In the Valley of the Shadow of Death (Blog #1027)

This afternoon I saw my upper cervical care doctor, and we talked about the healing process. Thinking about the sinus infection I’ve been fighting for the last three weeks, I said, “I could use a little pep talk.”

“How long have you been coming here?” he said.

“Two months,” I replied.

“Okay,” he said. “Hang in there. There’s a reason you’re not on a two-month plan. [I’m on a twelve-month plan.]”

Then he showed me a “road to recovery” graph drawn by one of the people who developed upper cervical care (I think). “The top, mostly horizontal line is normal health,” he said. Then he pointed to a line that dipped significantly downward and said, “This was your health before coming here. Things would improve now and then, but overall they were headed south.”

Into the valley of the shadow of death, I thought.

Next he pointed to the bottom of the valley, where the declining line began to slowly climb upwards back to normal (as indicated by the–eekk–“exceptional chronic case” line below). “At two months we’ve got you going in the right direction,” he said, “but you’re still down here. Your posture’s changed because we’ve forced it to. [Get a linebacker to twist your neck around* and see if your body doesn’t respond.] You’re seeing improvements, but it usually takes three to four months for your nervous system to begin working and integrating with your immune system. THAT’S when we typically see the most dramatic results, and that’s when YOU should notice a difference in your sinuses and things like that.”

Fingers crossed.

*To be fair to my doctor, this isn’t exactly what happens. For an in-depth and less dramatic description of what DOES happen, read here.

So I’ve thinking about this graph this evening, about being in the valley of the shadow of death. Not just in health terms, but also in symbolic terms. What I mean is that there are so many times in our lives when things are going down, down, down, getting darker and darker and darker. Like we would if we were playing a game of limbo, we think, How low can I go? But then by some grace we reach–to borrow a phrase I used yesterday–a turning point. One day we see a therapist, get a new doctor, pick up a book, start a class, or hell, get married or divorced. Regardless, we think, Okay, I may not be out of the woods yet, but at least I’m not going any deeper into them.

Having struggled with sinus issues for decades, I can’t tell you how much I HOPE that one day they will be a thing of the past. Or at least be less frequent, more manageable. Technically, I guess they are. Despite the fact that they’ve reared their ugly heads (in my head) lately, they’re not as bad as they used to be. Still, my point is that for all my hoping, I also find the notion that they COULD be significantly better a little hard to believe. Just because that hasn’t been my experience. Ugh. It’s the damndest thing. We WANT better health, better relationships, better finances, and yet it’s difficult to truly envision them for ourselves because we naturally project that our future will be not all too dissimilar from our past. This is why we NEED others who are NOT where we are but are rather where we want to be to keep reminding us that other realities are possible, that–I promise–your viewpoint will change when you’re not in the valley.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Not knowing what's going to happen next is part of the adventure."

Where Fires Burn Up Batman Towels (Blog #1026)

This afternoon I saw my chiropractor who works with emotions and their effect on the physical body, and we ended up talking about the fire that burned my family’s home down (and killed nine people, albeit none of them were my family or friends, in the process) when I was four. Now, I didn’t walk into my chiropractor’s office WANTING to talk about the fire. Indeed, I rarely if ever WANT to talk about the fire. For one thing, it was thirty-five years ago. It’s like, way, way over. For another, I HAVE talked about it–with my chiropractor, my therapist, hell, with the internet. Frankly, I’d rather talk about boys. Or chocolate cake.

No, I’d rather EAT chocolate cake.

Yes, that’s it. I’d rather eat chocolate cake than talk about the fire.

Alas, I’m finding out that just because an event is over in reality doesn’t mean it’s over in your body. Likewise, just because you’d rather talk about something else doesn’t mean your EMOTIONS would rather talk about something else. Or eat chocolate cake.

I’ll explain.

The process my chiropractor uses involves my picking a subject (physical or emotional) that I DO want to talk about. Then–often but not always–he helps me find two emotions (one positive, one negative) that are related to that subject. From there, we work our way backwards. “When was the first time you remember feeling these feelings?” he asks. For example, the thing I DID want to discuss today was my sinuses. (I’ve been fighting an infection for three weeks. Sadly, this infection is the 102nd sinus infection I’ve had since being born. And yes, that’s an approximation.) Anyway, the emotions that came up were adore (positive) and vulnerable (negative). Thinking about how vulnerable sinus infections make me feel (because when I’m sick I can’t work, can’t provide for myself, and can’t pay for all the shit I try in order to get better), I said, “Yep, that’s the right descriptor. It’s like my body is undependable. Like I’m exposed.”

