Without a Definite Plan (Blog #469)

Leave a comment

I hate not having a plan. You wouldn’t know it to look at my life, but I’m always mapping things out. For example, when I came to Houston several days ago, I planned to leave this morning (Thursday) to go back to Arkansas. Not that there’s anything to go back FOR, but I did imagine the trip this way, and I only brought so much underwear. Then last night I thought, Maybe I could go dancing in Dallas Friday night. But I don’t have a place to stay in Dallas. But I want to go dancing.

Shit. What am I going to do?

Anyway, this morning I got up, packed my bags, and had a short meeting at ten. When that was over I didn’t know WHAT to do, but finally thought, For crying out loud, Marcus, you’re free. Do whatever you want to do. So I went to a used bookstore. (This is honestly my idea of decadence.) I spent probably two hours there and walked out with two books–one on meditation, the other on dreaming. Then I went to another used bookstore, then another. At the last one, I got a book on the meaning of symbols. And whereas part of me kept thinking, Are you really doing this again, Marcus, buying a hundred books you may not read?, another part of me thought, What’s fifteen bucks for a fun afternoon and a little knowledge?

While I was at the first bookstore, my swing-dancing friend Sydnie messaged me and said that she was in Houston and that if I wanted to stay with her, we could go dancing tonight. So that’s what I decided to do. (A plan!) After the third bookstore, I ate an extremely late lunch at Boston Market, a place my friends and I frequented when we used to come here to Houston for a Lindy Hop conference. Anyway, the restaurant is sort of (kind of) like a cafeteria, and when I picked up my tray at the end of the line, I spent an entire minute hunting for a plastic fork. When I finally noticed there was one wrapped in a napkin next to my plate and I made a joke about my oversight, the server honest-to-god rolled his eyes.

This is why I like macaroni and cheese more than people–it’s less judgmental.

After eating, I met Sydnie and got settled into her guest room, then we went to the dance. Y’all, it was so much fun–I saw several people I knew and had some lovely dances and conversations. And then–and then–I went next door to ANOTHER used bookstore and bought two more books–one on spirituality and one on myth and psychology. My friend Kyle (who was at the dance and is pictured above with me, Sydnie, and our friend Robin), said, I see you just lost your sobriety chip for BAA.

“What’s BAA?” I said.

“Book Addicts Anonymous.”

“Truth me told, I never EARNED my book-buying sobriety chip.” (Another failed plan.)

Life is better when we’re not in control.

Now I’m back at Sydnie’s for the night, nursing a slight headache. Tomorrow my plan is to sleep in, then drive to Dallas and see a friend. I’d love–absolutely adore–staying to dance afterwards, but–again–I’d need to find a place to stay or fork over the money for a hotel room. So I might just drive home. I’m trying to be open to whatever happens, trying to trust that I’ll know what to do in the moment. That’s the way things worked out today, after all, without a definite plan. Perhaps life is better this way, when we’re not in control. Perhaps when we mentally leave room for anything to happen, anything can.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

We all need to feel alive.

"

Intended to Wear Out (Blog #464)

Leave a comment

It’s just after midnight, and for the last fourteen hours I’ve been working like a stereotypical man, helping some friends clean out, declutter, and throw away in preparation for a potential move. My friends, who are self-described “pack rats” or “hoarders” said, “We know you’ll be able to help us get rid of things.”

I said, “You’ve come to the right place.”

Essentially hired to say, “Throw that away,” and ” Donate that” over and over again, that’s what I did all morning, afternoon, and evening. Plus, I helped unpack, pack, and move around a lot of boxes. By the time the day was done, my friends and I managed to clean out two storage units and a garage and haul off three loads of trash. Plus, we made three trips to the donation station.

During our last charity drop-off, the teenager working the door said, “Welcome back.”

I’m really trying to keep this short. I’m tired, exhausted, sore, and filthy. I smell and need to take a shower. Still, I’m extremely grateful that my body rose to the task today. It definitely hit a wall there at the end, but did a fabulous job. I’ve spent a lot of time whining or at least being disappointed in my body these last many months, so I’d like to be clear–I appreciate the good days.

All our possessions are junk.

