A new project!

Back in September of 2016 I came across a posting in a Women in Film Facebook group. In the post, Ayelette, an actress, was looking for collaborators. She wanted to produce a web series. She was looking for a writer, a director, etc.

So I responded to her posting.

And last Friday I sat in a rented room at a place called Space Station and watched as she read with a whole host of actors auditioning for roles in our web series. OUR WEB SERIES.

To say I'm still a bit in shock about the whole thing is an understatement.

Back in September Ayelette and I talked about what she was looking for in a partnership. She wanted to tell a good story. She wanted to have fun. She wanted to work with other women. I wanted all of the same things. And so after our initial FaceTime chat, I got to work. I was starting from scratch, not an unfamiliar place for me but a place that takes some time to dig out of. See, I have to build the hole and the shovel and the person to use it all before I can dig out.

There were more conversations. There were a lot of emails. But the cool thing is, Ayelette gave me time and space to create. And it was a pretty great feeling to know I was writing for an audience that wasn't just me and my little circle of readers. She was pretty committed to making this series.

I finished my work this winter. A premise I crafted, characters I envisioned, all down on the pages of seven scripts. And then Ayelette got to work.

Yes, I've had hope before. Yes, I've been excited about projects. There've been table reads, staged readings, pilot development, even that short film made for Lifetime that didn't go anywhere. But this is something more.

This is someone renting the casting room at Space Station. This is actors, who've had real work in real movies and shows you've heard of, coming in and reading scenes I've written.

That was the most surreal part last Friday. As I settled in between the director, Katy, and Ayelette, to watch the auditions, I didn't realize at first that they'd be reading scenes from the actual scripts. I mean I should have, that makes the most sense, but I didn't. And then the first actor started to read. He was a man in his 70s, saying words I wrote for a character in his 70s. I couldn't stop smiling.

Me & Ayelette

I also couldn't stop smiling because Ayelette and Katy immediately took me into the fold of the casting session, they included me, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for me to be there. And, just to let you know, that's not always the case for us writers in Hollywood. In my limited experience in this business I've been brushed aside as "just the writer" several times. To be fair, I've been lauded as "the writer" as well but you never quite remember the good as well as you remember the bad.

Ayelette, Katy & me

And so, by the end of Friday, they'd cast several parts of the series. They're still looking to fill several other parts of the cast and crew. But it's happening. There's a weekend in May when shooting will begin. And I cannot explain how excited I am that I'll get to be on set.

I've learned to be a bit more hesitant in my celebrations of good news when it comes to my writing. Things happen and then things don't. Things fall apart much more quickly than they come together. But this one...this one is moving right along. And I can't wait to share it with the world. Soon...

I went to Planned Parenthood for the first time in February...

Two years ago when I found out about the blood clots and the blood disorder and I spent most of that year being sick and then recuperating, I experienced something interesting right alongside it all. I experienced people, medical professionals mostly, being way more concerned about my gynecological health than I thought they should be.

Now, please, everyone -- keep reading. Don't be scared. Don't think my story isn't for you because you're a guy or don't want to hear about my personal issues or think this might not really pertain to you. 

Because, trust me, it does. It does pertain to you. Because you a member of this society. You have a vested interest in our world. And making sure our world is healthy, and people are cared for, is important. For all of us. 

It was my first visit to a general practitioner after my hospital stay. I'd been assigned a 40-something male doctor downtown Los Angeles. My mother took me. I was barely able to walk, I wouldn't drive for over a month, it was a rough day. I was most concerned about having another pulmonary embolism. About the blood clots that had taken up residence in my legs and groin. About the pain. About the panic attacks. About my high blood pressure because of all of the anxiety. I was barely keeping the tears in. (I cried about five minutes into my appointment.) I wasn't well. And yet one of the very first questions this new male doctor asked me was did I plan to have children.

WHAT THE HELL?! 

That's right. He wanted to know if I wanted kids. And I think I said yes. I'm not sure. He followed that question up very quickly with an inquiry about the date of my last pap smear. 

Now let's be honest here. I could barely remember my own name. I was on pain killers. I was having my parents and Angela help me walk to the bathroom. I was terrified that when I went to sleep at night I wouldn't wake up because I'd throw another clot in my sleep. 

I didn't give a fuck about having children that day. 

