Wednesday, July 29, 2020

My online Alanon meeting this week focused on grief, with a reading from Opening Our Hearts, Transforming Our Losses, with a sub-topic of grieving and discomfort in this time of Covid. How I could relate! I have weeks where I am at relative peace with the stay home/stay safe way of life, and then weeks where I'm chafing at the perceived restrictions and just want to get on an airplane or hear music in the park with friends. I know - luxury problems, which can be part of my angst, and was a barrier to recovery when I first started Alanon. "It wasn't all that bad" was true, but hindered me from being able to see how I was impacted by the family disease of alcoholism. I can do the same with Covid. I really am grateful for my situation, and these are challenging times. Add to the fears and annoyances around the virus is the fact that I live in Portland, Oregon, site of a Federal siege, or rampant lawlessness, depending on who is speaking. I'm doing my best to stay Switzerland, though for the record, most parts of the city are experiencing life as usual, with the mayhem confined to a small area, and after dark. May our leaders and protestors find common ground so that we can move on, and get back to the original intent of the marches.

I am a spiritual seeker, from the traditional to esoteric. I've written about my craving to know, to understand. But spirituality is a feeling, not a thing to be dissected. In Richard Rohr's book, Breathing Under Water, he notes that "God [insert your word of choice: Spirit, Inner Wisdom, etc] comes disguised as your life." Disguised as joy, or deep sadness, boredom, deceit, honor, excitement - the whole lot of it. The Big Book tells us that either everything is sacred, or nothing is, so what is my choice to be? Can I see the spiritual in young people throwing bottles and fireworks, or the Feds dispensing tear gas?  Do I see the sacred in the filthy encampments along a nearby bike route, or in the neighbor's 2AM parties on the lawn? Some connections are harder for me to make than others, but I desire to move to a place of acceptance. Not approval, but remembering that what is, is. From that place, I can better determine if there is something for me to do, whether that is concrete action, making time for conversation, silent meditation, or some of each. 

And, I benefit when I can accept myself as being right where I'm supposed to be. I know that I am in a fallow time, not even two months into retirement. Just like people told me, I can feel the stirrings of "should's," as in I should be doing more (whatever that is), I should be identifying my passion and diving in (though to what, I don't know).  What I should be doing is keeping my commitment, based on the advice of others, to sit still for the first 6-12 months lest I simply continue the over-scheduling that fueled my desire to stop working in the first place.

* * *
On Monday, my friend and I were finally able to find an idyllic spot to scatter some of my first husband's ashes - a lovely beach on the Sandy River, where someone was fishing (a favorite past time of his). As we walked towards the river's edge, a doe and two fawns stepped out of the woods and swam to a sand bar. The beauty and simplicity of their movements felt like a sign, like this was the right place and time. There may be further scatterings, at other rivers, but this small offering brought both tears and a sense of peace.

As I ran this morning, I passed a house that reminded me of a long ago friend, Mark, a fellow alumni from treatment, though a year or two ahead. We re-met at the acupuncture clinic, where he was being treated for AIDS, as one of the first long-term survivors (in the years before the cocktail). He was dying when I met him, seeking both Western and Eastern medicine for symptoms. Seeing him several times a week, we'd choose adjoining chairs in order to chat, and once went to a movie for what he called, "celluloid therapy." At the time, I cautioned myself not to get too close, or involved, because it would hurt when he died.

This was about the time I'd started seeing the man I'd be with for the next 9 years, though initially questioned the attraction. Mark reminded me that life is short, and that anytime I had the chance to love, I should take it, whether that love was romantic, platonic, or the kind of love that includes strangers, ideals and the natural world.

I think of his advice from time to time, like when my husband and I first got together and I wasn't sure if I should stay or go. I thought about it when some wondered at my connection to my first husband, forty years after our divorce. I thought about it while working in prison, greeting clients with respect and caring, no matter their crime. I think about it when I get the nudge to call or text someone, whether my mom's elderly cousin or someone from a meeting I haven't seen in a while. If part of love is kindness, there is rarely a reason to turn away.

As the calendar prepares to turn to August, how are you doing with the current state of affairs, whether your town is open or closed, healthy or not? If spirit comes disguised as your life, what would that story say today? What might help you re-center if you've forgotten to love?




