Embrace Your Inner Murdock

I recently had an epiphany about what I do as an actress.  It’s intrinsically a part of my genetic makeup.  My entire life I’ve been trying to get people to see the other side of the story.  In the past I’ve referred to myself as a peacemaker…but really I’m just gifted at standing in someone else’s shoes and realizing what the other side of the story is.  (Of course I’m flawed and when it gets too personal I’m as narrow minded as the next person.)  But that is why I have to act. I want to be the storyteller – the medium between the freaks and geeks.  An ambassador to every kid who thought she wasn’t cool – to tell her that the coolest thing she can be is herself.  To show her that you can grow up to be awesome, achieve your dreams and make a difference.

 

That’s what Murdock taught me. 

Howling Mad Murdock is the certifiably insane pilot from The A-Team.  He was my favorite everything growing up.  As a kid I dressed like him, tried to act like him, and basically wanted to be him when I grew up.  Looking back, I think I was captivated by how funny he was.  He was almost like a live action cartoon with his impersonations and crazy shenanigans.  However, as an adult I realize that he instilled something much deeper in me.  See, Murdock marches to the beat of his own drum and is never afraid to express himself.  To be honest, I’ve lived by that principle my entire life.  Not perfectly, of course, but the times in my life when I’ve felt the happiest and the most alive are when I’m just being myself, no apologies.  Truthful.  I want to share that with people and speak truth into the characters I play.  God willing, I could be someone else’s “Murdock.” That is my dream.

I often talk to myself.  Many times I get in my car and forget to put on music because I’m so busy telling myself something.  I shall call it…verbal journaling.  Sometimes I’m not talking to myself, though.  I speak to specific people that I’d like to meet, or imagine that I have students that I’m teaching, or that I’m giving an interview.  During a recent imaginary conversation I was expressing some of my feelings about my acting career and I referred to my board of directors.

Wait.
What?
I don’t have a board of directors.

Suddenly, clear as day, I realized that my board of directors was very dear to me and very real.  My board includes all four members of The A-Team, with Murdock being the Chairman, Algernon & Jack, several of The Doctors, Lucy Van Pelt, Miss Piggy, The Warner Brothers (and the Warner sister,) Gandalf, Dumbledore, Aslan and a slew of other well-loved characters.  They are all pieces of me and I turn to them when I’m searching for direction.  Not like idols or anything.  Just reminders of who I am.  It’s funny, because I remember people being concerned that I was so wrapped up in fictional characters, but I needed them while I was growing up.  And every now and again, as Sarah says in Labyrinth, I need them.  As I grow and change, there are more characters added, but seldom does a character resign from the Board.  They’ll always be a part of me.  That’s how powerful storytelling is.

And that is why I must be a storyteller.

A typical Board Meeting.

When Pigs Fly

I have a thing for flying pigs.

You heard me: Pigs with wings, soaring through the air, squealing in delight.

I think it’s because when you hear the phrase, “When Pigs Fly” the implication is:

 “that’s never gonna happen.”

Sounds like a dare to me.
And the people in my family love a good dare.

Once upon a time, when my Father and Aunt were kids…back when the world was sepia colored and the idea of a smart phone was only found in comic books…the two of them were having an argument. Now, I don’t know what the argument was about, but it made my Dad so angry that he threatened to push my Aunt into a nearby rosebush. She looked him square in the eye and said, “You wouldn’t DARE!” Shortly thereafter my Dad found himself getting a good spanking while my Aunt was ridding herself of thorns.

I guess tenacity is hereditary. While I’ve never thrown anyone into a rose bush, I have found myself proving others wrong, not to spite them, but because I know they are confined by some imaginary box that has no hold on me.

