Jacob Holding onto the Angel (Blog #662)

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After six weeks of battling a skin rash–a yeast thing–this afternoon I called in the big guns. I went to my dermatologist. Thankfully, after a year of them not taking my insurance, they do now. This means I got to see my favorite skin lady ever, who always listens to my long list of problems attentively and non-judgmentally. (I’m never short on things to worry about it.)

For my rash, my dermatologist wrote me a prescription for an anti-fungal cream, since the powder I’ve been using has been helping but also irritating my skin. (Two steps forward, one step back.) Then she gave me a cream for a spot on my elbow that’s most likely psoriasis. Ugh, I hate that. My grandma had psoriasis all over her body, so I always envision the worst whenever I hear that word. But my dermatologist said, “Don’t freak out. I’d rather someone have psoriasis than acne. We have so many options for it now that we didn’t have ten or twenty years. We’ve got pills, shots, creams, you name it.”

I’ll take one of each.

Otherwise, we took two moles off today–one on my scalp and one underneath my right sideburn. Weird how you can carry something around on your body for years and then it’s all-of-a-sudden gone. I’m telling myself that, likewise, my other issues can clear up in a flash–my upset stomach, my irritated skin. My dermatologist said psoriasis is an inflammation, and I said, “Oh my god, every issue I have is an inflammation. My entire life is an inflammation.” Seriously, that’s what it feels like, like my body’s on high-alert. I think, How can I turn the alarm off? How can I calm the fuck down?

Despite the fact that I got a lot of good help and information today, it’s difficult for my inner hypochondriac to not freak out. You know, because now I have more labels. Psoriasis and Yeast Infection on top of Acid Reflux and Just Had Knee Surgery. It’s hard to not feel like I’m a wagon whose wheels are falling off. It’s also hard to not blame myself. There’s this thought that if I were doing all the right things, eating the right foods, taking the right supplements, and exercising more, that I wouldn’t have these problems. And whereas maybe that’s true, there are countless people who do everything “right” and still get sick and die.

Because people get sick and die.

This evening while my parents watched America’s Got Talent: The Champions, I practiced knitting. Well, just after I got started, I realized I screwed something up. I still don’t know what happened, but I ended up with more stitches in a row than I was supposed to, so I unraveled the whole thing and began again (for the third time this week). This time, I really paid attention and didn’t rush. When the show was over, I was about eight rows in with no mistakes. We’ll see what happens tomorrow, but I figure this is the deal in life. Sometimes you simply have to begin again.

And again and again.

Personally, beginning again exhausts me. Like, I’ve been fighting this yeast rash for six weeks, and now I’m being asked to apply this new cream to it twice a day for a least four more. Four more weeks! That feels like an eternity. But my friend Bonnie pointed out that, shit, I’ll be rehab-ing my knee for six months, so four weeks is nothing by comparison. Plus, I know I’m not really starting over. A lot of progress has already been made. I’m just not at the end of the road yet.

The road. The long road. Tonight on America’s Got Talent there were a number of performers who said they slugged it out for years–even decades–before their big break came along. I guess we’re all looking for a break in some respect–in our careers, in our bodies, in our relationships. We all think, I’m not sure how much longer I can do this. That’s what wears me down, not the fact that I have dry skin on my elbow the size of a quarter, but the fact that it’s one more awful thing that’s shown up and is refusing to leave. One more burden to carry down this long, long road.

In my better moments, those moments when I don’t blame myself for my problems (Byron Katie says, “Do you have to take credit for everything?”), I tell myself that I have no idea why my problems are here. When I was a teenager I would have given anything had my mom been healthy and my dad been out of prison, and yet these two challenging experiences absolutely shaped me into the man I am today–strong, independent, more compassionate than I was before. This afternoon I read more in Wayne Dyer’s I Can See Clearly Now, a book he wrote when he had leukemia, which he ultimately died from. Still, despite his diagnosis, he said he absolutely knew that the disease was in his life to grow him. No self-blame, just acceptance. This is something I’m working on, not pushing away every awful thing in my life, but rather embracing them as my teachers. Not that I don’t want my challenges to go away, but like Jacob holding onto the angel, I don’t want them to go away until they bless me.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Sickness and health come and go, just like everything else. It's just the way life is."

Bending Is Trending (Blog #648)

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It’s 10:45 at night, and I’ve spent most the day in bed, either icing my knee, reading a book, or taking a nap. My body seems to want a lot of rest. I can’t imagine why. When I haven’t been in bed, I’ve been on the floor, doing rehab exercises for my left knee, which was operated on twelve days ago. And whereas for over a week there’s been a point at which my knee’s said, “That’s it, I’m not going any farther,” today something gave, and it went past that point. That is to say, now I can bend my knee more than ninety degrees. Let’s hear it for progress. Just in time for my checkup with my surgeon tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll get a gold star.

