On Miracles (Blog #1016)

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Okay. Where are we going tonight?

For the last 1,000+ days I’ve sat down to blog and had this question somewhere in my mind. Granted, there have been times that I’ve absolutely KNOWN–these are the things I want to say. But even then writing has been the adventure that creativity is, full of twists, turns, and oh-wow moments. Not one single time in the last three years have I not been surprised by what’s inevitably birthed here at this keyboard, be it a clever phrase, a happy joke, or a somber theme. Even when I’m totally blank and thinking, Well, that’s it, I’m all dried up, some idea comes along out of nowhere to save my ass. Even when I’m certain I’m creatively bankrupt, something good magically appears.

Overall, today has been fabulous. Almost everyone, or at least the news anchors, in our area have been concerned with the weather (there have been tornado warnings), but I’ve been concerned with brooches, working on framing a few recent acquisitions. And whereas I got one project done today, I’m still waiting on paint and glue to dry before I can finish two others. Ugh. Everything is always a process. Both in art and in life, it seems that nothing is ever “done.” The good news about this, I suppose, is that not being done leaves room for The Mystery. Until you’ve reached the last page in a book–the last word–the story’s not over.

This evening I had dinner with a friend I’ve known for–gosh–over fifteen years now, one of the first people I came out to. Anyway, they made spaghetti, and we did what we always do–laugh, share stories, console. Then while I was on my way home I thought about how so very often I’m worried about money but how time with an old, true friend is absolutely priceless. How even if I had all the money in the world it wouldn’t have made tonight any better.

Well, it might have paid for some chocolate cake.

But still, I was happy.

We had cookies.

When I got home I helped my dad put a homemade dog bed (fashioned from old bath mats and a comforter) in my parents’ room for our family dog, Ella. My parents have a waterbed, and there’s a crawl-through space, a hiding area underneath the headboard where I guess Ella likes to go to chill out, get away, and rest her paws. Anyway, I positioned her new bed inside the crawl space, and she went right to it. Later I checked and she was still there, totally relaxed, content. This is my point about being happy. We make it complicated, but–really–it takes so little. Currently I’m in a comfortable chair sipping hot tea and listening to the rainfall.

What more do you need?

Now, an hour ago, just before I sat down to blog, I checked my bank account because I need to pay bills tomorrow. And whereas I’m not destitute–y’all–it wasn’t pretty. Hell, it hasn’t been pretty in years, especially since I closed my dance studio and started chasing my dream of being a writer. (My therapist says, “You ARE a writer.” So I correct myself–chasing my dream of being a PAID writer.) Ugh. I have friends that make both positive and sarcastic comments about how NICE it must be to sleep in every day and spend my days reading, writing, and–now–framing brooches. And, y’all, it is. It is NICE. But trying something new and living a non-conventional life always comes at a cost. And whereas it’s not always a financial cost, it often is, at least for a while. I add “at least for a while” because that’s my hope, that–sooner or later–the lean times will fatten up.

Dear God, please make it sooner.

Earlier tonight my mom sent me a glorious and emotional video and testimonial by Steve Harvey. Essentially, years ago Harvey was on his last leg, down to his final $35, when he was offered a stand-up gig in New York. Phew, you might think, but Harvey didn’t live in New York and–newsflash–plane tickets cost more than $35. But then–just like that–two other stand-up gigs came through and Harvey was able to make the New York gig. From there, his career took off. Later Mom and I were talking about it, and she reiterated Harvey’s advice–never give up. Because you’re CERTAIN to not succeed if you quit. But if you keep going, well, anything could happen. God could step in.

“That’s one thing about God,” I told Mom. “He always waits until the last damn minute. He’s so dramatic.”

“He certainly can be,” Mom said.

That’s Mom, ever the diplomat.

Getting back to creativity and writing and the idea that you never know what’s going to appear, I suppose this idea applies to our lives too. That is, just when we least expect it, something good comes along. My therapist says she’s noticed this happens a lot for me. Whenever I’m down and thinking, I am SO SCREWED, the universe saves my ass. Out of nowhere, a check shows up. An idea comes along. Even it’s not a windfall (so far it’s never been a windfall), it’s enough to get me through. Regardless, I’m always left dumbfounded, amazed. Just like I am when I consider any good fortune, including any good friend who comes into my life. I think, I never could have planned this. I’m always so surprised. That’s the thing. You never see miracles coming.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"No one's story should end on the ground."

you never see miracles coming

We All Need Soothing (Blog #967)

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Well crap. All day I’ve been worn the eff out. The last few days I’ve slept more than a bear in hibernation, but I just can’t seem to get my rear in gear. Plus, my hips have been hurting. The weather must be changing. Oh no. Is THIS what it’s like to get older? If so, you can have it. Of course, it beats the alternative (dying). Still, I wonder if it wouldn’t help if I were a SMIDGE less cognizant of my body. That is, as a dancer I’m pretty tuned into every square inch of my physical self, and–I don’t know–maybe I wouldn’t make such a big deal about things getting slightly out of whack if I were one of those less self-aware people who, as my dad says, can’t find their ass with both hands. But just imagine how inconvenient that would be.

