It’s still early here in California, and I won’t be heading over to my cousin’s place until mid-afternoon, so I thought I’d take these quiet moments to list out a handful of things I’m thankful for.

> Coffee. Not for it’s effects, because I’m almost certain its caffeine doesn’t do anything for me. But simply for the comfort it gives in holding a hot mug and breathing in the aroma.

> Unexpected friendships. The people I would never, in a million years, think to be friends with, that seem to come along side me at the most perfect moments and love me well. Like Glenn Camhi…an incredible man I met at French Laundry in Napa. We sat near each other for one meal six months ago, and his consistent kindness over Facebook still warms my heart. Or Audrey Assad, who never in a million years would have thought I’d learn so much from. She’s a surprising little sucker. Or Kelli Stegeman, Kathrine Thomason, Joey Ciccoline, Brian Bergman, Anna Santos, Annie Williams…the list goes on and on and on.

> Music. Thanks to Nashville, my iTunes library seems to be chock full of a song for every conceivable mood. I’m so thankful for the talent of the people in that city, and their tastes, and the time they take in introducing me to new artists.

> Autumn Petersen and Julie Rice. Autumn, for her simple, healthy cooking techniques and her seemingly limitless ability to give and care. Julie, for her ability to listen and be a steady rock in the midst of just about any storm.

> My family. The sweetest, most supportive bunch I could ever hope for.

> Home improvement stores. Their smell, their smooth floors, their garden centers, their wide aisles and unlimited project possibilities.

> Humility. In the midst of a city and an industry that asks for nothing more than complete self-service, I’m so thankful for the gentle, selfless folks who are able to consistently rise above those temptations.

> Jesus. Because I’m fairly certain that when my heart feels like it’s going to combust out of love and joy and gratefulness, it’s probably because He made it that way.

> Art. And the opportunity to see it in a million different forms. And for the time that Brian Garcia told me I was an artist. Because no one had ever told me that before him.

> Mariah Carey. Because my life would be dismal without her Christmas album. And I’m sure Gina Nykerk, Sara McManigal and Christina Griffith feel the same way.

> Baking. Especially when I nail the lattice top crust on an apple pie. Don’t worry, I’ll be posting pictures later of today’s work of art.

> Emma. Because without the chances that company took on me, I know without a doubt I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

> Nature. And every season. And every climate. And every weather pattern. I love love love love love it.

> Judah Solomon Kahne. My unborn nephew. Whom I love love love so much.

> Every single person that has helped me on this road towards my dream of acting for a living. Ashley Giovannettone, Julie Swistak, Michael Hepburn, Chris Conner, Ramon de Ocampo, Johnny Yoder, Jonathan Runyon, J. Claude Deering, Lindsey Kroeger and Alan Dysert.

> Technology. Especially video chat. Which makes me feel so close to the people I like so much.

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all. And Los Angelesians (not a real term, by the way), save the date on December 11th. Holiday bash at our home.

I wrote this a couple of years ago, following a trip to Machu Pichu with my dear big brother. But I thought about it this week, and decided to let you all have a read.

Please note…you’re about to find things out about me you really…really…probably don’t want to know. So if there’s anything in you telling you to turn back…do it now. Ha.

Dear R.E.I.,

I recently bought a pair of your Rendezvous Trekking Pants to take on a trip to Machu Pichu, Peru. My oldest brother came back from a long tour in Iraq and wanted to have a new adventure, and I was the lucky sibling he invited along.

The trip was beautiful. The five day hike over the Incan trail was out of this world. It was certainly a once in a lifetime trip, and I was so thankful to have had the wonderful folks at R.E.I. prepare me for the expedition. I mean that. They prepared me more than I can tell you.

One thing I wasn’t expecting on my trip were the, ahem, bathroom difficulties. Chock it up to the change in elevation, the delicacy of guinea pig and alpaca on the menu, or maybe the fact that our facilities on the trail consisted of a broken toilet seat balanced over a bucket inside a loosely constructed tent made of shredded tarp. But, suffice it to say, I didn’t have much need for a bathroom break for about a week.

That all changed our last night in Peru. In the van on our way from Machu Pichu back to Cusco, my system decided to open up and make up for the last six days. There was nothing I could do, except delicately take off my fleece jacket and wrap it around my waist, then calmly ask my brother to get the key for the hotel room as quickly as possible. We had about 15 more minutes in the van before reaching the hotel, and I used that time to think about what had just happened.

When what seemed like an eternity passed, we pulled up to the hotel. My brother hopped out and walked straight to the front desk, while I stood up to make another mortifying discovery. My accident had made it to the cloth seat of the van. And come daylight, this same van, with this same driver, and this same translator, would be picking my brother and me up again to take us to the airport.