What’s fabulous about this progress is that a lot of pain wasn’t involved in getting there. In other words, I didn’t have to grunt and groan and force myself to bend my knee more. Rather, while doing a particular exercise, it was like I was no longer driving with the brakes on. Something simply let go, and I had more range of motion. Of course, it may be that certain muscles have become stronger and are able to pull more than before. I don’t know all the mechanics involved in moving one’s leg, but I have noticed that my left quad is starting to flex more, so that could be it. Regardless of the inner workings of my knee, I’m thrilled that my bending is trending.

Putting on pants will be much easier now.

Inspired by my friend Sweetie Berry, this afternoon I performed what she calls A Fifteen-Minute Miracle, which is a quick, simple act to organize your life, get yourself together, or move forward on a creative project. In my case, I cleaned up a piece of furniture in my room on which I’ve been stashing “everything” since before my surgery. And whereas it wasn’t a huge mess, things had piled up, since walking has been hard and it’s been easy to toss stuff there. Anyway, it took a couple miracle sessions to get everything thrown away, put up, or rearranged, but it really was easiest thing.

Here’s before.

Here’s after.

One of the things I had to decide while cleaning up was what birthday, thanksgiving, and Christmas cards I was going to keep. Typically I hold on to cards for a month or two then toss them. This is the minimalist in me; things don’t pile up that way. But today I decided to hang on to a few “special” cards and take a picture of a few others that touched my heart or made me smile. Anyway, I don’t think it’s a big deal to hang on to cards, and I also use throwing them away as a reminder to be as present as possible. What I mean is, whenever I throw a card away, I think, The past is over. This is my life now.

This is a mantra I’ve used a lot lately. The past is over. This is my life now. Earlier I watched an eight-year-old video of me teaching a dance class. God, how so much has changed–my haircut, my weight, all my clothes, and definitely my left knee. I kept looking at my legs move across the floor thinking, I wish I could do that. But this is a recipe for misery, comparing the now-you to the old-you. Recently I watched a video of Byron Katie walking in a cast. She says, “Am I slow or am I fast? If you don’t compare–don’t know, don’t know.” In other words, if we’re not measuring ourselves against our former selves or anyone else, we’re simply left with this moment, right here, right now.

Life’s funny. One day you can bend your knee, the next day you can’t, and then you can again. Your room’s a mess for a while, and then it’s not. Is one thing really better than another? No. More pleasant, maybe, but everything has its time. And whereas I often try to hurry things along and push-push-push my life and health in the direction I want them to go, the truth is that everything not only has its time, but everything takes its time. Which is hard, the fact that changes often happen so slowly. Granted, it’s good for growing character and patience, but not much else. (Oh wait, character and patience are kind of everything.) And so I come back to this moment, in which I’m learning to bend more than I thought I could.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your life is a mystery. But you can relax. It’s not your job to solve it.

"

Grasping for Door Knobs (Blog #639)

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Last night I slept badly again–tossed and turned, had weird dreams, woke up with a headache. When I finally stumbled out of bed and used my walker to make my way into the living room this morning and my dad asked how I was, I said not so great. “Still,” I said, “I’m going to have an attitude of gratitude.” Then, since we both speak sarcasm, we laughed, and I ate chocolate cake for breakfast while I propped my injured leg up on the coffee table to help straighten it out. Honestly, this is the most painful thing I do–try to fully straighten or fully bend my knee. And whereas I’m making progress, it’s slight.

A little bit here, a little bit there.

After breakfast I did my first set of rehab exercises for the day, then iced my leg. Then I read, took a nap, ate a snack, and did the exercises/ice thing again. Then I ate dinner, and now I’m blogging while drinking a chocolate shake, which I’m assuming is what my post-operation directions had in mind when they told me to “eat nutritious foods because they help you heal.” After this, it’ll be the exercises/ice thing again, then back to bed for HOPEFULLY a good night’s rest.

Clearly, my days after surgery are revolving around physical therapy and ice packs, and I hate that. I hate that a month ago it was easy to get in and out of bed, in and out of a chair, and in and out of shower, and now I have to think like MacGyver to do any of those things. I hate that everything from getting a Q-Tip to changing my underwear now has to be “thought out.” Last night during The Great Sleep Disaster of 2018, I woke up at four in the morning sweating; my shirt was soaked. Not like I had a fever, but it was definitely damp. Anyway, I got up to change shirts, and despite the fact that my closet is only five feet from the end of my bed, I had to think about things. What am I going to hold on to? What am I going to lean against?

I think it’s the leaning against thing that pisses me off the most. I guess it’d be more accurate to say “that I have the hardest time accepting.” For so long I’ve done everything on my own. Easily flitted from here to there. And now I’m finding myself in countless awkward positions–hopping on one leg, using crutches, grasping for door knobs–just to change a shirt. Byron Katie says that we’re always supported. By life or whatever. Like, if you’re sitting in a chair, the chair’s holding you, and the ground’s holding the chair. And if you trip and fall, well, there’s the ground again, holding you. Most people, of course, would be mad about the trip, but her point (I think) is that in this moment–right here, right now–the trip is over.

