On Shaking the Dust out of the Rug (Blog #1054)

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Today I’ve been thinking about healing. Ugh. It’s such a damn process. For example, since starting upper cervical care a few months ago, my headaches have dramatically decreased. They’re so much better, way less frequent. Indeed, there are days when I think I’m going to get a headache (I feel tension coming on), but I don’t. Somehow, my body nips it in the bud. And yet for all this improvement, I still have my challenges. Of course. Like today. My head has been throbbing. What’s the saying? One step forward, two steps back. But in my case it’s more like two steps forward, one step back.

As I understand it, this is normal. Last night I watched a bunch of videos about upper cervical care on my doctor’s website, and one of them led me to another video that discussed the healing cycle, the healing cycle being the “way” our bodies heal. Unfortunately, they don’t heal in a straight line. Rather, when things are going well, over what’s typically a three-month period, they make some progress, then regress, make some progress, then regress. Two steps forward, one step back. Whenever I get ready to go somewhere, I throw my bag in the car, then come back for my keys. Then I walk to the car, but inevitably come back again. Because I forgot my coffee. Or my deodorant. So what our bodies do makes sense to me.

They HAVE to go back, to make sure they didn’t leave anything behind or left undone.

Along these lines, one of the videos I watched last night was about something called retracing. In at least two other posts, the most recent of which you can read here, I’ve talked about a thing that can happen when our bodies heal called unwinding. Same thing. Retracing or unwinding is basically your body’s way of reliving past and unresolved stresses or traumas and–finally–resolving them. In the unwinding experience I had last summer that centered around a car accident I had when I was a teenager, my body twisted and turned and told me (instead of me telling it) what happened that night. Along with these contortions, it released emotions, mostly fear and sadness. Likewise, recently I had an experience in which I relived memories of my dad’s arrest when I was a teenager. Along with these memories came tears, facial scrunching, fist clenching, and foot stomping. From what I understand, this is the deal. Retracing isn’t just a cerebral experience; it’s a physical and emotional one, a release of previously suppressed reactions and emotions.

Recently I told a friend that the more I learn, the more I’m convinced that our traumas are physical and emotional events, not just mental ones. And that as much as I wish my mind could get me out of what my body got me into, it can’t. It just can’t. Still, this isn’t a bad thing. Because it lets me know where to look in order to heal, which is not my mind. Rather, it’s my body. Not that the mind isn’t part of it. After all, our minds, our emotions, our bodies, our spirits, and our souls are connected. This is my point. That our stresses, traumas, dramas, and diseases don’t just happen to A PART of us. They happen to ALL of us and therefore REQUIRE all of us to heal. So it’s not just about getting your head in the healing game. It’s about getting your head and your heart in there.

You know how sometimes when you clean, especially if you’re in a hurry, you half-ass do it, or skip parts altogether? Like, you sweep dust under the rug or ignore the gunk that’s piling up behind the refrigerator for “just one more spring”? Well, your house may LOOK spick and span, but YOU know that it’s not, not deep down. That dirt and crap is still there. Alas, it’s the same with our bodies. We can put on a happy face and say we’re fine, we can even talk about our traumas and dramas until we’re blue in the face, but until we allow our bodies to express what was suppressed, we’re just letting more dust pile up.

So what am I advocating? A deep cleaning.

People who talk about retracing say that our bodies often put Bandaids on things if they don’t have the resources to really heal them. Then later, when the resources become available, they’ll recreate whatever the pain or problem was in order to really heal it. Think of this like pulling out your refrigerator, taking an honest look at what a mess things are, then really getting down on you hands and knees and going to work once and for all. Ugh. As far as I can tell, truly healing always requires going back and cleaning up what didn’t get cleaned up before, really shaking the dust out of the rug that is your life. Of course, going back isn’t about bitching and moaning. Whoa is me, my life has sucked balls, and all that. Rather, it’s about acceptance and willingness. Something terrible happened and I wanted to scream and shout (and let it all out) but I didn’t. So I’m willing to now. Something made me sad but I didn’t know how to cry. So I’ll cry now. So that things can really be cleaned up and over. So that I can really be right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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In other words, there's always SOMETHING else to improve or work on. Therefore, striving for perfection is not only frustrating, it's also technically impossible.

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On Settling into Your Body (Blog #1053)

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Today I’ve been thinking about, and trying to, relax. I’ll explain. Last night I listened to a podcast that said if you audibly sigh (like, AHHHH) when you exhale enough times (five to ten seems to work for me), it will cause you to yawn and, consequently, trigger your parasympathetic nervous system. Your parasympathetic nervous system being the “rest and digest” part of your nervous system, the part responsible for relaxation and healing. Your autonomic nervous system, of course, being the “fight or flight” part of your nervous system, the part responsible for hauling ass or, if necessary, kicking ass and taking names.