Near the dumpster where we took the trash today, there was an old car, a Dodge. The back windshield was busted, two doors were missing, and the whole thing was so covered in rust that it looked as if it had survived Armageddon. I crawled in the trunk, played around in the back “seat.” (There was no back seat.) Not being “a car guy,” I tried to imagine what the car once was. I can only guess beautiful, shiny, top of the line, since not only did it have air conditioning, but it also had settings for “summer” and “winter.” My point is this–it’s junk now. Having been through my own “moving sale” and having sorted through several other people’s stuff before and including today–honestly–I think all our possessions are junk. (What are you going to do with them when you die?) I’m not saying get rid of everything you value (or that I don’t value anything I own–I do!), but I am saying keep it in perspective. Know what’s really important. Because physical things are intended to wear out, meant to be used and enjoyed and then discarded. This includes all our keepsakes, collectibles, cars, and bodies.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

All your scattered pieces want to come back home.

"

All These Things Neatly Arranged (Blog #459)

Leave a comment

It’s one in the morning, and I’m worn the fuck out. My hips hurt, my legs hurt, my back hurts, my head hurts. Everything is throbbing. That being said, I have a distinct feeling of satisfaction, as I’ve spent the entire day organizing, decorating, and cleaning my room.

(I’m a neat freak.)

As I’ve mentioned dozens of times before, over a year and a half ago I had an estate sale and sold most of my possessions. I kept a few things, of course, mostly books, a handful of pictures, knick knacks, and can’t-live-withouts. As my original plan was to move to Austin (I’ve recently run into several people in Fort Smith who think I’m “back home,” but–joke’s on them–I never left), I’ve essentially been living out of a suitcase since moving in with my parents last February-ish. Granted, I hung my clothes in my sister’s old closet, put my underwear in a spare chest of drawers, even set up a small bookshelf. But–until today–I haven’t hung anything on the walls.

I guess I didn’t want to get too comfortable.

Sometime last year I went from sleeping in my sister’s old room to sleeping in my old room because I hoped a different bed would help my sore back. I don’t think it did, but I’ve stayed here anyway–in my old room–where I am now. Consequently, for over six months I’ve been living in two places, some of my stuff in my old room, some of my stuff in my sister’s. However, because I’m anal retentive and love order, this situation has been wearing me the fuck out. Every day I walk into this room and notice all the chachkies that aren’t mine and I don’t like looking at, all the shit hung on the wall in the wrong place “because there was a nail there,” all the family junk that’s stored in the closet.

Until today, that is. For whatever reason, this morning I had enough. I thought, Marcus, you’ve been here for over a year. You might as settle in. So that’s what I did. For over twelve hours starting this afternoon, I moved (almost) everything that wasn’t mine to another room, gathered all my worldly possessions into this one, and went to work sorting, grouping, and arranging.

My first major task was decorating the built-in bookshelves that frame my window. This was a major frustration point, since I kept looking for little collectables to decorate with but couldn’t find any BECAUSE I FUCKING SOLD EVERYTHING I USED TO COLLECT! (Whoops.) Still, I managed, and after the bookshelf project, I cleaned out a box of old birthday cards and letters I found in the closet (where I used to be). (That was a gay joke, Mom.) This was really strange, looking at twenty-five-year-old birthday cards from friends and relatives, some of whom are no longer alive. Having just been reminded that I don’t own much anymore, I wanted to hang on to every slip of paper, every fond thought and signature. But I didn’t. I kept a few things to take pictures of tomorrow, but that’s it. The rest went in the trash.

The past is over.

Of all the framed pictures and artwork I used to have, I only kept nine (my favorite number) when I had the sale. Y’all, it took me at least two hours to figure out how to hang them on the wall, but I finally did. And here’s what’s great about having these nine pictures on the wall–I love, absolutely adore–every one of them. Each one has a story, each one “made the cut” for a different reason. Even now as I type, they are hanging around me, bringing a smile to my face, helping me feel at home here.

Enjoy where you are.

I suppose this is something I haven’t wanted to admit–that I’m home again, that I’m here now. But I am here now, so I might as well act like it. That’s what today was about for me–acceptance, admitting that even though I’m not where I thought I would be at this point in my life, I can still enjoy where I am. I spend so much time in this room, so much time staring at these walls–why shouldn’t I like what I’m looking at? Currently I’m propped up in bed, and across the room is my Zac Efron wall calendar, my collection of magnets, the typewriter and cup of coffee drawing I blogged about yesterday, my vision board, and an antique swag lamp I’ve had for two years but haven’t used until tonight. All these things neatly arranged truly inspire me. Why didn’t I do this sooner? (It doesn’t mean I’ll be here forever.) Already I feel more creative, more relaxed.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

What are you really running away from?