From this perspective, I can’t do anything about that dance accident I had four weeks ago. It’s over. But I can recognize that I’m currently in a warm bed and my leg is resting on a pillow. Supported. And I can try–try–to be grateful for my one good leg, for crutches, and for door knobs. For anything I need to lean against.

Since it’s day three after surgery and my directions said I could, this evening (after dinner) I removed the gauze and bandages around my knee. Ugh. There was a lot of dried blood. Also, there were staples, which I wasn’t completely prepared for. You know, sometimes they do things laparoscopically. And whereas there were two such incision points, there were also two “cuts,” one with five staples, and one with twelve. (Prepare yourself, since I’m going to post a picture.) Honestly, I can’t figure out how I feel about these incisions. I mean, I’m grateful that I’ve been repaired, but my knee looks like the side of Frankenstein’s face. I don’t know, I guess it’s the finality of the whole thing. This really happened. I’m going to have a scar.

All things considered, it could be worse. After I took the bandages off, I carefully navigated my way into the bathtub and cleaned up for the first time in four days. Phew, did that feel good. Also, it was exhausting, getting in and out of the tub. Seriously, this is a lot of emotional back and forth–feeling grateful, feeling pissed. But this is life. It’s never just one thing.

Whenever I finish blogging, I’m going to cover my staples with bandages as instructed. However, for now, my view is essentially your view in the picture. 17 shiny staples staring back at me. Earlier today while trying to climb into bed, my left knee gave out–er, faltered–and I fell back into the bed. Now I see why. It’s been though a lot. But this has happened a few times, when all my strength wasn’t there, and I’ve had to catch myself. My point is, there’s always that uncertainty–Am I going to be able to hold myself up? This is something I thought a lot about during the night last night, the applicable metaphors regarding this injury. Because these are some of my greatest fears–Can I walk tall and move confidently forward in the world? Can I support myself?

A few times since starting tonight’s blog, I’ve reached down with my left hand to simply feel my knee. Physically, it’s a little swollen, tender, and–um–leaky. (That’s gross, I know, but this is real life and facts are facts.) When I put my hand on my knee, I can’t help but cry. It’s like I’m putting my hand on the shoulder of a dear friend who feels sad and tired. Oh so tired. Like it’s been though a lot, and not just this last month. At the same time, it feels willing to heal, willing to try again, willing to support me like it has for all these years, despite my never having given it any credit for all its hard work until now. It seems to say, We’ve got this. Be patient. Grasping for door knobs is only temporary. I hope this makes sense. More and more, I really do believe our bodies are trying to communicate with us.

More and more, I’m trying to listen.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can rise above. You can walk on water.

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Disoriented (Blog #599)

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Last month I blogged about going to court with a friend of mine in the same city where my dad was incarcerated when I was a teenager and about how the experience–um–brought up a lot of stuff for me. Well, that day my friend simply entered a plea–not guilty–with respect to a minor traffic violation, but today was their actual hearing. So this morning my friend and I hopped in their car and headed back toward Forrest City, Arkansas. And whereas my friend was prepared to offer a well-thought-out and reasoned defense, their charges were dropped when the officer who issued their ticket didn’t show up. It was that simple.

We were in and out of the courtroom in less than an hour.

Now I’m back home from the whole affair and ready to go to bed. It’s been a long day. Weird how riding in a car can take it out of you. Still, it’s been a good day. My friend and I had wonderful conversation there and back. I honestly don’t remember the last time I laughed so much. God, that felt good. Plus, we had a delightful lunch–burgers and fries. Yum. The perfect treat to celebrate my friend’s “victory by default,” as they called it.

In addition to road trips being tiring, here’s something else that’s weird–emotions. On our last trip, I was all nervous and jittery. Despite the fact that the situation had nothing to do with me (not my circus, not my monkeys), I was all worked up about the place, the circumstances, and the conflict. I know it’s a result of things that happened in my childhood, but I just don’t do well with authority figures, courtrooms, or the sound of banging gavels. But here’s the weird part–none of that was a problem today. Like, at all. Both on the way down there and while in the courtroom, I kept thinking that I “should be” all a-twitter. Because I always am in these situations. But I wasn’t.

This is something I’ve noticed a few times lately, that things that used to bother me bother me less now or not at all. For example, recently someone I liked blew me off (and not in the good way). And sure it hurt, but it really wasn’t a big deal, not like it usually is. Shortly after that, I got into a conversation about money, a subject that normally makes my butthole pucker, but this time it didn’t; it was just like talking about the weather. Then after that I ran into someone who typically makes my blood boil, but this time my temperature stayed the same. Then there was the thing today–no big reaction.

I’m assuming the fact that my emotions have “down-shifted” is the result of my working through their underlying causes, digging through my childhood and acknowledging feelings I’ve been ignoring for decades. Holy shit, that was overwhelming. That was absolutely terrifying. (My emotions in response: “Thank you for finally admitting it! We’ll be quiet now.”) Plus, there’s a natural confidence that comes when you work to establish good boundaries, speak your truth, own your own shit, and accept all parts of yourself. In my experience, you walk taller. Even when things are at their worst, you think, I can handle this.