I still had pain that was almost unbearable. I still had panic attacks multiple times a day. I wasn't thinking about anything other than staying alive. (This was weeks, maybe months before I'd finally be diagnosed with the gallbladder issues. That was a big part of the pain. That doctor never did catch that issue. My acupuncturist did and I had to press the doctor to order the ultrasound and then when he brought me in for the results he refused to come into the exam room. Literally would not face me. I could hear him tell a nurse the answers to my questions in the hall. But he wouldn't see me. I never saw him again, thank god.) 

But I left the office that day with a prescription for a pap smear and an appointment with an OBGYN. 

Over the next few months I'd see a bunch of specialists. And without fail, I'd walk in and sometimes the receptionist, sometimes a nurse, would ask, when was your last pap smear. And I'd be all, well, um, I have this blood disorder I'd like to talk about first. And it was just last week, thanks for getting all up in my business.

It became a running joke. I'd let my acupuncturist know how many medical professionals had asked about my pap status that month. I swore up and down these offices were getting government kickbacks for signing up women to have their annual exams. I pondered starting a drinking game where I got to have a bottle of wine every day I was asked. 

And eventually, just a mere month or so after that first appointment, I went in for my annual exam. To the new doctor I was assigned by my health insurance. And it was horrible. 

I have never felt quite so violated in quite such a fashion. 

If you've never been involved with a gynecological exam, let me just say, it should be as respectful and painless as possible for the woman involved. I've had fine exams by doctors who just get down to business and it lasts mere minutes. I've had longer appointments by midwives who explain everything and talk a lot. Those are fine too. But this particular exam? 

There were between six and ten other women in the room -- who I assume were all medical professionals. I do not know but I hope this is true. No one introduced themselves to me. I was all alone with a stupid tiny, paper gown on, my feet in stirrups, when they all walked in the door talking and never shut up. The doctor, maybe, poked around and informed me I had a polyp and that meant I might have cancer and as a kicker, she'd broken it and I might have to have the pap smear redone at a later date because of the blood. 'Cause CANCER is the word you want to hear in that physical and emotional state. I had no idea what a polyp was and now one was bleeding inside of me. 

It was over quickly, thank god, and I got dressed and left and literally never went back. I decided to live with whatever was in me and I focused on getting other parts of me better. 

That should not have been the outcome. 

If I was a friend of mine, I'd have wanted the best gynecological care in the world for me. I'd have wanted that polyp out and that cancer checked and all my questions answered. 

But that's not what happened. 

And so here we are almost two years later. I'm fine. I live with the blood clots. I've lived with the polyp but it'll come out next week via the hands of a very sweet, funny, caring new OBGYN I insisted on after that horrible experience. But it took time. It took time to feel comfortable enough to demand I had the right to a better doctor and medical experience. 

And it's that whole long, drawn out story that's still not over that delivered me to Planned Parenthood in February. 

After the election in November, I was in a bad place. I was distressed. I felt useless. I felt like most days I had no voice and even on days I had one, no one could hear me when I screamed. And I felt like I had to do something to change that. And so I did. 

In December I signed up to volunteer at Planned Parenthood. Me and a lot of other people. And that's how I found myself playing get to know you icebreakers with an incredibly diverse group of men and women in the Planned Parenthood boardroom one Wednesday night. We talked about why we were there, why we wanted to volunteer, and how frustrated we were with the world around us. And we all agreed we could do something about it. 

And that's what I've been doing every other Wednesday since then. Trying really hard to feel useful. Trying really hard to make sure that people, women AND men, get the health care they deserve, from an organization that is doing it's best every single day to care for our communities. 

It's not hard. It's stuffing envelopes for four hours at a stretch. I get to help out some really great women who are handling the health care plans of patients. Today I stuck return labels on 500 envelopes. I made copies. I unjammed the copier. I folded letters and brochures. I added my day's tally to the board. I felt like I was a part of making the world a teeny tiny bit better. I helped out. That's it.

But it felt amazing to be useful. Each week when I go into the office, I get a little peak at what happens within Planned Parenthood. I get to see that each month literally thousands of people are receiving health care. Women AND men. And trust me when I tell you this, it's not all abortions. I wish everyone could know this. I mean it is, partially, and that's important. So important. But it's also so much more. 