When I was 10 years old, all I wanted in the world was a horse. It was all I could talk about. I begged my parents to buy me a horse, but they refused. However, I kept hoping and dreaming. During this time period, I met a girl who disapproved of my desire for a horse. (Seriously, what was her problem?) I will never forget what she said to me when I told her that I wanted a horse: “Yeah, right! Like that’s ever going to happen.” It was a like a dagger in my heart. Yet, it was also like a flame lit under me and from that moment on I didn’t just dream about getting a horse; I worked for it. I did as much research as a girl without the internet could muster. I took horseback lessons. I read books. I sent away for information on getting a free horse. A few years later, I had not one, but two horses that I had received for free. Actually, in retrospect, the first horse that was offered to me, I decided not to take. So, there, Debbie Downer! I see your “Never Getting a Horse” and raise you THREE FREE ONES!

How differently that situation could have turned out if I had agreed with Naysayer Girl. What if I had said, “Yeah, you’re probably right” and devoted the rest of my middle school years to pouring over issues of Teen Beat and listening to boy bands? I shudder at the thought.

Twice today I found myself saying that old adage: “Necessity is the mother of invention.” But truly, it’s more than necessity that gives birth to new creation.
It’s desire.
And passion.
And faith.

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things unseen. (Heb 11:1)

Faith is creation.

Creation is making and doing and achieving.

It's seeing the possible inside impossible.

It's believing.
And it’s there.

That little piggy.

Waiting for you to fashion it some wings and set it free.

The next time you hear the phrase, “When Pigs Fly,” (or any relative of that phrase,) I hope you consider it a dare. And I hope it inspires you to push a little harder, think outside the box and make your dreams come true.

I dare you.

Check out Goosezilla on DeviantArt.

No Rest for the Weary

Do you ever have trouble sleeping?

I do sometimes.

Not a lot.

But now and again I find myself staring at the ceiling, waiting for the walls to melt.

My whole family struggles with sleeping. It’s like we’re an anti-sleeping gang, (except for my dad, who we lovingly refer to as the great sleeping bear.) Getting a smart phone certainly didn’t help. Sometimes I’ll play Candy Crush or surf Facebook until I realize that the rejoicing over an early bedtime was for naught, as the numbers ONE ZERO ZERO reflect in my glazed over eyeballs.

There was one night, when I was so worried about getting a restful sleep because of an audition the next morning that I took a single Tylenol PM to help.

NEVER AGAIN.

I could barely wake up the next morning, and I felt groggy and, well, drugged all day.

So much for that audition. Pfft.

Even though I wouldn’t say that I suffer from a sleeping disorder, or anything, I have tried a few little tricks to make getting to sleep easier. And now, I shall share them with you:

Limit Yourself.

This is on practically every list, ever, but just in case you forgot: Don’t drink any caffeinated beverages after 4pm.
I know.
Seriously.
That early.
If you think you're one of those people that aren't affected by caffeine and you can't sleep at night...well, just keep telling yourself that.

Get Quiet.

Allow yourself some quiet time before actually trying to sleep. 20-30 minutes of quiet reading, meditation, or prayer (whatever floats your boat) can allow your mind and body to start coming down into a restful state.

Get Noisy.

My brother used to have a white noise machine in his guest bedroom and I hated it and I kind of wrote off the idea of white noise. However, with the advent of my trusty smart-phone, I discovered an app called, you guessed it, White Noise, and it is now one of my most favorite things. There are several different ambient sounds to choose from. My favorite is crickets. It sounds like it did outside my bedroom window in the house I grew up in aka Happiness.

I can sleep right through it.

You can also choose options like Thunderstorm, Train, Plane in Flight…you get the idea. And the best part of all this? That sucker is FREE. Google Marketplace. You can thank me later.

You're Getting Sleepy...Verrrry sleepy!

Hypnosis is the bomb-diggity. Some people are weird about this one, but I’m telling you, it works wonders. I got interested in self-hypnosis when I was about 14 and then sort of forgot about it until a couple years ago. I now use hypnosis regularly and it’s really quite fantastic. Try using a hypnosis audio session designed for sleep or deep relaxation (i.e. there’s no wake-up call at the end.) Free Hypnosis Treatment has some good ones, plus your hypnotherapist has an adorbs Northern British accent. Hypnosis works differently for everyone, by the way. For example, I almost always go into a meditative state while listening to a hypnosis audio, but my brother said it helped him sleep by guiding his mind through the hypnosis session so his mind wasn’t racing through all the things he was going to have to do the next day.

