Make Music. And Dance.

Yep.
Surreal.

That's pretty much the only word that comes to mind, that describes what last weekend.

No. I take that back.
I can think of another one...
Gift.

This has been a long time coming. Concretely, it's been almost exactly a year since Andrew told me. In fact I believe it was Barret's birthday/return home announcement to my parents... as if having their son move home from NYC after 6 years wasn't good enough news. But looking back on what really and truly culminated in this past weekend and the one to come... well I think it began long before that.

I had on my purple long sleeved floral dress. After all, it did have the best twirl-factor. Bear, a mess of wild curls that poked out his bike helmet, wielded his battery operated light-up sword, fit in his suit of armor: a matching Mikey Mouse sweatshirt & sweatpants. And together we danced in circles around the living room furniture to Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker, or Manheim Steamroller, or Mozart - whatever dad had playing on our stereo system. Actually I should revise that statement... I danced. Bear would try to follow me (a near impossible task), would then charge about doing his own thing with the helmet and sword that made "Jjshhzzz" noises every time you swung it, only to give up, making his way to the piano bench. That's where he'd always end up. In front of the black and white keys.
We'd always had that piano in the living room. Purchased because my dad needed something to fill the space in his Spokane home, it came with us when we moved to Bellevue. I wonder if Dad had any idea the life-altering consequence this "space-filler" would have that fateful day he bought it? Probably not. I'm not sure if we (my brother and I) were even a thought then. But God has His ways...

I remember sitting there on that bench with him looking out at the beautiful Katsura trees that draped oh so gracefully alongside that corner of the house. I remember hearing him play. Sometimes we'd come up with tunes together. Sometimes he'd just fiddle away. Most of the songs sounded very "asian." I'm not sure if this is because of the decor in our living room or the fact that we both really like the skinny black keys. At any rate I think the first song Barret ever wrote was a simple picture drawn of the keys he played and its title had something to do with Chinese mountain ranges... He could probably tell you... But even then I was always in awe (and if I'm honest slightly jealous) of his creative ability.
I still am.

The thought of composing music baffles me utterly. To hear a symphony in your head, with all the different instruments and sounds melding together in perfect harmony - each with their own notes, own cadence, own melodies but coming together to form something so rich and multifaceted, yet unified. Nope. I could never ever do that. I can hardly wrap my mind around it. And yet that's what my not-so-little brother does.
I write with words. I speak in dance steps. But he speaks with music. His letters are musical notes and his sentences are melodies and phrases. He punctuates with rhythm and percussion, not semi-colons and ellipses. And just like himself, his music, his composition isn't simple "Mary had a little lamb" nursery rhyme stuff. It's complex. It's deep, soothing, repetitive, and arresting. It's sometimes a bit harmoniously dissonant. A bit oxymoronic I know, but aren't we all?


Well fast forward 20+ years. A ballerina and a composer. Well who'd a thunk it?! God did. He knew. He created both Barret and I. He knit us in our Momma's womb. He gave Barret this incredible gift - to hear music in his head and write it down. He gave me the gift of being able to dance to it. And He gave us parents who encouraged us, supported us and spurred us on to develop and grow these gifts, and for what end? To glorify Him. To be living proof that with Him, nothing is impossible. To do that which He created and purposed us for, being good stewards of the gifts He's given us.
To make music and dance.

So I know that it is not only a fulfillment of my parents dreams, of my dreams but also of God's plan that a year ago Andrew Bartee commissioned my brother to write a score for his ballet. A brilliant ballet (if you can call it that... Andrew calls it a dance party) that would premiere on the McCaw Hall stage during PNB's 40th Anniversary season. A ballet about breaking through barriers. About changing perceptions, expectations and situations. About "arms that work." And I get to dance it. Dance to my brother's music.

It happened last weekend. And it was surreal to say the least. Running to bring my brother on stage... Two Anspachs taking a bow. I tried so hard to relish that moment and yet how quickly it flitted away. Nevertheless it was a gift from my Abba Father. A gift I still get to receive. Not just once, but twice.

So if you don't have plans this weekend come see the Gift played out on stage. Better yet, receive the gifts that God's given both my brother and I to minister to your eyes and ears and most importantly to give Him glory! Thursday through Sunday (but I'll be dancing Thursday night and Sunday afternoon). You can buy your tickets here.

