Pontius Pilate and the Haters (Blog #1057)

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Tonight’s blog is #1057 in a row, the first of what I’m calling The Final Forty, since I only have forty more to go. And whereas a friend of mine told me last night that forty seemed like a lot to them, after nearly three years of this, it doesn’t seem like that much to me. Indeed, despite the fact that I’d rather be in bed right now, the thought of NOT blogging on a daily basis makes me a bit twitchy. I’ve gotten so much out of The Process that I think, What will I do when it’s over? How will I handle myself? My aunt, who thought I was going to quit at a thousand but over the holidays found out I had three more months to go, said, “You just can’t stop can you?” Well, yeah, I can–watch me, suckas–I’m just going to have to pray about it first.

In terms of The Process, more and more I’m learning to trust it. For example, for a while now I’ve had it in my mind that three years was the appropriate or “right” amount of time for me to blog. And whereas one of my original thoughts was that this blog would turn my life around on the outside (it hasn’t, by the way), it’s ended up turning my life around on the inside. So that’s good. Plus, just over the last few months, things have begun to turn around on the outside as well. For example, I’ve come across a couple healing things that have been extremely helpful. Consequently, I’m feeling better than I have in a long time. I hoping more, believing more.

This is no small thing.

Getting back to trusting The Process, I’ve learned that trusting The Process involves trusting–and following–your gut. Like, three years of blogging felt right, I’m doing it, and things are working out. Even my final blog number (I have this weird thing with numbers) is working out. Like, I thought it was going to be a 6 (365×3=1,095 / 1+9+5=15 / 1+5=6), but I realized recently it’s going to be a 7 because of leap year (1,095+1=1,096 / 1+9+6=16 / 1+6=7). And 7 is the number of completion. (But I thought your favorite number was 9, Marcus. Didn’t you want your final blog to be a 9?) Sure I did. And it is, in months. 3 years=36 months, and 3+6=9. Bam. And whereas I’ll never be able to prove to anybody that this “means” anything or that it’s confirmation I’m doing the right thing (for me), I don’t need to.

This is part of my message, if you want to call it that. Whatever path you’re on should make perfect sense to you. However illogical it may seem to someone else. What’s more, you should be absolutely convinced your path was sent to you by the gods. Like, I’m on a divine mission, get out of my way, bitches. Now, I’m not suggesting you think of yourself as Jesus Christ (they put people in institutions for that), but I am suggesting that, like Christ, you care more about your inner guidance than you do the wisdom of your friends, family, and the rest of the world. Ugh. That guy had it figured out. When Pontius Pilate and the Haters (sounds like a band name, I know) tried to get Jesus to defend himself, he refused. Rather, he stayed silent. Talk about inner strength and certainty, a man who didn’t need to explain himself to anyone other than heaven. Although I’m sure it was tough for him to keep his mouth shut. In this sense, Pilate was a tool for Christ’s transformation, an opportunity for him to take possession of his own spirit instead of giving it over to the day’s drama.

They didn’t call Jesus Master for nothing.

Hum. I didn’t mean to talk about Jesus, but here we are, and perhaps that’s okay. (It’s okay.) I mean, I started off talking about trusting The Process, and Jesus clearly trusted The Process. Granted, he told his dad, “I can think of other things I’d rather do on a Friday afternoon,” but still, he sacrificed: his will, his desires, his–um–life. Alas, this is what The Path often looks like. Sacrifice. Giving up.

Letting go, damn it.

In my experience, sacrifice and letting go aren’t the worst things. For example, this blog has been a sacrifice–a sacrifice of my time, my sleep, my health, my finances (websites don’t host themselves). And yet for all I’ve given up to make this thing happen, it’s given me so much more in return. From what others tell me, it’s given them so much more too. So if you had to sacrifice something, everything, in order to follow your heart’s desire and get more in return, wouldn’t it be worth it? If you had to let go of your old life in order to step into your new one (and you do), wouldn’t you gladly? I mean, here’s the deal. You HAVE to let go of everything when you die anyway. Why not get it over with now and spend the rest of your life free?

Caroline Myss says most of us don’t trust the divine because we think God’s going to take away our material possessions or–I don’t know–ask us to hang on a cross. And whereas these are valid concerns–God’s done it before–more and more I believe that heaven is on our side, rooting us on, just wanting us to see what’s important (what’s inside) instead of what’s not (what’s outside). Not that what’s outside is bad. Stuff’s absolutely not a problem, as long as you control it and not the other way around. Death isn’t a problem either. Jesus looked it square in the eye and said, “You have no power over me.” Not that death couldn’t take his body, it obviously could and did, but it couldn’t take his spirit. This is what The Path and The Process are all about, using both your inspirations and challenges (whatever your personal Pontius Pilate and the Haters look like) not as indicators that tell you how you’re doing (compared to others), but as tools for transformation.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Freedom lies on the other side of everything you're afraid of.

