A Tiny Miracle Involving Balloon Animals (Blog #103)

Leave a comment

I used to have a cat named Mister. Like most cats, he was an asshole. He’d knock over shit in the kitchen, throw up on the wood floors, and never offer to clean up the mess. I’d be in the kitchen trying to eat my damn breakfast, and the little jerk would suddenly appear on the table as if he owned the place. He liked to hide behind corners until I walked by, and then he’d jump out, tag me as if we were playing a game, and then run away. It was all very cute except for the fact that he still had claws, which would often get stuck in my skin (that bleeds). On rare occasions, Mister would stop scratching, stop chewing, and simply lie on my stomach or around my neck like a scarf. But only when he wanted to.

A few weeks ago I was having dinner with my friends Bonnie and Todd and told them I was fascinated by the way animals do whatever the hell they want. For instance, I said, if a cat wants to be around you, it just snuggles right up without even asking. Maybe it rubs your leg, perches on your shoulder like a parrot, or sits in your lap, but it basically says, Here I am. Love me. A few minutes later, Todd got up to get something from the refrigerator, and when he came back to the table, he sat down in my lap–like a cat–and we all started laughing. I thought, Good thing I didn’t use the example of a dog sniffing someone’s crotch.

Later when Bonnie and I were in Austin, she observed that I often ask waiters and waitresses a lot of questions. Where are you from? Why’d you get that tattoo? Who does your hair? “I guess I do,” I said, “I’m almost always curious, and you can learn a lot by talking to strangers.” But Bonnie’s point was that my asking questions of strangers was a lot like a cat crawling up in someone’s lap. Here I am. Talk to me.

This afternoon Bonnie and I ate lunch at Joe’s Mexican Restaurant in Fort Smith. How I’ve managed to live here my entire life and just now find out that Joe’s has delicious tacos for one dollar a piece on Tuesdays, I’ll never know. But seriously, if you’re not already, it’s time to start spreading the taco gospel. Hungry? Fear not, my child. Salvation is near–and affordable.

Anyway, while Bonnie and I were partaking in “taco communion,” there was a lady in the booth beside us who was making balloon animals. I’m not kidding. She was like a clown at a kid’s birthday party–but dressed better. Well, not to be creepy, but I sneaked a picture of this lady blowing up a long, white balloon–right by her chips and salsa. And then I put it on Instagram. (This is the world we live in.) So a few of my friends started commenting. I know her! She makes balloons at my school. And then my hairdresser insisted. GO TALK TO HER.

Of course, I know better than to argue with my hairdresser, but I said, “She’s on her cellphone–and it looks like it came over the ark. Really. It looks like a brick. All that’s missing is a bag.”

“Marcus,” she said, “some things in life are worth waiting for.”

And then the lady got off the phone.

Fine. I’ll be a cat. Here I am. What big balloons you have.

Oh my god, y’all, everyone was right. Bonnie and I introduced ourselves, and the lady immediately gave me a balloon panda, the one she apparently made while I was stuffing six dollars worth of tacos in my mouth.

And then she opened up her purse and it was FILLED with balloons of every color. It was like she was a balloon–dealer. “What would you like me to make you?” she said with a smile, and then before I could even ask, “Could make one that looks like Zac Efron?” she said, “I know, I’ll make you an apple.”

“Sure, an apple sounds–delicious.”

And then–and then–she made a monkey–climbing a tree–to get a banana. She even talked to the monkey as she “helped” him climb the tree. Climb the tree, monkey. Doesn’t that banana look tasty?

The lady, who said her name was Carolyn, said she’d been making balloon animals for thirty years. She said, “God has all the talent, and he lets me have all the fun.” When we got ready to leave and Bonnie apologized for keeping Carolyn from her chicken fajitas, she said, “That’s secondary.” Naturally, I asked Carolyn if I could take her picture, but she pointed to a bandage on her cheek and said, “Don’t you dare. I just had surgery.” (I’m not Catholic, but I feel like this is the point at which I should say, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I took a picture of a balloon lady at a Mexican restaurant and posted it online without her knowledge.”)

Afterwards Bonnie and I went shopping to look at furniture, and I carried the panda around with me. When I got home, I gave it to my mom. The whole affair really helped make my day. It was sort of like a tiny miracle, if miracles even come in sizes. So I’ve been thinking this evening about the little ways in which we give to each other, how it truly is simple to share a smile, a story, a talent, even with someone you don’t even know.

Byron Katie, a spiritual teacher, tells a story about once when she sat down on an airplane, exhausted. She held the hand of the man beside her, even though they’d never met, and then fell asleep. She says when she woke up, he was still holding her hand. Perhaps it sounds bizarre, but Katie uses the story to illustrate the idea that our true nature is kindness. We want to help. We want to share with each other. So whereas I’m not suggesting that you reach out and grab just anyone’s hand or go around sitting in the laps of strangers, I am suggesting that if you feel like being a cat and saying, Here I am. Love me. Tell me about your big balloons, it’s not unreasonable to expect a positive response–and maybe–just maybe–a tiny miracle.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You really do belong here.

"

Why I’m Like a Fairy Tale Princess (Blog #102)

1 Comment

In any swing dancing aerial, there’s something called a prep. It usually has a particular timing, but basically amounts to jumping–something that sounds simple enough, but you’d be surprised how often people fuck it up. The reason for this–and I’m just as guilty as the next person–is that it’s easy to get so focused on the main event–the backflip, the jump over someone’s head–that you don’t take time to properly prep or prepare.

This theory works with even a simple jump, one you might try in your living room. If you stand with your legs straight and only focus on the jump itself, you won’t go far. But if you bend your knees AND THEN jump, you’ll go higher. The key is the prep–you have to go down before you can go up. (I’ve been thinking about this idea for several hours now and just realized how filthy it sounds.)

As I’ve continued to read The Uses of Enchantment by Bruno Bettleheim, I’ve concluded that most fairy tales are either about puberty, sex, or wanting at least one of your parents to die. Start reading them to your kids today! This afternoon I learned that Sleeping Beauty is largely about menstruation, referred to as “a curse” in the beginning of the story and represented by the letting of blood when the main character “pricks” her finger on a spinning wheel. (The story also refers to sex in general, which can initially involve bleeding and–obviously–pricks.) The lesson is that often there is a period (no pun intended) of rest or waiting before the curse is lifted, before a girl becomes a woman and is ready for sex, marriage, or children and all their benefits.

Isn’t that fascinating? This is the stuff Disney doesn’t tell you.

