getting body positive (blog #39)

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I’ve been thinking that if I want good material to write about every day, it would really help for me to leave the house. I mean, I could tell you about my trip to the mailbox today, or the fact that Dad watched his favorite soap opera twice (once by himself and once with Mom), but I can’t imagine that would be anymore exciting than the fact that I had spinach for breakfast (woo).

Yesterday while I was waiting on my prescriptions to be filled, I decided it was time to buy some groceries and put together a meal plan for the week that didn’t involve white bread and eating peanut butter from a jar. So I picked up some protein, fruit and vegetables, almond milk, and granola. I also got some dandelion tea because I’m fancy (and it’s supposed to be cleansing). And despite the fact that I ate fried chicken, chocolate chip cookies, AND cheese fried in corndog batter less than twenty-four hours before, I still felt like a superior bitch when I put my healthy food on the conveyer belt next to some lady’s TV dinner.

I’m telling myself that I don’t have to do a 30-day balls-to-the-wall diet like I’ve done in the past. I can start slow, drink more water, cut out desserts. So that’s what I did today. After dinner, Mom and Dad and I listened to the S-Town Podcast, which if you don’t know about, you need to. This is my second time through it, and it’s storytelling at its finest. Anyway, during the podcast, I did a few yoga stretches. It was nothing major, but it was a beginning, and that’s something.

I’m not sure why the decision to eat a couple healthy meals today and do some light stretching feels so good. Like, I stepped on the scale this evening, and it’s not as if the number changed from what it was last week. But I actually feel better, and I’m sure that feeling has something to do with self-respect.

Caroline Myss, who teaches about chakras (the energetic centers that produce and maintain our physical bodies), says that our self-esteem is located at our third chakra, which is around the navel. She says that we grow our self-esteem when we keep the promises we make. So if you’re always telling yourself that you’re going to start a diet or go to the gym or whatever and you don’t, your self-esteem will take a hit because you’re literally not being true to yourself.

My therapist and I don’t talk about weight a lot, but she says that if you’re going to eat stuff that’s “bad” for you, eat the expensive stuff. Don’t waste your time on Cheetos because they don’t fully satisfy. Really indulge. At some point, you’ll burn out. She also says that most people go back and forth within a ten-to-fifteen pound range, so even though I freak out about gaining ten pounds, it’s a normal thing to do. As my friend Jim says, “Weight goes up, weight goes down.”

Seasons change.

Beating yourself up is a far cry from self-respect.

Last week I spent a couple of days with my friend Kira. She used to take dance from me, but then, just to prove that miracles exist, she met a stud in the military and moved to Italy. Anyway, she’s back in the states, and while we were hanging out, she used a phrase that I’ve fallen in love with. It’s “body positive.” Kira says that body positive means that you think and speak well about your body, you don’t put yourself down. And maybe it’s not something you get perfect, but it’s a goal, and I think it’s a good one.

In light of body positive, I’ve been thinking a lot this week about my tendency to pick at all my physical imperfections, and I had a small revelation. It might seem obvious, but I realized that all the picking and self-criticism don’t do any good. They don’t really motivate me. More than that, none of it makes me happy.

Recently a friend and I were talking about how I was able to get to the point of selling most of my worldly possessions, how I went from being a hanger-on-er to a let-it-go-er. I said that before I decide to sell everything, I was coming home most days depressed. (My therapist says I wasn’t clinically depressed, but I definitely wasn’t myself.) And one day I was looking at all my stuff and thought, If it’s that great, it would make me happy. If it’s that important, I wouldn’t be sad.

So I got rid of it. And sure, there are a few things I still think about, but nothing I’m heartbroken about letting go of, and I’m happier with less than I was with more. Go figure.

That’s what I mean about all the self-criticism not making me happy. I’ve been at it a long time, and both in the short and the long-term, it hasn’t done anything for me except make me feel worse. I mean, I know I want to eat better, and I can do something about that to show myself respect. But changing your habits in order to improve your life is different than beating yourself up in order to feel better about yourself. Beating yourself up, after all, isn’t body positive. Beating yourself is a far cry from self-respect.