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On How You Move Mountains (Blog #985)

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Last night my dad and I went to the gym. I started off doing my own thing in a back corner away from Dad but eventually ended up beside him, me on an elliptical and him on a recumbent stepper. And whereas I was really going to town, breathing hard and everything, he was like, moving at a snail’s pace. So when we both wrapped up, I said, “You’ve been on that machine for FIFTY minutes, and I’ve only been on mine for FIFTEEN. And yet you’re COMPLETELY dry and I’m DRENCHED in sweat.”

“That’s because I’m in so much better shape than you are,” he said.

Everyone’s a comedian.

This afternoon I saw The Brainstem Wizard, the upper cervical specialist who’s currently changing my life. Well, to be clear, my nervous system is changing my life. My doc is just helping my nervous system out by getting my “head on straight.” For years I’ve complained about headaches, shoulder pain, back pain, and posture problems. In only two weeks, all these things are dramatically better. This last week I didn’t have a single headache. My shoulders are less rounded. Today I told my doctor that after each treatment I experience different sensations in my body. The first time I cried. Today I felt blood rushing to my head. “That’s how it goes,” he said. “It’s whatever the body wants to work on.”

What I appreciate about this form of treatment is that it views the body as innately intelligent. For at least a decade I’ve tried multiple ways to get the tight muscles in my shoulders and hips to loosen up with minimal results. Now I know those muscles were tight for a reason; my head was too far forward, and my body was trying to stay in balance. Well, now that my head is in a better position, those muscles that have been tight for years are beginning to loosen up. Just like that. Finally. Mountains are moving.

I wish I could say that this were a one-and-done miracle, but it’s more like a twenty-nine-and-done miracle, since twenty-nine visits over a year is what my doc suggested and what I agreed to. Considering my list of health problems has been growing the last few years and that my doc says his job is to take items OFF that list, the time and money I’m having to put into this are well worth it.

It’s always worth it to invest in your health.

With my 1,000th blog quickly approaching, I’ve been thinking about how I’ve changed for the better thanks to both nearly three years of blogging and nearly six years of therapy. Mostly I’ve been thinking about how although I’ve had a number of especially healing nights at this computer and especially healing days in therapy, I can’t put my finger on exactly WHEN I changed. You know how you look at yourself in the mirror every day. Sure, you notice a gray hair there, a little extra fat there. But until you whip out last year’s photo or try to squeeze into last season’s jeans, it doesn’t click that something’s different than it used to be. You think, When did it happen?

When did it not?

By this last question I mean that we’re always in the process of change. When it comes to going to the gym, seeing a therapist, or writing a daily blog, it’s not the individual visits or posts that change us, it’s the process itself. This afternoon I realized that I’ve recently checked out half a dozen books from an online library. Well, not only do I not have the time to read them, I also don’t have the desire. And yet my inner completionist says I should. My inner good student says there’s something to learn. But the truth is that no one fact or book is going to change me. It’s what I do with that fact or book, how I choose to integrate it into my life that makes the difference.

Along these lines, I have a personal beef with self-help posts with titles like “Twelve Thing I learned in Therapy.” Not because I don’t love a good list (I love a good list), but because I’ve read others’ lists and books until I’m blue in the face and know that lists don’t change you. Memes don’t change you either. Because they’re just words. This blog is just words. Even if they’re true words, they have no power. You, however, have plenty of power. You have the ability to take an idea and animate it. You can read “exercise” or “be kind” or “be honest,” and you can breathe your life into these ideas. Better said, you can BECOME these ideas. This is how you change yourself, this is how you change the world, and this is how you move mountains. Not with one part of you, but with the entirety of your being.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s a lot of magic around you.

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Each Step is Necessary (Blog #866)

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This morning I finished painting a room I started painting a couple weeks ago before The Great Upset Stomach Incident of 2019. Well, I technically didn’t paint it today. Rather, I scraped paint off the windows then cleaned up the mess I made on the floor. Then I put the light switch and electrical outlet covers back on. This is all part of the process when painting a room–the details. With respect to this particular project, twenty percent of my total time was spent either getting the room ready to paint or putting it back together after having painted it.

