Denial Will Get You Through the Night (Blog #315)

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Today I don’t feel well. I’m exhausted, nauseated, and cranky. (Leave me alone.) I have a headache. I can’t tell you how much I want to feel like myself again. I’m fed up with being sick, with whatever this is. As Chris Rock says, “I’m tired of this shit–tired, tired, tired.” I give up. I cry uncle.

Also, I don’t know what to write about.

Earlier today I read about coping mechanisms–perfectionism, staying busy, drinking yourself under the table every night of the week and twice on Fridays–things like that. One coping mechanism that caught my attention, probably because it was used as an example, was denial. You know denial. It sounds like, I don’t have a problem, It won’t happen to me, and No, my son’s not gay, he just tweezes his eyebrows every morning and spends his afternoons shopping for Judy Garland memorabilia on eBay. (Don’t all boys?) Anyway, the book said that coping mechanisms like denial aren’t all-bad. Like, if you’re in miserable job or horrible marriage, don’t ignore the facts forever. But if you’re simply not ready to turn your life upside down this red-hot minute, grab a tub of ice cream and watch Sleepless in Seattle. In other words, denial won’t get you through the rest of your life, but it will get you through the night.

And don’t worry–your problems will still be there in the morning.

This is what I’m finding. No problem goes away until it’s fully acknowledged and dealt with. Honestly, I think that’s part of the reason I’ve been so worn out these last few months and why this blog has been so emotionally draining since its inception. It takes a lot to be vulnerable every day, to sit with all your good and bad memories, to really get honest about the deep waters stirring in your internal well. Seriously, I don’t recommend it, since most days you feel like crying, but you’re also afraid to because–What if I never stop? You think, I’m not sure this well has a bottom.

Personally, that’s what I’m not sure about. I believe I heal a little bit every day–at least on the inside–but we’re talking about over thirty years of memories and emotions here, and everything all jumbled altogether. Some days it’s like a tornado whirling inside, and you never know what’s going to be spun out. But I’m trying to trust that what needs to come up will come up when it needs to. This, of course, requires patience, and if I haven’t said it before–I hate that.

In addition to trying to be patient with my emotional body, I’m also trying to be patient with my physical body. I’m still waiting on the immunologist to call, and I go back to my internist in two weeks. Today I’ve been worried about my lethargy and malaise. I guess at some point I’ll need to do something about it. Like, I might have to take shots, change my diet, or put something on my skin. Even though I don’t have an official diagnosis or prescription yet, I’m sure there are some things I could be doing now. Like everyone else in America, I could always eat better. But tonight I had tacos and denial for dinner. I told myself, I’m fine–I’ll deal with whatever it is later.

Honestly, that’s all I can give myself at the moment–a break. A break from trying to figure everything out. A break from having to try so hard in the first place. A break from needing to be perfect. A break, I’m learning, is no small thing to give yourself. After all, you can’t spend every moment of every day in your deep waters. You have to come up for air occasionally.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It's the holes or the spaces in our lives that give us room to breathe and room to rest in, room to contain both good and bad days, and--when the time is right--room for something else to come along.

"

Each of Us Brave (Blog #314)

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It’s eight in the evening, and I’m at a local coffee shop. There’s a fire burning in the fireplace just a few feet away, and I feel like a marshmallow melting into a cup of hot chocolate. Granted, I could get up and move. Everyone else has left the room. But I spend so much of the winter freezing that I’m trying to enjoy sitting here on this leather chair in a pool of my own sweat. Gotta soak up the heat while you can! I mean, short of getting the flu, it could be months before I feel this warm again.

Flu, flu, go away.

I spent this afternoon with my friend Bekah. She’s a hairstylist, and we met a few years ago after I’d dyed my hair blonde then back to brown. The first time I sat in her chair, she said, “Hi, I’m Bekah. What the hell did you do to yourself?” We’ve gotten along famously ever since. Anyway, this morning she called and asked if I could help her install a new ceiling fan in her salon, and I said, “I’d be glad to–the one you have now is hideous.” (Our relationship is clearly built on honesty.)

