The Road of Happy Destiny...

On Wednesday, I had the gift of reconnecting with my original sponsor, the wise woman who patiently listened to my tales of woe as I learned to navigate this sober life. We met at Camp 18, and as I drove west on the Sunset Highway, I was hit with wave after wave of memory covering the decades I've traveled that road on the way to the coast.

When I was little, the family would pull over at Oney's by the huge Paul Bunyan sign. We were told it was for a bathroom break, but I now suspect it was so Dad could stop in the bar for a "snort" (what he called a highball). Oney, a crusty old gal, had a talking parrot, a great distraction while Dad lingered and Mom hoped to get going. After Dad sobered up, we'd usually drive on through to Cannon Beach, but those early years always included the stop.

My first husband and I had our honeymoon at the coast, a month after we were married and could each get the time off. My next relationship was with a man who bought a house in Tolovana. By this time, my alcoholism was in full force. Sometimes we wouldn't even see the beach all weekend, but would drive like bats out of hell early Monday mornings to get me to work on time.  And then there was Richard. We once stopped at the water fountain in the middle of the night to make out. Youth and methamphetamine is all I'll say about that.

A couple of years later, on January 2, 1986, Richard and I pulled over under a streetlight so that I could shoot up before going into treatment. I remember the cold, and how he got out of the car because he didn't want to watch. I remember thinking that this might be the last time. Thankfully it was.

On that same road, my Mother and best friend drove every weekend to visit me in treatment, hoping that this thing would take. A few months later, while driving to aftercare,  my new best friend told me he was gay. The Sunset became the road of many truths.

I was fortunate enough to have access to the Tolovana house in those early years, which ended up being the site of many a sober slumber party. We'd crash there after hanging out at the Little Yellow House in Seaside, or the weekend of the North Coast Roundup. One summer a group of us held a bonfire meeting on the beach, so grateful for connection, for life.  These days, my dear spouse and I hit the Year End Round up in Seaside, or drive down for a weekend. The road hasn't changed that much. I anticipate the particular bumps, and the tunnel, and the grove of birch trees as we get closer to the ocean, passing the "For Sale" signs at Oney's, Paul Bunyan still standing.

Driving the hour-plus to Camp 18 this week made me think of the "road of happy destiny" described in the Big Book that we sometimes trudge, sometimes skip along, and sometimes traverse on our hands and knees.  The road itself doesn't change that much, but my experience of it does based on my particular circumstances, my particular state of mind. Heading west on highway 26 will always take me to the sea if I just follow the path. And, if you'll indulge my metaphor, the sober road can always lead to serenity if I follow the directions: don't drink, continue to take daily inventory, right my wrongs, let go of the notion that I am in charge.

There are so many benefits to living where I grew up - the memories, the traditions, the familiarity. The same apply to long term recovery. I am grateful to have memories today. I am grateful for re-connections. I am grateful that the path is there for the taking.