THANKFUL FRIDAY

Thursday evening, Michael helped me hang my photos in the Starbucks at 16th and Main.

The end.

Okay, not the end, but the hanging part is done. Mostly. We had a 16x20 print spontaneously fall off the wall, breaking the frame. Then this morning, while I was in the shower and Michael was getting ready, he said “I’m second guessing those prices because of the frames.” Tonight I’m making new name/price tags and reframing the other print so I can go in early tomorrow morning to hang and swap tags. There is some relief in having the pictures up, but there’s mixed feelings. I’m excited. I’m embarrassed. I feel exposed and a little naked on a stage. I feel I’ve made an accomplishment, but I’m judging myself real hard. All day yesterday, I felt this bubble of emotion sitting in my chest and I wasn’t sure what would happen if and when that bubble popped. I was either going to start screaming, crying or laughing hysterically, probably all three at the same time. Instead, I ended up eating way too much enchilada at dinner and drinking the queso dip straight out of the bowl.

What’s dumb is this, by far, is not the hardest thing I have ever done.

It’s great sharing my writing and photos the way I do now because I know my audience consists of family and friends. A small handful of those friends are people I have met through blogging and social media, but most everyone else in the audience are friends I’ve known forever. For years, this audience has been supportive and encouraging and mostly kind. I’ve felt safe here, maybe too safe. I’m exposing myself to a bigger audience with this showing. My name and my blog are posted on my ‘about the artist’ page and that’s a little scary. I’m doing the thing that scares me just like the inspirational quote that’s plastered on one my journals tells me to do. This is supposed to be good for me. One day this week, I was in the process of creating a wall map so we’d be organized on hanging day. I decided to hold back some pictures that I had previously planned on and my friend Sarah walked in as I made the decision. I said “I’m NOT hanging these pictures, no matter what anyone else thinks I should do.” Sarah looked at me and said “That’s right Cindy. Because this is your show.” Which is something I really needed to hear.

I am writing this story. I am controlling this narrative. This is my show.

Today, I am grateful for Michael’s help in hanging all of the pictures. I am also grateful to this audience for your support and kindness.

SIGHT

I have a burned out spot on my retina. It happened years ago from aligning an HBO bulb on a microscope. I didn’t even know about it until I finally visited an eye doctor six years ago. The spot is in the lower right quadrant of my left eye, not really in my field of vision. The only time I notice it is there is when I have closed my eyes. My eyelids are not blackout curtains. So I see this kaleidoscope of tinted colors of darkness with the exception of one teeny tiny speck of complete dark, black, nothing. It’s like noticing a couple of pixels are out on the TV. That burnt spot on my retina is the best thing about closing my eyes. It becomes a point of focus during meditation. It is the center of my very own everything bagel and the second I close my eyes, I tune into that tiny speck of nothing.

Last Friday, my schedule opened up and made it possible to attend one of Roze’s yoga/meditation hammock classes. I got to class feeling like my brain was hot and staticky from some last minute issues I had to fix at work before leaving for the evening. The whole week had been a mental challenge of dealing with people who acted like they’d never seen a microscope before. I found my hammock and was chatting with Sarah and Leigh. At one point I said “Man, I wish I’d taken this stupid bra off before I came to class.” and Leigh said “Take it off. No one cares. The bathroom is that way.” I said I don’t need a bathroom and then proceeded to take off my bra without taking of my shirt and then I sighed with relief. I spun the bra around the top of my head like a lasso as all the women cheered. We all had a good laugh and then settled into class.

Roze started us off with some gentle movement before getting us comfy for guided meditation. I snuggled down into my hammock and pulled my blanket up over my face. I closed my eyes and focused on my void of nothing spot. Then Roze started playing with a rain stick. When I first heard it, I thought it was a car crashing into the building and I almost yelled out “THERE’S A CAR CRASHING INTO THE BUILDING!” But I didn’t. I told Roze this story a few days later and she responded with concern. I assured her that it was fine. I told her that the second I realized it was the rain stick, I started giggling. I told Roze “I laugh at fear.” which she though was a ‘juicy’ response. I don’t know if it’s juicy or just instinct.