Consequently, life gets easier.

All of this is good, of course, not being as afraid and whatever. That being said, it’s also disorienting, and I’d like to be clear that it’s REALLY TEMPTING for me to slip back into familiar emotional habits and patterns. Because it would be much more comfortable, at least much more familiar, for me to worry about money, rant about whomever and whatever, or get nervous in a courtroom. After all, I have vast experience with these things and have come to identify myself with them.

Byron Katie says this is the hardest part about change–we have to give up our identities. It’s the death of the ego, she says, that part of us that constantly identifies, that part of us that thinks, I am the one who’s terrified, I am the one who’s afraid of finances, I am the one who’s nervous in courtrooms. But what if you’re none of those things? What if the real you is something different altogether? That’s the disorienting part about giving up beliefs and response patterns you’ve held for decades, thinking, Well shit, if I’m not the one who’s terrified, then who am I?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You absolutely have to be vulnerable and state what you want.

"

About What’s Important (Blog #489)

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Yesterday I spent the day with my great-aunt and great-uncle in California, then drove from 8:30 last night to 11:00 this morning back to Albuquerque, where I am now. Talk about being tired. Fourteen and a half freaking hours on the road. I saw the sun set AND rise. When I got here, I brought in my luggage then crashed hard until my not-so-quiet (but extremely beautiful) nephews woke me up around three this afternoon. Now it’s 10:00 in the evening, and I’m just okay, basically functional. As I’d still like to shower and finish reading a book that belongs to my sister’s local library (and which I started this afternoon), I need to keep this short.

Tomorrow morning my parents, my aunt, and I leave to go back to Oklahoma City (and then Arkansas the next day). Honestly, I love traveling but am weary of the road. Last night’s trip alone was 900 miles, and everything from Arkansas to California is starting to blur together. I’ve listened to more songs and more podcasts than I can stand. Also, I apparently left my phone charger in California, a fact that I hate. I normally have my shit more together, but–hell–it was a LONG weekend. These things happen.

They make more chargers, Marcus.

All that being said, I wouldn’t trade the time on the road. Even if I could go back and get a plane ticket for the dance event in California, I wouldn’t do it. Obviously, the driving has given me a lot of time to process and think–time to be alone–and this has been a good thing. Plus, I was able to see my relatives. Even driving out here with my parents and my aunt has been good. Just off seeing my great-aunt, whom I haven’t seen in 25 years, reminds me that our time together is limited. Last week after I posted about my dad farting in my car on the way out here, my friend Chelsea (whose father is no longer alive), said, “I would pay every dime I will ever earn to get one more ridiculous car trip.”

So let’s be clear about what’s important.

To me, it’s family and kindness, not phone chargers–although my hyper-organized, anal-retentive self often forgets this. Honestly, it’s sort-of better, sort-of worse since the estate sale and becoming a minimalist. On one hand I think, It’s just one more thing to let go of, Marcus. On the other I think, But I have so little now. I don’t want to lose anything else. Byron Katie says, “You don’t get to keep anything.” To me this means that when we die–sometimes even before that–we lose it all–possessions, relationships, even memories. So we have to make peace with where we are in this moment. Like, it has to be ENOUGH that I’m sitting here on a couch absolutely exhausted and that I’m no longer the owner of a phone charger, since–right here, right now–this IS my life.

And yes.

Right here, right now.

It’s enough.

I’m enough.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"We were made to love without conditions. That's the packaging we were sent with."

Something Sweet Indeed (Blog #394)

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This morning I woke up at eight and couldn’t go back to sleep because I was worrying–well, thinking intently–about my bank deposit that magically disappeared yesterday. I spoke with customer service last night, but my plan today was to show up to the branch where I made the night drop and, if necessary, raise hell. You know, flip tables, use words like “preposterous” and “unacceptable,” ask, “Just what kind of institution are you running here–losing people’s hard-earned money?” I actually envisioned this scene unfolding as I lay in bed this morning, all the tellers standing around stunned and apologetic as I’m threatening to “take my money elsewhere.” Then, after a moment of appropriate silence, the manager would grovel–

“Would you like that in nickels or quarters, Mr. Coker?”

Fortunately, this didn’t have to happen in reality, since just before I crawled out of bed at nine, I checked my account online one final time. A friend had messaged during the night and told me that their deposits had frequently gotten “stuck” in the night drop, so I thought, Maybe the bank will find it first thing this morning. And y’all, just like that, after all my worrying and convincing myself that the universe hated me, the money was there. Phew, that was close. Another crisis averted.

I guess you’re okay, universe. But let’s not make a habit of this behavior.

In addition to (apparently) needing time to worry about nothing, I got up early this morning to attend a three-year-old’s birthday party. When I asked his parents, my friends Aaron and Kate, why they were having a birthday party at ten in the freaking morning, Aaron said in complete seriousness, “All of his friends have naps later in the day.”

You should have heard him wail.

