This Beautiful Omelette (Blog #92)

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Four years ago I was living with my friends Justin and Ashley and had just started dating my ex, the one that strongly encouraged me to go to therapy, by his actions, not his words. I remember one weekend in June spending most the day in bed with him, watching movies, eating pizza, feeling like we could build a life together. Justin and Ashley had just gotten a new puppy named Artemis, and we all went out on the back porch, played together, ate donuts for breakfast.

Here’s a picture of me and Artemis, taken that day. Artemis is a boy, but he was named for Artemis the girl, the goddess of the hunt in Greek mythology. Obviously something like this can cause a lot of personal and psychological damage, as evidenced by Johnny Cash’s song, A Boy Named Sue, which is about a boy whose father names him Sue in order to make him tough. I imagine Artemis has caught a lot of crap from the other boys around the hood and at doggy daycare for having such a feminine moniker. But I honestly don’t think he’s bothered by it one bit. So way to go, Artemis. Do your thing, honey.

This evening I had dinner at Justin and Ashley’s. They still live in the same place, the place I called home for so many years. Tonight their living room was filled with stuff from their office and my old room because they’re in the process of rearranging furniture, organizing. Justin apologized for things being in chaos, but you know how it goes–you have to break a few eggs if you want to make an omelette.

As Justin was showing me the changes, we came across a poster board that some of my friends and I made when we were on the yearbook staff in college. Justin and I were friends back then, so we put his photo on the board with the words, “Heartbreaker?–Or Broken-hearted?” (Feel free to cast your votes in the comments below.)

Looking at that photo tonight brought back a lot of memories of Justin, like the first time I heard him play Chopin, the time he dyed his hair to look like a leopard, or the time when I finally came out to him and he said, “I know. I was just waiting on you to say it.” Even though all those memories and many more happened over a long stretch of time, it’s easy for me to slam them all together, label them “Justin,” and take all the time we’ve spent together for granted. Considering the fact that Justin’s been working on a Duck Dynasty beard for several years now, it’s nice to remember that I knew him when he had a jaw line, back when his face saw the light of day on a regular basis. It’s nice to be reminded that some people are in this thing called friendship for the long haul.

Normally Justin and Ashley leave their two dogs outside while we eat dinner, but it started raining tonight, so they brought them in. Since Artemis is four, Justin said he’s “well into middle age” in dog years. As that would be twenty-eight human years, I guess that means that I’m well into middle age too. When the hell did THAT happen?

Here’s a picture of me and Artemis now that’s he all grown up and won’t fit into my lap anymore.

When I lived with my ex, I remember being so confused. We used to fight all the time, and I don’t fight–with anyone. I remember raising my voice, even yelling at times. We always ended up arguing about stupid shit. Why wasn’t he in more of my Instagram photos? I tried so hard to have an adult conversation, to explain calmly, Uh–I’m not in ANY of yours, but the only thing that would get his attention was when I’d start crying. I’d be in bed, knees to my chest, and then he’d finally be attentive, listen, and say he was sorry for being such a shit. (I added that last part.) “That’s when he’d act like a human,” my therapist would say later.

One of the things I love about Justin is that he’s an absolute audiophile–he loves music–loves to listen to it, loves to talk about. So tonight after dinner, Ashley went to bed because some people work for a living, and Justin and I sat in the living room and listened to honest-to-god vinyl records. Justin’s got this glorious vintage chair that sits low, pulls you down into it, and refuses to let you leave. It could have belonged to anyone’s grandfather, and for two hours I sat in it, drank beer, and drowned myself in the sounds of Tom Waits, Sting, and Simon and Garfunkel. It felt like going to church. (What! Your church doesn’t have beer and Tom Waits?) Of course, Justin and I continued to talk, that sort of easy conversation that bounces back and forth between the serious and lighthearted, the kind you can only have with someone who’s stood beside you when you were broken-hearted.

When you’re actually in chaos, there aren’t enough words to make it better.

Sometimes I wish I could go back and talk to myself four years ago, tell myself that it’s going to be all right, that I know things seem like such a fucking mess now, but I promise they’ll get better. I remember right after the breakup and starting therapy, my dear friend Tracy said, “Chaos precedes creation,” meaning that out of the turmoil that was my current life would come something beautiful. Sometimes you have to break a few eggs if you want to make an omelette. Of course, when you’re actually in chaos, there aren’t enough words to make it better. So maybe if I could go back and talk to myself, I wouldn’t say anything at all, but instead crawl in bed beside myself and give myself a hug.

They say that time heals all wounds. If that’s true, I think a good therapist helps speed up the process. Of course, I know there are many roads to healing, and that’s simply the one I’ve been on lately. In A Boy Named Sue, the boy in the song searches for and finds his estranged father, intending to kill him for giving him such an “awful name.” But after a tough barroom fight with his son, the father says he understands his son’s anger but “it’s that name that’s helped to make you strong.” In this sense, I’m grateful for the all the fights I had with my ex, all the chaos and shitty things that happened, all the time I’ve had to heal. Of course, I don’t think Sue’s father or my ex deserve any trophies, but someone had to crack the eggs to make this beautiful omelette.

Just like I can look at pictures of Justin and see how much he’s changed and pictures of Artemis and see how much he’s grown, I know that I’ve also changed and grown beyond measure. Physically, I look pretty much the same as I did four years ago. In terms of geography, I’m still in the same town. But on the inside, where it counts, I’ve travelled great distances.

Sometimes I think I’m a whole new person, someone who didn’t exist before, like I went from here to there on a map. But in terms of authenticity, I think “here” is both where we start and where we’re going. Authentic is how we’re born, and we travel to “there” when we start changing who we are, letting people treat us like shit because we want them to love us. In that sense, I think most of my work the last for years has been a returning, a remembering of who I was really born to be. Just before I left Justin and Ashley’s tonight, Justin played one final song by Simon and Garfunkel, and I think they said it best. Gee, but it’s great to be back home.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can be weird here. You can be yourself.

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Feline Empowered (Blog #82)

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After an afternoon of looking at and discussing–and cussing–flooring and paint samples for Annie’s new pilates studio, Bonnie and I decided our brains were fried like that egg in the “this is your brain on drugs” commercials. (Except–I’d just like to clarify–we weren’t on drugs. We were HUNGRY.) Anyway, when we got to the taco shack, right as it was our turn, some lady in a sundress (everyone wears sundresses here, even the guys–it’s Austin) CUT IN FRONT OF US.

What the hell?

