Shining Moments

Just being alive
It can really hurt
And these moments given
Are a gift from time
Just let us try
To give these moments back
To those we love
To those who will survive.
- "Moments of Pleasure," Kate Bush


I don't have any wisdom or insight into the tragedy that took place in Newtown, CT two days ago.  There's nothing that I can say or do that will, in any way, shape, or form, ease the unbearable pain that the family, friends, and neighbors of those who lost their lives are experiencing right now.  I can't make the survivors feel any less guilt or despair, or help the children who attend Sandy Hook feel less afraid to go back to school.

Everywhere I look, there's coverage - television, radio, social media.  Everyone is grasping at straws trying to make sense of something that is utterly senseless.  Trying to explain what can never be explained or understood.

Some blame a lack of gun control and urge the President to act.  Some say we if we weren't such a Godless society, if prayer were allowed in school, this wouldn't have happened.  Others cite the increased need for access to better mental health care in this country.

People want to find a way to bring meaning to these lives lost -- let them not die in vain.  Channel our collective grief and disbelief into something that is productive.  All of that is noble and reflects what is great about our society -- we rally around a "cause" and make our voices heard.  We are like the little boy who told his teacher Friday, "Don't worry, I know karate, I'll lead the way."  We have an overwhelming desire to help, to do something, anything.

I stopped watching the coverage Friday night.  It was too much, and I felt like I was adding to the pain of the families by encouraging the media with my viewership.  I don't want to know anything about the killer or why he did it.  It has zero meaning to me.  Nothing the authorities can uncover changes anything.

I believe everything happens for a reason - times like these make me question that belief.

I am not yet a parent, but I hope to be someday, if it's meant to be.  In the words of Hillary Clinton, I do believe that, "it takes a village," to raise a child, and I feel a huge sense of responsibility to children - to protect them, to shepherd them, to help them navigate an increasingly complicated world.

I looked at the names of the fallen on the front page of The New York Times.  I read with a broken heart their names and ages.   Mostly six and seven year olds.  The majority were, I'm willing to wager, excited for Santa, looking forward to celebrating the last nights of Hanukkah, or, at very least, excited for winter break.  All woke up that morning and headed off to the important business of being a kid -- school, play, lessons, sports, family time, fighting with their brothers or sisters, walking the dog, homework.  Maybe some sprung out of bed excited that morning.  Others, like me, not being morning people, had to be dragged out of bed by their moms and dads and hurried along to school.

And now, well.

For me, and many others, this was so incomprehensible that, like I did on 9/11, I went to bed hoping that it would all just be a horrible nightmare and when I woke, this would be all an awful dream.

The President reads their names one by one on national television.  How, under different circumstances, this would be a dream come true for any parent or child.  The leader of the free world knows their names.  Oh how they would wish to be anonymous again, just another citizen, for this to be like any other day.

The town of Newtown has become an unwilling inspiration to the world -- in their strength, in their sacrifice, in their heroism, in their grief.

I believe that, in some ways, this tragedy has made part of all of us kids again.  The part that is innocent and can't comprehend evil like this.  How could this happen?  The part that loves with an open heart without worry of judgment or rejection.  The part that wants to help and make things better.  The part that wants to comfort and be comforted.

As kids, our world are pretty small -- our parents, our siblings, our pets, our neighbors, our teachers, our friends at school.  If you're lucky like me, a wonderful extended family.   As we get older, our world and worldview get broader, and more complicated.  We acquire knowledge, and degrees, and things.

Sometimes things get out of balance and we forget what's important.  Then something like this happens and reminds us that tomorrow is not guaranteed and reminds us that, what's really important cannot be seen or touched, but felt.  They are, as Mr. Rogers would say, the "invisible imperishable good stuff." 

“In the external scheme of things, shining moments are as brief as the twinkling of an eye, yet such twinklings are what eternity is made of -- moments when we human beings can say 'I love you,' 'I'm proud of you,' 'I forgive you,' 'I'm grateful for you.' That's what eternity is made of: invisible imperishable good stuff.”

Most of the memories and moments I hold most dear happened by accident, when I was least expecting it, out of an everyday moment.  On most occasions, I did not know as it was happening that I was making a moment that would be important to me, and even the occasions I knew were important, it's the most random moments that I remember as special.  When strung together, these moments become days, months, years, lives.

As survivors, we owe it to those who have lost their lives to continue to embrace life and create those moments of  "good stuff."  We hug our children for those parents who no longer have that luxury.  We put down the Blackberry and truly listen.  We shut off the television and call a friend we're long overdue in calling.

We owe these moments to those who have passed, but most importantly, we owe them to ourselves.

A Very Hugh Jackman Christmas...