Consistency is Key.

Go to sleep at the same time every night. My actor friends are laughing at this one. Heck, I'm laughing at this one. 

                         

While this one is nearly impossible for many of us, myself included, it’s probably one of the most practical ones on this list. We all have an internal clock. Our bodies know when we need rest, and if we’re consistent about it then we’ll get better sleep. Promise.

Well, those are my personal tips and tricks for helping ME go to sleep. What are some things you do to help yourself get a good night’s rest? Or better yet, what do you do if you wake up in the middle of the night?

With Great Princessing Comes Great Responsbility

            Some of you know I’m an actress by trade and I am currently playing a princess at a local theatre for young audiences. This week we had daytime performances for local schools and afterwards we gave the kids the opportunity to ask a few questions. One that took me by surprise was, “Why is the Princess so pretty?” This was not a judgment, but rather a compliment turned into a question. It really caught me off guard, so I responded with some deflecting comment about the wonders that makeup can do for a person. As the cast left the stage, I walked by two children: a sweet looking girl and a boy with a faux-hawk. The girl caught my attention and said emphatically, truly wanting me to grasp it, “You really are pretty.” The boy tagged on, “Yeah, even I think so!” Backstage I found myself making comments about how much I loved those children, and how they made my day and how kids say the darndest things. While I knew the children had good intentions, I was troubled somehow. But, I decided to dismiss it, take the compliment and let myself feel good about it.

            One of the things I love about this particular theatre is that we have a meet and greet after every show where the kids can come and get pictures and autographs. Today, after the first show, one little girl came up to me and asked, “Is it easy for you to play a princess since you’re naturally pretty and your hair is the perfect length?” Instead of answering the question, I thanked her profusely and told her I was glad she thought I made a good princess. Oof. There was that troubling feeling again.

            Again, I went backstage and retold the tale of the cute child and allowed myself to bask in the approval of my young audience. It feels good to be accepted. It feels good to be told you’re attractive. So, why was I feeling haunted by these little interactions based on appearance?

            The answer came to me while I was “waiting in the wings” at the beginning of the second show. I have about 10 minutes of downtime at the beginning of this production. I use it to fix my hair, make sure all the parts of my costume are in the right places, etc. As I gazed in the mirror I realized what I wish I had said to that little girl who assumed that it was easy for me to princess because I was pretty: Being a princess isn’t about what you look like; It’s about how you treat other people. That troubling little pang of guilt I was feeling was not about accepting compliments or believing I was pretty enough, but that I was somehow perpetuating society's definition of what a princess should look like. (I take some solace in the fact that I am much curvier than your average princess, a fact that was seemingly unnoticed by my audience members.) I did not want them to think you had to be pretty to be a princess. I wanted to be a princess that all children could look up to and want to be like, not necessarily look like.

            When I think of princesses, both real and fictional, I think of how good and kind they are. From the humanitarian efforts of Princess Diana to Princess Jasmine’s (almost tragic) generosity to a hungry child…I was learning from their actions. I was learning what it meant to be good. And that goodness is what made the princesses of my childhood so beautiful. Thinking back to the question of that dear little patron: “Is it easy to play a princess since you’re naturally pretty?” No. No, it’s not, little girl. Because what makes me beautiful isn’t the length of my hair, the color of my skin, or any other physical attribute! It’s how I choose to treat others. And treating others well is a difficult dance, that I fail at, often, but strive to do well.

Obligatory Doctor Who quote that fits so perfectly here, it's stupid!

            We have four more performances before I hang up my princess crown. Next weekend, I will have the privilege to look into the faces of hundreds of children and hear what they think about this show and about my Princess. While I will be humbled, flattered and genuinely pleased to hear that I am beautiful, if they choose to share that with me, I hope it will not only be a surface kind of beauty they see, but something much deeper and lasting.

