
30. The Intervention - written by, directed by and starring Clea DuVall
31. Finding Dory - written by Victoria Strouse and Andrew Stanton
32. Kung Fu Panda 2 - directed by Jennifer Yuh Nelson
33. Kung Fu Panda 3 - directed by Jennifer Yuh Nelson and Alessandro Carloni
34. Meadowland - directed by Reed Morano
35. Mother's Day - written by Anya Kochoff, Matt Walker and Tom Hines
36. Welcome to Me - directed by Shira Piven
37. Tallulah - written and directed by Sian Heder
38. I Smile Back - written by Paige Dylan and Amy Koppelman
39. Hot Girls Wanted - documentary written by Brittany Huckabee and directed by Jill Bauer and Ronna Gradus
40. 27 Dresses - written by Aline Brosh McKenna and directed by Anne Fletcher
41. The Princess Diaries - written by Gina Wendkos 
42. Codegirl - documentary directed by Lesley Chiylcott
43. Bridget Jones's Diary - written by Helen Fielding, Andrew Davies and Richard Curtis and directed by Sharon Maguire
44. Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason - written by Andrew Davies, Helen Fielding, Richard Curtis, and Adam Brooks and directed by Beeban Kidron
45. Bridget Jones's Baby - written by Helen Fielding, Dan Mazer and Emma Thompson and directed by Sharon Maguire
46. The 33 - directed by Patricia Riggen
47. Mississippi Damned - written and directed by Tina Mabry 
48. I Will Follow - written and directed by Ava DuVernay
49. Middle of Nowhere - written and directed by Ava Duvernay
50. Hello, My Name is Doris - written by Laura Terruso and Michael Showalter
51. What Happened, Miss Simone? - directed by Liz Garbus
52. Trainwreck - written by Amy Schumer 

Watch movies made by women, directed by women, written by women. Talk about them. Acknowledge them. Share them. I have and I do. And sometimes it sparks conversation. Sometimes it sparks nothing. Sometimes it encourages a friend to go home and search out a movie by a woman, and I love that. We can make a difference by choosing who creates our content. We can have a voice. ALL of us.

Putting my money where my mouth is...

It's easy to put a bumper sticker on your car.

It's easy to put a sign in your front yard.

It's easy to say, we should all vote for X, Y and Z.

But what it's not easy to do is put your money where your mouth is. And that's what I did today.

Since August I've been telling myself I need to volunteer for Hillary's presidential campaign. I need to. She needs me too. But there were excuses. I'm busy. I'm on deadline with this script. The campaign office is all the way down by the airport. I'm tired at night and don't want to go over there. But this morning...I had run out of excuses.

And I want to help. I want to be a part of the change. Part of the solution. Part of history.

I want Hillary to be the first female President of the United States.

So I drove almost to the airport. And I found the campaign office. And I walked in and looked around and tried not to be scared.

There were just a handful of people in the large conference room. But it was also filled with posters and signs and balloons and food. It was quiet but it wasn't scary. I was immediately greeted by a Hillary for America fellow (one of the lead volunteers). She gave me the lowdown on what needed to be done today and I asked if there were any jobs other than phone banking, or making phone calls. She said not really, though if I really didn't want to phone bank she'd figure something out.

But, as I know how hard it is to organize volunteer activities and sometimes you just need someone to do a job that's not glamorous or maybe a bit difficult, I bit the bullet and said, no problem, I'll make calls.

And I did. Almost a hundred calls in about two and a half hours. I was given call sheets, and a script, and...that was it. I was on my own. I found a quiet spot against the wall, pulled out my phone, learned how to dial *67 before the number so the caller ID would say unknown when I called, and off I went.

I was tasked with calling people who'd expressed interest in a bus trip to Nevada to canvass and register volunteers. So I wasn't exactly making cold calls. I'd say at least fifty percent of my people didn't pick up. A few hung up as soon as I said I was a volunteer calling from Hillary for California. One woman explained to me how us volunteers could do a better job. Some people asked for signs. And six people agreed to go on the bus trip!

One of the Hillary fellows encouraged me several times, saying I was really good at making the phone calls. Everyone in the office was very upbeat, young, and smiley. When I promised to come back Friday they asked if I wanted to pencil myself onto the wall calendar via sticky note. (I said I'd wait and check my schedule and pencil myself in for next week on Friday.)

But most of all?

I feel like I made a difference. I didn't just listen to or read the news today and bitch about the other party and politics. I didn't just favorite funny or biting or informative tweets on Twitter. I didn't just lament the world today while sitting in my house, removed from the world.

I got out and I tried to make a difference. I tried to enact change. I felt connected. I felt useful. I felt proud.

And I can't wait to go back on Friday...