Free As A Bird And Sobbing Over Swiss: How I Learned I'm Not In Control Of Everything

Hey, readers.

What a crazy few weeks I have been through! I got back from my Beatles festival I go to every year, Abbey Road on the River (www.AbbeyRoadontheRiver.com) and have had a terribly difficult time adjusting to the real world back home ever since.

Do you ever have a moment where you question something you believe?  Do you ever have an extended period of time like that?  How about a whole year?  That's where I'm at right now.

I started the year with a clear plan for where my life was going.  I was settled into a routine that was based on mediocrity and lying to myself. I saw where it was headed.  I didn't like it.  So, I changed it.  Perhaps it's my inner Virgo coming out, or the fact that I need to feel in control over situations to feel comfortable with any given situation.  Perhaps it's the fact that humans need some sort of consistency to feel at ease.  Although I knew in the back of my mind that I was making the right choices (or so I thought), I felt like I was anything but grounded.

If anything this year has taught me thus far, it's this: YOU ARE NOT IN CONTROL, PAYTON!  There are things that have come my way that I am convinced is the universe or God or whatever you want to call it metaphorically slapping me across the face to remind me of this fact.  I have had money stolen right out of my wallet (money that was factored into the most tightly controlled budget...because there I go, trying to control things again!)   I have literally had to stop people from stealing everything out of my car as well.  Talk about unnerving! Aside from material possessions, I have lost my sense of security, walking the streets with my bag clutched to my chest, and if I had something in my wallet to steal, I would protect that too.  I have lost some of my faith in the human race, robbed of my belief that mostly everybody is good and we should trust them all.  That is what hurts the worst.  I can't pay bills with trust, but it helps me to sleep better at night...when I do sleep at all.

In learning that I am not in control over most things, I am learning more and more with every step of the way.  Coming from the mentality that I am an independent woman, and taking pride in that fact, I have figured out how to navigate this world to the best of my ability with nothing but the skill of using my talents to get ahead, I somehow translated this to "I must not be vulnerable. I must not cry."  This resulted in me masking my feelings by throwing myself into new endeavors and eventually being so overwhelmed with emotion that my coffee pot breaking down sent me into a near panic attack, and getting a sandwich down the street at my favorite lunch spot that was served to me with cheese on it made me burst out into tears...here's a lesson.  Deal with your emotions, or you look like the girl who cries over cheese.

"I DIDN'T WANT CHEESE! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME WITH YOUR MOLD?! WHYYYYYY? WHY CHEEEEESE???!"

There's that expression that John Lennon penned: "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." And I can't help but repeat that to myself over and over again, almost as some sort of mantra.  I've had to accept the fact that my life is probably not going to go according to the way I planned it.  I may or may not end up settled into my career and married by the age of 25 like I had hoped, so I could start my family at age 30, just as I have always written in journals since I was a child. (I used to think I was going to marry Davy Jones too, and we saw how that plan worked out) I have never ever been able to accept the "Be here now" way of life, instead always straining my neck, trying to look over the fence at tomorrow, I have stopped appreciating where I am at in this moment.  I was speaking to someone who has been a crucial part of this journey with me, when they said "You need to give yourself some credit.  Look at what you've done. Look at what you've been through." and I thought about it.  And damn, the woman I was two years ago couldn't handle it.  And who knows, the woman I may be two years from now may not be able to either.  Between the finances, the burning bridges (bridges I thought were indestructible) loved ones sicker than I could ever imagine, feeling helpless in that aspect...no wonder I was sobbing over swiss!

When I was at my festival, I was in heaven.  Even though I felt like my "safe place" had been violated by an intruder, I was surrounded by the unconditional love of my chosen family, and some of my oldest friends---the music that kept me company through good and bad.  There is a porch that wraps around one of the floors of the hotel, and over the last seven years of my life, I have had some of the most memorable, profound, utterly stupid, and incredible times of my life in that one spot.  I have watched sunrises, sunsets, and shooting stars with people from all over the world on this one balcony.  It's usually good for realizations and "aha!" moments.  I won't drop names as to who was with me, but I was amongst friends...new and old...very talented ones at that.  I was going into the story of the journey I had been on.  As I was gabbing on and on, a small bird hopped across the ground at our feet, and he twittered about, hopping from one crumb to another, eating up all of our crumbs we had dropped.  Freakishly talented friend leaned over to me as he pointed at the bird.