When I read that interpretation today, I could really identify with Sleeping Beauty and had a big AHA moment. Not that I’m a young girl who’s just gotten her period, but I do think I’m going through a phase in my life that involves rest (usually until three in the afternoon). What I mean by that is that on the surface (and in my bank account), there’s not a lot going on. Some weeks I don’t technically “work” at all. Rather, I spend most my time reading, writing, and hanging out with friends. Recently my friend Marla told me she thought I was in school–learning about writing, practicing every day, getting ready for whatever’s next–which I think is just another way of expressing the same idea about resting. It may not look like there’s a lot going on, but there actually is.

I also learned today that Cinderella is mostly about sibling rivalry. (No big shock there.) But–don’t worry–like a good number of fairy tales, it’s also about Oedipal complexes, the desire to do away with one parent in order to gain the love and affection of the other. In one version of the tale, Cinderella actually chops off the head of her first step-mother (with the lid of a trunk!), who’s then replaced by a second.

But the thing I found most interesting about Cinderella is that originally her name wasn’t associated with cinders but with ashes, which more easily calls to mind images of the phoenix, the legendary bird who periodically dies by fire only to be reborn out of the heap. (Jesus, of course, pulled a similar trick when he descended into hell for three days before ascending into heaven.) And whereas Cinderella finally ended up with that fine specimen of a prince, she first had to be down in the ashes, wearing filthy rags that would make any gay man want to run to her side and say, “Oh honey, this will never do.”

Notice, of course, that it was a fairy who eventually came to her rescue.

Before today, I never thought that Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, and Jesus had much in common. But in every story, there’s a time of rest before they rise. To the casual observer, others are being exalted–succeeding–while the hero sleeps, cleans the fireplace in an ugly dress, or even dies. But after a time of inactivity, there’s always a happily ever after. Of course, that’s the part I want in my own life, and sometimes it’s easy to get so focused on the main event that I forget how important it is to prepare for it first. I have to remind myself that–just like any good fairy tale princess or swing dancing aerial–you have to go down before you can go up.

Once again, that sounded much dirtier than I intended. However, I’m okay with that.

[Thanks to Walt Warner for the first photo and someone I don’t remember for the second.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. And whereas it's just a single step, it's a really important one.

"

An Extremely Neat Child (Blog #101)

1 Comment

When I was four my family and I moved into an old three-story building in downtown Van Buren that we’d recently remodeled. There had been a lot of construction, and a lady who worked downtown paid me and my sister a penny for every nail we picked up off the ground. I guess it was my first job. I remember putting the money in some of those plastic easter eggs, putting the easter eggs in a drink carrier from McDonald’s, and then putting the drink carrier on a shelf in my closet. I can still see it–everything just so.

We’d lived in that house for about six weeks, and then one night while we were all gone, a semi-trailer truck lost control while coming down the big hill in front of our home that doubled as my dad’s drugstore. The fire started when the truck collided with a station wagon at the bottom of the hill, a station wagon with a family of seven inside. All seven people, along with the newly married couple in the semi-trailer truck, died. Three buildings, including ours, burned. The event made national news.

My memories surrounding the fire are pretty spotty. I remember that night seeing smoke in the sky from the front yard of my grandparents’ house. I remember sleeping on a pull-out couch that wasn’t ours. I remember getting hand-me-down stuffed animals. My aunt says I would arrange those stuffed animals according to height, that the year the fire happened was when I went from being a neat child to an extremely neat child.

At some point we settled into the house we’re in now, the house I really grew up in. My room was two doors down from where I am at the moment, and I can still picture the baby blue walls and the railroad-train wallpaper border that stayed the same until I became a teenager. Every now and then my dad would help me rearrange the furniture, but certain things never changed. Always the Legos sitting on top of the dresser were lined up parallel to the edges, the VHS tapes on the shelves in the closet were alphabetized, and the books on my desk were arranged according to height.

Everything just so.

I’m sure the fire was also when I started collecting basically anything that wasn’t worth a damn. That’s when I started hanging on. For a while I was into rabbit’s feet, which I hung individually by chains on a pegboard on the back of my closet door and arranged by color. And then there was Batman and then there was Coca-Cola (the new stuff, not the antiques). Every birthday or Christmas I’d take any newly acquired gifts and start searching for a place to put them. However, because things went into my room but rarely went out, finding empty shelf space became more and more of a challenge with each passing year.

Once after a birthday I remember lying in bed and my mom sitting on the edge. I’d gotten a bunch of new toys but didn’t know where to put them, and it was so overwhelming that I began to sob. Another time I dropped a paperback in the bathtub, and even though the book was okay, some of the pages got wrinkled. I recall being so upset that it was no longer perfect and how even after my mom bought me a new copy, I couldn’t get rid of the old one.

For nearly thirty years now, I’ve struggled with holding on and wanting everything to be perfect and just so. And whereas these things have been a challenge, they’ve also been my salvation, my way of bringing order to a chaotic world, a world where homes turn to smoke and fires take the lives of strangers just as easily as they take the lives of your stuffed animals. I’ve never been officially diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), but my psychologist friend Craig says a little OCD is functional. I know that my desire for order has come in handy in my life as a remodeler and interior decorator. Sometimes I like to think of myself as a household chiropractor, someone who can walk in, immediately spot any misaligned picture frames or candlesticks, and straighten everything up. Snap! There, that’s better.

Today after having lunch with my aunt Terri (the one who said the thing about the highly organized stuffed animals), I had coffee with my friend Kara, whom I’ve known since the fourth grade. Honestly, she’s one of my dearest friends, but she told me today that she’s learned things about me from the blog that she never knew before, like how much I’ve smoked over the years. (A number of other people have echoed this sentiment.) I guess we all do that to some extent, try to control the information that other people know about us, since no one likes to be judged. I know that for the longest time it was easy to stay in the closet because I’d only date people out of town. I could have a boyfriend on nights and weekends, but I never had to mix that part of my life with my family or my friends at the dance studio.

Kara accurately described this sort of behavior as compartmentalizing. Work goes over here. Friends from high school go over here. And let’s see–sex and cigarettes go waaaaaaaayy over there. I told Kara that I thought I’d made a lot of progress. I don’t compartmentalize nearly as much as I used to. (She agreed.) I guess it’s harder to do when you put a good majority of your thoughts, feelings, and secrets on the damn internet. There’s a certain amount of control that’s given up every time you get real with yourself, write it down, and hit the “Publish” button. In this sense, perhaps I’ve come a long way from that scared, little four-year old who lost his stuffed animals, the one who thought he needed to find a way to control the uncontrollable.

