Phew. I swear. I haven’t had a lick of energy today. I hate that, feeling like I’ve had the stuffing knocked out of me, going about my day with all the inner fortitude of a soggy biscuit. Still, I’ve tried not to obsess over it (even though I’m clearly obsessing about it now) and just put one foot in front of the other.
Left, right, left, right.
This afternoon I saw my therapist, and we discussed my frustration with not feeling well. She said that she went through a similar period in her life. And whereas it frustrated her at the time too, she’s grateful for it now–because it helped make her who she is today both personally and professionally. Like, she’s more understanding and supportive and shit. “It’s about developing patience,” she said, “and patience is THE HARDEST lesson you will ever learn. It FUCKING SUCKS.”
But for real.
Later my therapist said she felt like 2019 was going to be a good year for me. God, I hope she’s right. Regardless, I can’t tell you what a big deal this is, to have someone who not only believes in and affirms me, but also consistently imagines a better future for me. Even when I’ve been too down to hope for myself, she’s said, “Things are going to get better. And it’s okay if you don’t believe that–I believe enough for both of us.”
After therapy I went to a coffee shop and read until I got kicked out. The book I’m working my way through is a 450-page tome on addiction in all its many forms (nicotine, drugs, alcohol, shopping, you name it). Then, despite the fact that I’m nowhere near finished with this and a number of other books I’ve started, I went to the library and checked out two more–because THAT’S my addiction. Buying (or checking out) books is that thing that gets me excited (that is, that causes my brain to release dopamine) just thinking about. And whereas I might have “worried” about this at one time, I don’t anymore because 1) it’s a benign habit, 2) it’s not hurting me or anyone else, and 3) it could be A LOT worse.
This evening my parents, my aunt, and I went out to eat for my mom’s birthday (it’s today), and despite my professed lack of energy, I somehow managed to shove a giant burger, a fistful of fries, and half a piece of cheesecake into my mouth. Anyway, here’s a picture after ALL OF US cleaned our plates.
After dinner my parents and I drove around Fort Smith to look at Christmas lights. This was the perfect thing–low-key, easy, beautiful. Now it’s after midnight, and I’m about to turn into a pumpkin. I’m in this weird place–not thrilled about where I am and how I feel, but not devastated about it either. Of course I want things to get better. I want to have more energy. But if this is my life now, this is my life now. If this is meant to teach me patience, then that’s what I intend to learn.
Slowly, of course, since patience by definition can’t be learned quickly.
This afternoon I finished fixing/painting the side of the house I was working on yesterday, the same house I’ve been working on–inside and out–for the past many weeks. So that’s it. Barring any hiccups or unforeseen projects, I’m done. The realtor said the house should be listed early this coming week. So I loaded up my tools, did one final trash run, and celebrated tonight with fried mushrooms and a piece of chocolate cake. And whereas I enjoyed this debauchery immensely, my stomach quickly pitched a fit.
My gut: ever the party pooper.
This is really the oddest feeling, to have an ongoing and seemingly never-ending project end. But this has been the case with so many other things in my life, and I can only assume will be the case with so many more, including this blog. One day something starts, it goes on for a while, and then one day it ends.
Well, either it ends or you do.
Whenever I complete a project, whenever something is over, I tend to stare in both disbelief and admiration (way to go, Marcus!). This evening after I put all the paint cans away and loaded up all my supplies, I did one final walk around the property just to take it all in. I remembered when my friends still lived there, when their home was full of their possessions and memories. Then I remembered all the boxes–all the boxes!–before they moved, and my cleaning all the walls and floors after they left. Little by little–somehow–we got it done.
The last couple of nights I’ve been struck with gratitude with respect to the entire ordeal. First, I’m glad for the work. It’s nice to be employed. But I’m also glad for all the help. Obviously my friends did A LOT of packing before they left, and today their realtor’s husband came by to patch some cracked concrete and haul off some branches I couldn’t fit into the back of Tom Collins (my car). And even though they didn’t do anything directly, my parents loaned me their vacuum cleaner and mop. For that matter, the hardware store provided me with paint, sandpaper, and–most importantly–mosquito spray (for a nominal fee, of course). My point is–we never do things completely alone.
