Weird and Awkward Beginnings (Blog #88)

Leave a comment

Today was a day for beginnings. Why some days are for beginnings and other days are for endings, I don’t know. But I suppose this is simply how the universe works. One day you pick up a cigarette. Another day you put it down. You tell yourself for weeks, maybe months, that it’s time to quit, but then one day it actually is. For me, there’s always a feeling that accompanies a fresh start. I wish I could tell you that such a feeling involved angels and trumpets, a parade where suckers are handed out to people who start diets. But that’s rarely the case. Rather, the feeling I get is more like a soft hum, something that tingles and buzzes inside of me and sounds like I’ve had enough. I’m ready. Shit. No more Camels and chocolate cake.

Or something like that.

Fortunately, today wasn’t about quitting anything. (Ugh. No one likes a quitter.) Although I guess anytime you start one thing, you have to quit another, even if it’s simply quitting not doing the thing you weren’t doing before. (I’m about to confuse myself, so I’ll just say it.) Today I started swimming again. There, I’m glad that’s out in the open, along with everything it implies. Yes, I wear Speedos (the square-cut kind). Sometimes I shave my legs (and absolutely love the way it feels). Of course, as is obvious from the above picture, I haven’t shaved anything lately. Anything–at–all.

Anyway, today I swam a thousand meters–sixteen hundred is a mile–and it felt great. When I first started swimming four years ago, I liked it, but it was difficult because it always felt as if I was sucking in more water than air. But after a few years, I started to get the rhythm of it. We’ll see how the summer goes, but I really think the sinus surgery I had is going to make all the difference, since I can actually breathe now. I mean, I haven’t swum in a year, but the ten laps today seemed easier than anything I’ve ever done before.

Messages from other people are requests, not requirements.

This afternoon before I went to the pool, I got two voicemails–two!–from my dentist’s office. I didn’t even listen to the second one, but the first one requested a “verbal confirmation” that I would be at tomorrow’s teeth cleaning. This after I verbally made the appointment last week and digitally confirmed by text a few days ago. I told my dad, “I’ve forgotten appointments before, but I’m an adult. I said I’ll be there, and I’ll be there. Hell, they used to send emails too.”

Dad said, “Marcus, not everyone keeps a calendar. I don’t think you realize how stupid some people are.”

The old Marcus would have called back to confirm, but the new Marcus thought, “Fuck that. I have better things to do.” Of course, it’s taken a long time for me to come around to this way of thinking. Really, I’ve spent most my life returning every text message, every email, every phone call. But therapy has taught me that messages from other people are requests, not demands, certainly not requirements.

Today at the pool I focused on my breathing, lifting my head every odd-numbered stroke so that I alternated sides. For the longest time, I’ve only come up on my right side, and I think that’s contributed to the imbalances in my body. Of course, lifting on the left side today felt weird, awkward, anything but smooth. I probably swallowed some pool water, so don’t even try to remind me how many little kids pee in it every day. I mean, they make chlorine for a reason!

While swimming, I was thinking about how often we to run away from anything that feels weird, awkward, anything but smooth. I know I used to see that in dance a lot. If people didn’t get something “right away,” they’d get frustrated, cry, even walk away. But–and I hate this–any new thing takes time to master, whether it’s dancing, swimming, or setting boundaries with secretaries at your dentist’s office. (My next step is to call them and say, “I have an appointment tomorrow and would like a verbal confirmation that my dental hygienist will be there.”)

A couple of years ago I had three incidents happen–bam, bam, bam– that involved bad customer service. In one instance, I was treated rudely at a medical facility, and in another given incorrect change at a restaurant. (It may sound high-minded, but I HATE IT when servers owe me $9.13 and bring me back $9.00 instead, like the rest doesn’t matter.) So when I talked to my therapist about these incidents and said I wanted to write letters to all the respective managers, she leaned forward in her chair, raised her eyebrows, and said, “DO IT!”

So I did, and it felt great.

In the case of the medical facility, I believe someone lost their job, or at least got a stern talking to. Either way, the manager said that if I had to return, please contact him personally. I also got a gift certificate from the restaurant. But none of that was the point to the letter writing. The point was to express myself, to confront a damn problem for once. Honestly, I’m still not a pro at confrontation. I usually have to be pushed pretty far before I’ll speak up. In any form, confrontation feels anything but smooth. But just like my breathing at the pool, it’s a hell of a lot better than it used to be because I’ve been willing to practice, even with little things like not returning phone calls that I simply don’t want to return.

This evening I started reading a book called The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to High Creativity by Julia Cameron. The book has been around for twenty-five years, but I’d never heard of it until a few weeks ago when two people told me about it within the space of a few days, which I figured meant the universe wanted me to read it. (God works in mysterious ways.) Well, I’m only a couple chapters in, but I’m riveted, and I already have homework. Specifically, starting tomorrow, I’m supposed to starting writing, by hand, three pages (called Morning Pages but will be Afternoon Pages in my case) about anything and everything that comes to mind. Sometimes called “brain drain,” the idea is that the practice gets out all the junk that’s currently blocking any creativity.

I’ll let you know how it goes, but I’m both excited about nervous about the idea. Excited because it makes sense, and I want to see how it changes my creative life. Nervous because, like learning to swim again and learning to handle confrontations, it’s probably going to feel weird and awkward for a while.

There are angels there to help, but they don’t blow trumpets.

They say that if you want a different life, you have to let go of the one you have. You have to do things differently. Personally, I’m finding that changes that really matter are usually a process. Maybe there are angels there to help, but they don’t blow trumpets because they know beginnings are pretty much always rough and not really trumpet-worthy. But anything you consistently work at–dancing, swimming, finding your voice, creating–will eventually smooth out. Just give it a little time, and it won’t feel weird or awkward at all. No, you’ll get the hang of it, and–what’s more–you’ll have a different life, a life that tingles and buzzes–and feels great.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

No one is immune from life’s challenges.

