Good and Beautiful and True (Blog #1083)

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This afternoon I saw my myofascial release wizard, and, phew, what a trip that was. By this I mean I cried. A lot. I don’t know. If you haven’t experience myofascial release or anything like it, I know it sounds odd. Marcus got a massage and cried. How strange. And I admit, it is strange. Hell, I’ve HAD myofascial release before and still think it’s odd. No, phenomenal. Phenomenal is a better word. This being said, when I had myofascial release before, it was by a lower-level practitioner, and for a shorter session. So maybe that’s the difference. Or maybe my body just wasn’t ready. That’s one thing I’ve become convinced of. If you’re body isn’t ready to let go, sweetie, you ain’t letting go. If you’re body doesn’t think it’s safe, it’s going to remain on high-alert.

High-alert. I guess that’s how I’ve felt for, oh, twenty-five years now. Granted, I’ve never experienced classic panic attacks, but I have spent ever so much time feeling nervous and unsettled, breaking out in hives, having headaches, and on and on. More than enough signs to let me know my body was, in a very real way, upset and needing attention. Like, Darling, we can’t handle this any longer. This being the go, go, going and self-pressuring. “Sometimes we keep ourselves busy so we don’t have to feel,” my myofascial release wizard (MFRW) said today as she was working on my neck and shoulders, which have been consistently tight for decades. “But what would it be like to let the weight of the world slip off your shoulders?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” I said. “It’s been there so long.”

This is one of the challenges of healing. We live with our our pains and problems so long that we get used to them. Not that they’re ever fun, but we become comfortable with them. We even identify with them. We say, MY headaches, MY hives. We say, I’M sick, I’M stressed. Whereas some cultures say, I’m experiencing a headache or sickness, thus making an important distinction. That you and your illness are not synonymous. Of course, this is a difficult perspective to keep in mind, especially when your body’s been hurting for years. And yet more and more I’m convinced that a body that’s hurting is a body with a story that desperately needs to be heard.

Where things really got interesting today was when my MFRW worked on my belly button. “I’m going to do what’s called an umbilical cord release,” she said, “and it’s your connection to your mother.” Well, before she really even got going, I started bawling like a baby, I suppose because my mother has been clinically depressed since I was in her womb and, consequently, she hasn’t always been able to be there for me like I’ve wanted her to be. And whereas logically I can say that I understand all this, that it’s okay, alas, my inner child, that little fellow that was in her womb, is apparently not big on logic. This is to say that the story my body told this afternoon was one of sadness, disappointment, grief, confusion, and even anger. Because so many times both my parents weren’t able to be there. Because I had to grow up “too fast.”

The more I allow myself to acknowledge and feel these feelings, the more I’m convinced that my inner child (for lack of a better term) is alive and well. That is, although my driver’s license, the mirror, and my bathroom scales clearly indicate that I’m a 39-year-old man, there’s very much a part of me that’s stuck in 1994, the year I was in a terrible car accident and my dad was arrested. The year I had to grow up. “What does that boy need?” my MFRW asked. “What does he need to hear?”

Sobbing, I thought, He needs to hear that he did a good job. (A great job.) And that it’s over now and he can relax.

Something my MFRW said that stuck with me today was that whenever the wind gets knocked out of our proverbial sails and our boat gets tumped over, we often blame the people we most care about. Like, You weren’t there for me. This is your fault. But the truth is that, most likely, they got knocked out of the boat too. Because shit happens. In my case, I was clearly affected by my mom’s depression, but so was she. Ever so much more than I was. So was my entire family. When dad was arrested, my whole world shifted. But all of our worlds did. This perspective doesn’t change the feelings and emotions that got shoved down all those years ago, but it does help me let them go now. More and more I’m convinced there’s never a good reason to hang on to all that shit anyway. People say that holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the object of your anger to suffer, and I’m coming to believe this is quite literal. Our bodies pay the price for our rage.

And sadness, etc.

To be clear, I don’t think the goal is to be free from any one emotion or the information it carries. I say information because I wish that years ago, even as a teenager, I’d been able to hear what my sadness and tight shoulders were telling me. Sweetheart, we need to be cared for. We need to lighten up. We need to know we’re good enough. This is valuable information, and why I don’t think the goal is to be free from our emotions. Rather, I think we need to experience them. To let our long-buried feelings finally have their say.

Lately I’ve had a lot of experience with this sort of thing, and I freely admit that I don’t do the best job explaining it. It’s not that I get in a room, start talking about my history, and break down in tears. Rather, while in a safe place in which I feel comfortable, emotions like sadness, anger, and self-pressure (if that’s even an emotion) bubble up. Very much like the way a sneeze does. All of a sudden, you’re aware that your body has something to say, something to let go of. And you can either hold it in (ouch), or let it come out. Having gone through this process over and over again over the last month or two, the go, go, goer in me is ready to let it all out. Now. To let go of the tension in my body and experience, I guess, more freedom. Because I always feel lighter, looser on the other side of a release. And yet it appears that the body has its own timeframe for healing. As my MFRW says, “It’s baby steps.”

