On Practicing Gratitude (Blog #562)

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It’s eleven-fifteen in the morning, and I woke up with a crick in my neck. Consequently, I’m getting a slow start to what promises to be a long day. Every so often I’m stopping whatever I’m doing to stretch, trying to work out the kinks. I’m house sitting for some friends, and when I first got up, I stood in their hallway, reached my arms out wide on an angle, and rolled my neck around. As my arms fell to my sides, one of my friends’ dogs came over and pressed her wet nose against my fingers–as if to say, “I see you have a free hand there.” It was the sweetest thing, this moment of–connection.

Currently I’m listening to an album by Carter Sampson, a local red-dirt/folk artist from Fayetteville. I met Carter when I interviewed her for a magazine many, many years ago. She’s fabulous, and for whatever reason, her music is the perfect thing on this slow-start, crick-in-my-neck, overcast Saturday morning. It’s funny how the right lyrics show up at the right time. Last night I cried like a child while writing yesterday’s post. Today I feel lighter. I have the biggest smile on my face. As Carter says, “I washed myself in the water, and now I’m finally free.”

Yesterday while my friend was in traffic court and I was stuck in their car because their alarm system kept going off every time I took their key out of the ignition, I read another chapter in The Tools by Phil Stutz and Barry Michaels, a self-help book I mentioned a couple days ago. The chapter dealt with gratitude, which the authors present as the go-to tool or solution for what they call “the cloud,” that dark thing that surrounds you every time you begin to worry, obsess, or stress about whatever.

You know–THE CLOUD–There’s not enough money, nobody likes me, and I probably have cancer.

It’s enough just to be here.

Of course, gratitude is not a novel concept, but I love the way Stutz and Michaels present it–as that which CUTS THROUGH the cloud and reconnects you to something bigger than yourself. I like this idea–that being grateful isn’t just a “good-feeling” thing to do, but is also something powerful that quickly bypasses the dark cloud of worry. Because God knows WORRYING and OBSESSING about my problems has NEVER made my day any brighter. But even in this moment if I simply think about my nephews, I’m overcome with warmth and the feeling that life is all right. Because of them, it’s enough just to be here–overcast day, crick in my neck, and all. I’m reminded that I’m part of life, that life is good, and that life mysteriously works out.

The authors of The Tools say that gratitude is something you have to practice in order for it to have a powerful, lasting effect. In my experience, this is how worry works too. In other words, it’s a habit. And whereas being grateful does require diligence, it doesn’t have to be complicated. Just start with five things, five simple things that open your heart (even a little). For me–today–I’m grateful for a place to sleep at night, my friends’ dog and her wet nose, Carter Sampson and her music, my nephews, and my body, which not only lets me experience all the things I love, but also allows me to stretch, to cry, to smile.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When we expect great things, we see great things.

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Life: Perfect As It Is (Blog #271)

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Praise the lord and all the saints–I’m feeling so much better. Pretty much all of my sinus junk is gone. That being said, my body is tired, probably from the storm it just came through or maybe from allergies. I haven’t figured out how to solve that problem yet. It bothers me that I do this, by the way, talk about my ailments so much, like an old person. Specifically it bothers me that I’ve vastly improved but am hyper-focused on what little bit still needs fixing. I’m sure this is the perfectionist in me. It’s not enough that things are “mostly working,” so I spend half the day thinking about how I can combine vitamins, herbal teas, and anti-histamines in order to produce a “complete” miracle.

I should probably get out of the house, do something to distract myself.

My own mother said, ‘Marc, you look pretty gay.’

Last night I took a nap and woke up to the conversation of my parents and sister and brother-in-law. Part of it centered around a new jacket my aunt bought for my mom, this winter wraparound situation that came from Walmart. When I came out of my room, my sister was wearing it and talking about how great it was. “Really warm, and they come in every color.” Well, before it was all said and done, I tried it on, and everyone was absolutely right. Both warm and cozy, it was like a blanket with pockets. It felt like wearing a dream. Still, it was distinctly feminine, and my own mother said, “Marc, you look pretty gay.”