Tracing these feelings back, I landed at the fire. Well, wait. With the word “adore” I landed just before the fire, since adoration is what I felt for our newly renovated and moved-into home. They say you don’t remember much when you’re a kid, but I remember SO MUCH about that time in my life, those six weeks before everything changed. My room on the second floor. My own bathroom and the Batman towels that hung on the rack. Our toy room on the third floor, and the laundry chute that went down to the first. Finger painting in the kitchen. Playing hide-and-seek in the closets. Pitching one of those cheap plastic tents in the hallway. Having our friends Tom and Jean over and Jean washing the dishes with only a cup of water (she was a missionary).

The unfinished stairs.

My chiropractor said the fire was “a turning point,” that although my life had challenges BEFORE the that night in 1985, my worldview as a four-year-old would have sounded something like, “I can expect good things. Life is a bowl of cherries.”

“But after the fire–” he said.

“After the fire,” I said, “my conclusion was, ‘If you fall in love with something (or someone), you can expect it to leave you. Life is a bowl of pits.'”

Pointing out that not only did my family lose our home that night but that we also lost our business (my dad’s store was on the second floor, and our home was below, behind, and above it), my chiropractor said my conclusions were completely logical ones for a child to make. Also, he said that given my age and the fact that I was most likely overwhelmed by all that went on (you think?), it would make sense for “that little boy” to 1) not know how to express his fears and emotions, 2) feel that they weren’t important or urgent enough to be heard even if he knew how, and 3) consequently shove them down. Er, shove them up (into his head/my head).

Coughing, I said, “That would make sense.”

A turning point.

I wish I could tell you that everything my chiropractor did today (he has a whole process that involves clearing or reprocessing old emotions) both healed my sinus infection and made me feel safe in the world. Alas, things are rarely this simple. “Think of the major traumas in your life like a root stem,” he said. “It’d be nice to pull it out all at once, but that really can’t be done because it’s so deep and so many other smaller roots have grown off of it. Thankfully, we can get at the smaller ones pretty easily. We can work a little at a time.”

Because I’m a writer, my chiropractor suggested writing about all this, which I’m doing now. Unfortunately, I haven’t had a major breakthrough. Again, it’s the root stem thing. What I can say, however, is that I’ve had some little breakthroughs. Pulled up a few smaller roots. Specifically, I’ve recognized and felt some feelings. Not just the “I’m vulnerable ones” but also the “I adore my life” ones. This is something I’ve never really done before today, really owned who I was and what I was like pre-trauma. I’ve only focused on The After. What I mean is that I’ve known for a long time that I lost a lot of stuff in the fire, I just never stopped to fully label those losses. My sense of security. My playfulness. My belief that things will work out.

I hope I don’t sound hopeless. I certainly don’t feel hopeless. Rather, I feel hopeful. Hopeful that it’s possible to feel secure again. Even in a world where fires burn up Batman towels and feelings of adoration. Hopeful that it’s possible to feel playful and trusting again. To feel at home both in my body and on this planet. Hopeful that I can finish building this house–the one where my heart resides–and live here a while at ease. That there will be another turning point.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our world is magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small make a difference.

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On Stuff (Blog #1025)

Lately I’ve been thinking about stuff, partly because I’ve been buying, or at least acquiring, so much of it lately. Nothing major, mind you, just little things. Brooches, books, picture frames, magnets, t-shirts, shoes. And whereas I don’t have NEARLY the amount of stuff I owned before I had my estate sale, it’s still the most I’ve had in the last three years. Granted, I’m enjoying it. I’ve got everything organized and displayed like I want, and my room feels cozy. Comforting. At the same time, there are moments when everything I have feels like “too much,” too much to own, too much to take care of. Earlier today my friend Aaron gave me several of his old t-shirts, and I thought, Okay, fine, I’ll take five of them. But I’m going to give away at least two of mine.

Since The Great Letting Go a few years ago, one of my “rules” about owning something is that I must find it useful, that I actually wear my clothes, actually get joy out of my books and knickknacks. That’s one thing I can say about the stuff I’ve acquired lately. Although I often feel like I spend too much time on Facebook Marketplace (searching for and buying brooches), I do get a lot of pleasure out of the things I purchase. What’s more, having taken time to get everything in my room (where I am now) just so, I always feel at home here. I always feel at peace here.

