"Count it all joy."
I've heard this throughout my Missionary Baptist upbringing sitting on rough royal blue upholstered pews in the days where I still had the audacity to wear white stockings. I shudder to think. But at that point in my life, I grouped that phrase with other stock sayings I'd hear older black folk say, like "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise" and "Don't step on my grass", and I left it at that.
I got a little older, and my cynicism started to come of age as well. I was beginning to think of "Count it all joy" as nothing but a mantra for the downtrodden, something sighed out from bowed and shaking heads, a sentence akin to "Keep on keepin' on", "Gotta go through to get through", and maybe even "Grin and bear it". I thought it added some temporary, far-fetched hope that there was joy to be found in everything. I was overhearing it in conversations about loss, about grief, about heartache, sorrow, about minor and major hardships, and I was having a difficult time rationalizing what good, what joy, could be counted of the messes they were enduring.
I'm beginning now, just really really now to see that there is a beautiful defiance in counting it all joy, that I had preemptively esteemed as an unrealistic way of being. It says to the ills that we encounter that yes, while I may have shed tears, suffered a battered ego, a bludgeoned spirit, or a broken heart, I can still extract some strength and wisdom from it all, and ultimately that it did not serve to debilitate me. I'm still here, enjoying sunshine and Miles Davis and peanut butter and jelly and the knowledge that my pains are not permanent, and that there is no wrong in allowing myself the experience of being open enough to risk encountering them.
All these hurts we endure and scars we accrue are testaments to the fact that we are human. Breathing, growing, learning, adapting beings.
And there ain't an ounce of shame in that.
So a bird pooped on me during an outdoor rehearsal for Merchant of Venice the other day. I must admit I'm having some difficulty finding the joy in that...
Monday, June 25, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
If I was a part of speech, I'd be an improper noun
Words.
I spend my days with words. I wake up with hip hop, I have podcasts lull me to sleep, right now I have the privilege of hearing iambic pentameter for a large percentage of my waking hours, voiced prayers and internal conversations with myself, and on top of that I'm constantly filling notebooks with sloppy, crazy-person penmanship with musings, quotes,ideas, outlines, lists, poems, odes, treatises, manifestos- I could go on. Let's just say if I ever run out of paper, I'm pretty sure my home would look like the set of A Beautiful Mind.
I love writing them, I love speaking them, hearing them, thinking of ways to weave them together in meaningful arrangements, learning new ones, reading them, sharing my own and those of others that speak to me on a deep level, and discovering men and women whose words shift my foundations and make me think, act, and encounter the world in a different way.
I am so happy that I was hooked on phonics.
With that being said, it should come as no surprise that when I discovered the deeper meaning behind a word that I have been encountering since I was little Jess, it's been consuming my thoughts.
That word is courage.
A few days ago, while I was enjoying my early evening fiber-rich dinner and listening to a TED Talk- I am the oldest young woman in town, I'm waiting on my AARP membership card to be delivered any day now- the speaker Brené Brown in her talk "The Power of Vulnerability" broke down the word for her audience, stating that it derives "from the Latin coeur, or heart, [meaning] to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart."
I picked up my face and listened to that part over and over again; the act of fully, honestly, and openly being who you are is a courageous one. The actions we undertake as a result are courageous ones.
Courage demands that we go fully toward what we want, despite all the factors that tell us to aim lower, to stop in our tracks, to protect ourselves from being let down, all the voices (internal and external) that remind us of our imperfections and shortcomings, the voices that make the obstacles seem insurmountable.
Courage demands that we believe we are worthy beings. Courage requires an understanding that yes, I am imperfect, and flawed, and may fail at this but that in no way means that I don't deserve to strive with all I got in me toward the thing my heart wants me to do.
Courage says to the world that you're crazy enough to risk the leap but not foolish enough to never even attempt flying.
Courage says that your love is bigger than your fears.
I'm working on letting my guards down in wild pursuit of my goals and dreams, which sometimes feels like I'm playing Frogger with my emotional well-being, but that's okay, and saying with all of my being that this is who I am, this is what I want, and I will do whatever I can to get it.
I know that with every headshot and résumé printed, with every audition and interview, that there are no guarantees, just hope and timing and tenacity and training and hard lessons and mistakes and thick skin and tears and optimism and prayer that it will work out if I keep holding on, and more prayer for the courage to keep holding on.
I'm Jessica Dean Turner. I'm an actress, and a writer, and perhaps certifiably insane, but I'm not a coward.
Lastly...
I'm launching another project in the coming weeks. A risk, but one I feel like is worth the taking.
Bonus!
