Well, This Is the Pits (Blog #53)

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I’m just going to say it—I think I have a yeast infection—probably everywhere on my body that doesn’t see daylight, but mostly in my armpits. (I’m sorry if this is gross to talk about.) I think it started in December when I was prescribed antibiotics for a sinus infection, but it took me a while to figure out what was going on. Well, in February, when I seriously cleaned up my diet and started taking some supplements I found in the feminine hygiene section of the natural food store, it went away.

It felt like a miracle. You know, a miracle that doesn’t last very long, since the stuff came back sometime during the last month while I was taking two additional rounds of antibiotics for cellulitis and an upper respiratory infection. I mean, I’m assuming it’s a yeast infection—I’m not a scientist—but that would make sense.

I’ve really tried to have a good attitude about the whole thing, fight the good fight, and keep a stiff upper lip. This last week I’ve been taking some of those feminine hygiene supplements and watching my diet, but I’m not being nearly as strict as I was before because diets take a lot of mental energy and frankly, damn it, I’m tired and am starting to wear down. So it’s more like I’m fighting a mediocre fight and keeping a stiff-ish upper lip.

Do they make Viagra for upper lips?

Sometimes the universe can really kick you in the balls.

Sometimes I think the universe can really kick you in the balls and make you drop to your knees. Maya Angelou says there are times when life makes you cry uncle, and on days like today, I’m just about there. This morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and to make matters worse, when I rolled over, I could smell my own armpits. It wasn’t sexy. (I don’t know why I’m worried. It’s not like anyone else has their nose down there.) Anyway, every time I smell myself, it’s the most frustrating thing because it feels like (or smells like) things are never going to get better.

After I took a shower, in the midst of trying to accept the fact that I’ve become a traveling playground for fungi, I put my phone on the bathroom counter and applied athlete’s foot powder to every crevice of my body. Still irritated about my phone because the charging port is broken, I then put the powder back on the counter, and it fell over, spilling the powder on my phone’s speaker, filling up a hundred little holes with white dust.

Uncle.

There’s a saying in the self-help word—no feeling is final—so I keep thinking that my bad mood about everything going on with me will eventually pass (or I will). Wayne Dyer says, “In all of nature, no storm can last forever,” so I’m reminding myself that I’ve been through storms before, especially storms dealing with health issues I didn’t think would go away. A couple of years ago, I had little warts on my face (also not sexy), and I made monthly trips to the dermatologist for over a year. The doctor kept saying that one day they’d go away, and one day—they did. It just took a lot of time and a lot of patience.

So I know the yeast thing will level out at some point. This morning I felt like quitting, but this afternoon I went to the natural food store and talked to one of those weird natural food store people about what’s been going on. I thought, I can do this—I can try something else.

The lady at the store said my body was worn out (and all God’s people said Amen) and recommended a probiotic with at least 50 billion (!) bacteria, but she said it had to be refrigerated, so I said I’d have to come back when I wasn’t on my way to the library to use the free Internet. But the lady also said that I could up my garlic, to which I replied, “UP YOUR GARLIC, Lady!”

Okay, I didn’t actually say that.

Lastly, the lady said that I could apply coconut oil topically. So while I was at the library, I looked up coconut oil and garlic for yeast infections because I was intrigued. Honestly, I’m not sure the Internet was a lot of help, but I did come across an interesting article about a woman who put a clove of garlic up her who-ha in order to get rid of a yeast infection. (I guess that would also be a creative way to ward off vampires.) Anyway, I’ll try just about anything once, but I draw the line at vegetable suppositories.

So this evening before I went for a walk, I got out the coconut oil and rubbed it under my armpits. And actually, for a while, things didn’t smell so bad. But that was a few hours ago, and as I sit here in my tank top, I keep getting a whiff of myself and am not amused. It smells like a dead animal. And by it, I mean me. (Things not to put on a dating profile.)

However, I’m determined to get this problem figured out, and that’s one of the reasons I believe in the soul. (Bet you didn’t see that coming.) What I mean is that no matter how hard life kicks me in the balls and no matter how frustrated I get about it, there’s a part of me that never seems to be fazed, and I don’t think that sounds like the human ego. I don’t think that sounds like anything made of flesh. Maybe stardust. Of course, if it is the soul, it’s just a whisper, a still, small voice reminding me where I came from and what I’m really made of. “Keep going,” it says. “You’ve got this. The storm will pass soon enough.”

[My friend Matt from summer camp did the drawing, at least his wife and I think he did. I’m assuming that was the year I taught tennis, so I would have been sixteen. Apparently I’ve been having rough days for a while now.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Whereas I've always pictured patience as a sweet, smiling, long-haired lady in a white dress, I'm coming to see her as a frumpy, worn-out old broad with three chins. You know--sturdy--someone who's been through the ringer and lived to tell about it.

