yearSelf

“Who knows where life will take you, the road is long, and in the end... the journey is the destination.” – One Tree Hill

My sunglasses are down, the roof of the car is open and all there is ahead of me are two lanes divided by a double yellow line. This is a sort of freedom that I've come to know really well this year...

I look to my left- I look to my right. I check my mirrors and I smile. An Usher song is blasting but because of the wind, I can barely hear more than a bassy beat echoing through the car. I love it: the disorientation, my hair blowing from side to side. I feel my hamstrings begin to sweat from the humidity that is inescapable. I check myself out again (hehe), and I think about how I got here-to Houston- in August- in this mustang convertible.

This is pretty amazing.

I decide that I got here by focusing on what I call “yearSelf”-- yes “yearSelf”. Many people have often said to, "focus on yourself more Libs" so I made "yourself" into a yearlong quest. A yearlong open road with, a yearlong road trip—where I am always in the driver’s seat, only envisioning one lane—the one that goes forward, rather than back.

A lot’s happened this year—but to look back on it—to be nostalgic about it—would be a bit hypocritical of that last line. But sometimes, in writing, it’s okay to be a bit hypocritical—and why? Because in writing, we can make our own rules (and why? Because I said so). So here goes:

I started taking acting classes in January and made an incredible group of friends that I now consider family.

I took up a yearlong challenge to try one new thing a week—starting in February, that I pre-conceived in January.

I’ve dated—and had a break up.

I’ve called home more.

I've worn bright colors (and yes this makes a huge difference in life)

I’ve ran my second half-marathon—this time with a good friend.

I’ve meditated.

I’ve written more.

I’ve taken time for me.

I’ve had dizzying discoveries, and beaming break-throughs.

I quit my job in July.

I took a freelance job in August.

And it’s ONLY August.

That’s how I got here. To this moment. In this white mustang convertible, that we’ve rented for work. That’s how I got here—to this open road ahead, both literally and metaphorically. And I’m not so worried about any forks, because I’ve made some tough decisions this year too. Ones that I have yet to regret—and don’t for-see regretting anytime soon or ever--cause *Life is too short to have regrets.*

But the only decision that’s mattered—truly mattered, is the one where I decided to take the year—to focus on myself. To make 2012, my open road—my metaphorical road trip—my journey--my “yearSelf.”

I challenge you to take one of these yourself—without any destination in mind—because really—the only destination—is the journey.

Cloudy with a 100% Chance of Smiles

It feels great to be up in the air again, to watch the clouds, for a short period of time from above--rather than below; to see the world--the most beautiful canvas that there is just full of opportunity for growth and life.

A lot of people don't like to fly in planes. I love it. It's the one time I can disappear and enjoy a brand new outlook--a new view--a new perspective. It's one of the few times I can disconnect from all outside wires of communication--and access only myself.

Solsbury Hill comes on my iPod, and I smile. I love this--this freedom--this beautiful-eye-opening freedom.

I close my eyes, "my heart going boom, boom, boom." I've been to this place before, THIS place, way up high. Not just when I am literally in a plane, but every-time I close my eyes and get lost in my favorite place.

I've always had an obsession with the sky. When I was young, the trim to my room was the blue sky and clouds. I didn't want it any other way. I was stubborn. In 7th grade sewing class, when we were asked to buy patterns for the pillows we'd later be making, I chose the fabric at the store that had a sky print. When people ask me if I could have any power in the world--that's easy--flying.

I close my eyes, and I am on a cloud. It's simple and soft. I use it like Aladdin's magic carpet, until I want a new view--Then I just pop on over to another cloud. I float over New York City, and then somehow teleport myself to my hometown--and time travel to when I was in high school. I watch my mother out in the yard-and see my friends and me playing sports at the high school.

I breathe it in. I breathe it all in.

I feel myself smile, and then I let out a little laugh. I feel my eyes twitch. I am present, but yet so far gone. This is what it means to go to my favorite place in the entire world--to feel present--and away...to know that this place, this amazing ride through the sky is simply one ME moment away-that I can take off any time I want.

I come back to myself and where I am. This time I am lucky enough that when I open my eyes--I am still up in the sky--still up above the clouds--still smiling.

Going Home

Thank God for the county lines that welcome you back in
When you were dying to get out...

And when you’re lost out in this crazy world
You got somewhere to go and get found
Thank God for hometowns

-Carrie Underwood

-July 2009

Disregard our TEXT typos here: "we're" and "too" (Darn iPhones :) )

I'm a New Yorker. Both my parents were born and raised in New York. Both my brother and my sister attended colleges in New York State. And now here I am living and working in New York City. It was clearly meant to be my home--one day. But for so many years leading up to now, home was somewhere else--it was a little town in Pennsylvania called Bethlehem--It was where I played baseball on the little league field, struck out boys from the pitcher's mound, and scored runs by sliding into home plate.

