Melting (Blog #446)

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Today I woke up with a headache but stayed in bed, stretched and breathed until it calmed down. Sometimes this works. After breakfast, I cleaned Tom Collins (my car), even washing his floor mats for the first time since I got him almost a year ago. (Our anniversary is coming up!) On the way home from the car wash, it ironically began to rain. The universe does this a lot. It’s like that kid at the beach who jumps in the middle of your sandcastle after you’ve spent hours working on it. Twisted sense of humor. A real turd.

When I got back from the car wash, I hung my mats up to dry in the garage and piddled around the house–folded clothes, meditated. For a while I read the book I mentioned recently about writing and drawing with your non-dominant hand. The idea is that doing so accesses a different part of your brain, the part where your inner child is located. (So THAT’S where it’s been hiding.) One of the exercises the book asked me to do today was to draw a common object, first with my dominant hand (right), then with my non-dominant one (left). Picking up my pen and looking at my coffee cup, I thought, This isn’t going to go well with EITHER hand.

Y’all, I don’t claim to be an artist. Well, I do claim to be an artist, but I don’t claim to be a draw-er (or a drawer). I actually won some art contests in elementary school, but I haven’t practiced since. All this to say that the picture I’m about to post isn’t stunning. Isn’t that funny, the way we apologize for things we don’t do well? People do that with dance. The say, “I have two left feet,” as if that’s a bad thing, as if they SHOULD know how to dance (or draw, or fix a car, or have sex) just because they’re alive. I’ve noticed children DON’T do this. They just do something–they’ll try anything–just because it’s fun. It doesn’t matter if they’re good at it or not.

I’ll say it again.

It doesn’t matter if you’re good at it or not.

When drawing the coffee cup with my right hand, it was about what I expected. Not award-worthy, but you can tell it’s a coffee cup. Honestly, I think it looks like something I’d draw (I normally doodle squares)–it’s neat and tidy–put-together, rigid, just-so. The left-handed drawing, however, is more free-form. Personally, I think it looks like it’s melting. When I was drawing it, my inner critic was giving me hell. “This is terrible,” it said. But then another voice spoke up, “Hey, watch it. I’m JUST learning. This is pretty fabulous considering I’m not even left-handed, thank you very much.”

When the drawing exercise ended, the next step was evaluating the illustrations. The book asked, “Which do you like better?” And whereas my inner critic was tougher on the left-handed one, I actually liked it better (and still do), since it’s whimsical, fun, and full of potential. Personally, I think it would look great at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. Plus, it’s kind of shaky, which is a better, more accurate depiction of my insides than the other cup is. The other cup is my outsides–neat and tidy. But nobody is neat and tidy all the time. I’m certainly not. That’s what I love about the left-handed cup–like me, it doesn’t quite have it together.

What’s more, it’s not trying to be something it isn’t.

This is a bunch of shit.

We take ourselves so seriously. We think our cars have to be spick and span, our shirts ironed, everything we put online total perfection. We want everyone to believe we have it together. But this is a bunch of shit. No one has it together all the time. Granted, maybe on one hand you do–but on the other hand–look at yourself. This, of course, is normal, the way life works. Things are always coming together, always falling apart. We wash cars, and then it rains. We build sandcastles, and if a child doesn’t destroy them, the tides do. This is a big deal to us, since we think life should be perfect, just-so forever. But life is more whimsical than that, more playful. Never rigid, it’s ever-changing, constantly melting from one thing into the next.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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A friend’s laughter takes us backward and carries us forward simultaneously.

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Marcus and the Weeping Willow (Blog #432)

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Today I ate breakfast, read a book, and went for a two-hour walk. Along the way I spotted The Yellow Umbrella, a tiny burger/fries/milkshake stand that’s uh-mazing. I didn’t have any cash on me, but I thought, I’m so excited. I’ll come back in a while. I’ll get a milkshake! So later I went back, but The Fucking Yellow Umbrella had closed for the day. Ten minutes ago. Talk about a disappointment.