And for your viewing pleasure here's Bear and I doing a duet of our own. Sitting a the piano bench together. Just like the old days. Except now we're old. Well relatively speaking... Enjoy!


Five Easy Pieces - I. Andante from Barret Anspach on Vimeo.

A New Season

Well it's been a while.
A long while.

I'll spare you the apologies and excuses... that is assuming someone (anyone?) out there still reads this blog. It would appear the last time I wrote was in August. Oddly enough until about two weeks ago the weather here in Seattle was fairly familiar to the sweet summer we had this year. One day the thermometer read around 70˚F with the sunshine gleaming through the yellow tinged leaves... the next the sky was grey, the breeze was brisk, and suddenly my breath was visible as I walked to my car in the morning.
Summer dresses make way for scarves and sweaters (okay that's not entirely true... summer dresses just require a little more accessorizing - a.k.a. cardigans and cowboy boots). Salad-filled plates are replaced by big bowls of slow-simmered stew.
I love summer. But boy am I ever excited for fall!

Funny thing is I used to hate this time of year. For good reasons...

Orange, yellow and brown. The colors of fall. The colors of 1970's kitchens. Yuck.
Fall also signified the end of freedom and the beginning of a long arduous school-year. Gone were the days of sleeping in. Gone were the days of daylight. Darkness creeped over and soon enough I'd wake before the sun (Yeah, this doesn't happen anymore, praise Jesus! Although I really do need to work on being more of an early bird if you know what I mean). The only redeeming qualities of fall in my mind were that we got to "fall behind," gaining an extra hour of sleep, and I always got to celebrate quite a few family-filled holidays. Oh how I love sleep. Haha!

Well now I see things differently. I look forward to the crisp air, and the falling leaves. I'm excited to bundle up in big wooly sweaters and tromp through the rain and mud-puddles in my Hunters. My stomach seems to crave anything and everything that contain the words "pumpkin" or "braised." Now a days, fall brings brighter things to mind. Fall conjures cozy and comfy Sunday afternoons spent with my family and the people I love.

Sure the hot summer sun is gone and with it the long days of laying out in my swimsuit on the sailboat.  The neon green is being replaced by mellow yellows and rusty hues, and very soon all will wither away into a cold dormant existence. We are witnessing the sunset of creation. In a way we're seeing a slow and beautiful death play out right before our eyes... every day a little more is stripped away.
Sounds a bit depressing, eh?

But it's not. It's glorious! It's full of promise. Full of hope. Because with every sunset darkness follows but so does the dawn. With every fall comes a winter and then a spring. Death to life. The old makes way for the new. Seasons change, and change can be hard. It can hurt. But it's only because the surrendering renders room for something far greater than could ever be imagined or anticipated.

Fall is for fresh starts. It's a new season... in so many ways. And I'm so excited to see what the Lord has in store. He has great things. I believe it!

And it's good to be back.

Much, much more to follow...

Jessika

"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland." Isaiah 43:18-19

Anchor

So yeah. It’s August. The end of August.

And what have I written?

Zilch.

Nada.

Nothing.

Well okay. That’s not entirely true.

I’ve been writing lots of emails. Long emails. Emails to a very special someone. And that someone’s sailing the ocean blue far, far away.

Here it’s summer – been a balmy and beautiful one at that – but there it’s a stormy & snowy winter on the open, icy seas. And it’s been 30 days since we’ve seen each other.

I promised myself when I began this blog that I wouldn’t write about romance.

Ugh. Even the thought makes me cringe a little.

In my opinion there are too many blogs out there that just air their dirty laundry or chronicle their romantic escapades. Sometimes they can be entertaining. Sometimes. Then again I could also just pick up one of those grocery store Fabio novels if I wanted to read that kind of “entertainment.” Yeah, you know which ones I’m talking about…

To be quite candid, I’ve never really been in a position or situation to discuss anything having to do with that overused four-letter word, unless of course it was the unrequited kind.

Don’t worry. I’m still holding to that promise I made to myself. I have no intention of turning this blog into a “Dear Diary” read.

But there are a couple observations (and pseudo-excuses) that I’ve made over the past 30 days that I’d like to share with you all:

Firstly, it’s quite astonishing how the absence of someone (especially someone who’s tugged quite forcefully at your heart-strings) can make them more acutely present than when they’re physically near.  I mean distractingly present. Ha! Does that even make sense?

