Slam

I have been getting a lot of questions lately about courage, primarily from women. I understand why my trajectory is of interest, and I’m grateful for the admiration and curiosity. Keep your feedback and inquiries coming; the circuitous interaction here is a win win for us all. It’s really heartwarming when I feel how genuine your questions are, and I strive to answer them all as honestly as you ask them. I’ve concluded that we are all born with courage, then it gets chipped away at by numerous infiltrators (the narratives we acquire as early as toddlerhood), but we can claw our way back to it with awareness and determination. It’s not a “thing”, like a one of a kind car or watch, so it’s universally available. A tangible item can’t be in two places at once, but a feeling or conviction can simultaneously exist in all of us at the same moment. I’ve always found comfort in that after someone I love passes; now they are everywhere, whereas when they were alive we only had them if they were next to us in the same room. What’s intriguing to me is that my life seems to be courageous both to those who know me personally and those who don’t. To those who know I’m divorced from reading the blog, and to those who don’t because they just follow the IG. That I come off courageously from different angles often takes me by surprise, despite the fact that I do get it.

Years ago I was entrenched in a really hard medical situation with one of my children. It lasted a long time and was a terribly sad, hard period. It baffled me when I got the “you’re so strong” line (which most people hate btw), because I simply saw it as having not had any choice. How nice would it have been had I actually been able to choose strength, instead of getting pushed off a cliff and having to teach myself to fly midair. What was strong about just going through the motions of what needed to be done? It’s not like I had options. There were no map contemplations; I just walked without knowing where the hell I was going. Which I guess really is brave.

Truthfully, that’s how I wound up here. I just went, with no clear destination in mind. Daily decisions slowly started to change based on need and instinct, and those molded themselves into a path. The path didn’t determine the changes; rather the changes determined the path. I came to identify myself as an emotionally brave person several years ago max. Prior to that I always felt riddled with all sorts of fears. I was obsessed with my own mortality and health, which is ironically “Lack of Health 101”.

Physically I can be a huge scaredy cat. I have no need for adrenaline in the form of height and speed. Velocity does not interest me, though it’s a cool word. Let someone else hurl themselves off a cliff; I think laser hair removal is a sufficient feat of bravery. I have written about this before, but I have a new point, I promise.

It’s true I have done things lately that have required courage. Getting divorced, learning how to better manage my finances, overcoming the impossibility of the DJ thing as a result of societal/religious restrictions, traveling alone, exposing myself on this platform, just to name a few. Shifting an entire life to explore unfamiliar territory, not knowing how it’ll pan out is indeed worthy of curiosity. Everyone wants the abridged manual. It does not exist though. This is one of the reasons I love daily meditation ; I wake up every day and remind myself of my immediate intentions for the day. I end every session with my hands over my third eye, clearly stating what I’ll promise myself that day. Whatever revealed itself to me during the meditation is what I formulate into that certain vow. I know it’s right for that moment because it just came to me. There are times nothing clearly comes, so I’ll try to force it by pulling out my roster of things I need to cultivate, but it never feels right that way. What feels right Tuesday night not click Wednesday. What clicks Wednesday at 11 might not click that same day at 3. Our needs are always changing, and that’s where trusting the inner voice is indeed brave. To ignore all sense of presumption and control, and listen to a voice we can’t prove even exists. It’s being brave internally little by little is why I appear brave to you externally on a grand scale. No one can possibly know what hoops of fear and fire I jump through every single day. I have had to fight very, very hard for my suit of armor. If I stop fighting it will fall. Which happens, in which case I pick it back up. This is why the Warrior series in yoga is so powerful. We change shape but remain strong and focused throughout. The arms, gaze, and positions change, but the foundation of the legs stands firm and sure. Sometimes we look behind, sometimes we stare directly ahead. But the gaze never drops.

My favorite name out of those poses is “humble warrior”. I have finally entered a space where I am aware of my own strength (instead of negating and apologize for it), but I do know I have such increased humility. Awareness of humility is not contradictory. Being unsure and arrogant is the opposite of that. The more we doubt ourselves, the louder we yell that we claim to know what we are doing. Therefore, as my courage built itself up and I grew into myself, bit by bit, I became increasingly comfortable with not knowing where I’m going. Bravery happens very slowly. It’s not a several month prefab house. Most things that are long lasting take a long time to construct. It’s not built overnight, and there’s no magic word or elixir. It’s just that it’s literally the only antidote to fear, and something inside me just wanted the rest of me to no longer be scared of everything anymore.

However, there is something I’d like to build up the courage to do; read poetry aloud in a serious environment. There are a couple of regular poetry slams in New York. How wonderful that this still exists; good, old fashioned poetry readings. Last year, after a really sad evening event dedicated to pediatric cancer, I needed depth and truth. Going home to watch Bravo seemed way too empty and stupid (I mean...). So I went in my black tie outfit downtown to the regular Monday night slam at the Bowery Poetry Club. I had never been but had wanted to go for quite some time. I felt like a beatnik in the 60’s; it was excellent. There were clearly regulars who assembled weekly to speak their truth, in hyper intelligent rhyme. The room was dark, there was a stage, and they waved the ten dollar entrance fee since I was new. That alone was heartwarming. It was just about the art, not a money making event. This was a pure, creative space and I loved just sitting and absorbing. It was life affirming to know there are still people like this, who write just to kick some verbal ass. People who weigh every word and syllable so that it fits the rhyme scheme. I have been rhyming almost exclusively for 30 years. Everything I’ve ever written until I began the blog is in rhyme form. It is an exercise that has always delighted and challenged me. Blogging has been a wonderful new muscle that I’ve developed, but aside from essays on tests, I never wrote in sentences like this. I don’t like stages or spotlights. I didn’t like that the poems were judged and lower scoring poets were eliminated from the next round. I’m not competitive, and I think it’s kind of terrible to have someone spill their guts and get rated and kicked off the stage. Some guy recited a long rhyme about his chronic battle with Crohn’s disease, and the judge was like “4!”. That felt so mean. What scared me most was that the poems all had to be totally recited by heart. I’d shit my pants without my paper. I’m a raconteur and comedian by nature because I can free flow and be silly, but what if I’d mess up a word or line from something I worked so hard on?

DJ performances have helped me with getting over stuff like this, but I love my words and I wouldn’t want to fail them by stumbling. The idea of making mistakes is still one I’m learning to embrace. No one dies on a surgical table if I flub a line. Forgiving ourselves for human error is a necessary skill that must be honed. I’m slowly getting better with that, but the perfectionist in me hasn’t been quieted enough. The first step to all this would be to write something I’d be proud enough to share. Then I could take it from there. In the shower last week I realized it’s been too long since I wrote poetry; all my writing goes to all these posts and captions. The blog fills that need to write, but rhyming is a joyful mental workout that I have missed. There is no such thing as being too courageous, and there are always dark spaces in our minds that need to be brought out of the shadows. If I could do this though, Man, would I go to sleep happy that night. It would sure be nice to slam this window of fear shut, and let myself fly while my feet touch the ground.