Turning Lead into Gold (Blog #157)

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Currently I’m a solid two hours into my self-imposed “No Facebook Mondays” boundary. Part of me thinks it’s no big deal and is actually excited for the break. Like, my thumb wasn’t made for that much scrolling anyway. Another part of me is shaking and on edge, like whenever I quit cigarettes. I keep picking up my phone out of habit then immediately putting it back down out of sheer willpower. Find something else to do, Marcus. Okay, two hours and ten minutes. To remove temptation, I just closed out the Facebook tab on my browser. Now it’s just me and my feelings. Shit. This could be a long day.

This afternoon I completed my first online yoga session with Codyapp. I cussed a lot, but it felt great. The guy said it can take six months to two years to reshape your fascia, and I kind of hate that taking care of yourself is such a long-term commitment. Still, one day is one day, and a start is a start.

I’m proud to say that in the last twenty-four hours I’ve watched half of season three of Grace and Frankie, which stars Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin, Martin Sheen, and Sam Waterston. If you don’t know, it’s about two women (a yuppie and a hippy) who become close friends after their husbands divorce them in order to marry each other. In season three, the women start their own business, selling vibrators to aging ladies. I don’t know what it is about hearing Jane Fonda say, “Fuck me in the eye,” or Lily Tomlin say, “Christ on a cupcake,” but I laughed out loud all day today. I don’t remember the last time that happened. It’s been almost better than therapy.

Almost.

This evening I went for a walk and continued to listen to a series of lectures on archetypes by Caroline Myss. The theory is that everyone has twelve primary archetypes or energetic patterns of behavior. Four of those twelve are common to all of us (The Child, The Victim, The Prostitute, and The Saboteur), and eight are unique to you or me. Whenever you meet someone and immediately classify them as a diva, a bully, a shaman, an angel, or a martyr, you’re talking about one of their archetypes. Anyway, tonight Caroline discussed the storyteller archetype, which I believe is one of my eight. Of course, we all tell stories, but for some of us everything is a story. Even when somebody cheats on us or we gain three pounds, we think, I can blog about this later.

Two things mentioned about the storyteller archetype stood out to me. First, every archetype has a light side and a shadow side. As an example, Cinderella’s fairy godmother is the light side of the mother archetype, and her evil step-mother is the shadow. Anyway, Caroline says the shadow side of the storyteller is the liar, or, in more mild cases, the exaggerator. Of course, I’ve had my own moments outside the light, but my mind immediately went to a couple people I know who seem to lie about anything. Like, they lie when the truth would serve them better, and I guess until tonight I never really understood it. Oh, that’s it, I thought, they’re just misusing their god-given talents (powers).

The other thing that stood out to me was the idea that whenever we’re in a difficult situation, even if we can’t change it, we can tell ourselves a different story about it. We can say, “Once upon a time, there was a prince who returned to his parents’ kingdom to rest and find his way again. Each night he’d write a letter to himself that he’d post for all to see. This was his way of healing and growing strong as he awaited his next adventure.”

Or something like that.

Caroline says this is actually healthy. We’re all going to tell ourselves a story about our circumstances anyway, and something akin to a fairy tale is much more beneficial than, “This sucks, God hates me, and no one will ever love my sagging breasts.” In medieval, alchemical terms, taking a negative situation and finding the good in it is compared to turning lead into gold. One obvious benefit to doing this is that we’re happier, since we’re not, say, still bitter about something that happened twenty days or twenty years ago. But Caroline says turning the lead in our lives into gold–or not–can actually affect how our physical bodies heal. In short, the idea is that mental and emotional lead (resentments, grudges, worries) keep us out of the present moment, which is where the spirit resides and the physical body best functions.

After my walk I did an exercise in my creativity workbook where I had to list ways in which I nourish myself. Y’all, it was difficult. My mind immediately went to the books I read and even the yoga class I started today, but–and I’m about to get real honest here–those things always have a twinge of “should” about them. Although I do enjoy them, they’re largely motivated by the thought, I need to do this so my life and body will be better. (I hate it when I realize I’m being rough on myself.) So I took a few deep breaths and decided to take a hot bath. I put on some music, lit a candle. Afterwards I did some exercises for my neck and listened to “Let It Be” by The Beatles on repeat.

Now I’m thinking that I can be gentler with myself, give myself the mental room I need to grow. I can tell myself a different story. I’ve been saying that I have to read, have to heal. But I love reading, learning, and yoga. So I’m actually doing these things because I want to and because I care for myself. Not only is that a different, kinder story, it’s the truth. And I can look at No Facebook Mondays as some sort of prison, or I can see it as a freedom, more time to watch shows that make me laugh or–even better–spend time with friends I love–in person. Once again I’m finding it’s not what’s “out there” that matters, but rather what’s “in here.” In here is where you tell yourself the story about what’s out there. In here is where you turn lead into gold.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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On Boundaries and Self-Care (Blog #152)

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Today I went to therapy, and the lights were turned down low–I guess because the sun was coming in the windows or whatever. Honestly, it felt like womb, maybe a good place to take a nap. But I guess somebody could have taken it as scary or even romantic, since my therapist said, “Does it creep you out that the lights are off?”

“Please. I don’t give a shit.” (This is how we talk to each other.)

Today we talked about boundaries (we always talk about boundaries), and we both agreed that whereas necessary, setting them can be tiring. In my case, I went so long without having any (I thought I had them, but I didn’t), that figuring out what I’ll accept and what I won’t accept has felt like a full-time job the last few years. Naturally, a number of friendships and relationships have shifted since I got some standards. Maybe that’s really the tiring part, watching people you care about walk away when the rules change. Granted, it’s empowering to say, “No, I won’t lower my price,” “No, it’s not okay to manipulate me,” or, “No, you can’t touch my ass,” but as Caroline Myss points out, few people are willing to celebrate your personal empowerment. I mean, when was the last time someone looked at you and said, “Yay–you don’t need me”?

