Sensory Deprivation

flotation tank
Infinity Tank at The Float Shoppe

 

Overstimulation. You, me, we all know it too well.

I’ve always been sensitive to my physical surroundings. I don’t know if it’s the dancer in me, the Yogi in me, or the writer in me that makes me this way.

Bright lights, strong perfume, and big crowds have always been too much. On the other hand, I’ve lived in the city for the past decade or so.

Because this stimulation also provides inspiration. It teaches me about real life and real people. It shows me who I am as a survivor in the midst of all of this activity.

I get infatuated with the chaos. I think we all do in different ways.

How else can you explain why the world is like it is today? With so much chatter in our lives—the rushing, the busyness, the self-indulgence.

Those of you outside of the city, in your peaceful abodes, you participate too.

You’re online. The kingdom of overstimulation.

I started a new job last month—an amazing one. Through it all, more changes and stress were added to an already hectic year I’ve had since uprooting my life and moving across the country.

It had been an entire year since my last massage, back on my birthday of 2013 when I was still in Milwaukee. With the cross-country move came unemployment followed be a low-paying job.

The luxury of a massage was unspeakable. So, my birthday present this year wasn’t hard to pick out.

I was going to treat myself to not only a massage but a flotation tank as well.

Say what?

Floating is pretty popular here in Portland and I’ve been dying to try it. There’s a place right down the street from me, so I made my appointment.

I heard different things from different people. Some said it was like taking hallucinogenic drugs. Some said they were bored and restless, got out of their tanks after squirming for a half hour and left.

The thing that enticed me the most was the miraculous ability to float. I’ve never been able to. I’m an expert swimmer, but I sink like a damn rock.

See those legs up there? Boys in school used to say I had horse legs. And those horse legs ain’t light.

I was skeptical that it would work. But as soon as I laid back, I giggled as my body rose to the top of the heavily Epsom salted water.

The water is kept at skin temperature so that the body is comfortably cocooned. You want to float naked to avoid any swimsuit hassles. (Carrie Rubin, I know this sounds like an introvert’s biggest nightmare.)

flotation tank
Infinity Tank at The Float Shoppe

 

Being the claustrophobic gal that I am, I chose the open tank where the room is quaint and steamy. Turning off the light is optional by the push of a white button attached to the tank.

There is no music and the room—or enclosed tank pod if you go that route—is soundproofed. Earplugs are provided so you can connect with the cadence of your heartbeat and breath.

Like many others, I spent the first half hour of the 90-minute session getting situated, my mind racing about the domestic tasks I should have been completing that Sunday instead of “wasting” my day at the spa.

Naturally there were some awkward moments, like earplug mishaps and salt in the eyes.

I was reluctant to turn off the light, because when you do…it’s pitch effing black. Seriously, you can’t see your hand in front of your face.

Eventually, I worked up the courage to push that button to become fully immersed in the sensory deprivation experience that I was paying for.

When I was thrown into absolute darkness, I was reminded of a time Mr. H and I were in a cave in Texas, just outside of Austin. Part of the tour has a very special treat for us claustrophobic types.

Once deep inside, the lights are shut off. Darkness encompasses everything—your body and your mind.

A tingling on my neck, face, and shoulders caused me to splash/flail into an upright position in my flotation tank. I punched the button to turn on the light and my eyes darted around the room, searching for the Boogie Man.

Cut me some slack. I was a die-hard believer in the Closet Monster well into my teen years.

But, it was just me. It turns out I had surrendered to a state of complete relaxation.

So, I tried again. I turned off the light and to comfort myself, I covered my belly with my hands to feel the rise and fall of my own breath.

I don’t really have a way to describe what happened next, because I don’t remember. I was in the zone of weightlessness—perhaps I dozed off for a bit.

All I know is that I reconnected with myself in an entirely new way. What was complicated became simple. What was stressful became serene. What was loud became hushed.

This sense of calm stayed with me throughout the week, and my sleep was on a whole other level. I tried something new, something a little kooky and scary, and I took myself to a place we adults don’t like to visit.

Vulnerable territory, where our only duties are to be naked, quiet, and still.

Will I ever float again? You bet your ass.

2nd Draft…BAM!

second draftIt all began in August, the dreaded second draft.

The first time you read the work you poured your heart and soul into can be a frightening thing. A damn frightening thing.

Is it shit? I mean, is it complete and total shit?

Well, it might be to other people but I dig it. And at the end of the day, amidst subjective opinions on all things artistic, if I dig it, then that’s really all that matters.

This second draft and I are war buddies.

Over the past four months we stuck it out together, on Sundays for a chunk of time and usually on Wednesday nights when I was ready to keel over from day job and Yoga teaching repercussions.

