It was late. A band was still playing but I was the only one on the dance floor. In between songs I would ran about the room, collecting cups and plates, throwing away trash. Almost everyone who was still there was actually on stage, except maybe Odette who was fast asleep on the couch. It was a good evening.

And yet it was a complex evening for me too. As it wound down I felt myself grow grouchier. Sure I was touched by the magic but I was tired, my body ached from two days of cooking and a full night of dancing. The refreshments had left me a little fuzzy too and I found myself being impatient, snappy and downright grumpy.

But there was another reason too. Even in the swirl, as I packed off Max with neighbors and sent him off to a sleepover, even as I danced with one friend and then another, a feeling bubbled up from a place deep inside. I couldn’t name it then–I didn’t have the perspective to be able to do it. It felt so dissonant compared to the rest of the evening. But now, as it lingers I can call it by name. Loneliness.

It is such an odd thing to feel lonely in the midst of my beautiful community. But it happens from time to time. It is the moment when I realize that I am raising my child alone–without the one person who loves him as much as I do. It happens sometimes when I am dropping him off at school, or when I am wrapping Christmas presents. It is the moment when I so desperately need to be seen for who I am and I find that no one quite gets it (at least the way Juan would try). It is the moment when I am dancing and realize I have no partner. On most days my community stands in so well–loving Max, helping me keep it all together, being a place where we can laugh, and chat and share–but there are just some roles that they cannot fill. But still it is so strange and uncomfortable to be in a room the people who love you best and to feel so damn alone.

Odette and I talk a lot about this feeling. These days 95% of the time we can hold it together, but sometimes, the smallest thing–a snide comment from a friend, a misunderstanding, a disappointment can open up the whole damn pandora’s box of emotion and suddenly everything seems so utterly complicated and sad. Suddenly there is only one factor that matters. I am alone. And I don’t know how I am going to keep doing it by myself.  But I do…and I will.

Tomorrow I will wake up and the feeling will have dissipated. The sun will rise, sweet sweet sleep will cradle me. I will realize that I am only alone in a few things and yes, we all feel alone from time to time–even in the midst of a near perfect marriage. I will wander to the mirror, look with love upon a woman, strong–if not entirely always secure and then turn and do what needs to happen next. And love will carry us after all. It usually does.

About two months ago, my friend Jeff and I were sitting on the couch after a guitar lesson.  “Hey,” he said.  “There is something I want to talk to you about.”

“What?” I asked him intrigued.  Our chats, usually about things like guitar and our kids rarely start this way.

“I have a brilliant idea.  Let’s throw a party for Odette.  To help raise money to support her daughters. ”  Odette has worked her way into everyone’s heart in this community.  She is light, a gentle peaceful presence whose kindness is felt by all of us.

And so the planning began.  The planning that resulted in a musical benefit.  Jeff’s photo studio became transformed into a magical space with funky lights and a retro couch, a full stage.  African food was spread out over a table and potluck desserts came in by the tray-ful.  A band was up on stage, playing their heart out all night from 6pm-well after 2:30.  We raised over $3750 in one night.

As each guest walked through the door my heart leapt.  It was a parade of many of my favorite people–people who are kind, supportive, loving and gentle to Max and I on a daily basis.  People from my work, from our neighborhood, from Jackie’s and Jeff’s wide circles

I am sure there are amazing pictures of the evening.  The lovely shutter sister Jen Lemen wandered about all night with her magical camera, while I held down the dance floor with Odette, the beautiful Madeline and other children and friends.  But we will need to wait to get the photos (I promise I will post a link when Jen gets them up) but in the meantime I can simply say the evening shimmered.

Now its all back to almost normal.  Our kitchen is still trashed from our marathon cooking but the photo studio is back to looking like an industrial studio.   The leftover wine has been stored.  The keg has been returned.  We have sent out thank yous and are now in that exhausted, hung-over, spacey space.  There are some post-party blues to contend with (aren’t there always?) but for now I keep repeating the word “grateful” over again and again.   It is a word that sums up how I feel about the place I live, the people I share the park with, a community so wide and open.

Today is the start of a magical weekend. It is a weekend that already is brimming with love and community and kindness.

It is the start of the Bloggers for Jeni Auction. Please click over here to view some of the amazing objects in the store. There are beautiful prints offered by some talented Shutter Sisters. There are adorable baby clothes, a necklace made by this superhero, beautiful hand carved wooden bowls, products to pamper oneself. There is one special offering for a comfy day with one of my favorite authors Karen Maezen Miller.  The auction will be up and running through Thursday May 1.

