Spiritual Swamp Ass
Metamorphosis is messy AF
I cannot shake the funk. I am pervasively angry, weary, irritable. I ask myself the same questions over and over, “Do I need to adjust my meds or smash the patriarchy? Do I need to scream into the void or restart a gratitude practice? Do I need to burn shit to the ground or take a psychedelic journey?”
I haven’t landed on much by way of answers.
Last week, I pondered what I might let go of in terms of my usual festive traditions in order to prevent the energetic hemorrhage that seems both chronic and acute. I decided to keep doing the #25daysofcarols videos as many days of the month as I can, without beating myself up for missing days. I said I wouldn’t do the outdoor holiday lights, but then the opportunity to experience my father in the role of Clark W. Griswold, prolific profanity included, was irresistible.
Currently, I think I’m bailing on the holiday cards. Probably. I’m composing an epic “Official Retirement Holiday Letter” in my mind—I can hardly go gentle into that particular good night.
As our Thanksgiving weekend unfolded in the usual, “You take the good, you take the bad. . .” fashion, I must confess that several meltdowns ensued. At least one of them was mine. Tears were shed and doors were slammed over green bean casserole. (Passive voice is the only way to capture passive-aggressive voice, in case my literary pals were wondering. 😉)
I can’t figure out how to turn off the rage, I confessed to my co-pair (My kid and I made that up. Get it? Like au pair combined with co-parent? Also, the “co-pair” in question is decidedly not my legal co-parent, for the record), probably multiple times. Why am I so angry? Why am I so irritable? Why am I so motherfucking exhausted?
We decided turning off the rage was not prudent. Allowing for it, processing, and metabolizing it in a healthy manner (transmutation?) was the healthier consensus.
And then there was a moment when my child spoke to me as if she were channeling the divine. I don’t know what came over her. We sat outside in the Thanksgiving Day sunshine, my bad mood pooling around me like a giant, dumpy fur coat from Goodwill.
“It’s because you’re transforming, Mommy,” she said simply. “It’s so uncomfortable because you’re ready to be on the other side, but you aren’t quite there yet. Right now you’re undergoing metamorphosis, but you can’t cocoon yet because it hasn’t been safe for you to rest yet. But all the things you’re going through right now are the things that are making you transform. You feel like this because you’re molting.”
I have no idea how these words found their way to her heart and mind and out her lips into my ears. It’s like all our angels and guides circled up to deposit this message directly into my brain.
A few hours later, I tried to summarize this uncanny transmission to the two women who attended our family holiday not through blood or marriage, but rather by way of the love and choice that sometimes results in co-pair-dom. One of them talked about the lotus that grows out of the mud, how the flowers rise above on long stalks, and how I haven’t quite cleared the mud yet.
“Yes,” I replied excitedly. “That’s where I’m at right now—I am not quite fully bloomed and there is a good amount of mud still hanging onto my nether-regions.”
It wasn’t my most graceful metaphor.
“Like, my ass is hovering right over the swamp. It’s like, what’s that called. . .” I pondered, trying to recall if the phrase on the tip of my brain was somehow offensive.
“Swamp ass?” Co-pair suggested helpfully.
“Yes! I have spiritual swamp ass. I haven’t quite risen above the mud yet, but I’m close.” (I looked it up. While disgusting and regrettable, this term does not appear to be derogatory to any groups of people.)
I am walking that line between wallowing and toxic positivity. It’s a finer line than I imagined. I need to dwell in the ragey swamp of exhaustion for a bit, but I think I’ll see myself out shortly. I’m going to force fresh air and sunshine; I’m going to put my boxing gloves back on and beat the shit out of my punching bag; I’m going to produce a dynamic show with badass women on Thursday and then stand on stage and tell jokes about my dead dog eating my underwear the next day.
(You guys should totally come. I’m not straight-up begging, but listen, it’s close. Spiritual swamp ass. Please come to the shows. We want all your asses in the seats; no swamps needed.)
I’m not sure if it’s my meds or democracy or perimenopause or the culture of silence that clings to the shoulders of divorce like my shitty bad-mood thrift store coat or just the fact that my juggling act has reached legendary proportions. But my lotus flower is going to bloom, and soon. There is mud clinging to its roots; the mud is actually its source of life. Everything is copy and compost and kindling.
Until my phoenix-lotus rises from the swamp-mud-ashes, I may continue to be uncomfortable. I am molting, after all, and that shit sucks. But snake medicine is powerful, and the sunrise is blinding.
XOXO,
Steph
Want to celebrate women’s voices? Of course you do. Here are two chances this week.
Reclamation: The Fempire Strikes Back is a powerful blend of storytelling and comedy from six unapologetic women. Join us Thursday, December 5th at the Muse in Lafayette from 7-8:30. This is an intimate venue, so get your tickets in advance and save $5 with the promo code: Fempire.
You can use that same code for Friday’s all-female (with a token male host) comedy show at Junkyard Social—Comedy Fempire. I am reading a story *and* doing comedy on Thursday, and doing brand new stand-up material on Friday. Come one day! Come both!
Spiritual swamp ass is definitely a thing. Thanks for bringing it to the surface. (See what I did there?)
Thanks for sharing.