To the Woman in the Green Tights

I once had an elderly woman come up to me after a show I did, and yell at me that I was wearing black.

Why are you wearing black?

Black is for widows. Black is for mourning. You're so young - you should be wearing something in color!

I chuckled.

I own more pieces of black clothing than I can count. My entire wardrobe, the majority of my accessories and shoe collection is, in fact, black.

My students are often jarred when I don't wear black - it doesn't seem natural, they'll say. And so, I stick with my black.

. . . 

Schuyler and I went on a date night this week. We went to a little speak easy in the middle of Manhattan, and watched an outstanding band play music, and sipped fancy drinks that were far too expensive. 

And there, amidst the crowd, was this woman wearing green tights. I'm talking Elphaba green here, folks. Like, really, really green. They matched the pattern of her dress, but for some reason I couldn't stop staring at the green.

(I know this seems insane to be writing about these green tights, so I'm going to take this moment to remind you about my black wardrobe.)

ANYWAY, after I pulled myself away from the tights, I looked at the woman herself - she was dancing. Standing there with her date, swaying to the music, bopping to the beat, she was the living embodiment of that cheesy quote - dance like nobody is watching. 

It was phenomenal.

And then I thought of that little lady that told me I wear too much black, and as the green tights whizzed in front of me, I'm wondering if perhaps that little old woman was right.

In the past two weeks I've learned of three different friends who've lost people they love. Young men who had wives and children and families that assumed they'd be around for awhile.

And now they're not.

Now the promises of tomorrow and dreams of the days to come have gone for good - and all the wishes and love will never bring them back.

And I wonder, what will it take for us to stop and slow down and appreciate the minutes that lay before us?

Too often we overlook tiny moments of joy in anticipation of something bigger and better. But really, life is lived in the moments of in-between. 

Life can change in an instant, and perhaps we need to spend more time celebrating the in-between. Perhaps it's a date night watching live music with the one you love, perhaps it's sitting curled on your couch watching your favorite TV show.

Perhaps it's a pair of green tights.

Whatever it is - I hope you find it, I hope you cherish it, I hope you treasure those in-betweens, for life is just too short.

Mary Poppins

When I was younger, Mary Poppins was my favorite thing in the whole world. My mom has stories about me sitting in front of our TV, transfixed. I watched the movie so much that I broke the VHS tape.

So when I had the opportunity to direct a production of Mary Poppins at Eastport South Manor High School - how could I say no?

It was a combo of two of my loves - Mary Poppins, and a group of students who have always made me a better director and teacher and human.

So I said yes.

And we got to work.

And it was....magical.

We closed yesterday, and the letters of love and words of praise that have been pouring in are overwhelming. 

So now it's my turn to say thank you.

To my fellow executive crew, thank you. Theatre productions take a village, and I couldn't have done it without you all.

Thank you to my cast, the crew, and pit orchestra. You put your hearts and souls into this production, and their hard work has most certainly paid off.

Many people have asked me how we got to where we did.

How did you get them to do this?

The answer is simple - time and hard work. 

A show like Mary Poppins doesn't happen overnight. It doesn't happen rehearsing for a few hours a week, whenever the wind moves us. It was hard work. It was dedication. It was practice. It meant staying at school and rehearsing until nine, ten, sometimes eleven o'clock at night. It meant working Saturdays and Sundays.

And yes, it was all necessary in order to get them to the level to which they rose.

There's no magic behind it - just love.

Love for what we do, love for the stories we tell, love for creating art that helps people check their worries at the door and get lost in the stories of someone else for a few hours.

Eastport South Manor has a theatre program that is unlike any other high school in it's area. For these kids have the ability to take class in theatre and stagecraft. They come into auditions with a base of theatre and music education - and that education is started during their school days.

While the shows were magical, this program means more than a weekend of shows. It's more than telling a beloved story, more than bright lights or fancy tricks.

It's about the community in which they create, it's about the tribe that they form. 

It's about the growth that they seen in themselves - and the freedom to grow into ones skin.

Seniors from the cast and crew made me a scrapbook of memories from their time in the theatre department - a gift that they gave to me on their closing show.

They told me of how, because of theatre, they understood themselves better. Because of theatre, they hold their head higher, and feel stronger. Because of theatre, they kept getting out of bed in the morning. Because of theatre, they knew that there was a community of people who wanted the best for them, who loved them.

That's what a theatre education does.

It inspires a love for others, and a strength of self that is unparalleled in any other educational setting.

