On Original Goodness (Blog #770)

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If I could live today over and over again, I would. This morning I slept in, ate a lovely breakfast (well, three eggs and canned fruit but the coffee was fabulous, well, Folgers), then read a book on my laptop for two hours. (I love reading.) Then I ran an errand and went to the library to sync my online files (the library has fast internet). Then I went to the gym and ran on the treadmill and did my knee exercises. I can definitely see improvement with my knee. It’s getting stronger, less shaky. Then I ate a burrito (well, two), and went to Porch Pickin’.

My friend Kim invited me to Porch Pickin’. She and her neighbors (and some of their friends) have been doing it for years. Every so often they get together–on a porch–and play music. Or just watch. That’s what I did (well, and drank beer). I hung out, listened, and chatted with Kim and her brother, who’s visiting from out-of-town. Granted, it was a LITTLE chilly. Fifty-five degrees. But I had layers.

This was the perfect thing, just the right amount of socialization. I think of myself as an extrovert, but, really, I hug the extrovert/introvert line. I certainly need my alone time. Time to be quiet. Time to reflect. Time for solitude. This blog helps with that. I put in my headphones, pipe in instrumental music, and drown out the rest of the world. More and more, I think it’s necessary for my sanity. It’s simply one of the best ways I have to work things out. To get what’s inside out, or at least sorted through. Obviously, this benefits me. But I think it also benefits those I come in contact with, since it means that I enter into each interaction with less baggage than I would otherwise.

So this is the formula–less baggage for you=less baggage for the world.

When I got home from Porch Pickin’, I ate dinner and caught up with Mom and Dad. Then Dad and I took out the trash, which, again, is something I’m recommend everyone do. Not just your physical trash, but also your mental trash. Your emotional trash. Last night Mom said she imagines most people, when it comes to their personalities, think, This is just who I am. Pick an adjective–nervous, irritable, fussy, nosey, high-strung, stressed-out, angry, frantic, worried, frenetic, mind won’t stop racing. But the truth is that your personality is just something you’ve created “along the way.” It’s like a mask you wear. It’s not who you really are, just like the three layers of clothes I had on tonight aren’t who I really am.

Richard C. Schwartz, the founder of Internal Family Systems, says that underneath our various personality constructs, we all share inherent qualities–curiosity, calmness, confidence, compassion, clarity, courage, creativity, and connectedness. If you’re current mood reflects these eight “c’s,” congratulations. This is who you are. If it doesn’t, welcome to the club. Meaning, there’s still work to do.

What I like about Schwartz’s theory or way of explaining things is that it assumes that these qualities come “built-in.” That is, rather than siding with the Original Sin theory (which says you were born bad, bad, bad to the bone), his theory sides with what some traditions call Original Goodness or Original Blessing. Meaning that a spark of divinity already lives in you. You don’t have to put it there. However, if it gets covered up along the way (by anger, for example, that you might use to keep people at a distance because you’re afraid of being hurt by them), you might need to do some work (The Hard Work) to uncover it.

I think of the things I’ve struggled with most of my life–being afraid, feeling nervous or less-than–and how for years I’ve simply thought, This is as good as it’s going to get. But I really don’t believe that anymore. Because as I’ve continued to work on myself and take my trash out, things have gotten better, on the inside. Now I feel more centered, at peace, at home. Stated simply, this state of being manifests itself as my being more kind toward myself and others. And, along the lines of Original Goodness, it’s not like someone has had to put “more kindness” into me, but rather that “more kindness” has been uncovered. You know how you get out of the shower and look at yourself in a foggy mirror. Everything is distorted. But then you wipe away the junk, and it’s like, Okay, there I am.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We think of hope as something pristine, but hope is haggard like we are.

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Taller (Blog #761)

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Recently I’ve been listening to an audio series by Robert Augustus Masters called Knowing Your Shadow, about how to reconnect and integrate all the parts of yourself that you’ve basically told to go sit in the corner–your anger, your shame, your humiliation. (Pick an emotion, any emotion.) One clue that your shadow is running the show (at least in the moment)? You find yourself reactive. That is, you’re re-acting, acting out again, or responding to a present situation as if it were a past one. For example, recently I made a big deal about losing a puzzle piece. Not because losing a puzzle piece warrants freaking out, but because I’d borrowed the puzzle from a friend and part of me was afraid of making them mad or “getting in trouble.” This, I’m sure, was a part of me that still feels like a child, a part of me that hasn’t grown up yet.

A part of my shadow.

As far as I can tell, our shadows get a bad rap. We think they’re these evil monsters that are going to suddenly take over or cause us to do something we’ll regret later. But that’s not the case. Rather, our shadows are simply the parts of ourselves we’ve dissociated from in some way, most likely because at one time in our lives (our childhoods) we thought we’d be better served without them. For example, if you grew up in a home where anger was either not displayed or conversely displayed without restraint, chances are you’ve put at least part of your anger (which all of us experience) “over there.” The problem with this strategy is that if we leave parts of ourselves in the dark, we end up growing up without their help and assistance–because every part is valuable and has something to offer us. As adults we end up playing without a full deck (and then wonder why we can never seem to win).