"

 

 

Put Your Best Left Foot Forward (Blog #79)

Leave a comment

Okay, I’m running on three hours of sleep here. Well, all right, fine. I’m also running on four blueberry pancakes and thee glasses of Glenlivet. But the pancakes and the scotch are just making me even more tired that I already was, so I don’t think they should even be figured into the equation. No, I’m sure they shouldn’t. Regardless, I’m seriously considering using duct tape to keep my eyes open, maybe taking a cold shower and substituting the bar of soap with a nine-volt battery. Hello!

I got up early today in order to attend the Arkansas New Play Festival, which is a two-weekend–uh–thing involving–damn it, brain–plays. (I’m gonna try this again.) It’s a multiple-day event where new plays, or plays that are still in production, are read in front of live audiences, after which the writers and directors get feedback about what works, what doesn’t work.  It’s like a trial-run for theater shows. At least that’s my scotch and pancakes understanding of it.

Today the festival was at Crystal Bridges in Bentonville. (Tomorrow it’s at Theater Squared in Fayetteville.) Y’all, I have never seen so many people in all my life. It was like the population of Queens descended on the lobby of Crystal Bridges. I guess everyone was there to see the Chihuly exhibit, which I thought had something to do with hot sauce, but actually has to do with blown glass. Here’s a picture of the only exhibit I could see for free. I don’t know what the official title is, but I’m either calling it Pretty Glass Balls in Ugly Water, or simply, Jesus Left His Toys Behind. (As my friend Mary recently said, “Marcus, I wonder about you.”)

But back to the festival. Today’s schedule included two plays with a break in between. I thought both plays were extremely well-acted, and I especially enjoyed the writing of the second play, which was called Comet Town and was written by Rick Erhstin. I’m not doing so great with descriptions tonight, so I’ll just say it was about a fucked-up family with a grandfather with dementia who thought the planes flying over his home were comets and the sounds coming from the pipes in the basement were his dead wife. The dialogue and acting were so compelling that for probably thirty minutes I had a steady stream of tears running down my face. If things had gotten any sadder, I would have needed my bathing suit.

Thank God I sat in the back row.

When the play was over, the lady next to me–who was one of the actors from the first play–struck up a conversation. For a few minutes we talked about the festival and then progressed to–Where are you from?–Where are YOU from?–What do you do?–What do YOU do? (You know how it goes.) Anyway, she was the nicest lady you’d ever want to meet, and when I told her that I was a dance teacher and a writer, she asked if I taught a class on Friday nights. Well, we’d been talking about theater, so I thought she was talking about theater classes, so I said, “Oh no, that’s someone else.” But then she said she meant dancing classes, since she’d heard of a dancer/writer who taught swing dance classes in the area. Well, I have a friend who does that, so I said, “No, that’s someone else. He’s Asian.” And then–AND THEN–she said, “No, this guy is white. He writes a blog about his therapist.”

That’s funny, I thought, I write a blog about MY therapist.

Wait a minute.

Oh. My. God.

(She’s talking about me.)

Seriously, my head got so big that I thought I was going to lose my balance and fall out of my chair.

I told the lady–whose name is Rebecca and has a sister who’s danced with me a couple of times and recommended the blog–that she was the first person I’d met “in real life” who’d read the blog that I didn’t already know. So I asked her if she’d take a selfie with me (I think she said yes) and told her I planned on putting it on the blog because that’s not weird. (Right? That’s not weird?)

Okay, I really feel like we can stop there. Period. The end. What else is important after your day has been made? But fine, I’ll keep going. And don’t worry, my head will return to normal size by this time tomorrow.

Leaving Crystal Bridges, I headed for my friend Betty’s house to spend the night and save myself a lot of time on the road tonight and tomorrow. When I got to Betty’s, she’d just started a yoga workout, so I said I wanted to join. Well, I haven’t done yoga in over six months, so for thirty minutes I stretched, moaned, and discovered aches and pains in muscles I didn’t even know I had. When the video ended, I lay in a pile of sweat and regret and decided to turn my life over to Jesus and repent of my sinful eating habits. I thought, chocolate cake is evil–carbohydrates are for heathens–fried chicken is the devil’s workshop.

And then Betty asked if I wanted pancakes for dinner, and I said, “Hell yes” because–life is ironic.

So the coolest thing. Sometime shortly after 2005 when I opened my former dance studio, I designed the studio’s one and only t-shirt. I think we sold like twenty-five of them. Well, Betty was one of my first students in those days, and she bought one of the shirts and still has it (and wore it tonight for yoga). The front says, “Put your best left foot forward” because I can’t tell you the number of times someone has told me, “I have two left feet,” as if that’s a legitimate excuse for not dancing or not being willing to learn. I mean, THAT’S WHAT LESSONS ARE FOR. Anyway, check out the shirt.

I just remembered that the phrase “put your best left foot forward” came from the guy I was dating at the time. I thought it was so clever–and still do–that I put it on the shirts and planned to use it for fliers, coffee mugs, and maybe a personal tramp stamp. But alas, best laid plans. But even now, I think it’s a great encouragement. So many nights–most of them–I sit down to write this blog, and it feels like I have two left feet. I don’t know where I’m going or how I’m going to get there. More often than not, I think, Just quit–stay where you are. (This happens in life too.)

Standing still is no longer good enough.

However, I’ve promised myself I’m going to write. Of course, I want every word to be glorious. (Is that too much to ask?) I want people to laugh and I want them to cry. I don’t like it when it my words stumble along anymore than anyone else does. But the fact is that sometimes we move with grace and sometimes we move with struggle. This afternoon when I watched the plays, it was evident that things were still in progress. I mean, there were some glorious moments (I laughed–I cried), but there were also moments that fell flat. And whereas I’m often critical of such things, I’ve reminded myself this evening that we all have a right to put our best left foot forward. In fact, it takes buckets of courage and vulnerability for someone to do that.

Maybe I’ve never said this before, but when it comes to dancing and dieting and writing and living–I don’t have it all figured out. (There, I admit it.) I’m sure I never will. But rather than giving up, I’m willing to give it a try, willing to stumble along, willing to put one left foot in front of the other, since standing still is no longer good enough.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

We're allowed to relabel and remake ourselves.

