Swamp Monsters Hate Glitter and Other Thoughts on Quarantine and Transformation

This morning, I stumbled out of bed, put on my big sunglasses and my short silk robe, and felt sad when I noticed it’s a little shorter on me because apparently I’ve grown a little rounder during this pandemic. In my mind, I share a body type with Gisele Bundchen, but my scandalously short robe tells a different story.

Yesterday, I had my son, Henry take photos of me dancing around the yard with my rainbow veil. When I saw them, I said, “Henry! You made me look chubby! What the heck?”

He shrugged, “Um, I don’t know how to make you look different, Mom.”

I sighed and pressed delete. Then I stopped myself, “Well, it is what it is. I am who I am. And a photo from a good angle doesn’t change a damn thing about the size of my ass. My bottom is my bottom, and I know there are people out there who like fat-bottomed women, I’ve heard the song.

Sigh.

One would think I’d be skinny as Gisele at this point, having to eat extra cookies just to keep my curves. I spend my quarantine days dancing and walking and even jogging, in between my endless cooking for the kids and writing like a madwoman. I even hop to the floor every so often to do a few pushups and crunches while I binge-watch Ozark or Hollywood or Outerbanks.

Every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, I take belly dance classes with the luscious goddess Mesmera who lives in LA. She was my first belly dance teacher when I lived there back in the early 90’s. She has turned her living room into an ancient palace dance studio, and it feels luscious to be back in her energy, dancing with her. We undulate, we play finger cymbals, and when we pick up our veils, she says, “It’s time to fly!” She is so lovely in the way she interacts with other women, delighting in the unique beauty of each and every one.

One upside of this pandemic is all the amazing classes that have popped up on Zoom, incredible teachers and performers who have never taught online, and I get to take their classes without leaving my living room. It’s a win-win.

I don’t usually wake up feeling like a dark swamp monster is wrapped around me, but this morning… the sun shining into my kitchen and the warm air made a mockery of my glum state. I don’t like feeling glum, and I didn’t know how to change it. I floated out to my greenhouse with my cappuccino in one hand, the hose in the other, and drenched my flowers. I started pulling the brown geranium blooms off to make way for the new blooms, something that usually cheers me up as I think about getting rid of my toxic ex, and how I now live in a home built on sunshine and beauty and light–no more lies. But even those thoughts didn’t lift my spirits.

I cut my glowing pink roses back to their last five-leafed stem, like my father taught me during our hours working in our gardens in Utah. My Dad loved to garden, and every Saturday in summer was spent working in the yard, planting vegetables, picking wild raspberries, or sitting in the strawberry patch with my feet covered in mud, filling buckets of strawberries and then eating them.

I find flowers to be endlessly joyful and relaxing and I rearranged my current bouquets, adding fresh water and gazing in wonder at their beauty. My Goddess, the colors, the shapes, the smells–they are miraculous.

Like so many others during this pandemic, I’m on a roller coaster of emotions. One moment I feel glum, on hold, stunned by the turn of events. The next minute, I am thrilled with all this deep and lovely family time, time I never thought I’d have with my teenagers who are on speeding trains into independence. My town has grown so quiet, that all day long I can hear the roar of the ocean’s waves from my bedroom window, even though I can usually only hear the waves at night after the town has gone to sleep.

I walked outside hoping the gorgeous day would dissolve the swamp monster, but no. Even on this incredible sunsplashed spring day with everything erupting in a gorgeous frenzy of color, my swamp monster held on tight.
AHHHH!!!

I don’t like to feel like I’m sinking, so, like Gisele grabbing a jumprope to do the 3,000 jumps it must take to maintain that body, I grabbed a cup of rocks.

I poured them out onto a paper towel on my counter, and picked up two tiny oddballs which turned out to be pussywillows, soft as gnome slippers. I set them aside thinking, “Perfect! I’ll make a gnome later and these will be his slippers!

Spreading sparkles is a surefire way to lift my spirits, so I have been planning to create a magical rock garden up on the street to lift the spirits of people walking by. As a teacher, I have an endless parade of rocks, pine cones, feathers, paint, clay, and glitter around me at all times, and really they are excellent battle tools. Nothing drives away a swamp monster like glitter.

I wanted to feel my Dad nearby, so I told Alexa to play You Are My Sunshine and I painted sunshine on some of the rocks, stars on others, and the words Joy and Shine. I drew rainbows on some, and I thought of visiting my friend, Ashley Longshore’s art studio in New Orleans. She had rainbows everywhere and at one point, she leaned over and whispered in her mischievous southern accent, “When people call me and say “Ashley, what are you doing?” I say, “Sittin on a rainbow.” And they say, “A rainbow? How do you make a rainbow?” And I say, “With a big fucking thunderstorm.” Her deep throaty laughter rolled over me like woodland thunder, and she put her arms around me in a hug, whispering, “That’s all we’ve got here, a big fucking thunderstorm.”

Ashley is like a bawdy wise sage. And she’s right.

I need to remember the magic that comes with storms.: during them, after them, because of them.

There are times during the day when the storm feels too big and the swamp monster jumps on my back for a piggy back ride without asking if it’s okay. And there are times when the rainbows show up and remind me there is magic everywhere for those who choose to look. And then there are those moments, so quiet and soft I can hear the sound of the sea.

And then those glorious moments when it’s time to fly.