NEED vs. want is a concept hitting pretty hard right now. Especially in this climate of our country that is in such a state of economic chaos.
In the context of the Bible, there are numerous instances where it talks about the “physical” and the “spiritual.”
We NEED food, we NEED shelter, we NEED warmth. We NEED guidance, we NEED salvation, we NEED redemption.
I’ll be the first to admit that I have been comfort shopping. I was doing it since last fall, when I’ve been sporadically laid up with my health issues. It me feel better to buy a little something, something here and there. Amazon.com has my evil little shopping buddy.
What makes all of this worse is that because I have not been feeling well, I haven’t been working as much and, in this insane political and economical climate, our family should be saving every penny. Especially when we’re trying to pay off two kids college tuitions.
Today I ventured out to The Jewel, and I needed just a few things. Still not feeling well: weak, walking through the store kinda groggy, forgetting things, bumping into things… zombie shopping. I get to self check out. It is just as much a routine for me to donate a little extra to whatever charity comes up on the keypad, as it is to enter my Jewel membership number.
I am lucky, I am blessed, I can buy groceries, and every time I do that, I can take a teeny amount of that and have it to help somebody else. Nothing off my back. The people in NEED may be nameless and faceless to me, but it requires no effort to make a gesture.
Finishing up my groceries, I put them in my little bag I brought from home. I hit the big “pay” button and when it asks me if I want to donate money to a family food donation fund, I accidentally hit no.
I kind of caught myself. My fingers were flying fast. But at this point, I have to get out of there… Not feeling well, need to put my groceries away and lie down. I throw the bag in the cart. I start to walk away, just a little bit. Just a few steps.
IT IS A DOLLAR. Pull yourself together!
I can’t. I can’t do it. Because I know that at 3:45 AM in the morning, I’m going to be laying in bed upset at myself. I was probably standing there for maybe 60 seconds but I had 5000 thoughts flying in my head at the same time. Always such a strange thing. But one of those millions of thoughts was “What if everybody forgot to hit ‘yes’ today. I bet they add up and people will suffer.”
Above the self checkout machine is a row of candy and gum. I grabbed a pack of peanut M&Ms. Yeah, I’m diabetic…so? Add, donate, pay.
#lentphotoaday
I felt totally better as I pushed my cart to the car, packed up the groceries and headed home.
It’s an important reminder that we need to turn our compassion from ourselves to others. No support can be too small.
Referring back to the greedy shopping, last week I finally pulled myself together. I stopped making doom scroll purchases and I reminded myself to ask the question: Do I NEED this or do I do I just want it?
Philippians 4:19
“And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.”
God does provide the NEEDS, we just keep the faith to find them. And if others need guidance and help, we can take them by the hand and lead the way.
If you read my last blog, conveniently written just three fresh hour ago, you are caught up on all my nonsense. It’s easier of you just to fill yourself in, then come back. I’ll be here.
Ok, so this is funny. I was an actor in the city of Chicago for years. Out of college as a theater major, I was in a couple of different theater companies. The first troupe was called Studio 108. It was a silly, albeit freaking cutting-edge, ground-breaking, totally brilliant and talented gaggle of all my best college besties. Onstage shenanigans galore. We subsidized our meager performance pay with boring 9 to 5’s. Simon’s Tavern in Andersonville was our church and the Jukebox was our choir. We chain-smoked Marlboro Lights, made out with each other in the back alley, filled our empty bellies with meat (Guinness) and Melort backs. Tiny Chili Frito bags were 50 cents and we just kept.them.coming. Artistically, the mission of our productions was crazypants. We all had pseudo characters that put on pseudo productions. Actors, playing actors, playing actors. Hey, Waiting for Guffman, we beat you to it.
#lentphotoaday
My character was called Quarkee Borkenhagen. Adorable, dumb as a rock, all things precious and a little smidge touched. She misspelled her name every single time she used it. Quorqi, Qwuerkie, Quarkie. She also played Angel Gabriel in the Christmas Nativity scene of one of our holiday productions. To set the scene, the audience threw Styrofoam snowballs at everyone partying in the Manger scene. For proof and authenticity proposes, there is no actual proof. Just the good word on the streets. There is no video of these performances, as it was basically before actual Christ time when I was in college and before these times of cell phones. But just picture…blonde Betty Boop, in mis-fitting angel clothes, tripping over her sheep hook, buzzed on Mickey’s beer and talking like a Charlie Brown character. Listen. In my world that I was living in during that actual moment, I was BRINGing it.