It takes a village and all that shit.
When I got home this evening, I took a long, hot shower. Well, okay, fine–I took a bath. (I like baths. So sue me!) Anyway, I scrubbed the latex paint off my skin and washed the bug spray out of my hair. And–I don’t know–it was like nine o’clock, and I was SO READY for bed. Hell, at seven I was ready for bed; it gets dark SO FRICKIN’ EARLY these days, all I want to do is hibernate. Well, okay, fine–get fat and hibernate. And whereas I’d planned to blog and fall right to sleep, I got distracted by the internet and ended up watching every trailer and promo video I could find for the soon-to-be-released movie about Freddie Mercury. (Freddie Mercury was the lead singer for the band Queen, Mom. He himself was a queen and died due to complications related to AIDS.) Anyway, the movie looks FABULOUS. Granted, it doesn’t have ANYTHING to do with tonight’s blog, but–nonetheless–I can’t wait for it.
It occurs to me that I often “can’t wait” for a lot of things–can’t wait for this project to end, can’t wait for this Freddie Mercury movie to come out (no pun intended), can’t wait to go to bed. And yet there’s no rushing life; everything happens in its own time, in its own season. Something is always ending; something is always beginning. If we’re lucky, we’re able to find appreciation for this present moment, for what is, for the way things are–whatever they are–right here, right now.
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
"It's really good news to find out that the world isn't as scary as you thought it was."
A couple days ago I started a new “fix-it” project for some friends of mine, repairing a piece of wood on the side of their house. At first I thought it would be as simple as nailing a board back in place, but I quickly realized the wood also needed to be “filled in” with wood putty and then painted. Plus, all of the surrounding wood needed to be re-caulked, then re-painted. Shit, I thought, this is turning into work. But what do you do? That day, I screwed the wood back in place and patched as much as I could.
Here’s a picture before the patching. Notice the gaping holes.
Here’s a picture of the mostly patched holes.
Today I finished patching the holes and applied an extremely thick layer of caulk above the wood. Well, two extremely thick layers of caulk. However, since the caulk takes a while to dry, I couldn’t paint it. I could, however, paint the wood, so I did. This was a big deal for me because although the paint technically matched, it didn’t actually match, since the old paint had faded with age and sun exposure. The big deal part is that The Old Marcus would have turned this into a major ordeal and ended up re-painting the entire side of the house, if not the entire house. But The New Marcus thought, Just re-paint the affected board and call it a day.
So I did. (Notice the trash can–that’s what I used for a ladder.)
Now it’s 9:30 at night, and I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to paint over the caulk, after it dries. I’m still at my friends’ house, as I’m meeting a Criagslist contact later tonight in order to sell him a piece of furniture my friends left behind when they moved. This has been another project, getting rid of what they left. But tonight’s piece of furniture is the final one. After weeks and weeks of listing stuff online, it’s all gone. Or, almost gone anyway. I never assume a Craigslist deal is finished until I have money in hand.
Earlier I took a break to get dinner and work on another a project at the library–organizing my digital photos. This is one of my goals for the fall and winter, to get both my physical and digital photos in order. Ugh, talk about an ordeal. The paint/caulk project is only taking up a few days, but I imagine the photo project will take weeks or longer. Tonight at the library I sorted through–I don’t know–a couple months worth of photos from 2014, the year I first began backing up my photos online. And whereas it’s going to be great (super, really) to have my photos organized (like, Family, Trips to Albuquerque, Medical Documents, Remodeling Projects, etc.), it’s slow-going and overwhelming.
But at least I’ve started. That’s huge. I’m telling myself, A little at a time, Marcus. A little at a time.
