Your ability to hold paradox (to dream amid devastation, to create beauty in the shadow of uncertainty) is nothing short of magical in itself. I love Jon’s question — “Is this show a dream or a party?” — because isn’t that exactly what healing asks of us? To throw ourselves into joy, even when the ground is unsteady. To dare to imagine something better, wilder, truer, even as life keeps revising the script.
Your story reminds me of Frida Kahlo painting in bed, body in pieces but spirit ferociously whole. You don’t just endure…. you CREATE. You conjure. You invite us into the sacred mess of it all.
And maybe that’s the idea I’d humbly add: that this isn’t just a book tour, but collective ritual. A way of transmuting fear into meaning, and solitude into solidarity. You’re not just launching a book. You’re launching a reminder that art is what we make when the world breaks, not just before or after.
Thank you for letting us witness the magic behind the curtain, Suleika! We should be holding space for every note, every laugh, every moment of glorious awkwardness that takes the stage.
I agree with your share and it inspires in me the idea of looking forward to the unplanned. That is art and nature for me. Thanks for expressing so beautifully.
I love your words, “You’re launching a reminder that art is what we make when the world breaks, not just before or after.” This is so very true, Tamara. For all the different ways our worlds can break.
A friend suggested it—said I had a good ear, that I could probably hold my own in a chorus. I said maybe, which in my language usually means absolutely not, then fine, but only if no one’s looking.
So I drove myself there, fully expecting a harmless humiliation. Hair brushed. Mildly underprepared. A little thrilled. Mostly, panicked.
The house was intimidating in that moneyed silence sort of way—columns, gates, gravel that tattled on your arrival. The kind of place where even the trees look inherited. I pulled up, already halfway to regretting everything, when I heard it.
This voice—so loud, so flawless—it had to be a recording.
Of course it was. No one sounds like that in real life.
I paused at the car door, stilled by it. Good grief, I thought, is that even human?
The door opened while the voice was still soaring.
A woman greeted me like this was all completely ordinary—opera bellowing through the halls without apology.
“They won’t be long,” she said, as though I was early for lunch.
I followed her in & sat—awkwardly—on the edge of a sofa that looked wildly unsuited to actual use. The music kept going. It was still perfect. I tried not to fidget. Or shrink. Or scream.
Then the music stopped.
A silence followed that felt strangely final, like the ceiling had taken a breath.
And from somewhere down the hallway, a voice called out:
“Anthony, that was magnificent.”
Magnificent.
The word thudded into the room like a chandelier crashing.
My stomach turned traitor. My heart tried to exit via my throat.
That hadn’t been a recording. That had been live.
That had been Anthony.
A person. Singing. In real time. While I casually sat two rooms away like I was waiting for my dentist appointment.
I stood. Slowly. Light-headed.
Briefly considered fleeing.
No one knew I was here. I could vanish. Slide out the front door, never look back.
But fate—ever theatrical—had already lifted the curtain.
The double doors opened like something out of a dream sequence—just without the part where I wake up. Anthony emerged, glowing. As if singing like that hadn’t cost him a single breath.
He gave me a brief, polite nod. I returned it in the way one might acknowledge royalty or a slow-moving disaster.
He had the presence of someone who expects music to obey him, & the wardrobe of someone who’s never spilled anything in his life.
Without introduction or even a hello, he gestured to the piano.
I followed. Like a sheep. Or a sacrifice.
We did scales.
Well—he played scales. I made sounds that resembled commitment. My voice, to its credit, did its best to pretend it had done this before.
I tried to stand like someone capable. Tried to breathe like it wasn’t my first time meeting oxygen.
Alexander said nothing.
Not a flicker of encouragement. No sign that I was bombing or triumphing. Just clinical silence.
Then, mid-note, he stood.
And walked out.
No “thank you.” No “that’ll do.” Not even a vague grunt of dismissal.
Just… gone.
