Any Dancing Jesus (Blog #456)

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Last night I drove to Springfield, Missouri, to attend a weekly dance at The Savoy, a ballroom owned by my friends Anne and Andy. My friend Matt was there, and it was the perfect thing–dancing, seeing friends–a way to get away. Anne and Andy rent The Savoy for weddings and events, so after the dance I helped them and Matt set it up for a local graduation. When we finished at 1:30 in the morning we went for tacos, then I crashed at Anne and Andy’s place, which is above the ballroom.

Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep great, at least at first. Probably too much beer, which was my payment for helping set things up. Also, I apparently got sunburned yesterday at my friend CJ’s farm. My back looks like something you’d find at a Western Sizzlin’ Steakhouse. Point is I must have dehydrated myself, since I woke up in the middle of the night with a headache. But then I drank a glass of water, took some Tylenol, and went back to bed, and things were better this morning.

Phew.

I’ve spent the day dicking around Springfield with Matt. First we went to Chipotle for lunch, then perused a handful of antique stores. Later we grabbed frozen custard, then came back to the ballroom so Matt could work the graduation, which is going on now. Everyone else is downstairs, and I’m blogging upstairs. Whenever the event is over, I’ll help get things ready for a wedding tomorrow (or at least help eat the leftover graduation cake). As I’m pretty beat from all the sun, dancing, and calories, I’m hoping to get a nap in first.

It may not happen.

Before my estate sale, I boasted a modest collection of religious figurines–Jesus on the Cross, the Mother Mary, a Buddha or two–I had all my spiritual bases covered. And whereas I liked all the statues for different reasons, the only one I didn’t sell was Jesus on the Cross, a mid-century modern piece I affectionately refer to as Rock Star Jesus, since his hips and arms are kind of kicked off to one side. In addition to looking like a dancer (and the fact that there’s a story in the Acts of John about Jesus dancing before his crucifixion), Rock Star Jesus reminds me to surrender joyfully to the trials of life.

I wrote a blog about Rock Star Jesus, surrendering, and resurrection here.

When Matt and I were antique shopping today, I bought another statue of Jesus, this one brass, small enough to fit in your pocket. (A travel-sized savior, if you will.) This statue, I guess, implies a cross but doesn’t actually have one. Or perhaps it represent’s the resurrection, the triumphant return, the rising. Regardless, Christ’s arms are raised higher than normal, as if in praise, as if in celebration, as if to say, “Friday was a rather bad day, but now let’s party.” The whole thing made me think of a recent picture my friend Bonnie took of me in Nashville, in which I adopted a similar pose under a sign marked “receiving.” You can read about it here, but my idea was that raising my arms represented my willingness to receive all the good (and even the not so good) life and the universe have to offer.

Your story isn’t about your physical challenges.

All this to say that I thought the new statute with its outstretched arms was the perfect reminder of a hundred things–surrender, resurrection, joy in all circumstances, receiving and abundance, even asking for a hug. (Come to papa.) This is the deal with a symbol. It can mean so many things. After four years of therapy, I look at the statue’s out-turned palms and think, There was a man with good boundaries, someone who could say no–to money changers, to temptation, to compromising his soul. (Or maybe those flicked-out wrists just mean Jesus knew how to vogue.) I know I’m making jokes about a sacred figure. I know that as of this afternoon I’ve effectively started a collection of Whirling Messiahs. But having had a challenging year, I actually take these statues seriously, since they remind me that Jesus had his challenges too and–what’s more–surpassed them. If you believe the story in the Acts of John, he danced passed them. This, I think, is the message of any dancing Jesus, that your story isn’t about your physical challenges, but rather your soul’s rising.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"I believe we're all courageous, and I believe that no one is alone."

The Long, Slow Road (Blog #389)

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This morning I officially started the Autoimmune Paleo Diet (AIP), and I don’t mind saying it sucks. Granted, all the food I’ve eaten, which basically amounts to meat, vegetables, and fruit (minus nightshades, nuts, and eggs), has been delicious. But no matter how much I eat, I just stay hungry. This has always been my experience whenever I’ve given up breads and sugars in the past–it takes a while to get adjusted.

My main irritation is that whenever I look in the refrigerator or cabinets, all I can see are the things I CAN’T eat–things like peanut butter, peanut butter, and peanut butter.

I’m trying to remind myself that it’s not that I CAN’T eat peanut butter and all the other no-noes in the kitchen, but that I’m CHOOSING to not eat them in order to give my body a chance to heal. Last night a friend explained to me that nightshades (one of the forbidden foods on AIP) is anything with a “cap”–tomatoes, eggplants, peppers. Later I read that nightshades can contribute to inflammation in some people, that they can actually cause or exacerbate eczema or contact dermatitis. Having spent the last several months with generally irritable skin and having recently endured a rather disconcerting skin reaction to a change in laundry detergent, I’m really hoping that CHOOSING to cut out nightshades will help. Not that I want to give up ketchup and paprika forever, but I would like my skin back. So here’s to Day One of Good Choices.

Let the healing begin.

Part of AIP is not just avoiding certain foods and eating others, but also “feeding your gut,” which means ingesting nutrient-dense foods and probiotics like bone broth, kombucha, and sauerkraut. (The plan also suggests eating liver and heart, but as my dad said, “No.”) Anyway, I “cheated” and bought bone broth powder last week, and this afternoon I picked up some kombucha and sauerkraut at the local health food store, since the grocery store I went to yesterday didn’t have the brands I wanted.

