In Other Words

Archive for the ‘uncategorized’ Category

Over the time I haven’t written here I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve also been unconsciously wallowing in self-abasement, most notably since I started working at the naturopathic clinic (because I’ve been so preoccupied with it), regarding how much my life has slowed down since university, how my ambitions elude me, and how since then I’ve greatly struggled with the ugly faces of my idiosyncrasies, foibles, flaws, which I’ve always found myself unable to forgive, whether pointed out by others or recognized by me. That in itself, the inability to be forgiving of one’s own imperfections, is yet another flaw in my eyes.

However, one thing I’ve reminded myself of is that no one, as much as they may have even been the catalyst of the fears, insecurities, or neuroses, can actually make you have them or keep them. My interpretation or assumption of what people say or think is my choice alone. I can choose to let them judge, belittle, resent, abuse, accuse, or foster negative traits or I can choose to let the words, actions, and emotions be separate from me, and I can recognize what they truly mean, what they actually say about those people, and I can choose to let those negative things be actual favours to me: they can motivate me to be the opposite, to learn, to excel.  That is, to keep excelling.

Part of the frustration is that very fact — that it is solely my choice how people’s words, actions, and emotions affect me — but part is also that I’ve conveniently lost sight of that fact many times and thus spent far too much time reinforcing what others have said or done.

Where what I’ve said above becomes relevant

Yesterday was my 35th birthday. One of my sisters called me before I left for work to wish me a good day and also to let me know that someone had written a very venomous note on my Facebook wall and I might want to delete it. A while ago I’d deactivated my Facebook account (I’m annoyed one cannot actually delete one’s account, it seems) to simplify my life, let go of the past, and because I was always irritated by how long the thing took to load. It also seemed a waste of time; there were many “friends” and relatives I never spoke to or even had never met, notifications and comments on my wall that irritated me, and I am frankly not interested in the fact that so and so just watched CSI or had scrambled eggs for breakfast. I wanted more meaningful interaction.

But on reflecting one night, I thought perhaps it had been rude of me to deactivate my account, rude or selfish or snobbish, to cut off people who may have wanted to keep up with me that way. So I started a new account not much more than a week ago. I was reminded yesterday why I had deactivated it. The message of which my sister had spoken was indeed horrid but most of all bewildering. In addition, the person left a very long message in my inbox.

I know that what I’m going to write about the messages and their author will sound immature of me. I know that a bigger woman perhaps wouldn’t include it, and that it’s defensive of me to have to prove to you that her messages were simultaneously horrible and strange and that the author is very likely mentally unstable. Yet I’m choosing to write it anyway, thinking that while I might be childish in doing it, my intention is not to make fun of her to make me look the better woman. It’s to bring me properly to my conclusion. (Plus, you’re dying to know what the messages said, aren’t you?)

As much as the words were ridiculously untrue — (among many other asinine accusations such as that I apparently fake illness to bully and manipulate people, I think too much of myself, and my marriage is a failure because my husband [whom she has never met] is “emotionally dead,” she wrote that I am jealous I didn’t have her partner’s children [!?] — I, one who has never wanted children [regardless of which boyfriends and husbands] and who feels utterly confounded that one can believe that simply getting knocked up and having a kid means you are more of a woman [also see my post here]!) — and as much as they constituted a transparently desperate attempt to belittle me to aggrandize herself, they did indeed get to me. They festered in me all day, making me poisonously angry and resentful and regretful, and especially utterly and immaturely desirous of the last word and revenge. I’ve been “a Christian woman” (quoting Auntie Em here) more than enough times in my life, not deigning to answer the rantings of others. Alas, after this woman commented on my wall and in my inbox, she conveniently deleted her Facebook account as well as that of her partner. Cowardice, I’d wager, but perhaps also infantile in making sure she got the last word.

The comments that came in from friends and family who wondered about the message on my wall (one friend wrote, “What on earth is that horrid wall post all about?? It seems written by someone with a sketchy grasp of the language at best, not to mention someone who seems to lack those all-important qualities class and taste, integrity and self-possession…Good lord — she’s obviously not well”), and who would be ugly enough to write such things on my birthday, made me feel I was not alone in my impression of this person who confidently (and incredibly) professed that because she had a certain IQ she had me all figured out, although we’ve never met.