Still, this evening when I unpacked my bag from the weekend, I put my socks in one drawer, my shorts in another, and my t-shirts in the closet–according to color. I organized my calendar for the week. And then I put my change in an orange bowl, which–now that I think about it–looks not unlike an easter egg. All this I did in my sister’s old room, the room I now sleep in, the one with the bed where I lie awake and worry about things like whether or not I’ll ever move to Austin, how my body will recover from my recent car accident, and if I’ll ever be a husband. Of course, all of these thoughts are overwhelming, and sometimes I feel like that small child who doesn’t know where to put everything in his life. But then I sit down at my laptop and–word by word–place my entire chaotic world extremely neatly on a page, all the while wondering if this is simply another way to hold on, another way to get everything just so.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Aren’t you perfect just the way you are?

"

The Thread That Remains (Blog #100)

1 Comment

Currently it’s 3:33 in the morning, and I’ve been stuck behind this laptop at my aunt’s house in Tulsa for over an hour. Twice I’ve written an opening paragraph and deleted it, and I just moved from a chair in the living room to the floor hoping the change in location might will help. Physically, I’m both exhausted and over-stimulated. Emotionally, I’m the same. Tonight’s post–if and when I finish the damn thing–will be number one hundred. One hundred days of blogging in a row. Wow. That’s well over one hundred thousand words. That’s more than the first Harry Pottter. I feel like I should throw a party for myself, but then I probably wouldn’t get any writing done. I can’t think. I’m blaming the almost-full moon.

Oh my god, I finished a paragraph and didn’t delete it.

I’ve said this before, but almost every time I sit down to write, a theme becomes apparent. It’s as if there’s a single thread that somehow runs throughout each day’s random events, and my job is to find it, tug on both ends, and pull it all together. But on days like today, I feel like a seamstress (or is it seamster?) who’s looking at a pair of pants with too much material, wondering how I’m going to trim things down, make everything fit.

I came to Tulsa today for the wedding of my former dance partner Janie. When I opened my dance studio on September 25, 2005, Janie was one of the four people who showed up for my first group class. Her sister, Jennifer, had taken swing from me at a local fitness center, and that’s how Janie found out about the studio. Several years ago, Janie moved to Tulsa when she graduated college, but for years and years (and years) before that, Janie was at the studio–dancing–multiple times a week.

I really don’t know how to keep this brief. Janie and I made hundreds of YouTube videos together. We’ve performed together more times than I can count. In the process of learning aerials, I’ve literally been closer to Janie than I’ve ever been to any other woman in my entire homosexual life. We’ve picked each other up, dropped each other, laughed together, cried together. In my fifteen years of teaching dance, no one has been as talented, kind, light-hearted, trustworthy, or drama-free as Janie.

My date for the wedding tonight was my friend Marina, whom I met at a swing dance in Tulsa God-knows-how-many-years ago. One of the most fascinating people I know, Marina is a ninety-something, still-working, still-dancing local historian. She was an original Rosie the Riveter in the Boeing factory in Wichita in World War II. An inspector, she checked so many rivets that she’s missing fingerprints on two fingers. I like to think of her as my fairy godmother. Never short for stories, tonight Marina told me the factory she worked in was disguised to look like a farm, complete with plastic cows and hay bales that got moved around each night. She also said she used to tell her mom she was going to the library to study but instead would go to a gymnasium to teach soldiers how to swing dance.

Here’s a picture of Marina and me at the wedding with my friends Bruce and Lyn from Fort Smith. A long time ago I said something smart ass to Lyn, and she lightly popped me on the back of the head, so we started joking that I’d “better watch it,” maybe wear a hard hat whenever I’m around her. Anyway, tonight Lyn said she’d go easy on me, since I recently lost a game of real-life bumper cars.

Also at the wedding tonight were my dancer friends Joseph and Elisabeth. Elisabeth reads the blog regularly, and she’s the one who told me about The Artist’s Way, a book about creativity that’s currently doing to my emotions what the Tilt-A-Whirl does to the stomach of anyone over thirty-five. Anyway, Elisabeth said she read somewhere that the creative well never runs dry–basically, “there’s always more where that came from.” I remember, just earlier tonight, nodding my head in agreement, and then later staring at my blank laptop screen and thinking, bullshit.

Seeing Janie tonight was only a little weird. I guess it’s like that when you go a long time without seeing someone you used to be so close to. It felt like both nothing had changed and everything had changed. So often it was just the two of us practicing, rehearsing. But tonight the room was full of people, which made me realize I’m just a piece of Janie’s life, just like all those other people are, all of us pulled together by this one common thread.

What wasn’t weird–but rather what was wonderful–was dancing with Janie, someone I’ve danced with more than anyone else in the world. Nothing short of marvelous, being on the dance floor with Janie felt like falling into you favorite chair after a difficult day, like you’ve somehow gotten lucky and found a place where time doesn’t pass by.

Marina and I also danced. We shuffled our feet, rocked back on our heels, wagged our fingers at each other. (She refers to this sort of thing as “getting funky.”)

After the wedding, we go back to the house Marina’s lived in since 1955, the home she’s currently moving out of. Her living room empty, the kitchen is full of bills, newspaper clippings, some pictures of white-haired Marina in airplanes and helicopters. The inspector uniform she wore over seventy years ago hangs in the hallway. She still fits into it. Once when I said, “Marina, you must not have worked very hard–that thing isn’t even dirty,” she rolled her eyes and said, “They gave us a new one every week.”

Marina tells me that when someone asks what she’s doing, she says, “As much damage as possible.” We walk to her backroom. She gives me a cap she says she got from a Greek sailor several years ago when she was in Hawaii. “They were dancing on the tables, and I had a straw hat on with a pair of sunglasses,” she says. “This guy comes over and starts talking to me in Greek, so we had to use a translator. He said, ‘I’ll give you my hat if you give me yours.’ So that’s what we did.” And then she gives me a cowboy hat too, one that belonged to her son before he died the year after her husband did. So I make her put on another hat I find in the closet, and we take a picture together.

The only piece of furniture in the room is a Singer sewing machine. Marina says she’s three inches shorter than she was when she worked at Boeing, that she keeps shrinking, keeps having to hem her pants higher and higher. Later in the lobby of her new apartment she says, “I’m so small that I have to carry a heavy purse so the wind won’t blow me away.”

