On That Which Supports You (Blog #816)

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It’s four-thirty in the afternoon, and I’m in between appointments. Two hours from now I’ll be teaching a couple how to dance for their wedding. Yesterday they messaged me and said they’d been doing something few couples ever do–practicing. And whereas I’m hopeful (hope springs eternal), I’ve been in this business long enough to be prepared for mediocrity. Not that mediocrity would be the worst thing. Indeed, it would be leaps and bounds from where they started two months ago–rock bottom. That being said, mediocrity is not The Goal. The Goal is fabulous, stunning, like, oh-my-god wow.

Since I have a break in my day, I’ve stopped at a local park to blog. As the weather is gorgeous, I’d rather be outside of the shade of this pavilion, strolling and soaking up the sun. Alas, dear reader, I’m a dedicated and self-sacrificing daily blogger, so here I sit, writing. Truth be told, although this writing project has to happen at some point today, I’m using it to procrastinate another writing project. I’ll explain. Three weeks ago I started a short story writing class taught by my friend Marla, the goal of the class being to, by the end of the class (a week from tomorrow), produce a fully fleshed out and hopefully interesting short story, a short story being approximately 1,500 words. And whereas I’ve written more personal essays and non-fiction features of that length than you could shake a stick at, I’m not sure I’ve ever written a fiction short story of that length. Or any length.

In short (story), I’m terrified.

This feeling of terror is what I felt a week ago today when I first sat down to work on Marla’s assignment. At that point I only had a single sentence, a sentence that popped into my brain over two years ago like, Maybe that could be a story one day. Well, despite my all-day trepidation of I don’t know where this is going, shit, shit, shit, I don’t know what else to say, that single sentence, in the space of an hour, turned into three entire paragraphs, or three-hundred and nineteen words.

When I finished those three paragraphs Monday and read them in class the next day, I was elated. I felt like a rosy-cheeked kindergartner on show-and-tell day. Look what I did. As much as being enthusiastic as a writer, I was enthusiastic as a listener. Stephen King says that the author of a work is its first reader, and although my story is only a three-hundred word baby, I really do want to know how it’s going to grow up. I want to know what happens next, how this thing is going to end. Unfortunately, over the last week my wide-eyed enthusiasm about my story has turned to dread because–damn it–I’m the one responsible for writing it. In other words, if I want to find out what happens, I’m going to have to put my butt in a seat and do some actual work.

In terms of this blog, I’ve come to trust The Process. For over two years I’ve written daily and–I swear–most days I have no idea what I’m going to say. And whereas this used to scare me, now I just believe. There’s something there. Maybe I can’t see it, but I believe it’s there. Not because I have faith, but because I have over two years worth of proof. Something always comes up. My creative well is deep.

This creative confidence is something I’m trying to develop with respect to writing fiction. And whereas I wish it would simply show up and shine, I’m betting I’m going to have to work at it, to sit down every day, every damn day and practice like I ask my dance students to. Part of the problem, of course, is that I put a lot of pressure on myself. I tell myself, Let’s just sit down and play. Let’s just see what happens. Inevitably, however, I get one good sentence or paragraph and create a standard of perfection. I think, This can’t be mediocre. This needs to be fabulous, stunning, like, oh-my-god wow. This needs to pay the bills.

This, of course, is recipe for stress.

Recently I read something to the effect that when you have a longstanding desire or dream, you don’t have the privilege of getting to see from whence it springs. Think about how you can see a tree but not its roots. Or how you can see a building but not its foundation. In other words, our deepest wants for our lives (like, I want to be a full-time, paid writer) come from our subconscious, so although we’re conscious of That Which We Want, we’re unconscious of That Which Supports What We Want, of that which created what we want in the first place. I believe this is where creative terror comes from, believing that your dreams don’t have any roots or foundation, believing that you’re drawing water from a shallow well.

A few years ago I started a fiction novel. Like the short story I’m working on now, it excites me. Even though I haven’t touched in forever, whenever I think about my first paragraph, I absolutely melt. When I read it to my friend Marla way back when, she said, “Marcus, I can’t believe this is inside of you.” I think about this encouragement of hers a lot. As recently as this morning I picked up a random book and read things that I think will be useful whenever I get back to that story. My point is I think there’s something subconscious that wants me to write it, that’s supporting me in writing it.