I used to read stories of healing and releasing like the one I just told and think there must be something wrong with me. Because I was try, try, trying and not getting the same results. Now I think it was just timing. “There’s a season for falling apart,” my MFRW says, “and a season for healing.” It just wasn’t my season yet. Granted, I was learning a lot, which I think gave me a solid foundation for my current experiences. That is, had I not read so much about the mind-body connection and the way our fascia stores our memories, I could have been seriously freaked out by all-of-a-sudden needing to wail or hiss or grunt. I could have shut it down. Which is honestly my first instinct. Because if I’m not all my pain and suffering, all my trying, all my tension, then who am I? And whereas I don’t have an answer, I’m willing to find out. Not only because I can’t keep going like this (twenty-five years is long enough), but also because I’m convinced it’s something good and beautiful and true.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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What are you really running away from?

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Are You Going to Hold on to That? (Blog #1071)

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After go, go, going for the last two days, this morning I woke up with a(nother) sinus infection. I can’t tell you how frustrated I get whenever this happens. (Although I know I do on a regular basis.) In addition to all the mucus, it just feels like I’m try, try, trying and getting nowhere.

No damn where.

This being said, after I got up and got myself together, I had an appointment with my myofascial release wizard (MFRW), and it was amazing. Which means I cried a lot. Seriously, there were so many tears, in addition to shaking, moaning, fist pounding, and foot stomping, all of which my MFRW says are normal reactions or responses to trauma that get can stuck in our body, in our fascia. Today as she was working on my right side, which has felt cinched up and scrunched down for over a decade, I absolutely fell apart, at the same time recalling a very specific and ancient stressful event from my childhood. And whereas it was momentarily uncomfortable, the release felt good.

Feeling like good things were happening, I asked my MFRW if she had any tricks for sinus issues. Thankfully, she said she did, and she began to slowly apply pressure across my face, stretching the fascia underneath my skin. Again, I got emotional. Then, when she held eucalyptus oil under my nose, I once again fell apart. (Later she said she didn’t think it was the scent that caused my reaction, but I’m open to the idea that, under the right circumstances, subtle energies can move mountains.) This release went on for a while and brought up memories of how hard I’ve tried over the years to, well, do just about everything–heal, be successful, stay in the closet. Once when my breathing changed and I started to stifle my body’s tears, my MFRW said, “Are you going to hold on to that, or are you ready to let it go?”

I’ve been thinking about this a lot today. This afternoon I spoke to my therapist, whom I’ve been having a lot of life-coaching type sessions with lately. This means we’ve been discussing career-oriented things and money, which is historically not my favorite topic. Well, today when the topic came up I realized that a lot of other topics came up with it. Sort of like how you mean to pick up one paperclip from a cup and end up picking up a number of them because they’ve gotten stuck together. Specifically, today’s conversation about my future career brought up my beliefs that 1) I work really hard and get nowhere, 2) life works for everyone else but not for me, and 3) I’m not worthy of success.

Now, from a logical standpoint, I know that none of these statements are true. And yet deep down I still have a reaction to them. This is is why I believe it’s one thing to get something in your head and another thing to get something in your body. For three years I’ve talked the internet’s ear off about my life’s dramas and traumas, and yet my body still had more to say about them today. Likewise with my issues around money and worthiness. More and more I believe this is the case for all of us. That our bodies have the final word.

Whether we like it or not.

I say whether we like it or not because I don’t LOVE falling apart in the arms of a total stranger. Nor do I like the fact that I have all these triggers around money. I’d much rather take a Tylenol for my aches and pains, act like everything is fine, and move on with my life. Alas, my body has clearly been crying out for help for decades and is no longer satisfied with the Tylenol or the “I’m fine” approach. If it ever was. Not that I didn’t take a Tylenol this evening to help with my headache (which I have in addition to my current sinus problems). You do what you’ve got to do. But more and more I’m convinced that because I’ve been shoving emotions down and been putting Bandaids on for years–albeit doing the best I knew how–it’s simply time to learn another way.

This is going to take some time, of course. And whereas I’m trying to be patient, it’s difficult. I want to feel better NOW. I want to let go of old beliefs NOW. At the same time, I’m terrified to move forward. Because my old beliefs, emotions, and even aches and pains are, well, familiar. Not that I like them, but I’ve grown accustomed to them. In a very real sense, they are ME. I’m willing to change, but I think, WHO am I going to be on the other side of all this? And, Am I ready?

