Muchness and Light

Take my hand, let Fate decide.

Every so often, when you need it most but expect it least, the universe gives you a gift. 

Mine came three weeks ago, though it began with the unleashing of a torrent of anger and resentment directed at me that sent me curled into my bed for most of a day.  I seriously debated just staying between my cozy, flannel sheets for the weekend but decided at the last minute to go out, to get out of my battered head for a while.  I was supposed to be meeting up with a friend. 

That fell through at the last minute.  Instead what I got was a lightning strike, straight to the ass at 1:34 in the morning. 

Yes, it came in the form of a boy—no, a man—who could see me for who I really am.  And I could see him.  All within ten minutes. 

Once again, Fate intervened and turned my head to make me look at what it wanted me to see.

"What the fuck?" I asked myself.  "Did that just happen?"

Why, yes.  Yes, it did.

It's like the universe looked at all of the work I've done over the past three years, the lessons I fought so hard to learn through my crazy time of transformation, and said, "Okay.  Let's see what you do with this."

It's so plainly, painfully obvious that I have to practice what I preach with this.  I have to walk the talk.  So which lessons are most important now?

Don't hide yourself away.  I am a force of nature.  Hot Pocket said recently that even she has a hard time keeping up with me.  "It's like chasing a preschooler in the sunshine," she said.  "It's beautiful but exhausting sometimes."  I'm not offended by that, especially coming from a sister from another mister.  I know how I am.  But I hid much of that from myself and others for so long, and it almost destroyed me.  I have to be truthful to myself and let my inner disco ball shine brilliantly.  I seriously debated reining that in, to keep some of the glittery, blinding brilliance from him at least initially, afraid that I would overwhelm yet another man.  To be less than I am would be detrimental to me and wholly dishonest to him.  And any man who wouldn't want me to be completely Stephanie is exactly the kind of man I don't want in my life.  Turns out, he's not intimidated and barely even fazed by my muchness. 

Open your mouth and say what you want.  I'm not a little girl; I'm a grown-ass woman.  I have the right and responsibility to express my thoughts and desires to a potential partner.  No matter how in sync we may feel, he can't read my damn mind.  If I want him to know something, it's on me to make that clear.  Again, it seems less threatening to dance around an issue or to insinuate or imply.  That's a sure-fire way to foster the miscommunication that will eventually lead to distance and anger.  It's hard sometimes to let someone else into the cacophonous din of my head and my heart, and I have to at least offer to be their tour guide.  He not only understands why I am so open and forward—he appreciates it. 

Stay in the moment.  Oh, being still is the hardest for me.  I like a plan; I like to have expectations for the future.  Even if the best-laid plans go awry, I am flexible and resourceful enough to shift quickly to a new, diverging path.  But to be here, peacefully, is very difficult for me.  I don't know where this will be in six weeks or six months or six years, and every time my head tries to go to that place, I clamp down on those thoughts and tell myself to shut the fuck up.  He is here and now; that is where I will get to know him and where he will really get to know me.  And I find that, historically, when I've had a serious expectation of long-term, that's exactly the moment I begin to take my partner and that relationship for granted.  Anticipation of a lifetime or longer has often given me an excuse not to care for now, because my missteps can always be forgiven when there's an indefinite amount of time before me.  Now, with this man, I have to work to be present rather than projecting for a future.  My frenzied head has to give up control to my patient heart and let it lead me slowly toward whatever adventure awaits.

I realized this week that I spend so much time reacting to emotion—mine or someone else's—that I often forget to simply let myself feel what's happening, good or bad.  And what's happening, right now, feels spectacular.  He's amazing for reasons that would take me days to express, not the least of which is that he is totally accepting of my relationship with my girls.  Growler both unexpectedly met him ("That boy is dazzled, Stephanie.") and gave him his nickname (Bounder, which I will not explain in this forum).  Hot Pocket got the Tingle of Truthiness when I told her lightning had struck again.  Even Queen Frostine has given him her stamp of approval from a distance. 

In the way he always does, Hammer nailed me with the most honest appraisal of this point in my life: "You'll never feel normal again because your normal has changed.  This is great progress and I'm happy for you."

Me, too, Hammer.  Me, too.

You may think at first I'm mad as a hatter....

It started a year or two ago, the Nicknaming of the Inner Circle. 

I received a message from a friend, Amanda, who relayed the tale of a dream she'd had the night before, in which I was some kind of superheroine, fighting some crazy criminal villain while wearing a witchy purple dress and kickass black boots.  She was my sidekick. 

"We need names," I said.

As I thought about it all day, I kept going back to something she'd been calling me for days: sassy. 

"Sassafras," I decided. 

But Sass needed a last name.  Something Irish.  Something poignant. 

