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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One day a change will come.

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Inside the Office (Blog #587)

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Yesterday I was tired, tired, tired, and despite a full night’s sleep last night, I’ve been dragging ass all day today. Like, I haven’t quite been able to “turn on.” Not that I’m sick, I just feel “off.” Oh well, some days are like this, you walk around in a fog. What else can you do? Personally, my plan is to blog sooner (like, now), grab dinner with a friend, retire early, and try again tomorrow.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

This afternoon as I was on my way to lunch, a friend called who was having car trouble. Their engine had overheated. “I don’t know anything about this stuff,” they said. “Shit,” I replied, “I don’t either.” Nonetheless, I met them where they’d pulled over–at a gas station–and called a friend of mine who DOES know about cars. But before we could get very far, a man driving a tow truck came over. “What’s going on?” he said. “I was a mechanic for twenty-five years.”

As it turns out, my friend had a leak somewhere, and all we had to do was add water to their radiator in order to get them home, which wasn’t far from where we were. It was that easy, and this angel didn’t ask for anything in return. “I’m glad to help,” he said. Anyway, I know it wasn’t really my problem, but I was still struck by The Goodness of it all. And I don’t know–it’s just a hunch, but I imagined later that this gentleman, my friend, and I probably didn’t vote the same way yesterday. And yet none of that mattered in the moment. It was just one human helping another. One human being kind to another.

My lunch this afternoon was with my friend Ray, and it was like a catch-up power hour. Not only did we laugh, laugh, laugh, we also got serious, talked about our hearts, and even discussed business. I absolutely love this, bouncing around The Peaks and the Valleys with a dear friend. And it didn’t matter that I was feeling “off” or not at my best. The Goodness showed up anyway.

After lunch I saw my therapist, and we ended up talking about the blog. For background, I should say that my therapist is more than aware of this project (we discussed the idea before I started it) and fully supports it. Also, she’s read some of the entries–and I’ve read some of them to her–but she doesn’t read them regularly because “that’s your thing, and this is our thing.” Anyway, we were discussing how I describe the therapeutic process online, and she said, “You do tell people that I’m real fucking crazy, don’t you?”

I laughed for a solid minute before I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever said it quite like that.”

What my therapist was communicating was that she’s–apparently–not your typical therapist. I say “apparently” because I’ve never been to another therapist and therefore don’t have anyone to compare her to. Still, I have heard stories of other therapists and have read A FEW self-help books. (Whenever I say this, my therapist adds, “hundred thousand–a few hundred thousand self-help books.”) This being the case, I would have to agree, my therapist doesn’t seem “typical” by any stretch of the imagination. “I’m not textbook,” was how she put it this afternoon.

Again, not having anyone to compare her to, I’m not sure what else to say about what we do. Other than what’s already been said. Still, I’m willing to try, since people have told me that they’re curious about therapy and how it works. Well, for me, it’s pretty simple. I show up, say hello to the receptionist, and plop myself down on a couch after I’m called back. The couch is just where I like to sit, although I’ve been told some people lie down, sit in a chair (I used to do this before my therapist rearranged her office), or even on the floor. She sits directly across from me. (I once had a friend tell me their therapist actually sat on a platform ABOVE them. I would have been out of there so fast.) Anyway, we talk. Often she affirms; sometimes she confronts. Mostly, she offers different perspectives. Today I told her about the recent situation where I told someone who’d said, “Shame on you,” “Don’t talk to me like that,” and my therapist said, “Good for you, and they better be glad it wasn’t me. I would have stood up and shown them the door.”

So that’s how it works. Voila! Now I know that’s an option if I ever want to use it. Get the hell out, Samantha! I don’t know–I might try it if the situation ever happens again.

And I’m sure it’ll happen again; life always gives you more chances.

Truth doesn’t affect change when it’s read; it affects change when it’s lived.

This is the hard part about therapy–actually USING the skills I learn there in the real world. Because it’s not THAT difficult to entertain a new perspective. This, I think, is why MEMEs, which I think stands for “Minimal Effort, Minimal Effect,” and “8 ways to change your life” blogs are so popular. It’s not that they don’t contain or express truth; they can and do. But truth doesn’t affect change when it’s READ; it affects change when it’s LIVED. So what’s difficult is INTEGRATING a new perspective, to bring a new perspective into every facet of your life. For example, if you get an ounce (just an once) of self-esteem, that means you suddenly have to hold both yourself and the world around you to a higher standard. Don’t talk to me like that. This is where the rubber hits the road, and–I’m not kidding–it’s hard as hell. (I don’t recommend it.)

But really–I do recommend it, and it’s worth it. It’s just hard as hell. That’s okay. It’s the way things work here on earth. Nothing comes for free, even a change in perspective. Everything comes with a price.

With the right person in your corner, you can face whatever life brings you.

