authenticity · children · confidence · fear · motherhood

Maybe Baby

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Here’s the subtitle of the book of the same name: 28
Writers Tell the Truth About Skepticism, Infertility, Baby Lust, Childlessness,
Ambivalence, and How They Made the Biggest Decision of Their Lives.
You can imagine there are a lot of thoughts about and sides
to the story. I haven’t yet read the book, but I plan to. Because I fit in
there, somewhere along the Skepticism, Ambivalence, and the unlisted Fear of
Regret.
Yesterday, I attended a baby shower for a friend of mine.
It’s the 2nd I’ve attended recently, but skewed very differently from the last
one.
The first one was held in a yawning mansion in Russian Hill
or Pacific Heights, some “you will never afford this” neighborhood. It was
hosted in a home that would not be out of place in Dwell, or Architectural
Digest, and peopled by beautifully draped women who would be staged in such a photo
shoot.
The conversation was all about babies. When you were due,
how many you had, getting into preschools, Diaper Genies, the best nappies,
where you take your toddler.
The striking thing, to me, is that all of these women were intelligent, obviously savvy, had or have a career. And they were all talking about poop.
I was (very obviously) one of two women in attendance who was childless, and
I felt so fish-out-of-water, I was relieved to leave and call a single,
childless friend to … not commiserate, per se, but to, I don’t know, vent,
maybe.
Yesterday’s event was entirely different. A baby shower,
yes. Held in a gorgeous home with a catered lunch, yes. Obviously savvy, intelligent,
careered women, yes.
But somehow, the conversations were completely different.
Sure, there was some “helicopter parent” talk, a few “we’re trying to get
pregnant” comments, and a story of a friend who bought a racecar, and by
default, because of the cost of the car, decided she wouldn’t freeze her eggs. But mostly,
these women were talking about themselves, their interests, and random wordly
gossip; about new restaurants opening, the surprisingly inviting nature of the L.A. community, and, in one instance, syphilis.
Why was this event different? The two guests of honor would
be at home talking with one another, smart, hilarious, worldly. I don’t know.
But, I know I left feeling a hundred times different than the last time. I felt
like a person who’d attended a party, not a single, childless oaf who didn’t
fit in.
I have two friends back east in very different stages of the
spectrum. One I spoke to in New Jersey last weekend told me she’d
looked up freezing her eggs recently, as she’s back in her on-again-off-again
relationship with a man in his 40s who’s already been divorced and has two
school-aged kids. He does not want more.
She just turned 33 and doesn’t know what she wants, but is scared that if she enters this
relationship again, she is making a decision by default to not have children.
And she definitely does want them. Just not now.
My other friend is 6 months pregnant, living in suburban
Long Island in a new house with her new husband, having gotten pregnant on her
honeymoon cruise through the Aegean. Really.
She is 35 and this is her first child, and because she’s one
of the most straight-shooting women I know, I get to have all kinds of “what is
it like” conversations with her—like, are you still having sex?
I called this friend yesterday while driving home from the
baby shower, having been acutely aware after leaving the party that I probably
won’t get to go to her shower. That I won’t really be there to be Auntie Molly
to this child. It was a very different phone call; it wasn’t really about me,
because I didn’t feel that my value as a human was called into question over
the “Do you have children?” line.
My friend and I spoke about how the 30s are just this
minefield of all this information, questioning, and decisions. I am imminently
grateful that the parents I respect most are friends of mine who didn’t have
their children until their late 30s and early 40s, and they are by far the most
fully-formed mothers I know—with lives and interests and hobbies and careers.
These are my role-models. And they help take the pressure off the ticking eggs
in my womb.
My friend in New Jersey is surrounded by women our age who
are in the depths of baby-land, and she gets the “you better do something soon”
message mirrored back to her daily. The suburban life will do that more than city life, I think.
But I didn’t feel yesterday, after the party, after speaking
with my pregnant friend, that I had to make any kind of decision. It felt like,
Wow, this is a lot of information all we women have to wade through in our 30s.
More observational than judgmental.
I don’t know if I want kids. I know I don’t want them now. I
feel like in 5 years I might be ready, and may try then. I know for sure I
don’t want to intentionally become a single-mother through mishap or I.V.F.
I know that I feel very
selfish with my time and my life right now. I feel like the 5-years-from-now
mark is one that caps the “trying to be an actress” portion of my life. In 5
years, I will hopefully have done something around all this, and I won’t feel
that by having children I’m “giving up” myself and my dreams.
Because, despite my role-model moms being super and
self-possessed and interesting, their lives still revolve around the upbringing
of their children. And I am still just rearing myself.
I feel extremely grateful to not feel the pressure my NJ
friend feels to make a decision now. I feel proud of my friends who’ve made the
decision to have children.
BUT. I know many women, too, in their mid-40s who regret
terribly not having children. And I know that option stands for me too. But,
I’m also not willing to have children, to bring a life into this world under
the shadow of longing, desperation, fear, or simply, “I want a legacy, and someone to visit me in the nursing home.” It’s the same selfish motivation.
So, back to Maybe Baby.
For now, Maybe Breakfast. Those eggs, I’m not ambivalent
about. 