There’s an idea if self-help and spirituality that we’re more afraid of being powerful than we are afraid of being weak. Because we’re used to being weak and we’re used to playing small. These things are comfortable, familiar. But being strong and big, being endlessly creative, the author of glorious stories? Whoa damn. My therapist says that getting what you want in scary. And although I’m not “there” yet, I agree. Just the idea of my dreams really coming true often keeps me from sitting down with my stories and finding out what’s there. Because getting what I want would mean really changing and not playing small anymore. It would mean no looking back. It would mean saying, “Here I am, World–roots deep, foundation strong–fabulous, stunning, like oh-my-god-wow supported.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Things are only important because we think they are.

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On Listening (I said, ON LISTENING!) (Blog #810)

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This morning I got up early to take my dad to the donut shop for his belated Father’s Day present–because he said he wanted a donut as his present instead of a burger or steak dinner. Talk about fun. Talk about a sugar rush. Talk about a cheap date. Every son should be so lucky. For under twenty bucks, I made my dad’s day. Seriously, the man loves donuts. Of course, I certainly wouldn’t turn my nose up at one.

Or two, filled with chocolate, for that matter.

This afternoon I taught a dance lesson to a couple who’s getting married soon. While discussing the need for a solid dance frame, I had the follower connect with me in closed (standard ballroom) position, her left arm on top of my right, her right hand in my left. At first, her arms were loose, “spaghetti arms.” But then she matched the tone in my arms (steady, like a wire hanger), and it felt like things “clicked.” “THERE!” I said. “That’s how you tell your partner–I’m listening.” At this point her fiancee, who works as a therapist, said, “Ahhhhhhhh.”

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately–the importance of listening. It’s something my therapist is awesome at, not only listening to, but remembering what I say. For example, despite the fact that I’ve seen her for five years, she’s never taken a single note–and yet she never seems lost. I’ll mention a name of a friend or an ex, and she’s right there. “Oh yes,” she’ll say, and then she’ll mention something she remembers about that person. When we’ve talked about her excellent memory, she’s said, “I exercise the shit out of it,” meaning that it’s something she consciously works to improve, not just with me, but with all her clients.

So often in conversation I’m thinking about what I’m going to say next. But recently I’ve been trying to listen more, to keep my damn mouth shut and pay attention the way my therapist does. This morning at the donut shop the lady behind the counter said she hears ALL KINDS of stories. Well, for a writer stories are gold, but you can only HEAR them if you’re NOT TALKING. Recently I started to say something at the same time one of my friends did, so I used a phrase I’ve been trying to use more often–“You go ahead.” My dad says that if he doesn’t say something right away then he’ll forget it. My take on this is that waiting to talk is an excellent way to IMPROVE your memory. My therapist says that if you forget something you were about to say, it wasn’t that important in the first place.

Listening, however, isn’t just important in your external world. It’s also important in your internal one. What I mean is that so often we listen to what others have to say about our lives and how we should be, and we even talk, talk, talk about our problems to anyone who will let us. But how often do we really get quiet and listen to our own hearts and minds? How often do we check in with not what we think we should think and feel, but with what we actually think and feel? In my experience, not often enough. Since starting therapy and this blog I’ve had countless experiences in which I had to finally recognize–I’m pissed, I’m hurting, I’m overwhelmed, I’m traumatized. These experiences are why I sometimes refer to myself as sweetheart–Sweetheart, I’m here for you–because I’ve ignored so many parts of myself for so long and am now trying my damndest to listen to them. To shut up and hear myself for once.

This evening I attended my friend Marla’s writing class and shared the beginning–because I only have the beginning–of a short story I wrote last night. When I started writing it I only had a sentence, one single sentence that’s been in my brain and in my phone for probably two years because, Maybe that could turn into a story one day. Despite the fact that I THOUGHT about that sentence all day yesterday, I couldn’t add anything to it. But then last night I closed my eyes and got quiet. I thought, Who is saying this one sentence, and what do they want to say next? I’m listening. And just like that, the voice of my main character started talking. Within an hour, I had three paragraphs of their story.

