#ALSIceBucketChallenge

      "Look, I'm pouring ice cold water on my body for charity." "Look, I'm wasting perfectly good water." "Look, I'm doing what my friends are doing... For charity!"

      The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge is EVERYWHERE! This is the third week it's been in trending, and still goin' pretty strong, by the looks of it. Others pouring ice cold water all over themselves to raise awareness for ALS. While others say "psh, I'm not going to waste water. I'll just donate." While the other others are saying "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS WE COULD FEED A WHOLE THIRD WORLD COUNTRY WITH THAT WATER." Not even noticing that you can't eat water. Anywho, along with all of this are other people's spins on why we should or shouldn't be partaking in this challenge that has swept the nation.

      Last night, I was scrolling through Facebook while not doing my mountains of homework I have. While educating myself on what some of my sort-of-acquaintances are doing with their lives, one of my friends posted a picture of someone doing the Ice Bucket Challenge. The picture read "Annual deaths from ALS every year: 5,600. Annual deaths from having no access to clean water: 3,400,000." Huge, right? I know. Makes you feel kind of weird about it, right? I know.

But.

I know, always a but.

      Here's my thing. Yes, maybe a different way of raising awareness could be useful. Yes, this is momentary torture for a simple video. Yes, it's a waste of water. Clean water, at that. But this disease. This disease is so silent, I think it deserve a little scream-from-the-rooftops kind of attention. Because that number is so low and that's kind of what's the scary part of it. Because the reason it's "so low" (because, actually any number of deaths is huge and should speak to us greatly, but that's for another post) is because not many are diagnosed with it. Which means we know next to nothing about it. And know even less about how to cure it.

      This is the 21st century. The generation that keeps moving forward with technology. Yet we don't know what causes ALS, how to cure it, anything. Scary, right? Like actually so frightening. Until this year, few people knew about this. This disease that kills so slowly. Like, as in you start losing control of you whole body, but really slowly. Until you can't breath.

      So, absolutely, I want to help people get clean water. I want to solve world hunger and I want to help stop injustice and I want to spread love I want equality for all I want to help cure cancer I want to stop all of the wild fires that happen in the west I want to stop war I want to help educate I want to slow down climate change... On and on. I do. I really do. And, it just so happens, I want to heal spread awareness for this disease that, until now, has had zero screen time. It's time to spread awareness, raise money, and try to find out what this disease is. Because it's the 21st century and having a disease you can't treat is frightening. It's time to figure this thing out.

Thanks,
Mary Taylor

My Story

      About two and a half months ago (holy smokes, it was that long ago already!?), I stood in front of the Darlington United Methodist Church and told my story. It was one of the most thrilling, engaging, enlightening things I've done. And by the end, I was like "ha, take that speech class!" Anywho! A few have been wanting to see the entirety of the piece (because the recording was cut off with about 3 minutes to go). I feel like re-recording it would be a mistake because I would want to re-create what was there, which is impossible. So, I will give you the words I spoke. Only, written. It was an honor.

      "When Justin Beiber came out with his autobiography, I was with a majority of my friends in thinking how stupid it was. I mean, (at the time) he was only 17 years old. What in life could he have done? Since then, I’ve had three blogs, a “web series,” and have written a few papers about different aspects of my life. Needless to say, I better understand how one might feel the need/want to share different experiences with the world. However, when Diana asked me to speak today, after a surge of excitement and honor, I was also filled with the questions of “what have I done?” I mean, thinking back to all of the different testimonies I’d heard, they were of people who were older, wiser, more experienced than me. What can I contribute?

            Then I immediately got rid of the stress I was putting on myself of “contributing” this great philosophical journey where I knew what God’s motive was the whole time. Instead, I’d simplify and tell my story. So far.

            So, here it goes.

            Once upon a time, in an Episcopal Church far, far away, a baby Mary Catherine Taylor was baptized. Once that holy water hit her forehead, she was transformed into a glittering baby and ascended as Jesus, in a full Liberachi suit played a full Halleluia chorus on the piano as his Angel Backup Singers sang and Jesus belted a super high solo note.

            Okay, I may have taken some artistic liberties there. Truth is, I don’t remember my baptism. I was like three days old or something. But my outfit was stellar. Bonnet and all.