Of course, I think a good therapist is anything but codependent and will celebrate your victories. Mine says her goal is to work herself out of a job. Personally, I guess I like that idea, although I don’t see it materializing as long as I’m living with my parents and spending part of every afternoon watching Days of Our Lives.

About mid-session, I told my therapist that this last week has been pretty emotional, probably because I’ve been go-go-going, Mom’s cancer has taken an emotional toll, and my life has been in such a state of flux for a while now. (She said flux was “good,” but I’m still chewing on that idea.) Then I said that rather than taking my stress as an opportunity to slow down and practice self-care (take a nap, ask for a hug), I tell myself I should be doing better or should be “further along.” In short, I self-flagellate.

“Yeah, you’re REAL good at that,” she said.

“Why, thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Before tonight, I’d planned to go out-of-town tomorrow to hear an author speak. I’d planned to go, spend the night, and take my time coming back on Thursday. Then I realized that wouldn’t work because I have an appointment Thursday morning. Oh well, I thought, I can still go and come back in one night, stay up to write the blog, and still make the appointment. (If you’re wondering who lit the other end of this candle, it was obviously me.) Well, today I decided I could practice self-care by NOT going, by basically setting a boundary for–myself.

Stop, Marcus. Just stop.

Personally, I don’t consider this a big revelation. It’s not the first time I’ve put myself on a diet, stopped smoking, or decided to stay home to rest. But I do think it’s interesting that I’m able to mostly navigate boundaries with others and my physical world, but sometimes less so with my internal. Maybe our thoughts and emotions are tougher to work with, but I’m thinking it’s time to set some limits for myself, since the truth is that I wouldn’t let anyone else tell me I’m not good enough, or listen to them go on and on (and on) about how it’s not okay to feel overwhelmed for more than fifteen minutes at a time or how no one will love me unless I stop eating white bread for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

And sometimes for a snack.

When I put my self-talk on paper, it sounds pretty ridiculous. But I guess our thoughts are sort of like broken records that just keep playing over and over (and over) again until you finally say, “Wait a damn minute, I don’t like this music,” and put on something different. Of course, I don’t expect things to change overnight, and it’s not like I haven’t been working on this for a while–I have. It’s better up there than it used to be. But my therapist says boundaries are always being reevaluated as new information comes along, so it’s probably just time for a personal check-in. Ultimately, I believe good boundaries come from a strong sense of self-worth, so if I wouldn’t let anyone else treat or talk to me poorly, why would I let myself get away with the same bad behavior?

Why would anyone?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Healing is like the internet at my parents’ house—it takes time.

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Stuff That Could Heal the World (Blog #148)

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Several years ago I was in Austin, Texas, and ended up at a vintage clothing store called Cream. I was looking through the t-shirts, trying to decide if a tight, purple, deep v-neck shirt was “too much” to take back to Arkansas, when a red-headed guy (with dreadlocks and purple pants) behind the counter asked if I was looking for anything else. “Hum,” I said, “I’m kind of interested in a pair of cowboy boots.” The next thing I knew, he led me across the store and helped me pick out a pair in my size. And then–and then–he literally grabbed my hand, ran toward a mirror, and said, “Fashion show!”

As it turns out, the guy’s name was Benjamin, although he pronounced it Been Jammin. He was straight, but said he loved the homos. Obviously, he knew his audience. I only met him that one time, but every year the photo we took together shows up in my Facebook Memories, and it always makes me smile. Never mind that I could only wear the boots for a few hours before getting a blister. It was the best shopping experience ever.

And yes, I got the purple v-neck. Benjamin said it was fabulous.

This evening I went to Toys R Us for one of my creativity assignments. The goal was to find an Artist Totem–a toy, figurine, or statue that I felt a sense of protection for and could represent my creative life. As I walked in the toy store, my understanding of the logic behind having the totem was this–often we beat up on our creative selves, but our inner artist is a child, something we should actually nurture with kindness. So taking care of the totem equals both inspiration and taking care of yourself.

Y’all, Toys R Us has A LOT of toys. Honestly, it’s overwhelming. I saw one couple who actually let their children roam free, and I thought, That’s a mistake. I mean, I’m not a parent, but I can’t imagine anyone thinking that saying no over and over again is a fun way to spend a Friday night. But I digress. Midway through the store, I found my totem–a Mickey Mouse pillow. (I know I’m almost forty, but I’m serious.) First of all, it’s cute. Second of all, what better representation of creativity? As far as that goes, Walt Disney was “the man.”

So if you spy me at a coffee shop with a Mickey Mouse doll on the table or crawl into my car and see a cartoon buckled in the backseat, you’ll know why. I can definitely see those things happening. I already feel like a proud papa. (My totem’s better than your totem.)

After my trip to the totem / toy store, I hung out with my friend Bonnie, who just got back from a long road trip. Our friend Corban was also there, as were his mom and Bonnie’s husband, but they went to bed early and didn’t make the below selfie. (Snoozing=losing.) Anyway, Corban told us about a story he read online about a Starbucks barista who silently watched two customers form and grow a relationship over time that culminated one day when the lady showed up to the coffee shop alone. Oh no, the barista thought, they broke up. But then the guy came rushing in, dropped down on one knee, and proposed.