And that was my big line. Luke 2:10-11.
Fast forward thirty years. Oof.
But I jest. Now BRING obviously has different meanings and comes from different places. I am now wearing different caps. In the Bible, it also has different meanings. To fetch, to lead, to gather or cause to come. Jesus invites us to participate. He doesn’t order us…we can R.S.V.P how we want. I certainty am feeling like replying yes a little more these days.
So what can I BRING to the table? I feel like I can bring faith. I can have faith in the world we are struggling though and my health issues and that my family will be okay. I can also BRING my perspective to others, pass the spark, move the torch, light a fire. He brings us the story. It’s up to us if we chose to listen.
Or also know as: A Lenten Reflective Journey…With Hiccups.
Ahhh, Facebook….the best online hang in the world to connect, yet simultaneously annoying, politically stressful and chock full of HACKERS.
Last month, I saw a dear friend involved in a Facebook #rethinkchurch daily practice, inspired by The United Methodist Church. She was participating with another lovely friend who moved to the Big Stone Gap, and it’s been nice to be able to keep tabs on her and her wonderful life out there. I was intrigued by the idea of spiritual reflection, with a sprinkle of accountability. It’s always been a good look for me. In the last three years, I very painfully lost my dad and have been suffering from chronic health issues. My kids are getting older, life is moving so much faster. I feel very grateful for my soul mate husband, my loving children, family, friends, my home and my life. I am washed over with the overwhelming need to express my gratitude and thankfulness.
I had somewhat of a darker experience with religion when I was younger. Dark isn’t quite the right word. It’s not a positive word to pinpoint, but it was…problematic? So, as we sometimes do, I put it all in my pocket and I shoved it in the back of the closet. Well. Seems like I’m feeling the need to clean a little house. Exploring my relationship with religion and God has slowing inched over to me on the couch. I’m starting to lean in and I’m starting to listen.
At the beginning of March, I started the daily #lentphotoaday, prompted by a suggested word. I would post it on my FB page, tagging my reflective Lent tribe. I loved it. I was waking up every morning, inspired by nature outside my window, old photos, memories and pulling out our old family Bible. It all felt very cathartic and warm to explore.
And then we got Facebooked hacked.
And then I got really sick.
And then, instead of being able to reflect on my past, present and future relationship with God, and preparing for Easter in my own little way, I was just praying to God that I would get better and not die in the hospital. Not the journey I was intending.
I was in there seven days with a virus that turned pneumonic, and heavy IV steroids that bumped me to coma-high blood sugars. All of that craziness thrust me into a rancid, full-blown case of Diabetes. It sounds dramatic because it is. It sucks. I’m home now in insulin, bruised like a pin cushion, beat-up, weak and exhausted. My new medical path has changed and I will be now focusing on getting better. But I remain positive because LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL. I am babying myself so I can keep plugging along. Summer is coming…summer is coming.
In the end, if I can also be honest, I think this worked out. It’s getting me writing again. Also, It was not a comfortable platform for me to be sharing my reflections anyway. My FB circle is used to handling my funny meme’s, annoying mom brag posts and lots of music promotional material. I think it works out for me to head over to this crazy little Heatherland. Its feels so much more appropriate; a public blog, but ironically personal, since no one really reads it.
Therefore, here I am, jumping back into the Lent pool.
Last week I caught that nasty Influenza A. Even knocked on the ER door because I could find a breath. Tons of grody illnesses going around and the only way to escape any of it is to not leave your house. Boy, this flu was FLU-ING. Might as well been first round Covid. And if you’re one of those people that frequently comes up to me and says “oh my God you’re always sick…why you’re always sick”, and throw in an eye roll with a little laugh at me, let me just pop in one more time that I suffer from a chronic autoimmune disease and my immune system does not work; it malfunctions. That’s it’s strongest characteristic. As far as how annoyed you are about me being sick AGAIN, you can imagine how annoying it is for me to be the one who’s sick AGAIN.