In the interest of your very important time, I’ll spare you the details on how I handled that particular part of the story. Suffice it to say, someone up there (pointing heavenward) must really like me…or at least recognized my plight enough to give me a little bit of mercy in that moment.

Here’s the miracle as it relates to R.E.I.:

Clearly, my little accident got me a little messy. And it got the van a little messy. But as my brother and I inspected my Rendezvous Trekking pants, they were perfectly clean. Pristine, even. We both looked at each other…then back at the pants…searching for some indication that they needed to be left behind in the hotel wastebasket. But they didn’t.

So my compliments and gratitude go out to you, R.E.I. Thank you for creating the most incredible wick-away trekking pants known to man. You’ve earned a customer for life as a result. I hope, though, that will be the last time I need to test your products in that way.

Sincerely,

Rachael C. Kahne

Wearing the famous pants with my brother in Peru

I have two.

Two recurring dreams that I’ve had since approximately 1991.

The first? Bryan Adams (yes, Bryan Adams, not Ryan Adams) is madly in love with me, and I with him, and he sweeps me off my feet to ride off into the sunset together. I’m fairly certain this began after I watched his video at the end of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves at the very impressionable age of 8 years old. But it’s happened at least once a year for the past 19 years.

The second? It’s my wedding day, but I’m marrying someone I don’t love, or want to spend my life with. But I force myself to stay with it because I always follow through on my word. And yes, I wake up in cold sweats.

So I’m thinking this either means I’m supposed to marry Bryan Adams (not opposed to it, Old Man!)…or I’m not supposed to get married at all. Or maybe it just means my wedding song is supposed to be ‘Everything I Do‘. Or maybe it doesn’t mean anything. But it sure would be funny if it did.

My eyes are doing that thing where they burn behind my eyelids when they’re closed, and I have to be up in 4.5 hours to get ready for work, so I’ll keep this brief.

LA does a number on me sometimes.

For the most part, I’m completely secure with who I am and what I will and won’t do for an acting job. Other times…not so much.

I submitted myself for a role in an independent feature film this week. It’s a story about a family of Sephardic Jews – their individual lives and connections with one another. While I originally thought I was a perfect fit for the lead, I got down to this sentence in the breakdown and knew it wasn’t going to be possible: Must be comfortable kissing member of same sex.

This is not an overly sexual film, and it’s not about sex. The lead’s same-sex relationship is critical to the plot of the story. But I simply knew it wasn’t going to be something I could do. So I submitted myself for a much lesser role.

Approximately 20 minutes after I submitted myself, the casting director texted me: Hi Rachael, you submitted yourself for the role of Janet, but I really think you’re a better fit for the lead. Would you be interested in auditioning for that?

I thought about it for a couple minutes, then texted back: You know, I’d love the opportunity, but I know you’re looking for someone comfortable with same-sex kissing. I’m not…so let me know if that’s a deal breaker. She responded with: It’s really vital to the story…but there are only two very simple scenes, nothing overboard. Take some time to think about it and let me know.

So I did, and my answer was still the same. When I texted her back to let her know that I would still love to audition for the role I originally submitted myself for, she never replied. So I guess I know what that means.

And you know, it’s fine. It probably won’t be the last time I miss out on something because of my personal boundaries and comfort levels. But some days…in some moments…I feel like it’s pointless for me to be the woman I am in a city like LA, in an industry like this. That unless I’m willing to dive into “tasteful nudity” or “simulated sex scenes”, I might as well throw in the towel and move onto the next dream in the next city.

Some days…it just feels pointless. Pointless to be me. In this town.

Funny thing about successes…

Or maybe it’s just a funny thing about me and successes…

Within two days of something good happening, I feel the strain of everything else that is, or could be, going wrong.

This Monday afternoon I signed with an agency. So I now have someone picking up the phone and pitching me to casting directors (at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work) and getting me in the door for auditions. It’s a wonderful thing. It’s next to impossible to do anything in LA without an agent. This is big. Huge. Ginormous. Maybe even epic. (But I don’t care much for the word epic…so let’s just stick with ginormous.)

But here it is…Wednesday…and I’m already thinking about everything that isn’t right. I have an agency, but I don’t have a manager. I need new headshots. Headshots cost money. I need  a reel. I don’t have enough for a reel. Reels cost money. Everyone’s hours are getting cut at work. My sciatic nerve is flaring up, again. I miss my old girlfriends. I’m lonesome. What if my agent doesn’t send me out? What if what one of my friends said is true and I really never will be on a Julia Roberts level? What if what if what if what if what if…

Maybe it’s maturity that removes some of this post-mountain-top angst. Maybe it’s just the way I’m wired. But I’m tired of the yo yo. So right now…I’m going to close my computer, and with it, close the fears and suspicions. And I’m going to haul my cookies to some Cuban speakeasy where you have to know a password to get in. And I’m going to hope they let me in…considering I accidentally got a pint of grey paint in my hair this afternoon and it refuses to come out.

