Feel.

寧為太平犬，不做亂世人

For my non- Mandarin- speaking friends, this supposedly translates to "It is better to be a peaceful dog than a chaotic man," which is considered the basis for what we call "The Chinese Curse": 

May you live in interesting times. 

Anyone who really knows me, meaning that they've taken the time to do so, knows it's been one hell of a year in the life of Jayne. I don't really have any boring years in my adult life past, but this one could certainly win the proverbial cake. 

I married the man of my dreams. I now live in a city that I not only love, but that has welcomed me in a way that has been quite frankly overwhelming. My daughter is at the perfect age of 5, when we can have brilliant conversations but she still wants to crawl into my lap with her blankie. I have been allowed to use my creative personality to support the causes that I love, and I feel more appreciated and intellectually stimulated than ever before. Most importantly, my husband and his family have been so supportive and loving that it scares me more often than I usually admit. But...

...there has been what I would call a tragedy trifecta over the last six months. People who know me personally are probably aware of one. Some know of two. A select few know of all three. Suffice it to say, each one was truly and without exaggeration traumatic. Each one knocked me down hard, without having fully stood up again from the last blow. I keep getting permission from loved ones, acquaintances, complete strangers, and professionals to grieve; to mourn the losses that are very real, the ones hoped for, and the ones felt so deep in the soul they feel real. 

I have. I have mourned. I have mourned more in the last six months of my life than I had in the entire thirty-five years prior. I am pushing through, but with every few steps forward there's another step back. Another reminder: a song, a memory, a speech, an email... which inevitably lead to a complete meltdown of my composure. I sob on my knees on the kitchen floor. I sob while sleeping, and only realize it when I awake to a wet pillow under my head. I sob in the car on the way to a meeting, and in the bathroom while brushing my teeth. And I am so fucking sick of being sad. 

I'm told it's good. I'm told it's healthy. I'm told it's necessary. My sweet husband, my angel, keeps telling me I need to face it and let it out and that it's ok to cry. He encourages it and holds me and gets the tissues when the tears start flowing. He makes me feel loved even through the ugly cries. There are a lot of ugly cries. But I feel guilty, because I know I have so much to be happy about, and despite my outward appearance I really am aware of how blessed I am. Which makes it worse! It does, because I know how happy I should be, and to waste my time crying feels incredibly selfish and self-absorbed, which of course makes me cry more.

But despite all of this, which I suppose was somewhat expected given what has happened, there has been an unforeseen side effect: I also break down at beauty. I break down at joy. I break down at anything that topples my already-at-capacity emotions and I feel. everything. to it's fullest, even the really great things. It's odd, because it is such a thin line between joy and sorrow that sometimes I can't tell the difference. Frustration and overwhelming emotion all feel the same; it just needs to burst out of me. But the part that makes me feel better is that I feel hope when I cry for beautiful reasons. 

I cried a few nights ago while cooking dinner, watching my husband carry my daughter around the living room as they played "Olympics" (it was the luge, you see).  I cried when I looked around the table at a benefit that hit really close to home yesterday, realizing that the people around me were the most beautiful human beings, inside and out, who contribute to their communities and to each other in a way that is unsurpassed, and who love me and each other like family. I wasn't exactly happy, in the traditional sense, but I was hopeful.  

I cried tonight, witnessing what I could only describe as "magic," as a brilliant author and a team of brilliant theater professionals described how they took a novel and turned it into a musical that is sure to bring so much to so many in the coming months and years. That creative energy, the possibilities, and the emotions that will come out of the work that they are doing is so much bigger than anyone realizes. My heart was bursting. How could it not? 

The world is full of so much beauty, and we have so much to be happy about and to appreciate. We are growing as a species; we are developing beautiful works of art every day. I wouldn't wish my tragedies on my enemies if I had them, but I will own what I do have like I own my short stature and my less-than-voluptuous backside. They are mine, and they make me me. 

My tragedies have shaped me, and based on the surge of emotions that consume me fairly often these days, they will continue to shape me. Would I let go of all of this beauty in order to lessen the pain of the awfulness? Probably. Because it really hurts. But while I work through it I will let that painful joy consume me as well, and hope that in the end, it will be victorious. 

Merely Players.

A long time ago, one could say several lifetimes in fact, I was a part of a rather unconventional family. 

The other members may not have even known it. But a series of traumatic experiences and news had left my soul battered beyond the point of recognition, even though not many people knew or noticed because I was so good at hiding it. I was an actor after all. And given that I spent most of my time around people who hadn't known me previously, nobody knew that I was different than my "old" self. I'm sure I didn't make much of an impression on anyone; I was just happy to be around a group of people so talented and unique, with no false pretenses of proper decorum, encouraging each other to be their true selves and to grow their gifts. 