To summarize, therapy itself, at least in my experience, isn’t complicated. It’s simply a conversation, and we all have conversations every day. How many times have you called a friend or sat down over coffee with someone you trust because you were trying to work something out? That’s all therapy is, except the person sitting across from you is–hopefully–a professional, someone who’s–ideally–unbiased about your situation and an expert in human relationships and emotions. Granted, if you’ve been giving yourself a snow job about what’s actually happening in your life, an honest conversation with your therapist might be difficult. I’ve fallen apart a number of times over the years while finally admitting, I’m angry with this person. I’m miserable in this relationship. I’m afraid of what will happen if I end things. But I’ve always been fine–more than fine–with what happens INSIDE the office. Again, the hardest part is what happens OUTSIDE the office. Still, none of us goes through life alone, and with the right person in your corner–I’m confident–you can face, head on, whatever life brings you.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s not where you are, it’s whom you are there with.

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Boomerang (Blog #583)

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It’s officially midnight, but I’ve already set our clocks back for the end of Daylight Savings Time, so they say it’s eleven. This is the weirdest thing, the fact that we can all-of-a-sudden lose an hour, gain an hour like magic. Now you see it, now you don’t. Presto chango.

What time is it really?

Now.

This afternoon I worked more on my photo organizing project and began sorting my summer camp pictures, which–thankfully–are already fairly organized by year. So now it’s just a matter of grouping everything together and figuring out where the “strays” go. Wow–summer camp. Where do I even begin? This was the place I spent my summers as a child, the place I returned to as a teenager for my first job. For nine summers–nine summers!–I drove from Van Buren, Arkansas, to French Camp, Mississippi, to make terrible money and have an absolute ball doing it. I sang songs, participated in ridiculously silly skits, slept in a cabin, got bitten by countless mosquitoes, taught canoes, and formed friendships that have continued to this day.

After four full summers of working at summer camp (from 1997-2000), I went back in 2001 to visit and got willingly sucked into working for a week after one of the counselors contracted Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. As it turns out, the tick that bit this fellow forever changed the course of my life, since after I filled in his spot “in the cabins” for a week, I got invited to fill in for another week for one of the guys who worked with the rafters, the older kids who get to leave the base camp to go whitewater rafting.

As being a rafting counselor is a coveted position with little turnover, I jumped at the chance.

That particular rafting trip–honestly–was hell. It was me and one other counselor, who was also new to the rafting program, and ten teenage boys. Eight of them were from Memphis, and seven of those eight went to the same school. In other words, the other counselor and I were outnumbered from the beginning. Those seven boys cleaned our clocks. Hell, during the first day of our being on the road with these boys, one of them busted a window out of our van (after which it promptly started raining–thanks, God), and another one, in the middle of the night, threw up ALL OVER the inside of his tent and (in an effort to stop throwing up inside the tent) threw up ALL OVER the three pairs of shoes OUTSIDE his tent.

And since the other counselor was a sound sleeper, guess who got to clean the entire mess up?

The whole week was like this.

Still, I fell in love with these seven boys, and that fall I bought a ring with waves on it to remember our trip together. I still wear it. For years after that summer, I’d drive to Memphis to watch these boys play football. Their parents let me stay with them. “You’re always welcome here,” one mother told me. I was there for their graduation. A few years ago, when one of them got married, I went to his wedding. He’s turned out to be such a wonderful man. After his reception I ran into him and his wife in the lobby of The Peabody Hotel, and he said, “Marcus, no matter how long we go without talking to each other, I’ll always love you.”

Looking at this old photo is like turning back time. In an instant, I’m there. Presto chango. So many camper names and faces I’ve forgotten (they say you remember the angels and the demons, and it’s true), but with this group of boys, I remember every single one. (Maybe they were all angels or demons?) Anyway, this one had his gallbladder removed, that one liked to golf, those two were cousins, and that one could quickly and easily spell any word backwards.

The entire week I was SUC-RAM.

I didn’t take any rafting trips in 2002, but I did in 2003 (and 2004, 2005, and 2006). However, before that summer in 2003, the camp said it would help if I got my commercial driver’s license (CDL), since they normally transport the boys with a school bus and not a van. So that’s what I did. And I don’t know, I realize it’s random and that I don’t use it anymore, but it’s one of things I’m most proud of, the fact that I can drive a bus.

Because seriously–it’s way fun.

Here’s a picture I love from 2003. These boys went to the same school that those original boys (the seven) went to. Believe it or not, they were much calmer. No broken windows. No vomit.

Obviously, looking at these old photos brings back a lot of good memories. Still, for all that these photos DO show–me on a canoe, me and another counselor with pantyhose on our heads, me and a bunch of teenagers in life jackets, me and a school bus, and three boys playing frisbee–I’ve been thinking today about what they DON’T show. For example, tonight’s featured photo was taken on June 28, 2000, my parents’ wedding anniversary. Except while I was floating on Lake Ann in a pair of silly sunglasses, my parents weren’t celebrating–because Dad was still in prison. At that point, he’d been gone almost five years.

