This morning I woke up with a tickle in my throat. I actually dreamed about it last night, and a friend in the dream told me to eat some yogurt. So that’s what I did when I got out bed because I wanted my subconscious to know that I’m listening to it. Now if I end up getting sick, I’m going to tell my subconscious to go screw itself, to which I’m sure it would reply, “Will you PLEASE go to bed sooner, quit eating ice cream and tacos for dinner, and stop thinking that you’re still twenty-three?”

Well, maybe today’s the day. With any luck at all, I’ll finish this post before the sun goes down, and I can get some sleep. Before the week is over, I plan to clean up my diet, start doing some push-ups. And then in two weeks, maybe my favorite pair of jeans won’t look like a pair of acid-washed yoga pants.

Whenever I decide to start or stop something, to form or break a habit, there’s always a lot of buildup and anxiety about it. I think about it, pray about it, think about it, pray about—for weeks, sometimes months. Not changing anything, mind you, just stressing.

Once a change HAS been made, I can rock out a good habit for a while—meditating every day, going to the gym five times a week, eating well. But then something happens, and that all goes to shit, and it’s cigarettes for breakfast and banana splits for lunch.

When things are going “the right way,” when I’m behaving like I think I should, I feel pretty good about myself. But when things fall apart, my go-to response is to beat myself up, to start “shoulding” on myself. My therapist says that’s because I want things to always be the same. But everything changes, she says. Even good habits fall away.

For the longest time, I would go to my therapist’s office and beat myself up about smoking cigarettes, a habit that started in my early twenties and effectively disappeared until I broke up with my ex three years ago. And while I was more concerned about my health and what other people would think if they found out, she was more concerned about the fact that I was shoulding on and judging myself. She said that one day I would have enough and quit.

And she was right. One day it became clear. I stopped. Just like the seasons, it changed.

This afternoon my friend Marla and I went to speak at our friend Anita’s writing class at the Fort Smith Public Library. (That’s our picture at the top of the blog.) Anita has been teaching writing in Fort Smith since God was a small child, and her second novel comes out this summer. Like her first novel, it’s about a murder that took place in Van Buren over thirty years ago. Anyway, I thought that I was going to the class to support Marla and reconnect with Anita, but had I read my messages more clearly, I would have known that I was actually going to speak about my glamorous life as a blogger.

So I winged it and read a story I wrote last September about how unhappy I was owning the dance studio and living in Fort Smith, how I wanted to write more and move to Austin. And then I talked specifically about the blog, and Anita told the class that if you don’t like R rated movies, don’t go to one, and if you don’t like four-letter words, don’t go to Marcus’s blog.

So even though I didn’t plan to speak, it all turned out fine. And what I loved about it is that there wasn’t any planning, no thinking about it and praying about it, no anxiety. It just happened.

When I finished, a dear lady named Marilyn said, “Marcus, I think you need to get on the next bus out of here. Just move to Austin.” And then several others chimed in and said, “Fuck it. You only live once.” (I’m paraphrasing. They didn’t actually say that.) But I totally felt encouraged, so I asked Marilyn if she’d like to take a selfie with me, and she said, “I would love that,” so here it is.

Alan Watts tells the story of a Buddhist monk who poetically stated that you can’t plan everything in life. You don’t think, I’m going to go to the supermarket at ten tomorrow morning and then “drop fart” at ten-thirty. And this is actually a spiritual lesson. Farts aren’t planned. They’re “a happening.”

Honestly, I think I give myself too much credit. It’s probably an ego thing. I think that I can control when I get sick and when I get well, when I work and when I don’t, and where I live. And I’m not saying I don’t have any influence in what I eat or when I go to bed or when I’ll move to Austin, but I do think my therapist and the Buddhist monk are right. One day, I’ll clean up my diet and go to bed sooner. One day, I’ll get on a bus and get out of here. When that is exactly, I can’t say, but I can save myself a lot of anxiety by not worrying about it so much. When it’s time, I think I’ll know it’s time, and it will simply happen. And just like the speech that wasn’t planned, it will all turn out fine, even if there are a few four-letter words along the way.