So here I was this week, very, very sick with the whole checklist of all the symptoms. Chained to my bed, Netflix my bestie. My fever was high, and I was hallucinating California wildfires in the blinds that were burning on the lake in my backyard. I called my mom on the phone to call one of my kids downstairs to bring me a blanket because I was freezing. At one point, I convinced myself that I was an accountant but I couldn’t read numbers. Shit got weird. I was sick as fuck.
Most people, when they get sick like this, they have to call into their job; they can’t do it. I have two choices… Show up, suck, talk to a bunch of people when my throat feels like I swallowed glass OR I cancel and stay in my bed and disappoint everyone, while also, remaining broke.
So last night I showed up to one of my favorite places that I play at because the owner and the management and the staff are so sweet and kind and the food is so good and the people who go there all the time are really good people. We set up, get ready, we start. I tried to sing three notes and I shit.the.bed. It’s coming out like insanity. I have no control. I am, in fact, Peter Brady.
It’s like you waking up in the morning, getting in the shower, getting dressed, making your coffee, grabbing a bite of breakfast, getting in the car and driving to your day job…you walk in and say hi to everybody…you get to your desk, you put down your coffee and you turn your computer on….and you type. And the words come out like ghjjhtftgyuhjkopngddetuhfssdtybvdss
And you try it again, because that can’t possibly be right:
Ddfghjireessfvhjkklkjbgrdseefhgfghgg
Wait….what?
Jjkngfdrtyiijbfswqqqwdghikjbcddedvv
…
Good luck with your day.
I’m not going to let people tell me that it’s OK, that it was fine, that it wasn’t “that bad”. I have one fucking job and that’s to open my mouth and deliver something good. It’s been a no-brainer since I was seven. So you can imagine my dismay three seconds into a three hour gig that I had literally had 0% control of my voice.
I stood there with my eyes welling with tears, my body was stiff and frozen in actual fear, and I mouthed to my husband,“ what do I do?”
My urge was to walk off the stage and go in the car and sit with my coat over my head and fucking cry and then try to call somebody who can sing and say please come to my gig and take it over, but I couldn’t.
So I had to plow through, smile and look people in the eye who were either disgusted, confused or embarrassed.
This job. I picked it. Not your problem, it’s mine. It’s showing up being completely vulnerable in front of everybody so you see all the good and all the bad and it’s my plight to get used to people saying whatever they want to me and let them think they have a right. This weekend I could’ve stayed in bed and been sick just like everybody else who was sick, but I came out. Pull up your skirt, Nancy.
The next time you’re at a restaurant with family, and there are some people making music in the corner, my goodness, please remember they’re human. We have our own full little lives and just because we are hired help, it looks fun and we get to have a cocktail while we do it, it’s hard sometimes. My purpose is to bring you joy… I’ll trade you that for a little bit of grace…and a cough drop from the bottom of your purse xo
If I scooch all the way to the edge, my whole feet are under water. I hear the light splashes but not much else. I make little circles and swirls and I feel ten again. Trees of all the colors of green, beige and brown surround me as they rustle. The pond is so round. Almost too perfect. Little birds talk to each other here and there, but I can’t make out what they are saying.
I look down to my my left hand flat next to me against the worn cinnamon and chestnut wood. It’s pink with sun but it doesn’t hurt, yet. A fish kissed the surface but he was gone before I could turn fast enough to say hi.
I love the solace. I feel warm and happy to be surrounded by water. But I also feel so under the water of being there alone. All the way at the bottom.
I hope a fisherman will come and sit with me. I’d love to chat or just sit quiet while he catches and releases.