The party itself was great. It was outside at a local park, and the weather was glorious. (It’s beautiful today.) And whereas I’d planned on not eating anything at the party and generally feeling sorry for myself for being on a restrictive diet (Autoimmune Paleo), that didn’t happen either–there were plenty of fruits and vegetables for me to snack on. (Once again, life doesn’t totally blow.) However, there was one problem at the party. Aaron and Kate’s kid had a TOTAL meltdown, all due to the fact that his cake looked like a puppy dog and he didn’t think it was at all cute when his mother put a carving knife through the little doggie’s face. You should have heard him wail as Kate sliced that little sugary pooch into several (what I’m assuming were delicious) pieces. “No, Mama, no!” he cried.

“It’s okay, baby,” Kate soothed him. (Slice, slice.) “It’s not real.”

Eventually, Aaron and Kate’s boy calmed down. I think he got distracted by a football. Later when I was talking to Kate, she said, “He was up late last night.” I replied, “See, this just goes to prove my theory–nothing good happens before noon.”

When the party ended, I spent part of the afternoon overanalyzing the situation (like I do). Y’all, nobody knows what to do when a child cries. Hell, when anyone cries. For example, the whole time this adorable child was bawling and squalling, most the adults were laughing, like, “Isn’t that precious? He thinks it’s a real puppy dog. (Nom, nom, nom.)” Not that I knew what to do, but I did remember a time when I was little that something similar happened. I was maybe six or seven, and the family had gathered at the dinner table to eat cornish hens. Baby hens! Well, I was undone. I couldn’t imagine such a thing–eating an adolescent bird.

I left the table crying.

When you believe something, you’re locked in.

My family and I joke about this story even now, but y’all, I can still remember what it felt like to believe that we were EATING something that I thought should be my little feathery friend. (It didn’t feel good.) And if Aaron and Kate’s boy this morning felt even part of what I felt all those decades ago, then it’s no wonder he went from demure to Defcon 1 in 3.2 seconds. I mean, when you BELIEVE something, you’re locked in. (My puppy friend is being cut up and devoured!) For you, the world is falling apart, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else says or does. As Byron Katie says, “That’s the power of imagination.”

Thirty years after the cornish hen incident (or, “the cornish hencident”), I guess I still get caught up in imagination. Last night I was convinced that the money I deposited in the bank had been lost, that my world was falling apart. This morning I was sure I needed to have a confrontation, that my oratory skills and powers of vocal projection would be best used by me walking into a local bank and proceeding to flip my shit. And sure, I assume several people who read about this predicament last night thought, It’ll be fine, Marcus. There’s nothing to worry about. Maybe they even laughed, just like part of me did, the part that “knows better.” I look at what happened now and think, That’s the universe for you, once again proving to me that it’s not such a bad place to live, that things really do work out. And yet for a while most of me was caught up in a dream. Not unlike my young friend this morning with his birthday cake, I was looking at something intended by life as a gift and innocently terrifying myself instead of seeing it for what it was–something sweet indeed.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All emotions are useful.

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The Internet, My Ass, and Other Things That Drag (Blog #283)

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Currently it’s seven in the evening, the weather outside is cold and wet, and my internet speed is dragging ass, as am I. That being said, things could be worse. Things could always be worse. On the upside, I just took a shower and actually shaved my face. Please alert the media. The biggest news, however, is that I’ve lost weight. A while back I blogged about letting go of the idea that I’d ever be 180 pounds again, that I’d ever lose those last three pounds. Well, since the holidays I’ve been doing “what the hell ever” with my diet, meaning I’ve been eating peanut butter out of the jar. So I’ve been assuming that I’ve been gaining weight, not losing it. But when I got on the scale today, there it was–180 pounds exactly. Go figure.

Of course, my first thought was, Wouldn’t 175 be nice?

Aside from noticing that I’m never quite satisfied, I’ve been thinking that sometimes you just have to stop trying so hard. This is difficult for someone like me, someone who considers himself a do-er, to do. However, along those lines, I’m giving it a shot today. In terms of my diet, I just ate some more peanut butter (while giving my body the silent directive, Let’s metabolize!) In terms of my physical health, I’ve stuck to last night’s decision to stay off the internet, to stop looking up my symptoms and home remedies. Just be sick, Marcus. Just let your ass drag.

I just paused to back up tonight’s progress, and my internet is so slow that it took ten minutes to save and reload. Seriously, this is worse than dial-up. I feel like I’m in high school again, downloading pictures of Scott Wolf and Leonardo DiCaprio to my A drive. (A drives are what old computers used for 3.5″ floppy disks and not a sexual euphemism, Mom.) Anyway, clearly the universe is out to teach me patience–through my physical body, through my circumstances (I’m living with my parents!), through the damn internet. I guess it thinks I need help in this area.

But what American doesn’t?