So this has been today–I’ve eaten two meals and two snacks, run one errand, and–y’all–I’ve taken two naps. For whatever reason–my recent immunizations or the change in diet (did I mention it doesn’t include coffee!)–my body is exhausted. I’m trying to go with it. This is a lesson I’m slowly (slowly) learning, to TRUST my body, to believe that if it’s irritated, there’s a reason, if it’s tired, it needs rest. Sounds simple, I know, but you wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve refused to listen to my body’s messages, the number of times I’ve completely ignored them or insisted on soldiering through.

Of course, I wish my body’s messages were clearer. Like, if tomatoes are contributing to my skin issues, it’s obviously a cumulative effect, since it’s not like I eat one tomato and break out in hives. So I wish I had an internal buzzer that went off or maybe a blinking light that flashed whenever I picked a tomato up, some sort of warning signal that announced, “Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.” OH!–I’ve got it. What if our fingernails turned black when we touched something harmful like a handful of peanuts or even a sociopath?

That would be cool.

This is one of my big gripes about the way the planet earth is set up, that cause and effect aren’t always very clear down here, that we often have to look and look and look some more before finding answers. I realize God and the universe aren’t in the habit of asking for feedback, but if they ever do ask, that’s what I’d say. Like, did you have to make everything such a big mystery? And if tomatoes are such a problem, why did you have to give them a cute little cap and make them so damn tasty?

I mean–a vegetable with a hat–who WOULDN’T want to gobble that up?

You stop thinking you know everything.

Caroline Myss says that a big part of the spiritual journey is learning endurance, and I guess that means you can’t have everything handed to you on a silver platter. Rather, it’s been my experience that anything worth having–mental or physical health, money, whatever–are best enjoyed when they are hard-earned. Then they aren’t taken for granted. Plus, when you’ve had to look and look and look some more, you have more compassion for others who are looking, others who are trying to find their way. When things don’t come easily or quickly, you stop thinking you know everything. Consequently, you go easier on yourself and others. Yes, this is the benefit of long, slow road, the road that makes you stronger, the road that makes you kinder.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Some days, most days, are a mixed bag. We cry, we laugh, we quit, we start again. That's life. In the process, we find out we're stronger than we thought we were, and perhaps this is healing.

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The Beauty of Life’s Presence (Blog #376)

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8:19 AM | Dallas Airport

This morning I woke up at a quarter to five, normally the time I’d be going to bed. And whereas I can’t say that I sprang to life, I managed. After eating breakfast, I was miraculously able to fit all my clothes, electronic devices, and toiletries (including all my creams, pastes, and lotions for my various skin issues) into my luggage. My dad drove to the Fort Smith airport, and the check-in process was quick and seamless, one of the few advantages to living in a small town. Well, there was one snag. My granola bars, all twelve of them, were individually wiped down and checked for explosives residue by TSA. The guy who performed this health-food pat-down actually did so with a serious look on his face, as if he, like Sherlock Holmes, were going to uncover some ill intent of mine by fondling my raisins and nuts with his blue-gloved hands. It took everything in me, including my faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, to not roll my eyes.

Like, I’m not going to hijack the plane, sir, I’m just watching my waistline.

The flight here to Dallas went well. The plane itself, operated by American Airlines, was a puddle jumper, but since the seat next to me was empty, I felt like I was flying first class. The coffee was lukewarm, like those Christians God wants nothing to do with. He and I had the same thought–I will spew you out of my mouth. The miniature pretzels came in a bag that said, “It’s crunch time.” Cute, right? The Biscotti biscuits, made overseas, didn’t have a calorie count on the back of the package, so I made up my own–zero.

Now I’m in Terminal B at the Dallas airport, drinking hot coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts and charging my phone. The flight to Memphis should be boarding soon. As I’m typing, my hands are shaking from lack of sleep and the fact that they’ve been shaky a lot lately. It’s probably “just one more thing” or–more likely–an inherited condition. (Thanks, Dad.) I’m sure the coffee doesn’t help. Earlier I made a lap around the terminal to get the lay of the land, and no one–including the hot TSA agent with biceps as big as my thighs–looks happy to be here. I know we take things for granted, but come on, y’all–we’re flying!

3:56 PM | Memphis

I spoke too soon. Earlier when I said, “We’re flying,” I meant to say, “We’re sitting on the runway for two hours!” Y’all, our plane had a problem with the steering mechanism, which I guess is important. Anyway, it took a while to fix, then we had to wait longer because someone got pissed off (I assume) and wanted to exit the plane. What do you do? In my case, I tweeted American Airlines about it, suggesting they give everyone on board free alcohol. Believe it or not, they responded, like, we’re sorry you’re having a bad day.

But no free alcohol. (For a link to my Twitter account, which I’m trying to use more often, click here.)

Also, I found out I was wrong about the number of calories in Biscotti biscuits. The correct number is 120, not zero. What a drag–what a serious drag.

When I arrived in Memphis, the public relations firm I’m working for this week transported me and a few other journalists to our respective hotels. Arriving at the Hotel Napoleon in downtown Memphis at one, I decided to kill some time (that is, eat some pancakes at the Blue Plate Cafe) until the official check-in time at three. After the pancakes, I walked Main Street, stopping at a used bookstore and the National Civil Rights Museum (the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King was assassinated). The museum itself was closed today, but there were still a lot of people outside looking up at Room 306, where the murder took place. It felt like sacred ground, everyone quiet or speaking in hushed voices.

Now I’m settled into my room, and y’all, it’s swank. There’s a sliding barn door between the sink area and the shower, and a mirror with a built-in light that makes my skin look radiant. The hotel is new (a year and a half), so everything is up-to-date and modern with USB wall plugs and shit like that. I’ve got the room to myself and a couple hours to kill before dinner (our first official group activity), so I’d like to catch a nap. It’s been a long day, and I imagine it will be an even longer week, albeit a fun one. More later.