I remained, mouth slightly open, perched in front of the piano like an abandoned prop.
Then came Marguerite.
She entered like punctuation—sharp, deliberate, & slightly scented with judgement.
She was clearly cast as ‘Woman Who Does Not Share the Stage,’ & had no interest in improvisation.
And then, from somewhere deep within the house, Alexander’s voice rang out:
“Show her.”
That was it. No context. Just a command tossed down like a gauntlet.
A piece of paper was placed in my hands.
Italian. Of course.
Not a word I could understand, but it looked serious—italic font, composer’s name I couldn’t pronounce. The kind of sheet music that doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It assumes you are.
Alexander reappeared, glanced at me like I was a mildly disappointing soufflé, & said:
“Follow me.”
So I did.
Because by then, I’d given up on logic & was simply responding to tone of voice.
Here’s the part that still baffles me.
I wasn’t laughed out. No one patted my hand or gently suggested I take up something more forgiving, like pottery.
They offered me a role.
A mezzo-soprano gal in the chorus.
But before that—
“Brava.”
I turned, assuming it was meant for Marguerite.
She looked like someone who’d be applauded just for existing.
But it wasn’t for her.
It was Anthony.
The Anthony.
He’d come back in. Quietly. Sat down. Stayed.
And he was looking at me.
“Brava,” he said again.
Then, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world:
“You have a voice that needs to be sung.”
I don’t remember what I said next.
I don’t even remember leaving the room.
Even to this day, I still don’t know how I made it back to my car.
All I know is I sat there, white-knuckling the steering wheel,
having absolutely no idea what had just happened—
& a sudden craving for tiramisu to face-plant into.
I’m still sweating as I recount this.
Bemused.
Utterly.
And can I just say—how much I love the word subsumed.
Thank you for using it in your essay today, Suleika.
Dear Esmé—thank you. I’m so touched you felt it. I do hope those were joyful tears… though I fully accept the risk that my particular brand of chaos may have startled your tear ducts. Either way, I’m humbled.
Most welcome, Casey—although your morning is my eve, & alas, despite all this glorious awkwardness, I now have to find a way to let sleep fold me into something soft, mildly numbing, & ideally tiramisu-adjacent. X
Dana! Thank you—I’m still not sure if I’m writing or just confessing with rhythm, but I’m glad you’re here for it. I’m new to writing publicly, but I do love a prompt & the curiosity of where it might lead me on any given Sunday. X
Well, your prompts are like hidden stage doors—I never see them coming, tumble through sideways, say something truer than intended, & hope there’s soft lighting & polite applause when I hit the floor. Thank you for inviting us to fall so bravely.
I love this whole piece, especially this line: "The kind of place where even the trees look inherited." I sweated with you through this glorious awkwardness!
Hello All. Thank you Suleika for beautiful writing. I love "You think to yourself, “No one would know there’s a better idea out there. Do I really have to kill my darlings?” But once you glimpse the better idea, you have to go with the better idea—and the idea of conjuring different atmospheres was a better idea" I love your being with and going with. And sharing all of you with us. Thank you! I want to also share a big deal, I had blood work done and for the first time in years it was ok, no big oh my gosh this is awful results!!
I love this spirit of defiance! I love always finding the light. It is remarkable to me how you, how us cancernauts find luminescence, fun and hysterical laughter in the midst of the nuttiness of health fiascos. How the necessary adaptability leads to immense creativity. Thank you for showing me and the worlds that we thrive, that we achieve glorious connection and creativity.
Sarah and I are engaged to be married now too! Gawd only knows how my cells will attempt to interrupt plans. But we will rise and LOVE large. ❤️
Ps. Have booked to see Jon in London! 🎶🎼🎵
Pps. Fangirl Mel hoping your fabulous self may make a guest appearance. 😊
Happy Sunday everyone from Villette in Switzerland.
Oh, I love the word cancernauts! As if we are explorers of brave new lands. Much better than cancer sufferer or other such discouraging phrases. Congratulations on your engagement!