Consequently, we end up less whole, not fully ourselves.

One of the exercises in the audio program suggested “reentering” a dream in which you felt fearful or were being chased. I tried this and reentered (imagined) a dream in which I was trying to run away or hide from a man with a gun. (For reference, I associate guns with strength or power.) But this time instead of running, I turned to face him. Then, like the Adam Lambert song, I said, “WHAT do you want from me?” And he said, “STOP RUNNING AWAY FROM ME.” Then he morphed from this shapeless figure into Superman.

The point of this exercise, the takeaway for me, is that one of the parts of myself I’ve banished to shadow-land is my power, my strength. That is, there are a lot of areas of my life where I play small or at the very least feel weak and ineffectual. But as I’ve meditated on this the last two days, I know that’s not who I am at my core–weak. As I told my therapist today (and started crying when I said it), “The truth is that I am totally strong.” Not that I can leap tall buildings in a single bound, but I know that–fundamentally–I’m a force to be reckoned with–stable, solid, and fierce.

Last night I started reading a book by Judith Blackstone about, among other things, our fundamental qualities, the contention being that we all have innate, this-is-the-way-it-is-whether-you-like-it-or-not characteristics. For example, according to the book, we’re all intelligent and we’re all loving. This doesn’t mean your next door neighbor, the guy who drinks thirty beers every Friday night and wakes up on his lawn every Saturday morning half-naked is going to win the Nobel Peace Prize or suddenly turn into Mother Teresa. Simply because you HAVE a quality doesn’t mean you’re in touch with it. But it does mean you can GET in touch with it. That is, nobody has to PUT intelligence in your brain or love in your heart. They’re already there. If you don’t believe me, simply close your eyes and try tuning into your head (for intelligence) or your chest cavity (for love) and see what you find there.

Blackstone says you can likewise tune into your solar plexus to discover your power, another one of your fundamental qualities. She says that when you do, you won’t find this aggressive, ugly thing (a man with a gun), but rather something strong (Superman), like a waterfall.

This morning I saw my therapist, and we discussed all this. Well, except the waterfall part, since I just read that part of the book this afternoon. But we did talk about my shadow and the fact that not only have I disconnected from my sense of power, but that I’ve also, largely, disconnected from my anger. I imagine a lot of people do this. Anger isn’t a socially acceptable emotion, unless, of course, you’re yelling at your nine-year-old soccer player’s referee. (It’s gotta come out somewhere.) Plus, it’s scary. When you really FEEL an emotion like anger, it’s easy to think, I don’t know if I can control this. But my therapist said that as you get more comfortable with your anger, you get more comfortable with your power. Said another way, when you really own all parts of yourself, you can both feel and express strong emotion without flying off the handle. You can stay in control.

One of the scariest things about doing The Hard Work, being in therapy, and trying to welcome all parts of myself has been and is learning that I’m not who I thought I was. What I mean is that most of us grow up telling ourselves these stories. We say, “Oh, I’m shy” or “I never get mad.” We say, “I’ve always been that way.” We say, “That’s just me,” nervous, embarrassed, ashamed, whatever. But when you dig deep, you find out all of those things are just a construct, a facade you created in order to survive and get along in your particular circumstances. When you bring your parts out of the shadows, you find out–What a damn minute, I’m strong and confident. This is who I am. I can speak up. I can stand my ground. And this is good and this is a relief, to find out that you’re anything but weak. But this is also challenging–because now you have to say goodbye to your old self, and now you have to stop apologizing for taking up space in the world, and now you have to stand on your own two feet, taller than were before.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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This Is Where the Roots Grow (Blog #730!)

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It’s ten-thirty in the morning, and I’ve been awake and functional for an entire hour. Last night I dreamed that I’d stolen two piano keyboards from a warehouse and stashed them in the back of my car. Then I got stopped by the police, and an old lady kept trying to take my picture. The flash on the camera made my eyes squint. I was worried about being seen with the stolen goods, which had just been found by the cops. They’d opened my back door. The old lady was a distraction. Then I was walking back to the warehouse with the keyboards’ rightful owners, who were intent on proving the keyboards matched their other equipment and, therefore, belonged to them. I remember thinking, I hope I don’t get discovered. And yet I didn’t run away; I continued to walk.

Wow. Today’s blog is #730, which means that as soon as I hit “publish,” I will have completed two full years of daily blogging (365 x 2=730). I can’t tell you what this accomplishment means to me. As I type these words, I have tears in my eyes. Overwhelmed with pride, joy, and even grief, I’m at a loss for how to fully express what I’m feeling. I did it.

Recently I heard Dustin Hoffman say that actors should always be working. Not that they should always be in front of a camera or in a play or movie, but that they should always be working on their craft. “Read a famous play, watch a classic movie,” he said. (I’m paraphrasing.) “Pay attention. Go to the mall and observe people. Find out about the world around you.” I can’t tell you how much I adore this advice. When I started this blog two years ago, I was giving myself a lot of shit for living with my parents and not having a “real” job. Many times I’ve said that I haven’t been working. But the truth is that I have been working. I haven’t always been getting paid for my work, but for the last 730 days I’ve put my butt in a chair and worked on my craft. For thousands of hours. And when I haven’t been at the keyboard, I’ve been reading–learning about writing, psychology, and more. Plus, I’ve been paying attention to other people, my relationships, and how life works. For a writer, this is invaluable.