We go upstairs, get off the elevator, go inside Marina’s new home. Marina digs through her dresser drawer and pulls out a jewelry box with a rubber band holding it together. It’s a box of cufflinks that belonged to her husband, Don. “Take what you want,” she said. “I can’t wear them.” I remember that I only own one button-up shirt and it doesn’t have French cuffs. I look at Marina, almost a hundred. I wonder how many more times we’ll dance together. Thinking I can somehow hold on to her, I reach in the box and pull out a pair of the most beautiful turquoise cufflinks I’ve ever seen. A few minutes later, I stand to leave because it’s after midnight.

Now the sun is up, and I am too, obviously. Thinking about Janie and Marina, I realize that our paths converge and separate, separate and converge. Everything changes as one moment outgrows the next. One day your pants fit, and the next day they don’t. As my friend George says, “You turn around three times and twenty years have passed by.” I guess on some level we know that everything is coming apart, so we do our best to pull it all together. We collect things–cufflinks, newspaper clippings, pictures of when we used to dance with each other or ride in airplanes–hoping to hold on somehow, to slow down the inevitable goodbyes. All of it still passes away, of course, except the love that runs between us. Yes, love is the thread that remains.

[Thanks, Elisabeth, for the pictures of Janie and me.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You have everything you need.

"

Trying So Hard to Be Perfect (Blog #99)

Leave a comment

Yesterday I started physical therapy. Before I left the house in the rental car, I parked my wrecked car in the driveway and put the keys in the pocket of the door. I left the beat-up mats inside even though Dad said I could sell them at a garage sale. “Five dollars is five dollars,” he said. “It just sounds like another thing to do,” I answered. But I did try to take the stereo system out, even though I was unsuccessful and cracked the plastic frame. I thought, Oh shit! then remembered that the car was totaled and about to be someone else’s problem. Fuck it. (I think that’s a spiritual saying.)

Since the accident I’ve been even more aware of my poor posture, so when I got to therapy yesterday, instead of slouching like I usually do, I sat straight up in the chair. (It was extremely uncomfortable, and I guess it basically amounted to cleaning your house BEFORE the maid comes over.) Anyway, the meeting went well, and by that I mean he told me I have arthritis in my neck, so–since I’m falling apart–maybe I should get a wheelchair instead of a new car. Now I have stretches to do twice a day, three times if I want, but no more than that. (At this point in the conversation, he actually made a comment about overachieving–like it was a bad thing.)

When I got home last night, my wrecked car (Polly), the one I got from Grandma when she died, was gone. The tow company the insurance company hired had come to pick it up. On one hand, I’m glad to see it go. I didn’t really care for the color and I’m excited about the new-to-me car I’m planning to get next week. On the other hand, I’m sort of sad. I’ve driven Grandma’s cars since college, as the one I had before Polly–Wanda the Honda–came from her too. That’s a lot of memories and a lot of miles. So much of my life spent in that car, driving to work, listening to music, spilling coffee on the mats. I’ve never said this out loud, but I always thought it was one way Grandma and I could be close, since we never really were, unless close means buying your gay grandson a Ford F-150 wall clock for Christmas.

Uh, thanks, Grandma, but I’m not a lesbian.

You know how when a criminal escapes from prison, people describe them by their scars and tattoos? Well, as I think about Polly, that’s what I remember–all the imperfections. There were the coffee stains of course, a couple cigarette burns, maybe from me, maybe from Grandma. She smoked Virginia Slims. There was the spot in the bumper when I backed into a light pole after a church concert. Ugh. More coffee on the mats. The speakers–sucked.

Last year I rescued two puppies on the side of the road. I kept them for as long as I could, but they were too much, what with closing the studio, having the estate sale, thinking about moving. So I took them to the Humane Society. A couple months later I spent an hour looking at pictures on their Facebook page until I found out they had new homes. Even after we said goodbye, their paw prints remained on my car windows for over six months. I only recently washed them off.

Today, after breakfast and neck stretches, I went to the chiropractor for a massage, an adjustment, and some sort of TENS therapy for the spasm in my back. All of those treatments were done by three different people, so it felt like I was a soccer ball getting passed from one person to the next–down the hallway, past the refrigerator, into the back room with the cute guy who said, “I’m gonna need you to take off your shirt.” Score!

I noticed the chiropractor today was wearing a pair of black cowboy boots. I also noticed while lying on the table that there was a spot on the ceiling where the sheet rock needed to be patched and painted. I don’t know if it’s my personality or the fact that I’m a writer, but this is shit that actually takes up space in my brain, little details that most people would have long forgotten. But all day I’ve been wondering why that one spot hasn’t been fixed, since it’s pretty obvious from looking around the place that the owner is a perfectionist–everything in just the right place. (Also, someone at the office today said, “The owner’s a perfectionist.”) As for the boots, I’m still trying to figure out why they’re stuck in my head.

There’s gotta be a reason.

This evening I did my neck stretches again, and then I stretched on a foam roller and did chi kung. For the most part, all of these things–including the treatments at the chiropractor–feel good. But certain things feel like a fight, as if I’m wanting the muscles in my neck and back to move one way–flexible, fluid–and they’re saying, “Hell no, we won’t go.” So it occurred to me just how hard I’m working lately to get everything in just the right place. Yesterday the physical therapist said, “You look like you’re really working to sit up straight,” and I almost cried. You have no idea how hard I’m working. It’s like I have this idea about the perfect body in my head, and mine doesn’t measure up. My shoulders are rounded. My neck sticks out. I see total strangers with good posture, neck over shoulders, and think, They must be so happy.

As I think about those cowboy boots now, I know why I noticed them. They were brand new, not an imperfection about them. Anything but worn in, they looked–uncomfortable. Maybe that’s why he walked the way he did. (Do you think it would be weird if I asked him to take his boots off, turn around, and saunter down the hallway so I could compare?) Anyway, I used to have a pair of cowboy boots like that. But by the time I got rid of them, they were all scuffed up and full of stories–line dances I’d taught, parties I’d been to. I actually think I was wearing them one of the first times I held my nephew. If I wasn’t, I should have been.

I think it’s fascinating that it’s almost always the imperfections that stand out, the things we remember about our favorite pair of shoes, the cars we drive, the people we love. I used to date a guy who was a forceps baby. He was hot to begin with, but he had this scar to the side of his mouth where the doctors had pulled him out, and it was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen. I’m not discounting the perfect, of course. There’s nothing like the smell of a new car, nothing like the look of a dancer’s back.