My therapist says stuff is grounding, so maybe that’s why the sudden compulsion to acquire. That is, at the same time I had my estate sale, I intentionally pulled up my roots–closed my dance studio, moved homes (twice), started down a new career path. In retrospect, it was a lot at once, a bit dramatic. Still, owning fewer things made all the changes easier. Not just from a physical perspective, but from a mental and emotional one. All I had to do was look at my bookshelf (with fifty-four books, down from over three hundred) or my closet (with eight shirts, down from dozens), and it was clear–I was starting over. And whereas I’ll never be able to prove it, I believe that my downsizing set the stage for this blog and all my personal growth that’s come as a result of it.

What I mean is that if you can let go of a physical object, you can let go of a mental concept. A limiting belief about yourself, for example. A harmful thought about another. Byron Katie says you’re not attached to your things, you’re attached to your stories about your things, and this is what I mean. If you’re holding on to something physical, you’re holding on to something mental–a thought, a story. Whenever you say, “This has sentimental value” or “I can’t sell those old plastic curlers; they belonged to my dead aunt,” you’re saying you can’t let go of your narrative about them. Because the truth is you CAN let go of your stuff. You do it every day when you go to work. Leaving everything you own (except your current outfit) behind you, you prove to yourself that you don’t HAVE to own a thing in order to survive or be happy.

I mean, how do you know you’ll ever see all that stuff again? And yet you just walk out the door.

Getting back to the idea of stuff being grounding, I think it’s fascinating that at the same time I was letting go my stuff, I was letting go of how I saw myself and the world. Likewise, I find it fascinating that having grounded my concepts of self and the world (for the better), I’m now beginning to physically ground. That is, as my therapist says, stuff is heavy. It’s hard to move around. This is what you want your self-esteem, your kindness, and your compassion to be–solid, not easily pushed about. Even when I get excited about new stuff/cool stuff, this is what I remind myself, that stuff is just stuff and it will ALWAYS come and go. Nothing lasts forever, not even gold. But a soul that’s at home, at peace regardless of what it owns or doesn’t? Now that’s real gold. That’s something moth and rust can’t touch.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All things become ripe when they’re ready.

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Our Emotions Go Round and Round (Blog #1024)

For the last three weeks I’ve been fighting a sinus infection. And whereas I woke up yesterday feeling better (yippee), I woke up today feeling worse (boo). Why knows why this up-and-down happens. The body is a mystery. Life is a mystery. More and more, I have more questions than answers. Recently I compared life to a circle, and this is what I meant. For all our living and learning, we’re just going round and round. One day we wake up and find ourselves exactly where we started.

We think, Ugh. I’m going nowhere!

At least that’s what I thought when I woke up still sick. Like I’ve been stuck in this pattern of upper respiratory distress for decades, and all the doctors, drugs, and gods and in the world can’t change it. That’s right, folks, we’ve discovered the impossible thing to get rid of. Mucus. (It’s here to stay.) But seriously, it’s overwhelming. At least when I think of the rest of my problems. This afternoon I got something in the mail I’d ordered online, and it was broken. Then I got a bill I wasn’t expecting. I just kept thinking, WHEN is something going to go my way?

Not that SOME things haven’t been going well lately. Indeed, I’ve blogged a lot about having headaches, and they’ve gotten SO VERY MUCH better over the last two months. Over the holidays I went weeks without working (and, therefore, earning any money), and this week alone I’ve picked up six different odd jobs. And I didn’t solicit any of them. Well, I did pray. My point being that even when one area of your life seems like it’s falling apart (seems being the operative word), another area of your life can be coming together. And surely if one area of your life can come together, the others can too. It’s just a matter of time, of patience, of remembering–

the universe hasn’t forgotten me.

Just now I said that something in your life can SEEM like it’s falling apart, the implication being that, well, maybe it’s not. What I mean is that, for example, for as frustrating as sinus infections are for me, they’ve taught me how to accept myself and how to ask for help. Just as importantly, they’ve taught me how to have compassion for others. Because all of us have that one thing that seems like a small thing to other people but is a big thing for us because it’s tied to so many other things in our lives. (Phew.) Like the way my sinus problems feel unsolvable, so, especially when I’m sick, all my problems feel unsolvable. Because if I can’t feel well then I can’t work and take care of myself and pay my bills and have a place to live and find a lover who isn’t into hobos.

See what I mean? One fear leads to another.

Overwhelming.

