In this time of Covid, I seem to be mourning my first husband, who died in April, on the installment plan. Last week it was a post from a grade school classmate of his that prompted yet more reflection. This week, it was a call from the best man at our wedding. I haven't seen this guy more than once or twice since an ugly encounter in 1978, but with this much time gone, I understand that he was merely trying to help his best friend by disparaging me back then. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say, and there are a lot of things I'd do differently given the chance (including not giving this man the ammo with which to attack my character).

I read the newspaper obituaries, and since March, nearly all say, "We will gather when it is safe again." Will we? Will there be thousands of funerals and memorials? Will a service delayed by six months to a year bring the same closure as that done when the loss happens? 

Rituals are so important to the processing of emotion. My father specifically said, "No service." I'm sorry that my mother followed his wishes - I think that lack of closure contributed to my on-going, unresolved grief. We took his ashes to the ocean, mom and me, and I said the Lord's Prayer as I waded out to sea to empty the cardboard box while she sat on a piece of driftwood, but that small rite felt empty and lonely. I dreamt about my dad every night for the next three years until I was finally referred to a therapist by the family doctor, after telling him I'd burst into tears while driving to his office. This therapist brought me to a place of saying "good-bye" to an empty chair (the Gestalt method), and the dreams stopped. Rituals matter. Saying farewell matters.  

I often think of the ritual of our meetings - the opening moment of silence, the readings, the "Keep coming back!" at the end. The format is slightly different in different places, but enough the same that it can be jarring when the chairperson leaves something out. Some of that discomfort with "But we always do it this way!" is likely a control issue (seems like so much is!) but there truly is something calming about routine. I know what to expect when I sit down in an AA or Alanon meeting, which increases my sense of safety and security, and my willingness to be vulnerable. 

People in my meetings, both online and in the several outdoor, in-person gatherings we've started, continue to talk about isolation and loneliness in this pandemic season that has no end in sight. Even the introverts share about their new appreciation of real, live connection. When I first toured the treatment program that changed my life, the person who walked me around the semi-decrepit former hotel said that isolation is a symptom of alcoholism. I didn't understand - I preferred being alone, thank you. I realize now that it was my dis-ease telling me I didn't like people - there was less to defend if no one was around. But it wasn't that I didn't like people. It was more that I was afraid of you. Like so many of us, I felt like I didn't belong, like everyone else knew how to banter, to engage in small talk, to be in the world.  I'm still not a big fan of chit-chat, but time in program has taught me that we're all just plugging along to the best of our ability on any given day. And when it's mostly me, in my brain, I'm in the proverbial bad neighborhood. One of my daily readers says "Hearing is healing" and I seem to hear better when I'm looking at you across the room.

The fellow who chaired my home group on Sunday was calling in from Las Vegas and shared he's on a quest to "attend" a meeting in all 50 states. Fun, and made me think of folks who strive to run a marathon in every state. My marathoning days are behind me, but I could make a stab at the meeting goal - I've got 5 under my belt without even trying: Oregon (yes, home counts), Washington, Nevada, California, and Michigan (from a Detroit meeting we attended over the cancelled International Conference weekend). While I had grand intentions about traveling the world via zoom/skype, I've only been to groups in Budapest and Bristol, UK. Like during pre-pandemic times, I get comfortable and/or lazy in my meeting routines. It is good to shake it up everyone once in a while, in order to avoid "personalities before principles." I'll consider a "journey" this week.

I'm thinking about surrender - surrender to what is, even if I don't like it. Surrender to the virus, to isolation, to the current political climate. Surrender on both a personal level (my plans and ideas of how the day or month should play out) and surrender to the more global concerns I have for the state of the world. Rather than wallow in fears and sadness, I can utilize the Serenity Prayer. Are there things I can do? I can call a friend and have a good cry. I can send money to my chosen cause (there are so many - how do I prioritize?), explore how to step up, and can continue my self-care efforts so that I bring a calm and centered person to whatever I do. I can accept that people I love have different viewpoints than myself. I can draw on the courage needed to keep showing up. I actually do OK most days - more OK when I stay in the here and now than the anxiety triggering future. One day at a time. One day at a time. 

What rituals are important to your daily life, from morning coffee and quiet time to evening TV shows or reading? How have the rituals of community life (meetings, family birthdays, etc) changed during these past 5-6 months? Has anything taken their place? How do you surrender to what is vs what you want to be so?

“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.