"

Life’s Labyrinth (Blog #448)

Leave a comment

Today was the summer solstice, the “longest” day of the year. (I had to take a nap to get through it.) For the next sixth months, the amount of sunlight we have will gradually decrease each day. Yes, dear reader, the long, slow march to winter has begun. I’m not excited about this. (I hate winter.) Historically, today is a day of celebration (the sun is high in the sky!), but it feels like a death to me. There’s only one longest day a year, and now it’s over–dead–just like spring is dead, just like increasingly longer days are dead.

I really liked these things.

I saw my therapist this morning, and we talked about relationships (friends, students, lovers). This was in the context of my tendency to people please, my desire to follow-up with everyone in my life to make sure they are “okay” or not mad at me. My therapist’s advice–don’t chase anyone. It’s desperate, needy, and stems from a “lack” mentality. Abundance, she says, is where it’s at. (Step right up and get you some!) My personal jury is still out on this one, but I’m considering it.

It SOUNDS like a good idea.

After therapy, I went to the park to read and watch hot guys jog around without their shirts on. Last year I started a book on mythology by PL Travers (the woman who penned Mary Poppins) and recently picked it back up. The book, called What the Bee Knows, is a collection of essays that Travers wrote for a magazine, so they are sort of all over the place topically. But an image that stuck with me from today’s reading was that of a labyrinth, this maze-like path that loops back on itself. Travers says life is like this, moving around in circles. We think we’re lost, that we’re going backwards, but that’s just The Way.

Going backwards. That’s how I feel a lot. I’m living with my parents. I don’t have “a real job.” I’m almost forty. Shouldn’t I be passed all this by now? Passed–my past? Even in therapy there are times I think, Are we STILL talking about my desire to please people?

Yes, yes we are.

You can’t get lost.

Back home this evening, I rested before teaching a dance lesson. For dinner my dad made chicken nuggets, then I went for a walk to make myself feel better about the fact that I ate so many of them. For a while I did my usual route, up down one block, then the next. Finally I stopped at a labyrinth at a nearby church and walked the path. I guess it was on my mind from the book this afternoon, but I like to do this sometimes, start on the outside of the circle, wind my way around and around until I hit the center. This is how a labyrinth is different from a maze. A maze has multiple entries and exits, or at least several possible ways to get where you’re going. Plus, there are wrong turns and dead ends. But labyrinths aren’t like that–they have one entry, the same exit. You can wind around getting to the middle (that’s the point) but you can’t get lost.

This is what I love about a labyrinth–there’s only one way. Perhaps this is why so many people use them as a meditative device. It’s easy to fall into a rhythm as you walk around in circles. Early on in the labyrinth you’re within steps of reaching the center–your goal–but then you’re taken away from it. Within minutes, you’re far away from it. All the looping back is frustrating and seems inefficient. But then you realize that looping back is, essentially, a way to time travel–to clean up your past–to pick up anything you dropped along The Way. So eventually you learn to trust the path you’re on.

This is something I’m working on, letting go of how I thought I’d “get there” and accepting each step along my particular journey. Every day it’s something new, something old. Oh, this again. Haven’t we been here before? I mourn the death of longer days, the changing of The Seasons, but this too is part of life’s labyrinth. Here, there’s one way in, one way out. Everything moves in circles. Everything loops back and repeats itself. You and the stars are no different–each on your own heavenly path. So one day you move a little closer to The Center, the next a little further away. No matter. The Center awaits. There are no wrong turns.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

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

"

Star and Self-Gazing (Blog #443)

Leave a comment

Feelings, who needs ’em? Ugh. I’ve spent the day feeling. Feeling tired, sad, guilty, angry, intrigued, amused, hopeful. Not necessarily in that order. Ick. Feelings here, feelings there, feelings, feelings, everywhere. Who came up with this emotional highway? I’ve been all over the road today.

Pick a lane, Marcus, pick a lane.

Mostly all I did today was read. First I read fifty pages in a beginner’s book to astronomy, something I picked up recently because I’d actually like to understand the universe I live in. Seriously, I’ve spent my entire life not knowing my Arcturus from a hole in the ground, and I intend to do something about it. Today I learned that you can use The Big Dipper (year round) and Orion (in the winter) to find almost every major constellation and/or star in the sky (if you’re in the northern hemisphere). Also, I learned that Pollux, one of the two bright stars in the constellation Gemini, means “much wine.” (The other one, Castor, means “he who excels” or “beaver.”) Suffice it to say, Pollux is now my favorite star in the sky.