“Good,” I said as I lifted my chin in the air. “I am pretty gay. Now pass me my martini.”

Currently I’m wearing the jacket, and I don’t know what it’s made out of, but I’m sure it was invented by NASA. I simply couldn’t be more comfortable. Well, I guess I could be more comfortable, that is if I had a pair of underwear and a pair of socks made out of this stuff. Hell, why don’t we just throw in a pair of pants while we’re wishing? Actually, I think a matching holiday outfit would be just the ticket, the perfect thing to carry me through until tank-top weather.

For the last day my older nephew has been bugging me to watch a video game tutorial with him online, something about Bugs Bunny. My impression is that this could take a while, and I keep telling him, “But I don’t even own a video game system.” With all the logic of a seven-year-old, he replies, “You can buy one.” Anyway, this became a big damn deal earlier. I had just started the blog, and he was all up in my business, not taking no for an answer. Eventually, my sister had to get involved. This sort of thing happens a lot with him–he’s really determined and has a strong will. These aren’t bad qualities to possess, of course, it just depends on what you apply them to. For example, I think it’s fine for me to push toward figuring out my health problems or getting this blog done every day, but there comes a point when I have to chill out and realize what’s beyond my immediate control. No wonder I get exhausted. You can’t push all the time and expect to never hit a wall.

You don’t need to change a thing in order to be happy.

I guess we all have our ideas about how life should go. We want to be healthier, we want to be warmer, we want to watch Bugs Bunny–whatever. Joseph Campbell says there are three basic types of mythologies or ways of looking at the world. The first type says life is suffering–let’s get enlightened and get out of here. The second type says there are two powers running around down here–good and evil–let’s increase the good and make the world a better place. The last type, however, which is actually the oldest of the three, affirms life exactly as it, with all its ups and downs, pluses and minuses, sufferings and exultations. It says life is perfect–period. This is a philosophy that’s tough to swallow, but it’s the one that makes the most sense to me, the one I’m trying to come around to, the idea that you don’t need to change a thing in order to be happy.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

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Each New Day (Blog #202)

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It’s just before midnight, everyone else is asleep, and I’ve been raiding the refrigerator because I’m hungry. Apparently doing nothing burns a lot of calories. This afternoon my sister introduced me to honey roasted nuts, and I could have sworn she said they were in the kitchen, so I just spent five minutes quietly opening cabinet doors in search of this glorious snack made by unicorns. Well, they ended up being in the pantry, in the last cabinet I opened. When I saw them, I felt like I won the lottery, but what I actually won was another reason to be grateful for stretch pants.

Puh-TAY-toe, puh-TAH-toe.

I just put the honey roasted nuts back on the shelf. I was eating so many, I decided it was either put them back or call a help line. When I walked into the pantry, I noticed the shirts I washed and hung up to dry yesterday. There are six of them, and all of them are gray or black. With a couple exceptions, that’s pretty much been my color palate for the last year. Yesterday my sister and I talked about my current minimalist wardrobe, and today she told me I had what’s referred to as a capsule closet. A capsule closet is apparently a collection of limited clothing (tops, bottoms, etc.), all of which match and coordinate. Well, obviously, gray and black go with everything.

By everything, I mean my one pair of jeans.

I spent this afternoon mostly in the car with my sister, running my nephews around. For being so young, they sure have a lot to do. I guess part of the problem is that Christopher’s charter school is a twenty-minute drive. My sister says he usually doesn’t like to talk about his day, that getting information out of him is like pulling teeth. My parents have voiced the same complaint about me over the years, so I said, “You should give him a couple of scotches. That’ll make him talk.” Well, he wouldn’t shut up today, probably because he lost his watch at school (he has a habit of taking it off) and was hoping he could avoid a lecture by throwing my sister a conversation bone. So for twenty minutes he went on and on about music class, witches, and–I don’t know–cooties. This whole exchange taught me two things–1) seven-year-olds are smarter than we give them credit for, and 2) as smart as they are, they really have very few interesting things to say.