I was part of an acting troupe that rehearsed throughout the summer and performed weekends through the fall. I was a part-timer, simultaneously working through my junior year of college, but I spent my weeks looking forward to the time I would spend with that fascinating group of individuals. Some were like me, brought up in suburban towns far from the glittering lights of New York and Chicago and working their way up to stardom bit part by bit part. Others were from distant lands, traveling gypsies working their way around the world experience by experience, and still others were simply running away from lives they knew they couldn't stay in. There were consummate professionals and there were philosophical drifters, and there was everything in between. And there was a lot of laughter and even more love, in many many ways. 

It was hot as hell in the summertime, and later in the season they were scraping ice off the stage. The costumes were often heavy and awkward, and yet never heavy enough when the winter air started to settle in. We got paid next to nothing. But every day after rehearsal or show we would all drop our characters and keep the local pubs in business while entertaining and learning about each other. What my "family" didn't realize that summer is how much I needed all of that. It may have been so simple and yet that camaraderie, that joy and those deep talks got me through one of the toughest periods of my life. I'm sure I was not the only one. Most of us were escaping something in our lives, which is often true of artists of any kind and especially true of most New Yorkers, as many of us were or turned out to be down the line. 

The season ended and I had many new experiences and perspectives under my belt, and I tried to go back to a nice normal college life. But between my season in the acting group and the personal dramas I'd been trying to manage, I was past being able to return to "normal." When the opportunity to move to New York with some other actor friends came along, I jumped at it, and continued to move down a path of escapism, to the ultimate Island of Misfit Toys. Quite a few of us stayed in touch for awhile. Some stayed friends, some dated, and some worked on projects together, either in the city or beyond. Some continued to perform and others moved on to successes in other areas of the entertainment world or out of it. I turned my focus to hospitality and later went corporate, realizing that my creative inclinations and experiences were useful in more right-brain-based industries where I seemed to be better suited once I worked through my head. 

But through it all: four cities, a failed marriage, a child, and a whirlwind of jobs and dreams and travels, that world and the people in it were never far out of my mind or heart, and I welcomed any and all interaction over the next decade. First it was just email or over drinks, then via myspace, then Facebook... each time the medium changed we would find each other all over again. It was so long ago and yet when I look over my social media streams, those people still are the ones I care about the most. We have all gone in so many directions both geographically and ideologically, but they have remained the most interesting and warmest people I've known in my lifetime. Which is why, when a piece of news showed up on my screen yesterday, I surprised even myself by reacting the way that I did. 

One of these beautiful people that had been a part of this family for really what amounted to only a few months of my life, passed away yesterday. I sobbed like I hadn't in years. I reached out for the others as they did, and we realized that we were all still there; the family was intact minus one. At first I felt so guilty; I don't even know if she would remember me and I hadn't spent as much time with her as so many others had... what right did I have to grieve this way? But then I saw others expressing the same concern and realized I wasn't alone. It was unbelievably heartbreaking yet beautiful the way that this group came back together even if only virtually and briefly. And I realized how much I missed them, and how grateful I was to know them all even for such a brief time.

I realized over the last few years how much I missed the arts and the theatre in particular. Although I've been a patron and a fan all during this time, and have done much to bring the arts into my new circles, I have missed really being a part of it. With each show that I saw, with each review or press release that I read, I have felt my heart being pulled further and further back. But the final kicker was this news that I received yesterday that made the path before me so crystal clear. This morning I had a conversation that will lead me back home, to my first passion, and to me being a productive contributor to the world that accepted me no matter what else happened in my life. 

I have never forgotten that beautiful sassy woman running over to me, someone she just met, sitting in my lap and wrapping her arms around me in the warmest and funniest embrace. She had no idea how much I needed that unconditional love at that moment. 

Today, at the end of my meeting, a similar spirit who I'd just met said goodbye with a hug, and although I smiled and maintained my professional demeanor as I've learned to do, I got into my car and cried. Thank you Ginny B.

Company

Foodie is not a word that I enjoy or use to call myself. I do like food, a lot, and after years of working in hospitality and with a healthy dose of curiosity, I know quite a bit about it. I even cook it. But really I'm just a very passionate and sensual person, enjoying all senses with equal vigour. A great meal in my book satisfies all of them; it's beautifully presented, obviously it smells and tastes good, and it's enjoyed while surrounded with good company.