If You Build It...

            The baseball season is quickly coming to a close. The Red Sox and The Cardinals are going to the World Series. It’s exciting. While I've never considered myself to be a sports fan, I feel like I have always loved baseball. I don’t have fantasy teams, and I don’t keep track of scores or standings, really, but there is just something about that game.
            I was thinking about why I love baseball, as opposed to other sports, and I think it’s because baseball is very romantic; people cry and go crazy over this game! Why? I think it’s because it’s steeped in heritage and tradition. You go to the park wearing your jersey and hat. You bring your glove with the hopes of catching a ball. You get peanuts or a hot dog. And you scream, and jump up and down and sing as a part of a whole community that is there to experience the same thing.
            As a child I always loved the movie FIELD OF DREAMS. Looking at it now, it’s a bit strange—it’s not a kids’ movie. But that movie captured the romantic, almost magical quality of baseball bringing families together and believing in impossible dreams. The most haunting and memorable thing about the film is the repetition of the phrase “If you build it he will come.” Build what? Who will come? What do you think would happen if we committed fully to our dreams, even when it doesn't make sense?

            See, I believe that when we go to a ball game with our parents, friends or our kids, we are building something. It may seem like frivolous entertainment on the surface, but we are sharing something unique—an experience, a memory. And that builds relationships and foundations to something much more important than a ball game. But the game is the bridge that takes you there. The game is what helps complete opposites to meet in the middle. And if that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.

We're All Just Stories In The End

A few night ago, one my dogs chewed up a piece of my blanket that I keep on my bed.  It’s my favorite out of two lightweight blankets that I use during warmer months when my down comforter is just too hot.  Since getting my dogs I've allowed them on the bed because I want them to feel comfortable there.  I like it when they snuggle up beside me while I’m reading a book or taking a nap, although they don’t sleep with me at night...So, the dogs feel welcome on the bed and usually if they are on the bed I know they aren't getting into any trouble.  This time, however, one of them was in DEEP trouble.

            I entered my bedroom to find Rufus, the younger dog, to be chewing on the edge of the blanket, not a corner that could be hidden or an inconspicuous hole, but right along the edge and I was LIVID.  I swore at him and dragged him down the stairs to where his crate was and continued to berate him.  Even afterwards I found myself muttering under my breath that I couldn't believe that he had done that, and I was SO mad at him.  I was almost consumed by the fact that my blanket was no longer "nice."

After I had cooled down a bit I began to wonder—why did this upset me so much?  The blanket still works and I can still use it.  Would I prefer to have a perfect blanket and no puppy snuggles?  And to top it all off the blanket was given to me for FREE—so it wasn't as though I had lost some financial investment.  This made me feel a bit like Jonah and his vine. 

I've noticed this kind of behavior in myself over the years—something gets a tear or a stain, a little piece of paint chips off or, worst of all, a page gets bent and in my mind it’s RUINED.  Done.  Finito.  That’s the ball game.  What purpose does this attitude serve?  Why does it matter so much?  And why do I feel the need to carry around the burden of making sure nothing gets damaged?

As I examined the frayed edges of my blanket again, a thought occurred to me:  I could stop using this blanket, turn it into a “dog blanket” OR I could keep using this blanket and see that little frayed area as a part of my story.  All those little flaws and imperfections gives a clue about my life, what happened to me, what is important to me; the dog eared book that was obviously read and re-read, the dent in my car from the time I slid on some ice and (safely) came to a stop against a tree, and in this case, the blanket that took some damage so I could snuggle with my dogs.

I’ll probably remember that Rufus chewed on that blanket every time I see that frayed edge – The question is will I allow it to make me angry?  Or will it I allow it to tell part of my story?

Oh, there you are Vanessa!