I’m not condoning running out and burning spots on to your retinas. We just were not as concerned about lab safety fifteen years ago or at least where I worked was not that concerned. Robin and I wore flip flops and climbed around on cabinets to reach things on the top shelf. That behavior would be highly frowned upon today, but I file it into the same folder as ‘before seatbelts’ and ‘bicycle helmet?’. I learned to walk on hard brick floors with pointy edges all around me. My car seat was sitting on the armrest between the driver and passenger seat of my mom’s car. Mom’s arm was my seatbelt. Safety gear was not a thing. Many of you reading this can probably relate. We all grew up, flying down a hill while balancing on the handle bars of a sibling’s bicycle. Our childhoods did not have soft padding and it didn’t stop many of us from being the one to volunteer for the handle bar seat.

I have so many scars, so many markings of being broken and healed. Some of these scars are visible, but many like the one on the inside of my lip and the spot on my retina are scars just for me. The secret scars that I don’t have to explain or answer questions about. Good lord, you should see the scars on my heart. Those hidden ones on my heart are my favorite ones. They were earned and received just after great bouts of laughter and joy.When Chris was sick, we were terrified, but still joking about the tortilla chip stuck in his liver. The last time I talked to J, we were joking about Dad’s haircut. The last real visit with Dad, he joked about Michael and I’s living situation. In fact, I am positive if the wounds that led to those scars had not been proceeded by a ridiculous amount of laughter, those scars would barely be visible to even me. The loss of sources of great amounts of laughter and joy leaves the deepest scars.

So I laugh at fear because what difference does another scar make.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Tiny wing

5 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Tiny wing"

The other night, I dreamed that Chris and I were at Six Flags. We were the first ones into the park and headed right back to the biggest, newest roller coaster. There wasn't a line, but we had to twist our way through a maze of ropes and up and down a narrow staircase. The staircase was the scariest part because it was dark and the steps were steep. When we finally made it to the loading station, the roller coaster car pulled up and the seats were just open benches without any kind of harness or lap belt. You just held onto the seat and hoped you had the strength to hold yourself down on the loops. Chris looked at me and said without saying (because Chris never talks in my dreams) "are you sure you want to ride this roller coaster?" but then a hoard of zombies entered the park before I could answer him. Michael and I had just watched the most recent episode of the Walking Dead. By the way, season eight is just plain awful and I don't think I care enough about any of the characters any more to watch.

I realize now that I never answered Chris's question about wanting to ride a roller coaster that was so very obviously dangerous. Dr. Mary gave me a handout from a lecture she did a while ago about seven things for functioning or something like that. She had me read the list out loud and when I got to the second thing on the list, I busted out laughing. Number two on the list had to do with recognizing dangerous situations and avoiding them appropriately. Then I told Dr. Mary about the time I drove an hour to have dinner at a stranger's apartment and how I didn't see anything wrong with this until I got there. Then it was a little bit creepy that the guy only had one light on, no heat and camp chairs for furniture, but I still figured that if I had to fight this guy that I totally could have taken him. I most of the time do not recognize a dangerous situation as being dangerous. This is why Talaura has a video of bison running down the road with Michael's voice clearly saying "get in the car, Cindy." 

A few days after this dream, I spent two minutes in supported fish pose. This pose feels nice between the shoulders but also leaves your neck exposed. I had been warned that I might get a wave of panic having my neck exposed while hanging out for two minutes in fish. You know, like having the feeling that a wild dog is going to come rip your throat out for no reason what so ever. Except I never did get that feeling. Actually, I've never had that feeling in this pose. I've never felt panic or fear in any yoga pose. Instead of fighting fear induced anxiety, I ended up fighting tears. My eyes welled up and spilled down the sides of my face. My throat is the first thing affected when tears attack. It closes up and I can't talk. I can barely even breath. Losing the ability to squeak out a word makes me furious, which in turn, makes me cry harder. It's usually pretty ugly. I wrinkled my brow and wondered why I was suddenly crying in fish pose and still able to breath.

