(In)dependence (Blog #154)

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Ever since college my hands almost always go numb when I run for more than fifteen minutes. It’s not bad enough to make me stop, but–you know–it’s annoying. It’s like whenever your legs fall asleep while you’re sitting on the toilet. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Anyway, I’m a curious person–or as my therapist recently said, a nosy Ned–so for the last fifteen years I’ve asked probably a dozen chiropractors, massage therapists, and other body workers, “What’s up with my tingly fingers?” The answer? Crickets.

Every. Single. Time.

So this morning I had a massage from my friend Gena, and while she was working on my chest and arms, I casually mentioned the sometimes-numbness in my arms. “That makes sense,” she said. “Your neck muscles are tight, and there’s a nerve underneath them that runs down your arm. Plus, when you run, you bend your elbows, and that plays a part too.” Genius.

Now was that so hard?

I love how you can spend fifteen years looking for an answer to a problem, and then–really without warning–one just falls out of somebody’s mouth–like, no big deal. And by that I mean, I don’t really love that. I mean, I love that I have an answer now, but I don’t love the fact that life is pretty much like being dropped in the middle of board game, never being kindly informed of the rules, and somehow being expected to win. Whether it’s trying to heal an impossible problem or trying to figure yourself–let alone anyone else–out, life is not like an infomercial–three easy steps. Rather, it seems most successes are hard-won and long waited for. Honestly, I have a real problem with this setup. I’m putting it on my list of “things I think could be done differently,” in the event God ever asks for my good opinion.

I realize it could be a while before this happens.

Tonight in improv class we played a game called Sound Effects, which involves two people providing dialogue and gestures and two other people providing noises. Ideally, all four people are sort of working together, even though two of them are off stage. Maybe the scene is a battlefield, and one person covers his head like a big explosion has gone off, but the person making noises utters a real soft, “Dink.” Then the person on stage has to respond appropriately and change directions.

Honestly, I can’t tell you how difficult this class is turning out to be, mostly for the simple reason that I don’t always like to work with others. I’m a control freak. There, I said it. You know, when you work in a group, you sort of have to trust that the other person is going to do their part. Plus, you have to do yours. Sometimes that happens–sometimes it doesn’t. It’s like, sometimes you can ask a question and get an answer, and sometimes you’re just met with a blank stare. It’s just the way life is.

I hate that. (One more for the list.)

Tonight my emotions got the best of me, and I went out for chocolate cake. “You know what,” I told the waitress, “I’m gonna need some ice cream with that too.” Ugh. It was delicious. I feel fat now, but I paid good money for the elastic waistband in these shorts I’m wearing, so I guess it’s like finally getting a return on my investment. My friend Marla says, “Feelings only last a few minutes unless you feed them,” but I think she meant that in a metaphorical sense, and not in a literal–feed your feelings chocolate cake–sense. Because feeding my emotions tonight actually seemed to shut them up for a while.

When I got home tonight, I lay (and yes, that’s correct grammar) on the futon, read a Sherlock Holmes novel, and stretched. For a short while I did a yoga pose called Half Hero (pictured above), which is an accurate description of what I feel like on a day-to-day basis. Not quite Full Hero status. Full Hero involves sitting on your shins with your feet folded under, then reclining on your back. It’s basically a quad stretch, and if your quads are tight (like mine are), it hurts like hell and is a good way to start a conversation (and by that I mean an argument) with your knees. Well, Half Hero is just one leg at a time, and that’s all I can currently muster without completely wanting to jump out of my skin.

Gena told me today that everything on my right side is tight. This wasn’t a newsflash to me, but she said it was a wonder I wasn’t walking in circles. When I talked about always getting headaches on my right side, she said that pain shows up in our weakest spot. So tonight I’ve been thinking that emotionally, my weak spot is trusting other people. That’s why I have trouble relaxing on a massage table. That’s why I get nervous in group projects. There are plenty of psychological reasons for this, and I’m sure the case could be made that those reasons have made me the independent fella I am today. (Americans love independence!) BUT, the truth is that no one gets through life alone, and no one person has all the answers. That’s why we have to keep asking for help, trusting that one day someone will have the solution we’re looking for. We–I–have to be willing to work together. Sure, like stretching a tight muscle, it might be uncomfortable at first, but one day–maybe when you lease expect it–things relax, the pain subsides, and healing seems possible.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Love  is all around us.

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Learning to Breathe Again (Blog #151)

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For the last hour I’ve been scrolling and scrolling through old photos hoping to come up with a blog idea. However, it’s been a long day, I’m exhausted, and all I can think is, No, that won’t work. But I told a good friend today that probably the best thing I’ve ever done–in my entire life–was to have sinus surgery, so when I saw pictures from the surgery, I thought, That might work. (One hour, and I’ve got a solid maybe.) This–it would appear–is the life of a writer. Doesn’t it sound glorious? Sign up now and you can live with your parents too!

But I digress.

For nearly two decades, I had multiple sinus infections a year. I know I’ve written about this before, but it was hell. For the longest time, I’d have an infection–marked by fatigue, colorful snot, and sometimes fever–once every six to twelve weeks. Maybe more often than that. At some point, I stopped counting. But it seems as if I have just as many memories being sick as I do being well. I was sick in high school the night Mom and Dee-Anne and I drove to Little Rock to see Les Mis. I could barely put my clothes on. I was sick probably half the times I went to Houston for an annual Lindy Hop convention. I was sick almost every Thanksgiving.

In high school I used to think that God was punishing me for–I don’t know–being a straight A student. I’d pray–and pray–and pray–and still wake up coughing up blood-colored snot. Before I knew what to call it, I’d tell my family, “I feel weak,” and my Dad would say that I was burning the candle at both ends. I’d think, I just need to slow down.

Over the years, I tried everything I knew to try. I took a ton of antibiotics, swore them off, took a ton more–with steroids. Had an allergic reaction, whatever. Alternatively, I ordered things off television, off websites. I saw a naturopathic doctor who suggested herbs for my immune system. I took so many herbs, drank so many teas. I looked into the emotional connection to sinus infections (crying inside). None of it solved the problem, but I did learn a lot. In fact, having constant sinus infections is one of the things that led me to Reiki, Chi Kung, and meditation. Again, none of it fixed them problem, but they’ve all added a multitude of benefits to my emotional, physical, and spiritual life. So I don’t consider everything a waste.

Except maybe the Neti Pot, that contraption you use to pour water in one nostril until it runs out the other. If I had a nickel for every time someone said, “Have you tried a Neti Pot?” I’d be set. YES, I have tried a fucking Neti Pot–it didn’t work.