Am I ready to let go of my old life?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We always have more support than we realize.

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On Bracing, Letting Go, and Being Free (Blog #1058)

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In (what seems to be) my never ending search for healing and wholeness, last summer I found out about a somewhat local physical therapist who facilitates myofascial release, fascia being the connective tissue that touches and, well, connects everything in our bodies. (Even our spit is made of fascia.) And whereas I spoke to her and began making plans to see her, things came to a halt when I found out my insurance wouldn’t help with the cost. Not because the treatment wasn’t covered under my plan (it was and is), but because I’d run out of physical therapy visits for the year.

Thanks, knee surgery.

All this to say that now that it’s the new year and that I’ve seen my primary care physician and he’s sent in a referral for treatment, I finally got scheduled to see my–hum, what shall I call her?–myofascial release wizard (MFRW) today. Ugh. Sometimes things just take a while to fall into place. That’s okay, I thought on the drive there this morning. Maybe my body will be more receptive today than it would have been six months ago.

After an initial interview about my problems, complaints, and posture, my MFRW had me lie on her table, placed her hands on my hips, and began gently pushing on my psoas. “Fascia responds to low, consistent pressure,” she said, “so I’m just going to keep pushing for three to five minutes.” Well, sure enough, after a few minutes I felt things begin to melt, shift, and move about: across my hips, my lower back, my legs, and even my ribs. “Everything’s connected,” she said, “so one part can affect the whole. Just like a sweater is woven together, so are you woven together. What’s more, every person’s WEAVE is different, so no two people get bound up or let go in the same way.”

Letting go, I thought, that would be nice. And whereas part of me did, the entire time there was another part of me that kept wanting to tense against the release, to brace for–I don’t know–the other shoe to drop. Ugh. This has been my mostly unconscious but sometimes conscious habit for years. To tighten, to constrict, to hide, to protect. Alas, after decades of this, it’s become intolerable. My head aches. My shoulder hurts. My hips, move movements have become so–inflexible.

Which makes it hard, of course, to live.

After working on my hips and midsection, my MFRW steadily rocked me back and forth, a movement called rebounding. The idea is that our bodies are largely made up of water, and just as the waves of the ocean can break apart a child’s sandcastle, so too can the water in our bodies break up our stiffened fascia. “Notice what parts flow,” she said, “and what parts feel solid like coral reef.”

“That’s easy,” I said, “my hips feel like coral reef.”

Next she moved my head and shoulders (my actual head and shoulders, not my dandruff shampoo), where she compared myofascial release to everyone’s favorite food. “You can eat a frozen pizza,” she said, “but it won’t really taste good unless you first put it in the oven and get that melty, runny cheese. That’s what we want from your fascia, for it to really let go.” What’s great is that it did. As she pressed her hands down on my shoulders, I could feel my fascia release all the way down to my (hurting) shoulder, my lower back, and even my shins. Trippy, I know, but everything’s connected.

And get this shit. When she worked on my neck, the area that’s responsible for my headaches and that I’ve tried a hundred ways to force to relax, she held out a tuning fork and said, “May I?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m up for anything.”

Well, she tapped the tuning fork, and it began to vibrate. Then she held it against my neck, and things began to relax, to break up. Just like that. At the same time, I began to cry. “Sometimes emotions get stuck in our bodies,” she said. Go figure. All these things I’ve tried, all this pressure I’ve put on myself to heal, and yet this simple, small vibration cracked me open in a second.

Healing can happen in the blink of an eye.

Later I told my MFRW that for years I’ve carried an image in my head of a yoga instructor I once met whose hips looked so mobile, so free. “I used to be envious of him, like that could never be me,” I said, “but now I think I remember him because he’s an example of what’s possible.” I paused. “That’s what I want, that kind of freedom in my body.”

“What was the last time you felt that?” she said.

More crying. “Oh gosh,” I said. “Not since I was child.”

“So that’s your homework,” she said. “Remember when you felt that free. Remember what it looked like, felt like, sounded like, tasted like.” Additionally, I have two different stretches to do. Nothing forceful, just gentle, sustained pressure. “Wait for your body to let go,” she said. “Don’t force anything.” Lastly, I’m supposed to jiggle. (This should should be easy enough thanks to the chocolate cake I had last night.) jiggling being standing on both legs and just lightly bouncing around and, at the same time, bending over, leaning back. “If you feel something tense,” she said, “let the movement break it up.”

I can’t wait to try.

