tag:rayewilliams.com,2005:/blogs/the-reinvention-of-ray-ray?p=2The Reinvention of Raye2022-09-22T10:04:50-04:00Raye Williamsfalsetag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/71304512022-09-22T10:04:50-04:002023-10-16T10:51:57-04:00A love letter to myself this birthday.
<p>Good morning, birthday girl. <br>You were on my heart late last night so I followed the love and wrote to you. And yes, I am crying already. I hope that as you read this, you find some words here and hold them close as you move throughout today. </p>
<p>The first thing I want you to know this birthday morning: You are enough and I am proud of you. </p>
<p>This has been such a hard year for you and yet you’ve continued to walk through it heart first. There is no shame in admitting that it’s hurt just as much as it’s been happy since your last birthday, if not more so. You can even admit that you’re sad right now. </p>
<p>Sad that Susan is gone and that you won’t hear her sing along with Kim when she calls for the “Happy Birthday” serenade. But you know what? Tracy will be there to sing it with her. It won’t be as good but you know you’ll laugh and feel the love. This hole in your heart is just as much a light for you as it is a loss. </p>
<p>Sad that you’re another year older and that the dream you’ve chased since childhood feels that much further away. But are you still a child? You’ve lived a big life and learned far more than the child you once were. So if you have grown and evolved, why wouldn’t the dream grow and evolve along with you? You know you’re on the right path, even if it feels like you’re the only one who knows it. Which is fine for now because you’re the only one who’s going to get it done. </p>
<p>Sad and worried about your family for so many reasons, you don’t need me to share the list. The way your family loves and comes through for one another is a force to be reckoned with. But there is a point where you have to distinguish the difference between being supportive and trying to save. Learning to let go of what you cannot change does not mean you are loving anyone any less.</p>
<p>Sad that since you’ve been out of “hustle mode” this year, you’re now feeling forgotten. I have a lot of feelings on the subject but the most important thing to remember is this: You cannot grieve and hustle. Each one will require all of you. I know it was a very difficult choice to make and that only one of the choices has ever given you applause, literally and figuratively. But you chose correctly and deep down you know that. You’ve built yourself so resilient, so strong and you know you show up when it counts. No one thinks to check the tree after the storm. So let go of the guilt you’ve been carrying because of the people you think you’ve let down. The people who are your people will still be there for you when it’s time. Do not abandon yourself for the sake of everyone else because that cross can take a lifetime to put down. </p>
<p>If you want people to know about you again, you’ll have no problem doing so. You’ve done it before. But when self-doubt creeps in, it gets easier to confuse “being seen” for being known for who you are. And while you’ll always feel more pressure for the first, remember true peace resides only in the latter. When you’re ready, no one will mistake which place you’re coming from.</p>
<p>I’m sure you’re more than exhausted by now, as I have gone on longer than I intended to. But I wanted to share all of this with you before you started in your first day at this new age. Maybe I needed to say it just as much as you needed to hear it.</p>
<p>I am proud of you. Happy Birthday.</p>
<p>Love,<br>Me</p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/69634212022-05-04T08:11:34-04:002022-05-04T11:30:10-04:00The Pace of Peace
<p>The recent loss of Naomi Judd has struck me in a tender place that reaches deeper than my well-known childhood “fandom”. And since I’ve always found refuge in words, I’m going there …</p>
<p>The Pace of Peace.</p>
<p>I lost my mentor of 15 years, who was both my manager and my soul mother, only a few months ago. The loss of Susan feels like a mountain that isn’t moving. I can’t go around it or through it, just a slow and steady climb up without any indication as to how far I am from the top. I try my best to be where I’m at each day because I know there is no speeding up the journey of grief. And while I’ll follow her light like a compass, some days I wake up to an avalanche … and it’s all I can do to try to keep my feet planted where they are. There are days of no forward movement, just holding myself in place to keep from rolling back down the mountain. </p>
<p>The photos displayed in this post were given to me by Susan a few summers back, before she got so sick. They were uncovered while cleaning out the attic. I vividly recall how she oh so casually showed them to me and then asked if I wanted to keep them. </p>
<p>I held the photos in my hands in total disbelief.</p>
<p>Unbeknownst to me, Susan had attended The Judds Final Concert back in December of 1991 and had taken these photos herself.</p>
<p>Apparently she had forgotten all about them.</p>
<p>Most people are aware of my love for The Judds, as I’ve never been shy about their influence from childhood to the present. And even though she kept her cool, I know it secretly thrilled Susan to see my face when she handed them over to me. </p>
<p>I’ve kept them tucked in my desk ever since.</p>
<p>Three days ago I took out Susan’s photos of The Judds and spread them across my desk. They have stayed there since. The full circle of loss has me feeling both exposed and exhausted.</p>
<p>I helped organize a Celebration of Life for Susan down in Tennessee a week and a half ago. It was a beautiful event that illuminated a deep glow of gratitude from everyone in attendance, reaffirming that her light will never be lost. I drove the 600 miles back to Detroit with a renewed sense of peace.</p>
<p>Six days later, news would break that Naomi Judd – a woman who felt like a mother in music to me throughout my most formative years – had taken her own life.</p>
<p>Another avalanche.</p>
<p>The last few days have found me holding tight to whatever I can to keep from sliding back down.</p>
<p>All my life, starting from the first time I saw them in concert at the tender age of 2, I have felt a connection to The Judds – and not just musically. Wynonna and Naomi, with their “we put the ‘fun’ in ‘dysfunctional’” demeanor and the spirited stories of turbulence and grace resonated with me from an early age. Their story represented resilience that gave me strength through the trials and triumphs within my own family. My Mama, who has always been a present and supportive force throughout my life, has also battled severe depression all of hers. Us four kids, with me being the oldest, have had our own mental health struggles over the years. For me, therapy started in the 4th grade. My siblings share a similar story. I come from a family of entertainers, and despite the fact that none of them were crazy enough to try to make a career out of it except for me – we are all well-equipped with impeccable comedic timing, learning in our youth that humor and hurt go hand in hand. </p>
<p>So The Judds felt like my people.</p>
<p>Never in my life did I imagine Wynonna and I would be connected again, but this time by the loss of a mother. The depth of pain Naomi was in can now only be understood by the plunging grief she left her family, friends, and fans to navigate up from. And while the circumstances of our loss is not the same, the hole left in our heart is huge and harrowing.</p>
<p>Death can’t help but be a mirror, forcing us to reflect on this beautiful mess we call Life – all we’ve survived and where we are standing in this very moment. And it’s a damn near agonizing analysis if we’ve had our head in the sand for most of it. Lucky for me, Susan spent her last few months on this Earth seeing to it that mine finally rose above the surface.</p>
<p>Over the last few days I’ve written over a dozen pages, trying to get out all that is swirling in my head and ripping through my chest. I don’t know that I’ll ever get it all out, but releasing even just a little of it feels like a much needed exhale. </p>
<p>My “self soothing” practice has also included: Lying on a yoga mat beside my husband twice a day, listening to the birds that once used to terrify me, reading books like they might all burn in a fire tomorrow if I don’t consume them today, loving on my little nieces and nephews every chance I get, losing myself in workouts and meditations on the Oculus, digging through Mama’s old photo albums and mementos like I’m an investigator solving a cold case so that I can get to know her better while I still have her, and any other thing I find that allows some sunshine in.</p>
<p>Once my eyes were open, I found new perspective in losing someone so transformative in my life. Perspective that is keeping me at a distance from social media, playing shows, and anything else that feels like I have to jump back into “hustle mode” in order to keep up appearances and stay relevant. I can no longer do what doesn’t hit true for me. My inner critic tells me on a daily basis that rest is for the weak, so I need to rally instead. (And Lord knows, if anyone can rally – it’s me.). But I’m slowly turning down the volume on my head and trying to lead more heart-first. It’s not fun or flashy, but it’s also not fake. </p>
<p>This post is uncomfortably candid and will more than likely prompt some messages from people checking in on me.</p>
<p>Good.</p>
<p>Not because I am looking for sympathy or strength … but because the conversation about mental health only gets swallowed in small doses. </p>
<p>I know that here, in this moment, I’m being as honest as I’ve ever been. I also know that there’s room to get even more real. My hope is that maybe by reading this, it will inspire someone somewhere to get just as honest and real too.</p>
<p>“The truth shall set you free”, right?</p>
<p>And while I’m aware that what rings true for me isn’t for everyone, every fiber of my being tells me that sharing anything other than this right now would be more performative than pure. I know I am not alone in feeling this, but I also know the fear of speaking it. People might think differently of us if we do. It’s hard to admit that pretty photos, self promotion, and #blessed isn’t our reality in this particular season and then stand strong in the response. I thought that staying away and quiet would be safer than revealing myself. But guess what? That doesn’t sit well either, because it invites all kinds of inquires when people don’t see you posting or playing anywhere. And I can’t reduce my answers to ‘small talk’ because it’s a BIG talk.</p>
<p>So now?</p>
<p>I welcome people thinking differently of me. </p>
<p>I am different. Adjust accordingly. </p>
<p>This is the most authentic and self aware I’ve ever been and I don’t know how to go backwards. </p>
<p>I’ve shed the version of me that can simply smile and sing and also maintain my sanity.</p>
<p>Therein lies the story.</p>
<p>May Naomi’s passing not just leave us hurting but also with a knowing that vibrates us at our core that nothing is more deserving of our time and energy than taking care our mental health. Look at your family and friends with that same understanding. </p>
<p>You are meant to live in peace. </p>
<p>My hope is for our hearts to find a less frantic and furious beat and instead, keep the pace of peace. Amen. </p>
<p>Nothin but love, </p>
<p>RW</p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/69515132022-04-19T07:30:00-04:002022-04-19T08:15:16-04:00the only thing harder than leaving…
<p>Long ago, in what feels like another life, I wrote a song about visiting back home after I’d moved to Nashville. I was an 18 year old, sitting in a writing room on Music Row with two co-writers in their late 40’s, telling them how weird I felt going back to Belleville, Michigan because it didn’t feel like me anymore. </p>
<p><em>“I move like a stranger through my own past</em> </p>
<p><em>‘Cause the only thing harder than leaving is going back”</em></p>
<p>I was a kid who didn’t know shit, but I sure could write songs like I did (ha). </p>
<p>It’s wild how full circle life can get because here I am tonight, feeling very similiar to what I felt in that writing room over a decade ago. Only now, the destinations have reversed. </p>
<p>In less than 48 hours, I’ll be driving from Detroit down to Nashville. I can feel a lurch in my chest just typing that and reading it back – what my anxiety levels will be making the actual trip should be fun (especially for my husband). </p>
<p>I made the decision to move back to Detroit about 5 years ago, and it was a game-changing move all the way around. For the first 3 years of my relocation back to Detroit, I made trips to Nashville consistently every 4-6 weeks to continue writing, singing demos, and playing writer’s nights. I met and married me a Michigan boy and made all of our family and friends travel to Tennessee for our wedding. Music started taking off for me in Detroit, but I still had my foundation in Nashville. When the TIDAL Unplugged opportunity came by way in 2019, I did all my TIDAL recordings and promo in Nashville. </p>
<p>I was living the best of both worlds and it felt like I didn’t have to choose one over the other. I could still be my ‘good time’ self, up too late with friends and then in the studio all day the next day recording. And after burning it from both ends for a week, I could come back to Michigan jump back into walking the dogs with my husband everyday, watching my little nieces and nephews, taking care of my Granny, trying to make connections and create opportunities for myself in Detroit. </p>
<p>Like everybody throughout the rest of the world – the year 2020 changed how I did everything and how I continue to do everything. </p>
<p>In February 2020, I was 3 months post-hysterectomy due to cervical cancer and one month post-radiation treatments. I was in Nashville to film a music video for my 2nd TIDAL Unplugged single. Less than 3 weeks after we completed the video, the world shut down.</p>
<p><em>I have been to Nashville twice since then.</em> <strong><em>Twice in over 2 years.</em></strong></p>
<p>A huge reason I’ve stayed away is the pandemic, yes.</p>
<p>Just as big of a reason is when the roots of my Nashville family tree, Kim & Susan (my “momagers” since Day 1), sold their house in the summer of 2020. </p>
<p>With Susan’s health declining and the world (and music business) put on a big indefinite pause, they decided to move back to Texas to be closer to family. From that moment on, Nashville has never pulled me back the same. I guess what made Nashville feel like my home was more a<strong> them</strong> thing than the place itself…so consequently, <strong>home</strong> left Nashville when they did.</p>
<p>And now I’m going back because Susan is gone and it’s only right to honor the huge part of her and her story that was Nashville. Also, it was my idea in the first place to have a Nashville memorial so I think that means I definitely have to face the music. Literally.</p>
<p>It feels like a “Goodbye” of massive proportion. </p>
<p>Goodbye to a woman who loved me, believed in me, and unfailingly supported me like I was her daughter. Goodbye to the girl who was always searching and rarely certain. </p>
<p>Together through several office and studio moves, many vacations and even more stages – 15 years of memories that I can see just as vividly today as I could then. </p>
<p>This trip to Nashville feels like admitting that those days are gone and can’t be replicated. I wish I would’ve know that then. I would’ve been better. </p>
<p>Wouldn’t we all.</p>
<p>Don’t get me wrong, I’ll be so happy to see old friends, hug and cry with them as we remininsce. I am certain that however it is I’m feeling right now will be lifted once I stand in the presence of Susan’s light and speak with others that loved her too. She’ll always have that way about her. I trust that there will be much sun in our sadness, and we will shine brighter for having had her in our lives.</p>
<p>While I’ve never been good with endings, I know you have to end one thing in order to begin another. So I’m facing my fear of Goodbye because Susan knows as well as I do – when a new chapter awaits, you get to writing.</p>
<p>See you soon, Tennessee.</p>
<figure class="wp-block-image size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2022/04/b221a61f-42d4-4dc4-bf1e-66bee658c321-1.jpeg?w=827" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="459" width="459" /></figure>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/68966582022-02-13T14:12:41-05:002022-02-13T14:16:37-05:00The “before” and the “after”
<p>It’s been one month in this new life. The world as I knew it – divided into a “before and “after” instantly. I’ve been searching for words beautiful enough to describe the light that always surrounded her and centered anyone in her presence. Truth is, I’ve been writing nonstop since she passed. Scribbles in assorted notebooks. Voice memos in the middle of grocery store. The white light of my computer screen, drawing me into a thought and keeping me up too late. Admittedly, my battle with perfectionism has kept so much from being shared and yet she never wavered in her belief that I could heal, myself and others, once I let it go. No one encouraged me, supported me, or gave me a ‘tough love’ talking to more than Susan Tucker. From our first time in the studio when I was just a chubby-cheeked teenager who thought she knew it all – she stood beside me in every personal and professional high and low, right up until the day before she passed away. She is the voice to my inner “knowing” – talk about a gift that keeps on giving. </p>
<p>Over the last 6 months of her life, while her body was fading, her light was as radiant as ever that all we could do was lean in and listen. There was no person or performance more important or deserving of my attention than sitting in the warmth of her words. And because I was finally listening, I was able to receive everything she wanted to leave us with to learn from. I will cherish and create from this place for the rest of my life. </p>
<p>It’s been a month of tears and smiles to myself.</p>
<p>I am sad but I am certain. </p>
<p>While I am thankful that our physical time together on this earth got an end with an ending – her and I both know that there is still more to the story and she trusted me to tell it. </p>
<p>She left this hole in my heart and she wants me to use it. </p>
<p>And so I will.</p>
<p>For her. For me. For all of us.</p>
<p>Stay tuned.</p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/68316472021-12-01T20:17:00-05:002021-12-06T13:00:04-05:00The florescent lighted fear.
<p>I feel afraid of this world. If I’m being completely truthful here, nowhere feels safe to me these days and I don’t know that I want to be anywhere anymore. I’ve lived my whole life thinking that the national headlines were for the news “out there” – “in here” we are saddened by the tragedies we hear/ about from the comfort of our couch. But the last couple weeks have hit too close to home. I’m in the ‘ache’ now.</p>
<p>I took myself down to the library tonight. It’s a usual stop I make whenever I’m visiting my parents. I guess I’m starting to see that there is a direct relation between my emotional state and where I escape – when I don’t know where to go, I go to books. </p>
<p>I was sitting with my parents in the back family room, as my mom turned on the local news. I don’t know about your parents, but here in Michigan – the local news feels like it’s on every hour of every day between the multiple local stations and a lot of folks over 55 will watch it religiously. Luckily, I don’t really have the option to scare myself deeper with daily local tragedies due to replacing cable with countless streaming services back at my house.</p>
<p>But early this evening, the Zoom arraignment of Ethan Crumbley was on and my mother turned up the volume. I saw his parents, looking distraught. For a moment I felt something resembling sympathy… that was until more details were shared later in the broadcast. Then I see this 15 year old in custody, not at all like the outdated photos portraying a baby-faced boy that the media had been sharing of him earlier in the day. I was stunned by his deep voice as he replied, “Yes” multiple times to affirm he understood his rights and the charges against him. It felt like thunder. I could feel the storm intensifying under my skin. </p>
<p>They showed photos of the victims.</p>
<p>Victims who were living kids less than 36 hours ago.</p>
<p>Kids who were trying to figure out who they were and what they wanted to be when they grew up. Kids who had Grandmas, siblings, team mates, best friends, parents – just 30 minutes away from where I was currently sitting with my own parents.</p>
<p>Hana St. Juliana, 14 – a bright-smiled girl passionate about basketball and dedicated to her team at Oxford High.</p>
<p>Madisyn Baldwin, 17 – an artistic student who loved to draw, write, and read and who had already been accepted into several colleges – some on full scholarship.</p>
<p>Justin Shilling, 17 – worked at a local restaurant with his friends, co-captain of the Oxford High bowling team, loved to play golf.</p>
<p>Tate Myre – a hard working and much respected star athlete, participating in anti-bullying campaign. He sacrificed his life trying to disarm the shooter. </p>
<p>Too much. </p>
<p>Too fucking much.</p>
<p>So at 7PM, I went up the street to sit in the florescent lighting of the library with my heaviness. Clearly there isn’t much of a crowd in the last couple of hours before they close – just a few stragglers. All the tables were open so I picked one along the railing, threw my jacket over a chair, and began to unpack my backpack. I thought, “Okay, this is your only opportunity for completely uninterrupted ‘work’ so make the next 90 minutes count.”</p>
<p>Nine full minutes passed before I realized I’d been staring at a knick in the grey table I was seated at. I am absorbed by the ache. It followed me here too, only now I have bright florescent lights on it. </p>
<p>I check my phone. More notifications of people responding to my emotionally impulsive comment about the shooter. I quickly scroll Twitter and find more updates. The more insight being shared, the more my stomach lurches towards the table. I turn my phone off. </p>
<p>I was supposed to “return” to social media today after a month away.</p>
<p>I didn’t want to but I gave myself a December 1st date to reemerge since I’m releasing a Christmas song next week. And what good is releasing a song if no one knows, right?</p>
<p>What a mind fuck.</p>
<p>Today is clearly not the day.</p>
<p>Tomorrow might not be either.</p>
<p>Nothing but the ache seems to matter right now.</p>
<p>I guess that’s why I’m here, sharing all my messy feelings about people I never met, but feel like I know…</p>
<p>My nephew is 16 years old. He has already experienced a loss that changed him forever. I don’t want him to go to school because if we couldn’t shield him from heartbreak, I want to shield him from violence. My other nephew turns 11 tomorrow. He gets sent to the principal’s office for distracting in class, despite him being advanced beyond his grade level. They’re both on TikTok and YouTube. Where is the line of protection? </p>
<p>Obviously I know that isn’t realistic but I want to shield them from this ache. The world of TikTok and YouTube, school friends and homework feels like a trap now. When the moral compass of everything feels upside down, how do we equip them for life when none of us feel sure-footed either?</p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/68019702021-11-08T11:40:37-05:002021-11-08T13:00:11-05:00Two years today.
<p>Two years ago today I set my alarm for 6AM, waking up earlier than anyone in the house. I quietly crept downstairs to my “office”, sat in my cheetah print reading chair in the corner, journal in lap. I knew I had 30 minutes, at most, to take a moment for myself to start my day in peace. I vividly recall taking deep breaths, repeating to myself that I need to observe and appreciate how good this expansion felt in my upper body with each inhale and exhale. I reminded myself that I will need to come back to this many times today, and the days to come. I then picked up my journal and wrote about how my life, my future, my story, and more specifically – my body – was going to be changed forever by the end of the day. </p>
<p>I was right about the 30 minutes of solitude because on minute 29, my husband comes racing down the stairs while on the phone with someone. </p>
<p>“Oh my god, yes of course, we are on our way now! The hospital called me last night with her surgery time, but the guy hung up right away and never told us what time to be there! We had no idea! We’re coming now!”</p>
<p><em>And just like that…the chaos had begun.</em></p>
<p>Within 5 minutes of peacefully sitting in my chair to journal and meditate, I was now in the car with a winter jacket over my pajamas. My hair was washed the night before and was falling out of the messy bun I’d slept in. The way we ran through the hospital entrance, looking for where to check in, telling them that I was there … It was just like the scene in “Home Alone” where the family is running through the airport trying to make the flight before it leaves the runway. </p>
<p>Looking back on it now, it’s kind of funny how urgent and panicked we all were. My sister is racing down I-94 with my parents in tow – crying and borderline shrieking on the phone to my brother. </p>
<p>“I have to see her before she goes! I can’t fucking believe this! How did they not tell when to be here?! Don’t let them take her back until we see her!”</p>
<p>But they took me back immediately, assuring me that my family would see me before surgery. I remember the nurse walking me down the hall, trying to make small talk. She was about my mother’s age and I was grateful for the maternal energy she was giving off. She handed me my gown once we reached the bathroom, saying, “And I’ll be right here when you come out.” </p>
<p>While in the bathroom, I made a mental note of the steel handicap grab bar above the toilet paper. <em> You’re going to need help getting on and off the toilet soon. You’re going to need help with everything soon. </em></p>
<p>When I came out, the nurse was there with a sympathetic smile. I followed her into a room where asked me my date of birth and checked my vitals. The blood pressure reading was good and she joked, “And we know you’re well rested.” </p>
<p>Within minutes of being in the room, a doctor walked in and introduced himself. I didn’t catch his name, nor could I describe him to you in any way because the only thing I saw was the metal case he carrying. I was told to hunch over. I cried when he told me he was prepping me for my epidural. I looked at my nurse in horror. thankfully she was still there. I instantly started crying because id didn’t know I was getting an epidural. I thought an epidural was for women giving birth. Isn’t that the exact opposite of what is happening here? She took my hands and held them as I got into position. She told me how sorry she was for all I was going through. And the epidural was done. </p>
<p>Next thing I knew, I was relaxed and situated in the hospital bed and my family was brought back to see me. I could see them all trying to hold it together, while I was surprisingly composed. You see, the epidural was honestly the first emotional reaction I’d had throughout the diagnosis experience – with its countless scans, blood work, and IVs – I never flinched. I had no idea what was coming with every appointment because I made sure not to Google what I was in for. Therefore, each step of the process came as a surprise to me in the moment. There was no time to be scared or to toss and turn all night, dreading what was to come. I just showed up brand new to it all, submitting my arm to find the vein. Reflecting on that now, it’s hard to believe how strong I appeared to myself and others, but a more accurate description would be that I was just emotionally numb. Crying about it certainly wasn’t going to change the fact that I had to be there. After years of avoiding doctors and a lifetime fearing hospitals and needles, my future now depended on them. </p>
<p>I remember the kind, motherly nurse walking alongside me as they wheeled my bed into surgery. She’d seen my husband and promised me she’d keep him updated. I told her how he was the one who hounded me to make a doctors appointment and when I wouldn’t, he made one for me. And that first appointment just a few months prior had led me to this surgery. </p>
<p>She told me I was a miracle and that he must be an actual angel because he saved my life. </p>
<p>And when I saw my surgeon and the bright lights behind him, I closed my eyes, remembered my breath, and imagined angels in the room. Angels, Angels, and then the anesthesia took me out.</p>
<p>Obviously, the story doesn’t end there. But on this anniversary, it felt like my heart was bringing those few hours before surgery to my attention. The fast-paced, emotionally charged, shit hitting the fan morning … and how I found moments to re-center in the midst of it all. </p>
<p>Maybe there’s a lesson in that too. Because right now life is once again feeling fast-paced with weeks passing by in a blur, I’m emotionally exhausted, and shit has been hitting the fan on a daily basis. But I found my way through that life-changing morning then, so it must be that I will find my way through this too. </p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/67995672021-11-05T13:00:00-04:002021-11-05T13:22:42-04:00Window seat. (Day Five)
<p>I’m sitting by myself in the library, my small table isolated from all humans but surrounded by books. I’m on the top floor, right alongside a large window wall overlooking the lake and all the fall colors from neighboring trees. It’s so quiet that I swear I can hear the leaves rustling in the slightest breeze on the other side of this glass. I don’t remember the last time things have been this quiet. I mean, even on my solo walks – there’s leaves crunching under my feet, cars driving by, birds heckling me from trees, dogs barking in backyards. Or even alone in my shed, I can either audibly hear my dogs or I’m always aware of my dogs, the garbage truck coming up the block, people speeding their loud ass cars on the main road nearby. But up here on the 2nd floor of the library, in the corner window seat, the only sound is when I move my fingers around the keyboard. I can’t even lie, it’s somewhat eerie. I’m trying to breathe deep and relish in the silence, but I’m also anticipating somebody walking around me as they peruse a nearby aisle of books. </p>
<p>So I look out the window. The autumn colors over the last week or so have truly been other-worldly here in Michigan. I don’t know that I recall the oranges, reds, and yellows being as vibrant as they are this year. But maybe I say that every year. Maybe you don’t appreciate things until they are obviously right in front of you, and then when they’re not, you forget how captivating it was until the next year. And then the feeling comes flooding back to you like it’s the first time. Such is life, eh?</p>
<p>It’s wild because even on a grey and cloudy day, the fall colors still glow. Change is coming, rain or shine. The sun feels warmer and makes us happier, but winter is still inevitable – even on the brighter days. I very much feel like my heart and my life is in this autumn season. It’s beautiful and bittersweet, teaching us that things must die first in order to bloom again. It’s like anticipatory grief: Do I choose to appreciate and enjoy the colors while they’re here ….. or do I overlook until it’s too late and they become a chore to rake up off the ground…?</p>
<p>And with that, I think I’m gonna go for a walk now. </p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/67995682021-11-04T10:55:00-04:002021-11-05T13:22:42-04:00Waiting Room Writing. (Day Three/Four)
<p>Been spending a lot of time in waiting rooms again. I haven’t spent this much time on a faux leather chair with wooden armrests since my cancer treatments between Fall 2019 into early 2020. Before then, I simply never went to the doctor. So to be back in what feels like one endless stream of waiting rooms again has my blood pressure up. It’s a place, physically and emotionally, that I don’t care to spend a large portion of my day, however that’s my reality for the time being. The only difference now is – the wait isn’t for me, it’s for my mother.</p>
<p>So today I’m sitting in the waiting room of St. Joe’s Hospital. And instead of staring at the dull gray carpet with beige designs, I decided to bring my laptop along and look at a screen instead. She’ll be in physical therapy for at least another half an hour, giving me time to do my morning writing. I tried to wake up earlier to write before I drove the 45 minutes from my house to my mom’s – but the fact that it’s pitch black and below 40 degrees in the morning, makes it hard to motivate and be a functional person before the sun is up. But I rallied and by noon today, I will have completed what I committed to do this morning. </p>
<p>After this session, my youngest sister will be at Mom’s with my youngest niece. I will then shake off all the adulting I had to do this morning and run around the house chasing a 3 year old like a kid on the playground. I have found that being with my little nieces and nephews is the quickest way to lift me out of the heaviness. The only problem is, the moment I leave them I feel the weight of all there is to do again. </p>
<p>Yesterday I talked to someone from Mayo Clinic on how to finalize my mother’s submission. It sounds like we could be heading to Minnesota way faster than any of us expected. It’s only natural that my family would want to slow it down and take a little more time to prepare, but I’m not giving us that option. Because the longer we stay at the yellow light, the faster it turns red again…and who knows how long it’ll stay on red this time. So I have to be the “fearless leader” even though the fear is very real. But I know that out of everyone, I’m the one who can feel the fear and still do what needs to get done. </p>
<p>After the phone call, I felt such relief and pressure, all at the same time. I paced around the house, did all the laundry that has accumulated in our dissembled house. But I still felt a restlessness. </p>
<p>So I sat down at the piano in my living room and just started clunking chords. Then I’d stop and listen to notes linger – paying attention to the buzz, the vibration within the piano that fades with the note. Pianos are magical like that. </p>
<p>I started singing words that were inspired by a sentence I’d written in blog earlier this week, making things up as I sang along. After a few minutes, I got choked up to the point where the words could barely get out. Honestly, I was scared to keep going because the lyrics that were flowing out of me were things I didn’t even know I could come up with. They were so fucking real and deep that I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what else I could say. I was quite literally shocking myself so I paused and allowed myself a few deep breaths. But I knew. So I jumped up from the piano and sprinted to the shed to get my laptop, ran it back inside and propped it on top of the piano. And I got it out. Not all of it, but enough to know exactly what this song wants to say. I don’t remember the last time something has jolted through me like that. It makes me thankful – which, I’m not gonna lie – has been a difficult feeling to muster up here lately. </p>
<p>I’m thankful for that reminder that creativity is here to make sense of what my head cannot, I just have to tap in and trust. </p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/67995692021-11-02T15:31:00-04:002021-11-05T13:22:42-04:00Words of love. (Day Two)
<p>Believe it or not, I’ve always had a hard time communicating on a vulnerable level.</p>
<p>I have no problem expressing myself in my songwriting or while up on stage. I easily vent about my frustrations or gossip about the latest happenings when sitting down with a friend. Lord knows I can literally talk the paint off the wall, and most times that’s exactly what I do whenever given a chance. </p>
<p>But communicating my struggles and fears? Expressing my appreciation and gratitude to people who need to hear it? Apologizing? Oh. My. God. You’d honestly think I had severe emotional impairments. </p>
<p>I don’t know how to dissect that without a therapist being involved. And I basically ghosted my last therapist 4 years ago – so yeah, I’m really obviously getting to the root of that one. Or not. </p>
<p>So Monday night, I drag myself back to my deconstructed house and plop down in the chair exhausted. I’m late for dinner plans with a my husband and a friend in from out of town. They have “patiently” consumed a few beers at the house, waiting for my arrival. I know I’m too tired to attempt to catch a buzz, let alone catch up to them. We immediately head to the restaurant and right as we sit down our friend asks, “So how’s everything been going?”</p>
<p>Ha. </p>
<p>Since I don’t have the energy to run the list down, I explain why I’m late getting home tonight.</p>
<p>“I watched my 2 year old nephew until noon. Then I went to a local coffee shop where I wrote down all my goals for the week, which is basically the same list that I’ve been writing every week for at least 2 months now. Then I drove to my parents’ house and scanned all of my mother’s health insurance info and prescription list so that I can start submitting her to bigger clinics out of state to hopefully get a proper diagnosis. Then I went to Granny’s to give her a shower. But I also cooked her dinner, which led to me cleaning out her fridge and mopping down her kitchen. Top it off with a quick load of laundry and disposing of her stinky trash, I left her sitting comfortably in her chair with dinner and Andy Griffith. Jumped in the car and now I’m here.”</p>
<p>My friend took a minute to process everything I’d just said before responding with, “Fuck. That sounds exhausting.” </p>
<p>My husband, who isn’t surprised by Superwoman days, then says, “You really are a saint for taking care of your grandma like that. She’s so lucky to have you.” </p>
<p>While I appreciate the sentiment, I instantly dismiss the thought, explaining, “I don’t even think about it, I just do it. Taking care of Granny is as natural as praying to God. It’s like it connects me back to myself. So if anything, I’m lucky to have her.”</p>
<p>I could tell that my response knocked both boys off their feet. They haven’t experienced it yet, but they will. We all get old. We all will need to depend on someone else at some point in our lives – whether it’s a recovery from surgery, a bad bout of the flu, or the final days. And unconditional love will mof3 you to step in without you ever thinking twice. </p>
<p>I share the experience of my evening and this specific conversation, not because I think I’m some angelic human helping her grandma. I don’t need anyone to tell me I did a good job. I just do what I feel called to do. If you show love and they feel loved, what else actually matters? </p>
<p>So I’m understanding that my “showing love” looks a lot like “showing up” as opposed to verbalizing the vulnerable stuff. And while anyone who knows me knows my heart and knows how deeply I love my people, I know that there are people in my life who need to hear the actual words from me. And it’s not that the feelings or words are hard to find, it’s that I don’t trust myself enough to allow them out of my mouth. </p>
<p>So maybe that’s exactly what this 30 days of writing will help me uncover… How to take what I feel and type it out in paragraph form and share it, working my way from words on a screen to words said out loud. Shit, I hate this already. Ha.</p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/67995702021-11-01T15:59:00-04:002021-11-05T13:22:42-04:00Day One.