The other overwhelming thing about this project is that I’m not always sure “where” to put a photo. Or if every single photo (there are thousands) “deserves” to be put into a specific album. Like, what am I suppose to do with that photo I took of a piece of furniture in an antique store four years ago? But again, I’m trying to not get overwhelmed and demand “perfection” of myself. I’m telling myself, Anything is a giant improvement over the current situation, which is everything simply lumped together (by date order).
My tendency when I start these projects is to sit down for ten hours at a time and grit my way through it. It’s difficult for me to work for, say, an hour and walk away. But that’s what I did tonight at the library. Well, okay, I worked for an hour and a half and walked away. One because the library was about to close, two because I wanted to blog. Plus, the project’s waited this long (and no one’s complaining that it hasn’t been done), and it will be there whenever I want to pick it back up. This is a something I’m working on, that the world won’t fall apart if things aren’t just so, that it really doesn’t give a damn if this paint doesn’t match that paint or all my photos aren’t neatly organized.
Like, the world has its own problems to deal with.
Currently I’m cranky and have a headache. (Let’s see if I can work myself into a better mood.) I woke up this morning with a skin relapse–a sudden flare-up where no one wants a flare-up–maybe due to a different bath soap or a new body odor powder, both of which I used yesterday. Regardless, the flare-up wasn’t fun. Since apparently I’m so sensitive, this afternoon I went to Walmart and bought sensitive-skin soap. Then I came home and took a shower to wash any irritants off and “start all over.” Now things are–I don’t know–better.
It’s hard to tell.
Despite this setback, today promised to be a great day. For several months I’ve been going back and forth with a local hospital because my insurance didn’t cover a trip I took to the emergency room back in October for another skin issue. (What can I say, it’s been a rough year.) Anyway, the hospital had graciously granted me charity services (at 100%) last year when I had sinus surgery, and that charity applied to some, but not all–it turns out–of the emergency room services (because the charity was based upon when a service was billed and not simply received). So a few months ago a kind person in customer service suggested I reapply for the charity to cover everything, which I did. But whereas the first time the application process was simple, this time it’s been back and forth. I send stuff in, they ask for more, and so on. Well, today I got their final answer–approved!–once again at 100%–retroactively for eight months and proactively for six.
Talk about good news!
Y’all, I can’t tell you what a shot in the arm this was. My therapist is always saying that the universe is abundant, and despite my often Eeyore attitude about money and things going my way, I may have to start agreeing with her. Personally, I think this could have been worked out a little faster, but maybe we’re back to my therapist’s whole thing about patience. Just wait, things will work out.
My primary reaction to this good news was both relief and excitement. My secondary reaction, however, was panic. I started thinking about the other financial quandaries I have. Y’all, I almost got online and started looking at my accounts. Then I stopped myself. Marcus, all that will be there later (God knows). How about we just enjoy a win for once? So that’s what I did–I went for a walk, got a small sunburn, read a book, took a nap. Hey–sometimes life doesn’t suck.
Unfortunately, my good mood didn’t last long. This evening before teaching dance I got online to pay a bill, but thought, I’d better make sure the money I deposited yesterday through the night-drop actually deposited. Well, shit, it hadn’t. Like, not a trace of it. Immediately I freaked out about losing not-a-small-amount of cash (at least in my world), not being able to pay the bill, and accruing late fees. So despite the fact that it was after hours, I called the bank and actually got someone in customer service, who filed what’s called “a dispute” and said I should hear something in three business days. “Is it possible the envelope got stuck in the night-drop?” I said.
“Yes, a lot of things could have happened,” they replied. “It could have been deposited in someone else’s account.”
I can’t tell you how not amused I was by this answer. Actually, I’m still not amused. Rather, I’m worried that the abundant universe of this afternoon has suddenly become not-so-abundant. Like, I’ll take that good news right back, please and thank you. Also, I’m put out that I’ll be getting up early tomorrow to go the the bank where I deposited the money to see if I can get a quicker answer there. In short, I’m mad that I have to deal with it and am impatient for a resolution.
Damn if good news doesn’t travel the slowest.