Now, did everything get fixed in one session? Of course not. Our problems aren’t created overnight, and they don’t go away overnight. So I go back next week. But I already feel looser in my body, I guess because we “took pressure out of the system.” This is a good thing. What’s even better is that I’m highly encouraged, both by my the treatment and my MFRW. And even more by my body. After the treatment I lay in a vibrating recliner (for more jiggling/rebounding), and I felt like it was saying, “Your mind may not remember what it was like to be free, but we do. We absolutely know what that felt like. And, sweetheart, we’re willing to go back there. We WANT to go back there. So just trust us. Let go and trust us. Trust yourself. Stop bracing. The worse is over.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Kindness is never a small thing."

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)

"That love inside that shows up as joy or enthusiasm is your authentic self."

On Shaking the Dust out of the Rug (Blog #1054)

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Today I’ve been thinking about healing. Ugh. It’s such a damn process. For example, since starting upper cervical care a few months ago, my headaches have dramatically decreased. They’re so much better, way less frequent. Indeed, there are days when I think I’m going to get a headache (I feel tension coming on), but I don’t. Somehow, my body nips it in the bud. And yet for all this improvement, I still have my challenges. Of course. Like today. My head has been throbbing. What’s the saying? One step forward, two steps back. But in my case it’s more like two steps forward, one step back.

As I understand it, this is normal. Last night I watched a bunch of videos about upper cervical care on my doctor’s website, and one of them led me to another video that discussed the healing cycle, the healing cycle being the “way” our bodies heal. Unfortunately, they don’t heal in a straight line. Rather, when things are going well, over what’s typically a three-month period, they make some progress, then regress, make some progress, then regress. Two steps forward, one step back. Whenever I get ready to go somewhere, I throw my bag in the car, then come back for my keys. Then I walk to the car, but inevitably come back again. Because I forgot my coffee. Or my deodorant. So what our bodies do makes sense to me.

They HAVE to go back, to make sure they didn’t leave anything behind or left undone.

Along these lines, one of the videos I watched last night was about something called retracing. In at least two other posts, the most recent of which you can read here, I’ve talked about a thing that can happen when our bodies heal called unwinding. Same thing. Retracing or unwinding is basically your body’s way of reliving past and unresolved stresses or traumas and–finally–resolving them. In the unwinding experience I had last summer that centered around a car accident I had when I was a teenager, my body twisted and turned and told me (instead of me telling it) what happened that night. Along with these contortions, it released emotions, mostly fear and sadness. Likewise, recently I had an experience in which I relived memories of my dad’s arrest when I was a teenager. Along with these memories came tears, facial scrunching, fist clenching, and foot stomping. From what I understand, this is the deal. Retracing isn’t just a cerebral experience; it’s a physical and emotional one, a release of previously suppressed reactions and emotions.

Recently I told a friend that the more I learn, the more I’m convinced that our traumas are physical and emotional events, not just mental ones. And that as much as I wish my mind could get me out of what my body got me into, it can’t. It just can’t. Still, this isn’t a bad thing. Because it lets me know where to look in order to heal, which is not my mind. Rather, it’s my body. Not that the mind isn’t part of it. After all, our minds, our emotions, our bodies, our spirits, and our souls are connected. This is my point. That our stresses, traumas, dramas, and diseases don’t just happen to A PART of us. They happen to ALL of us and therefore REQUIRE all of us to heal. So it’s not just about getting your head in the healing game. It’s about getting your head and your heart in there.

You know how sometimes when you clean, especially if you’re in a hurry, you half-ass do it, or skip parts altogether? Like, you sweep dust under the rug or ignore the gunk that’s piling up behind the refrigerator for “just one more spring”? Well, your house may LOOK spick and span, but YOU know that it’s not, not deep down. That dirt and crap is still there. Alas, it’s the same with our bodies. We can put on a happy face and say we’re fine, we can even talk about our traumas and dramas until we’re blue in the face, but until we allow our bodies to express what was suppressed, we’re just letting more dust pile up.

So what am I advocating? A deep cleaning.

People who talk about retracing say that our bodies often put Bandaids on things if they don’t have the resources to really heal them. Then later, when the resources become available, they’ll recreate whatever the pain or problem was in order to really heal it. Think of this like pulling out your refrigerator, taking an honest look at what a mess things are, then really getting down on you hands and knees and going to work once and for all. Ugh. As far as I can tell, truly healing always requires going back and cleaning up what didn’t get cleaned up before, really shaking the dust out of the rug that is your life. Of course, going back isn’t about bitching and moaning. Whoa is me, my life has sucked balls, and all that. Rather, it’s about acceptance and willingness. Something terrible happened and I wanted to scream and shout (and let it all out) but I didn’t. So I’m willing to now. Something made me sad but I didn’t know how to cry. So I’ll cry now. So that things can really be cleaned up and over. So that I can really be right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can be more discriminating.