Whenever I’d get sick–again–I’d get overwhelmed and think, I can’t do this anymore. Of course, I did, since I didn’t have much choice in the matter. Plus, things always look different in the morning. Which morning, I can’t say. But go through enough mornings, and things will look different. For me, I guess things started to turn around a few years ago when my primary care doctor suggested seeing an ENT (ear, nose, and throat doctor). Now there’s an idea! So that’s what I did–locally–and the doctor explained that 1) my septum was blocked, a lot, and 2) my sinuses weren’t draining. Basically, I always had an infection “on deck.” His recommendation? Surgery, to the tune of approximately $14,000 dollars.

Well, shit. I don’t have insurance.

Or $14,000.

Fast forward to just before this last Christmas, and I was living in Fayetteville, about to travel to New York City, and sick–again. So I called my ENT’s office to finally do something about it. I had insurance, and even though I had a high deductible, I didn’t care. I had to do something. Well, no one answered the phone. I’m sure you’ve been on hold before. So I hung up and called a clinic in Rogers (Mercy Ear, Nose, and Throat).

“Can you come next week?” they asked.

“Ugh. I’ll be out-of-state next week.”

“What about two hours from now? Can you come then?”

“I’ll be there.”

Y’all, I hate to say this because it was twenty freaking years, but it was worth the wait. I’ve never been treated so well by an entire group of medical professionals. I don’t intend for this to become a commercial, but everyone from start to finish was amazing. (Pick up your phone and order now.) But seriously, my doctor’s name was Chad (actually Dr. Chad Putman, but I try to keep it informal on the blog), and he paid attention, asked questions, then laid out a plan–drugs first, a CT scan, then possibly surgery. “I don’t want to jump the gun,” he said. So we took it step by step, and six weeks later, I was in an operating room.

By that time, Chad had explained that my previous doctor had been correct–my nose was blocked 80 percent on one side and 90 percent on the other. Part of my sinuses weren’t draining, which meant they were constantly “smoldering.” (Isn’t this fun to talk about?) But whereas the previous doctor had suggested three procedures, Chad suggested six in order to really open everything up. The day of the surgery–February 15–he told my parents, “We’ll treat him like family.”

Uh, I know we’re family and all, but my butt is hanging out of this gown.

Surgery itself was a breeze. The anesthesiologist came in the room where I was waiting with Mom and Dad and said, “I’m going to give you a cocktail.”

I said, “I like cocktails.”

Then they wheeled me back to the operating room, moved me to a different table, and that was it. The next thing I knew, I woke up back in my room with a sling around my nose to catch the blood. Later Mom said that I was repeating myself a lot. How’d it go? God, it’s bright in there. May I have my sunglasses?

Mom and Dad took care of me for a week. Looking back, it was sort of a trial run for my living with them now. For the first several days, I couldn’t breathe through my nose at all and slept in a chair. Per Chad’s instructions, I used a Neti Pot (!) twice a day to clean out scabs. It wasn’t pretty, but it was pretty fascinating. I’d look in the sink, see all the blood, and wonder how I was still alive. But the Neti Pot actually worked and still does. Chad said it didn’t work before because my sinuses were blocked, so the water (or medicine spray or whatever) couldn’t actually get where it needed to go.

This is when I still couldn’t breathe and felt like Voldemort.

Within six weeks, I was pretty much back to normal–except way, way better. I could actually breathe. Wow, I thought, is this how much air regular people get? No wonder everyone is so damn happy. It’s oxygen. Six months post-surgery, I haven’t had a single infection, just one cold that kind of hung on. And if all this air and lack of infections is any indication of how things will go in the future–I’ll take it. The last time I saw Chad, I told him I was so grateful to finally have–

“An answer,” he said.

I don’t know why life works like this, why you can struggle with something for twenty years, do everything you know to do, and then one day–a miracle. I don’t know what finally makes the stars align, why God has the need to be so mysterious about all of his ways. This week, or the last twenty years rather, I’ve been working overtime to manage my emotions, not be overwhelmed by life, and find an answer to this thing called suffering. Of course, some days it feels like I’ve tried everything, that things will never look different no matter how many mornings present themselves. But tonight I’m reminded that healings happen step by step and often just when we’re about to give up. Perhaps this is the way we learn to hope–and therefore–breathe again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes you have to give up wanting something before you can have it.

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Hands Down: The Best Part of My Week (Blog #149)

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Before jumping right into today’s events, I’d like to say that I’m no stranger to things most people (at least in the Bible Belt) consider weird. I’ve honestly spent more time reading and learning about meditation, Reiki, Chi Kung, past life regressions, chakras, and “the other side” than I can remember. I like it–it fascinates me–we all need hobbies. All the being said, every time I walk into a room full of crystals or read something online about balancing my aura, there’s still part of me that thinks, You’ve got to be kidding.

So with that in mind–

Today I went to a Spirit Fair (which I’m affectionately referring to as a “Woo Woo Market”) in Fayetteville. My friend CJ invited me and said there would be a lady who talks to angels, spirit guides, and dead people. (There’s a difference.) CJ said she went last year and got a message from her grandmother. When I told my parents about it, my dad said, “See what Dee and Dorothy [his parents, my grandparents] are up to!” I told CJ, “Hum. I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

She said, “I’ll buy your lunch.”

“In that case, exactly when will the ghosts be arriving?”

True to her word, CJ bought my lunch, which we ate with some of her friends. Afterwards, it was onwards and upwards (metaphysically speaking, of course). The Spirit Fair was held at a local hotel, where one of the meeting rooms had been transformed into–basically–a waiting room for the afterlife. Again, this was not my first New Age rodeo, but I have never seen so many rocks, crystals, and sticks of incense anywhere else. Of course, not everything was “weird,” as there were massage oils and bath products as well. CJ actually found a bar of charcoal soap called Gender Bender and asked if that was my problem. “Have you been using this?” she said.

Chronologically, the most interesting part of the day for me happened next. However, I’d like to skip ahead for just a moment to say this–CJ and her friends and I did sit in on the angel/spirit guide/ghost communicator session that happened later in the day in another room. And whereas it was fascinating and one of CJ’s friends got a very moving message from her mother, none of my relatives showed up. (Typical.) So since I didn’t have a direct experience with it, I’ll refrain from commenting, leave that part of the day in the “uncategorized” part of my brain, and now go back to earlier in the afternoon and the place we were just a moment ago.

You know–Hogwarts.