It seems these are two lessons the universe and I have been working out A LOT this last year–patience and abundance. I know I talk about them plenty here, in terms of both money and health. I guess it’s all the same. But here’s what I’m learning. The fact is that many answers don’t come quickly–and damn if good news doesn’t travel the slowest–but that doesn’t mean answers don’t come. And maybe good news is more satisfying when you have to wait for it. Maybe having to wait gives you a chance to work with all your fears, to see what you’re still holding onto, to see what’s holding you back. Then you can work on letting go of those things and on moving forward, ready to fearlessly receive the good news that’s surely on its way to meet you.
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
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The more honest you are about what's actually happening inside of you, the happier you are.
It’s nine in the evening, and I’m finally sitting down to blog. I’ve been putting it off for a couple hours now, distracting myself by scrolling through social media and looking up rare sinus-related diseases on the internet. I’ve got to stop doing this, since it only takes about two seconds for me to convince myself that I’m “histamine intolerant” or “magnesium deficient” or that I have mold and moss, like the kind you see on the north side of trees, actually growing inside my head. Rather than read a book or watch a comedy special on Netflix, this is how I’ve decided to entertain myself until I see the doctor next week, by turning every health problem I have into a conspiracy theory that only I and the world-wide web can unravel.
I know–I could use a new hobby.
Earlier this week I spoke to my friend Marla, who was recently sick with the crud, maybe the flu. She’s better now but said there was a point when she just gave in to the illness. So I’m thinking of doing the same thing, saying, “Fine. You win. I quit.” I mean, it’s not like I haven’t tried or put up a good fight. I’ve made some progress. I’m better than I was. But I’m not myself. And surely there wouldn’t be any harm in spending a few days in bed, at least until I can see someone with a medical degree, throw all my vitamins and herbs down on their table, and say, “Here–this is your problem now. You figure it out.”
This afternoon I had coffee with my friend Lorena and told her that one good thing that was coming out of my being sick for so long was that I’m developing both patience and empathy. Like, one day I’ll be able to look at someone else who is overwhelmed and discouraged by their situation and say, “Hang on. Things will turn around for you one day. I promise.” Honestly, I hate this. I mean, patience and empathy are fine characteristics to carry around in your back pocket–I think you should have them–but I hate that, like a good husband, they’re so damn hard to acquire.
Can I get an amen?
Looking at the picture of Lorena and me, I’m thinking I need to shave my face. But this is another thing about not feeling well–shaving, or even taking a shower, feels like a daunting task, something I need to talk myself into, something I should get a gold star for after I finally do it. Like, Look over here, World–I bathed! I haven’t always felt this way about basic hygiene, but it’s amazing how “one little infection” can drop you to your knees and lower your standards. All of a sudden the word “accomplishment” has a very different meaning than it did before. It’s like you’re two-years old again, proud of yourself for, I don’t know, putting on pants.
I told my dad all this earlier, about how cleaning up felt like such a big deal. Currently he has a cold, but even when he feels well, I think he only showers once or twice a week. He said, “Just wait until you get thirty or forty more years on you, son.”
This is what passes for a pep talk in my family.
When I was in high school, I had a dictator for an English teacher–Mrs. Shipman. (I mean dictator as a term of endearment.) She used to interrupt us while we were praying–talking to the god of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob!–in order to correct our grammar. Talk about someone who means business. Once she hunted me down in the lunch room to let me know that I’d misabbreviated “etcetera” as “ect.” instead of “etc.” in a party invitation I sent home with her son. I can still remember her finger pressing into my shoulder, the way she leaned over me as I was eating my Lunchables, the way I broke into a sweat. Honestly, I think it was overkill, but I’ve also never made the “ect.” mistake again.
Anyway, Mrs. Shipman made us memorize poems, and a few of them have never worked their way out of my brain, a fact I’m actually grateful for. One of those poems, by Nancy Byrd Turner, goes like this–
Courage has a crimson coat Trimmed with trappings bold, Knowledge dons a dress of note, Fame’s is cloth of gold. Far they ride and fair they roam, Much they do and dare. Grey-gowned Patience sits at home, And weaves the stuff they wear.