But whatever. The tacos were worth the wait. I was too busy eating them to take a picture, but let me just say this. I would eat these tacos for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I would invite these tacos to my wedding. That’s how much I love them. I might even go up three pant sizes for these tacos. I mean, maybe. Definitely two. I’d have to pray about anything more than that.

After tacos we took a walk in the Austin heat to pay for our sins, and I spotted a small bag of pot lying on the ground. It was actually right in front of the Verizon store, in the parking lot. Like it had just fallen out of someone’s pocket, just waiting for the right person to come along and pick it up like a lucky penny. God’s way of saying, “What else do you need to finally relax?”

“Well, God, I’m gonna need more than a little weed. YOU KNOW POT MAKES ME PARANOID.”

So we stopped at a bar and grill, and I went with this stuff in the glass instead. Old reliable.

After drinks, on the way back to the apartment, Bonnie and I saw a bunch of stickers on a telephone pole. Bonnie’s favorite looked like one of those name tags you get when you attend a conference and said, “Hello my name is–Fancy Pants.” My favorite was a frog that said, “How high are you?” since–ironically enough–I wasn’t.

This evening, Bonnie, Annie, and I, went to a West Coast Swing dance, and I got a taste of Austin traffic due to a construction zone, which is always a nice place to practice patience. Or take a selfie. You can always take a selfie in a construction zone. Yeah, do that instead, Marcus. Eff patience.

After the dance tonight, Bonnie and I decided to go to Lady Bird Lake and go for a jog. Well, Google Maps kind of sucks, and we ended up doing a lot of driving around, something that doesn’t burn many calories. At one point, we did stop, get out, and find a trail, but God only knows where we were. We ended up jogging in the dark, and before we knew it, we were surrounded by trees, standing in the middle of a dried river bed, and there was a small cliff that dropped down to the water. I kept thinking, Jurassic Park–we’ve found Jurassic Park–it’s only a matter of minutes before the dinosaurs come and we die.

But we didn’t die. We just turned around and went back the way we came. There weren’t any dinosaurs. (I hope the suspense wasn’t too much for you.)

Later, about midnight and after a lot of four-wheel exploring, we parked again and took off down a trail that was clearly marked “Park closed after 10 PM.” So the whole time we’re walking around this lake, and I’m such a rule-follower that I’m picturing a helicopter up in the sky shining a flood light on us and then swooping down and carrying us off to jail for being such disobedient tourists. But I just kept walking, thinking, I’m a rebel–a rebel, that’s me–I walk in parks after closing time. And then we stumbled across a basketball court, and there were like eight teenagers, toddlers really, playing basketball–in the park, after curfew–so I thought, Maybe I’m not such a rebel after all.

Here’s a picture of the capital at night. I took it after we successfully evaded being arrested at the park.

Last week my friend Jessica asked me, “If you were an animal, what would it be?” Well, I hadn’t put a lot of thought into it before, so I stalled. But Jessica said, “You’re not supposed to think about it,” so I said, “A jaguar.” Later that night I looked up jaguars, and the great and powerful internet said they represent making sense of chaos, moving in unknown places, and empowering oneself.

The jaguar thing has been on my mind today because I keep noticing cats and cat things around Austin. To be fair, Annie has a cat (named Eggnog) in the apartment, and she also has a coffee mug that says, “Feline Good.” But there’s also a shop down the road called The Pretty Kitty, and it jumps out at me whenever we drive or walk by. Of course, The Pretty Kitty is a Brazilian Waxing shop, so that’s obviously not the same kind of cat, but still, a cat’s a cat.

Here’s a picture of me and Eggnog. She likes to watch videos on people’s phones, so today I showed her this one. It’s a scene from The Birdcage with Nathan Lane and Robin Williams that never fails to make me laugh. Eggnog seemed to think it was just okay, but I won’t judge her too much for her lack of culture.

Anyway, I think the cat/jaguar thing is so fascinating. In a very real sense, my life feels so chaotic lately. I mean, I woke up before noon today. If that’s not out of control, I don’t know what is. But seriously, it feels like my life is a mess. But every day, I sit down at this keyboard and try to make sense of it all. Like Bonnie and I did tonight in Jurassic Park, I try to find my way through the dark, to move in unknown places, to explore. Often, putting my life on the internet feels like an act of vulnerability, and I suppose it is. But I’m finding that it’s also an act of empowerment. The paradox of my life right now is that although I’m working less and have less than I ever have (including a plan), I feel stronger now than I ever have.

There’s a story about a lion cub separated from his family, raised by vegetarians. They say, “You eat squash and tomatoes. Yummy.” And then one day he’s reunited with his family, and they say, “Hey, wait a damn minute. Put down that carrot. You’re a meat eater.” Of course, at first, he’s uncertain. He thinks, I don’t know if I can eat this lamb. But then it’s like he remembers. This is who I am. Now, where’s the beef?

So maybe that’s where strength comes from. Forgetting who everyone else says you are, you simply remember–who you actually are. And then you can better make sense of all the chaos. Even if the night is dark and the way is rocky, you can find your way because, just like a jaguar, you are powerful, and you can handle whatever comes. You just have to remember. This is who I am.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Just as there’s day and night literally, there’s also day and night emotionally. Like the sun, one minute we’re up, the next minute we’re down. Our perspectives change constantly. There’s nothing wrong with this. The constellations get turned around once a day, so why can’t you and I? Under heaven, there’s room enough for everything–the sun, the moon and stars, and all our emotions. Yes, the universe–our home–is large enough to hold every bit of us.

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Hipster Confidence and Beauty (Blog #60)

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Today I fell in love with Nashville.

It all started with Hattie B’s Hot Chicken, which I guess is just spicy chicken that you have to wait a really long time for. Check this out. I think we stood in line for about an hour. Ugh. I was SO HUNGRY by the time we got inside. (That’s Bonnie and Todd facing the camera.)

Here’s a picture of Mallory and me while we were waiting in line. We both wore matching baseball caps to cover up our ratchet hair. (Mallory hasn’t washed hers in three days because she just had a dye job and says that it sets better that way. Who knew? I, on the other hand, didn’t have an excuse except that I’m on vacation and–IDGAF.)

After we all stuffed our faces, we waddled across the street for ice cream–you know–to put our insulin to the test. I had a chocolate and peanut butter shake, but Mallory had a dip cone with sprinkles. After it was over, she said, “Okay, Marcus, now we need to go home and think about what we’ve done.”

As our friend Brooke Ann said, “I’m working on my ‘before’ picture.'”

When Bonnie and Todd and I got back to Tim’s apartment, I took a long, hard nap. I think I drooled on myself. Midway through the nap, I woke up to use the restroom, remembered a dream I was having, and wrote it down in my phone so I wouldn’t forget.