"

On Falling Down and Getting Back Up Again (Blog #78)

1 Comment

Okay, shit.

It’s four-thirty in the morning, and Daddy is tired. My dancer friend Matt drove down from Springfield yesterday, and we’ve been dancing and (only because this is a blog about honesty) drinking since seven-thirty last night. We met at my friend Bonnie’s house, and we started off Blues dancing, which is slow and easy and not demanding at all. Next we picked it up with a little solo jazz work, choreographing a dance routine for Matt to teach to a rock-a-billy song. Then we worked on Lindy Hop, which if you don’t know, is a swing dance that requires a lot of bouncing, running around, and acting a damn fool. And then–and then–after five hours of all of that, we thought it would be a good idea to work on lifts and aerials, things that required Daddy to jump up in the air and turn himself upside down. That part required A LOT  of energy.

In retrospect, we should have done everything in reverse.

The last time Matt and I worked together, I showed him a move called the saxophone. The idea is that the leader steps in front of the follower, basically shoves his hips into “her” pelvis, and slings her around the front of his body, landing her on his opposite leg and simultaneously inverting her. Here’s a video of what it’s supposed to look like. (The video includes two moves. The first is called the pancake. The second is the saxophone.)

When Matt and I worked before, I just demonstrated the move as a leader, since I’d never done the follower’s part. I mean, I’m thirty-six, and that’s no exactly the age to START putting your ankles above your head, at least on the dance floor. Plus, I weigh a hundred and ninety pounds. (People say, “You wear it well,” like that’s a compliment, but is more like code for, “I didn’t realize you were that fat.”) Anyway, tonight when Matt asked if I wanted to try following the saxophone, I was like–Uh, uh, uh–sure.

So for over an hour, we tried and tried and tried again. I fell down. Matt fell down. Matt dropped me on my back. Matt dropped me on my side. Bonnie recorded over thirty failed attempts. Bonnie’s friend Corban was there, and he recorded probably just as many. (No one recorded the ONE time we got it right.) I’ll spare you most of the carnage, but here’s a video I love that Corban captured in slow motion. All things considered, it’s pretty good, except of course the part at the end when I land on my back.

About one-thirty or two in the morning, we wore out and quit. I mean, sometimes you have to know when you’re licked. I guess I could get frustrated that it “didn’t happen,” but I can’t tell you how good it felt to try something new, to be slung through the air, even if it wasn’t perfect. Now, whether it will feel good in a couple of days is yet to be decided. I’m guessing it won’t.

The last time Matt and I worked on lifts and aerials, we worked on a move called the frog jump. It’s basically just a simple jump where no one turns upside down, but the trick is getting the follower to jump high enough and lift their knees. If the move is done right, the leader can hold the follower still above his shoulder before letting them down.

Even though the frog jump is considered simple, it’s not easy. Everyone has a job to do, and the timing has to be just right. Well, Matt’s been working on the frog jump since the last time I saw him, and he’s made a ton of progress. So we tried it tonight, and check it out.

After Matt and I finished working, Bonnie fed us, and we all hung out in her kitchen for a couple of hours. We talked about getting older but not feeling older, except for the fact that maybe your hips hurt more than they did a decade ago. (Corban, who just graduated high school, didn’t chime in too much on this part of the conversation for some reason.) We talked about dancing. We talked about tattoos. (Corban’s the only one who has one.)

Here’s what I loved about out time in Bonnie’s kitchen. At any point after ten in the evening, Bonnie could have easily kicked us out of her house, but she never did. We only left (about four in the morning) because I wanted to blog and also plan on getting up before noon tomorrow–er–today. (This is so confusing.) But as for Bonnie, she wasn’t in a hurry to end the conversation, to have us leave, to go to bed.

In contrast, I know that so many times as a dancer, I get in a hurry. I start working on a new move and want to “have it,” like now. Even sometimes when I’m working with a talented dancer like Matt, I want him to have it, like now. Not because I’m impatient with him, but because I’m excited. It’s fun to watch those “aha” moments happen. But really, those are pretty rare. More often, successes in dance are hard-earned. They come in pieces. You fall down, you get dropped, your body hurts for a week. But you just keep at it and keep at it, and one day, like nothing, you’re up in the air with no effort at all.

At that point, if it looks easy, it is. There really does come a time when all the effort pays off, everything clicks, and even moves like the saxophone are a breeze. Again, it’s easy–it’s just not always easy to get there.

The journey is worth all the bumps in the road.

I think this is true of many things in life, things that are really worth having. There have been so many times in therapy over the last three years that I’ve thought, I can’t–I can’t have that confrontation, I can’t be honest with that person, I can’t tell them no. But eventually, in every case, I did. Now that I’m on the other side of a lot of drama, life feels easier. Sometimes I wonder what took me so long to get here, but I realize that I was learning something new, and that always takes time.

I guess we all have things we haven’t mastered yet, whether it’s turning ourselves upside down, growing older, or having a tough conversation. And sure, those things can be difficult and scary. You’re going to fall, you’re going to hurt the next day. But I think the journey is worth all the bumps in the road. Besides, I don’t think anyone came to this planet in order to get it right the first time. What would be the point? Rather, I think we came here because this is a place we can learn, a place we can fall down and get back up again, and a place–like Bonnie’s kitchen–where there’s all the time in the world to do just that.

Daddy said.

[I promise I’m not going to start referring to myself as Daddy on a regular basis. It’s probably the American Honey talking.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?"

The Path of Least Resistance (Blog #65)

Leave a comment

Yesterday we moved from Tim’s apartment to Ben and Mallory’s house, which means I got my own room. Also, instead of sleeping on a couch last night, I slept on a “double futon.” (A double futon is two futon mattresses stacked on top of each other–very creative–it’s almost like a bed.) What’s more, there were A LOT of pretty pillows, so I kind of felt like a princess. You know–a princess who snores.