Naturally, we need both parts of our nervous system. The problem being, however, that the majority of us spend way too much time in “fight or flight” mode, either because we live in a high-stress environment (like America) or because we’ve suffered a trauma and our bodies haven’t completely processed (or realized its over) yet. Or both.

More and more I realize just how much stress I carry on a daily basis in my physical body. My shoulders have been tense for decades. My hips are tight. Often I can’t bend over and touch my toes without first taking a muscle relaxer and saying three Hail Marys. You get the point. Alas, somewhere along the way I convinced myself these little aches and pains were normal, a natural consequence of growing older. But having experienced some wonderful improvements in terms of headaches over the last few months thanks to upper cervical care, I’m starting to believe, like deep down and really, that freedom from chronic pain is possible. And whereas I wish I could just push a button and–voila!–be at ease in my skin, I’m learning that this type of freedom 1) comes incrementally, not instantaneously and 2) often requires practice.

Getting back to the idea of relaxation, recently I ran across a blog that reminded me of a form of standing meditation I learned through Chi Kung. Since the blog explains it better and more in depth than I could (or even have a desire to), suffice it to say that teachers of the stance claim that it can help improve posture, increase relaxation, decrease pain, and stimulate chi (energy) flow and, therefore, promote healing. You know, in as little as ten minutes a day. And whereas I can’t personally speak to all these claims, I can say that the stance has helped me relax this last week. Like, you don’t realize how much tension you carry in your body until you begin to let it go. Even a little.

Along the lines of letting go, I’ve done the audible sigh/exhale and yawn thing several times today, either when I felt like it or when I noticed tension in my neck or shoulders. I guess part of the idea behind this practice is to “retrain” your nervous system. This makes sense to me, since my normal reaction to pain (my habit) is to brace against it rather than relax in to it. Consequently, my body has learned to be uptight and on edge constantly. Which is no fun. But after just one day of consciously letting go ever so slightly, I already feel more at ease, like there’s more space here. Plus, what’s great about this exercise is that it can be done at your kitchen table, in your car, hell, in line at Walmart. This afternoon I tried it while bending over and trying to touch my toes, and, y’all, I went from not being able to touch the ground and feeling pain and tension to being able to touch the ground and feeling loose and (mostly) flexible in only six exhales.

This experience, in addition to a number of others, convinces me that–generally speaking–our bodies absolutely CAN relax and be flexible. However, more often than not, they haven’t learned to. Better said, our nervous systems haven’t been convinced it’s SAFE to. That’s what I keep reading over and over again, that our bodies create pain and stiffness because they perceive that we’re in danger, that there’s some sort of threat. And no, it doesn’t matter that you know you’re safe, sitting here right here, right now. If your body doesn’t know it (if it hasn’t fully processed your past dramas and traumas), it continues to be “on guard.”

More and more I’m grateful to my body for always trying to keep me safe. Sure, it’s frustrating when something hurts, but I’m coming to truly believe that if the brain, body, and nervous system can create pain, they can uncreate it. This is when healing really gets fun, when you begin to see what a wonder you truly are, what you’re really capable of. All of a sudden or over a period of time (and what’s the difference, really?), tensions relax, pain that showed up out of nowhere goes back to where it came from, and you let go of the notion that things will never get better. Settling into your body, your home, you breathe deeper than you have in years. Finally, you feel safe.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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

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You Can Go Home Again (Blog #1047)

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Last night while blogging I half-assed listened to an audio track about relaxation and the diminishment of pain. And whereas I didn’t catch all the details, one thing I did absorb was the prompt to notice some part, any part, of your body that isn’t in pain, that feels good. “How do you know this part is all right?” the audio asked. “It feels natural, comfortable.” The idea being that all of our bodies should feel that way, or at least ARE CAPABLE of feeling that way. So both last night and today I’ve been trying to literally relax into this idea, to first notice parts of my body that are tense, and second let them soften.

Of course, my natural inclination when something hurts is to brace against it. But I really like this concept of softening. The audio suggested that our bodies are our HOMES, and I can’t tell you how much I love this thought. Looking around my physical home (my room), I’ve spent a lot of time getting everything just so. I’ve hung and rehung pictures, arranged books, organized my closet, cleaned sheets, fluffed pillows, dusted shelves. And all for what? So I can be COMFORTABLE, so I can feel AT HOME. So that’s how I’ve been thinking about my body today, that it’s been INTENDED as a space where I can feel safe, at ease, and at rest. And why shouldn’t I feel comfortable in my own skin?