Of course, two-year-olds aren’t any better. They repeat themselves–a lot. This afternoon Ander kept saying, “Now? Now? What about now?” I recently told a friend, “If you want patience, be a dance instructor,” but I should have said parent.

If you want patience, be a parent.

Tonight before bedtime, the boys and I played outside. Christopher wanted to sword fight with plastic bats, but I somehow ended up with a plastic golf club. Talk about being an awkward pirate. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I would have won, but Christopher ended up reaching for a water gun–and using it–on me. So I got soaked, but since I’m bigger than him, I took away the gun and returned the favor. My sister said, “When kids scream and say, ‘Don’t shoot me,’ that means they want you to shoot them.” I don’t know where she discovered this parenting wisdom, but both the boys did seem to be delighted when I covered them in water. In retrospect, I think my sister just said what she did so she wouldn’t have to bathe them tonight.

When we came inside Christopher wouldn’t let me in my room (actually, his playroom) until I said the secret password, which I ended up guessing after he gave me a few hints. It was “cheese block.” Go figure.

Also, now I’m hungry again.

Yesterday I started reading Theft by Finding by David Sedaris. It’s his latest book, a collection of his diary entries over the years, and over five hundred pages. I have tickets to see David next week in Arkansas and am trying to finish the book before then, even though I’m sure he won’t mind if I don’t. Still, I’m a hundred pages in (and fascinated). Anyway, since everyone went to bed, I’ve been reading, David for a while, then a book on writing that David mentioned. (Clearly I have the attention span of a two-year-old, as I’m constantly starting new books before I finish old ones.)

You can’t play small forever.

When I reset my wardrobe last year, I told myself that I was sticking to grays and blacks because they’re neutral and it felt like I needed a fresh start. Subconsciously, I think I’ve stuck with those colors because I’ve been in mourning. A huge part of my life is over, and I guess it feels like a death. It’s good, I think, since that part needed to die. You can’t play small forever. Still, since whatever’s coming next hasn’t fully presented itself yet, my interior atmosphere is often solemn–lighter than before, but solemn nonetheless. Perhaps deep is a better word. I suppose it’s been like this for a while, but I notice it more when I’m around children. Sometimes it’s difficult for me to be silly and not steer the conversation toward self-improvement.

Of course, seven-year-olds would rather talk about their farts.

I don’t imagine farts will ever be my go-to conversation. I seem to be wired for things more serious, like, How do your farts make you feel? I’m okay with that. Still, I love my nephews for reminding me that life is meant to be fun. Today I wore a pink shirt, and that too reminds me to lighten up. Once I had a spiritual teacher hold my hand and say, “There’s nothing serious going on here, I can promise you that.” At the time, I hoped they were right. Now, I really am starting to believe it, that the world isn’t as bad as I thought it was, that I can improve without being so intense or in a hurry, and that I can come out of mourning anytime because the sun rises each new day.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can rise above. You can walk on water.

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Life As Explosion (Blog #201)

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It’s three in the morning, and I just got back from a long night of dancing. I’m exhausted, and most of me would rather be in bed. Since this is a blog about honesty, I can say that. The house is supposed to be quiet, but one of my nephews is apparently awake, and I think my sister just got up to check on him. Seriously, is this what parenting is like, cooking meals and running a professional taxi service during the day, then playing night watchman when the sun goes down? I don’t know how parents get anything done. Well, yes I do–they put their children in front of a television. But still, my hat is off to you people.

This afternoon my sister and I went to Costco. Y’all, I’d never been to one before, and it was pretty damn ridiculous. There were giant televisions, cheap alcohol (name brand!), and a hotdog stand. It was like an adult carnival plus Hanes underwear in bulk. What’s more, there was a refrigerated vegetable room bigger than my parents house and twice as tall. (Who the hell is eating so much lettuce?) And did I mention it was freezing? I had to put on a long-sleeved shirt just so we could walk halfway across the room and pick out some strawberries.