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 or Credit Card option.   Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com if you’d like more information.

Wednesday, July 22, 2020

I'm thinking, this week and always, about the spiritual journey, the journey back to ourselves. I hear so many, especially those newer to recovery, talk about their fears of being themselves, not exactly sure what that means. We talk about peeling away the layers of the onion or "recovery equals discovery", both pointing to the uncovering of our true nature. I've been listening to Sarah Blondin on the Insight Timer app, and she reminds me that for all the searching I've done, the answers I seek are in my own heart. The Alternative 12 Step book talks about our abiding strength, our inner wisdom. Even in my younger and not-sober years, that wisdom, more of a knowing than a particular voice, was a solid understanding of what was needed in seemingly conflicted situations. Despite my efforts over the years to outrun that voice, I always know what I need to do. I remember many a conversation and meeting topic about "How do I know god's will??" with every convoluted interpretation imaginable (which were really just excuses to do what I wanted to do). What I discovered is that if I have to think too hard about it, I'm probably not aligned with my highest good. When I am on a path that is true and good and right for me, doors, both metaphorical and actual, open.

A friend recently shared some sorrow around family and letting go, which made me think of my ongoing topic of transitions. Life is a series of losses, anticipated and otherwise. There were all the losses associated with addiction - loss of trust, loss of self-respect, loss of a connection to anything/anyone outside the me-me-me that needed to protect my compulsions. And the losses of this human life - loved ones dying, relationships ending, jobs either going away or not as expected, pets dying, friendships changing, our own aging... Transition is about loss, even if the changes are planned and positive. I learned long ago that it is important to acknowledge the shifts, with a smudge, a candle, or some other sort of ceremony in order to say goodbye. I can't fully say "hello" to the next thing if I haven't let go of the old. Which isn't to say that I forget what has gone before, but as it says in Courage to Change, I've learned to look at the past without staring.

I've found myself engaging in an internal debate about the higher power(s) concept, coming to the conclusion, once again, that I don't need to define the forces in this life that are greater than me. Nature, quiet contemplation, journaling, conversation with a trusted other, certain readings -  all serve as conduits to that quiet place inside that allows my innate wisdom to surface. Innate wisdom that was clouded by distraction, chatter, substances, and that can still be hard to hear when I barrel through my days on self-will. I've been utilizing guided meditations for several months now, but that is just part of the self-care practice. I can't just listen to a 5 or 10  minute instruction, mind wandering, then jump up for a cup of coffee. I'm discovering that following up with a few minutes of personal reflection is what I need to truly connect with center, whether that is focusing on Steps 3 & 7, setting my intention for the day, or asking that innate wisdom/abiding strength to activate in keeping me mindful. I was so thrilled when I noticed the Step 7 description in the 12x12 chapter on Step 12, suggesting that defects be removed such as they could be under the conditions of the day I ask. What that says to me is that, if I'm serious in my commitment to change, I will notice the particular characteristic I want to amend, and can then decide what to do next - same old thing, or something new. And, I need to renew that commitment every day. I can't just say, "I want to be less selfish" on a Tuesday and move on. Saying to myself, "I strive to be more helpful /generous/ thoughtful" (fill in the blank) every day keeps me in the mindset of practicing the principles.

I participated in a small outdoor and distanced meeting earlier in the week at a local park. It was lovely to sit in circle and share, made all the more special as it was one of the attendee's first ever in-person meeting (huge kudos to those who are getting sober with only the online venues). I will go again, and will look at, perhaps, organizing a meeting of my own during these brief, dry months here in Portland. I don't mind the online meetings, and making eye contact with a real person intensified the message of hope and connection.

Sitting in that small circle, under the shady trees, made me think of the various out-of-the-ordinary meetings I've either been in, or initiated, over the years - on the back steps of a church when the key person didn't show up, at midnight on New Year's Eve as the dance party wound down, in a van on the way to my friend's family home in Montana, on our couch when my husband wasn't well enough to go out, on the beach as a bonfire kept those in the circle warm, an impromptu pause while hiking in an old-growth forest...  Some of the most meaningful meetings I've ever been to were those small moments of creating space for acknowledging the gift of life, the gift of recovery.