"Do ya see that bird, Pay?"
"Yeah."
"See how it hops from crumb to crumb?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think the bird worries about where its next meal is coming from?  Or forgetting how to fly?"
"Well...no..."
"Exactly.  You are the same as that bird.  You don't need to worry.  Just as the bird is taken care of, so will you."

Spreading my "Wings" with Steve Holly 

And just like that, I exhaled.  A real exhale.  Like a yoga exhale.  One where you can feel everything leave your body, and you feel empty in the best way possible.  In the moments that I will have to face in these upcoming months, I will have to keep reminding myself of that slice of time over and over until I can get it through my brain.

"Free as a bird, it's the next best thing to be....free as a bird..."

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Food For Thought (Not For Thighs)

"Oh, God. I am turning into my mother."

My older girlfriends tell me this is something I will be saying a lot more as I grow older.  I find myself saying it a lot more now than I did when I first moved out on my own. It usually has something to do with being late to a party because I was waiting for the glue on something I had rhinestoned to finish drying, or the fact that I am predominately attracted to men old enough to be my father, but this time, it was different.

A few days ago, as I made my way out of the shower and into my bedroom, I dropped my towel in front of the mirror.   I poked and prodded at myself for a good five minutes going "This is too big, this is too small, I hate these freckles, I wish I had my fat girl boobs back..." and so on and so forth.  When I reached up to grab my ribcage to make sure I could still feel it, and pinched my thighs, I looked at myself in the eye (well, in the mirror in the eye) and said that out loud.  "Oh, God.  I am turning into my mother."

I recall being a little girl, sitting on the toilet lid, kicking my feet back and forth as I watched my mom put her makeup on.  The process of makeup has always fascinated me.  The idea that you can transform your face in fifteen minutes boggled my mind, and all of the colors and smells and brushes were so foreign to me.  When she allowed it, I would watch.  I thought (and still do think) that my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.  She wasn't dowdy, or homely like my friends' moms.  She had long dark hair...and a body that always fascinated me.  I had always thought about what it would be like the day I grew the foreign orbs on her chest, and how I would probably spend all day poking them because they jiggled like Jell-O.

The process would start out like I do mine now.  Base makeup, concealer, blush, powder, and then the eyes and lips! My favorite part to watch! And as she would step back to admire herself, that's when it would start: "Ugh, my arms are so fat. I need to lose fifteen pounds. Ugh...my boobs..." Here I was looking at this gorgeous woman who in my eyes was perfect, and she was telling me otherwise. I was at the age where Mommy was always right.  So she must be.

I wish mothers knew that this is where little girl's self image is born.  Sitting on toilet lids, watching their moms get ready is where it all begins.

I was about nine when I realized what food does to you.  Growing up in the south, I was taught to clean up my plate so I could grow up "big and strong". A plate full of fried chicken and mashed potatoes will certainly make you big, but strong is debatable.  When my biological parents split up, I was given lots of sweets to ease the pain.  A reward if you will for putting up with Mommy and Daddy arguing.  Dealing with a new place to live in a scary environment was difficult.  Little Debbie understood me.  I would wander from my bedroom to the kitchen to eavesdrop on conversations Mom was having on the phone, and before you knew it, I had eaten an entire box of Ding-Dongs by myself.  Ding-Dong, my self esteem is dead!

Three months after my bio-parents divorced, I was in the throws of early puberty (probably due to a mixture of diet and hereditary issues) and my dad remarried. He married a particularly nasty breed of woman...one who liked to drink and take pills.  In her drunkenness, she used to poke me in the stomach and talk about how fat I was. "Never be good for anything.  No man will ever want you with a gut like that." I started to get sick, and that's when I realized that she was crushing up diet pills and putting them in my food.  This initiated the self-hate cycle of body image in my childhood and early adolescence.  It didn't matter that I was the lead in the school play, or that I had a terribly prestigious writing award hanging on my wall.  The only thing that mattered was the tag on my jeans.  I still think I am the only kid who went to Disney World and didn't get any photos taken because I had a muffin top.