In the longest almost year of my life…dad’s health issues have taken over his Lewybodys Dementia and he’s in his last days. When LBD hit rapidly last July, after a septic UTI and hospital stay, our world was forever changed. Massive significant health problems, including surgeries and an amputation, made his confusion from LBD and his confusion of what was medically happening to him absolutely devastating to witness. Now I sit by him at his facility and he sleeps most of the time. He stopped eating a couple of days ago and it’s even hard to get him to take a few sips of water. I’m a writer, novice, but it’s my love language. I’ve barely been able to even write the utter emotional and physical despair this has inflicted on me and my family. Most importantly, on Dad. How is it possible that in less than a year, I am losing my big, strong, successful, insanely intelligent, funny, loving father? What we are all going through, this is the hardest stuff of life. I’m clinging to him in the last moments of his; praying for his calm and his peace, until he finally can be with our loved ones in Heaven. Hugs to everyone who has had to go through this. You don’t know until you know.
The first headline I read this morning was from Huff Post:
“Gen Xers and Millennial’s Got Into Weirdest Fight Over Super Bowl HalfTime Show”
My eyes are full of tears and I have to look away. I glance up at the hospital room TV. The halftime show star is starting, but it’s on mute. Mike and I are helplessly watching two hospital nurses shake you awake to see if you were ok. It takes about 10 minutes. You are so confused when you wake up. I have to leave to room to go cry in the hallway. Again.
We missed the half time show. But we also didn’t miss a thing.
The Sea Island sun blinds me when I look up to see your face. I stop-salute you and squint to block it from my eyes. You and your mustached-face looks down at me, smiling. You reach down to grab my nose and peek your thumb out of your knuckle sandwich. You hold it up and say, “got your nose!”
“Give it Back!” I yell, but I’m laughing and I’m chasing your serpentine. Back and forth, in and out of the water. I follow your footsteps and try to match them. I put my foot inside yours and I squish it all around. The waves are awfully loud, but I love them and then you grab me and give me my nose back.
I love any beach or water anywhere forever and ever and it’s because of moments like this. It’s safe, you are relaxed and it just means love. I have to run fast to keep up: one-two-three-four Heathersteps, in and out of the water, equal one big Daddystep. You laugh and stop and wait for me. Then you grab my hand. It’s so windy and the waves are so big and they break the silence in a way that makes me close my eyes and be happy. It smells so good. You are so tall and I look up at you and you laugh out the words, “hurry up, twinkle toes.”
I giggle when you take the shells I give you and you say “Ooooooooh, that’s a good one“.
I feel proud that I picked it and you put it in your pocket. I am twirling round and round with the sand between my toes. When I dizzy-stop, stumble and laugh, you are walking back. You’re done. I stop-salute and squint, watching you get smaller as you walk away. You yell back, “Go to mom now.“
***
I’m a bad actor and I can’t fake it anymore. I am screaming inside and crying and keening and wailing. Every tiny cell of me is tired. We are now in Defcon 1. I can’t control you. You can’t figure out reason or make sense of anything. There are not people in the corners trying to hurt you. You are not being poisoned. We are not trying to kill you. I wish I could rescue you from the alien world that you are living in your head. It seems so scary and mean and awful. I’d give anything to Stranger Things you outta there.
I spend hours trying to show you how much I love you. Even when I am not with you, I still worry and wonder if you are ok. I’m so sad that you are leaving me; that you have already kind of left. The other night in the wee hours, you were yelling at me:
You do not care if I die.
You are out to get rid of me.
You are not on my team.
You don’t have my back.
When you say these things, I can handle it. Your words bounce off me onto the floor. I can step on them a little and kick them under the couch. I know you don’t mean it. I know you are sick. I am tough and I can fight them off.
Your face looks so different now. I remember being little and tracing your face with my fingertips. “Oops…got your nose.”
I know you can no longer read your books; now it’s only faces. I am sorry that sometimes I don’t look at you when we talk. I try to make my face happy, but sometimes, I just can’t.
Feelings transition to some kind of desperation. I want someone there with me to see what I have to do. I need a wingman. I want someone to hug me. I need help with you. I need you to help me with you. I long for the dad I had, to give me advice about the dad I have now. I feel desert Island lonely.
This journey has given me some useful takeaways and Heather 2022 has a new criteria for friendship.: Choose the right people who deserve to hear your story. I love hearing stories of the people I love and I know they hear me back. There is nothing worse than realizing that someone don’t want all of the sides of you. I have been screaming from the inside of insides. I don’t have the energy to only listen and not be heard. I hope to replenish soon.