It’s also quite astonishing how the absence of someone can conjure such an incredible array of emotions. A veritable feast. Maybe this isn’t astonishing to normal people. And by “normal” I mean people who are in touch with their feelings and emotions. Yeah… I’m a little emotionally inept. Okay inept might be a little strong. Retarded. As in slow. Yep. Now that’s a little astonishing… an emotionally retarded girl. Haha! Yes, I’m probably in the minority, but I know I’m not alone…

When you think about it, it really is kind of crazy. How many different emotions we, as humans created in the image of the invisible God, are privileged to experience. And all at the same time too! It's not like we have just three to choose from - happy, sad or mad. Nope. Anticipation, anxiety, joy, frustration, peacefulness, sullenness... the list could go on and on... 

But sometimes it doesn't feel like a privilege, does it? Sometimes it feels like curse. Like complete chaos. Like my heart & soul are being tossed to and fro on the roughest seas imaginable. 

Well thank the Lord I have an anchor. I have Him! 

He keeps me from drifting into an endless abyss. He knows my heart better than anyone - better than myself. And He calms my storms, gives me clarity, and draws me to Himself. 

Yes, I've been a little preoccupied the past 30 days. Preoccupied in my heart and my thoughts with someone who isn't here. Who's absent. But there's one conclusion that I can't hide from... How often am I utterly preoccupied with the One whom I can't see but who is always with me? How often am I thinking about and looking to the Home that I'm absent from? 

I'm ashamed to say that far too often it takes a storm to get the eyes of my heart gazing on the Anchor of my soul. 

But God is good. He's allowing me to feel remorse. To feel sadness, grief, joy and hope. 

Wait, what? Joy and hope? 

Yep. 

All those emotions. All at once. Because I know "God disciplines us for our good, that we may share in His holiness" that I might "produce a harvest of righteousness and peace." 

He's calming my seas. 

He's drawing me back to Him. 

My Anchor. 

But if you're on a beach...

So I kinda got a little carried away last week with all that self-conscious talk... I guess it was kind of my honest confession/personal pep-talk. You see, for as much of a non-beach person that I am, I do thoroughly enjoy the sun (and getting a nice healthy glow if you know what I mean). I guess I just don't like it too hot. 

That sounds terrible. 

Beggars can't be choosers. 

And especially after our non-summer last year here in Seattle, any heat, sunlight, sunshine or general warmth is not only welcomed, it's relished. 

I mean after a really long hard week (month? year?) sometimes there's nothing better than plopping down in a beach chair, with a great big straw hat, and a good book - provided there's a nice breeze and an ice-cold beverage at hand - and listening to the waves rock back and forth on the beach as you curl your toes up under the warm sand.

Wow. I'm starting to sound like a beach person aren't I? 

Well that's exactly what I'll be doing in exactly one week (hence the "pep-talk")... what looks like a very long, very hard work week. I think my body's gonna need the rest. Now if only it weren't for the sweating and the swimsuit dilemma... 

Yes, I've said goodbye to self-consciousness, but that doesn't negate the fact that I still feel naked on the beach. And it's odd because the older I get the more naked I feel... and I'm not that old. Do I really want to "bare all" for the entire world (or beach) to see? Why? 

Our culture tells us the less you wear the "hotter" you are, but is that really true? Personally I'd think you'd get a little chilly... haha. Wow. Okay... Bad joke. 

But in all seriousness, when did showing so much skin become so appealing? If mystery is the trick to keeping intrigue alive then I'd think leaving something to be discovered would be a better tactic than showing all the goods. Maybe this makes me super old-school, but I think it's possible to be attractive, alluring (even sexy?) and still maintain some sort of modesty. I mean look at Grace Kelly... the perfect icon of beauty, grace, poise and allure. Sure she wore a bikini from time to time, but it wasn't itty-bitty. It was functional and fashionable. Shoot, she even made the one-piece a knockout look! And thanks to many stores out there I believe the one-piece  is making a comeback... and I'm not talking about the "mom-jeans" equivalent in swimwear. I'm talking about beautiful, flattering swimsuits that are fashionable, functional and... wait for it... modest.

A week away. Sun. Lake. Beach. Book. Hat. Shades. Swimsuit. 

Posted below are some things that inspire/prepare me for a beach vacation... 