            Growing up, I remember going to church the beginning few years of my life, and then picking it back up right around the time I started high school.

            In the beginning part of my life, I was an annoying little girl who couldn’t sit still. Some things never change. We went to St. John’s Episcopal Church in Crawfordsville. All I knew about the service is that I really wanted to try on that huge white coat with the huge sleeves that the guy breaking bread was wearing. And that mom let us have gum after we drank that grape-juice-gone-wrong and stale, grainy chalk bread. No, frankly, I remember next to nothing about my time as an Episcopalian at that age.

            The middle time (I like to call Mary’s Middle Ages. Not because they were dark and gloomy and that I had to fight off dragons. It’s really just called that because I noticed a pattern), we didn’t really attend church. We never really discussed God, or Jesus, or church, or The Bible. Not to say that my childhood was empty with a whole lot of dark happenings. No, I think that Sunday became a day that was hard t get up early for, really. And my childhood was awesome. I have wonderful parents who, without whom, I wouldn’t understand the love of God and the gift of unconditional love. They taught Andy and I to think for ourselves, so long as it was through love, compassion, and understanding.

            Then came a breakthrough. At my 13^th birthday, when Alisha Burns had given me a wondrous magazine/book/thing called “Revolve.” It was a kind of New Testament in the language of teenagers. I didn’t know what I was looking at, or attempting to read. And even though I couldn’t get passed the first paragraph because of this weird, dense language, I was captivated. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not long after that, we received a gift from people handing out, what I thought, were Bibles. In actuality, it was The Book of Mormon. But, still! I asked my dad the difference between the two. And where did Mormons come from? Are we Mormons? What’s the difference between Mormons and Us? Are they Christian? Are we Christian?

            Can we go to church?

            I’d finally asked. And, for a few years, we tried to make church a regular thing. Some might say we tried going religiously. We tried a few services at St. John’s, but because of political differences, Dad decided we stop going there. So we tried Darlington United Methodist Church. Jim Spencer was the pastor then. By that time, we’d almost got the rhythm of going to church, but we were far from perfect. We’d go a couple of times, stop for a while, go a few more times, stop. I was relatively unphased by it. That’s fine. We’ll try again some other time.

            So that was it. Our Sundays were totally free. I’m not sure I could go so far as to say my curiosity stopped, it’s just I didn’t know what questions to ask. It was too overwhelming. So, time passed.

            Then, one day, Tommy and Shirley Thompson were on their way to our neighbors house. To set things up for those who don’t know, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson live across the street from us. I have grown up loving their house and loving, just as much as their house, their lawn. Mr. Thompson works wonders everyday in that magical lawn, I’m sure of it.

Anywho!

            We were outside, as well. So, we stopped them and started chatting. They had said that a new pastor is leading DUMC. “A young one” with a wife whose voice was gorgeous.

            Wait, there are young pastors? In all of the movies, all of the times we’d gone to church, I only remember older people. They allow young people to lead a church? We decided to go that Sunday and check it out. Turns out yes, they do, in fact, allow younger people to lead.

            Andy and Leslie Payton were a pretty powerful couple. I remember after the first service we attended, I went up to Andy, shook his hand, and said, with totally honesty and amazement “I stayed awake.” Like 100%. I was with him. He drew me in, told a story, and weirdly, I got that there was a part of my life (or more than one part) I could do better. Like, I somehow got that I can better my life! Let the curiosity commence.

            Through Youth Group, where Andy and Leslie would ask intriguing questions and lead a discussion, questions on top of questions arose. I began to see a little more of what everyone is talking about. I began to understand that the word “Christian” doesn’t always mean the fire and brimstone Christians we see on the sidewalk with a megaphone. I started asking how do I really pray? How can I get closer to God? Am I too young? Do I have to like Christian Rock? Why are there different decorations for the cross? I almost made it a point to ask a question at the end of a service, when I was commenting about another great sermon.

            Then came the worse. The worst news anyone could ever hear (I thought). Andy and Leslie were leaving. Their tenure here at DUMC had ended.

            What am I supposed to do now!? They can’t go! I still have a bajillion of questions and now we’re going to get a random person I don’t know and they’re gonna be all like “gah, you’re all doomed!” and I just… GAH!

            I thought for sure, the world was ending. There’s no other explanation.