Thank you so much! Yes we need a new word for the experience. We are tethered to our hospitals, the motherships, but also exploring space. Hope you are well Jennifer. ❤️
Good morning, Suleika! It is so wonderful to "hear" your bright, enthusiastic spirit share! I am SO excited to see you in person in Brooklyn! And I am the queen of awkward! I recently took an online test "find out your fight or flight response type" and mine is "freeze". I freeze. In 10th grade honors English, my teacher called on me (because I never raised my hand) and . . .I . . .froze. Solid. I just sat there, staring ahead,unmoving with 28 genius students staring at me. Very awkward. In college I made an attempt to overcome my fear by taking a theater class. Bad move for this bunny. I got on that stage and became as frozen as one of Elsa's icy victims! I dropped out of that class! As life went on, my physical paralysis subsided but my brain paralysis did not. When put on the spot, I would simply shut down. No thoughts would be in my head so I would often say something rote or completely random. I challenged myself in all kinds of ways, going into sales (life insurance, real estate, Arbonne, you name it) & taking every motivational, self improvement course I could find. I volunteered to be the eulogist at my 102 year old aunt's funeral service (which I am happy to say went well despite my shaking & sweating!). Before every conference or group meeting, I make a promise to myself to speak up at least once, and to volunteer to get up and speak if the opportunity arose. My awkward self is still completely alive and kicking - I just ask her to take a seat in the other room when she starts causing problems!
I feel we are likely kindred spirits in glorious awkward moments from blurting out half formed ideas at social gatherings to working with youth. I am learning people see and feel your good intentions willing to give you grace or a pass at awkward moments.
My Glorious Awkward Moment was when I pushed my four year old daughter into the arms of Dame Margot Fontaine. I was so overwhelmed by being in her presence, I practically threw my daughter at her. She was so gracious and calm and so attentive.I forgot to be ashamed.😊
Getting so excited for the book and can’t wait to see you in Brooklyn in all of your glorious awkwardness. I was at the Artyard recently with a friend to see Christian McBride and thought of you and your bass having connected seeing your show there and now hearing the bass being played. Hope to hear you play because we need to hear that, the joy, the laughs , the music. As for a glorious awkward moment..(love hearing Jon’s prompt read allowed with “fumigating the queen”🤣) there have been a few , ok maybe more than a few so trying to pick one is hard so lets just say in most of those cases I realized that I did the best in the moment that I could and then laughed a lot at myself and with others. Great stories to re tell to my kids, family and friends.
I love what you took away from your “more than a few” awkward moments—that you did your best and now have great stories. It’s an empowering reframe—and an example of alchemy! ❤️
I feel this is exactly how I would act if I were to meet either of you one day. 😂 thank you so much for what you put out into the world! You and Jon are such an incredible gift. Looking forward to the book and wishing you light, love, and joy as you begin your tour! Stay well😊
Glorious awkwardness? I turned up for the 6-week post birth check-up at my local physician's clinic. Only to discover I should have brought my baby son with me....
My husband and I are in France, driving along the back roads and through the small towns; ogling the chateaux and the snowy Pyrenees; the picturesque farms on the undulating hills lush with green crops; the brilliant fields of yellow mustard and the wildflowers along the roads. We drive and drive, not completely sure if we’re trying to get somewhere or get away from something, as the bad news we came here to escape never leaves.
Navigating the small towns with their narrow roads can be immensely challenging. Yesterday we were trying to reach a restaurant in a nearby town using the voice commands on our GPS. “Turn left,” the voice said, so I did, narrowly missing another car coming the other way on an impossibly skinny street framed by solid stone walls. I heard a honk and a woman on the sidewalk started waving her arms and telling me in French it was a one way street. I was going the wrong way.
