I’ve always believed that suppressed feelings can get me into a lot of trouble – or rather, if I stuff them deep enough then I will develop a physical ailment, but every time my back hurts or my digestive system acts up, I forget the connection and resort first to meds. To give you an idea of how deeply I am entrenched in denial - the other night it was the fourth time in a row that I woke at 3 a.m. cursing at my kids for turning up the thermostat on the heater, and I finally realized I was having hot flashes. Duh. Okay, this has nothing to do with feelings, but it does demonstrate my serious DENIAL. (Isn’t 47 way too young for hot flashes?)(j/k)

At any rate, as Christmas approached and my ex-husband was happily celebrating the holidays with 14 relatives and his new girlfriend, I knew in my mind that I should be feeling something, but when I checked in with myself – there was nada, zip, nothing. Even an echo. I felt absolutely fine! I mean, not that I have regrets. After all, I did initiate the divorce, but everyone knows that it is still painful no matter who initiates, and a new girlfriend (no matter when she comes along) indicates a certain finality, a loss of a best friend and dreams – the dream of having a united family. I should have been feeling like I was standing at the edge of a cliff, but instead, nope. I was fine! Really I was.

Ha! Christmas morning I head out to feed the goats and pony and I decide to move one of the 350 lb trash cans full of poop closer to the end of the driveway. I tip the can and lug it 15 or so feet when my feet flip out from under me and everything goes into slow motion. I crash down on my tailbone and the can careens down on top of me. “Oh no!” I say as it is falling, more worried than angry. It lands across my knees and thighs. The lid opens on my face and a huge bag of horse dung bounces out and smooshes the lid against my nose and lips. I am pinned. The light, early morning dusting of snow evidently hid about four inches of ice on the driveway. If I called for help, no one would hear. The girls are at Brian's until later in the day. I eventually wriggle out and stand gingerly, grateful that nothing is broken, although I will be walking slowly for days and my knees blow up to look like those strange bubbly kids' toys that light up when you slap them against a hard surface.

It looked like an accident, but my Karate Kid childhood mentor taught me that there are no accidents. There is always a reason. I thought about it as I dragged 50 lb bags of poop out of the can so I could stand it up again. I needed a reason to cry and it was so much easier to cry about the poop on top of me than it was to cry about the shit going on inside. Although you would think I would learn my lesson, I did not. I sniffle a little, but the feelings remain safely locked inside my head.

Two days later, I develop severe digestive issues any time I put even a bite of food into my mouth – everything from gas to diarrhea. By the evening I was tired of fasting. I was driving home from some event and when I pulled into my garage, I asked myself: “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Obviously there’s a pouty two-year-old living inside my limbic system.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I sit in silence a while until the kid relents. I start balling. "Waaaaaaa." At long last, the information in my head had seeped down to my heart. Pain sucks – it really does. It’s sort of like running. I never look forward to it but after I do it, I feel so good. The last thing on earth I want to do - ever - is cry so hard that I drool onto my shirt, but the pay off is that within minutes my digestive system cleared up and I was able to eat a hearty dinner.

I’m on a roll. ‘tis the season. Hohoho. The body likes to trick me into denying that physical pain has ANYTHING to do with feelings, so it changes tacks regularly. Yesterday, I woke up with back spasms, but that’s a whole other long story I won't get into. Usually my feelings give me a couple weeks between being stirred up, but maybe we’re getting a lot over with all at once. I figured out why I was getting the back spasms and they went away, but this crying and drooling - while healthy - is really an annoying way to begin the New Year. Happy New Year!

(By the way, if your interested in this feelings/physical pain theory – it’s medically supported by Dr. John Sarno, and explained in The Mindbody Prescription or Healing Back Pain. It effects not only the back, but includes many conditions that cause chronic pain - from Bells Palsy to migraines and carpal tunnel to sciatica. He is a hero!

Yesterday, I heard the most amazing reading on NPR by story teller Kevin Kling. His style was satisfying and his story telling riveting as he digressed and rambled about ghosts living amongst us, pondering many things, including that perhaps this life prepares us for our dream life. I have often considered this, waking from dreams that felt more complicated and fulfilling than this strange human life. But, occasionally, as they say, life is stranger than fiction (or dream).

For instance, last night my 12 year old daughter ran into the kitchen breathless and distraught (and topless). She said a man had been staring at her from outside the bathroom window. Our very own Peeping-Tom, a voyeur, a sicko shattering our illusion of safety and seclusion. My mother was so angered by the news that she used the word “pervert” three times in one short email paragraph. My Dad said he’s happy that he’s coming into town next week because if the guy gets a look at him he’ll run the other way for good.

After we made sure the doors were locked, we called 911. The cops showed up in less than 3 minutes which reminds me this is not L.A.! They caught a man wandering the streets and we learned about "drive bys." My daughter and I were required to view the suspect; he was being held under spotlight at a distance from the police car we traveled in. She could not positively identify the man, because all she saw were his eyes and the tops of his ears and some of his hair; therefore, likely the voyeur will remain free.