Her quite incoherent words, irritatingly written with an excessive use of capital letters, ellipses, and exclamation marks, misspelled words, and ludicrous statements, betrayed the person she truly is, an insecure and jealous woman who, in feeling the need to assert her dominance, actually stated her IQ (which as we all know is likely wholly inaccurate, as scientists readily admit IQ measurements are not reliable, nor do they really measure intelligence but rather more so logic), exclaim that she and her partner were going to be millionaires, and make a shopping list of my apparent shortcomings and wrongdoings, and jealousy of not having children, as well as continually contradict herself in significant ways, proved she was exactly the opposite of what she was attempting to suggest. An intelligent person does not go about stating how intelligent they are. A classy, educated, and truly confident woman does not call another woman “a silly arsehole of a broad,” or insist on her confidence and high quality, and nor does she have the gall to reference one of Eckhart Tolle’s books while utterly having missed the point of it. My first thought was actually that she was mentally unstable, and my second was that Buddha would not have been proud of her (she and her partner are supposedly Buddhists. Again, they’ve apparently missed the teachings there).

Wherein I get to the point

I fully realize how emotionally charged I sound above. And yes, since I couldn’t respond to her messages obviously meant to hurt me, I am venting a little here. But she ultimately made me frown while thinking of the many truths about me, let alone her, in juxtaposition to what she was saying.

And this is a good thing. She’s done me a favour, I realize. She’s pulled me out of my lamentations that I’ve done nothing with my life and am no good, uneducated, and have too many flaws, and ignited my defensive anger. It’s excellent, in this case, this defensiveness. Suddenly, I look back on my previous year, on my life in general, on my successes and my internal achievements (which I strangely don’t feel the need to list and lionize here ), on the definite truths about me that contradict her confounding accusations, but I am most of all glad to have never stooped as low as this woman has. Pharisee-ish of me, perhaps. But there it is, nevertheless. At least I recognize it. I never said I was perfect.

This morning I awoke remembering my last thoughts: that I’ve not at all done badly for myself, that I have made good decisions, that things have worked out for me, and that, ultimately — with my health and easy access to healing people and practices, with my excellent education and my ability and intelligence to think for myself and to write and read well — together with my husband to whom I must state I am indeed happily married, as I think you already know from previous posts, I am truly living well.

A good friend is visiting this weekend from Ottawa and after dropping my husband off in Trenton for his father’s birthday, while driving down the 401, squinting in the sun (sunglasses aren’t ready yet) and smiling at the person I’ve become from the woman who was scared to drive (let alone on the highway), I passed a car whose bumper sticker read, “Living well is the best revenge.” Ah. I grinned. Some reinforcement from the universe. And then some more when I got home and turned on Classical 96.3 and the presenter reported her Living Well segment.

As I sit here at our kitchen table beside vases of vibrant birthday flowers, in our warm and bright, sunny house we own (well, in a manner of speaking!), I smile again. Thinking on everything I’ve realized by looking at myself in a different light, I can truly let go of yesterday’s messages and rise above them with a newfound confidence in myself.

And that, I gather, is surely part of what living well really means.

Before I settle down for the first time in forever to spend time with Colin wrapping a few gifts, eating pizza, and listening to Christmas carols (the visiting starts tomorrow!), I wanted to wish you all my deepest and heartfelt wishes that you experience a fulfilling, joyful, warm, and inspiring holiday time, one that you will remember fondly and bring up at future Christmas gatherings.

May it be filled with moving music, satisfying food, loving company, and much merriment.

All my love and appreciation, now and always,

Steph

Seriously, I haven’t looked up or written out lyrics to a song since I was a teenager. But there’s a song (by Josh Groban, who else?) that seems really significant lately, not only for me but for all those who are endeavoring to do great things, who have goals and dreams, and who are struggling against not only their own doubts about themselves and their abilities but those of others as well. Maybe this will speak to you as it does me. (I’ve put a link to the title as well.)