10:45 PM | Memphis

OMG, y’all, I’m stuffed. After my nap, I met the group for dinner at Blues City Cafe, and it was SO good. (Everyone else had ribs and catfish; I ate steak because I’m that guy.) Also, I’m not just saying that because I’m sort of being paid to promote everywhere I’m going. I’m doing that elsewhere (and meaning it), but this is still my blog. But seriously, so great. There was live music, and just, well, the south and its food. Also, the waitress gave us a handwritten note, thanking us for being there. It said, “The beauty of your presence was my pleasure.” This reminds that each person truly is beautiful, if we only stop to notice.

After dinner I wandered around Beale Street and visited with some of the folks who work for the company that brought me here. One of them was even kind enough to walk me back to my hotel when I was ready to leave so I wouldn’t get mugged. Talk about a gentleman!

So far everyone I’ve met has been really great, kind, interesting. I was stressed getting here, but now that I’m here, I’m thrilled. It’s good to be out-of-town.

It’s like white people who clap on the 1 and the 3.

Earlier this evening I got the results of my latest blood work, the blood work the immunologist ordered. I’m not doctor, but everything (except my tetanus antibodies) came back within range. When I told my dad, I said, “At some point, I wish they’d find SOMETHING wrong.” But what do I know? Some of the levels were right on the line, so maybe there is something to “fix.” I should hear from the doctor in a day or two with his interpretation. But it is frustrating, not feeling well and seeing test after test that says I’m perfectly fine–on paper. I swear, it’s like white people who clap on the 1 and the 3. You know just as well as I do–something ain’t right.

While looking around Beale Street, a necklace I often wear, a spiritual necklace of sorts, broke. Specifically, the chain broke. I felt it give, then the pendant on the necklace just rolled across the floor like one of Elvis’s records, bumped right up against a display full of shot glasses and t-shirts. According to the group that gave me the necklace, this is supposed to mean something (not good), like–I don’t know–stay away from booze and rock and roll. More likely, if it means anything, it means I could pay more attention to my spiritual life, which I’ve admittedly had “an attitude” about this last year. I truly do believe that the beauty of life’s presence is everywhere–in a good meal, in the face of a stranger, in the sound of the blues. All of this is sacred ground. There’s not a square inch of the universe, including you and me, that isn’t. But I know that when I don’t feel well, when life is “challenging,” that’s when I lose that connection. That’s when my chain breaks. That’s when I don’t see life for what it actually is–love, baby, love.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing is set in stone here.

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An Inflammation Whose Cause Is Unknown (Blog #368)

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Today I went to Walmart to refill a prescription and got distracted by some hair products that were on sale, buy one, get one free. I didn’t end up buying anything, first because I wasn’t impressed with the selection, second because Ben Franklin said, “A penny saved is a penny earned.” So even though I don’t really have a job right now, this afternoon I earned seventeen dollars and ninety-five cents (plus tax). That’s better than minimum wage. Impressive, I know. Anyway, the description for one of the Redkin products said it was for “highly distressed” hair. So now I’m going to start describing myself this way whenever I “just can’t,” telling even total strangers when they ask how I’m doing–

“I’m highly distressed. And you?”

I’ve been partially dragging ass all afternoon–not at my best, not at my worst. When I woke up this morning I had two voicemail messages waiting for me–one from the insurance company of the guy who rear-ended me just over eight months ago and one from the office of my immunologist, whom I’m supposed to (finally) see tomorrow for the first time. The doctor’s office was simply confirming my appointment, and the insurance company said they were ready to start discussing a settlement. (When I called back, they didn’t answer.) I’m excited and nervous to talk to them, just as I’m excited and nervous to talk to my immunologist. In both cases, I’m ready for all this shit to be over and to have the worst (I hope it’s the worst) behind me. At the same time, I’m worried things won’t go “my way.”

He said this with a straight face.

Last week, after having been through hell with a rather personal skin rash, things calmed down dramatically when I changed my laundry detergent. I’d been to see my dermatologist and told him I thought my detergent was the problem, but he guessed psoriasis or “possibly cancer.” He said this with a straight face. (Do they not teach bedside manner in medical school?) So he removed a chunk of my skin and sent it off to be examined. (I picture a guy in a white lab coat asking a piece of my scrotum, “Where were you on the night of January 3rd?” Of course, my scrotum would answer, “Home alone, as always.”) Anyway, earlier this week my doctor’s nurse called with the results.

“The lab says it’s ‘an inflammation whose cause is unknown,’ and the doctor says he’d like to see you again in a month. Until then, continue using the cream he prescribed.”

“Well, okay,” I said, “but I changed my laundry detergent, and the problem is almost completely gone.”

She paused. “You may have found the cause that was unknown.”

My thought–Yeah, except for the fact that since I told the doctor about the detergent, the cause wasn’t actually unknown.

Okay, y’all, I really hate to say this, but everything my poor personal skin went through may have been worth it for this one phrase–an inflammation whose cause is unknown. Just as I’m considering referring to myself as “highly distressed” on bad days, I’m also considering referring to this last year (or even my entire life thus far) as “an inflammation whose cause is unknown.” Like, everything’s been going wrong and falling part–I’m all worked up over here–and no one can tell me why.