acting · dating · honesty · relationships · self-care

State of the Union

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Yesterday, I sat with a group of folks, and admitted that
continuing to participate in activities that I’m not 100% invested in (or even
85%) is dishonest. That I was not being honest with my intentions or
priorities—and was thereby wasting time. (You finite commodity, you.)
There was a meditation/writing portion of this meeting, and
so I wrote a series of questions for myself:
  • How is being dishonest with others serving me?
  • How is prioritizing others’ needs serving me?
  • How is NOT prioritizing my own needs serving me?
  • What need am I
    fulfilling by not prioritizing and     owning my needs?
  • How is dismissing my desires serving me?
  • How is devaluing myself serving me?

 Heavy, huh?
But, for me, that’s what pushing important things off to
“tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” is. It’s devaluing myself, what I have
deemed important to myself.
Because I’ve been hemming and hawing a little on letting
those folks know that I can’t come out and play anymore. Even though I am clear
that my priorities and intentions have shifted.
So… Yesterday, I committed to those folks that I would make
two phone calls. One was to the 25 y.o.
He asked, adorably, if he were in trouble, when I said I
wanted to chat when he wasn’t in a café. I said no, but that it was sort of a
“State of the Union” conversation, so to give me a call back.
He did. And we did.
I’d been feeling throughout this week that this couple-dom
wasn’t on course for relationship-land. It’s a pretty appropriate assessment
after a half-dozen dates. We’ve kept it PG-13, so there isn’t any animal-brain
“must keep orgasm giver” going on.
But, I have simply felt like I’ve crystallized that I don’t
want to date this person long-term. It’s just a feeling, not a fear, not a
defense mechanism. Just a fact.
The big however is, I
don’t want to stop seeing him. And thus, my hesitation.
I really enjoy spending time with this person, getting to
know him, getting to know myself in relation to him. And I thoroughly enjoy our
frisky make-out sessions.
So, that’s what I told him. Pretty much all of the above. I
don’t see this heading toward relationship track, but I enjoy spending time
with him, and I enjoy making out with him.
That the outcomes I saw were we transition to
friends, or do that and try to keep with the sexy-time, or do neither. So, he
asked me, then, what I wanted? If I knew what I wanted? And I said, no. I
didn’t know, but perhaps in talking it out, and hearing his thoughts, we might find
some solution.
He admitted and agreed that he was “along for the ride,” but
not in a place to invest in a relationship. So that pretty much leaves us two
options: continue seeing one another with the frequency we have been, or stop
seeing one another.
I replied, honestly, that the idea of seeing him less was
unappealing to me.
(And I have to admit here, that part of my hesitation in
letting go of this couple-dom is that this person is the first I’ve met who is
really in the theater world, has insights, and knowledge, and can point me
toward plays and monologues and acting worksheets and websites—which he has—and if
I let this go, I won’t have that access anymore.
And that, my dear friends, is scarcity mind. That this is
the first person with those bodies of
knowledge does not mean that he’s
the last person, and to continue a relationship based on a selfish need and
fear of loss is the definition of crappy. Doomed. Dishonest.)
So, at the end of this conversation, we agreed to continue
to see one another on the semi-regular, as we have been, and that if the
ambiguity “gets to” either of us, we can talk about that then.
I did say that I am a person who is wanting a relationship,
and that he deserves someone who thinks he’s the sunandmoonandstars, but, for
right now, no one is blowing down our doors, so… here we are.
I don’t think it’s “settling for less.” I think it’s being
perfectly honest with my desires, honest with my intentions, and my continued
task is to show up in the single world and be available.
That might mean a week more of the hot make-out sessions, it
might mean a month. I don’t know. It is
ambiguous. And we know how I LOVE that. But, I am not willing to let go of this
connection yet, because of what it does for me on multiple levels, nor am I willing
to let go of my intention to have a true partnership with another human being.
In the meantime, I have that list of questions to answer for
and about myself, and some theater websites to explore.

abundance · clarity · connection · pride · prosperity · self-esteem · vision

If you glue it, they will come.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