One of the songs I constantly go back to—even though one friend (Pickle) will ridicule me ad infinitum for this—is "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)" by Rupert Holmes.  It's tied to my childhood and my later youth and even my adulthood.  I have a Bucket List goal to get different, incredibly varied musicians to record an album that's nothing but covers of that song.  Adam Taylor and Wesley Cook have both agreed, in principle.  I'd love to get Les Claypool, Greg Dulli, and maybe In This Moment to record it, too.  I'd even happily donate all the proceeds to charity, though I have no idea what charity would want money from a song about two people trying to cheat on their spouses.  (Again, I argue, it's not about adultery; it's about serendipity!)

The bar where the two meet to plan their escape is O'Malley's.  Perfect.

So now Sassafras O'Malley needed a sidekick. 

I wracked my brain but could think of nothing.  She became Mandypants for lack of a better option.  And it stuck for a long while.  Recently after posting about a surgical procedure in which she was effectively microwaving her lady parts, I deemed her Hot Pocket.  And it suits her beautifully.

So Sassafras O'Malley and Mandypants (now Hot Pocket) were the first two of the nicknamed.  That list has grown and grown and grown since this began.  It seems silly, yes, but these nicknames are like our true names.  These are the second names, the names that are particular, peculiar, and more dignified, to help us keep our tails perpendicular.

Growler – who is sweet like a little kitten but will turn beastly in a moment if you cross her

Hammer – the Hammer of Honesty who can tell the truth like no one else

Moonshine – blue and bright and glowing, can always make you a little drunk with her beauty

Queen Frostine – the coolest chick you'll ever meet

Cookie – never a Tagalong and never a Thin Mint, but sweet and crunchy nonetheless

Lady Hammer – a strange female reflection of the truths of Hammer, totally unexpected

Glee – gregarious and ebullient, she knows the words to any and every song

Roadkill – who will step out in front of a moving car, admonishing you that they'll stop

Cupid37 – who dressed up as Cupid (and sometimes worse) in public and appears in chapter 37

Pickle – because he's always drunk, but also because he's both sweet and sour but not a baby gherkin

Irish Coffee/Not Boy – the Irish-descended guy I like to drink coffee with, who's not my boyfriend

Absolem – the questioning caterpillar to my Alice, who can unhinge me by asking me who I am

DH – Dear Husband, as assigned in the infertility forums 14 years ago, soon possibly DX or DXH or DB

Minizon - daughter of Hot Pocket, my Glamazon-in-training

There are a couple of others, but I don't know if they know the origins of their internal nicknames, so I'm opting to keep them in the vault.  For now.

Sometimes we have learned of our super powers.  Some are still a secret. 

Sassafras O'Malley, who can utterly mesmerize you with her potty mouth, has a special disco ball ring that dazzles stupid people into submission, specifically to keep them from copulating when her muchness leaks into the water supply.  It's a tool to lower the chances of stupid people breeding.  (She also has sparkly boots.) 

Growler has the ability to create snow angels anywhere, out of thin air.  She can mesmerize animals instantly and cause them to do her bidding. 

Hot Pocket has the Broccoli Bomb.  When she unleashes it, it makes everyone around her snort broccoli up the back of their noses.  Painfully funny. 

The list is likely to go on and on as time progresses.  I haven't named all of these people.  In fact, maybe only half of them.  Hammer has had a hand in the naming, as has Hot Pocket.  But these names are so appropriate for each and every one of these friends.  It's like they just whispered themselves to us in an inexplicable moment of truth.  Mostly when we were sober. 

They're my incomparable cast and crew. 

And these are the names that will never belong to another (fragile) cat.  They are ours and ours alone. 

But somewhere, deep down, each of also has a third name, the one that no other human can ever discover.  Our deep inscrutable singular names that only we know and only we call ourselves, respectively.  I know mine, but I'm not sharing.  Only one other person knows it, and that's only because he knew it before I did.  That's Absolem.  And I know he's not telling. 

 

I want all that stupid old shit, like letters and sodas.

When I went public in October about my impending divorce, I got all kinds of messages (public and private) from all kinds of people.  They ran the gamut from encouragement to congratulations to sympathy.  One in particular was very kind and gave me the most unexpected response:

"Welcome to the best part of divorce: the post-divorce SEX!"

Let's be honest: failing marriages aren't typically filled with crazy nights of amazing sex.  As Tiff has said to me a hundred times, great sex can mask a lot of flaws in a relationship, but if the sex isn't there, well, you're pretty much doomed. 

This is not to say that sex with DH was bad.  Far from it.  But it had ended long before we made the announcement or told the children or the families or most of our friends that we were separating. 

(DISCLAIMER: This is not a post about my sex life with my ex-husband.  But I've written about it before in other venues, and there's no reason to dance around what was a natural part of a twenty-year relationship.  I will not go into lurid details of that aspect of our marriage, especially not like this.) 

When he left, I was pretty convinced that I would never have sex again.  It seemed implausible that I would manage to meet someone in my active life as a suburban mom, even if only to sleep with them.  Honestly, I've had this thought a lot in those months.  Every time I've felt the most dejected, that's just when someone new has come into my life, even if only for a brief encounter.  Some have captured my attention for longer than others, but none of them has been "the one"—a totally ridiculous notion in my mind anyway. 