Personally, I’m fascinated by the idea that you never know who’s watching you and rooting you on. Maybe it’s someone you know. Maybe it’s your barista. I’m also fascinated by the idea that you never know how your actions can affect another person. Years after meeting Benjamin at Cream Vintage, I’m still inspired by his authentic style, effervescent personality, and kindness. All of it said, “You’re free to be yourself.” Caroline Myss tells the story of a man who was crossing a street on his way to commit suicide but changed his mind when a stranger in a passing car smiled at him.

You never know.

There’s an affirmation in The Artist’s Way that says, “My creativity heals myself and others,” and I’m starting to believe it. I remember Benjamin and realize that it was his authentic creativity that not only made my day, but also continues to work its magic all these years later. Ultimately, I think we’re all creative. But I know in my case I’ve spent a lot of my creative energy thinking about why something can’t happen rather than why it will, thinking about why Walt Disney could make a difference but I can’t. But when I look at my Artist Totem, I’m reminded that we all have dreams inside us. We’re all made of the same stuff, stuff that deserves to be nurtured and cared for, stuff that–you never know–could heal the world.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We all need to feel alive.

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My Authentic Response to Criticism (Blog #145)

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Tonight’s blog may be one of the most difficult I’ve ever written. I’ll explain. I have a personal rule for the blog that I won’t use it as a means to call someone out specifically, meaning I don’t consider this the place to say, “Jack, you’re a real asshole,” or, “Suzy, those yoga pants make you look like whore.” Aside from those being unkind statements, this is a blog about (my) authenticity, vulnerability, and mental and spiritual health, and I don’t consider it the venue to pick a fight. All that being said, tonight’s blog is going to approach that line because–and only because–I’ve promised that I will also and always write about what’s on my heart. So far, I have. In over one hundred and forty posts, I haven’t once tried to fake my emotions or stray from what I knew needed to be said–and I’m not going to start tonight.

So, to borrow a phrase I’ve heard once or twice from my therapist, we’re about to have a confrontation.

The first thing I saw this morning was that someone had posted a comment on yesterday’s blog that was pending approval. Well, I’m not sure that my people pleaser will ever not be the first one to have a voice, so I immediately thought, Oh God, I hope someone’s not mad. I guess I could post the entire comment, but the essence was: 1) I hate the bandana you wear on your head, 2) Your hair is too beautiful to cover it up, 3) Please stop it, and 4) I love you and am just being honest.

As I’ve said a number of times, my therapist says that online communication is rife with misunderstandings, so I’d like to be clear–the tone of the comment, in my opinion, was mostly lighthearted, complimentary (they called me handsome), and well-intended. They even said, “I have no right to encroach on what you determine makes you happy in life.” With this much, I agree.

My first thought after reading the comment this morning was, That’s hilarious. Thank God it wasn’t something serious. Actually, I started to say as much. But I hadn’t woken up yet, and that response didn’t feel quite right, even though it did feel like “a nice thing to say.” My therapist says that nice is a strategy, in light of which I would have to admit–the only reason I would dismiss such a criticism would be to not rock the boat and to make sure someone likes me (and my hair and anything I put on it). Of course, if you’ve ever tried to manage what someone else thinks of you, you know–it’s exhausting.

I wish I could tell you that the comment rolled over me like water off a duck’s back, but I can’t. It’s not that I’ve had a bad day, but it’s sort of felt like a piece of food that slowly molds and rots in your refrigerator. It’s something you can’t put your finger on at first. But then one day you open the door and know exactly what stinks.

I remember a couple years ago when I went out-of-town–maybe New York City or New Mexico–and I wore a cowboy hat that I named Jose (after the guy who made it). I fucking loved it, and told myself I’d wear it more often when I got home. But damn it, there’s something oppressive about Fort Smith, something that says, “Conform,” so I didn’t. When I talked about it in therapy, my therapist said, “Give it a whirl–be yourself.” Recently when I spoke to her about an incident similar to today’s that I can’t remember, she told me that sometimes when well-meaning people criticize her fashion choices, she says, “I do whatever the fuck I want.”

Amen.

I would like to acknowledge that everyone–everyone–has a right to their opinion. Also, I’ve yet to censor anyone’s comments on this blog, my YouTube channel, or Facebook, since I don’t consider it my job to tell other people what to think, say, or, for that matter, what to wear. So everyone is welcome to say what they want, but let me be perfectly clear–just because you have a thought about my life, doesn’t mean that it’s beneficial or that I want to hear it. I mean, when was the last time someone came up to you and said, “Alice, that jean skirt makes your butt look unattractive,” and you said, “Why thank you, Edna, you’re a saint. What else can I change about me?” So in short, I don’t consider my hair (or any other part of my life) a democracy.

According to my dad tonight, that’s why I’m not married.

My mom (who’s currently bald from chemotherapy) said, “I don’t care what you do with your hair. I’m just glad you have some.”

It may be too late, but I really don’t want this blog to be about one specific comment, since it’s not the first time I’ve been told, “The blonde hair was a mistake,” “You won’t be able to get a job if your hair is blue,” or “Those pants make you look gay,” to which if given the chance to do it all over again I’d respectively say, “Fuck off,” “How the hell do you know that, Dad?” and “Good–I am gay.” Also, I know that my natural tendency is to be defensive, to be–in the words of my therapist–dukes up. This tendency, I’m sure, comes from the fact that I essentially raised myself, so criticism of any sort always feels like someone saying that I didn’t do a good job (even though I did a fucking great job, thank you very much) or that I failed in some way.