Even though it’s technically below the horizon as we speak.

In addition to starting the astronomy book, I also read an entire fiction novel, a story about a family suicide. So there I went feeling again–sad for the characters, mad that the author didn’t use quotation marks, even though a lot of people were–get this–quoted. Apparently this is a thing now, to just run everything together. Like, Marcus says, I think this is a bad idea. What is the world coming to? Call me an old fart, but I’m just not on board.

This afternoon during reading breaks I took the dog back I’ve been sitting the last seven nights (KoKo). Part of me was ready to take her back. I like to sleep in, and although she never barked, I could hear her moving around in the mornings. But then another part of me really wanted her to stay. She’d nuzzle up to me and give me the biggest hugs. She wouldn’t stop. I’d have to say, “Please, KoKo, this is getting awkward.” Still, I don’t remember the last time someone hugged me like that.

Yeah, I miss her.

Ugh. Feelings again.

This evening after more reading, I went for a run, which turned into more of a walk. Maybe it helped work some things out. It’s hard to tell. I took a nap this afternoon, but currently I’m so tired I don’t know what I’m feeling. Periodically throughout the day I’ve noticed my tight muscles because life, my allergies because I’m off antihistamines for the weekend, a requirement for the allergist I’m seeing Monday. I tend to ignore these things, little aches and annoyances. I’m good at soldiering through. But today I’ve caught myself taking a deep breath now and then, trying to take in and contain, rather than push away, whatever is going on inside me.

To be clear, I don’t think feelings can be contained, at least at will. I have this tight muscle in my abdomen. I’m always thinking that if I could let go emotionally, it would let go physically. (It’s a theory.) So I stretch and I breathe deep, and I feel all my feelings for an afternoon, but it’s still there, hanging out until it’s ready to leave. That’s what I mean by contain, letting something hang out. I look at everything going on in my life–all the circumstances, challenges, feelings–and wonder, Am I large enough to hold all of this, to be patient, to not rush events and emotions out my proverbial door?

At home after my walk, I plopped down in our driveway with my astronomy book and a star-gazing app on my phone. For thirty minutes I stared up at the sky and was generally pissed off at the streetlights that made it difficult to see anything. Still, slowly I found my way around the heavens. There was The Big Dipper, Polaris (The North Star) and the Little Dipper, The Northern Cross. I even found “my” Arcturus! The book said it can take a year to get really comfortable with what’s going on in the heavens, so I’m telling myself to be patient, not just with my learning about the sky, but also with my learning about myself. For surely I too am a universe–vast–with plenty of mysteries and more than enough space to contain them, to contain all that can happen and be felt in a day, in a lifetime.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

When we expect great things, we see great things.

"

Breathing In AND Out (Blog #423)

Leave a comment

After two nights of hard partying and eating and drinking everything Nashville has to offer, I woke up feeling sick this morning. Maybe sluggish is a better word. My body was just yuck. Here’s something–I quit taking antihistamines a few days ago in an effort to “give my body a break,” so my allergies have kicked up a bit. Consequently, last night my ears started itching, and this morning my sinuses were running more than Florence Griffith Joyner in the 1988 Olympics. I thought, Perfect, I’m getting ANOTHER infection.

Of course, by perfect, I meant decidedly not perfect.

I’ve spent the afternoon trying my best to cleanse, guzzling water as if it were going out of style. I’m sure I’ll be up five times in the middle of the night to pee, but maybe in the process I can flush out all of my bad decisions. With any luck, they’ll swirl right down the pipes. Goodbye, cheese and chicken nachos. Goodbye, Blue Moon and scotch.

Blue Moon is a beer, Mom.

In addition to hydrating, I spent the afternoon helping Mallory and the gang get ready for Bonnie’s birthday party, which was this evening. Several days ago we decided on a dinosaur theme because Bonnie likes tiny dinosaurs, in part because of tiny dinosaurs we saw in Austin last year and a subsequent post I wrote about the little suckers. Anyway, I already had plates, napkins, a table-cloth, and a banner with dinosaurs on them, and today Mallory and I picked up some plastic dinosaur toys to set on the table. Later Bonnie said, “I love it. It looks like a party for an eight-year-old boy.”

Here’s a picture of the table just before the festivities kicked off. (For the foodies out there, that carrot cake in the corner was made by magic elves out of nuts, angel dust, and frosting. In other words, it was delicious. Or as I like to say, fattening.)