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Available Grace (Blog #51)

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Last night I noticed on Facebook that the author David Sedaris was coming to Tulsa in a few weeks and there were tickets on sale for the event that included a copy of his newest book and a guaranteed spot in the autograph line. Facebook said tickets would go on sale at ten this morning, so I thought maybe that would be a reason to get up before noon. But then I stayed awake until seven this morning watching a movie, so I thought, Eff that noise—I’m sleeping in. Besides, I figured it couldn’t hurt to save some money, especially since, you know, I don’t have a job.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about going to pay the hospital part of my sinus surgery bill and meeting a woman in the billing department who was dead-set on helping me. At that time, she said there was an assistance program for middle-aged men who lived with their parents—or something like that—and it would possibly cover seventy to ninety percent of my balance. That night I sent in all the paperwork by email, but I never got a confirmation, so I’ve been wondering if I should follow up on it. (The control freak in me said yes, but the rest of me said to chill the fuck out, so for the first time ever, my control freak sat down and shut his mouth.)

Since deciding to have the surgery, I’ve been telling myself that no matter what it cost or how long it takes to pay it off, it would be worth it. Having had the surgery, I still believe that. That being said, I have this big hang-up about not having any debt, so I’ve spent a lot of time over the last several months worrying about how I was going to take care of everything.

When I got up this afternoon, there was a letter from the hospital for me on the kitchen table, and it came in one of those envelopes with a see-through window, and I could read the part that said, “RE: Charity Approved.” Well, my legs went all rubbery, so I leaned up against the kitchen counter and tore through the envelope and tried to force myself to read the letter from the beginning and not cheat. But I couldn’t help it, and my eyes went straight to the part in bold.

Y’all, the hospital paid one hundred freakin’ percent.

So I’ve had a great day. This evening I went for a really long walk, and I practically skipped the entire time. Of course, I’m still responsible for the doctor’s part of the surgery, but the gift—the grace—I received from the hospital takes a huge load off. That’s the way I’m looking at this, as a grace. For me, it’s a reminder that good things happen even during those periods in our lives that don’t work out like we think they should, those times that seem like one disappointment after another.

For all of the things life takes away, it gives so much more in return.

They say that it’s always darkest before the dawn. First, I hate that. But I do think there’s something to be said for a light that breaks through the clouds just when you’re struggling to maintain hope. I know that’s what it felt like when I had the surgery—hope at the perfect moment. I’d been struggling with sinus infections for so long—twenty years—and I was about ready to give up. And then this magical prince of a surgeon came galloping up on a white horse and saved the day. (Okay, so I actually drove to him in a Honda Civic, but still.) And then, everyone at his office and everyone at the hospital that day were patient, kind, and professional. And if that weren’t enough, the hospital just said, “Oh don’t worry about that bill. We’ll take care of it.”)

Talk about a fairy tale.

(The above photo is of me and Lee Roy, the closet thing I could find to a prince on short notice. It was taken around Easter, which is why he looks like a rabbit.)

Of course, I don’t know why God and the universe do things the way they do. I imagine that having less medical debt means that I can start the next phase of my life sooner, but it may have nothing to do with that. But I do know that the news today has given me a lot of hope, and it’s reminded me to be patient and let things unfold in their own time. It’s also reminded me to do everything I can to walk through life with humility and gratitude. After all, each of us needs help at times. No one gets through life completely on his own.

When I got home from the walk, I decided to get those tickets to see David Sedaris for me and a friend. I thought it would be a great way to celebrate, to give something back to someone else, and to keep me excited about writing. So that’s what I did, and I’ll let you know how it goes.

When I sat down to write tonight’s blog, I started by looking through my computer files, which I sometimes do for inspiration. I came across a poem, a meditation called I Come to Him Running. It’s one of my favorite things, and the first time I heard it, it brought me to tears. I guess it feels like hope, and it does for me in words what the hospital did for me in actions. It reminds me there’s a lot going on behind the scenes, good things are being prepared for all of us, and they’re being prepared in abundance. For all that life takes away, it gives so much more in return. Whether we realize it or not, there’s always grace available.

***

I Come to Him Running
The Mishkat Al-Masabih

The Prophet said,

God Most High has said:
When my worshipper’s thoughts turn to Me,
there am I with him.
And when he makes mention of Me within himself,
I make mention of him within Myself;
and when he makes mention of Me in company,
I make mention of him in a better company.
If he draw near to Me a hand’s breadth,
I draw near to him an arm’s length;
and if he draw near to Me an arm’s length,
I draw near to him the length of both arms
wide outstretched;
and if he come to Me walking, I come to him running.
And if he meet Me with sins equivalent to the whole world,
I will greet him with forgiveness equal to it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Some things simply take time and often more than one trip to the hardware store.