"Basically, I'll make an ass of myself anywhere."  - Hugh Jackman

I love the holiday season.  I love Christmas music and, perhaps just as much, the lights.  I love the Christmas lights in the city, but perhaps even more, I love the lights in my hometown.  In fact, I'm the only one who didn't nearly cry, vomit, and/or pee my pants when my brother in law drove us "kids" around seemingly for 37 "festive" hours one Christmas Eve, the evening that was finally brought to an end when a tiny voice begged from the backseat, "Pleeeeeease no more lights, Uncle Mike."

So I was totally bummed out when I wasn't able to enjoy the season at all last year.  No Rock Center tree, no holiday parties, definitely no nog of any kind.  I was completely nogless and hopeless.

In a world where there is no music, and tomorrow isn't guaranteed, only one man with a mean pair of jazz hands and a ruffled satin shirt can save us.

And that man is Hugh Jackman.

I had blinding headaches and the inability to keep my eyes open, but I also had tickets to Hugh Jackman's one man show on Broadway.  This, I would not miss.

Now, if there's anything I like more than the holidays, it's gay men, I mean, Broadway musicals.  This is well-documented.  Anything that is a little ridiculous and out there is my thing, and Broadway musicals, where people sing and dance through every circumstance, fit the bill.

In fact, I am fresh off seeing Annie last Friday.  Which I thoroughly enjoyed.  And yes, I did show up wearing a red dress, "just in case."  I do have curly red hair - and I pay a lot for it so it should get some stage time.

But I digress.

I find Hugh Jackman to be highly enjoyable.  Don't ask me about really about any of his movies though, because unless it's one of the romantic comedies he did that everyone but me hated, I haven't seen them.

I don't have impure thoughts about Hugh.  I just want him to come over to my apartment with a stuffed koala and read me a bedtime story and brew me some of that tea he makes (although he will have to use the microwave because we do not use the stove in my house and he will have to bring the tea and a mug but I think I have water) and then do a little song and dance number and smile and laugh.

Hugh Jackman smiles a lot.  In fact, he reminds me of my first song and dance man, Barry Manilow.  When I was four, I told everyone I wanted "the smiley guy" for Christmas -- which translated to the Barry Manilow Live album.  Released in '77, I still have it and still love it.  Perhaps I would have done better in college if my brain space wasn't full of every single word -- it WAS a double album.  And on the cover, Barry is wearing blue polyester and doing some kind of broad theatrical gesture with his arms like "Suck on this haters!"  And above all, he is sing-smiling, if I had to guess, "Daybreak."

I love Barry so much.

But I just might love Hugh more.

So off to the theater I staggered last December 9th to see Hugh.   And he brr-rroooouggghhht it.

When he shook his (literal) maracas, he made me forget that my head was about to explode and I couldn't see so bad that I was wearing clip on sunglasses over my regular glasses inside a dark theater at night.  It was an attractive look.

I didn't even mind when, as a result of my enjoyment, I spent the next 24 hours at home essentially riding out what I can best describe to you people (I know who reads this blog) as what felt like being both drunk AND hungover at the same time with the worst nausea/dizziness/bed spins you ever had AND a monster headache, lacking the benefit of any alcohol.

Only for you, Hugh.

And now he's back with Les Miserables.  And I am about to pass out in anticipation.  Christmas is such a meaningful holiday, and this year, it also means that Les Miserables will be in a theater near me.  As kids hit their pillows with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads, I will see Hugh Jackman in a puffy shirt singing, "On my own, pretending Len's beside me..."  It cannot come soon enough.

I have to admit, at first I was skeptical.  I love Les Miz.  I've seen stage productions four times.  I wasn't convinced it could be made into a watchable musical.

But then one day recently I was walking down Broadway and saw Hugh on a giant billboard.  His eyes bore straight into my soul.  He said, "Girl, I mean, Sheila, as if you won't see this movie.  Who are you trying to kid?  Now be a good girl and show me your jazz hands."

I felt ashamed.  I had forsaken him.  But I am a believer.

When a friend mentioned he had an advance copy of the movie, all of a sudden it was like one of those cartoons where, to the starving man in the desert, everyone looks like a chicken leg.  Every time I looked at him, I saw Hugh Jackman and heard him singing as Jean Valjean, "Who am I?  24601!!!!"

Will it be good?  The critics say it is, but I don't even care.  With taste as bad as mine, I generally don't agree with the critics.  I like what I like. 

And I like Hugh Jackman and Barry Manilow and singing and dancing and Impractical Jokers and the Muppets and the Yankees and cupcakes and bedazzled helmets and world peace and my new iPad mini and hoarding hotel toiletries, and, oh yeah, Christmas.

But not necessarily in that order. 

I need to keep Hugh on his toes.