In the center of the room was a swath of intuitives, psychics, card readers, and so forth. Honestly, I believe in a lot of that stuff, but I also believe in bullshit, so I tend to be pretty picky about whom I let in my aura (energy field, personal space). Therefore, I hadn’t planned on sitting down with anyone. However, I kept noticing a lady who was doing palm readings who “felt right,” and eventually I got curious enough to get in line, a place I stood for about forty-five minutes. This is good, I thought. She’s spending a lot of time with each person.

When it came my turn, I introduced myself and put my hands down on the table. Since the theory is that our hands reflect our minds and souls, it felt like, welcome to my life. (I haven’t read a lot about palmistry, but I have read a lot about handwriting analysis, and the theories are similar. In short, you can’t hide who you are.) Although some palm readers purport to look at hands and tell the future, the lady today–RJ–said it’s really more about personality, things that have happened to you, and assets and liabilities.

So you’re telling me I’ve been walking around my entire life with a pumped-up Myers-Briggs test in my pockets?

The first thing RJ said was that “some stuff” happened when I was six or seven that caused me to become fiercely independent. Check. She said my reaction to the event (which would have been my mom’s leaving home for a year for health concerns) was to become an island, at least for a while. Then she talked about my life line, my head line, and my fate line, the last of which she said went all the way up. (Why thank you, my dad will be proud.) She said that indicated self-actualization, like I’m here on the planet for a reason and ready to go to work.

When we talked about my fingers, RJ said my most developed fingers had to do with social/political traits (index), moral/ethical traits (middle), and creative traits (ring). Ironically, the finger dealing with communication traits (pinky), was less developed, although she did say I was outspoken. When I told my mom that my communication finger was small, she said, “Well, sometimes I ask how your day was, and you only say, ‘Good.'”

Point taken, Mom.

RJ also said that we wear rings on particular fingers for a reason, that if a ring isn’t comfortable, we’ll stop wearing it. In my case, I always wear a ring on the index finger of my right (dominate) hand, which RJ said meant I had something to say or do. According to Google, that finger is associated with ambition and self-confidence. When RJ looked at my fingernails (which, thank God, I just clipped yesterday) she said sometimes I start things I don’t finish. Yes, that’s correct. But, she said, I’m also determined and finish the things that are necessary.

In the fifteen minutes that RJ looked at my palms, she covered a lot more. However, despite the fact that most of my life is right here on this blog (every day, every damn day), I’ll spare you the details because 1) I can’t imagine that it would be that interesting to you, 2) a man needs “some” privacy, and 3) my pinky finger is only so developed. Still, I will say that RJ said my worry lines were being “kept at bay” by a guardian angel and that I have a rather long life line, indicating that I’ll be around for a while. (So deal with it.)

This evening I went for a jog and thought a lot about my palms. Especially I thought about that guardian angel who’s working so hard to keep my worry lines from crossing my life line and that I should probably offer him a raise or at least send him a thank-you card. Then I thought about my long life line, and how whether or not that means I’ll live to be a hundred, it’s still an excellent reminder that my life now isn’t my entire life–it’s just part of it–a phase. I actually thought about Moses, how his major “reason for being here” didn’t really start until he was forty. Hell, Colonel Sanders didn’t begin selling fried chicken until he retired at the age of sixty-five. So I’m reminded that I probably have time to figure things out. What’s more, I’m reminded that every life and every hand tells a story, each a great mystery filled with purpose, heartache, and hope.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Abundance comes in many forms.

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It Takes a Village (Blog #141)

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Okay, I’m just going to be real. Things aren’t looking good tonight. I got up early today for a checkup with my doctor, and now it’s three-thirty in the morning, and I’m spent. My brain is well-done. I mean, I guess plenty of things happened today, but all I can think about is the zit in my nose. Ugh, the inside kind. Those are the worst. Maybe I should wash my face more. That might help. Why God invented zits in the first place, I’ll never know. As if life weren’t hard enough already. Hell, I probably signed up for this before I incarnated. Yes, that’s correct. I’ll take the advanced course–the gay one with zits in my thirties. Yes, I’m sure.

All right, are we done yet? Can I take a muscle relaxer and go to bed now–start drooling on myself?

Today my doctor and I talked about body odor. I think the last time I blogged about it, it was a lot better. It still is a lot better, but it’s not PERFECT. So I asked, and at first the doctor thought maybe my sense of smell had changed due to my chronic sinus infections and the surgery I had six months ago. (Okay, shit. I’m awake. The house mouse just ran across the living room floor. Dad and I decided if we called it a pet and gave it a name, we wouldn’t have to kill it.) Anyway, back to the odor, the doctor said, “So let me get this straight. You’re THE ONLY ONE who’s smelled it?”

Well, I guess I was a tad defensive, like, yeah, but IT’S REAL. I said, “One friend said she didn’t notice the smell, but she also didn’t have her nose in my crotch.”

After a decent amount of head-scratching, the doctor said he thought it was a bacteria (not a yeast) overgrowth. He said, “I know it’s counterintuitive to think that you can take antibiotics and end up with an overgrowth of bacteria, but antibiotics don’t kill ALL bacteria evenly.” I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this, but he ended up prescribing a cream that cost a hundred and twenty dollars without insurance. So if and when anyone DOES have their nose in my crotch, I sure hope they freaking appreciate all the time, effort, and money spent to make their visit hospitable. (Please go online and fill out this survey in order to receive a discount for the next time you’re here.)

Okay, my mind wandered–by which I mean that I looked at Facebook. And I’d just like to say that therapy has sucked a lot of fun out of life because I saw an ad for a tank top that said, “Touch my butt,” and all I could think was, That’s totally without boundaries, inappropriate, and desperate.

And I wonder if they have it in a medium. (Kidding.)

Today my chiropractor asked me if I thought one of the two massage therapists I see in his office was a better fit for me. Well, this felt like I was being asked to give up peanut butter or chocolate cake. I thought, But I love them both! So I said, “You know, each brings something different to the table (the massage table–ba dum ching!), and I’d really hate to be without either one of them.” (He seemed okay with that. Phew.)

This is something I’ve been thinking about lately, the idea that it takes a village, or, as my friend Sara says, “It takes a village–and a vineyard.” Anyway, maybe it’s because I’ve been seeing so many healthcare people lately–three massage therapists, two chiropractors, one physical therapist (and a partridge in a pear tree). I mean, part of me wishes that I could give one–and only one–of them the credit for my progress, but it really has been a group effort.