This afternoon Bonnie woke me up for what we’ve started calling my “forced feeding.” Having only slept five hours last night–er–this morning–I almost skipped it. But then Bonnie said we were going to Chuy’s Tex-Mex, so I figured sodium was way more important than sleep. After all, IT IS a mineral.

At Chuy’s I ordered a Big As Yo Face Burrito, and when it came out, I didn’t think it was ACTUALLY as big as my face. I considered holding the plate up next to my head and taking a selfie, but then I figured the cheese sauce would drip onto my shorts, and that simply wouldn’t do. So here’s a picture of the food, without my face beside it.

I’m proud to say that I did NOT eat the entire burrito at lunch. However, I can’t say the same for the basket of chips. But at least I wasn’t alone in eating those; everyone had their hands in them. (Mallory said that when she grows up, she wants to be a carb because everyone loves them.)

When we left the restaurant, Bonnie, Mallory, and I took the photo at the top of the blog, and Bonnie and I opened our mouths so that we would look like Mallory. Mallory said that sometimes she opens her mouth in photos if her regular smile isn’t working for her. (I love a good strategy.)

While the rest of us were eating lunch, Todd went on a fifty mile bike ride. Bonnie kept joking that he did the whole thing on nothing but a cup of coffee, but Todd said he also had a banana. (There’s so much about calorie theory that I don’t understand. But then again, Todd’s pants fit and mine don’t.) Anyway, after lunch, we all crashed pretty hard–Todd because of the ride–the rest of us because of the Tex-Mex.

This evening Ben and Mallory stayed home to watch the Predators game. The Predators are Nashville’s ice hockey team, and they’re currently competing in the Stanley Cup. It’s a big deal around here. Here’s a video of Mallory yelling at the television during the game. Notice how she’s still able to maintain her Southern Charm.

While Ben and Mallory watched the game, the rest of us got ready to go to a free swing dance with a live band at Centennial Park, the place where the Parthenon is. I noticed while I got ready that my favorite pair of underwear had a small tear in them, maybe because I ripped them on something, maybe because they’ve fought the good fight and just can’t do it any longer. (This only goes to show that even the best elastic is no match for a mineral like sodium.)

Before we left, Bonnie and Todd handed out souvenirs from their recent trip overseas. Here’s a picture of Ben with a shirt from fucking Paris. Also–

I joked that I should crop Ben’s picture to thumbnail size and use it on the blog whenever I say a cuss word, which would obviously mean that he’d be my official mascot in no time.

At the dance, Bonnie, Todd, Tim, and his girlfriend took a beginner lesson, and I watched their stuff. Here’s a picture of me with a portable chair, a bottle of water, and Bonnie’s purse, which I don’t really think matches my outfit, but did seem to be just the right size.

For the last hour, I’ve been stuck where this picture was taken. I mean, I’m currently back at Ben and Mallory’s–everyone else is in bed–but I’ve been mentally stuck at the dance because I’m not sure how to wrap up the day. Honestly, I need to get some sleep. I keep thinking about those princess pillows. But as far as this website goes, it’s not a blog that just talks about my day. Rather, it’s a blog that talks about my day AND how that connects to mental health, spirituality, and just being a damn person. (Pardon my French.) Because of that fact, I put a lot of pressure on myself (and everyone else around me) to–say something profound. I go through every day expecting a big burrito to change my life so that I can have something to write about each night.

Frankly, it’s exhausting.

At one point tonight, I danced with a girl named Eleanna whom I met earlier this week at Motown Mondays at The 5 Spot. She’s a lovely person and dancer, and apparently she’s learned strictly on the social dance floor. After we danced together, we got to talking, and she asked if I had any tips, so I got to play the teacher for a while. One of the things I had her do was to stand with her feet together and lean her upper body to one side until she was forced to take a few steps. If you try this for yourself, you’ll notice that you travel farther across the floor, with much less effort, than you would if you were standing up right and forced yourself to move. That’s because when you lean, gravity pulls you and you don’t have to do all the work yourself.

There’s a concept in the self-help world called The Path of Least Resistance, and it has to do with the idea that life is actually on our side. Like gravity, it’s pulling us in a certain direction. But all too often, we put up a fight. Rather than leaning into a problem or situation, rather than taking the path of least resistance, we stand straight up, force every step, and take the path of most resistance.

So that’s something I’m working on. In terms of my life right now, I’m really, really trying to not force every step, to lean in to all the uncertainty and see where life pulls me. I’ll let you know if it works out. What I can say now is that the theory helped me finish tonight’s blog. For over an hour, I tried to force something to happen. But as soon as I got honest about the fact that I was stuck, actually wrote it down, the direction I needed to go became obvious. So I’m starting to believe that no one dances completely alone. Even when it feels like you’re stuck, there’s a partner waiting for you. But maybe first you have to stop trying so hard and lean in a little, trusting that life not only wants to dance with you to unknown places, but also that it will provide the momentum to get you there.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

A mantra: Not an asshole, not a doormat.

"

Hipster Confidence and Beauty (Blog #60)

1 Comment

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)

"

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.

"

Learning to Follow (Blog #43)

1 Comment

This evening I attended a swing dance in Northwest Arkansas, and my friend Matt was there. Matt’s a dance instructor in Springfield, and we danced together several times. One time I was the leader, but the other times I was the follower, and I was pretty much in heaven because I love to follow and don’t get a chance to do it very often. Right before the dance ended, Matt even lifted me up in the air a couple of times, and I felt like my little nephew because I kept saying, “Again, Again!”

I can’t exactly say when my fascination with following started. For the longest time, I taught followers at my studio, but wasn’t actually on the floor following on a consistent basis. But over the last few years, I’ve made it more of a priority, something to work on, something to actively seek out.

Having spent most of my time on the dance floor as a leader, I can say it’s often exhausting. Of course, everyone has a job to do, but the leaders have a lot of responsibilities, and they make a LOT of decisions—where to go, how to get there, what to do WHEN we get there. It’s like being a tourist guide, really. There’s always this low to high level of stress that sounds like, What’s next? What’s next? What’s next? Like I said—exhausting.

