A few things occurred over the weekend that heightened my already acute sense of time passing, my desire to take it all in, because what's happening today becomes the memories of tomorrow. I haven't always known that, at least not on a visceral level. There was always more time, more to do, hurry, hurry. Even with my desire to live to (a healthy) 100, there is more time behind me than ahead. Today, my refrain is more often, "Slow down," asking myself, "What really matters in this moment?"

On Friday, my step-daughter graduated from high school. She was 9 when I met her dad, and here she is at 18, gliding across the stage to accept her diploma, off on a road trip, with college in the fall. As one of a group of valedictorians, she thanked, "My mom, my dad, and my step-mom," for helping her get to this launching point. I teared up with the recognition, especially since I feel like I don't do much mothering, though she frequently lets me know that she appreciates my support. Stability and structure are two of my strong suits (thanks to my own mother), so if I've been able to provide that, I'm grateful - grateful for this opportunity that I didn't know I wanted.

What I want to tell her, as I think of the wonder involved in being 18, with her whole life ahead of her, is what I wish I'd been told: Before you know it, you'll be 25, then 37, then 50 - pay attention. This great boyfriend of yours may or may not be the love of your life, and either is ok. You are choosing a career that may or may not be where you want to spend your life, and that is ok too. There will be joys and disappointments ahead, and you will be ok with both in the long run. Oh, if only I'd had  more appreciation of the long run and less for the flash of the moment. At 18, I disregarded my mother's suggestion of college because I was stubborn and frightened, and married my high school sweetheart in a rash of self-will. Maybe there isn't much I could tell my step-daughter that would ease her path after all. All we can do at this point is trust her good foundation, and be here to help illuminate the path, if she asks.

On the drive down I-5 to the graduation ceremony, we listened to a CD, recently re-recorded from the original 1989 cassette tape, of Leonard C, "my" old-timer. I've written about Leonard before, with his cigarette stained fingers and thick glasses, and a story that still leaves me amazed - shanghai'd onto a merchant ship during WWII, bombed and left afloat twice (once in the Atlantic and once in the Pacific), introduced to Bill Wilson during the 1960 Long Beach International Convention when he and his boxcar buddies were still drinking...  I know Leonard's story almost as well as I know my own, and cried to hear his voice through time saying, "Will power will not keep you sober, but want power will." Did I ever tell Leonard that I loved him? Did I ever let him know how important his recovery was to my own? I was riveted by the stories when I first got sober, and specifically with him, thinking, "If this old coot can do it, then maybe I can too." Hearing his voice reminded me of the precious nature of our recovery relationships - those people who's last names we rarely know, but who are both a witness to our growth, and the beacon along the way.

In 1983, my brother and I took a trip to honor my dad, three years after he'd died. We started in New Orleans, with a pilgrimage to the Preservation Hall, and to hear Pete Fountain, one of the clarinet players who's music could give my dad goose-bumps. From there, we flew to DC, visiting places we'd only read about - the Lincoln Memorial, the Declaration of Independence, every single room of every single Smithsonian building (with the blisters to prove it), Ford's Theater. From there, imagining a pastoral journey along the eastern seaboard, we took a train to New York that went through the rusty industrial section of every run down city along the way. This was pre-cleanup NYC - at Grand Central Station, the cabbie didn't want to get out of his vehicle to unlock the trunk for our luggage. We were out of our element, but saw what we came to see - the NY Library, the Metropolitan, the Museum of Natural History, Dream Girls. My brother had never been in an airplane before, so I was the wise older sister, even though pre-recovery, I was more timid than bold. On the day he headed back to Portland, I had time to kill before flying on to meet my boyfriend, so, feeling grown up and urbane, walked along Central Park, perusing the street vendors selling used books, sketches, and jewelry. I bought a ring from one of the guys - a simply designed sterling silver band that came to represent both my father, and the grand adventure I'd shared with my brother. In recent years, I wore it on the same finger as my mother's wedding band, further solidifying the family connection. Well, the band broke in two over the weekend - kaput. I suppose I could get it soldered, though I'm sure that would cost more than the $5 I originally paid. And what is it, anyway? Just a tiny piece of metal that, in and of itself, means nothing .

A high school graduation, a voice from my past, a broken piece of jewelry - time marching on, with past, present and future intersecting, braiding into my history, and my memories blending with those of people I love dearly, and those I merely meet along the way. In these recovery years, I have the chance to re-establish a relationship with my past, seeing more clearly what might have been muddled at the time. One day at a time, I can decide what to let go of, and what to bring forward on the journey.

What are you carrying, materially or emotionally, that brings a smile to your face? What memories might have been tempered and recast with the passing of time?