In these challenging times of distancing and staying (mostly) home, I can think of all the formal and informal ways I work a recovery program. Meetings, yes, but also hikes with friends, walks with my sponsor, quiet time with my journal, this blog, greeting the day with gratitude for all that is, rather than focusing on all that isn't.

How do you practice your program these days? How do you discern your inner wisdom and tap in to your abiding strength?  Be safe, friends.

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 or Credit Card option.   Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com if you’d like more information.





Wednesday, July 15, 2020

In my on-going declutter efforts, I went through a notebook that contains writing from before and after treatment, including a rambling seven page (!) letter I wrote to my mom when I was "bribed" into detox in October, 1985: "So, I'm not on vacation. I'm at the Care Unit for 'substance abuse' (actually self-abuse)".  I go on for pages, alternating between taking responsibility for my current situation, as in "Don't blame yourself, Mom" to pointing the finger at my sort-of-ex (he'd gotten married, but was still graciously supporting me - why couldn't I just be grateful?), along with various instructions for the coming 28 days ("Call the heating oil company," "Please empty the cat box," etc). This all turned out to be for naught, as I signed myself out Against Medical Advice a few days later, but this letter of confession and instructions remained at the bottom of a pile in my  mom's desk, resurfacing after she passed.

More cringe-inducing is a letter I wrote my parents on the eve of my 15th birthday, offering my mom "a teensy bit of criticism" for being too protective, suggesting she "should realize I'm growing up and can protect myself." Good grief. She should've locked me in a bunker for the next ten years. I may have been growing up, but I certainly wasn't maturing.

At least I know where I got my tendency to keep things - mom's notes for my first wedding reception included a breakdown of costs (4 bottles of vodka and a half-gallon of bourbon for $30, a box of mints for $2.50). She kept every card I ever made, an ongoing list of household expenses, and boxes upon boxes of photographs that I'm still sorting through.

Being descended from a keeper makes letting go of my own stuff all the harder. A number of years ago, a sponsee told me that she'd burned her old journals. I gasped in horror, with two large boxes of diaries from 5th grade forward in a back closet. But, a couple of years ago, I took the plunge myself, gleaning what felt worth hanging on to for future reflection (the first year of sobriety for example).

When I first opened the notebook over the weekend, I considered torching the whole lot, but reconsidered. It is helpful, every once in a while, to remember what a self-righteous snit I was, both to celebrate where I am today, and to serve as a map to what might still be lurking below the surface. My dysfunctional characteristics used to be overt - blame, deflection, dishonesty. These days my defenses are more various subtleties of emotional dishonesty, of looking outward for the source of my discomforts. My old writings, no matter how embarrassing, keep me tethered to my humanness, lest I ever forget just how delusional I was.

Living near the neighborhood where I grew up, my whole life is attached to memory when I'm in that frame of mind. As I run up a particular hill, I recall the panic of a bee flying up my shirt as I rode my bike to a swim lesson. As I drive by the corner market, I remember sneaking into the storage room to eat the candy we'd just stolen. Passing a friend's house, I remember the basement party where I kissed one of the cutest guys in school. That park is the first place I shot up outdoors, and this park is the scene of high school revelries and recent reunions. My city has grown up around me, not always in good ways. But it is home and the repository of a lifetime's experiences.

According to Mae West, "You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough." Formerly viewing the world through the lens of scarcity (never as much love, booze, or time I thought I needed), enough feels richly abundant.

On Monday, a friend and I rode our bikes around Sauvie Island, a lovely farm community nearby. While prepping for the ride, I got the idea to take along some of my first husband's ashes to scatter in the mighty Columbia. When I asked if there was anything he'd like to do, knowing that the end was in sight, he mentioned going to one of several rivers in the area. We talked about a picnic this summer, once he felt better, but he died in chilly April instead. I wrapped up a small container, along with his photo, grateful that my friend, who also knew him, was up for the detour.

Don't ask me how, but we missed the turn off for the beach (it's not a complicated road), so the little packet came back home with me. I woke up out of sorts the next day, though it wasn't until sitting in my online Alanon home group that I realized my grieving had been triggered. I shared about it, grateful for the nods of care and compassion that signal a safe environment. I also shared with a good friend, who essentially said, "Well of course you're sad," reminding me that grief has no time table.