Like, I live here.

Now, I wish I could tell you that this one shift in perception, thinking that my body is my home rather than simply a worn-down motel on Midland Avenue, has turned my life around in the last twenty-four hours. Alas, it has not. It has, however, made a difference. Thanks to this one idea, I’ve found myself not only breathing deeper but also letting go more. It’s difficult to explain, but it’s like I’ve been able to allow my body to more fully inhabit the space it occupies, to lean into being right here, right now. You know that feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop? Well, it’s the opposite of that. An exhalation. What’s the word I’m looking for?

A relief.

This afternoon I started reading Daniel Keyes’s Flowers for Algernon, a science fiction novel about a mentally challenged adult, Charlie, who undergoes brain surgery to make him a genius. And whereas Charlie hopes to go into the surgery “dumb” and wake up “smart,” the doctors tell him that’s not the way these things work. Rather, he should expect to see changes over a period of time. “It could happen so slowly that you may not even notice a difference at first,” they tell him. Of course, this is the way it goes. And yet little by little Charlie learns to spell correctly, use proper punctuation, remember his dreams and his life, and–here’s the heartbreaker–realize that people he thought were his friends had been making fun of him for years. Now, by yours and my standards these things DO happen fast. Charlies goes from an IQ of 70 to an IQ of 185 in a matter of months. But the point remains.

Our progress is never as swift as we dream it will be. We proceed by fits and starts.

Shakespeare said, “How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?” This has been my experience. Six years ago I began therapy, and although I’ve grown and healed a lot, it’s happened so slowly that I can’t say exactly when and where it happened (other than inside me). It’s been a tough conversation here, a confrontation there, a cry fest or rage fest–I know know–once every month or two. So too has my body healed, is healing. Here and there. Granted, I’ve had some pretty remarkable experiences and improvements in the last few months, but they weren’t like, one and done instant miracles. Plenty of things still hurt, gurgle, or produce excess mucus. This is the deal. When you haven’t been home in a while, you don’t move back and get totally settled in just like that. There’s always work to do. And yet it can happen. You CAN go home again. Home to your body. Home to your soul.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When we expect great things, we see great things.

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Marcus and the Search for Happiness (Blog #1034)

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It’s been raining nonstop. Nothing too heavy. Just the steady downfall of a cold, gray January day. Yes, today the rain has been reliable. Consistent, like an old friend. And whereas I’d normally describe a day like today as murky or dreary, today I’ve thought of it as enveloping or comforting. Peaceful. For the last few hours I’ve been sitting in my chair, reading, next to my window. Besides the occasional whoosh of a car driving by, there’s been the pitter-pat of the rain. The soft, kind, let-me-wrap-my-arms-around-you pitter-pat of cleansing water. Nothing too heavy. An old friend.

This afternoon I went to Northwest Arkansas to see my upper cervical care doctor. First, however, I went to a used bookstore to sell, or at least try to sell, some books for my parents. And whereas the store later told me I could have parked right in front and avoided getting wet and paying the parking meter, I said, “Too late. I already did all that.” They had a look on their faces like, what a shame, but more and more I prefer what is. What I mean is that could-haves and should-haves are fantasies. I COULD HAVE parked in front? What a ridiculous notion. No, I couldn’t have, no more than I could have flown to the shop. Why? Because I parked somewhere else, and because I DROVE there. Could the sun have risen in the west this morning? Not in reality. In your head, maybe.

Yesterday in an effort to finish my leaf raking and bagging project before this morning’s predicted rain, I worked well past dark. This required a bit of strategery, meaning that as the sun was still up, I bagged the piles farthest away from the house. Then as the dark set in, I bagged the ones closest to the house, where my client had turned on their porch lights. Anyway, I kept thinking about how some people might be miserable bagging leaves at night but how I wasn’t. After all, I love the dark. Looking up, I could see the moon. I could see Venus. Plus, it was still, quiet. It was peaceful, like it is now by my window. Just the rustle of leaves and the sighing of my breath.

And the occasional groan.

After we exchanged pleasantries about our weekends, my upper cervical care doctor told me my graph looked fabulous today (which means he didn’t give me an adjustment). “It’s as good as I’ve ever seen yours look,” he said. “Maybe you should do yard work more often.”

Everyone’s a comedian.

“I’m not sure my ankle agrees,” I said, since my ankle and a number of other body parts have been sore today.