It's disease prevention and treatment. It's blood pressure checks. It's cancer screenings. It's vasectomies. It's education. It's a chance for people to be cared for and helped and not be made to feel less or worse or that they don't matter. I know exactly how that feels after my experience at that terrible gynecologist's office. And I never want anyone to feel that way. And I never want anyone to go without health care. And Planned Parenthood provides both of those things. 

Health care can be scary. It can be confusing and expensive and hard to get. But Planned Parenthood, despite all of the political issues surrounding it, is thriving. It's serving people. And I love that I get to be a teeny, tiny part of that. Of making the experience of being healthy better for people. Because we all need to have better health care. We all need to be taken care of. We all need to be concerned with people getting what they need to stay alive, and to thrive. That's a human issue. One we all sometimes forget is about people, not about policies or budgets or politics.

Those doctors I first encountered after my hospital stay for the blood clots were concerned about me having children, and about me getting a pap smear, which in retrospect, is still kinda weird but I also kind of understand. It's important. But we need to remember that health care is important for everyone. Of every age. Of every race. Of every gender. Of every socioeconomic status. Of every creed. PERIOD. END OF SENTENCE. Health care is important for everyone. 

And volunteering at Planned Parenthood makes me feel like I get to help remind people of that. That I get to be heard, even if I'm silently sitting in a cubicle stuffing envelopes. My voice is back, and it is strong and it's getting a workout. And just a little paper cut or two. 

Hurry up, April!

Valentine's Day this year was a really good day. I took muffins to Homeless Lunch for the volunteers. I got some writing done. Angela and I watched comedies all night and ate the Mini Eggs my dad had picked out and sent us for the holiday. We talked about our spring break plans and started to get excited.

But then February 15th, just after 6:30am I got a text message. I was still in my pajamas, barely awake. Angela had gone to school early to meet with her new teachers as she does most Wednesdays. The text said, I'm okay but the car is totaled.

I called and called and didn't get through. I texted. I got dressed. I finally got through. She was fine. Her car was not. The other person was fine. His truck was fine. I got her location and I left the house in my car.

The day changed. It was supposed to be my first time volunteering at Planned Parenthood. I had to cancel. We called State Farm and got a tow truck ordered. The police declined to come help. We had to find a place to park my car during street cleaning while we waited. We found one, blocks away and got coffee on the walk back. I called our acupuncturist who answered before the phone even rang, I swear. "Sarah Knapp, what's going on?" We don't call Trace, we text. We call only when it's important. She knew.

The tow truck driver eventually came. The car would head to the Valley, an hour away. We headed to Trace's. Angela was treated. We ate lunch, rested for less than 20 minutes, and then drove to the Valley to sign papers. We drove home and dealt with insurance.

And we've been dealing with insurance and the accident ever since. Barely a day has gone by without multiple phone calls or crises. It's been exhausting. And made us reconsider our spring break plans. But then we decided, no, the show must go on!

And so we set to planning. Maybe the best part of vacations. It's all that ANTICIPATION! I love it!

We're going to San Francisco.

In the summer of 2015 we visited San Diego because while I'd driven through the town on many occasions, I hadn't really gotten to sight see there like the rest of my family all has at some point. And well, we live in California just a few hours away so why not. And now, well, the same thinking applies. Yes, Angela and I have been to San Francisco, once almost 10 years ago but that trip turned out to be a little less than idea.

Our first night there we ate at a Ruby's Diner and I got food poisoning. Or the flu. Who knows. But I was sick. Oh so sick. The kind of sick you do not want to be when you are in a new city in a new state staying in a hostel in a room with your sister and friend, sharing a bed with your sister, and have a communal bathroom down the hall. Alas...

We made the best of it. I tasted some sourdough bread Susie and Angela brought back to me after their daily excursions. I walked down Lombard Street after driving down part of it made me almost throw up in the car. And I rallied by the end of the trip enough to go to Alcatraz and enjoy the heck out of that day. But the rest...a sickly blur. And so? We're going back. 

This time we'll take the train up the coast, something Angela's been wanting to do. We'll catch the Amtrak at Union Station and go all the way to Oakland. We'll stay in a Holiday Inn right in the city. We've already reserved our seats on the Big Bus so we can make the most of looking like tourists and use it strategically as relatively cheap transportation all over the Bay Area. We'll take a half day motor coach tour to Muir Woods and hike among the giant redwoods. 