Especially when going to the bathroom.

But I digress.

I spent this afternoon doing laundry, first my clothes, then my sheets. That’s right, smart alecks, I’ve now washed my sheets twice this quarter. (Miracles never cease.) Anyway, while the washer and dryer were doing their thing, I started reading a book about the importance of the vagus nerve, the longest nerve (that’s actually two nerves) in your body and the one that’s the most responsible for regulating not only your sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems, but also your heart, liver, and lungs. In other words, it’s important. And whereas I haven’t gotten to the part in the book about how to consciously activate your vagus nerve (and thus calm down your body and stimulate healing), I’ve heard before that humming or singing, as well as gentle rocking, help switch your vagus nerve from the “let’s freak out” to the “everything’s gonna be just fine” position. This makes sense to me. Think about how babies respond to humming, singing, and gentle rocking. Well, you and I are no different.

We all need soothing.

This evening I helped a friend update their website. Okay, fine, we technically started over, since their site hasn’t been updated in eight years. And whereas starting over obviously required more work, we had the best time. At least I did. I spent most of my college years engrossed in photography, layout, and design and have spent most of my years since engrossed in writing and communication, so this really was the perfect thing for my friend to ask me to do. I dove right in. That being said, since each website hosting platform is different, much of tonight was a learning curve–how to change font sizes and what not. But hey, I like learning and my friend bought dinner, so Hakuna Matata!

My friend and I worked on their site for–I don’t know–four hours, then I worked on it a few more when I got home. I guess I got hyper-focused on figuring out how to add pictures and link to their social media accounts and couldn’t let it go. (I’m no Elsa.) While I was with my friend I kept futzing around with text alignment–to the left, to the center, to the right. My friend said, “This is why you DON’T want someone who’s OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE designing your website.” I said, “This is why you DO want someone who’s obsessive compulsive designing your site.” Along these lines, my therapist says there are times when my perfectionism serves me. Because it allows me to attend to ALL THE DETAILS when redecorating a room or redesigning a website or whatever. I just need to be able to turn my perfectionism off so I don’t use it against myself. (Like, my nipples aren’t perfect, and all that.)

JUST ENJOY YOUR NIPPLES, MARCUS.

Now, the fact that I stayed up until two tonight working on my friend’s site when 1) I was already tired and 2) there’s not a deadline–I guess–means I haven’t quite figured out how to turn my perfectionism off. At the same time, it may just mean that I got excited about something, and there’s nothing wrong with that. We creatives (that is, all of us) need to get enthused about new projects now and then. My friend and I tonight were brainstorming ideas and ended up laughing, laughing, laughing. This is huge. Not just having fun, but also bringing LIFE to yourself, to others, and to your work.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Obviously, God's capable of a lot. Just look around."

Get It Over With (Blog #681)

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This afternoon I went to Starbucks to work on a writing project I’ve been dreading tackling for weeks. Truth be told, I always dread writing. I make it out to be this big thing in my head. I probably won’t know what to say. It’s going to be awful, worse than drinking a bottle of cough syrup. With respect to today’s writing project, this monologue has been building momentum for days, and earlier today I almost convinced myself to procrastinate this thing until next week. After all, I do have an ingrown fingernail on my right pinky, and since it smarts every time I hit the enter key, I figured I had a legitimate medical reason for staying home and watching Netflix.

Alas, I ended up telling myself, Marcus, you’re never in the mood to write. No writer is ever in the mood to write until they start writing, and dragged my happy little ass and not-so-happy ingrown fingernail to Starbucks. Still, despite the fact that I was there, I stalled–ordered a drink, checked my Facebook, took forever organizing my papers, went to pee. Finally, after staring at a blank page and thinking real hard for fifteen minutes, I wrote my first paragraph. Then my second, then my third. Then I was on a roll, and just like that, two hours flew by. Two hours, that was my self-imposed time limit. Just work for two hours, Marcus. See what you can get done in two hours.

When two hours was up, I’d finished over half of my project. What’s more, I’d actually had fun. Not only had I gotten out of the house (and run into a friend), but I’d also created something I was proud of. There was all this buildup about it not turning out well, but at some point during the process I thought, Hell, Marcus, YOU ARE A WRITER.