In order to make the dinosaur toys more festive, we gave them all party hats, some on their heads, some on their tails. (The stegosaurus got three hats on his pointy spine.) One dinosaur even got a polka-dotted collar. (In the photo below, he’s the one with the sign that says, “I heart BoYo.” BoYo is Bonnie’s nickname.) One dinosaur had a sign that said, “Happy Birthday,” but the remaining three had signs that protested growing older. The stegosaurus’s sign said, “I want my life back (now),” and the t-rex held two picket signs in his tiny arms–“Aging Sucks!” and “Down with this sort of thing.” Lastly, the long-necked dinosaur had a sign around his neck that said, “I feel fat!”

Here’s a more zoomed-in picture. Is this the cutest thing you’d ever want to see or what?

After dinner and cake, our crew played a board game, and since Mallory turned the air down (like she does), everyone had to wrap up in blankets to keep from freezing. And whereas everyone else got a “normal” blanket, I got a shark blanket, as Mallory has some strange obsession with sharks. Check it out. When the photo was taken, I’d just finished saying, “What do I do with my hands?”

Now it’s one in the morning, and I feel like a field of dandelions is blooming in my nose. I’m tired. So often these two things put together–sick and tired–make me frustrated, but in this moment, I’m compassionate. (I’ll explain.) This morning at the breakfast table, while eating a homemade waffle, I told Bonnie that although I don’t know exactly what’s going on with my body medically, to me it feels as if it’s on “high alert.” My allergies are set off at the smallest provocation, and my skin gets irritated if someone looks at it wrong. I said, “It’s like my body is mirroring my emotional state. I’ve seen so many shoes drop, most days I don’t know how to expect anything but shoes dropping. Consequently, it’s nearly impossible for me to calm down, to de-alert. If there were one message I could tell both myself and my body, it would be, ‘It’s okay, sweetie, the worst is over. You can relax now.'”

You really do belong here.

I’ve lived so much of my life waiting for shoes to drop, breathing in and just holding it, I honestly forgot that it’s possible to be steady, to not be worried or nervous all the time, to not be constantly irritated or otherwise worked-up about something. Like, no matter where you are or what’s going on, it’s possible to breathe in, then breath out, and feel completely at home and at ease. Like you really do belong here. Like life is on your side. I can’t tell you how much I want this. Better said, I want more of this, since that at-ease feeling does come occasionally and usually in the most unexpected moments. I’m talking about peace, of course, that feeling you get when you’re crying into your waffle because you’ve finally been honest about being scared all these years, finally let go a little, finally breathed out.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

All great heroes, at some point, surrender to the unknown.

"

Remembering (Blog #398)

Leave a comment

This afternoon I saw my therapist and told her about my meeting Del Shores on Sunday. I shared this bit of news as if I were a junior high cheerleader at a slumber party, and she responded in kind. (I love it when people rejoice with me appropriately.) Then I told her about receiving good news about my medical bills last week and ended the conversation by groaning, “So maybe the universe isn’t such a bad place to live after all.” My therapist raised her hand as if she were about to offer a benediction. “It has its moments,” she said, then bowed her head slightly. “It has its moments.”

After therapy and a quick trip to the library, I met my friend CJ for an evening in Fayetteville. For dinner, we went to Herman’s, a steak and rib joint that’s been around for decades, but it was our first time there. Y’all, it was pretty great. We both had steak, and they were super big, super juicy. Good stuff. And I was so proud of myself for staying mostly on Autoimmune Paleo. (I ate hash browns, but NO tomatoes, peppers, or bread!) That being said, when CJ suggested dessert, I did think, Oh, fuck it and started fantasizing about the possibilities. But thankfully (I guess), I didn’t have to exercise my willpower or decide to further break my rules for the evening because Herman’s doesn’t have a dessert menu. What they do have, however, is a basket of (free) multi-flavored Tootsie Pops.

Insert my eyes rolling here.

I can’t tell you how unimpressed I was. When the waitress brought the basket to our table, I felt like I was a toddler at a dentist’s office. Granted, it worked out for my diet, but come on–a sucker for dessert? (I politely declined.) I can only assume a straight person came up with this idea. (No offense, straight people, but a gay man would NEVER propose an idea like this.) I asked the waitress, “Do people actually get excited about this basket of suckers you’ve laid before me?” With a completely serious face, she replied, “Some people do.”