I've written a lot lately about what I don't want in a relationship going forward—addiction, distance, unavailability.  Even when my marriage was crumbling, there was a lot of talk about what either or neither of us did not want to have happen, if we were to move forward.  There was very little discussion about what we did want, especially what we wanted collectively. 

So I've been thinking a lot over the last few days about what I want, when the day comes.  And I know it will come.  I will fall in love again—it's what I do.  I don't know with whom or when or where, but my history says I'm likely to be struck by lightning.  It's happened twice before, though maybe it's arrogant to think that it could happen again.  My gut says, very confidently, that it's just a matter of time. 

First and foremost, I want healthy attention.   I am really very attentive and loyal to my partners, at least until I've been battered and bruised so much that it hurts to keep going back, and I expect the same in return.  I don't need to be the constant center of attention, but I want to be seen, regularly.  I want someone to message me in the middle of the day and ask how I am, just because they were thinking about me.  I want the quality conversation—in person, in email, by phone—that gives us each the other's undivided attention and lets us really connect cerebrally.

Second, I want affection.  I want random, unexpected kisses in the kitchen or while I'm putting the laundry away.  I want someone to hold my hand while we're driving to dinner.  I want someone to pause on the way into the restaurant and kiss that special spot on my neck, just because they know it will stop me blissfully in my tracks for twenty seconds. 

Third, I want to feel special.  Everyone has their own hierarchy of love.  Your partner, your kids, your parents, your friends, your family, God... they all fall into some ladder of who means more to you, though that can be relative to your point in time.  I want to know that I'm at (or at least very near) the top of that list at any given time. 

Fourth, I want sex.  I am a sexual being, and I am open and willing and adventurous.  My sexual partners need to be similarly-styled.  I recognize that we all come from different places of experience and experiment and inhibition.  I'm not opposed to taking someone else down a new road, nor am I afraid to be lead in new and exciting directions.  But there has to be equitable balance in those couplings.  Sex with a love partner is unquestionably the most extraordinary, bringing two people together in the most intimate of ways and as an expression of that exact moment of love—slow and sweet, sweaty and heady, quick and angry.  I need a partner who is willing to be as exploratory as I am, whether it's physical or emotional.

Fifth, I want love.  I want to feel the other person feeling me back.  I want active expression of emotion, not passive murmurings and protestations on the way out the door.  I want love as a verb, not as a noun.  And I want to be able to reciprocate in kind. 

Maybe this is a lot to ask for.  In my mind, it's completely reasonable.  I've been in all kinds of relationships—DH was by no means my first and only—and I've become very pragmatic about what I'm willing to accept.  I think, for me, it's a combination of both my age (and the natural history of experience and maturation that comes with that) and the demise of my longest and most-intimate relationship.  I haven't lowered my standards; if anything, they're higher than they ever were when I was 20.  I'm just ready to cut out the bullshit and get on with my life. 

I don't know when the next right person will come along.  I'm not actively looking for them; I fully expect that it will happen when I least expect it.  I'll still be out living my life, flexing my muchness, and having all of the meaningless and meaningful experiences that are awaiting me.  But I am ready for those encounters, whatever they bring.  If it's some random person who doesn't interest me for more than five minutes, I'll move on.  If it's someone who turns out to be nothing more than a great friend, I'm happy to welcome a worthy person into the inner circle.  And if it's love, well, that's when I'll be most attentive, both to me and to them.  It's what we'll both deserve. 

I had on my headphones along with those eyes that you get when your circumstance is movie size.

People come into our lives for all kinds of reasons.  Sometimes they're just passers-by, on their way from one point to another, whose path just happens to cross with ours.  Other times, they're milestones and markers on our journey from Point A to Point Me, an interesting landmark that catches our attention and makes us pause for a moment to examine our surroundings a little closer.  And other times, well, there's a purpose to their entrance into our lives; we are supposed to stumble upon each other and learn some lesson, to find some new meaning in ourselves because of something one of us has to teach the other. 

These aren't necessarily the people who will surround us for the rest of our lives.  That's a very lofty ideal, to find our souls' mates and have them with us ad infinitum.  So often, though, that becomes ad nauseum, and the time comes when the separation has to be made, when those people have to be culled from our lives.  That can be a painful process for one or both sides, but it is sometimes unavoidable if we are to move healthily forward along our path. 

I strive to find the purpose in virtually everything I do.  Experience is often mundane, and there's little hidden purpose in the activities that often fill our days.  Breakfast and transportation and sleeping all serve a very defined and insignificant-though-necessary intent.  It's when people cross my path that I am most intrigued, my overdeveloped curiosity piqued. 