It is not that I purposefully or willfully refuse to recognize a dangerous situation as maybe being dangerous. And don't think for a minute that I am not scared in these situations. It's just that stubbornness is the rock, while fear becomes the scissors in this game. Stubbornness wins every time. I love supported fish pose. I practice that pose ALL of the time. I never once thought about how my throat was exposed or the dangers involved in exposing your throat. Now, all I can think about is that scene from Roadhouse where Patrick Swazye rips that guy's throat out with his bare hand. This should creep me out or make me shy away from poses that expose my throat. Instead, I find it slightly hilarious. That scene is ridiculous, though if you ask the guys I work with, they'll say that it is awesome, in the same way that Bill and Ted are awesome. I am comfortable in dangerous situations, at ease, in my element and even can relax enough to cry. 

So yeah, I'd probably still ride that roller coaster, because that's the whole point and there's something worthy of gratitude in this somewhere. You don't know how anything is going to end, so you might as well enjoy the ride. 

CLIMBING UP

Climbing

10 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Climbing"

We were sitting on the couch last Thursday when Michael asked "When's the last time you wrote a blog post?!" I said "last Friday. I've written one for this Friday." Then he asked me if everything was okay. I nodded my head yes and then said "I just don't have anything I want to say that doesn't sound angry or too complaining." Everything is so irritating and when I am not shaking my head at the news I'm reading, I'm thinking about the next year. I have great expectations for myself in the coming year and I can't help but start planning now. I feel like buying notebooks and writing out a game plan, but part of my plan is to use my iPad more efficiently. I have an Apple pen. I should be writing out this game plan in my iPad. 

Friday, my department went rock climbing for our team building event. I had mixed feelings about climbing. There was a part of me that was very excited and gung ho. I visualized myself scrambling up the wall like a ninja and then floating gently back down with the aid of an experienced belay guy. The doubtful side of me was nervous about being strong enough to pull this body off the ground and then being too heavy for the belay guy. I was a little concerned that a scale would be involved upon sign in. I had no idea. This was my first time at an indoor rock climbing place or at any climbing place. Does that surprise you? It surprises me. It seems like rock climbing is an activity that I would have done already. I have climbed my fair share of trees over the years and I've hiked up sides of mountains. Yet, I have never rock climbed.

This place offered a room for 'bouldering', which is just climbing around on boulders unharnessed, and a room for wall climbing where you are clipped into an auto-belay. I did a little of both. I was mostly to the top of my first boulder when it hit me that there was nothing keeping me from falling to a not so soft mat about six feet below. So I continued up because once you reached the top of that boulder you could climb over to a landing and then walk down a set of stairs. The giant wall climbing was another story. I would climb up maybe six or seven feet and then stop. I'd just cling to the wall, not moving up, not going back down. I would just be stuck there. I was too scared to climb higher, but I didn't want to give up. I also did not trust the auto-belay to hold my weight. You fall a good two feet before the auto-belay kicks in and slows you down and that's falling just enough for me to say "NOPE!" I did a lot of climbing up and climbing down, which is exhausting. My armpits were sore the next day. I also had raw, almost blistered, places on the palms of my hands from gripping for dear life. I eventually did get used to the auto-belay, but I never reached the top of a wall. I scrambled up boulders like a ninja and turned out to be strong enough to pull my body up a wall. There was not ever a mention of needing me to step on a scale and I was not too heavy for the belay. The doubtful side of myself never suspected that I would end up being afraid of being so high up. 

I told Michael about my adventures when I got home that evening. He asked me if we all had to go rock climbing now. I told him no, that I was good with my current experience in indoor rock climbing. Except, I'm not so sure that is true. I just keep thinking about how I never climbed all the way up to the top of that wall. I feel like I need to go back by myself and just climb to the top, even if I just end up clinging to a spot on the wall for hours before I convince myself to continue climbing up. I feel like this has been a year of clinging to a wall. I've hesitated and doubted and just stood still in indecision on whether to move up or down. I want more climbing up in 2018. Without hesitation. Without doubt. Without fear. 