A tree’s roots are under the ground.

I’m not saying this to brag. Look! I’ve been using my brain! Rather, I’m saying this as an honest acknowledgment. From blog #1 I’ve said I needed to soften up on myself. That is, I’ve spent the majority of my thirty-eight years on this earth beating myself up and thinking that not only am I not good enough, but also that I don’t know enough, don’t work enough. But I’m tired of this way of thinking. For one thing, it doesn’t feel good. For another, it’s not true. I work my ass off. Just because you can’t always see it–in the form of a paycheck or completed novel, for example–doesn’t mean it’s not there. A tree’s roots are under the ground.

The last time I talked to my therapist about my thought that my life isn’t happening fast enough, she encouraged me to trust the universe’s timing. “I used to think that I needed a better job or more money,” she said, “but looking back I can see that I wouldn’t have been ready for those things at the time. So you have to ask yourself, ‘Am I really ready for something else, or am I still being prepared for it?'” Ugh. Preparation. That’s what I think this period in my life is. Growing roots. Hoffman says one of his favorite experiences in the world of entertainment involved–early on–directing a play in Fargo, North Dakota. Though it wasn’t anything big by the world’s standards, it turned out to be invaluable for what would come later. Again, the work that was important was the work that nobody saw.

Since today is the last blog of Year Two of Me and My Therapist, it feels like both this post and the day itself should be big, something grand. And whereas I imagine parts of it will be, the truth is that this post and the rest of the day will have their hits and misses. Words and moments that I think are fabulous, others will rush right over. Things I’d cut out in a heartbeat–what, this old thing?–others will cling to. After all, we each have our own set of glasses through which we see the world. Even if you wanted to, you can’t exchange your pair for another’s. I do think, however, that you can change your own pair of glasses, that you can begin to see the world, and even yourself, differently. Not in a flash, but over time. Unfortunately, that’s the only reliable way I’ve found to competently do anything–learn to dance, learn to write, or change you perceptions (which really means changing yourself). It’s simply a law of nature–strong roots don’t grow overnight.

Another thing Hoffman said is that even with all his talent, experience, and success, part of him always feels like an imposter. That he spent so many years being rejected, being interrupted mid-audition and told, “Thank you, next!” that he’s sure every film will be his last. Like, They finally figured it out–I’m a fraud. That’s what I think my dream was about last night, my feeling like other people are talented but that I’m not, that somehow I’ve stolen something that rightfully belongs to somebody else. The good news, I think, is that this perception is changing, indicated in the dream by the old woman (my old ideas) taking my picture (the way I see things). Plus, despite my fear in the dream–I hope I don’t get discovered–I continued to walk. In waking life, I continue to write because I DO want to be discovered. I imagine every artist does. But more than wanting or needing outside recognition, I know I must first have my own recognition. Regardless of what anyone else says or thinks, I have to believe in myself and what I’m doing here.

More and more, I do.

You can weather any storm.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “The years teach much that the days never know.” Amen. In two years of daily writing, I’ve learned that something magical happens between the words, between the lines, between each time I hit “publish.” This is the part that no one sees. This is where the roots grows. Try as I might, I’ll never be able to describe this experience to anyone else who hasn’t lived it for themselves, how a practice like this can transform you. But when you’ve changed, you know it. Personally, I know what it feels like to be grounded, to grow steady in yourself. I know what it feels like to know–deep down–that you can weather any storm. There’s this inner confidence. You think, I am not a fraud. Strong roots produce strong trees.

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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On Being Born Again (Blog #728)

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This time two years ago, I was two days away from officially starting this blog. I’d gotten the idea for it a week or so before, but on March 30, 2017, I actually bit the bullet and bought the domain. My first post was the next day, March 31, 2017, although the site didn’t go live until the first week in April. Anyway, this means I’m three posts (including this one) away from two full years of daily blogging. I’ve been reflecting on this a lot lately; I just can’t get over it. On one hand, two years seems like forever. On the other, it seems like the blink of an eye, as if I’d only written–I don’t know–a dozen posts rather than sixty dozen.

My therapist told me recently that she thought this blog was as much if not more responsible for my growth as therapy has been. I said, “The blog has been like sitting down to talk to a friend and then realizing that friend is me. It’s been my way back to myself.” Still, I’m glad I’ve had and continue to have both therapy and this blog. I’m sure just one would have been beneficial. Before this blog, therapy was beneficial. But with this blog–wow–it’s been even more so. Regardless of how long this project goes on, I’m sold on the idea of working through your thoughts and emotions. Whether with one person or the entire internet, I’m sold on the idea of honestly sharing your story.

This is me, warts and all.