At times like these it’s important for me to remember to slow down, to slow way down, to slow way the fuck down. Like fast (haha). This looks like doing one thing–and one thing only–at a time. For example, this evening I have a dance gig (it’s good to be employed), so I’m blogging now, dancing tonight, and then that’s it for the day. Despite the number of other projects that are calling for my attention, they won’t get it. Rather, my body will. Meaning I’ll rest. Meaning I’ll do my best to allow my fears to arise, stay and be felt as long as they want to, then subside. Because they always do. Our emotions go round and round. In the end, we’re left with ourselves.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Damn if good news doesn't travel the slowest.

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On Being Caught Up (Blog #1023)

A few quick things before I have to clean up and go out for the evening (I do have a life)–

1. On mouth taping

A couple months ago I wrote about ways to stimulate/activate your vagus nerve, one way being listening to classical music. Well, the book I mentioned, Activate Your Vagus Nerve: Unleash Your Body’s Natural Ability to Overcome Gut Sensitivities, Inflammation, Brain Fog, Autoimmunity, Anxiety, Depression by Dr. Navaz Habib, also suggested mouth taping, mouth taping being literally taping your mouth shut wile you sleep. The idea being that we were intended to breathe through our noses, and that this is a way to keep your body calm. Our mouths, it seems, were only intended as a backup system, a way to get more air in times of emergency (like when you’re stuffed up, or being chased by a lion or your ex). And whereas I didn’t try mouth taping a couple months ago, I didn’t forget about it either.

All this to say that I gave it a whirl last night. Took some surgical tape and fastened my mouth closed. And whereas it was a little awkward at first, it ended up being fine, just fine. Indeed, I had a wonderful night’s sleep, and despite the fact that I’ve been struggling with sinus issues for the last few weeks, woke up this morning with significantly LESS post nasal drip and “junk.” This is supposedly one of the points or benefits to nose breathing.

So I’m going to mouth tape again tonight.

2. On loving what is

Byron Katie, in her book Loving What Is, says that reality is always kinder than our story about it. For example, this morning while preparing to make breakfast, I dropped an egg on the kitchen floor. It just slipped, well, practically jumped right out of my hands. At which point gravity took over. And whereas normally I’d go into A STORY like “how awful this is” and “look what I’ve done wrong,” this time I didn’t. This time I was present, present to reality. And, y’all, it was like slow motion. I could see the egg slip from my fingers, and it was this beautiful thing. Down it went closer and closer the floor. And then it hit. SPLAT! Yolk and pieces of egg shell flew everywhere. It was absolutely glorious, and I can’t tell you how glad I was to be there to witness it. Talk about a fun way to start the day. I’m being serious. It was like watching an action film. For free.

Of course, I had to clean things up. But again, absent any internal bitching, cleaning up a broken egg (or relationship) isn’t a big deal. Haven’t we all cleaned up messes before?

3. On being turned into a mouse

Last night and this afternoon I read the celebrated juvenile fiction novel The Witches by Roald Dahl, the story of a young boy and his grandmother/guardian who have a serious run-in with The Grand High Witch of All the World. And whereas I don’t mean to spoil anything for anyone, she turns the boy into a mouse. (Sorry, but the book’s been out for over thirty years. Catch up.) Anyway, along the lines of loving what is, the boy isn’t bothered by the fact that he’s a mouse. Indeed, he says it never occurs to him TO BE BOTHERED. Rather, he’s excited that he can run fast, hide in small places, swing by his tail, and–here’s the real win–stop going to school.

Talk about a kid who’s caught up (to reality).

Now, the boy was obviously telling himself a story about his reality. But rather than saying, “This sucks,” he was saying, “This is beyond fabulous.” More and more I’m learning to tell myself this second story whenever something “bad” happens, whenever I drop and egg or wake up with post nasal drip. Not that I LOVE waking up sick, but I’m at least learning not to HATE it. Because it gives me a chance to rest. Because it gives me a chance to listen to my body. Because it gives me a chance to try new things (that might help). Why NOT have a positive perspective about our challenges? After all, we can’t change THE FACTS (the egg is on the floor, today I woke up sick, today I woke up a mouse), but we CAN CHANGE what we think about them. We can change the story we tell ourselves.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Help is always on the way.

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On Time Traveling and Starting Over (Blog #1022)

Today I’ve been thinking about cycles. I’ll explain. This afternoon I did laundry. You know, put my dirty clothes in the washer, added soap and water, shut the lid, and waited while they went round and round. Then I put them in the dryer, shut the lid, and waited while they went round and round some more. And whereas all my clothes are now clean (except for the ones I’m wearing), next week they’ll be dirty again and I’ll have to start the whole process over once more.