Y’all, we installed the fan, but it wasn’t pretty. I know what I’m doing–really–but I’ve never been able to install a ceiling fan correctly on the first try. Each one is a little different in terms of mounting, wiring, and assemblage. Plus, I don’t always read directions word for every damn word. Anyway, we got the entire thing up–bulbs in and everything–and the fan worked but the lights didn’t. “Shit,” I said, “I guess that blue wire we ignored really was important.” Down came the entire ceiling fan, one light bulb and blade at a time. And there the blue wire was, just waiting for another wire to connect with. (Join the club, buddy.) Thirty minutes later, we were officially in business. Everything worked!

At some point Bekah and I started comparing childhoods, connecting over our respective challenges, times we had to go back and start again. As the conversation continued, so did the work. You know how one thing leads to another. First we hung the old (hideous) fan in one of the other rooms, since the (equally hideous) fan in there was broken, then I started rewiring an antique barber pole lamp back in Bekah’s salon. Suddenly Bekah said, “Be right back. Gotta take a kid to dance.” The next thing I knew, I was up in the salon all by myself. Well, Bekah’s dog Charlie was there with me, but he wasn’t much help. “Just stick around,” Bekah had said as she walked out the door. “I’ll cut your hair when I get back.” So that’s what I did. First I fixed the lamp, then I worked on a writing project until Bekah returned and cut my hair.

I took the above picture while I was waiting on her, so it’ll have to be tomorrow before you can see the new do. #suspense

During my haircut, Bekah pointed out a couple gray hairs in my widow’s peak. That felt good. She also pointed out several oddly long hairs growing out of my ears. You know the type–strays. I like to think of them as well-intentioned gentlemen who simply got lost on their way to my scalp. Like they took a wrong turn at Albuquerque. I imagine them thinking, Oh my gosh, how did I end up HERE? Bekah said, “Growing old sucks. One day everything is tight, and the next day everything is jiggly.” I said, “Seriously. Age requires so much vigilance. Just keeping my nose hairs under control is a full-time occupation.”

Thank god for professional help.

Now the coffee shop is about to close. Today hasn’t gone anything like I thought it would. I’d imagined myself resting at home, maybe reading a book. But I wouldn’t trade it. Earlier I talked to a woman I met through swing dancing. It was her story I was writing while Bekah was gone. She told me that when her husband left her and her daughters a few years ago, she said, “Okay, we’re on our own now. Let’s look at this like an adventure.” Later, when she and one of her daughters decided to try swing dancing, she said, “We’re going to do something brave.” I can’t tell you how much I love this story. I think it’s the perfect way to grow older. May we see each day as an adventure, and each of us brave for being honest with each other, trying new things, and being willing to start over when a ceiling fan, or even an entire life, doesn’t work the first time.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We may never be done, but that doesn't mean we'll never be complete. And surely we are complete right here, right now, and surely there is space enough for the full moon, for you and for me, and all our possibilities.

"

Resolute (Blog #313)

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Somewhere between a year and a year-and-a-half ago, I was getting ready to close my dance studio and move out of The Big House, the place I called home for over two years. (We called it The Big House because it was a big house. Some things aren’t complicated.) Between the closing of the studio and the time I moved out of my home, there was a three-week period, during which time I worked frantically to finish unfinished remodeling projects around the house. The last project I finished was the upstairs bathroom, the room with the clawfoot tub I used to love to soak in. It really was a last-minute deal–I was still putting paint on the walls my last week there. Still, I went ahead and decorated the entire bathroom–hung up pictures, put a rug on the floor, the whole bit. I figured as long as I lived there, I was gonna live there.

Next to the clawfoot tub was a gas space heater, something that came in rather handy during the winter months. On top of the heater I put a lamp, and next to the lamp, a wooden tray. I think the tray was designed as a kitchen item, but I used it to hold a bar of soap, as well as a candle I’d picked out especially for the bathroom, even though I’m not a candle person. But that final week, I fell in love with THAT candle. Every night I’d crawl into the clawfoot tub after lighting the candle, and while I listened to Fleetwood Mac, the light from the candle would dance with the shadows on the walls.

It’s another story, but The Big House had come to me when my life was a mess. I’d just started therapy and had gotten out of a terrible (no good, very bad) relationship in which there was a lot of yelling. In that relationship, I felt like a ship being tossed about by a storm that wouldn’t relent. Then for the first time in over six months, the storm subsided–everything got still. I found myself in this big house, and it was quiet. Three thousand square feet where I could hear myself think. A place of peace where I could lay my head at night and figure myself out. Looking back, I can see that at the same time I was remodeling the house, I was remodeling myself. Granted, now I look the same on the outside, maybe a few more wrinkles, but I’m different where it counts. My standards are higher, I won’t let myself be walked on, I speak up for myself. In short, I love myself more. So for the place that held me safe while all these renovations went on, I’m eternally grateful.

