Here's a toast to all those who hear me all too well--"Your art Matters--It's what got me here": Part 2

***Disclaimer: The title is a mash-up of the Eve 6 Song and a quote from One Tree Hill***

It's been nearly two years since I wrote an open thank you note to all the people that have inspired me. Two years. I should be saying thank you every day. 

Because truly, "Your art matters"--yes you--"It's what got me here." (One Tree Hill)

I am a go getter--a strong-brave--courageous-lively individual. But I am also grateful. I didn't get here on my own. I got here through all of you--through all of you in my past--through all of you who are in my present--through all of you that I've only met for moments--seconds in my life. I got here through my past--I got here through looking towards the future--and I got here through your constant pushes, your endless support, your brilliant love and passion for life and whatever it may bring. I got here through you. Yes--you.

I didn't always wear my heart on my sleeve when it came to what I truly wanted. The truth is--I've always wanted to be a performer--an artist--a creative soul giving her most intimate thoughts and gifts through words and writing on the side of the street. I always wanted to be in the school plays, take voice lessons so I could be on Broadway, and make art. Growing up, the only reality TV show I wanted to be on was Say What Karaoke. But up until my senior year of college, I never acted on it.  I am not sure if I was scared of what people would think of me--or if I just didn't have the confidence in myself. Whatever wall was stopping me seemed unbreakable. But I don't regret waiting so long to find my inner arteest (hehe)--because along the way, I formed friendships and long-lasting relationships with people who taught me to love myself and push myself in ways that have propelled me to become the artist --and person that I am.

I was an athlete. In everyone's minds that's where my life was going--athletics. When I was in eighth grade, I engraved it in my head that I needed to be good enough to get a scholarship for college--at softball. In sophomore year, I sat down with a recruiter and discussed how to reach college coaches. And by junior year, I was no longer focused on softball--but rather field hockey--another sport. I hadn't given myself a chance to TRY anything else. Being an athlete was all I knew. My life revolved around the emotion of the final game of a season--statistics--and morning runs. I knew nothing else--and my heart yearned for me to be trying EVERYTHING. I got a glimpse of what my heart was truly yearning for when I auditioned for class speaker, and won a vote to speak at my high school graduation. I compared high school to coffee--my inner art was screaming to get out, but again the wall built itself up. But my heart was yearning to be on a stage--somewhere--talking to people--laughing with people--performing. My head won this game. But I don't regret it.

What better way to get comfortable speaking and performing in front of people than playing sports--where you are put on display for people during every practice and during every game--choreographing just like a dancer how you'll dodge, move, and drive toward the goal. What better way to learn about performing in front of people than when you don't have time to worry about what people on the outside are thinking of you. It's just you and your teammates. It's because of those teammates--those coaches--those support systems--that I can perform. Here's to you.

Additionally I was always one to quote underdog movies: and prove that I should be on that field through my drive and my passion for wanting to be there for my teammates--for wanting to be a pillar to the foundation of a group of girls who meant the world to me. Through my teammates--through my coaches--through those support systems--through wanting to be there for people--who were always there for me--I found passion. Here's to you. My team.


When I moved to New York City, life changed. I met hundreds of people who were all part of team-dream (haha). I met hundreds of people who were following their passions. I met hundreds of people who made me realize that I could do the same. I met people who invited me to their shows--who asked me to watch them do their art--who showed me WHO THEY WERE. I met comics--and actors--and singers--and aspiring novelists. I met my acting class--I met my new mentors. I met people who were okay with being THEM--I met people who showed me that it's okay to be ME. These people are part of my team--these people are part of me. Here's to you--my team.

That's what life is about to me--the passion to perform--and the inherit pleasure in being part of a team--an endless team of people that are constantly making moves that in turn allow me to make my own. A team that often is off on their own, performing on stage, singing, dancing, playing and dreaming--a team that is inspiring me. I consider the world my team: My friends--my old teammates--my family--my new acquaintances--the faces of people who don't look back--the faces of people who worry, but push through--the faces of friends who pursue their dreams. You are all my team---Whoever you are--wherever you are--whether I met you in passing--or I spend time with you on a consistent basis--whether I read your blog--or followed your Twitter--I admire you--and I am inspired by you. I am me because of my team--This team. I am me because of  you.

                                                           "Your art truly matters. It's what got me here."

The Anatomy of 8 Million Dreamers

Every now and then a song speaks to us–and it speaks for us. It captures exactly what our hearts are feeling but are unable to say. It brings a tear to our eye, a smile to our face and a memory to our soul. It touches us, and we feel it with every ounce of our flesh that covers our body. And even though we know it wasn’t written for us, we know it doesn’t matter, that we can feel anything we want to feel when we hear it–as if it was written by our own hearts.