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You Can Go Home Again (Blog #1047)

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Last night while blogging I half-assed listened to an audio track about relaxation and the diminishment of pain. And whereas I didn’t catch all the details, one thing I did absorb was the prompt to notice some part, any part, of your body that isn’t in pain, that feels good. “How do you know this part is all right?” the audio asked. “It feels natural, comfortable.” The idea being that all of our bodies should feel that way, or at least ARE CAPABLE of feeling that way. So both last night and today I’ve been trying to literally relax into this idea, to first notice parts of my body that are tense, and second let them soften.

Of course, my natural inclination when something hurts is to brace against it. But I really like this concept of softening. The audio suggested that our bodies are our HOMES, and I can’t tell you how much I love this thought. Looking around my physical home (my room), I’ve spent a lot of time getting everything just so. I’ve hung and rehung pictures, arranged books, organized my closet, cleaned sheets, fluffed pillows, dusted shelves. And all for what? So I can be COMFORTABLE, so I can feel AT HOME. So that’s how I’ve been thinking about my body today, that it’s been INTENDED as a space where I can feel safe, at ease, and at rest. And why shouldn’t I feel comfortable in my own skin?

Like, I live here.

Now, I wish I could tell you that this one shift in perception, thinking that my body is my home rather than simply a worn-down motel on Midland Avenue, has turned my life around in the last twenty-four hours. Alas, it has not. It has, however, made a difference. Thanks to this one idea, I’ve found myself not only breathing deeper but also letting go more. It’s difficult to explain, but it’s like I’ve been able to allow my body to more fully inhabit the space it occupies, to lean into being right here, right now. You know that feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop? Well, it’s the opposite of that. An exhalation. What’s the word I’m looking for?

A relief.

This afternoon I started reading Daniel Keyes’s Flowers for Algernon, a science fiction novel about a mentally challenged adult, Charlie, who undergoes brain surgery to make him a genius. And whereas Charlie hopes to go into the surgery “dumb” and wake up “smart,” the doctors tell him that’s not the way these things work. Rather, he should expect to see changes over a period of time. “It could happen so slowly that you may not even notice a difference at first,” they tell him. Of course, this is the way it goes. And yet little by little Charlie learns to spell correctly, use proper punctuation, remember his dreams and his life, and–here’s the heartbreaker–realize that people he thought were his friends had been making fun of him for years. Now, by yours and my standards these things DO happen fast. Charlies goes from an IQ of 70 to an IQ of 185 in a matter of months. But the point remains.

Our progress is never as swift as we dream it will be. We proceed by fits and starts.

Shakespeare said, “How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?” This has been my experience. Six years ago I began therapy, and although I’ve grown and healed a lot, it’s happened so slowly that I can’t say exactly when and where it happened (other than inside me). It’s been a tough conversation here, a confrontation there, a cry fest or rage fest–I know know–once every month or two. So too has my body healed, is healing. Here and there. Granted, I’ve had some pretty remarkable experiences and improvements in the last few months, but they weren’t like, one and done instant miracles. Plenty of things still hurt, gurgle, or produce excess mucus. This is the deal. When you haven’t been home in a while, you don’t move back and get totally settled in just like that. There’s always work to do. And yet it can happen. You CAN go home again. Home to your body. Home to your soul.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We all need to feel alive.

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Marcus and the Search for Happiness (Blog #1034)

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It’s been raining nonstop. Nothing too heavy. Just the steady downfall of a cold, gray January day. Yes, today the rain has been reliable. Consistent, like an old friend. And whereas I’d normally describe a day like today as murky or dreary, today I’ve thought of it as enveloping or comforting. Peaceful. For the last few hours I’ve been sitting in my chair, reading, next to my window. Besides the occasional whoosh of a car driving by, there’s been the pitter-pat of the rain. The soft, kind, let-me-wrap-my-arms-around-you pitter-pat of cleansing water. Nothing too heavy. An old friend.

This afternoon I went to Northwest Arkansas to see my upper cervical care doctor. First, however, I went to a used bookstore to sell, or at least try to sell, some books for my parents. And whereas the store later told me I could have parked right in front and avoided getting wet and paying the parking meter, I said, “Too late. I already did all that.” They had a look on their faces like, what a shame, but more and more I prefer what is. What I mean is that could-haves and should-haves are fantasies. I COULD HAVE parked in front? What a ridiculous notion. No, I couldn’t have, no more than I could have flown to the shop. Why? Because I parked somewhere else, and because I DROVE there. Could the sun have risen in the west this morning? Not in reality. In your head, maybe.

Yesterday in an effort to finish my leaf raking and bagging project before this morning’s predicted rain, I worked well past dark. This required a bit of strategery, meaning that as the sun was still up, I bagged the piles farthest away from the house. Then as the dark set in, I bagged the ones closest to the house, where my client had turned on their porch lights. Anyway, I kept thinking about how some people might be miserable bagging leaves at night but how I wasn’t. After all, I love the dark. Looking up, I could see the moon. I could see Venus. Plus, it was still, quiet. It was peaceful, like it is now by my window. Just the rustle of leaves and the sighing of my breath.