“Well, your body’s trying,” he said. “Just give it time. It’s old.”

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

This evening I read a delightful book I couldn’t resist buying at the bookstore this afternoon, Hector and the Search for Happiness by French psychiatrist Francois Lelord. A modern-day parable about one man’s (Hector’s) quest to find happiness, the book doesn’t ultimately propose a formula for lasting joy. It does, however, list a number of ways to increase joy in your life. For example, by spending time with those you love, or by doing something that makes you feel useful.

One of my favorite observations that Hector makes is “making comparisons can spoil your happiness.” Breaking this wisdom down, he says that we rob ourselves of happiness when we compare ourselves 1) to an imagined future, 2) to a remembered past, or 3) to someone else. For example, I could have really made myself miserable last night while raking leaves had I 1) wished I’d been inside drinking hot chocolate instead of stepping in dog shit, 2) thought about how much faster and more efficiently I COULD HAVE worked had I not screwed up my knee last year, or 3) looked at Facebook and pouted about the fact that I wasn’t on vacation in Cabo with MY hot boyfriend.

Which I don’t have, by the way.

That’s ANOTHER fantasy.

More and more I see how we make ourselves miserable by comparisons. It rains, and, because we compare this present moment to a memory we like better, we think the rain shouldn’t exist (and yet it does). Just like that, there goes your happy afternoon. There goes your chance to experience the peaceful pitter-pat. We wish our bodies looked different, felt different, behaved differently. Consequently, we miss out on how they DO look, feel, and behave. Despite all my sinus troubles and headaches, last night my body helped me make money, and this afternoon it ran me all over town. This evening it allowed me to read. Never once did it ask anything in return. I tell it it’s not good enough, but it continues to serve. It’s consistent. Like an old friend. If only I could be so faithful to myself and others. If only I could move through life like a gentle rain. Nothing too heavy. If only I could wrap my arms around this present moment with all it’s glory and terror, and then, when it is over, let it go as gracefully as a tree lets go of its leaves.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can rise above. You can walk on water.

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All Bad Moods Pass Away (If We Let Them) (Blog #1030)

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Today was a repair day. What I mean is that I spent the afternoon fixing things around the house, broken this-and-thats that have been crying out for my attention for quite some time (help us, help us!), but–you know–you’re not always in the mood to fix a leaky toilet. So you let it drip, drip, drip into the bowl. All day and all night, the water runs. Slowly, but it runs. Your utility bill goes up. A little, but it goes up.

One thing leads to another.

Along these lines, I didn’t MEAN to fix two lamps, a sink, and my parents’ leaky toilet today. I just got on a roll. I started with one lamp and kept thinking, Well, while I’m at it. One trip to Lowe’s and two trips to Walmart later, it was all done. No more lamps with faulty sockets. No more leaky toilet or kitchen sink.

Now we can see, pee, and clean debris (from our plates).

After I finished fixing one of the lamps today, my mom expressed her gratitude by telling me a story, about our friend Randy who used to travel once a year from Baltimore to visit his parents in Arkansas (he doesn’t anymore because both he and his parents are dead). “Randy said each year he’d find more and more things in his parents’ home in disrepair,” Mom said. “As you get older, you just can’t keep up with everything that breaks. Take that lamp you just fixed, for example. If it weren’t for you, we never would have used it again.” And whereas I appreciate my mom’s appreciation and am happy to put things back together, what I’ve been thinking about this evening is the fact that everything, by design, falls apart. Even if you take care of your stuff and have a live-in handyman, sooner or later all material objects (and people) go the way of the dinosaurs.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t take care of your shit or patch the holes in your jackets. You should. I’m just saying, you’re fighting a losing battle.

One thing that occurred to me tonight is that just like our physical things eventually dissolve or pass away, so do our mental stories and emotional states. Who hasn’t had the experience of being totally pissed off one day and waking up the next day (or week) completely fine? Looking back, you think, What was I so upset about? Well, where did you bad mood go? Down the toilet, that’s where.

All bad moods pass away.

Unless–and perk up here because this is my major point–we keep “fixing” them. What I mean is that if you’ve been carrying a resentment or holding a grudge for one, two, or thirty years, it’s only because you’ve been “repairing” it, nursing it back to life every time it starts to die. Once I had a dear woman tell me that for decades she’d be laying one particular concern at the feet of the cross. I didn’t say it at the time, but I thought, Why do you keep picking it back up?! Of course, I do this too, not only with my judgments about other people (and they did this, and this, and this), but also with my judgments about myself and what’s possible in my life. I think, I’ll always be this (too sick too poor) because I always have been. And yet that’s just a story I’ve told myself over and over again, a fairy tale that would gladly slip out of my hands if I’d let it, a fable that would naturally fall apart if I’d only stop putting it back together.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Confidence takes what you have and amplifies it. Confidence makes anyone sexy.