Additionally, I’d like to acknowledge that although I don’t do it online, I often have critical thoughts about others and will frequently voice these opinions to my friends. Jesus, that dress is ugly. Those shoes make her look like a construction worker. Caroline Myss says that these sorts of thoughts and comments stem from the idea that someone else’s life only exists in order to make me happy. Like, “I’d feel better if you’d stop dressing like a lumberjack, Janice.” Obviously–and I can only speak for myself on this one–that’s an arrogant and flawed way to address one of God’s fellow creations. So to anyone to whom I’ve minimized in this way, I apologize and am working on it.

Lastly, I’d like to say something about my experience with honesty. I know I make a big deal about it here, and perhaps it deserves a little more attention. From what I understand, honesty means being true to yourself, whatever your experience. My therapist says that if you’re angry or hurt or whatever, you don’t bite your tongue because it doesn’t feel good to bite your tongue. By not being honest, you damage yourself in some way. She also quotes a spiritual guru and says, “Be kind whenever possible. It’s always possible.” To me this means that just because it’s honest to say, “Those pleated pants went out of style twenty years ago, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in that Ban-Lon shirt,” doesn’t mean it’s necessary.

Personally, I hate the fact that I may get up tomorrow and hesitate to put a bandana on my head, even though I know it keeps my beautiful hair out of my face when I drive down the interstate with my windows down, something that never ceases to make me feel totally free. Ultimately, I think we all are worthy of that unbridled feeling of freedom, that feeling that says, “I love me, I love everything about me, and I don’t give a shit if anyone else likes it or not.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

Nudged Down the Rabbit Hole (Blog #137)

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

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

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

Now I’ll progress to something far more fascinating.

This evening I went to Walmart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?"

The Difference between a Sneeze and a Fart (Blog #121)

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For the first time in a while, I’m actually writing during the day. It’s 3:45 in the afternoon. The sun is up! My brain is–functioning. I guess you could call it a miracle, but I’d call it a deadline. I’m going out of town to dance tonight, and then I’m driving to Springfield after that (to teach dance and aerials tomorrow), so if I want to sleep (which I do), I’ve got to write (right) now. Okay, that’s seventy-five words. I’m aiming for at least five hundred. I told Mom that I may need to underachieve today. She said, “That’s okay.”

At breakfast I went into a sneezing fit. I think I sneezed four or five times. This is something I may have inherited from my Mom, except when she does it, she somehow screams at the same time. It’s the type of sound that can take paint off the walls, break crystal glasses. I have one friend who–whenever he sneezes–says, “I must have something up my nose.” Then immediately adds, “It’s not there anymore.”

Anyway, after I sneezed in the kitchen, Dad said, “What do they say? Every time you sneeze it takes a minute off your life?”

Mom said, “I’ve NEVER heard that, Ron.”

I said, “I don’t know about sneezing, but if farting takes time off your life, you’ve got A SERIOUS PROBLEM.”

The conversation made me think of something my grandpa (my dad’s dad) used to say–“You’ll learn the difference between sneezing and farting.” Well, this is the type of statement that can really confuse a child, and I honestly don’t know that I completely understand it now. So I asked my dad about it, and he said he honestly didn’t know either, but that I could ask Google (thanks, Dad). He said he thought it was Grandpa’s way of saying, “You’ll learn the way of the world,” just like he used to say, “You’ll learn how the cow eats the corn.”

What the hell? Is it any wonder foreigners have trouble learning the English language?

For the last two hours I’ve been trying to think of a specific example of when Grandpa used the sneezing/farting comment, but I can’t. But I do remember what I felt like whenever he’d say it, and it wasn’t smart. When I asked Google about the phrase, it brought up a scene from the movie Varsity Blues in which a coach tells a player, “You show me the kind of smarts makes me wonder if you know the difference between a sneeze and a wet fart.” In other words, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re stupid, son.” I doubt that was Grandpa’s intention with me, but it’s the way I felt, the same way I felt whenever he’d say, “When you start paying those bills, you’ll learn where the light switches are (damn it).” The sense was–you don’t know everything–I do–this is the way the world turns.

So there.

I wish I could tell you that what you say doesn’t matter, but words make up our entire world.

In more than one self-help workbook, I’ve been asked to identify where my beliefs have come from–beliefs about God, health, self-worth, money–you name it. Of course, in almost every instance, my beliefs have come from my parents or grandparents, maybe from teachers at school. I don’t think there’s any blame in this statement, as all of our beliefs get passed down, and we can only know and teach what we know and have been taught. That being said, whenever I meditate on my thoughts about abundance and scarcity, I think of that statement about the light switches. I think about our cars being repossessed when Dad was arrested. Whenever I think about my intelligence, I think about being told, “Use your brain for something besides a damn hat rack.” Plenty of times I think other people know more than I do, and that always makes me feel like I don’t know the difference between sneezing and farting.

So I wish I could tell you that what you say to your children and grandchildren–what you say to anyone–doesn’t matter. But that’s not my experience. People remember. Words make up our entire world.

Once when I was talking about my health, my therapist said, “Well, you’re in your thirties now,” like, you’re not a spring chicken anymore. (WHOA! Watch your mouth, please!) As I am pushing forty, this is something I’m starting to hear a lot–from doctors, peers, the media. And whereas I’m not suggesting anyone bury their head in the sand over a health problem, I do think we underestimate ourselves. I think we start giving up and giving in much sooner than we have to, simply because “that’s how the cow eats the corn.”

Caroline Myss says that our first experience in life is the tribe, which is represented within our first (base or root) chakra. That’s our primal instinct, our need for security, our root to the earth. Tribal mentality is always–always–about the survival of the tribe–it’s we, never I. Whenever you see people getting heated, yelling at a football game or a political rally, whenever a church or family kicks someone out for not following the rules, that’s the tribe at work. It’s not good or bad, it’s just the way it is. But the thing about the tribe versus the individual is that they both have different beliefs and different experiences. In other words, the tribe may believe that there’s not enough money to go around, and that can be true for the tribe, and the individual can believe there’s abundance everywhere, and that can be true for the individual.