Let Me Fall

Let me fall
Let me climb
There’s a moment when fear
And dreams must collide

Someone I am
Is waiting for courage
The one I want
The one I will become
Will catch me

So let me fall
If I must fall
I won’t heed your warnings
I won’t hear them

Let me fall
If I fall
Though the phoenix may
Or may not rise

I will dance so freely
Holding on to no one
You can hold me only
If you too will fall
Away from all these
Useless fears and chains

Someone I am
Is waiting for my courage
The one I want
The one I will become
Will catch me

So let me fall
If I must fall
I won’t heed your warnings
I won’t hear

Let me fall
If I fall
There’s no reason
To miss this one chance
This perfect moment
Just let me fall

Extreme Wide Shot: Planet Earth. Through the atmosphere, through the clouds, North America, Canada, Ontario, Belleville, Lambert Drive.

Long Shot: My snowy house, from across the street, looking in the living room window. There’s me, sitting on the couch, scanning my laptop screen.

Full shot: Look at me. So here I am, sitting in our living rooom, scanning the CBC news online, feeling like spending an entire day in my dream business of a bookshop tea room called Biblio, regretting I don’t live in England, wondering if past lives are real, wishing I’d studied to be an archeologist, thinking about Wall-E, and anticipating my nice breakfast of boiled egg and spelt toast with Earl Grey tea and a clementine. Ah, Sundays.

Colin is in the next room, the kitchen, washing a dish. Lucy lies by the front door, feeling barfy.

Suddenly, Colin is standing at the front door peering through the window.

“Steph,” he says in a strange voice, still looking out. “You have slippers on, you can go outside. There’s a ten-dollar bill on our lawn.”

It takes me a second or two to register this because I’d thought he was going to say “you have slippers on the lawn,” which would also be bizarre.

“Shut up,” I say, but in the next minute I’m outside, pulling a tenner from the snow. It’s not mine and it’s not Colin’s and unless Lucy has a secret, she didn’t drop it either.

I look up and smile.

“Thanks,” I say.

It’s an hour past my bedtime (according to Ayurvedic practice and my common sense), and I’m sitting in the gezellig (Dutch for cozy, more or less, but even cozier than cozy!) dreamy light of the Christmas tree we put up last weekend.

But before I log off my computer I need to just put something down here. Anything. Just these nothing words, even. I miss this place. I love this place. Coming here feels like I’m visiting a good friend, not only many of you who read this — and I do miss you, very much — but also me.

Being so busy lately with lots of work and other things makes me feel as though I actually miss myself. Or maybe that’s not so strange. I’m so conscious of everything else — my daily routine, all that I’m learning at work, my editing, the season — that I haven’t taken time to follow my own recent advice to someone on Havi’s blog — that is, to close my eyes for a few minutes each day and just breathe deeply, becoming totally aware of my breathing, my beating heart, the rise and fall of my stomach and chest. To envision my body doing its complicated thing. To quiet my mind and at the same time allow any thoughts I have, ones that most often come from Deep Me, Wise Me (like the wise me that tells me to haul my tired ass to bed!).

I need to touch base with myself (that bath would be good, but I know I’ll be taking in a book with me and reading for the most part!), and let Wise Me tell me that I need to rest, need to sleep, need to calm down and ground myself. I need to let Wise Me tell me that everything will be okay without me trying to control it all. I need to let Wise Me say, Take care of you, and watch how everything else falls nicely into place. You will find it easier to write blog posts, for one thing. You will have so much more to offer people. And you will stop feeling bad about not having much in you to give.

Everything will be okay in the end. And if it’s not okay…well…then it’s not the end. That, to me, is an encouraging thought.

I have plans, after all.

Day three of my life as a receptionist at a naturopathic and alternative healing office.

I am still alive! Yes, I’ve managed to survive three days of work outside the home, staying positive, even smiling, not yet complaining about the job! Hallelujah! This calls for celebration, though since I feel on the verge of collapse, perhaps I’d better not jump the gun. Let’s see if I can make it to Friday first.

My duties are pretty straightforward: phones and booking for three practitioners, invoicing, receipts, accounts receivable, receiving and ordering shipments, creating files, yadayada (and by that I mean there’s a lot of little details I won’t belabour here. Then there’s memorizing a gazillion supplements as well as services and what they do and are good for, and laundry…tons of laundry every single day. And other cleaning.