In the dream, I was at the library using a computer to finish a blog post. I had about twenty minutes before I needed to give a presentation somewhere. An old man who worked at the library came over to take away my large cup of coffee, and I got mad. Somehow, I spilled the coffee on him, screamed at him like I was Julia Sugarbaker, and threw him up against a wall. (It wasn’t pretty. I mean–apparently–don’t mess with my coffee.) After that, I was with Bonnie, then I saw the old man being carried out of the library on a stretcher and apologized.

(Don’t even think about judging me for yelling at an old man. It’s not like your dreams make any sense.)

Anytime I’ve dreamt about old people in the past, my therapist has said that they represent old ways of thinking. So I can only assume the dream had to do with my search for new knowledge (the library) and the fact that I put a lot of pressure on myself to grow and be perfect, like right now (writing the blog post, needing to give a presentation in twenty minutes). As for the coffee, which is something I enjoy but judge myself for indulging in, it probably represents my leisure time lately. I’m enjoying it–sure–but I’m judging myself a lot.

In light of the fact that I spent time at the restaurant today judging myself–comparing myself to all the new faces–I’m sure the dream was my subconscious saying–in a very strong way–this judging thing has got to stop. And as for the part about apologizing to the old man on the stretcher, I think that has to do with showing compassion to the parts of myself that although aren’t serving me anymore are still part of me, still worthy of healing.

Tonight Bonnie and I met my friend Laynee at a place called The 5 Spot for swing dancing. I met Laynee through Lindy Hop when she used to live in Springfield. Anyway, I can’t tell you how much fun I had. (I also can’t tell you how much beer I had.) As of midnight, it’s Bonnie’s birthday today, so the whole thing was a big celebration. Granted, since we were the first one’s there, it started out slow, so I settled for cheap entertainment like this picture.

I mean, the decoration was pretty rockin’. Just look at that classic record album. And then look at this. It’s velvet.

Thanks to Laynee, I’m pretty sure we found heaven.

For five hours, the DJs played soul music from the fifties and sixties, and as the evening went on, more and more and more hipsters showed up and danced the night away. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many mustaches, crop tops, and high water pants in one place. If I had a decent camera, this blog post would be entirely pictures. I mean, I danced a lot, but I did a lot of staring. There we so many fascinating people of all colors, shapes, and sizes–probably a hundred people or m0re—and I don’t think a single one of them gave a fuck what anyone else thought of them.

It was magic.

At one point I had to stop for food, so I went out to the patio and found this handy sign. (I’m guessing I wasn’t the first person there to have more than a couple beers.)

And then, y’all, I ordered and ate the best freaking all-beef hot dog I’ve ever had in my entire life. It had pineapple, chips with ruffles, and some sort of sauce made by fairies.

The hot chicken, the ice cream, and the hot dog may have had something to do with the fact that while I was dancing, I ripped the crotch out of my dress pants. Note to self–no more high kicks until we diet.

Oh, and cheese. There was mozzarella cheese on the hot dog.

One of the highlights of the evening was when Bonnie danced with a pirate, this hipster dude with skeleton pants, guy-liner, a handle bar mustache, and a mohawk. Seriously, he had to be the coolest person there. Check them out in this short video.

So before the evening was over (and with the encouragement of four–or five–beers), I asked the guy, who said his name was Zach, for a photo. (He said yes. That’s the photo a the top of the blog. His mohawk, sadly, had succumbed to gravity.)

As cool as Zach was, he was one of dozens of cool people tonight. There was one large girl who had her stomach showing, but she had the coolest glasses, and she was an absolute badass of a dancer. And there was another guy with a hat like Indiana Jones, and another guy with a shirt that reminded me of Ronald McDonald, but all of them were, well, awesome. I mean, it’s not like they were trained dancers. But they had what I’ve figured out is one of the sexiest things a person can possess–confidence. Confidence takes whatever you have an amplifies it. Confidence makes anyone sexy. Just ask this guy.

Beautiful isn’t something that comes in a particular package. Beautiful is simply being yourself.

And that was my big lesson for the day–confidence. There was this one hipster guy there tonight. He had long hair put up in a man bun, cut off shorts that were a little too tight, and a tank top that was also. But he was owning everything he did on the dance floor, and it was beautiful. And for a guy who spent the afternoon at a fried chicken place judging himself for carrying a few extra pounds, watching that hipster guy–and so many others tonight–was so refreshing. It reminded me that beautiful isn’t something that comes in a particular package. Beautiful is confidently doing what you love. Beautiful is simply being yourself.

And as for judging yourself–comparing yourself to total strangers at a fried chicken joint–that’s outdated thinking–some old guy to spill your coffee on and throw up against a wall. So take those self-judgmental thoughts and send them packing on a stretcher. Look at them and say, “I’m sorry, but ain’t nobody got time for that.” And then when that’s over, go dancing with the hipsters and the pirates. Clearly, they’re much more fun.

[Bonnie–Happy Birthday! Like all those hipsters, you’re an inspiration. Laynee, you’re simply awesome. Thanks for introducing us to The 5 Spot. Zach, wherever you are, thank you. Keep being yourself. Also, you’re invited to every party I host for the rest of my life.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

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One Single Loud Clap (Blog #57)

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In 2008 I started uploading dance videos to YouTube. At the time I wanted a way to keep track of what I knew and what I taught at my dance studio, and I also wanted my students to be able to review what they learned. So each week after class, we’d film a review, and I’d post it online. Nine years later, I’ve posted 1,101 videos, which have a combined total of 5,149,733 views. That last number really blows my mind, since oftentimes the classes I taught at the studio had no more than eight or ten people in them. Sometimes, there were only one or two.

Witness the power of the internet.

Over the years, there have been quite a few comments on the videos, and most of them have been positive. I’ve even had a number of emails and phone calls from total strangers–people in Tennessee, Florida, Europe–who’ve said they’ve learned a lot from the videos. However, for the longest time, it was the negative comments that stood out to me, like the person who ripped me a new one for starting rumba on a quick instead of a slow, or the dozen of people who were pissed off that I wrongly referred to Triple Two Step as Texas Two Step, or the guy who loved the videos but said that dying my hair blonde was “a mistake.”

Five years ago, bullshit like that would upset me for days. Now, thankfully, I’m able to take most of it in stride. For one thing, I have no idea who these people really are. Maybe they know what they’re talking about, maybe they don’t. But I finally decided that if you have nothing better to do than criticize the hair color of a total stranger who’s giving you dance lessons for free, that’s your problem–not mine.