A sucker at a steakhouse. I’m still not over it. (Some things are really hard for me to let go of.) However–for both your sake and mine–I’m going to try to move on with my life. (Here I go.)

After dinner CJ and I went to see a play at Theater Squared. Well, we did stop in a local sex store first, but since we did that last year, it wasn’t exactly a novel or notable experience. If you’ve seen one dildo, you’ve seen them all. That being said, if you haven’t seen a seventeen-inch dildo or a rainbow-colored “pride” dildo like I did tonight, then, yeah, maybe you should get out more often. And I guess the glass dildos were notable, what with their different shapes and colors. Some of them were quite pretty–stunning, actually. Had it been winter and had they not been in the penis-shaped vibrator section, I could have easily mistaken them for Christmas tree ornaments.

Just imagine. Presents under the tree AND on the tree.

But back to the play we went to see, The Hound of the Baskervilles, or as my mother misheard when I told her about it a couple days ago, The Hound of the Basketball Pills. It’s a Sherlock Holmes story, of course, but this version has been adapted as a comedy, and y’all, it was hilarious. Three extremely talented actors played twenty (20!) characters in two acts, and I was completely in stitches. They never missed a beat. It was the perfect way to get out of the house and remind myself, once again, that the universe “has its moments.”

But seriously, I highly recommend the show. Go see it. (It’s playing until May 27.)

Then I stand a little taller.

Something I often notice when I go to therapy or see a wonderful show like I saw tonight is that even if I’ve spent the week worrying, fretting, or even bitching about my problems (my often very real and in-my-face problems), all of that falls away. If only for an hour or two, I forget about the past and am strongly reconnected to the present and the idea that life is good. I love these moments when I forget about myself, these moments when my worries simply vanish into thin air. Then I stand a little taller, without all that weight on my shoulders. Then I move about the earth as a star moves about the heavens–confidently. Remembering that I belong here, that this is my home, I continue steadily along my path.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

All your scattered pieces want to come back home.

"

Rod Stewart, Charlie Bucket, and My Sock Monkey (Blog #317)

Leave a comment

It’s two-thirty in the afternoon, and I’m listening to Rod Stewart. You know Rod–Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?–Stewart. Honestly, I’m not a huge fan. It’s not like I have his poster ticky-tacked to my bedroom wall. But on certain days there’s something comforting about his voice. Wake up, Maggie, I think I got something to say to you. Every time I hear that lyric, I feel like I’m slipping into crushed velvet or pulling into my driveway after a hard week on the road. I can’t say why exactly. I guess it makes me smile and let down my defenses at the same time. I guess it helps me let go.

I was just doing this, blogging, a mere twelve hours ago. After I posted last night, I watched a documentary about Deepak Chopra on Netflix, then fell asleep to the sounds of a guided imagery/positive affirmation program. (Sometimes I multitask.) Anyway, not much else has happened since the last time we spoke–er–since the last time I spoke to myself. When I woke up this afternoon, I made breakfast, wrote in my journal, did my meditation. Now I’m back here blogging because I’m going out to eat with friends tonight and don’t want the pressure of having to write hanging over my head.

Lately I’ve been mentally comparing my parents’ home to Charlie Bucket’s house in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. You remember Charlie–he lived with his mom and both sets of grandparents, and all four grandparents were bedridden. In the same bed. Talk about a close-knit family. Anyway, they were all sick, at least until Charlie got his golden ticket and Grandpa Joe was miraculously healed. Well, around here, we’re all sick too. In addition to her clinical depression, Mom’s dealing with the effects of her cancer and its treatment. A couple days ago Dad started fighting a nasty cold or something. (He’s hacking a lot.) And I’m up-and-down with whatever it is I can’t get over–even though (God knows) I’m trying. Despite my best efforts and all that time in bed last night, I’m currently wiped out.

Cheer up, Charlie.

Earlier this week my mom’s doctor removed the “drain ports” that were put in a couple weeks ago during her mastectomy. Well, I don’t know if the ports were taken out too soon or if her bandages weren’t put on right, but yesterday when Mom came into the kitchen, I noticed a dark stain on the back of her nightgown. She didn’t realize it, but she’d been bleeding in bed. My aunts came to the house and helped Mom get cleaned up, but for Mom, the bleeding was the last straw. She broke down. “Why is it that when you think you can’t handle anything else, you’re given something else to handle?” she said.

Seriously.