It’s the strangest thing when you have a parent in prison. It’s a sensation you can’t capture on film. Because it’s not like they’re dead. Even as an adult, I can’t imagine that. But they are GONE. And sure, you get to talk to them on the phone (for fifteen minutes at a time) and you get to see them in a visiting room (while armed guards watch), but they don’t get to SEE YOU. What I mean is that they don’t get to see you off to your first job at summer camp or help you pack the car. They don’t get to see you graduate from high school. They don’t get to see you learn to dance.

There’s SO MUCH these pictures DON’T show. I remember one gorgeous child who loved having his picture taken as a kid but hated having it taken as a teenager because–by then–he’d decided he was ugly. Another boy who was adopted told me, “My parents leave me at summer camp so they can go on vacation without me.” One of the original rafting boys had a brother who had died. So much insecurity; so much pain.

And all this before fifteen.

Fifteen. That’s how old I was when Dad went to prison. I was fourteen when he got arrested. My sister and I were in the living room, and we watched it on the news. Looking back, I have no idea how I survived. My therapist says I could have easily ended up addicted to drugs or in juvenile detention, and yet I didn’t. Instead, I ended up at summer camp. And when I started working with the rafters, I really didn’t think about the fact that they were basically the same age I was when the shit hit the fan. I didn’t think, He reminds me of me, or, I wish hadn’t grown up so fast and that I were as carefree as he is.

I just knew I cared about them.

Healing happens when you become your own home.

Now it seems so obvious, that I was giving those boys the time and attention that I missed out on, the love that I desperately wanted and needed. But I didn’t consciously understand this at the time. Rather, I simply knew that I was capable of listening, capable of getting in a car and showing up, and capable of simply being there, and that for some reason I had to. Not like I was being forced to, but like I was being compelled to. Like something deep down inside of me knew that if I could listen to, show up, and be there for someone else, I’d one day learn to listen to, show up, and be there for myself. Now I know that this is when healing really happens, when you become your own home. And what a beautiful thing about The Mystery, about that part of ourselves that insists on healing, that everything we give away eventually comes back to us.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Answers come built-in. There are no "just problems."

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The Mystery Isn’t That Simple (Blog #580)

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Today I interviewed three different computer repair businesses in my quest to get my laptop repaired. (I spilled tea on the keyboard; electronics and liquids don’t go well together.) And whereas all the places quoted–uh–about the same price, only one had good customer service. The other two ranked low to medium at best. In one spot, I was treated like a “customer” at the DMV. Like, take a number, asshole. So I just walked out. Fuck this, I thought. I have other options.

You always have other options.

So now the plan is to visit the “winning” store in person tomorrow, as I only spoke with them on the phone today. I’ll let you know how it goes.

This afternoon, in between visits to computer repair stores, I saw my therapist, and we did a double session because she’d had a cancellation. Hum. What to say? After I told her a few stories, including the one about walking away from bad customer service, she said I’ve clearly been listening to my gut lately and to keep that up.

More on that in a minute.

Later we talked about self-talk, beliefs, and whether or not someone (specifically, me) feels worthy of having their dreams come true. And whereas we’ve had these conversations before and I feel like I’ve made a lot of progress in this area, today I started crying when she repeatedly looked me in the eyes and listed several good (and “worthy”) things about me. Yeah, why is that such a big deal, to have someone affirm you? I guess because I’m so used to thinking that success belongs to other people–but not me; that dreams come true for, I don’t know, the Kardashians–but not me; that everyone else is “good enough”–but I’m not.

My therapist called this “a flawed perspective,” and in my experience it’s not the easiest thing to get rid of, even when you really want to. Like, I’ve been reading self-help books and rocking this therapy thing for A WHILE NOW, and it’s not like I’m unaware of thoughts that race through my head. I say race because thoughts are lightning fast, especially little ones like, That won’t work, No one will like that, or, Nothing I do is every good enough. And I guess it’s easy to think that quick little thoughts don’t matter, but think them often enough, and thoughts like these can slowly choke a dream.

To death.

I normally don’t cry in therapy, so I’d like to be clear about why I think it’s notable. So often we “think” we’ve handled an issue. Like, Oh yeah, I’m fine with abundance. I believe in that shit. Well, you can blow a lot of smoke up someone else’s and even your own ass, but you CAN’T fool your body. On the contrary, your body always knows the truth. So when I find myself crying, that’s a good thing, since it means I’ve finally hit something with substance and not just an idea. It means, Sweetheart, it’s time to really take a look at this.

My therapist said she thinks I play small or fail to take steps toward some of my dreams because I’m afraid of rejection. (Uh, who isn’t?!) But after sharing a personal story that involved her being rejected multiple times and ended with her opening her private practice, she shared two pieces of advice.

