I just went through a big change. My husband and I bought our first house. Just a few months after marrying, Steven and I moved to the little town of Lockhart, an up and coming spot 30 miles from Austin, We kept our jobs and he lengthened his commute. We packed up our belongings, six canoes and three bikes, two pets, a U-Haul and many, many boxes, and I cried a lot. I was nervous about living in a town of 13,000 people. And I hate moving. And change. When we went to unload we found that the utilities had been shut off, so after depositing a couch and chairs and clothes and bedding, we trucked back to Austin for another week. We kept our bed, our crappy tv, and ate meatloaf and green beans and potatoes from the prepared foods section of the nice grocery store, while we watched Rick Steves reruns on the bed with Milton and Guthrie.
Now that we are settling in our new town is immensely charming and hospitable. We have a chorus of frogs in our big back yard, and can see the stars at night. There is still a lot to adjust to, a lot of work to be done at the house, but possibility seems to surround this new move.
One of the Austin treasures I was most anxious to leave was my Zumba class.
The fall after I finished treatment, I felt too tired to do much more then walk around the block at night. Though I handled chemo with as much spunk as I could muster, and my body worked brilliantly and beautifully for me, it all took the wind out of my sails. I still haven't quite felt the same since then. I felt upset that the steroids that combated nausea and hormone treatments to preserve fertility led me to gain weight. I didn't like the chemo curls that grew into my hair. I think mostly, I wanted to feel like I had more control, like things had never changed. But they had. And different people's grief wants to eat different things, and mine wanted carbs. A lot of carbs. Good, thick rosemary bread with salt crusted on top. Mama lil's peppers marinating in olive oil- hunks of goat milk feta, glasses of wine, sausage and sauerkraut. Soul food. My grief did not want to eat salad.
So it has been a slow and confusing process, and it turns out the part after the hard part can feel just as hard. And my (now) husband was, and continues to be, an endless well of patience and kindness, even when I come home in a small tornado of sadness and fear, blowing that wind through all the cracks in the house.
So I decided that staying home every night wasn't helping. And walking wasn't enough. I needed community. And some cardio.
My parents helped me get a gym membership at an LA Fitness close to me. When I signed up they offered a free hour consultation with a trainer, and like a real dummy I went for it. It was terrible- the guy would have been nice enough if we shared beers at a bar, but as he tried to educate me on my body mass index and how I was overweight and different ways I could workout to get fit, I completely shut down. He wasn't trained to hear real truth from women, and I think this is probably a common experience. It was not the place to disclose things like- "Actually I am depressed because not too long ago I was bald and can't make sense of this experience, and no, I don't want to lift weights, but do you have any fun dance classes? And fuck off."
Well, it turns out, they did. I went to a few Zumba classes that were lacking a certain spark and level of quality, and then on a fateful Tuesday night I walked into Priscilla's class. And she was a force. A gorgeous dancer, and a beautiful human being who radiated confidence, joy, and positivity. All qualities that seemed to be in short supply in my own life. The music was loud. I sweated and I stayed the whole time, and I didn't fall over, or feel pain in my chest. I could do it. I tried to go every Tuesday and Thursday. One week we did a song she loved and she had us bring flags from our home countries. It was amazing. On her birthday someone brought cake and we ate it right after class at a table next to all the treadmills. I started to recognize the other women who came every week, and there was a whole die hard crew of us. I swam laps a few times, and tried some of the machines (they all made me feel motion sick after awhile, so I stopped using them.) But the only class I wanted to go to was Zumba.
There was no way to really convey to Priscilla what her classes meant to me. It was the first time I had felt confident in my body after going through some serious trauma. It hammers home that just by being who we are in the world and sharing our gifts, we may offer strength in ways that we may never know. By sharing that light within you, you truly help others find their own.
And Zumba helped fulfill a lifelong fantasy of mine. In another life I would have loved to be a dancer. I envy their grace and their athleticism. Maybe even more then being a dancer I want to be in a dance MOVIE. On my best days in Zumba, I felt like I was in that scene in Center Stage when Jodi goes to the dance class in the city, the co-ed one, and she just lets loose. I felt just like that.
So, I cried when I told Priscilla I was moving. Traffic in Austin is too horrendous, the timing was not right for me to drive back into the city for her classes. I couldn't stop crying, in fact.