At my meditation retreat in January, we made a collage of
our “intention” for ourselves for the year, as we do each year.
As I do each year, I tear out probably over 50 images and
phrases at the sewing-circle tables, and then walk over to a corner of
the floor, plop down, and, in solitude, spread out everything I’ve got for editing and
culling.
This year, a few specific messages came out of my collage, all of which are in process of fruition.
The first of the images to note is a pair of immense, daring eyes.
Just eyes, some mascara ad surely. But, the single-minded clarity and focus on
one thing, this is what I cut that image out for. Whatever this image was meant
to convey, to me it spelled, Clarity of Vision—Focus. Which, if you’ve been
reading, is something I’ve been aiming toward, especially with my whittling
down of my creative endeavors toward theater alone.
Next of note, is an image from an old 1964 Life magazine. It’s a large black-and-white photo of a woman in a tennis
outfit mid-air, jumping, with her fists curved tight, elbows up, her face
scrunched in emotion—she’d just won Wimbleton, after a
bout with a fatal illness. The caption quotes her: “I made it.”
This, for me, does not speak only to my own triumph over
cancer, but also the image of someone celebrating their victory. She is unabashedly celebrating herself, and her
accomplishment. She is proud of
herself, and acknowledging it.
How many of us do that, regularly? Not me. It is not an ingrained habit to feel
proud over things I’ve done.
And, again, if you’ve been reading, you know that each time
I’ve shown up to a theater audition recently, the emotion I feel most afterward is pride. Is a
clap-on-the-back feeling of, Damn straight, Molly, you did it. You showed up
for yourself. You made it.
Another strong image in the collage I created caused me the
most difficulty.
I’d cut out a photo of two people, who happened to be in ski
gear walking away from the camera into the snow town, holding hands. With this
couple, I’d placed the words, “Let’s Connect.”
I sat the longest with these images. Placing them on, taking
them off. Placing them on, Yes, Molly, Let’s Connect. Shit, no, I don’t know if
I want to commit to this idea. – Even on a stupid collage.
“Let’s Connect.” I don’t know about this. That sounds
hardest of them all. Do I really want this? Do I really want to connect with someone else? Well, yes… But I’m
scared.
In the end, I’m pleased (and proud) to say, I took my glue
stick and fixed the image of the couple and the intention to connect onto my
collage. … In the corner, tucked away. But still, There. And as you have seen, I have been attempting to connect, however inexpertly, with another human being.
Lastly, and this is what prompted me to write this today,
the last images I’ll describe to you are of a fancy dinner party. An event. At this event, a man and woman dressed to kill–a couple–are
looking at a case housing artful jewelry. The party has soft colored lights, fancy
centerpieces–whatever you think of when you think fancy, like Hollywood fancy,
dinner party.
I pasted this on, because I want to be a fancy person who does
fancy things. That’s how I described it to my peers on the retreat as we all
shared our collages and their meanings to us. I have been a little ashamed to
say I want fancy things, I want to be a fancy person, I want to wear fancy
clothes, because I’ve been afraid that makes me superficial. That others will think this “want fancy things” means I think money buys happiness, but that’s not what my meaning is.
Because, another thing you’ve seen me write about here is the
ownership of my true self, including the externals. That has meant upgrading my
wardrobe, buying gold shoes, having a cleaning company come to help upgrade the
aesthetics of my apartment.
I have always been a woman of externals, too. I have an
internal landscape that rivals Ansel Adams, and I have a desire to express on
the outside how I feel on the inside.
And I would like to feel fancy.
Sure, not all the time—I sit here in cotton pajamas, an
Oakland sweatshirt, fuzzy socks, with a well-worn (second hand) Vera Wang
knitted robe knotted tight around me.
But I want to not feel ashamed of wanting to be a fancy
person. Who does fancy things and goes fancy places. Who needs to have fancy things in my closet, because it is not
unheard of that I get invited to fancy events.
THUS. This evening, I am attending a fancy event. A gala.
And I will be wearing a fancy dress suitable for the evening.
However, I will be attending the gala for my job–our annual fundraiser–and thus I
am not a guest, as much as an employee, put to work, for sure.
So, this morning, I was more specific in my morning pages
about my intention to be a fancy person – I would like to be an invited
guest to fancy things.
Because, apparently the Universe is listening: all the
things I’d pasted on my collage are happening. Therefore, I’d better be intentional with
my intentions. 