Turning around, I thought, Hardee’s has burgers, fries, and milkshakes.

That was six hours ago, and I still feel bloated. Of course, I did just eat dinner (pasta). Maybe that has something to do with it. Either way, I’ve had a lot of calories. Recently I heard Rihanna say she knows when she’s having a fat day. I thought, Me too, girl, me too. But she also said, “I accept all of the bodies,” so I’m trying to do that too–embrace who I am in every changing moment.

This evening I went by my parents’ house to set up my mom’s new tablet (her portal to the rest of the world). Naturally, this took a while, entering her email address and password into each app I downloaded, transferring information from her old tablet to her new one. I actually love doing stuff like this, organizing things, putting everything where it belongs. Granted, the tediousness of it all can wear on me, but I do enjoy figuring out new devices and solving problems. I remember being like this as a child, wanting to understand how the world works, taking things apart, putting them back together.

Recently my friend Bonnie pointed out that as a child, your whole worldview is different. For one thing, you really have no concept of time (whatever that is). You bury yourself in a book, a project, a game, and the rest of life simply falls away. You’re not checking Facebook every five minutes. You’re not thinking about your to-do list or calendar. You’re just–well–the only place you ever can be.

Right here, right now.

I realize a lot of things necessarily change when you become an adult. It’s hard to function in today’s society without a day-planner. But personally I feel a lot of anxiety about having my whole day, week, life scheduled out hour-by-hour. This may sound ridiculous coming from someone who sleeps in past noon and doesn’t currently have a job (you may be thinking, What does HE have to schedule?), but my default is to at least mentally plan everything I do every day. First I’ll read a book, then I’ll go for a walk, then I’ll eat 2,000 calories in a single meal.

I can’t go on like this.

I think this behavior, this attitude, stems from my need to control. As if the world’s going to fall apart if I stop planning. As if I’m going to. Of course, it’s not–I’m not. And would it be so terrible if I did? Along these lines, I’ve been thinking that I could adjust my habits. I could adjust–well–me. I’ve been reading that rigid thought patterns and emotions affect the physical body, that sometimes our bodies develop illnesses and issues as a way of saying, “Sweetheart, something needs to change. We can’t go on like this.” Regardless of whether or not this is true (I personally have a love-hate relationship with theories like this one), I know that I could alter a few things upstairs. I’ve talked about this before, but I demand a lot of myself. I’m nervous a lot. I feel “less than” a lot. (It’s wearing me out.)

Sweetheart, something needs to change.

I really am working on this. God, am I working on it. This afternoon during my walk–unplanned–I detoured through one of my favorite cemeteries. Maybe this sounds like a morbid thing to say, but I actually like cemeteries. They’re quiet, they’re peaceful, and that’s how I want to be. Plus, this cemetery I went to today has two stunning weeping willows, and I love weeping willows. There’s just something about them, the way their leaves fall helplessly toward the ground and yet their branches reach proudly toward the sky. It’s like they understand both pain and hope.

Walking toward the weeping willows today, I stopped at several headstones. Only one belonged to someone I knew, but the rest belonged to strangers–people like you and me, really–people who once worried and made too many plans, ate too many calories. Going from grave to grave, I adjusted some of the wind-blown flowers. It felt like a sacred act. I thought, They can’t organize this themselves, and I hope when I’m gone someone will put all of my things where they belong. Then I sat down under the shade of one of the willow trees and–for no apparent reason–began to cry.

I hope this makes sense. There I was, surrounded by thousands of dead bodies, and I realized I was breathing. For a moment, it was so clear to me–I was alive. We get so little time on earth, and I thought, I have choices down here. I don’t want to live the rest of my life beating myself up (about anything). I don’t want to go on feeling nervous and less than. I can’t–I just can’t. Sweetheart, we can’t go on like this.

Live your life unbridled.