DUSTY THINGS

Instagram post by Cindy Maddera * May 29, 2017 at 4:31pm UTC

5 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Rural"

I picked up the box containing my creativity candle so that I could dust around it. It has been sitting on my desk ever since I bought it. In the box. It has been this way for months. I ran the dust rag over the top of the box while frowning. The candle has been added to the ever growing list of things I should be using that are now sitting, gathering dust. An image of my bicycle in the garage pops up behind my closed eyelids. The bright blue paint is dulled with a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs rest in the spokes. The tires are droopy. I am filled with instant guilt and disappointment. I should be riding that bike. I want to ride that bike. My brain is really good about using time as a sabotage. It reminds me of the hill that starts at sixty third street and peaks around fifty eight. This is my slowest section and the place where I feel the weakest. 

Why is there always a voice in your head telling you that you can't?

The candle falls into a category that I generally reserve for colored pencils, crayons and notebooks of any kind. I still have not sharpened that pretty blue pencil. Though I will admit that I tried to sharpen it, but it was too big for the mechanical sharpener at work. I like the look of a brand new pack of crayons or colored pencils, all lined up with sharp points. Blank white pages in a notebook are like clean sheets on a bed. The candle is like that. Right now the wick is still white without scorch. The wax is unmelted. The decorative picture on the outside is still in one piece. There's something soothing about the perfectness of all of those colored pencils before points have been dulled and pages smeared with ink. Same goes for that creativity candle. It's not like I believe that burning a 'special' candle is going to make me become more creative or even more prolific. 

All of that soothing perfectness is a mask. It hides the fear of messing up. If I use that pencil, the tip will get dull and fragile. I will be left with broken pencils. My handwriting will make the blank page ugly. If I don't use those things, I can not ruin them. The beautiful words on that candle with not melt away. If I don't ride my bike, I can't feel my weakness. I can't feel like I am ruined.  I am a little embarrassed to admit this hesitant side of me. I am the girl who stands too close to the edge of the cliff in order to capture an image. I am the girl who flies down Troost on a scooter, weaving in out of traffic. I take risks. I leap.

Michael has adopted "get back in the car Cindy" as his warning phrase for whenever he sees me doing something slightly dangerous that makes him nervous. It came from our trip to the Dakotas with Talaura. We were pulled over to the side of the road, watching a large heard of bison come down the road. I was hanging out the car to get pictures. Suddenly the pace of the bison picked up to a trot, but I stayed where I was. A few minutes later, we were watching the video that Talaura had taken of it all and you can clearly hear Michael say "get in the car Cindy" when the bison picked up speed. This made us laugh and laugh, mostly because it's funny but also because we all know Michael can't stop me from being slightly dangerous. I've been making my loved ones nervous my whole damn life. Even Chris, who near the end, confessed that he worried about me because I think I can do things I shouldn't really do. 

Like continue to ride a scooter with a bald tire. 

I am fearless, yet here I am admitting to all of you that I am not always fearless. What harm could I get into by sitting still and writing or even coloring a picture? Okay, there's some danger in setting the house on fire with a burning candle. But how often does that really happen? There's no risk involved in using a crayon or filling a page with ink. 

I hesitate with the safe stuff.

MIMOSA MEMORY

Walk and roll

See this Instagram photo by @elephant_soap * 3 likes

There's a mimosa tree a few houses up the street. We pass it on our evening walks with Josephine. Most times I don't even notice it, but right now the tree is covered in pink pompom like blooms that look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. Those blooms fill the air with a sweet green smell. That smell along with the cicada soundtrack of summer that was playing in the background, triggered summer time memories from a time so long ago that I'm not even sure those memories are real. They have that shimmery heat wave look to them, like those cartoon images of a mirage. I'm Droopy with a handkerchief on my head.

A mimosa tree grew on the southeast corner of my parent's property. I remember when the tree was small, but only vaguely. Mostly, I remember that tree as being big and tall enough to be my climbing tree and how I would spend hours sitting on one limb or another. If I wasn't in the tree, I was laying under the tree. If wasn't sitting on one limb or another, I was jumping off one limb or another. I remember one summer evening, sitting in that tree while watching a lunar eclipse. The land facing east was still undeveloped and the pasture there stretched on and on. The moon was at it's largest that night taking up more than half the eastern horizon. We were in the middle of preparing for Janell's first wedding and Mom was mad because we were all outside watching the moon instead of beating the carpets with a tennis racket. 