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On Stuff (Blog #1025)

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Lately I’ve been thinking about stuff, partly because I’ve been buying, or at least acquiring, so much of it lately. Nothing major, mind you, just little things. Brooches, books, picture frames, magnets, t-shirts, shoes. And whereas I don’t have NEARLY the amount of stuff I owned before I had my estate sale, it’s still the most I’ve had in the last three years. Granted, I’m enjoying it. I’ve got everything organized and displayed like I want, and my room feels cozy. Comforting. At the same time, there are moments when everything I have feels like “too much,” too much to own, too much to take care of. Earlier today my friend Aaron gave me several of his old t-shirts, and I thought, Okay, fine, I’ll take five of them. But I’m going to give away at least two of mine.

Since The Great Letting Go a few years ago, one of my “rules” about owning something is that I must find it useful, that I actually wear my clothes, actually get joy out of my books and knickknacks. That’s one thing I can say about the stuff I’ve acquired lately. Although I often feel like I spend too much time on Facebook Marketplace (searching for and buying brooches), I do get a lot of pleasure out of the things I purchase. What’s more, having taken time to get everything in my room (where I am now) just so, I always feel at home here. I always feel at peace here.

My therapist says stuff is grounding, so maybe that’s why the sudden compulsion to acquire. That is, at the same time I had my estate sale, I intentionally pulled up my roots–closed my dance studio, moved homes (twice), started down a new career path. In retrospect, it was a lot at once, a bit dramatic. Still, owning fewer things made all the changes easier. Not just from a physical perspective, but from a mental and emotional one. All I had to do was look at my bookshelf (with fifty-four books, down from over three hundred) or my closet (with eight shirts, down from dozens), and it was clear–I was starting over. And whereas I’ll never be able to prove it, I believe that my downsizing set the stage for this blog and all my personal growth that’s come as a result of it.

What I mean is that if you can let go of a physical object, you can let go of a mental concept. A limiting belief about yourself, for example. A harmful thought about another. Byron Katie says you’re not attached to your things, you’re attached to your stories about your things, and this is what I mean. If you’re holding on to something physical, you’re holding on to something mental–a thought, a story. Whenever you say, “This has sentimental value” or “I can’t sell those old plastic curlers; they belonged to my dead aunt,” you’re saying you can’t let go of your narrative about them. Because the truth is you CAN let go of your stuff. You do it every day when you go to work. Leaving everything you own (except your current outfit) behind you, you prove to yourself that you don’t HAVE to own a thing in order to survive or be happy.

I mean, how do you know you’ll ever see all that stuff again? And yet you just walk out the door.

Getting back to the idea of stuff being grounding, I think it’s fascinating that at the same time I was letting go my stuff, I was letting go of how I saw myself and the world. Likewise, I find it fascinating that having grounded my concepts of self and the world (for the better), I’m now beginning to physically ground. That is, as my therapist says, stuff is heavy. It’s hard to move around. This is what you want your self-esteem, your kindness, and your compassion to be–solid, not easily pushed about. Even when I get excited about new stuff/cool stuff, this is what I remind myself, that stuff is just stuff and it will ALWAYS come and go. Nothing lasts forever, not even gold. But a soul that’s at home, at peace regardless of what it owns or doesn’t? Now that’s real gold. That’s something moth and rust can’t touch.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Answers come built-in. There are no "just problems."

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Time Well Spent (Blog #1012)

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For the last eight days I’ve been struggling with a sinus infection. And whereas it’s not really getting worse, it’s not really getting better either. Every morning I cough up junk. Every afternoon I feel wiped out. Every night I cough myself to sleep. All the while I pray for a solution. Not just a temporary one, but a permanent one. And whereas sometimes I think heaven must be tired of hearing from me (it’s me again, Margaret), I keep telling myself that’s not the way God works. Just because I’d be sick (I am sick, actually) of hearing from me, doesn’t mean God is. Of course, having been around for ETERNITY, he’s got this patience thing down.

Me? I’m still working on it.