Needless to say my embarrassment was huge, but I had to maintain my composure and get us out of there So I pulled into a plaza not meant for cars and used it to turn around, all the while trying to pretend I wasn’t bothered, hoping no one else had seen my stupid mistake.
It seems like my whole life has been like that, never sure if I’m going the right way, forever trying to act like I don’t care. Then I remind myself that none of us were born with a manual of how to do things “right”. We humans are all trying the best we can to figure out if we’re on the correct path.
The answer for me is to not get discouraged, to remember how many of these French roads I’ve driven successfully and the wonderful people I’ve met, that I must be in possession of some courage to not let my fear of mistakes get in the way.
Thank you for this, and for all of your writing. I love that you and Jon are both so willing to share your uncertainties and self-doubts while owning your strengths and your power. Thank you thank you.
Hmmm…..so many awkward, did they get to glorious ? To me, if it creates a good story, that is the glory.
Early 20’s, working in the Cath Lab at a teaching hospital, we had many new cute interns come through. It was Greys on crack!! Young and young!!!
I get a call from a darling going into Plastics!!( hmm..date and face lift later??) dinner and things got heated. Nothing earth shattering but delightful. When I returned home and looked at my feet. Hospital feet, wearing lead aprons all day!! I had corns on top of corns, with little corn removal pads on them!!! At least 10 on each foot, including bandaids. They were GONE!! All of them!! They were in this young mans bed!! Can you even imagine, what he thought!! I laughed from the bottom of my gut!! What do I say at work, if I run into him?? I just smiled and never had too much contact with this Dr in training. However, one day in cafeteria I noticed on the bottom of his shoe( legs were crossed)a big, old corn pad!!!
Life is so special, a glorious memory, a walk of shame??? Nah!! A good story forever !! I’m 72 years old, and still laughing!!
OMG, Bonnie ! This is a good story forever, and I am also chuckling after reading this. I think I would go with calling this a glorious memory. Thanks for sharing.
I’m not sure what comes first: dream as anticipation of Party; or party as anticipation of Dream?
They are synergies of hope. We are planning to go in Brooklyn on April 26, the night before my birthday. Birthdays are embarrassing, as they remind me that the journey on earth is not without messy pain and laughter, belly buttons and hope. I’ve had my share of both. Thankful; yet unfinished. I glimpsed a vision for a new book on spirituality, awkward community, and countervailing institutions of hope— of glorious embarrassment—which dovetails with your theme. I’ll start with listening over coffee to persons with good heads and good hearts, dreams and experiences of awkward but defiant hope. Thanks.
Your ability to hold paradox (to dream amid devastation, to create beauty in the shadow of uncertainty) is nothing short of magical in itself. I love Jon’s question — “Is this show a dream or a party?” — because isn’t that exactly what healing asks of us? To throw ourselves into joy, even when the ground is unsteady. To dare to imagine something better, wilder, truer, even as life keeps revising the script.
Your story reminds me of Frida Kahlo painting in bed, body in pieces but spirit ferociously whole. You don’t just endure…. you CREATE. You conjure. You invite us into the sacred mess of it all.
And maybe that’s the idea I’d humbly add: that this isn’t just a book tour, but collective ritual. A way of transmuting fear into meaning, and solitude into solidarity. You’re not just launching a book. You’re launching a reminder that art is what we make when the world breaks, not just before or after.
Thank you for letting us witness the magic behind the curtain, Suleika! We should be holding space for every note, every laugh, every moment of glorious awkwardness that takes the stage.
Art is what we make when the world breaks…so beautifully expressed❤️
Strikes a chord, especially in these times.
Love solitude into solidarity! ✊🏽
I agree with your share and it inspires in me the idea of looking forward to the unplanned. That is art and nature for me. Thanks for expressing so beautifully.
I love your words, “You’re launching a reminder that art is what we make when the world breaks, not just before or after.” This is so very true, Tamara. For all the different ways our worlds can break.
Amen!
I wasn’t even auditioning. Not really.
