Max of millions

During 11th and 12th grade, I was an incredibly eager and confused individual. I often looked to others to make me feel calm and knowledgeable. Those individuals represented the epitomy of "cool" to me. One of those pedastally placed persons was my still-alive friend Max. (I'm not sure if his name stems from Maxwell or Maximillian- it never mattered to me.) Either way, he was this kid that seemed like he had everything together. Up until late senior year, Max and I were friends like chocolate chips and icing. In a group, we could work well together... But I mostly stared at him from across the grocery store aisle of life wondering who would cook us up together in the socializing cake. 

As disturbing as that sounds, I was neither madly in love nor obsessed with this boy. However, what I became fixated on was his persona and how I could build one, like his, for myself- one that said, in more feminine terms, "long hair, don't care." So, I started to think like Max did. I listened to music he suggested and I began reading again, almost voraciously, even little things like articles online or as much as whole chapters of the Bible. I wanted to become so informed, interested in the world around me, and figure out what made me excited in order that I did not have time to wonder if I was cool or how I felt about things. 

Over the past year and a half-ish, I pushed, prodded, opened, challenged, and questioned myself. And suddenly, I stopped caring. I had gotten so good at not feeling anything- not wondering how something affected me or asking questions like "why?"- that I even stopped caring about caring. I had put what I hated so much about me so far away that I became a black hole.

Suddenly, I was a big blob without a care in the world. At least, that's what I thought had happened. But, then I couldn't sleep at night. I ate indiscriminately. I couldn't focus. I couldn't even express offense or pleasure outside of meme-like phrases. Exams passed in a blur. Suddenly, all I knew was anxiety and worry. However, the fear was nameless, unknown. I was the ultimate at not caring- how could I have anxiety? What could it possibly be? 

Little did I know it was my own persona and lifestyle. I had brushed off so much of life that all that was left was the muscle and bones and nerves of myself. But I had no skin, no filter. Anything could hit me and I would not register the pain and damage. Only, suddenly, something changed. Two things changed, actually.

My friend Emily came to visit me in South Carolina. and I saw Max again. We all talked together and Max admitted that he had a real problem with not caring and that he was trying to fix it- that he did not want to desire that emotionless "long hair don't care" attitude and escape. Emily's friendship, the first real friend I "felt," the one I could never lie to, the one who knew I had a heart and not a machine, helped me realize that Max was right about himself and possibly that it applied to me too.

But, it took falling off of a longboard. And rappelling down a very short wall. And several car rides. And a dance hall. And a visit to the beach... (not in that order)

Before I cried. And cried. and cried. I bawled during church, while driving to work, under the supervision of headphones, in the throes of arguments, and in the middle of the night. I cried about my clothes not fitting right and my bed being unmade. I cried when my nail polished chipped or when somebody did the dishwasher wrong. I cried during movies. I was a freaking waterfall of tears.

Suddenly, it stopped. Max left for Germany and Emily had been in Illinois for a long time already. My sister was sort of home and my mom came home sometimes. I was left a dehydrated, newly skin covered, self and I was/am all alone. And giant flames of worry, anxiety, and feelings flew(fly) at me. Oh it hurt. 

It hurts.

Panic attacks. Anxiety attacks. Mild cases of overwhelming emotion. Sometimes once a week, sometimes once a day.

But they come. And I am so glad. Because they hurt and I care. 

Can I Have Some Mow?

I love to mow the lawn. I find it unbelievably therapeutic and entertaining. While simply pushing a motorized blade across leaves of grass, I cleanse my mind by purging it of all that has bothered for the day and filling it with kinder things. Simultaneously, my body is engaged in semi-taxing work, dripping sweat and struggling against the weight of the machine.

When I begin to mow the lawn, I first must lay out how I will cut the grass. Occasionally, I put my name in the pattern. More often, I follow the shape of the yard in an ever small fashion, like a spiral. Mostly, I do exactly the opposite of this how to guide that I just read for the first time ever. Apparently, those who mow therapeutically mow wrong. 

Once I have decided the route I will take across, through, over, around, and beside our grass, I start musing on all the things that I like about myself. Really, I'm that arrogant. For example, today, I felt cool because I was all like mower-chic in my style:

1. tie dye t-shirt ( NOT like this tie-dye shirt )
2. cute blue shorts
3. highlighter colored shoes or chacos
4. neon sunglasses ( like this pair )
5. big, grumbly lawn mower
6. make-up ( dat foundation )
7. earrings
8. bandana

I knew all the men were like, "Why doesn't my wife or child mow the lawn and look that cute?" and all the women were like, "We can never compete." Children just want to be me. I am really okay with that because, well, I'm fantastic.

Once I've thoroughly complimented myself, I run through all the things I accomplished that day. More often than not, I realize I have pursued only earthly things. For example, today while doing ma thang, I was practically skipping because I had cleaned, I had walked, I had eaten well, I had taken care of an old person, I had made a friend, I was mowing the lawn, and...  then I hadn't taken any time for God. And suddenly, I could be so thankful because I had that time, outside noises literally drowned out, to meditate on God's provision and Word. 

But then a bug flew in my mouth and my longboarding cut, on the hand gripping the clutch,  opened up. So then I just started spluttering like my empty-of-gas mower. In those moments, when it seems my stomach is made of dirt and my eyes will never have whites again, I can't bear the foundation dripping over my eyebrows or the spitting rocks from the blades. I just want to stop. But I don't. 

And then I start a fire when the blades hit a particularly big rock and splash a spark onto the dry clippings. This is actually my life.