Why? There’s a loaded question, like one the frickin’ universe NEVER answers. (Read the Book of Job if you don’t believe me. The gods are NOT in the habit of explaining themselves.) Earlier today one of my friends on Facebook commented on yesterday’s post and referred to everything I’ve been dealing with and challenged by lately as my “dark night of the soul.” This is a term first used by St. John of the Cross, and–according to the dictionary on Google–refers to “a period of spiritual desolation suffered by a mystic in which all sense of consolation is removed.” I’m not sure about the mystic part, but the rest sounds about right. Not that I haven’t had any consolation through my recent trials and tribulations, but many days it’s felt like that scene in The Princess Bride in which our hero, Wesley, has been nearly mauled to death by an ROUS (rodent of unusual size) and the prince’s henchman nurses Wesley back to health, pats him on the shoulder, and says, “The prince and the count always insist on everyone being healthy before they’re broken.”

Thanks for the–uh–consolation?

A new life doesn’t come without the old one first being burned away.

Broken. Spiritual desolation. The dark night of the soul. Talk about highly distressing. That being said, these are explanations, or at least a way of looking at things, that I can handle. Find someone you admire, someone who is strong and kind and spiritual, and I’d bet seventeen dollars and ninety-five cents they’ve endured a dark night of the soul. I don’t like it, but this seems to be “the way things work” down here. So maybe this inflammation’s cause isn’t truly unknown–maybe it came along to help turn me into a stronger, kinder, more spiritual person. Joseph Campbell says, “We must be willing to let go of the life we imagined so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” Surely a letting go of this magnitude doesn’t come without a few dark nights. Or, as taught by the story of the mythological phoenix, surely a new life doesn’t come without the old one first being burned away.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Along the way you’ll find yourself, and that’s the main thing, the only thing there really is to find.

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Forgetting (Blog #353)

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It’s 8 o’clock on the last day of Lindyfest here in Houston, and Daddy is exhausted. Last night I danced until 3:30 in the morning. I’d intended to turn in an hour earlier, but my friend Hannah and I started dancing, and one or both of us kept saying, “UH–just one more?” This morning I was up around 9 for breakfast and have been mostly groggy and incoherent all day, despite the fact that I took a two-hour nap. I guess my body has simply had enough. Granted, it might have something to do with all the extra anti-histamines I’ve been taking for my generally itchy skin and specifically itchy rash (located where no one wants a rash).

In addition to being on my body, this rash has been on my mind for the last week, worrying me. I have an appointment to see my dermatologist this coming week, and when I spoke with his nurse on the phone about what was going on, she said it sounded like dermatitis. In medical terms, this simply means an inflammation of the skin, which means a rash, which I already knew. The nurse said to take anti-histamines and apply hydrocortisone cream, but that advice has so far yielded zero results. Frustrated, yesterday I called my former dermatologist (whom I only quit seeing because she stopped taking my insurance), and asked her opinion. Admitting that I was seeing another doctor, I said, “This is the part where I feel like I’m having an affair.”

Thankfully, she seemed to understand and didn’t come back with, “But what about MY needs?”

Since the rash hasn’t been responding to hydrocortisone, she seemed to think I had a yeast problem. (This is fun to talk about, I know.) So after I got off the phone with her, I walked bravely through Houston traffic to the nearest CVS in search of yet-another cream. Y’all, this last year has been hell on my skin. I’ve had so many problems, I literally have a box of creams, ointments, lotions, gels, and pastes, all meant for rubbing on your pits and parts that never see the sun. Anyway, I got the new cream and gave it a shot when I arrived back at the hotel, but haven’t used it again, since I convinced myself last night that my skin is probably just irritated and pissed off because I keep putting so many chemicals on it.

Honestly, I can’t tell if things are slightly better or slightly worse today. Part of me thinks better, but another part of me thinks I’m simply getting used to itching all the time. Ever since The Great Sinus Infection Drama of the Twenty-First Century started last October, my skin has been overly reactive, so this latest problem just feels like “one more thing.” (When it rains, it pours. How true, how true.) Yesterday on the phone my former dermatologist said, “It’s possible you have a pinched nerve in your lower back, and that could be contributing to your discomfort.”

First, are you freaking kidding me? Second, does anyone else ever get the distinct feeling that doctors are many times “just guessing”?

Due to the number of health problems I’ve had these last several months, I almost didn’t come to Lindyfest this year, even though I’m on staff. But I’m glad I did. Not only has it been a great distraction while I wait for my next doctor’s appointment, but it’s also been great fun. Last night while Hannah and I were dancing, another guy came over to ask me to dance. (Several dancers here dance both the lead and follow roles.) Anyway, Hannah said, “Since we all three dance both roles, let’s do a steal dance.” (A steal dance is when two people start a dance, and one or more other people jump in and replace one of the original dancers–it’s super fun.) So that’s what we did–I led Hannah, then I led the guy, then Hannah led the guy, then she led me, and so on.

Before we knew it, we’d drawn a crowd. (This was around three in the morning after most people had gone to bed, so it was easy to do.) And here’s the wonderful part–one-by-one the rest of the ballroom started joining in. Within the course of the minute, nearly everyone was on the floor, all of us taking turns dancing with each other. Y’all it was so fun. This is why I dance. In those moments, I wasn’t thinking about my struggling body or itchy skin. I wasn’t worried about what’s going to happen next in my life. Also, I wasn’t thinking of what I was doing “wrong.” I wasn’t comparing myself to others. Rather, I was having fun–being alive, being present, “forgetting” that there’s anything un-perfect with me, another, or the world we live in.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life proceeds at its own pace.

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Making My Way Home (Blog #331)

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It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m almost ready to hit the road. There’s a sock hop in Missouri tonight, and I’ve spent the day getting ready. I took a shower, shaved, even clipped my fingernails and toenails. I kept thinking of that line from Scent of a Woman–“Get yourself up, get yourself together.” Then I put on a new pair of jeans along with a fresh white tee and made a delightful breakfast–fried sweet potatoes, scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. And hot green tea. I feel like a new man.