I got home about a week ago from Glittery Girl Week.  This was my first stretch of alone time since the divorce began.  I flew to Chicago to see Tiff for a couple of days, then on to Birmingham to hang with Hot Pocket (née Mandypants) and Growler, plus a few other glittering beauties and glamazons-in-training.  Planes, trains, and automobiles—plus buses and a lot of cathartic walking—took me to new restaurants and bars and clubs and shows.  I took Tierney on a tour of Chicago, where so much of her action begins.  I got my first tattoo.  I watched Persona Non Grata sell at Quimby's in Wicker Park, where so much of Tierney's action begins.  Where so much of my own life began in 2010.

 

"Junkture is what you do. Wonder Woman is who you are." - Tiff

 

It was, perhaps, the craziest five days of my life.  (If you know me, or if you've read Persona Non Grata, you will understand why that's such a huge declaration.)  And I loved every second of it.

Sitting on Tiff's sofa on Friday afternoon, she looked at me and said, "I've never seen you so confident in your life, Steph.  Really.  Ever."

She's right.  I am.  That's why I didn't shy away from the 70-year-old woman in a full-length mink coat who told me my purple-on-blond was beautiful.  I graciously thanked every man who stopped me to tell me how beautiful I was—really feeling the sentiment for maybe the first time in my life.  And when Paul, the 40-something guy I met outside my hotel in Wrigleyville held me up for ten minutes to tell me how and why I was special and beautiful to him, a total stranger, I was happy to give him the coat-open, full-frontal hug that he requested upon the parting of our ways. 

With all of these new people skittering about me, I am watchful for the ones who may mean something.  There was Fragile, a beautiful, young poet from Denver whom I met while boarding my flight from Chicago-Midway to Birmingham.  Her life was so different than mine, but there was an immediate connection and reflection of so many of my own hard-fought lessons in this amazing young woman.  When I gave her a Junkture guitar pick from my purse, she smiled and said, "I've started to affirm the things I'm going to do, not the things I want to do.  I just affirmed that I am going to learn to play the guitar.  This is my first guitar pick ever, and I'm going to use it to learn to play."

I gave her the copy of Persona Non Grata that had traveled with me through Chicago. 

Tierney headed out for Glittery Girl Week.

Tierney going through security at Hartsfield.

Tierney with the Blues Brothers at Midway.

Tierney and Tessa having breakfast at Whole Foods.

Tierney dancing with Mr. Stolichnaya.

Tierney at the Double Door.

Tierney looking for Liz Phair at Reckless Records.

Maybe I am meant to come into someone else's life to teach them something as well. 

There are others who've crossed my path recently, and I'm delighted to realize this stage in my life is about practicing the skills I've learned over the last two years, of bringing those lessons to fruition and proving to no one but myself that the metamorphosis really was what was supposed to happen, that there was a reason I breathed life back into Stephanie, that I met (and left) Absolem, and that my marriage came to its unavoidable and sad end.  While I still have things to learn, I can sense with some of these new acquaintances what those things are—in one specific instance, it is trust in another person in the most intimate of ways— and I am realizing with each encounter that I have something to offer them.

Maybe it's a different kind of trust.  Maybe it's learning how to allay their own fears in the face of certain criticism and lurid judgment.  Maybe it's how to open their mouths and say what they want from me or someone else or their lives.  Maybe it's even how to embrace the truth of their selves and to integrate those truths fully into their daily toil.  And maybe it's something I will never know. 

As I was circled by crows this morning—an omen of being mindfully true to yourself and your opinions, of walking your own talk—I realized that it's safe for me to impactful on someone else, that I can do it in ways that are healthy both to me and to them, without having to resort to the shame of keeping or being a secret.  It is refreshing. 

And I'm sure the learning will be reciprocal.  I can hardly wait to discover what new thing is waiting for me. 

Where the clouds pull apart and the moon changes faces, in the quiet, secret places, are you there? Are you there?

I am kind of petrified of the dark. 

I always have been.  I went to sleep every night with my light on until I was in my early teens. 

It's not the darkness, per se, that's frightening; it's what may be lurking inside those shadows that scares the bejeezus out of me.  Too many horror movies when I was far too young to be watching them did nothing to help allay my fears.  Rousing in the middle of the night, I always imagine I see some indistinct, humanoid shape in the corner of the room.  And if I have to go into the hallway or (God forbid) the basement at night, it's always Pinhead that's waiting at the end of my path. 

But the darkness itself... well, that's kind of a different story. 

I love being comfortably in the quiet shadow.  I feel like I can bend and twist the shade into the cover I need, be it a lot or a little.  It's always been the place I was most free to dismiss my misgivings and shortcomings, to release my inhibitions and let my own inner light pulse dimly or brilliantly, as the moment demanded. 

To take away so much of my most used sense forces the others to compensate.  While I may be myopic in shadow, sound and touch become much more keen.  Music and sensation feel electric, and I am wholly entranced by that feeling. 

But that darkness also holds a silence that's begging to be heard.  The stillness contained therein demands a certain consideration, and I am enduringly willing to let that hold my attention, to envelope me in its secrets and dreams and fantasies. 