After packing up my things at Starbucks, I came home for a snack then headed back out to the gym. They close early on the weekends, so that was part of the reason I limited myself to two hours of writing. Plus, I figured I didn’t have to burn through the entire project in one sitting. It’ll be there tomorrow. Anyway, I’m actually starting to enjoy the gym. I have spent quite a bit of time there “in my younger days” and have started to remember what it’s like to push yourself and see results. Today while working on my shoulders, I rolled up my sleeves because they’re starting to get a hint of definition (my shoulders, not my sleeves). Oh my god, how exciting, I thought, I have muscles!

GRRR.

While at the gym, I noticed a teenager in a knee brace. I wonder if he’s had surgery, I thought. Sure enough, there was a red scar on the front of his leg. I don’t know, maybe having knee surgery is like that deal when you buy a new car then suddenly notice EVERYONE ELSE has the same car you do, since I’m beginning to spot people of all ages who’ve apparently been through the same thing I have. Hell, last night I found out that my celebrity crush, Zac Efron, recently tore his ACL and had surgery. (He’s currently on crutches.) But really, is that bizarre or what? He even injured his left knee, just like I did.

When I told my mom about this fascinating coincidence, she said, “Well if that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.” (Everyone’s a comedian.) “I know,” I said. “It’s meant to be.”

You can’t always trust your thoughts and feelings.

Now it’s nine in the evening, and I’m excited about finishing this blog and having the rest of the night to myself. Maybe I’ll read a book, maybe I’ll watch a movie. Either way, I’m really leaning into this idea of being able to make progress by spending an hour here, an hour there on something. For example, it’s been just over six weeks since my knee surgery, and I really am getting around better and growing stronger, and it’s all happened an hour at a time. Likewise, I made noticeable progress today with my writing project, and it was just a small slice of my day. Now I’ve got six hundred words that I didn’t have before. Also, I’m learning that you can’t always trust your thoughts and feelings. That is, if there’s something you’re dreading, guaranteed, you’re going to think and feel differently about it after having done it. So whether it’s a creative project, a trip to the gym or doctor’s office, or a hard conversation, just get it over with. You’ll be glad you did, I promise.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are surrounded by the light.

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On Doing Difficult Things (Blog #659)

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It’s 11:30 at night. An hour and a half ago I sat down to blog but have been procrastinating ever since by cleaning out my email inbox and searching online for alternative health solutions. I really don’t know what to talk about today. Once this afternoon and once this evening I practiced knitting, and I’d rather be doing that. Or reading a book. Or watching Netflix. (The fifth season of Grace and Frankie just came out.) Really, I’d rather be doing anything else but writing. Oh look–there’s a jar of peanut butter.

Eating peanut butter sounds like a good thing to do.

Last night after blogging, I went to the gym. I really like going late at night; there’s hardly anyone there. That being said, because my gym’s not open late on the weekends, today I went this afternoon. And whereas there were some hot bodies to look at (well, one in particular), it was definitely more crowded and less fun. Hell, I thought I was gonna have to fight an old lady for the last available exercise bicycle. Thankfully, she was apparently eyeing another piece of equipment. But still, I usually have all five bikes to myself, and today I felt crowded. I guess conspicuous is a better word. In my opinion, my rehab exercises look weird. You know how you assume everyone’s staring at you constantly, even though they’re not.

The truth–nobody gives a shit what you’re doing.

When I got home from the gym, I took a nap. Because my achy leg wakes me up constantly during the night, nap time is the best part of my day. It’s fabulous. Also, this lack of solid sleep thing is a drag, a serious drag. Even now, despite the nap, I’m finding it difficult to concentrate or string two thoughts together. My mind and body are just done. Go back to sleep, they’re saying. Maybe this is why Netflix or knitting sound appealing. Neither requires much mental power.

Hum. That’s something. I just said knitting doesn’t require much mental power, which means it’s getting easier. (I just learned a few days ago.) That’s good. Likewise, doing my rehab exercises and going to the gym are getting easier. They’re becoming part of my routine. Not necessarily a fun part, mind you, but a part nonetheless.

Where am I going with this?

I said earlier that I didn’t want to write tonight. Still, here I am writing, so clearly a part of me does want to write tonight. Sometimes people say I’m disciplined–I write every day, I do my rehab exercises consistently, whatever. And whereas I agree that I’m disciplined in these areas, since I know there are areas in my life in which I’m not disciplined, I usually just think of myself as being “sold on” these activities that I consistently do. That is, I really want to be a writer and am sold on the idea that writers write. I’m sold on the idea that if I do this every day for a certain period of time, I’ll learn something valuable. Along the same lines, despite the fact that I hate having injured my leg, I’m sold on the idea that if I do my rehab exercises, I’ll get better. One day I’ll run again; one day I’ll dance again. So I do the thing even when I don’t feel like it.

