Ambition, or lack thereof

 I inherited my maternal grandmother's desk when she died in 1970, a slim model with a fold down writing surface and cubby holes for mail and other implements. I keep family keepsakes on the desk - two lidded containers that sat on Grandma's dressing table, a New Testament bible with a metal front that Mom's then-boyfriend gave her after WWII (soldiers were supposed to keep the little Bible in their breast pocket, with god's word, and the metal to protect their heart from bullets). Also on the desk top is a lovely figurine modeled after a Maxwell Parrish beauty, and various other trinkets from the 1940's or before.

On the lower shelf is the book "On to Oregon" that I stole from my grade school library, probably in 5th or 6th grade. "On to Oregon" tells the true story of the Sager children, who's parents died on the Oregon Trail. Rather than allow the family to be separated, teenaged John brought his siblings, including a baby, on to the Whitman Mission in eastern Oregon. I was enthralled with the story as a kid, reading it four or five times before simply taking the book home to keep. The adventure! The daring! The courage! I wanted to grow up to be a pioneer, and wrote to Walt Disney, suggesting he make a movie of the story (he declined, but I still have his letter in one box or another).

I was also enamored with Pippi Longstocking, the adventurous young girl who, too, was an orphan. I literally had a recurring dream of going to sea, and used to imagine being sent to boarding school. Home wasn't all that bad - we had ice cream every night as my brother and I argued over who got to sit in the beanbag chair to watch sitcoms - but I craved the adventure and independence I read about each night before bed.

Funny then that my goal in high school was to become a secretary. My aunt was an executive assistant, and she was glamourous, and I always like the tidiness of a neatly organized desk, but not much adventure there. As I grew more fully into alcoholism, my fear of the unknown exploded, and I most often took the easier, softer way, the way that allowed me to stay within my limited zone of comfort.

My brother and I talked the other day about our familial lack of ambitious encouragement, after watching dedicated, talented and supported young athletes in the Olympics. Both my parents had a year or two of college, Dad's on the GI Bill. But while we were mildly encouraged to go to university (emphasis on "mildly"), there were no strong directives to "get out there" and succeed. Mom used to say she just wanted me to be happy, whatever that meant. I'm grateful that, in recovery, and with years on the planet, I now know what it is that brings me contentment. Some days that might be planning a trip, while others it is picking a ripe tomato from the garden.

I'd written in an earlier post about helping an AA acquaintance pack up to move to assisted living. She made the move, and then died, just one week later. We were "people who normally would not mix," and to borrow another's description, she could be a teacher of patience and tolerance, with a reputation for talking too long during her shares. Like many of us old-timers, she wasn't as funny as she thought she was. But I find myself mourning the loss. For all of my preconceived notions, based on 15 minute interactions in meetings over the years, it turns out she was a very interesting person. I thoroughly enjoyed our three long conversations as I wrapped and boxed trinkets and family mementos while she shared stories of her travels, early LGBTQ advocacy work, and her 39 years in AA. When she told me about a talk she'd had with her hospice worker, I replied that those must be tough conversations. She said, "No, not really. Higher Power is in charge of all this, and I've had a good and interesting life." In a couple of  later phone calls, she shared what was going on with the move and her health, but never in a complaining way. Pragmatic to the end, she was a stellar example of acceptance in action. I am grateful for the brief time I spent getting to know her, reminded once again that my impressions are simply opinions that may or may not be based on fact. So, happy trails to you Fern .You were a fixture in the local recovery community, and your absence will be noticed.

In thinking about Fern, I'm reminded of others who've gone before - all those old timers who were in the musty church halls and basements when I came in, and who I crossed paths with along the way since: Leonard C, aka Boxcar Leonard, Norm B, Gladys, Peggy, Kathleen C, Railroad Bob, Ronnie, Kathy W - so many who carried the message of hope and recovery. It's all I could hope for too, being remembered as an example of practicing the principles. Not perfect, but a traveler along the road of happy destiny, sometimes skipping along, sometimes on my hands and knees, but always grateful for the second (third and fourth) chance.

How has your life been shaped by your childhood dreams and goals, or by the old timers in your own recovery story? How do you define "success" today? How about what it means to be happy, or contented? In thinking about your interactions with others, where have your stereotypes or preconceived impressions been busted? How can you greet future connections with an open mind and heart?

Thank you for your patience, email subscribers, as we've made the transition. It seems that you're probably getting two emails each week, but my understanding is that the original send will stop at some point.  "Better too many than not enough," says one alcoholic to another!