For it teaches us how to listen to one another, work together, and connect with another human - without a screen fixed to our hand.

I'm so proud of this cast, and I sleep easier knowing that there are young adults out there who will leave this earth better than they found it.

Happy World Theatre Day! 

Remember You Are Loved

I had a dream about you both last week.

We were all at a beach house - I don't know where, but I could feel the ocean. I don't know who was there, but I could feel the love.

I came up the stairs to the deck, and there were people milling about - laughing, dancing, eating. It was summertime, the air was warm, bellies were full, and everyone was happy.

I saw you first, Robin.

The doors to the house opened, big sliding glass ones, and out you came. You were talking to someone, I can't remember who, and you were laughing. I was startled to see you, to have you there, but you just gave me a big smile, looked directly at me, and pointed to the end of the deck. 

And there was Ricky, at the end of the deck, taking pictures of everyone. Awful candid photos, but it was making everyone laugh, especially Mary.

I don't remember what happened after that.

I'm pretty sure I woke up.

But I woke with a sense of happiness, a sense of peace. I woke knowing that you two are taking care of one another, and always looking down at us all.

I wasn't going to write about this dream.

But today is Valentine's Day - and I'm finding myself thinking of you both today. I'm finding myself wondering how many people are remembering those they've lost, but still continue to love.

So this is for you - the folks still walking this earth who are loving someone who's no longer with us. 

I hope you find the strength to smile today, and if you can't, I hope you cut yourself some slack.

Repeat after me - cut yourself some slack.

Celebrate the tiny steps, like, getting out of bed. Getting dressed. Taking a shower.

Cause the fact that the world turns into a Hallmark store can be a lot for your heart. The roses and red and pink and chocolate can be overhwhelming...so wear black if you need to. Watch a horror movie. Eat a salad. Or stuff your belly with all the chocolate you can handle had watch P.S. I Love You on repeat and cry until you don't have anymore tears left.

Whatever it is - I just hope you take care of your heart. 

I hope the memories of your love are kind to you, although I know they're bound to pierce the heart a bit.

I hope you know that your love withstands time and space, and that just because he or she does not walk this earth, the love they had for you, and the love that you had for one another stays. 

I hope you know that there are so many people who are left on this earth that still love you to the moon and back. And while we don't pretend to know the extent of your loss, we'd do anything to take your pain away.

And when you're staring at your ceiling as you fall asleep, I hope remember that you are loved. 

Tell yourself that as many times as you need to.

Carry it with you always.

Dear Senators,

Dear Senators,

Maybe you'll read this. Maybe you won't. But I need to say this anyway.

As someone who's been raised by two public school educators and spent the majority of my adult career in public education - I'm disturbed about the confirmation of Betsy DeVos as the Secretary of Education.

Please, let me be clear - I don't think Mrs. DeVos is an evil woman. I commend her for thinking she'd be a good fit. But it's crystal-clear that she has no business being the leader of our education system. And the mark of a good leader is knowing when to step aside and make way for those who have the proper qualifications to do the work.

To the senators who voted for her, know that you all just failed us.

Us being future generations. Us being public school educators. Us being the American people.

You. Failed. Us.

On my way home from work last night, I spoke to a former student. He graduated two years ago. He needed life advice. He needed some work. He needed to talk. So I did just that - I spoke to him. I listened to him. I continued to teach him.

See, teaching doesn't stop when you leave a classroom. And teachers don't stop caring about their kids, their students, once they graduate.

When I saw Mrs. DeVos speak at her confirmation hearing, so many moments crossed my mind.

I thought of this past November, how one of my favorite human beings on this planet, who also happened to be one of my father's favorite students was killed. This student, Rick, well, his mother called my father when she heard of the news. Let that sink in for a moment. My father was one of the first people she called when her son died. Ricky was 42 when he passed away. My father had him as a student when he was 11 - see, great teaching withstands decades.

Every year my Mom does a project with her AP Spanish class that requires students to write Valentine's to one another. Always the progressive teacher, she wanted to know if it was still a worthwhile project to do, and so she inquired about it on Facebook. A former student of hers, now a teacher himself said - OF COURSE. And subsequently showed her the Valentine from HIS class that he kept from when he participated in the project over ten years ago.

My parents are exemplary teachers. They have devoted their lives to public education - and this nomination and confirmation is an insult to them, and public educators everywhere.

As Betsy DeVos made her way into the headlines, memories of my former students stood at the forefront of my mind.