Tonight after I read my first three paragraphs in class, Marla and I were chatting and I realized something about my story that I hadn’t planned or done on purpose–that my main character had something important happen when they were four and that four was the age I was when our house burned down. And whereas I’ve always thought the fire was a source of trauma for me (and still think that), in my character’s story I referred to their important event as a gift. My point is that our subconscious and even our conscious minds and bodies are always trying to heal us, always trying to get us to move forward. Look at all the good that came from that horrible situation. Sure, we can fight this growth process, but one way or another, our issues are going to creep up and asked to be healed–in our dreams, our relationships, our art. So all the better if we can be conscious, if we can work with our issues intentionally, if we can say, Sweetheart, how can I help you move on? I’m listening.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can't build a house, much less a life, from the outside-in. Rather, if you want something that's going to last, you have to start on the inside and work your way out, no matter how long it takes and how difficult it is.

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On Advanced Decision Making (Blog #809)

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This evening I had dinner with a friend and casually mentioned a self-help concept called advanced decision making, or ADM. ADM means that, for example, rather than waiting until tomorrow morning to pick out your outfit, you do it tonight (in advance). Steve Jobs used to do this. Actually, he wore the same outfit every day. The theory behind ADM is that each of us only has so much in our mental, emotional, and creative reserves, and every decision we make–what to wear, what to eat, what to watch or listen to–depletes those reserves. (Sleep restores them). The same idea applies to willpower. How many times have you “been good” in terms of your diet all day long and ended up saying “fuck it” after dinner and having a donut?

According to this limited-reserves theory, it’s not that you weren’t a person with any willpower when you ate the donut, it’s just that you weren’t a person with any willpower at that moment–because you’d used yours up for the day. Getting back to ADM, because each decision we make drains our decision-making gas tank, the fewer decisions you have to make about things to don’t really matter (ugh–the blue shirt or the gray shirt?), the more–um–gas you’ll have for things that do.

In my experience with ADM, all of this is true. Take this blog (please), for example. In the beginning it took a lot of mental energy to make happen, but now it’s simply “a thing.” Said another way, when starting a new routine–a writing habit, a diet, an exercise routine–your mind is going to put up a fuss, especially if you’re wishy-washy about it. But once you decide in advance that “this is happening,” your mind will eventually calm down.

In terms of this blog, I know that no matter what happens every day, I’m going to write. There’s simply no question about it. The decision to write daily was made a long time ago, and until I reach my goal of three years, this is it–I blog every day. Period. End of story. No exceptions. Consequently, because I’m such a hard ass about this, I never waste an ounce of energy thinking, Will I or won’t I?, and have more energy for actual writing or anything else I choose to do.

In short, making decisions TAKES energy; made decisions GIVE energy.

Tonight I told my friend that I’m often surprised when I’m writing. There’s this idea that writers are just listeners–that we listen to our characters and that tell us who they are and “where to go,” not the other way around. Some people say this inner voice is The Muse talking or one’s subconscious. My friend said, “Well, it’s STILL YOU.” This is what I’d say to anyone who starts a new routine and later begins to put up a fuss–the person who decided to start the new routine, who made the advanced decision, is STILL YOU. Sure, maybe part of you wants to complain in the moment–I don’t want to write, I don’t want to exercise, I want a piece of cheesecake!–but this is a less mature part of you. And this is the beauty of ADM, that you don’t have to put up with your Inner Child’s whining. In other words, you get to be The Adult, the adult who says, “The decision has already been made. This discussion is over.”

And so is this blog.

Until tomorrow, of course.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We can rewrite our stories if we want to.

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Yesterday’s Casserole (Blog #796)

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This evening I attended a writing class taught by my friend Marla. And whereas we mostly discussed short stories and what they are (it’s a short-story writing class), we did have one assignment. The Prompt was “I don’t know why I can’t forget–.” We were supposed to take it from there. We had fifteen minutes. So rather than fill up tonight’s space with what I did today, I’d like to share what I wrote, since I think it’s something more organic and true. It begins below in non-italics (regular print).