For one Arcade Fire's Haiti... Listen to it and see if it doesn't transport you to a beautiful place where there's a drink with an umbrella in your hand... And then there's Grace. Wow. Talk about breathtakingly beautiful. Wish I could work a turban... 

So as summer marches on and the mercury rises I hope you find some time to relax in that beach chair with a book- feet in the sand wearing a great swimsuit too. 

Sailboat Saturday

Well that's exactly what today was supposed to be... a Saturday spent sunbathing, swimming and writing on my family's sailboat moored in Portage Bay.
On hot sunny Seattle days like we've been having recently, everyone and their mother emerges squinty-eyed from their dens and caves, flocking to all available public waterfront real estate. It's on these beaches that they lay their beach-towel stakes and bear their blinding-white bodies in the hopes of soaking up some rays and much needed Vitamin D.

Myself, being a little claustrophobic, well I couldn't be less attracted to these scenes. On an 85 ˚F day the last place you'll find me is at Houghton or Madison Beach parks. Slurping lukewarm oysters sounds more appealing.
In fact, if I'm going to be completely honest, I'm really not much of a "beach person." Sitting there broiling like a pig on a spit, beads of sweat forming under my knees, thighs sticking together... Ughhhh!!! It's like nails on a chalkboard.

"Well that's why you go jump in the water..." is what all beach people would say to me, to which I'd reply:
"Yeah... but then you have to re-apply the sunscreen that doesn't absorb because you're all wet. And if you try and dry off with your towel you get copious amounts of sand everywhere that you're still finding weeks after the beach ever happened."

Yeah. I'm not a beach person. In part because of the "sweating" bit. In part because of the "sand" bit. But also because of the "self-conscious" bit.
Yes, you heard me right.

It is entirely possible that a professional ballerina could be self-conscious about her body. At any rate this ballerina is.
I always thought I'd grow out of it. That one day I'd be okay with donning the itsy-bitsy, tini-weenie, yellow polka dot bikini. I mean I wear a leotard and tights every day for goodness sake (and believe me that's much less flattering than a bathing suit)! But the older I get the more naked I feel and critical my eyes become. They whisper disappointment and scream dissatisfaction when confronted with the reflection in the mirror.
"You can run... You do run. A lot. But you can't hide those thighs..." or "Um... yeah... no one wants to see that. Maybe you should cover up a little." 
And yet it doesn't matter how much I run, how much I cover up; I can't escape the fact that I don't measure up to the world's "Sport's Illustrated" standard- shoot, to my own perfectionistic standard. My waist could be smaller, my legs a little leaner, and oh if only that cellulite would just disappear (yes, ballerinas aren't exempt from this natural phenomena either...)!

So I guess it's kind of a blessing in disguise that these strange thunderstorms have hit... I'm confused. Are we in the Midwest? Haha!
Instead of feeling slightly self-conscious in my swimsuit at the sailboat (which also would've been asking for electrocution), I sat comfortably in Uptown Espresso perusing the pages of Hinds Feet on High Places. And as I read about little Much Afraid I came across a snippet that spoke to me profoundly:

"Thy joints and thighs are like a supple band
On which are met
Fair jewels which a cunning master hand
Hath fitly set. In all the palace, search where'er you please,
In every place
There's none that walks with such a queenly ease,
Nor with such grace."

I was reminded of a couple particularly important facts. You could say they're paramount.
Firstly, I am created in the image of God. Secondly "I am fearfully and wonderfully made." My body was formed and fashioned perfectly for the special purpose that God has for me. He knew what He was doing when He made me. The cunning Master Hand doesn't make junk. He knew exactly what I'd look like - with all my moles, my green eyes, my shorter right leg... even (dare I say it?) my "cottage cheese." And He delights in it. All of it. But more than that ...
He thinks I'm beautiful.

"How beautiful you are, my darling! Oh, how beautiful!" ~ Song of Songs 4:1

My Mom's always said "He broke the mold when He made you Jessika." But the thing is He breaks the mold when he makes each of us. Not one of us is alike. Not one. We're each different. We're each unique. We're each so special. And each and every one of us is beautiful just the way we are.

Goodbye Self-Consciousness. Goodbye Disappointment. Goodbye Dissatisfaction.
Hello Confidence. Hello Beautiful me.
Hello Beautiful you!