This afternoon I taught a dance lesson to a couple, and when I asked if they’d practiced since I last saw them two weeks ago, they said, “No.” Now, this didn’t surprise me. Hardly any of my students practice unless they HAVE to. Like if they have a performance or a wedding coming up. Otherwise, they practice when they see me. And whereas there’s nothing wrong with not practicing (it’s job security for me), it naturally means the students progress at a slower pace than they COULD. Conversely, once I had a mentor who said it only took him a year to learn how to dance (the average is three to five years) because he worked at it every day for hours on end. And whereas this man had a natural aptitude for dancing and my students–quite frankly–don’t, my point is that just as HE CHOSE to go fast, they’re CHOOSING to go slow.

Recently I wrote about creating time, and this is what I meant. That is, to a large extent, we decide how quickly we want things to happen. Are certain things out of our control? Absolutely, a million things are. But take this, for example. This afternoon and evening I worked non-stop on an arts and crafts project I’ve been tinkering with for the last few weeks, framing antique jewelry. (I plan to post pictures soon.) And whereas it’s going slower than expected (because when you do something for the first time you run into all sorts of problems–er, challenges–you hadn’t anticipated), I should be done in a couple more days if I stick with it. My point being that I COULD drag this little project out for days, weeks, months if I wanted to.

But I don’t. I’m ready to see it finished. Which means I’m willing to put in the work.

Now, just because I’m ready to tackle this particular project doesn’t mean I’m not procrastinating like hell on plenty of others. Indeed, there are books I plan to read and books I plan to write–one day. Most likely, either it’s simply not time or I’m putting them off because I’m afraid of how my life will change–or worse, not change–once I do. Full of the fear of failure, I slow things down. I pump the brakes. Quite literally, I create (more) time.

Caroline Myss says we do this time creating thing constantly, in every area of our life. With our relationships, with our careers. Even with our resentments. Like, we decide how long it’s going to take us to get over something. We decide how long we’re going to “hang on.” We joke about this. Someone brings up an argument they had with their lover in 1983, and we say, “Still not over it?” Clearly they’re not. But they COULD be, just like my dance students COULD be further along than they are.

One of Myss’s points about all this is that we can’t decide to move slowly in terms of our resentments and expect to move quickly in terms of our healing. Because you can’t hang on and expect your body to let go at the same time. You either both hang on or you both let go. This is one of the reasons I’ve talked so much lately about letting go and forgiving. More and more, I see the price of holding grudges and being bitter (about anything) as simply too high. Now, I don’t claim to be a master at this. Nor do I have any promise that as I work to let go that my body will miraculously heal. Or heal at all. Although I do believe forgiving in one way to SPEED UP healing. Indeed, I’ve heard stories of people who forgave experiencing healing. But healing is always a grace, never a guarantee. This being said, and despite the fact that I currently feel like poop, I have experienced more physical healing these last two years (and especially these last two months) than ever before, and I don’t think it’s simply a coincidence that this has happened alongside my conscious choice to–in front of God and everybody–connect with my own good heart.

When I first sat down to write tonight I thought I was going to write about hope. Because whenever I don’t feel well I usually hit a point when I think things are hopeless. Consequently, it’s good for me to talk myself down off a ledge, to remind myself to be patient. Because the truth is there’s always hope. Likewise, as long as you’re alive you can always choose to be a better dancer, choose to be a kinder, gentler person. Even if you grow just a little bit each year, that’s something and is better than choosing not to. My point being that as long as YOU can change, your body can change, your life can change. And if takes a lifetime or an eternity to heal, to really heal?

Then it’s time well spent. And you haven’t hoped–or worked–in vain.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s never too late to be your own friend.

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Let’s Start Over (Blog #1010)

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Okay. It’s 3:40 in the afternoon, and I’m blogging now because I’m going to a party tonight with my friends Aaron and Kate. Additionally, I’ve had a sinus infection for the last week and don’t imagine that staying up late to write (again) will help it go away. Currently I’m wishing it WOULD go away, and it occurs to me that I’ve spent a good deal of my life wishing things were different than they are–an illness, a feeling, a relationship, my bank account. So now I’m trying to let life exist, to actually relax into instead of push against THIS moment. This exhausted, snot-filled, weak, achy moment. Which feels like an eternity to me (WHEN will it end?!) but is simply another moment to eternity.

A necessary moment, I trust, in the grand scheme of things.

Earlier today I got a message from Kate about the party tonight. “Be at our house at 5:30 because we’re going to dinner first.” Then she added a laughing emoji and said, “I made your evening plans for you.” And whereas I’m usually a control freak about being told what to do, in this case–for a lot of reasons–I didn’t care. Indeed, I was delighted. “It’s okay,” I replied, “I’m looking forward to getting out of the house.” Anyway, this whole exchange has got me thinking about control, the way we sometimes pitch a shit-fit when someone tells us what to do and sometimes we don’t.