Along these lines, last night for the first time in weeks I went to the gym. Thankfully, I hadn’t lost everything. Indeed, there were stretches and movements that were EASIER for me last night than the last time I went. (I attribute this to the progress I’ve made through upper cervical care.) Regardless, it still felt like starting over. Just like every time I get a sinus infection feels like starting over, and just like every blog I write feels like starting over. Because no matter how many words I’ve written in the last three years (a lot), each post begins with a blank page. My point being–no matter how many times you’ve been there before, every time is new.

This is what I mean by cycles. Our lives go round and round.

Along with thinking about cycles, I’ve also been thinking about circles. Perhaps these are the same thing. Either way, I’ve heard it said that although we think of our lives and time as progressing in straight lines, they aren’t. Rather, they’re circular, cyclical. This makes sense to me because so many things in the universe whirl. The earth rotates around its axis, the planets revolve around the sun, our washers and dryers spin. Likewise, so do our patterns and behaviors. This morning I woke up, got dressed, ate breakfast, drank coffee, and read a book. And whereas I’ve never done these things on January 16, 2020, before, I have done these things over and over (and over) again on countless other days. The logical conclusion being that we don’t start here (at a point on a line) and end there (at another point further down the line). Instead, we move in circles.

Effectively, we repeat ourselves.

The book I read today was a glorious juvenile fiction novel, When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead. My friend Sydnie recommended it (thanks, Sydnie), and it’s about a boy named Marcus (oddly enough) who travels through time in order to save himself and others. At one point during the book, another character (the one who’s telling the story) is discussing time traveling with Marcus and says, “But THE MIDDLE can’t happen BEFORE THE BEGINNING.”

It can if time’s a circle, I thought. Circles don’t have beginnings, middles, or ends.

Well, sure enough, Marcus compares time to a diamond-encrusted ring, stating that we think TIME is moving but, in truth, WE ARE. Using the ring analogy, he suggests thinking of the fixed diamonds as the moments in our lives. Like, past, present, and future all exist AT ONCE. But since we can only experience or be aware of one moment, well, at a time, we perceive moments occurring separately, one before or after the other, and so on. Thus, as WE MOVE from point to point on the ring, we create in our minds (and only in our minds) the idea of time, the ideas of past and future.

How can you say that past and future are only ideas, Marcus (me Marcus, not book Marcus)?

Because search all you want, and you’ll never be able to find any proof of them. Sure, you can drag out your photo album and tell your stories, but when and where will those pictures and stories actually be happening?

Right here, right now.

I know this is a mind-bender.

Earlier I said that by going in cycles or circles we effectively repeat ourselves. Just now I looked up the origin of the word repeat, and it comes from two Latin words–re, meaning “back,” and petere, meaning “seek.” The idea that comes to my mind being “to go back” or “to seek again.” For me this is one of the nice things about life going round and round instead of in a straight line. It gives us a chance to start over (with a diet, with a workout routine, with a friend) as many times as we need to. Likewise, it gives us a chance to find ourselves, to circle back and save ourselves. Time machines aside, isn’t this what we’re doing when we re-evaluate our past, harmful judgments, when we forgive? Aren’t we rewriting history (and therefore its outcome and present-day effect) when we decide to love instead of hate another or any part of ourselves? Aren’t we starting over–anew?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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A friend’s laughter takes us backward and carries us forward simultaneously.

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On Properly Directed Imagination (Blog #1021)

Last night when I got home from painting at 10:30, my dad asked me, “Do you want to go WORK OUT?” Well, the television was on, and–silly me–I thought he was asking about my evening and heard, “Are you WORN OUT?” So I said, “Yes.” (Because I felt like crap.) Then he asked if I still needed to blog (the answer was yes again), which I thought he asked because he was going to suggest that I go to be early. But no, he was (I found out later) trying to figure out when we’d be leaving for the gym. Y’all, I blogged until 1:00 in the morning, and the whole time my dad was patiently waiting for me on the couch. When I finished he said, “Ready to go to the gym?”

“The gym?” I said. “I’m going to bed.”

So thirty minutes ago my dad dragged my mother into the laundry room where I was working on arts and crafts and said, “Okay, I have a witness. Do–you–want–to–go–work–out–tonight?”

“Yes, I actually would like to WORK OUT tonight,” I said. “But I have to blog first.”

So here I am, blogging.