Leaving the cemetery with my headphones in, I literally danced down the gravel road. I spun. I did the grapevine. Considering the fact I had dead people on either side of me, perhaps my dancing bordered on gloating. Look what I can do, suckas! But this is the way the world works–it’s ironic. And perhaps this is the gift the dead give us, a reminder to live our lives unbridled, to be at home here, to dance when we feel like dancing, to cry when we feel like crying, to be okay with whatever arises in the moment, to let even a tree hold you while you simultaneously take yourself apart and put yourself back together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Answers come built-in. There are no "just problems."

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Do Something Unexpected (Blog #424)

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It’s ten in the evening, and Bonnie and I are driving back from Nashville. Well, she’s driving, I’m riding. We got a slow start this afternoon, largely because I wanted to stop downtown and get my picture taken by the famous angel-wings mural, then stop again at McKay’s, a warehouse-sized bookstore outside of town. So we’re just now coming into Little Rock, which means we should be home close to midnight. And whereas I’m wired with coffee and could blog when I get home, I have to be up early tomorrow, so I’m trying to knock this out now.

When Bonnie and got downtown today, there was a long line of people waiting to have their pictures taken with the mural. So we waited. Here’s a picture of the whole sitch. (That means situation, Mom.)

While waiting in line, I was sort of eavesdropping on the people around us, sort of checking myself out in the shop windows, trying out poses for the angel wings–arms spread out like I’m flying, hands on hips like a sorority girl, legs crossed like I don’t give a fuck–you know, possibilities. This went on for a while, everyone talking–Oh my god, it was so nice to meet you!–then Bonnie and I rounded a corner and saw a Rolling Stones lips-and-tongue sculpture like the one we saw a couple days ago. (It must be a thing.) Well, since I’d naughtily sat on the first tongue, I immediately thought, I’ve GOT to sit on this one. I could start a–what’s the word?–tradition.

Ooh-la-la.

So I casually inch closer to this big pair of lips, while Bonnie’s getting the camera out and scooting closer to me in order to crop out the other people who are standing around and not taking advantage of such a great photo opportunity. Then I quietly put my hands on my knees and push my butt toward the giant tongue, like I might for a spanking. (Don’t worry, Mom, I’m not into spankings.) Y’all, up until now, everyone is yak-yak-yaking. But as soon as my butt touches that tongue, everyone shuts up. Then I open my mouth, like “oh my gosh,” or “my, that feels nice,” Bonnie takes the picture, and everyone starts talking again. Later Bonnie said, “You effectively silenced the whole crowd.” Mission accomplished.

Look at the top of the blog for this morning’s photo, below for the one that “started it all.”

The drive home has gone well. I read for a while, first in a book about stand-up comedy (which I finished), then in a book about writing (which I just picked up today at McKay’s). Then it got dark, and Bonnie and I listened to a podcast called Really Dirty Words, about–you guessed it–really dirty words and their histories. I realize this might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it was right up my alley. Today Bonnie and I Iearned about the origins of the c-word and the other f-word, one a derogatory term for women, the other a derogatory term for homosexuals. Both have fascinating stories, like the fact that the c-word was once associated with status, power, and influence, and the fact that the other f-word is now being “taken back” by many in the gay community. (You can’t insult me with a name I call myself). My big takeaway was that what’s unacceptable in speech to one person is often more-than-acceptable to another and that intent can make a big difference.

Here’s something I forgot to mention yesterday. A couple nights ago, we all went out for Bonnie’s birthday. First, we ate at a rooftop bar (very cool, very Nashville), then we went to see a 90s cover band. Y’all, talk about a retro-fabulous time. These guys sang the music I grew up on. I sent my sister a video of the group singing “Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls” by TLC, and she replied, “Fun. Also–because we old.” So that felt good. Anyway, in between the rooftop bar and the concert, our group piled onto an elevator with a couple strangers, and I pulled out my camera and said, “Elevator selfie! Everyone in who wants in.”

And just like that, we all crammed together, and it was this beautiful, exciting moment–so exciting I cut half my own face out of the picture. But it was SO MUCH MORE FUN than your normal elevator ride. One of the strangers even asked if I could text her the photo, and I hope even now she’s showing her friends, saying, “You won’t believe what happened to us the other day on an elevator.”