Still, almost everyone in my family has rounded shoulders, a neck that sticks out ever so slightly. Put us all around a kitchen table, and we naturally lean into each other. Even now, sitting here all alone, I can feel what it’s like to hug each one of them, my arms slipped around their curvy backs, the way our shoulders connect in such a way that no one could slip between us if they tried. It’s in these moments that I forget my self-judgments and stop trying so hard to be perfect, that I remember what cars and boots and bodies are for. It’s in these moments that I can look at myself in the mirror and, seeing all my twists and turns, fall in love with every imperfect mile.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Rejecting yourself is what really hurts.

"

The Way of the Dinosaurs (Blog #98)

Leave a comment

Last month while I was in Austin with my friend Bonnie, we (Bonnie) took a wrong turn one day and ended up driving through a local neighborhood. Well, Austin is weird, so someone had fastened a large toy dinosaur to a dead tree in front of their house. Bonnie thought it was so cool. She said, “When I move to Nashville, I want a dinosaur in my yard.” After that, we kept seeing dinosaurs wherever we went–in a modern furniture store, on a t-shirt. You know how it works when you get focused on something–it’s everywhere. But just like that, dinosaurs became a kind of mascot–for having a new life, for having something to look forward to.

At least that’s how I took it.

The night after we got back to Fort Smith, I finished the blog about five in the morning. Earlier that evening I’d been in Fayetteville, stopped at Walmart, gathered supplies. I couldn’t find a single large dinosaur, so I settled on a troupe–or is it a flock?–of small dinosaurs. Still under the cover of night, racing to beat the sunrise, I drove to Bonnie’s house, circled the block to see if there were any lights on inside, and then parked my car across the street and headed for a tree in her front yard, toy dinosaurs and a pack of push-pins in my hands. Fifteen minutes later, five different types of dinosaurs were lined up neatly on a slanted tree trunk, looking as if they were slowly marching their way to the top of the tree–or maybe to extinction.

I’ve been concerned that a horny squirrel might mistake the t-rex for a lover or that a thunderstorm would come along and–once again–wipe all the dinosaurs off the face of the planet, but each of them has held strong. Tonight I went to Bonnie’s to hang out with her family on their front porch, and all five of those guys (or gals–I didn’t check) were right where I left them.

Bonnie thinks they’re great, by the way.

This evening I’ve been thinking about all the things that irritate me, all the things that make me mad. It’s not that I’ve been obsessing about them, but you know how it goes–you can’t really help it, especially when you’re tired. So I’ve been remembering that rude lady I talked to at the insurance company yesterday, kind of having imaginary conversations where I stick up for myself, tell her to go jump off a bridge, or say she sounds just like a frustrated lesbian. (Sometimes I do this sort of daydreaming with people I deliberately don’t talk to anymore, people who didn’t respect my boundaries. My therapist says it happens because I never told those people what assholes I thought they were. She also says it’s too late to tell them now. That ship has sailed. Oh well.)

Caroline Myss says this is one of the ways we keep the past alive. We think about it and think about it. We build resentments. She says every day we wake up with a hundred energetic dollars, and most of us are near broke before we get out of bed because we’re worried about something that happened at work yesterday or angry about something a relative said six months ago. Before you know it, you don’t have any money left for spending right here, right now. This, I think, is the lesson Jesus was teaching when a disciple said he’d “be right there” but needed to bury his father first. “Let the dead bury the dead,” Jesus said. In other words, leave the past where it belongs–in the past.

Sometimes you have to go back before you can go forward.

I guess it’s ironic Bonnie and I chose the dinosaur as a mascot for the future–you know–because dinosaurs clearly don’t have one. Honestly, dinosaurs associate much better with the past (they’ve been dead a long time), and I think it’s interesting how hard our culture works at keeping them alive. We buy plastic toys of them, put them in a friend’s tree, make big productions about them. Of course, this is innocent enough. But I know I often do the same thing with my actual past–make a big production out of it. I think, “If I ever talk to that person again, I’m gonna really let ’em have it.” I tell my friends, “Can you believe that bitch?” But the truth is–like the dinosaurs–the past is over, even though I often refuse to let it go. Instead, I spend my precious energy trying to bring the dead back to life.

I had someone tell me once that therapy was concerned mostly with a person’s past. They may not have meant it like this, but I got the impression they thought therapy could be used as a way to stay stuck back there, maybe blame someone else for all your problems. (My friend Ray calls people that do this “whiners.”) Thankfully, that hasn’t been my experience with therapy. I remember that first day when my therapist asked me why I was there. I said, “Well, I’m dating a guy and it’s a mess. We met last year and moved in together a few months later.”

“That was a very lesbian thing to do,” she said.

And then for nearly an hour I marched out all the stuff I thought I’d never talk about–sort of a preview of coming attractions–basically job security for her–all the parts of my past that I’d swept under the rug for over thirty years. Since then, I guess you could say that we’ve been concerned with the past. But the point has never been to bring it back to life–because it’s never really been dead. The point has been to understand it, to have compassion for the guy who lived it, and in so doing–finally let it go the way of the dinosaurs.

In this sense, the dinosaur is the perfect mascot for the future because all too often it’s the past that holds us backs and weighs us down. What I mean is that sometimes you have to go back before you can go forward. So whether it’s something that happened yesterday or something that happened thirty years ago, you deal with it and you put it in perspective. And then–like a flock of small dinosaurs–you take the pieces of your past, put them neatly in a row, and march them toward extinction, leaving yourself free to have a new life, to have something to look forward to–right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Boundaries aren’t something you knock out of the park every time.

"

Marcus and the Beanstalk (Blog #97)

Leave a comment

`

This evening I learned that the story of Jack and the Beanstalk is basically about sex. (As Joey on Blossom used to say, “Whoa!”) Remember how Jack gets sent to the market to sell their cow, Milky White, and he trades it for magic beans instead? Well, apparently Milky White represents the mother’s milk, the dependency of the child on his parents. The beans represent Jack’s personal seed, his puberty, his coming of sexual age. And the beanstalk? Well, that’s Jack’s penis. Oh my, look how it grows!

Take all the time you need to process this information.

This afternoon I was on the phone four different times regarding the car accident I was in last week. The first phone call was minutes after I woke up, and I don’t mind saying the lady at Allstate was a bitch. Uh, ma’am, I don’t feel as if I’m in good hands right now. Maybe she was doing her job, but she was rude. I realize a lot of people take advantage of the system, but it sucks to have the shit knocked out of you first by a car, and then by an insurance agent.