One–Not everyone who shits on you is your enemy. In other words, with time and perspective, we are often grateful for things that didn’t work out.

Two–Because our greatest strengths lie on the other side of our greatest fears–and I quote–“Bring on the rejection, motherfuckers!”

I’m going to be processing all this, but in the meantime, I’d like to circle back to listening to your gut, which, as I’m fond of saying, sounds good if you say it fast. What I mean is that “going with your gut” is often lauded in today’s society, and yes, I think it’s something you should do. Like, I might have been taken advantage of–or just been frustrated– if I’d bowed to convenience and had stuck around in those computer shops today even though something felt off. And when my therapist asked if I wanted an extra hour and that felt “on,” that clearly worked out.

Woowho. Go gut.

But to be clear, I ran all over God’s green earth today trying to find a place my gut liked, and that was a pain in the ass. And because I stayed in therapy an extra hour, I ended up crying, and I’ve spent the rest of the day queasy because, What am I gonna do now? And because I’ve listened to my gut countless other times in the last four years, I can’t tell you the number of people I used to be friends with that I no longer talk to. Granted, I think I’ve saved everyone involved a lot of drama, but watching multiple friendships fall apart is a real bitch and–quite frankly–isolating.

In my experience, your gut doesn’t care if you run all over God’s green earth, doesn’t care if you cry, doesn’t care if you lose your friends, and doesn’t care if you’re lonely. It does, however, I believe, WANT you to be as healthy and as strong as possible, and–well–maybe that requires some challenges. (I’m sorry. There’s no maybe about it. It does require some challenges.) Also, I think it requires some tests, meaning you have to listen to your inner guidance in the little things if you expect to get guidance in the big things. Like, this week I’ve been working on organizing my photos, just because I feel like I’m supposed to. (I keep thinking about it; the idea won’t let me go.) Well, if I ignore that prompting and later wonder what I should do about a relationship or a job, why should my gut bother talking to me when I’ve plainly demonstrated that I’m not interested in what it has to say?

Today I walked out of a computer repair business, twice, just because something inside me said, Leave. And I don’t know why–your gut never answers this question–maybe it’s because my answer about that relationship or job is IN ANOTHER STORE. Regardless, what I do know is that some of the biggest shit storms I’ve been through in my life have been because I ignored a still small voice inside me (a simple “I wouldn’t do that if I were you” is often all your gut will give you), so I don’t need to know why.

But–obviously–because I said so, that’s why. It is MY gut, after all. I just don’t–hum–have to understand my own reasons.

This is the weirdest thing about the universe, ourselves, and healing. For one thing, nothing is a straight line; you can’t say what causes what…or why. For example, if I hadn’t spilled my tea on my laptop and gotten up early to go to the shop this morning, I wouldn’t have had time for the double session in which I had an emotional breakthrough. Does one thing explain the other? Not necessarily–The Mystery isn’t that simple–but I think it’s all connected.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your emotions are tired of being ignored.

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On Cleaning Up the Past (Blog #578)

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It’s 8:30 in the evening, and I just finished eating dinner–a bowl of chili and a salad. Before that, I went on a two-hour walk around Van Buren. Everyone has their Halloween decorations on display. And whereas one creative person went all out and put a skeleton pushing an old-fashioned lawnmower in their backyard, two nextdoor neighbors–Christians, I assume–simply stuck matching signs in their front yards that said, “The only ghost that lives here is the Holy Ghost.”

Groan.

And then there was the family whose yard was already full of Christmas inflatables. I don’t know–I’m all for the celebrating the virgin birth of Christ, but I really feel like these folks are jumping the gun. I mean, it’s still October!

I guess that’s what you’d call a premature immaculation.

This afternoon I spent several hours organizing old photos, a project I started yesterday. Ugh. This is going to take a while, since despite my sorting hundreds of photos today, I still have thousands to go. Oh well, what else am I doing with my life?

Here’s a picture of my progress thus far. The photo sticking up is from my 21st birthday, on which I went out for–wait for it–coffee. (I’m not kidding.) Anyway, I have a “tab” for every major place (junior high, high school, home) or event (summer camp, trip to Thailand, etc.). Thankfully, many of the photos have dates printed on them or I just remember–That was 1995–but in some cases I’m just guessing–Uh, I think that was sometime in college. Isn’t that weird how certain details of your life can just disappear?

Here’s a picture I found from my sophomore year in high school. I was 16, and our class was on a field trip. Check out that beret. Can you believe I used to tell people that I was straight? I filed this picture under a section called “The Power of Self-Delusion,” alternatively titled “Reasons Everyone Knew before I Did.”

While sorting through pictures from elementary school, I found images of old classmates who are now dead. This was a real shock to my system, to see them as I remember them–young, vibrant, full of potential–and yet know that they’ve long stopped breathing.