I guess that’s my point tonight. If it’s worth doing–if there’s some reward on the other side of doing it–you’re probably rarely going to feel like doing it. It’s not a warm, fuzzy message, I realize. It’s just the truth. There is a warm, fuzzy part, however. Once you do the thing, then the good feeling comes. For example, now that this blog is over, I’m glad I did it. I feel a sense of pride, of accomplishment that no one can take away. So that’s the deal–a part of you will never feel like doing the difficult thing–never. Whatever it is, it’s difficult for a reason. That is, it’s not fun. But a great part of you will always feel good after having done the difficult thing–always. The fun comes after the fact.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is all right and okay.

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on patience (blog #14)

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This afternoon I submitted an essay I wrote in a writing contest, and I noticed I felt uncomfortable as I was completing the online submission form. Well, wait. My therapist says “uncomfortable is not an emotion,” so I guess it would be more accurate to say that I felt nervous, or anxious, or afraid. Honestly, it’s probably the same way I felt when I hit the publish button for this blog—vulnerable—except I wasn’t shaking as much, and I didn’t feel like my bowels were about to fall out in the middle of the magazine section of the Fort Smith Public Library.

So it could have been worse.

My first thought about what I was feeling is that it had to do with my fear of being judged. My second thought is that it had to with fear of being judged. But after banging my head against the wall for the last thirty minutes trying to figure out where this story is going, I think that feeling of nervousness, anxiety, and fear had more to do with the fact that I’m not being patient with myself.

I’ll explain.

About a year ago, I noticed that I was getting really frustrated with just about everyone in my life. Sometimes it was my dance students, sometimes it was my parents, and sometimes it was the checkout person at the grocery story. It was like I just wanted to scream, “Why the hell can’t you figure this out?” to everyone I came in contact with. When I talked to my therapist about it, I said, “I wish I could be more patient.” And I don’t even think she thought about it very long before she said, “Well, you’re not very patient with yourself.”

Well, for someone who spends a lot of time reading self-help-spiritual-love-your-neighbor books, this was a real buzz kill because I thought I was further along the road in terms of patience. I must have obsessed about it for a couple of weeks. I even talked to my friend Craig about it. (He’s a retired therapist, so I guess it counts as an official second opinion.) Craig said it was possible for me to be patient with myself, but just not in certain circumstances.

When I took this second opinion back to my therapist, she agreed. She said, “I imagine that you’re really patient with yourself when you’re learning to dance.”

This evening I taught a dance lesson to a couple who are getting married later this month. The guy has a SUPER deep voice and sounds like what might happen if James Earl Jones and Morgan Freeman had a lovechild. I mean, if cognac had a voice, it would sound like this guy. Every time he opens his mouth, I’m mesmerized. Like he could ask me to jump off a bridge, and I’d probably do it just because he sounds like God. Throw in a burning bush, and I’d be headed for heaven.

Well, the guy has seemed frustrated with his progress so far, even though he’s pretty much right on track with what’s average. Last week he said, “I have to do things over and over again before I can get them,” and it felt more like an apology than an explanation. My response was, “Good, repetition is how everyone learns best.”

When I see students get frustrated, I always try to be over-the-top encouraging because dancing really is difficult. It’s like learning a new language or learning to play an instrument. There are so many moving parts and so many things to think about all at once. It’s virtually impossible for someone without prior experience to come in and pick things up quickly. It takes time. It takes patience.

And whereas I know how long it can take to be a proficient dancer, it’s a really hard fact to get across to people. It’s like their expectations are too high, and they’re usually too hard on themselves.

Well shit.

So that’s the thing with the writing contest. My expectations are too high. I’m being too hard on myself. I’m thinking that everything I do has to be absolutely stunning, and it has to be recognized–now. But if I could take the patience I have when it comes to dance and apply it to writing—Wow—I can only imagine how much better all that nervousness, anxiety, and fear would be.

Before my lesson with the couple ended tonight, the guy said (in a really deep voice), “I’m going to get this.” And I think that’s the perfect thing because he didn’t say, “I’m going to get this—tonight.” He’s giving himself time. And isn’t that what time’s for? What I’m realizing is there’s often a long road between where you stand and where you want to be. But with patience as your traveling companion, the journey is much, much smoother.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Kindness is never a small thing."