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Day 8 - Clarity

2/18/2026

Seeing Clearly

When I trace in my body where my need for perfection lies, I realize it’s in my eyes. It’s always been in my eyes. I need to see clearly. Perfectly, even.

As a little girl, when my vision first started getting a bit fuzzy and I needed glasses to see the blackboard clearly (age 6? 7?) I remember the optometrist saying to my mother “Now, don’t let her wear those glasses all the time or she’ll need them all the time. She should just wear them to look at the board. Her vision is better than perfect with them on.” He might as well have told me not to open a banned book. Or not to put beans up my nose.

I loved seeing perfectly. Still do.

Post-cataract surgery has been kind of a nightmare, leaving me with perfect distance vision and the inability to see clearly up close. Readers correct the close stuff. From 5-10 feet is consistently blurry. “That’s no man’s land,” said the Ophthalmologist recently. “Don’t expect to see well there.”

Not ok. Not what you said initially. I’m frustrated. It might be the truth, but I sure didn't want to hear it. Or see it.

During therapy, I realized my underlying perfectionism manifested in having everything look perfect for everyone else. My house, for company. My table at a holiday dinner. My writing. My music. And, most of all, my first marriage.

People have asked me why I stayed with him for so long. How was it possible for me not to see what was going on? How could I rationalize his destructive behavior? These are reasonable questions that left me with deep seated shame.

There are a lot of parallels that can be drawn with the state of our country today. How is it possible not to see what is going on? How can we rationalize the destruction of everything we hold dear as a democracy?

Here’s your answer:
You can work really hard at making things look perfect to the outside world. Enablers of narcissists fawn, pretending nothing is wrong, shielding the narcissist from hearing the truth to prevent yet another explosion. Inside, they’re crumbling under the strain of the illusion.

We are seeing these people struggle publicly every day now, on podiums, on talk shows, in the papers.

Knowing and accepting the truth about someone means throwing away your own preconceived notions of perfection. With a narcissist, it means understanding and admitting that things aren’t how they seem on the outside. It means not believing the stories that you’ve told yourself to carry on.

So next time you wonder why someone stays with a toxic spouse, or parent, or boss, and continues to try so hard to live a “perfect” life, this is why. Likewise, sycophants of charismatic leaders tend to stick around, even as the lies pile up.

Seeing clearly is simply too painful.

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Day 7 - Clarity

2/17/2026

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Preoccupations of a Body Sleuth

Back in 2023, I dedicated the bulk of a writing series, “Slow Forward,” to processing my total knee replacement. The story of my surgery and recovery is peppered throughout that series, but I describe the lead up and the surgery/recovery starting in Day 9

During the months after my total knee replacement surgery in 2022, I dedicated myself to recovery. PT every day, in the studio or at home. Walking daily. Massaging my scar. And, eventually, back to the gym and finally to dancing.

The first full dance I attended was 5 months after my surgery, and I was amazed to be able to dance mostly without pain. I fell into a pattern – go to a dance event and then dance one, sit one out. I did this as often as I could that spring of 2023, which was not a lot of often as I am one of the main dance musicians here in town and I’m more likely to be found behind the piano than on the dance floor.

I was working up to a full week of dancing that Dave and I had signed up for during August of that year. We were travelling to Pinewoods Camp, located on the lakes outside of Plymouth, Massachusetts, one of my favorite places in the world. First, we had to drive there over the course of several long days in the fully packed car. That was a challenge in itself. When the dancing started, we’d be potentially going from morning until night – doing as much or as little dancing as felt appropriate for me.

Dave grinning like the Cheshire Cat in front of our car packed for a 2 week trip north,

The main issue with the new knee was the swelling, which I could control with compression socks and wraps. Travel was the worst for that, and standing for long periods of time was a close second. I was concerned about my stamina.

I told you yesterday that I’m a self-certified Body Sleuth. Nothing prepared me for what was going to happen during my first workshop at Pinewoods.

The dancers at this camp, who come from all over the US, are uniformly at a high level of skill. People who are willing to travel far for this experience are generally the best dancers in their own communities, who are looking for a peak experience dance vacation.

The teaching was fast. The music was faster than we play at home. I was prepared for that.