Getting ready to move out that final week, I went through every single thing I owned. One item at a time, I decided what to keep, what to sell, and what to give away. By the time it was all over, I went from all my possessions being able to fit into The Big House to being able to fit into my Honda Civic, Polly. I sold most the things in the upstairs bathroom, or gave them away, but I decided to take the wooden soap tray and the candle. Ever since then, I’ve used the tray to hold objects that I consider sacred–a small vial of holy water, a beautiful spiritual necklace I never wear on the outside of my shirt, a paperweight that belonged to my uncle when he was alive. I call it my traveling altar. At some point I started putting my jewelry on the altar. It began with a small ring I got at Disney World when I was seven that says, “Marcus,” my logic being that surely I’m a sacred object too.

I’ve always kept the candle in the middle of the tray. In addition to being a stereotypical spiritual thing to have around, the candle inspires me because of the message printed on the outside of it. It says, simply, “Resolute.” For over a year now, every time I see the candle, I think the same thing I thought when I bought it–I don’t know what lies ahead, but I’m determined to see myself through it. My therapist and I discussed this recently. We were talking about strengths that are born out of hardships, and I said that I’m resolute and determined because things were so shitty for so long. Now I don’t give up. I absolutely know this ship can weather any storm. My therapist said that the best people she knows–the ones who are the kindest and the strongest–are the ones who have lived through hell and have found a way to not be bitter about it. “It’s what happens when you refuse to be a victim,” she said.

Lately I’ve been burning the Resolute candle every day while I meditate and do chi kung. It’s become this ritual. I turn off all the other lights in the room, usually put on some sort of instrumental music, and always light the candle. (Growing up, I never imagined I would be someone who does this sort of thing.) Anyway, I guess there’s something powerful about rituals. Sometimes all I have to do is light the candle and take a few steps toward the center of the room, and I being to cry. It’s like seeing that flame is all my body needs to let go. Joseph Campbell says your sacred space is where you can find yourself over and over again, and I guess that’s what my traveling altar has become–a place where I can heal.

Yesterday I lit my Resolute candle for the last time. It burned out, ran out of wax before my meditation was even over. When I threw it away earlier this evening, I felt like I did when I walked out of The Big House for the last time. A little lost. Tonight I replaced my Resolute candle with the only other candle I could find around the house–a pale green one labeled “Mint Chocolate Chip.” Honestly, burning it tonight during meditation wasn’t the same. I kept thinking it smelled like–well–fat. Like, I probably gained two pounds just by taking the lid off. Still, its flame burned just as bright. Also, having lived through hell, I know my being Resolute has nothing to do with a physical candle that used to sit on my traveling altar. Rather, that flame burns deep within me, and the real altar is my body, my heart, my soul. As it turns out, I am the sacred space which I take everywhere I go, the sacred space where I can find myself over and over again, the sacred space where I can heal.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can be more discriminating.

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Our First Job (Blog #312)

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Today has been delightful. Simply delightful, I say. Why exactly I woke up on the right side of the bed, I don’t know. But I did, and I’m grateful. Maybe my good mood has to do with the fact that I woke up early, like before nine o’clock. If so, I’d hate that. What if I had to make a habit of it? That wouldn’t bless me at all.

The reason I got up so early was to go to therapy. I guess that contributed to my being so damn chipper. Therapy is almost always fun, and today was no exception. Of course, when I say therapy is fun, I mean my therapist is fun. Today we talked (partly) about fashion. Like, Who are you wearing? My therapist talked about her dress, then I talked about my vintage sweater. She said I looked “glowing.” Glowing–I guess that’s a compliment–although it kind of makes me feel like a pregnant woman.

Now if only my hips didn’t hurt so much.

This lighthearted chit-chat, I think, is one of the benefits of having a longterm therapist. After a while, most the serious stuff has been covered. I always show up with my list of things to talk about and questions to ask, of course, but personally derive a lot of value from beginning our sessions by discussing our outfits or how hideous her waiting room is. “It looks like someone went shopping at a yard sale–two decades ago,” I often say. “How many times do I have to tell you?” she replies. “Look down.”