As the name implies, leading is a rather active thing. Following, however, is more passive. Followers have their responsibilities of course, but since the bulk of the decisions belong to the leader, followers often get to enjoy the ride a little bit more. There’s more listening on the follower’s side, and that means there’s more anticipation, a certain type of wonder about what’s going to happen. I think followers are also thinking, What’s next? What’s next? What’s next?, but rather than coming from a place of stress, their question comes from a place of excitement.

I admit I’m not the best follower. (However, a nice Australian woman with a delightful accent told me tonight that I was “a lovely lady dancer.” I’m pretty sure I blushed.) I’m so used to being in charge, it’s hard not to back-lead and try to take control. But when I can relax, it goes better, and it’s such a relief to get a break, to not have to be in charge or decide, to not have to know what’s going to happen next.

There is a force, a momentum that dances with all of us.

In the car this evening, I listened to a book by Ann Patchett called What now? The book was adapted from a commencement speech Ann gave at her alma mater, and it deals largely with the question we tend to ask when our lives are changing—What now? In terms of school and business, Ann says we often put a big emphasis on learning to lead, but that most of our lives is actually spent following, so it’s useful to learn to follow. As a writer, she says she spends most of her time listening, most of her time observing, most of her time staring at her computer screen, waiting for something to happen.

Up until tonight, I thought the whole leading and following thing applied mostly to the dance floor. That was context in which I knew it. But since listening to Ann’s book, I’ve been thinking about all the applications of leading and following OFF the dance floor. For example, I’m usually a “make shit happen” kind of person. I typically have a plan, work nonstop, and am ridiculously productive. In short, I’m used to being a leader.

But lately the biggest decision I’ve made has been whether to have waffles or pancakes for breakfast. And since I don’t have a job, I haven’t been working so much. And I guess I’ve been giving myself a hard time about that, but now I’m seeing that I’m getting a chance to be a follower. Sure, I could see that as scary, but I could also see it as exciting. Like, I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know how I’m going to get there, but there’s a certain type of wonder about all that, and it’s not as if I’m dancing alone here. There is a force, a momentum that dances with all of us, sometimes lifting us up in the air, sometimes bringing us back down in a great mystery of starts and stops. So I can relax and enjoy the ride for a while. I can be passive for a change. I can wake up each day with excitement and ask, What’s next? What’s next? What’s next?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

One day a change will come.

"

up on the desk (blog #30)

2 Comments

Wayne Dyer once said, “Refuse to let an old person move into your body.” Well, when I went to bed last night, my hips and back hurt so bad that I couldn’t roll from one side to the other without moaning. So I thought, Crap, a senior citizen has somehow sneaked in the back door. It’s official. We have a squatter. I seriously wondered if I’d be able to dance, or even walk today. So I did what any Christian would do. I prayed to Jesus and took a Hydrocodone.

Ya’ll, Jesus and Hydrocodone is a great combination. (You should try it.)

When I woke up this morning, I was convinced that Jesus answers prayers because I could walk. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, but I’m sure he’s been busy with Easter and everything, so I was still grateful. I managed to get around without too many grunts and groans, and then my aunt and I went to an estate sale. When we walked in the front door, there were chocolate-covered donuts for free, which I figured Jesus sent to make up for any hard feelings regarding The Aching Back Half-Miracle of 2017.

After the sale, my aunt and I had brunch where my cousin works, and she told me stories that I’ve heard about my mom probably three or four dozen times but never get old. And I didn’t take a picture with my aunt, but she took a picture of our food (and my hand), so I’ll put that here. And don’t let the healthy-looking kale fool you. My cousin said it was deep-fried in butter, cream cheese, and pizza dough (or something like that).

I spent this afternoon with my friend Kara. Kara and I graduated high school together, and we were both voted most likely to succeed, so I think it’s neat that that prediction came true. I mean, she’s succeeding at home ownership and being an attorney, and I’m succeeding at eating frozen waffles and being a blogger.

Anyway, Kara and I get together to visit a lot, but today we got together to hang pictures and such on her bedroom walls. (She said that after three years, it was time.) Here are a couple of pictures of all our hard work. My two favorite things are the three-dimensional golden starburst that we put inside a frame above her gray chair (first photo) and the framed quote we put below her window (second photo). I always think each room needs something a little unexpected. It makes me think of that scene in Dead Poets Society when John Keating stands up on his desk and tells his students it’s because he wants to remind himself to always look at things in a different way.

I spent this evening swing dancing, effectively undoing the half-miracle Jesus and His Twelve Pain Killers performed. For the last few years, I’ve been working on following more, which not only helps me with developing new dance skills, but also helps me with courage and not being intimidated and asking other guys to dance. So at one point tonight, I danced with my friend Walt, another teacher. After our dance was over, a lady I didn’t know–a total stranger–jumped up out of her seat several feet away and kind of yelled in my direction, “NOW you know what it feels like to be a girl.” And my gut reaction was that she was being sarcastic, so I just smiled and said, “I think it feels great!” (Don’t rain on my parade, lady.)

After the dance, Gregg and Rita and I went out with some of the other dancers. This is what I loved about it–there was this big mix of talent in the room, and everyone was sitting eating pizza or burgers or whatever, and everyone was on equal ground. At one point my friend Hannah (top photo), who’s an absolute badass on the dance floor, said that she often compares herself to other dancers and has plenty of insecurities about her dancing. Then one by one, everyone around her, including me, started nodding his or her head, like, Me too, Me too. And although it was this simple thing, it reminded me that we all have so much in common.

Before the night was over, Gregg and Rita and I (along with their two sons, Mason and Cody), moved to a bar called Kilkenny’s. It’s one of favorite places on God’s Green Earth, as I have a lot of memories there–long conversations with wonderful friends. Well, Rita started telling stories about how we used to travel together, about who snored louder, Marcus or Mason. So we were all laughing, and someone said something about the extended family, and I knew that included me.