During the dance, however, I discovered that a vital connection between my brain and my knee had not quite been restored yet. Knee replacement involves cutting through the nerves that run across the front of the knee, which is partly why the darn recovery is so painful. No one told me about those regenerated nerves needing to “connect back up.”
The dance leader would say “go right”, my brain would process that instantaneously, and then, there was a 1-2 second delay between that thought and the movement in my knee. I remember consciously standing there thinking “why am I not moving?” It was the oddest thing.

In the past I’ve also written about proprioception, the body’s ability to sense through an object. In this case, the object was me. Why was there an impenetrable block of wood somewhere between my brain and my ability to move my knee at speed?
It was a fascinating week, watching my body re-learn that connection. I found myself dancing at every opportunity, and doing a little less dance-one, sit-one out.

By the time that beautiful week of learning, fellowship and dance was over, I was back. Nerve pathway restored. I smiled broadly all day long on the day it happened.

I sometimes wonder if I weren’t a dancer or an athlete, would I have even noticed my nerves not firing up to speed?

These are the sorts of things that certified Body Sleuths spend their time pondering.

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Day 6 - Clarity

2/16/2026

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Body Sleuthing

I have spent more than half my life learning to be a Body Sleuth. As a card carrying, fully adult, highly trained Body Detective, here is the most important thing I have learned in all those years:

The amount of pain in my body correlates directly with my mental state.

You may scoff at this, but I would ask you to consider for yourself the following:

When you are happy, how do you feel physically?
What changes your mood? Is it physical pain changing your mood, or is your mood changing your physicality? Or both?
When you find yourself in acute physical pain, what do you notice about how you are carrying yourself? Are you able to notice anything other than the pain?

There are definitive exceptions to the mood/pain connection. Body parts can and do wear out, especially with age. People get physically devastating diseases whose ultimate outcomes they cannot alter, like MS and Parkinsons.

And yet, even in those situations, I contend – no – I am living proof - that changing your posture and releasing the pain cycle will make you feel better, lighter, more able to function in whatever state you find yourself today.

What, in my more than 30 years of exploration, has made me so confident of this connection?

We can start with living in a body with Ehlers Damlos Hypermobility Syndrome. (EDHS)
I spent much of my young life in a state of collapse, through no fault of my own. EDHS affects connective tissue in the body. Anything that is made of collagen is fair game for laxity – ligaments, connective tissue, even the digestive system from intestines to colon.
I slumped. I put all my weight on one leg or the other while locking my knees in an attempt to feel supported by my bones. I had horrible digestive issues (still do, from time to time.)

By the time I was approaching thirty and starting to experience some of the marriage challenges I’ve described, I was a complete and total physical wreck. My right shoulder was dislocating at the drop of a hat. I’d worn the cartilage off of my knees from years of locking them. My back went out so often during my pregnancy that I had to wear a large band (similar to the compression underwear popular today) to keep my back from dislocating. I was bent over like a C, from postural issues and from feeling so terrible about myself.

I have said frequently that finding Alexander Technique was what saved my life. Finding the mind/body connection, allowing myself to let my bones support me, finding out what being upright and not locked or tense actually felt like, allowing my head and neck to release upward for the first time in years – all these things gave me tremendous physical relief. I also started seeing differently. I would find after a good AT lesson that my field of vision would widen, that I was more present in the world. All of this was such a new, different and welcome place for me that I had to train as a teacher myself.

But my Body Sleuth training didn’t stop there. Oh, no. Let’s throw in years of Gluten Intolerance I was pretending I didn’t have. When the joint pain finally lessened, the gut pain began in earnest. It was another few years of realizing that letting go of gluten was a continuation of letting go of mental and physical pain. I stopped punishing myself and started feeling better.

My 50s were great. I was healthy, I was working out, Dave and I were embarking on happy times together. Physically I was the best I’d felt in years. That’s when I finally earned my Body Sleuth diploma.

Now, there’s aging to contend with. I’ve lived a full life in this body, and it shows. Those old injuries? They’ve resurfaced in the same places, disguised as arthritis and joint deterioration. It’s ok. Injections and somatic work help the acute pain. I know what to do in myself to find space in my joints and to feel supported.

Sense the ground.

Think up.

Let go.

Breathe.