Hum. No one thinks it will happen to them, but it happens to everyone. Death, that is. “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” Mary Oliver asks.

Also while going through elementary school photos, I ripped up some pictures of a kid that I thought was–quite honestly–a jerk. Not that I assume he’s a jerk now, but at the time, for sure. So twenty years later–rip, rip, rip–that felt good.

My therapist says that some of the deepest and longest lasting wounds we carry are from childhood. I guess because we’re so impressionable, our hearts wide open. So I’m trying now to be okay with whatever arises while looking at all these old photos, to be open to any thoughts and reactions I may have shoved down that want to come up. Like, Awe, I liked him. Or, What an asshat! Because I’m tired of self-delusion. I’d rather be honest. For this reason, as much as I see this project as a “tidy” and “orderly” thing to do, I also see it as a healthy thing to do. That is, I see it as another way to get real, a symbolic act to get my past in order, to clean it up the best I can and properly put it behind me.

[Me and my longtime friend Neil. From seventh grade, I think, spirit week.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Give yourself a break.

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On Which Glasses You Choose to Wear (Blog #559)

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In my parents’ living room is a large leather recliner. It’s gorgeous, comfortable. One could really get lost in it. That being said, I’ve only once spent any significant amount of time in this recliner–when I was recovering from my sinus surgery–because my mom LIVES in this recliner. Simply put, it’s hers, and my dad and I make a lot of jokes about the fact that we rarely get to use it. Anyway, this morning while I was eating breakfast, Mom said that she’s been getting cold recently and explained, “When you sit in the recliner, it’s right under the air vent.”

So I said, “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

And then my mom, who reads my blog every day, used my own material against me. She said, “Is that what you call being passive aggressive?”

I was stunned.

“Yes,” I said. Then I added–“It’s an option.”

This afternoon I saw my therapist, and we mostly processed my time working backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz. It was a good experience, of course, but it was also A LOT of information (my therapist called it a “data dump”), considering the fact that I was new to much of what was going on and also new to working with so many people and having “a boss.” Not completely new, of course, but it’s been a while since I’ve worked with a such large group or for someone else–like twenty years.

As I’ve discussed here before, I told my therapist that in new situations I often think of myself as invisible or “not worthy of being noticed,” and it’s therefore shocking when people DO notice me (which they did this last week). She said this belief was “just irritating” and needed to go.

Toward the end of our session, we talked about money. This is a topic my therapist appears to be quite comfortable with, and one I’m trying to get comfortable with. My therapist says the more we talk about money, the more my brain will begin to think, This shit’s all right. Today she said I should pick an amount of money I’d like to make a day that’s not “outrageous” but the thought of which is “just enough to make you nervous.” So I did. Now my job is to simply “will it into existence.” And whereas I understand that this sounds like a bunch of new-age bullshit, my therapist says that if I pair my current work ethic with positive self-talk, the universe will respond favorably.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

I told my therapist that one of the over-arching beliefs I’ve held for–well–decades is that “maybe it’ll work for everyone else, but it won’t work for me.” Super optimistic, I know. Anyway, I’ve applied this thinking to my relationships, my health, and my finances. This is the way beliefs work–they don’t just affect one area of your life; they affect everything. Much like tinted spectacles, beliefs are the filter through which we see the world. Like, if you don’t believe in abundance, you’ll never see it. Even if you have a hundred dollars–or even a million dollars–in your pocket, you’ll think, It’s not enough.

Currently I’m sitting in a library surrounded by THOUSANDS of books and ENDLESS potential knowledge. Now, I could focus on the fact that I don’t have enough time to read all these books or the fact that there are a lot of other books I’m interested in that aren’t in this library. (Talk about lack!) Or I could focus on the fact that I have access to ALL THIS INFORMATION–basically–for free. (Talk about abundance!) The way I see it, just like being direct and being passive aggressive are OPTIONS in conversation, seeing lack and seeing abundance are OPTIONS in perspective. Yes, an objective reality exists–there are a certain number of books here. But a subjective reality also exists, and that reality depends solely on your thoughts and your beliefs, on which glasses you–and only you–choose to wear.

Wayne Dyer used to say, “When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.” This is what I’m trying to do–gradually adjust my thinking and beliefs when it comes to my relationships, my health, and my finances. Personally, I’m tired of believing, It’s not enough. For me, it’s lazy–that is, habitual–thinking. Today I told my therapist, “I’m done believing that things work for other people and not me. (As my favorite coffee cup says–Fuck This Shit.) My new thought is–If it can work for someone else, it can work for me.

“THANK YOU!” she said.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We're allowed to relabel and remake ourselves.