I’m also ready to go back to bed.

I think the lingerings of the flu are finally over. Now I’m just back to my normal level of tired due to whatever is wrong. I’m currently listening to Natalie Merchant’s song “Wonder.” They say I must be one of the wonders, God’s own creation. And as far as they see, they can offer no explanation.

I said yesterday that I’ve been planning my own funeral. This is “mostly” a joke. I don’t know what’s going on with my body, but I don’t really think I’m dying, at least in the immediate sense. I think a person generally knows when “this is the end,” and I don’t have that feeling at all. You never know, of course, but my intuition says I’ll be around quite a while longer. (So you’re just going to have to get used to the idea.)

That being said, I have been thinking about death. Not in a macabre or morbid sense, but in an everyday sense. What I mean by this is–let’s face it–death happens every day. It’s something everyone–everyone–has to go through. Why not think about it? In my case, I don’t think I’m afraid to die. Granted, I’m terrified–absolutely frightened–of being sick and in pain. I don’t want to drown, burn to death, or have every bone in body broken and go through kidney failure. But taking that last long breath and drifting off this planet the same way I drifted in? That part I’m okay with.

Earlier I was thinking, If I were to die soon, would I be disappointed in myself? And whereas I still have a hundred things I’d like to do–like publishing a book, sharing my story, and helping others–I’m proud to say that no, I’m really satisfied with how I’ve lived my life. There’s a concept in spiritual teachings that part of our soul’s journey is to integrate–to line up our heads and our hearts as we pull all our scattered pieces back together. In short, the goal is leave this planet intact. This is why Jesus, as he hung on the cross, said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” It wasn’t about God and those who had wronged Jesus. It was about Jesus and his own personal soul, about not hanging on or being bitter, about not dying with any unfinished business. Indeed, he said, “It is finished.” His soul had done what it came to do. It could leave whole.

I’m not pretending to be like Jesus–by any means. (Although I do think I have good hair like he did.) There are still a lot of things in my life that could stand cleaning up, so I’m not putting myself on a cross here. At the same time, I realized earlier that I’ve worked my ass off these last several years to get myself up and get myself together. As much as anyone else I know, I’ve worked to own every part of my past and, at the the time, not use any of it as an excuse to be bitter, cynical, or unkind. I told my therapist recently that this work is tough stuff. She said, “You’re right, and it’s why most people don’t do it. But the reward is less anxiety and stress, better relationships, and peace.”

I think to think of this reward as coming home.

Honestly, I’m so often focused on what’s left to be done that I don’t give myself enough credit for how far I’ve come. But today I am. If only for this moment, I’m recognizing that if I were to die today, it would be well with my soul. I’ve done The Hard Work.

Toward the end of “Wonder” Natalie Merchant sings, “With love, with patience, and with faith, she’ll make her way–she’ll make her way.” With love, with patience, and with faith, I know I will too. I believe we all will eventually. We all will make our way home.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We all need to feel alive.

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This Beautiful Burst of Light (Blog #329)

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Today has been cold and wet, and I hate that. It’s depressing. It makes my feet cold. Why I wasn’t born on a tropical island, I’ll never know. Last night I was up until almost four, first watching Netflix then working on some Reichian Therapy breathing exercises. The exercises focused on breathing into your belly and chest, breathing into only your belly, and breathing into only your chest. I’m still not sure I was doing it “right,” but I think I saw my own aura during the process. I don’t know what else it would have been, this reddish/pink light dancing across the ceiling. And no, I hadn’t been drinking. I was completely sober.

Anytime I’ve tried to see an aura, mine or someone else’s, it’s never worked. That being said, every couple of years I have an experience like I did last night. It’s always out of the blue, never predictable. When it involves someone else, I’ll see colors around them, like a halo. When it’s just me, it’s usually when I’m lying down, and I’ll see colors projected on the ceiling. The first time it happened, it was yellow–last night, pink. I don’t know what any of it means, but experiences like these always remind me that there’s more to us than we realize. We’re not just flesh and bones. We’re bigger, more beautiful than that.

Despite my energetic experience last night, I’ve felt completely human today. My body is still dragging, and I spent most the day being angry at someone I don’t even know–the author of a book I just finished reading. The book was supposed to be about marketing “your business.” Instead the author spent most their time bragging–about their successful companies, their successful friends. (Harrumph.) In order to offset my bad mood, I went to a local bookstore in search of a book by Alexander Lowen, the founder of bioenergetics, which is similar to Reichian Therapy. (It’s my latest obsession.) I didn’t find the book, but I did enjoy browsing.

This evening I got back out to return the marketing book to the library and run some errands. I ended up buying a pair of jeans and three white t-shirts for a sock hop I’m planning to attend soon. It was exciting to get something new, even something little, but spending money when I don’t have a job always stresses me out. I feel the same way when I buy food, but then again, you gotta eat. My answer to this stress is usually to spend more money, so tonight I got on Amazon and bought the Alexander Lowen book I couldn’t find earlier. (I used a gift card from Christmas.) Of all the books I’ve read about the mind-body connection and healing, Lowen’s has made the most sense and been the most practical, and I can’t wait to dive in and learn more.