Tonight I did an exercise in my creativity workbook where I had to list twenty things I like to do (read, dance, deodorize down south, whatever), and also had to list whether each activity listed was something done alone or with others. Well, I didn’t tally my responses, but I think it was about half and half, which would seem about right. My therapist told me once that of all the different types of extroverts, I’m the most introverted kind. Let’s spend time together! Okay, I’m done now.

Lately it feels as if I’ve been doing a lot of things on my own. I mean, I socialize with others, but I almost always work alone, often eat alone, go to movies alone. And I really am okay with that–I’m not fishing for a pat on the back or a touch on the butt. But as I finished the activity tonight, I was reminded–right there in black and white–that I really do like being social sometimes. Just last night at improv class, I thought, It really does feel great to be part of a group. Tonight I got invited to spend the evening with some former students and friends at their home, and it was a couple hours of simply being real, honestly connecting. Yeah, this feels great too.

My therapist says sometimes that she’s not the be-all, end-all in my story of personal growth, that she’s one of many resources I have. I guess it’s always like that. Whether it’s a doctor, a massage therapist, a regular therapist, or a friend, no one person (including yourself) is the be-all, end-all. Rather, it does seem to take a village, a community of hearts and minds coming together to help each other, each bringing their own piece of the puzzle, each helping the others to heal.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One thing finishes, another starts. Things happen when they happen.

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Ripped from a Page (Blog #138)

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This afternoon I went to physical therapy, something I’ve been doing on an almost weekly basis since someone slammed into the back of my car a month and a half ago and turned me into a real-life bobblehead doll. Honestly, physical therapy itself been going great. A couple of weeks ago I got moved from twice a week to once a week, and today I got moved to “almost done,” which means I only need to go back if I feel like it during the next month. That being said, when I walked in today, the therapist said that my posture was “almost perfect,” that my left shoulder was “a bit” high and my head was turned “slightly” to the right.

Well, shit.

Of course, part of me is thrilled with the progress (or whatever), but a bigger part of me is “a bit” stressed out and “slightly” terrified that I’m not–well–perfect. Maybe that’s my perfectionist talking. It’s difficult to say.

Yesterday I started making a dream board, also known as a vision board. It’s one of my 101 creativity assignments, and it involves collecting pictures and phrases from magazines that represent dreams I’d like to come true. (If anyone has a teeny bopper magazine filled with Zac Efron photos, please drop it in the mail to my address.) So this afternoon I went to the library, and while upstairs streaming an episode of Will (the new TV series about young–and hot, let’s not forget hot–William Shakespeare), I searched for dream board additions in some of the free magazines I found downstairs.

When I was in junior high, I worked my ass off on an insect collection–you know the kind where you stick a pin through a dragonfly (that you caught with the lid of your parent’s barbecue grill) and another pin through a tiny piece of paper that says “dragonfly” along with the scientific name. Well, it really was great, since I’ve always been a rule follower and extremely anal retentive. HOWEVER, I got marked off four points (for a total of 96 percent) because the edges of my paper weren’t completely straight, since I’d creased the paper on the side of a table and torn it rather than using scissors. At the time, I was devastated. Looking back, I wish I’d known enough to look my teacher right in the eye and say, “Bitch please.”

Obviously, the event stuck with me. I mean, that was over twenty years ago, and I still can’t help but wonder if my life would have turned out differently if I’d gotten those four extra points. Now that I think about it, I’ve wasted a lot of time on perfectionism, which my therapist says is just another name for fear (fear of not good enough, fear of rejection). This is something I’ve been working on–letting go of being perfect–so when the instructions for the dream board said to tear (literally tear) out whatever I wanted to add to my board, it honestly felt great to rip, rip, rip the magazine pages apart and see all those jagged edges. Fuck you, 100 percent.

After gawking at young–and hot, let’s not forget hot–William Shakespeare and working on the dream board, I ran into one of my former students with whom I always have fabulous conversations. When I talked about the blog (as I tend to do), my friend referred to my daily self-reflection as “encountering yourself,” which I think is the perfect (there’s that word again) phrase and something everyone should make an effort to do before they die.

Encounter yourself.

Before I left the library I signed up for the online course I mentioned yesterday about healing your emotional wounds. I’ll let you know how it goes, but one of the ideas presented in the lesson today was that the two natural responses to having a wound are shielding (for protection) and soothing (for healing). The guy teaching the course, Artie Wu, says that shields can show up as anger, people pleasing, and–get this–perfectionism. Soothing can show up as drugs and alcohol, food, or working or using media too much. (I wonder if binge watching hot Shakespeare counts.) None of these responses are bad in and of themselves, but the question to ask is whether the behavior hurts more than it helps. In my case, if I’m going to get real about it, the idea is that perfectionism is a way to avoid criticism (you’re not good enough) and engender praise (you’re the best boy ever). And whereas there’s nothing wrong with that strategy, it does come with a lot of baggage, like the inability to relax with crooked pictures on the wall or walk out the fucking door without every hair on my head just so.

This evening I went to hear my friend Donny play at Core Brewing Company in Fort Smith. He and some of his friends have a band called The Wren Boys, and they’re currently playing every Tuesday night. (Come join the fun.) Here’s a video from their set tonight.

While the band played, Donny’s wife, Vicki, and I discussed the idea of being playful, and as I’ve thought more about it, being playful–curious–seems to be the opposite of perfectionism. Just watching Donny and his friends, it’s the most laid back thing–off the cuff, unrehearsed–fun. And isn’t that the point–to life? I mean, where does it say that all your edges have to be straight (or even that you do)? Maybe this means that one of my shoulders will always be “a bit” higher than the other, my gaze may always be “slightly” off, but clearly I’m the only one taking points away from myself for having “almost perfect” posture. But that’s changing. Honestly, the more I encounter myself, the more I realize that all my edges are torn–almost as if something bigger than myself had ripped me from a page and dreamed that I’d come true.

[Seriously, if you have any old magazines (with or without Zac Efron) you’d like to get rid of, I’d love to have them.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Getting comfortable in your own skin takes time.

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Nudged Down the Rabbit Hole (Blog #137)

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Today I’ve felt like Alice chasing the white rabbit down the rabbit hole. When I woke up at three this afternoon–as my friend Andy says, “We’re dancers. If it’s before four in the afternoon, it’s morning.”–the first thing I saw was a text from my friend Vicki. She said she was reading a book called Freedom Seeker by Beth Kempton and that I should check it out, that it was currently available on Kindle for two dollars. (Okay. You had me at two dollars.) So despite the fact that I’m currently in the middle of five or six books, I bought the book and started reading it after breakfast, or, as my grandpa would say, supper.