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The Last Day (Blog #556)

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It’s day ten working for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and it’s also the last day. This morning at nine, four dozen workers descended on the Alma Performing Arts Center and–in just under five hours–took down all the lights, backdrops, and prop boxes we put up ten days ago. We filled up four semi trailer trucks worth of Oz, and then they drove off. So now it’s over. And whereas my physical body is glad for the break–it was a long ten days–my heart is sad. This last week and a half was–well–quite magical. There were so many wonderful moments, so many wonderful people that I may never see again. And yet I’m grateful to have had these moments, to have met these people.

What I’m feeling is often called PMS–Post Musical Syndrome–that sad feeling you get when a show is over. You spend all this time together–you’re like a little family–and then it’s just–done. Everyone goes their separate ways. The stage is suddenly empty. It’s disorienting. You think, What will happen next? But perhaps the last day is also the best day, since all the hard work is over, there’s that feeling of satisfaction, and you realize, I got to be part of something beautiful. And maybe you appreciate something more when it’s over, since it helps you remember how quickly time passes, how precious each moment, each person, and each connection truly is.

I spent this evening with two of my dearest friends–Justin and Ashley–whom I used to live with. For me, it was the perfect way to celebrate this past week, a way to come back home, the way Dorothy did after visiting her magical land. This is important, I think–to visit magical lands and meet new people, but to also come back home to yourself and those who know you and love you unconditionally.

As we’re not known for our SHORT conversations, Justin and I stayed up until two-thirty. Now it’s three-thirty, and I’m at finally home and looking forward to going to bed. But obviously there’s this blog. Hum. How to keep it short?

In the Northern Hemisphere, there are two highly recognizable constellations–Ursa Major, which contains the Big Dipper, and Orion (the Hunter). And whereas the Big Dipper is visible year-round, Orion is only visible for about five months in the fall and winter. Well, two nights ago, Friday, while driving home at two-thirty in the morning, I saw Orion for the first time since I got interested in astronomy this last spring. Wow. There he was on the eastern horizon–unmistakable–big as day–well, big as night.

Gorgeous.

Opposite Orion, on the western horizon, was my dear Pegasus, the constellation that used to be on the eastern horizon at two-thirty in the morning a few months ago. Ugh, this is the way the universe works. For a while a star –a constellation–is rising, and then it’s overhead, and then it sets, gone for a season or perhaps forever. Likewise, we meet people, we dance together, and we say goodbye. Who’s to say if we will meet again? My therapist says that life is long–you never know who or what will cycle back around. Personally, I think it’s important to remember that for every setting star, there’s another on the horizon. In other words, life’s stage is never truly empty–there’s always something or someone to love or be grateful for. And–well–even if something were to happen and I NEVER saw Orion or my newfound friends again, I’ll ALWAYS remember that one night and that one time when we were together for one brief but beautiful magical moment.

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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A Horse of a Different Color (Blog #554)

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It’s day eight working backstage for the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, and after a full week of tech work, we had our first official performance this morning–for the local middle school. Y’all, teenagers get up early; the show was at nine-frickin’ o’clock. This means I had to wake up at six-frickin’-thirty in order to be at the Alma Performing Arts Center an hour early, at eight-frickin’ o’clock. Ugh. I had to double up on my morning coffee. I guess everyone’s tired. It’s been a long week. But all the the long days have been worth it–the show went fabulously both onstage and backstage. You should have heard the kids laughing, clapping, and awe-ing.

Talk about a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Here’s a picture of me and Kirk Lawrence-Howard, who plays Professor Marvel and The Wizard of Oz. He’s fabulous. (The big wiener is one of the props Professor Marvel uses, and–understandably–the cast and crew make a lot of jokes about it.)

Here’s a picture of me and Emily Perzan, The Wicked Witch of the West. She’s also fabulous. I’d give my left nut if I could cackle half as well as she can.

At lunch, all the locals were let go for the day. However, since I was organizing the prop gondolas (the big, black boxes full of show shit) for my supervisor, I got to stay. Y’all, I absolutely adored this assignment. First, I LOVE organizing and got to COLOR-CODE the different sections of the gondolas and LABEL everything inside. (I’m over the moon for a good label.) Second, I got to be creative in HOW I labeled things. Like, whenever a prop isn’t used for the rest of the show, it’s referred to as “dead.” So for the Stage Right prop gondola, I created a section for dead props and labeled it “Where props go to die.” (Stage Left is the left side of the stage or room if you’re onstage facing the audience, Mom.)

For the Stage Right prop gondola, I created a section for dead props and did this–

Here’s a picture of the entire Stage Right prop gondola (just before I added the dead-prop labels). The mess of straw on the right side of the second shelf from the top is the Scarecrow’s legs and arm that get “torn off” by the flying monkeys.

Now it’s seven-frickin’-thirty in the evening, and I’ve been home for a couple hours. I don’t have to be back at the theater until tomorrow afternoon. (Woowho.) I just finished reading an article in this month’s GQ (Gentlemen’s Quarterly) about mental health. Like me, they recommend seeing a therapist. However, at one point while talking about overcoming anxiety, the author of the article says, “It doesn’t take a lot. We’re not talking about therapy for a year.” And whereas I appreciate the idea that a little can go a long way, I’d like to add that a lot can go a much longer way.