abundance · acting · self-esteem · self-love · self-support · vision

…And all the men and women merely players

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Audition Over. I feel exhausted. I am hoping that some day
soon, I can stop reporting my exhaustion to you, because I won’t be.
However, if I get into this play, which I realize is an SF
State Production, I think, then there are rehearsals there every evening and weekend
for 4 weeks. But, cart, horse, one bite at a time. (And, although that sounds
exhausting, I know it’s part of “building a resume” and a body of work; so, worth it.) I
won’t talk too much about this play, until I know I’ve gotten into it. To
paraphrase my new go-to book, It’s Just a F***ing Audition. So, now, I go back onto Theater Bay Area website,
follow-up on another message board the 25 y.o. told me about, and get another
audition lined up. And another monologue into my brain.
You know, this memorizing thing is work. It’s amazing to be able to keep so much information
in our heads. I remember words from plays I did years ago, when I click into
that gear.
And that’s the other thing I realized as I walked out of the
audition last night into the Sunset streets: I’ve done this before. I know how to do this, if still gelding-like. But this isn’t as foreign to me as I like to let my brain tell me
it is. I’ve stood in small rooms in front of strangers and performed words to them before. I’ve conversed awkwardly with auditors, having rehearsed so many lines for them, I forget how to just have a normal conversation. I’ve filled out audition sheets, and printed headshots, and doctored a resume. I’ve stood in hallways waiting my turn before. 
I left last night – just as I’d left the CCSF audition last month –
thrilled that I showed up. THAT’S the result that is most important to me. I
was just so glad that I let myself try. And I did “not bad,” in my own
estimation, which is like high, throwing-flowers-at-myself praise in my own
scale. “Not bad.” Ha. In fact, really, I think I did well. They’re students, it
seems, the auditors, and they gave some feedback that skewed positively.
I remember when my friend Melissa came to see me in The Vagina
Monologues at Mills about 2 or 3 years ago,
now. She said afterward, and her sister is a director, so she’s seen her share
of plays and players—she said, I feel like I’ve finally seen you do what you
were born to do.
It was the best compliment I’ve ever received. Because I
knew she wasn’t a bullshitter, and because it resonated with me. And because it made
my insides do a happy dance. Like, SEE, MOLL! We told you you could do this!!
On Tuesday night, the 25 y.o. came over to help me practice
my monologue. He’s a director and an artistic director, so he’s seen his share
of actors. So, very nervously, I did my piece for him. And I begged him
afterward to be honest with me: if I was wasting my time, and someone just
really needed to be honest with me, tell me to move on to something else. I don’t want to be like that person on the American Idol audition tapes who no one ever told was horrible because they didn’t want to hurt their feelings, and so now all of America laughs at their idiocy. 
He told me, no, he wouldn’t say that at all. But, he also
told me that, like the bell-curve, I fall somewhere in the middle of the curve,
“if a little to the right of center,” he said.
I could be crushed by that. I could say, well, forget it, if
I’m not excellent, f*ck it. But, HELLO, even though I’ve done this somewhat,
I’m a TOTAL NEWBIE. And if as an untrained, total newbie, I’m average, then that’s AWESOME!
I mean, come on, man.
My bass teacher said the same thing to me when I was working
with him. That noting my incredible lack of training and beginner status, I was
much farther along than he’d seen.
I’m good at picking
things up. And I haven’t ever put concerted effort behind this acting vision before. So… seems to me…
leads me to believe… it follows that… logic says…
I better keep doing it. Because I’ll only get better.
*INSERT CHEESY THIS-IS-AWESOME GRIN*
P.S. The 25 y.o. also told me there’s plenty of work in this
town for a start-of-career non-equity actor. And I told him, Tell your friends
– I’m happy to be in their crappy plays. 😉

calm · fear · healing · health · spirituality · the middle way · theater

Lumps & Bumps

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Show of hands: Those eager to exchange brains with me.
Anyone? Bueler?
Yesterday afternoon, I called my cousin Leah. She’s a
doctor, an ally, and a friend. I gave her all the information I’d gathered at
Kaiser yesterday, and asked her if I should be concerned or if I should, as all
the doctors advised, not be concerned?
What they told me is that, no, it’s not adult acne
that a ProActiv commercial would fix; and, yes, this strange lump is indeed a
swollen lymph node, another part of our immune system. They told me this likely
has nothing to do with cancer, that it’s just something to note, and that it
would go away in a few weeks, tops. That swollen glands happen. They told me I likely accidentally
cut myself while shaving under my arm, and got a minor infection that’s causing
this swelling (“but I didn’t cut myself.” “it would be smaller than you could
see. this is normal.”).
They told me we could do imaging on it, and then biopsy it if I insisted.
And so that remains to be scheduled. But after all of yesterday being told it’s likely nothing, and my insisting that you prove to me
it’s actually nothing… I called my cousin.
She said, “Normal life is full of lumps and bumps.” That “someone with your history” is bound to go to the far side of fear, but she was not
concerned.
In fact, no one really seemed concerned except me. But then, I’m the one with the history.
If I could dampen or soften the reaches and depths of my
emotional swings…
Well, I don’t think I would. I’m not bipolar, I’m just me.
Fully feeling, fully emoting.
However, I think the Ship of Emotional Life fell off the
edge of the ocean yesterday, and I am tired from that.
I left the hospital, several hours later, parting with my
dear and kind friend who spoke of shoes and ships and sealing wax, not to
distract me, but just be normal with me. To listen to me say from my plastic
hospital waiting room chair, I hate this. I just want you to know I hate this.
And for her to say, Yep. That sounds about right.
I left, and I went to the hot tubs. I live near a place that
has saunas and hot tubs, and I soaked for a half hour. My head was with me, so
it wasn’t “relaxing” per se, but it was nice, sort of. The hospital called to
tell me the Radiology department would call to schedule a CT scan to see
what this is, if anything.
And on the way home, I called my cousin. Because my poor
exhausted brain, my hyperactive adrenals, and my weary fucking heart needed to
hear from a doctor who loved me.
She said, she’s not here, she can’t see what’s going on, but
if it were her—and she knows my reactions are different—she wouldn’t be
worried.
Life is full of lumps and bumps.
I came home, watched about 5 hours of Netflix, and finally
said aloud, Alright, that’s enough, got up, made tea, and read through the play
for the audition I have tonight. I’m not secure in this monologue, but I’m
doing it.
I had a moment of, Remember who you are. Remember what you
do. Remember what you can do, and I showed up for an hour for my dream and my
vision.
Then I went back to Netflix.
Because, that’s what this process is like for me right now.
It’s remembering who and what I am, what I’m capable of, and it’s numbing the
fuck out because who I am and what I can do can run me into the ground.
In meditation the other day, my advice to myself (or my
“intuitive thought” or “intuition”) reminded me to Rest: “As to your fatigue,
my only instruction is to rest,” it said. To rest and play with ease.
The taught high-wire act of my emotional life is not easeful.
So, I need to come back down, touch the ground again,
fill up with images of trees and covens and auras and love. And remember who I
am can be easeful, too.
Ha. I, Molly Louise,
can be an easeful human being! Who can walk with equanimity in this world. I
can have highs and lows, and dash myself upon the craggy shores. And, I can bend
my head into the silken lap of Divine Calm, and let her stroke my hair for a while as I
take a long-forgotten full & present breath.
Life is full of lumps and bumps. Life can be normal. Not devastating. Not harrowing. Life can be okay.
Have both trip-lines and benches overlooking a sunset. Life, my life, is going to
be okay. 

