A change of vocabulary

(source)

I'm a self-professed word nerd.  There's no hiding my love for etymology and interesting word origin stories (if you are a dork like me, I can't recommend Bill Bryson's Made in America enough.  I bored my roommates with new fun-facts at least three times a day while reading it.  Anyone want to know George Washington's relationship to the word "grog"? eh? eh?). 

And so, only about a month into my post-grad life, I decided it was high time to rechannel some negative energy into rethinking the way I think!  Unleash the power of words to feel a bit more powerful and such.

Now, instead of "job hunting," I spend my time "moving and shaking," "hustlin," and "grooving."  When nerves creep in, I repeat the mantras "woman up" and "be a woman" to transition from anxiety-ridden to strong and self-assured.  Rather than "unemployed," I am an "unfettered vagabond" (I'm imagining myself riding the rails out west with exactly 1 leather satchel and 1 moleskine journal when I call myself that one. win.) 

Other useful vocabulary shake-ups?
Me, Myself, and I-- Beast, Darling, Minx, Starshine, Daffodil
Anything boring, tedious or unsavory on the to-do list-- poppycock, hooha, "the hit-list"
Dreams-- Plans
Can'ts-- Cans

Ever do something goofy to feel a little stronger/motivated?

The Power of Vulnerability

Brene Brown's TED Talk about vulnerability and living "wholeheartedly" is exceptionally excellent.  Do yourself a favor and put aside twenty minutes for this.

Loving Right Now...

Fred Astaire!  One of my all-time favorite dancers, hands down.

Can you watch this and walk away anything but enamored?  It's on the favorites tab at the top of my browser for whenever I need a quick boost of happy :)

"That's why we have mommies..."

"Sometimes a T-rex will try to hurt you. Or bite you!  But that's why we have mommies. To hold you hand if a real T-rex is maybe going to be somewhere you are going."

From Elizabeth, age 4 and one of the students in my ballet camp. Kids are the best.

#20 Write a Letter to My Body

Fair warning: this post is longer and heavier than most.

I've alluded to my self-esteem issues in some previous posts.  Honestly, I'm not interested in an internet tell-all at this point about my own journey with these problems.  That said, I included "Write a Letter to My Body" on the 22 Things list.  I originally came across the idea on the amazing blog Already Pretty (you can read Sal's letter here) and have always felt it might be a very productive healing exercise.  But for a good bit of time, the task appeared too daunting and overly rife with the potential for a rawness I couldn't handle.  Which in my eyes also made it a good goal.  Keep pushing, keep growing.  "Be Courageous and Vulnerable."

So my letter is posted below.  Sharing such a thing on the internet wasn't a comfortable place for me, but the universe surely needs more messages of positivity and gratitude, no?  And if it encourages anyone who visits this tiny corner of the web to examine his/her own relationship with their body, it's done good (for more than just me).

Hey love,
Let us begin with the magnitude of that greeting. I have just addressed you, my body, as “love.” Five years ago I wouldn’t have thought it possible. It wouldn’t have even crossed my mind to consider this expression of affection a positive statement. A statement of fact.

Distrust infiltrated our relationship early on. At five, I cried Easter morning that my “poofy” dress made me look fat. By eight, I began intensive ballet training and my sneaking suspicions that you were not good enough were readily confirmed. And confirmed and confirmed every day of the next ten years.

Over time, a vague but constant terror grew and spread into a full-blown hatred. I hated you. I spent hours in front of the mirror pinching you, crying over you. It might have looked like I was doing my homework, laughing with my friends, enjoying myself. And I often was. But those activities, every activity, occurred with a simultaneous litany of self-doubt. Because you were always there, reminding me that I would never be good enough.

Fat. Ugly. Disgusting.

And then I hit a breaking point. That’s always how it goes, eh? We had never gotten along, but the constant companion of negative thoughts swelled to a new level. I began punishing myself-- bingeing, purging, weighing, measuring, and more. And I finally realized that something was wrong. My thought process had become so ingrained as to seem natural. To seem right.

I wasn’t ready to love you. But I was ready to stop hating you, hurting you. Or at least to try. Because, well you and me are really the same thing, you know? And letting day after day pass by, filled with self-loathing and desperate attempts to fill those holes of fear and shame with anything but love, was wrong.

It’s been a long three years of healing. And the process isn’t over. I doubt it ever will be. But, body, can I tell you a few things?

I love you. That thrill I feel when I’m dancing? When I’m stretching and pulling and pushing and testing you? It’s one of the best damn things in my life. Thanks for that. And thanks for giving me legs, strong legs, to walk on. You should know walking is pretty high on my list of favorite things too. And standing, and running, and stomping my feet when the music is right. And for the feeling of running my hands over high grasses. And for my green eyes. And for freckles. And for your stretch marks, always to remind me of where I’ve been and where I’m going. A marker of my past. For the shape of my stomach. It’s not what people tell me is perfect. But I know differently. I know that your softness and your gentle curve feel better under my touch than hard and flat ever did. For my health and your rather incredible resilience to illness and injury.

Here’s the thing. You’ve never done a single thing wrong. You adapt. You found a way to survive even when I treated you like dirt. I still haven’t gotten this all figured out. Sometimes I don’t treat you in the manner you deserve. Or I lose sight of my love when other eyes fall on you. But I promise I’m trying. And I’ll keep trying. You’re too good to give up and I’ve fallen too in love with you to even consider it.

Xo,

MK

The Big Man

Clarence Clemons, saxaphonist for the E Street Band, died this weekend.

Have you ever felt strongly about the passing of a stranger?

I have never met the Big Man.  I once stood ten feet in front of him for two hours, screaming along to "Badlands" and "Rosalita" with my Dad in the front row of a Bruce concert.  He wore all black with rhinestones and had gold-painted fingernails.  Unique guy, that one.  This Saturday was the first time I'd ever cried after the death of a celebrity.  Not long painful tears, but legitimate tears nontheless.  Made it past the welling in the eyelids stage and into full-fledged streaming down the face.

The sweet sounds he made on the saxaphone have made me feel something potent down in my gut since I was a wee one bouncing around the back of my mom's Ford station wagon to Springsteen Greatest Hits casette.  I grew up with Bruce and I grew up with the Big Man.  I wasn't his friend, but Clarence sure was mine. 

Sometimes all the usual pick-me-ups fail.  So I turn to Clarence.  When the blues start to border on the mean reds, I sneak out of the house and take to the highway at 70 mph, windows down, and "Jungleland" blaring.  If I'm feeling especially buoyed by my secret ride (and the road's empty), I fling my arms out to my sides for just a moment as I fly downhill during that sax solo.  I might listen to that song six times before finally turning back home.  And, gosh darn if I don't always feel that I just did something so basically right with my time.  That if I can feel that way just listening to a song, no doubt everything's going to turn out in the end. 

Is there music that plays your heart to the beat (as Adele would say)?  I got a list a mile long of tunage to tune my soul.  For me though, this week is all about some quality time with good ole Clarence.  You can check the "Jungleland" solo below, if you're so inclined.  Skip to 4:15 if just want the Big Man and not all ten minutes of glory.

let us go then, you and i,
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherised upon a table;
let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
the muttering retreat

of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
streets that follow like a tedious argument
of insidious intent
to lead you to an overwhelming question …

oh, do not ask, “what is it?”
let us go and make our visit….

…and indeed there will be time
for the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

there will be time, there will be time
to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
there will be time to murder and create,
and time for all the works and days of hands
that lift and drop a question on your plate;

time for you and time for me,
and time yet for a hundred indecisions,
and for a hundred visions and revisions,
before the taking of a toast and tea.

-t.s. eliot