Dear Santa,

Originally, the plan was to write to you last night, but after two glasses of champagne along with two glasses of Malbec wine... well lets just say it would have been an interesting letter. Besides I thought you might appreciate a letter after peak hours.

It's Christmas Day! And oh what a delight it was to wake up in a new state, my parents new house, and still feel as though I was home. It is the best gift you have ever sent me Santa.

Hopefully, you and the reindeer are finally resting. Instead of sugar plums dancing, may your time of relaxation fill your mind with all the smiles you have placed on those who believe.  This year I didn't request anything from you. Your gift to me has always been the continued ability to believe (Mom is still waiting for deer to appear in the yard though, so if in your sleep you could nudge a few this direction, that would be great).

I write you today to say thanks. Thanks from all the people like me, who are kids at Heart and will never stop believing. Thanks for the Hope you spark each and every year. Thanks for the Gift to explore the impossible in a fantastic and magical way. Thanks for all the Inspiration in wanting to help in the largest day of giving there is. Thanks for the enveloping HO-Ho-HO's  that make us respond with our own giant Laughter. Thanks for the nudge to Play as if we will always be young. Thanks for being you Santa. You truly are a wonder!

Wishing you the Merriest (and dream filled) Christmas there ever was!,

D.dot

Keys Resound...

In passing, I saw Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach all trying their hand, but they were in far off lands in times long past. Now it's the street players, the eager experimenters - the shy traveler - or the energetic child that touch these keys. Keys humming - humming in my mind, anticipating hands to play upon white and black. Stationary and refined with wood structure - wheels to guide music across streets. Waiting.

The days of classical teaching forgotten - the school room abandoned - each note resonating in mind. An instrument left to be touched; to be played if even one person would strike a note. Sitting on angled cement made the sound more prominent - prominent and silent.

They pass without playing. Yet every now and then there is a Master - the master of sound and rhythm who takes a chance to sit at my bench and perform. Perform for the world around them - for anyone willing to listen - for no one to listen and merely for the pleasure of creating sound. Hand to keys and the chords touch hammer to string echoing a resounding voice through buildings and trees - businessmen walking to lunch, homeless panhandling on the streets - the Master plays to change the view of the day. Moving in routine - a new sight seen. Music fills the streets and a painting consumes their ears.

Each key is waiting. Waiting for a hand to push the ivory white bones to life. Two hands to play the soft keys and breath. But for now the keys are humming - humming with anticipation. Waiting for the next adventurer to take the challenge and play.

Find the Instagram photo that inspired this short bit of writing by following @chadosaurus (click on name to see photo).

How do you play?

Recently, I've been asked quite a bit, "What do you do for fun?"

The true response would be, "I play with words." But I don't think most people would understand this. It's more than reading a good book at the coffee shop in the sun. It's more than sitting at home with either pen and paper or computer for my writing.

I play with words daily through my conversations with people. Twisting and turning word definitions, the context of a conversation, and placing cultural signifiers into a game of:
"Did You REALLY Just Say THAT!"

Let me give you an example from last night:

Me: (Asking one of the various questions I have running through my head every second.)
Josh: (Answered without actually answering the question.)
Me: (Silent and contemplative.)

Josh: "I like it when you're QUIET."

Me: (Laughing hysterically.)

You had to be there.

But yeah, I play with words.

Dance...

Life is good when a walk becomes a dance. The paced motion escalating, building to the uncontrollable action of head bobbing, feet pass the traditional straight line, hands gesturing to music that begs your feet to tap and your mouth to smile as preteens turn their heads on their way home from school and stare at the crazy adult who doesn't have a care in the world.

It's a good day when you can make a kid laugh. Really make them laugh, make them mimic your actions. They think they're laughing at you, and if they are, Who cares? Really laughing at life and realizing it's all about having a good time is the best.

Why not have fun? Why be so composed? Give me the sounds of old school big band swing music and I can't stop myself, I have to dance no matter where I am or who I'm near. More people should do this. Stand up and dance. Dance for blue skies, dance for the cup of coffee that gives you the energy to go through the day, dance for whatever reason you want. Just dance. Feel the body sway and see how your mode changes. Tell me you don't feel a bit out of place. Tell me that awkward emotion doesn't make you laugh. Dance and everything--all stress and frustration--washes away.

Today is a good day.

Nonna...

 

She's been on my mind a lot this month.

I wore her dress to the Utah Arts Festival annual Masquerade Party. It's an "Original Peggy Hunt" design. One of my favorite parts of the evening (besides everyone asking me where I got my dress) was twirling in circles to the last song played of the evening, watching the chiffon spin delicately in soft circles around my feet and smiling at the thought she would be happy the dress had another night out on the town.

I used her purse as well. And as I arrived home and pulled everything from its pockets, I came across her name. Her personalized mirror rested in my hand, and I wondered what woman she saw when she looked at her reflection.

As much as I am happy to have learned from my Nonna how to make cuppolettie, the proper way to make and measure pasta, the essentials of family cuisine, why butter is good for you (it has vitamin A people), and the mean skills of playing solitaire; there is so much I wish I would have asked her.

I wish I would have asked how she felt spinning in that dress? Did she spin in that dress? As I know she went to many dances but rarely danced due to her early battle with polio. How did she feel being a woman of her time? Did she ever feel lonely? What brought the sparkling smile to her face? What would always make her laugh? And did she have a treat that was her guilty pleasure? What were her thoughts as she drifted off to sleep? What did she dream about and why?

What were her dreams?

