Time marching on

 One of my fellow walkers in Italy is a therapist. When she remarked that I didn't look my age, I half in jest asked her if age dysmorphia is a thing. It is. I looked it up when I got home, reading about the Peter Pan syndrome, as well as the general feeling of disconnect between one's internal sense and chronological age, whether that's feeling older or younger than what the calendar says. What I often go back to is, "What am I supposed to feel like?" I once read that while our bodies change over time, our inner self doesn't (though I hope I've matured!), so it makes sense that the reality of X number of birthdays doesn't always match how I feel. I have a poster from the 2014 Portland Marathon that I ran (& walked) in honor of my 60th birthday. As I dusted it off this week, it hit me strangely that the event was now over 10 years ago, a decade. Kind of like hitting 40 years sobriety - how did that happen? Yeah, yeah, I know - one day at a time.

And, one day at a time, I settle back into the current time zone, plant in the garden (inspired by the lovely flowers in Tuscany), eat salads for dinner, connect with my various meetings. This week contains Step work - my own and a sponsee's; Two for them and Ten for me.  I have two active sponsees at the moment (and another "as needed") and each, in their own way, challenge me to look at how I apply the principles of the program. Participating in another's journey provides the impetus to go deeper myself - not in the hope of staying ahead of them (like might've motivated me in early recovery) but as a gentle trigger to ask myself, "How am I living the Steps today?" 

I had lunch with two friends from early recovery on Monday, reminiscing about the crazy fun when we were 30-40 years younger - dances, parties, potlucks galore, when the excitement of sobriety translated into travelling in packs, making up for lost time, marveling at our new lives. And now, we are old women - two of us in meetings, one who stopped years ago; two who live here, one who's left the country, grand kids getting married (wait, wasn't she just a tiny girl?), joint replacements, life on life's terms. I'm coming to a place of being able to appreciate past connections without mourning the losses. None of us are 35 and single anymore. It makes perfect sense that our lives moved on, sometimes one step back and two forward, sometimes hand-in-hand and sometimes off on our own paths. I'm forever grateful to have connected with people who were serious about sobriety, serious and full of fun. Stupid, boring and glum? Hardly

Speaking of time marching on, I ran into a pal of an ex's at the grocery store. He and the ex have started running again, after several years off due to various injuries. It seems like whenever I see people out and about, the conversation invariably goes towards, "Where on earth did the years go?" Where, indeed. A few friends are working and several retired with a few more looking for work, And those of us who are retired are questioning what we thought we'd be doing in our so-called golden years. My house isn't spotless, and I haven't written another novel. How do I think about that? Am I lazy, self-indulgent with my walking events and coffee dates, meetings and Step work? Or maybe, what I thought at one time simply doesn't fit today. In my younger years and the workaday world, there were timelines and aspirations, places to go and people to see. Today seems more about (finally) living in the moment. I don't think there will be a test at the end -  "Oh, you never read War and Peace? Tsk tsk". Any "test" would be in my own heart. Did I live my values? Was I kind to others? Did I follow my dreams? 

How do you feel about your physical age? Does it harmonize with your internal sense of who you are? If you sponsor, how does that relationship inform your own program? How do you honor and appreciate past friendships without drifting into "What if?" land, or "I wish it were different?" If there is a test at the end, what questions would your heart ask?

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Feeling like an inventory, or a deeper dive into your program? The NOW WHAT workbook is 78 pages of topics and processing questions, great for solo exploration or in a small group. Go to the WEB VERSION of this blog page for the link on ordering (PDF for those outside the U.S., or who prefer it, or hard copy mailed to you). 

Contact me at SoberLongTime@soberlongtime.com or shadowsandveins@gmail.com with questions. A reminder that the workbook is available at Portland Area Intergroup, 825 NE 20th. for local folks. And Jackie, of TMar, has a supply as well, if you're at a conference where they have a table

Coming home...

 In the very early morning hours at the Rome airport, waiting for my flights home to begin, I watched a pigeon soaring through the concourse, seeming to do a loop and then back again. I hope she found her way out. Watching her follow the same path made me think of our recovery saying about doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results. Are there places I still keep trying what doesn't work, like trying to run the show or thinking I know best for someone else? Always a good point to ponder when I feel myself bumping up against a person, place, thing or situation.

While I was away, a friend asked if I was disconnecting from social media or contact with home in order to meditate while I walked. Not really....  I enjoy posting photos of my days (as I like to follow friends on their journeys), and kept in touch with my husband and a few friends. I remember the days of buying postcards on Day One, searching for stamps and a post office for mailing in the hopes the card would get to the sendee before I got home, along with buying a specific type of card in order to make a payphone call home. These days, other than accounting for the time difference, I can stay in daily contact if I so desire, which can be reassuring as a reminder that yes, I am connected to my life at home, and helpful for my spouse to know I'm getting along fine..