All of the money raised will go to support our dear friend Jennifer Ballantyne, a courageous cancer warrior and her 6 year old son Jack. Money will be used to help Jen get access to care not covered by insurance as well as provide a trust for little Jack, a charming boy who sings love songs to his mother each night.

Here are some things you can do to help spread the word and help us create some miracles for Jen and Jack:

1)  Go over to the auction, find something special and bid.

2)  Let friends and family know about the auction.

3)  If you blog, please post about the auction and include a link to it.

Wishing you a weekend full of miracles and magic.

If it seems I have fallen off the face of the earth this week, I haven’t.  Its just been a busy, crazy, wonderful, falling down nutty week–full of activity and drama.  There was hockey to watch and sob over, live music to go see, a sweet 6 year old boy to cuddle, and an amazing party to plan.  I can’t wait to tell you about this last one but its got to happen first.  I am almost afraid to speak of it, for fear that I will somehow attach some expectation to it that will just ruin it for me.

I remember when Juan’s Tio Gordo and Tia Fidelina built their new house.  It was a spectacular house in a modest village–two stories high with balconies dripping with bougainvillea.  People came from 5 villages away to see it, to celebrate its birth.  We too went down to Veracruz for the house blessing.  The event was bigger than a wedding and wonderful in all the ways that happy occasions are but I personally found the rituals around the party were more delicious than the party itself.  There was the shopping for the perfect ingredients, the purchase of a big spoon worthy of a witch’s cauldron, to stir mole for 500 over an open fire.  There were two nights straight of cooking, grinding corn, cooking mole over coals, forming tamales by hand.  There was the afternoon setting up the stage for the band.  And then the magical party itself.

Its gonna be like the next few days.  It started today as we passed emails around, solidifying our plans.  Tomorrow Odette and I will rise with the sun, get Max off to school and we will start to shop and then chop.  All afternoon sisters will come in through our front door wielding knives and will join us in the chopping, the wine, the singing.   Then at 6 we will take our food to store in a big industrial fridge at the photo studio where we will work to set up our fete.  Ten of us will drag tables and lights and music equipment around and transform a photo studio into something else.  When we wake the next morning there will be more cooking, more running to the liquor store, more final preparations.  And then there will be a party.  A party for a very special woman, my housemate Odette.  A simple and beautiful person who walked through our magic door and changed all our lives in ways we cannot even begin to explain, ways we are all still trying to understand.  Bands will wander on and off stage, bread will be broken and wine will flow and in the end, we will have raised money for her girls, preparing them a home for a someday soon reunion, building them a family to walk into, preparing them a place of rest.

Thinking about it all I just feel giddy and grateful.

What are you looking forward to this weekend?

The magical Max picking a name out of the hat…

There was a deep sigh of relief at our house this afternoon. A deep deep sigh. Our Washington Capitals finally beat back the Flyers and are now just one game down. Of course, the next pivotal game is in Philadelphia but still…there is hope here in Washington.

This week with the last three losses have been a little hard over at our house. On Tuesday night, Max stayed up to watch the game with me. In some ways it was blissful. A freshly bathed child, in his pjs, cuddled on his mama’s lap. I loved the sweet smell of him. Together we cheered on our boys, talked about penalties and exchanged thoughts about the game. Mother-son bonding at its best.

By the second period, our bonding took an ugly turn. Together we started yelling at the TV, the refs, Daniel Briere. But at a pivotal point, when the refs made a bad call and the Flyers got to make a penalty shot on the goal and it went in…well, lets just say I seriously questioned my decision to let him stay up late. From the minute the puck hit the net he started to sob into my chest. “I HATE THE FLYERS…I HATE THE FLYERS…They are mean, they are bullies and I hate them. SH*T…SH*T…SH*T!” (yes… he did)

All I could do was rock him back and forth, kiss his hair and soothe his little spirit. “Its just a game, babe…Our boys will get it back. They are the come back kids.” (Later I had to explain to him that the SH*T word is one we save only for hockey.) I actually used my handy dandy DVR to pause the game and took him upstairs to put him down to sleep, singing lullabies I haven’t had to pull out for years. As I came back downstairs to watch the sad ending of the game, feeling a bit woozy and beaten up ,a fierce raw mama love rose up in me and turned into sheer spitting anger at the Flyers. Yes, iIts been a very healthy week here.