A friend suggested it—said I had a good ear, that I could probably hold my own in a chorus. I said maybe, which in my language usually means absolutely not, then fine, but only if no one’s looking.
So I drove myself there, fully expecting a harmless humiliation. Hair brushed. Mildly underprepared. A little thrilled. Mostly, panicked.
The house was intimidating in that moneyed silence sort of way—columns, gates, gravel that tattled on your arrival. The kind of place where even the trees look inherited. I pulled up, already halfway to regretting everything, when I heard it.
This voice—so loud, so flawless—it had to be a recording.
Of course it was. No one sounds like that in real life.
I paused at the car door, stilled by it. Good grief, I thought, is that even human?
The door opened while the voice was still soaring.
A woman greeted me like this was all completely ordinary—opera bellowing through the halls without apology.
“They won’t be long,” she said, as though I was early for lunch.
I followed her in & sat—awkwardly—on the edge of a sofa that looked wildly unsuited to actual use. The music kept going. It was still perfect. I tried not to fidget. Or shrink. Or scream.
Then the music stopped.
A silence followed that felt strangely final, like the ceiling had taken a breath.
And from somewhere down the hallway, a voice called out:
“Anthony, that was magnificent.”
Magnificent.
The word thudded into the room like a chandelier crashing.
My stomach turned traitor. My heart tried to exit via my throat.
That hadn’t been a recording. That had been live.
That had been Anthony.
A person. Singing. In real time. While I casually sat two rooms away like I was waiting for my dentist appointment.
I stood. Slowly. Light-headed.
Briefly considered fleeing.
No one knew I was here. I could vanish. Slide out the front door, never look back.
But fate—ever theatrical—had already lifted the curtain.
The double doors opened like something out of a dream sequence—just without the part where I wake up. Anthony emerged, glowing. As if singing like that hadn’t cost him a single breath.
He gave me a brief, polite nod. I returned it in the way one might acknowledge royalty or a slow-moving disaster.
And then he appeared.
Alexander. Tall. Unblinking. Impeccably assembled.
He had the presence of someone who expects music to obey him, & the wardrobe of someone who’s never spilled anything in his life.
Without introduction or even a hello, he gestured to the piano.
I followed. Like a sheep. Or a sacrifice.
We did scales.
Well—he played scales. I made sounds that resembled commitment. My voice, to its credit, did its best to pretend it had done this before.
I tried to stand like someone capable. Tried to breathe like it wasn’t my first time meeting oxygen.
Alexander said nothing.
Not a flicker of encouragement. No sign that I was bombing or triumphing. Just clinical silence.
Then, mid-note, he stood.
And walked out.
No “thank you.” No “that’ll do.” Not even a vague grunt of dismissal.
Just… gone.
I remained, mouth slightly open, perched in front of the piano like an abandoned prop.
Then came Marguerite.
She entered like punctuation—sharp, deliberate, & slightly scented with judgement.
She was clearly cast as ‘Woman Who Does Not Share the Stage,’ & had no interest in improvisation.
And then, from somewhere deep within the house, Alexander’s voice rang out:
“Show her.”
That was it. No context. Just a command tossed down like a gauntlet.
A piece of paper was placed in my hands.
Italian. Of course.
Not a word I could understand, but it looked serious—italic font, composer’s name I couldn’t pronounce. The kind of sheet music that doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It assumes you are.
Alexander reappeared, glanced at me like I was a mildly disappointing soufflé, & said:
“Follow me.”
So I did.
Because by then, I’d given up on logic & was simply responding to tone of voice.
Here’s the part that still baffles me.
I wasn’t laughed out. No one patted my hand or gently suggested I take up something more forgiving, like pottery.
They offered me a role.
A mezzo-soprano gal in the chorus.
But before that—
“Brava.”
I turned, assuming it was meant for Marguerite.
She looked like someone who’d be applauded just for existing.
But it wasn’t for her.
It was Anthony.
The Anthony.
