A friend, also recently retired, mentioned in a meeting that they've been going through things, because that's what you do with new-found time on your hands. Oh, do I agree. De-cluttering and clearing away are a big piece of what I've looked forward to - all the little projects that there was rarely time for B.R. (before retirement).  

Like me, part of what my friend has come across are writings from early recovery. I have inventories, Step work, letters to myself - accompaniments of the discovery years. My friend shared that he marveled at the sheer courage of those early writings, where I'd been cringing at what I saw as pitiful. I so appreciate  the reminder that I need not judge my 31 year old self (or 41, or 50 for that matter) by my current state of being. As my first sponsor used to say, if I'd known better I would've done better, and getting to the place of knowing better involved many a dark passage through confusion and denial.

I love how just one sentence can open a whole new path (which is why I keep coming back). I can see now how much of what I did in those early days took tremendous courage: the courage to walk through the doors of that treatment center, despite my fears, the courage to walk through the doors of my first AA and Alanon meetings, then asking someone to be my sponsor, and as time went on, the courage to examine the core beliefs behind the actions that had been hurting myself and others for so long. There were false starts, and the truth I got to at 10 years sober was deeper than that I'd uncovered at three or four, but the courage was in the search, the willingness to put pen to paper, to ask myself, "What do I need to learn?"

It can feel like those days of miraculous self-discovery are long gone, and in many respects, they are. I rarely have the blinding revelations of early sobriety, and thank goodness - that was exhilarating, but exhausting! Today, courage comes disguised as patience, and the willingness to sit still, to wait. Lila R. said, in her Tulsa workshop on the 12 Steps, that we develop the courage to do nothing. I nearly cried when I first heard that. Nothing? Do nothing? I am a doer, an action taker - I've joked that I'd rather make a stupid decision than none at all. but I know that this is about my discomfort with discomfort and not (usually) any urgent need. One of the Alanon daily readers reminds me that what is urgent is rarely important, and what is truly important is rarely urgent.

Lila also reminds me of the importance of self-acceptance (as does the Alanon literature). I am not a project to be fixed. I benefit and flourish when I learn to live with my characteristics rather than go to battle. The Big Book says that we "cease fighting anything or anyone" (p. 84), and I will include myself in the "anyone." It is true that I came into recovery with broken places, and over time, with Step work, therapy, and endless conversations, I have been mended. I am who I am, but the edges are softer now. When I'm able to relax into my bossiness or impulsivity, my sentimentality or practicality with a sense of humor, I'm less likely to take myself too seriously. I couldn't, and shouldn't have, accepted my behaviors when I sobered up, but it was precisely the dis-ease of new awareness that motivated me to change. I'm being disingenuous if I stay on the self-flagellation train after all these years. I've done the work and the gifts have followed, with the biggest gift that of being comfortable in my own skin. Not perfect, but definite progress.

Part of  my "going through things" includes  photos. I am struggling with the sheer volume of photographs in my possession, from the 1920's forward. Some are priceless (my 11 year old cousin with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth; my dad and a buddy during WWII;  a costume party in 1977), but hundreds are not. I've had to remind myself that throwing photos away does not equal disloyalty to my family. I'm sending packets off to cousins and friends, but some are simply going away.

One picture I will keep is an 8" by 10" photo of an old acquaintance. I'm not sure how I ended up with this  - Linda and her husband were pals of my heroin addict/meth cook lover, but there it was, in a folder in the bottom of a box. Some sort of a studio shot, she is naked, viewed from behind, sitting at a dressing table braiding her waist length hair. By the time I met her, she was thirty pounds heavier and tore-up from her heroin addiction, regularly burning cigarette holes in my basement couch, but this photo captures her beauty, perhaps the self she imagined she still was, or saw in her dreams. When I was strung out, I didn't think of myself as such. In my mind, I was coping, I was carrying on, I looked fine until finally I understood that I wasn't, triggered by the pharmacist at the local grocery refusing to sell me syringes. I'd prided myself on not looking the part, but here I was, just another tweaker lurking in the shadows. I don't know that Linda ever came to that understanding. Like my meth cook boyfriend, she died as the result of her addiction. I will keep her lovely photo as a memento of the person who suggested that, if I had to go, I should go to treatment in Seaside because she'd heard they were "good people." I needed the prompting of those who understood my daily desperation for the next fix, the next drink. I am grateful for her gentle suggestion. 

This whole process of going through decades of photos has me thinking of mortality - we're here, and then we're not. Such is a life - full of small moments and big events, and in the end, a pile of photographs and a handful of birthday cards. Serendipitously, this week's NYT Magazine has an article entitled "Other People's Snapshots" by Bill Shapiro. He notes, speaking of actual and digital images, "We're all drowning in our own pictures." He goes on to describe his fascination with other people's photos, picked up at antique stores (maybe I can send him mine!), fantasizing the story behind the images. He goes on to quote neuroscientist David Eagleman, who says "we all die three deaths: The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time." Shapiro adds a fourth: "The moment the last remaining picture of you is seen for the final time."  

I'm not sure that the intensity of that description will help me dispose of the mountain of photographs at my feet, but it does let me know I'm not alone in my quandaries. So, I'll keep sorting and sending off to relatives, acknowledging both the sadness and the joy at viewing all these snippets of captured time. I will accept that this phase of my life is about letting go of material possessions while I decide what I want to carry on the next leg of the journey. I think of my Aunty Ruth, who moved from a big farmhouse to a two bedroom apartment, and then to one room in a care facility. I helped her to pack from that apartment, and remember the decisions about what would fit her shrinking life. I'm not there, but that is a definite "yet." And so, I slog through the boxes, survey the garage, prepare to donate a box of work clothes. The inventories I'll keep until my next go-round.

When you survey your surroundings, are you pleased or annoyed with all that you own? If you have old recovery writings, do you recognize the courage it took to get honest with yourself?  How are you different today from the shivering denizen years? Where has the progress of sobriety taken you?

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.