Saturday, February 9, 2013

Happy Birthday, Gime 2013


I just watched the series finale of 30 Rock.

30 Rock is the last show you demanded I watch. I can remember countless nights, in the room Mom somehow thought it would be a good idea for us to share whilst home from JMU: picking different parts of the theme song to vocalize, pausing to laugh over jokes that had no time to land because we were too busy laughing at the last line and that tense moment as the credits rolled where you would slowly inch over to your computer screen, raise your eyebrows and say, “One more? Come on…one more?”

“Fine. One more. But this is the last one, I have work in the morning.”

We didn’t sleep in the summer of 2008. We also ate more fourth meals from Taco Bell (which you decided was pronounced like Pachelbel) than we ate breakfasts. You literally shoved me awake to watch Michael Phelps break records. You drove me to Harrisonburg, bought a snake, streaked the quad and scuffed up the knee that wasn’t already in a brace by falling down the Wilson Hall steps. We had just come off the heels of a horrific car accident and were nursing various injuries and emotional wounds. We were still reeling, together, from the news that Mimi had breast cancer. We had always been joined at the hip like twins but that summer was different. You even came to Maymester to visit me for two weeks just because. Well, not just because. I knew. It’s a feeling ironically I recognize in others in the wake of your death: a comfort in the presence of those with whom you have endured something profound. Empathy and understanding without needless reiteration of the cause.

It was the only time in our lives I let you take the wheel. We were young and so very stupid. It was the first time I got a taste of how you so often felt: it was exhilaration and freedom with a bubbling undercurrent of anxiety to be so focused on the moment. It was strange to switch roles. I’d always been captain with you as first mate and master of improvisation. That summer, nothing but improvisation could master the waves. Summer came and went, however, and you handed the wheel back over with almost a small sense of relief. How could we know you were prepping me for the biggest adventure I’d ever take? At the time, I couldn’t imagine that any adventure would happen without you by my side.

I saved the 30 Rock finale for your birthday. There was a time where I would have written “Today you would be 24 years old”. I can’t think like that anymore. You are 19. It doesn’t matter what you could have done that you didn’t because you didn’t. Your life was exactly what it was. I don’t think there’s a grand purpose in your shorter than average life. I don’t think there’s a waste in its sudden end. I think that it was beautiful, challenging and powerful just as it was. I love the 19 year old Jim. I believe that the love that binds us so powerfully cannot be eradicated by a lack of physical presence. Your short life taught me so much and I have heard the powerful whisperings of your legacy, the Jim you’ve become in your absence, every step of the way. Here’s what I’ve heard the past four years:

Life, like art, is in the details.

You were always so caught up in the small things. The details of a recipe, the steps to making your own moonshine, the “finer things”, the craftsmanship, the components of a VCR that could be turned into a robot, what made a GREAT cup of coffee.

There was a time after you died where I couldn’t see the future. It was pitch black nothingness. Is there anything more terrifying to someone like me? All I ever thought about was the future until you died. The right step, the next step, careful planning and discipline. Then, life rips the rug out from under me and everything that defined me is either gone or in a state of total devastation. I couldn’t predict what would happen and it felt like plans were suddenly so foolish. So what did I have?

This GREAT cup of coffee. This delicious sandwich. This song that just really opened me up today. This friend whose kind word or joke restored a bit of light. This conversation over pizza. This poem I’d never heard. This game of Wii bowling I dominated.

It’s so stupid on the surface. Too simple. I could hear you reminding me that life is built on simple things. You take the simple steps, you find your joy and the big steps will follow. I found the small things, one piece at a time and they gave me the reserve strength and joy to tackle the immense.

Without dignity, there is no shame.

Okay, I know this was just a joke. People have used it as a banner to do all manner of stupid, shameless, WRECKLESS things in the aftermath of your death that you would have slapped them silly over.

This “mantra” of yours hit on a deeper level for me. Who do I think I am? Am I above that? Can I get messy, take huge risks, shoulder the consequences and push forward in pursuit of adventure? If I let go of ego, what am I capable of?

Everything, Jim. Everything.

I could feel you push me. Move to NYC for a summer? Sure! Attend a red carpet premiere with a famous opera singer? All in a day’s work! Who cares if I make a fool of myself…I have nothing to lose!