Now it’s ten o’clock, and I’m ready to call it a night, at least wrap this up so there’s nothing else I “have” to do until tomorrow. I’m thinking of curling up in this chair with a hot cup of herbal tea and reading a book or watching a comedy special on Netflix. I’m telling myself, No more internet searches regarding your health, Marcus. No more playing medical detective. This is me giving in, if only for a night. This is me acquiring patience–grey-gowned, anything but sexy, necessary patience.
It’s four-thirty in the morning, and Daddy is tired. My dancer friend Matt drove down from Springfield yesterday, and we’ve been dancing and (only because this is a blog about honesty) drinking since seven-thirty last night. We met at my friend Bonnie’s house, and we started off Blues dancing, which is slow and easy and not demanding at all. Next we picked it up with a little solo jazz work, choreographing a dance routine for Matt to teach to a rock-a-billy song. Then we worked on Lindy Hop, which if you don’t know, is a swing dance that requires a lot of bouncing, running around, and acting a damn fool. And then–and then–after five hours of all of that, we thought it would be a good idea to work on lifts and aerials, things that required Daddy to jump up in the air and turn himself upside down. That part required A LOT of energy.
In retrospect, we should have done everything in reverse.
The last time Matt and I worked together, I showed him a move called the saxophone. The idea is that the leader steps in front of the follower, basically shoves his hips into “her” pelvis, and slings her around the front of his body, landing her on his opposite leg and simultaneously inverting her. Here’s a video of what it’s supposed to look like. (The video includes two moves. The first is called the pancake. The second is the saxophone.)
When Matt and I worked before, I just demonstrated the move as a leader, since I’d never done the follower’s part. I mean, I’m thirty-six, and that’s no exactly the age to START putting your ankles above your head, at least on the dance floor. Plus, I weigh a hundred and ninety pounds. (People say, “You wear it well,” like that’s a compliment, but is more like code for, “I didn’t realize you were that fat.”) Anyway, tonight when Matt asked if I wanted to try following the saxophone, I was like–Uh, uh, uh–sure.
So for over an hour, we tried and tried and tried again. I fell down. Matt fell down. Matt dropped me on my back. Matt dropped me on my side. Bonnie recorded over thirty failed attempts. Bonnie’s friend Corban was there, and he recorded probably just as many. (No one recorded the ONE time we got it right.) I’ll spare you most of the carnage, but here’s a video I love that Corban captured in slow motion. All things considered, it’s pretty good, except of course the part at the end when I land on my back.
About one-thirty or two in the morning, we wore out and quit. I mean, sometimes you have to know when you’re licked. I guess I could get frustrated that it “didn’t happen,” but I can’t tell you how good it felt to try something new, to be slung through the air, even if it wasn’t perfect. Now, whether it will feel good in a couple of days is yet to be decided. I’m guessing it won’t.
The last time Matt and I worked on lifts and aerials, we worked on a move called the frog jump. It’s basically just a simple jump where no one turns upside down, but the trick is getting the follower to jump high enough and lift their knees. If the move is done right, the leader can hold the follower still above his shoulder before letting them down.
Even though the frog jump is considered simple, it’s not easy. Everyone has a job to do, and the timing has to be just right. Well, Matt’s been working on the frog jump since the last time I saw him, and he’s made a ton of progress. So we tried it tonight, and check it out.
After Matt and I finished working, Bonnie fed us, and we all hung out in her kitchen for a couple of hours. We talked about getting older but not feeling older, except for the fact that maybe your hips hurt more than they did a decade ago. (Corban, who just graduated high school, didn’t chime in too much on this part of the conversation for some reason.) We talked about dancing. We talked about tattoos. (Corban’s the only one who has one.)
Here’s what I loved about out time in Bonnie’s kitchen. At any point after ten in the evening, Bonnie could have easily kicked us out of her house, but she never did. We only left (about four in the morning) because I wanted to blog and also plan on getting up before noon tomorrow–er–today. (This is so confusing.) But as for Bonnie, she wasn’t in a hurry to end the conversation, to have us leave, to go to bed.
