Mere words can’t begin to express the passion and spiritual energy that the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater brings to the stage, but a few words do come to mind - beautiful, angelic and oh so graceful. I’ve been in awe of the AAADT since I was a kid. I remember watching a program on television and the AAADT was being featured. I was like, Wow! I would love to be one of those dancers.

As a kid, I always loved ballet. Yet, it wasn’t something that I wanted to shout out to the mountaintops. I could never muster up the courage to tell my mom I wanted to take ballet lessons. I remembered watching The Nutcracker on television every Christmas Eve. I absolutely adored how the dancers glided across the stage performing intricate moves with such precision. Oh how I wished I could see The Nutcracker live, up close and personal.

Well this past Christmas Eve, I made that dream come true. I treated myself to the Houston Ballet’s performance of The Nutcracker . It was spectacular. I purchased a second row orchestra seat (I just had to go all out). It made me feel like a kid again. I felt like that little boy sitting in front of the television set in his pajamas on Christmas Eve, except this time the real thing was right before my eyes. I’ll treasure that moment for the rest of my life.

The AAADT is not your typical ballet company. The dance company lives and breathes the urban American experience through modern dance. However, this is not the sole mission of the dance company. Anyone from any culture or from any socio-economic background can relate to the universal themes of their ballet repertory. As I once dreamt of seeing a live performance of The Nutcracker , I too wish to see the AAADT live as well. The company is housed in New York City (I‘ve never been to New York, but I aspire to go someday). The company performs annual U.S. and international tours. To my knowledge, they’ve never been to Houston, Texas.

Ever so often, I peruse the Houston Theater District’s website for upcoming events. I came across the Society for the Performing Arts website and BAM! There it was in my face; a picture of Judith Jamison, Alvin’s once premiere dancer of the company and now the Artistic Director, posing with elegant elongated hands and legs. Yes! Yes! Yes! I shouted. Alvin Ailey is coming to Houston! I’ve never experienced a big moment such as this while surfing the web; but another one of my dreams are about to come true. I’ll now have the opportunity to witness the heart and soul of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater live and in living color. One of my favorite ballets from the company is Revelations – Wade in the Water.

I watch this video almost daily as a source of inspiration.

The downside of this is that there’s no instant gratification. I have no choice but to wait until the 2008-2009 Season. The AAADT will be performing at Jones Hall here in Houston from Friday, March 27 to Sunday, March 29, 2009. I will be sure to have front row (or as close as I can get) orchestra seats. This time I’ll be sure to get center seats so that I can view the dancers every move on the stage. When I viewed The Nutcracker, I couldn’t see what was happening toward the back of the stage because I was sitting far right and there was a large pillar blocking my view.

Oh God, I pray there will be no barriers that come between me witnessing the style and grace of the AAADT. As soon as the tickets become available for sale, I’m buying — no matter the sacrifice. I can hardly wait.

Today I missed my alarm. Not by much… only about 30 minutes. But those 30 minutes made the difference between being on the plane or being left in Kansas City.

I realized the evening before my flight that I had poison ivy on my arm… and that it was growing at an alarming rate. I ended up spending four hours waiting to see a doctor at after hours care. Somehow the people with broken bones and bloodied head took precedence. Those four hours were precious packing time and I ended up getting to bed only a couple of hours before I needed to get up. Maybe I just should have stayed up. Then I wouldn’t have missed the alarm.

I got to the check-in counter 25 minutes before my plane’s scheduled departure.

I’m sorry, she said, you are too late.

I was already panicked… even before she delivered the sentence that I knew was coming.

You are too late.

I was only five minutes too late. Couldn’t they just take me anyway?

You are too late.

It rang in my head. And the mind chatter began…

ButMarthaIsMeetingMeAtTheAirportInCharlotte.IHaveToGetAholdOfMartha. WeHaveToGetToColumbiaBeforeTheWorkshopBegins.IHaveToCallKaren.

WAIT… HowMuchIsItGoingToCostMeToRebookMyFlight?HowWillIPayForIt?WhatWillIDo?

The 10:15 flight has already been canceled for today, she politely informed me.