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the long road to resurrection (blog #40)

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When I sold most of my possessions several months ago, one of the few things I kept was a mid-century modern crucifix that shows Jesus with both hands nailed above his head, kind of off to one side like Martha Graham or Jerome Robbins. It’s part of a “traveling alter” I set up wherever I move, and whenever I joke about it, I call him Rock Star Jesus, sometimes Jesus Christ, Superstar. Personally, I don’t think that’s blasphemous, although I probably would have at one time. Plus, I didn’t keep the crucifix because it’s a good joke. It actually means something to me.

There’s a story in the Acts of John that Jesus danced with his disciples the night before his crucifixion. When one considers that the cross represents surrendering personal will to divine will, this becomes a beautiful image. Jesus had so completely given up his own will, so surrendered to the father whom he trusted, that he could actually find joy in giving up his life.

That’s why I like Rock Star Jesus. He reminds me to surrender—joyfully.

Tonight I went for a walk around the neighborhood. I drank a lot of coffee this evening and felt like I needed to burn it off. It sort of worked, but about halfway back, the coffee really started working, and I thought, Uh-oh. Anyway, up until the coffee kicked in and I started power walking, it was a lovely midnight stroll. The full moon hung in the sky, the smell of honeysuckle drifted across the cool air, and I was kept company by the sounds of the crickets and the bullfrogs.

As I walked, I thought a lot about a book my friend Marla gave me last year called Learning to Walk in the Dark. The book is by Barbara Brown Taylor, a former Episcopalian minister who left the church, as I understand it, in favor of a more-encompassing form of spirituality. In short, Barbara proposes that although the term dark is almost exclusively associated with things that are bad or wrong or scary, almost all of us would agree that the times in our lives we have labeled dark are also the times that our souls have grown the most. So even though the dark is often unfamiliar and uncomfortable, it’s just as necessary to our spiritual path as the light is.

Tonight as I walked up my parents’ street, the street I grew up on and have walked more times than I can count, I tried closing my eyes. This is something I often tell followers to do while dancing. It helps put your focus more on what your feeling and less one what you’re seeing. But whether your dancing or walking along the road, it’s hard to do. I found tonight that when I’d close my eyes, my ears would immediately tune in to sounds I hadn’t noticed before—a train going down the tracks, my shoes striking the pavement, a church bell in the distance. But I could only go maybe a dozen steps without opening my eyes.

Going down a familiar hill, I tried putting one foot on the road and one foot on the grass. I can keep my eyes closed longer this way, I thought, I can see with my feet. But still, my eyes kept popping open.

It’s hard to trust what you can’t see.

Shortcuts don’t really get you where you want to go.

Last September, Marla and I drove to Little Rock to see Barbara Brown Taylor speak as part of a lecture series at an Episcopal church. This is the sort of thing writers really get off on. It was like going to a rock concert. For over an hour, I sat on the edge of my pew in absolute wonder at Barbara’s ability to not only write and speak beautiful words, but also to accurately and compassionately comment on what it means to be human.

Go read the book (after you read this blog).

When Barbara finished lecturing, she opened the floor up for questions, and I jumped out of my seat and headed for the microphone in the middle of the room. First I thanked her for being there, then I brought up the story of Jesus dancing, and then I asked how a person could take joy during the difficult times in life. Barbara said she wasn’t sure that most of us have the same spiritual DNA that Jesus did, so it’s difficult. But then she said, “Obviously you’re going somewhere with this, so what do YOU think?”

So there I was stood, in a room full of people, thinking, Oh crap, I wasn’t prepared for this.

But I said, “Well, I’m really fascinated by this idea that Jesus trusted God so much that he absolutely knew that God had a plan. And I know that personally there are times that something happens—a breakup, a death—and I think, This is the worst thing. But then maybe a few years go by and I look back and think, That’s the best thing that could have happened. So the older I get, the more hesitant I am to label anything as bad. But sometimes I get frustrated that it takes so long to have that perspective.”

Barbara said that was called wanting a “spiritual shortcut.” Things take as long as they take and that’s where the growth happens. It’s not overnight, and it’s not right away. She said that sometimes when bad things happen, the best we can do is maybe drink a beer with a good friend.

I remember talking to my therapist that first time on the phone and saying, “Well if we can take care of everything in six sessions, that’s great, but I’m willing to come for a year if that’s what we need to do.” She said, “I’m just going to go with my gut and say it’s going to take a year.”

Here we are three years later, and even though the last three years have been full of challenges, I can’t tell you how glad I am that I didn’t take the shorter route.

