alexander hamilton.

"Why do you like Hamilton so much?"

I’ve been asked this question so many times that I've lost count. I'm not someone who obsessively knows about history, or identifies as extremely patriotic, or listens to hip hop and rap in my free time, so it's a question that’s asked with genuine curiosity. Sometimes the question is tinted with a bit of bewilderment. People see my Spotify feed repeat the tracks over and over, scroll through multiple Instagram posts about it, and widen their eyes as I know the details of the PBS documentary by heart and wonder, “Why?”. In some ways, Hamilton has become "my thing," so much so that my students and I once had a conversation where everyone named their own “Hamilton” -- something that they reeeeeeeeeeeally like a lot.

"Why do you like Hamilton so much?"

I always stumble over the answer when asked, and that answer often changes depending on who asks it. For someone who cares about music, I talk about the allusions to other musicals and 90s hip hop artists; for someone who writes, I share that there are 23,000+ words (!!!) in this work. For someone who cares about history, I talk about the intention behind casting people of color in leading roles, the accuracy of the story, and the years of research Lin-Manuel Miranda did before bringing Hamilton to life. And for someone who cares about me -- the real reason why I've listened to Hamilton nearly every day since I discovered it a year ago -- the answer is a little more complicated.

I remember listening to the Hamilton soundtrack all the way through for the first time. Afterwards, I couldn’t find the words for how I was feeling. Was I happy to have found a beautiful weaving of a story and music? Always. Was I jealous of how those badass sisters could belt? Obviously. Was I proud to be an American and even a small part of this country’s continuing story? I guess so. 

And then I zipped through my copy of Hamilton: The Revolution, the complete libretto with annotations from Lin-Manuel Miranda himself, essays by Jeremy McCarter, and photos from the production. In one of the essays, McCarter writes about Lin-Manuel’s inspiration from ‘Broadway old masters’ like John Kander, who composed Cabaret and Chicago. After seeing the show for the first time, Kander said of Hamilton:  

“I came away feeling like writing. Not writing like Lin, or doing a project like that — it was just that really, really good work makes me want to go to work.”

And there it was.

Listening to and researching and reading and memorizing and fangirling over Hamilton had made me want to create, too. Not a musical or a book or a song or anything related to the founding fathers. Some words on a page. Some something that makes me feel as excited and wide-eyed as I do when the first chords of the opening number start. I feel that way still, even after hundreds of plays through the soundtrack.

Because not only was Alexander Hamilton crazy about words (throughout the show, other characters reference Hamilton's obsession with writing) and wrote “like he was running out of time,” but Lin-Manuel Miranda is also dedicated to his craft. And both men are so damn passionate about what they’re doing — motivated and dedicated to keep doing it, tirelessly, and to try to leave the world with more, powerful, meaningful words than when they came. After reading that quote from John Kander, I realized that’s what I wanted to do, too. I wanted to go to work.

Last month, I splurged during a trip-gone-wonky to Chicago and bought myself tickets to see Hamilton. I overpaid and was in the nosebleed section (literally the top corner of the theater), but it was worth every penny and tear that I shed. 

I couldn't tell you what my favorite part of the night was. It might have been the eruption of applause and shrieks from the crowd when the lights dimmed, both at the beginning of the show and after intermission. Maybe it was the elderly couple two rows ahead of me who danced in their seats the entire night. Or it might have been the new ways the lyrics pierced me, given the state of our country and my heart on November 10th. Lyrics that become more and more relevant based on the election results: "You want a revolution? I want a revelation!" Songs like "Burn" that made me nod and cry and say, "Me too." 

But if I’m being honest, the most important part of the night happened after the show. I walked back to my hotel room and pulled out my journal and wrote. And the next morning I went to a coffee shop and pulled out my journal again and I wrote. 

And here I am, a few weeks later, writing. Even this — my first piece of non-Instagram or non-journal writing in over a month — feels like something. A small, slow step toward that work I want to do in the world. It feels a little electric, which is the best way I know how to describe the feeling I get when I know something isn’t big or flashy, but is important. It's that same feeling I get when I hear those opening chords of my favorite songs. It's the same feeling I'll get when I click "publish" on this writing. It's hard to put into words, but it's part of who I am.

We need to surround ourselves with our own Hamiltons — the things that make us want to do the work we are meant to do in the world and create the things we are meant to create. The things that inspire us, get us thinking and feeling, get us working on the things we might leave in this world, that hopefully make it a little bit better than when we arrived. 

So, what’s your Hamilton?