<p>It’s a Monday and it’s November 1st.</p>
<p>For whatever reason, kicking off a new month at the top of the week has always held significance for me. It’s kind of like New Year’s or a birthday – a reset, if you will. A chance to pay attention and not get stuck saying (once again), “Man, this month just flew by!”</p>
<p>Because the truth is, every month has been flying by. And even truer, every month seems to be racing past me even faster than the one before it. I hear that this is a natural part of adulting – that the older you get, the quicker the year. </p>
<p>This year has been definitively divided for me. There is the 2021 before Memorial Day and there is a 2021 after June 1st. I’ll explain more on that soon. But that’s not what today’s post is for. </p>
<p>Today’s post is a recommitment post, much like a vow renewal. I am publicly rededicating myself to writing, regardless if anyone else cares. I care. And I’m really starting to understand that that is more than enough in and of itself. And while it would be wonderful if whoever did come across these posts found something that resonated within them, I’m going to write it anyway. Because this is not for “content” – there is nothing to promote here. </p>
<p>This is me forcing myself forward on a journey to rediscover and strengthen my ability to express the tornado of emotions that have been swirling within me for some time now. I use the world “forcing” because that’s what this feels like for me today. And writing every morning will probably feel more of a ‘chore’ than a labor of love for a while until it doesn’t. There’s also the chance that it never gets easy, but I understand that it doesn’t make it any less necessary. </p>
<p>So you might be thinking, “That sounds like more work than it’s worth. Why do it?”</p>
<p>Because the emotional tornado isn’t slowing down, if anything it’s picking up speed. And I’m well aware that it can’t stay contained in my skin much longer. </p>
<p>Maybe that sounds dramatic to some, but I’m willing to bet that there are plenty that know exactly what I mean. Because when life keeps hitting you with hard lessons you didn’t think you’d have to learn, it’s exhausting to fake like you’re excited to go to class and be present for it all. And equally exhausting, the partial admittance: Things are tough right now but I’ll figure it out. </p>
<p>The only way I’m “figuring this out” unscathed is if someone slips me the answer sheet to the test. But apparently that’s not how this works. I’m already in the heartache, that can’t be undone. Standing in the middle of it, waiting for it to pass has had me overwhelmed and weighed down for 5 solid months. It’s not passing, no helicopter is coming to lift me out of it. So I’m starting to understand that the only way out is through. There is no getting to ‘the other side’ without my own two feet walking through it and healing.</p>
<p>So this blog is me walking. </p>
<p>Day One.</p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/67995712021-06-15T14:00:00-04:002021-11-05T13:22:42-04:00The strong one + the sad one.
<p>Confessions from a literal “bleeding heart”. It’s been hard to share pretty posts when life doesn’t feel pretty right now. So consequently, I’ve been relatively quiet on all fronts for a couple weeks now. Which is less than ideal when one has just released their first new music in a year – with more releases waiting in the wings and show dates coming up – and yet can’t bring herself to post on social media or return messages in a timely manner. </p>
<p>While attempting to both unpack my suitcase and prep last-minute for today’s band rehearsal, a different thought came to mind…</p>
<p>What if, instead of feeling ashamed because I’m too tired to just “push through” my heartache, I:</p>
<p>• gave myself grace to be where I’m at </p>
<p>• shared my feelings and my fears openly</p>
<p>• stood still and listened closer for what I still need to learn</p>
<p>It’s not aesthetically pleasing. It doesn’t get me on playlists or booked for the show.</p>
<p>But it’s human.</p>
<p>And maybe that’s enough.</p>
<p>I want to normalize being honest about being human, both the good and the devastating, in my relationships and in what I send out into the world in my songs and social media.</p>
<p>I didn’t write this post to go into the specifics of what’s been heavy on me lately, those stories/details will come later.</p>
<p>This morning’s post is for anyone who needs to hear this, myself included…</p>
<p>The strong one can also be the sad one sometimes.</p>
<p>It’s okay.</p>
<p>The same girl looking fun & fierce in her new video can also be the girl crying off her eyelash extensions in the park as she puts Aquafor on a recent chest wound. (I’m fine, don’t worry.)</p>
<p>There IS room for both.</p>
<p>And both deserve to be known.</p>
<p>So let’s share summer and songs and pretty pictures and all the gratitude.</p>
<p>But also, let’s not shy away from the hard days either.</p>
<p>Other people’s stories have the ability to connect us and teach us so much if we allow it.</p>
<p>I want to be freer in sharing mine and hopefully I’ll learn something</p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/67995722021-03-08T21:51:14-05:002021-11-05T13:22:42-04:00Expand.
<p><strong>Woman.</strong></p>
<p>The word itself stands alone. It is powerful. It is big and bold, encompassing every ounce of the spectrum. We feel. We know. And our days never lack in navigating when’s an appropriate time to <em>‘feel’ </em>and when it’s time to<em> ‘know’</em>.</p>
<p>During this pandemic, there were weeks I felt I was floating in and out of my “purpose”. Fueled by frustration, I’d dig myself a hole and bunker in – waiting to see if anyone came looking for me. And considering the world was in quarantine, you can imagine how my <em>“pouting til they notice”</em> played out. No one but my husband and my dogs noticed my withdrawal. </p>
<p>Eventually, I got tired of feeling sorry for myself enough to set some small morning goals – trusting that even in the tiniest steps, forward is still forward. And once I started showing back up for myself, the more I saw myself in the women I had been mindlessly scrolling through just weeks prior. <strong>Instead of comparing, I started connecting</strong> – other women are trying to show up for themselves too. </p>
<p>Writing poetry. Starting an online business. Learning Photoshop. Getting back in shape. Redecorating. Taking virtual courses and workshops. Giving meditation a try. Studying a new language.</p>
<p>I watched as so many women took this “pause” to sit with themselves and listen. It’s crazy what gets lost when you’re always trying to be everything to everyone all of the time. </p>
<p>Other women expanding themselves.</p>
<p>Honoring themselves.</p>
<p>Within their same 4 walls.</p>
<p>How empowering.</p>
<p>We carry a flickering hope that ‘honor’ will circle back around to us eventually, while continuing to give ourselves away in the meantime. The slow deflate makes us feel like that pitiful, half-filled helium Smiley-Face that’s somehow still hovering with the big birthday balloons. </p>
<p>We’ll patiently wait for the green light, the pat on the back from a boss, a boyfriend, a producer (and so on) because while its misogynistic and outdated, it fits like an old pair of shoes. Perfectly broken in but after a few hours, still manages to blister your heel. Now you just try to remember to wear thicker socks.</p>
<p><strong>An expected pain, a ‘comfort zone’ discomfort</strong>. </p>
<p><em>That’s just the way it is.</em></p>
<p>But it doesn’t have to be.</p>
<p>And if it doesn’t have to be, would I try to change it? </p>
<p><strong>How many of us, if given the opportunity to rise higher than we ever imagined, would actually trust ourselves enough to follow it all the way? </strong></p>
<p>I know my answer…now. </p>
<p>But I’m also processing the reality of how hard it was to arrive there. </p>
<p>I used to think that if I could get others to believe in me enough, success would come. </p>
<p>Now I know the truth: <em>Success only comes to those who believe in themselves enough. </em></p>
<p>Shit.</p>
<p>That’s harder.</p>
<p>I think it’s really important that these are my thoughts today. </p>
<p><em>On International Women’s Day. </em></p>
<p><strong>May we all want more so badly that we just go fucking get it.</strong></p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/67995732021-03-01T22:20:50-05:002021-11-05T13:22:42-04:00To begin.
<p>I find it easy to begin things.</p>
<p>Journaling. Eating better. House projects. Yoga. Spanish lessons.</p>
<p>I always feel empowered when I decide to begin something new. My inner dialogue encouraging me with, <em>“You’re gonna crush this … Everyone can find at least 10 minutes a day … It only takes a few weeks to form a habit … “</em> and so on. </p>
<p>I’d say at least 60% of the time – I follow through. The other 40% ends up like my bedroom closet currently – shelves and doors ripped off with the intention to “renovate” but 5 months later, still looks like a mouth with it’s two front teeth knocked out. Every night it serves as a physical reminder that<strong> ‘good intentions’ will never complete the job.</strong> Even with our cool paint colors and aesthetically pleasing wallpaper, it’s still an eye-sore off to the side, taking away from all the good stuff in place around it. </p>
<p>Much like the gnawing of a started but still unfinished house project – our “inner renovations” can prove to be just as frustrating. Even if it’s not as apparent as a ripped out closet, you know that there’s still work to be done. But we’re so good at justifying why we don’t prioritize ourselves – convinced that if it’s not obvious from the outside, we shouldn’t bring attention to it. <em>As long as no one thinks I’m a bad daughter, friend, singer…</em></p>
<p>The reality is – it’s easier to accept minimal effort from ourselves than it is to receive it from someone else. It hurts when you show up for others and it’s not reciprocated. </p>
<p><strong>So why are we okay with not holding ourselves just as accountable to ourselves? Why will we disappoint ourselves before we disappoint everyone else?</strong></p>
<p>It’s a harder question to grasp than I thought. There are so many intricacies to one’s story, unforeseen twists and turns that got them here today. And the hard-hitting questions never come with a ‘One Size Fits All’ answer. </p>
<p>Like a majority of humans in this world – I made goals for myself in the New Year. A lot of them, actually. One of the very first things I did was buy a new journal and yoga mat, making a commitment to myself to “check-in” with my mind and body first thing in the morning. When my husband finally convinced me that buying a spin bike for our basement was a good idea after the holidays, I added a 30 minute ride to my morning routine. </p>
<p>All of these things made me feel like I was seriously taking control of my year. However, the rest of the day was spent giving my energy everywhere else for everyone else but myself. After sticking with the morning routine for the first few weeks of 2021, I was feeling so proud of myself that I decided to tackle even more. </p>
<p>I heard about the book, <strong><em>“The Artist’s Way”</em> </strong>by Julia Cameron from a fellow singer-songwriter’s Instagram story. She praised it as a game-changer, noting that it required a discipline she hadn’t ignited since…well, ever. So while she’s still trying to navigate how to move forward during this COVID-era, she began this 12 week course. Intrigued, I ordered it on Amazon. I had just finished setting up my music room in our new home and I couldn’t wait to jump right in. </p>
<p><em>The book sat on my desk, untouched, for a solid 10 days. </em></p>
<p>The 1st of February fell on a Monday (just like this month…weird) so I figured there was no better time to embark on something new. Three pages of long-hand, stream of consciousness writing every morning? <em>Sure.</em> A weekly chapter with some questions to answer at my own pace throughout the week? <em>Easy.</em> </p>
<p><em>At least that’s what I thought.</em></p>
<p>I’m now on Week 4 of this venture. Full transparency, I really thought I could coast on ‘auto-pilot’ for the first couple of weeks. On Valentine’s Day, I came to the realization that I was treating these creative check-ins as just another “to do” on my list. I felt embarrassed. <strong>How can I trust the process if I’m only halfway tuning in? </strong>So I spent the third week re-reading Week 1 & 2 and completing all the exercises. Once I finally moved on to Week 3, I started feelings the gravity of what I was actually doing. <strong>This is not a journey to calm the mind, it’s a journey to uncover it. </strong></p>
<p>Daily meditations, yoga stretches, long walks, a good book – I do these things to quiet my thoughts and center. But now, I’m being asked to hold a magnifying glass over my thoughts and memories every morning, and then re-center myself from where ever the chapter/exercise took me. </p>
<p>And I’m doing this voluntarily? Correct.</p>
<p>Why? <em>Because I know I still have unfinished closets. </em></p>
<p>This is my first blog in far too long. This is the first shelf. </p>
<p><strong>2021 : If I’m going to begin, I’m going to finish. </strong></p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/67995742020-05-18T11:57:03-04:002021-11-05T13:22:42-04:00I can do hard things.
<p><em>Sat down to write a few days ago. But much like so many things in my life currently, I’m getting to it days after the fact…</em></p>
<p>It is Saturday morning. The sun is shining brightly and I immediately feel drawn from my bed to be outdoors. I waste no time putting on yesterday’s yoga pants, throwing on my Grandpa’s old trucker jacket, and heading out for a walk to bask in the warmth. Sunshine is something us Michiganders deeply appreciate (considering how disappointing our weather can be more than half the year). I leash up my dogs and ready myself for my “morning meditation” – which normally would equate to 3 miles of walking while listening to self-reflective songs on my headphones. Basic, I know. However…</p>
<p><strong>That was not my morning.</strong></p>
<p>My husband irritated me before morning coffee. Him and I, like many couples who are spending an absurd amount of one-on-one time together these days, are trying to adjust to this “new normal” (whatever that even means). So in my attempt to avoid ruining the morning right off the bat, I decide to “collect myself” with a dog walk. Only, this walk felt much more like a scattering of feelings than a collecting of them … considering it involved a 12 week old puppy who is still learning how to walk on a leash. Needless to say, I never hit my stride as we were constantly stopping – for him to eat a leaf, tangle his leash around my other dog, chew on my other dog’s fur, walk in-between my feet so that I tripped every 10th sidewalk square – ensuring that at least one cuss word was said on every block.</p>
<p>Super meditative. Ha.</p>
<p>When I got home, my husband immediately apologized. Which any other morning, would have been nice, but I still wasn’t ready to talk. Because while I was tripping over one dog as the other dog constantly rolled her eyes at me – he was relieving his stress with a basement work-out and the endorphins had him feeling very resolved. </p>
<p> I, on the other hand, could feel the eruption looming just under my skin.</p>
<p>So I grabbed my laptop, my journal, and “Untamed” by Glennon Doyle and came out to the backyard. Because if I’m ever going to actually exhale this morning, it sure as shit is going to be the sun.</p>
<p>Let me just say … <strong>This is not the blog post I was planning to write</strong>. Last night, I had every intention of sitting down and writing about the things I am absorbing from the first half of “Untamed”, <strong>which is a lot. </strong> So much in fact, that I went back yesterday and re-read sections, highlighting them. And I mean, I haven’t highlighted a book in a decade, easily. </p>
<p>Full transparency, <em>I avoided starting this book for weeks </em>because I already felt too “in my feelings” – which is not a place I’m comfortable functioning from. But between coronavirus fears, music plans coming to a screeching halt, a husband who is never more than 6 feet away from me, shitty Michigan weather, and the loss of my dog … I wasn’t ready to look any deeper than where I was already. Which, quite honestly, felt pretty damn deep already. But the black cloud was almost comforting because I knew I wasn’t alone, a lot of people are struggling. It’s confusing. And consuming. So much so that I felt depleted before lunch time most days … therefore adding “overwhelming guilt for not being more productive” to my shit-list as well. </p>
<p><strong>But then the sun started to come out. </strong></p>
<p>I kicked off Quarantine CARE-e-oke, which made me feel like I was at least doing SOMETHING musically.</p>
<p>We added adorable & smart little Opie to our family.</p>
<p>My husband went back to work and I had time alone.</p>
<p>And I started this book. Finally.</p>
<p><strong>I can do hard things. </strong></p>
<p>I’ve proven that before and I’m proving it now. Life threw a lot at me well before Quarantine … with my reinvention truly beginning the day I moved back to Michigan four years ago. As Glennon says in her book, it is a constant revolution. And yes, there must be a crucifixion before the resurrection. Most of us would prefer to avoid the hard part. I certainly wasn’t jumping up and down to volunteer myself for the “letting go and losing it all” process. But I found out long ago that good intentions never bloom without action. And I know in my heart of hearts that because I keep showing up and putting in the work, life has rewarded me with a more fulfilling year than the last. </p>
<p>When I look back on where I was exactly one year ago today, I can barely wrap my head around it. TIDAL Unplugged, finding and making music alongside a new Detroit crew, so many opportunities that blew my mind and made me drop to my knees in gratitude, a cancer diagnosis, a radical hysterectomy, radiation treatments, the release of new music in a new genre, filming two huge music videos, the death of Delaney and the addition of Opie, and of course … COVID-19. </p>
<p><strong>I can do hard things.</strong></p>
<p>And one of the hardest things being: I can give myself love and grace for not handling Quarantine as “gracefully” as I thought I would.</p>
<p>Even this book, for example. I was so excited to begin it. I thought I’d devour it in a few days time and write multiple posts about how enlightened I felt, especially during this time of quarantine. I thought it might help uncover the writers block I’d been feeling for months. I disappointed myself daily for not hunkering down and feeling peaceful and creative, damnit. And then over the weekend, it occurred to me…</p>
<p><em>Isn’t that the point of this book?</em></p>
<p>To acknowledge the auto-pilot we put our lives and emotions in – and begin the deconstruction of it to build something truer.</p>
<p>To learn how to live in a space that relies on our Knowing and not the “sounding board” we are constantly turning to for the green light. It’s a pandemic. There’s not going to be a fucking green light from anyone anytime soon.</p>
<p>So I guess the ‘green light’ is going to have to come from within. And it’s scary to trust myself in such a big way, but I know I can’t avoid it any longer. I feel things. I know things. And even if it’s messy and chaotic and “off-putting” to some, I need to allow myself to move through it, one day at a time. My reactions cannot continue to be neutral … not for my career and not for my sanity. It’s too exhausting. And like everything in our world right now, it’s another “new normal” to adjust to. Only, this is one that I have to navigate on my own – Becoming my own best friend, my own trusted advisor, my own biggest fan. And it won’t be easy, but it’ll be worth it.</p>
<p><strong>Because I can do hard things.</strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p></p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/67995752020-05-01T13:20:26-04:002021-11-05T13:22:42-04:00Raye’s Read for May 2020!
<figure class="wp-block-image size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/bookclub.jpg?w=1024" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="400" width="601" /></figure>
<p>Hey everybody!</p>
<p>Quarantine 2020 has made us all work to find ways to feel sane and centered. I don’t know about you, but it’s been a struggle for me to remain in a good headspace the last few weeks. I’ve been constantly grappling with the reality that my big music releases and performances are postponed and/or cancelled until…?? – grieving the loss of my dog – and watching Michigan’s (mostly) cold and rainy weather from my kitchen window. </p>
<p>We’ve all had our own struggles during this time in quarantine and I don’t know about you, but emotionally, I feel pretty blindsided by what’s been swirling around in my head and heart. So instead of making myself an island during this, I figured I could just dive right into these uncharted waters and ask you to join me!</p>
<p>Announcing my first ever Raye’s Read pick … UNTAMED by Glennon Doyle!</p>
<p>I’m a huge fan of Glennon’s last masterpiece, LOVE WARRIOR and have been anxiously awaiting her new book ever since. A close girlfriend of mine, who shared a lot of the same missteps as me in our 20’s, recommended LOVE WARRIOR to me when I had newly moved back to Michigan from Nashville. I wasn’t adjusting well, despite the convincing front I’d put on. I was just a 2 or 3 months into a new relationship with a wonderful man who treated me like a queen, but I was still carrying around a lot of baggage. I still had a lot of self-destructive tendencies and I was terrified of screwing up something so good. I thought I’d always be the girl who acted “empowered” for the rest of the world but hated herself in silence. I thought drama would always follow me because it always had before, and I’d continue to make a joke of it and move on to the next land mine without missing a beat. I read LOVE WARRIOR at such a pivotal point in my story – the offer of a clean slate that Michigan and this man (who would eventually become my husband) presented. I could do what I’ve always done and get what I always got, or I could learn to love myself to want something more. </p>
<p>Truly, Glennon’s story and insight helped kick off the “reinvention” of Raye. </p>
<p>And now that I’m in yet another new season of life, her newest book couldn’t come at a better time. </p>
<p>So hopefully you’ll join me in reading along! I’ll be posting to my blog and Instagram each Friday – asking questions and getting your reactions to the book so far. It’ll be like therapy, only the free kind <img src="https://s0.wp.com/wp-content/mu-plugins/wpcom-smileys/twemoji/2/72x72/1f609.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="😉" style="height: 1em; max-height: 1em;" /></p>
<p>It’s Spring and new life is working its way towards the light. So armed with the newest addition to our family (Opie the pup) and UNTAMED, I can’t wait to see how it blooms. </p>
<p>Happy Reading!</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/63017302020-05-01T13:20:26-04:002020-05-01T17:01:07-04:00Raye’s Read for May 2020!
<figure class="wp-block-image size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/bookclub.jpg?w=1024" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="400" width="601" /></figure>
<p>Hey everybody!</p>
<p>Quarantine 2020 has made us all work to find ways to feel sane and centered. I don’t know about you, but it’s been a struggle for me to remain in a good headspace the last few weeks. I’ve been constantly grappling with the reality that my big music releases and performances are postponed and/or cancelled until…?? – grieving the loss of my dog – and watching Michigan’s (mostly) cold and rainy weather from my kitchen window. </p>
<p>We’ve all had our own struggles during this time in quarantine and I don’t know about you, but emotionally, I feel pretty blindsided by what’s been swirling around in my head and heart. So instead of making myself an island during this, I figured I could just dive right into these uncharted waters and ask you to join me!</p>
<p>Announcing my first ever Raye’s Read pick … UNTAMED by Glennon Doyle!</p>
<p>I’m a huge fan of Glennon’s last masterpiece, LOVE WARRIOR and have been anxiously awaiting her new book ever since. A close girlfriend of mine, who shared a lot of the same missteps as me in our 20’s, recommended LOVE WARRIOR to me when I had newly moved back to Michigan from Nashville. I wasn’t adjusting well, despite the convincing front I’d put on. I was just a 2 or 3 months into a new relationship with a wonderful man who treated me like a queen, but I was still carrying around a lot of baggage. I still had a lot of self-destructive tendencies and I was terrified of screwing up something so good. I thought I’d always be the girl who acted “empowered” for the rest of the world but hated herself in silence. I thought drama would always follow me because it always had before, and I’d continue to make a joke of it and move on to the next land mine without missing a beat. I read LOVE WARRIOR at such a pivotal point in my story – the offer of a clean slate that Michigan and this man (who would eventually become my husband) presented. I could do what I’ve always done and get what I always got, or I could learn to love myself to want something more. </p>
<p>Truly, Glennon’s story and insight helped kick off the “reinvention” of Raye. </p>
<p>And now that I’m in yet another new season of life, her newest book couldn’t come at a better time. </p>
<p>So hopefully you’ll join me in reading along! I’ll be posting to my blog and Instagram each Friday – asking questions and getting your reactions to the book so far. It’ll be like therapy, only the free kind <img src="https://s0.wp.com/wp-content/mu-plugins/wpcom-smileys/twemoji/2/72x72/1f609.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="😉" style="height: 1em; max-height: 1em;" /></p>
<p>It’s Spring and new life is working its way towards the light. So armed with the newest addition to our family (Opie the pup) and UNTAMED, I can’t wait to see how it blooms. </p>
<p>Happy Reading!</p>
<p></p>
<p></p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/67995762020-04-30T10:51:00-04:002021-11-05T13:22:42-04:00My silver-lining.
