Never Seen

While sitting in the kitchen with my husband discussing potential eye surgery for our dear puppy, Mea, I had an amazing feeling of déjà vu. I interrupted my husband and gasped "I've experienced this exact moment before!"

Everything about the moment was familiar. From the way we were sitting at the kitchen table in front of the laptop to the words Scott used to describe the logistics of the eye surgery. My inner emotions even felt repetitive.

And I was flabbergasted.

I have only experienced déjà vu a couple of times in my life, and whenever it occurs I feel breathless. There is something so odd about the déjà vu experience- it’s familiar, yet unsettling; comforting, yet awkward.

I have heard some people claim that déjà vu is simply a memory from our previous lives that has surfaced to our subconscious. I could buy into this theory and spend hours fantasizing about what I was in previous lives. I would love to picture my past life spent as an Arabian princess, a Japanese warrior, a lonely fisherman, or a famous Opera singer. It all sounds so thrilling.

But my cases of déjà vu are too specific to be a memory from a previous life. It is implausible to believe that in a past life I experienced that EXACT same situation. For one, computers and laptops haven’t been around long enough. And two, the emotional experience is also too precise.

Other déjà vu believers theorize it’s a spiritual experience. Our soul has left our body and experienced the moment before our body is given the opportunity. Once our soul re-enters the body and lives the moment in real-time the experience becomes déjà vu. That too, is fascinating. It also lends the question, what else is my soul capable of doing? Does my soul leave my body often? Perhaps when I am dreaming? Are these experiences buried somewhere in my mind?

Do I even have a soul?

Fictional Dialogue

In an effort to expand my writing style, this entry will be my first stab at fictional writing. I do well with non-fiction- my life’s experiences and the thought process of my mind. However, if I plan to write a novel one day, which I do in case you were wondering, I need to work on dialogue, developing the context and detailing the surrounding environment.

Here’s one for dialogue:

Entering my apartment door, I exhale the evening’s stresses and look forward to a relaxing evening on the couch sipping a glass of wine and watching the newest Shark Week on Discovery.

“Where have you been? Have you not received my calls? Why in the world didn’t you text me back?” Lucia, my roommate for more than three years, asks in bewilderment before I even finish pulling my keys out of the lock.

Frazzled and clearly desperate about a new dilemma in her life, she looks like hell standing in our apartment’s foyer. Disappointed about a missed opportunity for an easy night, I will myself to look concerned about Lu’s latest problems.

“My phone died and I forgot to bring my charger,” I say in a tone of convincing empathy and worry. “What’s wrong? You look frazzled!”

Hesitating for dramatic effect, which is something Lu has perfected over the years due to her on and off acting career, she murmurs “Yesterday evening I saw Kevin with another woman at the farmer’s market. They were holding hands,” she continues as self-pitying tears fill her eyes, “and he looked so happy and comfortable cuddled next to her.”

Kevin is the same guy who she broke up with two years ago. He was a bastard. Correction, is a bastard. Kevin was a cheating, two-timing, good for nothing, jobless fool who strung her along their lengthy five month relationship. She hasn’t been able to move on even after filling her evenings with other men, and much better looking men in my opinion, that she meets at various auditions around the city.

“Lu,” I begin trying to hide my irritation, “it’s been years since you and Kevin were together. You truly need to move on! He was useless when you were together and he’s still probably still just as awful. You know as well as I do that he is good at faking interest and is probably screwing around on her the same way he two-timed you!”

Flopping on our overstuffed red leather couch, which I can’t stand the sight of but gave in to Lu’s insistence on the importance of dramatic surroundings, she says “That’s not fair. You know how much he means to me.”

“Meant, Lu , past tense. Can we move on? I know it sucks to see an ex, but it’s been over two years and you two didn’t date for that long,” I pause long enough for this information to sink in and continue to change the subject, “Have you even showered today? Your hair looks greasy! I thought you had an audition?”

