Pontius Pilate and the Haters (Blog #1057)

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Tonight’s blog is #1057 in a row, the first of what I’m calling The Final Forty, since I only have forty more to go. And whereas a friend of mine told me last night that forty seemed like a lot to them, after nearly three years of this, it doesn’t seem like that much to me. Indeed, despite the fact that I’d rather be in bed right now, the thought of NOT blogging on a daily basis makes me a bit twitchy. I’ve gotten so much out of The Process that I think, What will I do when it’s over? How will I handle myself? My aunt, who thought I was going to quit at a thousand but over the holidays found out I had three more months to go, said, “You just can’t stop can you?” Well, yeah, I can–watch me, suckas–I’m just going to have to pray about it first.

In terms of The Process, more and more I’m learning to trust it. For example, for a while now I’ve had it in my mind that three years was the appropriate or “right” amount of time for me to blog. And whereas one of my original thoughts was that this blog would turn my life around on the outside (it hasn’t, by the way), it’s ended up turning my life around on the inside. So that’s good. Plus, just over the last few months, things have begun to turn around on the outside as well. For example, I’ve come across a couple healing things that have been extremely helpful. Consequently, I’m feeling better than I have in a long time. I hoping more, believing more.

This is no small thing.

Getting back to trusting The Process, I’ve learned that trusting The Process involves trusting–and following–your gut. Like, three years of blogging felt right, I’m doing it, and things are working out. Even my final blog number (I have this weird thing with numbers) is working out. Like, I thought it was going to be a 6 (365×3=1,095 / 1+9+5=15 / 1+5=6), but I realized recently it’s going to be a 7 because of leap year (1,095+1=1,096 / 1+9+6=16 / 1+6=7). And 7 is the number of completion. (But I thought your favorite number was 9, Marcus. Didn’t you want your final blog to be a 9?) Sure I did. And it is, in months. 3 years=36 months, and 3+6=9. Bam. And whereas I’ll never be able to prove to anybody that this “means” anything or that it’s confirmation I’m doing the right thing (for me), I don’t need to.

This is part of my message, if you want to call it that. Whatever path you’re on should make perfect sense to you. However illogical it may seem to someone else. What’s more, you should be absolutely convinced your path was sent to you by the gods. Like, I’m on a divine mission, get out of my way, bitches. Now, I’m not suggesting you think of yourself as Jesus Christ (they put people in institutions for that), but I am suggesting that, like Christ, you care more about your inner guidance than you do the wisdom of your friends, family, and the rest of the world. Ugh. That guy had it figured out. When Pontius Pilate and the Haters (sounds like a band name, I know) tried to get Jesus to defend himself, he refused. Rather, he stayed silent. Talk about inner strength and certainty, a man who didn’t need to explain himself to anyone other than heaven. Although I’m sure it was tough for him to keep his mouth shut. In this sense, Pilate was a tool for Christ’s transformation, an opportunity for him to take possession of his own spirit instead of giving it over to the day’s drama.

They didn’t call Jesus Master for nothing.

Hum. I didn’t mean to talk about Jesus, but here we are, and perhaps that’s okay. (It’s okay.) I mean, I started off talking about trusting The Process, and Jesus clearly trusted The Process. Granted, he told his dad, “I can think of other things I’d rather do on a Friday afternoon,” but still, he sacrificed: his will, his desires, his–um–life. Alas, this is what The Path often looks like. Sacrifice. Giving up.

Letting go, damn it.

In my experience, sacrifice and letting go aren’t the worst things. For example, this blog has been a sacrifice–a sacrifice of my time, my sleep, my health, my finances (websites don’t host themselves). And yet for all I’ve given up to make this thing happen, it’s given me so much more in return. From what others tell me, it’s given them so much more too. So if you had to sacrifice something, everything, in order to follow your heart’s desire and get more in return, wouldn’t it be worth it? If you had to let go of your old life in order to step into your new one (and you do), wouldn’t you gladly? I mean, here’s the deal. You HAVE to let go of everything when you die anyway. Why not get it over with now and spend the rest of your life free?