OH MY GOSH! The next flight has already been canceled. I am going to be incredibly late.

But the 3:35 flight has open seats and is a direct flight arriving in Charlotte at 7:50 p.m. If you’ll just give me your ticket, I can make the change.

Ok… how much is this going to cost me?

Oh, there’s no charge.

NoCharge?

No Charge.

N o C h a r g e.

N O C H A R G E !!!

In the current economic climate, I certainly did not expect that. At a time when airlines are instituting extra charges for those who dare to take a suitcase, I didn’t really believe that this courtesy had any chance of being extended. I had already checked online and knew that the cheapest price for the ticket was more than $600.

No charge.

And then I called Martha. Martha lives in Charlotte and is the director of student housing for the workshop. I told her that I was indeed coming but had missed my flight and would be arriving more than nine hours late.

I expected a long pause.

I expected her to begin mentally and verbally rearranging her day to deal with my lapse.

I was afraid she would say that because of her other duties at the workshop, she would have to work out some other way for me to make the 90-minute trip between cities.

I expected her to inadvertently cause me to feel like a big, irresponsible jerk. Mostly, I guess, because I was already feeling like a big, irresponsible jerk.

She didn’t miss a beat. Susan, that’s wu-underfawl. You hev just given me a whole daay that I did not expect to ha-eve. Think of the things I kin do with it, she said in her easy North Carolina drawl.

There are some people on this earth who I swear live to make others feel bad about their mistakes. Who are quick to judge and quick to make others feel guilty for doing something as stupid as missing the plane.

And then there are the Marthas of the world. She made me feel like my tardiness had been the best gift she had received. She told me that this was awesome. She told me she had plenty to keep her occupied… nothing that she had planned to do, but several things she’d be grateful to have off of her list. She took my mistake and made me feel like it was a blessing.

Because of Martha, when I returned home to wait for my next flight, I didn’t stew about my error. Instead, I accomplished things. I took some items to the post office, FedExed some additional materials to the workshop and repacked my bags a little more carefully. I was there when my daughter came home from summer school and got to hear a little about her Phys Ed. class (the second day) and we chatted a little before she took off for the movie theater with friends.

By the time I actually got on the plane, I was relaxed. I slept nearly the entire way to Charlotte.

When Martha met me at the airport at nearly 8:30 p.m. (even my plane was late!), she told me of the quilt that she was able to complete… the unexpected windfall of a day with nothing planned. She listed all of the things she had been able to do because I missed the plane.

I wish I could be more like Martha. I need to take the time to see the blessing in the error, to find the silver lining in the cloud. I need to be more forgiving. More gentle with people… both the people who matter the most in my life and the people who work the window at Burger King and don’t quite allow me to Have It My Way.

We make choices on how to face the issues that confront us each day. We can fuss over the cost of the mistake. We can moan over the changes that will be required because of the error. We can count the number of times an individual has created problems and the number of times we have been inconvenienced. We can even berate the person or ourselves for being unable to accomplish the expected task.

Or we can be like Martha.

My goal for this week is to find opportunities to practice the lesson that Martha taught me today. I hope you’ll join me. Let’s look for the blessing in the inconvenience, the talent required to roll with the punches, the joy of making someone feel okay about an error… even one as big as missing the plane.

I’m looking forward to a great week. Let me know how it works out for you.

One of my favorite songs during senior year of college (part two) was Beyonce’s To the Left (it’s actually called Irreplaceable, but I never remember that and often refer to songs by the lyrics that are stuck in my head). I’m not sure where I first heard it or how I came to sing it incessantly, but I wasn’t shy about letting everyone around me know my love for it. I didn’t even know all the words, but that didn’t stop me from having interpretive dance moves… and doing them in the newsroom with fellow staff members when nights were slow or we were going insane.

I loved this song so much and came to associate it with members of the newspaper staff that I made a CD for one of our last parties and put To the Left on it three times. This wasn’t the first time that my roommate/fellow staff member Natalie (yes, ThisOrdinaryDay.com’s lovely Natalie!) let me know that people had stopped dancing and were threatening to leave the party if the current music (read: my music) kept playing. While I stood appalled that no one appreciated my musical selections, Natalie pulled out a crowd-pleasing classic rock CD and all was well with the dance floor.