I am finding that a story like this brings out other people’s weird tales – like the woman who was driving next to a man who held up a picture of him in the nude. My eyes are getting so bad that I wondered how she was able to see what he was showing her – and, driving, no less. But, she was able to copy his license plate number and have him convicted for the crime! Tonight, I went over to my next door neighbor's house. They moved in two weeks ago and I wanted to tell them about the incident. They invited me in for a glass of wine and I took a seat with family members whom they were hosting from out of town. The grandpa said that we wouldn’t need to worry anymore, because he was headed back home in a few days (implying that he was the culprit)! After we all had a good laugh, he went on to suggest that a. we dig a 3 foot camouflaged pit near the window or b. we provide a distraction by playing porno flicks in the nearby bushes. Disconcerted by his father’s sense of humor, my neighbor asked the elderly man if this would be distraction or incentive and the elderly fellow couldn’t be sure. I told them that the best way to minimize fear was to maintain a sense of humor. (I had told my daughter that she was so cute she had her very own peeping tom! But, she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.)

I thought our property was impervious to loiterers. I was accustomed to calling the secluded bundle of overgrown trees around my front yard (where I liked to sun tan half naked) my “secret garden,” but now, evidently someone has discovered our “secret garden” which is no longer so secret! Talk about a loss of innocence – for my 12 year old, yes, but even for me. I grew up in big cities where this kind of aberrant behavior was a given, but here in the country I have let my guard down.

Perhaps I will buy a bull horn to deter future peepings. My oldest daughter thinks we should line the ledge where the peeper has obviously stood many a time (based on the obvious toe markings against the wall of the ledge) with mouse traps, but I think a good automatic light and additional curtains should do the trick. After all, voyeurs are not robbers – their neurosis is based in the thrill of the forbidden as well as visual stimulation. Now that he can’t see much, I don’t see what his motivation would be to return. All I can say now is: if and when I can find sleep comfortably again in my own home, I hope I will be sufficiently prepared for the haven that awaits me in my dream life.

Jeez, I noticed I was getting a little heavy handed. Like maybe I think too much. I’m a blonde for crying out loud... I should know how to lighten up.

So, every year at Halloween I hang the talking skull on a window crank under the window next to the front door. Just when the sunlight hits him right, he talks to me – actually, he YELLS at me: Where are you going? And, I jump a foot into the air and grab at my heart. Every year, I feel like an idiot, because he got me again! I never fail to answer him just to calm my nerves: “I’m going to the fucking grocery store, okay?”

It’s like some scene from an annual family gathering with the grandpa or uncle with the bad jokes and usual lines:

“What d’ya know?”

“Not much.”

“They don’t teach you much in school, do they?”

or

"Grandpa! This is a one way!"

"I'm only going one way, aren't I?"

Every year the same predictable conversations, only I couldn’t use the “f” word like I can with skullie.

What worries me is the unnatural attachment I develop by the time it is time to take him down and put up the Christmas decorations. He is endearing and I place him tenderly into the storage box and explain that I will see him next year, as though turning his button to off means that I am pulling the plug. Maybe I should buy a talking Santa to replace him or decorate the skull with a red hat and white beard and call him the Skullie of Christmas past. But then, enough time needs to pass for him to surprise me again, because if I left him up, maybe I would come to ignore him or take him for granted, like a sad marriage. And so, the relationship begins again – year after year. For now, skullie is watching me, wide-eyed, waiting for me to come just close enough to yell at me.

I have been suffering a certain “Angst;” that inexplicable anxiety that is not only compassion for, or identification with, the world’s collective Angst (Weltschmerz?), but also related to a feeling as though I am a panther in a cage. I remember watching the panthers in too small cages at the zoo (they have since substantially expanded the feline exhibit in Denver). I wonder if the panther I saw is the one who ate the zoo keeper last year. Anyway, watching the cat’s eyes, and his panting and snarling, I knew that I had discovered the mirror for the feeling in my heart. It is why I could not stay married (ok even though I was married 18 years!). It had nothing to do with wanting another or different man; it had to do with seeking places within myself I could only find by living my life outside of marriage – and the feeling was so intense that to stay would have destroyed me or turned me into a religious fanatic of some sort. As it is, seven years later, I am much happier alone wondering if I will ever marry again, but the roving Angst remains.

Maybe there’s nothing to it, but because of some reading I did a few years ago, I decided to explore the simian line that runs across my right hand a little further. A simian line replaces the head and heart lines and is the only line that runs straight across the upper half of the palm with no indication of another line attached to it (essentially the head and heart line are one). Only about 4% of Caucasians exhibit it on one hand and up to 13% of Asians, so it is uncommon but not rare. If a person possesses a simian line they are prone to an “incredible intensity of nature, [and] a strong tendency to rush into all things without thinking them through” (HumanHand.com). Oh, did I mention that if a person had this line it was considered a sign that they may be more prone (than people without the line) to murder someone? This is largely because it is a head and heart line connected so that reason and emotion are indistinguishable. I have known to be rash and possessed a vicious temper in my 20’s (my poor poor exhusband!), but now I am relatively mellow and all that remains is this Angst.