I've seen students battle addiction. Broken families. Absent parents. I've seen students become parents themselves. I've been fortunate to know their children. 

I've seen students crumble before my very eyes about coming out to their parents, fearful that they will no longer have the love of their families if they're honest about who they are.

I've taught classes where my principal didn't have enough money to get me a class set of novels, so I created my own class set with my own money, so that my students could read literature that resonated with them.

Just this week I worked with a student who's struggling to complete her high school diploma, as she's pregnant with her third child. I had another student break down in front of me because his parents are going through a divorce, and he's taken on the responsibility of raising his younger sisters. Another student expressed dismay at the fact his parents won't acknowledge the fact that he's trans.

He said, it sucks going home, because they don't acknowledge me. But here, at school, I feel happy.

See, Mrs. DeVos, while I admire your desire to reach out to parents, I'm dismayed at how you overlook our teachers.

Are there bad teachers? Sure.

Just like there are bad CEOs and soldiers and police officers and doctors and lawyers and accountants and artists and businessmen and laborers, and...well, you get my drift.

There are bad people in every profession. But that's not what this is about.

This is about the lack of support for good educators. This is about the smug dismissal about the thousands of good men and women who devote their lives to other people's children, and having a hand in shaping the youth of our country - and thinking that school vouchers and charter schools are going to be a fix. 

They're not a fix. They're a way to sweep those whom you don't deem worth your time into the darkest corners of your closet.

Why is it so easy for all of you to overlook them?

It's mind boggling.

It's insulting.

And it's the nail in the coffin in which you're trying to bury public education in.

You want an education system that produces the best and brightest minds in the world? 

Great. Me too.

I'm right there with you.

But to do that, you have to invest and respect in public schools and their educators.

Confirming Betsy DeVos as Secretary of Education is not the way to do it.

This is not a partisan issue.

It's a people issue.

For when we invest in our schools and in our teachers, we're investing in a better future for us all.

Sincerely,

Megan Minutillo

You Cry If You Need To

Dear You,

You lost someone this year.

I know how much that hurts - I did, too.

It's been a little over a month since he's left us, and it still doesn't seem real. When I came home from his funeral, I cried even more. I got out of my car, and stood in my driveway and shook my fists and the night sky.

How is the world going on like nothing happened?

Why hasn't everything stopped?

I want everything to stop.

JUST STOP.

Give me a goddamn second to breathe. 

That's how I felt.

Did you feel it too?

It's ok if you do.

For me it comes in waves. I hear a song. I see a picture. I see his name in print. I pass by one of his theatres. I drive down Sunrise Highway. I get text messages from friends and colleagues who miss him. Who are waiting for him to walk through the door of the studio. I look into the eyes of his wife, his best friend, into the eyes of my father, people who knew the inner most corners of his heart, and I break all over again. They still hurt, too. We all do.

You must hurt, too.

Life's such a collection of tiny memories. Sure, there's big moments like weddings and funerals and vacations and job successes and birthday milestones. But then there are the tiny bits.

The bear hugs when you're stressed cause of work. The chuckle that calms your nerves. The phone calls to say hi. The impromptu lunches and dinners and cups of coffee. The texts of funny pictures because you know that person would appreciate it.

That's when the wind gets sucked out of you.

That's when the loss hits you like a ton of bricks. 

In those little moments.

I wish there was this quick fix to heal your heart that I could give you. I wish I could take your pain away through this screen. I know I can't. But oh, a girl can dream.

All I can offer is this - you are not alone.

You are so not alone.

The older I get, the more I realize people keep their pain close to the vest. They tuck it away in the deepest corners of their hearts and minds and try to put it into a box that is never opened. I know that all too well, I've done that too many times.

And trust me when I say, it doesn't work.

Keeping pain covered doesn't work. It weighs heavy on your soul in a different kind of way, bottles up until it spills out - having no mercy for anyone who's in it's path.

It's not pretty.

It's not healthy.

So what do you do?

You cry. You cry if you need to. You shake your fists and that starry sky and yell and God or whomever you need to. You look at the pictures when you want to, knowing that there will be a steady stream of waterworks once you look at that face. You walk by the places that have made up the moments of your lives together, and your cry.

And then maybe you laugh.

And then you remember.

Remember.

Remember the love that you shared. Remember how it lifted you up. Remember the moments that have made imprints on your soul. 

Those moments have led you to this point. To a person whom you loved. And even though you've lost them, those moments are still beautiful.

For love and beauty doesn't disappear in death. Even with great loss, the goodness sticks. Even with death, love stays.