After finishing that room, I started on another. This room was smaller than the first, but it still took over an hour to tape off the carpet around the baseboards, scrape off some old paint that was peeling inside the closet, and get the drop cloth down. Once things were prepped and ready to go, I was ready to go. That is, I took a break so I could see my chiropractor and grab lunch. Later, I came back and got one full coat of paint applied to that room. Ugh. I’d wanted to finish the whole thing tonight, but things always take longer than you want them to.

This is what tomorrow’s for.

Several days ago I figured out the rash on my arm is ringworm, a fungus. I can’t tell you how grossed out I’ve been about it. Anyway, I’ve been putting anti-fungal cream on it and, honestly, probably overdoing it. Still, although I have to admit it’s colorful to look at, I want the damn thing gone. Well, after three days of applying the cream, I couldn’t tell a difference. I thought, Maybe I’m doing something wrong. MAYBE IT’S CANCER! But then just like that, this morning, I noticed a significant positive change. Now it’s pink instead of red. There’s new skin forming. My point is that, first, if you just look at things as they are–a half-painted room, a fungus on your arm–you can’t always tell something good is happening. Second, if you’re not patient, you’ll probably get real frustrated and and think things are worse than they are.

There’s a famous tale that gets told a lot in spiritual circles. A wise man prayed that his teenage son would always be safe, and the next day his son fell off a horse and broke his leg. “How awful,” the villagers said, but the wise man stayed silent. Later when a war broke out and most the town’s youth were drafted to their ultimate demise, the wise man’s son was spared. How could he fight with a broken leg?

So often this happens in our own lives. We think something is awful, and it turns out to be good. Today my chiropractor and I talked about my current frustrations, the chief of which is that it often feels like I’m doing everything right and not getting the results I want (in my health, in my life). However, the truth is that I have a limited perspective. I look back on my life thus far and think, All of that was necessary preparation. So wouldn’t it make sense to think that what I’m living NOW–even with all its pains and frustrations–is also necessary preparation for what I will be living LATER?

Of course it would.

Each step is necessary.

My chiropractor’s suggestion was for me to see how much I could embrace. That is, often when things aren’t going how we want them to, we push against the universe. We go to work with a scowl on our face and curse and spit at every opportunity because we feel we’re being put upon by life. (Or is that just me?) But there is another option. Personally, I know I have it within me to ENJOY whatever it is I’m doing, whomever I’m around (well, almost). I can EMBRACE the moment–half-painted room, a fungus among us, this is my life right here, right now. I can recognize that everything is part of The Process. I can recognize that each step is necessary. I can recognize that all things are progressing, healing as they should.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Perfection is ever-elusive.

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Let’s Talk about Poop (Blog #819)

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This morning I mowed my parents’ lawn, and because the grass was both thick and damp, made an absolute mess of myself. You should have seen my legs. They looked like they belonged to someone of a different nationality. I had my shirt off, and even my back was covered in filth. Afterwards, when I was in the shower, the water slowly washed it all away. For a moment the dirt, mud, and grass swirled around the shower drain then eventually went to live somewhere else, somewhere other than my body.

Last night I redecorated my room because yesterday afternoon I bought a new (to me) statue at an antique store and wanted to display it. As I mentioned in last night’s blog, finding a place to put the statue led to rearranging almost everything on the piece of furniture where the statue now sits. This “moving around” process has continued today. After I mowed the lawn and took a shower, I combed through all of my on-display possessions in an attempt to listen to the voice inside me that was telling me it was time to “purge,” to clean up my room like I’d just cleaned up my body. And whereas when it was all over I’d gathered up a handful of books to donate to a local library, I first had an internal struggle.

My “purge” voice said, “Get rid of that book. You don’t need it. Let someone else enjoy it.”

Then my “hold on” voice said, “But it’s pretty. It has a nice cover. I like it.”

Then my “scarcity” voice said, “What if we NEED it later? What if we never find another book like it? What if there’s NOT ENOUGH?”

Finally, Marcus at the Head of the Table made a decision. “We’re getting rid of that book,” I said. “End of discussion.”

Honestly, I was almost swayed by my “hold on” voice. I’ve let go of a lot over the last few years–most of my worldly possessions and not a few relationships. Haven’t I given up enough already? Can’t I hold on to a book if I want to?

Well, yes and no.

I’ll explain.

Our souls don’t cling to A Thing.

I have a lot of possessions that I like and enjoy but am not “attached” to. This means my butt might pucker a little if someone were to break or steal them, but, by the end of the day, I could gladly part with them. However, there are certain items that part of me clings to, that like Gollum in The Hobbit says, “We needs it.” This is when I absolutely know the best thing to do is buckle down and balls-to-the-wall set it free. Because we’re born into this life with nothing, and we leave with nothing, and I’ll be damned if a book or any other physical possession is going to turn me into a “hanger-on-er.” Our souls arrive free, and they leave free. They don’t cling to A Thing.