Here's the link to Brené Brown's TED profile. Beautiful.
http://www.ted.com/speakers/brene_brown.html
I spend my days with words. I wake up with hip hop, I have podcasts lull me to sleep, right now I have the privilege of hearing iambic pentameter for a large percentage of my waking hours, voiced prayers and internal conversations with myself, and on top of that I'm constantly filling notebooks with sloppy, crazy-person penmanship with musings, quotes,ideas, outlines, lists, poems, odes, treatises, manifestos- I could go on. Let's just say if I ever run out of paper, I'm pretty sure my home would look like the set of A Beautiful Mind.
I love writing them, I love speaking them, hearing them, thinking of ways to weave them together in meaningful arrangements, learning new ones, reading them, sharing my own and those of others that speak to me on a deep level, and discovering men and women whose words shift my foundations and make me think, act, and encounter the world in a different way.
I am so happy that I was hooked on phonics.
With that being said, it should come as no surprise that when I discovered the deeper meaning behind a word that I have been encountering since I was little Jess, it's been consuming my thoughts.
That word is courage.
A few days ago, while I was enjoying my early evening fiber-rich dinner and listening to a TED Talk- I am the oldest young woman in town, I'm waiting on my AARP membership card to be delivered any day now- the speaker Brené Brown in her talk "The Power of Vulnerability" broke down the word for her audience, stating that it derives "from the Latin coeur, or heart, [meaning] to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart."
I picked up my face and listened to that part over and over again; the act of fully, honestly, and openly being who you are is a courageous one. The actions we undertake as a result are courageous ones.
Courage demands that we go fully toward what we want, despite all the factors that tell us to aim lower, to stop in our tracks, to protect ourselves from being let down, all the voices (internal and external) that remind us of our imperfections and shortcomings, the voices that make the obstacles seem insurmountable.
Courage demands that we believe we are worthy beings. Courage requires an understanding that yes, I am imperfect, and flawed, and may fail at this but that in no way means that I don't deserve to strive with all I got in me toward the thing my heart wants me to do.
Courage says to the world that you're crazy enough to risk the leap but not foolish enough to never even attempt flying.
Courage says that your love is bigger than your fears.
I'm working on letting my guards down in wild pursuit of my goals and dreams, which sometimes feels like I'm playing Frogger with my emotional well-being, but that's okay, and saying with all of my being that this is who I am, this is what I want, and I will do whatever I can to get it.
I know that with every headshot and résumé printed, with every audition and interview, that there are no guarantees, just hope and timing and tenacity and training and hard lessons and mistakes and thick skin and tears and optimism and prayer that it will work out if I keep holding on, and more prayer for the courage to keep holding on.
I'm Jessica Dean Turner. I'm an actress, and a writer, and perhaps certifiably insane, but I'm not a coward.
Lastly...
I'm launching another project in the coming weeks. A risk, but one I feel like is worth the taking.
Bonus!
Here's the link to Brené Brown's TED profile. Beautiful.
http://www.ted.com/speakers/brene_brown.html
Monday, June 4, 2012
I'm becoming a crazy cat lady years ahead of schedule. Progress.
The journey to me figuring out how I wanted to frame this post became a lesson in itself. The process always involves copious amounts of outlining and erasing and rewriting and backspacing and walking away and coming back and sitting with my head cocked looking real confused at the jumble of ideas and half phrases in my notebooks or whatever scraps of paper were readily available at the point of inspiration, and plenty of cups of Aldi brand Earl Grey tea (I have to keep my bougie tastes within my not so bougie budget). This time, all those elements were present, as they always are, but there was also the desire to do extra in the writing, to augment and ornament the story I wanted to tell, to dress it up and jazz it up and equivocate- there was one draft that even included an anecdote about one of the six cats I'm living with. I cocked my head at the screen and asked myself what I was even talking about anymore, then I promptly got up and walked away.
I was getting too consumed in the packaging, devoting my energies elsewhere, and by result compromising the quality of the goods. I had to get back to the actual thing I wanted to talk about without trying actively to make it interesting- all this damn actor training, I should know by now that things are much more fascinating when they are unadorned, just people being exactly who they are at the exact moment that they are and being brave enough to be present fully in whatever state they're in.
Weeks of rewrites later, I now bring you back to the previously scheduled program. I recently shared my writing with my mother for the first time. This was spawned simply by the thought, what if sharing my work with her suddenly was no longer an option?
This time of the year, all the breezy days saturated in sunlight, reminds me of way back when, being in my backyard with my dad, hands deep in the dirt, defying all HGTV logic and planting our lush father-daughter garden (to this day, I don't think Whole Foods could hold a candle to our West Side cucumbers and cherry tomatoes). I know that the experience of working alongside him so we could have fresh peppers and collards and even one ambitious year strawberries taught me that something beautiful could in fact emerge from a place as unlikely as our littered bit of earth, and so much more than I could ever adequately put into words. I know it's all buzzing around inside of me.