With time the pain will lessen - and that's ok.

But till then, cut yourself some slack this Christmas and holiday season. Cry, if you need to. It's ok. 

Cause one day you'll pass by the bright lights of your Christmas tree, and your chest won't hurt and your breath won't catch.

One day those bright lights will make you smile with the love that's never left, and simply miss the memories of time gone by.

One day you'll stop crying.

And that's a beautiful thing - but it doesn't mean you'll ever stop loving.

Sending you all the virtual hugs I can muster.

XO,

Meg

Why Arts Education? This is Why.

For the past eight years, I've had the privilege of being part of the Young Artists and Writers Project (YAWP), at Stony Brook Southampton College.

"The YAWP Playwriting Program introduces middle and high school students to the elements of dramatic writing. Using a curriculum inspired by Aristotle's Poetics, teaching artists guide students through a series of written and improvisational exercises to develop ideas, characters, themes and dialogue, assisting each student in the discovery and celebration of their unique perspective and creative voice."

At the end of the program, every student has completed a short play, and one play from each class is selected to be performed at Stony Brook Southampton's Avram Theater, and staged by a professional director.

That's where I come in.

I'm hired to direct one of the selected plays for the festival.

The high school festival just passed, and once again, I'm blown away by the talent, spirit, and creativity of these high school students.

Their wisdom is palpable. Their thirst for knowledge, unquenchable. And, more than anything, they seek to make this world better by using their creativity and their gifts.

It's an educational and artistic dream.

This year, I couldn't help but notice that there were two plays about rape.

Not one, but two.

Two plays about rape, from two entirely different schools in glaringly different neighborhoods, and both of the protagonists were females who felt like they couldn't talk to anyone. They felt like nobody would listen. And then, they just stopped speaking altogether.

It was jarring, it was heartbreaking, and, quite frankly, I can't get it out of my head.

Why was this a pressing topic on the hearts of these kids? Where have we, as adults, failed them?

Sexual assault is not something to sweep under the rug, and keep in the darkest corners of our memories.

I can't help but remember a time when I worked at a school wherein I was directing a piece of dramatic literature that had the word rape in it.

I got in trouble for exposing my former students to the script - and the superintendent ordered me to remove it.

My students, ever the courageous bunch, rallied against the censorship.

No, they said.

We won't stand for this.

Removing the word rape is a non negotiable.

One student's outcry will forever be burned in my brain. He stood up against the superintendent, and said I am a boyfriend, son, brother, friend - I am horrified that we'd try to silence this word. This is a school. There are people who have been raped here. How can we expect them to seek solace and counseling if we are doing things like removing the word rape from our vocabulary?

The superintendent agreed.

The word rape would stay.

I wish things like rape weren't part of our lives. Our society. But, wishing it away does not make it disappear. 

Rape is a horrible thing. A despicable act. An occurrence that leaves its victims forever changed.

As adults, I believe that it's our responsibility to teach our students about rape. What it means. What doesn't mean. And how to get help when it happens.

As educators and artists, I believe that it's our responsibility to help victims of rape feel as though they have a safe place to go - for such a horrible act can often silence the strongest of voices, but, it's a warm and welcoming educational setting that can help those find the strength they need to break their silence. 

People often ask why arts education is a necessary.

This. 

This is why. 

Rick.

The world lost a giant of goodness two days ago.

A man whose kindness made a lasting imprint on anyone he met. 

A man who'd do anything for the people he loved.

Words fail me at this moment. 

They don't seem...enough. They don't seem big enough or deep enough or good enough.

For my entire life, I've always said that I have two older brothers - James and Ricky.

Now technically, they're not blood. But that's not the point.

The point is, they've always been there. A piece of thread in the fabric that is my family.

If we go back to technicalities, they're former students of my father. He taught them English. And then he taught them theatre. And then he taught them about life. 

And yes, they left his classroom, but they never left our lives. 

We're shared more memories than I can count, birthdays and weddings and christenings and sweet sixteens and surprises parties and dinners and backyard BBQ's. 

The list can go on.

We've shared the good and the bad, and everything in between.

And on Sunday, November 20th, Ricky left this earth.

He's not here anymore and it doesn't seem real.

But it is.

And now I try to find the words.

My good friend Michael once said, everyone was in love with Ricky when they were a teenager. At the time we had a chuckle. Teased his wife, our friend Mary, and then moved on.

But I keep coming back to that moment in time.

Everyone was in love with Ricky.