After therapy I went to one of those restaurants where they expect you to clean up after yourself. You know–sort of fast food, sort of not. Anyway, I didn’t realize the protocol and left my basket and trash on my table. I was halfway out the door before I saw the “put baskets here” section. Well, it was one of those split-second decisions. I thought, Fuck it, and kept walking. (So sue me.) Honestly, I almost went back inside, but saw something that caused me not to. Above the wastebasket there was a sign that said, “Make your mama proud.” Y’all, it just rubbed me the wrong way. It felt as if they were trying to guilt-trip me into throwing my trash away, insinuating that the woman who brought me into this world wouldn’t be proud of me otherwise. Well (obviously), this passive-aggressive marketing wasn’t going to work on me–I’d just come from therapy.

I realize this may seem silly, but I’ve been thinking about writing the restaurant all day. (Sometimes I do this sort of thing. I’m that guy.) It probably has something to do with the fact that I’m currently reading a book about giving excellent customer service. In fact, I was reading the book IN the restaurant, so when I saw the sign on the wastebasket, all I could think was, I’m the customer. If I’d wanted a guilt trip for lunch, I would have stayed at home. (That’s a joke, Mom.) Okay, breathe, Marcus. I get that a lot of places cut down on costs by not paying their employees to wait on people, and this wasn’t the sort of place you leave a tip. I really do think it was just the wording that bothered me, the whole make-your-mama-proud thing. Why not just say, “Please throw your trash away so we don’t have to do it for you.”? Or “Please return your baskets here. It helps us keep operating costs down so you can save.”?

Wouldn’t either of these options be more direct, more honest?

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

This evening I’ve barely been able to pull myself away from a book about Bioenergetics, a form of mind-body therapy developed by Alexander Lowen. Bioenergetics is related to Reichian Therapy, which I’ve blogged about recently. I’m only a hundred pages into the book, but so far, Bioenergetics makes a lot of sense to me. According to Lowen, there is no difference between your mind, body, and soul. At the very least, there’s no difference between your mind and body. As he says, “A person’s past is his body.” I take this to mean, in simple terms, that every stress and trauma in your life is written somewhere in your body, often in the form of tension or pain.

Someone told me once that I was attuned to subtle energies. “That’s probably why you like words,” they said. “They act on the subtle energetic body.” I don’t know if this is true or not, but I’ve been thinking about that word this evening–subtle–and the idea that everything we do makes a difference. Sometimes that difference is huge, and sometimes that difference is subtle, but everything has its impact. (So don’t pretend like you don’t matter.) For example, your clothes say something about you. Everything you put on–or don’t–sends a message. Words on restaurant signs say something about the people who put them there, either, “We want to help you,” or “We want you to help us.” Likewise, our bodies are constantly communicating with us, sending both subtle and not-so-subtle messages whenever there’s a problem. Of course, before we can do anything about anything, our first job is simply to listen.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing physical was ever meant to stay the same.

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Here’s Something Weird (Blog #311)

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It’s ten o’clock, and the Super Bowl is officially over. This should come as no surprise, but I didn’t see a single second of it, Halftime Show and commercials included. While millions of other people were gathered around their televisions cheering and groaning, visiting with friends, and drinking beer, I was reading a book on customer service, doing laundry, and ordering probiotics on Amazon. It’s a sexy life, I know.

Here’s something weird.

Several weeks ago a friend told me about a healer named Charlie Goldsmith. I guess there was a television series about him recently on TLC, and a lot of people claim he’s healed them either in person or at a distance. (Having read quite a bit about alternative healing methods, I don’t have any problem believing this sort of thing is possible.) Anyway, my friend said Charlie sometimes does group healing sessions for people on his email list, so I went to his website and signed up. (Why not? It was free.) Well, there was a healing session yesterday, so earlier in the day I did as instructed and wrote down my health concerns. Then when the appointed time came, I put away all distractions and simply lay in bed.

Like, I’m waiting.

Y’all, get this shit. A few minutes before the official start time, I felt warmth coming into my stomach. I felt like I was standing in front of a hand dryer. For the next ten minutes (the length of the session), this feeling came and went. There weren’t any instructions about what to do with my hands, but I intuited that I needed to place them on my stomach, heart, and shoulders, which I did. Well, wherever my hands went, the heat would follow. Since this sometimes happens when I practice Reiki, I honestly didn’t think too much about it, but later my friend said she’d had a similar experience, and several people online said the same. (Several people online also said they didn’t feel shit. So there’s that.) Neither my friend or I experienced a change in symptoms.