The book I mentioned yesterday that my therapist recommended (by Sheldon B. Kopp) says the truth does NOT set you free. That is, facts by themselves–my boyfriend’s a cheater, my husband’s a louse, my wife is a drunk–don’t change anything. This is why, the author contends, the greatest teachers use stories and parables to teach rather than simply saying, “Your best friend’s an asshole, and you should dump them.” Because people need to be able to work things out for themselves. Said another way, if you’re unhappy for some reason, it’s not simply that a particular situation in your life needs to change; it’s that YOU do. This, of course, takes time. When I broke up with my ex, there were plenty of people who could have rightly said, “We TOLD you he was a grade-A prick.” But I didn’t need to be told the truth; I needed to live it. THAT’S what sets you free, when truth goes from something that lives between your ears to something that lives within your heart. That’s what’s transforming.

Since I started therapy five years ago, my therapist says I’m a changed man. She says the way I walk, the way I carry myself, is different. Of course, I’ve never videotaped myself walking, so I can’t say. But I do know I feel different–better, lighter, happier, more confident, less afraid, more at-home in my own skin. The list could go on. And whereas I can’t say exactly when all of this happened, I just know it has. Not that I’m always up and never down. That’s not how things work on this planet. I experience the full range of my emotions. Indeed, I feel anger and rage more than I ever have. But I also feel joy more than I ever have. That’s one of the things I’ve learned in the last five years–when you shove down a “bad” emotion, you likewise depress a “good” one. The shadow is tied to the light.

As I come to the close of two years of blogging, I’m thinking about what will be next. And whereas I plan to continue my daily online writing habit, I know it won’t last forever. By my own admission, I’m quite the hard ass about this ever day, every damn day thing, and it’s exhausting. Rewarding, but exhausting, and this body and soul can only take so much. Anyway, I’m slowly working my way around to the idea that it’s not the number (728 blogs!) that matters. It’s not the number of words, the number of readers, or the number of shares. I’ve made these things important in my head before (and probably will again), but fuck all that. No, it’s what’s happened on the inside that’s important. It’s the transformation, that thing that happens slowly, can’t be quantified, and is rarely praised by others; that morphing from one thing to another more beautiful, more authentic, and more true thing; that being born again that matters.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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A mantra: Not an asshole, not a doormat.

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A Cedar Inside a Seed (Blog #726)

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Today has been fabulous. This morning I woke up early to go to therapy. Because this last Sunday was five years since my first therapy appointment, I picked up cookies on the way. (My therapist likes cookies.) When I walked into my therapist’s office in a bow tie and suit jacket (and pants, of course, you pervert), she happened to be in the waiting room and commented that I looked fancy. Then she looked at her receptionist and said, “It’s our anniversary.”

She remembered.

Other than my dressing up and the cookies (with which I also had a cup of coffee), today’s session was like any other. Still, the entire time I had it in my head just how much my life has positively changed over the last five years. Even now, if I really stopped to think about the impact this one person has had on me, I’d start crying. It’s no small thing to be accepted, affirmed, believed in, and trusted. Indeed, I can say without hesitation–my therapist has, from the beginning, believed in me. More than I did. More than I do. This has been transformative. Thanks to her belief and support, I now believe in and trust myself more than I ever have.

I’ve mentioned before that scarcity is a big issue for me, and today my therapist referred to this issue as my “grand struggle.” She said we all have one. “Mine is different than yours,” she said, “but I can identify with yours.” This is why my coming to believe in myself is such a big deal. Because if you believe in scarcity–that there’s not enough money, not enough opportunity, and not enough sex (but really)–then, since you see the world through “not enough” glasses, you’ll believe you’re not enough either. You’ll have to. You’ll think, I need to learn more, I need to know more people, and I need to look different before I can be happy or successful because–I’m not enough. This, of course, is a lie. You’re either enough right here, right now, or you never will be. And that’s what I’m coming to believe, that there’s enough money, opportunity, and sex for me. That I’m enough exactly how I am.

That I have everything I need and always have.

Before I left therapy, my therapist told me that I’ve reaffirmed her belief that people can change for the better. This means the world to me. I say often that I’ve changed and that therapy has been great–better than great–for me, but since my progress has been stretched out over five years, it’s sometimes difficult to see even though I know it’s there. So it was nice to be reminded that I’m a different man than I was five years ago. Not that my fundamental me-ness has changed. My therapist told me in one of our very first sessions, “It’s my job to support you in reaching your highest potential.” Not my simply better, average, or good-enough potential. My highest potential. So she set the bar high. We set the bar high, because I agreed too–there’s a lot of possibility here, inside of me, and I’m willing to work to bring it out; I’m not willing to get to the end of my life and think, I was capable of more but settled for less. I let fear get the best of me.

Once when we were discussing a specific dream I have, my therapist said, “Do you think you can do this?” and I said, “Yes!” Then she said, “I believe you. You didn’t hesitate or waver before answering, so I know that’s your truth. And I think–I know–you can too.” Then I said, “It’s not that I don’t think I’m capable, it’s that I’m afraid. I’m afraid that my dreams won’t come true. So sometimes it’s easier to not dream than to dream and think it might not happen. The second thought hurts too much.”