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Day 5 - Clarity

2/15/2026

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The Middle of the End

When you live with a narcissist for long enough, your world view slowly changes. Of course you have no friends. You shouldn’t have friends that the narcissist doesn’t like. You’re not worthy of new friends. In fact, you’re not worthy of much.

Anything you do is wrong. You don’t know how to change a diaper or cook a decent meal. It’s your fault that sex isn’t any good. You should be able to work full time, grocery shop and keep up the house without any help. What’s wrong with you?

When you’re down there, being lied to and gaslit in the torture chamber of your safe space, your home, you start to believe it. Of course you didn’t do that correctly. And somewhere, the part of you that is still alive, still breathing, says, “I can fix this. I can make it better.” So, you lie, you cover for the narcissist, you pretend everything is ok. And it is, in public. Which is why they try to keep you at home.

When my daughter was two, I had the opportunity to go away for an international Kodaly conference in Canada. I applied for both the conference and the pre-week of solfege study with an eminent Hungarian. I got in to the pre-week, and my school agreed to help me pay for the trip and encouraged me to go for the additional training. This was a couple of years after the Beginning of the End. My first significant time away since Anne was born.

The one thing my ex didn’t ever seem to mind was me going away to study. It was my lifeline, and he knew it. That August, I went to Canada.

Almost two weeks out of that house. Out of that marriage. Suddenly, people were telling me I was smart, that I knew things. A man found me attractive enough to flirt madly with me. Who, me? I don’t deserve these things, I said to myself. Yet over and over, during that time away, I was told I did deserve the praise, the pleasure, the support of new friends. I leaned into it, hard. I felt like I could breathe again for the first time in years.

Returning home, spouse picked me up at the airport and immediately launched into a litany of the things I should have done while I was away, and all the things he had done better while I was gone. From deep down, in a place I had forgotten existed, my anger rose. I turned and looked at him in the driver’s seat. With more clarity than I’d felt in years, I said, “I want a divorce.”

He begged, he pleaded, he cried. We went into therapy with the first of 3 different therapists over 8 years. We were not the children of divorce, and we both believed we could work it through. We tried, God knows we tried.

By the time we entered into round 3, the only thing we could agree on was how we could learn to be different in our next relationships.

I often wonder what would have been different if we’d given up sooner, if we’d divorced immediately when I asked for it. I don’t think either of us would have grown up.

I know I wouldn’t have had the support of the women I gathered around me in those final years. I needed that, badly.

And I suspect I wouldn’t have heard those glowing words at his funeral, either.

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Clarity - Day 4

2/12/2026

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Dark Chocolate

“And, oh,” our teacher said, “Don’t forget to bring dark chocolate with you next week. We’re all going to need it.”

We’d been training for our level one Reiki certification for 6 weeks, in a course far more intense and deep than most 1-day Reiki classes. The following week would be our attunement, our initiation into the world of energy work.

I was nervous. I’d never done anything quite like this before. Alexander Training was long and hard and had taken me over three years, but we were consistently reminded that it “wasn’t energy work” (wink, wink, nudge, nudge.) I was pretty sure it was. I knew I had some serious heat emanating out of my hands when I put them on someone. I thought it would be a good idea to get some training and be able to turn that energy on and off when I needed to.

My friend Christin recommended Reiki training. She had just gone through the same intensive course and was assisting the instructors. It seemed like as good a time as any to make the leap.

Every week we worked on putting our hands on each other, encouraging the energy in our hands to flow. We worked on grounding ourselves by going barefoot in the grass outside and using sage to cleanse before beginning. We had a lot of tools in our toolkit.

What we didn’t know was what the attunement would be like. Would it work? Was I ready? Did I have to do anything?

I knew just 2 things – wear white and bring chocolate. Check and check.

I can’t say what happens in an attunement – you’ll have to experience that for yourself. (There are no drugs involved, only energy.) Afterward I remember feeling intensely high, a little shaky, and in no position to drive home for a while.

We walked out of the attunement space and were greeted with glasses of water and pieces of dark chocolate. “Here, eat this. It will ground you.” And oh, yes, it did. In 15 minutes or so we were all ready to leave for home.

This is no coincidence, as dark chocolate has been used in sacred ceremonies for centuries throughout the western world. Think of the Incan/Peruvian Cacao ceremony. Dark chocolate contains magnesium, the mineral that induces relaxation and sleep, making chocolate naturally calming. The small amount of caffeine allows someone to come back to themselves from a trance-like state.