<p>*LONG, TEARFUL POST ALERT* </p>
<p>It’s wild how stillness has the power to change so much…our world as a whole, but also the world inside the head and home you’ve been isolated within. </p>
<p>Truthfully, I thought I’d get by this quarantine relatively unscathed. I’d just made it through cancer with my sanity still intact, so staying home didn’t seem like much. And even with the uncertainty and disappointment that came with every cancelled opportunity, I still kept moving. The bubble burst for me 3 weeks ago. </p>
<p>I lost my girl, Delaney.</p>
<p>Immediately, I was flattened by the reality of how losing a life plunges deeper than anything I’ve “overcome”. </p>
<p>Because grief and “staying strong” are two very separate things.</p>
<p>Grief does not loosen its grip because you are resilient. </p>
<p>Unfortunately, you must feel it all in order to move through it. I’ve been a mess.</p>
<p>Delaney is the end of an era.</p>
<p>Every chapter of my adult life.</p>
<p>Every adventure I’ve ever had. Every “comeback” after a heartache. Every hope entering a new season. She was every silver-lining in my life from Nashville on. </p>
<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="aligncenter size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/laneyside.jpg?w=720" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="596" width="525" /></figure></div>
<p>The kind of “free” that ran full-speed ahead, but only because she knew you were behind her. I get that. Because I live that.</p>
<p>And then it dawns on me.</p>
<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="alignright size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/laney.jpg?w=720" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="434" width="384" /></figure></div>
<p>Not only was she the “unicorn” of all dogs, but also – this dog was the only one who TRULY understood my love because it was her kind of love too.</p>
<p>A little too independent but loyal to a fault. Hates “all the fuss” and flattery. Drawn to the river and the clarity of the outdoors. Older than our years. </p>
<p>I could go on and on, but I’ve already said too much. Delaney would not have approved this post or anyone “fussing” over her being gone. It just wasn’t her style. </p>
<p>But she deserves all the praise, and I’ll continue to give it to her.</p>
<p>We were living the “our dogs are our children” life long before we found out that I couldn’t physically carry a child of my own. It was inevitable that we’d be adding to the family. </p>
<p>I searched high and low for weeks. I filled out applications to foster or adopt with multiple rescue agencies but days turned into weeks and I still heard nothing back. I’d respond to postings, only to find they were either scamming or that the dog was no longer available. I posted to Facebook groups, received a bunch of leads that ultimately went nowhere. It was salt to a very painful wound.</p>
<p>But then yesterday, while torturing myself yet again with another mid-afternoon scroll online, searching for another female dog under 50 lbs … I found HIM! </p>
<p>Meet our new little man, OPIE <img src="https://s0.wp.com/wp-content/mu-plugins/wpcom-smileys/twemoji/2/72x72/1f499.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="💙" style="height: 1em; max-height: 1em;" /></p>
<p>(Yes, from The Andy Griffith Show!)</p>
<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="alignright size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/opie.jpg?w=819" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="518" width="415" /></figure></div>
<p>Ain’t it funny how differently “what we want” and “what we NEED” can look? Ha! We are so excited! </p>
<p>It is, honest-to-God, the craziest story of how this little guy even wound up online for me to find.</p>
<p>(And it deserves its own post.)</p>
<p>And that’s how I knew…</p>
<p>Yesterday was Delaney.</p>
<p>My forever silver-lining.</p>
<p>It’s a new season and new a chapter, whether we’re ready or not. Here’s to trying our best to embrace it.</p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/62999222020-04-30T10:51:00-04:002020-04-30T11:30:30-04:00My silver-lining.
<p>*LONG, TEARFUL POST ALERT* </p>
<p>It’s wild how stillness has the power to change so much…our world as a whole, but also the world inside the head and home you’ve been isolated within. </p>
<p>Truthfully, I thought I’d get by this quarantine relatively unscathed. I’d just made it through cancer with my sanity still intact, so staying home didn’t seem like much. And even with the uncertainty and disappointment that came with every cancelled opportunity, I still kept moving. The bubble burst for me 3 weeks ago. </p>
<p>I lost my girl, Delaney.</p>
<p>Immediately, I was flattened by the reality of how losing a life plunges deeper than anything I’ve “overcome”. </p>
<p>Because grief and “staying strong” are two very separate things.</p>
<p>Grief does not loosen its grip because you are resilient. </p>
<p>Unfortunately, you must feel it all in order to move through it. I’ve been a mess.</p>
<p>Delaney is the end of an era.</p>
<p>Every chapter of my adult life.</p>
<p>Every adventure I’ve ever had. Every “comeback” after a heartache. Every hope entering a new season. She was every silver-lining in my life from Nashville on. </p>
<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="aligncenter size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/laneyside.jpg?w=720" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="596" width="525" /></figure></div>
<p>The kind of “free” that ran full-speed ahead, but only because she knew you were behind her. I get that. Because I live that.</p>
<p>And then it dawns on me.</p>
<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="alignright size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/laney.jpg?w=720" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="434" width="384" /></figure></div>
<p>Not only was she the “unicorn” of all dogs, but also – this dog was the only one who TRULY understood my love because it was her kind of love too.</p>
<p>A little too independent but loyal to a fault. Hates “all the fuss” and flattery. Drawn to the river and the clarity of the outdoors. Older than our years. </p>
<p>I could go on and on, but I’ve already said too much. Delaney would not have approved this post or anyone “fussing” over her being gone. It just wasn’t her style. </p>
<p>But she deserves all the praise, and I’ll continue to give it to her.</p>
<p>We were living the “our dogs are our children” life long before we found out that I couldn’t physically carry a child of my own. It was inevitable that we’d be adding to the family. </p>
<p>I searched high and low for weeks. I filled out applications to foster or adopt with multiple rescue agencies but days turned into weeks and I still heard nothing back. I’d respond to postings, only to find they were either scamming or that the dog was no longer available. I posted to Facebook groups, received a bunch of leads that ultimately went nowhere. It was salt to a very painful wound.</p>
<p>But then yesterday, while torturing myself yet again with another mid-afternoon scroll online, searching for another female dog under 50 lbs … I found HIM! </p>
<p>Meet our new little man, OPIE <img src="https://s0.wp.com/wp-content/mu-plugins/wpcom-smileys/twemoji/2/72x72/1f499.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="💙" style="height: 1em; max-height: 1em;" /></p>
<p>(Yes, from The Andy Griffith Show!)</p>
<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="alignright size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/opie.jpg?w=819" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="518" width="415" /></figure></div>
<p>Ain’t it funny how differently “what we want” and “what we NEED” can look? Ha! We are so excited! </p>
<p>It is, honest-to-God, the craziest story of how this little guy even wound up online for me to find.</p>
<p>(And it deserves its own post.)</p>
<p>And that’s how I knew…</p>
<p>Yesterday was Delaney.</p>
<p>My forever silver-lining.</p>
<p>It’s a new season and new a chapter, whether we’re ready or not. Here’s to trying our best to embrace it.</p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/62959282020-04-27T09:11:06-04:002020-04-27T13:30:39-04:00The breather.
<p>I willingly woke up at 6:30am this morning. And as the orange glow filtered in through my kitchen blinds, it made me take pause as I mixed my celery powder into 8 ounces of water. (Don’t even ask, ha.) I took a photo, as proof to myself (and to document on Instagram Story) that I had gotten up before 9am during Quarantine. I’m now at the kitchen table, sitting right alongside the only window in the house that provides any kind of view. It’s the same view I’ve been looking at now for weeks on end. But today it hits different, with the sun rising up at the end of my block. The scene is quiet and still, but at this hour, it’s supposed to be. The day isn’t in full-swing so I can’t prematurely determine whether it’s productive or a bummer yet. And that gives me peace. Because right now, this day feels like a collaboration between me and the sun. We rose together, and hopefully we’ll set together when the day is done. </p>
<div class="wp-block-image"><figure class="alignright size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/kitchen.jpg?w=768" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="504" width="378" /></figure></div>
<p>I don’t know about you, but the last week or two have felt especially suffocating. And with Michigan weather being what’s it’s been (SNOW, Michigan keeps giving us SNOW) – let’s just say …<strong> I was losing it. </strong></p>
<p>Staying home isn’t what bothers me. I’ve been actively working from home for over 2 years now, and I’m very much okay with the discipline and reflection that comes with being home alone all day. I can start the day off writing, consume copious amounts of coffee, and work in quiet solitude between my home office and my kitchen table for hours and hours. Then, when my husband would get home from work, it’d be time for dinner and drinks and decompressing. It was a good set-up. It was a schedule I took for granted. Because let me just come right out and say it…</p>
<p>‘<em>Productivity’ ain’t been happening for me since early March. </em></p>
<p>And I won’t go on about how my husband is driving me crazy (which he is) or how some days I’m the most impatient/quick to bark human ever (because I can be) or how pitifully I miss my family that are only a 45 minute drive away or how stressed I am/lost I feel that so many music plans for 2020 have dissolved in a matter of weeks. </p>
<p>No, I don’t need to bitch about all that stuff because I know you feel me. I know my aggravations and anxiousness are very similar to yours. However, a lot of you have CHILDREN, which I imagine only amplifies all those emotions. (Bless you, by the way.)</p>
<p>So let me just tell you about yesterday afternoon that led me into this morning. </p>
<p>Around 3PM yesterday, it was very apparent to me that I had 2 choices: 1) Stay home and potentially play out an episode of “Dateline” 2) Go somewhere (when I’m allowed nowhere) and calm down. It’s wild the restrictions Quarantine has on literally everything, even how we process emotions. </p>
<p>So I packed a little backpack – water bottle, journal, pen, Kindle, headphones, small blanket – and headed out. Oh yes, me in all my righteous anger hopped in the car (my first time behind the wheel in a month) and drove.</p>
<p><em>And where did my freedom drive lead me to, you ask? </em> One neighborhood over. </p>
<p>I stopped at a small neighborhood park, caution tape wrapped all around the play equipment. I walked over to a tree beside the soccer field, spread out my blanket, and remained there for a solid 2 and a half hours. </p>
<p><strong>It felt like the first exhale I’d had in months. </strong></p>
<p>The sun was out and I could feel it’s brief heat in-between the big breezes. And even though it wasn’t a “warm” day per say, it felt like a baptism – to be outside and completely alone. I was mesmerized by the look and sound of trees swaying along. Yeah, you read that right … I LISTENED TO TREES. I leaned against a big trunk while I read and would look up to see the blue sky, spliced by “still winter”-looking branches resting right above me. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-center"><strong>It took me back. </strong></p>
<figure class="wp-block-image size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/grass.jpg?w=1024" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="355" width="463" /></figure>
<p>Years ago in Nashville, I’d pack up my 2 dogs with a blanket, book, journal, (and a Dunkin Donuts iced coffee) and drive up the street to Sevier Park in 12 South. I’d find my perfect place on the grass and the 3 of us would stay as long as the day’s schedule would allow me. It was like a safe haven amidst the chaos for me. A place to be still with the sun. When I look back on how much I needed those “breathers” back then, it feels like another life. The girl from 7 years ago never would’ve admitted this to herself but … she was incredibly lost and a lot of times, just downright stupid. I had no idea what the “light at the end of the tunnel” was and even I saw it, I was so emotionally self-destructive I probably would’ve just passed it by and kept fumbling through the dark. But even then, I recognized the need to shut off … even if it was only for 30 minutes a few times a week.</p>
<p>Having flashbacks to those sanity-dependent “breathers” I used to have in Nashville really put things in perspective for me yesterday. Back in the day, it was easy to blame exes or money or the music business for my unhappiness. But the reality is, I was fighting myself. Which, to be honest, is probably the biggest battle any of us fight in this life. For me, the heartache I caused myself throughout my 20’s cut deeper than even my recent bout with cancer or this Quarantine. That’s crazy to type and even crazier to read back, but I stand by it.</p>
<p>But now, Life’s battles are not mine and mine alone. I have someone fighting them alongside me. A very, very good someone. And when I compare my heart – from that lonely girl in Sevier Park to the woman I’m slowly (but surely) becoming now – sitting by my kitchen window with a husband snoring upstairs, I know which one is infinitely better. </p>
<p>So in conclusion, I’d like to thank the trees for talking me off the ledge yesterday. I needed the reminder. Turns out, “grey skies” don’t last forever but you’ll never know unless you come out and see for yourself. </p>
<p>We’ve got this.</p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/62927922020-04-24T01:21:24-04:002020-04-24T02:15:51-04:00Perfectionist.
<p>It’s kind of funny, really. Yesterday someone called me a “perfectionist” and it caught me completely off guard. So naturally, I laughed it off and told them to “stop talking stupid” (great rebuttal), but still they stood by their assessment. </p>
<p>So when talking with various friends & family on the phone today, I casually brought it up and …. ((crickets)) Then a “well, yeah”. WHAT?</p>
<p>I’ve been stunned. All day. </p>
<h2>Like, the world and its daily trials, tribulations, and headlines weren’t crazy enough for me today … because now, I’ve found out that I’m a perfectionist. </h2>
<p>It’s fine, I’m only on my 4th glass of wine and I still don’t know why this bothers me. </p>
<p>Okay, maybe I do. I think I always associated a “perfectionist” as being someone much more adult/responsible than I am. And you can call me a lot of things, but “responsible” is probably not ranking the highest on that list. I mean, I literally do nothing that I’m supposed to do when it comes to so many facets in my life … so how am I a perfectionist?</p>
<p>And then someone broke it down for me tonight …</p>
<div class="wp-block-jetpack-layout-grid alignfull column1-desktop-grid__span-9 column1-desktop-grid__row-1 column2-desktop-grid__span-3 column2-desktop-grid__start-10 column2-desktop-grid__row-1 column1-tablet-grid__span-5 column1-tablet-grid__row-1 column2-tablet-grid__span-3 column2-tablet-grid__start-6 column2-tablet-grid__row-1 column1-mobile-grid__span-4 column1-mobile-grid__row-1 column2-mobile-grid__span-4 column2-mobile-grid__row-2">
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<figure class="wp-block-image size-large is-resized"><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/02/cropped-3r1a2889-edit-2.jpg?w=1024" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="323" width="407" /></figure>
</div>
<div class="wp-block-jetpack-layout-grid-column wp-block-jetpack-layout-grid__padding-none">
<h3 class="has-text-align-center">“You want perfection from whatever represents the things that truly matter to you.”</h3>
</div>
</div>
<p>And it was like someone flipped the switch. I got it. </p>
<p>One look at my email inbox and I see…I drive the point home. My husband and I spent over 6 hours in my basement getting the sound and light quality right for a 5 minute video that I needed to send out. (To be fair, this is brand-new equipment and neither of us has any idea what we’re doing. So, there is that.) I’ve been looking to adopt a rescue pup but I won’t apply for the first cute dog I see because, that just doesn’t feel special. Also, I have to consider my profession and how before this – if I wasn’t on stage or in a studio somewhere, then I was constantly spending time with my tiny nieces and nephews. I mean, even this blog post …<em> I’ve been putting off writing for / posting that I even have a blog because I haven’t had the time to make it look how I know it could.</em></p>
<p>So whatever. I’m a perfectionist now. </p>
<p>I’d apologize for it and tell you that I’ll work on “loosening the reigns” but the truth is … I won’t. For the first time in a very long time, I have a vision. And though I’ve admittedly struggled throughout this pandemic, this is not an aimless wander. I know exactly what I’m walking towards. </p>
<p>I’ll tell you it’s liberating to recognize your path and stay the course, because it is. But there’s a heaviness that comes with it too. To know, without a shadow of a doubt, what you are supposed to be doing with your life and purposefully not do it is a weight you drag along. But also, to recognize your purpose, pursue it with all your might, and continuously hit dead-ends and detours is also a cement block resting on your chest. And truthfully, I don’t know that you strike a “balance” with any of it until you’ve “made it”. And even then, how many people have we seen foolishly fall from grace and lose it all? But hey … if everyone chased the crazy, it wouldn’t be crazy anymore. </p>
<p>I’m whole-heartedly grateful for the talent and the fire that God instilled in me as a child. I am blessed that I still have the opportunity to share that with you today … and yes, I want it to look like I care, because I do. I thank the Lord for the family that I come from, my friends that are just a phone call away, and a husband that lifts me towards the light on the days I want to stay in the dark.</p>
<p>I need you guys and I have a feeling, you need a voice that resonates with you too. Maybe you find it here. Maybe you don’t. But either way, I have your hear for the moment and there’s so much I want to share with you … and I’m goin to … imperfections and all. </p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/62639032020-03-27T11:42:04-04:002020-03-27T14:30:38-04:00My 3 month Quarantine.<p>Hey fam, wanted to check in…make sure everybody’s good.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I know that this is a strange and scary time right now.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And though it might be hitting some harder than others, at the end of the day, this is affecting all of us.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I find solace in knowing my boredom/frustration is being shared with friends + strangers all over the world. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<p>On that note, I’d like to share with you my personal “quarantine” story (because I have nothing but time to do that now).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Maybe it helps shift perspective for a few people. Maybe it doesn’t.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Either way, you’re reading this because you have plenty of time now too.</p>
<p>Two weeks ago, I was given the “all clear” by my oncologist and radiation oncologist to resume what once were my daily activities prior to my surgery in November.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Restrictions like: not lifting anything over 20 lbs, maintaining celibacy, keeping a restricted diet were no longer vital to my healing process. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> It felt like a major finish line was being crossed.<img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/03/facetune_27-03-2020-11-30-07-e1585323659213.jpg?w=314&h=733" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Facetune_27-03-2020-11-30-07" height="733" width="314" /><br>
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<p>Needless to say, it was a slow and isolating winter for me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The trauma to my body due to the radical hysterectomy was one thing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was couch-bound for weeks, unable to do much of anything but watch Disney+ and feel as my body suffered multiple side effects + allergic reactions to surgery on a daily basis.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Thankfully, my sister had hung Christmas lights throughout the inside of my house when I came home from the hospital…an immediate mood-booster.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I made a haven out of my little corner of the sectional, propped myself up right beside the window.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Coloring books and word searches, a stack of library books, my journal, my laptop, and 2 dogs that laid beside me amongst an array of blankets kept me sane.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My “social interaction” during the day was watching the mailman stepped onto my porch every afternoon.</p>
<p>A month later, I was cleared to drive.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Which would have been somewhat of a ‘return to the real world’ for me, however, it wasn’t.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I then had to drive to Beaumont Hospital 5 days a week for 5 weeks for radiation treatment.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Treatments brought on fatigue like I’d never experienced.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>For a high energy person like myself, it messed with my head to feel like I needed a nap everyday.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It severely affected my stomach and bladder control to the point I couldn’t be in public longer than an hour without some kind of embarrassment.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So my “social isolation” continued.</p>
<p>Throughout this medical experience, only 20 people knew what I was going through while I was actively going through it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And even though that was intentional, it inevitably brought on intense waves of loneliness on my rough days.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So I learned how to self-soothe.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I meditated.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I journaled.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I read more books.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I practiced guitar.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I organized my closets.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I got a FitBit and made myself walk…if it was too cold outside, I’d put on headphones and walk laps around my basement.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Everyday was one day closer to normalcy. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<p>By the end of February, life was picking up speed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was done with radiation and my new releases on TIDAL were just starting to roll out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There were photo shoots, music videos, and big shows to prepare for.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was just starting to get back into the studio.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And I was FINALLY going to get the honeymoon I’d waited over a year for. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<p>But … just like with everyone else in the world, my big plans had to change.</p>
<p>Am I frustrated?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Sure.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Am I bored?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Well, I’ve started singing karaoke alone in my basement, so you can guess the answer. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<p>But I’ll tell you one thing I am not: Careless. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<p>Look – I was young, I worked out 5 days a week, took my vitamins, and never got sick.</p>
<p>And I was still not exempt from cancer.</p>
<p>I’m smart enough to know that I’m also not exempt from COVID-19.</p>
<p>I know this sucks. I know you miss your friends, your nieces & nephews, your daily Starbucks runs … me too.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I know you’re worried about your livelihood and what the future will hold. I am too.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But you know what I’m most afraid of, the one thing I would never get over?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If I passed COVID-19 to someone else.</p>
<p>I have not seen another human aside from my husband in 13 days. Granny is 92 years old.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My mother has a very weakened immune system due to her kidney transplant and all the procedures she’s had to have since.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My father has a lung condition and his plant is still open, where a co-worker was just put on a 2 week leave for being in contact with someone with coronavirus.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My sister is reporting every day to U of M hospital as a nurse. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My family is my everything and they are all less than an hour away.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It hurts not to see them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But whatever I’m feeling now completely pales in comparison to the thought of losing someone I love. Or making you lose someone you love. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<p>If I can make it through November, December, and January in isolation, surely I can handle another 2-3 weeks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And so can you.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This is happening to all of us.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So let’s start acting like our lives depend on it, because they do.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Stay home.</p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/62033942020-02-04T15:45:49-05:002020-02-04T16:04:47-05:00the year of everything.<p>Well, this is a big week. A big week on many levels. I’m experiencing all kinds of feels. But more on that later.</p>
<p>It’s been a quite awhile since I’ve written and posted a blog, and I feel like I should catch you up on the happenings…</p>
<p>A year ago today, I was preparing to release my 2nd single independently, <em>“Suicidal Heart”</em>. A dual-versioned single, at that. I was chained to my computer for weeks…designing artwork, making videos, writing my own press releases, looking up and sending off emails to anyone that might listen, revamping my website, coming up with a social media strategy, trying to land local appearances, and all the 1000 roles artists play when it’s just you. All the while, I was working with <span style="text-decoration:underline;">0 dollars</span> and <span style="text-decoration:underline;">no band</span>.</p>
<p>But I was joyously working. Being in the driver’s seat for the first time in a long time was such a confidence-builder. Plenty of people didn’t get back to me but I didn’t care. Because with every “yes” I got, it reaffirmed that I was on to something. That maybe, just maybe after all the years of feeling like I was on a “hamster wheel”, I actually learned how to be a businesswoman on top of being a good singer. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it til the day I die…<em> All we need is the boost of ONE opportunity. The rest is how hard you’re willing to work to keep that momentum. </em></p>
<p>As soon as that single was released, I was working on what was to come next. And in the midst of picking out a 3rd single …<span style="text-decoration:underline;"> Instagram changed the game</span><strong>.</strong></p>
<p>At the end of February 2019, <strong>I saw a Sponsored Ad on my Instagram feed from TIDAL.</strong> The post said they were looking for Detroit-based artists for a unique opportunity. So, I clicked and it led me to a submission page on their website. Ten minutes later, I’d filled out the application with my links and pushed “Submit”. I knew it was a complete long shot so I didn’t give it a second thought after that day. Onward with my plan, which involved a couple shows in Nashville that week and figuring out how to cheaply record my 3rd single.</p>
<p>One month later, <strong>I heard back from TIDAL</strong>. Which led to several video interviews between me and TIDAL team members – one of us reporting from an old lady bungalow in Michigan and the others coming from a conference room in NYC. Surreal doesn’t begin to explain it. It led me to a live audition. TIDAL team members flew in from NYC, a camera crew had me all mic’ed up, and I was filmed from every angle as I sat in a chair, strummed my guitar, closed my eyes and sang like my life depended on it. (And prayed that they couldn’t see how my knees were literally shaking while sitting down.) After my audition, I headed back down to Nashville to play a show and keep myself distracted while I waited…</p>
<p>Weeks later, I got the news… <strong>Out of thousands of submissions, I was one of the 5 artists chosen for a brand new program called TIDAL Unplugged.</strong> To this day, TIDAL can’t believe I landed in this program because of an Instagram ad. Neither can I.<img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2020/02/tidaloffice-e1580848994373.jpg?w=422&h=589" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="TIDALoffice" height="589" width="422" /></p>
<p>The rest of the whirlwind that was 2019 is caught on camera. Which was a trip. Being mic’ed up, bringing strangers into my everyday world was hilariously bizarre. Because if you haven’t noticed by now, my personality is probably too big for my own good, ha.</p>
<p>I’ve always been an open book, on and off camera. I’ve always felt like my trials and my triumphs are bigger than the song, bigger than a post. Little did I know how true that would ring for me in 2019.</p>
<p>This docu-series chronicles a time in my life that defines everything for me from here. It’s the first of many releases from me and TIDAL Unplugged over the next few months. The first is always the scariest. Especially because it’s my story. <em>And I decided to tell it all.</em></p>
<p>So here we go: <a href="https://tidal.com/unplugged" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://tidal.com/unplugged</a></p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/58900742018-11-20T21:40:55-05:002019-09-12T18:12:07-04:00The first.<p>I’ve sat down to write this more than a handful of times over the last week or so, trying to share some recent and sensitive news with everyone. Every time, I carve out an hour and I just start to type. And every time, my free-flow of emotions settle differently, my “message” varying with each writing session. When people use the cliche, “…all the feels”, let’s just say… I’m feeling them. So I’ll just get right to it…</p>
<p><strong>I lost my dog.</strong></p>
<p>My old girl, my “first-born”, <strong>Deliah Maye</strong> (or as we called her the last few years, <strong>“Doodle</strong>”) is gone. And it hurts far more than I expected, with all kinds of self-reflection consuming my thoughts lately. But instead of sharing a bunch of deep, introspective shit right now, I’ll just share our story.</p>
<p>With the temperament of a little old Grandma from the very day I got her, she was my baby. I was fresh out of high school and had just moved to Nashville.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Upon arrival, I had</span> never driven my car through fast food drive-thru, never wrote a check, having literally nothing to my name but an artifact Nokia phone that my parents let me take down to Tennessee with me. I was young, clueless, and inevitably, homesick.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was living in a garage apartment in my managers’ home in <strong>Kingston Springs</strong> and had just released my very first album.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Musically, things were busy and incredibly exciting. However, I completely lacked any kind of social life, which made being on the brink of adulthood much harder. </span>All my music peers were considerably older than me and after sessions, it left me feeling pretty lonely at the end of the day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A few months after being in Tennessee, my managers suggested that maybe a dog would do me good and help with all these big life transitions.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Clearly, I did not need to be talked into this.</p>