Who you dine with makes just as much of an impact on your experience as the person preparing the food, the decor, the music, the seat, the view, the service and the choice of wine. The balance has to be right. If any of these are not quite right, it will negatively affect the dining experience whether you realize it consciously or not. I recently enjoyed some great food at a beautiful restaurant with some incredible women. But the acoustics were off and I had to struggle to understand my friends, and because of this I have no desire to return. A few weeks ago I ate at one of the "Best New Restaurants" in New York City and although the food, decor, and wine were all as great as promised in the reviews, and my dining companions were expertly curated I must say, the server's attitude made us close out early and continue our evening elsewhere. I wanted great food but my limited time with my friends was more important.

Some of the best meals of my life come with really great stories. There is a Spanish tapas restaurant in Greenwich Village called Alta that I read about in a travel magazine years ago as a place where top chefs go when they go out, always a good sign. I chose it for my birthday celebration with my fabulous  group of friends, and I still smile when I think about that dinner and will recommend the restaurant without hesitation. I have no idea how many stars that place has, or what any of the critics had to say about it. I know that we had a Bacchanalian feast for the record books and laughed harder and left with bellies and hearts full. Everything was perfect. I remember running into Calvin Klein and John Leguizamo, and the cougar hitting on my friend at the bar. I remember friends from different parts of my life meeting each other for the first time and it makes me so happy to see that they are still friends. I remember the sounds of the kitchen and the music and the laughter, the taste of the bacon-wrapped dates and white anchovies and the Cava, the love I felt surrounded by so many wonderful friends and the man sitting next to me who would ask me to marry him a month later. 

I remember every beautiful moment of a dinner in Paris, laughing at the intimidation we felt looking at the triple-phonebook-sized wine list and welcoming course after course of food far more rich than we were used to eating, but enjoying the rare gluttonous indulgence with friends from around the world. I remember being with some of those same people in Cancun clinking the biggest margarita glasses I've ever seen. I remember Sex and the City-like conversations on sidewalk tables in New York with my girlfriends with mimosas, a business dinner on Central Park South with a table full of South Americans, and another one in East Berlin where we laughed so hard with a group of Austrians that beer came out our noses. And I remember everything being absolutely perfect at that first date dinner with my Texan at WD-50 in the Lower East Side when he came to visit me in New York one autumn evening three years ago.

The first "epic dinner" I experienced was on a beach sixteen years ago. I was in Greece as an exchange student, eating with my host family and their friends at tables under white lights and stars on the edge of the calm and warm Aegean Sea. On my plate was a whole grilled fish, something I'd never seen before, but I followed the lead of everyone around me and I can still taste and hear everything from that dinner if I close my eyes and think back. I have no idea what that restaurant was called, or what most of the people around me were talking about in Greek, but it's not important. What was important was what I sensed, what I experienced, and who I was with. That dinner started the evolution of this "foodie," shaping me to appreciate the beauty of these multi-sensory experiences around a table.

But this all works the other way, too. I have been fortunate to dine at some of the best and most critically-acclaimed  restaurants in the world, but sometimes, unfortunately, with people I didn't love or enjoy. Pained conversations, lack of any kind of intellectual or (in the case of a date) sexual chemistry, uncomfortable situations, and quite simply a bad day physically or emotionally have ruined their share of meals for me and I would imagine for most of you. Some of the restaurants I have no desire to return to because the memory is just too bad, boring, or even worse, so completely forgettable that I committed little to nothing to memory.

While on a run on the Katy Trail here in Dallas earlier this year, I spotted a restaurant that looked like my favorite little bistros in Manhattan and Paris. The doors were all opened up to the warm air, the wicker chairs were the French cafe standard issue; t was exactly what I missed since moving to Dallas. I wanted to call up some friends to grab a table, order a couple bottles of wine and S. Pellegrino, and eat and drink and talk for hours until we were kicked out.  How did I not know it was there? Why haven't I been there before? Until I realized... I had.

During one of my first visits to Dallas, I sat at one of those charming little tables for a brunch with some people I was meeting for the first time. Suffice it to say there is a reason I blocked it out. The food was fine, standard French-American bistro brunch fare, the service was sufficient, and as mentioned the decor was charming. But the conversation was so forced, unenlightening and uncomfortable that it dominated the entire experience for me. Usually I can find something to talk to anyone about; it's always been my strength. Whether with newly-immigrated busboys who barely speak English, with an international billionaire CEO, a shy spouse of a business colleague, or with a Prime Minister backstage before a big speech, I can always find something of interest for us to talk about and to make them comfortable and open. But this was beyond my reach. When a person can't talk about anything but Real Housewives, Twilight, or eyelash extensions, announces that "pretty girls don't have to work," refers to my hometown as "um... interesting" and has no idea who Malcolm Gladwell is... I honestly had no words. I couldn't rescue it and I didn't want to. I was powerless and passionless and couldn't wait for the meal to be over. The conversation may actually win the unofficial award of the most vapid of my life, and I do remember that part when I force myself to. But how in the world could I be expected to notice the food when I was concentrating on not jamming a fork into my temple to relieve the pain?