At some point today, my aunt made the comment about people who are “professional complainers.” I’m sure you the type. So all day I was thinking I could somehow work that into a blog, maybe find something to complain about, but it just hasn’t happened. Some days, like today, are just good days. There’s nothing really to process or working out, and you simply get to enjoy all the hard work you’ve put into life so far. You get to eat a good brunch, you get to dance with your friends, you get to spend time with the extended family.

So even though I just had to have another talk with Jesus about my lower back, I don’t think there’s anything to complain about. And as far at that old guy who seems to have moved into my body, well, I think I can get him to move out with the promise of a hot bath or two. And really, I think that comment Wayne made wasn’t about your body’s aches and pains; I think it was about your mind and your heart. Obviously, sometimes life can be a real bitch. And it’d be easy to stay down on the ground, complain, and find everything that’s wrong and everything that hurts. But I think the goal is to climb up on the desk, to look at things in a different way, even if it’s a simple thing like realizing we all fight the same emotional battles and that a lot of wonderful things can happen even though you’re in pain.

Oh, about that conversation I had with Jesus. He said to take another Hydrocodone and go to bed, so I said, “Yes, Lord.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

A break is no small thing to give yourself.

"

wheel of fortune (going down) (blog #29)

7 Comments

Currently, I’m in Tulsa, Oklahoma, it’s one-thirty in the morning, and I feel fat. For the last week, I’ve been noticing how the skin around my stomach has given up the good fight, how it’s gotten so tired of holding itself together that it’s taken to resting on the top of my pants. When I lean sideways in my chair, I can feel the skin below my waist and the skin above my waist push together, and it feels like two lumps of Play Doh fighting each other for King of the Mountain. It’s not amusing.

I made the mistake last night of looking at this hot guy’s Instagram. By anyone’s standards (including his own, I’m sure), he’s ridiculously gorgeous. It should be against the law to look like that. It should definitely be against the law to post so many selfies when you look like that. And even though I sat at the breakfast table and scrolled through his entire account (while I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and thought about the abs I used to have), I couldn’t find a single bad picture of this guy. (My therapist would call this good presentation.) So the more I looked at his muscles–his chest was for sure a solid b-cup–the fatter I felt. My only consolation was that he was probably stupid.

All I could think was, God I’m so glad I have this brownie.

So this afternoon I went to Panera Bread for comfort food, and there was this kid working the counter who had no more than a twenty-six inch waist. (He was also wearing makeup that was flawless, so good for him.) Anyway, he’d obviously put some thought into his appearance, and whenever I run into someone like that, it immediately makes me stand up straighter, suck in my gut, and think, God, I wish I weren’t wearing a t-shirt with a dinosaur on it. So when he asked me if I wanted a pastry for 99 cents, I was like, Fuck yes.

Well, the kid gave me my coffee cup, but then he walked away without giving me my pastry, so I had to stand there like a little girl on Halloween waiting for her candy. I honestly felt embarrassed, like, Hey man, I like brownies, okay? Don’t make me beg. It’s not my fault my metabolism slowed down.

So all this was going on in my head as the kid with the teeny-tiny waist and perfect eyelashes boxed up my brownie. And when he handed it to me, I said thank you, and then he said the worst possible thing he could have ever said. He said, “You’re welcome…SIR.”

SIR.

Now I’m fat AND old. What a great day.

But wait, it gets better.

While I was waiting on my food to arrive (yes, it involved bread), I opened my laptop, checked my email, and found out that I was not accepted for a writer’s colony in Massachusetts that I applied for last year. And even though I knew there over six hundred applicants and they were only taking eight, my hopes were high (just like my cholesterol). Of course, once I read the email, they went straight now. KER-SPLAT. And all I could think was, GOD I’M SO GLAD I HAVE THIS BROWNIE.

My immediate reaction to rejections like this is to give up on my dream, like, I suck at writing, and I should just get a job at a donut shop. Well, anytime I start to feel like shit, I try to keep myself from feeling like shit, so I started thinking, I hate the cold. I don’t want to spend the winter in Massachusetts anyway. I don’t need you and your writer’s colony and your–acceptance. But, of course, that didn’t really work. As my friend Bruce said when talking about dancing, “It doesn’t matter how nice a rejection is, it’s still a rejection.”

So I called my friend Marla and told her about the rejection and the brownie and the skinny kid with the good foundation. And when I told her that he called me sir, Marla said, “That little bitch.”

So that made me laugh.

This evening I drove to Tulsa to work on dance with my friends Matt, Anne, and Andy. I got to town a little early, so I went shopping for sweatpants because what better way to increase your self-esteem than to buy sweatpants? Well, the shopping didn’t help, since I couldn’t find what I wanted. I guess sweatpants are only in season during the winter. Geez, what do people do in the springtime when they need an elastic waistband? (I can’t believe I just said that.)

Well, thank God for Matt, Anne, and Andy. We spent over three hours dancing, and most of that was working on lift and aerials, which completely distracted me from the bad attitude I was enjoying before they came along. While we were working, Anne and I were the ones who were getting picked up, tossed about, and flipped over. I can’t tell you how much fun it was. I also can’t tell you how much my body is hurting even as I type this. I guess my hips are tight, or maybe I pinched something in my lower back, but every time I try to stand, it’s like I end up with a right angle at my waist, and even though I’m on my feet, I’m still looking at the floor. So I have to do this whole pep talk routine with my body–Come on, you can do it, just a few more inches and we’ll be vertical.

Honestly, it feels like I’ve been slapped around a lot today. Like life didn’t have anyone else to pick on, so it was my turn. When I was walking out of Panera Bread earlier, I saw the cover of a local magazine that said BITTER on the front, and I thought, “Yes, I am.” Well, I’ve done a lot of blogging this last week about being patient, accepting myself as I am, and trusting that God is intelligent and wise enough to get me where I need to be. And in this moment, I kind of want to take it all back.

So if you ever get the idea to start a blog and say something stupid like, “You can find joy in every circumstance,” don’t. Because chances are whoever’s in charge up there is gonna say, “Wanna bet?” (If you don’t think that this is the way life works sometimes, read the Book of Job.)

Okay, breathe, Marcus.

