I’m sitting in an airport - leaving Las Vegas. I stepped off of the tram at the D terminal, only to be met with a considerable foe, whose menacing presence could be sensed in the air...the hairs on the back of my neck bristled – I sensed it all around me. Oh that Devil that delivers itself on a cloud of cinnamon could be detected with rich ribbons of buttery icing, winding through the cavernous halls like a sugar-coated serpent. I walked slowly, with careful purpose and peered tentatively, like any prey animal, wary of the encroaching danger. I branched off to the left for gate D11, and as I turned the corner suddenly my adversary was interrupting the successful completion of my travel. Big white sign, back lit as if by angels breath, soft blue shadowing around each letter - a somewhat precious little swirl to emphasize what the heavenly scent was already driving home. The source of all this temptation was radiating warmth and warm-fuzzy moments for all road-weary travelers: CINNABUN.

I squared my shoulders, and as if into a stiff wind, I braced myself against the temptation of the gooey goodness and carried myself on - "10 gates to go and I will be safe" I thought to myself, genuinely shocked I was able to pull my screaming flesh past this universal bosom of warm yumminess. I must admit - I was rather impressed with myself! "Yeah, thats right! I am the master of my self! I walk these legs - these legs DON’T walk me! I am made of iron! I am a ROCK!" But what’s this?! Just as I was getting a bit cocky, I saw before me a food court oasis by D6...a Starbucks...and a smaller Cinnabun...like a wounded animal I circled the food court, sickly...weakly...sensing the inevitable defeat my will power dissolved like Icarus's wings the nearer I got to the radiating warmth of that oven. Soon, I stood before my own personal sun, defeated. With a small voice I ordered a pecan sticky bun with extra icing. The nice man behind the counter rang me up, and questioned "Did u say extra icing?" A bit trapped feeling, I answered tersely "Yes” and I stared him down defiantly as he handed me my change, before I scurried off to find my gate and a dark corner in which I could succumb fully to my carnal desires....Yum! Yes yes yes! Oh! Worth every empty calorie! My tummy strained against the burden of so much dough swelling to maximum capacity, warning me to stop half way through- but fear not! I am not defeated so easily, and I spurred myself on. "You wanted this, and your gonna get it." All at once it became a treat and a punishment - intertwined and swirled together, a Jacob’s ladder that stretched infinitely in two directions straight to heaven and plunging to hell. Fitting, I mused- we are always in between these two things, it seems...and I resigned myself to experiencing both with each bite. A bit melodramatic? Yes, surely, but I am prone to such fits, and have simply grown used to this activity in my brain- I watch it amusedly, like a play that I put on for myself - acting each part out in my mind - my imagination the Ultimate Puppeteer.

I remember when I was young- I had to be 5 I’d imagine- I was sitting in LDS church on a bench, next to my parents. I was quite excited about the dress I had chosen for myself that day. It had lace. I was quite a fan of lace. And it had a green turtle ironed on front, that was looking back over its shoulder with a look that was humorous and shy...yes, it was quite a bold thing to combine lace with a shy turtle, but it worked somehow, and I absolutely loved to wear it. The thick itchy tights however, I was not a fan of. Hated them. The uncomfortable elastic band had to seriously strain to tame my little girl pot-belly. I had quite a kid pot-belly. And I hated those damn tights. I’d scratch and itch my calves constantly during the whole service - lots of adult talk about things I tried to gasp, but it was words mostly, abstract and droning. But just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore inside the prison of my tights, and I contemplated squirming off the pew to run madly toward the restroom to rid myself of the medieval garment, the whole service changed. The 8 year old Sunday school class of "Sunny Bees" began to march in a single file down the isles and head up to the stage. To a 5 year old, the 8 year olds were an impressive sight. With solemn purpose, the whole class assumed rehearsed positions on the stage. They were putting a play on - the point of which I don’t recall. What I remember impressing me was how each of them were 8, and so to distinguish their roles and to make each character clear, they used simple props. The "father" wore a tie. The "mother" wore pearls and rouge and a miniaturized yet grown-up pants suit. The boss sat behind a cardboard desk and barked orders. They were all only 8, and yet they assumed these rolls with the use of simple cues and props. It flat out freaked me the hell out. Everyone was play-acting. I had an existential breakdown, I think. Suddenly, I could not tell the difference between that play and real life. I looked over at my parents suspiciously. My mom wore a purple polyester pants suit. My dad had a waxed handle bar mustache that he groomed carefully each morning. Holy cow! What if life was all play-acting! What if everyone in the world put on clothes and assumed roles they had no idea how to fill, and so they just play- acted through life! My mom felt absent so often. There was no fooling me about it. There was a silent terror that emanated from her all the time. As if she were in a dream, I watched her go through her life as if she were faking it. She looked at us 3 children and knew the warmth she should feel, and she tried to project that warmth, and she tried to be a good Mormon home-maker, and she went through the motions, but kids are smart, and they sense things, sense phoney-ness- and it wasn’t lost on me, even if I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it at that age. And my dad - I could sense the strain. I could sense the routine. I could sense the terror of a man who still felt like a kid, but who was now raising kids. Like he kept walking down a road or a path he felt he should walk down, but he was terrified he didn’t really know what he was doing, or how to do it exactly, or if he would fail or be good at it. There was always a cheerful tension in the house- two people that were desperately trying to be a perfect family, but the strain and gravity of their own broken childhoods was unresolved and pulling them apart. It was pulling the family apart. Violent out bursts and screaming behind doors could be heard. Us kids would become overly animated and cute to relieve the tension at dinner. Bitter smiles and icy cordial conversation was put on for us kids, a brave face my parents wore - but they were like frightening masks worn at a ball, which hid the truth behind them. I was only 5, and the divorce was still 3 years away, and it would be years before I could fully understand the history of these two people who were my parents, that would allow me the perspective needed to understand the complexities of the times they were facing. It turns out my parents really were just scared kids, who were having kids. And they were good people, but they were bound to the scars of their own youth, and so much healing could not be avoided, and that healing would demand the most of them ultimately, and us kids would journey down the path with them as they discovered themselves, and lost themselves in turns- until ultimately us kids grew up and began the process ourselves. That, however, was far in the future. For now I was 5, sitting on a church pew, learning about heaven and hell in the Mormon church, and i was having an existential melt down. I saw those kids on stage play-acting, and I sensed my parents were play acting through their lives in some way - and it terrified me. All of a sudden, I couldn’t tell the difference between my parents and me. Who was in charge here?! What if we all were the same, just in different clothes and different bodies, and what if the only thing that defined our roles were arbitrary things like mustaches and skirts! I felt dizzy and sick. I looked around the faces of the congregation and I couldn’t tell where the play on the stage started and where the play in the audience ended. What made the Deacon any different than Brother James who was sitting in the front row? Who assigned him that role and gave him the robes? It just all seemed so surreal and creepy all of a sudden. So random. I suddenly felt forced out of time and I couldn’t get back in.