And the occasional groan.

After we exchanged pleasantries about our weekends, my upper cervical care doctor told me my graph looked fabulous today (which means he didn’t give me an adjustment). “It’s as good as I’ve ever seen yours look,” he said. “Maybe you should do yard work more often.”

Everyone’s a comedian.

“I’m not sure my ankle agrees,” I said, since my ankle and a number of other body parts have been sore today.

“Well, your body’s trying,” he said. “Just give it time. It’s old.”

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

This evening I read a delightful book I couldn’t resist buying at the bookstore this afternoon, Hector and the Search for Happiness by French psychiatrist Francois Lelord. A modern-day parable about one man’s (Hector’s) quest to find happiness, the book doesn’t ultimately propose a formula for lasting joy. It does, however, list a number of ways to increase joy in your life. For example, by spending time with those you love, or by doing something that makes you feel useful.

One of my favorite observations that Hector makes is “making comparisons can spoil your happiness.” Breaking this wisdom down, he says that we rob ourselves of happiness when we compare ourselves 1) to an imagined future, 2) to a remembered past, or 3) to someone else. For example, I could have really made myself miserable last night while raking leaves had I 1) wished I’d been inside drinking hot chocolate instead of stepping in dog shit, 2) thought about how much faster and more efficiently I COULD HAVE worked had I not screwed up my knee last year, or 3) looked at Facebook and pouted about the fact that I wasn’t on vacation in Cabo with MY hot boyfriend.

Which I don’t have, by the way.

That’s ANOTHER fantasy.

More and more I see how we make ourselves miserable by comparisons. It rains, and, because we compare this present moment to a memory we like better, we think the rain shouldn’t exist (and yet it does). Just like that, there goes your happy afternoon. There goes your chance to experience the peaceful pitter-pat. We wish our bodies looked different, felt different, behaved differently. Consequently, we miss out on how they DO look, feel, and behave. Despite all my sinus troubles and headaches, last night my body helped me make money, and this afternoon it ran me all over town. This evening it allowed me to read. Never once did it ask anything in return. I tell it it’s not good enough, but it continues to serve. It’s consistent. Like an old friend. If only I could be so faithful to myself and others. If only I could move through life like a gentle rain. Nothing too heavy. If only I could wrap my arms around this present moment with all it’s glory and terror, and then, when it is over, let it go as gracefully as a tree lets go of its leaves.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you’re making yourself up to get someone else’s approval–stop it–because you can’t manipulate anyone into loving you. People either embrace you for who and what you are–or they don’t.

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On Stuff (Blog #1025)

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Lately I’ve been thinking about stuff, partly because I’ve been buying, or at least acquiring, so much of it lately. Nothing major, mind you, just little things. Brooches, books, picture frames, magnets, t-shirts, shoes. And whereas I don’t have NEARLY the amount of stuff I owned before I had my estate sale, it’s still the most I’ve had in the last three years. Granted, I’m enjoying it. I’ve got everything organized and displayed like I want, and my room feels cozy. Comforting. At the same time, there are moments when everything I have feels like “too much,” too much to own, too much to take care of. Earlier today my friend Aaron gave me several of his old t-shirts, and I thought, Okay, fine, I’ll take five of them. But I’m going to give away at least two of mine.

Since The Great Letting Go a few years ago, one of my “rules” about owning something is that I must find it useful, that I actually wear my clothes, actually get joy out of my books and knickknacks. That’s one thing I can say about the stuff I’ve acquired lately. Although I often feel like I spend too much time on Facebook Marketplace (searching for and buying brooches), I do get a lot of pleasure out of the things I purchase. What’s more, having taken time to get everything in my room (where I am now) just so, I always feel at home here. I always feel at peace here.

My therapist says stuff is grounding, so maybe that’s why the sudden compulsion to acquire. That is, at the same time I had my estate sale, I intentionally pulled up my roots–closed my dance studio, moved homes (twice), started down a new career path. In retrospect, it was a lot at once, a bit dramatic. Still, owning fewer things made all the changes easier. Not just from a physical perspective, but from a mental and emotional one. All I had to do was look at my bookshelf (with fifty-four books, down from over three hundred) or my closet (with eight shirts, down from dozens), and it was clear–I was starting over. And whereas I’ll never be able to prove it, I believe that my downsizing set the stage for this blog and all my personal growth that’s come as a result of it.