Again, this thinking is a belief in scarcity, that God or the universe is capable of growing a tree, a mountain range, or a galaxy, but incapable of growing you and your dreams. Said another way, because all of life is progressive, it’s a belief that you are somehow the exception to the rule, that on a huge, whirling planet (with electricity, the internet, and peanut butter), everything is moving and evolving except stagnant little you. That stars, sunrises, and cedar trees are beautiful but you’re not. That there’s not enough growth and beauty here for all of us.

Over the years, I’ve had a thousand dance students in whom I saw some sort of potential and imagine I’ve told all of them, “You’re doing a good job. I see progress.” Unfortunately, many students have brushed these statements off. But I’ve thought what my therapist has told me before–I’ll believe in you until you can believe in yourself. I know on some level, they already do believe in themselves. Otherwise they wouldn’t be there, doing the work. Maybe they’re not firm in their belief yet, but a part of them is hoping. With both dance and therapy, I know this is enough, the hope that some part of your life can improve. Granted, like a cedar inside a seed, you start small. At times you feel small. Then one day you begin to feel it, your potential to be large, strong, and beautiful. At some point, perhaps thanks to someone who believes in you, you think, I belong here too. There’s more than enough everything to go around.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You’re exactly where you need to be.

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It Doesn’t Taste Like Chocolate (Blog #676)

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Holy cow. The sun was out today. Talk about marvelous. It was warm and everything, so warm, in fact, that I went for a walk around the neighborhood. And whereas my knee, which I recently had surgery on, required me to go slow, I did it. Made some vitamin D, burned a few calories, and cheered myself right up. To God be the glory, great things he hath done.

This afternoon I went grocery shopping, first to the health food store for fermented things, then to Aldi’s for everything else. Last week when I went, it took forever, but today I was in and out of both stores within an hour. This is thanks to the fact that I’m eating clean and, therefore, only like six things. And now that I know where they are, well, shopping is easy peasy.

What’s not easy peasy, apparently, is opening a can of tuna, which I tried to do when I got home from shopping because I was hungry. Y’all, that little pull tab snapped right off, so I tried opening the can with a screwdriver. This is a good idea, I thought, but it wasn’t. I guess those cans are under pressure (aren’t we all?); I got it open, but the tuna splattered everywhere. The kitchen looked like a toddler had contracted salmonella.

Now I’m doing laundry.

Once I cleaned up the tuna mess, I opened another can of tuna and made a salad–lettuce, onions, carrots, nuts, all the healthy things. Do you guys have any idea how long it takes to eat a salad? Seriously, there’s so much chewing. (I’ve never had this problem with a chocolate malt.) When I finally finished, I was stuffed. Now it’s forty-five minutes later, and I’m starving. What the hell, salad? (This is why people don’t like you.) Granted, I’m not bloated and can sit down without unbuttoning my jeans, but I’m pretty sure I could go back to cheeseburgers and get the same effect with an elastic waistband.

Despite my issue with salads (like my previous boyfriends, they have no staying power), I’m enjoying my new diet, which amounts to little or no wheat/gluten, dairy, sugar, and alcohol. Although sometimes tired, my body feels better, less heavy. Plus, my skin issues have been steadily improving, as has (I think, maybe, hopefully) my stomach. Likewise, I can see improvements from my knee rehab and workout routine. Still, I get frustrated that results aren’t instantaneous (presto change-o) and also get bored with doing the same thing every day, every damn day. This is part of the reason I’ve been looking for different exercises to do online and even–gasp–eating salads (because chicken and rice was getting old).

Recently a friend asked me if I still enjoyed writing (the blog). The short answer is yes. At the same time, it’s not EXCITING like it was in the beginning. But not because it’s not fun or rewarding, but because it’s not the beginning. That’s the deal, if you’re excited about something, you’re probably just getting started with it. Excitement has to do with the new, the novel. The place you get results, however, has to do with the routine, the ho-hum haven’t-we-done-this-a-million-times-before? Sadly, sticking with something isn’t sexy, and it doesn’t taste like chocolate. Still, it is satisfying to grind it out day after day then look back and see what you’ve done, what you’ve created, or how you’ve transformed. And good, I think, that the process of change isn’t exciting from start to finish, since then you’re challenged to master not only the thing–the diet, the exercise program, the writing–but also yourself–your thoughts, your emotions, your will, or anything else that would tell you to quit rather than keep going.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can’t play small forever.

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The Juice Was Worth the Squeeze (Blog #619)

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I spent this afternoon at the Fort Smith Little Theater. Today was the final performance of our holiday variety show, for a private group that bought out the entire theater. The show went really well, and the best part was that the vast majority of the audience members were elderly. What I mean is that since I’ve been on crutches this last week, I’ve felt a tiny bit conspicuous, like the odd man out, the only guy in the room with just one working kneecap. But y’all, today the AVERAGE person in the audience was in a wheelchair. Talk about feeling at home. There were broken knees and hips on every aisle. Hell, by comparison, I looked SPRY.

As they say, everything is relative.

After last night’s show (which also went well), we had a cast party, and some of my friends had to carry my food from the buffet line to where I was sitting, since I couldn’t carry it for myself (what with the crutches and all). I say they “had to,” but of course they volunteered to. No one held a gun to their heads. Indeed, they assisted quite willingly. This is the thing I’m still processing, that so many people seem eager to lend me a hand, grab me a drink of water, or help me get to my car. It really is humbling. And good for me, I think. I’ve been SO independent for so long, I’ve needed this reminder. No man is an island.