Now I’m restless, ready to be done with this, go eat some more peanut butter. Maybe talking about patience isn’t the way to acquire it. I keep thinking about what to say next. Last night I watched a Netflix documentary called Holy Hell, about a religious cult led by an abusive, Speedo-wearing, former-porn-star homosexual. Y’all, one of his “disciples” made him a fruit salad–every morning–that looked like The Last Supper or something similar–as an act of service. For over twenty years, this man was able to convince hundreds of adult men and women that he was a divine messenger–like Jesus. And I have trouble getting a dozen people to like my status on Facebook.

Obviously I’m doing something wrong.

I’m not sure how this cult story fits into tonight’s blog, but I’ve been thinking about all the crazy things people think, do, and get themselves involved in. Personally, I’ve never joined a cult, but I have joined some internet forums that are pretty far out there, gone to a few weekend retreats about “energy healing” that would raise some eyebrows. Just with respect to my recent sinus infection, I’ve tried (and blogged about) a number of “crazy” treatments. I plan to try more before the week’s over. Thankfully, I don’t catch much flack for most of what I do, but whenever I do catch flack, here’s what I think about it–If you were in my shoes, you’d understand.

Along these lines, Byron Katie says that we are all believers and have to act out of our beliefs. For example, if you had a sinus infection and believed you had to do something about it, you’d be all over the internet. Or if you felt lost and believed some guy meditating in a Speedo could lead you to God, you’d follow him and make him a fruit salad every day. Likewise, if I believed what you believed, I’d do whatever it is that you’re doing–worrying about my finances, arguing with my partner, getting Botox, whatever.

Patience is about acceptance.

This is something I think about a lot, beliefs and what comes from believing them. Like, I know I can cause myself a lot of grief if I believe that I need to weigh less than I do in this moment or that things in my life need to move faster than they are. That second one is a big hang-up for me–I always think the internet, my ass, and even the universe are dragging along. Ultimately, I think patience isn’t so much about endurance, gritting your teeth and waiting for whatever it is to happen. Rather, I think it’s about acceptance, realizing that you’re pushing against the entire universe if you want right here, right now to move any faster or be any different than it is.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Any mundane thing–an elevator ride!–can be turned into something joyous.

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Changing Your Socks, Changing Your World (Blog #258)

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It’s almost officially winter, and my parents’ house is sixty-seven degrees. I’m freezing. In an effort to keep heat in, this morning I put on thick, wool socks and a knitted cap. Granted, I’m wearing a t-shirt, but I really, really hate “bulk.” People talk about their love of sweaters and scarves–and, oh my god, mittens!–but it’s simply not me. I much prefer shorts and a tank top, soaking up the sun on a warm beach. But back to the temperature inside this house–it’s my dad’s fault. He’s always hot, breaks a sweat at the drop of a hat, so he’s constantly inching the thermostat down, gradually turning our home into a seventeen-thousand-foot meat locker.

My mom and I fight for degrees. “Ron, would it be okay to turn the thermostat up to sixty-eight, just until we all go to bed?” my mom will say. Honestly, I don’t even bother. Granted, one degree is one degree, but ten would be better. Even now my toes are crowding against each other, huddled up trying desperately to produce heat. I’ve heard this happens when a person is dying–all the blood rushes away from your extremities and heads straight for your vital organs in an effort to preserve as much life as possible. For me this feels like those movies where sailors throw cargo off a ship to keep it from sinking. Every winter my body says, “Screw the toes, screw the feet–toss ’em overboard–who needs ’em?”

Oh sure, they only take us everywhere we go!

Okay, fine, I give up. I just put on a sweatshirt. I’m holding a cup of hot coffee like it’s a personal hand warmer. Because my butt never gets warm in the winter either, I’m thinking about sitting on a heating pad for the rest of the day. As for my feet, maybe I could put them in the microwave. Shit. Here I am considering nuking my own body, and ten feet away my dad is watching The People’s Court in a t-shirt, shorts, and bare feet, smiling, probably thinking how nice it’d be to have a fan on. I guess we all have our own standards of perfection.

Perfection is ever-elusive.

The last time I saw my therapist, she asked, “Marcus, do you still believe in the idea of perfection?” I said, “Well, it sounds great, but I can’t find any evidence for it.” What I meant is that I’ve yet to discover something that couldn’t be better. No matter what the temperature is, I’d like to adjust the thermostat. No matter how good of a dancer or writer I am, I’d like to improve. Perfection, it seems, is ever-elusive. It’s a fantasy we think about that never materializes. It’s whatever we don’t have until we have it, then it’s something else.

Once I went to a workshop in Austin with Byron Katie. One of her teachings is that when we argue with reality, we lose. For example, if my feet are cold and I think they should be warm in this moment, I’m going to suffer (and write a blog about it). But what’s the truth? (They’re cold.) Anyway, at this workshop, Katie said that if we died and went to heaven with our current way of thinking, we wouldn’t be there any more. In other words, our minds would tell us, “It’s too windy–the gold streets are hard to walk on–I don’t like harp music–I wish John were here.” Or whatever–we all have our list of complaints we take everywhere we go.