So I think about shortcuts a lot. This time in my life feels like walking in the dark, stumbling along, trying to find my way. Some days I try to close my eyes and feel my way through it, but it’s hard to trust what you can’t see. It’s hard to surrender. It’s hard to dance when you know your old life is dying and you don’t have a promise of resurrection. It’s easy to want the difficult times to be over. I think that’s why Jesus said, “I don’t want to do this if I don’t have to,” like, “I don’t want to do this if there’s a shortcut.” But obviously there wasn’t. Shortcuts don’t really get you where you want to go. Resurrections happen on the long road.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Boundaries are about starting small, enjoying initial successes, and practicing until you get your relationships like you want them. 

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farts aren’t planned (blog #32)

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This morning I woke up with a tickle in my throat. I actually dreamed about it last night, and a friend in the dream told me to eat some yogurt. So that’s what I did when I got out bed because I wanted my subconscious to know that I’m listening to it. Now if I end up getting sick, I’m going to tell my subconscious to go screw itself, to which I’m sure it would reply, “Will you PLEASE go to bed sooner, quit eating ice cream and tacos for dinner, and stop thinking that you’re still twenty-three?”

Well, maybe today’s the day. With any luck at all, I’ll finish this post before the sun goes down, and I can get some sleep. Before the week is over, I plan to clean up my diet, start doing some push-ups. And then in two weeks, maybe my favorite pair of jeans won’t look like a pair of acid-washed yoga pants.

Whenever I decide to start or stop something, to form or break a habit, there’s always a lot of buildup and anxiety about it. I think about it, pray about it, think about it, pray about—for weeks, sometimes months. Not changing anything, mind you, just stressing.

Once a change HAS been made, I can rock out a good habit for a while—meditating every day, going to the gym five times a week, eating well. But then something happens, and that all goes to shit, and it’s cigarettes for breakfast and banana splits for lunch.

When things are going “the right way,” when I’m behaving like I think I should, I feel pretty good about myself. But when things fall apart, my go-to response is to beat myself up, to start “shoulding” on myself. My therapist says that’s because I want things to always be the same. But everything changes, she says. Even good habits fall away.

For the longest time, I would go to my therapist’s office and beat myself up about smoking cigarettes, a habit that started in my early twenties and effectively disappeared until I broke up with my ex three years ago. And while I was more concerned about my health and what other people would think if they found out, she was more concerned about the fact that I was shoulding on and judging myself. She said that one day I would have enough and quit.

And she was right. One day it became clear. I stopped. Just like the seasons, it changed.

This afternoon my friend Marla and I went to speak at our friend Anita’s writing class at the Fort Smith Public Library. (That’s our picture at the top of the blog.) Anita has been teaching writing in Fort Smith since God was a small child, and her second novel comes out this summer. Like her first novel, it’s about a murder that took place in Van Buren over thirty years ago. Anyway, I thought that I was going to the class to support Marla and reconnect with Anita, but had I read my messages more clearly, I would have known that I was actually going to speak about my glamorous life as a blogger.

So I winged it and read a story I wrote last September about how unhappy I was owning the dance studio and living in Fort Smith, how I wanted to write more and move to Austin. And then I talked specifically about the blog, and Anita told the class that if you don’t like R rated movies, don’t go to one, and if you don’t like four-letter words, don’t go to Marcus’s blog.

So even though I didn’t plan to speak, it all turned out fine. And what I loved about it is that there wasn’t any planning, no thinking about it and praying about it, no anxiety. It just happened.

When I finished, a dear lady named Marilyn said, “Marcus, I think you need to get on the next bus out of here. Just move to Austin.” And then several others chimed in and said, “Fuck it. You only live once.” (I’m paraphrasing. They didn’t actually say that.) But I totally felt encouraged, so I asked Marilyn if she’d like to take a selfie with me, and she said, “I would love that,” so here it is.

Alan Watts tells the story of a Buddhist monk who poetically stated that you can’t plan everything in life. You don’t think, I’m going to go to the supermarket at ten tomorrow morning and then “drop fart” at ten-thirty. And this is actually a spiritual lesson. Farts aren’t planned. They’re “a happening.”

Honestly, I think I give myself too much credit. It’s probably an ego thing. I think that I can control when I get sick and when I get well, when I work and when I don’t, and where I live. And I’m not saying I don’t have any influence in what I eat or when I go to bed or when I’ll move to Austin, but I do think my therapist and the Buddhist monk are right. One day, I’ll clean up my diet and go to bed sooner. One day, I’ll get on a bus and get out of here. When that is exactly, I can’t say, but I can save myself a lot of anxiety by not worrying about it so much. When it’s time, I think I’ll know it’s time, and it will simply happen. And just like the speech that wasn’t planned, it will all turn out fine, even if there are a few four-letter words along the way.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Both sunshine and rain are required for growth.