Years later, as an adult woman now, I can see that these things weren't my fault.  And you know what?   It wasn't the women I surrounded myself with's fault either.  These behaviors are programmed in us as young girls and it's just a self fulfilling prophecy that keeps carrying on and on for generations.  As women, we are taught that our value is in numbers.  How much do we weigh? What is the measurement of our hips, our bra size? How old are we? What if we valued our flaws and saw them as trophies?

My beautiful mother has scars all over her body from her fight with cancer .  Her breasts are in a lot worse shape now than they were when I was a child kicking my legs back and forth on the toilet seat as I watched her cut them down, I'll tell you that.  But to me? They're more beautiful than ever.  They show her strength and her courage.  Women who have just had babies are the most beautiful to me.  Not post baby workout miracle photos, but women.  Women who have just brought life into this world should be celebrated for the miracle they have created, not cut down for breasts sagging, or a little extra pudge.  We put so much pride and focus in "losing the baby weight" instead of celebrating new life.  You just created a person! The gym can wait! I have stretch marks that crawl up the side of my hips.  I acquired these when I was going through puberty and I shot up.  I thought "How cool! I got so tall, my body can't keep up with me!" until I was told what they were, and that I was to be ashamed of abnormalities on my body.

I can't help but feel sad for the women in my family.  At one point, every single female relative of mine that I have spoken to about this has had some form of an eating disorder.  Certain members claim to have been anorexic for years on end, others were bingers, purgers, and most have been on some form of a restricted calorie or insane fad diet for most of their lives.  I am so grateful to have found veganism, and had the thirst for knowledge in healing my body, but as well as my mind.  Every day is a struggle for me still, and I am working on deprogramming my negative thoughts.

I have banned scales in my home.  I think they are evil for someone like me who has spent most of her life being criticized for their weight.  However, I was house sitting recently and couldn't help but notice my arch enemy sitting next to the toilet...the scale.  I was having a wonderful day prior to this moment.  I had intended on sitting by their pool, eating some green stuff, and taking time for myself.  My day was almost so perfect that cartoon bluebirds were about to be singing on my shoulder like in a Disney movie until I saw the number.  My life was over. It didn't matter that everything was looking up, how great my friends are, how much love and support I have in my life, the fact my hair was rocking that day, or even that I had new records in my possession (which usually always cheers me up). Nope.  I had put on the weight equivalent of a small shih-tzu, and I was through.

However, instead of doing what I wanted to do and go hide my feelings in another pint of almond dream (OH, GOD! That stuff is goooood) I reached out to my support group--my friends.  They reminded me of the emotional battle I had been through, how strong I was, and how it was perfectly normal to have picked up a few pounds here and there.  They helped get me back on track not because they were concerned about how I looked, but how I felt.  And there is the biggest difference.  

As I started to tear up at the number on the scale, I had a thought.  What if it were never programmed into my brain that I was never going to be good enough?  What if I had been told from Day 1 that I was perfect as I was?  What if I hadn't been exposed to photoshopped images, and TV, and all the other nonsense that makes us as women feel less than?  What if I were taught to have a beautiful mind, and to cherish my talents and abilities instead of the circumference of my thighs? What if...just what if...as little girls, sitting on the tops of toilets watching our mothers get ready, that we got to hear the words "I. Am. Beautiful." instead? What if they reminded us that we are souls with bodies, not bodies with souls? 

Today, I showered as usual, and walked back into my room to stand in front of the mirror.  I dropped my towel and had a good, hard look.  I saw my freckles, my bruises (because I am not perfect.  I am clumsy), my scars, my chipped toenails...all of it.  And instead of going into autopilot, I just thought: That's Payton.

(That's Payton, alright. Twelve years after being a ballet school dropout, she still can't touch her toes. Working on it!)

And there's only one person well equipped enough for that job.

Like A Rolling Stone: Record Collecting and Religion

Hey, readers!

Well, May is upon us.  It's the time of pollen, ragweed, sundresses, oh, and Spring cleaning.
I had more or less become a hoarder in the last three months.  I was using my house as a giant closet that I sometimes showered in, preferring the company of my friends and their couches to being alone in my humble abode.  There were shoes scattered all about in every corner, records strewn all about, dishes stacked up, and then the room.  THE room.  The second room that was originally intended to be my now not so significant other's recording studio...THAT one.  I had a blip of hope where I was going to turn it into a closet, but instead decided to rent it out for the extra cash, and to bring some new energy into this place.

The only man of the house. 