The point of this silly little story is that a good or bad restaurant experience depends on so much more than the food. I've returned to Toulouse since and I have loved it despite my miserable first experience. Thankfully it got that opportunity. I know it wasn't the restaurant's fault, but bad company will make or break an experience faster than anything else. It doesn't matter how it rates on every other factor. And that brings me back to why I am so grateful for those amazing epic dinners where the conversation flows as easily as the wine, and you leave knowing more and loving more than you did when you arrived. Sharing plates, sharing stories, opening yourself to new experiences and new senses... that's what a truly great dinner is all about.

Last night I had another one of these good experiences, and I woke up with a smile, knowing that I felt more at  home here in Dallas more than ever before because of it. A group of the most interesting, funny, talented, smart, and kind people that this city has to offer all sat around a table at Marquee Grille in Highland Park Village and toasted to Christmas and every other winter holiday we could think of. We laughed, we shared, we ate and we drank. The Chef dropped by a few times to say hello, and white twinkle lights glittered outside of the windows. I was in love, with my betrothed sitting next to me, with the ambiance, with my pork belly and tuna tartar, and with my friends.

Maybe I am a foodie, but I think I'm more of an experience junkie. Bring on the epic dinners of food, laughter and intellectual conversation, and let's not waste any more time with people who aren't lifting us higher and heightening our senses. Because in the end it's always about the company.

Choice: One Year of Deliberate Transformation.

The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our "stars" but in ourselves. 

~ Shakespeare's Cassius.

One year ago I, along with my young daughter, moved from New York, a city whose skyline adorned the walls of my childhood bedroom and whose scenes filled my dreams and veins for decades, for Dallas, a city I considered at best utterly foreign, and at worst nothing more than a collection of red state stereotypes best only considered at 30,000 feet when traveling between coasts. But it was the home of someone that I loved and his family and friends, and experience had finally taught me that this was so much more important than a city. And if I was going to live somewhere new, then I was going to find what made it wonderful and I was going to fall in love with it. I never would have guessed that this would happen so easily and so quickly. It was a combination of what Dallas actually had to offer and the place I was in my life that made this happen. 

Years before I would ever even consider living in Texas, shortly after my 30th birthday, I made the decision to live a more deliberate life in reaction to the realization that my life was on a counterproductive path of passivity. I had wasted too much time letting the proverbial chips fall where they may. On the theme of “excellence is not an act but a habit,” I knew I had to make some major life changes, and as I did my tastes and goals became clearer. With each new choice that I made, it became not only easier, but also more rewarding and more thrilling. What else could I do? What else could I learn? I started to realize for the first time the power within me, and that I had a responsibility to use it.

With a new long-distance relationship to a Texan becoming a larger factor, my determination to make positive conscious choices for us became stronger. And when the further development of that relationship eventually required a cross-country move, I knew I had to fully embrace my decision in order to avoid later misplaced resentment. Like everything else, I learned that starting over in a new city is what you decide to make of it. People loved Dallas, and I was determined to find out why and experience it myself.

Circumstances were not perfect. As I prepared for my move, life-threatening illnesses affected family on both sides. My first three months as a Texan were spent traveling for work and for family, including a week spent in Boston to donate stem cells. But with each struggle and deterrent that I encountered, I became even more determined to push past it and live a fuller life.

As a teenage exchange student in Greece, I learned to step outside of my own culture in order to understand and accept a new one, and I applied this practice to my new adventure as a Dallasite. I threw myself into the culture, pushing aside comforts of the familiar and trying as many new things as I could. Challenging myself at every venture, questioning old habits and tastes, I opened myself to new experiences, people, and ideas daily.

At first in the chaos I simply opened my heart to the people and activities that were automatically part of my new life. Some have stayed because I chose to keep them. Some I knew would never fit, and they dropped out organically as I expected they would. New people came into the picture, welcoming me with true southern hospitality and inviting me to join them in new experiences. It was a shock to my New Yorker sensibilities, but I grew to appreciate them exponentially.

Probably the biggest challenge of the past year has been learning how to drive for the first time. For various reasons that I won't get into now, I never had a drivers license, but I knew it was absolutely a requirement in my new state if I was going to have the life that I was trying to lead. This challenge required the encouragement and at times force by my fiance, I admit, but in the end it was the most important of my adventures and I ended up with my first driver's license 2 days before my 33rd birthday. 