The Lightgiver

Two Saturdays ago, I went up to River Falls Lodge to attend the weekly Contra dance. I went with a good friend of mine from high school, Max that had been before that night and was familiar with the community.

We left my house around 7:45. The air was cool but heavy with moisture from the rain earlier in the day. I could sense my hair curling in time with the waves of gentle humidity. As we drove up to the lodge, about 40 minutes from my house, we saw Carolina in all her raiment: big, leafy trees bending over the road in subservience to the sky, ramshackle buildings hugging the landscape and hiding their contents, and families enjoying the spring night on their front porches.

En route, we saw a life-size, pink-with-purple mane, golden hoofed, hand-carved unicorn beside one of the porched trailers. We stopped and took pictures. It felt good to stop just because we were curious. Sometimes, I feel so trapped in cars and on the road because I often merely glance at things that catch my fancy. I especially enjoyed being able to step out with confidence, turn on just a tad of my "hey y'all" voice, and ask to take pictures.

We finally arrived at the dance hall around 8:30. Crossing from the grassy parking area into the fenced-in patio area felt like crossing a threshold between two worlds. At the white picket fence border, the sweet taste of fresh strawberries, daisy chains on auburn curls, and the twittering of birds beckoning to creek clambering children meets the bustle of roads, the punch of time cards, and the clicking of computers. The white boundary guards restoration from filth; it preserves the log dance hall under the stars and allows adults to become young and the youth to walk out behind the building to share secrets in the dark.

White lights strung across the patio rafters blinked intermittently like Christmas lights. Puddles formed underneath the minimalist water fountains, small metal basins with spouts attached to a water source and drain, while chairs and benches gathered together, waiting for tired dancers to come take a set. An enveloping green light directed the attendees towards the bathrooms, reprieves from the sweat and heat of the dance hall.

Inside the actual lodge, to the right of the door, a stage bearing a folk music group and dance caller stretches across the near short end of the rectangular building. Light brown, wooden floorboards worn smooth by steppin' feet pave the way to the far short end. On the side opposite of the door, one long, handmade, wooden bench attached to the wall held purses, people, and piles of clothes. To the left of the door, about three feet wide, a desk denoted the dance attendant taking money from guests. For adults over 17 years old, it's eight dollars. Everyone else is five dollars. Behind the desk, a coat rack pole stretches down the long side of the building. Under and parallel to it, couches, chairs, and stools line this long side. Dancers rest there, converse there, and make eyes there. A short roof covers the whole shindig, with rafters hanging just a few feet above the tallest dancer's heads. Paraphernalia from various life activities hung from the ceiling, adorned the walls, and decorated miscellaneous shelves. The same white lights as outside intertwined with the signs, license plates, paddles, and other objects. They blinked and seemed to move in time with the music, the outlets calling their own moves for the little bulbs while the humans dotted the floor.

Dancing officially goes from 8-11pm with most people leaving between 11:15 and 11:30. Children as young as five sit on the sides, watching, or dancing with their parents. Men as old as 65 or 70 dance with college freshman girls or teach juniors in high school exactly what they stepped into by entering the lodge. Spunky, older women that came with their husbands make eyes at the younger men, teasing everyone they know with "accidental" spankings. Men in golf shirts dance with girls longing for the 1970s while hipsters dance with athletes and the outdoorsy folk teach the city dancers the come-as-you-are culture of River Falls Lodge.

The dances themselves are formations that include a little swing, a little square, a lot of line, and a smidgeon of ballroom dancing. Most selections by the caller center on the partner-neighbor dynamic. Two sets of couples make a quartet before the "neighbors" travel in opposite directions, weaving through with other partners to make a new quartet every time you repeat the same steps.

The air inside is sticky and humid while the dancers whirl, swing, and stomp. During breaks, the gentle roar of industrial fans sucks in fresh air from the screened windows. The smell of dewy grass, body odor, and women's perfume hangs in the room, feeling like a permanent fragrance. Sometimes, when all you can feel is the floor falling away or reaching towards your feet, the press of your partners hand spinning you around once, twice, five times, and the joy bursting from your inner being that not even your soul knew about, suddenly you can be gasping for breath, craving a reprieve from that heat, that near oppression by unmitigated pleasure and pure life. In those moments, dancers will surreptitiously slip away, outside, to the peaceful embraces of night and stars. Some stand alone by the brook burbling behind the building and seek a calmer tempo than the frenzied fiddler's tunes. On clear nights, moon glimmers on the transparent, giggling water reveal the slow movement of red Carolina sediment and gray craw-daddies. Some folk go too long and the energy of the crowd consumes them. Before they implode and fade into the night as sprites and spirits to guard the picket fence, they leave the light of the hall with another. Under the blessing of the trees and darkness, in a place and time only they know, they share what contra infused in them.

 And off to the side of the lodge, a single, wooden light pole stands tall in the air. His only bulb hunches to one side, aged like a grandfather, from years of watchfulness. He casts no light on the screened windows, trusting those still inside to care for each other. Instead, he creates a soft orb of light over the most restful part of the creek, an ideal spot to dip in hot feet. He looks out for those so damaged by the world outside his picket fence that they cannot hold the purity of life under the twinkling rafters. To these people he gives rest and healing; he lets them see what it means to be whole, a glimpse of where the question is answered "to be." It was there, last Saturday, when the mist could not hide his gentle beam, and I saw a glow through the trees even beyond his fence, that I knew the twinkle in my eyes was just a reflection of him. That thanks to his presence, we dancers could make our own shimmering, dazzling light to share with city folk beyond our little lodge.