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take care of your soul.

to be
soft
is
to be
powerful
-rupi kaur

“What are you going to do tomorrow?” she asked. 

We were standing at the bar in the middle of 80s night, waiting for the bartender to add a lime to my gin and tonic. Whitney Houston blared from the speakers, and people danced around in their brightest colors and selves. It was a bit the opposite of how I was feeling. I felt small and dim and, surprisingly, like I didn’t want to dance with somebody.

Because not even 30 minutes before, I was dumbfounded on the phone as I listened to someone spill out a truth they had been covering for months. As I learned that a relationship I had put everything into -- plane tickets and discretionary income and love -- wasn’t what I thought it was. 

I had hung up the phone and my heart wasn’t quite ready for that kind of processing at 10:30 on a Friday night. So when a picture of some of my beloved colleagues on the dance floor popped onto my phone, I put on my tennis shoes (the only appropriate 80s night footwear) and walked toward them. And that’s when I ended up at the bar with this friend-coworker, who showed up to 80s night in a cutoff flannel, ready to dance; who showed up to me with her full self, ready to listen amidst Prince, Michael Jackson, and Pat Benatar.

“What are you going to do tomorrow? How are you going to take care of yourself?” she asked.

I said that maybe I’d read. Probably write some. That I had plans to get breakfast with a friend. Which was good, I laughed, because I didn’t think I had eaten much today. Maybe I'd have a bowl of cereal once I got home.

“Good. You take care of your body,” she said. “Let others take care of your soul.”

Those words made my breath catch in my chest. They made tears appear in my eyes, they allowed my shoulders and fists to unclench, they reminded me that I wasn't in this alone. When the world feels a little shaky and your heart is aching -- whether that's because of a relationship that's ending, or because of a family emergency, or because you cannot listen to another mansplainer for one more minute -- it's okay to ask others to show up for you. To ask others to be there for whatever ways your soul needs attention.

And they have. Steph showed up at my doorstep fifteen minutes after this mess was set in motion. My mom sat with me over a computer screen and still texts me inspirational quotes every day. Luis binged on late-night pizza and wine with me, and let me yell and stomp around my apartment for an hour. Megan changed my RSVP to her wedding from two to one without asking any questions. A few days later, my Leaven family let my eyes leak through the entire service and gave me a-little-longer-than-normal hugs while we passed the peace. Brigid wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her sticky cheek to my tear-streaked one for ten whole minutes, without moving. That same night, a crew of humans came to my apartment for a potluck, whose presence and voices said, “We are here for you.” And Kim stood at the bar on that Friday night, 30 minutes after I hung up the phone, and reminded me that I have all these people. That I can lean on all these people to tend to my soul.

These humans -- and more -- have been my soul-keepers these past weeks, and I share this not only to thank them for holding me through this, but to remind you (yes, you, who might be reading this right now) that it’s okay to let others care for you. It’s okay to only think about if you’ve eaten, showered, or used the bathroom today. It’s okay to let other people ask you how you’re doing and feeling, and hold you in that -- literally and metaphorically -- when you cannot do so for yourself. That kind of vulnerability, softness, acceptance of our limits when our emotions and souls are taxed?

That is powerful.

sunrise.

Even after all this time,
the sun never says to the earth,
“You owe me.”
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights the whole sky.
-Hafiz

I moved this summer, to an apartment within a residence hall in Downtown Portland. Not that my previous apartment — one within a residence hall in Northeast Portland — had me that much more connected to the Earth, but this move seemed to take me just a bit farther from nature. I’m in the middle of a 14-story building filled with college students, in the middle of Portland State University’s campus, in the middle of the concrete and tall buildings and mass transit systems that make up our city. I live on the most populated block in Portland; humans and human-made things surround me.

However, this shift back to the hustle-hustle-hustle pace of Downtown wasn’t much of a shock to me. I knew what living Downtown felt like, and I was excited about the chance to be so close to everything again, so connected to the pulse of this city, to have so few needs for my car on a regular basis. I was excited to be woken up in the early morning because of the garbage trucks, to hear the bells from the MAX as I fell asleep, to know any time there’s a fire or emergency because of the sirens. This kind of connectedness to the heart of things felt good to me. And still feels good.