What I mean is that if you can let go of a physical object, you can let go of a mental concept. A limiting belief about yourself, for example. A harmful thought about another. Byron Katie says you’re not attached to your things, you’re attached to your stories about your things, and this is what I mean. If you’re holding on to something physical, you’re holding on to something mental–a thought, a story. Whenever you say, “This has sentimental value” or “I can’t sell those old plastic curlers; they belonged to my dead aunt,” you’re saying you can’t let go of your narrative about them. Because the truth is you CAN let go of your stuff. You do it every day when you go to work. Leaving everything you own (except your current outfit) behind you, you prove to yourself that you don’t HAVE to own a thing in order to survive or be happy.

I mean, how do you know you’ll ever see all that stuff again? And yet you just walk out the door.

Getting back to the idea of stuff being grounding, I think it’s fascinating that at the same time I was letting go my stuff, I was letting go of how I saw myself and the world. Likewise, I find it fascinating that having grounded my concepts of self and the world (for the better), I’m now beginning to physically ground. That is, as my therapist says, stuff is heavy. It’s hard to move around. This is what you want your self-esteem, your kindness, and your compassion to be–solid, not easily pushed about. Even when I get excited about new stuff/cool stuff, this is what I remind myself, that stuff is just stuff and it will ALWAYS come and go. Nothing lasts forever, not even gold. But a soul that’s at home, at peace regardless of what it owns or doesn’t? Now that’s real gold. That’s something moth and rust can’t touch.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"When you’re authentic, your authenticity is enough. You don’t need to compare."

Time Well Spent (Blog #1012)

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For the last eight days I’ve been struggling with a sinus infection. And whereas it’s not really getting worse, it’s not really getting better either. Every morning I cough up junk. Every afternoon I feel wiped out. Every night I cough myself to sleep. All the while I pray for a solution. Not just a temporary one, but a permanent one. And whereas sometimes I think heaven must be tired of hearing from me (it’s me again, Margaret), I keep telling myself that’s not the way God works. Just because I’d be sick (I am sick, actually) of hearing from me, doesn’t mean God is. Of course, having been around for ETERNITY, he’s got this patience thing down.

Me? I’m still working on it.

This afternoon I taught a dance lesson to a couple, and when I asked if they’d practiced since I last saw them two weeks ago, they said, “No.” Now, this didn’t surprise me. Hardly any of my students practice unless they HAVE to. Like if they have a performance or a wedding coming up. Otherwise, they practice when they see me. And whereas there’s nothing wrong with not practicing (it’s job security for me), it naturally means the students progress at a slower pace than they COULD. Conversely, once I had a mentor who said it only took him a year to learn how to dance (the average is three to five years) because he worked at it every day for hours on end. And whereas this man had a natural aptitude for dancing and my students–quite frankly–don’t, my point is that just as HE CHOSE to go fast, they’re CHOOSING to go slow.

Recently I wrote about creating time, and this is what I meant. That is, to a large extent, we decide how quickly we want things to happen. Are certain things out of our control? Absolutely, a million things are. But take this, for example. This afternoon and evening I worked non-stop on an arts and crafts project I’ve been tinkering with for the last few weeks, framing antique jewelry. (I plan to post pictures soon.) And whereas it’s going slower than expected (because when you do something for the first time you run into all sorts of problems–er, challenges–you hadn’t anticipated), I should be done in a couple more days if I stick with it. My point being that I COULD drag this little project out for days, weeks, months if I wanted to.

But I don’t. I’m ready to see it finished. Which means I’m willing to put in the work.

Now, just because I’m ready to tackle this particular project doesn’t mean I’m not procrastinating like hell on plenty of others. Indeed, there are books I plan to read and books I plan to write–one day. Most likely, either it’s simply not time or I’m putting them off because I’m afraid of how my life will change–or worse, not change–once I do. Full of the fear of failure, I slow things down. I pump the brakes. Quite literally, I create (more) time.

Caroline Myss says we do this time creating thing constantly, in every area of our life. With our relationships, with our careers. Even with our resentments. Like, we decide how long it’s going to take us to get over something. We decide how long we’re going to “hang on.” We joke about this. Someone brings up an argument they had with their lover in 1983, and we say, “Still not over it?” Clearly they’re not. But they COULD be, just like my dance students COULD be further along than they are.

One of Myss’s points about all this is that we can’t decide to move slowly in terms of our resentments and expect to move quickly in terms of our healing. Because you can’t hang on and expect your body to let go at the same time. You either both hang on or you both let go. This is one of the reasons I’ve talked so much lately about letting go and forgiving. More and more, I see the price of holding grudges and being bitter (about anything) as simply too high. Now, I don’t claim to be a master at this. Nor do I have any promise that as I work to let go that my body will miraculously heal. Or heal at all. Although I do believe forgiving in one way to SPEED UP healing. Indeed, I’ve heard stories of people who forgave experiencing healing. But healing is always a grace, never a guarantee. This being said, and despite the fact that I currently feel like poop, I have experienced more physical healing these last two years (and especially these last two months) than ever before, and I don’t think it’s simply a coincidence that this has happened alongside my conscious choice to–in front of God and everybody–connect with my own good heart.