For the last two and a half weeks I’ve been fighting a sinus infection, but–thankfully–have felt better today. (Fingers crossed this trend continues.) This afternoon I had lunch with a friend. Then I went thrift shopping but didn’t buy anything (way to go, Marcus). Then this evening I did some odd jobs for a client. Then–when I came home and Dad told me my driver’s side headlight was out–I put a new bulb in my car. Then I combed through picture frames and old book covers and matched them to some brooches I recently acquired. I can’t tell you how fun this is for me. Whenever the creative mood strikes, seriously, time and my worries fly away. Magically, I’m transported to a better place.

Along the lines of creativity, this evening in an old book I recently bought (for the cover) I ran across an article about creativity and genius by the artist Frederic Whitaker. In it he compares and contrasts insanity to genius and says, “Insanity is imagination without control. Genius is imagination under control–plus the divine spark that we call driving force.” I absolutely adore these definitions, especially considering that we all too often MISUSE our imagination. For example, both me and my dad each IMAGINED a certain conversation about our going to work out (or my being worn out) last night, neither of which was TRUE. Likewise, don’t we all IMAGINE the thoughts, behaviors, and judgments of others on a daily basis (and aren’t those imaginations often negative and, therefore, pain-inducing)?

Isn’t this too imagination without control (that is, insanity)?

More and more I believe that imagination, creativity, and genius were meant for arts and crafts projects, home building and decorating, landscaping, dancing, playing musical instruments, and SOLVING problems, not INVENTING them. Because isn’t that what’s happening when we presume to know what someone else is thinking, feeling, or doing–creating problems out of thin air? I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve lost sleep believing someone was mad at me or–worse–intentionally trying to screw up my life when–I found out later–they weren’t. Like, at all. This is where misdirected imagination leads you–into the land of insomnia, anxiety, stress, and depression.

Properly directed imagination, however, leads you out of it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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A mantra: Not an asshole, not a doormat.

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Just You Wait, Mountain (Blog #1020)

This afternoon I saw my upper cervical care doctor. And whereas it took an hour to get there and over two hours to get back (because I kept stopping at antique stores), I was in and out of the office in five minutes. “You look good today,” the doctor said after checking a scan of my neck, “so I’m going to leave you alone.” That’s the deal, he operates by the–if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it–policy. Not that I’ve felt like a million bucks lately. Indeed, my back has been hurting and I’ve been fighting a sinus infection. And I told the doctor this. But he reminded me that just because you feel bad doesn’t mean your body isn’t healing. “You’ve been dealing with a lot of issues for a long time, and it’s just going to TAKE SOME TIME for your body to clean things up.”

Then he added, “For a while, you’ll experience remnants.”

Remnants, what a perfect word for those parts of our past (emotions, patterns, illnesses) that creep up every now and then and threaten to never go away. Yesterday I started painting the inside of some cabinets and cabinet drawers for a friend, and even after two coats of white, the ugly (dirty, filthy, rotten) brown that was there before still peeked out in places. And whereas I was tempted to think I’ll never get things how I want them, experience has taught me the value of persistence. So this evening I returned and applied a third coat. Now we’re talking, I thought as I rolled over the previous two layers of white. Hasta la vista, ugly (dirty, filthy, rotten) brown.

Persistence, that’s one of the things I’ve been thinking about tonight. The idea that if you just keep at something, eventually you’ll have a breakthrough (or a breakdown). Not that you should go barking up the wrong tree (you’re not gonna turn a homo straight, ladies). Pick your battles, know when you’re licked, and all that. But more and more I’m convinced that we don’t experience success in learning, dancing, remodeling, healing, and even praying simply because we quit trying. Because we give up. Because we think, This is going nowhere, and throw in the towel. Earlier this week I was thinking maybe I’ll just have to deal with sinus infections for the rest of my life, and my mom (randomly) mentioned a product I haven’t tried before, something she read about on her Facebook feed. Now, will it help? Hell if I know. It hasn’t even arrived yet. But the important thing is that I’ve decided to give it a whirl.

In this, there is hope.

Of course, all these things I’ve touched on–healing, persistence, and hope–require patience. Ah, there’s the rub. For anything that takes time (and what doesn’t?), we have to be willing to wait for it. Better said, we have to be willing to endure, to trust that things are going to work out. I think about the way a blade of grass can push itself through concrete, the way running water can make a rough stone smooth–given enough time. Most of us look at the mountains in our lives and think, Impossible. I could never get that thing to move. But not the rain. Knowing the power of persistence, it thinks, Just you wait, mountain. Give me enough time, and I’ll wear you down. Indeed, I’ll throw you into the sea. There won’t be a remnant left.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you want to find a problem, you will.