Byron Katie says that “letting go is sometimes experienced as sadness,” but that ultimately the sadness you feel isn’t about letting go of any possession (or person), but rather about letting go of your beliefs–the belief that you NEED something (or someone), the belief that you’re more or less because you have it (or them) or not. Yesterday I said that because everything in life is connected, changing one thing means changing everything. This applies to physical, outer-world changes, and especially to non-physical, inner-world changes, or–beliefs. As Katie would say, the letting go of a belief is the letting go of “a whole world.”

So of course you’d be sad.

Last night I went to dinner with my friend Kate and her four-year-old son. We all rode to the restaurant together, and at some point during the ride Kate’s son–out of the blue and unprovoked–said, “Marcus, let’s talk about poop.” Kate and I laughed, and I said, “Okay, let’s talk about poop.” Later I told Kate, “That’s going to be the name of a blog post,” and it’s pretty much been all I’ve been able to think about today, mostly because poop is the perfect metaphor for letting go and getting rid of that which no longer serves you. Sooner or later, you gotta do it. If you don’t, you’re gonna have a problem.

So get this shit. (See what I did there?) Today Kate’s husband, Aaron, posted a meme about that feeling you get when you’re ALMOST HOME but losing the “I gotta go number two” battle. I’ll spare you the visual details, but my initial reaction to his bathroom humor was the same as Aaron’s Mom, who said, “That’s really GROSS.” Well, Aaron, ever the comedian, responded, “The truth is gross, Mom.”

Amen. Truer words were never spoken.

In my adventures in mental health and personal and spiritual growth, the truth is nasty, filthy, a monster, and rarely fun. Like poop, it’s anything but cute. What I mean is that it’s hard as hell to get honest with yourself and others. Since starting this journey, I’ve had more difficult conversations with people I love or have loved than I care to recount. Often these conversations looked like confrontations, confrontations I either started or was on the receiving end of. My therapist says, “Is it fun to have these talks? No. Would I rather talk about something trivial? Yes. But uncomfortable, truthful conversations are the foundation or healthy relationships.”

In my experience, although I wish there were another way, this is accurate. For years, decades, I tried to hold on to my secrets until they were finally too much and I got the courage to tell my therapist, my friends, and family, “Let’s talk about poop. Let’s talk about the shit in our lives.” Again, these hard conversations, as well as letting go and changing, aren’t pleasant, but they’re the only reliable ways I’ve found to produce inner peace, further self-acceptance, and foster true connection with others. This is something Jesus forgot to say directly, that the truth will set you free–you’ll like the results–but you ain’t gonna like the process.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Storms don’t define us, they refine us.

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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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Life is better when we're not in control. When we mentally leave room for anything to happen, anything can.

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The Prep and the Primer (Blog #814)

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This afternoon I helped my friend Kim start painting her kitchen. I say “start painting” because, like nearly every other damn thing in life, it’s going to be a process. (I hate that.) That being said, we made a lot of progress. Before today the entire kitchen–the walls, the baseboards, the molding–was apple green. Now only about half of it is. So even though there’s more to do, it’s clear you can get a lot done in a day.

So why not take a day and do something?

Kim said her least favorite part of painting was the prep work–scrubbing the walls clean, patching any holes. Alas, her husband, Grant, insists on “doing things right.” Personally, I agree with both of them–the prep work needs to be done, and it’s no fun doing it. Likewise, I don’t enjoy putting primer on walls, or, truth be told, the putting first coat of paint on walls. Because things still look sloppy, incomplete. No, for me, the fun part is the last coat of paint, when it all comes together. Then what REALLY thrills me is putting the room back IN ORDER, hanging pictures up and such.

Gay, I know.

The obvious point is that you can’t put pictures up without first doing the prep work, then doing the primer coat (if needed), then doing the first coat, and so on. Again, it’s a process, a process that if not “done right” is gonna be obvious. We’ve all seen rushed painting jobs before and thought, This person cuts corners.

Or is that just me who judges someone’s entire personality by how they paint a room?

Currently I’m house sitting for a friend and am in their living room. The last time I blogged here (in this particular room) was about six months ago. I remember because I’d recently injured my knee and–because my surgeon told me I didn’t need my crutches (because “you don’t need your ACL to walk”)–was re-teaching myself how to walk and negotiate stairs. Talk about things you take for granted. I remember having to lie on the ground to wiggle my pants on and off. Now, like before my accident, I can put my pants on standing up.

Don’t be jealous.

Everything worth having takes time.

