Four years ago tonight!

Four years ago tonight I was excited. Around this time, I was headed to the Javits Center with my favorite people Trent, Rebecca, and Travis (yes I have more favorite people than just them, I hear you Kristie and Laura) and was going to an event that was designed by my friend Greg. 

That day had been picture perfect! It was a lovely fall day in New York, the trees were showing off all gold, red, and autumn brown. We spent a lazy morning at Laura's apartment and then headed across the park to the Natural History Museum. We walked through the exhibits with a sense of peace and excitement knowing that we were going to see history in just few short hours. We had a late lunch and then headed back to Laura's to change. I wore my best pants suite with my Hillary t-shirt. The shirt I am wearing as I type this. I remember getting in the uber and thinking I can't believe I get to see this! 

When we arrived at the Javits center we found Rebecca, Emma, Tom and Travis and headed inside. It was like being at Disneyland and Christmas Morning all wrapped in one, but better and more exciting. The Javits Center was BEAUTIFUL! We were right in front of the stage. We knew we had some time to wait so we made spot on the floor and checked our phones every 5 seconds. We talked, laughed, and made friends with the people around us. We talked about how amazing it was that we were inside. We cried in anticipation and joy, knowing that tonight was going to be something that our children's children talked about. 

Time and space made no sense after awhile. We were all checking websites and saying, "Nate Silver said..." The huge screens were showing the news and we saw states turning red one after another. I know that it sounds dramatic but the only word I can describe how I felt is despair. Here we sat in this beautiful venue, looking up at a glass ceiling and it felt like it was falling in on us. One by one people started leaving. We waited. When it looked like their was no hope, we left. 

We walked outside to what was going to be a street festival and looked like a ghost town. We found cab and went back to mid-town to drop off Rebecca and Emma and find pizza. We forgot that the Trump party was in mid-town. If we left a ghost town, we walked into mardi gras. People celebrating and streets blocked off. We found shitty pizza and sat inside and ate in silence with an occasional,  "Fuck" and "What are we going to do" mumbled under our breath.

It has been four years and I have thought about that night every day. I was so hopeful. Hopeful that we were going to have a woman president. Hopeful that the work would continue. Hopeful that America and Americans would not vote for a misogynistic bully. Before we left Laura's for the Javits Center, I remember Logan, Laura's son, saying we can't have a bully president. Then 8 hours later we did. 

At some point we went to sleep, got up, got on an airplane and went home. And life has happened in four years. The world did not end, but it got a little worse. Refugee children were stolen from their families, more black people were murdered by law enforcement, walls were built, healthcare for women was not a priority and was defunded, education has been privatized at a higher rate, the LGBTQ community has lost more rights. And some good things have happened, Trent and I got engaged, friends and family have had babies, I have had some amazing trips with old and new friends. 

But the despair of that night on the Javits Center floor has not left, endlessly wondering what will happen to us? I used to feel safe all the time. I know that is a sign of my privilege. In the past four years I have felt less and less safe every day. I feel like every day is a fight for justice. I feel like I am swimming in a pool of lies and I am constantly surprised by those who believe them. 

So tonight I sit in my Hillary t-shirt, eat chicken pot pie, and watch the West Wing. I have lived in worry. I have lived in despair. I have lived in a world where more and more, women and people of color are treated like less and less. I am not brimming with hope and excitement tonight. I have a small ember of hope deep inside and I keep it safe. Tonight that ember is glowing and I am hoping against hope that justice will win, and bullies will step down. 

Meteor Shower

Summer in the desert is made for night time. When I was in high school my friends and I would sleep most of the day and then have adventures at night. It was the 90's and we lived in a poor small desert town where at midnight the temps would get down to 100 degrees. We drove cars from the 70's and early 80's with tape decks and 8-track players. There was a freedom of driving through the dark desert night with music playing while the windows were down, the hot air stinging your face was both assaulting and refreshing at the same time.

One night in the summer of '94 there was a meteor shower. I was 16 and I remember thinking that night, that this is something, something special. We all piled into our shitty cars and drove out to the new housing development on the hill. The houses were being built and the roads were all newly paved. I remember being nervous as we drove through the streets where no one lived. I was always a little nervous about everything, but this night was different. I was not nervous about what I was wearing, or if I was cool enough to hang out with these people, or if I would ever find a boyfriend. I was nervous that I would not see or feel what I was supposed to when the universe opened up and that stars fell. 