Grief is a sneaky one. Once past the acute phase, sorrow often shows up for me like a low-level blah. Getting quiet, hearing others describe their efforts at self-care, and letting whatever tears need to flow, allows the sadness to move through. Why do I still need to give myself permission to feel what I feel? Well, I'm human, and it can still take a minute to identify my dis-ease. I appreciate that today, the journey from discomfort to acknowledgement is brief, and I value the reality that once I name my emotions, they move on through, whether sadness or joy.

Speaking of joy, today is my husband's 18th sobriety anniversary. He definitely earned this year's coin, walking through the cancer journey that felt like it came out of nowhere. Our paths would never have crossed if it weren't for our recovery. I'm grateful for all the events and experiences that led to the fateful glance across a meeting room, that led to the conversation a few weeks later, that led to our first date and beyond. One day at a time, we'll see where the journey takes us in the coming year, in the midst of a global "didn't see that coming" phase.

Do you keep old journals or recovery writings? What do you learn about yourself when you look back? What about photos and keepsakes? Knowing that "you can't take it with you," how do you decide what to hang on to and what to release? ( I'm speaking of the material realm, but the same question can apply to personal characteristics as Step 7 instructs us to let go of behaviors and attitudes that harm ourselves or others.)

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 or Credit Card option.   Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com if you’d like more information. ALSO to note - from the web version of this page, you can sign up to have my weekly post delivered to you via email (upper right section of the page).

Wednesday, July 8, 2020

I've been to a few good, as in inspiring, meetings this week. I'm grateful that I continue to hear the message of hope and recovery. Years ago, my first sponsor talked about remaining teachable. Sometimes that teaching comes from someone I hear, or something I read, and sometimes it comes from that inner urging to learn more about my psyche. Either way, I'm always appreciative (though often, not in the  moment) that there is still, and always, more to learn.

That being said, I doubt I have an original idea in my head. I'm an end-of-the-pack baby-boomer, which means that what I'm experiencing at any give moment (kid in college, retiring, family and friends dying) has already been felt, written about, and resolved by a few million of my cohort. And, I've been in 12 Step recovery for decades, which means I've sat in literally 1,000's of meetings, listening to the insights shared by my peers. So, thank you for putting in to words the sometimes vague emotions that rattle around in my brain and in my heart. Sometimes it is simply the act of taking my seat in a meeting that allows clarity to surface. Sometimes the "aha!" hits a few days after. And sometimes it is while in the group that I feel the circle levitate with the beautiful combination of honesty and vulnerability and wisdom that signals the magic of the rooms.

The beauty of this thing we do is that I can relate across the spectrum of recovery. Over the weekend, I heard a new person share about the fear of letting go of characteristics that used to work (or so we think when we're drinking) without knowing what's next. Who am I if not a drinker/ controller/ liar / cheat?  Identity as we move from addict to recovering person is a big deal, and for me, involved baby steps and many long, involved conversations with my housemates about this journey we'd undertaken. When the new person shared their fears, I was able to relate, remembering my own early confusion, but I could also apply the uncertainty to so many other transitions since, including my current situation of releasing my work identity.

The Step Group format I follow encourages us to identify an old idea to release each year, via the inventory process. What I know is that old ideas are sometimes hard to recognize because they are my ideas and feel like who I am. But what I also know is that, while a new idea may be uncomfortable at first, I am being pulled, or propelled towards a shift in perspective not because I'm headed somewhere crappy, but because my urgings are tied directly to my heart's true desires. I may not know exactly what that looks like yet, but I can trust the process.

Part of trusting the process is the gift of time, the gift of having "been there, done that." Years ago now, I was sitting on my front porch, crying over a relationship ending, with the sorrowful moan of "I've never felt this awful before."  As I simmered in self-pity, my smarter self came back with, "Wait just a minute! Yes you have. You've felt way worse, over way more important break ups" -  something of a "Get over yourself" moment. (A few years later, I mentioned to a friend that it was the anniversary of that break-up. He asked, "Did you send him a thank you card?")  As the Rolling Stones would say, "You don't always get what you want... but you might find you get what you need." So now, when I sit on the precipice of this new beginning, I can acknowledge that it is a process. I don't exactly know where I will end up, and I know that I've walked through many, many transitions in this life, nearly always with positive outcomes. And if not, I've learned that I have the ability to change my mind. What a concept.