Last year's Camino walk was a celebration - of turning 70 and marking my 40th year of sobriety. This year's trek, shorter though definitely a challenge with very steep hills, was more of an adventure. Members of our group of 12, five of whom I'd met last year, ranged in age from 39 to 80, from novices to experienced trekkers. I appreciated the silent stretches along the way as well as the miles of intense conversation (family, politics, health)., and cheering on those who'd doubted their abilities. Will I do it again, with this particular goal and group? Hard to say. I've found that I do like walking through the countryside with stops along the way. More will be revealed, but for today I'm very happy to be home.

The recent Time magazine had an article describing how people talk less than we used to - we text rather than call, work from home, use the self-check out line at the grocery store, and I'll add my pet peeve - don't say "hello" back when greeted on the street. The article notes a study that measured an average of 120,000 fewer words spoken per year (16,600 words per day in 2005 compared to below 12,00 in 2019) and the personal and social consequences when we don't interact. (Even small talk with strangers was noted as important.) One more reason I'm grateful for our 12-Step programs, where talking is part of what we do - a community of like-minded others where we share what is on our  minds or hearts. 

It's been damp here in the Pacific Northwest as I acclimate back to home, allowing low-energy jet lag to guide my plans. Life goes on, and I can heed the inner voice that whispers, "Relax." To that end, I had a massage this week, in the building that used to house our family doctor while I was growing up. I saw our General Practitioner from about age 8 to 32, through many of my life's pivotal moments. I had pneumonia when I was 13, afraid he'd be able to tell that I'd started smoking. I distinctly remember him telling me, in 1980, that quitting smoking was the best decision I'd made, and then referring me to a counselor as I wept in his office after my dad died. A few years later, before a female-related procedure, I elected to tell him about my methamphetamine use, in case I'd need more anesthesia than normal. And then again, him praising my decision to get clean and sober in1986. He was something of a father-figure, a good guy, a holistic practitioner, and in a slightly removed way, a part of my story. (like the pharmacist who refused to sell me syringes, or that counselor who said she couldn't see me anymore unless I quit using.)

And, the beat goes on. I heard a 5th Step a few weeks ago, and this week, Steps 6 & 7. Such an honor to be trusted, and to be trustworthy. I'm working through the Steps with another sponsee, and with my own sponsor. As someone recently remarked, the Steps have become integrated into who I am and how I approach the world. "The road gets narrower," for me, simply means that I don't have to think too hard anymore about the right thing to do.

Are there areas where you engage in the same way, expecting different results? How can you detach from those old habits? Where, or how, do you feed your need for social connection? Are there people from your past who, while perhaps not directly impacted by your drinking or using, were a part of your story? How has practice of the Steps become more automatic as time goes on?

 * * * * *

Feeling like an inventory, or a deeper dive into your program? The NOW WHAT workbook is 78 pages of topics and processing questions, great for solo exploration or in a small group. Go to the WEB VERSION of this blog page for the link on ordering (PDF for those outside the U.S., or who prefer it, or hard copy mailed to you). 

Contact me at SoberLongTime@soberlongtime.com or shadowsandveins@gmail.com with questions. A reminder that the workbook is available at Portland Area Intergroup, 825 NE 20th. for local folks. And Jackie, of TMar, has a supply as well, if you're at a conference where they have a table

Walking, remembering, moving along

 Here I am, in the countryside of Tuscany, walking, walking, walking. On the Camino last year, I discovered the joy and peace of simply walking, with nothing much to decide each day other than what to have for lunch. My life at home isn't all that complicated, but does call for decisions and choices and appointments and obligations - none of which are troubling, and are actually comforting, and being out of the normal routine can feel cleansing, a re-set.

And as I walk, I seek to spend time in contemplation, a walking meditation. I recently read Speaking of Faith, by Krista Tippett, an enlightening book about modern human beings' various approaches to the idea of faith, and how spirituality often gets complicated by the rigors and rules of organized religion. She speaks to the dichotomy of mystery and our desire for certainties, "what we believe we know, and what we can never know for sure in time and space," which she calls a creative tension. Like in our 12 Step programs, it's the tension between action and surrender, letting go and doing the footwork. How to hold the world gently, wear the program like a loose garment? For me, it's related to not expecting guarantees. Dang it. I want to know. I remember saying something to that effect in a meeting years ago, to which another member cross-talked with "What's the fun in that? If I already know how something will turn out, why make the effort?" I often hear or read about staying curious vs fearful. A reasonable goal.

And in the meantime, I walk along a path that pilgrims have covered for centuries, believing that the walking, the destination, would prove their faith. I don't believe in that kind of higher power, the kind that requires me to validate my beliefs, which seem to ebb and flow over time. I can appreciate my connection to humanity, whether to the medieval pilgrim or my own family tree, knowing I have my own path.  

