We drove over the mountain this weekend, to visit the town where my family lived until I was eight years old. My spouse had never been there, and I looked forward to sharing my history with him - the smell of juniper, and volcanic rock crunching underfoot, hot dry days and chilly nights. What I wasn't prepared for was the onslaught of emotion, the grieving for my parents and my fairly idyllic-in-retrospect early childhood.

Coming up on the sixth anniversary of my Mom's death, and just after the 38th year since Dad died, I'd noticed that I wasn't thinking of  Mom quite as often, and it sadly felt like she was slipping away. I wouldn't wish grief on anyone, but there is a comfort, a closeness in mourning - the exquisite pain of loss. Her knick-knacks on my shelves don't seem as drenched in melancholy, her wristwatch I sometimes wear is just a watch.

And then we got to Central Oregon, and that first inhale of juniper brought tears to my eyes. We hit a Friday night meeting and I mentioned that, while I'd never had a drink in Bend, my Dad sure did. When I told the group how he'd prop me up on a bar stool at the old M&J Tavern, with a pile of peanuts to play with, several members, in unison, cried out, "It's still there!"  So, the next day found me bawling on the sidewalk outside the little dive, neon sign from time immemorial still marking the spot. Daddy? Oh my God, I miss you. I miss our huge green lawn (that looks tiny today), I  miss you carrying me on your shoulders and teaching me to ride a bike. I  miss catching June-bugs on hot summer nights, and our little family crossing the street to watch Friday Night Boxing on TV with Irene and Carl. I cried for the time I ran, screaming "Mama!", from the babysitter's house, chasing the car because she'd forgotten to kiss my goodbye. I cried for summers at the local pool, and climbing the tall pine in the lot behind our house, for Mom propping me up with my new baby brother.

I must've been born shy, overly concerned with other people from the gate. In first grade, Mom packed me into a snowsuit in order to stay warm as I trudged the four blocks to school. I cried, not wanting to look like a baby, and peeled off the suit a block away from the building, traipsing through the snow in my little dress and saddle shoes. I was shy, and sometimes scared -  of my Aunty from California, who showed up one day with turquoise eye shadow and cat's eye glasses, of trick or treaters, of the dark. But I was happy. I loved school, and learning to read, I loved Mama Wise's old dog, even though he bit my face. I loved watching the Mickey Mouse Club while eating supper on a TV tray.

I've been back to my old town at least half a dozen times since I got sober and I've never had this emotional of a reaction. Of course, I haven't been there since Mom passed. It's ironic that whenever I seem to think I'm "over" grieving , she makes herself known to me - a little reminder, crying at a certain song or time of day, or the way the hot wind blows on the high desert. And, there was something sweet about sharing all the stories and places with my supportive husband, who gave me the space to mourn.

I am not in charge - of my grief, of my recovery, of my loved ones' health, or mine, of the stars in the sky. But what I do know today is that I can experience grief and gratitude at the same time. I know that the work I've done, and continue to do, in sobriety, allows me to feel my feelings as they occur, not years later seemingly out of the blue. I am grateful for the spiritual distance that the Steps have created between me and my history, a distance that changed blame to appreciation.

How does grief show up in your life today, whether for a particular person, or a time in your past? How do you use the Steps to move through whatever you are feeling today?