In contrast, I know that so many times as a dancer, I get in a hurry. I start working on a new move and want to “have it,” like now. Even sometimes when I’m working with a talented dancer like Matt, I want him to have it, like now. Not because I’m impatient with him, but because I’m excited. It’s fun to watch those “aha” moments happen. But really, those are pretty rare. More often, successes in dance are hard-earned. They come in pieces. You fall down, you get dropped, your body hurts for a week. But you just keep at it and keep at it, and one day, like nothing, you’re up in the air with no effort at all.
At that point, if it looks easy, it is. There really does come a time when all the effort pays off, everything clicks, and even moves like the saxophone are a breeze. Again, it’s easy–it’s just not always easy to get there.
The journey is worth all the bumps in the road.
I think this is true of many things in life, things that are really worth having. There have been so many times in therapy over the last three years that I’ve thought, I can’t–I can’t have that confrontation, I can’t be honest with that person, I can’t tell them no. But eventually, in every case, I did. Now that I’m on the other side of a lot of drama, life feels easier. Sometimes I wonder what took me so long to get here, but I realize that I was learning something new, and that always takes time.
I guess we all have things we haven’t mastered yet, whether it’s turning ourselves upside down, growing older, or having a tough conversation. And sure, those things can be difficult and scary. You’re going to fall, you’re going to hurt the next day. But I think the journey is worth all the bumps in the road. Besides, I don’t think anyone came to this planet in order to get it right the first time. What would be the point? Rather, I think we came here because this is a place we can learn, a place we can fall down and get back up again, and a place–like Bonnie’s kitchen–where there’s all the time in the world to do just that.
Daddy said.
[I promise I’m not going to start referring to myself as Daddy on a regular basis. It’s probably the American Honey talking.]
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
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If anything is ever going to change for the better, the truth has to come first.
For the last two freakin’ hours, I’ve been looking through three years worth of photos that I have backed up online, searching for inspiration, something to use for tonight’s blog. Honestly, I didn’t find much, so I just took the above photo instead. It’s a painting Bonnie and her family call “Chicken Shit,” which you should be able to figure out if you look at it long enough. Anyway, it feels exactly like what I have to offer at the moment. Promising, I know. But hang in there, and we’ll see what happens.
This afternoon I went for a two-hour walk. Last week when I got my new phone, it came with a fitness app, and when I entered my height and weight, it told me I was fat. (Rude, I know. We just met!) Actually, the word it used was “overweight,” which, according to the Body Mass Index, I apparently am. Personally, I would feel better about the diagnosis if it said, “Overweight, but that’s probably because you have a bubble butt,” or “Overweight, but we understand you’ve been through a lot lately and have needed beer and macaroni to help get you through it.”
But that’s not what it said. It just said, “Overweight.” Period. The end. And then–without even asking my permission first–it set me up on a fitness plan and told me I needed to walk an additional seven thousand (!) steps a day.
Talk about bossy.
And as if that weren’t enough, it now tracks my movements–like a stalker–and sends me a message whenever I’ve walked for about an hour and have “met my goal.” So today after I walked for two hours it said, “Way to go, you’ve exceeded our expectations.”
Or something like that.
You absolutely have to be vulnerable and state what you want.
On the walk today, I listened to an interview with the author David Sedaris. The interview was about his new book, a collection of personal diary entries that he wrote over a twenty-five year period. I haven’t read it yet, but I’m going to see him in Tulsa in a couple of weeks, and the event ticket includes a copy of the book. In the interview, David said that he remembers when he was younger and REALLY WANTING to be a successful, published author. He said he didn’t think that was too much to ask. The lady conducting the interview asked him what it felt like now that he was one, and he said it felt exactly like he thought it would–he loved every minute of it. (He also said not to glamorize his life too much because when he’s not on tour, he spends five to nine hours a day picking up trash in his neighborhood.)