<h2><strong>Enter: Deliah.</strong></h2>
<p>I was raised with shelties growing up, so I knew exactly what I was looking for.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I found an ad in the classifieds inside the Tennessean (<em>yeah, it was that long ago</em>) for sheltie puppies and I was sold before I even saw them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That weekend, we drove over an hour to a remote farm, with all the puppies being kept in the barn.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This liter of pups, no bigger than guinea pigs, toppled over themselves and each other, and immediately sent me into sensory overload.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I had no idea which was which, they were too tiny to tell apart.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So I decided that whichever pup let me hold him/her and didn’t try to squirm out of my hands would be “the one”.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I picked them up at random and when I came to Deliah, she snuggled into my easily, almost like she was relieved to be plucked from the pack.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You see, from Day 1, Deliah didn’t want be amongst the “common folk”, being regarded as just a dog.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> In all honesty, I think the word “dog” offended her, like she couldn’t relate. </span>This early perception of herself would epitomize Deliah the rest of her life. Her demeanor would also ruin me for life by giving me the false impression that all dogs were as “chill” and lazy as this one.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/56338776013__f84b6dc8-a2b2-457c-bc6b-4eba9a6a7f38-e1542746271730.jpeg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="56338776013__F84B6DC8-A2B2-457C-BC6B-4EBA9A6A7F38" /></p>
<p><strong>I came up with the name Deliah from the flower, Dahlia</strong>. Years earlier, my Polish grandfather gifted me a few baggies of Dahlia seeds when we were moving him out of his house and into a nursing home. That memory never left me. I thought the pronunciation of “Dahlia” was kind of weird so I improvised with Deliah (Del-yah).</p>
<p>The first few days of having her, she wouldn’t eat or drink when we’d put the bowls down. I had no idea what to do.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> My managers said they thought she was younger than 8 weeks so she might not be weaned from her mother quite yet. So each night, I</span>’d lay down by her tiny water/food bowls, crying and begging this little nugget to eat, but she wouldn’t.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then I’d eventually fall asleep on the carpet, right there by the bowls … waking up to the sound of her eating or drinking beside my head.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<p>Those first 6 months or so, I’d take her to every co-writing appointment, recording session, I even took her to my first few industry showcases, keeping her in my puppy purse underneath a table up in front.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I even wrote a song about her, <strong>“It’s Not About Me Anymore”</strong>. Yes, seriously. And it’s actually a fucking great song so don’t judge me, ha. (You can listen to teenage RayRay on Spotify here: <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/6Rpr6ZBVyku5SP9ma7AII7?si=CACK1ajVSaKfD0ga1sdpCQ">https://open.spotify.com/track/6Rpr6ZBVyku5SP9ma7AII7?si=CACK1ajVSaKfD0ga1sdpCQ</a>)</span></p>
<p>After our first year together, the vet informed me that she needed to lose weight.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> H</span>ow you get a dog too fat in it’s first year is still, to this day, one of my more humorous life fails. Aside from changing her diet, I had to get this lazy pup to exercise more. We lived out in the country and our road didn’t have sidewalks, making daily dog walks more difficult. So instead I’d sprint back and forth across the lawn and make her chase me. Or I’d take her to the park and walk fast around the trails, having her follow me off the leash.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Eventually, we both lost our “baby fat”, with me dropping weight right along with her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> (She wasn’t the only one allergic to exercise back then.). </span>I was nervous that she’d gain it back without younger dogs around to play with, especially when I was on the road. Less than 2 years after getting Deliah, I was given the green light to get another dog. <strong>Delaney.</strong> I was now 20 and a “single mom” of two.</p>
<p><strong>I distinctly remember thinking that Deliah would hate Delaney</strong>.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Deliah didn’t necessarily take to other dogs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Or kids.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Or basically, anything with energy that tried to get in her space, besides me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Delaney was a rescue dog that I found online and instantly fell in love with when I saw her photos.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I went to meet Delaney, she was 5 months old and the fastest running dog I’d ever seen in my life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> The moment she was released from her kennel to meet us, she took off in a sprint, running circles around me, with no signs of slowing down long enough for anyone to pet her. I </span>remember saying, “I can’t take this dog.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She’s too much, Deliah will hate her.” But I did take her. I was so nervous the entire hour drive back, with this new dog in the car and Deliah waiting in the backyard for us to return.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I hesitantly</span> opened the gate and brought this new dog into the yard, bracing myself for the worst. Instead I witnessed these two dogs immediately start running through the yard, chasing each other and playing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>DELIAH WAS RUNNING?!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I swear to God, I cried tears of joy seeing how they instantly took to each other.</p>
<p>Deliah and Delaney were sisters without coaxing and right away, I had two best friends.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Eventually, I did </span>make friends my age. And when I did, they all knew that I came with 2 sidekicks almost everywhere I went.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My first house, out on my own, was a little one-bedroom, 400 square foot house on a dead-end road in East Nashville.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I had just turned 21. I cut my own lawn, hand-washed my dishes, and watched the same 5 DVD’s over & over on the same small TV from my childhood bedroom. I stole a weak wireless reception from my neighbor and didn’t have cable, but I had my dogs.</p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/img_9111.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_9111" /></p>
<p><strong>A few months after this photo was taken, Deliah was viciously attacked by a neighbor’s pitbull in my backyard.</strong><span class="Apple-converted-space"><strong> </strong> I was in the studio when I got the call from my roommate. </span>I rushed home and will never forget how she was like a limp noodle when I tried to pick her up, still in shock.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The vet stayed open an extra hour, just to see her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Her recovery was long, and honestly, in no way for the faint of heart.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> The operation was $3000, or there was the option to treat the wound naturally & safely, with the warning that it wasn’t going to look pretty for awhile. I chose the ugly. It was tedious, but I never thought twice about it. I guess I do have a </span>maternal instinct in me.</p>
<p>Deliah would recover.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But she’d have a small lump and a gnarly scar where the fur would never grow again. I thought her battle scars were cool. It showed character, also, <em>she sounded like a total badass.</em> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<p>I’d move multiple times throughout my 20’s.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> My bungalow house off Shelby Ave with a neon green kitchen, a doggie door, and a front porch swing. The gorgeous tri-level home, with a big island counter in the kitchen and a huge front AND back yard for the dogs. The perfect house for entertaining, only all my friends thought Hermitage was “too far” back then, ha! And then eventually to my “barn” house in 12 South. With a large screened-in porch, a pathetic little white picket fence in front, and big bedroom windows that opened up and made you feel like a princess up in her tower. I’d acquire a list</span> of different roommates, guys I was dating, guys I thought I was dating but actually wasn’t, a major tour, new friends I’d make, friends I thought I’d never lose but did … and <em>Deliah & Delaney would bear witness to them all. </em></p>
<p>With every new house, I was hopeful for the “new beginning” I assumed came with it. But my “fresh starts” were usually short-lived.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The reality is, I was so busy stressing out over my love-life and career, I didn’t have the awareness of how badly I was treating myself. I think a lot of women would agree … <strong>I wish I would’ve loved myself / forgiven myself / shown more grace to myself in my 20’s.</strong> But I do know one thing for certain, <strong>I sure did love those dogs.</strong><span class="Apple-converted-space"> So any love I was withholding from myself, I poured into my making my dogs true companions. When I needed to clear my head, they’d come along, however many miles I needed to walk or drive. They’d hear every tear cried</span>. <em>They would see the very worst days and love me through them all.</em></p>
<p>About 4-5 years ago, Deliah started having a hard time walking.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She’d struggle to get up off the floor and I didn’t know what was going on.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The vet said that the x-rays showed a benign tumor pushing down towards the back of her vertebrae, interrupting the signal from her brain to her back legs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The vet assured me that she wasn’t in pain, but that Deliah was probably frustrated because she couldn’t understand why her back legs weren’t doing what she wanted them to do.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That entire summer, I carried her in and out of the house when she needed to go to the bathroom.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I borrowed/bought a bunch of old rugs and made a pathway around my hardwood floored house, so that she didn’t slip.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I carried her upstairs to my bedroom every night when we went to bed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Eventually, it got much more manageable, but never a full recovery.</p>
<p>The move to Michigan was brutal. It was the dead of winter and I was incredibly lonely and second-guessing everything I’ve ever done in the history of my life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I felt like I was betraying myself by leaving Nashville. But every night, my</span> dogs served as the reminder of who I really was … the good I still possessed, no matter my missteps. I mean, I’d kept them alive this long, I couldn’t be all bad, right?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ha. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<h2><strong>Enter: My husband.</strong></h2>
<p>Delaney was/still is the crowd favorite, particularly with males. I had a few that told me, point blank, they preferred Delaney over Deliah.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> What a</span>ssholes. I always slightly catered to Deliah because of the adoration the general public had for Delaney. Jon and I had been seeing each other a month a half before I brought my dogs over to meet him and his bulldog, Stella.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Although Stella did not particularly care for her new visitors (I mean, I wouldn’t either if I had new dogs in my crib) … Jon loved them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><strong>Both of them</strong>.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Instantly.</p>
<p><strong>Six months into dating, we decided to try living together.</strong> It was a completely foreign and terrifying experience for me at first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’d had roommates in the past and even lived with a couple guys before, but never in SOMEONE ELSE’S house.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was always my place, my sole name on the lease, my furniture, my domain. That way, if it wasn’t working, they’d leave and I’d stay. With or without a man.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>With or without that friend/roommate.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p>
<p>Now I’m moving myself & my 2 dogs into someone else’s house. Someone else’s furniture, silverware, tacky wall decor, AND someone else’s dog who has had this man all to herself for 8 years solid.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>To say this was a big life transition would be a huge understatement.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But having Deliah & Delaney helped me maintain some normalcy in this unchartered water.</p>
<p>Just before our one-year anniversary, I convinced him that we should get a puppy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I wanted a baby Deliah, another Sheltie puppy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Maybe that would help rejuvenate Deliah, make her more of a “mother hen” in her elder years. My good intention did not pan out as smoothly as I had hoped. Deliah was over more “life changes”, so this rambunctious puppy was not her idea of a good time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Little did Deliah know, <strong>her last chapter would prove to be just as important as any.</strong></p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/img_9107.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_9107" /></p>
<p><strong>My Mom had an almost unbearably rough time between July 2016-July 2017.</strong> She lost her two brothers less than a year apart. When we had to put our family dog down around the same time, the void grew even more. She kept telling us she needed another dog, but none of us thought it was a good idea. A new dog would be a lot of work that my parents did not have the energy for, nor did they have a fenced in yard to accommodate said dog. There wasn’t a worse idea…</p>
<p><strong>Then I needed Mom to watch Deliah over the holidays.</strong></p>
<p>When I came back to town a week and a half later, it was abundantly clear to me what was happening. I watched as my Mom made cheese-toast, only to feed it all to Deliah. Then justifying it with, “Well, if she doesn’t get scraps from me, she gets it from the food your niece flings from her high chair. And the baby isn’t here today.”</p>
<p>And just like that, Mom had a new best friend. And Deliah got to live her days being the lazy, old Grandma she’s always been. No other dogs. No hardwood floors. And all the table scraps she could consume.</p>
<p>When we got married, having the dogs down in Tennessee with us was completely non-negotiable. We’d struggle to find an Air BnB that allowed 3 dogs, but eventually, we found one. Everyone was worried with how Deliah would handle the trip. She had not ridden in the car for a long-distance trip in almost 3 years. My family was bracing me for the worst, expecting our travel to be difficult with her and the other 2 dogs in our vehicle. Lo and behold, it was easy and without incident. Once we got to <strong>Kingston Springs,</strong> we all understood that Deliah wouldn’t be able to go up and down the porch steps. Like clock-work and without hesitation, I’d lift her up, walk her down to the yard, sit with her awhile, and then carry her back into the house. (Clearly, my mom’s cheese-toast feedings were taking place by the truck load because she weighed a ton.) But I didn’t care. I’d done this very thing a hundred times over in our 13 years together and I wanted to do it for her now. She adjusted back to Tennessee right away. She grazed along the yard, she slept heavily, she followed me with an enthusiasm I hadn’t seen in years. <em>My girl was happy to be home.</em> My wedding day was chaotic, with literally everything being a last-minute decision. In all the craziness, the dogs almost didn’t make it to the ceremony. I was bummed but willing to take responsibility for not organizing their transportation to and from better. At the last second, a miracle was pulled off and the dogs were there… with a dear friend carrying my fat little Deliah, decked in a bridal tutu, down the aisle.</p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/dogs.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="dogs" /></p>
<h2><strong>Our wedding trip is how I’ll always remember the last days of Deliah.</strong></h2>
<p><strong>As a lot of you already know, my husband lost his beloved bulldog, Stella, earlier this summer. </strong>Being there for him throughout the entire process of losing Stella truly prepared me for marriage in a way I can’t fully explain. I had never so easily stood strong for someone else before.</p>
<p>And less than 6 months later, he now had to stand strong for me. Literally. Deliah passed away in Michigan while I was in Tennessee. He handled everything. Including talking to her as she went and hugging my Mom when I couldn’t. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, but it did. I’m so thankful for Jon.</p>
<p><strong>And now, like him, I understand the gravity of losing your “first”</strong>. It goes far beyond missing their presence, calling their name, crying over photos. These dogs lifted us through life in the times when no one else could. These dogs saw us through every break-up, big move, professional achievement, emotional meltdown, new love, and so on. <strong>We mourn the journey too. </strong></p>
<p>It’s kind of poetic in a way.</p>
<p>I called a truce with Stella in her final days, promising to take care of Jon as good as she had. Unfortunately, she didn’t live to see the wedding. And now, a few weeks after our wedding, my Deliah has joined her. We believe good things happen if we keep showing up. So I did, with Deliah by my side….and the good found me. Thanks for seeing it through, Doodle.<img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/22008437_10159443032525581_1799044674878134136_n.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="22008437_10159443032525581_1799044674878134136_n" /></p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/58900752018-10-29T00:25:13-04:002019-09-12T18:12:08-04:00Happy One Year Anniversary, Ray.<p>The show was starting in 20 minutes. I had already taken up my normal post for whenever I play <strong>the Bluebird Cafe</strong>. My preferred spot in the round is the chair that faces the big windows and the front door, so naturally I claimed it the moment I walked through the door. I was fiddling around for my lip gloss when one of my girlfriends came up beside me.</p>
<p><em>“We really should take your photo in front of the Bluebird before the show.”</em></p>
<p>Earlier that week, this same friend had suggested to me that I should create a <strong><span style="text-decoration:underline;">new Instagram account</span>.</strong> Something solely dedicated to my music. Something where people could discover me as an artist and see what I’m all about.</p>
<p>Due to multiple delayed projects, it had been years since that kind of spotlight had been put on me, so the thought of putting it on myself seemed like a daunting task. With the lack of anything big in the near future then, I was uncomfortable with the idea. Also, I was unsure of how to go about any kind of “re-branding” and honestly, thought no one would actually care so I’d rather not embarrass myself. <em>Oh, and another big thing …</em></p>
<p><strong>I was now going by Ray Williams.</strong></p>
<p>The change came about when I was filming a docu-series in Detroit a couple years ago. The label liked the idea of “Ray” because it suited the persona they needed to fill better than Rachel. I mean, my friends & nephews call me “Ray Ray” so it didn’t seem like a radical change. However, with the project still unreleased, it was a change I was open to but in no means was it ‘official’ anywhere yet. A brand new Instagram account would be the very first declaration to everybody that it was Ray, not Rachel. It was a big deal and I almost let fear get the best of me on that one. Eventually I let up and told her I’d be down for the experiment if she was offering to help.</p>
<h2><span style="text-decoration:underline;">One year ago today:</span></h2>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/10/img_85961-e1540787060697.png?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="img_85961.png" /></p>
<p>I like to call this photo “If You Build It, They Will Come”, ha.</p>
<p>From that night on, every trip back to Nashville had one afternoon of Instagram. My friend and I would drive around to different locations with a back seat full of clothes, shoes, and makeup, me changing right there in the car…snapping a ton of quick photos on an old iPhone.</p>
<p>The 1st month of the new account, I was newly engaged and back in a snow-covered Michigan. So I’d lock myself upstairs and sing till I had no voice, while playing guitar until my fingers didn’t work. All in an effort to capture the perfect, one-minute video of me singing a cover song in front of my vanity lights. And if I had clean hair that day, well, I might even record two.</p>
<p>And with every post (and thought-out hashtags), <strong>we started to see the followers increase</strong>. I felt confident enough to start renaming and re-vamping the other social media accounts on Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter and eventually, my website all together.</p>
<h3><span style="text-decoration:underline;">One month after The Bluebird/New Account Created: Lyft</span></h3>
<p>Around Thanksgiving of last year, I got a mass text message from <strong>Lyft</strong>. The text called for any local drivers or passengers that are musicians to send their music in and possibly win free recording time at a new facility called <strong>MusicTown Detroit</strong>. Considering I was always back and forth to Nashville, I didn’t need the recording time, but the submission process took about 30 seconds from my phone. So I sent it off and didn’t think twice about it.</p>
<p>A week or so later, I got an email telling me that I’d be chosen as a finalist for free studio time at MusicTown Detroit. I didn’t have a band in Michigan, I didn’t even have artist gigs up here yet. Any musicians I knew, I knew because they played for the artist I sang backgrounds for. But as luck would have it, the guitar player I used down in Nashville was visiting his family in Michigan for the holidays, so I was covered. <em>(Love you, Shane Sanders!)</em> They filmed & recorded the two of us performing a handful of songs acoustically in the studio and told me I should have the final video by the New Year. The next morning, I got a call from the studio engineer telling me that some folks from Lyft saw my video footage from the day before and wanted to know if I could come play their Lyft Christmas Party … <em>that same night</em>. It was so last-minute that I almost didn’t even attempt to make it happen. Thankfully I did. We did the show later that night and on my way out from the party, I met a couple folks from the corporate office for Lyft who wanted to talk to me about teaming up in some way in the new year.</p>
<p>Throughout 2018, I have represented myself in conference table meetings with one of the most popular apps in the country. I have vocalized my vision and needs to the ones at the top of Detroit’s biggest radio stations. I’ve been featured on Channel 7 WXYZ and Channel 4 WDIV, with no sounding board but myself. I’ve performed for WYCD’s Hoedown at DTE Energy Music Theater, the Ford Firework Celebration, and Monday Night Football. I’ve made two appearances on the legendary WSM 650AM and my video performances on 104.5 WOMC and 99.5’s HomeGrown Happy Hour have all surpassed 10K views each.</p>
<p><em><strong>All of this without releasing any new music of my own.</strong> All of this within the first 6 months of 2018. All of this while still singing background vocals on stage for other people and recording countless demos in the studio for other songwriters.</em></p>
<h2><span style="text-decoration:underline;">Then came September.</span></h2>
<p>Releasing my single,<em><strong> “Sing Me Home” </strong></em>was exciting in it’s own right, but coupled with a Single Release Show sponsored by Lyft, 99.5 WYCD, and MusicTown on the rooftop of Hockeytown Cafe was insanity. The first “local artist” in Detroit to have an event partnership like that.</p>
<p><em>No pressure.</em></p>
<p>I somehow managed to keep my head above water with the techy people & the corporate folk, musicians & radio/television personalities, with no representation or management. And you know what? <strong>I did the damn thing.</strong> I had a great show. A successful release. And I miraculously found myself a Showdown champion that was inducted into the WYCD Hall of Fame after 5 consecutive wins.</p>
<h3>But really…</h3>
<p>I don’t write this blog to brag about myself or boast my accomplishments, that is not my point. <em>(Besides, I’m still getting used to the fact that anyone would even care to read this blog right now, ha.)</em> <strong>I write this as a testament to the difference a year can make if you let it. If you leap and you trust it.</strong></p>
<p><span style="text-decoration:underline;">I also write this to bring attention to the friend that encouraged this plunge</span> – who still gives me social media suggestions, still drives around to snap photos of me, including the photo she took of me that night at The Bluebird Cafe exactly one year ago …</p>
<p>Well, she is the same girl who co-wrote <em><strong>“Under Your Spell”</strong></em> with me, and her name is <strong>Whitney Madlom</strong>. She came to me just over a year ago because she wanted to start writing songs and didn’t know how to go about it. Her bravery to explore a new facet of her creativity, having no prior songwriting experience, really inspired me last year and we’ve since written more than a handful of songs together. It was her countless pep talks of me giving <em>“the artist thing”</em> another dedicated shot that has gotten me here… well, us here … with a song that has been viewed/played over 20K times in the last 4 days. <strong>Surround yourself with good people, y’all. </strong>It makes ALL THE DIFFERENCE. Love you, girl.</p>
<div class="jetpack-video-wrapper"><iframe class="youtube-player" type="text/html" width="700" height="394" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KktP5QgTc8Q?version=3&rel=1&fs=1&autohide=2&showsearch=0&showinfo=1&iv_load_policy=1&wmode=transparent" allowfullscreen="true" style="border:0;"></iframe></div>
<h2>So with all that being said…</h2>
<h2>Happy One Year Anniversary to Ray Williams!</h2>
<p><a href="https://www.instagram.com/raywilliamsofficial/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Ray Williams Instagram</a></p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/58900762018-09-25T01:08:42-04:002019-09-12T18:12:08-04:00Reinvention on paper.<p>It’s midnight.</p>
<p>I’ve got the front window open and I can hear the rain hitting the pavement. Usually that would put me to sleep, but for some reason, it’s inspired me to open my MacBook once again.</p>
<p>So again, I’m sitting where I feel like I’ve been sitting for weeks now… at my kitchen table. With a computer screen in front of me, an iPhone that needs constant charge because it’s blowing up at all hours, and a big glass of water. My fiancé finally went to bed and says, “Babe. The show’s over. You can take some time off.”</p>
<p>I shoot him a look that’s both comedic and sympathetic. Because him and I both know that there will be no “time off” for either of us anytime soon.</p>
<p>September has been a whirlwind of music and wedding preparations (or lack thereof, so more like “wedding talk”). From coordinating musicians for gigs, to all sorts of meeting downtown, recording sessions, radio interviews and showdowns, to releasing my single, living on social media to promote release and shows, putting out fires all across the board: music-technology breakdowns-family-friends-fiance THEN we have bridal showers and my birthday and my bachelorette party, constant questions about center-pieces & party favors, and dress fittings and I JUST NEED SOMEONE TO FILL IN FOR ME. Haha. But really <img src="https://s0.wp.com/wp-content/mu-plugins/wpcom-smileys/twemoji/2/72x72/1f609.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="?" style="height: 1em; max-height: 1em;" /></p>
<p>People are surprised I’m handling it all as well as I am. To be honest, I’m just handling what’s in front of me… and music was first so it’s gotten my full attention. It’s been a hard thing for a lot of my family/friends to come to terms with … that I could be so completely focused on music with a wedding just weeks ago. (To clarify, it’s in less than 2 weeks now.).</p>
<p>Launching myself again as an artist has always been the goal, it’s always been the calling. I had no idea that the Universe would conspire to make it a reality literally TWO WEEKS before my wedding. But…”when it rains it pours”…in all the best possible ways, for once.</p>
<p>After yesterday’s successful Single Release Show, I see things clearer. First of all, there’s no way I could be happy not doing music. Secondly, the love I’ve received from everyone coupled with the emotions I’ve felt are thankfully less overwhelming knowing that I have someone to absorb it all with me. It’s not a balance between music and the wedding. It’s a balance between music and my relationship. The wedding will happen, with or without the perfect party favors or a majestic bouquet, or ties that match perfectly with dresses, blah blah blah.</p>
<p>The most important thing that will happen: Jon and I get married.</p>
<p>I’m sitting here, reflecting on what the last 10 days have felt like… and how I’m going to have to make the shift mentally in order to make the next 10 days a success.</p>
<p>The last 10 days have seen me the most stressed and exhausted I’ve ever felt, but also the happiest, the most humbled, and just genuinely grateful I’ve been in a very long time. From rallying everyone to vote for me in the WYCD Showdown and WINNING 5 nights in the a row…all the way to the Hall of Fame! Then with preparations for the Single Release Party, and the reality of how many people were involved and what a big production it was going to be. To rehearsing with the band for the first time…hearing the songs from a record that almost everyone had given up on ever being released…come back to life again in the span of one evening. The press, the tweets, the comments, the shares, the photos that everyone shared in support of me and my “little song that could”…it has truly blown my mind.</p>
<p>I wrote these songs while living in Nashville, hoping for something different but not knowing what it looked like. I knew I wanted to pay homage to Detroit because it is a huge part of me that I felt was never truly represented in my music. So we made it happen. Little did I know, I’d be foreshadowing my return to Motor City. Little did I know that the love of my life AND a career resurrection was waiting for me in the exact place I thought I had to leave in order to attain it. It fills my heart to give thanks to what a full circle moment all of this has been.</p>
<p>My birthday was September 22nd. Three birthdays ago, I was a miserable mess. I took myself solo from Nashville to New York City for my birthday week, just so I could escape everyone and the life I couldn’t seem to find happiness in. I was strolling the streets one morning and decided that I needed a new journal…you know, since “this year” was going to be different, I didn’t need to write new chapters in an old book. I bought a journal at a local bookstore and found the nearest coffee shop to sit down and start writing in it immediately. And I’ve been writing in it ever since.</p>