He’d come back in. Quietly. Sat down. Stayed.
And he was looking at me.
“Brava,” he said again.
Then, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world:
“You have a voice that needs to be sung.”
I don’t remember what I said next.
I don’t even remember leaving the room.
Even to this day, I still don’t know how I made it back to my car.
All I know is I sat there, white-knuckling the steering wheel,
having absolutely no idea what had just happened—
& a sudden craving for tiramisu to face-plant into.
I’m still sweating as I recount this.
Bemused.
Utterly.
And can I just say—how much I love the word subsumed.
Thank you for using it in your essay today, Suleika.
And for this remembrance.
I cried, reading this. Thank you.
Dear Esmé—thank you. I’m so touched you felt it. I do hope those were joyful tears… though I fully accept the risk that my particular brand of chaos may have startled your tear ducts. Either way, I’m humbled.
They were tears from feeling so moved by your story. Thank you for sharing it.
Esmé, thank you. It’s lovely to know the story lives outside of me now.
Ohhhhhh my heart is so full reading your glorious post this morning, Kim!
Thank you for reminding me of the miracles that happen when we step out of fear and into faith! 💕
Most welcome, Casey—although your morning is my eve, & alas, despite all this glorious awkwardness, I now have to find a way to let sleep fold me into something soft, mildly numbing, & ideally tiramisu-adjacent. X
Love this!! I love the way you write!
Dana! Thank you—I’m still not sure if I’m writing or just confessing with rhythm, but I’m glad you’re here for it. I’m new to writing publicly, but I do love a prompt & the curiosity of where it might lead me on any given Sunday. X
“Confessing with rhythm” ❤️❤️
Well, your prompts are like hidden stage doors—I never see them coming, tumble through sideways, say something truer than intended, & hope there’s soft lighting & polite applause when I hit the floor. Thank you for inviting us to fall so bravely.
A gem of a friend you have - Beautiful read!
A gem, she most certainly was. The opal kind—quiet on the outside, storming with colour inside.
I love this whole piece, especially this line: "The kind of place where even the trees look inherited." I sweated with you through this glorious awkwardness!
Jennifer, thank you! I’m relieved to know you sweated with me; it’s always better with company in the chaos.
I love your story and your writing! ❤️
Susan, thank you! I’m so glad it landed. It’s a strange kind of magic to fling words into the void & have someone not only catch them, but respond.
Hello All. Thank you Suleika for beautiful writing. I love "You think to yourself, “No one would know there’s a better idea out there. Do I really have to kill my darlings?” But once you glimpse the better idea, you have to go with the better idea—and the idea of conjuring different atmospheres was a better idea" I love your being with and going with. And sharing all of you with us. Thank you! I want to also share a big deal, I had blood work done and for the first time in years it was ok, no big oh my gosh this is awful results!!
Not awful results—such a gift! ❤️
So happy to hear your good news, Gina!
This is joyful Sunday news Gina! Good bloods equals happy us. ❤️
Gina, thank-you for sharing your good news today. As I write this I am smiling ear to ear to begin this Spring Day.
Happy for you, Gina, for your good news! ❤️
That is great news about your blood results! My expectations remain very low to stop me hoping too much for change!
I love this spirit of defiance! I love always finding the light. It is remarkable to me how you, how us cancernauts find luminescence, fun and hysterical laughter in the midst of the nuttiness of health fiascos. How the necessary adaptability leads to immense creativity. Thank you for showing me and the worlds that we thrive, that we achieve glorious connection and creativity.
Sarah and I are engaged to be married now too! Gawd only knows how my cells will attempt to interrupt plans. But we will rise and LOVE large. ❤️
Ps. Have booked to see Jon in London! 🎶🎼🎵
Pps. Fangirl Mel hoping your fabulous self may make a guest appearance. 😊
Happy Sunday everyone from Villette in Switzerland.