I think I am spending so much time writing this to procrastinate making phone calls. Calls to find somewhere we can move you away from the home that you worked so hard for and away from the life you knew. Can I call in a sub for this too? Inhale…exhale…
I took a night off from being with you last night to sleep in a real bed. Today, I head back to you and the couch. When I get in the car, I will cry. I will walk in the door with a smile. I will try not to lose it, but sometimes I do. You threw a box of tissues at me the other night. I karate-chopped it from my face and the box went flying. It was actually super funny. Wish you were there.
Two months ago I made a pact with myself. I had just recently been very sick. I live with a bum immune system and it can be a pretty tough and often misunderstood. I was diagnosed with some pretty nasty stuff, including IBS. I was basically bitch-slapped into that by a severe amount of anxiety. I take horrible care of me and I am also a stressball. It was a long Covid year(s), I have a sick family member, I wasn’t working my day job anymore…I needed a break to heal up, re-group and re-charge. I decided that I would commit myself to a 365 daily blog challenge. I love to write my feelings. And eat my feelings. And write them.
Six days into it, my world turned even more upside down. The close sick family member took a really bad turn and life changed again. Sleepless nights, stress, exhaustion, fright, helplessness…all of it knocked me down. Suddenly, sharing my words, thoughts and feelings felt too private. I was desperately and unequivocally sad. I stopped blogging. Quitter, quitter chicken dinner.
My dream last night was so unnerving, that I woke up with my fingers practically typing in mid-air. I needed to get this out. It was so real. I’m not going to go to much into it, but it was a common Heather nightmare dream theme of me onstage forgetting lyrics, wearing an outfit that made me look like an encased sausage, and it was ripping, everyone hated me and someone with Buddy Holly glasses was in my band.
Seriously, WTF. I know it stems from me struggling to fit into the molds that people want to fit me in.
Can you be more….rock Can you be more…country Can you be more…
Dude. I AM more.
I am not blowing smoke up my own ass. An accountant knows he’s good with numbers, a carpenter knows his way around his tools and a history teacher knows freaking history. I HATE to have to sell myself. Sometimes I’m just tired of having to list my bullet points as to why you should hire me. Just, listen.
I think it’s kind of hard to find singers that can do multi-genres. I know this…singers like us, it’s our superpower. In a set, I can sing Fleetwood Mac, Adele, Billie Holiday, Rusted Root, Janis Joplin, The Foos, Miranda Lambert and The fucking Who. I mean, they may not be great performances, but I make them my own and it should be good enough. And the most important thing is that I play with some incredible musicians. THEY make me sound good. Sometimes the person booking may not even get that far, because they can’t see past the way I look, to realize that one person is singing all of that.
The pickle that I am in is that I am stuck in middle-aged female singer limbo. It’s a thing. I’m too old to be that hot young cutie and I’m too young to be the old, respected legend. I’m simply a 52 year old chubby housewife wife who can sang.
Ok, Heather, slow your roll. I was never totally that hot young cutie. I was always maybe a little adorable, but always chunky. It was ok because my voice gave me a hall pass. I also landed me a hot husband. Cute enough, dammit.
Truthfully, my whole life, I have experienced other people having more of a problem with my weight than I do. And that makes me feel like I have to run around all the time and apologize for it. Hard cracking nut. It’s like: I don’t want to go into battle, but everyone thinks I need to go into battle, but then I’m fine not going to battle, but I can see people disappointed I’m not going into battle, so fuck it. (Going into battle.)
This has been happening to me forever. The stuff when I was young almost hurts too much to talk about. In college, I was playing with my band at the very legendary (in my mind) Tulagi’s in Boulder. I was on a break, chugging a beer at the bar, when a friend came up to me and said, “Can I tell you? You shouldn’t drink beer, you’re getting kinda… I am not the only one who thinks so. So sad, Heath. Don’t do it. You’re so pretty. ” *Blink Blink*.