However, before we begin, a few things–

Earlier in the class while introducing myself and talking about the blog, I said that I’ve learned to trust the writing process, to simply sit down and be honest. I said, “I know that whatever needs to come up, will.” This is true, my trusting the process. Not just in writing, but in therapy and life. I’ve come to believe that if I do my part, life will do its part. For example, when Marla gave the assignment tonight, I immediately knew how I would complete the rest of The Prompt. One specific thing came to mind. Then I started getting images, word associations. A quick mental outline formed. Fifteen minutes later, I was done.

Sometimes I think this is the best way to go about things, down and dirty. My therapist says our knee-jerk answers and gut reactions are often–usually–what’s most true for us. I’ve been listening to an audio program about one’s shadow (the inner shadow, not the outer one), and it says the same thing–that our first thought is usually our best thought, or at least the most potentially healing one. Like, if you said, “I’m most afraid of–” or “I’m terrified that people will find out–” and then quickly, without thinking, filled in the blanks, you’d probably find out something really important about yourself.

For the assignment tonight I wrote about something that, quite honestly, has annoyed the hell out of me for years. Something akin to a song that gets stuck in your head. And yet, tonight that thing ended up giving me more than it’s ever taken away. Caroline Myss says that you think something you can’t get out of your head–a little memory–is just an irritation, but that it’s actually there for a reason. That if you dig a little deeper, you may heal in some way. This was my experience tonight and is what I mean by Trusting the Process. Two decades of being irritated by something I’ve wished I could forget, and–bam!–in fifteen minutes that thing turned me upside down for the better. Because I finally listened (to myself).

As one writer has said, the subconscious is extremely efficient.

Yesterday’s Casserole
By Marcus Coker

I don’t know why I can’t forget my junior high science teacher saying, “Water is the universal solvent.” Over twenty-five years have passed since I first heard these words, and I still can’t—for the life of me—get them out of my brain. I’ll be taking a shower or washing the dishes, really scrubbing the dirt off, and a picture of Janice Massey, this middle-aged woman in a flower-print dress, will pop into my head and I’ll hear those words.

“Water is the universal solvent.”

I’ve thought a lot about this over the years, way more than I’d like to admit. Of all the useless facts to remember. I wish I could forget it. “Water is the universal solvent.” It’s like this broken record that plays in my brain every time I use water to clean something, every time I use water to soften something. “Water is the universal solvent,” my brain keeps saying.

“I know that!” I reply.

“Do you?” it says. “Do you really?”

Hum.

Thinking back to junior high and Mrs. Massey’s science class—that’s when we had that bad car accident. That’s when Dad left. That’s when, really, I stopped crying. Everything, I guess, was too much for me to handle, to talk about. Maybe, just maybe, I stiffened my upper lip, let myself get hard. You know the way old junk—yesterday’s casserole–will build up on your dishes if you don’t wash them off now and then. This is what I’ve been learning these last few years, that you can’t let the junk build up. You can’t stop crying. Recently I was writing about that bad car accident and absolutely broke down in tears because I realized how scared I was that night, how much I’d pushed down. Sobbing as I remembered, it felt like something softened, like my plate was cleaner somehow, like something finally dissolved.

Water is the universal solvent.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Any mundane thing–an elevator ride!–can be turned into something joyous.

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Ignorance Is Not Bliss (Blog #789)

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Today was therapy and therapy day. First I saw my regular therapist, then I saw my physical therapist. Now I’m so healthy I can’t stand myself. One of the techs at physical therapy noted that I was “still coming.” My physical therapist said, “He’s addicted to the pain.” I said, “I’m addicted to the progress.” This is what I’d say about regular therapy too–by simply showing up and doing the work, I realize consistent positive results.

Why wouldn’t I keep going?

Two weeks ago at physical therapy I hopped on one leg for the first time. And whereas it wasn’t pretty, it was something. Today that exercise was easier. Still not pretty, but easier. Then I jumped off a step with two legs and landed on one leg (my left, the one I had surgery on). “Like hopscotch,” my physical therapist said.

“Uh–it’s been few years,” I said.

“You know you’re in a hopscotch league,” another physical therapist chimed in.

“Yes, and I also do double-dutch jump rope on Saturdays,” I answered.