But you know what? I’ve been busy enough I haven’t really noticed the days. I am smiling with a sense of purpose now, a feeling of validity, of industriousness. The interactions with patients have been mostly positive (I suspect it’s because the treatments put them in a state of such relaxation they are almost disoriented when they come out!) The professions (of which I have some knowledge since Colin’s a Reiki Level III guy and I’ve had other treatments at this centre before (I had a bit of acupuncture today!) are totally interesting to me, and I’m learning even more. It’s all very handy, at least!

I won’t say I look forward to getting up and setting off to work, but I don’t dread it. What I do dread is the alarm (as Brett and I agreed, it is the devil’s invention) and taking the confounded bus. If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s the bus. I always feel the need to shower afterward, and I abhor waiting for it.

But anyway. Needless to say, with all this new information coming at me, and with such a change in schedule and habit and eating and everything, and at the same time working on a long book, several advertising assignments, and four papers for a journal, I’m knackered. Never mind blogging and EditQuest and other projects. There’s no time (and yes, I should be doing other stuff now, not this)! Never mind that Colin might be laid off by next week and that there is no replacement job. Never mind the bankruptcy (we are still getting arrears bills like crazy: how could they not know by now?) we just went through. On the plus side of that, we managed to spend a measly $76 on groceries last night, after three weeks of not shopping, and that in comparison to the $120 a week we used to spend. We were glowing. It’s been a fun challenge to see how low we can go without starving. No meat, dairy, wheat, or sugar helps!

And Lucy needs me. She’s having a hard time adjusting to my new schedule, too. I have a dog attached to me now, leaning into my face, staring very pointedly at me. I need a long epsom salt bath and the sleep of the dead for about a month. Instead I’m getting stinging eyes, digestive issues, dehydration, low bloodsugar, no sleep, and nightmares. And this is after only three days.

Somebody take care of me. I suck at it. It won’t do to have an unhealthy zombie working at a health clinic…

I’ve always verbally told people how I feel or observe things. I’m very free with admiration and compliments, even for strangers, and I’m also okay with letting someone know I disagree or don’t like something, though I can be more shy in those situations, depending on what the circumstances are. But it’s only within the last few years that I’ve started writing letters or emails in response to things that really matter to me.

I’ve petitioned, pleaded, and praised, but I don’t know, or don’t remember, if I’ve ever actually had a reply. Perhaps this is the reason I still haven’t gathered the courage to write Josh Groban and tell him how much his voice inspires me and makes me feel. What difference would my words make in a sea of literally millions of comments, emails, letters, and texts? And all over the blogosphere people close their feedback sections because comments are either too numerous or not meaningful enough to them.

But I got to thinking. If I were someone doing something amazing, or even not so amazing and perhaps wrong, I would — I am sure of it — totally appreciate someone’s feedback, even if they were the 700th person to express how they feel.

Maybe I’m having a bad day and am wondering, even at the height of my popularity, if this is really worth my effort. Or maybe I’m promoting health yet knowingly including MSG in my foodstuffs. Maybe I’m testing on animals when I promote a contrary image. Maybe I’m doing something wonderful but that I consider small. And maybe one particular day, when I’m feeling crappy or discouraged or particularly vulnerable and subconsciously ready for and open to change, someone writes how they feel. Maybe that particular day I am encouraged and I work harder. Or I decide to stop compromising my morals and the health of others. Or maybe I realize that what I’m doing isn’t so small and insignificant at all.

As cliché as it sounds, all it takes is one voice.

Yesterday I posted about Pete Kadens, an entrepreneur in Chicago who invited a homeless man into his car to get out of the rain…and eventually off the streets altogether. I was so moved by the story (see at Woohoo! Report) that I wrote Pete a letter yesterday morning, which was part of my post. You can read it here.

Below is his response.

Steph-

I hope you don’t mind but I have copied some of my colleagues from
Streetwise on this letter. I eliminated your last name at the end to protect
your identity.

I’ve received thousands of letters throughout this process…and I want
to tell you that your letter really touched me.  The reason it touched me
is because it illustrated that one small move to help one person can make a
world of difference. I am inspired by your story and your willingness to
confront your thoughts and feelings.