Joseph Campbell, who was a scholar on myths and religions, tells the story of the Wheel of Fortune. He says that most people live on the outside of the wheel. The gods bless them, their fortunes go up, and they’re happy. But then the gods curse them, their fortunes go down, and they’re sad. But Joseph says the goal is to live your life in the center of the wheel, to find that spot inside yourself that is unmovable. Then you can look at the gods and say, “Give me your best shot. Whatever it is–good or bad–up or down–I’m not going anywhere. I plan to thrive no matter what.”

Personally, I’m reminded that that’s my goal, to meet life’s disappointments and aches and pains not only with Ibuprofen, but also with renewed resolve to hold my center. And sure, I might get knocked off-balance now and then. I might need a brownie and a few friends on days like today. But make no mistake, I’m not going anywhere. Give me your best shot. I plan to thrive no matter what.

[Thanks to Anne for the first picture. It was taken just before I was flipped backwards. I decided not to show you the picture that was taken mid-flip because I think my butt looks big and the shorts I’m wearing make me look naked.]

UPDATE: My friend Marlene dared me to post this, so I am. Also by Anne.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"The truth is right in front of you."

some boundaries, please (blog #27)

2 Comments

My therapist says that when I first showed up in her office, I was a “fucking mess.” (How’s that for honesty?) I remember coming home after that first appointment and my ex asking me what she said, to which I replied, “She said we have zero boundaries.” We both agreed that was true, but looking back, I’m sure neither one of us knew what a boundary even was. Well, my next therapy appointment was two weeks later, in the morning. That afternoon, I moved out of my ex’s house. I’d finally had enough of the lying, cheating, manipulating, and fighting. I’d finally gotten a boundary.

(The above photo was taken about the time I started therapy, after I broke up with my ex and dyed my hair blonde. It’s included so that you’ll know what a “fucking mess” looks like.)

For the last three years, my therapist and I have continued to talk about boundaries—what they are, why they’re important, how to get some (it’s not as simple as you’d think). The subject comes up so often, it could easily turn into a drinking game. Like, if you sat on the other end of the couch and took a shot for every time one of us used the word “boundaries” during a one-hour session, you’d probably have to crawl out the door and call an Uber to get home.

If you don’t know me, I have this problem with having an “all or nothing” mentality. It’s like I either eat super healthy every meal of every day—no bread, no corn, no sugar, no alcohol (and also no fun)—or I eat cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Well, I don’t recommend living in this manner, and I’m working on it. But that way of thinking is always playing in the background. Like, in therapy I tend to think of myself as having “zero boundaries” or “perfect boundaries,” even though my therapist points out that all of us are somewhere in between. Boundaries are something we’re always working on—good boundaries here, not-so-good boundaries over there.

In my experience, my not-so-good boundaries are usually a result of my desire to please other people. Like, I’ll do whatever you ask—you don’t even have to pay me—if you just like me. And please don’t yell. Or write my name on the board. And whereas there have been plenty of experiences over the years that I knew were wrong or inappropriate or just not okay with me, I ignored a lot of those things in favor or making someone else happy or, at the very least, not rocking the boat.

This morning my Dad and I went to Waffle House. There were two middle-aged guys next to us, and they started talking to the waitress. Well, I guess it was her birthday, since she said something about being twenty-one. Then one of the guys said, “Has anyone given you your spankings? Come over here and I’ll give you your spankings.” Personally, I was disgusted because the guy clearly didn’t have boundaries. And I can only assume the girl didn’t say anything (like, “Watch it, asshole) because she didn’t have any either, or, more likely, she wanted to keep her job.

Several years ago, I had a student who would touch or pat me inappropriately. For the longest time, I ignored it. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal and that I needed the money more than I needed to draw a line in the sand. Well, I finally had enough, so one day I said, “Keep your hands off my ass.” When that didn’t fix the problem, I told her she wasn’t welcome anymore. Sure, I felt a hit in my wallet, but I haven’t regretted it once. Apparently, self-respect feels better than money. (Who knew?)

After some time had passed, I ran into that same student in a parking lot, and she wanted to come over and give me a hug. Well, I didn’t want to, so I put myself behind the door of my car and said, “I’d rather not.” So she stood several feet away, and I stood behind my door, and we talked, and it was a decent conversation.

When I told my therapist about the incident, she said, “How did it feel when you stood behind your door and told her no?” And I said, “It felt great, like a rush, empowering.” And I thought my therapist was going to jump out of her chair. I actually think her arms flew up in the air, like her favorite roller derby team had just scored a point. She said, “THAT’S what a healthy boundary feels like!”

This last weekend, I had a similar experience, although on a smaller scale. I was at a dance, and a grown woman (who was very pleasant), came over and told me that her friend wanted to dance with me but was too shy to ask. Well, I understand being intimidated by other dancers. It can be REALLY hard to ask someone else to dance. That being said, I don’t recommend getting one of your friends to ask for you because, well, we’re not in junior high anymore. Maybe in the past I would have asked the lady’s friend to dance, but this time I decided to be a boundary setter instead of a people pleaser. So I said, “She’s welcome to ask me. I promise I’ll say, ‘Yes.’” Unfortunately, the lady’s friend never came over.

It’s never a minor thing to take better care of yourself.

This evening, I taught a dance lesson to a couple who’s only been once before. They messaged an hour before the lesson and asked if I could meet half an hour earlier. Well, I hadn’t cleaned up yet, but I figured I could make it fifteen minutes early, so that’s what I said. As I was getting ready, the people pleaser in me wanted to rush around and get there faster. But I forced myself to slow down—to shave, to clip my fingernails, to actually get ready and to stick to my boundary. And we were all earlier than originally planned, and no one was upset, and everything was fine.

As I think about these two incidents, there’s part of me that considers them pretty minor. But they were good practice in setting boundaries, and it felt good to have them. What’s more, I didn’t walk away from either situation feeling like I’d compromised a part of myself in order to make someone else happy, and that means I didn’t walk away with any resentments. I know that in the past, I’ve often been resentful—or angry or bitter—when someone else was doing something I didn’t like. And while it’s easy to blame the other person when something like that happens, the truth is that I was the one who was putting up with it.