I don’t use this line with anyone else, but whenever I leave the house and say goodbye to my parents, I say, “I’m off to change the world.” Mostly I consider this statement cute and ironic, since I spend the average day somewhere between a coffee shop and Walmart, picking my nose at traffic lights. Anyway, a couple days ago I was at my friend Bonnie’s house, and she had a funny napkin that said, “What did you do to change the world today?” Well, the guy on the napkin’s answer was, “I changed my socks! That counts!”

If you want to find a problem, you will.

Believing that you can find wisdom almost anywhere, I’ve been meditating on that napkin since I saw it. For one thing, I think changing the world is easier than we think. Like, I could start wearing wool socks, and that really could make a difference. I could be warmer, happier, easier to get along with. In this sense, it’s the little things. But for another thing, I don’t think we can really change the world. Sure, we can make a difference, and we should. But the world is a mess–it always has been and always will be. It’s too cold for one person, too hot for another. Maybe you think there’s too much violence or too much pollution, but the point is the same–if you want to find a problem, you will. So rather than trying to change the world, perhaps our time is better spent trying to change ourselves, working on the way we see the world, and realizing that life is perfect just the way it is.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"We all have inner wisdom. We all have true north."

 

 

When You Feel Like Giving Up (Blog #242)

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After forty-three straight days of having a life-draining, soul-sucking sinus infection, today I’ve felt like a new man. Last night I rubbed kimchi juice in my nostrils, and I’m assuming that’s what’s done the trick. It’s gotta be that or the hundred and one vitamins I’m taking. Currently I’m still having some allergy issues, still coughing, but despite the fact that I didn’t sleep much last night, my energy today has been off the charts. I’ve spent the last six weeks absolutely wiped out, tired behind the eyes all day long, but today I was awake for ten hours before I even thought the word “tired,” and then it was while walking up a broken escalator. (Talk about a tease.) So things aren’t “perfect,” but the difference between yesterday and today has been astounding. More than the physical improvements, I’ve been happy all day, walking around with my chest stuck out like a damn superhero just because I’ve felt close to normal. Y’all, it’s not something to take for granted.

This afternoon I saw my therapist, and whereas I’d planned to talk about how I was tired of being strong, how being sick for six weeks had almost completely drained me of hope, I ended up talking about how I put fermented food up my nose and woke up twelve hours later with the energy of Rainbow Brite. My therapist said she didn’t think it was an accident that I’d been spending so much time searching the internet and finally came across something that worked. She said, “I think you needed a win, and the universe gave you one.” Then she added that when you feel like giving up, that’s when you have to keep going, since help is probably just around the corner.

Personally, I think this is a shit deal and don’t know why life is set up this way. Don’t get me wrong–I’m thrilled and grateful beyond measure for the bacterial miracle I’m currently experiencing. This could seriously be a game-changer. Still, I’d like go on record as saying that I think it sucks when the universe drops you to your knees then turns right around and asks you to push a little harder. Just keep going, help is right around the corner. Like, couldn’t help move half a block and make my life easier? Not that anybody in charge asked for my opinion. As Byron Katie says, “You don’t get a vote.” So I guess we’re back to that idea–acceptance. I could wake up tomorrow and feel like a million bucks or I could be sicker than ever. Either way, what am I gonna do about that?

After therapy I spent most of the day reading. Then I went to the mall and looked around because my therapist said–when we were talking about pride–that I should wear a shirt with a single gold star on it, the implication being that I’m a gold-star gay. (A gold-star gay is a homosexual who’s never slept with a woman, Mom. A double-gold or platinum-star gay is a homosexual who was born by c-section, thus making him someone who’s never (ever) touched a vagina.) Anyway, the only shirt I could find with a star on it was red with a yellow star. But since I’m wanting to look like a homosexual and not a hot dog, I didn’t buy it.

I’m sure there’s some joke that could be made about “wiener” at this point, but I’m too tired to think of it. Plus, my mom reads this.

Tonight I decided to back off some of the vitamins I’m taking. First, I didn’t sleep well last night, and that’s unusual. Along the same lines, I’ve felt rather “hyped up” today. Second, my stomach has been a skosh upset. Well, the problem is that I’m taking ten different vitamins, so it’s hard to know what’s causing what or if they’re even a factor in what’s going on. Still, I’m not usually one to sit still on such matters, so I Googled the side effects for every single one of the vitamins. And whereas practically all of them can cause an upset stomach, only one of them can cause insomnia (echinacea). So I cut out echinacea for this evening, as well as vitamin c, since I was hitting that pretty hard and it’s the most famous for causing stomach problems if you go overboard.

As always, figuring this out feels like trying to ski down a mountain backwards and blindfolded.

Suddenly the sun breaks through the clouds.