My friend Marla told me about the interview, and she says that I have a lot in common with David. I mean, we’ve both done a lot of random jobs in order to make a living, we’re both gay, and we’re both–well–writers. So sometimes Marla and I like to fantasize that my life will turn out as successful as his. I mean, is that too much to ask? (Marla says the problem with the formula is that David did meth when he was young, but I didn’t. Still, maybe it’ll work.)
Honestly, I would love that. I mean, I’ll write no matter what, but the big dream isn’t to be a starving artist. I want to be successful. I want to go on book tours. There–I said it.
In the interview, David said that it seems a lot of people don’t really know what they want, or maybe they’re just not willing to say it because saying your dream out loud makes you vulnerable. Obviously, there’s always the chance it won’t come true. I guess it’s a lot like telling the world you’re going on a diet–it’s scary–what if it doesn’t work out? (What if you don’t work out?)
But then again, what if your dream does come true?
Whether you want a flatter stomach or to be a successful writer, I think David’s right. You absolutely have to be vulnerable and state what you want. And then you do our best, cast your bread upon the waters, and see what happens.
My current challenge, I think, is patience. As a general rule, I want things done a certain way, and I usually want them done now. (My therapist says I’m “fussy.”) Well, this can really set a person up for a lot of frustration and disappointment, so my therapist is always saying, “Man, it’s about the journey.” (I always picture her wearing tie-dye and flashing the peace sign when she says stuff like this, but that’s just my overactive imagination.)
Anyway, as I was looking through all those photos tonight, I was struck by all that actually has happened on my journey the last three years. I started a business. I lost a lot of weight, gained some of it back. I stopped smoking (a few times). More than all of that, I learned about boundaries and cleaned up the drama in my life.
(Here’s an old picture that I consider gross on a lot of levels, but I’m posting anyway in an effort to be 1) vulnerable and 2) self-accepting. Smoker or not, I’m clearly not a morning person.)
As I think about all those accomplishments–as much as I hate to admit it–my therapist is right. There’s just no way any of those things could have happened much faster than they did. Diets take time, just like healthy relationships. Honestly, and I can’t believe I’m about to say this, I’m glad it’s that way because now I’m more patient and more understanding, and that’s a really big deal. Plus, there’s a satisfaction that comes when you know you’ve worked your ass off something that simply isn’t there when it’s been handed to you on a silver platter.
So even though I have big dreams, I tell myself every day that my job now is simply to develop discipline and work on my craft. As they say in Alcoholics Anonymous, “Do the next right thing,” which to me means that I can’t productively worry about whether or not success will come, but I can productively sit down and write. And if success as I’ve dreamed it does show up, it will only be because, just like the walk this afternoon, I took one step at a time. Do that long enough, and you’re bound to exceed expectations. Just ask the stupid, chicken shit fitness app on my phone.
Sometimes I think that God is sloppy. There, I said it. And all I mean by that is that God doesn’t do things the way I would do them. (Surprise.) Like, in my world, everything has its place. My keys always go here, or there, and if they’re not here, or there, they’re lost. And at the end of every day, I go through my man bag and put all the pens in the pen holders, and all the books in the middle pocket, and all the bills I need to pay in the outside pocket, and all three of my prescription glasses in the other pocket next to my wallet that holds all of my credit cards that are organized according to their respective billing due dates. (It’s a wonder I don’t get laid more.)
This morning I woke up and immediately started thinking about all the things I needed to do today. Specifically, I started thinking about three separate conversations I needed to have in order to figure out the hospital billing for the sinus surgery I had a couple of months ago. Not that hospital billing is normally easy, but on the day of the surgery, the doctor said he wanted to do a second CT scan because the first one was off by nine degrees. (That’s funny. My favorite number is nine.) He said I wouldn’t be charged for it.
So of course I was.