Landing on one leg was rough–shaky–but thankfully there was a rail to grab so I wouldn’t fall over. Shaky–that’s a good way to explain my experience with knee rehab. Sometimes my entire body quakes and quivers when I’m trying to lower myself down into a chair using only my left leg. Even still, I see progress. Today while lowering myself into a chair, I had more control than I’ve ever had since my injury (I tore my ACL six months ago). Also, with each new exercise, like the one-leg hopscotch landing, both my mind and body become less afraid. It’s like, Okay, we can do this.

At regular therapy, my therapist and I discussed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I read an article about OCD recently that said sometimes it takes the form of “information hoarding.” Well, you know how you can Google a health problem and all of a sudden convince yourself you have a deadly disease? Since I download, buy, and borrow books faster than I can read them, I thought, I have that. I’m an information hoarder. My therapist said, “I don’t think you’re as extra as you think you are. You’re not hurting anyone, and you’re not cancelling social engagements or missing work to stay home and download books, play video games, or wash your hands. When you get to the point that your books are piled up so high that you can’t walk in your house, then come back and talk to me about having OCD.” Then she added, “Personally, I think more people could buy a few books.”

Right?

Along the lines of people being uneducated, my therapist said, “People say that ignorance is bliss, but that’s a really ignorant statement.” Then she explained that when people lead unexamined lives, sure, there’s a certain “what I don’t know won’t hurt me” happiness in that. “But the price of self-ignorance is strife, drama, passive aggressiveness, anger, anxiety, and internal tension,” she said.

Among other things.

In terms of self-ignorance, I don’t know many people–myself included–who would gladly admit, Gosh, I don’t know much about myself. For an answer as to why, I harken back to a recent question I asked (and have often asked along The Path)–How can you know what you don’t know? Simply put, you can’t. I’ve mentioned before that I took reiki and meditation classes for years from an excellent teacher who talked about boundaries consistently. And whereas I remember hearing what she said, it didn’t sink in. It never occurred to me that my boundaries were off, even though–I can see now–they were. Likewise, despite a number of less-than-ideal relationships (both platonic and intimate), I never realized I was repeating PATTERNS, going through the same drama over and over, just with different characters. Despite my constantly reading self-help books, it took my working with a therapist (a trained professional) for me to see these things.

In my experience, you’re probably not going to wake one morning and–bam!–suddenly identify the unproductive patterns in your life and WHY they are there in the first place. Sure, you may intellectualize that your mother did this or your father did that, but chances are you won’t be able to draw a line from your childhood relationships and situations to your current relationships and situations. Not because you’re stupid, but because they don’t call it the UNCONSCIOUS for no reason. So how do you know what you don’t know? How do you bring the UNCONSCIOUS up? Simply put, you look for signs then work backwards.

I’ll explain.

Things that are unhealthy leave their mark.

Recently my car, Tom Collins, has been making a squeaking noise. Since we’ve been through this before, I know the squeaking means I need at least one new brake pad. (I should probably do something about that.) My point is that when something is wrong, there’s usually evidence of it. When you’re sick, you’ll either feel tired, get a runny nose, start bleeding out of your ears, or whatever. Like a slug that leaves a trail of slime behind it, Things That Are Unhealthy leave their mark. This same principle applies to one’s mental, emotional, and relational health. That is, if there’s something that needs your attention, your subconscious will create flare signals. It will SEND UP stress, anxiety, nervousness, conflict, and any number of other uncomfortable feelings in an effort to get you to check yourself out (rather than be checked out–or self-ignorant).

I started therapy because I was in a terrible (horrible, no-good, very bad) relationship. Looking back, that relationship was a distress signal. And whereas I could have blamed the other person (and did) or simply told myself that all my uncomfortable feelings were “normal,” I was so miserable that I had to do something about it. I had to do something about MYSELF. Because that’s the deal–if you’re arguing with the people in your life or things aren’t working at work, the answer starts with you. Only YOU can do something about YOUR problems. At the very least, I think, you have to ask yourself, Why am I willing to entertain this bullshit? In my case, I thought, What is wrong with me that I’m ATTRACTED to someone who lies and cheats (and lies and cheats some more)?