Now, as a Reiki Master, I’m pretty good at turning that energy on and off. I appreciate the clarity that Reiki study brought to my hands. I do believe it has improved the quality of my Alexander work.

Ever since my Reiki training, honoring the three separate attunements, I eat a small piece of 85-90% pure dark chocolate every evening. Nothing sweeter, or I will crave the sugar instead of the calming effect. I eat it slowly, savoring the melting chocolate on my tongue.

It’s my evening ritual, my time to come back to myself.

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Clarity - Day 3

2/11/2026

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The Beginning of the End

Sometimes clarity arrives when you least expect it to.

Picking up clothes that were strewn around the bed for the laundry, I lifted my husband’s white dress shirt to discover a big, fat, lipstick lip print on the collar. Blood red. Definitely not mine.

Where the hell had that come from?

I stood, staring, as other recent memories I had buried came flooding back.
The pile of Penthouses (not even Playboy, Penthouse!) buried in the back of his closet that I’d found looking for some shoes he was missing. “Oh, I just read those for the articles…” What articles? Penthouse was not known as quality reading.

Brain said, “Stuff it down.”

He’d come home late from work and had missed dinner several times in the last month. I’d gotten phone calls. “I’m going out with the guys for a couple of beers after work. I’ll be late.” You never go out with the guys. What’s that about?

Brain said. “Trust him.”

The long scratches, clearly from fingernails, down his back last week. “A secretary at work was giving me a back rub because my shoulders were tight. I must have looked tense. I guess her nails were really long?”

Brain said, “Stuff it down. NOW.”

More and more excuses came rushing back, up into the cold light of morning.

Slowly, still clutching the shirt, I started to slide down the edge of the bed toward the floor. By the time I got to the ground, I was shaking from head to toe. I felt like throwing up.

He’d lied to me before, early in our marriage, about dropping out of school. He’d promised he’d never lie like that to me again. And yet, here was unmistakable evidence that he’d done just that.

Brain said, “Quick! Emergency! Not happening! Stuff it down.”

Heart and Courage and what was left of my inner Strength said, “NO.”

His footsteps bounded up the steps. “Hi honey, is that laundry ready to go downstairs, yet?”

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Clarity - Day 2

2/10/2026

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Once a Bully....

“Four-eyes!”
“Teacher’s pet!”
“Smarty-Pants”
“Wuss!”

RRRIIINNNGGG……

Saved by the bell. Literally. Again.

Fourth grade was hell for me. If there really is a hell after death, and I get sent to it, that’s where you’ll find me. Fourth grade. With all my bullies lined up in front of me, pressed into the school wall on the playground, praying for the bell to ring.

In 1968-69, the US was in racial turmoil. Assassinations. Anger. Cities in flames. New York City was no exception. Blocks of Harlem and the Bronx simply disappeared into rubble. White flight to the suburbs was a huge thing.

My parents had lived in suburbia since their marriage in 1956. Suddenly, our small town became one of the “safe” places to be if you were white. An easy commute back to the city for work on train or bus. Good schools. Places for kids to safely free-range.

My elementary school doubled in population between grades three and four. We were bursting out of the seams. The kids that moved up from the city to join us were streetwise, tough, and quite used to being mean to survive. They were also behind in schoolwork.

I was small, terrible at sports and uncoordinated due to my hypermobility. I wore glasses. I was an only child. I loved school. I was at the top of my class. I was also an easy target.

Recess was terrifying. If I could get on the top of the monkey bars fast enough, they’d ignore me. But playing group games? Oh no.

Our teacher was brand new and not cut out for education. She let them bully me, even in the classroom. A year later she quit to become a computer programmer, where she got to sit alone and punch holes in cards. Perfect.

It’s more than 50 years later now. I long ago learned how to handle being called names by insecure, not-well-educated people who are trying to find and hold their place in society. On that, I do have understanding and even some compassion. No born teacher like me could think any differently.

But there are so many ways to resolve things other than resorting to name calling and physical bullying. I learned that on the playground in 4th grade.

If “Snowflake” had existed in 1969, they’d have called me that, too.

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Clarity - Day 1

2/9/2026

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Petrified Dreams

This was beyond my expectation. Colorful rocks of petrified wood, large and small, were strewn everywhere as far as I could see. How does wood become a rock, anyway?