I’ll explain.

Typically when people call me to inquire about dance lessons, they ask, “How many lessons will this take?” Well, there’s not a very good answer to that question. At least not a definite one. Simply put, if you take one dance lesson, you’ll know more than you did before, but you’ll also LOOK LIKE you took ONE dance lesson. Conversely, if you take fifty-two dance lessons (one a week for an entire a year), you’ll not only know infinitely more than you did before, but you’ll also look INFINITELY better. In other words, you get out of something what YOU put into it. This is WHY the national tour of The Wizard of Oz is the phenomenal show that it is–the cast and crew are not only fundamentally talented, but they’ve also put in hundreds and even thousands of hours perfecting their respective skills.

It’s with this logic in mind that I ask, “Would a year in therapy be THE WORST thing in the world if it helped you significantly lower your level of anxiety and lay your longstanding traumas to rest?” Personally, I’ve been going to therapy for four-and-a-half years (every other week for three years, and once a week since then). And it’s not that I’m so totally fucked up that I require a hundred plus hours of one-on-one professional attention. But just like I enjoy dancing and want to keep growing as a dancer, I also enjoy therapy (and when I don’t enjoy the process, I enjoy the results) and want to keep growing as a person.

I don’t know–we like our stories, our entertainment, short and simple. Dorothy encounters a tornado, is swept off to Oz, get a fabulous pair of shoes, meets her three best friends, kills two witches, and manages to get herself back to Kansas in the span of two-and-a-half hours. But real progress, real personal and spiritual growth, doesn’t happen in a matter of hours. It’s a little bit here and a little bit there–consistently–over time. Over a lot of time. Now–if you only have one hour to take a dance lesson or go to therapy? Go–do it for an hour. You’ll still get something out of it. But if you decide to really dig deep and truly commit to the process–well–as the guard to the gate of The Emerald City says–“That’s a horse of a different color.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can’t stuff down the truth—it always comes up.

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This Isn’t Brain Surgery (Blog #546)

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Things that have happened since we last spoke–

1. A good night’s rest

Last night I slept for over ten hours. I’m convinced that my recent commitment to going to bed earlier and getting more rest is doing me nothing but good. I’m starting to covet it, even protect it. Each night I use a pair of clamps to attach a dark blanket to the frame around my window. Then I lay another blanket in front of my door that leads to the hallway. In essence, I turn my room into a cocoon. It’s this odd ritual, specifically designed to keep the light OUT. At least until I awake.

When I started this blog a year and a half ago, I’d only write in the wee morning hours–between midnight and six in the morning. So much good has come from it. Now I’m convinced–the darkness* is where we heal ourselves. At least until we awake.

*the place where our shadow lives, that part of us we’ve ignored, stuffed down, or forgotten about; the place where solitude and stillness exist; the place where you can hear yourself and meet yourself; the cocoon in which you transform

2. A bizarre dream

Early this morning I dreamed I was taking a shower, a common dream motif for me. (I’m sure it has to do with coming clean, bathing in the waters of my consciousness/unconsciousness.) Anyway, then I was throwing up moths–yes, moths–the kind that circle around your front porch light. Hundreds of them. There they were on the floor of the tub, most of them (but not all of them) dead. Some of them, I think, were still stuck in my throat. A friend or doctor said something about a prescription, but I didn’t recognize the name of the medication.

What this all means, I’m not sure. I associate moths with irritation, since they’re always eating holes in my shirts or flitting around my face. My sense when I woke up from the dream was that it had to do with my currently upset stomach, so maybe there’s something about the hundred things in my life that are irritating to me and my internal desire to voice them (moths to mouth). As my therapist says, “Get the poison out.” Or maybe I’m learning to not keep everything inside (throwing up the moths) and am closer to healing (the friend or doctor) than I realize.

3. An encouraging number

After breakfast I stepped on this scales and was delighted to find out that I’ve lost between one and a half and two and a half pounds since beginning my exercise program and “moderate” diet ten days ago. And whereas I hadn’t worked out in a few days and was thinking of giving up “this shit” altogether (because I obviously can’t do things perfectly), the number on the scale reminded me that small actions, taken not perfectly but consistently, produce results.

As someone once told me, “It’s not what you do 20 percent of the time. It’s what you do 80 percent of the time.”

So I worked out. Later, I ate a sensible dinner.

This isn’t brain surgery.