We're taking walking tours of neighborhoods. We'll eat breakfast at a place my mom's friend swears we must try. We'll trek to a bakery I found in an article of Bon Appetite that I ripped out of the magazine. We'll get cheap tickets to a Giants game because baseball season will have just begun! And on our last night in the city? 

We'll see Hamilton.

Yes. Oh yes. It's a sold out show almost every night it's in the city. People are flying up there from LA to get a chance to see it. And yes, we paid dearly for the experience on StubHub. But we will see Hamilton. And we're beyond excited.

Since listening to the cast recording last summer it's almost all we listen to. In the house. In the car. We know the words, the key changes, the story by heart. We've read the book. I have the Chernow biography next to my bed. And on our last night of vacation, we'll be on the floor in row AA at 8pm. 

So yes, there's some anticipation.

Yesterday we spent the afternoon pouring over the tour guide and the map I bought. Angela finally gave in to the reality that yes, I am drawing on the map with permanent markers. I've found our hotel, the theater, all the restaurants and tourists attractions and then outlined the bus routes. And the cable car route! Because it's going to happen this time, I'm going to ride a cable car! 

So here's to spending less time worrying about car accidents and insurance claims and buying a new car and more time looking forward to new adventures! Hurry up, April! 

Bill & Betty

Angela and I hadn't lived on Abbey Place more than a month, possibly even less, when the retired man who lived next door, Bill, came over. He asked if we'd like him to trim the bushes out front. They were neglected and overgrown and it was evident our promised gardener wasn't in a hurry to come over. He said that the bushes needed to be cleaned up so that no one could hide in them, since we lived alone. We thanked him and told him to tackle whatever projects he was interested in.

The bushes got trimmed, regularly. The tree outside our window got pruned. The rose bush by the garage got tended too. And each Friday morning, as the trash truck left Abbey Place, Bill drug all of our cans back behind the houses and organized them just how we liked them. For over nine years. Even after dementia took his memory of our names and his ability to initiate any projects, he still drug those cans in each week, sometimes before his hours-long walk, sometimes after. And even after he forgot our names, he would smile, knowing we belonged, and thanking us for the cookies and treats we delivered periodically.

But this morning, I had to drag the trash cans in myself. And I let them sit out there a while after the truck left because I wasn't quite ready to do it just yet. But then I did. Because things change.

Tuesday Bill and his sweetheart of a wife Betty moved to Arizona to live with their son and daughter-in-law.

Fall 2016

It's been a move years in the making. She's been talking about the new place for quite some time. And even though, after 62 years of marriage and over 50 years in their house on Abbey Place, she was sad to do so, she knew it was time to go.

It had become too much for her to take care of Bill, of her brother Jim who lived downtown in an apartment, and herself all alone. Yes, we took them to doctor appointments, drove them home from the hospital several times, called insurance companies to sort matters out, and dropped off some meals. But it wasn't nearly enough. Arizona and full-time family was calling.

So this fall we collected boxes, we filled tubs in our garage with items she was sure we needed (a punch bowl larger than any I've ever seen, wine glasses for a very big party, a coffee carafe never used that dates back to the sixties, some pinecones Bill had collected on a walk and painted bright green), and we listened to Betty's fears and qualms about leaving. About moving away from the place she'd called home for so long. From her friends. From her house. From her independence.

And we tried not to be sad. To remind ourselves that this is in their best interest. That this is what they need. What they deserve. And yet...

We will miss the blueberry bagels from Noah's on our front doorstep on Sunday mornings. (I never did ask what prompted Betty to get us blueberry years ago but she did and we ate them, even Angela who doesn't like blueberries. She loves her blueberry bagels.) We will miss the loud conversations between Betty and her brother Jim who lost his hearing long ago while working for the airlines. It became comforting music on days he'd visit and stay for hours. We will miss their extended family members who would hug us and text us when they got home and who treated us like one of the gang. We will miss having people who watched our house constantly, who watched out for us, who kept track of things, who knew the goings and comings of the entire neighborhood. We will miss that sense of community.

