It’s what all those sticky notes were made for…the proverbial To-Do List. Countless of us have made them…daily, weekly, yearly…in notebooks, on scrap paper, in journals, on our hands. We have our tasks we MUST complete.

So – when I was away this weekend with two very dear girlfriends of mine at their cabin upstate (more on that later – amazing!), we came upon, in one of the many notepads and journals lying around for drawing, writing, creating, that Tracy had written her own to-do list.

It had 8 items – not extraordinarily long as lists go – but it was extraordinary in its content. This was no “pick up dry cleaning, write thank you note, call mom,” type of list – this was a wish list – honest and forthright, with no apologies.

My favorite part is the order in which her list was made – the first item being something that could possibly take a lifetime (if ever) to achieve. The second item was not neccessarily something someone can “do”, and the last, was as simple and easy as walking over to the cooler.

Here goes:
Build log cabin for 8.
Win lottery.
Buy plane.
Build helioport. (an inadvertent ‘o’ inserted)
Quit job.
Retire.
Watch hummingbirds all day.
Drink beer!

The list got progressively easier as it went on – I suspect item #8 had something to do with that. And Tracy still isn’t quite sure why everything is checked off – although I admire her determination, as if checking the items off gives a feeling of completion.

The good news is I can honestly say that I saw her achieve the last two just this past weekend. And as for quit job and retire – she has in a way – as she has “retired” from her old profession and is starting a new career this fall in grad school. So 4 out of 8 isn’t so bad.

Now if she would only win that lottery.

My youngest step-daughter Nicole graduated from Queens College yesterday. It was an exciting day…that had been years in the making. She looked beautiful and beamed with pride – as we all did. A monumental day of sorts – as it is a milestone – another step forward on her life’s journey.

There were several (thankfully short) speeches…each with its standard “the future is yours” flair – preparing the students for life on the “outside.” Funny – sounds a little like letting the prisoners escape the yard – “Good luck on the outside kid, you’re gonna need it!” joked the warden.

There was one metaphor which struck me (and oddly enough caught Nicole’s attention too) was when one speech spoke of balance – that when riding a bicycle the only way to stay balanced is to move forward. The analogy naturally was life. In order to stay balanced, one must keep moving. Keep moving not for movements sake, but to keep going – despite the obstacles, the uncertain terrain ahead. It is the people who have come through intense adversity and persevered by moving towards the future, that most inspire me. Their inner strength, their courage, their ability to rise above that which drags us down.

It is a beautiful message. Because life is fluid, life is always moving ahead regardless of what we are each experiencing. With each death, there is a birth. Cyclical and poetic. Embracing that notion – and truly living it – is in my humble opinion, one of life’s greatest challenges and rewards.

Get on the bike. Pedal. Move forward. Feel the breeze on your skin, watch the world go by. Smile.

There is a beginning to everything. And this is where (much of) my life’s work and dreams truly began. This non-descript brick building in the center of town in Milford, Connecticut.

I passed by here the other day while I was in CT for the weekend visiting family. My friend Rich took this picture after I told him the story. It is now a different dance studio but the change of ownership and passage of time can not take away the lessons I learned, the skills I was taught.

I began taking dance lessons in the 3rd grade (my older sister did as well) – at the local firehouse hall. I took the basics – ballet, jazz and tap – each year culminating in a big dance recital, complete with lavish costumes, makeup and big hair, sprayed with an entire can of Final Net. Simple, wonderful memories. I was hooked.

The dance school changed locations and I had no form of transportation, as I was not yet old enough to drive. Mom was busy, sis was done with dancing, and I was stuck. And then came an ad in the paper for lessons at Children’s Theatre Workshop in Milford (close to home).

Mom was the one who brought it to my attention and signed me up. I was placed in classes of my ability. But this was no regular dance school – it incorporated theatre training – acting, singing, dancing (the old triple threat) – which came together in a year end production of a big name musical. Recital meets Broadway.

And at the helm was Constance Moore – our leader. An imposing woman wrapped in black, complete with headscarf tied under her chin, fancy hat, thick pancake makeup and false eyelashes that practically swept the floor. Miss Connie, as we called her, was larger than life. She had a cigarette laugh and a booming, deep alto voice. She would scowl at us when we fooled around or didn’t get a step right, often causing tears to roll down our trembling cheeks. She was serious and direct and did not mince words. The theatre was serious stuff – and if you wanted a life in Show Business, you were going to have scrape, and crawl and work harder than ever before. She was filled with war stories of her time as a professional – which fueled my unearthed desire for a life in “the biz.”

My most memorable moment there was my first audition. That years production would be the musical “Gypsy.” As part of our class one day, any student interested in getting a part (other than just dancing) had to get up and sing 16 bars of a song from the show. I sat under the dance bar against the mirrored wall, with my knees tucked to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around them as I watched and listened. I wanted to get up but I was scared. Of what, I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure it was rejection and failure (something I had come to deal with over my years as an actress.)

My mother was sitting quietly near the piano, with the other mother’s as they always did during class, looking over at me. She tilted her head to the side and nudged it out – silently gesturing me to get up and sing. I shook her off, as a pitcher does from the mound. My mother knew I wanted to get up – and was giving me the permission to do so. I finally did – I don’t recall what forced my feet to get underneath me – but something did. The early fire in my gut or the fact that I didn’t want to let my mother down – either way it didn’t matter. I stood there and sang – the famous stripper song “You Gotta Get a Gimmick” and lo and behond, I got the part! My role was Electra – the stripper who’s gimmick was using lights on her body that lit up strategically…oh that Electra – she was one bright broad (pun intended.) There I was, a 15 year old girl, auditioning and landing the role of a stripper.

I should’ve known this profession would be trouble.

Ok – so yes, I am a Lostie…no judgment.

The television series Lost has come to an end. After 6 years, and lots of questions, the show aired its final episode appropriately titled “The End.” It is bittersweet – as most endings are – to see a creative outlet leave the landscape. I know – it’s only television – but as some appropriately pointed out, it’s like finishing the last sentence of an epic novel that captivated you, and closing the books cover. Satisfying and sad.

The best thing about the show, for me, was the questions it raised…who are we, where are we, what is our purpose? It was a character driven show – with an eclectic and cross cultural cast. Each of them were in crisis – struggling with who they were and the choices they had made – trying to find their way, something many of its viewers could identify with. And even though there were some large universal questions being asked, it all boiled down to love and compassion and understanding…the basic human emotional necessities.

I watched the show from the first day it aired – immediately drawn in by the pilot episode. Over the years, it has frustrated, invigorated and challenged me, as I drew in gasps and audibly whispered “No way” to my flat screen television. It was a story I couldn’t wait to see unfold – to follow the path – to see where the writers would take me. And although there are moments I still don’t understand, I felt the emotional impact clearly. The show had heart and soul.

Lost may be over…but it will live on in television history and in its viewers memories.