This is why when it comes to something like healing, the tribe can believe–it takes six months to heal this problem–but someone can come along and heal whatever it is in one month, maybe two. It’s not that they are an exception to the rule, it’s that they aren’t “ruled” by the tribal belief. Again, nothing wrong with tribal beliefs, but Caroline says you’re bound to move at the speed of the tribe if you identify with it. So she recommends unplugging from the tribe (the journey of the self/the spiritual path). But if you go that way, don’t expect the tribe to cheer you on. (Yay! You’re leaving us!) It doesn’t work that way.

In my experience, it can be difficult to break free of ideas and beliefs you’ve had since you were a child, to see abundance where your family didn’t, to own your own intelligence, to really learn the difference between a sneeze and a fart, which as I see it means that you can be smart enough to not believe everything you’re told. Deepak Chopra tells the story of a primitive tribe in which THE BEST runners were the guys in their fifties or sixties. They got better with age, not worse. My meditation teacher says this is the reason she dyes her hair–she doesn’t want the daily reminder that (as society says) she’s old.

This, I think, is what authenticity is about–following the truth that’s inside you, not the truth someone else tells you, the truth you read about in a book. Tribes, of course, have their purpose. They introduce us to the world, protect us when we can’t protect ourselves, give us a sense of belonging. But we’re not meant to stay there. In terms of the chakras, we’re literally meant to rise above, into third (self-empowerment), into the seventh (our personal connection to the divine). We are meant for so much more than sneezing and farting and how the world turns.

[Even though I’m writing in the middle of the day, I’ll post this close to midnight.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are all connected in a great mystery and made of the same strong stuff.

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Hooray, We’re Here! (Blog #110)

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Bonnie and I spent all damn day shopping. Well, okay, I slept until noon, AND THEN we spent all damn day shopping. FINE. We also stopped for tacos, and–out of the clear blue sky–two Old Fashioneds poured themselves down my throat while I just sat there and let it happen. I mean, you have to pick your battles. ANYWAY, except for all of that–we spent all damn day shopping.

It was exhausting.

We bought a welcome mat at Target that we thought would be perfect for Annie’s Pilates studio. We didn’t tell Annie, so don’t go blogging about it or anything. Anyway, it’s super cute and–well–welcoming. Not only is it in the color family of the studio (teal, turquoise, blue, cyan), but it also says, “hooray you’re here!” Hooray, you’re here! What a perfect message–here could mean here at the studio–here in Austin–here on the planet. I just love it. I’m seriously considering buying one for my house–except I don’t have a house. Of course if I did, I’d probably have to put a note on the door that said, “Welcome mat does not apply to 1) government officials, 2) anyone trying to convert me to a religion or sell me a vacuum cleaner, or 3) little children hocking raffle tickets, buckets of popcorn, or overpriced candy bars.”

In those cases, Hooray, you’re leaving!

Here’s a picture of me and a pillow from Target that says, “Every day is an adventure.” I tried to look as unexcited as possible because I like ironic humor. Well, shit. The grammar nerd in me is not happy, since I just noticed that whoever made the pillow wrote “everyday,” instead of “every day.” One word instead of two. First the president and now this. Seriously, folks–we’re going downhill fast.

Here are the tacos we stopped for, at a place called FoxHole. Technically only I stopped for tacos because Bonnie stopped for pizza. But since I ate half of it, I guess I stopped for that too. Anyway, it was a delightful lunch, and the moral of the story is–shopping burns A LOT of calories.

After refueling, we went to Z Gallerie (and a hundred and three other places) in search of the perfect curtains–which are apparently harder to find than the Holy Grail. (Later we did end up with something that MAY work but has to be ordered.) Anyway, we certainly had fun trying. Check out this cool plate Bonnie found. The text on the plate is probably a more accurate description of what transpired at lunch than the one I just offered. It says, “Butt weight…there’s more.”

It’s funny because it’s true. Don’t you hate that?

Before the shopping ended, while we were at a cool store called Arhaus (is a very, very, very fine house), I got stung by a bee. You read that right–a honey bee stung me. There I was, minding my own business, doing my small part to rid the world of ugly window treatments, and one of God’s little creatures planted his stinger right in the middle of my throat. Ouch! I was at the top of an escalator when it happened, felt a little prick on my neck (there’s a dirty joke there somewhere), and ended up brushing a freaking bee off my skin. Well, I immediately stepped on it. (Sorry, not sorry, fella. You fucked with the wrong guy.) And don’t even think about judging me for killing that son of a bee. (See what I did there?) He started it. Plus, apparently honey bees die when they sting someone anyway.

Here’s a picture of the stinger that little jerk left in my throat. Bonnie pulled it out. Yeah, Bonnie!

Oh, and don’t worry. I’M OKAY. My throat didn’t swell up, and I didn’t stop breathing (except to drink a beer later). I’ve had more of a reaction from a mosquito bite. Go figure.

Tonight I went to a swing dance at The Fed, The Texas Federation of Women’s Clubs. The Fed is housed in a gorgeous–gorgeous–historic building with a beautiful–beautiful–ballroom. Tonight was my first time there. Anyway, I ran into my friends Matt and Laura, who were two of the first people to start teaching Lindy Hop in Austin. I told them I wanted to move to town, and Laura said, “Come on! This city will love you.” Matt added, “Most of us artists have day jobs, but those are easy enough to find.”