Yes, that guy was a ska-douchebag. But also, yes, that shit stuck with me. It hurt badly enough that I am writing about it 38 years later. I might also add that I have always been a magnet for people telling me stuff to my face that one shouldn’t say to anyone’s face. I must shoot out some weird aura. I always hated that about me.
A college boyfriend broke up with me once after a time of separation. I left school early and when he came home for the summer, he turned like a bad melon. I will never forget this because he was swinging on a hammock and I was standing in front of him, crying and asking him why he was dumping me: “You know…”(waves hand up and down me)
“No, I don’t know…what?!”
“You know. The…the…” (waves hand up and down me again)
It took me a few minutes until I horrifically figured out what he meant.
“Because I GAINED SOME WEIGHT?”
“Uh….well…yeah.”
Voila: Ska-douchebag number two.
It just kind of kept on happening. Someone in the late eighties tried to compliment me. They told me I looked like Belinda Carlisle. BITCHIN’!, I thought. ”…you know, before she lost the weight”.
Yes, you can make this shit up, but I don’t have to, because it did actually happen.
Most recent battle story:
First of all, 1/4 of my Facebook requests are from trainers or people selling weight loss supplements. Jesus weeps. Do you know how offensive that is? Leave me and my chubby cheek profile picture alone. A couple of years ago, I was encouraged to lose weight and I was totally game. I was feeling like crap. Online somewhere on my social media, there was an old promo shot. I used to love it…that photo was plastered so many different times for years in the Chicago Tribune, The Sun Times; multiple media platforms where I was written about and reviewed for hard work in my career that I was really proud of. Someone said, “let’s get you looking like this again”.
THAT PICTURE WAS TAKEN 15 YEARS AGO. Honestly, I don’t blame them or think badly of them. I got what they were trying to put down. But I was really upset. I didn’t show it. I choked down my tears and nodded and faked super enthusiasm. “Yes! Let’s do it!” It did work for a bit as a motivational tool. Every time I ran on the treadmill and every time I thought about putting something naughty in my mouth, I thought about that picture. I lost almost 40 pounds in less than three months. I looked gooooodddd, damn skippy. And I felt fabulous. But…I still didn’t look like that picture. I’ll NEVER look like that picture again. Holy hell, I didn’t even look like that picture when I took that picture.
But all of this, ALL OF THIS, is bearable, except when it prevents me from doing the job that I love. I know that sometimes I don’t get hired because of the way I look. I see younger girls who are super adorable yes, but I’m just as good and it doesn’t.even.matter.
I get it I get it I get it. It IS about the customer and what they want, and the fans and what they want, but my God, it should also be about musicians being GOOD.
I could go back to acting right now and get a shit ton of roles because I can fit molds, play a character, plenty of work for the middle-aged. The only problem with me doing that Is that on most good days, I’ve misplaced my keys and my wallet, so I’m clearly too fucking old to memorize any lines.
People think this job is a party, but it’s hard work. It’s YEARS of hard work. I am so damn proud of myself to still be sticking around, and so proud of all my musician friends who do not give up on performing. It is WHAT WE DO. In the end, I know I’m super blessed. I’m surrounded by my beautiful family and amazing friends…and a music family of incredibly talented, loving and insanely gifted musicians that don’t give a fuck what I look like. I probably won’t be Freda or a Mavis, but I’ll keep on keepin’ on, until someone gets the hook. It’s not over when the fat lady sings.
How is he talking to me and he looks like himself and his hands move like himself and I’ve sat in this chair across from him a million times while he sat in that chair across from me a million times? Now all his words in their order make no sense like cut up, strung up and mismatched pieces of fabric. I’m trying to smile on the outside and I’m praying he can’t tell that I’m screaming and crying on the inside.
I’m in awe, and it’s not in the fireworks way, or being at Disney way, or a nurse handing one of my babies in my arms for the first time sort of way. That’s all awe filled with joy.
Tonight he couldn’t tell me very importantly what he very importantly wanted to tell me. That’s awe filled with sad.
Falling asleep, broken heart. Scrunch tears and think of years ago, walking on a beach where he pulled me out of the water, laughed loud, called me “twinkle toes”, skipped a rock and bent down to hold my hand.
HEATHERLAND 