            So, as with the rest of the congregation. We waited. We waited to see who it was. Who was going to lead the church next? And how can he or she even compare, in the slightest, with the Paytons?

            Then, we received a postcard. With a young couple (score). A bright redhead woman who was pregnant, a man with blonde, spikey hair, and their daughter. With the postcard, a letter reading how excited they were to join DUMC. My parents, along with many others, I’m sure, were skeptical. And though I shared some of their skepticism, I was still really impressed that they took the time to send all of us one of these cool postcards and letters!

            Our first Sunday there with the dou-pastoralship, thing was like something I’d never experienced before. Maureen used the piano, Bryan with his guitar, jokes (during the sermon!) and all-around excitement. I was blown away. They delivered. They really took that baton Andy had handed to them and they ran with it. It was almost other-worldly. Then Youth Group! I mean, we continued to ask questions and discuss and read and understand.

            Whenever I had a question, randomly, I’d Facebook them immediately. Which happened (still does) quite often. From them, I understood better how to show the love of Christ without trying to convert people against their will. I learned that “everything happens for a reason” can sometimes be a cop-out response. I learned that God is with us, mourns with us, yet makes beauty out of our mistakes and missteps. Through them, I learned that an open mind isn’t only okay in the Christian world, it’s actually super useful.

            This past October, my grandmother died. A woman I’d grown up with and was, truly, my second mother. It was the first, very real, very close death I’d ever experienced. Ever. I mean, my dad’s dad (my Pop Taylor) had died in 2009, but we live in different states. Not saying I didn’t mourn, but this was different. I had started seeing the suffering my mom was experiencing. Well, that everyone seemed to be experiencing. I suddenly started thinking things like “maybe it’s better to keep my distance.” To not get close to anyone, then I wouldn’t be so heartbroken when they go. I started thinking about other deaths I might have to experience. Could I do it? I mean, really? Then I started thinking about my grandmother. I mean, is she really gone? Forever? Like, when I go out for visits she won’t be at that kitchen table doing her wordsearches? She won’t be calling us telling us to tune in to Oprah because “you’ll want to see this!” She won’t be reading ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas to us anymore? She’s really gone?

            We find God the most in tragedy. My mind was on constant running mode for what seemed like forever. Then, on my way back to school from home where I’d spent the week of her death, viewing, and funeral (it felt like three years), a rush of calm poured over me. I smiled, willingly, for the first time in about two weeks. I was relieved.

            I went to school and vigorously looked up anything and everything I could about Heaven. About God. About afterlife. And for about four weeks, I felt like, quite literally my grandmother watching me. Almost to the point where I was like “okay, grandma, I got this, thank you.” I decided that my grandmother was. I decided to go deeper in this Christian life, or walk with God. I decided that I needed to find the love of God everywhere. Because it is everywhere.

            Now, I continue to read the Bible (almost) daily. In one way or another. I have found other ways to know, understand, interpret, and spread the love of God. Whether simply through showing appreciation, or a kind gesture, or even a hug. I still ask questions. Loads. I am considering after-school options, and seminary is on my list. I continue to grow closer to God. During Lent, I wrote a Lenten Promise Blog and found solace contemplating, questioning, looking through The Bible, social issues, theology, and God. Finding the love of God in every post.

            A defining point in my walk, though, and an experience I’m going to leave you with was at school. I was waiting for a bus to take me to WalMart because I needed to get groceries. While waiting for the ever-so-punctual (that was a joke) bus, I saw a group of people walking past. One with a sign reading “Reasons you’re going to HELL!” One with a megaphone, one with a stool, one with pamphlets. Now, the only thing I see when I see people like this is hate, and being roped into something simply because of fear. Personally, it doesn’t work for me. And I totally get that they are doing it out of love, but it doesn’t really read. I wanted, nay, needed to do something. So, I added cardboard and poster markers to my shopping list. When I got back from WalMart, I wrote “LOVE is Bigger than the Boogie Man,” simply to let people know that God is love, not fear and hate. And I stood by them. Right by them. They had said things like “how can this young lady know what love is without Christ!? REPENT!” I didn’t say a word unless I was asked a question. At the end of my time there, I shook the hand of the leader of the REPENT SQUAD and simply said “I know you mean well doing this. I just wanted to tell you that I’m praying for you and I love you.” I just kept remembering that “love your enemy” and “offer the other cheek” verses. Expecting this guy to tell me I know nothing about love without repenting, he simply looked me in the eyes and said, with a huge sigh “amen.” It was humbling. I had shared one of the most intense, humbling moments in my life. Through simple communication, eye contact, and a few words, I had experienced the true love and hope of Christ. Through a stranger yelling at me to repent! Who knew?