But I haven’t been charged for the first one. Which is too bad, since the first one was cheaper than the second one because insurance is, well, a fucking mystery, probably invented by drunk space aliens. So for the last two months, I’ve wanted to get this whole thing figured out and effectively move “pay my hospital bill” from my “to-do list” to my “done list” because I’m organized and everything has its place and I don’t like things being unsettled.
God, on the other hand, obviously enjoys a good mess and is not in a hurry to get this matter checked off his list because I’ve ended up with three or four different account numbers at the hospital, and that’s made even the billing department confused. So now the day is over, and I’ve had all three of those conversations (two with billing people and one with the doctor), and whereas everyone was extremely helpful, things still aren’t completely settled. (Clearly God’s getting his way, and that drives me nuts.)
I’ve been thinking most the day that I would write about the idea that the universe—God—is communicative. There’s a dead philosopher (whom I have a really big intellectual crush on) named Alan Watts who points out that not only are you interested in and watching the universe, but the universe is also interested in and watching you. Well, this is an idea I’ve been slowly coming around to, that the universe is interacting with all of us, and that it’s actually kind and not vindictive or punitive.
So this afternoon I was on my way to a gift shop in Fayetteville, and I was thinking about the fact that one of the positive things about living with my parents is that I started this blog and I started writing every day. And although that’s not a steady paycheck and it’s not living in Austin, it’s a small start, and sometimes small starts end up as big finishes. (Just like a mustard seed starts small but doesn’t stay that way.) So I got to the gift shop, and as I was looking at cards, I noticed one that showed several light bulbs hanging down, just like the main picture I chose for this blog. And I kind of did a double take and smiled to myself because I figured God was communicating.
Before I left the store, the girl behind the counter asked what I was doing later, so I said, “I’m teaching a dance class.” And then I asked her the same thing, and she said, “I’m moving.”
“Where are you moving?”
“I’m moving in with my parents because I’m getting married soon, so I’m living with them for a while.”
“That’s funny,” I said, “I’m living with my parents now.”
And then she said, “I think it’s great. I mean, it’s part of the dream.”
So I took that as God communicating again, just letting me know that living with my parents is part of my journey, part of my dream.
Oh, and I almost forgot one more thing God said to me–the message on the front of the card with the light bulbs—“Your future looks bright.”
(This picture was taken just outside the store where God talked to me.)
Little incidents like these thrill me to no end because I think of all the things that had to come together in order for me to be in that one particular shop when that one particular girl was working, which just happened to be the day she was moving in with her parents. And also that card had to be there instead of some other card, and some card designer had to make those light bulbs hang down the way they do on this site. (Incidentally, the site photo was taken years ago in Albuquerque at an Urban Outfitters, and it was one of my first Instagram posts, and it just “felt right” when I was designing the page.)
Obviously, God’s capable of a lot. Just look around.
Just before I wrote that last paragraph, I was about to say, once again, that God was sloppy, that it would have been more clean cut and organized to get me the message some other way. (A burning bush maybe?) But having written that last paragraph, I have to admit that God is a lot more organized than I give him credit for. And if all those things could come together seamlessly just so God could whisper, “You’re doing better than you think you are,” what else is he capable of?
Obviously, he’s capable of a lot. Just look around.
A friend reminded me tonight that God–the universe–is intelligent, that the wisdom that makes the mustard seed transform into a tree also keeps the planets spinning and also makes my finger nails grow. And if it can hang a star in the sky and it can bring two strangers together so one can encourage the other without even knowing it, then that wisdom can certainly figure out my hospital billing. And if the first CT scan was off by nine degrees and my favorite number is nine, that’s probably not an accident, so it’s probably just God letting me know he has something up his sleeve again, just like he had this blog up his sleeve when I moved in with Mom and Dad. To me, it may look like sloppy work, but that’s probably because, until now, I’ve been too busy organizing my sock drawer to notice that not only is God interested in me, but he’s also trying pretty hard to get my attention. And at least when I consider the heavens, I think that for God too, everything has its place. So surely that includes me. Surely I’m right where I need to be.
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
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Sometimes you have to give up wanting something before you can have it.