While half of they who are afflicted with Down’s Syndrome have simian lines, (and apes and monkey also have it), according to Larry Rodrigues of Handanalysis.com, it has also been attributed to some great thinkers and talented people like John Steinbeck, Henry Miller, former Russian president Nikita Krushchev, and Tony Blair (who has them on both hands - only 1% have it on both). He goes on to say that “people with simian lines generally live their life differently than most other people who do not have simian lines. Not necessarily living better or worse, just living more intensely, with an undercurrent of uneasiness.”

Both sites recommend meditation, which I do. Therapy helped me most –and a spiritual path (Amen!). Anyway, I feel more grounded than ever, but keenly aware of this Angst that drives me to be the best that I can be as a professional dancer and writer. It drives me to turn over every rock and to say things many people would be afraid to say. I feel with an intensity that often overwhelms me - whether it be love or admiration for the rainbow bubbles in my mineral water. But, it is not a yo-yo experience – the feelings coexist... happiness remains the main melody, but even while being grounded in joy and gratitude, I feel rejection and sadness and anger to the core.

While I have many friends, I am alone much of my time. I do not have close friends, per se – ones that call me everyday. I am deeply grateful to have my sister and brothers in my life, because if I really need to cry on a shoulder, they would be the people whom I would call. Part of the reason I do not have close friends, however, is related to the panther quality – a desire to be free, to never get too close in case I get chained down. On one hand, I cannot tolerate drama because of the intensity with which I absorb feelings and because I have little tolerance for people who want to mull around in their stuff. I’m not saying this is good or bad – it just is and I’m beginning to think it is reflected by (or perhaps even related to) my Simian Line. It is only by turning the mirror upon myself that I will understand in order to make choices and change my life where I want it changed. HumanHand.com affirms that “the Simian Line shows incredible strength of will and determination to succeed,” going on to say that “altering reality is far easier for bearers of the Simian Line than for others” because thought creates reality. In that case, I hope there’s a pizza waiting in the kitchen because after all this contemplating, I’m hungry!

Is interrupting an East coast thing, as a friend of mine proposed? Are Westerners really slower and more linear minded? It’s definitely not so black and white. I am not talking about obsessive talkers, which span the Continent and beyond. We all know the type who won’t let you walk away and when you’ve finally been totally overwhelmed by them and run out of time, they ask you about your life (because their life is so much more difficult than yours). A little intrusion is one thing; total obliteration is another (and it’s all relative!).

I grew up on the West coast but lived in New York for five years in the 1980’s which may account for my communication style. The question for a linguistics major is this: What amount of words quantifies an interruption as opposed to an interjection? And, if an interjection takes a conversation off course, maybe it will be into more interesting and unexpected territory, or perhaps it is only a digression with the full intention on the part of the interrupter to return to the main topic at hand. Actually, I compare my style to jazz music – not the totally obscure kind, but the kind where there is a melody and then the musicians riff and finally return to the main melody. Riffing is spontaneous and creative – much like brainstorming where nothing is planned or censored. Some people think that if their thought is not finished or a topic is not complete, then the two people chatting should not move on. I find linear conversation like that tedious.

On the other hand, there are times I am with my closest friends and they spend most of an hour on a topic because it rivets us both and it is loaded with genuine emotion. I consulted about six of these friends whom I have known for over 15 years and we discussed communication style. None felt that I interrupt, so there is obviously an ease in our exchange. It requires a huge effort on my part when I am with a more linear minded friend. Is one mode of communication right or wrong? I don’t think so, although it is important to communicate feelings to one another regarding the topic so that feelings don’t get hurt and each party feels heard. However, it has been my experience that the people who feel interrupted have not considered that perhaps their mode is just as demanding for the other party because there is not a kindred sense of communication. If riffers are expected to slow down and change, then perhaps the lineads could occasionally attempt to broaden their horizons and forget that they had a plan.

I’ve only been told by three people in my life that I interrupt, although it's likely there are more who feel that way. The first time was by a family member when I was about 26 years old and I took it a bit personally because I generally care about the people with whom I am conversing and there is an implication that I don’t care about what they have to say. I thought it was a unique problem, until this year (20 years later), two men told me the same thing – separately, of course. Ironically, I remembered them talking for long stretches when I was listening avidly. Perhaps I didn’t respond or maybe I was trying to identify with their story with a story of my own and did not ask the questions they hoped for, but in any case their remark caused me to ponder. Finally, I will say that I am more present in my conversation because of my linead friends. I am less prone to interject a canned story that seems so important, related to something they said a minute ago; I’m more apt to listen to what is being said in the moment, but I definitely don't beat myself up about it because ultimately I believe it is a difference in styles that is not easily resolved.