The good news is that after the company made an offer for my totaled car, I countered, and today we compromised at seventy percent of the difference in my favor. So I’m getting ninety-four percent of what I asked for. Or, as the rude lady on the phone said, “You will IF we accept liability.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is that still a question?”

The next lady I talked to was my specific case manager, and she was delightful–also doing her job, but delightful. She explained that liability had not been accepted only because they hadn’t spoken to their client yet, the gentleman who hit me. So that’s just standard. She also said that they gave me a rental car prematurely, but not to worry about it. But then she called back and said, “You might want to worry about it–take it back until we’ve decided for sure that we’re liable. Otherwise you might have to pay for it yourself.”

“Well shit.”

So I put on my shoes and was about to walk out the door, but then she called back–like–it’s me again, Margaret. “Okay, don’t worry! I spoke with our client. You don’t have to take the car back. You’re good to go.” I said, “Thank you!” and thought, If we talk one more time today, I’m going to feel obligated to invite you to my wedding.

Amongst everything else, the lady and I talked about how reimbursement for the car would work, how medical coverage and payment would work, and how she’ll be calling every seven to ten days to check up on my progress. Meet my new best friend, the insurance agent. The next time she calls I’m going to ask who her celebrity crush is. Just based on her phone personality, I’m going to guess she’d say Taye Diggs, and I could definitely support that. Me too, girl. Me too.

Despite the fact that things are going as well as possible, I’m really anxious to have it all settled, get the reimbursement check, and purchase a new car. (I picked one out yesterday, and it’s being held. Details will be forthcoming. Now you can be anxious with me.) Additionally, spending all that time on the phone today–being a damn adult–wore me out. I always feel like I’m on the defensive in these situations, watching out for every dollar. (It’s not like I have a goose that lays golden eggs over here!) And I hate that. I’d much rather assume the best of people and trust everyone. I’d also much rather have a goose that lays golden eggs.

This evening I felt like I needed to do something for me. So for the first time in over six months, I drove my antique car, a 1977 Mercury Comet. It’s name is Garfield (because it’s orange, duh). Y’all, I’m not a car person, but I’m a THAT CAR person. I LOVE Garfield. I got him in 2005, the same year I opened my dance studio, and he’s perfect for spring, summer, and fall evenings, since he doesn’t have working air conditioning. But he’s super handsome, has a V8 engine, and gets lots of compliments from old guys at gas stations. (Ooh-la-la.) Honestly, he’s one of my favorite possessions–ever.

Last year when I had my estate sale, I decided it was time to say goodbye to Garfield. It took a while, but I made peace with the idea, especially since I thought the extra money would help get me to Austin. Well, the sale came and went, but no one made an offer on Garfield. So for the last several months, he’s sat in my parents driveway collecting dust and working on a nice case of tire-rot. Every time I see him, I think I need to spruce him up, put him on Craigslist. But I’m always afraid he won’t sell or won’t sell for “enough,” and that makes me afraid that I’ll never get to Austin. Basically it’s been easier to pretend he’s not there.

But because I’m always happy when I’m driving him, I got him out tonight–checked his fluids, aired up his tires. I said I was going on an errand, but because I drove the back roads, it took an hour and a half to buy two bags of coffee. The wind in my hair, the roar of the engine, the weight of the all-metal car barreling down the road–I loved every minute of it. However, there was a faint feeling of sadness, like you might get if you were having lunch with your best friend and you knew it was one of the last times. Maybe one of you is moving and can’t take the other. You both know it’s best, you know you can’t stay together forever, but you don’t really want to say goodbye either.

Eventually you have to grow up and face your giants.

When Jack climbs the beanstalk, he’s confronted by the representation of his parents, the giant and his wife. This imagery represents Jack growing up, becoming an adult. Once or twice the giant’s wife protects Jack, hides him in an oven or whatever. Here the oven represents one’s desire to not grow up, but rather return to the womb.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, how nice it would be to be a child again, to be protected, to be taken care of. Isn’t that part of the reason we love fairy tales? Doesn’t everyone want someone to sweep them off their feet, some charming partner with whom to live happily ever after in a world without car wrecks and bitchy insurance agents? But obviously, that’s not the way it works, and some days being an adult is almost more than you can handle. (I don’t recommend being one if you can help it.) Of course, you can’t go back and be a kid again, at least not permanently. Maybe you get a few moments here and there, an hour free of responsibility, your foot on the gas of an antique car. But eventually you have to grow up and face your giants. Sooner or later, we all say goodbye.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"We all have inner wisdom. We all have true north."

Unmarked Doorways (Blog #96)

Leave a comment

About nine years ago I was having a lot of problems with my right hip. My friend Mike told me about a chiropractor he knew, and that’s how I met Tracy, who owns The Healing Point in Fort Smith. Oddly enough, she’s located in the building I attended the third grade in. For the longest time when I’d talk about Tracy, I simply called her “the magic chiropractor.” That’s how much she helped me. Now I just call her a friend.

Sometimes I think of meeting Tracy as a doorway I walked through without knowing it, an entrance into a whole new world. I remember being in her office once when she mentioned a healing art called chi kung, as well as one called Reiki. Well, I’d never heard of either one of them before, but since my hip hurt and I had constant sinus infections, I was open to almost anything that didn’t involve coffee enemas or crystal balls. Thanks to Tracy, I got curious. I went home, found someone who practiced Reiki, and called her. We’re still friends today, and she’s the one who said I should go ahead and learn it from the lady who taught her. So I did.

Since 2008 I’ve learned Reiki, meditation, chi kung, and all sorts of other weird healing things, all thanks to the same lady. It’s not my point to discuss those things in detail here, but I can’t tell you how much all of it added up has changed me for the better, both physically and spiritually. In 2014 when I was miserable with my ex, it was my Reiki teacher who supported me and encouraged me the most to really figure out what was going on. Had it not been for her, I wouldn’t have ended up in therapy. Consequently, this blog wouldn’t exist. It’s really hard to say where anything starts, but in my mind the journey I’m currently on started with that pain in my hip and ending up in Tracy’s office.

I spent the first part of this evening with my old roommates, Justin and Ashley, who were christening their Big Green Egg for the 4th of July. (A Big Green Egg is a grill. You can guess what it looks like.) Here’s a picture of me and Ashley. That’s our friend Joseph in the background, probably headed for Ashley’s ridiculously good salsa.

This is me and Justin–or as he said–Fidel Castro. I’m not sure what’s up with my side-eye. I swear it takes a college degree to know where to look when you’re taking a selfie. You’d think I’d have it figured out by now.