Every time I hear or listen to a song about New York City, my heart flutters. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t grow up here–or that I didn’t experience the trials and tribulations–the crime or the craziness–the soot or the sadness. All that matters is every time I hear a song about New York, I am reminded of the rush I feel each time I sit in Grand Central, or of the flood of excitement I have, each time I meet a new person, or of the disdain I have for the work day commutes (Ha), and, lastly, of course I am reminded of the passion and love I have for each nook and cranny in this city.

Each day that I was in Italy, I called New York City my home–and it’s no wonder–I have never felt more home than in the moments I have spent sitting in the subway trains; or in the moments that I have spent chatting over coffee at my favorite shop (Bourbon–14th street and 5th); or in the moments that I’ve spent on the Brooklyn Bridge; or in the seconds that I have spent in dodging tourists in Times Square. I have never felt more on top of the world than in the moments I stare out my 26th floor work window at the dazzling skyscrapers that reflect off of one one another in the night time glow. And I have never felt more relieved, relaxed, or comforted than in the moments I have spent with the friends that I have found, the talent that I have encountered, and the family that I have made here.

You know, they say if you let something go and it comes back–then you know it’s real love…well I left for a bit, three months…and I came back. In fact, it was nearly hours after I heard Empire State of Mind (II), by Alicia Keys, for the first time, that I made my decision to come home, months earlier than I had planned.

Like songs–I want this video to have captured what I feel each time I walk down an alley way–a street–or a set of subway stairs as well as what I feel each time I see or meet a stranger or watch a talented street performer. I wanted this video to play out like all the songs I hear that cause a tear to shed or a smile to cross my face each time I hear it, and think of this city. I wanted this video to speak what was on my heart while looking into the hearts of others–I wanted this video to dissect the anatomy of the dreamers that live in this city–that breathe this city–that love this city. Because really–if they can make it here–they can make it anywhere. I hope you enjoy:

I am Sam...Sam I am...I am a writer...A writer I am

When I was four years old, I limped on a sprained ankle to a microphone, at my pre-school graduation, and announced to every classmate, parent, grandparent, and stranger in the room that I wanted to be the first female president of the United States.

When I was seven years old, I walked up to my second grade teacher and told her I wanted to be just like her: a caring, considerate, wonderful, top-of-the-line second grade teacher.

When I was thirteen years old, I told my parents that I was going to be on the U.S. National Softball team, and that I would play in the 2012 Olympics. ---Even if I was on the U.S. National Softball team, I wouldn't be playing in the 2012 Olympics because it's no longer an Olympic Sport--just wasn't in my cards.

When I was seventeen years old, I told the college admissions counselors in a number of applications that I wanted to be a sports journalist and Major League Baseball commentator.

And now, at twenty-two years old: I am not the first female president of the country (though I guess there is still time for that--and a chance if Palin were my contender in twenty years), I am not on the path to be a second grade teacher, I haven't touched a softball in three years, and I am certainly not commentating for ESPN or Major League Baseball.

But I am SOMETHING.

I am a writer.

A few weeks ago, at a Superbowl party that my friend was asked to play the half-time show at, I met several creative minds. We introduced ourselves, we shook hands, and we gave the run-down on our creative niche.

"I am a singer," the one told me.

"I am trying to be an actress."

"No," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"You aren't TRYING to be an actress...you ARE an actress."

It is only recently that I have discovered that the more we TRY to be something, the less we become that. The more I TRY to be a writer...the less of a writer I am...the less motivation I have...the less I produce...and the less I am heard.

I am not trying to be a writer.

I live in New York City, sleep in an artist loft, and produce new material every day.

I am not trying to be a writer.

Ladies and gentlemen...

I AM a writer.

Now...who is hiring?!

If fate isn't completely in your hands--then who is adjusting it for you?

“A bunch of people got out of the car and just ran up to his car and shot it up. I was supposed to be in that car, but my brother made me go with him instead.”

Tears flooded my eyes as Anthony Mackie described a time in his life when someone else altered his destiny—when someone else adjusted what could have been his plan…when someone else saved his life. Mackie, who plays Harry, one of the main characters in the soon-to-be-released Adjustment Bureau starring Matt Damon, attended the free pre-screening last night at the Lincoln Center, and stayed after to do a Q and A that really made me think…what is fate? Who controls it? And who altars us on a consistent basis?

The film, which focuses on the idea that there is a team of people hiding in our closets, sitting across tables at the library from us, and in cooking in the kitchens of restaurants readjusting our plans each day, putting us back on track, and making sure that chance doesn’t throw the world completely out of wack, that one person doesn’t send the world into an endless black hole. In the movie, the team appears to be the people who control who you are supposed to meet, when you will die, and what your future career will be.

