I ordered some Avon online recently, a few products similar to those I liked from long ago. I can't describe how pleased I was to see the small carton on my porch. It seemed right. My mother was an Avon Lady for decades, 40+ years, a part of who she was. I think she sent in her last order just a month or two before she passed, making sure her long-time customers, now long-time friends, had what they needed.

When I was a kid, our family needed the bit of money the Avon brought in. She kept at it because she benefited from the sense of purpose that work brings. In the later years, I think she continued because she valued the people, the connection, the closeness developed over time of knowing who liked which shade of lipstick, or who'd want the particular lotion when it went on sale, which morphed in to knowing who's son was getting married, or who's spouse was laid off, or was sick. My mom was a people-person.

I've never thought of myself as a people-person. I'm an introvert, which seems to have grown more pronounced in my marriage to an extreme extrovert. He exudes and I shrink back. He stays and I wander off. But, I, too need people. Maybe in smaller doses, but when I examine my off-kiltered-ness, it is often related to isolation (which doesn't necessarily mean alone).

One of my closest friends was here from out-of-town this past week, and went with me to a show that my husband bought tickets for, pre-illness. During the course of our conversations, he asked who I was spending time with, as in hanging-out pals. Nobody? That's not exactly true, and I do have to frame my current experience through the cancer treatment lens, but the question and resulting reflection has had me questioning what I do for "fun." I write fun in quotations because these days it is more "enjoyment" than out-and-out fun, which used to mean dancing for two or three hours straight, or giggling through an overnight at the coast with a group of women.  I'm realizing as I write, that in earlier recovery, fun was attached to groups - two handfuls of us going to lunch every Saturday after the nooner, or dinner on Friday night after Trust the Process, howling at each other's jokes that maybe only we found funny. Fun was a group trip to Hawaii or three of us to Spain. Fun was an AA picnic with silly games. Fun was discovering a social life without chemical enhancements.  Enjoyment is usually quieter - a good book, a walk in the woods, attending the symphony, a cozy movie while on the couch. But, or and, my sense of connection is enhanced by people - in person, not merely via text or on the not-very-social media world of likes and smiley faces. 

What I've also realized, is that I've been gritting my teeth as I try to run the show, taking internal responsibility for whether or not my spouse eats, or whether or not my friend takes his meds. I've taken responsibility for everything being ok, when it is completely outside my power to do so. It was only after talking with a young women who has come to the edge of her "I've got this!" cliff that I realized I've been doing the same thing. I shared that in my home group and within minutes, a friend handed me a medallion that reads: "When you come to the edge of all you know, you must believe in one of two things - there will be earth upon which to stand, or you will be given wings." I started to cry with a breath of surrender. It's ok that I can't fix this. It's ok that I'm tired of this particular part of the journey. It's ok that I want my husband and my friend to be ok, and it is ok that I’m not the one who can make that happen. With that breath of surrender, I may not be flying, but I do feel the solid earth beneath my feet. And with that tiny medallion, I can remember that every single time I've thought I would be overwhelmed by life-on-life's terms, I was caught and carried over the divide of "I can't" to "Yes. I am here and I am alright.," whether that was via a reading, a conversation or simply noticing the sunrise. 

The week, the ground beneath me is directly tied to my husband's final radiation treatment. There is a process involved in his return to robust health, but the daily appointments are over. It has been a long 7 weeks. And, one day at a time, one breath at a time, we're coming out the other side. Thank goodness for community and those dear friends who've been there for rides or simply reassurance. 

Where do you find community today? How do you release the reins of control when you find yourself "in charge?" How do the Steps help you re-frame your perspective?

NOTE: “I’ve Been Sober a Long Time – Now What? A workbook for the Joys & Challenges of Long Term Recovery” is a 78 page workbook, 8 ½ x11 format, with topics (such as grief, aging, sponsorship) that include a member’s view and processing questions. Available at Portland Area Intergroup at 825 N.E. 20th or online through this blog page. If you would like to purchase online, you will need to go to the WEB VERSION of this page to view the link to PayPal.   Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com if you’d like more information