This morning I heard from my internist’s office. They spoke with the immunologist’s office, and the immunologist is supposed to let them (or me) know what tests they need. Yesterday it sounded like they wouldn’t take my case at all, and today it sounds like they’ll consider it, so I guess this is progress. By the time this is all over, I’m going to be a pro at waiting. I’ve been thinking this isn’t the worst thing in the world, having all this time on my hands while both my body and my doctors do their thing. Since starting this blog and especially since getting sick four months ago, I’ve been able to read and digest mountains of information about the body, healing, personal growth, and even marketing. This time in my life is frustrating for a lot of reasons, but it’s also provided me the opportunity to learn more than when I was in college.

So that’s something.

You can’t force an outcome.

Last night while working on the breathing exercises, I ended up breaking a sweat, grunting, even laughing. I didn’t have any specific memories come up, but I can only assume this was all beneficial, a release. Other times when I’ve done exercises like these, nothing. So I’ve been thinking that just like you can’t make yourself see an aura, you can’t make yourself heal. You can have a practice like yoga or meditation, some sort of space for the healing to show up in if it wants to–and I think you should–but you can’t force an outcome. Healing either happens or it doesn’t. Having tried so hard to heal for so long, I’m coming to see any healing, any letting go or movement in the right direction, as a grace, this inexplicable, beautiful burst of light that comes to us for no apparent reason.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It's enough to sit in, and sometimes drag ass through, the mystery.

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Resolute (Blog #313)

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Somewhere between a year and a year-and-a-half ago, I was getting ready to close my dance studio and move out of The Big House, the place I called home for over two years. (We called it The Big House because it was a big house. Some things aren’t complicated.) Between the closing of the studio and the time I moved out of my home, there was a three-week period, during which time I worked frantically to finish unfinished remodeling projects around the house. The last project I finished was the upstairs bathroom, the room with the clawfoot tub I used to love to soak in. It really was a last-minute deal–I was still putting paint on the walls my last week there. Still, I went ahead and decorated the entire bathroom–hung up pictures, put a rug on the floor, the whole bit. I figured as long as I lived there, I was gonna live there.

Next to the clawfoot tub was a gas space heater, something that came in rather handy during the winter months. On top of the heater I put a lamp, and next to the lamp, a wooden tray. I think the tray was designed as a kitchen item, but I used it to hold a bar of soap, as well as a candle I’d picked out especially for the bathroom, even though I’m not a candle person. But that final week, I fell in love with THAT candle. Every night I’d crawl into the clawfoot tub after lighting the candle, and while I listened to Fleetwood Mac, the light from the candle would dance with the shadows on the walls.

It’s another story, but The Big House had come to me when my life was a mess. I’d just started therapy and had gotten out of a terrible (no good, very bad) relationship in which there was a lot of yelling. In that relationship, I felt like a ship being tossed about by a storm that wouldn’t relent. Then for the first time in over six months, the storm subsided–everything got still. I found myself in this big house, and it was quiet. Three thousand square feet where I could hear myself think. A place of peace where I could lay my head at night and figure myself out. Looking back, I can see that at the same time I was remodeling the house, I was remodeling myself. Granted, now I look the same on the outside, maybe a few more wrinkles, but I’m different where it counts. My standards are higher, I won’t let myself be walked on, I speak up for myself. In short, I love myself more. So for the place that held me safe while all these renovations went on, I’m eternally grateful.

Getting ready to move out that final week, I went through every single thing I owned. One item at a time, I decided what to keep, what to sell, and what to give away. By the time it was all over, I went from all my possessions being able to fit into The Big House to being able to fit into my Honda Civic, Polly. I sold most the things in the upstairs bathroom, or gave them away, but I decided to take the wooden soap tray and the candle. Ever since then, I’ve used the tray to hold objects that I consider sacred–a small vial of holy water, a beautiful spiritual necklace I never wear on the outside of my shirt, a paperweight that belonged to my uncle when he was alive. I call it my traveling altar. At some point I started putting my jewelry on the altar. It began with a small ring I got at Disney World when I was seven that says, “Marcus,” my logic being that surely I’m a sacred object too.

I’ve always kept the candle in the middle of the tray. In addition to being a stereotypical spiritual thing to have around, the candle inspires me because of the message printed on the outside of it. It says, simply, “Resolute.” For over a year now, every time I see the candle, I think the same thing I thought when I bought it–I don’t know what lies ahead, but I’m determined to see myself through it. My therapist and I discussed this recently. We were talking about strengths that are born out of hardships, and I said that I’m resolute and determined because things were so shitty for so long. Now I don’t give up. I absolutely know this ship can weather any storm. My therapist said that the best people she knows–the ones who are the kindest and the strongest–are the ones who have lived through hell and have found a way to not be bitter about it. “It’s what happens when you refuse to be a victim,” she said.

Lately I’ve been burning the Resolute candle every day while I meditate and do chi kung. It’s become this ritual. I turn off all the other lights in the room, usually put on some sort of instrumental music, and always light the candle. (Growing up, I never imagined I would be someone who does this sort of thing.) Anyway, I guess there’s something powerful about rituals. Sometimes all I have to do is light the candle and take a few steps toward the center of the room, and I being to cry. It’s like seeing that flame is all my body needs to let go. Joseph Campbell says your sacred space is where you can find yourself over and over again, and I guess that’s what my traveling altar has become–a place where I can heal.

Yesterday I lit my Resolute candle for the last time. It burned out, ran out of wax before my meditation was even over. When I threw it away earlier this evening, I felt like I did when I walked out of The Big House for the last time. A little lost. Tonight I replaced my Resolute candle with the only other candle I could find around the house–a pale green one labeled “Mint Chocolate Chip.” Honestly, burning it tonight during meditation wasn’t the same. I kept thinking it smelled like–well–fat. Like, I probably gained two pounds just by taking the lid off. Still, its flame burned just as bright. Also, having lived through hell, I know my being Resolute has nothing to do with a physical candle that used to sit on my traveling altar. Rather, that flame burns deep within me, and the real altar is my body, my heart, my soul. As it turns out, I am the sacred space which I take everywhere I go, the sacred space where I can find myself over and over again, the sacred space where I can heal.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing was made to last forever.