So far, the book discusses practical ways we can regain our sense or feeling of freedom, and it talks a lot about birds and bird cages, for what I hope are obvious reasons. And as if my life weren’t weird enough already (last week I got invited to eat by two total strangers–and said yes), the book says to be on the lookout for birds and bird feathers because the universe can communicate that way. (This is, in fact, something I believe and have blogged about, but I still roll my eyes a little whenever someone else says it. Like, oh yeah, sure–a bird feather is the new burning bush.)

Anyway, the book also said that one way to recover one’s sense of freedom is to be more adventurous. It said that if you have dreams of spending your time rock climbing, you can start small–go for a hike. If you dream of being more flexible, you don’t have to go crazy–stretch for five minutes. The idea is that we often fantasize about the lives we want and think they’ll “just happen,” but we don’t take steps toward them. I wish I could tell you more, but that’s as far as I got before moving on to other projects.

Now I’ll progress to something far more fascinating.

This evening I went to Walmart.

I went to Walmart for the express purpose of buying a bottle of hemp lotion because I like the smell of it and one of my creativity assignments is to do something small to make myself feel special and luxurious. (Apparently using the little bottles of lotion you get from motels doesn’t qualify.) So I was just going to get one thing–lotion–oh, and a loaf of bread for Mom and Dad. Well, as I was walking in the front door, a couple was coming out, and I was thinking about that whole being more adventurous thing, how the book suggested one way to do that was to talk to strangers. So I smiled–and they smiled back. There, I thought, baby steps.

So get this. Immediately after my small adventure, I looked up and saw the word “adventure” on a display by the self-checkout section. Hum, that’s weird. Then I started thinking about another creativity assignment (there are A LOT of these damn things) I have to do in order to indulge my inner child–eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, finger paint, shit like that. So I thought, what the hell, and bought a box of Legos. I mean, I used to LOVE Legos. I collected Legos, had them ALL OVER MY ROOM. But I haven’t bought or built a set in probably twenty years. So that was it–I bought lotion, a loaf of white bread, and Legos. Because I’m thirty-six.

Notice the box says it’s recommended for ages 7 to 12. Also notice–I swear I didn’t see this when I picked out the set–it says, “Treehouse ADVENTURES.”

When I got home, a box of shoes a friend gave me several months ago caught my eye. The outside said, “Fit for adventure.” Okay, we’ve officially entered the Twilight Zone. Anyway, I stuck the Legos in the closet for later this week, and when I did, I saw a light switch cover another friend gave me last year when I was remodeling the house I used to live in. It’s basically a little machine–it has a lever up top with a knob you move from side to side that–through a series of mechanisms–makes the switch go up and down. It’s the coolest thing ever, and I’ve been telling myself, I’ll use it when I have my own place. But keeping with the theme of adventure, I thought, Why not now? It’s fun. It makes me happy. So I hung it up. (See the picture up top.)

Okay, two more weird things. While looking at Facebook, I saw an advertisement for some self-helpy stuff–an online course of sorts. Well, it’s not unusual to see that typle of thing in my news feed, but the website had a freaking bird on it–front and center. Okay, I’ll think about it. I’m not biting yet. Then I saw a posted article about the benefits of lying on your back with your legs up a wall. (It’s a yoga pose called–get ready–legs up a wall). Again, this sort of thing isn’t out of the ordinary, but most of the day I’ve been focused on a low-level pain in my leg that I don’t want to get worse–and I’ve been telling myself that God and the universe are smart enough to figure this damn problem out. So I tried it.

First I’d like to say that it ain’t easy to get and keep your butt up against a wall while lying on your back. I mean, maybe for you it is. But if you’ve never tried it and want to–just take your time. Also, look out for any doorstops on the baseboard. YOWZA. Anyway, while I had my legs up the wall, I discovered a muscle, tendon, or something attached to my right kneecap that DID NOT feel good. In fact, when I tried to stretch it, it hurt so bad that I nearly jumped out of my skin and immediately started doing Lamaze.

HEE–HEE–WHO (Fuck). HEE–HEE–WHO (Damn).

Part of me thinks that I’m crazy for even considering the idea that God speaks to me through shoe boxes and advertisements on Facebook. That being said, I don’t believe in accidents, and there are plenty of days when I DON’T notice the word adventure, when I DON’T stop scrolling long enough to see a bird, when I DON’T have time to try a new stretch that would make even John Wayne whimper.

Whereas I know that I can blow a lot of smoke up my own ass at times, I have been asking God a lot of questions lately, so I like to think that all of these “coincidences” all just God nudging me in the right direction. Caroline Myss says, “Prayers are answered immediately, but how they are answered is often a mystery that unfolds at the pace that I can handle.” So I’m trying to be open to the idea that answers to prayers–at least clues–can show up anywhere, even at Walmart, even in my Facebook feed. And maybe that makes me feel like Alice going down the rabbit hole, but honestly I’m ready to have my world turned up side because it wasn’t working the other way (when I was in charge). Yes, I’m ready for a little adventure, ready to play with Legos again, ready to see where the nudges of God take me.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There is a force, a momentum that dances with all of us, sometimes lifting us up in the air, sometimes bringing us back down in a great mystery of starts and stops.

"

The Bumper Sticker Was Right (Blog #135)

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Today was really great, and I’d love to tell you about it except for the fact that my brain stopped working approximately three hours ago. That being said, I’ll try. I mean, who needs a brain anyway? Look around–they’re like boyfriends. Plenty of people get by without one.

This afternoon I had a massage from my friend Rod, whom I met last year about the time I was closing the studio and selling all of my worldly possessions. When it comes to bodywork, Rod’s basically a ninja. The man gets more done in an hour than most people get done in ten, and I give him a ton of credit for setting my body on the path of transformation and healing it’s currently on. Plus, he’s just a cool guy. I mean, he’s got a bumper sticker that says, “Something wonderful is about to happen,” and he let me pee in his backyard and wash my hands in a rain barrel afterwards. It all felt so–primal. GRRR.

I haven’t seen Rod since last year, so we spent a few minutes talking about the car accident and what I thought was going on in my body, and I told him that–among other things–I thought my shoulders were rotated forward. He said, “Well maybe they were, but from my perspective, you look great. You’ve come a long way since the last time I saw you, so let’s just do a ‘tune up’ today.” Oh my gosh–best tune up ever. I felt things relax in my legs, back, chest, and neck that have been tight for months–years. I walked in with a heel lift and walked out without it because Rod got my hips and legs almost completely level.