But Mackie was asked an interesting question following the film.

“Who is your adjustment bureau?”

That’s when Mackie told his heartbreaking story—the one that gave his answer—“My brother.”

His story is similar to another one I know of. A story where I should have been in a car that got into a pretty awful accident when I was a junior in high school. The day after my junior prom I was supposed to ride in the car to an amusement park with a friend. We were going to be late to meet our friends because we had been stuck taking the SAT’s while they were going on every rollercoaster in the park. I decided that my motion sickness issue wasn’t going to magically go away that day and told my friend to go onto the park without me. That night, he got into a bad car accident where his car spun off the highway. He was okay, but his car wasn’t. Who knows what would have happened had I been in one of the passenger seats.

And that’s when my mind really started going.

I began thinking about all the times my life could have gone another way—all the times I could have made one decision, but, instead, made another. I started thinking about the people that matter. I started thinking about what my life has become and who has adjusted it—who has made it what it is.

I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason. In fact, I am a strong believer that there isn’t a team of people hiding in our closets, our libraries, our kitchens with a book that has a written plan in it. I believe that we often make decisions that create an illusion that something did indeed happen for a reason.

But I do believe that there are people that matter—that mean something—that say things—that treat us in a certain way—that adjust our lives to occur in a certain pattern—in a certain line—in a certain arc like that of a character in a movie or a book.

For me, those people are my family and my friends...all the people who have had a positive effect on me—all the people who have shown me a road to take that I may not have taken otherwise—all the people who showed me that going to Italy meant a great deal—and that coming home meant even more. All those people who reminded me that going through hard times has to happen to recognize good times. My adjustment bureau is in all those people who have ever lended me a hand—or their heart.

Who is your adjustment bureau?

Like a Forever Stamp...

I wish suitcases were expandable. I wish that inside the pockets of each pair of pants that I have packed I could shrink a friend s mall enough to fit within. I wish that when I pulled out my shoes on the other side of the Atlantic that there’d be a little Jack in the shoe popping out, a friend who would say “Surprise, bet you didn’t know I could sulk up like a slinky.”

But I know that in this year, this decade, possibly this century, and most definitely this lifetime, that will not ever be possible. This is something I have to do on my own—this is something I want to do on my own.

In just a few hours, I will arrive at JFK, swipe my Passport through the scanner, drop my luggage onto the conveyor belt, brace myself for body scanners, sit in a terminal alone, and board a plane across the Atlantic. I will say goodbye to large sized coffees, most of my wardrobe, and all the best of friends. Ten hours later, I will walk off a plane into a land where the exit signs read “Uschita” and where Dunkin Donuts are replaced with local hole-in-the-wall shops. I will say hello to cappuccino con chocolate, beautiful romance languages, a months worth of wrinkled clothes, and a world filled with wonderful people that have stories to share. I will be home…I will be in Italy.

I use the word home to describe a place that I once lived for three months, a place that welcomed me with open arms, a place that granted me safety and security, a place that provided me with happiness.

Like a forever stamp placed carefully on the corner of a fresh letter to be mailed, the value of my love for Italy never seems to change. I have not gone a day since leaving Italy without thinking of the kindness of strangers, without dreaming of the cobblestone roads, without imagining the scent of the steam radiating from the wood burning ovens. I have not gone a day without missing Italy. I have not gone a day without missing home.

Returning to Italy means seeing old friends and making new ones. It means rediscovering nooks and crannies placed all over the wonderful cities that I once conquered. Most of all, it means returning to my significant other…that’s right…Italy and I are in a serious relationship, and while I have had my serious love affair with New York City, I think that Italy will forgive me. No—I know that Italy will forgive me. Despite my heart and mind wreaking of city subways and alleyways, Italy will embrace me the instant that I return, it will grasp me so hard that I will find it so very difficult to release myself from it’s pull 6, 7, 8 months down the line.

And while I’ll still carry a long distance relationship with New York City, I know that Italy will completely have my heart. I won’t look back—I’ll never look back.

I’ve talked of going back to Italy since December of 2008—when I first returned to the states—when I first forgot how to say “Thank You” and “Hello” and instead belted out “GRAZIE…” and “CIAO!”

And while this week has offered me some difficult challenges to overcome in the days leading up to my travels…I know that they were not meant to deter me. Rather, I believe they may have occurred in order to keep me busy—to keep my mind from questioning the next eight months of my life, to keep me from even thinking about cold feet.

But I almost broke down twice…I almost lost all hope for today coming and myself being prepared. But I am ready—I am ready….I am SOO ready. I’ll see you on the other side folks. I can’t fit you in my pockets…But won’t you join me?

I’ll take a cappuccino… how about you?