Last night I listened to a guided imagery CD designed for healing the effects of trauma. Guided imagery is, essentially, visualization and affirmations. There’s actually more to it than that, but I can’t tell you what it is because I fell asleep during the first five minutes of the CD. (They say this is okay, since your subconscious still gets the message, but my subconscious isn’t writing this blog.) Anyway, I was snoring and everything. I think the total program was sixty minutes, and I woke up for the last fifteen minutes of the affirmation section. So I can tell you that part was stellar, and the other part was–at the very least–good for a nap.

Later I was “up all night,” mostly watching Netflix. I think it was three or four before I actually fell asleep. I didn’t set an alarm, but I’d planned on getting up around ten or eleven during one of my “bathroom breaks” to meet some friends for brunch. Well, that didn’t happen. Y’all, I don’t know if it was Charlie the Healer or the guided imagery CD (or both), but I didn’t wake up until one this afternoon. Like, I didn’t get up to go to the bathroom or anything. I slept like a rock. It felt great.

I still have no idea how my bladder did it.

It’s enough.

Despite the wonderful sleep last night, I’ve dragged ass all day. Currently I’m ready to wrap this up and get ready for bed. I think if I could sleep like I did last night more often, it could only help. But who knows what will happen? And who knows what happened yesterday? Today I started to get frustrated about being sick but then remembered that being ill lately has afforded me a lot of time to read and to learn, and I wouldn’t trade any of that. (As if I have a choice in the matter.) More and more, I’m okay with not having all the answers. Like, I don’t need to know why I’m sick or exactly how to fix it. I don’t need to know how the universe works or be able to understand every weird thing that happens. Rather, I’m learning that it’s enough that things happen as they do. It’s enough to be right here, right now. It’s enough to sit in, and sometimes drag ass through, the mystery.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Rejecting yourself is what really hurts.

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Stronger (Blog #310)

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It’s four-thirty in the afternoon, and I’ve been nauseated all day. My dad was nauseated yesterday. He also had a chill and–as he calls it–The Diarrhea. (This way of referring to things is apparently a theme around my parents’ house, as my mom calls Facebook, “The Facebook.”) Anyway, my aunt was over earlier, and when I told her that I felt woozy, she said, “Oh my god, I hope you and your dad aren’t getting the flu! I saw [on The Facebook, I’m assuming] where another child died.” My dad said, “Well, I feel better today. It was probably the Mexican food I ate last night. And we’re not children.” Seriously, can’t a guy be light-headed without everyone assuming he has the black plague? And could we please talk about something other than the flu? I know it’s a killer virus and all, but like I need one more thing to be paranoid about.

Lately I’ve been reading a lot about the many faces and effects of trauma. Last night, in a book about guided imagery and trauma, I read about a woman who used to count words on her fingers as a way to bring order to her chaotic life. Another woman said she always chose the aisle seat on airplanes in order to minimize her anxiety around feeling trapped. One man, a police officer during the Oklahoma City Bombing, said he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Personally, I’ve had experience with all of these feelings and behaviors. And whereas I’ve talked about them in therapy, I haven’t talked about them–all at once. That’s what I appreciate about the book and reading other people’s stories–they help me to see the direct line from past events like our house fire, Mom’s being chronically ill, Dad’s going to prison, and even multiple car accidents to my current emotions, attitudes, and actions. In other words, I’m the way I am–for a reason.

I’ve thought about this before, of course. You don’t spend half your life in the self-help section and four years in therapy and not have a few insights. But there was something about seeing all these symptoms listed side-by-side and reading these stories back-to-back that helped me look at things a different way. Rather, it helped me look at myself a different way. Like, I’m not inherently or by-definition fucked up because I get nervous around people. I’m not broken because I need my books alphabetized or ordered according to height.

I’ve just had some bad things happen.

I guess one could get stuck in “victim mode” with this sort of thinking. If you wanted to, you could easily find something or someone to blame your problems on. (If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother.) But for me, this isn’t about blame; it’s about the truth. According to the book I’m reading, trauma victims often take responsibility for everything. They think everything is their fault. They feel guilty when they have no reason to. But this thinking is flawed. It’s anything but the truth. Humans don’t exist in a vacuum. Personalities don’t just happen; they’re formed. I’m not saying you don’t have any control over yourself or that circumstances can’t change–you do, and they can. But I also think healing starts by acknowledging the great, uncontrollable forces that have brought you to where you are in life.

