Blushing Toes

Blog #7 - Monica Rae

July 1st, 2020

To this day, I can remember the overwhelming feeling—my heart was beating fast, palms sweating and tears filling the creases of my eyes. I ran to the other side of the room, tried to hide in the cubby holds positioned next to the craft table as the sound of adults’ laughter vibrated in my ears!

I was 8 or 9 years old, at the daycare attached to the neighborhood elementary school. Moments before ducking into the cubby, I had darted across the room certain I had sighted my aunt—my mother’s sister—who had been living abroad. I ran up to her and hugged her. As my arms stretched around her waist, I realized this was not my relative! And as quickly as I hugged her, I let go and in a mumbled effort explained who I thought she was.

This earliest recollection of embarrassment was a precursor to a decade or more of awkward attempts at social confidence.

Piles of clothes filled my closet and yet I insisted I had nothing to wear! Repairing my hair before dashing out the door. Was that a glare? In my self-absorbed teenage mode, I was obsessed with what my peers might think of me. So certain they would care. A huge amount of effort was poured into preventing embarrassment...

Until I realized no one was watching.

Which is ultimately a far more embarrassing realization.

And yet, that realization is freeing…

…Like a day I don’t have to shave my legs and can wear my favorite Bob Marley tank top unfazed by whoever might stop by. An image that only time can carve out.

I am free now—to admit what I do not know, to try, to fail. But that is not to say I still do not get embarrassed.

About 5 years ago, I was standing in front of a group of artists, posing for a drawing session. A local college professor had asked me to join his group of experienced artists. His awkward stature and uncomfortable glance made him appear more like a computer technician that was hiding something rather than an artist about to sketch. I had been presumptuous in assuming he was a reputable man because of the artists in his company. I would be mistaken.

After a few moments of small talk, we created a space and pose that was comfortable. Within 5 minutes this professor left the room. I assumed he had to take a phone call or use the restroom, because all his art supplies were still in the room where he had positioned them. After 10 minutes others were curious regarding his absence. After 20 minutes someone realized the professor, who had been the one to hire me, had left. He left without word, without payment and without explanation!

As a model for last 18 years I’ve had a mired of experiences, most of which have been mutually satisfying. But that day marked a circumstance I had never encountered before.

Initially, I was in full blush embarrassment mode. What is wrong with me, I thought? I am not a young, tan model like the ones in catalogs, but he already knew this. And now these other artists are staying in sympathy—not in inspiration. One generous artist paid me, and I have gone on to work with all those in attendance that day—minus the professor.

Fast forward 4 years, in the same hallway where the professor teaches. I am there to work with students and artists that won’t leave the room when I enter. That day however, I am early, the hallway is empty, except for this man. He approaches me as though he has no recollection of who I am and asks if I need something. I explain and he moves on … just as he had years before.

While that experience was embarrassing, I would never allow that to happen again. Oh sure, I’d be embarrassed, it was inevitable, but I wouldn’t be disrespected in that manner.

There is something about falling repeatedly that makes you better equipped to handle the next fall. Fear is tempered with confidence. The moment you are made to feel more vulnerable than you’d like to be you realize you can crawl under a rock or learn something you hadn’t intended. In that way, what you thought you lost in the face of discomfort is in fact replaced with something you gain.

So, what is there to gain from being the only one in a group of friends that capsizes a kayak, swallowing buckets of water under the ripples of currents that control the water I thought I could tame?

That is what I was pondering as I walked barefoot alongside my friend Julie who pulled me out of the water last week. Apologizing for causing such disruption in an otherwise glorious evening I was undoubtedly embarrassed. My bleeding, bruises and look of shock will detail the tale when it’s teasingly repeated. And the embarrassment gives way to a vulnerability that makes me want to get in a kayak again and again until the water washes away the fear…

...The way Reggae music washes over inhibition…

“Country roads, take me home, to a place, I belong, West Jamacia, my ol’ mama, take me home, country road…”

The words vibrate between the heartbeat sounds of rhythm. Toots and the Maytals, a Jamaican Reggae band’s remake of “Country Road” starts off with a sweet humming, a light beat that invites just your toes to move! It builds with a drum tap and the words familiar to it’s original version sung by John Denver.

Reggae forbids fear…

When it drops you will feel it—the complete letting go…

My curiosity got the best of me as I hit ‘repeat.’ Who is behind this song? Were they a one hit wonder, what inspires them, who is Toots and what does Maytals mean??

‘Maytals’ I found, is a Jamaican word that means ‘good things.’ I smile in delight. Hidden in the vulnerability Reggae requires, the shuffle of rhythms create ‘good things.’…

I drive 30 minutes and park my car at a lake and grab my phone, peppermint oil, drink, and towel. The sound of Reggae music playing on my phone as my toes begin to wiggle in the sand.

The mix of bass, guitar, and keyboard echo around me. Out pops the saxophone much like a glass of rum, releasing all my reservations.

There is a sign that reads ‘No Pets or Alcohol Allowed.’ Next to it a man is walking—his dog is leading him with his nose—eager to explore the unknown. I chuckle. There are moms and kids and teens sunbathing, their towels 6 feet apart. Onlookers glance my way as I am swaying to the Jamaican beat, standing waist deep in the water, letting the waves crash against me…

DEDICATION: This blog is dedicated to the moments and people that make my toes wiggle…And to the power and pleasure of Reggae.