This afternoon my friend Sydnie and I performed at a local nursing home for National Lindy Hop Day. I used to get really worked up and nervous about this sort of thing, but I had a great time today. Sydnie was on her way to another dance event, so she was with a friend of hers, another dancer. He took the above picture of us, which is why he’s not in it. (Thank you for the picture. I didn’t know if it’d be okay to use your name.)

Anyway, Sydnie’s friend told me that he started watching my dance videos on YouTube a few years before he started dancing, and then he continued to watch them once life slowed down and he was able to actually learn. He said the videos had been helpful on his journey, so I was kind of like a celebrity to him. (This sort of thing has happened a couple of other times, and it always makes my day. Still, I’m never sure how to properly react other than to say, “Thank you. That makes my day.” Perhaps if it happens again, I could add, “Thank you for not criticizing my hair.”)

Ironically, when I saw the picture of Sydnie and me, I didn’t like my hair, so I sent a message to my friend Bekah to see if she could cut it. Well, sometimes miracles happen, and she said to come right on over. When I got there, both her teenage sons were there too, and although I’m sure they were speaking English, I really didn’t understand much of what they were saying. (This is one way you know you’re getting older.) But at some point, Bekah’s older son, Christian, suddenly raised both his hands over his head and struck them together in one single loud clap. He explained that when he wants a high-five from a friend but he either doesn’t have one present or his friend won’t give him a high-five, he gives himself one.

Strange, I know, but I still think it’s gold.

(Here’s a picture of the haircut. This last year, for the first time in my entire life, I started parting my hair on my right side instead of my left. I’m not sure why. But Bekah added a hard part to the right just for emphasis. The lady in the picture is my friend Betty. She’s one of the friends I was with in 2008 when I went to Dubai and was told by a witch doctor that I had “weak brain.” She was in town tonight and invited me for dinner.)

As I look at the picture, I realize you can’t actually see my hair, but I promise this won’t be the last selfie I post, so don’t go anywhere. (This is called a cliffhanger. Sort of.)

After dinner I went to return some headphones to Best Buy, and while I was there, I got a notice on my phone that a friend had commented on the blog. Like almost every other comment I’ve received so far, it was positive, but my friend asked kindly that I not use the F word. Well, I responded and said (in the spirit of honesty) that probably wasn’t going to happen.

What I don’t want is for this specific blog post to become a conversation about whether or not cussing is okay. Obviously, for me it is, although my boundary about it is that if I’m in the grocery store, the doctor’s office, or a home where people don’t cuss, I don’t cuss. Clearly, other people have different boundaries regarding the words that come out of their mouths or keyboards. But this is my blog, and I pay the bills around here, and the result of that logic is obvious to anyone who reads a single one of my posts. (I think there’s only been one post completely void of a cuss word, and it just happened that way.)

When I first started therapy, my therapist told me that she didn’t care what I did the other twenty-three hours of the day, but she said, “During the one hour we’re together, we’re going to sit in truth, and we’re not going to judge ourselves.” So for the last three years, that’s exactly what’s happened. If at any point I’ve tried to bullshit myself or her about something, she’s called me out on it. And if at any point I’ve judged myself (which I have plenty of times), she’s called me out on that too.

So my goal with the blog is the same. Here, we’re going to sit in truth. More specifically, I’m going to sit in truth because I’m the only one currently in this room, sitting behind this keyboard. Secondly, I’m going to do my level best to not judge myself. And if I do judge myself at the beginning of a blog, I hope to use my writing as a way to work myself into a more compassionate place by the end of it.

What you see here is what you get.

Those two rules being established, what I can promise anyone who is interested and kind enough to spend your precious time here is that I’ll be as honest with you as I am with myself, as honest as I know how to be. I know there are plenty of other things you could be doing, and there are plenty of other places you could go for fake news. So I promise I won’t bullshit you and pretend to be someone I’m not. God, I did that for the longest time, and it sucks. It’s the worst feeling to pretend you’re straight when you’re not or, maybe worse, pretend you just don’t have a sexuality when everyone else around you is talking about the person they’re interested in, or in love with, or go home to when you go home alone. Likewise, it’s the worst feeling to pretend you’re “just fine” when you’re actually falling apart.

So that shit stops here.

What I would say to anyone on YouTube who doesn’t like the way I rumba or doesn’t like my hair, or to anyone who doesn’t like the F word, is that I understand. Honestly, sometimes I don’t like the way I rumba, and I wasn’t crazy about the blonde hair either, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat if the person I thought I was going to marry cheated on me and then later lied and told me he had cancer when he didn’t. And as for the F word, I remember (twenty years ago) when it used to bother me too. So I get it. We all have our opinions about how to act, and I don’t believe mine are the only ones that matter. But, again, I’m doing my best to not judge myself for failing to live up to a certain level of imagined perfection.

But back to being honest. What you see here is what you get. This is the most authentic I know how to be, and this is currently who I am–warts, cuss words, and all. Personally, I don’t like any sort of negative feedback. It never feels good to think I’ve disappointed someone, especially someone I care about. But as Abraham Lincoln said, you can’t please all of the people all of the time. And what I’ve learned about authenticity is that it doesn’t have to. Better that you’re true to yourself and the whole world be disappointed than to change who you are and the whole world be satisfied. And whereas I’m eternally grateful for every positive comment on YouTube and the blog (and there have been hundreds, thank you), I know that it has to be enough if only one person–the guy behind this keyboard–raises his hands above his head and strikes them together in one single loud clap.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes you have to give up wanting something before you can have it.

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Finding True North (Blog #55)

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This evening I went for a walk and ran into my friend Ralph. Ralph’s a local artist, and his work is all over Fort Smith. If you live here, you’ve probably seen it. The huge mural at the entrance of Mercy Hospital–that’s Ralph’s work. The signs for St. Luke’s Lutheran Church and Hannah Oil and Gas–those are Ralph’s work. The sundial on the campus of the University of Arkansas Fort Smith–again–Ralph’s work, as are the marble floor depicting the inner workings of a motor in the Baldor Building and the glass sculptures that hang from the ceiling in the Health Sciences Building. The list goes on.

Six years ago, when I first started working for Do South Magazine in Fort Smith and was published for the very first time, my first article was about Ralph. He’s one of those people who never fails to inspire. He’s worked in the creative arts for so long, he’s become this fountain of knowledge and ideas that never seems to stop flowing. Plus, he has a terrific sense of humor and looks like Santa Claus. What’s not to love? Lucky for me, he lives right around the corner from my parents.