How cancernauts find luminescence—so beautiful 🙏
I agree! ❤️
Thank you. Happy Sunday! 🩵
"But we will rise and LOVE large." How wonderful for you and Mel !
Thank you Mary. Love wins! 🫶🏽
Oh, I love the word cancernauts! As if we are explorers of brave new lands. Much better than cancer sufferer or other such discouraging phrases. Congratulations on your engagement!
Thank you so much! Yes we need a new word for the experience. We are tethered to our hospitals, the motherships, but also exploring space. Hope you are well Jennifer. ❤️
“But we will rise and LOVE large.” Yes, you will. You have a vivacious spirit, Mel. I can feel it in your writing! ❤️
Thank you Susan! 💜💜
Good morning, Suleika! It is so wonderful to "hear" your bright, enthusiastic spirit share! I am SO excited to see you in person in Brooklyn! And I am the queen of awkward! I recently took an online test "find out your fight or flight response type" and mine is "freeze". I freeze. In 10th grade honors English, my teacher called on me (because I never raised my hand) and . . .I . . .froze. Solid. I just sat there, staring ahead,unmoving with 28 genius students staring at me. Very awkward. In college I made an attempt to overcome my fear by taking a theater class. Bad move for this bunny. I got on that stage and became as frozen as one of Elsa's icy victims! I dropped out of that class! As life went on, my physical paralysis subsided but my brain paralysis did not. When put on the spot, I would simply shut down. No thoughts would be in my head so I would often say something rote or completely random. I challenged myself in all kinds of ways, going into sales (life insurance, real estate, Arbonne, you name it) & taking every motivational, self improvement course I could find. I volunteered to be the eulogist at my 102 year old aunt's funeral service (which I am happy to say went well despite my shaking & sweating!). Before every conference or group meeting, I make a promise to myself to speak up at least once, and to volunteer to get up and speak if the opportunity arose. My awkward self is still completely alive and kicking - I just ask her to take a seat in the other room when she starts causing problems!
“Bad move for this bunny”—that gave me a good chuckle, Terri 😂😂
It did for me as well, Carmen. 😊
I feel we are likely kindred spirits in glorious awkward moments from blurting out half formed ideas at social gatherings to working with youth. I am learning people see and feel your good intentions willing to give you grace or a pass at awkward moments.
Gosh, I am probably "Gloriously awkward" most of the time. As I am a good listener in a world with lots of babbling.
I’ve always loved that Silent & Listen are made of the same letters—like a quiet agreement between the heart & the world. X
That’s me as well. Too funny!
My Glorious Awkward Moment was when I pushed my four year old daughter into the arms of Dame Margot Fontaine. I was so overwhelmed by being in her presence, I practically threw my daughter at her. She was so gracious and calm and so attentive.I forgot to be ashamed.😊
Getting so excited for the book and can’t wait to see you in Brooklyn in all of your glorious awkwardness. I was at the Artyard recently with a friend to see Christian McBride and thought of you and your bass having connected seeing your show there and now hearing the bass being played. Hope to hear you play because we need to hear that, the joy, the laughs , the music. As for a glorious awkward moment..(love hearing Jon’s prompt read allowed with “fumigating the queen”🤣) there have been a few , ok maybe more than a few so trying to pick one is hard so lets just say in most of those cases I realized that I did the best in the moment that I could and then laughed a lot at myself and with others. Great stories to re tell to my kids, family and friends.
I love what you took away from your “more than a few” awkward moments—that you did your best and now have great stories. It’s an empowering reframe—and an example of alchemy! ❤️
I feel this is exactly how I would act if I were to meet either of you one day. 😂 thank you so much for what you put out into the world! You and Jon are such an incredible gift. Looking forward to the book and wishing you light, love, and joy as you begin your tour! Stay well😊
❤️❤️
Glorious awkwardness? I turned up for the 6-week post birth check-up at my local physician's clinic. Only to discover I should have brought my baby son with me....