This has been the most unbelievably rewarding experience of my life. I
was a good basketball player growing up and when my team went to the state
semifinals one year in high school I had the honor of entering the stadium to
over 6,000 screaming fans-it was truly “euphoric”. I always figured that I
would replicate that sense of “euphoria” in my career when I sold a company or
took a company public…but I was wrong. I found it in an unusual place, at any
unusual time, and by working with a community of people to help an unusual man
who was all but forgotten by society.  The far reaching impact of this
story speaks to two things: 1) You CAN make a difference 2) Giving is
exceptional.

I REFUSED to believe people that told me that “No good deed goes
unpunished” after this story broke.  I rephrased this saying and prefer to
think that “In doing no good deed you only punish yourself”.

I’m glad this story helped you and I REALLY hope that this will continue
to motivate both you and I for years to come to helps others less fortunate
than ourselves.

All the best, Pete

The other day, Friar said, “Cubicles are here to stay.”

I thought, So what?

If you believe in cause and effect, action and consequence, in the power to decide for yourself, that where you are is a result of the choices you’ve made…then this is what I know for sure:

You are not destined for anything that isn’t of your own choosing. Even when it seems that others are dictating your life, remember this: our greatest gift is the power to create. If a single butterfly’s wings can change the course of nature, surely we can change the course of our own lives, whatever the circumstances.

A long time ago, but not in a land far away unless you live out of the country, a couple had a brilliant idea. Excited about the potential for greatness and change, the woman posted about it here.

The idea is not exactly original, though what they envision for it is very, very big, and they do hope that is original. Even if it’s not, though, the goal is to change the overwhelmingly negative vibe in the universe to one of happiness and hope. After all, even the smallest person can change the course of the world.

The problem is, the couple has experienced a great deal of Life in between, and like many ideas, this one sadly fell by the wayside.

Until one day someone Stumbled the site (they swear, it wasn’t them!!) and it received over a thousand viewers in one day. There are even a couple of subscribers.

DAAAMN! said the wife. AWESOME!! said the husband. WE HAVE TO GET THIS GOING! said the husband and wife together.

What the Hell I’m Talking About

We were going to keep this secret for a while until it became a lot better, but in an effort to get the idea off the ground, here it is. What I am thinking now is that the more people we get participating in this and enjoying it, the more it will grow and affect people in wonderful ways. At least, that’s what we hope.

Without further ado, then, I present to you The Wooohoo! Report. I encourage you to read the About section, as well as The Woohoo! Factor (this page could be so great!!) and the Welcome pages.

Let me know what you think.

“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” ~ Helen Keller

I can sum up my life pretty easily, even though I have many memories.

Went to elementary school. Excelled at writing, singing, secretly oogling guys while being a tomboy, and sports. Major interest in theatre. Won lots of awards. Was very introspective.

Went to high school. Excelled at writing, singing, sports, theatre, academics, and openly oogling guys. Was very introspective. Failed my driver’s licence. Won awards at gr. 12 grad. Switched schools for my OAC year from Catholic to public in another town and went further with singing and theatre. Won talent contest for singing. Experienced one of the most memorable, passionate years of my life. Started doing community theatre shows. Showed up solo at my grad in black jeans and a white shirt, went on stage for my awards, and promptly left so I could join friends in watching the Blue Jays win the World Series with Carter’s home run.

Left for Paris, France for a year to help set up a Catholic centre. Gave lectures in French. Was bilingual before, but now thought and wrote and even prayed in French. It was nothing like what I’d expected or been told, and I was miserable and incredibly homesick. I was afraid of becoming a person I despised because I was so negative. Came home and no one was as excited as I was. Life had gone on without me. Disillusioned, I acted rebelliously, moved in with my Mormon friend and her family, and got baptized as a Mormon. Was disowned by my devout Catholic parents as my father broke his favourite Mormon Tabernacle Choir record over his knee. A few months later, I changed my mind and went back to Catholicism and reconciled with my family.