fear · friendship · health · honesty · love · self-care · vulnerability

Welcome To The Jungle–We’ve Got Fun & Games

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Dear Blog-Reading Community & The Inside of Molly’s
Head,
Don’t Freak Out.
Dear Suspicious Lump Under My Right Shoulder Blade,
Don’t be an asshole.
Be a mutated muscle, embarrassing adult acne, a rogue tooth stem cell that formed in the wrong place in utero; even be a benign
cyst that I have to go through biopsy limbo to confirm. Just don’t be an
asshole.
Today, I go to the doctor. I am grateful and lucky to have
the community who shows up for me, available at 6:30am-text notice. One of them
is coming with me to the doctor visit–though I didn’t ask, I just “wanted to inform someone who isn’t my mom and wouldn’t freak out,” she offered. I wanted to
ask, but asking for help… especially help to attend to an amorphous, “Am I just
paranoid?” symptom…
Yesterday at work, I spoke with someone who also has
intimate experience with things like this. She said, it’s not paranoid. It’s
not hypochondriac. We have reasons, and good ones. She said she gets alarmed
too. And so, what do we do? We get things checked out.
I was trying to play it cool. Sure, I’ve just been really tired; it’s normal, you’ve
seen my lists of activities. It’s nuhhh-thing. And MAYBE IT IS. But you know how I tongue the other
side of “maybe.”
So, I went to get labs drawn yesterday afternoon. My blood
is all normal. Leukemia Negative.
But, this lump. I noticed a few days ago.
Is this too much information? Is this too soon to tell you
anything? Is this just me mental-masturbating onto the page to diffuse some of my worry by spewing it onto you?
Maybe.
The same friend who will accompany me today once said,
“Don’t Worry Twice.” It’s the best advice I’ve ever been given, and a thousand
miles toward following it.
But, I remember it. I try to do that.
I’m as worried as the situation warrants. Which is, hmm,
this is suspicious. I am not a doctor, I should get this checked out. The end.
It’s why I got my blood tested finally; and glad that I did. It’s why I’ll see a doctor today, who may really seriously in fact tell me, this is just a really bad zit
under your skin, Moll. Use some ProActive and get on with your life.
The thought that occurred to me this morning, waking up and
deciding to get this zit-in-sheep’s-clothing checked out, was “Rule 62.” Don’t
Take Yourself So Damned Seriously.
A thousand thoughts go through one’s head when….
No.
One thought went through my head when, yesterday morning, I
wrote my blog to you, got ready for work, and broke down crying in my closet. I’m
so tired of being brave.
The thought that follows that is: I won’t go through this
again.
The thought that follows that is: Of course I will.
Because tired of it or not, bone-weary or not, to gain a
year of hell, perhaps five years of health, perhaps one perhaps twenty, I would do it.
I hate that I would. I hate that I love this all so much. I
hate that I have such a burning, singeing ambition to do more. I hate that I
want to have my own life story to hand to someone to type. To have someone
record and note my life, my legacy, my
experience of living a full and long life.
I hate that I love myself and most especially you and all of
this so damned fucking much, that I would do whatever it took to stay.
And then, of course, I don’t take myself so damned
seriously, I eat my daily eggs, and I don’t worry twice.
Dear Blog-Reading Community & The Inside of Molly’s
Head,
Don’t freak out. 
Reach out. Follow up. And get back to the business of being awesome. No.Matter.What.