And mostly we will miss them. The day we moved into Abbey Place I remember them coming outside and introducing themselves. Brother Bear was here too (we call Jim Brother Bear, Angela and I, no idea how that started but it is completely a term of endearment because from day one Jim knew our names, our jobs, and loved to chat). They introduced themselves as Bill and Betty -- and I remember looking at my dad, who was helping to unload the U-Haul. We couldn't believe it, Bill and Betty and Jim. My dad's mother was Bette. His father was Bill. And his stepfather was Jim. It was a sign. We had California grandparents.

Over the years we made sure to write down travel plans and take them over so she could pin them on the fridge, and never fail, before a trip, Betty would come over with a bag of homemade trail mix for our voyage. And more often than not her and Mary, our other California grandmother across the street, would come over after our arrival home, to chat and catch up and deliver flowers. We were missed, we would be missed, and that meant so much. We held Betty's arm as we walked home from dozens of neighborhood watch meetings. We celebrated holidays together. We checked on one another after storms and bouts of sickness and surgeries.

And Monday night we went to Sizzler with Bill, Betty, her son and daughter-in-law, for the last time. We had a laughter-filled dinner, giggling over how much Bill loved eating ice cream cone after ice cream cone from the self-serve machine, and then headed home. Betty insisted on riding with Angela and I, as she usually did. She taught us a shortcut from the restaurant right to our house that shaved 10 minutes off the drive. She was leaving us with her last Los Angeles secret. And then we headed into their house for our goodbyes, for a last photo.

I don't have a copy of the picture her son snapped on his phone. I don't need it. I know it will not be one for Instagram. By that point Angela and I were holding back sobs, poorly I might add. We were trying to get her new address and give them the cookies and trail mix we had made and give our goodbye hugs. We were a mess, all of us. Yes, even the son and daughter in law were in tears. Because I think it finally hit us all. This was over. No, not the friendship, not the relationship. I have promised Betty a call early next week to check in on them. Her son has promised to teach her to use her new smartphone and help her to Skype. I have promised cards and maybe even a visit this summer. Phoenix really isn't that far away...

Bill & Betty's house, the view from our kitchen window

But this was over. Being neighbors, living next door to each other for almost ten years. Their California chapter. They were the very first friends we made in Los Angeles. Every morning and every night I would stand at the kitchen window, drinking water, washing dishes, making dinner, and I would see Bill working in the yard, or early on, loading his golf clubs into his car. I knew their schedule better than I knew my own. I can still hear the click of their walking sticks as they left for their walk, rain or shine, six days a week for almost nine years. When I'd go out for my walk early I'd know just where I'd see them come over the crest of the hill on Lucerne. I'd know when to pull out my earbuds and get ready to chat about the day. Because that's a different kind of relationship than we have with most people.

Wednesday morning I got a text from their son. He sent a photo of Betty, sitting with her tea, looking tired but also relieved. She told us over and over again how sad she was to go, how scary it was to go, but she also told us it was time. And the photo Wednesday was proof of that.

Abbey Place will never be the same again. But we will never forgot about them either. We have been blessed by so much in our lives and the idea that we came across the country and found family is just more than we can even fathom. And now we have family in Phoenix too...

PTSD

Less than a week before Christmas I had a full on panic attack at Costco. It was two-fold. The first part happened while I was sitting in the ophthalmologist's chair, listening as her voice slowed down and I heard that I'm going blind.

Now let me be perfectly clear, with myself mostly: I am not going blind.

But that's what my brain processed as the very nice Costco ophthalmologist casually told me that my contact prescription had changed dramatically in the past 12 months. And that I had a new stigmatism. And that I had likely been overcorrected with my prescriptions my whole life.

The room went fuzzy and my eyes filled with tears and I couldn't stop anything. Not time, not the crying, not the tightness in my chest.

When the very nice Costco ophthalmologist finally looked up from the prescription pad and focused on me, she realized what was happening. She connected the story I'd told her of why I was on Xarelto and that I was having a PTSD episode and she felt horrible and tried to comfort me and then I felt horrible for having to be comforted at the eye doctor and she got me Kleenex and I eventually went on my way.

And then I saw my sister and my mom in the electronics aisle and I lost it. Part two of said panic attack. Right there in the middle of the Christmas-busy store. And then the checker was not nice when we left and then that night at dinner I had to tell my dad about my experience and I lost it. Again.

And here's something I've learned in the last five years: panic attacks have no rhyme or reason sometimes. And sometimes they make all the sense in the world. Because I have a smidge of post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). No, I've never been to war. And yet, still the PTSD.