It where I bought and ate penny candy with my best friend on the pavement playground--which I later scraped my knees on (why are there pavement playgrounds by the way?). It was where I wore my heart on my sleeve for nearly hundreds to thousands of sporting events over 10 years. 

It was where I learned to swim.

It was where I had my first sleepover.

It was where I experienced my first bully--and overcame that bully.

It was where I got my first detention (Hehe).

It was where I went trick-or-treating.

It was where I experienced the loss of a loved one for the first time.

It was where I learned to ride my bike and to drive a car.

It was where I ate apple turnovers with my mom and drank giant glasses of milk over quiet conversation. It was where I tubed down the creek and laughed all day long.

It was where I went on my first date, snuck out past a curfew, and shared my first kiss. 

It was where I played man hunt, capture the flag, and hide-and-go-seek. 

It was where I learned to ice skate and rollerblade--where I learned to fall down--and get back up.

 It was where I met my four best friends who taught me about life and love and happiness. It was where I grew up--even if I grew out. It was where I learned to live. It was--and forever will be my hometown.

Often, with the hustle and bustle of NYC, it's easy to lose touch with "home" to forget to call a grandparent--to forget to text your best friend back, to mindlessly lose sense of time in all possible ways. New York City is, of course, the city that never sleeps--so each day begins to blend into the next, AND before you know it, it's been two months--three months--six months--a year since you've reached out--even to one of your best friends in the entire world.

This past weekend, I was reminded why my friends are so amazing--why my HOMETOWN is so amazing. Without fail, I can return to to Bethlehem, PA and be welcomed back in as if I never left. Without fail, my best friends and I can pick up where we left off--and never look back. Without fail, I can sit poolside with a best friend who I haven't seen in nearly six months, or who had a real conversation with in a year or two--and cry and laugh and smile and feel more connected than ever. 

Without fail--my hometown can always serve as home. Even if I've made a home somewhere else.

"I always find another piece of me
Walking down these old familiar streets /

Thank God for hometowns
And all the love that makes them go round
Thank God for the county lines that welcome you back in
When you were dying to get out
Thank God for Church pews
And all the faces that won’t forget you
And when you’re lost out in this crazy world
You got somewhere to go and get found
Thank God for hometowns
Thank God for hometowns"

-Carrie Underwood

On Loving Yourself

"Find your capacity to love yourself and then one another" - David Tierney Lerner

I met my good friend David on the side of the road last year while I was walking around Manhattan. We struck up a 45 minute conversation and parted ways. Now, over a year later, he and I spend a significant amount of time with one another--laughing, talking, smiling, living and loving life. The quote featured above was taken directly from the end of one of his brilliant Facebook status updates this past week. And I couldn't thank him any more for it. 

While David was responding to Anderson Cooper's coming out statement, in a beautiful way, in regards to himself--I believe that "finding the capacity to love yourself--and then one another" is such a good lesson that we could all try and participate in learning--no matter what that means for each person and their own insecurities. I know it's a lesson I've been working on for a long time:

My morning is pretty standard.

Wake up. Stretch. Move. Get up. Walk to the bathroom. Look in the mirror.

Look in the mirror.

Look in the mirror.

Look in the mirror.

(Had to make sure that all reflected the way I wanted it to).

If you live alone--or are single--this is likely the first person you see each day.

You are likely the first person you see each day.

Why start off the day looking at someone you don't like?--Someone you don't love?

Too often, we stare in the mirror and pick out all of our "problems." I went through a period of my life where I refused to look in any mirrors-afraid of all the flaws I might find. It wasn't just mirrors though--it was store front windows (because who wants to look into their large reflection with a slim mannequin standing by and critiquing in that mannequin silence). It was car fenders. Heck--it was even shadows. Anything that offered me a return vision of my self was off limits. I went a year, essentially, without seeing ME.

I knew myself too well to know that looking in the mirror would have yielded a self-conscious sadness and eventual self-destruction. I didn't love myself. I didn't love who I was or who I felt people were seeing. It wasn't just my hair--my body--and my face that I didn't love. Somehow the mirrors seemed to reflect a lot of internal conflict that I wasn't ready to understand-- a lot of internal feelings and self-discoveries that I am only NOW starting to explore, discover, and love.

We are only offered a short period of time on this earth and if we spend a lot of that time disliking ourselves, it will be very difficult to find someone who can learn to love us. 

And sometimes we'll find--as my acting teachers would say--that what we really think isn't working about ourselves--is the number one thing that is.

Now.

Go look in the mirror.

Look in the mirror.

Look in the mirror.

Look in the mirror.

Love the person you see.

Love you.

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."

How I Geeked Out with James Franco

Disclaimer: I started this blog over a year ago with an intention of following the "reel" in New York City. My blog often features posts about real-life struggles, inspiring moments, and comical outbursts. This post is a return to the root of the blog, as I returned to the "reel" world tonight with a visit to the Tribeca Film Festival.