The picture for today’s blog is of my sock monkey, Nick. I got Nick several years ago for a dance routine in which my dance partner Janie and I pretended to be kids and danced in footed pajamas. Nick was fastened to my outfit, and Janie’s sock monkey, Nora, was fastened to hers. Anyway, Nick was the only stuffed animal I kept when I had the estate sale and started over. I keep a Curious George button on Nick partly because–monkeys–and partly because it reminds me to stay open to whatever life brings me, to not get set in my ways.

A few nights ago I dreamed about Janie. We were watching a dance routine we’d performed, on someone’s phone. The video was eleven minutes long, which by anyone’s standard’s is a ridiculously long time for a dance routine. But it was a dream, so I guess anything goes. Toward the end of the routine, we did an aerial combination. In reality, the combination should have only taken a few seconds, but it went on and on in the dream because we were holding poses. First I held her upside down and above my head for a full minute, then I held her, somehow, behind my back for another. Had you been watching the routine, you would have thought what I was thinking while watching it in the dream–Impossible.

There’s no hurry to get there.

Yesterday, after reading one my blogs, a friend told me she thought I was brave. Y’all, I’ve never used that word to describe myself. For all the bullshit I’ve been through in life, I’ve never thought of myself as brave or strong. But as I’ve chewed on the dream this week, I’ve realized it was about seeing my inner strength and about recognizing the impossible things I’ve overcome. It was about all the times I thought I couldn’t handle anything else–and then did. In Maggie May, Rod Stewart says, “I’ll get on back home one of these days.” Maybe this lyric is why hearing this song feels like pulling into the driveway. It reminds me that not only am I on the right path–the path back to myself (my brave, stronger-than-I-realized self)–but also that there’s no hurry to get there.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

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.

"

Healing Requires Slowing Down (Blog #309)

Leave a comment

I don’t always know what to do when I have extra time on my hands. When I woke up this morning I made a plan for the afternoon, and I was supposed to be on a phone call right now. But that didn’t work out. Now I have about twenty minutes until the next call is supposed to happen, so I’m just sitting here listening to Fleetwood Mac and trying to remember the last time I took a shower. (It’s obviously been too long ago.) I keep thinking I could read a chapter in a book, send some emails regarding the swing dance event I’m working on, or dig through the refrigerator–anything to stay busy.

Obviously, I decided to blog. I mean, that’s the ONE THING that absolutely has to happen sometime today. Might as well be now.

I do think my need to fill up every damn minute of every damn day with activity has gotten better. You should have seen me five years ago. I refused to slow down. But there’s nothing like being unemployed and living with your parents to help you change your standards. Like, nothing feels “urgent” anymore. Except watching Days of Our Lives, nothing feels critical in this house. Read a book, don’t read a book. Do something, don’t do something. Whatever happens happens, and it’s okay.

Sometimes when I keep myself busy, it’s because I think it’s important to do so. Maybe it’s an ego thing, but on some level I tell myself that I HAVE to do whatever it is I’m doing. Like, no one can recycle these cans or go to the grocery store as well as I can. Or, if I don’t stay up late to teach this dance lesson, someone’s life is going to fall apart. (Please.) I used to have a friend who worked for a big non-profit. Quite literally, they saved lives. But I watched their body break down under the pressure of that story. They’d go for days without sleeping telling themselves that if they didn’t, people would die. And whereas I’m all for helping others, come on–how can you really help someone else if you can’t even help yourself?

More often than not, I think that story about feeling important or “being needed” is just a story we tell ourselves. I’m not saying you’re not important. You are. We all are. But what I am saying is that I think we often go-go-go in order to distract ourselves–from ourselves. This, of course, is a difficult and almost impossible thing to do, but that doesn’t stop us from trying. At least I know that’s been my experience. So many times I’ve filled up every minute of every day doing anything and everything under the sun in order to avoid getting quiet and simply sitting and being okay with whatever is inside me–nervousness, anxiousness, fear, sadness, even joy.

Hell, if emotions were easy to deal with directly, everyone would do it.

This morning before I got out of bed, I scrolled, scrolled, scrolled through Facebook. I thought about going back to sleep, but I couldn’t convince my body that that was a good idea. Finally, I put down my phone and worked on some deep-breathing exercises I learned recently. After a few minutes, my eyes started watering, my body twitched a bit, and some memories came up. This sort of thing has been happening more and more frequently over the last several months, so it didn’t bother me. But I did think, How long has THAT been hanging around, just waiting for me to slow down and breath deeply enough for it to rise to the surface?