I had a lovely time in Florence on my own for a full day of being a tourist before joining the walking group. Something the Camino experience last year taught me, or rather reinforced, is that I am much more competent than I give myself credit for. I did get "lost" a couple of times, but no big deal as I wandered the lovely streets.

 I couldn't help but remember the first time I was here in 1983 celebrating my 29th birthday without seeing my mother or my cousins, born on the same day, for the first time ever. I was lonely and drunk and argumentative with my boyfriend, who I would've told you meant everything to me, but I sure didn't act like it. I was dreadfully hungover and nauseous walking up the stairs of the leading Tower of Pisa, arguing in a restaurant in Rome, crying when the Trailblazers dubbed in Italian came on TV,  saying, "I just want to be home" hoping that meant he would be home too. It was one of those turning points I didn't recognize at the time, with the realization in hindsight that my sense of home and his were completely different. We went to Cypress where he had purchased an apartment so I could be there part of the year with him, which scared me. I didn't want to be so far from my mom and couldn't imagine what I would do all the time he was in Jeddah working. It was very soon after I got home that I was introduced to the meth cook and my total and utter downfall began. Not that my alcoholism wasn't already in the spiral, but that certainly hastened things along - the darkest period of my life, leading to the awful gift of desperation. 

And...I can follow that painful recollection with the two times I was here with a close friend,  making sober memories. You don't get "here" from "there," they used to say, but here I am. Two people in my group this week have asked about the AA patch on my backpack,  or why I don't drink. It's nice to share a piece of my story, and hear theirs and where we have similarities.  

When I cried myself to sleep in 1983, as the chilling vapor that is loneliness took over, I couldn't have imagined being here, in a nice hotel, having walked 12 miles today,  with my dear spouse holding down the fort at home. I am beyond grateful that my life, my sober life hasn't been limited by my narrow perspectives. Onward!

How do you re-set in your life or your program? What are the strengths you sometimes forget you have? How does your life look differently than you might've thought when you first got sober? Have you forgiven yourself for past mistakes? How about mistakes made in the here and now?

Onward

Here I am, killing time at SeaTac while awaiting my flight to Italy. I like airports - the hustle and bustle of people going here and there, joyous reunions and sad good-byes, the anonymity as well as the potential for camaraderie at the gate or in line at the coffee shop.

I've got my fingers crossed that I get to my destination in time for the 6pm English speaking AA meeting, which will be my only opportunity for 12 Step fellowship as most of this trip will be in small towns, and I'll be traveling with a group. I love going to meetings in other cities and other countries. I often think about a meeting a friend and I attended in Prague years ago where the locals were very hopeful one of us would share our story as they'd heard each other ad nauseum. In Beijing, China we saw a fellow we recognized from home, and in Shanghai, I was asked to lead at the meeting in a fancy hotel conference room - how fun is that? My husband and I shared our stories at our friend's meeting in Belfast when we were there a few years ago...  The fellowship is alive and well all over the world. And I know that travel isn't everyone's cup of tea, but it is part of what feeds my soul. As does then coming home. For me, it's the striving for that ever elusive sense of balance, of adventure and the comforts of home.

When I look at my life in bits and pieces, there have been some very hard times, times I felt that the Universe was misaligned. But stepping back a few feet to look at the whole of it, I have been very fortunate indeed, which I attribute to sobriety. Once, when I was involved with a chronic relapser and  had moved into my old bedroom at home temporarily, my mother expressed her sympathy for my hard life. She was thinking of my father's death, my divorce, the ending of another important relationship, my addiction. I remember pausing a moment in the kitchen, then saying, "Well, actually, I have a wonderful life," citing what I'd learned about alcoholism, my education and career, what I'd learned from the painful episodes. Perspective. Perspective and distance. Time really does heal all wounds. The grief is still there. some memories still sting, but more as reminders than a weight to bear. 

One of my online home groups moved to public from a closed meeting in the last year or so. This week, a newcomer was there, bravely sharing their journey up to that point. Oh man, it was a few years before I could say much more than  my name in a meeting without bursting into tears. I so appreciate how we let each other be where we need to be, whether hiding in a corner, or sharing our tears. Whether I'm sharing my spiel, my "pitch," or what's on my heart at the moment, I find comfort in my seat, my place in the circle. I recently heard a woman with 41 years say she is in more a place of listening than talking. I get it. There isn't much going on these days, though I use the Steps as my daily guide, not just in times of trouble (exhaling). I can certainly create drama, internal or otherwise, but overall, can be grateful for the calmness, knowing This, too, shall pass. I sometimes have a sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop, but time and experience have shown me that's not how it works. ODAT I'll be grateful for what today brings, including a very long flight followed by a train ride. Onward!

What makes your heart sing these days? How do you view the whole of your life? Maybe a rollercoaster or a smooth ride?  If you are a meeting go-er, how do you carry the message, either overtly or by example?