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God: sloppy or not? (blog #26)

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Sometimes I think that God is sloppy. There, I said it. And all I mean by that is that God doesn’t do things the way I would do them. (Surprise.) Like, in my world, everything has its place. My keys always go here, or there, and if they’re not here, or there, they’re lost. And at the end of every day, I go through my man bag and put all the pens in the pen holders, and all the books in the middle pocket, and all the bills I need to pay in the outside pocket, and all three of my prescription glasses in the other pocket next to my wallet that holds all of my credit cards that are organized according to their respective billing due dates. (It’s a wonder I don’t get laid more.)

This morning I woke up and immediately started thinking about all the things I needed to do today. Specifically, I started thinking about three separate conversations I needed to have in order to figure out the hospital billing for the sinus surgery I had a couple of months ago. Not that hospital billing is normally easy, but on the day of the surgery, the doctor said he wanted to do a second CT scan because the first one was off by nine degrees. (That’s funny. My favorite number is nine.) He said I wouldn’t be charged for it.

So of course I was.

But I haven’t been charged for the first one. Which is too bad, since the first one was cheaper than the second one because insurance is, well, a fucking mystery, probably invented by drunk space aliens. So for the last two months, I’ve wanted to get this whole thing figured out and effectively move “pay my hospital bill” from my “to-do list” to my “done list” because I’m organized and everything has its place and I don’t like things being unsettled.

God, on the other hand, obviously enjoys a good mess and is not in a hurry to get this matter checked off his list because I’ve ended up with three or four different account numbers at the hospital, and that’s made even the billing department confused. So now the day is over, and I’ve had all three of those conversations (two with billing people and one with the doctor), and whereas everyone was extremely helpful, things still aren’t completely settled. (Clearly God’s getting his way, and that drives me nuts.)

I’ve been thinking most the day that I would write about the idea that the universe—God—is communicative. There’s a dead philosopher (whom I have a really big intellectual crush on) named Alan Watts who points out that not only are you interested in and watching the universe, but the universe is also interested in and watching you. Well, this is an idea I’ve been slowly coming around to, that the universe is interacting with all of us, and that it’s actually kind and not vindictive or punitive.

So this afternoon I was on my way to a gift shop in Fayetteville, and I was thinking about the fact that one of the positive things about living with my parents is that I started this blog and I started writing every day. And although that’s not a steady paycheck and it’s not living in Austin, it’s a small start, and sometimes small starts end up as big finishes. (Just like a mustard seed starts small but doesn’t stay that way.) So I got to the gift shop, and as I was looking at cards, I noticed one that showed several light bulbs hanging down, just like the main picture I chose for this blog. And I kind of did a double take and smiled to myself because I figured God was communicating.

Before I left the store, the girl behind the counter asked what I was doing later, so I said, “I’m teaching a dance class.” And then I asked her the same thing, and she said, “I’m moving.”

“Where are you moving?”

“I’m moving in with my parents because I’m getting married soon, so I’m living with them for a while.”

“That’s funny,” I said, “I’m living with my parents now.”

And then she said, “I think it’s great. I mean, it’s part of the dream.”

So I took that as God communicating again, just letting me know that living with my parents is part of my journey, part of my dream.

Oh, and I almost forgot one more thing God said to me–the message on the front of the card with the light bulbs—“Your future looks bright.”

(This picture was taken just outside the store where God talked to me.)

Little incidents like these thrill me to no end because I think of all the things that had to come together in order for me to be in that one particular shop when that one particular girl was working, which just happened to be the day she was moving in with her parents. And also that card had to be there instead of some other card, and some card designer had to make those light bulbs hang down the way they do on this site. (Incidentally, the site photo was taken years ago in Albuquerque at an Urban Outfitters, and it was one of my first Instagram posts, and it just “felt right” when I was designing the page.)

Obviously, God’s capable of a lot. Just look around.

Just before I wrote that last paragraph, I was about to say, once again, that God was sloppy, that it would have been more clean cut and organized to get me the message some other way. (A burning bush maybe?) But having written that last paragraph, I have to admit that God is a lot more organized than I give him credit for. And if all those things could come together seamlessly just so God could whisper, “You’re doing better than you think you are,” what else is he capable of?

Obviously, he’s capable of a lot. Just look around.

A friend reminded me tonight that God–the universe–is intelligent, that the wisdom that makes the mustard seed transform into a tree also keeps the planets spinning and also makes my finger nails grow. And if it can hang a star in the sky and it can bring two strangers together so one can encourage the other without even knowing it, then that wisdom can certainly figure out my hospital billing. And if the first CT scan was off by nine degrees and my favorite number is nine, that’s probably not an accident, so it’s probably just God letting me know he has something up his sleeve again, just like he had this blog up his sleeve when I moved in with Mom and Dad. To me, it may look like sloppy work, but that’s probably because, until now, I’ve been too busy organizing my sock drawer to notice that not only is God interested in me, but he’s also trying pretty hard to get my attention. And at least when I consider the heavens, I think that for God too, everything has its place. So surely that includes me. Surely I’m right where I need to be.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One day a change will come.