Your body remembers.

The more experiences I have like this, the more I’m convinced that our emotions and experiences are stored in and deeply affect our physical bodies. For the longest time I’ve believed in my head that “your biography becomes your biology,” but now I believe it in my heart. Your body remembers. Last night my friend Bonnie and talked about this–the difference between knowing something in your head and knowing in your entire being. I think that’s part of what my current journey is about, really believing that every cell in my body is intelligent and conscious and is not only “for me,” but is also capable of healing and letting go at the deepest level.

I’m convinced that healing of this sort doesn’t happen when you’re running around, filling up every minute of every day. It absolutely requires slowing down, getting quiet, and holding space for whatever arises. And if there’s one benefit to my being tired, sick, and worn out these last few months, this is it. It’s forced, or at least strongly encouraged me, to meet myself, to really see what’s going on inside here. And whereas I want my physical body to bounce back and “feel better,” I know that regardless of what it does, my body is better for having walked this road, and this is a journey for which my soul is thankful.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Everything is progressing as it should.

"

Me, the Winter, and Stevie Nicks (Blog #257)

Leave a comment

It’s early afternoon, and the house is quiet. Mom is asleep, and Dad’s out running around. At least for me, this is a treat. I’m at the kitchen table, the trees in the backyard are letting go of their leaves, and Fleetwood Mac is playing beside me on my phone. I guess at some point every gay man has to fall in love with Stevie Nicks, one of the club requirements as it were. For me it happened just over a year ago before I moved out of The Big House and had the estate sale. At that point I had a record player I inherited from a family friend named Faye Marie. She took care of my Dad when he was growing up, she’s where my sister’s middle name (Marie) came from, and she’s all over our family photos. When she died I got the record player, a lamp, and a vintage alarm clock, all of which were later sold in my estate sale. Still, the last thing I did with Faye Marie’s record player was put on Stevie Nicks. Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Listening to Stevie sing on my phone isn’t quite the same as hearing her on vinyl, and sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake getting rid of that phonograph and all my records. For the most part I don’t miss the things I sold, but sometimes I do. There was something comfortable about coming home, falling down on my sofa for the hundredth time, and seeing my books on the bookshelf that used to hold my Legos, the one with the desk where I used to do homework in high school. It was familiar. Ultimately, I’m glad those things are gone (dusting is easier now), and I’m glad I had a choice in the matter. Some friends recently had their house broken into, and many of their cherished things were taken. Unlike me, they were forced to let go. I guess this is what happens when we die. Even if you manage to keep your things with you for a hundred years, sooner or later the two of you have to go separate ways.

There’s nothing you can do to change the seasons or hurry them along.

At some point in human history, people noticed there was a mathematical order to the heavens, that the moon cycled every so many days, that the planets traveled certain paths, and that the seasons consistently changed. As I understand it, the priests were the astrologers, and most the celebrations, rituals, and holidays were centered around heavenly events as an affirmation of what was inevitable. (If you can’t beat it, join it.) As I sit here now, it’s late fall–the sun is shining, but the air is chilly. Personally, I hate the cold. I’m really looking forward to the winter solstice, the day that marks the point when “the sun” is reborn and the days start getting longer. Even more so, I’m looking forward to spring. Warmth! Still, there’s nothing I can do to change the seasons or hurry them along. Things happen when they happen.

Yesterday my therapist said that I’m in a weird period right now, that I had reasonable plans last year, but then a bunch of shit happened. (Shit happens.) So now I’m with Mom and Dad, trying to make this writing thing work. My therapist said, “I really don’t think it’s matter of if, but rather a matter of when.” Of course, I hope she’s right. Regardless, part of me knows that this is just a season, that things will eventually change into something else, but another part of me feels as if this winter will never relent.

Each season has something to offer.

Often it’s easy for me to forget this isn’t my first winter, that I’ve been through the ringer of life more than once. Having let go of most of my worldly possessions, I know I can let go of the idea of spring, at least until she’s ready to return to me. Perhaps this is what hope looks like, trusting that she’ll indeed return one day, that I’ll fall down on my own sofa again soon, that everything under heaven will circle back around. In the meantime, it’s me, the winter, and Stevie Nicks. Personally, I’m trying to remember that each season has something to offer, that every tree has to let go of its leaves before they can grow back again, and that every changing season is one I can handle.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

The deepest waters are the only ones capable of carrying you home.

"