It was the perfect thing. Most the time when I travel to dances, people are “nice.” But only now and then do I get a warm welcome like the one I got from Matt and Laura, one that ends with the exchanging of phone numbers and an “I hope to see you later.” Honestly, it felt like–Hooray, you’re here!

Later Laura introduced me to some friends, and when I mentioned I’d like to move to town, one of them said that jobs were hard to find. Like, Uh, good luck. And–internally–the weirdest thing happened. Normally I would have been immediately discouraged, started thinking about how difficult it would be when I finally get around to moving. But instead I thought, “That won’t be my experience. Jobs are easy to find.”

When the universe speaks–listen.

When I got back from the dance, I went for a long run, and I started thinking about how much my perspective has changed since starting this blog. Earlier today I told Bonnie that I thought all the lessons were actually learned over the last several years, but that I’ve only taken ownership of them in the last three months. Plus, I’m believing more than ever that I’m connected to something much bigger than myself. Lately I’ve been saying and writing the affirmation, “My dreams come from God, and God has the power to accomplish them.” My friend Suzanne says, “First you know something, and then you KNOW something.” That’s all I can tell you–now I KNOW it–when it’s time for me to move and when it’s time for me to get a job, I will.

There’s a quote by JD Salinger that comes from one of his short stories that says, “‘I was six when I saw that everything was God, and my hair stood up, and all,’ Teddy said. ‘It was on a Sunday, I remember. My sister was a tiny child then, and she was drinking her milk, and all of a sudden I saw that she was God and the milk was God. I mean, all she was doing was pouring God into God, if you know what I mean.'” What I love about this quote–God pouring God into God–is that it makes me feel better about those Old Fashioneds pouring themselves down my throat today. It was like–holy. It also reminds me to have faith. God can get God a job, if God thinks God needs one. As Caroline Myss says, “Life takes care of life.”

So get this shit.

When I got home from my run, there was a book sitting on my dresser called What the Bee Knows. I guess I took it out of my bag yesterday. And since–you know–I just got stung by a bee, I figured I ought to pick it up. (When the universe speaks–listen.) Well, the book was written by PL Travers and is a collection of essays about myth, symbol, and story-telling. So I flipped to the article with the same title as the book and found out that bees, in all time-periods and cultures, are a symbol for life–life as immortality, which could be seen as one thing changing into and out of many forms. God pouring God into God. Fascinating, right?

Butt weight–there’s more.

I suppose it’s ironic (funny) that in a number of languages the word for bee means “life” or “living,” especially when you consider how easily bees die when they either sting someone or get stepped on by a pissed-off curtain shopper. But just as Christ spent three days in the grave, bees spend the winter (three months) in their hives, only to reappear in the spring (raised to walk–er–fly–in newness of life). So today I’m reminded–by a bee sting of all friggin’ things–that although parts of our lives pass away just as insects and even people do, new parts of our lives continually spring forth. Life itself marches forward, every day is an adventure, and one part of God is always saying to another, “Hooray, we’re here!”

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.

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The Way of the Dinosaurs (Blog #98)

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Last month while I was in Austin with my friend Bonnie, we (Bonnie) took a wrong turn one day and ended up driving through a local neighborhood. Well, Austin is weird, so someone had fastened a large toy dinosaur to a dead tree in front of their house. Bonnie thought it was so cool. She said, “When I move to Nashville, I want a dinosaur in my yard.” After that, we kept seeing dinosaurs wherever we went–in a modern furniture store, on a t-shirt. You know how it works when you get focused on something–it’s everywhere. But just like that, dinosaurs became a kind of mascot–for having a new life, for having something to look forward to.

At least that’s how I took it.

The night after we got back to Fort Smith, I finished the blog about five in the morning. Earlier that evening I’d been in Fayetteville, stopped at Walmart, gathered supplies. I couldn’t find a single large dinosaur, so I settled on a troupe–or is it a flock?–of small dinosaurs. Still under the cover of night, racing to beat the sunrise, I drove to Bonnie’s house, circled the block to see if there were any lights on inside, and then parked my car across the street and headed for a tree in her front yard, toy dinosaurs and a pack of push-pins in my hands. Fifteen minutes later, five different types of dinosaurs were lined up neatly on a slanted tree trunk, looking as if they were slowly marching their way to the top of the tree–or maybe to extinction.

I’ve been concerned that a horny squirrel might mistake the t-rex for a lover or that a thunderstorm would come along and–once again–wipe all the dinosaurs off the face of the planet, but each of them has held strong. Tonight I went to Bonnie’s to hang out with her family on their front porch, and all five of those guys (or gals–I didn’t check) were right where I left them.

Bonnie thinks they’re great, by the way.

This evening I’ve been thinking about all the things that irritate me, all the things that make me mad. It’s not that I’ve been obsessing about them, but you know how it goes–you can’t really help it, especially when you’re tired. So I’ve been remembering that rude lady I talked to at the insurance company yesterday, kind of having imaginary conversations where I stick up for myself, tell her to go jump off a bridge, or say she sounds just like a frustrated lesbian. (Sometimes I do this sort of daydreaming with people I deliberately don’t talk to anymore, people who didn’t respect my boundaries. My therapist says it happens because I never told those people what assholes I thought they were. She also says it’s too late to tell them now. That ship has sailed. Oh well.)