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two books and a ball cap (blog #19)

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I’ve spent the last three hours working on a blog post that I finally admitted wasn’t working. So I told myself that I did the best I could, told the blog post, “It’s not you, it’s me,” and I started over. I mean, it’s only 4 AM, my brain stopped working two hours ago, and I don’t know what I’m going to do now. So what could go wrong?

The blog post I originally sat down to write was about The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, a book by Mark Haddon that I read several months ago and fell in love with, but also a Tony-award-winning Broadway play that I saw in Fayetteville at the Walton Arts Center tonight with my friend Marla. And although I’m absolutely riveted both by the book and the play, and although I cried a lot tonight (which is good because I almost never cry, even when I want to or when it would be really handy), that’s not what I want to talk about. Or to be more accurate, that’s not what wants me to talk about it.

So this is me giving into my muse, who apparently wants to discuss two books and a ball cap. (I can’t believe I just said that, but here we go.)

Last week I found an old gift card for Barnes and Noble. I can’t tell you how long I’ve had it, but long enough to not remember. It had $11.89 on it. So although I’m really not buying a lot of books these days, I decided to use it and get two books that I’ve wanted for a while now, books I haven’t been able to find at a library. Well, the books came today, and it felt like Christmas morning or that scene in Bedknobs and Broomsticks when Angela Lansbury’s witch’s broom finally arrives. I mean, I love books, but this moment at the community mailbox this afternoon was something else.

I’m sure someone’s going to ask, so I’ll just go ahead and tell you. The first book is by Gabor Mate, and it’s called In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts. It’s about addictions. The second book is by P.L. Travers (the author of Mary Poppins), and it’s called What the Bee Knows. It’s about myth, symbolism, and storytelling. I really get excited about all this stuff.

But despite my interest in the book topics, I don’t think that’s what caused my excitement. I mean, even now, I’m looking at the two books on top of the television across the room, and I think they look so stately and lovely, which doesn’t make sense because they’re paperbacks. But I’m wondering in the best way if I’m going to be able to find room on my one bookshelf for them, since it feels like trying to find two good seats for two special guests you didn’t know were coming. (I have the sense that we’re going to be friends, that I’ll somehow be different after I get to know them.)

Tonight, after the show was over, I made a second stop by the merchandise table. I’d already been by at intermission to get a magnet, which is my standard and almost-always-only purchase. But the show was so stunning, and I was so emotional, and I’d also been drinking red wine from an adult sippy cup. So I ended up buying a ball cap. The cap is all black, and it has the outline of a dead dog on the front, and the name of the book/play on the back. (The story’s about a fifteen-year-old autistic boy named Christopher who finds a dead dog in his neighborhood and sets about to find out who killed it.)

Anyway, here’s the weird part—I’m so excited about this ball cap that I’m practically doing backflips at almost five in the morning. Two books and a ball cap, and I feel like a virgin on prom night. And I thought I needed a job or a husband to be happy.

And whereas I’m sure the book and the beautiful story and the play all have something to do with my excitement about the ball cap, here’s what I think has actually happened. As I may have mentioned before, several months ago, I threw away, gave away, or sold most everything I owned. This included getting rid of hundreds of books that I’d paid for and collected for close to twenty years. And it also included most of my clothes. I mean, when I got dressed for the show tonight, my choice was between three t-shirts.

And whereas I don’t regret getting rid of anything, and there are a lot of benefits living simply, there are times when it feels like something is missing, or would at least be nice to have. (Like, tonight, I could have used a belt.) Well, one of those things that I’ve thought would be nice to have is a ball cap, since I didn’t keep any of my old ones because they were so worn out. Well, you can get a ball cap anywhere, but I’m fussy, remember, so not just any old ball cap would do.

All that to say that I’m finding that owning fewer things has not only made me infinitely more appreciative of the things I do have, but it has also made me infinitely more excited about even the most ordinary of purchases—two books and a ball cap. And it seems there’s a lot of satisfaction in something you’ve been thinking about buying for a long time (those two books) or wanting for a while (that ball cap), and finally getting it. Like, they’re small things, but I’m so happy with them, I can honestly say I’m glad they didn’t show up sooner. Still, now that they’re here, I wonder where we’ll be going together, what dreams we’ll be more-patiently waiting for.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You’re exactly where you need to be.

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Marcus at the head of the table (blog #18)

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For the last hour, I’ve been sitting in bed staring at a (digital) blank page, looking through all the photos on my phone, twirling a necklace around and around my finger, hoping to Sweet Jesus to be inspired to write about something worthwhile, but everything that comes to mind seems to fall flat. (Are you hooked yet?)