The last few weeks in my life have been absolutely insane.  I have taken care of sick friends, had relatives (as in more than one) get diagnosed with various ailments, a few financial hurdles to overcome, and a lot of stuff on my mind.  To say I felt completely frazzled is an understatement.  I felt like a tree with no roots...the exact opposite of grounded.


So, I did what usually works. I dumped all of my records in the floor and sat in the middle of them.  I knew that some of them had been swiped in my previous encounter, so I wanted to make sure what was still here.  I took each one out and lovingly cleaned each side, listened to each and every track, and then proceeded to catalog. Yeah, as in, I made a spreadsheet of what I have...with notes. As in "Mono, UK. Scratch halfway through Track 3 side 2, water damage cover---still playable, with all inserts." It sounds terribly nerdy, because it is.

Of course, in the process of the great reorganization, I discovered what had been taken.  They say "You  don't know what you've got until you lose it." and that was certainly the case for me. I thought about what this meant....

For anyone who has known me long enough, it's common knowledge that I love my records more than I love most people.  I seldom can avoid pulling over any time I know that there is even a vendor inside an antique store...even if it's just to look.  These are moments I live for.  When I pull out a record from a bin tucked away in some dingy and dusty old back room, and I know that within those grooves lies magic,  it gives me chills. It makes me high.  It even hurts sometimes...the exquisite pain...sometimes to the point of feeling like my chest is going to burst open. I have often spent my last money on records instead of food.  Records feed me more.

Some people can tell when they've undergone emotional turmoil by their weight fluctuating, their house becoming a contender for an episode of "Hoarders", a half hearted attempt at getting out of bed most days....and yes, these were all true for me, but I knew something was seriously wrong with me when I didn't even want to go to the record store, and wouldn't even bother lifting the needle to drop a glorious piece of wax down on my table.  With my house in a terrible state of disarray, laundry piled up higher than Mount Everest, and dishes from food I didn't even remember eating leftover still sitting in the sink, I did what was best for me.  I pulled everything out, and started over.  I forced myself to sit in the floor of this house that had become a millstone around my neck, and make amends with my children.

As I underwent my project, I thought back to a moment I had shared with my family on Easter Sunday.  Being the good daughter I try to be, I got dressed up and went to church with them because that's what my mother had requested.  As we drove back to their house, my mom made a comment about people who don't believe in Jesus.  I bit my tongue, knowing that religion is a hot topic for anyone, especially in the south.  When the concept of someone going to Hell was brought up, I did speak up and say "Well, it's not really up to you to decide, is it?" and that started the "Well, WHAT are you, then? Buddhist? Atheist? WHAT?" To which my response was "Look, no one really knows.  We are all in this together.  And we'll all find out when we get there."  Broad, vague, generic.  The whole concept of religion is so personal, and I never like to attack whatever gets somebody through the night. When asked if there was a God in the Christian sense, my response was "Look, I don't know what.  No one does.  But I know there's something bigger than me out there, and I call it God. But it's not up to me to cut someone down for what they feel, or to tell them that they are going to your concept of Hell.  It's just not."  To which I was prodded with "Well, if you're so smart, how do YOU KNOW that there's something out there?"I wanted to tell her, I really did.  But I knew it would sound so terribly foreign to someone who doesn't "get it."

I wanted to tell her I knew that there was something bigger than me out there because of the nights I have stayed up sitting in between my speakers listening to the same song over and over again.  I know there's something greater than me because of the way my body reacts to that third cup of coffee at 3 AM and I'm washed over by the sounds of one of my old friends.

My nights. Every night. 

Maybe it's consistency that comforts me.  The fact that this disc was around long before I was, and if I play my cards right, will be around long after I am gone. The songs I listen to now sounded just the same as they did when I was ten, and fifteen, and twenty, and will always.  For someone who's life has been a giant question mark as long as I could remember, the fact that these will never change is such a source of comfort.  Between that, and the way my brain reacts to the noises that come out of these old speakers that I can only relate to the greatest high?  The fact that something that others deem noise was the only thing that made me feel not alone, and that everything was going to be ok? The nights where you revisit something you've heard literally hundreds of times and it can still make you feel so in love that it hurts? That is how I know there is something bigger than me out there.  

And they must really really dig me.

Happy listening, rock n rollers. May the power of tunes compel you.