There is no better way to get Lu interested in another topic than talking about her appearance. She prides herself on her long, curly, blonde hair and hates to think it is anything less than perfection.

“I couldn’t bring myself to even get dressed,” she responds pulling at her PJ pants. “After the incident I came straight home, changed into these and fell into bed. I’m so distraught I can barely eat and when you didn’t come home last night I only got worse,” she complains while putting her head in her hands to further illustrate her anxiety. “Where were you anyway?”

“Working late,” I respond. It’s a bold faced lie, but it’s not worth getting into with Lu. She doesn’t really know much about my real life and I think it’s much better that way because she’s too sensitive and chatty to deserve the truth. It sounds harsh, but it’s simply the way it goes. It’s not that I don’t like Lu, because I do; in fact, I adore her. She’s quite spunky and usually suggesting fun events for us to go to together so in that way is a great form of escapism for me.

“You work too hard. I think we need to find you another job because that PR Firm is slowly killing you,” she responds. She hesitates for a minute and with a serious look on her face suggests, “We’ll find another career opportunity for you once we figure out how to murder Kevin. Or make him love me again.”

Accepting the fact that my DVR’d Shark Week is no longer on the agenda tonight, defeated I walk over to the fridge, “We’re going to need a bottle of wine for this one.”

“Or two,” Lu responds with a giggle.

Carrots are good for you?

I’m prone to anxiety attacks. Ever since I was a little kid, I have had terrifying bouts of crying, hyperventilating, panicky breakdowns. When I was younger they were triggered by smaller things such as having to go to bed at a certain time or a test I was supposed to take the following day. As I have gotten older, the attacks come at about the same frequency but usually require tougher issues to push me to that breaking point.

On Sunday night I reached the edge. After seeing $25k in hospital bills from a “troubled appendix”, weeks of pain with my back, frustration at work, and days of more intense back pain from the cortisone shots – I lost it.

Blubbering about my issues to my exhausted husband, I felt as though the weight of the world was on my shoulders. The heaviness on my chest increased as I went down the list of all the things that were worrying me and the more I thought about my concerns the worse I became.

During my attack I couldn’t understand why life was so difficult. Isn’t it supposed to be easier than this? Why do I always feel like I am on a treadmill sprinting without any opportunity to press the emergency stop button? Why did the reward, or the figurative carrot, never come? Had I betrayed my younger self by settling down in a passionless job to simply pay the bills? What was the point of working my ASS off in college?

After letting me bitch for about 30 minutes, Scotty took a deep breath and explained that, as unfortunate as it may be, this is life. There are tough moments and there are glorious moments. He attempted to remind me of all of the good things in my life (of which there are plenty), but in my condition, I didn’t let him get too far down the happy road.

Exhausting the ‘life has moments of rainbows and butterflies too’ angle, Scott took a more realistic approach and offered some invaluable advice. He told me I needed to slow down. That everyone is chasing that damned stringed carrot, and in fact, it never goes away.

The reward is always changing and morphing into something bigger and better- the carrot gets juicier and fatter- and I always feel as though I am not reaching it. But I am reaching it! I am making progression toward my goals, but too concerned with the next step to take time to enjoy the smaller rewards.

He advised me that instead of running full speed after the carrot, I should take a leisurely stroll toward it. He encouraged me to stop to smell the flowers, take breaks once in awhile and cut myself some slack when I slip and fall along the path. The carrot is always going to be there, so what’s the point in exhausting yourself on the journey to get it?

His advice dried up my tears immediately (which for anyone who knows me well enough understands that this is no easy feat). I slept soundly that night and woke up the next morning with a more optimistic and fresh perspective.

I am still going to chase after the carrot, after all I am a driven and ambitious woman, but I am going to make an effort to enjoy the journey. And, of course, with my Scott’s hand in mine it should go a lot more smoothly.

Calm Minded

Last week I attended a Hatha Yoga class for the first time. Although quite different from many of the other yoga styles I have tried, including Vinyasa and Bikram, I quite enjoyed the class because of its differences to these other yoga styles.