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My Fickle Mistress (Blog #240)

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This afternoon I went to a natural health food store in search of vitamins to heal my sinus infection and wanted to slit my wrists within two minutes of walking in the door. You know how employees try to be helpful. Well, the lady working the front desk started asking all these questions. What seems to be the problem? What’s wrong with you? So I told her about my sinus infection, and she was off and running, picking up bottles of anti-allergy pills and probiotics. “But we need to get to the root of the problem,” she said. “It’s probably your house. I had one lady whose house was filled with mold. Maybe that’s your problem–you’re house sick.”

“Well, I’ve lived in three different houses in the last year and have been sick in every one of them, so I don’t think that’s it.”

Then she started talking about the need for regular elimination. I thought, I swear, I just met this person, and she’s already talking about my bowel movements. “That’s not a problem,” I said. “I’m very regular.” Refusing to quit, she picked up a book about fasting that looked like it came over on the Mayflower. “I was just reading about what a miracle fasting is–it’ll even cure asthma.” I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes. “That’s perfect–just don’t eat.”

“Exactly,” she said.

Well–thank god–another customer asked for her help, and that gave me a chance to breathe. Y’all, I hope I’m not coming across like a total ass, but I get so frustrated with “those people” who work at health food stores. I mean, not all of them, but you know the ones–the ones who walk around with their noses in the air because their underwear is made out of hemp and they haven’t eaten a donut since Carter was president. Like, this lady asked me about my diet and actually said, “You don’t eat dairy, DO YOU?” I mean, I’m all for cutting out certain foods to be healthier, and I’ll be the first to admit that I diet for vanity, but don’t act like you’re better than me because you don’t put milk in your organic coffee.

Since I actually showed up with a list of products suggested in the sinus book I’ve been reading, I looked around the store for a while. The main product I was looking for was a particular type of garlic, since garlic is supposed to be a natural antibiotic and anti-fungal. Well, the store didn’t have it. “But we have all these other types of garlic right over here,” the lady said. “I have one customer who swears by fenugreek and thyme. Now where did THAT bottle go? We must be out–I’ll call our supplier.”

“You don’t have to,” I said, “I’m not going to buy it. I’m really more interested in the garlic.”

She picked up the phone. “We’ll need some eventually.”

Frustrated on every level, I left the store. I guess part of it was that I’ve spent so much time and money in stores like that one over the years. Everyone promises their favorite product will help you, and when you’re sick, you’ll believe anything. Cod liver oil is different than snake oil, right? Oh, it’s not? That’s okay, you can still have my money. Sadly, most the things I’ve purchased haven’t made a dramatic difference. Y’all, I didn’t set out to be such a cynic. But–honestly–I’ve had dozens upon dozens of sinus infections over the last twenty years–I’ve been sick with this sinus infection for six weeks–don’t tell me I’d suddenly be better if I squirted grapefruit seed extract up my nose. (I’ve already tried that.) Also, the last thing I need is for a total stranger to judge me for going to a medical doctor by saying, “You took an antibiotic?!”

As if being sick were my fault because I did.

For a while I considered driving to Fayetteville to look for that specific brand of garlic, then I considered ditching the whole project and ordering everything online. But something said go to The Vitamin Shoppe, so that’s what I did. Y’all, it was perfect. The girl behind the counter said hello but didn’t once ask if she could help. Rather, she left me alone for an entire hour, during which I consulted the list on my phone, looked around the shelves, and decided what to do. During the process, I calmed down about the lady at the other place and decided I didn’t have to have that one brand of garlic. I thought, I’m just going to do the best I can. Besides, this isn’t magic–it’s magnesium.

When it was all said and done, I had eight bottles of stuff, give or take. Thankfully, except for the Vitamin C, it was all cheaper than I’d anticipated, and some of it was even on sale for Black Friday. Still, I was a bit overwhelmed by all the bottles (I’ve done it again–I’m one of those people), so I swung by Walmart on the way home to get a pill caddy to organize everything. (I also swung by my aunt’s to do some odd jobs and took the above photo with her dog, Nick.) Anyway, you know what kind of pill caddy I’m talking about–the color-coded kind for every day of the week, the kind both my parents have that I’ve previously looked down upon.

Well shit. Now I’m one of THOSE PEOPLE too.

When I got home I organized my pill caddy and watched The National Dog Show by Purina with my parents. (It’s a sexy life, but someone’s gotta live it.) As of ten minutes ago, I’ve taken two fists full of vitamins, and I’m currently convinced I wasted my money this afternoon. I don’t feel a bit better. I mean, I’m hopeful, but what if this doesn’t work either?

Bodies are fickle mistresses.