<p>Last birthday, I got engaged.</p>
<p>This birthday, I spent an amazing day with my fiancé and gave so much praise to God for all the tiredness and stress and love and affirmation I’d received that year, and most certainly, that week.</p>
<p>When I sat down this morning to write about all the excitement of the weekend, I saw that I’m on the final few pages of the journal now.</p>
<p>I find no coincidence in the fact that I documented my biggest life transitions, my personal growth, finding love and figuring out how to keep it, my prayers for myself and my family, my musical frustrations and accomplishments… all in 3 years.</p>
<p>From complete hot mess to matrimony & new music. All in one journal.</p>
<p>And now, I get to start a new journal in a few more pages. As a wife. As an artist. Two things that I truly almost gave up on believing would ever happen for me. And even though there’s a part of me that still can’t believe this is really my life right now…</p>
<p>I know that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. For once I can say that and believe it with everything I have. And many thanks for helping me get here.</p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/58900772018-06-06T15:30:39-04:002019-09-12T18:12:08-04:00Truce.<h3>It’s 8:15AM on a Wednesday.</h3>
<p>I’m sitting at the kitchen table, right beside our big front window with an iced coffee, our little boring street serving as the perfect morning backdrop for some writing. Straight ahead of me, our three dogs are sleeping on the couch. I keep a watchful eye on them, one in particular.</p>
<p>I know that I should write now because in less than 12 hours, our lives will more than likely be completely changed. And if/when it comes, I won’t be able to write the story I want to share right now, in this moment, because my grief will take over and tell a much sadder story. But as of right now, I’ve got three girls snoring on the couch, coffee, and more composure than I had yesterday, so here we go…</p>
<p>Let me tell you about a beautifully complex relationship I have. Some may refer to it as a “love-hate” relationship…I’d always call it a “love-I don’t particularly like you” thing. Regardless, it’s been our shtick for the last 2 and a half years and we’ve grown more than used to it. Never has a dynamic made me more grateful or more annoyed, I think, ever.</p>
<p><em>The “tug-of-war” between me & a 10 and a half year old English Bulldog that hung the moon and the stars for the man who promised me forever.</em></p>
<h2><strong>Let me tell you about a girl named Stella.</strong></h2>
<p>Stella has been with my fiancé since Day 1. He got her with an awful ex-girlfriend down in Florida. (I’m not bitter, she’s just awful.) When they broke up, Jon pleaded for the dog. So the ex said she’d only give him 100% custody of Stella if she could take every single piece of furniture in the condo they shared with her, forks and the toilet paper roll included. <strong>Jon agreed.</strong> He then proceeded to sleep on the floor, in a dog bed beside Stella, for God knows how many days until finally his friends told him he was being pathetic and drove him to a mattress store for a bed.</p>
<p>From there on out, it was Jon and Stella. The very best of friends. He took her absolutely everywhere with him, off the leash, the ultimate sidekick. He never stopped dotting on her or talking about her in those few and far between times that she wasn’t right beside him. His friends knew, he family knew…<em>this was his ride-or-die.</em> When another major relationship came and went, leaving him down, his biggest comfort/support was Stella. <em>There was always Stella. </em></p>
<p>When Jon got talked into moving back to Michigan 4 years ago to help his family with his father’s business, Stella set off for the adventure with him. A move from Florida to Michigan was a very tough adjustment, as you can imagine. But living solo in a rental home less than a mile from his family’s shop didn’t seem quite as depressing when he was coming home to Stella. When his old friends all had new lives and Jon didn’t feel like he quite fit in, he still had Stella. When he went on one bad Friday night date after another with a random Tinder girl, he got to come home to Stella.</p>
<h3><strong>That’s where I come in…</strong></h3>
<p>Like all great love stories, Jon and I met on Tinder.</p>
<p>He’d been living back in Michigan for over a year when we first met. I had been back in Michigan less than 2 weeks. (Clearly, I waste no time.)</p>
<p>I remember our first few dates, him talking about Stella and showing me photos. I relocated from Nashville with my 2 doggie daughters, Deliah and Delaney, so I found it adorable that here was a single guy that was so good to his dog. Around our 5th or 6th date, I took him up on his invitation to cook me dinner and went over to his house for the very first time.</p>
<p><strong>The first time I met Stella kinda felt like walking into a batting cage and having the pitching machine malfunction.</strong> Let’s just say, she required a lot of attention, ha. The moment I sat down, she was pushing slobbery toys into my lap, growling like a ferocious alley dog, not letting Jon come near me without standing or sitting in between us. He cooked her fillet to eat before he completed our meal of salmon. When sitting on the couch, he sat on the inside corner, putting his arm around me. Stella, who was sitting up as straight as possible on the couch directly beside me, faced us and made me feel like “personal space” was not her thing. While she was being pet with the same arm that Jon had around me, I started to develop motion sickness and requested to trade places the second half of the movie. Romantic, I know. It was right around this time that I started to put it together…<strong>this dog was not going to lay down without a fight.</strong></p>
<p><em>A few dates later, I would soon realize that if I thought my problem was just a possessive dog, I was mistaken. My problem was also an obsessive dog owner… yes, you read that right. <strong>There is such a thing as loving your dog a little too much.</strong></em></p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/img_4254.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_4254" /></p>
<p>Full disclosure, a girl he had gone out with a few times before me had actually used Stella as the excuse when saying she couldn’t see him anymore. So I mean, the connection is real…as is witnessing it, ha. And truth be told, I had many conversations with my family and close friends early on, when I was describing how over-the-top amazing this new guy I’ve been seeing was but…that I really didn’t think it was going to work out…<em>because of his dog.</em></p>
<p>If I knew anything, it’s that one must never feel they have to choose between someone and their dog. If you didn’t like my Deliah or Delaney, you were out, plain & simple. (I’ve honestly broken up with dudes that yelled at/seemed annoyed by my dogs.). So I was cautious. I waited another handful of dates to bring up my concerns. When I did, he thought I was joking. What, a guy who loves his dog too much? There could be worse things, you know.</p>
<p>Yes, there could be worse things.</p>
<p><strong><em>Like breaking up over a dog.</em></strong></p>
<p>He soon understood that compromises had to be made in order to have both a happy girlfriend and a dog. Thankfully he found me worth it. And I tried SO hard those first 6 months to be patient. The hardest sacrifice was kicking Stella out of the bed. You know how when you sleep beside a little kid and it’s like they are the hands of a clock…somehow they do an entire body rotation throughout the night, kicking you in the face, vagina, and everywhere else? Well, imagine if that kid was also snoring and blowing farts in it’s sleep. Now imagine if you were sleeping next to two of them.</p>
<p>So yes, I was adamant about the dog-less bed.</p>
<p>As time went on, I’d like to tell you that Stella and I forged an inseparable bond. But not quite. When I moved my two dogs into the house, it took some adjusting. She didn’t want to eat for me. Or go for walks with me. Only for her Daddy. She was like an emotional ninja. She knew how to play it. <strong>Correction, she still knows how to play it.</strong></p>
<p>I’d always laugh when I’d describe it to people, “We have a very stepmom/stepchild thing going on here. I love you but I don’t get you so let your father deal with it.”</p>
<p>When discussing our wedding coming up this October, I joked and said, “We should have the bridal march play and send Stella down the aisle in a veil. Everyone would lose their shit.” They would because EVERYONE that knows Jon would get it.</p>
<p><em>But unfortunately for all of us, the reality of that is very slim.</em></p>
<p>Stella fell ill on Saturday afternoon and was rushed to the emergency vet. After almost 2 full days in an oxygen chamber, being pumped with fluids and antibiotics, we were told that she would not recover. The fluid they found in the x-ray on Saturday had spread by the next day and they feared it was heart disease. She has an intestinal blockage that requires surgery, however, with this fluid around her heart, she wouldn’t survive the surgery.</p>
<p>Monday was one of the hardest days I can recall in recent memory. Death seemed swift and unforgiving and we weren’t prepared for any of it. The vet advised putting her down rather than putting her through the surgery.</p>
<p><i>How could this be? We just had her at the lake less than a week ago. She was playing with her sisters in the yard the day before. Jon takes her to the vet every few months for nothing more than to hear, once again, what an outstandingly healthy dog she is for her age. We feed her the best foods, she’s on heart worm medication. How is this even possible?</i></p>
<p>The vet told us the surgery would cost $3,000. We’d already paid over that to stabilize her at the emergency vet over the weekend. No one ever wants to feel like they’re putting a price-tag on their child, but the mere thought of going broke and having her die on an operating table was something I knew we couldn’t live with.</p>
<h3><strong>So we brought her home Monday afternoon.</strong></h3>
<h3><em>It is now 11:04am. </em></h3>
<p>I tried to take a breather from crying and head to a kickboxing class. However, I kept having to run back into the house, forgetting one more thing before I pulled out of the driveway. So now I’ll just stay here.</p>
<p>I beckoned Stella off the couch (where she’s been in a napping coma all morning) to come outside. She immediately jumped off on her own, walked to the back door, and found the nearest stick in the backyard and started chewing. It has now been almost an hour later and we are still outside. Tugging on the new toy I bought her a couple days ago. Soaking up sunshine on the little deck Jon built the other week while I was in Nashville.</p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/img_2554.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_2554" /></p>
<p>The hardest thing about all of this is that some hours, she seems like she always has… a playful, toy possessive, give me all the belly rubs girl. Other times, we feel like we have to check to make sure she’s breathing.</p>
<p>The emotional rollercoaster of this is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.</p>
<p>We take her to the vet this afternoon for one final x-ray and both of us have accepted what we might have to do by the end of the day.</p>
<p>I will say this though…no matter if this is her last day with us or whether we have more, <strong>it is a blessing</strong>. The despair we felt Monday morning after the vet told us our options compared to what I feel in this current moment are night and day. Even if it was only a few extra days, it was more time than we thought we had a few days ago and I am so incredibly thankful.</p>
<h3>My heart truly has expanded in it’s brokenness throughout all this.</h3>
<p>I have always loved Jon. I will always love Jon. Forever does not scare me in the least. But in the last few days, I’ve physically felt this love deepen.</p>
<p>What once was obnoxious is now gut-wrenchingly special. I know he’s absorbing every slobbery kiss, butt wiggle, belly rub, every compliment she gets to hear him tell her. He keeps reiterating how this dog saved him from the lowest of lows. I already know this, but I listen and nod anyway. I can relate. If I didn’t have my Deliah and Delaney when I plummeted to rock bottom time and time again years ago, I don’t know what I would have done. There was something about being able to cry to my dogs, having them in the room with me when the loneliness felt unbearable. But there was a difference between Jon and I. I’ve always had close family and friends rally around me, I’ve always a shoulder to cry on, whether I took it or not is another story. But there were times in Jon’s life where he truly only had Stella to get him through. And thankfully, she did just that.</p>
<p>I am forever indebted to this 65 pound, wrinkly faced, fart machine of a dog.</p>
<p>As sure as Jon gave her a wonderful life, she ensured that I had the best place to land when I finally found it. His love is as close to unconditional as I’ve known (from someone outside of my family, of course) and I know that is because of Stella.</p>
<p><em>In a weirdly poetic way, I feel like Stella and I have come to the ultimate understanding.</em></p>
<h3><em>A truce.</em></h3>
<p>I acknowledge that she made him the loving human he is. That she brought him out of the darkest times in order to not just survive it, but be better for it. To be ready and waiting and willing for my crazy ass to walk in and change everything.</p>
<p>And she understands that Jon doesn’t need her to be the only thing that gets him through anymore. He has me so he’ll never be alone again. He’s in good hands.</p>
<p>Jon and I have both suffered some major losses and some very close calls in our short time together, but I have no doubt that this will be one of the toughest things we’ll ever go through. <em>And for the first time, maybe ever, I understand what it’s like to truly hold someone up and love them through it. To deeply hurt for someone else. To be a rock. To be a true partner.</em></p>
<p>So I guess we can add that to the list of what Stella Robocop Drouillard has done.</p>
<p><strong>She made a wife out of me. </strong></p>
<p>Truce, you “angel from Heaven”.</p>
<p>I love you, Stella.</p>
<p>xoxoxo</p>
<p>The luckiest Stepmom ever</p>
<p> </p>
<h2>THE LATEST: 9:30PM</h2>
<p>We went to a different vet around 3:45PM, where we sat in a small, claustrophobic room for over 2 hours. The anxiety was excruciating, waiting in a 4 x 4 room for what we’d prepared ourselves for…the worst news.</p>
<p>The vet told us that the mass had moved, but still had not passed. That because Stella was still drinking/eating and not getting sick, clearly things were moving around the obstruction, so that was not her primary problem. <em> The problem is her heart.</em> With a thorough physical exam but without an “official” cardiologist diagnosis, our vet seems certain that Stella has AFib.</p>
<p>When she recommended a cardiologist to work with to possibly prolong Stella’s life another 6 months or so, we both declined. No one, including Stella, needs to go through more tests and procedures and medical bills. When the vet saw us start to cry in our conflict over putting an outwardly healthy-looking/acting dog down…she took it to heart. She offered to prescribe Stella some heart medication, despite not being a cardiologist, that may or may not help, but regardless, won’t do anything to hurt Stella’s condition.</p>
<p>We were speechless, overcome with gratitude.</p>
<p>She told us, “If you told me she wasn’t eating & drinking. That she wasn’t able to move around or seemed in pain, I’d tell you different. But she’s tugging ropes and wagging her tail at me right now. I wouldn’t feel right about putting this dog down either. She’s tough. She doesn’t want to die yet.”</p>
<p>And just like that…we got more time.</p>
<p>Might not be much more than a week or two, but it’s more. And we’ll take it.</p>
<p>Thank you for your prayers and your support.</p>
<p><strong>And yes, our truce still stands <img src="https://s0.wp.com/wp-content/mu-plugins/wpcom-smileys/twemoji/2/72x72/1f609.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="?" style="height: 1em; max-height: 1em;" /></strong></p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/58900782018-03-24T09:34:44-04:002019-09-12T18:12:09-04:00365 long short days later…<p>Dear Uncle Mike,</p>
<p>I don’t know how to start this letter. If I’m being truthful, just the thought of writing it had my stomach hurting all morning. It’s one thing to think these thoughts internally, pray my prayers in the morning…but I can physically feel the weight on my chest as I write it out. My hope is, I’ll write it, others will read it, some will know exactly what I’m feeling, and the weight will be lightened because it’s shared.</p>
<p>There are still tears. Just about everyday. I don’t mean to cry, I certainly don’t want to, but I do. Alone. I’d like to say that it hurts less, but if it does, it’s only slightly. I guess the only difference is that I don’t break down sobbing everyday now. Just tears. Tears that I quickly wipe away before anyone catches me because crying isn’t my thing. I guess there’s a part of me that feels embarrassed that I can’t keep it together when I think of you, one year later. It’s like, we’ve seen or heard some people, so reflective and peaceful about death. Their words and demeanor, it’s comforting and reassuring. They speak about how they smile when they think of their departed one, how they see signs/reminders from their lost loved one…it makes you almost believe that you too can be this person. Like it’s attainable to reach that point.</p>
<p>I am not at that point.</p>
<p>The sadness is still very real and very present.</p>
<p>I know that’s not what you intended when you left. I know it hurts your heart, watching how hard we’ve taken it. Aunt Susie. My Mom. Everyone. And I don’t mean to make you feel sorry for going. I know the alternative wasn’t what any of us wanted either. No one wanted to see you in pain. No one wanted to see you small and defeated. Not when we knew/know who you really are.</p>
<p>You’re a lion.</p>
<p>I’m so sorry for the years that passed when our communication wasn’t as frequent as it should have been. I was a stupid girl, living her early 20’s with her priorities all out of order, and the delusion that her people would always be around. I regret every visit home, up to Michigan from Nashville, that I didn’t come see you or at least call you. Every time you heard from my mom that your goddaughter was in town for the weekend …after the fact… I’d give anything to undo that.</p>
<p>Thank you for loving me and supporting me anyway. Thank you for still asking Mom about me. Thank you for being my first big donation when I fearfully launched a Kickstarter campaign to record an album. An album that I am SO thankful you finally got to listen to before you left.</p>
<p>Thank you for being there for my Mom. I know it was your support that got her through some of her most difficult times. I’m very grateful that I have a brother to talk me through life too. (And sisters, of course.). Thank you for the reminders, even when I was frustrated and complaining, “I hear you, but it doesn’t matter. That’s your mother.” I now see that you said that not only because it’s true and you loved your baby sister, but because you would’ve given anything for the opportunity to be “frustrated and complaining” about your mother again. I’m sorry it took decades to get it but I get it.</p>
<p>I feel blessed that we reconnected before everything went wrong. Before Uncle Corky. Before your diagnosis. It’s the only solace I really find after your death…that I knew how important my relationship with you was before it was threatened. And in that reconnection, you got to meet Jon. You got to see the beginning. The start of a better life and of a better Rachel. Although you didn’t know, I didn’t know, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t know then either just how good him & I would turn out to be. I wish you were going to be sitting right beside Aunt Susie at my wedding. I’d give anything to hear your thunderous voice make jokes about how I better sprint down the aisle before Jon changes his mind. Because we all know you’d say it, ha.</p>
<p>I can’t believe it’s been an entire year. It’s been both the longest and shortest year of my life. So much has happened since March 24, 2017 and yet, I can remember every detail of this time last year. The weeks leading up to it, the weeks that followed…how when we left the hospital room that night, I was so sure you were going to miraculously pull through despite how dire it looked. How I went out to celebrate Fat Tuesday in Hamtramck a few weeks prior, leaving you a semi-buzzed message on your answering machine. I just wanted you to know how ridiculously Polish I felt that day because I thought you’d get a kick out of it and be proud. And you were. You always brought me back to my roots, whether you meant to or not. And despite the deaths and the distance on the Polish side of our family, it’s still half of who I am. And I feel it’s pulse stronger in my veins now than ever. I know that’s you.</p>
<p>This year I celebrated Fat Tuesday at Polish Village again. I raised a glass to you and tried desperately to recreate last year’s experience. Consequently, it fell short.</p>
<p>There is no going back.</p>
<p>There’s a huge part of me that feels guilty in moving forward, like it means you weren’t here. If I feel that way, I can only imagine how Aunt Susie, your son, your sisters must feel. But again, I know you most certainly don’t want the alternative for any of us either. Stagnate. Or declining. Constantly sad or guilt-ridden.</p>
<p>So a year later… I can’t promise not to go there, but I can promise not to stay there. And maybe that’s good enough for now. Staying sad a little less each day.</p>
<p>Tonight, a big group of Siniarskis will assemble for our first family gathering that didn’t involve a wedding or a funeral in a long time. I’ll be proud to sit with them. I’ll be proud to honor you. And we will save you a seat…and a pierogi.</p>
<p>Say Hi to everyone for me.</p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/03/17458025_10158459246365581_4032377089076576723_n1.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="17458025_10158459246365581_4032377089076576723_n" /><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/03/22365416_10155208890284611_8529952994791604219_n.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="22365416_10155208890284611_8529952994791604219_n" /><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/img_55431.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_5543" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/58900792018-01-21T11:49:24-05:002019-09-12T18:12:09-04:00Messy<h2>One week ago.</h2>
<h4>Sunday morning.</h4>
<p>I woke up in my own bed for the first time in 8 days. My bags that had been unloaded from my frozen over car the night before, awaiting me still by the kitchen door. After an 8 hour drive home in a snowstorm, hauling my belongs upstairs to unpack was low on the “to do” list that morning. So while my fiancé slept in, I made a pot of coffee and unpacked my essentials onto the kitchen table.</p>
<p>Journal. Pen.<em> Jesus Calling. </em>MacBook. Library book. Note pad.</p>
<p>Between the early morning sunlight coming through the kitchen window and the fresh bouquet of roses he had gotten me the night before, the ambiance of my “work space” swelled my heart. So much so that I tried to capture it’s peaceful perfection with a photo.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/01/img_7264-e1516552039169.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_7264" /></p>
<p>I dove into my quiet time by writing my first blog entry of 2018. A long stream of consciousness that explored my previous week in Nashville.</p>
<p>I discussed how I felt out of place with familiar friends in scenarios I’d been in hundreds of times before. How I was no longer emotionally drained from but just tired of seeing/hearing people I love making excuses for other people and being unhappy. How grateful I was for the perspective from “this side”…a side that I feel I barely survived long enough to make it to and now that I’m on it, I’m as alive as I’ve ever been.</p>
<p>And where I’ll quote the blog entry I wrote last Sunday (but never published) and this one that I am writing now is when I said…</p>
<p><strong><em>“It’s funny, really. I was so ready to get back to Nashville as soon as possible. Thanks to the holidays, I had been in Michigan for 40 days straight. The restlessness was real. I was starting to feel like my days were not my own anymore. Like my “job” was to drive 45 miles each way to help my family out with whatever they needed that day, no matter how big of a deal it was or how mundane. I was ready to put some distance between us. </em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>My car and I weren’t within the Nashville city limits more than 10 minutes before it felt like my timing was completely wrong. I was supposed to be in Michigan.”</em></strong></p>
<p>I drove into Nashville early on a Friday evening. I had seen my Granny the night before and promised to call her once I got to Nashville so that she wouldn’t worry about me. I was driving down Interstate 40 when I called. She answered the phone and it sounded like she was gasping for air. She couldn’t get any words out. I immediately hung up the phone and called my family to get over there. When my aunt arrived less than 10 minutes later, an ambulance was right behind her. She’d had what they thought was an asthma attack. Her first real one. So new to all of us, in fact, that no one could locate her inhalers because my Granny was so insistent that “they don’t work”. Once her breathing calmed down and her vitals came up normal, EMS left and my family sat with her awhile with the promise to take her to see her doctor next week. They assured me she was OK.</p>
<p>I, however, was not OK.</p>
<p>To make matters even worse, the very next day, my mother was fit in for a last-minute surgery. Her second one since Thanksgiving. Nothing life-threatening, but still requiring a few days in the hospital.</p>
<p>The rest of the weekend, the rest of the week, really, just dragged on. I didn’t want to be there. At all. I wanted to be home. Music. My friends. Being out and about in my city. All of it felt as trivial as an Instagram “like”…</p>
<p>My phone blew up daily. Updates from family members. Check-ins with Granny. Check-ins with Mom. Walking siblings through some huge life decisions. My “job” of my family followed me over 500 miles south. I wasn’t off the hook. And I couldn’t have been more grateful. I concluded my blog with some bullet points of things I learned in that week away…the last one being…</p>
<ul>
<li><strong>Family is everything. Without them, none of this matters.</strong></li>
</ul>
<p>So after my 8 days in Nashville (and being held captive an extra day thanks to the winter storm), I drove back on a Saturday. My very first stop once I crossed the Michigan state line was to Romulus. To sit on the floor by my Granny’s recliner. To hold her hand. To smother her in kisses. To jokingly tell her she doesn’t have to scare us all with a medical emergency to get me to come back to her faster.</p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/01/26910212_10159908112980581_1728752492419206989_o.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="26910212_10159908112980581_1728752492419206989_o" /></p>
<h2>So let’s go back to last week.</h2>
<h3>Sunday morning.</h3>
<p>Peaceful. Quiet. Contemplative. Thankful to be home. Writing, reading, drinking coffee and looking out the window. Everything felt good again.</p>
<p>Later on that day, the Williams’ met for dinner at Olive Garden to celebrate my mom’s birthday. I got to kiss on my nephews and niece. Hug my parents. Stuff myself with pasta and go home to enjoy a lazy night of Netflix with my fiancé that was over a week overdue at this point.</p>
<p><strong>Then the phone rang.</strong></p>
<p>My Aunt Kathy was rushing my Granny up to Urgent Care because Granny couldn’t breathe again. Then… They are admitting her to the hospital. We are about to drive her up there. Then…she is going by ambulance because it isn’t safe to personally transport her without her on oxygen.</p>
<p>Even simply typing this right now, <em>I can still hear the ringing in my ears.</em></p>
<p><strong>Pneumonia. </strong></p>
<p>At 90 years old, you cannot catch pneumonia.</p>
<p>I knew that.</p>
<p>We all know that.</p>
<p>And just like that, a bomb exploded on my “peaceful perfection”.</p>
<p>I spent the next 6 days living in hospital room 553…</p>
<p>…sleeping on a window seat “bed” (gym mat) with a paper thin blanket to protect me from the drafty window I was pressed against. Waking up every hour on the hour while a whole roster of nurses and techs came in to check whatever it was they needed to check whenever they needed to check it. Holding her up when she’d cough her lunges out, her back and ribs aching so badly that she couldn’t get comfortable again for hours. Watching them stick needles and IVs and leave bruises all over her frail and aged arms. Helping her in the bathroom and making jokes so that she wouldn’t feel embarrassed. Spraying down and brushing her hair when she got self conscious about her “bed head”. Trying to be the translator between her and the nurses because she couldn’t hear them 80% of the time. Helping set up and clean up every meal they brought to her. Staying quiet in the corner while she desperately tried to catch a nap whenever she could. Kissing her forehead a dozen times in a day.</p>
<p>**Now this is not to say that other family members did not dedicate long days up there as well. Because they did. I was just the one who took it upon themselves to take up residence in the room too, ha. **</p>
<h2>Messy.</h2>
<p>Our days. Our heads. Our hearts.</p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2018/01/img_7332-e1516550609768.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_7332" /></p>
<p>Tried to write what I was feeling and couldn’t. Tried to learn dozens of songs for a rehearsal that I never made it to. Tried to text and email people back but didn’t know what to say. How could I plan anything…meetings, shows, studio, work-outs, dinner with my fiancé…when I really didn’t know what was going to happen.</p>
<p><strong>Thanks to the good Lord above, her lunges cleared up. She started to get better.</strong></p>
<p>Once she could walk down the hall with a walker, maintaining an average oxygen level, they let her go home.</p>
<p>She is tired. She is beat up.</p>
<h3><em>She is a fighter who’s still fighting.</em></h3>
<p>There are a lot more things to figure out and a lot of hard conversations to have amongst ourselves and with Granny. Some tough questions to ask ourselves, when we’re alone and processing. A reality that will be difficult to accept, but is already here nonetheless. A reality that is thankfully far less crushing than the alternative, so I’ll take it.</p>
<p>I performed with a band in Detroit last night and tried to stay in the moment the best I could, trying to remind myself that this is what I do when I’m not obsessing over my Grandma, haha. I was blown away by the support from the musicians and even some people in the crowd that had heard or read on Facebook about my Granny.</p>
<h4>One woman in particular said, <em>“At 90 years old, every day is a blessing.”</em>
</h4>
<p>I’m so thankful for more days.</p>
<p>I’ll gladly take the “messy” …</p>
<p>Just give me more days.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/58900802017-12-04T21:30:58-05:002019-09-12T18:12:09-04:00The ‘hood’ that raised us<p>I’ll start this post off with a simple “Thank you” to whoever is reading this.</p>
<p>Whether it’s been a random call or text to say Hi, a congratulations on my engagement, leaving a comment on a video I posted, or coming up to me after a show… I’m thankful (and still socially awkward with compliments) for a view of my world from an outside perspective.</p>
<p>If you know me, you know I don’t take myself very seriously. I’m never without some sarcastic or witty remark on social media or in the middle of telling you a ridiculous story, complete with comedic pauses and exaggerated facial expressions.</p>
<p><strong>I feel like I was born an open book.</strong></p>
<p>However, lately I have not felt like opening up about much. It’s been a tough couple of weeks.</p>
<p>I’ve attended 2 funerals in less than a month’s time. An absolute pillar of my world was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, my faith and fear all rolled up into a little ball, resting like a constant lump in my throat. My mother was in and out of the hospital all around Thanksgiving (she’s home and recovering now). And we just came up on the one year anniversary of my fiancé’s best friend passing…needless to say, the emotional rollercoaster has been running to the extreme lately.</p>
<p>So, in all that, I’ve completely thrown myself into fitness classes and book-reading and learning songs that are easily played using the only 4 chords I’m good at…anything that I can control in the midst of what feels like chaos of the brain.</p>