Oh, how true that was - oh how true that is.

Everyone was in love with Rick, especially Mary.

And when they got married - I think I cried with happiness. Two of my favorite humans were tying the knot - and putting more love back into this crazy world. 

I can't write love in the past tense. Because it doesn't leave - especially not for a giant of goodness. Even in death, love sticks. Even in death, love stays.

I love Ricky. My brother loves Ricky. My mother loves Ricky. My father loves Ricky (just yesterday he said that Ricky was his first child. I know we'll say that forever.) James loves Ricky.

And Mary, Mary loves Ricky.

Mary. 

I wanted to be Mary when I was younger. I still wish to have her eloquence and grace and strength.

As a geeky teenager, I was always thrilled when someone said they thought I was another one of her sisters. It was the greatest of compliments.

It still is.

When I was in the worst depression of my life, Mary was there. She reached down into to the pits of my own hell - and pulled me up.

Because that's what she does.

She lifts people up. She makes them better humans. She brings out the best in everyone whose live she touches, in everyone she loves.

A sudden and tragic loss like this renders one speechless - a glaring reminder that life is fleeting.

But for me, I suppose I'll love harder. Stronger. Fiercely and unapologetically. 

I'll love like Ricky and Mary.

Cause at the end of it all, love is what lasts.

Love is what matters.

Love is what we leave behind.

Little Moments of Love

We are not one thing.

When I was in college, I studied Political Science, Philosophy, and Law. And Theatre.

Sounds crazy, I know, but, I loved the arts, and I loved helping people and so a dual major it was.

I can't even remember what semester it was, but there was a semester where I was in a show where I had two sisters. Our father was another character. It was called Three The Hard Way, by Linda Eisenstein.

So there we were, one sister an Italian American, one sister a Puerto Rican American, and a Guyanese American.

Our dad was a Black American.

And we were a family.

Bear with me for a moment, those of you who might be rolling your eyes.

I know were playing roles, it was a show, yes, but we became so much more than that.

For it's almost ten years later, and I would drop anything for these people, should they need it. Throughout that rehearsal process we became sisters. We shed the preconceived notions of our upbringings, and we just loved on one another.

Another friend from this season of my life met her husband while at college. He was from Turkey. He is Muslim. They married, she converted, they have two kids and on the way. She's one of the smartest humans I know. We talk about religion for hours. She continues to use theatre to educate and spread more love.

Theatre.

We are more than one thing.

I am a theatre director and producer and playwright. Many of the artists who've shaped me in my career have been part of the LGBTQ community. They lift me up. They make my world brighter. They make me better at my job.

Through collaboration they become family.

Family.

I am the granddaughter of immigrants. My mother's first language was not English. My paternal grandfather is a WWII vet. My maternal grandfather was a rebel soldier fighting the Nazis in WWII. My maternal grandmother has an INSANE STORY about how a Nazi soldier almost shot her on her family farm in the hills of Tuscany. 

True story. 

I am the granddaughter of immigrants. Of a World War II Veteran. Of immigrants who came here searching for a better life. It's a badge I wear with pride.

I am the daughter of two public school teachers. My parents have devoted their life to public service. They are the educators you see in movies. They are the ones who hold up their students to a level of greatness that one can only dream about. They are the adults that inspire hope in future generations.

Hope.

I am the godmother of the most beautiful little black girl. She's 10. She's an unbelievable snowboarder. She only wants to wear her brother's clothes. She's young. And impressionable. And just wants to love.

Love.

My soul sister is a black woman. She is a teacher. A mother. A wife. A daughter. A sister. A friend. She is one of the most unbelievably kind and giving human beings I know. Her husband is a white man. He too is a magnificent human. They make my life better. They have two children who I would walk through fire for. 

My other best friend has seen me in my lowest times. We've been there to lift each other up. We've been friends for over twenty years. I know we'll lift each other up for twenty more.

The love of my life is a white man who's half Jewish and Lutheran. He's the greatest human I know. He comes from one of the most beautiful families I know. And they're a colorful quilt of Puerto Ricans and Cubans and Peruvians and Italians and Irishmen. 

Love.

We are more than one thing.

Some of these people who've shaped me into the woman I am today voted for Clinton. Some of them voted for Trump.

I'll be honest, I'm having a hard time knowing people I love voted for Trump. It cuts me to my core. 

Last month I went to Washington D.C. for the first time as an adult. And in between pretending like I was in an episode of The West Wing, I felt hope. I felt pride. I was practically glowing. Today I am bone sad, yes. For Trump was not my choice.