Here’s a picture of Fidel and Ashley showing off their flexible skewers. (Ashley’s is invisible.) But seriously. First they put a man on the moon and then they make skewers that bend. The next time someone tells you life sucks, you just remind them they live in America–where you can grill fruit on a string.

When I left Justin and Ashley’s, I went to Tracy’s. She and her husband, Aaron, have one of the coolest houses I’ve ever seen, with one of the best views for fireworks, so I always try to invite myself to their parties. Here’s a picture taken from their back deck.

Y’all, I learned the coolest thing tonight–a recipe–a meal, really–called Walking Tacos. You take a bag of Doritos, crunch up the chips, and then open the bag and add meat, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, whatever. Grab a fork and you’re done. This is my kind of food. Genius!

By the way, so you know what pains I go through in order to make this blog true-to-life, I’m actually walking with my Walking Tacos in the picture.

Ugh. Just because everyone else is doing it, here’s a picture–one, single, solitary picture–from the fireworks display. I’ll spare you the twenty-nine pictures that didn’t turn out and instead direct you to your Facebook news feed.

After the fireworks show, I hung out with Tracy’s family in their kitchen. Someone had a bottle of red wine called Whiplash, which I thought was funny because I was just in a car wreck. Tell me God doesn’t have a twisted sense of humor. (Or maybe that’s just me.)

Since I got home tonight, I’ve been thinking about whiplash and the number of times over the years I’ve been frustrated with pain in my physical body. It really has been a problem. Still, when I look back at all the things I’ve learned and all the wonderful people I’ve met simply because my hip hurt nine years ago, I’m actually really grateful that things were out of whack. Of course, when Mike told me about Tracy, when I actually met her, I had no idea the doorway I was walking through, no idea I would eventually leave an entire world behind in exchange for something better. It’s not like life bothered to announce in flashing lights–WEAR SOMETHING CUTE, THIS IS A BIG MOMENT.

Personally, I’m glad big moments often hide behind the ordinary and even the painful ones. Of course, I can’t say for certain why life works this way, why the doorways that ultimately transform us don’t come clearly marked. But I suppose it’s because the path of transformation isn’t for sissies. It’s worth it, but it’s rough going at times. And who honestly loves change, having their world turned upside down slowly and consistently for nearly a decade? So I imagine if there were neon signs that said, “Attention–Big Moment Just Around the Corner,” we would only look at them briefly and then–so blinded by the light–turn and go in a different direction.

[On an unrelated note, here for your viewing pleasure is a slightly dirty and extremely delightful Santa Claus joke told by Cee Cee, Tracy’s sister-in-law. Apparently it’s a family favorite, and I’m sure you’ll see why.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"No one comes into this life knowing how to dance, always moving with grace."

Trying to Keep Both Hands Open (Blog #95)

1 Comment

I’m just going to say it. My mood sucks. I mean, if you were here, I’d be pleasant because it’s not your fault, but I’d be faking it. Some muscle in my back spasmed all last night. When I woke up, my neck hurt in a few new places. The pain comes and goes, and I can’t very well turn to the left. (Zac Efron, please come around to my right side so I can see you.) As Grandpa used to say, I’m stiff in all the wrong places. From the shoulders up, I’m so rigid that I feel as if I’m turning into Pinocchio–the boy made out of wood.

Today was a day for adulting, something I particularly loathe when I don’t feel well. It’s like I just want to hide under the covers and let someone else handle things, let someone else take care of me. Of course, I’m thirty-six and too much of a control freak to let that happen. The insurance company called today with an estimate of what my car is worth–or rather–isn’t worth. Considering how old it is, I guess the amount is all right, but it’s not really enough to buy something comparable. I spoke with a friend who works in claims, and he gave me another, slightly higher estimate. So I’m officially in “negotiations,” which I know sounds very suit-and-tie, but actually happened while I was in my pajamas.

This afternoon I picked up a rental car, which I can use until the property claim is settled. (That’s me and part of the car in the above photo.) The lady from the insurance company said, “You can use it up to two days after the check is cut. If that sounds short, it’s because it is.” (How’s that for honesty?) I said, “Two days really isn’t much time to find and buy a new car.” She said, “I know.”

One of my friend’s recommended a car lot he and his family have used longer than I’ve been alive, so I stopped by there after picking up the rental car. The guy was super helpful, seemed like a straight-shooter. He had one car, a Ford Focus, with a reclaimed title that he said he could sell me for about what the insurance company was offering. I may go drive it tomorrow. But–honestly–I don’t want a Ford Focus. He also said he’s got an SUV arriving later this week that sounds pretty great, but it’s more than the amount of the insurance money. I haven’t seen the vehicle yet, but all evening I’ve been doing that practicality versus desire thing because I could really see myself in an SUV.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Last night before I went to bed, I smoked a cigarette and threw the rest of the pack in the toilet because I was flat out of willpower and knew what would happen if I didn’t. I waited a minute to flush it, so I got to see a nice stream of tar and nicotine seep out each cigarette and run to the bottom of the bowl. Disgusting, I thought. But all day I’ve been thinking I should have immediately fished them out and used a hairdryer to bring them back to life. What a waste, I’m currently thinking. This is what nicotine can do to a person. One minute you love it, the next minute you hate it. Desire comes and goes.

Here’s a picture of me and my friend Mary Anne. It was taken at the Greenwood Junior Cotillion as part of a patriotic-themed Halloween event. I include it now because 1) I need a picture, 2) tomorrow is July 4th, and 3) I currently feel anything but free. So–irony.

In order to distract myself from my cravings, tonight I watched two-thirds of a three-hour movie called Titus. My friend Justin recommended it, and I just have to say, “What the hell?” It’s a sort-of-modern day take on a Shakespeare tragedy, which–I think–is hard enough to understand without adding in murdering, raping gladiators who smoke cigarettes (nicotine!) and play video games. I wanted to throw my laptop across the room. This sort of ignorance happened with one of Justin’s other movie suggestions recently, so I’m officially revoking his cinema-recommendation privileges as of this moment.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

Tonight I went to Walmart for coffee filters because I’m out and can only handle so many frustrations and challenges in one day. This may not come as a surprise because–Arkansas–but people were shooting off fireworks in the parking lot. Inside I picked up the coffee filters, some bananas, and two cans of vegetarian baked beans for tomorrow and headed to the check-out. Well, I had such a “screw the world” attitude that I actually stepped in front of an old lady who got to the line at the same time I did. Her basket is full, I thought. I only have a few things. Well, Jesus must have been watching because the lady asked if she could go ahead, since she was with the guy in front of me. I looked at their TWO full baskets and said, “Sure. I’m not in a hurry.” Internally I added, God hates me.