As Ralph and I were catching up tonight, I told him that I was in a transitional period in my life. He said that sometimes you have to “get off the merry-go-round,” step back, and take another look at things. I told him I thought that was the perfect phrase, get off the merry-go-round. Ralph said, “Yeah, I mean, we’re all on one.” (Right?) He said that as an artist, it’s easy to get stuck, so you have to seek out new perspectives, maybe take the painting (or life) you’re working on and turn it upside down.

I told Ralph that I recently made a special trip to the university campus to look at the sundial he made. Sundials, and the fact that most of them have a saying related to time on them, are talked about in the S-Town Podcast, so I wanted to check one out. Ralph said that although several things on the campus faced magnetic north, the sundial was the only thing that faced true north. (I’m not ashamed to say that I just had to Google the difference. And if you don’t know either, true north refers to the imaginary line that stretches into the sky and represents the earth’s axis, that center the earth revolves around. Magnetic north is the thing your compass points to.) Ralph said that in order for sundials to work, they have to face true north, not magnetic north. He also said that the sundial at the university weighs six thousand pounds and has a time capsule inside of it.

How cool is that?

I know that things haven’t always been easy for Ralph. Making a living as an artist in Fort Smith, Arkansas, is, I’m sure, challenging at times. But somehow Ralph has managed to do something he loves and make it work, and the community is better and more beautiful because of it. Ralph said that sometimes you wonder if people notice, but they do. And even when they don’t, I think, the true artist continues.

Ralph said that when the day’s over, you want to be able to say to yourself, “Today was a good day. I did something that brought me joy.” So it’s worth it, he said, to find your true north.

As Ralph and I said goodbye and I went back to my walk, I started thinking about how cool it was to run into him, about the fact that it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t gone to the bathroom one more time before I left the house. And it’s not like I was having a terrible day and Ralph turned it around, but sometimes my therapist says that the universe sends us signals, little incidents that let us know we’re on the right path. Personally, I know that lately it’s felt like I’m walking around blindfolded, so it helps me to think of happy accidents like running into Ralph as God’s way of saying, “You’re getting warmer. Keep doing what you love.”

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

There’s a principle in talk therapy that a therapist’s job isn’t necessarily to dole out advice. Rather, they provide a quiet and safe place for the client to talk and, maybe for the first time, actually hear themselves. I guess the idea is that we all have inner wisdom. We all know what’s best for us. We all have our true north. But oftentimes our lives are so hectic, so chaotic, and so loud, that we can’t hear ourselves, and it’s easy to step off the path. But therapy can be a way to return, a step in the right direction. Likewise, so can meditation or art, anything that invites getting still, stepping back, and seeing things in a new way.

Personally, I think my therapist has been like a sundial for me. When things have been really hard, when I’ve called her on the phone crying, she’s said, “I’m your rock.” And it’s not that she’s perfect. She’d be the first to say she’s not. But, like a sundial, she’s lined up and she’s solid. She’s not going anywhere. And whereas she’s not going to get caught up in my drama, she is going to show compassion, and she is going to reflect the truth back to me.

Most of this evening, I’ve been thinking that my talk with Ralph was mostly about creativity, about how I recently got off the merry-go-round that’s been my life for over ten years and now I’m taking a new look at things. But as I think about it in this moment, I think I started getting off the merry-go-round a few years ago when I started therapy. Since then, there’s been consistently less drama in my life, and my perspective has changed dramatically. Truly, like one of Ralph’s paintings, my life has been turned upside down in the best way. Everything looks different than it did before.

Of course, my therapist gets a ton of the credit, but I think my progress has been largely the result of becoming more authentic. When you’re trying to be authentic, the path you’re on is the right one because being authentic is the path. Being authentic is true north. Line yourself up with that. And sure, there will be times when the sun shines brightly upon your face, and others when the seasons will change and you’ll be left in the shadows. But guaranteed, you’ll be facing the right direction, and that’s what matters. And there you will stand off the merry-go-round–like a sundial that is steady and strong–giving no more thought to a sun’s setting than to its rising. After all, that is the way of all time.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If life can create a problem, it can also provide an answer.

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Weak Brain (Blog #54)

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This morning after four hours of sleep, I had breakfast with my friend Bonnie at The Fort Smith Coffee Company. (That’s us in the picture. That’s also a guy I think I know but am not sure how. I hate it when that happens.) Anyway, Bonnie has been in freakin’ Paris (Paris, France) for the last month (a whole month!), so we decided to catch up, eat some bread, and pretend like I was there too. It sort of worked for about an hour, but it’s REALLY HARD to forget you’re in Fort Smith when you’re in Fort Smith.

Other than catching up with Bonnie, here’s the best thing that happened during our time at the coffee shop:

Bonnie’s laughing because the cup says, “ho room,” which we figured meant, “no room,” as in, “no room for cream or sugar.” But ho room is way funnier, so Bonnie took the cup home with her, kind of like a souvenir from our time together in Paris (Fort Smith, Arkansas).

I spent this afternoon running all over God’s green earth on a mission to find a new cell phone because the one I’ve had for over two years has been seriously acting up, and I finally had enough of its bullshit. Anyway, it was a six or seven hour ordeal, and it included trips to Best Buy, AT&T, the Fort Smith Public Library (twice), Sprint, and Verizon (twice). I’ll spare you all the details, but I’ve been with Sprint for eleven years, and they don’t sell the phone I initially wanted, so that led me to the other providers. Well, I figured out that if I left Sprint, I could get better coverage, the same deal I have now (unlimited everything) for less money, AND I could use my phone as a WiFi hotspot. (Specifically, that means I can use my phone to connect my laptop to the Internet so that when I’m at home, I don’t have to write blogs on my laptop, copy them to my phone, do all the editing on a screen only slightly bigger than a deck of cards, and then post everything from there.)

This is really, really good news.

I ended up saying goodbye to Sprint (It’s been real) and going with Verizon. A super guy named Gavin helped me out the second time I was there, and the dude spent over two hours with me in order to get me signed up, switched over, and set up. I mean, it’s never a fun feeling to drop money on a new phone with all the amenities, but my monthly fee stayed about the same, and that includes the new phone. Plus, good customer service, like a good personal lube, makes all the difference.

After I left the Verizon, I joined Bonnie and her husband Todd and some of their family friends for a Paris-style dinner at their home. The whole affair lasted for two or three hours. There was cheese, bread, salami, bread, crackers, bread, salad, bread, some sort of chicken and vegetable situation, and dessert (fruit, more cheese, and more bread). Also, there were three types of alcohol. (Todd told us that in Paris (Paris, France), you’re required to look everyone in the eye when you clink your glasses together for a toast. I love that.) Basically, between the bread and alcohol, it was everything I probably didn’t need to eat in order to make the yeast infection under my arm pits go away.