I’ll let you know how the gentle, body positive approach goes. It’s only been one day, but so far, so good. And don’t worry, I promise this won’t become a food blog. I’m not a great chef. Plus, I’m leaving the house tomorrow (woo), so there will be other things to talk about it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes we move with grace and sometimes we move with struggle. But at some point, standing still is no longer good enough.

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a higher perspective (blog #38)

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Wayne Dyer tells the story about a memory he had during a spiritual experience. The memory took place before his birth, and his soul was deciding under what conditions it would be incarnated. He says that during his life on earth he wanted to teach others about unconditional love and finding their inner strength, so he knew that he first had to develop those qualities in himself. The best way to do that, he reasoned, was through a difficult circumstance. So it was at that time, before he was even born, that he decided his father needed to be an alcoholic who would later abandon him to an orphanage.

I think about this story a lot. There are a number of spiritual teachers who propose that we choose our parents, that our souls map out major players and events in our lives long before they actually happen, that there are no such things as accidents. Most of the time, I’m inclined to believe this way. Of course, the bitch of the whole thing is that once you’re here on earth (and not wherever you were before you came here), you forget all the reasons your soul had for picking out your family, your partner, your job, and even your body (you know, the one with the receding hairline).

Many people who have had out-of-body or near-death experiences say that in between lifetimes, our soul has counselors, other souls who advise us on how best to set up our life here on earth. I guess those counselors are pretty sharp, and they say things like, “I know it’s been a while since you’ve been in a physical body, and you’ve probably forgotten how miserable it can be to have back problems. Maybe you don’t really want to go to earth this time. Take another look. It’s a fucking mess down there.” I also guess our souls are pretty determined, like they can look at the plan for a painful life, decide that the positives far outweigh the negatives, and say, “Sign me up. I can take it.”

Personally, I haven’t had a spiritual experience during which I’ve remembered why my soul decided to come to earth. But I’m constantly attracted to literature and teachers that talk about unconditional love and the idea that life is kind, so it probably has something to do with learning more about those things. As a result, I can usually look at even the most terrible events that have happened in my life and see that those are the times when I grew the most. So the older I get, the more reluctant I am to label any experience as bad. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I enjoy the difficult times, but it does make them more bearable.

These things have been on my mind today because this afternoon I went to a walk-in clinic. I’ve been coughing for a week now, and last night during a fit of coughing, I think I actually levitated and I know for certain that my chest vibrated. I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think that’s supposed to happen. So I went to the doctor and found out that I have an upper respiratory infection, probably brought on by “allergy season.”

Even as I’m typing now, I’m fighting the urge to not get frustrated because I’ve been on so many antibiotics lately (and I hate that) and because I just had that sinus surgery and it’s easy to look at the mucus that I cough up every morning and think that it didn’t do a damn bit of good. I’m so tired of getting sick (again) that my knee-jerk reaction is to label the whole thing as “bad.”

Now, that being said, I’ve done a pretty decent job today of not letting that frustration overwhelm me. Rather, I’ve thought a lot about the fact that everyone at the clinic and pharmacy was extremely kind and helpful. Insurance took care of the majority of charges, and the doctor was gentle and attentive. When I told him I taught dance, he asked if I had a studio, and when I said that I’d closed mine and wanted to move, he said, “I hope you find yourself in a place you love doing what you enjoy doing.”

I imagine that he has no idea what a simple sentence like that means to me. Most days, I keep my chin up. I can look at my life the way it is—living with my parents, in a town I’m grateful for but not in love with, having no definite plan for what’s to come next, worried my dreams won’t come true—and keep putting one foot in front of the other. But when I get sick, especially with a sinus infection, I tend to lose hope. And I’ve spent so much time being scared of and intimidated by life as a whole, that it’s a really big thing to sit in a doctor’s office comfortably and recognize the moment for what it was—kind.