By the time I had begun trying to figure out the power of putting my experiences into words, it was no longer the fashion to share early sunsoaked Saturdays with dad. I had entered my awkward artsy angst filled years, diving headfirst into notebooks, proudly assuming the role of misfit, hashing it all out with Bic pens. It was at this time that I felt at a distance from the rest of my family, and me and my father were a ways away from the bond we'd forged playing in the dirt. We didn't seem to understand each other as well. Lots of quiet car rides with him picking me up from the train station, just the sound of V103 filling space between us.
We began reaching a better understanding of one another right around the time I left for school, him seeing that I had found my happiness onstage, speaking to his own ability and desire to reach and entertain people (I remember the team of older heads who would crowd our front porch to listen to him talk, or his kitchen renditions of Isaac Hayes songs). We were finding our common ground again. I sometimes wonder what he would've thought of my writing, having influenced so largely who and what I am. I do not now and will not ever have an answer for that, only hopeful speculation.
As a person, I don't believe in regret, only lessons. True, I didn't seize the opportunity to share this aspect of myself with my father while I had the chance, but now I know to share generously the things that matter most to me with the people who make me feel most alive. It took a heap of courage to get me to hit send and share my writing with my mom. I just kept thinking "Oh, Lord, she gon know about the cussin and the drinking and the mess of a life I'm living." Then I laughed, thinking that if anyone doesn't know I'm a mess by now, they must not be paying very close attention.
Sent.
Her reply:
Absolutely great didn't know you were a deep thinker. Divine order, love you. Can I share with family???????????
You sure can, mom. Share away.
I wonder what she'll say about this one. I know she will be pleased about the lack of cat stories.
I was getting too consumed in the packaging, devoting my energies elsewhere, and by result compromising the quality of the goods. I had to get back to the actual thing I wanted to talk about without trying actively to make it interesting- all this damn actor training, I should know by now that things are much more fascinating when they are unadorned, just people being exactly who they are at the exact moment that they are and being brave enough to be present fully in whatever state they're in.
Weeks of rewrites later, I now bring you back to the previously scheduled program. I recently shared my writing with my mother for the first time. This was spawned simply by the thought, what if sharing my work with her suddenly was no longer an option?
This time of the year, all the breezy days saturated in sunlight, reminds me of way back when, being in my backyard with my dad, hands deep in the dirt, defying all HGTV logic and planting our lush father-daughter garden (to this day, I don't think Whole Foods could hold a candle to our West Side cucumbers and cherry tomatoes). I know that the experience of working alongside him so we could have fresh peppers and collards and even one ambitious year strawberries taught me that something beautiful could in fact emerge from a place as unlikely as our littered bit of earth, and so much more than I could ever adequately put into words. I know it's all buzzing around inside of me.
By the time I had begun trying to figure out the power of putting my experiences into words, it was no longer the fashion to share early sunsoaked Saturdays with dad. I had entered my awkward artsy angst filled years, diving headfirst into notebooks, proudly assuming the role of misfit, hashing it all out with Bic pens. It was at this time that I felt at a distance from the rest of my family, and me and my father were a ways away from the bond we'd forged playing in the dirt. We didn't seem to understand each other as well. Lots of quiet car rides with him picking me up from the train station, just the sound of V103 filling space between us.
We began reaching a better understanding of one another right around the time I left for school, him seeing that I had found my happiness onstage, speaking to his own ability and desire to reach and entertain people (I remember the team of older heads who would crowd our front porch to listen to him talk, or his kitchen renditions of Isaac Hayes songs). We were finding our common ground again. I sometimes wonder what he would've thought of my writing, having influenced so largely who and what I am. I do not now and will not ever have an answer for that, only hopeful speculation.
As a person, I don't believe in regret, only lessons. True, I didn't seize the opportunity to share this aspect of myself with my father while I had the chance, but now I know to share generously the things that matter most to me with the people who make me feel most alive. It took a heap of courage to get me to hit send and share my writing with my mom. I just kept thinking "Oh, Lord, she gon know about the cussin and the drinking and the mess of a life I'm living." Then I laughed, thinking that if anyone doesn't know I'm a mess by now, they must not be paying very close attention.
Sent.
Her reply:
Absolutely great didn't know you were a deep thinker. Divine order, love you. Can I share with family???????????
You sure can, mom. Share away.
I wonder what she'll say about this one. I know she will be pleased about the lack of cat stories.
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