Burning Lobster Red

Well this is absolutely appalling. I mean I think it actually goes beyond that.
I wish you could see my face. It's a burning lobster red. Not from this gorgeous sun we're having here in Seattle. Nope. In fact, at this very moment I'm working on a nice glowing, golden-hued tan as I type this out on my parents sailboat. Don't worry... I'm not actually sailing anything right now.
Ha!
Yeah, that statement couldn't be more true... particularly of this blog.

My face is burning lobster red with sheer embarrassment. How long has it been? 2 weeks? 3 months? Where'd the time go? Shoot! I even made a promise to myself... I guess you could call it a kind of New Years resolution of sorts that I wouldn't let this blog slide. That I'd stay on top of it. Well just goes to prove my point that New Years resolutions are generally never accomplished, and further my resolve to never make them. Ever.
I hate failing.

And yet that is exactly what's happened here. I've failed. Failed to write. Failed to keep my promise. Failed to be a good steward of this gift God's given me. And honestly, I think that latter failing is what moves me from superficial embarrassment to deep contrition. From pride to humility. Because the embarrassment is about me and no one else. It's self-centered. It's prideful. I'm burning lobster red because my dropping the ball reflect poorly on me. 


But the thing is, this blog, it isn't about me. 
Yeah, I know it's titled justJessika. And sure... I'm the one who types out the words. But it's the honest-to-goodness desire of my heart that the situations I share, the words I write be more than just my trivial little trials and triumphs in this strange environment I call my life (you have to admit it is quite strange...). That somehow these words transcend the online personal play-by-play or voyeuristic journal and speak candidly to your heart. Instead of a self-glorifying relic, I hope this blog proves to be a sort of invisible cord, connecting peoples together, at the very least letting you know you're not alone in your struggles.
And above all it is my prayer that this blog honors and glorifies the One who gave me words. That in fact they are His words typed through my fingers.

The burning lobster red has cooled to my new summer skin tone - one that's colored with contrition, humility and thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving?
Yep. That wasn't a typo. Thanksgiving for grace. God's grace. For His forgiveness. For His gifts of second-chances and new starts. And for His strength to persevere, His promptings to write and His words to type.

So no promises. But hopefully lots of words. That speak to you. That is if you're still out there...

Happy summer!

Jessika

Words

Well I should blog.
I need to blog.

But why? What do I have to say that really matters anyhow?
Well this is how I'm feeling today. A little blah. A little uninspired. It is a Monday afterall... Not that that's actually a valid excuse. Sick. I'm kind of tired of "Mondays". Why is it that Monday always equates bad, boring or blah? It's a cop-out. It's pathetic. Mondays are just day two of the week... Yes. Not the first day. That's Sunday.
Oy... I'm totally going off on a rant/tangent. Sorry. Maybe I'll write a post about Mondays on Tuesday...

And yet even though I'm slightly in this funk, slightly drawing a blank, I know I need to write. You see my school's out!
HOORAY! Hooray. hooray?
Yeah. No. Not really...
If I were taking some mundane general-ed course now that would be a cause for celebration. But I wasn't. As was stated in my previous post, the class that just ended was anything but mundane. It was delightful. It was insightful. It was motivational. It was inspirational. It got me writing. Writing a lot. 


So I'm determined to not let all the momentum I gained through that class just fade away. I'm determined to not let this talent, this gift God's given me with words go to waste.
I will use my words. And I hope that they're used to build people up, not tear them down. I hope they encourage. I hope they inspire. I hope they sometimes convict. I hope they a lot of times make you laugh.
And I hope that by sharing some of my struggles, frustrations or just random musings, you, whoever you may be, don't feel so alone. Because lets just be honest... it's easy to feel all alone. And alone is a terrible feeling.

Wow. Well I guess I wrote something.
Words. They're funny things. Letters strung together. Noises combined to form a strange meaningful chorus. And they are. Meaningful. At least they should be. Sticks and stones break bones. But words. Yep. They can hurt. They do hurt. They have power. How do I use them? How do I abuse them?
Well like a lot of gifts God's given me, I think I can waste my words too. I'm not the kind of person who packs a punch. I'm not economical. I'm superfluous. A lot of words to say a little. I've often thought I should strive for brevity. But, well, then that just wouldn't be me. That's just not Jessika. And I am just Jessika.
Lots of words. Hopefully ones that speak love and life into your life.
How do you use your words? Just something to think about this week... It's day two. You've got 5 more to speak with power. To speak with truth. To speak with love. To speak with words.