So, needless to say, we are thrilled that the Caps brought it home today. Today we sat on the floor, just feet from our huge TV and screamed our lungs out. Max asked me to hug him as hard as I could to help him control his nervousness. We were on the edge, both of us, until that final buzzer sounded but for now we are OK. Its good to win, even if its only a passing phenomenon.

And speaking of winning…The winner of the Howdy Stranger giveaway of the beautiful MotherHenna mug is

none other than my writing partner and sweet soulsister Jena Strong at Bullseye Baby! Thanks to everyone who left comments, especially those of you leaving your very first one over here. I found myself wishing everyone of you could win a piece of Kara’s beautiful art and longed for the cash to buy many many mugs. I loved hearing from each and every one of you and hope that you will leave more. My magical door is open. Please come on in.

I recently had a conversation with a friend where we admitted we both once had a fear of looking foolish and we both proudly exclaimed that we were so over that one.

And the truth is, I have let go of my fear of looking foolish long ago. Clearly I have no problem about acting silly in public. I tap dance in the office. Start Very Serious Work Meetings with a song, and will throw any idea out there no matter how crazy it may seem. I blog about things that may make me look nutty. I tell funny stories that make others laugh with me at my weaknesses. There is a certain part of me that is just OK with being out there, who cares what the rest of the world may think?

But feeling foolish…Now that is a different kind of story. There is a certain kind of feeling foolish that sends me screaming for the hills. Its the foolishness that comes from loving too much and caring too deeply and trusting too much and being let down by that love. And I fear it more than anything. It is the foolishness felt by a lovesick teenager who realizes her crush doesn’t notice her. It is the foolishness felt by a wife when she realizes that her husband is leaving her. It is the foolishness felt by a friend when she realizes that she has asked too much of dear friends who give and give but are tired of giving right now. It is the foolishness felt by a happy visitor when she has realized she has stayed too long. It is the foolishness felt by the person standing in the town square, her heart wide open and bleeding for all to see.

Yeah that kind of foolishness scares the sweet bejezus out of me.

In the weeks and months after Juan left I felt foolish like this a lot. I didn’t believe for one second that others thought I looked foolish, but frankly that didn’t matter. I felt exposed and vulnerable and sick to my stomach. And when I finally stopped feeling that way I decided I didn’t ever want to feel that way again.

There was a time when this fear would come up I would react. Listen to the loud alarm in my head without really understanding what it said. The alarm would say run, act angry, say something mean, PROTECT YOURSELF AT ALL COSTS and I would. Reflexively. Not that long ago when it came up I would ignore it, pretend it didn’t exist, or worse still throw stones at it.

But these days when this fear comes up I just notice it. I say hello. Invite it down for tea and ask it to tell me what is really going on. It speaks to me about not being good enough. It speaks to me of hoping to hard. It speaks to me of knowing my place, standing in line, waiting my turn and not expecting too much. I listen without accepting all that this fear has to say, but I can’t quite ask her to leave. At least not yet. I am afraid of what I will do without her.

This is a tough fear to have when one has set ones mind and heart to fearless true love. And yet it seems that the two may go hand in hand-at least in my heart. This week, last week, I realized how much this fear just simmers under the surface–in some ways I guess and the more I lead with my heart, the more I jump into life with both feet, the louder it can become. Somehow in seeking a life of fearless true love, it is the fear that doesn’t want to let go. But it is the one that MUST go for me to truly live this life. It is the one I must learn to leave behind. Because to love you must always risk feeling foolish.

I can’t say why I feel the need to post this tonight. Its just been on my mind, I suppose. Its the clutter I need to remove from my life. The excess I need to give up. The candle and prayer that I light for myself each and every evening as the sun goes down.

Hey…Its not too late. Leave a comment here to win this fabulous mug from MotherHenna in my Howdy Stranger giveaway. Heck…leave a comment on this post if you’d rather. Max will pick the names from the hat on Friday at 8pm eastern time.

Last autumn, in search of rituals that would help me kick off the next phase of my life, I stumbled upon a little Chinese one. Its called something like the 49 wishes. A friend of mine had told me about it once and I had kept it stored away in my brain for the right time, the right place. Essentially it goes like this. You write a wish or a prayer on a piece of paper 49 times. You burn that paper and scatter the ashes to the wind. You do this for 49 days straight. Its a special kind of magic, setting your heart and mind on something–like a mantra. Putting it out into the universe and having faith that it will be delivered. For me this ritual was like plowing a field, making my heart ready for something to take root.