I recently heard the writer Kurt Vonnegut say that writers are paranoid people, always looking for meaning in everything, like, Why did they put me in room 471? Well, he says, of course, it doesn’t mean anything, but that’s what writers do, try to connect things that aren’t intrinsically connected.

(If you don’t believe him, just watch what’s about to happen.)

Since starting this blog, I spend the majority of my day thinking about nothing else, just bang, bang, banging my head against the wall, trying to shake out a decent idea. This afternoon, I went for a walk at the Van Buren City Park, and I kept noticing the turtles. There was this one tree limb that had fallen in the water, and at least a dozen turtles of all shapes and sizes were hanging out, catching some sun rays, talking about the latest gossip, whatever turtles do. And I tried to sneak close and take a picture, but turtles must be camera shy, since they all just plopped back in the water and disappeared. (Here’s a photo to prove it—not a turtle in sight.)

So I started thinking about turtles, like, maybe that’s what I’ll write about. You know, turtles take their time, slow and steady wins the race. And then I just wanted to gag because it sounded like a bunch of contrived bullshit.

When I got home from the walk, I started talking to my parents, and somehow we got on the topic of Mom’s stomach, which has been bothering her lately. So I’m just asking if the scan of her gallbladder came back, and she says it did, and it looked fine. And then before I know it, she’s talking about really personal things, using words like “constipated” and “gas” and “bloating” and “laxatives” and “straining.” And Mom’s in the living room with her back to Dad and me in the kitchen, and Dad gives me a look like, Aren’t you glad you asked? So we both kind of laugh, and Mom says, “Well, I know. I used to be a nurse, so it doesn’t bother me.”

So then I started thinking about whether or not it would be okay to write a blog about my mom’s bowels and if there was somehow a moral to be found (in the blog, not her bowels), since my friend Marla recently pointed out that all my stories have morals. (No pressure there.) Well, the only connection I could come up with was that listening to my mom talk about her bowels made me want to run away, kind of like those turtles on the log. Like, See ya later, bitches!

And then I thought that’s the same feeling I have when I watch videos of myself dancing, which I did earlier this evening in preparation for a dance class tomorrow. It’s like I look at myself, and my first instinct is to jump ship and throw the phone down because I immediately see something I’m doing “wrong,” or I think, That guy needs to drop a few pounds. Either way, I rarely end up feeling good, and instead end up feeling like eating Cookies and Crème straight from the carton.

Tonight I had a dance lesson with “the guy whose voice sounds like Darth Vader” and his fiancé. And partly because I saw a picture of myself a few days ago that I didn’t like, I was overly-focused on my posture during the lesson, so I kept looking in the mirror. (Usually I just look in the mirror because—to borrow a phrase I learned in therapy—I’m vain. And no, that’s not an apology.) Anyway, I noticed in the mirror tonight how rounded the area in between my shoulders looked, and that made me think of how I sometimes describe that part of my body as a shell because that’s what it feels like, this hard thing, guarding my heart on the other side.

For a good thirty minutes before I started down this rabbit trail of a blog, I was convinced I was going to write about my first boyfriend, R. I don’t have anything negative to say about him tonight, but maybe I will one day, so I’m just going to use one of his initials instead of his full name. We’re still on good terms, I respect his privacy, and I think the letter R is slightly warmer than “The Secret I Tried to Keep for Three Years” or “The Reason I Drank for Six Months.”

Anyway, R took the photo at the top of this blog, and I thought the head-clutching looked a lot like how I’ve been feeling all day, grasping at straws for an idea to come forth and bless us all with its good presence. I actually started writing an entire post about my relationship with R, but it really wasn’t going anywhere (kind of like our relationship wasn’t going anywhere, either). All that being said, R and I used to talk a lot about the fact that I worried about everything. I’d work up all this nervousness and anxiety about a dance lesson or a meeting with a boss, and then the thing would happen—and nothing. So I’d tell R that “everything was okay,” and he’d say, “On the next thing to dread.”

That phrase—on to the next thing to dread—is something I still use a lot. Mostly I say it to myself, but sometimes I say it to other people. Of course, they have no idea where it came from, but it still feels like an inside joke I get to use, a pleasant remnant of something that didn’t work out.

After two full years of therapy, my therapist gave me a metaphor for my thoughts that has been extremely helpful. (I kind of think it would have been helpful if she’d told me sooner, but if “ifs” and “buts” were candy and nuts, we’d all have a Merry Christmas.) She said that thoughts are like guests at a dinner party where you’re the host, and whereas “all thoughts are welcome,” not all thoughts get to sit down and have a meal. So she said when a self-judgmental or fearful or on-to-the-next-thing-to-dread thought comes up, it’s welcome in the room, but it’s okay to tell it to go sit in the corner. Like, thank you for being here, I understand why you came, but I don’t have room for you at the table. (No soup for you!)