There was a brief amount of time after I fell from that tree and broke my arm, where I struggled with climbing it. The fall came from a moment of indecision. I could climb down the way I'd climbed up or I could jump down from the branch I was on. I turned slightly to go ahead and climb down, when my shorts snagged on part of a branch. The momentum of my forward movement halted suddenly by the snag yanked me backwards and I flipped over, landing hard on the ground below with my arm broken in two. After my arm was healed and the cast was gone, I would step up onto my first foot hold, a foot hold that was practically worn into place because I'd used it over and over, and I would pause. I would hesitate to go up any further. My confidence was shaken even though I know the reason I fell from the tree had nothing to do with my climb up into it. Yet, fear would still grip my heart even as I continued to climb on up into the tree and settle into my usual spot. 

But I still climbed up into that tree. 

That pasture that seemed to stretch for miles is now dotted with houses. The mimosa tree on the corner is now gone. Dad wanted to cut the thing down when I broke my arm, but I begged and pleaded for him not to do it. He got his way when I moved out of the house. I came home one weekend and my tree was just a stump. Dad mumbled something about diseased, but I knew better. Those things are changed or gone now, but the lesson never left me. If I'm standing on that ledge looking down into a crystal clear pool, no matter how tightly fear has wrapped itself around my heart, I'm going to jump.

Because I'm more stubborn than brave. 

I'VE BEEN LEARNING TO DRIVE

One by one.

"One by one."

I have a whole thing written up about the chickens, introducing each one by name and breed. Except we have one that is still waiting for a name. The Cabbage gets to name that one. We have her with us for dinner this evening, so hopefully No Name will get a name tonight. Today is the last day of March and just like February, it has passed by in a blink. I was relieved to have February pass by so quickly. The passing by of March has left me with a spinning feeling like I was just spun out of a revolving door too fast. April you say? It's April? I'm not sad that March is over so quickly as much as I am shocked by it. March has been an odd month. Warm then cold then warm then cold. Today is warm. March has been flip-floppy and a month of vivid bizarre dreams.

One night I woke screaming because I had been dreaming that I had caught a rat. I was holding it just behind the head with one hand and the tail with the other. I was screaming for Michael to help me. He couldn't hear me and just sat on the couch eating popcorn. Meanwhile the rat was whipping it's head all around trying to bite me and I was screaming bloody murder. And that's how I woke up. Then there was the night I dreamed that Josephine figured out how to undo the latches on her crate. She got out and took a human sized dump on the rug and then tore up a bunch  of random things. I spent all this time cleaning up after her that when I woke up I fully expected to see a human size turd on my bedroom rug. 

Then, just last night, there was a dream that started out in a yoga class. I was on my mat doing my thing when I noticed this tiny coral colored scorpion heading right for my yoga mat. I spent the class trying to keep the scorpion away while doing yoga at the same time and I was so scared. I knew for sure that the scorpion was poisonous. When I got home from class, Chris was there. It was like he'd gone out to run an errand and came back and was all "hey, I'm back." I was confused and I remember saying something like "hey, that's great, but I'm with someone else now." Chris made a face and told me that maybe I needed to go lie down for a bit. I didn't wake screaming from this one, nor did I wake crying. I just woke up with almost crippling back pain.

I'm so tired of those dreams where I feel like I have to justify this new life of mine.  I can't understand why I'm never telling Chris to go fuck off. I did not leave. I was not the one that got sick and died. Sure it wasn't his choice, but he sure as hell didn't beat around the bush about it. As soon as he heard the doctors say "terminal" he got the ball rolling on passing on from this world. For the first time in Chris's life he did not procrastinate. I don't see why I'm the one left behind having to explain myself or why explaining myself is even remotely necessary in this situation. But my dreams do. My dreams feel the need to remind me of true fear, exhaustion and confusion. "Hey, your life is good now, but just remember. Remember what it's like to be so fucking scared and confused and exhausted, because all of that could happen again." 

All of that is true, but I'm certainly not waiting around and looking for any of that to happen again. You know what I'm going to do instead? I'm going to finish painting this chicken coop Michael built for me (us). Then I'm going to cuddle with the chicks and sing them some lullabies. I'm going to scratch Josephine's belly and then have a make-out session with Michael on the couch. And those March Madness dreams can march their way on out of here.