And we’re nowhere near logical about it.

A while back I had an experience in which I wanted someone’s approval and didn’t get it–and that bothered me. Alas, had it been any other person or even a different day of the week, I probably wouldn’t have cared. After some time had passed, I didn’t care with this person. This is what I mean about control, how we have to have things a certain way–our way–in order to be happy or satisfied. I MUST have their approval, and so on. If it’s someone else’s idea or opinion that happens to disagree with yours? Well, then it must be wrong. THEY must be wrong. Because God forbid someone other than you–someone other than me–should be right.

Along these lines, Byron Kate says that if you want to give someone a gift, let them be right. “People LOVE to be right,” she says. So like, let them have the last word. This, of course, is both a difficult and miserable thing to do. But more and more I’m seeing the wisdom in not putting up a fuss about insignificant things (in forgiving), in letting people be who they are (whether they approve of me or not), and in not trying to change someone else’s world (the world where, according to them, I very well may be wrong). Recently I watched two people arguing online about a dance matter. Now, they were using well-constructed sentences and gentlemanly language, but–let’s be clear–they were attacking each other. At the very least, they were picking a fight. (Incidentally, the dance didn’t care.) Have I done this sort of thing before? Sure. But the older I get, the more I hope I do less of it.

Why, Marcus?

Because it’s not my job to control how anyone else dances, behaves, or thinks. This includes friends, family, lovers, and perfect strangers. Granted, I could try to change someone else (and believe me I’ve tried), but talk about exhausting. So more and more I’m learning to let others think and do as they will. My therapist would say, “Like you, THEY’RE AUTONOMOUS.” Likewise, I’m learning to let God, to let life, do as it wills. This means doing my best to heal and succeed, whatever that means, but letting go of the results. It means relaxing into THIS moment whatever it looks like. It means, no matter what’s happened the day before, saying, “Okay, sweetheart, here we are–right here, right now. Let’s start over.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It's never a small thing to open your home or heart to another person.

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On Everything Falling Apart (Blog #1004)

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Lately I’ve had a phrase stuck in my mind–smoke and mirrors. A few days ago I mentioned there’s a hole in my bathroom wall that’s covered up by a bookshelf, and this is what I mean. In reality there’s a blemish, but–presto change-o–now you see it, now you don’t. Y’all I use smoke and mirrors constantly. I use furniture to hide animal stains on rugs, magic markers to fill in scuff marks on shoes, and shoes to hide holes in socks. And don’t even get me started on the one-size-up clothes I wear to hide holiday pie.

I’ve even been known to wear concealer to cover up zits.

As most of you know, especially those of you who wear makeup, using smoke and mirrors is an uphill battle. The older you get, the harder you have to try. This morning, afternoon, and evening I helped a friend begin to organize their rather large personal library and, in the process, damaged a book cover. I was flipping through the pages, and it just snapped right in half. “Don’t worry,” my friend said. “Those covers [part of a particular series] are extremely brittle. They just keep falling apart.”

“I guess we all do,” I said.

Whether in terms of physical objects or material bodies, my point is that everything on planet earth (and in the universe) is slowly or quickly deteriorating. Nothing’s permanent. We can fool ourselves into thinking things will last, we will last, but they won’t, we won’t. You know how you can pick up a dandelion parachute (the white tuft thingy full of seeds) and, if the wind is blowing, it will disintegrate before your eyes? Well, this is what’s happening to everything and to all of us. Even if we can’t see it, we’re falling apart. Now, we may hide this fact and–somehow or other–get eighty or ninety years. We may even pass our book collections and antique pieces of furniture on to our children. But sooner or later the jig’s up for both us and our stuff.

As Kansas so aptly stated, “All we are is dust in the wind.”

At one point today my friend said, “Here’s a stack of books I’ll probably never use but am just not ready to get rid of.” Y’all, I totally get it. A few years ago I sold or gave away of over 80 percent of my worldly possessions and yet often still have trouble letting go. I look at a few of my books and pieces of jewelry and think, I’m taking YOU to the grave. Of course, this is nonsense. Ultimately, we don’t get to hang on to anything in this life–not our books, not our jewelry, not our Pink Floyd records. Not even our bodies. Whether by choice or by force, we eventually have to let go.

So all the better if we can, as my gay Uncle Randy used to say, set it free.

