Participating in meetings over the last few weeks, I’ve been struck with our various responses to this holiday season - some gleeful, some sad, some mourning past and present losses, some grateful, or for me, a combination of all of the above. Makes sense - we move through this life with varied experiences, before and after sobriety. I’m fortunate - holidays were always pleasant growing up. Even in Dad's drinking years, Christmas morning saw the folks up and ready to supervise and enjoy the exchange of gifts, even if sometimes we got pencils and notebook paper tied with a bow (I still feel a surge of pleasure at fresh paper and sharpened pencils).  But as I grew up, and especially after leaving home, Christmas often felt a little empty, like there should be more - not necessarily more gifts, but more something -togetherness, maybe? Fun? A Hallmark moment? And then, as time has marched on, a mix of gratitude and melancholy for holidays past, and my people who have passed. Christmas was my mother’s holiday - a big family party, decorations, good food. I miss her, especially at this time of year. I can acknowledge that longing for what it is, appreciate the love I’ve shared with family over the years, and say a prayer for those, and to those, who are no longer here. Prayer and meditation are my saving grace, always, but during this dark time of the calendar for sure.

In a meeting last weekend, someone said that we don’t get “spiritual retirement.” I can’t say to myself, “Gee, I’ve prayed nearly every day for the past 31.9 years, so I can probably stop now.” The Big Book, and practical experience, tells me that we have a “daily reprieve contingent on the maintenance of our spiritual condition.”  Kind of like eating right, or my workout regimen. I can’t half-ass my recovery and expect consistent results. If I pray, only when I "need" it, or skip my other maintenance activities, be that step work, sponsorship, meditation, or meetings, I’m leaving myself open to the “strange mental twist” that convinces me I don’t really need to take care of myself. That strange mental twist can convince me that two or three cookies would be ok, cheating on sleep is fine just this week, I can run tomorrow or the next day instead, I don’t really need to pick up the phone, maybe I'll just have one, but it's prescribed...

Sometimes, when talking to newcomers, I find myself worrying that we present recovery as drudgery, hard work, requiring daily effort. It is work. It is work to break old habits of sloth and giving in to impulses that we know will bring sorrow. It is work to show up, to speak up, to try something new. The dictionary defines work as: activity involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a purpose or result. I've found that recovery “work” produces, if not joy every single day, a sense of satisfaction, a feeling of belonging,  a sense of purpose that I was never, ever able to find in the bottle or the bag. 

And so often, the "work" feels like an honor, whether it is through the look of gratitude in the newcomer's eyes when I reach out my hand, or when my spouse volunteers to stay up all night to keep the doors open for a marathon meeting on Christmas Eve. We keep what we have by giving it away - through a phone call, a smile, a ride to a meeting.  Those of us with long term recovery are the very fortunate ones, and we keep what we have by giving it away, in whatever form that may take on any given day.

So wherever the holidays find you this year, best wishes. Best wishes, and thank you for sharing the journey. A shout out to my readers in Dubai, Mexico, Seattle, Newport, Long Beach, and those in between. While I often only hear from you peripherally, or via word-of-mouth, I appreciate knowing you are out there and that we can share these few moments of reflection each week.   Happy new year to all...