Any mundane thing can be turned into something joyous.

Today while waiting in line with Bonnie, we noticed that almost everyone was doing THE SAME THING at the angel-wing mural. They just stood there and smiled. But once I heard a magician say that if you want to reconnect with wonder and awe, which you only find in the present moment, you have to break up your routines. You have to do something unexpected. For me, this looks like squatting in front of a mural instead of standing, or sticking my rear-end on a humongous tongue, or taking an elevator selfie with strangers. Granted, these are small acts, but this life-long planner is finding that there’s often more joy to be found in small acts of the spontaneous than in big acts of the perfunctory. I’m trying to remember this, that any mundane thing–an elevator ride!–can be turned into something joyous, that “really dirty words” and even life itself aren’t inherently good or bad or boring or fun, that these are things we decide–we decide–in each present moment.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your emotions are tired of being ignored.

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A Different, Kinder Tale (Blog #397)

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Today was an easy day. Day ten on Autoimmune Paleo, I’ve fallen into a routine. A boring, bland, void-of-chocolate-cake-and-all-things-worth-living-for routine, but a routine nonetheless, one that looks like cooking, eating, cleaning up, then doing it all over again. All this, of course, when I wasn’t sneezing today. I don’t know who came up with the idea of sneezing. Granted, it’s a fabulous way to expel unwanted particles from a person’s nose, but it’s just so violent and gross. Last night while typing, I sneezed into my shirt to keep from blowing mucus all over the blog (you’re welcome) and ended up shooting snot into my formerly white tee.

Disgusting.

Burdened by allergies, I took a nap this afternoon. Then I woke up, cleaned up, and hurried out the door to teach a dance lesson at a student’s house. This is how I typically live my life, filling up every minute with something, rushing from one thing to the next. But I guess the universe has been trying to slow me down this last year, changing my routine, sprinkling illnesses and allergies here, there, and everywhere, forcing me to put the brakes on. Take a nap. Slow the eff down, Marcus.

And yet I’m slow to get the message. I spend all day thinking about what I “should” be doing, work that “could” be done. Tonight I showed up to my dance lesson thirty minutes early because I didn’t double-check my calendar and thought, Crap, I could have gotten some work done, even slept longer. But it turned out to be the best thing–my student has a dog that LOVES me, and she (the dog) gave me the biggest hug when I got there. Two legs wrapped around my waist, she wouldn’t let go. Then I sat down on the couch, and I had her on one side and another dog (pictured above) on the other, both cuddling up and wanting attention.

I was smitten. I actually relaxed (briefly).

This afternoon I finished reading a book by Chis Van Allsburg called The Chronicles of Harris Burdick. One of the most magical books I’ve read in a long time, it requires a bit of a backstory. Harris Burdick, I guess, was a real person, who showed up one day in the office of a book publisher with fourteen beautiful illustrations, each with a title and a caption, and most of them mysterious. One showed a frightened man in his living room. The man’s holding a chair above his head, looking at a large lump under the carpet. The caption says, “Two weeks passed and it happened again.” (Good, right?) Anyway, Mr. Burdick said if the publisher was interested, he’d return the next day with more illustrations and the stories that went with them. The publisher said that indeed, he was interested, so Mr. Burdick left the illustrations in the man’s office.

But he never–ever–returned.

Fast forward a little, and the publisher and Mr. Van Allsburg (who wrote Jumanji and The Polar Express, by the way) published the illustrations in a work called The Mysteries of Harris Burdick in hopes that the author would come forward. But he didn’t. However, the drawings were so provocative that children and adults have been creating their own stories around the images and captions since they were first made public in 1984. Then in 2011 came the book I finished reading today, in which fourteen best-selling authors (like Kate DiCamillo, Lois Lowry, and Stephen King) each take an illustration and caption and spin a magical tale from them. It’s glorious.