Caroline Myss says most of us don’t trust the divine because we think God’s going to take away our material possessions or–I don’t know–ask us to hang on a cross. And whereas these are valid concerns–God’s done it before–more and more I believe that heaven is on our side, rooting us on, just wanting us to see what’s important (what’s inside) instead of what’s not (what’s outside). Not that what’s outside is bad. Stuff’s absolutely not a problem, as long as you control it and not the other way around. Death isn’t a problem either. Jesus looked it square in the eye and said, “You have no power over me.” Not that death couldn’t take his body, it obviously could and did, but it couldn’t take his spirit. This is what The Path and The Process are all about, using both your inspirations and challenges (whatever your personal Pontius Pilate and the Haters look like) not as indicators that tell you how you’re doing (compared to others), but as tools for transformation.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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So perhaps perfection has little to do with that which changes and everything to do with that which doesn't. For surely there is a still, small something inside each of us that never changes, something that is timeless and untouchable, something inherently valuable and lovable--something perfect.

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Making My Way Home (Blog #331)

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It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m almost ready to hit the road. There’s a sock hop in Missouri tonight, and I’ve spent the day getting ready. I took a shower, shaved, even clipped my fingernails and toenails. I kept thinking of that line from Scent of a Woman–“Get yourself up, get yourself together.” Then I put on a new pair of jeans along with a fresh white tee and made a delightful breakfast–fried sweet potatoes, scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. And hot green tea. I feel like a new man.

I’m also ready to go back to bed.

I think the lingerings of the flu are finally over. Now I’m just back to my normal level of tired due to whatever is wrong. I’m currently listening to Natalie Merchant’s song “Wonder.” They say I must be one of the wonders, God’s own creation. And as far as they see, they can offer no explanation.

I said yesterday that I’ve been planning my own funeral. This is “mostly” a joke. I don’t know what’s going on with my body, but I don’t really think I’m dying, at least in the immediate sense. I think a person generally knows when “this is the end,” and I don’t have that feeling at all. You never know, of course, but my intuition says I’ll be around quite a while longer. (So you’re just going to have to get used to the idea.)

That being said, I have been thinking about death. Not in a macabre or morbid sense, but in an everyday sense. What I mean by this is–let’s face it–death happens every day. It’s something everyone–everyone–has to go through. Why not think about it? In my case, I don’t think I’m afraid to die. Granted, I’m terrified–absolutely frightened–of being sick and in pain. I don’t want to drown, burn to death, or have every bone in body broken and go through kidney failure. But taking that last long breath and drifting off this planet the same way I drifted in? That part I’m okay with.

Earlier I was thinking, If I were to die soon, would I be disappointed in myself? And whereas I still have a hundred things I’d like to do–like publishing a book, sharing my story, and helping others–I’m proud to say that no, I’m really satisfied with how I’ve lived my life. There’s a concept in spiritual teachings that part of our soul’s journey is to integrate–to line up our heads and our hearts as we pull all our scattered pieces back together. In short, the goal is leave this planet intact. This is why Jesus, as he hung on the cross, said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” It wasn’t about God and those who had wronged Jesus. It was about Jesus and his own personal soul, about not hanging on or being bitter, about not dying with any unfinished business. Indeed, he said, “It is finished.” His soul had done what it came to do. It could leave whole.

I’m not pretending to be like Jesus–by any means. (Although I do think I have good hair like he did.) There are still a lot of things in my life that could stand cleaning up, so I’m not putting myself on a cross here. At the same time, I realized earlier that I’ve worked my ass off these last several years to get myself up and get myself together. As much as anyone else I know, I’ve worked to own every part of my past and, at the the time, not use any of it as an excuse to be bitter, cynical, or unkind. I told my therapist recently that this work is tough stuff. She said, “You’re right, and it’s why most people don’t do it. But the reward is less anxiety and stress, better relationships, and peace.”

I think to think of this reward as coming home.

Honestly, I’m so often focused on what’s left to be done that I don’t give myself enough credit for how far I’ve come. But today I am. If only for this moment, I’m recognizing that if I were to die today, it would be well with my soul. I’ve done The Hard Work.

Toward the end of “Wonder” Natalie Merchant sings, “With love, with patience, and with faith, she’ll make her way–she’ll make her way.” With love, with patience, and with faith, I know I will too. I believe we all will eventually. We all will make our way home.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you're not living a fully authentic life, a part of you will never be satisfied.

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With Open Arms (Blog #159)

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I’ve had a headache almost all day. Since the car wreck, it usually feels like there’s one waiting in the wings, ready to take the stage at any moment. I can feel the tension in my shoulders, neck. Sometimes my right temple quivers. It’s like a small earthquake–you know–on the side of my face. I’m sure you’ve seen kids slowly fill up a balloon with water, the way it approaches its breaking point. That’s the way my headaches feel. It could be a lot worse, but it sure as shit could be a lot better.