This last week I was discussing my knee injury with a friend of mine who is a personal trainer and said that I have a ways to go. For example, it’s still challenging to jump using my injured leg, to use that leg to lower myself down (steps or into a chair), or to put weight on that knee. However, my friend said, “But look how far you’ve come.” Is that a wonderful encouragement or what? So often I get hung up on progress not yet made, on walls not yet painted, instead of focusing on That Which Has Been Accomplished. I want to get to The End, to the hanging pictures part, so the temptation is to half-ass, rush through, or get impatient with The Process. But if five years in therapy and two years of daily blogging have taught me anything, it’s that everything worth having takes time. Also, I’ve learned that the work that really pays off is the work that nobody sees. It’s the prep and the primer. That’s why they call it The Hard Work–because it’s tedious and boring and nobody is going to praise you for doing it (probably not even your mother). But damn if it doesn’t make all the difference.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Beating yourself up is a far cry from self-respect."

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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Our world is magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small make a difference.

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Here on Planet Earth (Blog #780)

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This afternoon I lay in the sun while listening to an audio program about one’s Inner Critic. Thirty minutes on each side won’t hurt, I thought. Now I look like a lobster. Heat is radiating from my skin. What did I think would happen? Whatever. Inevitably I burn once every spring/summer, so I might as well get it over with. I’ve got my aloe vera handy. Even though it’s never–not once–kept me from peeling. (And neither have essential oils!) Oh well. Like it’s the worst thing in the world to shed your skin.

I’m speaking literally and metaphorically.

Other than the sunburn, today has been fabulous, easy-going. I read, I stretched. I drank enough coffee to wake up Rip Van Winkle. I’ve been telling my parents for weeks that I’d install grip-bars in their bathroom, and I cut and stained a 2×4 so that after it dries I can attach one of the bars to it. This evening my dad and I went to the gym, then we mixed concrete and set a post in their backyard that we’ll use to brace their fence with once the concrete hardens. I’ve made both these projects out to be “huge things” in my mind, but they’re really not. Granted, it takes time because there are steps involved. (Things have to dry!) But the steps themselves aren’t difficult or complicated.

At the gym, I did knee rehab. During one exercise that involved my TRYING to lower myself down using only my left knee (the one I had surgery on), my leg shook so much that my entire body vibrated. And whereas I wondered if anyone else noticed, I didn’t care. This is where my body is at, and this is what it’s going to take for it to get better. There are steps involved. A process to follow.

A process that involves shaking, apparently.

More and more, I’m grateful for The Process. I know I’ve talked about it a lot over the last two years, this idea that real progress is made slowly, that this requires a wheelbarrow full of patience, and that this sucks. (It does.) But it’s really been on my mind today, I guess because lately I’ve been experiencing The Results. For example, even though my left leg still won’t fully support me while going down stairs, it’s noticeably stronger than it was a month ago. I can use it to run, to jump. Consequently, I feel freer. I’ve been stretching and doing some relaxation/meditation techniques and have been having fewer headaches. There’s still a lot of tension in my neck, it just doesn’t escalate to DEFCON One as often as it used to. Even better, I haven’t had a full-blown, I-don’t-know-what-I’m-going-to-do sinus infection in over a year.

Just as I’ve been experiencing more freedom in my physical body, I’ve also been experiencing more freedom in my mental/emotional one. I don’t have a specific example, I’ve just noticed that I’m happier, less irritable, less nervous, and less stressed. My bad moods pass quicker than they used to. My Inner Critic isn’t AS LOUD.

I have this teeny, tiny thing with wanting everything to be perfect, so I’d like to be clear–things aren’t perfect. Ugh. Perhaps they never will be (at least by my standards). Still, I’ve spent a lot of time on this blog being frustrated with things in my mental, emotional, and physical life that weren’t working and a lot of time searching for hope that these things would improve. And I just think it would be shitty if I never stopped and recognized that–phew–things have gotten better. So this is me saying, by grace and The Hard work, The Process is paying off.

This is me saying thank you.

Recently I heard Caroline Myss say that healing isn’t personal, that–chances are–even if you’re a miserable human being, the cut on your finger or whatever is wrong with your body is going to improve because, simply put, our bodies are programed to get better. The sun shines on the just and the unjust. This concept–healing isn’t personal–has been on my mind lately because I used to believe that everyone else could heal (or succeed or be at peace) but that I couldn’t. That I was somehow the exception to the rule. But having seen some fabulous results lately, I’m now telling myself that good things are just as likely to happen to me as they are to anyone else. Not because I’ve “earned” them (that would be personal), but because good things happen here on planet earth.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No good story ever ends.

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