Just beyond the Milky Way...

 This is a picture of half of a mouth guard that I’m using to help with terrible arthritis in my left jaw. I didn’t even think of arthritis existing in one’s jaw, but it makes sense as a joint, even if it hasn’t had trauma - just from incorrect overuse (overbite), It got so painful that I could barely chew and had to go see a specialist; a specialist usually not covered by insurance, people who are specialists in a field that is considered secondary, like your eyes. A stupid amount of money later, here I am with one of three pieces that are doing nothing but convincing my jaw that all my teeth actually meet. (What is this witchcraft and who are these witches?)

However, instead of going do a rabbit hole of health care in America, aging, and how painfully long I went before I sought help with my jaw, I’m going to tell you a story.

A week or so ago, I had a dream that we were in Nairobi, Kenya flying to the Philippines. My friend Anne had recently retired and become a pilot in her second career, and we were on her flight. We were taxiing through the market in Nairobi (in a giant aircraft! somehow missing all the stalls and vendors!) to get to the runway and I stared out the window, getting lost in thought and started thinking about something else. And suddenly, the plane took off, leaving my soul in Nairobi. I came to realize that I was no longer connected to my body and freaked out. How was I going to reconnect with my body? I didn’t have my wallet, passport, or even my phone. How would my soul get through costumes? The plane landed in Manila and Lara called my friend Helen, who was in Nairobi, to talk to my soul. She was like, “Your lifeless body is here.” And I was like, I know WHAT DO I DO?! How do I get reconnected?!

There is precedence for this logic. When I was younger, middle school and early high school, I would go to bed at night and leave my body behind. I would be standing above my bed and see myself sleeping and then zoom into the night sky. I would fly above Cleveland, then Ohio, the US, leaving the northern hemisphere and the protective magical layers of our atmosphere. I would zoom past the moon, past the planets and their many dancing moons to the edge of the Milky Way galaxy, onto the edge of the universe. And there I would meet some of the patriarchs of mostly Western societies as dictated to young women from Ohio in history classes. Giants made of stars were Aristotle, Socrates, Plato, Jesus, (Christian) God, Confucius, Buddha, and maybe a few other interchangeable “thinkers” that were infrequent visitors that I had recently learned about in art class like Da Vinci or a rando like Nietzsche or Kant. I would be deep in conversations with them all when I would suddenly remember that my alarm would be going off any minute and I had to get back to my body in my bed or my soul would be left out here in the galaxy, among the stars. My soul would be lost; my body would move on without me.

I would say goodbye, and zoom back, heart racing, as fast as I could possibly go (obviously faster than the speed of light), from the edge of the Universe, through the Milky Way galaxy, past the planets and their moons, through the layers of the Earth’s protective atmosphere, to North America, America, Ohio, Cleveland, my community, my house, my bed. The alarm would go off and I would be relieved to be back in my body, in my bed, not lost to the stars.

I did this all the time.

Though that’s not why I grind my teeth at night.

Nothing else has changed.

 A year ago, my coach, 

who was like my therapist but not 

because we were only allowed 10 sessions together 

told me to quit my job. 

To leave my clients behind, let their contracts end.

She told me to go ahead and write. To be a writer.

I cried fat tears for all the things missing from my life.

Writing. I so desperately wanted to write. 

That's all I wanted after a global pandemic 

and a touch of cancer. 

There was a deep and visceral fear that I would die before I told the stories that I had to tell.

This feeling is familiar. The desperation was new.

And still, nothing else has changed.

I took the summer off. 

I let my largest contract end. I played pickleball. 

I drank beers with ABVs of less than 6% with my friends. 

I went to my annual family reunion with the only family who likes to reunion. 

And as I was checking into our hotel in Old Vegas, a character introduced herself.

I met some other characters. I feel like I might know them.

Friends got sick. Friends go better. Friends died.

And still, nothing else has changed.

I joined a playwriting group. 

I started reading more and joined the digital worlds of Kindle and Libby where I could get books instantly and never be bored.

I started physical therapy appropriately as summer came to an end. 

My back hurt. My knees felt unstable. 

Swirling MRIs and second options just told me I had "terrible arthritis" in one knee and "just arthritis" in the other.  

My zombie ACL was almost gone. I am a zombie eater. You'll want me on your apocalypse team.  

And still, nothing else has changed.

I learned that FOMO was really just anxiety in a pink party wig holding a chocolatini or lemon drop, depending on the event.  

I went to West Africa for the first time in 20 years - I was more nervous than I wanted to admit as a member of the alpha mafia. 

Is this why we always travel in groups?

And I took on more clients. Sometimes it was exhausting.

I bought a fancy computer bag to make myself feel better about it. 

I baked more challenging cakes.  

I bought cookbooks. 

And still, nothing else has changed.

I went to a writing conference and my heart was filled with joy, longing and belonging. 

I joined The Dramatist Guild because 

I was a playwright. I said it out loud. I checked a box. I gave them money. I am produced after all.

I pined for graduate school - for an excuse to read and write every day. 

I signed up for a co-working space. 

Now we have kittens who are mischievous.

I hear them climbing on the counters, chasing the flies we call co-workers.

Now I am bike training for the 50th Anniversary of RABGRAI this summer.

Now I have arthritis in my jaw. I cried eating holy basil tofu at Pink Bee with a friend.

And still, nothing else had changed.