I spent this evening reading another hundred pages in Andrew Solomon’s book about depression, so my parents and I talked about it, and my mom told my dad how grateful she was that he’d stuck by her for all these years. (It’s common for depressives to lose their jobs, friends, and spouses.) The conversation made me think of just how hopeless depression must feel, especially chronic depression like my mom’s. Comparatively, my sinus issues are nothing, although they do bring up that feeling of hopelessness.

When I look at my mom, I see someone who is really strong, although I’m sure she doesn’t feel that way most of the time. But she was probably one of those souls that said, “Sign me up. I can take it.” I wouldn’t presume to know what her journey is all about, but when I think about why my soul might choose a mom with depression, I imagine that it would be because it’s teaching me to be gentler with myself and others, to be more compassionate, to be less demanding. As Mom said once, “You don’t have to excel every day.”

And when I think about why in god’s name I might choose a body with tendency for sinus infections, I imagine it would be because it’s been the perfect vehicle for me to learn to love myself—no matter how I feel—no matter what condition. Additionally, it’s helping me see the world as a kinder place, a place where there is help, a place where there is hope, a place where there is rest for the tired.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you want to become who you were meant to be, it's absolutely necessary to shed your old skin. Sure it might be sad to say goodbye--to your old phone, to your old beliefs, anything that helped get you this far--but you've got to let go in order to make room for something new.

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on being embarrassed (blog #31)

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Today I woke up at two in the afternoon. I should really start doing that more often. It felt glorious. Alternatively, I guess I could start going to bed earlier, but I really think God intended things like blogging and eating tacos to only be done after midnight, under the cover of darkness. (Isn’t that one of the commandments?)

When my aunt woke me up this afternoon, she told me that she’d come into my room earlier to make sure I was still breathing. She’d read last night’s blog about my talking to Jesus and taking a Hydrocodone, and wanted to make sure I hadn’t overdosed on either one. (I’m currently picturing one of those witty church signs saying something like: Prescription—Jesus, Side Effects may include heaven.)

Once I got around, my aunt took me to lunch with my cousin. At one point, they were talking about a flower arrangement my cousin had given my aunt, and when she realized that he’d made the arrangement himself, she said, “You did good!” And then my cousin, totally deadpan, looked at her and said, “Mom, I did WELL. Superman does good.”

Isn’t that amazing? Superman does good. I nearly spit out my third cup of coffee. (And I wonder why I have trouble falling asleep at night.)

After breakfast (that’s lunch to you), I walked to Utica Square to do some shopping. Well, even though it was cold, I wore shorts because they fit better than my jeans. It’s like this little mind-game I play with myself. The tighter my pants are, the fatter I feel, so if my pants aren’t tight, that must mean I’m not fat. Well, that logic works for a while, at least until it’s fifty degrees outside and the only pants that fit you turn out to not actually be pants at all.

Even though I tried on six or eight items of clothing, I didn’t buy anything because everything was either too short, too tight around the shoulders, too not perfect. And whereas I actually do need a few more things to wear, it was nice not to spend the money and end up with something I wasn’t really gung-ho about. I’ve blogged about it before, but this is one of the perks of minimalist living—more money, fewer things I don’t adore.

Back at my aunt’s house, we spent the evening in her living room, just chatting. A few times her dog Benny climbed up on me, looking for some attention. This is what I love about animals. They just ask for what they want. (One time in therapy, my therapist suggested that anytime I wanted a hug, I could simply ask my friends for one, so sometimes I do that. So far, no one’s refused.)

My aunt pointed out that Benny has some benign lumps on his body, and the biggest one (about the size of a baseball) is in a rather personal area. And then my aunt joked, “If he knew any better, he’d be embarrassed.” So we both laughed, and then my writer brain went to work thinking about all the times I’ve been embarrassed and whether or not I could make a story out of any of it. And the only memory that came to mind was when I was in my early twenties and got hit on by a millionaire.