I guess we all do the best we can. As the old hymn says, “One day at a time, sweet Jesus.” But even though I’m not a hundred percent better, I’ve been thinking, Oh well, I’ll get over this soon enough. I mean, if a six-week sinus infection can start to turn itself around in less than a day, anything really is possible. My therapist and I talked about this today and how it could apply to other aspects of life–like, say, blogging for free when you don’t have a job–the idea that you can grind it out day after day, then suddenly the sun breaks through the clouds. A dove appears–the storm is over. This, I think, is really good news. My personal squabbles with how everything is set up notwithstanding, life obviously doesn’t intend for anyone to stay down forever. Just when you’re ready to let go of hope, hope refuses to let go of you. Gripping you tightly it says, “All I ask is one more day.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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Any Stuck Door Is Worth Fixing (Blog #153)

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This afternoon I helped my friend Ron with a problem he was having at his massage studio, which is located in an old home. Because the house has settled, both his doors were sticking and difficult to open. The lesson here, I think, is obvious–don’t settle–it only causes problems. But anyway. Two years ago, I would have had zero clue about stuck doors and how to fix them. But while I was living in an old home with multiple stuck doors, my friend Bruce (who’s as handy as a pocket on a shirt) taught me what to do.

Cry.

Just kidding. The first thing Ron and I did was close the doors and look at the edges. Ideally, there should be a gap between the door and the frame, but when a door is stuck, you’ll see wood on wood. (That sounded gay.) So we marked the problem areas, took the doors off the hinges, marched them outside, and went to work with an electric belt sander. Talk about making a mess–old doors are solid wood, and sawdust went everywhere, including in my pants and up my nose. It was great. I felt so butch–like a lesbian.

Fortunately, one door only took one trip outside and back in, and the other only took two. I’ve made up to six trips for one door before, so this was a huge success. Then we did some work to adjust the doorknob mechanisms because those weren’t latching just right. Then we went to the Mexican ice cream shop, which is my favorite part about fixing old doors. (The end.)

Tonight I watched a movie called Prayers for Bobby, which my mom recommended and is based on a true story about a high school student, Bobby, who comes out to his family and his overbearing mother, who tries to “pray the gay away.” In a pivotal scene, Bobby tells his mom that he’s not changing, to which she says, “I won’t have a gay son.” Shortly thereafter, Bobby commits suicide by jumping off a bridge. It takes some time, but his mom comes around, changes her mind about “the sin of homosexuality,” and becomes an outspoken advocate for gays and lesbians.

Honestly, I spent a good part of the movie in tears. Although my parents never gave me a difficult time about being gay, I heard all those Bible verses plenty of times growing up–in church, at school, on the world wide web. I have a friend who used to live in Seattle, and she says that when someone came out, they’d throw them a party. Imagine that, a celebration. My experience wasn’t anything close to Bobby’s, but there wasn’t a piñata either. I see that character in the movie, I look back at my life in high school, and I wish I could tell those people, It’s going to be all right.

Before I started remodel work, I never paid much attention to doors. They either worked or they didn’t. If one got stuck, well shit. But when I lived in that old home, I started looking at doors differently. There was one in my bedroom that stuck just slightly at the top. It was my closet door, so it was an everyday deal. Every time I opened it, I had to push down on the doorknob first and then pull. It was like a ritual. I never got around to fixing it before I moved, but it would have just been a matter of taking an eighth of an inch off the top. The way I see it now, it was a little thing causing a big problem.

When I watch a movie like Prayers for Bobby, my mind immediately goes to a process called The Work by Byron Katie. I’ve spent a lot of time reading her books and watching her videos, so–frankly–my mind goes there a lot. Regardless, The Work is a process of inquiry to deal with stressful thoughts, things like, He should call me back, My hips are too fat, or I need more money. In terms of having a gay son, The Work teaches it’s only a problem if you think, My son should be straight, or, My son’s going to hell, both of which are stressful thoughts because they argue with the truth–reality (my son is gay and he’s currently sitting in the living room). Katie says thoughts like these only do damage if we believe them, since our beliefs have the power to separate us from our children, even drive us to suicide.

The Work consists, in part, of four questions, but the one on my mind tonight is, “Who would you be without your story?” Another way of asking this would be, “Who would I be without that thought (that my son–or I–shouldn’t be gay)?” In my experience, whenever I think, I shouldn’t be gay (and I am), or, My mom shouldn’t have cancer (and she does), I immediately shut down in some way and become less open to–well–life as it is. So who would I be without my story? What would my life be like if I could never think or believe those thoughts again?

In one word–better.

I hate to admit this, but my problems are never caused by something “out there.” A few days ago my hairdresser and friend told me that my hairline was “receding.” She actually used that word. Well, that’s a fact. That’s–apparently–reality, but it’s only a problem if I make up a story about it. I’ll be ugly if I go bald. No one will love me. I can’t afford implants. When I type those thoughts out, they seem rather silly. But just like a door that gets stuck, I know that something small–like a belief–can cause big problems. Honestly, it’s not an easy thing to question your beliefs. Personally, I’ve been believing my own press releases for a long time, and I don’t like admitting I’m wrong anymore than the next guy. But I’m reminded tonight that any story that causes stress is worth questioning, just as any stuck door is worth fixing, especially when there’s someone you love (and that includes yourself) on the other side.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Take your challenges and turn them into the source of your strengths.

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