We all parked our cars. As I got out of the car with my friends there were already people lying in the middle of the road. It wasn't a large group, less than 20. It was dark. I found a clear spot and laid on my back. The asphalt was warm against my skin. I looked up and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and then the sky started to fall, slowly, piece by piece. I remember breathing consciously and wanting to remember the moment.

I have no idea how long we laid with the warm asphalt on our backs. I don't really remember getting back in the car or the drive home, that part gets blurred into a 100 of other nights we drove circles around town not trying to get anywhere, but to simply be somewhere. I do remember the moment we had on that hill when I felt small, and loved, and safe and scared of all of those feelings. When the heat of summer was cooled by the falling nights sky. When my biggest worries and fears were washed away by a meteor shower. 

Tonight I am feeling overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by fear. Overwhelmed by hate. Overwhelmed by death. Overwhelmed by work. Overwhelmed by poverty. Overwhelmed by sickness. Overwhelmed by change. Overwhelmed by a culture that does not value justice. Overwhelmed with no where to go. 

And as I breathe, and breathe, and breathe, there is no meteor shower tonight to wash this feeling away. It is just me. here. now. 

Meteor showers happen when the earth burns up the debris that enters it's atmosphere, at least that's what google just told me. It turns cosmic trash into celestial fireworks. There is something beautiful about that, something almost healing. So tonight I will breathe. Tomorrow I will wake up and I will be my own meteor shower, I will let the light and life inside of me burn all the injustice I can. I will spark and flair. I will speak up and speak out. I will try to feel the safety of the desert night as I light up the sky. I remember what it feels like to passively watch a meteor shower happen and I ache to make change that lights up the night's sky. 

So this is 40.

The day I turned thirty I was sitting on the floor of SFO, headed to Chicago for my annual Birthday trip to see Kristie and all of my "Once a year friends", crying. I had lost all of my worldly possessions in a fire just a little under a year ago. I had been kinda sort of fired from my job.  And  I  had just got off the phone to find out I did not get another job that I had been a finalist for. I boarded a plane, went to Chicago and was whisked away into a trip of kindness, theater, singing, and laughter through tears.

This morning I woke up in a messy house, warm and snuggled next to two dog and the man of my dreams (honestly he is the man that I could not even dream because I didn't know that this much goodness existed in a person or that I could be loved like this.) I have a job that I love! I still have my once a year friends, who are actually Kristie's friends who are in Chicago and scattered other places, and I still sing and laugh through tears with Kristie.

When I turned thirty I was terrified of what my life would be. What job would I have? Will I get married? Will I have kids? I had plans, things I needed to accomplish in my thirties. I needed to become something, be something, do something. And the journey through this idea of what I should be was long and I was able to learn SO MUCH.

I eventually stopped crying on my thirtieth birthday. I got off the floor and got on a plane and flew to Chicago and at some point that weekend I decided that I was going to be BRAVE and BOLD. I did not know what that looked like but it was the motto of my thirties. I would often ask myself, "Is this decision Brave and Bold?" That is who I wanted to be in the world. This led to moving back to Arkansas, applying to my dream job, going to fat camp, meeting a boy that I had only talked to on the phone, and doing countless little things that made me nervous but eventually became part of who I am.

My Thirties were an adventure! I learned what my voice sounded like and how to hear it in all of the chatter. I went to a lot of therapy. I had two executive coaches. More people said yes than they said no. I made myself uncomfortable because that is where I grow. I fell in love. I lost people and dogs that I loved dearly. I took myself less seriously. I didn't have a baby. I watched my sister find happiness. I found people that are more than friends and I held on to them with all of the love I have in my heart. I was baptized in a church where I can be me and love the Lord and social justice and swear. I learned that nobody cares for you as much as you do. I paid all of the money and saw the original cast of Hamilton. I learned how to ask for what I needed.

And today I am 40. I don't know what the next 10 years have in store for me. I do know that I am less afraid then I was 10 years ago. I have a new adventure in front of me today. A new decade to fill with love, mistakes, learning and trying to do better than I have done. I am so blessed to live this life, and I want to honor all of those blessings. My deepest desire is to fill my life with laughter, kindness, and do everything I can to make a difference. I want to grow more, listen more, and say yes more than I say no to myself and to those around me.

So this is 40, and it's better, and I am better, and today that is enough.

Sometimes I get sad.