But I digress.

I guess my nephew Ander and I have a lot in common because that boy is always hungry. After the vegetable freezer he started asking for food, so my sister opened up a package of cheese right there in the middle of the tomato sauce section and gave him a slice. Maybe this is a mom thing, but I was mortified. I thought, We haven’t paid for that yet! Well, I bit my tongue, but Ander obviously wouldn’t have given a shit anyway because he had a slice of delicious cheese in his hands. I mean, he threw the wrapper on the floor and started munching away. (I picked up the wrapper and sneaked it in my pocket like, Nothing to see here.)

Thankfully, the cops didn’t show up.

After Costco and before we picked my other nephew up from school, we went to Chick-Fil-A and ended up talking about how frickin’ friendly they are. You know, they always ask your name, smile, and say “my pleasure” whenever you say, “Thank you.” Who are these people? I mean, I’m all for customer service, but sometimes I feel like I’ve walked into an episode of The Twilight Zone whenever I step on their property in search of a simple chicken sandwich. Geez. My pleasure. (It’s weird, right?) Just once, could someone say, “You’re welcome”?

Is that too much to ask?

Okay, so I’m not sure how to introduce this next section without talking about gay cowboys. I realize that’s a weird transition, but it’s true. A couple years ago I was having a bad day/week/month and took myself to a gay bar in Dallas called The Roundup because there’s nothing like a bunch of homosexuals in Wranglers to make a boy feel better. Really, I don’t care who you are, you should go. They have a great dance floor, and everybody two-steps with everybody else. Guys dance with guys, girls dance with girls, girls lead as guys follow. It’s just a happy thing–perfect for shattering stereotypes and fun for the whole family.

Anyway, that was the night I met my friend Kaleb. We met on the floor, then danced and danced and danced some more. I don’t mind saying it was pretty magical. You know how you ladies always get excited when some handsome guy leads you around the dance floor? Well, despite my profession, I’ve never really gotten that, at least from a follower’s perspective. But I got it that night, thanks to Kaleb. The man could (and can) flat dance. I don’t remember the last time I had so much fun.

As it turned out, Kaleb was also visiting Dallas to get away–from Albuquerque–where he teaches ballroom dancing. (Isn’t that wild?) So for the last couple years we’ve kept loosely in touch, and I messaged him this afternoon to see if he wanted to go to a swing dance. (He said yes.) Y’all, a couple times I thought the altitude and lack of oxygen was going to kill me, but I survived and had a fabulous time. Kaleb and I took turns leading and following, no one gave us funny looks, and a few people even clapped.

I guess Kaleb or I could have said, “No need for applause, it was my pleasure.”

Give me a break.

When the swing dance was over, Kaleb and I headed to a local gay bar called Sidewinders for karaoke. That’s right, not only am I gay, but sometimes I sing karaoke. There, I said it. (And if anyone repeats any of this on the internet, we–are–finished.) Anyway, there weren’t a lot of people out tonight, so Kaleb and I had room to dance while other people sang. Again, so much fun. And then–and then–the cast from the national tour of An American in Paris showed up because–where else would they be on a Tuesday night? No, seriously, the cast just had a big turnover, and tonight was a lot of the members’ first city, first night, first performance, so they went out to celebrate at Sidewinders (as one does). They were dancing and we were dancing–some of us introduced ourselves and some of us didn’t–but it was just this beautiful thing–several Americans in Sidewinders.