Rod said the issues I have with my right leg and hip were almost certainly “an occupational problem.” This afternoon I taught a Lindy Hop lesson, and I could feel certain muscles “talking to me,” so I was like, “Yep. Shit. I wish I had known this ten years ago.” But what do you do? At least now I can move forward with more awareness, more prevention, more time on a foam roller. And thank God we figured it out now instead of in another ten years.

Before I go any further, I need to say this–I’ve always had a fascination with stand-up comedy. I did a little bit in high school, and I still fantasize about doing more. (Once I shared this dream with one of my oldest friends, and he said, “Are you funny?” Insert eye roll emoji here.) Anyway, it’s been on my mind lately because one of my creativity assignments a couple weeks ago was to write down ten things I wanted to do “if I didn’t have to be perfect” or “if I were allowed to.” I’ll spare you the other nine for now, but stand-up comedy was one of them.

Okay, back to today.

When I left Rod’s, something wonderful happened (besides the massage). I went to Chipotle. (But wait, there’s more.) When I walked in the door, a guy sitting at a table said, “Marcus, what are you doing here?” Well, I’d forgotten his name (Chris), but I recognized him as someone who’d taken a lesson from me several years ago when I was in town. We chatted for a while, and he said–of all things–he’s running a comedy club in town, there’s a show tonight, and I should come–for free. I said, “Sure. Maybe I’ll be there.” Then I remembered the list.

“No wait–I’ll be there.”

“Open mic night is every Sunday,” he said.

HUM. “I’m gone Sunday. I’ll have to give that some more thought.”

So I went to the show tonight and had a swell time. Chris sat me down front with a few strangers, and one of the ladies ended up being a dancer who’s taken some lessons here at the studio my friends own. (Small world and so forth.) All in all, it was a hilarious evening. A few jokes fell flat, but plenty of them soared, and there was even a table of people who got asked to leave for talking too much and causing a scene. (As one of my friends said later, “People–you can’t take them anywhere.”) It was kind of awkward when the comic said, “You’re ruining it for everyone,” but at least it gave me something to write about.

As fate would have it, there was a fresh-cookie company right by the comedy club that stays open until three in the morning. I’m just going to say it–I BOUGHT A DOZEN CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES (and a glass of milk). So I sat down at a table outside the store, ate two cookies, drank the milk, and thought That bumper sticker was so right–something wonderful IS HAPPENING. (See top photo.)

Y’all. The couple who got married at the ballroom tonight had a cake topper that looked just like them and their two dogs. Did you people know this was a thing? I didn’t know it was a thing, but then again, I don’t go cake topper shopping–well–ever because I’m single AF. (AF stands for “as fuck,” Mom.) Anyway, look at this beauty.

Isn’t that the cutest thing you’ve ever seen? I saw it this afternoon in the ballroom and got all warm inside. Then tonight I met the couple, and I felt like I was meeting celebrities. OMG, I saw you on top of a cake this afternoon! But seriously, look at these two. Whoever made that cake topper did a great job.

Today I’d told Rod that I’d started to notice other people’s posture, that I’ll see someone walking down the street with their head stuck out in front of them or their back rounded and think, “That’s got to hurt.” Rod said one of the ideas with good bodywork is to get the body aligned properly so it’s working with gravity and not against it. (Hold a book out, let it go, and watch it drop to the floor. That’s the force that’s acting on your body at all times, so it makes the most sense to have everything “stacked up” properly.)

Although I’ve had my doubts about abundance for roughly thirty years (give or take a week), my therapist says it’s what life is all about. I mean, if you look around, there’s more than enough for everyone–more than enough air to breathe, ground to walk on, backyards to pee in. Abundance, I guess, is a lot like gravity–it’s everywhere. She says you actually have to work pretty hard to find scarcity. Sure, I guess you can find it. Like, where have all the cowboys gone? But I’m starting to think of scarcity a little bit like that cake topper of the cute couple–it may seem a lot like the real thing, but it’s not even close. Rather, the real thing is that our needs are met and then some, we’ve all come a long way, and something wonderful is always about to happen.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your emotions are tired of being ignored.

"

Hoping Something Will Work (Blog #131)

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From fourth grade until graduation I attended a Christian school. When I was in junior high I took a communications class with a rather dynamic teacher and a total of four students including me. That’s where I memorized the prologue to The Canterbury Tales, which I can still recite. I may have even kept some notes from that class and tucked them away in my old closet. (I spent a lot of time there, I should have a better grasp on what’s inside.) I mean, I learned a lot in that class–I enjoyed it.

That being said.

My teacher was also a preacher, and one day–I honestly don’t remember how it all came to pass–he sat me down in a chair and prayed over my legs because he said one of them was longer than the other. I mean, it was an ordeal that would have made Oral Roberts proud–he spoke with authority, rebuked the devil, and uttered plenty of Amens and Yes-Lords. He even anointed me with olive oil, which apparently he kept in a small vial on a chain hung round his neck–I’m assuming for spur-of-the-moment miraculous leg stretchings.

I’m just gonna say it–IT DIDN’T FUCKING WORK.

Here we are twenty years later, and I apparently still have a leg that’s shorter. (It’s only a problem if you want to walk in a straight line.) Since the leg bone’s connected to the hip bone, I’ve spent my last two chiropractor appointments trying to get a decent answer as to why one of my hips is higher than the other. Well, apparently, like many a relationship status on Facebook–it’s complicated. It seems there are a lot of contributing factors. You know, it’s hard to say. But my guy did tell me today that although my left leg isn’t “anatomically shorter” than my right, it is “structurally shorter.” (If that makes sense to you, congratulations.) He said it’s within the “normal limits,” meaning it’s a quarter of an inch shorter.

Then he said that he didn’t really think I needed a heel lift (a shoe insert), that it would probably make my back hurt worse (yippee), but we could try one and see what happens. So he handed me this rubber shim thing (see photo above) and told me to stick it in my left Reebok.

Why thank you–don’t mind if I do.

So for the rest of the day, I basically got taller on one side. I kept wondering if someone would notice. (I don’t think they did.) And it was okay, but it took some getting used to. I guess it was like wearing a thong–sort of uncomfortable but sort of fun because no one else can see it. Still YOU KNOW it’s there–you can FEEL it with every step. Anyway, when I look at them in the mirror, my hips are more level than they were before. Not perfect, of course (nothing is ever perfect, except Dolly Parton), but better.