Walking out of the class, I didn’t experience my usual post workout symptoms- fatigue, sore muscles, shortness of breath- all the typical signs of a challenging physical workout. And surprisingly, I was fine with that because for the first time in weeks I had a clear mind.

The class centered around seated positions and encouraged a strong connection to the mind’s eye, also known as the third eye. We were consistently reminded by our instructor to concentrate “between our eyebrows” and pay particular attention to our breath. And because the poses weren’t overly challenging, I was able to connect with my breath better than other yoga practices.

Toward the end of the class, we engaged in a breathing exercise that the instructor described as “cooling”. Sitting upright with our legs crossed, we were instructed to breathe in through the mouth with our tongue formed in a roll, and to exhale out of the nose. In any other situation this would have been hilarious to me; in fact, for the first minute I had to suppress a few giggles. But the breathing exercise was no laughing matter- it was wonderful! Not only did my entire body literally cool down, but my mind and body were able to fully relax and surrender to the flow of my breath.

After the breathing exercise, I entered into the final savasana pose with a calm mind and body. I always enjoy the savasana pose in my yoga practice because it allows me to, of course, take a break from the challenging practice, but also gives me an opportunity to relax and center my being. Usually though, my mind is filled with so many tasks and to-do items, that I can only fully practice savasana for about one minute before my mind takes over and anxiety sets in.

This class was different. I was relaxed enough to let both my mind and body completely go. I didn’t engage in any thoughts that entered my brain, and instead took the advice of the instructor to let my thoughts pass me by. Ideas floated through my consciousness, but not once did I engage any of my thoughts- I simply let them flow unattached.

The disconnect from my mind was an interesting experience, and more importantly a relaxing and calming one. Usually, due to my controlling nature, I have difficulties “letting go” and panic when I don’t feel in touch with myself. But I reveled in this new experience and I hope to practice it again soon.

First Day

Very few of my childhood memories are as clear as my first day of kindergarten. I can still feel my five year old heart pounding in my chest, my tiny palms sweating and my quickening breath as I entered the doors of CH Decker Elementary School for the first time.

Needless to say, I was terrified. There were so many strange faces looking at me, wearily judging me the same way I was taking in their differences and similarities. Many of the children had formed bonds and friendships in Pre-School, and clustered together in small groups through out the classroom reviving familiar relationships. I didn’t attend Pre-School so the classroom scene was a brand new experience for me.

It was easier to face the students and teacher with Mom and Dad at my side- as long as they stayed close to me I felt much more assured that I was safe. Thirty minutes into cursory introductions and Ms. Dickinson explaining to the parents her plans for the year, the parents were told they could leave and come back at noon for dismissal.

LEAVE????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!?????????? I think not. Stricken with panic, I wrapped both arms and both legs completely around Daddy’s right leg before he had the opportunity to get out of his chair. Bending over he whispered, “It’s time for me to go. You’ll be okay. See all of the other children’s parents are leaving.”

I looked around the room and examined the other children’s faces. They all looked calm and comfortable as their parents left the room. None of them showed the same signs of anxiety that I was experiencing; in fact, most of them seemed excited to have a parent free classroom. I did not share their sentiments.

“I want you to stay,” I said to Daddy as I began crying. “I am too scared,” I continued as I buried my head behind his leg. Noticing our scene, Mrs. Dickinson came over to try and persuade me to let Daddy go home. She said that all of the other children were okay, so I should be too. She promised that we were going to have a nice day and Daddy didn’t need to be in the classroom.

I didn’t even look at her. I refused to bring my head from behind Daddy’s leg. As far as I was concerned, Mrs. Dickinson was officially the devil and no matter what she said or did or promised I absolutely was not letting go. And I didn’t. Daddy told Mrs. Dickinson that he didn’t mind staying and it would probably make the adjustment to going to school daily much easier for me. She assented and proceeded with the curriculum for the day.