For 49 days I wrote this little phrase down “FEARLESS TRUE LOVE”. I haven’t told anyone this before really (except maybe Jackie) partly because I didn’t know what it meant and didn’t know how to answer the inevitable questions. Was I asking for permission to love myself fearlessly? Was I opening my heart to a rockin’ love affair? Seeking the gift of soulsistership and friendship? Maybe…all of it? Maybe something else entirely? I didn’t quite know what it meant to me but something inside me said “Just ask…the rest will follow”.

In the act of all that writing I must have drawn a magical door. It is a door through which people now seem parade into our life, boldly changing it with the blink of an eyelash. Some are folks who have known us awhile and love us well. But others just a year ago were strangers. Total strangers. In some cases they dropped by for a short while and left us with gifts to last a lifetime. In other cases, they moved in and continue to help us grow and stretch and blossom in new ways. I long to tell the stories of these strangers who have become dear friends and of the certain kind of magic that happens when people lead with wide open hearts. This spring I might just start.

This week, one of my favorite recently former strangers, wrote a series about how to encourage creativity in children. In one particular post, she urges us to teach our children to welcome strangers. I loved this post and embraced the wisdom in it. I have done it from the minute Max was born, sometimes against my better judgment. But I did it because I want to teach him that the world is good. Now don’t get me wrong, I have taught him well how to keep safe (do not go anywhere with strangers and always follow your gut when someone strikes you as icky and weird, and always stay close to a grown up you know and trust). I want him to know the joy of welcoming people into our lives and seeing life just open up in amazing ways. I want him to wake up prepared to be surprised about the wonderful things life has delivered to our door. Strangers are a critical ingredient to a creative life–whether you are a child or a 38 year old mama. So we talk to new people as we walk downtown, do our grocery shopping or play in the park. We ask questions. We follow-up. Its been life-changing.

On particular version of this magical portal for me has been this blog. I am forever amazed at who I have discovered coming through this way. I have found myself encircled in a community of women, strong, beautiful, brilliant women–soul sisters really. Women who have brought out the best in my writing, who laugh at my stories and who help me shoulder grief. It is a gift.

I have lately been particularly interested in connecting in “real life” with you amazing women I have discovered typing away. I want to know your stories. I want to hear how you ended up where you ended up. I want to invite you in and pour you tea and listen as you tell me what you dream about. Whether you live just down the street, up the coast a bit, across the country in a windy place or sunny space, or in a far away magical land, I want to make tea possible. Something tells me in the coming months, these and so many more wonderful creative women will be leaping through my door, virtually and really truly and I want to celebrate that, honor it and invite you all in for tea.

So here is a challenge–Leave me a comment on this post and let me know you are here. On Friday, Max and I will put the names of all the beautiful you who comment here in a hat. We will pick one of you lucky friends and will send you this beautiful hand painted mug (pictured above) made by Kara a new found blogging friend whose art speaks to me of magic and sisterhood.

Howdy stranger…Come on in and have some tea. We have a lot of catching up to do.

A little postscript: A shout out to Laura and all you other Philadelphia Flyers fans. Your boys skated well tonight. While I cheered for my Caps I have to call ’em like I see ’em and that was some rockin’ hockey played by the orange and black today, especially by Martin Biron. It will be an interesting week as we move into game three all tied up…

One of my very first memories of childhood involves the Flyers. It it just a snapshot–a flash. But I remember it clear as day. I remember sitting in our family room, I couldn’t have been more than 3 or 4. Our neighbor’s son was there. He was 9. We were watching hockey. And I was thrilled.

My mother was a Philadelphia fan. We lived in South Jersey. Everyone was. It was an exciting time for Philadelphia hockey, the 1970s. At least that is what I am told. What I know was that it was an exciting time for us.

I loved watching the skating back and forth. The movement of the puck across the ice. To me it looked like the players were dancing.

But as the years went on, watching Philadelphia hockey also made me feel yucky. They were so mean. They were called Bullies. They pushed and the shoved and they hurt people. I couldn’t cheer for that, even though I enjoyed the game. When I was 5 or maybe 6, I remember watching our Flyers hoist the Stanley Cup over their heads and I remember not being entirely thrilled about it. I think it was the first time I realized that not everything in life is simple–that joy can come at great expense. That sometimes winning means playing dirty. And I didn’t like it. I just didn’t like it at all. Life suddenly felt complicated.

