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.

What Does "On The Jazz" Mean?

     About a month ago I decided that I wanted to write my own blog. I had been dealing with a deterioration of what I would consider my “true” self and one day I sat up in bed with the sun shining over my bed and I said, “Life is what you make of it.” And that is, in short, what this blog is all about. 

    Next came the hard part: What should I call my blog? I wanted something that could describe having a joie de vivre, being whimsical, being in touch with your inner child, thinking outside the box, marching to the beat of your own drum even if everyone else thinks you’re crazy. The concepts were good but everything I came up with was a tired idiom and nothing seemed right. Then, at long last I had it: On The Jazz! But wait…what does that even mean? To tell you that we’ll have to take a little trip into my past:

    When I was a young girl I discovered a television show called The A-Team, and for many, many years it was my favorite thing in the world (…especially Murdock!) I know it may sound odd, but that show helped me to stay true to myself even if it meant that others thought I was weird. For a kid, having the confidence to stick to your guns is an incredible tool, especially when so many of your formative years are shrouded in peer pressure and just wanting to fit in. So, though the A-Team may seem like a dusty old piece of pop-culture it will always hold a special place in my heart.

    The phrase “On The Jazz” is lifted from various episodes of the A-Team. It was something that the members of the A-Team use to describe their leader, Hannibal, when he was forming a plan. Hannibal’s plans usually worked, but they were always a little crazy, and so they would normally say something to the effect of, “Oh, no, he’s on The Jazz!” One time a character on the show asked what “The Jazz” was and this was the reply:

    And I like it, too. But knowing where the phrase comes from doesn't really explain what it means. So, I began to think about that. What does being On The Jazz mean to me?

    The Jazz is being yourself, no apologies. It’s making the most of every moment. It’s finding something to celebrate in every day. The Jazz is following your dreams and thinking outside of the box. It’s seeing the world from a different perspective. The Jazz is sparkling eyes and a big smile. It’s doing something that scares you and loving it. It’s appreciating the small things and finding a way to tackle the big things. The Jazz is singing in the shower and catching fireflies or dancing in the rain. It’s laughing until you cry. It’s appreciating the people around you and telling them so. And most importantly, The Jazz is the best part of me. It's what I want to share with you and hopefully, in the process, you'll be On The Jazz, too.