When today’s show was over, most of the cast stayed to tear down the set and clean up the theater. However, since I’m grossly immobile, the only thing I could help clean was the kitchen. That is to say, I ate all the leftover cheese from last night’s party. (You’re welcome.) But seriously, I threw a few things away, then left the work to those who were more able and agile. For a “do-er” like me, this wasn’t exactly easy, walking away from “a project.” Well, LIMPING away from a project. But I think it’s important to realize–there are times to show up and rise to the occasion, and there are times to bow out and walk/limp away, and it’s good to know the difference.

I spent this evening with my friends and former roommates Justin and Ashley at their house. We talked for hours and hours. (We laughed, we cried, lives were changed.) At one point Justin used a phrase I hadn’t heard before–“the juice wasn’t worth the squeeze.” I don’t remember what he was referring to, but isn’t that the perfect saying? Personally, I’m going to start using it anytime I get asked about one of my exes.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

As I was at Justin and Ashley’s until after midnight, it’s now almost two in the morning. No kidding, I really did try to get away sooner, but Justin and I don’t do short conversations. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about that phrase in reverse. What I mean is that when I was visiting with Justin, I KNEW I’d come home late and be blogging during the wee hours (and that my brain and body would want to be in bed instead). But I’m okay with being tired and a little frustrated (that I can’t rub two thoughts together in this moment) because I got a huge amount of joy and satisfaction from hanging out with my dear friends. In other words, the juice WAS WORTH the squeeze.

Likewise, being involved at the theater this last week has been physically challenging. Every day for the last eight days–every day since my knee injury–I’ve had to get dressed (not the easiest thing with a bum leg), crawl into my car, and slowly crutch my way on and off stage, even though I could have easily stayed home. But this morning my dad said, “I imagine this has been good for you, that it’s distracted you from your problems and helped the week go faster.” He was right–it has. And despite how difficult it’s been at times, this experience has given more than it’s taken–I’ve learned new things, made new friends, laughed my butt off, and come to see the world as a kinder place.

So that’s big.

Use your challenges as a vehicle for transformation, not consternation.

I guess what I’m getting at is that this knee problem is not something I’d choose to have happen again. My life turned upside down in an unfortunate instant. But already it’s taught me so much that again I’d have to say–the juice was worth the squeeze. I say that and realize this ordeal isn’t over. I mean, I’m probably looking at surgery and rehab, and I’m sure those things will be a serious drag. I’ll probably curse a lot. But this is a choice I think we all have to make either before, during, or even long after the “squeezes” in our lives–whether or not the are going to be “worth it” to us. For me, it comes down to looking for the good instead of the bad, to using my challenges as a vehicle for transformation, not consternation.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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On What You Give to Yourself (Blog #600)

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I spent this afternoon working on my dad’s honey-do list, which I guess makes me “honey” for the day. Anyway, he’s been asking me to fix the dishwasher for weeks. The front’s coming off, a spring is broken. “WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?” he said in desperation last night. So this afternoon I brought my lesbian toolbox inside and went to work. But before I could even take the damn dishwasher apart, I had to make two trips to Lowe’s in order to buy the appropriate screwdriver for the job. (The dishwasher is put together with those funny star-shaped screws, and it took two trips because they APPARENTLY make the screws in different sizes, and I guessed wrong the first time.)

It took a total of three hours, but I eventually got the dishwasher all fixed up–took the front off and put it back together with extra screws and some heavy-duty tape (since some of the plastic had broken) and fixed a spring that had popped off. Plus Dad and I vacuumed underneath. Yuck, what a mess. I’m guessing that hadn’t been done since sometime during the Reagan Administration.

Taking advantage of the fact that I was in a fix-it mood, Dad led me from the kitchen to his side of bathroom. “My sink is leaking,” he said, “but it’s just the cold water.” So off I went to Lowe’s again in order to buy a new rubber o-ring, which I assumed would be the answer to the problem based on where the leak was coming from. However, that didn’t work, so I’m going to go BACK TO LOWE’S either later tonight or tomorrow to TRY, TRY AGAIN.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

This evening I’ve been babysitting for some friends. You heard that right–me, babysitting!–taking care of two boys. One’s eleven and one’s nine. Honestly, it’s been a fantastic time. First we ate pizza and chicken wings, then we played Oregon Trail (a card came) and I died, then we watched The Sandlot. What a great movie. You’re killing me, Smalls. / You play ball like a girl! / Squints was pervin’ a dish. / For-Ev-Er. This was seriously a walk down memory lane. Not only did I used to play baseball like the boys in the movie (I was about as good as Smalls, which is not that good), but I also got a black eye from a ball like Smalls does in the film.

It really was the perfect way to spend an evening. Well, except for the fact that the boys fast-forwarded through the scene where Smalls and his friends knock the baseball with Babe Ruth’s autograph on it over the fence and into the territory of The Beast, the local dog they’re all afraid of. I don’t know–I guess it made them uncomfortable.

