Daphne and other musings...

In thinking about Step 3, which is where we make the decision to turn our will and lives over to the care of a power greater than ourselves, I've been pondering the concept of surrender vs effort, and the apparent paradox that I must "try" in order to let go. Maybe try isn't the correct word. Maybe it is more about showing up and making myself ready to be changed, and letting go of expectations around particular results. How does one open one's mind, exactly? Raised on cartoons, I picture a can opener, flipping the lid of my top three inches. In cartoon land that space would be pretty full -  full of memories and opinions, recipes for success and for stroganoff, to-do lists and that thing that was on the tip of my tongue, song lyrics and tv commercials, and tucked into a corner, that space marked "GOD."

The clandestine chemist that I was involved with prior to entering recovery, often talked to me about Lao tzu and the philosophy of not-doing. According to Lao tzu, "Practice not doing and everything will fall into place." At the time, I thought this was an excuse for not picking up the kitchen, for not getting a job, for not showing up in the way I thought a boyfriend should show up. As a do-er, I am only slightly more open to the concept these days, though will admit that sitting still continues to be one of my weak spots. I have been consistently sitting, in the meditative sense, for 10-15 minutes most days of the week since the turn of the year, but to claim that my mind is any kind of quiet would be dishonest.

But, I try. I make the effort by sitting still in my little chair, the same little chair that I used to sit in to shoot dope. I've found that the setting doesn't matter as much as the intent. Over time, I've been able to recreate positive associations where before was only pain. That goes for places, for some people, and the seasons, any one of which brings it own set of melancholic remembrances. The anniversary of this loss in the winter, of that sadness in summer, and the generalized ache that comes for me at the beginning of autumn and spring.

I've caught the faintest whiff of daphne blossoms during my morning runs these last few days. Daphne, oh sweet and citrus delight. I've always said that if heaven has a smell, it will be daphne. So, why does something so beautiful sometimes make me want to cry? Smell is one of the strongest memory inducers, and the painfully lovely smell of daphne evokes a very dark time in my past when spring's glory felt like a slap in the face.

This was before recovery, when I couldn't see further than the lonely hours that stretched in front of me (AA's have no monopoly on one day at a time - ask any addict where their focus lies). I was unemployable, the man whom I'd made my Higher Power had married someone else, and for a very brief moment, I couldn't see the point of going on. The daphne bush outside my back door taunted me with its promise of sunny days ahead. Not for me, I thought. Not for me.

And then, through the miracle of surrender, the healing process began. And it continues. Surrender to the Higher Power isn't "one and done," but a decision that I must make daily; sometimes several times a day. When I was a girl, my dear grandmother, a practicing Christian Scientist, gave me a little plaque that I keep in my bathroom today: "Father, Mother God, lovingly Thee I seek; in the way Thou hast, be it slow or fast, up to Thee." (Mary Baker Eddy)  My decision, my spiritual connection, isn't accomplished on my time. All I can really do is show up.

At the beginning, that was almost easier. I hit my knees every morning and night, with a gut-wrenchingly sincere "please" and "thank you." As time has gone on, I need to remember that I didn't get to where I am today on my own power. I've done the suiting up and showing up, but it is Grace that has done the healing. Let me never forget that.

At my monthly Step group last Sunday, I sat at the dining table with a woman I've known since grade school, and another since high school. Back then, we were acquaintances, on the edges of each other's group of friends. Even so, as we sat there with pens in hand, jotting down what resonated from others' shares, I was struck by a sweet sense of nostalgia for the girls we'd once been and gratitude for who we are today. Surrendering to the healing process that continues, day after day, year after year, has allowed me these delightful associations over time, these weavings in and out of each other's lives. I show up, with palms open, saying, "OK, now what?" Sometimes there is a painful lesson to learn, but often it is the simple joy of connection.

I've written about surrender before, and likely will again. Balancing surrender with the effort of trying, is a constant consideration as I start my day. How do you show up? How do you remain mindful of your Source?