Tonight Kaleb told me there’s a couple theories when it comes to art. (I don’t know how he knows this.) One theory says that art is meant to stand the test of time, that it should be around for generations and be enjoyed by as many people as possible. Another theory says that art is transitory, that it’s meant to pop up rather suddenly then disappear, like a flower that only blooms for a night. This theory, Kaleb said, is called “art as explosion,” and I’ve been thinking about it the last few hours. We spend so much of our lives trying to hang on to things we can’t hang on to. We paint paintings and take pictures trying to remember the people and experiences that make us feel loved and alive, hoping to grasp that which is most lovely to us. Of course, this is not possible. Thankfully, that which is lovely happens constantly if we have the eyes to see it. It looks like a child rebelling in the middle of a grocery store by eating cheese that hasn’t been paid for yet, a smile on the face in the drive-thru window, and a roomful of people dancing together. This is the very mystery of life, of course–one moment, one miracle exploding into the next.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Stop buying your own bullshit.

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Time Well Spent (Blog #200)

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9:33 AM

I’ve been awake for an hour or so, and I just finished a continental breakfast here at the glorious Comfort Inn and Suites in Carbondale, Colorado. Check out is in an hour and a half, so I’m about to take a shower, pack up, and hit the road. (It’s been real.) My destination is Albuquerque, where my sister lives, and it should take about eight hours, stops included. Because I’m still feeling yuck, blah, and gross, I imagine it’s going to be a long day. Jesus, take the wheel. Still, at the end of the road will be the ones I love. All things considered, life is good.

If it’s not obvious, I’ll be writing the blog in “installments” today to make my life easier. If you can think of some little something to make your life easier today, do it–you have my full support.

4:12 PM

I think I just set a new personal record. I drove for five and a half hours without a pit stop. I didn’t realize that was possible, so I’m considering nicknaming my bladder Champ. Who knows why the sudden change in behavior? Usually I pee constantly. Maybe my kidneys got enlightened this weekend, or maybe I’m just dehydrated.

The drive so far has been surreal. For whatever reason, my mind is at ease, and my usual sense of nervousness is nowhere to be found. Even when driving along narrow roadways with steep drop-offs, I was like, Whatever. I’ve only taken one picture (at a stoplight in Aspen), but the scenery has been gorgeous–Colorado and New Mexico in the fall are basically God’s backyard. Anyway, I’m in road-warrior mode and ready to see my nephews, so I’ll write more later.

8:08 PM

I got to my sister’s a couple of hours ago. When I arrived, the nephews started bouncing off the walls, and even Ander (the younger one), who usually hides from me, went nuts. They were skipping, jumping, leading me outside then back in. Eventually I sat down for dinner (thanks, Dee-Anne) and visited with my sister and her husband while Ander scooted across the kitchen floor on his back and repeatedly said, “Ow, ow, ow.” My brother-in-law said, “Imagine this non-stop for seven years.” I said, “I can’t.”

Seriously, how do parents do it? Well, how do parents who don’t drink do it?

Before Christopher (the older nephew) went to bed, he put a craft book on the table and asked me to help him make a paper airplane.  Seriously, this kid is great with building and making things, so he probably could have done it himself, but I guess this was an “advanced” model. Y’all, uncle-ing is hard. The instructions had like ten steps–the plane had a tail fin and everything. It was super detailed, complicated actually, and a couple times I thought, I can’t figure this out. But then I did–it finally came together. What’s more, it flew!

That’s right, I’m thirty-seven and can make a paper airplane.

But get this shit. Christopher–that little turd–ran straight to my sister and said, “Mom–I made an airplane!”

(Awkward pause)

“Well, I helped make one.”

9:40 PM

We always have more support than we realize.

For the last hour I’ve been chatting with my sister, but she just went to bed because she’s a mom. Anyway, I really like her. We talked about our family, school, and our individual responses to some of the bullshit we went through as children–specifically the fact that she expressed her emotions back then and I stuffed mine way, way down. (It’s okay, they’ve been working their way back up–like they do.) Since Dee-Anne lives so far away and most of my healing progress has happened the last few years, sometimes I forget that she went through a lot of the same stuff I did. Of course, it’s always good to remember that you’re not alone. We always have more support than we realize.