After the movie, the boys and I went through their nighttime routine. First, they brushed their teeth.

“Are you going to wash your faces?” I asked.

“Why would we do that?” they replied.

“Because you got pizza sauce all over them earlier,” I said.

They paused then said, “That’s what napkins are for!”

Next the boys said their prayers, which were absolutely adorable to listen to. They prayed for every single member of their family. “And God bless Mother and Father, and God bless older sister, and God bless me and brother, and God bless Grandma. Amen.” Then the older one turned to me and said, “Just to clarify, Grandma died five years ago.” Talk about priceless. After that, we sang three songs, the last of which was America the Beautiful. Not a single one of us was on key. Then the boys crawled into their respective beds. Then I let their little dog outside, and now the dog and I are piled up on the couch waiting for Mom and Dad to return.

This afternoon while I was repairing the dishwasher, my dad said, “Marcus, your Grandpa Dee would have been so proud of you.” (Grandpa Dee was my dad’s dad, and he was super handy.) Then he added, “I never did anything that he was proud of.” Wow. Even if this wasn’t a literal statement, it certainly was a heart-wrenching one. My grandpa was a good man, but I remember his coming in behind my dad to re-do things my dad had done, and that sucks for any child, that feeling of I’m not good enough.

I know what that feeling is like. My dad’s come in behind to re-do my work plenty of times over the years. However, now that we’re both older, that nonsense has stopped. For one thing, Dad can’t do as much for himself, so he kind of has to accept whatever help he can get. Plus, I can speak up for myself. This afternoon while Dad was peaking over my shoulder, I said, “Shoo. Get out of the kitchen.”

What you give to yourself, you can’t help but give to others.

I know it’s not always comfortable to talk about, the way our grandparents and parents weren’t perfect, the way all of us–myself included–aren’t perfect. We all have parts of our lives we’d like to fast-forward through, especially those times we’ve prioritized The Project over The Person. But having just spent an evening with two precious children, I think it’s important to talk about this, the fact that all of us are worthy of love and approval and few of us ever stop wanting these things from our parents. I don’t mean this as an indictment of my ancestors, since I believe everyone is doing the best they can with what they’ve been given. Plus, I know from personal experience that if you’re hard on others, that means you’re even harder on yourself. So all the more reason to work on yourself and give love and approval to yourself, since what you give to yourself, you can’t help but give to others.

[Tonight’s blog is number 600 (in a row). Much love and appreciation to anyone who’s read anywhere from one to all of them. This continues to be a truly enlightening, powerful, and healing journey, and I’m most grateful for those of you who allow me to travel it in such a public way. Here’s to you.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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A Thousand Wallet-Sized Photos (Blog #591)

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It’s two in the morning, and–I know I say this a lot, but–the day has gotten away from me. I slept in until one this afternoon, and even I thought, For crying out loud, Marcus Anderson Coker, wake up earlier. But for the last week I’ve been tired, tired, tired, like seriously dragging ass, and I haven’t been today. Rather, I woke up–how do I say this?–excited to be alive.

So maybe I just needed some serious Zs.

After an obviously late breakfast, I spent this afternoon digging through my old yearbooks–pre-kindergarten through college–because while going through old photos lately I’ve come across handfuls of unlabeled “wallets” and wanted to figure out what picture was taken when. This project took nearly three hours but definitely helped me organize both my photos and my brain. Oh yes–I had braces from sixth grade to eight grade, then I frosted my hair in high school, then I dyed it red in college, AND THEN I dyed it blue (also in college). The other thing this project did was remind me, sort of all at once, how frickin’ awkward it is to grow up or to generally be alive. I mean, the braces, the haircuts, the zits. Ugh. my senior portraits were airbrushed to hell. Not to mention the fashion.

Personally, I did the baggy shirt thing for WAY too long.

I guess about junior high, maybe a little sooner, is when the awkward thing really started for me. I found one photo taken between sixth and seventh grades from a back-to-school pool party in which I was the only guy wearing a t-shirt in the swimming pool because I didn’t like what puberty did to my nipples. I realize this level of criticism is normal. You hit puberty, and EVERYTHING changes–some things for the better, some things for the worse. At some point, you end up despising your own body. (If this wasn’t your experience with puberty, just wait until your metabolism slows down or your breasts start to sag.) But I never remember thinking ANYTHING was wrong before puberty. NOTHING was too big, too small, too anything. It just was. Now I think most things are–too something, that is. Like, I don’t care for my posture, and when I look back at my junior high photos I think, That’s when I started slouching. So not do I pick on the current me, I also pick on the former me.

And he’s not even here to defend himself.

Not that I want to go back to the age I was in elementary school when everything was all “ain’t life great,” but I would like to go back to that level of self-acceptance and self-kindness.

This evening after dinner I went to Fort Smith to help my aunt with her internet and do a couple odd jobs. Then I went to a friend’s house to help them with a phone/computer thing, and since phone/computer things always take MUCH longer than expected, ended up eating dinner again. “Have you eaten,” my friend said. “Well, yes,” I said, “but I’m ALWAYS hungry.” Anyway, this is where the bulk of my evening was spent, at my friend’s house, working and catching up. We laughed, laughed, laughed. This is so important, I think, since it’s really easy to stay at home, dig through your memories, get stuck in your head, and take both yourself and your life way too seriously.