This may not come as a surprise because–Arkansas–but I ended up being related to both the lady and the guy. (She’s my mom’s aunt; he’s my mom’s cousin. We only see each other when someone dies because we’re tight like that.) Honestly, I don’t remember ever having a conversation with my great-aunt before. But we chatted for a few minutes. Turns out we’re on the same schedule–stay up until six in the morning, wake up at four in the afternoon. I mean, we didn’t hug, but I found it fascinating. I wish I could tell you why random shit like this happens, but it doesn’t make any more sense to me than getting in a car wreck or that business with the insurance money.

The mystic Meister Eckhart said, “It is permissible to take life’s blessings with both hands provided thou dost know thyself prepared in the opposite event to take them just as gladly. This applies to food and friends and kindred, to anything God gives and takes away.” I always love this quote when God is giving, but whenever God is taking, I kind of hate it. Lately I’ve been thinking that I didn’t have that much more to give–I’m  pretty much worn out here, Jesus–but apparently I have a lot left to give–like a car, maybe some money, part of my health, and my good mood.

Here you go, Lord, take all you need.

There’s this feeling when you’ve been smoking cigarettes and you haven’t had one in about twenty-four hours, sort of like you want to run up the walls, jump out of your skin, or maybe shove a rusty knife into someone’s leg. You think, This will never get better. But then you wait a day or two, maybe a week, and it does. You look back and think, That wasn’t so bad. In the process, you find a lot of compassion for anyone who deals with addiction. So in terms of my stiff neck and needing to buy a new car, I’m currently halfway up the wall. I don’t have a rusty knife, but you’d better still keep your legs away. That being said, I have every confidence that given enough time, I’ll come back down the wall and find myself more understanding, more compassionate. Since God works in mysterious ways, I’m trying my best to keep both hands open, to gladly accept whatever comes and goes.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

No emotion is ever truly buried.

"

Another Person’s Perspective (Blog #94)

Leave a comment

Last night I slept for about twelve hours. Between not sleeping much the night before, being in a damn car accident yesterday, and taking a handful of drugs, something must have made me tired. For the most part, I’m not in pain. However, the front of my neck is extremely tender, tight. It’s funny how you take your body for granted when it works. Sitting up is fine, but whenever I lie down, sit up, or roll over on my side, I have to use my hands to support my big-ole head. Apparently that’s the protocol when your neck has been cracked like a whip. Ba-chow!

I spent most of the afternoon reading A Study in Scarlett, which is the first of the Sherlock Holmes novels, written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I’ve never read any Sherlock Holmes stories before (don’t judge me), but I discovered that I could buy the complete works on Amazon for my Kindle for 99 cents, so I did. From what I can tell, most of the stories are told from the perspective of Dr. Watson, and that was the case (detective word!) for the first section of the book I read today. However, the second section went back in time and was told from a different, unknown narrator. The third section was told by Dr. Watson, although most of it was in the voice of a different character because he was being quoted verbatim.

This evening my parents and I listened to the last two episodes of the S-Town Podcast, something we started several weeks ago. First, if you haven’t listened to it, I think you should. This was my second time through, and it was just as wonderful as the first time. It tells the true story of John, a genius clock repairman from a place in Alabama that he refers to as Shit Town. John’s concerned that a murder has been covered up by small-town politics, but as the tale progresses, the focus becomes more and more about John. By the end of the show, several of John’s friends have been interviewed, each shining light on different parts of his personality and life.

(The above picture is me listening to the podcast with a microwaveable rice bag on my sore neck. Personally, I don’t think floral patterns are my best look, but we only have one rice bag and–clearly–it has flowers on it.)

For obvious reasons, I’ve been thinking a lot about stories. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about the perspective from which stories are told. Today when I started the Sherlock Holmes book, I assumed the entire thing would be told from Dr. Watson’s viewpoint, since that’s how it started out. But then–wham!–section two was someone different talking, someone unidentified. As a writer and a reader, I’m not usually crazy about this way of doing things, since the voice I hear first is the one I most identify with, get used to, and root for. But one of my takeaways from today is that there’s always more than one perspective. Regarding the Sherlock Holmes novel, there’s no way Dr. Watson could have known in detail what happened twenty years ago, so someone else had to step in to fill in the blanks. In the podcast, many people had to be interviewed in order to get a more complete picture of John, a picture that wouldn’t fully come into focus if he were the only one talking.

I’ve heard it said that everyone is the main character in their own movie. Like I’m my main character–the star of the show–and everyone else is a supporting actor or actress, maybe just a stand-in or an extra. (Sorry.) But that’s true for all of us. You’re the main character in your story, and I play some other role–maybe your son, your friend, your dance instructor, or simply a total stranger whose blog you read.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with any of this, but since I’m my main character, it’s extremely easy to forget that there are other valid and helpful perspectives other than my own. I’m not always right. (This is not a quote to be used against me later.) I’m sure this idea could be applied to a lot of things, such as–I’m not always right about dancing. But the thing that I’ve applied it to today is–I’m not always right–about myself.

Honestly, I have a handful of insecurities I deal with almost daily, most of which have to do with my physical body, my talents and abilities, and my finances. (Is there anything else?) On each of these topics, there’s a narrator in my head telling a story that basically boils down to, “You’re not enough” or “Life would be better if you were different.”

Having another person’s perspective can help balance out the thoughts you think about yourself.

This is one area in which having a therapist has been extremely helpful for me. I like having a professional someone who’s not involved in the day-to-day details of my life weigh in on everything. Having another person’s perspective, having someone else tell their story about me, has helped balance out the thoughts I think about myself. Marcus, you have many talents. Marcus, you have a lot to offer someone. Marcus, you’re full of shit sometimes.

I could probably spend the rest of my life trying to remember that my opinion–about anything, but especially myself–is not the final word. After all, I’m pretty identified with, pretty used to that voice in my head. Even when it’s not kind to me, I still seem to root for it, assume that it’s right because it belongs to me. But the truth is that one character’s voice makes for a rather one-side story. If all the world’s a stage, all of our voices need to be heard. And if another’s perspective, another’s story about you is kinder than the one you’re telling yourself, surely that’s a story worth listening to.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Your story isn’t about your physical challenges.

"