P.S. It is a nice change from the 25 y.o.- should I/shouldn’t I argument. So there’s that. #SilverLining

assertiveness · authenticity · fear · health · self-care · self-love

Heeding the Cautionary Tale

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

When I was sick, I contacted the Leukemia & Lymphoma
Society. They were great, and recommended this Peer-to-Peer program, where they
connected current patients by phone with survivors of similar age, background,
and treatment.
I asked to speak with someone who’d chosen only chemo, as I
was doing, instead of chemo + bone marrow transplant, which was standard (and
recommended) protocol.
I spoke on the phone once to a woman who was a few years
older than me, who’d also had the cancer come out of nowhere, and who’d also
chosen “only chemo.” She went into remission, and when she was done with
treatment, she began training for marathons.
I can’t remember if she’d been a runner before she got sick,
but she told me she went at it with abandon. Not “fun runs,” not 5ks, but the
long New York City Marathon-style kind of marathons.
Her doctors advised her to “take it easy,” to go slow, but
she, like me, felt that she had time to make up for, and also like me, wanted
to prove that her body was her own, and not a foreign infectious parasite. She
wanted to prove that she could be above, beyond, and more than her cancer. She wanted to tell it, Fuck you.
Within a year of remission, healthier than she’d ever been,
this woman’s cancer returned. Leukemia. Again.
So she finally went into the recommended bone marrow
transplant treatment, the year of absolute hell (with two small children at
home), and was now 5 years out from that relapse.
Tell me if you don’t get where I’m going with this story.
This is part of the
reason I need to slow down. To focus my energies.
I got a bill from Stanford Hospital yesterday, only for a $10
co-pay, the actual cost of my meeting with the bone marrow expert much higher.
I’d gone twice to see them when making my decision. Once with a friend, and
once, gratefully, with my mom. Because we really all just need our mom
sometimes, and I’m lucky mine is around.
The Stanford folks explained the harrowing treatment process, and took some blood to
type-test against my brother to see if he’d be a bone marrow match—and he is,
should I ever need the assist.
There’s a family at work, a congregant’s family, where the
sister of the couple I know just is going through the phase of integrating her
brother’s marrow with her own, and apparently the grafting is going well.
I’m typing up a “life story” for an older woman not inclined
to typing. In it, she recounts the tale of her friend, diagnosed with one
cancer, gone into remission, and then relapsed with Leukemia, and dies.
Cautionary Tales, I think is the word for these stories.
To be cognizant with my body, my efforts, my love of self
and others. To be compassionate to my own twitching reaction to the above
stories, too.
In the first few months of returning to work last Spring, a
congregant I’d known only in passing told me he was 15 years out from Lymphoma,
and if I ever wanted to talk, he was available. I took him up on that offer a
few times. He’s the one who told me the Damacles’ Sword story.
I asked him when the vicious paranoia stops? When every
cold, fatigue, sore throat doesn’t send your mind reeling to the far end of doomed?
He said, Five Years.
He said, he knows it’s just a magic marking in time that the
doctors put on us, but they do. Five years in remission is the marker they use
to say, “Okay, you’ve made it this far, so you’re pretty much as healthy as any
Tom, Dick, or Harry. Good on ya.”
He said that even though it’s a nearly arbitrary
mile-marker, that’s when he felt able to breathe for the first time in years.
He also said it sounded like I have done and am doing a lot
more concerted work around my disease, my process, and my healing that he was
not able to do until some years later.
My cousin told me the other week that I talk(ed) so much
about the nuance and subtlety of being sick. The multi-faceted nature of health
and wellness and life.
I get to have my experience of being scared, I get to
have my experience of processing the fear, and I get to have the experience of
saying, Hey you, Fear: Go bother someone else.
So I am slowing down, I am pulling the e-brake on my spinning
world. Because I listened when that marathoner told me about her relapse into
Leukemia. And I am more scared of going through that than I am of telling
people, I’m sorry, I can’t participate in that thing right now. 