This evening just before I got ready to go for a run, I felt some muscles talking in my lower back that don’t usually talk. (I’ve always assumed they were the strong, silent type.) Oh crap, I thought, the chiropractor was right. The heel lift made things worse. Then I thought, Dial down the drama, Nancy. So I got out the foam roller–my new best friend–and proceeded to work my back, butt, and leg muscles.

I swear, sometimes life is a lot of damn work. (My mom actually said, “Marc, you work so hard,” to which I replied, “Oh my gosh, I work my ass off” because that’s what it feels like sometimes.)

So get this. The run tonight was probably the best I’ve ever had. I went to the track and ran 6.5 miles non-stop, and it felt great. A few pains here and there, but they worked themselves out. What’s more, my playlist tonight was “by the universe,” meaning I picked one song I liked and let my player pick the rest based on the genre (80s, give or take several years). Well, it was perfect. Just as the big ole moon was coming out from behind the clouds, Abba’s Dancing Queen came on. I thought, I’m actually RUNNING at the moment. But right after that was Whitney Houston’s I Want to Run to You. (That’s better.) Then a couple songs and a couple laps went by, and it was time for the final lap, and just as I picked up the pace, Kenny Loggins’ Footloose came on!

Been workin’–so hard.

Well played, universe, well played. Oh, and the heel lift/footloose connection was clever. Good job.

When I got home I did the foam roller thing again and then went through a litany of new exercises the chiropractor gave me to help get my shoulders and neck in the right spot and hopefully alleviate the pain in my mid-back. And then–AND THEN–I did a yoga stretch called plow, in which you lie on your back and take your legs straight back over your head until you’re basically folded on top of yourself. It’s super sexy and usually really uncomfortable. I’ve been trying it for over a week, but it’s been rough. But tonight, my body went directly there.

Footloose–back loose! Maybe I should use this picture for my next online dating profile.

Currently that spot in my mid-back does not feel awesome, I’m starting to get just a touch of a headache, and certain muscles in my legs are like, “What the hell just happened?” So despite my enthusiasm and optimism about the heel lift and my running half of a half-marathon tonight, I realize there’s a distinct possibility that I may not be able to walk tomorrow. Still I plan to keep working hard–go to the chiropractor, use my foam roller, do my stretches. Before I go to bed, I may even pray, anoint myself with peppermint oil–or just swallow a muscle relaxer–whatever it takes. One day–surely–something will work.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There is a force, a momentum that dances with all of us, sometimes lifting us up in the air, sometimes bringing us back down in a great mystery of starts and stops.

"

The Butterfly Effect (Blog #129)

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A couple of weeks ago during a conversation about the number of per-day visitors to my blog (which is good, I think, but not astounding), my friend Donny said he thought the blog’s impact could be like a butterfly effect. If you don’t know, the butterfly effect is a theory that says the flapping of a butterfly’s wings can influence weather patterns, cause something like a tornado. In other words, small actions can affect big changes.

In terms of the blog, I hope Donny’s right.

Because of that conversation, that phrase–the butterfly effect–has been popping in and out of my head lately. Then a few days ago I noticed somewhere that the author Jon Ronson (who’s delightful) had released an audiobook/podcast on Amazon by the same name (for free!) So I downloaded it, started listening to it last night, and finished it today. All together, it took about three-and-a-half hours and was worth every minute.

The Butterfly Effect is subtitled Who Really Pays the Price for Free Porn? and starts with the story of the man responsible for PornHub and several sites like it, which are basically YouTube for pornography and are grossly filled with copyrighted material that has been illegally uploaded by users. So Jon explores that one decision–the decision to offer free porn–and its consequences. Along the way, he interviews porn directors and porn stars, as well as a number of people outside the industry directly and indirectly affected by free porn. Without saying too much, The Butterfly Effect talks about a man whose porn fetish (gremlins and Wonder Woman) goes back to when he was a child (a gremlin) and his mother (Wonder Woman) walked out of his life forever, a former porn star who lost his job as a nurse because of his past, and the fact that more and more eighteen-to-forty-year-olds have erectile dysfunction than ever before (because their penises have become so picky).

It’s fascinating.

Today while I listed to The Butterfly Effect (for over two hours), I stretched. In yoga sometimes the hips are referred to as the emotional junkyard, and mine are super-duper tight, so I spent a lot of time there. There’s a pose or stretch called Double Pigeon in which you basically sit on the floor like a child would but you put one ankle top of the other knee. Ideally, your legs should rest on top of each other, but mine almost always have a big gap in between them. I mean, big enough that Zac Efron could put his head in there, although I don’t know why that example comes to mind. Anyway today was no exception. Here’s where my right side started.

Before long, things relaxed and I completely closed the gap between my legs. This was a huge victory, since I think that’s only happened once or twice before–ever. (See the picture at the top of the blog. Way to go, Marky!) HOWEVER, the left side wasn’t really having it. Check out where THAT side started.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried a stretch like this, but it’s extremely uncomfortable, sometimes painful. But for over twenty minutes this afternoon, I just took deep breaths, tried to relax, and forced myself to hang in there. And I ALMOST got where I wanted to be. Here’s a picture taken just before I quit that pose for the day. (Also– I’m sorry–I didn’t mean for this blog to be filled with so many pictures taken at crotch level.)

This evening my dad told me a joke he heard from my aunt Carla. What’s the difference between a northern tale and a southern tale? A northern tale begins “Once upon a time.” A southern tale begins “Y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.” Well–

Y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.

After I finished Double Pigeon, I did some other stretches and finally lay down on my back with both feet on the ground and my knees in the air. (This is where it gets weird.) Then my legs started shaking. Like, not a little–A LOT. I mean, I’ve had muscle spasms before, but this was a whole new level. My thighs were visibly vibrating. Well, I’ve read a lot about how the body can heal, and one of the ways is through shaking and trembling. Like a duck that flaps its wings after a squabble, it’s a way to release trauma. So I just let it happen. There I was on my back listening to a story about pornography, and my legs were going all “shake, rattle, and roll” for fifteen minutes solid.

It was fascinating.

There’s no such thing as a small action. There’s no such thing as small progress.

Eventually, things calmed down and I let my legs sink to the floor. During the entire stretching and vibrating process, I felt both frustration and release, sadness and joy. When it was all over, I thought, This is a big deal. This is progress. Something definitely happened today. However, before I started writing tonight I went for a walk and was acutely aware of a pain in my mid-back and another in my right leg. For these reasons, there’s part of me that wants to discount all the stretching and releasing that happened this afternoon. I’m getting nowhere. Nothing happened today. Hell, I probably made it up.