When I moved to New York, I came to associate this song with people on sidewalks and stairs who were, I believed, always on the wrong side. Mine. I hate that I can’t just paint lines with arrows directing people which way to walk. That makes sense to me.

There is no logic, no pattern, no structure to the way people walk in New York. No straight lines. No common understanding to stay to the right or keep out of someone else’s way. No watch where you’re going. People will abruptly stop in front of you, causing you to nearly run into them. Or they walk diagonally. Or criss-crossed. Or really slow because they’re text messaging. It’s as if every person has blinders on (like the poor carriage horses in Central Park) and are oblivious to everyone else around them. So when I would begrudgingly move from the logical right side over to the left, Beyonce would keep me company singing To the left, to the left…. (Sometimes literally on my iPod, and sometimes just in my head.)

As I had to maneuver traffic multiple times on a daily basis, I began having discussions in my head about why people didn’t walk in straight lines. When Americans drive in London, they drive on the other side of the road because this what people in the U.K. do. You can’t just decide to drive on the right side of the road because that’s what you’re used to. What you’re used to will result in a car wreck, so Americans adapt to new surroundings. But I live in one of the most diverse cities in the United States, and with people from so many different backgrounds calling New York home, they’re going to walk in a way that’s normal to them.

It might seem ridiculous that I’ve put so much thought into how people walk. But living in a pedestrian city, and a tourist-infested, large metropolitan one nonetheless, I am constantly surrounded by fellow walkers, whether it’s 8 a.m. or 1 a.m. And it gets a bit tiresome to constantly keep a look out for where I should step next. I’ve never had to put so much effort into thinking about walking. People in New York do not stroll. Our walking is one of determination and efficiency. Even if I don’t know where I’m going, I still walk like I do. (If I’m going to get lost, I might as well do that efficiently too.) It is not efficient to dodge fellow walkers every few minutes. It is not efficient to nearly fall over because you’ve stopped so suddenly.

Then I came across a befitting quote in one of my library books. Don’t expect the world to accommodate you. And then it kind of hit me. (A revelation I would not expect from a chick lit novel.) My whole logic about wanting people to walk on the right side (literally and figuratively) of the street is assuming that my way is the right way and everyone else should do it. And that kind of thinking really isn’t the best way to live life or to understand people.

Beyonce has kept me company for quite a long time. But seeing how our association is now based on my annoyance with pedestrians around me, I think it’s time to part ways. Which is apparently something all my newspaper friends thought I should’ve done in 2006.

I am an experienced mover. In college, I moved 13 times. Add in post-college moves and pre-college moves, and my body of work in this area is pretty extensive. I started purchasing 40-gallon Rubbermaid containers a couple years ago. I found that they were great for holding all your junk, and then, because they are stackable, they conveniently disappear into each other.

Currently, I own 7 of these containers. These containers, plus a handful of assorted boxes and a few loose furniture pieces, make up all my worldly possessions. Because I have moved so frequently, I have eschewed most traditional furniture. I own a desk. I own a book case. I own a computer chair. I own a car. I own a mattress. That’s really it. I don’t even have a bed. Instead, I lay a piece of plywood on top of those extra Rubbermaid containers.

Even though I am such a fine-tuned, high-performance moving machine, moving is still a pretty big hassle. I mean, the process of collecting all your junk is slightly overwhelming. Every time I fill and stack another container, I have to pause. I own *all* of this? What *is* this stuff? Where did it all come from? There is something difficult about facing all of the physical junk of your life at once. And not only facing it, but packing it up and moving it somewhere else, only to unpack it again.

Under normal moving conditions, I pack my stuff, I load it in a car, I drive it to a new living location and I unload. The place and the roommates change, the time and the weather change, but the actual process is always been the same. Until this year.

This year was different. This year, my lease ends June 30. This year, I leave for an epic road trip on June 6. This year, I return from the summer on August 3. This year, I have the roommates lined up, but not the place.

So, this moving experience had a decidedly different feel to it. It was mired in uncertainty. Where would I live? Would my roommates find a place that doesn’t suck? What would happen to my stuff while I was gone?