      Thank you." 

Woo!

Mary Taylor

Rest Peacefully, Sweet, Kind Robin.

      We live in a world where celebrity gossip is everywhere. You can't get away from it! Because, even though you hate it, you totally follow all of those Instagrams and Twitters of celebrities and People Magazine and E!. I mean, what are celebrities for if not to obsess very their every move right? Okay, so they make movies and music and give amazing amounts to charity, but the point is, we constantly miss the point and think the fact that they went on a family vacation is so intriguing. I mean, who does that? Only the rich and famous. Duh.      And almost any other family. But I digress.
      In this world, we almost live vicariously through celebrities. We follow how they dress, which mansion they're in now, and, new to the 21st century, we follow their every moment (thanks, social media!). But, let's face it, a lot of the time, you're making fun of them. I mean, the Biebster. Prime example.

      A couple of years ago, Oprah Winfrey came to my school's campus (it was thrilling knowing at any one time that day, I was a mile away from Oprah, breathing the same air as she was). I was excited. I just get sucked up into pop culture and I just love it. I can't help it. My roommate, however, is a little less mainstream.

"What's the big deal? I mean, she's just another person."
"Okay, well, yeah, but it's Oprah."
"Yeah, a regular woman. So?"
"BUT IT'S OPRAH!"

      A few years earlier than that, another friend of mine who was also less than mainstream had mentioned how weird it was that we mourn celebrity deaths.

"People die every day. Shouldn't we be mourning their deaths, too?"

      To be totally honest, that has stuck with me for a while. Not to mention I can sometimes be pretty easily swayed into thinking my thought process is wrong, especially in those uncomfortable middle school times, which is when this person said that. So, I kind of bucked up and realized that going deep into mourning for a celebrity is useless unless you're going to mourn everyone ever. I mean, it's not like you knew the person person. Just what they'd do for the camera.

      As time went on, my thought process about it shifted. It started to really shift when, earlier this year, I got the news of Phillip Seymour Hoffman's death. I mean, the man that defied type casting. Then, Sid Caesar died, the genius that helped the genius, Mel Brooks, become known!

      Then, Monday evening, just as I was about to clean the kitchen from our evening's meal, my mom utters 4 deafening words.

Robin Williams is dead.

Robin Williams.

Mrs. Doubtfire.

Teddy Roosevelt.

Bob Munro.

Fender.

Genie.

Andrew Martin.

Patch Adams.

Sean Maguire.

Professor Philip Brainard.

Jack Powell.

Alan Parrish.

Leslie Zevo.

Peter Banning.

Parry.

Popeye.

John Keating.

Adrian Cronauer.

Mork.

      Robin Williams was the first celebrity name my brother and I became familiar with. During the time actors were simply "hey, he/she plays on.... yeah, he/she play the..." Robin Williams was my introduction to comedy and acting. From his captivating transformation from the fun dad to the responsible parent in Mrs. Doubtfire, to his totally fun performance of Genie in Aladdin, to his heartbreaking speech in Good Will Hunting, and his hilarious role in Toys. Many critics found a lot of flops in his work, but there, genuinely, isn't a movie of his that my brother and I don't love. We grew up with him.

      It's thanks to Robin Williams that I can be confident in the choices I make as an actor, because he played all across the board. It's thanks to him that I want a barrel of laughs in my casket when I'm being buried so that the last thing you hear from me is laughter (if you've not seen TOYS, go watch it now!). It's thanks to him I feel I can be open about my demons. Because, until this devastating blow, we thought he was being open about them. I can have the mind that I have thanks to him. I know that voice acting is more than standing behind a mic thanks to him. I understand the importance it is to simply be present thanks to him.

      Until Monday, going into mourning because of a celebrity death seemed strange. Of course you would be sad and you would pray for all of those close to that person. But you don't know them know them, so why would you mourn them?