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On Leaving and Being Already Gone (Blog #1019)

This afternoon I saw my chiropractor who works with emotions and their impact on the physical body, and we ended up talking about a few of the “big hitters” in my life–my dad going to prison for six years when I was a teenager, my mom going to the National Institute of Health (for a year) when I was six or seven, our house burning down when I was four. And whereas discussing these subjects is usually a cerebral experience for me, today it was an emotional one. At least it got emotional when my chiropractor said, “There was a lot of LEAVING in your life.”

“Yeah,” I said, starting to cry. “Dad left, Mom left, our stuff left.”

Well, we’d just talked about the the fact that due to my being a child I wasn’t always told exactly what was going on, so my chiropractor added, “And you were LEFT out.”

Looking back, I know that everyone involved was doing the best they knew how, even me. This is something my chiropractor always pushes, the idea that any emotional response I had as a child–or even have now as an adult–was and is completely appropriate. For example, I remember flipping shit once as a five or six year old when my parents went out to eat and LEFT me and my sister with a babysitter. Seriously, y’all, I lost it. Well, today it hit me that OF COURSE I’d lose it seeing my parents LEAVE. That’s exactly what they did the night of the fire (went out to eat and left us with a babysitter), and look what happened THEN.

Now, as an adult I can rationalize that my parents’ leaving didn’t cause bad things to happen. And yet that’s what it FELT like as a child. That’s what got internalized. It’s why, perhaps, I have such strong reactions even today around issues of abandonment and loss. Thankfully, these reactions are less severe, less frequent than they used to be, no doubt a result of my willingness to not only accept “that little boy,” as my chiropractor calls him, but also myself as an adult. More and more, I see this as my job and my job alone–to parent myself. Not that I’m not eternally grateful for my family and all they’ve given me and continue to give. I most certainly welcome and accept their love, affection, and understanding. At the same time, I know that I’m the only person CAPABLE of being with me twenty-four hours a day.

This evening while painting some cabinets for a friend, I finished listening to The Way of the Rose by Clark Strand and Perdita Finn, a book about Mother Mary and praying the rosary that I recently blogged about here. Anyway, according to the authors, one of the things Mother Mary implores people to do is “move at the speed of life.” That is, the sun rises, seasons change, and trees grow–all without getting in a hurry. And then there’s us. We want everything done now. We’re impatient with our food orders, our checkout lines, and even our own healing. That’s what I thought today when I cried at the chiropractor’s office. Sure it’s nice to get this out, and it only took thirty years. And what about what’s left? But if I truly believe I’m part of–woven into–this universe, then I also have to believe that I’m exactly WHERE I need to be in it, that everything is unfolding as it should. That just as winter is supposed to be here (in the Northern Hemisphere anyway), this season of my life is supposed to be here too.

Tonight when I got home from painting I dropped a glass jug of water on the concrete floor in our garage. Well, it shattered. Glass flew everywhere. And whereas I started to get upset, I immediately thought of a song I’d heard earlier in the day, one of my favorite’s by Sugarland–“Already Gone.” The tune is about, among other things, a girl who falls in love despite the advice she’s getting from others. It’s like, too late for all that. Anyway, tonight I thought, What’s the use in getting upset about the broken jar? What’s the use in blaming yourself?

It’s already gone.

Along these lines, I’m finding a lot of peace in the thought that all the people and things that “left me” when I was a child were already gone too. I’ve talked before about how when we incarnate on this planet we’re joining a show already in progress, and this is what I mean, that the events and circumstances that took my parents and even my material possessions away were set in motion long before I showed up. Granted, they FELT personal, but they weren’t. This is one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself, realizing that whatever happened to you would have happened to ANYBODY in your situation. Because the train was already coming down the tracks, and–please–you think a child could have stopped it? I think of people I know whose parents were total assholes. And whereas this sucks, their parents were already gone too. What I mean is their kids didn’t MAKE them that way, they were assholes before. (Their kids were just a convenient target.) Likewise, I wasn’t the REASON my parents and my stuff had to leave.

Shit happens on planet earth.

And yet for all the shit that happens here, we can always come back to ourselves and our own good hearts. We can always make space for whatever arises right here, right now. We can always tell ourselves, Sweetheart, no matter what anyone else says or does, I will never leave you.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Damn if good news doesn't travel the slowest.