I didn’t grow up in a traditionally outdoorsy family. It was my mom and me, in North Dakota, which is winter and well-below freezing most of the time. I didn’t like camping, or hiking, or ogle at and respect the landscape around me. It didn't seem like anything special to me; it just was. However, I did spend most of my childhood summers outdoors, at my grandparents’ house, and can still remember staying outside — running through my grandma’s huge flower garden, racing my cousins on our bikes up and down (and up and down, and up and down) the gravel driveway, lying on the grass after a water gun fight — until the sun set. Their Minnesota home was surrounded by fields that stretched for miles, crops sprouting out of the black earth, other homes and humans just specks in the distance. As the sky darkened, and my grandma or grandpa would call us in closer to the house, we’d look out over those fields and see this perfectly round, orange-yellow-red ball floating over the sky and down through the fields. And I remember being fascinated by how this sun thing worked, even as a kid who never had any interest in science other than making volcanoes out of baking soda and water.

“But where did it go?” I would think. ”You’re telling me that little ball lights up the whole sky? For EVERYONE on earth?”

Now, if I can time it right, I wake up with the sunrise. It’s getting harder as we move further into autumn and the sun comes up later while the time I have to be at work doesn’t, but even if I’m already awake, I make a conscious effort to move toward one of my two, five-foot by five-foot east-facing windows and pause. Take a deep breath. Look out. Sometimes I’ll stand with a cup of coffee, or with my hair halfway curled, or even when I’m already running a bit late for that early morning meeting. And from my 9th story apartment, I see the sun rise up over the hills. I can even see a corner of Mt. Hood defiantly peeking around the three tall buildings that block most of its view, with the sunshine behind it. The sky does all sorts of tricks within a five-to-ten-minute period of the sun stretching out over the landscape. Sometimes, it streaks yellows and oranges and pinks through strips of the remaining darkness. Sometimes, the whole sky turns bright pink. Sometimes, like on Wednesday morning, the sun rose through a thick layer of fog — fog so thick that I couldn’t see the bridges or traffic or river. But even when the clouds are heavy, hanging over the city without any glimmer of hope that Portland will see the actual sun that day, it still rises. It still shows up for the city, for us, for the world.

Watching the sun rise has been one of the most powerful experiences of my summer, one that has shaped my time in this new job, in this new apartment, and in some ways, in this new life. To begin each day being greeted by the sun — being grounded by this little orange-yellow-red ball that lights up the whole sky, for everyone in the world, no matter what — and to be reminded that I’m surrounded by nature, by earthiness, even though I live in an apartment within a residence hall in Downtown Portland. It reminds me that just by doing what it does, nature shows us that it loves us every single day. The sun rising, the rain falling, the plants growing, the leaves dropping, the clouds parting, even if just for a moment. And maybe — even if we’re planted in the middle of a bunch of concrete and human-made things — we can show it that we love it, too, by taking a moment to pause in reverence to whatever nature is around us.

bright spots.

Today was supposed to be the day I was going to move from this bed on the floor to a real bed. It was supposed to be the day I was going to become the owner of my first real couch, and real bookshelf, and real mustard-colored chair. It was going to be the day where I finally moved books from boxes, and decorations from bins, and made Apartment 909 feel like home. But today is, now, just another day because after two hours on the phone with IKEA, my furniture isn’t coming. They lost my couch. They can’t deliver an incomplete order. They’re sorry.

No one wants to hear this. No one wants to hear that the furniture they paid for and have waited for isn't coming. No one wants to hear that the delivery day for which they took off work is now wide open, and a day in the near future, where they have to work, will now be filled with furniture delivery. Even in the midst of much shittier, heartbreaking things happening in the world and our lives, no one wants to hear this.

Once I got a hold of a real-life human, I think I handled the situation okay-ish. I asked the right questions, and didn’t yell, and only frustrated-cried a little bit. As I was being transferred to another real-life human, I apologized to Ashley for crying and being frustrated and not using the friendliest tone, and told her that I know this isn’t her fault. She laughed and said, “Girl, don’t worry. I lost my shit at Chick-fil-A the other day because they were out of the salad I wanted. Things suck sometimes.”

Once I got a hold of the other real-life human, I think I handled the situation alright-ish. I confirmed things that had been promised in my contract, and still didn’t yell, and only frustrated-cried a little bit more. When Maddie was helping me set up my new delivery date, we discovered she used to live right across the street from my new apartment. And as we were wrapping up the call, she asked, “Do you like sushi? There’s a really great place just right down the road. It’s called Blue Fin.”