My therapist says that boundaries are the Holy Grail in therapy—they’re that important to good relationships and mental health. So with that reminder, I guess it’s never a minor thing to work on boundaries. It’s never a minor thing to teach people how to treat you. It’s never a minor thing to take better care of yourself.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

We always have more support than we realize.

"

one hand in the light (blog #25)

Leave a comment

This morning I woke up in Wichita, stumbled into my friend Megan’s kitchen, and made two pieces of toast with apricot preserves. While Megan and I were talking, our friend Tina came in from the garage apartment where she and her husband stayed during the dance weekend. Well, Tina must be a morning person because she was SUPER perky—way too perky for Marcus on a Monday. But I guess her good mood started to rub off, and before I knew it, we were all telling stories and laughing about how we keep ourselves awake on road trips. (All of our go-to strategies include making loud animal noises.)

I know it’s not the same on paper as it would be in person, but it was one of those glorious moments that I thought, God, life is fun sometimes. This was actually worth getting up for.

And then the last twelve hours happened.

I’ve been sitting at my computer for about an hour, trying to sort out my feelings and what I wanted to write about. For the majority of that time, I kept thinking that I could pull the wool over my own eyes and talk about what a great day it was. Granted, there were highlights—animal noises for breakfast—but there were frustrations as well. And rather than try to pass it all off as “I’m just tired,” I’ve decided to be honest about it instead. As it says at the top of the page, “The truth will set you free (sort of).”

The first frustrating thing was my GPS took me the wrong way out of Wichita, and I’m still not sure how it happened. But after several miles of unfamiliar highway, I realized my GPS was guiding me home via the Ozark National Forest, turning a four-and-a-half-hour trip into a six-hour one. So I got turned around and back on track, but I lost enough time that I had to substitute gas station food in place of an honest-to-god restaurant. (And that did not bless me.)

By the time I got home, I had about half an hour, so I unpacked the car and checked the mail before heading back out for a dance lesson. Well, I got two bills in the mail that were connected to the sinus surgery I had two months ago. (Isn’t that exciting?) So I opened them, and all I could think was that I made straight A’s in math all through junior high, high school, and college, and medical bills still don’t make a damn bit of sense to me. I finally figured out one of the bills this evening, but it took two calculators and four hours of guided meditation. As for the other bill, I’ll have to call someone to figure out why my balance online shows as zero but I keep getting statements in the mail. I should probably drink before I dial that number.

After the dance lesson, I had dinner with a friend who has a lot of muscles and a great tan and wore a tank top so it was all out in the open. Oh, and he didn’t touch the bread on the table. (What the hell?) Our conversation eventually turned to his committed relationship, and he even showed me the rings he wanted for his engagement one day. And whereas I’m quite happy for him (and his muscles and his committed relationship), the whole situation made me feel fat and out of shape and lonely, so I kept reaching for the bread basket because—you know—carbs have always been there for me.

A few months ago I told my therapist that I was feeling lonely. I don’t recall exactly what was going on at the time, but I think it was mostly about all the changes that have taken place since I started therapy. And whereas I consider it all to be a net positive, there have still been a lot of goodbyes—to a lot of physical stuff, to the dance studio, to a lot of relationships that although unhealthy, were also with people I cared for. So some days, I said, it feels like I’m starting all over again, doing this all by myself.

My therapist told me that first off, I’m not alone. No one is ever alone. Second, she said that being able to sit with that feeling of loneliness, as unpleasant as it may be, is really the root of strength. (If only I could sit with my loneliness and develop strength that looked good in a tank top.)

One of my favorite authors, Pema Chodron, says something similar. She says that our task is to sit with whatever emotion arises, without judgment and without running our story about it. She says that whenever we try to make a feeling go away, we unwittingly cultivate a subtle aggression against ourselves, but that by allowing a feeling to just be, we practice self-compassion.

Well, as my friend Suzanne says, “That sounds good if you say it fast.” I mean, I think what Pema says is true, but I would add these thoughts—sometimes that aggression you cultivate against yourself is not so subtle, and sitting in the midst of an uncomfortable feeling and not reaching for the bread basket is damn hard. (I guess if it were easy, everyone would have abs.)

As I’m typing now, one of my favorite things in the whole world is sitting across from me. It’s a photograph of the dancer Erick Hawkins, and the photographer Barbara Morgan took it, maybe in the 1940s. For a while, Erick was married to Martha Graham, one of the biggest names in modern dance, and Barbara’s photo shows him dancing on one leg, arms outstretched, one reaching back toward the light, the other reaching forward toward the shadows.

Well, I’ve had the photo for several years, and it’s always one of the first things I unpack when I move. (I move a lot. If you haven’t heard, I’m currently living with my parents.) If no other photo gets displayed, this one does. And maybe if you buy me a glass of scotch, I’d be willing to talk about everything it means to me, but it’s personal, and it’s late, and I couldn’t do it justice now. But what I will say is that for the last two weeks, what I’ve noticed most about the photo is the shadows, the way the dancer is turned toward them, actually stretching out to them with one hand.

Naturally, there’s a lot of talk about the shadow in psychology, and it always seems to get this bad rap, like it’s the evil twin in your family, something to be afraid of. At the very least, you don’t want to invite him to Thanksgiving. But I heard once that the shadow simply represents the unknown. It’s the parts of ourselves we haven’t looked squarely in the eye yet, the parts we run away from, the parts we don’t want to sit with and understand. And as a psychological image, I think it’s rather mysterious and beautiful that the dancer’s face is turned directly toward the dark. He doesn’t turn his back on his shadow. Rather, he invites it in.

So on days like today, I’m reminded to lean into my frustration, to get closer to my loneliness, to sit with all the parts of myself that I consider to be dark or unpleasant because all of it is still part of me. And I can keep one hand in the light, and I can turn my face toward my shadow, and I can reach out my hand and we can dance together, and it can be mysterious and beautiful.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

We follow the mystery, never knowing what’s next.

"