Got accepted to Queen’s, Waterloo, Ottawa, and Redeemer universities. Chose Redeemer because of the scholarships and full OSAP. Excelled at English, Phys. Ed, writing, theatre, singing. Edited students’ papers, the newspaper, and literary mag. Had absolutely no clue what I wanted to do with my life.

I was very passionate about theatre, and lots of boozed up crying, and swearing I would live in a box on the street if I had to if only I could act, occurred in high school when my parents told me it was a waste of time. I continued it feverishly in university.

But even more loved than theatre was singing. I have never witnessed more passion than in people, including myself, singing, but also conducting and simply listening to music. It was my greatest love and I was never shy about doing it. I sang anywhere and everywhere because I was moved to and because the feeling is absolutely incomparable. There is nothing, nothing, like it. Because I recognize this in myself, I can recognize it and appreciate it in others. Making real music and singing—they are the language of the soul.

On a scary whim, tried out for and made the concert choir in spite of a very shitty audition during which I had to admit I didn’t have a clue how to read music and had never sung in a choir before. A week later the conductor changed his mind and asked me to sing alto. Our first piece was Vivaldi’s Gloria. Everyone opened their scores and started singing. Except me. I realized I had to listen to and memorize the music. Which I did quite successfully. I still remember many of the songs. Later that year, was chosen to sing a duet (contralto) with the Hamilton Philharmonic orchestra (Bach’s Easter Canata No. 4, “Den Tod”) in concert, which got a glowing review in the Hamilton Spec, and I fulfilled my dream of singing Handel’s Messiah in public. Going from not even being able to clap to notes to this is the greatest achievement of my life.

Broke my hand in a diving accident the summer after first year. Met my future husband K in 1995. Got married in the summer after third year, 1997. Quit choir after two years because I was too emotionally stressed. Passion overload, if there can be such a thing. But far worse than that was something else, something monstrous. Perhaps fear. I began to have panic attacks and claustrophobia. I quit theatre, I quit singing, I quit writing. I quit passion. Graduated in 1999, after five years. K left in 2000, fearing an ordinary life in marriage. Got together with next future husband, C. Quit job at Chapters and moved to Trenton with C and his parents after only one month of dating. Moved to Belleville apt. Married C in 2002. Had various numbing and unsatisfying jobs.

Got first house and Lucy in 2003. Struggle, struggle, struggle. Starting editing biz Word for Word in October 2003.  Sold house and moved to apt. in 2005. Missed university, writing, singing. Started blogging a year ago. Bought new house in 2008. Got my driver’s licence in February. Struggle, struggle, struggle. Launched EditQuest in September. Going bankrupt in a week.

Pretty ordinary life, really.

What’s on My Mind

Shit. I have a feeling this is going to be a long post.

Here’s the thing. Last Sunday I went to Toronto with my friend and sister to attend a choral concert. It really did take much of what I had to go. I rarely leave the house in Belleville let alone take a train to Toronto and spend the day. But I’m extremely glad I went. We saw the Swedish choir Orphei Dranger, reportedly the best men’s choir in the world. Needless to say, I was moved by several of the pieces, and by moved I mean it was all I could do not to start blubbering out loud. I shed tears. There truly is nothing at all like the human voice in harmony. If there aren’t cherubim and seraphim and Josh Groban in heaven when I get there, I may as well be in hell.

Speaking of the Lovely Josh

After the concert on Sunday, I “remembered” how much I love (what is a stronger word?) music and a rich, talented voice. I wondered at the increasing silence in my life since I quit choir 11 years ago and silenced my voice as long. I wondered why I stopped listening to the radio and CDs. Why I no longer have music in the background as I cook or work or clean or just lie in the dark in my library to be alone. Music used to be as much a part of me as my name.

I haven’t any idea of the answer, except that it might be something to do with allowing the mundane to take over and suck the magic from life. It might be that I can’t listen to beautiful music anymore without crying. Seriously. Ever. It’s embarrassing, but also indicative, I think, of something deep within that I’ve been incomprehensibly squelching for too long. It may be that I can’t make music background, even if I’m watching a movie. When I have music on, I can’t do anything else but listen.

Since the concert last Sunday I’ve been listening to choral CDs, songs on YouTube, and of course (and I say of course because it just goes without saying that this man is one of the most talented and beautiful singers out there) Josh Groban.