Mostly I live in a world that is unbelievable. I have these friends that are kind and smart and beautiful beyond measure. I am loved and liked. People care about me. And sometimes I get sad.

It's hard to describe this intermittent sadness and even harder to say, "I suffer from depression." When you tell people you feel sad they often come at you with phrases like, "It will all be okay" "Don't be sad" "Think of all you have to be happy about" "This will pass".  And they mean well because they love you and they don't want you to feel this way.

But sometimes that sadness sits with you. You think of happy things. You cry.  And if you are lucky you know eventually it will go away. Today though, it just rests in your heart. Right now it is resting in mine.

I have made the commitment to live my life with people. To share my thoughts, my stories, my emotions with others. Though I know it's a choice, it doesn't always feel great. It seems the older I get the riskier it gets. As I sit here thinking about sharing my story I am going through a list of people who could be reading this. And as much as I want to normalize mental health it is scary to say out loud, that sometimes my emotions are bigger than I can manage.

I am nervous about putting these words on this page, It's easy for me to diminish my emotion by comparing it the tragedy and struggle of others. I have so many privileges and my sadness does not seem equitable to the amount of privilege I am granted. Earlier this month I heard a lecture from the social justice warrior Bryan Stevenson who said:

“Sometimes we’re fractured by the choices we make; sometimes we’re shattered by things we would never have chosen. But our brokenness is also the source of our common humanity, the basis for our shared search for comfort, meaning, and healing. Our shared vulnerability and imperfection nurtures and sustains our capacity for compassion.” 


I want to sustain my capacity for compassion. So tonight, a random Saturday in July, I share with you that sometimes I get sad. Sometimes I get so sad that my belly hurts and tears fall from my eyes and I can not move off the couch to do the dishes. Sometimes I think about how my life would be different if when I was 4 years old someone didn't hurt me. Sometimes I fall into the arms of my significant other and let him hold me and remind me to breath until I can see clearly again.

I want to be strong, brave, and full of compassion. I want to see people, hear their stories, and be part of the system that makes change. I want this overwhelming sadness to turn into relentless energy that allows me to be part of the solution. I suffer from depression.

"our brokenness is also the source of our common humanity, the basis for our shared search for comfort, meaning, and healing."

When you are not a Mother on Mother's Day.

I don't remember having a lot of dolls when I was little. I had lots of stuffed animals, my glowworm and teddy bear Snuggles were my favorite, but I wasn't really into baby dolls. My sister was more of the mothering type. I was a bit more non-conventional  in the love and care I showed the little furry make-believe lives I was entrusted with. I often spoke to them as if they were grown, I did not baby them. I depended on them to help me do things, from listening to my rants about how unfair my parents were for making me clean my room to mandating them to be part of the class as I  played teacher and my messy room was my classroom.

I am blessed to have been in lots of kids lives. I have been a tutor and mentor at work, I have led small groups and helped with children's activities at church, and I have always been connected to my friends kids. I am a Godmother, official and unofficial aunt, and it fills my heart with joy when I hear one of "my girls" call me Miss Sarah. But, I want to be a mom.

I am 38 and the desire to be a mom seems to grow a little stronger everyday. I say this not for pity or for people to tell me how great I have it because I am free of the responsibility of parenthood. I don't say this to publicly push the person I am in love with to want the same things I want at the time I want them, I say it because it's true. I want to be a mom.

When I tell my friends or family that I want to be a mom they often say things like, "Oh you can have mine, ha ha ha" or "There is no way you could do what you do and travel as much as you do with a baby". Sometimes I will get the heartfelt, "I understand, being a mom is my favorite thing." That is the response that resonates. The person who sees me as mother, someday.

Tomorrow I will call my mom and wish her a Happy Mother's Day and tell her how grateful I am to have been raised by a person as loving and kind as her. I will call my sister and share in the joy and delight that is my nephew who was so longed for and is so loved. I will be on facebook and I will find joy in the posts of my friends who are being told what amazing moms they are and what amazing moms they have. But tonight, I will sit in my living room and I let my mind wander and my heart hurt all the way down to my belly.

Grace to powerful to name

Have you ever had your world fall apart around you, not slowly, but all at once? This is what happened the last three months. There were great big things and lots of little things and in the midst of it I learned forgiveness.

