Now Green Grass Grows (Blog #836)

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I’ve spent today reading three different books online–The Kingdom Within: The Inner Meaning of Jesus’ Sayings by John A. Sanford, Cathedral by David Macauley (about gothic architecture), and What Your Childhood Memories Say about You by Dr. Kevin Leman. And whereas I love reading and learning, after several hours of this my eyeballs felt like they were going to fall out of my head and roll around on the floor, so I shut my laptop and went for a walk.

While strolling, I thought about the book I’d just been reading, about childhood memories. The author of the book contends that we form how we see ourselves and the world around us basically by the age of eight and that our early memories can clue us in to not only who we are and what we believe, but also why. Anyway, I started scanning my memory banks and came up with several instances when I felt excited about learning or figuring things out, as well as several instances when I felt afraid or embarrassed. This is important, the book says–if it’s really a formative memory, there will be an emotion attached to it.

Because I’m currently tired and would like to keep this short, I don’t intend to go into my specific memories. Plus, I’ve already discussed a number of “the biggies” here before. What I will say, however, is that although I haven’t finished reading the book, I already agree with its premise. Those emotions I just mentioned–excitement (about learning or figuring things out), fear, and embarrassment–continue to motivate nearly everything I do.

Here’s one way to think about all this. While walking tonight in downtown Van Buren, I stopped by what’s left of what used to be my family’s home, which burned down when I was four. The building itself has since been cleared, and there’s a park. Still, one brick wall remains, and even after thirty-five years, you can still see black smudges all along it. What I mean is that simply because something happened forever ago (when you were a child) doesn’t mean it can’t leave a long-lasting and permanent impression.

For me, the impression that the fire left was Something bad is going to happen. It really was a horrific night. Although my family was spared, nine people died in that fire, along with many of my stuffed animals. The next thing I knew, I was sleeping at a friend’s house, being given someone else’s toys to play with. Another emotion that comes up in a lot of my early memories is confusion, and perhaps the fire is where that feeling started. How confusing for a four-year-old to one day be living in a newly built three-story home and the next day be living on his friend’s pullout couch.

Because our home that burned really was lovely and then it was all gone, I think another impression the fire left was Good things get taken away. This is a belief that’s been reinforced for me a number of times–when Dad went to prison, when our new cars got repossessed. When all that happened, in my teens, both me and my family started getting more hand-me-downs. When I graduated high school, a family I deeply love gave me a car. And whereas it did the job and it was mine(!) for a few years, it was in rough shape. So, without meaning to, I guess I developed a spinoff belief of Good things get taken away–that I’m only worth second-rate things. Used things. Things nobody else would want.

This isn’t easy to talk about it. I don’t like the fact that something, a number somethings, that happened so long ago continue to influence my attitudes and behaviors even today. And yet they do. They continue to have sway over my platonic and romantic relationships (like, I don’t deserve the best), my relationship with money, how I think about healing, and even how I go for a walk. Because when you believe Something bad is going to happen, it’s difficult to ever relax. When you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, it’s hard to let your guard down.

The good news is that all of this is getting better. All of this is better than it used to be. For me, a lot of healing has come through writing and this blog, through simply stating the facts–I was scared when I saw the smoke that night, I was embarrassed my Dad went to prison, and I was embarrassed I couldn’t afford my own car. As I understand it, something magical happens when you can, with compassion, be a witness to your own life. Also, for me it’s been important to really grasp how much my difficult childhood experiences laid the groundwork for my personality, a personalty that although it experiences a great deal of fear and embarrassment, also experiences a great deal of inner fortitude and determination to overcome. I wouldn’t trade these positive qualities for the world. This is how life works. Whenever it takes something away from you, it gives you the opportunity to cultivate something better in return.

At the spot where our house once burned down, just next to that smoke-stained wall, now green grass grows.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Boundaries aren’t something you knock out of the park every time.

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On Being Committed (Blog #592)

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It’s 8:00 in the evening, and it’s been dark outside since 4:30. What the actual hell? I feel like it’s midnight. I’m SO TIRED. No kidding, I’m about to pass out hibernation style. Like for the entire winter.

Somebody wake me up when it’s March!

Earlier my parents, my aunt, and I went out for dinner at–get this–3:45 so we could get the senior citizen discount at Furr’s Super Buffet. It’s sexy, I know. Y’all, I “sort of” controlled myself with all the food options, but still managed to scarf down a salad, two full plates of mashed this and cheesy that, and a dessert. My insulin was like, “What do you think I am–a miracle worker?!”

Hum. Insulin. Maybe that’s why I’m so sleepy.

Anyway, this was honestly the highlight of my day. Meatloaf that’s been keep warm under a lightbulb.