And yet. This is where the story keeps getting better. Steven, without my asking, looked for Zumba in Lockhart. And there is a studio. With a teacher named Ariana. She has four kids, and the first time I went to class there were so many fun ladies there, including her 74 year old Mom, wearing sparkly silver sneakers! And she shines in a different way then Priscilla, and just as brightly. And I got to thinking- these classes, when they are done well, is what I imagine church should feel like. Fellowship, feeling safe, singing and sweating and dancing, and at the end you leave cleansed, and with new energy, and maybe you still carry tiredness or brokenness, but you were surrounded by love, and you left feeling capable and whole again. And sometimes there is twerking.
So, I don't go to church, But I do go to Zumba. And I am starting to feel like myself again, little by little, My old self, funnier and more confident and wanting to be creative and take more risks. And I hope I will find lots of places for new community, and lots of hidden treasures, in my new town of Lockhart. And I will do my best to keep you posted.
Friday, October 21, 2016
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Saying Yes
I have lived in Austin, Texas for 5 years, a fact that would have seemed impossible to me before I arrived. A friend told me recently she knew I wasn't coming home when I flew away to Europe, and then came home to pack my bags for Texas.
I decided to travel because I was lonely, I was stuck. I had a sty in my eye that wouldn't go away- like a canary in a coal mine it dogged me until I finally worked up the courage to leave. Leaving home, and my family, and my comfort zone, took me most of my young adult life to find the courage to do.
My grandma, Nanny, had died of lung cancer, and our family was bereft, swimming in loss and the empty space she left behind in all of us. I dated a man, briefly, who flew away to New Zealand, and I was so jealous of his adventure- I yearned to be away.
Friends told me to go. They collected money and hid them in plastic Easter eggs, and gave them to me for my birthday. I cried, cracking open their brightly colored shells as dollars spilled out. I deposited the money in my checking account, walked to the travel store up the street from my house in Seattle, and sat on the worn out carpet. I had a stack of books: Eastern Europe, Turkey, Germany. I decided I wanted to see where my grandmother Ruth was from. I wanted to go back to Poland, to see the land my family was from, before they were killed in World War II. One of my best friends was working as a clown in Germany. A friend of our family was an artist and lived in southern Turkey. My trip came together. I bought a ticket.
My roommate Kyle, who had sort of acted as a surrogate partner, sans any kind of romance, had been my sidekick. He bought me beers at the bar, protected me when I was too scared (always) to go talk to guys at parties, even set me up with an arborist friend of his. When I finally left the blue house I had shared with him and Samm, one of my very best friends, he picked me up and swung me around and hugged me. I fought back tears, got into my sister's car, a house plant on my lap, all my treasures, clothes, and thrift store mugs safely wrapped up in boxes in the back seat, and we drove off. I felt terrified, and I felt free.
When I was in the bookstore in Seattle I remember pulling out a book on Texas. I flipped to Austin, looking at pictures of beautiful green trees and water in this far off place, descriptions of hot sun, tacos and brisket, a thriving art and music scene, and I imagined what a life might be like there.
This was in my mind when I arrived in Frankfurt, Germany, to stay with the brother of a friend. He was a teacher at an international school in the city, and he played in a Tiki Band. He loved rockabilly music, and Austin, Texas. In this little apartment in the middle of Germany, there were Austin bumper stickers, bats, and cowboy boots.
I knew that romantic love was hard for me. I am independent, strong willed, sensitive, and sometimes anxious. I am sentimental, stoic, and careful. I was worried I would never find someone who was a good fit for me. I was worried I would be alone, that dating was too hard for me. I left Seattle in large part because I had to shake myself up, push myself to date and reinvent myself.
I went to Berlin, and stayed in an empty apartment that belonged to a friend of mine. I drank wine, read paperbacks, walked to cafes and cried as I wrote long emails to my closest girlfriends and my Mom, convinced that even in a foreign country I was doomed to be beholden to my fears of putting myself out in the world.
In retrospect it seems to silly- I do remember crying and writing epic emails, and I also remember feeling so at peace and at ease, in love with my solitude, my chance to be in the world without attachment.
There are so many more stories I want to tell about that trip- milking goats on a farm in Poland, finding magic and friendship in Bodrum, Turkey, getting stuck for days in Frankfurt while the snow piled on the sidewalks . . .