I was 11, and my small family was on a three-week vacation to the western US. Today we were in the badlands of Arizona, visiting the painted desert.

My grandparents had been a couple of years before and came back raving about Arizona and all of it’s wonders. It was clear that this state was where my grandfather wanted to retire in a few years. Perhaps we were invited on a PR trip. Perhaps not. Perhaps my grandmother needed convincing that it would be ok to leave us if we liked it, too.

No matter, here we were. At this point in time my grandfather was a Vice President for a Savings Bank. He had begun work as a teller there right out of high school and worked his way up to VP of HR. An American success story, the way it used to be.

Muckety-mucks at the bank were entitled (encouraged, even) to take the company car to use on vacations. This was sensible, since the car was garaged in New York City and seldom driven for work purposes except on company retreats or golf outings. The car was a giant station wagon – one of those things that sat 6 in two rows and then had facing folding seats in the back. You could put a family of 10 in that vehicle. The five of us had ridiculous amounts of room – my grandfather or my father driving, the other riding shot gun unless my grandmother insisted on the front seat. The other two adults were in the back seat, and I, gloriously reveling in pre-teen-ness, had the backwards facing seats to myself.
We drove that oversized American Dream car from the suburbs of New York all the way across the country on a grand tour of the west. We visited Arizona, Bryce Canyon, the Grand Canyon, the North Dakota badlands, Mt Rushmore, and Yellowstone National Park before heading home sometime in mid-September (how did they get me out of school for this? I have no idea.)

The Painted Desert was not yet a National Park, and didn’t become one until 2004, some thirty years later. It was a designated wilderness area, but with no park and no rangers to curb theft, loss of petrified wood from the park was a real problem. No one called collecting “theft” in those days, but they do now.

As I remember, there was a visitor center, and there we were impressed not to pick up or move the rocks – because once they were moved from their original site they could not be returned there with any accuracy. A park full of dinosaur fossils waiting to be explored, it was like one giant dig site - don’t touch anything!

For an 11-year-old, this was nearly impossible. All I’d wanted to do since my grandfather came home telling me about this park was to touch the petrified wood. I had to find out for myself if it was real. Around my feet were gorgeous, small, colorful pieces I was dying to hold. I had to satisfy myself with getting close to and gently touching the bigger “trunks” of the trees. It was so odd. You could feel the outlines of bark on the outside. And yet, I was still drawn to the bright colors on the inside. It was clear to me that yes, this had been a forest. At that point, I had to accept on faith that this incredible piece of science had happened. Geology study was still in my future.

I could have spent days in that park, squatting down, investigating, touching, seeing. But we had many miles to cover in the days to come. On we went.

Years later, cleaning out my grandfather’s house, I found a small collection of rocks in his top desk drawer – each one carefully labeled in my grandfather’s neat hand. A rock from Boot Hill Cemetery. Another from the Grand Canyon. And yes, in a piece small enough to hide in your pocket, Petrified Wood.

They never did retire to Arizona.

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2026 Writing Challenge Introduction - Clarity

2/9/2026

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Contemplating Eights

It’s 8:00 pm on a Friday, and I find myself contemplating eights.

My eighth-year embarking on a one-month-of-weekdays writing challenge.

Eight times around the sun since I started writing in earnest in 2019.

Eight years of increasing confusion about what is reality and what is illusion in our land.

Eight years of sending light into the world, through touch, music, and words on paper.

I estimated a few years ago that in this intensive month, I write upwards of 50,000 words per challenge. That’s a book a year, should I go back and edit and polish and do all the things.

All my life people have said “you should write a book.” I’ve been contemplating that idea a lot lately. The suggested subjects of said book have changed over the years with my interests, but I have always found at least 8 reasons not to do the work.

People will also say about me “That Robbin is always busy.” And I am. I never seem to stop. I find it hard to say “no” to things that interest me and get me out of the house and away from a screen. Perhaps that’s my excuse. Perhaps it’s a really lousy one.

Finally, I’m looking at retirement. What will I do with all my time? Will I let myself stop for a while? Would a book make a difference in this world? What do I really want now, at this time in my life?

More than anything, I find myself searching for clarity - for my future, and for the future of truth in our country. It feels like we are living in the Upside Down. I’d like to leave there with my soul intact.