When I first sat down to write tonight I thought I was going to write about hope. Because whenever I don’t feel well I usually hit a point when I think things are hopeless. Consequently, it’s good for me to talk myself down off a ledge, to remind myself to be patient. Because the truth is there’s always hope. Likewise, as long as you’re alive you can always choose to be a better dancer, choose to be a kinder, gentler person. Even if you grow just a little bit each year, that’s something and is better than choosing not to. My point being that as long as YOU can change, your body can change, your life can change. And if takes a lifetime or an eternity to heal, to really heal?

Then it’s time well spent. And you haven’t hoped–or worked–in vain.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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On Everything Falling Apart (Blog #1004)

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Lately I’ve had a phrase stuck in my mind–smoke and mirrors. A few days ago I mentioned there’s a hole in my bathroom wall that’s covered up by a bookshelf, and this is what I mean. In reality there’s a blemish, but–presto change-o–now you see it, now you don’t. Y’all I use smoke and mirrors constantly. I use furniture to hide animal stains on rugs, magic markers to fill in scuff marks on shoes, and shoes to hide holes in socks. And don’t even get me started on the one-size-up clothes I wear to hide holiday pie.

I’ve even been known to wear concealer to cover up zits.

As most of you know, especially those of you who wear makeup, using smoke and mirrors is an uphill battle. The older you get, the harder you have to try. This morning, afternoon, and evening I helped a friend begin to organize their rather large personal library and, in the process, damaged a book cover. I was flipping through the pages, and it just snapped right in half. “Don’t worry,” my friend said. “Those covers [part of a particular series] are extremely brittle. They just keep falling apart.”

“I guess we all do,” I said.

Whether in terms of physical objects or material bodies, my point is that everything on planet earth (and in the universe) is slowly or quickly deteriorating. Nothing’s permanent. We can fool ourselves into thinking things will last, we will last, but they won’t, we won’t. You know how you can pick up a dandelion parachute (the white tuft thingy full of seeds) and, if the wind is blowing, it will disintegrate before your eyes? Well, this is what’s happening to everything and to all of us. Even if we can’t see it, we’re falling apart. Now, we may hide this fact and–somehow or other–get eighty or ninety years. We may even pass our book collections and antique pieces of furniture on to our children. But sooner or later the jig’s up for both us and our stuff.

As Kansas so aptly stated, “All we are is dust in the wind.”

At one point today my friend said, “Here’s a stack of books I’ll probably never use but am just not ready to get rid of.” Y’all, I totally get it. A few years ago I sold or gave away of over 80 percent of my worldly possessions and yet often still have trouble letting go. I look at a few of my books and pieces of jewelry and think, I’m taking YOU to the grave. Of course, this is nonsense. Ultimately, we don’t get to hang on to anything in this life–not our books, not our jewelry, not our Pink Floyd records. Not even our bodies. Whether by choice or by force, we eventually have to let go.

So all the better if we can, as my gay Uncle Randy used to say, set it free.

Now, does this mean that I’m going to voluntarily get rid of what little I have left (which is a lot by much of the world’s standards)? Does this mean I’m suggesting we all have estate sales? Hell no. But I am suggesting we do whatever we can to let go mentally and emotionally whether or not we let go physically. For me this looks like allowing myself to get excited about and enjoy physical objects (including my body and–sometimes, but not nearly enough, dear lord–the bodies of others), but not allowing myself to buy into the incorrect notion that any one thing or group of things can or will provide me with everlasting happiness. Indeed, I’m convinced that if it all disappeared tomorrow–my books, pictures, and clothes–I’d still have everything I need to live a joyful and content life.

Albeit a naked one.

More and more I think there’s nothing wrong with owning stuff as long as your stuff doesn’t own you. Like, does it add to your life, or take away from it? Is it a burden? This morning I was driving to my friend’s and noticed ALL THE TREES along the way. Like, there wasn’t just one tree or two trees, there was an abundance of them. So I don’t think we can rightly say that God is a minimalist. That being said, he’s clearly not ATTACHED to things either. This evening I watched an absolutely glorious sunset–full of purples, reds, oranges, and yellows. I wanted to hang on, stretch it out, take a picture. Buy a souvenir! Not God, however. He just let it go. Like, No big deal. Let’s forget it ever happened. Because he gets how things work here. Everything that’s born, dies. Period. The wind carries us all away.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All things become ripe when they’re ready.

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