I worked over a couple of paragraphs, folded some laundry, then parked it back in my chair and continued. My dinner got cold on the table just so I could sneak a page in. Headphones blocked out everything from Sunday football to my guitarist wannabee apartment manager on the first floor (we live two floors above him, we often want to chop our ears off and be done with it), so I could manage an entire chapter.

Last weekend I trudged through the final pages and finished. Bam!

If it hadn’t been so arctic outside, I probably would’ve screamed out my window: “Second draft, you were my Everest. And, I conquered your ass!”

But, I refrained. And my neighbors shall continue loathing our noisy manager rather than yours truly, the dorky writer with too much enthusiasm.

I had to share the excitement with all of you guys though.

There’s still a long road ahead, including the next stage which I call “The Serial Killer Phase”. Nope, I don’t write about serial killers. However when it’s time to reference the serial killer notes sitting on my bedside table, that’s the phase I’m talking about.

Writers, you know the notes. Random thoughts and dialogue, groovy sentences from authors who know a thing or two, and of course, the crazed scribbling that happens in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning.

Obsession with a splash of insomnia. Hence, serial killer notes…

writer notes

Lastly, there will be more editing, reading, editing, reading…until I can’t stand looking at it anymore. That’s where my in-law editors come in for moral support, right before I chuck the dissected, stitched, scarred draft promptly in the garbage.

Long story short, my vague release date for The Bra Game is set for late Spring 2014. So, yay for that!

A Bona Fide Blogging (and Social Media) Hiatus

roadkill

Yep, that pile of Yogi roadkill is me.

It was Sunday night, month seven of ten of my Yoga teacher training adventure. Aphrodite the cat humiliated me further by using my carcass as a doormat.

Philosophical exploration is part of the process of becoming a legitimate Yoga teacher.

A question I’ve been secretly asking myself for several months was asked aloud to the entire group of trainees: “What is the purpose of running around?”

It was dead silent.

Tears welled up in my heavy eyes and I choked down the unattractive sob which tried to escape from the depths of my throat.

Just as I suspected…guilty as charged.

When we run around in circles, we don’t get anywhere. No matter how much determination we muster, no matter how fast we go, we stay in the same unfulfilling place.

Ironically, last week I wrote a post called Stop Farting Around. It was meant to be an inspiring post, encouraging the pursuit of dreams.

However, it revealed something jarring to me.

I’m too busy pursuing, drowning in drunken visions of profound splendor. I try to do it all, and the scary thing is…I can pretty much do it.

Am I at peace? Am I satisfied? I think you know what the answers are here.

I need to prioritize my life for a bit. I allowed myself to choose 3 of the most important things…instead of the usual 764.

  • LIFE – I need more of it…my magnificent husband Mr. H, my kooky cats, a great book, staring into space, smelling the roses, sleeping in, savoring a ridiculous meal. I want to bathe in all of it.
  • NOVEL – I’m a novelist first, a blogger second. Those of my fellow writers out there in the same boat know how tricky it is to balance these two wonderful things. I am totally rocking the pants off of my first draft and I shall aim my writerly energy there during my time away.
  • YOGA – I graduate from teacher training mid-June. Thus far the hefty pile of books, my practice and meditation, and the training weekends have been shoved into every remaining crevice of my free time. These final hours will require my full devotion.

As you can see, blogging didn’t make the list. How in the hell could it compete with all that anyway?

Therefore, I’m taking a hiatus. I know it sounds dramatic, but two months isn’t exactly a break.

Blogging is so incredible and I adore you all – my exquisite readers, my resplendent friends, my outstanding supporters. Nonetheless, when enjoyment morphs into stress and creativity evolves into pressure, it’s time to do something about it.

When I first wrote this post, it was quite laughable.

In fact, it was titled a “half-ass” hiatus rather than a bona fide one. I cooked up this whole scheme where I would still figure out a way to post archives and reblog, but then I owned up to the fact that none of that was the real deal.

To take it a step further, I knew something else had to go during the hiatus…social media. Twitter, Facebook, even good ol’ Goodreads.

In order to keep distractions at bay, all blogging related email notifications and all of my handy dandy Iphone apps will be temporarily suspended.

With all this rediscovered free time, who knows what will happen?

Maybe I’ll finish my first draft. Maybe I’ll have some Yoga teaching gigs in the works.

I know one thing…I’ll have more time to cuddle with Mr. H and the cats. And that, more than anything, is a reason to be ridiculously excited.

I get it. From a marketing standpoint, I’m doing this all wrong. I should have scheduled posts ahead of time and I should have lined up guest bloggers – yada, yada, yada.