So if I were to talk to my therapist about all the thoughts today that have sounded a lot like “Oh gross, Mom’s talking about gas again,” and “That guy in the video really let himself go” and “That guy in the mirror needs to stand up straighter,” she’d probably say, “And what does Marcus at the Head of the Table say?” To which I’d reply, “Marcus at the Head of the Table says, ‘I’m so glad my mom feels comfortable around me and that she’s just talking about anything at all. She was so sick for so long, that there were years when she hardly said a word. I just love the sound of her voice, and I know there will come a day when I’ll miss hearing it. And as for that guy in the video, he’s doing the best he can. And as for the guy in the mirror, of course he’s protecting himself. That’s usually what people do when they’ve been hurt. And he’s standing up so much more than he used to. Standing tall, after all, isn’t something that happens overnight. It’s something that takes time. Slow and steady wins the race.’”

[This blog post is dedicated to Kurt Vonnegut.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"There are a lot of benefits to being right here, right now."

on patience (blog #14)

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This afternoon I submitted an essay I wrote in a writing contest, and I noticed I felt uncomfortable as I was completing the online submission form. Well, wait. My therapist says “uncomfortable is not an emotion,” so I guess it would be more accurate to say that I felt nervous, or anxious, or afraid. Honestly, it’s probably the same way I felt when I hit the publish button for this blog—vulnerable—except I wasn’t shaking as much, and I didn’t feel like my bowels were about to fall out in the middle of the magazine section of the Fort Smith Public Library.

So it could have been worse.

My first thought about what I was feeling is that it had to do with my fear of being judged. My second thought is that it had to with fear of being judged. But after banging my head against the wall for the last thirty minutes trying to figure out where this story is going, I think that feeling of nervousness, anxiety, and fear had more to do with the fact that I’m not being patient with myself.

I’ll explain.

About a year ago, I noticed that I was getting really frustrated with just about everyone in my life. Sometimes it was my dance students, sometimes it was my parents, and sometimes it was the checkout person at the grocery story. It was like I just wanted to scream, “Why the hell can’t you figure this out?” to everyone I came in contact with. When I talked to my therapist about it, I said, “I wish I could be more patient.” And I don’t even think she thought about it very long before she said, “Well, you’re not very patient with yourself.”

Well, for someone who spends a lot of time reading self-help-spiritual-love-your-neighbor books, this was a real buzz kill because I thought I was further along the road in terms of patience. I must have obsessed about it for a couple of weeks. I even talked to my friend Craig about it. (He’s a retired therapist, so I guess it counts as an official second opinion.) Craig said it was possible for me to be patient with myself, but just not in certain circumstances.

When I took this second opinion back to my therapist, she agreed. She said, “I imagine that you’re really patient with yourself when you’re learning to dance.”

This evening I taught a dance lesson to a couple who are getting married later this month. The guy has a SUPER deep voice and sounds like what might happen if James Earl Jones and Morgan Freeman had a lovechild. I mean, if cognac had a voice, it would sound like this guy. Every time he opens his mouth, I’m mesmerized. Like he could ask me to jump off a bridge, and I’d probably do it just because he sounds like God. Throw in a burning bush, and I’d be headed for heaven.

Well, the guy has seemed frustrated with his progress so far, even though he’s pretty much right on track with what’s average. Last week he said, “I have to do things over and over again before I can get them,” and it felt more like an apology than an explanation. My response was, “Good, repetition is how everyone learns best.”

When I see students get frustrated, I always try to be over-the-top encouraging because dancing really is difficult. It’s like learning a new language or learning to play an instrument. There are so many moving parts and so many things to think about all at once. It’s virtually impossible for someone without prior experience to come in and pick things up quickly. It takes time. It takes patience.

And whereas I know how long it can take to be a proficient dancer, it’s a really hard fact to get across to people. It’s like their expectations are too high, and they’re usually too hard on themselves.

Well shit.

So that’s the thing with the writing contest. My expectations are too high. I’m being too hard on myself. I’m thinking that everything I do has to be absolutely stunning, and it has to be recognized–now. But if I could take the patience I have when it comes to dance and apply it to writing—Wow—I can only imagine how much better all that nervousness, anxiety, and fear would be.

Before my lesson with the couple ended tonight, the guy said (in a really deep voice), “I’m going to get this.” And I think that’s the perfect thing because he didn’t say, “I’m going to get this—tonight.” He’s giving himself time. And isn’t that what time’s for? What I’m realizing is there’s often a long road between where you stand and where you want to be. But with patience as your traveling companion, the journey is much, much smoother.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can’t play small forever.

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