Eventually my few months of adventure came to an end- I remember thinking that I could choose to extend my trip and stay, or use the money I had left in savings to make a new start in Austin. Texas called to me. My old job tried to get me back and I said no. My friends threw me a goodbye party at Ed's Korthaus on Phinney Ridge. We drank beer and whiskey, played arcade games, and said goodbye.
I flew to Austin with two suitcases and a guitar, like a character out of a Portlandia episode. I wore a lot of sunscreen. I bought a bike. I found a funky rental house in a neighborhood called Cherrywood. I decided to stop acting- something I had loved and worked at for much of my young adult life, and I adopted a dog instead. I got a job working from four to midnight at a hip bodega in downtown Austin. And then, I met someone. He was adorable, and polite, and worked as a pedicab driver on the weekends. I was still stinging from a breakup, but surrounded by a vibrant city full of eligible bachelors I hadn't known since high school, unlike Seattle. My co-workers Tim and Dan (thanks, guys!) encouraged me to ask out this young stud.
His name was Steven. Steven Markowski. I found out later he used to bike around to the different Royal Blue Grocery stores downtown (I worked shifts at all three) until he found me. I started to give him leftover deli food, broken cookies, and looked forward to seeing him. I finally worked up the courage to ask him out.
I stammered and blushed and asked if he wanted to hang out, then scribbled my name and number on a yellow post-it note. He said yes immediately. Steven, thank you, thank you, thank you, for saying yes.
We went on a date, then another, then another. Weeks turned to months, and flowed into years. We drove to the far reaches of West Texas, to New Mexico, to Colorado. We watched movies, went to restaurants, walked around all the parks in town. He showed me all the beautiful places in Austin. He bought me a new bike light so I would be safe riding home from work. He bought special dog biscuits, and was very kind and gentle, and convinced Guthrie to love him.
I got diagnosed with cancer. I had open heart surgery. He brought me a basset hound puppet, and my favorite blanket, and refused to leave my side for the week I was in hospital. He never wavered. He said yes to being my partner, to not turning away from fear or the unpleasant months that followed.
We have had happier times since then, and healthier times, too. We watch PBS at night, we eat Chinese food from Trader Joe's, and we have made our little house a home.
We decided to get married. I found a turquoise ring that I liked. He flew to Seattle to surprise me on Christmas and I got the stomach flu. He waited til we were back in Austin. He made me a scavenger hunt in the house, with photos of our life together, and letters. It led back to a little yellow post it note from years ago.
We are getting married in June, next to the San Marcos river. I am so grateful for my life here in Austin, I so thankful that I had the courage to say yes. Not only to love, but to change, and risk, and moving away from home.
Big things can come from small risks, y'all. And despite sickness, and loss, we never know what beautiful roads are ahead, just waiting for us to take that first step.
I decided to travel because I was lonely, I was stuck. I had a sty in my eye that wouldn't go away- like a canary in a coal mine it dogged me until I finally worked up the courage to leave. Leaving home, and my family, and my comfort zone, took me most of my young adult life to find the courage to do.
My grandma, Nanny, had died of lung cancer, and our family was bereft, swimming in loss and the empty space she left behind in all of us. I dated a man, briefly, who flew away to New Zealand, and I was so jealous of his adventure- I yearned to be away.
Friends told me to go. They collected money and hid them in plastic Easter eggs, and gave them to me for my birthday. I cried, cracking open their brightly colored shells as dollars spilled out. I deposited the money in my checking account, walked to the travel store up the street from my house in Seattle, and sat on the worn out carpet. I had a stack of books: Eastern Europe, Turkey, Germany. I decided I wanted to see where my grandmother Ruth was from. I wanted to go back to Poland, to see the land my family was from, before they were killed in World War II. One of my best friends was working as a clown in Germany. A friend of our family was an artist and lived in southern Turkey. My trip came together. I bought a ticket.
My roommate Kyle, who had sort of acted as a surrogate partner, sans any kind of romance, had been my sidekick. He bought me beers at the bar, protected me when I was too scared (always) to go talk to guys at parties, even set me up with an arborist friend of his. When I finally left the blue house I had shared with him and Samm, one of my very best friends, he picked me up and swung me around and hugged me. I fought back tears, got into my sister's car, a house plant on my lap, all my treasures, clothes, and thrift store mugs safely wrapped up in boxes in the back seat, and we drove off. I felt terrified, and I felt free.