When Jon Ronson finished his research about the consequences of free porn, he went to the man who pretty much started it all. For the most part, the man didn’t take responsibility, even though Jon pointed out that not all the consequences were bad. Some of them were good. But what’s interesting to me is that–most definitely–there were consequences. There was a butterfly effect. So I have to remind myself that whether it’s in regard to my writing or the healing of my physical body, there’s no such thing as a small action. There’s no such thing as small progress. Rather, whatever the journey, each step is important and makes possible the one that comes after it. And since one life touches another and that life touches another, who can say where their journey ends?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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I believe that God is moving small universes to communicate with me and with all of us, answering prayers and sending signs in unplanned moments, the touch of a friend's hand, and the very air we breathe.

"

Cicadas Were Meant for Flying (Blog #127)

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Currently I am not amused. Not amused, I say. I sat down to begin writing about an hour and a half ago, and my site was completely inaccessible, which means I couldn’t look at the site, write a post, diddly freaking squat. (I said, “Shit, hell, fuck, damn.”) Thanks to Google, I figured out the problem was a plugin I installed a couple of months ago. I’m not sure how to explain a plugin other than saying it allows certain things to happen on the website. Like, there’s one plugin that lets me share my Twitter feed, another that lets me list the most recent posts, stuff like this. Anyway, one of those damn things was messed up, so the recommendation Google suggested was to disable (turn off) the guilty party.

Which would have been easy enough to do–had I been able to access my site.

SHFD.

Well, I guess there’s always more than one way to skin a cat, so after some more time on Google, I enabled FTP protocol through the website host, which is different than the site itself. Think landlord (host) versus property (site). (I can’t explain FTF other than to say it’s a way to access your site files away from you site–sort of like using your cell phone to turn up your hearing aids or open your garage door). After enabling FTP, I had to actually download an FTP application, and then I was able to rename the plugin file folder that was causing the problem. And guess what? Voila!

Stupid internet. (The end.)

Just kidding. I don’t even remember what I did today. Oh yes. I got a massage–myofascial release–and talked to my massage therapist about the theory that our memories are stored in our fascia. (I plan to check into this more. I’ll let you know how it goes.) Anyway, he said that sometimes when people are “letting go,” they remember traumatic experiences from their past–car accidents, injuries, even things that happened in the womb. (Wild, huh?) He said people can release a lot of emotion on the table and the body can heal long-standing problems. In his training, this is apparently called “unwinding,” and it can really scare the shit out of someone if they’re not ready for it.

Personally, I don’t think I “unwound” today, although I wish I had. (I did feel my neck and shoulders let go a little.) I’ve had some experiences on the massage table and in yoga before when I spontaneously started crying, even laughing. Sometimes it’s just been the emotion, other times it’s been the emotion and a memory. Oh, that’s why my leg muscles are so tight–because I had to grow up so fast. Maybe it all sounds weird if this is new to you, but I’ve come to see that every part of our bodies is absolutely alive, conscious, and wise. And it seems that often emotions and experiences literally get stored in our bodies (the issues are in our tissues) until we are best able to address and process them.

Let’s just put all that stress in your shoulders until a later date. There now–everything right where it belongs.

This afternoon I spent some time at Sweet Bay Coffee Company setting my mom up with a tablet so she could get on Facebook and read my blog. (What else is there to do online?) She’s been using my old phone, but the port has been crapping out, which has made charging it a problem. But I got a sweet deal on an Amazon Fire, which is perfect for her.

In addition to all that, I also worked through an exercise about my beliefs in money while at Sweet Bay. (Fill in the blanks: Rich people are _____, If I had money I’d _____, Dad thought money was _____, etc.) Honestly, most my answers were negative, which only surprised me because I thought I’d made a lot of progress in that department.

Guess not.

Anyway, when I left Sweet Bay, the cicadas outside were so loud it sounded like an entire herd of baby goats were being sacrificed as part of a pagan ritual. I thought, Holy crap.

So I got this new car, right? Tom Collins–that’s his name. Well, when I bought Tom Collins, the guy who sold him to me (Johnny) said to be sure to start the car and let it run for about thirty seconds before throwing it into gear and taking off. He said it would be better for the engine. Therefore, like the straight-A student that I am, I’ve been trying to follow his directions. (Where’s my gold star?)

So get this shit.

There I was sitting in the Sweet Bay parking lot, car running with the windows down, and a giant cicada flew–actually buzzed–into my car. (I screamed and nearly peed my pants.) I swear, it was huge, practically an Oscar Meyer weiner with wings. Anyway, the not-so-little sucker went directly into my door handle–and got stuck–like little Timmy in the well. So I opened the door hoping he’d fly out, but I guess he didn’t have enough space for a runway.

You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. 

It’s moments like these when I think it’d really be nice to have a man around. I mean, isn’t that what husbands are for–dealing with insects? Oh go ahead, honey, you handle it–you’re so big and strong. Why, look at those muscles. Well, as it turned out, I was the only man available for cicada-removal duty. Crap, I thought, I guess I’ll have to do. So I fished out an umbrella from the trunk, stood back, and poked around in the hole, but nothing came out, other than a bunch of noise that sounded like a frozen turkey being dropped into a pot of boiling vegetable oil.

CRACKLE, CRACKLE, ZIP, POW.

I was finally able to get the umbrella tip behind the little guy’s bottom, and he used his legs to crawl out of the well. Then just like that, he flew off, up-up-and-away over the Dollar General.

You’ve got to let go in order to make room for something new.

Tonight before I found out my website crashed, I cleared off the phone that used to be mine, the phone Mom’s been using for a couple of months–backed up the photos, deleted the applications, restored it to factory settings. It’s not worth much, and I’ll probably take it apart with a hammer tomorrow, so I’m not sure what all the fuss was about, other than–and I know this sounds silly–it felt like I was saying goodbye. I mean, we’ve been through a lot together.

Earlier I looked up the symbolism of cicadas. As it turns out, they represent rebirth because they spend much of their life underground. But then after a good while, they break free, lose their shell. For this reason they stand for metamorphosis and change. Honestly, I don’t think it was an accident that little demon flew into Tom Collins. I mean, I’m thirty-six years old, and that’s never happened before. Plus, I’m actually going through a rebirth.

What I love about this reminder from the heavens is that it’s normal to have a long seemingly inactive period before breaking free. More so, 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 about money, anything that helped get you this far–and it might feel awkward at first–but you’ve got to let go of whatever it is in order to make room for something new. You can’t say wound up forever. After all, cicadas weren’t meant to have their wings pinned down, and neither were we.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Even a twisted tree grows tall and strong.

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