10:08 PM

A couple hours ago I realized that today’s blog is number 200. That’s 200 days in a row of sitting down, more than once propping my eyelids open with toothpicks, and opening my mind and heart for both me and the world to see. The goal is every day for a year, and I recently hit the halfway mark (183 days), but I note it on the blog every fifty days if I remember. So that’s why we’re talking about it now.

When I started this blog over six months ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Since I’ve been living back at home, I was originally going to call the blog Me and My Parents, then Me, My Parents, and My Therapist. But I thought, Surely I’ll move out again one day, so I dropped my parents altogether (but just from the blog). Anyway, as I’m writing about the blog now, it makes me want to cry. Maybe that’s because I’ve come to think of it as a friend. We have all these memories together. Each night we cuddle up together, I talk about my day, and the blog listens, wraps me up in its arms, and tells me I’m okay.

I’ve said it before, but I can’t overemphasize what a positive journey this has been. I’m out of work, living with my parents, and really have no idea what the rest of my life will hold. On the surface, I don’t have a lot to show. But beneath the surface, where it counts, I’m better than I ever have been. I’m less afraid and more sure than ever before. I’m more self-confident, comfortable in my own skin. I’m not perfect, of course, but I own my shit and am either working on it or okay with saying, “I’m fine the way I am.” The reason I want to cry, of course, is because I realize it’s not the blog that’s been my friend these last 200 days–it’s me–I’m the one who’s been there for me.

10:31 PM

At the spiritual retreat this last weekend, the teacher was joking about how people approach their spiritual lives, like, “Oh yeah, I’ve got a few free hours between errands today, I’ll check out that meditation thing.” This attitude, of course, is ridiculous. After all, he said, what’s more important than your freedom?

Learning to be there for yourself is the essence of healing.

I’ve thought about this question off and on today. I know I’ve worried a lot this last year about how I’m going to make a living or what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, but when I consider how much freer, happier, and peaceful I am now as compared to six months ago, all that “worldly stuff” pales in comparison. I’m not saying this process has been easy. On the contrary, there have been plenty of days that it’s felt like making a complicated paper airplane and letting someone else take the credit for it. Often the road has been long, and I haven’t felt so great. Still, I’d recommend the journey to anyone. For surely learning to be there for yourself is the essence of healing, and making time to be your own friend is time well spent. And here’s what I can promise–at the end of the road will be the ones you love (and that includes you), and things will finally come together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Every stress and trauma in your life is written somewhere in your body.

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When God Speaks the Loudest (Blog #108)

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Last night–er–yesterday morning (whatever)–I went to bed at seven-thirty. The sun had been up for over an hour. I woke up at three in the afternoon, the latest I’ve slept in a week. It felt glorious. Having absolutely nothing on my agenda, I spent today reading. I even took a nap. Currently it’s two in the morning, and I’m still tired. But I’m committed to writing, so I’ll be awake for a while. I know that a lot of people wear exhaustion like a badge of honor, so I’d like to be clear–I’m not trying to put myself on a cross or anything. I’m just stating facts.

This evening my sister came to visit with her two sons (my nephews). The older one, Christopher, is seven and almost always bouncing off the walls. Tonight was no exception. As soon as he popped out of my sister’s car, he ran and gave my mom a huge hug, then sprinted to my dad and hung from his neck like a piece of jewelry. And then he (FINALLY) saw me, and as I scooped him up in the air he said, “I’m as tall as the house!” While all this went on, the younger boy, Ander, hung back and quietly observed. He’s three now, and he’s only recently gotten to the point where strangers–and by strangers I mean me–don’t make him cry. (What can I say? It’s a gift.)

Here’s a picture of Christopher with the Star Wars Lego set my mom gave him tonight. He said it was “the best gift EVER,” and immediately started to put it together. You’ll notice he’s wearing a t-shirt that says “limitless,” which I assume refers to his energy levels. He reminds me of that pink bunny with the drum, the one that keeps going and going. You should see what happens when my dad gives him candy.