And I'm sad as a woman.

Sad for my friends and loved ones in the LGBTQ community, in the black community, in the Hispanic community, and Muslim community. My heart hurts for them, with them, alongside them.

But that sadness doesn't negate my love of country. For it's the beauty of the USA that we're even able to have this discussion.

I am sad today, and I'll own that. I don't know if I'll ever understand the motivation to vote for him, and I'll own that too.

But I am choosing to move forward. To combat hate. To educate. To leave this world better than I found it. If it's one thing I've learned today, it's that people are sad to their inner core. People are afraid. And I hope anyone who voted for Trump can find compassion in their hearts for those of us who are hurting. For we need to listen to one another. We need to hear one another. Tiny conversations make all the difference. Little moments of love are the first step in healing this divide.

Hope

Exactly one week ago, I went to Washington D.C. for the first time as an adult.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't run around the city pretending like I was in an episode of The West Wing.

I wanted the title sequence music on a loop. I mean, can you blame me?

But jokes aside, I was taken aback by the beauty of the city.

Maybe it's because it's an election year, but the energy of Washington is palpable - and it's positive.

Negativity seems to be pouring into every screen I look lately, all under the guise of what's good for people. All under the cloak of political knowledge.

Everyone's a critic, a political expert, and a historian. Everyone knows what's best for one another, for their neighbors, for people whom they have never met. 

I don't know about you, but I find it exhausting.

And hatred, well, it fogs the brain. It weighs you down. It makes you lose perspective.

We walked around the National Mall in 81 degree heat on an October day. I had opted for one of my typical all black outfits, a poor choice in retrospect.

As we walked from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial I remember just stopping for a moment to take it all in. So many people were out and about on this hot day. So many languages filled the air. So many families celebrating being together. 

So many reminders of what matters.

Perspective can be easily lost amidst the chaos and chatter of today. But standing in the middle of the National Mall is a surefire way to remember what it's all for.

The monument tour ended in the evening, sitting in the cool marble of the Jefferson Memorial.

It was quiet. Much more so than earlier in the day, as a lot of people had long gone home.

There was something so moving about being there at night. With the cool marble and the quiet. It fills you with pride for you country, for justice, and for hope.

Hope is so important. So needed. So Beautiful. I do believe it's what will see us through, it's the thing to hold on to when the world feels too vicious. 

Washington D.C. is hope.

Out of the past comes the dreams of our future, and a hope for a better tomorrow.

So sit in the monuments of those who've paved the way. It's so very humbling, it's so very important.

And as November rounds the corner, remember the dreams of immigrants who started this great nation, and the promise of possibility that they held close to their hearts, of all that was, of all that could be.

31

I'm turning 31 in two days. 

(Insert string of shocked emoji's right here.)

Shocked because, well, I can't believe I'm going to be 31. I mean, how on earth could I be turning 31 when I still feel like a gal of 18?

Where does the time go?

See, that's the thing about time - the little cliches and quotes are true. Time waits for no one.

Time just keeps ticking along, whether you're ready or not. Whether you're prepared or not. Whether you're paying attention or not.

As a kid, I loved celebrating my birthday. My mom always made sure to make my brother and I feel special, and not just with gifts but with tiny details. She'd make sure to wake up before us and decorate the kitchen with balloons and streamers in our favorite colors. 

Silly bits of crepe paper and balloons made me feel like the luckiest kid in the world.

As an adult, I was never a birthday celebration person.

As in, never the type to make big deal about my own birthday. It's just a day. It's just a number. Why make it a big deal?

I can't figure out when or where or why I adopted that mindset, it still stuck to me like glue. That somehow these moments of joy weren't special. They weren't worth celebrating. 

A birthday is just a day - what's the big deal?

I lost a lot of people in my life over the past year. People whom I loved. People whom I cared about. People who were there one second, and then gone the next.

No warning. No explanation. Just gone.

Death swooped in, and that was that.

And now, I think about birthdays differently.

There's so much uncertainty in this life. So much unknown. People are there one day and then they're gone the next - so what's the harm in celebrating? 

Absolutely nothing.

So celebrate.

Celebrate a birthday, an anniversary, a job promotion, the holidays.

Celebrate the tiny moments of life that fill your heart with joy, even if it's not some big milestone.

Celebrate each day you get to spend with those that you love.

Work will always be there.

Stress will always be there.

But love and joy - those are things to fight for. Those are things worth celebrating.