Like, Okay, this is where we are, and this is how we got here. Now what are we gonna do about it?

One’s spirit is capable of overcoming anything.

The other thing that I think is healing is knowing that I’m not the only traumatized person walking around on this planet. It’s easy to forget this fact whenever I go to the grocery store, since most of us don’t wear t-shirts that advertise our bad experiences. Like, I was ready to marry my ex, and they were lying to me and cheating on me from day one. But everyone–everyone–has something. You and I are in good company here. Simply put, we live in a traumatized world. And whereas we could think, Isn’t it awful?, I don’t see this fact as a bad thing. It’s just a fact. Now what are we gonna do about it? For me, it starts with realizing that 1) No one is alone, 2) It’s never too late to heal the past, and 3) Despite all the great, uncontrollable forces in the world, one’s spirit is still a much greater force–one that is capable of not only surviving trauma, but also of thriving on the other side of it. Without question, one’s spirit is capable of overcoming anything and beginning again, stronger.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you're not living a fully authentic life, a part of you will never be satisfied.

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Healing Requires Slowing Down (Blog #309)

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I don’t always know what to do when I have extra time on my hands. When I woke up this morning I made a plan for the afternoon, and I was supposed to be on a phone call right now. But that didn’t work out. Now I have about twenty minutes until the next call is supposed to happen, so I’m just sitting here listening to Fleetwood Mac and trying to remember the last time I took a shower. (It’s obviously been too long ago.) I keep thinking I could read a chapter in a book, send some emails regarding the swing dance event I’m working on, or dig through the refrigerator–anything to stay busy.

Obviously, I decided to blog. I mean, that’s the ONE THING that absolutely has to happen sometime today. Might as well be now.

I do think my need to fill up every damn minute of every damn day with activity has gotten better. You should have seen me five years ago. I refused to slow down. But there’s nothing like being unemployed and living with your parents to help you change your standards. Like, nothing feels “urgent” anymore. Except watching Days of Our Lives, nothing feels critical in this house. Read a book, don’t read a book. Do something, don’t do something. Whatever happens happens, and it’s okay.

Sometimes when I keep myself busy, it’s because I think it’s important to do so. Maybe it’s an ego thing, but on some level I tell myself that I HAVE to do whatever it is I’m doing. Like, no one can recycle these cans or go to the grocery store as well as I can. Or, if I don’t stay up late to teach this dance lesson, someone’s life is going to fall apart. (Please.) I used to have a friend who worked for a big non-profit. Quite literally, they saved lives. But I watched their body break down under the pressure of that story. They’d go for days without sleeping telling themselves that if they didn’t, people would die. And whereas I’m all for helping others, come on–how can you really help someone else if you can’t even help yourself?

More often than not, I think that story about feeling important or “being needed” is just a story we tell ourselves. I’m not saying you’re not important. You are. We all are. But what I am saying is that I think we often go-go-go in order to distract ourselves–from ourselves. This, of course, is a difficult and almost impossible thing to do, but that doesn’t stop us from trying. At least I know that’s been my experience. So many times I’ve filled up every minute of every day doing anything and everything under the sun in order to avoid getting quiet and simply sitting and being okay with whatever is inside me–nervousness, anxiousness, fear, sadness, even joy.

Hell, if emotions were easy to deal with directly, everyone would do it.

This morning before I got out of bed, I scrolled, scrolled, scrolled through Facebook. I thought about going back to sleep, but I couldn’t convince my body that that was a good idea. Finally, I put down my phone and worked on some deep-breathing exercises I learned recently. After a few minutes, my eyes started watering, my body twitched a bit, and some memories came up. This sort of thing has been happening more and more frequently over the last several months, so it didn’t bother me. But I did think, How long has THAT been hanging around, just waiting for me to slow down and breath deeply enough for it to rise to the surface?

Your body remembers.

The more experiences I have like this, the more I’m convinced that our emotions and experiences are stored in and deeply affect our physical bodies. For the longest time I’ve believed in my head that “your biography becomes your biology,” but now I believe it in my heart. Your body remembers. Last night my friend Bonnie and talked about this–the difference between knowing something in your head and knowing in your entire being. I think that’s part of what my current journey is about, really believing that every cell in my body is intelligent and conscious and is not only “for me,” but is also capable of healing and letting go at the deepest level.