From there, I worked backwards. With my therapist, I identified A HISTORY OF PATTERNS. Slowly, we worked at breaking those patterns, at setting boundaries first with myself then with others. And I do mean slowly. Just like learning to hopscotch again doesn’t happen overnight, you don’t become self-enlightened overnight. I’m not sure it can even be done in one lifetime. Caroline Myss says, “Consciousness is expensive.” This means that becoming self-aware and self-possessed is hard work, The Hard Work. This is why people say ignorance is bliss–because they don’t want to put in the effort. They want to believe that they can “go along to get along” or simply “accept Jesus as their personal lord and savior” and not have to work out their salvation with fear and trembling. This truly is ignorance. You don’t learn to double-dutch jump rope without putting the time in.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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As taught in the story of the phoenix, a new life doesn't come without the old one first being burned away.

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Cussing Out My Inner Director (Blog #278)

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A few days ago my apparently very intelligent car, Tom Collins, told me that one of my tires had low pressure. This happened a couple months ago with the same tire. Luckily I was right by a gas station. Even better, it was one with free air. How about that? Sometimes life throws you a bone. The next day my brother-in-law said, “Did you know you have flat tire?” Well shit. I guess I ran over a nail. Sometimes life takes the bone back. As my dad said, “Son, you’re starting the new year off right.”

Today has been overwhelming. It began when my alarm went off in the middle of a dream in which I was both ill-prepared and late for a stage performance. I couldn’t get my hair to “do right.” Consequently, there was an announcement that the show would start six or seven minutes late. The director was not amused. When I tried to explain myself, she went straight for my gut and said, “You’re not even that entertaining.”

“Fuck you,” I said, and that was it.

This was not a pleasant way to wake up, my heart already racing. Additionally, I knew I had a lot to do today, including getting the flat tire repaired, finishing a book due back at the library, and writing today’s blog before teaching dance tonight. This is something I like to do–create lists of things I “have” to do that really aren’t that important. I mean, the flat tire was important–I need my car this week. But is it really the end of the world if I don’t finish a library book? Can’t I check it out again? And haven’t I written late at night plenty of times before? Still, I give myself these deadlines.

Now it’s four in the afternoon, and most of my to-do list is done (except the blog). Since I was stressed out, my dad took charge of the flat tire situation. The tire store is just a couple blocks away, so he called them and told them what was going on–we’ve got a flat tire and no way to air it up. Well, one of the guys actually came to the house with an air compressor and blew the tire up enough to get it to the shop. How great is that? Anyway, while that was being done, I finished the book I mentioned, the one about sinus health I’ve talked about before. (I’ve had the book for a full six weeks.)

On one hand, I’m glad to have the book finished. On the other hand, I’m overwhelmed (again) by all the recommendations it provided. My body really isn’t feeling great today, and when that’s the case, I just can’t think about buying two dozen vitamins, installing an air filter, finding (and paying for) an acupuncturist, starting a meditation practice, and learning to walk on water. Talk about frustrating. The book said that people with sinus issues often have “unexpressed anger,” but honestly, the main thing I’m angry about is the fact that I’ve been so fucking sick for three months and that getting better sounds about as easy as obtaining enlightenment. Maybe if I threw the book across the room, that would help. Or I could just start cussing more.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I know part of my frustration with not feeling well is the deadline thing. Like, next week I’m seeing a new doctor, but I think, I need answers now. I need to feel better now. This mentally, of course, contributes to my running around the internet, spending all my time and money looking for the latest home remedies and snake oils. I realize I’m not being patient. If anything, I’m being desperate. That sounds about right. I’m desperate for things to improve.

I plan to talk about it in therapy, but I think the dream was about deadlines too, that feeling of pressure I put on myself to perform, whether that’s daily blogging or making something “great” of my life. I want everything to be just so, and it feels as if life isn’t moving fast enough. Perhaps not so deep down, I feel like I’m not good enough. “You’re not even that entertaining.” The good news, of course, is that I told the harsh director to fuck off, meaning my subconscious is starting to question all my self-judgments and artificial deadlines. It’s saying, “Wait a damn minute, I’m doing the best I can here.” This is something I have to keep telling myself, that I’m doing the best I can, I have plenty of time, and there’s nothing to be desperate about.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is all right and okay.