Go to grad school for opera? I don’t know if I want to be an opera singer! All I know is that something 
about singing classically is pushing me to heal, explore and rebuild myself. Is it presumptuous to take such a huge risk if I’m not sure where I want to land?

Yup. Jump anyway. The best decisions you make for yourself are the ones that are focused on growth, humility and pursuit of personal best, not destination.

I got to Manhattan School of Music and kept that mentality. I don’t have to be good at this, I just have to learn from it. I have to push myself to new levels of discomfort, even if dignity goes out the window. What did those decisions reap? Roles I didn’t know I could sing, choreography I didn’t know I could pull off, opportunities on camera, in recital halls and on Off-Broadway stages I didn’t think I’d see so soon, nights that defy description, friends who love me even at my worst and a Sarah that is so authentic and uninhibited. Most importantly, it led me to the love of my life. But we’ll get there.

Without dignity, there is no shame? What’s more shameful than calling off an engagement? What’s more humiliating than publicly declaring that my grief had blinded me? Say I wasn’t right? Let people down? KNOW that people would be furious, devastated and disappointed in me?

The only thing more shameful would have been following through on a lifetime commitment because of pride. You taught me that. You taught me that you can’t be afraid to look like an idiot to do the right thing. Real grace comes from humility.

You humbled yourself in the dumbest, silliest ways like bursting through classroom doors as the Koolaid Man yelling “OH YEAH!” and throwing packets at students. You dressed as a Chippendale’s stripper with Kofi one Halloween and called yourselves the “white and dark chocolate special” while you danced on whatever poor soul opened the door. You chugged syrup, you wore a coconut bra onstage, you ran around the track field in a scuba suit, you sang into a stupid plastic microphone in very public and quiet places, you wore a bowling shirt everyone thought was LAME (so…so lame) too often, you jumped into the snow naked for a laugh. You found every opportunity to embarrass yourself but it never worked because you owned it.

I think you did this so that your ego wouldn’t be there in the big moments. Your huge mistakes came with quick, earnest apologies because pride was something you’d been squeezing out bit by bit. You didn’t believe in wasting time on the wrong decision because it would save face. WHAT face? Who has the time or the energy for that when there’s so much awesome out there?

I remember Mom yelling at you after you threw all those tennis balls at Connor while he was mowing the lawn. “YOU NEVER THINK BEFORE YOU DO ANYTHING!”

“No, I thought about this and it sounded like a good idea”. You apologized to Connor effortlessly and sincerely (whether that was accepted was another story) (Also, not without giving Mom a heart attack while talking her through an acceptable list of items that could be thrown at people. Don’t sweat it, if you’d caught her in a better mood, maybe Pacific Cod would have made the list).

It’s always easy to learn from the mistakes we made earnestly and in true keeping with ourselves. The only lesson learned from mistakes we knew were mistakes but committed anyway is that we knew better. What a waste.

You weren’t impervious but you showed me that humiliation will fade over time. Knowingly doing the wrong thing to save face? That will haunt you forever. Be true to yourself, always, in the humblest, purest form.

I’m proud of the risks I’ve taken. I’m truly happy now that I don’t worry about looking foolish. I’m SO proud of the past four years. Thank you. Every time I held my breath and I felt my feet twitch on the edge, I could hear you whisper that I was loved and I had nothing to lose. When I closed my eyes and leapt, I landed in places I didn’t know were possible for me. That’s more exciting than anywhere I planned to be.

People are complicated but love is really simple.

The first thing that pops into Shannon’s mind when she thinks of you is the day she locked herself in her room crying and no one was allowed in but you. She always tells me she can’t remember what you said, you were just there. You were perfectly present, perfectly loving without a single solution. You couldn’t fix it, you could just love her. Possibly, you could make her a sandwich (you thought sandwiches fixed everything).

When I think of your friendship with Joe, I think about the day his dog was given away. I overheard the one-sided conversation from another room. All I could hear was Joe’s voice, the raw pain in his tone easing moment to moment. I don’t think you said much. You knew how to just sit there and love. I’m sure if I ask Joe, he can barely remember anything you said but somehow it completely changed your friendship. Maybe you made him a sandwich. You knew how to love endlessly and silently so that people could fix themselves. You were unwavering support by presence and connection without condescension. What a perfect example of love.