As much as I enjoyed the stories in the book today, I couldn’t help but think that in most (if not all) cases, had I been the author, my stories would have been completely different. I’ve been thinking about this a lot today, the notion that two people can look at the same thing, and their brains can go in totally different directions. And who’s to say that one person’s story is better or “more right” than another’s, especially when it’s impossible to know what The True Author intended? I look at my life and think I need to speed up, that I need to be doing more. My therapist looks at my life and says, “Slow down. Take it easy. One day you’ll be so busy you won’t be able to.” Honestly, I like her story better than mine, so I really am trying–to slow down, take it easy, relax, nap.

Nothing is set in stone here.

We look in the mirror and are convinced that the picture we see is the picture the world sees. And yet this hasn’t been my experience. Time and time again my therapist has mirrored back to me a self that’s kinder, stronger, and more talented than I’ve ever given myself credit for. I assume this is true for most of us. We downplay our strengths, cut ourselves short, and refuse to give ourselves slack even when we’re doing the very best we can (damn it). What’s more, we imagine our endings to be one way for so long that no one can convince us it could be otherwise. But I’m learning that we can rewrite our stories. We can tell ourselves a different, kinder tale, one where we are the hero and everything turns out maybe not perfect, but all right and better than before. And who’s to say it can’t come true? I’m honestly coming to believe this, that we can change our endings if we want to, that nothing is set in stone here.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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Maybe (Blog #392)

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Currently I’m just overwhelmed enough–by allergies, finances, and an upcoming weekend full of travel and, therefore, potentially stressful food decisions. That’s right, it’s only my first week on Autoimmune Paleo, and I’m already planning to go out-of-town–to Tulsa to perform in an improv comedy show and to Little Rock to see a play (for inspiration). Surely I can get a salad almost anywhere, but it’s so much easier to just eat “what the hell ever” when I’m crisscrossing the south. That being said, I’m already seeing the benefits of this diet, so I’m sticking to it. Not only have I lost eight of the ten pounds I gained while travel writing, but I think my skin is less irritated also. (It’s hard to tell).

But seriously, eight pounds. That’s the difference between my boobs bouncing up and down–or not–when I swing dance.

This evening I watched a YouTube video by an Autoimmune Paleo lady who said that it’s easy to get frustrated with your body when it doesn’t do what you want it to. Her suggestion was to get frustrated with your disease or problem, sure, but love your body. At first I thought this was a great idea, but the more I think about it, the more I think it sounds like hate the sin, love the sinner. (I’ve yet to figure out a good way to do this.) I mean, if my body has an problem, isn’t that problem PART OF my body–at least until it’s not? If I’m hating my immune system problem, am I not still hating my body? Wouldn’t it be better to love all of it? Not that I don’t get frustrated–I do–but I’m working on accepting myself just as I am and being grateful for my challenges because of what they reveal in me (more patience, kindness, and self-care).

One thing I did appreciate about the video is that the lady suggested being grateful for the parts of your body that DO work, recognizing the places where your body is knocking it out of the park DESPITE whatever handicap it’s facing. This is a great reminder for me. I’ve felt tired and allergy-y today, but I’ve still had more energy than I did on an average day two months ago. This afternoon I was able to go through a stack of mail, and this evening I went through “a stack” of email, in addition to cooking a meal and running a couple errands. It may sound like just a normal day, but I’m trying not to take normal days for granted. Also, I’m trying not to be overly irritated that I’m currently wiped out after “just a normal day.” I keep telling myself, My body is doing the best it can.

We’re all doing the best we can.

The truth sets you free in more ways than you can imagine.

Today my writer friend Gwen made me cry–in a good way. She’d apparently read one of my blogs from a few months ago and commented, “I love how you are healing yourself by writing the story you want to live.” This statement took me totally by surprise in the best way possible, I guess because–uh–it’s true. (God, I hope it’s true.) And maybe Gwen’s words touch me so much because I didn’t fully realize that that’s what I was doing until she said it. Like, I didn’t set out to heal myself or write the story I wanted to live thirteen months ago when this blog started. I did, however, set out to be honest, so maybe the truth really does set you free. Maybe it sets you free in more ways than you can imagine or dream possible.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Just as there’s day and night literally, there’s also day and night emotionally. Like the sun, one minute we’re up, the next minute we’re down. Our perspectives change constantly. There’s nothing wrong with this. The constellations get turned around once a day, so why can’t you and I? Under heaven, there’s room enough for everything–the sun, the moon and stars, and all our emotions. Yes, the universe–our home–is large enough to hold every bit of us.