Before we went out to eat, I worked more on sorting old photos, and I’m continually amazed that in many cases I can’t put my finger on what year something happened. Today I tried to organize photos of when our old swing dance group, The Big Bad Jittacats, performed on The Dr. Pepper Stage at the fairgrounds. Eventually, I gave up on about twenty-five percent of the photos, since we were out there SO MANY TIMES and everything just blends together like–I don’t know–a casserole does in your mouth.

Maybe from this point forward I should start wearing a different uniform each year. Then when I look back at photos I’ll know–Oh yes, 2018, the year of yellow spandex and red suspenders.

Or whatever.

Currently I’m blogging on my phone because my internet (my hotspot) drags ass during the afternoon and early evening hours. I assume because everyone else is on the network. Last night while I was writing at three in the morning, it wasn’t a problem. Unless you consider going to bed just before sunrise a problem, which I’m starting to. Anyway, so this is a compromise–phone blogging now in exchange for a decent night’s rest later.

Am I at five hundred words yet? That’s my goal for tonight. Then I can get ready for bed and not feel like I “have” to stay up forever.

Just before I passed out last night about 4:45, a friend from overseas messaged me online and said, “Are you awake?!” Then when I said yes because of the blog, they said, “I admire your commitment.” To which I said, “Most days I feel like I should BE committed.”

Like to an institution.

Along these lines, my therapist asked recently if I felt COMMITTED to the blog or OBLIGATED to the blog. After pausing to consider the difference between the two things, I said, “I’m committed.” This was apparently the right answer, since I got a Tootsie Roll when our session was over.

I’m not sure why I bring this up now, other than to say I think it’s a good thing to ponder if you’re thinking of taking on a big project, whether that’s a creative endeavor like writing a blog or a personal one like going to the gym or getting married. Because if you feel obligated to whatever it is, chances are it won’t last. Either that or you won’t (without becoming resentful). But if you feel committed to your idea/goal/person, well that’s a different matter. Not that it’s a guarantee of success, of course, but at least it’s a better starting point.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We don’t get to boss life around.

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Too Late, Too Tired (Blog #588)

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It’s just before midnight, and I’m at my friend Justin’s house. His wife Ashley (who is also my friend) has already retired, and I think Justin’s playing video games. I’ve spent the last five hours here at their kitchen table using their internet and changing every online and social media password I have. (Apparently I have a lot.) This is a project I started a couple weeks ago after a minor security breach on my laptop (I got a virus) but didn’t finish because I spilled hot tea on my keyboard (whoops). Anyway, I think I’m done now. Finally.

I just counted. 75 sites/passwords total. No wonder it took so long.

This afternoon I worked on my photo organizing project. Not organizing the photos–that’s already been done–but organizing my brain. I’m putting together a timeline of my life, like in a document. Super nerdy, I know, but last night I watched a 60 Minutes feature about rare people who remember every day–every second, really–of their lives. Like, what they had for breakfast on September 3, 1976, and what happened in the news that day. Anyway, there are like ten of these people in the world. Crazy. And I don’t need to reconstruct my ENTIRE life, but I would like to get some of the basics on paper. 1999: Graduated high school, worked at summer camp, started college, got first “real” job.

Today I concentrated on my first few summers at summer camp, 1997-1999, and took notes about things I remembered as I flipped through pictures. That was the summer I had one of the worst sinus infections ever. My temperature was 103 degrees, and the camp nurse wouldn’t let me see a doctor. (I was pissed off but didn’t know what to do or how to stand up for myself at the time.) This is the most fascinating thing about this project so far, that I recall so strongly my impressions of various co-workers and campers. In some instances, although it’s been twenty years, I still remember first and last names of people I barely knew. Just like that.

Weird how memory can be so randomly selective.

Here’s a picture from 1999, my first year as a counselor. (Before that I was an “assistant” counselor.) Boy I wish I had that fire now; my feet are freezing. They always freeze during the winter. Every year it’s five months of constant toe-frost.

So many memories come flooding back as simple information–that thing happened. But many others come back as information plus emotion. Like, I remember feeling pissed off, embarrassed, disgusted, turned off, turned on, whatever. I guess it strikes me now because at the time I wasn’t one to either trust my perceptions or acknowledge my emotions. And this is the fascinating thing for me, that although I wasn’t consciously processing what was going on back then, my body was still taking it all in, still storing the data in the background the way my computer saves my passwords.

I’m ready to call it a night. My feet are cold, and my brain’s all over the place. Just twenty-four hours ago, right before I went to bed, my dad knocked on my door to tell me that a dear family friend of ours had passed away unexpectedly. I think I cried myself to sleep. Today I’ve been in denial. I want to write about him because I think that would help, but I can’t tonight. It’s too late, I’m too tired, and I won’t do him justice. So maybe tomorrow when I can think straight and take my time. I don’t mean to be start a topic and not finish it. I’m simply–done–for now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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if you're content with yourself and you're always with yourself, then what's the problem?