4. A moment of courage, a moment of kindness

This evening I went to the house I’ve been cleaning up for friends in order to roll their trashcan to the curb for pickup in the morning. However, since I’m working all weekend elsewhere, I wasn’t sure about getting the trashcan off the curb. Finally, I worked up the nerve to ask the neighbors down the street, who were hanging out in their driveway, if they could do it. I thought, Marcus, It’s okay to ask people for help. So when one of the daughter’s (I’m assuming) rolled their trashcan to the curb, I introduced myself and asked her for the favor. Well, she just acted confused, like she didn’t know if she could help or not. Shit, I thought, this isn’t brain surgery; it’s a trashcan. (In her defense, I’m guessing she’s in school all day tomorrow and that’s why she was unsure. Plus, teenagers suck at communication.)

Thankfully, her dad (I’m assuming) came over later and said he’d be glad to roll the trashcan back up the driveway after the trash truck comes tomorrow. And he was so nice about it. “No problem, brother,” were his exact words.

Again–
It’s okay to ask people for help.
People are kind.

5. A magical book

Yesterday I started reading a book called Into the Magic Shop by James R. Doty, MD, and tonight I finished it. I absolutely adore books like this–ones you can be absorbed into, be spellbound by.

Doty’s book is part autobiographical, part informative (he’s a neurosurgeon, so this IS brain surgery for him), part instructive (on the topics of mindfulness and visualization). And whereas I’ve read so many books on mindfulness and visualization that I want to vomit up a hundred moths, this one is different in the best possible way. More than once I found myself weeping as Doty describes his painful childhood, his desire for a better life, the magical woman who miraculously showed up and taught him how to open his heart and have everything he could ever want, and what has ultimately brought him happiness. (Hint–it’s not what he thought it would be.)

Doty says, “It’s easy to connect the dots of a life in retrospect, but much harder to trust the dots will connect together and form a beautiful picture when you’re in the messiness of living a life.” Amen. For anyone (like me) who’s waiting and desperately wanting the dots of their life to be connected, Doty’s story offers hope on almost every page. It’s a glorious tale gloriously told.

I don’t know what else to say. Read it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All the while, we imagine things should be different than they are, but life persists the way it is.

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As It Turns Out, I’m Regular (Blog #545)

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Last night’s post took longer than expected, and I was up until 2:30 in the morning. Then I didn’t sleep so great, despite the fact that I was exhausted. I’m blaming the beautiful full moon. Oh well, it’s not the first pretty thing that’s kept me up all night. (That was a sex joke, Mom.) Anyway, this morning I awoke early for two meetings, and I’ve been groggy ever since. Now it’s ten at night, and I’m going to try–try–to be in bed in an hour.

You can do this, Marcus.

This afternoon I saw my therapist, and she pointed out that I often say, “Is that normal?” Like, I’ll go on about some feeling or response I’ve had recently, then ask, “Uh, am I a freak?” I never say it like that, but isn’t that what we all want to know? Is it NORMAL to be angry or resentful, NORMAL to be pissed off or passive aggressive, NORMAL to still be hung up on someone or something that happened years ago, NORMAL to dream of killing (or fucking) a total stranger?

Well, is it?

My therapist said, “I think it’s funny that after all this time in therapy, you still think there’s such a thing as normal.”

I said, “I see you point. Soooooo–”

“It’s regular,” she said. “Yes, it’s very REGULAR.”

So that’s good to know. My internal reactions and fantasies are REGULAR.

Like a menstrual cycle!

Another thing my therapist and I talked about was loneliness, which is something I’ve occasionally experienced along this path of self-growth, usually after having a big confrontation or “going against the crowd.” I said, “It’s difficult to speak your truth. It’s hard to live differently than everybody else.” My therapist said, “I get it. And usually when I’m lonely, I take time to let it be. I don’t force it to go away. Eventually, it does.”

After therapy I went to the library and ended up reading an entire (short) book about spirituality while curled up on a couch in one of the reading rooms. Oddly enough, the author said that a frequent response to personal or spiritual growth is loneliness or grief, his explanation being that as you become your true self (or as you become born again), your false (neurotic, worried, people-pleasing) self necessarily has to die, and this false self is what you’re missing when you feel loneliness or grief. Don’t worry, he said, you’re better off without the old you, and the feeling will pass.

Another takeaway from the book for me was the idea that whenever you’re upset, angry, resentful, or whatever, it’s good to stop and notice WHERE those feelings are taking place. Obviously, the answer is INSIDE YOU, even if someone cut you off in traffic or stomped on your toe in order to stir them up. This is a good reminder to me, that I have an internal atmosphere that I’m responsible for, and that I don’t have to entertain every feeling that invites itself over for dinner. While driving home this evening and in response to other drivers, I started to get “peeved” a couple of times–however briefly–but then thought, It’s not worth it.

As Wayne Dyer used to say, I want to feel good.

Also, I want to go to bed.

[Here’s something funny. After I named tonight’s blog–As It Turns Out, I’m Regular–it occurred to me that I once named a blog something similar–As It Turns Out, I’m Normal. So I looked it up. Strangely enough, it was penned almost exactly a year (366 days) ago.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When the universe speaks—listen.

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