I’ll try to be brief.

When my dad was in prison, he met a millionaire (a guy in his sixties, maybe) who was in prison for something to do with taxes. So when they both got out of prison, the man invited our family to visit him. And I guess a lot of guys in prison brag about having big houses and a lot of cars and antiques, but it’s usually all bullshit. But this guy actually had all that stuff.

Why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?

Well, we had a great time, but looking back, the guy hit on me a lot. I guess I knew it at the time, but I was pretty naïve back then, so I didn’t fully see it for what it was. At one point, he straight up told me that I had a nice ass, and I guess I blushed or started stuttering. I don’t remember what I said, but it must have been something like, “I’d be too embarrassed to say something like that.” And I just remember the guy saying, “Why would you be embarrassed to say you like something?”

I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. And although I’m not saying I think everything the guy said and did was socially appropriate, even now I’m struck by his confidence, his lack of shame. I used to think that his confidence had to do with his money or age. I’m sure it all helps. But in my experience, the more I accept myself, the less ashamed and less embarrassed I am. I’m still not where Benny is, but maybe one day I’ll be completely okay with a few extra pounds, or a pair of pants that fit too tight, or asking for what I want. I mean, why should anyone be embarrassed about something they can’t immediately change? What’s more, why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your story isn’t about your physical challenges.

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one hand in the light (blog #25)

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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)

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Your emotions are tired of being ignored.

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two-beer Marcus (blog #24)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More joy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

More authentic joy.

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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why i can’t stop working (blog #7)

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This week I’ve been house sitting for some friends of mine, and today I started a small painting project for them. I spent most the day thinking about how much my mood improves when I’m working, how much better I feel about myself. It’s a topic that’s been on my mind a lot the last few months because I’ve spent so much time lately not doing a damn thing except watching Grace and Frankie and Downtown Abbey (and judging myself for it the entire time). And it’s like I have this underlying guilt about the whole situation that’s my life right now–not having a job, not having a calendar full of to-do items, not being “productive.”

Productive. That’s the word that keeps comes up in therapy. It’s like I always have to be doing something I deem worthwhile, moving objects from here to there, earning a dollar, “succeeding.” I look at people who are able to sit on their porch and drink their morning coffee for an hour, and on the one hand, I’m jealous that they can relax. On the other hand, I’m judging them for not multitasking, listening to a self-help podcast while they down their caffeine.

At one point, maybe a year ago, my therapist said, “How would you feel if I told you that you couldn’t read any non-fiction books, listen to any interviews with spiritual teachers, or watch any self-help videos for a week?” And it’s like my butthole did that thing that happens when you first realize you’ve got food poisoning. But then I calmed down, took a deep breath, and said I thought I could do it.

Well, it ended up being the greatest thing, like somehow it was okay to not be improving, striving for perfection every damn minute of every damn day. But sometime over the last year, I’ve forgotten the lesson. Or maybe now I’m just being asked to apply what I’ve learned on a broader scale. (The universe does a lot of shit like this. It’s like a video game. You pass one level, and then, damn it, you just move on to a harder one.)

And I guess this just feels like a really hard level, spending most days not doing much other than going to the mailbox and changing the cat liter. And yes, I get the irony that I think NOT working is difficult, but again, I apparently have a lot of my self-worth tied up in work and productivity.

This evening, I went to my friend Bonnie’s house. Bonnie and her husband, Todd, have offered their home as a space for me to teach dance lessons, so tonight I worked with a couple who are getting married in a few weeks. After the lesson, Bonnie and Todd invited me to stay for dinner, and then Bonnie asked if I wanted to dance for fun, which we did. For a minute. And then I started teaching. I couldn’t help it.

Before I left, Bonnie said, “You didn’t have to teach me anything. I really did just want to dance for fun. You know you don’t owe us anything.”