Inevitably, though, the light returns.  The daylight isn't by default a terrible thing.  It is beautiful and comforting in its own right.  It can also be harsh and terrifyingly revealing.  But I can't hide in the light.  There's little room to be covert when you're illuminated.  Somewhere, between the dark and the light, is the place I am most balanced and most erratic, feeling the tug of two different kinds of truths, their constancy pulling in opposite directions and holding me firmly in momentary stasis. 

I don't have to pretend; she doesn't expect it from me.

Two years ago, I was fat and numb and unhappy.  I didn't know what the hell I wanted in my life, but it had to change.  It had to.  Maybe I didn't even know it needed to happen, maybe I did.  I don't really think I was consciously aware of how desperately there needed to be a shift in my life.

Never did I imagine the tempest that would take over my teapot.  I had no way to know that I would live the most unlikely of events and come to such a different place in my journey.  At the time, I didn't even know there was a journey; there was only that place and time that I was and from whence I'd come. 

But here I am, two years later, more than a hundred pounds lighter than I was then, with more shoes and better hair.  I'm weeks away from releasing my first novel, and I'm in the process of getting divorced. 

As dramatic as the logistical changes in my life appear to be, it's the intangible ones that are truly the most remarkable. 

A friend said to me a few days ago, "I know it's hard for you to believe, but you deserve more."

My gut response was, "No, I don't."  But before I could even say those words, I thought, "You're right.  I do, and I know it." 

And here's what I've come to discover in the last two years: I deserve the chance to be happy.  I deserve the good things that I feel are coming my way.  I deserve the chance at contentment and peace in myself because I have earned the right to accept and own those things. 

It took me a very long time to really connect with my own self-worth, to truly understand that the inherent Stephanie had value unto herself, to her friends, and to society in general.  I could always see the impact my deeds and actions had on the world around me, but I didn't always feel that I was worth much of anything. 

My value doesn't come from the crap I've done in the last two years.  I'm not worthwhile now only because I fit a little better into society's idea of how women should look.  It's not like my words suddenly matter just because I have a blog.  I'm am worth more and deserve more because I am strong enough to accept more.  I'm a persnickety Virgo—I've always had exacting demands and high expectations, though probably moreso of other people than of myself in recent years.  Rather than becoming petulant and bitter that things don't go the way I think they should, I often find myself actively seeking the best in what I've been given, plus ways to actually achieve what I want.  I'm much more proactive in living my life now than I was two years ago. 

But it's also not like I don't have moments where I feel like all of that could fall apart.  Things happen that make me want to crumble.  My inner circle can testify to that fact that I still have days when I blow up and break down and get very, very upset about the principle and the specifics of shit that just goes wrong. 

Everything that happens now, good or bad, wonderful or horrible, sacred or profane, I will experience it and feel it as fully as I can, knowing that I have earned that right.  These are my moments to recognize and comprehend in the fullest way that only I know how, and I intend to live every single one of them. 

She fills up every corner like she's born in black and white.

I was talking to Growler today, relaying some lascivious detail of some antic or another, when she paused. 

"My god, you are ballsy!" she laughed.    

Why, yes.  Yes, I am. 

But I wasn't always.  I've talked many, many (manymanymany) times about how my fears held me back.  Or rather, how I let my fears hold me back.  But even in my seclusiveness, I had moments of letting that all out—especially if I was comfortable with my surroundings.  Hanging out with my friends, I could always be loud and bawdy and brash.  It just wasn't always apparent to the general public. 

The biggest apprehension, for me, about being so open and sometimes brazen is that what I do will be bad.  Take my writing for example.  It's easy for me to hide behind my words.  I can use them like a big, decorative shield—to either protect myself or to distract the other person from the underlying emotion.  I can spin the words lovingly into some never-before-read combination, but that doesn't mean it's good. 

That's the fear I'm facing with Persona Non Grata. 

I admitted online a couple of days ago that I'm afraid it's really bad and that no one's had the heart to tell me. 

"I would find a way to very gently tell you, if I thought it was terrible," Tiff assured me.  "It's not.  It's good."

She's pretty exacting and finicky, though she's also been my BFF for a really long time.  She's not afraid to tell me when something I'm wearing is bad ("That dress is doing you no favors.  Toss it."); why would I think she would let me spend a year working on something so difficult and personally poignant, just because she didn't have the heart to tell me it sucked?

Some of the inner circle readers have been only gushing.  (I totally love the ego boost from that, by the way.)  Some have been more politely critical about specific aspects and issues that really did need to be addressed.  And my editor has been incomparably patient and honest in her critiques. 

But there's still this chance that it gets out there and everyone thinks it's bad.

There will be people who don't like it because it's not their style of story.  There will be people who don't like because they don't like me.  (Suck it.)  There will be people who don't like it because they don't like anything.  (You have met the internet, right?)

My hope is that there will be people who like it so much that they recommend it to their friends.  Or they go on Amazon (when it's available) and leave a nice review.  Or they just send me a message to say they loved it. 

But what I hope, more than anything, is that someone who doesn't know me says it's good.