This morning my friend Elisabeth sent me a beautiful devotion about not beating yourself when you get sick. It quoted the writer Flannery O’Connor as referring to her battle with lupus as “one of God’s mercies.” To me this means that seen correctly, a challenge can be a great teacher. This afternoon my dad spoke with a long-lost family friend and found out he’d been paralyzed from the chest down. When it first happened our friend was bitter, but he told my dad that prayer had become really important to him. Now he says, “If I had to choose between prayer and having my legs back, I’d choose prayer.” So even as I get irritated with store clerks and swallowing fists full of vitamins, I’m trying to remember that we all have our difficulties and teachers. What’s more, I’m reminded that bodies are fickle mistresses–they give and they take away. But I do believe that some things are more faithful than that, or at least give more than a body every could.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

The Best Part of the Adventure (Blog #232)

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Currently I’m in Springfield, Missouri, just back from a quick trip to Branson with my dancer friends Anne, Andy, and Matt. I’ve got to get up early in the morning, and the longer tonight’s blog takes to write, the less Daddy gets to sleep. I’d really thought about blogging today before I hit the road, but my body said, “Sleep–sleep or else.” Honestly, when I did get out of bed today, I felt worse than I did before I went to the doctor–my eyes were red, my body was jittery. “That’s the steroid,” my dad said. “It can absolutely do that.” Most the day, I’ve been coughing–that’s new too. Now I’m scared that the medicine won’t help and might actually hurt. Also, I’m imagining that I’ll be chronically ill until I die sometime in my mid-fifties–single and alone–at which point my body will finally be removed from my parents’ house.

Maybe I’m being dramatic.

As the day has gone on, I’ve perked up a little. The three-hour drive to Springfield went well, and I spent most the time listening to Joseph Campbell talk about mythology. He’s dead, of course, but over sixty-five of his talks are available through his foundation’s website, as well as on Google Play. And not that I keep a list of the ones I’ve listened to or anything, but I’ve listened to thirty-seven of them as of today. (I obviously keep a list of the ones I’ve listened to.) Anyway, Joseph Campbell is one of my favorite teachers, and I’ve spent so much time with his voice in my ears, I feel like he’s become a friend too–my man JC.

When I got to town, my friends and I packed up and headed to Branson, straight for Silver Dollar City. Y’all, I went to Silver Dollar City for the first and only time when I turned thirty, so it’s been a minute. But Anne suggested seeing the Christmas lights, and–oh my gosh–what a great idea that turned out to be. There were lights EVERYWHERE–on buildings, in trees, suspended in the air–it was gorgeous. Not only that, but the lights on the buildings were all lined up and turned in the same direction. My little OCD heart just soared. Honestly, I was so busy staring that I didn’t take any decent pictures, but if you Google “Silver Dollar City Christmas Lights,” you’ll get an idea.

Here’s a picture of one of our first stops–it’s the four of us pretending to be gingerbread people. We asked a couple to take our picture, and they quickly turned the task over to their angsty, headphone-wearing teenage son. Well, junior did NOT seem impressed with being volunteered, so I thought about saying, It’s okay for you to say no. That’s called having a boundary. But figuring he could take himself to therapy in his thirties like I did, I just shut my mouth, let him take the damn picture, and said, “Thank you so much.”

Since we were only at the park for a couple of hours, we spent most our time riding roller coasters. Well, Andy, Matt, and I did. Anne said she always–always–pukes on roller coasters, so she graciously stayed behind and watched our things. Having a personal aversion to being vomited on, I think this situation was a win-win for everyone. Y’all, it was awesome tonight–the weather was delightful (67 degrees), and none of the lines were long. In fact, we didn’t have to wait more than five or ten minutes to ride any of the four roller coasters we went on. On top of that, we were always in the front three rows. Talk about Christmas coming early.

I know some people hate them and some people puke on them, but I love roller coasters–the sudden drops, the loops that go upside down, the corkscrews. I always scream, then laugh, then scream some more. I guess what I love more than anything else is the thrill, the surprise of it all, the adventure, all of which were amplified tonight because the rides were in the dark–and everything is better in the dark.

That’s what she said.

During one ride, it did occur to me that an accident could happen. Like, a screw could come loose, and I could connect with a tree the way a bug connects with a windshield. (But then I guess my sinus infection wouldn’t matter.) I’m not trying to be morbid, but I’m just saying–these things do happen. I have a friend on Facebook who was on his way to the emergency room recently because he thought he had the flu, but he ended up being t-boned before he got there. He survived, but he had to be cut out of his truck with the jaws of life. Anyway, I can only assume the flu quickly dropped down on his list of problems. With this in mind, I’d like to publicly state that even though I often complain when I don’t feel well, I AM grateful to be alive and not currently plastered to a tree at a quaint little theme park in Branson, Missouri.

Another thing I thought about on one of the roller coaster rides was the fact that I wasn’t in control of the ride. I mean, I got on the thing, but at the point at which my seatbelt fastened and the guy hit the green button, I wasn’t in control anymore. When we got to the top and were about to be dropped straight down, it was too late for me to do anything except scream or pee my pants. (For the record, I screamed.) Anyway (actually while we were doing corkscrews), I realized I’m also already on the ride of life. Some days I’m at the top, and some days I’m at the bottom. (For a while now it’s felt like I’ve been going around in circles.) Anyway, I can scream and complain all I want, but the one thing I can’t do is get off the ride or control what’s going to happen next.

And I hate that.

You know how sometimes you get so wrapped up in what you’re doing that you lose yourself, maybe when you’re holding a baby in your arms, reading a good book, or dancing with someone you love? Well, this happened to me a few times tonight while I was either staring at all the beautiful lights or being whipped around on the roller coasters. The moments didn’t last very long, but when they did, I forgot about my sinus infection and the fact that I don’t currently have an income. My man JC calls moments like these aesthetic arrest, and they’re moments when we’re fully present, times when we’re not afraid of or wanting something, but are simply in a state of wonder about life as it is right here, right now. Of course, like a roller coaster ride, life is an adventure–right here, right now is constantly changing. But I’m starting to believe the best part the adventure is that state of wonder that never changes and–what’s more–is always available to us, no matter how good or bad we’re feeling.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Aren’t you perfect just the way you are?

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