But it sure tasted great.

After dinner I spent about four hours setting up my new phone. This may come as a shock to some of you, but I’m pretty anal-retentive, so I couldn’t really put it down until I got all my favorite applications installed and placed on my home screen in just the right place. Plus, I had to log into all my accounts and set up my voicemail and the hotspot. Those last two items took the longest, since I guess I had to log into Verizon’s application first, but no one told me that. Still, I finally got it all done, so now I’m at home on my laptop–blogging!–and I’m actually connected to the Internet.

Welcome to the 21st Century, Marcus.

There are still a few things I need to do in order to get the new phone set up, but having it mostly taken care of, especially the part about switching networks and actually getting a new phone, feels fantastic. The whole situation has been a point of stress for a while now, so now maybe I can move on to figuring out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life or, as one friend so delicately put it, attend to my moldy armpits.

Almost ten years ago, I visited some friends in Dubai. Well, one day we saw a local medicine man, some sort of witch doctor who made his own potions and healing ointments. I told him about my sinus infections, but there was a language barrier, so I kept pointing to my head a lot. And the guy just stood there and nodded his head, and he finally said, “Oh yes, weak brain.”

That was actually his diagnosis. Weak brain.

At your service.

Even now my friends and I joke about that. And whenever I’m exhausted and can’t focus (like now), I think–weak brain. I guess the body just wasn’t made to blog until six in the morning and then get up four hours later, even if it does mean coffee in Paris. I mean, I thought I was going to take a nap today, but that didn’t happen. And really, I’m glad it didn’t because sometimes when I get tired, I can’t really fake anything. It’s like exhaustion is a shortcut to authenticity. This afternoon at Verizon and this evening at Bonnie’s, I kept thinking that I should chat more, but I just didn’t have it in me. So I chatted some, and the rest of the time I quietly enjoyed what was going on, which left me grateful for good customer service, and–even better–long meals and good friends who look you in the eye, wish you well, and don’t require that you be anything other than who you are–tired, weak brain, and all.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Help is always on the way.

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The Truth Is a Monster (Blog #42)

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This morning I helped my friend Madeline redecorate her home. For a while, I just kept walking around the house, going from room to room and thinking about what needed to go where, but I couldn’t decide. After a good bit of this, I finally sat down in a chair in the living room. Instead of thinking, I decided to feel. Call it intuition or Feng Shui, but there were areas of the room that felt crowded, and there were spaces on the walls that didn’t feel like they could breathe as well as others. There were pieces that didn’t feel like they got along with each other, like they needed to be separated.

Having checked in with my feelings, I could then explain them to Madeline. “See, all these pieces look hand-made, they don’t belong next to the ones that are mass-produced.” But it wasn’t something I could articulate before I sat down and checked in with my gut. Once I did, we were off and running.

Here’s a picture of three pieces we grouped together because of their complimentary colors.

This afternoon I watched a movie called A Monster Calls. It’s about a boy whose mom is terminally ill and his encounters with a tree outside his window that turns into a monster. The monster tells the boy three stories, for which the boy must tell the monster a story—his nightmare. I really wanted to love this movie, but I didn’t. (I’ve had this same experience with several people and more than one piece of chocolate cake.) Having said that, there was a pretty profound scene in the movie that I loved. (I’m about to tell you about it, so if you’re hell-bent on watching the movie and not knowing what happens, I suggest you put this blog down, go watch it, and come back to the next paragraph. If you’ve already seen it or don’t care, tally forth.)

Toward the end of the movie, the monster comes to collect the boy’s nightmare, and the boy kind of beats around the bush and says, I can’t tell you the truth, I can’t say it. But the monster is really big and really intimidating, so the boy finally comes out with and says that he wishes his mom would die—he loves her—but he wants the whole thing to be over—it’s too painful.

(Since we’ve come this far, I’ll go ahead and tell you that the monster tells the boy his feelings are normal, very human. More than anything else, he says, the boy is very brave for being honest.)

The movie made me think of a situation that came up in therapy once. I was having some difficulties with a friend who was crossing some boundaries, and although I knew I had a problem, I couldn’t articulate it. So kind of like the monster in the movie (and I mean that in the most endearing way possible), my therapist got a little aggressive and said, “Do you want to spend time with this person or not?” And I kind of sheepishly said, “No.”

And my therapist said, “Say it again.”

So a bit more forcefully, I said, “NO.”

And my therapist said, “Say it again.”

“NO!”

My therapist shot to the edge of her seat, clapped her hands together like a televangelist casting out demons, and said, “THAT’S your truth!”

In the movie, the boy thought that he would die or be punished when he spoke his truth, and he was surprised when he didn’t. My reaction to my truth that day in therapy wasn’t that dramatic, but I was surprised that I felt so strongly about the relationship with my friend. I mean, we’d spent a lot of time together. I cared about them.

Over the next few days, I was able to make sense of the truth I’d spoken in therapy. I’d been angry with my friend for quite a while but had been biting my tongue (my therapist says that hurts). I was sweeping problems under the rug.

The thing that I have slowly learned over the years is that my gut is trustworthy. Looking back, I can see so many times that it was telling me to slow down or back away or run like hell. But I almost always made excuses in favor of avoiding a confrontation. (Red flag? No problem—full speed ahead!) However, now I’m learning that relationships are like decorating a room. Sometimes things get crowded and you need space to breathe, and sometimes things don’t go together and they need to be separated. And maybe it takes a little work to make the necessary changes, but it always feels better when you do.

At least in my case, I’ve found that sometimes I have to get out of my head and stop thinking about things so much. I have to sit down and check in with my gut. When I do, the truth is always right there waiting for me. And I don’t blame anyone who runs from the truth because the truth isn’t always pretty, and the truth isn’t always easy. More often than not, the truth is a monster. It gets in your face and makes you get honest. And sometimes the truth even physically separates you from people you care about, if for no other reason than to bring you closer to yourself.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life proceeds at its own pace.

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two-beer Marcus (blog #24)

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All other things being equal, I like Two-Beer Marcus better than I like Sober Marcus. Two-Beer Marcus is more authentic–more relaxed, more friendly, and more confident. And, at least in his opinion, he’s pretty damn funny. Sober Marcus, on the other hand, is often uptight, shy, and hesitant. I guess this is because he tends to take himself pretty seriously and is often concerned about what other people think, particularly at dance events. But Two-Beer Marcus doesn’t give a fuck. (T.B.M.D.G.A.F.)