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There’s a New Sheriff in Town (Blog #372)

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Currently it’s four-thirty in the afternoon, and my friend Bonnie and I are in her car, Carlotta, en route to Dallas to celebrate the one-year anniversary of the blog. The plan is to go out to dinner, then go out dancing. The day itself is cloudy and rainy, but I have sunshine in my heart. I’m excited to party and pat myself on the back for all my hard work, something I don’t do very often (believe it or not). Also, I’m excited that Bonnie is here. More than any other person, I think, she’s the friend who’s appeared on the blog the most. So this seems fitting.

Before we left today, I went shopping for a new outfit–well, a pair of shoes and a shirt–for tonight. Y’all, I’ll post pictures later, but I actually bought stuff with bright colors, something fun. I figured as long as I’m going dancing in a city where I don’t know anyone, I might as well feel confident and stand out. When I told Bonnie about my purchases, she said, “I could go all ‘Marcus Coker’ on that.”

“Like, what do you mean?” I said.

“Well, you used to have a lot of fun clothes, but you got rid of them. You’ve spent the last year wearing gray and black–utilitarian clothes–while you were busy doing your inner work. Maybe you’re ready to start wearing playful things again, now that the outside can truly match the inside.”

Good stuff, huh?

I think Bonnie is right. I’ve joked before that my clothes have been dark because I’ve been in mourning. On some level, I guess this is true. In a lot of respects, I consider “the old me” dead. Not only does my life look different on the outside, but it certainly looks different on the inside.

Last night I dreamed about a (former) friend who has a lot of unhealthy behaviors. They’re passive aggressive, a people pleaser, and often addicted to one substance or another. As much as I’m able, I don’t judge them for it. As my therapist has told me more than once, I’ve “rocked those strategies” plenty of times in the past (plenty). This is how my therapist often refers to actions, behaviors, and habits–strategies. What I like about this perspective is that it allows me to step back and more objectively look at how I’m handling the situations in my life, asking myself, “Is this behavior, this strategy, effective? Is there a better way to go about this?”

Anyway, in the dream my friend and I were on a trip, and they were on the phone, running the show. However, they’d forgotten something I thought was important (and fun), my bicycle. And then–kind of out of nowhere–I slugged them in the face. All of a sudden they were on the ground, their nose bleeding, no longer on the phone, no longer running the show.

Violent, I know. Not the best dream to wake up to. Still, I think the dream was really positive. To me it communicates that my subconscious has finally had enough with unhealthy behavior, both from myself and others. There’s a new sheriff in town. A different, healthier part of me is running the show now, and it clearly means business.

Talk about a reason to celebrate. (Also, watch your noses.)

I want a new life.

Perhaps in addition to representing mourning, my dark clothes have also represented and communicated the idea that I’m serious–I’m haven’t been playing around over here with regards to my personal growth, my mental health and the health of my relationships, and this blog. This feels true to me. I’m grateful for my past, but I want a new life, a different, healthier, free-er, more playful life. I want it with every fiber of my being, so much so that I’m willing to spend the rest of my life working toward it. If I can help it, I won’t settle for less. From what I’ve experienced of freedom so far, it’s worth every serious effort. So you go inward and you grit your teeth. You change your behaviors and what you’ll accept from others, even getting violent (figuratively speaking) if you have to. Then when most of The Hard Work is over (since it never actually ends), you buy a new outfit, jump in the car with a friend, and find a way to party and celebrate the start of your new life.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?"

An Inflammation Whose Cause Is Unknown (Blog #368)

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

“I’m highly distressed. And you?”

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

He said this with a straight face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for the–uh–consolation?

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All the while, we imagine things should be different than they are, but life persists the way it is.

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