I feel as though the young woman in these photos could answer many of the questions I have today about her life. And maybe the answers would help guide me on my own path of discovery. Why it never occurred to me in my youth to ask as this woman was pinching my chubby cheeks in welcome makes me wish I had a time machine.

A time machine that would spin me to a destination where I could watch my Nonna smile in her dress. A time machine that would let me hear her laughter and witness the people stare as she twirled on the dance floor (because polio or not, that dress demanded a bit of fun twirling).

Oh how I wish...

Instead I stare and reflect in her mirror for a bit and cherish all the memories with her.

A big huge thank you to my Mom for taking the time to scan all our families old photos so that we can view them whenever we like.

Construction Paper & Hearts…

Taking Valentine’s Day Back!

It came as a shock last week as I was conducting a bit of grocery shopping. Turning down an aisle while focused on my list, I stopped dead in my tracks as I realized I had been completely oblivious to the fact I was traveling down the once dreaded pink aisle.

I’ve been writing about it for the past few years. The dreaded pink aisle filled with heart balloons and chocolate filled boxes that read, “Be Mine,” or “True Love,” or something of the like. Typically, I spend months stealthily maneuvering to avoid it. And then, there I was—completely taken unaware.

An “OH!,” did get vocalized, but I stood there and realized I wasn’t scared of it anymore. I started thinking that maybe I should give Valentine’s Day another look. I decided to take Valentine’s Day back!

Back to the old days, that is. Remember in elementary school when Valentines was all about the amount of pink, red, and white paper you could stick to a shoebox. You hoped the Elmer’s glue would at some point get off your hands (or you just spread it all over your hand and then carefully pilled it off to have a perfect replica of your hand, prints and all). Valentines was the time for treats and laughing with your friends on the playground.

So I decided to honor that old school tradition and celebrate by making a few treats to celebrate the love and happiness those around me give everyday. And low and behold construction paper just happened to be in my craft draw (because yes, I am that type of girl). And then I stepped back into that dreaded pink aisle to purchase a little something for others.So I get to play the kid. Dropping off Valentines to friends. I wish I had a cup of sprite with lime sherbet scooped in to add a bit more ambiance, but coffee will have to do.

The more I think about it, Valentine’s Day isn’t about the couples dinner, the thought of a passionate kiss, or all the other stuff that comes with it (I’m talking of balloons, chocolate, and teddy bears here people…don’t let your imagination run wild). Valentine’s Day is a day to celebrate all the love we have in our lives. So to my family and friends (and even to all the guys I’ve dated in the past), I say, “Construction Paper and Hearts…Happy Valentine’s Day thanks for the LOVE!!!

Chance Encounters II...

And Salt Lake City is blanketed in white....

Again!!!

I'm going to say it. I'm truly looking forward to January being over. For the past four days I've been chiseling sections of ice off the alleyway that is the driveway to my house (and surrounding neighbors). Each day, two hours of slamming ice with a plastic snow shovel in the hope I won't slide into a neighbors car. I'm waiting for warmer weather, for walks in the Spring night air. For a walk in general. This month has been one of those where I feel like a trapped animal. Only, I have hot coco mix to keep me from going insane.

But every now and then, I escape. Escape to the local coffee shop and sit mingled with others looking for a warm place other than their home. Looking for conversations with real people versus the glowing characters on a T.V. screen. And every now and then you get one of those moments where the snow, grey skies, and inversion all melt away because of the simple act of interacting with other human beings.

As I walked into my coffee shop today there was a young girl, no older than three, getting bundled up by her mother. Puffy-warm jacket on, mittens in place, and knitted winter hat being adjusted. The girl pointed at me and said, "I like that girl." As her mom didn't respond, she pointed and stated again, "I like her."

Sometimes that's all you need. Someone you don't know telling you that you're alright in there book. And so I sit in the warmth of the coffee shop, as the snow descends on the roads and sidewalks, smiling. Someone likes me. :)

A Chorus Line of Kickers...

It's been in my head lately. Maybe it's because of all the employment sites I've been searching, signing up with, and the mass of lingering silence from the multitude of applications sent into the Ethernet. Whatever it is, the song is on repeat in my mind. You know the one:

"Who am I anyways?

Am I my resume?

That is a picture… of a person I don't know..."

Repeat people. Wherever I go, whatever I'm doing, the lyrics of "I Hope I Get It" from The Chorus Line kicks into my thoughts and starts singing. It's driving me crazy, making me constantly question who I am, what I want, what I'm doing…at every moment of the day. It’s exhausting. So instead of finding answers, I curl into my bed, pull my hoody over my head, and sleep in the attempt to drown the voice in dreamland. 

Now I get this is not the most productive practice. But I figure, configuring a line of friends and doing kicks in unison wouldn’t really help either (it might be fun, but I don’t think my knee joints would appreciate the minute of laughter I would get out of our non synchronized dance moves). Instead of high kicks in this depressing January inversion--known to all Salt Lake citizens--I kicked myself in the *!*, and got out of dodge.

A three hour drive in mountains with blue skies, home cooked meals from the Mom, and a lot of laughter over the conversations (I swear) only my family has, got me out of the smoggy-foggy-funk. In other words, I got out of bed—took off the hoody—and started some movement with a few pushups.

Lets face it. I don’t have the answers. God “I Hope I Get It” is in high gear. I’m still searching; as always—if you’ve read any of my other posts. 

But I figured out something. I’m not a follower. Whatever I do, I want to do my way (and yes, I’m hoping Frank Sinatra will demand a smack down with the chorus line of kickers in my mind and take over the tune stuck in my head).