Today was day three of online yoga, and I officially have a crush on my instructor. Considering the fact that he’s from California and can’t see me during our workouts, I’m sure these feelings are going nowhere fast. Still, it’s enough to get me out of bed in the–well–afternoons. Plus, the workouts are stellar, and I’m hoping they’ll make a difference with all the tension in my body. Car wreck aside, I’ve noticed that I’m quite often “flexed” in some way, even when I “should” be relaxed. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m like Rabbit from Winnie-the-Pooh–uptight to say the least. But I imagine it’s leftover from all the bullshit through the years, a subconscious waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As with everything else, I’m working on it. (Except white bread–I’m admittedly not working on that.)

This afternoon I had some time to kill and went to an antique (junk) store. Before the estate sale, this would have been a surefire way for me to spend money, but now it’s just an amusement. That’s right–I didn’t spend a dime. Granted, I didn’t see any west-coast yoga instructors for sale. However, I did see a statue of our lord and savior, Jesus Christ–open arms, stigmata, the whole bit. (He was shorter than I’d imagined.) Anyway, we took a selfie together. Notice the light around his heart–this is because Jesus is the teacher most associated with the fourth chakra, the embodiment of love, compassion, and forgiveness.

I realized afterwards that the lord was literally looking down on me. Maybe I’ve been in therapy too long, but my first thought was, Don’t let anyone look down on you, Marcus. But then I thought, Well, if anyone can look down on you, I guess Jesus can.

This evening I had dinner with my friend Marla. I don’t think she loves having her picture posted all over the internet, but she still said yes when I asked for a selfie–just like Jesus did. I can just imagine her telling her friends, “The lord and I have something in common–.” Anyway, Marla and I ate at Taliano’s, a local Italian restaurant that’s housed in a historic home not far from where I used to live. It’s a Fort Smith classic–tall ceilings, gorgeous fixtures, ugly wallpaper. As my therapist says when referring to her waiting room, “Look down.”

I’m sure a lot of people are like this, but I remember things spatially. If I read something in a book, I remember where it was on the page–upper right hand corner–whatever. If you and I were in a theater and you told me to go to hell, I’d remember what chair you were sitting in. So, since coming home from Taliano’s tonight, my mind’s been going to all the times I’ve been there before–whom I was with–where we sat. In college a friend took me there for her high school prom. We only went as friends, but I was still in the closet as we sat in the back room. Several years ago I was dating a guy, and my best friend’s mom waited on us in the room by the kitchen. Someone recognized me, and I still had that part of me that thought, What if they know?

Tonight when I got home, despite my best prescription efforts, my headache wouldn’t subside. Well, I’ve taken to doing yoga and meditation in my old bedroom, since the bed in there is a twin and there’s more floor space. So I put on some music, meditated, and tried to relax as a timer counted down. Toward the end of the session, I stood against the wall where a Batman poster used to be and did a stretch for my neck. Letting my arms hang by my side, they eventually felt like bowling balls, and my shoulders pulled away from my ears. Things actually relaxed. Sitting here now, it’s not perfect, but I don’t feel the need to scream or cry.

This is huge progress.

Personally, I’m glad that the room I grew up in and witnessed my both delightful and difficult childhood has become a space where I can heal, even a bit. When I think about my old room and the restaurant tonight, I think it’s fascinating that spaces can stay relatively the same over time as we change both inside and out. Of course, sometimes it’s the other way around. Places change as we stay the same, carrying around the exact out-dated fears and tensions we had as children. I guess our emotions can be like wallpaper that refuses to come down. So I think it’s good to recognize when progress is made, even if it’s a little thing like being able to relax ever so slightly or being able to sit with a friend, be yourself, and not wonder what anyone else is thinking.

Of course, this isn’t a little thing at all.

Also tonight I’ve been considering that which is eternal, whether or not there is part of me that hasn’t changed one iota in all these years. The mystics sometimes call the soul a watcher, a simple awareness that calmly abides as we grow older and the wallpaper eventually comes down. I like to believe this is true, and I imagine it’s quite accepting, never judging if I’m in the closet or out of it, or if I eat white bread or not. If it is true, I’m certain it lives in my heart, this thing that looks down–and in and out and through–with open arms.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Being scared isn’t always an invitation to run away. More often than not, it’s an invitation to grow a pair and run toward.

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