On my way home, I started thinking about when I was a teenager. My dad was a pharmacist, and he was a arrested for misusing his license, and he spent almost six years in prison. Well, Mom was pretty sick, so we didn’t have a lot of money. I remember having to return one car to the bank and them coming to get another. For a few years, I attended First Baptist Church in Van Buren, and one of the Sunday school classes gave my family this cardboard box wrapped in Valentine’s paper, and it was full of canned goods and Kraft macaroni. And I know that it was the sweetest thing, that they just wanted to give, but the box sat in a corner of the kitchen for years, and it was like this constant reminder of how we weren’t able to provide for ourselves.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about feeling embarrassed, and maybe it goes back to Dad being arrested and the Valentine’s box full of non-perishable food items. I’m just going to go ahead and say that’s exactly where it started, watching our nice things being repossessed because we could no longer pay for them. I remember one day, as a sixteen-year-old, having to go to the bank to meet with a loan officer. The whole meeting was about whether or not we could stay in our house until Dad got home from prison, since we weren’t able to pay for it. A family friend was there with me, but I just remember being totally overwhelmed, way in over my head. I remember crying in front of the loan officer, like I’m just a kid.

The bank ended up letting us stay, which I get now is a pretty big deal. It’s a huge grace. That being said, the whole situation really left me with this feeling that I had to earn my way in the world, that it’s somehow embarrassing to be in a situation where you need help. And what I’m thinking in this moment is that my need to be productive every damn minute of every damn day isn’t really about my self-worth, it’s about wanting to not be embarrassed. Because that’s what it feels like to not have a job or drive a nicer car. That’s what it feels like to move back in with my parents. And I know Bonnie and Todd well enough to know their hearts, that they really do want to give me a space to teach dance and they really do want me to stay for dinner–because we’re friends–and not because they feel sorry for me. And still it’s the hardest grace for me to wrap my head around, that I don’t have to earn my place in this world, that I don’t have to grow up and have all the answers as fast as I think I do, that there’s love available for me in each new moment if I can only accept it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can't build a house, much less a life, from the outside-in. Rather, if you want something that's going to last, you have to start on the inside and work your way out, no matter how long it takes and how difficult it is.

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stardust and fairies (blog #2)

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Last night I had a dream about my friend Hunter. As background, I met Hunter several years ago when he was still a senior in high school and I was working for a local magazine as a writer. Hunter had written a play that his drama department was putting on, and it was kind of a big deal that a school was producing a play written by a student, so I wrote a story about it. (I’d share it with you, but the magazine changed names and websites and took down all the old stories. Bummer.)

Almost immediately, I liked Hunter. I found him intelligent, talented, adorable, and charming, and we started to form a friendship. He’s now living in Los Angeles, trying to make it as an actor, and we maybe get together once a year. Even though I don’t see Hunter very often, I feel about him today the way I felt when I first met him–I love him unconditionally. What I mean by that is that although I’m not in love with him, I just love him. Like, it doesn’t matter what he does or doesn’t do, and it doesn’t matter how often we talk, or if he comes to town and doesn’t call. I just care about him, I want him to have a good life, and that’s it.

I can’t say exactly why some people get unconditional love just like that and others either have to warm up to it or never get it at all. But I think the answer has to do with stardust and fairies.

The author Elizabeth Gilbert tells a story in her book Big Magic about meeting the author Ann Patchett, exchanging a kiss, and later finding out that Ann was halfway through writing a novel that was almost detail-for-detail the same as one Elizabeth had given up writing years before (but had never talked to Ann about). Elizabeth says that she believes ideas sort of float around, knocking on people’s doors until they find someone who will let them in, work with them, and help them become real things. She says that because she couldn’t finish the book, it went to someone else. And she thinks the idea jumped from her to Ann when they kissed.

I love shit like this.