                                 I am a filmmaker. (and by filmmaker--I mean media maker)

For a while, I've been going back and forth on what a filmmaker is.  In my opinion, a filmmaker is someone who challenges the norms. It is someone develops an idea or message they'd like to clearly and concisely get across, and then relays that message through a medium--in any which way they can. A filmmaker is someone who doesn't rely on mimicking the past, but rather taking bits and pieces from past filmmakers to produce their own picture. A filmmaker is someone who embraces new technology trends and throws people for a loop with them. A filmmaker is an artist. I am a filmmaker.

And James Franco is a filmmaker. Tonight, I had the wonderful pleasure of attending the North American premiere of Franco and Ian Olds new movie: Francophrenia. Following the film, I had the opportunity to sit through a q and a with both directors, and like a ten year old waiting in line for an ice cream cone, I jumped at the opportunity to ask a question:

"First I want to say that I absolutely loved this film; I think it's brilliant; and the long takes and close-ups were just fantastic. My question is: How did the vision of your film change from the beginning of the process to the end product?" Franco took the mic and explained how the process changed quite a bit. He admitted to first planning on editing it himself--and then feeling better about it if he let someone else manipulate the footage. 

What does he mean by this? Well let's look at the film: Francophrenia is truly an experimental documentary that combines a fictional story--about General Hospital--with an ongoing commentary that we have on celebrities--in this case James Franco himself. Throughout the film, we are treated to long takes of Franco on and off set; close-ups on Franco's face like those we'd have in soap operas; dark endearing music to captivate Franco as a crazy man; voice over whispers of the thoughts going through Franco's head during these fictional takes; shots of fans obsessed with Franco as a celebrity; and of course the fictional General Hospital story. Because Franco had become the center of this film, as he said, he unselfishly gave himself up to director Olds. And in that, the film changed completely from his hands to someone else's. For Franco, this meant removing his ego from the manipulation of the footage. Bonus points.

The Q & A finished immediately after my question and en route out, I took a risk and approached Franco. 

"Excuse me, James...I just wanted to say that the film is brilliant." Slowly I reached out my hand hoping he'd take it. He did.

"Thanks, really thank you," Franco graciously said. 

And then the word vomit began. Star struck, I told him how I believed I was an experimental filmmaker. And as I stumbled through all my words to make clear to him how much experimental film and filmmaking meant to me, he sat there and listened to me intently, and he conversed back, despite a line of people behind me awaiting their few seconds with him. His willingness and his excitement over our conversation about film made clear just how passionate this artist is about his craft. We often put celebrities on this pedestal--Francophrenia displays that pedestal brilliantly-and we forget that they too are just working on their art--their messages. They too are just doing what they love to do. And for a moment it didn't matter that my words were coming out backwards, we were just two industry people having an industry conversation...and it felt quite lovely:


 I mentioned that I lectured at URI and it reminded me of him because he's a teacher, and I asked him if he's still New York teaching. he responded kindly and said "Do you teach, you said you lectured at your university?" This led to the last bit of our conversation in which we discussed iPhone apps, what my favorites are for filmmaking, how he'll check it out, and how he goes to school at RISD now. I then made a quick joke with him about his film, and he laughed (yay). 

After telling him once more how much I enjoyed the film and how it was very nice to meet him, I left the theatre thinking about how much I love this art, how much I love the ability to express myself through my medium of choice, how much I love being able to geek out with filmmakers over latest gadgets, and how much I LOVE this REEL world. And how I am not planning to leave it anytime soon.

I am a filmmaker--or in 2012 terms: a media maker.

"Do you ever wonder if we make the moments in our lives or if the moments in our lives make us?"

Moments are fleeting. They are memorable. They are relentlessly persistent on our minds. They are easy to forget. They are saddening. They are disheartening. They are enlightening. They are brilliant. They are wonderful. They are calm. They are chaotic. They are everywhere and nowhere at once. They are an illusion. They are there.

They are in the past. They are in the future.

They are in the present

Moments are undeniably truthful, vulnerable, and life-changing.

"How many moments in life can you point to and say, ‘That's when it all changed'?" - One Tree Hill

I can name two.

1. The URI field hockey team getting eliminated in April of 2008.

2. The moment I made the decision to move to New York City-and DID.

It's easy for a lot of people to look back and say everything happens for a reason. But I think these "everything happens for a reason" moments are a load of bull shit to be blunt. Moments happen---and these moments force us to make choices--choices for ourselves. The honest truth is that nothing has to to come from a bad moment--or a good moment. Our lives can be completely and devastatingly stale afterwards--or we can get up and fight like hell to create our own present from our own past, so that our own future is worth while.

WE make that choice to make something happen.

We make the choice to have

brilliant-wonderful-vulnerable-life-changing moments.