Because five years ago today I was in the emergency room with anaphylaxis. My eyes were swollen shut. My throat was swelling shut. It took two shots of adrenaline to get my body to settle down. But it did. And I didn't die. Score one for modern medicine.

Because two years ago today I was in the emergency room with deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary embolism and what we now know is a blood clotting disorder. My legs were hurting and swelling, my heart was having a bit of a hiccup and there was some trouble with my blood. But the doctors and nurses took care of me and again, I didn't die. All the points for modern medicine.

And yes, I'm still talking about these experiences. No. I can't get over them. I likely won't ever. And that's okay, because they are part of what's formed who I am today, who I will be tomorrow.

The moments, or hours, of panic have become less over the days, months and years. I have this spray I use and I use it so much less frequently than I used to. Two years ago I was using it daily. Now I use it like once a quarter, and that might be generous. And sometimes I use it just to make Angela feel better (she's aware of this fact).

It's been five years. It's hard to fathom it. And yet? That morning in the ER with the anaphylaxis seems oh so far away. Because it really is. I haven't had another experience with penicillin since and I've not had an issue with anaphylaxis.

It's been two years. And yet at times it seems like it was just yesterday since I laid in the hospital bed, heart monitor on, Heparin coursing through my veins, scared out of my mind while at the same time feeling completely safe because I was in the hospital. I had never been so happy to be somewhere ever.

But the PTSD is very real. And I acknowledge that to myself on a regular basis. I talk about it with my people. I try to breath and allow myself to feel what I'm feeling. To cry, even if I do feel stupid crying about new contacts. I get to be scared because life is scary. Almost dying is scary. Almost dying a second time is terrifying. Having a disease or disorder is scary. Thinking that every single gallbladder pang is a new pulmonary embolism is scary. Trying to decide if each breath is a normal one or a burdened one is exhausting. And scary. It is very real. It is PTSD. It will subside. I get help. I really am all right. I really am fine. But --

It takes a lot. It takes effort. It takes prayer and quiet time and not thinking and watching television and asking people to make me think about anything else. And sometimes I can't think of anything else and I'm just going to cry it out. And sometimes I have to force myself to get up out of bed and find a book and focus on the words of a novel. Sometimes I have to stand in the freezer section of Walmart and hold on to the door handle and breathe past the gallbladder attack and tell myself twenty times I am fine, I am not dying, it's the stupid gallstone, not my lungs.

(Side note: Gallbladder issues are being dealt with, maybe, some day, we'll get rid of them -- and it!)

Mental health takes effort. So much. It's time-consuming and laborious and important. And I'm working on it. And I have so many people supporting me, which is amazing. And I know that the panic attacks will continue to improve, to go away, to come back, and maybe some day? Never find me again. But that might not be how it turns out. And I have to be okay with that. Because that's just a part of me now, a part of my last five years and probably a part of my next five or fifty years.

And eventually I can look back on those moments, five years ago, two years ago, a month ago, and realize that things turn out perfectly fine. And I remind myself of that a lot. Yes, things are different but things are fine. And I am lucky and blessed and alive and happy. And I have new contacts. And I got to laugh really hard on Christmas morning when I unwrapped a gift from Angela: a copy of Cory Booker's book in large print. She had bought it online without knowing it was large print but I got to tease her that she bought me it because I'm going blind. Because sometimes humor is all that gets us through the day.

I talk about my experiences because I know I am not alone. Not in my experiences. Not in my troubles. And not in my life. I am healthy and happy and overall, mentally well. I have these issues, I likely always will, or some remnants of them. And that's okay too. Because PTSD has taught me a lot.

Today I think about the last five years. Today I think about what I've experienced. Today I think about what's next, and how grateful I am there's a 'what's next' in spite of it all. Even if it's messy and scary and tiring. Because that's life. And it's grand.

Oh, January 23rd, how you've changed me so.

71 days since...

It's been 71 days.

Seventy one days since my candidate lost and their candidate won.

Seventy one days since hope was banished. Since despair set in. Since anxiety became the norm. Since I have read the news, social media, turned on the television with not a sense of momentary relaxation or escapism but with sincere dread.

Prop 8 rally - 2008

Seventy one days to wrap my mind around what has happened and what will happen. To hear the rallying cries of people I admire and respect and look to for counsel and guidance. To watch people trying their best to come together, use their voices, take a stand, do something, anything.