Caroline Myss says this is one of the ways we keep the past alive. We think about it and think about it. We build resentments. She says every day we wake up with a hundred energetic dollars, and most of us are near broke before we get out of bed because we’re worried about something that happened at work yesterday or angry about something a relative said six months ago. Before you know it, you don’t have any money left for spending right here, right now. This, I think, is the lesson Jesus was teaching when a disciple said he’d “be right there” but needed to bury his father first. “Let the dead bury the dead,” Jesus said. In other words, leave the past where it belongs–in the past.

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

I guess it’s ironic Bonnie and I chose the dinosaur as a mascot for the future–you know–because dinosaurs clearly don’t have one. Honestly, dinosaurs associate much better with the past (they’ve been dead a long time), and I think it’s interesting how hard our culture works at keeping them alive. We buy plastic toys of them, put them in a friend’s tree, make big productions about them. Of course, this is innocent enough. But I know I often do the same thing with my actual past–make a big production out of it. I think, “If I ever talk to that person again, I’m gonna really let ’em have it.” I tell my friends, “Can you believe that bitch?” But the truth is–like the dinosaurs–the past is over, even though I often refuse to let it go. Instead, I spend my precious energy trying to bring the dead back to life.

I had someone tell me once that therapy was concerned mostly with a person’s past. They may not have meant it like this, but I got the impression they thought therapy could be used as a way to stay stuck back there, maybe blame someone else for all your problems. (My friend Ray calls people that do this “whiners.”) Thankfully, that hasn’t been my experience with therapy. I remember that first day when my therapist asked me why I was there. I said, “Well, I’m dating a guy and it’s a mess. We met last year and moved in together a few months later.”

“That was a very lesbian thing to do,” she said.

And then for nearly an hour I marched out all the stuff I thought I’d never talk about–sort of a preview of coming attractions–basically job security for her–all the parts of my past that I’d swept under the rug for over thirty years. Since then, I guess you could say that we’ve been concerned with the past. But the point has never been to bring it back to life–because it’s never really been dead. The point has been to understand it, to have compassion for the guy who lived it, and in so doing–finally let it go the way of the dinosaurs.

In this sense, the dinosaur is the perfect mascot for the future because all too often it’s the past that holds us backs and weighs us down. What I mean is that sometimes you have to go back before you can go forward. So whether it’s something that happened yesterday or something that happened thirty years ago, you deal with it and you put it in perspective. And then–like a flock of small dinosaurs–you take the pieces of your past, put them neatly in a row, and march them toward extinction, leaving yourself free to have a new life, to have something to look forward to–right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All your scattered pieces want to come back home.

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Stepping in Shit (Blog #47)

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For the last few weeks, I’ve had this problem, weird thoughts that have been coming out of nowhere. I’ve been thinking—and only thinking—about doing push-ups. Strange, I know. Who can say where crazy thoughts like these come from, but they’ve been showing up quite a bit lately. Honestly, I’d hoped they would go away. (Get thee behind me, Satan.) But alas, that has not been the case. So this afternoon, I gave into them, a strategy that has always worked well with thoughts about eating chocolate cake.

Y’all, push-ups are not nearly as fun as chocolate cake. Not by a long shot.

Thankfully, I didn’t get carried away. I did two sets of ten, threw in some crunches (which felt more like “squishes”), and called it good. I figured I didn’t want to be sore tomorrow (or ever). When I was doing the push-ups, my arms literally shook, so that probably means they weren’t intended to be used like that. Besides, it’s been eight hours and I don’t have pecs yet, so what’s the point anyway?

I’m probably like five years away from being one of those coupon people.

This evening I taught a dance class, and when I got home, more of those weird thoughts showed up. (They brought their friends!) I kept thinking I needed to run up and down some bleachers. So when I went for my walk this evening, I started off by jogging to the high school, and it actually felt good. But I forced myself to slow down because I have a hip that gives me problems whenever I act as if I’m twenty-three and don’t stretch first. (I’m probably like five years away from being one of those coupon people.)

When I got to the high school, I found the bleachers and took off to the top, which went well. But coming back down was awkward, and it was dark, and I kept picturing myself tripping and ending up with a new nose, so I stopped. For the rest of my time outside, I just walked, although I did stop at an elementary school playground and do four—that’s right, four—pull-ups.

In the past, my tendency has been to do something all or nothing. Like if I weren’t going to the gym for an hour, it really wasn’t worth it. But lately I’ve been thinking about how little things can add up, so all day I’ve been telling myself that I can start small with working out and add on—a little here, a little there. After all, something is better than nothing. (Please note that this theory does not apply to men who have comb-overs. In that case, nothing is better than something.)

When I got home and took my shoes off, I realized that I’d stepped in shit. (Yippee.) My shoes have really deep grooves in them, so the shit was everywhere, and there were little rocks in the shit, and all I could think was, Shit, shit, shit. This is how the universe rewards exercise. (There’s a great story about Saint Teresa of Avila, who was riding in a carriage and got thrown out into the mud when it hit a rock. She looked up at heaven, shook her fist, and said, “If this is the way you treat your friends, it’s no wonder you have so few of them.”)

Amen, sister.

So I cleaned the shit and the rocks out of my shoes with hot water, left them in the sink to dry, and did some yoga stretches in hopes of taking care of my hip. (The above photo is me in double pigeon, which is probably the type of shit I stepped in.) As I sit here now, my shins are sore, and I’m thinking about grabbing an ice pack for my hip. Honestly, I’m not sure I was cut out for running anything other than a fever. I mean, my feet are flat. There’s not a lot of support down there.

Fuck it. Pass the chocolate cake.

My tendency in moments like these, after I’ve just stepped in shit and my body isn’t what I want it to be (tight hip, flat feet—no pecs!), is to get frustrated and say, “Fuck it. Pass the chocolate cake.”