Two months ago I was sitting in the second balcony of the Richard Rogers Theater in New York City watching Hamilton. I was sitting next to a girl who had driven down from Boston that morning and a brother and sister who had just bought tickets outside on the street, we were all drunk with the excitement and wonder of what we were about to see. I was at Hamilton because my best friend's passion for making theater was reignited by the magic that is Hamilton, and because I had a new credit card. During that Saturday matinee she found inspiration and I found peace.

I had recently lost someone, as I sat mouth agape in row FF seat 27, I tried to push down that loss and be in moment of this beautiful piece of art. I was in the city with my best friend from city year and my best friend from childhood and my heart was open, but I did not know what healing would come when Renee Elise Goldsberry sang as Angelica. "There are moments that the words don't reach there's a suffering to terrible to name...the moments you're in so deep it's easier to just swim down" As those words filled my ears my heart started to heal and I wept. I grabbed the girls hand next to me, who I did not know, and I cried for my loss and began to forgive God for making me feel so deeply sad.

I would love to end this blog post there. This moment in the theater with strangers and art and beauty, but that's not how life works. I got home and as I was starting to heal from this big hurt chaos took hold of my world. I found myself in the middle of survival. The "what" of what was happening is not important, and honestly the "who" of who it was happening to is not important. The important part is the how we all loved each other. In the past three months I have seen love manifest in midnight giggles, casseroles, late night board games, boxes of wine, tears, cuddles, and binge watching Fuller House.

 I learned how to ask for help when I really needed it. I learned to stand up and say, "What I am feeling is important" I learned to say, "It hurt me when..." I learned to say, "I can not do this now." And in all of this bravery and mess of a life I saw forgiveness. Forgiveness of self, forgiveness of God, and forgiveness when it was asked for and when it wasn't.

"There are moments that words don't reach, there is a grace to powerful to name. We push away what we can never understand, we push away the unimaginable. Forgiveness can you imagine...Forgiveness." As I sat and listened to Renee sing these words it felt like worship. I could feel the Lord's presence. Forgiveness, can you imagine?

When I read that playbill as I was falling asleep that night I saw the last line of Renee's bio, " Renee gives all glory to God" I hope that she knows that I found God's Glory and his forgiveness in her voice.

Sometimes You Don't Get to Say Goodbye.

My uncle died a couple days ago, his name was Dick and he fit his name well. He was my mom's youngest brother and was my favorite uncle growing up. He had 3 boys and a stepdaughter but loved to spoil my sister and me. He would give us $20 bills to go down to Pixie Plaza Market at the beach to buy New York Seltzers and candy and would let us keep the change, we thought we were rich. He would take us to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk and let us play games and ride rides with us. He would sit for hours and play "Sorry" with me and right when I thought I was going to win, he would crush me. He never let me win, and I liked that. He was grumbley and silly and a little scary.

He died without knowing much about me as an adult. He decided a little over decade ago that he didn't like the way my mom took care of some matters for my grandmother, who she took care of with Alzheimer's. So he stopped talking to us and didn't go to his Mother's funeral. He was hurt and so he hurt us, mostly my mom.

Growing up I had this extended family that was fun and silly and fundamentally broken, but we loved each other and somehow I kept loving them and they stopped. They just stopped, with no goodbye. I don't know how to do that, how to stop loving a person that is my family. So I won't, but I will say goodbye.


Dear Uncle Dick and Family,

I love you. I have always loved that I am equal parts Townley and Roberson, because both sides are so different. I love the pride you take in the Townley name.  I love how much you love being Dr. Townley's son and grandchildren. I love that my Uncle Dick was larger than life and when he loved he loved bigger than anyone I knew.

I will never forget how I felt in your backyard with my Townley family surrounding me. There was lots of laughter and yummy food, games of cribbage, and I always hoped that among the chaos Uncle Dick would get in the pool and launch me into the air.

I will always treasure the childhood memories you gave me and I will love you until forever.

Love,
Sarah Mellon

One of my favorite memories of the Townley boys is when we went to see Goonies with Ami, Ken, Emi, Chip and Jon. So I thought I would include a picture where I look like Chunk from the Goonies. This picture also commemorates the moment I was no longer the baby of the family, Tomi!

So there you have it, my uncle died. I won't get to go to the funeral. I won't be able to hug his children or tell funny stories about when my dad pushed him in the pool or how I remember the smell of his cologne and cigarettes. I will grieve the loss of my uncle and I will treasure when he loved me.