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farts aren’t planned (blog #32)

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This morning I woke up with a tickle in my throat. I actually dreamed about it last night, and a friend in the dream told me to eat some yogurt. So that’s what I did when I got out bed because I wanted my subconscious to know that I’m listening to it. Now if I end up getting sick, I’m going to tell my subconscious to go screw itself, to which I’m sure it would reply, “Will you PLEASE go to bed sooner, quit eating ice cream and tacos for dinner, and stop thinking that you’re still twenty-three?”

Well, maybe today’s the day. With any luck at all, I’ll finish this post before the sun goes down, and I can get some sleep. Before the week is over, I plan to clean up my diet, start doing some push-ups. And then in two weeks, maybe my favorite pair of jeans won’t look like a pair of acid-washed yoga pants.

Whenever I decide to start or stop something, to form or break a habit, there’s always a lot of buildup and anxiety about it. I think about it, pray about it, think about it, pray about—for weeks, sometimes months. Not changing anything, mind you, just stressing.

Once a change HAS been made, I can rock out a good habit for a while—meditating every day, going to the gym five times a week, eating well. But then something happens, and that all goes to shit, and it’s cigarettes for breakfast and banana splits for lunch.

When things are going “the right way,” when I’m behaving like I think I should, I feel pretty good about myself. But when things fall apart, my go-to response is to beat myself up, to start “shoulding” on myself. My therapist says that’s because I want things to always be the same. But everything changes, she says. Even good habits fall away.

For the longest time, I would go to my therapist’s office and beat myself up about smoking cigarettes, a habit that started in my early twenties and effectively disappeared until I broke up with my ex three years ago. And while I was more concerned about my health and what other people would think if they found out, she was more concerned about the fact that I was shoulding on and judging myself. She said that one day I would have enough and quit.

And she was right. One day it became clear. I stopped. Just like the seasons, it changed.

This afternoon my friend Marla and I went to speak at our friend Anita’s writing class at the Fort Smith Public Library. (That’s our picture at the top of the blog.) Anita has been teaching writing in Fort Smith since God was a small child, and her second novel comes out this summer. Like her first novel, it’s about a murder that took place in Van Buren over thirty years ago. Anyway, I thought that I was going to the class to support Marla and reconnect with Anita, but had I read my messages more clearly, I would have known that I was actually going to speak about my glamorous life as a blogger.

So I winged it and read a story I wrote last September about how unhappy I was owning the dance studio and living in Fort Smith, how I wanted to write more and move to Austin. And then I talked specifically about the blog, and Anita told the class that if you don’t like R rated movies, don’t go to one, and if you don’t like four-letter words, don’t go to Marcus’s blog.

So even though I didn’t plan to speak, it all turned out fine. And what I loved about it is that there wasn’t any planning, no thinking about it and praying about it, no anxiety. It just happened.

When I finished, a dear lady named Marilyn said, “Marcus, I think you need to get on the next bus out of here. Just move to Austin.” And then several others chimed in and said, “Fuck it. You only live once.” (I’m paraphrasing. They didn’t actually say that.) But I totally felt encouraged, so I asked Marilyn if she’d like to take a selfie with me, and she said, “I would love that,” so here it is.

Alan Watts tells the story of a Buddhist monk who poetically stated that you can’t plan everything in life. You don’t think, I’m going to go to the supermarket at ten tomorrow morning and then “drop fart” at ten-thirty. And this is actually a spiritual lesson. Farts aren’t planned. They’re “a happening.”

Honestly, I think I give myself too much credit. It’s probably an ego thing. I think that I can control when I get sick and when I get well, when I work and when I don’t, and where I live. And I’m not saying I don’t have any influence in what I eat or when I go to bed or when I’ll move to Austin, but I do think my therapist and the Buddhist monk are right. One day, I’ll clean up my diet and go to bed sooner. One day, I’ll get on a bus and get out of here. When that is exactly, I can’t say, but I can save myself a lot of anxiety by not worrying about it so much. When it’s time, I think I’ll know it’s time, and it will simply happen. And just like the speech that wasn’t planned, it will all turn out fine, even if there are a few four-letter words along the way.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One day a change will come.

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