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Like a Shooting Star (Blog #1018)

It’s eleven at night and I’m in my favorite chair. I’ve been here most the day, reading. Recently a friend posted that they’d spent their evenings last year re-reading books from their childhood, stating that it was a perfect way to recapture the magic we all too often lose as we grow older. Well, I got inspired. Yesterday I went to the juvenile section of the library and checked out six books. And whereas the ones I got weren’t ones I’d previously read, the fact that I walked out of the library with a lilt in my step convinced me that they were full of magic nonetheless.

As someone who’s hung up on completion, I can’t tell you how satisfying it is to read a kid’s book. Y’all, they’re so SHORT, and the words are SO BIG (the better to delight you with, my dear). You can finish them just like that. This afternoon I completed two whole novels. Well, a collection of short stories and a novel. And whereas the collection of short stories–The Devil’s Storybook by Natalie Babbitt–was both fun and creatively inspiring, the novel was nothing short of miraculous.

The miraculous book–The Invention of Hugo Cabaret by Brian Selznick–is about an orphaned boy who lives in a Paris train station and, unbeknownst to anyone else, works on and repairs the clocks in the station. Taught by his deceased father and his uncle who’s gone missing, Hugo’s a born engineer, a fixer. And, because he’s able to astound others with his slight of hand and disappearing acts, a magician. Although he’s not immediately aware of this last fact. Anyway, Hugo’s main objective is to fix one of his father’s broken projects, a robot of sorts that, when wound up (like a clock), can write with an ink pen. Convinced the robot’s message will change is life forever, Hugo wonders, What will it say?

Wonder. Magic. Mystery. These are the things that are becoming more and more important to me as I grow older. Not that I don’t enjoy a good fact or “cold, hard news.” But as a long-time cynic, I’m tired of things that make me bitter, that make me want to say, “I told you so” or “I already knew that.” Personally, I think we all are and imagine this is one of the reasons we’re so drawn to stories of wizards and unicorns. Despaired by the reality in our lives, we seek refuge in anything that connects us to our innocence and imagination, those parts of ourselves that are forever young and see the world with wide eyes. Those parts of us which require nothing more than a bendy straw to engage in a sword fight or a blanket to build a fort.

So here’s something weird. Less than a week ago I stayed up late surfing the internet and ended up buying two brooches from the same seller, some lady in Michigan. And whereas I’ve been buying brooches to sell, I bought these just for me. This is a horrible business strategy, I know. But, y’all, they’re just so fun. The first brooch is a wizard with a sword.

The second brooch is of the heavens and depicts the sun, moon, stars, and even a shooting star.

So get this shit.

Although several of the children’s books I checked out yesterday were recommended by an article I read online, The Invention of Hugo Cabaret wasn’t. I just stumbled across it in the “award winning” section and got enchanted (the illustrations are fabulous). Well, just as I got to the end of the book today, guess what I found? An illustration that included one of the main characters wearing–of all things!–a cape with the same design of the “heavens” brooch I bought on it. Complete with one shooting star.

Y’all, I actually put the book down and looked around my room. I thought, What’s going on? What are the CHANCES that I’d buy a brooch with a design on it that matches an illustration in a book I randomly picked up at the library? Am I in the Twilight Zone?

But wait, there’s more.

Remember that wizard brooch I bought? Well, the Hugo book mentions a real-life silent movie called A Trip to the Moon, so after I finished the book I watched the movie on YouTube. And, y’all–no kidding–in the final scene there’s a statue of–a wizard.

Now, I’ve experienced my fair share of strange occurrences and synchronicities. Indeed, the further I go the rabbit hole of self-growth and spirituality, the more they occur. And whereas I think they’re “fun,” I also believe synchronicities carry a message for us, something God, the universe, or our subconscious wants us to know. In one of the last paragraphs of the Hugo book, the character with the cape tells our main character, and these are my words not the author’s, “YOU are a magician, a wizard. YOU are an alchemist, someone who can turn anything into gold.” This is what I’m being reminded of more and more, that each of us has the power to decide what kind of world we want to live in–a world full of cold, hard facts, or a world full of miracles and wonder. Likewise, each of us has the power to go through any rotten circumstance and walk away with only the best of it. This is to say, each of us, like a shooting star, can leave the past behind.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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For me, it's important to hang on to this idea that no matter how bad they are, your circumstances can turn around, to believe that if an elephant can show up in your life, it can also disappear, to believe that just as the universe full of big problems, it is also full of big answers.

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