You sat there with me on my bed at the end of a terrible, demolishing relationship. I cried into my hands about the shame I felt and you just sat there and loved me, hand on my shoulder. When I sputtered through tears, “I just don’t even feel like I’m a good person anymore”, you stopped dead in your tracks and did something I’d never seen you do before. You took me by both shoulders and both of your Mom’s bright green eyes burned right into me.

“Stop that. You can’t say that ever again. I love you so much and you are the best person I know. You save my life all the time. If you say that about yourself, you might as well cut my legs out from under me because I love you. Don’t you ever say something bad about yourself without knowing you’re saying it about me, too. Now, stop crying and I’m going to make you the best sandwich you’ve ever had”.

 I have never forgotten a word of that. You have always been my example of perfect, unconditional love. You knew that presence and connection were the greatest gifts we have to give in this world.

When you weren’t here to show me every day, I stumbled around blindly for a long time. I was in so much pain, it felt like someone had cut my legs out from under me just like you said. Without my legs, I had a lot of wonderful, loving people who are nothing short of family carry me through. I was a pillar of optimism, hope and strength in all the ways that classified me as a great survivor for two years. I rebuilt until my hands were bloody and jumped and climbed until I was exhausted. After two years, I was tired of feeling like just a survivor.

The first year of grad school, on your birthday, my best friend Matt looked me dead in the eyes and said, 

“You’re sad. You’re not sitting at home alone tonight. If Jim came to visit you in the city, where would you take him to dinner?”

Despite my protestations, Matt invited all the people he thought were like family to Mel’s Burger (you WOULD love Mel’s Burger). We had a delicious dinner, tequila shots with no explanation and most importantly…he let me talk about you the whole walk back to his apartment. For the first time in a long time, there was someone there just listening. No pity that you were dead, no reeling sensation behind their eyes about how much pain was in my loss. Just loving and listening.

About two months later, I had the worst day. One of those days that defies possibility, every hour a harbinger of unforeseen disaster. At the end of the night, Matt insisted on walking me to the 79th street subway where I proceeded to lose my ever-loving mind. That poor man. Years of repressed tears and crazy unleashed in what can only be paralleled by the “LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE” video.

He hugged me for dear life. He was just there. I can’t describe it. I don’t remember what he said. I remember how he looked, I remember him squeezing the fear out of me and I remember knowing just by his presence that I was loved and because I was loved, there was no reason to be anything but hopeful about the life I was rebuilding. I thanked him for walking me to the subway and told him he should go find someone really pretty to hook up with that night.

The next morning I woke up and the whole world looked different. It felt different. The colors were different, things moved at a different pace. I moved differently because for the first time since you, somebody said, 
“Hey, that looks heavy. Why don’t you let me hold this for a second. I won’t tell you how to repack it or what exercises will strengthen your shoulders enough to hold it forever. I’m just going to give you a break because I love you”. Woah.

About two months ago, I told Matt I’d marry him. Not for the first time, just the first time publicly. About a month after that, I was feeling incredibly down on myself as a performer. I picked myself apart viciously, despondently over the phone with him, laying in the fetal position on my bed with the phone propped helplessly on a pillow. Then, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Stop it. I love you and I believe in you. I can’t separate myself from you anymore and I’m investing in our lives together. Anything hurtful you say about yourself goes straight into my heart as if you said it about me. Don’t do it”.

Got it.

I’m a fixer and a pusher. You taught me that unconditional, perfect love is patient, unassuming and is about investing our heart in someone else. If we truly place our heart in another, we can neither abuse them nor allow them to abuse themselves. That means operating from a place of constant kindness and humility. It means the assumption is not that we will always know the answers but that we will always love. That’s the only guarantee. And it is enough.

You gave me some of the most important tools for the biggest adventure I’ll ever take. For a couple of years, I thought the biggest adventure would be rebuilding without you. Now, I know it’s the family I’m building with Matthew.

Every day I thank God you were there so I could recognize it. Every day I thank God I already knew how unconditional love worked so I could accept it without sabotaging it. Every day I’m so thankful I got to be big sister and other half to the wisest of wise-crackers so that I could be the best other half to my soul mate I can be.

Every day I’m thankful you’re still a part of it. Happy Birthday to you but thanks for the present.