But it hasn't just been 71 days, has it? It's been years. Decades. Centuries. Of fighting. Of resisting. Of yelling. Of not normalizing. Of working. And I know it will continue.

HUMC ready to march - 2008

I've been political my entire life. But when I moved to Los Angeles, I stepped up. Before I knew how to get home without a map, I was riding the subway downtown and marching against Prop 8. And then it was protesting education cuts at the local level. And then working to get Obama elected. And elected again. And then trying our best with Hillary. Oh and in between all that? Rallying constantly against education cuts at every level. Fighting so that Angela could get her job back, keep her job, have protection at her job.

It doesn't end.

And yes it's only been 71 days. And I know the next four years are going to seem so much longer. And I know we have to use our voices, individually and collectively. I've read all the articles this week, listened to the podcasts, heard the opinions and rallying cries.

But this week I don't feel it.

I will not march Saturday.

2008

2008

I will pay attention. I will listen. I will watch. I will plan. I will contemplate. I will help Angela study for a salary point class because those cuts will come and she'll have to learn to do more for her kids with less. I'll retweet articles for the cause. I'll like all of your posts. I'll cheer you on.

But right now? I'm not sure what the march is for. I want something more concrete. I need tangible. I need action items. I need to know how to use my voice. For the union? For the teachers? I'm there. I'm all over it. For Planned Parenthood? I'm in. For gay marriage? Yep. For my candidate? I will pick up the phone (even though I hated that part of it).

But not this weekend.

2016

2016

It's been 71 days. I am hopeful. I am heartbroken. I will march again. I will rally. Eventually. I will figure out what my heart is telling my brain. I will pray. I will be with you in spirit. I love you all. But Saturday I will be quieter. And I think that's all right. It's taken me weeks to figure out how to say that out loud. How to feel like I'm not letting people down by not marching. But I realize that the most important person I have to be okay with on Saturday is me. And I am.

I am heartbroken. But more? I am hopeful. And I'll come back around. I promise. To myself more than anyone else. I promise.

Happy Birthday, Dad

September 1979

He's known as Dad #2 to one of my college roommates. He's a favorite Facebook friend of many of my friends, some of whom he's never met or only met once. He is always an hour early to pick me up from the airport (well, except that one time but we'll blame mom). He spent hours driving alone on Michigan and Indiana highways to see me play golf in college and made me cry by showing up unexpectedly to my last ever match that was pretty far away. He sat with me and studied at the dining room table every single night the year I took AP American History (and probably learned more than I did). He made me practice my multiplication flash cards even though I never got much better. He will always, always, do the dishes after I cook or bake. He has stood outside of women's dressing rooms and gone to get different colors or sizes more times than I can fathom to count. And yes, he always holds our bags and purses. His laugh is infectious. To the point that we'll get giggling around the dinner table and it takes concerted effort to bring us all back past the point of crying.

He's had two holes-in-one so far in his golfing career. He's served his country in the Air Force and then again working for the State of Michigan for his entire career. He was the field trip dad and the choir concert parking lot manager (even if it was twelve degrees outside) and the parent who showed up at school when there was sickness or strife. He asks us what he should watch on television. He reads whatever I write and makes sure others read it too. He cries whenever anyone wins an award or a game or anything. (And as his daughter, I do too.) He devours books and crushes crossword puzzles. Ask him to help paint golf balls into garden ants? He starts an assembly line. Want a giant Jenga set for the yard? The next two days are spent in the garage cutting and sanding and staining.

January 1, 2017

There is nothing he would not do for me or Angela or my mom, or most likely anyone he knows. He's the guy who goes to the meetings, volunteers, helps set up or clean up, shows up at the party, tells the jokes, laughs at yours, and then asks, what's next? He's honestly the best man I've ever known.

Today Tommy Lee Knapp turns 70 years old. I've known him for only 39 of those years but I am blessed beyond belief. I am loved beyond belief, by him. Because he loves us all. Our family, our friends, my friends, people he's only heard me tell stories about. As my mom might say, tongue in cheek, he's perfect. Well, actually, he's human. But I'm so glad he's one of my humans.

I love you, Dad. More than words could ever express. I can't wait for our next adventure together.

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.