And I guess why all of this matters is that while listening to the looped phone muzak while on hold, and finally eating my oatmeal that’s been sitting in the microwave since 9:30 am, and calling my mom and saying the F-word to her too many times, and sitting in the middle of the floor in my apartment, surrounded by bins of extra blankets and bags of books and a half-opened box of new sheets, I’m saying a little prayer for Ashley and Maddie. Bless their souls for being at the end of the phone line — phone lines with hundreds of people calling with questions and frustrations and tears every single day. For listening to, and creating space for, and being present with their callers’ complaints and words and feelings. Even if they think that callers like me are annoying or wrong or awful humans, they're still there. They still answer the phone and, I have to believe, try their hardest to make things better. They offer bright spots — today, in the form of Chick-fil-A salads and sushi recommendations — in hard situations.

I wanted to make this home feel more like home today, and I’m still going to do that. Who declared you need furniture to feel at home in a space? Today is the day for making this floor-bed a little more comfortable, for adding some photos of my favorite faces to frames, and for figuring out how to work my new laundry machine down the hall. Today is the day for finding the bright spots.

(And today is also the day for Blue Fin sushi for dinner, because Maddie said so.)

solo friday nights.

I’m sitting at my favorite tea shop, alone, on a Friday night. This is a regular occurrence. Not the tea shop part, but the alone part. Sometimes it’s a coffee shop, sometimes it’s my bedroom (more specifically, my bed), but I’ve been flying solo on Fridays recently. The quiet of a Friday night, even though I’m usually only awake for five hours post-work and pre-sleep, seems to balance out the loud 40+ hours of Monday morning through Friday afternoon. 

Tonight’s been a wild one so far: I combined my leftover dinner from Wednesday and my leftover salad from today’s lunch to make a pseudo-dinner at 4:45 pm. I thought about Instagramming, but didn’t know how to write about my happiness for the following things in one eloquent caption: children’s spelling bees, Jess returning to the Gilmore Girls revival, and finally learning to drink my coffee black. I laid in bed and read for an hour or so before I thought, “Let’s take this party elsewhere."

So I threw on a sweater/scarf/red lipstick/glasses/flip-flops combination (which is, by far, the perfect Friday night outfit) and walked to my neighborhood’s tea shop. I ordered herbal tea, found a spot in the corner, sent some work emails, and wrote some prayers for my church for our Lenten liturgy. I know, I know, it’s been wild! The barista has only asked me to quiet down three times so far.

But, as I cracked open my laptop and journal, I got distracted. Because there’s a man and a woman sitting across from me, and I’m pretty sure they’re on their first date.

They’re doing all the first date-y things, the very things I do when I go on first dates. They’re sitting across from each other, not side-by-side. They’re both sitting up straight, straighter than I do even on my best, most posture-aware days. They’re leaning in ever-so-slightly, alternating between making intense and almost-zero eye contact. Their heads nod and their laughter seems to be free-flowing.

I can’t be 100% sure of their status, of course. They were here before I arrived, so I didn’t get to see if one arrived before the other and waited by the door, eyes glued to his or her phone, simultaneously hoping that the other would walk through the door any minute or call to cancel. And I have headphones in, so I haven’t heard murmurings of “…our first date…” or “…so what do you do for a living?...” in their conversation. But, based on my observations from seven feet away, this is a first date.

Fast forward an hour or so, and they just hugged goodbye and walked out together, but since I’m facing the inside of the tea shop and not the window, I’ll never know if they went to the same car, or parted ways at the door after an awkward side-hug, or made out in a dark alleyway before heading home together. Maybe, from their table and their eyes, their date was a dead-end and they won’t see each other after tonight. Maybe it was a one-and-done kind of thing, and even though they laughed and smiled and had a nice-enough time, there wasn’t a spark. Nothing to keep them there any longer than what’s polite for a first date, and certainly nothing to – at least immediately – text their friends about.

But maybe – just maybe – their date will lead to another, and another, and they’ll eventually realize that they want to keep doing these dates for the rest of their lives. Maybe they’ll want to have a little party, and invite all their family and friends, to mark the importance of choosing to do these dates together, for the rest of their lives. They’ll dance and cry and laugh in a courthouse or in a church or in a barn, and they’ll recall that time they sat in Townshend’s Tea for two hours, smiling and laughing, and try to remember what they talked about, or what kind of tea they shared, and what made them say yes to Date #2.

And – you have to know where I’m going with this – they’ll live happily ever after.

//

I started writing this and wanted to turn it into something about how you never know when you’ll be in the background of people’s big moments – witnessing a couple’s first date, sitting next to someone on the bus who just got news that she’s an aunt, smiling at someone at the grocery store whose kid just got a full-ride to college. I wanted to write something about how those moments are happening all the time and even though we might not know it, we’re a part of them and that’s so wild and beautiful and full-circle. That would have fit so well for a post on this lovey-dovey, mushy-gushy holiday.