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An Anything but Awkward Kid (Blog #577)

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It’s eleven at night, and I’m blogging from my phone–one letter at a time–because I spilled tea on my laptop keyboard yesterday. (It’s currently drying out. I hope.) We’ll see how this goes. I don’t have spell check on here.

This afternoon I finished reading a book about money by Seth Godin. I already returned the book to the library, but there was a line in the section about buying houses that went something like this–“Never fall in love with something you can’t afford.” Is that great or what?

Personally, I wish I’d heard this piece of advice BEFORE I started dating.

This evening I got a wild hair and began organizing my printed photos, a project that has been on my mental to-do list for a while now. Anyway, I pulled out Rubbermaid tub after Rubbermaid tub full of pictures from my closet, laid everything out before me, and quickly got overwhelmed. Y’all, I took A LOT of pictures in my teens and early twenties. Granted, I was on the yearbook staff in college and had access to a decent camera, but whatever.

So. Many. Pictures. And barely organized.

Here’s a random dance photo of me and my friend Kira performing at the Dr. Pepper Stage at the Fort Smith Rodeo. Our group used to do that every year.

Taking deep breaths and reminding myself that any progress is better than nothing, my first task was to separate the pictures into large groups–summer camp, dance, high school, and college. Quickly, I thumbed through a hundred memories. What a trip this was, looking back over a solid decade of my existence, a dozen haircuts, waist sizes, and ages. There I was 18. There I was 30. Did either of these men even know the first thing about life?

Does this one?!

Here’s a picture of me and my friend Cameron, who drove from Texas to surprise me for my 30th birthday. I felt like shit that day, for my surprise party. I’d been sick for weeks, and–honestly–was not amused by the surprise itself. I was and am, however, deeply touched by all my friends who showed up.

After my “first pass,” I began grouping the photos more specifically–birthday parties, college yearbook staff, family photos from 2001 (the year Dad came home from prison). I also started throwing pictures away. I know this amounts to sacrilege for some people, but really, what need do I have of photos that are blurry? Or of photos of people I don’t remember or of couples who are no longer married?

Like I’m gonna pull THOSE out the next time one of them comes over to visit. Remember that time you married an asshole?! (God, that was THE BEST CAKE.)

I’ve said before that my butt’s always been the same size (roughly the size a bowling ball) and that I’ve just grown into it. Well, here’s proof from my pre-teen years and the swimming pool next door. Notice the super-cool elastic waist band.

Here’s another picture from several years later (I think). Surely I’d started puberty. Either way–same butt, bigger body.

After a few hours of this picture-sorting business, all while sitting on the floor, my body said stop. So I’ll get back to it tomorrow, or at least that’s my plan. Considering I have stacks of photos blocking my closet door, I NEED to get back to it tomorrow if I ever want to wear clean clothes again.

Even with “just a little bit” of this project completed, I already feel all the emotions. There are so many pictures of people, grandparents, who are no longer alive. People I used to spend SO MUCH time with, and yet now we hardly speak. And it’s not like–in most cases–we knew the end was coming. It just did. One day, things weren’t the same as they used to be. This is life–people pass away and people move away. People fall in love with other people who aren’t you.

And there’s no going back.

Aside from all the emotions and a definite feeling of–Where did the time go?–I’m enjoying getting the photos in a rough chronological order. I am, after all, a neat freak, and it’s good to have my memories nearly stacked away. Plus, I don’t know, there are times I know I wasn’t fully present for my life, times I was just keeping my head above water and maintaining appearances, and those memories are jumbled. So the pictures are helping me get things straight. Oh yes, this happened, and then this happened, and then THAT happened.

I hope that makes sense.

The other thing I like about this project is that I’m finding more compassion for myself. Back then I felt so awkward. Even lately, so often I’ve looked at old photos and picked myself apart, like, Why did I ever wear that outfit, or stand that way? But today I’ve seen a kid who was under immense emotional and physical stress who was doing the best he could. A kind kid. A good looking kid. An anything but awkward kid. A kid I’d give anything if I could go back and tell, “You’re gonna be all right, baby. I promise. You have everything you’ll ever need inside you. Relax. It’s all going to be okay.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Rest gives us time to dream. One day, for certain, you’ll wake up. And you’ll be grateful for the time you rested, and you’ll be just as grateful that you’re different, far from the person who fell asleep.

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You Can’t Go Home Again (Blog #363)

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It’s almost three in the morning, Daddy is tired, and tonight’s blog (number 363) is one of the few that I’ve written (or am writing) on not-my-laptop. Hang in there, I’ll explain.