We left church and went to my brother Shane’s soccer practice. All those kids, in the same white uniforms with red trim chasing a white ball with black spots with parents cheering madly. I tight-rope walked along a low wooden banister- arms stretched out, face in stern concentration, my patent leather white dress shoes slipping here and there on the wood which was worn smooth and slick from so many other children doing the same thing, I suppose. Here I am "I thought" doing what 5 year olds do. And there is Shane, doing what 8 year olds do. And there’s the coach, doing what coaches do. And we are all pretending.  I don’t think I was ever the same after that. I know it sounds really weird, but whenever the teacher in class talked to me, I saw her like an 8 year old that was dressed up in teachers’ clothing. And there has always been a part of myself, watching myself- watching everyone in a detached way, from some other vantage point. Seeing myself in everyone. Seeing everyone else in me. Fascinated with the roles we all play. How some of us are playing roles we don’t realize were put on us. How we forget we can change rolls if we are unhappy. With some effort we can recast ourselves, if we like. Switch jobs. Switch behaviors and habits. What started as a scary experience turned out to be a great comfort to me through the years. As I faced many challenges, I would train myself to handle them in a way. I would study on what was needed and I would adapt. I would focus hard and work hard and I would be ok - I would keep redefining myself as life required, keep building on the theme...it’s been a wild ride -like when I was living in my car - and I would be overcome with fits of panic. I would pretend there was a switch in my head, and I would tell myself it wasn’t fear I felt - it was excitement...it was like the nervous butterflies you feel before you go on stage to sing or play your biggest role. That’s all, nothing more - something exciting is going to happen, and it all depends on how I act. If I act well enough, it will become me - for what is life but our experience of it? And so I would change my experience. Or rather I would perceive my experience differently, and focus on the effect I could have on myself and my life, no matter how small. I’m not talking about pretending and escaping in fantasy. I’m talking about hard work and not letting what you think are limitations hold you back. We all write our own script. I wanted to write mine well. Carefully. On purpose.

I have seen so many people over the years wake up in the middle of their own lives as if from slumber - shocked at the state of things. Wives who lived for husband and kids and lost themselves along the way. Husbands who abandoned dreams unwittingly. Kids in college that don’t know why they are there. The best we can expect of ourselves is to live THOUGHTFULLY. Cognative. As much as possible, to be awake in each moment and choose to wake ourselves up at each turn, instead of numb ourselves to avoid the confusion it brings. There is no avoiding the inevitable. I watched drunks spend fortunes and lifetimes in bars and they never out-ran the ghosts they so desperately longed to avoid. Gosh life is painful- but what an exquisite symphony of sorrow and joy playing counterpart to one another. With each new wave I try to bolster myself and take it on the chin and defeat it with intimacy. I write to get to know these pains intimately and they become small with knowledge.  I play games in my head, like a child. I try to enjoy my imagination and explore wildly ordinary things. All things. My lover’s body. A melody. A darkened stage. A Cinnabun! I wish you all could feel what I feel on stage. I feel you all. I have trained myself over the years for the purpose of hearing everyone in the silence as you sit in the audience. It’s ecstacy. It all takes place behind the melody. Behind the words. Beyond the stage. Beyond my role as musician, and your role as audience. Beyond my role as woman and girlfriend and writer, and beyond your roles as secretaries and bosses and waitresses and drivers and mothers and children- beneath all that we have built our lives in being, there is one massive beating heart. One unified longing to be known and loved. One fear each of us are not enough. One spark we proudly, if not shyly, feel we harbor deep inside us. One special something we each feel we were born with. It’s beautiful when we all lose ourselves in a song and we become one heart beating to one rhythm. It teaches me so much. It teaches me everything I have ever written about. And it surprises me constantly how the simplest things, like walking through an airport, and eating a cinnamon roll, and listening to the folks who sit beside me - how all things lead me back to the ocean of everyone else.