<p><strong>This here little blog of mine is where I process.</strong></p>
<p>So here it goes…</p>
<p>I grew up in Belleville, Michigan. First, in a small ranch-style home, nestled in the most pot-hole-ridden neighborhood behind a family dinner. I made my very first friends there. I learned how to ride a bike in treacherous terrain. There was a church at the end of my street where I loved to sneak into the “secret garden” to play. (Once I was older, I learned my “secret garden” was actually used to sprinkle ashes of deceased church members. Not creepy at all.)</p>
<p>When I was 8 years old, my family bought a “lot” in a brand new subdivision, <strong>Harbour Point</strong>. It was on the other side of Belleville Lake and sat directly beside the high school. I vividly remember Dad driving us across town each week to see the updates on the house-building process. When it was nothing but a frame, he’d point out, “This is the kitchen…This is the bathroom…etc.” We took photos with disposable cameras of me standing in what would eventually be my bedroom. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.</p>
<p>When we finally moved in, there was only a handful of other completed homes in the subdivision. The rest of the neighborhood? <strong>The ultimate ‘playground’.</strong></p>
<p>Dug out basements to jump in and out of, huge piles of stacked up A-frames to hide in, Port-A-Potties (for the construction workers) with vulgar doodles all over them, crazy “puddles” that were the size of ponds when it rained and made excellent ice skating rinks when they froze over, a wooded area in the very back where we’d pretend to survive in the wilderness. All the half-built homes were ours to invade once the workers went home, kicking their empty beer and soda cans across incomplete rooms. Giant dirt hills were the ultimate to climb up and play on, making for endless sledding options in the winter. Our imaginations ran completely wild in this “oasis” of adventure. Looking back on it now, I don’t know how all of us kids weren’t severely injured/in need of a tetanus shot every other day. I would never allow my hypothetical child to play in those danger zones now, ha. But back then… <strong>it was everything.</strong></p>
<p>Being that I am the oldest of 4, my siblings were fairly little when we moved into our new digs. Their very first friends in life lived within a 6 house radius. Their first bus stop was at the end of our driveway, where all the kids from the neighborhood would congregate. Kids barely bigger than their backpacks.</p>
<p>I can remember walking down the street, trying to wrangle up my sisters and brother for dinner, their bikes always dispersed in someone’s yard. Whether they were currently at that house or not was irrelevant to them. Each kid had their sidekick(s) in the neighborhood. You know, constantly at each other’s house, in the same grade, taking band class together, and so on. No other girl in Harbour Point was quite my age, they fell either a couple years younger or 3-5 years older. It’s funny what a huge difference that can make once you start middle school. I never quite “fit in” with a neighborhood crew, which of course, planted seeds of insecurity in an already awkward time of life. While they had sleepovers and pool parties and got asked to babysit other neighborhood kids, I found solace in my school friends and music. Looking back, I now see that being more of a “loner” only helped my singing obsession as a kid. Also, why my siblings are, to this day, my very best friends. (My siblings, on the other hand, would never say I was their best friend growing up. Ha!)</p>
<p>My little brother had 2 best friends in the neighborhood. Kyle, who lived directly across the street, and <strong>Jesse Johnson</strong>, who lived down the block. Garrett was NEVER without at least one of them by his side. The 3 of them were always making big plans for something…constructing elaborate forts, trying to con my dad into giving them permission when both of the other dads had already said “No”, choreographing Star Wars battles in the backyard, and all the other adorable and obnoxious things that little boys do. I was always the one sent up the street to retrieve my brother from Jesse’s house. A lot of times his sister, Sam, would answer the door. She was probably the closest in age to me and was always super sweet to us Williams kids. However, she was best friends with a couple girls in the neighborhood that I always seemed to be at odds with, so we never really hung out. I cringe/belly laugh when I recall the hilarious & petty “enemy lines” that so easily get drawn when you’re a kid. No real reason behind it, most times you forgive and forget after a day. <strong>You’re just oblivious to life beyond your driveway.</strong></p>
<p>I’d like that oblivion back right now. And if you grew up anything like me, I’m betting you want it back too. We all come from our own “Harbour Point”.</p>
<p>My brother’s childhood best friend, Jesse Johnson, the blonde-headed and funny face-making kid from up the street, passed away last week.</p>
<p><em>He was 26.</em></p>
<p>This is a hard one to wrap my brain around.<br>
I know I’m not alone on that.</p>
<p>His memorial over the weekend was surreal. Surreal to be mourning the 26 year old that was gone, when I so distinctly remember him as the little kid up the street. I don’t know that I’d seen Jesse since him and my brother graduated high school. Observing the memory boards with him and Garrett…from 5 year olds on bikes to teenagers on stage, starring in high school productions…it felt like swallowing a brick. Surreal to be reunited with my younger siblings’ friends and old neighbors from “the hood” and realize that everyone didn’t stay 10 years old. Everyone is grown and half recognizable. It made me feel even more shocked by everything. And old.</p>
<p>I’ve cried for my brother, the one who<em> “gets me”</em> more than anyone in this world, and for whom I cannot muster up anything enlightening or comforting to say. I cry for his childhood memories that are now bittersweet & for the guilt I know he feels for having lost touch with Jesse the last few years. I cry for Jesse’s parents, because this is just unfathomable. His mom was a secretary at my middle school. I’ll never forget when my mother was sick with a vitamin deficiency and had to be hospitalized. I kept having meltdowns in the middle of class and wanting to call my Grandma to get updates. I was 11 years old and could sense the other people in the office growing impatient with me leaving class just to use the office phone. But Jesse’s mom understood and let me use it every time. I’ll always remember that. I cry for Jesse’s sister, Sam, and I pray to God on my hands and knees that I never have to feel what she’s feeling. I could not lose my sisters or my brother. I can’t even bring myself to imagine it.</p>
<p><strong>I’m broken-hearted for the kid in us all that thought we would live forever.</strong></p>
<p>As adults, we know better. We won’t live forever, but we still think we have time.</p>
<p>It’s truly ironic that one hour before I learned of Jesse’s passing, I was reading the day’s devotional from Jesus Calling about thankfulness.<br>
<em>“A thankful attitude opens windows of heaven. As you look up with a grateful heart. you get glimpses of Glory through those windows. You cannot yet live in heaven, but you can experience foretastes of your ultimate home.”</em></p>
<p>I then proceeded to write in my journal that morning about how there has been a lot of loss and illness to process this year, but that I was grateful. My exact words were…<strong><em>“I’m so thankful that I still have time to make it right.”</em></strong></p>
<p>Those words make me ache right now.<br>
The hundreds of cliché sayings about letting people know how you feel before it’s too late, chasing the dream, forgiving, living life to the fullest…it’s all true. We lived it so unapologetically as children, with our bravery/creativity/vulnerability fluctuating as we grew up into adults.</p>
<p>But here’s the thing… <strong>We were all that kid conquering dirt hills once. </strong>We just find our uphill climbs more exhausting than adventurous now.<strong> But we couldn’t be who we are today without being the child version first.</strong> <img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2017/12/jesse.jpg?w=446&h=728" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="jesse" height="728" width="446" /></p>
<p>If I can take one thing away from this tragic loss it’s this…</p>
<p>May we cherish not only the kid we used to be, but honor the kid that still lives in us. Trust me, they’re still in there.</p>
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<p> </p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/58900812017-10-24T01:13:58-04:002019-09-12T18:12:09-04:00The beauty and total weird-ness of “engaged”<p>So for those of you that are late to the party… I’m engaged.</p>
<p>Yes, I know.</p>
<p>Start praying to your God because the apocalypse is near. Ha.</p>
<p>But really.</p>
<p>Thirty-one days ago, I said <em>“Yes”</em> to a guy who kneeled down beside our bed with a big diamond ring. While I sat there, makeup-less and sporting bulldog pajama pants, completely stunned. It was without a doubt, the easiest “Yes” I’ve ever given in my life. Granted, I would’ve much preferred to look stunningly beautiful in some lavish treehouse where stardust was sprinkling from the sky…but hey… it was still sweet. And caught me completely off guard. Quite the feat.</p>
<p>And the beauty of it was, I never had even a moment’s hesitation.</p>
<p><em>Yes.</em></p>
<p><em>This is it.</em></p>
<p><em>This is my human. I found him. </em> And even better…</p>
<p>My human WANTS to be tied with my crazy ass for the rest of his life…like, he thinks HE’S hit the jackpot with ME. Clearly, he’s insane. Lucky for me.</p>
<p>And it’s been a blissful month. Strange, in some regards. And definitely, a huge reminder to myself (and those around me) that I am rather far removed from the typical girl’s frame of mind with being “engaged”.</p>
<p>First of all, please let me preface this with… <strong>I AM SO HAPPY WITH THIS MAN! </strong> He is the only person I could ever say/think/feel ‘forever’ about. He’s the weirdest, most generous, down for an adventure dude I’ve ever known and he makes me better without ever asking it of me. I literally cannot believe that someone knows all my bullshit…my hot mess of a past…this “wrecking ball to the self-esteem” dream I continue to chase…the balance in my checking account currently…my obsession with my larger than life family…supporting that I live in another state 50% of the time…the reality that I’ll never love his dog half as much as he does…my inability to apologize most of the time…(you catch my drift)…and yet…</p>
<p style="text-align:center;"><strong>He will stand before anyone and everyone and promise me the best and the rest of his life.</strong></p>
<p><em>Holy shit, ya’ll.</em></p>
<p>Just typing that<em> (and the 3 glasses of wine I’ve had)</em> is making me tear up majorly at the moment. I never thought I’d see the day that I’d get engaged. And to be completely honest with you, I was more than okay with that. Because a ring on my finger was never a part of “the dream” (just ask any guy I’ve ever dated/family/friends). I never envisioned what a wedding would look like. (Or owning a house. Or having children. Or basically, anything that a normal adult would see for their lives.) Simply put, that was never in my “check” boxes.</p>
<p>So to be wearing a ring of my finger for the last 31 days, and to have not lost/misplaced it yet, is truly wild. That being said…</p>
<p><strong>Being engaged is fucking weird.</strong></p>
<p>People congratulate me constantly…<em>for what?</em> I mean, I too am happy that I have this guy and that I’m no longer wasting time getting wasted with douchebags. Because those that know my story know that it ain’t been the prettiest. I’ve been through some real shit.</p>
<p>But to congratulate me feels odd…like I accomplished something super impressive…the impressive part was finally allowing someone deserving into my world and loving him back. The ring is just a beautiful bonus. But even still…</p>
<p><em>I’m only part way to the finish line by Pinterest’s standards. </em></p>
<p>Because apparently there’s this whole wedding thing to plan/obsess/lose my shit over.</p>
<p>And the unavoidable “so you’re going to have children?” conversation.</p>
<p>Let me say this.</p>
<p>I can’t not roll my eyes at the word “fiancé”. Nor do I care about a date, a dress, a venue, color schemes, the selection of the wedding party, keeping my nails well-manicured to show off my ring, picking out baby names, or anything else that isn’t about one thing and one thing only…</p>
<p><em>Me & him. Him & I.</em></p>
<p><strong>The ones doing forever.</strong></p>
<p>So yes, I did wait almost a week before I announced my engagement on social media. Yes, we still haven’t changed our Facebook relationship status. Yes, you will have to ask to see my ring because I won’t think to flaunt it for everyone I see. Yes, it’s true, we don’t have a date or a plan yet and we are totally okay with that. And yes, if him and I were only thinking of ourselves, <strong>we would’ve eloped yesterday.</strong></p>
<p>And yes…the moment I realized I didn’t care about the attention or validation like I thought I was supposed to was when I knew…</p>
<p>This shit is real, this is right…</p>
<p>This is cemetery plots side by side.</p>
<p>Bring it on, baby.</p>
<p>And a whole-hearted “THANK YOU” to the followers of this journey…sweet Lord, we’ve seen it all and I love you for loving me through it <img src="https://s0.wp.com/wp-content/mu-plugins/wpcom-smileys/twemoji/2/72x72/2764.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="❤" style="height: 1em; max-height: 1em;" /></p>
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" /></p>Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/58900822017-09-20T02:23:25-04:002019-09-12T18:12:09-04:00Light the Night.<p style="text-align:center;"><a href="http://pages.lightthenight.org/mi/AnnArbor17/RWilliams" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://pages.lightthenight.org/mi/AnnArbor17/RWilliams </a></p>
<p>When I was 7 years old, my best friend was diagnosed with leukemia. Of course, being so young, I had no idea what that meant. But I could tell by the look on my parents’ faces and her parents’ faces, it wasn’t good. Elizabeth and I met in pre-school. Shortly after, our mothers got us involved in the same dance company, where we would drive out to New Boston…her and I being the youngest girls in the class. We were ballerinas one day and gymnasts the next, all the while having no actual clue what we were doing…simply following whoever’s lead to whatever Disney song we were to perform to. One of my fondest memories is when we were backstage for our very 1st dance recital. Our mothers were fluffing our hair and applying our makeup and calming our nerves. My mom said as she was leaving us backstage, just a few songs away from taking the stage, “I’m going to leave some makeup right here for you, if you think you need a touch up on your lipstick.” Needless to say, as 6 year old girls we DEFINITELY thought we needed a self-imposed “touch-up”…lipstick, blush, blue eyeshadow. The whole works.</p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/fullsizerender.jpg?w=308&h=454" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="FullSizeRender" height="454" width="308" /></p>
<p>Sleepovers and pool parties and dance class and then, all of a sudden…she was sick. And just like that, her long hair that nearly to the ground was gone. Then it was us in matching head scarves as we learned to roller blade in my driveway. The slumber parties started to decrease and the worry in her mother’s face was more apparent.</p>
<p>We had just moved into our brand new house. My bedroom was all pink except for this old, ugly recliner that used to be my grandpa’s, sitting against my window. I remember being asleep and hearing the phone ring in the middle of the night. I sat straight up in my bed and waited for any kind of sound to follow. My mother came in a few minutes later, sat me on her lap in that hideous recliner and broke the news to me that Elizabeth had passed away. I remember sobbing until I was sick. <em>It was a week before my 9th birthday.</em></p>
<p>I can recall being paranoid throughout her battle and after her death. I was in grade school, reading fiction chapter books about teenaged girls fighting cancer. I took every bruise, every time I brushed my teeth too hard my gums bled as a sure-sign symptom that I too had leukemia. Thankfully, I did not.</p>
<p>A couple years later, my Uncle Joe, my mother’s oldest brother, was diagnosed with leukemia. At this point<img src="https://thereinventionofraye.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/img_5700-e1505887461502.jpg?w=244&h=290" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_5700" height="290" width="244" />, I felt more prepared with what to expect. I knew it’d be hard. I knew he’d go bald. That was as far as I got in my “mental prep” before he too passed away.</p>
<p>It was around that same time that Elizabeth’s father, Bob, relapsed and fell ill with leukemia. We lost him too. I can still remember sitting at their house after the memorial, not taking my eyes off her mom and her little brother. It was at this point, not even a teenager yet, that I started to understand the frailty of life.</p>
<p>I’d lose more people to cancer in the years to come and they’d all hurt. They’d all seem unfair. But the “leukemia cloud” would seem the darkest.</p>
<p>Last summer, my godfather, Uncle Mike, was abruptly diagnosed with leukemia, just weeks after we lost his brother to liver cancer.</p>
<p>I’ve written about this before but holy shit…writing about it again still feels like repeated punches to my chest. <em>(As I’m currently sobbing off my eyelash extensions and pouring more wine.)</em></p>
<p>I was so sure he was going to beat it. I really was. It had been 20 years since this disease left it’s 1st hole in my life, surely we’ve come so much further now… He wasn’t a small child. He was my lion. When I saw him just an hour before he passed, laying in his hospital bed, I knew…his victory was not the one I had been pleading with God for. It was Heaven.[img align="inline" size="orig" alt="408718_10152770655530581_1544559536_n[1 />
<p>I cry for him almost every single day. I cry for my mother that has had to bury 3 brothers. Two of them dying within a year of each other. Two of them dying of the same disease. I cry because I’m afraid my aunt, Uncle Mike’s widow, will think she is alone and that we are “his family”, when I feel like I belong to her just as much as I belonged to him. I cry for all the emotions his death brings up in me and my long history of loss to leukemia. I cry for Elizabeth’s family, who I’ve lost touch with for no real reason except that we just did.</p>
<p>A few days ago, I was contacted by someone from a local chapter of The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, asking if I would like to volunteer. Somehow, she had come across my blog and the entry I’d written months ago about the loss of my godfather. To say I was moved would be an understatement. To have my honesty recognized is beautiful enough. But to be called upon to play a part in such a worthy cause truly feels like God talking to me. So I’m listening.</p>
<p><strong>I’ll be walking and volunteering my services for Light The Night in Ann Arbor, MI on September 30th.</strong> I need this light, literally and figuratively. I need to stand amongst survivors and those standing for lost loved ones. I need to honor this fight and this hurt. I need to shine a light.</p>
<p><strong>My birthday is this coming Friday. And I can’t think of any better way to commemorate another trip around the sun than sharing my story and supporting this cause.</strong> Please help me join in bringing light to the darkness of cancer by donating towards my fundraising efforts to support The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Light The Night. Money raised through Light The Night allows The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society (LLS) to fund treatments for patients who are suffering from all forms of blood cancers. The impact of LLS supported research goes beyond blood cancers. The discoveries made in blood cancer research have led to break through treatments for many cancers and other serious diseases.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style=" height=" width="150"></p><strong>Even a $5 donation goes a long way in this fight. You can contribute to my Light The Night page at <a href="http://pages.lightthenight.org/mi/AnnArbor17/RWilliams">http://pages.lightthenight.org/mi/AnnArbor17/RWilliams</a></strong></p>
Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/58900832017-09-01T00:27:33-04:002019-09-12T18:12:10-04:00the celebration and devastation of time…<p>This morning hurts. I can feel it already even though it’s only 8AM. It hurts like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. I’m not really sure how to begin explaining it because it’s highly possible that no one will relate. But maybe some of you will. I have been trying to find the words for what I’m feeling for weeks now… And again, I’ve fallen victim to the train of thought “I should write about that…Make time to write about that…You can write about that tomorrow…” and then I don’t. It just gets added to my brain’s ever-growing pile of Post-It notes. Aside from being distracted, I know there’s a part of me that didn’t want to write this blog because I’m weary of giving a public voice to the crippling fear inside my head. I don’t want to jinx anything. I don’t want God to find me ungrateful. I don’t want anyone to find me ungrateful. I’m so grateful sometimes it feels like it’s too much “gratitude” and my chest might literally explode…maybe that’s my problem.</p>
<p><strong>My Granny is 90 years old today.</strong></p>
<p><em>Yes, you read that correctly…90.</em></p>
<p>I am completely blown away with amazement and adoration for this human, who clearly, has stood the test of time and is still looking as beautiful as ever.</p>
<p>Anyone who knows me knows of this unwavering love I have. It’s a love I make quite public, whether it’s on social media/up on a stage/hanging out with friends/pouncing on her & annoying her with compliments every chance I get. People see it and think, “How sweet, she’s so close to her Grandma.” I wish it was as black & white as that. But I know better. God definitely knows better. It’s a love that has without a doubt saved me from myself on more than a few occasions throughout my short lifetime. A love that was so deep-rooted inside of me that even in my lowest of times (and they were low indeed), I was reminded that even in all the bad, <em>I had a soul that was good</em>… I still wanted to see, hold the hand of, hear the voice of, take care of my G and make her proud.</p>
<p>When I think of <strong>“the pillars”</strong> in my world, God and my Granny. I established a relationship with the Lord by going to church with my Grandma, starting around the time I was in 5th grade. And in turn, God has heard me pray/sob/plead/rejoice over her every single day since. She is without a doubt my 1st and most important prayer request. <em>Keep her safe. Keep her healthy. Keep her happy. Let her know You are there so she won’t be lonely. </em></p>
<p>This past Saturday (August 26th), we threw my Granny a surprise birthday party. We reserved a little banquet room at a restaurant not far from her house. The party fell on my parents’ 34th wedding anniversary, so the “lie” to get Granny to attend was that my Dad was throwing my Mom a surprise anniversary party. My sister and I put in the time making sure the decorations were perfect. Photo collages, big balloons, enlarging and framing photos that were nearly 70 years old, making table centerpieces that featured photos of Granny from a woman in her early 20’s to this past Easter Sunday. Family, friends, neighbors all gathered to celebrate the life of this woman. She was certainly surprised. Then overwhelmed. Then a little nervous. Then realized that she had no choice but to be the center of everyone’s attention so she went along with it, ha. We showed her all the pictures we’d “borrowed” from her old photo albums and copied to include in collages and centerpieces. She laughed as she pointed out who/what/when/where/what they had for lunch that day with all the photos we’d acquired.</p>
<p>Seeing my Grandma young, freshly moved to Detroit and living in a boarding house with her exciting girlfriends…posing with her brothers while wearing a headscarf, youthful and playful and proud to be their sister…her and my Grandpa their first handful of years as a married couple…with my Dad and my Aunt Kathy as young kids, big glasses, big hair, and always at least one dog in the photo…</p>
<p><strong>My Grandma was someone and something other than my Grandma in her lifetime.</strong> The proof of this moved me in ways I can’t adequately describe. It’s beautiful.</p>
<p>I was equally fascinated as I was saddened. Sad, that my Grandma has lived alone for the past 25 years on that very same property as these old photos were taken. Or that she doesn’t see and laugh with her girlfriends like she used to. Or that she only has one remaining brother now, her youngest brother, my Great Uncle Johnny down in Tennessee. Or that they took away her license this past spring, so loneliness feels more isolating…<em>Because as much as these photos document what a big life she’s had, it also serves a reminder that “the good ol’ days” are a thing of the past. </em></p>
<p>I knew at a very young age that I was called to be my Granny’s best friend after my Grandpa tragically passed. I’d volunteer myself every Sunday to attend church with her, sit beside her in the back pew and hold her hand, spend the day with her, invite her to every single dance recital/choir concert/cheerleading event/musical, etc. (And she was at every single one of them, with a bouquet of flowers.) When I moved away to Nashville, I made a point to call her twice a week and never go more than 2 months without seeing her. I volunteer to fly her or drive her to Nashville and transport her 90 minutes to Hohenwald to see her family. I don’t list these things for a pat on the back, I really don’t. I summarize my closeness to my Grandma because it was something that was <em>so natural, so easy, and so understood</em>. And honestly, it might be one of the ONLY concrete things I’ve ever understood in my life thus far.</p>
<p>She was and still is my constant…my <strong>unconditional.</strong> I went through some tough tough shit as a kid. I then willingly allowed myself to go through some shit as an adult. And with every fracture to my heart, there was my G…even if she didn’t have all the facts, she didn’t need them because she always came through, no questions asked. She picked up the phone. And unbeknownst to her, <strong>she picked up my pieces.</strong></p>
<p>A few weeks ago, I started trying to pray through my fears. Every time I’d get choked up, I’d ask God, “Please allow gratitude to overpower grief.” And it would help calm me down. For this last week, I’ve continued to pray the same thing but alas… tears. Every day. And what am I grieving? She’s still here. Yes, she’s slower, she’s sorer, she’s sadder…but she’s still funny, feisty, grumpy, and loves tappin her toes and snappin her fingers to some Josh Turner all day, errryday. I looked up the term “anticipatory grief” and I hate it’s definition. Maybe I hate it because it sounds like bullshit. Or maybe the thought of waking up to a world where she’s not here really is something to fear with every fiber of my being.</p>
<p>They say to cherish your loved ones. To let them know how you feel and how much they mean to you. To never take a day for granted.</p>
<p><em>So, what do you do when you’ve lived for someone making sure there was nothing left unsaid…or undone…or unloved…? </em></p>
<p>I don’t know the answer. Maybe that’s why it hurts.</p>
<p>So I guess I’ll just continue with what I DO know… <strong>Saying. Doing. Loving.</strong></p>
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Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/49794532017-09-01T00:27:33-04:002017-12-15T15:24:59-05:00the celebration and devastation of time…<p>This morning hurts. I can feel it already even though it’s only 8AM. It hurts like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. I’m not really sure how to begin explaining it because it’s highly possible that no one will relate. But maybe some of you will. I have been trying to find the words for what I’m feeling for weeks now… And again, I’ve fallen victim to the train of thought “I should write about that…Make time to write about that…You can write about that tomorrow…” and then I don’t. It just gets added to my brain’s ever-growing pile of Post-It notes. Aside from being distracted, I know there’s a part of me that didn’t want to write this blog because I’m weary of giving a public voice to the crippling fear inside my head. I don’t want to jinx anything. I don’t want God to find me ungrateful. I don’t want anyone to find me ungrateful. I’m so grateful sometimes it feels like it’s too much “gratitude” and my chest might literally explode…maybe that’s my problem.</p>
<p><strong>My Granny is 90 years old today.</strong></p>
<p><em>Yes, you read that correctly…90.</em></p>
<p>I am completely blown away with amazement and adoration for this human, who clearly, has stood the test of time and is still looking as beautiful as ever.</p>
<p>Anyone who knows me knows of this unwavering love I have. It’s a love I make quite public, whether it’s on social media/up on a stage/hanging out with friends/pouncing on her & annoying her with compliments every chance I get. People see it and think, “How sweet, she’s so close to her Grandma.” I wish it was as black & white as that. But I know better. God definitely knows better. It’s a love that has without a doubt saved me from myself on more than a few occasions throughout my short lifetime. A love that was so deep-rooted inside of me that even in my lowest of times (and they were low indeed), I was reminded that even in all the bad, <em>I had a soul that was good</em>… I still wanted to see, hold the hand of, hear the voice of, take care of my G and make her proud.</p>
<p>When I think of <strong>“the pillars”</strong> in my world, God and my Granny. I established a relationship with the Lord by going to church with my Grandma, starting around the time I was in 5th grade. And in turn, God has heard me pray/sob/plead/rejoice over her every single day since. She is without a doubt my 1st and most important prayer request. <em>Keep her safe. Keep her healthy. Keep her happy. Let her know You are there so she won’t be lonely. </em></p>
<p>This past Saturday (August 26th), we threw my Granny a surprise birthday party. We reserved a little banquet room at a restaurant not far from her house. The party fell on my parents’ 34th wedding anniversary, so the “lie” to get Granny to attend was that my Dad was throwing my Mom a surprise anniversary party. My sister and I put in the time making sure the decorations were perfect. Photo collages, big balloons, enlarging and framing photos that were nearly 70 years old, making table centerpieces that featured photos of Granny from a woman in her early 20’s to this past Easter Sunday. Family, friends, neighbors all gathered to celebrate the life of this woman. She was certainly surprised. Then overwhelmed. Then a little nervous. Then realized that she had no choice but to be the center of everyone’s attention so she went along with it, ha. We showed her all the pictures we’d “borrowed” from her old photo albums and copied to include in collages and centerpieces. She laughed as she pointed out who/what/when/where/what they had for lunch that day with all the photos we’d acquired.</p>
<p>Seeing my Grandma young, freshly moved to Detroit and living in a boarding house with her exciting girlfriends…posing with her brothers while wearing a headscarf, youthful and playful and proud to be their sister…her and my Grandpa their first handful of years as a married couple…with my Dad and my Aunt Kathy as young kids, big glasses, big hair, and always at least one dog in the photo…</p>
<p><strong>My Grandma was someone and something other than my Grandma in her lifetime.</strong> The proof of this moved me in ways I can’t adequately describe. It’s beautiful.</p>
<p>I was equally fascinated as I was saddened. Sad, that my Grandma has lived alone for the past 25 years on that very same property as these old photos were taken. Or that she doesn’t see and laugh with her girlfriends like she used to. Or that she only has one remaining brother now, her youngest brother, my Great Uncle Johnny down in Tennessee. Or that they took away her license this past spring, so loneliness feels more isolating…<em>Because as much as these photos document what a big life she’s had, it also serves a reminder that “the good ol’ days” are a thing of the past. </em></p>