What transitions are you looking at, from the global changes of how we work or socialize to the more personal of new job, new or changing relationship, new home, maybe a new relationship to time or money? How do you honor the process without getting too far ahead of yourself?


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 or Credit Card option.   Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com if you’d like more information. ALSO to note - from the web version of this page, you can sign up to have my weekly post delivered to you via email (upper right section of the page).

Wednesday, July 1, 2020

This week, I "attended" online meetings in Detroit (since we can't be there in person), Budapest (with other visitors from Rome, Kazakhstan, Haiti, and the UK), and San Francisco, along with our local home group. I am grateful for the opportunity to connect in this way, especially after going to our first in-person meeting at the Oregon Coast, which felt only marginally safe. The new normal isn't normal at all.

The reading in one of the literature meetings I sat in on prompted several to share on "It's the journey, not the destination."  I've probably said it myself, but do I truly believe it? Sometimes the destination is the focus - the degree, the mortgage, the wedding, the retirement date. But then what? The events are merely markers, but sometimes my focus on the marker makes the before and after anti-climatic. A friend once shared how everyone kept telling him that his wedding would be the happiest day of his life. "God, I hope not!" he said, "Is it all downhill from there?"

If I (mostly) believe in the journey vs the destination, why do I keep torturing myself with "Life will get better/calmer/back to normal when... (fill in the blank)" keeping me in a vague dissatisfaction with the here and now, no matter how awesome the day. It's a Catch-22. I look forward to an event, yet imagine life after as being somehow more settled. I suppose there is some accuracy to that - preparing for a big trip is different than doing laundry once back home. Married life is way more ordinary than the flurry of wedding planning. And, when I live in "it will be calmer when..." I'm perhaps numbing myself to both the high and low points of the journey, as well as the inevitable plateaus. I too often see the destination as a place to take a breath before moving on to the next thing. Because there is always a next thing, whether of my choosing or the universe's.

These last few years, what I've really wanted was time and space - to exhale, to do the little (& big) projects on my list, to spend time with friends in the woods or on the bike, to do more than mere maintenance on weekends. And now I have it. I've already felt a shift in focus, but still notice the familiar time urgency knocking at the door. I will assume this is part of the transition from work life to retirement, a chance to pay attention, to inventory.

The hard work of Steps 6 & 7, in long term recovery, means looking at those characteristics that have become so habitual as to feel like "me," so entrenched as to make me believe my thoughts. Can I pause when agitated or doubtful when agitated is so familiar that I don't always recognize it? Can I release self-judgement and simply observe and label the emotion?

I'm told that meditation can help and listened intently this morning in a meeting on the topic. After sharing my usual "I'm not very good at it" line, I realized, in a "duh!" moment, that the gifts of meditation don't generally come in the actual sitting, but in development of the spiritual muscle that allows me to take a step back from my thoughts during non-meditating time. Even knowing better, I find myself thinking that I should be moving closer to nirvana, now that I've sat in meditation for over 90 days. Come on, people! Where's my enlightenment? Where's my out-of-body experience? One more time, I'm looking for the high, the destination. Breathing...breathing into the journey.

I am able to chuckle at the presumption I'd be through this transition, a mere two and a half weeks into my new way of being. I can still hear my dad's voice yelling,"Slow down, Jeanine!" as I ran from the bathroom to the in-process street ball game, while pulling up my pants, not wanting to  miss anything. I may always be a busy-bee, job or no job, destination or journey. A goal is to make that a choice, not an unconscious urge. One day at a time. One day at a time.

Is it the journey or the destination that most often gets your attention? If you meditate, what benefits do you experience, either when sitting or after? What part of the internal or external journey is your focus this week?

Note that in lieu of the International Conference, there will be a virtual offering during the month of July. For details go to aa.org

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 or Credit Card option.   Email me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com if you’d like more information. ALSO to note - from the web version of this page, you can sign up to have my weekly post delivered to you via email (upper right section of the page).