Before we go any further–and in the spirit of honesty–One-Beer Marcus is typing now. (He’s not so bad.)

My intention with this post is not to discuss the benefits (and obvious drawbacks) of drinking. Rather, what I’d like to point out is that I think sometimes a couple of beers can let you know what’s lurking just below the surface. To quote my therapist, “Alcohol reveals what sobriety conceals.” (She typically uses this line if I’ve told her about someone who got drunk and hit on me, or someone else who got drunk and acted like a real tool bag, but I think it can be applied positively.) What I like about this theory is that, apparently, just below the surface is a guy I really like, a guy who’s more honest with himself and everyone else, a guy who’s not such a stick-in-the-mud. And whereas there’s part of me that wishes I could just drink a couple of beers every day in order to calm all my social anxieties, there’s an even bigger part of me that knows that could turn into a real problem. I mean, beer has a lot of calories, and I’d eventually have to buy new pants, and that’s something I, my wallet, and my pride are NOT okay with.

Speaking of needing to buy new pants, I just sat down on the floor–and it wasn’t easy. As I sit here, the final dance at Sunflower Swing is in progress. It’s at a place called Care to Dance, and it’s maybe my favorite dance venue so far–mostly because there are mirrors in the room. (I’m pretty famous for looking at myself in the mirror when I dance, so I’m in heaven now.) And whereas I’ve been accused of being vain–and I am–what I like about the mirrors is that they offer me immediate feedback on my dancing, and I almost always come away feeling better than I do without mirrors. If the point hasn’t already been made and belabored this weekend, I’m usually running a low level of “beating myself up” or “feeling insecure.” But when I look in the mirror, I actually like what I see. It’s better than the me that’s in my head.

I think that as a general rule, I blow a lot of smoke up my own ass. Like, I gan five pounds, and I think I’m SO FAT or SO UNATTRACTIVE and I’M SO SORRY you have to even look at me. Or I mess up a dance move or don’t dance like THAT GUY, so I think that the person I’m dancing with is probably bored, really inconvenienced by having to hold my hand for three minutes. Well, just a couple of beers (and two easy payments of $4.99), and that voice in my head gets a lot quieter. Or just a quick look in the mirror and (most the time), I get closer to the truth–I haven’t completely let myself go, and my dancing is more polished than I give myself credit for.

I once had a friend–who’s older than I am–ask me if I thought she was pretty. (There’s only one socially acceptable answer to this awkward question, right?) When I told my therapist about the situation, I think she rolled her eyes. She said, “By this point in my life, I know what I got, and I know what I don’t got.” So when it comes to things like how I look or how I dance, she says the goal is to take an honest, accurate assessment, to not make myself more than I am, but not make myself less than I am either.

Ultimately, I think the closer a person gets to his or her authentic self, the labels of more than or less than seriously start to fall away. When you’re authentic, your authenticity is enough. You don’t need to compare. And that’s what I think the value of Two-Beer Marcus is. (He doesn’t G.A.F., remember?) More specifically, he lets me know that I’m capable of being more relaxed, friendly, and confident. I mean, those qualities have always been there, or they couldn’t come out after a couple of drinks. And honestly, especially since starting therapy three years ago, I’m more of all those things than I used to be, even without the beer. And whereas it may not be perfection (whatever that is), it’s certainly progress.

[P.S. One-beer Marcus may have started this article, but Sober Marcus finished it, and he resents being called a stick-in-the-mud.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Healing is like the internet at my parents’ house—it takes time.

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happier than a pig in a shed (blog #16)

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I first started swing dancing in in 1999, and my sister was my dance partner. We were both living at home (kind of like I am now), and after class each week, we’d put music on in the living room and show Mom what we learned. I remember being really excited about it.

In 2007, I got interested in Lindy Hop, which is a more advanced form of swing dancing than the one I already knew (East Coast Swing). So my friends Greg, Rita, Krista, and I would travel each spring to a Lindy Hop convention in Houston called Lindyfest. Our little group called ourselves The Lindy Dogs, and we even had matching shoe bags—like a gang—well—a West Side Story kind of gang. I remember being so starry-eyed the first time I walked into the Melody Ballroom, into the midst of hundreds of Lindy Hoppers. There’s nothing like it. It’s magic. Even now, I can see Andy Reid doing a move in my mind’s eye that I later learned and still use and teach. (If you don’t know, Andy Reid is a big damn deal in Lindy Hop.)

I think those first two or three years at Lindyfest were the best because it was all about my love of swing dancing and time spent with my friends. I remember once when all of us Lindy Dogs were in the car together, and I said that I was “happier than a pig in shit.” Well, Greg thought I said “happier than a pig in a shed,” so that kind of became our group’s inside joke, and it still gets used ten years later.

But despite hundreds of great memories like this one, something happened over the course of the last ten years that quite frankly, sucks. Simply put, I started judging myself and comparing myself to other people on the dance floor. I imagine it all started out pretty innocently, mostly because I wanted to get better, and being a rule follower and a teacher’s pet, I wanted to do things “the right way.”

I used to watch the television show Once Upon a Time, and the character Rumpelstiltskin always said something like, “Everything comes with a price.” And whereas I’ve known for a long time that the price of judging yourself and comparing yourself to others is being less creative on the dance floor, I’ve been thinking lately the price is even higher than that—you also lose your joy—which, at least for me, was the reason I started dancing in the first place.

Tonight I taught a beginner East Coast Swing lesson to a large room full of mostly college students. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve taught the exact same material, but something was different about tonight, and I think it had to do with the fact that pretty much every single person in the room didn’t know shit about swing dancing. Basically, it was a room full of virgins. They don’t know Peter Strom from Peter Rabbit. And they were SO excited. There was a guy named Chase (wearing a shirt that said “I am the best” except “the best” was crossed out and replaced with “blessed”) who asked me to teach him the pretzel (a move where your arms get all twisted up like, well, a pretzel). I don’t think any self-respecting Lindy Hopper would be caught dead doing the pretzel, but almost all new swing dancers love the shit out of it. I remember enthusiastically asking my teacher when I could learn it. So I showed it to Chase—because it’s fun. The result?

More joy.

There was a kid named Jake there tonight, and he was happier than a pig in a shed. He had the biggest grin on his face during the entire lesson. Like, he was dripping with glee. Personally, I usually play my emotions pretty close to my vest, so later I just asked him, “Why are you so happy?” And get this shit. He said, “I’m just glad to be here.” Like, it was that simple. Nothing about self-judgment or comparing himself to others.