<p>I knew at a very young age that I was called to be my Granny’s best friend after my Grandpa tragically passed. I’d volunteer myself every Sunday to attend church with her, sit beside her in the back pew and hold her hand, spend the day with her, invite her to every single dance recital/choir concert/cheerleading event/musical, etc. (And she was at every single one of them, with a bouquet of flowers.) When I moved away to Nashville, I made a point to call her twice a week and never go more than 2 months without seeing her. I volunteer to fly her or drive her to Nashville and transport her 90 minutes to Hohenwald to see her family. I don’t list these things for a pat on the back, I really don’t. I summarize my closeness to my Grandma because it was something that was <em>so natural, so easy, and so understood</em>. And honestly, it might be one of the ONLY concrete things I’ve ever understood in my life thus far.</p>
<p>She was and still is my constant…my <strong>unconditional.</strong> I went through some tough tough shit as a kid. I then willingly allowed myself to go through some shit as an adult. And with every fracture to my heart, there was my G…even if she didn’t have all the facts, she didn’t need them because she always came through, no questions asked. She picked up the phone. And unbeknownst to her, <strong>she picked up my pieces.</strong></p>
<p>A few weeks ago, I started trying to pray through my fears. Every time I’d get choked up, I’d ask God, “Please allow gratitude to overpower grief.” And it would help calm me down. For this last week, I’ve continued to pray the same thing but alas… tears. Every day. And what am I grieving? She’s still here. Yes, she’s slower, she’s sorer, she’s sadder…but she’s still funny, feisty, grumpy, and loves tappin her toes and snappin her fingers to some Josh Turner all day, errryday. I looked up the term “anticipatory grief” and I hate it’s definition. Maybe I hate it because it sounds like bullshit. Or maybe the thought of waking up to a world where she’s not here really is something to fear with every fiber of my being.</p>
<p>They say to cherish your loved ones. To let them know how you feel and how much they mean to you. To never take a day for granted.</p>
<p><em>So, what do you do when you’ve lived for someone making sure there was nothing left unsaid…or undone…or unloved…? </em></p>
<p>I don’t know the answer. Maybe that’s why it hurts.</p>
<p>So I guess I’ll just continue with what I DO know… <strong>Saying. Doing. Loving.</strong></p>
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<a href="https://thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/2017/09/01/the-celebration-and-devastation-of-time/img_3518/"><img src="https://thereinventionofrayray.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/img_3518.png?w=84&h=150" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="150" width="84" /></a><br> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gocomments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/2691/"><img src="https://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/comments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/2691/" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a> <img src="https://pixel.wp.com/b.gif?host=thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com&blog=113131539&post=2691&subd=thereinventionofrayray&ref=&feed=1" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="1" width="1" />Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/49794542017-07-31T12:00:55-04:002017-12-15T15:24:59-05:00“the music thing”<p>So, for the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to commit to “mental health mornings” to start my day. Aside from waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to work out, I’ve been trying my best to take advantage of these early morning rises to “check in” with myself too. So after our work-out, and my boyfriend showers and heads off the work, I sit out on the front porch and read up on the book, <em>“Jesus Calling”</em> with my journal in my lap. Also, for the past 2 weeks, I’ve been keeping up (or at least, attempting to) with <strong>Oprah & Deepak’s 21-Day Meditation Experience</strong> series, <em>“Desire and Destiny”</em> through their website. Now, I wouldn’t say that meditation/yoga/mantras/affirmations and all this are necessarily my “thing”…but I’m trying. Why? <strong>Because stagnation and I can no longer be comfort buddies. </strong></p>
<p>Not that I’m stuck, per se, but the need to expand my mind and get out of unhealthy or limiting thought patterns I’ve become privy to in the past has become increasingly apparent as of late. I am embarking on <strong>a complete reintroduction</strong> in the next couple of months and it’s scary, to say the least. <em>New music, new branding</em> (because apparently that’s a thing in the music business),<em> new documentary, new message, new me</em>…well, at least, an evolving me.<br>
<strong>To put myself so front and center for so many to hear/see/judge feels equally part paralyzing and empowering. </strong></p>
<p>It has been a long time since I’ve been in “Artist Mode” aka “a bright ‘effin spotlight to see if you’re really as good as you think you are”… Which is crazy considering I’ve always been “<em>doing the music thing”</em> as so many people casually refer to it as. Even worse, when people literally ask the question every music person hates more than politics, “<em>So are you still doing ‘the music thing’?” </em> For those of us writing songs, singing demos, waiting tables, driving Ubers, singing background vocals, taking meetings even though we’re not exactly sure what for most times, slowly saving up money for a photo shoot or a recording session, trying to figure out how to create our own website, constantly needing to replace a roommate or two, physically attempting to make our social media numbers higher, booking our own shows, playing our latest creation around town with the hopes that a bigger artist somehow hears it and records it, figuring out how to release new music so that more than just our family and friends think it’s good (but also hoping that they’ll start thinking we’re actually doing something with our lives now), checking our bank accounts and feeling depressed every time so now we check it even less, going to shows and trying to get a handle on our social anxiety as we also try introducing ourselves to someone who might be someone someday, attempting to rise above the rejection of the “cool clique” of music biz peeps when they ignore us because we aren’t “somebody” yet, finding the motivation and passion to keep going when it’d be easier to just give in and give up…</p>
<p><strong>Why yes, we are ALL still “<em>doing the music thing”,</em> thank you for asking.</strong></p>
<p>On top of that, now I’ll also be releasing an album that’s been tied up for awhile now and has me feeling all sorts of nervous and ready and like, “Holy shit, I hope people don’t think this sucks”. And with that release, I’ll be reliving some painful shit because the album is literally a live recording of some pretty dark places I was in at the time. Sprinkle on top of that, taking a bunch of photos and videos and trying my best to look skinny and pretty and young. The cherry on top being, obsessing over how many plays, views, “likes”, follows you got that week…because that’s “Artist Mode” headspace…and once you’ve had it off for awhile, it feels a weeee bit overwhelming when you turn it back “on”, HA!</p>
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<p style="text-align:center;"><strong>*** Speaking of “following”…be sure to ‘Follow’ my blog for future posts *** </strong></p>
<p>Not that I never “un-became” an artist. I’ve always been one. Literally, from the time I was 3 years old and belting The Judds from every family member’s fireplace stage. Or at 4-5 years old when I voluntarily secluding myself on a daily basis at pre-school to draw crayon pictures of a stage with red curtains, a redhead holding a guitar, standing in front of a mic. Or when I was 8-9 years old and riding my bike in secret to the lake, where I’d sit with a notebook and write songs and poems. Ages 13-17, when I was up until 1am the morning of a show, burning CDs and printing/slapping on sticky labels to hand out to everyone that would listen to me. To when I graduated high school and couldn’t move to Nashville fast enough, with $1000 from my graduation party and a 1997 Ford Escort full of clothes with a little too much Little Mermaid (and Wynonna) memorabilia. To every song I’ve written since, some of which felt like if I didn’t get out of me, those feelings/those words would eat me alive.</p>
<p>These things don’t go away. They aren’t temporary, they aren’t a phase. <strong>You don’t outgrow them. It’s embedded in you. </strong> You can attempt to suppress it if you’re lucky. You can follow alternative roads. You can chalk it up to a daydream or “that was another life”. There are definitely days I wish I knew how to do that. There are days I’d love to know what it’s like to have a career in a field with a salary and health benefits. Or what it’d be like to have a little diva crawling around my house, the spitting image of me, teaching her to sing Carole King songs before she learns to talk.</p>
<p><strong>But that isn’t me. It was never me.</strong> A wise woman once told me, <em>“You can’t make an elephant a giraffe.” </em>I think I’m the elephant in this scenario…? Ha.</p>
<p>Even from a music stand-point, being “musically active” and being in the “Artist” headspace are two very different things, and it’s been an internal tug-of-war for me the last few years. I thought that I could quench this thirst by constantly singing…whether it was with background vocals for other people on stage and in the studio, writing songs, singing demos, being around music-makers, etc. etc. Turns out, <strong>I’m still thirsty</strong>. Because as wonderful and inspiring as all of that is, <strong>it’s only half of the dream</strong>. And I know A LOT of killer female vocalists that will agree with me on that. Not because we want to be famous or win a Grammy…but because <em>we have our own thing with it’s own fire and that comes with a burning desire to share it</em>, despite how terrifying it seems sometimes.</p>
<p>And the reality of me extinguishing any of the dreams inside of me are virtually impossible. It doesn’t happen. Believe me, I’ve tried in the past. <em>For the sake of true transparency here,<strong> I tried a lot</strong></em>… one toxic relationship after another, co-dependency, drinking, going broke, thinking the absolute worst of myself until I made my thoughts a stinging reality at some points, surrounding myself with the wrong crowd, losing confidence in my gift, not loving or respecting myself enough to forgive my missteps, exhausting myself “keeping busy” rather than moving forward, causing my family to borderline stage an intervention, doubting that anyone would even listen or support me if I tried to step out again, and at least 271 other ways I tried to find a way “out” of my true calling.</p>
<p>But guess what…?</p>
<p>I lived through it all, SO much better for it.</p>
<p>I lived through it all, with a new-found appreciation that I still have the option for my calling…which, is more like a screaming than a calling these days.</p>
<p>And with that, it’s become abundantly clear that there was really only one choice for me all along.</p>
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<b>The music thing</b><strong>.</strong>
</h3>
<p style="text-align:center;"><strong>Twitter: @itsraywilliams</strong></p>
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<p><img src="https://thereinventionofrayray.files.wordpress.com/2017/07/img_2221-e1501515036895.png?w=463&h=372" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_2221" height="372" width="463" /></p>
<p style="text-align:center;"><em>(All the props to my co-writer & musical genius friend, <strong>Bonnie Baker</strong> for her cool office/writing space vibes in this photo!)</em></p><br> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gocomments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/2465/"><img src="https://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/comments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/2465/" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a> <img src="https://pixel.wp.com/b.gif?host=thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com&blog=113131539&post=2465&subd=thereinventionofrayray&ref=&feed=1" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="1" width="1" />Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/49794552017-07-10T21:30:00-04:002017-12-15T15:24:59-05:00the hometown bubble.<p>I haven’t been very good about writing lately. (I sound like a broken record.) Aside from some journaling here and there and starting a few song ideas, I’ve allowed my mind to be distracted by other things… travelling, packing/unpacking, being outside as much as humanly possible, Harry Potter books (<em>I’ve decided to read the entire series for the first time</em>), putting the finishing touches on releasing new music, learning songs for sessions and shows, visiting my family, happy hours on patios, and my newly acquired love/hate relationship with Crossfit. (Yes, you read that correctly…Crossfit. I know.) It’s actually quite pitiful how much I think,<em> “I should write today…about this…oh don’t forget you want to write about that…”</em> and then I don’t. Case in point, I’m sitting at my kitchen table with the window open, listening to it storm outside. The dogs are all at my feet because they don’t like the thunder. I’m settling in and getting in a good headspace to start writing and I see my boyfriend’s car pull into the driveway with a much-needed new bag of dog food. So I feed them, I send a couple emails, I wash a few dirty dishes by hand, I check my Twitter, and I think how absolutely LOVELY it would be to curl up on the couch with these pups, listen to the rain, and read more Harry Potter (I’m halfway through Book 6.) But I have to write. Kind of like when I set my alarm for 4:50AM for a 5:30AM CrossFit class because it’s the only time of the day my guy and I can both go together. You dread it, you hate it, you want to push “Snooze” (and maybe you do once), but you know how much better you’ll feel once you’re done. <strong> That’s exactly what I’m hoping happens with writing this blog entry. </strong></p>
<p>There’s a lot of ground to cover, but I won’t try to tackle even half of it in this entry today. You’d be reading for hours. I will, instead, commit to writing another blog entry by the end of this week. So there, I said it, feel free to hold me accountable.</p>
<p><strong>I’d like to give this afternoon’s attention to my hometown. And my guess is, your hometown is probably an awful lot like mine. </strong> So I’ll proceed…</p>
<p>I was born in Garden City, MI, lived in a Polish neighborhood in Detroit the first few years of my life, and then moved 20 minutes west (with Metro Airport right beside us), to the suburb of <strong>Belleville, Michigan</strong> by the time I was a toddler. The first home I have memories of is the little brick ranch that sat off a horrendously pot-hole-filled road right behind what used to be Dimitri’s Kitchen (which I guess is now called Mike’s Kitchen). I made my very first friends there. Friends that I actually still keep connected with via social media. I lived in Belleville and only Belleville until the day I moved to Nashville, however, throughout my younger years, I ended up attending 3 out of the 5 different elementary schools within Belleville’s city limits. Don’t worry, I was uncool through all 3 schools, ha. Between 2nd and 3rd grade, my mother was expecting her 4th (and thankfully, last) child so we inevitably outgrew our little ranch. We relocated over the bridge, on the other side of Belleville Lake, to a brand new subdivision, where at the time, we were the 5th house being built in the whole neighborhood. Our new location had us directly beside Belleville High School and it was a dream for me to people-watch all the students, imagining my own “Saved By The Bell” episode when I reached those hallowed doors someday. <em>Yup, it was a whole new world on the other side of Belleville…</em></p>
<p>Our new home was walking/bike-riding distance to Main Street and all the glorious things you can only truly appreciate when you’re a kid. Hours spent climbing and running all over Victory Park, sugar highs from Frosty Boy, hanging out by the library, loaded cheese fries from A&W, candy cigarette’s from the Dairy Mart, feeding the overzealous (and disgusting) carp off the boat docks at Reflections… It was sublime and as a child, I had no interest in knowing a life outside of my town.</p>
<p>I was a Belleville Cougar cheerleader when I was 8-10 years old, which lead me to cheerleading for South Middle School and the first couple years of high school. Turns out, I was too cynical & sarcastic to be a good cheerleader even at 9 years old, and I never outgrew it, who knew. I was heavily involved in dance and singing at Jan’s School of Dance. The owner/instructor, Jan Oliver, scared the hell out of me as a kid. She was strict but she was good, and she called me out on my laziness. She also gave me some of my first public singing performances at our dance recitals over the summer. I was involved in my hometown’s Strawberry Festival, whether it was singing/dancing in the parades, performing at the craft fairs, headlining on the ‘main stage’ with my comically bad band at the time, or coming in 1st Runner Up in the Strawberry Queen Pageant. *cringe*</p>
<p>Throughout high school, I started performing at every local event there was…charity dinners, Music in the Park, choir concerts, tree lightings, church revivals (shout-out to Faith Assembly), talent contests, the whole works. Suddenly, my dorkiness was irrelevant because everyone knew I could sing. The local papers wrote about me and for the first time ever, I felt almost cool. I started performing bigger gigs on bigger stages with bigger artists, and Belleville had a unfailing, <em>“That’s our girl”</em> way about them in their support for me.</p>
<p>All of that was great, but the closer I got to graduation, the more I wanted out.</p>
<p>Nashville was calling. <em>Literally.</em></p>
<p>I got to feature my hometown of Belleville, Michigan on <strong>USA Network’s “Nashville Star 2”</strong> when I was a top 10 contestant back in the day. I was still working as a hostess at our local Cracker Barrel and I’ll never forget one morning, while refilling a gentleman’s coffee at 7AM, seeing my face on the front page of the newspaper he was reading. That’s when I KNEW knew…<strong>It was time to go.</strong></p>
<p>I’d visit Belleville multiple times a year, every year, for over 10 years. The first 6 years or so, I’d come back and find it, uh, <em>uneventful</em>. It was the same few storefronts that managed to stay afloat downtown somehow (one of them being the Chamber of Commerce, so I don’t think that really counts), the rest were closed and the buildings stayed empty. There was no night-life, no trendy bars or restaurants, the closest theater or mall being 20 minutes away. I was really just visiting for my family’s sake. Nashville was so big, so exciting, something to do every second of every day…forever a new place to discover, new friends to meet, coffee shops to bring your dog, countless boys to date, any and every concert you could ever hope to see, studios and writing rooms and stages to be on. I was so certain I could never be anywhere but Nashville for the rest of my life.</p>
<p>I’ve always joked,<strong> “God put a bubble around Belleville. Nothing’s changed in 20 years.” </strong> And although I’ve always thought those exact words to be true, the way I interpret that statement started to shift about 4-5 years ago…</p>
<p>Somehow, as life went on, my hometown started to become my place of solace, my refuge. I needed a break, and Belleville gave me one. I needed away from never-ending construction and condos and bar-hopping and bad boyfriends and insufferable traffic and comparing my dreams and my progress to everyone else’s. I needed my family, yes. But I also needed the simplicity that I once rolled my eyes at. I needed to sit in Horizon Park, right beside Belleville Lake, and breathe…just like I’d done throughout middle school and high school, when I used to look for my voice through writing poems, diary entries, and song lyrics down by the water. I needed to walk my nephew to Frosty Boy and chase him in the park. Because if I could watch his eyes light up, then I could forget about all the messes I kept getting myself into. I needed the comfort of knowing that every member of my family was only a 5 minute drive from the other, so that they could remind me who I REALLY was, not this train-wreck persona I couldn’t snap out of. And $3 drinks with old friends at Johnny’s was quite the welcomed change of pace from the $14 martinis/shoulder-to-shoulder bars/loud bands playing “Wagon Wheel”/getting all dolled up just to have boys treat you like they’re at a buffet/inevitably leaving my debit card somewhere-scenarios I’d been dealing with for years on end.</p>
<p>Whereas I used to look almost sympathetically at those that never got out from my hometown,<em> I was now jealous of them</em>. Maybe the “world of endless possibilities” is too much, granting me too many options. When you have so much in front of you, it makes you feel like you should never settle, like you’ll never be satisfied, therefore, you never do and you never are. And that’s a lot to take on in your teens and early 20’s when you still don’t know your ass from your elbow. I started to see my old high school friends that were raising their own families in Belleville in a whole new light, as I was on my 4th disastrous relationship of that year in Nashville.</p>
<p>When I made the decision 18 months ago to live 50/50 between Nashville and Michigan, I second-guessed it everyday for months. It was that internal tug-of-war where the <em>Nashville Rachel</em> was supposed to be so much better, more evolved than the old <em>Belleville Rachel,</em> so how could I resort back after coming this far? I’m happy to say, it didn’t take too long before I removed my head out of my ass and realized that both <em>Belleville Rachel</em> and <em>Nashville Rachel</em> can indeed coexist together. They are both me, they both have a lot to offer to whoever will listen, and no matter what, I’ll never be able to out-run that nor should I want to. It’s kind of like this brand new song I just wrote and recorded a couple weeks ago in Nashville, where the lyric asks, <strong>“How you gonna grow when you’re cutting off your roots?”</strong> Perfect, right?</p>
<p>I give you all of this backstory because recently my hometown has been shaken to it’s core. There’s been a few tragic (and unfortunately violent) losses that has left Belleville stunned and speechless. It makes no sense. One loss, in particular, hasn’t left my thoughts since it occurred a couple weeks ago.</p>
<p>I was down in Nashville late last month, loaded up on meetings and studio sessions, and for once, not really reading what anyone was posting on social media. I was updating my Instagram story fairly regularly, detailing me in the studio and all, and I saw a somewhat familiar Instagram user that had viewed my story earlier that day. Curious, I clicked on her page and went through some of her photos. This girl was a few years younger than me and went to school with my sisters, also she hung out with some of my old childhood friends, so I’d see her pop up on Facebook sometimes. I hadn’t physically seen her in a few years. Last time being at a local bar, where she came up to hug me and tell me that she had started singing out and about recently and how she thought it was so cool that I moved to Nashville. When I looked at her Instagram profile a couple weeks ago, I saw photos and videos of her singing, posts about yoga and meditation, intellectual and inspiration quotes, and I thought to myself,<em> “She’s super pretty, she’s into fitness and music, she’s single and child-less and likes to go out, I should become real-life friends with her.”</em></p>
<p><strong>She was gone 24 hours later.</strong></p>
<p><strong>She died inside her house that sat off a dirt road less than 2 miles from my parent’s house.</strong></p>
<p>And just like that, the bubble I was so sure would always cover Belleville burst. The reality that my hometown is not exempt from ‘the world’ hit hard. The reality that a young woman…just like me…just like my sisters…just like you…could be taken…? This isn’t a troubled past/wrong crowd/drugs/bad neighborhood/a photo shown for 15 seconds on the local news. It’s so much to process and it will continue to be so much to process.</p>
<p>I share this story, not because I have anything new to contribute. I don’t have details, I don’t have all these memories and stories. All I have is perspective.</p>
<p><b>Egypt Covington was one of us</b>.</p>
<p>I’m still Facebook friends with a lot of people in my hometown that are terrified/enraged and quite a few of them are saying the town has gone to shit. Despite these recent tragic events, I have to say that I disagree.</p>
<p>All the things I couldn’t see/appreciate about my hometown while growing up are still present today. There’s something soul-stirring about the loyalty of a smaller-town community, regardless if it’s progress rate. For a long time, my eyes were fixated on the <em>“new and shiny”</em>. But now I’ve seen the new and shiny, I’ve lived the new and shiny, <em>and the new and shiny doesn’t claim you when you feel forgotten, or when you’ve forgotten yourself.</em> <strong>But your hometown does. </strong></p>
<p>I’m proud to be from Belleville and to stand with a community that took care of my family and I. This town gave me the love and the platform to create these big ol’ dreams of mine. This town let me cry on it’s shoulder every single time my heart got broken, whether by these dreams or some stupid boy. This town let me start over. So no matter where the music takes me, I will always appreciate landing on this stretch of runway that continues to welcome me home. Bubble or not.</p>
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<p> </p><br> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gocomments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/2110/"><img src="https://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/comments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/2110/" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a> <img src="https://pixel.wp.com/b.gif?host=thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com&blog=113131539&post=2110&subd=thereinventionofrayray&ref=&feed=1" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="1" width="1" />Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/49794562017-05-22T02:47:58-04:002017-12-15T15:24:59-05:00everything in the middle of nowhere.<p>It’s a weird thing.</p>
<p>I have literally thought to myself and/or said out loud to others, “I really feel like blogging” and yet… nothing. For quite awhile now.</p>
<p>That is always a huge indicator for me. I write when I have something that needs to be said. When the desire to write my heart, read it back, and allow myself to process is more overwhelming than anything going on externally. And sometimes, there’s just too much that needs to be said. So, instead of flushing them out and tackling these topics one by one, I stay silent. <em>The chaos stays internal. </em> The blog stays unwritten.</p>
<p>I’m currently 3 songs written, 2 hours of Golden Girls watched, and a bottle of wine consumed today so… <strong>here we go.</strong></p>
<p><strong>I left Detroit on April 22nd. </strong> That means, it’s been a whole 30 days since I’ve seen my dogs, my family, my porch swing, and my bed. It has been 20 days since I have seen my boyfriend. This probably seems extreme to a lot of you. To some of you musician/gypsy spirit types, this seems relatively normal. <em>I rest somewhere between the two. </em></p>
<p>I make sacrifices all the way around, some days seeming more worthwhile than others. The documentary that initially prompted my split location finally wrapped filming 5 weeks ago, so now the “<em>I have to be in Michigan for this”</em> is up. Clearly, life is much different than it was 18 months ago when I made the decision to give up my ever-dramatic, forever busy, at times volatile, full-time living (and distracting myself from) “the dream” in Nashville.</p>
<p>I now live in an “old lady bungalow” in the suburbs with the greatest man I’ve ever known and all of our doggie children. I have a baby niece and nephew that I’m completely obsessed with. I have a Granny that turns 90 years old in August and lives 5 miles away from the rest of my family. I have an Aunt that probably doesn’t “need” me, but regardless, I feel called to be there for since the loss of my Godfather. I have a few friends (new and old) that truly “get me” and I’m grateful. The desire to create music and share it with Detroit remains strong. I’m “one of them” and I yearn to contribute in a way I haven’t just yet.</p>
<p>However, Nashville brought me up. It’s brought out the very best and the very worst in me. <em> I’m now at a place where I can recognize where I was and who I’ll never be again, no matter how alluring it may seem at times. </em>I am not that girl anymore<em>,</em> praise God. And I’m SO thankful that I can have that realization NOW and not on my 2nd stint in rehab or with a couple kids under my belt. Nashville, for all it’s hardships, is also where so much of my light is…it’s where I’m the most creative, the most productive, the most inspired. Re-working my boundaries and my social circle has been a lot, but I’ve already seen the benefits. I’m still working on eliminating the fog of self-defeating and self-sabotaging thoughts that held me down for so long, but I know the vision is getting clearer everyday. I’m not the same Rachel I was 18 months ago and the Rachel in Nashville today genuinely reflects that.</p>
<p>And yet, all this time and traveling that has taken place since I left my little domestic haven on Baker Avenue in Michigan weeks ago… somehow, my lines have been blurred, scribbled, and stomped on repeatedly. Two trips to Florida and 2 weeks in Nashville later, my sense of “peace” has been relatively non-existent for a month now. There’s definitely a few people I could blame for this, but what’s the point? It’s only partially their fault. Because at the end of the day, I could’ve handled their poor behavior and these toxic situations differently. And I’m disappointed that I didn’t. In a couple of these scenarios, I thought keeping neutral and “cool” would be for the best, for myself and the others traveling with me. <strong>It wasn’t. </strong> So I ended up feeling like a doormat and allowing a few people that I love to feel the same. Another scenario weighing heavy on my heart tonight is where I completely unloaded EVERYTHING, without ever coming up for air. And regardless if those things were on my heart, I’m disappointed that I allowed those buttons to be pushed so severely.</p>
<p>It’s all left me feeling exhausted.</p>
<p>So yesterday morning, slightly hungover (and definitely sleep-deprived from what is now considered a rare, “girls night” out downtown), I picked up my (nearly) 90 year old Granny from Nashville International Airport at 8:30AM. I immediately took her to the Cracker Barrel where I tried to nurse us both back to life with biscuits and a pot of coffee. I then proceeded to drive 90 minutes to her hometown of Hohenwald, TN, where I’d be dropping her off for a few days with her youngest (and last-surviving) brother, my Great Uncle Johnny and his wife, Aunt Lillie Mae. As tired as I was, I enjoyed the scenic drive with my ‘side-kick’. I hung on every story that my Granny’s hoarse voice tried to tell me of anything and everything.</p>
<p>When we arrived, I stayed most of the day with zero distraction. You see, Hohenwald is a “No Service” zone for Sprint. Not “Extended”, not 1 bar if you stand at the end of the drive…no, it’s “No Service” for at least 20 minutes in every direction. It stormed pretty hard for a majority of the afternoon, so that aided in my long visit. A few times, I just sat out on the porch and listened to this beautifully vast country-side get pummeled by rain. When it cleared up hours later (and I’d eaten about 10 pounds worth of good ol’ country cooking), I hit the road alone back to Nashville.</p>
<p><em>I was thankful for the solo drive. </em> I typically use that time to explore, get a little lost, make a dead-stop in the middle of the street just to take a photo, admire all the farms/random country stores/abandoned houses/gas stations, and know that GPS isn’t going to work 95% of the time. And this time was no different. <em>I definitely got lost without my navigation working.</em></p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofrayray.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/fullsizerender-e1495434027169.jpeg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="FullSizeRender" /><img src="https://thereinventionofrayray.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/img_0695-e1495434078964.jpeg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_0695" /><img src="https://thereinventionofrayray.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/img_0692-e1495434131943.jpeg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_0692" /></p>