For the most part, today was just a day. I slept in, finished reading a book, took a nap. This evening, however, was something else. First, when I woke up from my nap, I got a letter in the mail that said my health insurance was ending in–uh–three days. Shit, I thought. My appointment with the immunologist is next week! Well, it took a few minutes, but I remembered that a friend (and blog reader) of mine works in health insurance, so I called her. “Oh,” she said, “they probably just need you to update your income information. Let me make some calls. Don’t worry until I tell you to.” Y’all, I can’t tell you what a relief this is, that even though the “problem” isn’t solved yet, I have someone who’s not only experienced with this stuff but is willing to help. (Phew.) Once again I’m reminded–no one is alone.

Also, thanks, friend.

Tonight our improv comedy group, The Razorlaughs, had our monthly performance at a local restaurant. We were short a couple members, but thankfully some talented (hilarious) friends of ours were in the audience and were able to fill in. (The show went great.) Afterwards, I went over to my friends Justin and Ashley’s house to eat Taco Bell, have a few drinks, and–apparently–play the longest card game ever, Phase 10. (I came in second, even though we technically quit before the game was over, since some people have to go to work in the morning.) Anyway, I’m at Justin and Ashley’s now, as I opted to stay here rather than drive home not-drunk-but-not-sober-either.

Good choice, Marcus, good choice.

We were like Three’s Company.

For those of you that don’t know, Justin has been one of my closest friends for the last eighteen years. As he says, we’ve known each other longer than some people have mortgages. We met on the debate team in high school and moved in together in 2009. Now Ashley is his wife, but back then they were just dating, and after a while Ashley moved in with Justin and me. Well, she actually moved in with Justin, but I came along with the deal. Anyway, for several years all of us lived together here on Reeder Street (where they still live, and I am now), and we were like Three’s Company or whatever. Looking back, it really was magical. Having lived with my parents until I was–uh–twenty-eight, this was truly my first “on my own” home, the first place I thought of as mine, even though it technically wasn’t. (Justin bought the house, and I paid rent.) Still, when I moved in I got to pick the colors for my room and have some shelves installed in both my room and my closet. Plus, I got my own bathroom and half the office, and Justin pretty much let me do whatever I wanted.

Again, for four years, this was my home. This is where I ate my meals, this is where I brought my dates, this is where I meditated, and this is where I taught dance lessons when I wasn’t at the studio. But eventually, things changed (like they do). In 2013, just as Justin and Ashley were preparing to get married, I decided to move out of the Reeder Street house and in with my ex. (If you’re familiar with the blog, you know that relationship didn’t end well, but it did send me to therapy, and that turned out great. Consequently, now I live with my parents and have this blog. Such is the mystery of life.) Anyway, I’ve been back to Justin and Ashley’s a number of times in the last several years, but tonight is my first time back in my old room, my first time sleeping here, since I moved out.

Currently I’m trying to take it all in and not get too emotional. The room itself is still the same–the walls are still brown and orange, the shelves still hang where they did before. As I’m writing I keep looking around the room, picturing my old bookshelves, my old knickknacks, even my old ceiling fan–all things that no longer even belong to me since the estate sale. Like, I couldn’t find them if I wanted to–they only exist in my mind. And yet there I can find them as if it were yesterday. There was a red leather chair sitting where the bed is now. A picture of my sister hung low on the wall, underneath the window. (The nail hole hasn’t been filled in.) I used to cry in this room. I used to laugh in this room.

They say you can’t go home again, and I guess that’s true. Both back in my old room at my parents’ house and back in my old room at Justin and Ashley’s, I feel a twinge of the familiar. These places are comfortable, filled with memories the way the sky is filled with clouds–here one minute and gone the next. And whereas I’m grateful for both my old rooms–for a night, for a year, whatever–I know that I have long since outgrown them. Things are different now. I’m different now. This is what not being able to go home again means–not that you can’t be in the same physical space you grew up in, but that you can’t turn back the clock to a time when things were simpler or less complicated. You can’t exchange your memories for reality. You can’t un-live your life or un-grow yourself.

The past is no more serious than a cloud in the sky.

Three more posts (including this one) away from a full year of blogging, and this is what being in my old room reminds me of–how much I’ve grown. Honestly, my life has been a roller coaster since I moved out of here. Sometimes it’s been a real bitch, actually. But even though I’d like to see some things in my outside world change, I love where I am on the inside, and I see every bit of my past–including this room–as having brought me to where I am now. For this reason, I’m grateful for my past, with all its tears and laughter. But I also know that I wouldn’t choose to go back or relive any of it if I could. The past is the past, for a reason. I’m glad it’s over. Looking back, I remember being so over-the-moon or distraught about countless things. Now I’m like, whatever, just as surely I’ll be “whatever” about my cancelled insurance a month from now. So surely the past (and even the present) is no more serious than a cloud in the sky, here one minute and gone the next. Surely we weren’t meant to cling to any of it. Surely life was meant to be lived right here, right now, and then let go of.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Give yourself a break.

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