But the reason I’m actually writing about this is less about their couple-ness, their maybe-first date, their made-up love story, and more about my single-ness. I wanted to write about this because of where this all started: a solo Friday night. I wanted to write about this because of where it will be on Sunday: a solo Valentine’s Day.

This will be my fourth Valentine’s Day where I haven’t had a special someone, in the way society defines that phrase. (Which, by the way, is bullshit. I can think of at least 23 special someones in my life.) I’ve had a few go-arounds at being single on this day, so it doesn’t catch me off-guard or feel that lonely anymore. This year, I’ll spend most of my day channeling Tom and Donna from Parks & Recreation and treating myself to writing, dinner, and a massage. I’ve learned how to respond to the “Are you seeing anyone?” or the “So, anyone special in your life these days?” questions. And I’ve learned how to exist – both on Valentine’s Days and on Friday nights – in solitude. Slowly and patiently and sometimes painstakingly, I’ve learned to enjoy it. Sometimes.

I don’t believe anyone is qualified to make blanket statements about how they always love being single – or, conversely, always love being in a relationship. We’re human. We have emotions and shifting needs. Somedays I can think of nothing better than to lay in my bed, by myself, as I watch Jim and Pam fall in love on The Office. The next day, the same scenario makes me want to curl into a ball, realizing that I’m far, far away from a Jim and Pam-esque love story of my own. There are days when being single just sucks, just as there are days when being in a relationship just sucks. That is life: we flip-flop from being 100% happy and 100% discontent with where we’re at. Sometimes that flip-flop happens within days or minutes or at the same time.

So seeing those two on such a fun date — sitting across from one another, laughing in that nervous “Gosh, I think you’re cute!” or “Please don’t think my laugh is weird!” way — reminded me of that. I was happy for their happiness, as much as I can be happy for total strangers. But I was also a little sad. And a little frustrated in the general direction of the universe and its response to my brief attempts at Bumble and Tinder. (So many men holding fish! So many selfies at gyms! And umm, no, I don’t want to enter into a “mutually beneficial agreement” with you. Ew.) It made me question my wild, solo Friday night routine and wish that instead, I was sitting across from a someone, trying not to get the hiccups as I giggle or hoping that I don’t have anything in my teeth when I smile across the table.

This day of the year, and the days leading up to it, and the aftermath of it, can be so. damn. hard. for people who feel alone and isolated. Maybe you just moved across the country and are still figuring out how to cope with that solitude. Maybe you just moved out of your parents’ house. Maybe you just ended a relationship, romantic or otherwise, and aren’t even sure what your new solitude looks like yet; it’s too soon and too hard to go there. Or maybe you’re just single, without someone to buy you flowers or take you out to dinner. Or maybe you’re reading this at a coffee shop or a restaurant or a tea shop, and there are couples, romantic or otherwise, all around you. And for some reason, having a solo Friday night doesn’t seem as appealing anymore.

And that’s okay. You are allowed to feel joy. You’re allowed to feel like a bad-ass, independent human one day, and to feel sadness and a little lonely the next. We’re human. We have emotions and shifting needs. The same scenarios evoke different emotions on different days, and both are valid and both are your truth. But know this – and please remember this. It’s the thesis of this rambling outpouring of words:

You are not alone on your solo Valentine’s Day.
You are not alone on your solo Friday nights.
You are not alone on any other nights of the week.

If you’re in a coffee shop, look around; there are other humans sitting alone, aren’t there? If you’re at home, remember that you’re one of seven billion humans on this planet; there have to be at least one billion of those people sitting alone too, right? Maybe you’re physically alone, or your relationship status is “single” on social media, or you’re the last of your pals or coworkers to be in a relationship. Our lives are filled with moments of solitude – of solo holidays, of solo nights, of solo anything – but, in a way, all of us who are doing the whole solo thing are doing it together.

Maybe, this Valentine’s Day, I’ll come back to this tea shop, and there will be another couple across from me, sharing a pot of vanilla rooibos or a bubble tea. I’ll be alone, and I don’t know what my reaction to them will be. Maybe I’ll re-download Bumble or maybe I’ll text my mom or maybe I’ll just keep writing. But as I press “Publish” on these words, I’ll know that they’re zooming into the universe on a day when maybe – just maybe – we all need a reminder that we’re not all that alone after all.