My loose plan was to rent a storage unit and move my stuff there. Before I could follow through with this idea, one of my future roommates called. We did not give move-out notice in time. We are stuck here until August. Why don’t you keep your stuff here, and then you can pay Emily so she can move out and get married? It seemed like a good idea. My stuff would be safe, and they would get a break on the extra rent. Everyone wins.

So her dining room began to fill up. Even with my meager belongings, the dining room filled very quickly. Dining rooms are not made to hold all of a man’s possessions. They are made to hold a dining room table. And some chairs.

Eventually, there was only a narrow walkway, skirting between stacks of boxes on the one side,and a dining room table on the other. Looking at the room with my moving process done, a pang of guilt filled me. They were losing their dining room on my account. But then I handed over an envelope filled with cash, loaded my car for my road trip and left.

It turns out my lease is over July 14th. We received notice that we had to be out by the 15th. The words echoed around in my head for a few seconds before they formed any meaning. All of my junk in their dining room, everything I own, is in the way of a very firm move-out date. What are we going to do?

Well, we will move it for you.

My stomach sunk. I don’t want them moving my junk. I don’t want to burden them with my junk. It’s bad enough that they are walking by all my junk every day, that my junk is cluttering up their previously functional dining room. But to have my junk physically bend their backs? To have them carry it, move it, store it? For me?

I felt horrible. This is why I wanted to get a storage unit! I shouted to no one. I had already left. I was halfway across the country. There was no going back. There was no way for me to relieve the burden my friends had taken.

I felt like I owed my friends a tremendous debt for dealing with my junk for me. It’s mine. I accumulated it for whatever reason, I kept it for whatever reason and I should have to deal with it. But I couldn’t. I was simply not capable of doing so.

As my feeling of guilt ebbed, it began to be replaced by a very different emotion – thankfulness. My friends are carrying my junk for me. They don’t have to, but they are. They are choosing to clutter their lives, their physical living space, even their physical bodies, with my junk. I feel so blessed that I have friends who will do that for me. It goes so far beyond just friendship, their act of carrying my burden, so much deeper. It is as if they have seen everything about me, all the deep darkness that nobody is supposed to see because I keep it in my drawer, in my cabinet, in my room, in my apartment. And yet, seeing it, they still choose to be friends with me. Even more, they take that junk out, and move it to a better place.

I don’t think that I am the type of person who does this for people. But I want to be. I hope that I can be someone who shares other’s clutter. I hope that I can be trusted to see that junk and not balk. I hope we can all do that.

I had the time to start feeling bad for myself the other day.

After exchanging e-mails with a sports editor at a newspaper with an opening that I wanted, I realized that the sports editor wasn’t really interested. It’s kind of like realizing a girl you like just isn’t into you. It’s at this point — with no prospects and nothing but time — when you start questioning things.

Is it time to start thinking about a new career? Is this a sign? Maybe I’m meant to do something else.

Then I remembered Hal McCoy. I met Hal last June. We talked for probably 20 minutes. We haven’t talked since, but his story will never leave me.

Hal is an old baseball writer. He’s been covering the Cincinnati Reds since 1972, longer than any current baseball beat writer in the Majors. He’s in the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. He’s probably watched more baseball than I’ve lived life.

Hal and I talked baseball and sports writing. We talked about one of our favorite sports writers, Joe Posnanski. I grew up reading Joe in The Kansas City Star. Hal met Joe when he was just a young sports writer in Cincinnati and hadn’t made it big yet, but Hal knew Joe was going to be a star.

Then Hal told me a story, his story.

A couple years ago, Hal was in the Reds clubhouse, standing in the corner, and tears welled up in his eyes. Aaron Boone, the Reds second baseman, approached Hal and asked the usually jovial sportswriter what was wrong.

This will be my last day at the park, Aaron, Hal said. I’ve lost my vision. I can’t do this anymore.

Hal had already suffered a stroke in the optic nerve of his right eye, which left him with a permanent blurry spot. Then one day he woke up and the same thing had happened to his left eye, and Hal was legally blind. One day he could still see, the next, it was gone as fast as a 100 mph fastball gets to the plate.