But—

I have been wanting to get in better shape lately, firm things up a bit, so all those weird thoughts are probably there for a reason. They’re probably the answer I’ve been looking for. Caroline Myss says thoughts that won’t let go (like “go to the gym,” or “call that person back”) are actually our intuition, or, if you will, our guardian angel. And she says that if you don’t listen to your guardian angel when it comes to little stuff like going to the gym, you’re probably not going to get much help when it comes to big stuff like your career and relationships.

If this theory is true, I can only assume that my stepping in shit this evening was my guardian angel’s way of trying to be funny, which probably means he doesn’t have a lot of friends either.

I read a quote by Winston Churchill recently that said something like, “Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” As I see it, that means that sometimes you step in a lot of shit. You set out on a new career, and it doesn’t go like you think it will. Or you go for a jog, and your body hurts. Maybe you literally step in shit. So maybe you have to course-correct, but that doesn’t mean you have to give up on your dreams, and it certainly doesn’t mean you have to give up on yourself.

No.

You can keep going because there is a way to get from here to there, and if anyone can find it, you can. Plus, we are all supported in more ways than we will ever know. So just a few small steps in the right direction, and before long, you’ll be so far from where you started. Indeed, if you could only see it, you already are.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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As taught in the story of the phoenix, a new life doesn't come without the old one first being burned away.

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getting body positive (blog #39)

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I’ve been thinking that if I want good material to write about every day, it would really help for me to leave the house. I mean, I could tell you about my trip to the mailbox today, or the fact that Dad watched his favorite soap opera twice (once by himself and once with Mom), but I can’t imagine that would be anymore exciting than the fact that I had spinach for breakfast (woo).

Yesterday while I was waiting on my prescriptions to be filled, I decided it was time to buy some groceries and put together a meal plan for the week that didn’t involve white bread and eating peanut butter from a jar. So I picked up some protein, fruit and vegetables, almond milk, and granola. I also got some dandelion tea because I’m fancy (and it’s supposed to be cleansing). And despite the fact that I ate fried chicken, chocolate chip cookies, AND cheese fried in corndog batter less than twenty-four hours before, I still felt like a superior bitch when I put my healthy food on the conveyer belt next to some lady’s TV dinner.

I’m telling myself that I don’t have to do a 30-day balls-to-the-wall diet like I’ve done in the past. I can start slow, drink more water, cut out desserts. So that’s what I did today. After dinner, Mom and Dad and I listened to the S-Town Podcast, which if you don’t know about, you need to. This is my second time through it, and it’s storytelling at its finest. Anyway, during the podcast, I did a few yoga stretches. It was nothing major, but it was a beginning, and that’s something.

I’m not sure why the decision to eat a couple healthy meals today and do some light stretching feels so good. Like, I stepped on the scale this evening, and it’s not as if the number changed from what it was last week. But I actually feel better, and I’m sure that feeling has something to do with self-respect.

Caroline Myss, who teaches about chakras (the energetic centers that produce and maintain our physical bodies), says that our self-esteem is located at our third chakra, which is around the navel. She says that we grow our self-esteem when we keep the promises we make. So if you’re always telling yourself that you’re going to start a diet or go to the gym or whatever and you don’t, your self-esteem will take a hit because you’re literally not being true to yourself.

My therapist and I don’t talk about weight a lot, but she says that if you’re going to eat stuff that’s “bad” for you, eat the expensive stuff. Don’t waste your time on Cheetos because they don’t fully satisfy. Really indulge. At some point, you’ll burn out. She also says that most people go back and forth within a ten-to-fifteen pound range, so even though I freak out about gaining ten pounds, it’s a normal thing to do. As my friend Jim says, “Weight goes up, weight goes down.”

Seasons change.

Beating yourself up is a far cry from self-respect.

Last week I spent a couple of days with my friend Kira. She used to take dance from me, but then, just to prove that miracles exist, she met a stud in the military and moved to Italy. Anyway, she’s back in the states, and while we were hanging out, she used a phrase that I’ve fallen in love with. It’s “body positive.” Kira says that body positive means that you think and speak well about your body, you don’t put yourself down. And maybe it’s not something you get perfect, but it’s a goal, and I think it’s a good one.

In light of body positive, I’ve been thinking a lot this week about my tendency to pick at all my physical imperfections, and I had a small revelation. It might seem obvious, but I realized that all the picking and self-criticism don’t do any good. They don’t really motivate me. More than that, none of it makes me happy.

Recently a friend and I were talking about how I was able to get to the point of selling most of my worldly possessions, how I went from being a hanger-on-er to a let-it-go-er. I said that before I decide to sell everything, I was coming home most days depressed. (My therapist says I wasn’t clinically depressed, but I definitely wasn’t myself.) And one day I was looking at all my stuff and thought, If it’s that great, it would make me happy. If it’s that important, I wouldn’t be sad.

So I got rid of it. And sure, there are a few things I still think about, but nothing I’m heartbroken about letting go of, and I’m happier with less than I was with more. Go figure.

That’s what I mean about all the self-criticism not making me happy. I’ve been at it a long time, and both in the short and the long-term, it hasn’t done anything for me except make me feel worse. I mean, I know I want to eat better, and I can do something about that to show myself respect. But changing your habits in order to improve your life is different than beating yourself up in order to feel better about yourself. Beating yourself up, after all, isn’t body positive. Beating yourself is a far cry from self-respect.

I’ll let you know how the gentle, body positive approach goes. It’s only been one day, but so far, so good. And don’t worry, I promise this won’t become a food blog. I’m not a great chef. Plus, I’m leaving the house tomorrow (woo), so there will be other things to talk about it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Love  is all around us.

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