I guess your perspective changes with age. Since Ander was born, I’ve been someone he’s been “not so sure” about. But tonight, he must have seen me differently, since we played ball together for the longest time, and he was giggling and laughing. He even let me pick him up. Mom had given him a little book that played Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, and Dad suggested I take Ander outside to look at the sky. So that’s what I did, and even though it was still light out, there were a couple bright spots up there. I’m guessing at least one of them was a planet, but like a toddler (or I) can tell the difference. Either way, I pointed at the stars/planets, and Ander tilted his head up in wonder.

Christopher’s perspective, in his words, is currently, “Everyone in this house is OLD.” And whereas I remember thinking about my parents and grandparents like that at his age, the older I get, the older “old” gets. I mean, it’s DEFINITELY not thirty-six, even though it is probably time to stop saying “totes,” “on the serious,” and “fo sheezy.”

Believe it or not, the boys eventually wound down and went to bed. (There may have been Benadryl involved.) So for a while it was just us adults, and my sister and I had a conversation about my sleep schedule. She said (in my own words), “I get that some people are night owls, but you’ve taken that concept to a whole new level. Couldn’t you write earlier, go to bed earlier?”

Well, this is a conversation I’ve had more than once in the last few months, about how my days and nights have been flipped around, how there are some days when I only see the sun shining for a few hours. Honestly, it’s not the easiest way to live, especially on days when morning doctor appointments are made. I mean, let’s face it–the world runs mostly on daylight. That being said, I can’t tell you how much I’ve come to love staying up late. This afternoon while I was reading, there was so much noise–the television was on, the dog was barking, and my parents were up using the ice machine, running the microwave, and sneezing (I mean, it is their house). Plus, the phone was ringing, and cars were going up and down the street.

So much noise. So many distractions.

But now, at three in the morning, it’s blissfully quiet. The air conditioner is running, a fan blows from a room down the hall, and every so often a mouse patters across the living room carpet. (I try not to think about the mouse.) But otherwise, it’s just me, the sound of my breath, the gentle clacking of the keyboard. I can actually hear myself think. Plus, almost every night something shows up on the page out of nowhere–it’s like I’m taking instant dictation from the divine–and I’m starting to think having solitude and quiet makes it easier for that happen. It’s like God comes out at night because he doesn’t like distractions anymore than I do.

I’ve heard that it’s a universal experience for people to wake up at three or four in the morning, which is why some people call it the witching hour. But I’ve also heard that that is the time when the world is most quiet, that between three and four in the morning is the best time to meditate because that’s when God speaks the loudest. Of course, when most of us wake up in the middle of the night, we just go back to sleep. That’s what I’ve always done. But now that I’m a night owl, I’ve gotten in the habit or going for a jog around one, two, even three in the morning. It’s cooler then, and I don’t have to worry about developing skin cancer or getting hit by a car. Almost always when I start out, I don’t know what I’ll be writing about later, but without fail, before I get to the tennis courts half a mile from the house, an idea has presented itself–out of nowhere. Just like that, God has spoken.

Hearing from God, I think, is worth not sleeping for.

Earlier this week I made an off-handed joke about staying up so late to my therapist during the first part of our session. Later she said, “Don’t judge yourself for that, by the way.” So tonight I’ve been thinking about the internal pressure I put on myself to “be like everyone else,” to get up with the sun rather than the moon. But under the moon, at night, I’ve grown so much more than I ever have during the day. The night, after all, is responsible for this blog. It’s the time when I’ve fallen in love with writing again, and–more importantly–fallen in love with myself again. It’s when my perspective has changed for the better. And whereas the day has only one star shining in the sky, the night has thousands, each one older than even anyone in this house, each one a limitless mystery that has something to teach us–if only we could get quiet enough, see the night through the eyes of a child, and listen with wonder to all God has to say.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Damn if good news doesn't travel the slowest.

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