For a long time, I could write what was in my heart and head but not actually say the words.  My spoken voice didn't usually flow as easily as my typed voice.  That's not so much the case now.

"I can always tell when you're writing," Mo said one afternoon on the telephone.  "Your vocabulary gets huge."

Indeed. 

Something about the process of spinning the big words make me even more willing to say exactly what I'm thinking and feeling and to ask for what I want.  I'm more likely to be that direct, loud, ballsy girl, knowing full well that there are some people who just won't like it. It's just part of my muchness.

But I also know that the real good is in having learned how to do that, how not to let my fear stop me from stepping out from behind that golden, glittery shield.  When those words are spoken in confident candor, I have the victory, regardless of what anyone else thinks. 

I'll make it to the moon if i have to crawl.

I've talked before about the idea of the Truthiness of Me and of my drive to honor my truths—good and bad—regardless of what the vast majority of people think.  Muchness and Light is, in some ways, a public exploration of that.  I talk very openly about a lot of things—from my fears and failures to my triumphs, my body image and weight loss issues and the subsequent surgeries.  Early in my process of reawakening, I determined that is was viscerally important to me to be as honest with my readers as I could stand.  I am very often this way in my offline, day-to-day life, as well.

Turns out, apparently I'm not so much like other people. 

"You're willing to embrace your scars and show them," Mandypants said.  "You're willing to embrace the scars of other people, of the people you love.  And that is brave and beautiful, but it is not like 98% of people."

My therapist nodded emphatically in agreement when I told her. 

When I saw Tiff for Pretty, Pretty Princess Night a couple of weeks ago, she saw the edges of the brachioplasty scars peeking from the backs of my arms.  "Those scars are kind-of cool," she remarked.  "They're really pretty badass."

Most of my female friends feel the same way.  Interestingly, most men ask if and when the scars will fade, or if they can be hidden.

Tiff and I went on to talk about this idea of baring my scars proudly, like a badge of honor. 

"I get why that's important to you," she said, "but I am a very private person.  I would be mortified to bare everything so openly."

Wharrrrrgarrrbbbble?!?

I don't understand.  Really.  I mean, I get it in my head that not everyone is so tolerant of such self-examination, even when the forum isn't so public.  That is, ultimately, the own to each.  But in my heart, I have some ingrained block against comprehending why it would be bad to point out your own journey via the roadmap of your scars.  It seems ludicrous not to be embracing of the good and the bad, to see and accept the awful as equally powerful and enlightening as the splendid. 

Scars, whether literal or figurative, are simply reference points, like landmarks of a person's journey.  They're invariably the product of wounding.  Usually that wounding is unintentional and painful.  More often than not, it is from injury that was inflicted, whether by someone else or by ourselves. 

I have a small scar in my eyebrow from running into a television stand twice when I was very young.  I have faded silvery lines that came from exploded fireworks and bicycle accidents and stretch marks from growth.  There's a small indentation of missing bone in my right ankle, where it was chipped away by the angry, pointed toe of an abusive ex-boyfriend's cowboy boot.

Scars may also be the unintentional consequences of good things.  Nearly every mother I know has either an abdominal C-section scar, or a scar from where her natural vaginal tear (or perhaps her episiotomy) healed after birthing her precious baby.  I have the new, lengthy scars from my own series of surgeries, trading in the old emotional baggage for something more (and less) physical. 

And, as Mo roundaboutedly reminded me last night, tattoos are a great example of almost-always chosen scars.  "The truth is like a tattoo.  It accurately represents who you are at the exact moment it is revealed."

Maybe all scars are like that.  Maybe they pinpoint not only where you were when you got them, but also how and why you were—all of which make up the Who of You. 

So what should be so wrong in talking about that?  What is the problem in discussing and showing how and when and why you came into being Who?

The problem, as I understand it, is two-fold:

1)      Talking about your trauma and damage and all of your little anecdotes of agony can make other people uncomfortable.  Apparently men are especially likely to feel off-put by such honesty, based on anecdotal evidence.  According to my therapist, the greatest or most common fear of men, generally, is shame.  There's something there are about self-respect and identity, of reputation and persona.  (For women, the prevalent fear is being killed.  It has to do with safety and feeling unprotected and vulnerable.)

2)      Injury is so often inflicted by another person.  To tell your own story is fine.  To discuss the parts of your story that intersect with others may open their wounds, or cause them inadvertent discomfort. 

It doesn't seem that talking about the damage that's already been done should be inflicting.  There's not necessarily onus to your action; discussion isn't malicious, by default.  It's bleeding edge versus cutting edge.  At most, it's a matter of pointing out the wound and addressing it in an effort to help it heal.  Debriding might hurt like hell, but it's ultimately a much better alternative than leaving the wound to fester, never to have the opportunity to scar in healing—or worse.

So what to do, when your life is words, and you're all about this Verisimilitude of Self?

It's a fine line, really.  There's a right to publicity and right to privacy that overlap.  Am I talking about someone else's immoral or illegal behavior?  Is what I'm saying true?  Is it potentially embarrassing but cogently honest? 