      Until Monday.

      Monday, I felt deep hurt. Now, it seems unreal. It seems impossible that, as Meryl Streep put it, an unstoppable force has stopped. That the first actor I have ever looked up to, the first comedian I have ever wanted to be, the first person to teach me how to blend comedy and acting together, is gone.

      No, I didn't know him personally. But, in my weird antics (some including being a guest on a Late Night talk show int eh shower), I had met Robin Williams. We became best buds and he said "man, Mary, you're funny!" In my childhood, I grew up with him. He was like my on-screen father. He shared himself with the world. He put himself into every character, performance, film he has ever done and it feels like I knew him extremely well. It feels like we were best buds. It feels like I lost a loved one.

Because I did.

      I lost a mentor, a friend, a great guy.

     So, I say it's okay to mourn a celebrity death. Because we do get to know them extremely well. They put their whole selves out there constantly. Their art constantly contains their whole heart.

      Losing Robin Williams is losing a dear friend to me. He has taught me so much. How can I not mourn?

Robin Williams. Greatest man Hollywood had to offer. You will be missed and always remembered.


Thanks for everything.

Robin Williams suffered from depression toward the end. If you, or anyone you know (even if its just a hunch) is suffering, never hesitate to seek help. Whether from friends or family, a doctor, the suicide prevention hotline (800-273-8255), or even if you need to talk to a stranger, I'm here too. Facebook message me, tweet at me, whatever at any time. I never want you to have to suffer as Robin did.

Remember, you are loved. Immensely.

Turner Classic Movies

      I was born in 1992. Though I cringe because I can't believe I've been alive for 21 years already, it actually wasn't too long ago. A few fashion changes here and there and some minor (kidding they're huge) technology advances. But nothing (seemingly) as huge as going from silent films to talkies. Or from black and white to Technicolor. Old, classic movies are something cherished by this movie buff which is a love thanks to the wonderful household she was brought up in.

      I didn't grow up during the time of Charlie Chaplin or The Three Stooges. Nor did I get to see the rise of Judy Garland as it was happening. I never herd any gossip of Jimmy Stewart and Gretta Garbo. I never saw Joan Rivers tear Grace Kelly to shreds for her fashion choices. Oh, now I'm mixing my decades. Anywho, my point is, is that this wonderful invention called TCM (Turner Classic Movies) has made it so I can live through those years. TCM brings movies from the earliest of feature films through the 1980s to our television. They help provide history and logic to this love I have for theater and film.

      My love of film started with my dad. Not too surprisingly, it's thanks to him insisting we watch old Three Stooges films and The Blues Brothers (not particularly in that order) that my brother and I now love comedy. My dad is a huge history buff, too. He's also passed that down to Andy and me. And my mother has quite a bit of that too. So, for a household full of film and history buffery, TCM has proven to be a goldmine!

      I love seeing how times have changed. To see how opinions of society has changed; and most surprisingly, how they haven't. I love seeing the fashion. To see how the old Vaudeville performers translate on film. To see the wonderful theater actors that are equal parts movie stars. To see the different shades of grey (like more than 50) of the black and white classics. To hear the imperfections of the less-than-totally-clear sound. To see the imperfections in the film. To see how they made movie magic. To dream of getting a kiss that's half that passionate just once in your life. The subtlety of the performances. Yet the outlandish gestures. It's magical.

      Whenever someone says they were born in the wrong decade (referring to the past decades, obviously), I always scoff saying "unless you were a white man, the past was probably awful. I like the present, thank you very much." However, every time I turn on TCM, or re-watch It's a Wonderful Life for the 50,000th time, I understand what they mean.

      Whenever my mom and dad say "when I was your age, we had to walk to school..." or any other random thing, I'd just think "well, times are different!" But looking back with the classics of yesterday, I see how wonderful time was.

      I never grew up without color to my television. Never saw an original old 1940s car right off the assembly line. The opportunity to just own the latest movie was always there for me. However, turning on TCM, I am able to reminisce with my mom and dad, and they get to reminisce with their parents. My generation, and generations after me, are able to reminisce all together and see, through the eyes of past artists, what life was then. And, even now, think about life now. Maybe we're not so different, my parents, their parents, and me.

Wow.

TCM. What a wondrous invention.