Since starting this blog, I’ve had a number of people tell me that they admire my courage, my honesty, and my vulnerability. I appreciate all of those comments, but it usually feels like they’re talking about someone else because I was literally shaking when this site went live, and there’s still part of me that likes to pretend that no one’s reading it.

I was telling one of my friends tonight that the primary goal for this blog was and still is for me to write on a more consistent basis. So far it’s working. But tonight I noticed an added benefit that I hadn’t anticipated. But before I can tell you what it was, I need to back up a moment.

For the longest time, I’ve only presented a certain side of myself on social media and in my dance classes. And whereas that side was honest, it wasn’t complete. As I think about it now, it felt like being a half person, a person who didn’t have a sexuality, a person who didn’t talk about feeling embarrassed or less than, and a person who didn’t say fuck. As a consequence to living that way, I am almost always nervous in social situations. Like, I’ve been comfortable as a teacher, but not as just a person who walks around and introduces himself and asks people how they’re doing or if I can help. I can only assume that was because I wasn’t really at home in myself, and I always felt like someone would discover that other half of me and judge me for it.

And it’s not that I intend to talk about every single thing in my life on this blog, but my therapist says that part of the goal of being authentic is to have as few secrets as possible. So that’s partly what’s happening here in a rather public way. It’s a place where, having been honest with myself first, I can be honest with others. I have a sexuality, sometimes I’m embarrassed and feel less than, and I say fuck (every fucking day). And I think Jesus is okay with all of that, thank you very much.

So about that added benefit. I was more relaxed and less nervous tonight than I have been in years. I felt at home in my own skin. I didn’t fiddle with my phone so I didn’t have to talk to people. I just talked to people, and I never once thought, What if they find out about that other part of me? And guess what?

More authentic joy.

I told some of my friends tonight that I envied the virgin swing dancers because their excitement and enthusiasm for swing dancing was untainted by self-judgment and imagined standards of “good enough.” But I think that if you love something, that love never goes away. It’s like you can run yourself ragged working for this standard of perfection and you can get really far away from where you started. But the good news is, that love inside that shows up as joy or enthusiasm is your authentic self, and it just sits there, patiently waiting for you to come back to it, to come back home to yourself and remember that not only are you good enough exactly as you are, but you’re also—just glad to be here.

[Special thanks to Greg, Rita, and Krista (pictured first, with me) for you authentic love of swing dancing. You’re like family. Also thanks to Sydnie Meltzer Kleinhenz, who helped me teach the virgins tonight and also provided the additional photos. You rock step like a rock star. Lastly, thanks to the NWA Swing Dance Society for a truly beautiful evening. It was magic.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Of all the broken things in your life, you’re not one of them–and you never have been.

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don’t put a bird on it (blog #9)

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I spent the day with two of my friends from high school, Kara and Amber. The three of us live in different cities, but we make a point to get together and catch up several times a year. (We all love a good plan.) Our conversations always last a long time, but today I’m pretty sure we broke our personal record–we talked for nine hours. We laughed, we cried, it was better than Cats.

We started our reunion this afternoon at a coffee shop, but five hours later went to a restaurant called Mockingbird Kitchen. Appropriately, there were birds on everything, which immediately made me think of PUT A BIRD ON IT. If you don’t know, PUT A BIRD ON IT is a phrase made popular by the television show Portlandia. It has to do with the idea that you can take something unspectacular (like a simple tote bag) and dress it up and make it prettier than it actually is if you–well–PUT A BIRD ON IT.

I mean, just imagine how boring this coffee cup would be WITHOUT a bird on it:

For whatever reason, PUT A BIRD ON IT always makes me laugh. I like the way it rolls off my tongue. Plus, I have a dear friend who LOVES birds–like absolutely can not get enough of birds–and he’s always rearranging his decorations and knick knacks, so I love visiting his house and going on a bird hunt, seeing if I can spot a bird on a spring throw pillow, or maybe find a new statue of a fat bird he’s put on the back of his toilet. (Since this is my idea of fun, I should probably consider getting out more.)

Anyway, Kara and Amber and I spent a lot of time today talking about authenticity, this goal we all share to be open and honest and real and vulnerable, not only with each other, but also with the world. This goal, of course, is not an easy one. At least for me, I know that it comes in fits and starts. I’ve spent so much time feeling like I wasn’t complete, that a lot of my energy has gone into things like people pleasing and putting forth an acceptable social image, rather than simply being myself.

Whenever my therapist talks about Facebook, she always uses the word “presentation.” Like, it’s so easy to look at pictures of someone online and think that their life is perfect and that they have it all figured out. But the truth is, you’re only seeing what they want you to see, and as Paul Laurence Dunbar says, “We wear the mask that grins and lies.” That may sound a bit harsh, but I think it’s fair to say that few of us present a complete picture of ourselves to those around us, especially on social media. I know I don’t, at least until this blog started.

It’s not that I consider putting your best foot forward to be a bad thing. Most the time, I think what’s actually happening is that we take something we consider unspectacular and PUT A BIRD ON IT. We dress things up and make them look prettier than they actually are. But the problem is that we end up smiling when we’re actually falling apart. We say things like, “I’m fine,” when the truth sounds more like, “I’m fucking pissed.”

Close to ten years ago, I got obsessed with handwriting analysis, and I bought a lot of books on the subject. The theory is you can tell a lot about a person’s personality by studying their handwriting–how it slants, how big or small it is, how large the margins are. Well, one easy thing that anyone can do is look at a person’s signature and compare it to the rest of their writing. Ideally, they should look the same, but often they don’t. The explanation is that a person’s handwriting shows their true personality, but the signature shows the image they present to the world. The signature shows the mask they wear. The signature shows whether or not they’ve put a bird–on themselves.

When I first started therapy, I talked about how great it was. I mean, my therapist is hilarious, and we laughed a lot, and I saw immediate improvement in my life. “Everyone should go to therapy,” I said. Even now, I’m constantly saying, “My therapist says this,” or “My therapist says that.” Hell, I even have a blog about my therapist. But somewhere along the way, I started telling people, “I’m just kidding. Don’t go to therapy. It sucks.” What I mean by that is that productive therapy is difficult. It’s not easy to live an authentic life, to do things like be vulnerable, honor your emotions, set boundaries, and initiate confrontations. It’s much easier to PUT A BIRD ON IT.

All that being said, I think authenticity is worth all the hard work and being real is its own reward. There’s something beautiful, after all, about a simple tote bag that requires nothing but itself in order to be complete.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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And God knows you don't make everyone else happy. But this is no reason to quit or be discouraged, since doing what you love and feel called to do is never--never--about gaining acceptance from others.

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