Hell, I’m even celebrating my one year blogiversary during the hiatus! I should just wait, and do this later…yeah, that’s a cop-out, too.

From a life standpoint I’m doing this all right, trying something completely out of character. I’m slowing down.

And so the two month countdown begins. See, I even have a countdown thingamajig on the sidebar now.

I will still be around this weekend to reply to comments, share status updates on FB and Twitter, and catch up on some blog reading.

As of Monday, April 22nd, Britt’s going dark for two whole months.

I will do my best to respond to any comments made during the hiatus upon my return in June.

For those bloggers I follow religiously, please know that I will still be reading from my email but will not participate with my usual liking and commenting during the hiatus. I’ll be like one of those silky web stalkers we never hear from, but always seem to know what we’re up to. (Mwah, ha, ha!)

I am going to miss everyone here like crazy. Feel free to shoot me an email via the contact form and say hello.

Thank you all for your continued loveliness. I’ll see you soon.

With much, much love. – Britt

Stop Farting Around

Dishes

Dishes and math. Yes, these are the two things I would gladly excommunicate from my life.

For someone who loves cleaning, the endless task of dishes was, and forever shall remain, an endless pain in the ass.

I know you can sympathize.

You scan the crusty plates and silverware in a loathing manner, sizing them up yet internally pleading: “Why, why are you back in my life again, you uninvited stinkers?”

You give yourself a pep talk, pumping yourself up for the mundane. You finally do the dirty and a little while later – Damn! There’s another foul-scented bastard vying for your attention.

And, math.

I’ve never been a fan of that vindictive subject where a solitary answer – and one answer only – is the right one. If you get super close or even if you make the common mistake, inviting a sense of camaraderie for your bruised psyche, you’re still WRONG.

But, math is useful.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard that one before!

I’m kidding. I know it serves a purpose with its haughty digits and conceited logic. I just always preferred words to numbers. They’re so much lovelier.

My dad always used to say two infuriating things to me about procrastination.

1) “With all that energy you used up, you could’ve done it already.”

Let’s just say I had a flair for the dramatic when I was younger. I was a good kid, but I raised hell when I didn’t get my way. And, if you think a little girl bawling and rolling around on the floor in agony works on a single dad…you’re sadly mistaken.

The damn sham didn’t work.

So, then I came back with the classic argument: “But, I don’t wanna.”

And, that brings us to…

2) “Come on, it builds character.”

After saying this, my dad went about his usual business. Then I would scribble math problems so ferociously on that lined notebook paper, I would break the pencil. I would make a bunch of racket in the kitchen, sighing with gusto, but cringing when I almost broke a dish.

Eventually, the temper tantrum would subside. The task was completed, and all the turmoil was quickly forgotten, like a mediocre joke.

When we’re young, we are told to do things. But as we grow up, we’re pretty much on our own. Sure at work there are managers, superiors, and big shots waltzing the ever-seductive deadline dance.

Yet, there is one time when we govern ourselves…our free time.

We have full reign over this precious time. And, what do we do?

We smother it with other obligations while our dreams stew quietly on the back burner. Swift and graceful, time passes us by and we realize all the things we wanted to do haven’t been done at all.

Dad isn’t keeping me in check with his catchy reprimands. At home, the boss isn’t tapping her feisty heel with her manicured hands on her hips.

Procrastination…she’s a sneaky bitch!

I have heard something consistently over the years, and I suppose it is a compliment. “I don’t know how you do it all.”

My big, dark secret is that I don’t ever feel like I’m doing enough. But, the things I manage to squeeze into the day-to-day grind are the result of passion and determination. I guess Dad and his relentless words of wisdom got in a little.

As most of you know I have a full-time day job, I’m working on my Yoga teaching certification, I do this blog thing, and I write books. Oh yeah, I’m blissfully married too. No rugrats though, just a couple of incorrigible felines.

It would be so much simpler for me to give up my dreams, to tuck my aspirations of writing and teaching for a living far, far away.

It’s not that easy for me to sit down at my computer on week nights and weekends to accomplish my writing goals. It’s not math homework, and it sure as hell ain’t dishes, but I could be doing a lot of other things.

I could spend more time with my loving family, watch bad television for the hell of it, sleep a little more, and lose myself in all the books I want.

Maybe even try that foreign concept…relaxing.

Yep, I could just walk away. But, I wouldn’t be building any character, now would I?

So, how do we deal with that clever minx called procrastination?

We have to reason with a thing called time. We are privileged to be here, to live a life surrounded by possibilities.

We have the power to do anything we want. Anything.

Dad was right.

The energy we’re expelling on the wishing can be channeled into the doing.

In other words stop farting around, get your butt in gear, and go do something awesome.