I’m convinced that healing of this sort doesn’t happen when you’re running around, filling up every minute of every day. It absolutely requires slowing down, getting quiet, and holding space for whatever arises. And if there’s one benefit to my being tired, sick, and worn out these last few months, this is it. It’s forced, or at least strongly encouraged me, to meet myself, to really see what’s going on inside here. And whereas I want my physical body to bounce back and “feel better,” I know that regardless of what it does, my body is better for having walked this road, and this is a journey for which my soul is thankful.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Damn if good news doesn't travel the slowest.

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Giving and Getting (Blog #308)

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Currently it’s six in the evening, and I’ve been at the library for a few hours working on marketing and such for the swing dance event. I love everything I’m doing and learning but am officially done working for the day. Still, I can’t get it off my mind.

Some of the books I’ve been reading about marketing focus strongly on customer service and the individual. The idea is that in today’s world of instant gratification and a million online options, it’s absolutely critical to go “above and beyond” with people. You have to treat them well, one at a time. They simply have too many other places to go if you don’t. I can’t tell you how much sense this makes to me.

Like, lightbulb on!

A few weeks ago I was looking for acupuncture clinics. Well, I found one that really looked sharp. They have a great website, stunning reviews, you name it. Their FAQ (frequently asked questions, Mom) page says they take some insurances–so call for more information. When I stopped by one day, they told me there was a form to fill out online to see if MY insurance was accepted and gave me a little green card with the link to the form on it. Then they answered a few of my questions and were generally helpful but not “over the top” about it. Anyway, I went home, filled out the form online, and–ten days later–got an email that said, “Your insurance does not pay for acupuncture, but let us know if we can still help you.”

Okay. In the beginning I was genuinely excited to have needles stuck in my sick body, but after almost two weeks of waiting and mediocre service, now I’m just–not. Like, spending one hundred and fifty out-of-pocket dollars for an initial visit doesn’t sound fun to me anymore. I guess I could change my mind tomorrow, but that’s how I feel today. This morning I thought, Why didn’t they put that link to the insurance form–I don’t know–on their website? I was already curious about their services and could have easily filled the form out online and saved myself from picking up the phone or getting in the car. And when they told me my insurance was not accepted, why didn’t they say, “We’re sorry. If we can still help you, here’s a discount code for your first visit.”?

I swear I’m not a (giant) customer service diva, and I really don’t care how someone else runs their business. Also, I know I could have done a lot of things differently when I had the dance studio. As they say, hindsight is 20/20. I’m just saying that, more and more, I truly believe little things can make a big difference. I know that in my situation with the acupuncture clinic, it wouldn’t have taken much more for me to feel like I mattered as a customer.

I guess that’s what this is all about, the idea that everyone wants to feel noticed and important, like our dollars and time mean something. Plus, in the world of computers and online shopping, I think we crave honest, human connection. Last week my dad was YELLING into the phone at the automated secretary on the other end–“I WANT TO SPEAK TO A REPRESENTATIVE–I WANT TO SPEAK TO A REPRESENTATIVE!”

With these things in mind, last night at the improv comedy show I performed in, I made a point to go around to every table within twenty feet of the stage and introduce myself. Hi, I’m Marcus. (Insert smile here.) Are you staying for the show? If so, I hope you have a great time. I was super nervous when I started this project, but after the first few tables, I calmed down. Before it was over, I was having the best time–and the show hadn’t even started yet. I met some ladies celebrating a friend’s birthday, talked to one couple who said they were having an affair (uh–probably a joke), and spent over twenty minutes with a woman who used to act, sing, and dance in Branson. “I was a triple threat,” she said.

Of course, I hope my talking to everyone made them feel welcomed and appreciated. I hope it enhanced their experience of the evening. That was the idea. But what I realized today is that I personally got something out of it. I loved meeting new people and hearing their stories. Plus, I was more comfortable on stage because I felt as if I had more friends in the audience, that more people were rooting for me. I don’t think this was just in my head–I think they actually were. Still, the point remains the same–you can’t give without getting. And no matter what you’re trying to give away to another–customer service, a kindness, a smile–you end up also giving to yourself.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s not where you are, it’s whom you are there with.

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