Hal was done writing about those fastballs and ballplayers and summer nights at the park that he loved so much.

I can’t do it anymore.

Stop right there, Aaron said. You love this too much. You’re not just going to give it up. That’s not like you. You’re going to figure this out. You’re going to keep doing what you love to do.

So Hal decided Aaron was right. He wasn’t going to let his condition stop him. He wasn’t going to quit. He would stop covering baseball on his own terms.

Hal found a way. He got a large laptop screen with enlarged print. He also used a magnifying glass and a bigger scorebook with bigger print. Five years later, Hal is still writing. Still going to games every day. Still doing what he loves to do.

I quit feeling sorry for myself the other day. I remembered Hal. Aaron Boone opened Hal’s eyes, and Hal opened mine.

I’m not going to quit. That’s not like me. I’m going to figure this out. I’m going to keep doing what I love to do.

Some girls like flowers or jewelry; I like a medium rare steak. The first few times I said that I thought it was just funny. Surely, I thought, there is some loving gesture for me that trumps meat that bleeds on your plate. But I can’t think what that would be. And I’ve tried.

And food’s not just a romantic-love gesture either. I have developed a fondness for and fascination with food that is too bereft of knowledge to be a “specialty,” not cultivated enough to be a “hobby,” yet is somehow such a big deal that it flavors everything and takes over some things (much as garlic does). To wit: Grocery shopping is seriously one of my favorite things to do, a friend chose a gift of chips and salsa over flowers when my grandfather died last year, and I once got tears in my eyes in the middle of a pasta dish. My roommate, Ashley, has this book about “love languages,” and in it is a quiz to find out if you express love through Quality Time, Physical Touch, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service or Words of Affirmation. I failed the quiz, but I think it’s because Snacks wasn’t a category.

Don’t get me wrong — I don’t know anything about food, really. I’m not sure what foie gras is, I probably couldn’t use rosemary responsibly, and I’m a real sucker for McDonald’s breakfast. It’s just that eating, and having people over to eat, and talking about eating, makes me super happy. And I get excited to go out to dinner every single time.

The food-love mystery clarifies a little when I visit home, as I’m doing this week. My family is a large, glorious collection of people whom I believe are the best people on the planet EVER, or at least the funniest and best-looking. Our matriarch is half Italian, extremely Catholic and such a terrific combination of patience, humor and compassion that the friends of all six of her children love talking to her — sometimes about big stuff (dreams, boyfriends, fights with their own mothers). And our matriarch’s expression of love — perhaps besides not sleeping through most of the ’90s as children 4, 5 and 6 were born and 1, 2 and 3 were often too small to help — is food.

In childhood/adolescence:

Mom, I can’t get this math problem.

Here, have some peanuts.

Mom, my head hurts.

Well, you barely ate any lunch. Go make a sandwich.

Mom, why don’t boys like me?

Because they’re stupid. Go see if those cookies are done.

I noticed at one point that my family eats a lot more than most. I was shocked to learn that other people didn’t swarm on the fridge like locusts for an after-school snack, or require signs posted after 8 p.m.: KITCHEN’S CLOSED. APPLES OR MILK ONLY.

We had some terrific dinners back in the day. At one point there were five children age 7 and under, and so dinner was a raucous, competitive affair. There was a lot of yelling and He took the last one! and inevitably someone got up to play something on the piano and sing while Mom hollered about manners. Usually my dad would get home sometime between prayers and arguing about clearing off the table and we’d all drop our forks and run to the front door to hug him. He now says that he didn’t even realize how important it was at the time, but that looking back, family dinner was one of the most critical and best parenting decisions he ever made.

When you get older, your perception of your parents shifts. They become actual people. A few years ago I began understanding the work that my parents had to put into being good people, and not just the heroic results. And I’m evermore convinced that the more I am like them, the better I will be.

So I’m going to keep up with this food thing — partially because I’d like to learn a lot more about sauces and get comfortable with grilling and be able to stir with enough finesse that I don’t slosh stuff over the side and then drag my sleeve through it while I’m reaching for a towel.

But also because food is, for me, love. And I learned that from people who love very, very well.