acting · balance · change · grief · priorities

Sword of Awareness.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

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Yesterday morning, I was on the phone with a mentor of mine,
talking about how busy I am, and how bone-weary I am as a result. Sure, busy
with good things. That’s what I tell people at the “How was your weekend?”
congenial Monday-morning chat. “It was busy, but busy with good things.” So that,
of course, makes it okay.
My mentor asked me why I thought I was so busy – and I know, and have known, the answer: TIME.
Damacles’ sword. The tale of the king(?) who had a sword
suspended over his throne, he sat and ruled from under the constant threat of
annihilation, never knowing if it ever would indeed fall.
How do you live from that place? Certainly, we all are
living under that sword. Some of us are more aware of it than others.
Sometimes I hear people talk about things they’ll do when
they’re old, or older. Things like travel, or tell their grandkids, or when
they retire. All of these future plans, all under an assumption of life. All
under a naïve assumption that life will be there when they get there.
Ignorance sure is bliss. Because when I listen to them
say this, my heart steels and in my head I say, “Maybe.” By which I know I mean,
loathe though I am to admit it to you, “Maybe, or you could be dead.”
So, TIME. I am so very busy, because I don’t believe there
is enough time for me to be The Great And Powerful Molly that I want to be.
This wasn’t a cancer-causation. I felt this way long before cancer, that I have
missed the bus on things, or that I just know there are so many things I want
to do, I lament how to do them all – while I’m alive.
Cancer just rubbed rock salt into the wound. Brought my attention to a pin-prick of the value of life. And cancer has made me a little sour on others’ assumptions that it will be there.
Hence, my goal to prioritize. What is important now? What can’t wait? What feeds me the most, brings me
the most joy, is a 5 on a joy-scale of 1 – 5?
That’s what my friends and I spoke about yesterday morning,
after I got off the phone with my mentor. As I’d said, I wanted to get help
with how to prioritize the bevy of interests I have. And, we did. We
talked about a lot. I cried a little. I got to see how fear, rather than joy,
is motivating many of my projects.
And they told me it was okay. I’m allowed to feel frightened and desperate if that’s what I’m feeling. I’m allowed to feel sorrow over the uncertainty of it all. I’m allowed to feel a sour-green envy of those not aware of the sword, and I’m allowed to feel self-righteous over them, too. But, I’m allowed to not feel this way also.
They charged me with the task of focusing on
one interest, if only for one week. We created a “time plan,” sort of like the
kind of money spending plan I have each month. It’s a goal, it’s an allotment
of values. Everything is a choice, even paying rent. If I’m willing to accept
the consequences of not paying rent,
sure I could not pay it. But I’m not!
Performance, acting, right now, came up as a higher priority
than anything I’m currently involved in. Though painting was the only thing
that earned a 5 (though, I imagine, mostly because I’m not engaged in it at all
right now).
This value judgment will have consequences. It means the
reduction and phasing out of other things I’m involved in. AND, it’s only a
guide, this new time plan. That’s the important thing for me to remember. It
can change. And if I have more time for rest and centering, there may be more
ease to do other things.
When we plugged in “Acting Activities” (e.g. researching
roles, practicing monologues, etc.) as the only creative activity this week, I could feel my hackles rise: “But what
about painting??” My two friends encouraged me to just try this, just for one
week, just to see how it feels.
If my goal is to “Focus, Prioritize, and Follow-through,”
this is their suggestion. It’s just a trial. How does it feel to commit to one thing fully — oh my G-D –
COMMIT?????
Oh Lord, grant me strength to focus… to (gulp) commit. (shiver)
Because though the sword be there for all of us, for me, I have learned
that racing to it all is wasting my time. I’m not getting better at any of my interests, because I’m not spending
…committed… time on them.
It is an imperative in my life to use my time efficiently.
And this is an avenue I’ve never tried before. 
Results: TBD. 

abundance · life · order · priorities · vision

The Good News

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

The good news is that I’m alive, so I can accomplish all the
things I’d like to. In order, and in “the Universe’s” time.
Here is a list of creative projects and endeavors I’m
involved in at the moment:
  • Playing
    Bass in a band in SF 
  • Memorizing
    and practicing audition pieces
  • Looking
    up and applying to new casting calls
  • Sourcing
    a photographer for a new headshot
  • Submitting
    myself to modeling agencies
  • Writing
    new songs
  • Forming
    a new band in the East Bay
  • Practicing
    jazz and blues standards with the keyboardist from the first band, in
    order to busk in BART stations (ostensibly eventually in actual lounges)
  • Sourcing
    a voice teacher
  • Taking
    an acting class
  • Writing
    my blog

Here is a list of creative projects and endeavors that I
have on back burners:
  • Actually practicing the bass 
  • Learning the piano
  • Writing
    and developing my musical about race
  • Painting! (and sourcing an art studio — don’t do oils in your kitchen, kids)
  • Developing
    a “home organizing” on-the-side business
  • Gardening
    (learning to)
  • Learning
    to sew
  • Re-developing
    my creativity workshop
  • Reorganizing
    my closet (yes, that’s creative!) 
  • Fixing the brakes on my bike and learning to ride again.

Not to mention the commitments I have outside of my regular
work hours, including some personal inventory writing that I’ve been stuck on
for months. Plus the daily things we all need to do, like eat, shower, grocery
shop, cook food, spend time with my neglected cat. Let’s throw in “dating,” just to
make it a maelstrom.
So… I’m tired.
And I sometimes try to counter this fatigue by watching several
hours of Netflix when I come home, which means that all of the above things get
pushed back and I feel even more crunched and overwhelmed.
So, today, I’m meeting with two friends to talk about my
priorities. I know I wrote about this earlier this week or last, and now I’m
putting action to it. I have no idea how to juggle it all, and so balls get
dropped, and things important to me get shuffled down the calendar like a
shuffle-board puck. Clean cups move down no room at the inn tomorrow and
tomorrow and tomorrow.
Veysmer.
Because SOME of these things are meant to be focused on NOW.
And some are allowed to be worked on later.
Someone once told me I can’t do everything, and I nearly
lost it. She clarified and said, “You can’t do everything all at once.” Phew, okay.
I WANT to do it all. But, am I meant to? Who knows. I do
know that I’m not meant to do it all at once.
It’s like shoving a spoonful of every part of your meal into
your mouth at once. It doesn’t work, and you end up choking on a chocolate chip with gravy on your shirt.
BUT, if I take a bite in order and with precision, focus,
and priority, then I have a chance of not only enjoying the meal of life,
savoring what’s happening, and appreciating the company I keep, but this order and
priority will allow me to digest it all slowly enough to create room for
dessert. And by dessert, I mean sex. 