And it's hard sometimes, to know when to share and when to hold back.  I have to tap into that place inside me, the Wellspring of Verity, where I find what is unequivocally right, regardless of whether or not is right for me or anyone else, specifically.  At the very least, it is what is right right now.  If I find that Point Me shifts to another place and time, what is right today might very well turn out to be wrong tomorrow.  But tomorrow isn't guaranteed, and all I can be sure of is this moment and the ones from which I came. 

Just because something hurts, that doesn't mean it's bad.  Growth can be painful.  Sadness and anger can hurt like fucking hell, but they usually bring us closer to some new understanding of ourselves.  That is what is so sublime about the raw power of self-cultivation and transcendence.

So here are my scars.  Here is the proof from whence I came.  Some of you came from there with me, though some of you can't admit that.  Somehow, in your own arrogance or sadness or anger, you have valued me as worth less than your own shame.  That is on you. 

I do have worth and value, for who I am and the things I have endured.  The web of scars, both apparent and unseeable, is the Substrate of Stephanie.  It is the topography of my life, at least to this point.

For all that I have done and seen and felt and lived, in ways that may have been profound only to me, I am defensible.  And I will defend my self and my worth at all costs, because it is always more precious than shame. 

Now here I stand, one grain of sand inside this crazy life.

So today's the big day: 40. 

The first thing you should know is that I don't care about turning forty.  I'm not scared of it.  So please don't bother to lament my youth or future aging. 

When I turned thirty, everyone called me, encouraging me to freak out about it.  What was there to freak out about?  It's natural.  Everyone who lives past that certain point passes the milestone as they move toward the next one. 

Thirty was the age I didn't have to pretend to care what other people thought anymore.

Forty is the age I can afford not to pretend to care what other people think. 

I am who I am, and so much of that is because of the crazy and amazing experiences I've had since the hot summer day when I launched out of my mom, all six pounds and six ounces of me determined to get going, a month early. 

Good, bad, crazy, and boring—there have been a lot of laughs and tears and breathless giggles and blank stares of utter, incomprehensible disdain.  More of that than not has been spent with my BFFs, with the girlies who turned into women, right along with me.  This weekend I was blessed with the ability to go to my hometown of Birmingham and see these women, to spend the weekend with them while we ate and drank and cackled boisterously at each other, causing a raucous public scene.  (Turns out people are very forgiving of your obnoxious laughter when you're wearing a pink glittery hat and carrying a glowstick wand.)

There were moments when we were all sixteen again, giggling about some boy or some twenty-year-old memory.  But now we are wives and mothers and teachers and friends in ways we could never have imagined in our brash youth.  We are grown, and we are women who can own our lives, whether or not anyone else likes it. 

But being a grown-up doesn't mean we have to stop being who we are deep down.  There's no reason to suppress the essence of Me, just because society thinks we should act our age.  And that's just it—I will act my age, as I think it applies to me and regardless of what that means to anyone else. 

As we said all night for Pretty Pretty Princess Night, "Fuck 40!"

Thank you to everyone who has helped me to get here.  Thank you to everyone I've ever met or known, who took a moment to impact my life and my path, even if I didn't know or like how it was happening.  I wouldn't be in this place, in this Me, without your having touched me in some way. 

Now go find yourself a yummy delicious cupcake and make a wish—for you, for me, for world peace.  Whatever you choose, wish for it in your heart like you were a little kid again, and never, ever let go of how that feels.

SXSW - Day 4

Day 4 in Austin came way the hell too early, as usual, but I dragged my ass toward a shower and breakfast before catching my shuttle back downtown.  I hit one panel on licensing, a Day Stage set by the Big Pink, and then decided, "Screw it!  It's St. Patrick's Day!"

By noon, 6^th Street was painted with all shades of green.  I'm a good Irish girl and made a point to find a good Kelly green tank top to brighten my day.  I wandered for a while, listening and watching, and was surprised to realize I was ravenous.  Chupacabra Cantina it was for some great Tex-Mex tacos.  And some Jack.  The hot bartender bought me a second round.  Turns out he used to play hockey for the former Atlanta Thrashers' feeder team, and his ex-wife used to babysit for Ed Kowalczyk, former LIVE frontman.  (More on that later.)

Jack and Ginger and I danced our way down 6^th, and we were immediately drawn to this voice coming from inside Friends.  It was sand-in-your-ass-crack gritty and awesome.  Turns out it belonged to Austin blues singer Rachael Crawford, and it was totally worth the chafing.  She did the best version of "Folsom Prison Blues" I've heard since the original. 

But Jack and Ginger and I had big plans for the evening.  After four good dances, we decided to shuttle our way back to the hotel for a shower and a quick nap.  Candlebox was doing a short acoustic set at the Bayou Lounge at 7 p.m.  I watched them do "Cover Me" and "Far Behind" then walked with Kevin and Sean over to Antone's for the Microsoft Big App on Campus party, hosted by the Gracious Few.