As the years went on I lost interest in the NHL. It could have been that we no longer lived in the Philadelphia area and noone we knew got excited about the New York teams. It could have been that I grew up into dolls and books and art projects and dancing. It could have been the icky feeling I got about cheering for bullies.

But whatever it was, I still loved hockey. I watched the big kids play pick-up hockey on the pond, street hockey at the bus stop. In middle school and high school we hung out at the rink, watching our friends and dreamy older boys play high school and club hockey. When I found myself in love with a hockey player I actually learned something about the game, the strategy, what went wrong, what went right. I could recognize good players. I could appreciate how hard it was. In college, our team was not elite but I watched each game with interest.

But I could never get into the NHL. To me it seemed brutal and horrible and bloody and not interesting. I could sit in the stands watching college puck with interest but when the pros came on TV I stood up and left the room. I couldn’t even watch in solidarity with my close guy friends. Sportsman ship, treating people with respect, love for each other these things are important to me and somehow my early experience with the Broad Street Bullies just soured me on the game.

For a variety of reasons this year, having to do with magic and friendship, we have rediscovered hockey at our house. It has been hard not to get swept away by the story of the Washington Caps this year. I actually find myself reading the sports page of the Washington Post. I find myself worrying about the defensive lineup. I am in love with their coach–or at least his story.

For those who don’t care a bit about hockey (are you even still reading this post?? have I lost all readers?) tonight is the first game of the playoff series between the Capitals and (gulp) the Flyers. And I am a bundle of nerves, conflicted and a little bit sick. Not because I am a fan, but because I can’t stand not to watch. After watching every minute of the last two games I am hooked on the Caps, their young fast team and their story. And I am sick thinking about the new Broad Street Bullies and their mean mean play. And I am wondering how I will feel watching this series play out. Will I be 6 all over again? I wish I could just look away. But I want to see the Caps win. And I want to believe that my (new) team will win–playing fair and clean. And I want the bullies to go home, scorned. Because if that happens, maybe I can believe again that the world is fair.

I have a friend who is a big fan. He is serious about his Caps and hockey but I think he thinks that I, with my nervous stomach, am a bit crazy. After all its just a game. Sure it would be nice for the hometown to win, but does it have to be so complicated. When is a hockey game just that…a hockey game? Why does it all have to be fraught with meaning?

But it is. And while it might seem nutty its an opportunity. To watch what comes up for me. To observe. To see.

And maybe just to watch, cheer and enjoy.

We’ll see.

Wish me luck. Its gonna be a long week.

Update: I am glad I watched. It was an amazing game–Twists, turns, drama. Physical yes, but hockey at it’s prettiest. I cheered for the Red team, the home team and didn’t feel I was betraying my past. The bullies had their moment but in the end the Capital triumphed. Better yet, I just had fun–me, Max, pizza and the TV. Big fat sigh of relief.

After a month’s hiatus I went back to yoga tonight. March was a busy month for me–my Mondays were otherwise occupied. There was the Pogues show at the 9:30 club, my trip to the desert, a migraine and then the project deadline I needed to crunch on because I couldn’t sit still all day. But today I was back.

As I headed down in the elevator in my workout clothes, a colleague looked at me with admiration. “Going to yoga?” she asked. “Yeah” I said in a voice that was weak and less than enthusiastic. She looked at me quizzically. So I explained. Four week not on the mat, my butt will be so beat, its going to hurt, I just got to slog through the first class back blah blah blah. “But just think,” she said trying her best to encourage me “How virtuous you will feel when you are done!”

I do a lot that I don’t want to do for the virtuous feeling I will get when I am done. I was raised to be a results oriented girl. And its true, all too often I catch myself being caught in the middle of doing something to get to the other side. Slog through the day to get to the ending where you get to hug your boy. Get the laundry done so you can look fabulous and clean. Eat the healthy vegetables to get to the dessert. Its a lot of work this passing through.

On the mat, my butt did get kicked. Big time. I feel like every week I don’t do yoga sets me back two or three weeks. My body complained, ached, wobbled and gave up. I tried desperately to stay in the moment the now when I felt miserable instead of the time in the distant future 30 minutes hence when I would feel virtuous. I watch myself feel uncomfortable and tried to just be aware and present to all that was coming up for me. And a lot of it was about wanting to hit the fast forward button.