Physically I have undoubtedly changed. Of course I am most definitely wearing brighter colors, more make-up, longer and, yes, bigger hair, and higher heels than I ever thought I would or could. At times a conscious choice in a "if you can't beat 'em…" mindset, and sometimes I even surprise myself. Occasionally I force myself to wear all black with my ponytail and glasses again, just feel like "myself." I was requested to gain weight for the transplant, and it wasn’t hard when adapting to the cuisine and car culture of Texas. The difficult part was losing it afterwards, so I made some new healthy choices, starting yoga and running my first and second 5K races. The results have been more strength, flexibility, and energy than ever before, despite not ever being able to shed those “Texan Ten.”

When my daughter wanted to take ballet, I signed up for whatever adult class was happening at the same time. When the studio later started offering Bollywood class, I couldn’t resist. I ice-skated for the first time, and that same evening walked to the middle of the rink and sang the National Anthem before a minor league hockey game. I was probably expected to back out from nerves, having not done it since high school. But I didn’t, and it was another successful attempt at something new.

I started seeking out more new opportunities. I did my first pub crawl, which included my first ride on a mechanical bull. I got my first pair of cowboy boots and actually wore them with a cocktail dress at a fundraising event with the cast of Dallas. I attended my first professional football games and fashion shows. I traveled to Orlando, Boston, New York, New Orleans, North Carolina, Berlin, Krakow, Frankfort, Shanghai, Beijing, Laguna Beach, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Cancun, Philadelphia, Phoenix, San Francisco, Chicago, and Austin. To facilitate these travels for a mix of work, family, and pleasure, I've tried to learn or re-learn Mandarin, German, Spanish, and Polish, spending hours in coffee shops and pubs with tutors.  I realized recently that I know exactly one perfect useful phrase in each now, and at least one in each to offend or amuse native speakers. 

Spicy food no longer scares me and football no longer bores me. My new circle of friends is beautifully varied, full of fascinating people that I chose to be there and feel honored to have in my life. People from my old life that once held me back are no longer prominent, a choice that was difficult but with the help of loved ones and professionals became all too clear.

Arriving in Texas one year ago, exhausted from moving and goodbye celebrations, I was greeted with a bouquet of yellow roses and treated to a classic barbeque lunch. I knew if I was going to do this, I was going to do it all the way and I welcomed the challenges ahead. I know now that the things I've learned, the experiences I've had, and the love I've felt since opening my heart and mind and purposely living outside of my comfort zone are irreplaceable. I am a better mother, a better partner, a better friend, a better professional, and a better person because of the events of the past year. I know that I never would have felt the joy that I do now had I not chosen to live this deliberate life, and I’m proud to have done it here in Dallas.

Home.

I have spent my day running around like a madwoman in preparations for the next two weeks of constant travel. This is nothing new. I am very fortunate to have a job that requires me to go to some really great places and I do get a thrill from running through airports and getting those stamps in my passport. But a strange and foreign feeling came over me today: I don't want to leave.

It has nothing to do with where I'm going or why. While true that much of it will be spent working, that doesn't bother me. In fact I like that quite a bit because it gives me a sense of purpose and allows me to experience cultures in ways different from the tourists. I am traveling most of the time with the love of my life and am absolutely thrilled to get some time with him away from other stresses in our lives. I will be going places I've never been before, which is always a plus; for even if the travels are bad, I still get to cross a few more cities and countries off of my lists and there will always be stories to tell.

The sinking feeling came because I'm finally feeling like my new home is actually home. Every day somebody asks me how I'm liking Dallas and a smile always comes instantly and I can honestly say that I love it. I have family here, and a support system that I've never had before in my life. I am meeting some really amazing people, making real friends, and having a great time in the process. I am trying new things and discovering new things about myself every day. There is a sense of community here that, although at times off-putting because of the lack of anonymity, is actually really nice. Who knew this cold-hearted New Yorker could like this?

So although I look at my schedule for the next three months and the gypsy spirit part of me is thrilled to be hopping around the world again, there is part of me that wants to throw a 3-year old tantrum, stomp my feet and cry out "but I just got here"! I know I will regret saying this in a few months if I end up finding a job that doesn't have me traveling at all and I am begging for a reason to go somewhere, but right now an extra few weeks in my own bed would be so welcome. 

I suppose I will take it as a blessing that I am sad to leave my new home. Because that means that it is in fact my home. And I know that at the end of my next set of adventures, instead of being sad that they're over I will be happy about what I'm returning to. And that is another brand new experience for me.

I am so grateful.