When I was in the bookstore in Seattle I remember pulling out a book on Texas. I flipped to Austin, looking at pictures of beautiful green trees and water in this far off place, descriptions of hot sun, tacos and brisket, a thriving art and music scene, and I imagined what a life might be like there.
This was in my mind when I arrived in Frankfurt, Germany, to stay with the brother of a friend. He was a teacher at an international school in the city, and he played in a Tiki Band. He loved rockabilly music, and Austin, Texas. In this little apartment in the middle of Germany, there were Austin bumper stickers, bats, and cowboy boots.
I knew that romantic love was hard for me. I am independent, strong willed, sensitive, and sometimes anxious. I am sentimental, stoic, and careful. I was worried I would never find someone who was a good fit for me. I was worried I would be alone, that dating was too hard for me. I left Seattle in large part because I had to shake myself up, push myself to date and reinvent myself.
I went to Berlin, and stayed in an empty apartment that belonged to a friend of mine. I drank wine, read paperbacks, walked to cafes and cried as I wrote long emails to my closest girlfriends and my Mom, convinced that even in a foreign country I was doomed to be beholden to my fears of putting myself out in the world.
In retrospect it seems to silly- I do remember crying and writing epic emails, and I also remember feeling so at peace and at ease, in love with my solitude, my chance to be in the world without attachment.
There are so many more stories I want to tell about that trip- milking goats on a farm in Poland, finding magic and friendship in Bodrum, Turkey, getting stuck for days in Frankfurt while the snow piled on the sidewalks . . .
Eventually my few months of adventure came to an end- I remember thinking that I could choose to extend my trip and stay, or use the money I had left in savings to make a new start in Austin. Texas called to me. My old job tried to get me back and I said no. My friends threw me a goodbye party at Ed's Korthaus on Phinney Ridge. We drank beer and whiskey, played arcade games, and said goodbye.
I flew to Austin with two suitcases and a guitar, like a character out of a Portlandia episode. I wore a lot of sunscreen. I bought a bike. I found a funky rental house in a neighborhood called Cherrywood. I decided to stop acting- something I had loved and worked at for much of my young adult life, and I adopted a dog instead. I got a job working from four to midnight at a hip bodega in downtown Austin. And then, I met someone. He was adorable, and polite, and worked as a pedicab driver on the weekends. I was still stinging from a breakup, but surrounded by a vibrant city full of eligible bachelors I hadn't known since high school, unlike Seattle. My co-workers Tim and Dan (thanks, guys!) encouraged me to ask out this young stud.
His name was Steven. Steven Markowski. I found out later he used to bike around to the different Royal Blue Grocery stores downtown (I worked shifts at all three) until he found me. I started to give him leftover deli food, broken cookies, and looked forward to seeing him. I finally worked up the courage to ask him out.
I stammered and blushed and asked if he wanted to hang out, then scribbled my name and number on a yellow post-it note. He said yes immediately. Steven, thank you, thank you, thank you, for saying yes.
We went on a date, then another, then another. Weeks turned to months, and flowed into years. We drove to the far reaches of West Texas, to New Mexico, to Colorado. We watched movies, went to restaurants, walked around all the parks in town. He showed me all the beautiful places in Austin. He bought me a new bike light so I would be safe riding home from work. He bought special dog biscuits, and was very kind and gentle, and convinced Guthrie to love him.
I got diagnosed with cancer. I had open heart surgery. He brought me a basset hound puppet, and my favorite blanket, and refused to leave my side for the week I was in hospital. He never wavered. He said yes to being my partner, to not turning away from fear or the unpleasant months that followed.
We have had happier times since then, and healthier times, too. We watch PBS at night, we eat Chinese food from Trader Joe's, and we have made our little house a home.
We decided to get married. I found a turquoise ring that I liked. He flew to Seattle to surprise me on Christmas and I got the stomach flu. He waited til we were back in Austin. He made me a scavenger hunt in the house, with photos of our life together, and letters. It led back to a little yellow post it note from years ago.
We are getting married in June, next to the San Marcos river. I am so grateful for my life here in Austin, I so thankful that I had the courage to say yes. Not only to love, but to change, and risk, and moving away from home.
Big things can come from small risks, y'all. And despite sickness, and loss, we never know what beautiful roads are ahead, just waiting for us to take that first step.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)