I was in the door quickly, at the front of the stage where Chad Taylor normally stomps.  The Canvas Waiting opened, their set including a fabulous cover of New Order's "Bizarre Love Triangle", which holds a very special place in my heart.  I totally approved. 

Then my groupie love, the Gracious Few, took to the stage.  I hadn't seen them since May and was thrilled that they opened with "Silly Thing".  It's my song.  I loved it long before my path intertwined with theirs, and it's one of those songs that can sweep me away to a deeply, personally happy place, every single time I hear it.  TGF holds the spot for two of my top-five favorite songs (the other being "Labor of Love"), so it made me stupidly happy to start the night with it.  (No, Kevin, I don't blame you for not singing it with me this time.  For so many reasons.)  They were good.  They were my band.  And I was overjoyed to feel that pulsing rhythm that has been the soundtrack to so many miles of the most recent part of my journey. 

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 Blahblahblahblah from Microsoft.  Then came LIVE.

 

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 So, the boys from LIVE had been on a hiatus for nearly three years, mutually cutting ties with Ed Kowalczyk.  This was their first public show with their new lead singer, Chris Shinn.  They'd played a private event in York, PA, on Monday night.  I was supposed to have been at that show but had a last-minute family emergency that prevented me from going.  I was heartbroken at having missed such a special event in the life of the band I've loved for nearly twenty years, but it was unavoidable.

Chris had previously been with Unified Theory.  He also released a self-titled solo record in January that I really love.  It's a grown-up album and wasn't at all what I expected when DH gifted it to me during surgery recovery.  But I was concerned that Chris was too first tenor for the LIVE catalog.  (Later in his career, Ed's voice settled more toward his falsetto, but there are certain songs that even my natural contralto can't quite reach, when I have to pop up an octave to maintain the melody.) 

The guys came out to the first strains of "The Dam at Otter Creek", which was the song to open the best LIVE shows I've ever seen.  The whole set list was good—though I was very surprised to see "Freaks" on it.  There was nothing from Mental Jewelry, which was a little disappointing, but there was also nothing from V or Birds of Pray or the wretched Songs from Ed's Big Head Black Mountain.  It was fantastic to see Chad Taylor stomping and playing Ruby Lou.  Chad Gracey was out from behind the Plexi panel and pounded the fuck out of his drums.  I saw Patrick Dahlheimer smiling more on stage than I can remember having seen in years.  Sean Hennesy was kind enough to play the part of Adam Kowalczyk for the evening, even though that meant he had three straight sets with three different bands.

Chris seemed visibly nervous, and who can blame him?  The LIVE fans are rabidly split about whether or not they can support "their" band without Ed.  I wondered about it two years ago, too.  But this is totally up to Chad and Chad and Patrick, and I was more than willing to give a chance to any singer with the balls to step into that groupie firestorm.  Does he sound just like Ed?  No.  But there's a similarity there that lends his voice to the old songs.  Having been to dozens of LIVE shows over the years, I couldn't help but see the shaven ghost of Ed stepping across the stage, passing through and around Chris as he did his own thing.  But he did his own thing, and it was good.  I am looking forward to seeing where these guys go now that they're really opening a new chapter of their career. 

More Microsoft blahblahblah.

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Strangely, it was my first Candlebox show.  I was never a huge Cbox fan (Kevin, you were right—I always loved LIVE more.), but it was interesting to see how different he is on stage from one band to the next.  You don't notice it as much with guitarists, who can hide behind their instruments, but there was a different onstage persona that came out of him for each band.  My heart is still with TGF, but I knew enough Cbox to sing along and have him put his mic in my face, like he always has.  Okay, yeah, so it was "Far Behind", but I have my strangely personal reasons for liking that song, just like everyone else does.  (Well, except that I didn't get laid to it.)

After the show, though, was my favorite part.  Walking past the bar, I heard, "Stephanie!"  I turned to see Chad Taylor standing there, who I hadn't seen since May.  Big hugs and laughter.  "Gracey said to me, 'I think that skinny girl is Stephanie,' and I said, 'No way!'  Oh my God!  Look at you!  You were right in front of me for the entire Gracious Few set, and it wasn't until I came out with LIVE that I realized it was you!"  He promptly took me by the hand and twirled me around to see the difference that even the last forty-five pounds (and a new belly button) had made.  I knew I must be doing something right if even the rock stars can see the difference. 

I was exhausted, having stood and danced in the same spot for five hours.  Two of my very favorite songs were played that night ("I Alone" is on that list, too.  Strangely, Chad and Chad and Patrick, you have four of my five favorites.) , and it was exhilarating to be swept up in the music and the moments I love the most. 

I bravely stomped around Austin in my Big Girl panties and my persona non grata t-shirt, on my own for five days, and I loved every second of it.  Even my nervousness and being in a strange city, on my own, served only to invigorate me, and I splashed my muchness all over that fucking town—in my own way, sparkled with purple, just like I always do.