So, with the theme of Clarity firmly in hand, I welcome the prompts from Megan Macedo, Writing Challenge organizer, to get me started. Each weekday I write, it gets “published” on our writing group website and on my blog the following morning. I’ll send you a daily email with the link to the blog for the current day to read.

You’re welcome to join me on this journey. There’s no pressure. If you’d like to come along, I’d be delighted to share my thoughts with you. Just send me a note in Messenger and make sure I have a current email for you.

Please let me know by Monday, as we start in earnest on Tuesday morning.

Twenty-eight minutes after 8:00 pm, and I’m ready to push send.

Are you in, or are you out?

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Cleaning Out the Old, Day 21 - One Box at a Time

3/10/2025

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When I started this theme of cleaning out the old a month ago, I had no idea I was going to touch such a collective nerve with either the topic or with my writings on it. I usually offer people a chance to read my writing – this year, through one small Facebook post, 42 of my friends signed up, immediately. That’s the largest group of dedicated readers I’ve ever had and almost double the number of people that signed on the last time I did a series that I intended for public consumption. I’ve been touched by the number of comments people have sent me or posted on my website. It will be fun to see that grow over time.

If I had any closing advice to offer, it would be “keep at it.” Do a little at a time. Set reasonable expectations. Don’t overwhelm yourself. Remember, you’re doing this for yourself and (as long as you’re not moving house) there’s no rush, as there often is when you’re death cleaning for someone else. When the emotions come up, let them. Even if that’s all you do for the rest of the day, have a good cry. Don’t forget to reward yourself for your hard work, whatever that reward looks like for you.

Just Saturday my friend Janet had a yard sale and offered me a spot in her driveway. I threw together a box of the pottery from my kitchen cabinets I’d been keeping to sell, because it was too nice to donate, plus a box of stuff I did plan to donate - grocery store flower vases, some old placemats I just replaced, a hideous stuffed chicken Dave bought at a fund raising auction. Dave threw in an ancient pair of loppers he’d replaced that he hated to put in the trash.

Because I had time, there was no rush, it was a beautiful spring day and because I got to hang out with two good friends, it was an absolutely lovely day to make $55. The pottery went in the first 30 minutes to people who knew what they were buying. The loppers went to a desperately unhappy woman who really needed them for $1. In the last 15 minutes, two carloads of recent refugees pulled up and we offered them whatever they wanted, for free. That’s what I call a rewarding day. Anything that was left went to charity or recycling the next morning.

I can’t tell you the “right" way to clean out. It’s whatever works for you, provided you do it. I will, however, leave you with this handy decluttering list that popped up on my social media the other day. The very last idea on the page is probably the most important thing to remember. Decluttering doesn’t have to be perfect. I would reiterate, it doesn’t have to be done at one sitting, and, most of all, just keep at it – at whatever speed works for you.

One box, one drawer, one cabinet at a time.

Please keep sharing your stories with me - I love hearing that we're all in this together!

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Robbin Marcus

An occasional post from me, about stuff that interests me.

2025 blog series:
Cleaning Out the Old

2024 blog selections: Resistance

2023 blog series:
Slow Forward

2020 blog series:
1) Processing - Experience, Thought, Action
2) Diving for Light - Shedding light on a dark time

Day 8 - Clarity

Seeing Clearly

Day 7 - Clarity

Preoccupations of a Body Sleuth

Day 6 - Clarity

Body Sleuthing

Day 5 - Clarity

The Middle of the End

Clarity - Day 4

Dark Chocolate

Clarity - Day 3

The Beginning of the End

Clarity - Day 2

Once a Bully....

Clarity - Day 1

Petrified Dreams

2026 Writing Challenge Introduction - Clarity

Contemplating Eights

Cleaning Out the Old, Day 21 - One Box at a Time

Robbin Marcus

2019 blog series:
Exploring the Power of Habit

Archives

Seeing Clearly

Preoccupations of a Body Sleuth

Body Sleuthing

​The Middle of the End

Dark Chocolate

The Beginning of the End

Once a Bully....

Petrified Dreams

Contemplating Eights

Robbin Marcus

2019 blog series: Exploring the Power of Habit

Archives

The Middle of the End

2019 blog series:
Exploring the Power of Habit