<p>It’s funny how that happens…</p>
<p><strong>We rarely allow ourselves to get lost.</strong></p>
<p>We rarely give ourselves permission or allow time for exploration.</p>
<p>I’m forever grateful for my drives to and from Hohenwald, even if it’s just for that.</p>
<p>Honestly, it’s a spiritual experience. I soak it all in. The scenery is always mystifying to me. My heart is literally pulled in. It was probably on my 3rd stop in the middle of the road to snap a photo that I realized that <strong>THIS WAS EXACTLY WHAT I NEEDED</strong>. The peace I SO craved with these Florida beaches, a “vacation” from the dogs and my family life was so completely and utterly unfulfilling for a reason.</p>
<p>Nothingness. No phone service. No social media. No making plans. No time-crunch. No traveling with others. No worrying what others would be thinking or doing or texting. No passive-aggressive bullshit. <em>Just shutting the fuck up and taking it in.</em> <strong>And it happened. </strong> The peace was unreal. And then, in the midst of trying to figure out which direction I was effin going down on some back country road, <strong>there was this….</strong></p>
<p><img src="https://thereinventionofrayray.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/img_0693-e1495435296712.jpeg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="IMG_0693" /></p>
<p>And I thanked God at least a dozen times.</p>
<p>And then I drove directly to Kingston Springs, completely bypassing Nashville and the “night out” I had originally planned to have. I went to bed at 10PM and for the first time in forever, I SLEPT IN…until 11AM at that, my first night of more than 5 hours of sleep in weeks.</p>
<p>Turns out, you can really work some shit out in the middle of nowhere.</p>
<p><strong>I don’t know, maybe getting lost is the best way to find your way.<br>
</strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>-RW</p>
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<p> </p><br> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gocomments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/1960/"><img src="https://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/comments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/1960/" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a> <img src="https://pixel.wp.com/b.gif?host=thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com&blog=113131539&post=1960&subd=thereinventionofrayray&ref=&feed=1" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="1" width="1" />Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/49794572017-04-04T16:13:00-04:002017-12-15T15:24:59-05:00The Lion.<p>I don’t know how to begin this.</p>
<p>I don’t know how to end it either.</p>
<p>If we’re being completely honest here, I have been dreading this post for approximately 11 days now. So I’m just going to type and see where it takes me…But first, let’s pick up where I left off with my last post real quick.</p>
<p>My boyfriend’s alarm goes off at 7AM. After he leaves for work, I take my time to quietly bond with our new space, much like I did this morning. You see, we moved into a new house at the end of February and I haven’t had much time here alone<em>.</em> The first night we officially slept in our new digs, we crashed on the couch because we hadn’t put the bed together yet. <em>When I woke up 6 hours later, I drove 600 miles south to Nashville, where I stayed for over 2 weeks recording, writing, and taking meetings. My timing was impeccable, clearly. </em>It’s where I wrote my last blog entry<em>, <strong>“Burden or light”.</strong></em><strong> </strong> I was so touched and inspired by all your love for that last post that I wanted nothing more than to keep the momentum going.</p>
<p>I came back to Detroit a couple weeks ago with a new energy surging through me. I was ready to kick that ass & take those names. And on top of that, while I was out of town, my boyfriend worked his tail off unpacking, arranging and rearranging, constructing/deconstructing/constructing again little surprises for me in the new house. So when I pulled into our driveway after weeks away, I was overflowing with gratitude in every which way. And the multiple recording sessions in Detroit I had set up for my first week back was just the cherry on top.</p>
<p>It was on my 4th session of the week, that Friday afternoon, that everything went to shit…</p>
<p>On Friday, March 24th, as I was standing inside the vocal booth in a recording studio, my phone started vibrating in my back pocket. It was my mom. I let it go to voicemail. Immediately, both of my sisters called, which I too let go to voicemail, with a rush of anxiety starting to pulse through me. More vibrations. While the engineer and producer were listening through one of my vocal passes, I looked at my phone…”Call Mom immediately. It’s Uncle Mike.” I didn’t call immediately because I feared the absolute worst. I was only one verse away from having this song completed and if I told them I needed a break to call my family, I’d lose it. And once it’s lost, I know I won’t be able to recompose myself. So with a shaky voice, that was nearly impossible to control due to the huge lump in my throat, I finished the song. Barely.</p>
<p>I called my family once I got to my car. My Godfather, Uncle Mike, was in the hospital with an infection that had spread too wildly to proceed treating him. Between the cancer and this infection, his body was shutting down and he didn’t have more than a few days. Straight from the studio, I drove, I sobbed, and I pleaded with God for 57 minutes until I reached my mother’s front door.</p>
<p>She cried when she saw me. Then she’d pull it together, then cry some more. I tried to speak hope into her, “He’s cleared ‘close call’ hurdles before. I’m not going to stop believing.” She needed to hear that. <em>I needed to hear that. </em></p>
<p>Once my brother got home from work, we all packed inside my sister’s SUV and rode up to the hospital together. It was oddly comforting, all of us being sandwiched in the backseat like we used to ride as kids. We got off the elevator onto the 7th floor, only to see a huge clock straight ahead who’s hands had just turned to 7 o’clock on the dot. I’ll always remember that.</p>
<p>My parents went into the his hospital room first, while us kids waited in the lounge. I couldn’t stop crying. The brave face I had put on for my mom was clearly cracking. My siblings walked me down the halls as I tried to pull myself together. <em>“You can’t cry like this in front of him and Aunt Susie…you can’t cry like this in front of Mom.” </em> When it was our turn to enter Uncle Mike’s room, strangely enough, I was completely calm. He was asleep, so I talked (and attempted to make jokes) to Aunt Susie. He woke up right before we left. I walked up to him, squeezed his hand, kissed his forehead, and told my Uncle Mike I loved him and that I would see him in the morning.</p>
<p>When we got home, depleted, I trudged upstairs to change into pajamas. Five minutes later, the phone rang. I immediately ran to the stairs and before I could even get halfway down, I heard my mom cry out. <strong>He died less than an hour after we left the hospital.</strong></p>
<p>My brother, my father, and I were on our knees in front of my mom on the couch. We all cried together. I slept sitting up on that same couch, with my mother’s head in my lap, playing with her hair until she eventually fell asleep. I cried as quietly as I could the rest of the night.</p>
<p>The last 11 days have been emotionally excruciating. Writing this right now, my hands are trembling. <strong>I cannot remember being this shaken, literally and figuratively, by a death since I was a child.</strong> And I know why…</p>
<p><strong>Because in my mind, him and I never aged.</strong></p>
<p>He was always “The Godfather”, larger and louder than life, someone you never wanted to cross or disrespect. He would ALWAYS be quicker than you at “Up high, down low, too slow” high-fives and then poke you in the side when you were a sore loser. With his long red hair, beard & mustache, he resembled a lion. Always wearing a hat with a feather sticking out of it, tall, boisterous with a round belly, with his aviator glasses, our ultimate “outlaw”.</p>
<p>Uncle Mike & Aunt Susie used to take my siblings and I to their cottage up north for a week or so in the summer. That’s where he had us do chores everyday AND made us entertain ourselves <em>without</em> television. <em>(Gasp.) </em> It’s where he’d chuckle as I cried dramatically because I didn’t want to put the worm through the hook the first time he took us fishing. (Funny enough, after that “scarring” experience, he bought our family a fish tank with multiple fish to collect, I proceeded to name every single one (and their replacements when they’d die) after Little Mermaid characters.) It’s where he woke us up at sunrise by bursting into the bedroom singing, “Oh what a beautiful morrrrning!” It was all his way of “toughening us up” because he thought our mother spoiled us, which was probably true, ha. And even still, from the time I was a kid to recently, I could never say anything bad/complain about my parents…”Hey now, that’s your mother.” (But the way he’d say it, ‘mother’ always sounded like ‘mudder’.)</p>
<p>My Uncle Mike was the middle child of 5, two older brothers and two younger sisters, with my mom being the youngest. Not sure of their dynamic growing up, but I can attest to the fact that Uncle Mike looked out for my mother my entire life. With her being the youngest, that meant that us Williams kids were at least a decade younger in the long line of cousins. My Aunt’s and Uncles’ kids were all roughly the same age and kind of grew up together, with many more memories (and photos) of being together with my grandparents than my siblings & I have. My Nana passed away when I was 8 years old of a blood clot during a simple hip replacement surgery. My Grandpa passed when I was a freshman in high school, Alzheimer’s and hospice being the last memories I have of him. After my grandparents passed, the family sort of dispersed. There wasn’t a reason for us all to get together for birthdays or holidays now. <em>But Uncle Mike… he was always a phone call or 25 minute drive away.</em></p>
<p>I could hear him on my parent’s answering machine on a weekly basis, “Hey, it’s your brother.” My mom going over there after work for help with school stuff. Him singing “Sto Lat” on my birthday, signing every card ‘The Godfather’. I can see him in his chair, asking me if I’ve heard of a certain Blues artist and him saying, “I tell you what, you should sing the Blues.” (Little did we know back then…I would get there…eventually.)</p>
<p>After a few years down in Nashville, I didn’t see him as often. My 5 days in Michigan for the holidays always seemed consumed by my parents, siblings, and grandma. I’d talk to him on the phone and apologize for not squeezing in a visit to see him. He’d tease me and I’d say, “Next time, I swear.”</p>
<p>It wasn’t until I made the decision to split my time 50/50 between Detroit and Nashville in November of 2015 that I really started to make good on my “next times”. He got on Facebook and we’d message back and forth some. My baby sister moved just a few minutes away from Uncle Mike, so even if I wasn’t intentionally planning a visit, I’d swing by after my sister’s. When I started getting serious with my boyfriend in the winter of 2016, we met Uncle Mike and Aunt Susie for Polish food one weekend. I remember him giving shit (playfully, of course) to the waitress and to me, <em>“Oh so you’re the boyfriend, eh? Rachel hides away her boyfriends from dear ol’ Uncle Mike! You gonna let this one stick around, Rach?” </em>Jokes aside, Uncle Mike liked Jon and I know he was relieved that I had someone good to help take care of me. Also, Jon could talk the Detroit Lions with him…and Lawd, did Uncle Mike loooove the Lions… When my boyfriend and I went up to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan last fall to visit his family’s cottage, I showed Uncle Mike all the photos and videos I’d taken and all the stories of our random discoveries. He was proud and gave me suggestions of where to go and what to do next time we go up. I told him, <em>“It only took me 20 years to appreciate the stillness of having a cottage in the middle of nowhere, Uncle Mike. Sorry I was too much of a shit when I was younger to see it then.”</em></p>
<p>His brother, my Uncle Corky, passed away a few months after that lunch, in July of 2016. I shed tears for my mother more than anything. <strong>I couldn’t imagine losing a sibling. </strong> Let alone, two of them. (My Uncle Joe, the oldest brother, died of leukemia when I was 10.)</p>
<p>After the funeral, there was a luncheon, and it was there that my 6 year old nephew was horsing around with Uncle Mike (typical) and hit him in the stomach. A few days later, when Uncle Mike still felt pain in his stomach, he went to the doctor to get it checked out. <em>He was diagnosed with leukemia shortly after.</em></p>
<p>The hit to the family was brutal.</p>
<p>I lost my shit for a week straight. After Uncle Corky’s funeral, after this terrible diagnosis for Uncle Mike, I went to Nashville for work. I can vividly remember on my drive back, I was coming across a bridge along the skyline of Detroit at 6am. The sky just exploded with color and I was overcome with peace. <strong>Real peace</strong>. There was something in that sunrise that told me Heaven wasn’t ready to take Uncle Mike yet. Months later, I told Uncle Mike about that “feeling” in a card I mailed him after his 2nd round of chemo didn’t work. I clung to that peace. I clung to that peace everyday for 8 months, no matter how bad things got. And I clung to that peace 11 days ago.</p>
<p><strong>But Heaven changed It’s mind.</strong></p>
<p>When we left the hospital that night, I silently prayed that if he’s supposed to stay with us then God needed to show His healing quickly, and if not, then take him now. I didn’t want to see Uncle Mike in pain, not even for one more day with him. I am so completely grateful, with all of my heart, that I got to spend the last year and a half reconnecting with my Godfather while he was here. As much as I like to think, “I chose to come back”, I know without a doubt,<strong> God put me back here</strong>…if nothing else, than for this reason alone.</p>
<p>The visitation, the funeral, the luncheon…it was all surreal. And the entire family felt it. Weren’t we just here 8 months ago? It felt like a trick but sadly, it was reality. He didn’t look like my lion laying in that coffin. But I guess that’s because it wasn’t really him, he wasn’t in that body anymore.</p>
<p>As I sit here at this kitchen table, on my 3rd cup of coffee, looking out the window on a new street this very grey and rainy Tuesday, <em>I don’t know what’s next.</em></p>
<p>I went to see my therapist yesterday for the first time since his death. I didn’t make it more than 5 minutes before I started crying again.</p>
<p>I told her how my protective instinct is in overdrive for my mother and my Aunt Susie both. I told her about how it would’ve been my Uncle’s 69th birthday on April 1st and how I drove 45minutes, unannounced, to see Aunt Susie and drop off a piece of cake with a Detroit Lions emblem in the middle, just to turn around and drive back home. How I start crying out of nowhere doing practically anything…kickboxing, reading, sitting in a restaurant with Jon, walking the dogs, trying to sleep… I told her how just a couple weeks ago, I felt so rejuvenated, on a mission, and now, it takes everything in me to get out of bed in the morning. I’m exhausted all day long. What do I do? And her response…?</p>
<p>Be sad if I’m sad.</p>
<p>Let the tears out if I feel them coming.</p>
<p>Pat myself on the back for anything I do accomplish in the day, big or small.</p>
<p>Don’t beat myself up.</p>
<p>Understand that there is no “right way” to grieve.</p>
<p>Trust whatever this process shows me.</p>
<p>So that’s what I’ll try to do. All the “I have to’s” and “I should’ve’s” need to be lifted for the time being. And even though it’s hurting, just stay present enough to keep my heart open to everything this loss is revealing to me. Lean into it, lean in like a lion.</p>
<p> </p>
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<p> </p><br> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gocomments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/1579/"><img src="https://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/comments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/1579/" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a> <img src="https://pixel.wp.com/b.gif?host=thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com&blog=113131539&post=1579&subd=thereinventionofrayray&ref=&feed=1" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="1" width="1" />Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/49794582017-03-07T01:18:18-05:002017-12-15T15:24:59-05:00Burden or light.<p style="text-align:center;"><strong><a href="http://rachelwilliamsonline.com" target="_blank">www.RachelWilliamsOnline.com</a></strong></p>
<p>I don’t know when it happened exactly. I just know it happened.</p>
<p>It wasn’t overnight. It wasn’t one catastrophic event. It wasn’t someone’s words that lingered. It wasn’t one specific loss that did me in.</p>
<p>So I guess it was an endless series of things…life…that didn’t seem all that noticeable at the time but “out of nowhere”, somehow, it all culminated into a big ball of everything. Defeat. Exhaustion. Emptiness. Fear.</p>
<p><em>I lost faith in myself.</em></p>
<p><em>I lost trust in not just a dream, but in my purpose. </em></p>
<p>No one understands the weight and the weightlessness of someone’s dream except the one dreaming it. They can try to explain it to you, the highs and lows…You can nod your head and say, “I get it” but we both know you’re lying. Because someone’s vision for their life is theirs and theirs alone. The words will always fall flat to the most hopeful of dreams and ambitions. <strong>My story will not resonate in your soul like it resonates in mine.</strong> That is fact. And each of us can choose to see that as a <strong>burden </strong>or as a<strong> light</strong>. In my life, I’ve switched back and forth on how I view mine. And as of lately, it’s been on the heavier side.</p>
<p>And as I sit here on this office couch in Kingston Springs, Tennessee, the reality of my situation is sinking me into these couch cushions more than my big ass.</p>
<p>I cannot ignore it.</p>
<p>I cannot turn off the voice inside.</p>
<p>There is no fire extinguisher to put out whatever is trying to burn brighter inside of me. I’ve looked for one. Whether it was in a bar, or in a bed, or holding new nieces and nephews and trying to convince myself that “This wouldn’t be so bad”… It didn’t work.</p>
<p>So, I have a choice.</p>
<p>We all have a choice.</p>
<p><strong>Burden or light.</strong></p>
<p>Somewhere along the way, a lot of us quit dreaming. It became too hard. Too unattainable. Or, you gave up on yourself before you even started. Or, you turned 40 and you deemed yourself “too old”. The world, your family, your significant other told you there was no security in it and you believed them. Whether it was a teacher who once wanted to move to Hollywood or a plumber who dreamed of being a writer all through high school. You went another way because you were unsure. And it’s not to say you don’t live a happy life now. Your life is valid and important. We need the teachers, the bartenders, the taxi drivers, the construction workers, and so on to survive. But maybe you had other aspirations once upon a time. And maybe, just maybe, it’s okay for you to still have them today…even if it’s not what’s bringing in your paycheck.</p>
<p>Being in Nashville the last few days has been a very eye-opening experience. Living here 50/50 is good for me. I’m starting to see it differently, literally and figuratively. I’m having different conversations. And even the conversations that might be the same, I’m choosing to take away different information from them. And the thought that keeps nailing me in the back of the head is this… <strong>the dreamer’s dream is as big or small as they make it. It’s as heavy or as light as you want it to be.</strong></p>
<p>I don’t know who/when/where it says that you can’t pursue whatever it is you want to. Or that there’s an expiration date/age for going after something with all your heart. Or that you can only choose “one thing” and stick with it until you get rich or you die of a broken heart and a shriveled liver. Really? Those are my only options? I call bullshit.</p>
<p><em>This weekend I was humbled by a few conversations with good friends.</em></p>
<p>I have confessed my insecurities and my crippling self-doubt about finally releasing my new music and stepping into the “artist” role again. I have teared up admitting that I’m afraid to pick up the phone or shoot the email to ask for help because I feel like no one cares anymore. It took too long. I’ve paralyzed myself by attaching everything to this big vision of how I thought it should be…all the ducks that needed to be in a row…that now that it’s taken longer than it was supposed to, I’m somehow inadequate. My fear became too all-consuming for me to commit and pull the trigger.</p>
<p>Their response to my bleeding heart confessions…?</p>
<p><em>Do it. Write it. Sing it. And they will come. The time is now. </em></p>
<p>How uncomplicated & undramatic is that?! After this long & drawn out internal war I’ve been waging in my head that has drained me completely…THAT is the solution?!</p>
<p><em>Yup.</em></p>
<p><strong>1st conversation:</strong> One of my dear friends is a photographer here in Nashville. An incredible photographer at that. She called me up and treated me to breakfast because she wanted to ask for my help. At 32 years old, she wants to start writing songs. Can’t sing, can’t play any instruments, but wanted to follow this creative path because it called to her. She’s not looking for it to produce a hit song or a publishing deal…she just wants to write. I was so blown away by this concept that when she asked if I’d help her, I answered with a resounding, “Fuck yes.” So the next day, she came out, I helped piece together one of her tunes and she was over the moon. She’s still on such a high from absorbing information I’d shared with her about song structure and the business that she can’t stop writing…or singing my praises. And it’s just like, holy shit… how brave that she doesn’t know what she’s doing yet but she’s just doing it anyway. I used to be her. And if she can be her and not feel afraid to dream new dreams, then what the hell is my excuse…?</p>
<p><strong>2nd conversation:</strong> Friend of mine has been in town over a decade, singing and writing his ass off. He networks like no one I’ve ever seen. His hair, his clothes, his voice…all loud and proud and he gives off the vibe that he gives zero fucks what anyone has to say about it. Sitting down for coffee with him yesterday, he caught me up on his journey. After over a decade in this town, playing & hosting writer’s rounds and performing showcases as a solo artist, he decided to change it up and form a band to play downtown Broadway every Friday night, after never playing/aspiring to play downtown before. And not just “play on Broadway”, but audition, rehearse, and put together a BOMB ASS SHOW that no one else is doing downtown and that people are flipping out over. He posts videos of rehearsals, etc. unapologetically and people are loving it…he’s exposing his talent in a way he hadn’t before and it’s awesome. Why? Because he felt like it. Oh, and he also started his own clothing/styling thaaang and he’s KILLING IT. So who’s to say that “the dream” has to follow X, Y, Z to be recognized and appreciated…?!</p>
<p><strong>3rd conversation</strong>: Yesterday I attempted a Sunday Funday, brunch and all, and it didn’t go quite as I had imagined. By 3pm, my friends had other plans to tend to so I was left with a full belly, a couple of vodka sodas in me, and nowhere to be. As I was driving back to the house and passing through Music Row, a friend/my favorite co-writer called me up and asked what I was up to. I immediately spit out, “Meet me at the office. Now. We are writing a song on a Sunday Funday.” So we did. I’d had this song idea in my head for a few days and I guess I felt it hit too close to home to sit down and flush out by myself. I needed backup. Her and I are good about doing that for each other, ha. During our write/therapy session we started talking about how things in Nashville have changed so much in all the years we’ve been here. We talked about the hustle. We talked about the lack of the hustle as compared to some of these ‘newbies’. We talked about the new crop of writers and artists coming here and how they are making things happen and how it’s easy to feel forgotten if you let yourself go there. She works harder than anyone I know. She’s working the graveyard shift at a “real job” so that she can try to pay her bills, takes a short nap during the day, and then wakes up and writes songs/goes to shows before she has to go work again with a few hours of sleep under her belt. I don’t know dedication like that, I really don’t. But she does it. And when I watch her win CMA Song of the Year in the future, everyone in this town is going to celebrate the girl behind that dedication. I told her, “What if we moved forward acting like we’re fresh off the boat too. What if the stars in our eyes still existed, we just let life cloud them over.” And then we wrote a really good song.</p>
<p>It’s not a prerequisite to have a tortured heart or be a pessimist to chase dreams. We choose that on our own. And how we beat ourselves up is farrrr worse than what anyone out there has ever said/thought about us. So I hope we can get over it. Because the alternative is to stop chasing. And I don’t know about you, but I’m quite positive that I have no other skill sets and I’m miserable doing anything else soooo…<strong>this is it.</strong> It’s time I start acting like it again.</p>
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<p> </p><br> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gocomments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/1385/"><img src="https://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/comments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/1385/" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a> <img src="https://pixel.wp.com/b.gif?host=thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com&blog=113131539&post=1385&subd=thereinventionofrayray&ref=&feed=1" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="1" width="1" />Raye Williamstag:rayewilliams.com,2005:Post/49794592017-02-08T22:41:07-05:002017-12-15T15:25:00-05:00What is mine…<p>Yards. Lawns.</p>
<p>People take such pride in them, right? Mowing, watering, landscaping, gardening. Personally, I never got into it. However, I do remember how I enjoyed using my push lawn mower in my first rental house. **See photo below for proof** I was about 21 years old, renting a one bedroom, 500 square foot house on a dead end street in East Nashville. Mowing my lawn was my way of saying to the world, <em>“Look at me, I’m grown up. I’m independent.” </em> Never mind the fact that I was broke, watching the only 4 DVDs I owned on a little 15 inch TV (that had an attached VCR) from childhood. But hot damn, I mowed my lawn. That is…until my brand new lawn mower got stolen out of my backyard shed one weekend I was out of town. How East Nashville… I never loved mowing the lawn like that again.</p>
<p>It’s funny how seemingly insignificant little memories like that pop up and completely relate to your present-day life. <em>How, you ask?</em></p>
<p>Because, in this exact moment, <strong>I am not taking ownership of my yard.</strong> Nope. I’m not tending to it, watching it, taking responsibility for it 90% of the time. You know what I AM doing? Obsessing about everyone else’s yard…who should be allowed on it and who shouldn’t be, where they need to water it, how to make it prettier. All the while, my yard goes to shit. But hey, at least I’m being a good neighbor, right?</p>
<p>Hopefully at this point, you’re getting my analogy. If you’re not, maybe you should stop smoking so much weed. Ha.</p>
<p><strong>Boundaries are a real and essential thing. </strong> A thing that I’m forcing myself to acknowledge, understand, and set firmly for myself, regardless of my past. Because if we’re being honest here, my boundaries have been about as sturdy as a house burning to the ground. Oddly enough, I never knew the problem was as severe as it was until the last few months…</p>
<p>The moment I sat still long enough, I felt it. <em>The weight. </em> Like a 12 pound dumbbell, just hanging out on my chest. I can still breathe, I can still function, but fuck… it’s starting to irritate me and upset me in a way that I can no longer talk myself out of it. And anyone that knows me knows that I can definitely talk myself into or out of anything, ha. So now we have an issue that has to be addressed or else, I might end up on a episode of “Dateline”.</p>
<p><strong>Factors into this new “boundary awareness”:</strong></p>
<ul>
<li>Being only a 50 minute drive from your family instead of the 8 hours of distance you’ve had for the last 10 years</li>
<li>Moving in with my boyfriend</li>
<li>Constantly travelling back and forth between Nashville and Michigan every few weeks</li>
<li>Trying to remain friends with people I was close to when I was a hot mess</li>
<li>Having physical and emotional space to re-evaluate some of the people I surround myself with, and yet I still manage to get stressed out</li>
<li>Adopting a puppy that has NO SENSE of personal space…nope, none.</li>
</ul>
<h3>If I could tell you the countless hours I’ve spent worrying/discussing/trying to find a solution for<strong> someone else’s </strong>health/finances/terrible exes they keep going back to/drug use/lack of sleep/car situation/relationship with their parents/retirement/toxic friends they hang around/Tinder hook ups and so on…you’d roll up a joint for me. And then hand me some Ambien.</h3>
<p>I always justified it as one of the following, “But it’s family…She has nobody else to talk to…I’m the only positive influence he has…If I don’t help, no one else will…She looks up to me…He could have a heart attack if I don’t intervene…If it were me, I’d need someone to help me like this…Oh, she’d do the same for me…” and a million other reasons.</p>
<p>But the truth is…</p>
<p><strong>I’m tired.</strong> People WILL live without me trying to solve their problems. People WILL figure it out one way or another. People WILL let me down and not come through for me like I have for them. I too will live. <strong>Friends/family should not expect me to carry their burdens nor should I so willingly volunteer to do so. </strong></p>
<p>I’m literally reading a book right now called “<strong>Boundaries”. </strong> Real life. A therapist I went to see a few times, roughly 7 years ago, recommended it to me. I was grieving from a rather devastating break up (6 months later) so when he made this recommendation, I drove to Borders (yes, we still had one of those then) and purchased the book. I read the first chapter and then never thought about it again. Shortly after, I got back together with the ex that pummeled my heart, resulting in me ceasing my sessions with said therapist. <em>If that isn’t a prime example of boundary misuse, I don’t know what is. <strong>The more I read, the more I talk about it, the more I realize that my boundaries have been blurred my entire life.</strong></em></p>
<p>That stops. Effective immediately.</p>
<p>I have a yard. It has a wooden fence all around it, with a little front gate. The bad shit needs to be kicked out of my yard. The good stuff stays for me to tend to, inside my fence. The gate serves to close & lock on toxic people /situations/ways of thinking that don’t show respect to my yard and my fence. The gate will only open for love.</p>
<p><strong>I need to own my yard again. </strong></p>
<p>I need to learn to be the neighbor that smiles and waves and tries to keep her dogs from shitting in your yard. And even if/when they do, I will still not come over to your yard. Boundaries, y’all <img src="https://s0.wp.com/wp-content/mu-plugins/wpcom-smileys/twemoji/2/72x72/1f642.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="?" style="height: 1em; max-height: 1em;" /><img src="https://thereinventionofrayray.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/228361_6078485580_2108_n1.jpg?w=700" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="228361_6078485580_2108_n1" /></p>
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<p> </p><br> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gocomments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/1231/"><img src="https://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/comments/thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com/1231/" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></a> <img src="https://pixel.wp.com/b.gif?host=thereinventionofrayray.wordpress.com&blog=113131539&post=1231&subd=thereinventionofrayray&ref=&feed=1" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="1" width="1" />Raye Williams