I ran across this poem by a fourteen-year-old boy and the words resonated with me. (Great. Teens are now kicking me in the teeth.)

It was spring but it was summer I wanted; the warm days and the great outdoors.

It was summer but it was fall I wanted; the colorful leaves and the cool dry air.

It was fall but it was winter I wanted; the beautiful snow and the joy of the holiday season.

It was now winter but it was spring I wanted; the warmth and the blossoming of nature.

I was a child but it was adulthood I wanted; the freedom and the respect.

I was twenty but it was thirty I wanted; to be mature and sophisticated.

I was middle-aged but it was twenty I wanted; the youth and the free spirit.

I was retired but it was middle-age that I wanted; the presence of mind without limitations.

My life was over but I never got what I wanted.

For too many years I’ve been wrestling with the idea of forgiveness. I’ve prayed that I’ll somehow develop a forgiving heart towards people who have hurt me, and sometimes, I’ve had fleeting heart changes. But those seem to ebb and flow, and I always seem to come back to the place where I roll my eyes and shake my head at the mention of certain names.

But this weekend I started thinking about forgiveness as a choice, rather than a feeling (and as a girl who feels too much, it’s actually nice to take a break from searching out feeling a certain way).

Perhaps it’s time to make a choice. Forgive this person. Forgive what they’ve done to you. CHOOSE to forgive. And maybe…just maybe…in some situations…choose to even forget it. Maybe it will have to be a daily thing. Especially if that person is in your daily life. But as an exercise of the will, rather than waiting on a heart change, I think we’d all grow exponentially.

And who knows? Maybe by choosing forgiveness over and over, we’ll eventually get that heart change we’ve been seeking out.

Oh…and on a side note…just in case you need it. Know that you can extend this forgiveness to yourself, too.

I miss Jan. She was always up for a walk.

I miss Sonnie. She was always down for Starbucks.

I miss Kath. She was always around for Calypso.

I miss Paul. He was always around to talk.

I miss Carly. She was always up for a sleepover.

I miss Gina. She was down for just about anything.

I miss Sara. Because…well…she’s Sara.

Being new to any place is hard. I’m coming up on my one year anniversary in Los Angeles, and while I love it, it is tough making friendships out here. The type that are around for just about anything, that is. It’s a much bigger city, and the chances of just running into friends while you’re out is incredibly low. (And I actually like LA for that reason.) But lately, I’ve been missing those deep rooted friendships.

Alright. Miss Fest 2010 is over. At least online. It’s onward and upward from here.

–noun

————————–

Pride is a slippery little sucker.

For example, I technically live in Van Nuys, California. That is what my actual zip code actually states. But, most people familiar with the city sneer when I say, “Van Nuys.” Instead of ignoring it, because I live in a cozy, clean, safe home with wonderful neighbors and rows of well-manicured lawns, I let my pride determine my new response: “Oh, I live in an area called Lake Balboa. It’s where Sherman Oaks and Van Nuys meet.” All of which is completely true, but, holy cow. Who needs to rattle off all that to a simple question?

Or my new job at a little coffee shop seems to find a way to take shots at my pride every shift. One customer recently brought up the public school system, and how she feels like people have demonized it over the years. I told her I was a product of the public school system, as a way of agreeing with her and showing her capable, smart people can come out of it. She hesitated, then insinuated that maybe there was a reason it has the reputation it does, considering I’m just working at a coffee shop for a living. Ouch.

I could go on and on with examples, but none of it matters. Pride, in this sense, is a terrible thing. Pride causes us to grit our teeth when someone suggests they’re above us. Pride causes us to make hurtful remarks when the easiest thing to do is say thank you and hang up the phone. Pride drives us to prove prove prove…rather than being free to enjoy our lives as they are…without explanation.

So, I’m letting it go. All of it. For as long as I can. : ) And then you can kick me in the teeth and remind me to let it go. Again.

My sweet, wise friend Kathie Cocklin posted this on Facebook during Lindsay Lohan’s first (or 15th?) battle in court, but after scrolling through my news feed this morning, I thought it was appropriate to share.

Lindsey Lohan who? I cant believe the news coverage being given to a spoiled 20-something yr old. Here are a few 20 year-olds worth knowing about: Justin Allen 23, Brett Linley 29, Matt Weikert 29, Justus Bartett 27, Dave Santos 21, Chase Stanley 21, Jesse Reed 26, Matthew King 23, Christopher Goeke 23, & Sheldon Tate 27……. These 20-somethings gave their lives for you this week.

Just a moment of perspective.