As we went through names, numbers and the alphabet I kept myself wrapped around Daddy’s leg. I refused to relent and kept a tight grip for the entire day. It was much easier for me to watch everyone from behind Daddy’s leg as I could study the other children without them realizing it. Daddy’s presence was my safety blanket.

I don’t remember what I said to Mommy that evening about my experience at school after she left, but she has since told me I only had positive news to report. I told her the teacher seemed nice and I hoped some of the girls would become my friends.

The next morning Daddy took me to school and walked me to the door fearing he would have to sit through another day of kindergarten. I surprised him, and myself, when we reached the doors and I kissed him goodbye. “I don’t need you to stay today. I can do it all by myself.”

My Interior

I am growing and changing all the time.  Each day, I encounter new adventures that help me flourish as an individual.  I am not the Davina I was fifteen years ago.  Hell, I am not even the Davina I was three years ago.

But that doesn't mean I can't channel her.  

I remember who I was five, ten years ago and can empathize with that person.  I believe this is crucial to my humanity.  Although I have made mistakes in my past, or made decisions I am not entirely proud of, I don't punish or disregard the person I was when I made those choices.  

I know quite a few people- more than I would like to count actually- that try to abandon the person/self they were in the past.  They are ashamed of a previous relationship, or a bad addiction, and make an attempt to erase those years of their lives.  

I've heard it a million times.  "I try to forget it even happened."  "It's as if those years happened to someone else."  "The decisions I made were ridiculous.  I have no idea who that person was- it definitely was not, and is no longer, me."

But it was you.  You can't change the core of your being.  And I don't believe you should try.

I can still channel my five year old self that would throw temper tantrums over my dad not giving me enough time to pick out a Barbie Doll.  No, I do not throw raging fits over toys anymore, but I can still remember why I felt those emotions.

I am not proud of the Davina who continued to date a boy for months even though he cheated on me with numerous hussies.  But I don't want to forget her either.  

I want to remember why I made the choices I did, no matter how ridiculous they were in order to continue my personal development.  If I abandon, or even try to ignore the person I was, then I am cheating.  I would be fooling not only those around me, but most importantly, I would be tricking my soul.

Because even after all my years of physical change and development, the core of my being, my soul, has generally remained the same.   

Child Star

I was born to be on stage.

Unfortunately though, I wasn't blessed with the talent. My father’s singing gene did not get passed down to me, which was something I didn’t become painfully aware of until just before puberty.

During childhood I held allusions that I would grow up to be a famous singer. I promised my daddy that the singing business would never leave the Coady family. I would take over Dave Coady’s Irish Express when he retired. Of course the name would have to be changed, but we would handle that when the time came.

I spent weekend afternoons running errands with daddy, which I saw as a perfect opportunity to showcase my singing talents. While in the car, between the post office and the cleaners, I would belt out my favorite Mariah Carey or Celine Dion songs—with my headphones on.

I actually feel sorry for him now. He never once told me I was a terrible singer. He simply encouraged my other talents and told me to explore different options.

But I was relentless. I watched Grease like it was going out of style. While dancing and singing in front of the television dressed up in purple pants, faux leather jacket, and blue cowboy boots all topped with bright red lipstick (all borrowed from my mother’s closet), I believed I was the next Sandra Dee.

It wasn’t until I recorded myself singing that I realized I was awful. It is uncanny how similar I sound to a Tom Cat alley fight. Needless to say I was heartbroken. Devastated. Shattered.

I abandoned my dreams of starring on Broadway. I found other dreams and left my singing career as a thing of the past. I continued dancing and actually found decent success, but honestly, you can’t be a real star unless you can do both singing and dancing.

I still have an affinity for singing- I sing while showering, cleaning, driving, and sometimes working. But it is now done in private as I prefer not to have an audience. And I definitely do not sing loudly while wearing headphones. I no longer have the confidence or reckless abandonment as I did as a child.

But sometimes, while no one is watching or listening, I imagine my bedroom is the stage and the center spotlight is shining directly on me.