Last night I heard Ann speak at the Fayetteville Public Library. When someone asked her about her side of the story involving Elizabeth Gilbert, she said it happened basically like Liz said, although she added that they’d been drinking before they kissed and that no body fluids were exchanged. As for the interpretation of what happened, she said that Liz was more spiritual than she was, that Liz was more “stardust and fairies.” She said that the coincidence was hard to deny, but that she was more “meat and potatoes” about it. I guess she told Liz, “So you’re telling me I was the book’s second choice?”

Personally, I like stardust and fairies over meat and potatoes. Call it God, the universe, your soul, or your subconscious. Call it stardust and fairies. But I like the idea that something wise is driving the ship or at least on board the ship, helping to steer us in the right direction.

I once had a friend tell me that when you’re gay, you don’t just come out of the closet. He said, “First you accept it in someone else, then you accept it in yourself.” I think the statement is pretty profound, largely because I think its application goes beyond sexuality.

My friend Eugenia says, “If you spot it, you got it.” Normally, we think of this truth in a negative sense, like if you notice how someone else complains all the fucking time, it probably means that you complain all the fucking time. (It sucks, I know.) But I think this truth applies across the board. Getting back to Hunter, if there’s someone in your life that you think is intelligent, talented, adorable, and charming, it probably means that you are too. First you accept it in someone else, then you accept it in yourself.

In my experience, accepting the good parts about myself is a process. It’s much easier to recognize them in someone else. It’s easier to love someone else unconditionally than it is to love myself unconditionally. But I think that’s why people like Hunter show up in our lives. They help steer us in the right direction. They help remind us of our deep capacity to love. Even better, when we give love, we get love. It’s like a trick the universe plays, like when you’re walking down the street and see a person in a shop window. At first you think it’s someone else, but then you realize, “Oh wait, that’s me over me. That’s me I’m loving.”

My therapist and I talk a lot about dreams. A couple of months ago, I had a dream that I was riding on the back of a swan, and (go figure), Katie Holmes was riding on another swan next to me. Both of us were flying over a big body of water. (Water shows up a lot in my dreams and is universally associated with the subconscious and emotions.) My therapist said that dreaming of a swan seemed pretty auspicious (she likes to use that word), and that swans are associated with grace under pressure, that it was like my subconscious recognizing that I was doing the best I can during this time of change.

When we talked about Katie Holmes, my therapist asked me what I associated with Katie Holmes. (When it comes to dreams, it’s not really about the other person; it’s about what the other person makes you think of.) I said that when I think of Katie Holmes, I think of her character on Dawson’s Creek and the episode in which she sang “On My Own” from Les Mis. So my therapist said the dream was also about my feeling alone in the world right now.

So get this. My therapist comes back the next session and says that she’s been researching swans. She says that she found out that they are always found in pairs. Swans are never alone.

I love shit like this.

In the dream last night about Hunter, Hunter and I were in a hotel. Hotels, like water, show up a lot for me. They represent times of transition–like, I don’t know–living with your parents. I haven’t discussed the dream with my therapist yet, but I’ve been at this long enough to know that the dream has something to do with being in a time of transition and seeing myself as intelligent and talented (and maybe even adorable and worthy of unconditional love) even though I haven’t made it to my next destination.

When I came to the library this afternoon, I knew that I was going to blog about Hunter and the dream, so I started looking for a photo of Hunter on my personal Instagram account. The one I found was taken over four years ago, when Hunter and I were hanging out at IHOP. It was the first time I found out about his nervous habit–a habit I’d forgotten about until this afternoon–twisting paper napkins into the shape of animals.

Well that’s not exactly right. Hunter doesn’t make animals out of paper napkins. Hunter makes just one animal out of paper napkins. And maybe you’ll look at the picture and see meat and potatoes.  But I look at the picture and see stardust and fairies. I look at the picture and am reminded that I’m being steered in the direction of unconditional love, both for others and for myself. I’m reminded that I’m not alone. Why? Take a look at the photo I took long before therapy or any of the dream interpretation ever started. Hunter makes paper…swans.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Freedom lies on the other side of everything you're afraid of.

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