Now, does this mean that I’m going to voluntarily get rid of what little I have left (which is a lot by much of the world’s standards)? Does this mean I’m suggesting we all have estate sales? Hell no. But I am suggesting we do whatever we can to let go mentally and emotionally whether or not we let go physically. For me this looks like allowing myself to get excited about and enjoy physical objects (including my body and–sometimes, but not nearly enough, dear lord–the bodies of others), but not allowing myself to buy into the incorrect notion that any one thing or group of things can or will provide me with everlasting happiness. Indeed, I’m convinced that if it all disappeared tomorrow–my books, pictures, and clothes–I’d still have everything I need to live a joyful and content life.

Albeit a naked one.

More and more I think there’s nothing wrong with owning stuff as long as your stuff doesn’t own you. Like, does it add to your life, or take away from it? Is it a burden? This morning I was driving to my friend’s and noticed ALL THE TREES along the way. Like, there wasn’t just one tree or two trees, there was an abundance of them. So I don’t think we can rightly say that God is a minimalist. That being said, he’s clearly not ATTACHED to things either. This evening I watched an absolutely glorious sunset–full of purples, reds, oranges, and yellows. I wanted to hang on, stretch it out, take a picture. Buy a souvenir! Not God, however. He just let it go. Like, No big deal. Let’s forget it ever happened. Because he gets how things work here. Everything that’s born, dies. Period. The wind carries us all away.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Suddenly the sun breaks through the clouds. A dove appears--the storm is over.

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On Letting Go and Moving On (Blog #1001)

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Last night’s blog was #1000 in a row. (Woowho.) And whereas my average post takes about two hours to write, last night’s took four. I think it was five in the morning when I finally published it, shared it to social media, and wound down. While writing I told myself I was going to go for a celebratory walk when it was all said and done. However, later I was so tired that I never made it past the end of the driveway. Still, I played some music on my phone and danced under the new moon. Then I came inside, curled up in bed, and promptly began snoring.

This is how I party.

This afternoon I helped my parents clean our house–dust furniture, wash dishes, scrub the bathtub. Honestly, this was the perfect thing. One because it’s easy to let things pile up, and cleaning is a good opportunity to throw this away, put that in its proper place. Two because it was a reminder that life goes on. Just because you’ve had a big milestone (or tragedy) doesn’t mean there isn’t trash to take out. Indeed, these are things I’ve often encouraged (preached) here–getting your relationships in order, taking out your emotional garbage, moving on with your life. I have a friend who’s insistent on taking down their Christmas decorations the day after Christmas. This is the same idea. Like, the holidays are over. What’s next?

Along these lines of moving on, this afternoon in an effort to get some wrinkles out of one of our area rugs, I tried ironing it. Y’all, this was the wrong thing to do, since apparently the rug had some plastic in it and plastic and heat don’t go together. “Crap,” I told Dad, “I just melted this corner like the Wicked Witch of the West.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We’ll put the coffee table over it. Besides, it’ll give your mother an excuse to buy a new one.”

“I’m really sorry,” I said.

“Get over it,” he said. “It’s not important.”

Still, I started to self-flagellate. I should have known better and all that. But recently I’ve been asking myself the question, “How long do you want this to last? How long do you want to suffer?” Like, when someone cuts you off in traffic or cheats on you with your best friend, you know that AT SOME POINT you’re going to stop crying about it and start laughing. Even if it’s twenty years from now. (If instead you know that you’re going to be stuck right there in that moment forever–bitter, angry, resentful, and unforgiving for the rest of your life–that’s a problem.) Anyway, my point is that you can decide–I’m going to be upset about this for an afternoon, a week, or a month and then let it go. Getting back to the rug I screwed up today, I decided I’d let it go within the hour.

And I did.

Consequently, although I ruined the rug, or at least one corner of it, it didn’t ruin my day.

My suggestion: try this technique with something small before you try it with something big.

After my dad and I put the coffee table on the melted rug, I started thinking about all the other things in our home that are less than perfect. Like, the wood under the kitchen sink is rotted out because the sink’s been leaking and we just found out about it (we shut the cabinet door so no one will see the damage). The sheetrock in my bathroom has hole in it from where we hung one too many heavy objects on a screw (I positioned a large shelf over the hole). There’s termite damage on one of the baseboards in the sitting room (we put a futon in front of it). Anyway, my point is that things are always falling apart on planet earth–houses, material possessions, relationships, bodies. And whereas I don’t recommend covering all the damage up strictly to maintain appearances (because some things should be repaired or handled directly), I do recommend not getting stuck when things aren’t perfect. I do recommend moving on.

Because if it’s on planet earth–if it’s a material object–it wasn’t DESIGNED to last forever.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Aren’t you perfect just the way you are?

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