So that’s my two cents for tonight–if you know someone who makes you laugh, ask them if you can come over. (Tell ’em you’ll fix their phone or computer.)

When I got home from my friend’s, it was nearly midnight, and I’d intended to start blogging right away. But then I decided to crop all the “photos of yearbook photos” I took while going through my annuals this afternoon, AND THEN I thought, Wouldn’t it be nice to have them all lined up neat and orderly, like in a collage? AND THAT turned into a nearly two-hour long project that involved not only learning how to use a new phone app, but also doing my damndest to not demand perfection of myself.

Maybe that photo should be a little bigger and slightly to the left.

This is apparently a lesson I’ve been trying to learn for a while, the not demanding perfection of myself thing. While looking through my college yearbooks (for three of four of which I was the editor), I noticed a “letter from the editor” in which I said, “You’ll find plenty of mistakes here. But like life, this is meant to be fun.”

This is meant to be fun, Marcus.

I don’t know, if I got to someone’s Instagram feed and find nothing but “perfect” photos, like every single frickin’ one is magazine-quality beautiful, I think, Bitch, please. Because that’s not real life; it’s not even close. Real life is awkward smiles, bad haircuts, and zits on your face. It’s crooked teeth, a stain on your (baggy) shirt, and posture that’s never quite “right.” It’s everything you could fit into a thousand wallet-sized photos. At the same time, it’s not that–because real life is REAL life. It’s something that’s lived, not something that’s captured with a camera. It’s whatever time you woke up today, whatever you did this afternoon, and the sound of two friends laughing. It’s whatever is happening right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes you have to go back before you can go forward.

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No Tornado, No Adventure (#553)

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It’s day seven working backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and all the long days are starting to catch up to me. Physically, I’m trucking right along. Emotionally, I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. I’m due for a good night’s rest, which, according to the science I’ve read, truly does reset your feelings to baseline. Alas, that’s not going to happen tonight, as we’ll be running the show until late this evening and have to be back early tomorrow for our first performance (for the local high school). But I think–I think–we get tomorrow night off, as well as the next morning. So maybe I can sleep in.

And since I know I’m not the only one who’s worn down and stressed out, maybe we can all sleep in.

I spent this morning painting and sprucing up more sets. However, one of them, The Oz Chamber, got called onto stage in the middle of my paint job, so it’s still not done. And whereas The Completionist in me can’t stand it, this is life–I don’t know when or even if the project will get done. Anyway, when The Oz Chamber got called in, I moved on to other matters. Specifically, I added more details to the flower pots I worked on yesterday and decorated a backup wand for Glinda (The Witch of the North), which is pictured above.

Here are yesterday’s pots.

Here are the same pots today.

Last night I dreamed I was driving home on the interstate and a fast-moving tornado was coming in my direction. I wonder if I’ll be okay, I thought, and then woke up. Of course, I assume the tornado image came from The Wizard of Oz, but I think it’s interesting symbolically, since tornadoes represent chaos and destruction. In Dorothy’s story, the tornado is this big, scary thing that rips her away from her family and the only world she’s every known. It’s terrifying.

I think of the worst things that have happened to me, and without exception they’ve all felt like tornadoes, these huge, strong, uncontrollable forces that have come into my life and ripped me away from whatever I held dear at the time. God, I felt so helpless when our house burned down, so powerless when my dad went to prison, so heartbroken when that relationship ended. But that’s what it’s like when a tornado comes into your life. One minute your feet are on solid ground, and the next minute you’re up in the atmosphere, floundering. And who knows where you’ll land–or if you’ll even land at all?

All you can do is surrender.

Personally, I think tornadoes get a bad rap. After all, had Dorothy not been picked up by her tornado, she never would have landed in Oz or faced her fears and overcome them. Clearly, she wasn’t doing that on her own, so she needed a nudge (a shove) in the right direction, and the tornado was obviously the only thing strong and powerful enough to separate her from her old way of thinking and being. Say what you will about the tornado, but it ultimately got Dorothy over the rainbow (to her true self). Personally, I wouldn’t trade any of my tornadoes, any of the terrible things that have happened in my life. Not a single one. Because they gave me my chops. They made me who I am. And I like who I am.

No tornado, no adventure.

I’m not saying you should write a thank-you note to the tornadoes in your life (because sometimes tornadoes are people–you know it and I know it). But I am saying that a story without a tornado (a little drama to shake things up) is no story at all. That is–no tornado, no adventure. And not that you should go inviting storms into your life (don’t worry–they’ll invite themselves), but consider that a storm may be the only force capable of prompting you to dig deep and unlock the power, beauty, and magic that you’ve been hiding within yourself–let’s face it–for way too long. This is, after all, how nature works. Only under pressure does a piece of coal turn into a diamond.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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None of us is ever really lost. At least we're never really alone. For always there is someone to help point your ship in the right direction, someone who sees you when you can't see yourself.

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