authenticity · beauty · confidence · sexuality

Your Beauty Speaks So You Don’t Have To.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

An audition monologue piece was suggested to me by the 25
y.o. He said it’s not the best character in the play, but the character is
supposed to be young and attractive, and it’s best to go with what the auditors
are already seeing.
In the piece I’m practicing for Monday’s audition, the woman
says, “You think my beauty gives me riches I didn’t earn.” “I used to feel that
way, too,” she says. So she became quiet, unseen, out of the way, meek, so as not seem … well, it’s hard to say exactly what – so as not to seem
like she’s bragging? It’s a hard quality to distill. But I get it, and I’ve written about it. (See: Cadillac Beauty. Actually, after writing the rest of today’s blog, I just reread that piece, and it’s nearly the same place I am with this 3 years later, and worth my rereading.)
The character in the play says she became quiet and instead used piano as her
voice when she was young, in order to have a self, but not an intrusive self,
more than her appearance already intruded. Which is what I did with writing.
The piece goes on to say she wishes she could meet her
younger self, and tell her to own it,
flaunt it if you have to, she says. Be anything other than afraid.
I stayed late after acting class on Thursday to talk with
the only other “trying to be an actress” person in the class – she’s in the
actor’s union and everything. She was giving me notes about my performance of
this piece. She said that I have to stop hiding, that this *insert curving shoulders inward here* doesn’t actually hide or pretend that I’m not who I am.
That, damnit Molly, you will always be a 6 foot tall beautiful woman. That
brushing it aside, pretending it’s not, doesn’t change it.
I argue-joked with her while pulling down my cheeks in “nothing lasts forever” agedness. I looked down, brushing away her words with my hand. No, it isn’t
something I’ve earned. It’s not
something I’ve “accomplished,” or built, or created. It just happens to be.
But, it’s not that important.
I told her that sometimes you just want to walk into a room
and not be noticed. How hard I tried
when I was young to be the wallflower. But, I am a 6 foot tall beautiful woman,
and I don’t get that anonymity all the time.
I realize now I would like to say something like, But I
don’t mean to play the “Poor Little Pretty Girl” card, that I don’t mean to
incite rancor or dismissiveness in you over what actually has created a very
uncertain way of being in the world, but I won’t say that.
I have apologized for a very long time to you for looking
how I do.
The two ways I sought to remedy this in the past was to try
to hide (see “shrinking shoulder” move) or to decide if what you wanted from
me, boys, was my body, then that’s all you shall have.
Neither of these take all of it into consideration – take all of me into consideration.
This feels like trepidatious ground to walk on, being honest
about this part of my experience. I don’t want to arouse negative feelings in
you. But, if part of what I do here is to be honest about everything, and
believe me, you know a LOT!, then this is part of it too.
Because I have changed, and am changing around it. I’ve
begun wearing heels again. Upgraded my jeans to be more form fitting, because I
have a body that wears clothing well. I don’t have to “flaunt it” as my
character says, I don’t need to, I just need to be honest with myself, and
therefore the world about what’s really going on.
I wonder if you’re still even reading 😉
It is a very hard line to walk (in heels) for me. How to own
how I look, but not have that overshadow my personality. My friend in acting
class said that I am a super model walking around in the world, who can
actually have a conversation.
That’s a large mantle to wear.
Like most assets of mine, I downplay and dismiss them. My
appearance is no exception. “Oh, it’s not really… No, don’t praise, it’s not… I’m
not…”
We’ve heard me write about this before, about jumping from
creative endeavor to creative endeavor so as not to get too good at anything,
and therefore have to admit (own) that I’m either good at it, or that it’s
important to me.
If you’ve met me in person, you do know that how I dress is important to me, most of the time. You know that my
style has evolved, is ever changing, and is sometimes more bold than I give
myself credit for.
But, honestly, it’s not bold enough. It’s not honest enough. It’s still hidden. It’s still “shh, don’t
tell, don’t look.” I think I’m getting better at it, but last night, as I was ushering
at the Fox theater, there was a photographer taking shots for the event. We
were making eyes at one another, and I found as I walked back and forth
helping patrons to their seats, I held myself differently than before we
noticed one another. I walked with a confidence and precision in my body that I
didn’t before. And, I also pretty much stopped breathing.
My breathing becomes shallow when I know you’re watching me.
When I take on the posture of the 6 foot tall model, I’m not fully embodied
anymore. There’s a retreat that happens. Still.
So. [Insert end-of-blog life lesson/challenge] (my blogs are as predictable
as an episode of Full House with it’s
cheesey last 10 minutes music overplaying while Danny Tanner talks to his oldest daughter D.J. about some “just be yourself” life lesson!)
Nonetheless. I know I have a switch from “just me” to “me in
heels” (read: me when I’m aware of my appearance). The “me in heels” is a
little distant, a little removed, and a little scared of not maintaining
composure. All of it is me, but it is not integrated. So, guess what today’s life
lesson/challenge will be?