        Identity. That’s a strange concept, isn’t it? What is identity? What defines who we are? I looked up the definition in several dictionaries and got these lovely tid-bits:

“Sameness of essential or generic character in different instances” 

“The distinguishing character or personality of an individual”

“The state or fact of remaining the same one, as under varying aspects or conditions”

“The sense of self, providing sameness and continuity in personality over time”

        I have always been someone who had a particularly strong “sense of self.” I was never worried about going along with the crowd. In fact, I seemed to thrive on being different. That always seemed like a positive thing. I was always sure of whom I was and I still feel that way, but a recent experience made me question the reality of that feeling.
        Since going away to college and getting married my parents have been graciously storing many of my things in my old bedroom. The items ranged from childhood memorabilia to leftover boxes from moving into apartments that were too small to accommodate all my “stuff.” Recently, my Mom asked me if I would come over and (finally) clean out my bedroom and take whatever I wanted to keep. Of course, I obliged—I have a house of my own now and it seemed like it was time.
        I know it sounds ridiculous, but my room was practically a fossil—frozen in time from late high school and early college. Going into my room at all felt like opening a time capsule but I had no idea what I was in for actually emptying it of everything that it made it mine.
The first things that came out of the room were expected, and it felt good to remove them. I was working quickly and making lots of progress until I began to find pieces of myself. Almost everything that I touched brought back a distinct memory or had some sort of story. It was almost fun—sorting through toys and books that I loved as a kid, finding papers from college, cards from a bridal shower—it was delightful to have all these memories come flooding back to me.
Once I had everything cleared out of the room the only thing left for me to do was to take down the multitudes of pictures, drawings, posters and various other paraphernalia that I had stuck all over my wall. I began zealously—heartlessly taking down items without giving myself much time to think, but when I started taking down the photographs my heart began to ache. Over 10 years had passed since I put these photographs on my wall and they represented the people that were the most important to me at the time. As I began to take them down, one by one, I realized that my room was a time-machine. I had just watched my entire life flash before my eyes and these things on the wall were the last little bits left. I gazed upon the faces featured in those photographs and found myself staring at people who had been so dear to me, some of which still are, but various circumstances had wedged space between us and now those people, those friends aren’t a part of my life on a regular basis anymore. Over and over I found clues about what had been so important to me all those years ago and I was dumbfounded when I realized that I forgotten. I had forgotten who I was back then. Forgotten what mattered to that version of me. And I began to question my identity.
Looking back at the definitions of identity, the one that I found the most troubling was “the sense of self, providing sameness and continuity in personality over time.” If I had changed so much in 10 years, forgotten so much in 10 years, how could my identity be the same? What does it mean for us if our identity changes a little every year? In 20 years will I even recognize myself? Will I have completely forgotten who I was when I was a young girl?
I wrestled with this for awhile. It felt jarring to be faced with an overwhelming pile of belongings and memories that had become a puzzle that was a reflection; a reflection that I didn’t recognize anymore. This was overwhelming to process so I just packed everything up and left.
After everything was in my house, there were boxes and bags and bags and more bags of “stuff” piled everywhere. I started unpacking these ancient relics and reorganizing them into my home. And that’s when the magic began. Little by little all these things, the memorabilia, the compositions, the photographs, the notes from friends, began to find homes, seamlessly within my current life. And it dawned on me that the reason I had forgotten so much about my life 10 years ago was that I had completely separated myself from it. It was all trapped in that time-capsule bedroom of mine. And it didn’t belong there anymore. All those pieces of me belonged where I was. And almost as if they had a life of their own, they started to become a part of me once again. And I remembered.
It’s never too late to reach into your past and retrieve pieces of yourself that you didn’t think you wanted or needed. I realized that all those things that I thought weren’t a part of me anymore were just hidden underneath all the new layers and layers that I’ve acquired since then.  But that didn’t mean that the pieces from my past were voided by the present. Somewhere, deep inside of all of us, lives each person that we used to be. And they live there, waiting for a time when we might need them again. And they are never truly lost. Through this experience, I have reached out to old friends and rediscovered hobbies that I had all but given up on…and I feel like I just remembered how to fly.