😂😂😂
Oh my goddess, I can't stop laughing. The brevity with which you tell this event makes it even more perfect.
Now that’s a good one! 😂
Yes - it's always stuck in my memories.
My husband and I are in France, driving along the back roads and through the small towns; ogling the chateaux and the snowy Pyrenees; the picturesque farms on the undulating hills lush with green crops; the brilliant fields of yellow mustard and the wildflowers along the roads. We drive and drive, not completely sure if we’re trying to get somewhere or get away from something, as the bad news we came here to escape never leaves.
Navigating the small towns with their narrow roads can be immensely challenging. Yesterday we were trying to reach a restaurant in a nearby town using the voice commands on our GPS. “Turn left,” the voice said, so I did, narrowly missing another car coming the other way on an impossibly skinny street framed by solid stone walls. I heard a honk and a woman on the sidewalk started waving her arms and telling me in French it was a one way street. I was going the wrong way.
Needless to say my embarrassment was huge, but I had to maintain my composure and get us out of there So I pulled into a plaza not meant for cars and used it to turn around, all the while trying to pretend I wasn’t bothered, hoping no one else had seen my stupid mistake.
It seems like my whole life has been like that, never sure if I’m going the right way, forever trying to act like I don’t care. Then I remind myself that none of us were born with a manual of how to do things “right”. We humans are all trying the best we can to figure out if we’re on the correct path.
The answer for me is to not get discouraged, to remember how many of these French roads I’ve driven successfully and the wonderful people I’ve met, that I must be in possession of some courage to not let my fear of mistakes get in the way.
We ALL make mistakes and we ALL experience awkward moments in our lives. It’s part of being human. And all live through all of them. 😉❤️
Thank you for this, and for all of your writing. I love that you and Jon are both so willing to share your uncertainties and self-doubts while owning your strengths and your power. Thank you thank you.
Jon's story is hilarious and relatable, albeit a on a smaller scale!
How gloriously beautifully human and awkward. Thank you for sharing courage in life and awkwardness.
Hmmm…..so many awkward, did they get to glorious ? To me, if it creates a good story, that is the glory.
Early 20’s, working in the Cath Lab at a teaching hospital, we had many new cute interns come through. It was Greys on crack!! Young and young!!!
I get a call from a darling going into Plastics!!( hmm..date and face lift later??) dinner and things got heated. Nothing earth shattering but delightful. When I returned home and looked at my feet. Hospital feet, wearing lead aprons all day!! I had corns on top of corns, with little corn removal pads on them!!! At least 10 on each foot, including bandaids. They were GONE!! All of them!! They were in this young mans bed!! Can you even imagine, what he thought!! I laughed from the bottom of my gut!! What do I say at work, if I run into him?? I just smiled and never had too much contact with this Dr in training. However, one day in cafeteria I noticed on the bottom of his shoe( legs were crossed)a big, old corn pad!!!
Life is so special, a glorious memory, a walk of shame??? Nah!! A good story forever !! I’m 72 years old, and still laughing!!
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The tell-tale corn pad! 😂😂
OMG, Bonnie ! This is a good story forever, and I am also chuckling after reading this. I think I would go with calling this a glorious memory. Thanks for sharing.
😂😂 top drawer cringe!
This is just such a classic story!!! I love this!
I’m not sure what comes first: dream as anticipation of Party; or party as anticipation of Dream?
They are synergies of hope. We are planning to go in Brooklyn on April 26, the night before my birthday. Birthdays are embarrassing, as they remind me that the journey on earth is not without messy pain and laughter, belly buttons and hope. I’ve had my share of both. Thankful; yet unfinished. I glimpsed a vision for a new book on spirituality, awkward community, and countervailing institutions of hope— of glorious embarrassment—which dovetails with your theme. I’ll start with listening over coffee to persons with good heads and good hearts, dreams and experiences of awkward but defiant hope. Thanks.
Not without belly buttons 😂