I am that girl who when the book gets too suspenseful sneaks ahead to the last page–just to see. I am the one who can never wait to hear the ending to a story. When my mother in law and I used to watch novelas I would get obsessed, dying to know what will happen tomorrow or the next day. If I was watching one in the US that she had already seen in Mexico I would call her and beg her to tell me the ending. Yesterday I watched the Caps game that I had taped from the night before (For all you non-hockey fans–It is a Cinderella story right out of Hollywood. It makes this girl sigh and swoon…) I had to force myself NOT to fast forward to the final score. I felt I would be able to enjoy the game more if I just knew how it ended. But I knew that wasn’t true, really. I asked Max to hide the remote.

There are lots of little adventures percolating in my life. Small things–not big ones. But I am wondering–Where will they take me? I am curious. I am excited. Thankfully I am not anxious or worried. I know it will turn out exactly as it should but I want to know–HOW? I want to wrap my arms around that glorious conclusion so I can just look forward to it. Its a joyous feeling of not being able to wait until Christmas morning, I wish there was a crystal ball I could peer into to see how I will be surprised. I just can’t wait.

But wait I must. And like yoga tonight–its causing a bit of ummm….therapeutic irritation. As I play out all the scenarios in my place I am missing that sweet feeling of being simply somewhere between here and there. And someday, when its all said and done, I will wonder what it was like to be here.  And the only thing I will have to say for myself is that I should have paid better attention.

So as I move into “down dog” for what seems like the 100th time, my calves and hamstrings on fire, I practice staying here. Not moving into the next phase. Not rushing ahead to find out the ending, but breathing in and letting the story unfold, slowly. At an excruciatingly slow pace.

Today I had my “quarterly breakdown”. It happens about once every three or four months. Usually on a Sunday. It often starts with the house (oh the house!–the toys everywhere!) or my room (Why can’t he sleep in his own room? And why has he insisted on bringing in every single stuffed animal and 35 books and crackers into my bed) or maybe its the paperwork piled up on my desk (when did THAT bill come in? For HOW much?). Often it happens when I haven’t eaten a real meal in 24 hours, usually I am sick, and I am often wearing the same clothes I have worn for 48 hours. Should be able to predict them by now, but I still don’t.

It starts with the house, or the chores or the details of life and spirals down “Why doesn’t my child listen to me?” and the “What is wrong with me as a parent?” and then “What don’t I feel any control?” and then “How can I be such a fool?” and then “AAAAAAH”. I usually stop the downward spiral at AAAAAH. I have ridden that spiral all the way down to the bottom before and I am wise to calmly step off the spinning escalator at this particular basement. Thirty eight years has to teach you something.

My downward spiral was also fortunately broken by two phone calls that came in within 45 minutes of each other. The first one from Jackie. After a 5 minute update on the status of the breakdown she delivered surprising good news on a project we are working on together. Then, my mood moving up half a floor from AAAAAH, I stomped around the house all the while scrubbing my bedroom clean until Odette came into my room with the phone. “Its for you–Its Jen” she said. Ohhhh…. the lovely Jen Lemen. Within 5 minutes of chatting with Jen I was laughing at myself, laughing at her and laughing at the aburdity of my little tantrum. The reason she too was calling was to give more great news on yet another project we are working together. I couldn’t help but feel that the universe was trying to tell me something. Great news and surprises abound–get rid of that grumpy old, beat down, bad mood now and pay attention.

There is a theme that is playing out in my life right now. We talk about it over here almost every day. I find myself waking up each morning, completely curious. Realizing that I have no idea what will happen as the day unfold but certain of the fact that somehow somewhere I will be completely and utterly surprised and amazed.

I wasn’t planning on posting tonight but after Max had finally gone to sleep Jackie called me and asked if I could join her for a movie. Eric had to work. Odette said she would stay with Max and off I went to her house, my knitting in hand. We watched Dan In Real Life. Oh what a sweet film. A story about everything unfolding messily but beautifully exactly as it should. Apparently the universe believes that I really need it spelled out for me and so it is writing this lesson on every stone in my path. Along with the story Jackie and I fell ourselves falling deeply in love with the soundtrack and the singer-songwriter-composer who wrote the score. And this song. This song which will be my anthem for the week.