Yes, I have a huge crush on him. Huge. I am a very committed fan. One who has never been to a concert, written on his message board, penned him a letter, or even bought one of his CDs (though that last one is about money). It’s all for two reasons: At 34, this kind of thing feels both mortifying and agonizing. There’s something in me akin to my fear of singing or letting myself dance in public or trying now to speak French that won’t allow me to gush about what a fan I am. The second reason is that it seems quite hopeless. I’m just another girl out of the hundreds of thousands who have reached out. I don’t want my message to go unnoticed or seem anonymous or get read and trashed by some publicity person. So I don’t bother. I never did growing up, either. I’ve never let anyone famous know that they reside in a special place in my heart labelled “heroes.” Now I wonder if those hundreds of thousands of girls ahead of me are actually smarter than I. Nothing comes from nothing, after all. And he does actually recognize certain fans in the audience when he sees them at his concerts.

But yes, this admiration is genuine. I obsessively listen to his voice and words (but not around C). I read and watch what little he has on his blog. I google him. I appreciate him. I love that he was in my favourite musical of all time (Chess). I think he’s handsome and sweet and dear, and he literally makes me blush the way no one else can, which is disarming.

I think there is nothing quite so wonderful as his singing, though naturally I take great pleasure in many other things. But he makes me open my mouth to sing, and even when I croak out some godawful notes and cringe with embarrassment in the privacy of my own home, he still makes me want to sing along. He makes me dream about him—he makes me dream. He not only “raises me up” but wakes me up in the early morning to suddenly think:

I am meant to live an extraordinary life.

You know when suddenly you become conscious of your little life after a really lovely dream? When you come crashing back to reality, surrounded by dirty dishes and an unmade bed and errands to run and work to do and it seems so utterly…small? You might be visualizing your greatest goal, you might be watching a magical movie that deeply moves you—heck, you might be dreaming of Josh Groban himself. And suddenly you awake, sobered immediately by the snores beside you and a clenching fear in the pit of your stomach that you live a very ordinary life. That is, compared to what you know deep in your gut: that you are meant to be doing something greater than this, to be happier, living more fully, actively, generously, touching people in extraordinary ways. It’s not necessarily celebratory status I want. It’s simply to feel that I really am acknowledging I’ve been given gifts with which I could possibly change lives. I’m not sure what those gifts are, exactly, and I know, not everyone has to be a superstar. But I don’t know why not.

Dreams like these, like meeting Josh and him thinking I’m charming and inviting me to sing with him, and becoming great friends, are only wish fulfillment; they have no double meaning. Still, they tell you something very important about yourself. That you have wishes. That you long for something more, whatever more might be. They tell you ultimately that you have the potential for greater things, and, most importantly, that you ought to realize it, acknowledge it, and then do something about it.

If I look back on my life, as I often do, and regret I’m not the person I used to be, and if I look at what I admire, what I love, I can see what it is I’m missing.

When I was growing up, and up until I got married (don’t read into that!), I did and felt everything passionately. I unabashedly went for what I wanted, whether it was roles in a play, awards, a place on the roster, a boy. I got them, I achieved them, I realized goals. And those are small things, but surely an indication that bigger things are possible! Yet somewhere along the line, I lost hold of self-confidence, belief, and passion, and instead adopted fear, self-abasement, and cynicism.

Behind every person who is living an extraordinary life, like Josh Groban, for instance, with his concerts and tours and meeting his heroes and fulfilling so many wishes; with his charity work and writing songs and making personal videos for fans and friends—and even those who don’t have celebratory status but are doing what they want and love and are genuinely living fully—is deeply rooted passion. You can see it in Josh’s delighted smile, hear it in his voice, and witness it in the image above. It was in the memorable, sweating face of my conductor as he waved his hands gracefully, feelingly, and closed his eyes and listened to me sing. It is in the hearts of those who accomplish great things.

I know this, because without it, you cannot live an extraordinary life. We must ask ourselves, even if we are content in life, even if we see the beauty in details and ordinary things, what truly is our passion? What moves us so completely that we ache for the love of it?

And when we find the answer, we owe it to ourselves, but especially others, to follow it.

Awake.